Mists on the Mountains

Chapter 1: Returning Home

Chapter 1

Returning Home.

"Though I wander fair Tamriel slaying monsters, looting dungeons and saving maidens, those achievements pale in comparison to returning home. There's nothing quite like returning to that special someone and hanging your helmet over the fire before sitting down to a nice bowl of warm stew. I wish all homes were as welcoming as mine."-Tharafin Odmar, the Dunmer adventurer and later count of Bruma, often called, "The Hero of Kvatch." Quote circa 4E 5, recorded in a private journal.

A spray of frigid water struck Hammel Greymist's face, waking him from his stupor. The unpleasant sensation was immediately followed by a sharp drop which aggressively bounced the rickety cart. Smacking his head against the bench, Hammel cursed.

One moment he was crossing the border from Cyrodiil into Skyrim, the next he'd blundered into a skirmish between the Imperial Legion and Stormcloak rebels. He hadn't had the chance to identify himself before being struck in the back of the head. He'd woken up in the cart, cold, damp, and sore. As the sensation slowly came back to his body, Hammel realised he was in dull, but significant, pain and his hands were bound with thick hempen rope.

At least I'm home.

Skyrim. It was a funny thing returning to his homeland after so long. Hammel had spent so much time in Elsweyr, her rolling sands and sweltering jungles so different from Skyrim, that he'd almost forgotten what it looked like. The ache in his heart for the towering mountains, open tundras, and massive pine forests had never left. Often at night, laying in his bedroll gazing up at unfamiliar constellations, he'd dream of Skyrim.

It was just as beautiful as he remembered. The snow capped mountains, crisp air, and gently falling snow granted him a sense of peace he wasn't expecting. He could hear the birds singing their old familiar songs over the squeaking of wheels. At least if he died, he would die at home..

"Hey, you're finally awake." The voice was thick and laced with a strong Nordic accent. Hammel lifted his head slowly, mindful of the growing headache, and saw the man across from him. Like Hammel, he was a Nord with a face covered in grime and scars. Unlike Hammel, his hair was blond and ran to his shoulders while a full beard sitting proudly on his chin. He was dressed in chainmail armor covered by a blue tunic. His hands were bound and, judging from the bloody stains on his wrist, he'd tried unsuccessfully to twist free. Hammel felt the thickness of his own bonds and judged nothing short of a blade would remove them.

Next to the Stormcloak sat an exotic looking elf woman, Altmer, if Hammel had to guess. Her hair was midnight black contrasted by eyes of typical High Elf gold. Streaked across her face was dark blue warpaint, done in a Nordic style. Despite her height, pointed ears and golden skin tone, she was dressed in the same blue tunic and chainmail as the man beside her.

"You were trying to cross the border right?" the blond Stormcloak continued. "You aren't a Stormcloak like us." He nodded at the woman beside him, "You've picked a bad time to come home kinsman."

"Shut up Ralof," the Elf hissed, "Don't tell him anything." A gust of wind coated her midnight hair with flecks of snow but didn't change her ice-cold expression.

"What does it matter, Lianna?" The man responded casually, "He's not one of them either." The Altmer snorted, but didn't argue. As Hammel's vision fully cleared, he noticed Ralof and the Elf were holding hands as best they could despite the bindings.

Lovers perhaps?

"What's your story, friend?"

The cart continued its forward march scattering the snow and water before it, leading the prisoners ever closer to their unknown destination.