Chapter 1
In this place, there is only a single man. His surroundings are desolation, the featureless depths of a boundless void. There is no sight, nor sound, nor touch.
This is a place that the man has visited often, though he's unaware of that fact in the moment. The Vaerminic morass of dreams and nightmares is incomprehensible even at the best of times to mere mortals such as him. Its underlying nature, that of ever-changing disorder and chaos, is hardly conducive to linear thought.
As such, he doesn't know exactly how long he waits in the forlorn darkness. It could be mere seconds. It could be hours. It is a timeless realm.
And of course, this interminability is ultimately meaningless as he retains no memory of the experience upon his eventual awakening. Such is the lot of mortalkind, to be forever as scattered leaves twisting aimlessly in the wind. Pawns on a chessboard, moths to the flame, caught inescapably within the ravenous storm of daedra and gods.
-x-
.
.
.
He opens his eyes.
A spiraling blur of irrepressible sensation welcomes him to consciousness. A multitude of colors, far too many for him to name. The scent of moisture-laden air in his nostrils, verdant and heavy with life. The soft kiss of a warm summer's breeze against his bearded cheeks.
He's standing. That's odd. Hadn't he just been asleep? He could swear that it was so.
He turns in a gradual circle as he mutely observes his surroundings, blinking slowly.
Around him extends an alpine meadow bordered by rows of towering oaks and broad spruces. Waist-high stalks of grass tickle the tips of his fingers as they sway lightly in the wind. The field's monotony of green is broken here and there by budding ivory-petalled blossoms of snow roses.
There's nothing visibly special about this place. It's no different from any other nameless high pasture in the mountains. But despite that, he can't shake the feeling that something here is definitely out of the ordinary. He isn't sure what it is. Maybe the colors are too bright. Maybe the eddies of cool wind against his bare skin are a little too muted. He feels… ethereal. Dazed. His thoughts are unusually sluggish.
Ah. That's right. I was herding the goats today, wasn't I? Damn nuisances, the lot of them.
A crescendo of sharp bleats provide him with timely confirmation. The goats in question are scattered across the meadow in twos and threes, chewing cud and staring dully at whatever happens to capture their interest. He does a rapid headcount and notes that none appear to be missing. That's always a good sign.
He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, unsure why he thought he'd been asleep. It could be his body's way of informing him that he hasn't been getting enough rest. That must be it.
A bandit's life is many things, but 'easy' is rarely one of them. Between preparing for raids and maintaining the defenses of his gang's mountain hideout, opportunities for rest are few and far between. And that's doubly true when he's consigned to such mundane chores as playing shepherd boy.
There's also the question of how the goats were able to spread out so much without him noticing. He's never been prone to daydreaming, but the current circumstances would suggest otherwise. A few of the animals have already wandered to the edge of the treeline a good thirty yards away.
Reorganizing them is going to be a hassle. They always seem to delight in making his life as needlessly difficult as possible. Mischievous little shits. But no matter how often or vehemently he complains, he's always the one who gets saddled with this job. Though to be fair, that's mostly his own fault.
As befitting a crew of mountain bandits, his gang primarily supports themselves by looting farmsteads and small settlements for food rather than directly providing for their own needs. However, earlier in the year he stumbled across this uncommonly large herd of goats at a farm just north of Cheydinhal during a routine raid. On a whim, he decided to take them back to camp. Their previous owner had no more use for them – being recently deceased – so why not?
At the time he thought they would be useful for providing meat and milk. And they are, to his satisfaction, but they also require a lot more effort than he initially anticipated to keep them alive, healthy, and productive. He never imagined he'd be forced into such a tedious profession as animal husbandry, even if only part-time. He still participates in the gang's bi-weekly raids and scouting expeditions – they all share those responsibilities without exception – but caring for the goats takes up a lot more of his time than he'd like.
As a younger man, joining a bandit gang sounded like such an exhilarating thing. But now that I'm here and actually living it, more often that not it's just dull and repetitive, having to deal with an endless assortment of stupid but necessary things. Things like this. One of the goats yammers again, as if in contemptuous agreement.
He sighs dolefully and glances upwards. The cloud-strewn sky rises high above him, gradually darkening with the promise of rain soon to come. Further down, the sun sits low in the west with dim rays barely filtering to the earth below. He idly reckons that dusk is fast approaching.
I'd better get the goats back to camp soon. Wolves and mountain leopards will emerge from their dens before long, regardless of whether it rains or not, and he'd rather not encounter any of those tonight. Losing goats would mean less food to go around, and that isn't something they can easily afford even in the height of summer. The gang has been growing lately. It seems like there are new faces almost every week.
He rolls his shoulders, relishing the familiar weight of his unstrung bow and quiver of arrows hanging from his back, and sets off at a steady trot.
