My name is Sigurd Favnesbane, I was once a mighty tongue, known throughout Skyrim for my voice. I fought alongside the great Skorm Snow-strider in the last Elf war. Although Skorm has been dead for hundreds of years, I still walk among the living. My tale begins when I was assigned to a simple scouting party to the mountain overlooking Rifton, where in our search for elves, we stumbled across an ancient fortress that had been taken over by the dragon cult. "Snow-strider!" I remember calling, "We cannot pass without destroying these monsters! lest they regain their strength!". "Aye, you're right, old friend, this shall be a fine battle!" he replied with a wolfish grin. The 'fine battle' soon turned into a lengthy siege, as most of our tongues were wiped out by the cultist archers, but eventually the surviving tongues managed to shatter the front gate at the cost of their own lives. "Quickly! do not let them bar the door!" Skorm, his greatsword hewing through armor, flesh, and bone in sweeping strikes, rushed the surviving cultists cowering by the door. My memory goes foggy here, as the bloodlust set in, I remember the roar of my voice, the screams of terrified defenders, and then, overwhelming darkness. When I came to, I noticed an unusual stiffness in my movements, I also noticed I was in a crypt, surrounded by my fallen brethren, this was when I realized I had been killed in the battle, and came back a monster. I stumbled out of my niche, and across the room in horror, trying to make sense of this, as I made my way across a flowered room, I tripped on the small body of an infant, my revulsion for these vile creatures deepened as I realized that they had slaughtered their young, rather than surrender. Making my way out of the room I met a familiar face, Olaf Bonemender, our senior healer. "Olaf!" I cried, "why have we been cursed with undeath next to these heathens?". Olaf, lifted his decaying skull and rasped, "We are not cursed as they, for we have our souls, our essence remains, think of it as a blessing from the gods!". "What kind of blessing is this? the moment I step outside, my kinsmen will brand me a monster, and seek to slay me! for I look like one of these bonewalkers!". "Ah," sighed Olaf, "while you slumbered, I have honed my talents, and can regenerate lost flesh and fiber!, it is a lengthy process, and a painful one, but if you are so determined to become a mortal once more, than so be it." As he lifted a skeletal hand, I felt his magic grow inside my chest, a white hot flame of rejuvenation, destroying the spells that had bound me for so long, as the spell waned, Olaf, now drained of all but an ounce of his strength feebly rustled in his pouch, "here son, this will let you out the great gate, but you must hurry, for the guardians have noticed your transformation...". Heeding his warning I grabbed my sword and found it heavy and unwieldy, in my thousand year incarnation I had lost all my skill with the blade. Hurredly stuffing my sword in it's scabbard, I sprinted to the massive Iron door ahead of me, behind I heard the shuffling of dozens of newly wakened Draugr in pursuit. As I reached the door and turned the lock, it slid open as if it had been oiled not a moment before, and I burst out into the snow for the first time in an age.
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