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17^th of Last Seed, 4E 201

Riverwood

I should be dead.

I woke today bound like a criminal, ash in my hair and the sound of execution bells pounding in my ears. I ended the day with blood on my hands, a stolen sword at my side, and a dragon's scream still echoing in my skull.

The Imperials were going to execute me. No trial, no questions—just the block and the axe. Another reason to spit on the Empire I left behind in Cyrodiil. If not for a real-life dragon – massive and impossibly alive – I wouldn’t be writing this. I was lucky. The rest of Helgen it burned through like a pile of dry kindling.

Ralof, one of the Stormcloaks who had also been captured, escaped alongside me. I didn’t trust him at first. I still don’t. But we fought together to survive. Made it out of Helgen and to Riverwood, a quiet village untouched by the chaos I just witnessed.

Ralof has family here – a sister who helped us. Fed us, gave us water, a place to rest. I am not used to that sort of kindness. Maybe they’re buttering me up to join the Stormcloaks: not that I need much convincing after nearly losing my head simply for crossing the border! Besides gold and a good fight suit me just fine.

During my capture, I lost all of my belongings, including my journal. Years of thought, maps, records… all gone. I am not sure how I feel about that. Maybe it’s better this way. That was Cyrodiil, another life. Maybe this is where my story truly begins.

My hands tremble as I write. Not from fear - I don’t recall the last time I truly feared anything. Not even the dragon stirred that in me. No, this is something else, something deeper. A thrum under my skin, like my blood is trying to remember the words to a song it hasn’t heard in years.

When that dragon roared, something inside of me screamed back! A power. Old, wild, and mine. I’ve felt it before, flickering like a candle in the night. But it is starting to burn, and I like how it feels.

For now, I’ll rest. But not for long. I came to Skyrim to fight and I’ll be damned if I’ll rot in a cell or kneel at a chopping block ever again! Maybe just being in Skyrim will help me understand what this power is inside of me, why I’ve always been different. This strength and rage.

If the gods were watching today, I doubt it was mercy they gave me. They issued a challenge.

So be it.

—Luna

18^th of Last Seed, 4E 201

The Bannered Mare, Whiterun

Whiterun’s walls are sturdy, but the beds at the Bannered Mare are lumpy as shit. Still, it beats sleeping under trees with wolves chewing at my ankles.

The road from Riverwood was quiet. I kept waiting for something worse than wolves. And when the wolves did come, they were hungry, fast. I was faster: I always am.

I’m running around in some awful clothes I was given by Ralof’s sister. Stiff, two sizes too small in all the wrong places, my shoulder’s nearly bare, and the boots don’t even match. I look like a half-drowned thief, not a warrior. People in Whiterun stared when I came in—can’t tell if it was the dried blood or the shirt falling off my shoulder. I need armour. I need coin. I need more than this. With any luck, some bandits will try their luck soon and I’ll get better gear off their corpses.

Back in Riverwood, some idiot bard—Faendal? Sven? I wasn’t listening—handed me a letter and told me to lie to Camilla Valerius. Claimed it was from the other guy, trying to sabotage his chances with her. Pathetic. I handed it straight to Camilla and told her everything. Her response?

She kissed me.

Right there in the inn, in front of them. Bold as a flame. No words, hands in my hair and her mouth on mine. The look on those two fools’ faces… if I wasn’t still reeling, I’d have laughed. I didn’t kiss her back. Didn’t stop her either. Not sure what that means. Probably nothing.

She said I had "war in my eyes." That’s a new one.

Anyway. I made it to Dragonsreach. Told Jarl Balgruuf about Helgen. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t believe it easily either, but he’s clever enough to listen. Told me to speak with his court wizard, Farengar, about something “related.” Didn't like the way the mage looked at me. Like I was a puzzle he was itching to take apart.

I didn’t stick around. I told him what I saw. That was the deal.

I leave for Windhelm tomorrow. I didn’t come to Skyrim to chase dragons or win praise from nobles. I came here to fight—to earn gold. Besides, this thing boiling under my skin is screaming for release: who am I to deny it.

Still broke. Still no armour. I’ve got a rusty sword, boots that don’t fit, and a kiss from a shopkeeper’s sister.

On that last note… maybe I’m in for some pleasant dreams.

—Luna

21^st of Last Seed, 4E 201

Nightgate Inn, Pale Hold

This land is stranger than my parents ever told me. Stranger, harsher and colder.

I left Whiterun beneath a ceiling of clouds, and the rain hasn’t stopped since. Thunder rolled in just after I arrived at Honningbrew Meadery outside Whiterun. Fitting, considering what happened there.

Just before the storm hit, I met a woman named Uthgerd the Unbroken outside the city. She’s like me, but older, somehow tougher around the edges, and always itching for a fight. We brawled in the mud behind the Meadery, fists flying, both of us grinning like wolves, circling each other in the downpour. I won, of course, but she sure put up a fight. She bled from the mouth and laughed like she hadn’t felt so alive in years.

We didn’t say much after that. Didn’t have to.

We stumbled inside to drink. Cold, soaked, knuckles aching. The mead was strong and silence comfortable. When we went back outside again… let’s just say the rain wasn’t the only thing that soaked us. Violence and sex – two of the most honest parts of life. Two beasts sharing warmth in the storm.

She stayed behind. I moved on.

This land is hard. Not just the weather, though that’s brutal enough, but the bones of it. I swear the temperature drops with every mile north. No sun, just endless grey sky and my clothes soaked through once again. I must admit I am starting to miss Cyrodiil’s warmth—not the people, just the heat. There’s nothing soft about Skyrim. It claws at you and doesn’t apologise for it.

On the road I passed all kinds of madness. A man called Balbus, chasing me down to ask if I’d seen “the Gourmet.” He was carrying a ladle like it was a holy relic. Then a necromancer with a corpse still twitching on a leash. That fight wasn’t pretty. I hate mages that toys with the dead. It’s wrong, cowardly and vile.

Giants, too. I gave them space. They ignored me—but seeing them in the wild, just walking around like it was normal? There’s no preparing for that kind of scale. Even the land itself feels untamed, like it’s one deep breath away from swallowing you whole.

Then came the jester.

Broken cart. Crazed grin. A voice that scratched at the back of my teeth like a splinter. Called himself Cicero. Said he was escorting his “mother”, who I assume was in the coffin. I didn’t ask questions.

A farmer nearby looked ready to bolt. Told me Cicero had been ranting and raving, and refused to help fix the cart. I “persuaded” him to lend a hand—mostly to shut the jester up. He was starting to grate on something deep in me. The farmer caved, and Cicero rewarded me more coin than a jester should ever have.

Something’s not right about him. Nobody who laughs that much is ever truly happy. And nobody who carries a coffin on a cart alone through a storm is harmless.

I’m now at Nightgate Inn. The coldest, emptiest inn I’ve ever seen. But it’s dry and I need dry.

I’ll press on toward Windhelm tomorrow. The roads are getting lonelier and the winds more bitter, but I didn’t come to Skyrim expecting comfort. Just blood and gold.

If this land is trying to break me, it’ll have to try harder.

-Luna

23^rd of Last Seed, 4E 201

Candlehearth Hall, Windhelm

I’m here. Windhelm. The city of kings, or so they say. If the wind doesn’t cut you to the bone, the stares might. I’ve been here less than a day and already the air feels thick with something unspoken. Resentment, maybe. Pride, but the kind that rots if left unchecked. The guards nod when I say I’m here to join the Stormcloaks, but others—the Dunmer mostly—look at me like I’m one more boot aimed at their necks. I haven’t done anything yet. Maybe that’s the problem. I’ll speak to whoever’s in charge tomorrow. I didn’t drag myself across half of Skyrim to be told no.

The last few days have been… oddly quiet. After everything—Helgen, the dragon, the madness on the road—I almost didn’t trust it. No bandits, no blades at my back. Just long walks under a sky that can’t decide between clear blue or stormclouds.

I spotted strange metal ruins half-buried in the hillside. Gears, pipes, old stone archways that hummed faintly even though the wind was still. Dwarven, I think—what little I’ve read in old tomes suggests as much. I didn’t go closer. I’ve got enough to deal with without disturbing whatever still breathes in those ancient halls.

Further along the road, I stayed briefly at Anga’s Mill. A cold bed and a colder welcome, but it was dry and that’s enough these days. Also met a man named Ennodius Popius. Skittish, paranoid, practically jumped out of his skin when I approached. Claimed someone was watching him, following him. He reeked of fear and desperation. I left him to it. Skyrim’s full of ghosts—some real, some imagined. I don’t have time for either.

I also saw my first horkers on the coast. Gods, they’re uglier than I imagined. Big, slow, loud. I gave them space. Didn’t need a tusk through the gut over curiosity.

The best part of this stretch? The Khajiit. I met a caravan on the road—Ahkari was leading it—and I travelled with them for a while. They’re sharper than most of the Nords give them credit for. They shared stories, food, even some coin for my “protection”. One of them, Kharjo, had a laugh like thunder and a heart to match. I’d travel with them again, gladly.

I didn’t get the chance to fight any bandits—how’s that for luck? I’m still in the same stiff, sweat-stained shirt and too-small boots. It’s starting to feel like some kind of cruel joke. I might use some of the Jester’s coin to buy proper armour—if I don’t end up needing it for a bribe.

The cold here bites deeper than anywhere else so far, but on clear mornings, when the sun’s just rising over the snowfields, it does something to you. Wakes you up from the inside. I can’t explain it. It hurts, and it’s beautiful. Like this land wants you to fight for the right to breathe it in.

But this city… Windhelm’s beauty is buried beneath its cruelty. Some of the Stormcloak supporters speak about Skyrim for the Nords like it’s a sacred cause. Others just use it as an excuse to spit on anything not born in their image. I didn’t come here for their misguided hate—I came here to fight. I hope I find it. Because if this war is just a cloak for bitterness, I’ll burn that cloak myself.

Tomorrow, I speak to the Stormcloaks. We’ll see what they’re really made of.

—Luna

26th of Last Seed, 4E 201

Candlehearth Hall, Windhelm

I punched a Nord in the face today.

He called a pair of Dunmer “knife-ears” and laughed like it was a joke only he was old enough to tell. It rubbed me wrong and he bled: surprisingly I didn’t get thrown out of the tavern. I’ve always had a thing against racism, and he knew when he was outmatched. I suppose that’s one way to make friends and silence a few fools.

Before heading to the Palace of the Kings, I finally bought new armour—studded leather, tight in the waist, real enough protection for once. I was sick of looking like I’d crawled out of a stable. It felt good to walk in there like I had some weight behind me.

Ulfric Stormcloak remembered me. Not by name, but from the Helgen. He hadn’t seen me fight, but knew that surviving that place whilst bound was no small feat. I dropped Ralof’s name, but I had beaten him to Windhelm. Still, the old bear said I had promise. His lapdog, Galmar, wasn’t so convinced. Maybe he saw the Imperial in my step, the Cyrodiil in my voice. Called me a foreigner. Said he didn’t trust me—but if I wanted the Empire to bleed, then maybe we could work something out.

So, he sent me to Serpentstone Island. A test, he called it. Ice Wraiths. A "Nord’s trial." As if I needed to prove I could kill something. Part of me wanted to smack his head into the war table, but that wouldn’t have helped my case.

The journey there was harder than the fight. I took the shorter, more perilous route, along the coast.  Wolves biting at my heels every step. Came across a camp where a hunter had clearly lost a fight with a horker. The beast was dead too, which made me chuckle—death by mutual stupidity. I looted what I could. Took the hunter’s horse—still alive and tied to the hunter’s tent, and used his rowboat to reach the island. Nord blood or not, I wasn’t swimming in those icy waters. I didn’t stick around the camp long; the blood was fresh, and I’ve no interest in fighting any beasts that may be attracted by the smell of blood.

The island was wind and ice, nothing else. The wraiths were quick, cruel, but not enough. I cut them down easily enough, even as the cold clawed up my spine like it wanted to wear me from the inside. I took the horse back and returned to Windhelm with ice in my boots and more than a little salt in my mouth.

When I handed Galmar the proof, he just stared at me like he’d already planned my funeral. It was almost satisfying to see the surprise on his face. I overheard him and Ulfric talking about something called the “Jagged Crown.” Sounded important, like the kind of thing dead kings are buried with. It seems I’ll be joining them tomorrow to find it.

Galmar said I’d proven my resolve. He made me take an oath. Swear fealty to Ulfric, to Skyrim, to the Stormcloaks. I spoke the words. It’s funny how much weight people put into oaths, like they’ll stop a blade or warm your bed at night. But I said them. Loud. Clear. Because there’s power in playing the part people expect—until it’s time to change the game.

I don’t know how much gold I’m going to make in this war. That’s still unclear. But there will be blood. That much I’m sure of. And blood brings opportunity.

We ride at dawn toward some ancient ruin west of here—on the road back toward Whiterun. Jagged Crown. Old glory. Sounds familiar. I hope it’s not cursed. Or maybe I hope it is. At least then it’d be interesting.

—Luna

29th of Last Seed, 4E 201

Candlehearth Hall, Windhelm

Ralof was part of the group sent to retrieve the Jagged Crown. He nearly crushed my ribs when he saw me—grinning like a boy who found a dog he thought lost. Told me he’d known I’d join the fight and pass Galmar’s little trial. I told him the Ice Wraiths were easier than the damn walk.

We travelled with the rest of the Stormcloaks to the old ruin. Again, the road was quiet. Safety in numbers likely helped scare off any beasts. We waited just outside the ruins for a few hours, until Galmar showed up, barking orders like a warhound with something to prove. Gave a rousing speech. Ooo-ahh. Glory to Skyrim, steel and snow, yadda yadda. Honestly, I stopped listening halfway through. I was too focused on the ruins ahead, the scent of dust and death on the wind.

When the fighting started, I charged ahead. I lost count of how many Imperials I killed. Galmar noticed. Said I fought like I’d been born with a blade in each hand. He started trusting me real quick—sent me ahead of the group more than once to scout and clear the way. Even trusted me enough to carry the Jagged Crown back to Ulfric myself. That’s not a small thing. That crown meant something. What exactly, I’m still not sure. But it looked old. Heavy with ambition.

There was a moment I won’t forget—an Imperial ambush, tucked above the burial halls. I climbed around, waited, then dropped down on top of them, cutting down three before they could draw their weapons. I’d finished them off by the time the rest of the Stormcloaks had joined in.

The tomb was ancient and strange. Full of traps. Gods, I fucking hate traps. Pressure plates, swinging blades, darts from walls. I’m pretty sure someone in the group got skewered just trying to open a door. I may have picked up a few extra items along the way. Some of the coffins weren’t guarded. A little grave-robbing isn’t so bad if the corpses are trying to kill you. Found a nice battle axe. Not usually my weapon of choice—I prefer swords—but it’s steel and balanced and mine now. I’m sure I can make a decent bit of coin. War might not always pay well, but looting usually does.

Next there was the claw puzzle—silly rotating pillars. Who builds a tomb and then locks it behind a riddle even a bird can solve? Although, from what we found inside, maybe they weren’t built to keep things out, but to keep things in. Draugr by the dozen, crawling out of crypts like rotting hornets. Quite a few of the Stormcloaks fell along the way to the main burial chamber. The few lucky enough to make it met what I can only assume was the “deathlord”.

It was far stronger and faster than its Draugr brethren. It was also difficult to kill, taking multiple hits that would have killed a mortal. And then, it spoke. Or at least that was what I thought it was. And a group of Stormcloaks were flung against the walls like rag dolls. I should have been concerned but there was something about it that I felt deep in my bones. Something ancient, primal, magic – but not the normal magic I had felt before.

The rest of the battle was a blur… my body’s natural reflexes working my way through the undead. All I could feel was the magic. When the final Draugr fell there, only half the group that entered the final chamber were still standing.

And then, just as I was about to leave… chanting.

At first, I thought I was imagining it. But it was real. Deep, rhythmic—coming through the stone like it had always been there. I followed it. Don’t know why. Something pulled me toward a wall at the back of the tomb. There were markings—words, though not in any tongue I should understand. But I did understand. I felt it. Like it was speaking to some buried part of me.

I left with yet more answers. I left changed.

Tomorrow, I ride for Whiterun again. Apparently, I’m to deliver an axe to Jarl Balgruuf from Ulfric. A message. Or a threat. Depends on how you look at it.

The Crown’s been delivered. The dead are behind me. And something inside me continues to stir.

—Luna

31^st of Last Seed, 4E 201

The Bannered Mare, Whiterun

Skyrim moves faster with a horse. She’s not the prettiest mare—tends to snort at shadows and stumble on rocks—but she’s mine. I’ve taken to calling her Horker, after the one she outlived. It fits: stubborn, oddly shaped, tougher than she looks.

Made it back to Dragonsreach today. Delivered Ulfric’s axe to Jarl Balgruuf, all pomp and posture. He didn’t say much—refused to answer one way or the other until the dragon problems sorted. Fair, I suppose. Dragons tend to take priority. Still, I can’t help but feel like I’m being passed around like a letter no one wants to open.

Which brings me to Farengar, Balgruuf’s pet court wizard. Gods, what an irritating little man. Arrogant, smug, and clearly delighted to send me running off to do his chores. He wants me to fetch a “Dragonstone” from some ruin called Bleak Falls Barrow. Claims it’s key to understanding the return of the dragons. Told me some long-winded tale about the Dragon War—mythical stuff, usually told around campfires or in drunken tavern ramblings. But he spoke about it like it was real. And maybe it was. I’ve seen enough now to stop laughing at old stories.

Still doesn’t make him less of a prick.

I spent some time around town afterward. Spoke to Carlotta, one of the market vendors. Tough woman. She had a problem with a bard trying to “conquer her” like some smug hero out of a bad poem. I tracked him down and talked him out of it—without using my fists, surprisingly. I’m as shocked as anyone. She rewarded me with a few coins and a free meal. Turns out, solving people’s problems might be more lucrative than spilling blood in war. Who knew?

Spending the night at the Bannered Mare now. It’s far warmer than Windhelm, and the ale tastes less like snowmelt. I’ll leave for the ruin tomorrow. I haven’t told anyone. Figured I’d just go, get it done, and drop the stone on Farengar’s desk before he finishes writing whatever smug little note he’ll send after me. Surprise deliveries make the best statements.

Besides, one more ancient ruin sounds like my kind of fun. Rumour has it there’s an artifact up there too—the brother of that Riverwood girl (the one who kissed me, for what it's worth) mentioned it went missing. If I can find it, maybe there’s gold in it for me. Or at least a good story.

Loot, mystery, another ruin.

Just another day in Skyrim.

—Luna

Chapter Text

1^st of Heartfire, 4E 201

Sleeping Giant Inn, Riverwood

Bleak Falls Barrow lived up to its name. The blizzard hit halfway up the mountain—snow so thick I couldn’t see the bandits I was killing until I was wiping blood off my axe. And some of them were shirtless. Either they’re too stupid to feel the cold or so numb they’ve forgotten what living means. Skyrim’s full of lunatics.

Inside wasn’t much better. Bandits, Draugr, and one massive spider the size of a cart. I fought my way through the lot of them. There was loot—nothing to retire over, but enough to make the bruises worthwhile. I’m starting to miss a proper sword, though. The axe has its charm, especially when I can chuck it into someone’s chest, but there’s a grace to a two-handed sword I miss. Might treat myself to one soon. Or maybe figure out how to conjure weapons on the fly, if I can get my magic to behave. I’ve never been good at keeping conjured things around mid-fight.

There was a moment—mid-fight, blood in my mouth, rage burning in my chest—where something strange happened. I screamed, not in fear but fury, and the world... slowed. A bandit’s axe froze mid-swing like the air itself had thickened. I just stepped around him, slow and easy, and ended up behind him before either of us knew what had happened. We just stared at each other. Then I took his head off. Still don’t know what I did. But I felt it. The same way I feel those walls.

Speaking of idiots—some fool was trapped in a spider’s web deeper in the ruin, begging me to cut him loose. I did, but only because he was blocking the path. Tried to bolt after I helped him, so I threw my axe into his spine. Cleared the way nicely.

And of course, at the very bottom—another Draugr Deathlord. Always one tucked into the final chamber like some forgotten king. This one was alone, thank the gods. Tough bastard, even managed to draw some blood. All while the damn chanting started again—low and rhythmic, curling around my ears like smoke. The Dragonstone was there, just behind his coffin. And the wall. Another one. This one spoke of domination, of bending others to my will. I couldn’t read it with my eyes, but I knew it. Like the words were being carved into my spine. Same feeling as the last time. Unnerving. Addictive.

Bleak Falls seemed to go on forever. Thankfully, there was a shortcut out—weathered stone and half-collapsed passages leading me out under the stars. No backtracking through corpses and cobwebs this time.

By the time I made it to Riverwood, it was full dark. I dropped the golden claw off with the merchant and his sister. Camilla was... very grateful. Let’s just say I had a lot of pent-up energy, and she was kind enough to help with that. She’s lying on the bed at the moment, naked ass pointed at me.

I’ll head back to Whiterun in the morning, deliver the stone, and see what Balgruuf has to say now that his pet mage has what he wanted. For now, I’ve got a warm bed and that ass staring at me.

—Luna

2^nd of Heartfire, 4E 201

The Bannered Mare, Whiterun

Farengar was mid-conversation when I walked in—some woman in leather armour I swear I’ve seen before. More dragon talk. More secrets.

I dropped the Dragonstone on his desk like it was nothing. Didn’t even get to enjoy the look on his smug face before Irileth stormed in, shouting about a dragon sighting near the western watchtower. The woman looked impressed that I got the stone myself. Farengar looked rattled. Good.

Then came the Jarl’s request—wanted me to go with Irileth, to help. Said something about my “experience with dragons,” as if surviving Helgen made me an expert. Still, he gave me a helmet from his personal armoury. That helped. I said yes, but not because he asked. I felt… pulled. Like something in me needed to go.

The tower was burning when we arrived. Smoke, scorched earth, the sky half-lit with flame. Two guards left alive. One babbled about men being snatched mid-run, dragged into the air. And then it came back.

The dragon.

It blotted out the sun. Not as massive as the one at Helgen, but still large enough to make the ground shake. The others readied their bows, shouted orders. I didn’t hear them. I only felt it. I needed to fight it. To prove I could. To dominate it.

I shouted at it—words without thought—and it turned, locked eyes with me like it understood. It answered. The sound, the weight of its voice—something inside me heard it. Not with ears, but in bone and blood. It felt like recognition.

The others may as well have not existed. They were gnats; it didn’t care. But me—it saw me.

It breathed fire. I felt it hit, full force, and I stayed standing. Hurt like Oblivion, but I didn’t burn like the guards did. I fought it—head-on. Axe to scales. Smacked it across the face, drove the edge into whatever part I could reach. It was chaos, violence, and joy all rolled into one. Eventually I found the soft part under its neck and swung like fury. Then… it was down. Dead. I killed it.

And then came the light.

Its body lit like a star, and something in it poured into me—raw, golden, pure. My limbs shook, my skin tingled, and the world snapped into focus. It was like lightning under my skin. Better than any high. Better than sex. I dropped to my knees and just felt. Every fibre of my body sang. I didn’t care who saw.

A guard came running, shouting something about me being Dragonborn. Said I’d absorbed its soul. That I could “shout” like the dragons. Maybe that’s what I did back at Bleak Falls. Irileth didn’t argue—just said I’d clearly done most of the work and that we now knew they could be killed.

On the way back, we heard it. A shout—ancient, powerful, echoing from the mountains: Dovahkiin.

When I told the Jarl about the dragon, he said the Greybeards must have been calling me. Said they’re masters of the Voice. Live at the top of the Throat of the World. I’ve heard of the 7000 steps to High Hrothgar, but I thought it was just legend. Now I’m not so sure. Maybe that’s what Ulfric used when he shouted the High King to death. Maybe that’s what I have inside me.

I don’t know if I’ll go. But at least I’ve got a name for it now. Dragonborn. Things are starting to make sense.

The Jarl gave me all sorts of honours—title of Thane, a fancy axe, some “perks” with the guards. I was even offered me a permanent room here at the inn by the innkeeper. Handy, I suppose, to have a place to stash gear. The Jarl also assigned me a housecarl. Haven’t met them yet. No idea what I’ll do with a servant. Probably nothing.

The inn’s packed tonight—everyone celebrating the dragon’s defeat. I haven’t paid for a single drink. But even as the mead flowed, my mind kept drifting back to that feeling. That rush. That light.

I want it again.
No—I need it.

—Luna

5th of Heartfire, 4E 201

Candlehearth Hall, Windhelm

Titles, gifts, a housecarl—the full package. Balgruuf was generous, I’ll give him that. But all of it soured the moment I reminded him of Ulfric’s message. His face dropped like a stone in water. Suddenly, talk turned to politics and old oaths. Irileth, the steward, Balgruuf—all of them arguing over the White-Gold Concordat, about gold the Jarls had been given by the elves. It was tense, bitter. Then Balgruuf handed me the axe again.

He didn’t need to explain.

A gesture. A rejection. The moment I take it back to Ulfric, it’s war. I saw it in Balgruuf’s eyes—he knew. The next time we meet, we’ll be on opposite sides of a battlefield. I don’t know why that disappointed me, but it did. I respected him. Still do, maybe. He chose the Empire. Maybe it’s fear of change. Or maybe the weight of old allegiances is too heavy.

I met Lydia before I left—my new housecarl. Steel armour, steel eyes. Stoic as they come, with a dry wit I didn’t expect. She’s attractive, too. Carries herself like someone who’s been through things and doesn’t need to talk about them. We didn’t say much on the ride back to Windhelm, but she followed my lead without hesitation. I’ve never travelled with just another person before. The silence was companionable, not strained. She just… fit.

No real challenges on the road. Maybe that’s just me changing—once you’ve brought down a dragon, wolves and bandits don’t quite measure up.

Still feels strange, being named Thane of a city I might help destroy. And Lydia—will she follow me if it comes to that? She seems loyal, but to me or to Whiterun? I guess I’ll find out.

Ulfric was waiting.

He already knew about the dragon attack. I told him I killed it. Told him I absorbed something from it, like its very essence burned away and sank into me. He didn’t look surprised—just thoughtful. He explained more about the Voice, the Greybeards, and how he trained with them when he was younger. That the shout I heard—Dovahkiin—was their way of summoning me. Only happens for someone truly born with the power.

Dragonborn.

Apparently, I have the blood of dragons in me. The ability to Shout like them, speak in a way that bends the world. Ulfric said it’s rare. Powerful. Dangerous. He spoke of regrets—about leaving the Greybeards, about how their leader would disapprove of what he’s done with the Voice. I think that weighs on him more than he lets on.

He also questioned the timing—dragons returning, and a Dragonborn rising. He asked if I’d always felt it. I told him: the rawness was always there, just beneath the surface. But since coming to Skyrim… it’s waking up. He said he would share what he could about the Voice.

There was something in the way he looked at me after that. Part strategy, part awe. Maybe even fear.

War’s coming to Whiterun. Soon.

And with this power blooming in my chest, I almost pity the poor bastards who stand in my way during the battle to come.

—Luna

8th of Heartfire, 4E 201

Whiterun

Never been in a battle like that before. Not on that scale. It was chaos—smoke, steel, screaming, and blood. Death everywhere. And I loved it. The beast inside me roared loud and clear, and I let it off the leash. I didn’t hold back. I Shouted and watched men fall like wheat in a storm. Every time I fight now, it’s like I’m shedding old skin—becoming something else. Something more.

Fire rained down from the sky—siege weapons pounding the city like it had offended the gods. Arrows zipped through the air in swarms. We pushed through the carnage to the gates, cutting down anyone who stood in our path. Once inside, the streets were ablaze. Buildings collapsing in flames, bodies littering the ground. Civilians had the sense to hide—tucked in cellars, behind barricaded doors. Smart.

Imperial soldiers were there, just like Ulfric said. Balgruuf had obviously called on them, but only having a week to prepare showed. They tried holding the line, but failed spectacularly. Overwhelmed by the Stormcloaks and myself.

Eventually, I stood before Balgruuf again. Not as an errand girl or envoy. As his enemy. His eyes were tired. I could tell he’d fought. But he surrendered before more of his people died. I didn’t feel triumph. Not really. Just... inevitability.

One of the Grey-Manes stepped forward soon after—claimed the city in Ulfric’s name. That family had always worn their allegiances on their sleeves. Guess they’re in charge now. A different banner over the gates, but the blood on the stones is the same.

Lydia rode into battle with me. No hesitation. No doubts. Just followed. When I shouted, she didn’t flinch. When I struck down those she knew, she kept moving. That kind of loyalty... it’s unnerving. I haven’t asked her how she feels about any of it. Maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe she doesn’t care. Or maybe she’s like me—drawn to the storm, unwilling to look away.

Whiterun belongs to the Stormcloaks now.

—Luna

12th of Heartfire, 4E 201

Candlehearth Hall, Windhelm

The battle’s days behind me now. Blood has dried. Fires extinguished. But war doesn’t pay half as well as it kills. Turns out glory doesn’t fill your coin purse. Aside from what I’ve scraped from ruin-choked barrows and the fallen dead in battle, I’m not making what I feel I’m due. So I told Ulfric as much. I reminded him—plainly—that I’ve turned the tide of this war practically on my own. Without me, Whiterun would still be Imperial.

He didn’t like that.

He asked if I was fighting for Skyrim or for myself. I didn’t flinch. Told him I was fighting for the thrill. For the chaos. For the need. But I still expected something in return. That seemed to shake him a little. Not angry—just thoughtful. Like he didn’t quite know what to make of me. In the end, he relented. Said he was "giving" me freedom—freedom to strike at the Empire however I saw fit. Called it a strategy, not a reward. Directed me to his Housecarl for the details.

I’ve been given a wage now. Bonuses for results. Destruction, territory, fear—whatever moves the war forward. I don’t know if they can afford what they promised, but they offered it anyway. Which tells me more than Ulfric would admit. The Stormcloaks are bleeding. They can’t show it, but the cracks are there. And now I’ve been made their weapon… or their gamble.

Spoke to Lydia on the road back. She finally said something real. Told me she wasn’t sure how to feel about attacking her home—said it was hard, but not because of loyalty to Balgruuf or the city. She doesn’t care for the Empire, never did. And despite it being Balgruuf who gave her to me, she said she’d keep following me as long as I needed her.

There was something in the way she said it. Steady. Unshaken. No ceremony. Just truth.

We didn’t say much after that—just rode. But there’s a rhythm between us now. A kind of unspoken bond. We’re not friends, not exactly. But there's a respect that wasn’t there before. Two blades drawn from the same forge. Quiet, sharp, and ready.

The war marches on. And so do we.

—Luna

17th of Heartfire, 4E 201

Falkreath Stormcloak Camp

Finally got my hands on that steel longsword I’d been eyeing. Clean edge, good weight, bites like a wolf. First poor bastard who stood in my way lost his head before he could even raise his shield. Felt right.

The journey down to Falkreath wasn’t bad. It’s a pretty place when you’re not shackled in the back of a cart on your way to execution. Strange how differently a place feels when you ride in by choice.

Picked up a follower, too. A stray dog—old, scarred, probably lost its master to the wolves Lydia and I killed near the road. Feisty little thing. Doesn’t take orders, doesn’t need them. Just follows. I don’t mind. Something about that loyalty without reason feels familiar.

Another fort, another pile of dead Imperials. This time, they wanted stealth. Not exactly my preferred approach, but I managed. There was a narrow, water-logged cave beneath the fort—Stormcloak scouts found it. I slipped in with Lydia and the mutt at my heels. Two guards were unlucky enough to be on duty. They never had a chance.

Ralof was leading this one. His first command. He waited outside with the rest, ready to strike once I’d released the prisoners. The fort was mostly asleep, which made it all too easy. We poured out of the cells like a second storm breaking the night. Caught the Imperials completely off guard.

It was over too fast. I miss the chaos of Whiterun—miss the roar and fury of a real fight. This was too clean. Too quiet.

Ralof smiled after and said they couldn’t have done it without me, and winked. I laughed back. At least some of them are starting to understand what I am. They’ve started calling me Stormblade. Has a nice ring to it.

And with every battle, I feel the Voice sharpening. I can hurl men backwards like they weigh nothing. I can slow the world just enough to strike between heartbeats. It’s power—but it’s also control. And I want more of it.

Maybe it’s time I seek out another ruin. The old places have a way of waking things up inside me.

—Luna

24th of Heartfire, 4E 201

Frostfruit Inn, Rorikstead

With Falkreath all but under Stormcloak control, Ulfric’s eyes have turned west—to the Reach. He sent word, and also a package for me. Inside? A letter “allowing” me to purchase a home in the city. Allowing. As if I needed his royal permission to spend my own coin—if I had any. I haven’t seen the gold he promised me yet for taking Falkreath. He’s lucky the loot from fallen Imperials is covering things. For now.

The Reach is a long ride from Falkreath—rugged, wild, strangely beautiful. On the way, we made a detour. The new Jarl of Whiterun asked us to pass through Rorikstead. Ghost sightings on the road, spooking travellers. He offered gold. I volunteered. Figured I’d ride ahead and take care of it myself. Besides, I needed something to keep my blade warm.

Didn’t expect a dragon.

And definitely didn’t expect it to be fighting a camp full of giants.

Mammoths versus a flying fire-lizard. It was chaos in the best way. I threw myself into the mix. The giants fought like demons—swung their clubs like they were swatting flies. One of them actually clipped the dragon’s wing, and I finished it off with a Shout and a blade through its throat. Felt its soul burn into me again. Every time it happens, I feel sharper. More aware. More… me.

After, one of the giants approached—calm as a priest—and handed me a mammoth tusk. No words. Just held it out, like an offering. I took it. Not sure what it means, but refusing didn’t feel like an option.

The dog survived the chaos, of course. It’s either blessed or just too damn stubborn to die. Lydia’s taken a liking to him—calls him Scrappy now. It suits him. She seems lighter with him around. Less stoic, more human. I like seeing that side of her.

Decided to return a favour too—I cooked for her. She’s been making sure I eat since she started following me, always fussing without a word. It felt right to give something back. I don’t think she expected me to be any good. Cooking was something my mother taught me before she died. One of the few things we shared. Lydia seemed shocked I offered, even more so when she tasted it.

The haunting turned out to be real, but not what I expected. A plantation house, cursed by grief. The ghosts of a mother and father, each believing the other murdered their son. The truth? The boy tried to play hero. Ran off to fight wolves with a wooden sword. Didn’t stand a chance.

Some deaths are tragic. Some are stupid. Some are both.

I gave them peace. For a pouch of gold and a story I won’t forget.

Tomorrow, we ride for the Reach.

But tonight, it’s me, a warm fire, a full belly, Scrappy snoring, and Lydia smiling.

—Luna

28th of Heartfire, 4E 201

Stormcloak Camp, The Reach

On the road into the Reach, some wild-eyed man ran up to us, pressed an axe into my hands, and bolted without explanation. Told me to “hold onto it” and threatened to kill us if we snitched. Then he was gone—vanished over the ridge like a ghost with a bounty on his head.

We just carried on, not really knowing what to expect.

Much later, a stranger came asking if we’d seen anyone matching the man’s description as he had stolen an axe from him. I just gestured vaguely at the hills. No idea what kind of mess we stepped into or where the other man had gone, but the poor bastard was in such a rush he didn’t notice Lydia was still carrying his axe. She just laughed and kept it. Seems fair.

We ran into more trouble further down—an old crumbling tower taken over by bandits. Or so I thought. They were half-naked, painted, and shrieking like animals. Some of the women were charging topless, waving bone-bladed knives. Hard to take a fight seriously when you're dodging steel and tits.

Lydia called them Forsworn. Said they’ve been plaguing the Reach for years. If that’s true, the Reach is even more cursed than I thought. One of them—maybe a shaman or something—had some twisted flower blooming where his heart should’ve been. Still alive, even with his chest torn open. I ended him quickly, but it stayed with me.

I’ve been tasked with a new job: investigate Raerek, steward to the Jarl of Markarth. Possibly blackmail him, if it comes to it. Ulfric wants leverage, or information. Galmar says Raerek has ties, assets, maybe secrets that’ll make this war easier. I’m to dig them up. No idea what I’ll find, but it’s rarely boring when I’m involved.

I mentioned—again—that I’ve been doing most of the heavy lifting without seeing the coin I was promised. Galmar didn’t argue. Admitted I was vital, even praised my work. But then he ruined it by parroting the same tired line: “Freeing Skyrim should be reward enough.”

I reminded him that not all of us are waving the blue banner out of loyalty. Some of us are here for survival. For profit. For the freedom they claim to fight for. He grunted and walked off. Stormcloak to the bone. No vision beyond the war.

Fine. I’ll keep doing what I do best. But I expect something in return.

Resting tonight. Cold air, crackling fire, mutt curled by my feet. Tomorrow, I head to Markarth.

Let’s see what secrets the stone city keeps.

—Luna

Chapter Text

2^nd of Frost Fall, 4E 201

Markarth

We stopped in Karthwasten on the way. Small mining town, nothing remarkable—except for the tension thick in the air. Overheard a band of sellswords grumbling outside the inn. Something about how the mine’s owner wouldn’t hand it over, and how they were stuck until he did.

I saw an opportunity.

Tracked down their leader and offered to "persuade" the owner to sell. In exchange, I’d get a cut. The merc didn’t even blink—just smiled and promised a fat payout if I could make it happen. He was still sipping his drink when I returned half an hour later, with the mine’s owner beside me, ready to sell. Never said what I used to convince him—just that I got it done.

They paid up. Most gold I’ve made in a single day since stepping foot in Skyrim. I’ve done some mercenary work in the past, and it can be rewarding, and unpredictable. Maybe something to consider as Skyrim seems ready to reward those that take the risks of a mercenaries life.

The air up here reminds me a little of home. Wetter. Less of the frozen bite like Windhelm. More like Cyrodiil’s northern highlands. But the road’s still dangerous—more Forsworn every day. They're fanatics. Some attack basically naked, painted in blood and rage. I don’t care how devout you are—charging into a sword barely dressed with nothing but fury to armour you is a sure-fire way to get you killed.

Markarth is… something else. A city carved into the mountain itself, stone stacked on stone, old as anything I’ve seen. Dwemer work, they say. Cold. Impenetrable. It would be a nightmare to besiege—walls are part of the cliffs themselves. A fortress built for gods, not men. Would be interesting if the Stormcloaks decide to do so.

Learned a bit about the Forsworn while snooping around. They’re not just bandits. They’re Reachmen—natives. Practitioners of old blood rites, allied with Hagravens, once ruled this region until Ulfric stormed the city during the “Markarth Incident” over twenty years back. Drove them out and lit the fire that still smoulders under this place.

You can feel it. Everyone in Markarth walks like they expect a dagger in the spine.

Wasn’t wrong, either.

We hadn’t even been in the city an hour before someone attacked a woman in the market. No warning—just steel drawn and blood in the air. I moved faster. Dropped the killer before he even saw me coming. Instinct.

The woman thanked me profusely. Gave me a ring she was going to give to her sister, said I deserved it. Right after, a strange man handed me a note. Told me to meet at the Shrine of Talos if I wanted answers. Didn’t wait for a reply—just vanished into the crowd. Part of me is curious. But I have other things to worry about.

Spoke briefly with Raerek, the Jarl’s steward. Got the sense he’s more than just a bookkeeper. Confirmed it when I cornered him in private and mentioned his worship of Talos. He didn’t deny it. In fact, he offered me gold and a tip—some kind of shipment heading to Solitude. Weapons and coin. Heavy Stormcloak interest. I’ll follow up. Maybe I’ll even get paid.

This place is a powder keg.

And I’ve never been good at walking away from matches. But I will this time. For now.

