• Previous part (31.5 – Alva’s journal)
• Next part (32)

Here are the most recent entries from the journal of Jenassa, member of the Frostpeak Stalkers:

I am Jenassa, a lethal instrument of death, blade and shadow, silence and skill honed to deadly precision. For a modest sum, I offer my services, for I am an artist of death, and like all artists, I seek a patron to inspire my craft. My dark red eyes have witnessed more battles than most could ever dream of surviving, and my hands are steady, whether they wield an iron sword, a dagger, or a hunting bow. Stealth and archery are my companions, just as much as one-handed weapons and a shield. Magic? I leave that to those who prefer such fragile power. I rely on steel and the shadows.

You will find me at The Drunken Huntsman in Whiterun, my preferred haunt when I am not on a mission. There, amidst the scent of mead and the camaraderie of hunters, I rest. Elrindir and Anoriath, the Bosmer brothers who run the place, know well the kind of company I keep and the work I do. They ask no questions, and neither should you, unless you seek to hire me.

I have no qualms with bloodshed. I welcome it. Violence courses through my veins as surely as any Dunmer fire. My price is fair, and in return, I am yours to command. Should you desire to commit crimes, do so; I will not stand in your way. Should you wish to dispatch a foe, name them; I will deliver them to their grave. I am the shadow at your back, the death in the night.

While I despise the confines of caves and mines, my interest in Dwemer relics keeps me delving into places I would rather avoid. But understand this: I loathe the undead. There is no enemy more foul than a walking corpse, and I would see them all returned to the dirt where they belong.

You will find my words as sharp as my blades, for I waste neither breath nor time on frivolities. My communication is terse, direct. Some mistake this for rudeness; I call it efficiency. Yet, for those who prove themselves strong and tactically adept, who earn my respect, they may find there is more to me than just a killer’s heart. Perhaps even love… but do not think that I would ever settle down as some meek housewife. Even in love, I am a warrior. My place is by your side, in battle, where we can carve our legend together. If you are wise, you will recognize the value of having me at your side, for I am a hunter of men, and there is no prey more challenging or more rewarding.

Recently, an Altmer mage named Jon approached me, seeking my services. A curious fellow, that one. He seemed to think he could haggle over my fee, despite my warning that I do not negotiate. He came back later and attempted to haggle again, believing that because the local warrior Uthgerd the Unbroken, a sturdy Nord woman, had joined him, I would be enticed to reduce my fee. To his credit, though, in the end he offered an apology for wasting my time. A couple of days later, Jon returns, this time with that headstrong Nord warrior Uthgerd, and a Companion fledgling named Ria. Jon claimed that their recent adventures had filled his pockets enough to meet my price. What a peculiar character; Jon wears his thoughts on his sleeve, speaks every fleeting notion that crosses his mind, and has a lust for women so blatant it’s almost laughable. It’s as if he’s assembling a harem rather than an adventurer’s band. I’ll admit, I find him a bit of a fool, but an intriguing one. He’s paid my fee, so I will lend him my murderous arts, wherever his little band leads. I wonder how long before his foolishness gets the better of him.

During my first outing with Jon’s ragtag band, we found ourselves scaling the mountain and delving into the ancient ruin of Bleak Falls Barrow, just for the thrill of it. I won’t lie, it was the kind of challenge that gets the blood pumping. We cut through a dozen bandits, slew a horde of draugr, took down a giant spider. Solving puzzles, avoiding traps… Jon even decided to run through two swinging blade traps just to pull the lever that would disable them. Reckless, no doubt, but there was something endearing about it. The fool clearly cares about keeping us alive, even if he has to risk his own neck to do it.

Before we faced the final challenge, a draugr overlord, I made it clear: if I fall in battle, I want my body returned to the Rift, to my kin, to be buried according to Dunmer rites. The battle was fierce, but we brought the draugr boss down together, and afterward, I found myself joking around with the others, something I don’t often do. There was a sense of camaraderie that I hadn’t felt in a long time. As we exited the ancient ruins, Jon told me that if I ever become a grandmother and he’s still around, he’ll track me down and bring expensive gifts for my grandchildren. I laughed it off, but I intend to hold him to that promise.

