The Last Memoir of Wanders-Away

The following text is a transcript of a note written in red ink on a silk parchment found adrift within a bottle of clay in the Sea of Ghosts. The bottle, carved with drawings of large trees and menacing snakes, and smelling far worse than the cave of a Frost Troll in Winter, was found by sailors of the East Empire Company traversing in a monthly route through the Northern ports of Skyrim.

"In my life I've seen moments where the trees meant I was safe. Meant I was at home. Why must fate be so ironically cruel as to dictate I should die by the hands of trees? As I sit in this coast, with my feet washed by these cold waters, as my blood flows slowly through the dirt and my life fleets me painfully, the sight of those wooden ladies' wrath brings me back to the memory of the Marshes.

My name is Wanders-Away, and my namesake is now my doom. When I was a hatchling in Black Marsh, and I barred the name given to me by the tribe, Gleith-Ha, my favorite thing to do was explore the outskirts of the Hul-Galeel tribe. To me, every riverbed holds a mystery, every spot of dirt holds treasure, every cave tells a story. Any old scrap of metal of a random expedition stranded in Argonia that I found in the ground, or a broken arrow from some unknown struggle stuck into a tree could bend my mind over. The rest of the tribe, however, never shared in my curious explorer spirit. They said it was dangerous to wander away, because the areas close by were thick with crocodiles and flesh flies. 'Some day, you're going to lose yourself out there, Gleith...' the Elder would tell me. 'And when that happens, none of us will be able to help you'. Now that I think about it, it seems as though he meant more than just saying I'd get lost in the marsh farther than the gatherers would go. It wasn't long before I started living in a world of my own. The stories I would tell myself about the little pieces of trash I found in my wanderings were suddenly more meaningful to me than the lessons about how to herd the guar or how to light fires with sticks and flesh fly oil. Of course, I kept that to myself. In Hul-Galeel, distaste for the customs was met with disapproval and spite. The An-Xileel spoke loudly in those parts. No one needed to know.

The years went by. My fugues into dangerous waters gave me quick reflexes and a hard tenacity. One day, I dared to wander a little farther than usual, where I hadn't gone before. That day. Something strange called on to me. Not a voice. More like a hunch. I followed it, and it took me to a cavern covered in nothing but moss and fog. I entered it, and what I found within stunned me. I tiny little Hist sapling, growing inside, with barely enough sunlight to grow more than a few leaves. I kneeled before it, and I started to meditate. The sight made me realize how small the Hist seemed to be in my head compared to the findings I indulged in. I was beginning to realize what had happened to me over the years. I started to find in the dark caves at night and in the green fetid lakes more than just scrap that flowed down from Morrowind or Cyrodiil. I found something that other Argonians found in the Hist: fulfillment.

After the sun set, I came back to Hul-Galeel. I went straight to the Elder's hut. He lived with the chief of Hul-Galeel, the wardens of the tribe's own Hist tree, and an An-Xileel emissary, there to supervise. I announced the wish in my heart. I would no longer live in Hul-Galeel, and I would no longer dedicate any of my hours to the Hist. I would journey and discover as many new things as I possibly could, because what they found in the Hist, I wanted to find in quests.

Before I proceed, I must say that, if I had been born in any other tribe, maybe it wouldn't have become a problem. Most tribes I've met over the years treated similar issues by just selecting someone else. But I wasn't born in another tribe. I was born in Hul-Galeel, a tribe of traditionalists. A tribe aggressively shut off from the rest of the world.

So they called me a heretic.

They called me a heretic, and my heresy was forsaking the trees. They said that Sithis willing, my soul would be forever lost, because I was abandoning those who granted it. So I ran. I ran faster and farther than I have ever ran before. I wasn't wandering. I was escaping from the hate of the tribe that once housed me. I didn't know where I was going. I just didn't want to be there. Eventually my legs tired. My head went numb, the air was growing thick and I could run no longer. I collapsed somewhere, falling with my belly against the water, and I dreamed.

In my dream, I saw the tiny Hist sapling I found in that damp cave that afternoon. It was shaking slowly, then faster, then faster and faster until it shaked so violently its minimal tweaks broke out, multiplying infinitely, and hurling towards me. I closed my eyes, ready to be stabbed by infinite parchments of sharp and broken Hist wood, but when I opened my eyes again, I saw something different. I was standing on top of the tribe's tree, and two of its branches stretched out endlessly in two opposite directions. In one branch, I could see a vision of myself repenting for what I said, going back to Hul-Galeel, and growing old in their service as was expected. In the other, I could see myself bathing in the gold of treasure, the joy of discovery, and the thrilling unexpected, standing proudly as a great adventurer. The two visions had only one thing in common. The background. In both sights, the Hist stood tall behind me. Not just tall. They toppled the heavens, towering, laying their shadows upon me.

I understood it then what they wanted to tell me. Whatever the path I took personally, it wouldn't matter to the Hist. No matter whether I stayed and lived the regular tribal life or followed my own path, in the end, the Hist would still be towering above us, just like before I was hatched. They couldn't possibly be less affected by my heresy.

This was their way of letting me go. Their way of telling me to get up, and go be the adventurer I wanted to be. Their way of saying I was free.

So I stopped being Gleith-Ha, and Wanders-Away became my burden to bare. The Argonian born to wander, to find in lost caverns and mysterious dungeons across Tamriel the fulfillment he couldn't find in the trees, like the rest of his kind. I've been from Stros M'Kay to Alinor and from Caldera to Winterhold and everything in between. Know that I do not resent the people of my tribe for branding me a heretic. They judged that was the best course of action based on what they thought they knew of the Hist. They were answering their calling, just like I was answering mine. If the conflict between their vision and the dream I received from the Hist that day teaches us anything, is that no one can truly know the Hist motives.

Now I rest here, writing this memoir. The special crimson ink I brought from the Marsh is almost over, just like the crimson blood from my veins. I pour my memories into this parchment, and my soul into the Void. Who knew of all things, tree ladies guarding a natural cave would do me in. Long time coming, I suppose. I hope when I'm reborn I can be reconciled with my people. After all, I never chose to be born this recklessly adventurous. We'll see."