Hey there, Journal, how’s it going? Steve the Khajiit here. Just woke up from a much-needed nap, and I’m now prepared to tell you what happened when I followed the soldiers to Riverwood (after one of them fined me and took back all the supplies I’d diligently solen.) I had thought the trip would be awkward, but as it turned out, I was worried about nothing. Because when I went through the gate to follow them? They were gone. It was like they had disappeared or something.
I went over to the Khajiit camp to ask if they’d seen some soldier happen by, but the Khajiit camp was gone, too. This was a bit eerie. Just as I was about to wonder if some sort of supernatural event had taken place, I saw way off in the distance, the soldier who’d arrested me, running up the path by the local meadery. At least, I assume it was him; they all look alike from a distance (and up close).
I decided to catch up with them, but they were running rather fast. Eventually I did catch up, out of breath, as they entered Riverwood and stopped running. I walked up to one of them to ask what the hurry was, but he just replied, “No lollygagging.” I’m not even sure what that means, but his tone wasn’t friendly, so I didn’t ask for an explanation.
I despondently plucked a nearby thistle, just because I could, and then walked up to the blacksmith area where Alvor was busy scraping a deerhide or some such thing. I cleared my throat to get his attention, planning to tell him about the small contingent of soldiers who’d arrived, but before I could get a word out, he said, “Take what you need, friend. Within reason, of course.” Yep, already did that, but thank you.
In what seemed to be an increasingly common occurrence, I couldn’t come up with the right words to tell him what was up. This was very frustrating, as it should have been just as simple as writing in this journal. So why could I not say it? Instead, I found myself asking, “What do you think about the war?” As if I cared.
He grumbled, “People are rightly stirred up about the damn Thalmor being allowed to roam around arresting people, just for worshipping towels!”
I did not know who this Thalmor person was, but he or she did sound unreasonable. Since when is an obsession with towels a crime? I make a point of always knowing where my towel is. (I wear it like a loincloth, but that’s more than you needed to know, I imagine.)
He continued. “But was it worth tearing Skyrim apart, and maybe destroying the Empire? No. Ulfric will have much to answer for in the end. Nords have always supported the Empire. And the Empire has always been good for Skyrim.”
Yeah, yeah, long live Skyrim, but I was curious about what he’d said earlier, so I asked, “Why are the Thalmor allowed to arrest people for worshipping towels?” It seemed harmless enough, after all, if a bit weird.
“It’s from that treaty that ended the Great War, remember? When the Emperor was forced by the Thalmor to outlaw towels worship.” Thalmor sounded like a pretty influential guy. Maybe he could get me a ride back to Elswyr if I promised to hate towels?
“We didn’t pay much attention to it when I was a boy… everyone still had their little shrine to towels.” Ah yes, the decorative ones that you’re not allowed to use.
“But then, Ulfric and his Sons of Skyrim started agitating about it, and sure enough the Emperor had to crack down… dragging people off in the middle of the night… one of the main causes of this war if you ask me.” This fight over towels seemed silly to me, but he seemed worked up about it, so I dropped the subject. I asked him if he needed any help, and the next thing I knew, I was making weapons and armor for him, though he said I could keep it. Perhaps they weren’t as nice as I thought they were.
Anyway, I was annoyed that I couldn’t get Alvor to acknowledge that I’d done as he’d asked, just as I was annoyed that Lucan wouldn’t ask me about the claw, and come to think of it, the Jarl didn’t exactly thank me for giving him news, either. Seemed like an awful lot of ungrateful people, really. Why was I sticking my neck out for any of them, come to think of it? I was minding my own business outside of Skyrim, when they knocked me out and dragged me here against my will. I have no part in their petty squabbles about linens and things.
I had made up my mind. It was time for me to leave this cold, wretched but beautiful land behind. I would return the way I came, on the road south of Helgen. But first I needed transportation, preferably a horse. I’m not a big fan of horseback-riding, but I was even less a fan of having to walk all the way back home. I also didn’t want to be branded a horse thief, as I’ve seen what they do to them here. So I would have to acquire one legitimately. I remembered that I had seen a stable outside Whiterun, and figured that was as good a place as any to check.
(I stopped in to the Sleeping Giant Inn, but that lady Delphine was still complaining to Ognar about their stale ale situation, so I left just as quickly. I’m glad I didn’t have to deal with her.)
On my way to the stables, I stopped in to Honninbrew Meadery, which I figured would have fresher drinks than The Sleeping Giant, and I was greeted by a man who had the same raspy voice as Lucan. What were the odds? He asked, “Can I help you?”
