Around Skrim

Everyday I'm Shufflekiin 4

4

            They pulled me up in fronta His Jarlness Whiterun, and I thought for sure I would be executed on the spot.

 His Jarlness on his granite throne surrounded by his ministers was lookin like it was all a bit dull.  I having had an ale or two was feelin quite the opposite.  You’d never guess from his face the guy was quizzin me on a buncha folks sayin they saw a dragon at Helgen.

 “You were at Helgen, were you not?” he says to me with a yawn, hand out like la-de-da, “Or are you a prisoner washed in from somewhere else?”

 After sittin in the grotto for another half hour, I’s finally convinced Old Ugly was dead enough to creep past his corpse.  I had a look about for Ulfric, knowin I was a wanted man in the south and likely as not t’be wanted in Whiterun too by Arcadia, who’d fronted Margeth n me the gold for our little pharmaceutical venture.  With Ulfric I could get into Windhelm, where it was cold as ass but at least nobody much knew me.

 Well anyway I was standin on the road lookin down onto Whiterun Plain, and thought I saw a carriage about four miles off to the northeast.  Goin like a blight outta Oblivion, it were.  Soon as I saw it I knew there went my ride.

 While I was standin there, feelin plenty sorry for myself n poor dead Margeth, I did happen t’hear horses round the bend above the bridge.  I still had the goldy-coloured sword in my hand like any dumbass bandit, n so shoved it under the rotten piece of linen passin for my belt.

 Glad I did.  For sure enough, my ears din fail me, and there happened along the six shitty guard-horses poorly mounted by six tin-headed ‘perials.

 “Drop your weapon!” shouts five of the ‘perials at once.  I already have my hands in the air.  Horses canter round me.  Says the sixth silver, an elf woman bit brighter, cleaner, n certainly easier on the eyes than the rest, “Some of my men reported seeing a dragon in the area.  What can you tell me about it?”

 “Nothin,” I said, hands in the air, a blade ticklin my throat. “Except it’s over there.”

 I tip my head up the hill.  ‘perials clamour, all of them drawing weapons.  Elf shouts for a couple of them to check if I be truthin.  They go, she looks me up and then down.

 “You’re a prisoner.”

 Surprise she noticed over the stench and the leaf mould and the mud. “Got free legit,” I tell her, with a burnt and grimy smile.  Try for charming, go on. “Dragon dropped into Helgen, gave us all a pardon.”

 Elf’s eyes narrowed.  Horsehead crest on her shield showed she’s a Whiterunner. “Arrest him.  No one bar the Jarls and the High King (rest his soul) grant pardon in Skyrim.”

 Wonner the ‘perials wriggles his sword my way. “We could kill him now.  Save us the trouble of having to cart his sorry ass home.”

 Elf pauses.  Considers. “No,” she says at last, n I nearly dance with relief.  Not that it’s ever more’n an hour between attempts on my life anyway. “We’ll take him.  The court will be interested to hear his account.  Jarl Balgruuf can decide whether he is to live or to die.”

 As silvers one and two are helping me into shackles, I say, “Brother, I’m parched.  Would you have any ale on ye?”

 Grumbling, silver one nonetheless obliges, passin me the flagon on his hip.  It isn’t good solid Nord mead, but crappy runny ‘perial wine.  Tastes of Cyrodiil and oppression.  Well I might be biased by the continual attempt of ‘perials to kill me for not doin nothin.  And I guess oppression ain’t all that bad cause afore I know it the flagon is empty.

 “Thanks, brother.” With hands shackled before me I toss silver one the flagon. “Wouldn’t have any mead to wash away the taste?”

 Silver two shoves a bottle of Nord mead into my hand before silver one can belt me over the head with the flagon.  I’m enjoying the powerful aftertaste from the comfort of a poorly-bred draft horse when the two reconnaissance agents come a-galloping over the ridge, shoutin, “It’s dead!  It’s already dead!”

 Elf is suspicious, eye slotted, mouth hard. “You’re certain?”

 “Lady.  There’s a pretty difference tween a live dragon n a dead one.  They’d pick it.”

