20th of Last Seed, 4E 201:
This morning felt like any other felt like any other, the irony of which did not fail to reach me. I flipped back through my last entry and can still scarcely believe what happened: executions, civil unrest, and…dragons. It all seems like a hazy dream; not fully there but tangible enough for me to believe it is real and act upon it.
I wasted no time in making my way back to Whiterun, although I made time to thank Gerdur for her hospitality. I wished to thank Ralof for all he had done but Gerudr informed me he had already left for Windhelm, already eager to join back in the fight. How anyone could think of fighting that war when a dragon is tearing across the sky? Is freedom over the Imperials truly that important? The thought is not even worth humoring at the moment.
The walk back to Whiterun took little time though admittedly my mind was elsewhere, no longer did I bask in the nature surrounding me; I instead focused on each step I took, each one feeling heavier than the last. I've never had encounters with royalty before; Skyrim or otherwise. The most I had ever interacted with was nobles in the Imperial City market, now I would be telling a Jarl that his country was under threat of dragons. The prospect was not inviting.
The high walls of the city were now imposing rather than welcoming, the gates now inaccessible rather than open for any weary traveler to step through, and the guards no longer welcoming, but just as withdrawn as the city itself. As I approached, the sentries questioned me relentlessly as to my intentions. But, after mention of the dragon, they were all too quick to usher me inside and prodding me toward the Jarl. The streets laid as barren as an icy, winter field.; no sign of life save for the occasional shadow flickering in a window or guard, stoically watching over the ramparts. The armed escort led me through the streets that once exuded the beauty of Skyrim, which now carried the deadly side I had seen over the past day, the tension so palpable it breathed like the air itself.
They hauled me up the cascading stairs toward Dragonsreach; a magnificent, towering hold that stretched toward the back wall and spread to either side. Massive towering arches hung over a wooden bridge that allowed one to cross over the moat that surrounded the building. Inside, the same arches repeated, touching the ceiling and repeating back toward the throne. A fine carpet led up some stairs to a grand hall adorned with a large fireplace and two wooden long tables. A feast was laid out on each and the smell of roasted meat and potatoes made my stomach growl with anticipation. Although the trip had not weighed on my mind, it weighed on my stomach greatly.
At the end of the hall was a monumental throne that was flanked by an assistant chair which looked paltry in comparison. Within the seat of the throne was Jarl Bulgruff himself; an imposing nordic man with golden locks that draped around his knotted beard. The royal attire he wore betrayed the gruff exterior of a man who had seen, and fought, many battles. As we approached, he was consumed within a conversion between a fit dark elf woman and a diminutive imperial; each contrasting each other's appearances as well as ideas on how to handle the allegations of dragons. They turned to see my armed escort and demanded to know why the guards thought I was worth interrupting their discussion. Once explained, I was hurriedly given a warm welcome with some of the food and mead laid upon the tables, which I did not shy away from.
I told them of my day in Helgen and everything I saw; including the execution which the Jarl did not seem surprised by, and, finally, of the dragon. The air grew cold in Dragonsreach upon uttering the word, the fire doing very little to quell the fear that had set upon us all. With my account, and the assertions they had heard from citizens, it all finally felt real. Dragons were back in Skyrim, and no one knew why. The Jarl thanked me for my time and my words and promised I would not go unrewarded. He waved the imperial, his steward, away to fetch something from the stores. He came back struggling with a steel cuirass and unloaded it upon me, happy to be done with the weight. The Jarl explained that armor had helped him long ago and hoped it would do the same for me, and then proceeded to ask me for my help once more. He believed I had proven myself capable since I had survived Helgen relatively unscathed and even hauled myself here to tell the tale. All he asked was that I stay around Whiterun for a bit in case his court wizard, Farengar, needed help with his research on the Dragons.
It was all a bit much, I remember nodding my head a bit and graciously saying "Thank you" even more so. By the end of it all, I had agreed to stay around and help anywhere I could and wherever the Jarl needed me to. Although I wanted nothing more than to go home, back to Cyrodiil and back to my old life, I was here for a reason. To learn more about my heritage and to find purpose, and this felt like one amidst all of the chaos that has surrounded me thus far. For once, I felt a tangible goal, a fearsome one undoubtedly, but a goal nonetheless. I have taken rest at the Bannered Mare once more, it no longer being the cozy haven it once was and being more of a morose bunker to the citizens of the town. They all drink solemnly at their tables, remaining quiet, as if to listen for the roar of a Dragon. Tomorrow, I plan to start training for the days ahead, as I am sure Father would suggest. However, rather than use my sword arm, I will be hunting in an attempt to improve my archery, while also helping the town and making slight coins in the process. I am not sure what the days ahead might hold, but as Father would say: "Strength does not come from physical capacity. It comes from an indomitable will." And I must exhibit that if I am to survive these lands.