Journal Entry 1: Riverwood

Turdas, 31st of Last Seed, 4E 201

The past few weeks in Skyrim have been dizzying. I've begun journaling in the hopes it quells my restless mind. 

For about half a year, I'd been a "body guard" for a rich baron in northern Cyrodiil. My job description slowly transitioned more into the realm of hit man, as it always seems to do. Turns out I backed the wrong horse. The baron had made too many enemies with people of power in his vying for his own. The local authorities came down hard on our operation. Unlike the baron, I barely escaped with my life and fled blindly to Skyrim.

It was just my luck that as I snuck across the border an Imperial Legion patrol intercepted me. I was woefully outnumbered and surrendered, hoping my murderous reputation didn't follow me from Cyrodiil--and Hammerfell, Valenwood and Morrowind.

Sadly, the Nords are in the midsts of a civil war I know of and care little about. They threw me in a horse cart with a bunch of separatists called Stormcloaks, including their leader, Ulfric. The Imperials were in a rush to execute Ulfric--and all of us on board. I'd receive no trial. No judge. No jury. Just executioner. They placed my head on the chopping block and I thought I'd surely soon see the afterlife. Then out of the clear blue sky a dragon came crashing down on us.

Everyone began fleeing for their lives. An Imperial--the only one with any sense of fairness about him-- helped me escape and granted me armor and weaponry. The dragon seemed omnipresent, flames everywhere and anywhere at once. Newly freed Stormcloaks saw me with Hadvar, assigning guilt by association and tried to slit my throat. Like the Imperials, they were unsuccessful in that endeavor.

Hadvar and I escaped with our lives and made our way to the neighboring village of Riverwood. His family, particularly his uncle and family patriarch Alvor, provided me with shelter and food these past few weeks. While they cared for me, though showed no interest in learning of my past. Between this civil war tearing the nation apart and the appearance dragons most Nords had just believed to be legend were now attacking towns with little means to defend themselves. Everyone is is distracted and on edge, though trying to carve out the illusion of normalcy.

I'd spent most of my time helping Alvor at his forge, reawakening some of my lost smithing skills. Reminded me of youth in Hammerfell at my uncle's forge. Oh how he hated me playing with the daggers. I only have a few fleeting memories of my father, always at his forge--including when a marauder plunged a sword into his face.

When not helping Alvor, I was out hunting game to craft leather armor. I've become much more adept with a bow since my arrival here. Skyrim's wilderness though is treacherous. Wolves I can handle, but saber cats and bears gave me every bit the trouble I could take. I tried to stay near Riverwood and away from the major cities in case Imperials were still looking for me--but their gaze seems solely fixed on the skies and their neighbors to the east.

I eventually began raiding ruins, seeking treasure and better armory. I've had to fight off draugrs, ghosts, skeletons, bandits, mages (oh how I loath  maic) and assassins along the way. I have newfound respect for the Nords. They're a strong, hearty people, not all that unlike the citizens of Hammerfell.

Alvor's family and the Riverwood citizens initially took a shine to me. Lucan especially seemed to enjoy buying my plundered loot. I became a fixture at the Sleeping Giant Inn and slowly began spending less time in the field and the forge and more acquiring a taste for Nord mead and ale. The innkeeper Delphine is easy on the eyes. I fancy her, but she seems the calm, domestic type. I don't think she'd appreciate my rough-and-tumble ways.

I became a drunk nuisance and began to commit petty theft from Riverwood homes. I must have grown careless because three armed thugs attempted to take my life and nearly succeeded. On their leader's body was a contract from an unknown villager asking for reprisal for my thieving ways. I think I've overstayed my welcome in Riverwood. I'm going to spend one last day harvesting the land to supply up on potions before I venture further north into this frigid terrain.

In one of the ruins I discovered a book about the Dark Brotherhood. Apparently they're an order that murders for hire. Since that's the only life I've known for years, they seem like a good fit. Plus, judging by Alvor's mood, I won't have food and shelter for much longer. The Inn's bartender, Orgnar told me rumor has it someone named Aventus Aretino in the city of Windhelm is looking for a hired blade. Seems like a great place to find someone from the Dark Brotherhood to me.