 It ain’t my turn t’speak, but whadda they gun do – arrest me?

 Well, whatever it is, it isn’t unarrest me.  ‘s how I wound up lookin at His Jarlness Whiterun with a belly full of cheap mead and wine, wonderin if His Jarlness ever did a single dirty day’s work with them long thin hands or if they was entirely for makin him appear pensive.

 “I ain’t from Helgen,” I tell him, since he was kind enough t’ask. “Born n bred in Shar’s Stone.  And I wouldn’t mind gettin back there if your Majesty is done detaining me.”

 His Jarlness seems almost amused. “Majesty?  You really are a simpleton!  We would be as foolish as you are to expect your witness; evidently this dragon business is some fantasy of the lower classes.  Never mind it.  As thanks for your assistance in the matter, knave, I hereby pardon your transgressions in the Hold.  Irileth, show him the door.”

 Actually I’ve already seen the door n’ve been thinking about it a whole bunch, specifically never seeing the back of it again.  Seems His Jarlness isn’t such a bad bloke after all.

 Elf has just got her dainty killer hands on me when mon signor’s steward clears his throat. “Yer Lordship.  The going rate for any information provided for the aid of the Hold is fifty Septims, for a knave...”

 Did someone say Septims?  I turn from the beautiful door to His Jarlness, who is already scowlin at me, or maybe was scowlin inwardly anyway the entire time, likely as not smellin the skooma n mead n wine on my breath and jealous as a spriggan over its grove that it’s my breath and not his.

 I let him glower.  He soon runs to the end of it. “Fine.” He reaches under hisself on the seat, drawing out a ratty coin purse and tossing it to the steward, which that excellent man then passes to me.  Heavy.  About forty-eight Septims heavy, I’d gauge.  Figure my freedom accounts for the missing pieces.  Probably the deal is His Jarlness promises not to behead me if I promise not to mention his being skinflint.

 I make the coin purse disappear into my filthy tunic.  Even manage a bow, which is really just a mooning in reverse.  The Elf hovers at my side.  She seems even lovelier now the world has taken on Tiber Septim’s golden glow.  I smile at her and she scowls at me.  But’a course; she’s a Dunmer, and Dunmer hate everybody.  Matter o fact once I knew a Dunmer hated everyone so badly that when his wife cheated on him he threw her a party.

 Moments later I’m out the door.  I din get much of a tour’a Dragon’s Reach, but it dun take much figuring to know I preferred the outside better.

 Guards on the drawbridge hurry me on.  I’ve heard the Jarl’s unwanted visitors often end up under the bridge as opposed t’on toppa it.  Yeah.  The view is definitely better up here.  Orange sunset makes a fiery lake of the plains.  About a quarter hour til the shops shut and the real drinking gets started.  I need to get to Belethor’s and then the inn if I’m to find a sucker give me a lift to Shor’s Stone tomorrow.

 “Brotherrr!” Heimskr cries as I pour myself down the stairs into the upper plaza. “Does the love of Talos fill yourr hearrrt, guide yourrr everrrrry action?”

 I stop short by him, tastin mead on the air. “It sure does, cousin.  Why just this mornin I said to Talos I said, boy, Talos, I’d sure love it if ev’y man n his dragon in Skyrim up n tried t’kill me, and d’you know what?  Good old Talos saw to it my wish came true!”

 Heimskr breaks into a huge, beaming grin, which nestles like a wolf lying in ambush in the red bush of his beard. “Talos does oblige the faithful.”

 “Yup.  Reckon he might also summon an ale for me since I asked.  Tell you what; Imma wait at the inn for a miracle to happen.”

 “Don’t wait, brother!  Go, spread the love of Talos!” Heimskr reaches into his robe and flings a bottle’a mead at me.  He sounds one hearty prayer from orgasm.  Unwilling to become the trigger for another man’s pleasure, I quickly thank him and run across the plaza n down the stairs into the marketplace.  On the way I down the mead, secreting the bottle behind Carlotta’s fruit stall.  She shouts somethin at me, but my eyes are on Belethor’s main man Sigurd out front’a his place.  Sigurd is lounging by the door and he hastily shoves a bottle behind hisself as he catches my eye.  Word on the street is Sigurd is set to take over shop should Belethor ever slip up on his own slimy trail.  I palm a Septim to him, look meaningfully towards the mead bottle and then to him, and wink.

