The Life and Times of a Morally Insane Nord

When I first met him, he seemed nice enough. He had vivid blonde hair, a helmet with ludicrous horns sticking out its sides, arms the size of tree trunks, and a vacant, unnerving stare. The man also had an almost pathological desire to accept whatever tasks were thrust upon him, no matter how disturbing or unethical they might be. As a matter of fact, his first action upon entering my small village of Riverwood was aiding me in a particular problem I had. I shan’t divulge the details, but suffice to say, elves can be extremely arrogant when drafting letters. This is a problem typical of mer, but I digress.

The helpful oaf soon left the village, off on some damn fool’s errand. I did not see hide nor hair of him, or even hear rumors of his demise, until roughly one week later when a travelling merchant stopped by the inn. I was attempting vainly to woo the lovely Camilla Velarius, when I overheard the merchant telling Orgnar, the barkeep, about a dragon the size of a house which briefly terrorized Whiterun.

“It was the size of the inn!” the merchant exclaimed.

“Truly?” Orgnar asked, obviously somewhat dumfounded.

“Upon my mother’s grave, I swear it!” the merchant replied, taking another swig from his mug. He was obviously drunk at this point and his embellishments on the story were becoming quite hard to listen to. A prospective bard, he was not.

“I thought you said it was the size of a house.” I pointed out.

“Be quite, Sven. Let the men talk” Orgnar retorted.

I resigned myself to listening to the man’s terrible yarn, until he mentioned a familiar individual. The man who had slain the dragon and absorbed its soul was supposedly a mostly mute Nord, with “empty” eyes, an enormous sword, and nondescript features.

“Was he wearing a ridiculous horned helmet?” I asked the thoroughly inebriated merchant.

“As a matter of fact, he was!” the man slurred. “How does that thing even stay on his head?” The merchant then fell off his barstool and rolled on the floor briefly before sitting up, looking me dead in the eye.

“You, bard!” he shouted in my direction. I studied his swollen, squinting eyes for a moment, attempting to discern whether I had provoked him in some way, or if he simply wanted to hear song.

“This here’s a local favorite…” I said, beginning to play the opening notes of Ragnar the Red. The merchant had certainly given me something to think about. Was it possible that the oaf I met a week earlier was the Dragonborn? He did look like someone who had traveled extensively and seen faraway places. But could a hero of that magnitude truly be so simple and unquestioning? I rather hoped he would come back. A hero of his stature would surely witness many glorious battles over the days to come. If someone was going to chronicle these events, it might as well be me. I could be the savant who writes songs performed by generations of bards to come, assuming I manage to survive. Most importantly, what is more impressive to an unwed lass- an elf who chops wood or a strapping young bard, recording the epic battles of a legendary warrior? That elf is kidding himself if he thinks he still has a chance.

* * *

“Follow me. I need your help” said a familiar voice. I felt a cool liquid being poured on my face, followed by a swift kick to the sole of my left boot. As I came to, I noticed a large Nord standing in front of me, staring blankly at my forehead. There was a sizable collection cracked, empty mead bottles at my feet, and a large alto wine bottle resting on my chest. I had passed out after a long night, it would seem.

“Follow me. I need your help” insisted the large Nord. He continued to stare blankly at my forehead for a few moments, then made as if to douse me in liquid once more. I licked my lips and recognized the fermented honey taste as mead.

“No, no…” I mumbled, slowly standing to my feet. The wine bottle felt to the floor, breaking its stem upon impact. I winced at the sound of the glass shattering and began to realize that I was quite hung over, with what seem to be the most violently throbbing headache I had experienced in at least two seasons. The man who had awoken me began to pour the contents of the bucket in to his agape mouth, gulping down most of it, while spilling the rest down the sides of his mouth, sending rivulets of mead down his scruffy, bearded chin. It was the Dragonborn.

“You know, drinking more to fight the hangover will only make it worse” I advised the Dovahkiin.

“I don’t get hung over” he replied.

“What…” I said, doubting that even a slayer of dragons could avoid the ill effects of drink.

“I never sleep” Dovahkiin replied, sensing how incredulous I was. “We are going to Whiterun” he continued, gathering several large wheels of cheese off the table beside him. In a swift motion the Dragonborn greedily shoved the cheese wheels into his overstuffed satchel, then, began snatching all of the wine bottles and lettuce heads he could lay his hands on as he started jogging towards the door.

