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The conversation got weird when ghosts of dead parents appeared guiding this naive Khajiit into their broadening future. I cautioned against listening to dead things, they’re dead after all and likely only know things that lead to such an outcome.

Needless to say, I was ignored and I carefully tiptoed around the urns. Ghosts are not difficult to fight, just annoying. I’ve seen them around some Khajiit ruins, almost like every family has a pocket necromancer weaving their art into future conundrums.

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As a rule I avoid getting involved in politics, you shouldn’t let me have a hand in your future leader. I won’t take responsibility in their actions though I might take offense and set them on fire which you probably wouldn’t like.

On the other hand, I try to stay out of your religion. Enough buffoons out here pay homage to a careless and fickle daedric lord and I’m not about to kneel before some dusty shrine and ask for favors.

When I was invited to attend a ceremony I was assured it wasn’t political or religious and yet I was lied to. And I spent the better part of the afternoon explaining my stance and hell, those Khajiit were totally down with the idea and still wanted my opinions.

Let’s hope this doesn’t bite me later..

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I’d wandered into the Valenwood on a meandering path from here to there with no discernible objective in mind. The canopy opened as I found myself on the edge of some overgrown maze, the garden of what might have been an aristocrat or dilettante..

..or some stone bosmer.

He spoke of ails in the forest and I being the agreeable sort offered to look into it. I would come to regret this later.

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..I try. I don’t always succeed. A wrong-turn and a helping hand lead me to what could only be described as a shrine to incredibly bad ideas complete with psychotic devotees.

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A dubious sorcerous trick I picked up back in Vvardenfell pulled me from what appeared to be a pocket of the Deadlands back into Blackwood only to see my would-be captors skulking about seemingly aware of my recent presence in their meager demesne.

With haste and caution I departed of course. I try not to deal with Daedra, their followers or their minions where possible.

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My efforts were not in vain and while the town was saved I was personally thanked for my work. A rarity given my preoccupation with being as far from prying eyes and idealistic leaders.

It was a welcome break from trends. I quietly endured as I gazed on as several ancestral spirits took up their place guarding ancestral relics. Necromancy is weird.

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The trail of corpses and strange disappearances led me to the sea. There, nestled amid the mast of expertly crafted ships and the dunes of an unforgiving desert I found them. Brazenly harassing the local townsfolk. Some chance encounters with Daedra had encouraged me to find stronger armor and I was thankful, spectral claws raked across the plating and put a shiver down my spine.

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I’m not against Necromancers. At least not by profession. You could call a it a courtesy, harnessing Magick isn’t easy and I’m not about to frown on someone’s approach.

Mind you, it’s a little creepy, working with the dead. Often dabbling in ritual behavior and raising the recently deceased. Nope, not against it, just not a fan.

I had delved into the crypt with a strange itch at the back of my neck. This fellow clued me in. But it wasn’t the Necromancers.. it was the Daedra around the corner.

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I venture to some dreadful places in search of knowledge and mystical secrets. I was nestled under a small town what had been decimated by daedric influence.

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