Chapter Text
Starting Day – 17th of Last Seed
Location – Camp, Crossroads near Ivarstead
I normally don’t write in journals. Feels a bit indulgent, like talking to yourself but slower. But this one was just sitting there in a Redoran nightstand during a routine job, and the paper’s good. Not cheap. Be a shame to waste it. So, I guess this is a thing now.
Been in Riften long enough that I know how things work—and more importantly, what hurts. Bersi’s a proud man, but proud men don’t do well when you shatter their ancestors’ priceless Dwemer urn in front of them. Took just one crack and he folded like parchment in the rain.
Haelga? Devotee of Dibella, and loud about it. She probably thought I’d be embarrassed waving that little statue around like a ransom note. Joke’s on her—I’ve seen worse things on a slow day in the Cistern. Told her I’d toss it down the well. She believed me.
Keerava didn’t even need a full sentence. Just a reminder that her family’s still over in Morrowind and that I, unlike her, send letters. That was enough. She handed the coin over so fast I almost felt bad.
Almost.
Met with Mercer afterward. Hate that guy. He talks like he’s hiding a knife behind every word. Gave me the Goldenglow job—said it wasn’t high priority, which means it’s probably Maven’s pet project and someone's neck’s going to be on the line eventually. But no deadline, which was nice. Guess I’ve proven myself enough that even he can’t ignore it. Still. Makes my skin crawl.
Delvin tossed me something lighter—ledger work at the Whiterun Stables. Brynjolf says it’ll hit them hard later. Something about disrupting supply routes. It’s far, but I don’t mind the road. Riften’s been too quiet lately, and the shadows have been clinging to me more than usual. Time to stretch my legs.
I took the southern route. Didn’t want to pass too close to Fort Greenwall or Valtheim Towers. Too many eyes, too many arrows. Helgen’s quicker. Quieter.
The sun was out, which almost never happens in the Rift. Sky was this golden color, like someone poured honey over the treetops. I won’t admit it out loud, but Skyrim really is something when it wants to be. Makes Cyrodiil look like a washed-out painting half the time. And at night, when Kyne’s Lights are out? It’s like the world remembers how to dream.
Ran into some revelers on the road. They were too drunk to see straight but happy enough to shove a bottle of Honningbrew Mead into my hands like I was their long-lost cousin. I don’t even like mead. But they looked so damned pleased with themselves I didn’t have the heart to turn them down. I’ll save it. Might give it to someone later. Not sure who.
Set up camp at the crossroads between Riften, Whiterun, and Ivarstead. It’s quiet here. Just me, the trees, and what’s left of a grilled chicken breast and some apple pie. Black-Briar Mead to wash it down—don’t tell Maven. She’ll want royalties.
Kill count for the day: one rabbit (accident), six wolves (not).
Win ratio: decent.
Regrets: minimal.
Gonna get some sleep. Whiterun tomorrow.
-K