De'Marco awoke to the glare of the mid-morning sun reflecting off White Gold Tower, shooting needles into the space between his eyes. The taste of vomit and blood lingering in his mouth.
The Redguard could have easily handled the pair of Khajiit at the King and Queen Tavern from the night before when he was a Captain in the Imperial Army, but that was some thirty Winters past. He had grown soft and taken to drink after the war ended. The Empire no longer had any need for him; knowing only fighting and war, civilized society had little use for him as well. Taking to bounty-hunting and the occasional escort contracts he made enough coin to stay alive while he drank himself to death.
"Damn those Khajiit", De'Marco mutters to himself. "They move fast. Too fast."
He was well into his eighth pint of the night when he overheard the Khajiit speak of the return of dragons in Tamriel's northern province, Skyrim.
"HA HA HA! What a load of Troll dung!", he exclaimed to the pair.
The slighter of the two growled his reply, "Dar'Virr is many things, but a Liar he is not."
The last thing De'Marco remembered was a flash of fur as the Khajiit knocked him to the floor.
He arises now in an obscure alley of the Imperial City. Nursing a hangover and still drunk from the night before, the miserable Redguard stumbles out of the alley and into the city streets.