As always, he spends a moment appreciating the magnificent vista offered by these highlands. Shepherding goats is never a glamorous task, so it's nice to at least have this picturesque view to keep him company. The steep slope of a narrow valley falls away to his right, a hidden stream gurgling from somewhere within its depths far below. All around him rise mountain peaks so tall that they seem to cleave the sky itself. They're mostly free of snow this time of year, and their barren stone faces reflect the reds and violets of the now-setting sun in a dazzling display.
It takes him a few painstaking minutes to gather together his caprine charges and begin herding them towards their destination. Predictably, they're less than enthused with the idea. "Alright, come on," he urges the animals. "Let's get going. We've lost enough time as it is."
One goat turns and bleats at him indignantly. He retaliates by whacking it atop the head with a stick carried for that express purpose.
"None of that. Go." Suitably chastised, the goat falls into line and follows its browbeaten brethren.
Their trek through the forest goes without issue, with only the local squirrels, birds, and occasional fox to mark their passage. It's nothing short of serene, walking along and drinking in the familiar details of each gnarled tree, leafy bush, and moss-covered boulder.
He knows these woods like the back of his hand, but for some reason he can't explain, he feels like it's been far longer than just this morning since he last traveled this path. Homesickness wells up inside of him, but he swiftly quashes it back down. It'll only be another minute until he arrives at the camp, so why does he feel this way?
It's strange, but he doesn't let himself worry about it too much. He's been out of sorts ever since he lost track of the goats in the meadow. The final stretch of forest speeds past as he quickens his pace, eagerly looking forward to dinner and a good night's rest.
As he emerges from the trees with the goats grouped before him, he's met with a welcoming sight. A cluster of squat timber buildings are assembled in a wide glen, no more than a dozen in number, with columns of dark smoke rising from vents hidden beneath their circular thatched rooftops. Interspaced between them are a plethora of tents and lean-tos, the dwellings of the newer unproven recruits as well as any among their ranks who have earned their chieftain's displeasure in recent weeks. A jumbled assortment of men, women, animals, and even a few children are going about their daily business, whatever that may be. The buzz of casual speech and peals of harsh laughter drift faintly to his ears, interspaced by the sharp ringing of steel on steel from the blacksmith's workshop.
The camp's most distinctive feature is a massive oak sitting in its center, with twisted branches stretching across the sky in an ageless quest to cover all in the shadow of its leafy canopy. Not for the first time, he reflects that this location was an incredible find for their gang. It's isolated but not overly so, more than defensible enough to suit their needs, and adequately sheltered from the worst of the northern Cyrodiilic weather.
This is his home for the time being. A modest den of thieves and killers by any other metric, but to his eyes, it's endlessly remarkable in its own unique variety of ways.
His rugged features unconsciously soften. Until now, he didn't realize how badly he missed the sight of this place.
As he draws closer, he calls out to the picket who he knows is hidden nearby from previous experience. "Lotosk, it's me. Keep your spear pointed somewhere else this time."
A hulking silhouette rises from a patch of tall heather. This bandit strikes an intimidating figure as always, and all the more so due to his greyish-green skin rippling with taut muscle and a pair of razor-sharp tusks protruding from his mouth.
The big Orc grins, a fearsome sight for the uninitiated. "About time you got back. How you doin'?"
He gestures to the goats, now milling about aimlessly. A few are already starting to wander off again. "What can I say? It's a glorious life."
Lotosk chuckles. "Well, we gotta eat something. And so do they."
"I know." Even for a band of killers like themselves, the most important battle will always be the struggle to maintain enough food to survive out in the wilderness. These mountains are well-watered and fertile, inhabited by numerous communities of Cyrodiilic farmers and Nord herdsmen alike, so raiding for supplies is easier here than in many other places. They'll have to move on within the next few months, just as they always do. That's the way of things in their chosen vocation.
The Orc animatedly wiggles his bushy grey eyebrows. "From what I've heard, your woman's been waiting for you somewhere down there. She probably wants your help with another job for the chief. She's had several of those lately. You'd better start moving before she gets too impatient."
"Ah, you know how she is. I'm sure she can survive waiting a few more minutes." A hint of warmth creeps into his tone.
Lotosk's amused expression turns predatory in a manner that he immediately dislikes. "To think such a spineless welp of a girl managed to tame a big bad bandit like you. Disciplined you like a dog, she did. Heh." He chuckles good-naturedly. "Sometimes I really think a hagraven must've snuck into our camp one night and spirited away the old you. You're just some changeling pretending to be my favorite neighbor in the shieldwall."
"Yeah, right. That must be it." Once upon a time, the Orc's disparaging remarks would've made him legitimately angry, seeking redress for his wounded pride. But these days he takes it in stride and goes on with his business. Deep down, he knows Lotosk is right.
The Orc waves for him to get moving. "I'm on watch, you know. Quit distracting me and go play housewife, or whatever you lovebirds think is supposed to be fun."
"Fine, you big oaf. I'm going. Keep your pants on." He urges his goats beyond the pesky Orc's picket with a few grumbled insults, steadfastly ignoring the widening smirk directed at his back. He might have a better handle on his temper nowadays than he once did, but Lotosk has always been uniquely able to get under his skin. Accepting the invitation to leave before the Orc provokes him into a heated argument is probably wise.
