The dull scrape of an axe blade being sharpened on a grindstone fills the crisp Skyrim air, the grizzled man hunched over the spinning stone brushes a thick lock of long blond hair back over his ear. Intent on his task and insulated by the leather padding and the layers of blue cloth over his chain link armour, he hardly notices the biting cold. Ralof had been born in Skyrim, a true Nord, the cold and harsh environment of the Empire's most northern province was in his blood. "We won't be of the Empire for much longer" he mumbles under his breath raising the plain iron bladed axe into the light.

Across the small camp, populated by several other men and women in identical blue cloth and chain-link armour, but wearing concealing helmets that left nothing but the eyes uncovered. Ralof spotted a man in the command tent. He was dressed in dark furs and leaning over a table dominated by a large map of the Province. Next to him was a large man in an officer's uniform, thick steel plates covering his chest and shoulders leaving his arms bare , with the large forearms of a Cave bear slung over each shoulder. A pair of heavy gauntlets lay on the table, thick metal "claws" extended from the knuckles. Small red and blue flags dotted the thick parchment on the table; the eastern half of the map carried almost two dozen blue flags, tallest of them Windhelm, the Ancient Capital of the Kingdom of Skyrim, with the western half speckled with red. A large blank spot in the center of the map marked the Whiterun hold. Jarl Balgruuf had yet to decide where his allegiances lie.

"How fares your campaign Gonnar?" the deep voice of the darker dress man filled the tent easily.

Gonnar Oath-Giver grunted, "The Imperials have proven stubborn. They do not know when they are beaten, when they should run away, my lord." His rough voice boomed across the camp, layered with a thick Nord accent.

"And Greenwall?"

"The fort is defensible, it would take a miracle for these pathetic weaklings to oust true Sons of Skyrim from such a place."

Gonnar's fist made a muted clang as it struck the steel plate under the fur wrapped around his chest. "We will not lose the Rift, my lord, and we will see you Crowned High Kind of Skyrim after we toss out these Imperial dogs licking their wounds."

Their conversation continued, but Ralof paid no mind, he trusted Gonnar, and more importantly, he trusted Jarl Ulfric; Skyrim belonged to the Nords, an empire that can't protect its people without giving away their own gods. The war with the High Elves of the Aldmeri Dominion was long and bloody, and had ended with what they called 'The White-Gold Concordant', a treaty which stopped the conflict, but resigned the Empire to suffer at the hands of the Thalmor, a part of the Dominion that was tasked to put an end to the worship of the God Talos. A land is not free if you can be killed for uttering, "By the Nine" instead of "by the Eight".

Ralof is pulled from his reverie by the sight of a Khajiit female wandering into the camp, wearing leather armour bearing scuffs and obvious wear from long travel. Ralof stands from the grind stone and walks over to her, carrying the axe with him.

"This area is restricted to civilians, you'd better clear off cat!" he said, holding the warily axe in front of him. The Empire used spies and coward's tactics as much as good, straight-forward fighting.

The Khajiit raised her empty hands revealing a jagged dagger of Orcish make, the dark green metal gleamed dully on her waist.

"I mean no harm Nord." The Khajiit's rasping voice reminded Ralof of the grindstone. "It would appear I am lost, could you tell me how to get to Riften?"

The newcomer had attracted attention. Ulfric and Gonnar were still intent on the map, but the concealed faces of the rest of the camps' inhabitants turned towards the stranger. Several stood and fingered large two-handed swords and battle axes. The stranger shifted slightly, not from discomfort of the attention, Ralof thought. This woman did not look frightened or uncomfortable. Closer to a Saber Cat getting ready to pounce on a much larger predator.

Ralof slipped the wooden handle of the axe handle into a metal loop on his belt, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Riften?" he asked with a small chuckle, chain-link armour jingling as his shoulders hitched slightly. "You're a ways off from Riften yet. Head west to the road and follow it to the south. Just watch for the signposts and you'll be fine."

The Khajiit opened her mouth to say something, but if she did, he didn't hear it. Just behind him Ralof heard a dull crunch followed by wet gasping wheezes. Turning to see what it was, he had just enough time to throw himself to the side as an Imperial sword sliced through where his head had been moments before. The ground was littered with his fallen comrades, each with arrows protruding from their still forms; the sound had been a Stormcloak soldier fall with an arrow through her throat.

Ralof came up from the roll drawing his axe. The camp had been decimated. Gonnar was gone, not dead most likely. The man is damn near invincible Ralof thought baring his teeth. Surrounded by a ring of Imperials, Ralof fought with all his skill, bobbing and weaving around inexpert sword slashes. His axe bit deep into the thigh of a soldier as he sidestepped an over enthusiastic lunge. Off to his side he saw that the stranger Khajiit was in a similar position, holding off a half dozen soldiers using her dagger and natural claws; had it been another time he would have been amazed. The grace with which she flowed between the blows of her enemies was entrancing. As though in a dance, she spun around a clumsy opponent, snarling as she drew her blade across his throat and gripping another's in her empty hand. Her claws ripped through the exposed skin easily, dark blood flowed over her wrist matting her dark grey fur.

Ralof turned his attentions back to his own fight; the Cat was on her own. The three soldiers left were no mere recruits; scarred faces and calloused hands marked veterans of the Legion. No easy opponents by themselves, these three would prove too much.

"For Sovengard!" Ralof shouted, raising his axe and charging at the middle of the three men, heedless of the foolish nature of his attack. The left-most man's counter ripped the weapon from his hand, and the pommel of his sword descended to his head. Searing pain pulled him into darkness.