The Saga of Ignatius Baytor Options

[Lady Saga]

Hello, it's been awhile since I've posted here as Lady Saga. Renee Gade IV likes to clutter her character stories up into one big mess, while I prefer to post individually, as we shall see.

What I am going to be writing is a series of journal entries from a new character of mine: Master Baytor. It's okay, go ahead and laugh. He is an Altmer from Summerset Isle who has been comfortably living in Cyrodiil ever since the Great War. He learned a bit of magic in the Imperial City, and also is somewhat proficient with swords. He is a Spellsword, my first dual-wielding character, and third character to attempt the Main Quest & Civil War with. He'll be doing the Civil War. He's a Thalmor agent, trying to aid the Imperials at war, although as we shall see, the word "trying" is to become pertinent at the beginning of this tale.

And here is his first journal entry.

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Sundas, 11:15 PM, 17th of Last Seed, Year 201

Those impetuous fools! To think that they could send me to Skyrim, and then trick me into a bargaining of sorts, thrusting my inhibitions and mocking my terrantcy!

I ... am Master Baytor, Disciplinary Lord of the Aldmeri Thalmor. I have started this journal as a record of sorts, that he who might find it might also know of my tales, and how I have come to make arrivation into Skyrim. The 'impetuous fools' of whom I speak might gladly bow thy heads in shame, were they to know whom they were dealing with! I am (and always will be) one of them! Foolish degredators!

I am not the TRAITOR of whom they seek!

Not so long ago, the White Gold Concordat promised many great things: the ending of the Great War among them, as well as the joining of forces between Imperial regimentations, and the Aldmeri Dominion. All of these great things have been long decided, yet here I am. I, Master Baytor, made travels with a group of others, all of us up from Cyrodiil and the Summerset Isle, planning to make our visitation brief, and to the point. When we did make sudden appearance upon a camp of Imperial-led soldiers located not far from Pale Pass, chaos did erupt! We elves were quickly be-sieged; many of us fell. Only I and perhaps one other did survive.

An errant move on the specious foolish Imperials! We are not of betrayal, and the wrong was not righted for many many hours. Why might I be chosen for such sodden mockery, and thrown onto a cheap wooden cart along with criminals, low-lifes, and (behold!) General Tullius himself? These questionings are (as of now) un-answered by the incompetent boobs who made ruination of my first days in Skyrim.

My companions are not of presence, but I am on their side, the side of the Imperial Empire, or so it would seemingly be.

But this tale ends not yet. .. The things I have seen, the The events I have beheld, would fill tomes full of fantastical but laughably erroneous scripts, had they not have actually happened. For upon my very execution, after being branded a superfillious traitor, did I nearly commence to have my very head befallen, lopped off with an axe the size of an oxen's yoke. Yet was I saved.

I was saved.

I, by mighty voice spoken by the Eight, do require some dispensation of belief, here. Cast aside thine judgements. For what I am about to write next might very well drive you into titters and tatters of comical belly-laughings. But I swear upon the hand of mighty Akatosh that such occurances did, in fact, occur. From the very sky did a large shape devolve, and land upon a nearby stone fortification-tower. It was not to be believed. A dragon! A dragon did make ruins of the whimsically dreadful village known as Helgen. Twas not to be of belief, I must say! That such a dark force from the sky, breathing gaseous forms not be be taken abruptly, did actually appear and commenced to also attack! Many men fell by the wayside as it hopped and flew from one perchment to the next, arrows and fire lighting the sky, in hopes to take the flying menace by much lesser devices.

Yet I did make my escape! For here I reside in a small hamlet known to the locals as 'Riverwood'. All sod and dirt. Where are the great stone edifications of which I have heard?

Any-ways. In Riverwood dwell'th I, while the dragon has made its escape, flying off into the day's sky like a damnation from the planes of Mehrune's Dagon.

MASTER BAYTOR, who now seeketh his long-deserved rest

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This post has been edited by Lady Saga: Oct 28 2015, 12:02 AM

[Lady Saga]

Loredas, 11:00 AM, 23rd of Last Seed

Days Passed: 6

It is of finality that I finally make my way out of that dredged place, only to find the day foggy and dis-temperate before me. Are the rumors of truth, that each and every diurnal passing shall be filled with air-mists and soggy, crawling miasma?

I imagine not how to find my way back to Whiterun, yet trudge onwards. Have scrambled downwards from a large, jagged cliff, and now have landed upon the soft, moist, terrantial ground. As I then neared the beach, I was now able to make partial viewing of Bleak Falls Barrow from yonder side, and to hilt I shalt aim leftwards, then.

5:41 PM

At present before me is an old hag, living in solitude in the very forests outside of Riverwood. My first decision of impulsivity was to strike her to the very bounds of Oblivion! Yet as of now, I cannot find reasoning why I did not partake of such actions, and why? 'Tis due to her ways. I have rememberance that she spoke in the graceless manner of a kindly old grand-lady, and charmed me just so, as to how, I have not cause to imagine. Still, in the very presence of evil did I have a feeling of immersment. *



an old hag such as she in all probability breeds poisons and foule potions, I am of certainty, yet I cannot find it within my grasp to eradicate the witch. Time is of the essence! Whiterun, Jarl Balgruuf, and Farengar await.

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Sundas, 8:18 AM, 24th of Last Seed

Welcome to the innocuous Sleeping Giant Inn, where a man or an elf cannot simply find quiet respite upon his resting. Onward and onwards sang that twit if a bard, But on sight of me, did he of immeciatcy place his lute, his flute, and his aurally-reprehensible cow's skin drum aside? That horrendous bard shut his cork-hole, did he!

I have just 'feasted' upon a slab of roasted beef with the succulency of horse's droppings, cheese probly stored within a dampened barrel for aging, and one sweetroll so hardened, I might have use of it for a hand-weapon! I might have saved a bit of coin, filled my mouth with sap and pine-needles, and feasted upon a better meal ! Were it not for the bottle of Surille's the Nord patron had for sale in this abhorrent domicile, I might have starved altogether for sustenance!

Surilie. Nectarous wine of the Year 494, with a berry just tart, yet also sweet, each gullup a gentle-reminding of my forlorn Cyrodiil. Oh how I miss the Imperial City. **

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8:51 AM

Was my intention to grandly re-enter into Whiterun, yet my plans have come to a turnabout.

I have heard rumor of the sighting of one Thalmor agent, located on the south side of Lake Ilinalta, and 'tis my very duty to journey towards Falkreath hold, and suss out my former mate. Might it be Khan Ahppenher? Dees-Wazzherr? I am not of knowing, so onwards I must press. ***

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This post has been edited by Lady Saga: Oct 28 2015, 12:06 AM