Skyrim: Mythrill's story

Prologue: Helgen

Prologue: Helgen

The soft pounding of hooves upon soil and the slight ring of harnesses were the first things Mythrill heard as she stirred. Her eyelids struggled to lift as she groaned feeling the pain in her neck. At first she could only make out blurry shapes of green, white and blue, blinking away the confusion she suddenly noticed her surroundings. It was early in the morning; mist shrouded everything along with her homeland, Skyrim’s, pale snow. The only distinct things were the back of the Imperial soldier sitting in the front seat of the cart and the wagons ahead as well as the itchy, damned rope wrapped tightly around her wrists. The young woman frowned deeply in annoyance and irritation, realising she was caught because of a certain group of rebels. She closed her eyes and tried to re-collect last night’s events.

“Damn you Imperials!” A deep voice yelled, jolting her out of my sleep. In a heartbeat she shot up and bolted,

“Arrgh!” A voice thick with pain cried out, causing her to shudder. It sounded so animal-like that it brought back memories, cursing herself she just dodged the trunk of a pine soon smacking into a large wall of muscle and armour.

“Hey you, where are you going?!”  he snapped grabbing her wrist tightly, without thinking, her palm shot out breaking the man’s nose. She watched as the blood dripped down his face, and with a satisfied look she turned. As quickly as she turned she felt her world rock and tumble below her,

“You have assaulted an Imperial soldier. What say you?” A man snarled above her. She watched as her vision started to fade but before that she gave the man her most winning and charming smile,

“Hehe… I feel pretty damn good…”

She sighed deeply, glaring daggers at the Imperial’s back with her pale eyes, while she thought of many ways to slowly kill the bastard.

"Hey, you. You're finally awake."

The man’s voice caught her attention and she slowly turned her head, glancing at him. He was a Nord in either his late twenties or his early thirties with shoulder-length blonde hair, adorned with a braid on one side, and light stubble on his face. His large biceps seemed to bulge slightly from the chain-mail sleeves of his bronze and faded-blue uniform. Also his wrists were bound by rope,

"You were trying to cross the border, right?" he questioned. "Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there." The man jerked his chin towards the prisoner beside him. He was a nervous-looking, scrawny man in rags.

"Damn you Stormcloaks," he spat, glaring at the first man, "Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and be halfway to Hammerfell!"

Muttering unintelligibly, Mythrill shifted to slouching comfortably, letting her eyes wonder until they landed on another man, a well-built Nord with neatly groomed dark blonde hair. He wore a beautiful fur-trimmed robe, coloured with a dark rich blue, with bracers on his wrists and fine boots covering his feet. Obviously he was bound but oddly he had a cloth gag covering his mouth,

“Hey Mythrill, one day I’ll be a master of the Thu’um!” A dark blonde boy called out to her,

“Haha yeah right! That’d take yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaars to master Ulfric!” She giggled watching the older boy,

“Don’t laugh! I will, I’ll prove it to you! Just you wait Myth!”

Mythrill shuddered at the memory and looked him as he stayed, bent over slightly with a distant look in his eye, as if he were waiting for someone.