dovahrine

[dovahrine]

Day 23 - On the road again

9th of Heartfire, 4e201

In retrospect, I appear to have severely misjudged Lydia based on her mannerisms. Allow me to explain. On our trek to the Greybeards, we came across a ruined tower on the edge of Whiterun that bandits were occupying. I wonder if the lack of guards mustering forces at their borders is due to the war? Surely that increases suffering even beyond the bounds of the "normal" amount of a war, but I digress. They attempted to shake me down, but were very quick to realize I was not to be trifled with. Unfortunately, they recognized Lydia as we were leaving and threw themselves at her in combat. She later informed me that as a former member of the Whiterun Guard she had engaged in a few skirmishes to try and retake these towers, called Valtheim, from the bandits, so it's no surprise.

None of these bandits were particularly tough to engage with, but the geometry of the fort made for a challenge to navigate. The two towers were joined by a massive, narrow bridge above a rushing river. While engaging with the enemy(I always take the lead, given my superior experience and the fact that up until yesterday my primary companion was a dog), a clever archer managed to sneak up the tower at my back and fire on me. While turning to block, one of the bandits I assumed to be staggered from a forceful blow gleefully swung for me, only for Lydia to tackle the both of us off of the bridge into the river below. Thankfully the water was deep enough that we were unharmed, but it confirms that this woman is either touched by Sheogorath, or a genius in the making as far as the field of battle. She quickly assessed the situation and environment and acted without hesitation.

The woman of the hour, still covered in fresh bandit.

From there, dispatching the rest of the bandits was a trifle, no doubt helped by the intimidation factor of hurtling oneself off a building as a defensive maneuver. After clarifying with Lydia that she was in possession of her faculties and not an extremely overeager assassin, we carried on through the afternoon until we reached Ivarstead, the village at the base of the 7000 steps I'm expected to climb to the Greybeards. Lydia mentioned having taken this pilgrimage once before and suggested we wait until the morning to start our ascent, a suggestion I was more than willing to indulge. We spent the rest of the day around the village, which while charming was rather dull.

I find it so odd that despite Skyrim's environment being a lot more hospitable than Vvardenfell, some of these towns still have so little to actually do.

The innkeeper put me on an interesting rumor about a haunted tomb at the edge of town, which was guarded by a maddened alchemist who convinced even himself that he was a ghost of some kind. From there, it turned out to be a relatively standard Nordic ruin. I've only been in a few but the guardians of these tombs seem to be pretty manageable compared to the Bonewalkers and Bone Lords of my youth. I did take some time to practice this new "Shout" that I've learned. It's quite handy! A ripple of force that's enough to stagger those in front of me is a game-changer in melee, so I'll definitely have to keep practicing with it. I can see it presenting problems in cases where my foes are more intelligent or aware, since with these Draugr there's not much to be concerned with in regards to stealth. I also found a very powerful set of enchanted armor, although the design is a little…revealing? I don't know if the increased defense is worth the cold that will no doubt come from more exposed legs.

It certainly is an intimidating look on top, but then you lower your gaze and... I just don't know.

By the time we exited the cleared tomb, it was past 10, so we turned in at the inn for the night. The innkeeper, an agreeable man named Wilhelm, was willing to set us up with two beds for the price of one as thanks for dealing with the "Ghost" in the barrow. I've tried to reassure Lydia that I am no drillmaster, and she is welcome to spend her down time however she wishes, but she seems adamant on keeping vigilant watch over my safety even when cleaning her gear for the night. I'm not opposed to dutiful, disciplined warriors, but I do hope she doesn't burden herself too much with this perceived need for proper behavior. I have long had to know the time and place for etiquette as opposed to the more relaxed atmosphere between fellow warriors. After all, the only "illustrious" title she knows me by is the Thane of Whiterun and the Dragonborn of Legend. I shudder at how she might act were she to know my full list of accolades.

[dovahrine]

Day 22 - Trials made manifest

8th of Heartfire, 4e201

Today was…well, best to start simple with the beginning.

I set out for Whiterun early in the morning, with very little in the way of meaningful encounters in between cities. I did, however, stumble across the remains of an Imperial Patrol, no doubt victims to beasts given the lack of looting done. One of the soldiers was carrying an interesting piece, a seemingly standard-issue crossbow and a handful of bolts. Something I've noticed is I am sorely lacking in ranged options at the moment, and I know they always say crossbows are easier to learn than mastering a bow, so I figured no time like the present. As of this entry I have not found anyone who is selling bolts, unfortunately, so I will have to use these 11 bolts for practice sparingly until then. Maybe the Drunken Huntsman has some…

The grip is certainly a little awkward, I'll definitely be practicing with this before bringing it out in any combat scenario.

Whiterun was bustling and busy as usual, and I made sure to check in with my usual spots, Warmaiden's and Belethor's General Goods for any new merchandise before proceeding up to Dragonsreach. That Belethor is a shady one, and I try to avoid selling him anything I wouldn't want to see a bandit bringing to bear against me a week later. Nothing concrete informs this hunch, just a bad feeling. With nothing else to procrastinate on(because I was not going to see that lout Eorlund), I swallowed my concern and headed up to Dragonsreach. Farengar was overjoyed at the prospect of getting to study such an ancient and rare find such as this, and brushed aside my own questions about the dragon language. He assured me he would only take a matter of days to get this stone worked out. Concerningly, he was talking to some associate of his when I arrived that seemed keenly interested in the Dragons, as well as my own abilities. They were congratulatory of my abilities in retrieving the stone, but something about them seems familiar somehow? I'll have to keep an eye out. I don't think anyone has survived the 200 or so years that have passed since my last adventures in Tamriel that would consider me their enemy, at least not to the extent they would hunt me down here, but still. One doesn't get to be this long-lived by being reckless.

These musings and any further were cut short when Irileth, the Jarl's right hand(I believe the Nords call them "Housecarls"?) barged in with horrible news: A dragon had been spotted within the hold. Farengar and I were to report to the Jarl with her immediately. Words cannot express the dread that settled in me as we climbed those stairs. If it was the same dragon that attacked Helgen…not even a unit of the Legion could scratch it with blades and spell alike! What would a token force of guards and I be able to do? Undaunted, the Jarl spoke with the guard that survived the tower, who reported that the dragon was not currently hostile, just circling the tower. So the dragons are intelligent enough to play with their food, then. Still. This is just what must be done. Though it may not be by the hand of the sleepers this time, the land is still sundered and skies choked black. I was heading to leave before the Jarl even finished his bid for my aid. He distantly mentioned I could purchase property with his blessing in the city when the matter was resolved, and I appreciate him for that optimism. Whiterun certainly wouldn't be a bad place to live, all told.

