Long Story Short
or How the Fuck I got Here.
It makes sense to start most stories at the beginning. So why not start in Cheydinhal?
I'm one of those lucky few who can say, with absolute certainty, that I was born at the worst possible time. My mother got to be a house wife, the only challenge in her life the decision to either let me go outside and eat dirt or scream uncontrollably at the door I didn't know how to open. My grandmother was a priest, the only challenge in her life the constant fear that someone would figure out just how many men she banged in her private quarters.
Me? I got to watch my country get torn apart by a necromancer and his favorite daedra, and watch the people we used to call allies fight over its beautiful corpse. I got to be a soldier for an army I thought would bring order and justice to the world, only to find out we were the cancer eating it alive.
Fun times, right?
On the bright side, I've seen a lot more of Tamriel than my mom ever did. I spread her ashes off the coast of Vvardenfell. Not that she asked me to do that in her will- people who die unexpectedly when an Aldmeri Dominion war party raid their home don't often put silly things like where to spread their ashes in their will- but it was the only place she ever talked about visiting, so it seemed fitting.
Oh, right. This was supposed to be the bright side. My dog, Zane, is real nice. He started following me after one of my contracts for the Pact had me kill his owner and his bandit cohorts. I have a feeling I know why he took a liking to me, and I tried to tell him I wasn't that interested, but he seemed to miss the memo. He's nice company in the various taverns a mercenary finds herself in. Turns out bandit dogs really like to bite.
That makes two of us, Zane.
I'll admit, I'm growing weary of going contract to contract. Part of me misses the days where the hardest thing I had to do for food was follow someone's orders. Maybe I'll find a nice guild to work for. Gotta be better than going contract to contract, right?
