I published Jastinia 1 a little more than 20 days ago. Meanwhile, guess how much time has elapsed in Jastinia’s world? Also a little more than 20 days. Yikes. What did I promise earlier about not journaling in real-time? In my feeble defense, this was a rough non-Skyrim week for me, so I didn’t do as much work as I wanted by the weekend. Bad news: we’re “only” covering three days today, even if a lot happened in those three days. Better news: I’m already working on the next chapter which will cover a chunk of extra time. There’s no combat clip today but I still hope you enjoy the story moments that liven Jastinia’s world and set expectations for Mixwater Mill. Also, big hugs to all the awesome fans who reached out this week, linked to my articles, gave Reddit awards, and generally showed their support. YOU ALL ARE AMAZING. I’m so happy you are enjoying the journey as much as I am. See you after Jastinia gets out of Windhelm, gets on the road, and finally gets to Mixwater Mill.
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
Story recap
Returning to Windhelm after gathering elm in Kynesgrove, Jastinia recommitted to completing her battleaxe at Torbjorn Shatter-Shield’s request. Her recent experiences had emboldened her. Whether defeating the brown bear, hearing support from her friends, or a surprise visitation from Kynareth during morning prayer, Jastinia tapped this inner fire to finish the battleaxe. Oengul War-Anvil and Hermir Strong-Heart praised the budding smith after they saw her weapon but unfortunately, her closest teachers did not share their excitement.
Scouts Many-Marshes urged his student to slow down and remain patient, but Jastinia was unwilling to hear the Argonian’s warnings. She presented the battleaxe to Torbjorn and declared she was done training. She was a warrior, a woman, and ready to complete the Stormcloak initiation at Serpentstone Isle. Torbjorn and Jastinia descended to Windhelm’s sewers for two final tests. First: slay a mudcrab, which she did without challenge. Second: defeat Torbjorn in a duel. Wielding her clunky new battleaxe and facing the veteran bladesman, Jastinia was less ready than she believed, ultimately falling at the edge of her own greatsword. She awoke a day later in the Shatter-Shield house, injuries magically healed. Despite her anger and disappointment, she promised to refocus and grow stronger so she would not fail herself or her teachers again.
Heartfire, 18th, 4E 201
Sailor’s Rest. Windhelm.
Mid morning.
Torbjorn killed me last night. Scouts too. Tova and Ulfric, Rolff and Revyn, all of them standing around me with greatswords and battleaxes as I crawled through the snow and begged them to stop. (You’re not ready) Please, like I was back in the underworks, don’t do this. Iron edges peeling back skin, (You’re not ready) cracking bone as they jeered, Stop crying, little Imperial, taunted and spat, Show you how we make Imperial spies like you talk, even as the figures blurred into blizzard and the snowscape shifted. Widening in all directions beyond Windhelm’s walls and out to the rocks, (You’re not ready) the sea, to Serpentstone as I imagined it and as it was still waiting, just like the wraith was waiting for my bloody, bruised corpse.
Its jaws were open. Teeth steaming like forge-welded weapons after a quench, Torbjorn’s spit when he blew it into the sewer brazier before turning his eyes to me. Crazed and deadly. Hungry like the wraith as it started to nip. Chew. Teeth spearing into me, Nopleasestop, greatsword-shaped incisors gnashing as I curled in the snow and begged for it to be over.
I heard her again. You know, she whispered, distant and airborne but still present, next to me or even from within. You don’t have to do this alone.
Kynareth? Wind and air and snow gusted around me as the scene froze. Who else could it be but her, the goddess who visited me just days past? Please, I need you. Your help, your aid, I beg you.
The storm howled with ice and laughter. Female and male cackling in chorus, drowning out even the gale. Oh Jastinia, the whisper returned, louder and insistent, commanding me from inside my own skull. I can be her if you need me to be. Greatswords flaying me and opening me as she kept whispering and I kept screaming. Is that what you want? Now battleaxes and teeth, a slaughterhouse butchery in the red snow.
Or are you not ready for me either?
Damnit. What I’m really ready for is a night where I don’t shriek myself and all of Windhelm awake. But I don’t know what else I was expecting after the duel. After Torbjorn cut me apart. Even after tossing and turning about it for over 15 hours, so exhausted I’d collapsed into bed in my armor. Just like my teacher would’ve carried his broken, armored student back to his guestroom and put me to bed as Uvoo applied enchanted balms to repair my wounds. Injuries from a fight, a real fight that I’d been just as ready to win as I’d been ready to find mom’s dissected corpse in a sewer tunnel years ago. Or read last week’s inheritance letter that dragged me right back to the culvert where I found her body.
Scouts and Torbjorn were right, even if only Torbjorn said it out loud. I wasn’t ready.
I don’t know what Torbjorn is planning. He’d mentioned a place weeks ago and then again two days past, although the second time I was too angry to register it. Mixwater Mill, I think. Some woman that lives there, whatever training she and Torbjorn concocted. For “a few weeks,” he’d said, one of his many comments which pushed me over the edge of patience and right onto the edge of my own greatsword. Indeterminate weeks subjected to further training on an uncertain timeline. Days south of Windhelm and weeks south of Serpentstone, even if I’m not ready to go there anyway.
