Thorin Lightbringer’s Journal, 17th of Last Seed, 4E 201

The chill winds of Skyrim howl like the ghosts of ancient Nords as I, Thorin Lightbringer, set forth from the shadowed pines of Falkreath Hold, my birthplace beneath the watchful gaze of the Jerall Mountains. Born under the Lord's sign, I feel its enduring strength in my veins—a bulwark against the world's cruelties, granting me resilience in flesh and spirit. Stendarr's mercy calls me now, a divine whisper amid the rustling leaves of Nature's Wildlands, where ancient oaks stand sentinel like the gods themselves. I am no mere wanderer; I am a Paladin sworn to purge the unholy, clad in simple steel armor that weighs upon my shoulders like the burden of Tamriel's sins. My mace hangs heavy at my side, unadorned yet ready to smite the wicked, while my shield bears the faint etchings of my family's crest—a reminder of Ysgramor's valor echoing through the Nordic Ruins that dot this land.

My path begins with a pilgrimage to the Hall of the Vigilants, that humble bastion of light nestled in the Pale's frosted crags. The journey was arduous, Requiem's unforgiving wilds testing my mettle at every turn. Wolves prowled the underbrush, their eyes gleaming with feral hunger, but Stendarr's grace steadied my hand. A swift block with my shield—fortified by the Bulwark trait that roots me like the mountains—and a crushing blow from my mace felled them, their pelts now slung across my pack for the smith's forge. Alteration's Oakflesh ward shimmered about me, a ethereal armor against the biting cold, while Restoration's gentle Healing mended the minor scratches that dared mar my Nord resilience.

Arriving at the Hall as dusk painted the sky in hues of crimson, I beheld its sturdy stone walls, a sanctuary amid the encroaching darkness. Keeper Carcette greeted me with wary eyes, her voice laced with the Vigilants' unyielding zeal. "Stendarr's mercy upon you, traveler," she intoned, guiding me to the shrine where the god's effigy gleamed in the flickering torchlight. Kneeling before it, I prayed for guidance, feeling Wintersun's divine favor wash over me—a surge of warmth that bolstered my resolve. The Good Natured trait within me stirred, extending the potency of my prayers, as if Stendarr himself whispered of the trials ahead: undead horrors lurking in barrows, Daedric whispers tempting the weak.

Yet moral reflections weigh heavy: Skyrim teeters on civil war's brink, Stormcloaks and Imperials clashing like thunder in Fortified Whiterun's halls. I remain neutral, for Stendarr bids mercy to all, not division. The Dark Brotherhood's taint must be eradicated—should their agents cross my path, I shall destroy them utterly, as my God demands. And the Companions in Whiterun call next; their honor-bound ways may align with mine.

Stendarr, grant me strength for the road ahead. The undead stir, and I am thy light in the darkness. Skills progress slowly in Requiem's harsh forge, but my faith is unyielding. Tomorrow, I venture toward Whiterun, seeking the Companions' hearth in JK’s Jorrvaskr. May the Divines watch over this humble Paladin.

Thorin Lightbringer’s Journal, 18th of Last Seed, 4E 201

The frost-kissed stones of the Hall of the Vigilants stand resolute against the Pale’s biting winds, their weathered surface aglow with the faint radiance of Stendarr’s shrine. Last night, as I knelt in prayer, my heart open to the Divine’s mercy, a whisper—nay, a divine command—stirred within me. Whether it was Stendarr’s voice or a trick of my weary mind, it spoke of Helgen’s inn, urging me to sleep there to confront a great evil that awaits. The words lingered like embers in my soul, heavy with purpose. I sought Keeper Carcette’s counsel, her stern gaze softening as she pressed a satchel of supplies into my hands—vials of blessed water, a silver dagger, and a scroll of Turn Undead, all imbued with Wintersun’s divine favor. “Obey the vision, Thorin,” she said, her voice resolute yet kind. “If it is naught, return to us.” My path is clear: I must journey to Helgen, where the Wildlands’ ancient pines and Nordic Ruins loom like silent judges.

