15th of Last Seed

I have come to Skyrim to make a profit, but I've quickly found the climate and wilderness to be a bit too much for me. I hope soon to find a companion to provide protection and guidance in this strange, wild land. I do notice, however…for a shrewd eye, the many battlefields I come across provide ample pickings for an unabashed scavenger. Zenithar would not consider this stealing, would he?

16th of Last Seed

I have haggled and bartered my way through the merchants of Solitude until I amassed the funds to hire a spellsword, a kindly old nord by the name of Belrand. Next, we are heading south to see what else this land can offer. My wares are almost entirely depleted, but not to worry. This is a land at war, and the shameless can find goods aplenty leftover from old battles.

17th of Last Seed

I have made another friend, a stray dog named Meeko. His owner lays dead in his cabin, but Meeko is a good dog, strong and obedient, and he has taken a liking to Einrie and I. Besides, I think if I tried to send him away now he wouldn't go. He is sweet, though, and his fur is soft, and he keeps me safe and warm, so I suppose it is fate or the will of the Divines that he joins in on our adventures.

18th of Last Seed

We are in Whiterun. I have met the most alluring woman. Her name is Ysolda. She wants to learn to be a merchant, and luckily, I am experienced in that field! She has asked me to bring her a mammoth's tusk, a most difficult task, but Belrand and I can manage it. (Or, Belrand certainly can.) If not, I will be too ashamed to show my face in Whiterun again anyway.

19th of Last Seed

I have seen a dragon of lore with my own eyes! It destroyed Helgen and flew off as we approached. We were headed toward Falkreath to peddle my wares, but this is more important—and more exciting! Alvor, the Riverwood blacksmith, as implored that I return to Whiterun and bring news of the dragon to the Jarl. And I will, but I only wish I had a mammoth's tusk to bring back as well.

20th of Last Seed

The Jarl has asked that I help in retrieving a stone from a crypt for him. I was apprehensive, but Belrand assures me that we are capable. We set out this morning, armed with potions and as many new spells as Farengar will sell me.

21st of Last Seed

They are calling me the Dragonborn, and I only wish I knew what it means.

Isabeau sighed and looked down at her ink-stained hands. The hustle and bustle of the Bannered Mare drifted up into her room, drawing her attention away from her writing. She'd thought a journal would be a good idea, now that she was in Skyrim: a new land, a new start, a new habit. But it seemed impossible to write down the jumbled compilations of emotions running through her mind. How was she supposed to put into writing the feeling of a shout tearing itself from her throat, or the new heaviness she'd found in her soul since that chanting wall in Bleak Falls Barrow, or the fear that had rushed through her the night before as the shadow of a creature from a story blotted out the stars?

She sighed and snapped her journal shut, feeling more confused than she had when she'd sat down to write.

A knock sounded at her door, and Meeko, curled protectively by her feet, raised his head. "Come in," she called, and Belrand poked his head inside.

"Are you almost ready to go?" the old nord inquired.

Isabeau sighed. "Not nearly," she mumbled, and Belrand chuckled.

"Well, I don't suppose anyone really expects you to be ready. If I was in your place, I certainly wouldn't be, either."

"You know how to get there, right?" Isabeau asked, trying not to let her desperation show.

"'Course I do. If the weather holds, we'll be in Ivarstead before dinnertime, and you might even have some time for haggling. I know how much that cheers you up."

It did cheer her up. Isabeau sighed again, deeper, and then slipped her journal into her pack and pulled it over her shoulders. "All right, then. I suppose we'd better get going."

Usually horses weren't allowed inside the city, but Whiterun had made an exception for Einrie because of the travelling market he carried on his back. Sacks, baskets, and leather bags carried wares from all over Skyrim, hung precariously from a special saddle that Isabeau had designed herself. She brushed out his flaxen coat and checked his hooves for stones and his tail and mane for burrs, before heaving the saddle onto his back with Belrand's help.

The sun was rising over the city walls as they made their way out through the gates and down to the stables, where Belrand's mare was stabled. She tossed a stick for Meeko as Belrand brushed and saddled the mare, and then finally they hit the road, heading north over the rushing white river.

Isabeau was easily small enough to ride on Einrie's strong, broad back, even laden down as he was with goods, but she usually preferred to walk beside him, brushing her hands over the wildflowers and casting illusions on the rabbits and field mice as she passed. Meeko bounded ahead, tail wagging and tongue lolling happily; Belrand followed a ways behind, watchful eyes on the road. Isabeau hummed a tune and sent a flash of pale blue light towards a fleeing rabbit. It stopped, chest heaving, and rolled back its eyes to look at her.

"Stop teasing the poor things," Belrand reprimanded.

"How am I ever going to get better if I don't practice?" Isabeau retorted, and Belrand rolled his eyes.

"You could always try some proper magic. Like flames, or frostbite."

"I've told you. Nana made me promise never to use destruction magic, and I don't plan to break that promise. Not now, not ever. I don't want to be the reason she's rolling in her grave."

"Very well," Belrand acquiesced. "I suppose some of your new spells have proven pretty useful. Although I'd rather eat my helmet than let Farengar hear me say it."

Isabeau chuckled. The pompous court wizard of Whiterun had proven to have a surprising wealth of useful spells, including one that shattered Draugr into dust in an explosion of divine light. That had been invaluable on their mission to Bleak Falls Barrow, so much so that Isabeau was starting to feel like she, Belrand, and Meeko were a real team.

Her smile faded, though, when she remembered the dragon, and its soul, and the sound that had shattered the night sky afterwards, and why she was headed east, toward Ivarstead, rather than south to Falkreath as she had planned.

