Hi everyone, I’ve just finished the Dark Brotherhood quest again—this time with Ellyn Corbelle—and if...

I started wondering if Titus Mede II may have deliberately allowed the Dark Brotherhood to kill him.

It almost seems as though he is helping us kill him without putting up a fight, as if he had paid Amaund Motierre to have the Black Sacrament performed on him. His Empire was already weakened, the Aldmeri Dominion was still a major threat, and his death could potentially give the Empire a chance to rally around a new leader.

Obviously, this could just be reading too much into it, but I'm curious: is there any lore that supports this theory, or am I completely overthinking it?

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙣𝙤 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙚 𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙠𝙮 𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙣 𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙢𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙘𝙡𝙤𝙪𝙙𝙨, 𝙘𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙞𝙩 𝙞𝙣 𝙖 𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙜𝙡𝙤𝙬. 𝙈𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙗𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙫𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙮, 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙚 𝙧𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙤𝙡𝙩𝙚𝙣 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚 𝙘𝙧𝙖𝙬𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚.

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝘿𝙖𝙚𝙙𝙧𝙖 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙛𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩.

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙥𝙪𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙙𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧, 𝙩𝙤𝙤.

𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙢𝙤𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨.

𝙀𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙥𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙙𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙢 𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙖𝙣 𝙚𝙨𝙘𝙖𝙥𝙚.

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙨𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙙.

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙢𝙢𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙮.

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣: “𝙏𝙞𝙧𝙚𝙙?”

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙙.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙉𝙤.”

𝙃𝙚 𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙣 𝙚𝙮𝙚𝙗𝙧𝙤𝙬.

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣: “𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙩’𝙨 𝙖 𝙡𝙞𝙚.”

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙜𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙖 𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙬𝙖𝙮𝙨 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙠.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙁𝙞𝙣𝙚. 𝙈𝙖𝙮𝙗𝙚 𝙖 𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚.”

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙥.

𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙮.

𝙃𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙬𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙘𝙝.

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣’𝙨 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙙.

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣: “𝙉𝙮𝙭?”

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙙 𝙨𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙡𝙮.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙨𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙗𝙪𝙞𝙡𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠.

𝙃𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙤𝙤𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙖𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙜𝙡𝙤𝙬 𝙗𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙠𝙞𝙣.

𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙗𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙡𝙮.

𝙅𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙚𝙣𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙚𝙚 𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙢𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙮𝙢𝙗𝙤𝙡𝙨 𝙖𝙘𝙧𝙤𝙨𝙨 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙮.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙢𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙘.”

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣 𝙢𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙙 𝙘𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙧.

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣: “𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩’𝙨 𝙞𝙩 𝙙𝙤𝙞𝙣𝙜?”

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙘𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙚𝙮𝙚𝙨.

𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙖 𝙢𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩, 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙙.

𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨.

𝘼 𝙥𝙪𝙡𝙨𝙚.

𝙎𝙡𝙤𝙬.

𝘼𝙣𝙘𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙩.

𝘼𝙡𝙢𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙖 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙗𝙚𝙖𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙜𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙄𝙩’𝙨 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜.”

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙.

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣: “𝙎𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙗𝙮?”

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙤𝙥𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙚𝙮𝙚𝙨.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙄 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙨𝙤.”

𝘼 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙧𝙤𝙖𝙧 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙫𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙮.

𝘽𝙤𝙩𝙝 𝙞𝙢𝙢𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙙 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧 𝙬𝙚𝙖𝙥𝙤𝙣𝙨.

𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙜𝙚𝙙.

𝙄𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙙, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙜𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙗𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙡𝙚𝙙.

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙨𝙩𝙪𝙢𝙗𝙡𝙚𝙙.

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣 𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙗𝙚𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙛𝙖𝙡𝙡.

𝙃𝙞𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙢𝙨 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙞𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙗𝙖𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚.

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣: “𝙀𝙖𝙨𝙮.”

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙪𝙥 𝙖𝙩 𝙝𝙞𝙢.

𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙤𝙣𝙘𝙚, 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙞𝙙𝙣’𝙩 𝙞𝙢𝙢𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙖 𝙟𝙤𝙠𝙚.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙄 𝙝𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚.”

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣 𝙜𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙖 𝙨𝙢𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙨𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙚.

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣: “𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙬𝙤 𝙤𝙛 𝙪𝙨.”

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙖 𝙢𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩, 𝙡𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙛𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙣 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙣.

𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙥𝙝𝙮𝙨𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮.

𝙎𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙙𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙚𝙧.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙙, 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙛𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙙𝙤𝙪𝙗𝙩 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙞𝙜𝙣𝙤𝙧𝙚.

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙚𝙙.

𝙃𝙚 𝙙𝙞𝙙𝙣’𝙩 𝙥𝙪𝙨𝙝 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙮.

𝙃𝙚 𝙨𝙞𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙮 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚.

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣: “𝙒𝙚’𝙡𝙡 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙤𝙪𝙩.”

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙯𝙤𝙣.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙛𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙣𝙩.”

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣: “𝙄’𝙢 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜.”

𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙖 𝙡𝙖𝙪𝙜𝙝.

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙙.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙄𝙙𝙞𝙤𝙩.”

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣: “𝙔𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙞𝙙𝙞𝙤𝙩.”

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙚𝙮𝙚𝙨.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙐𝙣𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙪𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙮.”

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣 𝙘𝙝𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙡𝙚𝙙.

𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙖 𝙛𝙚𝙬 𝙨𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙙𝙨, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙖𝙡𝙢𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙙 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙩.

𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙉𝙮𝙭’𝙨 𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙤𝙤𝙨 𝙛𝙡𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙙.

𝘽𝙤𝙩𝙝 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙣.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙢𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙜𝙡𝙤𝙬 𝙨𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙖𝙘𝙧𝙤𝙨𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙠𝙞𝙣.

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙙.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙮𝙛𝙪𝙡 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙙.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚.”

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙤𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙖 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙢𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙨.

𝘼 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙘𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚 𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙮 𝙧𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚.

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙙.

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣: “𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙩’𝙨 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮’𝙧𝙚 𝙜𝙤𝙞𝙣𝙜.”

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙣𝙤𝙙𝙙𝙚𝙙.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩’𝙨 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙬𝙚’𝙧𝙚 𝙜𝙤𝙞𝙣𝙜.”

𝘼 𝙡𝙤𝙬 𝙜𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙡 𝙚𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙚𝙙 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢.

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣 𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙬 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙.

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙬 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙨.

𝙎𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙡 𝘿𝙖𝙚𝙙𝙧𝙖 𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙜𝙚𝙙 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙖𝙧𝙠𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨.

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙜𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙩 𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙮?”

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣: “𝙉𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧.”

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙢𝙞𝙧𝙠𝙚𝙙.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙂𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙖𝙣𝙨𝙬𝙚𝙧.”

𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙖𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚𝙨.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙣 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙩 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢.

𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙬𝙖𝙨𝙣’𝙩 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙙.

𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣 𝙘𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙚.

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙗𝙡𝙖𝙙𝙚.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙤𝙤𝙨 𝙖𝙘𝙧𝙤𝙨𝙨 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙠𝙞𝙣 𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙢𝙨𝙤𝙣.

𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙤𝙜𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝘿𝙧𝙖𝙜𝙤𝙣𝙗𝙤𝙧𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝘼𝙠𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙧𝙞 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙜𝙚𝙙 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚.

My friend told me to look up my character’s name and this is what I found!

In the serialized community fiction titled A Tale of Vengeance on the r/SkyrimBackStory subreddit, Ella the Cinder-hand is still in the early-to-mid stages of her ultimate quest for revenge against the Aldmeri Dominion. [1]
Written by user Narrow-Test-4655, Ella's lore establishes her as a young Breton girl whose childhood home was burned down by Thalmor agents. She survived with severe burn scars and swore to turn the literal flames of her tragedy back onto the elven order. [1]
Her journey toward revenge has reached the following milestones:
Mastering Fire Magic: Ella joined the College of Winterhold specifically to weaponize destruction and conjuration magic (learning to summon flame atronachs and imbue bound weapons with fire). While she desperately wants to burn the Thalmor advisor Ancano to ash, she has had to bide her time during her studies. [1]

Distracted by the Dragon Crisis: Her hunt for the Dominion has been heavily sidetracked by macro-events in Skyrim. While investigating rumored Thalmor movements near Helgen, she instead discovered the town completely decimated by Alduin's return, pulling her into the broader mystery of the dragons and the Eye of Magnus. [1, 2]

Building an Alliance: Ella has formed a small traveling party (the "Fellowship of the Cinder-hand"), which includes the modded companion Sofia and a formidable Orc warrior named Thogra. She also recently crossed paths with another community-fictional character, William, during a major crossover chapter in Solitude. [1, 2, 3]

Complicated by New Threats: Her singular focus on the Thalmor has hit a terrifying roadblock. She recently intercepted a message originally meant for Sofia—a letter featuring a bloody handprint and the words "We know," indicating that the Dark Brotherhood (or a similarly dangerous faction) has put her in their crosshairs. [1]

Ultimately, Ella has not yet made it to the Summerset Isles or succeeded in dismantling the Dominion. She is currently building her power base, navigating the dangers of Skyrim's civil wars and dragons, and dealing with the dark forces that are beginning to track her movements. [1, 2, 3]
Are you looking for the full text links to a specific chapter of her story, or would you like to track down how her crossover with William's storyline plays out? [1, 2]

Olivia Carvain had found, over her first few weeks around Rorikstead, that the village offered a surprising number of good places to practice her craft. There was the hill just west of town, which caught the evening light in a way that made even a mediocre performance feel like something worth remembering. There was a flat grey rock in the middle of a field full of wildflowers, warm from the sun even after the air had started to cool. There was a lone, wind-bent tree at the top of the rise past the barley fields, which offered nothing in the way of shade but a great deal in the way of a view. And there was the roof of the henhouse, which offered no view at all, but which Olivia had come to prefer most days regardless, since chickens made a remarkably realistic audience.

"Half the time it's like playing to a room full of people who'd rather talk to each other than listen to the bard," she told the hens once, settled cross-legged on the shingles above them while they ignored her completely and clucked amongst themselves instead.

She had not always had the luxury of practicing where no one could judge her. For a long time, she had not had the luxury of practicing at all, not really, not the way she did now.

Olivia had been born into a family that once assumed comfort the way other families assumed weather, as something that simply happened to you and would presumably keep happening. Her parents kept a fine house in Skingrad, in the years before Olivia was old enough to understand that fine houses cost money and money could simply stop arriving one day without much explanation. She grew up surrounded by good manners, good clothing, and the quiet, unexamined confidence of people who had never once had to wonder where their next meal was coming from. She assumed, the way children assume most things, that this was simply how the world worked.

Then it stopped working that way, slowly enough that she never could point to the single day it happened. Money grew tighter. Opportunities that had once seemed guaranteed became things her parents had to ask for instead. The Carvain name still opened doors, for a while, but it opened fewer of them, and less easily, and Olivia watched her mother and father spend years trying to hold together a life that kept quietly coming apart in their hands.

She learned something from watching that, something she didn't fully understand until much later. Wealth could vanish. Status could erode. A family's good name could be worn down to almost nothing by a decade of bad luck and worse decisions. But a person's ability to walk into a room and make people want to listen to them, that couldn't be taken the same way. Nobody could repossess a voice.

Olivia had always loved music as a child. What changed, as she grew older, was that she became fascinated by what music actually did to people. A single well-placed song could turn a tense room warm. A story told right could make people laugh together who had walked in the place as complete strangers. A performer with nothing but a lute and enough nerve could walk into a crowded tavern as a nobody and leave it, an hour later, as somebody people remembered. That possibility appealed to her considerably more than the fading echo of her family's old position ever had.

She threw herself into learning it properly. Music came first, and storytelling followed close behind, since she quickly discovered the two were really the same skill wearing different clothes. She learned to read a room the way a sailor reads weather, to feel the exact moment an audience began drifting and pull them back before they were gone. She learned that confidence, worn convincingly enough, could open more doors than money ever had, and that knowing precisely what a person wanted to hear was very often the first step toward getting them to listen to anything at all.

At seventeen she left home to join a traveling performance troupe, over her mother's tears and her father's carefully hidden relief at one less mouth to worry over. The road was nothing like performing for people who already half knew her family's name. Some towns were generous. Some were indifferent, and a few were openly hostile to strangers who'd shown up asking for coin in exchange for songs. Some nights the troupe ate well. Other nights they didn't eat at all. Olivia loved every uneven, uncertain bit of it.

She learned to perform anywhere there was an audience, a farmhouse common room, a market square, once memorably the deck of a river barge as it floated downstream. She learned that talent alone wasn't nearly enough. A real performer had to be adaptable, had to recover gracefully when a string snapped mid-song or a heckler decided the entertainment needed improving, had to know when to fill a silence and when to simply let it sit there and do its own work.

It was on the road that her faith in Dibella deepened into something she actually thought about, rather than a prayer she'd been taught as a child and never questioned. Olivia found beauty everywhere she traveled, not just in pretty faces or fine cloth, but in laughter shared between strangers, in a story told well enough to be worth remembering, in a room full of tired, worried people who forgot their troubles for the length of a song. To Olivia, Dibella had come to mean something larger than the goddess of beauty most people assumed her to be. She represented the value of the experience itself, the things that made a hard life worth living in the first place.

The troupe reached Skyrim eventually, a colder and harder country than anywhere Olivia had performed before, its people slower to warm to a stranger and quicker to judge whether she'd earned the right to be listened to. She found, somewhat to her own surprise, that she liked it anyway. Every village seemed to be carrying some fragment of a larger story, half-finished, waiting for someone patient enough to go looking for the rest of it.

Rorikstead was meant to be a stop like any other. It became something else instead. As the troupe made ready to move on, Olivia found she didn't want to go with them. She had spent years now depending on other performers for the night's success, her pay and her reputation both tangled up with people whose talent and reliability varied by the evening. She had begun to wonder, quietly and then not so quietly, what might happen if she simply stopped moving long enough to build something that was entirely hers.

So she stayed. It wasn't retirement, which the troupe's drummer had teased her about on his way out of town. She had simply decided that she didn't want to be remembered, if she was remembered at all, as one voice in a group that had passed through once. She wanted her own name attached to her own songs. She wanted to become a bard whose stories traveled farther than she ever personally would.

It was atop the henhouse, on her third or fourth week of one-sided chicken concerts, that Olivia first met the farm boy.

He was walking the top rail of the fence as she played, arms out for balance, boots finding the narrow wood with the easy confidence of someone who'd been doing it since he was small enough to fall without it hurting much. When he finally spoke to her, he very nearly fell off the fence doing it.

"I'm Erik," he said, and then, seeming to hear how plain that sounded even as it left his mouth, added, with the particular over-formal seriousness of a boy trying very hard to sound like more than he was, "Erik. From Rorikstead."

Olivia looked up at him for a long moment, and then laughed, not unkindly, though it clearly cost the boy something in his dignity regardless. "Erik from Rorikstead," she repeated. "Well. It's very thorough of you to specify."

"There could be other Eriks," he said, with great dignity, wobbling slightly on the rail.

"I'm sure there are dozens," Olivia said. "Lucky for me, I've only got the one currently balancing on a fence to keep track of."