I talked to Scouts yesterday. Briefly because he was working. Because I was tired. Sore and mad, disappointed in myself and my false progress. Angry at Torbjorn for betraying me when he tried to kill me. At Scouts himself for letting his unready student believe she was ready.
He inspected me. My blackened nose, the limp, my instinctive massages of my ribcage. “Shatter-Shield blows are as strong as they say.”
“You… you knew?” The last thing I could hear was this triple betrayal; Scouts’s initial silence, then Torbjorn’s ambush, and now Scouts’s prior knowledge of an ambush he simply declined to share. Or worse. Maybe he was the one who encouraged his Nordic boss to put their stupid student in her place.
“That Torbjorn Shatter-Shield is a violent, proud man who does not take kindly to perceived insolence? Yes.” He ran his scales along my right arm. I winced as he probed the purple skin. “That he planned to do this? No.”
This was the rare time I welcomed Scouts’s silence. An opportunity for me to sort my own questions. Did you know how unprepared I was? Had you wanted to stop me? What have we been wasting our time on if I can’t even beat a weary veteran three times my age? Anger too, defensiveness at the accusation behind Torbjorn doing “this.” As if Scouts had any right to criticize when he’s the one pushing me half-naked to die of exposure and frostbite in the White River. How is this any different from what you’ve put me through? Drowning me, watching me sputter and slip away in the cold so I would leave you alone.
I settled on the question that bit the deepest. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I realized it was ambiguous but still let it linger. He could interpret his own meaning. He was good at that anyway and didn’t need me to blubber any clarification – why didn’t you tell me I was such a weak, pathetic piece of shit, tell me if I’d gone to Serpentstone I would’ve never left there alive, I needed more training, more time, more courage that I probably can’t even muster even if-
“Wargirl is strong. Too strong, sometimes.” Tell that to me when I was weeping on the Shatter-Shield guest mattress yesterday morning. Kneeling in the underworks with blood leaking from my body. Reading new letters that reopened old scars or just listening to a cruel Nordic wife tell me the truth. “She learns best through experience. Not words.”
Our interaction lasted only a few minutes. A few words. But this time, that was exactly what I needed. Careful reassurances and reminders. A parting tap on my chest before I departed. “You have most of what you need here. The rest you will learn. Keep writing your story.”
Thanks. Not for clear answers, because I wouldn’t go to the Argonian if I wanted those. Just for some kind of answer when I just needed something to grab onto as the world kept pushing me off the cliff.
Between Torbjorn’s comforts, Scouts’s encouragements, and at least 15 hours of my own criticism to remind myself how foolish and arrogant I was, I think I’m ready. Not for Serpentstone or the Stormcloaks. I know that now. Ready for the next steps in my training. To listen and learn, accept the help I obviously need. Go wherever my teachers tell me to go: diving for rocks under the White River or getting my ass kicked in sewer sparring sessions. I’ll do it all if they think it will make me stronger. And maybe one day, a few weeks later or longer, I’ll be ready. Actually ready.
Heartfire, 18th, 4E 201
Candlehearth Hall. Windhelm.
Mid afternoon.
“You’re going to Mixwater Mill,” Torbjorn said. Not a question, not an offer. Just a directive for someone who needed all the direction she can get.
He told me not to think about what training awaited me to the south. The identity of the Mixwater’s owner. How it related to Serpentstone Isle, the Stormcloaks, or getting stronger. Was she some great warrior? Why can’t I stay here and train with you and Scouts? What’s so special about this lumber mill anyway? Questions cutting through my thoughts and spilling out of my mouth like all that blood spilling out of me two days ago.
And for all of them, the same answers: a raised hand, silence, a chuckle. “Don’t worry about all that, girl.”
I’ll be leaving tomorrow. Torbjorn warned the road south has been dangerous in recent months. Bandits and wild beasts. Rogue mercenaries and Legion ambushers. Monsters. I almost told him I was ready for them when I caught myself. “I’ll be careful,” I settled on instead.
Of course, dangerous roads have also limited courier services across Eastmarch. Torbjorn must’ve asked around and now crotchety Nurelion at the Phial just so happens to need two items delivered to Mixwater. What great timing! Can you guess the newest recruit in Windhelm’s mail brigade? I might not be Stormcloak material but at least I can make it as a delivery-girl.
Torbjorn told me to come by his house early tomorrow to pick up the letter he was finishing. “Uvoo will give it to you in the morning. Deliver it to Gilfre when you arrive.” More questions: what does it say, who is this woman, how do you know her and when will I –
“What did I say about worrying?”
Oh, right. Shut up and do what you’re told. Like you should’ve done three days ago when Scouts warned you. The day after when Torbjorn gave you a final caution before allowing you to leap headfirst into the greatsword-shaped rocks below. Listen, learn, and stop asking questions.
