Greetings, dear reader. My name is Saya Indoril.

I am what some may call a "crossbreed" - my mother was a Dunmer, while my father was a Breton, a citizen of Reach. He was a good man, an adventurer who once set out to Morrowind to never return - but not because he died. He simply met someone whom he loved more than his old home.

I am writing this down in case my abilities prove to be insufficient, and I am to perish in some kind of dark cave or ruin. Or, who knows, maybe it'll be some long forgotten Dwemer city, or even a plane of Oblivion? So many possibilites.

I am writing this in case my memory will not pass the trial of age as smoothly as my body does. To remind myself of what I was, of what I want to be, and of what became of me. Or maybe just to tell me where I'm supposed to go and what to do, so that I don't get lost in some ditch or another.

And of course, I am writing this for whoever will find and read this when my time comes, or perhaps even for me to crack this thing open in front of a fire in a few decades, so that you may hear my story in my own words.


Sundas, 17th of Last Seed, 4E201


In Skyrim, there are three things that are always present - blood, alcohol, and cold. So it was no wonder that, even during the summer, the weather remained as merciless as ever, sneaking up on any outlander that believed themselves to be prepared and nipping at their skin.

Saya was no exception, though it was far from her first day in the province. As her consciousness slowly returned, the bite of the morning air provoked a slight shiver, awakening the numbing limbs from their unwanted slumber. Two red irises darted around, inspecting the immediate surroundings of their owner, only to be stabbed by the bright white of the snow laid upon the mountains, contrasting with the dark night sky. In an attempt to calm herself, Saya took a deep breath, yet instantly regretted it as the icy air instead made her cough up vapor. She grunted in protest, lifting her hands to cover her mouth - and, in a rather unpleasant surprise, discovered that they were, in fact, bound with thick straps of leather.

"...Bloody brilliant." A quiet curse found its way out of the Dunmer's lips as she slowly ascertained her situation. She leaned back in the cart with a sigh, which happened to attract the attention of a blond Nord man across the cart whom she had previously failed to notice. To the best of his ability, he smiled, awkwardly greeting her.

"Hey, you. Finally awake?"


Dear diary, today I woke up in a carriage.

Judging by the temperature, I was still in Skyrim - though I can't say it calmed me much. Folks always told me curiosity will be the end of me, and I admit - stumbling upon an ambush while camping is not my brightest moment.

While the Stormcloak that woke me up made himself busy via argument with a nearby fella who looked like he rolled down a mountain, I took a moment to look around and recognized the road we were on. We were going to Helgen. A pleasant enough village, from what I remember.

Well, other than the part where I was being brought there for my own execution. Like, okay, I know, Skyrim isn't the friendliest to visitors, especially Dunmer, but this is a bit… Much, no?

As soon as we were brought to the little town, the guard at the end of our informal cavalcade hopped off his steed and searched his pouch for a few moments, pulling out a quill and a small book - as Ralof (the blond from earlier) noted, a list of prisoners to start a rollcall. Gods know when he had the time to make it, but I suppose he had to keep himself busy somehow.

We marched to the block one by one, forming into a disorderly line. I watched the executioner swing his axe twice, both times resulting in a head rolling into a basket with a disgusting sound. Some parents were shouting for their kids to go home and not to watch this.

Eventually, it was my turn.


"Next, the mutt with the red hair!" A woman clad in metal armor with Imperial insignia called out. She had understood by now that this is the captain, and she also understood that any kind of conversation would be impossible to have. Still, the Dunmer couldn't say she much wanted to march to her own demise. She didn't usually feel afraid, but in that moment she felt absolutely helpless. She tried to look anywhere else other than the captain herself, and found her eyes drifting up into the sky.

And out there, somewhere in the distance, her eyes caught the smallest glimpse of an emerald-green flash. It was incredibly far away, barely a spark from her perspective, and yet she couldn't help but stare in bewilderment, wondering what it could be.

"Are you deaf? I said, step up to the block!" The captain took a step forward, but no more than that. Just like Saya's moments before, all the eyes in Helgen were suddenly drawn to the night sky as an otherworldly roar cascaded across the landscape, echoing off the faraway mountains. The Dunmer took a step back instinctively, bumping into one of the Stormcloaks nearby and muttering an apology.

"Did you hear that?" The Imperial soldier from before, Hadvar, spoke up. Curiously enough, despite - or perhaps because of - him being the one handling the execution list, he was the only one to speak up of Saya's being in the cart despite her not having anything to do with the altercations that transpired. Thus, though it didn't matter much, he was a little higher on her own personal list than the other soldiers around the place. "Captain, maybe it would be wise to-"

"It would be wise," she retorted, "for you to remember your station, soldier. Get the next prisoner to the block so we can be done with this."

Hadvar looked like he wanted to say something, but gave up midway. He simply nodded in resignation and put a hand on Saya's shoulder, giving her a slight push. "To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy."

The Dunmer gave him a wry smile. With a sigh, she stepped forward, staring down into the cold stone floor as she did. Her eyes only lifted once more when she was face-to-face with the captain, Saya's expression neutral and disinterested, but her eyes full of scorn. "Murderer." She spat, and then took a knee in front of the block, calmly laying her head down sideways. Just one last time, she thought, looking up into the sky. And yet… Something was off. She didn't realize it at first, as it was subtle, but still undeniable.

Some of the stars were missing.

"It's in the sky!" A male voice shrieked from atop the guard tower, loosing an arrow off into the night. An Imperial in his late 50's - the General named Tullius - looked up, scowling as the execution was interrupted, and shouted at the soldier.

"Sentries! What do you see!?" His command was only met with half a dozen fearful voices screaming in the dark before the guard tower and everything around it quaked.

A giant form of what, for a second, seemed like pure darkness descended onto the building. Slowly, it unfurled, revealing itself: two pairs of sharp, jagged horns that curled backwards and up, as if shaped by wind resistance; a long tail, adorned with thorns and spikes, curling downward and around the tower, blocking one of the windows with its fan-like tip; two large wings were raised into the sky before slamming down onto the tower's surface, sending cracks and vibrations through it as the claws dug into the walls, revealing the web-like membranes between the fingers; and a pair of two eyes, previously concealed under pitch-black eyelids, now opened and shining like two crimson stars in the sky-

-and focused on the block.

"A DRAGON!"

Its body looked like it was made of shadows congealed into solidity, as black as could be and almost warping the light around itself, a shard of the night sky fallen to the earth. Only thanks to the way the stars became blocked behind it did Saya notice its neck curling back, and she stood up, pushing the headsman away from her with her shoulder. She turned around, and for just the briefest of moments, their eyes linked.

A subconscious feeling gripped her. A cold, viscous terror. It was here for her.

Its scales stretched, the black lips concealed by them curling into a bestial, malicious grin before its jaws pried open, a snake-like tongue falling out and licking across the fangs. Its rib cage expanded, swallowing a hearty mouthful of the fresh cold air and its claws dug deeper yet into the stone, using it as a counterbalance.

And then, it roared, its breath unleashing a wave of air that impacted the ground with a loud, thunder-like clap, raising dust and transforming wind itself into an amorphous battering ram. The shockwave sent people off their feet, bones cracking and shrieks of pain echoing as bodies got tossed into walls with brutal ferocity. Saya had but a brief moment to see the headsman get swept clean off his feet before she got thrown off the block, her back slamming into the building behind her. Her breath knocked out of her body, the Dunmer fell onto her fours on the ground, gasping and wiping the blood from her nose and looking up at the demonic creature before her.

With a growling, raspy chuckle, the beast took off as soon as her red eyes locked with its own, another roar reverberating in the sky. The starry sky became murky, clouds that were not previously there began to gather into an ominous vortex. Then, the beast released its death grip on its perching spot, flapping its mighty wings and taking off while the grey above warped into a dark vortex that began spewing rock and flame.

"Ugh…" Saya shook her head, doing her best to get rid of the ringing in her ears. Rising onto wobbly feet, she saw Ralof call out to her as he entered a doorway to her right. She gave one last glance to the chaos unfolding before her, and then quickly followed suit.


I ran. I ran, and ran, and ran even more. Everything around me turned into absolute panic, children were screaming and adults were trying to save them while struggling not to die on their own. Everything that I saw and heard felt like one continuous blur, right up until I made it into a keep on the other side of the village.

Hadvar was with me, for what that was worth. Once we caught our breath and collected ourselves a little bit, he was nice enough to forget my prisoner status and cut my binds. We made our way through the keep together, grabbing anything useful we could find along the way. I took the liberty of taking whatever gold I could find and took one of the longswords they had lying around to replace the one I lost for probably ever when I got snagged.


