Story recap
To prepare for her Stormcloak initiation of slaying an ice wraith, 16 year-old Jastinia dove headlong into her new training program with her different mentors. Scouts Many-Marshes introduced the Imperial to cold water acclimation in the frigid White River. Stands-In Shallows encouraged her to hone her hunting and stalking skills in the wild. Meanwhile, Torbjorn Shatter-Shield gave the girl an unusual task: forge a two-handed battleaxe for an unknown purpose. Not wanting to disappoint the swordmaster, and determined to prove her worth to Torbjorn’s icy wife, the orphaned Jastinia temporarily set aside her claymore and armor for hammer and apron. Following schematics from the Craftsman’s Manual, and with help from Hermir Strong-Heart plus grumbles from Oengul War-Anvil, Jastinia began forging the battleaxe. One sore shoulder and ringing eardrum at a time.
Over the next week, she made progress on the new weapon despite setbacks: nightmares of ghostly figures and an icy death on Serpenstone; unsettling bodies found on the Bridge of the Kings; and perhaps worst of all, a nasty bout of stomach rot from questionable Sailor’s Rest meat. She persevered, and by the end of the week had pounded, forged, and welded a completed axe head. But before she could quench and polish the head, a courier brought her a delivery. An inheritance letter from a dead “Beggar”, identical word-for-word to a similar letter Jastinia received years ago. The letter that had memorialized her mother’s bloody, brutal murder. The dismissive, bureaucratic note dragged the young warrior back to the headspace of the 8 year-old who found her mother’s corpse in the sewers. Between dark memories, the letter’s words, and a meeting with an old Dark Elf friend that ended with customary Windhelm bigotry, Jastinia realized she needed some space. She left the city early to gather wood for her battleaxe handle and clear her head.
(continue reading on the blog)
Series background
Welcome to Jastinia of Windhelm’s legendary edition Ultimate Skyrim/Take Notes playthrough. My name is Anna and I'm blogging her playthrough on my WordPress page, Unearthed Arcanna, but posting all the content here too. Got questions about Jastinia? My modlist? Our roleplaying approach? Check out all the “playthrough links” below for more information about the series.
Playthrough links
- Ultimate Skyrim, other mods, and MCM setup
- Character backstory
- Character creation and build
- Self-imposed roleplaying rules
- Jastinia of Windhelm journal index
- Jastinia’s combat clips
Heartfire, 11th, 4E 201
Stables. Windhelm.
Mid morning.
-----
It takes forever to get myself ready for the road. I blame Gaerford. His Survivor’s Guide has me so afraid of freak blizzards and sudden hailstorms that I always overpack. Knapsack and woodcutter’s axe, bedroll and water. Warm clothes, tinder, sword and bow and dagger. I had everything but rations and now I’ve bought those too, even if I’m not happy about how I afforded them. My inherited money, minus the Jarl’s tax. A “Beggar’s” pitiful fortune, bequeathed to me after their death. I feel dirty spending it, let alone so soon after receiving Rigmar’s delivery. But what else was I going to do? Save it in the nameless dead’s memory? Give it to someone else before they met their own anonymous end in the sewers too?
It’s not like I held onto mom’s pittance when the Steward passed it to me following her own killing. Half of it was gone in just over a week on food. The other half stolen. I knew I should’ve hidden it in a less trafficked chamber, trusted fewer sewerfolk to watch it, even if in hindsight the thief’s identity doesn’t matter. All of us were desperate down there. Mom hadn’t been the only one with a starving child and at least she only had one. If I had to steal 43 Septims from an orphaned 8 year-old to feed my own kids, I probably would too. My family might make it together. The lone girl grieving over a murdered mother would not. Had it not been for the Argonians, for Stands-In Shallows recognizing me in the tunnels when he made his skooma run, I wouldn’t be here today. They know it. I know it.
When I planned this Kynesgrove journey, I initially scheduled it as a daytrip. Now that I’m beyond the walls and hear Skyrim’s roads calling, I realize it doesn’t need to be just one day. 2-3 is fine too. Longer if I need it. It’s not like Ulfric and Galmar even expect me to attempt Serpentstone by now, let alone meet any initiation deadline. “Whatever happened to our latest recruit,” Ulfric might ask on a boring day with nothing else to discuss. Galmar would snort. Spit. “Playing with axes, going for swims.” They’d both agree: “Typical Imperial: useless, lazy, and weak.” With even less ability, background, and upbringing than Tova thinks I possess. So yeah, it’s not like I’m in a huge rush.
