Chapter Text
The prisoner cart clattered over the uneven path, wheels jolting with every rock and root. Cold mountain air cut through the thin fabric of the prisoners' rags, carrying the scent of pine and the promise of snow. In the distance, the stone walls of Helgen rose against the backdrop of mountains, sunlight glinting off Imperial helmets along the ramparts.
Ralof shifted uncomfortably against his bindings. The rough hemp rope had chafed his wrists raw during the journey from Darkwater Crossing. Across from him sat Ulfric Stormcloak, the rebel leader's proud features partially obscured by a gag, his eyes burning with quiet defiance despite their dire circumstances.
And then there was... the other one.
Ralof couldn't quite place when he'd first noticed the oddities. The Nord seated—no, standing—across from him wasn't bound like the rest of them. In fact, they seemed utterly unconcerned with their impending execution. The figure balanced perfectly on the narrow wooden bench of the moving cart, arms stretched outward like a tightrope walker, face
blank and unreadable.
"Hey, you," Ralof ventured, his voice rough from disuse. "You're finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."
The mysterious Nord didn't respond. Instead, they sat down abruptly, then stood back up again, then sat once more in a strange, rhythmic pattern. Their eyes, an unsettling pale blue, focused on some distant point beyond the horizon.
"You... you're not even bound," Ralof observed, brow furrowing. "Why aren't you bound?"
The Nord—whose features seemed to shift subtly in the light, making it difficult to determine whether they were male or female—turned their head with mechanical precision. They stared directly into Ralof's eyes with such intensity that the Stormcloak soldier felt a chill run down his spine. Slowly, deliberately, the figure reached into thin air and somehow withdrew a perfect, warm loaf of bread from nothing.
Ralof's mouth fell open. The horse thief beside him stopped mid-complaint. Even Ulfric's eyes widened slightly.
Without breaking eye contact, the Nord stuffed the entire loaf into their mouth at once, cheeks bulging impossibly, and swallowed it whole like a snake consuming prey.
"Gods help us," Ralof muttered, looking away. He'd heard tales of strange magic—conjuration, illusion—but nothing that explained... whatever this was.
The cart rumbled through Helgen's gates, passing curious townsfolk who had gathered to witness the execution. Children peered from windows; blacksmiths paused at their anvils; guards stood at attention, armor gleaming in the morning light. Order and structure defined every cobblestone and timber frame of the Imperial-controlled town.
A precise military operation unfolded as the carts arrived at the town square. Captain Pilus, her Imperial armor immaculate, directed prisoners with sharp commands. Beside her stood Hadvar, a Nord in Imperial armor, scroll in hand as he checked names against the official registry.
"Empire loves their damn lists," Ralof muttered bitterly.
The prisoners disembarked one by one. When the unusual Nord's turn came, they didn't step down but instead performed an inexplicable little hop that somehow landed them perfectly balanced atop the cart's edge. They surveyed the square with the alert intensity of a predator before jumping down with surprising grace.
"Step forward when your name is called," the Captain barked.
Ulfric Stormcloak. Ralof of Riverwood. Lokir of Rorikstead—who foolishly attempted escape only to meet a swift end via Imperial arrows.
When the strange Nord approached Hadvar, the soldier frowned, checking his list twice.
"You there, step forward," Hadvar said, his quill poised. "Who are you?"
The mysterious prisoner responded by turning in a perfect circle, crouching briefly to examine the ground, rising again, and offering a single, deliberate nod.
Hadvar blinked rapidly, as if trying to clear his vision. "Captain, what should we do? They're not on the list."
"Forget the list," the Captain snapped. "They go to the block."
"By your orders, Captain," Hadvar said, then turned to the prisoner with a hint of regret in his voice. "I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are returned to... wherever you're from."
The unusual Nord didn't appear concerned. As General Tullius delivered a speech condemning Ulfric's rebellion, the prisoner's bent to examine to examine a small beetle on the ground before their attention drifted to a barrel of cabbages near the chopping block. Their head tilted like a curious bird, and without warning, they sidled toward it—not walking normally, but moving sideways in short, staccato steps that seemed both deliberate and entirely unnecessary.
