» Thu May 03, 2012 5:25 am Of Ice and Men
Chapter One-Farewell Cyrodiil
Pale Pass. The once mighty stronghold of the Akaviri, now a ruinous terrain riddled with snow lay behind him. Argvir was his name. Argvir the Breton. Argvir of Daggerfall: an ex-farmer, ex-Synod inductee and current historian, scholar and seasoned traveller. He had left farm life in High Rock at merely 18 to fulfil his lust for knowledge of the long ago deceased Mages Guild in Daggerfall. 10 long years working as an alchemist and healer in the city and he up and left for the infamous Synod in Cyrodiil excited by the opportunity to develop his mild magical talents. The great Synod of mages, Synod of heroes and Synod of mysteries turned out to be the great Synod of secrets, politics and rapid resignation which led Argvir to where he was now; a travelling historian on a cart to Skyrim longing for information about his family.
His natural aptitude for spell-craft had passed into his blood by way of his father Lord Argvir II, a Breton of noble birth. His noble birth had left Argvir II with a considerable wealth that was soon lost (but that is a puzzle for later, concluded by an answer Argvir of Daggerfall had sought for all his 35 years). Argvir’s mother was a Nord, a beautiful woman with piercing blue eyes and golden lochs. Suffice to say Argvir only inherited a degree of his mother’s looks encompassing his father’s green eyes and dark untidy hair. How Lord Argvir II had come to marry such a beautiful woman was another mystery Argvir of Daggerfall quite wished to solve. His mothers heritage was his romantic, fantastical mystery, his fathers his financial and considerably irritating investigation.
Argvir clutched at his wind battered tan cloak and stared longingly at Pale Pass which gradually faded into the whirl of snow as the cart moved gradually away from the historical site. His green eyes surveyed his current situation. To his left trudged a man on horseback clad in the light raiment of an imperial soldier, to his right two more soldiers marched unenviably on foot. In the cart sat another man who like Argvir had hitched a ride with the Imperial march to Skyrim. It was not a pleasant journey for ahead of the cart was another; in which several imperial prisoners sat. Four Nords, presumably members of the Stormcloak rebellion against the Empire: three simply bound, the fourth gagged and bound.
Argvir had only chanced a few looks throughout the week long journey and came to one conclusion. He didn’t want to know more about them nor did he want to be any closer to them. He returned his gaze to his feet and clutched his cloak about him once more imagining the ice melting and pretending the snow was merely an illusion cast by a cunning sorcerer. Before long he had slipped into a deep sleep filled with pleasant dreams of his childhood and his mother before eventually being relentlessly torn away and replaced by the image of his blundering Breton father Lord Argvir stumbling and dropping what was presumably all his money.
Argvir woke with a start. The mild blizzard had stopped and a fresh pinewood surrounded the road laden with a refreshing breeze and doused in a layer of glistening snow. It was completely unexpected but completely and astoundingly beautiful. Argvir stared wide eyed taking it all in as he gained his bearings. The prisoners in the cart ahead were talking but he pretended he couldn’t hear. The mysterious traveller in the cart with him remained silent and mysterious which pleased Argvir if in a mild way. He reached into his cloak and withdrew a small faded document. The faint markings formed a rather basic map which presented the road the Imperial carts travelled along. A short distance ahead was the village of Helgen in which Argvir would stay with an associate of his from his brief Synod days; a Nord mage named Brontus. The mumblings of the prisoners became more evident and Argvir regrettably caught a few words.
“A Nords last thought’s should be of home”
The sentence hit Argvir suddenly and he became aware of nausea begin to associate itself with his stomach and throat. The prisoners were to be executed. He would be witness to an execution. In all his studying of Tamriel and the customs of each province he had never discovered the method of death in Skyrim. He dared not imagine as the carts came to a halt in the middle of the village. He took one vague glance at Helgens mild Imperial infrastructure before being quite startled as he clambered from the cart.
“Ah, excellent”, boomed the mysterious man who had also just exited the cart. “A spot of entertainment!” He hurried forwards to join the gathering crowd as the prisoners were called forward one by one. Argvir merely watched meekly from the back of the villagers. He had hardly moved away from the cart. One word flashed before his mind and before he knew it he had said it aloud in his clear, powerful voice.
“Barbaric”
