Loredas, 5.50 p.m., 15th Last Seed, 4E 201
Northern Cyrodiil
I never did care for the taste of blood in my mouth.
When the Imperial bastard with the gap-tooth grin and nervous twitch struck me again, I ignored the sting of impact that lanced my frozen cheek and spat a long plume of bloody saliva across his leather boot. He cursed, long and loud – something about feeding me to a frost troll – and raised his hand for a third strike. I glared at him, willing him to do it, to stoke my rage just a little more – but the officer behind me intervened.
‘Olaf!’ he barked. ‘Calm yourself. You can have all the fun you want when we reach Helgen.’
‘Olaf!’ he barked. ‘Calm yourself. You can have all the fun you want when we reach Helgen.’
‘S’not fun I want,’ Olaf grunted. ‘This Dunmer bitch has ruined my boots.’
‘Well, you asked for it. Too heavy-handed.’
I paid no heed to Olaf’s mumbled response as he moved away, turning my attention to the road ahead. The wagon carrying me trundled along a narrow, snow-draped path, juddering and jarring as it went, its low wooden barriers no protection against the biting cold wind. Night was drawing in, and as far as I could judge we were still several hours from the border. We’d likely stop soon; Olaf was hardly the pride of the Empire and the officer, stern as he might seem, had the look of a clerk. These weren’t the hardy Nords I’d heard of, they were merely displaced southerners; they would stop at the first sign of warm mead and warmer wenches, and I’d be gone before they knew they were dead.
As the rough rope chafed my wrists and needles of sleet jabbed my skin, I found myself wondering, not for the first time, why I’d chosen north. Why Skyrim, of all places? I could have gone south, into the rainforests of Elsweyr; I could have returned to Leyawiin, where I first learned to fend for myself. Anywhere but back to Morrowind – and now here I was, less than twenty miles from one of the most inhospitable provinces in Tamriel.
And arrested to boot. That has always been the problem with Imperials: wherever they are, everyone else is the foreigner. If an Imperial officer sees a Dunmer woman fist-fighting one of his grunts, she’s a criminal, plain and simple. And this far north, the only place Imperials took their criminals was Helgen.
‘Prisoner,’ I heard the officer say.
The wagon lurched as I turned to regard him. ‘My name is not prisoner.’
‘Loosen a few of her teeth,’ Olaf said. ‘You can call her what you please.’
The officer shot him a dark look, then turned back to me. ‘I am Sergeant Brandt,’ he said, producing a quill and a roll of paper. The wagon jumped again as he dipped the tip of the quill, sloshing a little ink to the wooden deck. The officer swore, raising an eyebrow at me. ‘And your name?’
I considered lying, but this far from Morrowind no one would know my father’s name. ‘Dastan, Ve’esha Dastan. Of Vvardenfell.’
Brandt nodded as his quill scratched. ‘Caldera?’
‘Balmora.’
‘Ah.’ He finished writing and put aside the ledger, before sitting forward and clasping his hands on his knees. He was almost handsome, for a human, with bright blue eyes and hair the colour of rust. I deliberately stared and, though he did well to hold my gaze, eventually he looked away. ‘We are transporting you to Helgen for… processing. Your crimes against the Empire may not warrant the death penalty, but they must be punished all the same.’ I remained silent and he continued. ‘We will be stopping soon. There is an inn a little way ahead before we cross through the mountains and into Skyrim. You will remain bound for the night, and as an Imperial prisoner you will talk to no one. If you attempt to escape, we will kill you. Do you understand?’
I looked away and Olaf spoke up. ‘She understands, alright. You’re lucky you won’t be in with me, grey skin. I’d have you singing plenty.’
-S-
The inn was called The Borderwatch, a sturdy dwelling built from rough-hewn timber logs and ugly, birds’ nest thatch. It was set back from the road, nestled by the forest, in the shadow of the low mountains.
The wagon jolted to a stop, the horses whinnying and stamping in the cold, their nostrils billowing steam. Olaf dropped down, as did the white-haired driver. Brandt climbed down beside me, offering me a hand. I resisted the urge to smack it away and allowed him to help me down. The ragged robes I wore barely covered my skin and my arms and legs were freezing, numbed by the cold air.
‘It’s warmer inside, lass,’ he said. ‘Come on.’
