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Loredas 22nd of Last Seed, 4E 201
This morning I did some trading in Riverwood before returning to White Run to purchase Breezehome. Having done that, Lydia and I went to the house to unload my book collection and some unneeded foodstuffs. Afterward, I decided to look into a sword that I had read about in one of my books. Apparently, this Red Eagle's Sword was hidden somewhere in the Reach between Rorikstead and Markarth. So Lydia and I set off on the road in that direction to see what we could dig up.

We had nearly reached the location where I had marked Red Eagle's tomb on my map when we came across an abandoned cottage infested with Skeevers. We killed off all of the Skeevers outside and inside the house. Apparently this Lund fellow was a real nut. It looked like he had been feeding the Skeevers, judging by the chicken and pheasant breasts placed on dishes on the floor. But this guy had a Skeever head mounted on the wall as well. A favorite pet, maybe? I wonder what this guy's deal was. But we took what provisions were left in the house and had lunch before we got moving again.

Since we were pretty close to the tombs now, I decided to take a shortcut over the hillside to walk directly to the spot marked on my map. This was probably a bad idea, since I came upon not one but two Sabre Cats on the way and ended up having to use quite a few of my healing potions to recover. In the meantime it seems like I've passed up the tomb and we'll have to retrace our steps and come up on the tomb from the south side.
End of Journal

Lydia's Notes
Unfortunately the tombs were overrun with the Forswarn. We made some good progress invading the camp, but Jello walked straight into an ambush and was killed in battle, bravely retreating, with a Forswarn arrow in his back.

Patrolling in a bandit cave was a wearying, tedious job, but Fjolta knew her other options were pretty much nonexistant for now. So she persisted, following orders flawlesly and pocketing every Septim she could get away with. She wasn't fond of the betrayal, but they weren't very nice people anyway, and she probably would have done a lot worse to them, if saw a way to get out of here faster.

Unfortunately, she didn't have many opportunities to filch gold, and she had no other route to escape. So here she was, six months in, still stuck patrolling the same unchanging cave, nowhere close to making her fortune, with nothing to do but brood.

She was right in the middle of a good long sulk when she was hit by the arrow. She came out of it right quick.

Nobody was there. She hadn't heard a twinge of movement, hadn't seen a thing. If it weren't for the arrow in her side, she would never have noticed anything. She grabbed at the wound, wincing, and looked around.

Whoever was shooting her wasn't going to stop. She stayed where she was, he'd keep shooting at her until he killed her, and she'd never even see him. She couldn't go get help, though, since the bandit clan would kill her themselves if she left a guard post with an enemy lurking around.

Nothing for it. Little as she wanted to, as painful as it would be, she had to go search for the skulking enemy. Still clutching at the arrow in her side, she pushed herself off the chair she was using for support, drew her weapon, and started to look.

She came up blank, and started to get truly scared. The room was too small to have many good hiding spaces, and too well-lit to offer many concealing shadows. If her opponent could hide here, what could she ever do against him?

She cast one last look around the room, and abandoned the search. It was futile, anyway, and she had one last trick to try. She'd thought it preposterous when the bandits had first told her about it, but then, she'd also been confused about how anybody could ever fail to see somebody shooting at them.

However rediculous it sounded, it was worth a try. She relaxed as best she could, marched to the center of the room, announced "Well, I guess it was a figment of my imagination!", and listened.

It worked. There was a quiet laugh from one of the hallways. Fjolta smiled, and turned towards the sound. Finally, she had a chance against him. The secret weapon had worked.

23rd of Last Seed, 4E 201:

The last few days have been quite eventful. Considerably more than I expected them to be, in fact.

As planned, the first thing I set out to do was return the Golden Claw to Lucan. He thanked me profusely and paid me 600 gold for a job well done.

Next, I journeyed back to Whiterun to give the Dragonstone to Farengar. When I arrived, I immediately noticed that he was not alone; he was with a woman dressed in Leather Armor, her face partially hidden by a hood. I didn't need to see her face to know who she was... She was Delphine, the innkeeper in Riverwood. I wasn't quite certain what an innkeeper would want with a stone depicting ancient Dragon burial mounds, but I didn't question her motives.

Just as I was about to inquire about my reward, the Jarl's Housecarl came charging into the mage's workspace. Panting, she informed both Farengar and myself that a Dragon had been sighted nearby. We were to come and see the Jarl that very moment. There was, after all, no time to lose.

The Jarl was waiting for us upstairs. A rather winded guard filled him in on the details of the situation: he had been at the tower, scanning the tundra when he and the others had heard the roar from above. They looked up to see a Dragon circling the tower. This guard had been sent to alert Whiterun.

My intestines had tied themselves in a knot. Somehow, I knew what the Jarl was going to request before he said it... I had to go with the guards and Irileth to slay the Dragon before it could attack Whiterun. My heart had jumped into my throat and I was finding it a touch difficult to breathe; fear gripped me with its cold hand and it did not want to let go. The Jarl believed that I had more experience with Dragons because I had survived Helgen... Oh, he did not know how wrong he was.

There was no choice; I could not maneuver myself out of fighting the Dragon. I did the only thing I could and went with the guards to fight the beast. With some amusement, I noted that the guards were just as nervous as I was. Perhaps even more so.

The battle itself was long and intense. I recall -quite clearly- the fire raining from the sky, the guards screaming as its heat charred their flesh... The crunch of armor and bone as the Dragon's jaws closed around the body of one especially unfortunate guard. I fought desperately alongside the guards to bring down the beast. Eventually, we did it.

Something very curious happened as I approached the Dragon: it started to burn. I could only watch, paralyzed with curiosity, as a bright ribbon of light flowed out of the burnt skeleton and into... Me. I really cannot describe the feeling of absorbing a Dragon's soul. Or my reaction when I realized that I was Dragonborn.

Imagine that: an Argonian as an ancient Nordic hero. I was in a very strange position. Very strange. It was one that I really didn't know how to handle.

Anyway, as I was returning to Whiterun to inform the Jarl of our success, a thunderous shout echoed from the Throat of the World...

"Dovahkiin!"