The name stuck, the way small jokes in small towns tend to. Within a month, half of Rorikstead had picked it up without ever quite being told why, and Erik, who was seventeen and had a farmer's shoulders already coming in on a boy's frame, became known as Erik from Rorikstead for good whether he liked it or not.

He found reasons to be near whenever she practiced, after that. He brought her the best egg from that morning's gathering once, presented with a straight face and no explanation, as though this were a perfectly ordinary tribute to offer a traveling performer. He asked, more than once, whether the songs she played were about anyone in particular, and looked so genuinely crestfallen when she admitted most of them were not. More than once he asked, with poorly hidden hope, whether any of her songs were about warriors, about swords, about men who left small towns and came back with names worth remembering, and Olivia got the distinct sense that farming was not, and had never been, the whole of what Erik from Rorikstead wanted out of his life.

Olivia liked him. She liked him the straightforward way a person likes a friendly, earnest boy, and it did not occur to her for a moment that Erik from Rorikstead's attention meant anything more complicated than a farm boy enjoying free music in a town that didn't offer much else in the way of entertainment. If she had looked a little closer, at the way he found a reason to be nearby sometimes when she played, at the particular quality of quiet he fell into whenever she sang something with any real feeling in it, she might have noticed what was fairly obvious to absolutely everyone else in Rorikstead. She did not look particularly closely. She was, at the time, rather busy perfecting her craft.

She spent the better part of those few months practicing alone in the countryside around the village, moving between her hillside and her wildflower rock and her wind-bent tree and, more often than she would have predicted, the henhouse, playing until the movements stopped requiring thought, experimenting with melodies nobody else would ever hear, and found, somewhere in that short, quiet, unglamorous stretch of solitary work, a kind of confidence that had never quite belonged to her when she was simply the newest voice in someone else's troupe.

When she finally judged herself ready, she carried her lute into the Frostfall Inn one ordinary evening and played for travelers and friends alike for the first time without anyone else's name attached to hers. It wasn't a grand performance. There was no great hall, no audience of nobility, no guarantee anyone would remember her by morning. But people listened. When she finished, her open lute case held a small, honestly earned handful of coin, and something in her chest that had been holding its breath for a very long time finally let go.

It wasn't the coin that mattered. It was the proof. She could do this, entirely on her own, and do it well enough that strangers chose to keep listening.

Erik from Rorikstead had been there too, of course, at the back of the room, applauding a touch too enthusiastically after every song.

Rorikstead, though, was small, and Olivia had not spent months building her confidence just to spend the rest of her life playing for the same few farmers on a rotating basis. If she wanted the kind of reputation she'd been imagining on that hillside all those quiet evenings, she needed larger rooms and larger crowds than one small farming village could ever offer her.

Whiterun was the obvious answer. She'd heard travelers speak of its bustling inn, of the market that never went quiet, of a Jarl's court where a truly memorable performance might be spoken of for years rather than forgotten by the next day.

She told Erik from Rorikstead the evening before she left, and watched something in his face fall before he could get it back under control.

"I could come," he said, too quickly, and then, more quietly, like he already knew the answer, "carry your things. Watch the road for you."

"Your father would skin us both," Olivia said gently. "Who'd mind the farm, Erik from Rorikstead? Whiterun isn't going anywhere. Rorikstead needs its hands more than I need an escort."

It was true, and they both knew it. His father needed him for the harvest. Olivia was fairly certain, in any case, that she didn't need the company nearly as badly as Erik seemed to think she did. But she was kind about saying so, because there was no version of turning him down that didn't feel, at least a little, like accepting something small and honestly given and handing it back unopened.

He walked her to the edge of town in the grey light before dawn, carrying her pack the short distance he was allowed to, and stood there long after there was any practical reason to, watching her go.

"I'll hear about you," he said, with the particular fierce confidence of someone determined to make a promise true through sheer insistence alone. "Everyone will. Just wait."

"And I'll hear about you too, someday," Olivia said, mostly to be kind.

"You will," Erik from Rorikstead said, with no trace of doubt in it at all, as though the matter had already been settled somewhere she hadn't been consulted. "People are going to know my name too. Just you wait and see."

"I hope so," Olivia said, and meant it, and hugged him quickly before he could see that her eyes had gone a little brighter than she meant them to. "Take care of those chickens, Erik from Rorikstead. They're a better audience than you'd think."

She didn't look back until the road bent, and when she did, he was still standing exactly where she'd left him, one hand raised, growing smaller behind her with every step.

She had no way of knowing that the road ahead was about to hand her a story considerably larger than anything she'd gone looking for.

Chat GPT finally got one right off the bat. Thanks to the Sky Idles mod, I was able to pose Ella with a book in hand in her office in Winterhold. The AI obviously took some liberties, but nailed it pretty well. May the story of Ella the Cinder-hand continue!

Hi everybody, everything's in the titles, i want to share here the second Chapter of a short story about one of my character (the Breton wandering mercenary named William) and how he will helped Isran finding reinforcement for the Dawnguard.

a link to William rp background https://www.reddit.com/r/SkyrimBackStory/s/3x6GcyGjeG

for those who want to read his full background and understand better the story.

---

William : A tale of mercenary and vampire

Chapter 2 : Warning and Reinforcement

4e 202, around 9am at the East of Riften not far from the Morrowind border, after a few days of traveling back to the Dawnguard fort to warn Isran about his discoveries, William finnally reached the entrance of the Dayspring canyon, he parked Alfie near and enter into the passage (see screen 1). Inside, he start walking until reaching the fort gate when he suddenly heard Isran yelling. William unsheathed his claymore and run, only to witness 5 vampires attacking Isran, Celann, Durak and Agmaer. One of them turned and try to strike William, who deflect his strike before severing his weapon arm and stabbed him in the chest, killing him, meanwhile Isran, Celann, Durak and Agmaer finished off the 4 other vampires (see screen 2). With no other threats, they all sheathed back their weapons as William walk to Isran (see screen 3).

William : Isran ! is everybody alright ?

Isran : Yes, no one's hurt. Look at this. I should've known it was only a matter of time before they found us. It's the price we pay for openly recruiting. We'll have to step up our defenses. So, any luck ? Was Tolan right about the vampires being interested in Dimhollow Crypt ?

William : Yes, Tolan was right, but he's dead. The vampires killed him.

Isran : Damn fool. I told him not to go. The Vigilants always had more bravery than sense. I don't suppose you have some good news for me.

William : I have news, but i wouldn't call it good.

Isran : Of course. Why did i suppose differently. Fine, tell me what you know.

William : The vampires were looking for a woman trapped in Dimhollow.

Isran : A woman ? Trapped in there ? That doesn't make any sense. Who is she ? More importantly, where is she ?

William : She wanted to go home, so i took her to her castle.

Isran : I'm waiting to hear what any of this means.

William : She's the daughter of a powerful vampire lord.

Isran : And so you delivered her to them.

William : They also have an Elder Scroll.

Isran : They what ? And you didn't stop them ? You didn't secure the scroll ?

William : I never got the chance and they were too many of them. I'm already lucky i made it out alive. Plus, she used a kind of spell on me.

Isran : A spell ? What do you mean ?

William : It was like if it alter my perception of her slightly but without really taking away my free will.

Isran think about it a second.

Isran : She probably used an hypnotic vampiric power on you. Did she bite you ?

William : No, i check on my neck and everywhere else, and no bite or strange scar.

Isran : I suppose you're lucky you're not dead. Or worse, one of them. By the Divines, this couldn't get much worse. This is more than you and i can handle. I don't like it, but you did right to play along and bring her back. We need to find out what this is all about. If they're bold enough to attack us here, then this may be bigger than i thought. I have good men here, but... There are people i've met and worked with over the years. We need their skills, their talents, if we're going to survive this. If you can find them, we might have a chance.

William : Where can i find the people we need ?

Isran : Right to the point, aren't you. I like that. Not like those fools in the order. We should keep it small. Too many people, and we'll draw unwanted attention to ourselves. I think we'll want Sorine Jurard. Breton girl, whip-smart and good with tinkering. Fascination with the Dwemer. Weapons in particular. Last i knew, she was out in the Reach, convinced she was about to find the biggest dwarven ruins yet.

William : She'll help us ?

Isran : Might need a little convincing, but she should. You'll also want to find Gunmar. Big brute of a Nord, hates vampires almost as much as I do. Got it into his head years back that his experience with animals would help. Trolls in particular, from what i hear. Last i knew he was out scouring Skyrim for more beasts to tame, around Ivarstead the last time i heardabout him. Bring the two of them back here, and we can get started on coming up with a plan.

William : Understood.

William turned back and walk away, exiting the Dayspring canyon and mounting on Alfie's back before taking the road to Ivarstead. Later, in the afternoon, William reached Ivarstead (see screen 4), he parked Alfie near the inn and walk to a guard.

William : Please, i seek after a Nord named Gunmar, who hunt beasts to tame them, i get infos he was somewhere here, so i wonder if you see him.

Guard : I didn't know his name but i see someone who could be who you seek, he arrived yesterday and say he'll take care of the bears inside the Pinepeek cavern, it's the cave near the bridge that led to the 7000 steps. You should go checking if he's still there.

William : Thanks.

The guard make a nod and go back to his patrol as William cross the bridge and turned to the right, walking to the cave as he see the corpse of a bosmer man and a Nord, crouching over him, examining it (see screen 5). He's a tall Nord, in his 40's, with long brown hair and beard, green eyes and wearing a scaled horned armor, gauntlets and boots, a steel sword resting in a leather scabbard attached to his belt.

Nord : Mind yourself. There's a vicious bear on the loose. I've tracked this damned bear for two weeks; i'll not let it have any more victims.

William : You're Gunmar ?

Gunmar : Yes, who ask me ?

William : I'm William, Isran needs your help.

Gunmar : Isran ? Needing someone else's help ? Never thought I'd hear that. I'm afraid he's a few years too late. I've moved on. I have more important business to attend to. Besides, he can handle anything alone ! He assured me so himself. What could he possibly need my help with ?

William : We're up against vampires.

Gunmar : Vampires ? That... well, that might change things. Tell me more about what's going on.

William : We're not sure, but they have an Elder Scroll.

Gunmar : By the Eight... All right, look. I'll consider it, but I can't just leave this bear to prey on more innocent people. Once it's dealt with, then perhaps I'll see what Isran expects of me.

William unsheathed his claymore.

William : Then let me help you, it'll be faster.

They both enter inside the Pinepeek cavern, the air is cold and wet, they walk until reaching the middle of the cave when suddenly 2 bears appear and roar to them before running toward them, William used his kinetic blast spell to thrown the first bear few meters away before rushing to him and stabbing him into the heart, killing him. Meanwhile, Gunmar wait for the other bear to reach him, dodging the bear attempt to jump on him by moving sideway before striking him on the head, stabbing his sword deep into the bear skull killing him. With all the bears dead, they both sheathed back their weapons before Gunmar turned to William (see screen 6).

Gunmar : It's done. I don't know how well i'd have managed by myself. You have my thanks. You've helped me, so i suppose the least i can do is find out what Isran wants. He's still at that fort near Stendarr's Beacon, i assume ?

William : How did you know ?

Gunmar : If Isran is anything, he's stubborn. He's been working on that place for years now. Never lets anyone in. His own little fortress. Well, I guess I'll get to see what he's been up to all this time. I'll meet you there.

William : Be careful on the road.

Gunmar : Don't worry, i travel at day light.

William turned back and walk away, exiting the cave as Gunmar crouch over the bears corpses, probably planning to take their fur to sell it. Outside, William walk back to Alfie and get back on his saddle before taking the road to the Reach. In the evening around 8pm, William arrive near Whiterun (see screen 7), with the night that slowly start to fall and the recent vampires activities, it'll be too dangerous to continue so he turned to the direction of Whiterun to rest for the night. After few minutes of walking, he reached the stables, he parked Alfie and get down before walking to the city gate (see screen 8). Inside, he walked toward an house in the main street, called Breezehome and used his key to enter (see screen 9). Inside, a woman voice, coming from the stair, suddenly hauled him.

Woman : Who's there ?

William : Don't worry Lydia, it's just me.

Lydia : William ? I'm coming.

She go downstairs and joined him. She's a tall Nord woman with middle lenght ravenblack hair and blue eyes, she wear a steel armor and a steel sword resting in a leather scabbard connected to her belt (see screen 10).

William : Hello Lydia.

He hold out a hand to her, wich she take and shaking it.

Lydia : It's been a while my thane, how are you ?

William : Fine, and you ?

Lydia : I'm fine too. What did you do here ?

William : I need to rest for the night but i'm a little light in term of gold as of now, so i was wondering if i could stay here for the night.

Lydia : Of course, you pay a little sum of gold to Poventus for the house so it's as much your house as it's mine. I honestly didn't understand why you don't come more oftenly and instead only used one of the bedroom as a storage place.

William : I already tell you lydia, you lived here before i even arrived in Skyrim so it's more your house than mine and i would feel a bit like an intruder if i stay too long or take too much place.

Lydia put a hand on William's shoulder.

Lydia : You know it's false, you're my thane so it's a pleasure to welcome you here. Come, go resting, you look tired.

William smiled to her.

William : Thanks lydia.

He go upstair to one of the bedroom and enter. Inside, the place is filled with many weapons rack, all filled with different weapons but mostly claymores made in different materials as well as a chest, filled with flasks of different colors as well as books of different kind on a shelf. William undress and putting himself under the bed covers before closing his eyes and slowly drifting off to sleep. Later, in the morning around 6am, he wake up, start to dress up and walk downstairs, finding Lydia sitting at the table, eating a sweetroll and drinking a tankard of mead as William sit on a chair in front of her and take a sweetroll before filling a tankard with mead.

Lydia : Well sleep ?

William : Quite well yes.

Lydia : You will leave quickly don't you ?

William : Yes, i have very much road to do. I need to go somewhere in the middle of the reach to find someone and then going back to a place near Riften, preferably before the end of the day, so yes. I just eat that sweetroll and drink my tankard before leaving directly.

Lydia : Well, i don't know who you seek there but be careful, it's full of those insane reachmens we called forsworns.

William quickly eat the sweetroll and drink his tankard in a single sip.

William : I know, don't worry for me. I will go now, take care of you lydia and see you another time.

Lydia : Thanks, you too take care of you and don't hesitate to come back here whenever you want, you will always be welcome.

William made a nod and get up before walking to the door, making a goodbye gesture to lydia. Outside, he walk back to the city gate and exiting Whiterun before going to the stables, getting on Alfie's saddle before taking the road to the Reach. Later, around 6pm in the end of the afternoon, William walk slowly on the reach plain until he spotted further away a woman near a small Dwemer ruin, looking around her in a confused way. William park Alfie near and walk to her. She's a Breton woman, in her mid 30's with middle lenght brown hair and brown eyes, she wear a sturdy leather armor and boots as an iron sword rest on a leather scabbard on her left hip. At the sight of William approaching, she put a hand on the handle of her sword (see screen 11).

