Hi! So I wrote this because it just wouldn't get out of my head. Not sure if I'll continue it, but if I do, expect updates to be sporadic. So...have this prologue for now, and we'll see if chapter 1 ever happens. Hope you enjoy, and please review! I'd love some feedback.
Premise: Girl falls into Skyrim with use of console commands. Chaos ensues.
"Kill one man, and you are a murderer. Kill millions of men, and you are a conqueror. Kill them all, and you are a god."
-Jean Rostand, Thoughts of a Biologist
...
PROLOGUE
the birth of a god
...
Ulfric Stormcloak laid unmoving, his corpse frigid as the surrounding winter. Snow fell lightly upon his golden locks, crowning his hair in a wreath of white.
Galmar Stone-Fist, slumped against the wall of the Palace of the Kings, feebly attempted to remove the sword lodged in his abdomen.
Ysarald Thrice-Pierced's eyes focused on the figure laughing over Ulfric's body, fury hot as dragon-fire burning through his veins.
And these words echoed through the ancient halls of the Palace of the Kings:
"Hah! Essential NPC myass!"
...
SOME DAYS PRIOR
Scouts-Many-Marshes paused as he lifted another crate destined for the Northern Maiden, a distinct shape in the water catching his attention. He narrowed his eyes, which quickly widened when he realized exactly what was floating on the icy river: a human lying unconscious on some large, rectangular object. Without really thinking about it, he leapt into the water, intent on rescuing the possibly dead human.
"What do you think you're doing?" yelled Suvaris Atheron, nearly dropping her logbook in shock. "Get out of the water, you crazy lizard!"
Scouts-Many-Marshes paid her no heed, swimming toward the human with a speed and grace that only an Argonian can manage. He pushed the unfamiliar object the human female laid upon toward the docks with ease and climbed up on the pier, then lifted the apparently Nord girl from the smooth, buoyant item and checked her for a pulse.
A solid heartbeat thrummed under the flesh of her warm neck. She was alive. Scouts-Many-Marshes felt vast relief at the girl's survival, for all that she was a stranger. He had already witnessed far too many succumb to the merciless cold of this land.
"What exactly did you drag in here, lizard?" Suvaris sneered. The expression quickly disappeared from her features when she saw the limp human in his arms, replaced by a wary look. "Is she alive?"
"She lives," he confirmed.
"What's all the commotion over here?" said a guard who had wandered over. Scouts-Many-Marshes could not see his face under the mask, but imagined he must have looked surprised. "Who in Talos' name is this?"
"I do not know. I found her in the water," replied Scouts-Many-Marshes. "She is alive, though, and does not seem to be injured." Or cold, he thought. How odd. He knew Nords were naturally resistant to the cold, but this was unprecedented. Unless she hadn't been floating in the river for too long...
The guard started suddenly and hastily took the girl from Scouts-Many Marshes' arms, likely realizing that he had allowed a Nord to be saved and held by a lowly Argonian. Scouts-Many-Marshes did not take offense. It was just the way of things.
"I'll take her from here," the guard said roughly, and began a swift pace to the steps leading into Windhelm.
Scouts-Many-Marshes looked on at the seemingly impenetrable city walls and wondered if the girl would be informed of her Argonian rescuer.
"Get back to work," Suvaris ordered, scribbling in her logbook.
...
"Divines!" cried Viola Giordano, scurrying over to the guard. "Who is that?"
"She was found floating in the river by the docks," he said curtly, having no patience to deal with the old woman's nosiness. "Excuse me, ma'am. I must get her to the Palace immediately."
"The Palace? You ought to bring her to Candlehearth. The poor thing might freeze to death in such little clothing!" Viola insisted. And it was true, for the girl — who to the guard, was more a young woman — was wearing scandalously little: the remains of a pair of vibrantly-colored trousers, cut to above mid-thigh, and a dark, thin shirt. "I'll ask Jora to come over, take a look at her."
That did seem like a reasonable plan, but the guard was a suspicious sort, and he thought that a girl floating down the river dressed in strange clothes and rescued by an Argonian was very suspicious, and he had it in his mind that she might be a Legion spy. Although, she was tall enough to be a Nord, and she did not have the sharper features of an Imperial, but the dark hair and somewhat tanned skin were distinctly so. And not all Imperials were Legionnaires, and perhaps she wasn't even an Imperial after all, but it never hurt to be safe. Besides, there were any number of other things she could be: a Dark Brotherhood assassin, a thief with the Guild (though they hadn't been heard from in a while).
