Once again, I begin one of my tomes with complaints and sad remembrances, and for that, I beg forgiveness from you, my friends. Yet what can I do? We were hunted like rabid dogs all across the Duchy of Niben, and Nephatah Indarys had placed a bounty of five thousand septims on my sorry head. Luckily for us, all the old and skilled bounty hunters of the realm had perished long ago, in the first flames of the Great War. And even had they been alive and around, their filthy work would have been hard to carry out in our case. Yet, we took precautions and, against all reason, we went first through the hills to the dangerous southern lands, toward Bravil; after waiting two weeks in the reeds around a foul pond, we took the main road as ragged refugees bound for Bruma.
Thus, our trek toward the northern realm was arduous from the very beginning, yet laden with meaning—a crucial step in our initiation into the new Order, which awaited its unsealing beyond the snow-draped peaks of the Jerall Mountains.
The journey itself through the barren Imperial lands was perilous and exhausting for all of us. "Us"... that meant Courtney, Cicero, and me. And our Unholy Mother, of course, whose presence none of us could ever ignore. Well, perhaps our Keeper was better acquainted with Her, but we, the girls, grew uneasy with every day, with every hour spent near the sacred vessel. It whispered, somehow, and became harder and harder to ignore...
Moreover, each of us carried our own ghosts. I was hollowed out by sorrow and adrift beyond words; Courtney, though brave and reckless by nature, was unmistakably shaken—utterly scared, to tell the truth! And Cicero... well, Cicero was Cicero. And that was that!
After a few days, when he had been the true guide and soul of our expedition, Cicero changed. He grew withdrawn and wary of everything—especially everyone around him. Except me, his "mother", of course...
That change came after some brigands ambushed us on the Ring Road, shortly after we left the Duchy of Niben behind. They mistook us for helpless travelers, and that was their last mistake.
Courtney and I cut them down swiftly, for they were no more than poor peasants—broken, cruel men, shaped by endless wars and the brutal age. We salvaged their horses—beasts in far better shape than we expected—and they proved invaluable, letting us scout ahead when needed. I say "we," but in truth, it was only Courtney or me. From that day on, Cicero refused to stray from our Mother's sarcophagus, keeping always at Her side, indifferent to threat or terrain. Nothing could sway him.
Things grew easier and somewhat safer after we left behind the wild, desolate outskirts of the looted Imperial capital. As we reached the Silver Road and pressed onward toward Bruma, bandits and deserters gave way to the beasts of the forest, who posed no great threat to us, being less malicious and more predictable. Yet, as I would later discover, the wolves and bears—smaller and timid in Cyrodiil—were themselves part of our rite of passage, and also an omen of what was to come. Ah, just a few weeks after these nuisances plagued us along the sloping road to Bruma, their distant, stronger, and more brazen kin would rise as a major threat on the northern slopes of the Jeralls!
Near the Empire's northern town, we established a camp in the dense pine forest outside the city and began searching for a way across the mountains. But first, we bought provisions and warmer clothes from the city's traders, and on that occasion, I saw again the town of my early childhood, and sad remembrances veiled me in their bittersweet shroud. Anyway, we didn't have time for nostalgia, and the horses and the ox, no longer needed, were sold; in their place, we took a sturdy mule.
We couldn't follow the old road connecting the Imperial lands to their northern province. What we carried with us, far too peculiar and precious to risk even the slightest exposure or the faintest chance of discovery, would have been quickly discovered by any customs officer or border guard.
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The Pale Pass, long neglected, nearly forgotten, and even feared by many, was closed to us as well. An auxiliary cohort of the Imperial Legion had recently been stationed there, guarding the canyon from a small, well-kept fort at the mouth of the gorge. Courtney went there on a reconnaissance mission and returned grim-faced, telling us the soldiers were disciplined and vigilant—quite remarkable for mere auxiliary troops. But war raged across the province of Skyrim, and that, as we would soon discover, changed many things.