It’s a most of a day’s walk to Kynesgrove in good weather, but I’d like to take my time harvesting the battleaxe lumber. Between logging, travel to and from the mining town, and any other time I need alone, that’s about three days. Three days to forget this awful letter and burn it in the first campfire I build. Three days to find solid oak or elm for the handle, win a few coins at the Braidwood, pull myself out of all this unbecoming self-pity.
Seriously: get over yourself, Jastinia. I’m sure every Stormcloak has a sob story just as bad as yours. All the people you care about certainly do. Every Dunmer who fled Morrowind to a refuge even less welcoming than what was left of their homes. Every Argonian who washed up in a city that won’t even allow them inside its walls. You don’t see them rubbing frozen tears from their eyes, wallowing in memories almost a decade old. Chin up, feet moving, and enjoy the road. The wilderness. Your favorite place and your favorite home. As Shahvee always reminds me and her kin when we are feeling down, “Good, honest work staves off the cold.” These days there’s nowhere colder than my own stupid head. Some good, honest work with a woodcutter’s axe is exactly what I need right now.
That and some sun. Clouds might suit my mood better, but you can bet I wouldn’t complain if Magnus decided to show his bright face and say hi.
Heartfire, 11th, 4E 201
Kynesgrove Road. Eastmarch.
Late morning.
-----
Magnus must have misheard me. I wanted a little sunshine, a little warmth. Not heavier cloudcover and this surprise blizzard. That’s what I get for doubting Gaelford’s pessimism. I’m only about three hours beyond the stables but for all the snow and visibility, I might as well be a week’s north in the Pale. Whiteout conditions, winds strong enough to capsize a ship, and snow whirling into my hood and down my neck. Not exactly the cheery start to my Kynesgrove retreat I hoped for. Looks like I’m taking an early lunch.
I brought Wolf Queens 1 and 2 for a little reading but I don’t think I’ll be doing much of anything in this storm. Especially not reading; I can only see this journal if I’m huddled under Ma’jhad’s hide cloak. The winds are tamer by these cliffs and I eventually got a fire going before my hands were too numb to even strike the flint, but right now I can’t worry about reading or writing. Just keep warm, wait it out, and stay alert so some winter monster doesn’t stumble into my camp. At least that awful inheritance letter is gone, burned away among the tinder with all its cruel language and crueler reminders. I have enough to worry about today. I don’t need to invite yesterday’s specters too.
Heartfire, 11th, 4E 201
Kynesgrove Road. Eastmarch.
Late afternoon.
Of course. After hours spent wiggling around on these rocks to find the least uncomfortable spot, the storm broke. So sad I can’t spend the night here on my stony mattress. Unfortunately, now it’s much later than I’m normally comfortable traveling. More dangerous. The roads will be thick with accumulated snow and nightfall is only a few hours away.
On the one hand, even if I left right now I wouldn’t make it to Kynesgrove until well after dark. The perfect roadside snack for any wolves or sabercats looking for a frozen, snow-powdered treat. Or bandits waiting for easy gold. On the other hand, staying exposed on these frozen rocks, the cliffside behind me reflecting my fire across the forest, doesn’t feel much safer. And I’d rather get jumped on the road while I’m awake and trudging through ankle-deep snow than bushwhacked while bundled in my bedroll.
I’ll break camp and continue south. With Kynareth’s favor, I can make good time even on the fresh-powdered roads. Brave the cold, avoid outlaws and hungry wildlife, and make it to Kynesgrove before another blizzard kicks up. Or before the Braidwood closes its kitchen for the night.
Heartfire, 11th, 4E 201
Braidwood Inn. Kynesgrove.
Mid evening.
-----
I can’t believe Iddra’s already asleep! Small-town folk and their small-town schedules. At this hour, the Candlehearth party would just be getting started. Luaffyn picking up her tempo with a jauntier tune. Viola crooning to Captain Lonely-Gale while he tries to lose her in the drunken crowd. Susanna serving flagons and compliments for extra tips, Nils baking bread whiter than he is, Rolff burping up his ale and belching opinions about those “filthy Imperial spies” on the other side of town. Hm. Maybe this small-town life isn’t so bad after all. But if Iddra’s in bed, who else is supposed to sell me Eastmarch’s best cheese curds?
