Dragon of the East - Arc 1, Chapter 1

• Posted by Okan-Zeeus January 7, 2014 - 1,235 views

  Chases-The-Wind

  ~ ~ ~

  The scent of roasting trout lingered in the crisp air. Setting down my crossbow on the snow covered podzol, I turned in my seat to the fish spitted over a small smokeless fire. I pulled away the darkened morsel, spewing a mouthful of canteen water upon the flames, dousing them.

  As I salted the fish, I ventured a gaze across the cliff’s edge. Silhouettes of jagged mountains clawing the sky marked the edge of all visible sight. Surrounding me were spires and hills of stalwart rock among lush green pines, flecked with pockets of white. Sounds of unseen life filled the silence of the glade, veiled by a thick morning fog. I relaxed, enjoying the serene solitude of nature. Then a frigid wind blew upon my scales, reminding me that this was Skyrim, a land of bitter and unpleasant cold.

  A strong disgust of trout did not help the matter.

  My rations had run low, forcing me to scavenge in the immediate wilderness. I was fortunate enough to have stumbled upon a small pond back to the south-east, nestled in the crags of a wintry massif, the heart of the Jerall Mountains. I stopped for a time to fish for brown trout in the freezing tarn, before hiking onward. My saurian skin still felt moist beneath my garbs of leather and fur.

  For an Argonian such as I, catching fish comes easy. A form that can respire under water and swim the speed of dolphins tends to aid such things. Of course, I hate eating them. Fish, I mean.

  I took one last unsavory bite before resuming my repairs. I gathered up my unloaded crossbow, tightened its drawstring, and pulled back the priming lever to test its mechanics. I squeezed the metal trigger, still gripping the lever to keep it from snapping, bearing the energy of the weapon as it sought release. Slowly I let loose the tension, smiling to myself. An unfortunate encounter with a frost troll had damaged the crossbow. Now the weapon was repaired and in usable condition. Or so it seemed, at least.

  Laying the crossbow aside, I rested back against a boulder, propping up a knee with my tail between my legs. I stared into the blank clouds. Traversing through the Jerall had been a difficult endeavor, but well worthwhile. The harsh conditions deterred pursuit. I was able to cross the border into Skyrim unnoticed and unfollowed. No one would think to find me in Tamriel’s northlands, so far away from the cities of Cyrodiil or the swamps of Black Marsh.

  It had been several months since the last attempt made on my life. For the first time in a very long while, I felt peace.

  This is the start, I thought to myself. You have earned your rest. Enjoy it.

  I closed my eyes and immersed myself in the sounds of the encircling alpines. There were echoes of coyotes crying in the distance, amid the chirrups and cacophony of birds. Wind rustled through the pine coated branches of tress, blowing away wisps of snow like dust, howling as it passed my ears. I could faintly hear men talking and – what was the sound? Horse drawn carriage wheels grating along a stone pathway?

  My eyes snapped open. Before drawing a second breath I was up in a crouch, my back against the trunk of a tree that stood between me and the source of the noise. I listened closely once more. The creaking and grinding of wheels continued. I had not mistaken my hearing. There were carriages nearby, several of them, amidst a company of men. I could not make out how many.

  That needed to change.

  I grabbed my belongings – a leather knapsack with supplies and essentials, along with my crossbow – and pulled a fur hood over my head, two holes cut in the back for my horns to fit through. Clenching the knife that rested on my belt, I slowly slinked toward the road and perched myself atop high bluffs of rocky hills. The traveling band would come from further up. I waited.

  The morning fog still lingered, but I knew not for how long. I decided to avoid relying on it and maintain distance. My bright red skin would expose me in daylight and my dark clothes blended poorly with the snow. Challenging conditions for reconnaissance, but I’d dealt with worse.

  Soon the wooden carriages faded into view. There were three, accompanied by horseback riders at the front and rear. Upon the horses and coaches sat soldiers, Imperial legionnaires, clad in armors of leather and steel with red cloth accents and swords at their sides. In the carts sat men and women, Nord natives of Skyrim, wearing leather mail with blue dye and brown furs. Their hands were bound. I took them to be prisoners of some kind, though I did not recognize their uniforms.

  A particular cart caught my eye. Three men were sitting in it. One of them had long matted hair and a scraggly beard, platinum blonde. He was well built and wore the same uniform as the other captives. Across from him sat another man clothed in a regal fur-trimmed cloak, with thick boots on his feet and bracers on his arms. His brow hair was thrown back with a single braid tucked behind each ear. Strangely, he was gagged with a strip of cloth. None of the others had been muzzled in this manner. The third man wore a rough spun tunic, little more than a garb of rags. His face was covered in dirt.

  “Shut up back there!”                                                                              

  The soldier driving their carriage barked back at the Nords. I remained uphill among the crags, now following the procession, straining to hear the sounds of conversation. To be true, I had no business meddling in the affair. Only my curiosity led me forward. The man in rags leaned over to the one who was gagged, saying something I could not make out. Then the Nord with blonde hair raised his voice indignantly.

  “Watch your tongue! You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true high king!”

  That had my attention. I knew little about the structure of government in Skyrim, but I did know that the high king was said to be the sovereign ruler of the province. Under Imperial administration the position had become more of a figure head than anything else. Still, Skyrim’s high king held great political power. Who was this man, Ulfric Stormcloak? I wanted to hear more. Risking my cover, I moved closer to the carriage, beginning to catch the words of the man in rags as he spoke to Ulfric.

  “…of Windhelm? You’re the leader of the rebellion! But if they’ve captured you…”

  I missed the last portion of the sentence. One of the soldiers riding rear guard glanced at the hill where I held my footing. I quickly withdrew behind a cluster of rocks. The fog was clearing and the coverings of snow were thinner. The carriages had headed further north, away from the base of the Jerall mountains toward greener woodlands. They were traveling to a village. In the distance I could see a stone gateway adjacent to walls of timber. The blonde man spoke once more.

  “…don’t know where we’re going. But Sovngarde awaits.”

  Sovngarde. The Nordic afterlife. I realized then that these were no mere carriages transporting convicts. They were tumbrils, filled with insurrectionists being led to their execution. Dawn began to break. I stayed my course, following the convoy as it neared the town’s large wooden gates. There was a fork in the road with a sign bearing arrows, disclosing the destinations of each pathway.

  The one that pointed ahead to the journey’s end of the carriages read: Helgen.

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