Journal of a Survivor. Part 1, Chapter 1

• Posted by Idesto May 29, 2015 - 1,011 views

  I don’t remember much of my childhood. To be honest, I don’t want to.

  My ancestors - so I’ve been told - fled Morrowind when Red Mountain exploded. And came to Windhelm.

  Windhelm. We Dunmer are not liked in Windhelm. I often wonder if we wouldn’t have been better off staying in the ash-laden ruins of our homeland.

  Those Nords! They killed my mother, those hateful Nords!

  And my father, although he grieved, did nothing.

  “We have to try to fit in, son”, he said. “Your mother didn’t. Do you want me to die too?!”

  He was weak.

  I am not weak.

  I knew I could not stay in such a city, a city of such hate.

  I was young, maybe foolish, but I did what I had to: I left.

  I took food where I could find it, slept when I could. I ‘found’ weapons & armour: I learned to fight!

  I’ve been on my own; it’s been hard, but I answer to no-one: and that’s the way I like it.

  I’ve made friends, although none of them have stayed. I’ve made enemies: they’re not here either. I’ve grown up quickly. Moving from place to place, staying just ahead of trouble, I’ve achieved my goal: I’ve survived.

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  At least until now...

  One day, I guess, I took the wrong thing, in the wrong place, from the wrong person, at the wrong time.

  I remember men, many men: soldiers, heavily armed, all suddenly appearing as if from nowhere.

  Shouting, fighting, after that: nothing…

  I come to, groggy, head hurts. Faces, words, noises, all hazy.

  I'm on some stinking cart: hands tied, everything gone. How did I get here?!

  We're moving. I feel sick.

  Words.

  “Imperial ambush” “Stormcloak” “Ulfric”

  Stormcloak? Ulfric? ULFRIC?!

  I’m here with the Jarl of the hated city, that city of oppression: Windhelm?  They think I’m a Stormcloak?!

  I shout at the driver. I don’t recognise my words.

  “Be quiet back there!”

  A Nord voice, next to me: “Damn Elves!”. Typical.

  More words: “Imperials” “General Tullius” “Headsman”

  So I am to die with Stormcloak Nords, the very men I've spent my life running from, the men I hate, the men who murdered my mother? With their despicable leader, Ulfric?!

  The gods really do have a sense of humour. A twisted one.

  We’ve reached our destination; the cart is slowing. I must finish this.

  I am Shinbira. I survived.

  We’ve stopped. If anyone finds this journal please give it to Dad.