Ah, Jon, that fool with a heart of gold. So, you want to know about the Frostpeak Stalkers? Well, that’s what we ended up calling ourselves. Jon’s idea, mostly. I’ll admit, it’s got a ring to it. Something about it says fierce, unyielding, and maybe a little wild, like the icy peaks of Skyrim itself. Not a bad name, really. We were sitting around after a tough battle, Uthgerd, Ria, Alva, Jon, and me. Jon, bless him, started throwing out all sorts of names, most of them ridiculous. But then we got to talking seriously, and “Frostpeak Stalkers” stuck. It just fit. We’re not just a bunch of random adventurers anymore; we’re something more… a force to be reckoned with.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m still a sellsword. I fight for coin, and that hasn’t changed. But Jon… he’s different from the others I’ve worked for. He didn’t just pay my fee and order me around; he brought me into something that feels almost like a family. As much as I hate to admit it, he cares about me, asks for my opinion, even about things like the name of our band. And that’s not something I’m used to.

I’ve fought and killed for many employers, but Jon? He’s got this way of making you feel like you’re more than just a blade for hire. Maybe one day we’ll part ways, and that’ll be that. But for now, I’m part of the Frostpeak Stalkers, and I’ve got no regrets about it. We’re fierce, we’re loyal, and we take on whatever this harsh land throws our way. If you’re smart, you’ll remember that name. It might just be the last thing your enemies ever hear.

Ah, I suppose I should mention the incident near Helgen. It was one of those jobs that seemed straightforward: clear out an ancient ruin with Jon, Ria, and Uthgerd. We’ve faced countless draugr, bandits, and other unsavory creatures in the past, so I didn’t expect this to be any different. We were efficient, as usual, cutting down the opposition with practiced ease. But after we exited the ruin, we were ambushed by something far worse: a wispmother. If you’ve never encountered one, count yourself lucky. It’s a swirling vortex of icy death with the form of a female spirit, and it’s not the sort of opponent you want to meet.

The wispmother’s cold magic hit us hard. Before I knew it, I was on the ground, half-frozen, barely conscious. I remember seeing Ria and Uthgerd in a similar state. My first thought, as ridiculous as it might sound, was that this couldn’t be how it ends. Not for me. Not like this. I’d survived too much, fought too many battles, to die at the hands of some ethereal specter. But I could feel the life slipping from me, the cold seeping into my bones.

When I finally regained consciousness, it was to the sight of Jon, slumped against a wall, looking more troubled than I’d ever seen him. The fool had taken on the wispmother alone and, by some miracle, or sheer stubbornness, had managed to defeat it. He was exhausted, battered, but alive. As were we, thanks to him.

My first instinct, I’ll admit, was to lash out. I was furious at Jon for dragging us into that situation, for not anticipating the ambush, for nearly getting us all killed. But deep down, I knew that my anger wasn’t really aimed at him. It was aimed at myself. I should have known better. With all my years of experience, all the battles I’ve fought, how could I have let myself be caught off guard like that? It was a bitter pill to swallow, realizing just how close I’d come to death, and it wasn’t Jon’s fault: it was mine. He may be a fool, but he saved my life that day, and for that, I owe him. I’m not one to show gratitude easily, but it’s there, beneath the surface. I won’t forget that he saved me, even if I’m not keen to admit it.

After that, things changed a bit. I still fight for coin, and I’m still the deadly instrument of death I’ve always been. But there’s a small part of me that recognizes Jon as more than just an employer now. He’s earned a bit more of my respect, even if I’d never say it to his face. We’re still the Frostpeak Stalkers, still a force to be reckoned with, but I’d be lying if I said that encounter didn’t shake me a little. Reminded me that no matter how skilled or experienced you are, there’s always something out there that can bring you to your knees. I won’t let it happen again. Not if I can help it.

Let me tell you about this recent bit of absurdity. We were at the inn in Ivarstead, just taking a breather, when Jon caught some local redhead, barely out of his twenties, giving him the stink eye. Now, Jon’s many things, but subtle isn’t one of them. He walked right up to the kid and demanded to know what his problem was. Turns out, the lad, Bassianus Axius, as we later learned, had the nerve to get mouthy with Jon. And wouldn’t you know it, he pulled a knife, thinking he’d settle things the hard way.

