Tilvur roused, a harsh chill breaking against his staunch features. He opened his eyes and glanced around; he was sat on a wooden carriage, with three nords, one of whom was gagged.
"Hey elf, you're awake" said one, clad in chain mail covered by blue rags "you were trying to cross the border, right? Got caught by that imperial ambush, same as us; and that thief." He turned to look at the second nord, wearing ragged cloth. They looked at each other for a second, before the 'thief' piped up with
"Damn you Stormcloak, Skyrim was fine until you came along; empire was nice and lazy. Had they not been looking for you, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell by now. He then turned to Tilvur
"Hey there, you and me shouldn't be there, it's these Stormcloaks the empire wants-"
"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief." The man in chain said, before being interrupted by the Legionnaire driving the carriage, calling for silence.
Tilvur groaned, and examined his surroundings, there was no way he was to escape without a blade on hand.
After a moment, the thief said
"What's the matter with him, huh?" gesturing toward the gagged man.
"You watch your tongue, you're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true high king" growled the soldier, as if he'd taken personal offence at the question. The man revealed as Ulfric simply raised his eyebrow at the exchange.
"Ulfric Stormcloak? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion." responded the thief, though his voice soon dropped as he realised what he'd said "But... If they've captured you... Oh gods, where are they taking us?"
"I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits."
At this point, Tilvur stopped listening to their conversation, as it mainly consisted of the thief frantically praying for mercy from the entire imperial pantheon.

The carriage drove through the gate of a small nordic town. There was considerable imperial presence, and a few Thalmor agents standing around with some of the higher up legionnaires.
Eventually the carriage pulled up in a small courtyard, with a headsman and block located in the centre.
One by one, the other prisoners poured off their various carriages.
First, the Jarl was called, then the soldier. Upon hearing his name, the thief, Lokir, begged for absolution and ran, and was subsequently shot down by archers.
Then, Tilvur was called.
"You there, step forward." Tilvur obliged. "Who are you?" asked the legionnaire.
"Tirisi Tilvur, of Pell's Gate." growled the elf, "and I am no rebel"
The legionnaire turned to his captain. "What should we do? he's not on the list."
"He goes to the block." The captain responded.
"By your orders, captain." He then turned back to Tilvur. "I'm sorry, we'll ensure your remains are returned to Morrowind."
Tilvur turned to follow the captain to the block, and murmured to the legionnaire:
"Save your pity for one who desires it, child, and I was born in Cyrodiil."

There was then a brief interlude of gloating by the imperial general, announcing that they had captured the leader of the rebels, and thus ended the war.
A priestess of Arkay was then brought forth to give the prisoners their last rites. After she had done so, the captain turned to the prisoners and declared:
"First, the Elf in the rags!"
Reluctantly, Tilvur stepped forward and placed his head on the block.
As the headsman braced for the swing, his life flashed before his eyes, from his childhood in and around the Imperial City, his time spent in Morrowind searching for his father, his interactions with the daedra and the purposeless meandering of his twilight years. In a rare moment of sentimentality, he smiled, and uttered:
"I regret noth-"
"WHAT IN OBLIVION IS THAT?" roared the general from before.
Tilvur opened his eyes and saw the sight of a lifetime. With a crash that could level houses, a huge black dragon perched atop the watch tower. The confusion and panic around it was like a tornado, engulfing the whole town in a whirlwind of terror, but with a tiny area of tranquillity between the dragon and the elf.
Perhaps it was the mind-numbing absurdity of the moment, but Tilvur felt as if the dragon had made eye contact with him, as if they had some kind of ethereal connection which had brought the both to the same place at the same time.
Regardless of fate, the dragon took to the skies, and Tilvur was dragged to his feet by the soldier from earlier.
"YOU, ELF! GET UP, THE GODS WON'T GIVE US ANOTHER CHANCE!" he shouted over the cacophony of panic and orders "GET TO THAT WATCH TOWER!"
The pair of them sprinted across the courtyard and into the tower, where they took temporary respite. Ulfric, the gagged man from before had wrestled both his hands and tongue free, though before he could address Tilvur, he'd run up the stairs toward the top.
There was a gaping hole in the wall, accompanied by scorch marks. Tilvur paused for a moment, examining the scene before him. The dragon was still causing chaos, and the burning building before him seemed an adequate landing platform.
Tilvur leapt from the tower into the flaming inn, rolling as he hit the floor. Another, smaller leap put him on the ground floor, and he ran out into the street. Once out in the open, he got a better idea of what exactly was happening. The imperials were retreating to the keep, as the townspeople cowered in the towers which were dotted around town. On a whim, he decided to follow the soldiers with getting to the keep.
The troops paid him no heed as he sprinted through their lines and into the keep, which was empty.
Rather than hang around for the men who'd attempted to kill him, the elf opted to search through the barracks for some equipment, a search which yielded no more than an iron sword. Nonetheless, he pressed on.
There was no resistance, apart from a small group of rebels which seemed hesitant to even attack, due to Tilvur's aged appearance.
Behind the keep was a cave, which lead to the outside world. The cave was uninhabited, and served as a brilliant location for respite.

