Chapter 1:
The cart bounced over the poorly cobbled path jostling its four weary inhabitants, waking the lone female prisoner who had been resting during the travel. The prisoner stirred, raising her head just barely and slowly looked around at her surroundings. A gloomy thick fog hung over the landscape, obscuring most of its beauty from her soft blue eyes, her deep auburn hair was damp from the moisture that seemed to hang in the air. The smell of pine burned through her nostrils in the cold air as she inhaled sharply when the cart hit another bump.
“You're awake? You were trying to cross the border right? You must have gotten caught up in that Imperial ambush, along with us and that thief over there.” A male voice said, not even trying to conceal his conversation from the Legionnaire driving the cart.
Gwenyth glanced over and took account of her unfortunate companions whom shared the cart with her. Before her sat a grizzled man with blue eyes and blond hair and pale skin, he was clothed in what she thought was military garb for it glistened with burnished chain-mail, its covering fabric a rich navy blue.
“Nord, and judging by that armor he is wearing.... he must be a Stormcloak.” Gwenyth thought to herself. While she had not personally met a Stormcloak she had overheard rumors of their exploits and atrocities from Imperial Legionnaire's when she had visited the taverns in Cyrodiils Imperial City fishing for information.
“Damn you Stormcloaks. I could have stolen that horse and been half way to Hammerfell if it wasn't for you,” came another male voice, “You and me, we shouldn't be here, its these damn Stormcloaks the Empire wants.” A dirt-streaked man was staring back at Gwenyth as she looked at him, dressed in nothing but what appeared to be the same prisoner garb, his greasy hair clung to his damp forehead. The man tilted his head, his eyes resting on the man that had addressed Gwenyth.
“Whats his problem?” The man motioned with his head in a jerk to the last prisoner in the cart.
Gwenyth glanced over and noticed that the last prisoner had a more regal appearance, his garb seemed to be richer than that of his companions, yet retaining that deep navy color. Unlike the other prisoners however, this man was gagged with rags and his face seemed to set in a permanent scowl.
“Clothes like that? Fit for a Jarl I would say...but if so, which Jarl would it be..?” Gwenyth pondered to herself silently, the cart jostled again and broke her concentration.
“Watch your tongue!” You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!” The Stormcloak officer bellowed at the horse thief.
“Ulfric Stormcloak? The leader of the rebellion? If they've captured you then....oh Gods! Where are they taking us!?” The horse thief seemed cowed by the officers outburst, and further more frightened to his very core by the thoughts pouring through his mind.
“I don't know where we're going, but Sovengarde awaits.” The officer said in a resigned voice, seeming to have calmed himself after his outburst.
“Shut up back there!” The Imperial Legionnaire shouted at the condemned prisoners, muttering under his breath afterward.
With that said, the group of prisoners went back to their individual planes of Oblivion created in their minds; perhaps assessing their fates, perhaps debating which Divine to beg for help from. Gwenyth closed her eyes and bowed her head, letting her body sway with the cart as it rumbled over the poorly cobbled road. She thought back to what must have seemed an eternity ago, three days, and recalled how she had gotten herself into this sorry mess.
Cyrodiil, and its damnable Imperial City, its glittering streets and historical significance gave rise to steady tourism after the Oblivion Crisis had passed and the Daedra spawn that was unleashed had been wiped from the land and surrounding provinces. This tourism led to a rise in crime, as those less fortunate discovered a new source of income and supplies. Gwenyth stirred as the cart bounced. She was not well to do in the Imperial City, not well to do at all. She lived her life as a street-rat, barely recalling who or what her parents looked like she didn't really care about that either considering she had taught herself how to survive by the age of nine. Scraping by and pickpocketing most of the food and coin she needed was how she lived. Burglary was not out of the question as well, but one had to be very cautious about such matters in the Imperial City. Her fingers could be nimble and quick with a lock and pick, yet just as quick with a sharp steel dagger. The poor drunken noble who had tried to have his way with her last winter could attest to her skill with the dagger at least. Still though, none of these skills had saved her from fate three days ago.
She had overheard rumors of the borders of Skyrim being shut down due to security concerns amongst the Thalmor Justicars and the Imperial Legion. Deciding now was the time to make headway into Skyrim, before the Thalmors had ruined its rich historical sites filled with loot and the Legion plundered its riches for the Empires coffers, Gwenyth boldly set off from the town of Burma near the province of Skyrim.
Originally she had intended to hike the mountains and make her way to the woods of Falkreath, but weather and lack of experience in such an arduous feat of crossing those sky reaching mountains had steered her towards an attempt at crossing the border near a little town called Helgen. So she packed her gear, a pair of personally crafted steel daggers, a set of lock picks and her fitted leather armor and prepared to do the cross that night three days ago. Unfortunately it appears the Stormcloak rebels had the same idea as her.
She first had noticed something was amiss at the border when she noticed what appeared to be an overwhelming amount of guard detail for the border. Three Imperial archers posted atop the wall and four infantry Legionnaires stood stoically at the gate door, two posted on each side. One Thalmor Justicar paced back and forth in front of the gate, gazing out in the darkness with his gleaming elven eyes probing the local foliage. At that moment she had been grateful he was not one of the Khajiit, the cat like race known to dwell in the hot deserts of Elsweyr whose eyes were known to be able to see in the dark. Then she heard a soft rustling, she turned her head and nearly dropped her pack of gear. A band of six soldiers dressed in dark garb were moving towards her from behind. This group paused as if waiting for a signal, and then suddenly there was a chaos unleashed so mad even Sheogorath the Daedric Prince of Madness himself would have been pleased.
A blinding spell of Magelight blew past the entire group, lighting the bushes as if twelve campfires had been set ablaze directly overhead. With the shouts of warlike lust a band of twenty of the Empires finest Legionnaires charged from behind. Gwenyth turned her head back to the gate on the border and saw the Thalmor Justicar standing locked in a casting pose, his hands still burning from the magics unleashed. The Justicar sneered savagely at the soon to be prisoners. As she turned back towards the soldiers, a walloping blow struck her on the temple and knocked her unconscious. Within five grueling minutes all of Gwenyths' careful planning and all her gear had been destroyed by an series of unfortunate events thanks to the Stormcloak Rebellion.
