Zagroth jumps around Skyrim and inadvertently becomes the central character of an inevitable tale of magic, mystery, murder, and more.
There's a war on in Skyrim. Something about, the Imperials are the rightful owners of the land, whereas the Stormcloaks are the true sons of Skyrim. It's a semantic argument mostly, and it hinges on a technicality, and there's gods involved, so everyone's justified in brutally slaughtering anything that stands in front of them long enough. Some people hate the war, but then those people usually die. No one likes a bard. Anyway, war in Skyrim, Imperials vs Stormcloaks, you get the gist, and everyone generally agrees it's the Thalmor's fault. (The Thalmor are the high elves whose fault everything is-- keep up.) Anyway, none of that mattered much to Zagroth, because both sides frequently tried to kill him, and that kinda puts a different perspective on the whole thing.
It was the middle of the night, which was Zagroth's favorite time to go romping around dangerous mountain peaks. It was unlikely he'd run into anyone more sentient than a cave bear up here, and if he did, they'd surely not be able to see him. He was a Redguard, which is to say he was a black man. He stuck to the shadows when possible, although that was more for fun than because it was necessary; he had like a 40 in Sneak already.
But this one mountaintop was being a real B, and no matter how many different angles he tried to jump from, he just couldn't get a foothold on it. It seemed his current cliff-climbing spree was coming to an early end. Angrily, he whipped out his fists and blasted two long gusts of magical fire toward the impossible summit. Much like himself, the fire didn't come close to reaching it. But it felt satisfying anyway. He turned around and started jumping haphazardly down the mountain.
"Argh!" he shouted in mild pain upon landing on a small rocky ledge. The fall would have killed a weaker man, but Zagroth was a natural warrior. He looked around and was surprised to see that he'd accidentally landed smack dab in front of an entrance to what promised to be a dark and mysterious cave. He was awfully low on arrows and health potions, but he'd probably be alright. Knowing that he at least had his trusty Dagger of Probable Death to fall back on, he crouched down and began to creep slowly into the musty cavern.
The entrance tunnel was long and dotted with several different types of mushrooms. He was no alchemist, but he had a hunch someone back in town would pay a pretty price for these, so he meticulously picked each one and stuffed them all into the crevices of his armor. Up his sleeves, in his boots and helmet, underneath his gauntlets, everything. What was he gonna to do, carry a knapsack? HA!
He turned a corner in the tunnel and saw a torchlit opening up ahead. As he tiptoed forward, he heard the muffled voices of a couple of douche bags who probably needed to die.
They were a band of Bandits; huddled round a campfire, blabbering on about their adventures being Bandits, telling repetitive stories about previous times they were huddled round campfires discussing being Bandits with each other. Zagroth stealth'd up to the group and slit the throat of the one closest to him before anyone knew what was happening. "Is someone there?" one Bandit asked. "Who's there?" inquired the other. Pitiful last words, thought Zagroth, as, with a slash here and a slish-slash there, their probable deaths became definitive.