Dearest Journal-
Today was a bit… odd. So I thought it best if I start keeping track of events, so that I can look back and remind myself I wasn’t just imagining them. At least, I don’t think I am. But anyone who reads this might think it’s all in my head. Or possibly my spleen. Wherever it is that hallucinations lurk when they’re not manifesting themselves.
It all started, generically enough, with a bout of amnesia. I must have been hit on the head, presumably by my captors. Oh yeah, that was one interesting tidbit, I had captors. I may have experienced memory loss, but I knew captors were not part of my normal everyday routine. I looked around and discovered I was sitting on a rickety wooden horse-drawn wagon heading through a particularly lush forest. Were my head not throbbing in pain, I might have enjoyed the ride. But between that, the rope burns on my wrists, and a total lack of awareness of where I was, I wasn’t in the mood to take in nature.
The scruffy Nord sitting across from me noticed that I’d come to, and started asking me questions. “You were trying to cross the border, right?”
I didn’t answer, because frankly I couldn’t remember. Maybe I was? I don’t know. At the moment, I couldn’t even remember where I was from, or what gender or race I was, which in hindsight was rather strange. Like I said, it was an odd day.
“Ran into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there,” he continued. So I was captured by the Imperials. Not that this information helped me in any way.
The… thief?.. turned to the Nord and said, “Damn you Stormcloaks, Skyrim was fine until you came along.” So I was in Skyrim, apparently. I’d never been to Skyrim before, as far as I knew. As for Stormcloaks, I had no idea what those were, except maybe some nice insulated outerwear.
The thief kept complaining about being caught, and his failed horse heist, none of which concerned me. I was curious about the guy sitting next to me, whose face was half hidden with a bandana or something. But the thief tried to get me on his side, saying, “You there! You and me, we shouldn’t be here.” I agreed with him on that, at least. “It’s these Stormcloaks they want.” Whatever, little man. I just wanted to get home, wherever that was. Or did I? I wasn’t sure now.
The Nord replied, “We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief.” Ah, so one of us was a woman. Was it me? I literally couldn’t remember, and my hands were tied, so I couldn’t, um… check.
The thief turned to question the guy next to me, and that really ticked the Nord off. “Watch your tongue! You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak!” So I guess Stormcloaks were a type of people, and not, as I’d wrongly assumed, winterwear. Good to know. Then he called him “The true high king!”
Lovely, so I was sitting next to some political prisoner who presumably was going to make Skyrim great again. And it sounded like he enjoyed getting high. Not that I had room to judge.
This information impressed – or possibly scared – the thief, because his eyes widened and he said, “The Jarl of Windhelm?” (Now a windhelm definitely sounded like some sort of severe weather gear. I hoped to eventually encounter a member of the Woolycap tribe.) Suddenly the thief was worried about where they were taking us. As if prior to this revelation he thought we were going to be treated to sweet rolls and mead.
The Nord got really grave, no pun intended, and said, “I don’t know where we’re going, but Sovengaard awaits.” I’m not totally up on my Nordic lore, but I was pretty sure that was where good Nords went when they died. Either that or it was the name of a top-secret interrogation blacksite. Which was a weird alternative notion, since I wasn’t sure what that even meant.
The thief – who I’m going to call Sooty, because his face was sooty – started to really freak out, saying, “No! This isn’t happening!” Which, to be fair, I wasn’t sure it was happening either, but it felt real enough, and my dreams usually didn’t have such boring conversation.
And then, as if to belatedly break the ice, the Nord asked the horse thief what village he was from. I think he said he was from “Rowanatkinstead.” I wasn’t paying close attention, because a large walled city/fort was looming in front of us, its gates wide open and welcoming us to our probable doom.
The thief started praying to literally every god who might have been listening. Meanwhile, Gabby the Nord started going on about some girl he knew from there who made the best juniper berry mead. Not that I gave a skeever’s tail.
Some kid was watching the proceedings from his front porch, but when he started asking too many questions, his dad made him go inside. He should have thought of that before they bought a house right across from the chopping block. Oh yeah, that was the sight that greeted us once we were well into what the Nord said was Helgen.
The unsuccessful horse thief asked why we were stopping, and I started to understand why he failed at thievery. He wasn’t the brightest candle in the chandelier, if you get what I mean. Y’know, it’s a bit weird to me that I can speak in such a detached manner about what happened, because at the time I was totally frightened and disoriented, and that feeling didn’t go away long afterward. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
We were escorted out of the wagon, while the Nord quipped, “Mustn’t keep the gods waiting,” which I realize was just chopping block humor, but it made no sense to me, really. The gods had all the time in the world, they could sodding well wait, if you asked me. But nobody was asking me. So I stood in line, while they read names off a list. At the time I wasn’t even sure I’d recognize my name if they called it.
The first name on the list was Jarl Ulfric of Windhelm. I wasn’t sure what he’d done to warrant being arrested and executed, but it must have been something pretty bad. Then I started to wonder what I had done that had gotten me arrested and executed. Surely it wasn’t just for trying to cross the border, right? I mean, it’s not like there was a wall preventing it.
Then they called Braelof of Riverwood, which was the Nord that had talked my ear off the whole time. If by some weird, random miracle I survived this, I would make a concerted effort to not hang out with him. He seemed nice enough, but didn’t know when to shut up.
When they called Lokir of Yoriksdead the wannabe horse thief freaked out, claiming he wasn’t a rebel, and started to run off, saying, “You’re not gonna kill me!” Which… I’m not an expert strategist, but even I know you shouldn’t taunt guards with swords and arrows. I guess he had nothing to lose. Never mind that neither Ulfric nor Braelof had been killed, as such. Maybe we were being given sweetrolls and mead after all?
My thoughts were interrupted by the guard addressing me, saying, “Who are you?” So apparently I wasn’t on their list.
It was a fair question, really. A good question, even. Who was I? I looked down at my arms, and noticed they were furry. I also noticed I had no bosom, so odds are I was a male. A male Khajiit. But they didn’t ask what I was, they clearly could see that, they asked WHO I was. What was my name? And then, like a switch flipped on in my brain, I remembered my legacy, my heritage, and my namesake, all in one fell swoop. I was the tall, muscular, glossy-haired Khajiit known as…
Steve.
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