 Sigurd turns the red of a Daedra rose and hurries to open the door for me.

 “Don’t tell!”

 “I won’t,” I tell him, “But you’d better give me that mead bottle all the same.  Belethor asks about your breath I’ll tell him I kissed you on the mouth.”

 He dun divvy up, but nor does he resist when I pry the bottle from his hands.  With refreshments thusly provided, I roll into the shop, Sigurd hopping on my heels.

 Belethor greets us both with a hearty roar of, “You!  What’re you doing in here!”

 Sigurd n myself share a moment of confusion.  Then Belethor stalks out from behind the counter, cocks his fist, and punches me to the floor.  I din expect the hit yet nonetheless have been punched enough times in the mouth that I roll with it n don’t lose so much as a tooth.

 “That’s for skipping out of town on me!” Belethor bellows from somewhere above his knees, which are as much of him as I can see.  The view dun greatly improve upon my revival, as I’m a good head taller than my lecherous buddy n can easily pick out the bald patch he thinks he’s combed out of sight.

 “Excuse me.  Last time I saw you we’s both got drunk n then when I woke up the next day you’d bet all my gold on a mule in a horse race n sold my clothes to pay for your drinks.” I stare down at Belethor.  He squirms.  As a toad tends to when caught in a hole. “Don’t you try t’dig yer way through the floorboards, either,” I tell him, “I want new clothes or my old ones back, and drinks t’make up for the ones you enjoyed on my Septim.”

  “You do stink horribly,” Belethor agrees, somewhat made mollied by the looming list of transgressions I could recall at any moment.  Belethor might seem like your everyday scummer-Tamriel merchant, but you ever see him at a bard’s night when the lute n drums are bringing down the crossbeams and you’ll known he’s a Daedra at heart.

 He hesitates a moment longer by the fire pit before swaggering over to a wardrobe. “I don’t keep this stuff on display,” he calls over his shoulder, as sweet as if he were born a lamb, “It’s too good.  For the everyday customer, that is.  For you I think it will be just right.”

 Sigurd glances at me, sees I’ve finished his mead, and hurries to fetch us another drink. “What happened to ya anyway, mister?” he wonders as he pulls bottles of Alto wine from under the counter, “You get under arrest fer summin?”

 Did I ever tell you drinking makes of me a proficient liar?  Well I prob’ly woulda told you while I was sober, but being drunk you’d more likely be smellin bullshit.

 “I’m a secret agent, working for His Highness.”

 This is as far as I get before Belethor bursts out laughing.  He turns from the wardrobe. “You?  A secret agent for the – the who?  Torygg (bless his immortal soul)?  What’re you investigating in those rags – the quality of Skyrim’s prisons?”

 “I was tasked with infiltratin the ‘perial legion in order to suss weaknesses in allegiance to His Highness General Tullius.” That dun sound quite right to me but it’s too late now to change it. “So far I’ve discovered seventy-five per cent of ‘perials are actually Cloaker spies.”

 I would’a sided with Ulfric’s boys, only after he done left me to die in the woods I din have half as many nice words for him as was needed to lie about it.

 Belethor has gone back to his rummaging.  He pulls out the odd garment and drapes it over his arm. ‘Wow.  I didn’t realise the silvers were so far down shit creek.”

 “It ain’t shit creek; it’s Cloaker Creek, n they’re paddlin as fast as their little heads can handle.”

 With a snort, Belethor leaves off pickin dresses for me n wanders back over with what he’s got. “How about that dropkick brother of yours?  He a secret agent as well?”

 “No,” I say, and take a draught of Alto wine to waylay the treacle pumping through my arteries. “On account of he’s dead.”

