Three days later, on the main road north of Riverwood that led to the old city of Whiterun, a few miles from town, two bedraggled figures were stumbling along in a desperate flight. They kept throwing off their cumbersome packs and scattering valuables everywhere—ancient Nord coins, tools, gems, and more.
Those things were worth a fortune, but they couldn't afford to care about that now. They needed to run faster if they wanted to stay alive...
"!!"
"Faster! Run, Ralof! We can't let them surround us!"
"Move!"
"Huff! Huff!"
"..."
"Huff!"
"I—I am trying to run faster! I'm wearing plate armor, and you're in leather. How am I supposed to keep up with you?"
"And Ralof, couldn't you slow down and wait for me?"
The man trailing dozens of yards behind shouted indignantly at the archer and Stormcloak general racing ahead.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Run slowly with you, then get captured by the Imperials and dragged back to Riverwood so they can cut off my head in front of my sister?!"
The Stormcloak general didn't slow down at all. He kept running, glancing back to tease his companion and subordinate, who was panting hard and looked ready to collapse at any moment.
"Ralof!"
"You're Dragonborn, destined to save the world! The wheel of fate has turned toward you. Maybe you should stop and prove who you are with a Shout?"
"Who knows? Maybe those Imperial cavalrymen will let you go!"
As he spoke, Ralof decided that continuing north along the road wasn't a good idea. He abruptly turned and plunged into the woods, heading northwest toward the Ravenwood Mountains.
"Dragonborn?"
"Damn it, forget it!"
"You saw it yourself: Alduin's head has been stuck on Whiterun's walls for almost a month. The Imperial Army won't spare me