This morn, I set out, my steel armor clanking softly, its weight a comfort bolstered by the Bulwark trait that steadies me against Skyrim’s perils. The iron mace at my hip, tempered by Metallurgy’s fine craft, hums with purpose, while my shield bears the scars of yesterday’s wolf skirmish, a testament to precise deflections. I cast Oakflesh before departing, its shimmering ward a gift of Alteration, and whispered a Healing prayer to mend the aches of travel, feeling Good Natured’s divine extension linger in my bones. The road to Helgen is fraught—bandits and beasts stalk these paths, as Requiem’s unforgiving wilds remind me. Yet Stendarr’s call drives me forward, my Nord resilience—fortified by frost resistance—unyielding against the chill.

Helgen lies ahead, its ruined walls a grim reminder of dragonfire’s wrath, as seen in my recent escape with Hadvar. The inn, if it still stands amidst the ruins, may hold secrets or snares. I ponder the evil foretold—undead stirring in the ashes, or perhaps a Daedric taint, as my vow to purge such filth.

My heart wrestles with this vision’s weight. Is it Stendarr’s will or a test of faith? Neutrality in the civil war, as Fortified Whiterun’s banners clash, keeps my focus on divine justice. For now, I march to Helgen, my shield raised, Stendarr’s mercy my beacon. May I smite the evil that awaits and carve my saga in this perilous land.

Thorin Lightbringer’s Journal, 19th of Last Seed, 4E 201

The road to Helgen weaves through Skyrim’s rugged heart, where the Wildlands’ towering pines cast long shadows and the wind carries whispers of ancient Nordic Ruins. This day, as I trudged southward, my steel armor gleaming under the pale sun, I came upon a peculiar sight: a jester, clad in motley, cursing beside a broken wagon, its wheel splintered like the hopes of the damned. His name was Cicero, a man of wild eyes and wilder words. Nearby, a farmer toiled in the frost-kissed fields, his breath clouding in the chill. Moved by Stendarr’s mercy, I persuaded the farmer to lend his strength, our hands working in unison to mend the cart’s axle. The jester’s laughter rang out, sharp and unsettling, yet the farmer’s grateful nod warmed my soul. To aid the common folk, even in small deeds, is to honor the Divine—a truth that steadies my heart as I wield mace and shield against Requiem’s unforgiving trials.

The task done, I resumed my pilgrimage to Helgen, the vision from Stendarr’s shrine burning in my mind: sleep at the inn to face a great evil. My iron mace, etched with Metallurgy’s fine craft, swings with growing ease, and Bulwark’s trait anchoring me like a mountain against the wolves that dared harry my path. I felled them with precise blocks— guiding my shield—and a Healing spell soothed my wounds. Alteration’s Oakflesh ward shimmered briefly, a bulwark against the cold. The farmer’s gratitude lingers.

Helgen’s ruined silhouette looms closer, its charred timbers a testament to dragonfire’s wrath. What evil awaits in the inn? A restless spirit, perhaps, or a Daedric lure, as Cicero’s mad chatter hinted at darker currents. My heart reflects on this jester, his wagon a fleeting distraction from my sacred charge. Stendarr bids me aid the weak, but also smite the wicked. For now, I press on, my shield raised, Stendarr’s light my guide in this perilous land. May I face the evil foretold and etch my saga in deeds of honor.

Thorin Lightbringer’s Journal, 20th of Last Seed, 4E 201

The rugged path to Helgen winds through Skyrim’s untamed heart, where the Wildlands’ ancient pines whisper of forgotten heroes and Nordic Ruins stand as silent sentinels. This day, as I neared Riverwood, my steel armor catching the sun’s faint rays, I spied a band of warriors clashing with a towering giant, its roars shaking the earth. Moved by Stendarr’s call to aid the righteous, I rushed to their side, my iron mace raised, shield braced with precision. Yet Requiem’s harsh reality humbled me—my blows, barely dented the beast’s hide. The warriors prevailed, their blades flashing, and turned to me with respect. “You’ve the look of one who can handle himself,” one said, urging me to join the Companions in Whiterun’s Jorrvaskr. I declined with grace, honoring their aid to the common folk . My path lies with Stendarr’s mercy yet their noble intent kindles a spark in my heart.

