My daddy wrote some quaint lines about my arrival in the northern realms, and I'll quote them right here in this text, which desires to be Chapter XXIV of my Memoir.

  As my beloved daughter Elsie wrote nought of the Helgen event and just a little about her first days in our frozen, harsh, yet beautiful lands—ah, Skyrim is such a cruel yet gorgeous mistress!—I shall allow myself to weave the tale from her scarce tellings and not-so-trustworthy recollections. However, I hope she will write herself this chapter of her memoir and not just copy my scribblings!

  Regardless, a right hard task this shall be, and—mayhap worse—the outcome may not come out as a sooth chronicle of what did truly come to pass, chiefly regarding Helgen. Alas, naught can I do to mend the affair! Unfortunately, Courtney will say nothing of it—she remembers nothing, she says; she has quite forgotten, she says; she has not the time just now, she says—so I must gather disparate and odd fragments into a tapestry meant to be true history, if such a chronicle even exists!

  Ah, forgive me! I nearly forgot Cicero's version... Yet that is a wondrous tale indeed, and I dare not place it into a sober, scientific tome! For instance, he claims a talking fox led him through the forest, a singing stone gave him shelter for a rainy night, and... well, I daren't say more.

  So, once upon a miserable time—as all proper stories begin—

  In the wake of the Dark Brotherhood's fall in Cyrodiil, after the nefarious events from Bravil and the passing of Cheydinhal's Sanctuary into oblivion, Elsie hastily left the Imperial lands, in the company of Cicero and their Unholy Mother.

  Courtney, of course, was with them from the beginning. All three—or maybe I should say four?—followed quite forgotten, winding and hard to come to mountain trails—no longer in use for centuries, yet wide enough for the long, narrow carriage that bore our Lady's sacred sarcophagus.

  After crossing the Jerall Mountains, they approached Helgen along the main road, knowing little of the war that ravaged our lands, and on a cold and misty morning, all chaos erupted above that fortified town fated to become ash and dust.

  Here come some curious facts in my humble opinion. When I say that, I speak under the reserve that many of Elsie's behaviors and actions are hard to understand for me—even now, when we have been together for quite a long time!

  First, in those confusing and dangerous moments, Courtney suddenly vanished into the surrounding weald. Now this is utterly absurd—considering her deep affection for my daughter and her usual bravery, this is impossible to believe!

  Second, on that morning, trying to protect the Keeper and, especially, their precious cargo, Elsie allowed—she says—some Imperial soldiers to capture her, giving Cicero a chance to continue his journey undisturbed. She just surrendered! That's what she tells me whenever we discuss the matter, and I cannot contradict her or ask further questions because my daughter would start weaving lies. Elsie is stubborn and, like her beloved Mistress Nocturnal, is truly a mendacious little witch! Hm, I hope Lady Luck will forgive me for saying that, after all, I'm just an old Dunmer, one of those cursed by Her sworn enemy, Lady Azura...

  So the Imperial soldiers took my girl to the execution block like they did with all fugitives or suspect persons whom they caught near that restless frontier. When my daughter was seeing her death near, an unexpected ( quoting Elsie ) but very welcome ( quoting Elsie ) event occurred. A black dragon—Alduin Himself— was summoned, and burned down all the Imperials and locals alike while saving Elsie's life. In all the confusion, scared to death ( quoting Elsie ), she took the dagger from one of the fallen soldiers and cut one of the other convicts'—a gagged man— restraints, and then they fled to the hills. Hand by hand, I presume...

  The dragon did not follow them—though it circled the area for a while—then returned to its business ( quoting Elsie). Leaving the burning Helgen behind, Elsie and the man she saved from death ran until they reached the shore of Lake Ilinalta.

  There, Elsie said, "Here our ways part."

  "Why? You should come with me, I am a great Lord in this realm! My name is Ulfric, known as Stormcloak," replied the man.

  "And I am the Emperor's wife, so now I must return to my husband, who is anxiously waiting for me," Elsie grinned. Then she shook his hand and disappeared into the surrounding forest.

  After a while, she reached Whiterun by nightfall, and the next morning, I met her on one of the city's alleys. Our meeting was no mere accident or coincidence: she was looking for me, knowing me to be the richest and most connected fence in all Skyrim. At least, so she says...