“How is that even possible?” I questioned, turning to follow him for some odd reason. This man was beginning to confound me more than my ma. After picking up a particularly oversized apple, Dovahkiin suddenly slowed from a jog, to a steady walking pace. Stopping for a moment, he dropped several skeever tails, and then proceeded to run out the door of the inn. I supposed it took a particular sort of personality to slay a dragon, and as such, that individual might have various peculiarities. In any case, I quickly dismissed his behavior and continued behind him out the door. He did have a certain amount of charm.

Once out the door, the Dragonborn broke into a sprint to catch up to a large horse walking at a brisk pace down the stone path which leads to Whiterun. Once close enough to the horse, he crouched and became obscured from my vision. Perhaps this was due to the shadow cast by a large fir tree, I do not know. When the horse emerged from the shade, atop him sat the Dovahkiin, displaying what was appearing to be his signature haughty look.

It was nightfall by the time we reached the sturdy, worn walls of Whiterun. The lengthy journey, as well as Dovahkiin’s uninhibited and often amoral behavior had calmed my excitement for his return. While I still craved the exciting lifestyle of a travelling bard, my aching legs protested every minute of the walk up to the city gates.

“Greetings, Thane” said the gate guard as Dovahkiin passed through the large, wooden doors and into the city. I followed after him as quickly as I could. It had been years since I had last visited Whiterun, and I was hasty to warm my feet within its protecting walls.

“Thane?” I inquired to Dovahkiin. I was hoping he would recount the tale of the dragon’s demise, or perhaps tell the glory of his victory.

“Yeah,” he replied “I killed some dragon.” A man of few words, indeed.

“So, I must ask…” I began, “why would you want a bard like me to follow you around?”

“The other mule died” he shrugged, glancing at a rather large hole in the briast plate of his steel armor.

“Is that from a sword?” I asked. I was also unsure what he meant by “mule,” but I didn’t wish to press the matter.

“It was like this when I got it.”

We spent the night drinking at the Bannered Mare, a tavern in the Plains District of the city. I learned quickly that the Dovahkiin could out drink anyone. I tried my best, but in the end I only remember slowly fading from consciousness as the Dragonborn engaged in fisticuffs with the tavern’s bard.

When I awoke, the light of the morning sun shone through a crack in the tavern’s door, illuminating the room and bringing contrast to the specks of dust floating in the air. Noticing the Dovahkiin had left, I quickly staggered out the door, cursing last night’s boastful attempt at out-drinking the entirety of Whiterun. As I stumbled out the door, I saw him standing by a merchant’s stand, nonchalantly perusing the various cheeses. I stood next to him in an attempt to understand what was so mesmerizing about cheese. Before I could question him, an arrogant, patronizing voice cut through the dull roar of the market.

“Do you get to the Cloud District often? Oh, what am I saying… of course you don’t.”

I turned to see a squat Redguard standing, arms akimbo, staring intently at my companion. The Dragonborn let out a bloodcurdling scream and proceeded to charge the man. Time seemed to slow as he sprinted. His beard blew sideways in the wind as he ran, revealing an almost purple vein extruding from his neck. As he drew his sword, he snarled, showing clenched teeth.

“I actually advise the Jarl on political matters…” the Redguard began. It was too late; the Dovahkiin had closed the gap between them. In one swift, gleeful motion the Dragonborn swung at the man’s neck, rending his head from his torso. Laughing manically, the crazed hero began skipping in circles around the large pool of blood which was forming near the well. A small battalion of guards had arrived at this point, swords drawn.

“Halt! You have committed crimes against Skyrim and her…”

“Unhand me!” Dovahkiin protested. “I am the Jarl’s Thane; I demand you let me go at once!”

“Oh, forgive me Thane, I didn’t recognize you” the guard said. As I sit in the Drunken Huntsman recording these past few days in my journal, I can’t help but wonder about the mysterious Dragonborn. How that business with the guards worked, I will never know. But I do know this: moral insanity is quite the boon when you are a death-dealing errand-boy destined to save the world. Our next stop is to be some odd alter located in the mountains outside Windhelm. I wonder what the Dovahkiin plans to do there? And why is he so intent upon bringing me there? One thing is certain, though. This is the start of a truly grand adventure.

THE END?

Just epic, just epic.