Morndas, 21st of Heartfire, 4E 201

As I sit here in this slightly cramped Forsworn tent, I must admit that the gentle breeze rolling down the mountains and the dull roar of the majestic waterfall crashing down from Bard's Leap does wonders to calm my mind. It has been quite an eventful few days, so much that I regret not writing down more of my thoughts on the carriage ride back from Windhelm.

It was that morning I chose to present myself before Jarl Ulfric, leader of the Stormcloak Rebellion, and former prisoner-in-arms. As I waited to speak with him, I could not help but overhear his ongoing discussion with his army advisor. They seemed to be increasingly worried at the path the current war was treading, and of how the other Jarls were reacting. Ulfric's advisor seemed impatient at the Jarl of Whiterun's lack of allegiance. I could not help but become concerned when mention of taking the city by force came up. My own allegiance at this time is questionable at best, and I had to wonder what would become of Lydia and my new home should the Stormcloaks demand fealty. I kept these musings to myself as the Jarl turned his attention to me. His first remark was that I was either brave or stupid to stand before him unannounced. I hoped to ring a bell by mentioning the incident at Helgen, and how one of his own worked with me to escape. I could see the realization coming to him, and he expressed relief that Ralof had made it out alive, though he had not returned to Windhelm to verify this. Until his return, Ulfric requested that I speak to his general about helping the war effort. Before I could get a word in, he had left the room.

The next moment I was being grilled on why a cat would want to join. I could not help the bitterness in voice as I replied if that was the sort of tone he was going to take, then I was wasting my time. He made a short apology, as what he meant to say was he needed to know how dedicated I was to this war. In truth, I couldn't be sure myself. I had no love for the Imperial legion, or the Thalmor pulling their strings... But to go so far as to want every Imperial dead... I could only think of my adoptive parents, and how they took me in without thought to my race. Also the inherent bigotry of the Nords wasn't helping. The general suggested I think long and hard about my priorities before speaking with him again, and so I left, buying a carriage to Whiterun to rest my feet for once.

It was only midday when I arrived at Whiterun, and with nothing in particular on my mind I wandered west to explore and pick some alchemical ingredients. I must admit my skill at potion making had improved dramatically in my travels, and finding new recipes through trial and error gave me a good deal of pleasure. Many bags full of ingredients later, I found myself wandering along the base of a mountain range which housed Bleak Falls Barrow. I began to feel a chill as a breeze picked up. After a moment I began to notice the breeze did not let up, and that it was actually coming from a nearby cave. I'm as much a sucker for caves as I am for mysteries, so I began my quest of the Mysterious Breeze in the Mysterious Cave. Though the cave was long and winding and had several openings at the top for sunlight to pour through, the breeze ignored it all. My suspicions were confirmed at the sight of patrolling skeletons. Though they were easily felled by some well placed arrows in the dark, I knew little skeletons didn't just pop out of the ground. Not on their own, anyway. In the chamber ahead was the culprit: a necromancer practicing his spells on a risen Nord Thrall. After some tests, the necromancer began reading through his books, oblivious to the world. Not the best habit. One well placed arrow released the Thrall from his bondage, as I heard a whisper of gratitude on the wind as he turned to dust. The stupid necromancer took no notice, right up until the touch of cold steel was pressed against his neck. Wait no, hot steel. It was my enchanted dagger of flames that wonderfully seared his neck as I slit it... And then sort of caught his clothes on fire. Ah well. Grabbing what items there was of use, I found the other end of the cave, actually a mountain pass, with a rune billowing a cold gust from it. Mystery solved! The pass led out to the valley near Riverwood, however it was getting late so I made the trek back to Whiterun. Again, a good time to put to paper my adventures, instead I passed out on my bed at the first opportunity.

