Dear Finn,

It is a hard truth to wake up in a strange bed in a strange land, and not know your mode of travel.  And yet the more frightening prospect is that this truth – that my mind is in slow decline – is one I have learned a thousand times over, and will forget the moment I turn this page.

Was it your idea to come to Skyrim?  Was it mine?  I suppose the answer is irrelevant.  You will be happy to know that I am not a Draugr yet, for my mind is still sharp enough.  For one, I can deduce that given my health, I would not have ventured this far from my homeland without reason, and I pray to the Divines that this reason is a cure.

Second, there are still fragments of memory that persist in my head, tiny wicks of flame lighting this unknowable path.  When I awoke in Riverwood, two things came to mind.  A place, and a name.  The place was Greywater Grotto, in Falkreath to the south.  The name was Anise.  An errand boy named Hjoromir said he knew of just such a woman, living in a cabin north of the White River.

So, following his directions, I aim to go north.  Forward.  Away from home, and all that I love.  Even now, there’s a part of me yearning for the warm forests of Falkreath, to be but a league and a fortnight away from Spring in Cyrodiil.  Such are the whims of fate, to tempt the traveler even as he brings her aid.   Thus I must weather each trial, do all that I can to endure.  I can only hope that the boy’s directions are sound.

– Lathgwen