My name is Rastus, a Dunmer or Dark Elf from Morrowind, and I guess I was now what they called a refugee in this land of the Nords, known as Skyrim.
After the Red Mount has erupted back home, it had been chaos. I had joined with everyone else fleeing the land, my skin caked with dust, with nothing but the ragged clothes on my back and a few coins to buy passage. Despite all that, I had felt...free in a way. My old life was being left behind. Most of the people I had worked for, or who I had wronged, were dead or had bigger things on their minds. No one would know me in the new world - I could start anew.
Well, after a week in the backwaters of frozen Windhelm, one of the largest and coldest Nordic cities in Skyrim, I had been disabused me of that notion. Starving, with barely a flea-ridden blanket to call my own in the back of a run down inn, and treated like scum by the racists that ran the city along with the rest of my kind stuffed into 'Grey Town' - a cheap play on the