Eventually, we made our way to his home village, Riverwood, which was maybe half an hour or so of traveling northward from Helgen. I'm not going to lie, it was extremely awkward to listen to him talk me up in front of his family, but I appreciated the gesture. I guess we did save each other's lives, and all that.

I received some aid from his family - his way of compensating for the help and the equipment I lost out in the woods. Some gems, a bit of money, food, an offer of shelter. It was… Quite kind of them. I still felt weird about occupying space within their house, however, so I excused myself after dinner and paid for a room at the local inn. And, of course, I bought this journal.

To be honest, I was never one for keeping a diary. Not since the one I kept as a kid got discovered and made fun of by the other little ankle-biters. But honestly, after seeing something like that… I feel like I should do it. If not to organize my own thoughts, then to at least pass them on to someone else when I inevitably end up in a ditch.

That aside, I'm exhausted. Hopefully exhausted enough to get a full night's sleep even with that sight seared into my brain.

I don't think I'll forget all the screams for a long, long time.


Morndas, 18th of Last Seed, 4E201


Light scattered, hitting the glass window pane and refracting off it, forming gentle, golden rays that cascaded into the room. The gentle rustling of leaves and feathers signified the end of a bird's slumber, a robin's cheerful song greeting the morning.

Saya's greeting to the world, meanwhile, was a displeased groan. Her face turned into a scowl as she yawned and felt the dry bottom lip crack, forcing out another disgruntled murmur from the Dunmer while she rubbed the sleepiness away from her eyes. She was never a morning person, and was currently regretting not checking beforehand if the room had curtains.

A few minutes of stretching later, the clothed and armored girl stepped out of her room with a noticeable creak from the old wooden door - which, thankfully, was drowned in the noise of the morning inn occupied by various denizens of Riverwood. Without paying them much attention, the girl moved through the Sleeping Giant's interior straight for the exit, occasionally stepping around some of the less self-aware patrons.

While the air still had the slight chill of autumn's premature coming, it was, thankfully, nowhere near the bite of the pre-mountainous region in which Helgen was built. Saya's fingers slowly dipped into the river water, a small giggle escaping the Dunmer's lips as she watched the nearby fish swim off swiftly. She closed her eyes, letting magicka course through her fingers and warm the water up somewhat before she started washing her face. A momentary glint of metal entered Saya's vision as she pulled a small razor out of her knapsack, looking down into the river like a mirror and tracing the sharp blade across her scalp, carefully shaving the red hair off her temples before styling the rest with her fingers.

Lastly, with a flash of magical heat drying her palms, Saya reached into a smaller pouch in the backpack and pulled out a small container. After removing the cap, her fingertips dipped into the purple dye before trailing along her face, painting a simple, segmented warpaint design on her rosy brown skin.

"Prettying yourself up?"

An amused chuckle came from behind Saya, grass rustling as a young Nord man made his way towards her. Maybe in his middle twenties, his light brown hair was relatively long, reaching midway through his neck, contrasting with the milky-white skin on his face and accenting his mismatched eyes: one green, not unlike the leaves of the surrounding trees, the other - brown, a noticeably darker shade than his locks.

Smiling, Saya washed her hands, put away the warpaint and stood up to wave Hadvar hello.

"If I'm about to head off towards my demise, might as well look pretty while doing it, no?" Came the witty reply, straps of the backpack sliding back onto the Dunmer's slim shoulders. She made it rather clear yesterday that she didn't want to stay in Riverwood for long, seeing as Alvor, Hadvar's uncle, requested she notify Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun about the events in Helgen. She only thought it appropriate to honor the request, if only as thanks for the help she received.

"Not going to say farewell to little Dorthe?" He asked, weight shifting to another foot. "She was all but beaming when you taught her how to sharpen daggers yesterday. Uncle Alvor wouldn't have let her even near the grindstone."

Saya shook her head. "No, probably not. I'm not really good at goodbyes" She shrugged and put her arms up into another stretch, some of her joints popping after the rather unnatural sitting position. "And besides, why 'farewell'? It's not like I'm leaving forever. I'll probably come by eventually. Doubt that swindling Lucan out of his coin with shiny trinkets will get old anytime soon. That man has no sense of business whatsoever."

"Hah, if he did he would've been out of here years ago." Hadvar chuckled, hands sliding into pockets of his vest. "I will let the family know you left, then. And thank you again for the help."

Now it was Saya's turn to chuckle. "You already thanked me yesterday, you know. And you helped me just as much as I did you. Leave it be, lad - else you're gonna thank me to the grave." She teased.

Hadvar, as much as he wanted, couldn't bring himself to laugh. There was a discomfort in his eyes, and his gaze lowered to the green grass below.

Saya frowned, crossing her arms. "You still feel guilty, huh?" The Nord looked up to her, only a little surprised she was able to read him that easily. "It's all over your face. But it wasn't your fault, you know." The redhead said in a reassuring tone, walking up to him and putting a hand on his shoulder. She was actually a good head or two shorter than him, so it must've looked almost a little comical from the side. "You didn't give the orders, and you tried to defend me. And look-," she gestured at herself, "I'm right here. Good as new."

"I… Alright." Hadvar sighed, defeated. He had a feeling that no matter what response he'd come up with, she'd end up shooting it down - and he wouldn't be wrong to assume so. "So… I guess this is goodbye?"

"Nah." Came the short reply. Hadvar blinked. Unceremoniously, the Dunmer circled right around him, trailing her fingers along his shoulder before poking him in the head. "I told you already, didn't I? I suck at goodbyes. They're too final, too sad, and really it's just a big bother, don't you think?"

The man nodded hesitantly. She smiled.

"Good." She grinned, and just as she greeted him with a wave, so did she see him off with yet another one. "See you later!"

The bewildered Nord only waved back, watching her skip away without a care in the world.


Before leaving, I decided to check in with Orgnar one last time to pay off my tab from yesterday.

As luck would have it, I also managed to snag a bounty from Jarl Balgruuf (or, well, his steward… court, whatever) on a bunch of lowlives that settled in a ruin northwest of Whiterun. 'Silent Moons camp', they call themselves. Don't know if they were trying to sound intimidating or what, the name only made me exhale through my nose with slightly more intensity than usual. Has a nice ring to it, though.

So, I decided to head off there first, and then turn in the bounty and the news of Helgen at the same time when I got back to the city.

And while I was out and about, reading the map, I noticed something that was, frankly, quite unfair. Did anyone ever notice that the wide majority of roads in Skyrim don't have names? It's really quite obnoxious and uncreative, in my opinion.

So, by the power granted to me by boredom, the road leading from Riverwood to Whiterun shall henceforth be referred to as the Jadewood Pathway.

...Okay, that may be a bit too grand for this kind of road. But the other variants are too boring, so I think I'll stick with Jadewood.

Ah, I think there are wolves nearby. Gonna go back to writing after the camp.


"Knock back a fiery flin, amidst the smoke and ash! Drain the flask of whiskey - we'll be drunk in a flash!"

Laughter rumbled through the chamber, followed by the clatter of metal mugs hitting each other in a toast. The smells were quite strong in the room. The sweet aroma of honey in the Honningbrew mead was mixing with the delicate, yet slightly acidic scent of summer sujamma, and the combination would be both pleasing and intoxicating in its own right - that is, if only it wasn't accompanied by the ever-recognizable stink of cheap alcohol.

"AHAHA! You know, Gilas, I think the boss was right about- hic, letting you into the gang after all." The low, slurring voice of a male Nord echoed slightly through the tunnels. Another laugh joined him, and the companion had a distinct Dunmer accent. "You may be a greyskin, but you know how to fuckin' drink, and I can respect that."

"Well, I'll be! Dagon's balls must be freezing over if you, of all people, said that!" The words were followed by a few hearty gulps and the sound of a mug slamming onto a small wooden table. "Hey, is it just me or is it… hic, is it a bit quiet…?"

"Where? In the boss's room? Feel free to check, but I'm not covering for your grey arse when he asks why you left the post and woke him up for no reason." The Nord grumbled dismissively, taking the last swig before uncorking another bottle, refilling his mug with mead.

"Hmm… Fair enough. None of my business if he sleeps on his loot." Gilas chuckled.

"Ha, I'd pay to see you say that to his face!" Another wave of booming laughter resounded through the chamber, the bandit leaning back in his chair before suddenly stopping, his eyes locked on the hallway. "...Did you hear that?"