As if things couldn’t get worse, I don’t have enough money to rent a room for the night and there isn’t a soul in the inn who wants to try their Prophet’s Dice luck against me. Guess I’ll be roughing it outside at the camp with the miners and loggers. Sigh. Welcome to Kynesgrove.
I tried to appreciate the town’s rustic charm as I crested its hill, arrived at the lamppost that marks its border, but it was just too late in the day. Too many shadows, clouds, and yawns. Between the godsawful sleep of the last few days and the 10+ hour “daytrip” it took to slog through miles of snow, I’m not exactly in a position to appreciate anything except a good night’s rest. If that’s even possible in bedrolls clustered around a communal fire, lulled to sleep by a chorus of snores, groans, and coughs from my fireside neighbors. Commoners and laborers. Transient miners. Itinerant workers like so many Nords who escape the big cities seeking a better life only to get stuck in towns like this. Simple folk but hard folk, people who endure backbreaking shifts just to save enough coin to wander to the next mill or mine.
Iddra may have been sleeping but some of the other Braidwood regulars were still awake. I’d visited enough times to remember them. Kjeld (the younger) complaining about the mess those slobbish miners left him to clean up. Kjeld (the older) complaining about his lazy workers and lazier son. Roggi on his sixth mead and still going strong. Genna and Gamma arguing about their lumber mill investment in a town where every tree around it is sacred. I always feel so bad for them. The Uriel sisters, my Imperial kinswomen even if I’m confident they don’t remember my name. Slight-statured like me with features like mine, too fine for harsh Skyrim but too coarse for true high-blooded women of Cyrodiil. Transplants like mom and dad who came north to find something. But what? A beginning to something new? An end to something best forgotten? Maybe just the temptation of opportunity. The trap of possibility that is a new lumber mill in an old mining town with no choppable lumber for miles. I bet my parents could relate to Genna’s and Gamma’s plight. Dead-ended in Kynesgrove just like mom and dad became trapped in Windhelm. Mom especially. Probably dad too before he wandered off to find something better, leaving a wife and a daughter to survive the endless Eastmarch cold on their own. Leaving me.
Sitting here by the Braidwood firepit, warming my toes and fingers after a day’s march through snow, I dread the camp that awaits me just outside as much as I dread whatever visions await after my eyes close. Not because I fear for my safety. Let those crusty miners just try something and see why I sleep with a dagger. See what happens like the first and only grabby traveler at Sailor’s Rest three years back. Idle comments don’t scare me either, jabs or coos about a soft-cheeked Imperial lost in Nordic woods. “Hey there, little girl.” “Long way from Cyrdoiil, aren’t you?” “Need some big, strong arms for the night?” Heard it all before, fellas. Piss off and leave me alone. There’s nothing they can say I haven’t already stomached. Nothing I haven’t endured from Hod, Rolff, and all the other Nordic boors. From Tova.
So what am I so scared of then? It’s not their propositions or veiled threats. Nor the cramped campsite, the rogue embers which could ignite a bedroll or greasfire, the prowling thieves picking bags while we sleep. It’s the people themselves. It’s seeing them, watching them, understanding them. All those miners. Laborers and workers who call this town home and call this campsite their bedroom. All of them are dreamers and believers different from me in heritage and height but nothing else, optimists who left their home wanting something more before ending up here. Stuck in Kynesgrove.
Looking around that campsite, I see their potential stories unfold above them like scrolls tumbling from archive shelves. An aspiring knight or queen, sorcerer or alchemist, inn-keeper or mill-owner. A Stormcloak. But instead of fulfilling that destiny they just lie there, curled in mead-stained bedrolls under smoky tents before Just-Another-Day of their lives. I see their dying dreams blow away with the camp smoke, the falling ashes of dreams already gone. I see a future and a fate I hope to never experience. One I know I can fall into if I falter on any step of this journey.
Kynesgrove. A town defined by its unmoving, eternal grove atop the hill. And also by its people, folk who may drift from camp to camp across the province but are in many ways as unmoving as those trees.
And here I thought my journey would be an escape from all this self-pitying gloom. I guess tomorrow’s a new day. As Shahvee always says about her kin, who have far more reason to sink into self-pity than I do, “Our fortunes will turn and we will endure. We always have.” Me too. At least, so far. A night around Kynesgrove’s labor-camp fire won’t change that and I owe it to all the Argonians who have helped me to share her optimism.
