Monday, 7 May 2012

Oats in Skyrim: Part One. A cart ride best forgotten.

Note to readers, some things have been changed a little to help the story progress a little better.

Part one. A cart ride best forgotten.

                Fourth Era, Year 201.

Sundas 17th Last seed.

   My eyes opened to the sight of a snow dusted dirt road, bordered with tall pine trees and rocky crags, the snow glistening off the branches like the gleam in a young Kahjiit’s eye. It took me a few moments to realise my situation, my arms, bitten by the cold, were bound with some rough rope and vile, tatty rags had replaced my usual garb. I was in a cart, alongside three stinky, sweaty men, all tarnished with the fate of a prisoner. One of the men spoke, but his words fell on deaf ears dear reader, as fortune had defiantly not smiled on me this particular Sundas morn.

  The cart trundled down the road at a snails pace, as I started to get to grips with my predicament I started listening more intently to the conversations going on around me. A man, slightly less filthy than the others was talking about rebellion, and one word he spoke resounded in my ears louder than sound itself.
 How I came to find myself this far north in Tamriel still escapes me to this day, but fresh Country, Fresh start, and seeming that I was restrained in a cart this particular start was about as fresh as three week old mammoth milk. A jolt of the cart on a stone brought me back to reality.

 “Hey, you.”  One of the shabbier looking prisoners exclaimed.
“We shouldn’t be here; this is between the Stormcloaks and the Empire.”
He was cut short by a man in furs.
“We are all bound together today my friend. Thief or Stormcloak, it seems we are all headed towards the same fate.” The Thief was a little disgruntled by this, and vented his anger.  
  “Rot it, and Rot you.” Once again he was cut short, this time by another man in furs.
  “Watch your mouth, do you realise who you are talking to. Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, True high King of Skyrim.”
 “Ulfric stormcloak?!” the thief exclaimed, “the leader of the rebellion, If they have captured you, Gods know where they are taking us.” It was from this moment, that I knew my fate was going to be worse than that of a lashing or a prison.
  “I don’t know where we are going” Ulfric breathed heavily, with the weight of a man defeated.” But Sovengard awaits.” The conversation continued, but my mind was drifting to happier places, to prepare myself for any fate.

   We rolled into a village about 10 minutes later; I did not notice much about it, apart from the unmissable fact that it was heavily guarded by Imperial legionaries. Everything was a blur, People were shouting, moving with urgency. We rolled into a square; in the centre was a wooden block, and a masked man with an axe. Accompanying him was a priest. We were going to be beheaded.   

  Let me give you a little background of myself before I step off this planet and into the heavens. As manners dictate I should probably start off with a name. Roderic Otius Tirellius. But thanks to a particularly embarrassing incident with a horse, some mead and a serious hangover, people call me Oats; well at least the folks in my home town did. Anvil, what a beautiful town, the lighthouse, the castle, the ponds, and most importantly my family. Renee, my wife, and son, Sid, named after the hero from the oblivion crisis 200 years ago. I hope they live well without me.
  I’m sorry, I am getting caught up with my emotions, and it’s hard to focus when you know your going to die. My name is Roderic, People call me Oats, I am 27 years old, and was born on the 16th of frostfall. I have lived in Anvil my entire life, and spent years studying to be a merchant. Every summer I would visit my uncle’s farm, south of Chorrol, and spend the evenings loosing arrows at trees, camping and reading about the arcane. I finished my merchant training last year, and set up home just outside anvil with my wife and son. I am Five foot Six, with light brown hair and blue eyes, I have my hair tied back like the main character from the Antius the Archer books. And have taken the habit of growing a goatee. I think it looks quite fetching.
Not that it matters, Not that any of it matters. Not now anyway.

No comments:

Post a Comment