1 Prologue

My name is Ragnar. I am a Nord. Yet I have never seen my homeland of Skyrim. Or, at least, I had not until two days past. I currently sit in a prison cell, I know not where, waiting for whatever is to come next. Already dreams of winning honour and glory in battle are fading and I believe my days may be numbered. There are whispers about where we are headed from my fellow prisoners.

But that is getting ahead of myself. There is a story as to how I got here.

My father, a proud Nord man, had served with the Imperial Army for years, fighting across Tamriel in the name of Skyrim, Empire and Emperor. He had always served the Empire with courage and honour in battles that raged across the entirety of Tamriel, but was one of thousands cut down during the Battle of the Red Ring. I know not what became of his body. I can only hope his body was burned instead of being placed in the cold ground and that he waits for me in Sovngarde.

My mother, a Cyrodilian by birth, raised me alone in his absence, constantly telling me stories of brave soldiers fighting for the Empire and for Skyrim against the elves of the Aldmeri Dominion, until she passed sometime after my seventeenth winter. After burying her in the land of her birth, at the back of our small homestead on the outskirts of Chorrol, I was left with a choice. I could remain on the farm and work the soil on my own, scratching a meagre living until I died myself. Or I could return to the land of my fathers and help bring freedom to my people.

I would eventually learn of the strife taking place in Skyrim, of the fight between my kinsman and the Empire. And I believed in the cause myself. How could I not when the Empire forbade us from worshipping the very man who had founded the Empire itself? Tiber Septim, or Talos as he was now known, was once a Nord, then an Emperor and now a God. The Empire had finally proven itself weak, being defeated by the elves, and the outlawing of Talos was the final straw for many, an insult to the thousands of Nords who had fought and died for the Empire. Jarl Ulfric had called forward all true sons and daughters of Skyrim to join the cause and restore our rights as Nords to worship who we please and that we would no longer be dictated to by the elves, who had been banished by Skyrim by our ancestors' centuries before. I had never set foot on my ancestral homeland but I would answer that call.

I had relatives in a town by the name of Falkreath though I had never met them. Before leaving the farmstead for the last time, I ensured I sent a letter forward letting my uncle know I would be setting out and would arrive in time. I had little coin otherwise and could certainly not afford a horse or carriage to transport me into Skyrim. I would have to undertake the journey by foot.

I was not what you would call an educated man. I knew my letters and numbers, I could read a little and write basic words, but I spent most of my teenage years working on the farm, ensuring the crops would grow and that we would not starve during the winter. Years spent in the sun had bronzed my skin, a contrast to my blonde hair, which I kept long but tied up. My mother often told me I had blue eyes like the ocean, though I had never seen such a thing myself. I was tall; my mother often said almost physically imposing as I grew. By the time I was sixteen, I found myself having to duck through each doorway in our small house.

I worked the farm until I reached the eighteenth year of my name day, scrimping and saving any coin I could from the sale of crops, keeping just enough for myself to prevent starvation. I yearned to depart as soon as possible but wanted to be prepared before I finally set off. It was a lonely existence otherwise, rising at dawn, heading inside as the sun disappeared over the horizon, trekking into town occasionally to buy food or mead.

Eventually the day came where I had to make a move. I packed myself a small backpack with the essentials before I locked the door to my home for the last time. I figured someone else would either move in or it would eventually be ransacked by bandits. I cared little as I knew I would unlikely see the farm again. It was a cold spring morning the day I finally left, a thin coat keeping away the chill, the backpack across my shoulders, a steel dagger at my hip and a few coins in my pocket. I had no idea what was going to happen on my journey yet I faced it with the confidence, though others would call it the stupidity, which comes with youth.

I headed east from the farm, intending to stop for a while in Chorrol. There was a specific reason for that. Chorrol was home to the local Fighter's Guild. While I did not doubt my own physical strength, I had to learn how to fight, to feel the weight of a sword in my hand, how to use a sword and shield together in combat. I did not want to arrive in Skyrim and offer my services in the war without at least knowing how to fight.

I had intended to only spend a few months in Chorrol before moving on. But even the best laid plans can go awry. I found I enjoyed my time working for the Fighters Guild. After a couple of weeks of basic training, I was given a series of what even I'd consider easy jobs either in Chorrol or nearby towns and villages. In addition to learning my craft, I also made coin, some of which I saved, some which I spent in the many taverns around Chorrol. Although part of me still yearned to move on, I held station as I slowly ascended the ranks of the Chorrol chapter, continuing to develop my skills with sword and shield, while also taking time to learn the bow. I rarely used that on the job but I enjoyed hunting game in the forests surrounding the town.

Life was good in Chorrol and thoughts of leaving for Skyrim diminished until news arrived of the strife affecting a number of cities across Cyrodil. From the accounts of a travelling sell-sword, Cheydinal had descended into violence as had Bravil, while at least another half a dozen towns and cities were simmering on the verge of erupting into violence. No-one was sure what was causing all the fuss but the citizens of Chorrol were growing increasingly concerned that their city may be the next to fall.

