It was a sunny afternoon on the 15th of Rain's Hand, if I recall correctly. Walking through the golden forests of the Rift, clad in hide armor with a steel sword at my belt, when I saw a strange structure peeking through the leaves in the wood beyond the path. Curiosity getting the better of me, I strayed from the road and scaled the small ridge, to enter on a clearing in the wood. In the center of the clearing was a barrow: a burial ground, in the style of the ancient Nords. An opening in the stone dome led to gods-know-what. The opportunity for gold was too great to pass. I steeled myself and ventured in, sword and torch held aloft.
Inside, all was dark and quiet. The tomb looked indeed as if it had been untouched for a thousand years; the very walls appeared to be crumbling. The air smelled of death. I continued my excursion warily, but without fear.
At the end of a dilapidated corridor was a round chamber lined with sarcophagi of an unknown black stone. I slowed my pace to a crawl, remembering the tales of walking corpses in these kinds of ruins, told by half-drunk adventurers in the mead halls back home. All of a sudden, a misplaced step landed on the dusty bone of some long-forgotten man, breaking it in two with a sharp snap. The lids of the sarcophagi went clattering to the floor, and a dozen ghouls stepped out, a ghastly fire in their rotting eyes. I had never believed the tales of the Draugr, until now.
Abandoning all desire for treasure, I scrambled for the exit as the Draugr brandished their weapons. Footfalls rattled the dusty halls of the ruin, and arrows flew past all around me, glancing off the stone walls and burrowing into wooden rafters. Then, I felt a sharp pain in my left knee that shot up my leg. I was hit. It would have been all over had I not had the will to move on to the exit of the barrow, where the Draugr would not step. I dragged myself away from the barrow and out of the clearing to the side of the road, and flopped to the ground. I must have laid there for hours before I lost consciousness.
I awoke in a warm hall. This must have been the Temple in Riften. Inviting it was, the warm glow of the hearth illuminating the beautifully carved wood and stone in the walls. A statue of the Lady Mara stood at the wall to my left. I was very much alive, and no pain was in my leg. As I tried to sit up in the bed prepared for me, a priestess laid me down again, telling me that I need rest. She then proceeded to tell me of how she was travelling to a wayshrine of Mara when she found me, unconscious and bleeding on the side of the road, and bore me on horseback to the Temple. She retrieved from a nearby shelf the shaft of the arrow that pierced my leg. It was without a head. The priestess told me that it could not be retrieved from my knee, and that my adventuring days would have to come to an end.
A few days after I was deemed healthy enough to walk, I made my way to the Jarl's palace. The Captain of the guard stood in the corner of the elegant hall. I walked up to him and inquired to join the city guard, telling him of my experiences in combat. He agreed to train me, and within a week I was posted at the city gates.
A few months later, whilst on patrol in the streets of Riften, a burly man in fur armor approached me. He reminded me of my days wandering the wilds of Tamriel. An axe was strapped to a leather baldric at his waist and he looked rugged, as if he had gone days away from civilization.
"I used to be an adventurer like you," I told the man, "then I took an arrow in the knee..."
Poll