 You can tell the news shocks them from how they just stand there, slack-jawed n starin at me.  Difference is Sigurd is a good kid n likely feels poorly for the death of a man, while Belethor is gutted he lost of source of income.  I swear that man mourns every death in Tamriel.

 Finally, he clears his throat, and drops his starin eyes. “I’m sorry to hear that.  I won’t say Margeth was the greatest contributor to the glory of Nordkind, but he had his moments.  Man always knew where to find skooma.  Like a horse smelling water.”

 “To Talos,” says Sigurd.

 The eulogy is over and I’m not sure if I should be crying.  It’s true what they say; Margeth never had a talent, not a single one, other than gettin his hands on skooma n mead n very cheap women.  He couldn’t read, or chop wood good, or play the lute, or skin rabbits, or even pick deathbell very well.  But he was my brother.  He was my brother and I loved him.

 “’preciate your condolences,” I mutter.  I look briefly at the exquisite garments Belethor has brought me over.  They really aren’t all that bad, so either he’s feelin poorly for screwin me over last time or he reckons I’ve got gold now that I’m workin for General Tullius. “How much is that?”

 Belethor holds up some brown patchwork thing looks cheaper’n the rest. “For you?  Forty-eight Septims.  I’ll throw in a pair of boots for free.”

 I started with either forty-seven or forty-eight Septims and gave wonner them to Sigurd. “Maybe y’oughta show me what you show yer regulars.”

 “Naw, come on.  Take it.  Forty-eight Septims is all it will set you back.”

 “Forty-seven,” I say, “And you owe me another drink.” And then a bunch more drinks once I stole his wallet.

 “Done.  You can get dressed out the back.” He pauses, glancing me up and down. “You don’t... you’re not going out in that state, are you?  You’ll scare off the whores!”

 “Oblivion no.  You got a pump I could use t’get cleaned up?”

 Quarter hour later I’m s’fficiently clothed and as clean as I ever am.  I also know the reason Belethor sold me the fine robe so cheap is the inner lining is so moth eaten it disintegrated as I pulled it on.  One of the boots he gave me has a hole the size of a Septim in the sole, but that was nothing couldn’t be patched with a little cardboard n nail.  I check my reflection on the pump splashback to realise I’s much blonder than I recall.  I toss my prison rags in the shop-back fireplace as I wander downstairs.

 Belethor n his boy are standin by the open door onto the marketplace.  There’s a heckova ruckus coming from outside, jingle of a lotta steel armour in motion.  Belethor ushers me closer, game t’touch me now I ain’t smellin like a bed’a corpses.

 “Being that you’re a secret agent, you might know about this,” he whispers, fixed as Sigurd on the commotion, “What’s this about a dragon?”

 I retreat from the door.  There’s plenty of mead and Alto wine in here.  No need to go out and risk being spotted by silvers in need.  Plus the room is swayin as the laws of physics sync to my drunkenness. “It’s classified.  Dragon is a codename for a really boring project I can’t tell you anythin about.  Where d’you keep the Black-Briar mead?”

 He doesn’t answer, so I help myself to the stock under the counter.  Soon as Belethor hears the hiss of quality mead reacting with air he lifts his head towards me.  I’m sittin in his chair n drinkin his beer.

 “Get out of that!”

 “Shut the door and I’ll share it with ya.”

 Belethor dun take much convincing.  Sigurd dun take any at all.  We’re sittin around the fire pit having a grand if hazy time listenin to Sigurd tell us about the one time he nearly got laid but then didn’t on account of his being morally uptight about sleepin with his cousin, and we might’ve all had three or six or fifteen or so when the door bursts open and this vision of an Elf in leather armour bursts in with twenty other ‘perials behind her.

 One of her triplets waves her sword in my direction. “Prisoner, you must come quickly.  Urgent news from the south – a dragon is attacking the western watchtower!”

 I’m about to say no (in fact I’ve said it a couple times) when she begs me,

 “Please, you must.  Only you have experience with the dragons.  You must help us save Whiterun!”

Gee, thanks, Talos.

