Thanks!
Here's my backstory:
Backstory:
The Bjarmians were mountain people who practiced shamanism and lived in harmony with nature. They were rarely seen in Skyrim, living high in mountain passes over the summer, only decending to lower valleys during the winter months. They kept to themselves in the forests, only occasionally being sighted by mountain hunters and pilgrims. There was only one time in the year when the Bjarmians would enter the wider world of Skyrim. Every Autumn, the entire clan of around 2-300 people would arrive en-masse at Helgen to trade furs and medicinal ingredients. Occasionally they would bring rare ores or enchanted weapons found deep in lost mines during their summer explorations. Their goal was to trade for essential supplies, which they would take back up the valleys to their winter dwellings hidden deep in the forest.
But one year, the clan did not arrive at Helgen. High up in the mountains an event had happened following months of Shamanic activity. In the weeks before the day the Bjarmians were due to arrive in Helgen, residents heard the eerie cry of the Bjarmian horns calling across the mountain-side. Individual families were communicating to each other, and gradually the sound of the horns seemed to come together, culminating in a day of ritualistic cacophony eminating from a single spot high in the mountain range. A band of young men from Helgen mustered, detirmined to strike out up the hillside to discover that was happening, but were held back by the warnings of a trusted group of elderly sages, who had a far-away, wonderous look in their eyes. And then...silence. Whispers started in Helgen and surrounding villages as to what had taken place. Every old folktale about the clan was raked over. There was talk of wild axe men, battles of magic, wonderous elixirs...and a cultish veneration of mythical creatures. Everyone waited to see if the clan would emerge from the mists at the edge of the forest...
A week passed...and then drums could be heard resonating down the mountain valleys. The drums could mean only one thing - battle. Townsfolk spoke in hushed voices about the carnage that would be taking place, for the Bjarmians were fabled to be fierce warriors, drawing axe and shield and powerful magic together and leaving swathes of forest flattened once battles had subsided...
Sharp-eared guards in Helgen listened nightly for the drums, and some could percieve them moving, and then coming back together, but all the time growing weaker, as if the drummers were being cut down like trees.
After another fortnight the drums ceased. The Bjarmians were never seen again....
The day the horns came together was the day a child had been born, a child whose arrival immediately created a schism in the Bjarmian clan. A vicious battle ensued for the child, which went on for three weeks. The first week was tense, hushed discussions in crevases across the platau where the Biarmians had gathered for the birth of the child. Some kind of decision needed to be made, but all leadership appeared to disolve with the coming of the child. In the second week, tempers frayed, and axes were drawn. Family groups splintered, and amongst the confusion, a small party disappeared, including the child and his teenage mother. The child's name was Olaus. His father was dead.
For the next week and a half, factions of the clan clashed to the sound of war drums, each group convinced the other was harbouring the child, who was valuable beyond belief. This war of attrition led to massacres, and the revival of magic so powerful that on more than one occasion both fighting sides in skirmishes perished together, high up on lonely plateaus.
What nobody knew was that the mother and child had struck out on their own, descending down to an uninhabited valley by the dead of night. Far behind, high up on the ridges and plateaus, it took the Bjarmian clan two weeks to kill themselves in their desperation to find the child.
The mother raised the child on her own, building a shack and small garden in the valley where they had fled to. They lived hand to mouth, whilst the mother waited for her family members to come for them. In that time, she never spoke to Olaus, for she was mute. When Olaus was 11, his mother died of fever, leaving him alone.
Olaus is now 56. He only has a basic knowledge of the skills once held by his people but he...feels things. He is strong and tough after years living in the wilderness, and he is at one with nature. He lives an easy life, hunting in the woodlands surrounding his house, only venturing down to Helgen once a year to trade...
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The Set Up:
I got through the intro quickly (and took it that the incident with the dragon never happened), and then played around a bit to raise a few levels, and to taste a range of ingredients to learn their first properties. I did not questes or missions. I raised archery and one-handed skills once respectively, and then trekked to the Alchemists Hut that is between Ivanstead and Helgen. Once arriving at the hut, I dropped most of my gear on the body of a wolf, leaving me with:
A barrel containing Olaus' stored furs to take to Helgen
A barrel containing a range of ingredients
A small collection of books that were Olaus' father's
Four bottles of wine (Olaus is a heavy drinker and is near the end of his supplies)
One bottle of frostbite venom
The skull of his mother..
And on Olaus:
Dagger
Hand Axe
Hunting Bow
20 Arrows
Novice Hood
Fur Armour
Fur shoes
A silver necklace
No gold
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Play Limitations and First Day coming next!
