"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages."

"God has given you one face, and you make yourself another. "
- William Shakespeare

From her grim Anvil days, Sira could always remember three things: the sharp pangs of envy, the dull pain of tired muscles, and the sweet delight at watching her own reflection when wearing her princess tiara. This tiara was a copper and sapphire circlet that simply appeared one day, behind a crate of sweet rolls she was meant to take to The Count's Arms, that elegant establishment where only the prettiest wenches were allowed to serve drinks – and only the most delicate, goddess-like ladies were allowed to drink them.

When she stumbled upon the prettiest object she had ever seen, Sira Caronte was just 11 years old and hoping to earn a few spare septims running errands behind her mother's back. She was too young to work at either of Anvil's taverns – although she knew which one to aspire to – and still not schooled enough to know anything about conjurations and enchantments, but she had eyes: although humble copper, the circlet had a special blueish glow to it that, to her eyes, made it worthy of a princess. After quickly checking nobody was looking, she stuffed it inside her dress, finished her gig, and sneaked back home to try her treasure on.

If the circlet itself was not worthy of royalty (which was beyond the possible knowledge of a port urchin born to a "soiled" tavern wench), the feeling of invulnerability and radiance that came from wearing it could turn you into a noblewoman, Sira thought. Fatigue ceased the second she placed it on her forehead, replaced by a sudden impulse to straighten her shoulders and walk with her head high. Now she was a real elegant lady, tall and proud, who would take shit from no one.

Footsteps were heard. The door creaked. Emilia was back and if she saw the tiara, she'd want to sell it and use the money to buy her an apprenticeship or some other plebeian purpose. She quickly took it off and hid it, only to see herself turned back into the usual tired, slouchy, dirty girl.

So the Pale Pass was not the best idea. Really. For future reference, Sira, whenever someone tells you a road is "closed by avalanches and infested by rebels", choose a different one. Then of course, what were the options exactly, genius? It's the only way to cross from Bruma to Skyrim for days on either direction, and it was crossing or gaol, once old Lucia realised she wasn't getting the gown she'd paid for. It had to be Pale Pass.

I was hoping I could reach an understanding with these rebels so they'd let me cross – although judging by the clinking of swords and Nord-accented groans of pain, whatever skirmish is happening down there, it is not going to the rebels' favor. This is not good at all – I thought my only problem was to find someplace covered and warm before nightfall, but if the Imperials take over Pale Pass, there will be no way to negotiate silent passage. And it's getting cold already.

Maybe I should just try to crawl my way through one side while everyone is busy killing each other? The pass seems to be at its widest point right here, but it's still easy to see enough big rocks to hide behind on both sides. It's simply a matter of advancing slowly, watching my steps, making sure my coin doesn't clink, and to avoid stepping on anything that may drop on a soldier's head. Let's get going, then.

I can see the end of the wide section. From there, I should just jump back on the road and run north. Not the most ladylike start for my new life, but once I hit the first town, I'll be ready to play my part. I can barely hear the soldiers anymore, go Sira! Just the chirping of birds, the howling of wind, and… the grunts of a troll?

I used to think there was no worst feeling than being tired after a day's hard labour, and no worst pain than that of spraining your ankle when sparring too harshly. I thought the sailors' lewd comments were something to be truly afraid of.

Waking up on a cart, tied up, smelling like dried blood, feeling the effects of blunt force on the back of my head, and barely dressed, that's fear. Suddenly being arrested and having my tiara taken away seemed frivolous – they took it away anyway, alongside three years' worth of savings, and my orcish daggers. And if the "True King's" steward next to me had guessed it right (and he seemed knowledgeable enough of all things crime and punishment) we were on our way to be beheaded. At least I get to die a rebel rather than a serving maid.