Ultimate Skyrim Journals

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Segment One: An Unexpected Gurney

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~ 12th of First Seed ~

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Finally crossed the border; headed west after stopping by Helgen for our first taste of Skyrim hospitality. We were not disappointed. One of the items I had an interest in - the juniper berry - appears to be plentiful here. I did not expect it to be an ingredient in simple beverages, based on what I read in Cyrodiil of its properties (of course some of that may be myth, as is so often the case), but in Helgen there is a brewer who puts them in his mead. To tell the truth I was half afraid to drink the stuff, but it tasted delightful, went down very pleasantly, and to this point I have noticed no ill effects. One must, after all, take a few risks when traveling abroad.

Tempus also tried the mead, so that if it turned out to be poisonous to outsiders, I would not suffer alone. I think he feels it was a big joke anyway and not a serious matter at all.

Did I already write that we went west on the road? I see that I did. I chose this direction because a couple of local patrons had advised, I think truthfully, that I was most likely to find the juniper tree toward The Reach. According to my map it is the western-most Hold, bordering High Rock and Hammerfell.

Rather than stop in at Falkreath - for we met a few inhospitable guards not far from the town and were then chased by what seemed to be a rabid dog for a couple of miles - I thought it best to continue, making camp by Illinalta and investigating the local flora. Tempus, despite our initial poor reception, was inclined toward Falkreath - mainly for the safety of walls, I think - and we had a rather sharp disagreement that I did not expect so early on our journey.

I do not think there is a great deal of danger in keeping by the main road; after all, Skyrim is in a state of ongoing conflict and patrols of armed soldiers pass by as we travel, day and night. As it happened, Tempus stubbornly refused to go on, and I made haste to the lake, with the agreement between us that we would set out mid-morning tomorrow westward. I am to begin more slowly so that he can meet me along the way.

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~ 13th of First Seed ~

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Southern Skyrim is a lush countryside. I have already found much of interest to the trade! Unfortunately, Tempus has still not rejoined me, but sent a courier with a message to the effect that he had found something to occupy his time in Falkreath (I suspect it is a woman... perhaps this will not be the last time I regret asking for his company on this little expedition).

He expects me to write when I have reached a temporary and secure destination and I suppose he plans to pay for transport at that time rather than going on foot as I have been doing. Is he already road-weary after only a week or two?

I have lost time today by waiting for Tempus, but I will press on with a good will in the morning. Dawdling did allow me to meet a few chaps by the roadside and enjoy a relaxing drink this afternoon.

I expect to get my first glimpse of the Karth river tomorrow if all goes well, and - if the tales are true - I also expect to see quite a few juniper trees. According to my reading it is a good time of year for harvesting the berries.

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~ 15th of First Seed ~

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Awoke in a reasonably comfortable bed with pains in my head and arm. A boy came into my room after hearing I had stirred and offered a bit of bread, water, and ale. It was hard to remember what had taken place, but as I sat up and began to drink, scenes which I believed to be recent started to play havoc with my mind, drawing more attention to my sore arm and the side of my head.

There had been an ambush, or something; one moment I was on the road, and the next there were soldiers - I recall one fleeting image of the Empire's insignia upon the shield of a man who, despite me being unarmed and unready, brought me to the ground. That is the last image my mind can bring forward before this late evening.

I made inquiries of the boy, and then of his parents, Leontius and Eydis, and discovered that there had been a skirmish between the Imperials and Stormcloaks the previous day. The boy - a bright one, and precocious; why do I keep forgetting his name? - he had been playing by the Karth later on and, evidently, found me living among the dead.

I expressed my gratitude to the family as best I could for assisting in my recovery, but shortly discovered that I had little to offer to them. Some traveler, or scavenger, must have come behind the troops and picked over our bodies. Most of my valuable ingredients were gone. Thankfully they had missed one pouch of coins, along with this journal and my writing materials.

Leontius confirmed for me the day of the year, and so I have placed it above this entry, though even now it is late in the night and probably moving toward dawn of the next.

My cloak, and seemingly anything made of valuable fabric was also gone and Eydis was kind enough to furnish me a few clothes along with the water and additional bread and fruits she packed for me. I could not afford to stay at the Old Hroldan - for so I found out it was named - indefinitely, and the family has no need of my ongoing help. I have resolved to set out, once I have had a bit of rest, for the closest city where I can ply my trade. From there I should be able to send a letter to Tempus, and properly outfit myself once again.

I have resolved not to write to mother until I have made extended trial of some of the more exotic substances I hope to find; I do not want to raise her hopes without cause.

I did not know how wary I would have to be on the roads of this province, but having had the last lesson I think I will receive before I catch my own death, I am learning rapidly.

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17th of First Seed

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What strange days I have just passed! I feel too exhausted to write very much. And yet there is much to write!

As eager as I was to start out again, I underestimated the wounds I received at the hands of my own countrymen (I find a resentment for them lingering on and becoming bothersome as I continue to travel). After setting out westward again, towards Markarth (where I am now situated), I found both body and spirit sinking much more rapidly under the strain than they had before. I am slowly coming around to the notion that I will need more time for recovery.

My arm - sadly it was the sword-arm - will be in no condition for real self-defense for some days yet.

I didn't discover how serious this was until I picked up a new blade - made of this extraordinary Dwemer material (I'll have to write more on that later) - but I should probably note that upon my arrival in the city, before I could do anything at all, a woman was gruesomely murdered in the market square before the eyes of many witnesses (including myself).

I assisted the guards in putting down the brute as best I could, but they immediately became oddly suspicious of me and seemed not at all sympathetic. I have since steered clear of the guard, and of the Keep, as something seems to have gone awry with this place and I'd rather not know more about it and somehow incriminate myself.

I need to finish up and sleep... what else is there? Yes, I discovered that there is already an alchemist in business here (strange old crone, that one), so I've had to find other work; nothing too interesting, just a bit here and there as a farmhand mainly. There is also an iron mine. When my arm is stronger, I may have to venture down there if I cannot find enough coin in other ways. I appreciate Leontius' gift of clothing, but it is old and a little thin, and there is still a chill in the spring air.

One other thing - I have discovered an orcish smith in Markarth, and, as I have always been a little interested in artisanal work - more so since my fresh acquaintance with this odd ancient metal - I have made application to her (I think her name is Ghorza, but I cannot pronounce these foreign names so well) in the hope of apprenticing. She has a real dunce of an apprentice in the shop at the moment who has, I believe, put a bad taste in her mouth concerning my own people forever; I hope this does not curse my luck.

I will be very pleased if I can get a bit of work in town as a mediocre smith rather than having to spend too much time in a dank, dusty mine while my arm is healing.

I write, as has been my custom, from outdoors in a tent (one I picked up, only slightly used-and-abused, from a widow-merchant called Lisbet); I am staying outside the walls of the city to conserve as much coin as possible during this trying period.

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20th of First Seed

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Writing this, unusually, in the early morning. My progress as an apprentice is not going as well as I had hoped, but I am still in need of another piece of gear or two to outfit myself and a means of saving for the continuation of the journey. An opportunity arose - I say with a touch of morbidity - because of an influx of prisoners into the Cidhna silver mine. The current staff was already working overtime and Ghorza told me that I would be able to come into a bit of coin if I could supply a surplus of charcoal for their new project - evidently another vein was discovered and work was going furiously.

Unfortunately this meant that I would only have access to the necessary tools and the smelter by night, so I have adjusted my sleeping schedule temporarily to manage. I nearly froze to death splitting wood last night, and I am absolutely covered with ash and soot, as shown by the blotches already on this page. It seems that one of the consequences of Markarth's being an ancient city built on an even more ancient civilization is a reluctance to observe new customs; there is not even one place in the city I've been able to find where one can simply wash up. I've had to take to washing in the frozen Karth outside the city - but more on that in a moment.

The remuneration for work as a charcoal-burner so far has been better than expected, though I have pangs of conscience at participating, in however small a way, in this exploitation of slave or prison labor. Since I have no other means at present I have had to resign myself to this and hope to begin more fruitful labor as soon as possible.

Unfortunately, my impulsive habits of spending have not left me even now, and my curiosity got the best of me regarding Dwemer culture and art... I heard from a few people in town about a man in the Keep called Calcelmo, and that he was a lifelong researcher of this ancient race; I visited with him and found him and his work so fascinating that I ended up parting with the lion's share of my earnings in order to obtain a rare volume on Dwarven smithing from him.

So far, other than for purchasing smithing materials to make myself a little traveling gear (though I am quite unused to wearing it and it is terrifically uncomfortable) the rest of what I earned has been frittered away - I am ashamed even to write in my own journal, though not surprised at myself - on strange alchemical ingredients from Bothela's shop. I have no idea where she gets these things, and she will not tell me, but the price for experimentation is very high here. Notwithstanding this, I have learned a few things; about one of which I will remark so I do not forget:

Previously, in Cyrodiil, I had not considered fish of any kind to harbor nascent magical or alchemical properties; mother and I were not in the habit of exploring lakes for anything other than the occasional meal during a day of foraging. But here I noticed right away - partly because of the smell of the place - that Bothela was selling a large assortment of fish of varying sizes, and she swears by their usefulness. And she charges significant coin for them.

I was disinclined to trust her in this at first, until, going by the Silver-Blood Inn for a drink yesterday afternoon, I saw a note posted by the door. Apparently another alchemist in the Reach - inconveniently, not in Markarth - is ready to trade some training for a basketful of one of these fishes that I, as a non-native, am unfamiliar with. She is looking for a fish they call the Abecean Longfin. They must not be too easy to find, because Bothela - who showed me how to identify the species of fish in question - only had one little specimen in her shop and I paid dearly for it.

If I can finish putting myself together again - my arm feels better day by day and I am getting accustomed to swinging this Dwemer sword - I think my next course of action will be to hunt down these fish (how long could it take?), and perhaps make some more of my own discoveries along the way.

I have written to Tempus, but I do not expect to receive a reply until at least next week. I hope he will not feel too guilty about what happened to me in his absence.

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Segment Two: Gauntlet and Grievance

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Higher-Res Grayson Image Reel Two

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~ 22nd of First Seed ~

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I do not want to make a habit of complaining - on second thought, it is probably too late - but there have only been a few moments of sunshine since the 15th. Spring in The Reach is even muddier and more dreary than I had expected it would turn out. Though I should say that, when the sun does deign to make its occasional appearance, the sight of the city is truly something to behold.

Much of the southern Karth is easily waded through by someone of my height, so I decided I would lose no time in fish-hunting, despite the storms, thinking that the fish would be more likely to surface or be active in the rain. After yesterday I do not doubt that this was true, but it appears I vastly overestimated the Abecean population in this part of the Hold. I spent a day getting drenched, found only one of the fish I was hunting, and subsequently lost it on the return journey.

It was not entirely in vain, for I did collect many other specimens for trial at the alembic; a few of which came not from the water, but from a mysterious orc warrior who seemed as if he was asking me whether or not I was ready to kill him right on the spot. I know that foreign customs can appear to be odd or even outrageous to outsiders, but this has completly baffled me. He was so strong and well-armored that I would have been grateful merely to escape the encounter peacably, but as it turns out he not only bade me farewell, but allowed me to scour the corpses of a couple ferocious-looking beasts he had recently killed and take what I liked.

Among other things, I carried off their pelts, from which I made a rucksack for myself this morning after the fashion I have seen in the city.

But I am getting ahead of myself (so much has happened!); going back to yesterday, in addition to the pelts, I carried off something far less desirable from country to city: some kind of wretched illness I believe I got from these oversized crabs that populate the river. I felt rather a fool; it took me a good deal longer than should have been necessary to determine that these things are hostile and aggressive toward other creatures, even those ten times their size. I was also foolish to have ventured so far from the city with my arm still in this condition; the wound gave the contagion an easy route to my blood.

It was with an exaggerated satisfaction that I then, having been distracted from my initial task, began to hunt crabs down one after another and test the edge of this Dwemer metal that Ghorza had worked to perfection for me. Despite my blurry vision and aching muscles, this part of the day's objective was a smashing success.

Back in the city, several people told me I ought to consult the priestess of the local temple to Dibella for help with my strange disease. I have had a bad feeling about that place since I arrived - and I always recall mother's hesitancy about temples and priests, despite her healing work which was sometimes performed alongside them - and I elected instead to consult the Hag (Bothela). She provided me with a treatment which, though deucedly expensive (I emptied my pockets once again), began to work almost instantly and unmistakably. She has refused to provide me the recipe at any price.