—Luna

6th of Frost Fall, 4E 201

Fort Sungard, The Reach

Reported in to Galmar this morning. He finally handed me some gold—said it came straight from Ulfric. It was lighter than it should’ve been, and we both knew it. But I took it. A start is still a start, even if it’s a begrudging one.

Galmar had already sent a detachment to intercept the Imperial caravan—the one Raerek tipped us off about back in Markarth. I think he would have liked me to go with them, but apparently he wants me fresh for the real fight: the assault on Fort Sungard. South of Rorikstead. Said some of our scouts are already there, watching the place. Told me to rest while I could.

That night, I saw the aurora for the first time.

It’s strange. I’ve seen more death in the last few months than most people do in a lifetime—ripped through men, gods, and monsters. But that sky? Shimmering ribbons of green and blue dancing across the stars? It made me forget all about the death I’d been involved in.

Lydia and I laid back on the cold grass, Scrappy curled between us like a guard who finally let his eyes close. We talked more than usual—about where we came from, about what we’d do after we’d finished with the war. She still doesn’t say much, but what she does say is always honest. Steady. Like her. Said she’d always wanted to see destiny play out before her very eyes, like the stories she’d heard as a child. Said she saw that when she looked at me – at what I could do.

I told her that I’d always craved battle, but this desire seemed to be growing. An ache for battle and blood. Also told her that I craved what most did – gold, and the war was giving me one of those things, but not the other. Lydia just nodded. Not sure what that means, or why I feel as though I need her approval.

The next morning, we rode to Fort Sungard.

No sneaking this time. No tricks, no secret caves. Just blood and steel in the open. It was every bit as brutal as the Battle of Whiterun—maybe worse. The Imperials were dug in deep. Arrows rained from the walls, men screamed, catapults fired. But we took it. One stone at a time.

I tore through their ranks with steel in one hand and the Voice in my throat. Lydia was at my side, and the others followed us. I think they’re starting to expect it from me now—chaos at the front. A storm breaking on the walls.

And once again, we stood victorious, covered in blood, surrounded by the dead.

But that sky from the night before… it stayed with me. A strange peace, floating just out of reach.

Hopefully I’ll see it again.

—Luna

9th of Frost Fall, 4E 201

The Bannered Mare, Whiterun

Made our way back to Whiterun today. Had business to take care of—unloading loot mostly, but also wanted to check in on the city. It’s been a month since the siege. Figured I’d see how it’s faring.

There are still signs of the battle here and there—scorch marks, collapsed walls hastily rebuilt—but for the most part, Whiterun’s back on its feet. The most obvious change? Stormcloaks everywhere. You can’t throw a tankard without hitting one. They're keeping a heavy presence here. A show of force, I suppose. Or maybe they’re just afraid of losing the city again. That would be embarrassing, after all that blood.

While selling off some gear, a local woman—Ysolda—approached me. She asked if she could buy the mammoth tusk the giant gave me back near Rorikstead. I didn’t plan on parting with it, but her offer was generous. I let it go. I still don’t know what it meant, but if it had any sacred weight, the gods can strike me down later.

She also made a comment about the necklace I was wearing. One I’d found back at Fort Sungard—gold, modest, something about it just... looked right. Lydia had looked at me strangely when I first put it on, but hadn’t said a word.

Now I know why.

Ysolda suddenly got very up close and personal. Started unabashedly flirting with me. It was like someone had pulled a lever, she was a completely different woman. Followed me around the market, offering to buy dinner, asking if wanted to come to her place this evening. She then mentioned she was surprised someone “as strong and beautiful” as me wasn’t spoken for. That’s when I finally said something back, asked how she knew I wasn’t.

I could hear Lydia sniggering behind me. I swear Scrappy gave a huff like he was laughing too. Ysolda must have caught on, because she laughed as well and asked if I knew what the necklace around my neck actually was.

Apparently, it’s an Amulet of Mara—a symbol worn to show you’re open to marriage. In Skyrim, at least. Gods, Skyrim and their strange customs. Ysolda had assumed that I knew, being a Nord. When we parted ways at the market, she did say that her earlier offer still stood if I was interested.

Lydia didn’t stop laughing for quite some time.

Later, stopped by Dragonsreach to collect the bounty for clearing out that haunted plantation near Rorikstead. The new Jarl’s steward was grateful—handed me a pouch of gold and mentioned land available outside the city if I’m interested. A plot of my own for my services to Whiterun and for putting in Stormcloak control. I didn’t say yes, but I didn’t say no either.

Left a few things here at the Bannered Mare. Keepsakes. Loot I’m not ready to part with. Starting to feel like I’m carrying a story’s worth on my back.

Next stop is Hjaalmarch. Not getting rich off the Stormcloaks, but I’ll give them this—I’m getting to see Skyrim.

—Luna

15th of Frost Fall, 4E 201

Morthal

Got a message—courier handed it over as I was sharpening my sword whilst we were staying the evening in Rorikstead. New assignment from the Stormcloaks: intercept an Imperial courier near our location, grab his documents, get them forged, and deliver the fake orders to the Imperials stationed in Morthal. Subtle work for once.

Didn’t take much to get the documents. Found the courier getting drunk at the inn, barely able to stand. I could’ve stabbed him through the chest with a spoon and he wouldn’t have noticed. Took the papers and left him alive—dead couriers raise more questions than drunk, confused ones. It’ll help make the forgery more convincing.

Wasn’t long after that a sabretooth pounced on us. Managed to kill it, but I think it got a piece of me. Been feeling off ever since—slow, sluggish. Head’s pounding and I’m not moving like I should be. Caught something nasty, I think.

Ran into a bandit toll just past the ridge. They’d set up a proper camp and were demanding gold to pass. Told them to fuck off, naturally. Fought them off, but I was sloppy. Slower than I should’ve been. Their leader got the drop on me, bashed Scrappy hard with his shield, and knocked me to the ground. Couldn’t react in time. Lydia didn’t hesitate—charged in and beat him into the mud. She’s been fussing over me since, like a hen with a broken egg. Not that I’m complaining.

The bandits had been camped there for a while—plenty of loot from other unlucky travellers. We took what we could carry and left the rest to rot.

Made it to Morthal late in the evening. Managed to find an alchemist who said it looked like I had the symptoms associated with Witbane. Gave me something for it—said I should feel better in a couple of days. I hope she’s right.

Morthal’s... odd. Not the buildings—those are the same crumbling Nordic timber and moss you find anywhere. It’s the people. They watch you too long and say too little. I don’t trust the place. Feels like everyone here’s waiting for something awful to happen.

Hjaalmarch itself isn’t much better—swamps, marshes, and more insects than sense. Damp gets into your bones. I wouldn’t be surprised if we all catch something just from breathing the air too long.

Won’t be staying here longer than I have to.

—Luna

20th of Frost Fall, 4E 201

Fort Snowhawk, Hjaalmarch

Took the forged documents to the Imperial camp outside Morthal. The legate looked them over, nodded once, and tucked them away like it was just another day in the war. He bought it—hook, line, and sinker. Either I’m a better liar than I thought, or the Empire’s gotten lazy.

Returned to the Stormcloak camp after that. Galmar handed me another sack of gold for the job. Too light, as usual. I don’t even argue about it anymore—it’s like complaining to the wind. It just keeps blowing. Before I could finish tying the bag to my belt, Galmar told me to gear up and head out again. Another fort needed clearing: Snowhawk.

The battle there was over quicker than expected. The forged orders must have scattered some of the garrison before we arrived. Only a skeleton crew left behind—barely enough to mount a defence. Even so, the fighting was fierce while it lasted. The steel still sings in my ears. If I’m honest, the battles are all starting to blur into one.

Whatever that alchemist gave me back in Morthal, it did the trick. The headaches are gone, and my body feels strong again. I moved like myself out there—sharp, fast, lethal.

We stayed at Fort Snowhawk for a few days afterward. Resting. Planning. The mood shifted quickly—there was a tension in the air, the kind that creeps in before something big. Rumours swirled through the ranks—whispers of something bold.

Then Galmar showed up with a few others. Didn’t waste time. He gave out orders like a smith hammering blades, then came to find me.

He laid it out: they want to strike hard and fast, cut the Empire’s head off right here in Skyrim. General Tullius. The man who’s been commanding Imperial forces and keeping Ulfric’s rebellion in check. The man that almost caused my death back in Helgen. They want him gone before winter.

Galmar told me Ulfric is already on the move—traveling in secret to Fort Snowhawk to oversee the final stages himself. Bold move, leaving Windhelm. Maybe he’s finally ready to get blood on his own hands again instead of barking orders from that icy throne of his.

Our next target is another fort southwest of Solitude. If we take it, the city will be all but cut off. After that, every Stormcloak force scattered across Skyrim will converge for the final blow. Galmar asked me to travel with them to the Haafingar war camp to prepare.

It’s a bold plan. Dangerous. Could tip the whole war. And for once, I’ll get to see Ulfric fight—not just as a symbol, but as a warrior.

Let’s see if the man lives up to the legend.

—Luna

28th of Frostfall, 4E 201

Haafingar Stormcloak Camp

Traveled north with Galmar and a small force of Stormcloaks. First time I’ve been around him for any length of time since Whiterun. He’s still the same—gruff, blunt, unwavering. We spoke a few times on the road. He truly believes that anyone unwilling to fight for their home deserves to die. No exceptions. He talks about Skyrim like it’s a living thing, something sacred. And he’s itching to take the fight to the Dominion once the Empire’s out of the way.

I don’t understand how someone can feel that strongly about a place. Then again, I’ve never really had one to call home. Maybe if I had, I’d be like him.

We stayed at the Haafingar camp overnight before our force—Lydia, myself, and a few dozen others—marched out to Fort Hraggstad. Galmar explained the strategy: take the fort quickly without allowing anyone to escape, then wait for further orders. But before we left, he asked me to return to camp once the fort was secured. Said Ulfric wants me fighting alongside him when we take Solitude. I’m sure he does. Nothing inspires loyalty like a Dragonborn at your side.

We reached the fort in late afternoon. Snow was falling—soft, cold, almost peaceful. The place could have been abandoned at a distance. Still. Silent. Then the horn sounded and the world went white with noise and steel.

This one was different. The Imperials at Hraggstad were ready. A full garrison, dug in deep. They gave us everything they had. The battle dragged on through the night, blood soaking the snow until the sun came up. When it was over, the Imperials were either dead or in chains. Couldn’t risk word of our success reaching Solitude.

By morning, I was running on adrenaline and half-frozen, with an arrow lodged in my shoulder. Armor caught most of it, but it found a weak spot—went deep enough to stick, not deep enough to slow me down. Lucky, I guess. Lydia fretted over it like she always does. Sometimes I wonder if she’d make a good mother. Has that way about her. Didn’t tell her the truth, though. That arrow was meant for her. I just moved first.

Back to camp now. Solitude’s next.

—Luna

Chapter Text

2nd of Sun’s Dusk, 4E 201

Katla’s Farm, Solitude

Solitude would be a pretty place, were it not currently on fire.

It was a damn hard place to assault. Every path in is a choke point—great for defence, terrible for charging armies. Still, we came at it from every angle we could. Ulfric gave a speech before the attack. Stirring words, spoken with that deep, commanding voice of his. All inspiration, no substance. We were the hammer at the gate. No subtlety. No flanking. Just brute force. A plan I could get behind.

And gods, it was chaos.

The battle for Whiterun felt like a training skirmish compared to this. Solitude was a storm of steel and screaming. Too much happening at once to follow. I fought on instinct, letting the fury inside me loose. It didn’t feel like me swinging the blade anymore—more like something primal had taken over. Everything that stood in front of me died.

One thing I did notice: Ulfric stayed out of it. Surrounded by his loyal meat wall of Stormcloaks. Didn’t lift a finger until we pushed up to Castle Dour. Only then did he start shouting people to death. Had to be seen doing something, I guess.

In the castle courtyard, the Legion made their last stand. So tight we barely had room to raise our swords. My Voice joined Ulfric’s and cleared the way through the crush. His was focused – mine wild. The dead were ankle-deep before we took the courtyard. Then they surrendered. It was over.

General Tullius emerged with that Legate—Rikke, I think. Recognized her from Helgen. White flags hung limp across the burning city. Rikke stood between Ulfric and the General, shouting to all that she hadn’t surrendered. She lunged. Brave. Pointless. We brought her down.

Then came the speeches. Tullius, even in defeat, was calm. Said Ulfric had played straight into the Dominion’s hands. That the rebellion was exactly what they wanted—a reason to tighten their grip on the Empire. He and Ulfric went back and forth. Then Ulfric turned to me and told me to kill him.

Still burning from the fight, I snarled at him. Told him to do it himself. The look on his face—I’ll remember it forever. Shock. Maybe even fear. Eyes were on me. Stormcloaks. Imperials. Lydia. Didn’t care. He killed Tullius anyway.

Then I let him have it.

Told him how he held back through the whole war, through today, while others died to make him look like a hero. I was sick of him and his false promises. Sick of fighting his war, of bleeding to hand him Skyrim on a silver platter. Said as much—I gave him this victory. Let’s see what he does with it.

Told him I was done. Told him to clean up his own mess.

Then I walked off.

Let him rule. Let him choke on it.

—Luna

8th of Sun’s Dusk, 4E 201

The Bannered Mare, Whiterun

The war’s over. At least for me. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do next.

I’ve felt adrift these past few days. I threw myself into this war with everything I had. Charged into battle after battle, followed orders, all whilst pretending it was for the love the fight. But somewhere in that final push through Solitude—between the blood and the fire—I realised I wasn’t doing it for Skyrim, or for Ulfric, or even for gold. I was doing it because I didn’t know who I was without a fight to throw myself into.

That battle changed something. I finally saw it. I don’t want to fight someone else’s war anymore.

I want to fight for me.

And I think I know where to start.

I’ve decided to travel to Riften. Never been. The Rift was deep in Stormcloak territory during the war, and we had no reason to pass through. But it’s where my family comes from—at least, that’s what I’ve been told. Maybe there’s still someone there. Maybe there’s nothing. But I want to see it. I need to see it.

We’re back in Whiterun again—seems like every path in Skyrim runs through this damned city. I’ve spent the last day or two fixing up my gear, buying proper supplies. For all the killing I’ve done, I’ve made a decent pile of gold. Less than I would have liked, but it’s a start. Finally started spending it like it matters. Got myself a silver greatsword—beautiful thing. Well balanced. Feels good in my hands.

We leave tomorrow. We’ll pass through Valtheim Keep on the way. Word is bandits have taken up there and the Jarl’s offering coin to anyone who clears them out. Easy work.

One last thing before we go—Scrappy. He took a bad wound during the battle for Solitude. He’s alive, stubborn old mutt, but his fighting days are over. Didn’t stop him from trying on the way to Whiterun, of course. But it’s time. The innkeeper here at the Bannered Mare’s agreed to look after him. He’s earned his rest.

I’ll miss him.

—Luna

14th of Sun’s Dusk, 4E 201

Halega’s Bunkhouse, Riften

The Rift is beautiful.

I wasn’t expecting that. Golden trees, crisp air, and the smell of pine and wet earth everywhere. It’s wild, yes—bears at every turn and bandits choking the roads—but it feels alive here in a way the rest of Skyrim doesn’t. I keep wondering why my parents ever left this place. They never spoke much about it, and now that I’m here, I find myself desperate to know why. Maybe I’ll find out. Maybe I won’t. But at least I’m asking the questions now.

We cleared out the bandits holed up near Valtheim Keep on our way in. Easy enough. Still riding high on the reflexes that war carved into me. A little more gold in my pocket, a little more blood on my boots.

We stopped at Darkwater Crossing overnight—quiet place. Ran into a man on the road before that, heading toward the Shrine of Azura. He fought alongside us when a nest of frostbite spiders dropped in for a bite. Seemed decent enough, but kept moving. Marked the shrine on my map if I were ever interested in visiting.

A few days later, we came across a man claiming bandits had attacked his caravan. Something about him felt wrong. Too polished. Too calm. I called him on it straight to his face. His smile died instantly. I killed him before he had the chance to draw his weapon. His friends were surprised when Lydia and I charged in before they could spring the trap.

Also fought an old Orc looking for a “good death.” Said he was too old to be of use anymore, wanted to fall in battle. I gave him that. One-on-one, no tricks. He died with a smile. I can respect that.

We passed a farm run by a Dunmer family, Nirnroot growing everywhere. Peaceful, if a little melancholy. Then there was that damned den. Filled with Skooma addicts. Filthy place. Full of people on the edge of death, eyes like sunken pits. We didn’t stay long. I’ve seen enough misery without adding skooma dreams to it.

Riften itself is a mess. First thing they did was try to charge me some "visitor tax." I told them to piss off and move aside before I decided to really make them regret the ask. They got the message.

This city reeks of corruption. Everyone’s trying to get something from someone else. It should repulse me, but… it doesn’t. There’s opportunity here. And danger. Feels like the kind of place I might actually learn something about who I am. Or at least carve my name into the dirt deep enough for someone to notice.

We’re staying at the bunkhouse for now. Met a woman named Svana—she’s disgusted with her aunt, Haelga, and all the men she brings to her bed. Helped her collect a few “tokens” from those men, proof to shame Haelga a bit, make her worry about practicing her “Dibellan arts” as she put it. Svana looked relieved, said she felt like she could breathe for the first time in years.

I’ve started asking around the bunkhouse and the local inn about my parents. One of the Argonians there suggested I speak to someone named Brynjolf. Didn’t say much else, just gave me a look like he’ll know more. I’ll find him tomorrow.

Riften may be rotten at the core, but I’ve survived worse.

Let’s see what this place has to show me.

—Luna

15th of Sun’s Dusk, 4E 201

The Ragged Flagon, Riften

I found Brynjolf today.

He was in the market, charming the crowd with some nonsense elixir that promised to cure everything from warts to heartbreak. The way he worked the crowd reminded me of a few old stories my father told. I asked him if he knew my parents — didn’t mention who I was, but I didn’t need to. He took one good look at me and said I looked like my mother. Said he hadn’t seen me since I was a baby.

I told him that couldn’t be right. I was born in Cyrodiil. He shook his head and told me I was born right here, in Riften. My parents left when I was still very young. Said they’d gotten into some trouble, something dangerous, and ran to keep me safe. He never knew where they went, only that it was far from here.

Said we could ask around the Guild — maybe someone remembered more. That’s when he roped me into one of his little tricks. Wanted me to plant a ring on a market stall owner, Brand-Shei, and get him thrown in a cell for a few days. Just needed a distraction, he said. He’d handle the crowd; I’d handle the pocket.

I did it. Easily. Slipped the ring into his pocket like it was second nature. Maybe some of what my mother taught me stuck around after all. Brynjolf was impressed. Told me to meet him in the Ragged Flagon, under Riften, if I wanted to talk more.

So I did. That evening, Lydia and I made our way through the Ratway. The place is a maze — full of Skeevers, cutthroats, and I swear I saw a ghost. Lydia looked ready to burn the whole place down by the time we reached the Flagon.

The Ragged Flagon itself… it lives up to its name. Damp, dark, run down, and with the smell of stale ale and old secrets in the air. As I came in, I caught whispers. Heard my parents' names on Brynjolf’s lips. He said I had their skill. Strange feeling, being spoken about like a ghost of someone else.

Brynjolf told me more this time. Told me my father used to run protection for the Guild’s operations in Riften when he was younger. A strong hand when one was needed. My mother — quieter about her work — but could get into places no one else could. Said she only helped with the hardest jobs. Never formally part of the Guild, but trusted.

He still didn’t know the full story of why they fled. But he was certain someone had been hunting them. The ran to protect me. All these years I thought they’d just moved. Settled somewhere quiet. But they were running. From what, I still don’t know. Not that it mattered in the end – they’re dead anyway.

Brynjolf asked if I wanted to join the Guild. I told him I wasn’t sure. But if joining helps me learn more about my parents, then maybe it’s worth it. I don’t exactly have another path laid out in front of me right now.

He gave me a test — a simple one, apparently. Collect debts from a few people who owe the Guild. No killing, just persuasion. Said I could see how it went – see if I wanted to join afterwards. Part of me is against it – I enjoy fighting more than sneaking around. Never had the patience for it. But I’ve got nothing better to do.

Lydia… she didn’t look thrilled. Once we were alone, she spoke up. Said she didn’t want to get involved in thieving. I told her I understood. Told her she’s been a good friend, loyal, and I didn’t want her to feel like she had to walk this path with me if it went against who she was.

She seemed surprised. But thankful. Likely not used to my softer side. Said she’d stick around for now. Help me uncover the truth about my parents. But she wouldn’t get involved in the Guild's work. I respect that.

I don’t know where this path will lead. But I think I’ve already started down it.

—Luna

16th of Sun’s Dusk, 4E 201

The Ragged Flagon, Riften

Lydia left today.

I suppose I should’ve seen it coming. She didn’t say anything at first, just watched while I shook down the Guild’s so-called “deadbeats.” I think the turning point was Bersi — after I slammed his head through his prized vase, she looked at me like she didn’t recognize me.

Despite this, we parted on good terms, at least I believe we did. She told me she thought I had a destiny, something greater — the kind of thing she heard about in stories as a child. But she didn’t think becoming a thief was part of it, even if my parents had once walked this path. Before she left, she hugged me. Said if I ever needed her, I’d know where to find her. Then she turned and was gone.

I told myself I wouldn’t care, that this was just another companion moving on. But when she disappeared out of the city, it felt like when I lost my parents all over again — that same hollowness, that same silence.

I passed Brynjolf’s test, though. He introduced me to Mercer Frey. First impressions? Arrogant, cold, and far too smug for someone running a guild barely holding itself together. He treated me like dirt — right up until Brynjolf mentioned my parents. Then something shifted. Mercer’s eyes lit up like he’d just uncovered a buried secret.

He gave me my first real job. Goldenglow Estate. I’m supposed to sneak in, burn some of the bee hives, and retrieve what’s in the safe. Apparently, Vex tried before and failed. I talked to her — she wasn’t happy about it, but gave me advice anyway. How to get in, what to avoid. Tonila gave me a few supplies. I’m starting to see the cracks in this place. The Guild’s barely holding on.

Mercer… he told me he knew my parents well. Especially my mother. He even hinted that just before they left Riften, they were attacked — he suspects it was someone from the Dark Brotherhood. Everyone knows who they are.

Both Mercer and Brynjolf keep saying how vital my parents were to the Guild, how everything started going downhill after they left. Part of me wonders if that’s why I’m really here — not to join, not even to learn about my parents — but to help fix something that broke when they vanished.

Met some of the others today. Niruin — quiet, decent enough. Vex, as mentioned, still pissed about Goldenglow, but fair. Then there was Sapphire.

Hard to describe her. She’s got this fury burning just beneath the surface. When we first spoke, she lashed out — said she didn’t understand why people wanted to know about her, didn’t feel like she belonged here. I told her I’d just joined, that I felt the same. That the only reason I was here at all was because my parents once worked with Mercer and Brynjolf… before bandits killed them.

Something shifted in her. Her shoulders dropped, the fire in her eyes softened. She apologised. And then, just for a second, she didn’t seem angry anymore.

I can already tell I’m going to like her. And she’s beautiful — in that dangerous, untouchable kind of way. The kind of woman who doesn’t let anyone close.

That’s fine. I don’t either.

—Luna

19th of Sun’s Dusk, 4E 201

The Ragged Flagon, Riften

Had a bit of time before the Goldenglow job. Wandered around Riften doing odd jobs. It’s not hard to find work if you listen — people love to complain over ale. Heard whispers of a skooma trade making its way through the city. Got pulled into helping the Jarl’s steward. One thing led to another, I got knee-deep in some drug-dealing mess the guards are too lazy to deal with.

Tracked the lead through Riften and out to a cave north of Shor’s Stone. Despite going to the Jarl directly with the lead, she asked me to do see it through. I’m not complaining – the reward she offered was substantial. Just seems odd that she wouldn’t get an official group of people to go and investigate.

On the way, came across an old fort built on the road. Place was crawling with bandits; all mouth and no brains. Must’ve thought I was easy prey without my armour. They learned otherwise. Killed every last one of them. They won’t be bothering any more travellers.

Feels odd not wearing my usually armour, like I’m somehow more exposed. Turns out, when I’m not weighed down by steel, I move like a storm. Fast, furious. Got fitted for new Thieves Guild gear — tighter, quieter. Sapphire was there, leaning against the wall, arms folded. I could feel her eyes on me as I pulled off the iron and steel plates. Said nothing, but the smirk on her lips said plenty.

Also had to swat off more spiders than I care to count on the road. You’d think with winter nearing they’d crawl back into whatever hole they came from. Skyrim’s wildlife never rests.

Turns out the skooma ring was doubling as a pit-fighting ring. Wolves, dogs — maybe worse. Saw the bloodstains before I heard the yelling. Charged in, blade ready. They didn’t stand a chance. Patrons, organizers — all of them fell. Took their gold for my trouble – overall a very rewarding trip.

Returned to Riften with the proof. Jarl Laila seemed impressed. Told me if I keep this up, she might make me Thane. Not something I expected. Not something I even know if I want. Still... nice to be noticed for once.

It’s strange, though — walking the roads alone. No Lydia beside me, no Scrappy trotting ahead. The silence is louder than I expected.

— Luna

23^rd of Sun’s Dusk, 4E 201

Location: Riften Meadery, Riften

Goldenglow Estate is no longer a problem — at least not for the Guild.

Got in through the sewer gate, just like Vex said. Waited until the dead of night to move — moon high, Riften sleeping. I slipped through the shadows into the manor first. The place wasn’t empty. Guards, locked doors, and one very paranoid Aringoth. But I remembered something my mother used to say — “If you move like you belong there, people believe you do.” So I moved like smoke, calm, controlled. Slid right past most of them. Found Aringoth’s safe and pulled the bill of sale without even needing to draw steel.

Slipped back out of the tunnel and made my way to the bee hives next. Three were lit up before anyone knew what was happening. Heat and smoke behind me, I disappeared back into the night.

Turns out Vex had failed this job before. She wasn’t exactly thrilled when word got back. But even she looked a little impressed. Not that I’m aiming to show anyone up — I just did what I was asked.

Brynjolf told me Maven Black-Briar wants to meet. Said she requested whoever dealt with Goldenglow. Seems she and the Guild are thick as thieves — literally. I’m supposed to meet her in a few days. Something tells me she doesn’t make social calls.

Sapphire was there again, watching me from across the Flagon like she always does — sharp gaze, arms folded, always leaning somewhere with that half-suspicious, half-interested look in her eyes. I finally walked over and said something. She didn’t brush me off.

We ended up doing a few jobs around Riften together. She’s terrifyingly good — smooth, cunning, and cold when she needs to be. Watched her con a wealthy Nord merchant out of his entire coin purse in minutes. Told him she was his long-lost cousin from Markarth, played the sob story for all it was worth. He handed her gold and offered her a room in his house before she vanished with it all.

We spent our downtime talking. Inns mostly, sometimes rooftops, sometimes alleys when we didn’t feel like being seen. We shared stories — she opened up more than I expected. Told me she was once tied to the Dark Brotherhood, briefly. Said it didn’t seem to fit her. I told her about my parents — she already knew, but hearing it aloud seemed to strike something in her. She told me bandits killed her family too and took her as a trophy. She didn’t say more. Didn’t have to. I saw it in her eyes — the kind of pain you don’t name.

I know what bandits do to girls. I’ve seen it before. That kind of trauma changes you.

We didn’t say anything after that. Just sat there in silence for a while. Close enough to hear each other breathe.

I hope we get to work together again. We make a good team — efficient, quiet, dangerous when we need to be. But more than that, there’s something about her that stirs something in me. A longing I haven’t felt in a long time.

Maybe this guild will turn out to be more than just gold and shadows.

— Luna

30th of Sun’s Dusk, 4E 201

Location: Thieves Guild, Riften

So, I met Maven Black-Briar. And yes — she is exactly what everyone says she is. Cold as Skyrim’s peaks and twice as sharp. The kind of woman you don’t turn your back on… and don’t dare fail. Brynjolf said she wanted to meet the person who handled Goldenglow. She barely acknowledged me when I stepped into the room, but once she started talking, I understood exactly who held the strings in Riften.

She’s got another job — this time to deal with one of her competitors: Honningbrew Meadery, outside Whiterun. Apparently, someone’s been bankrolling them, trying to challenge Maven’s control of the mead trade. My job? Tear it all down from the inside and figure out who's behind it.

Met with a contact named Mallus in Whiterun — slick bastard with a chip on his shoulder. Said Honningbrew’s got a "pest problem." Found out that was the understatement of the year.

I got hired by Sobjorn himself to clear the place out. Paid me, even offered thanks. If only he knew.

Inside was chaos. Skeevers everywhere — walls gnawed through, droppings in every corner, absolutely reeked. And spiders. So many spiders. One of the workers had completely lost it. Tried to rally a skeever army like he was their king. I put him down before he could bite someone himself.

Poisoned the nests, like Mallus asked, then slipped a dose into the brewing vat and a little more into the latest batch being prepped for a tasting. Just enough to make it unpleasant — not lethal, but I wouldn’t want to be near a privy in Whiterun for the next few days.

By the time I returned upstairs, the tasters had already arrived — including the Guard Captain of Whiterun himself doing the honours. Maven plans well. Sobjorn had been stalling until I came back. He then ran off to get the recently poisoned batch.

The moment the mead touched the captain’s lips, his face twisted like he’d bitten into something rotting. Poor Sobjorn barely got a word in before the captain started shouting — said he’d have him locked up for life, nearly vomiting between threats. I didn’t even try to hide the grin.

Mallus was pleased. He’ll be running things now — under Maven, of course. I dug through Sobjorn’s ledgers one last time and found the “name” of his mysterious benefactor. Same symbol as on the Goldenglow bill of sale.

Brought the information back to Maven. She was… amused. Or at least her version of it. Vekel said she came down to the Flagon after I left — smiling. Said he’s never seen her do that before. I think that officially makes me her favourite thief. Not sure if I should be proud or worried.

Brynjolf and Mercer are convinced now — someone is working against both the Guild and Maven. The symbol links the attacks. Mercer said whoever is doing this has made their first mistake. They’ve referenced an old Guild contact in the East Empire Company — Golum-Ei. Mercer wants to squeeze him, but Brynjolf thinks he’ll need a bribe. I said I’ll handle it… but I won’t be buying anyone’s cooperation. He’ll talk.

And — maybe coincidence, maybe not — but Sapphire’s got a job in Solitude too. Same time. Same place. Feels deliberate. Not that I’m complaining. Travelling with her sounds a hell of a lot better than going solo again.

If I’m lucky, the road will be long, the inns warm, and she’ll sit close when the fires burn low.

— Luna

Chapter Text

5^th of Evening Star, 4E 201

Location: Blackmoor Inn, Whiterun Hold

Met someone unexpected as we were departing Riften — Ingun Black-Briar. Maven’s daughter. Couldn't be more different from her mother if she tried. No scheming, no sneering, just… curious. Obsessed with alchemy. She rambled about rare roots, fungi that grow in shadow, and the properties of vampire dust with a kind of childlike excitement. There’s a darkness there too — the way she talked about using certain ingredients was a little unsettling — but still, I found myself enjoying her company. Not because I care about alchemy, but because of how much she clearly does.

The weather’s turning. Even here in the lower plains, the wind bites more than it used to. The nights feel longer. The beasts have started to retreat — fewer wolves, no sabre cats, not even the usual trolls. The silence of the road now broken only by the crunch of frost beneath our boots and the occasional flutter of wings overhead. The sky though… the aurora dances more often now. Pale green, deep blue, and streaks of violet bleeding across the stars. I can see why poets lose their minds out here.

The cold’s been a good excuse to stay close to Sapphire — not that I need one. She doesn’t say much when we’re riding or walking, but the way she lingers beside me at camp, how she always manages to be near when the fire burns low… it says more than words. The road is quieter now, but we’re not alone.

Then tonight — the quiet shattered.

We spotted a dragon near a village. Sapphire looked like she was ready to vanish into the trees, and I wouldn’t have blamed her. But I felt my blood boil again - hadn’t realised how much I’d been craving to fight a dragon. Charged headlong at it — part instinct, all fury. It noticed. Swerved toward me like a beast with a personal grudge. I led it out to the flats, drew my blade, and when it landed, I tore into it with everything I had.

I caught its wing when it tried to lift again — shredded the membrane with my blade. It hit the ground hard. I finished the job. My arms were still shaking when it finally went still.

Turned around and saw her — Sapphire. She wasn’t running anymore. Just standing there, looking at me like I was something she’d never seen before. Part terrified, part… aroused? That look said more than anything she’s ever said to me.

We made it to the nearest inn — barely got the door shut before she grabbed me. She kissed like she did everything: hard, fast, without asking. Pulled me into the room, tore off my leathers like they were paper. I didn’t even have time to breathe before we were on the bed.

She’s beautiful. Strong. Scarred. Real. We matched each other blow for blow. Still high from the fight, but gods, it was the best I’ve ever had. Like something raw and alive broke open between us.

We’re not the kind to whisper sweet nothings. But tonight, we didn’t need to.

— Luna

11th of Evening Star, 4E201

Solitude

Finally made it to Solitude. Not going to lie — we probably could’ve arrived days ago if Sapphire and I hadn’t spent every night tangled up together. Every morning, we woke late, aching in ways that had nothing to do with travel or battle. Worth every second.

Strange coming back here. First time since I helped the Stormcloaks take the city. The signs of battle are still there if you know where to look — scorch marks, cracked stone, the occasional quiet patch where a building used to be. But Solitude’s bounced back faster than Whiterun. The capital’s coin and pride at work, I suppose. Hard to believe it’s only been a little over a month since that night.

We shared one more night together at the Winking Skeever before splitting off for our respective jobs. No details exchanged. Safer that way. If one of us gets caught, the other can’t be forced to talk. Still... we promised that if we finished around the same time, we’d meet back at the Skeever. I’m already looking forward to it.

I found Gulum-Ei right there in the inn. Slippery bastard pretended he didn’t know anything. I let him play dumb for a while — then pressed my dagger against his gut and told him I wasn’t in the mood for games. That did the trick. He spilled quickly. Claimed he’d been approached by a woman — angry, determined — with a fat bag of gold. Said she seemed particularly pissed at Mercer. Didn’t know her name, or so he said. But I could tell he was hiding something.

He bolted the moment he thought I’d backed off. I followed, sticking to the shadows. Watched him make his way through the East Empire Company’s warehouse — massive place, easy to blend in if you act like you belong. Just like Mother taught me.

Tracked him through to a hidden cave system behind the warehouse. Smugglers' tunnel, no doubt. Packed with hired muscle. I managed to sneak past some, but a few had to be dealt with the old-fashioned way. One attacked me right next to Gulum-Ei — big mistake. Took him down before he even landed a hit.

That’s when Gulum-Ei cracked fully. Said he was doing all this behind Mercer’s back. Working with someone named Karliah. He said the name like I should know it — I don’t, but apparently Mercer will. Gulum-Ei claims he didn’t realise who she was until he was already in too deep.

I told him I’d keep his little betrayal secret... for now. He looked like I’d handed him a second life. He should be grateful. If Mercer finds out before I want him to, no one will be able to save him — not even me.

— Luna

18th of Evening Star, 4E201

Goldenhills Plantation, Whiterun Hold

Reunited with Sapphire again, just as we’d hoped. Turns out both of our jobs went smoothly — no alarms, no surprises. We met back up at the Skeever, exchanged a few grins, then stories on the road south.

Her job was a delicate one — planting a stolen ring on a member of the Jarl’s court to get them removed from favour, then stealing it back before it could be entered as evidence and returning it discreetly to the Jarl. Elegant work, really. She pulled it off without anyone suspecting a thing. I told her about my dealings with Gulum-Ei and Karliah. The name rang a bell for her, but she couldn’t place where she’d heard it. Just a whisper of familiarity. Enough to keep us both curious.

Traveling with Sapphire again was just as enjoyable as I remembered — nearly as much as the time we spend tangled up in bed, though it’s a close competition. We ended up taking a slight detour through Rorikstead — she had some business there, and I used the opportunity to pursue something that had been lingering in the back of my mind.

I’ve made good gold recently. Enough to start thinking beyond inns and hideouts. I’d heard that the Plantation I cleared of ghosts was now for sale. Rorikstead’s steward confirmed this and recognised me as the one that cleared the Plantation, so he even offered me a further discount on the already low price.

Met Sapphire at the inn that night. Another sleepless one, in the best way. We set out for my new property in the morning. She couldn’t stop teasing me about becoming a farmer. I don’t think I could ever settle down somewhere permanently, but it would be nice to have somewhere to come back to that is mine.

There were a group of bandits that had camped near the Plantation. They were no real threat. A large group, sure, but sloppy and, given how they fought, mostly drunk. We cut them down easily. By dusk, the place was ours. Strange feeling — standing on land that’s mine. No Guild, no Jarl, no orders. Just something of my own. We stayed the night there, sitting on the balcony under the stars, curled up together somewhere that might one day hold a home.

We didn’t do much that night — just talked. About nothing and everything. Sweet nothings under the moonlight. It was... peaceful. A different kind of warmth. One I could get used to.

— Luna

26th of Evening Star, 4E201

North-East of Windhelm, Eastmarch

Made it back to Riften. Sapphire and I went our separate ways the following morning — but not before saying goodbye properly, repeatedly, and very much naked. Not sure when we’ll see each other again, but neither of us made it feel like a goodbye forever.

Spoke to Mercer. Told him everything about Gulum-Ei and Karliah. He went cold at the mention of her name. Said he hadn’t heard of her in decades — not since she murdered the former Guildmaster, Gallus, and vanished. Apparently, she’d been a ghost story in the Guild ever since. After reading through what I gave him, Mercer said he knows where she is now… the place where Gallus died. Snow Veil Sanctum. Said we’re going together to deal with her — to kill her. No mention of Vex, Brynjolf, or anyone else coming along. Just him and me. That alone puts me on edge. Why only me?

Travelled to Windhelm ahead of him. Got there quicker without the distraction of a gorgeous, sarcastic, raven-haired woman wrapped around me every night. Less enjoyable, though.

Mercer didn’t show up until the next evening. Same sour face, same steely tone, but there was something else in him — focus, something sharp. Something dangerous. We shared a room in Windhelm. For the first time, Mercer talked about my parents. Said he worked jobs with them — sounded almost like he was fond of them in his own way. That was surprising.

I opened up a little, told him about their quiet life in Cyrodiil. How little they actually told me about Skyrim. Hell, I didn’t even know I’d been born in Riften until recently. Mercer said he remembered me. Said my mother was especially protective — more withdrawn from Guild life after I was born. I didn’t push him on it, but every time I get some answers, I seem to end up with more questions.

This morning, something strange happened on the road to the ruins. I made some off-hand comment — something my parents had said to to me when I was little, I couldn’t even tell you what it was. Mercer stopped mid-step and gave me this look. Not shock, more… recognition? Maybe something else. He didn’t say anything, and neither did I. But I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

Later on, he told me more about Karliah. Said she ambushed him and Gallus. Killed Gallus with a bow, nearly killed Mercer too. Called her a master marksman. It’s a wonder he survived, honestly. But the story had holes. Maybe he was skipping over things, maybe he was lying. Hard to say with Mercer. But he did mention Karliah and Gallus had been together. Lovers. Which adds another layer of complexity to whatever this is.

We’re camping not far from the ruins tonight. He says we move in at first light. Can’t say I trust him. But I want answers — about Karliah, Gallus… maybe even about my parents. One way or another, I think I’m about to get them.

— Luna

31st of Evening Star, 4E201

Camp, south of Snow Veil Sanctum

To say the last few days have been interesting would be an understatement, even if I have spent most of them asleep.

Started with Mercer and I finding a horse outside the ruins. Mercer didn’t hesitate — drew his blade and put the poor thing down, saying it had to be Karliah’s. No escape route for her now. Cold, efficient. Typical Mercer.