I arrived from the west, so this must have happened very shortly afterwards. Surely the dragons aren't following me, right?

With that vain hope in mind, I moved with Irileth and a small group of guards to the Western Watchtower where the dragon was last seen. A panicked guard burst from the burning husk of the tower, urging us to stay back as he lamented the loss of his two companions prior to our arrival. An earth-shattering roar interrupted him as the dragon made it's return, and relief filled my breast as I realized: This was not the same dragon as Helgen. Certainly, it's presence was still terrifying and vast, but it did not feel akin to a god, rather a large and powerful beast.

I'm going to need to invest in more fire resistance potions, aren't I?

As the dragon began it's assault, I was sorely reminded of my lacking ranged capabilities as it rained fire from above. I really need to figure out that crossbow, and maybe work on my non-sun based ranged spells, especially if there are going to be more airborne enemies that won't kindly come to me like a cliff racer. However, even a dragon must land after a certain point. When that happened, I finally got to cut loose and fight to the fullest for perhaps the first time since Vvardenfell. I don't know if I've finally hit my stride again, or if it was for other reasons beyond me, but my blade sung that fight, culminating in a rather climactic killing blow from atop the beast's neck.

I'm not sure what possessed me to get CLOSER to this thing's mouth, but I suppose it's not the most insane thing I've done in my adventures at least?

Staring over the corpse of the dragon provided a moment's respite as I processed what we had just achieved. They can be beaten. In response to those thoughts, the corpse began to glow and an unearthly light rushed through my body, seeping into the skin and every inch of me. The dragon word dominated my mind as this happened: Force. I unconsciously spoke it aloud, only for a ripple of energy to rip from my mouth. It didn't feel quite like magic, it felt…older. Deeper. I was able to half-focus on the guards excitedly chattering about how I was "Dragonborn", some Nordic cultural hero of prophecy. I had half a mind to start laughing, or crying, I'm not certain which. Mumbling gratitude, I stumbled back into the walls of the city, where word was already starting to spread of the dragon's defeat. Before I could reach the Jarl to give my report, an earthshattering thunderclap echoed out across the sky, sounding almost like spoken word. Deciding to worry about that later, I went inside Dragonsreach and delivered my report to the Jarl.

To my existential dismay, Balgruuf confirmed the theory of the guards that I was this "Dragonborn", and that the thunderclap I just heard was the summons of an ancient monastic order associated with the Dragonborn atop the tallest mountain in Skyrim. This all felt very familiar and exhausting to hear. I had hoped for a chance to aid the people of this land on my own merit and choice alone, but it appears that once again powers beyond my comprehension have other plans. I wonder, Azura, if this was in your predictions of my fate? At this point, all I could do is nod numbly to the Jarl's subsequent proclamation of Thanedom and mention of a Housecarl of my own, no doubt another aide similar to Valdimar. I wonder if this Housecarl knows they're signing on with a doom-driven dragonslayer.

If I eventually am to perform a Hortator-esque "Become Thane of all the cities" maneuver as part of this prophecy, I'm going to need to think about how I'm going to manage the employment of 9 people dedicated to my service, aren't I? Hopefully without any forced marriage this time.

In spite of my cynicism at the time and during this writing, I was pleasantly surprised. This Housecarl, a charming young woman named Lydia, was emphatic about her willingness to follow me to Oblivion and back, and seemed to have a good head on her shoulders. Perhaps she could learn a thing or two on our upcoming journey. For now, I plan to take to the first bed I can find in the Bannered Mare, and then I suppose set out for the Greybeards and their mountain come the morning.

[dovahrine]

Day 21 - Draugrs and Defilement

7th of Heartfire, 4e201

As promised, today was the big day that the Wolf Queen returns to her rest. Feeling more nervous than I really ought to at this stage of my career, I did my final checks and made my way into the depths of the Temple of the Divines. With a quick prayer of my own to Azura, the crawling conquest of the catacombs began.

The heavy wolf iconography is interesting, I assumed that the title was just that, and not so heavily a visual reference.

One thing I will give credit to Potema for, she certainly has a more discerning eye for her undead minions than most I've encountered in the province. These draugr were not only beefier, but possessed greater skills with weapons and even magical capabilities. Most concerningly, several of them seemed capable of wielding what I can only assume to be the Thu'um of ancient Nordic legend. I found this out the hard way when rushing into battle against a more powerful draugr and finding myself getting hurled against the wall on the other side of the room. All the while as I fought through her minions, the Wolf Queen taunted me, claiming she would reward my efforts with a place by her side following my death. I've no use for death, though, and so I pressed on through her gauntlet to her inner sanctum.

I did not enjoy having to hop like a Kwama to get into this room, could they not at least have been laid straight out?

Within her inner sanctum, Potema had laid one final trap for me before reaching her: A room full of corpses, that sealed me in upon entry and reanimated all the dead within to slay me. A well-planned enough trap, all things considered, but thankfully not one that was immune to my more offensive restoration spells. The undead are so pervasive between here and Vvardenfell that it really comes as no surprise to me that the spells all come to me like an old friend even now.

Potema herself, though…she was in a strange state. Seemingly still in a non-physical form, an energy spirit of sorts that hovered in what I assumed to be the final chamber of the catacombs. She did not participate in the final battle directly all that much, merely hurling bolts of lightning down as her reanimated minions fell upon my blade and Meeko's claws. From there, it was a simple matter of chasing her dwindling spirit entry into the next room, wherein it coalesced into a humanoid form. For all her bluster and dread, she was a bit of a disappointment in single combat, dissolving to dust in just a couple of cuts.

It's now deep into the night as I finish this entry, having handed her remains off to the Priest of Arkay and collected my reward from Falk: An enchanted blade and a shield with the crest of Solitude. Maybe it's the similarities between Potema and shadows of my own past, but I find myself somewhat enamored with the idea of this new role of mine as a guardian of mortals. I remain hesitant to be truly involved with any of these people, as even the ones worth knowing are so fragile and short-living, but people like Falk, Styrr the Priest, even Sybille are so clearly trying to keep things shuffling along that it does spur me a little more to action. Come tomorrow, I'll have my answers from Farengar, and start to figure out how to take the fight to that Dragon. Moon and Stars guide me…

[dovahrine]

Day 20 - Shadow over Solitude

6th of Heartfire, 4e201

The plan today, of course, was to travel to Whiterun to speak to Farengar about this Dragon stone for more answers. However, that of course was cut short, as is so often the case these days, by an urgent missive via courier. I do have to wonder how these seemingly bog-standard package runners continue to find me so easily. Maybe they're employing some sort of scrying or tracking? Surely I would have noticed that by now though, given how much experience I have with someone or something looming in my presence.