The priestess of Arkay began last rites. "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you—"
"For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with," interrupted a Stormcloak soldier, marching forward to the block.
The headsman's axe rose, gleaming in the sunlight. It fell with a sickening thud, and the soldier's head tumbled into the waiting basket. Blood pooled on the ancient stone, its metallic scent thick in the air.
Throughout this grisly display, the strange Nord had somehow acquired a cabbage from the barrel and was turning it over in their hands with intense fascination. Their fingers traced the vegetable's contours as though studying an ancient artifact of immeasurable value.
"Next, the Nord in the rags!" the Captain called.
A distant roar echoed across the mountains.
"What was that?" Hadvar asked, glancing skyward.
"I said next prisoner," the Captain insisted.
The strange Nord approached the block with unhurried steps, still clutching the cabbage to their chest like a cherished possession. When the Captain's boot pressed between their shoulder blades, forcing them down onto the bloody block, they went without resistance—though they managed to position the cabbage carefully beside their head, adjusting it slightly to ensure it wouldn't roll away.
The headsman lifted his axe.
Another roar, louder this time, sent birds scattering from the trees.
Then the world exploded into chaos.
A massive black dragon—scales like midnight, eyes like burning coals—descended upon Helgen's watchtower with a force that shook the very foundations of the earth. Ancient stonework crumbled beneath its weight, and its roar sent guards and prisoners alike scrambling for cover.
"Dragon!" someone screamed.
The square erupted into pandemonium. Imperial soldiers drew bows; civilians fled screaming; fire rained from a sky suddenly dark with rolling clouds. General Tullius shouted commands that were swallowed by the din of destruction.
Amid this apocalyptic scene, the strange Nord sat up calmly, retrieved their cabbage, and walked—unhurried—to a nearby barrel. They sat down upon it, cross-legged, examining the cabbage with serene interest while buildings burned around them.
"Hey, prisoner! Get up!" Ralof shouted from the doorway of a nearby tower. "Come on, the gods won't give us another chance! This way!"
The Nord glanced up as if mildly surprised to find their execution interrupted. They stood, selected their cabbage with careful deliberation, and then—as an Imperial soldier ran past screaming, helm aflame—lobbed the vegetable into the air.
"FUS!" they uttered, the word carrying strange weight despite its brevity.
The cabbage shot forward with impossible speed, striking the soldier directly in the face with such force that he crumpled unconscious to the ground. The Nord nodded once, apparently satisfied with this result.
"Heeeey! Over here!" This time it was Hadvar calling from the direction of the keep. "This way if you want to stay alive!"
For a moment, the prisoner looked between Ralof and Hadvar, head swiveling like an owl's. Then, inexplicably, they dropped into a crouch and began sneaking—despite being in full view of everyone—toward Hadvar and the keep's entrance.
The heavy wooden door slammed shut behind them, cutting off the sounds of destruction outside. Hadvar leaned against it, breathing heavily, sweat and soot streaking his face. The stone walls of Helgen Keep offered a momentary sanctuary from the chaos of the dragon attack. Torchlight cast long shadows across the entry chamber, illuminating racks of weapons and Imperial banners hanging from the walls.
"Looks like we're the only ones who made it," Hadvar said, straightening his armor. His voice echoed in the cavernous space. "Was that really a dragon? The bringers of the End Times?" He shook his head in disbelief, then turned to the strange Nord. "We should keep moving. Come here, let me see if I can get those bindings off."
The prisoner, however, had already begun investigating the chamber with the methodical intensity of a cat in a new home. They crouched low, moving in short bursts across the flagstones, pausing to examine a loose septim on the floor, a torch sconce, the pattern of mortar between stones.
"Your bindings," Hadvar repeated, drawing a small knife. He reached for the prisoner's wrists, then froze. "Wait... you're not bound at all. How did you—never mind. Take a look around, there should be plenty of gear to choose from."
The Nord nodded and immediately moved to a nearby table—not to examine the weapons laid out upon it, but to methodically sweep every plate, cup, and utensil into a sack that had materialized from somewhere within their ragged clothes.
Hadvar's brow furrowed. "I meant armor. And weapons. You know, for protection?" He gestured to a chest against the wall. "Imperial armor might be a good fit."