Uthgerd and I were on him before he could blink, beat the fight right out of him. But instead of leaving it at that, Jon, in all his bleeding-heart glory, wanted to know why Bassianus was so bitter. The kid spilled his guts, said he felt trapped in that small town, wanted to be an adventurer, and was head over heels for some local girl named Fastred. Her father didn’t approve, said Bassianus was a good-for-nothing, and wanted Fastred to stick around and work the farm. Typical small-town nonsense.

So, what does Jon do? He offers the lad a place in our band, says he’ll train him up to be an adventurer. Bassianus, the fool, jumped at the chance like we’d handed him a golden ticket. But Jon didn’t stop there. No, he decided to play matchmaker too. Dragged Bassianus to Fastred’s father and practically forced the old man to let his daughter leave with us. I’ve seen all sorts of madness in my time, but that was something else. Fastred’s father was left in tears, watching his daughter march off with us.

Now, we’ve got Bassianus and Fastred tagging along as the newest members of the Frostpeak Stalkers. And let me tell you, it’s quaint, in that troublesome sort of way. I’ve spent years honing my skills, perfecting my craft. Precision, discipline, efficiency, that’s what I value. And now we’re dragging along a pair of young dreamers who’ve barely seen the world beyond their village. It’s enough to throw a wrench into the well-oiled killing machine we were becoming.

But…here’s the thing. As much as I want to keep this group sharp and ready for anything, I can’t help but notice how we’re becoming more than just a bunch of mercenaries. We’re starting to feel like a family. A dysfunctional one, sure, but a family all the same. Jon’s heart, foolish as it might be, seems to have a way of bringing us all together, caring for each other’s well-being, not just physically but mentally too. I suppose in a group like this, taking in strays like Bassianus and Fastred is bound to happen. Kindness, as strange as it sounds, seems to be something we’re not short of, despite the blood on our hands.

You want to hear about the latest chapter in the saga of the Frostpeak Stalkers? Fine, let’s talk about it. After our little brush with death and the dance with that wispmother, we found ourselves back in Whiterun. Jon, ever the idealist with his head in the clouds, decided he wanted to do some official work for the Jarl. Said he wanted to earn enough coin to buy a home, a proper base of operations for us.

Now, I’m not one to get sentimental about a roof over my head. I’ve slept in ditches, caves, and on more tavern floors than I care to count. But Jon? He had this idea that if we had a place to call our own, we’d be stronger for it. Maybe he’s right. Can’t say I’ve ever had the luxury of a permanent spot to lay my head, but I wasn’t about to argue. The Jarl, Balgruuf, likely wanting to test our mettle, sent us to clear out a fort that had been overrun by bandits.

The Frostpeak Stalkers? We didn’t just clear that fort; we slaughtered the lot of them. No mercy, no hesitation. When the dust settled, Jarl Balgruuf and his ever-watchful housecarl, Irileth, seemed pleased enough with our handiwork. They rewarded us handsomely and granted us the right to purchase property within the city.

Jon, bless his optimistic heart, chose Tundra Homestead. It’s a small estate on the outskirts, with workshops, farm plots, and more space than we’ll ever need to stash our gear. And so, here we are: a sellsword, a mage, a couple of warriors, and now even a pair of starry-eyed dreamers from Ivarstead, calling this place home.

I’ll admit, having a place to retreat to after a job isn’t the worst idea Jon’s had. And this place, Tundra Homestead, it’s… nice. Too nice, almost. I’ve got my own little corner, a space that’s mine, surrounded by people I’ve come to care about. The truth is, this is new for me, having a place, a home, and something that feels dangerously close to family.

But I won’t lie to you. It worries me. There’s a part of me that’s afraid of getting too comfortable, of getting soft. The life I lead, the life I’ve chosen, doesn’t allow for softness. But this feeling… this sense of belonging, of having a place and people to care about, it’s something I find myself wanting to hold on to.

So, what now? We’ve got a home, a name that’s starting to mean something in this harsh land, and a leader with more heart than sense. We’re the Frostpeak Stalkers, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that in this group, you either adapt or get left behind. I’m not one to get left behind. Not now, not ever.