You pull out and read the note given to you by Falkreath's jarl, glance first at the crumbling tower in the distance and then other nearby landmarks. Skyrim isn't your homeland but before your capture at the border, before whatever happened at Helgen, you'd studied various maps of the province, learnt as much as you could about its people.
You step off the road as you check the buckles of your light armour, make sure everything fits. The trees are thick around you as you skulk forward, skulk towards a flickering light you reckon is at the tower's base. You pause at the treeline, gaze jumping from one bandit to another as they sit around the fire you'd already seen, and put a hand on the hilt of the sheathed sword at your waist.
You start walking, stride out from among the trees, and flinch as a twang is heard, try to duck as light glints off the arrow speeding towards you. It plunges deep into your throat, you bring your hands up to try and stop the blood spurting out, and you drop to your knees as the bandits turn to watch you. There's cruel pleasure in their eyes, savage joy on their faces, and then you fall forward, buck as the arrow scrapes against your spine and triggers a few nerves.
The bandits gather around your corpse, having come down from his perch your killer pulls out his arrow with a jerk that makes your body twitch again, and they all fall upon you, easily stripping away your armour, weapons and clothing. The note you'd been carrying joins a score of others in a small chest, your body will meet the same fate as their owners'…
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