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]

Update: My snobby Altmer is about to return to Whiterun with the Dragonstone in this episode, those who have done the Main Quest know what's about to happen.

Morndas, 5:55 PM, 25th of Last Seed

On return to Dragon's Reach, did I carry the so-sought dragon's stone from the Barrows of the Dead, and whilst conversing amongst Farengar the Secret-Fired Wizard, and a barren-headed associate did Irileth, the accosting Dunmer from the Jarl's court, effect her soddentious approach once again. But at present did Irileth cometh forth not to accost, nor give bewarings that I must vacate the Jarl's court as henceforth, and rightly so for her Dunmerious sake.

A dragon! A dragon has been sighted about! I have been avenged in my words, so previously distrusted and ignored.

I am to accompany Irileth and a local posse of nitwit soldiers somehwere beyond the walls of Whiterun, and must make haste in my travells!

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Tirdas, 2:06 AM, 26th of Last Seed

As I scribe these words into my fatithful tome, my hand it shakes, my bones they ache. I, Master Baytor, Dominion Lord of the almighty Thalmor, have taken upon a sight much more dreaded than imagined, that I fear such might enter into my dreams of night, and on many other such darknesses of frequent. The dragon!

As I did make approach towards the hazy, shadowing plains of Whiterun Hold, and gathered upon these plains with the aforementioned grouping of nitwit guards and mercenaries, I feared in my very bones that the rumorations could be true. And then, did he make appearance! ... Breathing gaseous enemations and flitting about high up into the night skies!

But I did make solid attacking upon this dragon! My flaming atronach was cast, my Nordic sword of ice and cold I did swing into the very scales enveloping the great, gargantuan beast; I flailed upon its wings and body so mighty did I, and danced around upon my feet so lithe, whilst the dragon enflighted and glided from his mighty heights. The guards themselves did as they could, yet were not of matching towards the great beast. Were it not for I, Master Innquoo Baytor, would it have been that all those whom were of presecne would have be-fallen from woeing, and to their death-beds they would have decreed to fail.

The dragon's flesh and guts did sweep across the plains upon his bereavement, great castings of firey essence filled the air arond me, and immersed me so. I made careful inspectings of his remains: bones the size of a ship's galley bracings! I know not what happened just then, but the world around me blurred just so, and away from my reach did my mind go.

I am to make my return to Jarl Balgruuf, leader of all Whiterun Hold, and report my findings, that the dragon which might have slain Whiterun has now been pacified eternally. But as of now, I must gather my wits and my poise.

I sit currently in The Drunken Huntsman, a sweetroll of better quality before me than that which might be found in that narrow-in-width and in-mind hamlet beknownst as Riverwood, and accompanied by three bottles of Whiterun's finest mead, all of which shall be downed with relish, in celebration of thas death of the dragon of Whiterun plains.

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12:26 PM

I must scribe more: As I ensconce here at present, before the Jarl's grandest tables of oak-wood, I now feast upon a meal which is finally of true succulency: fruits not far from the tree, slabs of meat not long from the slaughter, and cheese which is aged to (finally) perfection, all to be-fit for digestion for the likes of I.

I, Master Baytor, Dominion Lord of the mighty Thalmor, am now Master Baytor, Dominion Lord of the Thalmor, and Thane of all Whiterun Hold. The peoples, they will remember my name. The guards shalt grant me passage as my titling has brought before me powers unbeknownst amongst Cyrodiil's Imperial City.

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4:44 PM

I have made further discussings with the Breton* known as Farengar, the Court Wizard appointed to the post for his Excellentcy, who has shown me the manners of proper enchatnting here in Skyrim. With a gem of souls and a specialized table of Arcanity, did I place my delicate hands, the hands of which not long ago slew a forceful being existing formerly only in the rumorings of drunken roustabouts and tongue-wagging whorres. The item of dis-enchantment, it did collapse, allowing me to use its forces to later enchant a second object, a simple guard's helm.

Farengar has informed me that the College of Winterhold might have interest in my talents as well, and I must make visitation to the Greybeards of High Hrothgar, but on the morrow I shalt first deal with a legion of bandits, of whom have with sore decision made residence inside an old fort nearby to Whiterun known as Halted Stream's Camp. They shalt count their last hours, unknowingly, before they meet their doom

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This post has been edited by Lady Saga: Oct 28 2015, 12:08 AM