Those impetuous fools! To think that they could send me to Skyrim, and then trick me into a bargaining of sorts, thrusting my inhibitions and mocking my terrantcy!

I ... am Master Baytor, Disciplinary Lord of the Aldmeri Thalmor. I have started this journal as a record of sorts, that he who might find it might also know of my tales, and how I have come to make arrivation into Skyrim. The 'impetuous fools' of whom I speak might gladly bow thy heads in shame, were they to know whom they were dealing with! I am (and always will be) one of them! Foolish degredators!

I am not the TRAITOR of whom they seek!

Not so long ago, the White Gold Concordat promised many great things: the ending of the Great War among them, as well as the joining of forces between Imperial regimentations, and the Aldmeri Dominion. All of these great things have been long decided, yet here I am. I, Master Baytor, made travels with a group of others, all of us up from Cyrodiil and the Summerset Isle, planning to make our visitation brief, and to the point. When we did make sudden appearance upon a camp of Imperial-led soldiers located not far from Pale Pass, chaos did erupt! We elves were quickly be-sieged; many of us fell. Only I and perhaps one other did survive.

An errant move on the specious foolish Imperials! We are not of betrayal, and the wrong was not righted for many many hours. Why might I be chosen for such sodden mockery, and thrown onto a cheap wooden cart along with criminals, low-lifes, and (behold!) General Tullius himself? These questionings are (as of now) un-answered by the incompetent boobs who made ruination of my first days in Skyrim.

My companions are not of presence, but I am on their side, the side of the Imperial Empire, or so it would seemingly be.

But this tale ends not yet. .. The things I have seen, the The events I have beheld, would fill tomes full of fantastical but laughably erroneous scripts, had they not have actually happened. For upon my very execution, after being branded a superfillious traitor, did I nearly commence to have my very head befallen, lopped off with an axe the size of an oxen's yoke. Yet was I saved.

I was saved.

I, by mighty voice spoken by the Eight, do require some dispensation of belief, here. Cast aside thine judgements. For what I am about to write next might very well drive you into titters and tatters of comical belly-laughings. But I swear upon the hand of mighty Akatosh that such occurances did, in fact, occur. From the very sky did a large shape devolve, and land upon a nearby stone fortification-tower. It was not to be believed. A dragon! A dragon did make ruins of the whimsically dreadful village known as Helgen. Twas not to be of belief, I must say! That such a dark force from the sky, breathing gaseous forms not be be taken abruptly, did actually appear and commenced to also attack! Many men fell by the wayside as it hopped and flew from one perchment to the next, arrows and fire lighting the sky, in hopes to take the flying menace by much lesser devices.

Yet I did make my escape! For here I reside in a small hamlet known to the locals as 'Riverwood'. All sod and dirt. Where are the great stone edifications of which I have heard?

Any-ways. In Riverwood dwell'th I, while the dragon has made its escape, flying off into the day's sky like a damnation from the planes of Mehrune's Dagon.

MASTER BAYTOR, who now seeketh his long-deserved rest

Dreadful. Cold. Sodden earth, and moisture all around. I, Master Baytor, have taken small residence here in this perturbious village known as Riverwood, here in the small and smokey Sleeping Dragon Inn. I have tried to make my rest, but one annoyance pesters, deep into the night!

Here in Skyrim, 'tis the custom to have a singing bard localized in many places of stay. This much I have heard. And as I try and make my rest, on and on sings this bard; The Days of Aggression might nearly be done, if I am not to get my rest!

Have we the possibility of re-claiming our nights of resting? I am pleased to say so! That bard of whom I formerly spoke is now sore, with a tongue sharper than any other, as he has taken quite a lashing from my very lips! *

The Riverwood Trader's dullard patron merchant has informed me of a band of thieves who have removed one object of value from the shoppe where he and his nettling woman make their business. A Claw of Gold. He has asked me, Master Baytor, Commanding Lord of the mighty Thalmor, that I might put aside much time to seek this stolen 'Claw of Gold'.

That I should take time to aid him? Such things are beneath me, I say! My quick and immediate answering was to provide him with one more tongue-lashing, although not as harsh as that which befell that nitwit bard singing in Riverwood's tavern. The Riverwood Trader's merchant was only so lucky as to not have my boot wedged deeply inside his back-side, as I might very gladly provide next time mention is made of his fabled Claw of Gold.

And what of it? A merchant as lowly as thus claims to own such an object of desiring? .. I am not to be taken for a fool!

I am off to a town known as Whiterun, "Not far south from Riverwood" say the simpleton locals. Might Whiterun have the appropriate accompanyments as which I am so accustomed? Oh how i miss my beloved Imperial City!

I have made arrivation into Whiterun, as a wan sun shines weakly from the lovely silver Skyrim skies I have heard so many wonderful things about. The timbers which made this town appear as if they were cut and chopped dozens of years ago, the town itself a motley array of soldiers, contemptuous citizens, and one dreadfully pitiful child, begging right in the village square! In my homestead, located within the Summerset Isle, such a child would have been made to work, tossled into a dungeon, certainly not coddled with impunity.