Before we entered the ruins, he warned me about traps. I think it was as close to “be careful” as someone like Mercer can get.

Inside, the place was crawling with draugr. Mercer moved like a shadow with a blade — far beyond the skill of an ordinary thief. I could tell he was watching me fight too. In between strikes, I caught him muttering something like “good” or something along those lines. He seemed impressed — begrudgingly, but genuinely.

The deeper we went, the more restless I felt. There was a whisper in the air, something ancient and calling. A chanting – like before in these old ruins. Low, rhythmic, pulling me forward. As we approached a set of large double doors, the sound grew louder. Mercer said something to me, but I couldn’t hear him — not over the words seeping into my bones. As I was pulled to the words, understood them, that’s when it hit me.

An arrow — clean, silent, perfectly placed — slid through the weak spot in my leather armour. A shot I never saw coming. I dropped instantly, everything around me spinning as I felt the world fade. But I wasn’t dead. Not quite. I could still hear. Voices. Mercer. Karliah.

Karliah was venomous towards Mercer. The truth was revealed to me – Mercer had murdered Gallus and framed Karliah for it. She wanted revenge – had been planning this for years. Then she disappeared in a flash. Said she would be foolish to fight Mercer one-on-one.

Then he turned toward me. I felt his presence even before I heard him.

Told me he’d finally figured out what my parents had done — why they’d fled Skyrim. That this, all of this, would be his revenge. Killing me would be the last act of vengeance. The daughter of the traitors.

I blacked out.

When I came to, Karliah was leaning over me. I grabbed her by the neck, but I wasn’t strong enough to hold on and she pushed me away. Told me to calm down, said she’d explain everything. I didn’t have the strength to do anything else, so just listened.

Karliah said she was surprised I was already awake, apparently — the poison should’ve kept me under for a couple of weeks. I told her I’m not known for staying down easily. She smiled at that.

We were camped near the ruins. She had been waiting for me to recover - explained the arrow had been coated in a special poison that slows the body’s functions so drastically, it fakes death. Stops bleeding. Stops everything. Was why I had survived Mercer’s blow. She said it took her a year to perfect. I asked her what would’ve happened if Mercer had cut off my head instead. She actually laughed — dry, but genuine.

She told me her original plan had been to shoot Mercer and bring him back to the Guild alive — force him to confess about Gallus. But the shot wasn’t clear. Said she wasn’t sure why, but at the last moment, she aimed at me instead. Said: “Something told me I had to.”

We talked. A lot. She mentioned something called the Nightingales, though didn’t explain much. Said I looked familiar. She also looked familiar for some reason.

When I told her my parents’ names, her entire expression changed. She looked like she’d seen a ghost. Said she hadn’t seen me in years — not since she fled Skyrim. Apparently, after Gallus was killed, my parents helped her escape and went with her to Cyrodiil. Mercer had become too dangerous, and prior to Mercer’s betrayal, an assassination attempt had been made.

Something clicked. A memory — faint, but real. Hugging a woman with dark blue skin. A whisper: Auntie K. Told Karliah and she smiled. Said she used to visit us sometimes. But I couldn’t have been more than five or six the last time she visited.

Then I told her the worst part. That my parents were dead. She deflated completely. Told me she’d hoped to see them again after all this was over. That they were her closest friends, even if she hadn’t seen them in over a decade.

I asked her about the assassination attempt – it was something that had been mentioned previously. She said she believes that it was the Dark Brotherhood. That they don’t take kindly to traitors — especially those who abandon a contract. My mother had apparently failed to kill her target, vanished, and started a new life.

I must’ve looked shaken, because she stopped. I asked her what she meant.

Karliah hesitated, then said it outright: my mother used to be in the Brotherhood. Left them behind, met my father, and settled in Riften. Kept her past hidden, apparently from me as well. Everything suddenly made sense. Her skills, the paranoia, the silence about her past.

Apparently, the Brotherhood tracked her to Riften. Sent three assassins. My mother killed them all — she’d been furious, Karliah said, because I had been in the house when they came.

I don’t know how to process all this. My mother was an assassin. My parents were fugitives from the Dark Brotherhood and the Thieves Guild. Mercer wants me dead – and thinks he succeeded. And the only person I can currently trust is someone I was told to kill just days ago.

Not exactly how I envisioned spending New Life Festival.

— Luna

Chapter Text

5th of Morning Star, 4E202

Silver-Blood Inn, Markarth

After I'd finally shaken off the last of the poison, Karliah and I travelled north to Winterhold. She told me she’d recovered Gallus’ journal from Snow Veil Sanctum. Why he’d encoded it, she didn’t know — but she was sure that whatever’s inside must be important. She hoped that would include enough information to help expose Mercer. Without it, it could take years to convince the Guild of the truth.

She mentioned someone named Enthir — a contact of Gallus’ from the College — might be able to help. We just had to hope the journal held what we needed, and that Enthir was still willing to be involved.

Winterhold was exactly as I’d imagined it would be in winter: cold, bleak, and crumbling. Karliah mentioned that part of the town had actually fallen into the Sea of Ghosts. Luckily, the rest hadn’t followed — though it feels like it’s considering it.

Once we arrived, we went our separate ways. Karliah had some “damage control” to do, as she put it. Said she’d see me back in Winterhold.

Enthir wasn’t as surprised to see me as I thought he might be. Apparently, Karliah had spoken to him previously and mentioned she was looking for Gallus’ journal. Enthir had been a good friend of Gallus’ and he was happy to help Karliah find out the truth of his death – and hopefully get revenge whilst she was at it. After seeing the journal,  he said he couldn’t help directly, but he’d recognised the language — Falmer. Of all things. Barely anyone knows how to read it.

He said Gallus had once sought help from someone named Calcelmo in Markarth — a Dwemer researcher who’d apparently done significant work on the Falmer language. So that became my next destination.

The journey to Markarth was long, but uneventful. I forced myself not to get sidetracked — no mercenary work, no random fights. My horse didn’t appreciate the pace I kept, but we made good time.

Calcelmo… well, he’s a particular type. Called me an idiot within seconds of meeting me. I gave him a look that said he was seconds from regretting it. He quickly apologised. Said he was being hounded by people he didn’t need any more and was too busy with research to deal with distractions.

When I asked about the Falmer language, he perked up. Said his work wasn’t finished but that once it was, it would be a “brilliant” breakthrough. Typical academic ego. Told him I was a “student of history” — not a complete lie — and asked to see his work. He agreed very eagerly, handed me a key to his museum. Now who’s the idiot.

I’ll give him this: the museum is impressive. Dwemer constructs, strange devices, machinery beyond understanding… and right in the centre, a colossal metallic figure. I’d have stayed longer if I had the time, but there was something else I needed.

I ignored Calcelmo’s warning and made my way into his lab. Told a few of his guards I was there to collect some of his notes on Falmer studies. Said it with enough confidence that they didn’t question it much — though I could feel their eyes on me.

The “lab” wasn’t a lab at all. It was a ruin. Massive, dangerous, full of broken machinery and ancient traps. One of Calcelmo’s assistants tripped one — chaos followed. I used the noise to slip deeper in unnoticed.

Eventually, I reached a sort of tower. There, at the top, I found what I needed: notes, diagrams, and a huge stone tablet etched with Falmer symbols — part alphabet, part translation guide. According to Calcelmo’s journal, it was the foundation of his work on the language. He hadn’t yet finished making rubbings of it. So I did.

I can only hope I’ve got what I came for. Time to head back to Winterhold. Let’s hope this is what Karliah needs to prove the truth.

— Luna

10th of Morning Star, 4E202

Shor’s Stone

Made it back to Winterhold with the rubbings, and Karliah was already waiting in the inn with Enthir. First thing she did when she saw me was hug me. She pulled back quickly when she realised how stiff I’d gone — I’m not used to that sort of thing. Maybe for her, it’s different. I think she still sees that little girl I once was, and not whoever I’ve become since.

Enthir wasted no time once I gave him the rubbings. Karliah had been right — Gallus had known something was wrong for months. According to the journal, Mercer had been slowly bleeding the Guild’s treasury dry. Funding something personal, though Gallus hadn’t worked out what.

Then Karliah brought up the Nightingales again — Enthir found some mention of this in the journal, related to the Twilight Sepulcher. Gallus apparently suspected Mercer had desecrated it. The moment he said that, Karliah’s whole demeanour changed. She didn’t tell me or Enthir what it meant, just shut down. Wouldn’t speak another word on it.

It was only on the road to Riften, I pushed gently. She finally explained: it’s a temple. To Nocturnal. The Nightingales are sworn to protect it. Mercer had taken an oath — along with Gallus and Karliah — to serve and safeguard it. She said she would like to tell me more, but she was sworn to secrecy.

I told her I didn’t get it. Why would thieves have a temple? And why so secretive, even from the Guild?

She looked at me and simply said, “Just trust me.”

I didn’t say anything, just nodded. I do trust her – even after Mercer’s lies. There is something so very refreshingly honest about her.

We talked more on the way. She told me stories about my parents — the kind I’d never heard before. Crazy jobs they’d pulled off together. One included using a mudcrab to smuggle a rare bottle of wine out of a warehouse!

Also told me how terrified she had been the day she had learned my mother had once been in the Dark Brotherhood. She had thought my mother had been infiltrating the guild with the intention of killing Gallus – of making it look like an accident. She laughed – said looking back how it was almost funny. My mother had actually been preventing Gallus from being assassinated after a failed job the guild had done. I think she admired her.

I told her about my parents’ lives after Skyrim. The quiet years. The peace they’d found in Cyrodiil. She seemed relieved to know they had that time. But when I told her how they’d died, I could see the light in her dim a little. I told her I’d found the ones responsible. And that they were dead.

She hugged me again. I actually hugged her back this time. Took me a moment, but I did. I think she needed it just as much as I did.

Karliah isn’t the type to let people close. Neither am I. Maybe that’s why we understand each other the way we do.

— Luna

12th of Morning Star, 4E202

Ragged Flagon, Riften

Karliah and I walked into the Ragged Flagon together — the kind of entrance that gets attention. And it did. Brynjolf spotted us immediately. He clocked her straight away and was on his feet, dagger out, glaring at me like I’d betrayed him personally. Said I better have a damn good reason for walking in with her.

Karliah stayed calm. Stepped in between us. Told him she had Gallus’ journal. Brynjolf snatched it from her and read through it. His face hardened with every page. He shouted out across the guild for Delvin and Vex, who came running. Said they needed to open the treasury.

Both were perplexed, but he brought them up to speed. Delvin and Vex explained something interesting — Mercer couldn’t have gotten in alone. The vault’s protected by multiple puzzle locks, needs two keys to open, and both Brynjolf and Delvin hold two out of the three. You’d need at least two people to crack it, three if you were in a hurry.

But when they opened the vault… empty. Completely cleared out. You could see the colour drain from their faces.

Vex lived up to her name. Absolutely vexed. She was ready to storm off and find Mercer herself. I just told her she’d have to get in line. She actually smirked. Brynjolf  said we’d need to think this through before charging off for his head. She reluctantly agreed, said she’d take first shift guarding the Flagon’s western entrance. Could hear her barking orders after she left.

I updated Brynjolf on everything else that I’d discovered — from Gallus’ suspicions, Mercer’s attempt to kill me, to what we’d found at the Sanctum. He listened. Quietly. Then asked me to break into Mercer’s house here in Riften. Apparently, a gift from Maven Black-Briar. Not suspicious at all.

The Flagon had turned into a flurry of activity. Vex had clearly barked some orders — I saw Sapphire and Vipir stationed near the other entrance. Sapphire spotted me, flashed a smile and said if Mercer dared step foot near the Guild, she’d cut it off. I smiled, kissed her. Gods, I missed her.

Mercer’s house was well-guarded — but Vex had warned me his "personal security" deserved whatever was coming. One less now.

Inside was worse. The place was full of traps, secret doors, and far too many mercenaries for a man who’s supposed to be hiding. I don’t know if he put them there in response to Karliah or if they’ve always been stationed there. Either way, they’re dead now.

Found secret chambers under the house — more traps. But tucked away in the darkness, I found what I was looking for: plans. Mercer’s next move.

Brought them to Brynjolf. He recognised what it was immediately — The Eyes of the Falmer. Something Gallus had once dreamed of stealing. Brynjolf called it the heist of the century. Seems Mercer wants to claim it for himself. Figures.

Karliah pulled us aside, said we needed to talk in private. She told us the truth — about the Nightingales. About Nocturnal. About the oath they swore. And what it meant that Mercer had broken his.

She said we can’t fight him as we are. That we need to meet him on equal ground. I’m still not entirely sure what that means.

She asked us to meet her at the Standing Stones, south of the city. Brynjolf agreed — said he’d meet us there in the morning, once he sorted a few things.

I went to find Sapphire — she wasn’t guarding anymore. We talked. I told her everything I could. Even told her about my parents. About my mother’s past in the Dark Brotherhood.

There was a moment — just a flicker — in her eyes when I mentioned the Brotherhood. She hesitated before telling me to be careful before getting involved with them. I wanted to press, but I didn’t. I could tell she was holding something back.

We spent the night together again. We’d both missed each other. I could feel it in her touch, in the way she held me. We made up for lost time — again and again — and for a little while, it felt like everything else could wait.

— Luna

13th of Morning Star, 4E202

Twilight Sepulcher

Met Karliah and Brynjolf at the Standing Stones just south of the city. Turns out this place — unassuming as it looks — is the hidden entrance to the Nightingales' headquarters.

Karliah explained that the Nightingales serve Nocturnal directly. Not as worshippers or disciples, but as her agents — a kind of contract-based relationship. She doesn’t want reverence or faith, only payment. Seems even the Daedra like to treat everything like a business deal.

Karliah said she’d speak to Nocturnal and, if all went well, Brynjolf and I would become Nightingales too.

Brynjolf voiced what I was thinking. “Why am I here?” he said. “I’m no priest.” I agreed — I’ve never been one for gods, especially Daedra. Karliah just told us again; it’s not about worship. It’s business.

She approached a large altar and, without flinching, started removing her clothes. I just stared, confused, but Brynjolf outright asked what the hell she was doing. She calmly told us to follow her example.

We stood and watched as she stripped completely bare and placed her hands upon the altar. A strange, blue mist surrounded her, shimmering around her skin before shifting into black, scale-like armour.

Brynjolf looked like he was trying to figure out if this was a trick or some kind of illusion. I was hesitant, but I’d come too far to back down now.

I stripped next — my armour, clothes, everything — and stepped forward. The air around the altar was freezing, but the second I touched it, the same mist wrapped around me like warm water. When it cleared, I was clothed again — but in something else entirely.

The Nightingale armour fits like a second skin — snug but soft, like shadow given form.

Brynjolf was last. He mumbled something about how ridiculous this was as he awkwardly disrobed. Not quite the confident man I’ve seen. For all our dangers, some people still get more rattled by nudity. It was oddly charming.

Once we were all clad in this new form, Karliah repeated the oath — that we would become Nightingales. Brynjolf immediately pushed back. Said he never agreed to this. Needed to know what exactly was expected of him.

Karliah told us that we would serve Nocturnal in both life and death, as guardians of her temple, and in return, we would gain abilities granted by her power.

I told her plainly: I don’t like the idea of binding myself to anyone or anything — especially not some Daedric Prince I’ve never even met. Not forever. Not in death. But I also told her I’d go through with it, for now. For Karliah. I believe it is what my parents would have done in my place.

Inside the Sepulcher, it became clear this wasn’t all metaphor. Karliah called to Nocturnal — and Nocturnal answered.

She spoke. I didn’t expect her to literally speak.

Karliah offered our souls in exchange for Nocturnal’s assistance. And Nocturnal agreed. I felt it — her gaze, her presence, something ancient and vast pressing in all around me. Then, in a voice that rang through my mind and bones, she named us Nightingales.

But after that, I heard another voice. One different from the others. It spoke just to me, I think. It whispered: “See you soon, Dragonborn.”

I haven’t stopped thinking about that since.

Karliah explained more after the ritual. Apparently, Mercer has also stolen the Skeleton Key — an artifact of Nocturnal that can open anything. Not just locks. Boundaries. Realms. It’s tied directly to Nocturnal’s power — and to the Guild itself.

Until the key is returned, the blessings she spoke of — the powers — will not be ours.

Before we left, Brynjolf pulled me aside. Said we needed to talk leadership. I brushed him off, asked why he was even bringing it up now. He said he was considering putting my name forward to lead the Guild.

I looked at him and thought he was joking. Could tell he wasn’t though. I told him I haven’t been around long enough for something like that. I’m also not a leader and have no desire to be one.

He said he’d thought the same thing about himself.

I told him to finish this first. Let’s stop Mercer. Then he can start handing out titles if he really wants to.

Next stop: Irkngthand. If that’s even how it’s spelled. Another Dwarven ruin. Another fight waiting.

— Luna

18th of Morning Star, 4E202

Nightgate Inn, Pale Hold

While I hadn’t minded the leathers the Guild had me wearing, I decided it was time to be properly prepared. With Irkngthand ahead of us, and Mercer’s blade waiting at the end of it, I went to a blacksmith in Riften and treated myself — ebony plate. Not the usual kind either, this was lighter, sleeker. Strong as anything I’ve worn before, but without weighing me down like Iron. And I liked the colour — dark, deadly.

While the blacksmith made adjustments to the fit, I used the time to stock up on supplies. No excuses for being unprepared.

The next morning, I returned to the cistern with my new gear in tow. I barely got three steps in before Sapphire spotted me. She followed me into one of the side rooms without a word.

I started peeling off the leathers, but she stepped in and took over.

She asked me if we had time. I told her yes — so long as we were quick.

We weren’t exactly gentle with each other. There was a frantic edge to it, like we both knew this might be the last time in a long time.

Afterwards, she helped me into the new armour — first time she’s ever helped me into clothing instead of out. Said she still preferred what was underneath, but that I looked like I was ready to kill.

She wasn’t wrong.

We left later that morning — the three of us, cloaked in shadow and steel. The Nightingales.

Karliah gave my new armour a nod of approval. Said it suited me. Brynjolf smirked and mentioned he’d heard a few stories from Sapphire about my "battle prowess" — said he was looking forward to seeing it first-hand.

Our path took us north, toward Windhelm. We paused there for supplies and rest. The journey was long, but none of us seemed to mind.

Karliah and I… we’re fast becoming friends. Maybe even something closer. Family, perhaps. I jokingly called her "Auntie K" at one point. She gave me a look, but she smiled. I think it meant something to her.

We talked more about the Guild on the road. Brynjolf kept circling back to the question of leadership — who should lead after this. I told him maybe we were thinking about it wrong. Why just one leader? Why not have a small council, so if one falls, the Guild doesn’t fall with them? Told him that from what I’d seen, Vex and Delvin were already doing half the job.

He didn’t argue. Just nodded, deep in thought.

We spent our final night before Irkngthand at the Nightgate Inn. The tension in the air was thick — a quiet storm building.

And I could feel it… her.

My inner beast. The part of me I don’t fully understand. The part that craves the fight, the blood, the power. It’s been some time since I’ve felt it this restless — since I killed that dragon with Sapphire. Tonight, it was back with a vengeance, pacing inside me, clawing at the walls of my soul.

It wanted release.

I barely slept. But I didn’t need to. I felt more awake than ever.

I opened up a bit to Karliah before we turned in. Told her about the thirst I have for battle — how I can feel it crawling through my veins like fire. Told her about the dragons, how I seemed to draw power from them. She didn’t have answers, but she listened. Said Skyrim is ancient, full of secrets. Said the ruins all across this land carry the weight of dragons — maybe that’s why I was called back here from Cyrodiil.

Maybe.

It was also the first time I told someone other than Sapphire that I wasn’t sure if the Thieves Guild is truly my place. Maybe I was never meant to stay. How I cannot seem to find a purpose that feels right. Also, told her I wanted to learn more about my mother, and that would mean finding the Dark Brotherhood.

She went quiet for a time. Then warned me. Said that path is darker than I realise — that they tried to kill my mother. That they may not welcome me for her memory.

I know the risks. But I can’t ignore this part of me forever.

Tomorrow, we descend into Irkngthand. To stop Mercer.

After that – we’ll see.

— Luna

20th of Morning Star, 4E202

Nightgate Inn, Pale Hold

We made it to Irkngthand.

Didn’t take long to realise we weren’t the only ones. Bandits were there already — must have been there for quite some time as they were well dug in. I cut through them like shadows under moonlight. Brynjolf got to witness me in full motion for the first time. When the last body hit the floor, he just stared for a moment before shaking his head and muttering, “I think you’re in the wrong game, lass.”

Inside, the story was different. Someone else had beaten us there — Mercer. The bandits ahead were already dead, some in their sleep. No signs of struggle. Silent. Efficient. Mercer had been busy.

This was also the first time I’d ever had to face Dwarven machines. They burst from the walls, mechanical things with claws and whirring death. Strong, fast, relentless. Took a few hits to bring each one down — and even then, they made you bleed for every inch. Karliah, thankfully, knows where to aim. Her arrows hit with perfect precision, joints and vents.

Then came the Falmer.

Disgusting, blind, twisted creatures. They reek like rot, and they don’t need to see to find you. Sound draws them — even your heartbeat feels too loud. The deeper we went, the worse the stench.

Eventually, we came across one of the giant Dwarven constructs — a Centurion, according to Karliah. It was active. No way around it. Had to be brute-forced. I’ve fought dragons and lived, but even dragons bleed. This thing was metal fury, and it did not go down easy. My blade ached by the time it stopped moving.

We pushed through a Falmer camp. Dozens of them. Every step echoed; every breath risked bringing a horde. Somehow, we cut through. I have no idea how Mercer made it through them without the entire cavern descending on him.

Then we reached it — the heart of Irkngthand.

A massive cavern opened before us, dominated by a towering statue. At its crown, Mercer stood, prying one of the massive gem-like “Eyes” free.

We barely had time to plan. He turned, whispered some incantation — and the balcony beneath us collapsed.

Karliah and Brynjolf were caught by whatever spell he then used — frozen in place. Mercer mocked Karliah, spat venom like the coward he is. When he turned his gaze on me, he seemed surprised I wasn’t frozen too.

He called me traitorous. Just like my parents.

I shouted back — told him he should’ve made sure I was dead when he had the chance. My voice cracked through the cavern. The very walls trembled with my words. The beast in me stirred again.

I didn’t give him a chance.

For all his skill, for all his cunning — he wasn’t ready.

Karliah always said he was one of the best fighters she’d seen. Maybe he was. But he hadn’t seen me in full fury.

I’ve killed dragons. A thief is nothing.

As I stood over his broken body, the beast roared in triumph. And yet… it wasn’t satisfied. It never is. I pushed it down. There were more important things to do.

The cavern was collapsing around us.

I grabbed the Skeleton Key and both Eyes, threw one to Brynjolf, as the ceiling groaned and the ground buckled. The waters rushed in fast. We were almost drowned before a wall gave way, granting us a narrow, desperate escape.

We were lucky. Barely made it out alive. Karliah commented that Nocturnal may have had a hand in it – not sure I want to believe her.

Now it’s time to return the Skeleton Key — to the Twilight Sepulcher. Karliah said we’d have to follow the Pilgrim’s Path, which can be deadly.

Let’s see what Nocturnal has in store for us next.

— Luna

28th of Morning Star, 4E202

Dead Man’s Drink, Falkreath

The path to the Twilight Sepulcher was quiet, but heavy. I could see the weight settling over Karliah like a storm on the horizon. Her eyes were distant, hands twitching slightly at times — not fear, but something deeper. Guilt, maybe. Uncertainty. I didn’t press her. Between Mercer’s death, Gallus, and Nocturnal herself… she had every right to be locked in her thoughts.

When we reached Whiterun, Brynjolf parted ways with us. Said he had to start cleaning up the mess left behind — the Guild’s leadership, Mercer’s lies, everything. I nodded and wished him well. We’d come far together, and despite everything, I believed he would steady the ship.

As Karliah and I prepared to leave again, she finally spoke: said she wouldn’t walk the Pilgrim’s Path with me. She couldn’t face Nocturnal. Not after everything. I told her I would’ve preferred her by my side, that if she meant to serve Nocturnal, she’d have to face her eventually. Her face tightened at that — not anger, just pain — but she agreed to at least travel with me to the Sepulcher.

It took us a few days, and with every step Karliah grew quieter, more distant. She walked like a shadow, eyes constantly flicking to the horizon as if searching for answers in the wind. When we reached the Sepulcher, we stepped into silence — the kind that presses on your ears. And then we saw him.

Gallus.

A ghost. A guardian. Still here after all this time. Karliah saw him and broke. She cried openly, quietly, like she hadn’t let herself in decades. Gallus said the key’s absence had drained the Sepulcher, that he was fading. Something he called the Ebonmere was suffering.

I left them alone. Whatever time they had left, they deserved it. Before I stepped forward, I reminded her: she didn’t have to come inside if she wasn’t ready. She just nodded, silent, tears in her eyes.

The path itself wasn’t quiet. Ghosts — shades of Nightingales long since passed — stood in my way. Gallus had warned me that without the key, they would attack on sight. My silver blade served me well, slicing through the dead like moonlight on water. Even managed to behead one, though I’ll never understand how that works.

Eventually, I reached what looked like a dead end — until I drew the Skeleton Key. It pulsed in my hand as if it recognised where it belonged. A slot opened beneath me, and I descended. There, in the still darkness, I placed the Key.

Shadows spilled across the chamber.

Birds — ravens, I think — erupted from the stone, swirling in black mist. And then… she appeared.

Nocturnal.

She was not what I expected. Robes that flowed like smoke, skin that shimmered like starlight. Her voice was quiet thunder, ancient and commanding. She said she’d see me again, called me Dragonborn — again — and said I had fulfilled my contract. Then she asked the question that had been on my mind since all of this began:

“Why did you agree to become a Nightingale?”

I told her the truth. For Karliah. For justice. For vengeance. Not for eternal servitude. I said I had no desire to be bound to this place for eternity.

She… laughed.

Not mocking. Almost fondly. She said she could see that my destiny lay elsewhere. But if I ever felt the need to return, the shadows would welcome me. Then she offered me one last gift. A power.

I stepped onto a marking on the ground, and I felt it enter me. Like my skin melted into the air around me. I could move differently. Hide differently. It’s hard to describe — but I felt more capable than before.

When I found Karliah again, Gallus was gone. She had said goodbye, and he’d told her that his contract was complete — and they would meet again once hers was too.

I told her what Nocturnal had said to me — that she’d released me from the contract. Karliah looked stunned. Said she'd never heard of Nocturnal doing that before. She muttered something about needing to find someone new for the Nightingales. I said I was sure someone from the Guild would fit the role.

On our way back to Riften, I opened up to her. Told her I still planned to help the Guild — for now — but I wouldn’t stay forever. That I felt… pulled. That the beast in me craves something more than the Guild can offer.

She nodded. Said she understood. Said she’d stand by me, help me however she could — that she owed me a debt she could never repay.

I told her I was going to look for the Dark Brotherhood. Even if just to understand my mother. Even if it led me down a dangerous path.

Karliah warned me again, like Sapphire had. Said the Brotherhood was full of betrayal and death beyond that of what Mercer had done. Reminded me that they had tried to kill my mother. But… I already know what I’m capable of. And if danger is part of this path, then so be it.

Karliah, despite what she had said, said she’d help however she could. Brynjolf had welcomed her back into the Guild with open arms. She said it finally felt like she was doing what she was meant to do.

I wish I could say the same.

But I’m not done searching yet.

— Luna

Chapter Text

27th of Rain’s Hand, 4E 202

Goldenhills Plantation, Whiterun Hold

I can see that it has been some time since I’ve written in this. I don’t know why I stopped—no, that’s a lie. I do know. I just haven’t had the focus. Every time I sit down, quill in hand, I get this gnawing feeling in my chest. Restless. Distracted. Like I should be doing something, anything, other than this. Like I’m being hunted by my own thoughts.

The guild’s alive again. Everyone’s throwing themselves into rebuilding it—Vex and Delvin more so than ever. Brynjolf is busy managing the chaos, and I’ve been out on the road more than I care to admit.

Took a few jobs. The Summerset Shadows are finished—burned their banner myself. Felt nothing. A job in Whiterun that was too easy; the Jarl’s steward practically smiled as I walked in and out. No challenge. Just names on a list. A job up in Solitude involving planting some alcohol on a ship —gods, that pompous arse Erikur. I was this close to gutting him right there. It took everything in me to walk away. I’m not sure I should have. Recovering a silver mold stolen in Markath. These jobs should’ve been exhilarating. Instead, it just felt empty.

The gold keeps coming. Brynjolf’s set up some kind of “tribute” for what I did and continue to do for the guild—coin pouring in like water. The cistern’s thriving. The fences are flush; the shadows are thick again. Everyone’s calling it a renaissance. And yet, I find myself growing more and more furious with each passing job.

Every mark, every client, every little errand someone asks of me just grates at me. I’ve always had a temper, but now… now it’s sharper. Meaner. I snapped at Karliah the other day—she was only trying to help, digging up leads about the Brotherhood for me. I couldn’t even tell you what she did that set me off. I just felt rage bubble up like bile.

Even Sapphire and I are distant. We barely travel together anymore. When we do see each other, it’s fast, rough, like we’re trying to rip something out of one another—but whatever we’re reaching for, it never comes. It never satisfies. I don’t know what we’re doing anymore. Maybe she doesn’t either.

I’ve been trying to take time to myself—though what that means these days, I don’t know. I don’t sleep. Barely even rest. So I read. Everything I can find about the Dark Brotherhood. Scattered tomes, rumours, old letters. Anything. And when the words blur and my mind starts pacing, I walk the fields of this plantation I bought. Goldenhills. It's coming along nicely. New buildings. Farmhands. Almost runs itself now.

But even here, in the silence, I can’t find peace. I stand by the fields and feel the wind cut across the grass, and instead of calm, I feel my beast coiling tighter in my gut. Angry. Hungry. Not for food or gold—but purpose.

I’ve got leads to follow. Whispers and riddles.

A house in Markarth—supposedly cursed, and now being investigated by an agent of Stendarr.

A statue outside Windhelm, tied to death and whispers in the night.

Strange rumors of voices in Dragonsreach—people say the Jarl’s court mage is hiding something. Something old. Something dangerous.

I don’t know what I’ll find, but I have to look. I have to know. I can’t leave any stone unturned.

Because something in me says I’m getting close.

Close to the truth. Not even sure what truth that is. All I know is nobody is standing in my way.

— Luna

3^rd of Second Seed, 4E202

Bannered Mare, Whiterun

It’s been a strange day. I came to Whiterun chasing whispers — both figuratively and, as it turns out, literally. Rumours had spread through Dragonsreach like wildfire and the he steward was more than happy to share what he had heard. Said he’d heard that a bunch of children in Dragonsreach were behaving oddly. Hostile, almost cruel. Not the petty mischief of youth, but something darker.

I wondered through Dragonsreach and one boy in particular caught my attention. He was fierce, wild-eyed, and told me, without a hint of fear, that he’d rip his mother’s face off if she didn’t leave him alone. Then, as if it were nothing, he said the man he calls father isn’t his real father — something he claims to have learned from “the Whispering Lady.”

That name alone sent a strange shiver through me.

I found the door. Hidden in the back of the keep, tucked away behind a dusty corridor, old and locked. I knocked. That’s all it took. The voice that answered wasn’t spoken — it was inside me. Sweet and cloying like honey – but with an undertone of danger.

She said her name was Mephala, a Daedric Prince. I’ve had dealings with powers beyond comprehension before, with Nocturnal and my blood, but there was something different in her words. They weren’t commands. They were invitations. Promises. She said she’d waited for someone like me. Someone capable of carrying out her will.

I didn’t say yes — but I didn’t say no, either.

When I questioned what she knew, if she truly understood the boy’s secrets, then perhaps she could help me find mine. She said she would — once the door was opened. Then she mentioned a name I hadn’t heard in years. My mother’s name. That stopped me cold.

The boy told me the court wizard — Farengar — had a key. Possibly Jarl Balgruuf once did too, but who knows where that ended up after the siege.

So I waited. Watched. When Farengar left his chambers, I slipped in. His quarters were a maze of scrolls, potions, and dust, but I found it — locked away inside a chest, key hidden within a locked chest.

The door opened without resistance.

Inside was a simple stone table. A blade rested atop it — long, blackened, humming faintly with something old. A note warned against using it. The voice came again. Mephala told me the Ebony Blade had gone dull, that it fed on betrayal and blood. That it was mine, if I wanted it.

Then — just before fading — she gave me another gift: my mother’s name. Her true name – the one she had gone by before leaving the Dark Brotherhood, along with an alias she had used. Mephala then gave me a warning.

“Not all mothers are what they seem. Be wary where your loyalties lie.”

Gone. Just like that. Typical Daedric riddles. Yet something about her words… they felt too precise to be meaningless. And I have a name – I can use that. Someone must have had dealings with my mother.

I’ve taken the blade. There’s a weight to it — not just in the metal. It doesn’t feel dead. It feels dormant, waiting to be unleashed and needs feeding.

It feels like me.

— Luna

14th of Second Seed, 4E202

Silver-Blood Inn, Markath

I’ve uncovered more pieces of the puzzle.

After scouring old records and tomes, I finally found a mention of an assassination in Markarth that occurred over twenty years ago — tied to my mother’s name, or at least one of her aliases. I didn’t hesitate. I left immediately.

In Markarth, I began asking around. Most people knew about the assassination, but only vaguely — just that it had happened and left a shadow over a house no one had dared enter since. They also mentioned an agent of Stendarr had been poking around the place recently. That, I already knew. Too many coincidences to ignore.

I found him easily enough. He was asking the same questions I was. Told me no one really knew what had happened in the house, just that it had been empty ever since that day. He mentioned he’d been waiting for backup from the Vigilants. I offered my help. He accepted — too eager, too trusting.

The house looked… lived in. Dusty but intact. Like its occupants had simply vanished yesterday. As we searched, something stirred — we both heard it. Low and strange. A locked door barred our path. I’ve unlocked enough doors to know this one wouldn’t stop me.

But before I could try, the house responded. Objects began floating, spinning violently around the room. The agent panicked and bolted. Left me.

Then, the voice came.

Not in my ears. In my mind. Like Nocturnal. Sweet but cruel. It told me the agent was weak, that I was strong. That I should crush him.

And I did.

I charged after him, furious. Found him at the door, trembling like a child. I demanded to know why he’d left me alone. He gave me nothing. I shoved him, hard. The house trembled with my voice, and then — snap. Just like that, his neck broke under the force of my shout. My rage.

He crumpled at my feet.

The room grew dark. The voice returned, rich with approval:

“Well done. Come. Claim your reward.”

The locked door had opened.

Beneath the house, the stone gave way to a hidden shrine — deep, carved into the rock. At its centre, a twisted altar. Floating above it, a crude, rusted mace.

Molag Bal.

He revealed himself then, not in form, but in voice and presence. He mocked me for thinking reward came so easily. A cage snapped around me, trapping me like a rat. I roared back at him — furious, defiant. And the cage cracked.

That surprised him. Amused him.

He said he could feel what was in me. That I had blood fit for domination. Then he told me what had happened: the rusted state of the mace was the doing of Boethiah, his rival. Her priests had hired an assassin decades ago to kill his followers in Markarth. Ever since her priests had performed rites to keep the shrine defiled. The priest that still performed the task had gone missing.

Molag wanted him.

I was given a location — a camp north of Karthwasten. Forsworn territory. I didn’t hesitate.

The cave was full of them. Wild, naked, snarling. Their bodies flashed past me like wind in a storm. They died just the same. Each time I move with intent, I feel it — this power growing inside me. As if my purpose is sharpening me into something… more.

I found the priest — Logrolf. Old, bitter, and bound. I told him Boethiah had sent me. He swallowed the lie. Rambled on about needing to return to the shrine in Markarth. I played along.

On the way back, I asked if he knew of the shrine outside Windhelm. He admitted he hadn’t been there in years. So it’s real. That’s something. He even mentioned having to past an old fort east of Windhelm to get there.

Then I pressed further — delicately — about the shrine in Markarth. I told him I’d heard there had been an assassin involved in the original attack. He confirmed it. Said Boethiah’s followers were desperate. Hired the Dark Brotherhood. Said the assassin had even met with the priests.

That’s confirmation. It was her.

Back in Markarth, Logrolf ran right into the trap. Molag’s voice returned, no longer amused — commanding.

“Make him submit. Use the mace.”

I did. Without hesitation.

And when he died — Molag brought him back. Again. Again. Each time I crushed him; I felt my control grow. Until, finally, Logrolf broke. Surrendered to the Daedric Lord. And was ended for good.

Molag Bal restored the mace — sleek, polished, humming with dark energy. Offered it to me. I seem to be collecting Daedric weapons.

Before I head to Windhelm to find this shrine, I have one more thread to chase: I’ve heard whispers that my mother once visited an Orcish stronghold in the Rift. If she left anything behind, I’ll find it. If anyone there remembers her, they’ll tell me. One way or another.

This road I walk gets darker by the day. But I’m becoming stronger.

— Luna

30th of Second Seed, 4E 202

Largashbur, The Rift

Found the stronghold. Largashbur — or what’s left of it. Giants at the gate, the walls crumbling, and a chief cowering behind them. I stepped in without hesitation. Put the giant down myself. An easy enough favour to earn trust.

At the gate, I met an old orc named Atub. Sharp eyes. She told me their chief, Yamarz, had grown weak, and with him, the tribe. The walls they once guarded now trap them like frightened rabbits. She asked if I would help her with a ritual — one to reach out to Malacath. Said she’d ask around about the name I mentioned — the name my mother once used — if I agreed. I said I would.

The ritual was brutal and immediate. Malacath responded in full. He called Yamarz a disgrace, a coward who had allowed the giants to overrun his shrine. Malacath demanded retribution.

Yamarz turned to me. Asked for help. Promised gold. I told him I didn’t care for coin — I wanted to know about the woman I’d asked after. He paused. I saw it — that flicker of recognition. He knew. Said he’d speak, after I helped him. I reluctantly agreed.

Atub pulled me aside after. Her voice softer. Said she’d tell me everything — if I lived. She looked at me like she already knew who I was.

We set off to Fallowstone Cave. Yamarz and I. I killed giants. He cowered. When we reached the shrine, he stopped me. Offered more gold to kill the last giant for him. Promised answers. I agreed, though the stench of his fear made me sick.

I killed the giant. Effortless. Then the coward turned on me. Thought he could silence me like he did his past. I broke him with ease. Let him die with his throat crushed beneath my boot.

And then, again, a voice in my head — Malacath. Praising me. Telling me to retrieve Shagrol’s Hammer and return it to the shrine.

I came back fuming. No answers. Just another corpse.

Atub waited. I told her what happened. Malacath confirmed it all — the curse of Largashbur, born not of Yamarz’s cowardice alone, but of something deeper. Of betrayal. Of dishonour. Of her.

Malacath told me I was the only one worthy to return the hammer to the shrine. So I did.

Afterwards, Atub came to me. Sat me by the fire. Handed me a cup of rotgut and said what I’d suspected all along: She knew. She knew I was her daughter. The one I had been asking about.

She told me everything.

Years ago, the old chief, Makrag — Yamarz’s father — had wanted power, but he wasn’t strong enough to earn it. So he bought it. Had hired assassins kill his rivals – had reached out to them by performing some kind of ritual. Shaman, warriors — anyone who stood in his way. Precise. Untraceable. Silent. And in Malacath’s eyes — dishonourable. That’s when Utub suspected the curse began.

When Makrag died, Yamarz kept the secret buried. Took the title of Chief by standing on the bones of those my mother had killed. But curses don’t stay buried. They rot through everything. And they did.