The prisoner glanced at the chest, tilted their head in acknowledgment, then resumed collecting every fork from the table. When the last utensil had been secured, they moved to a barrel in the corner, pried it open, and began removing cabbages and potatoes with the reverence typically reserved for rare jewels.
"We don't have time for—" Hadvar started, but his words died in his throat as the Nord suddenly froze in place, staring at nothing, body unnaturally still. For nearly thirty seconds, they remained motionless, eyes fixed on some middle distance that contained nothing but air.
Then, without warning, they resumed movement as if nothing had happened, now approaching the weapons rack. Hadvar sighed in relief—until the prisoner began removing iron daggers one by one, testing the weight of each before adding it to their growing collection. Not one. Not two. But every single dagger on the rack.
"You can only use one at a time, you know," Hadvar said, a note of genuine confusion in his voice.
The prisoner turned to regard him with an unblinking stare that prompted the Imperial soldier to take an involuntary step backward.
"Never mind," he muttered. "Just... get what you need. We should keep moving."
They proceeded deeper into the keep, descending a spiral staircase that led to the torture chambers. The acrid smell of old blood mingled with the damp stone scent that permeated the lower levels. Distant rumbles indicated the dragon's continued assault on the town above.
"Hear that? Stormcloaks," Hadvar whispered as voices echoed from around the corner. "Maybe we can reason with them."
The Nord didn't seem to register this suggestion. Instead, they suddenly sprinted ahead—still in a low crouch that somehow didn't impede their speed—directly into the chamber where three Stormcloak soldiers were attempting to free a comrade.
"Imperial dogs!" one of the rebels cried upon spotting Hadvar. Weapons were drawn, battle lines formed.
What happened next defied any conventional understanding of combat tactics.
The prisoner, rather than drawing from their collection of seventeen iron daggers, reached into their sack and withdrew a cabbage. With a swift, practiced motion that suggested this was a carefully considered battle strategy, they hurled it at the nearest Stormcloak's face.
"FUS!" they shouted, and the cabbage accelerated to an impossible speed, striking the rebel with such force that he staggered backward into a wall and collapsed.
The remaining Stormcloaks hesitated, exchanging bewildered glances.
The prisoner used this moment to duck behind a pillar, emerging with... a broom. Gripping it like a two-handed greatsword, they charged the second rebel, sweeping his legs with a precise strike that sent him tumbling to the ground.
The third Stormcloak, a woman with a war axe, lunged forward with a battle cry that turned to confusion as the Nord suddenly stopped, held up a single finger as if requesting a moment, and proceeded to consume—in rapid succession—three whole cabbages, two apples, a raw potato, and a cheese wheel. The entire process took perhaps five seconds, after which the prisoner resumed a combat stance, now seemingly refreshed.
"What in Oblivion..." the Stormcloak woman muttered, lowering her axe slightly in confusion.
This hesitation proved costly. The Nord pounced, now wielding a dinner plate in each hand like dual shields, using them to deflect the axe before delivering a decisive headbutt that rendered the rebel unconscious.
Hadvar stood in the doorway, sword half-drawn, mouth agape.
"That's... not how combat works," he finally managed.
The Nord shrugged, already moving to loot the fallen Stormcloaks. Not of weapons or armor, but of every food item, book, and miscellaneous object they carried. One soldier's boots were removed and replaced with those from another soldier. A helmet was taken, examined, then placed on the head of an unconscious rebel rather than worn.
"We should keep moving," Hadvar said weakly, clearly struggling to process what he had witnessed.
They continued through the keep's winding passages, encountering more Stormcloaks along the way. Each confrontation followed a similar pattern of vegetable-based combat, inexplicable consumption of multiple food items mid-battle, and the occasional use of household items as deadly weapons.
In the storage room, while Hadvar engaged a Stormcloak archer, the prisoner disappeared momentarily. The sounds of bottles clinking, barrels being emptied, and sacks being rummaged through emanated from every corner of the chamber simultaneously, as if multiple people were looting it at once.