I ignored him, and walked up to the blond man behind the counter, who said, “If you need to sample some of the finest mead in Skyrim, you’re in the right place.” I indicated that I indeed needed to sample some of the finest mead in Skryim. However, rather than giving me samples, he said, “If you’re looking to purchase any mead, speak to the owner, Sabjorn.”
I turned to the latest raspy man with the broom, whom I’d thought was maybe Sabjorn, but it was not, as he said, “You need something to do, or do you just enjoy slowing down the hard-working folk?” Not the best customer service ever.
So by process of elimination, I turned to the bald man sitting on a stool, who greeted me with “Welcome. I’m the owner and proprietor of Honninbrew Meadery.”
Great, now we were getting somewhere. “What have you got for sale?”
“Take a look,” he said, and proceeded to let me explore his pockets. You wouldn’t believe what all he had – venison chops, seared slaughterfish, roasted leg of goat, rabbit haunches, salmon steaks, cooked beef… oh, and some bottles of mead. Which were… 62 gold?! Do you know how many bottles of cheap wine I could buy for that? There’s no way it was worth more than 20. Unfortunately I was no good at haggling outside of an Elswyr bazaar. I decided to pass for now, as I had to save my money for a horse.
I started heading for the stables, when I almost ran into a small kid, who said, “It’s no fun getting pushed around all the time.” He looked vaguely familiar for some reason. “Having troubles?” I asked.
“Yes,” said the doughy-faced child, “Braith bullies me all the time. All the elders think I’m a milk-drinker ‘cause I can’t fight. Nobody understands!”
Clearly they do not, if they think drinking milk prevents one from fighting. I still drink milk at every opportunity. What can I say? It does a body good.
The whiny milk-drinker continued, “If you can get Braith to leave me alone, I’ll be your best friend. Forever!” Um, no thanks, kid. “I’ll pay you, too! My whole life savings!” On second thought… “Two whole septims!”
Um. Right. I don’t think you can buy milk on that allowance. Plus it didn’t seem right for me to get involved, so I offered him some free advice. “Grow a backbone, kid.” I felt a tad hypocritical even as I said it, as I was not the most backbony of children at his age. I’m still not, really.
He sighed and lowered his head. “Oh, okay. I didn’t think you’d help me. Nobody ever does.” Argh! Fine. “I’ll talk to this girl.”
He brightened up. “Oh, good. She’ll listen to you, I just know it.” Yes, why wouldn’t she listen to a random Khajiit adult? Makes perfect sense. I was already regretting giving in. I was not being the best role model in that sense.
He then gave me his two septims and wandered off to wherever he was going. I had no idea where this Braith girl was, other than in Whiterun, and it didn’t seem right to just question every child in town. That’d be a good way to get the town guard on me again. Then again, he didn’t exactly give me a timeline. As long as I eventually said something to her if I ever met her, I was fulfilling my end of the bargain. With that flimsy rationalization in place, I walked up to the stables, where a creepy handlebar-moustached man stood against a post, his arms folded.
“I’ve got the fleetest steeds in all of Skyrim,” he said without preamble. Consider me sold already.
I didn’t want to seem like an easy mark, however, so I thought I’d act discerning. “How old are your horses?” I asked.
“None of them’s older than nine,” he replied, “and the youngest is six.”
I nodded thoughtfully. Was this a reasonable age for horses? I did not know. I cut to the chase. “Can I buy a horse?”
His arms remain folded as he said, “I suppose so. Got one all saddled if you’ve got the coin.”
“Here is my offer, one thousand gold,” I said, handing him literally all my gold, which wasn’t quite a thousand, but hopefully by the time he could count it all, I’d be long gone.
Without batting an eye, he said, “Then come back when you’ve got that much.” Ouch! He was good. He was like one of those math savants you hear about on trivia nights at the tavern.
“On second thought, I’ll walk,” I said, and turned away as he said, “Suit yourself.” I did suit myself, thank you very much. I don’t need anyone else suiting me.
As much as I didn’t relish re-entering Whiterun, I needed to sell off some junk in order to have enough money to get the horse. And since the earlier guard had taken everything I had that was stolen, all that remained was all the legitimate, non-stolen goods that I had lawfully removed from all the people I’d killed. I ran up to the gate, plucking some lavender on the way, in case I ran into anyone stupid enough to buy ditch lavender.
As I entered the town, I saw the blacksmith woman still outside, leaning against a post with her arms folded, as seemed to be the popular trend among the hard-working folk of Whiterun, not that I was in any position to judge. (Though I had just made a dagger and helmet for Alvor not long ago.) She said something about her father being the Steward of Dragonsreach, which I did not care about one bit, and using my most convincing sales tactics of shoving various items in her face until she gave me coins for them, I eventually sold off all the weapons and armor except for what I was wearing.