After I gear up on potions, I'll make one last stop at the Sleeping Giant Inn. I'm sure Delphine will tolerate my patronage one last time, if nothing else than for the Inn's bottom line.

(You can watch Fida's adventures in the new series: Fida's Peril, both Live and archived in Videos, on my Twitch Channel!)

Prologue: A Historian's Introduction

While Skyrim is surely the Land of Nords, this doesn't mean that compelling lives weren't forged in the shadows of our nation's snowcapped mountains by other races. As this journal clearly demonstrates, a Red Guard and native of the desert lands of Hamerfell, Fida, lived a noteworthy life and blazed a trail unique in the annals of Skyrim history--if not all of Tamriel's. Surely his life will stand as a parable for future generations to contemplate.

Fida's journal, which has been corroborated by numerous first-person records of the time, give us a clear picture of his life in Skyrim. Records of his early life in Hammerfell and subsequent stints in Tamreil's other provinces are often spotty.

The best scholars can surmise is he was born in 4E 167in Hammerfell's Sentinal kingdom. His mother appears to have died in childbirth. His father, a locally well-respected blacksmith, didn't fair much better, dying in a civil conflict in Fida's fourth year. (Whatever psychological impacts this had on Fida's life is pure speculation.) It appears he was taken in by his paternal uncle, also a sound blacksmith, but bounced around from relative to relative. He seems to have been a difficult adolescent to have reared and the extended family tried to spread the burden. 

While his childhood and family life were less than idyllic, Fida's exposure to armor and weaponry throughout his youth seems to have paid off. He separated himself from his peers in swordsmanship in a culture that covets aptitude in all things combat and martial arts. His prodigious skill set was highly sought after. He was recruited by and became a member of the the Order of the Candle, the Sentinal kingdom's knightly fraternity and official protectors and warriors. He showed much promise and quickly rose through the order's ranks. His warrior proficiencies were well known throughout the region. It is said his prowesses were so great he never suffered a scratch in combat. 

In one skirmish between kingdoms though, his life took a turn for the worst. He received a wound to his face that nearly cost him an eye. Perhaps because he was unaccustomed to being injured, always being the inflictor of pain, he fled the battlefield in a panic. His departure left a void of warrior cunning and leadership, sending his troops into disastrous chaos. A handful of his order's brothers were subsequently lost. 

He is alleged to have turn to drink for months and hid in the slums of Sentinal. After three months, he approached the Order's headquarters. The leadership is said to have wanted to kill him on sight but deferred to the king's judgement. Sentinal's king, known for his decisiveness, anguished for hours over the proper punishment for Fida's cowardice. When the verdict was rendered, he cited Fida's sterling service record and battlefield accomplishments to that point as reason for sparing his life, opting instead to banish him from all of Hammerfell to live an outcast life of disgrace. Many of the time believed the otherwise firm king granted leniency because Fida had saved his young daughter from bandits seeking a handsome ransom years earlier. In 4E 196, Fida left the only land he'd ever known.

There are few authenticated records, outside of Fida's journal, to tell us much about the next five years of his life. What little we do know if he resorted to becoming a sword for hire, plying his craft to the highest bidder. When law enforcement seemed to be closing in, he'd escape to the next region or different country. It's likely he was essentially a roaming vagabond who made ends meet using the only skill he ever knew and was taught to value.

Accounts vary, but in 4E 201 he was captured by Imperial troops and for reasons unclear was immediately sentenced to death. Apparently the initial dragon outbreak was of immense benefit to him, saving his head from the executioner's ax. Shortly after, he started up this journal that has been passed on through the ages and transcribed for your benefit. His observations of, and sometimes participation in, the turbulent events of such a consequential time are invaluable.

May Fida's Perils enthrall and enlighten as you take fledgling steps into forging your own journey and place in history. 

-Asger Spearman
(Historian Laureate, Blue Palace)

(You can watch Fida's adventures in the new series: Fida's Peril, both Live and archived in Videos, on my Twitch Channel!)