Initiate Experimental Simulation: Skyrim

by Sinsyne

Finding myself seconds away from the headman's ax was bad. Running from a dragon was worse. But by far the worst part was learning that my entire life had been a lie. (Self-Insert)

1. Chapter I: Initiate

Initiate Experimental Simulation: Skyrim

Chapter I: Initiate

My breath comes ragged, desperate gulps ripped from the air into my tortured lungs but nevertheless not easing my mounting discomfort. A dragon. An honest to god fucking dragon. What kind of Matrix bullshit is this, am I a fucking battery now?

"Hey!" Something pushes hard against my shoulder, the sudden sensation bringing my awareness back into the… well, whatever this is. I look up at a familiar and yet different figure. Ralof. His scowling face is uncomfortably close, our distance narrow enough for the air expelled from his flaring nostrils to tickle my skin as it finds the nook between my neck and rough-spun tunic, letting me see details on his visage no game would render. Grime-filled pores dotting his nose that must have recently been broken and reset improperly. Stray hairs growing north of his beard-line like lonesome trees at the edge of the forest. Tiny bloodshot veins breaking up the white of his intensely focused eyes. He probably didn't sleep after they were captured and then carted through the night towards Helgen for their supposed execution. Was there perhaps a hint of jealousy in his iconic opening line?

"Get a grip Reinhardson, we have no time to panic."

I guess that is my name now. Ragnar Reinhardson. Best thing I could come up with on the fly to not seem out of place in Skyrim; I can probably with some goodwill pass for a Nord with my light skin, blue eyes and slightly curled dark brown hair falling down to my shoulders. Biggest issue is I have little in upper body strength and couldn't grow a proper beard to save my life. Surely the second part will be the larger obstacle in the trials ahead of me. But either way I can hardly use my real name here without raising eyebrows.

A long time ago in my teens when I first got into reading Norse mythology a friend called me Reinhardson after my father and I rather liked it. As for Ragnar, well, I know the name is used around here and at least I'll still have an alliterative name like back home. Or in the main simulation.

It takes way too much effort to not dwell on the ontological ramifications of all this while my life is still in imminent danger. Presumably. But I still have to make sure of some bare essentials.

"Say Ralof, if a tree falls in the forest but no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?"

I see his brow furrow and only now notice his hand is still on my shoulder, steadying me. "Riddles, now? Well I guess it would, after all the impact would still send birds flying. Or are animals supposed to be included in 'no one'?"

I nod, satisfied, and stand up straight, upon which he lets his hand fall back down. It isn't necessarily a good answer, but it is an answer that requires thought. These weren't the words of some NPC with preprogrammed lines. Simulation or not, for now I'll have to assume this Nord standing before me either has consciousness or an AI advanced enough to closely mimic it. For all I can tell right now he is as real or unreal as everyone else I have met in my life.

The latter idea is by far the more terrifying one.

I start to move and immediately wince. My landing on that one jump was a hard one and arcs of pain shoot up from my knee as a reminder. Having my hands tied certainly didn't help. And that entire ordeal was before the 'tutorial' even properly started. It's a good thing the very first lesson I learned in the bit of martial arts I did was how to take a fall.

I quickly take in my surroundings. A roundish chamber of irregular gray stone bricks, devoid of décor save for a sad little table and chair as well as some wall decorations in the form of tapestries and wildlife having fallen victim to taxidermy. Pale light falls down from a chandelier on the high ceiling with more spilling forth from the passages going left and right, each blocked by an iron-wrought lattice gate. Two Imperials would come from the left soon, with the key on the officer our only way forward. I have precious little time to prepare.

How does magic work in the Elder Scrolls setting? There are no arcane invocations, no complicated gestures accompanying spells. As I understand it, it is pretty much just you imposing your will on reality through magicka. It is easy not to think about how things actually work when you just need to press a key to throw a fireball or fill up your red health bar.

How does healing actually function here? Does it just speed up what happens naturally? That would come with severe restrictions; if you take a sword through the gut, en-hastened natural healing might close the wound and remove toxins, but do nothing to reconnect severed intestines. Same for broken bones or lost body parts. Though I'm not sure healing is supposed to fix the latter; granted, I can't recall ever seeing a cripple in Skyrim, but that might just as easily be because the programmers didn't bother to make extra textures for it. Certainly the children here don't all come in one size either.