Everyday I'm Shufflekiin

1

            I was chillin with my best brother Margeth down by Angi’s Grove about half a mile from the Border.  Margeth said he’d encountered a Khajit earlier in the day and that had left him with some skooma.  Being of a generous disposition, Margeth was about to share around what he had, when there from the valley we heard a-screaming.

 Now we’d been camped there a good month, Margeth and me, as it was our luck to stumble upon a meadow near black with deathbell, which as I’m sure you know can be ground up with a little bone meal or thistle and honeycomb to make a dreadful fatigue poison.  Our intention was to gather and dry as much deathbell as we could carry before returning to Whiterun and netting ourselves a tidy fortune from the poisons.

 It’s a tricky area, there on the tundra south of Angi’s Camp, where our grove and its attachment meadow was but one of the millions of pockets of frigid water stopped by the difficult terrain from joining the rushing river dividing Skyrim from Cyrodiil.  Folks aren’t half as common as beasts there.  Still it was more’n once we heard the lament of one bandit meeting another.

 Margeth wasn’t going to worry about it, though I lain hand to the rusty iron sword I’d found lying in the grass by a dead bandit.  I ain’t no corpse thief; I swear it was lying near him, not’n his hand.  Then we heard this shout, a chillin chorus if I’ve ever heard one (and I was with Harger the Older when we fetched Jarry’s younger from Dead Man’s Respite).  A woman, in that all-too common Cyrodiil accent,

 “For the Empire!”

 Poor Margeth has a mouthful of mead we should’ve been saving, which he half spat out and half choked on as he struggled not to waste the rest.  I pushed his face down into the tundra grass hoping it might quieten him.  I went down, too.  No matter we were under the trees on the high bank of the Grove; no point in providing a pretty target.

 We heard a bit more shouting, and it got to be clear to us this wasn’t a couple’a bandits hustlin a pelt hunter.

 “Reckon sommer Ulfrick’s boys gotta tooth into the ‘perials,” is what I said to Margeth while he spluttered, his face just as red as a Daedra heart.

 Keeping real low we crawled over to the bit of a verge near where we had our crates of deathbell.  We could see straight down the slope to the river and the far bank that was Cyrodiil, though why any bastard would want to jump that rope I swear I’ll never understand.  Heard they arrest a man for pickin up a fork in those parts, and if he resists then they cut him down on the spot.

 But I digress.  Margeth and me had ourselves a look on down the slope.  Sure enough, further down near the gully the sun was skittering off buffed steel armour and buffed bronze arms and the poorly-covered blonde heads of our brother Nords.

 I counted six blonde heads and three silver ones.  I’ll admit to you now that I relaxed.  Can you blame a fellah?  ‘perials beat that lot they’d more’n likely mosey on up here and decide Margeth and I were Cloakers too.  Happens all the time on the Border.  People go a little insane tryin to figure out which one is who, the Nordic ‘perials and the ‘perial Nords and the Nordic Nords and ‘perial ‘perials.  Me in those days was doing an admirable job of keeping m’head down outta politics and it was before I ever knew Ulfrick from a gold Septim.  All I wanted was t’keep drinkin and smokin skooma and watchin the deathbell dry.  It’d been a long time since I’d any gold and I was forgetting what Septimus looked like.

Prior to the deathbell meadow Margeth n I’d been over east Riften way, where we’d had a good thing going reselling bandit horses.  Course we got done by the thieves and then a bandit fellow flogged Margeth and kilt our own horses and run us out of town.  Before that we were in Ivarstead making a steady fortune breedin bears, but that place is such a morbid shithole we counted ourselves lucky to walk outta there prematurely aged n nothin worse.

 Where was I?  Lookin down the slope, seein one lotta fellahs fight another.  I was seein funny from the mead and the cold.  I had to be, I reasoned, ‘cause yonder Border there’s this foggy shadow like the biggest bat you ever saw rolling round in the sky.

 Said Margeth, “Y’hear that?”

