This will be the first fan fiction that I've published and first full-length parody novel that I've written. This story will loosely follow the Skyrim plot-lines and, in much fewer cases, canon as you'll see in this chapter.


It was the the 201st year of the 4th Era on the 17th of Last Seed, a Tirdas, at exactly 6:07 in the morning when the greatest tragedy to ever befall Tamriel occurred.

It was in a country called Skyrim, a land known for it's pleasant snow during the winter season and generous- who'd have guessed- unpleasant snow throughout the other three- as well as it's poor taste in bards. Skyrim was more unhappy a place than usual at this time due to a civil war- which oddly enough could have ended years ago were both sides willing to reconcile their mutual hatred of the Thalmor- but that is another matter entirely. For in this land, where things were already in a state of Bad, things were actually about to get terribly Worse.

The dragons were awakening form their routine slumber, bringing their threats to creation with them: take all the wealth, burn everything, kill everyone, enslave what's left, go back to the cave and have a nap, etc. The dragons, having no need for gold, slaves, or naps (after having slept centuries already), were still working to develop their reason for committing these atrocities. And despite the long (perfect) winning streak of mortal-kind and the dragonborns against the dragons going back as far as Talos, the fact did nothing to quell the fears of mortals nor the dragons persistence in trying to eat everything. The dragons did quite notably leave 'kidnap the princess' out of their carefully planned agendas this time around though.

To save them from this senseless violence, Skyrim needed the dragonborn. Tamriel needed him, for with out him, Alduin the World-Eater would er- eat, you know... the world.

It needed a hero- a manly hero. Of manly mind and of manly strength- so manly that all the world would tremble before his legendary Manliness (except for the women who would be laughing at their shaking men.)

And that is exactly what they got.

At 5:59 that fateful Tirdas morning, the most manly, masculine, he-man ever crafted by the gods- the Dragonborn of legend- arrived in Tamriel mounted upon his great white steed. With his shining armor glistening in the golden glow of the rising morning sun, beaming it's praises upon this finest specimen of masculinity, he was indeed a great sight to behold- or at least it was assumed so, had anyone been there to see it.

The Dragonborn surveyed the land from were he was mounted upon his steed at the top of a mountain knowing that this was Skyrim, the land he was called to save. From there he commanded his horse to continue forward, guiding the beast as it slid down the mountain in the majestic manner that only the Great Dragonborn could.

Now it should be mentioned here that the horses of Skyrim, for the fact that the fundamental rules of physics simply do not seem apply to them, have been named the Nineth Wonder of Tamriel (some refute this, claiming there can only be eight- but this is for a different time). Thus, they have the uncanny ability to scale up the most impossible slopes while hauling the most unbearable burdens and slide down the most uneven and steep angles without their hooves ever needing to make sensible contact with the trying surfaces.

It is such a baffling and awe-inspiring power, in fact, that many cannot help but find it comical.

Alas, it was at exactly at 6:06, seven minutes after the Dragonborn's arrival in Skyrim, that a heavy mist fell over the very mountain he slid down, effectively cutting off his vision three feet in all directions. This in itself was not an issue for the mighty Dragonborn who, being quite experienced in these sort of situations, slid down onto his destiny. No, it was the distant and high pitched scream of a woman several moments later that caused the incident.

Acting upon his highly tuned hero-reflexes, now triggered by the distressed-damsel stimuli, the Dragonborn tugged the reigns of his horse in the direction of the scream. After the reflexive response faded and his thoughts returned to him, the most manly of men realized his mistake and swiftly jerked the reigns back in the direction he had originally faced to correct it. But the hooves of his horse had already lost all contact with the surface of the mountainside by then. It was too late.

No god could have saved the Dragonborn when he started the fall which would end his life from a staggering height of 6 feet and 3 inches- (though some historians would later debate that it would actually had to have been 6 feet and 5 inches two have caused the severity of the injuries which were recorded). And that is how the Dragonborn, the only hope for Tameriel, succumbed to the number one leading cause of death in all Skyrim.

~|*O*|~

What happened thereafter this tragedy has been a topic heavily debated over by thousands of scholars, historians, priests, and statisticians the world over.

You see, despite the pressing need for an answer to the great query, it seems that no one could figure out the reason for why the gods- with all their power and wisdom- would take what was already a Bad situation made officially Worse by the death of the Dragonborn and make it, well, Worse-er.

Was it some deadra trick? Was it some unforeseeable fluke out of the gods control? An incident of divine miscommunication? Divine inebriation?

The Dunmer would say it was Boethiah's doing. The Imperials would be too busy counting their gold to reply. Khajit would blink and ask if you going to purchase something or not. With the Nords it was still a topic far too emotionally upsetting to bring up. And Altmer, the Thalmor in particular, would go into a twelve and-a-half hour long historical-analysis evaluating everything from the first era to the present while kindly sharing their commentary at every illusionary correlation, half-truth, or over-exaggerated fact. In conclusion, they would state that it was just another incident proving how desperately the gods needed to start obeying their wise council.

To put it plainly, by addressing the peril Tamriel was facing in having no Dragonborn, it would seem that the gods had decided to have him replaced. Yet why- out of the thousands of skilled Nord warriors, wizened mages, and over-glorified thieves nestled all throughout Skyrim- they chose Alec was anyone's guess.

All one could say surely was that now the fate of all Tamriel rested within hands of a 14-year-old Nord chef for the Imperial Legion, who of which the only thing that could be deemed remarkable was his admittedly impressive list of fears ranging from jesters to carrots.

Skyrim was as good as fucked.


As I mentioned this parody will be loosely following the original Skyrim plot-line. I'm doing this in hopes that, by leaving you all with less an idea for what will happen next, the result will be a stroy that is more funny and interesting.

I'd also like to mention that have been using The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Saga by Douglas Adams' as my "textbook" of sorts for this story. No, it does not mean that I'll be COPYING the series in any way. I simply mean that I looked to it for advice on comedic deliverly and how to use comedic devices. The flow of the series already matched well enough with my natural style as it was. That said, I'll still be making the story my own way but every now and then making something of a parallel to the saga which has helped me so much with writing this- you'll see what I mean in a later chapter.

I love to hear feedback on my works and would appreciate anything you have to tell me. Please review!

Thanks for reading!