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Skyrim - Chapter Two -

“Anyone else want to get killed?” The general sneered. “Wait. You there. Step forward.” The Imperial said flatly, Saeta being next in line. He huffed slightly, and walked in front on the general and the soldier. The soldier was stint of his words, limited and restricted. If he had said one thing wrong, his head would be with the Stormcloaks.
Saeta opened his mouth to speak, then closed his mouth. Saeta’s mouth was too dry to speak, he had been deprived of water for a long time. He croaked out, “Saeta.”
The man with the list in his hands, had stopped, and paused. “Youre with one of the trade caravans, Khajiit? Your kind always seems to find trouble. I’m sorry, we’ll make sure your remains get returned back to Elsweyr.”
“General, He isn’t on the list,” the Imperial soldier said. “Oh well, put him on the block, he’s going with them,” the general spat flatly. “By your orders, follow the captain, prisoner.”
Saeta and the other few left follow the secondary general to the small crowd of people awaiting their deaths. General Tullius, the big boss, stands there and speaks. “Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here call you a hero. But a hero doesn’t use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne.” Ulfric muffled a grunt from behind the gag.
General Tullius goes on, adding, “You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace.” Everything went silent, at that moment. Then a grumble of the sky, and everyone was still silent. Hadvar, the Imperial soldier who had the list, spoke out, “What was that?”
Tullius shook his head, “It’s nothing. Carry on.” “Yes, General Tullius,” The secondary general stated. The secondary general said flatly, her voice cold and dead. “Give them their last rites.”
A woman step forward, wearing the clothing of a priestess, yellow, hooded. The priestess of Arkoy stood straight has she spoke, “As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the eight Divines upon you, for you are the salt and Earth of Nirin, our beloved…” A Stormcloak soldier raised his voice, “For the love of Talos, shut up and let’s get this over with.”
The priestess responds, “As you wish.” The first Stormcloak soldier gets ready in line, had then been kicked in the back, sinking to his knees. His head rested his head against the chopping block. The scenery intensified as the silence carried on, as he sat there quietly, waiting for death.
One Stormcloak soldier mumbles to the rest, “My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you stay the same?” The Imperial soldier who held the axe, swung it back behind his head,aiming at the soldier. The axe had been swung back and hit the stormcloak soldier in the neck, his head rolling into the bucket below the chopping block.
A female Stormcloak shouted fiercely, “You Imperial b***s!” Another yelled, “Justice!” A different one shouted, an Imperial, “Death to the Stormcloaks!” Ralof looks down at the body, just like Saeta had, and said “As fearless as he was in death, as he was in life.”
The general had stood and pointed at the Khajiit, and yelled, “Next, the cat!” A rumble had occurred once again, Hadvar speaking of the slightest, seeming flustered, confused. “There it is again..” He fell silent.
The general yells once again. “I said next prisoner!” Hadvar had looked at Saeta, and said, “To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy.” Saeta had sighed, a little loud. Seata had felt intimidated, by the Imperials tossing him around like he was trash. He was just crossing over the border, trying to survive his life, like he even wanted to live. Saeta had confronted death many, many, many times. He was three-hundred and six years old, he had lived through the Morrowind, Oblivion, and now the years of Skyrim. Saeta had was pulled by his arm over to the chopping block.
He was kicked onto his knees, his head rested lightly on the block. He looked at the man who was going to chop his head right clean off of his neck. The man held the same two handed, steel axe has he had killed the soldier with.The man had begun to swing, and the man had fell, hitting his head as the ground rumbled violently beneath them. A figure from the sky slowly came into picture, diving down hard and landing perfectly onto the building, the man’s axe lay far away from him. The figure had wings as big as busses, its color seeming cold and dark, the figure had black with a mix of dark gray scales.
Saeta’s eyes were struck with a small bit of horror, as the dragon shouted down at them, Saeta rolling over onto his side.
One stormcloak soldier yelled, “Dragon!” The soldiers had ran, leaving the bound men there to die by the wrath of the dragon. Saeta had shivered, shaking his head, knowing how loud and obnoxious this dragon was. Saeta had fought only a few dragons in his life, throughout his three hundred years of life.
Ralof had stood, bound men like Saeta was, death seeking both. Ralof had called out to Saeta, “Saeta, come with me! We’re on our own now!” Saeta had followed him, retorting, “What’s the point? We’re going to die anyway.”
Ralof had felt biased to Saeta’s remark. He felt as though they would survive, knowing the Khajiit too be jerks, or stubborn. He sighed and shrugged it off.
Saeta, was only thankful he was impunity, not having to be killed, but he was still under the wrath of a dragon.
Ralof had went into the tower, Ulfric Stormcloak in the building, hands free. “Ralof, we need to get out of here, or we may die from something that had tried to save us,” being straight forward, candid, he said truly.