I slept in late for once, it felt good. I could not think of any pressing matters to attend to, as I milled about the house, mixing potions and organizing my bookshelf with the library i had obtained in my travels. Still haven't read many of them. As I sat down to eat, I flicked through my vast amounts of letters and notes from people who needed assistance in some way. Skyrim seemed oddly full of people like that. One note caught my attention, an encampment of bandits at the nearby hill of Serpent's Bluff Redoubt. I really can't overstate my dislike of bandits. I took Kharjo with me - as a caravan guard I imagine he'd have a grudge as well.

Kharjo behind me and began a preliminary scout of the location. Sure enough, I could spot at least a half dozen figures posted at the entrances and makeshift lookout towers. Staying low to the ground and out of sight, I made my way back to Kharjo and we discussed our options. It was decided that waiting for nightfall was the best method, but with several hours between us and the moon things got boring fast. We began exploring farther West, and upon cresting a hill a magnificent sight awaited us.

A lush valley greeted our eyes, with a might stream coursing through the middle. and right in front of us lay the source: a tremendous cascading waterfall. It seemed the waterfall had another purpose, as a large sprawling ruin encompassed it, with towering stone pillars and causeways built into the very side of the mountain. I could barely make out a structure poised over the brink of the highest falls. Kharjo had heard of this place, "The Lost Valley Redoubt" home of the famed Bard's Leap. Supposedly a bard had leaped down the waterfall...and probably died, I didn't catch the whole story. With one glance at each other, we knew where we would be spending the rest of the daylight hours. It took us only a short while to cross the valley to the other side and began our trek up the falls. From a distance the ruins seemed to be spread across three tiers, with several man made aqueducts diverting water from the falls to parts unknown. It wasn't long before I sensed something off. The birds weren't chirping and there was a scent on the wind. Blood. Ash. Death.

I had Kharjo stay low while I crept up into the ruins. I heard a noise above, and realized a walkway had been carved out over the ledge. On it stood a man...by his look and weapons he appeared to be Forsworn. I heard they were the native people to this land who had turned savage and tribal in an attempt to win back Skyrim for themselves. I heard the all too familiar sound of an arrow being notched, and realized the lookout had spotted Kharjo. Quickly drawing my own, I moved to target him and let loose an arrow. With a cry he toppled from the ledge and crashed down next to me. A great cry rang out as other Forsworn came running down the hill. I had just enough time to ready my next arrow as Kharjo came running past me, sword at the ready. He engaged two of them while I felled another with my arrows. Not wanting to hit Kharjo, I ran to assist him with my blades.

With the first tier cleared, we cautiously prepared ourselves for what was sure to be the next wave. Kharjo took the lead and I covered him with my bow. As we stepped into the next tier Kharjo narrowly avoided a mammoth skull being launched into his face from above. I guess these Forsworn are pretty clever when it comes to traps. Another group moved to attack us, and Kharjo ran to meet them. I stayed behind to cover him, as two archers moved in and flank him. Killing one of them grabbed the others attention, and I lost sight of Kharjo as I began trading shots with the archer. Moving from cover to cover, I narrowly dodged the incoming arrows while firing out a few of my own. A cry rewarded my accuracy as his body toppled from its position. I had just begun poisoning my arrows again when a loud explosion rocked the ruins. I was dimly aware of Kharjo being flung into some bushes before the force of a hurricane hit me full in the chest.

The problem with Skyrim is that you think you know cold. You trek through the blizzards, find your way through snowstorms, and even climb the throat of the world. And then some mage shows you what real cold is. I struggled to rise as my joints felt like ice. rapidly approaching me was a large Forsworn, with briar across his chest. I struggled to fire an arrow at him, which did little to slow him as he flung several ice shards at me. I felt pain, real pain as the embedded themselves in my shoulder and leg. I stumbled behind a pillar as ice blasted the rocks around me. With not a moment to spare I grabbed several potions of health from my pack and a potion of frost resistance. Warmth was restored to me and I was able to move normally again. I spent several minutes trading arrows for icicles with the Forsworn. His magick did not seem to dwindle as my arrows did, and I had a feeling he knew this. Searching desperately through my pack, I found a bottle I had recovered from a cave earlier: A potion of invisibility. I had no idea how long it would work... or even if it would work. But I didn't have much else of a choice. Kharjo was nowhere to be seen and I feared the worst. After shooting out one last arrow I readied my daggers and braced myself. I felt the cold rush of an ice shard whizzing past the pillar, and I downed the potion. I looked down at my weapons and saw...nothing. It was all the encouragement I needed.

