Private The End's Secrets

The year is 4E 220. All of Tamriel has fallen to the might of the Daedra, the Empire which had overcome the mighty Stormcloaks only 12 years ago, once again brought to its knees, while the Aedra have all but vanished. The Dragonborn, slayer of Alduin and Miraak, lies in a grave, rotting away like so many countless others who have fallen at the unrelenting force of the Daedra. The guilds of Skyrim quickly fell apart, the members disbanding in hope of survival, or just for a little more time with their precious loved ones. Rumours persist of a safe haven, where the summerset isles still stand, the Aldmeri Dominion refusing to fall, even when pushed onto its last legs. Though few sailors still provide transport from cities such as Anvil, any hope of surviving seems to lie with making your way to the Isles. Unless of course, somebody, or somebodies, would rather try and stop the daedra? But with no heroes left, who will rise to the challenge?

And the worst part? They say the daedra don’t actually kill you, but they take your soul. You become nothing more than a conduit of power, living out an eternity of agonizing pain.


The sun beat down on the central town of Skyrim, Whiterun, as birds sang in the air, smoke rising from Adrianne Avenicci’s forge as she stood outside her little shop, back to one of the wooden posts which supported the roof. On the other side stood the guard’s barracks, where the town guard resided. Moving up the city one could see the market bustling with people as they went about their daily business, Ysolda coming across as a bargain hunter and keen tradeswoman as always. Belethor’s shop resided nearby, where Ruran had heard rumours of his sister being for sale. Next to that, Arcadia’s Cauldron. The woman often misdiagnosed him with a case of the rattles, but she was a decent woman nevertheless. Beyond that stood the Bannered Mare, the most popular place of gathering in Whiterun before the stairs leading to the Cloud District. Wouldn’t Nazeem be proud of him, reaching this point. And there was the might Jorrvaskr, home of the mighty Companions. Rumours persisted of them being filthy wolves, though as said, it was just a rumour. Meanwhile Heimskr continued to preach, still believing Talos to be a god.

Then, the mighty Dragonsreach. The pinnacle of Whiterun, the Jarl’s very own home. A magnificent building which could be seen miles away stood proud above everything else, almost touching the clouds. The very doors were massive in size. Ruran pushed them open as he made his way inside, walking towards the fire which burned in the centre, the tables running down either side covered in silver cutlery.

As he reached the Jarl’s chair he simply took a seat, looking down on what was once Jarl Balgruuf’s mighty town, before he opened his eyes. Everything he had described was what the town used to be. On his way up here he had not noticed another living soul (He figured he may as well count himself among the living nowadays, he had yet to go feral like most vampires). Only a few daedra, vampires, werewolves, and a few draugr, some of which lay lifeless on the ground, while others he quite simply put to the ground. There was also one other creature he could not identify. Though they appeared human their body was shrivelled and weak, and their eyes were a pure white. They spoke and acted like mortals, but craved death and carnage. Strange, but there were not many. Adrianne Avenicci’s forge had burned out long ago, and the guard barracks on the opposite side had all but been destroyed. The market lay in ruins, wood and rubble scattered everywhere, whatever food there once was now scavenged as people tried to survive. Jorrvaskr was no longer home to the mighty companions, nor was it home to wolves. Instead, skeevers and spiders roamed the place, making it their own. How the mighty had fallen in these hard times. Howls still persisted in the air however, wolves mating and fighting, no longer able to control their primal urges.

Ruran’s gaze jumped to the central fire which he had lit, its warmth burning him, distracting him from the pain in the back of his throat. His lust for blood had not been quenched in so long, and he craved the sustenance more than anything. But no, he could not think about. For now he needed to think about his next move; the town of Whiterun was far from the stronghold the rumours had claimed. It was like every other damned place on the continent. Nothing but rubble, a mess. He wondered if others had heard of this supposed safe haven. Considering he had nothing better to do he could certainly stay in the remnants of the city for a few days. Perhaps some fresh blood might just make an appearance.