The overhanging tree and the huts sheltered beneath its leafy crown steadily draw closer under his impatient gait. He's soon walking between buildings and among his comrades, many of whom are people he's known for years. Their scarred visages and unkempt apparel, which would be sources of consternation to the average layman, are to him a hospitable sight. They give their usual greetings and he responds easily in kind.
He distantly overhears Joren bellowing ferociously from the direction of the ramshackle training grounds behind the smithy. The old man, their current leader, has been breaking in a new batch of recruits for the past few weeks. It isn't unusual to see them running in circles around the encampment and throughout the surrounding forest, weighted down with packs full of rocks, their faces perpetually coated in sweat. He thanks the gods every day that he isn't being subjected to the same strenuous hazing, having long since proven himself to their grizzled chieftain. That hasn't always been the case – in some of his past gangs, he was undeniably among the lower echelons – but he's been with Joren's crew long enough to have gained some measure of recognition.
He hurriedly returns the goats to their pen – nearly missing two that had again meandered away – and is just in the process of refastening the crude wooden gate when a familiar voice captures his attention.
"Rui! Ruuuuui! What in Oblivion took you so long?" A young woman strides purposefully towards him through the heathery grass, an unstrung bow nearly as long as she is tall slung beneath one of her arms. She makes a beeline directly for him. "Do you know how long I was waiting for you to get back? You're late!"
Her raised voice draws the interest of a few nearby loiterers, brigands lazing about for the evening with nothing constructive to do. They watch the proceedings expectantly, looking forward to a good show.
With a dejected sigh, he finishes latching the gate and slowly turns around.
The woman stomps up to him with obvious displeasure, resplendent in her weather-worn gambeson and muddy boots. A sword hangs from her belt in a battered sheath. Her deep blue eyes, wavy flaxen hair, and soft features always struck him as more akin to the qualities of a simple farmgirl rather than a bandit. And yet here she is, among the ranks of one of the most wanted gangs in the Jerall Mountains.
She rests her free hand atop her hip and scowls. "So? What's your excuse this time? Were you having too much fun swapping stories with your goats all day again? I told you this morning that the boss has been pestering me to get his bow in good condition before the next raid. You said you'd give me a hand with it."
He stares down at her, working his jaw as he tries to formulate a response, but… there's nothing. It isn't that he lacks an excuse – he could invent one or two on the fly if needed – and he takes no issue with her anger. He's perfectly willing to admit her frustration is justified.
Still, that isn't it. There's something else about this interaction that just feels… out of place. Wrong in some indefinable way.
A foreign sensation tickles at the back of his mind. This seems strangely familiar somehow, as if he's been in this exact position before, having this exact same one-sided conversation in some unremembered episode of déjà vu. He suppresses a shiver. If somebody told him his grave had just been stepped on, he'd believe them without question.
The woman's scowl vanishes as he remains silent, lost in thought. Without warning, she grabs his shoulder to peer up at his face. "Hey. What's wrong? You're not hurt, are you? You look pale."
Upon her touch, the spell breaks and he can suddenly think straight again. He quickly masks whatever peculiar expression must've alerted her to his inner turmoil and waves away her concern with a strained bark of laughter. "It's nothing," he manages to say. "I'm sure I'll be fine. I'm probably just tired. Dealing with the livestock never fails to be an adventure. The gods made me for fighting, not for rearing animals."
He isn't sure what was happening just then, but he hurriedly pushes it to the back of his mind. The girl stares up at him, clearly skeptical but nonetheless taking him at his word. "Yeah? Well you're gonna have a fight to look forward to with me unless you help restore this old thing." She hefts the chief's bow.
He snorts. He's known her long enough to tell when she's bluffing. Aye, she might be a hard-bitten bandit with a dozen raids under her belt, but she really isn't much of a fighter. Contradictory though it may seem, she's just too kind of a person to ever truly hold a grudge.
That's what he likes about her. She can handle herself right up there with the toughest and meanest bastards in Joren's gang, attacking and killing just like the rest of them, but she somehow still manages to remain a fundamentally good person. He's biased, of course. No question about that. But he's firmly convinced of that statement's veracity.
"It's badly warped," she continues. "Straightening it out will be a job for two. And you did promise, if you recall."
"Sometimes I think you take sick pleasure in working me to the bone. But if that's the way it's gotta be, then so be it." His lips quirk into a faint grin as he reaches out to take her hand. "I'm just happy to be back."
Walking her to her lodging in the evenings is a ritual they've repeated daily for as long as the gang has been encamped in this place. He's already imagining the peck on the cheek he's sometimes lucky enough to receive as payment for his chivalrous services duly rendered. Lotosk and many of the others often tease him for being a whipped hound, exactly as the muscular Orc did today, but he's grown to accept the banter for what it is. When they're teasing him about her… with her, it's different. Whenever he sees some of the older men's children running around the camp and playing their imaginative games, he thinks that the blow to his masculine pride will probably be worthwhile in the end. He absently wonders how long it'll be before he has sons or daughters of his own.
