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.

Turdas, 10th of Hearthfire, 4E 201

An interesting turn of events over the last few days, if I must say so myself.

I bested the bandits of Knife Point Cave, with a little help from a caged sabertooth and my sneaking skills. After recovering Kharjo's Moon Amulet, I returned to Riften to find that his caravan had already left, bound for Dawnstar, as I was told. Things are never as easy as they seem for me. With a quick passing through Whiterun to drop off some books and items, and checking in on Lydia, I set out north, bound for Dawnstar.
It was a mostly uneventful journey, livened up only by my witnessing of two wizards locked in a duel to the death. I decided to stay out of it, and somehow they managed to kill each other at the same time. They had some nice items too.

Upon arriving at Dawnstar, I met with Kharjo. In exchange for braving the bandits' lair to retrieve his lost amulet, Kharjo offered to accompany me in my journeys, which I readily accepted. I had never traveled with a fellow Khajiit, and I had much to ask him. He told me of our homeland, the life he lived, and the hardships and racism he endured throughout his life. Although he was shocked that I was adopted by Imperials, he still regarded me as a true Khajiit, albeit with a lot to learn about my people. I told him about my latest turn of events, me being a Dragonborn, my crazy shouting abilities, and all the general hi-jinks I'd been getting into. This seemed to impress him enough to want to continue traveling with me.

I briefly toured Dawnstar...and I confess there wasn't much to see. Two rival mines, a tavern, some houses and the Jarl's meager quarters. Looking at my map I became aware that the Greybeards had tasked me with finding a barrow not far from Dawnstar, and I set off along the coast. Taking one final look at Dawnstar, I turned to spot Kharjo sprinting forward, bow in hand. I knew what that meant, even before I heard the ominous flapping wings. Wasting no time, I let loose a volley of arrows alongside Kharjo, who seemed to be taking a dragon attack pretty well. Perhaps he had to deal with his own guarding his caravan. At first I thought the battle was going well in our favor, until the odds began to turn against us. Several horkers, those stupid creatures, began bellowing and charging in our direction. Distracted, I had just enough time to see a white blur attack me. A frost troll had entered the fray against us as well. I was on the defensive, and Kharjo was knocked down by the dragon's tail. And then, quite suddenly, another blur ran past me, toward the frost troll. It was the quicksilver mine owner....who may have been drunk, stupid, or on skooma. I wasted no time turning my focus back to the dragon, chugging a frost resisting potion for his breath and making sure my dagger was primed to strike with fire and poison. They say with the way dragons shout with deadly force, dragon battles are actually violent arguments....well this dragon was about to taste my linguistic power. With a mighty dragonborn shout, I struck down my foe, his body burning into a charred skeleton.

Looking around the battle wreckage, I found Kharjo alive and well, surrounded by dead horkers and a frost troll. And there...on the ground... the mine owner. Poor soul, I never even got his name. I still have no idea what possessed him to come to our aid..and yet without him we might not have succeeded. I did the only thing I could - I buried him at sea. I hope he find peace in death.

I now find myself at Jurgen Windcaller's Barrow. We will camp just outside the entrance, although the bodies of bandits and necromancers are a bit...unsettling.

Morndas, 7th of Heartfire(?) 4E 201

I do not know how long I have been here, or how much longer I will remain. I do not even know if I will make my way out of here alive.

I am tired, wounded, and alone. From what I have overheard, I am in Knife Point Cave

The cave is home to many bandits, one of whom holds an amulet belonging to a Khajiit caravan guard. I promised to get it back, although may be in over my head, especially without bringing Lydia along.

I am not so bold as to take on every bandit who infests this place head on, and so I have taken to pushing my silent stalking skills to the limit. I have stayed in the shadows, emerging only when the moment is right to strike.

Two guards at the front - killed the first as he patrolled the entrance and the second when he came to investigate. Dispatched two more bandits further in with my bow. The cave opened up to an island in the middle of a lagoon, many waterfalls filling the pool. This place is massive, and I fear neverending. Several bandits mentioned their leader in a drunken rage, and have him trapped somewhere. Also there is a sabertooth cat in a cage. I think this might work to my advantage...if I get that far. I found a hidden alcove that I might rest in for a bit.

I do not know if the rest of the bandits know I am here. I did my best to hide the bodies, but I fear they will be on alert soon. I must take them out before they take me out. If I do not survive... well, you can tell anyone who will listen that Esias the Dragonborn, Thane of Whiterun, met his end..but had some fun along the way.

Loredas, 5th of Heartfire, 4E 201

What a mess.

So many days, wasted thanks to that dirt hole known as Riften. Lydia and I made the journey hoping to find something new and adventurous. We were met with corrupt guards, seedy locals, thieves and murderers, beggars and impoverished shopkeepers. I had heard about the Thieves Guild operating in this city, but I had no idea it would have a such a horrible effect on the populace. My adopted father used to tell me tales of the Thieves Guild of Cyrodiil, and the mythical Gray Fox. He spun stories of a dashing morally upright band of rogues who looked out for the poor and punished the rich and arrogant. This was not the same. I was even approached by one of their members, who after making a remark about how all of my gold must have been ill-gotten, asked me to rob someone who had done no wrong! We stayed one night in the tavern, Lydia refusing to sleep lest we be robbed and killed that night.