The road upon which Tirisi now strode was perfectly ordinary. It was the kind of road one would find in any of the other provinces, neither newly cobbled, nor well travelled. That which framed it, however; the landscape of Skyrim, was unlike anything that could be found elsewhere in Tamriel. The jagged peaks and snowbound summits which were made the scenery had an almost mystical, aged aura about them. While other provinces had mountains and hills and peaks, Skyrim had mountains. The kind of gargantuan masses of rock which could inspire an artist to paint a masterpiece, or a bard to write songs about the halls of Sovngarde.
In other respects though, it was not so different to the forests of Cyrodiil. If he turned from the mountains, and gazed into the forest, Tirisi could almost expect to see an Ayleid ruin lying in wait for some foolhardy adventurer. The sound of birds whistling and scurrying in their trees; the smell of Dragon's Tongue and Wormwood; all familiar sensations in a land which, for all it's similarities, could not be more alien.

'One forgets the peace of simple travel with such ease.' Thought Tirisi, his footsteps echoing through the valley. 'Though I am now faced with the challenge of acquiring coin. Perhaps, should I come across a settlement, I can perform a little manual labour'.
After an hour or so, a small village came into view. Tirisi smiled, 'now we shall see if I will be able to wrestle these people's coin from their purses.'
As he passed through the gate, he was paid no heed but by a large dog who looked pensively at him, and sauntered away, as though it'd just been put back in it's place by the pack leader. The village itself was tiny, no more than ten houses, probably with at least three people living in each, though they seemed to have all the necessities to bring in enough coin. The smell of soot was emanating from the blacksmith which was no more than a few paces within the wall. It was here that Tirisi decided to begin.
"Hello there, my good man!" he called to the staunch looking nord, cramped over his grindstone. He looked up, apparently surprised by the elf's Cyrodiilic accent. "I take it you're the smith in this village"
"I am. My name's Alvor, by the way, welcome to Riverwood. What can I do for you?" the smith responded, gesturing toward the rest of the village, as a regent might his kingdom.
"I was looking to acquire some coin. To stay the night. I've recently come upon hard times, and all I have to my name are the clothes on my back and this blade. Not that I wish to take advantage of your charity, I am simply saying tha-"
Alvor chuckled. "You needn't worry, a night at the inn, plus some food and ale only costs about 25 gold." He turned, and looked up at the sky. "I tell you what, I'll pay for your room and food, provided you run an errand for me in the morning." Tirisi nodded. "There's been word of a dragon attacking Helgen, and the Jarl needs to know. I'm sure he'd compensate you nicely." Tirisi nodded once again, as Alvor pushed a pile of septims into his hands.
"Then could you direct me to the inn?"
"Of course. It's just down there. Big sign outside that says "The Sleeping Giant", you can't miss it." Alvor answered, pointing down the road.
"Thank you Alvor. This debt won't go unrecompensed".

Nords can always make an inn their own, even in provinces with minimal nordic populations. The scent of honeyed mead and the sound of merriment echo throughout the taverns of Tamriel. Seldom does that merriment extend to strangers, and even rarer does it extend to elves. Such was the case in the Sleeping Giant.
Tirisi made his way through the drunkards and brawlers, a task made all the more easy as they parted for him.
Upon reaching the bar, he took a seat as the bartender eyed him up.

"You new in town, elf?" he asked cautiously
"Indeed, and I shan't be staying too long either, I have business in Whiterun to attend to tomorrow." Tirisi responded, making eye contact for a moment.
"I see. I'm Orgnar, I take care of the drink and food." Orgnar raised his hand
"I'm Tirisi."
"Pardon me sir, but you don't seem to be the adventuring type. At least not anymore."
Tirisi grunted in amusemant. "Don't let my appearance fool you, I have many years ahead of me yet." he said, cracking a smile, Orgnar chuckled also.
"Be that as it may, I was referring to the years you have behind you."
"Ah! Those are numerous too"
"and interesting, I'd wager."
Again, Tirisi smiled, "I'm sure, though you'll have to find me another time if you wish to hear them." He said, gesturing for a drink.
Orgnar stopped wiping down the counter top to fill a flagon with ale. "Not a one? You must have seen some interesting things though." he passed the mug to Tirisi.
"Alright then. You know of the Great Gate in Cyrodiil? To the east of Bruma?"
"Aye"
"I've seen that. That and the war machine which came through it; or at least, what's left of them. It has been 200 years since they were destroyed." Orgnar cocked an eyebrow. "Aye. What remains is as large as this inn. You can feel the evil radiating from them. The gravestones that mark the deaths of the soldiers stretch for almost a mile, including the marble stones which mark the resting place of Jauffre."
"That sounds amazing. Were it not for this damnable war, perhaps I could see it myself."
"Indeed it is." Tirisi sighed and seemed to look through Orgnar. "But I am tired" he said, pushing gold into Orgnar's palm. "If you would wake me at dawn, please."
"Of course. You're room is that one" he pointed to his right.