I bought Skyrim on the Xbox 360 back in November of last year, shortly after its initial release. I started playing the main quests and got as far as completing 'Diplomatic Immunity' before giving up. I was frustrated. I wanted to immerse myself in Skyrim's world, but absurd game mechanics kept getting in the way.

One thing I disliked about Oblivion was dungeon looting--venturing into a dungeon, killing everything, picking up several hundred pounds of crap, and hauling it back to town to sell. It was at once incongruous with the narrative and tempting in the same way that skooma is to a junkie--it offered immediate satisfaction but diluted and trivialised the experience in the long-run. When dungeon looting, I was just playing with numbers rather than role-playing in the fiction. What might have been important, character-moulding, decisions, such as what to take and leave behind, were rarely an issue, since I could usually have it all. In other words, there were few or no trade-offs, and it's our trade-offs that define our character!

Back when I was playing Fallout 3, I had similar frustrations. My solution was to develop what I called a 'user-enforced mod': a set of self-imposed rules to make Fallout 3 a more interesting experience. My goal was not realism as such, but to introduce more difficult trade-offs into game mechanics that were, so it seemed to me, so slack as to be practically broken. I posted a thread on these forums that garnered quite a bit of attention. Thankfully, someone http://www.gamesas.com/user-enforced-mod-t34905.html, so you can check it out if you're interested. The thread was posted back when New Vegas was still in development, and Obsidian soon announced a 'hardcoe mode' for console players as though in response.

I had hoped that Bethesda would see fit to include something like a 'hardcoe mode' in Skyrim, but no. Indeed, almost all the same frustrations I had with Oblivion and Fallout 3 remained. However, Bethesda seemed keen on effectively 'modding' their own game through patches and DLC, so I decided to wait awhile. Creating such hardcoe modes seemed popular among PC players, and it has been a frequent request by console players, so I've held out some hope that Bethesda would yet grant my wish.

Now, I'm tired of waiting, tired of avoiding spoilers, and tired of seeing my copy of Skyrim gather dust. I decided to search online to see if anyone had enumerated a set of rules for Skyrim like my 'user-enforced' mod did for Fallout 3. Among the results, I discovered an article, http://j-u-i-c-e.hubpages.com/hub/roleplaying-skyrim. It has some good suggestions, but what really caught my attention was the idea of writing my own journal. It seemed quite absurd and over-the-top, though it would obviously be a great way of getting into character and immersing myself in the fiction.

Writing such a journal would also be relatively easy for me. I sunk hundreds of hours into Oblivion and so am quite familiar with the Elder Scrolls universe. However, I had explored relatively little of Skyrim. I hadn't been to Falkreath, Riften, Dawnstar, Winterhold, and had only fleetingly visited Windhelm and Solitude, to name but a few locations. I had also intentionally avoided general information to avoid any and all spoilers. Just like my character, I would truly be encountering Skyrim, or at least most of it, with fresh eyes--their discoveries would coincide with my discoveries, their ignorance would reflect mine, and so forth. So I decided to do the ridiculous and write a journal, in-character, of my adventures in Skyrim.

I will update this thread with entries in that journal. Hopefully, it is both readable and interesting to members of this forum. Making it public might also spur me on to continue writing entries (even if I probably do have better things to occupy my time with). My character is an imperial female called Adriana. I have tried to give her a distinct personality.

I have also been tinkering with different rule-sets like my 'user-enforced' mod for Fallout 3. I'll save the specifics for another thread, but the most important rule concerns game saves and death. Some people like to play so-called 'death is death', meaning that if they die, then they have to start all over again (excepting deaths caused by bugs, of course). This seems overly harsh and not particularly fun, but there is certainly a case to be made that it's too easy to "cheat" in Skyrim by constantly saving and reloading whenever anything goes slightly wrong.

My solution to this problem is to use sleep as a kind of checkpoint system. That is, every time my character sleeps I make a new save which you might call a 'checkpoint' save. While I can create new saves whenever I want, if I die, then I must return to my last 'checkpoint', normally at the beginning of the same day. This means that I may lose a significant amount of progress if I die, but it's not nearly as punishing as a 'death is death' scenario. To make a 'checkpoint' save, I must eat at least two items of food shortly before sleeping and sleep at least 6 hours. I cannot make another 'checkpoint' save for at least 12 hours.