Majir-Dar's group cautiously entered the cave they found only moments earlier. A rough blizzard raged around them and they needed the cave for shelter. Even if there wasn't a blizzard, they had run out of supplies and were afraid of what might ambush them if they just rested out in the open. The biting cold assaulted them, managing to penetrate through Majir's heavy cloak and fur. The cave itself looked ordinary enough, the entrance wasn't decorated with severed heads or burned, charred bodies that usually marked a bandit's camp. As the anxious group walked in they were met with a rough stone passageway, Durmak's torch being the only light to illuminate an otherwise pitch black interior, as the blizzard blocked any sunlight that might've shown its way through. The orange glow bounced playfully off the rock walls, contrasting with the group's grim, somber faces and moods.

The group of six soon eventually found themselves in a large opening. At this point, the group had warmed up to their surroundings a little. Some of the group could be heard exhaling audible sighs of relief as they thought the opening would be the perfect place to rest in and recuperate while waiting for the blizzard to pass over. The area itself was rather ordinary for a cave, with stone walls and a dirt floor home to a few mushrooms of varying sizes and shades of red and grey.

After a moment of looking around, Durmak, the leader of the group, ordered them set up camp while he scouted some more of the cave. He was off down a narrow and dark path while they started by unpacking some wood that was tied to Tyrellius' pack and they soon had a small but comfortable fire roaring. The group sat around the blaze, resting their weary legs, and talked about life before the invasion and how they all ended up together.

The group's members were all found by Durmak after their small village had been attacked. Each member, save Majir, belonged to that village, it was their home, it was where they grew up, where their families grew up, it was where they found love, life, happiness, and the sorrow that made that happiness mean something. Each member was among the few to survive, if there were others, they certainly hadn't seen them or heard about them from anyone. That day, the day the village was attacked, was a day of fire, pillaging, and raping. Blood seeped over into the village's river and dyed it red, screams filled the night, and the scent of death polluted the air. Those that survived but didn't escape were forced into slavery or tortured. Durmak had been the village's captain of the guard, the strong, tank of an orc only managed to protect two citizens before he had to give in and retreat, finding others as he ran from the village that he was sworn to protect. When the group reached a safe distance from the village they looked on at the village they escaped and only saw a lake of fire and a river of blood decorated with the corpses of their friends and family.

After an hour or two of conversation had passed, Durmak had returned as grim faced as ever, his green brutish face illuminated by the small campfire. He grunted, "It seems safe for now. All I found were a few dead skeevers."

The group began to nod off slowly, Tyrellius would take the first watch and wake them if anything suspicious happened.

Majir awoke to something falling on his legs. When he opened his eyes he saw Tyrellius' glazed, blank eyes staring back at him, and an arrow sticking out of the man's dimple, blood trickled from the mortal wound and painted his face hideously red. Majir gave a loud but short scream and jumped to his feet with a start. Looking at his surroundings he could see falmer pouring in and surrounding the small group. The rest of the group rose to their feet with their weapons in their hands.

Majir looked on as his group helplessly tried to fight the overbearing amount of falmer, it looked like they had disrupted a hive. The blind savages killed two more leaving only Majir and two others. Seeing the helpless fight for what it was, Majir hastily devised an escape plan, leaving behind his former comrades. He cast invisibility and muffle and ran back out of the cave, dodging whatever falmer that blocked his path with relative ease. He could hear his comrades dieing in the distance, their screams muffled by the falmer. The sickening sound of bone cracking echoed down the halls of the cave, chasing after Majir and haunting his escape.

The blizzard had calmed down by the time he stepped outside the cave, as if calmed by the sacrifices inside the rocky tomb he had just abandoned. The lone cat continued his sprint outside the cave, running from the icy stone tomb.

After a few hours in the biting cold, Majir had finally managed to find something that looked promising. If his memory served him correctly, he was sure he saw the great, towering walls of Windhelm off in the distance. Still being relatively new to Skyrim he couldn't be absolutely certain, but he thought it likely.