Alternatively, healing could be some form of time-reversal, but that would only allow it to remove recent wounds. And actually open healed ones back up since a simple step back in the flow of time makes no intelligent distinction between a beneficial and a detrimental change. So perhaps healing magic adjusts the body to an ideal state that exists as an abstract. Is that Platonic idealism? Don't think so, far as I remember Platonic ideas are unchanging, so probably not, as the abstract of my ideal, uninjured self still changes through aging, training, diet and the like.

Either way, let's give it a try. I close my eyes, taking slow and regular breaths as I focus on the idea of healing, fixing, mending. From my wounded body, as it is, to my body, as it should be. With no little surprise on my part a moment later a familiar telltale sound confirms the spell actually manifested and I feel a soothing tingle on my knee as the damage is repaired.

Then a sudden, sharp pain in my mouth makes me stop dead in my tracks, most akin to confidently biting into a pitted olive that as it turns out very much isn't.

Did… did the spell just try to push out my metal fillings when regrowing my damaged teeth? Holy fuckity fuck.

"So… You are a wizard then?" Ralof asks with a hint of apprehension in his voice. Of course. Nords and their distrust of magic.

I move my jaw left and right a couple times then cautiously put my teeth together, checking if everything is still in place. I clack them together, gently at first then with cautious vigor, finding nothing amiss. Looks like I stopped the spell in time before anything got dislodged.

"I'm quite the novice I'm afraid, though it should still prove useful to the both of us," I say in answer to his question. I pause, my eyes challenging him to disagree, but he remains silent. "I'm probably better off with some old-fashioned cold steel in my hands, though I'm a novice with that as well."

"Well then, speaking of…" He moves to the body of the Stormcloak soldier sprawled out close to the table and beckons me closer. In retrospect it was a bad idea to not strip the enemy soldiers of their gear, but I guess that was for the benefit of the show by making it obvious to the plentiful onlookers who was brought for their final judgment before the headsman. "Nothing fancy like steel but help yourself to his gear. Poor Gunjar won't mind and we will need all the help we can get if we don't want to meet him soon enough."

Ah right. Iron, not steel, on the base gear. I pick up the ax, testing its weight. Forward-heavy as is to be expected, with a short leather-wrapped haft of dusky wood. It isn't light but it certainly doesn't have the rather outlandish weights featured on the game's weaponry as I recall, so I guess when things were uplifted into a fully fleshed out simulation some things were adjusted to maintain internal consistency. Still, I probably lack the strength to be very effective with the ax, I surmise, but I should be able to swing it well enough to hurt unarmored flesh. Sharpened metal tends to be remarkably good at that even without too much skill or force behind it. Those ballistic gel and pig carcass tests in Deadliest Warrior and Forged in Fire were quite something. Let's just hope I end up the tester and not the dummy.

I'm still trying to unfasten Gunjar's armour that seems best described as a sleeveless tan gambeson over a layer of chain mail, along with an overcoat in Stormcloak blue to mark it as a uniform, when heavy footsteps herald the confirmation of my most recent fear – I have run out of time.

"It's the Imperials! Take cover!" Ralof presses through clenched teeth and I quickly comply, the ax in my right hand the only gear I managed to salvage. I take position to the right of the gate while Ralof takes the left, both of us putting our backs against the wall to narrow our profile. As the uneven footsteps grow louder so does my heartbeat, hammering away in my chest so fast I feel like even a small wound would cause a geyser of blood to spill forth. I look at Ralof and raise two fingers whereupon he nods briskly. With the officer's iron armour they are easy to tell apart, the female captain tapping her foot impatiently while the accompanying soldier works on the lock. After a breathless second stretching into eternity a metallic rattle reverberates through the stone as the gate retracts into the ground and the Imperials' footsteps resume. This is the moment.

