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Their screams and battle cries are incessant by now, and the din of steel and training bags is overwhelming. They've been bringing more and more of us in here over the few weeks of my captivity, and the lust for each other's blood is reaching a fearful pitch.
What am I going to do? I've never raised a sword or axe in my life.
Just after I was captured, a well-mannered abductor came and asked if there was anything I wanted. I asked for some food and was brought fine pickled baliwog and wine. How was I to know that I should have asked for a weapon? Since then, they've only brought wine, cheese, and silken clothes too tight for my body.
They'll kill me - not first, though. No, they'll want to eliminate the more immediate threats, and then come to me. Tear me apart, screaming.
What's worse is that I think we might have this whole thing wrong. Our captors no longer speak to us; indeed they seem afraid of us. We're fed well, and they seem more easily able to provide us ink, paper, and delicacies than the iron-shod armor the others have put in such high demand.
I hope they don't pit us one against one. Surely I'd be tortured before the mercy of a killing blow. Craven heathens. Save me, Sheogorath.