Skyrim journal

I know, I know. I have so many plans for Proper projects and a limited amount of time and energy. Why waste it on this?

I could call it drawing practice, I could call it baby steps. I could say, I don’t want everything I do in my spare time to be done with an eye to making a buck (and anyway, I suck at marketing). I’m enjoying it, is why I’m doing it. Plus, it’s an excuse to play Skyrim, then write up the adventure and draw from the screenshots I finally learned to take (thereby wasting even! more! time! Woo!)

And that, your honour, is why I will never be famous. Good thing, too.

Here’s part one.


Day One – A Cunning Plan

Since Dad’s spent two terms dropping lines about how I’d ‘better not think I’d be moping about, Reading, all summer’ into his letters, you’d’ve thought he would be pleased when I got home and announced my alternative plan. Or, not; if you know he was gearing up to ‘and it’s carpet-moth season so someone needs to be beating rugs in the warehouse day and night’, like he was last year. Ha, yeah. No. Summer is clammy, carpets breed dust, I’ve looked like a ghoul from schools-out to schools-in since I was six. Plus, I’ve had years of watching both my sisters get out of it by pleading ‘coursework’ – and really, how hard is it to tend to a bucket of leeches, Corpora? Ha. Now it’s my turn.

The news that I had a field trip didn’t go over quite as well as I’d imagined. Mum was immediately all, ‘and who with?’ and ‘where to?’ and, of course, ‘why didn’t we get a letter out about it?’ Well, that was why I waited to say it until college was shut for the summer, duh. Professor Grimgin should be quite pleased, come autumn, that I showed some initiative. Probably. I hope.

Gran was a lot sharper; just, ‘and how is this being funded?’ Yeah. She doesn’t just pinch pennies, she squeezes them between her thumb and forefinger until they bend. Then she claims it proves a questionable pedigree on the part of the coin – ha – and browbeats the prospective buyer into handing over more of them. Why they come back, I do not know.

Yeah, saw Gran’s input coming too, though. ‘Oh, I only have to pay accommodation-’ Ha, yeah. Dad doesn’t want me hanging round taverns and ‘learning table-manners’, Mum doesn’t want me ‘getting sweet-talked by any of these bardish types’, and Gran doesn’t want me spending money. Any money, if possible. So here I sit, with a load taller than I am; including my sketchpad, notepad, Gran’s old tent she used to sleep in on campaigns and, unfortunately, Gran’s old thermal underwear she used to wear on campaigns. Yeah, no. How cold could Skyrim possibly be? It’s high summer and it’s not that far north.

Still, whatever happens has got to beat thrashing carpets in a hot, dank cave of a warehouse.

Ah, here’s the stagecoach. More of a cart, really, but eh. Let’s just ignore that I only get free passage if this load of carpets does too…