To get an idea of how this works, recall the typewriter and ribbon system from the old Resident Evil games. In this case, however, I need to find a bed rather than a typewriter and at least two items of food rather than an ink ribbon. Of course, unlike the old Resident Evil games, I can also save any other time should I wish to stop playing or run into any technical issues. The 'checkpoint' saves merely act as return points in the case of my character's death (excepting deaths caused by bugs, of course).

Also, a couple of notes. I am not using the in-game map or journal (except in special circumstances). I have also turned off the entire HUD. I would prefer to just turn off the crosshair and compass, but only the crosshair can be turned off independently. I want to make it easy to get lost!

17th of Last Seed, 4E 201

Awoke on a carriage, hands bound--a prisoner. Three other prisoners were present, all nords. I had stumbled into an ambush somewhere near the border and was mistaken for a Stormcloak soldier--what these barbarians called themselves. At first I thought we were heading back toward Bruma, but no, we were no longer in the Frostbacks. Had travelled north into Skyrim instead; they must not have figured out who I was.

I left the Imperial City two months ago. Our family had lived in the Elven Gardens district. Father had recently died, and suspected stepmother of foul play. She wanted our family fortune--my family fortune! Brothers and sisters were her fools, but I didn’t trust so easily. Tried to poison her, but failed, and the crime was discovered. I knew she’d want revenge, so I fled north. I should have just slit the old bag’s throat in her sleep.

Went underground in Bruma, hiding with the tramps. There was a warrant out for my arrest. Stepmother must have pulled strings back in the Imperial City. Every town guard in Cyrodiil was looking for me (how did they find out so fast?). Needed to leave Cyrodiil!

But caught trying to leave Bruma and thrown in jail. Stripped of clothes and possessions--left with nothing but rags. Heard guards talking. They were arranging to transport me back to the Imperial City--no doubt the old bag wanted to tie the hangman’s noose herself.

Got lucky. On the day we were to leave, an orc prisoner went berserk, broke his chains, and attacked the guards. I ran. Didn’t know where, just away from Bruma. Trudged through the snow for hours with no food or shelter. Perhaps they gave up pursuit and assumed I’d perished in the tundra. I almost did. Collapsed somewhere near the border; don’t remember anything else before waking in the carriage.

Prisoner opposite, a nord called Ralof, said we were entering Helgen. I’d never heard of it; never been to Skyrim. Ralof was full of typical nord melodrama about death and honour--his way of dealing with our imminent execution, I guess.

We shared the carriage with Ulfric Stormcloak, leader of the rebels. Heard of Ulfric back in the Imperial City. He was infamous for murdering Torygg, High King of Skyrim, using, so they say, only his voice. I’d sooner believe he beat Torygg to death with his [censored]. Nords will say anything to make a story.

Convoy came to halt inside Helgen. The Empire had its bureaucrats on hand. They didn’t care who was mistakenly there; they were just counting heads. A petty thief, also mistaken for a rebel, tried to make a run for it and got an arrow in his back for the effort. Despite obviously not being a Stormcloak, the captain ordered my execution like their was a quota on beheadings today.

There was no way out. This was the end. At least the old bag would probably never find out. She would waste countless septims hunting my ghost, and that, I thought, was one last reason to smile.

I was ordered up to the headsman’s block. Then, before the executioner could swing his blade, a dragon swooped down from the sky. A real dragon! It bellowed out a great roar that knocked everyone off their feet. The sky turned red and fire rained from above. Imperials and Stormcloaks alike scattered like bugs.

Ran for shelter with Ralof and other rebels. Got separated. Followed an Imperial Soldier, another nord named Hadvar, through the burning streets and made for the keep. Once inside, he cut my bindings and instructed me to equip some weapons and armor.

First a prisoner and now an ally. We fought Stormcloaks in the keep. Hadvar did most of the fighting while I attacked from the flank. It was exhilarating. The cold steel of my blade soaked in Stormcloak blood. How many did I kill? Two, Three? The battle was chaos. No control. Hadvar was nothing but a brute, wading into combat without judgement or guile. We were lucky to survive.

