The chilled air brushed against His skin, easily brushing past the thin cloth that covered Him in a basic manner. He blinked, opening His eyes for what seemed like the first time in ages, the lids threating to close once more. His vision sharpened near instantly, giving him a full view of dull brown wooden planks beneath his feet. A small shock shook the boards and himself, and His gaze moved to His clothed legs, covered by a pair of poorly sized pants, that split heavily at the edges. He brought His hand upwards to scratch at His face, only to find the other following sharply, held shackled in steel clasp that were tethered by a short amount of chain. His movement sparked the interest of the man across from Him.
"Hey, you're awake." He looked up at the sound of the voice, to be met with a man sitting across from Him, clothed in much better attire, that of leather and chainmail in cool blue and light browns, however, the man's hands were also bound, albeit with rope instead of cuffs. He had dirty blonde hair that rested at shoulder height, and threatened to flow down his back if not well groomed. His face was rugged, a little bit of stubble and dirt adding to the complexion beneath those blue eyes. He found himself looking down at the man as he straightened his back, his head swiveling around slowly to gain a better understanding of his surroundings. What he found surprised him.
He was stationed in the back of a wooden cart, that was making headway down a cobblestone road, the last of three before it, each filled with men and women similarly dressed as the man who spoke to him. Their drivers were attired in reds atop their leather armor, their attention focused upon controlling the horses down the path. He and the occupants of the carts were prisoners, that much was clear. He returned his attention to the occupants of his own cart over the convoy just as the previous prisoner began speaking again."You walked into that Imperial ambush," the man continued, "just like us and that horse thief over there." He gestured with his shoulder at the man sitting next to him, who was clothed in rags much similar to His own, but with an added shirt.
"Damn you Stormcloaks," he began, looking at the man beside him, "Before you came along the empire was nice and lax, I would have been halfway to Hammerfell by now." he spat out, "You and me, we shouldn't be here," he says, looking at Him now, "You have to tell them we aren't with them." The thief didn't get a reply, and instead, turned his focus to the man across from him, who was staring at him from his bent over position. "What's his problem?"
"Watch your tongue!" the first man shouted, "that's Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High king of Skyrim." The man, or rather, Jarl in question was clad in a much more elaborate and well armored version of the first man's armor, even going so far as to have a dark blue pelt hanging from his shoulders. He had hair similar to the first man, however his was shorter and braided. His mouth was covered by a dirty rag, and he shifted a bit to nod in appreciation to the man.
"Ulfric Stormcloak? You're the leader of the rebellion! If you've been captured... where are they taking us?" the horse thief asked, eyes wide and fearful.
"Who knows." the warrior said. He mentally blocked them out, letting the conversation leave his mind in favor of studying the events, as some form of a thought pressured him to. the words and names held no sense, while somewhere familiar like empire, Imperials, and rebellion, he could not tell exactly why, but had a feeling that they meant something important beyond the common means. The words Like Stormcloak, Jarl, and Skyrim however held no meaning to him besides what he could visibly see, the blue armored warriors these so proclaimed "Stormcloaks" and Skyrim, it was the place they were in, then that left one gigantic hole in his memory and a near physical question:
How did He get here?
The convoy passed through wooden gates and stone walls, a place called "Helgen" if the warrior was right, reminiscing about his past while spitting at the Imperial's leader; General Tullius, alongside a group of golden skinned individuals known as the Thalmor. A slight bend in the path and suddenly they halt against a wall, and their captors order for them to disembark. "Come on, let's not keep the God's waiting." The Jarl is the first one off, followed by the horse thief, pausing to step down.
He simply jumped down, his impact shaking the ground, and causing the rest of the prisoners and the duo of soldiers before him to stare. He stood a good two feet taller than the Jarl, the pants stretching to an almost uncomfortable state as they held his frame. The warrior jumped down and stood beside him, turning his head forward, his leather boots slapping against the cobblestone. The first one to break their eyes away was the Imperial with a book, and his female counterpart.
"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm" he called, marking in his book with a quill as the jarl marched toward a clearing off to the side, his head held high despite the gag and bindings that hampered his movement.
"It was an honor, Jarl Ulfric." said the warrior as the Jarl walked away.
"Ralof," the book marker continued, "Of Riverwood." The warrior followed in the direction of his Jarl. Head held high in a similar manner, he approached the side of the Jarl with several of his fellow brothers and sisters, yet not a word was said between them.
Next, came the other man in rough spun clothing, his dark brown hair greased with a slight sheen of sweat despite the nip in the air. His eyes wandered between the walls and towers, to the clearing where the other prisoners were gathered, to the two imperials in front of him. "Lokir of Rorrikstead" called the ledger. It was clear as day that he was at the end of his wits, unwilling to face the punishment as natural instincts over rode logical thinking. "You can't do this-s," he stammered out, his voice hoarse as if he had done nothing but yell for the past few minutes, "I'm not with them!" he said, breaking past the armored woman before she could draw upon him.
"Archers!" she called, turning to watch as the thief ran up the pathway back towards the gates. His feet hammered away as he ate up the ground, desperately trying not to trip over himself in the rough spun rags. He reached about 20 feet, before he was brought down, two arrows piercing his chest. He cried out, his feet tripping up, and fell face first to the ground, dead. Two archers at the base of another tower held their bows at the ready. The imperials did nothing but impassively stare at the body of Lokir before turning back to him. The ledger turned away from the carcass, and settled his eyes upon His face.
"And who, are you?"