My old friend Finn once told me we are thralls of routine.  When given the choice of a quill or a book, I invariably reached for the quill. Perhaps in another life I wrote a journal much like this.  It’s entirely possible that life began at sunrise and ended with the day. 

Thus my existence is like the housefly.  Not the most attractive of monikers, although when spoken from the lips of a charming Dunmer, it almost sounds romantic. 

His name is Drelas, although I do not know if it will be Drelas tomorrow.  Today I was certain his name was Nelos, but for me certainty is little more than a feeling, and not an attribute I can trust.  He, on the other hand, does not care for names, for he has taken to calling me housefly.

The Dunmer has been kind in helping me piece together my journey.  He suggested given my background in magic, that I had come to Skyrim to visit the College of Winterhold, and mistakenly came to the Bards College in Solitude.  It was either that, or like a good housefly, I followed the scent of dung.

However, Solitude is not as dirty or corrupt as Drelas would suggest.  It is not home to beggars and thieves like Riften, albeit there is one Khajiit here who frightens me.  His eyes watch the Dunmer’s every move, and I cannot help but be worried for my neighbor.  For his part, Drelas laughs off any suggestion that the Khajiit is here for him.  As soon as someone wealthier comes along, he insists, the cat’s eyes will be trained on him.  As I take the carriage east to Winterhold, I can only hope this is not false bravado.

– Lathgwen