In his last adventure, Boris, a humble Imperial woodsman from Cyrodill, ventured to the northern province ofSkyrimin search of adventure. He landed in the forested city of Falkreath, where he chopped wood (duh), did a poor job of endearing himself to the locals and unfortunately ran afoul of the local guardsmen. Now in Part 2, we join Boris as he struggles to acclimate to this strange land, opting to seek out the man Sinding, a pariah just like Boris.
Sinding stood accused of child murder, a most grievous act. After his own treatment at the hands of Falkreath’s guards, though, Boris was skeptical that Sinding was even guilty. The unkempt man told him that he was a werewolf, a creature of myth, and forced a ring onto Boris’ finger. He told Boris that this ring can cause the wearer to turn into a werewolf, which in Boris’ reckoning was less than convenient. A local lumberjack turning into a werewolf and slaughters a whole village? Why would he risk it? Sinding wasn’t a liar either, he transformed into a half-man half-wolf amalgamation right in front of Boris' eyes and climbed to freedom. The guards, though they had the time to beat Boris silly, did not werewolf-proof their jail cells.
Boris would have to kill a white stag to appease some god. He’d learned a thing or two about hunting during his time in Cyrodill, though his style was unconventional to say the least; namely, Boris would venture out, find his prey, and run after it with an axe until the unintelligent animal would corner itself or get stuck on the harsh terrain of the land. When hunting this mythical stag, there were some rival hunters raining arrows on him from a neighbouring fort, but this prey was his. He faced the stag head-on and axed it down.
A ghostly beast then appeared and told Boris that he’d have to go kill Sinding at a cave called Bloated Man’s Grotto ‘for the hunt’ or something like that. Boris was none too pleased with that, the man had seemed a decent sort; even if he did brutally murder an adolescent, it didn’texactlyseem like it was his fault. Boris decided to go warn Sinding, but on his way back he stumbled across Half Moon Mill.
The Modest Adventures Of A Humble Nobody In Skyrim: Part 1
A quiet life in the woods, with minimal dragons.
Boris was sure Sinding wasn’t in any immediate danger, so he decided to introduce himself to the proprietors; him being a woodcutter and all, there could be some good honest work in the area, and honestly he craved a break from the rather serious matter he’d embroiled himself in. Upon meeting the inhabitant however, a woman called Hert with the palest person he ever saw and a pair of massive red, hungry eyes, he suspected something was awry around here. Hert told Boris that their mill was supplying Falkreath, and invited Boris to stay a while. Boris thought better of it, told them he was in a hurry, and bid them farewell.
He reached the Grotto and Sinding, in his werewolf form, entreated him to help defeat the hunters. Sinding had made some mistakes, sure, but he didn’t deserve a brutal death. Nine be damned, Boris had to help this man.
It was a bloody battle. Boris never killed another person before, but something feral overcame him in that cave. He fought with bloodlust, hacking and slashing his way through his Silver Hand adversaries. The battle was over, he and his werewolf companion had triumphed, but once the afterglow of vicious victory faded, guilt came over Boris like a wave.
Fighting With Sinding
Sinding thanked Boris for his help and said he’d isolate himself in the cave to protect others. Boris left the cave, dejected and sorrowful. The ghost appeared once more and congratulated him on his brutality. He realised he must have been under the influence of this dark spirit, but it didn’t give him any comfort. Boris hoped Stendarr could forgive him.
Despite being a mostly unquestioning sort, Boris began wondering whether he should ever have left Chorrol in the first place. He returned to his lodgings at Dead Man’s Drink, saddened and weary. He would have to make amends for this, even if he had to travel all of Skyrim to do it.
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Boris left Falkreath, and all the bad memories it harboured for him. Eventually, he ended up in the vicinity of Whiterun. Over the several days' journey [45 minutes], he encountered a variety of people on the roads. There was a ragged-looking Orc desperately trying to sell him unmarked vials, which he politely declined. He’d seen that stuff in Cyrodill, strange folk would use it to move very fast, as if propelled by a Dragon Shout.
It should be noted that the roads of Skyrim are incredibly unsafe. Despite the seemingly infinite number of hold guards, an innocent citizen of Skyrim could not walk down an inter-city road for 3 minutes without being molested by a pack of wolves (if you’re lucky) or a giant poisonous spider. Boris wasn’t an accomplished fighter, but this harsh land was quickly hardening him. The only thing he’d had to worry about in Cyrodill was sinewy floating imps shooting fireballs at him, which was nothing, really. Oh how he missed those greener pastures, and was suddenly overcome with a melancholy longing to return to the closest thing he ever called ‘home.’
Strange Tidings
Then things began to get strange. The first bizarre encounter was a hulking 12-foot giant wandering a couple of feet off the main road. He’d never seen something so large, and felt quite frightened when the creature first came into view. It was a mottled grey colour, with a chest full of scars and wielding a giant club. Boris stood at the side of the road as the giant passed, mercifully shambling down the road without acknowledging him.
But things would only get stranger. There was a man dressed in a full jester outfit asking anyone who would listen to help him fix the wheel of his wagon. Boris had to admit that the guy was an oddball - extremely excitable and mentioned something in passing about the corpse of his dead mother. Alas, Boris felt a deep urge to atone for what happened in Bloated Man’s Grotto, so he resolved to help this stranger.
Lacking any of the correct tools, he agreed with the man that they would need the help of the local farmer who dwelt just off the road. The farmer was a man by the name of Vantus, who was incredibly reluctant to help out the jester, having understandably been put off by his eccentric behaviour. However, leveraging his genuine nature and a modest grasp of Persuasion, he convinced ol' Vantus to help the guy out.
This experience filled Boris’ heart with warmth, and he wanted to keep pursuing this path. He got to talking with a fellow drifter and explained his situation, and they pointed him in the direction of Riften. If you’re looking to spread love around Tamriel, then the right place to start is with the goddess of love, herself. And so, Boris set out to reach the Temple of Mara in the Rift. A tale for next time…
