You may remember Boris, ado-gooder Imperial woodsmanfrom Cyrodill. After moving to his new home in Chorrol, he destroyed a tribe of goblins plaguing a local farmer, solved a conspiracy in Castle Chorrol and failed to procure a pint from the local inn.
He carved himself a respectable life woodcutting in The Great Forest, but after a couple of years occupying a bed in the Grey Mare, the thirst for modest adventure called to him once more. Boris had thought that an honest living plying his trade would provide all the fulfillment he needed, but his mind kept wandering back to his time playing hero.
He needed somewhere different, somewhere to find a newpurpose.
Boris Heads North
Chorrol wasn’t far from the southern border ofSkyrim, a frosty and mountainous region. He eyed the city of Falkreath as a potential temporary home. It was nestled in the woods, ideal territory for a woodsman. Thankfully, Skyrim was one of the pillars of the Third Empire so he didn’t foresee any problem entering the province.
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I just want to live the quiet life in Chorrol, Oblivion Gates be damned.
A beggar in Chorrol had told him that Emperor Uriel had been assassinated. He was sure the Empire would remain strong, though. By no means a man of high intellectual or political faculties, Boris didn’t foresee a Tamriel-wide decline in imperial influence, resulting in a rapid-fire string of secessions and a succession crisis. ‘Nah, the Empire would be fine,’ Boris thought, before setting off on his journey.
Boris opted to travel through the Pale Pass, a recently uncovered path through the Jerall Mountains. Some chap named Harry Kvatch or something had discovered the pass, Boris had read about it in the Black Horse Courier. Kudos to him, he supposed.
While travelling through the Pass, Boris experienced something very strange. A tingling of the brain, an uncanny sense that something very profound had just occurred. Something in Nirn had shifted, strange happenings were afoot. There was no time to ponder the empyrean, possibly temporal implications of what had just occurred, there was wood to be chopped.
Boris arrived in Falkreath Hold. His first impression of the place was that it was quite a dreary, damp place. Upon his arrival, a man approached him and told Boris that his 10-year-old daughter had been torn limb from limb by a local. Delightful.
They were holding the man at the local jail, perhaps he’d speak to the alleged murderer later. For now, Boris had gone weeks without feeling his axe split through a good, solid piece of wood. He sought out the Deadwood Lumber Mill, ready to offer his passionate service to its proprietor. Well, Boris didn’t dislike many folk but the mill owner Bolund wasn’t the friendliest face in Falkreath. He called Boris a “provincial” and wondered why he’d been allowed to roam Skyrim. What a preposterous thing to say, weren’t we all part of the great Septim Empire?
Boris didn’t know why the Empire would be spying on its own people, but his desire to help always outweighed the greater qu.stions,
Regardless, Boris began chopping wood for the man. It soothed him, he sure did love chopping wood. The feel of an axe biting into a log, the rewarding sight of a big pile of firewood. Boris had swung his axe at a lot of trees in Chorrol but never actually made a dent. Perhaps it had something to do with this new axe he’d found in Falkreath, or the work of some higher power, beyond gods or the scope of this universe, deeming that the wood be softer in Skyrim than it was in Cyrodiil? Whatever, it was not for Boris to trouble himself with such existential matters.
After some hard hours at the chopping block, Boris decided to introduce himself to the rest of the Hold. After conversing with a couple of locals, he learned that everyone in Falkreath is ‘in’ on a morbid joke. Since the cemetery predates the city, all of the business owners have themed their stores around death — Dead Man’s Drink, Corpselight Farm, Grave Concoction and so on. There’s also this weird black door nearby that asked him about music or something. Not being the musical sort, Boris declined to engage with it.
Boris quickly learned that the Jarl was an unpleasant sort and sought out the old Jarl, Dengeir. He was hoping to get a proper introduction to the city and see if he could make a difference around here. Well, Dengeir babbled something about Imperial spies and asked Boris to steal a letter from Lod, the local blacksmith, that would prove his allegation. He didn’t know why the Empire would be spying on its own people, but his desire to help always outweighed the greater questions, and he wanted to put the old man’s mind at ease.
Well, Boris walked straight up to the door of the Lod’s house and lockpicked it. He had learned in Chorrol that people tended not to care if you fiddled with their locks as long as you didn’t do it right in front of them. It was a mannerly thing, people didn’t like to talk about it, but they had no problem with you doing it in private.
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The letter was about smithing swords, a very strange document for a blacksmith to have in their possession. Boris could see now why Dengeir was so worried. When he returned to the house of the former Jarl, he was surprised to find the door locked. Well, surely his new friend wouldn’t mind him letting himself in? Sure enough, once Boris cracked the lock, Dengeir was happy to see him.
However, he did not foresee the aggression of the Falkreath guards. Upon entering the house, three guardsmen quickly descended upon him. Without offering him a chance to explain, they quickly began beating him to a pulp right there on Dengeir’s floor. He had encountered similar treatment in Cyrodill — he was right in his instincts not to trust guardsmen.
Shaken by his experience, Boris suddenly thought of the accused murderer, Sinding. Perhaps there’s more to his story than the locals have been nattering about. Perhaps he too had been maltreated? With resolute purpose, Boris went to seek out Sinding at the Falkreath Jail, which begin the next chapter of his adventure…
Check in next week for the next Modest Adventure of a Humble Nobody!