"I don't think that's a good idea, ma'am," said the guard, attempting to be polite despite his agitation at the old woman's interference. "If you'll excuse me, I really must head to the Palace."
"Young man, I respect the work you do in protecting this city, but I simply cannot in good conscience allow you to present this young lady in front of the Jarl when she's in such a state!" Viola protested, and her lips sent in a determined line so that the wrinkles around her mouth deepened.
"The state she is in is not my concern," snapped the guard, losing his patience. "She could be a Legion spy, and I will not compromise—"
"Oh, hush! The poor thing is not a spy," Viola said. "By the Nine, you soldier-types are all batty!"
"I do not believe we are the batty ones, ma'am," the guard said.
It was at about this moment that the young woman in his arms woke up and was so startled at the sudden, bitter cold and the sensation of being carried that she tumbled out of the guard's arms.
"Now look what you've caused," admonished Viola. The guard ignored the old woman and bent down to address the young one instead.
"Who are you? What's going on? Where am I?" the bewildered girl-of-questionable-race questioned, shivering, whether from fear or cold unclear.
"You are in Windhelm, citizen," said the guard, attempting to soften a bit. He did not succeed, for he was still quite irritable from his disagreement with Viola, and instead sounded rather brusque. The young woman flinched, eyeing the sword strapped to his waist with extreme apprehension. "A worker rescued you from the frigid waters of the White River."
"Windhelm?" repeated the woman dubiously. "Really? Like, with Ulfric Stormcloak and everything?"
"Indeed," said the guard stiffly, though he was not quite sure what she meant by "everything."
"That's impossible," she said flatly, and then glanced around the at the stone walls and the falling snow. "Impossible. Where am I?" she demanded, a bit hysterically this time.
"You really are in Windhelm, dearie," Viola said gently. "Are you a long way from home?"
"A long way is one way of putting of it," the woman scoffed. She picked herself up on shaky legs and wrapped her arms around herself. "Right, I'm freezing, so. I'm going to head to...Candlehearth."
"I'm afraid you have to come with me first," the guard said, grabbing her arm before she could run off. This girl was getting more suspicious by the second. "I need to take you to see the Jarl. We can't have random strangers wandering about the city, you see."
She looked at the gloved hand wrapped around her bicep disbelievingly. "This is a dream. Or a hallucination. You're not real," she said.
Clearly, she was a lunatic, decided the guard. And they couldn't have those running around the city. Or was this some elaborate cover-up for an assassination? A fake identity, pretending to be an innocent, confused straggler to start a new life and infiltrate Stormcloak ranks? Could be any of those, thought the guard.
"Just come with me," he said imperiously, now thoroughly convinced of the young woman's guilt. "The Jarl will decide what to do with you."
"Don't be so hard on her," said Viola, frowning. Her sly Imperial eyes seemed hungry for gossip, amd the guard felt an overwhelming frustration with her presence.
"Leave!" the guard barked at her, placing his free hand threateningly on his sword. "This is now official Stormcloak business. Any who interfere will face the consequences of the law."
Viola recoiled in half-shock, half-fear. She sniffed haughtily to disguise her distress and sputtered, "Why, I never!" before hastily retreating.
The guard tightened his grip around the young woman's arm and began a furious pace to the Palace of the Kings.
"You can't just drag me about! I don't want to see Ulfric!" she protested vehemently. "This is my goddamn dream! I don't want to meet that stupid bastard!"
The guard ignored the urge to smack her.
"Unless I get to kill him. Then that would be a great dream."
This time, he didn't. He stopped abruptly, releasing her arm and whirling around, his palm striking her cheek with a resounding slap. Her head whipped to the side and her entire body followed, crumpling on the stone steps.
"Shit! You stupid asshole, what was that for?"she yelled, tears forming in her eyes. The absent thought that they were icy blue, and she was maybe a Nord-Imperial mix, drifted through the guard's mind amidst a sharp spike of anger.
"An Imperial supporter should be more watchful of her tongue, lest it be cut out," he spat acerbically. He then yanked her up harshly by the arm, taking vindictive pleasure in the pained noise she made at his cruel grip. "You are by far the worst spy, or assassin, or whatever it is that you are, I have ever met."
She remained quiet, glaring at him with fury painted on her features. It was nothing the guard hadn't seen before, and he began walking to the Palace entrance. She followed silently, stewing in her anger. The guard hoped she would rot in the dungeons for her words against Jarl Ulfric.
