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]

The Jarl's own bed is okay? Yikes! .. As arrogant and uppity as Baytor is, I don't get the sense that even he would consider this as a sleeping option. He's been staying in this one room somewhere in the middle section of Dragon'sreach where there's a non-respawning wardrobe. He needs 5,000 gold to buy the Whiterun house, and he's almost there matter of fact.
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Journey to Solitude

I have made pact with a travelling band of Thalmor* a grouping of mighty sorcerers who as of current are of finding their way to Solitude. We travel as a septet: three Thalmor agents, their fetid Nordish prisoner, my iron-emblazoned Warrior Wench** and of course, I, Master Baytor, Dominion Lord of the mighty Thalmor, and Thane of Whiterun Hold. The Thalmor make holding of an embassy located in the vicinity somewheres north of Solitude, allowing me to join their ranks upon entry into

Sundas, 5:41 PM, 31st of Lasst Seed

We have made arrivation into Solitude, though two of our traveling posse have been lost to a stronghold of bandits squatting directly within a fort located across the road itself. These foul bandits kept a strong defence, but we besieged them with our magics of potentcy, our skills and acclimations amongst weaponry. No more shalt these grisly menaces terror the road to Solitude with their evening tosses and all manner of bantering.

Solitude and the idea of such brings forth much glee to this Thalmor elf! A homestead away from homestead for the Imperials who fight to regain position here in Skyrim, touches of Imperial design make appearance hither and yon. One gruesome sight I did behold upon entrance into Solitude: the execution of a man of pure guilt, whom made assistance amongst the Stormcloaks, and as such caused the final murder of Torygg, former High King of Skyrim. Be him no more, traitor!

Solitude contains a quaint selection of day-grinding shoppes nearest to the township's entrance, one of such being a clothing shoppe! Oh how I cannot wait 'til the morrow to make visitation towards this shoppe. I declare Solitude comtemporary and fitting for this travelling Thalmor elf

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Solitude and the Imperials

Morndas, 2:09 PM, 1st of Heartfire

Today and on the present, I hold court with the illustrious Winking Skeever, a three-storey lodging of better quality than those which might be located upon Skyrim's country-side. The furnishings are acceptable, the food delectable, and 'tis of reasoning that the invluence of the Cyrodiilic region is to blame. But, one menace does betray as I slumbered off to the nether regions of my mind on the night previous.

Yes, as you may have pondered, and to wit have made presumption, I speak of yet oantnother sanctimonius gangling twit, who feels such reason to pound endlessly upon a drum of calf's skin well into the eve like a neighboring fool's storm arriving on Middas in the form of Cicero's gales of laughter. Would it be not to liking to smash this 'artisan' with a bowlful of Sheppard's Pie, and directly into her dementive Nordic face? The idea as such tempts me grandly.

I however did no such thing. In my mind, I would suffer peals of laughter to stuff this lady's face with a pie, but in relegated society, one must conduct himself of the upmost coventry. As such, I merely 'requesteed' that she put this drum of calf-skin, her imbecilic lute of twanging, to the wayside. I then proceeded to give such a tongue-lashing that this so-called 'bard' might not have reason to sit upon any stool of wood of a weeks's time, much less sing and praise the songs of such repetitious inanity!

On the day of this bardess's death, I will indeed drink and will sing. Indeed.

Heed my ramblings reader, for today is one of the utmost importance; today I am to suss about this town of Solitude, where a man can lose his life by civil beheading should he become a miscreant of such, and locate the chapter house where General Tullius shalt deem my necessity, in aiding against the Stormcloaks.

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Tirdas, 12:56 PM

After having conversed with the General of all Imperials and eloquenting my way to join the Imperials themselves, the General and his lieu have chanced upon me a task. I am to revert to the furthest reaches of Haafingar to locate a fort-full of the usual rabbelry. Bandits have usurped the local soldier's abilities to keep this place, known as Hraggstad or some such, un-occupied and under control, so I beg of ye to chance one guessing ... who shalt make such bandits desire and wish they had never set footing inside their warm, cozy fort?

And 'tis of fortunous situation that I, Master Baytor, Dominion Lord of the Thalmor, and Thane of all Whiterun Hold, should make small course upon my mission, and perhaps terrorize the bandits who dwell within Hraggstad just so. On-accompanyment I shalt bring my housecarl on the morrow, a dredged Nord female by the name of ... Lyssa ... Lynda? Oh, 'tis no matter, for I merely make referring to her as Warrior Wench. Of old-fashioned iron and steel is she, and while she may assist in the corptunous task of ridding the local banditry, I shalt devise my newfound magics to end their days of reveling upon the coastal cliffs of Haafingar.

Make promise of thine prayers, thee unuptuous heathens.

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Tirdas, 11:55 PM

Of the aforementioned heathens, I can say no more. They have succumbed to their fates. On the whole, they did gather enmasse to scare and surprise me into submission, their crude arrows of iron and their swords of steel. Nevermore shat such miscreants shar a pint of mead around their sorptuous campfires, or rid their breath of hallowed funk with snowberries and juniper.

I must now rest in-depth, while my new Nordic wench accompanies to my very needs.

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Fredas, 12: 35 PM

'Tis Fredas once more, and I am now tasked to clear some rabblery just northwest of Whiterun, Ulfric Stormcloak has chosen to locate and steal an ancient crown...so be it his death should he succeed.

This post has been edited by Lady Saga: Nov 4 2015, 12:33 AM