When they reappeared, their inventory had somehow expanded to include:
Every potion from every shelf
All available food items
Three more brooms
A collection of empty wine bottles
Several wheels of cheese
A set of manacles (despite having no apparent use for them)
"Are you... are you planning to open a general store?" Hadvar asked, bewildered.
The prisoner didn't respond, instead turning their attention to a locked door at the far end of the chamber. They approached it, examined the lock briefly, then—instead of using a lockpick—placed a bucket over Hadvar's head.
"Hey! What are you—" The soldier's protests were muffled by the bucket as the Nord proceeded to pick the lock with remarkable efficiency, opening the door to reveal a small office. By the time Hadvar removed the bucket, the prisoner had already transferred the entire contents of the office—ledgers, quills, an ornamental dagger, and several septims—to their impossibly spacious pockets.
"That's Imperial property," Hadvar objected half-heartedly, clearly recognizing the futility of his protest.
They descended further, the rumbling from above growing fainter as they reached the natural caverns beneath the keep. The air grew damper, the torches more sparse. Water dripped from stalactites, forming shallow puddles on the rocky floor.
"Careful," Hadvar warned as they entered a large cavern with a stream running through it. "There are—"
Before he could finish, the Nord had already spotted the massive frostbite spiders lurking in the shadows. Instead of showing appropriate caution, they charged forward, still in their distinctive crouch, now dual-wielding... a fork and a ladle.
"No, wait!" Hadvar called, drawing his sword. "Those are—"
The largest spider hissed and lunged, venom dripping from its fangs. The prisoner sidestepped with unexpected grace, drove the fork into one of the creature's eight eyes, then proceeded to beat it rhythmically with the ladle until it curled up and died.
The remaining spiders met similar fates through equally improbable means. One was defeated by having a series of plates thrown at it like discuses. Another was crushed beneath a barrel that the Nord had somehow carried up a ledge and dropped with precise timing.
Throughout the battle, the prisoner paused twice—once to stare vacantly into space for exactly twenty-three seconds, and once to consume an entire wheel of cheese in a single, horrifying bite.
When the last spider fell, the Nord proceeded to harvest venom from each corpse, storing the caustic liquid in what appeared to be the same sack that held their collection of kitchenware and food.
"That's... that will dissolve your... never mind," Hadvar sighed, clearly having given up on making sense of his companion's behavior.
They continued through a narrow passage, emerging into a larger cavern illuminated by a shaft of light from above. A black bear slumbered near the far exit.
"Hold up," Hadvar whispered, crouching behind a rock. "See that bear? I'd rather not tangle with her right now. Let's try to sneak by. Take it nice and slow. Or if you're feeling lucky, you could try using that bow and arrow I gave you. Might take her by surprise."
The prisoner nodded in apparent understanding. Then, with deliberate movements that suggested a carefully considered strategy, they:
Removed all of their collected plates from their sack
Arranged them in a perfect circle around the sleeping bear
Placed a cabbage in the center of the circle
Removed their shoes
Put their shoes back on
Hadvar watched this ritual with growing horror. "What are you—"
The Nord completed their preparations by placing a bucket—produced from some hidden reserve—atop their own head, effectively blinding themselves. Thus encumbered, they proceeded to sneak past the bear while periodically walking into stalactites, cursing softly each time with nonsensical phrases like "stupid collision detection" and "clipping issues."
Miraculously, they made it past without waking the creature. The prisoner removed the bucket, appeared momentarily surprised to find themselves successful, then continued toward the exit as if their methods had been entirely conventional.
Before leaving the cavern, however, they backtracked suddenly, returning to the sleeping bear. With surgical precision, they placed a loaf of bread on the creature's head, nodded once in apparent satisfaction, and rejoined Hadvar near the exit.
"Why—" Hadvar began, then shook his head. "No. I don't want to know."
Sunlight greeted them as they finally emerged from the cave system into the forests outside Helgen. The distant sounds of destruction had faded, suggesting the dragon had moved on. Birds chirped in the trees, a jarring return to normalcy after the chaos they had endured.
Hadvar paused to catch his breath, leaning against a rock. His face was a study in psychological trauma, the thousand-yard stare of a man who had witnessed things his mind refused to fully process.
