Diaries of a Dragonborn

Revised Big 'ol A/N: Just a couple of things I feel you should know. Firstly, this fic is completed, so nobody's stopping you from barging through all 26+ chapters, but if you'd like to get the original experience, read one chapter with a day in between. You get leeway for the ultra-short ones. =P Secondly, this isn't meant to be taken too seriously, so I'm sorry if I get spellings or names off - though that doesn't mean I plan to write it shoddily. Thirdly, reviews, if you have the time, please leave me one or ten. =)

Dear Diary,

Today was the first day of my life as the Dragonborn's (supposedly) housecarl.

It started off a normal day like any other, about a week ago. I trained the Jarl's son for a few hours, or at least tried to, the little brat. He swings like an elf and whines incessantly like the glow of a nirmroot when he gets tired. Over dinner later on, Jarress told me about the rumours that the Dragonborn had come, just like the inn bards sang! My first reaction was to laugh and chide him for getting drunk so early in the day, but he waved it off and said that the brother of his friend had seen the dragon slain by an orc. Well, I replied, very good for him, as dragons don't go down easy at all. He had found himself a strong warrior. But Jarress continued to blabber about yelling and strange blue circles. I promptly ignored him, as would any sane person, what less the housecarl under the great Jarl Balgruuf the Greater.

Here we are at today, when I was introduced to the very man whose existence I had treated as a joke.

What can I say about him? There's just so much to say, and all of it is strange, I tell you, stranger than the dwarven tinkerers or the popularity of "The Real Barenziah", which I find good for only door-stopping and feeding fires.

He calls himself Three Point One Four One Six, or Three for short (as if I'd call him by his full name - so ridiculous!), though I think I'll just call him Dragonborn, or Dovahkiin, whichever goes fine by him. He's an orc of the dirty green variety, slightly shorter than regular orcs, half a head taller than me. He rarely speaks - he's very silent, even in his dealings with the shopkeepers - but when he does, his voice is... I don't know how to describe it. I think it's rough and low, like any orc's would be, and yet I cannot really say, as if I've forgotten already. It might be part of the whole Dragonborn business, that the Dragonborn's voice leaves no trace in one's mind, simply in one's body. Hah! I must make note to pay attention. I am no cheesebrain. Surely I can remember what my Thane's voice sounds like. And yet here I am...

He is a dual-wielding warrior who wears heavy armour and two maces. That, at least, gives me some comfort. Steel, muscles and blood I know, but not the occult or their spells. I have never been on good terms with that creep Farengar, and it is a relief that I do not have to spend my days with someone like him.

Even so, compared to the rest of him, I fear for my future. He is a brute and a berserker, albeit quiet. He charges off from place to place as if he is chased by invisible wolves, or driven on by some controlling spirit until he tires himself out. Panting, he still carries on. Somehow he regains his breath and repeats the process. Has he never heard of pacing himself? What if we come across bandits while the strength has left his legs, and the breath missing from his chest? That is only one of his oddities, though.

We went for a stroll (I cannot explain it as anything else) around Whiterun moments after being introduced to one another. Simply put, he shows no concern for his followers, running around without care like a child. He picks things off the land - weeds, mushrooms, snowberries - and stuffs them into a pouch. He walks with his head close to the ground, looking precisely for those things. When he sees an enemy, he begins swinging in the air wildly until they crash into each other. I fear that he is either prone to hallucination or poor in sight. He may as well be both. And he shouts so much! He shouts at the rocks. He shouts at the trees. He shouts in the air and at nothing and everything in general. It's always that one syallable: "Fus". Fus. What does that even mean? He certainly does not know, or at least didn't bother to answer when I asked him. I feel my head aching and my nerves a wreck from all the noise. Fus. Fus. Fus. Oh, diary, if only I could give you my ears, so that I would not need to listen!

The worst part about him, though, is that he is a despicable thief.

I am torn between outrage and painful laughter every time he attempts to steal. Bear in mind that this is an orc decked in heavy armour, who clinks and clanks if he so much as breathes. There he is, kneeling down and expecting me to follow (which I do, very grudgingly, as he is ultimately my lord and I was commanded by the Jarl to follow his word), and the most amazing part is how he gets away with it. Everything that isn't nailed down: shields, wine, potions - oh so many potions - coins by the jarful, cheese, bread... and nobody notices. Nobody. I wanted to scream so badly out of utter confusion. I have no idea how it happens, but it does. What's even more humiliating is that he expects me to carry the loot of his rottenness - me, a housecarl, born and bred a warrior, a Nord woman through and through, now a pack mule for the spoils from my own people! Dear diary, one of these days, so help me Talos if I smash his head in with his own mace. It is with the pride of a Nord woman that I bear my load, of course. I can carry my weight, and the Dragonborn's too, like any man can (and should), and I carry it out of loyalty to the Jarl. It is the duty sworn to me, to protect the Dragonborn and to be at his service... and if people catch on to his crimes, he will need it.

I have heard the stories of how he slayed the dragon and, I kid you not, absorbed its soul. How that works is beyond me. I don't think I'll believe a word of it until I see it for myself. Even if I do, I don't think that's enough to redeem him in my sight.

Still, this is only the first day. Who knows what awaits in my new life?

I'm willing to guess: mushrooms, deafening roars, and more weight-lifting.