My father was a northman who’s blood ran as cold as the snowy land in which his very flesh was forged. Tempered by the frigid winds and hardened by the deadly cold waters of Skyrim. Hargold Steelraven was a father who’s hand was as hard as his heart only one thing would soften his blood and give him peace that was my mother Lelian Francesca-Jennine Rosefoncé. As fair as the spring winds and as warm as a summer night. She could sing like the gentle waves upon a dusty shore and speak with such certainty that even a man as frost-hearted as Hargold would melt into her words. They were happy, we were happy, but as in all great stories happiness is never an end it is only a brief glimpse into the ever twisted braids of destiny.