... The ground itself shook with the force of the call. I was startled (again), but I continued into Whiterun and back to Dragonsreach. After the Jarl received my news that the Dragon had been defeated, he launched himself into a very long speech about the Greybeards. In the end, he named me Thane of Whiterun. I was honored.

Of course, this just left my pilgrimage to High Hrothgar. I planned on taking the long route around: I would first head to Riften and then, from there, make my way to Ivarstead. It would give me more time to collect alchemy ingredients and animal hides. I needed both to work on my smithing and alchemy.

The journey itself was, for the most part, rather ordinary. I was assaulted by bandits and wildlife, and I managed to collect plenty of ingredients. However, I witnessed a group of Vampires attacking Shor's Stone when I passed through the place. Usually they hid in caves, away from civilization. That sort of behavior wasn't normal for them. At least there were no casualties in the small mining town.

There were no more Vampire attacks during my journey. I did meet a member of the Thieves Guild in Riften, though. A man named Brynjolf. He was trying to recruit me. I refused; there was no way that I would join a ragged bunch of thieves. I earned my gold honestly. I would not stoop so low as to steal for a living. It was easy to make gold the honest way, and I was certain I would never step away from that.

As I was about to exit through the gate on the other side of Riften, one of the guards spoke and told me he had seen a Dragon fly off to a mountain nearby. While I wasn't exactly eager to fight against another Dragon, I was curious to see if what he said was true. I ran off to the mountain specified - a place called Lost Tongue Overlook- and spotted the Dragon that was there.

He was perched on an ancient Nordic Word Wall like the one in Bleak Falls Barrow. The beast couldn't see me from his position, but I knew that I would be spotted if I tried to approach the Wall. My best shot was to notch and arrow into my bow and fire at the Dragon from the side. If it worked, I could get his attention and lure him away from the Wall. I launched an arrow at the Dragon. Just as I expected, it lured the great beast off of the Wall... But it started a furious exchange of arrows and frost.

Ultimately, I won the battle. Though only just. The Dragon's frost chilled my blood and slowed my reactions; it was difficult dodging his attacks and I had to rely upon magical healing in order to retain enough strength to bring him down.

When the Dragon's soul had merged with my own and when I had learned the Word of Power that the Wall held, I set back off for Ivarstead. From there, I crossed the bridge and climbed the 7000 steps.

High Hrothgar was an ancient stone fortress perched upon the mountain. The snow was blowing all around me as I approached the doors. I was a little apprehensive as I opened the bronze doors; I just didn't know what to expect.

Upon entering, I was greeted by four old men. Only the first one -Arngeir- spoke.
He had me do various tests and lessons with the rest of the Greybeards. They lasted a few hours. Once everything was done, he told me I was ready for my final test: to retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller from his tomb. Ustengrav. All the way in Hjaalmarch.

Well, it would have to wait. I'm in Ivarstead again now and I'm going to rest for the night. Once I've had enough sleep, I'll set off for Ustengrav.


Screenshots:
The Dragon
Mirmulnir
The Dragon's Soul
Force
Traveling to Riften
Lost Tongue Overlook
Dragon's Death
7000 Steps
High Hrothgar

The Bee and Barb was quiet when Amara awoke. The Dunmer sat up and swung her legs over the edge of her rented bed. She listened intently for a few seconds, but the only sound she could hear was the snoring of another patron, muffled by the solid wooden door.

She reached for the fur armor she had left on the chair beside the bed and began to dress. The worn fur gear clung snugly to her body, fitting her tall, slender frame like a glove.

Amara slid of the bed and knelt to shove her backpack underneath it. Leaving her belongings in an unlocked room inside some inn she barely knew was not something she liked, but on this night, it was unavoidable.

The dark elf pulled a hood over her long, shaggy black hair and tiptoed to the door. She pushed the handle down and slowly opened it, inch by inch. The hinge liked to creak, she had found out that much before going to bed. Azura chose to smile on her, though, and the door opened noiselessly, allowing Amara to slide through without being heard.

It was dark out in the hall, as the candles had burned down and had not been replaced. The dark suited her; she had meant to slip out unnoticed, and any ray of light would have increased the chance of failure.

Her red eyes scanned the hall and settled on a nearby door. The door stood slightly ajar, and Amara froze in her tracks.

Could he hear her?

The room was Faendal's; she had rented it for him with some of the last gold coins she owned, only a few hours ago. The wood elf had been her traveling companion for the last weeks and was, so far, the only person in Skyrim whom she genuinely considered a friend.

He was also the last person whom she wanted to notice her nighttime excursion.

Amara tiptoed to the door of his room and held her pointed ear against the crack. The peaceful sound of regular breathing reached her ear, and she suppressed a sigh of relief.

He's asleep.

She quietly tiptoed over to the ladder which led down to the main room of the inn. Lying flat on her belly she peered down.

From her vantage point she could see the door and the back of a patron whose head was lying on the table, next to an overturned tankard and a puddle of spilled liquid. Judging from the mead scent reaching her nose, he had likely passed out from drunkenness.

Amara craned her neck further and could spot the counter. Behind it sat the Argonian male who had been serving drinks earlier in the afternoon. He sat with his arms propped up on the elbows and the head resting against his palms. His partner, the innkeeper, was nowhere in sight.

The Dunmer drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Getting down the ladder without alerting the bartender would be difficult. She sat up in a crouch, raised her hands to channel her magicka, and whispered an incantation. A soft blue glow emanated from her gloved palms, engulfing her body and shading her in a bluish hue. The spell was designed to silence the movements of the caster, and Amara hoped that it would help descending the ladder in silence. She drew another deep breath and started to move.

She lowered her right leg down to the next rung, felt carefully with her foot until she had found a firm step, and then, slowly and carefully, lowered the weight of her body onto the leg. Then she repeated the process: left leg down one rung, slowly inch down her weight. The ladder indulged her antics without so much as a sound, and she began to relax.

I will make it.

A giddy flash of pride flushed through her mind as she lowered her leg onto the last rung. Just one more step, and she would be down on the floor safely-

The ladder gave a moaning creak which echoed through the silent tavern like the call of a battle horn.

Amara froze in shock. She clung to the ladder and tried not to move. Then, slowly, she turned her head to look towards the counter.

