Interview with a Dragonborn

Fore Word

My name is Ennar Stegle and I am Breton by birth. Born and raised in an insignificant little town two days south of Camlorn. I was a just a small boy, not even eight years in age, when I stole my father's quill and penned my first story. It was a dark tale about giants and vampires filled with errors and poor grammar. Nonetheless, the sight of the fresh ink on the paper bringing my thoughts to life filled me with unspeakable joy.

Though I can safely say that my father was not nearly as filled with that same joy upon seeing how I depleted his stock of paper and ink. Still, despite the beating my hinder parts took that day, I have dreamed of being a writer ever since.

Unfortunately, it seemed as much as I enjoyed writing, I was never very good at it. At least so I have been told on more than one occasion. I availed myself upon many colleges, schools, and teachers, but each said my talent was utterly lacking or needed to be greatly refined. Some more polite in their critique than others.

Now, one of the many hurdles in becoming a good writer is finding the right story to tell. A story people want to read. It was as I sat one evening searching for this story, that it occurred to me perhaps it should not be one of my own stories at all. That there was a story out there far greater than anything I could pull from my own imagination. And what story might that be, you ask?

What story indeed.

While I may have never ventured beyond High Rock before, the next several years saw me scouring the frozen lands of Skyrim in search of the elusive Dragonborn: The Savior of Tamriel. Why would I do such a thing, you wonder? Why embark on such a dangerous, expensive, and some might even say foolish endeavor? That is a good question, my friend, and one I often asked myself along the way.

It all began long ago whilst I was having a drink at a rather busy tavern in Daggerfall and one that I was oft to visit. It was early evening, but the locals had already been drinking for some time and most were inebriated beyond their senses and good judgment. Yes, the cheer seemed to be in well supply that evening.

That was when I overheard a particularly loud man, a Nord to be exact, though I never caught his name, telling a story about the Dragonborn. He was very boasting in his delivery as he told of how he saw, when he was a child and with his own eyes, as the famed warrior did battle with a dragon outside of Falkreath. Saving the city from what was most certainly a fiery fate.

The smelly, heavy-set man spun quite the tale, and though dramatic at certain points, his story-telling skills were quite informal and lacking in professional style. Criticisms I have heard directed at myself; truth be known. Still, as he went on with his tale, it occurred to me that not much was ever known about the Dragonborn.

His story had never been told. Not really. Stories about him, yes. Those are not lacking to be found in any inn or tavern you visit. But HIS story has never been told. It was then I knew that this was what I must set myself to write. But to do so, first, I had to find him.

It took years to finally track him down. In my pursuit of the humble hero, I discovered he owned properties and homes from one end of Skyrim to the other. None of which he seemed to retire to once the dragons were slain and his work done. Finding him was by no means an easy or inexpensive task. If I can assure you of anything, I can assure you of that.

Running low on both coin and hope, I was near giving up when I by chance overheard a conversation on the streets of Riften one cloudy night. (A city which this author strongly suggest one avoids visiting if possible. I was so invested in listening to the conversation that I was unaware someone had picked my pocket whilst standing there. The city is as ripe with crime as it is with the stench of dead fish. Always has been. Always will be.)