Although he declined to answer, he had plenty of additional orders. “After you arrive, do what Gilfre tells you to do.” Sir, yessir. Shut up and listen like the child you are. Got it. “And bring your battleaxe.” Even better. Because I was so effective with it last time.
I had already turned to leave, expecting Torbjorn’s instruction to be all the goodbyes I needed, when he decided it was time for him to ask the questions. Deliver one last parting blow: “Do you still trust me?”
Gods. What kind of question was that and how was I supposed to answer? How about no, Torbjorn, I don’t, because it’s kind of hard to trust a man who lures me to my death in the sewers only to heal me with magick. The power to kill me, the power to bring me back. Not exactly a reassuring teacher and student power dynamic. But even if I forgot his cuts, both with iron edge and edged tongue, I still don’t know. Do I trust a man whose family hates me? Whose training failed me when tested? He let me believe I was ready before slashing apart that belief while it lay kneeling on a sewer floor. It’s not a fair question and he should know better than to ask it. Just like I should know to answer honestly and tell him how I *really* feel about trusting him ever again.
But even after everything that happened, I couldn’t. I still don’t want to disappoint him. “I think so.”
I heard the exhale through his nose from across the room. Relief? Resignation? Acceptance of the best possible response after the worst possible lesson? “I understand. Come see me when you return.” I didn’t look back as I walked out but I did hear him as I descended. “Kyne guide you, warrior.”
Uvoo saw me out and reminded me to come by tomorrow morning to retrieve Torbjorn’s letter. I couldn’t decide if I was angry he wouldn’t be there tomorrow to see me off, or relieved I would never have to see him again.
I’d planned to go to the Cornerclub but the blizzard encouraged me to stay in the plaza. After the last few days, the last thing I wanted was to trundle through whiteout snow-sheets when I should be bundled by a fire. Listen to Hod’s jabs at me by the Gray Quarter gate, his insults at Dunmer also trying to beat the storm home. Besides, a Candlehearth pie sounded delightful. Warm tea and a seat by the hearth.
Instead, I found Rolff.
I ignored him at first. Just walked past him for a seat on the opposite side of the room. I’m sure he wasn’t waiting for me specifically, but the moment he opened his mouth, I could tell he’d been hoping we met. Ever since Tirdas. Ever since word must have reached him of the duel.
“Here’s a good one,” he shouted at the off-duty Stormcloaks standing nearby, at the room, at everyone and no on in particular except for the only person he really wanted to hear it. “How do you teach manners to a filthy little dark elf lover covered in bruises?” I smelled the thick booze on his breath as he belched it into the room. “You can’t. She’s obviously a slow learner.”
The majority of guests returned to their conversations after an uncomfortable silence. A few snorted into their mugs. Some of the Nords and Stormcloaks even chuckled, but it was only Rolff who was laughing, slapping his knee while the flagon spilled froth on his pants and the floor. Looking right at my face the whole time, right where Torbjorn had rammed the greatsword’s crossguard into my swollen nose.
Most days I ignored his bullshit. This wasn’t most days.
“I got another one,” I said. Now the room really got quiet. “What do you call two brave Stormcloak brothers after a battle?” Eyes got wide as they suspected the punchline even while Rolff was still figuring out who those brothers were. “I don’t know either, but if you find the little one hiding in Candlhearth Hall, you can ask him yourself.” Even the two Stormcloaks who’d laughed at me earlier gave another one, along with most folks in earshot. Those who didn’t at least grinned.
Only two of us didn’t even smile. Me, staring straight at that Nordic piece of shit who used to bury me in ash yam patches, and Rolff, whose jaw was clenched tighter than the fist around his flagon handle.
“Just what are you trying to say, Imperial rat?”
Now I stepped closer as the crowd stepped back. “Well, I was going to call you a limp-armed craven milkdrinker who cries into his ale while the true daughters and sons of Skyrim fight for their homeland, but I thought that would be too many words for you to understand.” Veins bulged in his wrist. His temple.
“Friga told me you cried all night long after her daddy carried you home.” So that’s how he knew. Why did I think it would be any other explanation? “About a weak, scaleback-whore who couldn’t take a real Nord.” He started to stand. Step forward. “I’m surprised. You’d think those hornheads at the docks would’ve broken you in by now.”
The crowd backed up as we faced each other. Chest to chest, nose to nose. Or at least, my nose to the big Nord’s collarbone but I wasn’t backing down. Not anymore. I was ready to end this right here, right now, whether with my fist through his face or my greatsword sticking out his back.
“Maybe you’ll learn your place after I finish what Shatter-Shield started.” His hands balled, knuckles bulging as my foot slid back into a stance. Rising on my toes, knees bending, ready to flank the slow, drunk idiot when he hauled back for that first punch. “Or maybe someone needs to teach you some manners like they taught your sewer-whore mother.”
My fingers were wrapping my dagger hilt when I felt the hand on my shoulder. Firm like Torbjorn’s on my arm earlier. Strong. “Easy there, you two.” The room had been humming with whispers and exchanged bets, the scrape of chairs and tables pulled aside for the inevitable fight. But once Captain Lonely-Gale spoke, all of it fell silent. “Especially you, little Stone-Fist. Wouldn’t want big brother bailing you out of jail again, would we?”
