Desmond blinked. In the split second before his eyes reopened, the thing in the sky jumped terrifyingly closer to him.

"What in Oblivion is that?!" shouted General Tullius.

Desmond thought the word "dragon" but no, that was impossible.

"Sentries! What do you see?" the captain's strident voice demanded.

Genetic memories, sure, mind control, yeah, time travel, maybe, with sufficiently advanced technology, but motherfucking dragons Do. Not. Exist.

"It's in the clouds!" squawked a panicky soldier.

Motherfucking dragons never existed. Not in the twenty-first century, not in the twelfth century, not in any goddamn century!

The thing that was not a dragon, that could not possibly be a dragon, but which really, really, really looked like a motherfucking dragon, had now landed on the tower behind the chopping block. A shockwave of compressed air whooshed down, knocked the executioner on his fat ass, and blasted small pieces of dirt into Desmond's face. He coughed, and the stench of bloody death filled his mouth again.

Using that enormous axe as leverage, the executioner struggled back up, but before he could get to his feet, the impossible creature opened its massive jaws and there was another shockwave, more powerful than before. He fell backwards again, his hefty torso trapping Desmond's legs. Desmond kicked frantically to free himself from the dead weight.

"A dragon!" yelled someone, and Desmond was a tiny bit relieved to know that he wasn't the only one that had gone insane here.

"Don't just stand there, kill that thing!" commanded Tullius. "Guards-" The rest of his words were drowned out when another burst of air emanated from the maybe-it-actually-is-a-dragon's mouth.

Then someone was grabbing Desmond, pulling him out from under the dead headsman. He squinted through the maelstrom of dust and managed to recognize that blonde-braided prisoner. "Come on," he said, beckoning Desmond forward, "the gods won't give us another chance! This way!" He turned and ran across the disorderly plaza. Desmond followed breathlessly, stepping around broken bodies of prisoners and soldiers, until they were in the relative safety of another stone tower.

Two of the other prisoners were already there: the one who'd awoken Desmond in the first place, and that well-dressed man, now ungagged.

"Jarl Ulfric! What is that thing? Could the legends be true?" asked the blonde in a low and frightened growl.

"Legends don't burn down villages," Ulfric responded coolly.

"But dra-" Desmond squeaked, then cleared his throat and began again, trying to keep his voice slightly more composed. "But dragons aren't real!"

The others just looked at him worriedly, silently saying, "We thought the same."

There was a loud crash from outside, like a building had just collapsed. Ulfric took the lead, telling the other three, "We need to move, now!"

The blonde nodded with determination. "Let's go! This way, friend!" He pointed behind Desmond at a spiral staircase that lined the circular tower. "Move!"

Desmond didn't need to be told twice. He jogged up the stairs two at a time, but suddenly a gout of rocky debris and flames burst not a foot in front of him. Time seemed to freeze as he fell back against the stone wall, absolutely thunderstruck by what he saw before his eyes.

There was no doubt about it. It was really a motherfucking dragon. Fire breath and all. Annihilating everything in its path.

As the flames dissipated, Desmond saw that the teeth were jet black and wickedly sharp, the tongue equally dark and devious. His heart stopped for several seconds when he saw himself reflected in the wild red orb of the dragon's left eye, and he pressed his body closer against the curved wall behind him, trying to shrink into invisibility.

After an agonizing period during which Desmond couldn't decide whether to run back down the stairs or curl into a sobbing ball on the floor, the dragon flew off to wreak havoc somewhere else for the time being. He inhaled a deep shaky breath, and a brief thought flitted through his mind about how this was yet another goddamn near-death experience he could add to his list. He continued up the stairs but was soon blocked by the debris that was the aftermath of the dragon's attack.

A hand clapped him on the shoulder. It was the blonde, and he pointed with his other hand out the newly-created hole in the wall. "See the inn on the other side? Jump through the roof and keep going! Go! We'll follow you when we can!"

Jumping. This, at least, was something Desmond was familiar with, unlike dragons and Stormcloaks and whatnot. However, he usually jumped with unbound hands, allowing him full use of his arms for balance, so it was a little trickier this time. He hopped up onto the ledge, flung himself through the smoke-filled air, rolled across splintery floorboards, and nearly busted his head on a wooden pillar. The thatched roof was on fire and perilously close to his head, so he lowered himself into a crouch and hopped down to the ground floor as soon as possible. He looked behind him, but his fellow prisoners were nowhere to be seen. Shit, they said they'd follow me. Well, what now? He spun around, trying to decide which way he should go.

That way? He saw the telltale shadow of the dragon.

This way? Flames blocked the door.