"Mmm…?" The Dunmer man's eye opened lazily, looking into the same hallway. From his point of view, it looked more like three hallways, but that was a bit beside the point. "Hear what?"

The chair creaked when the taller Nord stood up from it, his expression twisted into a grimace and hand reaching for the mace hanging on his belt. "...Might be nuthin', but I'll check. Think I heard something. You stay put - and don't touch my tankard."

Gilas raised an amused eyebrow but nodded in affirmation. Through his blurry vision, the tall shape of the fellow outlaw began taking slow steps towards a hallway, mace held loosely in one hand. He blinked, and the next moment the man's form had vanished.

A second passed. Then two. Then five.

"...Jorunn? Everything clear down there?" The Dunmer archer stood up and took a few steps closer. The man's ears twitched slightly as the muffled sound of grunting and struggling reached him before suddenly ceasing. With another careful step, he was standing at the edge of the room, peering into the hallway that descended towards the leader's chambers.

Then, his eyes shot open when he noticed Jorunn's boots peeking out the corner, his body unmoving. Instinctively, Gilas reached for his bow and shouted.

"SHIT, WE'VE GOT COMPANY!"

With a quiet curse, a smaller, female form dashed from behind the corner, left hand bleeding slightly and clutching a steel longsword with a peculiar green shine. Gilas scrambled to pull an arrow out of his quiver, shaky hands nocking the projectile and aiming at the invader who began moving in quick zig-zagging steps, all but leaping up the stairs towards him.

The Dunmer's bow, already wobbly from the amount of ingested alcohol, was suddenly grabbed by Saya and yanked upwards, sending the arrow whistling into the ceiling. The girl crouched down and, still holding onto the wooden limb of the weapon with her right hand, stabbed her blade in the man's exposed abdomen.

"AAARRRGH, YOU DAMNED-!" A pained curse found its way out of the bandit's throat. He let go of the bow, reaching for the dagger on his hip but dropping it immediately as another cut painted his abdomen red. The wound was beginning to singe and ache, an unbearable searing pain spreading through his torso, and moments later Gilas found the same pain eating away at his throat, his body seizing and shaking before, eventually, dropping limp onto the floor, two charred handprints now adorning the neck.

Saya grunted, flipping the body over and pulling the sword out as she patted down the corpse and pocketed whatever gold the thug had on him. Taking a moment to catch her breath, the adventurer then calmly stepped over to the chair previously belonging to Jorunn and sat down. The red eyes looked across the wooden table, searching for anything of use, and Saya reached out to take one of the rags lying out about, wiping her sword clean from the blood and humming a familiar melody.

"Let's guzzle sujamma amid the fire and fumes, tip back the jar of liquor - let inebriation bloom~..."


Alright, two notes to self.

One - snapping people's necks is much harder than it seems. That bastard - Jorunn, was it? - damn near bit a chunk out of my hand when I tried to shut him up! Ugh. I'll need to browse the market a bit for a better healing spell, this took so long to heal I almost considered leaving it be and waiting until I got to Kynareth's temple.

Two - I was correct, and the weapons at the camp were, in fact, enchanted. It seems that the effect's strength depends on the time of day, though I'm not entirely sure how much. I'll need to do some observation later. For now, it seems to be some kind of moonlight enchantment, like a glorified fire effect but somehow tied to the moons…

I'll take two others. One for disenchantment, the other for experimenting before I sell it off to whoever's interested. This one though, I think I'll keep for personal use. It'll do better than the Legion-issued poke stick, that's for sure.


When I came to Whiterun, I was greeted by a guard stating that the city was essentially on lockdown for everyone who didn't live in it. It took many minutes of conversation I would rather not have before he finally let me in once I name-dropped Helgen.

I'm not going to lie, the conversation was a smidge too tense for my liking. I could've sworn he was glaring at me from behind that helmet of his. Like if I so much as overstepped my boundaries by an inch I'd get thrown into jail.

Good to know the trading capital of Skyrim is as friendly as ever, aye?


Jarl Balgruuf was a very nice surprise, contrasting quite a lot with his less-than-friendly guards - and even more so with his much-less-than-friendly housecarl, who was just a sentence away from putting a blade to my neck. He patiently listened to everything I had to tell about Helgen, and asked quite a lot of questions which I answered to the best of my ability. The reward for completing my task was… Another task.

But of course. What else should I have expected? I didn't really mind though - slashing at things was a great method of clearing my thoughts, so I accepted without much protest.

This time, the task giver was Farengar Secret-Fire, the court wizard. He told me to go to a crypt called Bleak Falls Barrow, located in the mountains north-west of Riverwood. I made my notes on what I am supposed to retrieve, and after a few pointers I turned in the bounty, getting a nice two hundred drakes for the Silent Moons gang.

As I am writing this right now, I'm having dinner in my room at the Bannered Mare. Tomorrow, I think I'll try tackling Bleak Falls. After that, we'll see. I'll probably make my way towards Markarth. I never did get to visit da's place, it's why I came here in the first place. He said the city was carved out of a mountain by Dwemer - "Dwemer, not dwarves", as ma would correct him every time - so I'm really excited to see how it looks.


Tirdas, 19th of Last Seed, 4E201


Where do I even begin…

When I arrived to Bleak Falls, it was inhabited by another gang of bandits. It was around the same size, but it was much more spread out - two lookouts, three patrolling units outside, two inside, one wandered off and another ran ahead to get all the loot.

The real danger came from what was after them.

The draugr are a threat I was aware of, but I didn't think they'd be so… Intelligent. I could've sworn I heard some of them speak.

Especially the last one.

Calling it "speaking" sounds like downplaying it, honestly. I can only guess that it was speech, because I could vaguely make out some words that the other undead said before him, but it was much more akin to roaring.

If it really was speech, it was in a language I never heard or heard of before. And it definitely wasn't just regular speech - every time it spoke something bizarre would happen. Sometimes my weapon would fall out of my hands, sometimes my spells would pass through it. One time it even blasted me off my feet, like the dragon back at Helgen! You know, now that I think about it, it did sound very similar to the noises that thing made…

At least it went down much easier. At least, I don't think the dragon would die this quickly.


Saya grunted, her fingers wrapping tightly around her sword and tugging on it with as much strength as she could muster. With a dry noise of withered flesh tearing, she managed to pry her weapon free from the killed draugr's corpse. The girl huffed, wiping the sweat off her forehead from the battle that just transpired. She was extremely lucky to get away with only a few bruises, but her exhaustion did her no favors considering the treacherous trek back to safety.

But first, the Dragonstone - the very thing she came here for. A few minutes passed while Saya scoured the sanctum for things to loot: a chest full of treasure, a shelf with ancient gem encrusted embalming tools, the corpse of the draugr itself. It was only when she thought to look in the coffin that she finally found the object of her search, and then proceeded to triumphantly shove it into her backpack and call it a day.

And that would've been exactly what she'd do, had she not heard a faint whisper coming from behind her. The Dunmer turned around, weapon at the ready, yet found nobody that could've produced such a sound. Instead, the only thing in sight read an enormous stone wall, carved in a semicircle and standing as a monument that reached all the way to the cave ceiling. Confused, she put away the sword, approaching the wall to inspect it, when she heard it again. A faint whisper, almost like a chant, beckoning her to come closer.

As Saya continued to examine the giant structure before her, the main focus of hers were the peculiar symbols she saw lining the bottom. At first, she was tempted to disregard them, but at second glance she noticed a pattern that separated these messy carvings from simple and meaningless damage. It wasn't just decoration, she realized - it was text.

Just as that realization crossed her mind, the whisper intensified. It was as though it was throbbing inside of her skull, reverberating from within rather than come from the outside. Her vision blurred, but when her eyes opened once more, she could see that one of the words was different from the rest. It was almost… Glowing. She reached out to touch it.

In an instant, she felt as though her body was going to break. An indescribable weight pushed on her chest, and she could feel her ribs crack under it while an identical, annihilating pressure had begun to pull her down by the shoulders. She fell to the floor, her head pulsing with pain that made her want to split her skull into a million pieces, and she felt her back and shoulders cracking under the weight. She could not inhale a single gulp of air, her ribcage refusing to move as though a mammoth was standing on top of her, and her vision was beginning to grow dark. Her eyes watered and clarity began to escape her, and she no longer knew what it was that she could see before her.

All she could do is feel the breath leave her lungs, pushed out of her body. And when it left her lips, they moved unconsciously, whispering a word that the stone had whispered to her.

Fus.