Atub said my mother returned a year later. Seeking shelter. Makrag offered it — whether out of guilt, fear, or debt, no one knows. But she stayed - for a time. Told me that my mother had always been quiet. Never spoke of her past, but rumours had spread about who she was – that she had been the one involved in the disappearances of Makrag’s rivals. Seems those rumours were true.

Then came the mercenaries. Contracted to deal with witches and hags nearby. My mother, restless, went hunting. Saw the mercs. Thought they were after her. They saw her. Thought she was a witch.

A brutal fight followed. She brought down three of them before one — just one — finally bested her. Atub remembers my mother saying he was “bloody strong.”

But he saw through it. “You’re no witch,” he said.

Her answer? “Neither are you.”

She brought him back to the stronghold.

That man… was my father.

Atub remembered him — described him. Broad, scarred, quiet, but kind. No doubt. That was him.

They left not long after. Together.

I sat by the fire long after Atub finished. Staring into the flames. So now I know.

I was born of blood and fire. A daughter of shadows and steel. And the sins of this tribe — of my mother — run deeper than even they know.

Next, I go to Riften. I need to speak to Sapphire about this ritual Atub mentioned. The one Makrag may have used to contact the Brotherhood. That’s the thread. And after that?

Boethiah.

Time to find out what her priests remember.

— Luna

Chapter Text

4th of Mid-Year, 4E 202

Riften

Sapphire knew.

All this time — all these weeks and dead ends and voices in my head and blood on my hands — and she knew how to contact the Brotherhood. She just didn’t tell me.

I confronted her with the ritual I learned from the orcs. The one their old chief used. I told her it must have been some kind of doorway to the Brotherhood. That’s when she looked at me — really looked at me — and I saw it: guilt.

I asked her why. Why she was looking at me like that. Like I was already dead.

She told me about the Black Sacrament. Said that’s how people call the Dark Brotherhood. A ritual, dark and precise. The chanting. The effigy. Human bones, flesh, and hatred.

I couldn’t believe it. The thing I’d been chasing this whole time — the key to everything — and she’d had it in her mouth like a secret she was choking on.

I lost it.

My voice cracked. My hands were shaking. I could feel the stones of the Cistern vibrating, like the world was bending to my fury. My beast, my blood, my power — it was all clawing to get out.

She tried to calm me. Said she was protecting me. That I didn’t understand what the Brotherhood really was. That chasing them — chasing my mother’s shadow — was changing me.

Sapphire had tears in her eyes. Told me she was scared for me. Said she’s watched me spiral — that this obsession, this fire inside me, it’s turning me into something dangerous.

She’s right.

And I don’t care.

I called her a coward. Said I wasn’t surprised the Brotherhood let her walk away — that maybe she was never worth keeping. Told her I’m not her, that I’m stronger. I’ve killed dragons. I don’t need protecting.

Karliah came into it. Tried to get between us. Tried to speak sense. But it was too late. The damage was done.

I remember the noise — breaking glass, toppling crates, the crash of a table splitting down the middle. My rage was like a storm, and the Cistern shook beneath my boots.

I didn’t look back. Not at Karliah. Not at Sapphire. Not at the others who watched me go like I was some monster slinking back into the dark.

Let them stare.

Let them fear me.

They’ve all abandoned me anyway.

But I won’t stop. I won’t give up. I’m closer than ever.

They should be grateful I held the beast back. She was screaming for blood. For betrayal. For vengeance.

And the truth?

For the first time, truly alone, I’ve never felt more like myself.

— Luna

10th of Mid-Year, 4E 202

Shrine of Boethiah, Eastmarch

I can hardly believe how close I’ve come. Sometimes I wonder if fate is playing games with me, or if all of this chaos is finally starting to form a path.

It started in Riften—still brooding over my fight with Sapphire when I overheard a guard talking about the orphanage. Something about the children whispering of one of their own who ran away. Said he was trying to summon the Dark Brotherhood. I froze. It sounded too perfect to be true. Another false lead? Or finally a break.

Before leaving the city, I stopped by Honorhall Orphanage. The woman I spoke to—young, worn thin with exhaustion, but kind—told me about the boy. Aventus Aretino. Said he had fled some weeks ago, and that he was originally from Windhelm. The old crone in charge of the place is apparently a monster, so it was no surprise that a child would rather summon assassins than stay another day there. I pretended concern, asked if they needed help finding him. She told me everything she knew. Stars, people can be so trusting.

So, two reasons now to travel to Windhelm.

On the way north, Skyrim offered me a bit of theater—bandits, trolls, and a bear all at each other’s throats in some chaotic brawl. I stayed back and watched for a bit, entertained. When the noise died down and the bodies stopped moving, I cleared out the survivors. I’m sure they deserved it.

I also followed up on the lead from the Boethiah priest I killed. He’d spoken—and screamed, to confirm that Boethiah had a following near an old fort in the mountains near Windhelm. I only had a rough idea of the location, but fortune favoured me again. I found the fort, followed the road until it split. South or west. I chose west and climbed – higher and higher.

It was steep, but at the top, there it was. The shrine. Crumbling and cursed-looking, crawling with those mad devotees of Boethiah. Some were fighting one another. Others watching. One priest approached me immediately—mocked me, challenged me. I think it was meant as an insult, but I’ve been called worse.

I told them I was an assassin. That I walk the same path my mother once did. Said I was hoping to learn more about her, and of the Brotherhood. I could see the flicker of interest in their eyes. Deceit, murder, betrayal—currency to Boethiah’s kind. I played into it.

It worked.

One of the elder priests—half her face missing behind a mask—told me that I could summon Boethiah, speak to her and ask her about my mother. The priest spoke briefly about the job, it was common knowledge amongst Boethiah’s followers – of the assassin that had wiped out a cult of Molag Bal worshippers.

But of course, nothing is free. If I wanted more, I had to earn them. Boethiah demands trials.

The priest told me to bring someone. Not just any someone—someone who would follow me willingly. A sacrifice. I didn’t hesitate. I agreed.

If this is the path that will finally bring me closer to my mother… and the Brotherhood… I will walk it. Bloodied and alone if I must.

Whatever it takes.

— Luna

15th of Mid-Year, 4E 202 

Bandit Camp, East of Windhelm

I returned to Windhelm cold and silent, unsure of my next move. If I wanted answers about my mother from Boethiah, I knew what had to be done. But knowing and doing… they’re not the same thing. I’ve killed more people than I can count, and part of me was telling me that sacrificing someone like this should bother me – but it doesn’t.

I sat in Candlehearth Hall, brooding over a mug I didn’t drink. Watching. Weighing. Wondering who it would be. That’s when fate decided to throw me a gift wrapped in stupidity.

Him.

I hadn’t seen him since the last time we traded fists over some hateful garbage he was spewing at a Dunmer woman. I’d left him on the floor with a busted lip and a lesson he clearly hadn’t learned. But this time, he approached me—smiling like we were old friends. Said he’d heard about what I did for Ulfric. Called me a “true Nord” and all that usual Stormcloak nonsense. I just nodded along.

He went right back into his tired rhetoric. Said anyone who fights for Skyrim is a friend of his—even “those knife-eared milk-drinkers, if they know their place.” I could have broken his teeth right then. Instead, I smiled.

Seems my sacrifice had chosen himself.

I bought him drinks—twice as many as I drank myself. He boasted louder with every mug. By early morning, I suggested we take the party on the road. Said I knew a spot in the mountains, scenic, quiet, perfect for a few more drinks. He agreed. Of course he did.

I led him straight to the shrine.

He laughed and stumbled and joked until the blue glow wrapped around him. Then he screamed.

The shrine dragged him forward, pinning him like a prize. The followers of Boethiah surrounded us, started chanting. The one I had spoken to previously told me to kill him. I drew my blade and made it quick. Not for mercy. Just efficiency.

Boethiah came.

She took control of the body of the sacrifice. Her voice was a blade itself, cutting through the cold air: “Why have you drawn me out?”

I told her I wanted to know about my mother. About the contracts. About the Brotherhood.

She said one thing: “I will tell you, if you are the strongest.”

She turned to her disciples and issued a challenge—whoever survived the carnage would earn her favour. Then it all exploded. Steel rang, spells flared, bodies dropped. They were skilled, some of them. But none of them were me.

When the smoke cleared and the blood soaked into the frozen ground, she returned.

She was pleased.

She told me more. Told me that over twenty years ago, one of her own followers performed the Black Sacrament. The Brotherhood answered. My mother answered. Boethiah said she was the best assassin the Brotherhood had—ruthless, silent, efficient. But something changed. My mother turned her back on them.

“Those who refuse the Brotherhood’s orders are not merely exiled,” Boethiah said. “They are branded for life. It is a sentence.” Said she was surprised that my mother had escaped, when I told her.

I asked her how to find them. She told me I would—if I killed the “kind old woman.” Another bloody riddle.

But Boethiah wasn’t finished.

She told me her current champion had become a disappointment—using her gifts for his own amusement. She wanted him gone. Him and his entire band. Quietly. No honour. No screams. Just death. My blood was calling for me to agree.

His camp was nearby, between the shrine and Windhelm. He never saw it coming.

I struck at night, silent and swift. Used my dagger—not the blade I usually carry, but the one I save for when it has to be quiet. I slit throats as they slept, caught others mid-patrol. One by one, without a word. Her champion got the dagger in his throat, just like the rest.

When it was done, she came again. Spoke with something that almost sounded like approval.

She said I had pleased her. That I had a future in the darkness. That she wished me luck on my journey.

No more chasing shadows. The Brotherhood is within reach.

And I think… I think I’ve finally started to understand what I am becoming.

I am the darkness.

— L

25^th of Mid-Year, 4E 202

Candlehearth Hall - Windhelm

It didn’t take long to find Aventus. Word around the Grey Quarter travels fast if you know how to listen. I overheard a Dunmer woman and a Nord child talking in hushed tones—whispers of shadows, of prayers to the void. Of a boy, alone in the Aretino home.

I went there immediately. The door was unlocked.

Inside, the signs were all there: the altar, the offering, the bloody knife, the skeletal effigy. Aventus had performed the Black Sacrament.

He looked up when I entered and assumed I was Brotherhood. I didn’t correct him.

I asked why he’d summoned us. He said he wanted someone dead—the head of the orphanage in Riften. Said she was cruel, that none of the children were safe while she ruled over them. He even had payment ready. He was prepared. He was deadly serious.

Aventus told me he had learned of the Black Sacrament from one of the other orphans. That child’s father had been killed by the Brotherhood. That’s when he said her name: Grelod the Kind.

So Boethiah hadn’t been as cryptic as I thought.

I had three options.

I could wait—hope the real Brotherhood would arrive soon and be willing to talk. But that was risky. I might miss them altogether.

I could perform the Sacrament myself—but choosing a name without reason didn’t sit right. Even now, I’m not a mindless killer. Even the sacrifice I made for Boethiah was someone that deserved it.

Or… I could follow Boethiah’s advice. Kill “the kind, old lady”. She was a legitimate contract, after all. A target chosen, requested in blood and prayer. If the Brotherhood found out, maybe they’d come to me. To thank me. Or… to punish me.

Either way, I’d be ready.

So, I left Windhelm once again and headed to Riften—keeping my head down, steering clear of the Thieves Guild. That chapter of my life… it feels closed now. Like an old book I no longer care to read.

The orphanage wasn’t hard to find. Neither was Grelod. She stood there barking at a group of children, telling them they’d never be adopted, that no one wanted them. Heartless. Ugly in spirit. Definitely not the kind of person Skyrim needs more of.

I waited until nightfall.

She didn’t even stir in her sleep. I slipped in and slit her throat in silence. Simple. Efficient. Almost too easy.

I wasn’t sure if the Brotherhood left proof of the kill, if I needed to bring something to Aventus, or what was expected. So, I took a ring from her nightstand—something Aventus might recognize.

I left immediately, didn’t need to be there for any questions that might be asked once her body was found. I stayed the night in Shor’s Stone, then made for Windhelm at first light.

Back at the Aretino home, I handed him the ring. His eyes lit up. He knew.

He was thrilled. Called me a true assassin. Gave me some old heirloom as payment and ran off, shouting something about becoming a killer like me. I didn’t have the heart to stop him. Maybe someone else will. Or maybe he’ll survive. We all have our own roads into the dark.

And now… I wait.

I’ve done their work. Made it easy for them to find me.

Let’s see if the Brotherhood is watching.

And if they are—I hope they come.

— L

Chapter Text

?

Somewhere… very far from my plantation.

Spent a few quiet days at the plantation. Just waiting.

Turns out the money I’ve sunk into the place is actually being put to good use. It’s running smoothly, and the profits are starting to pile up. One of the farmhands even recommended hiring more help. I agreed. Made some notes about expanding the northern field, maybe adding a few more livestock pens. It’s good to know I won’t be scrounging for septims any time soon.

I wandered into Rorikstead one day—can’t remember what for. Maybe just to stretch my legs. That’s when a courier found me. Pale, jumpy little thing. He shoved a letter into my hand and muttered something about being paid well to deliver it directly to me, then bolted like he was afraid I’d bite.

Inside the envelope: a black handprint. Two words.

“We Know.”

I actually laughed. Good. I wanted them to know. That was the whole point.

A few days later, something strange happened. I started feeling... exhausted. Not tired from battle or lack of sleep. This was deeper. Bone-deep. It crept up slowly—subtle, like poison. I didn’t know it then, but someone had tampered with my food. I still don’t know how.

All I know is that when the moment came, I stripped down and collapsed into bed like I’d been drugged. Maybe I had. It was the deepest sleep I’d ever known.

When I woke, it wasn’t in my bed.

My limbs were heavy, my mind foggy. It took me a few seconds to notice I was tied—very tightly—to a chair. Every knot expertly placed. I was also, quite obviously, still completely naked.

The room was unfamiliar. Rotten wood walls. An old fireplace flickering weakly. I wasn’t cold though—someone had made sure of that.

And I wasn’t alone.

Perched atop a decrepit bookcase like a lounging sabre cat was a woman. Blonde hair, stunning face, tight black-and-red leathers. She looked entirely at ease. Amused, even.

When I stirred, she glanced over and smirked.

“Sleep well?”

I tried to look furious—whether I succeeded in my drugged state is debatable. I managed to growl,

“Where am I?”

She tilted her head, like I’d asked something quaint.

“Does it really matter?”

She slid down from the bookcase with a catlike grace.

“You know why you’re here.”

I muttered, “Grelod.”

That got her attention. She began to circle me slowly, each word sharp and deliberate.

“Ah yes, Grelod. Poor old woman, butchered in her orphanage. Half of Skyrim’s still talking about it.”

Then she stopped beside me and ran her fingers across my bare shoulder.

“Beautiful work, by the way.”

She said the kill was admirable… but it wasn’t mine to make. That belonged to the Brotherhood.

“So why did you do it?”

By now, I’d shaken off a bit of the haze.

“I was looking for the Dark Brotherhood.”

That seemed to surprise her. But she smiled, stepped closer, and cupped my face in her hand.

“Well... it seems you’ve found us.”

She explained that since the kill had been taken from them, a debt was owed. A life had to be taken. But not mine, she assured me. She knew how dangerous I was.

If I agreed to her terms, she said, she’d untie me.

I nodded.

She knelt, smiling, and began to cut the ropes binding my legs, then my arms. Her touch lingered longer than necessary. I felt the surge of something primal—lust, fury, bloodlust. Hard to say which was stronger.

She knocked on a door behind her, and another assassin—head-to-toe in Brotherhood leathers—dragged in a hooded figure. Bound, kneeling. Then another. And another. Three total.

As I flexed my aching limbs, still seated, the blonde leaned in close.

“One of these three has a contract. It’s up to you to decide who.”

I asked what happened if I guessed wrong. She didn’t answer. Just grinned and stepped back.

“I’ll be watching.”

The first one I spoke to was a Khajiit. Polite, but clearly an assassin of some kind. Too calm. Suspicious.

The second, an older Nord woman—very animated despite being tied and blindfolded. Strange energy. Odd choice for a target.

The third was a merc. Confused. Tense. Scared. Claimed innocence.

Too obvious? Maybe. But I followed instinct.

I stood. Still naked. And I felt something surge inside me—power. Absolute, raw power. I was judge, jury, executioner. It was intoxicating.

The blonde stepped behind me again, her hand on my shoulder. In the other, she offered a dagger.

“Make your choice,” she whispered.

So I did.

I slit the Khajiit’s throat first. Then the woman’s. Then the merc’s.

She blinked, then laughed.

“Aren’t we the overachiever?”

I shrugged. Told her she’d asked me to kill, so I did.

“Good,” she said. “Debt repaid.”

Then, she leaned in close again.

“I think it’s time we took our relationship to the next level. Join us. Join the Dark Brotherhood.”

I agreed.

I told her I had questions. I needed answers. She told me she was happy to answer them.

She smirked one final time and looked me up and down.

“As much as I enjoyed watching you work in the nude… we did bring your armour along.”

She pointed to a table in the corner. I dressed, feeling her eyes on me the entire time.

Then we left. Together.

The beginning, I suppose, of something new.

— L

8th of Sun’s Height, 4E202

Northwest of Falkreath

Outside the shack, the other assassin was waiting for us. Three horses stood tethered nearby—one of them mine. Clearly, they had expected I would say yes. That, or they’re very good at contingency planning.

The other assassin stepped forward and pulled back her hood. A Dunmer—sharply featured, confident, attractive in a cool and distant sort of way. The first thing she said to me was:

“Welcome to the family, sister.”

Her name was Gabriella.

We rode together towards Falkreath, through the forests and hills. Silent for a time, save for the clopping of hooves and the rustling of leaves. Eventually, the blonde woman began to speak more openly. Turns out her name is Astrid—leader of the Dark Brotherhood in Skyrim. Or at least, what remains of it.

She told me they had been keeping eyes on me for some time. My reputation among the Stormcloaks, and my rising influence within the Thieves Guild, had made waves. Even prior to what had happened with Aventus, they had been taking note. Afterwards, they knew I would be a perfect fit.

I told her I’d actually been trying to find the Brotherhood for a long time—not to join, not at first. I was looking for answers. Answers about my mother.

That piqued her interest.

She asked who my mother was. I told her what little I knew—that she’d been one of them, once, before I was born. I gave Astrid some of the aliases my mother had used. One of them rang a bell.

Astrid paused, thoughtful, then said some of the contracts she'd heard of were still spoken about in hushed tones around the sanctuary. A few had become near-legendary, particularly the one involving the followers of Boethiah. But she added that the assassins in her sanctuary—some of them older than her—might know more.

She was certain of one thing: my mother had likely never been part of the Falkreath sanctuary.

Astrid explained how the Brotherhood operates—each sanctuary isolated from the others, for secrecy and survival. As far as she knew, Falkreath was the only one left operating in Skyrim. But then again, it’s difficult to know these things. That’s the point. Most sanctuaries only hear whispers of the others.

She asked how my mother had "left" the Brotherhood.

I admitted I hadn’t even known my mother was part of the Brotherhood until recently. According to what I’d been told, she fled from them—and had been hunted. Or so the story went.

Astrid looked uncertain. She said it was possible—likely even—that my mother had belonged to another sanctuary. Many were destroyed in the aftermath of the Great War. The timing fit. She mused aloud: what if my mother hadn’t run from the Brotherhood, but from those who destroyed it? What if she came home to find her sanctuary razed, and fled from the very people who did it?

Her words rattled something loose in me.

It made sense. My mother had always been cautious. Wary of others. Especially wary of my father’s mercenary band. They would’ve been a strange crew for the Brotherhood to send—unless they weren’t Brotherhood at all. Perhaps she had known.

Still, things didn’t quite line up. There were gaps. Lies, maybe. Half-truths. But one thing is certain—my mother is dead. Whoever had been chasing her… they have nothing left to find now.

Astrid told me a bit about the sanctuary. About her “family.” She was… very friendly with me. The kind of friendly that gets close. Touches more than necessary. Flashes a smile that says more than it should. I’m still not sure whether I’m drawn to her or wary of her. Maybe both.

I opened up to her on the road. More than I usually do with anyone I’ve only just met – especially someone that has just kidnapped me. Told her about my inner beast—how it calls for blood, and sometimes… for other things. How I’d kept it buried when I was younger, but ever since coming back to Skyrim, it had started to rise. I told her how I’ve always been different. Stronger. Faster. I heal faster than I should. I don’t think she was surprised.

She listened. Really listened. Then she said something that stuck with me.

“Maybe you came back to Skyrim for a reason. Maybe this is where you find your true purpose.”

I didn’t answer her. But I was thinking the same thing.

Gabriella, too, was easy to talk to in her own way. Dry humour. Sarcastic jabs. A quick wit. I liked her immediately. She kept things light, even when the road felt heavy.

I’m curious to meet the others. The so-called “family.”

I don’t know if this will lead me to the truth about my mother.

But I do know one thing—I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

— L

10th of Sun’s Height, 4E202

Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary

We arrived at the sanctuary just after dusk. Hidden beneath the boughs of pine and moss, nestled into the cliffside like some forgotten tomb. As we approached, the stone door whispered to us—actual words, half-formed and slithering out of the rock like a breath. I shivered despite myself.

Astrid stepped forward. She spoke a strange phrase, and the door swung open, welcoming us in.

Inside, I expected a cold and damp crypt. What I found instead was something far larger. A winding cave system, warm and dry—later I learned it’s near a hot spring, which explains the heat. Strange, but… almost homely. Candles flickered. The air smelled faintly of incense. A place of death that somehow feels alive.

Astrid used the word again: family.

“This is your family now,” she said. “We look after one another. Always.”

She told me to go meet the others—said she had spoken of me already and that many were eager to meet the newest recruit. I agreed, thinking it’d be a good chance to ask around about my mother.

Before I left her, Astrid mentioned something else—the Night Mother. I asked what it was. What she was. Astrid’s tone shifted. She explained that the Night Mother is a corpse, the so-called bride of Sithis. Her crypt in Bravil was destroyed during the war, and now her Keeper is bringing her here—to Falkreath. She said some believe the Night Mother speaks to a chosen Listener, guiding the Brotherhood and assigning contracts through the Black Sacrament.

But there hasn’t been a Listener in years.

The way Astrid spoke, I got the feeling she wasn’t entirely convinced by all the old tales. She believes in the Brotherhood, yes—but perhaps not in all its ghosts.

She shared more about herself. Said she joined the Brotherhood as a young woman. Something about an uncle—unwanted advances, she said. So she killed him. Liked it. Killed again. Liked it more. That hunger for control, for power… I understand it all too well.

The dining hall was loud when I entered. Laughter. Real laughter. The kind I hadn’t heard since before my parents died. A group gathered around a fire, discussing recent contracts with grim humour and inside jokes. It didn’t feel like a coven of murderers. It felt… like a family.

Most already knew who I was.

Apparently, it’s rare for Astrid to personally recruit someone. When she does, everyone pays attention.

I began asking around about my mother. A few pointed me toward the older members.

Festus Krex was the first. A grumpy old wizard who introduced himself as “the crotchety uncle no one likes, but everyone keeps around anyway.” More bark than bite, I think. He’s clearly more sentimental than he lets on. Said he used to teach at the College of Winterhold—might ask him to brush up my magic sometime. He knew of my mother, at least by reputation.

Then there was Nazir—a Redguard, calm and collected. He’s the one who manages contracts Astrid doesn’t handle directly. Told me a bit about himself, how the Brotherhood saved him from himself. He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t push. Said I should come to him for work once I’m ready. I get the sense he’s eager to see what I can do. I think we’ll get along well.

And then there’s Babette. She looks like a ten-year-old girl—but she’s not. She’s a vampire, turned when she was young, and has lived for hundreds of years since. She knew my mother by reputation and even met her once, said they’d crossed paths while hunting the same target. Despite the separation between sanctuaries, my mother was apparently well known in Falkreath by name alone.

Arnbjorn also introduced himself. Rough, gruff, and not particularly warm. But he said if Astrid trusts me, that’s enough for him. Then casually mentioned that he’s a werewolf. That part caught me off guard. Even more so when he revealed he and Astrid are together—something she apparently never likes to bring up. That only made her strange friendliness toward me more… complicated.

Veezara, an Argonian, was perhaps the warmest of all. Told me he used to be a shadowscale, part of a now-extinct order serving the King of Black Marsh. When that life ended, Astrid gave him a new purpose here. His respect for her runs deep.

I saw Gabriella again. She looked me up and down with that same amused grin.

“You’ve got a strange energy,” she said. “I liked seeing all of you in action. Hope I get to see it again.”

Hard to tell if she was teasing or flirting. Maybe both.

I should feel out of place here.

But I don’t.

There’s something about this place, these people, this life that feels… right. Like I’ve finally found where I belong. And more than that—I've never been welcomed anywhere like this before.

Not by blood. Not by birth.

But perhaps now—by choice.

— L

23rd of Sun’s Height, 4E202

Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary

I’ve learned little else about my mother since settling in, though every member of the Brotherhood has remained as open and welcoming as they were when I first arrived. Still, I plan to do some more digging when I return. Babette might know more than she let on.

But for now, I needed something else—work.

I spoke with Nazir again, asked if he had any contracts that had been... lingering. Ones no one else had bothered with. He gave me a nod of approval—seemed to appreciate my forwardness—and handed over three names. I told him I’d be back when they were all done.

As I made my way out, I passed Astrid. She was hunched over a map of Skyrim, candlelight casting dancing shadows across her face. She was deep in thought until I moved past. Then she looked up, called my name.

She told me how to re-enter the sanctuary—the password. She added that the door doesn’t just respond to words, but something deeper. That it can sense intention. It won't open for just anyone. I wondered if that was metaphor or something more literal. In this place, both seem equally likely.

I told her I was heading out to complete my first contracts. She nodded, then gave me a little more detail on what was expected—respect the family, don’t get caught. Simple enough.

Before I turned to leave, she came closer. Too close, maybe. She reached up, brushed a strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear.

“Be safe out there,” she said softly. “I’m looking forward to hearing all about it.”

There was a sudden warmth in me—low and sharp. I could feel my body react before I could stop it. I left quickly, heart pounding.

I headed north first. Dawnstar. I’d never been. It’s a cold little port town, windswept and sleepless. Literally. I overheard talk of nightmares tormenting the townsfolk. Guards grumbling, eyes sunken and ringed. Whatever curse hangs over them, it worked in my favour.

The woman I was sent to kill suspected her husband wanted her dead. Funny—she was right, and wrong. She wasn’t even cautious. I caught her alone in a back alley, throat exposed to the night. One quick slice and it was done. I left Dawnstar without a trace.

Next stop: Anga’s Mill, near Windhelm. Ennodius Papius. The name didn’t ring a bell, but after I arrived, I recalled briefly meeting a paranoid man at a mill outside Windhelm. He was holed up in a camp by himself, twitchy and paranoid. If he thought someone was after him, he probably should’ve stayed in town. Instead, he made it easy.

On the road again, I came across a bard—lute on his back, singing to the sky. He was cheerful, even helped me fend off a pack of frostbite spiders. Strange how ordinary that moment felt. A song and a fight and laughter. Then I moved on, and he disappeared behind me.

Finally, I reached Ivarstead. Another first for me. My target: Narfi. He lived alone in a collapsed, burned-out house. He spoke about himself in the third person, voice like a child. Something in him had snapped a long time ago. I don’t know who wanted him dead, or why, but I did what I came to do. Dumped his body in the river, watched the current carry it away.

I returned to the sanctuary and immediately sensed a change.

The Night Mother had arrived.

The moment I stepped inside, I could hear raised voices. Astrid and Arnbjorn were arguing—confronting—a figure I recognised immediately. A jester I had met on the road. Cicero.

So, I was right about him.

Astrid kept Arnbjorn from doing anything rash, stood firm and took control of the situation. I caught her eye mid-argument. Relief washed over her face when she saw me. After she had finished she approached me.

“Good to see you,” she said. “I’ve had enough of dealing with muttering fools for one day.”

She pulled me aside; said she had a contract for me—one of her own. First one. Said I could keep the full payment. I asked what would happen now that the Night Mother was here. Astrid didn’t hesitate—nothing changes. She’s in charge.

Then she asked me something different. Not about my work. About me. How I was settling in.

I told her the truth—people had been welcoming. Kinder than I expected. That I wasn’t used to this kind of... acceptance. She nodded knowingly.

“Most of us were the same,” she said. “Until we found each other.”

She reached out and hugged me. It caught me off guard. But I returned the embrace. Still not used to that kind of thing, but... I didn’t hate it.

I met Cicero again. Gave me a headache just trying to follow him. He remembered me, of course—grinned like a madman. He confirmed what Astrid had begun to suspect: this is the only sanctuary left in Skyrim. He said he’s waiting for a Listener to appear. You could hear the frustration in his voice when he spoke of the Night Mother’s silence. He’s barely holding it together.

Before I left, Astrid gave me the details of the contract. She wants me to head to Markarth, to speak with Muiri, an assistant at the Hag’s Cure apothecary.

My first true Brotherhood contract.

Let’s see what kind of assassin I’ve really become.

— L

Chapter Text

5th of Last Seed, 4E202

Silverblood Inn - Markath

I spent a few days in the sanctuary, and I’m beginning to understand why Astrid calls this place a family. There’s a strange but strong sense of camaraderie here—dark, yes, and twisted in its own way—but real nonetheless. Word of the Night Mother’s arrival is still echoing through the halls. No one seems sure what it means for the future, but one thing is clear: their loyalty lies with Astrid. I suppose mine does too, now..

Babette cornered me earlier and asked about my blade—the Ebony Blade gifted to me by Mephala. Her eyes lit up when I mentioned the Daedric Prince. I think my dealings with the Daedra amuse her. Or maybe they impress her. Hard to tell with her ancient little smirk.

I turned in my contracts to Nazir. He was pleased that I’d cleared up some of the older ones. Said it was good to see initiative. I think I’ve earned a bit of respect around here, not just from him, but from the others as well.

Later, I took some time to relax in the sanctuary’s hotsprings. I hadn’t truly rested in what felt like weeks. The springs are a hidden gem—literally. Tucked into the stone, lit by the soft flicker of torches, and steeped in steam that masks everything below the waterline. I wasn’t the only one taking a break. Assassins of all races lounged and soaked. It was oddly peaceful.

As I relaxed in a quiet corner, Gabriella approached. She’s beautiful in that dangerous, sharp-edged way the Dunmer often are. Her crimson eyes found me across the steam. She joined me, and we sat close, the warmth of the spring matched by the warmth of her gaze. There was… something between us in that moment. We didn’t need words. Just presence.

A few days later, I left the sanctuary and travelled west to Markarth. After scouting around, I found the Hag’s Cure, but found Muiri at the Silver-Blood Inn instead. She’s young—maybe even younger than me, though she tries to hide her vulnerability behind forced confidence.

I approached her under the shadow of a black hood lined in red. She knew who I was before I even said a word.

Muiri wants a man named Alain Dufont dead. He was once her lover but used her to get close to the Shatter-Shields while they were grieving the loss of their daughter, then attempted to rob them. She also asked for a bonus kill—Nilsine Shatter-Shield, a former friend who turned her back on Muiri after the betrayal.

I said I’d think about it.

Something doesn’t sit right with killing Nilsine. I remember the Shatter-Shields from Windhelm. They were shattered by grief. And Nilsine… she didn’t sound cruel, only hurt at the loss of her sister. I’m no stranger to vengeance, but this feels different.

Alain’s death I can live with. Nilsine… we’ll see how I feel.

Tomorrow, I set out to find Alain.

— L

14th of Last Seed, 4E202

Silverblood Inn, Markath

I must admit… I enjoy this line of work. More than I thought I would. There's something liberating about it—about not having to hide what I am. I don’t need to hold back anymore. The beast inside me isn’t snarling to be let out because I’ve already opened the door. It’s part of me… is me. And I feel more powerful for it.

This job wasn’t one for subtlety. Alain Dufont had holed himself up in a dwarven ruin—Raldbthar, I believe. I charged through it all. No finesse. Just force. Bandits, mercenaries, gods-know-who—doesn't matter. I lost count of the bodies I left behind. Makes me wonder how many I've killed since setting foot in Skyrim. Hundreds? Thousands?

When I finally reached Alain, he was sitting down, having his dinner like a man without a care in the world. I couldn’t believe it. Even from across the chamber, I could see he’d sat right next to a pool of oil on the stone floor. Idiot. I took a torch from the wall and lobbed it. Flames raced to him. He didn’t even have time to scream properly before he was engulfed. Entertaining end.

The high from that didn’t fade immediately. I kept going deeper into the ruins, slicing through anything in my path. The Falmer were next. They never stood a chance.

Eventually, I came upon a set of malfunctioning dwarven gears. I couldn’t resist a closer look—something about the grind and whir of these old machines always fascinates me. Turned out the gears were jammed, one even blocked by a skull. Lovely. Once cleared, a nearby button caught my eye. And of course, I pressed it.

Should’ve known.

The button triggered a bridge—and a dwarven centurion. Massive. Angry. Deadly. I’ve only faced one once before, and that was with help. But this time I was alone. I remembered what Karliah taught me about their weak points, and that knowledge likely saved my life. It was a brutal fight, but I won.

Beyond the chamber, I found something curious—a glowing shard resting in a corner of the room. Seemed important, though I’ve no idea what it is. I took it anyway. Feels like one of those things you either keep or regret not keeping.

There was a lift at the end of the ruins—Dwarven technology, still functional. It carried me all the way to the surface. Convenient, I thought.

Wrong.

The lift opened right into what looked like an ancient dragon burial mound. And sure enough, there it was—a dragon, sleeping. Not for long. It stirred, roared, and launched itself at me. I barely managed to keep my arm intact. It was a vicious fight, but I took it down. And as I absorbed its soul, that now-familiar euphoria swept over me. That power, that connection.

I didn’t even have time to revel in the moment. A noise behind me—the sound of stone cracking. A sarcophagus burst open, and something climbed out. A draugr… but more. Powerful. Ancient. I felt it in my bones. Its voice, its shouts—they rattled my mind. And its staff… it fired off flames with every swing. The fight nearly killed me.

But I won again.

When the thing turned to ash, all that remained was its mask. Heavy, old, enchanted. I took it.

I’m not sure what it all meant, but I feel like I’m walking deeper into something vast and dark.

— L

29th of Last Seed, 4E202
Where: Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary

After that… eventful day—assassination, ancient draugr, dragon soul, dwarven ruin—I decided to ride north to Windhelm. The question of Nilsine Shatter-Shield still lingered in my mind like a phantom itch. I had to see her for myself before making any decision.

At the market, I found her. Nilsine, standing with her family. Their grief was palpable. Even in the bustle of the city square, it clung to them like smoke. The mother—Tova, I think—looked like a ghost. Pale, sunken-eyed, barely there. She looked like she hadn’t eaten in days. Nilsine herself still bore the weight of her twin’s murder in every step. And in that moment, I couldn’t do it. I turned away. I don’t know why exactly. Maybe it was mercy. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was something in me still holding on to a thread of humanity. Whatever it was, I left them alone.

I made my way back to Markarth to speak with Muiri. She was… grateful, at least at first. When I told her I’d spared Nilsine, her expression hardened. She asked why. I told her the truth: that Nilsine didn’t deserve to die just because she lost someone. Muiri said she was disappointed, but there was something in her eyes—an understanding, maybe even a touch of relief. Perhaps I did her a kindness she couldn’t admit wanting.

Back at the Sanctuary, I was met with open arms. The others were eager to hear how my contract had gone. Nazir clapped me on the back. Even Arnbjorn cracked a smile. It felt… good. Like I belong.

A few days passed, and then Astrid approached me. She asked me to follow her. We ended up at the hotsprings. She undressed, peeling off that leather armour like she was shedding skin, and stepped into the water. I followed, tension coiling in my gut. She asked me about the job, and as I told her, she moved close—very close.

Her hand grazed my bare skin as she leaned in, voice low. She told me she needed help—with something personal. Said she was worried about Cicero. That she’d heard him talking to someone…. She feared betrayal, possibly even conspiracy. She wasn’t sure if it was madness or something more dangerous. What worried her most, though, was the idea that someone else in the Brotherhood might be involved.

Then she said something that sent a chill down my spine even as her hand traced higher along my thigh. She wanted me to spy on Cicero. To eavesdrop on his next “meeting.” Inside the Night Mother’s coffin. I raised an eyebrow and said that sounded morbid. She laughed. I couldn’t tell if she was joking. I hoped she was.

I asked who she thought might be conspiring with him. Her hand stopped. “That’s the question, isn’t it?” she murmured—and then she withdrew her touch entirely. I burned for her to continue, even as I said I’d do it. Agreed to watch him. Cicero already trusts me, after all. I helped him once, before I even knew who he was.

So that’s what I’ve been doing for the past two weeks. Appearing as though I’m resting, relaxing after my first major contract. Spending time with my family is a bonus. But always keeping an eye out. Cicero mostly keeps to himself, muttering, scribbling. I've spoken to him only briefly. He always seems on the edge of something—mania, brilliance, danger.

The next meeting has to be soon. I can feel it. The Night Mother sleeps in her coffin. But something in this Sanctuary is waking.

— L

Chapter Text

5th of Heartfire, 4E202

Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary

Tonight, everything changed.

I was eating, pretending to be relaxed while keeping a close eye on Cicero—just like Astrid asked. That’s when he suddenly stood and, in his usual bizarre way, loudly announced that he was retiring to the chamber where the Night Mother is kept. My pulse quickened. This was it. My chance.

Without hesitation, I slipped away in the opposite direction, taking the longer route around the sanctuary to get there before him. I didn’t pause to consider what I was doing. Didn’t take a moment to marvel at the Night Mother’s grim presence. I just opened the coffin and slid inside, cramming myself into the pitch-black space with her decaying corpse. Mercifully, I couldn’t see anything in the darkness.

Not long after, I heard Cicero approaching, humming to himself with a peculiar tune only he knows. Then, his voice—soft, questioning—“Are we alone?” It became obvious he wasn’t talking to anyone present. He was speaking to himself… or her. He rambled, seemingly frustrated. Said he was tired of silence. Tired of waiting. Angry that she still hadn’t spoken—not to him, not to anyone.

And that’s when I heard her.

A voice. Not his. Not mine. Not even one echoing from the chamber.

In my head… again.

The Night Mother spoke to me.

Her words were slow and chilling, ancient and final:
“Darkness Rises When Silence Dies.”

I didn’t know what to do. My heart was pounding. The air in the coffin felt suffocating. I pushed it open and stumbled out, barely acknowledging Cicero. I repeated the words aloud.

Cicero froze. His eyes went wide, madder than usual, but there was awe in them too. He dropped to his knees, sobbing, laughing, a mess of ecstatic emotion. He kissed my boots. It was both uncomfortable and oddly humbling.

That’s when Astrid burst in, weapon drawn, demanding to know what was going on. She looked ready to end Cicero then and there—until she saw him kneeling. She turned to me, alarm softening into concern.

She asked if I was alright. I could barely respond. I told her I wasn’t sure. That I’d heard something. A woman’s voice. I assumed it was the Night Mother.

Cicero, still on the floor, was practically shouting about the Listener—me—saying the Night Mother had finally spoken after all these years.

Astrid pulled me aside, lowered her voice. I think she was trying to protect me from Cicero’s mania as much as she was trying to understand what had happened. She said she was worried I’d been discovered; worried Cicero had seen me sneak into the coffin. I told her I’d only recently made a habit of hearing voices—but yes, something had spoken to me. Something powerful.

She was sceptical, of course. She doesn’t trust Cicero. And now she has to contend with me—a relatively new assassin, suddenly named Listener by a dead woman. I tried to reassure her. Told her I didn’t fully understand what any of this meant, that I hadn’t asked for it, and that no matter what, she had my loyalty.

I hope she believed me. Because even I don’t know what comes next.