This missive comes to me from Falk Firebeard, steward of Solitude. It seems something has gone awry following my interruption of that binding ritual of Potema, and that I should seek him out as soon as I am able for more details. Sensing some urgency in his tone that felt uncharacteristic for my limited interactions, I decided Falk would have to wait and left instead for Solitude. At this point, I find myself familiar with the route from Whiterun Hold to Solitude, so it was a brisk and painless trip aside from a few Sabre Cats.

For the eagle eyed among you, you might understand why these beasts are so effective at stalking the plains of Whiterun Hold

Upon arrival, a strange pallor had fallen over the city. Nothing tangible, but the Magicka in the air felt…odd. It didn't seem to be registering for any of the citizens, but Sybille was positively glowing when I approached her at the Blue Palace. She may be relatively polite given her…condition, but I can't see this as anything but a worrying sign. In any case, Falk revealed that Potema's spirit, while unbound, is not gone from the world entirely, and has taken up refuge in the city's ancient catacombs. The idea of a long dead ruler of the past taking up refuge beneath society feels particularly uncomfortable, so I spent the rest of the day talking with the local priest of Arkay for additional information, as well as preparing some simple enchantments for the catacombs that should help with traversal. If this "Potema" is as the priest describes, I will need to be prepared. There is not much else to report for today, in all honesty, I lost myself in my work enchanting and refreshing myself on the necessary spells. It's said that Potema sought to establish herself as Empress, seeking to usurp the power base of the Empire and overtake it with necromantic abilities. Though my title is no doubt long outdated, as an Operative of the Blades, as his successor…

The Wolf Queen dies tomorrow.

[dovahrine]

Day 19 - Bleak Falls Barrow

5th of Heartfire, 4e201

With morning dawning, Meeko and I continued our climb up to the ancient tomb where Lucan's trinket had been squirreled away to. We ran into yet another frost troll on the way, and while I'm getting the hang of disposing of them, I think they've quickly shaped up to be my least favorite beast I've seen in a great while. My time away must have truly warped my memory, for I find myself longing for the simpler days of squawking cliff racers in comparison. (As an aside, I slew no less than a half dozen frost trolls today while plumbing Bleak Falls Barrow, and I have to wonder how any average citizen travels anywhere)

I am tired of climbing these Three-Forsaken Mountains, why are they all so cold?

Trolls aside, Bleak Falls Barrow is a rather impressive piece of ancient architecture. The Nords appear to have had a great appreciation for intricate carvings in both their structural design and their armories. The carved shields in particular were gorgeous and incredibly functional, considering how long has passed. I'm admittedly no stranger to animated tombs, and the undead of Skyrim(in this era at least) appear to have much weaker magic binding them to the mortal coil than that of Vvardenfell, but that's far from a complaint. I wonder if Meeko is bothered by the taste of undead flesh…

While wandering the labyrinthian halls of the catacomb though, I came across a Dunmer webbed up by a truly massive spider, begging me to cut him down. He claimed to know "the secrets of the claw". Presuming it to be the stolen trinket I was after, I cut him down and demanded it back. The fetcher had the audacity to bolt deeper into the ruin, shouting at me for being a fool to expect him to share the treasure! I considered giving chase, but he was rather fast and if I had to venture a guess based on his lightly armored self and the sheer number of these Draugr in the ruins I had already fought, he would not be long for this world either by my blade or another. Sure enough, after a leisurely saunter down his route, I came across his mangled body standing by 3 mildly perturbed Draugr, who quickly joined him on the floor. Easily fishing the claw from his pockets, I was tempted to turn around then and there to return it to Lucan and be done with this, but I leafed through his journal which made mention of the claw being a "key" of some sort, used to ward away unworthy visitors. Allegedly it would unlock the "power of the ancient Nordic heroes", and as much as it's even more time not dealing with that dragon, maybe the power within could serve to help with defeating it.

After several more hours of following winding tunnels and cutting down a great many draugr, I found the paths converging on an ornate door. Given it's three rings, and the very blatant space to fit the three talons on the Golden Claw, it felt safe to assume that the mention of the claw's palm was literal. The rings, though large and dusty, managed to move into what I assumed was the correct combination of animals without much difficulty. If only the Dwemer ruins of Vvardenfell were so generous with their hinges. I wonder if any of them survived the eruption of Red Mountain… Nevertheless, I'm still surprised that the heavy door opened without issue after that first attempt of placing the claw with the correct pattern. Was that truly all the Nords considered necessary to protect their ancient power? Surely they had higher expectations of the intelligence of their descendants, right?

Views like these almost make climbing freezing mountains worth it. Almost.

Complaints about ancient Nordic security aside, the chamber within was truly gorgeous, I could spend hours in there if afforded the time just studying it all. Upon approaching the main burial area of the room, a carving on the wall caught my attention. It was in a language I had never seen before. It looked very vaguely similar to Daedric, but had a unique dot pattern that was unfamiliar. Despite this, I feel as though I knew what it said, which I've transcribed below:

Here lies The Guardiankeeper of the Dragonstoneand a force of eternalrage and darkness

I am still unsure of why this was so clear in my mind, the word "force" especially, but it gives me that uncomfortable itch that I remember feeling when first learning about the prophecy of the Nerevarine. I know Nerevar had many exploits, but I certainly don't remember any "Dragonstone" or anything to do with dragons in general. Once again I am eternally frustrated by my lack of access to my former contacts, even though their absence is my own fault. My musings were interrupted, though, by the appearance of the Guardian in question. They wore an elegant mask and scaled gauntlets, with an axe that hit like a Netch and then some. It was a grueling task to bring it down, but with Meeko's help, we managed. From it's corpse, I pried it's mask, gauntlets, and boots, as they seemed to be a good fit for me. Perhaps their scales might help with dragonfire? Regardless, I also pulled from their coffin a large stone with a similar set of carvings that made mention of a return of someone named "ALDUIN" that would restore the "Fallen Lords". I am unsure what to make of it, or the carvings on the other side. Perhaps Farengar might be of some assistance with this? I suppose I will have to make my way back to Whiterun and ask him, after a long and much needed rest tonight.