Ralof strikes first with an inarticulate battle cry, making the Imperials turn to their left an instant before I move in to strike as well. I eagerly seize the opening my companion gifted me and bring my weapon down in a wide diagonal swing at the exposed flesh between the soldier's shoulder and bracers while his hand is still on the hilt of the sword at his hip. My edge alignment isn't ideal but good enough and the ax comes to a jarring halt as I feel the blade hit bone. With a cry of pain and surprise my victim lets go of his still sheathed sword and falls to his knees with his arms in front of him as his left hand cradles the profusely bleeding wound.

With an actual frail human body instead of the abstraction of hit points, how the hell am I supposed to trade blows with a troll or even a fucking dragon?

I pull my weapon arm back again to quickly finish the job but intentional or not his fall left the legionnaire in a surprisingly good defensive position with his bent-over back to me, every part of his body in my reach covered in hardened leather. I try to swing for the narrow divide between the rim of his helmet and armour but my strike fails to avoid the sturdy hide and the ax's head is stopped cold without reaching my vulnerable target. I have to think quickly; I can't just flail at his hitbox until he falls over dead, even this light armour will make any of my attacks ineffective, at least with an ax, a stabbing weapon might fare better but this isn't the time to think about that. I need to act now.

The spike on the back end of the ax, force concentrated on a much narrower point. I rotate the handle in my grip as the man regains his feet, non-dominant hand awkwardly fumbling at the sheathed sword with a backhand grip. My blow catches him in the forehead as he turns around. Even with the sturdy leather helmet halting my iron before it can go through his skull as well the impact makes him stumble. I draw back the ax and strike again, this time hitting the exposed flesh right above the collarbone. As I pull my weapon free a spurt of blood follows on its heels and the first man I ever killed desperately claws at his throat with a gurgling rasp, the sword hanging half from its sheath forgotten as he collapses to his knees. Now that I can see the helmet lacks a chin strap, I rip it from his head with my left and end his misery with my right by burying the spike in his temple. His eyes roll back and he crumbles to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.

I make no attempt to free the ax from its bonen confines and instead complete the unfinished task of unsheathing the soldier's sword while I put on the helmet. Probably closest to a gladius, no surprise with the Legion. I'd prefer a proper crossguard but it will do better than an ax. I look up at the still inconclusive duel as I grip the helmet's noseguard between thumb and pointer to slightly adjust it into the right position. The Imperial officer has the advantage in reach and her weapon is able to stab which caused them to be locked in a careful dance with Ralof hovering outside her striking range and bearing several crimson marks from when he was punished in his attempts to close the distance. But the wounds don't seem to slow him down and he keeps prowling like a crouched predator, waiting for her to overextend – or for me to make my move.

I shuffle counter-clockwise to get her sandwiched between the two of us when their stalemate is broken with the suddenness of a gunshot. She turns on her heels and comes charging at me, evidently intent on finishing the easier target first instead of chancing a two front war. I barely raise my sword in time to block her overhead swing and have to brace my left palm against the flat of my blade to stop the momentum of her strike, but she immediately rebounds and follows up with a slash to my stomach I can't come close to parrying. Only my instinctive step back at her sudden assault saves me from a deeper wound but even as it is I wouldn't trust in surviving this without healing magic or an emergency room in reasonably close proximity. I can feel the biting pain radiating from my parted flesh but I have no time to assess the damage as she keeps attacking relentlessly with contempt and fury etched into the features of her dark skin. Ralof finally catches up to her when my faltering defense lets her land a ringing blow to my head that surely would have split my skull open if not for the helmet, but even as it is my vision goes black for a second and only the timely intervention of my Stormcloak companion prevents her from dealing the finishing blow to my helpless self. Instead of chancing an ax strike she likely would have blocked with her armour he delivers a powerful snap kick at her hip and the raw force behind his boot sends her stumbling away. She goes into a shoulder roll to recover and comes up in a low guard, facing us with the wall at her back.