 He was talking about the clamour of horse hooves descending the approach.  That was a long slew of gravel left behind from landslide or another, extending from the pass left of Angi’s Camp into the valley.  Come to think of it it mighta been the landslide which made the pass.  I dunno.  Anyway the approach bypassed us to the right, and sure enough after a second or two a dark-haired fellow in not much armour flogging the daylights out of a palomino comes belting past.  The palomino was a good horse, muscular, with a proud bowed neck and hair like every little daughter dreams of.  She was tearin up the gravel with her big groping hooves, but we could see she was close to exhausted.  Off they went, fellow screaming for the mare to go quicker, and she already going quicker’n she should’ve on that slope.

 Moment later we saw why.  Hot on the hooves of the palomino mare were a contingent of silver ‘perials on the backs of brown stallions.  I can’t tell you how I knew they was stallions without inspecting the undercarriage, ‘cept I know horses, and I knew these ones were stallions.  None of ‘em as fit as the palomino mare.  None of the riders dumb as the thief (go figure).  They saw the approach was getting steeper and they drew up; thief saw it getting steeper and he dug his spurs into the mare’s flanks and all but flew her into the valley.

 By now I’d lost interest in the blondes n silvers, figuring it to be a forgone conclusion.  But now the mare was headed that way I had another look.  Maybe the ‘perials down there weren’t all dead, but they sure weren’t having skooma parties neither, and one or two of the Cloakers was regretting gettin outta his bedroll that morning.

 The Cloakers spotted the mare, as it was hard not to with the hullabaloo the thief was raising.  One Cloaker looked to another like they was sharing a thought.  Struck out for the horse.  Two of em, armed.  Well of course they was armed being in this part o the world in these bleak times, but it’s not every day you go pointing swords at horses.

 Margeth was thumping my hand. “Get up,” he said to me, “We’re going to get on down there and take that horse.”

 I love Margeth as dearly as any man can love his brother, but sometimes he had some damn dumb ideas.

 “You reckon so?” I said slow-like, hoping his brain would catch up with his mouth.  The thief had spied his ambush and was trying to steer around it, meanwhile the mounted ‘perials were picking a safer course down the gravel approach. “On account of I reckon we should stay safe right here and take care of our deathbell and not get involved.”

 “T’Oblivion with the deathbell!” Margeth pulled out the dagger he’d pinched from an Orc when we did our stint in the Bilegulch Mine. “That one horse is worth more’n everything we got here – includin you and me!  Let’s get down there!”

 He wasn’t waiting for me.  Like the fool he was he crawled over the side of the bank n dropped into the tall frozen grass on the grove side of the approach.  Here it was a tricky run through the trees to the river, but one we knew well.  With the dagger in his hand and his putrid old studded armour he took off down the slope.

 Well I might have been dirtier than a skeever’s backside, but I was blonde as was obvious to anyone’s blind grandmother, and my armour was as cheap n foul as Margeth’s.  What I’m saying is we would never be mistaken for ‘perials.  Being a Nord can be a dangerous occupation on the Border.

 I had a thought then which was dead wrong.  The thought was, this isn’t the dumbest thing he’s ever done, you might as well go over him.

 Dead wrong.

 So with my trinket of a sword I ducked over the bank and keeping low galloped down the verge.  One of the mounted ‘perials must’ve seen me, ‘cause he shouted and an arrow whipped straight in front of my nose and buried itself half to the fletches in an aspen tree.  You can bet I skedaddled.  I didn’t want trouble with the ‘perials.  I wanted to drink and smoke and pick flowers for a change.  I wanted-

 We hit the barren lower banks of the valley a little too literally: Margeth lost his footing as he ran for the horse being driven his way by the Cloakers giving chase, fell, and had all of half a second to scream before the big plate of the palomino’s hoof bore down on his face and crushed his skull like a torchbug smashed by an arrow.