As he approached the city he could see the ruins of a stables, and a nord approaching him. The nord was a rather large tan beast with blonde hair that fell to his broad shoulders and a scowl fixed to his face that made Majir think it was permanent. The man had a steel broadsword drawn and armor made of fur wrapped around his body.

As the man approached, Majir was careful to place his hand on his elven dagger. He didn't draw the weapon so as to let the nord know he was prepared for a fight but didn't want one.

The nord strutted up to Majir and rested his sword on his massive shoulder. The man traded his scowl for a smirk as he looked down at Majir and said, "Did the little kitty run away from home? What are you doing out here flee bag?"

Majir's ears and tail twitched at the man's words but he answered calmly but with the hint of a scowl appearing at the ends of his lips, "I've run out of supplies and seek rest."

"Don't you mean to say, 'This one has run out of supplies and seeks rest'? I've gotta give you some credit on at least talking like a human, for a little kitty cat you're pretty smart. But you can't enter the city without giving us some weapons, armor, or gold, so it looks like you ran outa luck."

The brutish man started to walk back to his post, turning his back on the rather weak looking khajiit. This was all the chance Majir needed. He readied a charm spell and in an instant had the man enchanted and trapped in the grips of his magick.

"Follow me fool," The man gave no reply but followed Majir to a spot behind some thick brush and trees. Majir ordered the man to start digging and in a few hours there was a hole big enough to hide a herculean sized body in. The man's hands were bloody and his finger nails were cracked and cut, as Majir wouldn't allow him to use any tools. Majir drew his sharp dagger and cast calm on his foe to make sure the man would stay still. After that, he coldly looked the man in his eyes and slit his throat. The dagger easily pierced the man's flesh and in an instant the nord was chocking on his own blood and in only a second longer the man lay dead in the tomb he dug himself, his blood painting his armor crimson.

Majir muttered to himself, "I am not a kitty, I am a khajiit," as he leaned over and stripped the man of weapons and armor. He rummaged through the nord's satchel, taking anything of value, including some gold and a few potions along with a few pieces of valuable jewelry.

He then buried the body using the surrounding dirt and covered the loose dirt with some twigs and pine needles. After that, he was at Windhelm's gates in a matter of minutes and was inside once he offered up the broadsword and armor he had taken from the dead nord. The two gate guards didn't question how or why blood covered the armor, they merely shook their heads while one said, "More armor we're going to have to clean up."

Majir headed straight for the inn and ordered a few strong drinks with the dead man's gold. As he drank his mead by the bar, the blizzard came back worse than before, with the icy snow and harsh wind assaulting anyone or anything unlucky enough to be outdoors.

The dawn’s light is filtered through the glass of a window. The rays wake a young boy, no more than 5 years old, up from his sweet slumber. His cottage lay on the hillside of a lush, green valley, almost disconnected from the strains and woes of the outside world. It looms just over the city, and it is here in his home where everything is as it should be.

On any given morning, the blond, fresh-faced child would be awoken by his mother who had warm strawberry crostatas waiting on the dinner table as his father would prepare to commute to the city for guard duty. Except on this very day, the scent of fresh strawberries was not in the air, but instead was replaced by unruly, hysterical sobbing. The boy leaves the vicinity of his bedroom to witness his mother on the floor, weeping uncontrollably while clutching a letter in her right hand. The letter’s ink had been smeared by the woman’s tears, but what the boy could make of the letter was the official stamp of the Legion on its bottom right-hand corner.

Before the boy could ponder the display in front of him, the creaking sound of the front door shutting directs his attention. He runs to open it and looks outside the glass to see his father en route to the city. To the boy’s horror, the entire city appears to be engulfed in violence and flames as the faint screams of suffering civilians echo through the valley. Without turning back, his father drops his gear and all of his equipment as he slowly strides toward the city. The boy cannot get the door open, but bangs against it and calls for his father in the hopes of getting his attention.