The next second, Saya felt herself gasp. Blinking, she could see that she was still in Bleak Falls Barrow, without having moved an inch. Her hand was still on the wall, the cold stone tingling her fingers, but she felt a peculiar warmth coming from it. She noticed that the word was no longer glowing, and backed away.

"Fus." She muttered. And she couldn't understand why.


I don't know what the hell happened back there, but whatever that rune was… I heard it. It was like I knew it, but I didn't at the same time. I tried saying it out loud, but nothing happened. I tried writing it or drawing it or touching it and nothing like that happened again. Not even with any of the other symbols.

Is this the language that the draugr spoke? Is this the language that the dragon spoke? Is this even a language? Why can I read it?

I need to get this back to Whiterun. I need answers.


Farengar was about as useless as I should have expected. While he did joyously accept the Dragonstone and gave me some insight on what it actually is (which would be a dragon burial map), he did not reveal who his hastily departing partner was nor what he actually needed it for, specifically.

Alright, then. Keep your secrets, I guess.

On top of that, he didn't seem to have any information on the word I heard or why I could've recognized it, but he did allow me to rummage through his books and find that the wall was, in fact, full of inscribings in the dragon language. I was not aware until now that dragons had a language, but…

You know, in hindsight, that's probably what a dragon would speak.

I'll need to think on this later. Preferably in another city. Jarl Balgruuf granted me a monetary reward of around 500 gold, which was quite generous of him for retrieving a single stone, and also offered me one free enchanted item of my choosing. I wasn't very picky, so I went with a simple dagger of dwemer metal enchanted with a short-term soul trap. It'll come in handy for recharging this Silent Moon of mine.

For now, though, time to sleep. I'll go pay Hulda her gold and crash on the bed. Don't have the energy to even take off my armor.

Bleh. Goodnight.


Middas, 20th of Last Seed, 4E201


The night was dark and warm. The hauntingly beautiful nightingale song masked the wind's howl that echoed across the stretching plains. Masser's crimson shine bathed the earth in full tonight, and the waxing Secunda's shimmer could barely compare. It was beautiful. It was haunting.

Flashes of orange and white sparked across the grassland, and black clouds stretched into the sky - not water, but ash and smoke, flesh and bone burned by a roar that led the night's choir. The earth shook, the stone crumbled, the metal bent and the spirits broke, unable to withstand the song of bones older than time itself. The silenced heartbeats of lives snuffed out were mere percussion in the symphonic orchestra of agonized human screams.

But then, the night was silent once more. Scale gave in to metal, muscles tore and ceased to move, and bones shone with an ethereal glow. What was a raging cataclysm mere minutes ago was now a withering corpse, erupting into a brilliant star of light.

Light that flowed into a star much smaller than its own. Fused with it. Became one with it.

Was devoured by it.

And then, the mortal bones, whether in mockery or in celebration, let out a cheer. And the mountains responded to the cheerful shout with a shout of their own - through the tongues of mortals who spoke in a language as old as time.

"DOV-AH-KIIN"


I hate this.

I was woken up in the middle of the night by a guard banging on my door. He said Irileth sent him by order of Jarl Balgruuf. To kill a dragon.

I repeat. I was woken up. At three in the fucking morning. To kill a dragon.

(the following paragraph is a crossed-out convoluted mess of scribbled curses directed at the jarl, his housecarl, and, although much more tame, towards the poor guard)

Ugh… nevertheless, we went out into the fields soon after. The Watchtower was destroyed - little more than rubble remained. Surprised there was even that much, to be honest. The last survivor we found barely had the time to squeeze out a warning from under the debris before the beast flew out from behind the mountains.

I admit, while I scoffed when Balgruuf said I had the most experience with handling a dragon - the man was right. The guards were as scared as I was, but that only made it easier to make them follow me in my tactic, if it can be called that. Really, we just circled the thing and slashed away at its wings, grounding it and drowning it in numbers.

The last blow, of course, fell to me, because nobody in their right mind would volunteer to be the person to stab a mythical god-beast in the throat when it opened its jaws to breathe fire unto you.

Thankfully, I never said I'm in my right mind.

When it died, though, I… I don't know what happened. It was this same weird pull that I felt back at the barrow. I looked at the corpse and just wanted to… Touch it.

I barely brushed it with my fingers before the entire thing suddenly lit up like a beacon. It was like setting a paper on fire - everything was burning up, and there was just a skeleton left behind. A gigantic, shining skeleton with an amorphous lump of light in its chest.

My head felt like it would split in two. The guards were probably quite freaked out when I just started glowing all of a sudden, and then all of that stuff that burned up from the dragon suddenly flew into me. I think I collapsed, even. Just lying there and clutching my head. But it felt like… If I didn't, if I let go even for a second, then my skull would crack open like a nutshell, and my brains would spill out, then and there.

It was that pressure again. I recognized it. It was the same ache that I felt at the barrow - the kind that wanted to knock the air out of my lungs, and made it feel like my ribs would crumble under their own weight.

"Fus."

The word slipped out of my mouth instinctively. I didn't even mean to say it, but when I did - the pain vanished. I closed my eyes and started coughing because of all the dust that suddenly was everywhere, and the entire dragon skeleton trembled. A skeleton that six guards were struggling to pick up.

Fus. "Force". That was the word.

I said it again, and sure enough: my breath felt heavier in my chest, and when it left my body - it turned into a shockwave that pushed the skeleton away from me. Hells, I almost fell flat onto my backside from the recoil.

A guard called me over with a word I did not know, but recognized. It was something that the dragon called me right before it died. "Dovahkiin". Dragonborn.

I, a Dunmer-Breton halfblood, a Dovahkiin. A hero of Nord legend. A mortal with the soul of a dragon, the ability to speak in their tongue and the power to devour their souls.

If Akatosh has a sense of humor, he must be rolling on the cosmic floor from laughter by now.


"So, what happened at the watchtower?"

A blond Nord in lavish robes looked down upon Saya, making her feel meek. While Jarl Balgruuf had a friendly disposition to her so far, she could not deny that he could exert an air of authority when he really needed to.

"I um…" The Dunmer looked aside, not sure how much she should say. It was annoyingly difficult to get the words out of her mouth. "The watchtower was destroyed. There's only rubble there, now. The area around it was torched to ashes, the others are helping extinguish as we're talking." She looked up at him to the best of her ability. Despite the sickly feeling in her stomach, she had to push through. "The dragon came back after we came there, but it's dead now. We killed it."

The Jarl looked down at her with a mixture of surprise and satisfaction. "I knew I could depend on Irileth and you. But is there anything else? The guards at the Dragonsreach gates said they saw some bright light out there. Was that something you did?"

The Dunmer bit her lip. It shouldn't be this difficult to say, so why is it? "When the dragon died, I… absorbed some kind of power from it." All of a sudden, she could feel all the eyes in the room lock on her. She cursed mentally at the unwanted attention. Even some of the guards were looking at her, though as much as she wanted to bark at them to mind their business she wouldn't dare do something like this in front of the Jarl. "I don't know what it was. The whole thing just started burning up, and then it all went into me. I heard a voice saying this… Word in my head, but when I said it out loud there was a big shockwave and my throat started aching like a-..." She cut herself off, remembering her company and awkwardly clearing her throat. "...Pardon."

Jarl Balgruuf leaned forward in his seat, locking his fingers. He began to ponder, a grim expression marring his face, though not directed at anyone in particular. If anything, he seemed troubled. "So it is true, then. The Greybeards were summoning you."

"The… Greybeards?" Saya parroted, trying to process the information.

"Yes. The Greybeards." Balgruuf nodded. "They are an ancient order that live in a monastery atop the Throat of the World, the oldest and tallest mountain in all of Skyrim. They're masters of the Way of the Voice, and legends say that the Dragonborn were mentored by them in how to use their gift."

"Yes, the gift of the Voice." A man with a shaved head and covered in red warpaint stepped up. Hrongar, Balgruuf's younger brother. "Our ancient heroes were said to be able to use their own voices to perform great feats, summoning destructive storms and breaking down walls of castles with only their own speech! And the Greybeards are masters of this art - they spend their entire lifetimes perfecting it."

"Hrongar, please." A noticeably shorter man - this time an Imperial dressed in fine clothing - interjected. This was the Jarl's steward, Proventus Avenicci. Saya was vaguely acquainted with him by virtue of it being his job to give payouts for bounties, and she couldn't say she had a very good opinion of the man. "What does any of this Nord nonsense have to do with our friend over here? Bringing down a dragon is an accomplishment, of course, but as capable as she may be that doesn't make her this… What was it, Dragonborn?"