[dovahrine]

Day 18 - A Firey Reckoning

4th of Heartfire, 4e201

Where to even begin?

I was unexpected awoken at the crack of dawn this morning by the child of the innkeeper coming in and shouting about there being soldiers outside. A bit odd considering the town is all but an Imperial outpost, but it seemed like it was worth checking out all the same. It turned out to not be a mere patrol, but a prisoner transfer headed by the Provincial General, Tullius I believe his name was, following a successful ambush on Stormcloak forces. Shockingly, this ambush led to the capture of the Ulfric Stormcloak, who was to be summarily executed right in the middle of Helgen. I would love to speak with him and hash out some things, but clearly this proceedings took priority. That, however, is when everything went to hell.

I have never seen a creature this big, even in Akavir.

With an unearthly scream and a soaring shadow, a massive dragon flies in out of nowhere and begins raining fire and a hail of burning rock on Helgen. The inn behind me exploded, and I was hurled into the middle of the square, blacking out for a moment before a Stormcloak prisoner woke me up while dragging me to shelter. I was in the room with Ulfric and his Stormcloaks, and I was tempted to kill him right then and there, but two things held me back: the fact that there was a town burning down around me, and that him dying like this would make him a martyr. If you truly want someone like Ulfric dead, he needs to not just die, he needs to lose. His ideology needs to be taken out and flayed in the public eye, such it can't take root in the average millworker anymore, that it can't be freely distributed in bedrooms at inns across the province. So Ulfric lives this day.

The one comfort of the day is the fires of Red Mountain burned hotter than these flames.

What followed was a breakneck blur of events. Running through the rapidly burning ruins around me, dodging dragon's fire up close and personal. Stumbling into the keep with a nice young man who introduced himself as Hadvar of the Imperial Legion. Cutting a bloody path through Stormcloaks who somehow found it in themselves to fight instead of flee the nightmare above. All culminating in staggering out of Helgen Keep(or what was left of it) with no time to breathe. The dragon was flying off to Azura knows where, and Hadvar rightly suggested we need to warn other nearby settlements that might be in it's path. Before that, though, I made the judgement call to send Valdimar ahead on his own back to Morthal. He may not be able to fight a dragon on his own, but Morthal would be absolutely blindsided with little in the way of evacuation options through the swamps without prior warning. My opinion of the hold is shaky but it's the least I can do as Thane, I suppose. Second, I checked in with Zora, who was extremely shaken. I don't think she was ready for this level of danger and adventure when we had been fighting normal, mortal bandits just prior. I told her there was no shame in retreating and preparing for greater enemies, which she gracefully accepted. Now accompanied only by Meeko once more, I rushed to Riverwood, where I learned that my friend Alvor is actually that Hadvar fellow's uncle, and thanked me for the warning while urging me to speak to the Jarl of Whiterun, as Riverwood has no guards somehow? I do not know how they function with the heavy presence of bandits nearby, but that doesn't matter if this dragon comes in with a blaze of death like with Helgen.

Thankfully my reputation does not precede me here, so I do not have to explain the "dragons" of Akavir not being a suitable preparation for this.

Feeling that ever familiar sense of exhaustion, I continued my race against time to Whiterun, staggering into the Jarl's palace(? Or is it a hall? I don't know enough about Nords to be sure either way). Thankfully, he seemed quick to action with the dragon at hand, dispatching guards to Riverwood and passing along orders for his court wizard, Farengar, to research the matter. He thanked me for my time and said he might have future work for me assisting this Farengar in the future. Still, there was no time to rest, as I felt Riverwood would be in the most danger. So, once more I hurried back to the sleepy village, and informed them that guards would be coming to bolster their defenses against a potential dragon attack. Thankfully, the people were mostly calm, perhaps shocked. One merchant though, a shrewd seeming man named Lucan, approached me afterwards with a request for help. His store had been robbed of an artifact, a claw made of gold. His sister has been pestering him about taking herself to the ruin that looms over the town and retrieving it herself despite lacking gear or training for such things.

Seeing the angle he was going for with this, I agreed to retrieve it for him tomorrow if only to keep this fragile peace. Who knows, maybe I can use the ruin as a vantage point to check for the dragon. I just cannot fathom what happened even now as I settle in to camp for the night at the foot of the mountain. I mean Dagoth was bad, apocalyptic even. But he never actually got to pull off the bombastic conquest step of his plan. The danger of him was at the individual level, or at most a complex of powerful followers. But this? An actual dragon? That's shifting into the mythical territory. I don't even know if I (or anyone else in the province) can harm a dragon, much less kill one. All I know is I saw what I presume to be an elite force of Imperial soldiers and battlemages unable to even land a scratch on that thing, and here I sit getting ready to retrieve a trinket from a catacomb in the meantime.

The only thing we can do is prepare as best we can, and keep our eyes to the skies.

[dovahrine]

Day 17 - Ever Eastward

3rd of Heartfire, 4e201

Following my disdain for the Stormcloak movement last night, I felt it was necessary to leave Falkreath immediately this morning. Despite attempting to leave quietly, I ran across a surly "gentleman" who informed me that he worked at the mill, and that he couldn't believe he let "provincials" like myself wander Skyrim. The fact that he would say that to me as someone who for all intents and purposes appears to be a simple Breton, not even quite one of the elves they loath, was too much. I challenged him to a duel on the spot, which he readily and overconfidently obliged to. Though I do not compare to the Redoran masters of the craft, I certainly know how to throw a punch well enough for the likes of this backwater fool. He was on the ground in a few blows, coughing up some begrudging humility for his behavior. His brother had the gall to come over and apologize, before immediately explaining that he was a former Stormcloak who no longer fights but still staunchly holds their ideals. It was at this point I turned on my heel and walked away. The hold of Falkreath holds nothing for me, clearly, as no impressive architecture of quaint and affordable inns can mask what that money is flowing into at the end of the day.

Eager to get away from such a terrible place, I continued eastward, coming across the small town of Helgen. Finding the prominently displayed Imperial Banners something of a comfort, I explored the offerings of the locale. Frankly, there was not much. The town's general store proprietress, an Argonian, mentioned having some trouble with nearby bandits holed up in some Fort Neugrad. As an aside, it has been wonderful to see such an absence of slavery in Skyrim. Though there's clearly still some issues to iron out with how Argonians, Khajiit, and Elves are treated here, I have not missed seeing the people of this land in chains.

For a small town, the strategic position of the Empire here seems pretty strongly enforced, I wonder if this is more Imperial Fort than previously existing town...