Pressed on deeper into the keep, through a torture chamber and then into natural caverns. Hadvar said there was an exit somewhere. Stumbled into a nest of frostbite spiders--at once majestic and revolting. We killed them all. A bear had made its den nearer the cave entrance. Thought Hadvar was going to attack it, but he showed restraint and suggested we sneak by. Just as well, since I wouldn’t have helped him.

Finally, we could see sunlight flooding in through an exit up ahead. Rushed outside. Saw the dragon sweep overhead and fly off into the distance. It was gone.

Hadvar said we should split up. It seemed he had no intention of keeping me prisoner. He suggested that I travel to Riverwood, and that his uncle, the blacksmith, would offer aid. Didn’t want to get involved. Wanted criminals shouldn’t hang around with soldiers. Headed out into the wilds alone.

Stumbled upon an unoccupied camp nestled beneath a rocky outcrop. The fire was burning warmly. Inviting fur bedrolls lay around it. Fresh kills--rabbit and pheasant--hung nearby. Hunters? Bandits? There was no sign of anyone. Poked around. There was a chest with a book beside it. Nords aren’t not known for their literacy. The book was likely stolen, meaning it was probably a bandit camp. I stole the book. The chest was locked, but it was simple to pick. Found a stash of septims--probably stole from travellers. I needed it more.

Heard voices from behind. Heart skipped a beat. Turned to see three people approaching. They shouted threats and drew bows. Bolted, ran as fast as I could. Arrows zipped past, left and right. Stopped, pulled my sword and turned around. Nobody was following. Perhaps they were checking to see if I had stolen anything.

Scampered up a hillside. Found a dirt track and followed it. Came upon a plateau jutting from the side of the mountain. It was colder here. The wind was cutting. An ancient archway and half-buried steps led to a cave in the side of the mountain. I approached the cave entrance. There was an ominous aura. Decided to leave and go back the other way.

Back on the dirt trail. Attacked by a wolf; killed it. Found a small shack. Outside the was a cold campfire with two corpses, burnt beyond recognition. Everything was tarnished black. It looked like the fire had exploded. Thought they might have been mages. Back in the Imperial City, I once heard about a mage who tried to light a campfire with a fireball spell, but didn’t know his own power. The resulting maelstrom burnt him alive.

Found some valuables inside shack. Also a note. The residents had seen a dragon come and go from the mountain just north and were going to inform the local authorities. They mentioned a place called Bear’s Cave Mill. (The ominous cave?) Evidently, the dragon had got to them first. Was this the same dragon that attacked Helgen? Is there more than one?

I found studded armour in a chest. Not the warmest, but figure I shouldn’t be walking around Skyrim dressed like an Imperial Soldier--I don’t want to provoke any Stormcloaks. Found a book under the bed, Purloined Shadows by Waughin Jarth. Read to distract myself from the cold. Good story. Discovered a map of Skyrim folded among the pages. Light faded. Ate bread and raw carrot. Time to sleep now.

18th of Last Seed, 4E 201

Arose from my slumber at dawn. Stepped outside to see first light. Skyrim’s mountains seemed to rise out of the ground with the morning sun. An indomitable landscape. Uncivilised, but alluring. If one could rule the mountains, one could rule anything--or anyone, I thought. A good place to begin anew?

Followed rushing waters down the hillside. Below a sheer drop, spied a small camp and the figure of a man walking away. Wound down the hill to find a single tent and smouldering campfire. No sign of the man. Discovered a dunmer woman draqed over a log--she was dead.

The man came back. Turned to see him rushing toward me with an axe, and I gave flight. Two more men emerged from the woods and joined the chase. I ran straight into the path of a wolf. It growled a menacing warning to stay back, but I had to keep moving. It joined the chase.

Ran onto a main road with assailants close behind. A wooden bridge crossed it up ahead. Two figures could be seen either side of the bridge, overlooking the road. As I approached, almost out of breath, they released a trap, sending large boulders and cast iron pots crashing down--more bandits! I was running fast and the trap was too slow. Heard a yelp as my canine pursuer was crushed. Continued running a short distance before looking back. Could see the bandits upon the wooden bridge, but nobody gave chase.

