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Morndas, 15th of Last Seed, 4E 201I will begin as I begin every new journal; this is property of one Garrett Llerios, and if you are not some future iteration of myself, then you will find within these pages little more than a fiery death (on account of the immolation rune inscribed on the other side of this page). I suggest you read no further.Good. With that out of the way, I shall note that the time is close to noon and that I am currently incredibly irate with my twin brother. This does neither of us any good, as he is dead, according to the letter that reached me this morning. I am now on the next ship out bound for Solstheim, and from there I shall make port at Windhelm, in Skyrim, thus breaking a promise I have held for all my life- that I should never again set foot in those wretched streets. Having grown up in the ‘Grey Quarter’, I have had quite enough of the place, after all.I suppose that is the main source of my irritation with him. We are both born thieves; the only difference between us is that I got out of the game, and he did not.I suppose I made the wiser choice, in the end. After all, I am alive, and he is not.… ah, Dolmyn, why did you ever choose to stay? Middas, 17th of Last Seed, 4E 201I find myself once again within the walls of my childhood hometown, and I have never before felt such a strong urge to leave. Even when I was young and only dreaming of the outside world, it was easier to be content with what I had; I did not know, then, what I was missing.There are few fond memories of this place. I will ensure my stay is short.Tomorrow, I begin the journey to Helgen. The letter I received states that that is where Dolmyn died, in a dragon attack of all things. I find it difficult to believe, and so I have chosen to investigate myself. I am not sure why, save for some feeling of… duty, perhaps. Responsibility. S’wit or not, he was, after all, still my brother.From Helgen, I will go to Riverwood, to speak with Alvor- the blacksmith, and Hadvar’s next of kin, Hadvar being the Imperial soldier that Dolmyn supposedly died helping escape the dragon attack. I believe in the dragon more than I believe that pack of lies; my brother never liked much of anybody, especially soldiers.More and more, I wonder what really happened. I suppose tomorrow I shall know.Perhaps I might see about appropriate travel gear, as well; what I have is little more than sturdy clothes and a single sharp- but poor quality- dagger. I was not expecting to do more than tend my brother’s affairs in the city and then return home. This ‘adventuring’ and ‘investigating’ business is a little spur of the moment.Yes; that makes a fine plan. Stock up on supplies, and then make for Helgen.Perhaps once I am there, I might understand… well, the trouble he got into, if nothing else.Addendum; I purchased a set of hide boots and a steel dagger from the blacksmith, and while not ideal, it will have to do; I feel a strange sense of urgency. Before I left, I… I haven’t an idea what possessed me to do so, but I returned to the streets I once called home. The ‘Grey Quarter’ is exactly as awful as I left it. I stopped by the New Gnisis Cornerclub, perhaps out of some errant curiosity, perhaps because I grew up with Ambarys. I may never know for sure. But it proved an interesting trip; the sujamma is as good as I remember, and Ambarys, it seems, still remembers me well. He gifted me some interesting books and a journal, all of which have some promising leads on certain valuables should I stay in Skyrim that long.I am not yet sure that I will. But at bare minimum… the book mentions a set of armor, dragonscale, if it can be believed. Acquiring it would certainly save me some coin on buying something half-decent in this market. If I can just get to it…Ah, being back here is bad for my health. I haven’t had this urge to adventure and collect interesting items since I left, and it will certainly be the death of me!It is late evening now, and I have found a place to stop for the night… dangerous though it may be. I have much to record, also, because I am a fool and went looking for trouble where I did not need to. I will begin with this;It’s a strange thing, the habits that you do not realize you had forgotten until you find yourself doing them again. Without even thinking about it, I had been picking snowberries on the path, bundling them up in the leaves to sell in packets to the Alchemist for whatever spare Septims I could wheedle out of the man. In hindsight, he likely only bought them out of pity, but now that I find myself here and short on coin, I am reminded again of all the little jobs I would take as a child… I wonder if the Alchemist remembers me?In the midst of these nearly-fond musings, I did not notice that I had walked the distance to Anga’s Mill. I stopped there awhile, to rest and to earn some coin by stacking firewood. A little is better than nothing, though the pay was better than I anticipated, from a Nord to a