In Riverwood, I entered the trader’s shop, its wooden beams warmed by a flickering hearth, to procure supplies. Lucan Valerius, the owner, spoke of a recent break-in, his voice heavy with frustration. A golden claw, a relic of old, was stolen, and he pleaded for aid. My mission to Helgen’s inn, spurred by Stendarr’s vision of a great evil, takes precedence, but I vowed to return when my sacred task allows, aligning with my vow to purge evil, be it thieves or the Dark Brotherhood’s taint. I purchased vials of blessed water and a sturdy cloak, my coin light but my purpose firm.

Helgen draws near, its ruined inn a looming shadow, where the evil foretold awaits. The warriors’ valor and Lucan’s plight remind me of Stendarr’s dual charge: mercy for the weak, justice for the wicked. I remain neutral in the Civil War strife, my heart set on divine duty.

Thorin Lightbringer’s Journal, 21st of Last Seed, 4E 201

The stars of Skyrim’s vast sky glittered above as I made camp amidst the whispering pines of the Wildlands, their ancient boughs swaying like the chants of Nordic Ruins. Beneath the Lord’s sign, I laid my bedroll, the weight of my steel armor a grounding force, and slept deeply, my dreams filled with Stendarr’s radiant light. The trials of the road—wolves, the giant’s roar, Cicero’s strange wagon—have forged me anew, and upon waking, I felt a surge of strength: I have reached level 2, a milestone in Requiem’s unforgiving crucible. The morning sun pierced the canopy as I sat by the fire, poring over tomes gifted by Keeper Carcette, their pages humming with divine power. Through diligent study, I mastered new spells: Consecrate Dead, a Restoration incantation to banish undead to their final rest; Candlelight, an Alteration glow to pierce the dark; Oakflesh, my familiar ward now stronger; and Wild Healing, a primal Restoration spell to mend flesh with nature’s vigor. Each word of magic felt like Stendarr’s hand guiding mine.

The camp’s solitude, framed by Nature of the Wildlands’ verdant sprawl, allowed me to reflect on my path to Helgen, where Stendarr’s vision bids me sleep at the inn to face a great evil. My iron mace, tempered by Metallurgy’s craft, rests at my side, its weight a promise of justice, while my shield, etched with my family’s crest, stands ready with precision. I cast Candlelight, its soft orb illuminating my journal as I write. The Bulwark trait anchors me, reducing the stagger of Requiem’s harsh blows, while divine synergy with my Amulet of Stendarr strengthens my resolve.

Riverwood’s warmth lingers in my memory—Lucan’s plea for the golden claw, the Companions’ offer—but my heart remains fixed on Stendarr’s charge. I tread carefully, neutral in the Civil War strife, my focus on purging unholy taint, be it undead or the Dark Brotherhood’s shadow.

Thorin Lightbringer’s Journal, 22nd of Last Seed, 4E 201

Helgen’s charred husk greeted me under a sullen sky, its inn a crumbling relic, scarred by dragonfire and time. As Stendarr’s vision bade, I slept within its creaking walls, my steel armor a steadfast comfort, the Amulet of Stendarr warm against my chest. But dawn brought no peace—only chaos. An execution was set, blades gleaming in the morning mist, when a shadow descended. A dragon, black as sin, tore through Helgen with fire and fury, its roar shaking the earth. I fled with Hadvar, a legion soldier, my shield raised against falling embers, guiding my blocks as we dove through collapsing timbers. My mace struck at debris, One-Handed now at 26, but against such a beast, I was but a spark before a storm. Stendarr’s whisper at the Vigilants’ shrine rang true—this dragon is the great evil I must face, a harbinger of darkness threatening Skyrim’s soul.

Escorting Hadvar to Riverwood, I walked in silence, the Wildlands’ pines whispering of ancient battles. His uncle, Alvor, urged me to warn Whiterun’s Jarl, his voice heavy with fear. I will heed this call, but my heart knows I am not yet ready. The dragon’s might exposed my frailty. The Companions’ offer, met on the road, echoes in my mind. Their hearth in Jorrvaskr, a bastion of honor, calls to me. They aid the common folk, a noble cause aligning with my vow to purge evil and uphold divine justice. I will join them after warning Jarl Balgruuf, seeking their training to temper my body and soul for the trials ahead.