I sprinted straight from my spot towards the Forsworn. I could tell by his movement he heard my footfalls, but could not pinpoint where. He began to fire out frost spells haphazardly, and I barely had time to roll to the side before resuming sprinting. An icicle grazed my cheek as I leapt upon my foe. The force of my daggers and the weight of my momentum sent him stumbling backwards. As I rose, I could see my own hands, and realized the effects had worn off. He began to summon another spell, and I was a few feet from striking distance. However I had all the range I needed for something else. My Thu'um of Unrelenting Force surprised him as he flew into a stone with a yell. I struggled to raise my own weapons as I came to realize the battle had taken its toll on my stamina. The Forsworn rose with a hand outstretched, words of power forming on his lips. Quite suddenly, his head wasn't where it was supposed to be. In its place was Kharjo's sword, held by a panting yet still alive Kharjo. As the Forsworn's body fell to the ground, Kharjo helped me up, giving me a potion of stamina to recover. It was a battle well fought, and yet the end was not over.

The moon was beginning to rise as we climbed to the top of the Bards Leap, looking out over the falls took what little of my breath I still had. It was a cloudless night, and I could see all across the valley with the faint green traces of the borealis shimmering across the sky. My attention was turned however, as I noticed large amounts of blood spatter leading away from the falls. And it wasn't just the blood. A dull hum, apart from the waterfalls, was calling out to me. I began to walk towards its source but was stopped by Kharjo. "The air here is foul" he cautioned. Taking his words into advisement, I donned by strongest armor, and pulled out an elven sword, which I used my strongest poison on. We crept through the brush and came upon a very unsettling sight. Two hagraven stood poised over a recently slain Forsworn. His heart lay on a table next to him, and briar had been put where the hole had been carved. The hagravens spoke in turn, and something inside me shouted out that whatever they were doing should not be allowed to happen. Kharjo and I moved forward in unison, and we moved to attack I rushed one of them and kept swinging as fast as I could. Dodging its attacks I was just able to notice the Forsworn rise, clutching an giant axe in its hand. Suddenly a giant blast of fire nearly threw me off balance, as Kharjo narrowly dodged an attack from his foe. Staying within striking distance forced them to rely on hand to hand it seemed, and I used that knowledge to my advantage. With a last mighty thrust I slew the hagraven, and in the same moment dodged a large swipe from the Forsworn Briarheart. I tried ducking to his left to strike, and was met with a painful blow to my side. My vision began blurring, and yet... through the blur I made out something. It was writing, large and blinding amidst the darkened blur around me. In that instant I realized we were fighting upon the very stones inscribed with the words of power. I felt it's knowledge absorbed, and I knew exactly what it was and what it did. I stood straight and faced my opponent with a smile. As he raised his axe I uttered those words. I felt the air rush as his axe flew downward, yet felt no pain. My body had become ethereal, impervious to harm, and unable to inflict it. The Forsworn's laugh of triumph was cut short in surprise as he looked from me to his axe. His next thoughts were interrupted by Kharjo's sword. Kharjo smiled and asked if I could teach him my new trick.

The battle won, a word of power obtained, and many shiny objects looted, I stood on the brink of Bard's Leap and looked out upon the world. Life felt good. And then I jumped.
.
.
.
(I survived, and it was awesome.)

Loredas, 19th of Heartfire, 4E 201

After a waking up to a wonderful sober feeling, I left Kharjo and Lydia in Breezehome, and went about selling my wares that I had gained in my recent travels. Sanguine's Rose would stay with me however, until such a time that I could figure out the extent of its power. What I hadn't told Kharjo is that I intended to meet the mysterious horn snatcher that made off with the Graybeards treasure, and left me a cryptic note instructing me to return to the very first town I encountered in my Skyrim travels.