The wind howled through the mountain pass ahead, blowing up great swirls of snow. I turned away, bowing my head against the weather and hurrying up the steps of the inn.
The low-ceilinged room stunk of wine and mead, smoke and sweat. There were only three patrons: a Khajiit nursed a tankard by the far window, raising his slitted eyes as we entered, holding my gaze for the briefest of moments. He was dressed in black, his deep hood contrasting with the white and tan fur of his face. The other two were Dunmer women, like me, grey-skinned, red-eyed. They were hooded, too, and talking in hushed tones. They regarded me at length, and one of them nodded. I didn’t return the gesture.
The innkeeper, a broad, ruddy-faced Nord with a thick black beard, coughed his way in from the taproom. ‘What’ll it be?’ he growled.
Brandt stepped forwards. ‘Two rooms, one night, four meals and a bellyful of mead.’
The innkeeper appeared to size us up. Three Imperial soldiers and a Dark Elf prisoner, we were unlikely to be trouble. ’Ten septims a room, four for the food and drink. Got mutton and potatoes, or skeever broth.’
Brandt settled up. ‘Mutton will suffice. Have two of the meals sent to my room. My comrades will likely dine in here.’
Olaf and the driver were already wandering towards a corner table. I flicked a glance towards the Khajiit; he was watching Olaf intently, running one clawed nail back and forth along the rim of his tankard.
Brandt led me upstairs, located our room and unlocked the door with the key he’d been given. Once inside we found the fire already lit, the two beds made and a flagon of water on a table by the window. I snatched up the flagon and took a long guzzle. The water was room temperature, but I didn’t care. As I set the receptacle down, I noticed Brandt was watching me.
‘Never seen a thirsty Elf, fetcher?’
He smiled, embarrassed. ‘I apologise. You intrigue me, the way you move.’
‘Lay a hand on me and you’ll lose it,’ I cautioned.
He stood up, walked towards me. ‘You misunderstand me,’ he said, gathering up the chains that fastened my rope bindings and tying them to the leg of the bed beside me. ‘I mean you move like a fighter. The way you trounced that loudmouth back in Bruma.’
I took a seat on the bed. What else was I going to do? ‘So you admit he was a loudmouth?’
Brandt chuckled. ‘Aye. But hitting him was a bad idea.’
‘There was more to it than that.’
‘Undoubtedly, but that loudmouth happens to be a Lieutenant, and we don’t go around hitting Lieutenants.’
‘You might not… Is it really worth taking me all the way to Helgen for thumping someone?’
‘A crime is a crime, and Helgen is the closest outpost.’
I sighed. The absurdity of the Empire was well-documented by everyone except Imperials. They loved their lists, loved their laws, didn’t realise that their rule was failing – or that Skyrim, for all its outposts, redoubts and watchtowers, was where the revolution would begin.
When the innkeeper fetched our food we ate in uncomfortable silence. It was the first meal I’d consumed in twenty-four hours, and I swallowed it down with gusto before turning from my captor and settling on my bed. Restless, I rolled over to see that Sergeant Brandt had fallen silent, too, and now lay back, staring up at the dark beams of the ceiling.
Yes, he is handsome, I thought. It will be a shame to kill him.
-S-
My dreams were dark that night, as they always were at this time. I saw fire and flames, wings of leather and a crown of black spines. I saw homes burn; men, women and children dead in the streets, their clothes and hair ablaze, their skin blistering, baking on their bones as their blood boiled. With the visions of horror came fear, and with the fear an incongruous sense of power that I could not yet understand.
I jerked awake, an unexpected yet familiar scent in my nostrils. Somewhere, oak was burning. The room was steeped in thick shadow, heavy drapes obscuring what meagre moonlight pried at the edges of the window. I felt suddenly aware of a presence in the room with me, over by Brandt’s bed. It was not Brandt himself that I sensed, though – it was something stronger, something cloaked in menace.
Unarmed and still bound, there was little I could do to defend myself should someone have crept into the room intending to murder me in my bed – but nor was I willing to lay there like a chicken trussed for the carving knife. I whispered a silent prayer and sent up an orb of magelight, painting the room in a pale blue sheen. The light fell upon the closed door, upon the draped window, upon Sergeant Brandt… head thrown back, lifeless eyes staring, blood pumping like a crimson spring from his open throat. I did not start – I had seen death many times before. Instead I narrowed my eyes, focusing on the Khajiit who crouched atop Brandt’s body, hood drawn back, dark ebony dagger in hand, regarding me steadily.
