| Book Information | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| Source: | Modern Adventurer Issue #9 | ||
| Writer(s): | Douglas Goodall | ||
| Publication Date: | 11 Sep 2024 | ||
I was sitting on the corpse of a Legendary Dragon when the crisis of faith hit. I don't mean whether there are Eight Divines or Nine. Or whether Alduin is Akatosh. I mean, what's the point of it all?
I'd killed this latest dragon with a Dwarven Ballista. Not by shooting it, mind you, but by picking it up and throwing it. Sometimes I wonder what my life might have been like if I hadn't taken those apprenticeships as a blacksmith and an enchanter. You start with some steel, maybe experiment a little with Orcish. Before you know it, you've killed a dragon and are forging a sword from its very bones. It's all downhill from there.
But it's no use dwelling on the past, is it? It's past. I couldn't forget how to make the best arms and armor or how to shove them so full of magic I couldn't sell them. I could run off into the wilderness naked, but that way lies madness. And my soul belongs in Sovngarde. Or Evergloam. Or the Hunting Grounds. Or Apocrypha. Or the Void. The point is, my soul doesn't belong in the Madhouse.
I hopped down from the dragon's head, breaking my ankle, but it healed up right away. I barely even noticed. After getting shoulder-deep in dragon bones, grabbing every last bit of treasure, even I was struggling a bit. So I gave some of it to Aela, some to Brelyna, some to Ria, some to trusty Lydia, some to that weird vampire—whatever her name was. Hell, there were women following me I didn't even recognize. Like that one with the dark hair. She was cute. You know, for a wood elf. A week before I killed my last dragon, I was about to ask her to sleep with me. She seemed eager, but then I couldn't remember her name or where we met. Then things got awkward.
I was tired. Tired of dragons, tired of snow. Sometimes I just ran off after foxes or butterflies for hours and then wondered what I was even doing. I was even tired of mead. There. I said it. I was tired of mead. Maybe the rugs have the right of it, and I should have taken up moon sugar. The last time I was at the Winking Skeever, I ordered a glass of milk, just to see what would happen. A few people looked at me funny. It was the most exciting thing that had happened to me in months.
Then, as I was handing a stack of dragon hides to that cute wood elf, I saw something white between the hides. It was an old, torn copy of the Modern Adventurer. It spoke of, well, adventure, in a strange place called Vvardenfell. I read it cover to about halfway (the rest was missing) a dozen times. So I told all my followers to just wait here a moment. Then I set off. To the east. To Morrowind. First I took a carriage to Solitude, then went by boat to the ruins of Blacklight. From there it was an easy swim to the big island. It's nothing like the Modern Adventurer described it, but it's refreshing. A whole new land to explore. The Ashlanders are strange, too. You never know where you stand with them. Best of all, there's no dragons.
I don't know if this letter will reach you, or if the Modern Adventurer still exists, but I had to say thank you. I haven't felt this alive in years. So if you're as tired of dragons as I was, head east, old man. There's a whole world waiting for you.