By early afternoon I had made my way back to Riverwood, to the tavern of the Sleeping Giant. I was confused to see no new faces in the tavern. With nothing else to do, I relayed the odd message to the tavern owner, Delphine, asking to rent the attic room. She stared at me hard for a moment, almost as if sizing me up, before telling me no such room existed, but offered a room on the left instead. Upon showing me the room, she promptly closed and locked it behind her. Alarm bells fired off in my head as my fingers twitched toward my daggers. Delphine guessed I was the Dragonborn, and told me it was she who had taken the horn. She began questioning me about my experiences, and upon finding my answers to her liking, turned and unlocked a cupboard which opened to reveal a secret basement. Inside it appeared to be a mini war room - many weapons and armor were laid out around the room, and a map of Skyrim with several markings was displayed on a table in the center. Delphine kept her intentions a secret, telling me I would have all the answers I desired as soon as I could prove I was the Dragonborn. I felt a stone drop into my stomach as I asked how I could prove such a thing - knowing full well the answer. "Gather your things Khajiit, we're going to go kill a dragon."

We left at once, Delphine suiting up surpringsly fast into a set of leather armor, armed with a thin curved sword. She had been keeping track of dragon sightings, and had realized these dragons were being reanimated from their ancient burial mounds, originating from the South East. By her predictions the next dragon to be reanimated would be located at Kynesgrove, not far from where I had my wonderful hangover encounter. I expressed surprise at her secret identity and she laughed, saying she wasn't cut out for a tavern owner. We passed by Windhelm some time during the night, and I noted its location. By the time we had reached Kynesgrove the sun was about to rise. A scream greeted us, as a woman ran past, shrieking of dragons attacking. We readied our weapons and climbed the hill. I followed Delphine's lead and stayed low. She was determined to discover the source of these dragons returning. Nothing could have prepared me for what we saw.

It was him. The big black dragon. The one who attacked Helgen and burned it to the ground. Though it was this dragon that spared me the executioner's axe, I hadn't forgotten how easily it's roar lifted me off the ground. It began to speak in its native tongue, and just as my dragon shouts had a magic of their own - so to did his. With a burst of energy, the old bones of a long dead dragon began to rise from its burial mound and become whole again. The spoke to one another - the smaller one adressing the big black one as "Alduin". It was then that the fur down my spine tingled and stood straight up. I knew at once what they knew - that I was there. The dragon Alduin spoke something in a rough tone, and I was only able to make out Dovakiin - which meant Dragonborne. After a moment he repeated himself... in the common tongue. He was clearly disgusted at me, that I who carried the name dragonborne could not even understand his language. With a final snort of disdain, he commanded the other dragon to destroy me, and took off into the morning light.

I wasted no time readying a posion arrow and launching it straight at the dragon. I hoped that his bones were still a bit rusty. This proved not true as the dragon quickly took to the skies and  began peppering us with fire. Jumping out from behind a rock I shouted unrelenting force at him, sending him crashing to the ground. Delphine was upon him as soon as his wings hit the dirt, hacking at them in an effort to keep him grounded. The dragon turned to cover her in flames, only to find me leaping at his face. I planted both poison daggers straight into his face, and held on for dear life as he shook his head wildly, roaring in pain. Between the two of us, the dragon could not focus his attention to save his life. As I stood back to survery the mighty corpse, I felt the power of his soul leave the body and enter mine, and heard a gasp from Delphine. She was a believer now.