“This don’t concern you, Lonely-Gale.” Neither Rolff nor I moved except him rolling his neck, me releasing the dagger just a half-inch from its sheath.
“Nonsense,” the Captain smiled, stepping between us. “We’re all citizens of Windhelm. I’d hate to be the one to tell Jarl Ulfric that a fellow citizen was menacing Stormcloak recruits.” The Captain was standing next to us now, actually nose-to-nose with Rolff. “Or get myself thrown in the dungeons too after teaching someone else some manners.”
I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who noticed Nils creeping closer with a bottle in his hand. Patrons glancing nervously at doors or grabbing the tops of chairs. Weapons. Readying for a Hall-brawl to tear the building apart and send all of us to the barracks or the Hall of the Dead. But whether because Rolff was too drunk to commit, Lonely-Gale too persuasive to ignore, or Luaffyn resuming her lute-playing at the perfect moment, the fight never came.
“One day, little girl.” Rolff walked past me to the exit but stopped as we stood shoulder to shoulder. “One day when we’re alone.” Didn’t your brother tell you, little Stone-Fist? Warriors like me always stand alone. Ready whenever you are, asshole.
I turned to the Captain after Rolff left. “I didn’t need your help.”
“I know. You weren’t the one I was helping.” I couldn’t help but smirk back. “Although maybe I was. Galmar Stone-Fist might not take kindly to a recruit sending his brother to the temple healers. Or being jailed for murder.” Right. I realized my hand was still on the dagger as I let it fall to my side.
I apologized but he waved it off. “Don’t be. You were just going to do what most of us have wanted to do for years.”
I thought about staying and asking him about that survival story he still owed me. Sharing a table with one of the few Nords who had openly helped me in anything. Talking, beating him at dice again, and just forgetting Rolff and his words. But I was tired and had enough Candlehearth conversation for one night. I just wanted my damn pie.
I know lunchtime pastries aren’t exactly a balanced warrior meal. I know I should probably relax and enjoy Candleherath’s company before tomorrow. But after everything else, I just want to enjoy some baked goodness before beating up a training bag again. Draw some patchy Nordic facial hair on it and drape a little bag over the head like Rolff’s stupid hat and hack it to pieces. Train a little, rest a lot, and then wake up early to hit the road.
Rolff was right. “One day,” he’d said. Yeah. One day, I’ll be stronger. One day, I’ll be a Stormcloak. And one day, people like Rolff won’t dare talk to me or any other outsider like he talked to me today. One day, I will be ready.
Heartfire, 18th, 4E 201
Argonian Assemblage. Windhelm.
Mid evening.
I hoped to find Scouts before I left tomorrow and was surprised he wasn’t home. This was a man of routine, who worked the same job my entire life, walked the same dock route day after day, sat at the same table every night enjoying the same seared fish. But I was still happy to join Shahvee for dinner instead, especially learning she had word from Scouts.
“Running errands for Torbjorn,” she said. “Anything to please the boss.” Where have I heard that before? Any command, any time of day, anything he said so we didn’t disappoint Mr. Shatter-Shield or find ourselves at the receiving end of his greatsword.
I updated her on my own errands, on Mixwater Mill and tomorrow’s departure. Shahvee didn’t know the mill’s owner, but knew most of the wood the Argonians used to repair ships came from Mixwater. “Less of late with the war,” she said. “But we make the best of what we have.”
She packed me a meal for the road: potatoes, mashed gourd, and roast salmon caught fresh today. It still had the claw marks where Stands-In Shallows swiped it from the water. An additional poultice as well. “For lingering bruises,” she said as she rubbed it on my nose like I was a girl again returning from playtime with older kids like Friga and Rolff.
Before I left, she and Shallows met me at the door. “Scouts could not be here tonight, but he wishes us to give this to you.” He handed me a leather-bound book, worn lettering still visible after years of use.
I read the title. “Thief?” I know the Argonians aren’t exactly supporters of Nordic traditions, but it doesn’t take a lot of experience to know men like Torbjorn, Galmar, and Ulfric don’t exactly view “Thief” as an honorific.
“Scouts wishes to remind Wargirl that there is more to battle than just arms and armor.” I took the text from him and skimmed its pages, flaking at the edges but still firm and legible. “That there are many ways to win a fight.” As I flipped through Revan’s tale, I saw not only the printed text but also the scribbled markings in the margins. Drawings and notes written in the same claw I’d seen in a birthday letter about three weeks ago. “And that all warriors start somewhere else.”
“Thank you,” I said as I slid the volume into my satchel. “To you, and to him.” For this and everything else.
“Don’t forget your lessons,” Shahvee tapped my forehead, “and don’t forget yourself either.” Two taps on my breast before I hugged them both and they returned to their meals.