The prisoner, meanwhile, had somehow acquired even more items during their journey through the tunnels. In addition to everything previously collected, they now carried three brooms, a beehive (with angry bees occasionally emerging), what appeared to be pieces of the bear's cave, and a small collection of torches—most of which were still lit and dangerously close to the sack of potentially flammable items.
"I think... I think we're safe for now," Hadvar said, his voice hollow. "Listen, you should come to Riverwood with me. My uncle's the blacksmith there... he should help us out." He paused, watching as the Nord began arranging cheese wheels in a small pyramid. "Just... please stop putting buckets on people's heads. Please."
The prisoner turned to him, tilted their head in what might have been acknowledgment, then promptly crouched and began moving toward the path to Riverwood, apparently oblivious to the plates and tankards that occasionally detached from their overburdened form and clattered onto the forest floor behind them.
The Nord didn't acknowledge this request. Instead, they suddenly sprinted toward a nearly vertical rock face and began jumping repeatedly against it, as if expecting to scale it through sheer persistence rather than climbing.
Twenty-seven minutes later, having apparently abandoned this approach, they turned their attention to a nearby chicken. Producing a bucket from their impossible inventory, they spent the next forty minutes attempting to place it on the fowl's head while Helgen continued to burn behind them.
Throughout all of this, from a carefully concealed position on the ridge above, a lone figure watched. Delphine, Blade agent, gripped her quill so tightly it nearly snapped as she frantically documented every bizarre action with increasing disbelief.
The fate of Tamriel, it seemed, now rested in the hands of someone who considered poultry headwear a priority during the apocalypse.
By sunset, as smoke continued to rise from Helgen's ruins, the strange Nord finally set off toward Riverwood, moving in their distinctive crouch despite being in open terrain with no enemies in sight. They paused every few yards to pick flowers, jump in place, or consume entire cabbages in single bites.
And in their wake, following at a careful distance, moved a shadow—Delphine, the last of the Blades, now tasked with making sense of the senseless, documenting the impossible, and somehow determining whether this chaotic force of nature was Tamriel's doom or salvation.
Probably both.
***
Personal Dossier — Subject: "The Prisoner" (Helgen Incident)
Compiled by Delphine — Blade Agent, Intelligence Division
Date: 17th of Last Seed, 4E 201
Location: Helgen Outskirts, Southern Observation Point
Objective: Monitor Imperial prisoner transport of Ulfric Stormcloak; assess Thalmor involvement and potential execution implications
Initial Observations
The morning air carried the sharp scent of pine and woodsmoke as I established my position on the rocky outcropping overlooking the southern approach to Helgen. Imperial efficiency was on full display—guards posted at standard intervals, watchtowers manned with archers, the execution block freshly scrubbed. General Tullius arrived with a small Thalmor contingent, confirming intelligence regarding Elenwen's planned attendance.
Standard protocol, standard day, standard execution.
Until it wasn't.
Prisoner Transport
Four carts approached from the north. Preliminary count showed seventeen prisoners, primarily Stormcloak soldiers, with Ulfric Stormcloak bound and gagged in the lead cart as anticipated. The Imperial escort maintained textbook formation, weapons ready but relaxed.
Initial assessment revealed no anomalies worthy of detailed documentation.
I was wrong.
Third cart, far side bench. One prisoner—Nord, indeterminate gender, athletic build—displayed immediate behavioral irregularities. Unlike the others (bound, seated, appropriately concerned about their imminent execution), this one was...
• Unbound. No visible restraints.
• Standing on the moving cart bench, arms extended horizontally.
• Repeatedly sitting down and standing back up at regular intervals.
• Displaying no emotional response to situation.
When the Stormcloak soldier sharing the bench (identified as Ralof of Riverwood from previous intelligence) questioned the subject about the lack of restraints, the prisoner made direct eye contact and—I've rewritten this section three times attempting to describe it rationally—slowly extracted a fully intact loaf of bread from what appeared to be empty air, then consumed it whole without breaking eye contact or chewing normally.
Prisoner Processing
Imperial Captain proceeded with standard protocol, calling prisoners forward individually. The anomalous prisoner responded to no name in particular, standing motionless until approached directly.