She fully expected to see the Argonian staring at her, to hear the lizard-man's raspy voice asking her what she was up to. To her astonishment, he had not reacted to the noise. She watched him for a few seconds and saw his head slide of his propped-up hands and nod downwards until his chin came to rest on his chest. The realization dawned on her that he was as fast asleep as his drunken patron.

This time she could not hold back a relieved sigh.

Amara tiptoed to the door. Her gloved hand reached for the handle, and she slowly inched the door open. Once the crack was large enough she slid out.

The air outside was cold, and the elf regretted immediately that she had neglected to bring along her cloak. But then, a cloak would only serve to hamper her movements, and she could not afford such a hindrance on the errand she was about to perform.

She did her best to ignore the cold and began looking out for the guards. There were two nearby, both of whom carried torches and were easy to spot in the dark. Amara stayed crouched in the shadows near the door of the tavern, observing them. She noticed with relief that the two seemed to follow the same patrol routes as their daytime counterparts.

The elf waited until both guards turned their backs towards her. Then she began to run, crouched down, over the bridge, and left towards the stairs that led down to Riften's canal. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead; the effort to maintain a balance between speed and stealth began to take its toll.

She did not stop until she had reached to canal and was safely crouched in the shadows, out of sight of the guards who only patrolled the upper level of the city. Safe from prying eyes, she pulled her hood down and wiped the sweat from her face. The cold night air cooled her face as she unhooked a waterskin from her belt and drank a few sips. Getting down there had been a challenge, but if the observations she'd made during the afternoon hours were correct, the rest of her mission would be much easier.

She returned the waterskin to her belt and pulled her hood back up. Her red eyes scanned the darkness ahead. Nothing moved, and she slowly began to inch out of the shadows and towards her destination.

Riften's canal ran through the city, an area of standing water in the shape of a horseshoe. She had descended the stairs at one end of the horseshoe. Her destination lay at the other end.

She began to follow the canal, remaining crouched in the shadows, her back towards the wall of the buildings. Her ears strained for the footsteps of the guards patrolling the city's upper level. Twice she stopped, her back pressed against the wall of the buildings, melting into the shadows, until the guard above had walked past. They were easy to hear; even though the city guards wore light armor, they made no attempt at stealth and were easy to hear even from a distance.

No wonder the Thieves Guild prospers here, a distant part of her mind observed.

She shook her head to clear out the distracting thoughts and slowly inched around the bent of the canal. In front of her a fire burned, and she stopped dead in her tracks. Her red eyes squinted into the light, and after a few seconds she could make out what obstacle had placed itself in her way.

Two women had lit a fire in a wooden barrel in an attempt to evade the cold of the night. Judging from their attire, Amara guessed that they were wenches, looking to sell their bodies to any bidder willing to pay their price. She hadn't expected to run into such women; when she had scouted out the area during the afternoon hours, they hadn't been there.

The women had not noticed her yet, and she stayed in the shadows and observed. For a moment she pondered going back and looking for another route to her target. Then she thought of the guards and their patrol routes and realized that there was no other way.

The women ahead on the wooden walkway by the canal were clearly in the earlier stages of drunkenness. Amara watched as a bottle of wine passed back and forth between the two.

But were they drunk enough to miss her slipping by?

Only one way to find out, she thought grimly.

Slowly, cautiously, she moved forward. Her eyes remained fixed on the two women ahead.

I should learn to brew an invisibility potion.

Slowly, step by step, she inched closer, until she reached the walkway leading over the canal and to the stairs which led up to her destination. She followed the walkway, keeping her eyes locked on the two women until she reached a shadowed patch near the stairs which gave her cover.

Done.

She crept up the stairs. As her head drew level with the ground of the city's upper level, she peered out, looking for the guards. There was one of them, standing at the usual guard post near Riften's back entrance. She turned to look over her shoulder. No other guards in sight.

Amara swiftly moved up the rest of the stairs and crept through the dark towards the door of a house which was standing ahead. In the dark of night she could not read the metal letters hung over the door, but she had been there during the afternoon and thus knew perfectly well the two words they spelled.

Honorhall Orphanage.

The elf reached for the door and tried the handle. She hadn't expected the door to be unlocked and had to stifle a gasp of surprise as the door gave way. Contrary to words spoken earlier in the day, her intended target had not locked the door.

The dark elf slipped inside and silently closed the door behind her. It was quiet inside, the only sounds the ones of slow, rhythmic breathing.

Amara's red eyes stared at a closed door ahead. It had stood open during her afternoon visit, and she'd seen a bed inside the room. She sneaked forward, pausing at a doorway to her left. She cautiously peered around into the large room serving as dormitory for the orphans living in the house.

The nearest bed was occupied; Amara could see a small, frail-looking body tucked in under the sheets. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she could make out more children, sleeping peacefully in their beds.

No witnesses, she thought.

Two more steps took her to the door. She slowly pulled it open and slid inside the room.

Even though it was dark inside the building, the only light coming from a lone lantern still burning on a table outside, she could sense the presence of another being.

A being that could wake up any moment and set Oblivion on her for trespassing.

Trespassing will be the least of your worries.

She crept closer; before striking, she would have to make sure the person in the bed was indeed her intended target. The elf positioned herself next to the bed. She raised her hand and whispered a short incantation.

The healing spell had no effect on her uninjured body, but the bright blue light of the magicka discharge was enough to light up the face of the sleeping person. She could make out dark hair and a young, smooth face.

The Dunmer backed away immediately. She was in the wrong room.

Amara backed out of the room, closing the door silently behind her. Then she turned her attention to the dormitory. There was another room, on the other side of the dormitory. She had seen her mark disappear there during her afternoon visit, and she suspected that old Grelod would sleep there.

She began her slow march through the dormitory, stopping at every sound, every stir of one of the children. Sweat began to form on her face again, and she stopped to wipe it off. It took her minutes to cross the room.

Peering around the corner, she could see that this time, she was in the right place. Light from a candle on the bedside table lit the face of her intended victim. She could see gray hair, still bound in a knot at the back of the head, and the winkled skin of an old woman.