I wasn’t sure if I should start reading Thief now, to show polite interest, or later, because I was wiped out after this week. I settled for finishing this entry before returning to Sailor’s Rest. Continuing my story in the first book they gave me, reflecting on yet another gift from a family who I had given nothing in return so far. No repayments. No meaningful thank-yous for all they’ve done. One day. I promise it now as I have before. One day.
Heartfire, 19th, 4E 201
Stables. Windhelm.
Mid-morning.
Damnit, Torbjorn! You didn’t tell me about your arbitrary deadline to deliver these stupid items. “The masters wishes it brought to the Mill by the 21st,” Uvoo instructed when she handed me Torbjorn’s sealed letter. That’d be pushing it but I could probably get to Mixwater by the 21st at a decent clip. Grumpster Nurelion’s timeline was worse.
“The 20th?” I repeated it after he handed me the wrapped bottle. First three days now two? Was I training to be a Stormcloak or the Steward’s newest errand-girl?
“Got shit in your ears, Imperial? Yes, the 20th. And don’t spill or steal it either.” Such a nice guy that Nurelion. No wonder the Altmer have such pleasant reputations. That said, I hadn’t expected his payment. “What, you don’t want the money?” he asked as I stared at the 200 Septims blankly. I’d just assumed Torbjorn would make me do it all for free. You know, training is its own reward and all that Nordic nonsense.
I packed the coinpurses into my satchel before Nurelion gave them to his “equally useless apprentice” instead. Between Nurelion’s wages and the 75 coins Torbjorn left with Uvoo (“for the road, the master said”), I had more than enough to load my pack with snacks and replenish my lamp oil. Of course, it wasn’t until I was across the Bridge of Kings that I realized I’d left my Survivor’s Guide in my room. That’s what I get for rushing. Hope I’m not forgetting anything else like that one time I got a day outside of the walls before realizing I didn’t have my bedroll.
It would’ve been nice to make this journey in three days to enjoy the sights, but I have a sneaking suspicion Nurelion wasn’t lying when he said he’d know if I delivered his packages late. I have enough problems as it is without him turning me into a toad, so I won’t dally. Probably a good thing too. Less time to reflect on my departure, Rolff’s insults, or the welts still covering my body. If I’ve learned nothing else in the last few weeks, it’s that the road will always be my retreat. I’m happy to return to it now, even if I’m pretty sure I forgot to refill my damn waterskins.
A prayer to Kynareth before I depart. For me and those I love. For the road today and the road beyond. See you soon, Windhelm. Don’t miss me too much, and don’t let the Duskstars rent out my room.
Heartfire, 19th, 4E 201
Wilds. Eastmarch.
Late evening.
Eslaf and Potema would’ve been great friends. One caper after another, stealing food or official treaties before fleeing by guile or grace. That one Khajit bandit was particularly amusing, threatening Eslaf with one word but guiding his fall with the next. Seems like the kind of teaching method Scouts preferred. But I’m still not quite sure why Scouts wanted me to read Thief in the first place, even after studying his notes. Commentary from an earlier time in his life, perhaps a hatchling in Black Marsh. Observations about falling and movement, strategies to evade capture when pilfering an inn larder or a wealthy house. Was this actually Scouts, famed skirmisher of the south? Some common burglar like Eslaf or any of the other cutpurses who packed the sewers and Windhelm’s jail? Maybe he’s hoping I consider a career change. Better to be bruised behind bars than dead on Serpentstone.
Thief wasn’t today’s only exposure to crime. I also met a Bosmer along the road, hooded with hardened gauntlets on his hand. Sly and furtive as he looked around to make sure we were alone before hailing me. I like that he called me sister but didn’t like what he was offering. A pick-me-up to ease my weariness sounded lovely. Until I realized it was skooma.
No thanks. I’d seen what the substance had done to enough people I cared about. Most of the sewerfolk I still called friends. Shallows battling his addiction. Mom after things got really bad. In the end, I left the elf to his dealings. It wasn’t my business to tell desperate people how to make a living.
Between the weather and the road’s relative quiet, I made good time today and can probably make it to Mixwater before nightfall tomorrow with an early wakeup. Shahvee’s salmon and potato dinner was all the energy I needed to recover after today’s pace and I’ll be ready for another 9-10 hour day tomorrow. That should cover me most of the 50+ miles to Mixwater, as long as all those bandits, monsters, and so-called “dragons” don’t get me first.
Heartfire, 20th, 4E 201
Wilds. Eastmarch.
Early morning.
Restful sleep, warm furs, and a crisp morning breeze. What else can you ask for after so many nights stuck in my Sailor’s Rest closet? The sun is already stretching over the peaks and onto the river, far warmer down here during my morning bath than in Windhelm’s harbor. A peaceful night despite its occasional nightmares. An idle insult here. A stray barb there. Weakling. Coward. Scaleback-whore. Little girl playing at soldier and playing at daughter despite being neither.
Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all before. If I can survive it during the day, I can definitely endure its reflections by night. I didn’t even wake up screaming this time.
