Morndas, 17th of Sun's Dusk, 4E 201
After finishing up yesterday's entry, the remainder of my day was rather monotonous. No game was to be found in the forests surrounding Falkreath and returning Lod's note to his home was, as much as I hate to admit it, fairly easy.
What I am writing about now is what happened after my eyelids fell limp last night. Perhaps it was the wine I was forced to drink as Valga had ran short of ale, but a nightmare unlike any I had ever had made its way in to my mind's theatre last night, and I had no choice but to watch.
It started out with me storing my weapons into the sturdy wooden chest in my room at Dead Man's Drink, then moved on to me telling Valga I was heading out for a midnight stroll, the exact same blatant lie I had told her about a night ago. I realize now that the dream was an almost perfect replica of my actions on that morning, but with a demonic twist.
I snuck across the street and picked the lock to Lod's abode with ease, then entered. As I turned back from making sure the door was sealed tight, a sharp feeling of fear and desperation shot through me as I took in the short, pointed-ear figure standing over me. With the lanky wooden bow I had purchased for him strapped to his back, I recognized the Bosmer in a second. It was Faendal.
The feelings of fear and desperation vanished when my eyes took hold of him. Even now, back in reality, I admit no single emotion could describe what I felt at that moment, but rather a cluster of every emotion imaginable, each in proportion to the others.
I had almost forced a greeting out of my mouth when a voice came from his. Not his voice though, I still remember it clearly. It was the voice of the drunken Nord Faendal and I had stumbled upon during the final moments of his precious life.
"You milk-drinker! How's about you go home to your mother?" he viciously spat at me in the woman's voice. After the words rung in my ears, all I could do was stare at him in bewilderment and disbelief and all he did was stare back. The staring contest came to an abrupt halt when a poison-tipped Dwarven arrow struck Faendal in the temple, causing his limbs to lock up while he quickly bled out onto Lod's wooden floor. I was awoken by the thud of my sweat-engulfed body falling from my bed and slamming against the plank-covered floorboard of Dead Man's Drink.
I am not too sure what to make of the nightmare, but his death continues to play in my mind over and over again. I think it would be best if I left Falkreath, and all of this, behind...