Board Thread:Off Topic/@comment-14011542-20131009214425/@comment-176.93.242.59-20160621150721

My char is Thruwolv. A nord. Here's my Dragonborn's story

He was born and raised in Cyrodiil by a small nordic community in heartlands region, near Cheydinhal. Assimilating a lot of imperial and general mixed Tamrielic culture, his mother was pleased to see her grown son getting along so well.

Thruwolv's father on the other hand was worried. They had left Skyrim in hopes for a fortunate and stable family life, but their ancestors held a proud heritage of adventurers warriors, smiths, woodsmen, hunters, artisans and seamen of Skyrim. He feared that his son would lose touch of the old kingdom.

What would his son become? A scholar? A trader? Priest? What would become of his grand children? Halfbreed nords mixed with the blood of the imperials, redguards, or even a filthy elf!? Nay! He would not soil the memories of his ancestors by ruining his son with the wretched culture of the south! His son will embrace the cold winds of the fatherland, lay with hardy and worthy women carrying the fine blood of the north and work hard until his hands ache and numb from the labor. His son was still young and strong. He must not let such a nord go to waste.

As such, he summoned his son into the house, told him to join on a hunting trip with him. As they crossed next to the old Nagastani ruins, searching for game in the forests, he told his son Thruwolv how they were to dine for the last time together in a long time this evening. He was no child anymore. He had fulfilled his purpose as a father. Now it was time for his son to become a man. After they had dined, he was to pack his things and say his farewells.

He was to undertake a holy pilgrimage. To find himself in a land of his father and his father before him, and his before him. Thruwolv was to do whatever would become him. A nord don't need wealth of a king or a comfortable house filled with wine and servants. All he needs is his axe and his plot of land. There is no worthy life without hard work. Whether he would ever get honest pay for honest work, or spoils of fine adventuring. Or maybe comradery among the honorable companions. After he was beaten into shape by the land, and after his prospects would succeed, and after he would shoot his seed into a nordic woman, only after then was he allowed to return. Or perhaps undertake a journey to settle down in another province.

Never in his life had he seen his wife cry like she did after Thruwolv was gone. She had begged him to stay. The war would claim his life she would say. It was unimaginable to think how a nordic woman didn't understand that it was an undying privilege to die upon a battlefield bloodied sword in hand and then ascend into the heavens to eat, drink, sing and fight in the holy halls of Sovngarde. All in the name of preserving their land and heritage.

Such fate would fare better than rotting in some wretched tavern with some orsimeri moll sucking his member while he drowned himself upon a cheap Cyrodilic poisonpiss called roofwater wine or brandy. Her cries made the tenants and neighbors uneasy. She cursed him that night after having some Rosethorn mead. He would gladly pay such a low price if it meant that his son would become a proper nord. Something tells him that we would become more than that. So much more.

- Magfol/SamuelGraphite