Having gotten to this point, and glancing over at my pack for a moment, I just realized that I have forgotten to relate an important discovery. Along the well-traveled road that follows the southern Karth to the east from here, I found an upturned cart that contained only a single book. I picked it up, expecting that it would have been destroyed by the rains, but it must have only ended up there recently because almost everything inside was intact.

The book appears to be a communication from one soldier in the Imperial Legion to another, and its contents relate mostly the locations of very skilled craftspeople and mages in Skyrim. If I understand the book correctly, at least two persons are mentioned who have no small skill in my own trade, and from whom I might be able to learn something.

Now I am vexed as to what to do, with Tempus still (as far as I know) in Falkreath and the probable existence of masters of my craft within a few days' travel, perhaps less. I ran into more dead soldiers just outside Markarth today and found out that carriage transports are all temporarily halted due to the violence on the roads.

Before me lies the decision whether to set out - though I am not yet fully healed - for the nearest of these supposed luminaries of my tradition as soon as possible, planning a more careful route than I have heretofore (and writing Tempus about the change in the hope that he has not left yet), or to wait for what I hope will be his soon reply and bide my time.

I'm laughing to myself as I write this, knowing that for good or ill, I have never known myself to be patient.

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~ 24th of First Seed ~

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At last I can stretch my legs and write at some length.

I am sure I will not remember the half of what I have seen in the last two days. Once again I am fortunate to be alive, and while I am exhilirated by my survival and narrow escapes, I am beginning to understand how close I have been to death. I must have been a boy the last time I ran so fast, and so far.

The unexpected bruising I received at the hand of the legion just over a week ago seems now to be the most merciful introduction to travel in Skyrim that I could have requested. I do not know how I made it from Falkreath to Markarth initially without any sight or experience of what I just met in the wilds yesterday.

But maybe I am again getting ahead - glancing back at the last entry I see that then I was still undecided about my next course of action. Early the next morning I made some inquiries at the Inn and in the market, bringing the map I obtained in exchange for the purchase of a few rounds for one of the local drunks, and I was assured by more than one person that the route to Whiterun was not as long a distance as I had previously thought, and with care might be managed between one and two days if speed were the main concern.

Without taking too much thought (alas for that habit of mine) I arranged for a second letter to be carried to Tempus as soon as the carriage would again run, thinking that I could likely investigate and return before Tempus was likely to set foot in Markarth. And as soon after that as I could stow my traveling gear I made haste on the eastward road.

Knowing the trouble I encountered before, I resolved - at first - to make my way somewhat more slowly, and off the road wherever possible. I also planned to stop for Longfin hunting at any suitable place along the route. I did not see at first that I had caught an incurable case of heedless optimism, perhaps owing to the fact that for the first time in many days, the skies cleared, and the warmth of early spring sun bathed the surrounding landscape with more than an ordinary beauty.

Not being used to moving in this unwieldy getup, though I fitted it to my shape as well as my ability allowed, I found I did not move nearly quietly enough to avoid observation. It was also difficult to slow down when I considered the possibility of arriving at my destination the same evening. Perhaps it was me, or perhaps it was the weather that seemed to bring every dangerous native of Skyrim out of his cave and crag to see just what it was that I was up to.

At first it was only a few crabs, which, as I planned to spend some time wading in the first place, came as no surprise. But not long afterward, a creature that I did not recognize at the time (but which I have since been told is a troll) leaped practically upon me from the mountainside - I still have no idea where he came from - and I blindly ran, and then swam, in the opposite direction. It turns out I had done perhaps the best thing possible, as the creature, though easily twice my size, seemed to have some unnatural fear of the water and did not cross in pursuit, though he screamed in such a terrifying manner that I could not stay to look at him, but doubled back and ran until - to my surprise - I was looking in the window of the Old Hroldan.

I took a brief moment to say my thanks once again and to give a bit more coin to Leontius for his kindness to me. And, truth be told, to sit indoors and shake off the sweat and the blinding fear.

Once back on the road, I encountered wolves who turned from hunting their game to hunting a much larger target - myself - and thankfully there was not a large pack of them at once and I was able to evade some and bring down one or two others.

If only that had been all. The journey had just returned to being somewhat leisurely when I heard grunts which I now recognized as belonging to troll-kind coming from a pass on my left hand. I quieted my pace and went out of my way in the hope of escaping notice, and thought I had been successful. Unfortunately, the path I had chosen to escape one danger led into the mouth of another. A foaming, roaring bear - very like those in the mountains at home - chased me back to the road like a vain woman after a man of means, and there we briefly struggled, each of us for his own life.

I felt sure I was about to meet my end in his grasp when my finely-honed Dwemer blade at last struck something vital and the beast fell. But to my horror, as soon as my line of sight was cleared by the falling brute, my gaze came to rest not on the empty road behind, as I had hoped, but on the second troll, which I thought I had escaped, barreling toward me mouth agape and eyes aflame.

This time there was no water to aid me. Cursing my luck - that I had no time to examine the bear for useful ingredients - I did the only thing I could think of to do, and in my judgment it was not the action of a coward but of a person who is learning wisdom: I ran away as fast as I could, nearly losing my gear in the process. By some miracle, at some point the monster decided that I was not worth the chase, and by the time I stopped running for my life I was nearing the border of Whiterun Hold.

Here I was able to walk again quietly for a time and regain a little strength. I was glad I had had the sense to at least brew myself a few invigorating concoctions at Bothela's before leaving Markarth. I wish that this were the end of the tale, but there is more. I saw a patrol of Imperial troops a good distance ahead of me, and I thought I might fare better in their company for the remainder of the trip and started to quicken my pace. But I was distracted by a far-off glimpse of the first real giant I had ever seen and did not take notice of my immediate surroundings, which was why I was so easily surprised by a petty thief who accosted me on the road.

At this point I was so flustered and so exhausted that I was nearly ready to give him what he wanted. But my mother was not the kind to give in to bullying easily - and so she raised me - and as I thought for those few moments about the possibility of emptying my pockets and walking away, the blood once again ran hot and I made a rapid assessment of his appearance and probable skill. The notion flitted across the surface of my mind: I am armored, and have some skill myself; and when he saw my hesitation and read my thoughts, he leaped upon me just before I had fully committed to do the same. I had hoped to just be able to bring him into submission, take his weapons, and drag him to the patrol ahead to be brought to justice, but he was not going to go quietly. In the end, after demonstrating the value of my new armor a few more times (and taking a couple of very dangerous blows myself), I was compelled to ground him with a wound that led rapidly to his death.

Never before had I killed a man.

The rest of the way to Whiterun I was plagued by the memory of this encounter which seemed to replay in my mind over and over; I was convinced that there had to have been another way. Surely killing him wasn't necessary. Or was it the only way to preserve my own life? In the moment I certainly couldn't find another path, as he seemed, for his part, determined to make an end of me. A surreal scene at the conclusion of the matter plays again even now as I write this, as clear as if I were there; as his near-lifeless body crumpled to the earth, one of his pouches burst open and a marvellously-cut clear gemstone spilled out onto the road, seeming to make a setting for itself amidst his flowing blood. The stone almost invited me to take it. Repulsed as I was by the whole affair, and my part in it, something in me reached out to take this thing, this stone, which my adversary had very likely taken unlawfully before.

I stare at it now with wonder. A jeweler in Whiterun, a lovely elderly woman named Fralia, examined it closely and confirmed for me that it is, in fact, a diamond. She seemed to be a person in whom I could safely confide, so I told her the whole story of how it came to be in my possession. She appeared to give my story credence. I do not yet understand how, but perhaps there is a way that this filthy prize can yet serve a redemptive turn.

Though unused to so much death and violence, I was again reminded of the nature of this foreign country when I arrived at Whiterun and saw, at the market outside the city proper, several dead from the Imperial patrol I had, only hours before, seen approaching the city, with the victorious Stormcloaks leaving the scene as if nothing unusual had taken place; and also - not long after my first living giant - my first dead giant, an absolutely massive piece of work that had been taken down in a nearby field by a few strangely-clad warriors who called themselves The Companions. They seemed upset that I had not arrived in time to assist them - which doubtless I would not have done in any case - and seemed of such a violent temper that I thought it best to avoid them for the time being.

How glad I was to see the impenetrable walls and wide gates of this great city - for great indeed is the city of Whiterun - and to enclose myself inside them.

Last evening my exhasution compelled me to find a room in which to stay, at any cost, rather than try my luck outside the gates and go through the routine of setting up camp. Hulda set me up quite cozily at the Bannered Mare, though I had to part with more coin than I had hoped for the long hours I spent there completely senseless (though comfortable).

Today I met Arcadia, Whiterun's alchemist and healer (of whom I had read in the report - how glad I was that the book was not mistaken!), and she observed my comparatively limited abilities and offered to instruct me further in my particular trade. I believe I can now write it as a truism that the knowledge of alchemists in Skyrim - if not in all places - is only bought dearly, and I quickly ran into debt. Thankfully Hulda was in need of some assistance at the Mare that I was able to provide in exchange for the coin to compensate Arcadia. Unfortunately this work required the balance of my time and has worn me out.

Having found what I sought here, I am torn about returning so quickly to Markarth; there is so much to see and I have barely begun to explore the city! I was allowed a brief tour of Eorlund's Skyforge, of which I had heard many tales in Markarth, but on no account would he allow me to touch any of the equipment; for the bit of work I needed to do to patch up my armor, I was obliged to speak with Adrianne in town and she graciously allowed me access. I think I will be justified in spending a bit more time in the surrounding area - particularly by the waterways, as I have only found a handful of those elusive fish I'm beginning to despise (Arcadia didn't even have one).

The ancient Dwemer culture is still a source of fascination for which I feel I will need to return to the Reach (and to Calcelmo in particular), and it is, after all, where Tempus will think he can find me. Which reminds me of one other curious occurrence... I have taken a moment to fish out a letter from my pack which a courier delivered today. I think he must have been informed of my arrival in town by one of the Companions, or by Hulda, and he delivered it to me because my name is on it, but I am quite sure that I have received it in error (surely I share the same name with many of my contemporaries). It is, of all persons, from the Jarl (what the Nords call their local rulers or kings) of Falkreath, and the import of it is that he has heard of my great exploits or something (or the exploits of some Grayson) and wants to see me about helping with some problem of state. I could only chuckle about the Jarl of Falkreath being able to communicate with me, whom he cannot possibly know, much more rapidly than my own traveling companion who (as far as I know) is lodged in the very same town.

Either that or Tempus has played some kind of terrible practical joke on me.

In either case there is no way I can appear before him and pretend to be able to do some kind of great deed. How many times in the last week have I already been on the precipice of death?

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~ 25th of First Seed ~

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I do not have the heart to write a great deal today, but I would like to spend the time to remember a few things. I spent yesterday hunting for that ridiculous little fish up and down the White river, only to discover that for the most part it is populated by salmon who devour all the smaller fishes. My hunt took me past a little village called Riverwood (some of the locals I met in the Hold's outlying farms insisted repeatedly that it was called Riverrun, but the villagers set me straight on that).

I continued upriver all the way to Illinalta, where I spent a long time underwater, survived a bear attack with the help of some local hunters, and was nearly killed twice by incredibly huge spiders - no one back in Cyrodiil is going to believe me when I tell them about those. I might just keep quiet. I also found a sunken hollow with a chest in it - right out of the children's fairy stories - and was disappointed, though of course it made sense, that what I found inside was mostly useless and rusted-out old weaponry.

Disappointed, on the whole - I think I found one more Longfin - I made my way back to Whiterun and made camp. Taking another look at the map before turning in for the night, I realized (such an imbecile) how close I had come to Falkreath. I could have made it by nightfall and surprised Tempus if I had had my head on straight (and had not been chased down by venom-flinging arachnids). This gave me an idea.

This morning I persuaded a carriage driver to take to the road on a short trip - I told him I had covered over half the distance on foot the day prior and seen very little to be concerned about - and he reluctantly agreed to get me as far as Falkreath. I was half-convinced to go on foot, but the last few days have been quite tiring and I thought I could spare the coin on this one occasion, having already familiarized myself with a lot of the area's flora and done some hunting.

And so I arrived - and here is where the difficulty begins.

Not many people in Falkreath were particularly friendly to begin with; those who would speak to me treated me as an outsider at best, or an errand-boy at worst. I asked around about Tempus and most people wouldn't say a word about him, though a few said that my description of him matched a person they had recently seen.

One man I talked to asked me to carry his father's ashes to the local priest, despite our complete lack of acquaintance with one another. Though awkward, I felt it was not a task one could refuse to do for the sake of honor, and I complied. When I found the priest, I was obliged to wait as he was in the middle of a burial ceremony. I was distraught when I discovered who was being buried - not, as I had thought, the parent of one of those present, but a child.

