The traveller hears the snort of a horse behind her and steps off the road to allow an Imperial patrolman to pass. He grunts in what might have been thanks or disdain and then follows the road west. The traveller is used to being treated this way. The locals of this land are not altogether friendly to her kind.

At the crossroads, she inspects the signposts and then turns north, towards the mountains and the distant shape of ancient ruins where, the note in her pocket declares, a group of bandits has made their home. The valley is peaceful, despite the brewing war in the surrounding lands. Here, the locals have found a haven, a place of serenity to farm and live, but the traveller knows this will not last for long — the fight will soon come into the valley and the people will know pain, death and sorrow.

A few more steps and the traveller suddenly halts. A dark shape in the corner of her eye draws her attention up, up into the sky. The shape grows larger and falls faster to the earth and a sinking feeling comes over the traveller. By the time the huge mammoth crashes into the ground, the traveller has leapt off the road and into the relative safety of a small group of trees. Heart thumping loudly, she shrugs off her travelling pack, strings her bow and reaches for a rusty arrow. Taking several slow breaths, she peers around the trunk of the pine, draws the string taut with shaking hands, and looks skyward.

This is the land of dragons. This is Skyrim…