She is good. An actual trained soldier, likely in the Legion for years given her rank, and she has the advantage in armour to boot. It must have taken her perhaps five or six seconds to utterly dominate me and if not for the helmet I would be very much dead. Despite their suspicious lack in visual media – at least on named characters instead of quite literal faceless goons depending on helmet shape – they are the first piece of armour any warrior would wield, and this probably goes doubly so on a world with magic. Any other wound a spell could fix, likely even a sword right through the chest; I heard of a case where a guy had his heart pretty much obliterated by a point blank shotgun blast but still kept running for a hundred feet before he finally collapsed. It's no instant death switch in spite of what you see on TV; cut off the blood flow to the brain and it's got enough oxygen left to keep going something like twenty seconds before you pass out, same as with a rear naked choke clamping the carotid artery shut.

But getting your brain spilled on the floor? Then you're just gone. You certainly won't be the one casting healing spells on yourself and even if someone else did I doubt it would do any good. Perhaps in Elder Scrolls where souls are a real verifiable thing it might be different, but I won't be the one to test that.

"Still with me Reinhardson?" Ralof asks while watching me out of the corner of his eye.

"Yeah," I hiss in a barely audible voice, already in the process of casting my spell. I notice the woman tense as she sees the white glow enveloping my empty left. She had likely hoped to have removed me as a serious threat and now has to contend with a warrior who seems her equal and one who can recover from any wound that isn't instantly fatal. I can see the gears turning in her head, she would make her move soon, before I had enough time to fully recover.

There it is. She comes charging at Ralof, her left hand wrapped around the pommel of her sword to deliver a running thrust with all her mass behind it. Previously they had been in a stalemate but if she comes at him heedlessly he would only have time for a single counterstrike before she barrels into him and iron fastness covers all her vitals.

But her charge doesn't come unexpected. Ralof, who had surreptitiously positioned himself close to the table, hooks his ax through the back of the chair and flings it into her path. The look of wide-eyed shock on the Imperial officer's face only lasts the blink of an eye before she disappears into a tangle of limbs and shattered wood. Her cry of fury transcends into a wail of agony as Ralof cuts off her left arm at the elbow while pinning her other hand in place with his foot, a few vital centimeters away from her dropped sword.

"You may be Imperial scum, but you wanted to give us a quick death so I will do the same for you," Ralof says dispassionately as he removes her helmet and hefts his ax to deliver the finishing blow.

He doesn't get to as I move in and with a wordless cry thrust my sword down through her eye. With the blade far too wide for the socket the nasal bone between the eyes shatters with a sickening crack. She is dead instantly.

Funny thing is, when I first played the game I thought there is more of a story here. Why was she insistent on killing a stranger not on their list who for all they could tell just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time? I expected her to hold an old grudge or perhaps be an agent of someone who already knew of my identity as the Dragonborn and saw an opportunity to remove this piece from the board without anyone ever being aware of it.

Turns out, there is no big secret here; she is just a stone-cold bitch. Hell, when I looked her up I learned she doesn't even have a name in the game files.

"You alright Reinhardson?" Ralof asks cautiously, giving me a wary look. I pant heavily, hands braced on my knees as I feel close to collapsing. I'm dimly aware I didn't get to fully heal my wound and quickly resume the process before the fading adrenaline lets the pain catch up to me.

"Yeah, just… goddamn, I hated that bitch."

Ralof chuckles. "So did we all. Divines, probably her subordinates too." He cocks his head and regards me appraisingly. "Your first one?"

"It was. Well, first two. Don't worry, I can handle it." Oddly enough, I can. It probably helps ease my mind that I'm still not entirely convinced these are real people the same way I am. Plus, this all being a simulation implies our existence is dependent on something external so who knows what happens with your consciousness when its artificial container is destroyed.

As for the blood, well, that has never been an issue for me. Growing up in a butcher shop run by my family does have its perks. Blood, guts, brain, the half-digested pulpy contents of a cow's stomach, I've seen it all. Although in retrospect I do shiver when recalling that my pre-school self loved the soup my grandmother made from their brain.

Fun thing happened at a medieval faire once. Friend of ours had been missing for a while and after combing through the entire place we finally found him at the paramedics tent. Turns out when going to the toilet he hit his brow on a protruding piece of metal and upon seeing himself bleed in the mirror he fainted. He was a tall, muscular guy clad in chain shirt and furs who would have looked imposing enough to anyone intent on fighting him, and yet the most superficial wound made him fold like a house of cards.