After making my delivery I asked the child's father about the circumstances of death, and he could hardly speak for grief; what I learned from him was that the man suspected of guilt was currently imprisoned in the very same town. I also learned from him what no one else in town would tell me - that Tempus was somehow or other on the scene of the crime, but had since disappeared. Some presumed that he was dead, though I was confused as to their reason when no body had been found.

I was curious to know why the suspected perpetrator was still alive, since my experience thus far in Skyrim had taught me to expect sudden death rather than questioning, trial, and the benefit of the doubt. Against the warning of a wrenching fit of nausea, before I could decide otherwise, I headed into the prison.

The man I found in the lowest cell, calling himself Sinding, neither looked nor sounded like the type to have committed so heinous an offense. I had expected to feel disgust, outrage - I know not what else - upon seeing him, but I found once there I could only feel pity. And I listened to him. His tale seems completely ridiculous on its surface: he claimed to be a werewolf. Yes, again like in children's fireside yarns. He then claimed that some deity or demigod called 'Hircine' had given him a ring that was supposed to allow him to control his 'transformations'; evidently it didn't work.

Even though I have serious reservations about this account, I am inclined to think that his words must be given a fair trial because of something else he said. When I asked him about the scene of the crime - which was by the mill - he mentioned a man whose description matched that of Tempus, and he said this man was not far away, evidently courting the favor of one of the local beekeeper women. I pressed him on it, and he thought it was possible that the man would have gotten up in defense of the child who was being attacked, but he remembers very little of what happened while he was 'transformed', and afterwards he did not remember seeing the man any more.

His presumed lunacy went a step beyond what I thought possible after this account - he showed me the ring which he supposed belonged to Hircine and asked, as a favor to him, the murderer, whether I would return it for him! Naturally I could do no such thing, even if it were possible. So many questions flooded my mind, in truth I could hardly even consider his request for more than an instant before leaving the prison immediately.

Taking less forethought than I should have (but this is a common failing of mine), I made a search of the area surrounding Falkreath for any trace of Tempus. Thinking over the scenario as it was described to me - taking for granted that it was true, for the moment - it seemed quite plausible that Tempus would have been courting the affection of some woman, and also that he would have come to the defense of a helpless child being attacked by a beast without a second thought. Neither was out of character for him.

Would there not have been a trail of blood if he had fought, been wounded, and escaped? Ah, but it had been several days, and for the most part, long days of rain. I could find no trace of the conflict anywhere around the mill.

No carriage had recently run from Falkreath, no horses were stolen, and there were no bodies found after the attack other than the child's; so if Tempus were not here he had to have gone on foot, either perishing in the wilderness or surviving, wounded. He might not be likely to return to Falkreath in that case, depending on what it was that he really saw or experienced.

And now I see what a fool I have been, because as far as he knows, based on the timing of events, I am in Markarth... if he made for anywhere with a purpose, would it not have been in the direction of that city? And the carriages are still not running that way because of the roads - curse my temperament and ill luck.

Having found no trace of him here in a day's time, I can only think that my best course first thing tomorrow is to set out once again to retrace my steps toward Markarth, and hope that if he is living I am not too late.

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Segment Three: Friends Just Out of Reach

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Higher-Res Grayson Image Reel Three

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~ 27th of First Seed ~

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There is not much to tell, thankfully, concerning this last trip to Markarth. There was no sign of Tempus along the roads or byways. I even made another search around the lake, and encountered a lone fisherman who, in a brilliant turn of luck, had about half a basket of Longfins for sale very reasonably. I met few living souls other than a crazed Khajit skooma addict (strong stuff, that) who attempted to attack me on the road. Having reached the outskirts, I saw a whole cat caravan sitting outside and desired to have words with them, imagining that they were likely the suppliers of that doomed feline, but they were well-armed and, at any rate, I had always been curious about the properties of 'moon sugar'. If I recall, it is that from which skooma is derived, and it is not easy to find the substance from any other sources in Tamriel. Mother never allowed any moon sugar in the home when I was young, but I thought myself both strong and wise enough to judge for myself and so traded with them.

Once back in the city, I received two messages that caused me alarm. One was surreptitiously placed on my person by a local mine worker, simply asking for a midnight meeting at a temple. As I have no reason to keep such an appointment and would much rather avoid the political intrigue evidently festering just below the surface of this city's brilliant exterior, I am afraid he, or whomever it is who wrote the note, will just have to continue waiting.

The other message was a reply from Tempus, delivered upon my arrival at the Silver-Blood Inn (it was in Kleppr's possession). I gathered that it had been read by others before my arrival, as I was eyed somewhat suspiciously by Kleppr's relations when I gingerly took the note from his hand. I hold it in my off-hand now, shaking slightly. Tempus' note confirms that he had stayed in Falkreath up to the time of the bizarre murder; he was, as I guessed, courting the affections of a lady (though he did not name her); he had already intended to meet me in Markarth by the present date; and there was a bit in there about how he had been too free in his conversation at some festival involving a lot of strong drink, the Jarl, and his cohorts. Much of this I had by now assumed. Perhaps that was the reason for the Jarl's letter to me, and the entire thing was a jest. What was surprising was a long segment of the letter (long for Tempus - he is not much of a writer) describing the fears of some of the people of Falkreath that were being fueled by frequent and, to use his word, 'unearthly' screams and howls in the night.

At first, he wrote, he shrugged this off as superstition. But after spending a couple of nights in town and lying awake, ears open, in the small hours, he began to believe the stories of the people and inquire into more details. Most knew nothing for certain, but the more common explanations advanced always involved 'lycanthropes' - werewolves. A few people claimed to have seen them.

He concluded with some kind of joke about his soon arrival possibly being delayed by a full moon, and there was nothing more.

I immediately began to make inquiries in the Inn and the market in an attempt to find out anything more about werewolf legends. Even Bothela had little of value to say; most of what I was told was hearsay and little better than the information in Tempus' letter. A bookseller in the market, however, happened to have a copy of an old tome by one Varnard Karessen, imported from some out-of-the-way township in Daggerfall, entitled 'On Lycanthropy'. It must have had some sentimental value as she would not part with the book for even my most generous offer, but she did allow me to carefully examine it on the spot.

The author claimed to have first-hand experience, and one of the implications of his accounts - the thing which I most dreaded to discover - is as follows: (assuming these creatures are not merely mythological) lycanthropy is understood to be a disease, and one which is spread by the mingling of the blood. I disbelieve even my own intuition at the thought of it, but if this is so then it is possible that Tempus fought and escaped, but not unharmed.

If he was engaged in the fight, which I believe I have enough evidence to conclude, and he did not perish - his body was not found in town and I found no trace in the surrounding area - as much as I want to convince myself that this conclusion is absurd, it seems I must allow for the possibility that he has contracted the disease - has become a lycanthrope. There are few other explanations that satisfy.

If so, he might be anywhere; and if he is conscious of the change he might be deliberately hiding himself from civilization rather than returning to town in order to minimize the damage he is capable of doing. I have no idea what it might be like to have... such things running in my blood.

And now I am truly at a difficult impasse. I traveled to Skyrim with the primary purpose of finding new possibilities for mother's treatment, but while she suffers at home I now have a friend who has disappeared and is, perhaps, suffering - or causing suffering - somewhere in Skyrim. Were I to find him a wolf, I very seriously doubt I could withstand him myself if the legends are true; were I to find him a normal man in some other situation - say, captive to some brigands or worse - I do not think I would fare much better. My conscience would devour me alive if I somehow managed to find help for mother and returned to Cyrodiil without Tempus, but at the same time I do not think I can abandon all hope for her.

Thus, this morning, I hit upon the next step in this unlooked-for quandary. I need help. I've needed it for days, and now I will not be able to do without it. The elixirs I have brewed recently, with lots of the interesting things I've picked up on my travels, earned me a little coin in Markarth. I have now sunk that coin into a venture that I never imagined undertaking - the hire of a mercenary. The man's name is Vorstag, and he's a colorful character I've had a few chats with at the Inn. His armor is strong and his blade must be twice as sure as my own. His help was - to my mind - expensive, when I first had to loosen the purse strings. But when I later considered what amount of septims I would require to put my own body into harm's way for someone else I had no prior connection with, his fee didn't look nearly so high.

When I told him what we were after, he just laughed. I don't know if he takes me seriously, if he takes werewolf stories seriously, or if he is somehow pleased with the thought of death arriving sooner than he had formerly believed. (Just now remembering the old orc; I suppose Vorstag wouldn't be the first I've met in Skyrim with that odd attitude.) Apparently he isn't a man with a lot to lose.

It didn't take us long to come up with provisions necessary for a few days' travel; it was much more difficult determining what to do first. After all, I am now pulled between fish-hunt, man-hunt, and (perhaps?) wolf-hunt, and we can only proceed in one direction at a time.

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~ 29th of First Seed ~

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Vorstag, having been on a few tours of duty in the Reach, informed me that the woman who posted the note requesting the fish was - last he knew - running the inn at Karthwasten, north of Markarth and not too far. He also warned me that he had heard from the miners at Left Hand that there could be a bit of trouble on the road north because of the recent loss of Koslkeggr mine to the Forsworn.

As the road followed the northern branch of the river, which I had not yet thoroughly combed - and I only required a few more fish - I came to the decision that we ought to proceed in that direction first, if only because, with a bit of luck (admittedly in short supply), I might finally be within a day of earning the promised lesson in Skyrim alchemical lore. Believe me, I have earned it. And once accomplished, I would be less distracted from the more urgent endeavor before us concerning Tempus.

It has occurred to me that this is quite possibly a fool's errand. But he is a friend, and after he put himself at risk for my sake I will not give up so hastily on him.

Vorstag's information concerning the north road was correct, and I have the scars to prove it. Apart from the scoundrel in Markarth who murdered that poor woman in cold blood in the market, I had not encountered any of these savages - for I know not what else to call them - until yesterday. At present I hope I do not encounter any of them again for a long time. I would easily have been a dead man if not for Vorstag, who took a couple of arrows and distracted one of their axe-men from my less-armored body.

Which reminds me - back at the Silver-Blood Inn, over a week ago, I found a few books lying about. One of them concerned a legend of these Reach-men - the predecessors of the Forsworn, unless I make a mistake - and a sword of his that supposedly still lies mouldering in some cold tomb, waiting for him to awaken. I confess to having been carried away by the mystique of this tale almost enough to want to find out if any truth lay behind it, but now that I have met some of these new Reach-men face-to-face my wanderlust lies down, rather chastened.

But back to matters at hand - having put down the Forsworn ambush party, and having to kill again (it does become easier, I find, when one's life is at stake), I was briefly haunted once more by the earlier episode with the thief and unconsciously reached into one of my pouches to take hold of the diamond, just seeing if it was still there; I do not know why. Maybe it is a milestone, after a fashion; a stubborn marker, insisting again that everything taking place now is real. I have wished these last few nights that all this would somehow reveal itself as a dream, even if it is a long nightmare, for if it were I would, at length, finally wake up once again just a room away from mother in relative safety.

Instead, this morning, I woke up just a room away from Vorstag, having spent a night (and more of my dwindling supply of septims) in the Grinning Goblin Inn at Karthwasten. He snores like a rusted mill-blade - I hadn't thought of such little potential hardships when I recruited a companion, but there is nothing to do at present but ensure that my supply of Tundra Cotton does not dwindle. Despite this I did not mind the stay, generally speaking, for on the last stretch of our northward route I had finally acquired the last of the Longfins I needed in order to make the trade with Emelia, the innkeeper, and she did in fact show me a few processes that have dramatically increased the effect of the healing poultices I've been working on. I want to field test just a bit longer before trying to send word - or anything else - to mother, but at least I have one spark around which I might gather a bit of tinder to keep the flame of hope alive on this trek.

As there seemed to be some sort of ongoing feud in Karthwasten that, as far as I could surmise, was rooted in the deeper intrigues already active in Markarth, I did not want to stay long. Nor had we reason to. But we were facing an impossibly complex decision. Where to look? And why? And for how long?

Vorstag's first concern - for I did ask his opinion in the matter, as he knows Skyrim far better than I do - is that I am not nearly as well-trained or oufitted as I ought to be to travel the less-inhabited regions of Skyrim. He is also not at all convinced that I have the fortitude for the cold north, should the need arise to head that way. Of course I think this latter worry is nonsense and said as much, but he is right insofar as my battle prowess, equipment, and strength of stomach (or lack thereof).