The Dunmer inched closer until she was crouched next to the bed. The sleeping woman stirred and rolled onto her back. Candlelight shone on her face, illuminating her features.

Amara hesitated for a moment. Her tongue came out of her mouth, moistening her dry lips. She had been sure of her plan when she had left the Bee and Barb, but now that she was standing over her target, her resolve began to crumble.

A shiver ran through her body as two parts of her mind began to argue with each other.

They'll throw you in prison.

No one saw me go in.

This is different from slaying bandits.

She deserves to die.

She is helpless.

So are the children she mistreats.

It's still murder.

Murder isn't always wrong.

She hovered near the bed, indecisive, silently arguing with herself. All sense of time and space had left her, and minutes passed withouth her noticing.

Suddenly, a loud whimpering noise came through the door from the dormitory, the sound of a child crying out in its sleep. Amara snapped out of her mental paralysis. The argument in her head condensed into one sentiment.

She deserves to die.

Amara's body moved as if on its own. Her hands came up to chest height as her mouth formed a whispered incantation.

Magicka pulsed in the air, its magical energy manifesting, solidifying itself, until it froze into the shape of a sword. Her fingers closed around the magical blade as if on their own volition. Her right arm flew back and then brought the tip of the sword forward, into the body of the sleeping old woman.

A horrible gasp escaped the woman's mouth. Frightened by the sound Amara let go of the conjured sword, flung herself over the bed and groped for the old woman's face. Her gloved hands found her victim's mouth and clamped down hard, muffling the sounds she made.

The woman's body jerked in a spasm. Amara held on fast. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the conjured blade flicker and go out. Crimson liquid began to flood out of the hole it had made in the old woman's body.

The victim suddenly went limp in Amara's grasp. The dark elf scurried off the bed, narrowly avoiding contact with the blood that seeped into the linens. She pressed her gloved hands to her mouth, muffling her ragged breathing.

Pull yourself together and get out of here!

She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. With careful movements she inched towards the door and peered out into the dormitory.

The children were still sleeping. Amara strained her ears and allowed herself a small sigh of relief when she realized that the orphanage was as quiet as it had been when she had entered.

She crept back through the dormitory, fighting her urge to make a mad dash for the front door. The way back out of the orphanage seemed to take an eternity. Hours seemed to pass until she finally crouched in front of the door. For some irrational moment she feared that the door would somehow be locked, keeping her locked in with her crime, until the guards arrived to drag her off to jail. She suddenly felt afraid to turn the handle.

After staring at the door for a few seconds, she raised a trembling hand and timidly pushed the handle. It gave way, just as it had done when she had entered the building, and she pulled open the door and slid out of Honorhall Orphanage.

It was still cold outside, but she now welcomed the cool night air. A chilly breeze hit her face almost like a slap of a hand. It sobered her up instantly.

She made her way back to the stairs down to the canal, past the wenches, who were now seriously drunk and in no condition to notice anything going on around them, and along the canal to the stairs just opposite the tavern. Now all she would have to do was slip inside and return to her bed.

She crept up the stairs and backed into the shadows next to the nearest building, waiting for the guards to pass. Her frayed nerves began to regain the upper hand again, and an irrational fear began to settle on her.

What if the guards have changed their patrol routes?

She bit her lip, forcing herself to stay in her hiding spot to let the guards pass. In spite of her fears, Riften's city guard worked like a clockwork, the guards sticking to their designated patrol routes with precision. Within minutes both guards in the area had their backs turned and walked away from her hiding spot.

She slid into the Bee and Barb without the guards noticing. The inside of the bar looked almost exactly as it had been when she had left; the Argonian was still sitting asleep in his chair behind the counter, and the only difference was the drunken patron in the chair by the wall, who had by now slid his cheek into the spilled mead.

Amara crept up the ladder towards the first floor. Again the rung creaked. The dark elf froze, listening for any sounds. When none came she pulled herself up to the floor and hurried towards her room.

Inside she took off her armor and inspected it in the candlelight. She was fearing to find bloodstains which would give her away as the killer, but she could not find even the tiniest drop of blood on the fur.

Satisfied, she folded the fur armor and placed it neatly back on the chair next to the bed. Then she slid under the bedsheets. She would have to act her part tomorrow, so that nobody would suspect her being connected to the killing. In some distant corner of her mind a feeling of dread began to form, the realization that Faendal might suspect her.

She pushed the sentiment firmly back to where it had come from. Whatever the consequences of her decision, she would deal with them in the light of day. For the time being she only wished to sleep.

If the family outing was ever going to take place, the weather would have to be cleared, it was snowing, and visibility was next to nothing. Ursula decided to kill two birds with one stone. Go to sell some of her extra junk, and then head out to clear the storm.

She went to the marketplace. First stop was the blacksmith. Ursula overheard the apprentice fawning over Ulfric again. Ursula is not quite sure what the young woman was so fascinated about, Ulfric is just a man. People are so attracted to power, it’s a survival mechanism, so I guess this is to be expected that a man like Ulfric would be adored by a young naïve female.
She had to get back to the task at hand. Several merchants later and all the junk was sold

Ursula then headed to the stable to deliver the shout she was planning. Approaching the west gate, and then climbing the nearby stairs, she looks towards the Harbor and delivers the Clear Skies shout. A nearby guard gives Ursula a scolding about shouting in town. Blah, blah, wink, wink. Everyone knows those blessed/cursed with the Voice can be dangerous, so tread lightly. In mere moments the sun was shining. Ursula made it back to Hjerim, and by then, the weather was perfect. She gathered Sophie and Lucia. Everyone was ready to go, that was unusual. Vorstag and Calder had all of the gear ready, so everyone headed off for a day of fishing and flower collection.

Watching Sofie line fishing was reminiscent of Ursula’s days as a girl. Uncle Ulfric taught her the best places near Windhelm to fish and hunt. He was like a big brother, protective and wise and had just enough mischief in him to make their adventures interesting too.

At the waterside, Calder was on high alert; a bear was spotted sniffing the air. Perhaps it planned to steal the Salmon they had caught. With expert stealth and precision the bear was dispatched by Calder. The girls had no idea the group was being stalked, no reason to ruin their fun by telling them.
Vorstag helped bring in the catch and Ursula watched the family with pride and love.