Creep clusters grew down by the shores and I gathered some for Nurelion. He didn’t ask for them specifically but I know he’s always looking for more ingredients, especially those that grow by the river. I’m not exactly swimming in Septims these days and can’t imagine I’ll be making many more toiling at Mixwater, so I’ll probably need the pay when I get back. But for now, it’s a quick thank you to Kynareth for guiding me this far and a greeting to Skyrim as her warmth greets me back. Here’s hoping for their continued favor on the road ahead to Mixwater.
Heartfire, 20th, 4E 201
Road. Eastmarch.
Mid afternoon.
I should’ve prayed harder.
“What was that?” the voice asked. The same thing I was asking myself when I heard static crackling from the bushes except I wasn’t asking the question. The mage was. To herself and her flame-wreathed partner as the world exploded around me.
Fire and lightning, smoke and light. Burning and blitzing through the grass and leaves as I ran, not even feeling their magick lick me as it exploded into rocks. There had been a brief moment I thought I should fight. Stand my ground like a True Nord, a True Stormcloak before certain death. That moment passed as more flame erupted from the sorcerer’s hands and into the dirt next to me. I’ll stick with running. Breathing, fleeing, praying to not die as I sprinted over the cliff and sheltered low by the water.
I waited. Ten minutes at first as they hunted for me, “Where are you?” the woman asked as I heard embers dancing on the cliffs above. Louder or quiet depending on where her footsteps were on the rocks, some kind of magickal effect following its caster that I didn’t want to see or experience. From ten minutes to twenty. Thirty. They gave up searching sometime around then but I stayed another hour just to be safe. Perhaps another hour after that too.
The sun rose and the day started while I crouched in the White River, its cool water seeping through my boots onto toes already accustomed to numbness. Two or even three hours in total just huddled by the shallows, and even after that, another 15 minutes. Just long enough for me to gather the courage to leave my damp refuge. To remind my frozen legs how to walk again.
The mages were gone by the time I returned to the road. So was whatever pride I still had, even knowingit would’ve been stupid to fight. I know not even Torbjorn would advise a suicide charge against experienced wizards. Certainly not Scouts, between his lessons at the docks and now his lessons in Thief. There’s no valor in getting fried to ash on an anonymous stretch of road and yet, my retreat just brings me back to the sewers. Kneeling and hoping not to die, just like I was doing by the riverbank. Weak. Useless. Cowardly.
I sheltered by the cliff for lunch. Who needs Cornerclub horker stew when you have damp tomatoes and crushed flowers plucked from some rocks? At least I harvested some more clusters for Nurelion. I can’t fight mages but I can sure gather their ingredients and beg them for a little extra coin. No different than the begging I would’ve had to do if they had found my hiding place.
This rain is going to slow my pace after I was already behind from the morning ambush. But I’m not going to let down Nurelion, Torbjorn, or this Gilfre woman like I’m letting down myself right now. I’ll be there by tonight even if an army of lightning and fire sorcerers stand in front of me. You know, as long as I can sneak by them without fighting.
Heartfire, 20th, 4E 201
Worker’s House. Mixwater Mill.
Late evening.
“Took you long enough.” The woman grasped the lever with two hands and pulled, locking gears into place, drawing counterbalances back as the saw animated and conveyor moved. I held out Torbjorn’s letter but she walked past it to the log pile.
At this point, she still hadn’t looked at me once beyond our initial eye contact as I walked up the mill ramp. I watched as she wrestled a trunk taller than most masts from the mound onto the belt. A woman my size. An Imperial. Hoisting hundreds of pounds of lumber from the stack like grabbing a wheel of cheese from a shelf.
I’d heard her working as I’d approached. The clang of machinery. Falling stumps and a saw buzzing through logs. Industry churning well past nightfall in a mill dozens of miles from the nearest settlement. Isolated and alone, a many-man operation to churn out lumber for Stormcloak arrows and battlements, siege machines, tents and carts and all the other engines of war. I saw two houses plus the main sawmill, a single torch flickering from atop its platform as its laborers toiled past dinner.
But when I arrived, I realized there was no many-man operation. In fact, there were no men at all. Just the woman. One woman performing every element of the sawmill’s operations; pulling chain, stacking logs, guiding the belt, sweeping the floor. An operation that would’ve demanded five or more in any other Skyrim mill. But not Mixwater. Out here it was just her. Just Gilfre.
She snatched the letter as she returned to the saw, only speaking to me after confirming the trunk’s alignment against the blade’s teeth. “Windhelm’s couriers are usually faster.” Speaking to me but still not looking as she monitored the log’s progress, adjusting it with her boot as sawdust churned. “This all you brought?”
Oh sorry, I should’ve known you wanted some pies and mammoth curds too. I tried to hand her Nurelion’s potion and blade but she waved to one of the houses. “Just leave them on the step.” She opened Torbjorn’s letter as I huffed away.
You’re welcome, Ms. Gilfre, for braving sorcerer-infested roads and grinding 10-hour, 30-mile days to meet your oh so important deadlines. How can I ever be of any further service to you? I don’t know what Torbjorn wants me to learn from this woman but it sure isn’t self-control, because I’m one more demand away from pouring this blue potion right on Gilfre’s sawdusted hair.