I told him the story of my ambush a couple of weeks ago (the primary reason I remain nearly destitute) and that I could not afford much better gear than what I was wearing without quite a bit of time spent at hard labor. At this he laughed, and said that in his experience there were always faster ways to make a bit of coin. Of course, he said, such ways entailed a higher risk.

As coin seems to be the prime obstacle - keeping me from better equipment, from more training, from hiring more mercenaries, and traveling more rapidly - I heeded his words and asked for a suggestion as to how we might proceed.

He thereupon pulled out a crumpled note from a segment of his chestplate and had me read it, saying it had 'come to him' at the Silver-Blood Inn through one of his 'channels'. The note offered a reward for the clearing out of some hostile brigands occupying an old camp in Whiterun Hold. Vorstag described the place in detail and I thought I could remember having seen it from a distance when I was exploring and harvesting around the city of Whiterun a number of days before. To me this sounded like a terrible idea.

Vorstag assured me both of the reward and of my safety, saying that he had pulled off such feats alone many times and that he would bear the brunt of the offensive.

I reluctantly agreed, not wanting to appear a coward, but suggested that we make our way back to Markarth first, so as to make better preparations and to check once more for the unlikely appearance of Tempus. Also to buy myself time to reconsider or come up with an alternative plan that would not put my skin so much at risk.

In the end I decided to wait here (in Markarth, where we are staying) for a couple of days, taking advantage of a bit more training from Ghorza and earning more septims than I thought would be possible through the continual use of my strengthening alchemical skill. Her long-time apprentice is as much an imbecile as ever, and Ghorza was pleased to see me return to train. I spoke with her about some of my recent (mis)adventures, and made especial mention of the diamond, and this set her off straight away into teaching me to work with jewelry. I am not at all an experienced jeweler after only a couple of days, of course, but after practicing on a few of the rougher stones I had come across in the last two weeks of travel, the most peculiar sensation came over me, and I felt compelled to extract the diamond from its pouch. I still do not know how to explain, but it was as if some otherworldly hand guided my own through the process of setting it in a golden necklace I had just molded that morning. The piece came out substantially better than my initial amateur attempts; nevertheless I had the urge to hide it rather than to let any others in on the inexplicable secret, and hide it I did.

As for the rest of our time spent here, there is not much to write; it was filled with mundane preparations, shopping, food preservation, and the like.

Tempus did not appear, much to my chagrin (for many reasons), and I could not come up with an alternative to Vorstag's plan that made any reasonable sense while leaving my dignity - and trust of his ability - intact. We are to set out in the morning, provided weather conditions are fair. If carriages begin to run, we are considering that possibility, as it will save our strength and there will be better opportunities for my 'gearing up', as he says, in Whiterun.

Finding Tempus at any particular place in southern Skyrim is just about as probable, at this stage, as finding him in any other place in southern Skyrim; I am trying to encourage myself with this thought as we set off. At very least, if he is in fact a wolf, I am assured by every tale-teller I've encountered so far that such creatures are rarely killed, here or anywhere.

It may be superstitious of me, but because of the hypothetical possibility of the truth of these rumors - and the gruesome stories that accompany them - I also took the opportunity just a few hours ago to purchase a fine greatsword into which Ghorza had thoroughly wrought the most exquisite silver. It cost a bag and a half but I have not the skill to make anything close to its equal. Perhaps it will not be any more help than my trusty Dwemer blade when - if - it comes to that, but I am increasingly aware that each day in Skyrim I leap farther and farther into the unknown; I find I cannot trust much that I would have assumed in the comparatively comfortable and insular past.

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~ 31st of First Seed ~

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Once again on this trip I feel as though I have just awakened from a terrible dream. But at least I have wakened. There are a few men, and a woman, who will not wake again unless there is indeed another world, and I have assisted in delivering them unto their doom.

So much took place so quickly that I am sure I will forget things in this account. It doesn't help that my head was hit a couple of times.

The most unpleasant part of this, apart from the obvious, was Vorstag's idea that we ought to wait for nightfall to make the assault so that there would be a chance of catching at least some of our targets asleep. While this did prove to be beneficial, trying to sleep early and wake up at dark - prepared to do battle at a high level of skill - is not something I am accustomed to. We overslept a bit and it was getting close to dawn by the time we were ready to make the approach.

Everything went smoothly until we had the ill luck to run upon a hunting sabrecat just as we came within bowshot of the camp (Vorstag's note referred to it as 'Halted Stream'). Had I not been practicing the odd bit of simple prestidigitation I've been acquainted with since I was a boy - mostly parlor tricks, slightly unorthodox use of the mind and simple objects - we might have had to end our expedition early. As quickly as I could think, I directed the most fearsome thoughts I could conjure up at the creature and, to my shock and delight, he not only ran away from me, but ran directly into the gates of the camp, stirring up no small amount of trouble.

Unfortunately this had the effect of losing the element of surprise for myself and Vorstag, but we took the opportunity that was available and I followed his lead, rushing the camp just behind the sabre cat. And there the memory is blurry - I took a crossbow bolt in the arm, thankfully striking nothing vital, and I swung violently, shamelessly using Vorstag as a body shield. There was a sudden quiet when it was 'over', and the dead lay all around the camp. I thought at this point our mission was complete before Vorstag pointed out the door in the hillside. Perhaps he had not only done this before, but been here before. I still don't know; I haven't asked him.

I dreaded the closeness of the mine inside the doorway far worse than I had the darkness and chill of the night air. There was nowhere to run if things got bad. A sentry detected us in the hall and rushed us, but he was unprepared for two at once and quickly silenced. The door to the room below was locked but we were able to pull the key off the poor sentry's packstrap.

Below I heard voices and knew there must be more than one in the party. We crept as quietly as possible down, trying to make a quick assessment of the best tactic, but since I felt completely out of my depth I more or less drank a number of my recent concoctions and followed Vorstag's lead. The wretched, noisome smell of the lower room almost made one stagger. Again things happened rapidly, but because at least one of them had been asleep we got a headstart. My blood ran cold for a moment when I realized that they were true mages - at least some of them - one man brought seemingly out of nothing, right before my eyes, a being whose body was made entirely of living flame. Before long the whole room, including a giant mammoth they had evidently been butchering, was on fire. Or at least so it seemed. I groped for targets and swung, seeing red and firelight mingling in every direction.

In seconds that seemed to take hours, everything was ended and the gruesome scene had transformed from encampment to tomb. I was leaning on Vorstag's resilience to try to hold my stomach together, and I did well until we checked the back entrance and I saw the rotting dead there. But there is no need to rehearse that bit in detail.

Once the shock had passed, I realized the meaning of what Vorstag had told me just days before - that this was a quicker way to earn coin. At the time I was actually confused because the bounty offered for the head of the leader was not very substantial. But I had forgotten that these were criminals. Within the walls of just this camp was a good deal of additional coin for the taking, along with a number of interesting, rare, and precious objects, all of which we did not have the strength to return with to Whiterun.

Possibly the crown jewel of the haul - a suit of Orcish plate almost the perfect size for Vorstag - was something we could not sell, but we were able to have Adrianne properly fit it for him when we returned later in the day. And return we did, of course, once we had gathered our wits and taken a breather in the early morning hours, to collect the bounty from Whiterun's steward at the palace they call Dragonsreach.

What an incredible place that is! On my last visit I had neither a reason nor the courage to darken its doorway, but having now seen it I cannot believe I almost missed what may be the crown jewel of Skyrim. The steward, Proventus, kindly obliged us and had the septims ready at hand, and he is quite a talker. And I thought I could be a nuisance. In any event, as a result of our conversation I did learn the purported history of the palace and how it was named; and I swear things become stranger every day. The palace is called Dragonsreach because it was built to catch a dragon, and apparently at some time in the distant past, it did. If it is not a forgery, they have the skull to prove their assertion and have displayed it prominently in the main hall.

Is Skyrim the place where the legends of my childhood books come to life? I hadn't thought of it this way before, in all those years of hearing and telling stories, but a place where dreams or legends become reality might not be a pleasant place in which to find oneself.

Pleasant or not, we survived that harrowing adventure, earned our bread and then some, and this evening we are to discuss the best way to proceed. Each day that goes by I lose a bit of hope for Tempus; I try not to think too long about mother. And I wonder if the gods served by those in the temples of Tamriel might exist, and if they do, whether they might hear the prayers of inconsequential persons such as myself.

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Segment Four: Felonies and Frostbite

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Higher-Res Grayson Image Reel Four

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~ 1st of Rain's Hand ~

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After discussion we thought it likely that we would be traveling, and I had the idea that it would be useful to have a central location where we could rely on receiving communications. I was thinking in particular about mother, of course.

Early this morning I stopped in at the Mare to make this sort of arrangement with Hulda and her staff, knowing the couriers frequent her establishment for obvious reasons. I also found a small trading collective heading for Cyrodiil just outside the city and I was able to engage their services to send a couple of my poultices and potions back to mother along with a note explaining where to write when she had tried them and determined results, if any.

But back to Hulda for a moment: when I had finished arrangements at the Mare, and - I confess - told a bit of the story of our most recent adventure, her estimation of our ability clearly rose a few notches and she told us about a couple of recent complaints from Hold workmen. The story was that there was some sort of 'beast' to the west, near Greenspring Hollow, whose dangerous behavior was making logging and transport work in the region almost impossible. As it was not far away, and a couple of the workmen had put a price on the head of the beast, I would have felt ashamed to refuse to 'take care' of matters. This also seemed like a potential lead on the whereabouts of Tempus, however far-fetched; and since it was the only lead I had, I felt duty-bound to pursue it.

The long and short of this brief expedition was that we nearly met our end on the way out because of a troll who had just finished ripping a sabrecat apart, limb from limb, before we casually strolled into that part of the field; and when we finally got to the hollow, while we caught glimpses of bears and trolls in the distance, the ferocious 'beast' the workmen were evidently complaining about turned out to be nothing more than an overgrown sewer rat. When I saw this I didn't know whether or not to think these men, along with Hulda, were just having a joke at our expense. But the small amount of coin promised was given to us upon our successful return in the afternoon, so all's well that ends well I suppose.

After a late midday meal and a drink at the Mare, Vorstag and I were preparing to strike out, perhaps to the south and east (this looked most appealing at the time, anyhow), when a small traveling party came in the doors looking tired, frantic, and worried. As they could not escape anyone's notice in the main hall, we soon discovered that they had just come on a rapid journey from the Reach. None of them looked well-equipped for wilderness travel, and in truth they were not, but they had come out in whatever condition each one found himself (or herself - there were one or two women in the party) because, they reported, two people in their families had just gone missing the night prior.

They were not sure of the reason or manner of the disappearance and had followed what they assumed to be a trail of footsteps mingled with cart tracks that went cold when they had nearly reached Whiterun Hold. Rather than turn around at this discouragement, not being sure if it was the right trail or if tracks had been covered, among other possibilities, they continued to Whiterun because it was by then closer than home and they were quite exhausted. One of their party stood up in the middle of the hall and appealed to any who were able for help.

Now this, to my mind, looked like it might have some connection to what happened to my good friend; after further questioning I found out that even the Jarl of Markarth and his cohort had gotten involved in the search and so there was bound to be some compensation for the trouble (if we were to take any). I conferred with Vorstag, and though he had been thinking of seeing other places - he spends a lot of time in Markarth from what I gather - he did not want to refuse help to this desperate party, and he knows the Reach better (or at least he says so) than any other part of Skyrim. My heart sank when the memory of the encounter with the Forsworn flashed once again across my inner vision; is it not more probable that they, or the Silver-Bloods, are the culprits involved in this, rather than my own missing companion?

But what else could we do in such circumstances? Vorstag and I were the only ones at the Mare who even hinted at the offer of assistance to the frightened party. And so we are now in Markarth once more, making a careful search to find out everything helpful that we can before venturing out into the wild.

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~ 2nd of Rain's Hand ~

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Just making a quick entry here before we turn in for the night. The best information we could get in Markarth concerning the whereabouts of the missing persons was that they were headed in the direction of an old ruin in the hills that the people of the Reach call Hag Rock Redoubt.

Vorstag shuddered when he read that bit from the guard's report. I had no prior knowledge of the place, of course. Observing Vorstag becoming nervous made me doubly so, but I hesitated to ask questions of him concerning this while we were among the Jarl's people. Having stepped forward so far, publicly shrinking from the task would have meant death to our reputation (not that this made much difference to me, but of course I was concerned for Vorstag in his line of work, assuming he survives his tenure with me).