It pains me to say but I fear I must return to Riften soon after leaving. The Thieves Guild should be respected as it is feared, and not a hideout for lowly bandits and fools under the pay of some corrupt noble. I don't want Lydia to return with me, for I think it is up to me to enter the Guild and make some changes, by force if I must. Perhaps I can rewrite the image of this Guild, and win back the support of the people it should be protecting.

As if in the inside of Riften were not bad enough, on the outskirts I came upon another traveling band of my people. The other Khajiit in Skyrim appear to be refused entry into the cities I have come across, thanks to the Nord's tradition of racism and stereotyping. Once again I may be the only one to prove to the people of this land that my brethren are more than petty bandits and criminals. I talked at length with one of the caravans protectors, and agreed to help him find a trinket of his. He seemed very nice, and was surprised to hear I had never been to our homeland. This dilemma has put a damper on my relationship with the Stormcloaks..however in the end it might be necessary to side with them, if it comes to that, only to prove how valuable a Khajiit can be...

Tirdas, 1st of Heartfire, 4E 201

Before leaving Ivarstead, I looked into the mysterious haunted barrow at the edge of the village. As it happens I did see a ghostly figure warning me to stay away. And traps, lots of traps. I'm kind of stubborn though, so I kept moving until I was face to spectral face with this supposed ghost. Funny thing was, he bled just as much as the next non ghost. Turns out he wasn't a ghost after all. His journal rambled about how he was looking for some secret treasure, and a key to an ominous door. He spend so long trying to find the key, and keep the villagers out of his affairs, he eventually devolved into thinking he actually was a ghost guarding this decrepit place. When I showed the journal to the tavern owner, he was quite grateful the haunting was at an end, and gave me a trinket for my troubles. A very familiar looking claw.

I returned into the barrow, armed with what I assumed was the key that the not-ghost was looking for all this time. I opened the familiar looking door with the familiar looking claw-key and began to explore. As it happens, the place really IS haunted, as corpse after corpse awoke to stop me from progressing. After dodging many traps, and sparring with the undead, I found a passage leading deeper underground. My pockets were full however, and I knew the tavern owner wouldn't know what to do with half of my treasure. A return trip to Whiterun was in order.

Once in town, I made the arrangements to buy more furnishing for my house, and I even enchanted a steel dagger with fire that I came to lovingly refer to as 'Fire Poker'. I also asked if Lydia wanted to accompany me back to the barrow, as more undead surely waited for me there. I think she had a hard time concealing her desperation to leave my house. I gave her a few things as we left, a steel helmet and a bow, which she accepted graciously. As we crossed the bridge leaving Whiterun behind, my mind wandered to just a few days ago, on this very road where I saw a dragon, circling the skies. He did not engage me, though I knew he was watching me. Perhaps it was an omen for my eventual ascent to High Hrothgar, or maybe they were just spying on me. The sound of thunder woke from my daydream as I realized the dragon was back, and this time he was done watching. With a shout, Lydia let loose a volley of arrows, and I followed suit. The dragon swooped in on us, preparing to unleash a gout of flaming breath, no doubt spewing a compelling argument in is own language. It was time these dragons appreciated my linguistical talents. With a mighty FUS ROH! I bellowed into its face, and it shook its head, unprepared for such a display. Lydia and I wasted no time laying into the beat with our weapons, and it wasn't long before I delivered the finishing blow. Another dragon dead, another soul absorbed. Lydia was shocked, understandably. It had only been less than an hour since we left Whiterun and we already had a dead dragon on our hands. I gave her some dragon bones to celebrate, quipping that you could show everyone how you and your Thane handle things.

Several hours and several wrong turns later, we finally arrived at Ivarstead, and I was eager to finish my work in the barrow. It turns out having a housecarl with you isn't all that bad, as we made short work of plenty of walking corpses. Before long we came upon a large chamber, adorned with several coffins. "I have a bad feeling about this" whispered Lydia as we slowly crept in. Words I could not agree more with, as no sooner as we had stepped in did the doors slam behind us. We didn't bother to wait for the corpses to rise from their resting places as we showered them with arrows - many skeletons unable to even step out of their coffins. More and more coffins opened as skeletons, corpses and undead husks arose. Putting my bow aside, I unsheathed my daggers as I roared upon the undead with the fury of a dragon. I saw the biggest corpse of all, similar to the one I encountered upon finding my first word of power. I sidestepped his Shout and attacked him from the side. As he turned he was unprepared for Lydia's attack, and we sent him back to death. In the next chamber I found my prize: another large inscription - with a word that caught my eye. I knew it was another word of power - a power over beasts at that. Victorious, we returned to the tavern to rest, and here I write as we discuss our next move. After discussing the various missions and quests I have been tasked with, we both think that heading east to Riften might be in our best interest. Neither have us have ever been, and although our status as Thane and Housecarl of Whiterun might not matter as much, there's always room to make a name for yourself. I shall write again upon my arrival at Riften.