Whiterun. Sithis, I’m still only in Whiterun. Every time, I think I’m going to wake up back in Elswyr.
I had said before that the magic map was asking me if I wished to “Fast Travel” to Bleak Falls Barrow. I had first said no, but considering my predicament atop a high mountain ledge outside a one-way tunnel, I didn’t see many alternatives.
So I touched the symbol for Bleak Falls Barrow as I’d done before, and once again it asked, “Fast Travel to Bleak Falls Barrow?” This time I said yes, and suddenly everything went black. I saw a vision of a frost troll floating in the black void, and some words told me that it was the most fearsome of its kind. Very trippy.
Soon I came to, and found myself at the very bottom of the stairs leading to the barrow. As luck would have it, my horse just happened to be right there as well. I was unhappy that it had not waited by the door, but it all worked out for the best.
Like most Khajiit I knew, I was never one for magic, except for the occasional healing potion or maybe a ring that gave me a slight edge, so all of this was new and disturbing to me. I was meddling with forces I did not understand, and I had not even meant to do so. I was also concerned by the tomb that failed to keep its inhabitants dead. You had one job, tomb.
I needed to speak with someone about magic, but wasn’t sure where to go. Not knowing else who to ask, I sought out my old friends Hadvar and Alvor. Maybe one of them would have some ideas. I got back on my horse, and even though it was only a few minutes away, I wanted to try out my newly discovered toy once more. I tapped my finger against the little building marked Riverwood. When it asked “Fast Travel to Riverwood?” I said “Yes,” again.
The next thing I knew – after blacking out and more seemingly random visions – I was on the edge of Riverwood, standing next to my horse. I had no memory of dismounting, though I did find it curious that my horse had “fast traveled” with me. I looked up at the sky, and saw that the moon had moved quite the distance in the span of what should have been seconds. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d say two hours had passed since I touched the map. So it wasn’t really “fast” travel at all, simply unconscious travel. This was disappointing, and I made a mental note to not use this method unless absolutely necessary. If I wanted to go unconscious and wind up somewhere new, I’d just go find that Skooma dealer.
I passed by one of the Whiterun guards I had escorted here, and he sighed, saying, “Just a few more hours and I can crawl under some furs.” I eyed him warily and gave him plenty of space. I then entered Alvor’s house, hoping not to wake them.
Even though the sky gave me the impression it was well after midnight, Alvor’s kid Dorothe was still awake and wandering around the house. So was Alvor. However, as soon as they saw me, they both went to their respective beds and went to sleep, which I couldn’t help but think was a tad rude. Not that I was the shining beacon of politeness, showing up in the middle of the night.
Hadvar, for his part, was over by the fire, stirring some food that past experience had taught me he would neither offer nor share. I went up to talk to him, and he reiterated his suggestion before that I head to Solitude. I asked him what the deal was with the towels obsession Alvor had mentioned the other day. He replied, “I guess that wasn’t such a big deal Elswyr in the Empire.” No, we’d never heard of such a thing. “But here it’s caused a lot of resentment. Native son and all that?” Native son? What was he talking about?
He continued, “Even I’ll admit it hasn’t been the Empire’s finest hour, but it wasn’t like the Emperor had any choice, did he?” I don’t know, if people want to have a towel fetish, that should be their own business, in my opinion. “If he hadn’t signed the peace treaty with the Thalmor, they would have destroyed the Empire - then where would Skyrim be?” I had no answer. I assumed it was rhetorical.
“That’s the part that Ulfric’s supporters always conveniently forget about,” he added, still stirring the stew. He was clearly toying with me. “Unless the Empire stands together, the Thalmor will destroy us all.” This Thalmor sounded bad, though I still did not know who it was. Nor did I know what they had against towels. Besides, I thought the Empire had fought the Aldmeri Dominion? Like that Altmer soldier I passed the other day. Maybe his name was Thalmor? He did seem rather bossy.