Back to business though, our ragtag bunch stormed the fort to minimal resistance. Between Valdimar's ice, Zora's brutal melee, and Meeko fearlessly charging in, I barely can get a swing in edgewise. Still, perhaps that's not the worst. I'm admittedly not the most used to having companions accompanying me who can fend for themselves, but there's a great reassurance to it compared to escorting frightened travelers.

Within the bowels of the fort, I did also find a tome of interest titled The Aetherium Wars. It spoke of the Dwemer of Skyrim and how they seemingly fell into civil war over a now-lost magical material by the same name as the title. I have yet to come across the works of the Dwemer in this province, but I would be curious when time permits to explore their ruins and see how they compare.

With the fort cleared out, I decided to take rest in the admittedly dour inn at Helgen. Come the morning, I think I will continue heading eastward, where I believe the hold of Riften awaits. Surely not all of the southern cities can be so bad as Falkreath, right?

The woodwork is impressive I suppose, but it's certainly no corner club

[dovahrine]

Day 16 - Fair weather and fundamentalists

2nd of Heartfire, 4e201

In line with my plans from yesterday, I made my way south towards "Falkreath" hold, one of the southernmost territories of Skyrim. Valdimar and I were chatting about housing options and he suggested I look into the other holds before committing to house hunting in one of them. He did also make a somewhat biased but otherwise good point that Morthal would be a relatively centrally located place to establish a home, being a stone's throw from Solitude and well positioned for visiting Whiterun without the expensive costs of either. On the way, I found a shortcut through one of Skyrim's many mountain ranges, called Brittleshin pass. A single necromancer was conducting research within, and holding 2 living people in a cage, no doubt as future subjects for his foul research.

Anyone who can wield a sword nearly their own height has my respect on the battlefield.

The first was a Khajiit who ran off immediately upon me unlocking the cage door but the second, a fellow Breton named Zora Fair-Child, stuck around to chat with us a while longer. She apparently is something of an adventurer herself, gifted with a two handed blade and a very interesting individual all around. She's certainly a bit odd, but really that's to be expected in this line of work. After a brief period of introductions, she agreed to work alongside myself and Valdimar, though I have a feeling some of that was due to Meeko. With the newest member of our quickly growing little group, we made the rest of the way down to Falkreath.

It seems nearly every inch of Skyrim has ancient Nordic ruins looming menacingly nearby, I wonder what's changed?

I was honestly surprised by the sheer size of the buildings here considering their primarily wooden construction. But then again, I suppose they are in the middle of a forest. Settling in for the night at the local inn, I noticed a slim volume on the bedside table, titled "Nords Arise!". Out of curiosity, I paged through it and found the most banal appeal to Stormcloak rebellion I could have imagined. It was half lip service to the history of Skyrim which heavily featured "driving out the elves" and was clearly alluding to a need to do the same once more. The other half was speaking of how the Empire has betrayed Skyrim by taking away their cultural hero-god, Tiber Septim.

…Words cannot describe how asinine this rhetoric is. Unlike Ulfric and his wannabe ethnostate, I've actually met Talos, back at Ghostgate. He and I were in agreement that the Empire was due for a change, but he specifically spoke of wanting something new, even if that new required a messy transition period. Meanwhile these Stormcloak fundamentalists are more concerned about cherry picking their history to justify their anti-elven "us versus them" mindset! As Senna the Breton Adventurer, I'm concerned and upset. As Senna the Neravarine and Champion of Azura and her chosen people, I'm livid. For weeks now, I've maintained the stance that a war of mortal men is not one I rightfully should be involved in. I was content to find a new path in Skyrim and maybe make an effort to re-settle in Vvardenfell, now that the ash has settled. But now? Seeing this propagandized drivel in your average inn? I've half a mind to enlist and show these s'wits some of those messy new ideas that the real Tiber Septim advocated for.

[dovahrine]

Day 15 - Ironclad Economics

1st of Heartfire, 4e201

Today was a lot of manual labor. I decided to smelt the iron I picked up myself, which took awhile before I even got to the smithing part. Still, it was certainly a good workout. Armed with my smelted iron ingots and a handful of leather picked up from Whiterun's blacksmith, I got to work making some simple swords. They aren't necessarily the best looking, but they're functional!

Definitely could use some work with the guard, I'd love to integrate some traditional Dunmer designs into it as decoration.

I decided to sell the swords I smithed to the blacksmith for pretty cheap, around 7 drakes each. I definitely lose a bit of money this way(mainly in leather costs) but I feel like this does help supply the average person with affordable weaponry, since these are cheaply supplied enough that it's easy to make a profit on them for cheap.

Still, even smithing around 5 or so swords took the bulk of the day, and I was both physically and mentally exhausted by the end of it. I ended up taking a room in the Bannered Mare at a somewhat expensive rate just to get the chance to sleep. Seeing my exhaustion though, the proprietor Hulda offered me use of the bath downstairs. That hot water made the cost of the room worth it, just getting a chance to soak after a day of hard physical work.

Pardon the blurred vision, but I was not exaggerating about the exhaustion.

I have noticed that the costs of living are starting to eat away at me, though. Gone are the days of my Redoran bankrolled stronghold, I had forgotten how expensive it could be to not have a home. That alone is a bit ironic, admittedly, but the point remains: If I'm going to be staying in Skyrim for the time being(which seems likely, given it's relative security and proximity to Morrowind), I should start looking into more permanent lodgings. I know that Morthal had a plot of land available for a pretty affordable amount, but I'm hesitant to commit to such an unpleasant locale of the swamp and the truly bitter cold. Whiterun and Solitude have been the most agreeable climates so far, but perhaps I will make my way further south to see if there's anything warmer or more comfortable in general.

[dovahrine]

Day 14 - A breakthrough in smithing

31st of Last Seed, 4e201

Today finally marked a breakthrough in my goal to learn about smithing beyond repairs! The "Legendary Blacksmith" at the Skyforge, Eorlund Grey-Mane, was rude and generally unpleasant to speak to, so he was no help, and Adrianne of Warmaiden's never seems to be around for me to ask, so I decided to follow tell I've heard of a small village south of Whiterun called Riverwood that has a smith as well.

Upon arriving in Riverwood, the most astonishing thing was the size of the village. It wasn't much larger than an Ashlander camp, with probably less than 20 people in town overall. There weren't even any guards that I could see, which makes me wonder what happens in the event of a bandit raid. That said, the blacksmith there, Alvor, was exactly what I needed.

