In the far south of Skyrim, somewhere not far from Helgen, on a summer night...
Two women ride stirrup by stirrup on the road leading to the Cyrodiil border. Both are very young. One is a brunette with dark, curly hair cut short. A frightening scar furrows her face, which has features as if cut in stone and might have been quite pleasant if it weren't for her eyes. Her black eyes are fierce and unyielding, rarely blinking, and they seem to cut through clothing, bodies, and stone alike—so sharp, so merciless as though they could pierce even the finest armor once forged by the People of the Deep.
The other is quite tall for a woman, blonde, with short hair, cut above her ears. She's pretty, has gray, soft eyes, and could be considered very beautiful, truly stunning, if she weren't so thin! She seems so slender that at times she looks almost ethereal, as if woven from shadows and moonlight; when a gush of warm wind blows in—bearing the scent of fir-trees sun-browned in the daytime—you might expect her to vanish like a wisp of mist fading into the deep vault of starry summer night sky.
But perhaps this is only an illusion; if you look more closely, you notice that the long, hooded cloak in which she is wrapped is embroidered with all sorts of silvery arabesques and runes that seem to have a life of their own. Sometimes they shimmer with a ghostly glimmer in the spectral light of the Secunda, at other times they seem to move gracefully, like the foam of waves, giving the impression that the dark-blue cloak is the surface of a sea—seemingly calm on the surface, yet tossed by strong waves in the depths.
The dark-haired woman carries a child across her chest in a black bundle clasped to her shoulder, in a manner often used by the ordinary women of these lands who must work or hunt while still nursing their babies. This realm—rough and poor—is seldom home to its men, who are engaged in the Empire's endless wars; most are conscripted as young lads into those imperial legions known as the "Iron Legions" and many others are often away at sea, on secret, savage raids for plunder along the southern coasts.
Not far from the fortified gate on the border, the two women halt their horses and dismount. Without a word, the brunette loosens the baby's bundle and hands it to the other. The blonde's eyes soften with warmth, she even sheds a few tears...
But perhaps it's only an illusion, for everything Kiersten does, every movement, every breath, seems veiled in a translucent haze, where eerie luminaries flicker in peculiar, deceitful patterns—false lights, unable to dispel the darkness, but thickening it instead.
Oh, Kiersten is surely more than just a pretty girl! And her eyes, those grayish eyes, shift in color so often—look how they glow now, reflecting the pale light of Secunda! And those tears... where are they now?
She hastily stretches out her arms to receive the bundle in which the child sleeps peacefully. Then, with graceful, supple movements, she passes it along her chest, letting out a soft sigh. Catching the other woman's eyes with her gaze, she speaks in a crystalline voice, like a melodic, sweet chime of a silver bell.
"Are you sure, sis?"
The other woman mumbles a hurried "Yes!" while trying to break free from Kiersten's stare. But she fails. Her eyes remain sealed on Kiersten's as the blonde whispers further, her voice barely more than a breath now:
"Keep in mind that if you entrust her to me now, she will be mine forever. I'll be her mother... and I will never mention you to her!"
"So be it," the other one chokes out, then adds:
"Where I'm going now, there's no place for children. And she... She herself is a mistake. I'm sure Elsie was meant for you, and I was wrong to steal your man."
Kiersten bursts into laughter, as sweet and melodious as the warm, gentle wind rustling through the leaf-laden branches of the trees.
"Oh, Astrid, why are you being silly?" she teases. "You know very well that since we were children, we have always shared everything we found good in this world."
"Yes, I already told you—I'm sure!" Astrid replies sternly. With a sharp effort of will, she finally tears her eyes away from her sister's and reaches for a rather bulky bag from her horse's saddlebag. She holds it out, her voice steady as she says, "Take this, Kiersten, and may Nocturnal always guide your steps."
The blonde hastily grabbed the bag, and then the two women threw themselves into each other's arms.
"Farewell," they murmured, before parting ways—Astrid turning north at a slow, hesitant trot, while Kiersten rode south, her movements light, almost playful.
To the east, beyond the mountains, Masser had begun its slow ascent, casting a reddish glow over the land.
Somewhere, not near but not too far, an owl began to hoot...
Kiersten barely turned her head at the sound. And she even smiled!
'Never mind, I don't believe in omens and I am strong enough to defeat or avoid any threat,' she whispered as she gazed lovingly at the baby at her breast.