Chapter Text
“We have secured the book Ser!”
The woman’s hands felt suddenly weak and tingly as she reached for the volume eagerly.
“Good job! If there are any updates on her whereabouts I want to be notified immediately. You are dismissed.”
Her brows knotted in concentration as she traced light fingertips over the cover of this valuable source. Will the information within finally lead to the elusive woman whose disappearance caused such a stir in their worlds? Was she the reason of all this chaos? Where is she now?
With anticipation, she opened the journal of the Dragonborn.
***
---Last Seed, 17th, 4E 201---
Let's head to Skyrim! What an interesting time to further my studies in such a curious land! Well, mission accomplished. Idiot.
Falling face first into the Stormcloak - Imperial conflict is one thing. But being sent to the chopping block to then be saved by the attack of a BLOODY DRAGON is another.
Alright. This might not be the way to start a journal. I suppose, it is best if I make some introductions first.
...
Dear Fictional Friend who shall be my emotional refuse bucket for the foreseeable future,
Let me introduce myself: I am Lyra – Breton, scholar, champion of idiotic ideas. This is the tale of my arrival into the the war-torn province of Skyrim.
As a scholar with a particular focus on Dwemer archaeology, my interest in the city of Markarth is not what one could call surprising. In fact, it is borderline cliché. Two years ago I joined the ranks of professors at the University of Gwylim and I have been in correspondence with the renowned, slightly haughty researcher Calcelmo ever since. I have received an invitation to his current excavation in Markarth with delight, even though the generally rebellious political climate of Skyrim made my objective seem rather tricky to reach. It did not stop this damn genius though, oh no!
My travel plans seemed solid and getting to Riften, a seedy yet bustling commercial town at the South Eastern edge of Skyrim, was not as problematic as I expected it to be. Troubles started, however, after I departed. I aimed to give Eastmarch Hold a wide berth; afterall, who needs the inconvenience of a rebellion when there is research to be done elsewhere. Long story short, I was not successful with my evasive tactics since I managed to gloss over some pretty significant signs suggesting I should turn back immediately - still smoking wood in a hearth, tracks left by multiple men, horses and so on. I guess you could say I am not necessarily the most observant person on Nirn.
What I should say in my defence is that this land is truly beautiful. As I was admiring the nature and pondered the beauty of the diverse, ever changing vegetation and rich wild life my peacefully meandering thoughts were disturbed by shouts and something hard and heavy was forcefully introduced to the back of my head. Since I blacked out afterwards, I can only assume I toppled over with the grace of a horker and fell flat on my face.
I have awoken sitting in a rattling cart with a splitting headache and a bloody nose. I was not alone. It seems, in typical Lyra fashion, I stumbled into something I should not have. An Imperial ambush. As Ralof, a talkative Nord rebel and my new cart-mate explained, we were taken as prisoners along with Ulfric Bloody Stormcloak (seated to my right) and were probably going to be executed. Not to worry though, because Sovengard awaits. Brilliant! I wondered briefly whether Bretons would be able to enter the realm of Nordic afterlife. Based on what I remember from my studies there certainly are a lot of drinks there which was rather appealing at the time.
Our little party arrived to a town called Helgen, where in addition to the Imperial soldiers the Thalmor were also curiously present. Those bastards are just about everywhere within the Empire lately. I reckon this was no coincidence either.
Suddenly, I found myself in front of an Imperial officer and his list. Well, of course I was nowhere to be found on it so I decided that this my time to make it clear I am no rebel but a professor of the University of Gwylim and this is clearly a blatant abuse of power. How dare they bind me like this and where was our fair trial? The officer was apologetic, but his captain was not interested in anything I had to say. What a bitch. Oh well, at least my remains will be taken back to High Rock, said officer checklist. These Nords sure know how to cheer a woman up.
I can only recall some of the words that were being said afterwards; in all honesty, I did not really care about the accusations made by the Empire. Soon, there I was, looking at the chopping block. My thoughts were a mess as I laid my head down. I should have written home more; I really should have ventured into more Dwemer ruins. Also, it has been too long; I really should have had sex one more time and that mercenary I saw last night was rather handsome. To Oblivion with it all, at least the last thing I will see is a… huge bat-thing? No, not really, it is more lizard like… Kind of like… It’s a fucking DRAGON!
So there. My head stayed fixed firmly to my neck. Cart-mate Ralof appeared in front of me (possibly disappointed by having to be late to the party in Sovengard) and together we ran for it. We made it to the keep with some of the other Stormcloaks, including Ulfric himself. There was a close encounter with the dragon again as it broke through the wall and roasted one of the rebels alive. This dragon-made hole, however, provided us with a route of escape, albeit with not a very good one. When it was my turn to jump out onto an adjacent building with my hands still bound, all I could think of was how ridiculously stupid would it be to survive an execution, a dragon, but fall victim to my clumsiness and general lack of orientation.
Shockingly, I lived and found myself at the side of officer note board - his name is Hadvar, apparently. He seemed the decent sort actually, he saved a kid from certain death and led us to the other end of the keep. I wish he would have stopped calling me ‘Prisoner’ though. We ran into Ralof and by Akatosh, did things get awkward! It was clear these two have history and that they do not exactly approve of each other's life choices. Suddenly I had a decision to make. Follow the Imperial officer or the Stormcloak rebel. I am not going to lie; if I had time to think it over, there is a chance I would have chosen differently. I like to rely on my gut, however, more than it is proper for a scholar. I ran after the rebel.
I donned the clothes of a fallen Stormcloak soldier, picked up an axe and conjured a familiar to aid us. To get through the keep and out of Helgen a fight was inevitable. While I was no stranger to warfare theory and already had some experience with defending myself against the odd mechanical spider and Falmer in Dwemer ruins, this was different. These were soldiers, people. There were a lot of losses on both sides.
Ralof and I got separated from the others, found ourselves in a cave surrounded by spiders of all things! Too many legs, too many eyes, just not natural! Ralof seemed to feel the same way, what a great bonding moment it was… We made it out of the cave and out of Helgen soon after. As I watched the dragon fly away in the distance, I began to truly appreciate the situation we were in. I was in a foreign land with a man at my side hunted by the Empire. I almost got executed today. Most importantly, dragons were back! Perhaps there is a new area of research I should consider?
We headed to the town of Riverwood to see Ralof’s family. On our journey my surprisingly perky companion (considering what we have just been through) gave me a brief introductory lesson to Skyrim and the rebellion I accidentally became part of. Although I knew most of the details already, hearing the Stormcloak point of view certainly put some of the events preceding the upheaval into a different light. This is something to ponder another day, however. I made a note of the large burial complex above Riverwood, it could be interesting to see some of the local archaeological sites at one point.
Gerdur, Ralof’s sister, took us in for the time being. I should probably try and make my way to Markarth soon, but I owe these people quite the favour. While my new friend has to lay low, I am able to head to Whiterun, the capital of this hold to inform the ‘Jarl’ of the dragon attack. While I loath politics, this province is so very different from what I am used to, coming from High Rock and Cyrodiil, I cannot help but be curious about the structure of this society; and Jarls seem to be at the top of the political food chain. Sure, I have made some stupid decisions but one more tiny detour cannot hurt.
I better get some shut eye, everyone else seems to be asleep too.
Whiterun… Sounds lovely. I would not mind to be part of a more subdued adventure from now on.
***
As she finishes the first entry there is no denying her surprise. “These are the words of the bane of the dragon they call the World Eater? Not exactly what I expected.”