— L

8th of Heartfire, 4E202

Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary

I can’t breathe without Cicero popping up behind me like some twisted shadow. Since the Night Mother named me Listener, he’s been everywhere. He insists he’s at my service; says it’s his sacred duty to follow my every command—if only he’d wait for me to give one. I barely have a moment to myself. I think he’s trying to be helpful, but Divines above, he’s exhausting.

The others are loving it. Nazir has taken to calling him my “pet jester,” usually said with that smirk of his. Babette snickers whenever he offers to polish my boots or hold my drink. At least they’re getting some entertainment out of this madness.

Astrid, though—she’s been quiet. Distant. She spends most of her time in her quarters or walking alone through the sanctuary. No one dares approach her. Not even Arnbjorn. I can’t tell if she’s brooding, angry, or simply uncertain. Perhaps all three.

And then, just as things were starting to settle, I heard her again.

The Night Mother.

It was late. I was lying in bed, trying to ignore Cicero muttering to himself outside my door, when I heard her voice whisper through my mind. Soft, cold, irresistible. She summoned me to her once more.

I obeyed.

Back at her coffin, she spoke to me again—clearer this time. She told me someone had performed the Black Sacrament. She gave me a name: Amaund Motierre, and a location. Another contract. A real one.

The next day, I went to Astrid and told her everything. I half-expected her to be curious, maybe even impressed. Instead, she shut it down instantly. Told me, plainly, “no.” That she alone decides which contracts are taken. She brushed me off like I’d made the whole thing up.

I could see something in her eyes though. Doubt? Fear? Jealousy? I don’t know. But I left it alone… for now.

Nazir had contracts ready. Two of them. He also mentioned I wouldn’t be going alone—Gabriella would be joining me. That did make me smile. I’ve been waiting for a chance to work with another… and her. Maybe a little real Brotherhood work will help clear my mind and shake off this strange tension that’s settled over everything since the Night Mother whispered to me.

Let’s see what assassination in good company feels like.

— L

16th of Heartfire, 4E202

Moorside Inn, Morthal

Gabriella is… a damn good partner. Sharp with a blade, sharper with her wit. Her sense of humour is so dry it could parch a desert. I’ve laughed more in the last few days with her than I have in months—maybe even years. Strange how comforting that is. Almost feels foreign.

There’s something else though. I still think about the Hotsprings—how close we were. The way she looked at me then, and the comments she made about “seeing all of me” when I first joined the Brotherhood. There’s tension there. With her… with Astrid too. I haven’t had anyone in a while, and between the two of them, my body’s starting to get some serious cravings.

Our first contract was straightforward. Hern—a vampire living under the illusion of normalcy, operating a mill not too far from the sanctuary. Nazir had said his “female companion” was one as well. Gabriella and I split the job—I took Hern, she handled the woman.

Hern… he knew what was coming. Saw it in his eyes the moment I stepped onto the mill’s porch. He fought hard, tried to drain me, but I put him down quick. When I turned to rejoin Gabriella, she was already wiping her blade clean. Efficient as always.

We made our way to Morthal afterward, spending most of the journey swapping stories. Gabriella told me about killing a man with a crochet needle—said it was “improvisation.” I shared some of my exploits from the past year. Funny how chaotic it’s all been, and yet I can barely remember the details. She told me that’s common for people like us. When death is a constant, time tends to blur.

Our second contract was far less serious: Lurbuk, an orc bard. Apparently, everyone wants this poor bastard dead. Nazir said it’s one of the rare cases where the payout is more than the job deserves—because Lurbuk is, allegedly, the worst bard in Skyrim.

We decided to have some fun with this one. Went to the inn he frequented and asked him to perform some songs we made up on the spot. Titles like “The Ballad of King Onum – One Ball” and “A Unicorn’s Lost Acorn.” Lurbuk, in all his tragic confidence, actually tried to improvise them. It was… horrendous. Gabriella and I were in tears. We plied him with drinks the whole night, and the rest of the inn eventually cleared out, groaning with secondhand embarrassment.

When we’d had our fill, we offered to “escort” Lurbuk outside—said he needed some fresh air. He stumbled out toward the lake. Poor sod had a bit of an accident. Slipped. Fell in. Drowned. Very tragic.

We came back in still chuckling, and no one even asked where he’d gone. Honestly, some of them probably paid for the job themselves.

We decided to stay the night. Might as well rest up, enjoy a few drinks, and recover from the “trauma” of murdering the world’s worst minstrel. It’s been… a surprisingly good night.

— L

26th of Heartfire, 4E202

Home

Morthal gave me more than just coin and closure—it gave me Gabriella. We shared a room there, and more than just the bed. After so many weeks of tension and flirtation, it was if a dam had broken. She was… incredible. There's always something difficult about guessing an elf’s age, but if skill in bed is anything to go by, Gabriella’s seen a few more years than she lets on. Not that I was just lying there—I made sure to return the favour. Repeatedly.

On our journey back to the Sanctuary, it didn’t stop. We found moments—nights—when the mood was right, when the road was quiet. It wasn’t the wild, reckless passion I once had with Sapphire, but it burned just as fiercely. Different. Focused. And yet, when morning came, we fell back into our rhythm—Brotherhood. Family. Almost like it never happened.

She said something that stuck with me, though. After one particularly intense night, as we were catching our breath, she looked at me and said:

"If you truly are the Listener, then your destiny has already been written in the Void. Astrid is right to fear your power."

There was no malice in her voice—just fact. It rattled around in my head the rest of the way home.

We returned to the Sanctuary and got paid for our contracts. Simple. Clean. Back to business. Gabriella didn’t hang around long—she left on another job within a day or two. And me… I found myself with time.

Time to think.

I picked up the trail again—my mother. Asked questions, chased whispers. I'd let it fall to the side with everything else going on, with the Brotherhood becoming my life. And maybe that’s why it’s harder now. Because part of me wonders if finding her really matters anymore. I’ve found something else—a place. A family. A purpose.

A home.

— L

Chapter Text

3rd of Frost Fall, 4E202

The Bannered Mare, Whiterun

I spent an entire day in quiet thought, digging through old books and sifting through past contracts. It was Babette who gave me something new to chase. As I casually brought up my mother again, she paused, thoughtful. Said she remembered my mother mentioning something once—something about standing stones. Apparently, my mother used to visit them to clear her mind. Babette laughed, recalling some offhand joke about how “she’d never slept with anyone there.” A strange comment, but it stuck with Babette all these years, which must mean something.

It’s not much, but it’s something. The standing stones are all over Skyrim and likely documented in more than one dusty tome. Maybe there’s a trail to follow—something my mother left behind that still echoes among those ancient stones.

Astrid found me not long after that. She looked exhausted—dark circles under her eyes, voice stretched thin. Said something strange was happening at the sanctuary. She doesn’t trust what’s going on, and she wants me to follow up on the contract the Night Mother gave me—to see where it leads, to find out if it's even real. I told her I’d leave immediately if that’s what she needed. She didn’t say thank you, but her eyes softened, and that was enough.

So I left.

Volunruud lies tucked into the mountains north of Whiterun, a place shrouded in snow and silence. It was easy to find the side chamber near the entrance—just follow the trail of dead draugr. Someone had cleared the way, and judging by the carnage, whoever did it was both skilled and very much alive.

Amaund Motierre waited there. I must admit, I expected someone… different. He looked surprised that the sacrament had actually worked. After the initial shock, though, he switched to arrogance, talking big and bold. He laid it all out: this isn’t just a series of killings. It’s something monumental. He wants the Emperor of Tamriel dead. The others are just pawns—necessary sacrifices to set the stage.

Killing the Emperor… I’d be lying if I said the idea didn’t hit me like a storm. It would make history. It would burn the Brotherhood’s name into legend once again.

To back up his words, Amaund called in his manservant—a bodyguard, or at least someone paid to hand over what he brought: a letter, and an amulet that looked like it could fund a small war. Payment, he said. For expenses.

Seems Astrid has got a decision to make—and soon.

— L

15th of Frost Fall, 4E202#

Home

Returned to the sanctuary today and went straight to Astrid. Didn’t waste time—told her everything that happened at Volunruud. I wasn’t sure how she’d react when I mentioned the Emperor, but she didn’t flinch. Just stared at me in silence for a moment, then took the letter. I watched her eyes light up as she read it.

Then she said it, cool and certain: “Damn right we’ll accept this contract.”

Astrid explained that something like this can’t be rushed. We’d need time, planning, patience. Said the amulet Amaund gave me would have to be appraised, to ensure it was as valuable as it looked. She planned to send someone to Delvin over at the Thieves Guild to take care of that—thankfully not me. I’ve no interest in heading back to Riften just yet. Too many ghosts in the Ratway.

For now, I’ve been staying at the sanctuary. Letting the dust settle, letting the plan take root.

Spent more time with the family. Arnbjorn’s warming to me, slowly but surely. We even sparred—he’s strong, but I’m stronger – and quicker. Beat him easily. I think he respects that more than anything I could say. He gave me a nod afterward. Might not sound like much, but from him? That’s as good as a warm embrace.

Cicero finally left me alone. Only took threatening to drown him in front of the entire sanctuary. He actually looked hurt… until everyone else started cheering. Guess I wasn’t the only one who’d had enough of his antics.

Gabriella returned whilst I was there. She looked exhausted—her latest contract had her chasing a target halfway across Skyrim. Still, even running on empty, she had that look in her eye when she saw me. Said she deserved a reward. Led me to her room before I could say a word.

I made sure she got what she was after. Twice.

Afterwards, she fell asleep against me like there was nowhere safer in the world. Maybe there isn’t.

— L

27th of Frost Fall, 4E202

Camp – Just outside Whiterun

Had a few more nights with Gabriella. Things between us are relaxed, uncomplicated. Comforting, even. But that comfort didn’t last long — Nazir found me one morning after and said he had a new batch of contracts ready if I was interested.

I was.

Three contracts this time, and Babette and I decided to share them. I knew it was going to be... interesting. She could easily pass as my younger sister, possibly even my daughter if I managed to age myself up a little. We decided to use that as part of our plans.

Working with Babette is a unique experience. She obviously enjoys the life — the work, the killing — but it’s her wisdom that throws you. Hearing words of centuries-old insight come from the mouth of someone who looks ten years old can be deeply unsettling. I asked her a little more about how she’d ended up in the Brotherhood. She said it was sometime after she was turned. Back in High Rock, she’d been living with a group of street children when a corrupt merchant started abusing them. She killed him — fed on him, actually — and was discovered by a Brotherhood assassin, humming a lullaby over his corpse. They’d been “impressed and amused,” as she put it. Gave her a place in the family.

She’s never looked back. Said the Brotherhood is the first real family she’s had since her own parents abandoned her after her transformation. She enjoys being the “older–little sister,” and it shows.

Our contracts turned out to be conveniently aligned — two targets in Whiterun.

The first was Anoriath, a game hunter who runs a market stall. Like with Gabriella, we decided to have a bit of fun. Babette and I went in as siblings, with me accusing Anoriath — loudly — of “making advances” at my innocent little sister. The scene escalated quickly. A crowd gathered, guards were called. Anoriath stammered and flailed in his defence, but Babette played her part masterfully — wide eyes, trembling voice, and explicit details that made even the jaded guards squirm.

I demanded justice. He needed to be locked up immediately.

The guards obliged. As they questioned Babette, I slipped away and followed Anoriath and his escort toward Dragonsreach. When they passed through an alley, I made my move.

One guard dropped with barely a whisper. The second had just enough time to turn before I slit Anoriath’s throat and then dispatched him too. Three bodies in an alley. One of them the “guilty” party in a case of harassment gone wrong. A tragic escape attempt. Or so it would seem.

I returned to the market. Babette was perched on a crate, licking honey off her fingers while regaling a small group with a wide-eyed retelling of what Anoriath had “done.” She caught my eye, smiled sweetly, and asked, “Did you punish him, big sister?”

I nodded.

She popped a berry in her mouth and whispered, “Good.”

Our second target was travelling with the Khajiit caravans, and by luck, one had just arrived outside Whiterun. I had goods to sell anyway, so I approached them casually while Babette slipped behind the tents. She dosed his food stash with a rare poison — a quick-acting agent that causes rapid cardiac failure, nearly impossible to trace. She commented, half-jokingly (I think), that she “hoped” no one else in the caravan shared his food after he died.

We watched from the hill overlooking the camp.

He sat by the fire, ate a few bites, and almost immediately clutched his chest and collapsed. No one suspected a thing. We didn’t linger.

Two contracts done, one to go.

— L

Chapter Text

6th of Sun’s Dusk, 4E202

Windpeak Inn, Dawnstar

The last of our contracts led us far north — beyond Dawnstar, past the icy shores and crumbling wrecks of forgotten ships. The target was Daekus, an Argonian layabout whose existence had evidently annoyed someone enough to pay for his removal.

The journey was cold. Bitterly so. Even for a Nord like me, the wind off the Sea of Ghosts cuts deeper than a blade. I wrapped myself in layers of furs, took warming potions Babette provided, and even relied on a bit of fire magic when it got truly unbearable.

Babette, of course, was barely bothered. Vampirism does strange things to the body. She said she could still feel the cold, but not in the same way. Not dangerously. She didn’t need to worry about hypothermia or frostbite — and she certainly didn’t need to wrap herself like a travelling bear. Even more useful, she could swim through those deathly freezing waters and come out no worse than mildly annoyed. Handy, since parts of our approach required navigating through the shallows and wreckage-strewn coastline. I was gulping down warming elixirs just to survive. She was gliding through like it was a lake in High Rock.

We eventually found Daekus' camp nestled among a cluster of half-submerged shipwrecks — broken vessels, heavy with salt and time. The Argonian was out scavenging when we arrived, so we waited for him. Babette amused herself by going through his things, picking up bits of jewellery, rusted trinkets, and commenting on their lack of taste.

When he returned and saw us there — her lounging with a sapphire in her hand, me sharpening my dagger — he froze.

Babette didn’t bother with pretence. She looked him dead in the eye and said, “We’ve been sent to kill you.”

He dropped his haul and begged. Whined. Tried to run.

He didn’t get far.

I rose from where I’d been sat and, with one clean sweep, took his head from his shoulders. It tumbled down the slope, bounced once, and disappeared into the dark water.

We camped there for the night. Babette wanted to sleep under the stars — said the cold made it feel like she was alive again. I didn’t argue, but stayed close to the fire.

Another contract done. One step closer to... something.

— L

15th of Sun’s Dusk, 4E202

Home

Returned to the Sanctuary with Babette. We handed in our completed contracts to Nazir — who, much to my surprise, seemed genuinely impressed. Babette spoke highly of me, told him I handled myself with precision and creativity, and suggested he start assigning me more challenging targets. Coming from her, that actually meant something. Nazir nodded thoughtfully. I think he took her seriously.

Shortly after, Astrid pulled me aside. Said she'd heard back from Delvin in the Thieves Guild. The amulet Amaund Motierre had given us? Turns out it's a symbol of the Elder Council itself — a priceless artifact, unmistakably tied to the highest echelons of Imperial authority. Delvin provided a letter of credit for it. Astrid said the amount was staggering. Enough to fund more than a few sanctuaries, I imagine.

She then said something that shifted the air around us: that this explained everything. The Emperor’s inner circle, the wealth, Amaund’s desperation to remain hidden. Apparently, he’s trying to rise above his station. Dangerous ambition, even more dangerous coin behind it.

Astrid made it clear she wants me to play a central role in what’s to come. She laid out the next part of the plan — we’re going to attend a wedding. Not just any wedding: the union of Vitoria Vici, who oversees the East Empire Trading Company’s operations in Skyrim. The plan? Kill the bride. Publicly. Brutally. A message written in blood. It’s all part of the greater strategy to draw out the Emperor himself.

Astrid said she’d be coming with me for this one — to oversee the execution personally. She’s arranged for us to receive invitations to the wedding reception in Solitude. Formal event. High society. Which means we need to look the part. She’s suggested we travel to Solitude early, spend a bit of time there, get fitted for proper attire, and ease into the scene. Make it look natural. Just another pair of nobles in attendance.

She told me to gather my things tonight. We leave at first light.

Time to see Astrid in action

— L

24th of Sun’s Dusk, 4E202

The Winking Skeever, Solitude

We arrived in Solitude today. The city, still regal despite its shifting allegiances, feels different now. The Stormcloaks may have taken the capital, but the Imperial influence is still palpable. Astrid and I moved through the gates like nobility, as planned.

Astrid laid everything out as we settled in at the Winking Skeever. This contract isn’t just about killing Vici—it’s about spectacle. Her words: “We need to make this loud.” Everyone will assume it’s just more fallout from the Civil War, especially now that the Stormcloaks have taken more ground. What they won’t immediately guess is the true goal—drawing out the Emperor himself.

Apparently, Vittoria Vici is the Emperor’s first cousin. That caught me off guard. She’s also marrying a man with Stormcloak sympathies. Their union was supposed to be a symbol of reconciliation between both sides. Her death, then, will sever that fragile thread. According to Astrid, the Emperor was originally meant to attend the wedding himself—but pulled out. Claimed he didn’t want to stir tensions. More likely, his advisors knew it wasn’t safe for him to come to a city lost to rebellion.

Astrid was also clear about our exit strategy: once the blade is drawn and the blood spilled, all hell will follow. We need to be gone before the bells even stop ringing.

We’ve been careful. Camping on the road, she was always close—always within reach. In inns, she insisted on shared rooms. I can’t decide if it’s practical caution, or if something else is there beneath the surface. Maybe both.

Today we spent the better part of the afternoon at Radiant Raiment. The shop is run by two incredibly snooty High Elf sisters, but I’ll give them this—their stock is exquisite. I’m not one for dresses, but even I could appreciate the artistry in the fabrics, the stitching, the elegant cuts.

Astrid and I tried on outfit after outfit, stripping down and dressing up with barely a moment of modesty. Taarie, the louder of the two sisters, fussed over us with exaggerated flair. She was practically giddy to have such “distinguished ladies” in her shop. It was oddly fun, like some noble version of childhood dress-up. I caught Astrid watching me more than once with that sly little smile of hers.

Afterwards, she told me the truth: the gold spent, the dresses chosen, even the time we wasted trying them on—it was all part of the illusion. Nobility shopping for finery. Two spoiled women indulging in luxury before a wedding. No one would suspect the blades hidden beneath the silk.

And yet, despite the game we’re playing, I feel it again. That hunger. The craving for the kill. It's growing. I’ve played the role well, but soon it will be time to shed it. Soon, blood will spill, and the city will scream.

I can’t wait.

— L

Chapter Text

2nd of Evening Star, 4E202

The Winking Skeever, Solitude

This past week has been all about preparing for the wedding. Astrid and I spent our days scouting out the reception area, identifying all the exits, potential choke points, guard rotations—anything that might help us get in and out cleanly. We made a point of locating the exact spot where Vittoria will be giving her big speech. That’s where I’ll do it. Regardless of how everything else unfolds, the one constant in our plan is that I will make the kill.

Each evening, we returned to the Winking Skeever and sat together, working through scenario after scenario. Astrid’s incredibly sharp when it comes to planning, which makes it easy to respect her. Harder not to admire her. And even harder to ignore the closeness we’ve shared.

Last night we had more wine than we probably should’ve. We were already sitting close, as usual, reviewing the final sequence of events for the big day. One moment we were laughing over something minor, the next our hands were on each other.

Turns out Astrid enjoys being in control inside of the bedroom too. Likes giving orders. Liked seeing me on my back, her thighs tight around my face, holding me in place until she was satisfied.

Afterwards, we lay side by side, mostly in silence. I glanced over at her but didn’t press. I’ve never really known what this thing between us is. Ever since the day I joined the Brotherhood, she’s been teasing, testing, tempting. I know she’s supposedly with Arnbjorn, but I doubt fidelity is something she’s particularly concerned with. He must know. He’s no fool.

Maybe I’m thinking about it all the wrong way. Society frowns on women with multiple lovers while kings keep entire harems of mistresses. Why pretend this life we’re living is anything close to normal? Astrid does what she wants—and maybe that’s what draws me to her.

And really, who am I to judge? I’ve already been with two women in the Sanctuary alone. And I wouldn’t say no to more, if the mood or moment struck.

— L

4th of Evening Star, 4E202

Camp South of Solitude

The wedding was... an experience.

Hundreds turned out for it. The entire area outside the Temple of the Divines was packed to bursting. Nobles, officials, merchants — all the usual suspects, decked out in their finery. The day itself was beautiful, bright and clear. Almost felt like the Divines were smiling down on it all.

Astrid and I arrived in full character — two elegant noblewomen from the same household, well-dressed, well-spoken, with just enough aloofness to be believable. I actually got recognized by a few guests thanks to my role in the Stormcloak army. I didn’t fight it — instead leaned in and told them I owned a plantation now (true) and spun a few more believable lies around it. Said I hadn’t been back for a while, but got regular courier updates.

The food and wine were exquisite. Far beyond anything I’ve had before — at least in public. Astrid and I mingled with the guests, even met the bride’s parents. There was plenty of gossip in the air — jealousy of Vittoria, whispered criticisms of her choice in husband, and speculation on what this marriage meant politically. Apparently, his ties to the Stormcloaks had not gone unnoticed, which only added more tension. Heard others gossip about the Emperor and his cancelled attendance.

Evening came. The speeches were about to begin.

Time to move.

I slipped away toward the Temple, circling up through its back halls to the upper walls overlooking the balcony where the speeches were to be made. Astrid provided the distraction, just as we planned. Once in position, I stripped off the dress and changed into the dark outfit we’d stashed — not full armour, but better to move around in. Astrid joined me moments later, doing the same.

Below us, the bride and groom stepped onto the balcony. Vittoria moved to speak.

That was my cue.

I leapt down from the wall. Landed hard — right on top of her. My knife pierced her neck as we hit the stone. The crowd gasped in shock. Her husband stood frozen, wide-eyed, still mid-breath.

I didn’t wait for his reaction.

Before anyone could fully process what had happened, I was already climbing back up the rope Astrid had tossed down to me. As chaos erupted below, she looped the rope over the opposite side of the wall, and we descended into the shadows on the far side.

We didn’t stop to look back.

We ran — fast — through the lower passageways beneath Solitude. A hidden exit, old stairs, forgotten tunnels. Veezara was waiting at the end of it all, two horses ready and impatient.

We rode through the night. I can still hear the screams echoing in my head. Still feel the rush of it all burning in my blood.

— L

13th of Evening Star, 4E202

Home

Astrid has been practically glowing ever since the assassination. I’ve never seen her act like this — laughing, animated, almost with a kind of childlike glee. For someone so controlled and calculated, it’s been… strange, but endearing. I think it thrilled her to pull something so public and audacious off without a hitch. It thrilled me, too.

Veezara couldn’t stop asking us about it on the way back. He kept throwing out questions, trying to imagine the scene, how it looked, how it felt. Astrid and I shared glances, smirks, and let him paint the story in his mind while we filled in the occasional detail.

We stopped at an inn for the night. As soon as Veezara retired to his room, Astrid didn’t even wait. She grabbed my hand and led me upstairs. Or rather, dragged me. She was on fire — insatiable, even more assertive than usual. And yet, even when she was beneath me, writhing and moaning, she never stopped being in control. She doesn’t give that up easily. Or maybe not at all.

When we finally arrived back at the sanctuary, Astrid barely even paused. She jumped straight back into leadership mode, calling meetings, gathering reports, checking in with everyone. I learned that almost every one of us has been playing a part in this bigger plan. The Emperor isn’t just a goal — he’s a mission. And it seems every kill we’ve done lately has been a move on the board leading to him.

The next day, Gabriella found me. Said we might be working together soon. As she passed, she leaned in close — very close — and whispered, “I can smell Astrid on you.” Then she winked and walked away like it was the most normal thing in the world. This family is… well, strange. But it’s mine.

Later, Nazir pulled me aside. Told me there was a job he wanted me to handle — a woman named Agnis, an old caretaker holed up in one of the forts near Whiterun. He was clear that who she is doesn’t matter. She’s just a servant. But the where is everything. Her death is meant to send a message. Shake a place no one expects to be touched.

I’ve never questioned why before. I’m not about to start now.

— L

19th of Evening Star, 4E202

Home

Fort Greymoor may still fly the Stormcloak banner, but it’s clear the heart of Skyrim doesn’t expect much trouble. The fort wasn’t heavily guarded — not anymore — and I slipped in like a whisper on the wind. Agnis didn’t even have time to be afraid. One quick moment, and it was over.

But as I stood there in the middle of the fort, something stirred in me. The place reeks of death — not just old blood, but a history soaked into the stone. Battle after battle, life after life. I could feel it in my bones, hear the echoes in the cold stone walls. Killing Agnis wasn’t enough. My blood wanted more. It wanted everyone inside to die.

I stood there with my blade in hand, considering it. For a long moment. But I pulled myself back from the edge. Barely.

It ended up being a short job — in and out — and I was back at the sanctuary quickly. As I stepped through the entrance, Gabriella spotted me and immediately fell into step beside me. We walked together through the dark corridors toward Nazir. I gave him the usual confirmation — Agnis is dead, job done.

But Gabriella had something more interesting to share. Astrid has put her in charge of a new plan — one to dismantle the Emperor’s security ahead of his visit to Skyrim. Apparently, what we did to Vittoria has rattled him enough that he plans to come here personally.

Gabriella said his security detail is being led by Commander Maro, the head of the Penitus Oculatus — the Emperor’s private guard. That’s the kind of man who doesn’t make mistakes… So Gabriella intends to make one for him. By killing his son, and planting false evidence on the body to make it look like he was plotting to assassinate the Emperor. The betrayal will cast a long shadow — one the Emperor won’t ignore.

She told me she wants me by her side for this. The evidence is already forged and ready. All we have to do is track him down as he travels through Skyrim — and make sure we kill him somewhere public, somewhere the body will be found fast. One of the major cities.

We leave tomorrow morning. Gabriella leaned in close as we parted and said, “We’ve got all night to prepare.” The way she said it told me exactly what kind of preparation she had in mind.

I don’t think I’ll be getting much sleep tonight…

— L

26th of Evening Star, 4E202

Camp, Outside of Solutide

We started in Dragon’s Bridge, thinking it made sense to check the Penitus Oculatus outpost first. Lucky we did — both Commander Maro and his son Gaius were there. No need for guesswork. We just needed patience.

Gabriella slipped inside the headquarters to see if she could find a travel schedule, while I kept eyes on Gaius. An hour passed before she reappeared beside me like a shadow, her smile telling me everything I needed to know. She’d found what we needed. A full route schedule. If we lost him, we’d still be able to find him again.

We tailed him from a distance, careful to stay out of sight. Gabriella guessed he was heading to Solitude first, based on the route — and she was right.

As we travelled, I started feeling that itch again. The urge to strike, to end it early. He was so close, so vulnerable. I think Gabriella could sense the shift in me — she kept my mind occupied, always drawing my attention elsewhere, keeping me from making a mistake.

We took turns watching him when he camped. He didn’t sleep much. Just a few hours before setting out again. When he finally entered Solitude, we shadowed him through the gates. He barely made it more than a few streets in before we made our move.

Gabriella and I flanked him, moving without a word. As I passed him on the left, I slipped my dagger across his neck. Quick, clean, precise. He gurgled something unintelligible, and while he was still standing, Gabriella planted the fabricated documents. We didn’t even look back — just walked away while the crowd screamed behind us.

On the way back to Falkreath, we gave ourselves a moment to breathe. Found another inn. Another shared bed. Gabriella is… skilled, and she knows it. I suppose there’s something intoxicating about celebrating a kill in someone’s arms. No pretence. Just release.

Afterwards, she handed me something unexpected: a strange coin, smooth and warm. A token, she said — a gift for a job well done. She explained it’s meant for a woman named Olava in Whiterun, a seer who does readings. Said she’d never been brave enough to use it herself, but she wanted me to have it.

I’ve no idea what Olava might tell me… but I’ve got the coin now. Maybe one day I’ll go.

— L

Chapter Text

1st of Morning Star, 4E203

Goldenhills Plantation, Whiterun Hold

Gabriella and I welcomed in the New Life Festival with a little too much… enthusiasm. It’s a strange feeling — celebrating life so shortly after we took one. Poetic in a way, I suppose. The Dark Brotherhood isn't exactly known for sentiment, but even assassins need their distractions.

We rode out to Rorikstead on the way back to the Sanctuary, where the celebrations were modest but merry. Food, music, dancing — and a lot of drink. I’ve always thought I could handle my alcohol, but this morning was a harsh reminder that even I have limits. I’m fairly certain the top of my skull is missing.

Turns out, a lot of the farmhands that work my plantation had joined the festivities as well. I hardly recognised any of them — apparently the place has grown without me noticing. People kept introducing themselves, thanking me for the work, talking about their families. It felt surreal… like I was a noble visiting land I barely remembered owning.

Gabriella soaked it all in. She was constantly at my side, teasing me every chance she got. “Your Grace,” she kept whispering, grinning like a cat as she watched me try to remember names and pretend I was more involved than I actually was.

We managed to last until the church bells rang in the new year. Then we staggered our way back to the plantation. I have no memory of what happened once we got there, but this morning I woke up naked, Gabriella’s breast in my face, her arm draped across me like a sash. She was completely passed out.

The rest of today has been a slow crawl toward recovery. Eventually, we packed up and will make our way back home tomorrow — a little sore, a little dazed, but satisfied. It’s funny how a festival called New Life can be spent indulging in every vice imaginable.

— L

4th of Morning Star, 4E203

Home

When Gabriella and I returned to the Sanctuary, we both felt it instantly — something was wrong. The air was thick, buzzing with tension. People were moving quickly through the halls, muttering to one another in hushed voices. The word incident kept coming up… and Cicero.

We didn’t have to wait long to find out more. Veezara had been attacked — by Cicero.

Astrid was in command mode, barking orders, managing the chaos with her usual icy control. As soon as she saw Gabriella and I enter, she called us over. Her tone was sharp, but there was something brittle beneath it. Festus Krex stood nearby, arms folded, scowling like a disappointed grandfather. He confirmed it — Cicero had snapped. Attacked Veezara. Tried to attack a few others too, before fleeing.

There were whispers already swirling — that Cicero had been screaming about Astrid, calling her a pretender, claiming she had no right to lead the Brotherhood. Nonsense, of course, but dangerous nonsense.

Apparently Arnbjorn had flown into a rage when he heard Cicero had come after Astrid. That was yesterday. No one had seen him since.

My blood was boiling. Cicero — that pathetic, twitchy jester — dared to lay a hand on my family? I asked if Gabriella and I could investigate his quarters. Astrid gave us a nod and waved us off.

Cicero’s chambers were just as unhinged as he was. Pages scattered, ink smudges on the walls… but it was Gabriella who found the real clue — his journal. Hidden beneath his bedding. Among the ramblings and half-mad scribbles was a clear reference to an abandoned sanctuary in Dawnstar. He even noted the passphrase.

We returned to Astrid and showed her what we’d found. She went still. Said it made sense — it was the only place in Skyrim he’d be safe. She looked ready to go after him herself, but Nazir stepped in and whispered something in her ear. Whatever it was, it stopped her cold. She turned to us instead.

She asked Gabriella and I to go after Arnbjorn. Make sure he comes back alive.

As we left, Gabriella made a quiet observation. “It was only a matter of time,” she said. “Everyone mocked him, belittled the Night Mother… Of course he broke. Doesn’t excuse it. But I do pity him.”

So do I. But I’ll still kill him.

I’ve lost one family - I will not lose another.

— L

9th of Morning Star, 4E203

Dawnstar Sanctuary

Gabriella and I didn’t waste time getting to Dawnstar. No sidetracks. No teasing. Just grim determination. We were confident Cicero hadn’t left on horseback — meaning if we pushed hard enough, we might catch up.

Our first sign came just north of Dawnstar: blood in the snow. The cold made it hard to tell how fresh it was, but it gave us a clear trail — one that led us straight to the ancient doors of the Dawnstar Sanctuary… and to Arnbjorn.

He was down, slumped in the snow, bleeding from a nasty gash in his side. Gabriella didn’t hesitate. She knelt beside him, pulled a healing potion from her belt and practically forced it down his throat. He winced but managed to drink. The wound looked deep but not fatal — lucky bastard.

He looked at me with a tired smirk and muttered, “Figured Astrid would send you.” The way he said it — no venom, no surprise — told me everything. He knew. He had always known.

Still, he managed to grin through his pain. Told us Cicero was good, but he’d given as good as he got. Gabriella leaned over and whispered to me that Arnbjorn wouldn’t make it far in this weather, not in his condition. Said she’d get him to safety in Dawnstar.

I told her I’d go after Cicero alone. “I’ll make mincemeat of him,” I said. She laughed. “Shame I’ll miss it.”

Inside, I was immediately greeted by the echo of Cicero’s voice. His laughter bounced off the walls like something broken. “I knew she’d send you,” he cried. “Send the best to silence the Fool.”

The place reeked of blood and madness. He must have been wounded worse than Arnbjorn claimed — there were streaks of blood everywhere. More than that, there were ghosts. Apparitions drifting silently through the halls. Guardians, according to Cicero’s ranting. He shouted something about how he’d hoped they would at least slow me down.

He also echoed what Gabriella had said: “How would you react, hmm? When your mother is mocked and belittled by the very family meant to worship her?” There was a flicker of something human in his voice. It gave me pause. Just for a moment.

But I pressed on.

I found him eventually. Slouched in a chamber, clutching his side, soaked in his own blood. His smile was cracked. “I surrender,” he whispered.

“Traitor,” I replied. “You attacked your family. Isn’t that against one of the Tenets?”

He paused then. Really paused. For the first time, he wasn’t ranting or grinning. Then, quietly, he said, “We’re all traitors… to the Night Mother.”

“Enough,” I snapped — my voice booming, the walls themselves seeming to shudder with it. I surged forward, grabbing him by the throat.

That’s when he struck.

A flash of steel — pain bloomed in my side. He’d jabbed his dagger into the weak spot in my armour. Then he laughed. “Did you really think I’d go down that easy?” he hissed, slashing wildly.

I underestimated him. Like everyone else. Stupid. He was faster than I expected, vicious and desperate. But he was also wounded — bleeding, breath shallow. I was younger. Stronger. Angrier.

The fight was brutal.

But in the end… my fury won.

— L

18th of Morning Star, 4E203

Home

The dagger hadn’t been poisoned — a small mercy. Gabriella made sure to get a proper look at the wound once everything had settled. She wasn’t gentle about it, but she handed me a healing potion afterward and assured me I’d be fine. Might ache for a week or two, but nothing lasting.

Arnbjorn was also recovering well. Between the potions, rest, and the warmth of a real bed in Dawnstar, we were both up and moving again within a few days. Gabriella kept things light hearted, mostly to distract me from the pain, but there was a quiet sense of relief in all three of us. We’d survived something we weren’t meant to walk away from.

Before we left, Arnbjorn pulled me aside. Said he was grateful. That he would remember what Gabriella and I did for him. For her. Those words meant something, even from someone like him.

The ride back was slower than our frantic charge north. Both Arnbjorn and I were still sore, and the weather wasn’t helping, but we took our time. No rush anymore. We had done what needed to be done.

When we finally returned to the Sanctuary, Astrid was the first to greet us. She came over quickly, looking us up and down with a rare softness in her eyes. “Thank the gods you're both back — and in one piece.” She thanked Gabriella and me specifically for bringing Arnbjorn back alive.

I told her Cicero was gone.

She grinned. “Then maybe things can finally get back to normal around here.” There was something... relieved in her voice. As if a weight had lifted.

She told everyone to rest up. Festus, apparently, was handling the next part of the grand plan on his own for now. Something about a man called The Gourmet. Supposedly a culinary legend — a bit of a celebrity in Skyrim these days — and the one chosen to cook for the Emperor’s visit.

Whatever Festus was planning; it sounded like it would be interesting.

But for now, we rest.

— L

27th of Morning Star, 4E203

Camp, Outside the Ruins of Mzinchaleft, Hjaalmarch

Arnbjorn has recovered well, all things considered. You wouldn’t think someone that size could move with such ease after a wound like his, but he’s proven otherwise. Astrid, though — she’s been fussing over him constantly. It’s more than just concern between them. You can feel it. There’s something far deeper than the usual bonds of lovers. It’s hard to explain, but it’s there.

Meanwhile, the Sanctuary has settled into something resembling normalcy again. Even the Night Mother has gone quiet. I haven’t heard a whisper from her in days — maybe she’s giving me the silent treatment for killing her Keeper. I can’t say I mind. But something tells me the silence won’t last.

With things calm for now, I decided to take on a few contracts from Nazir. I’ve healed up well, and with Festus still dealing with the Gourmet business, I had some time to kill. Veezara asked to accompany me. Said he wanted to see me in action — and also to repay what he saw as a debt. For Cicero.

Maluril was the first name on the list. A dangerous mage, holed up in a dwarven ruin. Reports placed him in Mzinchaleft, and we figured it best to deal with the most dangerous target first.

The road gave us time to talk. Veezara shared more of his past — raised as a Shadowscale, trained to kill since birth. He said the Brotherhood saved his life, gave him something to belong to. In turn, I told him pieces of my own story. He’s soft-spoken, calm — easy to talk to. We’ve never spent much time together back at the Sanctuary, but I’ve always liked him. Turns out, the feeling was mutual.

We’re very different in battle. I favour strength and skill with the blade — I don’t mind the fight itself, even enjoy it. Veezara is far more precise. He moves like smoke and cuts like ice. Deadly, efficient, almost poetic. But together, we made an excellent pair.

Mzinchaleft was crawling with bandits. We cut through them like they were barely there. An extremely deadly pair.

Maluril had holed himself up in a chamber deep within the ruin, guarded by a hulking brute. Didn’t matter — Veezara took the man down like it was nothing. I took the key off his corpse and unlocked Maluril’s door. The mage barely had time to look up before I split him clean in two. Told him Dwarven ruins can be dangerous.

Veezara and I decided to delve deeper after the kill. Curiosity, mostly. The deeper we went, the darker it got — less explored, more dangerous. We ran into more of the Dwarven machines and even Falmer as we pressed on. Picked up some loot along the way, but nothing we’d call a reward. We both agreed it wasn’t really worth the trouble in the end. But we did enjoy each other’s company.

We camped just outside the ruins tonight. Tomorrow, we head off to the next contract.

— L

Chapter Text

6th of Sun’s Dawn, 4E203

Home

Our final contract took us close to home: Helvard, the housecarl of Falkreath. Loyal dog of the Jarl, but apparently not loyal enough to avoid earning a price on his head. He was easy enough to find — and even better, we wouldn’t need to camp after. The Sanctuary was a short ride away.

We waited until he was asleep. No reason to cause a scene. His room was empty, and the Jarl was long since retired for the evening. Veezara wanted the kill, and I didn’t argue. I guarded the door while he slipped in and slit the housecarl’s throat. No sound, no struggle. A clean kill.

We were gone before anyone even stirred.

Back at the Sanctuary, we handed in our contracts. Veezara, ever polite, told me it had been an honour working with me. Said he’d gladly do it again, and I have no doubt he meant it. He’s a good man. Quiet, but solid.

Before I left Nazir, he mentioned something interesting. A contract he’d been holding onto — said it was meant for me. A captain by the name of Safia. She commands a ship called The Red Wave. Apparently, she’s a savage at sea, deadly with a blade, and just as cruel as any assassin in the Brotherhood. Her crew’s just as bad. Nazir said the ship only makes port in Skyrim from time to time, but when it does, I need to be ready. He wanted me to start thinking ahead. I appreciated that.

The day after Veezara and I returned, Astrid came back as well. She’d been away on some business of her own — didn’t say what. I was soaking in the hot springs, enjoying the quiet, when she arrived. She looked tired but satisfied, and the way her eyes landed on me made it clear she had something else in mind beyond relaxing.