The scribe, Hadvar, appeared visibly confused, asking: "Who are you?"
The prisoner offered no verbal response, instead:
• Turned in a complete circle
• Crouched briefly
• Rose again
• Nodded once
Hadvar, remarkably, recorded something on his list and motioned the prisoner toward the block, muttering "Captain, what should we do? They're not on the list."
The Captain, displaying the decisive judgment that has kept the Empire functioning for centuries, responded: "Forget the list. They go to the block."
The Execution
As the first prisoner was executed (swift, clean stroke—Imperial efficiency), the unidentified subject displayed behavior increasingly difficult to reconcile with standard human psychology:
• Bent to examine a small beetle on the ground during another prisoner's beheading
• Maintained a completely neutral expression
• Abruptly began walking sideways toward a barrel of cabbages
• Retrieved a single cabbage while Imperial guards watched in apparent confusion
When called to the block, subject approached with a cabbage clutched to chest.
Alduin's Arrival
The first roar echoed across the mountains. Standard Imperial response—guards alert, archers to positions, General Tullius issuing clear commands.
The prisoner's response: sitting calmly on the barrel of cabbages, legs crossed, examining the produce item with inexplicable interest as a black dragon descended upon the town.
I have witnessed Thalmor torture sessions with less disturbing composure.
Chaos Eruption
The dragon—preliminarily identified as matching ancient descriptions of Alduin, World-Eater—initiated attack. Casualties immediate and extensive. Imperial forces responded with admirable if ineffective resistance.
Amid the flames, falling masonry, and screaming civilians, the prisoner:
• Stood, calmly
• Selected a particularly round cabbage
• Lobbed it upward
• Uttered "FUS" (not full Thu'um, but unmistakable First Word of Unrelenting Force)
• Propelled vegetable directly into an Imperial soldier's face with force sufficient to knock him unconscious
• Nodded, apparently satisfied
Facility Evacuation
Unable to maintain visual contact during peak destruction. Relocated to secondary position with observation of keep entrance. Subject emerged, accompanied by Hadvar.
What transpired within the keep cannot be confirmed through direct observation. However, in a later interview with Hadvar I learned that the subject emerged carrying:
• 17 iron daggers
• 24 plates
• 12 tankards
• 9 cabbages
• Approximately 40 wheels of cheese
• Every fork from the keep's kitchens
• 3 brooms
• No practical weapons
Hadvar appeared severely traumatized, muttering repeatedly about "sweetrolls" and "not being able to carry any more burdens."
***
Subjective Assessment:
In my fifteen years serving the Blades, I have infiltrated Thalmor strongholds, interrogated Daedric cultists, and observed the darkest aspects of political conspiracy across Tamriel. Nothing in my experience provides adequate framework to explain what I witnessed today.
If the legends are true, if the return of the dragons signals the prophecied time, then logic dictates that the prisoner displaying the fundamentals of Thu'um capability may be Dragonborn.
This presents a strategic contradiction that requires immediate resolution:
The same individual who used a vegetable as a weapon, who prioritized kitchenware collection during a dragon attack, who responded to imminent beheading by sitting cross-legged on a barrel—this person may represent Tamriel's only hope against the World-Eater.
Action Plan:
I will maintain surveillance as the subject moves toward Riverwood. Current trajectory suggests standard route along the White River. Though "standard" may be an insufficient descriptor given observed behaviors.
Preliminary contingencies have been prepared for:
• Immediate threat neutralization (if subject proves hostile)
• Recruitment approach (if subject proves rational)
• Full documentation protocol (if subject continues inexplicable behavior)
Personal Note:
I watched the subject exiting Helgen's ruins, moving in a distinctive crouch-walk despite no apparent need for stealth, pausing occasionally to stare vacantly into space before producing food items from nowhere and consuming them whole.
At one point, they attempted to scale a nearly vertical rock face by repeatedly jumping against it.
For twenty-seven minutes.
The fate of the world may rest in the hands of someone who treats physics as a personal affront.
May Talos preserve us all.
—Delphine
***
Addendum:
The subject has just spent forty minutes attempting to place a bucket on a chicken's head while the town of Helgen burns behind them.
I'm going to need more paper.
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