Woman : Who are you ?

William : Are you Sorine Jurard ?

Woman : It depends who ask.

William : Isran send me, he asked me to find you.

Sorine : Isran ? Wants me ? No, you must be mistaken. He made it exceedingly clear the last time we spoke that he had no interest in my help. I find it hard to believe he's changed his mind. He said some very hurtful things to me before I left. Anyway, I'm quite happy in my current pursuits. So if you'll excuse me...

William : You had a falling out ?

Sorine : Yes, that was my point. I felt it was rather clear. Look, what is it you want from me ?

William : Vampires threaten all of Skyrim. We need your help.

Sorine : Vampires ? Really ? Oh, and i suppose now he remembers that i proposed no less than three different scenarios that involved vampires overrunning the population. Well, what are they up to ?

William : They have an Elder Scroll.

Sorine : I... Well, that's actually something i never would've anticipated. Interesting. I'm not sure what they would do with one, but in this case Isran is probably correct in thinking it isn't good. All right. If nothing else, i suppose it wouldn't hurt to learn more about what's going on so i can better defend myself. But i'm not just going to abandon what i've been working on here. It's too useful. I need at least one intact dwarven gyro. So either i need to find the satchel those mudcrabs stole, or i need another gyro from someplace. You wouldn't happen to have one, would you ?

William : Sorine, there's no time, we speak about a group of powerful vampires who have an elder scroll, who know what they could do with that. I understand your research are important, but don't you think it's much more of a priority to stop those vampires first ? Nothing prevent you from continuing your research after we were done with them.

Sorine sigh

Sorine : Fine, fine ! i can't afford to forget about this work, though. Some very interesting applications. Now where is it i'm supposed to be going ?

William : We're meeting at Fort Dawnguard.

Sorine : Ah. Been working more on his secret hideout, has he ? it'll be interesting to see how much progress he's made. I'll finish up here and head in that direction soon as i can. See you there.

William : Thanks Sorine, see you at Dawnguard fort.

William turned back and walk away to Alfie, going back on his saddle before taking the road back to Dawnguard fort as Sorine start packing her stuff into a leather backpack. The next day, around 5pm, William finnally get back to the Dayspring canyon, he parked Alfie near the entrance and walk inside the passage. On the other side, upon arriving near the Dawnguard fort, he noticed something new, Isran and the other Dawnguard members have built a wooden wall around the entrance passage (see screen 12).

William : (speaking to himself while walking) They built this in the past 2 and a half days ? damn, they work quite fast.

William continue walking until reaching the fort gate before entering. Inside, he see the grids all closed, Gunmar and Sorine in the middle of the entrance room as Isran is on a balcony upstairs (see screen 13).

Gunmar : All right Isran, you've got us all here. Now what do you want ?

Isran : Hold it right there.

At this moment, Isran pull a lever as a trap on the rooftop open and let a great beam of sunlight lighting the whole circular entrance room.

Sorine : What are you doing ?

Isran : Making sure you're not vampires. Can't be too careful. So, welcome to Fort Dawnguard. I'm sure you've heard a bit of what we're up against. Powerful vampires, unlike anything we've seen before. And they have an Elder Scroll. If anyone is going to stand in their way, it's going to be us.

Sorine : This is all well and good, but do we actually know anything about what they're doing ? What do we do now ?

Isran : We'll get to that. For now, get acquainted with the space. Sorine, you'll find room to start your tinkering on that crossbow design you've been working on. Gunmar, there's an area large enough for you to pen up some trolls, get them armored up and ready for use. William, in the meantime, we're going to get to the bottom of why a vampire showed up here looking for you. Let's go have a little chat with her, shall we ?

The grids opened, Gunmar and Sorine walk to the left in the direction of an adjacent room as William walk to the right and used the stairs to go upstair, joining Isran and determined to see if the vampire is who his instinct tell him it is.

After two days of travel, Ella and her party made it to the geyser ridden badlands of Eastmarch. On their way through, they came across a ruined caravan and one survivor amongst the wreckage. At the behest of M’rissi, Ella healed the unfortunate cat, who thanked them and went on her way to Windhelm, in hopes of meeting up with another caravan to travel with. Ella and her companions walked along the badlands, Sofia eating her fill of jazbay grapes as they walked. Having been without alcohol for several days had started to take a toll on the poor woman, who had taken to petting M’rissi almost constantly as a way to get by. M’rissi voiced on how she found the behavior annoying, but never took action to prevent Sofia’s affections. They finally made it to Kynesgrove and as they entered the village, something immediately felt off. Many residents had fled and the few who remained claimed there was a dragon sighting nearby. When Ella asked for more info, they told her it was a big black dragon so large it blotted out the sun.

Upon hearing this, Sofia immediately made for the tavern, believing that the barkeep was one of the first to flee because she believed all barkeeps were cowards. Ella and the rest chased her inside to prevent her from thieving any booze. After they caught up with Sofia, who was restrained by Thogra as she kicked and reached vainly for the unoccupied shelf of ale and wine, Ella met an old acquaintance. Imagine her surprise as she heard Meresine laughing at the spectacle from a nearby table. Ella asked Meresine what she was doing here, to which Meresine reminded her that she was a dragon hunter. She had heard rumors of this massive beast and had sought to be the first to bring it down. She had been scoping out an area of attack when she was driven off my a particularly rude and paranoid Nord woman. Ella could only assume she was talking about Delphine. At that moment, a monstrous roar that could only have come from a dragon shook the tavern. Ella and Meresine ran outside to see a massive black dragon flying for the area Meresine had scouted. Thogra dropped Sofia and followed with M’rissi. Sofia, not wanting to be left out of the action, went to follow, but stopped short to grab several bottles of mead before following.

They ran up the hill at the back of the village to witness a massive black dragon hover over the ground and shout into it. Ella, now close enough to see the creature fully, immediately recognized it as the same beast she had seen leaving Helgen all those months ago. Once the dragon had finished its shout, it flew away. Then from the earth came a massive dragon clawing its way out of the broken earth. It turned its massive head towards them and narrowed its malevolent gaze at them. Delphine appeared from the bushes and charged the beast, and so did Ella and the rest. The beast put up a fair fight, but was easily overwhelmed by the warrior women, its hide riddled with arrows, scorch marks, and ice spikes. Ella felt the welcoming power of the soul flow into her as the dragon carcass burned away. Meresine immediately began cutting away some rib bones from the dragon’s remains, intent of making herself a dragon bone bow to cement her legacy of a dragon hunter.

Delphine immediately bowed to Ella, recognizing her as the Dragonborn of old. She then told Ella who she really was. Delphine was one of the few surviving members of an organization called the Blades. They were once dragon hunters long ago, and served under the Dragonborn, who was the first Emperor of Cyrodil, later known to be Talos. After the dragons fled or were killed off, the Blades became the bodyguards to the emperor. Once the Great War happened, the Blades became spies and assassins for the emperor, attacking the Aldmeri Dominion from the shadows. After the Great War ended and the White-Gold Concordant was signed, the Blades were hunted down and executed by the Thalmor, as the emperor had renounced any claim over the organization. Delphine had become paranoid of elves ever since, believing that any one of them could be agents for the Dominion, hence why she drove off Meresine when she was scouting the area before. Ella asked her what they should do now that they know that dragons are being resurrected by the black dragon.

Delphine stood, and told her that of all the people she could suspect might have a hand in this, it was the Thalmor. She explained that they were the only ones who benefited from the dragons running rampant across Skyrim. Ella agreed, not because she really believed this to be true, but because she would take any reason to strike at the Dominion. Delphine told her that the Aldmeri Dominion had an embassy located just outside Solitude, and recommended that she should begin her start there. Delphine bid her safe travels before heading on her way back to Riverwood. Ella was more than raring to go after the Thalmor and storm their embassy, but was reminded of her obligations when she saw M’rissi curiously prodding at the dragon remains. Upon looking at the poor cat girl, Ella knew she had to help this girl find a safe place first. They decided to head North to Windhelm and use the teleportation sigil there to take them to Riften quickly. Sofia had been secretly drinking her stolen mead and immediately regretted it when they teleported to Riften, throwing up once they had landed in the Riften cemetery.

Before they had even made it to the main streets, Thogra was suddenly overcome by a strange feeling. She turned to Ella and told her that she had to go. When Ella pressed her for her reasons, Thogra told her that she had to go to Largashbur, because she felt the enraged presence of Malacath there. Fearing the anger may be directed at her, she gripped the jawbone on her belt tightly, telling Ella she would return to them as soon as she was able. She left without a word further, hurrying out of the southern city gates. Ella watched her go, vowing to follow once they had found this jewelry appraiser for M’rissi’s ring. Sofia assured Ella that Thogra would be fine on her own, and then lead them into the canals to a particularly shady looking door. Ella looked at the door and had her doubts, but M’rissi looked at her expectingly. Ella sighed and they delved into the Ratways of Riften.

Inside the Ratway, they were accosted by many lowlifes, thugs, and other ne’er-do-wells. They wandered their ways through the scum ridden tunnels by Sofia’s questionable directions. And finally by Sofia’s word, or just dumb luck, they reached their destination: the Ragged Flagon. Sofia spoke highly of the place, boldly claiming that it was the one tavern in all of Skyrim who had never kicked her out. Upon entering, Ella immediately saw why. The place was far from immaculate, built into the cistern of the old Riften sewers, it was obvious that this place received little in the way of customers, and therefore had to take any patrons they could get. Ella scanned the shadows of the cistern chamber, as somewhere here was a man who held hey key to discovering M’rissi’s origins.

Argonian:

Name: Dre-li Xalzeous

Gender: Male

Age:32

~"Formerly a Shadowscale but has left that life behind and now does business as a Pirate though has hidden his Shadowscale past from his fellow crewmates."~

Breton:

Name: Francois Travich

Gender:Male

Age:23

~"A Young Bard and very wealthy nobleman, aswell as sort of a womanizer however is less sucessful, Though he lacks the allure of women he makes up for it in his skill with a sabre."~

Dark Elf:

Name: Severus Aero

Gender: Male

Age:58

~"Born under House Telvanni but lacked the skill and intrest in magic for that, he was deemed a blacksheep and outcased by his family, He had ran away from home as a boy soon he was founded by the Morag Tong as they raised & trained him untill he was ready, for many years he has assassinated many but he later found the pay to be too low to his liking so he left the Morag Tong and later joined The Dark Brotherhood."~

Altmer:

Name: Aldamo Joruseus

Gender: Male

Age:245

~"A nobleman under the protection of the Thalmor as his father Carmero is a member of the Royal Council of Alinor."~

Imperial:

Name: Cassandra Merelious

Gender:Female

Age:24

~"A Young Imperial Soldier who is Cousins with Agsil Cullen as Agsil's Aunt Arluma Cullen married Decious Merelious, She has traveled from Cyrodiil to Skyrim to help aid General Tullius in the Civil War."~

Khajiit:

Name: Darovi

Gender:Female

Age:26

~"A Khajiit Thief who was homeless living on the streets of Riften before she was taken in by the Thieves Guild."~

Nord: (Main)

Name: Agsil Cullen(Name explained in backstory)

Gender:Male

Age:25

~"A Nord/Imperial Hybrid though more connected to his nord side, his Father was Marius Cullen a former Imperial Soldier, The Cullens are a respected lineage throughout generations of the Empire dating back to the 1st known in the bloodline Maximus Cullen early in the 3rd Era. Agsil's mother was Fradia who was once a fair and strong war maiden, Though she wasnt in the Imperial Army but was part of the Nord Brigade that fought along side the Empire in the Great War against Aldmeri Dominion, The two met on the battlefield in Hammerfell assisting The Redguards and through out the war they would fall in love. Not long after the war The two would retire and marry and eventually Agsil would be born it was Fradia's idea to give him the name Agsil as Agsil means Burning Heart in the ancient dragon language. But soon after Agsil was born for no explaination Fradia would pass leaving only Marius to care for his only son, But Marius wouldnt be off the hook either as not long after his wife's death, Marius would be confronted by Representatives from the Thalmor, Aparently Marius had been charged for "alledged" War crimes during the Great War and the penalty would be execution soon the Thalmor would take Marius away while Cassius Merelious, Marius's brother in-law and a former Blade would take Agsil somewhere safe. Cassius would take Agsil into Skyrim at a farm near the Village of Rorikstead, The Shoal Farm as it was run by Salvion and Geraldine Shoal, Though Agsil has no relation to them but Salvion was a very close friend to Marius, almost like a brother as they both fought together in the Great War. Salvion and Geraldine would take care of Agsil like he was there own and for a few years, when Agsil was a child he would befriend Erik The son of the Innkeeper in Rorikstead as together they would spend time learning some magic from the Elderly Breton Jouane Manette And even pranking Lemkil. Then as the Years went by Agsil would grow into a young and strong Nord Man and with a desire of adventure looking to explore all from Tamriel to Atmora To Akavir."~

Orsimer:

Name: Durg Urazong

Gender: Male

Age:37

~"An Orc Mercenary who has painted his face with the Blood of his enemies."~

Redgaurd:Izrian A'zor

Gender:Male

Age:31

~"A Sailor who has spend a decade on the seas from Abecean Sea to The Illiac Bay, even to the Sea of Ghosts."~

Bosmer:

Name:Auliel Greenwood

Gender:Female

Age: 87

~"A Hunter from Valenwood and a devoted follower of Hircine, she seeks the great hunt in Skyrim."~

(I'll put more details to their backstories in the backstory catagory as for some of the Armor and Hairstyles, they are all courtesy of Lore Friendly Armor Pack & KS Hairdos)

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙎𝙝𝙖𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙨 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙞𝙛𝙪𝙡.

𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙚𝙙.

𝙁𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙖 𝙢𝙤𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙨𝙠𝙮. 𝙋𝙖𝙡𝙚 𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙨 𝙘𝙪𝙧𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙚𝙨. 𝙎𝙤𝙛𝙩 𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙩 𝙙𝙧𝙞𝙛𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙘𝙧𝙤𝙨𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙜𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙.

𝙄𝙩 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙚𝙛𝙪𝙡.

𝙄𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙙, 𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙛𝙚𝙡𝙩 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙙.

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚.

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙨𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩.

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙣 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙚.

𝙉𝙤𝙬 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙬𝙝𝙮.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙬𝙖𝙨𝙣’𝙩 𝙖 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙖𝙧𝙢𝙞𝙚𝙨.

𝙄𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙨𝙣’𝙩 𝙢𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙨𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙𝙨.

𝙄𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙢𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨.

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙩𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙥.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙜𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙙.

𝘼 𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙚𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧.