Riverwood’s quiet hearth offered respite, but my thoughts dwell on the dragon’s shadow. Stendarr bids me smite such horrors, yet I remain neutral in the Civil War strife, my focus on this greater threat. The Dark Brotherhood’s taint, too, must wait—my path is clear: grow stronger, then face the beast. I cast Candlelight to light my journal, weaving its glow, while Wild Healing soothes the burns from Helgen’s flames. The road to Whiterun lies ahead, where I’ll warn the Jarl and seek the Companions’ forge. Stendarr, grant me the might to bring your light to this darkened land, to stand resolute against the dragon’s wrath and carve a saga of holy valor.

Thorin Lightbringer’s Journal, 23rd of Last Seed, 4E 201

Whiterun’s golden plains stretched before me as I entered its gates, the towering spire of Dragonsreach piercing the sky, its halls resplendent in Jorrvaskr’s rugged glory. I stood before Jarl Balgruuf, his throne a bastion of Nordic strength, and delivered Alvor’s warning of the dragon that razed Helgen. His eyes, heavy with the weight of rule, turned to Farengar, his court wizard, who spoke of a Dragonstone buried in Bleak Falls Barrow. Stendarr’s mercy guides my path, but I am yet unready for such a trial—my mace, though tempered by Metallurgy, and my skills need honing. I respectfully declined Farengar’s request, vowing to retrieve the stone once I am stronger, my heart set on proving my worth in Requiem’s unforgiving forge.

Seeking strength, I turned to the Companions, their hearth in Jorrvaskr alive with the clang of steel and tales of valor. Kodlak Whitemane, their harbinger, welcomed me with a grizzled nod, his eyes weighing my soul. My first task was distasteful—to rough up a troublemaker in Whiterun’s streets. It sat ill with Stendarr’s teachings, yet I complied, my shield raised with precision, delivering a measured warning rather than cruelty. The deed done, Ordinator’s Shield Wall steadying my hand. Now, Kodlak bids me hunt bandits plaguing the hold, a task more aligned with my vow to purge evil. I feel the weight of this charge, for bandits, like the dragon, threaten the innocent, and Stendarr’s light must shine through my actions.

Yet I am but one man, and the road ahead demands allies. I ponder seeking a companion to share this burden, someone to stand by me as I face Skyrim’s perils. Whiterun’s bustling streets, alive with Whiterun’s clamor, offer no clear answer on where to find such a soul. The Civil War’s shadow looms, but I remain neutral, my focus on divine justice over mortal strife. The Dark Brotherhood’s taint, too, must wait until my strength grows. Restoration’s Consecrate Dead and Wild Healing sustain me, while Alteration’s Candlelight and Oakflesh, light my path. As I prepare to hunt these bandits, I pray Stendarr grants me wisdom to find a worthy ally and the might to smite the wicked, carving my saga in this wild land.

Thorin Lightbringer’s Journal, 24th of Last Seed, 4E 201

The embers of my campfire glowed softly in the pre-dawn stillness, casting fleeting shadows across the Wildlands’ ancient pines, their boughs heavy with the weight of Skyrim’s untamed spirit. As I knelt in prayer to Stendarr, my Amulet of Stendarr warm against my chest, a vision pierced my soul—a man, cloaked in desperation, stood by a tower near Falkreath, its silhouette stark against the Jerall Mountains’ rugged embrace. Stendarr’s mercy, radiant and unyielding, whispered that this stranger could join my holy quest, a companion to share the burden of purging Skyrim’s evils. My heart, tempered by the Lord’s sign and Good Natured’s divine grace, burned with purpose. I must seek this tower outside Falkreath, to aid this man and perhaps find the ally my path demands.

