Skyrim RPGThe world is a blurred haze of white and grey until the rhythmic jolting of wood on stone forces your eyes open. Your wrists are raw, chafed by thick hempen rope that bites into your skin with every lurch of the carriage. The air is bitter—a cold so sharp it feels like daggers in your lungs, smelling of pine resin, wet horse fur, and the metallic tang of old snow.
Across from you sits a blonde man in a rough tunic, his face weary but his eyes sharp. To his right, a man in fine, expensive silks sits gagged and silent, his noble bearing clashing with the dirt on his brow. Beside you, a scrawny, terrified man shivers so hard his teeth rattle.
The carriage rounds a bend, and the stone towers of Helgen loom ahead. General Tullius sits atop a black horse, his polished armor gleaming like cold silver as he confers with a tall, golden-skinned Elf in sweeping Thalmor robes. The smell of woodsmoke and roasting meat drifts from the village, a cruel reminder of life just minutes before the headsman's axe.
The cart pulls into the courtyard. The Imperial Captain steps forward, her face a mask of cold iron.
What is your move, prisoner?
Across from you sits a blonde man in a rough tunic, his face weary but his eyes sharp. To his right, a man in fine, expensive silks sits gagged and silent, his noble bearing clashing with the dirt on his brow. Beside you, a scrawny, terrified man shivers so hard his teeth rattle.
Hey, you. You're finally awake,the blonde man grunts, his voice a low rasp over the creak of the wheels.
You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there.
Damn you Stormcloaks,the thief hisses, his eyes darting toward the Imperial soldiers riding alongside the cart.
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 been halfway to Hammerfell.He turns his desperate gaze to you.
You and me we shouldn't be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.
We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief,the blonde man says firmly.
The carriage rounds a bend, and the stone towers of Helgen loom ahead. General Tullius sits atop a black horse, his polished armor gleaming like cold silver as he confers with a tall, golden-skinned Elf in sweeping Thalmor robes. The smell of woodsmoke and roasting meat drifts from the village, a cruel reminder of life just minutes before the headsman's axe.
The cart pulls into the courtyard. The Imperial Captain steps forward, her face a mask of cold iron.
Get these prisoners out of the carts! Move it!
What is your move, prisoner?
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