Prologue
Keeping a journal seems pretentious, as though my life is somehow greater than others, but Skyrim is a land in turmoil. Should death find me before I return to Hammerfell, an accounting of my deeds may provide small comfort to my family. Or perhaps this will bring only bitterness and anger over what my loved ones describe as a frivolous pursuit of superstition. Leaving in the dead of night without saying goodbye seemed best.
Home. How long has it been since I strolled the bustling streets of Sentinel or smelled the salty air drifting from the nearby bay? Leaving the comforts of a privileged existence was not a decision made lightly however staying would have been a mistake for I have always sensed a higher purpose to my life. A calling to become more than a nobleman’s daughter or a decoration for a husband to display when convenient. Deep within my soul, a force much greater than myself compels me to seek this higher purpose, a warrior of the Way of the Sword. So I left Sentinel, the only home I ever knew, with nothing but simple clothing and a pouch of gold safely hidden away. Divines guide me.
Chapter One
Journal Entry ~ Tirdas, 10th of Mid Year
Hunter’s Camp, The Pale - Helarchen Creek
I can no longer remain in this camp. Performing my daily rituals has become a point of ridicule to my companions. They do not seem to respect my need for daily prayer and meditation. To make matters worse, the couple fornicates every night despite the fact that I sleep not more than an arm’s length away. Perhaps the shrine of the Lady Dibella to the west influences them in some way. Regardless, I must move on if I wish to prove my worth as a warrior. They would do well to practice discipline and restraint.
This past Fredas I rose at dawn and prayed for the divines to guide me. I left the camp in order to hunt. I needed supplies if I intended to move on. Heading east, I encountered a few wolves. Easily dispatched with clever maneuvering and the use of the surrounding rocks for cover. Further down the road where the trees become denser, I happened upon some frost spiders. Nasty things although not quite as deadly as the assassin beetles of the Alik’r Desert. Their venom may prove valuable one day.
There is a military fort further on, I believe I later learned the name - Fort Dunstad. I kept to the trees to avoid being drawn into the conflict I witnessed. I am well aware of the civil war raging throughout Skyrim but have not yet decided where my allegiance is best served. I shall pray to Julianos for guidance in this. On my way back to the camp, I encountered a Stormcloak patrol who suggested I travel to Windhelm to join the cause. I will keep this in mind.
My hunt provided the skins I needed to craft a bedroll and traveling cloak. Skyrim is infinitely colder than Sentinel despite the season. I left the raw meat to my hunter companions as payment for the use of their camp. Thogrid, the smithy in Helarchen Creek, allowed me access to his equipment. He is a kind man although I feel his motives may, at times, be suspect. I’d be a fool to dismiss the way he looks at me. Still, I owed him thanks for his generosity so I purchased a bundle of steel arrows.
On Sundas, I journeyed north to Dawnstar. Resting by the shore as I look beyond the ships to the Sea of Ghosts, I am reminded of the salty sea air of Iliac Bay. While Dawnstar is not as grand as the port in Sentinel, it does still tug at my heartstrings. I miss home at times like this but my resolve cannot be shaken. While keeping to myself, I wandered along the shore until I came upon the Mortar and Pestle. Having used my meager supply of healing potions, this seemed as good a time as any to stock up. Frida, the herbalist, is a gentle soul. She wove a romantic tale of her life as a young woman and told me of the loss of a precious ring belonging to her deceased husband. She is not capable of retrieving this prized possession but I am more than willing to do this for her. After all, is it not my intention to perform good deeds, to be a warrior of virtue?
The following day, I ventured toward Shrouded Grove to retrieve Frida’s ring. I met a traveling bard, Talskar the Wanderer he called himself. We wandered the road together and he regaled me with stories of his adventures. His craft, I learned, is taught at a college in Solitude. I made a note to seek out this Bard’s college. What better place for research?
Divines forgive me for my misguided hubris. In hindsight, I am grateful Frida never ventured out to reclaim this Ring of Pure Mixtures as she called it. I did not expect these so-called ice wolves to be fiercer than any other wolf. I was wrong as much as it pains me to admit. It did not help that they were somehow influenced by a particularly angry spriggan. I barely escaped with my life. Stripping out of my armor in a secluded spot at a nearby lake, I stepped into the icy waters and gasped at the prickling and painful cold. As I submerged my body to clean off the blood, the discomfort intensified as the frigid water touched the wounds I sustained. No less than you deserve, pitiful fool.
I spent that night sleeping on the frozen ground with a small campfire to keep the chill at bay. The following morning armed with a newfound respect for nature and my pride appropriately chastised, I cautiously made my way back to Dawnstar.
Frida was grateful for the return of her ring and offered a lesson in alchemy, but the true lesson for me was in practicing discipline, something I neglected to remember from my teachings in Sentinel. Frida also offered to tend my wounds but I declined. This is a penance I feel I must pay for my arrogance.
That afternoon I took the pelts from the wolves along with some leftover branches and crafted a hide shield. Until I was capable of crafting a worthy sword, this would have to do. The Nord blacksmith in Dawnstar, Rustleif was his name, encouraged my efforts, admiring my work as “not bad for an apprentice smith.” I offered payment for the use of his forge but he refused. “Surely there is some way I can repay you,” I asked. In the end, I agreed to locate a book of Redguard lore called Night Falls on Sentinel for his pregnant wife Seren who hails from Hammerfell.
After taking a couple of jobs from the notice board outside the Windpeak Inn, I decided to spend the evening there and get a decent night’s sleep in an actual bed. Thoring, the innkeeper, assured me the nightmares do not seem to bother travelers. I do not understand what this means but I smile, buy some provisions for my trip (including a map), and secure a room for the night. Settling down at a table away from other patrons, I cannot help but overhear the townspeople entreating a priest of Mara to assist with these waking nightmares. Perhaps, if I should find myself in Dawnstar again, I can help in some way. However, tonight I will eat a hearty meal and meditate before I sleep. In the morning, I head south in search of rare books.
