The chilled air brushed against his skin, easily brushing past the thin cloth that covered him in a basic manner. He blinked, opening his eyes for what seemed like the first time in ages, the lids threating to close once more. His vison sharpened near instantly, giving him a full view of dull brown wooden planks beneath his feet. A small shock shook the boards and himself, and he moved his gaze upon his clothed legs, covered by a pair of poorly sized pants, that split heavily at the edges. He brought his hand upwards to scratch at his face, only to find the other following sharply, held shackled in steel clasp that were tethered by a short amount of chain. His movement sparked the interest of the man across from him.

"Hey, you're awake." He looked up at the sound of the voice, to be met with a man sitting across from him, clothed in much better attire, that of leather and chainmail in cool blue and light browns, however, the man's hands were bound such as his, albeit with rope instead of cuffs. He had dirty blonde hair that rested at shoulder height, and threatened to flow down his back if not well groomed. His face was rugged, a little bit of stubble and dirt adding to the complexion beneath those blue eyes. He found himself looking down at the man as he straightened his back, his head swiveling around slowly to gain a better understanding of his surroundings. What he found surprised him.

He was stationed in the back of a wooden cart, that was making headway down a cobblestone road, the last of three before it, each filled with men and women similarly dressed as the man who spoke to him. Their drivers were attired in reds atop their leather armor, their attention focused upon controlling the horses down the path. He and the occupants of the carts were prisoners, that much was clear. He returned his attention to the occupants of his own cart over the convoy just as the previous prisoner began speaking again."You walked into that Imperial ambush," the man continued, "just like us and that horse thief over there." He gestured with his shoulder at the man sitting next to him, who was clothed in rags much similar to His own, but with an added shirt.

"Damn you Stormcloaks," he began, looking at the man beside him, "Before you came along the empire was nice and lax, I would have been halfway to Hammerfell by now." he spat out, "You and me, we shouldn't be here," he says, looking at Him now, "You have to tell them we aren't with them." The thief didn't get a reply, and instead, turned his focus to the man across from him, who was staring at him from his bent over position. "What's his problem?"

"Watch your tongue!" the first man shouted, "that's Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High king of Skyrim." The man, or rather, Jarl in question was clad in a much more elaborate and well armored version of the first man's armor, even going so far as to have a cloak of dark blue pelt hanging from his shoulders. He had hair similar to the first man, however his was shorted and was braided. His mouth was covered by a dirty rag, and he shifted a bit to nod in appreciation to the man.

"Ulfric Stormcloak? You're leader of the rebellion! If you've been captured... where are they taking us?" the horse thief asked.

"Who knows." the warrior said. He mentally blocked them out, letting the conversation leave his mind in favor of studying the events, as some form of a thought pressured him to. the words and names held no sense, while somewhere familiar like empire, Imperials, and rebellion, he could not tell exactly why, but had a feeling that they meant something important beyond the common means. The words Like Stormcloak, Jarl, and Skyrim however held no meaning to him besides what he could visibly see, the blue armored warriors these so proclaimed "Stormcloaks" and Skyrim, it was the place they were in, then that left one gigantic hole in his memory and a near physical question:

How did I get here?

The convoy passed through wooden gates and stone walls, a place called "Helgen" if the warrior was right, reminiscing about his past while spiting the Imperial's leader; General Tullius, him, and a group known as the Thalmor. A slight bend in the path and suddenly they halt against a wall, and their captors order for them to disembark. "Come on, lets not keep the God's waiting." The Jarl is the first one off, followed by the horse thief, pausing to step down.

He simply jumped down, his impact shaking the ground, and causing both the rest of the prisoners and the duo before him to stare. He stood a good two feet taller than the Jarl, the pants stretching to an almost uncomfortable state as they held his frame. The warrior jumped down and stood beside him, turning his head forward, his leather boots slapping against the cobblestone. the first one to break their eyes away was the Imperial with a book, and his female counterpart.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm" he called, marking in his book with a quill as the jarl marched toward a clearing off to the side, his head held high despite the gag and bindings that hampered his movement.

"It was an honor, Jarl Ulfric." said the warrior as the Jarl walked away.

"Ralof," the book marker continued, "Of Riverwood." The warrior followed in the direction of his Jarl. Head held high in a similar manner, he approached to the side of the Jarl with several of his fellow brothers and sisters, yet not a word was said between them.

Next, came the other man in rough spun clothing, his dark brown hair greased with a slight sheen of sweat despite the nip in the air. His eyes wandered between the walls and towers, to the clearing where the other prisoners were gathered, to the two imperials in front of him. "Lokir of Rorrikstead" called the ledger. It was clear as day that he was at the end of his wits, unwilling to face the punishment as natural instincts over rode logical thinking. "You can't do this-s," he stammered out, his voice hoarse as if he had done nothing but yell for the past few minutes, "I'm not with them!" he said, breaking past the armored woman before she could draw upon him.

"Archers!" she called, turning to watch as the thief ran up the pathway back towards the gates. His feet hammered away as he ate of the ground, desperately trying not to trip over himself in the rough spun rags. He reached about 20 feet, before he was brought down, two arrows piercing his chest. he cried out, his feet tripping up, and fell face first to the ground, dead. Two archers at the base of another tower held their bows at the ready. The imperials did nothing but impassively stare at the body of Lokir before turning back to him. The ledger turned away from the carcace, and settled his eyes upon His face.

"And who, are you?"

Yeah, it's going to be one of these stories, with some wack 2nd/3rd person style of character. I must say this before giving this out; this story is not about "Oh, blah blah I wanna see a 40k character beat everything in a fantasy realm to a bloody pulp" no, this story is about character creativity, and also a personal challenge to see if I can still remain imaginative, however, part of this requires you guys, readers, to give in part of this. What I want from you is to guide the story. The first few chapters of this story will be based around the opening quest, and up to climbing High Horathgar. After this, I want recommendation on which main quest to go after such as the Civil War, Dawn guard, Dawnstar nightmare, or Morthal vampires. The restrictions upon these quest are as follows: The quest cannot be of an evil persuasion such as Thieves guild or Black Hand nor can it be neutral quest turn negative such as Dawn guard going to Vampire side. (no Mage Guild either, magic from the Main Character is going to be heavily limited.) If you haven't figured it out by the blatant height the main character is a Space marine, and his Chapter will be revealed next chapter. (hint, Title related) As for the lack of weapons, armor, or blatant hatred, Just assume warp fuckery, along with a nearly full mind wipe. (Black Carapace has been removed, but geneseed and other organs still remains. As well as his memory basically being non-existent however, passive built in reactions/ideals/thought processes from years of hypno-therapy and fighting leave a past that is not all their but rather wisp, which will help shape a few things in the story as well as create an interesting OC that is not fully brainwashed, but is not a truly imaginative self insertion of moral compasses and ideals of the writer. I'll explain better in later notes. ) It's going to be a little hard to balance it out, but if you guys have any ideas, feel free to say something. That being said, sorry this note is so long, however, I'll be starting on the other chapter for this before the end of the weekend.