To anyone in Whiterun hold looking for a good, affordable blade without being belittled, seek out Alvor in Riverwood rather than Eorlund and his "Skyforged Steel".

He walked me through a basic introduction to smithing both weapons and armor, and by the end of the day I was able to smith a simple iron dagger and hide helmet. Alvor was very patient as I ascertained how to transfer my repair skills into smithing something from scratch. There's something very liberating about being viewed as just another adventurer rather than the Nerevarine, to be honest. My studies of alchemy and various schools of magic ended up getting put to the side when the prophecy began to manifest, especially with that bastard Vivec's nationwide proclamation. Even after Dagoth was vanquished, it was difficult to study fields that were not already natural to me, as being the Nerevarine comes with certain expectations of proficiency, to say nothing of expectation for Hortator.

Feeling rather confident, I asked Alvor the best local source of raw materials, so that I might be able to continue my practice without taking any more of his time. He confirmed that there was a nearby mine known as Embershard, but it had fallen into disrepair after being taken by bandits a few months ago. I am surprised that the Jarl of Whiterun hasn't taken the opportunity to deploy more of a proper guard force out there if only for the clear material benefit.

Still, after all his help, I felt it appropriate to return the favor, and what better way to repay a smith then allow the metal to flow again? Clearing Embershard proved an easy task, and I even snagged some iron of my own to work with on my way out. Hopefully the intimidation of an entire gang being wiped out in a single evening deters any further attempts at occupation for awhile.

The question remains though, what am I going to do with all this smelted iron weaponry? While my blade right now is nothing spectacular, it is doubtless better than what I can make at the moment. Perhaps I can sell it? I wouldn't exactly be providing work of the highest quality, it might help provide options for the average farmer or merchant during a time where banditry is clearly a massive issue.

[dovahrine]

Day 13 - No, Nerevar guide me

30th of Last Seed, 4e201

I left Dawnstar early this morning with the intent to visit Whiterun. The city seemed pleasant enough, and I was hoping one of the blacksmiths there could teach me the fundamentals of smithing so that I might make my own weapons to compensate for the lack of available higher quality weapons for purchase.

On the way though, I came across a fort. Thinking it to be a garrison of sorts, I entered to see if they had any spare weaponry I could purchase. Unfortunately, it turned out to be occupied by bandits. As Valdimar, Meeko, and I dispatched of them, I was left to wonder how far the state of the war has escalated that bandits are occupying major strategic positions like a fort. I'll need to make certain to be wary of forts in the future.

An interesting encounter in Whiterun: A pro Stormcloak "Chosen of Talos". Perhaps the city is not as neutral as it claims?

The fort ended up taking longer to clear than expected, so by the time I arrived in Whiterun, it was already early evening, and the blacksmiths were closed for the day. With some time to kill, I picked up a bounty to clear out another bandit camp, this time in a nearby mine. These bandits were a bit less intimidating than the entire fort of organized bandits, but it got me wondering why Skyrim seems to have such a bandit problem. Are they displaced by the war, hoping to profit off of the chaos? Still, there's money to be made in it.

One of the bandits did end up throwing me for a loop. It was a Dunmer, a rarity in these bandit gangs, all the moreso given he was a mage. Still, he was yelling at me from a distance about how "Azura curses you!" And "Nerevar guides me!" Which…no, he most certainly doesn't, and she doesn't as far as I know. When attempting to pray to Azura later that night before sleeping, I tried to focus more on my connection to her, to reach some degree of communication. I do not know if it's due to the completion of the prophecy, or the time that has passed, but my connection to her has felt much weaker since returning. Perhaps Azura truly has cursed me for my inaction in protecting her people when Red Mountain erupted, or during this "Oblivion Crisis."...

[dovahrine]

Day 12 - Nightmare

29th of Last Seed, 4e201

In my search for answers about what the "Oblivion Crisis" is, I set out to leave Morthal and check with Dawnstar, given they have an active Daedra problem. Before that though, Jarl Idgrod requested my presence. Apparently I have made enough of a name for myself to earn the title of Thane of Morthal! I'm still not fully sold on this town, given many of it's residents having pretty anti-intellectual mindsets, but I recognize when a local leader is using my presence as a political play, and will take it as such. Plus, I have been granted the service of Valdimar as a steward of sorts. Interestingly, he has volunteered to join me on my journey, clearly the aides to local political figures is a bit more battle oriented. Perhaps most interesting is his abundant use of magic, given Morthal's stance on the town wizard. Still, having someone who can cast ranged destruction magic certainly helps us plenty, given my lack of offensive magic for the living.

Valdimar seems to know a great deal of magic, but unfortunately nothing for cold like this

With my companion in tow, I returned once more to Dawnstar, this time speaking with the priest of Mara who was interested in putting an end to the nightmares in town, Erandur. He claimed that he was a reformed priest of the Daedric Prince Vaermina, and that his former fellows established a place of worship in a nearby temple. While we walked up the nearby hill, he warned that a group of orcs were raiding the temple before the priests released a "miasma" that put all the inhabitants inside to sleep. Apparently because of this, Vaermina's signature artifact, the Skull of Corruption, has started autonomously reaching out and influencing the dreams of the people of Dawnstar.

After fighting through several re-awakened orcs and cultists, we encountered a powerful barrier set up when the Miasma was released. Erandur suggested that we retrieve a special potion that would allow us to walk through dreams to bypass the barrier. I feel like he was very lucky to stumble across someone who is personally familiar with Daedra and with odd manipulation of dreams. If he were to encounter those Vigilants of Stendarr…

Eventually, we were able to find the potion required, which I drank to return to the day of the miasma being released. I was in the body of another, living their history, their words, their actions. It felt oddly familiar. I'm reminded of the dreams I would have when I was undergoing the trials of the Ashlanders, as though I were walking in Nerevar's footsteps.

With the miasma released in the dream, I returned to the present, now on the other side of the barrier. Dispelling it was as simple as moving the soul gem powering it out the receptable.

Finally, we entered the chamber at the heart of the building, with the skull behind yet another barrier. Standing between us and the Skull lay one last challenge: the two head priests of Vaermina, and Erandur's friends. It turned out that the "Casimir" I lived the memories of was actually Erandur, before he revoked his old ways and changed his name. His "friends" weren't supportive of his plan to destroy the Skull(although surprisingly they were completely nonplussed about his renunciation of Vaermina) and we came to blows. Given the likely atrophy of their bodies from their magically induced comas, they were easy to dispatch. Wasting no time to grieve, Erandur moved to dispel the barrier and destroy the Skull, when Vaermina herself spoke to me. She claimed that Erandur was planning to steal the skull for himself, and that I should kill him and take the Skull as my own. But I have seen the eyes of those craving power beyond mortal reckoning, and Erandur did not have those eyes. No one planning treachery like she described would have such deep regret in their gaze. So I simply stood back and let him burn away Vaermina's influence. Certainly, the staff will return somewhere, some time in the future. But for now, Erandur can be free to move on, and Dawnstar can sleep soundly again.