Dunmer. Additionally, it reminded me that I once had a small cache nearby, behind the waterfall. It was purely nostalgia that led me to search it out, I expected it had long since been emptied by other enterprising children- but to my surprise it was still there, intact as the day I left it. From it I gathered a number of useful things; gems and gold, a few ingots, and a steel battleaxe.I am not skilled with a battleaxe; one might say I am more of a hazard to myself with one than a hazard to any opponents. However, when I stumbled upon the bandit’s camp not much farther along the path, it came in quite handy- as did a few Novice-level fire spells, though in the end it was luck; the camp was near the ruin that held the supposed dragonscale armor, and the draugr guarding it. The bandits and the restless dead did most of the work for me, hacking away at each other.After cleaning up the stragglers (and I have sworn never to use another axe again, they are so terribly unfit for the manner in which I conduct myself) the camp revealed a tidy haul- as did the corpses of it’s former residents.This haul includes weapons made of a strange, dark alloy- including a bow and a set of arrows, which is a fine thing for me, as an archer- several incomplete sets of armor of that same dark alloy, a number of items of jewelry (including an enchanted ring, which does me no good- the enchantment aids Conjuration, and when I do dabble in magic, it is rarely more than Destruction- but will fetch a fair sum), a book on the Nightingales (largely conjecture), and several bottles of alcohol of middling to vile quality.This will all help on my journey, given that most of what coin I brought with me went to paying the Windhelm Guard ‘taxes’, and one does not get far without coin.The real find, however, was the armor in the small burial crypt. I do not know if it is truly dragonscale, but it is certainly scale of a kind I do not recognize, and can turn a blade like nothing I have ever seen before. A valuable find, and one that I feel may be more vital to my travels than I thought. It would seem, then, that this small detour was not entirely in vain.There are new leads, and while I feel the stirrings of an Adventure on the horizon, I have a duty to fulfill first. I go to Helgen- perhaps the leads will still be worth something when I pass this way again. (And I still find it somewhat baffling that I keep thinking as though I plan to stay in this wretched province- and yet, when I look at the night sky, something calls to me.)I have commandeered the bandit’s camp to serve as my shelter for the night, and we now come to the final thing I discovered, and the reason I feel safe enough to sleep here, despite the risk of other bandits returning; a creature I have only seen in books, and even then only as theoretical. If those books can be believed, it is an ‘Elytra Nymph’, of the poorly named ‘Demented’ variety, though given the books theorize a connection to Sheogorath, perhaps not so ill-named. It is certainly an odd thing to look at, as though a mudcrab grew spider legs and began to glow, but really it is not much stranger than the kwama, and I grew used to them with time.I have decided to call it ‘Sherwin’. It seems friendly, if somewhat bizarre, and if I get eaten by it in the night, let whoever finds this journal be sure in the knowledge that I deserved it. (If you can read, creature, know that your name is Sherwin and I ask you not to eat me.)And so I end my first day returned to Skyrim. It feels very strange, and most of the strangeness is in how it does not feel so strange at all.Though, it is certainly a change from the attorney’s work I handled in Blacklight. Turdas, 18th of Last Seed, 4E 201It is morning, and I am not dead!An auspicious start to any day. The sun glints off the snow, blinding, and the wind whistling between the peaks of distant mountains is a song I did not realize I had missed. More and more, I begin to see why he chose to stay here.Today I return the way I came, to the Windhelm stables. I do not know if they accept barter, and even if they do I haven’t enough for a horse, I should think, but perhaps I could travel by carriage. If nothing else, I should like to at least get an idea of the cost of such things, though Sherwin may frighten the horses.Addendum; I had forgotten about the bears.Addendum (I); Well, that was bracing. The bear chased me right to another bandit camp, full of bandits wearing that strange dark armor. According to the journals I retrieved from their bodies (with some difficulty, as I had hidden and let the bear do most of the work, only extracting myself from my hiding place once it was gone) this camp held the leader of this band of thugs; one ‘Svarig’, leader of the ‘Seducers’. Of course; I knew I recognized the armor design. It is not unlike that worn by the denizens of Sheogorath’s realm. But why would a group of bandits be imitating them? Hardly anyone knows of the Seducers, certainly nothing more than rumor, not enough to provide any advantage. The