I have no clue what to day is, so forgive me. I am headed to Skyrim to hopefully disappear into that vast and empty land. My home was attacked and if not for a faithful family retainer, I too would have died with the rest of my family, but now of course I am on the run.
What happen you ask? I wish I knew, some family/ court intrigue no doubt. I would have been more than thrilled to have just completed my training, both magical and martial and then went into the guard. I am not like my sisters, I don't like the "game of houses", were what one wears and who one talks to matters more than what you are actually saying.
What house am I from? That I think needs to not be said, as I am sure that 100 years after I die, this journal will be found and then someone would use it against someone else.. and what's left of my family would stomp my grave.. or scatter my ashes in a cesspit
Who am I? Well that's easier, I am the third youngest of twelve children. I am seventeen as I write this in a camp that overlooks the border. I have had training in weapons, magicka, deportment, politics, history and music since I was old enough to beat time on a skin drum.
We did not get "toy" swords as toddlers, but dull metal one's, that were sharpened when we could understand that they were not toys. You could actually kill someone or yourself with one, as happened to a cousin, he fell on it while running.
My nursery rhymes? Spells and incantations, but put in a lyrical way. We were never "children", we were political weapons and tools. I love my family or loved, depending on who's left, but I could have wished to have been born to a peasant farmers family.
I will pose as a Bard, at least until I get the lay of the land, then perhaps a sell-sword
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