I wonder what he would make of this sight. Headshots are always so clean in movies, a dot on the forehead and a spurt of blood out the back. You don't see things like their eyeballs pushed forward grotesquely from the wave of pressure going through their brain or the death's grimace on the Imperial officer's face after I cut her number of eye-sockets in half. I loved this stuff on ballistic gel dummies, but on a 'real' human body it does make me feel queasy.

"You did well on your first time. Better than I did. Now come on, let's get a handle on that armour." Ralof claps me on the shoulder once my spell has run its course. I stop as soon as the stomach wound seems to be taken care of so as to not repeat that unpleasantness with my teeth, but things still leave me feeling drained. Must be the blood loss or stress.

We move back to Gunjar's fallen form and Ralof kneels down to undo the straps of his armour. A deep rumble going through the chamber reminds us that there is very much still a fight raging outside. "Let me guess, wolves, bandits?"

"Bandits. Or perhaps just a pair of drifters. Father took us hunting and as it turned out we weren't the only group trying to sneak up on the same deer. When we came face to face with bows drawn, everyone panicked and things escalated before anyone could say a word. It was stupid and unnecessary. I lost my brother that day."

I take a moment to digest this story that certainly wasn't part of the game. "Sorry to hear that Ralof."

"It's alright, it was a long time ago. And I will see Finnulf again some day, though I regret we parted so soon. Until a few minutes ago I was sure this would be the day." He smiles ruefully and beckons me to raise my arms to then pull the cuirass over my chest. After a few tucks to get things into the right place he moves on to the straps.

I finally have a quiet minute to think about all of this. There seems to have been no particular trigger or warning preceding it, I was just painting some miniatures at home when suddenly a booming voice spoke inside my head MAIN SIMULATION TO BE SUSPENDED FOR SUBJECT. INITIATE EXPERIMENTAL SIMULATION. And… that was it. Everything turned into blue-white static along with a lurching shift that felt like falling only in every direction at once, and then I was in that familiar cart.

So, everything I know was just a simulation, data stored on some otherworldly computer equivalent. And if the powers that be didn't explicitly announce so I would never have been the wiser. Why all of this, some form of Truman Show, a prison for transgressions I don't remember, or am I perhaps just an AI myself? I chew on my lip as I contemplate this; whatever existence I may or may not have outside of this simulation, the old cogito ergo sum should still hold true. No matter what form the world outside takes, whether I have a true body or am just a bunch of ones and zeroes on a harddrive, I can be sure of my own existence. I have to be.

Hillary Putnam had said that we can be sure we are not just brains in a vat, a claim I right now most emphatically disagree with. The argument always felt iffy to me, it seemed just some trickery with reference, 'brain in a vat' having a different extension to someone inside and someone outside the simulation or something like that.

I take the leather bracers and boots from the Imperial as well, though the latter turn out to be far too large. It would do for walking, but on any more vigorous motion the soles slide back and forth under my feet. Figures that the first guy I kill would turn out to be Bigfoot. So much for one size fits all.

I also switch my helmet to the officer's. Metal should offer far more protection than leather and it's not like I have to pay any mind to a skill division between heavy and light armour. When I take off my current helmet I can see the long scar left by the captain's sword as well as the hole punched by my ax. Judging from its size I must actually have left a decent head wound on the man but in the heat of battle it was hard for me to tell the difference.

The satchel bag worn diagonally over the officer's shoulder contains the key, a handkerchief, and… a mix of gold, silver and copper coins? Huh. I guess it doesn't make sense for currency to only come in one size. It certainly isn't feasible to get a decent sword for the price of a dozen or so apples.

We get ready to move on but there is one more thing I need to try first. "Ralof, stand back for a moment please." I stretch out my left hand and focus my mind on fire, flame, burn, visualizing the effect I had seen in the game. My efforts are rewarded by a gust of flame shooting forth from my palm and I quickly stop before draining more of my man… magicka.

I give the Stormcloak a wicked smile. "Every advantage we can get, right?"