The scene is suddenly replaced with that of warfare. Lifeless bodies are strewn across the red, blood-stained land as noble warriors and healers are being slaughtered by dremora. Acolyte Henrietta shouts for Father Dumas in the hopes of him regaining consciousness. She and another acolyte help him to his feet as he slowly recalls what is actually happening. Dremora plow through the people’s army of Blacklight as another wave begin to converge onto the battlefield.

“Everyone, fall back! Retreat I say!” The army’s captain yells before being cut down by the battleaxe of a rampaging daedra. Dumas musters every last bit of strength to set up a combined ward with the remaining acolytes to give the people an opportunity to escape behind them. While Dumas opts to remain with a few soldiers to hold the daedra back, he is still very weak, and is carried away against his will by Henrietta and the others.

The few remaining civilians are escorted to the mountainous border of Morrowind and Skyrim by the very meager amount of temple affiliates left after all the blood that had been spilled. Though the freezing chill in the air bites at their bones, they have little choice but to remain the night until the dremora have pushed southward. Healers begin to get to work in aiding the wounded as small tents are set up. After regaining his strength, Father Dumas reassures the group that they will remain safe under the acolytes’s care until the situation has blown over. With a glassy, almost empty look in his eyes, Dumas walks off alone. Knowing something is wrong, Acolytes Henrietta and Flavius follow him.

“I've failed us, haven’t I?” Father Dumas addresses the two acolytes with his back still turned to them. There is a complete stillness in his tone, one of utter depression and defeat.

Henrietta re-assures to him, “You are too hard on yourself, Father. Their numbers were too great. The fact that we succeeded in preventing a complete annihilation is admirable in its own right. Wouldn’t you say?” Both she and Acolyte Flavius put a hand on each of his shoulders. “Agreed. This could have turned out much more horrid had it not been for your effort and that of the Blacklight army.” Flavius adds.

Dumas quickly turns around, swiping their hands off him in a disgruntled manner, much to their surprise. “My effort?!” With a hoarse tone in his voice, “My effort will amount to nothing if for a second I allow the hounds of the daedra to overtake us once more. The fact that we allowed those apostates of sin to take even one, let alone a hundred of innocent lives is a testament to my incompet…” Father Dumas stopped to read the faces of his acolytes. It was obvious he had become obsessed with securing a victory in the failed attack, but he knew this pessimistic behavior would demoralize him and the temple.

“I… I’m sorry.” Now speaking calmly and steadily, “The fact that we saved one life, let alone the plenty that we did is a testament to our drive and courage. For that my children of faith, I am grateful.” He pulls both acolytes into a warm embrace that both equally return.

All three head back to camp to find many sleeping and a few keeping watch. Each take a shift to keep watch as well until the dawn is upon them once more.

Before heading back to the site of the battlefield in search of survivors, rumors amongst the refugees suggested a safe haven exists within Skyrim. With their home ravaged, the group wanted to roam the land in search of it. Not knowing how Skyrim fared after the daedra began appearing, Dumas and the acolytes deemed it too dangerous to have a large group traversing an unknown area. Dumas felt it was his duty to the people to provide them a new home after his failure in the battle, and willingly offered to go alone to avoid another wide-scale catastrophe such as the one that occurred in Blacklight. Putting Henrietta in charge of the group, Father Dumas bid the group a temporary farewell and vowed to return to them once the safe haven had been assured.

Dumas crossed the border armor-clad and all. His cloak proved to become less and less effective as the temperatures began to dip in the transition to the frozen tundras of Skyrim. It was certain a blizzard had descended upon Eastmarch, yet he continued his journey on the cobblestone path to the nearest town, Windhelm.

Arriving at the gates, he was greeted by men who bore the guise of bandits and vagabonds. Realizing this was indeed the case as they asked him to pay an entry fee into the city, he had no choice but to use what remaining funds he spared to pay them off, with only a handful of septims remaining. After paying the toll, he made a decision he felt he would never make in his years as a religious leader, choosing the inn over the city’s temple.

