Dear Diary,

I can't see what Hadmir likes about being a guard. The hours are hopeless, the days are long, the pay is alright, but the daily drag just seems horrid to me.

The moral seems to be, don't take an arrow to the knee, but all the guards I've met thus far haven't had a real arrow through the knee... Not like uncle Throm anyway... They'd be walking much, much less well and slightly funny...

Whiterun was a sight for sore eyes, I'll admit. People I had met in the past were still around for the most part, the hold looked like not much had changed and you really appreciate a warm bed after a day sitting in a carriage. From Ivarstead, the ride had been uneventful. The mountain pass to the ruins of Helgen was cold and it snowed most of the way. Beinkr, the carriage driver, was prepared to a fault for this though. A blanket and a bottle of mead in exchange for some dirty talk and a bit of a grope when we got to Riverwood. I guess he didn't want to push his luck. Riverwood... Nowhere did the civil war seem so far away as Riverwood. What is prosperity, but the lack of poverty.

The road to Whiterun was as uneventful as the carriage ride. I met a traveling bard and asked if he knew anything about a bard called Lunerio. He told me to ask the dean of history, Giraud Gemane, at the Bards College in Solitude. Why did Solitude still sound so far away... Homesickness struck like a log to the face as I bid the bard farewell. For the first time in days, the collar around my neck felt heavy. Still a reminder of things past and somehow foreboding...

Following the White river down to the plains of Whiterun Hold, I soon ended up on a vantage point. From there I could see vast plains stretched out before me and the hold of Whiterun, seated prominently upon its hill. The sun was departing when I walked into the Bannered Mare Inn. With little gold to spend I asked the innkeeper, Hulda, if I could spend the night and work off the tab tomorrow. Hulda was receptive to this, but she wanted my weapon as a deposit until I repaid her. Not a bad deal I guess.

Hulda bade her house slave to take Friend's Razor to her chambers for safe keeping. He obediently accepted my weapon and scurried off with it.

"If I may ask; where did you get such a young slave, Hulda?" I asked her when she handed me a plate of spiced beef and a tankard of Honningbrew.

"To be honest with you, He is not a slave. I do not own him, not in my eyes anyway. His parents both died at Helgen when the dragons first emerged. One day he wandered in here and just like you, he had no coin on him. For a few days I let him stay around, but his tab was just piling up. He had nowhere to go... One day he came to me with an unlocked collar and told me he was going to sell himself to repay his tab. He had a look of guilt and burden on his face that would have broken your heart instantly."

"I took the collar form his hands and locked it around his neck. We went to the Jarl's steward for the ownership document and he signed himself over to me. For the first time since I had met him he seemed happy. By rights he is mine, but he might aswell be the son I never had."

"I passed through Helgen on the way over here. One can only imagine what he has been through." I told Hulda, but to be honest... I knew, of sorts...

The bed was divine... Sleep, take me! I'm yours...

When morning came I started working off my debt to Hulda. Chopping wood, serving customers to the inn food and drinks, cleaning the floor... menial tasks... Somehow these were most relaxing. I worked up about three days of rent and expenses by the time night fell. Like in Ivarstead I was paid in favors, which suited me just fine. A favor can't be picked from your pocket...

Tomorrow I'll visit Warmaiden's smithy and gauge if the blacksmith is inclined to remove this blasted collar from my neck... She seemed reasonable enough when I walked past her shop and overheard her telling one of the Battle-borns to quit riding her for more swords.

Tomorrow...

Disclaimer (thanks to thebookdesigner.com ):

This is a work of (pure adult) fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.