Without a word, she stripped out of her leathers and joined me in the water. She sat beside me and spoke casually, saying she’d heard about Veezara and me — the ruins, the contracts, the blood. Said I’d done well.

“You are an extremely valuable part of this family,” she said as she moved closer. Her hands and mouth followed; her voice soft between kisses against my thighs. “Strong. Deadly. And most importantly — loyal.”

Then she was on me, devouring me with that same hunger I’d seen in her eyes. It was sudden, overwhelming. I never even got the chance to return the favour – at first. When she was finished, she simply climbed on top of me, kissed me with my own taste on her lips, and started bathing herself like nothing had happened.

But inside me, the beast stirred.

I stood, trembling with the urge to claim her — to own her. I growled as I stalked forward, and she didn’t flinch. Just looked at me, all smug satisfaction and knowing calm.

“You are born to dominate, sister. Yet you hold back,” she said, even as I grabbed her roughly by the neck. Still, she only smirked, pulling me into a searing kiss. “Perhaps you just need what all beasts need… the right master.”

After that — everything blurred. I know we didn’t leave the hot springs for hours. I know we made a mess of the place. And I know we’re both going to feel the aftermath tomorrow.

But stars above, it was worth it.

— L

13th of Sun’s Dawn, 4E203

Silver-Blood Inn, Markarth

Festus approached me this morning. He had that look in his eyes — the glint of a plan finally clicking into place. Said everything was ready. The wheels were turning regarding the Gourmet. According to him, no one truly knew who the Gourmet was — not their name, race, or even gender — and that anonymity would make impersonating them far easier.

Astrid had made her intentions clear. She wanted me to play the part of the Gourmet. Festus didn’t know why, but she was adamant. Said she wouldn’t trust anyone else with the role. That was enough for me.

Apparently, one of the newer initiates had come across something useful: a signed copy of Uncommon Taste, the Gourmet’s own book. It had been signed for someone named Anton Virane — a name Festus had quickly followed up on. He was certain that if anyone had met the Gourmet, it would be him.

Festus told me to find Anton, get what I could out of him, then silence him. No loose ends.

Anton, it turns out, is the head cook in Understone Keep — the Jarl of Markarth’s kitchen. It was easy enough to make my way inside. Kitchens are always bustling; one more face barely registers.

Anton was barking orders at his staff, not even lifting a ladle himself. When he spotted me, he demanded to know what I was doing in his kitchen. I smiled and told him I had an interest in Breton cuisine. That piqued his curiosity — until I started asking questions about the Gourmet.

He bristled. Said he’d take the secret of the Gourmet’s identity to his grave.

So I leaned in, low and quiet, and whispered: "For the Dark Brotherhood, that can be arranged."

That got his attention.

Turns out Anton wasn’t just a fan of the Gourmet — he was a friend. Or at least, he claimed to be. But like most men, a good death threat cleared up his priorities. He spilled quickly after that. The Gourmet’s true identity? An Orc named Balagog gro-Nolob. Of all things.

Anton tried to justify his betrayal. Rambling that surely the Gourmet would want him to save his own skin. I ignored the excuses and asked where I could find him. He said the last he’d heard, Balagog was staying in Windhelm.

I thanked him for the information. He begged me to let him live. I lied, of course. Told him yes, turned to leave. Unknowlignly he had ordered his assistants out of the room — so I spun on my heel and sliced his throat open. Quick. Quiet. Clean.

Now, it’s off to Windhelm. Shouldn’t be too hard to find an Orc in a city full of racist Nords.

— L

23rd of Sun’s Dawn, 4E203

Nightgate Inn, Eastmarch Hold

Finding information on the Orc wasn’t difficult. I started asking questions at the taverns in Windhelm — people remembered him almost immediately. Polite. Well-spoken. Not something most expect from an Orc, which made him memorable. Unfortunately, they also remembered that he had left the city over a week ago.

One woman mentioned that while he hadn’t said where he was going, he had told her he was staying in Skyrim for the time being, and that he’d come into Windhelm just to pick up supplies.

That gave me an idea. I waited for the morning market to open and started asking the food vendors if they remembered any Orcs. I hoped that he would want supplies to continue his… job. Sure enough, one vendor recalled selling quite a haul to a well-dressed Orc. Enough that the goods had to be delivered — to Nightgate Inn, of all places.

I knew the place. A quiet inn, tucked off the main road. I’d stayed there before. Easy to get in and out unnoticed.

When I arrived, the innkeeper confirmed what I already suspected. The Orc had paid well in advance, booked the downstairs room, and kept mostly to himself. Also made a comment that he had a habit of walking out to the nearby lake every so often — for peace and quiet.

Perfect.

I took a room for the night. Didn't want to raise suspicions. Morning after I had some food from the inn and made my way down to the lake. The air was still. No one else in sight.

Sure enough, the Orc came walking down not long after. He even greeted me with a polite nod and introduced himself — a fake name, of course. I smiled back; told him it was a nice place out here.

He agreed. Said the lake had a pleasing view.

I told him I was glad he thought so. Because it would be the last thing he’d ever see.

Then I drove my blade through the soft spot between his ribs, straight into his heart. The look on his face was one of confusion, not fear. He sank to his knees, eyes still on the lake in front of us as his life ebbed away.

I checked his body. Sure enough — the Writ of Passage was tucked away in his pocket. That’s all I needed.

I dragged him to the edge of the lake and rolled him in. The water swallowed him whole.

The Gourmet is dead. Long live the Gourmet.

— L

Chapter Text

2nd of First Seed, 4E203

Home

Before heading back to the Sanctuary, I stopped through Windhelm. I wanted to follow up on that pirate ship Nazir mentioned — The Red Wave. It was easy enough to ask around. Apparently, the ship docks regularly at both Windhelm and Solitude, depending on the season. Given the current winter and the frozen tides up north, it was safe to assume the Red Wave would be favouring Solitude for now. Good. That narrows things down.

When I returned to the Sanctuary, I reported to Festus first. He gave me one of his usual sour looks, but I saw the glint in his eye. He'd heard the whispers — that an orc had vanished without a trace, and that a cook in Markarth had met a sudden and unfortunate end. He grunted his approval and said he was very impressed.

Before I left his company, he stopped me. Said he had something for me — a gift. A reward, he claimed, for doing such a fine job… and perhaps also to make up for being such a cranky old bastard. He handed me a ring: Nightweaver's Band. Said it was enchanted, that it might help me in the arcane arts if I ever felt inclined to use them. More than that, he told me something I didn’t expect — that I had earned his respect.

That… meant something.

I knew I had earned a lot of favour in the Brotherhood. And friends. Lovers. It was everything I could have ever hoped for. I thank my mother that my hunt for her has led me here. Whilst I feel I have not found the truth, at least in full, the search for information led me here – to my new family.

I’m not sure if I believe in fate – but whatever it was that led me here sure seems like it.

As I was pondering this, whilst making my way through the Sanctuary, I found Astrid. She was outside the main chamber when I approached, and the grin on her face said she’d already heard the news. She told me she knew the Gourmet was gone… and with that, the Emperor was as good as dead.

She explained that the plan was almost finalised — just a few pieces left to put in place. The Emperor wouldn’t be arriving for a couple of months, but I was to be ready. When the moment came, it would fall to me to strike the final blow.

I told her I had something else to deal with in Solitude in the meantime. A contract that needed following up. She nodded, said that was fine. She trusted I would be back.

Then, she stepped in close, her voice low against my ear.
“You are a very loyal member of this Sanctuary… of me,” she whispered — and then bit my ear lightly, a smirk playing across her lips.

The beast in me stirred again. Growling. Wanting.

She just laughed, turned, and stepped backwards into her chambers, beckoning me with a curl of her finger.

I swear, that woman can play me like a fiddle.

— L

14th of First Seed, 4E203

Winking Skeever, Solitude

I arrived in Solitude sore in more ways than one. Astrid had made sure of that. She hadn’t exactly been gentle before I left the Sanctuary. Whips. Straps. Toys I didn’t even know existed. Pain and pleasure blurred together in a way I still haven’t quite sorted out in my head. I wasn’t sure if I liked it… but I couldn’t stop thinking about it either. Every bruise and ache was a reminder of her, and the things she did to me.

But I had a job to do.

I headed down to the port and asked around about The Red Wave. Turns out it was expected to dock in a few days. I waited — spent my time shopping, had my armour patched up. Honestly, the most normal few days I’ve had in years.

When the day came, I made sure I was loitering around the docks early. Of course, the skies opened up in true spring fashion. Sheets of rain. I was drenched before noon. The ship didn’t arrive until late afternoon — soaked to the bone and miserable, I finally spotted it. The Red Wave. Sleek and dark and dangerous.

I made sure to follow it as it docked. I kept an eye on things, the hustle of a newly docked ship. Then I saw her.

Safia.

She wasn’t shouting orders, but the way she carried herself… There was no doubt who ran the ship. Confident. Commanding. Dangerous.

I threw caution to the wind and approached her directly. Strode onto the deck.

She looked me over slowly, appraising me. I told her someone had put a contract on her head.

She smirked. “Sweety, this isn’t the first time. Though I must say… their choice of assassin is far more delicious than usual.”

Not sure how “delicious” I looked, dripping wet, but I smirked back anyway.

She asked if I wanted to “settle this” inside the ship.
I decided to follow.

We made our way to her quarters — far more lavish than the rest of the vessel. She turned, locked eyes with me, and without a word, pulled at the straps of her armour. The entire thing dropped to the floor in one smooth motion. She stood before me, smirking. “You must be absolutely soaked,” she said, stepping closer.

I watched her carefully. She didn’t reach for a weapon — only for the clasps on my own armour. One by one, she undressed me, the smirk on her face growing with each piece she discarded. Eventually, I stood in only my underthings. She took her time removing those too.

She ran her eyes over me and chuckled. “The Brotherhood should send assassins like you more often.”

She was attractive, I’ll give her that. Older, scarred, but those marks told a story of survival and power. Lithe but muscular. She may have been captain, but in that moment, I was in command. I pushed her back toward the bed.

She looked up at me with a glint in her eye. “I do hope we can come to some kind of arrangement.”

I didn’t answer. I straddled her face, taking my pleasure as I pleased.

Astrid's influence is clearly rubbing off on me.

I dominated Safia for hours. Took what I wanted. Gave a little back. But I never gave up control.

Eventually, we lay in a tangle on her bed, our bodies thoroughly satisfied. She turned to me, her voice low.

“Do you still have to fulfil the contract?”

I nodded.

She sighed. “What a shame.”

Then — the shift. She reached under the bed and pulled out a shiv, aiming for my neck.

I was already half-expecting it. Even after everything, I’d kept a close eye on her.

She lunged. I caught her wrist.

She put all her weight behind the strike. I was stronger. I twisted us, pinned her, and drove her own weapon into her chest.

I watched the life fade from her eyes.

When it was over, I pulled a sheet over her naked body. Got dressed. Left the ship.

First time I’ve ever fucked someone and then killed them.

Strange sensation.

— L

Chapter Text

8th of Rain’s Hand, 4E203

Home

I handed in the contract to Nazir this morning. He gave me a strange look, that usual mixture of suspicion and amusement in his eyes, before commenting that he'd heard… rumours. Said that Safia had been found dead in her bed — naked.

He raised an eyebrow and said, “Curious,” before handing me the reward.

The sanctuary is electric with tension and excitement. Word has spread quickly — the Emperor is coming. Everything we’ve done, every drop of blood spilled, every secret passed along the chain — it all leads to this.

Most of the preparations are complete, so there isn’t much for the others to do now but wait. But Astrid? She’s constantly in motion. Writing letters, sending ravens, pulling strings. No one knows who all her contacts are.

In a rare quiet moment, she pulled me aside to explain the final pieces of the plan.

She told me I would be poisoning the Emperor’s meal. A simple but deadly solution. Babette’s creation — a poison so lethal, a single taste is enough. No blood, no screaming, just… silence.

Astrid looked at me as she handed over the vial. Told me she knew I could do this. That she had the utmost confidence in me.

It should have been reassuring. But something in her tone — the way her eyes didn’t quite meet mine — unsettled me. It wasn’t her usual sly confidence. There was something else behind it. I couldn’t say what it was – likely she’s worried about me.

She said she’d arranged for my escape route to be completely unguarded. Bribes, blackmail, favours — she’d pulled every string she could to make sure I’d get out alive.

She went over the plan with me again. Then again. Then again. Cold. Focused. All business. No teasing. No playful jabs. No flirtation. Just strategy. Just the mission.

But that didn’t stop me from enjoying myself elsewhere.
It had been far too long since I’d truly been with Gabriella. We spent the nights together. She wasn’t worried, she said. She told me it felt like destiny — that I was the one meant to do this. The one who would shape the world with a single act.

And still, she whispered for me to stay safe as we made love.

The days passed slowly. I trained. I reviewed the plan until I could recite it backward. Astrid continued to watch over the details with obsessive care. Every evening, I found myself with Gabriella. Her warmth reminded me of what I was fighting for.

The others in the Sanctuary… they treat me like a hero already. Clapping me on the shoulder. Wishing me luck. Giving hugs, nods, warm smiles. I’ve never enjoyed this sort of attention before; I’d always been an outcast of sorts. But now, in a family of outcasts, I revelled in it.

The night before I left, Astrid came to me one last time.
She stood in the doorway and simply said, “Go now… and fulfil your destiny, Listener.”

Again, that tone.

Not pride. Not victory. Something else.

But I shook it off.

Tomorrow, I ride off to kill the Emperor.

And when it’s done, I’ll come back here… to my family… and we will celebrate.

— L

18th of Rain’s Hand, 4E203

Castle Dour, Solitude

It felt different this time. Travelling alone to Solitude wasn’t new to me — I’ve walked these roads before — but this time there was a weight to each step. A heaviness in the air. I was about to kill the Emperor of Tamriel.

I left my gear stashed just outside the city walls, near the escape route Astrid had arranged. Wouldn’t do to walk into Castle Dour clad in dark ebony armour and blades. Instead, I wore plain clothes and — gods help me — a chef’s hat. Arnbjorn had given it to me, barely able to hold back his laughter. Said it suited me. I had a few thoughts about what might suit him too, but let them go.

Truth be told, I wasn’t sure how well I could pull off the part. I’ve slipped into many roles before — thief, merchant, nobleman, — but chef? That was new. But considering the real Gourmet had been an orc, I figured expectations must already be… flexible.

Still, I wasn’t going in blind. I’d read Uncommon Taste cover to cover, more than once. Took notes. Memorised ingredient lists, cooking styles, little anecdotes from the book. If anyone decided to test me, I wouldn’t be caught off guard. I’d be the damn Gourmet if I had to fake it into the grave.

I spent a few quiet nights at the Winking Skeever, keeping a low profile, running through the plan in my mind over and over. Then, on the morning of the 18th, I made my way to Castle Dour.

I arrived right on time.

Commander Maro was already there, standing at the entrance flanked by guards. I handed over the writ. He looked it over, then up at me with a spark of recognition. Apologised for not realising who I was — “the Gourmet,” he said, with something like reverence in his voice. I fought the urge to smirk.

He led me inside, giving me a brief tour of the place. Castle Dour — grim from the outside — but inside it was precise, ordered, a fortress of iron discipline. He showed me the kitchens, asked if everything met my standards. I nodded; said they’d do nicely.

I don’t think he doubted me for a second.

Then he led me to my quarters — lavish doesn’t even begin to cover it. Rich carpets, fine wine, gold-threaded linens. All for the Emperor’s personal chef. He told me to let him or the guards know if I needed anything. Mentioned that some parts of the castle were off-limits for now — preparation for the Emperor’s arrival.

I nodded, feigned disinterest.

Now I wait. Tomorrow is the day. The final act in a play that began long ago, soaked in blood and shadow. I even have a recipe in mind — one straight out of Uncommon Taste.

Poetic, really.

The Emperor’s last meal — prepared by a ghost.

— L

21st of Rain’s Hand, 4E203

Somewhere in Haafingar Hold

Someone has betrayed us.

Betrayed me.

Everything had gone to plan. I made my way down to the kitchens at first light, meeting my assistant for the day — a nervous young woman who couldn’t stop talking. She was completely starstruck, falling over herself just to be in the presence of the Gourmet. It was almost endearing, if I hadn’t been preparing a dish designed to deliver death.

We spent the day cooking a lavish meal, each plate more decadent than the last. And if I’m being honest, it tasted damn good. I almost regretted what was coming. Almost.

Once the feast was complete, we ascended the stairs. A servant had joined us by then, carrying the first dish on a silver tray with reverent care. I followed, calm and confident, each step rehearsed a hundred times in my mind.

And then there he was — the Emperor himself. Speaking with a cluster of noblemen, laughing, charming, everything I’d expect from the most powerful man in Tamriel. When he spotted me, he made a grand gesture, introducing me to the room — the Gourmet, brought in as a surprise for the evening. The nobles applauded like trained seals. They were thrilled.

I bowed deeply, feigned humility. Said it was an honour to serve him. The servant served up the first dish and everyone gushed over the taste. It seems I had followed the Gourmet’s recipe’s well.

The third dish, a stew that the Emperor had requested personally, was the one I decided to slip the poison root in. The Emperor had made a point of claiming the right to first taste of his favourite dish. I had slipped the root into his dish – quick, quiet, unnoticed. The others at the table would live – lucky for them.

He took the first bite with dramatic flair. He smiled, praised it. And then, as expected, he began to choke. His body stiffened. Eyes wide.

Panic spread across the room.

But I was already moving, steady and deliberate, toward the escape route Astrid had arranged. Behind me, screams. Chaos. Death. I didn’t turn back. I made it outside.

Except… the escape was blocked.

A full detachment of guards stood there waiting for me. And behind them — Commander Maro.

His face was pure hate.

He told me I had failed. That the man I’d just killed was a decoy. The real Emperor had never even entered the city. He knew everything. Said he’d known because someone at the Dark Brotherhood had told him the entire plan — every step. In return, they struck a deal: give him me, the woman who had killed his son, and he would spare the Brotherhood.

He paused. Then growled, “To Oblivion with the deal.”

He said he was going to destroy the sanctuary. That everyone inside would die.

Then he left.

Left me surrounded, outnumbered. No armour, just a dagger I'd kept hidden on me. The guards closed in.

But the fury… the fury came like a wave. Mixed with desperation. I don’t even remember what happened next in detail. The first one lunged at me — I slipped aside and buried my blade in his throat. I took his sword, then charged. The beast was with me, roaring in my blood.

I don’t know how I survived it. I shouldn’t have. But I did. All I knew is I had to get back home and warn everyone.

The guards are all dead now. I’m bleeding, bruised, exhausted — but it doesn’t matter.

Not after what Maro said.

Someone betrayed us.

I don’t know who. But I will find out.

For now, I have only one priority: get back to the Sanctuary.

Before it’s too late.

— L

24th of Rain’s Hand, 4E203

Somewhere in Falkreath Hold

It all makes sense now.

Why Astrid had been acting so strangely—the tension in her voice, the sudden shifts in mood, the endless letters and hushed conversations. All of it. She was the one who made the deal with Commander Maro. The one who sold me out. I should have known the moment Maro said it, but some part of me refused to believe she could do such a thing.

I remember the smell of smoke reaching me before I ever saw it. As I approached the Sanctuary, the trail of death was impossible to miss. They hadn’t gone quietly. My family had fought tooth and claw to defend our home, but they had been overwhelmed. Barrels of oil had been brought for the task. Festus—old, feisty Festus—was nailed to a tree outside the entrance, more arrows in him than I could count.

Inside was worse. Fire had gutted everything. The hotsprings boiled and cracked, the dining hall reduced to rubble. I found Veezara near the entrance, headless. No dignity in death, not even for him. And in the centre of it all—Arnbjorn. Surrounded. Wounded. Still swinging. I watched him take three more down before he finally collapsed. I made sure the others joined him in death.

I pushed deeper into the ruin, blinded by rage and the thick smoke. I kept hoping someone else had survived, clinging to that hope even as I stepped over Gabriella’s lifeless body. My Gabriella. The sight of her broke something inside of me. I just stood there, staring down, my fists shaking. The world melted away. All that remained was the red storm building inside of me.

Nazir and Babette were the only survivors I found. We fought side by side to clear the last of the Penitus Oculatus. Nazir nearly embraced me when he saw I was still breathing. He told me they had suspected a betrayal. At first, he had thought it might’ve been me. But after saving his life, those doubts vanished.

Then came the collapse. The tunnel behind us caved in, and just as I turned to assess the damage, a voice returned to me—her voice.

The Night Mother.

She called to me. Said she was the only way forward now. I shouted to Nazir and Babette to follow. We had no other path. Into her coffin. Into the dark.

She told me to embrace her. I told the others there was no time to argue. We squeezed into the cramped space, packed like corpses ourselves. The lid slammed shut.

Then came the shaking. A deafening crash. Something shattered above us. The earth moved. Babette must have seen it with her unnatural sight, but I saw nothing. Then—sleep. Unnatural. Heavy. I passed out with the Night Mother’s whisper still echoing in my head.

“Sleep.”

I came to with Babette slapping me awake, irritated that she wasn’t strong enough to push the lid open herself. I helped force the coffin door, rubble pouring off in waves. We emerged—somehow—into another part of the Sanctuary entirely. Don’t know how. Don’t care.

Babette shook Nazir awake. Just then, I heard the Night Mother again.

Find Astrid.

My blood turned to ice.

I ran. I didn’t wait for the others. I had to see her,—if she was even still alive.

We found her in her quarters, or what was left of them. She had hidden herself in some escape tunnel. The heat had scorched the chamber, melted stone and wood. She was there, surrounded by ritual items and candles. Her armour had fused with her flesh. And yet—somehow—she was still alive.

She coughed out a greeting. Told me she hadn’t expected me to live. Said she had much to confess.

She didn’t even try to lie. Said it was her, all her fault. The deal with Maro. She believed they would leave the rest of us alone. That this was the only way. But she cried in despair. Said she killed everyone. Nearly killed me – called me the best of us.

I shouted at her. Told her how I had trusted her. Served her. Killed for her. She told me that she just wanted things to be how they used to be—before the Night Mother, before I became Listener.

Then she said something… almost pathetic. That there was still a future. That I could lead the Brotherhood. That she had prayed to the Night Mother. Performed the Black Sacrament on herself.

Her voice trembled as she begged me to finish it. To make her death the sacrifice.

I told her no.

For the first time in all the years I’d known her, I saw fear in Astrid’s eyes.

She whimpered. Pleaded. But I refused. Told her she only prayed to the Night Mother to give herself a clean exit. She didn’t deserve it. Not after Festus. Not after Arnjborn, Veezara… Gabriella.

I turned and walked away. Babette and Nazir were there, both grim-faced, saying nothing. But I saw the judgment in their eyes. The understanding.

Behind us, Astrid screamed. Not with pain, but with desperation. A broken little girl begging to die.

I let her scream.

— L

27th of Rain’s Hand, 4E203

Somewhere in Falkreath Hold

I can still see them. Every single one of them.

Festus, arrows piercing his body like some twisted display. Gabriella, lying still in her own blood, her eyes wide open. Arnbjorn, sword through his gut, roaring to the end. Astrid… broken, burned, begging me to kill her. Even now, I can still hear her pleading echoing in my ears.

And I… I can't stop seeing them. Every time I close my eyes, they’re there. All of them. My family. My true family. Gone.

I’ve never felt grief like this before. Not even when my parents died. Their loss felt distant, expected, in some twisted way. But this? This is a wound carved into my soul.

And I cried. Not just a tear or two, but full, body-wracking sobs that wouldn’t stop. I don’t think Nazir or Babette were ready to see that. I’ve always been strong, the one who doesn’t break. But there was no holding it in this time. Not for them. Not for anyone.

After leaving Astrid behind—alive and screaming—the Night Mother spoke again. Her voice, cold but steady, cut through my grief like a blade.

You are the leader of the Dark Brotherhood now.

She told me the contract still stands. The true Emperor still lives, and he must die. I am to seek out Amaund Motierre again, this time in Whiterun. He will reveal the Emperor’s real location.

When I told Nazir and Babette what the Night Mother had said, Nazir nodded solemnly. Said it made sense. The money from the contract could help rebuild what’s been lost. Slowly, yes, but there’s hope. He reminded me that not all of the Brotherhood had been in the Sanctuary that night. Some must still live. He said he would try to send out word, see if any could return to us.

Later, he mentioned the Dawnstar sanctuary. He’s considering using it as our new home. Quiet enough, remote, and mostly forgotten. The only issue will be transporting the Night Mother there without attracting too much attention. He’s working on it.

Me? I’ve just been drifting. Lost in memories. In silence. There’s nothing left now but to follow the Night Mother’s command. Kill the Emperor. Fulfill the contract. Finish what was started.

Babette said she’s coming with me to Whiterun. No argument, no debate. Just quiet resolve. I don’t mind. I think I need the company of my old – little sister. The silence is starting to feel suffocating.

— L

Chapter Text

6th of Second Seed, 4E203

Bannered Mare, Whiterun

I don’t even remember the walk to Whiterun. Just the road beneath my boots, one step after the other, like I was being carried by some force outside myself. I’m still in a haze. Grief clings like mud.

Babette’s been quiet too. She doesn’t try to talk about it. Just makes sure I sleep. Makes sure I eat. She’s stronger than I give her credit for.

We found Amaund Motierre at the Bannered Mare. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw us — no doubt thought we were there to silence him. He asked if we thought he had anything to do with the Sanctuary’s destruction. The fact he was so worried said more than I needed to hear. Word’s spread fast, Maro must have made sure of that. Good. Let the world think the Brotherhood’s dead. Let them drop their guard.

I didn’t say anything, just told him we had unfinished business. That caught him off guard even more. He didn’t think we’d still fulfil the contract.

He told us everything. The Emperor’s on a ship — The Katariah, moored in Solitude harbour. Of course he is. Surrounded by soldiers, walls, and a sea. Perfect.

Before we left, I asked about Maro. Amaund smirked. Said he figured we’d want to tie off that loose end. Told us Maro’s still at the docks in Solitude.

Later, as Babette and I settled into our room for the night, I pulled out the coin Gabriella gave me. Strange. We talked about fate that night, as if we knew something was ending. I hadn’t thought much of it until now — but maybe that’s why I ended up here. Maybe I needed to find her.

Olava.

I found her sitting by the Gildergreen, quiet as the breeze around her. I handed her the coin. She looked down at it, then up at me. “You must be a friend of Gabriella’s,” she said softly. She must’ve seen something in my face, because her expression changed immediately.

She didn’t ask. She just said she was sorry.

I told her Gabriella had given me the coin, said she was never brave enough to use it. Olava gave me a sad little smile. “She came to me more than once. Always asked about her future, but never wanted to know the answer.”

I followed her to her house. It was quiet. She lit candles and incense, muttered a few words in a language I didn’t know. I just watched. Waiting.

She took my hands. Closed her eyes. Then she spoke:

“I feel your grief. And I’m sorry to say… it will grow worse. But truths will be revealed. And when it passes… you will not be who you were.”

Then her brow furrowed.

“I see two that will shape your path… predators, both. But not to kill. To test.”

“One is wrapped in shadow, but the shadow is not cruel — it’s sorrowful. Eyes like twin moons. They won’t trust you. Not at first. But pain will forge your bond. You will both be changed by it.”

“The other stands in moonlight, wild and fierce. Not to break you, but to sharpen you. They will not challenge you with blades… but with spirit.”

I’ve made sure to write her words down.

I just sat there. Trying to take it in. Cryptic, as expected. But something about her voice… there was truth there. Even if I didn’t understand it yet.

I stood to leave, murmured a thanks, but her hands snapped out and grabbed my wrists.

“One more thing, child. Be wary… for the Mother that now claims you knows all about the Mother who raised you.”

Her voice was different then. Clearer.

I looked at her, stunned. The Night Mother. Of course it had to be. She said once she had known my mother. But this — this was something else.

Now I have more questions than answers.

But first, I must finish what we started.

The Emperor must die.

— L

14th of Second Seed, 4E203

Camp, near Solitude

The road to Solitude was long, quiet, and cold — not from the weather, but from something between Babette and me. It wasn’t tension… just silence. We both knew what we were walking toward. We spoke only to plan the Emperor’s assassination — methods, escape routes, timing. The rest, we left unsaid.

During the walk, I mentioned what Olava had said — her warning about the Night Mother knowing the truth about my mother. Babette didn’t even seem surprised. Just said it made sense. “She’s the bride of Sithis,” she told me. “She knows things.” It didn’t make it easier to swallow, but it felt… true. The Night Mother always knows more than she lets on.

When we reached Solitude, I didn’t head for the inn or lay low. I went to the docks. Maro. He had to be there.

We found him that evening, just like I hoped — pacing the docks, keeping an eye on the ship in the distance. The Katariah.

We waited until he was alone. No guards. No sailors. Just him.

He saw me and froze. “It can’t be,” he said. “You’re dead.

Maybe I am. But the part that’s left burns with rage.

I didn’t give him a chance to speak. I told him how his son had begged for his life. Told him how easy it was to end him. I saw the fury rise in Maro’s face — and I welcomed it. Let him feel a fraction of what I carry.

He lunged. Stupid. I knocked his blade into the sea like it was nothing. Grabbed him, slammed him to the ground. I didn’t use a weapon. I didn’t need one. I just kept hitting him. Over and over. Until his face was unrecognisable. Still, he breathed.

I spotted an oil barrel not far off. Looked at Babette. She already knew.

She brought over a bucket full of it. I poured it over him — his face, his chest, everywhere. He coughed and sputtered, his eyes going wide when he realised.

I conjured fire in my hands. His eyes locked with mine. Then the screaming started.

I don’t remember how long I stood there, watching him burn. Long enough.

The beast in me purred with satisfaction. I think I even smiled.

Then we were gone — back into the shadows. But we weren’t done killing tonight – we headed toward the ship.

Babette spotted a rowboat nearby. Said it was dark enough to use it, that no one would notice… unless the Emperor kept vampires aboard. She said she’d stay in the boat, keep watch. If something went wrong, she’d vanish.

As we neared the ship, she pointed out the anchor — a gap near where the chain fed in. I could climb it.

I did.

The decks were quiet, cloaked in darkness. Most were asleep. Those who weren’t, never saw me.

The Katariah is more palace than ship. Even in the lower decks, everything glimmered with gold and polish. I crept through, lifted a ring of keys from a snoring guard, and made my way to the Emperor’s quarters.

He was waiting for me.

No alarm. No scream. Just calm resignation. He even laughed. Said Maro had been wrong, again — that the Brotherhood can’t be stopped. Never could. Told me I hadn’t come all this way just to gawk at him.

I said it seems I was expected.

He nodded. “We have a date with destiny.”

Then he asked something strange.

Said he had one final request — to punish the one who ordered his death. “A traitor must pay.”

I nearly laughed. Said it would be ironic and I’d consider it.

He thanked me. Turned to look out across the sea. “Now, onto the business at hand.”

He didn’t look back.

I made it quick. He deserved that much.

I found my way to the locked rear balcony. Waited. Quiet. Babette must’ve seen me. She rowed up in the dark, pale as a ghost in the water. I climbed down silently. We vanished once more.

No fanfare. No glory. Just fire and shadows.

An Emperor is dead.

And I feel nothing.

—L

22nd of Second Seed, 4E203

Camp, near Whiterun

The road back to Whiterun was quiet. Babette and I didn’t speak much. There was no gloating, no celebration. No satisfaction. Not like there used to be. Once, I would have felt alive after a kill like that — an Emperor, no less. But now? It just felt… done. Not victorious, not thrilling. Just over.

Babette didn’t even ask how it had gone. She didn’t need to. We both knew what had happened. The Brotherhood’s greatest contract, and yet it had ended not with triumph, but with tired silence. Just another task finished.

We arrived in Whiterun in the early morning hours, the city still wrapped in sleep. We went straight to the Bannered Mare, straight to Amaund Motierre.

His bodyguard was alert despite the hour, and immediately knocked on the door the moment he saw us. Said Amaund would want to see us right away.

We stepped in.

Amaund was in bed, but not sleeping — reading some paper with a smug grin plastered across his face. That grin only grew when he saw us.

He was practically glowing. Said he couldn’t believe we’d done it. That the contract had actually been fulfilled. He looked at us like we were gods come to grant wishes.

He handed me a key. Said the reward — everything we were promised — could be found where we first met. His gratitude practically spilled off him.

As he sat there, rereading that damn note with stars in his eyes, I thought about the Emperor’s final request. That Amaund should pay.

I considered it. Truly.

But in the end… he was just a man who paid for a job. The Brotherhood has always been a blade for hire. And I… well, I’ve killed for less. If he betrayed us somehow — if the gold was false or the promise empty — then I’d come back. I’d finish what the Emperor wanted. But for now, I left him to his paper and his joy.

We stayed the rest of the night at the Bannered Mare. Come morning, we set off for Volunruud.

The door to the old meeting room was locked. I used the key Amaund had given me. Inside, the room was quiet, undisturbed… and filled with chests.

Gold. Jewels. Enough wealth to not just rebuild the Brotherhood — but raise it from the ashes stronger than before.

Babette and I just stood there for a moment, staring at it all. It didn’t feel real. But it was.

We took what we could carry — even that weighed down our packs and strained our backs. The rest… we’d need carriages. A plan. Nazir would know what to do.

We locked the room back up and headed out.

The Brotherhood would rise again.

But part of me wonders — what exactly are we rising into?

—L

30th of Second Seed, 4E203

Dawnstar Sanctuary

We’ve returned to something resembling a home — if you can call it that. It seems a mockery of the one we lost. The Dawnstar Sanctuary is cold, dark, and quiet, but it’s more than rubble, and for now, that’s enough.

Nazir was already here. Somehow, despite having barely two septims to rub together, he’s been busy. There are signs of work everywhere — crates moved, cobwebs cleared, old furniture patched together. It still reeks of dust and damp death, but it’s more than a tomb now. It’s a beginning.

He was genuinely glad to see us. We told him the deed was done — the Emperor, dead. I handed over the key Amaund had given me and told him about the gold waiting at Volunruud. He let out a laugh so hearty I think it startled Babette.

He said he’d get in touch with Delvin in Riften, use the Guild’s resources to help move and manage the funds. Said it was time to rebuild, properly. For the first time in what feels like forever, I saw some light in his eyes.

And then she spoke again.

The Night Mother.

Her voice slithered into my mind, clear and cold as ever. She said now that the Emperor was dead, the Brotherhood would rise from the ashes.

But I’d had enough of her cryptic sermons.

I went to her — to the black coffin, still nestled deep in the heart of the sanctuary — and I demanded the truth. I told her I was Listener now. I had given everything. That she owed me answers. About my mother.

At first, silence.

Then… finally, she spoke.

She told me my mother had been one of us — a sister in the Markarth sanctuary. One of the best, she said. She had trained under a number of assassins from multiple sanctuaries across Skyrim and Tamriel. The Night Mother had said she had been destined to become Listener one day.

But something changed. She didn’t say what — only that my mother left the Brotherhood. Disappeared. I asked if that was why I had been chosen. Her child. Was this all just a bloodline reclaimed?

She said, in part. My lineage mattered. But my skill sealed it. I had proven worthy. My mother had run from her fate. I had embraced it.

I should’ve felt pride. Instead… I just felt hollow.

I remembered what Babette had brought up when she remembered meeting my mother. About her time spent with the standing stones and a quip about never sleeping with anyone there.

It struck a chord. I did some digging. Found references to a strange set of standing stones deep in the Reach — the Lover’s Stone.

It has to be the place she meant.

So that’s where I go next. To the place where my mother’s secrets might finally be uncovered.

Maybe this is how it ends.

Or maybe… this is where it truly begins.

—L

Chapter Text

7th of Mid-Year, 4E203

Markarth Sanctuary Ruins

The Lover’s Stones were exactly where they were meant to be — tall and quiet, nestled in the wild rocks of the Reach like it had always been watching. Something about standing near it made my skin prickle, as if it knew me. Knew her.

From there, I started searching. Days of wandering through crags and cliff faces, crawling through crevices and moss-covered caves. And then — I found it. Hidden in a crumbled rock face, half-swallowed by ivy and roots — the faint outline of a blackened doorway, sealed long ago. A sanctuary entrance, lost to time.

Markarth Sanctuary.

It hadn’t suffered the kind of deliberate ruin Falkreath had. No signs of fire or battle. Just… abandonment. A sudden, eerie evacuation. Rooms still arranged like people had once intended to return. They never did.

Nature had crept in slowly, like a thief. Vines through cracks, moss on stone, bones scattered in corners — some animal, some not. But I kept looking.

Eventually, deep in the ruins, I found a hidden cache tucked beneath a collapsed shrine. Inside — old journals, contracts, correspondence. Dozens of letters bound with brittle twine, many unsigned. I scanned for any familiar names, anything that felt like it belonged to me.

And then I saw it — her name. My real mother’s name.

The letters were personal, exchanged between the assassins here and the Listener of the Bravil sanctuary. As I read, my hands shook.

There had been a contract. A death order, sent for her. My mother. Issued directly by the Listener of Bravil — carrying the Night Mother’s blessing.

The letters tracked rare possible sightings. One spoke of Riften — a woman with a new name, a husband, a child. Me.

They had been hunting her.

The sanctuary here had protected her, at least for a time. It’s clear from the tone of the correspondence — hesitations, doubt, even anger from some of the Markarth assassins. But the order stood. The Night Mother wanted her dead.

That truth hit me harder than anything the Night Mother has ever whispered. My mother hadn’t just run — she’d been running for her life. Hunted by the Night Mother herself.

And the Night Mother knew. She had to. She'd said my mother had abandoned her duty, but not why. She had left out the part where she tried to have her killed.

I will return to Dawnstar. I will face her again.

This time, she will answer me — whether she wants to or not.

—L

16th of Mid-Year, 4E203

Dawnstar Sanctuary

I may have just destroyed the Dark Brotherhood.

I stormed into the sanctuary today, barely heard Nazir as he greeted me. I ignored him completely. There was only one voice I wanted to hear. I made my way straight to her coffin and demanded she speak to me.

The Night Mother obliged, in her own cryptic way. I asked her about the hunt for my mother—why she had pursued her so relentlessly, why she had never told me the truth. Why she had waited until now to reveal everything, even when I served the Dark Brotherhood faithfully. Her silence at first was deafening, but eventually her corpse stirred, her eyes glowing once more.

She told me what I had already suspected, but worse. Yes, the Brotherhood hunted my mother. She had eluded them for years, aided by friends from the Markarth sanctuary. Friends who paid the ultimate price. The sanctuary, she said, had been purged for protecting her. Because they chose loyalty to my mother over loyalty to the Brotherhood.

All because someone, somewhere, had performed the Black Sacrament on her. And once that happened, the Night Mother said, it was inevitable. “She would be hunted until she was dead.”

I argued—people leave the Brotherhood all the time. I’ve met them. Why was my mother treated differently?

Then came the real truth. Cold. Final.

The Night Mother had invested too much in her. She was being trained to be the best. Groomed to become the next Listener. She was supposed to be perfect. And when she walked away, it wasn’t just defiance. It was betrayal. A deep, personal one. The Night Mother hadn’t ordered her death because of a contract. She’d done it out of spite.

And then… I could almost feel her smile. Smug. Through that damned corpse. “She got what she deserved in the end.”

I asked what she meant. I should have known better.

She told me everything. About the day the bandits raided our village. How they weren’t just raiders. They were hired. A distraction. While assassins crept through the chaos to strike the real target—my mother. My father, who tried to protect her, died in the crossfire. And then the Night Mother spoke the final dagger:

“And now, I hold her daughter’s soul in my hands. The final act of revenge.”

I sank to my knees.

All this time, I thought I'd found a new family. First through Astrid. Then the Night Mother. But both of them had betrayed me. One out of desperation had killed my new family. The other out of pure vengeance. And my real family… gone because of her.