It seemed that everyone in Skyrim was either a traitorous rebel or a bandit. The Empire should just forget about this place. If the nords want anarchy, let them have anarchy.

A Thalmor mage and two soldiers came walking from the opposite direction, their elegant golden armour glittering in the dappled sunlight. The mage sneered at me about not getting in the way of official Thalmor business. I had no intention of doing so. The Thalmor are worthy of the fear they inspire--their cunning and power is unrivalled. Best to do as the mage suggested.

The bandits I had just escaped did not heed the same wisdom. As the Thalmor approached the wooden bridge, a battle commenced. Arrows and spells arched gracefully through the air. One of the bandits was thrown clear from his wooden platform to land in a crumpled heap on the road below, and his compatriots soon fell, like so many before them, to Thalmor superiority.

I turned and continued along the road. Didn’t know where I was going. The road forked. Left shot straight along a ridge; right dipped into the valley below. Checked my map. Followed the right path toward a town called Falkreath.

Pitiful place. Found the inn, Dead Man’s Drink, and rented a room. Still early, so decided to explore. Sold a few trinkets at the general goods store and spoke with local alchemist. Wandered down to the cemetery.

Falkreath has been hit hard by war, both now and in the past. Lots of graves. Listened to Priest of Arkay, an altmer called Runil, preaching to some peasants. We spoke briefly. He asked me to retrieve a journal left in a nearby cave--for a fee, of course. I declined. Found strange graves, shallow with peculiar headstones. I know the cemetery of the Imperial City well, but I’ve never seen anything like these before. No clue of what they signify.

Explored a little more and returned to the inn. Read the book I stole yesterday, The Refugees by Geros Albreigh. Possibly historical fiction. Might have read it once before a long time ago. Will sell it in the morning. Bought supper from the innkeeper.

Before turning in, spoke with a man whinging about the death of his daughter. Said that a traveller, a man named Sinding, came into town and took a job at the mill. One day, the traveller killed his daughter--‘tore her to pieces like a saber cat does a deer.’ Sinding is being held in something called ‘The Pit’, which I surmise to be some type of prison cell. The father kept muttering about not understanding how any man could do such a thing. I wonder too. Sinding would need to be incredibly strong and vicious, and yet he was apprehended and imprisoned. Why? How? I am not horrified but intrigued. I will visit Sinding in the morning.

19th of Last Seed, 4E 201

Food and rent don’t pay for themselves. I need work. Maybe I should have taken Runil up on his offer to find his missing journal. Asked the innkeeper if she knew of any work in town. She passed me a note left by the townguard.

A gang of bandits is holed up in Bilegulch Mine, and Jarl Siddgeir is offering a reward for anyone who can slay their leader. ‘Do I look like someone who assassinates bandit leaders?’ I wanted to sarcastically retort, but then I glanced at my studded hide armour, iron sword, and long bow. Perhaps I do. Whatever. Not going to do it.

Decided I might try asking Jarl Siddgeir himself for work. Entered the Jarl’s Longhouse--little more than a glorified shack, really. Approached the Jarl. He was young--nary a gray hair. Enquiries were met with snide remarks. The Jarl said that he might consider giving me work if I bring him a fresh bottle of Black Briar Mead from Riften. I ‘graciously’ declined.

Bastard! Who does he think he is? Back in the Imperial City he’d be little more than a peasant; I wouldn’t even have looked him in the eye if we passed on the street.

Found the townguard’s barracks. Staircase led down into a dungeon. Two cells. One was empty--reminded me of Bruma. The other, the so-called Pit, is really just the bottom of an old well with an entrance dug-through into the dungeon. Light streamed in from above and water welled up from beneath. Sinding was inside. He looked skinny and frail. Smelled like wet dog. Asked him about the girl. His expressed genuine remorse, but it didn’t make sense.

I pressed for more answers. He revealed himself a werewolf. That explained the viciousness of the attack, but why the carelessness? He blamed a ring. Said he stole it from Hircine, Daedric Prince of the hunt. It was to enable werewolves to better control their transformations, but was cursed by Hircine when its theft was discovered. Instead, it now caused the wearer to turn into a werewolf randomly. This is what happened the day Sinding killed the girl.

