Memoirs of an Assassin

by Aldor

Preface

This story is not meant to be a work of fiction, nor a tale of grandeur. It is the harsh reality that was, and to a lesser extent, is me. As Nords of Skyrim, we are expected to handle tragedy, but that doesn't make it any more easier to bear. For those who I have murdered, my sincerest apologies. For their families, I am absolutely sorry from the bottom of my heart. Though my words might taste like dirt, as there is no way I can possibly bring your loved ones back from Oblivion, I do hope my testimony can make life a bit less heavy.

I am but an old man now. The days go by slowly, and to pass the time, I write. I've written several books in the past few decades, all to modest acclaim. If you, reader, have read anything by the author Valtyr Wind-Blade, you've read my works.
Besides writing from my home, I enjoy watching the boats from the Solitude Docks go out to sea in the early hours of the morning. For just an hour a day, it makes me forget the pain I feel from my past deeds.

Soon, I will pass away. It is inevitable, and I do not fear death. I belong in the Void, whilst my victims belong in Sovngarde. I do wish that when I die, those I have murdered live a joyous afterlife, which they deserve.

Some might call this a confession or a will; I consider it a testimony. A testimony to the life I have lived, a testimony to the lives I have slain. These, my dear readers, are the memoirs of an assassin.

Beginnings

I was born in the trading post of Eris, at the border of Cyrodiil and Skyrim. Eris is not much more than a hamlet at base of the Jerall Mountains these days, but when I was a boy, it was a lively village filled with travelers journeying between Skyrim and Imperial province.

I was born on the Eighth of Heartfire, 4E, 183. My father Erik was a carpenter, and my mother Freya ran a food stall for those passing through. My ancestry on my father's side is pure Nord, while on my mother's it is both Nord and Imperial. Though I am old now, and they died when I was just a child, I do remember how loving they were.

The earliest memory I can recollect is when I went to Falkreath with my father so he could purchase lumber from the local mill. While Falkreath wasn't terribly bigger than Eris was at that time, I remember how exciting it was to go there. Life wasn't bustling like Eris. Falkreath was slow, and gloomy. I recall the conversation my father and I had going in to the town when I was about six.

"Father, why is this town so sad?"

"Falkreath, my son, has seen the terrific might of many great battles," he replied morosely. "Many men and women have died here. It is home to the largest graveyard in Skyrim."

That cemetary always stood out to me. The sun never seemed to shine in Falkreath, and the graves always were shrouded in a cloud of mist. As a young boy, it was haunting to see such a peculiar sight; now it is nothing special, like seeing a wave lap onto the shore.

When I was a month or so shy of seven, my mother caught a case of ataxia, which left her bed-ridden for several weeks. The condition of her disease, however, did not improve, and she passed two days before my birthday. I did not understand her death, as young children tend to do, but it deeply hurt my father. Though he never let his emotions get the better of him, he was shocked and wounded by dying.

At age nine, my father went to Falkreath for lumber. He never returned. He was missing for several days, which didn't worry me too much because he often took his time and enjoyed staying overnight at the inn. I knew something was wrong when my aunt ran into her house (where I was staying for the time-being) hysterically crying. My father had been slaughtered, for lack of a better word, by bandits. At the time, my family wouldn't tell me what happened, as they thought I was too young. I felt alienated.

The killer, a man who's name I don't recall, was caught in the next forty-eight hours. Jarl Dengeir personally sent a steward to invite me to the execution, but Uncle Sven wouldn't let me preside. I was fine with this, as I didn't want to see the man who took my dear father's life at all.

The rest of my preteen years were a blur, as were the majority of my teenage year. I lived with my aunt and uncle and cousin until I was fifteen, when they moved to Bruma, in Cyrodiil. I was invited to encompany them, but I decided against it. While Eris was a disputed region at the border, I decided that Skyrim would be my home. Eris these days technically is part of Cyrodiil. Back when I was a young man, it was a settlement in Falkreath Hold. However, war treaties and the like have moved the town back to the Imperial Region, where it now houses nothing more than an inn for travelers and a few dwellings.

At nineteen, I was hunting when I accidentally entered Jarl Siddgeir's (Dengeir's nephew) hunting grounds and killed a fabled stag that was revered by the current Jarl. While this was purely a mistake, Siddgeir believed I had intentionally killed the deer. I was given a choice by the Jarl: jail or service in the Imperial Legion. As I didn't want to be viewed as a criminal for the rest of my life as the result of a misunderstanding, I decided to join the Imperials. The next morning, I began the long trip to Solitude to recieve my training as a soldier.