4th Era, 201, 10th of Last Seed, Sundas.
I don't know why I came to Skyrim. I had never been, maybe that's why. I had trotted around all of Cyrodiil, but I never found Bruma welcoming. It never felt like home. I had grown up so far from the snow, on the golden coasts of Anvil. But there had always been something calling within me. A drive to go home. Maybe that's what drove me here, what drove me to explore. Maybe that's how I earned my title; Lore-Seeker. I don't know. I've spent all my life documenting and exploring tombs, ruins, sites, but not once I've ever thought to document myself. And with the road to Skyrim shut tight, I suppose I have nothing better to do; not like I want to traipse around any of the Ayleid ruins anymore then I already have. Right now, as I write, I'm stuck in a piddly little inn, Olav's Tap and Tack. The original owner has long since passed, and I've been fed rumors that the Hero of Kavatch once rested here, though I doubt it's credibility. Bruma itself is tense, it's main chapel, once devoted to Talos (and it was one of the largest of it's kind outside of Skyrim I believe) has now been turned over to worshipping Martin Septim. Thalmor Agents still patrol the streets, and the whole city seems to tragically depict the strange rantings of Alessia Ottus these days. But despite all this, the tightly closed border, the snow, and even the talk of rebellion in Skyrim, I still feel something call to me…
Vera sighed, shutting her newest journal, and tossed aside her quill. No matter how hard she tried, she always failed to start what she promised herself ages ago. Quietly tucking the journal back into her pack, she returned to watching the candle light dance about the room, hugging her legs to her chest.
"Nobody is going to remember you if you don't leave them anything to remember you by." She muttered allowed, as if trying to drive the point home harder. She knew it was true, after all. How many tombs had she wandered past, never seeing the name of the owner, or a single tell of their exploits? How many caves had she dwelved that could have held some legendary hero, that no story ever told, simply because nothing had ever been written? She laughed faintly, before glancing back at her pack.
"I am giving Ysgramor grief aren't I? I could probably be the second Nord historian of all of Tamriel, but I can't even tell my own story…" She again, half heartedly mused to herself, before absentmindedly reaching back into her pack for the journal.
I am Vera, the Lore-Seeker. I was born in the Fourth Era, year 176, on the twenty sixth of Evening Star. That was what, more or less, the note on my swaddle read when I was found on the dock in Anvil. I was found there, alone, with no family in sight, on the first of Morning Star. None of the dock workers claimed to have seen a figure that night (though most of them were most likely drunk from a night of celebration of the night prior), nor do they recall any vessel arriving or departing. From there, I was taken to what would be my home for my childhood, the historic Benirus Manor. I've talked in depth before about it's… Colorful history, so I will leave that for another day. It's owner, who would care for me in only a way she could, was known as Nashandra, the Beast Smasher. A strangely Nordic name for an Orsimer, but she was the closest thing I had to a family as I grew.
Her hand shook faintly, and again, Vera closed her journal, and packed it away. How long had it been since she spoke to Nashandra? How long had it been since she'd written to her? Her heart sank, and her eyes shut tightly, in a vain attempt to purge the thought from her mind.
"She's not your mother. She's just some Orc who took you in because nobody else would. She threw you out when you were thirteen, and she locked you in the basement occasionally to 'toughen you up'." She thought, loudly, as she rearranged her shoddy bedding, tucking herself under the scratchy blankets.
"Not tonight. No more of this tonight." She half choked out, from under the blankets, and behind tears that had welled up in her eyes. "No more of this until we reach Skyrim…". The rest of the night slowly carried on, sounds from the tavern bellow slowly dying down, until only the crackle from the fire beneath could be heard. But even as the embers died, she laid awake, still watching the slowly dying light of the candle dance around the room. When she slept, dawn was only a scant few hours away. But this was, tragically, the norm for Vera. Nights spent in dangerous caves, crypts, and ruins was never going to go well for her health.