The tight-knit group returned to the home-fires to warm themselves with flame and drink The outing went better than expected. Salmon was on the menu for the next few days.

Drifting off to sleep, Ursula turned her thoughts to Calder, helping him with his problem would have to be a priority soon. She would keep that in the back of her mind as she did her “work” for Ulfric.
At breakfast Sofie and Lucia were still talking about the day before, examining the insects and plants they had collected.
Soon it would have to be back to business for Ursula. Ulfric was expecting her at the Palace. The outing went better than expected. Salmon was on the menu for the next few days.

Today was the day.
We've done what our emperor, our general, and our legates set us out to do.
I write here next to the smoldering embers of a once-lively home, once filled with songs of freedom, and the laughter of childhood innocence.

Draconarius is still stained with his blood, and his men before him, bravely and blindly standing at his defense, all in hope that their gods would redeem them in Sovngarde.
Today I have killed. Not in the name of the gentle, hidden facade of war, but this time in its true name: I have sinned in cold blood, I have killed a man who gave an oppressed people hope that they can wake up and see the flag of their forefathers on their city gate, and graciously, in the back of their mind, think: "I am a part of something greater."
His blood on that foul gladius is nothing more than a hideous badge I can only do the honor of carrying my entire lifetime.

Afterward Tullius' words were just a dark haze over a sea of confusion, all my preconceived ideas of the earth so readily dispersing through the corpse of another man. The Divines have abandoned me, as I have to them. As I walked along the stonewalls I clutched my Amulet of Akatosh and threw it into the river... I have seen no mercy this day, and the true monsters here are far greater than some footsoldiers defending their pack leader.
No, the true monster today is Arkay, the god of man has shone no mercy upon this Nordic town, and has instead given it to those less deserving, those who wish to sit upon their thrones and play god while the real men do their dirty work.
No no, the true monster is the emperor. His political blight can no longer be a curse upon this earth, and the wretched colds of this land.
He will feel the pain of a child's lost love, of a brother's forgotten warmth, of a husband's bygone comfort.
He will no longer play god.

Be joining the Dark Brotherhood to take the Emperor down?

Ursula needed to get going, she dressed in fur armor, attached the dagger of paralysis to her belt and left Hjerim. She had a meeting at the Palace with Ulfric.

Just outside her house, she ran into a messenger. A surge of adrenalin shot through her this is almost never good news, she thought. Looking at the messenger with curiosity, he read her mind and said to her, “nope, nothing.” She was relieved. Ursula would have to stop getting so tense when she saw a messenger. The news was not always for her, and maybe someone had not actually died for a change.

Ursula proceeded to the palace to meet with Ulfric. Finding him on the throne was not a surprise, but he saw her approach and quickly got up. Ulfric met her and said, “We need to talk in private, follow me.” Ursula followed as they went to his quarters. “What is this about?” Ursula asked. “I have a letter I want you to read, and then deliver it to Mralki in Rorikstead”, said Ulfric. Ursula stashed the letter into her satchel. Ulfric continues, “take my horse, and if you see any Thalmor on the way, save any Nord prisoners and put those Elf [&@%!] in the ground!”

In many ways, this seemed like an easy assignment, except for the Thalmor bit.

Returning home to gather her equipment, she dreaded telling the family she would have to leave again for awhile. Ursula approached Vorstag. “Well I have been to the palace and unfortunately I need to leave soon for Rorikstead. There is a letter I need to deliver to a guy named Mralki.” Vorstag seemed agitated, “how long do you think it will be?”
“I have no idea, but Ulfric told me to read the letter and then deliver it” She pulls the letter from her bag and reads it aloud. “My favorite girl Urs, I must disclose to you the real reason for this journey to Rorikstead, you are to meet your half-brother Erik. He is to begin his training for the Army. Teach him what I have taught you, and he will become invaluable to us.”

Ursula was amazed by what she had just read. Ulfric would need to explain, as far as she knew she was the only child of Thor and Helena. They had lived in Winterhold before the disaster there. Ursula tells Vorstag, “well this is quite a shocker, what other things do I not know about?” Vorstag pondered, yep still not a good time to tell her what He and Calder had been up to.

Vorstag says. “Well my love, I will miss you. Will you be taking Calder as a bodyguard?” “No, I plan to see if Stenvar is available, Calder has his hands full here, with you three.” Ursula smiles at Vorstag and gives him a juicy kiss and bear hug.


Page 3.

At the top of the hill stood a fort. Pines rose around it, and snow lay alongside; behind, the mountains continued their rise, up and up, touching the sky.

He had been searching for this place, this Helgen. From the time he had come to this land, he had heard of war activity here.

He shifted his backpack further onto his back, and took a step closer.

A roar ripped through the air, shaking the ground and the trees, and he stumbled back in shock and caution. A great black shape rose from the grey blocks of the fort, obsidian wings flaring, their shadow covering the man-made place. He took another step back, his eyes fixated on the creature as it flew over him, past him. Air rushed in its wake, further stumbling him back and swaying the trees like a storm-blown wind. He spun and watched the beast fly off towards a bleak ruin in a distant mountain.

A dragon. It was impossible and absurd and it has to start listening and genuine.

He gaped after it, far longer than was wise, but he couldn't seem to turn his back on that unbelievable fact: he had seen a dragon.

And it had come out of Helgen.

He turned again, and peered at the fort. Smoke rose from it, and now that he looked closer, he saw that the towers were crumbled, fallen.

He ran to it, adreneline rushing through him to give him speed. How many were hurt? How many dead?
Surprisingly, the gates stood firm, unburnt, but when he laid a hand on them, he felt heat radiate towards him. Still, he shoved it open, and stared in shock at what lay before him.

He could not get his mind around the fact that the stone looked melted. Burnt and charred in some places, but molten in others. The devastation of the dragon had demolished everything; the timbers smoldered, and he saw corpses everywhere. The sickly sweet, sickeningly appetizing scent of roasted flesh struck him, and he gagged on it.