The armored Nord quickly snapped at the steward. "Nord nonsense?! Why, you puffed-up ignorant…!" The man trailed off, feeling the disapproving gaze of the Jarl on his back. He growled, frustrated. "This 'Nord nonsense', as you call it, is our sacred tradition! These are legends passed down from the times of Tiber Septim himself, back when he was yet Talos of Atmora! No, even longer, from even before the First Empire-"

"Hrongar." Balgruuf's voice rumbled across the room. Slowly, the younger brother turned to look towards him, noticeably stiff. "Don't be too hard on Avenicci. He does not know…" His blue eyes trailed over to the Imperial. "...And respect our cultural tales as we do. But it is no reason to pounce upon him like this. Be calm."

Hrongar stepped back, his head bowed in shame, but his eyes still glaring at Proventus. "...Yes, brother."

Saya watched the argument unfold with a lump in her throat. "S-so… What do these Greybeards want with me?"

Balgruuf shook his head. "That is the Greybeards' business. Not ours. But whatever happened when you killed that dragon, it revealed something in you - and the Greybeards sensed that something. If they think you're Dragonborn, then who are we to argue?"

Saya looked down at her hands, somehow a little stunned. Starstruck, even. "So I really am…?"

"That is up to them to decide. But there is no refusing the Greybeards' summons. It is a tremendous honor." Balgruuf leaned to the side, supporting his head with his elbow as he released an almost dreamy sigh. "I envy you, you know. I made the pilgrimage of the 7000 steps once. To do it again… High Hrothgar is a very peaceful place. Sometimes I wonder if the Greybeards even notice the troubles of the world down here from their mountain. But no matter."

Balgruuf rose from his throne, and now his towering posture seemed even more imposing than before. Saya felt her fists clench unwittingly.

"Go to High Hrothgar, then. See what the Greybeards can teach you. And when you come back, Dragonborn-"

"Don't call me that."

The hall of Dragonsreach went quiet. The fires in the braziers felt like they were a dozen times louder than before, crackling in the silence. Balgruuf's brows furrowed, his blue eyes staring at the woman in front of him, confused.

"...I must have misheard. Could you say that again?"

"Don't call me that." Two red eyes stared back at the Jarl, gleaming. The emotions in them were a whirlwind of distress, anger, and fear, and the girl's body was noticeably shaking, fists clenched until her knuckles whitened.

Hrongar was the first one to react. He crossed his arms, his lips pursed and his expression a frown.

"You best watch your tongue-"

"Hrongar!" Balgruuf barked. The other man flinched, straightening his back and going silent. The Jarl then turned to the Dunmer, who looked as though she was about to fold in on herself, stepping back like a surrounded soldier on a battlefield. "...What's wrong?"

"...What?" Saya snapped out of her daze. "What's wrong? What's wrong?! ALL OF THIS IS WRONG!" She screamed, stomping on the floor with such force that the wooden planks whined under her boot. "Dragonborn?! Hero of legend?! Shut up with that! You three spout your instructions, talk about how much of an honor this is - to wander up some gods-forsaken mountain and learn from some hermits before charging off to fight fire-breathing monsters?! Have any of you even SEEN a dragon?!" She looked at the entire room with an almost feral look, her eyes all but burning with anger.

The silence hung even heavier in the room now. None of them dared look at her bar Hrongar, who regarded her with silent contempt.

She took a deep breath, calming down. Her voice was trembling, but she pushed past it, even if the tremors in her hands never stopped. "Well I did. Two of them in just one gods-damned week. I stared death in the eye twice, and now you're telling me to go chasing after it? Because of some legacy I didn't even know I was a part of? That I, someone who's not even from Skyrim, am this… Legendary dragon-slaying hero?! I never asked for this!"

Hrongar scowled. "You will accept it, elf."

Saya spat. "You're gonna have to make me."

Jarl Balgruuf shook his head at his brother's unsightly reaction, instead, walking towards her slowly. The Dunmer looked at him scornfully, all but assuming a battle stance. Her eyes were darting around, but all she could see were faces of disapproval and disappointment. He sighed.

"If the gods above chose you to be Dragonborn, then it is your duty to learn your gift and to use it for protecting the world. Without you, none of us stand a chance against the dragons." The taller Nord stood next to Saya, and she looked at him like a stray cat would look at a wolf. He was solemn, but not hostile. Calm.

Everyone in this room saw a warrior in her, whether she wanted to or not. But… Not him.

Slowly, her posture straightened. Her gaze lowered, unable to face anyone, and her arms hung powerlessly at her sides.

"...I didn't ask for this. I just… I wanted to see where my dad was born. I... I wanted to leave home and just live a normal life."

Balgruuf's eyes softened yet again. "Normal lives are not meant for those who protect the lives of others." The man said. "...You must understand, Dragonborn. We need you. All of us do." The Jarl said in a tone as soft as he could muster. His hand carefully touched her shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly.

The effect was opposite, as Saya's eyes suddenly widened and her whole body flinched. Her mouth parted, a shocked gasp pulling in the air around her before suddenly, she let out an earth-shaking shout.

"FUS!"

A sickening snap echoed the hall, followed with a pained cry from the blue-eyed Nord, hand releasing her shoulder and recoiling. Hyperventilating and wide-eyed, Saya watched the Jarl of Whiterun stumble back and fall to his knees, clutching his right arm as it hung limply by his side. The shoulder was entirely dislocated and the forearm was savagely crushed, bending hideously in multiple spots as the wrist dangled by skin and muscle. Everyone in the room had unsheathed their weapons, guards surrounding the girl. Even Farengar dashed out of his study, hands sparking with arcane lightning.

"What do you think you're doing?! You elven bitch, you utter…!" The Jarl's brother struggled to come up with curses, veins bulging under his skin and his head boiling with rage. His hands reached for his greatsword, unsheathing it and winding back to land a savage, enraged strike upon the Dunmer, who was reaching for her own weapon.

"Hrongar... Don't."

The man stopped his arms mid-swing and looked at Balgruuf who stared back in silence. His body was twitching in pain, but his face was hiding the wince behind a mask of stoicism. Hrongar recognized the look in his eyes - a look of an older brother who was giving him a warning, but also a lord who was ordering his subordinate to obey. So he obeyed.

The Nord sighed, sheathing his weapon. As the anger in his eyes gave way to worry, he stepped towards Balgruuf, holding him up by his healthy arm and helping him stand up, trying not to glare at the shaking girl behind them.

"I… I didn't mean to…!" Saya's lips trembled, head shaking as she stepped back, chest heaving in shallow, fearful breaths. The fear turned into silent terror as she looked at Balgruuf approach her, still assisted by the hulking Nord who was glaring daggers at her, and she winced preemptively, preparing for a strike.

But a strike never came, and instead a large hand touched her head. Saya looked at Balgruuf, complete and utter bewilderment overflowing in her expression.

"...This is why you must learn how to control your power, Dragonborn. You are strong. The Greybeards will teach you to use that strength for good. To control it." He said. His voice was quiet, pained, but somehow - devoid of malice. Sympathetic, even.

The girl's voice cracked. "I… I understand. I'm…" Tears were welling in the corners of her eyes. "I'm sorry. Words cannot describe, I… I am so, so sorry."

The Jarl gave her a wry smile. "If words aren't enough, then speak with actions, Dragonborn. Go."

Hrongar looked around, waving a signal for the guard to stand down and lower their weapons. Seeing the conflict come to a halt, Farengar beckoned over a guard to explain the situation and swiftly retreated into his laboratory in search of a healing tonic. Saya rubbed her eyes as Balgruuf lowered his hand and, with assistance, hobbled over to sit down on his throne, nodding in the direction of the door. The Dunmer bowed slightly, eyes closed, before turning around and hesitantly taking a step towards the exit. The guards all eyed her, expressions unreadable behind their identical helmets. With her gaze lowered, she stepped towards the great doors of Dragonsreach.

"I will not forget what you have done, Dragonborn."

Saya flinched, a chill running down her spine, turning around to see Balgruuf watching her go. His right arm was carefully sitting on his lap, the violent contortions in it straightened as much as was possible without the presence of a professional healer.

"The dragon you have killed was a great service to Whiterun, and to me." Although his eyes were still in pain, his lips stretched into a genuine smile. "Return soon, and I will be glad to greet you as a Thane, and a friend."

Another tear made its journey halfway down Saya's cheek before she wiped it away and nodded with a smile of her own, all while pushing the gate to open it with her left shoulder.