I knocked on her door. Nothing. No lights from that other house I passed on the northern end of the property either. Was it really just Gilfre out here? Alone running this entire operation? Or were these chickens and goats more industrious than they looked?
She was aligning another log when I returned, longer and thicker than the last. “Grab the end down there,” she pointed across the mill platform as she steadied her side. I stared at her, at the chunk of wood not even Galmar and Ulfric could lift, as she snapped: “You want to help? Or should I just stand here while you enjoy a nice dinner and nap.” I can see why Torbjorn and Gilfre get along.
After I had two hands on the bark she rolled it towards us and I followed her lead. Bad idea. I’d hauled crates for the Argonians before but this was like moving the whole damn cargo ship. Weight crushing against my wrists, heavier than Torbjorn’s greatsword hammering against my axe haft. Elbows and forearms buckling, slipping, as she carried at least three-quarters of its weight while we dumped it onto the track.
We did four more after that before she said another word to me. I would’ve punched her in the face after log number two but my arms could barely lift themselves. My panting mouth too tired to remind her it was way past everyone’s bedtime and no sane laborer worked these kinds of shifts.
Five logs later, she spoke. “So, you’re the one Torbjorn sent.” By then, the saw had stopped whirring after our final split log dumped into the pile. Water rushed along the inert mill-wheel as sleepy chickens cooed in their coop nearby. “You normally this slow?”
Part of me was over it and wanted to dump her or myself into the river so we could wash away this entire trip. But the other part of me was tired of getting beaten. By logs, by greatswords, by fireside words in Candlehearth or Shattershield sitting rooms. “No. Are you?”
I’d seen Gilfre’s eyes before. On Rolff’s face three days ago, on Torbjorn’s days before that. The scan, the assessment, the question about just what are we going to do with you, girl? Just how are we going to teach you some godsdamn respect?
But from under that momentary tempest came a glow. A shine and a smile, broadening in the torchlight as she laughed. “Guess we’ll see who the slow one is tomorrow.” I tried to smile back but between crouching in the shallows for hours and moving a whole forest of trees for hours after that, all I could give was a relieved exhale, the corner of my mouth turning up as I almost collapsed onto the platform.
She walked me to the house where I’d spend the night. “It’s unlocked,” she pointed across the yard to the lightless building. “Pick a bed and fall in.”
“What about the other workers?” The building was bigger than many similar cottages in Kynesgrove. Spacious enough for five, maybe even 10 laborers packed close together. The same number you’d need to keep a major operation like Mixwater running.
“Other workers?” She was walking off as she said it, just like Scouts as Torbjorn. “We’re it, lady. Get some sleep. You’ll need it tomorrow.” She waved over her shoulder, muddy brown hair like mine waving with her.
Yeah, Gilfre. You too. Then we’ll see who the slow one is, won’t we?
Between the Assemblage, Sailor’s Rest, and Kynesgrove’s camp, I’d slept in enough working-class dives to have low expectations for Mixwater’s quarters. A shared space for all those drifting dreamers, floating from mill to mine, wandering away from whatever haunts they left behind. I expected to find old souvenirs of the last occupants, boots and axes piled by unmade beds. Bottles. Lots of bottles. Opened, closed, collected on bookshelves for women and men who needed alcohol after their shifts, not a pre-sleep read.
I sure found the bottles, but everything else looked dirtier than even the sewers. Webbed and broken, mice scurrying away from my torch as I stepped inside. Chairs flipped, pots overturned, dust and grime so thick on the floor that I was already leaving footprints. It’d been months since anyone stepped inside here, let alone slept on one of the beds. Maybe years.
She hadn’t been joking. It really was just us. Except before today, for gods knows how long, it had actually been just her. Just Gilfre in an operation designed for a house full of laborers.
I probably shouldn’t have spent time writing this entry. I need sleep after the trip and evading those attackers. After my back-bending initiation to Mixwater Mill. I could’ve tidied up, wiped some of the webs out from the only bed that didn’t have a mouse colony beneath the mattress. Got a fire going or identified what smelled like a dying skeever, even if it probably was just a dying skeever. But those would’ve been the smart things to do and we already know how I am at making those decisions.
Besides, there was a lot to reflect on. Something about this place and that woman. The way her shoulders rippled when a log dropped its weight and she cradled it overhead. Her heavy boots on the planks even as her feet moved without effort through ankle-deep sawdust and stray twigs. Her worn face or the worn handle of her dagger. And most of all, her farewell for the night: “We’re it, lady.” Lady. Not girl, not child, not Imperial or rat or scum or any other Windhelm slur. “Lady.” I don’t remember the last time someone called me anything like that.
Time for sleep. I have a feeling Gilfre’s going to make good on her promise of me needing it. I’m not sure what she plans to teach or what Torbjorn expects me to learn. I don’t know why Scouts gave me Thief or what Torbjorn wrote in his letter. I don’t know why any of these people have any faith in me at all after my loss in the sewers and all my other failures: letting Rolff get to me, running from the magick-users, getting lost in my head from past ghosts or future wraiths. But for now, that’s fine. I don’t have to know. I just have to get stronger and be more ready. For now, that means sleep. Dusty, cold sleep in this fireless cabin with my mousey roommates to keep me safe until morning.