Pulling his shirt up over his mouth, he walked through the ruins, slow. He doubted that any could live after this, but as witness, he was duty-bound to investigate. Closer to the keep, he saw a body so charred it was nearly ash, and a journal next to it. He knelt, flipping through it; his presence stirred the air, and the corpse crumbled into nothing, as though it had never existed.

He wrapped the journal into his pack, and turned towards the keep; the journal spoke of survivors going through a cave outside of it. There was no way he could go through it now; the roof had caved in on itself. He left the ruined fort, and began searching for an entrance into the cave, for the Hadvar and Ralof mentioned in the writings.

Back into the clean scent of the forest, he stopped, doubled over to gulp in the air. He explored the forested slope outside the fort until he found the cave entrance, a path leading from it down to the settlement of Riverwood. Once inside, he stopped, wary. It was musty, bear and bone-scented. He drew his greatsword and crept forth, finding a pile of antlered bones in a ray of bright sunlight. Further in, he saw no sign of the bear. By a creek and a cart, he found a blond-haired Nord, his body bloody and barely breathing.

"What are you doing here? Are you crazy? Where's Hadvar?" the Nord asked.

Looking around, he saw a red-haired man lying in another pool of daylight, as hurt as the Nord. "You first, Nord." he said.

"We have to get out of here before the cave collapses!" And on cue, there was a dangerous rumbling throughout the cavern. "Do you have a healing potion?" the Nord asked.

Reaching into his pack, he pulled out several. Setting some down for the Nord, he strode towards Hadvar. There was another rumbling, and upwards, motion drew his eye, rock falling, a terrible crashing and screaming. He stared in disbelief, and ignored the Nord's words, rushing to the jumble of rocks. He heaved the looser, smaller rocks aside, blood and gore seeping and coating his hands. Panting, he pulled at another rock, one refusing to budge.

Wedging his sword under it, he shoved, lifting a crack, an opening. Red hair and red blood, Hadvar's face crushed beyond recognition. Blood so thick it was a pool, a red pool, spreading, weeping through the rocks, tears weeping down his face. Shallow breath the only sign of life, and nothing, nothing that could be done about it.

The cave was rumbling again, the Nord yelling from the entrance; no choice, no redemption but to leave Ralof to die, no chance to give him a quick death.

The sword cracked from the strain, and he yanked back, the rocks thudding a barrow around the unfortunate Nord.

Fleeing from the collapsing cave, he broke into snowy sunshine like a veil out of the dark and bloody underground. He was gasping, and bent double to regain his breath.

Eyes closed, he saw blood and bodies, heard cruel laughter and the crackle of magick and death screams.

Eyes snapping open again, he shook his head to clear it, and reached into the pack. The damnable thief had stolen his rum, but he still had some ale. He swallowed it, long gulps to wash away pain and sorrow and rage.

The blond stood looking at him, dressed in leather. “We have to warn Riverwood.”

He looked down the valley towards the distant mountain. He had been duty bound to investigate the ruin and now he was duty bound to warn the town.

“I am Ralof,” the blond said. He held out the snow-pale hand.

“Kiro,” he said gripping the offered hand with his own dark gold-brown one.

25th of Last Seed, 4E 201:

I was still quite tired when I awoke in Ivarstead, but I knew I had to continue. For one thing, my rent of the bed had expired. I also did not wish to stay in Ivarstead much longer. Hearing Temba complaining about the bears was getting on my nerves.

Once I had placed everything back in my pack, I left the Inn and stepped back onto the road to Riften. It might have been faster for me to travel to Falkreath through the mountains, but I wanted to walk through the volcanic tundra of Eastmarch to harvest some plants; the land was rich with valuable Jazbay Grapes. I didn't have any of them and I wanted to gather some.

From there, I would have to take the road up into the Pale. There was a path that would lead into Hjaalmarch and to Ustengrav. Certainly not the fastest route, but it would provide me with ample opportunity to explore.

It was an incredibly cold walk and, along the way, I found myself exploring a few ruins. The largest of which was a Dwemer ruin by the name of Mzinchaleft. A dank and musty place, the ruin was crawling with Dwemer constructs and Falmer. I was ambushed multiple times by the Falmer. In the darkness, I would swear they could hear my heart pounding in my chest; they had no eyes but they always seemed to know where I was. Incredibly unnerving.

Anyway, I resumed my course after coming out of the bountiful Dwemer ruin. It only took me a few more hours to reach Ustengrav. If I was exhausted before I left Ivarstead, I was dead tired at this point. The closest town was Morthal; if I could go through Ustengrav (preferably before I collapsed), I could rest in Morthal before returning to High Hrothgar.

Of course, I detected some trouble before I even got to the ruin. A necromancer was fighting his own resurrected thralls. It was almost pitiful watching him leap away from the blades of his thralls or sling weak spells at them. I was certain that he was running out of magicka; when he did run out, it would be over. Mages usually weren't that good with a blade and most did not wear armor. This necromancer was no exception.

I watched, from the cover of a bush (there were all sorts of spiders crawling over me. It was very hard to resist the urge to scratch), as the thralls slowly overwhelmed their master. Once he was deceased, the zombies fell to the ground as dead as they originally were.

There didn't appear to be anything else outside, so I took the opportunity and entered the barrow. My ears were battered by the sounds of combat as soon as I opened the door. Evidently the fight that occurred outside was still going on inside. From what I could hear, it sounded like more necromancers fighting their thralls.

I crouched behind a doorway until the closest yells and explosions were suddenly silenced. In the distance, I could still hear the sound of a fight. This one sounded like it was between the mages and Draugr; I could hear the Shouting of the low, growling voices. Lovely. Well, there was only one thing I could do... I really didn't feel like fighting hordes of Draugr and mages, so I stayed hidden until the final Shouts faded away.

Only then did I shift from my position and move further into the barrow. I had to kill many Draugr and get past multiple puzzles, but I did eventually reach the bottom of the barrow. The chamber was huge and had several large Dragon statues rising out of the water. I expected to find the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller here, but... It wasn't. There was no sign of it. Instead, I found a note. It said to meet somebody in Riverwood. They would contact me after I rented the attic room.

To say I was annoyed would probably be an understatement. I ran all the way from Ivarstead to Ustengrav only to find that the Horn had been replaced! It was a waste of time! Grumbling myself, I stumbled to Morthal to get some rest. The only thing that kept me going was my intense fury and the equally strong desire to sleep in a warm bed away from the clicking and chattering of the Chaurus.