"Alright. I will hold you to that promise, my Jarl."

And then, the great doors closed, opening only many minutes later when the guards had sent for Danica at the Temple of Kynareth.


I'm not a good liar. Never considered myself one, anyway. Balgruuf probably noticed that I never agreed to go to those… Greybeards.

I don't want this. I just want to get away. I want to see Markarth. Maybe buy a small home somewhere over there, settle down. Somewhere far away from all this. Damn the bandits, giants, and dragons.

Damn them all to Oblivion.


The journey to Markarth was not as long as I had expected. I traveled on foot but was still there by… I think 5 in the evening? Well, the stables, anyway.

I made a small stop at Old Hroldan to have lunch. It's a very nice inn: out in the hills, not too big, home-y feel. Even had a bit of a tourist attraction - for the same price as a regular room, you could rent the room Tiber Septim slept in when he was yet Hjalti Early-Beard, a general in service of king Cuhlecain of Falkreath.

According to the Heresy anyway. Somehow it is always the unofficial versions that have the most interesting details.

The folk in the Reach seemed friendly enough, despite what I was expecting to see. Though I guess it's more my fault for playing into the stereotypes. The guards were rather jumpy, though. Could never shake off the feeling of being watched.

The Forsworn were also a thing. A self-naming of native Reachmen, little more than barbarians now. Heard that some years ago, Ulfric Stormcloak used Thu'um to take Markarth from them, and now they're out in the hills trying to retake it.

With tribal armor made of hides and haphazard weaponry outta wood, stone and bone.

Good luck with that.


I take back everything I said or thought about Markarth being nice.

Well, the city is. But the people… B'set, the people. Soon as I stepped foot into the fucking place, I barely had the time to blink as a man in front of me pulled out a dagger. He shrieked something about how the Reach belongs to the Forsworn, and then dropped dead with an arrow in his neck by the time I could so much as grab the hilt of my sword.

Then the guards swooped in and pushed everyone away. Saying "situation is under control". Rubbish.

I need a fucking drink…


"Hello."

A Breton woman, perhaps a little over 20 years of age, had carefully seated herself at a table of one. Saya looked up, squinting slightly. What she saw was a young face, not necessarily beautiful, but not strictly bad-looking either. She had tan skin and one grey eye, dark red warpaint adorning the other one, milky-white and pupilless. "I don't believe I've seen you around these parts before. First time in Markarth?" She inquired, a slight smile stretching the corners of her lips.

Saya's eyes glinted for a moment, glaring at the uncalled visitor before she sighed and downed another tankard of mead. Eyes closed, she nodded before responding.

"...Yeah. Not the friendliest welcome I've received, either." The redhead muttered, frustration noticeable in her voice. Sighing, she slowly turned her head towards the person she was speaking to. "Do you always just chat up strangers in taverns?"

The stranger laughed softly, hand covering her mouth to restrain herself - an unintentional show of good manners. "Only the interesting-looking ones. Are you an adventurer, by any chance?"

Saya looked over at the woman curiously, the mug halting partway towards her mouth. "What gave that away?" The tone was half-sarcastic, seeing as how she was still armored and with an enchanted longsword at her hip.

"Other than the obvious, you mean?" The Breton smirked, scooting a little closer towards the Dunmer. "You seem quite stressed. When people are nervous, their muscles can't help but tense up… And I quite enjoy the tension I am seeing."

Saya snorted into the mug, drinking the rest of her mead in one fell swoop. She was beginning to feel dizzy, so she looked into the woman's eyes, squinting suspiciously, but at the same time allowing a small smile to find its way onto her lips.

"I see now. A mysterious girl, out and about in the night, looking for a foreign dessert after dinner?" Saya said, locking her fingers and resting her chin on them. "May I at least be graced with knowing the name of my seductress?"

The woman smiled and reached out to tap Saya's nose with her finger.

"Eola."

All of a sudden, everything felt off. Saya's vision was blurry, her movement sluggish. Her tongue felt heavy inside her mouth, and every breath was heavy and tiring. Her mind became foggy, and her awareness was dulling by the second.

"And, for your information…" Eola continued, standing up and offering a hand to the half-elf. Saya's mind was numb, she felt like she was watching herself move through a clouded window, absentmindedly taking the Breton's hand and standing up.

"...I was hoping you'd be the full course."


Turdas, 21st of Last Seed, 4E201


I'm cold.

Saya came to lying on a carved stone table. Her ears were ringing, mind still cloudy as it gradually awoke from the shackles of charm magic. Her eyes slowly opened, facing the ceiling, and she immediately froze in place as the granite visage of a laughing hag stared her down, embedded in the middle of a spider's head and lined around the edges with sharp mandibles.

"Dear guests, I welcome you! I am sure you have been waiting for the reclamation of our hall as impatiently as I was. Join me in prayer, brothers and sisters, to thank our mistress for this meal!"

The Dunmer's ears caught the voices of half a dozen people, reciting a frenzied prayer with Eola's zealous voice taking the lead. Blurred vision just barely managed to show her the sharp, discordant writings of daedric language that dragged across the sculpture's features above her. They were underground. She could tell from the wind that dragged through the corridors, filling the space with the haunting echoes of its eternal howl, interrupted only by the ear-piercing noise of cutlery scraping against itself.

"-so this gift we present to you, o patron of the repulsive! In your name shall we carve, feast, and celebrate our return!"

"Cut! Cut! Cut! Cut!"

The echoing chanting filled the room, footsteps masked behind the dissonant speech. Eola approached towards the altar upon which Saya was placed, a wicked dagger of black ebony in her hands. With a few swift cuts, her fur vest was cut open, and then a sickening yellow-green glow clouded the metal as soon as it came into contact with Saya's chainmail, cutting through it like a hot knife through butter. The Dunmer struggled not to tremble at the knife's tip tickling her skin through the undershirt, trying to lay as still as she could, eyes just barely open to look for the right moment.

Out of the corner of her vision, she could see Eola licking her lips, grabbing the cut chainmail with her arms and opening it like one would a jacket. Underneath was a simple linen shirt, and behind it - nothing. No resistance. Only flesh.

"IN YOUR NAME WE FEAST, LADY NAMIRA!" Eola shouted, raising her knife and pointing it downward at Saya's heart. The Dunmer felt her quickening heartbeat echo in her ears. Panic was beginning to set in to the point where she did not feel afraid anymore. The girl's chest expanded, drawing in a breath.

Her brain had gone into fight or flight. She had chosen to fight.

"FUS!"

With a shrill scream and a disgusting snap, Eola dropped the blade and fell to her knees, clutching her arm. The cheers of guests turned into concerned shouts, seeing their hostess's fingers and forearm shattered. Saya quickly sat up on the altar and grabbed her by the hair before slamming the Breton's face into the stone table. Paying no mind to the disgusting crack of bones, she pressed her hand down into the woman's scalp, fingers lighting up in hot flame and charring the dirty blonde hair into an ashy black.

The Dunmer girl's eyes darted left and right, seeing two of the guests dressed in black robes with necromancer's skulls painted on the chest rush to help their hostess. Her hand reached for Eola's ebony dagger, grabbing it. Not wanting to stay clear in the zone of fire, she jumped off the altar and right onto the cult leader's shattered hand, stomping her fingers into the stone floor and procuring another pained shriek from her. The Dunmer attempted to speak, seeing three familiar merchants make a run for it out of the chamber, but to her own surprise, only a hoarse gasp left her mouth.

"...You… You were supposed to- ARGH!" Eola hissed, pain apparent in her voice as Saya grabbed hold of both of her arms and bent them behind her back, forcing the Breton to stand while using her as a meat shield. The other cultists, seeing the human woman forced into such a predicament, froze in their places as soon as the black blade in Saya's hand prodded at the skin of Eola's neck, just shy of cutting it.

"...you… will let me… leave." The redhead forced out, her grip around the Breton's forearms tightening and sending more heat through her skin, searing the muscle and producing another shriek from Eola.

"D-DO AS SHE SAYS! DO NOT ATTACK!" The Breton screamed, pulled by Saya, who was slowly walking around them towards the exit while the two conjurers clenched their fists, ice and lightning dissipating from their hands.

"B-but, Champion, are you-"

The pressure of the dagger on Eola's neck grew just ever so slightly. "OBEY, YOU FOOLS!"