Yet I still didn’t have enough for the horse, so I went on a flower-picking spree, found the nearest alchemist, ignored her nonsense about The Rattles, and sold her all the stuff I’d been hoarding since Hadvar cut me loose in Helgen’s Keep days ago, until FINALLY I broke a thousand, with eighteen to spare.
Careful not to spill any of the septims, I hurried back out of town and back to the stables, where the stablemaster had given up his post-leaning duties for the most relaxed option of sitting in a chair, staring at the ground. Glad to see he strives for variety in his daily routine.
I handed him the thousand coins, which he immediately trusted that they were all there, and said, “You’ve got a deal. It’s the one with the saddle.” I wonder if I could have gotten a saddle-less one for cheaper, but it was too late, I had already paid for the saddle. And I saw no indication that I could sell it back to him. Guess I should have checked with him first, but no matter. As long as it got me to the border, that was all I cared about.
I went over to the stables, looking for the one with the saddle. As it turned out, there was only one horse, so he was being a bit of a jackass with his clarification. But I was the proud owner of a nine or possibly six-year-old horse, so I let it go.
I mounted up and took off on my unnamed horse, which for now I would just call Steve’s horse. The world took on a different perspective from this high off the ground. As I urged my horse to gallop toward Helgen by way of Riverwood, I felt somewhat self-conscious. Being a member of a so-called “Beast Race” myself, I felt guilty riding the horse, an intelligent creature whose only shortcoming was an inability – or perhaps merely unwillingness – to speak.
I was halfway to Riverwood when I saw a lone Khajiit in a hood standing by the side of the road. It had been a while since I’d seen one of my kind, and for all I knew he could be hitch-hiking, and there was room for one more on my horse, if it came to that, so I dismounted and walked up to introduce myself. As is so often the case, however, I didn’t get the chance, as he immediately began to speak.
“M’aiq wishes you well.”
That was nice of him. I went to return the compliment, but was cut off yet again with “Nords armor has lots of fur. This sometimes makes M’aiq nervous.” Yes! I had noticed the same thing! Suddenly I realized I was wearing fur armor, and felt bad. I was about to apologize but, you guessed it, he interrupted me once more. “Some say Alduin is Akatosh. Some say M’aiq is a Liar. Don’t you believe either of those things.”
I had no idea what he meant, but clearly I was getting nowhere with my brethren, nor did he seem inclined to hitch a ride, so I made a last-ditch effort to wish him farewell. I needn’t have bothered, as he got in the first (and last word) by saying, “M’aiq was soul trapped once. Not very pleasant. You should think about that once in a while.” Okay, then. I got back on my horse and rode off, leaving my would-be compatriot in the dust.
I rode through Riverwood, ignoring the heartwarming sight of Alvor teaching his daughter how to make things. I tried to repress my disappointment as his ignoring his promise of indebtedness to me for bringing soldiers to Riverwood, and I rode on down the path along the river, watching the fish swimming uphill, and feeling a sort of empathy with them. Except they were presumably doing that to spawn, and I had no such motivation at this time.
After a while I reached the bend in the road with the Standing Stones. I dismounted and looked at them again. I remembered Hadvar’s comment about “taking charge of my own fate.” Well, that’s what I was doing, Hadvar! I was going home, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop me. With that, I mounted up again, and headed toward Helgen.
As I passed Helgen, I began to recognize the path that I’d been on in the wagon, when I had regained consciousness what seemed like an eternity ago but had been only a few days. I could just follow it back to the border, and… then I came to a fork in the road. And I did not know which way led to the border. I got out my magical map whose origins I still could not explain, but it showed nothing of interest south of Helgen. As far as I could make out, either route could lead to the border.
I could have flipped a coin, but I only had a few septims after acquiring my certified pre-owned horse, so instead I went to the right, as it was slightly less mountainous and foreboding. Regardless, I felt very open and exposed on the road. It was hard to stealthily ride a horse.
The path started getting snowier and rockier, and I slowly began to realize that there’s no way the wagon came this way. But I had come this far, so I could only hope that all roads led to the border, or something.
The sun started to set, and the cliffs around me made disturbing shadows, which I suppose the bandit party’s cue to leap out, axes at the ready. Fearing for my newly purchased horse’s life, I kicked it into a full gallop, hoping to lose them.
The good news was, I did lose them, though not before my horse got an arrow in the nostril. The bad news was, I may have lost them because I’d stumbled into an evil-looking castle in the middle of the forest. Which didn’t seem like an improvement.
Tune in next entry to see if I died!
Sincerely,
Steve
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