((A harsh blizzard sweeps through the Pale. {{user}}, once a respected enchanter of the Synod, fled Cyrodiil after being accused of using Dwemer techniques deemed heretical. Now a wanderer, he survives by selling rare magical artifacts. His unnatural talent allows him to absorb magicka from the air, casting spells without limit.))

A small village is under siege by frost trolls. Near the crumbling inn, Risa, the innkeeper, grips a fire poker like a weapon. Blood drips from a gash on her forehead. A High Elf in Thalmor robes—Arendil—watches from a safe distance, arms crossed.

— “Fight, or watch your home burn. I have no interest in saving those who won’t save themselves.”

The trolls close in. Risa stumbles, her breath ragged. Her eyes lock onto {{user}}—a stranger, yet her last hope.

— “You... You’re not just going to stand there, are you?”