‘A Journey into the Jeralls: Part One’ by Lucien Banregar

The following account is taken from the journals of Lucien Banregar, edited upon his return to Cheydinhal, and details one of his bi-annual trips into the Jerall Mountains in 3E 419. Part One covers Lucien's departure from Cheydinhal.

Foreword

It was my fourth trip into the Jeralls - my second of the current year. Owning a small herbalist’s store in Cheydinhal - The Wilted Wormwood – a time would come when my stores of ingredients would run low and the need to replenish them would arise. I would set out on trips throughout Cyrodiil to fill my stocks many times each year: ranging from the aforementioned mountain range in the North; to the Great Forest to the West between Chorrol and Skingrad; sometimes even venturing as far South as the marshes in the Blackwood. The final trip of the current year took me into the heart of the Jerall Mountains and was easily my most memorable trip of them all.

I had never seen a reason to document one of my trips until the health of my father, Laron, began deteriorating half a year ago.

“Lucien,” he said to me, “I feel my chance to join you on one of your journeys has passed me by.”

Upon my return from the first trip, where I had told him of the incredible snow-covered landscape where the depths of winter crept down from the border with Skyrim, he had suggested, “The next time you travel, I would love to join you on one last trip.”

It was for this reason that the left side-pocket of my pack was now dedicated to a small, leather-bound journal, a rattling tin of nibs and two tins of ink, each swaddled in bundles of cloth to stop them freezing over. It was also the same reason for the fine, white-feathered quill I now carry in the band of my hat…

A Journey into the Jeralls: Part One

Morndas, 8th of Evening Star, 3E 419

I rose early that morning, even before the sun itself had done so, having hardly slept at all that night - a deep excitement bubbling within me. The plan was to depart at first light when the merchants, couriers and other riders on horseback set out from the town - hopefully catching a ride with one of them at least as far as the Red Ring Road on the shores of Lake Rumare.

I made one last sweep down a packing list I had wrote on the first page of my journal for what must have been the seventh or eighth time. Circled in red ink was the extra woollen jumper I was taking with me this time, despite its bulkiness. The cold up on the mountains was biting and I had sorely underestimated its power to wither a man’s morale as much as his well-being on my last trip.

The sun was climbing over the peaks of the Valus Mountains when I reached the stables fortunately easing the nip of cold from the air. It was a crisp, clear morning and a thin layer of frost lay upon the ground in front of me but it seemed to quickly retreat to the cover of the shadows once the sun lay upon it.

An older Imperial man was loading some bags of flour onto the back of a cart, stood in front of the stables. A gleam of sweat lay on his forehead, causing some of his shoulder-length silvery-black hair to stick to it, along with a dusting of flour on his cheek. A grimace washed over his face as he lifted the sacks, accentuating the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. He looked like a man who took care of himself, with a lean physique. It was only the betrayals of his aging body that made the bags any kind of challenge. He looked to be a dry-goods merchant – and he must have been a good one at that. His clothes were freshly-washed and looked tidy, fitting him well. Not new, but they were not the threads repeatedly re-patched by a man with only a handful of coins to his name. He wore an off-white shirt that sat beneath a thick waistcoat. In his breast-pocket was a small, yellow book which caught my eye. A pair of stocky, well-oiled leather boots covered his feet underneath a pair of dark-maroon breeches. The knees of the breeches were worn into a lighter hue through use and looked equally as worn as the boots; small, discoloured cracks covering the toes.

A stout horse was harnessed to the front of the cart. Its short, chestnut coat having a clean and healthy shine to it in the morning light. Its long mane looking recently combed through. It wrapped one of its hooves onto the cobbles of the street and exhaled loudly; a cloud ghosting from it’s nostrils before fading away into the cold air.

“It looks to be a fine morning on the roads,” I announced, jogging over to help him to ease one of the woven sacks onto the cart.

“Aye, let’s hope it can hang around for the rest of the week,” he responded, looking up at me as I approached, before adding, “Don’t trouble yourself on my account, I’m sure you have somewhere you’d rather be.” A gentle smile rose from the corners of his mouth.

“It’s no trouble,” I beamed, “they say more hands make light work!” We both picked up another sack and exchanged banter as the last bag was lifted onto the cart.

“Well, I appreciate the help. Friendliness is a rarity at times these days. My name’s Myron,” he divulged with a kind smile - the crow’s feet revealing themselves once more.

“I’m Lucien. Happy to help out, Myron. Treat others as you’d wish to be treat, or something like that, eh?” I smiled back to him.

Eventually I managed to nudge the conversation onto the topic of his destination for that day.

“Chorrol: about a week’s journey ahead of me if the weather stays like this – maybe more if there is much snow up near Aleswell by the Silver Road.” He slowly tilted his head towards me; his eyes narrowing whilst a realising smirk grew over his face, obviously realising what I was after.

Before I could interject he offered, “Look, I can take you as far as Aleswell, but I’m planning on stopping there for the night. Chester-” he began, pointing at the horse behind him, “-is getting old, and I hate to push him on too long a stretch these days.”

I felt my cheeks bulge on top of a grin, “You’re a champion, Myron! That’s more than I could ask for – in fact I’m heading to Bruma myself. Aleswell will do just fine!”, I bubbled.

Spending the night at Aleswell would mean having to double back to the Silver Road in the morning but I was perfectly happy to spend some extra time in Myron’s company – he was a man’s man, as they say. There was not a thing you could dislike about him.

I walked around the back of the cart and hoisted myself up onto it next to Myron, shuffling until the wooden seat felt comfortable. He flipped the reins and clicked his tongue causing Chester to set off at a steady canter. The cart gently lurched forward as we passed beneath the gate tower at Cheydinhal’s West gate and set off down the Blue Road. My journey had finally begun…

[Hey guys, this is my first attempt at writing anything even remotely like a story since high school. Apologies in advance if it is not suitable or for any inconsistencies regarding lore.

The story is intended to be part of a short series expanding on my favourite part of Cyrodiil: Bruma and the Jerall Mountains. There will not be any world-shifting events happening due to it being my, aforementioned, first time writing a story. Instead I hope to simply put down the immersion I felt and the stories I had in my head when I last played Oblivion and explored the region.

Just one man, his journey for alchemy ingredients, and a tale for his father.

I'd be really interested in what people have to say about it, even if it just to recommend I never write here again!]