Guards
envy me and my adventuring ways, but still suspect me (with reasonable
justification) stealing all that's not bolted down. Ladies love me
and give me better prices, jarls want to be me. Shopkeepers
count me among their dear friends. I have spoken with gods, and killed
demons.
The
Forsaken quiver in their furry boots when I visit their nasty plateaus.
After I've killed them, I strip their bodies, but leave the weakly enchanted weapons
they gave their lives to protect. I use the hearts of their shaman in
potions that I will never use.
I
have one house, in the first city that made me a thane, with a housecarl, who
I've never touched, though she clearly wants to jump my bones, which I have
collected from dragons, so many that I have lost track of where I stashed
them.
When
I've uncovered massive ruins, filled with enemies, I summon forth a Dremora
Lord, and listen to my enemies pitiful screams as he cleaves through their feeble
iron armor with one swing of his great sword and then cackles "There could
be no other end!"
In
my early days of adventuring, I considered myself quite the chef, but now I
sometimes go weeks without eating, my only sustenance life-sustaining potions,
and spells that draw on my deep magical reservoirs. My last true meal was
raw horse meat, eaten after my mount was side-swiped by a bear. I killed
the bear and ate its claws, because I could.
I
am the greatest smith in the land. Give me two ingots of iron and I will
give you legendary dagger that outshines your family heirlooms. My
daedric armor is the fortress I walk within. Sometimes, during battle
with lesser foes, including everyone, but the strongest of ancient and blood
dragons, I lose the will to fight. In the old days, the Falmor pushed me
to my limit. Now I admire the strange beauty of their glowing underground
lair as they hack ineffectually at my armor, till, sometimes after hours of
exertion, they die as a result of many reflected blows.
My
enchanted jewelry is even more powerful than it is beautiful. I travel
with a pocket full of diamond rings and necklaces. They make me stronger,
quieter, and healthier. With the right accessories, I can
unlock the most secure chests, or kill giants with one swing of my
life-absorbing sword. Even so, I yearn for more power. The ability
to put two enchantments on a single item alludes me.
My
book collection rivals the library at the Mages College (where I am the arch
mage). I possess rare books, skill books, and books of spells I've
already learned. Some books tell stories of ancient weapons that I have
found, improved upon, and sold for a pittance to innkeepers or the travelling
khajit.
I've
discovered hundreds of ruins, forts, and homesteads. I've completed
dozens of quests, but still have so much to do. Dragons plague the land,
and Stormcloaks, Empire, and Thalmor troops all engage in petty diplomatic and
war games that bore me to tears. I could walk into the cities of their
egotistical rulers and slaughter all who challenge me.
Sometimes
I've even tried, but while their guards fall before me, like the wheat I swipe
from farmers' fields as they watch, their rulers cannot be killed, and merely
groan, collapsed on the floor for several moments, before rising to continue
their limp-wristed dagger stabs. Sometimes in these fits of rage, I will
eventually resign myself to their Sisyphean attacks: I am the stone, destined
to always roll back to a time before, as even in death, I awaken on the
threshold of my rage, with opportunity to begin again, the killed guards return
as though I slaughtered them in a dream that I have just woken from.
Despite
these moments of ennui, I still find much joy in the world. There's so
much to learn. Even when I became a legendary alchemist, I still did not
know the mysterious 3rd and 4th properties of many of my herbs and
reagents. Sometimes, I'll even come across an ingredient I've never
encountered, like ground mammoth tusk, or wisp wrappings. Even so, a
few months ago I made the choice to give up all I'd learned of
Alchemy, and thus redirect some of my mental energy to other endeavors.
It
was a necessary sacrifice, because I find that it's harder and harder for me to
reach the epiphanic revelations that seemed to accompany every day of my
early career. I have become comfortable with my best skills, and now must
become a master of all the disciplines I'd previous despised or ignored.
My
skin has grown soft beneath my heavy armor, and I feel naked and slick as
a slaughterfish when I break out my light armor. The great sword is slow
and heavy, despite my strong hands. Though I like to pilfer, rarely have
I picked the pockets of the towns people. What could they have to
interest me? Their amethyst wedding ring? The key to their
depressing hovel? Despite this doubt, and a faint distaste at this sort of behavior, it is a skill I've ignored, and
thus I have resolved to see if it could be of any future use.
Maybe
this is a sign that the final chapter of my adventuring remains to be
written. Wearing my amulet of Mara, I've discovered women across the
region, attractive, capable women, of a variety of races, are more than willing
to become my wife and tend my home (when they're not collecting bear hides, or
working their forge).
Perhaps
even, it is time to put a stop to these dragon attacks, and settle down in
1-9 cities with 1-9 wives. At the same time, I've heard Ulfric and the
jarls speak of the tradition of Kingsmoot, and I wonder, with all the dragon
souls I've absorbed, am I not meant for some greater purpose?
