My prediction is that it'll be set two or three eras after ESV: Skyrim.
All the holds surrounding Whiterun have been decimated. All that remains of Whiterun itself is the skeleton of the former glorious city. Small villages are scattered among the ruins of the old structures. The only recognizable landmark is the statue of Talos, now rusted and carved by time so dramatically he looks like a Falmer. The villagers gather around it every third night to sing songs and share stories of the ancient times, and to praise the man-god of old, the hero of legend that conquered the skies in his chicken chariot, weilding a mighty enchanted fork.
The gathered villagers return to their huts after swapping these well-known tales around campfires. Once safe inside their huts, they ward off the chill by consuming the only thing that gives them true comfort, the only small hope they have of escaping this barren landscape full of eight-legged deer and levitating giant mud crabs: Skooma. Skooma for days. Skooma is all they know. They are Skooma. Skooma.
After partaking, they crawl inside their bedrolls and squeeze their eyes shut, and utter the only prayer left to them. Khajiit... Khajiit has wares if you have coin, they stammer into the dark. But the prayer offers little comfort.
Outside, the winds howl. The only other sound is heard at a distance, and all the villagers are grateful for that distance, for it means they have at least a few more guaranteed hours to live. It's the far-off clicking of a giant mud crab, soaring through the skies above, hearkening back to the days of old, when heroes like Talos were vanquishing airborne foes in their chicken chariots, sending mud crabs plummeting back to the earth, speared through with fork punctures. Now the villagers can only dream of a hero to save them. For all the heroes of old are dead. Talos is dead. Now there is only Skooma. Skooma. Skooma.
All the holds surrounding Whiterun have been decimated. All that remains of Whiterun itself is the skeleton of the former glorious city. Small villages are scattered among the ruins of the old structures. The only recognizable landmark is the statue of Talos, now rusted and carved by time so dramatically he looks like a Falmer. The villagers gather around it every third night to sing songs and share stories of the ancient times, and to praise the man-god of old, the hero of legend that conquered the skies in his chicken chariot, weilding a mighty enchanted fork.
The gathered villagers return to their huts after swapping these well-known tales around campfires. Once safe inside their huts, they ward off the chill by consuming the only thing that gives them true comfort, the only small hope they have of escaping this barren landscape full of eight-legged deer and levitating giant mud crabs: Skooma. Skooma for days. Skooma is all they know. They are Skooma. Skooma.
After partaking, they crawl inside their bedrolls and squeeze their eyes shut, and utter the only prayer left to them. Khajiit... Khajiit has wares if you have coin, they stammer into the dark. But the prayer offers little comfort.
Outside, the winds howl. The only other sound is heard at a distance, and all the villagers are grateful for that distance, for it means they have at least a few more guaranteed hours to live. It's the far-off clicking of a giant mud crab, soaring through the skies above, hearkening back to the days of old, when heroes like Talos were vanquishing airborne foes in their chicken chariots, sending mud crabs plummeting back to the earth, speared through with fork punctures. Now the villagers can only dream of a hero to save them. For all the heroes of old are dead. Talos is dead. Now there is only Skooma. Skooma. Skooma.