"I certainly won't complain as long as you don't burn off my hair, I'm rather fond of it." He grabs the second ax I left embedded in the Imperial soldier's temple in his left hand and frees it with a quick twist. Dual-wielding? I don't think he did that in the game. "If we come across multiple Imperials try to go for one without a shield, I don't know how long you can keep that spell going but they could probably sit it out without major injury."

"Sounds reasonable. Ready when you are buddy." We quickly unlock the gate and Ralof takes the lead down a winding staircase deeper into the bowels of the keep. Light is getting sparser and the torches placed on the wall every few meters turn our shadows into hulking giants heralding our passing. A slowly settling cloud of dust hangs in the air and at the bottom of the stairs Ralof puts his hand on the wooden door on the left side of the hallway. "Looks like this is the only way forward… Hey, what's wrong?"

I stare aghast at the recent devastation blocking our way forward, a cave-in forming a mound of broken stone and wood that puts no less fear in my heart than the lingering gaze of Alduin's eyes burning into me.

It must have been that rumble some minutes ago. The ceiling is supposed to come down right as we approach this point, a convenient way to force the player on a linear path. Skyrim is full of such plot contrivances, important events just happen to transpire whenever you reach their location for the first time. The murder at the entrance of Markath, the execution in Solitude, the Companions fighting a giant and hundreds more like it. But in a living, breathing world things just happen when they happen, the heart of reality doesn't stop beating while waiting for you to arrive.

There is a second cave-in later on to cut you off from the other Stormcloaks besides Ralof. I don't think the game ever confirmed whether or not they made it out alive and whatever path they took would be utterly unfamiliar to me.

I have to get past that point before the collapse happens no matter what. And I'm already behind the timeline of the game.

"Just… let's not waste any time and get out of here before the whole place falls down on our heads," I say, still a bit shaken.

"That's the plan. Probably best if we…" The door to our left suddenly opens, we come face to face with an iron-clad Imperial and everyone freezes in stunned silence. Ralof is the first to react and drives the soldier back into the room with a furious assault. I quickly shoot a burst of flame past his right side to block the path of the second one who was just about to flank my companion. I follow inside the room while I keep the spell going and adjust my aim upwards so I can judge the position of my target from his feet instead of trying to see through the churning blaze. He keeps backing up and I try to maintain our distance, but as soon as he reaches the wide pillar he will have reprieve from my magical assault. I feel the draining sensation left by my stomach wound intensifying, a weird feeling of deprivation I had never experienced before and yet could understand the meaning of. It is a bit like someone only knowing hunger experiencing thirst for the very first time or vice versa and it would be a confident guess to say this is the effect of using up your magicka.

I drop my spell as soon as the Imperial disappears behind the pillar and neglect to follow up into the narrower quarters. He pokes his head out but immediately disappears again when I start my fiery assault anew, leaving us locked in a stalemate. Blisters marred his reddened skin and his right eyebrow had disappeared; he must have covered only part of his face in time. But it wasn't enough to set the thick wool of his clothes on fire.

Ralof, to my relief, has won his duel and quickly cuts off the remaining Imperial, who seems to want to make a break for the other exit out of the storeroom. A strike with his left is frantically parried, then two quick chops with his right and it is over.

At least I can claim I softened him up a bit.

"Looks like a storeroom. See if you…" Ralof trails off while I go through the shelves to hastily grab any potions and shove them into my bag. I ignore the wine; while gaming I would take it for the good gold to weight ratio, but right now storage space is a more stringent limitation and I wouldn't trust a big glass bottle to go through the coming fights unbroken anyway.

I move on to the barrels looking for the potion stack. Most of it is filled with grain so I can reach them without having to throw the whole thing over. Task done I move on to the door where Ralof raises an eyebrow at me. Or tries to, it seems he doesn't have much practice with the gesture and the second one twitches upwards as well.

"What? We said we need to hurry."

"We did. But if you keep scurrying around like that you'll just run out of breath. Take it easy, someone who goes into a fight already exhausted is sure to lose."