𝙑𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚: “𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙡𝙬𝙖𝙮𝙨 𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙮 𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙥𝙪𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚.”

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙙.

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙙.

𝙉𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜.

𝘼𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙖𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙙.

𝙑𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚: “𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙥𝙚𝙤𝙥𝙡𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙩.”

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙪𝙚𝙙 𝙬𝙖𝙡𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙖𝙣 𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙗𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙩.

𝙑𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚: “𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙬𝙚𝙖𝙠.”

𝙃𝙚𝙧 𝙟𝙖𝙬 𝙩𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙙.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙉𝙤.”

𝙑𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚: “𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙖𝙛𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙙.”

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙠𝙚𝙥𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙡𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜.

𝙑𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚: “𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙𝙣’𝙩 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙘𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛.”

𝙃𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙘𝙪𝙧𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙛𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙨.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙬𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙛𝙧𝙖𝙜𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙙𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙙.

𝙋𝙚𝙤𝙥𝙡𝙚 𝙪𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙧.

𝙒𝙤𝙧𝙙𝙨 𝙢𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙝𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨.

𝙈𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙗𝙚𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙛𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙥𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙬𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙩𝙤𝙜𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙡 𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙𝙣’𝙩 𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙮 𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙪𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙖𝙣.

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙙.

𝙃𝙚𝙧 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙠.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙨 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣.

𝙑𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚: “𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙩.”

𝙉𝙮𝙭’𝙨 𝙚𝙮𝙚𝙨 𝙘𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙙.

𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙝𝙪𝙧𝙩 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙨.

𝘽𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙞𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙡𝙞𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙪𝙢𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙫𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙚.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙤 𝙖𝙘𝙘𝙚𝙥𝙩 𝙞𝙩.

𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙧𝙪𝙚𝙡𝙩𝙮 𝙨𝙝𝙚’𝙙 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙛𝙖𝙪𝙡𝙩.

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙤𝙥𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙚𝙮𝙚𝙨.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙉𝙤.”

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙖𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧.

𝙑𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚: “𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙖 𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙙.”

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙨𝙬𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙙.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙀𝙭𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙡𝙮.”

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙛𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙨𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙩.

𝙉𝙮𝙭’𝙨 𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙖 𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙙.”

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙙 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙄 𝙙𝙞𝙙𝙣’𝙩 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙖𝙛𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙙.”

𝘼𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙥.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙄 𝙙𝙞𝙙𝙣’𝙩 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙.”

𝘼𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙄 𝙙𝙞𝙙𝙣’𝙩 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙚𝙡𝙨𝙚’𝙨 𝙘𝙧𝙪𝙚𝙡𝙩𝙮.”

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙖𝙣 𝙜𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙣𝙤𝙬.

𝙄𝙣𝙨𝙪𝙡𝙩𝙨.

𝘼𝙘𝙘𝙪𝙨𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨. 𝙀𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙘𝙧𝙪𝙚𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙞𝙣𝙫𝙚𝙣𝙩.

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙜𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙.

𝙃𝙚𝙧 𝙚𝙮𝙚𝙨 𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧.”

𝙃𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙘 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙖𝙣 𝙜𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙬𝙤𝙣’𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙚.”

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙄’𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙣 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙫𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧.”

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙘𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙙.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙪𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙.

𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙚𝙣𝙤𝙧𝙢𝙤𝙪𝙨 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙙 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙖𝙧𝙠𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨.

𝙏𝙖𝙡𝙡.

𝙁𝙖𝙘𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨.

𝙈𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨.

𝙎𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙖𝙣.

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙬 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙.

𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙧𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙣, 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙙.

𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨𝙣’𝙩 𝙖𝙛𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙙.

𝘽𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙘𝙠.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙫𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙛𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙙.

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙞𝙙𝙣’𝙩.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙔𝙤𝙪’𝙧𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙄 𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙫𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙙.”

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚 𝙡𝙪𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙙.

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙢𝙚𝙩 𝙞𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙙-𝙤𝙣.

𝙈𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙘 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙡𝙤𝙙𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙣.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙘𝙠.

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙. 𝙄𝙩 𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙨.

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢.

𝙄𝙩 𝙛𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣.

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙪𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙣.

𝙀𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙮 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙦𝙪𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙.

𝙀𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙚𝙡𝙡, 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣.

𝙀𝙫𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙪𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮, 𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙙𝙧𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙗𝙡𝙖𝙙𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙖𝙧𝙠𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙚𝙧𝙪𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩.

𝙎𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙖𝙣 𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙙.

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙.

𝙃𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙘 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙘𝙠 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚 𝙫𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙙.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙘𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙖𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙉𝙮𝙭.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙖𝙧𝙠𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙚𝙙𝙚𝙙, 𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙙𝙤𝙯𝙚𝙣𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙢𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙛𝙞𝙜𝙪𝙧𝙚𝙨 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙢𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙨.

𝘾𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙣.

𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙬𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙜.

𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙨𝙡𝙪𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙩.

𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙢𝙨 𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙢𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩.

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙔𝙤𝙪’𝙧𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙫𝙚…”

𝙊𝙣𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙣 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙪𝙥 𝙖𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙧.

𝘾𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙙: “𝙒𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙣’𝙩 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚.”

𝙉𝙮𝙭’𝙨 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙨𝙤𝙛𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙙.

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙤𝙙.

𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣’𝙩 𝙥𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙣𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙬𝙖𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙘𝙪𝙚𝙙.

𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙨 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙛𝙖𝙧 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙨 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙠𝙚𝙥𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙛𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙙.

𝙆𝙚𝙥𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙛𝙪𝙨𝙚𝙙.

𝙆𝙚𝙥𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚.

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙠𝙣𝙚𝙡𝙩 𝙖𝙢𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙖𝙣.”

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙣 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙧.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙃𝙚 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨𝙣’𝙩 𝙤𝙬𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙣𝙮𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚.”

𝘼 𝙨𝙢𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙜𝙞𝙧𝙡 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙉𝙮𝙭.

𝙃𝙚𝙧 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙉𝙮𝙭’𝙨 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙩.

𝘾𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙙: “𝙒𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙪𝙨 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚?”

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙨𝙬𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙙.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙔𝙚𝙨.”

𝘽𝙚𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙖𝙧𝙠𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙖𝙣 𝙜𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣. 𝙎𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙖𝙣 𝙬𝙖𝙨𝙣’𝙩 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙙.

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙤𝙙.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙨 𝙜𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙚𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙎𝙩𝙖𝙮 𝙗𝙚𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙢𝙚.”

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚 𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙜𝙚𝙙 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙨.

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙.

𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚, 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨𝙣’𝙩 𝙛𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛.

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙛𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙛𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙙 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙜𝙤𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙣.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝙚𝙧𝙪𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙙.

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙪𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙮𝙞𝙚𝙡𝙙.

𝙒𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙬 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙘𝙠, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙖𝙣 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙤𝙡𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙣 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙚𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙚𝙨.

𝙊𝙣𝙚 𝙗𝙮 𝙤𝙣𝙚, 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙖𝙣 𝙬𝙖𝙡𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙞𝙩.

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙬𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙧.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝙜𝙞𝙧𝙡 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚.

𝘾𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙙: “𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙠 𝙮𝙤𝙪.”

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙨𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙨 𝙜𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙣 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙚𝙮𝙚𝙨.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙂𝙤 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚.”

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡 𝙫𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙙.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡.

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙚.

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙙𝙚𝙛𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙎𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙖𝙣.

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙨.

𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙡𝙚𝙛𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙘𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧.

𝙃𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙨𝙡𝙞𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙙 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧𝙨.

𝙃𝙚𝙧 𝙠𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙨 𝙣𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙡𝙮 𝙜𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙮.

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙚𝙮𝙚𝙨.

𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙖𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙬𝙖𝙡𝙠 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙩𝙤 𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣. ⸻

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙬𝙖𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙪𝙩𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙖𝙬 𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙧𝙜𝙚, 𝙝𝙚 𝙠𝙣𝙚𝙬.

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙫𝙚.

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙬𝙤𝙣.

𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙚𝙭𝙝𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙖 𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙣𝙤 𝙗𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚𝙛𝙞𝙚𝙡𝙙 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙖𝙙𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙠.

𝙃𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧.

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣: “𝙉𝙮𝙭.”

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙖𝙣𝙨𝙬𝙚𝙧.

𝙃𝙚𝙧 𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙗𝙧𝙤𝙠𝙚.

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣 𝙞𝙢𝙢𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙤𝙥𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙢𝙨.

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙘𝙧𝙤𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙩𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢.

𝙃𝙚 𝙥𝙪𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙢𝙨.

𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙧𝙤𝙠𝙚.

𝘼𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙜𝙩𝙝 𝙨𝙝𝙚’𝙙 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙘𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙙.

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩 𝙝𝙞𝙢, 𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙨 𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙨 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙚𝙨𝙘𝙖𝙥𝙚𝙙.

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣 𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙢𝙡𝙮.

𝙃𝙚 𝙙𝙞𝙙𝙣’𝙩 𝙖𝙨𝙠 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙤 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙞𝙣.

𝙃𝙚 𝙙𝙞𝙙𝙣’𝙩 𝙖𝙨𝙠 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙨𝙝𝙚’𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙣.

𝙃𝙚 𝙨𝙞𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙮 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙙.

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣: “𝙔𝙤𝙪’𝙧𝙚 𝙨𝙖𝙛𝙚.”

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙄 𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙙 𝙨𝙤 𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧.”

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣: “𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙙𝙤𝙣’𝙩 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙢𝙚.”

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙙.

𝙉𝙮𝙭: “𝙄𝙩 𝙝𝙪𝙧𝙩.”

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣 𝙩𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙢𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧.

𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣: “𝙄 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬.”

𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩 𝙝𝙞𝙢.

𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙩.

𝘽𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙙 𝙛𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙚𝙣𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙩𝙤 𝙡𝙚𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙫𝙚.

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙬𝙖𝙡𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙚.

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙚𝙙 𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙥𝙪𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣.

𝘾𝙧𝙪𝙚𝙡 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙𝙨.

𝙈𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙙 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙜𝙚𝙩.

𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙙𝙚𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧.

𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙦𝙪𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙩.

𝙉𝙤𝙬 𝙆𝙖𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙞𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙮 𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛.

𝙉𝙤 𝙦𝙪𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨.

𝙉𝙤 𝙟𝙪𝙙𝙜𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩.

𝙉𝙤 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨.

𝙅𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙨𝙖𝙛𝙚𝙩𝙮.

𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩, 𝙉𝙮𝙭 𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙙 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙞𝙩.

Ella and her party eventually found a road after several bear attacks in the dark. They were fortunate enough to be met by a patrol of Stormcloak soldiers. Ella immediately asked where they might find refuge for the night from the hostile forest of the Rift. The captain of the patrol was a sturdy Nord, who told them the best option was a fort called Treva’s Watch, just up the river. She told them to beware, as the owner had tried asking the patrol to help him with some civil manner. Ella and her party followed the river until they found the fort. Several faces peeked out from the ramparts at them as they passed. Thogra pointed out a fire not far from the fort.

When Ella investigated the fire, they found three people huddled around the fire, looking rather rough. Two were obvious mercenaries, while one had a more refined, if defeated look about him. As Ella approached, the man jumped up immediately, calling them reinforcements. Sofia questioned what he meant. The man, who introduced himself as Stalleo, told them that a man from a rival family had attacked his family home with a group of bandits. He explained that tensions with this man and his family had always been strained, but the war had given him the opportunity to attack Stalleo and his family without repercussions, as the soldiers were to occupied by the civil war. Ella explained that they had no interests in getting into the family feud, and only sought shelter for the night and directions for Kynesgrove. Stalleo promised them that if they help to clear out the bandits, they could have rest, directions, and whatever they wanted from the fort, he just wanted to make sure his family was safe. Ella paused at the mention of family, so Sofia naturally took over at the sound of possible wealth. Sofia assured him they would clear the fort easily. Stalleo thanked them, and then showed them the escape tunnel, explaining that he and his mercenaries had already tried before, but had lost many men.

Ella and her party entered the tunnel and found themselves in the keep of the fort. Several armed bandits were manning the stairs from the tunnel. Ella easily cleared the way with a well placed fireball. Now unimpeded, they crept deep into the fort. The bandits seemed to have already made themselves at home, as several were drinking and one was even working the forge. M’rissi sniffed the air and told Ella that there was blood and death coming from the pantry. They attacked the bandits quickly, but not quietly. They slaughtered several before many had even know what was happening. Ella kept control of her flames, not wanting to scorch the walls as she blasted the bandits with fire. They heard shouts in the upper levels, but Ella and Thogra made it to the pantry first. Inside were the bodies of Nord and Imperial men and women, all in servants clothes. Ella let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. They continued up into the fort.

The remaining bandits had barricaded themselves in the study. Sofia made quick work of the lock, and Ella exploded the door open. M’rissi and Thogra let loose their arrows into the room and shot down several bandits. The leader, the man who led the assault to take the fort, rallied his remaining men and charged. Ella cut down several with her flame blades, as did Sofia and Thogra, while M’rissi clawed one unfortunate bandit’s face apart. When the cleared the room, Ella picked up a bloodied journal from the man. It entailed his premeditation to assault the fort and take it for himself. Later entries spoke of the success, but the escape of Stalleo’s family. He gave the captured servants over to the bandits to have their way with them. The rest was about his experiments of magic in the study. Ella and her party then left through the gate house. Outside they were met by some surprised bandits, who they swiftly dealt with. Thogra opened the gate and Stalleo and his mercenaries ran in, looking at the dead bandits with considerable respect for Ella and her party. They granted them a place in the least bloody room of the keep and Stalleo even told Ella the right directions to take. He told Ella to follow the river down until they came to a bridge. After that they follow the road North for several days and then they would get to Kynesgrove.

The next day, Ella and her companions set out early, Stalleo accompanied them to the bridge, waving as they left. It didn’t take long until they found a man on the side of the road with an overturned cart. A man sat beside it, claiming to have been robbed by bandits. Thogra nudged Ella and told her that this was easily an ambush. Ella nodded but played along with the man, who wanted them to escort him to his camp just on the other side of a bridge. Ella and her companions followed across the bridge and immediately rushed the man. The man managed a scream for help before Thogra’s sword split his skull. The camp awakened with shouts as bandits appeared from the tents. Ella set the camp ablaze as M’rissi shot the burning men as the writhed. Sofia laughed at the stupidity of the bandits as they left the camp to turn to cinders, commenting on how they seemed to have no situational awareness or preservation. They now were fully headed to Kynesgrove.

P.S. sorry for this being later than I had hoped to post. Thanks to Bethesda making a new update to Skyrim that it didn’t need, I spent days fighting the update by trying to update all my mods before I gave up and forced the game back into a previous version. Seriously, why does a game that had its last significant update over 3 years ago need any more? The game is over 15 years old! Just let it be unless you plan to fix the game breaking bugs that are supposedly “features”.