...
Ulfric Stormcloak watched the bruised girl in front of him smolder under his heavy stare, silently assessing her. The guard who had brought her in was convinced that she was likely a spy, assassin or thief, and up to no good, but Ulfric did not see it—not in her eyes, or her posture, or her fidgeting hands, and certainly not in the flimsy clothes she was dressed in. What Ulfric did see, however, was an intense dislike for him that marred her features with a disgusted scowl.
"What is your purpose in my city?" he said slowly, leisurely, almost uncaring. You are nothing, the current of his powerful voice whispered, you are beneath me.
"Nothing. I just want to get out of this goddamned place. Why the fuck I would dream about coming here, of all places, is a real mystery to me," she spat acerbically.
Ulfric narrowed his eyes. "You will show respect to the noble city of Windhelm, girl," he said strictly. "Ysgramor himself constructed these walls, as a testament to the power of Men."
"No way. This place is a racist hellhole," she said, glaring at him. "And you're just as much of an asshole in dreams as you are in the game. No surprise there."
He felt no true anger at her derogatory remarks, for she was a ragged girl and he was a king, but he was a bit bemused at her talk of dreams and games. Of course, he did not express his puzzlement to her, instead turning to address the guard.
"Why does she speak of such queer matters?" said Ulfric.
"I do not know, Jarl Ulfric," the guard said promptly, his back ramrod straight and voice a bit high with nerves. "She has spoken of being in a dream or a hallucination. I suspect she is not quite right in the head, or putting on an act as a spy," suggested the guard, again.
The girl seemed perfectly sane to him, but Ulfric had dealt with the matter long enough. He had a war to run, and had dallied about on his throne for too long already.
"Do you feel she is a threat to our city, or our cause?" Ulfric asked.
"Yes, my Jarl," the guard replied firmly. "She said herself that she wished to take your life."
Ulfric doubted that this slip of a girl could even touch him before he had separated her head from her body, much less kill him, but he supposed that it was her intent that mattered.
"Take her to the dungeons," Ulfric said, dismissing the guard with a wave of his hand. "There will be no danger in my city."
The guard nodded and said resolutely, "Of course, my Jarl!"
Moments later, the girl had disappeared into the dungeons of the Palace of the Kings. Ulfric very nearly forgot about the entire happening, so caught up with the war as he was, and the urgent matter of tracking down the Dragonborn, who'd been called by the Greybeards to High Hrothgar not two days ago, the power of their Thu'um washing over every corner of Skyrim like a tidal wave smothering a drowning sailor lost in the Sea of Ghosts.
...
She'd been in the dank, filthy cell for days now, and was almost entirely convinced that this ordeal was not a dream after all. Everything felt far too vivid: the gnawing hunger in her stomach, the scratch of thirst at her throat, the bruises from the guard's visit. He'd come in to check on her the morning after her imprisonment, trying to identify her as a spy or some nonsense, and she'd been sore and unhappy after a night on the cold stone, and had not been very cooperative. The "conversation" had ended with him grabbing her through the cell bars and slamming her face into said bars multiple times, because the guy was a clearly a goddamn nutjob.
She gingerly touched her cheek, wincing at the pain. This sucked. It was not at all how she imagined getting stuck in a video game would go. None of those daydreams involved asshole guards with anger management problems rearranging her face by means of prison bars.
"I can hear you fuming through the wall," said her fellow prisoner dryly.
"Mind your own business," she snapped, not exactly in a conversational mood. The guy was kind of annoying—needlessly snarky and very patronizing, which she could normally handle fine. But this...this was a special situation, and she was not in a great mood.
"You've got a good fire in you, eh?" he said cheekily. "Still mad about your little spat with the guardsman from the other day?"
She didn't answer, instead cupping her hands over her mouth to trap the warm air in her palms. Dungeons were freezing.
"Not much of a talker, are you? I'll talk for both of us, then, don't worry. We'll be fast friends in no time, I promise you this," said the prisoner. "Let me tell you a story from when I was a young boy. I was out on my family's farm hoeing the land to—"
"He rearranged my goddamn face. Of course I'm mad. Happy, now that you've been enlightened as to the reason behind my awe-inspiring rage?" she interrupted, if only to get him to stop blabbering at her. But a thought struck her, and she added, "What's his problem, anyway? Did he try and 'interrogate' you, too? Is your face the same shade of purple as mine?"