Erandur's Barrier, hopefully banishing Vaermina's influence for good.

[dovahrine]

Day 11 - A bone to pick

28th of Last Seed, 4e201

I have made a grave miscalculation that I am thankful only Meeko witnessed. I marched up to Wolfskull Cave, ready for a tough fight with the two skeletons, only for them to explode in seconds with the slightest strike. Apparently the skeletons of Skyrim are of a much weaker constitution than those in Dunmer tombs. With the guards dispatched, entering the cave revealed a large number of Draugr. Given the burial implements surrounding many of their bodies, I get the impression these are of a different type than the ones on Solstheim, more akin to the bonewalkers than a typical undead monster. Amongst these Draugr were a number of necromancers, foul as ever. The necromancers of Skyrim seem particularly enamored with frost magic, so perhaps I will need to consider this when gearing up for future necromancer hunting. None of them were particularly impressive, at most able to raise the weaker of their fallen companions for a short time. The leaders of this little cabal, though, were up to far more sinister activities.

I haven't seen magic like this before, it seems to be rather powerful necromancy though?

Apparently, the necromancers in charge were attempting to resurrect and bind "Potema, the Wolf Queen". I'm not sure if there's any relation to the name of the cave or not, but I heard her spirit speaking clearly and with great volume, leading me to believe she's a rather powerful spirit, especially given her strong and conscious attempts to resist binding even as she was being summoned.

Nevertheless, I was not about to find out just how powerful she could be, and with a quick scuffle atop the tower the ritual was occupying, her spirit's summoning was interrupted with the death of the three ritual masters. Steward Firebeard was suitably satisfied with my work, and thanked me for my time. After leaving the palace, I decided to slowly make my way to Morthal, arriving shortly before nightfall. Apparently today is some sort of Harvest's End festival today, as the entire town seemed to be out and celebrating together. I briefly considered joining in, but it felt inappropriate to insert myself in on their celebrations like that, so I slipped past the crowd and set up a tent on the edge of town(the inn was closed due to the festivities).

I wonder what harvest is celebrated in Morthal?

While settling in for the night, I came across a group calling themselves "Vigilants of Stendarr" on the hunt for Daedra Worshippers. Very conscious of the fact that I had just finished praying to Azura, I asked them about their order. Apparently they formed after something called the "Oblivion Crisis" to hunt those who seek to endanger the world with Daedra worship. I had many other questions to ask, but they were in a hurry to return to their hall somewhere by Windhelm, so we parted ways.

What in the world is the Oblivion Crisis?

[dovahrine]

Day 10 - In the shadow of Moon and Star

27th of Last Seed, 4e201

A very uneventful day after the slog yesterday, I spent much of the day shopping around at the blacksmith and other merchants in Solitude for a better blade. As I feared, the better weapons are going to the Legion rather than a typical seeming adventurer. And despite my disdain for the Stormcloak rebellion, I don't think it would be best to join the war effort as of right now, if only because my identity could very easily cause more harmful attitudes towards the Dunmer people with the knowledge of their cultural hero defending the perceived enemy.

With the shopping trip a bust, I spent much of the day reading up on the restoration tomes I purchased from Sybille. Surprisingly, she was not only open to the idea of me wanting to slay the undead, but outright enthused at the prospect. After a lot of study and practice, I think I can project some of the same energy I would normally use for healing into a simple (albeit weak) beam of light to burn the undead with. Perhaps it would be good to return to the cave and test the skeletons out front.

I do not know much of Meridia, but she makes for a finer statue than most Daedra.

Having spent the entire day cooped up in the Winking Skeever, I decided to take a nighttime walk before settling down to camp for the night. While wandering around the area, I came across a truly resplendent temple to Meridia, blade in hand. Oddly enough, the temple seems to have been sealed, perhaps due to Daedric meddling akin to that in Dawnstar? I know the world outside of Vvardenfell has a much dimmer view of Daedra in general, but this temple didn't come from nothing.

It's times like this, under the stars in the creeping cold of Skyrim's nights, that these sorts of thoughts plague me. Though some things are the same no matter what province you visit, this province is nothing like the land I came to consider my home those centuries ago, much as Akavir wasn't. And yet, can I truly call it my home anymore? I abandoned them after performing what I considered my duty, only for them to experience an unfathomable tragedy. Could I have done anything to stop it? Or barring that, saved anybody who otherwise didn't make it out?

Tonight will be a restless one, it seems. I wonder, did Nerevar ever struggle with the hypothetical like this? Would he have been better suited to defeat Dagoth Ur?

[dovahrine]

Day 9 - Dark, Darker, yet Darker

26th of Last Seed, 4e201

I finally made my way to the cave that Steward Firebeard requested, only to be immediately deterred by the fact that it's inhabitants felt the need to have not one, but two skeletons guarding the entrance. I don't know what kind of powerful necromancers are working in there to have not one, but two powerful undead exclusively on door guarding duty, but I am absolutely not ready to tangle with that yet. I'll need to talk to Sybille about some spells that can target the undead, although I don't know if that's something she'd be willing to teach, given her condition.

With that option not currently available and Sybille still asleep, I couldn't shake the feeling of unease I felt after finding those arrows yesterday, so I decided to check out the scene of the attack again. I surveyed the area surrounding the bridge the attack took place on, and after expanding my search perimeter a bit and stumbled across a recent campsite, with a journal laid on one of the bedrolls. Apparently, this attack is part of a pattern, with several previous victims torn "limb from limb". They seemed convinced the source of the attacks was a cave nearby, and I unfortunately found their corpses just inside the cave as a confirmation of sorts.

The fire is surprisingly non-subtle, given the nature of these ambushes.

Determined to get to the bottom of this, I went further in with Meeko, and we encountered some very twisted creatures. They looked almost like elves, but they lacked eyes and appeared more…feral? Despite their clear blindness, they were prodigious archers, using the same chitinous arrows I encountered at the wreck. They also seemingly were very invested in poisons, although that could be in part due to the fact that they were raising large insect-like creatures in pens. I've never seen anything like them, they were extremely chitinous and built like a small horse. Their chitin seemed to be the source of the feral elves' weapons and armor.

