A Preface - Gili

At Fanar’s behest, I have started keeping a journal. I noticed in our travels that he records the events of the day every night before bed. It was a foreign concept to me so one day I asked him about it. “One’s story isn’t always the greatest thing he leaves behind, but it is an important thing none the less.” Ever the wise man when one can actually persuade him to speak and I do more than my share of persuasion. I don’t know if I should just write as I would think it, with my own words or if there are some guidelines I should be following. Journal guidelines… What a stupid thing to think. It probably doesn’t matter. I might ask him anyway.

I am sure that he has already recorded everything of note these last few months so I will keep it as short as possible. No need having two stories that cover the same tracks. I spent most of my time out and about with him. We returned to the castle when our travels brought us near. Father had grown increasingly depressed about the loss of the statue but Abbard assured me that his health was improving. I brought him gifts on a few occasions, though they did little to cheer him up. He would wave me away, saying that my time is better spent courting “the Snakestone boy”. It’s not exactly like that. Not exactly. For the record, what one might possibly construe as courtship is actually complicated. With father’s illness he has little use for a court mage anyway. I am no healer, I dabble in Alteration and Mysticism. My “job” if you could even call it that rarely extended beyond advising him in his daily decisions. The keep is abandoned, the mine is no more. There are no more decisions. They eat, live and kindle a fire. That’s all that happens now.

We just spend time together, a great deal of that was spent learning about his line of work. He is truly everything that rumor had made of him. Impressive in every aspect and very hard to ignore. Surely a rival to the tales of his father. There were times of leisure, and then there were times of work. We would just walk from town to town helping out with whatever needed done, dividing up any valuables or rewards. I never saw myself as the Mercenary type, but things worked out and I learned something new daily. I mostly left combat to his expertise but he seemed to enjoy the company, day and night regardless.

I had been borrowing from the vault to fund my ventures for quite some time, before and after the ordeal. The wealth is technically mine, isn’t it? The statue was the only thing of real value there in the first place. It’s gone and there’s no bringing it back. The rest is just there. A bag of coin here and there. Food, room, travel clothes, repairs to our equipment, carriage fare. Fanar paid for much of that himself, but I had travel expenses of my own. Our adventures soon became a way to restock the room. A portion of the earnings always ended up being traded for gold so I could slip it into the vault. At times, he would go alone to visit his sister, the priestess Fannah. He would never say why, but he thought it a bad idea to introduce the two of us. During those times, I would set out on my own in search of things to trade for gold. Sometimes I would bump into him and that would evolve into another extended adventure. I scouted our lands at first, picking through ruins mostly. I am still uncomfortable with the idea of killing. I have dealt with Draugr a few times but those hardly count. If I am to become a mercenary as well, I will have to get used to the idea quite soon.

Now that the preface is out of the way, the next thing of note would be my latest excursion. I let myself out, traveling northwest, at first along the roads and then into the wilderness. A few hours became one day, and then a few. I found myself in the mountains near Windhelm. A Nordic ruin amidst a churning blizzard. Fanar would call it “As fine a shelter as any” and he might very well have said that if he were here, as he was supposed to be. A little worrying. I slipped inside to get out of the blizzard and waited, breaking the warmth long enough to peek out the door every few hours. He did not show up. Rather than fret, I put the time to use. The first dark room held a spiral staircase that descended a few meters. Above the shaft, light and snow fell through a hole in the ceiling. The light died long before it met the bottom. The lower room fed into what appeared to be a burial chamber. The way forward was blocked by a metal grate. I spent a few minutes peering through, just scouting it out. The helmet seemed to be of good make. I thought it might fetch some coin. The darkness soon fled from me, pushed away but the orange glow of my hands. A gentle hum and the shrill grind of iron on iron. With strength far beyond my own, my magic gripped the bottom of the grate, slowly hoisting it overhead, sliding it up into it’s proper recess until it snapped into place. I paused, listening. No Draugr, a blessing. The helmet was nearly as heavy as the grate. I had to levitate it up the stairwell. Tucking it into my pack, I descended again. This time a sword caught my eye. Upwards it soared. Aglow, it followed every motion of my fingers. I twirled it around before me, inspecting it. Another good find, I let it follow me back to the surface. The sun faded into a pink sky as I packed my things and set out again. I thought to continue on to Windhelm, ask around. Perhaps bump into him along the way.