As you come to, the first thing you notice is the cold, unyielding grip of the iron manacles fastened around your wrists, the chains holding your limp body aloft. A brisk draught caresses your body, the bite of the icy wind on your flesh all that's needed to confirm you've been stripped of your weapons and armor; instead, you're clad in but filthy rags.

From the look of it, you're in a dungeon; you can't see any windows from where you're chained, though the lack of them does little to keep the cold out. The coarse cobblestones beneath your bare feet are frigid at best, and even used to the chilly climate of northern Skyrim as you are, you can't help but shiver as you struggle to recall how you ended up here. The last thing you remember is approaching a snow-capped ruin on the northern shore, west of Solitude. There had been a shout, followed by a sudden pain on the back of your skull—a pain matching the dull, throbbing ache you still feel now.

You hear the creak of a door opening, and look up to see a tall figure approaching, clad in an elegant set of black robes outlined with a gold trim; robes you instantly recognize as the garb of a Thalmor agent. Pushing back her hood, the Thalmor unveils the golden skin and high, regal cheekbones of an Altmer face, capped by a stylish yet disciplined golden blonde pixie undercut. A pair of piercing blue elven eyes survey you with an arrogant intrigue, a smirk forming on her angular elven countenance.

"You're not bad looking, for a ${race}," the woman sneers at you, her voice sharp and low, but feminine. "In fact, I think I'll try a new interrogation method on you."

To your surprise, she begins shedding her uniform, peeling off and discarding her fine clothes one by one until she stands confidently before you, clad only in exquisite black lace lingerie.

"I know a proud Stormcloak, even a spy like you, could never stomach the shame of being used by an Altmer," she explains, putting emphasis on the word 'used'. "Now, tell me