Zethian

Blackness. That was all there was, stretching endlessly into the deep, farther than eyes could judge. Zethian stood on the brink of that great black chasm, staring down into the tumbling depths with a hard eye. She saw nothing. She had expected nothing but the black. These were not the Deep Roads she knew. They were nothing like the well-lit tunnels stretching forth from Orzammar like veins from the heart. These were the dark, unmapped bowels of the earth. The age-old air that hung in them like the last breath within a corpse was thick with dust, and coils of it wisped their way past the elf's softly-pointed ears. The darkness before her w

4th Morning Star, 4E 201. Though, Guillem didn't know that. A light dusting of snow fell in languid bursts from the pale sky, though all he saw was the coarse woven fabric of the bag over his head. He could hear only the constant rattle of frozen cobblestones as the cart he was in rolled onward towards its destination. The Imperial hadn't heard much about Helgen in all his time as a general in High Rock, save for on various maps of Skyrim he'd seen over the years. In the past week, however, the name had been mentioned constantly. Whoever his captors were, they weren't a secretive bunch. The one thing he had heard of Helgen, however, is that

Not all those who sleep have passed over, Even weak rays of sun can thaw cold. The plant that is dead can still nourish, The sap can glow brighter than gold. Hands cut by bows will grow thicker, Strong roots can sleep deep in the earth. Scars on the skin grow back stronger, New life from dead creatures will birth. Lofty branches have further to tumble, Strong as iron is wood that is wrought. Fresh-felled wood on the fire will spit, Shallow waters run swifter than thought. The wind in high branches blows hardest, The highest leaves on all trees will still fall. A single berry can turn into poison, The smallest seed can grow taller than all.