When we could speak more freely, Vorstag confided in me that the ruin in question was, at least in the recent past, 'occupied' by the Forsworn. This was all the information I needed to become squeamish about the entire enterprise. He hoped that we might find the missing persons, dead or alive, somewhere between the city and Hag Rock. If we did not, Vorstag was not ready to turn tail; he has more of a military mind, and he is at all times conscious of public honor and duty. Though I sensed that even he was frightened, he suggested that if we did not find the missing persons on our way, he thought he knew a passage up into the hills by which we might at least scout the territory and get a good view of the Redoubt without arousing much suspicion. It would be prudent, he said, to know what we're dealing with.

I agreed with this, hoping that if we found the place to be well-defended, we could safely give up the pursuit for lost.

I write now from our tent encampent overlooking Hag Rock. The place is absolutely crawling with Forsworn warriors and initiates. Fortunately, Vorstag has enough of the instinct of self-preservation to prevent him from having any interest in a frontal assault of the place on our own. While I am ready at this point to sign off on the mission as hopeless and move on to other things, Vorstag seems to think that, among the Nords especially, we cannot go back on our first words without possibly ruining our chances of obtaining favor, work, and compensation from them going forward. And this could become uncomfortable for us both.

He has some ideas for buying us time, at least. And the way he thinks we should use this time is for obtaining enough help to have some real chance at breaking into Hag Rock. I imagine that for this enterprise, we will also need more coin; we need more training, better gear (if possible) and more hands. Mightn't we find methods for raising funds that involve a little less risk?

Maybe I shouldn't be conferring on this point with a mercenary; to a man with a war axe, everything looks like an outstretched neck.

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~ 4th of Rain's Hand ~

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Checking my last entry, it looks like we were still out in the Reach; a good deal has changed since then. We returned to Markarth to explain the situation at the Keep to anyone who might be able to help. The city guard was willing under no circumstances to offer aid, and there were apparently no Imperial contingents in the area who could be spared for this cause. I find lately that my respect for my own military, my own people, falters.

While in the keep I found a moment to visit Calcelmo once more and try to maintain that relationship in order to hopefully further my inquiry into the Dwemer when I can rest a little easier. After we briefly explained our situation, and he saw that I was not wearing heavy gear like my comrade, and that I had become a mediocre artisan, Calcelmo suggested that I look into the Elven branch of smithcraft as sort of a distant modern cousin to the Dwemer. He said their gear is much lighter, though obtaining moonstone with which to work it could be costly and the technique is not easily mastered. He had an old book on the matter, which I obtained by trading him an odd spellbook I ran across back at Halted Stream and could not decipher myself.

In the end, since we could not obtain the help we sought in the Reach, Vorstag reluctantly recommended - though it would cost some time - that we look up an old companion of his who might be able to help us obtain additional support. The only trouble was that, as far as he knew, this fellow - a Nord among Nords, evidently - was currently situated in Windhelm. I requested a few hours to think over this change while brewing and doing a bit of metalworking. Now that more events have transpired, I think Vorstag also wanted to give me a taste of Skyrim's frozen north and see if I would falter. I hate to admit it, but he was right early on about my relatively thin skin. The cold here is brutal and I am only starting to get accustomed to it. But now I am ahead.

After all, I decided we would pursue his course - I had reviewed that book I found once more that was right about the alchemist in Whiterun, and remembered that there was a mention of Morthal in it also in the same context. Someone in Windhelm was also mentioned as a combat trainer, and I asked if this could be the same person Vorstag knew and he said it was not, but that he had heard of the man. Since it was possible to take a route to Windhelm that went through Morthal, we charted our course accordingly and set out.

We were able to find a carriage driver who would take us as far as Morthal, and the fee was considerable, but he would go no further. I told Vorstag that I did not mind going on foot afterward and he smirked knowingly, almost as though he had other thoughts about it, but then seemed to put them under and agreed to my plan.

The trip to Morthal was uneventful and passed by quickly, though we did pass through some gorgeous country on the way there. I noticed the weather taking a turn for the colder as we got closer, and the cold did not relent. Upon arrival, I was able to find the person spoken about by my booklet - a lovely young woman, and very skilled - but after we sat down and spoke for a short while it became apparent that we were more or less on a level field as far as the trade was concerned, and there was nothing significant she could teach me. Thus disappointed, and beginning to be quite cold, we headed out onto the road for the lengthier and more challenging part of the trek.

I nearly caught my death of cold between Morthal and Windhelm, and discovered once again how readily I overestimate my own abilities. Had not Vorstag been accompanying me, I would have likely caught my death of other things as well: we killed the first of those nasty native spiders (I just found out that they are, aptly, called 'frostbite'), only just avoiding a venom injection. I am thankful that the creature was smaller than the others I've seen. Before making camp we passed, and saw, more ancient Dwemer ruins; I must find a way to devote some time and study to these matters. Here again, though, I should be careful not to allow my curiosity to bring me to an untimely end.

We made camp, spent a freezing night in the tent (Vorstag suggests that we look into furs for our next gear investment as this was a detail he forgot about before we departed the Reach), and woke around the corner from another old ruin - a fort - but though it appeared quiet and deserted, foul creatures, the likes of which I have never seen, began to stir on its ramparts as we got closer; we were obliged to climb and try to make our way around it at some distance, losing time and warmth rapidly.

Thankfully we ran upon a small village - Heljarchen - just in the nick of time, and we were able to warm our extremities and swap stories for a short time with the innkeeper there. He was also able to shed light on the location and condition of a farm for sale by the same name - something I had heard about in Whiterun - though we did not have time to look into it because the farm was on the road southward and we needed to press to the east with all speed.

Having picked up some hot food, we continued on our way, meeting little on the road other than wolves until, passing a lumber mill, we finally came within sight of the massive bridge that leads into Windhelm proper. When Vorstag and I had trudged, nearly frostbitten, almost within earshot of the stable outside the city, we were assaulted out of the clear blue by an icy, ethereal creature that might have been a bony snake, if it was anything. The thing was hard to see, and terribly frightening, but if I remember in my partial snow-blindness its head was reminiscent of the dragon skull at the palace in Whiterun. I swung blindly at it, not knowing how to dispatch something that seemed incapable of bleeding, but Vorstag seemed to have some prior experience to draw on and gave the decisive blows that put the thing to rest.

Where it fell, I picked up a small handful of its 'teeth' and I discovered a unique, phosphorescent substance that I was able to bottle. Perhaps some experiments on it will later show interesting properties that can be harnessed to our advantage. Or perhaps it will explode and destroy a flask, like so many of my past efforts. One must be prepared for anything.

When we reached Windhelm it was - of course - very cold, and still early in the morning. We had the day to spend there, and I made the best use of the time I could in a bit of brewing and in forging a couple of pieces for the local craft guild. This helped to pay for time at the sword with a man called Torbjorn - my book was correct again! - and he showed me some very simple changes to my technique that I think will revolutionize my swordplay. Already I feel far more confident, but when I try my hand I realize that I will need a good deal more practice before it becomes second-nature.

While I worked, Vorstag reacquainted himself with the warrior - another mercenary - at Candlehearth Hall, whom he evidently traveled and fought with in hired bands years ago. The man's name is Stenvar, and he is quite an impressive piece of work. Vorstag struck me as rash, overconfident, and ready to cross swords at a moment's notice; after meeting Stenvar, Vorstag looks about as harmless as a butterfly scholar. And there is absolutlely no chance of our party making a stealthy entrance with him anywhere - he has so many bizarre trophies, bones, bits and bobs hanging off of his armor that he jangles like a jester wherever he goes. But I must say, to offset his less-desirable qualities, his skill in combat must be seen to be believed. I would cut off my own arm rather than be opposite him on the field.

To explain why we did not stay a bit more comfortably in Windhelm, but elected to continue quickly in our vagabond manner, I have to back up a bit. When we entered the city in the morning, my first greeting was from guards who took one look at me, slung epithets because of my birthplace, took me for a spy, and warned me about the 'Nord' culture of the city. The next thing I saw was a Dark Elf woman being harassed in the street by a couple of Nord goons who were giving her the same kind of treatment I had received at the hands of the guard, and worse. I learned quickly that, whether or not this is Ulfric Stormcloak's view, to be in his city as a non-Nord is to be persecuted in one way or another, and to lose all trust by default. If forced to choose sides in Skyrim's civil war, I can no longer see one choice as better than the other - it becomes clearer to me as I hike much of this countryside on foot that the only good that can proceed from this conflict is its end.

But speaking of conflict, and returning to the story, just a short while ago while we were enjoying ourselves at Candlehearth and preparing to turn in for the night, one of the ruffians who had been harassing the Elf woman earlier came in. Perhaps I had a little too much of the Black-Briar Reserve (that stuff is delicious, no idea what they must put in it), but we got into a conversation that quickly turned into a heated argument, and I at least thought I was defending her honor; to make the long story short (which I see I have not succeeded in doing), we came to blows in the first barfight I have ever been party to. Vorstag and Stenvar just laughed on the sidelines - maybe they thought I could handle him easily - but it was actually quite close, I've had to patch my face up a bit just now, and I barely came out on top.

Elda couldn't allow us to stay the night after that - to save face publicly - but she confided in me that she was glad I had taken him down a notch, and she graciously gave us some extra food for our journey.

Tonight we camp outside Windhelm, tomorrow we head - if I recall, my head is still spinning and my ears a buzzing a little - south, toward Riften. Stenvar said something about a mage there who would be willing to work with us. After paying Stenvar, however, my purse is once again nearly depleted, and I am not sure how we can afford more hired hands and mouths to feed. But I went along with the suggestion in order to get out of the cold as much as for any other reason (and to have further opportunities to hunt for or ask about Tempus). Nevertheless, we will certainly need more hands if we are ever going to breach Hag Rock. And what we have even less of than coin is time.

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~ 6th of Rain's Hand ~

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There is far too much to tell; I am writing from a little hole-in-the-wall inn in a mining village called Darkwater Crossing, but how I have gotten here in such a short time is beyond my reckoning.

I see that I last wrote a couple of nights ago... we made our way south without stopping (as much as possible) because of the urgency of our errand. By the time we got to Shor's Stone we were rather worn out, though it was only the early afternoon, for we had started before dawn. Our visit there was not - at first - as pleasant as we had hoped. A group of ruffians fell upon the town a few minutes after we had gotten acquainted with a couple of residents and we were compelled to fight.

The locals then told us that many more of them had recently holed up in the old fort just south (easily visible from the south end of the village). I suppose because of how overgrown its stones have become they now call it Greenwall. I made a careful mental note just then that we should seek to avoid that place, and we had a brief round of ale at the tavern.

Here is where I first began to note how dangerous it was to have two friends - old brothers in arms - accompanying me. Especially if they drink. They got to telling stories, trying to outdo one another, and then started making wagers concerning the number and skill of probable bandits at Greenwall... I don't exactly know how it happened, but very soon we were somehow wrapped up in a bargain with residents and miners that involved our venturing into the fort. I wanted no part of it, but I could not argue with Vorstag and Stenvar in the state they were in. We slept briefly to allow for the cover of night and then, almost unaware of what I was doing, I made my way with them to the fort.

I think both of them were slightly inebriated when we woke, and Stenvar was trying to justify himself saying that "whatever we found in the fort would get us more hands", and I went along, following their careful, plodding steps as if carried by another. The (re)taking of Greenwall was certainly something to remember - for someone - but I don't know if I shall be the one; again it all happened so fast: blinding shocks of light in the dark, slinging blades, casting echoes in old stone halls, one after another criminal falling and breathing his last... and I must say, I am very impressed with Vorstag and Stenvar - it is hard to believe the quick work they made of so many. While I did have a part to play, I do not think it was nearly so significant as theirs. They did make considerable use of the potions I provided them, so I guess that counts for something as well.

Whether Stenvar was drunk and bluffing or had some real idea of what he was talking about in advance I will probably never know, but as it happened there was a chest in Greenwall containing a treasure trove of valuables, the best of which were an ebony set: dagger and warhammer. They bore a unique insignia I did not recognize and I was loath to give them up, but we all knew they would fetch a high price in the city and had to make up our minds not to take any of the spoil to heart.

It took surprisingly little time to empty out the fort - though we did not go down into the basement prison, for it was evident that frostbite spiders had taken up residence there - but we were exhausted, and made camp not far from Riften for a short rest before daylight.

I am too exhausted to write about Riften in any detail, and I do not have much to say because we could not spend much time there. Suffice it to say that the place is crawling with thieves and organized crime. There is a competent smith in the city who bought some of our finds, but I did not have any time to confer with him.

