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Diese Seite enthält den Text von Letter Home aus The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion.
Inhalt
Courier's NoticeConveyance via: Narsis Balfalls Vivec Suran Personal CorrespondenceOrigin withheld
I miss you more with each passing night. My only comfort is knowing that the
wages I'm earning now will ensure our comfort when I return. I couldn't
believe the pay this lunatic was offering, and I doubt we would have followed
him all the way to Cyrodiil otherwise. The fool thinks he'll overthrow the
Empire, Vaermina take him! I figure we'll end up deserting soon, just as
soon as we've gotten as much pay as we can without actually following this
addled madman into battle.
We've hardly crossed the border, but already I can tell you: Cyrodiil is an
awful place. We have nothing but iron to work with. There's no art to iron
armor. I tried using the bones of beasts killed in the local forest, but
they are brittle and won't bear the force of the hammer.
Even with decent materials, this would be a dull post. We must be a mile
underground and a league from civilization. I don't envy the courier who
carries this letter! I pass the time in conversation with the other
apprentice. We always seem to have a good laugh at the expense of the
Forgemaster; in private, of course.
I can't wait to see your family home in Suran. I've never actually been to
Vvardenfell; I've heard much of it's charm. I'm pleased and suprised to hear
that you've begun saving for our own home already. You say you're
working for somebody named Desele? The pay must be very good, but when I
return you won't need to keep it up. You never mentioned, by the way, what
sort of work you're doing.
I'm still not sure how this crazy wizard is paying wages for us and his army
of mercenaries and laborers. We don't use half the ore mined here for
smithing, so I figure he must sell the surplus iron, but I see no evidence of
it, nor do I think it would produce such a fortune. I think he's Telvanni,
perhaps folk in the area near you have heard if he's from wealthy stock?
I fear I must conclude, my love; the forgemaster is demanding another parcel
of iron-shod boots. How many more pairs could we possibly need?