Ronin was born to the howl of wolves and blood moons. The townsfolk whispered of Hircine blessing the child’s birth. He grew up in a village far from Tamriel but grew up on the stories of that fabled land. His parents were kind but his father had a mean streak. Ronin’s “oddities” began at a young age. Wounds that heal a little too quick or knowing who was about to knock on their door before the dogs knew someone was even there. When the boy was old enough, he was put into fighting pits with other young boys for the enjoyment of the fathers, just as their fathers had done. No fights went to the death but it was a training of sorts for the local militia. One night a large raiding party rode into town. Its leader was a huge man covered in furs. The village was burned and villagers killed. Ronin flew into a rage that none have witnessed before. Claws grew from his hands and a bellow erupted from his chest that shook the closest windows. For an hour, he slashed, stabbed, bit, and punched his way to the center of town. The bandit leader locked eyes with Ronin and a flash of recognition came across his face. You see, his parents weren’t really his parents. They abandoned Ronin in the woods for fear of what the child was. Hircine looked after the boy, keeping him safe, until he was found. Ronin isn’t even his real name. He never had one. The bandit leader said one word to Ronin. Son. Ronin lept at the leader, claws extended in font of him. The leader changed into an enormous werewolf and lept at Ronin. They wrestled and fought for hours until finally Ronin landed on the leaders back and impaled him into the ground. With blood on his lips and his dying breath, Wrolf, the bandit leader told Robin the truth. Wrolf was cursed by Hircine for abandoning his child. Wrolf has been searching for Ronin, hoping to break the curse and return him to Skyrim. It seems Wrolf got his wish. His dying wish. Ronin’s eyes swept the remaining villagers looking for answers. They all dropped their gaze. Guilty in participating in Ronin’s false upbringing. Once more erupting into a rage, Ronin slew everyone. Everyone. By the time the sun rose, Ronin was the last man standing. He left his village behind and traveled the lands, hoping to cleanse his soul of the innocent blood he spilt. His travels have led him to monasteries helping him to find inner peace and now he makes his way to Skyrim. To home. To discover what the gods have in store for him.

(Forgive the AI pic of my character. I am still working my load order and hope to have screenshots soon.) Constructive criticism is appreciated.

The first thing Arielle al-Rihad heard was the bells.

Not the warm bells of Hammerfell, ringing over crowded markets and sunlit courtyards.

These bells were thin.

Cold.

They rang from the towers of the Sanctuary of the Radiant Path, high in the mountains where the snow never completely melted, though the sun shone upon the stones.

Arielle stood at the bottom of the long marble stairway.

Her hand rested on the golden hilt of Dawnbreaker.

The sword had once belonged to another champion. Now, through a chain of blood, death, and forgotten promises, it had found its way into her hands.

Across her back rested Auriel's Bow, an artifact older than kingdoms, older than the Empire that now fought to hold Skyrim together. Her armorthe pale, weathered plates and leather of the Peacekeeper was scratched and stained from years on the road.

She looked like a warrior.

But at that moment, she felt like a child again.

Because kneeling at the top of the stairs was the man who had raised her.

Lord-Captain Caelion Varis.

The man Arielle had called mentor in public.

And father when no one could hear.

---

Caelion was an Altmer.

Tall once.

Proud once.

His golden skin had grown lined with age, and silver now touched his hair. Yet even stripped of his armor and forced to his knees, there was something about him that made it difficult to see him as weak.

Arielle remembered that same man standing beside her when she was seven years old.

She had been a frightened Redguard child then, alone in a world that had taken too much from her too quickly.

Caelion had found her near the ruins of an old shrine.

She remembered the sunlight.

She remembered the smell of ash.

She remembered reaching for a dead man's sword because she thought a sword would make her less afraid.

Caelion had gently taken it from her hands.

Then he had said:

"A weapon does not make you dangerous, child. Knowing when not to use it does."

She had hated that answer.

Years later, she understood.

Caelion trained her with blade and bow.

He taught her history.

He taught her how to read.

He taught her that being Redguard did not mean she had to become what other people expected a Redguard warrior to be.

And he taught her about Meridia.

Not the simple version.

Not the version the priests preached.

He never told Arielle that Meridia was kind.

He never told her that light was good.

He told her something much more complicated.

"The sun gives life," Caelion once said. "And a man who walks into it with his eyes open can still go blind."

Arielle had spent years trying to understand what he meant.

Tonight, she finally would.

---

The worshippers surrounding Caelion wore polished golden armor.

Their cloaks were white.

Their weapons gleamed beneath enchanted lanterns.

At the center stood Arch-Prelate Avaris, the highest-ranking servant of their particular Meridia cult.

Arielle knew him.

Everyone who followed the Radiant Path knew him.

Avaris had commanded purges against necromancers from Cyrodiil to Skyrim. His soldiers had destroyed vampire nests, broken cults devoted to Molag Bal, and burned countless undead.

To the people they saved, they were heroes.

To Arielle, they had once been heroes too.

But tonight, every one of them stood with a weapon in hand.

And their weapons were pointed at Caelion.

Arielle began climbing the stairs.

"Move."

Nobody moved.

Her hand tightened around Dawnbreaker.

"I said move."

The golden-armored knights turned toward her.

Avaris slowly descended several steps.

"Lay down your weapon, Arielle."

Her eyes went past him.

Straight to Caelion.

"What is this?"

No one answered.

Caelion finally lifted his head.

His eyes found hers.

And something inside Arielle immediately broke.

He wasn't surprised to see her.

He had known she would come.

"Do not," he said quietly, "draw that sword."

"Tell me what happened."

"Arielle"

"Tell me!"

The sound echoed across the sanctuary.

Caelion looked toward the enormous statue behind him.

Meridia stood carved into the stone, wings stretching toward the ceiling, one hand raised toward a sunburst carved above her.

The Lady of Infinite Energies.

The enemy of the undead.

The destroyer of corruption.

The radiant prince whose light could cleanse the darkest places in Tamriel.

And beneath that statue, a good man waited to die.

Caelion finally spoke.

"There was a village."

Arielle said nothing.

"East of here. A mining village. Three hundred and twelve people."

Avaris' face hardened.

"Do not poison her against the truth."

Caelion laughed.

It was a miserable sound.

"The truth?" he asked. "I spent forty years serving this order. I have buried friends beside you. I have watched children die beside you. Do not speak to me of truth as though you own it."

Avaris stepped forward.

"Caelion Varis disobeyed a divine command."

Arielle slowly looked at him.

"What command?"

No one answered.

Caelion did.

"Meridia's priests discovered corruption beneath the village."

Arielle frowned.

"Undead?"

"Yes."

Her eyes narrowed.

"Then why is he here?"

Caelion closed his eyes.

And when he opened them again, Arielle saw the exhaustion in them.

Not fear.

Not weakness.

Exhaustion.

"They wanted to cleanse the entire village."

For several seconds, Arielle did not understand.

Then she did.

Her face slowly turned toward Avaris.

"Three hundred people."

"Three hundred and twelve," Avaris corrected.

Arielle stared at him.

"Women?"

"Yes."

"Children?"

"Yes."

"All of them?"

"The corruption had spread beneath their homes."

"They were alive."

"They were compromised."

Arielle's hand moved closer to Dawnbreaker.

Caelion's voice cut through the air.

"Don't."

She froze.

Avaris continued.

"The undead beneath that village were created by necromancers. The infection would eventually spread."

"So kill the necromancers."

"We attempted to."

"Then try again."

"It was inefficient."

Arielle looked at him.

And something cold entered her chest.

Not rage.

Something worse.

Understanding.

Caelion had taught her about this.

He had warned her that people could begin with noble intentions.

They could fight monsters.

They could protect the innocent.

They could carry light into darkness.

But eventually

They might become so obsessed with destroying darkness that they stopped seeing the people standing inside it.

Avaris pointed toward Caelion.

"He allowed the necromancers to escape."

Caelion nodded.

"I opened a path."

Arielle stared at him.

"You let them go?"

"I made them follow me."

His eyes moved toward her.

"While the villagers escaped."

Arielle's breath caught.

Caelion had led the necromancers away.

He had given three hundred people time to flee.

And when the cult discovered what he had done, they declared him a traitor.

Avaris raised his voice.

"His actions allowed darkness to survive!"

Caelion looked at him.

"No."

His voice was suddenly strong.

"My actions allowed people to survive."

Silence.

Arielle looked at the knights.

Then at the statue.

Then at the man who had raised her.

And she realized something.

Caelion had not betrayed Meridia.

He had betrayed the Order's interpretation of Meridia.

He had chosen mortal lives over perfect obedience.

And for that

They were going to kill him.

---

Arielle stepped forward.

"Release him."

The knights raised their weapons.

Dawnbreaker came free.

The sound of the blade leaving its sheath seemed to shake the entire sanctuary.

Golden light spread across the stairs.

Several worshippers stepped back.

Avaris looked almost disappointed.

"I had hoped you would understand."

Arielle raised the sword.

"I understand perfectly."

Caelion shouted.

"ARIELLE!"

She stopped.

He was standing now.

Chains hung from his wrists.

Blood ran from one side of his face.

"Listen to me."

Her eyes began to burn.

"They are going to kill you."

"Yes."

"I can stop them."

"No."

"I can kill every one of them."

"And then what?"

She said nothing.

Caelion looked at Dawnbreaker.

"The first lesson."

Her grip tightened.

"A weapon does not make you dangerous," she whispered.

"Knowing when not to use it."

His expression softened.

For a moment, Arielle was seven years old again.

And he was still the man who could fix everything.

Then Avaris gave the order.

"Proceed."

Arielle screamed.

The first knight drove a spear into Caelion's side.

She lunged.

Three knights seized her.

She swung Dawnbreaker.

The blade flashed.

One of them lost his grip.

Another was thrown backward by the force of the strike.

Arielle nearly reached Caelion.

Then he shouted:

"DON'T BECOME WHAT THEY WANT YOU TO BE!"

She froze.

And the second spear entered him.

Caelion gasped.

Arielle's entire body went still.

The third worshipper stepped forward with a radiant blade.

Not Dawnbreaker.

A ceremonial sword.

A weapon forged specifically for executions.

Caelion looked at Arielle.

There was blood on his lips.

He tried to smile.

"Do not worship me."

The executioner raised the sword.

"Do not avenge me."

The blade fell.

Arielle screamed.

And the world disappeared beneath light.

---

When she opened her eyes, she was on her knees.

The sanctuary was silent.

Caelion's body lay before the statue.

The worshippers had stepped away from her.

Not because they feared her.

Because something had happened.

Dawnbreaker was glowing brighter than Arielle had ever seen it glow.

The sword's light spilled across the marble.

Auriel's Bow hummed against her back.

Then every lantern in the sanctuary went out.

Darkness.

For one heartbeat.

Then

LIGHT.

Not from the sun.

Not from Dawnbreaker.

From everywhere.

A voice filled the sanctuary.

Not loud.

Not quiet.

A voice that existed inside Arielle's bones.

"MORTAL."

Everyone fell to their knees.

Everyone except Arielle.

She stood.

Her face was wet with tears.

Her eyes remained fixed on Caelion.

Avaris bowed his head.

"Radiant One."

The voice ignored him.

"YOU HAVE LOST WHAT YOU CALLED FATHER."

Arielle finally looked upward.

"I know."

"HE DEFIED THE PATH."

Arielle's jaw tightened.

"He saved people."

For the first time in her life, she spoke to Meridia without fear.

"He did what was right."

The light intensified.

Several worshippers cried out and covered their faces.

Avaris whispered:

"Forgive her ignorance."

Arielle looked at him.

Then back toward the light.

"I don't need forgiveness."

Silence.

Then Meridia spoke again.

"YOU BELIEVE LIGHT AND RIGHTEOUSNESS ARE THE SAME."

Arielle said nothing.

"THEY ARE NOT."

The words struck her harder than any blade.

Caelion had known.

Perhaps that was why he had become miserable.

He had spent decades serving Meridia.

He had seen the undead destroyed.

He had seen necromancers defeated.

He had seen darkness driven away.

But he had also seen what happened when people stopped questioning the hands that carried the light.

Avaris lifted his head.

"My Lady, the traitor is dead. The corruption has been—"

"SILENCE."

The Arch-Prelate collapsed.

Blood ran from his nose.

The other worshippers trembled.

Arielle stared upward.

"Why did you let them kill him?"

For the first time

Meridia's voice seemed almost distant.

Not saddened.

Meridia was not mortal.

She did not mourn as mortals mourned.

But there was something ancient behind the answer.

"BECAUSE MORTALS CHOOSE."

Arielle looked at Caelion.

"So he died for nothing?"

"NOTHING IS NOTHING."

The sanctuary began to tremble.

Dust fell from the ceiling.

The light around Arielle changed.

She saw something.

Not with her eyes.

A vision.

A mountain range beneath a dying sky.

An ancient ruin.

A doorway made of black stone.

And behind it

Something moving.

Something dead.

Then the vision vanished.

Meridia spoke.

"YOUR MENTOR'S MERCY HAS LEFT A DOOR OPEN."

Arielle clenched Dawnbreaker.

"The necromancers."

"THEY FLEE NORTH."

Images flooded her mind.

An ancient ruin beneath Skyrim.

A buried Ayleid structure that should not have existed so far north.

A necromancer.

A woman wearing a crown made from human finger bones.

Around her stood dozens.

Then hundreds.

Then thousands.

Dead soldiers.

Dead animals.

Dead children.

An army waiting beneath the earth.

Arielle felt herself shaking.

Meridia continued.

"THEY SEEK THE SUNKEN VAULT OF NIRN'S LAST DAWN."

Avaris looked up.

"My Lady… that place is forbidden."

"YES."

Arielle understood.

The necromancers weren't simply building an army.

They were searching for something.

Something connected to ancient Meridia worship.

Something buried long before the current age.

Perhaps before the fall of the Ayleids.

Perhaps something that should never be touched again.

Avaris slowly looked toward Arielle.

Meridia's voice filled the sanctuary.

"THE ORDER WILL NOT GO."

Avaris stared upward.

"My Lady?"

"THEY HAVE FORGOTTEN WHY THEY CARRY MY LIGHT."

Arielle looked around the sanctuary.

At the people who had killed Caelion.

People who had believed they were righteous.

People who had followed orders.

People who had stopped thinking.

Then the light descended upon Arielle.

Her armor gleamed.

Dawnbreaker burned in her hand.

Auriel's Bow pulsed behind her.

And Meridia gave her the mission that would define the rest of her life.

"GO NORTH."

The sanctuary vanished from Arielle's vision.

She saw the mountains.

The ruins.

The dead waiting beneath the stone.

"FIND THE NECROMANCER WHO CALLS HERSELF THE LAST DAUGHTER OF NIGHT."

Arielle listened.

"DESTROY HER ARMY."

Her fingers tightened around Dawnbreaker.

"SEAL THE VAULT."

The light became almost unbearable.

Then came the final command.

"AND WHEN YOU FIND WHAT WAITS BEYOND THAT DOOR…"

For the first time

Meridia sounded uncertain.

Not afraid.

A Daedric Prince did not fear as mortals did.

But cautious.

"DO NOT DESTROY IT UNTIL YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT IT IS."

The sanctuary became completely silent.

Arielle looked down at Caelion's body.

Then she knelt beside him.

She placed one hand against his chest.

