Five: Wrong Turn

– 17^th Last Seed, 4E 201

I was still walking as evening fell, every hour adding to the elation of my newfound independence among the beauty of what I now know to be part of the great Southwestern swath of Skyrim called “Falkreath Hold”. Riverwood was somewhere about, I could sense it, but on choosing a promising-looking eastern path stumbled upon a cliffside campsite at a stony dead-end above me. Vowing to continue my goodwill toward the natives of this land, I hailed the two men sitting at their dinner fire while still at a distance. My goodwill turned to hesitancy as they immediately drew ugly-looking weapons and leapt to their feet. An arrow sailed past my ear even as the other ran toward me. Hesitation turned to preservation and I had just time to launch one hasty arrow in reply to the other archer before I was forced to take up the shortswords in my belt.

The work was quick and brutal, but the battle frenzy took over just as it had in Helgen’s keep. Not to say that I wasn’t harmed; I was hacked at with a sword almost as long as myself and had to remove an arrow from the edgeflesh of my arm, but I prevailed. Bloodied and heaving with unaccustomed exertion and pain, I sank to the furs of a strange bedroll and wondered where Riverwood was. What if I became lost in these frigid woods? How many mountain ruffians populated the area? What if Riverwood boasted a similar cast? I could not continue battling for my life forever. Pressing bloody hands to my wounds, I offered an exhausted and hare-brained prayer to whomever of the eight Divines cared about my future.

Turning my head to the bodies about me, I wondered who these men were. What made them lose their humanity and turn to furious predation? It seemed to me that it would be far more logical for these two to play the traveler’s friend for a chance to size up the tenacity of their visitor and the worth of his possessions. Instead, they rushed headlong into what turned out to be their demise at the hands of a stranger. Poor bandits, these. Perhaps it was this country of ice that numbed them into savagery. But a book on the barrel! A chest of supplies! A well-used spit and a pot of stew! All these lay about me, and it dawned on my weary mind that a much more civilized camper had probably met his end at the hands of these unfortunate, wandering two. I needed to get to the village, or my body would adorn this mountain just like my two friends there, and my miraculous escape would be all for naught.

But first, rest. The battle left me half-dead, but I was rewarded with a campsite full of necessities. For this I gave thanks. Not wanting to be reminded of my own capacity for violence, I (with a degree of shame at the indignity for the corpses) rolled the ruffians off a nearby overhang. Ripping a strip of sizzling flesh from the strange ratlike beast on the spit, I filled my belly and chased it with plundered ale as the sun set and darkness fell on my borrowed campsite. Bundled in various firs with my bow at the ready I fell gradually asleep with my back to the bare cliff, whispering “Good gods, let the morrow bring Riverwood…”