Yngol, Son of Ysgramor

How long will I be upon these dark waters? Ylgar shakes with anticipation of vengeance, frothing at the mouth as he damns the Falmer. Looking back to the horizon-fires, I am filled with despair; antagonists lay on both shores as we tread our way across this sea of ghosts. Father has already forgotten the horrors we left on Atmora. As we wait for headwinds north, he carves faces into his ancestral ax, which he deems Wuuthrad. I cannot muster the single-mindedness of my kin.

Each night, as I lay below deck, I am shown a sky filled with dark eyes. They watch as I wade through rivers of elven blood, thickened by snow-flake tears. I have taken to avoiding sleep, when I have the strength, but listless on the bow I hear whispers. Whispers from deep within the water, of the names of every Falmer who falls in Saarthal. The wounded, bloody faces of women and children, of caring fathers and brothers, broken by Wuuthrad. The wind carries the future agony-screams of Saarthal, filling Jorrvaskr's sails toward Atmora.

Ylgar claims his spear, Hsaarik, points south to the redemption of our kingdom. I often wonder if it points to my own chest instead, a gateway to silence the winds that howl.

How long will I be upon these dark waters?

With deepest sorrow,
Yngol, Son of Ysgramor