The Elder Strolls, Part 4: "Nordrik the Envious"

\[post\]The Elder Strolls, Part 3: "Facing the Storm"\[/post\]

[post]The Elder Strolls, Part 1: "Just Off the Boat"[/post]

[post]The Elder Strolls, Part 2: "This Elusive Feeling"[/post]

As a newcomer in Windhelm, I do everything to blend in with the local NPCs. I walk around town in regular clothes, not in armor. I drop by the tavern to eat and drink. Every day I rent a room for the night. Sometimes I chat with the townsfolk or, at least, listen to their conversations. Overall, I seem to manage to blend in: if a real adventurer came to Windhelm, I'm sure he would take me for a regular local. Nordrick the Faceless, he would call me.

Yet, an emotion very uncharacteristic for NPCs has begun to rear its ugly head inside the even uglier head of Nordrick. I can walk, sleep, eat, and drink like an NPC, but when it comes to my professional life, I am failing. Spending time with the locals and observing what they do to make a living, I've come to an unexpected conclusion: I envy them immensely.

For instance, there is an NPC in Windhelm who has set up a museum in his home. For two gold, he gives me a tour, and I look at his collection of various junk, which includes bones, an empty book, and a spoon. The collection itself is quite boring, but the guy invents absolutely ridiculous stories that make this assortment of junk look interesting. Why can't I have a job like that? I’m collecting a bunch of junk anyway, so why can't I sort it on shelves, come up with a couple of crazy stories, and charge people to see my collection? They would call me Nordrick the Curator.

Look in awe, if you dare, at this BOWL OF SALT! By the way, tickets are non-refundable.

I also met a writer living in the local tavern. A writer! I really envy his job. I would like to write a book, for example, about Nordrick the Brave, who single-handedly killed the terrible Ice Troll Dunstar. Or about Nordrick the Honest, who retrieved a magical sword and returned it to its rightful owner. I would sell them in the shops of Skyrim and take a cut of the profits.

(I even read one of this writer's books and found it terrible. He uses phrases like, "And now, dear reader, I shall leave you, modestly reminding..." Pff! I can't stand when authors address their audience. You know what I mean, my dear blog reader?)

Even the beggars here seem to have good jobs. One of them asked me for a gold coin, offering in return to give me a couple of lessons in pickpocketing, which seems quite strange. If she is that good at rummaging through other people's pockets, why does she have to ask for gold? On the other hand, I did give her the coin, so as I leave, I realize that she is so skilled at pickpocketing that she managed to coax the gold out of my pocket. Now that’s what I call talent.

With my sensitive skin, this is the only safe way to sunbathe.

I think all this envy stems from the fact that my chosen profession as a blacksmith really doesn't bring in any income. Yes, there is a wonderful forge in Windhelm with all the necessary tools: an anvil, a smelter, a tanning rack, a grinding stone, and a workbench, all within a few feet. With the right materials, I could craft armor, weapons, and even jewelry. The problem is that it doesn't bring me any income. In fact, it’s a damn unprofitable endeavor. Ideally, I could buy the necessary materials, make items from them, and sell for a profit. However, right now, the cost of the necessary materials is much greater than the finished items, so the effort isn't worth the result.

The only way to start buying for less and selling for more is to raise my Speech skill, and the only way to improve my Speech skill is to buy and sell as much as possible, but since my Speech skill is currently quite underdeveloped, I’ll lose a ton of gold here too. Thus, Nordrick Silver-tongued the Blacksmith is currently practically bankrupt.

Hey you, log! Let me chop you a question! Ha. I hit this log right where it hurts. Stupid log.

Fortunately, there are other ways to earn a living. One of them is Alchemy, and I’ve managed to gather quite a few ingredients after my journey to Windhelm. I mix everything and sell the resulting potions to the local alchemist, which brings me in a good income. Additionally, I spent one day visiting nearby farms and harvesting for farmers who had the time and energy to plant and grow a bunch of plants, but as soon as it came to harvesting, they suddenly became too lazy to spend thirty seconds of their lives on it. Also, I chop wood for those who managed to cut down trees, drag them to the farms, and chop them into logs, but couldn’t finish the job and split those logs in half.

In fact, I’m doing so well that the local farmers are gathering for a special meeting, at the end of which they elect me as the new Jarl of Windhelm! This is where the blog ends, and Nordrick Always Ready to Help wisely rules Windhelm for the rest of his days.

It seems I’ve won Game of Thrones. Now bring me a slice of bacon!

Alright, alright, I just sat on the throne for a moment when no one was looking. Even an NPC can dream, right?