Sinding knew Hircine was angry; he wanted to appease the Daedric Prince. Had tracked a ‘Great Beast’ to the woods near Falkreath. A suitable offering, he thought, to present to the prince of the hunt. But events with the girl had ruined everything. Asked if I would take the cursed ring and complete his task. I agreed. Never a bad thing to have a Daedric Prince owe one a favour, I thought. In any case, I’d probably just sell the ring later, or so I thought. Sinding thanked me profusely before transforming into a werewolf and climbing out of the well.

Then realised my error. Why didn’t Sinding just discard the ring before? Cold metal on my finger--The ring was on my finger! I didn’t do that (did I?). It wouldn’t come off. Feared that I might also become a werewolf. Couldn’t let that happen in town. Ran out of dungeon, barracks, and Falkreath itself. Sinding tricked me! If I see him again, I will kill him.

Stood in the middle of the road south-west of Falkreath. No idea what to do. A travelling bard passed by. Tried to speak to me, but shot him a look that said ‘if you don’t want to be eaten alive, go away!’ He continued on.

Decided to wait and see what happened. Maybe the ring’s curse only works on werewolves. Stayed away from Falkreath for the rest of the day.

Wandered along the road toward Hammerfell; found a cave and entered. The cave widened into a chamber. Cairn in the middle enveloped in pulsating blue light. Dead bodies, old and new, lay around it. A foreboding black door guarded the entrance to an ancient ruin . Approached the cairn cautiously. Nothing happened. Looted the bodies for gold.

Found a journal. The fresh bodies were brigands; they used to belong to something called the Knifepoint Gang. Struck out on their own and stumbled into the cave. Soon they began acting strange, hearing voices, and didn’t want to leave. Became thralls of some powerful magic--they called it Halldir. Sacrificed themselves upon the cairn in his service. I thought it best to not hang around and suffer the same fate.

Continued along the road. Heard roars coming the woods. Thought it might be the Great Beast Sinding mentioned. Decided to check it out. Moved quietly through the bushes toward the sound. Two bears at the foot of a small cliff. The remains of dead animals, and at least one person--a den. The bears saw me and bellowed threats. I retreated back to the road. They were certainly great beasts, but neither was the Great Beast I am looking for.

What is the Great Beast? A bear? A wolf? A dragon? How am I to recognise it? All I know is that it’s somewhere in the woods around Falkreath, presuming Sinding was not lying about that too. Who knows such things? Where is the shrine of Hircine, anyway? I have no answers. Like searching for a needle in a haystack. No, it’s worse--don’t even know if what I’m looking for is a needle.

Started back toward Falkreath. Decided to go the long way around and search nearby woods. Didn’t want to risk returning to Falkreath until at least midnight.

Came across three nords who thought it a good idea to wander out of town and get drunk. One of them offered me something called Honningbrew Mead--typical nord swill. I just gave him a cold stare. Oh! What I would do for a bottle of vintage Surilie Brothers right now. The wine here at the Dead Man’s Drink tastes like a dead man took a bath in it. I suppose this is just something I’ll have to get used to. I’m not in the Imperial City anymore. The drunks left before I had an opportunity to transform into a werewolf and tear them to pieces--probably for the best, I guess.

Didn’t find the Great Beast. Did find a spriggan in an old fort ruin. It was getting late; no transformation. Decided to go back to the inn for food and rest. I’ll begin the search anew tomorrow. Been craving meat cooked rare--hope it’s just a coincidence.

I love reading people's Skyrim journals! If you're looking to make this a regular thing, you might want to try it on a site that's build around it or has a real community for it, like the skyrim rp tag of tumblr, even fanfiction.net. Obviously if you're just doing it for you then post it wherever, but if it motivates you to have an audience then yeah.

Awesome!!!

Great journal so far, no matter how many times I've done these quests. Reading a well written account from another pc's perspective is like experiencing it again for the first time.

This is great! I can't wait to read more. I laughed so hard when i read this

This is great. When I first played Oblivion, I kept a pen and paper journal character journal in a blank book I bought with a leather bound cover and using a fountain pen. Been too lazy to do the same for Skyrim.