He had not had a drink since taking up priesthood, yet he subconsciously convinced himself to spend his remaining money on a mug after everything that has unfolded. He took a seat next to a short, reserved Khajiit who by the looks of it, appeared to be drowning his sorrows as well if the empty drinks surrounding him were any evidence. Whether it was the cold, or straight-up guilt, Dumas pulled the mug closer to his lips as his hand trembled violently. Unable to properly grip his drink, he accidentally spilled it onto the lap of the Khajiit. Dumas shot right up from his seat to face towards him.

“G-gods above, I’m terribly sorry! If there is any way I can reimburse you, by all means.”

The inn was quiet as Majir sat drowning his troubles in the strong mead. The only noise to be heard came in like explosions from the lounge area above as some fight broke out or some drunken fool tried playing the loud drums that were stored up there for the divines only knows why. The inn seemed remarkably warm to the khajiit, perhaps it was due to him having just came in from the freezing bitter cold, but, maybe only due to the little bit of moon sugar he put in his drink, Majir preferred the thought that the inn was untouched by the hardships of reality. Windhelm's magnificent old stone walls seemed to have protected the city from reality itself. But it wouldn't last. It was only a matter of time before the daedra took this city and disillusioned those that held onto the illusion of safety. For a price you could enter the city and with that admission you were offered the idea that you might be safe, that this city may actually succeed where other places had failed and actually survive the relentless daedra. Majir smirked with traces of bitterness coating the sad smirk like a coat of emotion. He soon abandoned all thought and replaced it with drink.

It was some time before something besides mead stole Majir's attention. He felt a cold breeze invade the inn and hear and old, gruff nordic voice shout, "Shut the door, you bumbling oaf! It's freezing outside!"

Majir turned his keen gaze toward the door and saw what must have been the living embodiment of the colour white. The man wore ebony armor plated with a stunning white material that seemed to softly glow and reflect all light that happened to touch it. His clean, shaven face was framed by his sideburns that fell from his blonde hair. Piercing, fierce light blue eyes darted about as he examined his new surroundings with a hint of disgust. The man, an imperial, looked out of place in the inn of drunken degenerates and prostitutes. He looked like he could've been a Vigilante of Stendarr or some other paladin of the divines.

For one reason or another, the imperial made his way to the stool by Majir and sat down, ordering a drink in the process. The bartender soon had the man his drink and Majir looked away, turning back to his mead as the man reach his own drink. Before Majir could take another drink he saw the man slip up out of the corner of his eye and in an instant spilled mead was all over his lap.

Before Majir could react the imperial stood up and hastily said, "G-Gods above, I'm terribly sorry! If there is anyway to reimburse you by all means!"

Majir glanced over at one of the dunmer prostitutes for a moment and was about to ask for some gold but instead, fueled by his curiosity, he said, "Don't worry about it, my name is Majir-Dar or just Majir. Sit back down and we'll talk over some cheap wine. What's your name? What brings you to Windhelm? It doesn't look like you fancy being with thieves very often." With that, he finished what was left of his mead and ordered a bottle of wine and a towel to dry himself off with.

As the sun was starting to set, the beasts started retreating to the forests, a scent of blood filled the air and half-eaten half-decayed corpses filled the streets, a lone survivor was setting up a fire on a stone rooftop in Riften. The elegan shillouette was visible from the centeral plaza but was currently unreachable due to the most fortunate collapse of a balcony which she had used to ease her climb up. She sat down and untied her long cloack, making her tight armour and white-red hair visible, a few years ago she used to be a really famous theif, then everything collapsed for her, her partner in crime was dead, her friends were either dead or turned against her, as they were werewolves and Vampires, Vex had gone out to find some more resourses and was nowhere to be seen for hours, Brynjolf had been distracting some beasts and told Destiny to run as fast as she could to safety, that he could handle them... "Where are they?" She muttered to herself as she was sharpening her daggers and treating them to a good portion of poison...
As soon as she was done with them and started to count her arrows and treating them to some Lotus Extract as well, she heard a noise of stone cracking, she quickly grabbed and drew her bow in the direction of the sound only to find Brynjolf looking at her with his hands in the air holding three venison chops. "Calm down lass, we're safe from the beasts up here. I've also brought food, hope your fire is hot enough" he said, looking as fatigued as when the first attack had happened "Let me take care of that, you should calm down and try to relax. Are you hurt? You seem a bit pale..." she said searching in one of the black pouches that were hanging from her armor and took out two small vials, she handed him one and drank the other one with one sip "Drink this, you'll feel better" she said to him as he was poking in the fire "Thanks lass, by the way, where's Vex?" She shrugged her shoulders as she was preparing their meal, they had a long day ahead...