The road from Whiterun was quiet, save for the distant howl of wolves, my steel armor clanking with each step. My iron mace, etched by Metallurgy’s craft, rests ready at my hip. Restoration, mends my weary flesh, while Alteration’s Oakflesh and Candlelight, guard and guide me through the dark. The bandit hunt Kodlak tasked me with looms, but Stendarr’s vision takes precedence—a divine call to aid outweighs mortal duties. The memory of Helgen’s dragonfire and Whiterun strengthens my resolve to grow stronger, yet I remain neutral in the Civil War’s strife, my focus on smiting the unholy, be it dragons or the Dark Brotherhood’s shadow.

Falkreath’s misty vales await, its Nordic Ruins whispering of ancient sorrows. The tower, likely a crumbling relic in Lorerim’s unforgiving wilds, holds a man in need—perhaps a warrior or a lost soul, destined to stand at my side. My shield, stands ready to defend, while Nord Resilience wards off the chill. The distaste of roughing up Whiterun’s troublemaker lingers, a reminder to temper justice with mercy. Stendarr, guide my steps to this tower, that I may aid this stranger and forge a bond to face the dragon’s wrath. My saga grows, etched in deeds of honor, as I march to bring your light to this darkened land.

Thorin Lightbringer’s Journal, 25th of Last Seed, 4E 201

The road to Falkreath wove through the dense Wildlands, where ancient pines stood like silent wardens, their roots entwined with the secrets of Nordic Ruins. As I pressed onward, guided by Stendarr’s vision of a man needing aid by a tower, a commotion broke the forest’s stillness. Near a weathered statue of Talos, hidden in a shadowed glade, I found a High Elf—clad in Thalmor robes—standing amidst a circle of fallen bandits, their blood staining the earth. His eyes, sharp with pride yet dimmed by fatigue, met mine. My hand rested on my mace, wary of Thalmor treachery, but Stendarr’s mercy stirred within me. All souls, even those of the haughty Dominion, deserve compassion. I cast Wild Healing, its primal glow knitting his wounds. To my surprise, he offered to join me, his voice laced with grudging respect. I accepted, though caution lingers—he names himself Taliesin, and his arcane prowess may serve my quest, yet his Thalmor ties warrant vigilance.

We now tread toward Falkreath’s tower, my steel armor clanking softly, my shield ready with precision. Taliesin’s presence is an uneasy boon; his spells crackle with Altmer finesse, complementing my Oakflesh ward, and Candlelight’s guiding glow. The vision’s tower looms closer, perhaps a crumbling relic in Lorerim’s unforgiving wilds, holding the man Stendarr bids me aid. My heart wrestles with this alliance—Taliesin’s Thalmor heritage clashes with my vow to purge evil, yet Stendarr teaches mercy over judgment. I remain neutral in the Civil War’s strife, Whiterun’s banners distant, my focus on the dragon’s shadow and the Dark Brotherhood’s taint. The Companions’ bandit hunt awaits, but this divine task takes precedence.

Falkreath’s misty vales unfold before us, Nordic Ruins whispering of ancient trials. Taliesin’s steps are light, his motives opaque, but Stendarr’s light guides me to trust—cautiously. The dragon of Helgen, the evil foretold, looms in my thoughts, demanding strength I hone with each step. Imperious’s Nord Resilience wards off the chill, my mace a promise of justice. I pray Stendarr grants wisdom to discern ally from foe, and strength to aid the man at the tower, forging a path of honor in this perilous land.

Thorin Lightbringer’s Journal, 26th of Last Seed, 4E 201

The mists of Falkreath clung to the earth like a shroud as I approached a weathered tower, its stones etched with the scars of time, a relic of Nordic Ruins standing solemn in the Wildlands’ embrace. Stendarr’s vision had led me here, promising a man in need, and I found him—Gore, a rugged warrior, his leg caught in a cruel bear trap, blood pooling beneath him. His eyes burned with defiance despite his pain. As I knelt to free him, casting Wild Healing to mend his wounds shouts pierced the air. Thalmor agents, cloaked in arrogance, descended upon us, their blades felling innocent passersby in a brutal ambush. Taliesin, the High Elf at my side, unleashed arcane fury, while I raised my shield with precision, and swung my mace weight crushing their gilded armor. Gore, freed, fought with primal ferocity, and together we vanquished the Thalmor, their bodies left as a warning to those who defy Stendarr’s mercy.