  Elsie showed me the signs and spoke our secret tongue, so when she asked where she might find the Doyen here in Whiterun, I told her the truth: there is no Doyen, and the Guild has no foothold here—or in any other city of Skyrim. I advised her to travel far south, to Riften, if she wished to learn more. I also told her that if she had something hot to move, I could help.

  But Elsie only grinned and asked me for advance coin—actually, a great deal of coin. Well, I do not usually hand out free money; they always bring me something in exchange: I usually take jewelry, but property titles are just as good. Well, the little devil gave me something too: a cold and lingering look. I had seen such eyes just once before, in the face of the only man I ever truly feared. His name was Lucien Lachance, and my old bones still tremble when I recall him, especially when he came asking for money.

  "Five thousand septims," she said. And smiled again. Sweetly. Like a thief in the church's sanctum.

  Now, I am an old Dunmer. I have seen countless battles, wars even, dragons, Clavicus Vile's tax collectors, and many—far too many—other horrors and wonders... but that smile? That smile nearly finished me.

  So I took Elsie to my home and handed over the coin as if I were signing my own will. Lydia hissed like an angry cat when she saw it, and Elsie smirked again—very satisfied; she does love shiny things, indeed!—and said, "I'll bring you back the money, Gramps, don't you worry!" But she lied, as my beloved daughter often does—she never gave me my gold back!

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  I was glad when she finally left my house. Then I asked Lydia to fetch her armor from the barracks. My brave housecarl scoffed, saying she did not need plate steel to smash such a pitiful creature. But I knew better, so I insisted—and won, in the end.

  Afterward, I often saw Elsie wandering Whiterun's streets, talking to folk—especially those merry girls at The Drunken Huntsman, and the blacksmith, Adrienne. I must also mention that she reunited with Courtney. They were both living at the Huntsman and soon befriended all those noisy and charming young women who ruled the place with their laughter and gossip.

  One morning, at sunrise, Elsie knocked on my door. After letting her in, she inquired, "I'm heading to Riften, Gramps. Do you have any message for the Guild?"

  "I told you the Guild no longer operates here in Whiterun—nor anywhere in Skyrim, save for that stinking hole in the South. So no, I have no message, my dear. By the way, what should I call you?"

  "You can call me whatever you please, Gramps. Well, if nothing else, I shall be on my way then!"

  Then she left, leaving behind a faint scent of nightshade. Or so I thought. It is unsettling—how Elsie carries upon her skin this complex bouquet of jasmine and nightshade, layered with incense and other scents too dangerous or mundane to name.

  Not long after that, terrible noises shook the town square—not the familiar clamor of battle or siege, but something odd and wrong. The very stones beneath our feet rippled, dogs began howling throughout the city, and black clouds gathered in an instant, rolling across the sky like spilled ink, while a thick veil of fog descended, turning midday into twilight. And the air around us... Oh, the air itself seemed to thicken while carrying scents of sulfur and old, very old ice.

  Rushing to the city walls, I found them teeming with people—some already trying to flee inward, others pressed against the battlements in morbid fascination. Children wept while their mothers clutched them close, covering their eyes, yet unable to look away themselves. Old Nordic veterans who had survived countless battles stood frozen, their weathered faces pale with recognition of something beyond mortal warfare.

  The Western Watchtower burned in the distance, but these were no ordinary flames. Fire and frost danced together impossibly, while shadows writhed like living things around the structure. Above it, terrible creatures long thought to be no more than legend wheeled in great circles—shadow, flame, and blizzard made flesh. The dragons were massive beyond comprehension, their wingbeats creating thunderclaps that shattered windows throughout the lower city. Each beat sent waves of supernatural cold and searing heat alternately across the walls, making men's breath mist even as sweat poured down their faces.

  The garrison's arrows vanished into the misty sky like drops of rain—some simply disintegrating in the creatures' aura, others deflected by scales harder than steel. I watched seasoned archers, men who could split an apple at a hundred paces, loose volley after volley in growing desperation. Their captain shouted orders that made sense for fighting men, but how do you form a shield wall against something that breathes winter itself?

  The little garrison fought desperately, and I have seen many things in my life—I even had done business with the People of the Deep before being a mere soldier in Nerevar's great army—but never anything like this. This was not a battle but a ritual of slaughter. Brave men charged with spears that snapped like twigs against the creatures' hide. Others tried to maintain formation even as their comrades froze solid beside them or burst into flames that no water could quench.