Commentary
I know it took basically a whole week to get this darn post up, but it was nice to return to pure Take Notes journaling instead of the added combat clip piece. Most of these entries wrote themselves and I didn’t make too many changes on my final edits. I was also really on top of screenshots during gameplay and only had to reload earlier saves once to get my shot (the Rolff vs. Jastinia title-fight). Plus, of course, staging another Serpentstone nightmare. Writing the conversations and drawing out some of our core characters made me remember why I love journaled playthroughs over purely streamed/recorded ones; you have so much more narrative freedom to tell a story. Here were some ideas I had while writing this week:
- Balance entry and day length. Jastinia’s first entry on the 18th is longer than all of her entries from the 19th put together. This pacing shift is natural and I really encourage authors to embrace it. The 18th was a time for reflection after a crippling defeat. The 19th was just another day on the road. Tallying the word count, it feels like a lot happened on the 18th. Once you break it down, however, the day was pretty uneventful. Jastinia woke up, visited Torbjorn, got lunch at Candlehearth, and then ended at the Assemblage for dinner. As a writer, you can decide if “boring” days like these will contain major character and story moments. Or you can write them the same way I live my average Saturday, where I literally don’t know what happens between 11:00 AM and 6:00 PM. You don’t want to cram too much content into a day, even if just for your audience’s sake, but I think my final entries keep that balance while not losing sight of characters. Don’t be afraid for some of your biggest days to be mundane walks around town, just like you don’t have to force narrative breakthroughs around big quest or combat moments.
- Use quests for inspiration. Even if you’re not using the UltSky modpack, you gotta get Missives. Partially so you can reliably turn Skyrim into a hunting, gathering, delivery-person simulator. But mostly so you can enjoy amazing story gems like I did today. Torbjorn’s letter to Gilfre? Nurelion’s deliveries? Those are actual Missives quests I just happened to find on the board, even down to that screenshotted letter! Admittedly, I got those quests about two weeks ago when they first went up and just saved them in my inventory since then, but the payoff was totally worth it. Now I’m not just running errands to Mixwater on a deadline because Anna as a writer wanted her story to go that way. The actual game engine itself is guiding Jastinia south too. If you’re not sure where your story is leading or you need some extra directions, find local quests for inspiration. You might have to turn down a few (no way Jastinia is getting Nurelion’s stupid phial from that draugr-infested cave) but you’ll know when you find that perfect quest to guide your story.
- Behave realistically in combat. Time for another combat confession: I actually did fight the Fire Warlock and Storm Warlock Lord. At least, I tried to. The first time I encountered them, I totally ran and hid in the river just like I wrote about today. But then I got curious if this could be my combat clip of the week so I saved, reloaded, and actually tried to fight. The fireball screenshot comes from one of those recorded combats. Five recordings and Death Alternative triggers later, I abandoned the idea. Jastinia just lost to her teacher in a sparring match; there’s no way she’d charge two sorcerers on the road. There was also no way to resolve this encounter without killing the two mages, and it seemed like a weird moment for Jastinia to slay her first person. Killing both was also impossible without tactics 16 year-old Jastinia would never know. In the end, I realized my desire to record another combat clip had overpowered my character arc. Roleplayers: don’t lose sight of what your character would do even if you as a player might do something different! Your readers will thank you for staying consistent. Your character will think you for not getting her electrocuted.
- Conversation reveals character. I can’t remember if I learned this from someone famous (Anne Lamont? Stephen King?), a previous writing teacher, or just the creative writing hivemind. A close relative of everyone’s (least) favorite “show, don’t tell” adage, “conversation reveals character” encourages you to develop characters through dialogue. Don’t just tell everyone Rolff is a giant heap of mammoth poo and Jastinia isn’t afraid to pick fights above her weight class. Give Rolff the nasty joke and Jastinia the snappy comeback. This is basically impossible in vanilla Skyrim, where you can slay Alduin and guards still ask about your sweet roll, but it’s limitless in journaled playthroughs. I’m not saying my dialogue is perfect; I’m always re-reading old stuff and cringing. Just don’t be nervous about including conversation in your writing, whether third-person prose or first-person journal entries. The more you write it, the better it gets and the better your characters develop.
I’ve had some really fun conversations with readers about foreshadowed story moments. Not just the big ones like Jastinia and the ice wraith or deploying to the Civil War. When is she going to have that brawl with Rolff? How am I going to write Jastinia’s two-handed battleaxe training as she chops down trees? Who murdered Jastinia’s mother and when might that killer resurface? I’m really excited to keep writing so we can answer these questions, especially those I’m not even sure about myself. For now, I’m happy with our very gradual pace so we get some hard-earned, well-deserved story payoffs at the end. As always, thank you so much for reading and come back soon as Gilfre introduces Jastinia to long shifts and unique training at Mixwater Mill.
Unearthed Arcanna 