I am Lena Wolf. I was born on the 17th of Sun’s Height, 3E417, in Cyrodiil to a Breton mother, and therefore was declared Breton. I have never been to High Rock, so when Hadvar promised to inform High Rock of my execution in Helgen later on, it made no sense at all. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. When I was four years old, my mother died of swamp fever, and our Argonian neighbour took me in. She was old already then, so we called her Gran. Gran always hinted that my unknown father was not unknown at all, just that it was best to keep it quiet until time comes. Time for what? Who knows. Wait and see.

As I turned sixteen, Gran got older still, and one day said there was something very important that she had to impart to me before her passing. She still couldn’t name my father, but, she said, when the time was right, I should go to Skyrim to find out. How was I to know when that would be? Oh, not for a while yet, not for a long while. And then she died.

Freedom at sixteen proved exhilarating at first and cold and hungry soon after. Having tried this and that without much success and having had enough of goblins stealing my sweetrolls, I walked into Bravil’s Mages Guild hoping to steal one of theirs. Instead, I found myself being thrust at a dinner table and loaded with all sorts of food, sweetrolls included. The mages took me in, taught me magic towards which I appeared to be inclined, taught me alchemy for the body, soul and enemies, and gave me a reason to venture into the caves in search of wisp stalks. The guards kept joking seeing me returning from my expeditions with yet another rusty sword or piece of armour, but the local smith fixed them up for me and taught me a few moves. Finally the goblins were getting their come-uppence!

Fighters Guild was not for me. Yes, I dealt with the headmistress’s son in Chorrol and with the cowardly elf in Skingrad, and yes, the lich took some effort and lots of Freds to defeat, but I got bored with the routine and sort of quit. Well, got busy elsewhere. Free-lancing with Dark Brotherhood proved infinitely more fun, they didn’t mind my vampirism, and Oblivion gates needed taking care of, too.

That disaster sorted, life got back to normal. Of course by then I found a cure for vampirism and joined the Arcane University, right on cue to face the King of Worms. Fortunately, Uncle Sheo decided to look in on us right about then, and the Shivering Isles provided a spot of sanity in a world gone mad. I still spend every autumn there.

So what do I do these days? I live. I potter about. I keep my home free from goblins and rats. I roast dreugh for dinner. I occasionally take a contract for another Ayleid sculpture or another bag of Welkynd stones. There’s always a lich in someone’s basement or a bunch of scamps needing a good home. And one day I’ll go to Skyrim to find that important thing, but the time hasn’t come yet.