The girl's disapproval remains, but she deigns to tentatively extend her arm. Her long, thin fingers brush fleetingly against his palm, a soft sensation despite her callouses from years of wielding a weapon.
They remain standing there for what seems like an eternity, her hand hovering tantalizingly above his own. Countless familiar faces bustle around them, blurred and indistinct on the edges of his vision, but he pays them no mind. His gaze is reserved only for her. She steadily regards him with those gleaming blue eyes and an indulgent frown – a familiar expression that indicates she isn't genuinely upset with him.
She parts her lips to say something as she finally rests her hand upon his own.
The moment ends. As her skin makes contact, she violently jerks away from him, as if burned. She takes several brisk steps backward, her words dying unspoken upon her lips.
He's completely bewildered by her reaction. "Morven, what…?"
As he watches, her features become unnaturally blank, resembling the frozen visage of a statue or a corpse more than a living person. The glitter of mirth in her sapphire eyes fades to hollow nothingness, the starless void of a dead thing.
"'Happy to be back?' Whatever do you mean, Ruair Gudarsson? You speak as if you could ever truly return to this place." Gone is the song-like quality that makes her voice such a joy to hear. In its place is a listless, unchanging tone that doesn't sound human at all. "You're deluding yourself, as is often the case. You know that you can never go back."
The myriad noises of the encampment and forest fade away until only a crushing, oppressive stillness remains. Even his own heartbeat is silenced, and he briefly wonders if he has died. His limbs are rooted in place. He can't move or speak no matter how forcefully he strains against his invisible bonds.
He blinks, and in that instant the girl is joined by a multitude of others. Every single person in this encampment is now gathered before him, glaring back at him with those same lifeless faces. Among them are the few true friends he's made in his life so far, most of whom are now rotting in the earth. They are his comrades both living and dead, all the people he ever cared about among this gang of brigands and the others that came before. Many were depraved and ruthless individuals, like Lotosk, Joren, and himself. Some, like Morven, were not.
Every single one of them bear the same empty expressions, utterly without emotion.
"You will never see this place again. You will never see us again, except as we haunt your memories." Their sonorous chant is so mind-wrenchingly horrible, so caustically deafening, that his head feels on the verge of bursting apart.
He desperately tries to say something, anything to prove that they're wrong, but his lips refuse to so much as twitch.
"Ghosts do not suffer the iniquities of the living." Tears streak across Morven's freckled cheeks, trailing to her lips and dripping down her porcelain chin. "And yours are far too many to forgive," she whispers.
Her face is the last thing he sees before the world twists around him, folding inwards like some strange Dwarven contraption as the encampment and forested mountains vanish into thin air.
He suddenly finds himself kneeling in a steep-sloped ravine, graced by periodic flurries of a late winter's snow dancing between the flowering trees. The air is stagnant, like the world itself is holding its breath. The feeling is unbearable. He gasps desperately for air, but it doesn't come quickly enough to alleviate the oppressive sensation.
This is a scene he recognizes in an instant. He's borne witness to it many times, though only once in the waking world.
Dead men and women are scattered all around him, many of whom he knows extremely well. He spots Lotosk, Joren, and other fellow bandits, their fallen forms lying in pools of blood and churned snow – the final remnants of their gang, now reduced to a grotesque collection of unmoving corpses. The stench of death pervades everything.
Intermingled among them are less familiar corpses, those of their opponents in this particular fight. A rival gang, who were savaged just as badly as themselves over the course of the battle. He doesn't even remember what they called themselves or what the original reason for their feud had been.
Among the dead is a woman with flaxen hair. Morven.
She's slumped against an upraised stone, her body just as brutalized as the rest. The remnants of her travel-worn linen tunic, thick trousers, and leather gambeson are torn and crimson-stained, the skin beneath them rent asunder with weeping wounds. Her chipped and broken sword lies at her side.
Her chin rises from her chest, her movements like those of a puppet on strings. Her sightless eyes burn into his own.
"And me," she continues mockingly. "You said that you would protect me, that you would always be by my side. That you were worthy of my trust. You lied."
His stomach churns with disgust, loathing, sorrow, and most of all, bitter regret.
Bloody spittle flies from her lips as she screams far louder than should be humanly possible, a piercing shriek that reverberates inside his skull and drives him to the ground in agony. "Not even in your dreams will you be safe from me! You are mine to abhor, Ruair Gudarsson! I will torment you until the day you die!"
-x-
He opens his eyes.
A desolate expanse of unbroken grey stretches before him, a wrinkled blanket of unimaginably vast proportions. This is the exact same somber sky that's greeted him every morning for the past week, issuing forth an incessant drizzle coupled with an ever-present cold that makes his bones ache. The fierce pounding behind his forehead and the dryness in his mouth don't help matters in the slightest. He vaguely speculates he must've drank more than usual the previous night.