The little time we spent in town was on three errands - selling gear for coin, getting my armor refitted by a capable merchant and fighter in town called Grelka (though I still think she didn't get the lower straps right), and hunting down the man Stenvar had told us about. He had only heard of him and did not know him personally, but thankfully he turned out at least to look like what Stenvar imagined - an experienced battlemage. His name is Marcurio. We had earned enough through our recent exploits to hire him and to resupply, and because there was still plenty of daylight, Vorstag suggested that we get moving immediately and rest later. In our discussion I had made clear that I thought our next destination needed to be Whiterun, in case there were any news (and it would make a pleasant stop on the way back to the Reach). They agreed to this, I think a bit more easily than usual because of a bit of embarassment on their part about dragging me into the fort the night previous.

I could see the north and south road options on my map, but Marcurio and Stenvar were both convinced that it would be a good deal faster - if not as safe - to travel northwest across the Rift, if we didn't mind a bit of steep climbing. What looked, on paper, like the easiest route to me (the pass leading to Helgen) was - according to them - frequently covered in snow and patrolled vigorously by both Imperials and Stormcloaks. And so, after a little more questioning, the Rift was decided upon.

And here we are, after an absolutely harrowing climb, at the Copper Cask in Darkwater Crossing, finally able to get a reasonably comfortable rest. Is it strange, or funny, that I have felt compelled to keep the necklace hidden, and told none of my companions about it - or about the diamond itself? I don't even know why it just came to mind. It nearly spilled out on my bed earlier this evening when I unloaded to polish this blood-stained sword (at the moment, I'm wielding a sword given to me by Ghorza - perhaps I hadn't recorded that; it's designed after the Orcish fashion, which I don't consider very beautiful, but it is incredibly powerful - a sort of completion-of-training gift I am wielding in memory of her). Stenvar is using the last sword I forged after the Dwemer archetype (Eastern style rather than western), and I retain the silver in case... well, in case the rather foolish stories I have made myself believe about Tempus turn out to be even half-true.

As it looks like I may have a bit of quiet, I turn now to study that book on Elven crafting once more; we picked up a helm of that make at Greenwall, off some unfortunate soul, and it has set me thinking on what I might be able to build for myself if I ever get the time. And the moonstone.

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Segment Five: Voices and Violence

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Higher-Res Grayson Image Reel Five

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~ 8th of Rain's Hand ~

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Several hours ago I did not think I would be here to write this. Even as I sit on this uncomfortable stone bed, the diamond necklace - which I have put on - hangs heavily about me with at once a healing virtue and a weight that exceeds its size. Perhaps it is the only reason I now live. But let me tell as much as I can remember.

On the morning of the 7th, we departed Darkwater Crossing and made haste north and west, hoping to reach Whiterun by midday and have the option to proceed farther if we had the strength. We were overtaken by thieves near a bridge over the Darkwater and, with the help of an Orc who appeared to be a skooma dealer, we quickly laid them to rest. As I turned to thank the Orc for his assistance and offer him something from our wares - he seemed quite alone in the wilderness - he spoke to me briefly, laughed, and then immediately and without warning collaped and died on the bridge for no obvious reason. We moved on quickly lest there was some unusual dark magic about this place.

There were no further interruptions on the journey until we reached a pair of old towers over the White River, one of which jutted right into the road. Like so many other places I have already seen in this country, it was occupied by a criminal outfit. One of their number blocked our passage in the road, with a couple of her friends standing by, and demanded that we pay a 'toll' in order to continue. I took a quick glance over the towers and surroundings and saw that the place was well-fortified and we were outnumbered. As I was about to give in, as much for the sake of saving time as for saving my own hide, Stenvar leaned over to me and whispered "We don't throw good money after bad. That's not why you hired us." And with a quick look at Vorstag, and a nod that was barely perceptible, they both rushed upon the crooks outside the tower gate as if this was a typical late-morning activity and I struggled to get my sword in hand and prepare for the worst while, I confess, staying well behind them.

We were in for some real life-threatening combat here, on tower platforms and bridges far, far above the river. The brigands gave blow for blow, and I was hit with an arrow and had to lean inside a tower opening to try to deal with my wounds while the others carried on. There were far too many of them for us to attempt to continue down the road after the ground-level assault in any case - we had to finish the job.

Having survived, we were once more rewarded with spoils from the criminals' store. We found many things of use; but I had a strange sensation when, once Marcurio had unlocked one of the chests (he's terrifically good at that - I would not even know where to begin), I reached in and saw a stone that very much resembled the diamond I had set in my necklace (still hidden, of course). I could not help but take it, and once in my grasp it felt ten times heavier than it ought to have been for its size. But that was not the only sensation accompanying the stone's retrieval - a sort of sound, or vibration, began to resonate; something like a long, tubular instrument with a range almost too low to be audible; and the resonance was like a call and response, a communication, between the stone in the chest and the stone in my necklace. I looked around nervously and saw that I was not the only one observing this transaction, and then despite my fears (I do not know why I was so afraid), I did as I felt compelled to do, took the necklace from its pouch, and, pulling back my hood, hung it about my neck. As I did this, a voice began to speak as if out of the air, but also out of the stone. I was in utter terror. I couldn't understand it at first, but when I did, I understood that the voice was commanding me to do a service for it, something involving a temple and Mount Kilkreath, of which I had never heard.

I was sure the voice must have found me in error, and I desired to put the necklace, along with the stone, back in the chest where I found it and forget the whole thing. Though I was able, with effort, to remove the necklace, I found that - though this seems silly written down - I could not put the stone back into the chest, nor could I even take it off my person. I tried to offer it to Vorstag, then to Stenvar, but they could not remove it from my hands or from my pack. They had heard some strange sounds, but had not understood the voice that I heard. When I explained it to them, Vorstag confirmed for me that there was, in fact, a Temple to Meridia at Mount Kilkreath, though he looked a bit shaken - which was unusual for him - at the thought of going there.

I told him and the others that we could not worry about that at the present time because of the urgent business with the missing persons, and we thus continued on to Whiterun, but ever since I have this nagging feeling about the stone - I deeply regret picking it up, but if the one who left it is powerful enough to speak through stones - and perhaps to have something to do with my diamond, if I can trust my intuition - how can I safely refuse?

Other than another bear, we encountered little more resistance between the two towers and Whiterun. Unfortunately the Whiterun stop was quick and rather disappointing. Hulda had nothing for me at the Mare - though I suppose I ought not to have expected anything so soon - but that was not quite the worst of it. There was a warrior woman drinking there in an impressive suit of plate, and we conversed briefly; when I told her of our errand, she was interested, but she wanted to know whether we were 'worthy' of her company. I didn't know what this meant exactly, but I found out. She wanted a fistfight.

I must admit, I was feeling a bit saucy after our successful rout of the gang at the towers, and while the idea of a fistfight with a woman was initially distasteful to me, she looked very strong and I doubted that I would hurt her severely. I was desperate for more help to take back to the Reach, and I agreed to her terms; we squared off, and - I am ashamed to say - she left me bleeding and exhausted on the floor of the Mare, and it didn't take her very long. Vorstag and the others thought it was a tremendous joke and have been ribbing me about it ever since. I am quite sure I will not live down that loss. Many others in Whiterun also observed it.

Saddened at not finding anyone else to add to our number, but pressed by the urgency - after licking my wounds for a short time - we left Whiterun and made a mad dash toward the Reach. Nothing could withstand us as we ran and fought. (Thankfully there are not many in the wild like that warrior woman at the Mare.) We faced so little opposition that, incredibly, by nightfall we had reached the cliffs Vorstag and I had scouted before and we began to make camp.

Previously, when scouting the route to Hag Rock, I had located a promising ridge where, after a scramble, I thought we would be able to slide directly down into the heart of the camp by the tower (which was our objective) rather than making a frontal assault. The only drawback to the strategy was that, if we chose it, there would be no escaping the same way we had come in. But moving in by night, we had hope of arousing less suspicion and making a relatively quiet entrance, leaving us - possibly - with the freedom to make a careful and tactical exit, retaining the height advantage.

Stenvar and Marcurio, not having seen the place before, were a bit concerned about this approach, but nobody thought a direct frontal assault was a good idea. After a round of discussion, because no better ideas were advanced, we moved forward with the tactic I just described. As we made the approach to the final scramble I was in utter disbelief about my bodily participation in this scheme, and scraped my way down amongst the others as if in a trance.

Wonder of wonders, the plan worked! We only woke one guard - a fearsome mage with a howling ethereal beast at his command - and were able with some difficulty to bring him down and crawl into the tower almost unnoticed.

Of course the tower was chock full of Forsworn savages, men and women equally fierce and frenzied. Fighting with long swords was often difficult in the tight quarters. And so many of them are deadly archers - this I (foolishly) had not taken into account, though I am sure the others, being more experienced, must have had it in mind. I did my best to advance with my group and not play the part of the craven coward, but I must confess to occasionally ducking out of the way, sensing that I was out of my depth. The Forsworn fear nothing and have an unquenchable thirst for blood.

When we made it to the top of the tower - not unscathed, but alive - we had a few moments to recover. And it was good that we had those moments, because I was not prepared at heart for what I saw next. At the top was very clearly some sort of occult altar, whereupon not only animal bodies, but a human body, that of a woman, had been sacrificed. I will never be able to erase the picture from my mind, but I dare not write its description in any detail. The body was still clothed and there was a scrap of paper hanging from a dress pocket that I took out and read. From what I gathered, she had not been alone, but had set out with another on the premise of treasure hunting based on some information they had received, doubtless from nefarious sources. The note indicated that they were finally headed for another place - Serpent's Bluff - and when I read this aloud, Vorstag could contain himself no longer, but began to cry out and kick madly at whatever was nearby on the ground. He knew the place, and he understood now what had happened.

These citizens had been lured out on false pretenses to be used in the barbaric rituals of the Forsworn - Serpent's Bluff is, according to Vorstag, another of their encampments. If this is all true, it seems to have less and less to do with finding Tempus, if indeed he can be found, but how can I - how can we, having come this far, refuse to go after the other missing person while there is a chance that he or she may yet live?

Again I move ahead too quickly - one other bizarre occurence I cannot fail to note here: where the altar was, there was also a stone wall, curiously carved, that appeared to be far older than the altar. My companions did not notice, as far as I could tell, but as soon as we got anywhere near it, something in, or on, the wall was calling out to me in a language I did not understand. Or, I should say, I did not understand it at first, but as I approached - for I could hardly keep back from it - it became clearer; the sounds of the foreign, even ancient-sounding tongue changed their amorphous shape in my mind into something I could understand - though it was still not a word in my own tongue, but more of a deep impression. I struggle to convey what I heard, for it was not only hearing; the closest I can come to it is to say that it is like the feeling, or the experience, one might have after hearing a well-written song, or poem, that perfectly expresses, through the combination of words one already knows, a concept or a connection between things that cannot be expressed in any other way, and yet seems to have its own separate existence. It was not that I heard the word "fear", though it was something like this, but as though... how to write it? A portion of the real and visceral power of terror, some of the substance of a universal poem picturing every analogue of dread connected in a spiraling matrix of nightmare and meaning, was imbued to me directly, inwardly - needless to say I could not explain at the time to my friends what had happened. They thought I was just swooning from wounds (and this was not very far from the truth, to be sure).

I thought of this experience, and so many that returned to my mind unbidden, on our exit from Hag Rock - the thief on the road to Whiterun, the diamond (was it really a diamond, or something else?), trolls and bears, Tempus and mother, lycanthropes, the stone that spoke - what was I doing here after all? And who was I, or who am I becoming? I am no warrior, no killer; though killing had gotten quite a bit easier among this savage group once I became aware of the evil they were steeped in; I had come on an errand for mother, more or less as a researcher, but my adventures are pushing me unwittingly in quite another direction.

We were able to make our way out of the redoubt, else I should not be writing this, but it was hard going and I took a couple of arrows not far from vital places and actually came close to my death. As Stenvar and Marcurio were finishing off the last of them in the lower tower, I sat - and bled - out of sight of the main fight, trying to find one of my potions, genuinely feeling the oncoming loss of consciousness. But at that moment, something pulled me back toward the necklace and diamond - which I had removed - and I was able to put it on again. And once it was on, the queerest feeling came over me... I began to see clearly again, to breathe normally; I don't know whether to think that the necklace, or some entity acting through the necklace, healed me, or if some other devilry was at work, but because of the effect, even though it seems oddly heavy around my neck, I have not removed it since.

