Joslin Nothre grimaced as she pulled her scarlet hood over her face. "Damn Nordic cold," she muttered irritably. Sighing, she shouldered her burden once more and struggled through the thick snow drifts.

Her maroon eyes gleamed under her hood, highlighted against her pale blue skin. Most people who saw her mistook her for a Breton suffering from hypothermia, the faint bluish tint of her skin giving her an almost unhealthy look. A second glance would prove those observers wrong once her red eyes and pointed ears, which peeked out from beneath wild black hair, were noted.

That was the reason why she normally kept her face covered.

Sighing, she lifted her eyes to the midnight sky above her, grudgingly admitting to herself that Skyrim nights were beautiful, if miserably cold.

The gates of Windhelm loomed above her in the distance, a handful of scattered torches lighting the walkway up to the main entrance.

Grinning wickedly to herself, Joslin trudged toward the sleepy Nord guards on duty, the torchlight flickering on the heavy looking bundle she dragged.

As she reached the gate, she threw down her burden, taking a step back and holding out her hands, smiling at the guards, who stared at her in bewilderment. Stooping down, she pulled away the cloth sack, revealing the contents. It was a dead Stormcloack filled with ebony arrows. The two guards stared at her, speechless.

"What? What're you gonna do about it?" she asked mockingly.

The one on the left blinked and then spoke, the moment she had been waiting for,

"I used to be an adventurer like you, until I took an arrow to the knee."

A lightning storm and an angry chase later, the two gate guards lay dead and Joslin was halfway on the road to Falkreath.