I don’t remember what I screamed. I just remember the feeling fury the likes of which I had never felt before. It shook the walls around me. Her coffin flew backward with some invisible force and slammed into the stone behind it, swinging open, her eyes glowing bright in the shadows. She whispered to me, pleaded, tried to calm me.

Too late.

I screamed again. And again. And agian. I watched as her corpse ignited before my very eyes. Fire caught along her rotted dress, spread up through her skeletal fingers. She burned. Slowly. The whispers grew more and more frantic—then begun to fade. When the whispers stopped, she was ash. Gone.

Babette and Nazir had run in by then. I heard them yelling, but I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. When I finally looked up, there was nothing left of the Night Mother. Just the blackened coffin and a handful of ashes.

Babette approached, gently, and asked what I had done. Her voice was calm, as always. I told them everything. Every word. Every lie. Every truth.

And then I cried again. Thought I had no tears left—but I was wrong.

Babette listened. When I was finished, she looked to Nazir and asked what we should do now. I told them I was done. I didn’t know what I was done with—just that the life of an assassin was no longer mine.

Nazir seemed lost for the first time. Said he didn’t know either. That being an assassin was all he’d ever known.

But Babette… Babette was the wise one, as always. She reminded us we were rich. That the gold we earned from killing the Emperor could fund a hundred new lives. She suggested we go our separate ways—and let the Brotherhood end here, with the death of an Emperor and the silence of the Night Mother.

Nazir nodded. Quiet. Grim. “Okay,” he said.

And that was it. The Dark Brotherhood is no more.

And I’m alone again

—L

23rd of Mid-Year, 4E203

The Bannered Mare, Whiterun

I’m back in Whiterun. Don’t remember deciding to come here. Feels like I’m just drifting. Like Skyrim itself has won. That it’s finally broken me.

I wandered the streets for a bit before settling into the Bannered Mare. It’s familiar. Too familiar. The place feels unchanged, but I’ve changed too much. Drank more than I should’ve. A blur of nights, too many tankards, and maybe a night tangled in sheets I can’t fully remember. Doesn’t really matter. Nothing does right now.

That’s when I ran into them—Redguards. Called themselves the Alik’r. Said they were looking for a Redguard woman hiding in Whiterun. Claimed she was a fugitive. Promised a reward for her. I didn’t care much at the time—until I recognized the woman they described.

Saadia.

She works here at the Mare. Pretty, yes, but she carries herself with a tension that doesn't fit a barmaid’s life. When I told her about the Alik’r, her face turned to stone. Gone was the charm, the soft words. She pulled me aside, asked to speak in private. I followed her upstairs, assuming it was just fear and desperation.

Instead, she pulled a dagger on me.

Accused me of working with them. Said she’d gut me if I tried anything. Her hands were shaking. Her voice desperate but trying to sound dangerous.

Even in the mess I’m in, I was faster. Stronger. Knocked the blade aside like it was nothing and pinned her against the wall. Told her to calm down. Eventually, she did. The fear in her eyes said more than words.

She begged for help. Said she had no one left she trusted. That makes two of us. Claimed to be a noble from Hammerfell, hunted by the Alik’r for speaking out against the Aldmeri Dominion. Gave me her real name - Iman. But something in the way she said it… didn’t feel like the whole truth.

Still, it didn’t matter. I needed something. Something to drag me forward again.

I agreed to help.

She told me one of the Alik’r had been arrested—said he might know where their leader, Kematu, is holed up. Asked me to find them and kill them.

So, I went to the prison and found him. The bastard looked smug until I started asking questions. Then he got cagey. Tried to bargain. Said he’d talk if I paid his fine and got him out. I had no intention of doing that.

Instead, I found one of the guards, pitched him a lie. Said I’d “paid” the fine, but just needed the prisoner to think I had. The guard chuckled; said he’d play along.

We returned to the cell, and I told the prisoner he was free. His lips loosened instantly. Told me Kematu was holed up in Swindler’s Den, between here and Rorikstead.

I thanked him, turned to leave—and heard him shout at the guard, demanding release.

The guard just laughed and said, “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

I kept walking.

I suppose I have a direction again. A task. Maybe not justice. Maybe not truth. But at least it’s something.

Let’s see what Swindler’s Den holds for me.

—L

27th of Mid-Year, 4E203

The Bannered Mare, Whiterun

I didn’t wait for morning. Just stumbled out of Whiterun in the dead of night, following the road toward Rorikstead. The sky above was alight with northern lights—mocking me with their beauty. It all felt too calm. Like the world was daring me to fall apart just a little more.

By the time I reached Swindler’s Den, it was late morning. I hadn’t even thought through why I was really doing this. Maybe because Saadia—Iman—had asked. Maybe because I’ve spent so long following orders that doing anything else feels... unnatural.

The entrance wasn’t what I expected. No Alik’r warriors guarding it—just bandits. They attacked on sight. Dumb move.

While I fought my way through them, I heard some grumbling—some of the bandits didn’t like the arrangement with the Alik’r. Tension. Dissatisfaction. No surprise there. Mercenaries don’t like sharing turf, especially with foreign bounty hunters.

I carved a path through them. My instincts still kick in when they need to. A small comfort.

Eventually, I emerged from a narrow tunnel behind a waterfall and stepped into a larger cave chamber. That’s where they were waiting—dozens of them. Alik’r warriors. Weapons ready. Kematu at their centre.

He held up a hand and called off his men. Said I’d proven myself, and that he wanted to talk. Claimed he knew why I was there—and that we could all walk away richer.

His version of the story? Saadia sold out her city to the Dominion. When the noble houses uncovered her betrayal, she fled. He said his people were only there to bring her back to face justice.

I didn’t buy it. Just like I didn’t buy her story either. Both of them were lying to me. I told him as much. Demanded the truth—or I’d kill every last one of them.

His smugness didn’t crack. Just repeated what he said. That she was a traitor, and he was taking her back. When I asked why she’d hide as a barmaid if she were so dangerous or power-hungry, he had no answer that satisfied me.

Finally, he made his pitch. Said if I sided with him, I should lure her to the stables outside Whiterun, and he’d share the bounty with me.

His arrogance turned my stomach.

I told him no. Told him that if she’d chosen a life of hiding in plain sight, working day after day in some inn, then maybe she wasn’t the power-hungry traitor he claimed she was. Maybe she just wanted peace.

He didn’t like that. Ordered his men to attack. Bad move.

They’re dead now.

I returned to Whiterun and found Saadia in the Mare. Told her the Alik’r wouldn’t be a problem anymore. She let out a breath that looked like it had been held for years. Said she could finally rest.

Offered me a reward—some treasure she’d smuggled out of Hammerfell. I told her to keep it. I didn’t need it. But I thanked her, because for a little while, at least, she gave me something to focus on.

She looked at me strangely. Then stepped closer, said maybe there were... other things I could focus on.

And I let her.

We spent the night together. Her warmth against me, her breath on my skin, her hands like balm on open wounds. It was… nice.

But as I lay there afterward, staring at the ceiling of her room, I still felt nothing.

Just empty.

—L

Chapter Text

2nd of Last Seed, 4E203

Temple of Dibella, Markarth

I spent more time in Whiterun than I expected. No blood, no contracts, no whispers from the Night Mother. Just… silence.

Time. Time to sit, to think, to stare into a tankard and wrestle with whatever the hell I’ve become.

And I’ve come to a conclusion: I’m an addict.
Not to skooma or ale—though with the way I’ve been drinking lately, that wouldn’t be a stretch. No, it’s something deeper.

I’m addicted to battle. To chaos. To the thrill of killing. To the raw, unfiltered carnality of it all.

That something inside me—that howls when I’m idle, that begs for blood, noise, sex. I fed it a little when I helped Saadia. That job had all three. But it’s never enough. It always wants more. Always hungry. Always dominant.

And just as I was stewing in that thought—feeling that creeping itch under my skin—a man in dark robes approached me at the bar. Said he’d been watching me drink all day. Said I looked like I could handle more. Wanted a contest.

His name was Sam… or something like that. Seemed friendly enough. Offered me something he called a “special brew.” Strong stuff. Gods, was it strong.

We got six drinks in before he gave up. I forced down a seventh just to prove a point. Then he said he had a staff for me, for winning. I don’t even remember that part. Everything after that is just haze and fragments.

I remember him saying we should keep the fun going.
I remember stumbling out into the night, laughing like a fool.

Then… nothing.

Until I woke up.

Cold stone floor beneath me. A voice yelling. Priest. Calling me a blasphemer. Said I was defiling Dibella’s temple.

I groaned, told her to quiet down—the stone felt better than her scolding. She told me to at least put on some clothes. That even if I was “beautiful,” Dibella didn’t appreciate naked drunkards sleeping off binges in her temple.

I turned over.

Sure enough… I was naked. Again. Seems to happen a lot when I’m not expecting it.

She gave me a look—half disgust, half something else. Damn Dibellan priests and their double standards.

Sat up. My head throbbed with every heartbeat.
She told me I’d stormed in drunk, ranting about… a goat? And when I didn’t get the answers I wanted, I caused a scene.

I apologised. Told her I hadn’t really been myself lately. That I thought a drinking contest might be a decent distraction.

She gave me a sceptical look, but eventually softened. Said if I helped clean up the mess I made, she’d let the whole thing slide.

Fair trade.

I asked her if my gear was still here. Said I wasn’t sure if naked cleaning was part of my penance. She laughed. Said my armour was tucked safely away. Thank the Divines.

I dressed and then helped her tidy the place. I asked if there’d been a man with me—Sam, maybe. She said no. But mentioned I’d been ranting about needing to go to Rorikstead. My plantation is nearby, so maybe that makes sense. Maybe.

Then I asked her where I was. She blinked, and said, “Markarth.”

I stopped cleaning. Just… stared. Markarth? That’s halfway across the damn province.

I asked the date. She told me.

I’ve lost a month. An entire godsdamned month.

All I’ve got are scraps. A goat. Church bells. A wedding? Dancing with Forsworn?

What in Oblivion happened?

But apparently, I’m headed to Rorikstead next.
Seems I can’t even drown my sorrows without falling into madness.

—L

10th of Last Seed, 4E203

Bannered Mare, Whiterun

Whilst helping clean the Temple of Dibella (still can’t believe that’s a sentence I’m writing), I found a crumpled note tucked into one of my boots.

Something about how to “repair the staff.” It read like the deranged grocery list of a necromancer’s drunken apprentice.

A Giant’s Toe.
Holy Water.
Hagraven Feather.

Each item more absurd than the last… but something about them stirred memories. Half-images. Half-emotions. Like ash blowing in from a fire I can’t quite remember lighting.

On the road to Rorikstead, I had time to think. Probably too much time. Losing an entire month of my life... it rattled me.

The Dark Brotherhood has destroyed me, sure. Has left me hollow. But I wouldn’t want to erase my memories of that time. Even if it was a lie. Even if Astrid betrayed us. Even if I watched my second family burn.

Those memories matter. They make me who I am. Even if who I am is a shattered, bloodstained wreck barely holding herself together.

Naturally, the first place I went was the inn in Rorikstead—since alcohol had clearly played a starring role in whatever madness the last month was. Asked around. Got pointed to a local farmer named Ennis.

The man took one look at me and said I had a lot of nerve showing my face again. I blinked at him. Told him I had no idea what he was on about.

He glared and said I sold his “beauty” to a giant.

For a moment, I genuinely thought I’d become a slaver. No. Turns out I’d only become a goat slaver.

The “beauty” he was referring to was… a goat.

I just sighed and told him I’d get the damn animal back. Apparently, the giant wasn’t far.

Found it quick enough. Big, ugly brute limping around a camp. Sure enough, its foot was bandaged up. And there was the goat. I swear it was looking smug.

Seems I’d traded her for one of the giant’s toes. Can’t imagine the conversation that involved.

Snatched the goat. Ignored the roar. Ran. If there’s a bounty on my head from a frostbitten giant, I’ll take it up with the Divines later.

Ennis was overjoyed to see her. Even mentioned that I’d left a note behind—something about repaying a woman named Ysolda in Whiterun. Said most of it didn’t make sense, but her name was mentioned more than once.

So off I went. Again. Made sure to avoid the angry giant searching for its goat.

Found her in the market in Whiterun.

Said she’d been patient, but I still owed her. I told her I’d been getting that a lot lately. She… misunderstood. Thought I was talking about my wedding being called off.

I just stared at her.

“Wedding?” I asked.

She said she’d been looking forward to it. That I’d told her about all the guests. That I was engaged.

She said she’d forgive the debt if I returned the wedding ring—assuming the ceremony was no longer happening.

I told her I had no idea what she was talking about.

She gave me a long look and muttered, “No wonder the wedding didn’t go ahead.”

Then she mentioned a beautiful story my husband had supposedly told—how we met under the full moon, surrounded by fireflies, beneath the largest tree in Witchmist Grove.

Husband. I told her, flatly, that I don’t swing that way.

She looked startled. Just said the ceremony was supposed to be near the Grove, though she hadn’t received an invitation in the end so she wasn’t sure. I told her I’d make it up to her at some point, once I’d figured out what had happened.

Gods. What the hell did I do last month?

Part of me thinks I’m losing my mind. Wouldn’t be the worst thing. After everything I’ve seen, all the voices I’ve heard, all the blood I’ve spilled…

Going mad might be a mercy.

But for now, I suppose I’m off to Witchmist Grove. To reclaim a wedding ring I don’t remember giving… to a man I’m marrying that I haven’t even met…

This just keeps getting better.

—L

20th of Last Seed, 4E203

Bannered Mare, Whiterun

So… I’ve definitely gone mad.

I mean, I knew I was unravelling, but this week has confirmed it.

Today I had a conversation—with a Hagraven. Her name was Moira. She was waiting for me. Not to kill me, not to curse me, but… to consummate our love.

I nearly gagged right then and there.

All I can say is, thank the Divines I was blackout drunk during whatever madness led to that.

I told her—very calmly—that I believed I’d left a wedding ring here and that I couldn’t remember anything from the last month or so. Said I was trying to piece things together.

She did not take that well. Accused me of wanting to give the ring to another hag. Something about darker feathers.

I told her (and myself) I really didn’t want to know what was going on. Told her she could keep the ring, I just wanted to know if I’d said anything about a ceremony.

She calmed down—kind of. Said I’d mentioned somewhere called Morvunskar in relation to a ceremony of some kind. Said it wasn’t far north.

I thanked her. A Hagraven.

Before I could leave, she told me to come back soon. Said she’d been pruning herself for our first night and couldn’t wait to peel me out of my armour.

I left. Immediately. Fast. No looking back. Gods.

The path to Morvunskar was full of trolls, bears, reanimated skeletons of wolves… like all of Skyrim’s worst houseguests had RSVP’d to the damn wedding.

The place itself—ruined keep or fort—was crawling with mages. Not wedding guests. Definitely not. More like cultists dabbling in every dark corner of magic they could find.

Down in the dungeons, I found their real work.
Torture. Fire. Screams still echoing through the stone.

I killed the last of them and stood there in the quiet. Then behind me, a strange humming. A shift in the air. I turned around to see a portal open—a giant orb of shimmering light.
Could see through to something… glowing. Like a grotto.
I stepped through. Because of course I did. What’s the worst that could happen, right?

Turns out, it was beautiful. The kind of place you’d describe in a dream. Floating lights. Hanging stars. A touch of magic in every breeze. Maybe this is the place I described to Ysolda.

As I walked through the strange, enchanted world, I finally saw him.

Sam.

He smiled when I approached. Said he was beginning to think I might not make it. I replied, flatly, that it was quite the trip.

He laughed. Said I’d earned the staff.

I asked about the bizarre items I’d been collecting. Giant’s Toe. Hagraven Feather. Holy Water.

He just laughed again. Said I never needed them.
Said it was all part of the fun. He just wanted me to go out and spread merriment.

Then—just like that—he changed. No longer Sam.

He stood tall, imposing, charming in a way that made my skin crawl and my spine hum.

Sanguine, he said. Daedric Prince of Debauchery.

Said he’d been watching me. That I looked like I needed a distraction. Said I was going places, but had fallen off the path. That he hoped this helped.

Then, without letting me say a word, he snapped his fingers. And just like that, I was back here. The Bannered Mare. Exactly where we first met.

Now I sit with the staff—his staff—leaning against the table. And I think about what he said.

He wasn’t wrong. It was a distraction.

And it got me moving again.

I still feel like shit. Still don’t know what I’m doing.
But chasing goats, dodging angry Hagraven brides, “bartering” with giants, and having a Daedric Prince give me a pep talk…

It almost felt like fun.

—L

26th of Last Seed, 4E203

Goldenhills Plantation

I’ve decided that what I need—more than anything right now—is to keep myself busy.

So, I’ve come back to the plantation. My neglected slice of farmland, ghost stories, and paperwork. Turns out, grief doesn’t vanish overnight. Neither does trauma. But hauling hay and checking cellar stock keeps your hands too full to drown in it.

I’ve even started a book collection. Real books. Not contracts. Not kill orders. Not ledgers soaked in someone else’s blood. It’s been… a long time since I sat down and just read.

I’ve also decided I’m going to start just… exploring. Letting curiosity—not obligation—be my guide. A strange feeling. But hopefully a good one.

Before I left Whiterun, after the whole mess with Sanguine, I bumped into someone I hadn’t seen in nearly two years.

Lydia.

Of all people, I didn’t expect to see her that day. She was smiling—gods, she hasn’t changed. Still carrying herself like she’s ready to defend all of Skyrim with just a war axe and her willpower.

She asked how I’d been. I didn’t tell her everything. Just said I’d learned the truth about my mother. She didn’t press. Just stepped forward and hugged me.

And I swear to the gods—I almost crumpled. It felt like falling into something warm, something safe. I didn’t realise how much I needed some kind of comfort.

She told me she’s been staying busy in Whiterun. Protecting the city. Helping the Jarl. I told her about the plantation, about how I’ve been trying to rebuild some kind of rhythm.

She got quiet for a moment. Then asked me if I wanted any help.

I must have looked surprised.

She just smirked, reminded me she’s still my housecarl. Still my friend. I said yes. Gods, I said yes without even thinking.

And just like that, she’s helping me run things here.
Managing the farmhands. Organising shipments. Giving me someone to trust, someone to talk to without all the layers of lies and violence.

It’s been nice, traveling with Lydia again.

And Scrappy’s here too. He’s older now. Slower. His bark is more of a raspy cough. But he’s still just as stubborn. Just as loyal. Still scrappy.

Maybe… maybe this is what I needed.

Not another contract. Not another fight. Just some dirt under my nails, good books on the shelf, and a few people who give a damn whether I wake up in the morning.

—L

Chapter Text

6th of Heartfire, 4E203

Gildergreen, Whiterun

I’ve been trying to keep myself busy—and the gods are certainly obliging.

Found myself high up in the mountains the other day, drawn to what I thought was just another old ruin. Turned out to be some kind of ancient dragon site. A lair? A tomb? Not sure. All I know is I walked in on a full-blown war—a dragon, a draugr overlord, and a group of heretical bandits all trying to rip each other apart.

Naturally, I jumped in. Couldn’t help myself.

The beast inside me, the dragonblood, loved every second of it. Screams, flames, the rush of power—chaos. It's like a hunger I can’t seem to starve, no matter how hard I try to pretend I’m past that.

Maybe I never will be.

Afterwards, I did some more “reading.” Though this time, in the dragon tongue. It’s starting to feel less foreign. Not like breathing… but like reciting an old prayer you don’t remember learning.

Also had new armour forged recently. The Ebony Mail, gift of the ever-generous Boethiah, doesn’t sit right with me anymore. Too many memories clinging to its metal like blood that never quite washes out.

The new set’s crafted from steel and quicksilver. Still light, but louder. Brighter. Absolutely not made for sneaking around—which is exactly the point. I’m not hiding anymore.

Still carrying the Ebony Blade, though. Mephala’s little plaything. I keep wondering if the stories are true—if it really corrupts its wielder. I’d like to think it doesn’t. More likely it’s just attracted to people who are already falling apart.

On the way back to Whiterun, I stopped by Rorikstead. Ended up talking to a farmer, Erik. Young lad, although probably not much younger than me, with dreams of adventure. But was worried about what his father would say.

Told him the truth: it’s hard work, most of its misery, and the rest is probably going to get him killed. But if that’s what he really wants—living on the edge of a blade—then he should grow a spine and talk to his father.
I think my “pep talk” hit the mark. There was fire in his eyes when I left.

Ended up travelling along the road with a Khajiit caravan again. I always enjoy my time with them. When we stopped for the night, heard shouting from one of them, watched a figure run off into the night. Turns out that they’d stolen a valuable amulet from one of the bodyguards, Kharjo, who I had met before whilst travelling with the Khajiit. Helped him track the thief and we had the amulet back by morning. He offered coin; I told him to keep it. Not everything needs a price. Just told him to let me have some of the drink he kept stashed for himself. He roared with laughter; said he was happy to share his drink with a woman as mad as me.

He’s not wrong about the mad part.

We parted ways at Whiterun. I headed into the city, looking for whatever fell my way. That whatever came in the shape of a Redguard.

I bumped into Amren, a local, voice like gravel and worry. He was gearing up to retrieve a stolen family sword. Said his wife was furious he’d spent so much coin tracking the thief down, so he had decided to head on out there himself.
I offered to join him—told him I was looking for something to do anyway. He agreed without hesitation.

On the way, he told me he used to be an adventurer. Said he misses it sometimes, but that nothing compares to holding his daughter in his arms. Wonder if that’s how my mother felt.

I didn’t tell him much about me. Just that I was trying to stay busy. No need to muddy his nostalgia with my truth.

When we got there, the bandits didn’t stand a chance.
Amren watched me tear through them like wet paper.
Said he thought he was a good fighter, and he was just glad we were on the same side.

If he’d met me a few months ago… well. Let’s just say we might’ve been having a very different conversation.

We got the sword back of course. Amren offered me coin again – told him I didn’t need it. Just came along for the ride. He doesn’t need to know I get more out of killing than I ever could out of coin.

Currently sat by the tree in the centre of Whiterun. The Gildergreen. It looks… sick. Not dying, but fading. Could be the war. Could be time. Could be something else entirely. Might be worth looking into.

Feels wrong, seeing something so old and proud just wilt.

—L

12th of Heartfire, 4E203

Remains of Helgen

Turns out my hunch was right. The Gildergreen—that sacred tree in the heart of Whiterun—isn’t just looking tired. It’s unwell.

I was standing near it the other day, watching the way its leaves droop and its bark seems dull and cracked. That’s when one of the priestesses, Danica, from the Temple of Kynareth noticed me loitering.

She said it’s not technically a problem, just… an eyesore. Not exactly the language I expected from a priestess. But she didn’t mean it cruelly. Said the tree wasn’t dead—just slumbering. Apparently, the Gildergreen was grown from a cutting of the Eldergleam, which is supposedly the oldest living thing in Skyrim.

Danica mentioned there’s a way to wake it up again. A cure, in her words. All she needs is some sap from the Eldergleam itself.

Here’s the catch: the sap can only be drawn using a particular weapon—something sacred, dangerous. A kind of dagger that’s currently in the hands of Hags. And not just any hags. The kind that sacrifice spriggans to feed their rituals.

Charming.

I asked her where I might find these creatures. She looked surprised. Asked if I was really offering to help. Not like I have anything better to do with my time.

She showed me a spot on my map. Some grove tucked far away from polite society. As we parted, she looked at me and said, “Your spirit is strong.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I think I just nodded and left.

Tracking down the hags was easy enough. They aren’t exactly subtle about where they live. The lead one—a full Hagraven—was waiting. And gods, she was strong.

Fireballs. Curses. That shrieking voice like splintering bone. It was fun, in its way.

I still enjoy a fight—still hears the Song of Blood in moments like these—relished the challenge.

I dodged around her flames, waited for the moment her guard dropped. Then I shouted—FUS—and she went stumbling backwards.

I closed the distance and ended her. One clean cut.

The blade I came for was on a pedestal behind her, practically glowing with menace.

Is this really what it takes to wake a tree in Skyrim: blood and steel?

—L

20th of Heartfire, 4E203

Bannered Mare, Whiterun

The journey to the Eldergleam Sanctuary was longer than expected, but oddly peaceful. On the path winding through the woods, I met a man—Maurice—who was also heading there. Said he’d dreamt of visiting the Eldergleam for years.

He asked if he could tag along. I figured, why not?

We reached the grove by late afternoon. I’ll be honest: I wasn’t prepared. The moment we stepped into the sanctuary’s heart, I stopped dead.

The light… the way it filters through the broken stone above, catches the mist, and glows around the Eldergleam's massive, twisting trunk—it was divine.

I’ve seen wonders in this land. Too many to count. But this was different. This was peace, made physical. Waterfalls trickled all around us, and pilgrims stood in quiet reverence.

I asked one if there was any way to get closer to the tree.
She said no one had managed in some time—the roots blocked the way. Protective. Sacred.

But I’m not “no one.”

I approached the roots, wondered if I could climb them to get to the tree itself. As I stood there, I fingered the hag’s dagger idly. The moment my fingers touched it, the roots began to shift—parting before me like I carried the will of the tree itself. Or maybe of something else entirely.

Maurice was still following. He gasped and asked to see the weapon. Then, quite suddenly, demanded to know what I was planning to do with it.

I told him the truth: I was sent here to get some sap, to revive the Gildergreen in Whiterun.

He was furious. Said I should’ve told him.

I just shrugged.

We’d just met, and honestly? I didn’t think taking a little sap would be a problem. It’s what Danica, the priestess at the Temple of Kynareth, had asked me to do.

Maurice paused. Surprised by that. Then he said there might be another way.

We continued up to the tree, the roots continuing to part at the threat of the dagger. Once we made it to the tree itself, he knelt, prayed.

And within minutes, the ground in front of us cracked, and from it sprouted a sapling—a new tree, gifted directly from the Eldergleam.

I was speechless. Maurice simply took the sapling from the ground and offered it to me. Said a few words: “Renewal is more important than maintenance.”

I’m not sure if he was referring to the tree – or myself.

Getting that sapling back to Whiterun? Not easy. Horseback travel and a fragile, divine twig don’t exactly mix. I rode slow, took backroads, avoided trouble. Didn’t want to snap a branch trying to fight off wolves or bandits.

But eventually, I returned to Danica, carefully holding the sapling. She looked at it, then down at the dagger in my belt.
She sighed and muttered, “How do I attract followers with just a sapling?”

I just repeated what Maurice had said to me.

Danica frowned. Then gave herself a little scolding. Said she should’ve thought things through. She thanked me. Said I’d always be welcome at the temple—and offered healing whenever I needed it.

That tree… it reminded me that not everything in Skyrim needs to be solved with violence. Sometimes, growth is the answer.

Strange lesson for someone like me.

But maybe I needed it.

—L

29th of Heartfire, 4E203

Candlehearth Hall, Windhelm

After returning the Eldergleam sapling to Whiterun, I felt like I needed to move again. My path led me northeast—to Windhelm. I hadn’t really spent much time here since my days in the Stormcloaks, and even then, I never stayed. Thought maybe it was time to actually walk the city like a citizen, not a lapdog soldier.

I didn’t exactly get the quiet stay I’d imagined.

Barely made it through the gates before a guard stopped me—told me there was a killer loose in the city. They called him the Butcher, and said that a number of women had been killed over the past few months.

Apparently, last night another woman had been found. No stolen goods, nothing but blood and fear.

He looked at me a little too closely and must’ve decided I seemed the “capable” sort. He also commented that I had only just arrived, so that gave me a good enough alibi as far as he was concerned. Asked if I’d lend a hand.

I shrugged. “Why not?”

He took me straight to the crime scene. Still fresh. Nothing from the witnesses but trembling stories and the insistence that nothing was taken. This isn’t about gold.

One of the guards at the crime scene directed me to the Hall of the Dead. One of the witnesses worked there and had been tending to the body of the woman. A priestess or caretaker of Arkay. She’d already examined the body thoroughly by the time I arrived.

And she certainly knew her work.

Said the cuts weren’t made by typical blades—more like a curved knife, something used for embalming. The wounds were ritualistic. Almost surgical.

There was also a trail of blood. Faint, but there, leading away from the crime scene. Something that had not been the case with previous victims. The guard and I followed it. Led us to a large abandoned house near the edge of the Stone Quarter.

He stood guard outside. I went in.

The inside was... unsettling. Sparse, but not in a poor way. Deliberate. Too clean in places, too messy in others. The first thing I noticed was a bloodied chest, filled with crumpled papers that read: “Beware the Butcher.”

There was a journal too, with a list of names inside and ramblings that didn’t make total sense. There were chairs placed in strange ways, and an odd amulet that felt heavy with something old. Lastly, a false back panel in the wardrobe. Behind it?

Bones. Piles of them. An altar. Necromantic symbols burned into the stone. Another journal. More detailed. Mentions of revival, of sacrifice, of preparing for something.

Whoever this was, they weren’t just killing—they were gathering.

That amulet was the only thread I had. The guard recommended we bring it to Calixto, a local with a knack for identifying strange artifacts.

When we spoke to him, Calixto said it was an amulet usually held by a court mage. He even offered to buy it, which was odd considering it was evidence in various murders.

However, it felt too convenient that the court wizard would just leave an amulet like that lying around, when it would obviously point back to him. I told the guard as much, and he agreed. So, I decided to go straight to the court wizard himself. If he tried something, I’d deal with it.

I showed him the amulet. He narrowed his eyes, recognized it instantly: a Necromancer’s Amulet.

Then he surprised me. Said he’d been tracking the pattern of the murders. Claimed the Butcher would likely strike again—in two days—in the Stone Quarter.
He seemed more like a scholar than a killer. Precise. Detached. But also… troubled. Definitely not the killer as far as I was concerned.

So now I wait. I’m posted up here at Candlehearth Hall, watching the city breathe. Watching the guards pretend they aren’t afraid. Hoping the wizard’s prediction is right. Hoping I can be fast enough when the time comes.

I’ve hunted many things. Seems tonight I’ll add serial killer to the list.

—L

Chapter Text

3rd of Frost Fall, 4E203

Candlehearth Hall, Windhelm

It’s colder here than I remember. Not just the weather—though Frost Fall arrived like a hammer—but the atmosphere. A city clinging to its traditions and haunted by ghosts it refuses to name.

Got talking with a blacksmith and his apprentice at the inn over mead and the heat of the fire. They mentioned a relic—Queen Freydis’s sword. Something of serious value, if the rumours were true. Said they’d tracked it to a cave, but hadn’t gone after it yet because, of course, the place is crawling with spiders.

They didn’t ask me outright, but I could see the hope in their eyes when I said I might have time after I’m finished here. Told them I had some important business to finish in Windhelm first.

The night of the first of Frost Fall was when everything came to a head. And the snow came with it.

A blizzard rolled in so thick and fast that the streets emptied almost instantly. It was the kind of cold that makes your bones ache and your breath feel like smoke. Even I considered heading back inside. But I didn’t. Not while the Butcher might still be out there.

Then I heard a scream.

I found the woman in question—Arivanya, I found out her name was later—near the market. Shaking, clutching at her side.

She’d seen him. And shouted. And that one act probably saved her life.

And I was close.

I don’t know what it looked like from the outside. To me, it was all snow and steel and instinct. I saw a figure turning to run—and I didn’t give him the chance.
Sword out. Sprinting. One strike.

And the Butcher never even saw me.

When the guards arrived, I was standing over the body. I told them what had happened. One of them knelt to check the corpse and froze. Said it was Calixto. The same man who’d identified the amulet. Hoping to misdirect me.

Seems he had failed

They investigated his home the following day. Found the murder weapon—the embalming blade—and more journals, filled with fragmented thoughts, obsessions, and twisted justifications. The room where he slept doubled as a shrine to death.

I was brought to the steward, who formally thanked me. Offered me a pouch of gold, a lot of it. I accepted but I wasn’t there for coin.

No more dead women was reason enough.

The snow hasn’t stopped since. The streets of Windhelm feel a little quieter now—not just from the storm, but from the weight that’s been lifted.

I’ll rest tonight. Then maybe it’s time to visit that spider cave the blacksmith mentioned. Freydis’s sword isn’t going to fetch itself.

—L

4th of Frost Fall, 4E203

Candlehearth Hall, Windhelm

Not quite sure what made me head into the Gray Quarter today. Curiosity, maybe. Or guilt. I know how the Stormcloaks treat the Dunmer here. Saw firsthand how much they look down on other races. Has never sat well with me.

The moment I stepped into the Quarter, every Dunmer eye was on me. Distrust. Caution. Resentment. One of them even muttered something about it being “a haven for his kind, not Nords.” I just rolled my eyes. If he only knew about… well. Never mind.

It’s funny—people are always so eager to define who you are by the armour you wear, or the blood in your veins. They never seem to notice the scars.

Wandered into a cramped little place called Sodri’s Used Wares. Shopkeeper immediately launched into a nervous pitch about how “everything in here is legitimate.” Suspicious types always lead with that.

I must’ve given him a look, because he suddenly said he had a gold ring someone was missing. How he’d made a mistake trusting his suppliers. Then asked if I’d mind sneaking it back into her house.

I gave him another look.

He got defensive… again. Said it wasn’t what it sounded like. He didn’t know it was stolen until he had overheard Viola describe a ring she had lost

I just laughed. Asked him if he told everyone that he had only just met all of his problems. Especially when they haven’t even had a chance to open their mouths yet.

He sighed. Agreed, said he was stupid to bring it up.

I told him I didn’t say no, just that it was strange. Not sure he caught the sarcasm. Either way, I ended up taking the gold ring off of his hands. Not sure what I’ll do with it if I’m totally honest.

From there, made my way down to the docks.
Didn’t realise Argonians even lived in Windhelm. Apparently, they are barely even tolerated here… even less so than the Dunmer. Are barely allowed inside the city walls. It’s disgusting. And all of it backed by the same Stormcloak banner I once fought under.

One of the ship captains eyed me up and said I looked like “the dangerous type.” Told me the East Empire Company might be hiring.

Found their offices. Run-down. Worn. Looked like the Company had seen better days in Windhelm. I’m surprised Ulfric still allows them to have offices here at all, considering their links to the Empire itself.

Spoke with the guy who runs the place, Orthus, who explained there’ve been pirate raids up and down the coast, bleeding them dry. Although he did note that one ship in particular, the Red Wave, had recently gone quiet.

I almost laughed. Of course it had—I dealt with its captain not long ago.

Orthus was more concerned with the Shatter-Shields’ ships not being attacked. Suggested there might be a deal going on between them and the pirates. Said he needed a logbook to prove it. Asked if I was interested in helping.

Might as well. Besides, if I can piss Ulfric off by helping out the East Empire Company, that’s a win as far as I’m concerned.

It’s funny how much work you can pick up just by looking like you’re ready to stab someone. Not sure how long I’ll stay in Windhelm, but I’ve already got more to do than I expected.

Wonder if they’ll be anything as interesting as the murder case I had when I first got back here? I guess only time will tell.

—L

9th of Frost Fall, 4E203

Candlehearth Hall, Windhelm

Finally dealt with that spider cave. Horrible place—webs everywhere, and one of the largest spiders I’ve ever seen, hissing and skittering in the dark like some eight-legged nightmare.

The sword was there, just as the blacksmith said—jammed into the side of an egg sac. Because of course it was.

Brought it back, and he was all smiles—grateful, said I’d done him a great service. And then he tells me the real reason he wanted it: a gift for Ulfric.

Pretty sure I rolled my eyes right to Sovngarde. Not sure he noticed. His apprentice, though—absolutely losing it over the idea of meeting Ulfric in person. Could barely contain herself.

This time, I took the reward. Told the blacksmith it was to settle an old debt with Ulfric. Left it at that.

Also tied up a couple of other loose ends: Viola’s ring—didn’t bother sneaking into her house like Sodri asked. Just slipped it into her pocket as I passed her in the market. Cleaner that way. She’ll find it eventually; think it’s been there all along. Simple.

As for the logbook Orthus wanted, that was easier than expected. Spending the past couple of years with the Dark Brotherhood and Thieves Guild does come with its perks.

Turns out that the Shatter-Shields are in league with a pirate group, although it doesn’t specify where the group made port. Orthus suggested I speak with Stig Salt-Plank (ridiculous name) in Dawnstar, as he is usually up to speed on such things.

I’m quite enjoying trying to piss of Ulfric, even if he’s not aware of my efforts. I hadn’t come to Windhelm with that intention, but I’ll definitely leave satisfied knowing I have. Guess my grudge aged well.

Tonight, at the inn, before I set off for Dawnstar, I got talking to a young apprentice alchemist. He was venting about his master—Nurelion, apparently not long for this world.

Said the old man was obsessed with some legendary artifact called the White Phial. Been chasing it his whole life.

The apprentice has clearly heard the story so many times he could recite it in his sleep—location, legend, and all.
Said the place Nurelion believes it’s in isn’t too far from the road I’ll be traveling.

Maybe I’ll check it out.

With how things are going, the phial will contain a poison that will turn Ulfric into a goat.

—L

20th of Frost Fall, 4E203

Windpeak Inn, Dawnstar

Had an interesting week.

The entrance to the cave holding the famed White Phial was marked by a skeleton sprawled across the threshold. That pretty much told me everything I needed to know.

And it only got worse from there.

Trolls came first. Then undead—a ridiculous number of them, actually. The cave fed into an ancient Nordic crypt, one of those places that feels like the walls are alive and watching. The corridors twisted and wound back on themselves, like the dead had designed it purely to confuse the living. Felt like I was running in circles.

Eventually, though, I reached the end—or so I thought.
And then that chanting started again. I both love and hate that sound. Cuts straight into your bones.

And when I stepped into the final chamber? Some kind of undead priest rose from the dead. Started floating around, shooting spells at me, screaming some long-forgotten name. Flanking him, a wave of undead that seemed to crawl out of the walls.

I was so worn down by that point I think I just swung blindly until everything else stopped moving.

Once I had realised the undead were re-dead, I followed the chanting. The words though… felt off.

I could understand enough to know it described a power where someone would drain another's life force. Not the kind of magic you want rattling around in your soul—but, then again, I already do that to dragons, don’t I? So maybe it fits.

The White Phial was nestled in a stone dais after some puzzle… and a few wrong guesses. Of course it was cracked. Because the universe enjoys a good joke.

Still—maybe it can be fixed. Or maybe it’s just a fancy broken bottle now. Either way, I took it.

By the time I made it to Dawnstar a few days later, the sun was long gone and all I wanted was a bed and a warm drink. But Windpeak Inn had other plans.

Walked in on a group of sailors crowding one of the barmaids. Nasty types—handsy, smelly, loud.

Turns out, I was in for a treat.

The main idiot was the very man I was looking for. Even better—he was one of the pirate captains of the gang I was attempting to locate.

He was boasting loudly, completely oblivious to subtlety. Talked about how the war let them do whatever they wanted, bragged about their leader—a mage called Haldyn. Even started going on about their operations.

I pretended to be impressed, asked how to join. He got cagey— “can’t just tell anyone,” he said.

So I laughed, told him he clearly didn’t mind telling the rest of the inn like a half-drunk idiot pirate. He took offense, asked if I could back up my words.

So I beat the crap out of him.

His men just cheered as I smashed him into the floorboards. Bloody pirates.

By the time they dragged his broken body off, he’d told me what I needed: their base is called Japhet’s Folly. Perfect.

Afterwards, I finally had the chance to have a sit down at the bar and relax. The barmaid who had been on the receiving end of the pirate’s attention—Karita, as it turns out—came over to thank me.

Noticed during the fight she’d been cheering me on the loudest. It was hard not to notice the dress, either. Not that she seemed shy about it. Pretty sure she knew exactly what she was doing.

