Journal, full of journaling things, I write in my journal and see what I might conjure up. Here is a study on Tonal Architectue. It will be important.
I am Telsanvish Indoril, last-birthed son of my mother, though I was born of a different name and molded into a different person than the one who stands before you today. I long for my friends. They are near, nearer than they have ever been. They are impossibly far.
I have set to the task of recording my life's work and achievements. I doubt it will come in order, or in a way that makes much sense, but I will write as it comes to me, and its form will solidify with the bleed of ink into parchment. Perhaps someone will stumble upon this journal, and become as enthralled with these stories as I have been.
I find my mind drifting to Ephim. He is a strange mer, who wears faces that come and go like those of the moons, shifting in their transparency; they have insisted I call her many things. When I met him first, they were the brave and noble Welkynar; the next month she was the Nemora, and after long last he is the Ephim, the Stranger, the Outsider. He seems more solid now, more steady on his feet, but the Nemora could remember the Welkynar. The Emphim does not remember the Nemora, or the Welkynar, or his life before the merriment of the Northlings.
I don't know if I should feel sad for him, or rejoice that he's managed to carve his own peace in this melody.
Funnily enough, he suspects that his amnesia is a result of the touch of a Daedra; it's true, as Sheogorath opens his arms to comfort just as frequently as he rends them to torment, though I doubt that is what the Ephim has in mind.