Well, I guess that just leaves one option. He left the inn through the only remaining exit, dodging a landslide of superheated rocks. A frightened child careened into his path and Desmond swerved to avoid him, then followed the boy, figuring he might have some idea of a safe place to go.

"Haming, get over here, now!" shouted a familar voice: the bookkeeper-soldier who'd read out the names of the condemned. Desmond and the boy ran to join him, crouching in the somewhat-shelter of a niche between two collapsed buildings.

"Hadvar, I'm scared!" the boy cried, hugging the soldier's knees.

"It's all right, Haming. Just keep out of the way, we'll protect you," Hadvar said with obviously faked certainty.

Just then Desmond felt goosebumps rising on his skin. Something made him look up just in time to see that hellish monster swooping down from the sky towards their position. "We gotta move!" he yelled to the others. "It's coming this way!"

Only then did Hadvar seem to actually notice Desmond. "Prisoner, keep close to me if you want to stay alive!" he said, sounding much more like a soldier now than a bookkeeper. He pushed Haming towards an almost-bald man who was with them. "Gunnar, take care of the boy. I have to find General Tullius and join the defense." He charged back into the fray.

"Gods guide you, Hadvar," Gunnar said solemnly. "And you as well," he added, giving Desmond a shove. Then the old man and the boy ran off to evade the murderous sky beast.

Desmond ran after Hadvar, his feet seeming to move automatically, powered by pure fear. As they ran, he found his mind trying again to figure out what had happened, where he was, how he'd gotten there. Maybe I really did die after all, and this is some sort of freakish afterlife. I never believed in that sorta stuff, but it's either that, or the Eye voiped me away to some alternate universe.

"It won't die! It just keeps coming!" someone shouted.

I guess alternate universes could exist, right? Wait, no, I know they exist. Minerva's what-do-you-call-'ems... Calculations. Like the universe where I'm a mechanic in Chicago, or a waiter in San Francisco.

"Stay close to the wall," advised Hadvar, indicating a massive barricade of rough-hewn bricks. "I don't think it can see us here." Desmond followed this advice.

If this is another universe... then is there a way to get back to my own? But then again, maybe this place isn't even real. Maybe it's all in my head. Maybe I've finally lost all my marbles from that goddamned Bleeding Effect. Maybe I'm really- what was that phrase Clay used? ...drooling and chewing on my tongue.

So... I'm in Hell, I'm in an alternate universe, or I'm insane. Pick your poison.

His train of thought was derailed by a heavy crashing sound. The midday sunlight was suddenly blocked. He felt that same eerie chill from before, and slowly tilted his head up.

Sure enough, the dragon was perched right on the very wall they were trying to hide behind. Its wingspan was easily longer than a Brooklyn subway car. Desmond called on all his stealth training, slowing his breath, willing his heart to beat quieter, keeping every muscle motionless.

An otherworldly sound rumbled deep in the body of the dragon, and half a second later, fire flowed out from its mouth, incinerating four archers who'd been firing at it. Then it flew off again before their bodies had even hit the ground.

Desmond was still gaping at the scene when Hadvar grabbed his arm and began running again. "Quickly, follow me!"

Still bound and unarmed, Desmond had pretty much no other option, so he followed Hadvar through yet more destroyed sections of the town. His feet were beginning to ache. Wish I'd been able to bring my sneakers along to whatever this place is, instead of these shitty worn-out leather rags.

They reached a wide open plaza ringed by smoky piles of flaming wood, and were greeted by an upset General Tullius. "Hadvar! Into the keep, soldier! We're leaving!"

A barrage of air knocked Desmond off his feet as the dragon swooped overhead, and he heard a raspy voice cry out, "Tell my family I fought bravely!"

"Come on, prisoner, stay close!" Hadvar pulled Desmond back up and through a stone gate, but soon stopped, staring daggers at a familiar face. "Ralof!" the soldier growled. "You damned traitor. Out of my way!"

Ralof was the stoic blonde prisoner from earlier. Now he was armed with an iron axe and looked quite imposing. Fiery reflections danced in his eyes. "We're escaping, Hadvar. And you can't stop us."

"Fine!" Hadvar barked. "I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!"

Another booming roar cascaded over them, shaking the very ground. All three men jerked their heads up to watch the dragon glide menacingly past.

"You!" Ralof said, beckoning for Desmond to follow him again. "Come on, into the keep!" Then he headed toward a sturdy stone fort.

Hadvar dissented. "No, with me, prisoner! Let's go!" He was standing at another door to the same building, but further away.

Wasting no time, Desmond simply rushed to the nearest door, which happened to be Ralof's. "Through here, friend! Let's go!"