Gore, grateful, pledged himself to my cause, his oath a solemn bond under Stendarr’s watchful gaze. With Taliesin’s wary allegiance and Gore’s steadfast strength, my entourage feels blessed, a fellowship forged in blood and divine purpose. My steel armo stood firm against the Thalmor’s spells, while Alteration’s Oakflesh and Candlelight lit our path through the fray. The tower, bore witness to this trial, its shadow a reminder of the dragon’s wrath foretold in Helgen. My heart swells with resolve—Stendarr has guided me to these allies to aid Whiterun’s folk, aligning with the Companions’ mission to protect the innocent. The bandit hunt Kodlak tasked me with calls, a chance to smite evil and hone my skills for the greater battle ahead.

I remain neutral in the Civil War’s strife, Whiterun’s banners a distant echo, my focus on purging the unholy—be it dragons or the Dark Brotherhood’s shadow. Gore’s loyalty and Taliesin’s arcane might strengthen my hand, though I watch the latter closely, his Thalmor past a lingering shadow. As we turn toward Whiterun, I pray Stendarr blesses this band, granting us the might to shield the weak and the wisdom to wield mercy justly. My saga grows, etched in deeds of honor, as I march to bring light to this darkened land.

Thorin Lightbringer’s Journal, 27th of Last Seed, 4E 201

The rugged crags of Whiterun’s plains bore witness to our triumph this day, as I, Thorin Lightbringer, alongside Gore and Taliesin, stormed Redoran’s Retreat, a festering den of bandits preying on the hold’s travelers. The cave, shadowed by the Wildlands’ ancient stones and etched with the echoes of Nordic Ruins, reeked of blood and greed. My steel armor held firm as we clashed. My mace crushed skulls with Metallurgy’s honed weight, while my shield guided by precision—deflected their crude blades. Gore’s raw strength carved through their ranks, and Taliesin’s arcane bolts seared the air, his Thalmor finesse proving its worth despite my lingering wariness. The bandits fell, their threat to Whiterun ended, and I felt Stendarr’s mercy pulse through me—a righteous act to shield the innocent, aligning with the Companions’ noble charge.

Kneeling amidst the fallen, I cast Consecrate Dead, its divine light washing over the bandits’ corpses, sending their souls to Stendarr’s judgment. Restoration a testament to my vow to purify Skyrim’s unholy taint. Alteration’s Oakflesh and Candlelight lit our path through the cave’s gloom, while Nord Resilience warded off the chill of this grim work. The act of consecration brought peace to my heart, a reminder that even the wicked deserve a chance at divine redemption. Whiterun’s folk will sleep safer tonight, and the weight of this deed strengthens my resolve to face the dragon’s shadow foretold in Helgen.

We now seek respite at Whiterun’s inn, the Bannered Mare, its hearth a warm haven amidst Fortified Whiterun’s bustling streets. The Civil War’s tensions linger in the air, but I remain neutral, my focus on purging greater evils—dragons, the Dark Brotherhood’s taint—over mortal strife. After this brief rest, we return to Jorrvaskr, where Kodlak awaits my report. Gore’s loyalty and Taliesin’s arcane might bolster my path, and I pray Stendarr guides us as we hone our strength for the trials ahead. The Companions’ forge will temper me further, preparing me to smite the unholy and carve my saga in deeds of honor across this perilous land.

Thorin Lightbringer’s Journal, 28th of Last Seed, 4E 201

The windswept plains of Whiterun howled with the promise of battle as I, Thorin Lightbringer, ventured to Greywinter Watch, a frost-rimed cave nestled in the shadow of Nordic Ruins, where trolls had sown terror among the hold’s folk. Both Aela, the fierce huntress of the Companions, and Proventus, Jarl Balgruuf’s steward, pressed this task upon me, their voices heavy with urgency. With Gore’s unyielding strength and Taliesin’s arcane precision at my side, we descended into the cave’s icy maw, its walls glistening in the Wildlands’ eerie glow. My steel armor stood resolute against the trolls’ savage claws. My mace swung with Metallurgy’s crafted might, shattering bone, while my shield deflected their roars and swipes. Taliesin’s spells lit the darkness, and Gore’s blade carved a path, our fellowship purging the beasts in a clash of steel and fire.