Eventually, Saya had reached the door and kicked it open, shivering as the howling wind blew at her back. She turned slightly, seeing that the previous three had fled for good, and scanned the room one last time with a quick gaze, looking for her gear. Thankfully, her pack and weapon were mostly untouched, left right by a pillar next to the exit. Saya allowed herself a brief relieved sigh before reminding herself of her predicament. Her gaze darted between her equipment and the mages multiple times. All were in position, ready for combat and only looking for the first opportunity to strike.

And so she sank the dagger into Eola's throat as her tone oozed with poison. "Have a nice meal, animals."

The Breton's windpipe filled with liquid before she could say anything, only bloody gurgles spewing from her paling lips. The two cannibals' faces contorted into shock, preparing to cast their spells. Seeing that, the girl had instantly pushed the corpse onto one of them. Yet another floor-rumbling Shout had broken the other's concentration, his spell dissipating into thin air before Eola's dagger whizzed through the air and sank into his throat, the mage dropping dead. Then, with the moment's distraction covering her back, Saya swiftly grabbed her things and fled, clutching her aching throat.


First gods, now daedra. I hate this.

I hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate all of this, this city this province this gods-damned universe!

Why me?! What did I do?! What offense did I perform in my hundred and ten years of life that insulted both the Nine and the Sixteen?!

What have I done?

Where do I go? What do I do?


Saya's shoulders were shaking, her sobs dwarfed only by the splashing river flowing by her side. The sun was setting already, an entire day gone from her life, just like that. The journal has been lying by her side, receiving glares from its owner. By now Saya had sat down, leaning back onto a rock and hugging her knees.

She heard and read tales of heroes before. Glorious champions who wielded power none other could imagine. Revered, sometimes worshipped all over the world… And yet, was this what being a prophesied hero really like? Being hurt by your own power? Running away from responsibility out of fear for your own life?

Saya sighed, wiping the tears from her eyes. The backpack opened and the journal was placed inside, footprints left in the wet earth when the redhead finally got up and started wandering in the direction of Old Hroldan.


Fredas, 22nd of Last Seed, 4E201


The night at Old Hroldan was, comparably, much more pleasant to Whiterun or, Boethiah curse that place, Markarth. Despite not remembering anything of what happened yesterday except for the very late (and very stressful) evening, I felt… Well, exhausted. Part of me is curious what it is that I did that made me so tired.

Part of me hopes I never find out.

What I did find is a ring in my backpack. One that I didn't have before. It seemed to glow dull red when I touched it, but other than that it seemed just… Ominous.

I tossed it into the river. I don't care that the Reclamations are all Daedric Princes, I'm staying as far away from Daedra as I possibly can. Especially for the foreseeable future. Especially after what happened.

But now, the (expected) fun part. The night was fine, as I already said. The morning, however, was made less pleasant by the fact that I woke up to the innkeeper's screams.


"Eydis, is everything alright?" Saya opened the door out of the room she was renting - Tiber Septim's room. She couldn't help but give into the temptation last evening, so she figured if one is gonna sleep, they might as well sleep in a good bed.

The aforementioned Eydis, the innkeeper of Old Hroldan, did not respond - only pointed at a chair in the other end of the room.

Sitting on it was a ghost of a male warrior, arms crossed. Behind his back was a round shield, old nordic carvings pressed against the back of the chair. On his hip was a blade of very, very old design - not at all unlike that of the draugr, sans the wear and erosion. His armor appeared as a short-sleeved tunic made of deer hide, metal platings attached to the chest, hips, and shoulders. He did not appear to be wearing pants, instead opting for a long loincloth made of similar hide. The ghost's hands were protected by fingerless gloves with metallic plating, and boots of similar design were on its feet. On his head was a metal helmet, two goat horns adorning its sides and curving towards his face, imitating tusks of a mammoth.

Saya grabbed her sword, drawing it, and stepped out of the room while shifting into a combat-ready stance. The apparition, on the other hand, seemed surprised, standing up from the chair swiftly and making its way towards her, passing through Eydis on its way. The innkeeper was understandably freaked out, screeching once more.

"Hjalti? Is… Is that you? I have been waiting. Waiting… For so long."

Saya pointed her blade at the ghost, but it seemed to pass through the blade unharmed, instead looking the half-elf in the eyes.

"Hjalti? Who…" The Dunmer stepped back, lowering her sword. Her face was oozing with confusion, she was struggling to think of a proper answer. "Who are you?"

The ghost tilted his head, sighing. "Has it been so long? You promised me, Hjalti. You promised that when we sacked Hrol'dan, you'd make me your sworn brother. Don't… Don't you remember me?"

Saya sheathed her sword, her face reflecting the sad bewilderment of the spirit before her. Somehow, in a bizarre way, she recognized him… But not in any way that'd help her realize who he is.

"You're… You're a soldier. You helped conquer this place, right?" She asked carefully, her words vague to not anger the man, but inquisitive enough to make him speak. Thankfully, they did their job.

"Yes, Hjalti, yes! You do remember me!" The spectre laughed, patting her on the shoulder. "Oh, Hjalti, how I waited. Do you remember? The two long campaigns we served together, how you saved my life time and time again? And we promised here, many years ago. You promised that when Hrol'dan was ours, you'd give me your blade and we'd become brothers by oath. And I waited."

Saya's expression turned into a frown of confusion. "You did? You waited for so long?"

"Yes… I waited. Even after the enemy's arrows sunk into my chest, and when their warhammers crushed my bones, I waited still. I waited for you to come back. Please, Hjalti." The ghost put both of its hands on Saya's small shoulders, holding them tightly. "I cannot go to battle without a sword. Give me your blade, Hjalti. So that we may become brothers, as you promised."

The Dunmer's gaze wandered, thinking. She looked at the arms of the man, full of strength. Not a boy, but not yet old. A seasoned warrior. She looked at his armor, chipped and damaged. Blades and arrows alike were deflected by the plates, but, as the ghost himself said - it could not protect him forever.

Last, she looked at his face. His eyes were sad. His expression was tired. Pained. Her red eyes locked with his, and for just a moment, he seemed familiar. Brown eyes. Long, light blonde beard with a matching mustache. Barely noticeable scar on his cheek.

From when... We were training together.

"...Okay. Just… Allow me a day with it. The blade served me well, I hate to part with it so suddenly. Tomorrow morning, it will be yours." She said, quietly, lowering her head. The ghost smiled.

"I long to taste battle again, at your side. 'Til morrow, then." With those parting words, the ghost had vanished. Saya's head bowed down, taking a deep breath to calm herself. Turning to her side, she saw a small boy next to the innkeeper, his mother, clutching her skirt.

"What just happened?"


The ghost called me Hjalti.

Hjalti Early-Beard. The birth name of Tiber Septim. The one mentioned in The Arcturian Heresy.

But why me? Is it because I'm Dragonborn, too? Did that person mistake me for him because of it?

I'm not sure what to make of it. But somehow, I recognized him. It didn't feel right to refuse him. Even if I'm not Hjalti, I felt… Guilty.

He waited too long to be left with nothing.

I asked around. The sword he was talking about was last seen in the hands of Forsworn at a camp near Hag Rock. Should be three, maybe four hours of travel.

I should head out. Daylight is short and valuable here, I notice.


"FOR THE REACH!" A man wrapped in hides cried at the top of his lungs, charging towards Saya with reckless abandon. Calm and measured, she countered - a step to the side, a cut, a scream - and the attacker dropped to the floor. The girl's scarlet gaze lingered on the twitching body, wondering. For the Reach, he shouted. For the Reach he fought, and for the Reach he died. Was that what he wanted?

No, of course he wanted something better. Everyone who fights, fights for something. Perhaps he wanted a better future for his children. Or maybe he was just a marauder who wanted to fatten himself off the labor of the men and women he robbed. Or maybe - just maybe - he was simply a man who didn't have anything else to lose, so he bet his life on the off chance that he'd gain something to his name. Anything, no matter how little. Just to have something he wouldn't want to lose.

Saya stepped over his corpse and marched on. The blood on her sword didn't get to dry off before it gained another crimson coat. Did this person have a family? A higher ambition she fought for? Was her death meaningless regardless of all the above? Saya didn't want to think so. But she couldn't help but do it anyway.

One couldn't fight without a reason to. No matter how shallow. Whether it's for a high ideal or for something as mundane as protecting their own life, unless a person has a reason to fight - they might as well be a walking corpse the moment they enter a battle. And yet, despite being the survivor so many times, Saya still couldn't help but feel like she never quite found a reason for it.