‘What you going to do, Dunmer?’ he asked me, his voice soft rather than challenging. ‘You going to scream?’
I recognised the Khajiit from the bar earlier – remembered the look he had given me – and took a chance on conversation. ‘Would it help if I did?’
‘No one would hear it,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘Everyone is dead.’ His eyes slid briefly to my rope-bound wrists and the chain fastened to my cotbed. ‘You were a prisoner of this one?’
I sat up, slowly. ‘Apparently.’
‘Hmm. Your spell is fading.’
It took more effort to cast it again, but I did so as the Khajiit began to loot Brandt’s pockets. He pulled out a small roll of parchment, eyeing me over the top of it as he read. ‘This is your writ of arrest.’
‘Keep it. I don’t need it.’
‘Huh.’ He half-smiled, then looked up at me sharply. ‘Your name is Dastan?’
I looked for the first time at his black robes, woven from dark hessian and lined with silk; noted for the first time the quality of the dagger he held and smelt the enchantment laid upon it. I didn’t reply to him, my mind racing.
He swung down from atop Brandt’s corpse, landed in a half-crouch. ‘You’re name is Dastan, of Balmora? I thought I recognised those eyes. Today is your lucky day.’
‘Feels like it so far…’
He grunted at me. ‘You may keep your life – courtesy of your father. That, believe me, is lucky.’
I felt my hackles rise and tugged at the rope that held me trapped. ‘My father is dead.’
‘And yet still I owe him favours.’
Realisation hit me hard as memories I had sought to suppress suddenly granted me clarity. I cursed. ‘You are Morag Tong?’
‘Ssh,’ the Khajiit said mockingly, nodding slightly towards Brandt’s body, ‘he’ll hear you.’ The window shutters banged behind the drapes. ‘Storm coming.’
‘The Morag Tong have no business outside of Morrowind.’
‘Nor does the daughter of Ennessian Dastan – and yet here we stand.’
‘Here you stand. I am still bound.’
‘Ah, how remiss of me.’ He sliced cleanly through my ropes before sheathing the dagger. ‘Best you leave now, daughter of Dastan. Take the Imperial’s fur cloak – he won’t need it now.'
A reply was halfway to my lips when the door swung open, spilling orange light into the room and revealing one of the Dunmer women from the bar. ‘N’Skarr,’ she said to the Khajiit, all the while regarding me suspiciously. ‘Why do you delay? Olaf Stannic has evaded us.’
I almost choked. ‘Olaf? You’re here for that stinking fetcher?’
‘Appearances can be deceiving,’ N’Skarr replied, moving to the lantern beside Brandt’s bed. He struck a flint and flames leapt to life inside the glass.
‘What about this one?’ the woman asked, discussing me like I was some skulking mutt in the corner.
‘She goes free. Consider it a personal favour.’
‘As you wish - but move, now!’
N’Skarr turned to me once more. ‘Flee, daughter of Dastan. In hours the border will be crawling with Imperials out of Helgen. Go anywhere you wish, but do not linger here.’
I lifted Brandt’s cloak from beside the bed and slung it around my shoulders, then buckled on his swordbelt. ‘Thank you,’ I said to N’Skarr, but he waved me to silence.
‘It is not for you, but for the memory of a friend – and now my debt is cleared. If fate puts you under my blade again, I will do what I must. Now go!’ As he spoke he lifted the lantern high before smashing it against Brandt’s bed. Oil and flames billowed out, swallowing the cots and the corpse in moments. By the time I had followed the Khajiit from the room, he was nowhere to be seen.
Taking the steps two at a time I hurried down to the barroom – to find it ablaze. The smell of oak had come from the cellar where N’Skarr’s Dunmer companions had lit a slow fire. The flames had spread and now roared with life, and would soon join with the blaze lit above and reduce The Borderwatch to ashes.
As I crossed through the bar I saw the innkeeper dead, slumped over the bar, and the Imperial soldier who had driven the wagon lay across from him, an open wound in his neck likely caused by a throwing knife, since removed. The inn screamed in protest as fire raged within and a storm raged without, and I gritted my teeth, steeling myself. None of it seemed real, as though I had woken into a living nightmare. I found myself suddenly smiling: was it any worse to be here than in Helgen, awaiting the block?