Another moment passes before his mind catches up to the present and he recalls everything he'd just seen. Morven, Lotosk, those godsdamn goats, and all the rest.
"Guh!" He sits up with a strangled gasp, throwing aside his crumpled fur cloak in his haste. His skin is layered with a slick sheen of sweat. His throat is beyond sore.
That… It was another one of those dreams. Damn it. He pounds a fist into his bedroll with a low growl and sluggishly climbs to his feet, already shivering from the sporadic freezing rain. He ignores the clatter of his cheap canteen as it falls to the ground from within the folds of his clothing.
"Hey. You're finally awake."
He glances up at the speaker as he wearily gathers his bedding, carelessly rolling it into a messy bundle.
His companion is a slightly younger man with stringy brown hair and sunken eyes, clad in ratty colorless attire similar to his own. The man sitting on his haunches as he tends to a sputtering campfire nearby. "Took you long enough," he grouses with a sharp scowl. "I thought you'd sleep the whole morning away."
The only reply he receives is an apathetic grunt as the subject of his ire collects his few belongings.
The man rolls his eyes. "Hurry it up, Mull. We should be going soon. Sunrise was hours ago already."
"I know," Mull grumbles. "I heard you."
Their camp is located in a narrow clearing closely encircled by a grove of pine trees. Through gaps between their trunks, sections of a stone-paved road can be seen cutting through the surrounding vegetation. The trees are unfortunately not quite dense enough to fully shelter them from the unremitting icy precipitation – the same sort of weather that's plagued them ever since they first descended into the lowlands of the Eastmarch. The climate in the Rift was much more pleasant than this despite its higher elevation.
"We'd best pick up the pace," the brown-haired man continues. "We don't want any run-ins with Stormcloak patrols if we can help it. Darkwater Crossing shouldn't be too far now."
"Lokir, I heard you the first time. Shut up," Mull snaps hoarsely. He hefts his pack, slings it across one shoulder, and kicks a stray stone for good measure, sending it bouncing away into the wind-blown grass.
Lokir observes him in silence for a few seconds. "Another bad night?"
The question prompts a grimace. "Aye. You could say that." The ghastly visage of Morven as she screamed her undying hatred replays itself before his eyes. "It was more of the same."
She was never, ever like that in real life. He knows this memory is just a twisted figment of his addled imagination. But still, thinking about it makes something inside his chest twinge painfully. His traitorous mind wonders if he really did let her down that badly, and he's just unconsciously fooling himself into thinking otherwise.
She was unlike anyone else in their gang or in any of his previous others. It was for that reason he was intrigued by her from the moment they first met. She was a bandit through and through, make no mistake. One of the toughest women he's ever known, and not because she was big or brawny – she was neither of those things. No, it was something deeper than that. She had an unshakable drive, a passion for life, that he had never seen in another person before. He loved that about her. Now that she's gone though, he supposes those feelings have been rendered irrelevant.
Ruair Gudarsson. 'Rui,' she always insisted on calling him. It's been a long time since he was last called by that name.
As a bandit, his given name was one of the first things to be sacrificed upon the alter of survival. Ruair Gudarsson was a man wanted in the Kingdom of Hammerfell for grand larceny, premeditated murder, and a host of other things he doesn't want to bother recounting. To avoid an undesirable stint in a Redguard prison, he changed his identity and became Yorric of Elinhir – but it wasn't long before a public directive was issued to kill him on sight in the Colovian Estates for yet more crimes committed. After that he became Sormand the Weasel, whose high-ranking position in the Black Hills Gang of Lake Rumare earned him the promise of a cell on the Imperial City's death row, ready and waiting just for him. And now he's simply Mull, formerly a member of a defunct band of brigands whose exploits resulted in bounty posters being pasted across the walls of taverns and guardhouses all over northern Cyrodiil. As far as the Imperial authorities are aware, these are each distinct men who have little to no relation with one another.
He knows otherwise. These are the names he's carried over the course of his less-than-illustrious career. They are his legacy, such as it is.
It truly wasn't so bad, once. Raiding and pillaging, fighting and killing alongside the same breed of violent men and women was a gratifying thing in its own way. They were just like him and vice versa.
Now though… look at him. Traveling aimlessly in this rainy wetland with nothing but the tattered clothes on his back and a few paltry weapons and tools in his possession, in the company of only a single fellow criminal. Oh, how the times have changed.
He's distracted from his thoughts by Lokir waving a slice of fire-baked toast back and forth through the air. He has to admit that in spite of everything, the smell is alluring. "Want some food to settle you down?"
Though he doesn't feel hungry in the slightest, he knows that he shouldn't refuse. There's a long day of walking ahead of them, the same as every day. He'll need the nourishment to keep up his strength. One of the most important rules of life as a brigand is that the weak are the first to die, and though he's left that life behind – for now, anyways – it's still a maxim that rings perpetually true.
"…Sure. Thanks."