 I stopped.  I dropped the sword.  The palomino galloped on and the Cloakers leapt over Margeth’s corpse and went after her.  One drew back his arm and flung his axe at the rider.  He was a lousy shot and did no more damage than the handle whacking the mare’s neck and bouncing off into the dirt.  It was enough to rear the mare.  The thief, who’d clung on all down that crazy trip into the valley, was now thrown clear.  The mare and her jostling saddlebags rode away over the rainbow.  Ah well she might as well’ve, ‘cause in a pretty minute she’d crossed the river and surged over the far bank, into Cyrodiil.

 Margeth was dead and I had no way of hauling five hundred pounds of deathbell to Whiterun on my own.  I couldn’t quite seem to keep up with the proceedings.  Margeth was dead.  The horse was gone.  The Cloakers had a struggle on their hands with the thief, who musta thought if he kilt em then he could get on over the rainbow after his horse.  He was tough, and desperate, and the Cloakers tired from their battle with the silvers.  The thief slit the throat of one of em before the ‘perials on their second-rate stallions charged in and shouted for everyone to drop their weapons.

 Well I’d done that.  Margeth was still holding the Orcish dagger in his hand but Margeth was dead.  Ten days from pay dirt.  We’d probably have blown it all on piss and women on the first night and then gotten flogged and ridden outta town but at least we would’ve had it.

 I don’t know why but my knees went.  I don’t mean to say I collapsed; right the opposite.  My legs jerked up and down like pistons on a Dwarven engine and next thing I knew I was running for the Border.  All I was thinking was that I was sick of this, sick of the Cloakers and the ‘perials fighting over two blokes most’ve em had never met (one they never would, ‘cause he was dead), sick of being flogged, and sick of being the wingman for a damn dumb dead fool.

 It was a flash of madness driving me over that particular border, I’m sure, as it was taking me directly into the enemy’s armpit, that is to say, into Cyrodiil.  I ran.  I stepped over poor dead dumb Margeth with a sorry look at his corpse, then I ran on, slippin and slidin down the wet rocks to the river.  Being of mountain breed it was narrow and quick and liable to drag me under, but I knew if I just got across it and up the bank then it would take all the Emperor’s army to hunt me down again.

 One of the only two favours the ‘perials have ever done me they did me right then: a plucky young silver-headed fellow spurred his horse after me, and it snorted and slipped and at last splashed into the river, where he headed me off and drove me west against the flow of the water.

 “Stop!  Rebel!” screamed the energetic young fellow, wheeling his horse against the water.  Not only was he a moron, he was a moron who couldn’t ride a horse.  His stallion jumped in protest, while I kept going, cutting south to the Cyrodiil bank.

 I was two steps away from it with the plan to put myself behind a boulder half in the water, when from behind that very boulder there leapt a bear, probably hunting salmon but I can tell you I didn’t care about that then.  The bear took a swipe at me and I jumped back in such a fright that I forgot to take into account the ‘perial.  I hit his horse and it jumped again, this time the underside of its big stupid head cracking onto the top of my own, and I fell backwards into the water as it was rushing against me and I fairly inhaled it.

 That’s as much as I remember; breathing water and my poor head bouncing gently off the river bottom.

 Following that I suppose the ‘perials did me their first favour of my life; because it was a long time later that I woke up, bone dry in the wrong clothes, in a shitty little wagon destined for Helgen.  I had to thank them that at least I hadn’t washed up dead (or alive) on the banks of Cyrodiil.

 Of course, my hands were tied.

 I didn’t thank them for that.

Throwyourkeysintoadungeonmania

200 years on from the events of Oblivion and once again a terrible shadow threatens to bring Tamriel to its knees. The shadow is known as throwyourkeysintoadungeonmania, called so because of its apparent bizarre fascination with brainwashing ordinary citizens to trek the world in search of bleak monster infested cesspits and throw into them their most valued possessions.

Will a hero rise to conquer this returning shadow? Or will the Chosen One get distracted by pedestrian chores such as dragon slaying and resolving the Civil War, things which are frankly unimportant and could be undertaken by the average Level 40 citizen?

Only one man can foresee Tamriel's future. One man, with one vision, destined to bring light or chaos to a desperate world.

Unfortunately he's stuck at the bottom of Deadman's Respite with some rather horrible monsters.

Um. Help?