The bandit leader got back to his feet screaming with agony as he realised two arrows were jutting from his back. He gritted his teeth at the Argonian, but then lost his nerve. He turned to run, just as a magelight caught his face, blinding him with an impossible light. He swung his sword left and right, twisting wildly as if batting away a dozen attackers. A third arrow struck him in the neck, and he fell to his knees with a series of gurgles. 

The fight was over.

An eerie silence set upon the scene as the agents of The Collector gathered together, to assess the carnage. Two of their number had been slain; hapless fools who were no match for the common highway man, it seemed. After rooting through the corpses, they found nothing but third-rate armour and weapons, and a few septims. They left the dead on the road - there wasn't time to bury them, not with the bandits still possibly at large.

But what had happened to Helgen? It seemed impossible to all of them that some bandits had managed to overrun the Imperial garrison. This warranted further investigation, but first, there was a bottle of mead that needed to be gathered. They assembled before the gate, weapons ready in case more of the bandits lay within. 

Before they proceeded though, they were alerted by footsteps coming up from behind. Thinking they were being flanked by foes, the agents turned, ready for battle. However, all they saw was a heavily armoured Orc warrior, and by her side, the leather-clad slender figure of an Imperial woman. The newcomers quickly held up their scrolls, signed by The Collector's distinctive seal, and so the group had become a party of six. 

Together, they proceeded through the gate.

Helgen was a burnt ruin. Houses had been reduced to scorched timbers, the roads were scattered with debris and blackened bodies, and the keep's towers had been smashed apart. What could do this kind of damage, no one knew, but then no one cared. The tavern lay up ahead, or what was left of it. They'd search there first for the mead, and hopefully, they could be on their way within minutes. 

And then a volley of arrows flew in from the ruins, and a half dozen battle cries sounded. The arrows narrowly missed the survivors, or were deflected by the armour of any they hit. However, six burly Nords, dressed in bandit attire, rushed from three directions. Four more of their comrades, carrying Imperial bows, followed. 

Behind all of them, stood a man who was seven foot tall, and possibly six foot wide. A giant of a man indeed, carrying a large maul. One of his eyes was obscured by an eye patch, and a massive black beard surged down from his shaven head. He laughed heartily, clutching his pulsing abdomen. 

"KIIIIIIIIIILLLLLLLLLL THHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEM!" He roared.