The prisoner chuckled—a deep, hearty rumble that sounded too jovial to be sincere, too natural to be anything but rehearsed. She was distinctly reminded of the instances when friends who wanted to copy her homework pretended to laugh at her jokes.
"Not quite. I think he has a soft spot for you."
"Fantastic," she groaned. "Then it must be because he's a fanatic bastard with a disgusting case of blind hero worship. I say I want to a kill a fictional character, and he goes all apeshit..."
"What do you mean by that?"
She huffed. "Nothing. None of your business."
"We're both trapped in the same dungeon—we're each other's business now," he replied easily. A couple seconds ticked by in silence, but then his voice dropped to a whisper and he said, "Listen, if we work together, we can escape this place. I don't know about you, but I sure as Talos don't like being trapped in a cell day and night."
The annoyed expression dropped from her face, replaced by intrigue. She'd, of course, been contemplating escape as well. It wasn't as if all the hours had passed by in dazed confusion, trying to rationalize the situation and reaffirm her own sanity. No, she had watched the guards come and go, making a rough schedule in her head of their shifts. A very rough schedule, mind you. It was difficult to determine the exact times when there was one tiny slot in the wall that brought in light and dark (and fresh air, which was nice, and cold, which was not as nice).
"You got a plan?" she asked.
"I can get us both out of our cells, no problem, but getting past the entire town guard is a different matter," he said. "And you don't really seem to be the sneaky type."
"You aren't wrong there." She could play hide-and-go-seek as well as the next guy, but she had no actual experience creeping around places like some RPG assassin. Which, now that she thought about it, this guy might be. In fact, if she was really in Skyrim, she might be talking to a Dark Brotherhood agent, for all she knew. "Hey, why are you in here?"
"Thieving. You?" he answered, wary of the sudden change of topic.
She tried to be a little less blunt, but ended up with: "Crazy guard. Are you with the guild?"
So sue her, she wasn't very subtle.
He paused a few seconds before answering: "What's it to you?"
She perked up a little. She was probably talking to an actual NPC from the Thieves Guild! This was much better than kneeling at Ulfric goddamn Stormcloak's feet. "Just wondering. What's your name?"
The prisoner laughed. "If you think I'm telling you that, then you're the crazy one. Not the guard fellow."
"Fine, I'll guess, then." Too excited to really think better of it, she began rattling off names: "Brynjolf? Actually, no, I doubt it, you haven't said 'lass' once. Hmm...you don't sound like Delvin. And I doubt those two would get caught anyway. Rune, maybe? Cynric? Niru-whatever? Thrynn?"
There was stone-cold silence. Oh, yeah. She might actually be in Skyrim, and not just a dream-hallucination that didn't have consequences. Had she just revealed herself as a possible threat to one of the most corrupt entities in the country? Man, this whole ordeal was scarier when she realized it might actually be real. Yelling at Ulfric had been a lot easier.
"How do you know all that?" the prisoner demanded, his voice like frozen steel. "Who are you?"
"I'm just a girl, you know, no big deal—uh, how about we get back to the escape plan?" she said nervously. "I suddenly realize I don't need to know your identity after all. Haha! Just kidding!"
"Tell me where you got that information, and maybe I won't need to step over to your cell and slit your throat," he threatened. "I have plenty of experience. I could have you bleeding out like a stuck pig within seconds, and the guards wouldn't even be able to tell that I'd picked the lock to either of our cells. I could make it look like suicide."
"Oh, you're totally Cynric," she blurted out, then winced a little. "Ah, fuck. Don't kill me. But, like, if you're Cynric, why are you still in here? You're literally a master jailbreaker."
"Each and every word that just came out of your mouth did nothing to persuade me from killing you," Cynric—it was totally Cynric—said sharply.
"I didn't get it from anyone, okay? I just know. And I'm not going to do anything to fuck with you guys, don't worry," she said in a placating manner.
"Forgive me for not trusting you."
She sighed. A beat passed as she thought about the best way to do this. "You know the guild's recent dry spell? I know the reason why. It's from the same source that gave me all the information on the members. If you get us out of Windhelm, then I will tell you everything. Deal?"
He scoffed, but took a few moments to mull it over. "Since I hold your future in my hands in regards to this agreement, we have a deal."
At that moment, steel-clad footsteps thundered down the stairs to the prison, effectively ending their discussion.
"The name's Cynric," he murmured reluctantly, just before the door to the room creaked open. "You were right."
