User blog:Shezza123/Of Men and Dragons - Unbound: Chapter One

Fredas, The 17th of Last Seed, 4E 201

Hastor Letrand only wanted to study magic. He only wanted to go to the Mage's College of Winterhold, enroll in a few courses, and then be on his merry way. Now, he was sitting in a horse-drawn cart, on an unfamiliar road to Helgen, sceduled for execution.

"Those bloody idiots," He muttered to himself once more, "I don't look like a rebel. I'm not even wearing the same outfit." In the same cart, were a blonde Nord, dressed in the cuirass of the Stormcloak rebels, a rather pale-looking horse theif, and a brown haired, bearded man, who's mouth was gagged.

"Hey, you," said the blonde rebel, "You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that theif over there."

Hastor stretched his neck. It was stiff from being still for so long. "Yeah," he said, "Name's Hastor Letrand, of Glenumbra. And you are?"

"Ralof Gaisgeach, of Riverwood." Said the rebel, "I would shake your hand, but..." Ralof held up his bound hands with a smirk.

"Damn you Stormcloaks." Said the horse-theif, "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 turned and spoke to Hastor, "You and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

"What's you're name, horse-theif?" Ralof asked.

"Lokir." Said the criminal.

"Well, Lokir, we're all brothers in binds now." Said Ralof.

"Shut up back there!" Shouted the cart driver.

The four prisoners sat in silence for a while, until Lokir pointed at the gagged man, and whispered to Hastor, "What's wrong with him, huh?"

"Watch your tongue!" Ralof spat, "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King of Skyrim!"

"Ulfric?" Hastor asked, "The Jarl of WIndhelm?"

"If they've captured you..." A sudden look of realisation spread across Lokir's face, "Oh gods, where are they taking us."

"Helgen." Hastor said solemnly, "And it seems that Sovngarde awaits us."

Lokir became frantic, "This can't be happening... This isn't happening!"

"Hey," Ralof asked calmly, "What village are you from, Lokir?"

"Why do you care?" Asked Lokir.

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home." Ralof answered.

Lokir took a deep breath. "Rorikstead." He said, "I'm... I'm from Rorikstead."

On the horizon, the shape of a walled village was growing. Hastor was trying not to cry. He was good at not crying; he'd been practicing for the past twenty years. Normally, he would try to think of Tabia Letrand, his mother ,at times like this. She'd died when he was a baby, so he couldn't remember her, but he'd been told lots of great things about her. Her last words were mentioned a lot."I'll see you all in Sovngarde." Everyone has been surprised by them, because she was an Imperial, and Imperials didn't tend to believe in Sovngarde all that much.

"Don't worry, mum," Hastor thought, "I'm coming. I'll see you in Sovngarde."