Anyway, the conversation ended somewhat abruptly there, and he continued stirring the pot. And even though I was sure he was faking, I let Alvor sleep. I quietly slipped out the door and headed down to the inn, which was open all hours of the night, presumably.
Ognar was still at the counter, tending bar. As far as I could tell he never slept. But then I’d never stuck around long enough to know for certain. What’s-her-gripe was currently asleep, so this was my chance to ask Ognar some more questions. Maybe he could direct me to someone knowledgable about magic.
I asked him, “Where can I learn more about magic?”
He frowned, which was no different from his default expression, and said, “Looking to blow yourself up?” Um, no? “I hear that’s what magic does to you. There’s a college in Winterhold that teaches magic,” then he chuckled and added, “unless that blew up, too.” This was not helpful information at the moment.
Then he added, almost as an afterthought, “Be a lot safer to have the Jarl’s Wizard teach you a thing or two.” Wait, the Jarl has a wizard? That’s the sort of answer I was looking for, you frustrating man.
I turned to head out the door, just as a man announced, “This is an ode to Skyrim’s staunch protectors, the Imperials.” And then he began to play his lute and sing a song in a minor key. It sounded both inspirational and depressing at the same time.
I walked up to him to make a request, when suddenly his chipper demeanor disappeared and he angrily said, “Faendal thinks he can woo Camilla away from me? She’s already mine, I keep telling him.”
That’s great, I thought. “Can I make a request?”
“Sure!” he said. “What can I do for you?”
I smiled, and asked, “Can you take a break?”
He took that in stride. “Sure! My voice can use the rest.”
As can my ears, I thought to myself. And then he walked out the door. I had just wanted him to stop playing, I hadn’t expected him to leave. Perhaps he takes he breaks at home? At any rate, I don’t know why I made him stop, except that it was late and I was the only one in the place. I didn’t like being oded at.
Regardless, I left the inn, and rode off to Whiterun to meet with the Jarl’s wizard, whoever that was. It was a dark and stormy night, but that was not the fault of my writing. As I rode down the path past the bridge, I spotted a wolf chasing an elk, only to become distracted by my horse. I could not abide with having a wolf pester my horse, so I dismounted and shot the wolf point-blank with a steel arrow and magic bow, which in hindsight was a little bit overkill. I made a note to just use my claws next time.
As I rode further along, I saw the creepy hooded Khajiit who spoke in riddles, and next to him was… could be it be? Yes! It was an orc! I had so wanted to meet an orc in person, and this was my chance, finally. I dismounted, and went to greet him, making sure my weapons were sheathed, as I’d heard stories.
“I am waiting for a good death,” he said plainly. Well. That was an interesting greeting. Perhaps it made more sense in the Orc tongue?
“A good death?” I asked, to make sure I’d heard correctly.
“Yes,” he confirmed, “Were I to simply lay down and die, it would not please Malacath.”
Still not clear, I asked, “Why do you wish to die?”
“My time has come,” he said. “I am old. Too old to become chief. It would be wrong for me to take wives at this age. So I will die.” Bit melodramatic, this guy. “Malacath has given me a vision of a glorious death. I am to wait here until it finds me.”
I looked at the surrounding clearing. We were next to a river rapids, just uphill from the meadery. I wasn’t sure this was the ideal spot for any sort of death, glorious or otherwise.
He gestured around him, as if sensing my confusion. “As you can see, it has not yet arrive.” His sentence was punctuated by a rumbling of thunder. Rain continued to pelt both of us. It was very dramatic. And also awkward, because most of my conversations were such, these days.
Not sure what else to say, I offered, “You don’t look that old to me. Certainly you’re still a strong, capable warrior.”
He seemed to like that. “Indeed… one should find his death while he can still consider himself a proper man.” I wisely chose not to point out that most of the people of Tamriel did not consider orcs or Khajiit proper ‘men’. We of course knew otherwise, but it was hard to breach widespread ignorance.
“We orc men are not like these Nords and Imperials, who carry on until they are grey and feeble and their hair falls out.” He should tell this to a Nord or Imperial, I imagine they could accomodate him that glorious death.
