A misty night had fallen in the wake of ruins; what was left of this town sector had been held together by the hearts of the weak, and those that could remain. Stones that lay as the walls of constructs were askew, and ash ridden. The fountains of visionary leisure were tainted; the shapes the water poured out of were disfigured, causing not a gentle flow but a rapid leak. The nature that decorated the town was once a peaceful image that nourished the mentality of those that bared witness; now they were burnt as though the grasp of Oblivion had caught hold and let go, and had many years to become handsome again. Once mighty and strong structures, the walls that protected the subjects residing inside had abrasions all along it where smoke had once risen in a terrifying image of the clashing of swords and shields and the roaring of fireballs jumping through the blotted sky.

A terrible plague had cursed this land not so long in the past; a terrible plague of which had left such a path of misery and destruction; a terrible plague that couldn't be resisted. A terrible plague in which its end meant no stop and its legacy continued until the souls could build back up what this city once was.

That plague was war.

A great war had happened not so long ago, and the homeland had lost. Those living under it never asked for it, and they had nothing else to look to.

But in this night, all was calm. One who had once fought could lie under the stars on the street and rest forever. A night seemed to calm, and the presence of the Daedric Princes, Nocturnal and Azura, never could be more welcoming, especially in a time where the light could show over a bitter reminder of where all lived.

Flops of bare feet sounded in the night, and a blur went past view. A woman with a hood over her head, covering her long black hair, had run by with her arms together as she held something. Her breathing was frantic, whimpers would escape her lips in desperation as her eyes were wide in panic and tears would fall out of them. Cradled in her arms was a wrap of blankets, tucked around the form of a small infant. Despite her running, the child remained asleep through the shakes. What you could see on her torso was red; blood had stained her dress to parts of her arm, it getting over the wrap of blankets that comforted the child.

The frightened woman had opened her tearful eyes and looked up to see a stone building, one that luckily held itself together. She slowed herself to a walk, spinning around as if to search her surroundings, and then she faced back to the front porch of the building and quickly made her way up the steps. She stopped; lowering herself to her knees, her hold on the baby had softened looking down at it with puffy lips and glossy eyes. The baby seemed to have sensed it and it opened its eyes, big whites with blue irises had shined at the woman and its mouth opened, giving her a small laugh as its arms flailed. The woman smiled down at it, but with a sad look about her eyes. With her thumb, she gently stroked its soft cheek, more tears coming in. She rocked it.

"I'm so sorry, my love," she said to it, unable to hold back chokes of her own crying. "May you live the rest of your life…" she sobbed, putting the baby down on the hardwood floor, the blankets providing a cushion. "Goodbye, I'll love you forever." The tears from her eyes fell onto its wrapping, as she touched the infant one last time before lifting herself up and backing away. She couldn't take her eyes off of it until she reached a certain distance from the porch and then she turned and ran off into the mist.

Now the baby was left, the blood on it, yet no harm had come to it. It struggled to reach out for something, for the comfort of the woman, but she was no longer there. It was no longer safe in her arms, and it had reached a cold outside world of nothing to cuddle under. It began to cry, echoing loud enough for those behind the double doors to hear. Suddenly, one of the doors on the porch had swung open, a lantern being lit to reveal the face of an old man, his stomach protruding belly fat, and his clothing fit for sleeping.

He squinted, looking around out at the mist and then down at where the crying was coming from. He tried to open his eyes wider, blinking and rubbing them both in a circular motion. He leaned his head in to see it flailing around and its face tightened.

"By the nine…" he whispered. "Altea!" He called, and then set down the lantern to pick up the child in his arms, noting the blood over the sheets. "What happened to you?..." In moments, another woman about his age had stepped out in her sleepwear.

"What is it, Malcon?!" She said loudly, seeming a bit annoyed. She stopped in her tracks, eyes growing wide as her ears twitched to the sound. She looked over Malcon's shoulder, taking sight of the crying baby, and she put a hand over her mouth.

"Oh my goodness…" She muttered, and then put a hand on his shoulder. "Malcon the baby has blood on him…"

"Yes, I know the baby has blood on him, Altea!" He snapped, annoyed. He put his focus back down on the baby, rocking it and trying to soothe it. "Hey, hey, shhh…" he said. "He doesn't seem to be harmed; maybe the blood is someone else's."

"Matron Altea, Patron Malcon? What's going on?" A young child in his sleepwear had said, groggily, rubbing his tired eye. With him, a stuffed bear was hanging by his loose hold and being dragged slightly. Several other children of nearly the same age had followed behind them, all of different races. Altea lowered herself to their level and directed them back.

"Go back to sleep, children, there's nothing for you to worry about," she said. The young children went back inside momentarily, and Altea looked back to Malcon. "What will we do with him?" The man had stopped and pondered for the second.

"He must've been left here for a reason…" he uttered.

"Should we turn him in to the guard?" Malcon turned to her.

"No," he replied. "He must've been left here for a reason; so we'll do our job." He then went inside past her, and she followed. "We'll have to take care of him until someone claims him for adoption. I'll notify the guards tomorrow morning of what happened; but for now, we need to get him cleaned."

Altea looked back out at the night mist, wondering who had left him there.

"Is there any indication of a name?" She asked. Malcon stopped.

"No," he answered simply.

"Then what should we call him in the meantime?" Malcon looked down at the baby, seeing that it had become calm, and it looked back up at him with its blue eyes and smiled, laughing just like before. He smiled, and took note of his features. White like skin, like an Imperial or a Nord, and black hair had seemingly grown on top of his head. Malcon came to a conclusion.

"We'll call him Arminius."