Heartfire, 12th, 4E 201
Labor camp. Kynesgrove.
Mid morning.
-----
Holy shit. I thought that roar was part of my dream. Some new fear manifesting alongside the ice wraith and all my other frozen doubts. Except after I heard it again, deep and closer than it should be in a town, after I rolled from my bedroll and heard the screaming, I knew it wasn’t a dream. The roar was real. The screams were real. And the bear was real too.
“Help, someone please!”
“Help us!”
“I’m getting out of here!”
Chaos in the camp as miners and workers stumbled over each other, tipping flagons and plates into the dirt as they retreated from tents to nearby cottages. Pounding on doors, “Let us in!” as the roar echoed again just beyond the camp fence.
The smart decision would have been to join them. Get the hell out of there before the growling beast lumbered closer. Smart like staying warm and dry instead of swimming mostly naked in the White River. Smart like learning the ways of proper Skyrim women like Friga and Nilsine, not warcraft from Torbjorn and Scouts. Smart like staying far away from the Palace of the Kings until all my Stormcloak dreams were dust and shadow and I built my own failed lumber mill in one of Skyrim’s forgotten towns.
What can I say? Smart decisions have never been my strength.
I ran to the fence and peered over at the bear. Past the chicken coop, rippling with brown fur and its bulging muscles. Shallows always reminded me animals feared us more than we feared them. It takes a lot to provoke them to attack. They prefer avoiding solo travelers in the wilds, never mind larger groups and entire towns. If this brute was already on the Kynesgrove doorstep, something was wrong. Maybe it was hurt or sick, confused or scared. Possessed by some nature spirit or just pissed off at humans who kept encroaching on its domain. But now that it was here, pawing and rummaging around in front of the general store, its instinctual fear was gone. It was hungrier than it was hesitant. “Most animals fear us, Wargirl,” Shallows said. “But fear the animals that fear us no longer.”
It’s a job for the guard, I reminded myself. The Stormcloaks garrisoned soldiers in Kynesgrove for this very reason. Or Windhelm regulars, the Eastmarch militia. But as I looked around, I didn’t see any of them. No guards, no soldiers, no militiamen to protect these people or wield arms in their name. No one was coming. No one would help, and if that bear got any closer, chasing the smell of old rabbit meat from last night’s fire, the pitchy screams of scared prey, they would be too late anyway.
But looking over that fence, turning and seeing the screaming, scrambling workers, I realized no one else needed to come. Neither guard nor soldier nor militiamen, because Kynesgrove already had the protected it needed. I was there. I was ready. And I wasn’t going to let this beast lay a claw on one of these broken, wandering dreamers.
Wish I hadn’t let it lay a claw on me though. I’m lucky I’m just banged-up and tired. Luckier Torbjorn drilled my defenses, that this makeshift hauberk held up against 500+ pounds of bear. But even so, holy shit. I did it. I’d fought a bear in the wilderness before but this was different. Months back, I’d stalked that snowbear for hours, hit it with arrows from afar before closing to engage. This was a duel. A battle of woman against nature and at least this time, the winner’s the one buying herself a heaping portion of cheese curds.
Kynareth: thank you for making my feet light and blade lighter. Torbjorn: thank you for teaching me to wield that blade to protect this land. And Scouts: thank you for all those awful barrel hops and agility drills. In the end it wasn’t just big brutes in heavy armor I ran circles around. It was bears too.
I still need to chop that battleaxe lumber but now I also need to butcher this animal. Patch up my scratches and bruises, let the poultice do its work. At least I’ll have money for my curds now; between the bear meat, fat, and whatever is left of its pelt after too much greatsword enthusiasm, I should have more than enough to buy out Iddra. It’s a victory and I know it, even if most Kynesgrove residents were too busy cowering inside huts and under blankets to witness it. They’ll probably thank the guards who will just shrug as they wander along their patrol routes, so bored they might not even remember a titanic struggle against a bear.
And yet, despite this knowledge, despite the satisfied adrenaline settling in my stomach, I can’t write or shake away a feeling of unease. It’s not just the lingering fox meat effects either, nor my battered arms, sore wrists from absorbing the bear’s bites. It’s that smell of blood. The sound of it squirting out of the bear’s wounds as I ran it through. The *shink* of greatsword into flesh and its twitching, dying body lying on the road. A potential danger to Kynesgrove yes, but also a noble, mighty, and now dead being. Dead because it wandered too close to humans who were on its own land in the first place. Dead because I killed it.