We were all far too exhausted to make for Serpent's Bluff immediately, and I was grateful when everyone agreed to at least a day's respite in Markarth so that we could prepare properly for the continuation of the manhunt. Kleppr provided us rooms graciously, and though the bed is of stone, I am grateful to spend an evening indoors, in a place where the worst thing that could happen is the repetition of the bard's warbling rendition of 'Ragnar the Red'.

Before dawn we rise, and - I pray - we strike the serpent before we are struck.

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Segment Six: Shadows and Light

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Higher-Res Grayson Image Reel Six

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25th-level Tech Readout

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Skills	Level	Perks
Smithing	73	Craftsmanship, Dwarven, Elven, Orcish, Advanced
Heavy Armor	10
Block	14	Basic
Heavy Weaponry	50	GW Mastery 2/2, Barbaric Might, Sword 2/3, Dev Charge
Light Weaponry	11
Marksmanship	5
Evasion	34	Agility, Finesse
Sneak	13
Lockpicking	6	Cheap Tricks
Pickpocket	5
Speech	63	Haggling, Silver Tongue
Alchemy	70	Herbalism & Naturopathy, Lore 2/2, Imp Elixirs, Con & Imp Poisons, Catalysis 1/2
Illusion	27	Fundamental, Advanced
Conjuration	5
Destruction	10
Restoration	15	Fundamental (took at 25th level)
Alteration	5
Enchanting	5

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~ 11th of Rain's Hand ~

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I have been a in a whirlwind over the recent days. Where do I begin? Having just glanced over the previous entry I see I have forgotten to mention at least a few interesting changes, one of which I notice here: on our way back from Hag Rock, we encountered the aftermath of a brief struggle between Stormcloaks and another faction that I had only seen before at the court in Markarth - the Thalmor. The Stormcloaks who survived warned us away from the scene, and we steered clear of them, but when they had departed I doubled back. The victors had taken almost none of the spoil (this I still do not understand).

As I had been studying the book on Elven smithcraft I had obtained from Calcelmo, I recognized the design of the armor and wanted to get a closer look, because I had seen so little of this craft in person. Not only did I get a better look, but I discovered that one of the fallen was close to my size. Though I could never have crafted a piece of armor like it, I thought with the knowledge I had obtained I might be able to make small alterations and fit it to myself. It is not worth going into detail here - I kind of butchered the job - but though all of it is not any longer distinguishable as Thalmor armor, it is still light, wearable, and far stronger than it would seem for its thickness.

My last writing was several days ago; since then, we have accomplished not a few feats and traveled far. For a start, we discovered the other missing Markarth citizen - dead, as with the first, at the hands of a Hagraven whom the Forsworn were for some reason harboring - or serving - at Serpent's Bluff. Our party set out in the wee hours in the complete and enveloping darkness of a Reach thunderstorm, groping our way up into the cliffs of Serpent's Bluff slowly and arriving just before dawn. The entire camp, which was visible atop a hill, was asleep upon our arrival and we were able to make our way into the more fortified cave - or prison - without disturbing anyone outside. Inside the battle was quickly decided and I stayed well behind the other three, nearly retching almost the entire time because of the smell that has been forever burned into my olfactories as the memory of 'Hagraven'.

As I have already mentioned, the second missing person we found dead. I am not sure whether he, like the woman at Hag Rock, was a sacrifice, or whether this was some other sort of bizarre situation. Either way we realized we needed to get out with all speed and back to the city to assist with calling off any other search parties.

Though I was ready to leave with haste before awaking anyone outside, Stenvar couldn't stand the thought of leaving the rest of the savages alive and well. I just wish he would have conferred with me about this before yelling some sort of indistinguishable - and doubtless vulgar - war cry, immediately rushing the nearest tent. Vorstag and Marcurio, evidently accustomed to such things, followed suit hardly missing a beat and I scrambled into the fray behind them like a dog that has not quite finished being a pup. Though this was as tense and frightful as most of the other battle I have seen to date in Skyrim, I was really not in much danger during this particular engagement.

At some point the affair was concluded and we came down the mountain in the early morning, the storm having subsided and leaving only rain behind itself. The trip back to Markarth was not far, but it was dreary, what with the rain and the evil report we were, of necessity, to give to the Jarl's court.

I am saddened to record my behavior upon our return, though I still feel that my conduct was in part justified. Because we did not return with any citizens alive - despite the fact that we had nearly obliterated two Forsworn strongholds - Raerek, with the approval of the Jarl, gave us only a paltry sum in compensation for the risk of our lives. I do not like to repeat in writing what I said - and I probably wouldn't remember accurately if I tried - but it was certainly neither dignified nor respectful. The Jarl, haughty beyond even what I had taken for granted, responded to my disgust with something of a challenge - "If you think you've really risked your lives and done me some kind of service - parts of which I doubt - prove your prowess and your loyalty by eliminating a Forsworn threat that is really giving us trouble." And he mentioned some other rock or redoubt in the Reach that I am loath to recall. I may have damaged our reputation in the Reach considerably, but I could not stand down while my life and the lives of my hired men - who, I now see, have become as close to me as friends - were treated as nothing. I stormed out of the keep without even giving him an answer.

After we had time to cool down - and enjoy a drink and a warm meal - we once more took stock of the situation. I rehearsed the narrative of the difficulty with Tempus once again for Marcurio, and he said something in passing that indicated an assumption, on his part, that we had already spoken with the Companions at Whiterun on one of our many trips there. I interrupted at that point and said that this had not, in fact, happened. Marcurio was astonished.

Obviously he noted my puzzlement at this, and he doubled back to ask whether any of us were aware that the Companions were among the foremost authorities on werevoles in Skyrim. None of us were, and at this realization, Marcurio looked more surprised than I have ever seen him. I suppose he had taken for granted that we had some intelligence that only he had been privy to. He did not know details, but Marcurio claimed to have it on good authority that the Companions were versed in lycanthrope lore, and that, at least in parts of their legendary past, they not only knew of the blood of the wolf but studied and experienced it first-hand. As far as Marcurio knew, they were not werewolf hunters but actually - very oddly - sympathetic to the affliction.

I did not want to believe him, because it was hard to think that a lead like this had been sitting under our noses for weeks now untouched, but as I wished for no further dealings with Markarth at that time, and had no good reason to distrust Marcurio, I lost no time in making preparations to return to Whiterun and put in an inquiry with the Companions. Excitement did not exactly burgeon within my soul at the prospect of dealing with them after the strange and proud treatment a few of them had given me upon my arrival in Whiterun some time ago, but if they might know something about werewolves that few others in Tamriel would know, for Tempus' sake I had to swallow some of my own pride and confer with them if they would allow it.

The whirlwind of our travel and adventure really picked up after my visit with the Companions, and I will have to be brief in describing because the days have been long and I am weary. Quickly, I went in alone to speak so that they would not think of my own troupe as some sort of armed threat; their 'leader' (though they say they have no leader), Kodlak, was very gracious to me but would not give me any of the information I was truly interested in without my agreement to join their ranks. When I started to talk lycanthropy he was visibly shaken and I could tell that there was something to Marcurio's information, but I could make no headway.

I explained to Kodlak that I didn't think I could make that kind of commitment to their guild, or their cause, because of my mission concerning Tempus (which was the whole reason I was there), and out of desperation I ended up spilling the entire story to him. His face, his whole manner, showed me that he was not without sympathy, and he said that some members of the 'circle' might be able to give me what I sought, but that they would not likely be able or willing to help as long as I was perceived as an outsider. At that point - feeling that this might be the only chance I had at getting a real lead on my friend, along with more help to find him - I broke down and asked Kodlak what would be required of me to join.

While Kodlak's words to me were airy and dignified, the reality of serving this guild (as I have now discovered) smacks much more of 'errand boy' than 'knight errant'. In a short time, I (and my own 'companions', who are and have been of much greater service to me than the guild thus far) have been sent hither and yon to intimidate poor people who have somehow offended others, to rout little bands of criminals hiding in holes out in the middle of nowhere (how do the Companions even know about these little rat nests?), and to gather obscure animal pelts and other oddities to assist in the Companions' "trade". I wonder if they are 'testing' anything so much as my resolve and patience.

I write from the frozen north - Dawnstar - a place I would never have come to on my own, but where we have taken refuge in the midst of a ridiculous hunt through frozen wastes for snow bears. I am asking myself if this whole line of inquiry is worth the effort we are collectively making (not to mention the cost). My body is frostbitten right now in places I didn't even think could catch a chill. How much longer do we hold out for Kodlak, or someone back at Jorrvaskr, to come through on the promised divulgence?

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~ 17th of Rain's Hand ~

---

I wonder to think that it has been nearly a week since I last wrote. Vorstag, Stenvar, Marcurio and I have run all over Skyrim on behalf of the Companions in order to 'prove' ourselves (or prove myself, I suppose), hoping to reach the carrot hanging off the end of the lycanthrope stick. We got more than we bargained for, actually. I have been forced by experience into a complete reversal of opinion in so many respects that I hardly know where to begin.

Finally getting out of Dawnstar and the frigid country, we headed south to the Rift; all sorts of things we undertook, and picked up some of our own bounty along the way. The Companions had us routing out and bringing justice to escaped convicts, clearing out towers and miserable holes, digging in the ground for loose change, helping elderly women across the street, and who knows what else. Among the riskier and more life-threatening tasks were the rescues we undertook - a couple of citizens had been kidnapped by thieves for ransom. These escapades, thankfully, were far better-executed and happier stories than our earlier attempts (after all, the citizens had not been taken by cultic Forsworn savages). We returned Brunwulf Free-Winter to Windhelm and we also brought Aredis back to Ivarstead, and I saw a lot of Skyrim I had not yet seen as a result of this. Gradually I was also becoming a little more sure of my sword and my skill in combat, occasionally taking the front instead of always leaving that to my comrades.

The Companions even had us traveling back to the gods-forsaken Reach (I think it would be unseemly to put in print the thoughts that occurred to me at this proposal), and though I would not set foot in Markarth after our recent quarrel with Raerek and the Jarl, we nevertheless undertook the removal of even more Forsworn installments in a whirlwind of battle, travel, and sleepless nights that still has me reeling. We often traveled by night in the hope of a werewolf sighting (this was Marcurio's idea, who seemed to know things we did not). All the while, the diamond around my neck grew heavier, and when sleep and I eventually found one another here and there, the strange voice began to invade my dreams, compelling me to make haste to Mount Kilkreath. At first I saw this as a trick of my own mind, but I came to think differently before long.

Ignoring for a time the summons of the voice and the diamond, dragging our ragged bodies after a number of days back into Jorrvaskr to briefly give the tale of our success and fall into a few uncomfortable plank beds, I was prevented again from blissful rest by an unexpected appointment with Skjor. Our efforts, it appeared, were finally beginning to pay off. But the payment was not in the manner I had hoped for.

Skjor bid me join him outside by the training court to tell me the history of the battle-axe which hangs (only partially, in pieces) from the wall over the stairwell to the Jorrvaskr living quarters. I was struggling to keep my eyes open, not because the tale was uninteresting - I am easily taken in by histories and legends, after all - but because of sheer road-weariness. I have forgotten some of what he said, and I think he saw me drifting and shortened his tale a good deal from how he might normally have drawn it out, but what I do recall is that the axe - named Wuuthrad - was (if the tale is true) the blade of Ysgramor himself, the original head of the Companions and the one who, it is supposed, led the first human settlers into Skyrim.

The reason he gave me the history was because he was preparing me to receive my next 'orders': our successful exploits had been honorably and quickly accomplished, and Skjor informed me that it was time for my official 'trial'. Skjor and the others had recently received word that it was apparently likely that another fragment of Wuuthrad was held in an ancient tomb in Whiterun Hold, known colloquially as Dustman's Cairn. My trial would be considered complete when I had entered the tomb and either returned with the fragment or discovered the tale to be untrue after a thorough search. Having occasionally played in graveyards as a child, I thought this task seemed relatively easy (other than the darkness, and being 'spooked' by sounds that always turned out to be nonsense). Skjor requested that I go alone, accompanied only by Farkas (one of the Companions, heavy on steel and light on cognition) to judge my skill and behavior. I was prepared to do this, but Vorstag, who was standing nearby, motioned to me not to agree and interrupted.