journal mentions a ‘Thoron’; something to look into, perhaps.In a strange stroke of luck, another of the leads Ambarys gave me was nearby; an abandoned carriage. It was long since left to rot, along with the Dwemer machines that attacked it and the corpses of those who tried to defend it, little more than bones now. There was a note, one that mentioned ‘singing’ and a meeting at Whiterun. Considering Whiterun is one of the stops on the way to Helgen, I might even be able to follow this lead further when I arrive, with any luck.I will, however, be taking a more westerly route. To avoid the bears.Addendum (II); I passed by Nightgate Inn, and while it was not night and I could not conscience staying long, I did sell some of my excess provisions, which should provide useful funds for future necessities. Also, I encountered another interesting lead, and now the second mention of the Crimson Dirks; this one mentions the Argonian, ‘Pale-Eyes’, and implies that a Bosmer is working with the guard (and the Thalmor) to ‘turn in’ his former compatriots, the validity of which is questionable. The journal from which I gathered this information was one of an undercover Guardsman, and largely empty, so I copied the contents to a note, attached here.[A note is stitched to the page neatly; whoever did the work is an excellent hand at sewing work. The note is short and to the point, detailing a guard’s work at tracking down whoever is behind the disappearance of several caravans in the area, an investigation that led to the Nightgate Inn and involved the Crimson Dirks.]I question the validity of both this journal and the information within it, but it is nevertheless a useful little scrap of information.Addendum (III); [there is a large ink-stain, as though someone had gotten lost in thought and rested their quill there for too long] I had never seen the plains of Whiterun before.It seems like such a silly thought, when put to paper, but- I had never seen them. Only paintings, or illustrations in books. Not the real thing. Not in person. The paintings… they do not do it justice. It is beautiful. Lush and golden grasses, rustling in waves in the breeze, dotted with vibrant wildflowers and the occasional pile of pale stones, and the city itself rising in the center more like a work of art than a keep; it is… were I an artist, I would try to capture some fragment of this beauty on paper. Alas, that I am not! I shall remember this moment forever.I did more than stare at the view, however. While admiring the land, I spotted another abandoned caravan. This one was different, and yet not different at all. Though they seem to have put up a fight, the barricades did them little good in the end- there were several Dwarven automata there, all shut down, just as the last one, and the remains of the cart were scattered with bones. Their cargo was still there and fairly valuable, but all gems and gold, none of the mysterious ‘artifacts’ that the letters keep mentioning. This one points me towards the city itself; the Hall of the Dead. Something to look into on the way back, perhaps.Addendum (IV- this is really getting ridiculous); As seems to be the norm in Skyrim, I had a strange encounter on the road. A jester by the name of Cicero, transporting a large box that he claims is his deceased mother. I have met some strange people, but none gave me quite the same off-putting vibe as that man did. Perhaps it was how he talked as though she were still among the living. Regardless, I did as he asked and convinced Loreius to fix the wagon’s wheel… mostly because, as I explained it to Loreius, were I the one in that house, I would certainly not want such an individual loitering around my house when night falls.Perhaps the jester is harmless. Perhaps, as my gut says, he is not. Either way, I am glad to be off, and to leave that entire situation behind me.Addendum (it no longer matters); My point was proven true on the short walk from the farm to the Whiterun stables (whose horsemaster was kind enough to allow me to sleep under their shelter).An aside; I am again discomfited, as I lay down to sleep, by how comfortably I have returned to life in Skyrim, even filled with bandits and oddities as it is. In Blacklight, I was- not nobility, I did not have the blood nor breeding for it, but well-respected. Civilized. Now I am here, sleeping not in a fine bed with silk sheets, but in the hay of a stable, writing these words by the light of the moons and a single candle. I am not certain what point I had when I began this paragraph, if I ever had one, but it felt wrong to let this moment of introspection pass unrecorded.Now, to sum up the events of the day; once leaving the Loreius farm, I was near immediately ambushed by a thief, who did not get all the way through demanding my valuables before a Hold Rider- members of a mounted cavalry, in theory, though when I left they were little more than mounted, armed rabble- cantered past, nearly beheading the sorry bastard. I am not certain the Rider even looked