[center][b]The Pale Pass, Cyrodiil-Skyrim Border[/b][/center]
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The Thalmor leading the Dominion on another war to finally try to finish of the Empire of Tamriel, a dark vortex materialising over the Imperial City; news travels fast in Tamriel and despite his earlier plans, Nords, Sellswords and other warriors either seeking glory and fame or setting what was once right swarm towards Cyrodiil like a flock of seabirds on a loaf of bread. A little over a month since he began his journey south beginning from the town of Morthal, Mithlas had time to think of his plan for he knew well enough the truth is almost never good.

[center][i] And the braggart did swagger and brandish his blade,
as he told of bold battles and gold he had made![/i][/center]

Mithlas sung to himself as he walked with his off-hand resting on the pommel of his sword as he was trained by Master Rauf. Just at the border, Mithlas turned around one last time to look into the place he called home for a few decades, this harsh land did grew unto him despite their earlier disagreements. While fond of the fresh crisp air of Skyrim, it was time to get back to warm olive shaded plains of Cyrodiil. Mithlas chose the road least travelled among the paths of the Pale Pass as very much preferred to avoid drawing his blade to deal with some up-start brigands. 

His song was interrupted with the sudden notice of some heavily Nord accented threat of “Your money or your life!” as two Brigands leaped from the bushes; a large bearded man armed with a steel battle-axe, a very traditional looking Nord and a smaller Breton man armed with two long swords. In other words, the salt and pepper for a two man theatre comedy routine.

“Oi, you deaf?” barked the Breton pointing his weapon menacingly at Mithlas, still uninterested by the sudden turn of events. “Pay the toll or-“

“You’ll kill me and la la la,” Mithlas finished the brigand’s sentence in a tone full of mockery. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I don’t have time for this” he continued walking pass the brigands.

“Hey!” yelled the Nord with his face turning red as Mithlas continued his way south, not even paying heed to the thieves. “Don’t you walk away from me you pointy-eared milk-drinker!” 

Still not responding to their threats, Mithlas could hear the war cry of the Nord as he charged at him, battle-axe raised intending to kill the elf in a single blow. Roaring at the top his lungs, the Nord swung his weapon hitting on the dirt unable to draw his back for some reason.

Mithlas looked at the stunned Nord with a boot stepping firmly on the helve of the battle-axe. Tilting his head coyly, Mithlas introduced his knee to the Nord’s face, knocking the brute of a man out cold with a single blow. Too early to celebrate his victory, the Breton charges making the same mistake as his partner did; weapons raised leaving himself open.

Reaching his hand onto one of pouches, Mithlas grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it into his would be attacker’s eyes. Loosing focus, Mithlas delivered a swift kick to the Breton’s loins before knocking him down on the ground. Looking at his attacker writhing on the ground, Mithlas inspected his satchel and found a pouch of gold; payment for his performance.

“Well I was wrong” he said. “This really was worth my trouble” he continued coyly before turning around heading south. “Thanks for the gold” he continued his taunts raising his hand waving his captive audience goodbye.

“Where was I again?” he said to himself. “Oh right,”

[center][i] And the braggart named Ragnar was boastful no more-
When his ugly red head rolled around on the floor![/i][/center]