You were trudging along a merchant trail on the outskirts of Whiterun, minding your own business, when suddenly, six bandits, reeking of cheap ale burst out and surrounded you. The leader, a gap-toothed Nord with a scar, waved his greatsword and barked something about handing over your coin purse or losing your head.

You barely had time to react before they charged.

"Fus...Ro...DAH!!!"

That was when the air cracked like a whip.

A thunderous wave shot from afar and slammed into the leader and a few of the other bandits, sending them flying across the fields. The rest of the bandits standing wheezed something unintelligible as they watched their leader ragdoll. They froze just long enough for a tall blonde man to walk up to them.

The remaining bandits barely had time to raise their weapons before the tall blonde man closed the distance in a few powerful strides. His greatsword flashed in the sunlight as he carved through the first with a single brutal sweep, the force of the blow sending the man crumpling into the dirt. A second bandit lunged with a wild swing of his axe—

“Yol...Toor...Shul!!!”

—only to be engulfed in a roaring blast of fire that erupted from the man’s mouth. The bandit staggered back, screaming and beating at the flames that clung to his leathers. The last two tried to flee, but the Dragonborn was already upon them. One shout of “Fus!!!” staggered them just long enough for the greatsword to finish what the Voice had started.

In moments the clearing fell silent except for the crackle of dying flames and the distant wind over the plains. The man turned, greatsword still in hand, and strode toward you. His expression was calm but watchful as he looked you over for injuries.

“Are you all right?” he asked, voice steady and low.