I was still fuming when I arrived in Riverwood. Like a good little Dragonborn, I paid the innkeeper for the attic room (she said there was none, but that I could have the room on the left) and then waited. Not long after I entered the room, the innkeeper herself wandered in and handed me the Horn. She told me that we needed to talk, and then requested that I follow her. I did. Mostly out of frank curiosity.

The innkeeper, Delphine, led me down through a secret door and into the basement of the inn. After a brief argument about whether or not I was really the Dragonborn, she informed me that the Dragons were coming back to life. The next one was going to be resurrected at Kynsgrove and I was, apparently, going to kill that Dragon to prove that I really was Dragonborn. If it wasn't one thing, it was another...

I could have ignored her and returned the Horn to the Greybeards. Instead, I opted to travel with Delphine to Kynesgrove. I guess I was more interested in seeing if the Dragons really were being resurrected by something. And, if that actually did prove true (I will admit that I didn't really trust Delphine), what was doing the resurrecting.

On the journey to Kynesgrove, I stayed behind Delphine so I could keep my eye on her. She knew I didn't trust her; her attitude made that perfectly clear. Delphine was sharp and impatient. In return, I found myself being colder than the wind in the Pale. Eventually -thank the Nine- Delphine fell silent.

My eyes instantly shot to the skies the moment we stopped at Kynesgrove. I caught a flash of black in my peripheral vision and blurted out, "Him!" With a hiss, I charged away from Delphine and up the hill.

It was a bit of an odd sight. The great black Dragon that had demolished Helgen was flying in circles over a mound. The mound, the grave of a Dragon, was glowing; a bright light was winding its way up into the air. I sat on a nearby stone and watched.

The black Dragon -whose name I soon found out was Alduin- uttered several phrases in the Dragon tongue. He Shouted once, twice, and the mound burst open. A skeletal wing grabbed onto the edge of the stone and pulled itself out. The Dragon, its flesh rapidly regenerating, looked up to Alduin. They held a short conversation before Alduin turned to look at me; I briefly had the same feeling I had at Helgen.

Alduin called me arrogant for taking the name of Dovah (I didn't take it, thanks very much. It took me). After that, he gave some sort of command to the freshly resurrected Dragon -named Sahloknir. I assumed it was a command to kill and readied myself; my judgement was good, thankfully, and I was prepared as Sahloknir launched himself into the air and attacked.

The battle was another fierce exchange of fire and arrows. Sahloknir launched fire from the sky as Delphine and myself loosed arrows at him from the ground. On those rare occasions when he landed, I rushed in with my blade and slipped it between his scales as many times as I could. It didn't take as long as I thought for Sahloknir to fall. He was, perhaps, still weak from his resurrection. It seemed that it took time for the Dragons to properly regain their strength after being resurrected. If one could be found during that rest period, they could be dispatched easily.

As I absorbed the soul of Sahloknir, I lifted my gaze to meet the very wide eyes of Delphine. She admitted -finally- that I was right and allowed me to ask her some questions. We spoke for quite some time. Delphine informed me that she was one of the last members of the Blades and that she was working to stop the Dragons. In order to do that, she figured she needed to find out what the Thalmor knew about Dragons; for whatever reason, she believed they were responsible. But I knew -because of my Dragon soul- that the Thalmor would not be able to control a Dragon. Alduin was acting on his own.

Delphine rambled on about the Thalmor for a while. When it became clear that she was thoroughly convinced the Thalmor were responsible, I asked her what her plan was. She didn't know yet... But she would have something for the next time we met. After handing me a key to her secret door, Delphine ran off.

I was left with the key in my hand and a very confused expression on my face. Not wanting to meet with Delphine any time soon, I decided that it would be best if I returned the Horn to the Greybeards. So I did.

Arngeir thanked me for returning the Horn. The Greybeards formed a circle around me and, after I was taught the last word for Unrelenting Force, they gave me their 'greeting.'

It was more like being Shouted at. Their combined voices hit me like an enormously powerful gust of wind. The whole mountain shook under our feet and my vision blurred each time they spoke; I had to fight to stay standing.

At least it was over soon enough. I could only nod to Arngeir as I left High Hrothgar; I was too dazed to speak. I actually had to sit on the steps outside of High Hrothgar for a while until I regained full control over my limbs. When I did, I made the journey down to Ivarstead.

I still had no desire to meet with Delphine. She was an arrogant prick and I did not want to spend any more time with her than necessary. As it was, this wasn't going to get anywhere without her... It seemed simple: I would take my time wandering around for a while before returning to Delphine. Perhaps using the excuse of 'Dragon hunting' if she should question me.

Well... I suppose it's time for me to rest. Especially if I'm going to be wandering the wilds for a while.


Screenshots:
The Fire
Blazing Lizard
Krosis

At Hjerim, Ursula awoke in a foul mood, after a fitful night of sleep. The nightmares were of vampire attacks in Solitude, Dragon attacks in Windhelm, and Bandits everywhere.

Vorstag was up and nowhere to be found. Ursula regards her wardrobe and decides, even though she had gone to the market to sell things just recently, she still had far too many items to keep track of. Maybe she would take some of it to Whiterun on the way to Rorikstead. She may need the gold to get more information for Ulfric.

Uncle Ulfric has her spying on the Imperials and the Thalmor. Inside information on the efforts to control the holds is fairly easy to obtain with a little greasing of the palms. The people around Skyrim; the Elves, Khajiiti and Argonians are very susceptible to a smooth tongue and gold. The Nords will spill their guts if given enough Ale, Mead and a good story. Amazing what you can learn at the Inns at night.

Ursula has a natural gift as a sympathetic ear, not needing to say much to get plenty of valuable information.

Considering the letter she was to deliver to Mralki and Erik, Ursula began to question why she had lived in Windhelm since she was a young girl. She does remember, Uncle Ulfric’s father had sent for her and she had been living at the Palace until adulthood.

