The boat was crowded, damp, and somewhat smelly, but at least I was finally going home. Home to Daggerfall. Which technically wasn't my home, but was close enough that the difference was of no consequence. And I had already been in Daggerfall six months before - but escaping Coldharbour, the realm of the Daedric Prince Molag Bal, and falling into Daggerfall instead – wasn't much of a homecoming. I hadn't even stayed in the city then – I had taken a Redguard ship to Stros M'Kai as soon as possible.
I wasn't even fully "recovered" yet from my sojourn in Coldharbour. Worse yet, I didn't think I would ever truly "recover" – my soul had been taken from me and while I still had it, kept carefully in souljar, wrapped up in many thicknesses of cotton wool, and stowed craftily away in one of my bags – I doubted I would ever manage to return my soul to my body. And while being one of the "soul-shriven" had its benefits – no one could Soul Trap me, for instance – it had a lot more drawbacks. It turns out it's hard to make any kind of moral decision, good or bad, when your soul isn't a part of you. I was having to rely on natural logic and human emotion to make my decisions, rather than relying on moral reasoning and divine forces. Basically, all my training in the subtle arts of philosophy and magic were only helpful in that they made me better at killing and avoiding being killed.
But there was no zest to magic use anymore, no real search for knowledge any longer. For that I could blame Molag Bal, his tool Mannimarco, or my own fool of a master. I blamed them all pretty equally. Furthermore, I hadn't eaten a hot meal or taken a full bath since well before I had been sacrificed to Molag Bal. That had definitely been my master's fault.
But see, every time I come to write my memoirs, I start in the middle of the story. I'm bad at beginnings, and worse at endings, but I'm quite good at middles. That's where all the action and interesting information is, you know.
My name is Jeanne-Francoise Caschet, formerly Jeanne-Francoise Virilane, student of Kael Adthar, daughter of Lady Marceline Virilane, most certainly NOT the daughter of Lord Etienne Virilane. But if I wanted to tell you that story in full, I'd have to go back to at least a decade before my birth…and I would have to make some of it up. Plus, this story – the story of how I went from being a soul-shriven nonentity in Molag Bal's fiefdom to a well-known champion of Nirn – well, that's a much more interesting story. And the machinations of my master, my father, my older brother, my mother, and her lover will come into play in this story enough for you to understand why I did the things I did and why I became who I am.
I am not sure who I am writing this story for. I find it hard to believe that anyone would be interested in events that happened a decade ago. It is true that for the first few years after the defeat of Molag Bal, almost everyone knew who I was. But the years are passing – I've seen a lot more silver in my hair recently, and people are forgetting me.
I have no offspring, natural or adopted. Alvor always laughs when I say this and tells me not to count my chickens. Aerin usually shrugs and tells me children are more trouble than they're worth. I tend to agree with Aerin more than Alvor on this subject.
But who are Aerin and Alvor? Again, I beg your pardon – I really need to get the hang of telling a story from the beginning. Let me start again – the boat was crowded, damp, and somewhat smelly…