4e 276, 17th of Last Seed
This one writes in the clearest posible Cyrodilic she remembers, to the benefit of the reader. Chances are some traveling adventurer finds this diary of sorts while traversing the woods, looking forward to discover tales of old and unending quests of a fellow brave hero.
What you will find instead is a new target to test the might of thy sword, bow or spear. Khajiit lies tied, hungry and hurt both in body and soul deep inside the forests north of Cyrodiil, close to the Jerall mountains, at about three days of walk from Bruma. She is kept against her will, Khajiit´s family murdered in cold blood less than a week ago. Mother died of an arrow to the chest, while Father was killed trying to fend off the bandit raiders. They left their bodies to rot in the fields. They sacked our little house, stole our food, drank our wine. They burned the place to the ground. They took the newly orphan, and carried her away from the farm she once called home.
Although she is alone and scared, Ko-mhari will attempt escape tonight. The rope that ties her is no match for khajiit's claws. The outlaw caravan has stopped and will camp for the night. They´ve settled in a small hill near a pond, made a campfire and pitched their tents around it. A light rain has set upon us since early evening, and it'll cover any trail left behind. This one had a hard time deciding a course of action, but in the end, Khajiit would rather die running ever free than stay here, arms crossed, and be defiled by these savage men or sold by a couple septims.
If you are indeed reading this, then Ko-mhari didn't make it. Whomever you might be, Khajiit humbly asks you to deliver the revenge she couldn't gift to her deceased family. It wasn't easy, after all, for Ko-mhari to leave this message behind. She risked a lot hiding the hefty book, writing out of sight from the bandit scum.
Ah, but there is no more time for scribbling. No. The rope binds Khajiit no more. Silence fills the camp. Jone and Jode are halfway through the night sky, partly covered by clouds. Rain has put out the fire, and the only lights on the camp come from inside the tents that are dimly lit by small lanterns. Still, Ko-mhari's eyes see clear as day. They see how the bulky nord that was left on the night shift sat comfy against a tree, and hasn't moved in what seems like years.
It's now or never. Moons gide me.