UNBOUND
Sunlight. When the young Altmer blinked, sunlight streamed into his sensitive eyes. Everything was fuzzy around the edges, his sight, smell, taste. Taste. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth and his throat was dry as a desert. Grunting, he tried to sit up, but the pain that radiated through his body forced him to slump back down. Spent.
His arm, he remembered, had been painfully wrenched from its socket. But other than the incessant throbbing, it felt right in place again. His wrists felt rubbed raw. Like exposed nerves over steel needles. He brought them up to his face, blocking the stream of sunlight, and he saw that they were bound with coarse rope. Tightly cinched to the point where he was bleeding terribly, he looked them over with a quizzical eye.
Then it came back to him.
Some sort of scuffle of Nord rebels and Imperial soldiers. Damn them all to the depths of Molag Bal's domain. He had been recognized by some Imperial brat. A big stink had been made of the thing. He tried running. A damned mistake. He ran and fought back, but was apprehended anyway. Now he was here. Where was here?
A rough, low voice broke his thoughts. Asked if he was alright, but he hardly heard the actual words. His head was throbbing with the force of a blacksmith hammer to the anvil. Sparks of dull pain crinkled across his skull. He was suddenly grabbed and pulled up by strong arms, and made to sit on a bench.
"Sorry, I have no water," the voice came, clearer now as his own mind stopped being fuzzy. "You've been out for a while there."
He rocked back against the side of the... the what? Everyithing was moving and he felt sick. Forcing himself to wakefulness, he realized he was on a wagon. There were four or five other men with him, no, just three. He had to count twice. He realized with growing horror that they were all prisoners. All bound at the wrists and slumped with that defeated quality that weighs heavy on men's shoulders. He shuddered, regarding each of his companions with a glare. They were all Nords. He could tell by their speech, their manner, and two of them were dressed in Stormcloak garb.
"You though, elf, you shouldn't be here," one of them said to me. A man with a calm face and the typical blond hair and blue eyes of the Nord fashion.
"Don't you know who that is?" a darker skinned man asked, his wary gaze flickering between his Nordic kinsman and the strange Altmer that joined them, "he is a wanted criminal of the worst sort. A conspirer of the foulest and darkest arts: a necromancer. He has quite the bounty for experimenting on men, women, and children of all races."
The high elf jerked slightly in his seat as the carriage went over a rock. He tried to pretend not to notice the appalled look on the blond Nord's face, but it was too hard to ignore. Then the Nord lowered his head and shook it slowly. "That's why we Nords don't deal with magic. It corrupts."
"And your swords do not?" the high elf said, his voice rolling smoothly as the Altmer dialect always did. "If I remember it was your ancestors that wiped out the Snow Elves by the sword. Tell me now, were they not corrupted? If not by magic or swords, there is always something to tempt a disastrous fate, for one or the other."
The Nord glared. "You have no excuse to grin as you do. We may have fought with others, but it was always on an open ground. But experimentation? To take prisoner and commandeer a life for your pleasures or selfish purposes? You sicken me."
The Altmer ceased his grinning. "It doesn't matter," he said lowly.
"Doesn't it though?" the darker Nord asked, his voice scoffing. "The Imperials think so, the bastards."
His arm, he remembered, had been painfully wrenched from its socket. But other than the incessant throbbing, it felt right in place again. His wrists felt rubbed raw. Like exposed nerves over steel needles. He brought them up to his face, blocking the stream of sunlight, and he saw that they were bound with coarse rope. Tightly cinched to the point where he was bleeding terribly, he looked them over with a quizzical eye.
Then it came back to him.
Some sort of scuffle of Nord rebels and Imperial soldiers. Damn them all to the depths of Molag Bal's domain. He had been recognized by some Imperial brat. A big stink had been made of the thing. He tried running. A damned mistake. He ran and fought back, but was apprehended anyway. Now he was here. Where was here?
A rough, low voice broke his thoughts. Asked if he was alright, but he hardly heard the actual words. His head was throbbing with the force of a blacksmith hammer to the anvil. Sparks of dull pain crinkled across his skull. He was suddenly grabbed and pulled up by strong arms, and made to sit on a bench.
"Sorry, I have no water," the voice came, clearer now as his own mind stopped being fuzzy. "You've been out for a while there."
He rocked back against the side of the... the what? Everyithing was moving and he felt sick. Forcing himself to wakefulness, he realized he was on a wagon. There were four or five other men with him, no, just three. He had to count twice. He realized with growing horror that they were all prisoners. All bound at the wrists and slumped with that defeated quality that weighs heavy on men's shoulders. He shuddered, regarding each of his companions with a glare. They were all Nords. He could tell by their speech, their manner, and two of them were dressed in Stormcloak garb.
"You though, elf, you shouldn't be here," one of them said to me. A man with a calm face and the typical blond hair and blue eyes of the Nord fashion.
"Don't you know who that is?" a darker skinned man asked, his wary gaze flickering between his Nordic kinsman and the strange Altmer that joined them, "he is a wanted criminal of the worst sort. A conspirer of the foulest and darkest arts: a necromancer. He has quite the bounty for experimenting on men, women, and children of all races."
The high elf jerked slightly in his seat as the carriage went over a rock. He tried to pretend not to notice the appalled look on the blond Nord's face, but it was too hard to ignore. Then the Nord lowered his head and shook it slowly. "That's why we Nords don't deal with magic. It corrupts."
"And your swords do not?" the high elf said, his voice rolling smoothly as the Altmer dialect always did. "If I remember it was your ancestors that wiped out the Snow Elves by the sword. Tell me now, were they not corrupted? If not by magic or swords, there is always something to tempt a disastrous fate, for one or the other."
The Nord glared. "You have no excuse to grin as you do. We may have fought with others, but it was always on an open ground. But experimentation? To take prisoner and commandeer a life for your pleasures or selfish purposes? You sicken me."
The Altmer ceased his grinning. "It doesn't matter," he said lowly.
"Doesn't it though?" the darker Nord asked, his voice scoffing. "The Imperials think so, the bastards."