The Elder Scrolls

“Jonjon, The Honest Khajiit”, by Lucien Flavius.

Father,

I am sorry it took me so long to write since my last letter, but I have been busy trying to understand Skyrim and it's people. After parting with Okh'tav, I returned to Falkreath, where I had the honor of meeting Jonjon, a curious khajiit who made a point of informing me about his honesty. I know, I know, I should not care so much about stereotypes, but he used to say it so emphatically that one could not help but be suspicious – I was, however, quickly proven wrong.

Jonjon used to be a merchant with the khajiit caravans, but moved to Falkreath when his "excessive honesty", as described by Madran, got in the way of a big fale. Jonjon was undisturbed: he picked up his things, said his goodbyes and left. He was a very practical khajiit, and I met him a few months after his arrival – he was still very young, about fifteen years old, but managed to use his silver tongue and get accepted by Lod, the local blacksmith, as an apprentice. He lived there and, as the years went by, I could see his love for Lod and his previous apprentice, Isobel, taking shape – he saw them as his family.

Jonjon not only fell in love with his new friends, but also with smithing. It was the perfect way for him to express himself, as it was both scientific and pragmatical, but also artistic in a way; and together with smithing came his increasing devotion to Zenithar (a god, must I add, unknown to the khajiit pantheon). I watched happily while he grew in stature, maturity and strenght, and that determined but frail teen-cat became a young adult, able and willing to tame metal as if it was the wildest of beasts.

However, father, I have learned that Skyrim has a way of testing it's sons, so there came a time when bandits have occupied various positions on the roads close to Falkreath, and Lod's supply of ore (which used to come specially from Embershard Mine, close to Riverwood) became scarce. The family as struggling, and it was over a mug of ale that Jonjon invited me to do something about it: "I know how to fight", he told me. "Lod taught me. Besides, Zenithar would want us to act. I read about is. Though peaceful during the time of peace, we must never forget that he is a warrior god."

I don't know if it was the ale, father, or if I was thirsting for adventure, but I said yes and off I went with him the next day.

It took us months, but Jonjon killed every single bandit from Falkreath to Whiterun. I was surprised to see it, but he did not seem to be – there was a calm determination about him, the kind of feeling we get from a person who's on a mission. Don't get me wrong, father, there was a fire in his soul, but it ignited in the forge, not in battle – he loved breaking down equipment, melting things used for evil and creating new, beautiful works of metal and leather, weapons to be used for good, tools to be used in working the land.

After his work was done, Jonjon and I returned to Falkreath. He was happy to be home, to be close to his family, but as the days passed… I could see that there was something off, father. He wasn't quiet, and my friend was always very quiet. One night, over another mug of ale, he confessed to me: he could barely sleep. Every night he dreamt of the Skyforge, and it loomed over his nights, calling him. He wanted to work that forge. To learn from it's current master… but he felt obligated to Falkreath and to Lod. We talked for hous, and I convinced him to go, father – I told him that he had the honor of knowing his own destiny, that he should go afther it, and that I would be honored to follow him.

So, next week, we left.

Lod sent him out with his blessing, and Isobel gave him a warm hug. They both said they would visit. Everything was swell, that is, until we reached Whiterun: Eorlund did not accept him as an apprentice. Jonjon, after many months, had to assure the nord that he was, in fact, an honest khajiit, and I said it so myself too, but it was to no avail: "The Skyforge is for me, The Companions and my clan".

Jonjon nodded, and left. He didn't flinch. He went down the stairs, walked straight into Jorvaskarr, and asked to be a Companion – after all the talking was done, while he waited for his first test, he confided in me: "Jonjon can't be Eorlund and can't join his clan, but khajiit sure as hell can fight, as Zenithar is khajit's witness."

And so he could. His plan, you see, was to join the Companions and just sit around in the forge. Eorlund would not be able to expell him and, at some point, would give up and teach him some things. It was a good plan, too – I thought it would work.

His first mission worked perfectly: he was comissioned to beat into submission the bodyguard of a known merchant, and the other guy could not handle Jonjon's claws, but I could see that my friend was sad. He wasn't a brawler. He was an artist. But I did not said anything, and neither did he.

His next mission, however, envolved a bandit camp – just one more, after so many that we had claread together. We hopped into our horses and rode out to our destiny, and after we got there, it was easily done – they were, as the nords like to say, milkdrinkers.

All but one of them.

Jonjon got hit by a mace and he went flying, literally flying, back. I had never seem anything like that. I watched that khajiit fight Sabre Cats, Bears, even trolls, and nothing had ever gained one single inch on him. I ran towards him, trying to help him to get up, but he was bleeding bad, his skull fractured.

He smiled to me, as I dragged him away, trying to put him on one of the horses. I could swear I heard him purr, father, as he muttered his last words: "Did you see that mace, Lucien? It was so, so beautiful…"

I ask, father, please, that you write his story and insert it into one of the books of the Imperial Library. Jonjon was a hero. Not a northern hero to be forever remembered in the sagas, but a hero to his people, to the common folk of Falkreath, to smiths, to beggars. He was the most honest khajiit I have ever met and, most of all, he was my friend.

Send my love to mother and everyone back home,

Missing you all,

Lucien.

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