Turns out she’s a bard too. Good with a lute. Not the best voice in the world, but made up for it with passion.

Turns out she’s also got other talents—and just as much enthusiasm in bed as she had in song. Loud, too.

Didn’t get much sleep, even if I had wanted to. Not that I’m complaining.

Nice to leave Dawnstar with better memories than last time.

And judging by the talk in this town, I probably wouldn’t have slept well anyway.

—L

Chapter Text

3rd of Sun’s Dusk, 4E203

Candlehearth Hall, Windhelm

Dropped off what was left of the White Phial to Nurelion this morning.

His apprentice looked like he’d seen a ghost—surprised anyone had actually gone out and found it based on a drunken ramble at the inn.

Nurelion himself? Less impressed.

Old bastard barely looked up, just grunted that it was damaged, like I’d been the one to crack it. Told him it was already broken when I found it—he just shook his head and muttered something about retirement. I’d say “pleasant man,” but that would be lying.

His apprentice caught me on the way out. Said he was grateful I went through the trouble at all, even if the phial wasn’t perfect. Offered me a discount on potions any time I needed them. I’ll take it. Useful to have an alchemist who doesn’t flinch when you ask for something potent.

After that, headed to the East Empire Company offices again.

Found Orthus mid-argument with a woman. She looked like an Imperial soldier—armour, posture, the usual stiff attitude. No idea how she’s strolling around Windhelm docks without a dozen glares in her direction, but maybe she’s too angry for anyone to bother.

Gave them the full story—pirate leader, Haldyn, Japhet’s Folly, the works. Didn’t even get to finish before the Imperial woman just declared I’d be joining the assault.

Not asking, just telling.

I didn’t exactly mind—was hoping I’d be going—but still, would’ve been nice to be treated like a person and not a bloody draft notice.

Next thing I know, I’m on an Imperial warship crashing through the waves toward a pirate fortress. Lucky, lucky me.

They “volunteered” me for the most dangerous job, of course—sneak into the cove, kill Haldyn, break whatever magical fog he’s using to keep the base hidden. Standard suicidal infiltration. Right up my alley.

Managed to cut down the bastard and dispel the shroud…just in time for the Imperials to start the siege, while I was still inside.

Felt like the Battle of Whiterun all over again—chaos raining down around me, fire everywhere, and me in the middle of it all wondering why I keep letting people rope me into these messes.

But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy it.

By the time I staggered back to the ship, I was practically buzzing. Covered in blood and grinning like a madwoman.

Adelaisa, the Imperial, must have noticed. Said it looked like I enjoyed myself and that I’d handled myself well. Even offered to “return the favour” whenever I needed her help.

Not a bad way to wrap things up in Windhelm.

—L

10th of Sun’s Dusk, 4E203

Sylgja’s Home, Shor’s Stone

Left Windhelm behind a few days ago. Felt like I’d closed a chapter I hadn’t realised I hadn’t finished. Heading to Riften next. Maybe I’ll wrap some things up there too.

On the way, I passed through Shor’s Stone, a tiny mining village with more stubbornness than sense. Turns out Red Belly Mine had gotten itself overrun with spiders. The blacksmith and some of the miners were talking about begging the Jarl for help. I figured I was already there, so I offered to clear it out in exchange for a warm bed and some food. One of the miners, Sylgja, offered her place if I made it back in one piece.

The spiders weren’t anything new—I've seen worse—and I cleared them out without too much effort. Told the blacksmith I’d made a bit of a mess in there. He laughed like I was joking. I wasn’t. Still, he was grateful and offered me gold, but I said the room would be enough.

Ended up sitting around a campfire with the miners that evening after they’d started tidying clearing the mine. They shared food and stories. Felt... nice. Sylgja sat close, and I noticed her fidgeting now and then, sometimes wincing like something hurt. When I asked, she admitted she’d had a bad fall in the mine weeks ago. A priest of Mara had patched her up as best they could, but the injury still flared up—especially now, in the cold.

Later, we headed to her home. I noticed quickly that she only had one bed. A large one, sure, but still just the one. I offered to sleep on the floor, but she wouldn’t hear of it.

Her place was warm and simple, but comfortable. She had clothes for bed—mine were packed for function, not modesty. I stood there in my armour like an idiot. She asked if I had anything to sleep in, and I joked that I usually slept naked. Instead of offering me something to wear, she just said, “I don’t mind, if that’s what makes you comfortable.” Surprised me a bit.

She didn’t seem uncomfortable about it either. As I removed my armour, I caught her sneaking glances. Her pale skin flushed red as I peeled off the last piece. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me smile.

The bed was just big enough to avoid bumping into each other—unless one of us rolled over. We talked for a while before sleep. She told me more about her injury. I shared a few of my recent exploits. She said I sounded like a hero, always solving problems for people, even when I didn’t ask for rewards.

I didn’t say anything. But I did think about it. I’ve done a lot to keep busy—kept moving so I didn’t have to think. But maybe I’ve actually been doing some good for once. That’s… strange. But not unwelcome.

Her pain started flaring up again. I could see it on her face. I asked if I could help somehow—maybe a massage. She hesitated, but eventually agreed.

She pulled off her sleepwear, trusting me. No visible bruises or scars, but I know spinal injuries can linger. Her back was tense under my hands, but she softened as I worked. Judging by the quiet, shaky breaths, it was helping.

She told me she hated the injury most because it kept her from travelling. Wanted to visit her parents in Darkwater Crossing. Had a package ready for them but couldn’t make the trip. I told her I’d deliver it for her. She said I was a hero again.

Eventually, she fell quiet. My hands slowed. She said, sleepy and soft, that the pain was gone. I laid down beside her, and we both drifted off. First full night of sleep I’ve had in weeks.

Woke up with her nestled against me. Both of us still naked. Strange how peaceful that felt. Almost didn’t want to move.

I might take her package to her Darkwater Crossing tomorrow. But I think I’ll take the morning slow.

—L

13th of Sun’s Dusk, 4E203

Sylgja’s Home, Shor’s Stone

Made it to Darkwater Crossing within the day. The roads were quiet enough, and I had a clear mind for once. Handed over Sylgja’s package to her parents, said it was from their daughter. Told them I’d passed through Shor’s Stone, met her, and offered to carry it along.

They were grateful—genuinely warm people. Asked how she was doing. I said she was on the mend, but still having trouble traveling. They didn’t seem surprised. Apparently, Sylgja had included a note in the package telling them we were “friends” and to let me stay the night. So they did. Honestly, it felt a little I was meeting the in-laws for the first time… which was strange.

They fed me well, asked a few casual questions over dinner. Near the end, her father asked if I’d be heading back the same way. I said I would. He asked if I could bring something back to her. Gave me her old satchel, stuffed with what I assumed were letters, a few wrapped treats, and likely a bit of motherly fussing too.

Made my way back the next afternoon. When I stepped into the village, Sylgja spotted me and smiled before I could even say anything. She looked genuinely happy to see me—like she hadn’t expected I’d really return.

Gave her the satchel. She held it to her chest like it was made of gold. Said thank you—again—for taking the time to help her. For the letters. For clearing the mine. For the sleep she’d finally managed. Said she hadn’t felt that rested in months. I know the feeling.

That evening, she offered me her bed again. This time, there wasn’t the hesitation from either of us. We stripped down without a word, both knowing exactly what was going to happen.

It was… different. Not rushed, not frantic. It was slow. Gentle. Like the massage I’d given her before had turned into something more intimate. Every touch felt like it meant something. Not just sex. Something more. It was quiet. Deep. Relaxing and electric at the same time.

Afterward, we drifted off just like before—tangled in each other. It was the same deep, dreamless sleep I hadn’t known I needed. Maybe I’m starting to remember what peace feels like.

I’m still not sure what I want to do with myself. But for now, I’m okay being here.

—L

17th of Sun’s Dusk, 4E203

The Bee & Barb, Riften

Seems something’s fallen right into my lap again. I’d left Sylgja and Shor’s Stone behind earlier a few days ago—with a promise to return when I could. She made me feel like I’d actually be missed. It’s… nice. Strange, but nice.

It was midafternoon as I entered Riften. Headed toward the market, hoping for something to eat. As I passed through the square, I noticed an orc in heavy armour standing near the stalls. The kind of gear you don’t wear unless you expect trouble. He was scanning the crowd, watching people like he was sizing them up. He looked me up and down as I walked past. I ignored him, kept moving, but didn’t stop keeping an eye on him.

A little while later, I saw his posture shift. A man in expensive robes had entered the square—pale skin, gaunt features. Didn’t look quite right. The orc noticed it too and approached him. Whatever he said clearly didn’t go down well, because the man suddenly lashed out.

It all went to shit after that.

The robed figure was fast—inhumanly so. One moment he was speaking, the next he’d thrown a city guard across the cobblestones like he was made of straw. The orc was holding his own, but barely. I didn’t hesitate. Drew my blade and got between the orc and the robed man—if you can even call him a man.

He hit like a damn giant. Every strike shook my arms, and I had to dig in just to hold my ground. But I noticed something in his eyes—surprise. He wasn’t expecting me to keep up. His hesitation cost him.

A heavy thunk cut through the air. The pale figure gasped and looked down. A thick crossbow bolt jutted from his chest. He dropped, lifeless, to the stone at my feet. The orc stood behind him, reloading with a practiced ease and a grin.

He walked over and clapped me on the shoulder, said he was impressed. Apparently, he’s been tracking vampires, and this one fit the profile of one spotted recently. Told me there’s been more and more of them lately—feeding, hiding, even organising. Said it’s like something’s waking up.

I said I hadn’t heard anything about vampires rising—but that was before there was a dead one bleeding out on the Riften cobbles.

He told me his group is trying to stop them. A newly revived order, the Dawnguard, based out of a fort that’s supposedly impossible to approach head-on. Their entry point is tucked away in a place called Dayspring Canyon, somewhere to the east.

Said if I was interested in joining the fight, I should come find them. I didn’t commit, but… I might just take him up on the offer. Whatever this is, it feels like it’s only the beginning.

And I have a feeling I’m going to be right in the middle of it… again.

—L

18th of Sun’s Dusk, 4E203

The Bee & Barb, Riften

Today was… strange. Not dangerous, not dramatic—just strange.

I met Riften’s court wizard, Wylandriah. If that title makes you think she’s some grand mage with poise and power, think again. The woman’s mind bounces around like a skeever in a sack.

She caught my eye for some reason. Wondering near the Keep, going backwards and forwards. I asked her if she alright. She didn’t answer my question – just ended up in a conversation with her… or three conversations, all at once, none of which ever seemed to stay on track. I couldn’t tell if she was a genius or just completely lost in her own head. Maybe both.

Still, she seemed harmless enough. I asked if she needed help with anything, and she suddenly remembered—kind of—that she had left some “important items” scattered around town. Said she couldn’t recall exactly where, but had some vague ideas. I figured, why not? Wouldn’t be the first time I ran errands for someone crazy.

Turns out, finding the items was a bit of a scavenger hunt.

The spoon she needed? Found that in one of the farms outside the city—how it got there, I have no idea. The soul gem? That was in the market, tucked behind one of the stalls. And the ingot? That one was awkward… found it in Haelga’s bunkhouse, in her room. Right next to a… toy that I’m not even sure would fit where it was intended. I don’t want to know how the ingot got there.

Came back to Wylandriah in the Keep after a day of treasure hunting. She stared at me blankly—didn’t even remember who I was. Acted like I’d just burst in unannounced. When I handed her the items, she suddenly got excited. Apparently, I’d brought her exactly what she needed for her next experiment. Even though she hadn’t remembered asking me to find them.

She rummaged around her table and handed me a “reward” for my help. A silver cup. A book about the Arena in Cyrodiil. And… a pair of knickers.

I didn’t ask. I just took them, nodded, and walked away. I wonder if the knickers are even hers. Strange way to waste a day. But I suppose it’s better than being stabbed.

Still, I think that’s my cue to move on. Might finally go investigate that vampire hunter fort the orc told me about. The Dawnguard. Feels like I’ve been circling around something bigger for a while now.

Time to find out what it is.

—L

24th of Sun’s Dusk, 4E 203

Fort Dawnguard

I don’t know what I walked into when I was looking for the canyon leading to Fort Dawnguard, but the road was crawling with the dead. Corpses stumbling out of the mist, moaning, clawing. I was swinging like a madwoman just to push through the mass of them. By the time I was done, I was nearly soaked in rot.

The canyon itself was hard to find — barely more than a slit in the rock, shrouded in mist and overgrown with bush. But once inside, it opened into something spectacular. Tall cliffs, winding paths, the kind of place that humbles you into silence. I was admiring the view when a boy crept up behind me. Nearly drew my sword on him. Not many can sneak up on me.

He introduced himself quickly — apparently here to join the Dawnguard, but hadn’t wanted to walk in alone. Been waiting, hoping someone else would show up. His mouth moved faster than his feet. Talked all the way through the canyon. I mostly tuned him out and watched the fort draw closer.

Bigger than I expected. And quieter.

Durak — the orc I’d seen put down a vampire in Riften — greeted me at the entrance. Slapped me on the shoulder and grinned like I was already part of the gang. Said he was glad I made it. Told me to head inside and speak to their leader. He spared the boy a glance, grunted. Not sure if that was approval or warning.

At the gate was a man named Celann. Told me the name I’d be wanting was Isran — head of the Dawnguard. By the looks of things, this whole operation was still in its early stages. Half-empty halls, dust in the corners. But something about it felt ready. Like a loaded crossbow.

Inside, found Isran mid-argument with one of the Vigilants of Stendarr. Caught enough to gather that the Vigilants have been under attack — vampires picking them off. Their main hall? Gone. Burned to ash. Isran had apparently warned them, and now they were paying the price. He did say he was sorry. Sounded like he meant it.

When he noticed me, he came over, eyes sharp as glass. Asked what I wanted. Told him I’d heard he was hunting vampires — and that I was willing to help. He looked me up and down, nodded. Said I looked dangerous. I’ll take that as a compliment.

He gave me a mission whilst the few that were there attempted to get the Fort better prepared — a place called Dimhollow Crypt. Apparently the Vigilants had been looking into it before they started getting attacked. Vampires likely had an interest in it too, which means something is there. Something important.

The Vigilant, Tolan, insisted on coming with me. Isran tried to talk him out of it — said he wouldn’t last two seconds against a real vampire. Tolan didn’t care. Said he was going, and that was that.

Only afterward did I notice Isran hadn’t acknowledged the boy once. Not until the rest of us had finished speaking. Then he turned, gave the boy a quick once-over. Saw what I did — untested, unsure. But I guess the Dawnguard can’t afford to be picky. He let him stay.

I’m bedding down here for the night before heading to the crypt with Tolan. Spoke with some of the others as the evening settled in. Not many here, but they’re all here for the same reason.

Durak told me he’d lost two wives to vampires in his stronghold. That’s why he fights now. Celann used to be a Vigilant — said Isran pulled him out when the Order started going blind to what was coming. They asked why I’d come. Told them I had nothing better to do. Half-joking. Maybe half-true.

But there’s something about this place. Something worth sticking around to find out about.

—L

Chapter Text

2nd of Evening Star, 4E 203

Moorside Inn, Morthal

By the time I stirred in the morning, Tolan was already gone. Left before first light, apparently wanting to prove something to Isran — or maybe just wanted to die on his own terms. Either way, it was foolish.

The crypt — Dimhollow — was a long ride, nestled in the mountains between here and Dawnstar. I half-expected to catch up to him along the way, but I never did. Still don’t understand how he got there ahead of me, unless he didn’t bother to sleep the whole journey.

Turns out my instincts were right. He had gone in alone… and hadn’t made it out. I found his body near the entry, near two vampires and two other corpses. A hell of a fight, judging by the blood. Credit where it’s due — he took some of them with him. But he must’ve known it was suicide.

I was ready for what I’d face in the Crypt. The vampires — stronger, faster than men — but not invincible. What did catch me off guard was the creature they had with them. A hound, of sorts, though the word barely fits. All jagged bone and blackened flesh, eyes glowing like ruby’s. Grotesque. Whatever it was, it wasn’t natural.

Fighting a group of vampires is hard work. But their arrogance makes for sloppy moves, and these leeches were dripping with it. Thought I was prey, easy meat. That mistake cost them. They were also busy hacking through a pack of restless draugr, and I took full advantage of the distraction.

I overheard some things from them as I made my way through the Crypt. They were searching for something — clearly important. I caught the name Harkon — apparently their leader — and more than a little infighting. Vampires squabbling like wolves over scraps of power. They keep thralls too — living slaves. I won’t forget that.

Note to self: never press buttons in ancient crypts without thinking. One altar had a pedestal with a button that practically screamed "press me, you'll regret it". And I did, anyway. A massive spike impaled my hand. Blood everywhere. I cursed loud enough to wake the draugr.

But something happened. My blood triggered something. Purple light erupted from the floor — magical fire dancing across the room, trailing over ancient altars and finally pooling beneath me. The floor fell away and was replaced by pulsing light. Then a stone slab rose from the centre.

I hesitated — hand still bleeding — but eventually my stubbornness won. I reached out and touched the stone.

And it opened.

Inside was a woman. Pale. Unmoving. Cradling something I knew at once was an Elder Scroll.

She fell forward into my arms, dazed but conscious. That’s when I saw her — truly saw her. Ethereal. I felt something spark inside me, something I couldn’t explain. Never felt anything like it before. Eyes like twin moons.

That thought gave me pause as I cradled her. And then… I remembered Olava’s reading in Whiterun. The token Gabriella had left me. Those exact words.

I re-read my journal from the time after stopping in Morthal:

“One is wrapped in shadow, but the shadow is not cruel — it’s sorrowful. Eyes like twin moons. They won’t trust you. Not at first. But pain will forge your bond. You will both be changed by it."

Too much has already come true. The prediction Olava had given about the Night Mother and now this. I don’t like the sound of more pain, but I’m starting to believe those words weren’t prophecy — they were inevitability.

She was groggy, confused — like someone pulled from a dream too soon. When I asked who she had expected to wake her, she said someone like her. A vampire. Said it like it was nothing. I asked why she’d been locked away. She deflected. Said she didn’t trust me. Fair enough. I didn’t trust her either.

She did tell me her name — Serana. It suits her. Her beauty was otherworldly — flawless skin, voice like silk drawn over steel. And when I asked about the scroll, she confirmed it was an Elder Scroll. “Complicated,” she said, when I asked her why she had it.

She said she needed to return home — some island west of Solitude. And so we started moving. Along the way, we talked. She asked about Skyrim, about the High King. I told her there wasn’t one — not really. When I mentioned the Empire, she looked confused. Didn’t even know it existed.

She’s been locked away a long time. Centuries, maybe.

At one point, I noticed her eyes linger on my hand — still bandaged from the spike trap. I realised the blood must have woken her. She must be starving. I wrapped it tighter, tucked it away. Don’t need a vampire bleeding me dry.

We pressed deeper into the crypt, eventually coming into a vast hall — seats climbing the walls, made for an audience of hundreds. More draugr, powerful ones. But between us, they fell.

Serana… she fights well. Very strong, even by vampire standards. And obviously a powerful spellcaster. She noticed the same in me. Said I was stronger than most mortals she’d seen. Then she said something else.

That my blood tasted… different. Like fire. And power. Watched her lick her lips as she said it.

I echoed her earlier words back at her. “Don’t trust you enough to say.” She just smiled and said, “Oh, ha ha.”

We left the crypt together. Just before reaching the surface, I heard chanting. That same ancient pull in my bones. I didn’t say a word to Serana, just followed it. Another bunch of words written on a wall. I’ve learned by now: when I see the dragon tongue, something inside me takes over. I blank out. Learn. Absorb.

When I came to, Serana was staring at me. Said I’d been gone for minutes. I told her I was lost in thought. She didn’t believe me. But she didn’t press.

When we finally stepped outside, the cold Skyrim air was like a blessing. We made our way to Morthal, the closest town, and took a room at the Moorside Inn. One room — not sure either of us trust the other enough to sleep with a locked door between us. But there’s something there. A thread pulling us together.

Destiny.

I wonder if she can feel it too.

—L

10th of Evening Star, 4E 203

Four Shields Tavern, Dragon Bridge

We had been walking in silence for a while when Serana finally asked me something I’d been expecting: how I ended up in that crypt. I told her about the Dawnguard — how I’d only recently joined them, and how vampire attacks across Skyrim had been increasing. That’s what led me to Dimhollow.

She looked at me oddly after that. Asked why, if I was part of some vampire-hunting order, I hadn’t killed her outright. Why I was helping her get home. I told her I wasn’t sure. Although, what I didn’t tell her was what Olava had said — about the pain and the bond, and the woman with eyes like twin moons. And the constant spark I felt between us.

As we neared the northern coast, I saw something I hadn’t before. Across the sea, there was an island —large, unmistakable. Thing is, I know I’ve looked out over these waters before, even stood on watchtowers that face this exact stretch of ocean on clear days. And there had never been an island.

I said as much to Serana. She gave me a sidelong glance and said her home was hidden — protected by powerful magic. Only those who already knew of it could see it. Gods know how that works. But then again, those doors at the entrances to Dark Brotherhood sanctuaries were strange enough.

Waiting for us at the shore was a small boat, almost expectantly. We climbed in and began to row. The island loomed closer with every pull of the oars. Her “home” turned out to be no mere house — it was a castle. Stone, fortified, brooding.

I commented on the size, said something half-joking about not realising she was a noble. She got defensive. Said she didn’t want me thinking she was just some rich girl, locked away in a tower. I didn’t push the subject, but I did wonder: why did she care so much what I thought of her? We’ve only just met, after all.

Still… as we approached, most of me was screaming to turn around. I was about to walk into a den of vampires — willingly. With an Elder Scroll. But when I looked at Serana… that spark again. I couldn’t turn back.

As we approached the massive gate, she stopped me. Thanked me — earnestly. Then asked if I could show the same restraint inside as I had with her. And she promised that if things went badly, she’d protect me.

Strange thing was, it felt like we were expected. Doors opened without hesitation. No shock, no delay. I suppose they had been looking for something in that crypt — and now I know it was someone.

Her father was waiting. Lord Harkon. He didn’t so much as greet her — just demanded to know if she had the Elder Scroll. Didn’t ask how she was, how she’d survived all that time alone. His first comment after that? Wishing her mother was there to see the reunion. So he could stick her head on a spike.

And I thought my family had issues.

Then he turned to me. Eyes hungry. Called me “the one who brought her back.” Asked who I was — but not kindly. More like someone sizing up meat at a butcher’s stall. Serana stepped between us. Told him I had returned her, and the Scroll.

He gave a slight nod, said I had his “gratitude.” Told me his family are ancient — one of the oldest, and strongest, in all of Tamriel. I asked what happens now.

That’s when he offered me… a gift. His blood. The chance to become one of them — a true vampire, like him. Then, before I could answer, he changed. Transformed before my eyes into something… monstrous. Winged. Twisted. But undeniably powerful. Like staring into the night and seeing it stare back.

I refused.

Told him I had enough problems with my blood already.

He didn’t seem angry. Just… cold. Said I wouldn’t be allowed back, but that he’d let me live. Because I brought back the Scroll. And, as an afterthought, Serana. I was shown the door.

As I left, Serana watched me go. There was something in her expression — not sorrow, exactly. Maybe uncertainty. I don’t know. I don’t even know if I’ll ever see her again. No, that’s not true. I know I’ll see her again. I want to see her again.

Funny… I can’t stop wondering: if things had gone differently — if I hadn’t lost my second family, if the Night Mother hadn’t whispered her way into my soul before I destroyed her— would I have taken Harkon’s offer? Would I have said yes?

I don’t know. But I do know this: I’m not ready to give up on who I am just yet. Even if I don’t quite know who that is anymore.

—L

20th of Evening Star, 4E203

Fort Dawnguard

The Fort looked different when I returned. More people, more activity—and more defenses. Clearly, Isran hadn’t been wasting time. New barricades, guard positions, and reinforced gates lined the outer perimeter. But the scent of burned wood and scorched stone told another part of the story. The Dawnguard had been attacked, vampires trying to make a statement, maybe. Whatever they were hoping to achieve, they failed. From the looks of it, the Dawnguard held strong.

Isran was outside when I arrived, pacing, muttering under his breath in that permanently gruff way of his. When he saw me, he didn’t waste time with greetings. Asked if I brought back good news. I hesitated.

Told him what I’d found—that the vampires had been searching for someone, a woman sealed in the crypt. That she was the daughter of a vampire lord… and that she carried an Elder Scroll. I didn’t tell him why I’d helped her. I didn’t say her name. Didn’t mention the spark I felt or the way her eyes caught the light like twin moons. He was angry. Rightfully so, I suppose. As far as he’s concerned, I delivered a powerful vampire right back into the hands of her people.

I stayed at the fort a few days. Rested. Watched the new recruits train. I even let one of the lads show me how to use a crossbow. I’m still more comfortable with a blade, but there’s something satisfying about the snap and thud of a bolt finding its mark.

During dinner one night, Isran sat across from me—plate untouched, eyes as sharp as ever. He said we needed more. More people. More strength. He doesn’t want the Dawnguard to grow so big it draws attention, but he has ideas. Names.

First was Gunmar—a Nord hunter with a reputation for hating vampires even more than Isran himself. That’s saying something. Isran said he was last seen near Darkwater Crossing. Sounds like my kind of company: straightforward, determined, dangerous.

Then there’s Sorine Jurard, a Breton with a knack for Dwemer tech. Isran wants her mind on our side. Apparently, she’s in Karthwasten. He figures if she knows what we’re up against, she’ll want in. He may be right.

It’s strange… having direction again. For so long I wandered, chasing ghosts and shadows, living from day to day without aim. I didn’t think I’d miss structure. But I do. Maybe not the rules—but the purpose.

I used to crave gold, used to think that if I had enough of it, everything would fall into place. Now that I have it, I realize how little it matters. It’s nice being able to get what I need without worry, sure. But what I truly value—clarity, purpose, even a sense of belonging—can’t be bought.

Funny how things change.

—L

30th of Evening Star, 4E203

Goldenhills Plantation

As I was passing through Darkwater Crossing I bumped into Skylja’s parents. They asked how she was doing—said they hadn’t heard word in a while. I told them she was well, at least the last time I saw her. Left out the part where we’d shared a bed, obviously. Didn’t seem like the time or place.

They did mention a man matching Gunmar’s description had passed through. Said he’d been tracking a bear that had been attacking travellers along the road. Something about a place called Clearspring Tarn, tucked high in the mountains. Sounded about right for the kind of man Isran described.

After more climbing than I care to admit, I found him. Big man, bigger beard. He greeted me warily until I mentioned Isran’s name. Then he wanted to know why I was there. I laid it out—told him about the vampires and the Elder Scroll. That last part got his attention. He muttered something about Isran waiting too long, but he understood. We dealt with the bear together—it was a real beast—but nothing we couldn’t handle. Gunmar agreed to come to the fort after we’d finished. Another piece in place.

I carried on towards Sorine Jurard. My route took me past my plantation, so I decided to stop by. Figured I owed it to Lydia—and to myself. It felt strange walking up the hill and seeing the place so… alive. Crops thriving, buildings solid, people working. Lydia was in her element, ordering workers around, keeping the books, even helping with the harvest. She saw me, dropped everything, and hugged me. I didn’t pull away.

We sat for a while. She updated me on the plantation—the money it was bringing in, her ideas for expansion, reinvestment. I let her talk. Her energy was contagious, and if I’m honest, it was good to just… listen. To sit still.

I told her what I’d been up to—about the Dawnguard, the crypt, the vampires. She wasn’t surprised. Said trouble always seems to find me, or maybe I go looking for it. She told me to be careful. I promised I would, though we both know I can’t guarantee that.

Still, it was good to see her again. Good to feel like I still have something—somewhere—worth coming back to.

—L

Chapter Text

15th of Morning Star, 4E204

Fort Dawnguard

I still can’t get Serana out of my head.

It’s strange—how can I yearn for the company of someone I’ve only met once? Someone I barely know? Someone who, by all rights, should be my enemy. But it’s more than that. It’s not infatuation or obsession, not like what I felt for Sapphire, or Gabriella in those fleeting moments. And certainly nothing like the twisted loyalty I once mistook for love with Astrid. No—this is different. Serana lingers in the corners of my thoughts, a spark I can’t snuff out.

I tracked down Sorine Jurard north of Karthwasten. The locals said she’d passed through just a day or two before, off to investigate some old Dwemer ruins nearby. Found her rummaging through debris, muttering about gyros she’d misplaced. She didn’t even ask who I was before roping me into her search—like it didn’t matter if I was there to help or to kill her. Just wanted the damn gyros.

We did find them; only then did I introduce myself and mention Isran. She blinked and actually laughed. Apparently, he’d told her off before, made it clear he didn’t want her “help.” But when I mentioned vampires—and then the Elder Scroll—the laughter stopped. She nodded, quiet for the first time, and agreed to return with me.

The road back to Fort Dawnguard was busier than before—more vampires. They’re getting bolder, appearing more frequently. We ran into two groups before we even made it halfway. Either they’re probing the roads, or they’ve stopped hiding altogether.

Back at the fort, it was clear Isran had been making progress. More recruits, new fortifications, drills happening every couple of hours. Feels more like a proper war camp now. As Sorine and I stepped inside, we were suddenly sealed in at the entrance—big gates dropping behind us, and a blinding beam of light flashing down. Isran shouted for us to hold still, said he needed to check we weren’t vampires.

Not the warmest welcome.

Once satisfied we weren’t bloodsuckers, Isran barked orders at Sorine to get set up, gave her a corner of the fort for whatever Dwemer contraptions she’s planning to build. Gunmar was already back, apparently planning to recruit trolls into the Dawnguard. I didn’t ask.

Spent the next few days helping around the fort—patrols, repair work, training newer recruits. It’s good to feel useful again. Focused. My blood still burns for battle, but I’ve learned to manage it better now. Or maybe I’m just more disciplined. Or distracted. No dragons either lately—only seen one or two recently, and they’ve been far from settlements. Almost like they’re lying low.

For now, the war against the vampires is enough to keep me going. But every now and then, her face returns to my thoughts.

—L

20th of Morning Star, 4E204

Fort Dawnguard

It seems I didn’t have to wait as long as I thought.

Spent some more time helping out around the Fort. Even went on a supply run to Riften. I’d just returned and was helping shift some heavy lumber when Isran spotted me. He muttered something about not realising he’d recruited a bear, seeing me carrying two logs like they were sacks of grain. I snorted. That was practically a compliment, coming from him.

Later that same day, Durak came up to me, serious as ever. Said Isran needed to speak with me immediately. Some woman had made it into the fort. A “woman.” He didn’t say more—but he didn’t need to. My mind jumped ahead of him, and my legs followed. I don’t think I’ve ever moved that quickly before.

Isran was waiting outside one of the side chambers, face carved from stone and darker than usual. Didn’t say a word, just turned and opened the door.

And there she was.

Serana.

The breath left me the moment I saw her. Our eyes locked, and I swear there was the faintest smile tugging at her lips. Or maybe I just wanted there to be. I couldn’t hear whatever Isran was saying—it was just noise. All I could see was her. I must’ve looked like some lovestruck fool.

Her first words were quiet but carried more weight than I expected. “You probably weren’t expecting to see me again.” I managed a reply—something about having a feeling I would. She smiled a little more at that. I asked what she was doing here, of all places.

She said it was important. That she trusted me. I had brought her back to her home after all. Even so, she had come into the lair of vampire hunters. Because she trusted me.

She still had the Elder Scroll. Told me her father was obsessed with some prophecy—one that promised a way for vampires to walk in the sun. Vague words twisted into madness, something I’m intimately familiar with. Apparently his obsession was what drove Serana’s mother into hiding and led to Serana being locked away.

Isran listened, surprisingly quiet. But then he cut in, all fire and suspicion, saying now that we had the scroll, we could just kill her. I could feel the fury rise in my chest at the threat—burning like dragonfire—but I kept it in check. Barely. I told him we needed her. That she could help us. He grumbled—his natural state—but finally agreed. Warned her that if she so much as touched anyone, he’d put her down himself.

Part of me hopes she does touch me. Though, I’ll admit I don’t even know if vampires... do things like that.

Serana didn’t flinch. She answered his threats with sarcasm, said she’d remember his generosity the next time she felt hungry. That actually made me laugh, and she gave me a side glance that was somewhere between a smirk and something softer. Isran stormed off, muttering more complaints.

When he was gone, Serana turned to me and said we’d need a Moth Priest to read the scroll—since none of us had a clue how. Only Moth Priests could do it, and if things hadn’t changed since her time, they were all in Cyrodiil. She asked about the College of Winterhold, wondering if it still stood. I told her it did, though I’d never been. She suggested we start there—they might know how to find someone that could read the scroll.

Then she told me she’d be joining me.

As we turned to leave the room, she reached out and touched my arm. Her skin was cool, but not as cold as I expected. The moment her hand met my skin, it was like lightning—like the spark I’d felt the day we met was now a flame, washing over me entirely. I felt like I would melt under the feeling. I watched her lips part slightly as if she felt it too. I hope she did.

She thanked me for trusting her. Said I wouldn’t regret it.

By the Divines... I don’t think I’ll sleep tonight. Not with the memory of her touch still lingering on my skin.

—L

26th of Morning Star, 4E204

Camp, Eastmarch

We went through Riften first before heading north. On the off chance we might hear something useful, we asked around the inns and taverns. Unsurprisingly, we found nothing. Drunken ramblings and gossip about bandit attacks, not a word about Moth Priests. So, we pressed on toward Winterhold, asking people we met along the road if they’d heard any rumours. Again—nothing. Still, the journey wasn’t wasted.

Serana and I spent a lot of time simply… talking.

There’s something about her—she’s both wise and naive at the same time. But it’s a kind of naivety that isn’t weakness. It’s more like someone who’s spent so long out of the world that they still believe parts of it might be good. She asked a lot about Skyrim, about what’s happened in the world since she was last awake. I did my best to answer, though I wouldn’t call myself a scholar. I enjoy reading, sure—but that doesn’t make me an expert. She didn’t seem to mind.

She asked about me, too. I kept things vague. Didn’t go into my time with the Brotherhood or the Guild. But I did tell her that I had an… unconventional family history. That I’d come to Skyrim a few years ago and since then had done a lot—some things I was proud of, others… less so. Told her that if we kept travelling together, she’d probably learn more. She smiled and said the same applied to her.

Eventually, I asked her how she became a vampire. She hesitated before asking if I knew where vampirism truly came from. I said I assumed it was a Daedric Lord. She nodded—Molag Bal.

Serana said the gift of true vampirism came directly from him. Not given freely, but forced. She explained that to become a “Daughter of Coldharbour,” a woman must undergo a ritual. One that’s as degrading as it is dangerous. She didn’t give details—but the weight in her voice said more than the words. Her family had offered her up to Molag Bal… willingly. Her mother and she had both borne the burden.

She went quiet then, her eyes distant. I asked if she was all right. She said it was a long time ago and that she’s dealt with it in her own way. That it doesn’t affect her like he used to anymore.

After she spoke, I shared something of my own. Told her that while I was searching for clues about my parents here in Skyrim, I had a run-in with Molag Bal too. Said it was part of the long list of things I’m not proud of. How he gave me a mace—told me to use it to kill a priest of Boethiah. I did. Serana just nodded. Said Molag sounded as delightful as ever.

Another night, sitting by a campfire, I asked her what being a vampire felt like. She looked at me for a long moment, then said it was hard to remember what being human was like—it had been so long. But she told me some things. Said the strength and senses were incredible… but also overwhelming. Like they could consume you, if you weren’t careful.

She said she could hear my heartbeat. Its rhythm. Steady and strong. That in battle, she could taste blood in the air before a drop had even been spilled.

And then she said something I didn’t expect—about how her own blood sang now. Not just for the taste of blood, but for dominance, desire, and battle. She’d learned to calm it, over the years, but the craving was always there. Always. It all sounded very familiar.

I told her I understood. That I had something similar inside me. That it’s part of why I’ve done the things I’ve done. To feed its desires and how it felt like I had no control over it.

Serana gave me a curious look. Then asked, quietly, if that was why my blood tasted so different from anyone else’s.

I answered dryly that I hadn’t exactly made a habit of tasting my own blood—or anyone else’s for that matter. She laughed, a genuine sound, and I couldn’t help but smile.

I told her I’d been called “Dragonborn.” That there’s a kind of fire inside me that wants battle, blood, and more. That I’d faced dragons, killed them, and taken their very essence into myself.

“Dragon’s?” she had exclaimed. Funny to think how something like dragons can make even a vampire, hundreds of years old, amazed.

She did say that it made sense, though. Said my blood tasted powerful—overwhelming, like some rare, addictive drug. Then she saw my expression and laughed again. Said not to worry. She wouldn’t be sampling it again anytime soon… unless I wanted her to.

I didn’t answer that.

But I’m not sure I stopped thinking about it, either.

—L

31st of Morning Star, 4E204

College of Winterhold

We finally made it to Winterhold.

Serana summed it up perfectly the moment we arrived: “The tale of the great moth priest hunt—definitely not something I’d like to read.” Honestly, neither would I, and I’ve read some very questionable things.

As we wandered through the ruins of the town, I asked if she’d been here before. She said yes, but that it was much more crumbly now. She’s not wrong. Winterhold looks worse every time I visit—half the buildings gone, the rest barely clinging to the cliffside. The college though... still standing. Somehow. Like it’s gripping the rock with sheer magical stubbornness.

I asked if she knew anything else about Elder Scrolls, hoping maybe she had more insight. She shrugged and said not much. Then added, with a dry smirk, “You don’t learn a lot about something just from sleeping with it.” I just raised a brow and said, “You obviously haven’t slept with the people I have.”

She gave me a look. The kind that says she was curious, but didn’t want to say it out loud. I left it there. Probably for the best.

We tried asking around town about any Moth Priests, but the locals weren’t exactly forthcoming. Can’t blame them—two strangers, one of them with glowing vampire eyes, asking about obscure Imperial clergy? A bit of a hard sell. I did end up buying a claw from one of the shops, though. One of those ornate puzzle kinds I’ve seen before. Only 50 gold—seemed worth it.

Eventually, we made our way to the college gates. A stern-looking Altmer woman—Faralda—was standing guard. She asked if we were just there to complain. Strange way to greet people. I told we just had some questions. She eyed Serana warily but eventually allowed us through. Said if we were looking for information, the Arcanaeum—the college’s library—was the place to go. But warned us not to touch anything. Apparently, the librarian’s very particular.

Understatement of the year.

The Arcanaeum was… astonishing. I’ve never seen so many books in one place. Shelves that climbed toward the ceiling, stacks in every corner. It was like stepping into a second world.

The librarian, an orc named Urag gro-Shub, was every bit as grumpy as we were told. But efficient. I asked him about Moth Priests. To our surprise, he actually had useful information. Said that a few Moth Priests leave the Imperial City now and then to search for Elder Scrolls, and when they do, they often stop by the college. One had just passed through a few days ago, apparently headed toward Dragon’s Bridge.

Finally. A lead.

We decided to stay the night in Winterhold. The college offered us a place to sleep—first time I’ve ever actually been inside it properly. I asked Serana if she minded if I stayed up a bit longer to explore the library. She was only to happy to stay too. Said she enjoyed reading, and had a lot of time to catch up on. I wonder how long it's really been for her.

We spent hours looking through books. Bought a few between us, and found some interesting ones. We even stumbled across a volume of The Lusty Argonian Maid.. Absolutely dog-eared. We both had a good laugh about that one. I made a joke about how much “use” it had seen—Serana actually laughed, a genuine one. It was… nice.

It’s strange. For all the danger and uncertainty, I feel more like myself around her than I have in a long time.

Maybe soon we’ll find this Moth Priest. Or maybe not. But tonight… tonight wasn’t wasted.

—L