The Story of a thief, a sellsword and a dying man - One

  • Introductions

    The Story of a thief, a sellsword and a dying man

    By Sigdar Brandingsbeard

     

    I hate the rain, I won’t lie: I hate the mud, I hate being wet, and cold, and dirty, and alone, and afraid, I won't lie. Yet whenever I take a look at the bedraggled and mistreated street dog that I call my life, I always find myself under an ominous grey cloud feeling all of those things combined. When I think about it I always crack up, I guess it’s just the gods pissing on me, I tell myself. Yet I find it hard to believe that the gods would want to lay their divine eyes on the ugly mess of scars and dirt that is my face; let alone flash their holy private parts to bask me in their sacred fluids.

     

    No. I’m pretty damn sure the gods wouldn't want to piss on me. I am sacrilege to the very creation of life, an abomination, an outcast. Therefore I am confident in the belief that gods have nothing to do with my ill becoming. Some men are simply cursed from the day they are born to become little more than turds on the street. Like me. Hunched against a slimy cobblestone wall on some road leading from somewhere to somewhere else.

     

    I suppose this depressing introduction to an even more depressing story is more likely to frighten you away than to encourage you to read on. All I can say is that I don’t even care anymore, I won’t lie. And you may want to kick me in the face for feeling sorry for myself. My answer to that would be that some men are born into poverty and misfortune, those are the lucky ones that is. For someone born into poverty there is nothing better to compare to. For me that isn’t the case. I was both rich and respected once, many years ago. I was a different man then, with a different name: Sigdar Brandingsbeard, The Greatest Sellsword in all The Empire. But my time as a warrior of fortune was cut short. Torn from my life like a baby from its mother's breast. How so? You may ask. And to this I will answer your question with another question - Ask yourself this: What happens to a sellsword if you chop off his sword hand (and an ear, a few toes and a little skin here and there)? The answer would be me: a mutilated monster with no reason to live nor with the guts to give up. Ironic really, once I looked at suicide with scorn, now I’ve got to admit that the ones that commit suicide are the bravest of all. I’ve tried several times, yet I was never able to do it. Believe me when I tell you that suicide is more difficult to commit than the raping of Molag Bal (a joke. Although a black one I suppose).

     

    Anyways, if you are still reading this, and if you at all are interested in how I went from being a beggar boy to a national hero to a useless, handless coward, It all starts here on these crumbling pages.

     

    I am a Nord although I was allegedly born somewhere in Cyrodill. To be honest I never did know where I was born, who my parents were, or any other details about my infancy. Someone must have taken care of me in those first few years, but I guess they got tired of that after a while. Thus I found myself abandoned and alone, running the streets of the Imperial City together with other deserted children, thieving and pickpocketing for survival. Those first years that I can recall are ones of much pain and confusion. A grey mass fear and despair now that I think about it. But children have a way of ignoring the hopelessness of their situation, maybe they are just too naive to know -in that respect I was no different. Yes, I was a street child, a scavenger hound, as the guards tended to call us -more detested than rats- but amongst the despair I found a way to survive. Infact there were times when I even enjoyed it, I won’t lie.     

     

    So, if you are persistent, if my black sobbing and dismal preaching hasn't fended you off these words I would like to introduce myself. I am Sigdar Brandingsbeard, The Greatest Coward Sellsword Thief in all of The Empire, and this is the written account of my luck, my misfortune: a recounting of a street boy, sellsword and dying cripple. Be warned, as I write these words my mood is black, I don’t know why I torture myself with this writing. Somehow I feel it has to be done, somehow I feel that I have to look back before the end is upon me.   

Comments

4 Comments   |   Karver the Lorc and 2 others like this.
  • The Long-Chapper
    The Long-Chapper   ·  October 1, 2016
    Hmm, this is a dark beginning. Curious to see what happened to him. 
  • Sotek
    Sotek   ·  September 29, 2016
    Sooo, this is about an Argonian, a Nord, something about a farmer and four turnips and an adventure they all go on investigating a small rock placed on the back of a new born calf?


    I'm sorry, I don't get it lol. 

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  • BlueDremora
    BlueDremora   ·  September 28, 2016
    Thanks Karver, positive as always!
  • Karver the Lorc
    Karver the Lorc   ·  September 28, 2016
    Now this is depressing... Can I get more please? :D