Lokir tosses the slice of browned bread underhand. He catches it easily, salutes with a shallow gesture, and takes a swift bite. The bread crunches pleasantly in his mouth, and warmth blooms in his throat as he swallows. His stomach rumbles, demanding more, so he quickly scarfs down the rest with barely a breath between each bite.
"You eat that. I'll go fill the waterskins. When you're done, put out the fire if you don't mind."
"Alright." Mull watches idly as the man gathers their respective drinking skins and departs for the nearest water source, a shallow pool among the trees they'd passed before setting up this camp the previous evening.
Lokir isn't the best partner in crime he's ever had, but he's good enough in the ways that matter most. He pulls his weight and knows how to keep his mouth shut, especially where the authorities are concerned. You really can't ask for much more than that.
It isn't often that he gets time alone to himself these days – he's been wandering with Lokir for a while – so he takes the opportunity to recline against a fallen log near their campfire and watch the cloudy sky as he munches on a second slice of toast, enjoying the moment of peace. Drizzling rain soaks into his untrimmed beard and drenches his breakfast, rendering it soggy, but he doesn't care. Food is food, and at least it's still pretty warm.
Only with great effort does he eventually haul himself to his feet and try to be useful, ignoring the dull soreness in his legs. He sweeps his gaze across their campsite and stifles a weary groan. I'd better start packing up. The sooner that's done, the sooner we'll get going. The road waits for no one.
-x-
The two men trudge doggedly along the increasingly muddy road, vainly wishing for the weather to improve sooner rather than later. The day has turned absolutely miserable, made worse by the fact that they have no means of sheltering from the rain as they walk.
There's little to capture their interest along this route, with the landscape remaining mostly unchanged as the hours drag by. Evergreen trees and fields of purple thistle line either side of the road, while a fast-flowing river tumbles along to their left. Unbroken cloud cover stretches limitlessly overhead.
They thankfully don't see any soldiers, though that's hardly surprising in an area this far from the intra-provincial border. Still, it's a perpetual concern considering the current state of affairs in Skyrim. The Civil War is a nasty business for all involved, and often also for those who aren't.
They don't encounter any fellow travelers along their chosen route. Mull doubts there are many people, even among the hardy Nords, who would want to be out in this kind of weather. They have the road to themselves.
They occasionally pass by turf-roofed bothies or clusters of timber-framed huts positioned next to the road or on the banks of the river. Upon drawing near, they're unenthusiastically greeted by regiments of clucking chickens, placid highland cattle with shaggy coats, and the watchful glares of cheerless farmers, doubtlessly suspicious of the two bedraggled vagrants walking in the rain. Mull envies their cozy henhouses and hearth-warmed dwellings. But the longer we keep walking, the faster we'll arrive and be out of this downpour for good. That's what I keep telling myself, at least.
By midday, they aren't too much further from their current destination – Darkwater Crossing, a small mining town on the southern edge of the Frostwater Plains. Mull only intends to sell some deer pelts there before continuing on, so he doubts he'll stay for long. Lokir probably won't either, not unless one of the townsfolk happens to own a horse.
He might not always see eye to eye with Lokir, but he does grudgingly admit to holding some amount of professional respect for him. It takes some brass balls to steal horses for a living, especially since they're worth such an exorbitant amount this far north. They have to be incredibly hardy creatures to survive the harsh winters and difficult terrain of Skyrim's soaring mountains and steep valleys. If Lokir were ever caught in the act, his sentencing under Nordic law would be unenviable to say the least.
They finally get a change in scenery – though not entirely for the better – when the road curves to more closely follow the Darkwater River. A heavy fog rolls in after they enter a thick copse of fir trees clustered against the murky shoreline, dampening all sound and making it difficult to see any great distance.
Both men huddle into their ragged cloaks to stave off the renewed chill. Mull had thought the day couldn't get any gloomier. Evidently, he'd been wrong.
"This is dismal, brother. I can't take much more of it." Lokir groans piteously. "I just want a nice, warm draft of spiced mead in a nice, warm tavern with a roaring hearth. Oh, I can practically taste it already…"
"Shut up, Lokir. You aren't helping."
"What, you can't let a man dream? How else am I going to cheer myself up?"
"Oh, for the love of…"
"You know, I'm a simple man. I'm only askin' for a calm, clear night where I can lay back and relax with a pretty girl on my arm and a steaming tankard of spiced wine in my hand. Is that really too much to wish for? If you ask me, I'd say…"
Mull cocks his head to the side as something tickles at the edge of his hearing, a faint noise inconsistent with the pattern of their environment. Lokir's continued rambling fades into the distance as he focuses on the ephemeral sound. They aren't too far past the most recent farmstead along their route, so it could simply be a faraway echo of human habitation. Nearby hunters or travelers are also possibilities.
Normally something like this wouldn't be worth worrying about, but for some reason it sets him on edge this time. It could be due to the poor visibility in these dusky woods, or perhaps he's feeling the effects of lingering tension from the dream he had this morning. But whatever the reason, he's even more paranoid than usual today.
