The Dragonborn, a blonde-haired Nord man woke up in his Falkreath Manor, lazily going over to his bookshelf and taking one of his many collected tales that he took from dungeons and Bandit Camps all over Skyrim
He walked over to his outhouse, saying hi to Agmaer, his steward. He went inside the outhouse, closing the door and began doing his business, opening up the book.
"So, its about some princess that's under a spell that can only be freed by true love's kiss? Now, I've seen a lot in this world, but wow, that's a little cheesy, don't ya think?"
He tore a page from the book and cleaned himself, flushing his toilet before kicking his door open and startling Agmaer. The Dragonborn smiled at his house, he had just finished renovating it and poured a lot of money into logs and iron ingots for it.
He removed his clothing and hung it on a branch near the lake, scooping up some mud and collecting it in a bucket. He pulled on a string attached to the bucket, which poured the mud onto him. His back shivered a little bit and he washed himself with the muck, taking some in the mouth (they didn't exactly have mouthwash) to gargle and spat it on a nearby rock.
Agmaer was used to the Dragonborn walking around the property naked by now, but can't he have better hygiene? He sighed and went back to maintaining the household.
The Dragonborn picked up a squirimg caterpillar and a twig, squeezing its innards onto the twig and brushed his teeth in front of a makeshift mirror, smiling happily, which cracked the mirror. "Wow, rude", the Nord said as he gave the mirror a dirty look.
The Dragonborn thought of what else he should do for the day...well, he did want something else for dinner besides venison and alto wine...and there WAS a lake right next to the house, and so he dived in.
He tried catching the fish with his hands and failed miserably, he pouted, crossing his arms across his chest and thought of someway to catch the fish. The Companions did always complain about how terrible his farts were, so maybe he could try to catch them with those. So the Nord stuck out his bare butt, grimacing as he groaned while letting out a gigantic fart, stink fumes and huge bubbles made from a night of wine and pheasant roast surfaced behind him. He slouched over in relief, smirking as all the fish in the lake rose up dead from the pungent flatulence.
The Dragonborn was slightly proud by how many fish surfaced, and took a dead slaughterfish out.
He relaxed in his chair, and grabbed the seared slaughterfish, plopping the whole thing in his mouth
"Hm, note to self: farts are more efficient to fish with than hands. Who knew?".
Meanwhile, a bunch of Thalmor elves were spying on the Dragonborn who joined the Stormcloaks.
"There he is!", one of them whispered.
"Alright its time!", they snuck up onto the house, interrupted by the sound of a crossbow being fired. The Thalmor realized what happened as they saw one of their own, dead, with a bolt through his eye. They tried to go back but were met by the towering figure of the Dragonborn.
"Thanks Agmaer!", the Nord said to the waving Dawnguard.
The Dragonborn sighed, taking out his Wuuthrad, and leaning over to the sweating, fearful, crouching elves.
"This is the part where you run away..", the Nord whispered. They happily obliged, scurrying back to wherever they came from.
"YEAH, AND STAY OUT!", he sighed, a paper left on the ground caught his gaze.
"Wanted: Mythological Creatures", he squinted at the paper, shaking his head and tossing it away, entering his house.