Stalking down the winding mountain path was a lone Dunmer, the icy wind of Skyrim sending his black robes whipping in the wind as he gathered them around himself with his arms in an attempt to keep warm. Narzul quietly cursed the low temperature of this land. Back in Morrowind, he would have been content with his chitin armor in any conditions, but out here it did not suffice. One of the Wise Women had created his robes for him when she heard of his intentions to travel to Skyrim, specifically weaving them much thicker than she would otherwise. The robes were heavy, Narzul thought, but they did their job well enough. 

Narzul had crossed the border between Morrowind and Skyrim a day before and had not encountered a single soul yet on the road. He knew he must be somewhere south of Windhelm, and the path he was following sloped downwards, so he must be going the right way: towards the village of Kynesgrove. However, heavy snow obscured his vision, and he could see no further than a hundred feet in any direction. 

That was when he spotted a figure ahead of him, carrying a light of some kind that pierced through the veil of the snowstorm. Narzul hastened his step, trying to get a better look. Perhaps it was one of the guards, patrolling the roads? He would certainly know where Narzul was, exactly, and guide his path. Narzul had been warned repeatedly by the other Velothi not to trust the outlanders too much, but Narzul had dismissed that thought a while ago. With the looming dragon menace, all the races of Tamriel were in this together now. 

When Narzul was close enough to make out the figure more clearly, he was surprised to see a fellow Dunmer, heavily armored, and carrying a lance that seemed to be the source of the light. "Greetings, sera," Narzul called out, raising his hand cordially. "What brings a fellow Dunmer to these roads?"