I don’t understand what exactly is going on. I attempted to cross the border into Skyrim, but I was captured by soldiers, Imperial soldiers, I believe. They thought I was with a band of Nords in chainmail, who must have wronged the province in some way. They tied me up, and put me on a cart, taking me to a Nordic village functioning as an Imperial outpost. Helgen? Yes, that’s it. We are to be executed, though I did nothing wrong, yet I doubt they would believe a single word from a Dark Elf. One of the Nords on the cart with me practically asked for my life story, so, I told him what I believed to be relevant.

  I am a member of the Great House Redoran, though, not really. Let me explain. I am a bastard child of a member of House Redoran and a minor house, more of a disgrace than anything, I was abandoned. “Luckily,” I was found, but by an assassin of the Morag Tong. This one member had what could be considered a heart, and I still respect them to this day. My training was hard, but I showed a great aptitude for magic, specifically, the magic of Conjuration. I trained under the Morag Tong for twenty, maybe thirty years, until I had great physical and magical reserves. I could easily conjure and wield a blade. I learned how best to wear light armor, and how to keep it strong. I could make powerful enchantments, sometimes, I could even add multiple magical properties to an item. I had a silver tongue, and could sell ash to a farmer. I could sneak right under your nose, and you would never know I was there.

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  Finally, after around thirty or so years of training, I was ready for my first contract. A foolish merchant thought he could scam nobles into paying more for imported goods. He lived lavishly with his dishonest gold, and hired very few guards. All I had to do was walk up to the guards, show them my permit, and kill the merchant. It was as easy in practice as it was in theory. I walked in, showed my permit, and drove my blade through the fat elf’s head. I left through the way I came in. I continued to work hard, and easily climbed the ranks. But, with greatness comes resentment and jealousy. I had a rival, her name was Favuse Dralin, and on an off day where I had no contracts, she came for me. This rookie could hardly sneak, but, she had a gang of followers, a fight I could hardly hope to win. I had to flee at once! I grabbed what supplies I could, and snuck out of the sanctum.

  That is how the great Gareth Sarethi fell from fame. A name that inspired fear, and one that everyone knew, was forgotten. After telling my story, I looked back at the Nord, who was fast asleep. I didn’t care, my fame, and soon my life, would be over. After a day or two, we would reach Helgen.