But his speech wasn’t over. “To cling to something past its usefulness is unseemly. How much more so when that thing is you?” Right, because at your funeral everyone will be marvelling at how you didn’t cling past your usefulness.
“It seems there’s no talking you out of this,” I said with a resigned shrug. It was a shame, as it was a good shrug and I hated to see it resign so soon.
This made him angry for some reason, as he shouted, “You should leave. I don’t want you scaring off my good death.” Any death that could be scared off by me was probably not as good a death as one might think. It was at this point that I noticed the two dead sabre cats next him, and it was a good thing the storm had already wet my armor. Without another word, I got back on my horse and went on my way.
I arrived back in Whiterun at the crack of dawn, only to find the blacksmith woman already back at the forge. I asked her, “Do you work the forge all day?”
She said, “Aye, that I do. I have to! I hope to be as good as Jorland Grey-Mane some day. In fact, I just finished my best piece of work. It’s a sword; I made it for the Jarl, Balgruuf the Greater. It’s a surprise, and I don’t even know if he’ll accept it, but…“
Look, I have enough second-guessing of my own to contend with. Before I could say anything, she said, “Listen, could you take the sword to my father, Proventus Avenicci? He’s the Jarl’s Steward.” Ah yes, the pajama man. “He’ll know the right time to present it to him.”
I almost said “Another time, maybe,” but I was going that way, and maybe someone would pay me something, so I said, “Sure, I’ll do it.” She thanked me, and handed her best piece of work ever to an escaped convict. What can I say? I have a face that people trust until it’s too late.
I sheathed the sword and headed for Dragonsreach. I passed a guard who said, “Brigands I can handle. But this talk of dragons? World’s gone mad, I say.” I didn’t care, but neither could I disagree. I kept walking.
As I neared the market square, an old man was yelling at an old woman. “Foolish woman! You know nothing! Nothing of our struggles! Our suffering!” C’mon, people, isn’t it still a bit early for this?
“Nothing? And what of my son, hmm?” Clearly the old woman could dish it out as well as she could take it. “What of Thorald? Is he nothing? So don’t talk to me about suffering!” Yes, everyone needs to walk a mile in everyone’s shoes. Except I don’t wear shoes, on acount of my enormous feet. Boots seem fine, however.
A second, younger man joined the strange argument. “Your son chose his side, and he chose poorly. And now he’s gone. Such is the way of war. The sooner you accept his loss, the better.” I wondered which side he was on, so I could know not to choose it, if it ever came to that.
“I will never accept his death!” snapped the old woman. She clearly wasn’t backing down. Good on her. “My son still lives. I feel it in my heart.” That might be taking it too far, however. “So tell me, Battle-Borns. Where is he? Where are you holding my Thorald?” Wait, Thorald? Wasn’t that the guy who hates towels? I might be misremembering. No, that was Thalmor. Such confusing names, hard to keep track.
The old man laughed, and said, “Do you believe this old hag? ‘Holding him’? Why, I’ve got him in my cellar! He’s my prisoner!” Wait, was that a confession? Then he growled, “Face it, cow! Your stupid son is dead! He died a Stormcloak traitor, and you… you best keep your mouth shut before you suffer the same.”
I decided I did not like this Battle-Born man.
The other man turned to him and said, “Come on, father. There’s nothing more to be said here.” That’s where you’re wrong, you son of an old man. I walked up to the old man to give him a piece of my mind, in the back of which was a tiny voice saying this might be a stupid thing.
Without so much as a hello, he introduced himself. “Olfrid, patron of thet great clan Battle-Born. A name I’m sure you know well.” I did not.
I asked, “What was that argument all about?”
He folded his arms and said, “Just one more thing the Grey-Manes want to blame on others. It’s not my fault they turned their backs on the Empire, or their mule of a son raised arms against it. And yet, they want to heap the fault on my family’s good name? Bah.”