Ursula remembers being told “Someday you will know the reasons for leaving your parents home in Winterhold, but for now,Windhelm is the safest place for you.” Safest place? Ursula thought, what about all the tasks she has been asked to do now. The battles Ursula has fought for the Palace, how is that “Safest Place?”

The letter started to sink in. A brother, now that was news! She started to gather her thoughts and everything needed for the upcoming journey. Ursula intended to hire Stenvar to help guard her back. He is always willing to go if the pay is good.

After she says her goodbyes to everyone at Hjerim, she heads to Candleharth Hall. On the way she passes a guard who yells “We need to do something about these Vampire attacks.” Then she breezes past Brunwulf Free-Winter who is complaining about the war. As she reaches the Inn, she just misses Torsten Cruel-Sea. The same people day after day, maybe a change of scenery will be good.

Entering the Hall, Ursula looks for Stenvar, there he is across the room. Luaffyn the bard is singing Alduin’s Wings and Captain Lonely Gale makes his way closer to Luaffyn.

Ursula hires Stenvar and they head downstairs to get some ale, bread and butter from Elda Early-Dawn. They would need to hunt the rest of the food on the trip.

At the top of the hill stood a fort. Pines rose around it, and snow lay alongside; behind, the mountains continued their rise, up and up, touching the sky.

He had been searching for this place, this Helgen. From the time he had come to this land, he had heard of war activity here.

He shifted his pack further onto his back, and took a step closer.

A roar ripped through the air, shaking the ground and the trees, and he stumbled back in shock and caution. A great black shape rose from the grey blocks of the fort, obsidian wings flaring, their shadow covering the man-made place. He took another step back, his eyes fixated on the creature as it flew over him, past him. Air rushed in its wake, further stumbling him back and swaying the trees like a storm-blown wind. He spun and watched the beast fly off towards a bleak ruin in a distant mountain.

A dragon. It was impossible and absurd and real.

He gaped after it, far longer than was wise, but he couldn't seem to turn his back on that unbelievable fact: he had seen a dragon.

And it had come out of Helgen.

He turned again, and peered at the fort. Smoke rose from it, and now that he looked closer, he saw that the towers were crumbled, fallen.

He ran to it, adreneline rushing through him to give him speed. How many were hurt? How many dead?

Surprisingly, the gates stood firm, unburnt, but when he laid a hand on them, he felt heat radiate towards him. Still, he shoved it open, and stared in shock at what lay before him.

He could not get his mind around the fact that some of the stones looked melted. Burnt and charred in some places, but molten in others. The devastation of the dragon had demolished everything; timbers smoldered, and he saw corpses everywhere. The sickly sweet, sickeningly appetizing scent of roasted flesh struck him, and he gagged on it.

Pulling his shirt up over his mouth, he walked through the ruins, slow. He doubted that any could live after this, but as witness, he was duty-bound to investigate. Closer to the keep, he saw a body so charred it was nearly ash, and a journal next to it. He knelt, flipping through it; his presence stirred the air, and the corpse crumbled into nothing, as though it had never existed.

He wrapped the journal into his pack, and turned towards the keep; the journal spoke of survivors going through a cave outside of it. There was no way he could go through the keep now; the roof had caved in on itself. He left the ruined fort, and began searching for a rear entrance into the cave - for if there were an entrance, too must there be an exit out - in search of the Hadvar and Ralof mentioned in the writings.

Back into the pine-and-snow scent of the forest, he stopped, pulling his shirt from his face, and doubled over to gulp in the clean air. Once he couldn't smell the vileness of the ruined fort, he explored the forested slope outside the fort. After some time, he found the cave entrance, a path leading from it down to the settlement of Riverwood. Once inside, he stopped, wary. It was musty, bear-and-bone scented. He drew his greatsword and crept forth, finding a pile of antlered bones in a shaft of bright sunlight. Further in, he saw no sign of the bear. By a creek and a cart, he found a blond-haired Nord, his body bloody and barely breathing.

"What are you doing here? Are you crazy?" the Nord asked. "Where's Hadvar?"

Looking around, he saw a red-haired man lying in another pool of daylight, as hurt as the Nord. "You first, Nord." he said.

"We have to get out of here before the cave collapses!" And on cue, there was a dangerous rumbling throughout the cavern. "Do you have a healing potion?" the Nord asked.

Reaching into his pack, he pulled out several. Setting some down for the Nord, he strode towards the other, obviously Hadvar. There was another rumbling, and upwards, motion drew his eye, rocks falling, a terrible crashing and screaming. He stared in disbelief, and ignored the Nord's words, rushing to the jumble of rocks. He heaved the looser, smaller rocks aside, blood and gore seeping and coating his hands. Panting, he pulled at another rock, one refusing to budge.

Wedging his sword under it, he shoved, lifting it a crack, an opening. Red hair and red blood, Hadvar's face crushed beyond recognition. Blood so thick it was a pool - a red pool, rippling, spreading, faces in the depths - he shook his head, seeing only the blood weeping through the rocks; tears weeping down his face, blurring his vision. Shallow breath the only sign of life, and nothing, nothing that could be done about it.

The cave was rumbling again, the Nord yelling from the entrance; no choice, no redemption but to leave Hadvar to die, no chance to give him a quick, clean death, the death a warrior deserved.

The sword cracked from the strain, and he yanked back, the rocks thudding a barrow around the unfortunate Nord.

Fleeing from the collapsing cave, he broke into snowy sunshine like a veil out of the dark and bloody underground. He was gasping, and bent double to regain his breath.

Eyes closed, he saw blood and bodies, heard cruel laughter and the crackle of magicka and death screams.

Eyes snapping open again, he shook his head to clear it. Kneeling, he sunk his hands into the frost, ignoring the shock of cold and clensing himself of the horrible redness. After, he reached into the pack. The damnable thief had stolen his rum, but he still had some ale. He swallowed it whole, long gulps to wash away pain and sorrow and rage.

The blond stood looking at him, dressed in leather. “We have to warn Riverwood.”

He looked down the valley towards the distant mountain. He had been duty bound to investigate the ruin, and now he was duty bound to warn the town.

“I am Ralof,” the blond said. He held out a snow-pale hand.

Gripping the offered hand with his own dark gold-brown one, he replied, "Kiro."