I thought it was not his place, but he then had a heated argument with Skjor concerning the tomb, my skill, and what was to be found there; at one point I'm fairly sure that I was dangerously close to losing my chance at the trial altogether - not that I would have balked, as this 'lead' was not panning out in the way I had thought anyhow - but regardless, after all, Skjor was convinced of whatever potential danger Vorstag asserted might be there and I was permitted to take my other hired hands along, with the proviso that I only appealed to them at the extremity of need. At the time I thought this was really unnecessary, but after all they were in my pay one way or another and I did not like the thought of coming into an unexpected scrape without them. On reflection I realize that I was almost a different person such a short time ago now, but I foolishly reasoned with myself, 'What sort of creatures other than rats and snakes, would bother to occupy an age-old sealed tomb?' As usual, my mercenary friends knew better and I ought to have trusted them in this from the first.

At daybreak we followed Farkas to the tomb and it was not long after we pushed our way inside the first alcove that my whole view of Tamriel, and whatever might be beyond, began to be shattered into at least as many fragments as Wuuthrad itself. In the tomb, as you would expect, the dead were interred. The surprise was that many of them simply refused to stay that way. Upon our approach, the half-rotted bodies of Nords from the mostly-forgotten past often awakened - did I write that they are frequently fully armed? - to do ferocious battle with our party. I would never have believed it myself unless I had been under their foul blades in person. The Nords have a word in their older, more formal tongue for these creatures - 'draugr' - and apparently, their awakening has something to do with other legends concerning dragons with which I am not familiar, nor after this do I particularly desire to be.

This was not all we found in the tomb, which was more a deep labyrinth than a simple burial hole in the ground. Trying to find a way forward, Vorstag and I trapped ourselves by accident at one point and a horde of well-armed living people swarmed the rest of the party outside. It was there that another of my illusions was permanently shattered. Part of me had been refusing this whole time to believe in the werewolf legends at all, and searching for another explanation of the disappearance of Tempus. But when surrounded and hopelessly outnumbered, just outside the bars that trapped me, I witnessed firsthand the transformation of Farkas himself - the Companion - into a genuine and terrifying werewolf. And he singlehandedly tore the entire attacking party to shreds in moments. Having run off to find a lever to release us, he returned as himself, with the unfortunate consequence of having lost his armor, and quickly related that the inner circle of the Companions all shared the blood of the wolf and this ability, which was only used when there was no other way to honorably preserve life and limb. I also then found out that the attackers - part of a faction called the 'Silver Hand' - were werewolf hunters. And this was the perhaps the biggest break yet in the search for the location of Tempus... if the Silver Hand may have found and taken him, and the Companions know where the Silver Hand operate and work actively against them, this might turn out to be my best hope - though it has not yet turned out, for reasons I will explain shortly.

The tomb was full of the Silver Hand and we dispatched them, and this did not sit as well with me as our fight with the Forsworn; in any case it was necessary because they would not allow us further passage into the tomb by any other course. I questioned a few of them as we went but got no information concerning Tempus or anything else of value. The deeper we went, the fewer living we encountered (and the more dead). Farkas embarrassed our entire party and showed the incredible strength of the Companions circle by fighting his way down alongside us not only as a man (rather than as a wolf), but completely naked, greatsword in hand and cape slung around his neck. In this way he fought not only Silver Hand members, but draugr and even spiders, which we found at the lowest levels, where parts of the tomb had collapsed into watery caves. As I record this, I do not know whether this latter phenomenon was more or less incredible than his werewolf transformation.

At the deepest part of the descent, we came into an eerily quiet sort of great hall, lined with coffins on either side and featuring a larger-than-usual and particularly ornate coffin on a pedestal at the far end. Also at the far end was one of those ancient walls, such as that which I had encountered above Hag Rock. Before the wall was a table on which - Farkas verified this - was indeed a fragment of Ysgramor's blade; unfortunately, upon taking it, every corpse in that hall began to wake, and it was everything we could do to fight our way out of the hall and back to the tomb's entrance.

But about the wall - before the fight, I heard the same odd 'speaking' I remembered hearing before at the first wall, and I had another experience like the first, observed by all the others but shared by none of them. The experience was not the same as the first - not sickening and disheartening; perhaps it was because whatever the mysterious 'language' wanted to say to me, or convey to me, was different this time; sensations of rising, of flying, and of falling simultaneously gripped my body and mind; images of swaying branches, followed hard upon by grim scenes of the aftermath of great storms assaulted my consciousness as I heard, and at the same time felt, at once, the force of an entire ancient language carried in the expression of a single word. This happened in moments, but it felt as if I were transported out of my own skin for much longer than that as it took place, and I could not tell in the midst of it whether I had become the wind itself or whether I was being hurled uncontrollably by the wind in whatever direction the voice indicated. When I emerged from this waking dream, the party was visibly disturbed; I had collapsed to the floor, and on rising, the diamond seemed heaver than it had ever been; they seemed to know better than to demand an explanation at that moment, and I could not have given them one, so this was certainly for the best.

Returning from the trial with the fragment in hand, I was deemed successful and immediately, 'officially', admitted as a member of the Companions. I began to question everyone about the blood of the wolf straight away (after having a bit of rest and bandaging myself). I learned more now than I could before, but I still had no promising immediate leads on Tempus. It looked like the best I would be able to do was press, within the order, for the pursuit of the Silver Hand to see where that trail might lead us. But I was put off this course for a time by unforeseen events, which I will relate now as I can remember them.

The morning after the completion of the 'trial', we stopped in at the Mare to resupply and speak with Hulda and it turned out that a letter had finally arrived for me from Cyrodiil. From mother.

It had taken at least a week to arrive, so I cannot know what has happened since, but she communicated that at the time, the experimental salves I had sent to her were proving to be more effective than anything she tried at home, though they seemed to postpone the progress of her illness more than they reversed it. I could have hoped for little better than this, and I rejoiced to read it; but there was another portion of the letter that gave me pause.

She wrote that she had lately been troubled by recurring dreams; that she would hear a strange voice calling to her over and over again, and the voice said something about the desperate need for the removal of darkness and the bringing of light. This seemed like nonsense to her, but the dreams would not leave her alone while she tried to rest, day and night, and she said that after a time the voice began to mention my name in connection with the calling. In one of the dreams, she wrote, a figure appeared like a robed woman with wings and upraised arms. In another, she said the only thing the voice clearly communicated to her was this sentence: 'Tell Grayson to remember the stones.' She said that she felt funny writing this to me, but as it came back to her so clearly, she thought that she ought to tell me in case it had any meaning. I could hardly believe what I read.

I sat at a table at the Mare, dumbfounded, rolling this over in my mind; the diamond and the stone seemed to resonate with a deep sound only for a moment. With a heavy weight pressing down upon my chest, I related this to Stenvar, who was just beside me, and then to the others. I half-expected to be laughed at, as I have been a very vocal unbeliever in the 'supernatural' to this point. But none of them laughed - in fact, it was Marcurio who first spoke up and said that he thought the signs were very clear and my next course ought to be obvious. The others agreed. I hated to acknowledge this as truth, but it was becoming difficult to ignore what was already so plain to the others around me. After conferring with all of them, I told Skjor that I would require an absence of at least a couple of days for something that could not be put off, concerning honor, family, and the removal of darkness; I received no opposition whatsoever from the Companions (thankfully) and, after picking up a surpisingly light and marvelously-balanced sword from Eorlund (a gift to me from the Companions upon my admittance) we prepared to set out for Mount Kilkreath that very morning to discover what doom would meet us there.

Our travel to the mountain was quick and uneventful; perhaps we were sped along by whomever it is that has been speaking through the stones. And, as a matter of fact, as we approached the mountain, it spoke again, this time more clearly. The necklace became ponderously heavy and I almost staggered with the encumbrance. The voice was clearer now, and it spoke to me of removing something from a temple (presumably the one we began to see in ruins as we climbed). We turned a corner and then I saw it - a statue very like my mother's description, atop the ruin. I trudged, practically against my own will, up the steps toward it. My hand reached automatically into my open pack, retrieving the strange stone that had been bound to me since our taking of the towers on the White, and I saw myself placing it before the statue. Immediately everything across my visual field became blindingly bright and I was transported into a vision.

I am sure this will sound incredible to any later reader who might happen upon this journal, but I attest that this is true: in the vision, all Skyrim was laid before me, as though I viewed it from an impossibly high tower (though there was nothing at all underneath me); a voice, calling itself Meridia, demanded that I cleanse the temple I had - up until just recently - been standing upon of the filth perpetrated by a vile necromancer named Malkoran. Had I not just ventured into an ancient tomb and saw the living dead with my own eyes I would have doubted the veracity of this whole account, but as things were I did not see how I could do otherwise than obey the voice. When I awoke from the vision, my companions and I stood at the door of the temple, my necklace vibrated and shone with the faintest light, and the door opened to us.

The temple was absolutely dark apart from very thin beams of light streaming from the beacon I had left above at the feet of the statue into reflective orbs inside. I soon discovered as we made our way in by torchlight that when my necklace got close enough to one of these orbs, it would 'trigger' in response to that same resonance I had previously experienced, and rise from a pedestal to further carry the light into the darkness. This light proved to open the way forward for us, but as a result we discovered that we were not the only creatures inside.

The bodies of the dead lay strewn about, but apparently the craft of Malkoran was such that he was able to manipulate their spirits into vile ghastly warriors. In such darkness, nothing could normally be seen of this army but their hideous eyes - glowing with a blood-red ferocity that gave pause to even the boldest among our company. They came at us in droves. The farther we brought the light into the temple, the fiercer became our adversaries. I still do not know how we were able to fight in such otherwordly blackness. There was a stinking mist hanging pungently in the stifling air that dimmed and even threatened to put out our torches.

Putting every resource at our disposal to the test, some way or another we finally gained access to the deeper chambers where Malkoran met us - with a whole legion of his red-eyed army of the grave. After a determined struggle, and again (at least for my part) receiving grievous wounds, we overcame him and laid his dark arts to rest. When finally we stood and stared, having gained a moment's peace, the voice once again spoke to me, telling me in no uncertain terms that I was to take a sword - which it called 'Dawnbreaker' - from a pedestal at what looked like (or used to be) the primary altar. With trembling hands, I moved at once to the place and took hold of the sword - and I was once again transported into a vision similar to the first.

In this vision, the light - Meridia - spoke to me once more, telling me that I was to take the sword and be the bearer of the light into 'the dark corners of the world.'

While this kind of thing would normally have sent chills up my spine and caused me to want to be shut away in my own dark corner for a while, for the first time in my life (as far as I can remember) I felt as if - as if I were the person who should be selected; as if I could do what was asked of me; a silent assurance of help accompanied the commanding words of the light. As before, I woke suddenly, and the silent statue stood before me, the stone no longer in my pack, nor indeed in my possession, but at the statue's feet. I began to consider the thought that it all must have been a swooning dream, but then - looking down at my hands - I realized that I still retained a tight grip on the incontrovertibly real Dawnbreaker sword. The sword had a stone worked into its hilt not unlike the beacon stone, and I now, after all this time, started to see subtle similarities between these stones and the one I had set in my necklace (thinking it was a diamond). The stone in the sword briefly resonated with the one around my neck, and immediately - how odd - I felt as if the one in the necklace 'released' its grip, becoming very light.

I was able to easily remove it, and felt compelled to do so; if it is true that I no longer have need of the stone, having claimed Dawnbreaker and somehow 'freed' Meridia, taking upon myself her mission - this is still hard to reconcile in my own mind with my former purposes in traveling to Skyrim - I still have the feeling that it is needed by someone. Though it once again travels in a pouch of mine, I do not feel as if I could part with it completely; and now I know I will fumble for words in trying to explain any more clearly my mind concerning this perplexing thing.

If much is still uncertain, at least this is now clear; I cannot deny my own senses, nor those of my comrades-in-arms. There is reality beyond the seen. I do not know whether to properly call the light a 'god' or something else, but my sense is that it - Meridia, it calls itself - that it is aligned with the right. I understand that it calls me (though I cannot fathom why it is I rather than, for instance, these stronger and battle-hardened companions of mine) to advance against a growing darkness in the world; to be a light-bearer. There is still a great deal that I fear, having only begun (I imagine) to understand what darkness there is, and how much remains while I still play my part; but I have tried to hide from this calling for some time now without success, and I do not think I can resist it any longer. Whether I can understand it fully or not, there is a reason I came to Skyrim when I did; obscure, beyond my ken, and different from anything I thought I had planned of my own accord.

Nevertheless, calling or no calling, there is one darkness that presses forward to which I must address myself as soon as time allows - that which, presumably, has taken my friend and former fellow-traveler. If I am specially the bearer of the light, I cannot rest while his fate hangs somewhere in the black unknown.

Look for the continuation soon...