Walking back down the hill she told me many things that I'm still trying to understand. She is part of an old order - The Blades - sworn to protect the Dragonborn and kill every and any dragon that threatened the land. Their last duty had been to protect the Septim line, until the Oblivion crisis ended - and with it - all the heirs to that bloodline. Apparently the Thalmor wasted no time hunting down and destroying most of the Blades, and only few still survive. Their goal now is to fight these dragons, and the Thalmor as well. Considering my last encounter with the Thalmor, I didn't find myself all opposed to this idea. She promised to speak more upon my return to Riverwood, though I gave no promises on when that might be. As she left, I decided instead to inspect Windhelm, and see the heart of the Stormcloak for myself.

As it turns out, Windhelm isn't big on people who aren't Nords. Tolerate would be.... a kind word. They allow the Dark Elves to live there, but only in the slums, and many Nords make a point to remind the Dark Elves at every opportunity. The guards at the gate seemed opposed to letting me in, until I shouted a bird out of the sky. I can't be sure what the guards discussed after, but I'm sure I heard the phrase "a voice like Jarl Ulfric!" and I was promptly allowed to enter. Inside I was met with more racism, though not directed at me. A Nord was in the middle of bullying some Dark Elves, before storming off to get even more drunk and angry. I followed him into a nearby tavern and demanded an explinaion for his abusive demeanor. He answererd with a swing at my face. Betting a hundred gold he could take me on, he came at me swinging. I suppose it's not his fault nobody told him about a Khajiit's claws...well, maybe if he wasn's so racist he'd know better. a hundred gold and a sobbing apology later I found myself a room for the night, with the intention to speak to the Jarl come morning. I can't say if I approve of this place, but perhaps a meeting with Ulfric will help.

Fredas, 18th of Heartfire, 4E 201

I learned something interesting. Another in a long line of life lessons that keep coming at an alarming rate these past weeks. This newest lesson is never to get into drinking contests again. With the ring in hand, I returned to Whiterun with Kharjo for my next lead. Ysolda mentioned I spoke of the wedding I was to have taking place at a ruin named Morvunskar, and the staff was supposedly there. It was a long trek through a valley, the only event being a lost woman escaping from a bandit stronghold - I'll keep that place in mind when I want to let off steam.

We arrived under cover of darkness. Remembering my last encounter, I wasn't sure what to expect, or who I may have wronged in my drunken stupor. As it turns out, the place was a haven for wizard. The kind of wizards who did not seem happy to see me. Kharjo moved around the ruins to flank them as I took shots at them with my bow from above. Between the two of us we made short work of the mages outside. Kharjo began to question if I had ever been here before, and truth be told I remembered nothing of...well, anything that night.

My doubts were put to rest upon entering the ruins. I can only describe it as a literal trail of empty wine bottles, winding its way through the ruins. Kharjo could barely contain a snicker before questioning exactly how much I consumed that night. I was almost numb with shock. There had to be hundreds of bottles strewn amidst upturned chairs and smashed tables. It was a moment before I realized I had pocketed several half empty bottles in my pack. I wisely decided to stuff them in a nearby cupboard, and Kharjo nodded approvingly. Several more apprentice wizards roamed about, and I felt it best if I left Kharjo and his clanking armor behind and moved ahead to dispatch the magick users myself. I had become increasingly adept at becoming one with the shadows, and my skill with a blade...well it's not often my daggers aren't covered in some kind of blood. I entered the largest chamber and began stalking 2 mages, moving in quick succession and dispatching them without a word. I silently drew my bow and set my sights upon what was no doubt their leader, who stood at the top of a grand stair before a raised chair. My arrow flew through the air, and to my dismay turned to ice before reaching the wizard. Still, it found its way into his body, but not enough to kill him. I began to reposition myself, but not before the mage guessed my position from the flight path of the arrow. I felt a searing cold pain as an icicle shard hit my leg. He was rapidly approaching my position and I felt my movements slow from the cold. I only had once chance left. Taking one vial from my pocket I applied a magick poison to my dagger, and with another vial, drinking potion to dull the effects of the frost. Very glad I did not mix those two up. As the mage rounded the corner, I planted my knife in his chest and knocked him to the ground. He tried frantically to cast more frost spells upon me, but the posion had done its work.