As a result, he doesn't feel too bad about mercilessly cutting off Lokir's pointless rant. "Shhh, be quiet. Be quiet, you idiot! Did you hear that?"
He throws out his arm and brings his companion to an abrupt halt. Lokir watches in confusion as he drops into a crouch and carefully examines their surroundings. There isn't much to actually be examined due to the encircling wall of opaque mist casting a veil over the forest, but something else has just caught his attention.
He suddenly realizes that the forest is oddly still. A forest is never still, not unless there's some foreign presence making it so. It could merely be the poor weather sending all the wildlife to ground, but somehow that doesn't feel quite right. He points to one of his ears. Lokir understands the unspoken message and scrunches his brow as he focuses on listening.
Silence reigns, broken only by the gurgle of the river beyond the trees and their own soft breathing. That, and…!
"There it is again, right there."
"…That was whinnying. I'd know the sound anywhere."
"Aye."
Lokir turns to Mull with an excited grin. "And where there's a whinny, there's a horse."
On a regular day he might mock the man for such an inane statement. But today, there's something out there that's making him too uneasy to care. It's unmistakable now. A wave of gooseflesh ripples across his skin. His hair stands on end. A sixth sense, born of a few more life-or-death encounters than he would care to recall, tells him that things are invariably amiss.
The signs are there. The eerie quiet, as if the wilderness itself is afraid. A panicked flight of a flock of birds overhead, flitting between the branches like wraiths. That creeping feeling he gets on the back of his neck whenever he's being watched. The simple fact that there's a horse somewhere out here, uncommon animals in the mountainous and isolated Old Holds of Skyrim. Put all of that together…
Lokir cautiously moves off the edge of the road and peers into the gloom, completely oblivious to his concerns. "Let me just take a quick look. Looking never hurt anything."
"Lokir, forget the damn horse," Mull warns as he glances around. "I don't like this." The area is heavily obscured, with tree trunks looming out of the fog like the legs of some great giant-king of legend. The atmosphere feels breathless, foreboding. He's done enough hunting throughout the years, both of man and beast, to know when he's the one being hunted. "Something isn't right."
"Come on… Look, see? There she is." Lokir points beyond a cluster of foliage rising from the root-gnarled earth.
A horse is standing on the other side of a grassy glade, stamping its hooves impatiently. It's a big one too, most likely Cyrodiilic bred, with a chestnut coat and braided mane. A row of tall bushes rise between them and the horse, so Mull isn't surprised that it initially escaped their notice. It's been hidden well – they never would've seen it if it hadn't neighed so loudly.
The animal's bridle is tied to a low-hanging branch. He notes that although it's saddled, the rider is nowhere in sight. He anxiously casts his gaze across the surrounding vegetation but sees nothing immediately concerning. Still, that isn't enough for him to lower his guard.
Lokir steps forward and rubs his hands together, eyes gleaming with avarice. "Let's see what I can do here…"
Mull stops him with a firm hand on his shoulder. "Don't be an idiot," he gruffly whispers. "You know this is too convenient. And… I think I can hear something else now. Listen."
Just on the edge of his perception, he can make out a discordant cacophony of… he isn't quite certain what it is. He and Lokir fall still and strain to listen, ignoring the occasional huff from the nearby horse.
After another few seconds, they begin to make some sense of what exactly they're hearing. War-cries, agonized screams, and the unmistakable ring of steel on steel.
It's a battle, and a dangerously close one at that. Their eyes widen as they gradually realize the potential severity of their situation.
That can't be far, especially not with the fog reducing the sound. It's probably on this side of the river. "Lokir, we need to move." His tone brooks no argument.
The thief's throat bobs as he struggles to swallow his apprehension. "Right… right, you're right. We should grab the horse and get out of here."
"I already told you to forget the damn horse."
"But it's right there!"
"I know, and-!"
"You two, stop where you are! Don't move!"
Mull whirls around and yanks his handaxe from his belt in one smooth, practiced motion, knees bent, ready to evade or attack at a moment's notice. His companion's reaction is somewhat less impressive, as he cries out "Shor's bones!" and jumps in fright, fumbling for the straight-bladed dagger sheathed at his hip.
"State your business! Who are you?! What are you doing here?!"
A man stands up from behind a snowberry bush, holding a recurve bow with a nocked arrow trained directly on Mull. His tanned and pockmarked face indicates that he's probably a Cyrod, or perhaps a Breton. He's clad in boiled leather armor, a woolen cloak appropriate for the weather, and most distinctively a crimson tabard.
Aye, that's an Imperial soldier alright. Likely a scout of some kind, if Mull had to guess from his attire. But why in Oblivion would there be an Imperial this far east?
Without taking his eyes away from the duo or waiting for an answer, the Imperial raises his head and shouts. "Over here! I've got two more!"
Lokir cringes. "Now, uh, let's just hold on a minute here."
"Be quiet, you," the Imperial barks. "Drop your weapons. Now!"
