I find myself with a few pages of dirty paper, two sticks of what I can only hope are charcoal of some sort, and an overabundance of time; the last item might soon be rectified in a rather permanent manner.
I thought my home was a misery. "You'll become a true master of the school of Destruction," Father insisted... I never had any real talent for it. Certainly, I can conjure and throw a bit of fire have I a mind to; in my household, that sort of talent is roughly on par with the ability to breathe without choking on your own spit.
I want to create art. The field of Illusion was suggested of course. No one seemed to understand that I wanted to create something more ... solid. Something with a permanence that will persist beyond the continued expenditure of magica, beyond perhaps my own lifespan.
With a minor application of stealth and misdirection, I absconded with father's purse and used it's contents to fund my trip away from Evermor. If I could see the world, I thought, perhaps I would find the inspiration to create my art. Should funds run low, why, I had all ready proven I was able to procure coin from those less deserving, hadn't I?
As it turned out, the folk of Skyrim are rather more watchful of their valuables than the apathetic serving staff of a large Breton manse. So here I sit.
They tell me that I'll only need to deal with this cell for nine more days. I do not think they are planning to release me.