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After they spent the night taking turns in sleeping and preparing their weapons, the sun had risen and there was a lot of noise coming from the building down below, they climbed their way back down and saw a small group of survivors, about 4-5 of them saying something about a stronghold, she gave then a quick glance and noticed that Vex was with them. "A stronghold, where?" she said adjusting her cloack so that it only covered her back (like a cape). "Whiterun was turned into a stronghold for the survivors, but I won't risk getting out of the city and into the forrest with those beasts out there!" a man said, with fear sculpted on his face. She heard footsteps coming closer and closer to her, she pulled out her daggers and turned back, in a position ready to strike and kill .

"Don't worry about it, my name is Majir-Dar or just Majir. Sit back down and we'll talk over some cheap wine. What's your name? What brings you to Windhelm? It doesn't look like you fancy being with thieves very often."

Before Dumas could sum up a response, he paused for a moment over the intrigue of the golden-eyed, raven-haired khajiit before him. What primarily stuck out was the absence of the traditional speech sported by Khajiit native to Elsweyr, or relatives from the region to adopt the third-person manner of speaking from. Despite the ragged clothes on his back, it became clear he wasn’t some random ex-caravanner drinking his troubles away, something that would seem likely for any Khajiit willing to step into these walls that at one time barred them from entry.

Though his hospitality came as a surprise, Dumas quickly changed his demeanor to give the impression of a strong-willed, unshakable figure. Though he already might have been this tough guy he set himself out to be prior, it was obvious to all that he was down on his luck, and no pretending in the world could uphold this facade. Still, he was glad he at least had an ear willing to lend itself to him.

Dumas straightened himself and sat back down. He cleared his throat before addressing Majir with much more clarity and certainty in his voice than his previous statement. “Well met Majir. I am Father Dumas, leader of the inaugural Order of the Divines.” Dumas than stopped to realize how ridiculous-sounding this title seemed in his current setting. “…or simply Dumas, rather.”

“My order seeks refuge for a band of Dunmer impoverished after a skirmish across the border. We figured it would be best to send myself alone into Skyrim, considering it’s been ages since we’ve walked these lands.” Dumas tried to reveal as little as possible with all the prying ears within the inn. He shifted the conversation to Majir to avoid dropping any crucial details of the possible safe haven, for the last thing he wanted was all the scum occupying Windhelm to turn their gaze to Whiterun. “And what about you, Mr. Majir? What brings you to Windhelm? Certainly not a native, I take it?”

The man before Majir reinforced his appearance. His eyes still betrayed him as someone going through hard times but he at least looked far more strengthened and resolved. He sat back down, having at first been shocked by Majir's courtesy or still embarrassed by the accident (or perhaps a mixture of both), Majir couldn't tell or care. He cleared his throat and when he spoke he sounded much clearer and calmer, "Well met Majir. I am Father Dumas, leader of the inaugural Order of the Divines." Majir raised his eyebrows and half grinned at Dumas' title as the imperial stopped to reconsider the name he had just given out. After the brief pause, he continued, "... or simply Dumas, rather."

"My order seeks refuge for a band of dunmer impoverished after a skirmish across the border. We figured it would be best to send myself alone into Skyrim, considering it's been ages since we've walked these lands. And what about you Mr. Majir? What brings you to Windhelm? Certainly not a native I take it?"