The sight of the glittering razor-sharp arrowhead poised to end Mull's life sends a bead of sweat trailing down his brow. As much as he hates to admit it, he doesn't fancy his odds here. There's simply too much distance between him and the Imperial to risk making any aggressive movements.
…Damn. He does as he's told with a dark scowl, and Lokir hesitantly follows his lead. Their respective weapons drop to the sodden ground with twin muted thumps. He has no desire to take an arrow through the heart today. Or any day, for that matter.
One thing he learned during his years as a bandit is that Imperial soldiers never travel alone. The likelihood that there are others concealed elsewhere in the vicinity is undeniably high. Unfortunately, his fears are quickly proven true.
At some unseen signal, a group of Imperials march out from the trees behind them and form a line, innumerable dewdrops glistening on the blades of their drawn swords and the steel of their chainmail hauberks. Lokir whimpers as the scant sunlight illuminates streaks of congealed gore splattered across their armor and distinctive kite shields. The brows of their crested helms cast their faces in shadow, giving them a decidedly sinister appearance more akin to daedra than men. These newcomers spread out to surround the two unlucky men.
Mull hurriedly examines the clearing, searching for a way they could make a run for it. His hopes are dashed when even more soldiers emerge from cover to complete their encirclement. Any chance of escape is now cut off.
We walked right into a trap. Great. He's always prided himself on his – at least in his own opinion – above average instincts and situational awareness, but he obviously dropped the ball somewhere along the way. He thinks that he'd rather blame the mist and plentiful arboreal cover for their current predicament rather than his own stupidity, but that might be wishful thinking.
An Imperial wearing a set of steel armor of higher quality than the rest, likely some sort of officer, purposefully marches over to the scout. His sturdy boots splash through the waterlogged earth without care. "What do you have to report, soldier?"
"Sir! I detained these men as they were approaching my horse. I believe they were intending to steal her. They're likely retreating rebels or deserters."
What? That's about the last thing Mull expected to hear. What he had expected was something along the lines of 'these are wanted men' or 'we've finally captured our quarry.' After all, both he and Lokir have bounties on their heads, he down in the southlands and Lokir here in Skyrim, and while they're not worth nearly enough to warrant being actively hunted by an Imperial detachment in the middle of rebel-held territory, it's the only plausible reason he could imagine for this turn of events. For them to assume that he and Lokir are Stormcloak rebels…
His thoughts flicker to the sounds of war that can still be faintly heard in the distance. …Unless they're fighting a battle nearby. Which would explain all the blood too. So this is probably just bad luck on our part. It doesn't make much sense that there would be Imperials this deep inside the rebel Holds, but here they are. I'm no tactician, so what would I know?
The officer scans Mull and Lokir with a sharp, calculating gaze that swiftly judges their low-quality weapons, lack of armor, and generally downtrodden demeanors. They're slouched, dirty, poorly clothed, and no doubt stinking something fierce after soaking like dogs in the rain for several days. Mull cringes to imagine what might be growing between his toes.
He holds out a little hope for freedom since he and Lokir don't look anything like Stormcloaks, many of whom are former legionaries and grizzled veterans of the Great War. He assumes that the average rebel wouldn't allow himself to be caught dead in such a disheveled state. The discipline and institutional pride of the Imperial Legion are renowned across all of Tamriel. Surely it's obvious we aren't with the Stormcloaks.
"It looks like we've caught ourselves a couple more, boys. Good work."
The two men's jaws drop almost comically at the accusation. "Wait, wait! We aren't rebels! What in Shor's name would make you think that?" Mull indignantly points to himself and his companion. "Do you see us wearing any blue? We were minding our own godsdamn business, traveling to Darkwater-"
"Save the pathetic excuses for somebody else!" The officer cuts him off with a sharp gesture. "This area was thoroughly reconnoitered beforehand, so we know for a fact that there aren't any travelers here. Only you rebels from down yonder." He points to the east, where the din of battle has begun to steadily wane. "And it would be just like your kind to abandon your colors in the face of defeat, traitorous lot that you are."
"Ambush? What are you talking about?!" Lokir asks desperately. "We're only-"
"I said save it!" The Imperial snarls as he turns to his men. "Take their weapons and bind their hands! Bring them with us! We're not letting any Stormcloaks escape our net today. We make sure of that, and this could be the last day of the war!" Several of the soldiers whoop jubilantly as they move to carry out his orders.
Accepting the inevitable for now, Mull lets out a long sigh and angrily runs a hand through his rain-drenched beard. Gods above, I don't think this could be any worse. This is not how I thought today would go.
Imperials are Imperials wherever you go. That is to say, you'd better play by their rules if you value your skin. If you don't, well… good luck to you. You'll need it.
Next to him, Lokir hunches over and snivels loudly, terrified in an entirely un-Nordlike manner. He whimpers dejectedly as an Imperial soldier firmly pulls his hands behind his back and binds them together with a length of rope.
Mull grumbles under his breath as he's subjected to the same rough treatment. Me too, friend. Me too.
-x-
AN:
I own nothing.