What. In. Oblivion. Happened.
This is a reminder to myself to never get involved in drinking contests again. Ever. I mean it. Esias, you can't hold your alcohol worth shit.
Ok... time to gather my wits about me. The last thing I remember...after leaving Kharjo and Lydia at the house was going to the tavern. There was a guy..I wrote his name down somewhere.. I think. He asked if I wanted to out drink him for a staff. I thought I was pretty competent, as what passes for mead in these Nord towns has barely gotten me tipsy. I guess I was wrong.
I woke up to some priestess yelling at me. Apparently I had made a mess of the place, and tried fondling some of the statues. To be fair they were...well sculpted. I tried apologizing as I struggled to regain my composure. I managed to convince the priestess that this wasn't a regular thing for me, and I tried cleaning up my mess as best I could. After she deemed the place presentable again, she told me everything she knew of my...visit. She didn't remember seeing another man, but heard me babbling some nonsense about getting to Rorikstead. I suppose it's a fair bet that he might be there. I thanked her and apologized again as I left, and the blinding sunlight outside made me pause to realize - I had no clue where I was. I was instantly in awe at my location. towering architecture was on all sides of me, impressively built into the very mountain face. Waterfalls cascaded harmoniously between the houses and flowed toward the center of town. I stood on a central tower carved into an awesome spire, a fitting place for a temple. All of this did little to help the fact that my head was still pounding and I was at a loss for my current location.
I staggered into the nearest guard and asked where I was. He was understandably confused. Markarth. I was in Markarth, a great Nord city in the western edge of Skyrim. How......did I get here? In one piece? I need answers. I made my way towards what I assumed to be the exit, taking little head to the shady fellow who was rapidly approaching a merchant with one hand inside his cloak. With a spectacular hungover trip, I stumbled into the man, who turned on me with dagger in hand, snarling. What happened next...I can only describe as a.. a drunken hungover induced burp...uhm...Thu'um. That's right. I accidentally belched a word of power onto the poor fool. Lucky for him it wasn't a fire breathing burp. Unlucky for him several town guards realized his plot and quickly dispatched him. The merchant I had apparently saved thanked me countless times, shoving an amulet into my bewildered hands. There was talk of Forsworn and bad people and...I still have no idea what everyone was talking about, but I guess I saved the day. I really didn't have the time, and excused myself to the nearest exit, and went off to vomit.
Outside, I declined a carriage ride to the open road. The mountain air does wonders to the hungover- or so I have heard. I think they were right, after several uneventful hours I was thinking and acting clearly again. And just in time, for a party of elves crossed my path, with a prisoner in tow. We stopped a few paces from each other. I asked what they were doing. They proclaimed they were rooting out the unclean heretics or some such. I didn't care much for what they were saying, only the tone they said it in. I recognized it, the kind of tone royalty might take with a servant of low intellect. The demanded to know who I chose to worship. I was tired. I was slightly hungover. I was pissed off. I told them I could worship whoever I damn well pleased. I could worship a dragon's shit for all I care, and it was none of their damn business who I looked to in my hours of need. I don't know if Tiber Septim became a God. If he did, that's swell for him, and if he didn't, boo- fucking - hoo. All I did know is nobody should have the right to swagger about and tell others they can't worship something.
As it happens, the Thalmor aren't as keen as they are debating as they are killing supposed heretics. They surrounded me at once, balls of elemental magic in their hands. Well jokes on them, I've got potions of magic resistance, and a bit of Dragonborn induced magic of my own. After they were sent crashing back from the force of my shouts, they realized they weren't dealing with just any hungover peasant. They were dealing with a pissed off hungover Khajiit named Esias, who wasted no time assaulting them with twin daggers. After the first two fell, the Justicar though himself safe at a distance, hurling stray bolts of magic my way. An arrow to the neck taught him otherwise. I dumped their bodies in a ditch and went on my way.
Nightfall was nearing as I came upon a grisly sight. a caravan lay in ruin, and among the wreckage, a Khajiit trader. He was either robbed of every worldy possession, or didn't have much to begin with. I don't know what killed him...bandits, dragons, wolves...a troll. Whatever the case, it felt wrong to leave one of my brethren as such. I carried his corpse to a nearby rock, and laid him down as best I could, putting his hat over his face, and his sword in his hand. As I stood back to honor his passing, a small patrol of Imperial soldiers passed. They looked from the body to me, and our eyes locked. If any of them thought about making a remark at our expense, they wisely thought better of it. Siding with the Stormcloaks is sounding better by the day. I finally approached Rorikstead, staggering into the tavern to purchase a room for the night. In the morning, I find this guy and find out what the hell happened to me.
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