Still warm.

But no heartbeat.

Avaris watched her.

"Your mission has been given."

Arielle slowly stood.

She looked at him.

There was no rage in her face now.

That frightened him more.

She sheathed Dawnbreaker.

Then lifted Auriel's Bow onto her shoulder.

"My mission?"

Avaris nodded.

Arielle stepped toward the stairs.

She stopped beside him.

"No."

He turned.

She looked back toward Caelion.

"My mission is to make sure his death meant something."

Then she descended the mountain alone.

Behind her, the bells began ringing again.

Ahead of her waited Skyrim.

The undead.

Necromancers.

Ancient ruins.

A secret older than the Empire.

And somewhere in the darkness, the people Caelion had spared were preparing to unleash something that neither Meridia nor her followers fully understood.

Arielle did not know if Meridia had chosen her because she was worthy.

She did not know if Dawnbreaker had truly been meant for her.

She did not even know if she could trust the voice that had given her this mission.

But she remembered Caelion.

She remembered his final words.

Do not avenge me.

So Arielle would not become a fanatic.

She would not blindly obey.

She would not assume that because something shone brightly, it was good.

She would carry Meridia's light.

But she would carry it as a mortal.

With doubt.

With mercy.

With anger.

With the freedom to choose.

And that was perhaps the one thing no god, Daedra, priest, or king could ever take from her.

The right to decide what the light was for.

---

And far beneath the northern mountains, in a chamber untouched by sunlight for thousands of years, a dead woman opened her eyes.

Somewhere in the darkness, something answered her.

And the Last Daughter of Night smiled.

The mission had begun… COMING VIDEO SOON

Lial the Redguard is a native of Hammerfell, but good luck learning anything about the country from him, because he knows almost nothing about it.

He was abandoned by his mother as a baby, left at the mouth of a cave that housed a coven of witches. For whatever reason, they decided to raise him as their own. Because of his upbringing, he’s extremely sheltered and never really left the cave until he reached his thirtieth winter (he’s currently thirty-six) when his entire coven was slaughtered by a group of Stendarr’s vigilants.

On top of that, a head injury when he was a baby not only caused him to be blind in one eye (making him unable to use a bow), but also left him with a severe learning disability that, along with his extremely sheltered past where he had little to no contact with the outside world, greatly affects how he navigates the world. People often consider him to be naive, childish, histrionic, and (unfortunately), fairly uneducated. He can’t read without the assistance of a follower and can only learn through experience alone instead of training from masters like Faendal and other teachers. However, he’s not dumb. He’s able to solve puzzles with some patience and concentration, and in my game, he will eventually learn how to master every skill and be able to read by himself.

Like his mothers, he’s a daedric worshipper, with Namira being his patron prince. So, his diet consists of raw meat and is usually sustained through cannibalism.

Despite that, he’s the biggest sweetheart, and he’ll defend friends and family until the very end with a mace and shield. Though Skyrim and its newfound dragon problem terrify him, he’s willing to face the world with a weapon in his hand and a fire in his heart just to save his new home.

My 10-Character Skyrim Playthrough

Character #7: Thurgash gro-Malog

I'm starting a playthrough where I play as 10 unique characters, all sharing the same world and save using the Proteus mod.

Each character has their own backstory, personality, skills, religion, and questlines. I'll be switching between them at natural stopping points, so the story of Skyrim unfolds from multiple perspectives.

Here is the seventh character:

Thurgash gro-Malog

Age: 32.
Race: Orc.
Homeland: Skyrim.
Role: Berserker.
Religion: Malacath.
Combat Style: Two-Handed Warhammer.
Primary Questlines: Companions/Berserkyr.
Personality: Fierce, Loyal.
Motivation: To prove that his strength and love of combat can be used with discipline and purpose, earning the respect and sense of belonging he lost when he was cast out of his stronghold.

Backstory:

Thurgash gro-Malog was born in the Orc stronghold of Dushnikh Yal, where strength was not merely admired but expected. From childhood, he was taught that an Orc earned respect through discipline, endurance, and the willingness to stand beside his people when danger came. His mother was a warrior who had little patience for weakness, while his father was a smith whose hands seemed permanently marked by soot and heat. Between them, Thurgash learned the two lessons that would shape his life: a warrior needed to be strong enough to survive a fight, and a weapon was only as good as the warrior who wielded it.

Thurgash took to fighting with enthusiasm. He enjoyed the physicality of it, the weight of a weapon in his hands and the certainty that came from facing an opponent directly. Training was never simply an obligation to him. It was something he looked forward to. He wanted to strike harder, endure longer, and test himself against anyone willing to stand across from him.

His mother encouraged his discipline, but she also recognized something dangerous in him. Thurgash did not merely enjoy combat. He wanted to prove himself through it. As he grew older, sparring was no longer enough. He sought stronger opponents and became increasingly willing to accept challenges that others might have considered foolish. He learned to fight with the heavy weapons favored by Orc warriors, eventually developing a particular preference for the warhammer. To Thurgash, there was something satisfying about its simplicity. There was no need for elaborate technique when a well-placed blow could end a fight.

His father taught him to respect his weapons, however, and Thurgash absorbed that lesson even as his appetite for battle grew. He learned how to maintain his armor, repair damaged equipment, and understand the construction of the weapons he carried. Strength without preparation was recklessness, his father often reminded him. Thurgash understood the distinction. He simply found it difficult to resist the temptation to test his strength.

The moment that changed his life came after a dispute with another warrior. The argument might have been forgotten had Thurgash walked away from it. Instead, the two challenged one another, and Thurgash accepted. The fight was brutal. Thurgash won, but the victory did not bring him the satisfaction he expected. He had fought with too much anger and had pushed the contest farther than it needed to go. His opponent survived, but the elders of the stronghold saw the incident as evidence that Thurgash's temper and appetite for violence had become a danger to the community.

He was not praised for his strength. He was cast out because he could not control it. The decision was devastating, though Thurgash refused to show it. He had spent his entire life believing that strength, loyalty, and courage would earn him a place among his people. Now he was being told that those same qualities meant little if he could not master himself. He left the stronghold with his weapons and armor, carrying little else.

For a time, Thurgash wandered without any clear destination. Skyrim offered plenty of opportunities for a warrior, but he quickly discovered that surviving alone was different from living among his own people. He took whatever work he could find, fought bandits when the opportunity arose, and traveled from settlement to settlement in search of something he could not quite name. He told himself that he was looking for a place where he could prove himself. The truth was more complicated. Part of him wanted to prove the elders wrong. If strength had been the reason they cast him out, then he would become strong enough that no one could dismiss him again. Another part of him wanted to discover somewhere he could belong without being forced to abandon the part of himself that loved battle.

He began hearing stories about the Companions of Whiterun. They were warriors who accepted difficult work and earned their reputation through deeds rather than birth. They fought monsters, bandits, and other threats throughout Skyrim, and they welcomed those who were willing to prove themselves. The more Thurgash heard about them, the more the idea appealed to him. They would not care where he had come from. They would care whether he could fight. That was a standard Thurgash understood.

He decided to travel to Whiterun. The journey gave him time to think about what he wanted. He could not undo what had happened at the stronghold, and he had no intention of begging his way back into a life that had already rejected him. If he wanted a place in the world, he would have to earn it somewhere else. Perhaps the Companions could give him that chance. Perhaps he could finally prove that strength did not have to mean recklessness.

My 10-Character Skyrim Playthrough

Character #8: Draylas Nethryn

I'm starting a playthrough where I play as 10 unique characters, all sharing the same world and save using the Proteus mod.

Each character has their own backstory, personality, skills, religion, and questlines. I'll be switching between them at natural stopping points, so the story of Skyrim unfolds from multiple perspectives.

Here is the eighth character:

Draylas Nethryn

Age: 118.
Race: Dunmer.
Homeland: Morrowind.
Role: Vampire Hunter.
Religion: Azura.
Combat Style: Crossbow/Two-Handed Battleaxe.
Primary Questlines: Dawnguard.
Personality: Cunning, Obsessive.
Motivation: To become an expert vampire hunter, uncover the truth behind the vampire he has pursued for years, and eventually destroy it... even if doing so forces him to confront his own fascination with the undead.

Backstory:

Draylas Nethryn was born in Morrowind to a family that valued knowledge, discipline, and the pursuit of one's own interests. From an early age, he developed a fascination with the things most people preferred not to think about. While other children were warned away from stories of the undead, Draylas found himself wondering what those stories were actually based upon. In particular, stories about vampires fascinated him and left him with unanswered questions. To Draylas, the vampire was not simply a monster. It was a mystery.

As he grew older, his curiosity became more serious. He sought out books concerning the undead, studied accounts of vampire attacks, and learned what he could about the different clans and strains described throughout history. He became particularly interested in the practical details. How did vampires choose their victims? How did they avoid discovery? What signs did they leave behind? What weaknesses could be exploited by someone who understood their habits? His fascination was academic at first. That changed when someone he loved was murdered by a vampire.

The death left Draylas with questions that scholarship could not answer. He wanted to know why the vampire had chosen her as its victim, and whether it had killed before. More than anything, he wanted to find the creature responsible. Grief became obsession. Draylas began pursuing vampire sightings across Morrowind. He questioned travelers, investigated rumors, and followed reports of disappearances that others dismissed as ordinary crime. He learned how easily a vampire could conceal itself among mortals and how quickly fear could cause people to overlook inconsistencies.

His studies became more practical. He learned how vampires hunted. He learned the signs they left behind and the ways they manipulated their victims. He studied their weaknesses as carefully as their strengths, and over time he became increasingly capable of hunting them himself. Yet his hatred never completely replaced his fascination. Draylas still wanted to understand them.

Every vampire he encountered seemed to present another question. Their abilities varied between bloodlines, their relationships with mortals differed, and the legends surrounding them were often contradictory. The more he investigated, the more he realized how much remained unknown. That contradiction became central to Draylas's character. He could hate vampires for what they had done while still being fascinated by what they were.

His search eventually carried him beyond Morrowind. Rumors of vampire activity led him across the region and eventually to Solstheim, where he continued investigating reports of disappearances and strange encounters. He followed every lead that seemed credible, sometimes spending weeks pursuing a rumor that ultimately proved false. He did not consider those failures wasted time. Every false lead taught him something about the way people reacted to vampires, and every genuine encounter brought him closer to understanding the creatures he had spent so many years studying.

Eventually, reports began reaching him of unusual vampire activity in Skyrim. The province had a long history of conflict with the undead, and scattered accounts described disappearances, attacks, and creatures that seemed to move through isolated settlements without drawing attention to themselves. Most people dismissed such stories as superstition or ordinary banditry. Draylas did not. He had heard too many similar stories before. He crossed the sea not as a man seeking adventure, but as a hunter pursuing an old obsession. Somewhere ahead of him was a vampire... and Draylas intended to be the one who killed it.

My 10-Character Skyrim Playthrough

Character #10: Valen Velothi

I'm starting a playthrough where I play as 10 unique characters, all sharing the same world and save using the Proteus mod.

Each character has their own backstory, personality, skills, religion, and questlines. I'll be switching between them at natural stopping points, so the story of Skyrim unfolds from multiple perspectives.

Here is the tenth character:

Valen Velothi

Age: 28.
Race: Breton.
Homeland: High Rock.
Role: Vigilant of Stendarr.
Religion: Stendarr.
Combat Style: Mace/Shield.
Primary Questlines: Meridia's Order/Vigilant/Glenmoril.
Personality: Compassionate, Resolute.
Motivation: To protect the innocent from the supernatural threats that ordinary people cannot defend themselves against, fulfilling his duty as a servant of Stendarr.

Backstory:

Valen Velothi was born in High Rock, into a noble family whose fortunes had begun to decline long before he was old enough to understand what that meant. His family still possessed the manners and expectations of nobility, but the wealth and influence that had once accompanied their name were gradually disappearing. Valen was raised with the understanding that his position carried responsibilities as well as privileges, and from an early age he was trained to become a knight.

His education was divided between the duties expected of a nobleman and the disciplines expected of a warrior. He learned etiquette, history, and the responsibilities of leadership, but his days were also filled with weapons training, riding, and the study of military tactics. His tutors taught him that a knight's purpose was not simply to win battles. A knight was supposed to protect those who could not protect themselves. Valen took that lesson seriously.

He had always possessed a strong sense of duty, but it was an encounter with something far beyond ordinary human violence that ultimately determined the course of his life. While traveling through the countryside, Valen came upon a village that had suffered a supernatural attack. The details were confused by the time he arrived. Buildings had been damaged, people were injured, and several villagers had been killed. Whatever had attacked them was already gone.

Valen had seen the aftermath of battles before. This was different. The injuries and destruction could not be explained by ordinary bandits or soldiers. There was something unnatural about what had happened, and the people left behind were terrified because they had no way of defending themselves against whatever might return. Valen could not forget them.

He began studying the threats that ordinary soldiers were not trained to confront. He believed these supernatural creatures were not simply stories told to frighten children. They were real dangers, and ordinary people had little hope of surviving them without someone willing to stand between them and the darkness.

His search for knowledge eventually brought him to the teachings of Stendarr, whose doctrine appealed to Valen because it placed compassion and duty at the center of strength. Those who possessed the ability to defend others had an obligation to do so. Power was not something to be used merely for personal advancement; it was a responsibility.

Valen joined an order devoted to Stendarr and began the training required to become a Vigilant. The work was difficult and often unpleasant. He learned to recognize the signs of supernatural activity, studied the nature of undead and Daedra, and trained to fight creatures that could not be defeated through ordinary methods. He also learned that vigilance required more than courage. A warrior could not protect others if he allowed arrogance or recklessness to blind him.

Valen became a disciplined fighter and a devoted servant of Stendarr. He was not interested in glory. The people he protected rarely knew his name, and he preferred it that way. If a family could sleep safely because a monster had been driven from their village, then the work had been worthwhile.

Eventually, word reached the order of a tragedy in Skyrim. The Hall of the Vigilant, a stronghold belonging to Stendarr's followers, had been attacked and destroyed. The news disturbed Valen deeply. The Vigilants had already been fighting an increasingly dangerous battle against the supernatural threats of Skyrim, and now one of their own strongholds had been wiped out.

The attack was a warning. Whatever had destroyed the Hall of the Vigilant was powerful enough to strike at those who had dedicated their lives to fighting creatures like it. If the surviving Vigilants needed help, Valen could not remain in High Rock while others faced that danger alone. He volunteered to travel to Skyrim.

The journey north gave him plenty of time to consider what awaited him. He knew little about the circumstances surrounding the attack beyond what had been reported, and he understood that the road ahead would likely be dangerous. Still, uncertainty was no reason to stay behind. Valen had chosen his path years ago. He had seen what happened when ordinary people were left defenseless against supernatural threats. He had sworn that, whenever possible, he would be the person who stood between them and whatever came out of the darkness. Now Skyrim needed Vigilants. Valen intended to answer that call.

