“Weapons are the tools of violence; all decent men detest them.
Weapons are the tools of fear; a decent man will avoid them,
except in the direst necessity, and, if compelled, will use them only with the utmost restraint.
Peace is his highest value.
If the peace has been shattered, how can he be content?
His enemies are not demons, but human beings like himself.
He doesn't wish them personal harm.
Nor does he rejoice in victory.
How could he rejoice in victory
and delight in the slaughter of men?
He enters a battle gravely,
with sorrow and with great compassion,
as if he were attending a funeral.”
"She who is centered in the way
can go where she wishes, without danger.
She perceives the universal harmony,
The text continued with various, similar poetic stylings for several more lines, Drajin felt a slow steady breath pass through his lips, and a hand come up to his face, as he tried to dispel his exhaustion and hurry through the tedious words. A few feet away, the campfire made a loud cracking sound, emitting a burst of sparks into the sky before fading into the brisk night air. Heaving a grunt, Drajin tossed away the old ratty book as he stood to toss more wood upon the orange flames; slowly nursing the flickering light back to a more comfortable blaze, also hopefully serving to drive away any animals that may be lurking nearby. After a few minutes of his ministrations, he returned to his bedroll, picking the book back off the ground, and hastily flipping through the thick parchment to return to the page he had been reading. The imperial let out another sigh, dismayed at the mass of black ink arrayed before his eyes. More than a decade ago he had recieved a sufficient, if rudimentary, education into the Mystic Arts, and he was certain the book he held before him was a spellbook of sorts, though whomever had wrote it, had clearly different ideas about the sharing of knowledge than Drajin possessed, he had yet to decypher what the book was hinting at, despite being written in plain lettering.
He sat there for a long while, losing track of time as he read and re-read the thoughts of the Author, who seemed almost aimless in his thought process, shifting from the stylings of poetic philosophy, to the more complex structuring of a Text he would expect to find in the Arcane university, Or upon a royal writ from the Emperor Of Tamriel. Interspersed between these two seemingly contradicting texts were multiple diagrams of the human body, with calculations that would put an Imperial Engineer or Alchemist to shame. Drajin found himself hopelessly lost in the pages, striving to find something he could make use of, or that he might be able to use in his next inevitable encounter with a merchant. Finally After many long hours and still nothing, the Imperial could take no more.
"Dammit, what half-goblin had the mind to write this! FUS!"
In an instant the small camp he had painstakingly labored at earlier that night, was overturned, and the book Drajin had been holding in his hand was blown apart shredded by whatever strange pressure the Dovahkiin had just unleashed, leaving only two ripped sheets in his hands. At the same time the massive force he had inadvertently summoned in his agitation rolled out away from him, first taking his bedroll and sending it into the woods beyond his sight, it then continued on ripping into the fire and scattering the now extinguished sticks, leaving only the stars and moon for light; birds one and all alit into the air to escape the shattering explosion of noise that roared away from Drajin, leaves flew around him for a moment, caught in the gust of wind he had created. His pack luckily, had possesed enough weight to only be moved a bit. Within moments, the disturbance was gone, and all that remained was the distant echo that slowly faded more and more. Drajin stood there, shocked at what had just occured, the two pages still clenched in his shaking hands. Ever since he had first discovered his - condition - aproximately two weeks ago, he was still trying to come to terms with what the Nords called "Dovahkiin" however aside from what he had learned from a highwayman, which had all sounded half insane, he knew nothing.
Drajin looked over in the direction of where his bedroll had flew, looming above the trees was a large Nordic Tower, he knew in that direction if he kept going the way he was, he'd arrive at Riften within 3 days. Giving the remains of his camp a cursory glance, he shouldered his pack, stuffing the two remaining pages in a pouch, and grabbed a torch out of a larger one on the side. In an instant, after a small flash of sparks, the torch ignited, bathing the area in light once again, as he began to head towards the tower, he thought he may want to consider learning even a basic fire spell, Lightning couldn't possibly be a safe ignition method.
"I can't believe I left my sword in the bedroll again..."