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A Turnip Farmer’s Diary

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Tirdas, 5th day of Morning Star, 4E 201

I buried my wife yesterday. She caught a bad cough last month that wouldn’t quit. She died in the early morning, when the world was still frozen and stiff.

Eslen always wanted me to keep a journal. A record of my thoughts for future generations, she said. I think she hassled me about it because I’m the only one we ever knew who could read and write.

Learned it in the army, when I was kid running messages for Imperials.

I never listened. But with Eslen gone into the ground, I find it brings me a strange comfort—hunched over my desk my candlelight, scratching away with this makeshift quill.

I’ll write when I can.

Loredas, 7th day of Morning Star, 4E 201

You grow turnips all your life, it teaches you some things.

Those roots taught me what a day’s work really meant. And how you can fold one hard day on top of the next for months and years at a time—have nothing to show for it except a bent back and a one-room cottage on the outskirts of Dawnstar.

They showed me what a cold snap’ll do to hopes and dreams. How the gods will shit on you day in and day out, without ever letting up. Like they got nothing better to do than crap bad luck out on my lot in life.

Aye, turnips’ll turn a good man bad. That is a fact.

But I’ve learned other things, living out here on the frontier. No company except for Eslen, the wind, and the wolves.

I’ve learned what silence truly means. And how beautiful the snow can be, falling at midnight with a full moon in the sky.

I’ve learned how to be quiet in my mind. Bury the restless feet of my youth along with my crops. Let life settle in to its steady ways.

And, of course, I’ve learned to fear the Falmer.

You can laugh at me. Call me a superstitious peasant with nothing but legends and wives’ tales in my head. I’m used to it. When I go into the city for market and tell people of the things I’ve seen—the monsters I fear—all I get are japes and jokes and cruelty.

But they don’t have to endure the long nights out on the plain. City folk haven’t heard the shadows moving in the darkness. Haven’t seen the eyeless creatures boiling up from the deep.

Sundas, 1st day of Sun’s Dawn, 4E 201

Used to be, I’d go years without seeing one. Hardly even worried most of the time. But lately there’ve been more of them.

A lot more.

Something is down there helping them. Giving them courage. There is an odd smell in the air whenever they come now—greasy and metallic.

Nothing smells worse than a Falmer. But these things…this smell. It’s stranger than it is foul.

Still, it brings me fear.

Tirdas, 11th day of Sun’s Dawn, 4E 201

Dark times, these. There’s been a hard frost for the past three weeks. I fear most of my crops are dead from it. Can’t say I’m surprised. With the dragons returning, Eslen dead, and the Falmer making moves on the surface, the gods stepping in to jam a finger into my eye makes pretty good sense.

As long as I have a few goats, I’ll make it till spring. You can live a long time off a goat.

Middas, 21st day of Sun’s Dawn, 4E 201

Sighted four Falmer yesterday. Their hazy figures loping along my southern field—body of my last goat slung over one’s shoulder.

I’ve known those eyeless fuckers to steal a stray calf form a herd. Something young that wanders off a bit too far. But to sneak into my barn like that in broad daylight? Never heard of something like that. Never seen them so brazen.

And always, there is the smell of burning metal in their wake.

Tirdas, 27th day of Sun’s Dawn, 4E 201

Revenge. Sweet revenge. Without the goat, I thought myself lost. But it seems the gods are not through with me just yet.

This morning I came upon a wounded Falmer. Something big had chewed his leg up good. Cave Bear. Sabre Cat. Dragon, maybe.

I stoved it’s head in with my hatchet and drug the bastard’s corpse back to my cottage.

Been eating him.

You’d think it’d take a lot to make a man turn to something so dark and evil for a meal. I certainly did. But you try going six days with nothing but ice chunks and root wisps in your belly. You’d have had that blind bastard on the spit just as fast as I did.

Tastes a lot like pork.

Fredas, 28th day of Sun’s Dawn, 4E 201

Been puking and shitting most of the day. Only stopped to write this down, so that my position can be made clear to future generations:

Fuck the Falmer.

Loredas, 29th day of Sun’s Dawn, 4E 201

They’ve come for me. Must have been able to sense I was about finished. I been burning all my furniture—trying to keep the shakes away. Failing at it. It’s just me and the stupid diary that’s left.

The Falmer’s claws scrape at my door. Guttural moans echo inside my pounding head.

That smell. That burning smell. I’d have liked to die with just about any other smell in my nose.

I have my old crossbow out. Managed to load a quarrel into it—although it took some doing. Don’t think I have the strength to load another. I figure the Falmer will be through my door sometime before dawn. They’ve been at the thing pretty good.

So now I got just one last decision to make.

I can wait on em, and greet the first ugly fuck to make it through with a bolt through its face. Or I can prop the bitch up under my chin and send my own damn self to the gods.

Haven’t made up my mind yet. I’m waiting on them to snap another hinge or two before I force a decision.

I guess if you find my body along with this book, it’ll be pretty obvious which direction I went.

READ THE NEXT STORY IN THIS SERIES

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5 comments on “A Turnip Farmer’s Diary

  1. Elspeth Aurilie
    February 27, 2013

    mmmmm…falmer bacon

  2. Pingback: Secrets in the Deep | Bus Ride Fantasy

  3. Pingback: The Falmer Metamorphosis | Bus Ride Fantasy

  4. Pingback: A Thousand Dead At Sunrise | Bus Ride Fantasy

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This entry was posted on February 21, 2013 by in Skyrim Fiction, Tales of the Necromancer and tagged , .
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