back at his act of casual murder. (Being that the thief, like myself, was Dunmeri, I am not certain yet whether I should read anything more into it.)The Rider, however, did not get far before a sabrecat took him off his horse. I scarcely had time to react before the Rider was dead, and the cat making for me. Thankfully, I am far better with a bow than I ever could be with a battleaxe. Left with two dead bodies (three, counting the sabrecat)- and let these words be as much of a confession as I will ever give- I took what valuables there were on both bodies and took off down the road as quickly as I could. I have the vaguest feeling that Sherwin is judging me, but then again, I have no evidence that Sherwin is even sentient, though I have the strong impression that it is at least semi-sentient.One would think that would be enough excitement for one day, but I still had one last item of business before settling down to rest; I spoke with the Caravaneer, the Khajiit Ri’saad. He had been mentioned by name in the journals from the bandits, and when I mentioned this to him as we traded (and it was a relief to be rid of the weight of excess armor!) he complained to me of another gang that continued to cause him grief; the ‘Saints’, the same ones mentioned in the bandit’s journals.The ‘Seducers’, the ‘Saints’, the strange alloy, and the Nymph; I am beginning to suspect devious activities indeed.I only hope it is not what I think. I have no desire in the slightest to go toe to toe with a Daedric Prince.Regardless. It seems that I have made the decision to remain in Skyrim, entirely without conscious choice; I assured Ri’saad that I would handle the bandits, and that though I had my own troubles to tend to, I would search out these bandits immediately after.What have I gotten myself into? Dolmyn always said that I was too kind for my own good. Perhaps he was right.He would laugh if he heard me say such a thing. I never could admit that he was better at many things than I was. Perhaps that’s part of why I left; base, senseless pride. Fredas, 19th of Last Seed, 4E 201He’s really dead. He… no. I should start from the beginning.Shortly after waking early this morning, a courier on horseback passed me by as I traveled the road to my destination. I flagged him down, and asked if he would mind carrying me a distance. As he was carrying only the one letter, he agreed, and left me at Riverwood. I didn’t stop to rest there- something was urging me onwards. So I thanked the courier and continued on my way.I arrived at Helgen in the early afternoon. It certainly appeared to be the target of a dragon attack, or several hundred flame atronachs, but much of the damage had been covered up by the bandits that had moved in- making what had once been someone’s home into nothing more than a shelter against the rain for a band of murderous, duplicitous scum. I may have once been a thief, I may have taken lives, but never have I so callously trod over the remains of someone’s life like that. I regret to confess that it infuriated me, and I hunted down each bandit and left none alive.It is… disquieting, to realize that I am just as good at it as I once was, with the proper instrument in hand.Once Helgen was clear of those pests, I began to search for evidence of my brother. What I found was… certainly evidence. It was his body. Strange, I… I somehow hadn’t thought that he’d really be dead. Some part of me- the childish part, the one that believes in myths and folk tales- thought that I would find him and he’d sit up and yell, and laugh when I shrieked in surprise. ‘I got you again, Garrett!’ he’d say, like he did when we were little.But he didn’t. He wasn’t breathing. I could see his bones where wildlife had begun to feast on his corpse. They hadn’t even bothered to bury him.Lacking the proper facilities, the most I could do for him was a pyre. There was no jar for his ashes, but there was little point in it anyway; there is no family left in Skyrim to mourn him, save myself, and he would hate to be laid in the depths of one of the Temples. I scattered his ashes to the wind, and told him to be free. He… would have been pleased, I hope. I realized that I knew him little, after so much time.I will remain here for a time, mourning. Sherwin is strangely quiet and subdued, as though it realizes… any other time, I would be fascinated. Tonight, I can barely muster the energy to be glad for the silence.My brother… I cannot remember if our last words were cruel, said in anger, or indifferent, on the assumption that we would one day meet again. I cannot decide which would be worse.But it does no good to dwell on it. Tomorrow I will speak to the blacksmith in Riverwood, to learn if he had seen the Imperial that left my brother to rot. He would not have wanted vengeance, my brother, but I have found that grief is for the living, not the dead.Perhaps tomorrow my temper will have cooled. Perhaps not. But for now…“As from the ash you were once shaped, now to the ash you will return.”Goodbye, brother.