As the smoke rose around me I swung for the door, just as the timbers of the floor sagged in the heat and gave way. Tables and chairs and smashed wooden beams tumbled into the cellar below, and I jumped back from the hole, searching for a way around. The common room was large, but the door before me was the only exit – the windows were all barred, a precaution against bandits so close to the border.
Since none of the Morag Tong agents had come by me, I reasoned that they must have escaped through an upstairs window and I swung for the burning staircase. Smoke stung my eyes as I raced to the upper floor, ducking as a burning tapestry came loose and floated towards me like a demon of fire, dodging as a chandelier plunged from the ceiling and shattered into pieces at my feet.
I reached the second floor; the corridor here was like a flame-wreathed path into the heart of Oblivion. I could see the window at the other end of the corridor through a curtain of dancing smoke and swore. I would have to make a run for it – and hope the floor held beneath my weight.
Clenching my teeth I threw myself forward, reaching my hand out to grip the window frame – but a body came out of nowhere, knocking me to the ground. I struggled onto my back, pulling Brandt’s sword from its scabbard. Olaf, standing above me with a waraxe in his hands, kicked it away. Flames licked at the fur cloak I wore as he grabbed a handful of my hair and dragged me up. Smoke clawed at my eyes, burned my throat, and Olaf pulled me close.
‘Where are your friends, you grey-skinned bitch?’ he shouted. ‘Surely they didn’t free you only to leave you here to die.’
‘They were not my friends, skeever!’ I yelled back. Then I looked deep into his grey eyes and said, ‘They were Morag Tong – and they were here for you!’
His eyes went wide with fear and he dropped me, raising the axe above his shoulder for a single, lethal blow. I glanced around for something to bring to bear, awaiting his final swing – when his chest exploded in a spray of blood and glistening ebony. The axe clattered to the ground and Olaf sagged, drooping to the right.
N’Skarr reached down and offered me his clawed hand; I took it and together we raced to the open window, leaping from the ledge as flames swallowed the second floor landing. Hitting the snow hard, whipped in the face by gale-force wind and swirling needles of ice I almost cried out – but I felt N’Skarr drag me on towards the shelter of the stables where I slumped against the snow, panting.
‘I… was… bait?’ I asked between wracking coughs.
‘Not intentionally.’
I sat up, gazing at my rescuer’s face framed by the blizzard. ‘Head for the trees and the mountain pass,’ he instructed. ‘The forest will shelter you from this storm. But be on your guard – the Imperials will come here, they’ll cover this valley like ticks on a troll’s back. If they catch you, they’ll likely kill you.’
‘But you destroyed the evidence of my arrest.’
‘Regardless. The Imperials here are edgy, paranoid – an uprising is coming. If they catch you trying to cross the border without a writ, they’ll take your head.’
‘Thank you.’
N’Skarr gave a soft growl. ‘You are blessed, I think, daughter of Dastan. A Dunmer with an Imperial’s luck.’ He turned away, pulling up his black hood.
‘What did Olaf do?’ I suddenly asked – though I don’t know why it mattered.
N’Skarr shrugged. ‘I don’t care, little Elf. It was not my place to ask. Off you go.’ With that he turned away, and within moments had disappeared into the blizzard.
I got to my feet. The blaze turned the snow to red-gold, casting dancing shadows across the forest like sunlight on the surface of a lake. I dragged up the heavy hood on my stolen cloak and drew the fur-lined garment tighter about me. My boots were thin, my ragged clothes beneath the cloak thinner – but I was alive, and I was free.
I left the shelter of the stables as The Borderwatch collapsed on itself, spraying embers and sparks and flaming splinters into the night. I ran on, felt the comforting embrace of shadows as I passed through the treeline and headed north.
Ever north, to Skyrim...
To be continued...
Skyrim is one of those games that encourages roleplaying with your character - they're always a blank canvas on which to paint whatever picture you please. It's unlikely that anyone else's Dovahkiin would have the same background as mine, the same upbringing, or the same mini adventure preceding their capture and transport to Helgen.
This story has no relevance to the overall plot of Skyrim, but is pure fiction relating only to the personal story of Ve'esha Dastan, my Dark Elf assassin. There may yet be more set during the events of Skyrim as, once again, my experience will almost certainly have been different from yours.
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