Heartfire, 12th, 4E 201
Jurgan’s Goods and Trade. Kynesgrove.
Late morning.
-----
I really don’t want to spend all 200 Septims of harvested bear meat on a single potion, but if Jurgan promises it will cure my poor stomach I might just do it. I could also trade off the pelt for extra but now that I’m holding the fur, rubbing my fingers through the coarse bristles and thick hair, I don’t want to part with it. Scouts always warns me against vanity, against collecting trophies and showing-off past victories. But you know what? I slayed that beast in single combat and I get to feel good about that, thank you very much Mr. Many-Marshes. My fight, my pelt, my trophy.
Except maybe I don’t feel that good about it. Not after giving thanks to Kynareth for the victory, not after the butchering, and not even now after most of my bruises are healed. The visible ones, anyway.
I don’t know what turn of fate or health sent the bear wandering out of its element into ours. No, I correct myself. Into its own element. Kynesgrove might be humanity’s outpost in these overgrown hills but that’s all it is. A foothold in land that is barely ours. A toehold. The more I think about it, the more I know we are the invaders here, the bear our victim. And Jastinia of Windhelm was there at the front lines, tip of the spear, edge of the sword, to impose Eastmarch’s will on nature.
It did no more or less than any bear would do. It roamed its kingdom looking for food or shelter, perhaps meeting a family member, finding a lost cub. For all I know, these crass laborers had hunted its kin earlier for food or sport. For the same spoils I just sold to Jurgan at coppers on the pound. Scraps for the dogs, bits to feed the fire or go into a miner stew. An ignoble, wasteful fate for such a noble animal. The Brown Bear: pure avatar of Skyrim’s independence and ferocity. Patron of Skyrim, icon of the Stormcloaks. One bear against one of Skyrim’s least favored daughters and I’m the one who emerges still wearing my skin. Still on my feet and not twitching in a blood-soaked pile.
After all that, the least I can do is honor it this way by keeping its pelt. In whatever weird way we justify that as “honoring” a dead adversary. There’s some twisted symbolism in this. Of (wo)man against wild. Of the Stormcloak to-be prevailing against the Stormcloak’s embodiment as she prepares for her formal Serpentstone initiation. Of yet another body that bites me even after its death, like the two on the Windhelm bridge, the “Beggar” corpses invoked in Windhem’s cruel letters. I don’t know what any of it means. I’m no scholar or sage. I’m not clever like Potema, cynical like Tova, or wise like Shahvee. I’m just some messed-up kid who knows this shit is harder in real life than it is in the stories but you know what? Maybe that’s enough for now.
Remember how this trip was supposed to yank me out of my head, not plunge me deeper? I’m going to take a long lunch to at least eat some of this bounty I robbed from nature and then I’ll march south to the geysers, the patches of trees growing among the calcified dirt. Another site where people like me can steal Skyrim’s riches for our own purposes. I’m hoping for no more blizzards, certainly no more bears, but I wouldn’t blame one if it smelled its cousin’s killer and charged ahead to finish the job.
Heartfire, 12th, 4E 201
Wilds. Eastmarch.
Mid evening.
-----
I needed this. I really did. Not the sweaty hours to fell and split that elm, although maybe in a way I needed that exertion too. Not the aching shoulders from toppling the tree and then chopping up its trunk, nor the spasming back after. What I really needed was this alone time. This evening air. The sky, the stars, and those green veils dancing under twin moons, auroras shimmering with moonlit cloud as I stare to the heavens while Massa and Secunda stare back. I look up at them and remember peace. Just me, Skyrim, and the moons without a person for miles. My giant neighbors over the ridge don’t count either. Ancient souls with sad, tired faces. I spied on one from afar earlier today. More of Skyrim’s avatars: slow, timeless, and powerful.