Hell yeah she was.
...
"You need to cause some sort of distraction while I make contact with my people. One of them should be arriving in Windhelm tonight, and they can arrange transportation for our escape."
"What kind of distraction?" she asked apprehensively.
Cynric sighed wearily. "Well, you're going to need to distract Ulfric Stormcloak and Galmar Stone-Fist. They're the reason why I cannot simply sneak out of this place—it's too dangerous to risk getting their attention. If Galmar was off managing the troops like he usually is, it wouldn't be as difficult. But as it stands, Galmar is Ulfric's watch dog, and a good one, at that."
"So you're literally throwing me to the dogs? How the hell am I supposed to make a distraction without getting myself killed?"
"To be honest with you, I had originally planned on leaving you behind to die after you had served your purpose," Cynric admitted, which, well, was not that much of a surprise. There had been, after all, no apparent reason for him to help her except honor or something, and she didn't believe in honor. Rightly so, it seemed. "Now, though, I need you alive. You know about the threat to the guild."
"Right you are!" she said cheerfully. "So, you need to help me come up with a distraction plan that won't get me killed, Mr. Cynric. I'm sure you have something in mind, since you've done this a billion times before."
"We'll talk later," he said quickly as the door to the prisons opened.
She nodded, even though he couldn't see her, thinking up possible plans in her head. However, she had barely had time to come up with a rough idea of plan number one (somehow seduce Galmar) before the guard plodded over to her cell and fixed her with a faceless stare.
"Are you prepared to confess your true purpose in Windhelm, now?" the guard hissed, his steely tone still quite apparent, even through the muffle of his helmet.
Oh, great. It was the original asshole. "I don't have a purpose here, buddy, besides wanting to get the fuck out," she said scathingly. "Leave me the fuck alone already."
"You cannot hide behind filthy words from me," he said, and stepped closer to the bars. She hastily shrank back, not wanting him to mess up her face even more. "I will know your true motives, wretch. Who sent you to this city?"
"Jesus Christ! I have no motives!" she exclaimed, exasperated.
"Jesus Christ is the one who sent you? Tell me, what mission did his scoundrel order you on?"
"For the love of God," she groaned.
The guard reached for the keys jangling on his waist strap, and she backed up to the very corner of her cell in fright. If this guy was coming in there to, to torture her, or, rape, then—
"Who are you?" the guard questioned, slamming the cell door open. He slowly drew a dagger from his boot, and a chill ran down her spine. "If you would like, the information can be extracted."
"I'm literally just a random girl, please don't hurt me, I have zero pain tolerance, oh my God," she rambled, eyeing the sharp point of the dagger fearfully.
His hand shot out suddenly, grabbing her roughly by the wrist, and he dragged her out of the cell, throwing her to the floor. She gave a yelp as her bruised face slammed against the hard stone, the collision sending jarring pain throughout her system. The guard took hold of her hair and lifted up her head, forcing into view the various medieval torture instruments in the prison.
"Wow, no, please don't do that," she said, words coming out rapid-fire and jumbled. "I am no one of importance, mean no harm to you or your city or Ulfric or whatever, if you torture me it'll just be an awful experience for both of us because I'll be screaming really grossly the whole time, so don't do that, torture is bad, you are violating the Universal Declaration of Human Rights for sure right now—"
The guard didn't listen. He forced her to stand and shoved her toward that rectangular contraption she'd seen in the game that looked a little bit like a washboard. It was covered in blood. Oh fucking God. She turned to look at Cynric, a desperate expression on her face, but he was merely watching, not even a hint of concern or sympathy on his face. In fact, he looked as though he was totally down for the plan, because right, he probably thought the guard would wrangle the information that Cynric needed from her. Fuck him. Fucking asshole.
Clearly, she couldn't trust anyone.
The guard took her arms. She broke out into a cold sweat. "Don't do this. Seriously, please don't do this. Oh my God. Oh my God. No, no, no. This is real. I'm actually in Skyrim, in a goddamn video game, and I'm about to be tortured—Fucking hell, if only I had console commands right now, I could just—"
A translucent black screen appeared in the bottom of her vision, just like in the game.
"What the fuck," she breathed. The panic drained out of her, though the guard was now beginning to strap her to the instrument. "What. The Fuck. TGM."
The throbbing pain from her bruises vanished. She no longer felt tired, hungry or thirsty. In fact, she was completely invigorated. She felt like she had all the energy in the world, like she had just woken up from a long, satisfying nap, and was ready to take on the universe.
