There was a chill in the air, a frosty nip at their skin. The old Orc shuddered in his iron, hand smith, armor. All though he had traveled all over Tamriel twice in his lifetime, it was the cold he was not fond of. He was battle scarred, but his age barely showed. Though his scars told stories, his lower tusk were still well even for his age. Though one of them had broken due to a brawl gone wrong. Crossing from Cyrodil into Skyrim was easier than he had imagine, though it worried it him that all had grown silent. He grumbled. A younger, more pinkier man looked at him.

The young man was no other than young Efret, with dark brown hair. He was more a liken to kin then he was a partner. The Orc himself had raised him since he had been a lad. Efret shuddered from the cold as well.

"I don't like this," the old Orc grumbled.

"What are you worried about Knives?" Efret asked obviously curious about their new surroundings, hmph Bretons.

"It's quiet. This old Orc knows when silence falls, so does danger, and soon then bodies," Knives grumbled.

At first the young man didn't say anything, in truth the young man understood just as well as he did what this silence meant. Even Efret understood the very nature of battle more so than any of his kind. It's what Knives admired and appreciated about the Breton. That despite the use and understanding of the language of magic, he did not fear combat even if he were equipped with a few simple spells.

"Shouldn't we get off the roads?" Efret asked.

"I am not sure what course of action to take from here, we will play by ear," Knives said.

The group walked down the road. The rest was all but history to Knives. As a clash of Imperials and Nords danced around them. An ambush. Though that was not his concern. Shoving the Breton into some tall bushes, he would take the prison for the young man. He knew Efret was resourceful and would find him. He recanted these details, however, on the chopping block. Staring at an executioner, ready to take of his head like any other common Nord. He only grumbled. A wing beast came from the sky and the screaming he could not get out of his head. Innocents fleeing, children and woman screaming as hellfire rained down on them.

A clash of scrambling Imperials and a word he was new to, Stormcloak. He fled from the smoldering village it brought back painful memories of his childhood, his own village had been burnt down like this once. But not by a dragon.

Meanwhile, in the snowy hills after the incident he found he was alone. No Imperials, no Stormcloaks or no Knives to be seen anywhere. It was the sight of smoke that alerted him to danger. He saw it in the sky flying through the smoke and out to the horizon. A beast as black as night. He feared the worse for Knives.

Rushing towards the smoke, he was lost and unsure of what to do now. He was no navigator nor an old soldier like Knives. He didn't have the skills that Knives did. Though he found himself staring in horror, the charred remains of people, and the burning village. He wondered if Knives had went this way. He didn't know for sure, but he had to find Knives soon.