There’s enough wood in my bundle for a Stormcloak squad of battleaxes but I’m not going to sell off the excess. I might need it for future projects, when Torbjorn decides he needs his own battleaxe and I’m the girl who needs to forge it. For a later bow, extra arrows. Even if Jurgan or Gamma would pay a premium for the knotless timber (which they won’t), it’s not like Kynesgrove will distinguish between this fine elm and the deadwood scrounged around their forest. It’s a mining town, not a lumber camp. Most of their wood just goes into repairing pickaxe handles or shoring up mine shafts, not new battleaxes. If I’d split it the elm in larger pieces, or even if I’d asked one of those wandering giants to drag the whole log back to town, this tree could have been a sturdy addition Kynesgrove’s rustic architecture. But chopped into rounds like I did for easier transport, it’s likeliest fate would be kindling for the laborer camp or charcoal for the smelter. These old trees, not as old as the village’s namesake grove but older than anyone still living in it, deserve a better future. I hope my shoddy battleaxe is good enough.
I’m only a few hours south of Kynesgrove so with an early start I can return to the mining town before lunch, sell some of the more valuable herbs and vegetation I gathered out here, and then make my way back to Windhelm. It feels wrong abandoning this expansive view for the dingy, soot-smeared ceiling of Sailor’s Rest. I wish I could stay longer. But between burning the letter, the time outdoors, and the solitary serenity of this skyscape, I’m feeling better. Not better like I was before my birthday when the only thing I had to worry about was whether or not Ulfric would even turn his eyes in my direction. Better than yesterday and even better than this morning. Better in the understanding that I shouldn’t have killed that bear, the experience to hope I won’t make that mistake again.
I now know I could have resolved the encounter differently. Lured the bear away with meat, scared it off with loud noises. Got its attention and then led it on a merry chase through the foothills. Shallows taught me there is no shame in a shameless hunt. “What makes a hunt shameless?” I’d asked. “You will know the more you hunt.” Sometimes I wish the Argonians could borrow at least one mannerism from their slavedriver boss and share Torbjorn’s bluntness. Maybe then I wouldn’t have killed this poor animal.
I might not know everything that goes into a shameless hunt but I know this brown bear was not one such example. And I hope I won’t be so rash to leap into battle next time, so quick to solve a problem with violence. These aren’t happy revelations but they have a grounding comfort to them just like the packed, flat dirt under my bedroll. So yes, all considered, I still feel better. And certainly better enough to make it home, get back to War-Anvil’s forge, and finish Torbjorn’s battleaxe project before he decides he wants a matching steel plate cuirass to go with it.
I’ll continue Potema’s journey before sleep. Just me and her under Skyrim’s twin moons on an unseasonably pleasant night. The “Wolf” queen, huh? I don’t know why she was called that, not yet at least. Even so, wolflike or not, she would surely love this lunar view as much as I do.
Heartfire, 13th, 4E 201
Wilds. Eastmarch.
Early morning.
It’s amazing how much difference 10-20 miles makes for Skyrim’s weather. Camping an hour outside of Windhelm? I’d probably be buried in snow with only the tip of my nose to guide rescuers to my dead campfire and dying body. Not that any would come in those northern tundras. But a few miles outside of Kynesgrove, which is itself just south of the Hold capital? The morning sun is barely peeking over snowcapped mountains and I’m already comfortable. If only those ancient Nords built their ancestral city just a little further south. Of course, then it wouldn’t fit their cheery, sunny disposition. Nor their cold sense of True Skyrim Pride. Personally, I’d trade Windhelm’s stony authenticity for the warm southern hills any day. Hopefully Serpentstone isn’t a sign of my Stormcloak campaigns to come. Think I can put in a special request for a Falkreath deployment? I hear Helgen’s gorgeous when the leaves change.
Wolf Queen 2 did not disappoint. Potema might be older now than in Volume One, her burdens heavier, but she hasn’t lost her youthful cleverness. Her drive and willingness to do whatever she has to do, whatever it takes, to come out ahead. I know people will read her story with suspicion. Judgment. “Just who does this ungrateful witch think she is?” “What gives her the right to manipulate these trusting people around her?” Please. Spoken like a true son of Skyrim.
Critics like that never grew up Imperial in the north. Let alone Imperial with all of Potema’s crushing expectations. Forced to marry a man old enough to be her father’s father while she was barely my age. Stolen from her home, imprisoned in a new one a thousand miles north, locked in a gilded cage with perfumed prison guards but still a cell from which she could not escape. And now she secures a future for herself and the child she may have never wanted but was forced to birth. You do you, girl. If I were in your position, I’d also go to whatever lengths were necessary to survive and thrive. To make myself a home where I’d been sold and bred like a prize animal. Keep fighting. Keep scheming. I know you’ll make it and I can’t wait to hear what happens in Volume Three.