As the last troll fell, I knelt among their hulking corpses, casting Consecrate Dead to send their primal souls to Stendarr’s judgment. Restoration, a solemn act to cleanse this land of savagery. Alteration’s Oakflesh and Candlelight guided us through the cave’s gloom, while Nord Resilience shielded me from the biting cold. The townsfolk’s relief echoes in my heart—Whiterun is safer, its people shielded by Stendarr’s mercy through our deeds. This victory, hard-won in Requiem’s unforgiving crucible, strengthens my resolve to face the dragon’s shadow foretold in Helgen, a foe far greater than these beasts.

We returned to Whiterun’s Bannered Mare, its hearth a brief refuge amidst Fortified Whiterun’s clamor, before reporting to Jorrvaskr. Aela’s nod carried respect, and Proventus’s gratitude affirmed our impact. Yet I remain neutral in the Civil War’s strife, my focus on purging unholy threats—dragons, the Dark Brotherhood’s taint—over mortal quarrels. Gore and Taliesin stand steadfast, their presence a blessing as we prepare for the Companions’ next trial. Stendarr’s light guides my path, tempering my mace and shield for the battles ahead. I pray for the strength to continue this holy work, carving a saga of honor in Skyrim’s perilous wilds.

Thorin Lightbringer’s Journal, 29th of Last Seed, 4E 201

The hearth of Jorrvaskr glowed with warmth as I stood before the Companions, their eyes alight with pride for our victory at Greywinter Watch. Kodlak, his voice like tempered steel, tasked me with retrieving a fragment of Wuuthrad, their sacred axe, from a distant hold. Yet this errand, steeped in their glory, felt distant from Stendarr’s call to aid the weak. I respectfully deferred, promising to seek the fragment when my path allows, my heart set on deeds that shield Skyrim’s folk. Instead, I took up missives from Whiterun’s board—simple deliveries to ease the burdens of the common folk, a task aligning with my vow. One missive, however, stirred my soul: a call to recover an artifact from Bleak Falls Barrow, the same ancient tomb where Farengar’s Dragonstone lies. Stendarr’s will guides me there, to face my first Nordic tomb and confront the dragon’s shadow foretold in Helgen.

The deliveries will take me across Whiterun’s windswept plains, the Wildlands’ pines whispering of trials ahead. My steel armor, steadies me, while my mace, swings with Metallurgy’s honed might. My shield stands ready, and Restoration, bolstered by Consecrate Dead and Wild Healing, mends my flesh with divine grace. Alteration’s Oakflesh and Candlelight will light my way through the tomb’s shadows, my Nord Resilience warding off its chill. The thought of Bleak Falls Barrow, a looming crypt in, stirs unease—its draugr-haunted halls are daunting, Requiem’s perils unforgiving. Yet the Dragonstone and this artifact call me to face these restless dead, to smite them with Stendarr’s light.

Taliesin’s arcane prowess and Gore’s steadfast blade bolster my courage, their presence a divine blessing as we prepare for this trial. I remain neutral in the Civil War’s strife, Whiterun’s banners a distant clamor, my focus on purging unholy taint—dragons, draugr, or the Dark Brotherhood’s shadow. The deliveries will hone my Wayfarer skill, while the tomb promises to test my faith and steel. Stendarr, grant me strength to navigate Bleak Falls’ perils, to consecrate its dead and claim its secrets. My saga grows, etched in deeds of mercy and honor, as I march toward this ancient crypt to bring your light to Skyrim’s darkened wilds.

Thorin Lightbringer’s Journal, 30th of Last Seed, 4E 201

The golden plains of Whiterun stretched beneath a dawn sky as I tread the winding paths of the Wildlands, the ancient pines whispering secrets of Nordic Ruins long forgotten. Near a crumbling alchemist’s shed, its timbers sagging under the weight of time, I spied a small creature—a bunny, its fur dappled like frost on stone, whom I named Thistle. Moved by Stendarr’s mercy, I could not leave it to the wilds’ perils. With a gentle hand, I sent Thistle to Whiterun, envisioning it scampering safely in the city’s bounds until I claim a hearth to call home. The thought of this humble pet warmed my soul, a small act of kindness amidst my greater quest to purge Skyrim’s evils.