Once again, I am surprised by the craftsmanship given the apparent blindness of the creators of this equipment.

What followed was a truly grueling trek through a sprawl of damp caves and a glut of poisonous weapons, creatures, and fungi. I am pleased I was able to clear out this group of raiders with minimal difficulty, but these sorts of groups don't form in a vacuum. These…elves, though I hesitate to even classify them as such, had to have come to be this way over an extended period of time, which makes me suspect that there are more of them than I would like to believe. Perhaps I should start looking into potential reports of caravan raids for more of these "Fell-mer" as I think I will call them for now.

Though I have more answers than I started with regarding these creatures, I am still burdened by one other question: Why are they attacking caravans? They aren't stealing any of the resources, even food or weapons, and the corpses I found in pens didn't seem to be designed for slaves. The only inkling I had was there was a single farmer splayed out dead on what was clearly some sort of ritual altar before I disposed of the mage standing by it. The staves the Fellmer had(though they did notably possess natural magical abilities as well) were similarly made of chitin, leading me to wonder if there's some degree of soul trapping at play. Concerning indeed.

[dovahrine]

Day 8 - Unbearable Wealth

25th of Last Seed, 4e201

It took a few more days than I'd care to admit, but on my way back from Rorikstead I finally found a Khajiit Caravan willing to sell skooma, albeit at an exorbitant rate. I'm not one to dabble in illegal drugs, but I feel like 370 drakes for a single serving is a bit steep? In any case, caravan trader who I will not be naming for the sake of some anonymity, you are my hero. This of course took priority over investigating the cave, which will have to wait.

The man of the hour, my new favorite Khajiit merchant.

Finally returning to Jedd the addict, he informed me of the location of the cave and I rushed over, hoping that this fur trader was still alive. Inside were, in fact, a number of standing humanoid bears. Werebears, to be precise. The fight was tough, but thankfully I was able to kill the majority of them before they could finish shifting.

It seems due to the addict's willful unhelpfulness, I was too late for the trader though, as I found his body with naught but a journal and a pristine cut of fur, presumably for a coat. Begrudgingly, I returned to my contractor with the journal and the pelt. Not only did she not remember me, she insisted that she had no use for the fur anymore, as now silk is what's "in". At least she actually paid me my due.

As I settle in for the night though, one thing in particular I encountered today is giving me more pause than the usual fare of bandits I've found myself repelling with increasing frequency. I came across the wreckage of a wagon that had been obviously raided, the body left behind apparently one of a pair, though there was no sign of the second body. That in itself isn't too peculiar, it could have been a sole survivor, or a kidnapping. No, what was concerning was the peculiar arrows I found in significant number that were used in the assault.

One of several arrows on the scene, these were shot with surprising precision from the direction of the river.

Their design is…unique, to say the least. They bear a striking resemblance to a misshapen pair of horns, rather than a singular arrowhead. Despite not having any gift for marksmanship, this design doesn't seem to be a superior design, more a mark of questionable craftsmanship. The craftsmanship is specifically what catches my eye, though. I imagine many of the locals would not recognize this, but these arrows are chitin. I strongly doubt that the wildlife of Vvardenfell was brought over following the eruption of Red Mountain, so clearly this is coming from another source. The question is: where is there a plentiful enough source of chitin to use for something as disposable as arrows, given Skyrim's general climate and non-chitinous wildlife? More concerningly, whoever does have access to this unique material is hostile towards farmers, not soldiers or merchants. Also of note, this doesn't seem to be the work of bandits. The wagon's wares were basically untouched, and there was a shocking amount of blood for what could have been an easy stickup. No, whoever was involved was motivated by something unknown, something more violent. I'll be keeping a lookout for further leads on this as I go forward.

[dovahrine]

Day 7: Surely SOMEONE has skooma around here!

24th of Last Seed, 4e201

What do they even eat?!

The rest of the trip to Whiterun was largely uneventful, though I saw a pair of massive beasts wandering the plains outside the city that were unlike anything I've ever seen. They looked like they were at the very least non-aggressive, but the only creatures I've seen that were anywhere near that big were silt striders, and those were significantly less…stout in their constitution.

Past the beasts, I stumbled across a bandit camp that saw fit to attack me for the intrusion. That fight was probably the first that felt like I've truly been able to hold my own like I used to. It's as though I've been coasting along in my shock. These past few days though, I've truly felt like I've come alive once more. Interestingly enough though, the bandits were guarding a unique treasure of sorts: A blessed forge, with weapons that come alive under the light of the moon. It has me thinking, perhaps I should begin to study working the forge? I've got a good amount of familiarity with the craftsmanship of armor and weapons already from my days of constantly repairing my gear in Vvardenfell, so who's to say I can't extend that into making my own equipment eventually. Plus, with this war going on, I can only imagine the scarcity and price gouging that would make even a Hlaalu councilor blush, and would rather avoid that cost if possible.

After dispatching the bandits, I finally arrived in Whiterun proper. It's an agreeable enough city, albeit clearly on the edge of the war with very vocal camps for both sides. Still, I made my delivery and made sure to check if any skooma was being sold by the shadier merchants for Jedd the Skooma Addict who is still holding out on the information I need. My business concluded, I spent the rest of the day taking the long route back to Solitude. I feel ready to investigate that cave that Steward Firebeard requested of me. I stopped for the night in a charming hamlet that goes by Rorikstead, named after it's founder Rorik. Unfortunately, he was not particularly forthcoming about further information, but apparently he served in the Imperial Legion during the "Great War" I keep hearing mention of. He did confirm that it was fought in Cyrodiil at least in part, and that the Empire effectively lost. That alone is a lot to process, but I no doubt will hear more shocking revelations in time.

Shock aside, the other people of Rorikstead were surprisingly pleasant compared to the majority of my previous meetings with the local population. One man in particular, Erik, caught my attention for his earnest desire for adventure and to see the world. I felt it right to encourage his dream, as he seemed of a good heart and stalwart determination. Sadly, his father was against it in part due to a lack of money. In what may end up a poor financial choice on my part, I gave a sizeable majority of the money I was carrying with me to his father to fund his dream. I hope that young Erik is able to go on to do great things and live to tell the tale to me someday, as he promised. Tomorrow I plan to return to Dragon's Bridge, and clear out that cave.

And maybe finally find some damn skooma! I swear, even now, Caius is laughing at me…