http://tchnclr.blogspot.com/
Giving you more to check up on, in case you get too bored.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
UPDATE
I have all the rest planned, I just need filler. It's hard coming up with ideas to keep you entertained while the plot unfolds. All I can say is that you will not be disappointed by this next section of Keiroth's life. Just give it time, and it will happen.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Entry One
So it was, and rightly was, that the bloody hills of Solstheim would bleed again. Nothing kills conflict like bloodshed, it seems. I recall each day of my encampment in the army like a journal, although I kept no journal, for no words could describe the winds of both subzero and fear trampling upon me unerringly until my ommittance from the war. Fools with weapons, we were. And no soul could have predicted the outcome of the war. Neither side was victorious, and it was tragedy all around. The death of a royal member would have galvanized everything, but it would be no affection to the truth: war is the colonization of the meek by the titans so the titans may bicker with each other without causing violence to each other.
I decided to write this because I am sitting somewhere high in the Jerall mountains, looking over the awful city of Cheydinhal. Camped with me is a bandit, a Nord, and all the Cheydinhal Guard. I am out to find the Priory of the Ancestor Moth, and my bandit friend is out to kill a legendary giant, invisible troll. He convinced the guard to help him, but I don't know how. I have been called to the priory for reasons unknown, but I assume it is with good reason that I am summoned, for the letter received was marked with a red wing, meaning it was to be delivered quickly and before all else. The stamp of the red wing is only allowed to select organizations and the Priory has the right to use it only in the most extreme cases.
The journey into the mountains has been long and almost endless, it seems. I remember the days when I had to help my cousin carry wood to his hut on the mountainside. We were always besieged by the small cliff racers in the area. No drop of blood was without desire to the cliff racers. I remember the morning sun peaking over the summit of the mountain like an ultimate crown. It was a dawn to our dusk. And every figure in its wake was a divination towards something so magical, so pure, that no water of any oasis could relieve us more wholesomely than the dawn breaking, exploding, and shining with unrivaled glory over the patchwork fields and villages named under Uriel Septim.
And so these magical sights return to me. The snow glitters like the stars each morning, and I wake myself early just to see it. The mountains transcend into masses and the sky transcends into a divine ocean of white. The Waters of the Nine, I call them. They fall to the earth in these parts and blanket them in divinity. Sacred is the man who treads these lands.
The troll's location will become clear in time. We must find a particular abandoned campground. The campground was abandoned by someone named Agnar. He was in search of the troll as well, but supposedly committed suicide off of Dive Rock, upon which his camp is located. We will see if he left a journal behind, with which we will gain knowledge of him and the troll. It is dark and I am writing by cande light, and so my adventures will be documented another day. Farewell for now, dear reader.
I decided to write this because I am sitting somewhere high in the Jerall mountains, looking over the awful city of Cheydinhal. Camped with me is a bandit, a Nord, and all the Cheydinhal Guard. I am out to find the Priory of the Ancestor Moth, and my bandit friend is out to kill a legendary giant, invisible troll. He convinced the guard to help him, but I don't know how. I have been called to the priory for reasons unknown, but I assume it is with good reason that I am summoned, for the letter received was marked with a red wing, meaning it was to be delivered quickly and before all else. The stamp of the red wing is only allowed to select organizations and the Priory has the right to use it only in the most extreme cases.
The journey into the mountains has been long and almost endless, it seems. I remember the days when I had to help my cousin carry wood to his hut on the mountainside. We were always besieged by the small cliff racers in the area. No drop of blood was without desire to the cliff racers. I remember the morning sun peaking over the summit of the mountain like an ultimate crown. It was a dawn to our dusk. And every figure in its wake was a divination towards something so magical, so pure, that no water of any oasis could relieve us more wholesomely than the dawn breaking, exploding, and shining with unrivaled glory over the patchwork fields and villages named under Uriel Septim.
And so these magical sights return to me. The snow glitters like the stars each morning, and I wake myself early just to see it. The mountains transcend into masses and the sky transcends into a divine ocean of white. The Waters of the Nine, I call them. They fall to the earth in these parts and blanket them in divinity. Sacred is the man who treads these lands.
The troll's location will become clear in time. We must find a particular abandoned campground. The campground was abandoned by someone named Agnar. He was in search of the troll as well, but supposedly committed suicide off of Dive Rock, upon which his camp is located. We will see if he left a journal behind, with which we will gain knowledge of him and the troll. It is dark and I am writing by cande light, and so my adventures will be documented another day. Farewell for now, dear reader.
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