My first delivery, a missive for Embry in Riverwood’s Sleeping Giant Inn, is complete. The tavern’s hearth glowed with warmth, its wooden beams etched with the lives of travelers, and Embry’s gruff nod affirmed the deed’s worth. These small acts, though simple, weave Stendarr’s mercy into the lives of the common folk, aligning with my vow to protect the innocent. Now, my path turns toward Riften, where my next delivery awaits, its details tucked in a sealed parchment. The road stretches far, through forests thick with the Wildlands’ untamed beauty and shadows that hint at dangers—bandits, beasts, or worse. My mace, honed by Metallurgy’s craft, hangs ready at my hip, my shield poised for precise deflections. Taliesin’s arcane hum and Gore’s steady blade flank me, their presence a divine blessing as we venture toward Riften’s misty gates.

Bleak Falls Barrow looms in my thoughts, its draugr-haunted halls holding the Dragonstone and the artifact I’ve sworn to retrieve. Yet this delivery to Riften comes first, a step to hone my resolve before facing that ancient tomb. I remain neutral in the Civil War’s strife, Fortified Whiterun’s banners a distant echo, my heart fixed on smiting the unholy—be it dragons or the Dark Brotherhood’s taint. The dragon’s shadow from Helgen stirs unease, but Stendarr’s light guides me, his mercy a beacon in my soul. As I march toward Riften, Thistle’s memory brings a fleeting smile, a reminder that even in Skyrim’s perilous wilds, small acts of grace forge a saga of honor. I pray for strength to deliver this missive and face the trials ahead, bringing Stendarr’s justice to this darkened land.

Thorin Lightbringer’s Journal, 1st of Hearthfire, 4E 201

The road to Riften was a winding trial through Skyrim’s shadowed wilds, where pines stood tall and ancient stones whispered of forgotten kings. I had hoped to pause in Riften’s bustling streets to deliver my missive, but a guard at the gates, his eyes glinting with greed, demanded a bribe to enter. Stendarr’s mercy does not bend to corruption, and I would not sully my honor with coin. Turning from the city’s gates, I took a carriage back to Riverwood, its rattling wheels a steady hymn beneath the starry sky. My heart is set now on Bleak Falls Barrow, where the Dragonstone and a lost artifact await, a divine charge to face the dragon’s shadow that haunts my dreams since Helgen.

The path from Riverwood to the barrow was no gentle pilgrimage. Bandits, cloaked in the forest’s gloom, set upon us with blades and curses. My mace met their steel, its weight a righteous extension of Stendarr’s will, while my shield turned their blows aside. Taliesin’s spells crackled like thunder, and Gore’s blade sang a grim dirge, our fellowship unbroken by their ambush. We prevailed, leaving the brigands to the earth’s judgment, their souls offered to Stendarr with a whispered prayer of consecration. The barrow’s looming silhouette now rises against the mountains, its ancient doors carved with tales of warriors long dead. My heart quickens—draugr stir within, their unholy eyes a challenge to my faith.

I’ve made camp just inside the barrow’s threshold, the air thick with dust and the chill of forgotten graves. The fire’s glow casts shadows on the stone, and I kneel, Amulet of Stendarr warm against my chest, seeking divine guidance. My spells—Healing, Consecrate Dead, Oakflesh, and Candlelight—feel stronger, as if Stendarr himself blesses my resolve. The tomb’s depths promise peril, but I am no stranger to fear. The dragon’s roar, the bandits’ blades, Riften’s corruption—all are tests of my vow to bring mercy and justice. Taliesin and Gore rest nearby, their presence a steady anchor. Tomorrow, I delve deeper, to claim the Dragonstone and artifact, to smite the undead and honor Stendarr’s light. May my mace strike true and my shield hold fast, forging a saga of holy valor in this forsaken place.