  I saw one dragon—if dragon is what they truly were—descend upon a company of pikemen. The soldiers held their ground with admirable courage, their weapons bristling outward like a steel hedgehog. But the creature just breathed, and half the company became ice statues, their final expressions of defiance preserved in crystal clarity. The survivors broke then, as any sane men would, scattering like leaves before a hurricane.

  The battle raged all day, though time itself seemed twisted. Moments of terror stretched into eternities, while desperate last stands passed in heartbeats. The creatures moved with a terrible intelligence, coordinating their attacks, herding the defenders like wolves with sheep. Sometimes they would pause their assault entirely, hovering just out of arrow range, as if savoring the fear below.

  On the walls, the crowd's mood shifted like weather—from panic to awful fascination to numb horror. Some prayed loudly to every god they could name. Others stood in stunned silence, tears streaming down their faces. A few laughed with the brittle edge of minds pushed too far. The very old and very young seemed to understand first what the rest of us couldn't yet grasp—that we were witnessing something beyond victory or defeat, beyond the natural order itself.

  By evening, the dead and the wounded started to be brought into the city—those few that remained whole enough to carry. Burns that wouldn't heal, frostbite in the middle of summer, and wounds that seemed to drain the very life from men. The survivors spoke little, their eyes holding the hollow look of those who had gazed into the abyss.

  And then, as night fell, the flames and clamor ceased at once. The sudden silence was more terrifying than all the roaring had been. Even the wind died, and the world held its breath. The creatures hung motionless in the air like dark stars, their eyes glowing with cold fire.

  A strange, grave voice echoed through the heavens—ancient beyond measure, speaking in a tongue that predated mortal speech. It then chanted what seemed to be a name, each syllable reverberating through our bones.

  My daughter's name—Elsie.

  Afterward, the last fighters began to arrive in Whiterun in small groups—pitiful, wounded, their armor scorched and twisted into odd shapes. Then came a larger, noisier band: the merry girls from the Drunken Huntsman. They carried Elsie. She was not burned, not wounded... yet pale as death, and she could scarcely stand.

  I followed the clamorous group to the Temple of Kynareth, where the injured were gathered in rows upon rows, the air heavy with groans and the smell of blood and herbs. There were many—far too many and Danica was moving ceaselessly among them, her hands never still, her voice soothing but strained. I offered to take some of the wounded to my mansion, but our most respected healer and high priestess shook her head: all were gravely injured, she said, and needed to remain in the holy house under the goddess's watchful eye. Then I asked, almost timidly, if I might at least take Elsie, who still lay as if unconscious. Danica bent over her, examined her carefully, and frowned. "This one is not injured," she said at last. "But she's not looking well... oh, no, not at all. When she comes to her senses, Leif, you may take her—if she agrees, that's it."

  At that very moment, Irileth entered, hard-eyed and resolute, flanked by a small squad of soldiers. Her voice cut through the chamber:

  "Where is the woman who spoke to the black dragon?"

  No one answered. The silence pressed in. Then Courtney stole close to me and whispered, "Leif, Elsie is the one... Please, do something!" Claire, bolder, raised her voice and declared that the woman had not yet reached town. Irileth did not linger; she ordered the supposed witness brought to the Earl's court as soon as she appeared, then swept from the temple, soldiers at her heels.

  I turned—and there was Elsie, her eyes suddenly wide open.

  "Yes, my lady," she said to Danica, her voice weak but clear. "I will go with Gramps, if I may."

  "You may, my darling," Danica replied, smiling as she smoothed Elsie's hair. Then, with a soft chuckle: "Gramps! That's a good one."

  So, with Claire and Courtney practically carrying her, Elsie made her way slowly to my home, where Lydia awaited us—very worried, even furious. Ah, those two... they could never abide each other, and never would, not to the end of days!

  This is an excerpt from "Tamrielic Chronicles" by Leif the Sage (integral, unmodified quotes). Apart from that, I must say: I am terribly sorry for frightening my daddy, but I needed the money badly, and he is such a skinflint that I really had no choice! And, oh, why should I waste ink and expensive parchment on another tale when he already spun a perfect, true one? Hm?

  Elsie Leifsdotter