In the centre of this bulgarious village chants a worshipper of TALOS! A fitful, bothersome sight were there ever to be one! How can such toleration exist for one such false God! Might Akatosh be shivering to his very menessa? Soulful and wanting, no I say!

But no matter. I am here to visit the Jarl, himself. I, Master Baytor, Dominion Lord of the Thalmor, shall make visitation with the man, as by the sound he all-ready needs my help, and gravely so. Does he know such as of yet?

Though built of the same leathery timber as the lower portions of this slovenly town, I must say the ediface of Dragon's Reach has of certainty caused my heart to skip. Such craftsmanship. Such portentious girth!



Inside the great hallway, 'twas of much evidence I was wrong in my initial assumptions of sodden architecture and dim slovenity. Aloft stands the pinewood and ash, oak and other such befallen timbers. A finally, a fine and sturdy stone can be seen in placement. A grand fire has warmed my body of such finallity. Perhaps not all of Skyrim is beneath my feet, then.

Once located, my pace heading solidly for the Jarl and his minions of immediatcy, I was grandly accosted by a impestuous Dunmer, who insisted I leave at once! But I, Master Baytor, made such refusal as to speakth to the Jarl (Jarl Balgruuf) within minutes.

The Jarl spoke at length, making some argumentation with his minions on the subject of the Great Dragon which attacked and pillaged the peoples of Helgen, not a matter of hours past. His minions made cross-remarks to his Jarlship, a set of sequential moments which the Jarl squashed right under his boot! "I am not to stand by while my Hold burneth and falls by the wayside, because one very dragon who made sudden appearance, and then fled!"* His Jarlship then disciplined his subjects, and sent the dark elf accoster on her way to Riverwood.

Jarl Balgruuf has also seen fit to give I, Master Baytor, a task, and set me to have loquacious discussion with a man by the very name of Farengar the Secret Fire, a full Court Wizard in title. Farengar is to my liking, ever since he made mention of Riverwood as one "despicable" village. Might I desire to share a pint of mead with THIS man? This is of certainty.

But to the point. MY task involves a return to Riverwood, where I am to climb a tall hill towards the grand barrows of stone I have viewed petulantly from a distance, and it is said within the tombs of Bleak Falls Barrow contain one such object of fabulosity: a "stone of dragons" or some such. I am to retrieve this stone, and make my return to Whiterun with haste. 'Dangers' inhabit this very tomb, but my former training in the Imperial City should forfeit such, and make meager mockery of whatever demonic banditry I am to face.**


I shall return to this tome upon visitation of Bleak Falls Barrow.

It is of finality that I finally make my way out of that dredged place, only to find the day foggy and dis-temperate before me. Are the rumors of truth, that each and every diurnal passing shall be filled with air-mists and soggy, crawling miasma?

I imagine not how to find my way back to Whiterun, yet trudge onwards. Have scrambled downwards from a large, jagged cliff, and now have landed upon the soft, moist, terrantial ground. As I then neared the beach, I was now able to make partial viewing of Bleak Falls Barrow from yonder side, and to hilt I shalt aim leftwards, then.

At present before me is an old hag, living in solitude in the very forests outside of Riverwood. My first decision of impulsivity was to strike her to the very bounds of Oblivion! Yet as of now, I cannot find reasoning why I did not partake of such actions, and why? 'Tis due to her ways. I have rememberance that she spoke in the graceless manner of a kindly old grand-lady, and charmed me just so, as to how, I have not cause to imagine. Still, in the very presence of evil did I have a feeling of immersment. *



an old hag such as she in all probability breeds poisons and foule potions, I am of certainty, yet I cannot find it within my grasp to eradicate the witch. Time is of the essence! Whiterun, Jarl Balgruuf, and Farengar await.

Welcome to the innocuous Sleeping Giant Inn, where a man or an elf cannot simply find quiet respite upon his resting. Onward and onwards sang that twit if a bard, But on sight of me, did he of immeciatcy place his lute, his flute, and his aurally-reprehensible cow's skin drum aside? That horrendous bard shut his cork-hole, did he!

I have just 'feasted' upon a slab of roasted beef with the succulency of horse's droppings, cheese probly stored within a dampened barrel for aging, and one sweetroll so hardened, I might have use of it for a hand-weapon! I might have saved a bit of coin, filled my mouth with sap and pine-needles, and feasted upon a better meal ! Were it not for the bottle of Surille's the Nord patron had for sale in this abhorrent domicile, I might have starved altogether for sustenance!

Surilie. Nectarous wine of the Year 494, with a berry just tart, yet also sweet, each gullup a gentle-reminding of my forlorn Cyrodiil. Oh how I miss the Imperial City. **

Was my intention to grandly re-enter into Whiterun, yet my plans have come to a turnabout.

I have heard rumor of the sighting of one Thalmor agent, located on the south side of Lake Ilinalta, and 'tis my very duty to journey towards Falkreath hold, and suss out my former mate. Might it be Khan Ahppenher? Dees-Wazzherr? I am not of knowing, so onwards I must press. ***