Having invested the money I earned into smithing and trading, I soon find myself practically penniless again, and I have no choice but to go outside the city to hunt and gather ores. I dust off my armor, put it on, and head south. I stumble upon a small mining town called Kin Grove and mine some ores in a nearby mine. Next to the mine, I find an abandoned sleeping bag, so I’m able to sleep for free tonight. The next morning, I continue on my way.

Wolves, attention: to make our lives easier, please remove your skins and arrange them in neat piles. Thank you in advance.

In the morning, I run into a couple of wolves and goats, whose skins become another contribution to my capital. Wandering along the river during the day, I discover something resembling a small wooden shack. As I approach, I notice something moving rapidly through the broken boards of the shack. Someone is inside. Is it a bandit who wants to kill me for gold? Or a necromancer who wants to conduct a couple of experiments on my corpse?

Unfortunately, it’s neither. Inside the shack, something is moving quickly once again. It’s not a person. It’s something big, fast, and it’s rushing straight at me. Saber Cat. Saber Cat! Oh, damn, it’s the freaking Saber Cat!

FFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUU

Saber Cat. Honestly, I’d rather be attacked by a dragon. Dragons are indeed deadly, but they are quite lazy – they leisurely fly in circles, then land, then take off and circle again. Saber Cats take things much more seriously. Their attacks are quick and deadly: I've encountered a couple of Saber Cats while playing Skyrim with other characters who had more than just developed Speech and Smithing skills, and the result was almost always the same: a quick death and a completely unharmed Saber Cat. And now one of them is attacking Nordrick, who can’t even buy an apple from a friendly merchant without losing a couple of hit points.

I crouch down, which is the slowest way to move, except perhaps sitting in a chair, and I start frantically pounding on my keyboard, trying to stand up and run. I manage to stand upright and walk, then crouch and run for my life. Awesome. Trying to quickly pull out my shield and sword ends up with me first using a healing spell, then pulling out my bow, and none of this will help me stop the rampaging prehistoric predator. My Battle Cry! Of course! It will save me, or at least it would have, if I hadn’t already used it today to scare off a pack of wolves.

This is the end. Nordrick has met his end. I’ll go down in history not as Nordrick the Blacksmith or Nordrick the Woodcutter, but as Nordrick the Cat Food. And then I remember the river. The river! If it weren't for the river, this blog would end here with a brief description of what it’s like to pass through a cat’s digestive system.

Defending against the beast's attacks and seeing nothing but fur and splashes of my own blood, I finally remember what to do to stand up and run. I jump into the river and swim to the opposite shore. I turn around and nearly have a heart attack seeing the giant cat happily splashing after me. As soon as it reaches my shore, I jump back into the water and swim to the other side. The cat does the same. I repeat the process again. Okay. Alright. If I can manage to stay on the opposite shore for the rest of my life, everything will be great.

I was told that cats are afraid of water. I was told wrong. WRONG.

About three swims later, the cat gets a fresh idea: to run up the mountain and get stuck in the rocks. Well, nobody said that was a good idea. But if the Gods of Geographical Idiocy love anyone, it’s Nordrick, and I find that I can stand by the cabin and calmly shoot the Saber Cat from a safe distance. The predator just stands there growling until another arrow kills it, sealing the fate of yet another pair of boots I’m going to make.

Having finished with the unpleasant procedure, I heal and check the shack where the predator prowled. It’s rather dirty: the Saber Cat was just chewing on what was left of the previous owner when I arrived, so there’s a bloody skull and a ripped ribcage lying on the floor, and everything is covered in splatters of dried blood. However, there is an abandoned bed, which means I can sleep here, which kinda means I can live here. Which kinda means I have a home! Kinda!

A home with giant holes in the walls and ceiling, no door but with a wardrobe, a table with a couple of books on it, and even a fireplace and a tanning rack. Maybe it’s not so bad after all. I can’t pick up the skull and ribcage, but using some secret walking techniques, I manage to kick the disgusting bones out the door and toss them into the river, where they float downstream. As for the bloodstains on the floor, I cover them with goat skins as a makeshift rug. And now the shack doesn’t look like a murder scene but more like a place where a couple of goats just exploded. That’s a decent start!

When visiting my home, please wipe your feet after leaving.

Not bad. Now I have a nice blood-splattered little house without a door, but with dead fish hanging from the ceiling. This is definitely not Proudspire Manor. Hell, it’s not even the shack in the Imperial City from Oblivion. And yet, I finally have my own refuge. Nordrick the Homeowner. That’s what they will call me.

*Original. *