My name is Fjona, and it has been more than a hundred years since I last saw Skyrim--the place of my father's ancestors, and my own, dark rebirth... Rumors of dragons, a civil war, and a dark prophecy have prompted my return to a place I once vowed never to return. I have seen many strange things in the twelve mortal lifetimes I have spent as a vampire, but I had never thought to see a living dragon, much less the Empire of mighty Talos laid low by the Dominion, and forced by the Thalmor to worship in secret. Much has changed, and not for the better. 

The people of Riverwood live in fear--not of dragons, but of another battle, and their small village changing hands again. The bosmer, Faendal says that Ulfric's forces have taken, and lost the village half a dozen times since this war began, and each time, more innocents die. It seems both the Empire, and the Stormcloaks have accepted a few of my kind into their ranks, only to suffer betrayals and the mistrust of people on both sides after every bloodbath for which they were responsible. It serves them right. Save for a few, my kind are monsters, and that is why I kill any I find in my travels.

I was once a member of an ancient order called the Blades--an order of honorable warriors dedicated to serving those with the dragon blood. It was the Blades who taught me the ancient, Akaviri art of swordsmanship, and the discipline by which I have survived all these many years. Vampirism is a terrible curse, but I refused to allow it to rule me as it has most of my kind, even after I was shunned by my former brothers and sisters. I killed the creature that made me, believing that if I did so, my curse would be ended. That was more than a thousand years ago, and I know now that there is no cure...

The trick, or so I have found, is in allowing myself to feel human whenever possible. These last, precious moments before dusk have always brought me some small joy, for it is in those moments that I may endure the sun without suffering terrible burns. Would that I could feel the midday sun upon my bare skin once more... Alas, I must find compromise instead. There is a certain beauty in Riverwood that reminds me of the small village of my birth. Perhaps I'll return here some day.

That these people, even knowing what I am have not yet chased me away with torches and weapons seems strange to me... Having been chased out of many settlements over the centuries, I seldom remain in one place for more than a few weeks. Better to move on before someone starts asking too many questions, or some poor, misguided fool begs me to turn them. How could anyone want this curse? The one who made me insisted that it was a blessing, but he was turned by the Blood Matron herself, and worshipped her as many of my kind would worship Molag Bal. He was a fool, and a monster who sought to make me his immortal whore. I cut off his head, and watched him crumble to ash--it almost felt like justice. Now, I worship no one. The Gods of my ancestors abandoned me long ago, and neither Molag Bal, nor even Lamae have anything I want.