My father died when the snows came. He left me everything he owned, which is not much at all. His treehouse, overlooking Riverwood and the far reaches of Whiterun-and his bow, which he had crafted with his own hands when he was but a youth.
His family, my grandparents and aunt, left Hammerfell with my father when he was but a suckling babe. They crossed the border to Skyrim, and made the land their home. My grandparents built a small shack, and later, a treehouse for their young children. Unfortunately, my grandmother and grandfather died during their first winter, within weeks of each other. Their hot Redguard bones were not made for the storms of snow that Skyrim's sky spit mercilessly upon its people.
The shack was long ago taken over by bandits, but the treehouse proved to be out of their reach. My father made it his. He was a traveling bard, and went across cities wooing noblewomen and tavern wenches. One cold day in Morning Star, the Day of Lights, as it were, my father woke to me bundled in a woolen blanket at the foot of his bedroll. He tells me that my green eyes were all he needed to know that I was his-that they were my mother's eyes. He brought me to the treehouse and raised me there, us filling it with warm fires and abundant laughter. Without him, this land has proven to be just as vast and cold as my aunt had once told me. She left to Hammerfell in the summer with her husband, a Khajiit merchant by the name of Zayiid.
I've made friends with some folk I met in the woods near my home. I've met an old Nord woman named Lysa, and an Imperial mage by the name of Marcurio. Lysa was a merchant, before her son shamed her and her family by fleeing from the Imperial Legion. No one in Solitude would buy her wares, labeling her a traitor, so she packed up her goods and made the long journey to Whiterun. When the city guards wouldn't let her in, she became lost in the woods. I found her wandering through late at night, just feet from a bear's den. I gave her some warm food and let her sleep in my bed. It was nice to have company for the first time since father had passed.
Marcurio is an odd man. He came to Riverwood as sellsword-or rather, a spell-sword, and was traveling with his new companion when a pack of wolves attacked. I saw what had happened from my treehouse and rushed to come to his aid. I shot down three of the wolves, and managed to save Marcurio, but not his poor friend. He didn't seem too sorrowful about the passing of his companion and promptly went about to looting his dead body. I found a letter written to a woman named Camilla. The poor Nord must have known his end was imminent. I let Marcurio in after, and offered him ale and the warmth of my hearth. He gave his regrets and claimed it was improper to spend the night in the abode of a woman. I had never offered for him to spend the night.
He is odd, but has proven to be a true friend, and had aided me through many a rough situation. His eyes tell a sad tale, as well. I aim to find out what he hides some day in the future.
I miss my father dearly. I never met my mother, though once I did find a note under his quiver. It was a love letter, with a woman's name on it: Iliaana. All I know about my mother is that she was a Nord woman, with thick locks of curly red hair. That is all my father told me. He aimed to tell me more, before the cold took him away. It said in the letter that the woman lived in Markarth. Marcurio mentioned the city to me once. He promised he would take me there...Perhaps sooner rather than later...