Trying a diplomatic approach, I asked “Why the feud with Clan Grey-Mane?”
He replied, “Money, you laggard! What else? It always comes down to coin.” I really did not like this man. “The Gray-Manes have deep roots in Whiterun, but so do we. The difference is, we’re rich, ha-ha! And Vignar hates it.” I made a mental note to find out where he lived. “Oh, and they hate it, too. All their big talk of pride and honor, and what have they got to show for it? Beggar’s rags and stale bread.” He said it with such a sneer, it was all I could do to keep my claws in check.
“We’ve got the same pride, the same honor, and we’ve got wealth. No wonder they envy us!” Honor. You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.
“You watch yourself out there,” he said, as he turned to leave. Right back at you, Mister Braggy-pants.
I considered talking to the old woman, to get her side of things, but then I caught myself. I was getting too distracted by old orcs, and old ladies. Even that bard seemed to want me to care about that Faendal person. The fact that I even remember that was distressing enough. All of this was distracting me from my goal of talking to this court wizard, so that I could get rid of the curse dragon claw, so that I could cross the border out of Skyrim and head back to Elswyr. Nothing else mattered.
But even as I said this, I remembered I was going to deliver a sword. Hopefully I would get some recognition for it. Unlike for finding the claw, or bringing the soldiers, or freeing the man from spiderwebs.
With a sigh, I ran up the stairs yet again to Dragonsreach, ignoring the shouting man in the upper courtyard. I entered the giant building, went up the wooden stairs, and approached pajama man with the sword. Hopefully he would not think I was attacking him.
As I approached, he said. “I serve Jarl Balgruuf as Steward.” Yes, yes, I know. here.
“I have a sword for you, from your daughter.” I handed him the sword.
He sounded oddly puzzled and said, “From Adrianne?” I hadn’t asked her name, but how many blacksmithing daughters could he have in this town?
Suddenly recognition blossomed on his face like a fungus. “Ah, this must be that weapon for the Jarl.” I raised a sarcastic “Ya think?” eyebrow at him.
“Poor girl,” he said rather cryptically. “So eager to prove herself.” You say that like it’s a bad thing. “I’ll present it to Balgruuf when the mood is… agreeable.” Yeah, wouldn’t want to tick him off by interrupting his slouching session for a heartfelt one-of-a-kind gift that was the best thing she’d ever made. I was developing a callous on my tongue from how often I had to bite it.
“Thank you,” he said, seeming sincere enough. “Please, take these few coins. For services rendered.” Don’t mind if I do. Never mind that I could have just sold the sword for a few hundred septims with no one the wiser.
He gave me twenty septims. If you’re keeping score, that could get me one third of a bottle of Honningbrew Mead, something that I’d gotten a free bottle of from a random manic reveler in the woods just the other day. Ah well. I guess this would buy me two days of having women watching me sleep. Which I admit sounds weird if you don’t remember my entry from before.
He then said, “Enjoy your visit to Dragonsreach.” I would not say such things if I were him.
I turned to ask someone about the court wizard, when suddenly the Jarl called out to me, saying, “Well done, you sought me out of your own initiative.” Not strictly true, but… “You’ve done Whiterun a service, and I won’t forget it.”
FINALLY some recognition. Was that so hard?
“Here,” he said, “Take this as a small token of my esteem.” And handed me some studded imperial armor, which was nice of him, though looked a bit cold for this climate, in my opinion. Hopefully he wouldn’t take offense if I sold it.
And then came the strings attached. “There is… one other thing you could do for me… suitable for someone of your… ‘particular’ talents, perhaps.” What was he implying?
“Come, let’s go find Farengar, my Court Wizard. He’s been looking into a matter related to these dragons and… rumors of dragons.” And hopefully dragon claws, yes? Finally something was going in the direction I wished. Or so I thought.
(That is my way of foreshadowing. Because this was getting long. Next time you will find out why I am still in Whiterun.)
With a resigned shrug that I fear will become my legacy,
Steve The Khajiit
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