There is a time when one chooses how to govern his or her life.

Either to live in the past that cannot be avoided nor forgot not, lamenting and ruing over spilt milk much like a spoiled child, for the rest of their pathetic existence; or to move. To move and get on with life, marching forward towards the future and better life.

For time waits for no man. Nor Aedra nor Daedra. It will continue to tick by tick without fail, without end, till oblivion comes and the promised day arrives.

Some choose to live a normal life, one that is fulfilling and long and content, before they fall and withered down by old age. Taste a painless death, natural and dull, much like the common days lived, under her cold embrace. Mundane as they were be they forgotten beneath layers and layers of ash and dust and dirt.

Those that refuse such mundane ending, such dim shimmer, for all the good in the entirety of their life compared wishes to be remembered. Eternalized. If not akin to heroes but a loved one, respected and be known by all and sundry, that would live on in memories and tales and stories to come.

But if this is not the case – not to be realized, not to be desired – then by gods are they foolish.

Remain unnamed and unknown, otherwise, rot in some dingy crevice and narrow spaces that none would give second glances or thoughts to seek, to look. Only selected few are willing to go through such measures. As the last breath left their unexpected lungs, as their souls are being taken to Oblivion, Sovngarde or elsewhere; depending on their beliefs and deities. As the warmth leaves their inert body to rot and erode, leaving none but little scrapes of flesh and white bones behind.

Alas, these are the fates of wrongdoers – criminals, defilers, sinners; defenders, fighters, protectors: These are the fates of unsung heroes.

In this treacherous land of Skyrim, a barren land of cold and mountain tops prized by the Nords that they would truly call home – of which they have shed blood; bleed for those who refuse to shed theirs – there exists a competition. Inevitable clashes and conflicts, a resulted misunderstanding simply due to the different ways of thinking; led to a bigger battle it did before reaching an accord long since craved.

But let us stop there.

This is no beginning nor 'tis an end. Far from it. A story for another time, perhaps. Rest assured.

For now, allow me to tale you a yarn. One that actually has a proper beginning, and a means of an end.

It began with a journal.