The guard jumped back in shock. "By the Divines! W-witch!" he cried, drawing his sword.
She grinned. Her heart had slowed to its normal, steady thump, and her head had cleared. She could use console commands. She had activated godmode. She was in Skyrim, and she could use console commands.
She could do anything.
"Windhelm guard," she said, and focused on him, because she certainly didn't have a neat little mouse to click on and select him. An ID number popped up at the top of the screen, just like in the game. He charged at her, but the glint of his blade brought no fear to her this time.
"Kill."
He dropped dead.
He literally dropped dead—just crumpled to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. No painful, writhing heart attack, or even so much a gasp of surprise. Just—dead. Instantly.
She threw up right as Cynric broke out of his cell.
...
Scouts-Many-Marshes had experienced silence before. He had experienced a room of bustling discussion drop, very suddenly, to a hushed quiet. He had experienced the silence of a young hatchling's cries trailing off, ended by a frigid chill and empty bellies. He had experienced the hollow quiet ringing in his ears as he finally accepted that some things would not change, and family would not come back from the dead, no matter how much you wished they would.
But he had never, ever experienced silence like this.
Windhelm, no matter how cold and dreary, was always bustling with some sort of noise, whether it be the marketplaces during the day, the taverns ringing with song in the evening, the soldiers joking amongst each other throughout their shifts. The docks were loud, and the gentle lull of the sea could always be heard even if no one was working.
The docks were empty now. The workers and sailors had filed into the city, looking around in abject horror.
Dead. Every single person in Windhelm was dead.
Not three minutes earlier, the alarm horn had been sounded, and the dock guards had rushed into the city, weapons drawn. Panicked shouts settled heavy into the air, before everything went silent at once. The clattering of weapons, the thud of bodies dropping to the floor—then nothing. A silence beyond any other silence he had ever experienced before.
Scouts-Many-Marshes looked around at the corpses, feeling bile rise in his throat. What could have possible done this? What could have killed so many people at the same time in a split-second, with no apparent cause of death? He shuddered. It must have been daedra, or something equally monstrous. By the Hist—this was the worst sight he had ever seen.
The sound of retching filled the air. He felt sick. He had never imagined this as being the first time he would step into the city: amidst a sea of corpses, the citizens and guards all snuffed of life like a pinched candle flame. The weather was what he'd imagined for a first visit, at least. It was sunny, blues skies, not a cloud in sight, warm for once, which in his mind, would have signaled a new dawn for the Argonians down by the docks, new lives away from Nord prejudice. And in a sense, it did. All the racist residents of the city were dead.
But even with the sun beating down on his back, he didn't feel warm. Scouts-Many-Marshes was as cold as ever.
...
The tale of the incident at Windhelm spread through Skyrim like wildfire. Nearly an entire city dead in a heartbeat, with only three people to tell the tale of what had happened and one of them comatose. The war effort, now headed by Galmar Stone-Fist, had diminished greatly with the death of Ulfric Stormcloak, the fall of Ysarald Thrice-Pierced and the elimination of a major Stormcloak city. Windhelm was in disarray; the Hall of the Dead was filled with dead men, while the Dunmer bodies had been haphazardly tossed into the river, carried out to the Sea of Ghosts. The Argonians, though at last welcomed into the city, had refused to take up residence, and most had made the journey from Windhelm to Riften, seeking to escape the cloud of death that hung over the city. Windhelm was thus empty, excepting for the few soldiers who still held down the city against Imperial invasion.
Skyrim swelled with horrified rumors of who or what was responsible for the horrific tragedy. The stories ranged from divine interference smiting the Stormcloaks to a vicious, chance attack by a daedric prince. However, the truth behind the calamity was as evasive as the thief who was said to have bore witness to the entire happening, and so Skyrim remained in the dark, blistering with worry over what was the most shocking disaster in centuries.
"The Thalmor. An act of war by the Aldmeri Dominion. A conspiracy by the Empire. A daedric plot, like the Oblivion Crisis," came the whispers in taverns and inns across the nation. And another rumor, more unbelievable than the others, originating from an Argonian who had hung himself the night after the decimation: "It was all just by a girl. The birth of a god."
"The birth of a god," came the whisper from Aule, grinning into her mug, the black screen cutting across her view of the innkeeper. "I like that—I like that a lot. Oh-ho, this is gonna be so fun."
END
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