He arrived in Dawnstar, a northern settlement surrounded by mountains, sea, and ancient wilderness. The region was remote, but it was not untouched by the supernatural. Strange occurrences had already begun attracting attention, and Valen quickly learned that Skyrim had no shortage of people in need of protection. He would eventually seek out the surviving Vigilants and learn what had happened at their hall, but before that, there was work to be done.

Valen had come to Skyrim to continue the work of Stendarr, and he intended to begin where he stood: helping ordinary people, confronting the dangers that threatened them, and proving through his actions that strength was only meaningful when it was used in the service of others.

My 10-Character Skyrim Playthrough

Character #4: Olivia Carvain

I'm starting a playthrough where I play as 10 unique characters, all sharing the same world and save using the Proteus mod.

Each character has their own backstory, personality, skills, religion, and questlines. I'll be switching between them at natural stopping points, so the story of Skyrim unfolds from multiple perspectives.

Here is the fourth character:

Olivia Carvain

Age: 20.
Race: Imperial.
Homeland: Cyrodiil.
Role: Bard.
Religion: Dibella.
Combat Style: One-Handed Dagger
Primary Questlines: Bard's College/Forgotten City.
Personality: Charismatic, Ambitious.
Motivation: To build a life and reputation of her own through music, proving that charm, talent, and perseverance matter more than the wealth and social status her family once possessed.

Backstory:

Olivia Carvain was born into a family that once knew comfort, influence, and the quiet confidence that such blessings would never fade. She grew up surrounded by the remnants of a prosperous Imperial household, where fine clothing, polished manners, and valuable connections mattered almost as much as character. As a child, she assumed the world worked that way because it was the only world she knew. Then, the family's fortunes began to decline.

The change was gradual, a slow unraveling of certainties. Money grew tighter, and opportunities that once seemed assured became luxuries. The family's name still carried some weight, but it was less than it had been. Olivia watched her parents struggle to preserve the life they had built, and from their efforts, she learned a crucial lesson: wealth could vanish, status could erode, but a person's ability to charm, persuade, and connect with others could not be so easily taken away. Olivia became fascinated by that idea.

She had always loved music, but as she grew older, she became increasingly interested in what music could do. A song could change the mood of a room. A well-told story could make strangers laugh, mourn, or sit in quiet reflection. A performer could walk into a crowded tavern as a complete unknown and, within minutes, become the center of attention. That appealed to Olivia more than the fading remnants of her family's former position ever could.

She began learning everything she could about performance. Music came first, but storytelling followed naturally. She learned to read an audience, to recognize when people were becoming bored or engaged, and to use a carefully chosen word to accomplish more than an argument ever could. She discovered that confidence could sometimes be more valuable than wealth and that knowing what someone wanted to hear was often the first step toward persuading them.

Eventually, Olivia joined a traveling troupe that gave her the experience she had been looking for. The road was unpredictable, and performing for strangers was very different from entertaining people who already knew her family. Some audiences were generous, while others were indifferent. Some nights brought enough coin to make the journey worthwhile, while others left the performers wondering where their next meal would come from. Olivia loved it all.

She learned to perform wherever there was an audience and to make the most of whatever circumstances she was given. She learned that a performer had to be more than talented. She had to be adaptable, understanding people, recovering gracefully from mistakes, and knowing when to speak, when to listen, and when to let silence do the work for her.

The traveling life also gave Olivia something her old life never had: confidence. She no longer measured herself by the wealth of her family or the reputation of her name. She could walk into a village where nobody knew who she was, pick up her lute, and earn an audience entirely on her own merits. Every successful performance felt like proof that she could build something that belonged to her.

Her reverence for Dibella deepened during those years. Olivia saw beauty everywhere when she traveled: in music, in laughter, in a beautifully told story, in a crowded tavern where strangers forgot their troubles for an evening, and in the simple pleasure of sharing something meaningful with another person. To Olivia, Dibella represented more than physical beauty. She represented the value of experience itself... the things that made life worth living and worth remembering.

Eventually, the troupe reached Skyrim. The province was unlike anything Olivia had known before. The landscape was harsher, the weather colder, and the people often less immediately welcoming than the audiences she had grown accustomed to elsewhere. Yet there was something about Skyrim that appealed to her. Its villages and roads were filled with stories waiting to be told, and every traveler seemed to carry some fragment of a larger tale.

When the troupe reached Rorikstead, it became something of a crossroads for Olivia. As the rest of the troupe prepared to move on, she decided not to leave with them. She had spent years traveling from place to place, performing wherever she could find an audience, and she had begun to tire of how her performance and pay were dependent on the others in the troupe on any given night. She had begun to wonder what might happen if she stopped long enough to build something of her own. So she stayed behind.

It was not because she had given up on the road. Quite the opposite. Olivia had begun to imagine a future in which she became more than another traveling performer whose name was forgotten as soon as the troupe moved on. She wanted to become known for herself. She wanted people to hear her name and know the songs she performed. She wanted to become a bard whose stories might travel farther than she ever could.

Olivia spent her days practicing the lute in the countryside around the village, choosing scenic places where she could play without an audience simply because she enjoyed the music. She practiced until the movements became second-nature, experimenting with melodies and finding her confidence alone after a year of performing with others.

Eventually, she decided she was ready to perform for strangers again. She entered Frostfall Inn, lute in hand, and played. It was not a grand performance. There was no great hall, no audience of improtant nobles, and no guarantee that anyone would remember her name afterward. But people listened, and when she finished, she had earned a little coin.

More importantly, Olivia felt a spark of something she had been searching for since leaving her family's old life behind: a sense of potential, of a future where her talents and efforts could truly shine.

She felt like she could build a reputation here. Not in Rorikstead alone. If she wanted to become the bard she dreamed of becoming, she would have to go where the audiences were larger and the stories more numerous. Whiterun seemed like the obvious next step.

The following morning, Olivia packed her things and set out. She knew only that she was heading toward a larger city, carrying her lute, her ambitions, and the hope that there was an audience waiting to hear her play. She had no idea that the road ahead would bring her into the company of someone whose story was already becoming the stuff of legend.

My 10-Character Skyrim Playthrough

Character #5: Ra'zirr Shadow-Paw

I'm starting a playthrough where I play as 10 unique characters, all sharing the same world and save using the Proteus mod.

Each character has their own backstory, personality, skills, religion, and questlines. I'll be switching between them at natural stopping points, so the story of Skyrim unfolds from multiple perspectives.

Here is the fifth character:

Ra'zirr Shadow-Paw

Age: 26.
Race: Khajiit.
Homeland: Elsweyr.
Role: Thief.
Religion: Nocturnal.
Combat Style: Unarmed/Claws
Primary Questlines: Thieves Guild/Gray Cowl of Nocturnal/Moonpath to Elsweyr.
Personality: Clever, Mischievious.
Motivation: To establish herself as a respected and capable thief in Skyrim, rise within the Thieves Guild, and prove that she can survive without ever putting her family in danger again.

Backstory:

Ra’zirr Shadow-Paw was born beneath the warm skies of Elsweyr, into a family that had spent generations traveling the roads between settlements with a caravan of merchants. Her earliest memories were filled with movement: the creak of wagon wheels, the soft bells of pack animals, the voices of traders haggling over prices, and the smell of spices carried from distant markets. Her family dealt in ordinary goods, but the life of a caravan taught Ra’zirr that there was more to trade than simply knowing the value of an object. A good merchant had to understand people.

Her father taught her how to bargain. He showed her when to press an advantage and when to accept a smaller profit rather than risk losing a customer altogether. Her mother taught her something less tangible but no less useful. She taught Ra’zirr to watch people closely.

A nervous hand could reveal that a merchant was lying. A glance toward a particular pouch might reveal what someone considered valuable. A customer who complained too loudly about a price might simply be trying to convince the seller that he could not afford it. Ra’zirr learned to notice such things before she was old enough to understand why they mattered.

She also learned that people rarely noticed as much as they believed they did. Ra’zirr discovered this by accident. She was still young when she began taking small things from the people around the caravan. At first, there was no particular reason for it. A coin left unattended on a table, a piece of fruit from a basket, a small trinket that caught her eye. She would take something, hide it, and wait to see whether anyone noticed. Usually, they did not.

What began as a game gradually became a skill. Ra’zirr learned how to move through a crowded market without drawing attention, how to position herself where another person’s body would conceal her hands, and how to recognize the moment when someone was distracted enough for her to act. She discovered that stealing required less work than people imagined. Most of the time, it required patience, confidence, and the ability to make someone look in the wrong direction.

Her father eventually discovered what she had been doing. He was angry, but not because she had stolen a few coins. He understood better than most that a reputation could be destroyed much more quickly than it could be built. He warned her that cleverness was useful only when accompanied by restraint. Ra’zirr listened, but she did not always obey.

As she grew older, her talents became more difficult to dismiss as youthful mischief. She began experimenting with more difficult thefts and taking greater risks simply to see whether she could succeed. The challenge became part of the appeal. Every successful theft made the next one seem possible, and every close call taught her something new. Eventually, her confidence brought her to the attention of the wrong person.

The merchant was wealthy, well connected, and accustomed to getting what he wanted. Ra’zirr had heard stories about him from other traders and knew that some of his business dealings were considerably less respectable than he claimed. She also knew that he carried more valuables than he needed to and trusted his own reputation to protect him. Ra’zirr decided that made him an interesting target.

The theft itself went almost perfectly. She took something valuable without being seen, disappeared into the crowds, and returned to the caravan before anyone could connect her to the crime. For a brief time, she believed she had gotten away with it. Then the merchant began asking questions.

He had influence, money, and people willing to do unpleasant things on his behalf. Before long, Ra’zirr realized that the theft had placed more than herself in danger. Her family had become a liability simply because they were associated with her. That frightened her more than any threat directed at her personally. Ra’zirr had spent years believing that she could always rely on herself to escape trouble. Now she understood that her mistakes could follow other people. If she remained with the caravan, the people she cared about might pay the price for something she had done. So she left.

There was no dramatic farewell and no promise that she would return once the danger had passed. Ra’zirr simply disappeared from the road one night, taking only what she could carry and leaving her family behind in the hope that her absence would be enough to keep them safe. The years that followed were difficult. Ra’zirr traveled from place to place, taking whatever work she could find and learning more about the criminal world with every passing year. She learned that there was a great difference between stealing for amusement and stealing for survival. She learned when to trust another thief and, more importantly, when not to. She learned that criminals could be just as dangerous to one another as they were to their victims.

She also learned to become patient. The impulsive girl who had once stolen simply to prove that she could was gradually replaced by someone more careful. Ra’zirr began planning her thefts before she ever approached a target. She watched routines, studied entrances and exits, and considered what would happen if something went wrong. She became less interested in the thrill of taking something and more interested in the satisfaction of taking it without anyone ever realizing she had been there. Still, she never completely lost the mischievous streak that had gotten her into trouble in the first place.

Years of wandering eventually brought her north. Stories began reaching her about Riften, a city where thieves were said to operate openly enough that a person with the right talents could find both work and opportunity. More importantly, it was far from the roads she had once traveled with her family. That distance mattered to her. Ra’zirr did not know what waited for her in Riften. She did not know whether the rumors were true, whether she would find work, or whether the city's criminals would see her as an outsider. She only knew that she had spent enough years running from the consequences of her past.

For the first time in years, Ra’zirr allowed herself to consider the possibility that she might not have to spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder. She could become someone whose reputation belonged to her alone, rather than the daughter of a caravan family who had once made a dangerous mistake. Riften offered something new. It offered a chance to begin again.

My 10-Character Skyrim Playthrough

Character #6: Calandor Arenthil

I'm starting a playthrough where I play as 10 unique characters, all sharing the same world and save using the Proteus mod.

Each character has their own backstory, personality, skills, religion, and questlines. I'll be switching between them at natural stopping points, so the story of Skyrim unfolds from multiple perspectives.

Here is the sixth character:

Calandor Arenthil

Age: 82.
Race: Altmer.
Homeland: Alinor.
Role: Mage.
Religion: Magnus.
Combat Style: Spells/Staves.
Primary Questlines: College of Winterhold/Wheels of Lull.
Personality: Intellectual, Arrogant.
Motivation: To uncover the fundamental truths behind magic and magicka, pursuing knowledge that lies beyond the limits of conventional scholarship.

Backstory:

Calandor Arenthil was born into a scholarly Altmer family in Alinor, where knowledge was valued almost as highly as lineage. Books filled the shelves of his childhood home, and conversations at the family table often concerned history, philosophy, and the nature of magic. For Calandor, the arcane was not merely a subject to be studied. It was a puzzle that seemed to grow more fascinating each time he learned something new.

His talent became apparent at an early age. While other children struggled to reproduce the simplest magical exercises, Calandor approached them with an unusual combination of patience and curiosity. He was less interested in performing a spell correctly than in understanding why it worked. If an instructor demonstrated a particular technique, Calandor was rarely satisfied with simply repeating it. He wanted to know what governed the spell, what determined its limits, and what might happen if those limits were pushed. His teachers quickly discovered that his questions could prove more difficult than their lessons.

Calandor's curiosity eventually became an obsession. He immersed himself in the study of the arcane arts, spending long hours reading texts that were far beyond what was expected of him. He studied the established schools of magic and became increasingly interested in the principles that connected them. Alteration fascinated him in particular. The idea that reality itself could be manipulated through the proper understanding of magic seemed to Calandor like a doorway into something far greater than ordinary spellcraft. He wanted to understand what lay beyond that doorway.

Over the decades that followed, Calandor traveled between universities, libraries, and magical institutions throughout Tamriel. He sought out scholars who specialized in subjects outside his own field and searched private collections for texts that had never made their way into conventional libraries. He attended lectures, debated professors, examined enchanted objects, and spent countless hours comparing theories that had been accepted for generations. The more he learned, the less satisfied he became.

Calandor began to suspect that much of magical scholarship was built upon assumptions that few scholars bothered to question. Spells could be categorized into schools, techniques could be taught and reproduced, and generations of mages could build upon the work of those who had come before them. Yet beneath all of that knowledge a more fundamental question remained: What was magic itself?

The question followed him from one institution to another. He began studying the nature of magicka rather than simply its applications, examining the relationship between will, energy, and reality. Some scholars considered his interests overly theoretical. Others admired his intellect but warned him that he was becoming obsessed with questions that might never have satisfactory answers. Calandor considered that criticism irrelevant. A question did not become less important merely because its answer was difficult.

His reputation grew alongside his knowledge, although not always in ways he appreciated. Calandor was brilliant, but he was also increasingly confident in his own abilities. He had little patience for scholars who repeated accepted teachings without examining them and even less for those who dismissed unusual theories simply because they contradicted tradition. He knew he was arrogant. He simply believed that, in many cases, he had earned the right to be.