"Tell me again about the Greybeards," she mused, plucking some tundra cotton and letting the soft strands float away in the wind.

Belrand hummed good-naturedly. "They're masters of the Way of the Voice," he explained, for the umpteenth time. "They study the dragon language in seclusion on their mountaintop, and rarely emerge. In the stories, when they summon someone—like they have summoned you—it's to train them to Shout, like the heroes of old."

Isabeau's stomach heaved. "I'm nothing like the heroes of old," she insisted, a little snappier than she intended. "What do they want from me? What can they possibly expect from me? I'm a merchant, not a warrior!"

"Aye, lass," Belrand said, his voice mild. "But it seems they didn't choose you—the Divines did."

"Hmph." Isabeau sighed. She didn't know why they had chosen her either, but at least she knew there was no point in asking them.

Something pinged in her ear, like a thread snapping, and Isabeau stopped, suddenly alert. "My alarm spell," she breathed, and Belrand nodded.

"We're coming up on Valtheim Towers. The steward told me there's a bounty out for whoever can take down the bandit chief there."

"How much?"

"A hundred gold."

"Hardly worth the trouble," Isabeau snorted, but readied her magic. Meeko, sensing the change, circled back to walk closely beside her.

They crested the hill, and Isabeau got a clear look at the towers spanning the river. Despite herself, she was impressed; they held a certain majesty, dominating the river and the cliffs with an elegant grace. It was a shame the place was overrun by bandits.

A woman stood in the road, one hand shielding her eyes and the other on the hilt of her sword. The paint on her face and her ragged armor told Isabeau that she was a bandit. It looked like she was going to say something, but before she could open her mouth, a jagged bolt of frost caught her in the shoulder, sending her stumbling back. "Got her," Belrand announced.

"That was rude," Isabeau scolded, but sent a bolt of her own magic flying towards the bandit. It caught her in the chest; a moment later, a pale, ghostly shape detached itself from the woman. It was a mirror image of her, wearing the same armor and wielding the same sword. With a cry, the shadow drew its sword and turned on the bandit.

Meeko let out a deep growl low in his throat. "Go on, then," Isabeau said, and he took off like an arrow, streaking toward the bandit woman with vicious intent, and she finally collapsed under the assault.

Belrand dismounted and drew his sword, following in the dog's path. "Come on, let's be quick about it," he said cheerfully. "If we hurry, we can cross the river by lunch time."

Isabeau trailed behind her companions, readying another spell. She needn't have bothered. By the time she had gone up through the tower and out onto the narrow stone bridge, Meeko had knocked two bandits into the river and was barreling towards a third, and Belrand was locked in combat with a burly man in steel armor who must have been the chief.

"Oh, well," she sighed, and turned back to the first tower. Places like this always had good loot, and even if it wasn't good, she could turn a profit on most anything. By the time the clanging of swords quieted outside, Isabeau had gathered a sizeable collection of clothes, armor, weapons, potions, and books from the first tower. She clomped outside and dumped the load beside Einrie, who snorted impatiently, before heading back to check out the second tower.

"Hey, lend me a hand here," Belrand said as she passed. He had a hand wrapped around a shallow wound in his upper arm, and Isabeau summoned golden light to her fingertips.

"You're supposed to be careful," she reprimanded, and Belrand chuckled.

"Why would I do that? I've got a perfectly capable healer right here."

She didn't reply, instead focusing on mending Belrand's muscles and skin back together, the way they were supposed to be. Healing herself was one of the first things Nana had taught her, but healing someone else was new—although the concept seemed to be the same.

Soon the skin was closed again, though a shiny pink scar marked the place where the wound had been. "That should do it," she said with a satisfied nod, and went to continue her looting. "Oh, Belrand? There's a locked chest in that tower, if you want to—"

"Yeah, all right, your highness," Belrand chuckled. "You know, it's not that hard to pick a lock. I could teach you."

"It's immoral," Isabeau insisted. "At least, that's what Nana always said." She peered down at the body of the bandit chief. "Although that is some mighty fine steel armor…I might have to…" she bent down and began fiddling with the buckles.

Belrand rolled his eyes and headed back into the first tower.

When Isabeau had finished with her looting and had loaded all her new goods into Einrie's saddle, they took off again. True to Belrand's prediction, they reached the second crossing a little after noon. They took their lunch on the mossy banks, dipping their toes in the water, while Meeko splashed after leaping salmon. Isabeau was in good spirits as they set off again, up the winding mountain path that Belrand insisted was a shortcut to Ivarstead. The path here was narrow and steep, and the loosely packed dirt tended to crumble and fall away beneath their feet and their horse's hooves; Belrand dismounted and walked alongside his mare like Isabeau. They were both panting in the hot afternoon sun by the time they reached the top of the hill and Ivarstead came into view.

"Thank…the…Divines," Isabeau muttered. "I was almost certain I'd die out here."

"Oh, for Stendarr's sake," Belrand chortled. "That's enough of the dramatics. Come on, I'm certain Wilhelm can fix you up with some hot stew and cold mead. If you can make it to the inn, that is."

"I can," Isabeau retorted, indignant. "I just don't want to have to walk any further. But I can."

Belrand was still chuckling when they reached the little town. It was quaint, just a few houses, a sawmill, and a long, squat building. The swaying sign over the door proclaimed it the Vilemyr Inn, and Isabeau thought she'd never been happier in her life. She and Belrand quickly unsaddled, brushed, fed, and watered the horses, and, leaving them tethered outside, headed into the inn for the much-anticipated hot stew and cold mead.