As he lay dying, a portal suddenly appeared, right where the trail of empty wine bottles had seemingly run out. Kharjo, who had approached at the sound of combat, asked if I knew where it led. Only one way to find out. With a flash of light I found myself...in a seemingly tranquil grove. The air was calm, and a river trickled along in front of me. I could not make out any stars in the sky as they appeared...blurred out, as though I were looking out of a very distorted window. I slowly followed a path in front of me, not sure what to expect. I did not have far to walk before coming into a clearing where a party of sorts seemed to be taking place. Several men sat around a table with lights strung up the nearby trees, and waiting for me at the front with staff at hand, was Sam. He expressed admiration at my ability to make it back in one piece. Noting my confusion, he laughed and offered the staff to me. I asked him what was really going on, and Sam confessed that not all is as it seemed. Before my eyes Sam dissapeared - or rather - the thing wearing Sam took off its disquise. In his place stood a humanoid, black and red, with horns and armor. "Sanguine, Daedra Lord of Debauchery" it spoke with a grin. This entire lunatic endeavour had in fact been a grand game for a Deadra Prince. He seemed quite pleased, as he had never witnessed anything as hilarious in several mortal lifetimes. And just like that he waved his hand, and I found myself back at the tavern in Whiterun, with a bewildered Kharjo at my side.

Never. Again.

Middas, 16th of Heartfire, 4E 201

I'm still not sure exactly what is going on as I write this. I'm resting at Vilemyr Inn, after a very long day of tracking down leads as to what I did when I was horribly drunk and where Sam got to with at staff he promised me. I awoke in Rorikstead ready to find him, only to be met with a screaming farmer, going on about how I had taken his Gleda away and sold her to a giant. I was horrified. Me? Selling a girl to a giant? How drunk was I? I promised to get her back no matter what, in return for information. I didn't have far to look before finding the giant at the top of nearby hill with Gleda....the goat. Should have seen that coming.

Not being all to sure how I arranged the trade in the first place, I tried to explain the situation and gesture to the goat. He was not amused by my attempt to take the goat back, and bellowed at me. I spent the next moments rapidly backpedaling out of the reach of his rather large and imposing club, peppering him with as many arrows as I could draw. A slight misstep caused his weapon to graze me, and then send me crashing into a nearby rock. With all the agility I could muster, I shouted a Thuum right into his face, before sending a volley of arrows I had poisoned. As I continued to evade him, the poison did its work and he slowed before finally succumbing to the poison...and about thirty arrows in his face.

I returned the goat to it's owner, who told me a remembered me mentioning a ring, and Ysolda, in Whiterun. Well, at least this journey was taking me back to a relative comfortable place. I returned to Whiterun about midday, and was relieved to find Kharjo and Lydia still waiting for me at our house. At least I didn't kill them in my drunken stupor. I tried my best to explain the situation to them... I'm pretty sure they think I'm a bit demented now. Kharjo agreed to come help, if only to continue his amusement at my expense. We then spoke to Ysolda, who told a very strange tale of me, babbling about a ring I had taken from her and given to my beloved. If was going to get any information on the staff, I needed that ring back.

So I guess I got married along the way. The only lead I had to go on was a location: Witchmist Grove. Not the kind of place I think I'd want to get married at. We spent the better part of the day traveling, finally approaching our destination as the sun began to set. The area was littered with fissures and steaming hot springs. I need to remember to go back there an relax when this is all over. We came upon the grove to find a solitary house in questionable condition. Before I could order Kharjo to stand ready, the door burst open to reveal my...betrothed. She was a hagraven.....and as the name implies, she was half...witch....half bird...and all disgusting. She cried out upon seeing me, delighted that I had returned to consumate our marriage. I promptly threw up. After a minute of coughing and gagging, I managed to choke out if she would mine giving the ring back...for uh...inspection. She was not happy about this, and began screaming obscenities. Kharjo grinned and ask if I wanted to "annul the marriage"? I nodded and tried to regain my composure.