I should leave soon to make it to Kynesgrove before lunch. That will give me enough time to stop at Jurgan’s store and buy his potion; it’s probably cheaper to wait until I return to Windhelm but I really don’t care. I can’t stomach it anymore. No more growls, no more grumbles, no more buckets behind smelters or chiseled holes in packed dirt. As long as I have even a little extra money for Iddra’s cheese curds, I’ll be happy, and at this point I might trade all the curds in Eastmarch just to keep food in my stomach where it belongs. After that, with a belly free of fox meat and full of dairy bliss, I’ll make my way home. “Home.” To the extent I can call Windhelm that. To my salmon-smoked bed at Sailor’s Rest where I can sleep and awaken ready to finish Torbjorn’s axe.
But before that, I’ll do everyone in Sailor’s Rest a favor and give myself a bath. Between roughing it in the country, carving up the bear, and all the other indignities of rural camping, Scouts is right: I really need one.
Heartfire, 13th, 4E 201
Kynesgrove.
Late morning.
-----
Mmm. Mammoth cheese curds. And I can actually enjoy them without buckets or holes because of Jurgan’s potion. You really can’t put a price on stomach comfort. Well, maybe you can, and maybe 217 Septims was at the upper end of that price range. But overcharged potions aside, I’m happy to not be massaging my poor belly all day and happier still to enjoy the Braidwood’s signature dish. Think Iddra would export some of her product north from time to time? I bet I could get Ma’dran in on that racket next time his caravan passes through.
I couldn’t ask for better weather, which means it’s going to start storming the instant I clear the Kynesgrove lamppost. But who knows. Maybe my luck will hold up. Not like the luck of those who remain stuck in this mining town as the world passes around them. I may feel better about my run-in with the brown bear, my commitment to learn from that mistake, but I don’t share that closure about Kynesgrove itself. If anything, my evening in Skyrim’s endless wilderness only sharpened my discomfort. Passing the camp again, overhearing miner conversations, watching them shovel rationed slops into their mouths from wooden plates, I still fear their fate. Locked into a lifestyle they never intended as their dreams keep fading. Just like the bearblood on stone that has already begun to seep away.
Even in the bright autumn sun, even with some of Kynesgrove’s people nodding in recognition and smiling for my help with the bear yesterday, I can’t ignore the town’s inherent sadness. On every visit before, whether solo or with mom and dad as a girl, I enjoyed its rustic beauty, wooden houses lashed together one beam at a time on hand-hewn stone plots. A town ruling a hillside where our kind was never meant to dwell. Kynesgrove was a statement that we too can live and make a home here.
Now I’m seeing Kynesgrove for what it really is. Its beauty has darkened, like the dirt-caked faces of miners breaking for lunch before another 5+ hours in Kjeld the Elder’s shafts. Some I recognize from the last two days. Others I don’t know but probably just missed while I was too busy charging into a fight I should’ve ignored. But perhaps some are already newcomers to Kynesgrove, fresh-arrivals in the last 12 hours who will themselves pass and fade like those before. Wanderers drifting between settlements and settled dreams, accepting their new reality but still clinging to hope. Mined, hammered, and forge-welded hopes only vaguely recognizable as the dreams they once were.
I’m sad to leave the country and return to Windhelm, but I’m not sad to leave this place. A stopover where so many just stopped. An endpoint for traveler journeys like it was Gamma and Genna. Even for the Stormcloaks posted here, far from the front lines wasting days and dreams in a town they won’t even defend from wildlife. Better to die in ice wraith jaws than dissolve into shadow here.
I’m glad it’s sunny. The warmth and light will do me good, even if I know it’s only temporary as I return to a city devoid of both. Gods. Aren’t I cheery today? Oengul’s right. I just need to shut up, enjoy my cheese curds, and be thankful for warm weather. See you soon, Windhelm. Hope you didn’t miss me too much.
Commentary
I wrote a longer commentary section in the blogpost itself. To check it out, visit and scroll down: https://unearthedarcanna.wordpress.com/2021/03/16/jastinia-3-forged-09-07-09-11-201/. Most of these thoughts were more about the video creation and roleplaying these fights, so I'll just share the one that's more about writing here. Read the post to check the rest out:
- Violence has consequences.
Thanks for reading and join us and I next time as Jastinia (actually) finishes the battleaxe and begins the next phase of Torbjorn’s training.
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