Majir smiled and said, "No, I"m actually born and raised in the Summerset Isles and, seeing how the Daedra have managed to take much, if not all of Mainland-Tamriel, I wish I had stayed. As for what brings me to this frozen hell of a city, my group was ambushed by falmer inside one of their accursed caves," He paused for a moment and bit his lip as he remembered what happened. When he realized what he was doing, he hoped it came off as mourning or something along those lines, and not the regret it actually was. He continued, "We were ambushed as we were sleeping so by the time I woke up all of my comrades were already dead; I managed to escape using my illusion magick. Truth be told, I happened by this city purely by accident." He sipped from his wine as his words hung in the air for a moment. In that brief moment of silence he thought back to what Dumas had said about finding a safe haven for the dunmer.

He looked at the bartender who was cleaning off a mug with an already dirty cloth and ordered, "I need a room, I'll take the one furthest down the hall." He stood up and felt the room and its inhabitants swirl around for a moment; a combination of the drink and having sat around longer than he was used to. He shook his head to cure the dizziness and stretched his back as he placed gold on the counter and retrieved a steel key the bartender gave him.

Majir nodded over to his new room and said to Dumas, "We should talk in private."

He walked with Majir as Majir half walked, half staggered down the hall. He said, "Don't worry about privacy, these old walls are thicker than a nordic barbarian's skull."

They reached the door and Majir fumbled with the key for a moment before finally managing to get it in and turn the device. He mutter under his breathe, "Reminds me of my first time." As he walked into the room. It was filled with only the essentials: a bed with green sheets (though he doubted they were green by design), a nightmarish dresser made of chipped wood that looked like it would give you splinters if you just looked at it long enough, and a window. All in all he couldn't have expected much more from an inn run for bandits by bandits.

Dumas followed him inside and Majir closed the rickety door behind them. Wasting no time, he said, "I want to help you find refuge for those impoverished dunmer, I'm a great illusion and destruction mage and quite handy with my dagger; you'll find me plenty useful and able to hold my own. And besides, I don't know how dangerous it is over in Morrowind but over here you'll be lucky to survive a day alone."

Eve stretched her cramped limbs, a joyous feeling surges through them. She had slept cold and huddled up in the upper floors of an abandoned watchtower, with nothing but the cold steel of her war axes to comfort her. She leaves the tower alone and hungry, unable to hunt the night before. She could see wild deer feeding from the grass, keeping two axes in hand and the bow on her back, she did not have the energy to hunt and pursue chase. The axes felt like dead weight in her hands but if the situation arose she would swing, although she was in no condition to fight, she tread on to Whiterun.

She fantasized of the fresh wine and water that await her, even half a loaf of stale bread would satisfy her. As she tread nearer to the gates her hopes began to fade as there was no lookouts on this mighty stronghold and the farms were empty, as she push open the humongous gates to the city she realized she had travelled across Skyrim in vain. It was a waste. There was a few decomposing corpses and rodents, but the only people she could imagine living here were cannibalistic freaks in the ruined homes and shops, it creeped her out. She saw the remnants of hell, Daedra, werewolves and dead vampires littered the ground as she made her way further into the city. She made her way up to a few sets of stairs, looking at the companions hall. It looked like an upside-down boat. She walked up to the castle, the stairs being excruciating and near endless, but she finally made it. Her throat was dry and she desperately wanted a drink but she couldn't bring herself to taste the murky water that lay under the bridge leading to the doors of the castle. She pushed the door open only to be disappointed by the interior, she saw nothing but dust and disappointment. She sat by the gate and closed her eyes when she felt flickering across her eyes and a faint warmth reach out across the room. She realized the fire was lit. She clumsily stood up, in her fatigue she had not noticed it as she was coming in. She clambered for her axes and stood battle ready, although deep down she knew she was easy prey.

"I have travelled far and am in need of supplements." She said in a strained voice, "Please do not attack."