Several bloody minutes later I had the ring back and my vomit situation was under control, and we began to make our way back. Seeing as it was already late in the evening and the roads were getting more risky, I opted to stop by Vilemyr, where I had already promised to deliever some bear pelts to a woman. And here I sit, hoping tomorrow will provide more answers, and less headaches.

Tirdas, 15th of Heartfire, 4E 201

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.

Morndas, 14th of Heartfire, 4E 201

It's good to be home. Relatively speaking of course. I suppose when you've been traveling across a foreign land for a month, having a roof over your head in the city you happen to be Thane of is a good deal. Kharjo is settling in nicely, making small talk with Lydia. The guards outside had thought of giving my fellow Khajiit some trouble, until I decided to pull my rank on them. "What's that, you've been a guard here how long?" "Sorry I didn't catch that, couldn't hear you over the sound of how I was made Thane of Whiterun after being here a day."

Being an ass never felt so good.

Ah but I'm sure you are eager to know how I came to be back in Whiterun, my dear journal. There wasn't much to be done in Morthal, other than this business about a house fire and a suspicious jerk that got over it pretty quickly. Kharjo and I investigated the burnt husk of what I'm sure was once a cozy home. I swear to you, the smell of burnt flesh was still thick, despite having been told it had been some time since the fire. I moved to a part of the house where the stench was most powerful, and then.... a voice. It spoke to me, as a lost child would. And there before my eyes emerged the ghostly apparition of a small female child. She asked if I was a stranger, and I tried my best not to frighten the ghost...as odd as that sounds. She wouldn't tell me who burned the house down, or if her father was responsible....though she spoke of waking to smoke and fire, and trying to hide, and then becoming very sleepy and cold. Such accounts left me with a profound sadness. The child, Helgi, told me if I wanted to know more I would have to find her after dark, as someone else was looking for her. Ominous.

With not much else to do, I napped until nightfall, whereupon we set out looking for where the girl could be hiding. It didn't take long for Kharjo to point out a small pathway outside of town leading to a vista. We were ready for what awaited us. There in a clearing was a dug up coffin, presumably Helgi's, and a dark shadow looming over it. The shadow turned at our approach - it was a female...with eyes like the dead of night, and sharp white fangs. A vampire. I was frozen in momentary shock as the unholy monster shrieked and charged us. Luckily for me Kharjo had no qualms about shoving his sword down the vampire's throat. I approached the coffin to hear a familiar voice. Helgi spoke of the truth, how the vampire Laelette, apparently a resident of the town, had tried to turn Helgi into a vampire but failed, burning the house down in the promise. Another name popped up - Alva. She was the woman Helgi's father had taken a liking to quite quickly, and as it happened Laelette had a key to Alva's house. A quick talk with Laelette's husband confirmed my fears. She was thought to have left to join the Stormcloaks long ago, but had been seen in Alva's company before disappearing.

Armed with a key and shrouded by the night, I crept into Alva's house. Pretty sneaky... or so I thought, as I turned to find Hrogger, Helgi's father waiting for me with a crazed look in his eye. Words were not exchanged, excluding a well placed 'fus' and 'roh'. So now I, Esias, have just murdered a person in their own home. Sort of. I'd plead self defense but I wasn't sure if he was thinking the same thing. I decided to press onward, certain that my actions would justify themselves in due time. And so it was in the basement that actions became justified. One coffin, with one journal, belonging to a one Alva. In it she described her plans to assimilate with the town and the evil plans that followed. Under the guidance of a master vampire named Morthal, they were going to turn several of the guards to vampires, and would then hold the town as some sort of feeding farm. Alva had put Hrogger under her spell, but was attracting to much attention. So he turned Laelette and had her get rid of his family, though not as she had hoped. Armed with this knowledge I roused the Jarl from her sleep and presented the damning evidence of this unholy plot. Fueled by revenge for the fallen and the lives at stake, several villagers grabbed weapons and torches and vowed to follow me into the swamp and do away with the vampire threat once and for all. That is until we found the blood soaked foreboding entrance to a very unsettling cave. I guess you can't except every villager to be a hero in disguise.

