Hey guys! It's me again. For some weird reason, I always get inspired by the most subtle events. I was playing Skyrim yesterday, when I stumbled upon a dead lovers camp, and then discovered the woman's diary. It inspired me to write this, the first piece of writing I've done in a while. Well, I don't want to keep you all waiting.

Disclaimer: I do not own Skyrim.

All copyrights go to Bethesda Games.

Love Doesn't Last Forever

Prologue

The sun is shining, the birds are singing. It is a beautiful summer morning in Skyrim, without a cloud in the sky. The snow is melting on the mountains, everything is as it is supposed to be.

A simple camp stands silent, settled in the small peak of a hill, protected all around by large boulders. The birds are not chirping here, terrified by the growling of a sabre cat.

You, a simple blacksmith, is out seeing the world in all it's glory. You are fairly content, seeing the sun shine through the trees, and watching the wildlife, until you stumble upon a small camp. You approach it slowly, keeping watch for people. It could be a camp of bandits, for all you know.

As you get closer, you smell blood, and the stench of rotting corpses. There, in the trail before you, is a half-dead sabre cat, lurking around, growling ferociously. You curse yourself for not hearing it and unsheathe your simple sword. It will have to suffice, as you have no armor. You circle around the cat, and it spots you, it's eyes glowing with hatred, and hunger.

Before you can even move, it lunges at you, its muscles tight and lean. You throw your sword up in front of you, just in time, as it catches right in the great beast's throat. It's expression turns immediately, from one of hatred, to one of relaxed agony. You pull your sword from the cat's body as it crumples to the ground, blood spurting from it's neck. You skin it quickly, for the pelt must be worth something. A surge of adrenaline dances through your soul, tainting every inch of you with excitement.

Victorious, you turn your attention to the camp spread before you. It is a simple camp, with a simple patchwork tent, with a bit of bedroll peeking out. A fire is still going in the middle of the camp, sending smoke curling into the great blue expanse of sky.

A man lying facedown in the dirt catches your eye. He is wearing a simple garb, a green tunic over beige leggings, stained with his own blood. You roll him over, to discover his chest ripped open. A silver ring gleams on his finger.

Behind the man lies a woman against a makeshift table, her neck broken. She too, is wearing a ring, but is dressed in fancier attire. An expensive looking yellow dress, with a brown apron sewn around the edges with gold thread fit her body well. Brown hair cascades down, framing her face perfectly. 'She would be quite beautiful,' you think. 'If not for her broken neck, that is.'

When you finally tear your eyes away from the woman, your attention wanders to the table behind her. A lantern glows, a wooden plate and a book is there beside it. You pick up the book, examining it thoroughly. It has a simple brown leather cover, with yellowed and frayed pages inside. It has obviously been on a long journey. Only three pages have been written in, although the book has many. The writing is beautiful Breton script. What is surprising about Skyrim, if you have never been there before, is that each race has their own style of writing. The nords have thick, round writing, while the Khajits, however, have a narrow script that is almost illegible to any other race. Inside the cover of the book is a single name, written in careful script.

'Karan'

That must have been the poor woman's name. You steal a quick glance at her. She is still there, leaning against the table, blood splattered across the tablecloth. Dead as a doornail. The entire area is silent, as if the gods have stopped time. The wind isn't even blowing. A shiver runs through your body, even though it is a warm summer morning. You take the book up and start reading.