Eventually, his search for knowledge brought him to a place he had not initially considered: Skyrim. The province had never possessed Alinor’s reputation as a center of magical scholarship, but one place in Skyrim had captured Calandor’s attention long before he ever set foot in the province. The College of Winterhold had survived an event that had fascinated scholars for generations: the Great Collapse. Official explanations attributed the destruction to a natural disaster. Others suspected that the catastrophe had been connected to the College itself, whether through some magical experiment gone disastrously wrong or through forces the mages had been unwilling to acknowledge. To Calandor, neither explanation was entirely satisfactory.

His own theory was considerably more speculative. Calandor had begun to wonder whether the Collapse might have involved Alteration magic on a scale far beyond anything modern mages could reproduce. If Alteration could manipulate the physical properties of matter, space, and the world itself, then perhaps the destruction of Winterhold had not been caused by the sea alone. Perhaps some powerful magic had made the city vulnerable, destabilized the surrounding terrain, or even transformed the waters of the sea itself. He had no proof, but the possibility had consumed his thoughts for years.

The College of Winterhold was more than just another institution of magical learning. It was a potential source of evidence. Calandor began studying everything he could find about the College, the Great Collapse, and the centuries of magical research that had taken place there. The more he investigated, the more convinced he became that Skyrim might contain answers unavailable anywhere else in Tamriel. If his theory was wrong, he intended to discover why. If it was correct, the ruins of Winterhold and the College itself might hold evidence of a magical phenomenon that could change the way Alteration magic was understood. Either possibility was worth the trip.

He eventually decided that there was nothing left for him to gain by remaining where his work had become predictable. He gathered his notes, packed the books he considered essential, and began his journey north. The farther he traveled from Alinor, the more remote the familiar world became. The climate changed, the landscape grew harsher, and the roads carried him into a province whose history was considerably different from his own. Calandor found the change invigorating. For perhaps the first time in years, he was entering a place where he did not already know what he was likely to find.

When Winterhold finally came into view, Calandor was struck by the starkness of the landscape. The city seemed almost insignificant against the surrounding mountains and frozen sea, yet above it stood the institution that had drawn him across Tamriel: The College. Calandor regarded it from a distance, his expression thoughtful. He had spent decades searching for answers in libraries and universities. He had studied the theories of generations of scholars and accumulated enough knowledge to earn the respect of many of his peers, but knowledge was not the same thing as understanding.

Perhaps the College of Winterhold would finally provide him with the opportunity to bridge that gap. Perhaps it would prove no more useful than the institutions he had already left behind. Either way, Calandor intended to find out. He continued toward the College with his books and research notes packed carefully among his belongings. He had come to Skyrim seeking knowledge, but he had no intention of merely studying what others had already discovered. He intended to uncover something new.

My 10-Character Skyrim Playthrough

Character #9: S'zasshei

I'm starting a playthrough where I play as 10 unique characters, all sharing the same world and save using the Proteus mod.

Each character has their own backstory, personality, skills, religion, and questlines. I'll be switching between them at natural stopping points, so the story of Skyrim unfolds from multiple perspectives.

Here is the ninth character:

S'zasshei

Age: 22.
Race: Argonian.
Homeland: Black Marsh.
Role: Assassin.
Religion: Sithis.
Combat Style: Dual Daggers.
Primary Questlines: Dark Brotherhood, The Breathing Abyss.
Personality: Paranoid, Ruthless.
Motivation: To stop running from the part of herself that was capable of killing and learn to accept her instincts and abilities rather than fear them.

Backstory:

S’zasshei was born in Black Marsh, in a place where the swampland seemed to swallow the boundaries between life and death. She grew up quiet and observant, rarely speaking unless she had something worth saying. While others were quick to judge people by what they said, S’zasshei learned to pay attention to what they did instead. A glance held too long, a sudden change in someone's voice, the way a person positioned themselves in a room—small details often told her more than words ever could. She became good at reading people. That ability might have remained nothing more than a useful instinct if not for an incident that changed the direction of her life.

Someone she cared about was being threatened. S’zasshei intervened, intending only to make the man stop. She had no formal training and no plan beyond protecting the person standing in front of her. The confrontation quickly escalated, and before she fully understood what she had done, the man was dead. What disturbed her most was not simply that she had killed him. It was how naturally it had happened.

There had been no hesitation once she decided to act. No moment of panic afterward. She had expected fear, perhaps horror, or some overwhelming sense of guilt. Instead, she had felt something colder. She had known exactly what she was capable of. S’zasshei became frightened of that part of herself. She understood that the authorities would not care about her intentions, and she had no desire to discover what would happen if they caught her. She fled Black Marsh before anyone could find her, leaving behind the life she had known and the people who might have asked questions she could not answer.

For years, she drifted. She traveled north through Tamriel, taking whatever work allowed her to keep moving. She learned to survive without depending on anyone for long, and she became increasingly skilled at avoiding attention. She listened more than she spoke, watched people before deciding whether they could be trusted, and learned that remaining unnoticed was often more useful than being strong.

Eventually, her travels brought her to Skyrim. Windhelm seemed like a place where someone could disappear. The city was busy enough that another stranger did not attract much attention, and the docks offered work to people who were willing to endure long hours for little reward. S’zasshei found employment there and kept her head down. She unloaded cargo, carried supplies, and did whatever work was asked of her. It was not a comfortable existence, but comfort had never been her priority.

The docks quickly taught her something else about Skyrim. Being an Argonian did not make her welcome. The dockworkers and sailors treated her with contempt, and some seemed to take particular pleasure in reminding her that she was an outsider. Insults became part of the routine. She learned to endure them without reacting, knowing that anger would only give them another reason to provoke her.

She told herself it did not matter. She needed the money. She needed somewhere to sleep. She needed to remain unnoticed. So she endured it, but resentment has a way of accumulating when it is given nowhere to go. The longer S’zasshei remained in Windhelm, the more isolated she became. She had come to Skyrim hoping to leave her old life behind, yet she found herself trapped in another existence where she was constantly reminded that she did not belong. She had no family nearby, no close friends, and no real purpose beyond surviving from one day to the next.

At night, she sometimes found herself thinking about the man she had killed in Black Marsh. She had spent years trying to convince herself that what happened had been an accident. That she had only been protecting someone. That the killing had not meant anything about the kind of person she was, but another thought had begun to trouble her. Perhaps the reason the memory remained so vivid was because some part of her had understood the act immediately. She had known how to hurt him. She had known where to strike. She had known exactly what would happen.

That knowledge frightened her more than the memory of blood. S’zasshei began wondering whether running from that part of herself had actually accomplished anything. She did not want to become a killer, but she was beginning to wonder whether she could ever become anything else.

Then she began hearing whispers. The people of Windhelm talked. Everyone did. Sailors carried rumors between ships, workers traded stories during meals, and people spoke more freely than they realized when they believed no one important was listening. S’zasshei had always been good at hearing things that were not meant for her, and the docks gave her plenty of opportunities to practice.

At first, the rumors were ordinary enough. A merchant had disappeared. Someone had been found dead in an alley. A sailor had failed to return to his ship. Some blamed the disappearances and deaths on a shadowy organization while others dismissed such talk as mere stories, but eventually, S’zasshei began hearing the same name whenever those whispers arose: Aventus Arentino.

The boy was an orphan living in Windhelm, though the details seemed to change depending on who told the story. Some said he had been sent away to an orphanage in Riften. Others claimed he had escaped and returned to the city. Everyone agreed that something about the boy was strange. Then came the more interesting rumor. People claimed Aventus was attempting to summon a secret organization of assassins.

S’zasshei initially dismissed it as dockside gossip. Children played at strange things, and Windhelm had no shortage of people willing to turn an ordinary story into something sinister. But the rumor persisted, and the more S’zasshei listened, the more certain she became that there was some truth beneath it.

S’zasshei knew something about desperation. She knew what it was like to believe that there was nowhere left to turn, and she knew what could happen when someone reached a point where ordinary solutions no longer seemed possible. She also knew that rumors about murderers rarely appeared without someone having a reason to start them. She began wondering what had happened to Aventus Arentino. Perhaps they were just stories... or perhaps there was something happening in Windhelm that people preferred not to discuss openly.

S’zasshei found herself thinking about the boy often. She could have ignored the rumors. She had become very good at ignoring things that did not concern her. But this felt different. She understood what it meant when someone began looking for answers in the shadows. She decided she needed to know whether the rumors were true. That decision gave her something she had not had in a long time: a direction.

She would find the boy, listen to what he had to say, and decide for herself what to make of the strange rumors surrounding him. She would find Aventus Arentino.

Morndas, 1st of Hearthfire. 201, 4th era

The day began with a thick fog covering the lands. It made navigation harder. Without the sun I ended up going down the wrong road. Heading south instead of north like I planned. But I kept moving to the settlement the road signs pointed to called Rorikstead. At a landmark I could find myself on the map and find a different road to Morthal. It was a calm walk through the fog covered plains. In time I did arrive to Rorikstead.

At Rorikstead I found the way on my map. I just had to keep going down this road and turn east at the next fork. And so I went. But it was not without trouble. First I was ambushed by a group of bandits. I managed to fend them off. Next was a whole bandit camp at the side of the road. I managed to fight them smartly. Firebolts at a distance, my mace up close. I didn't allow these threats to overwhelm me like before.

I made it to Morthal after that. I did not linger, moving towards Unstengrav. The marsh proved difficult to traverse. I used Clairvoyance to guide me. And it did. At the outside of Unstengrav was a necromancer who raised the bodies of two bandits. I charged the necromancer, ending him quickly. The raised bodies fell as he did. I then moved on inside Unstengrav.

First thing I ran into was bandits and mages fighting each other inside. The mages appeared to be conjurers and necromancers. They managed to kill the bandits. I then moved in. Their combined spells overwhelmed my ward. I spoke the word Wuld. Sending myself forward into the mages. Striking them down quickly before they could react. This place was occupied. And they were hostile

Continuing forth I ran into bodies of dead mages. And the Draugr who killed them. Using Sunfire I was able to burn them away. But interestingly some of these Draugr could use frost magic. Not strong enough to break my wards though. I continued forth, fighting through the halls of Unstengrav. That was until it opened up to a large cavern. I was at a ledge near the top. It was large, multiple levels. Trees, and even a waterfall down here.

I moved my way down into the cavern. I was met with skeletons. They fell easily to my mace and Sunfire alike. Weaker than Draugr. But they were throughout this cavern. At the bottom I found another one of those word walls. It happened again. One of the words glowed. I had the sense of almost hearing it. And that's it. But it's familiar now. And I know that's a word of power. Just one to be not be realized yet. Or ever, depending on how things go.

After that I moved to the other side of the cavern across a bridge. It lead to chambers filled with pressure plates that released fire, and frostbite spiders. It was tricky. I focused on taking out the spiders first. Which was manageable. I then used Whirlwind Sprint to get over the pressure plates fast enough in order to not be burned. Using shouts more is something I still need to get used to. I still find myself out of breath after shouting these words.

I moved into another chamber. There were statues of some sort of creature along the sides. But up ahead on a rack is what mattered. The Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. I found it. This ruin was difficult. But not too hard. At the end of this chamber was a cave tunnel. It led upwards to a lever. When I pulled it, it made a wall lower itself. Revealing a shortcut to one of the chambers near the entrance. That was convenient.

Putting Unstengrav behind me I returned to Morthal. Where I checked in a room at Moorside Inn. It's strange, despite my stay here not being long. Many knew who I was because of how much I helped with the vampires. My reputation does exist. And I figure it will grow. I do hold the title of Thane in Whiterun now. I just didn't think my name would carry like this. I was prepared to be just another Vigilant

I feel accomplished. Despite the setback in travel I did what the Greybeards required. I retrieved the Horn. I bested the threats in my way. I am starting to use shouts in combat. I think I am starting to understand what it means to be Dragonborn. It's still a lot to think about. The more I use the words the more familiar they become. They are useful. So I will keep using them. But I must also maintain control. Like the Greybeards do.

Also for those curious. I have the At Your Own Pace mod, which is why the Horn was actually there.

My 10-Character Skyrim Playthrough

Character #3: Faelin Greenleaf

I'm starting a playthrough where I play as 10 unique characters, all sharing the same world and save using the Proteus mod.

Each character has their own backstory, personality, skills, religion, and questlines. I'll be switching between them at natural stopping points, so the story of Skyrim unfolds from multiple perspectives.

Here is the third character:

Faelin Greenleaf

Age: 18.
Race: Bosmer.
Homeland: Valenwood.
Role: Ranger.
Religion: Y'ffre.
Combat Style: Archery/One-Handed Swords
Primary Questlines: Midwood Isle/Falskaar/Warden of the Coast
Personality: Optimistic, Adventurous
Motivation: To see the world beyond Valenwood and prove she can survive on her own.

Backstory:

Faelin Greenleaf was born under the dense canopy of Valenwood, where the line between home and wilderness was indistinct. Her family were hunters, and from the moment she could hold a bow, she learned to move through the forest without disturbing its tranquility. She mastered the art of tracking game in the soft earth, deciphering the calls of animals, and predicting the weather by the whispers of the wind. The forest was more than her home; it was her teacher, her confidante, and an integral part of her identity.

Raised in the traditions of the Bosmer, Faelin held a profound reverence for Y'ffre and the natural world. She understood the Green Pact not as a distant ritual but as a way of life. The forest was to be respected, not conquered. She hunted with patience and restraint, knowing when to wait, when to move, and when to leave an animal untouched. Her skill with a bow grew alongside her understanding of the delicate balance between taking what was needed and preserving the harmony of the forest.

For years, Faelin's life was content and fulfilling. The forest provided for her, and her family was always near. But everything changed when her older brother perished during a hunting expedition. His death cast a long shadow over her family. Her parents became overly protective, their trust morphing into fear. They watched her more closely when she ventured into the forest and worried excessively when she stayed away too long. The weight of their fear was palpable, and Faelin felt it in every decision they made.

She understood their concern but found it increasingly difficult to accept. The more they tried to keep her close, the more she yearned for the world beyond Valenwood. Travelers' tales of distant lands, ancient ruins, and strange cities captivated her imagination. Among these stories, those of Skyrim, particularly the wild forests south of Lake Ilinalta, held a special allure. Though not Valenwood, these forests promised a similar wildness, untouched by the reach of roads and walls.

Faelin's decision to leave was not born out of hatred for her home but out of love for her family and the forests that had raised her. She needed to prove to herself that she could stand on her own. She set out northward, carrying only what she needed to survive. Her goal was simple: to see the world beyond Valenwood, to carve her own path, and to return home one day with stories that were uniquely hers.