Destiny. She scowled at the word. It just felt so… Cliche. Cheap. Like a princess in distress, or a monster under your bed, or a bedtime story that a grandparent tells you for the third night in a row, ignorant - or pretending to be ignorant - to the fact that you're reciting it word for word under your nose as it's being told. A filler for empty space, a placeholder to complete a picture with a glaring blank spot in place of an answer to the question that plagues everyone: "Why?"

Was it destiny, then, that she was cutting through hordes of people that wished they were innocent? Was it destiny that she'd be called a hero for returning covered in blood, when if it were another person they'd surely be scorned as a villain? Was it destiny that, with every cut, she became as a butcher: learning to shut off any emotion except for fear, to end every confrontation as quickly as possible, to see the ones before her as nothing but meat and not as lives that could've gone on?

But what of the people still alive?

Who would fight for a family if not for the people who can take up a weapon? Who would defend a country if not one who loves it? Who would protect a life if not one who is about to lose it? Everyone is a hero of their own story, but what of the villains? Surely, it would be easier to simply stay put and forget heroics. To bask in a simple life without any worry or hardship. But what of the lives lost because she didn't take up the sword?

She stopped, laughing quietly amongst the bodies. She was a villain in their story. They were in hers. But then, who is the hero in the eyes of those that were saved? Of the merchant that lost his life on the road, whose killer now lay dead at her feet? Of the traveler that ran from war, only to lose whatever little he had at the hand of those who just wanted more for themselves? Would they think her a hero for slaying these people?

What would they think of her if she decided not to?

Blood dripped on the grass from Saya's sword and she stared off into the sky, watching a lone hawk soaring among the clouds. She envied it, a thing that had to worry for nothing except its own survival. But she pushed on. Because she had to.

Because for every captured princess, there is a prince who will save her. For every monster under the bed, there will be a light to scare them away. For every invading pillager, there will be a defender who will lay down his life to end their rampage. A hunter for every beast. A knight for every demon.

But who will be that person when faced against a dragon?

When the sun is blocked by massive wings, when villages burn and their ashes turn the clouds black, when blades break against scale and armor gives way to tooth and claw, when a breath is the difference between being alive and dead, and a single word is all it takes to level hundreds of years worth of work, of history, of life. Who will be there?

Saya's fingers tightened around her weapon handle.

Because who will fight, if she doesn't?


Holding the sword that belonged to Tiber Septim himself… never would've thought I'd see the day.

It was a simple weapon. Straight blade, slight ridges at the very end to resemble a feather. The metal looked to be iron, but it was hard to tell. There was also a silver-like lining, with "flowy" nordic patterns adorning the area around the fuller - molybdenum, probably. Bretons are fond of that material. Wouldn't make sense to have them made out of silver, compromising integrity and all that.

The rain guard was pointed, like a triangle with curved sides and pointed vertices. The cross-guard was rather thick and bent upwards at an obtuse angle. It was, again, black and adorned with nordic carvings.

The handle was a weird one - it was obviously too long to be one handed, but the length of the blade wasn't quite long enough to make it into a two-hander. I can only guess that old Tiber wanted the weapon to have some versatility. It was bound with some kind of dyed leather, red-brown in color, though it was dried and cracked from all the time spent without proper care. At the end was a circular pommel - clearly meant for decoration rather than use. It was a cylinder that expanded outward, and at the very end was a round ruby.

I'm so going to smash that poor ruby someday.

I'm not sure what else I expected from the weapon an Emperor would wield, but… It was good. Heavy in my hands, but very comfortably so.

I'd rather spend the night here, in the wilds, rather than in Markarth. I'll pitch a tent.


Loredas, 23rd of Last Seed, 4E201


"Hjalti? You're back?"

A ghastly voice called out into the still-dark hills outside of Old Hroldan inn, its old, ethereal eyes spotting what no normal mortal could in such lighting. Saya's silhouette stepped along the beaten path, lowering the hood and giving the spectre a smile.

"Was hoping to catch you sleeping." She said, snickering. "Did you wait all this time for me to come back?" The Dunmer stepped towards the ghost, her smiling features now visible in the pale blue light emanating from the old warrior.

The ghost returned the smile, scratching at his bearded chin. "Of course. Have you forgotten our teacher's lesson? Never sleep without an ally to watch your back." His eyes then lowered to the blade on her hip. "Ah… Stormblade. Feels like I've last laid eyes upon it just a few moments ago… But as if an eternity passed between that moment and now." The ghost chuckled. "I must be getting old."

Saya laughed, taking the sword into her hands and giving it a long look. She extended her arms, offering the blade to the warrior in front of her. He did not move, however, instead giving her a smirk.

"Your eyes show that you don't want to part with it yet." He said, reaching for his own sword and unsheathing it. "Do you still remember our lessons from the masters back in Alcaire? Let us see if you've not gone rusty with that old thing, haha!"

Saya smirked, gripping the Stormblade's hilt and shifting herself into a battle stance. "Very well. First blood or disarmed." She said, before lunging at the ghost.

The minute they spent in battle felt like a year, almost. The spectre's movements were refined and precise. Lacking the flourish and impact of Saya's wide swings, he instead was as efficient as possible in his practiced, quick stabs.

For a moment, Saya could swear she saw it. The ghost, but younger. Alive. In his hands, a wooden blade. His blonde hair short, and his chin adorned with a stubble, barely noticeable in the bright midday sun. He wore a blue, loose tunic and simple white pants with boots of light brown leather. She blinked, stepping back. Her own hands fell into her view - but different. The fingers were longer, the forearms were more veiny and not as thin. The skin was pale, and there were undeniably small brown hairs growing from the skin. They were male.

Around the two, greenery was overflowing. Stone walls surrounded them, the floor of marble adorning a small courtyard. Beside them, an older Breton man, his black hair giving way to the white of age. Stroking his beard, he watched the combat with a proud smile. A teacher's smile.

Another blink, and it was gone. She was back in Skyrim, the night sky as dark as ever, but just as bright with the light of stars. The man charged at her, his arm extended in a thrust.

Her reaction was fluent, as if practiced. Half a step to the right, and a step to the back. The warrior stumbled towards her, and Stormblade switched hands, held now in her right instead of her left. With one thrust forward, she caught his blade by the crossguard. With a sideways yank, she pulled the blade out of his grasp. With an upwards swing, she sent the ethereal sword flying behind herself. Her left hand landed on the opponent's shoulder and she pushed, tripping him. With a loud thud, he landed - and his eyes opened to see Stormblade pointed at his neck.

"Looks like I win again, brother." She said, stabbing the blade into the dirt and offering him a hand with a smile. The ghost grabbed her forearm and stood up, a grin showing on his aged features.

"Indeed. You were always master's favorite." His fingers wrapped around Stormblade's handle, attempting to get the weapon out of the earth. Instead, however, an ethereal form resembling it was pulled out of the sword, the ghost holding it in his hands and giving it a long, content look before placing it in his sheath.

He stood on one knee, then, and bowed his head.

"It is an honor to fight by your side, brother Hjalti." He looked up, then, his ethereal blue eyes looking at her. "Or, I suppose… The men call you Talos now, don't they?"

And with those words, the man faded away, dissolving into soft, azure light that dispersed into the morning air. Behind him, the sky was turning a fiery orange, following the bright, rising sun.


I have decided.

As I am writing this, I am no longer at Old Hroldan. I am at the Vilemyr inn, located in the small village of Ivarstead. Just three, four minutes of walking away from me is the foot of the Throat of the World, the mountain upon which High Hrothgar - the Greybeards' monastery - is built.

I've heard stories before. Of Talos Stormcrown, the great conqueror of all of Tamriel, who tore down walls with mere words he uttered, and whose breath reshaped old Cyrodiil from deep, lush jungle into warm, temperate forests and hills of today. A hero with blood of the dragons in his veins.

And now, an ally of his had mistaken me for him. Another Dragonborn. Another one who possesses the Voice.

Now, I am not one for fate. I'd like to think that my actions always carry weight, that it's my decisions that made me end up where I am. But, if Akatosh really did decide to give me this power of old heroes… Then, well, if it's not my fate, then it's my duty to master them.

I thought about the black dragon today, while traveling. I passed by Helgen. It was still smoking, albeit very faintly. I didn't want to think of all the lives lost in there, of all the families that burned helplessly because nobody was there to protect them.

But I did. So I decided.

If I really am Dragonborn, then I will fulfill my duty. If I am capable of things that I do, but I run away from them - and in those days I spend on pitying myself, innocent lives are lost - they are lost because of me. So I won't let it happen again.

I swear by my name.

Saya Indoril, the Dragonborn of the 4th Era.