Thus, we turned to other paths and wandered for a long while along forgotten or hidden mountain trails—known to few, remembered by fewer, guided by a shepherd we hired; and true proved his guidance, though the path was cruel and tested us each to our marrow. When at last we reached the high plateau beyond the snowy peaks of the Jeralls—where the winds howled like demons do—our faithful guide vanished in the dead of night, leaving without a word.
I understood his behavior; Cicero's mutterings and erratic ways throughout our journey had clearly unsettled him—perhaps even frightened him. The man abandoned half his promised pay just to escape our company sooner. Understandable. Entirely understandable!
Just picture us: a merry madman whose eyes sometimes gleamed with homicidal glee; a tall, flame-haired girl, plainly frightened, yet always ready to draw the short sword at her hip; and a slight, pitiful creature—myself—with long—too long—pale hair and serpent-like eyes, weeping and whispering to no one in particular.
We made camp on those barren heights, recovering as best we could from the torment of our arduous climb. Our mule, too—driven too hard along the merciless mountain paths—needed time to regain its strength. And even there, though our bodies found some respite, the Mother's sarcophagus remained our unyielding burden: sacred, inscrutable, and far heavier in spirit than in stone.
In that desolate and bitterly cold place, the howling wind seemed to echo the unrest within our hearts. My concern for Courtney deepened. Cicero, the Holy Keeper—ever more unhinged—had begun watching her with narrow, unreadable eyes. He whispered to himself without cease, muttering vile words just loud enough for me to hear: Sanctuary, harlot, defiled...
There was venom in his tone, unmistakable and aimed with purpose. And I knew all too well what he was capable of, even at the mere suspicion that the sanctity of our Mother's Haven was at stake!
So when Courtney offered to scout the cliffs ahead in search of a descent into the valleys below, I felt a rush of relief I dared not show. I trusted her instincts. I always had. And she left.
As for me, I remained behind, drifting into sorrowful remembrances. My heart ached with longing for Rasha, and the cruel certainty that I would never see him again weighed heavily upon me. I filled the days with memories of our walks through the sun-drenched alleys of Bravil, and the quieter years in the Imperial City when he would talk to me in the shadow of the White-Gold Tower.
Cicero continued to tend to our Mother's body with his usual, solemn frenzy, and meantime, my beloved Mistress, Nocturnal, chose to summon me to Her realm: Evergloam.
Oh, Evergloam—what a paltry name for so enchanting a place! But what can one expect from the scholars and priests of Stendarr? They copy the drunken scribbles of their forebears, only to scrawl new lies atop the old, onto their wretched scraps of parchment.
No matter. Lady Luck embraced me once more, wrapping me in Her priceless love and warm, velvety darkness. She granted me rest in my cosy cottage, nestled deep within the whispering forest that cradles the Tree of Life.
She, my greatest love, also spoke to me—Her voice at once a command and a caress. I was to go without delay to Riften and attend to our business. And I was to speak with Brynjolf: a good man, valuable, though—how did She put it, smirking?—"a bit rusted."
I returned to our bleak realm, renewed and strengthened. Though Rasha remains forever a painful thorn in my heart, I knew then that I still had meaning in this world—something beyond the Spider's request, something closer to mortal understanding.
Oh, how na?ve I was back then! I weep—and laugh—as I write now. Yet that illusion, sweet as it was, helped me endure. It allowed me to move through life with grace, to live with a simple purpose. At least for a while...
I even came to see Cicero as a holy, innocent tool, and I ceased hating him. In truth, my hatred had been unjust, as he had done only what I commanded of him. I know that now.
Time passed quickly, and one evening, Courtney returned, her face radiant, her eyes bright, and her untangled, fiery hair billowing in the bitter wind. There was hope in her soft, sneaky steps.
"Got a way down," she said. "It ain't pretty, luv—but it'll do."
We departed at dawn. Three days of ice and aching limbs, of coaxing our mule and cradling our sacred burden—and then: Skyrim.
The Land of Heroes!