Kharjo and I descended into the depths of the cave, trying our best to gain the element of surprise. We came upon a vampire's thrall, throwing bodies into a small hole and taking whatever valuables they had. I crept forward with dagger raised, and of course Kharjo chose that moment to sneeze....this would become something of a habit as far as stealth was concerned. several other vampires and their thralls wandered the halls of this cave, and several more met their end at our blades, until finally we came upon a large hall, complete with a banquet table of human body parts. I wasted no time preparing a salvo of arrows at this supposed Master Vampire. I would not give him the chance to use any of his magic on me. Before he had even left his throne I counted four arrows sticking from his body. He rushed in my direction with a yell, only to met with Kharjo's shield in his face. I dropped from my vantage point, landing behind Morthal and showing him two fangs of my own. Two very steel fangs that happened to light people like him on fire. Kicking his corpse out of the way, I made my way to the very end of the cavern to find none other than Alva, asleep in a bed. I gave her the benefit of waking up, only so that I could press my boot against her neck to do so.

"For Helgi." was the last thing she ever heard.

And so it was that upon exiting the cave that Helgi herself appeared before me. It was time for her to join her mother and sleep forever. I told her she could rest peacefully now, for which she was very grateful. Gods grant her peace.

Compared to that our journey to Whiterun was fairly uneventful. I killed two mammoths with my bow though. But that is a tale for another time.

Actually no it's not. They were very stupid mammoths, end of story.

I think I need a drink.

Loredas, 11th of Heartfire, 4E 201

I find my previous journey to have been dangerous, thrilling, life-threatening, and a little bit confusing. We would have rested outside the barrow longer, but Kharjo heard noises coming from within so we decided to investigate. Sure enough there were people inside. I snuck up close enough to hear what they were saying. They were necromancers. And not just any necromancers, treasure seeking ones. They had rigged up a plan to use their profession to their advantage, because as we all know, necromancers suck at hard labor. Maybe its the mage stereotype, but they'd all be to spindly and weak to life a mining pick if their life depended on it. So in turn that dependency would turn to some bandits...as their un-life depended on it.

The necromancers were using cadavers as mining slaves. The thought...oddly sickened me. I'm no fan of bandits,  as I'm sure you know by now...but nobody deserves to spend their death working as someone else's slave.

The necromancers went to check on their other thralls and I moved in to release the bandits from their un-death. Kharjo and I moved deeper into the winding passages and happened upon a grisly sight. Apparently ancient Nord Draugrs look down on using fellow corpses as slaves. Several battles later we came upon a truly awesome sight: A large cave opening in the middle of the barrow. At the bottom, a stream ran through it, with trees even! Trees! In a cave! and there at the center, a familiar looking stone wall with a word of power inscribed, one that transformed me into an ethereal like state, a state that I could not be harmed, and yet I could do no harm.

I still had one more thing to do however, as Kharjo and I navigated a series of ancient door puzzles, spiked floors, and giant spiders...urgh. Finally the trap laden corridors opened up to a large tomb, where many corpses were....dead, again. On top of Jurgen's crypt, a hand arose, holding what as supposed to be his legendary horn. In it's place was a note...why?

The note simply said I was to return to Riverwood to speak to someone... a friend? Why would a friend steal my  objective? Was this the same friend that sent me a note about me shouting around Whiterun? What gives? Kharjo seemed indifferent to my plight, more amazed that we had made it through the tomb in one piece. And so  we left, entering a nearby town to rest...Morthal, I think. The place is quiet...and....yeah, quiet. Not a single place to sell my hard earned treasure. The only thing worth noting is the burned down house everyone keeps talking about, and how the man who lived there survived while his family perished, and promptly fell in love with someone else. How...convenient. More on this tale as it develops.