It was finally time to travel to Skyrim, not because I was worried about my own safety, but if Cyrodil was descending into chaos, I wondered what the situation was in Skyrim. I'd made plenty of coin but had invested a lot of it in a fine steel sword and shield plus hunting bow, in addition some decent light armour. I purchased enough food to last me for at least part of my journey, figuring I could buy more and also rest at inns and taverns along the way. I knew the city of Bruma was also a possible destination along the way, though would only stop there for a short rest before continuing on my way. I knew it would be an arduous journey once I hit the northern mountains separating Cyrodil from Skyrim. I had no map of my homeland, hoping major destinations would at least be signposted along the way.

The roads were relatively quiet during my week's journey to Bruma, though being armed and possibly looking relatively dangerous, I can only assume any bandit who thought about robbing me had second thoughts. I asked anyone I did pass for information about what was happening around Cyrodil, or even if they knew events of Skyrim, though news was sparse. Most were simply trying to get on with their own lives. I didn't blame them.

The weather turned cold as I approached Bruma. Having spent nearly my entire life in and around Chorrol, I'll admit the change in scenery and weather was a shock to the system. In the distance, I could see a mountain range, already assuming that I would have to a find a way across them to get into Skyrim. What surprised me is how different the city was to Chorrol. I was left with the distinct impression that these were my people. Nords, who just happened to live in Cyrodil.

But a conversation the next night at a tavern in Bruma highlighted the difficulties of trying to get into Skyrim.

"Your biggest problem is the Jerall Mountains. There is a road that goes directly north from here but that will take you along what locals call the Serpent's Trail," the old man told me in between taking sips of mead, "Along the trail is the ancient fort of Pale Pass. The Saviour of Bruma helped secure the fort during the Oblivion Crisis."

"Saviour of Bruma? Who was that?"

"You don't know?" I shook my head. "I may be old but it all happened even before my time. But that's for another conversation. You can attempt to travel through the Pale Pass into Skyrim, if the pass is clear. The weather has been inclement for a number of weeks now. It's possible there have been avalanches we don't know about."

"Do I have any other options?"

The old man shrugged. "That is the only major route between Cyrodil and Skyrim from here. The only other option would be heading to Cheydinal and swinging around until you arrived near a city called Riften. But that will take far longer and I can only assume you want to get into Skyrim quickly."

I nodded. "Is the road north still open?"

"One of the town guards may have the latest information. My only suggestion would be to wrap up warm. If you think it's cold here, wait until you hit the mountains."

I left the next morning, a town guardsman informing me that the pass was open but that I should be careful as there had been heavy snowfall. And the old man was right. It was cold unlike which I'd ever felt. I had departed before dawn, hoping to make most of the journey within a day though I had camping supplies if it took longer than anticipated. While cold, there was no snow and progress was smooth until I started to climb. The road was surprisingly well maintained considering there was no real traffic, barely seeing a soul all day.

Ideas of making the journey within the day were halted by the snow still laying on the ground. The road was still open, the snow thick, so progress slow. My muscles burned as I trudged forward, barely stopping all day, knowing that I would have to spend at least one night under the tent in the wilderness, thankful I would at least have one or two furs to bury myself under once the sun disappeared.

By lunchtime of day three, I was finally through the worst of it, the snow clearing and the path leading down into Skyrim. There was no sign indicating when or where I crossed the border, but I just had this sense that I was now… home. As the snow cleared, the landscape changed ahead as I noticed trees. Trees! After three days of a barren rocky landscape and nothing but snow, it was nice to see colour again. Snow turned to grass, the temperature rose with each step as I felt it necessary to remove my coat and I knew I walked along with a slight smile, knowing I was closer than ever. I was feeling confident that I would soon find someone who could point me in the right way of Falkreath, where I could finally meet my uncle and eventually do my part and join up in the war effort.

But, as I said before, even the best laid plans go awry. Later that evening, after entering the forest, I was sat in a prison cell, my weapons and armour taken, now sitting in a threadbare shirt and trousers. I had stumbled into a skirmish between Imperial and what are termed Stormcloak, or rebel, soldiers. I could do nothing as I found myself surrounded by half a dozen legion soldiers, three with arrows aimed at me, three others armed with swords, ready to cut me down if I resisted. I surrendered, proclaiming my innocence, though they didn't listen. I was in the area, therefore they assumed I was one of the rebels, despite the fact I wasn't dressed like one of them.

I was not told what would happen to me. There was no interrogation. In fact, I wasn't spoken to at all until sometime the next morning when the door to my cell was opened, my hands bound together and I was led, along with the other men captured, towards a row of waiting carriages. We were still not told what was going to happen to us though there were whispers of conversation of what may occur when we arrived wherever we were going.

Execution.

avataravatar
Next chapter