I have no good retort to that so I just nod silently to acknowledge his point. Another path going down leads us ever closer to the approaching deadline ahead of us. Arguing voices rise up from what I know to be the torture chamber beneath us, one male and one female. We slow our step in silent agreement and stick close to the damp wall. The musty air tickles the inside of my nose, seeming to get worse with every step down the stairs though it is probably just my awareness of it intensifying. There is probably mold growing down here far removed from fresh air and the presence of jail cells and the various fluids spilled during 'interrogation' probably don't help either. Ralof has reached the bottom and steals a peek around the corner ready to jump into battle, but then his tense muscles relax. "Hjilga? Glad you made it too."

It seems with our late arrival the fight here had already concluded. I follow down into the room where I find a blond Stormcloak woman, presumably Hjilga, kneeling down in front of an iron cage to fiddle with its lock while another Stormcloak peers over her shoulder with a red bandage on his left arm that likely was part of an Imperial uniform before. Judging from how thick it is with blood it must have been a deep wound. The third of their group fared worse though and lies in a lifeless heap with a black scorch mark on his chest.

I'm a bit surprised they won their fight without our help, but then again the two torturers likely were only used to victims unable to fight back. The pools of blood spread around their mangled bodies slant towards the path onwards which makes me assume the floor is slightly tilted. Judging from the excessive number of cuts and bruises it was probably more butchery than a fight. A torturer can't expect quarter from the friends of their victims. I've read some accounts of what soldiers in the First World War did to people captured carrying a serrated knife or bayonet. Compared to that the Imperials got off lightly.

The woman turns her head, but upon recognizing my companion immediately returns to her task. "Ralof! Good to see you. Any chance you or your friend are good with locks?"

I shake my head when he looks at me and Ralof answers in the negative. "Afraid not. Was Jarl Ulfric with you?"

"No." The broad-shouldered Nord narrows his eyes as he scrutinizes me. "And who is that anyway? He's not one of us." His right hand is wrapped around the handle of a massive two-handed hammer with its head resting on the ground. He seems an older warrior, a large bald spot reducing his hair to a half-circle of gray-specked brown, but the thick cords of muscle around his neck are something I'd expect to see on a weightlifter or pro-wrestler in their prime.

"His name is Ragnar Reinhardson," Ralof answers in my place. "Shared a cart with Jarl Ulfric and me. And you are?"

"Borg. Don't think we've met before. But I'm fine with anyone who wants to bash some Imperial skulls in."

"Don't you worry, I didn't get this off a shelf," I chime in while tapping a finger against the officer's helmet. "Though most credit goes to Ralof."

"You certainly could have ended up with a worse fighter," the woman says with a smirk. "Seems you were placed with some illustrious company. Ralof and Jarl Ulfric?"

"Last one in the cart was that horse thief who got shot in the back while running away instead of facing the music," I say with a teasing smile.

"Oh… Nevermind then."

Borg seems to be getting impatient much to my relief; I certainly have the least authority here to urge people to move on. "Let's keep moving, you're not gonna get that damn thing open."

"I would already have it open if you didn't bend the lock with your hammer!"

"And I would have it open too if you let me hit it more than once!"

I ignore their bickering and try to secure anything of value they didn't already take. There is a knapsack on a small round table I quickly take as it is more spacious and easier to carry than my current bag. Conveniently placed Book of the Dragonborn, still there luckily. A secluded section divided from the rest of the room by iron bars has a round shield I take too. I decide to let my sword rest in its sheath and instead go for a spell plus shield combination for now.

"How long have you been working on that Hjilga?" Ralof asks.

"Perhaps a minute before you got here." Borg coughs loudly. "Alright, fine, maybe two or three."

"If you don't have it open yet I don't think you will soon and we have little time to spare," Ralof reasons with her.

"That corpse in there is a mage and his robes are enchanted, that stuff is worth good money."

I very much agree as I know her assessment to be factually correct, but it isn't worth my life. I reach through the iron bars of the cage and rip away the mage's hood. Hjilga gazes at me with a dumbstruck expression, mouthing a silent "Oh."

"And the robes?" Borg asks.

"Leave them. Ralof is right, time is more precious right now than money. But if you can get anything else out through the bars go for it."

The Stormcloak eagerly complies and scoops up some coins and a potion before patting down the body for any valuables. I guess even as an outsider I can get them to listen by appealing to what they already desire anyway. Meanwhile I go for the spell tome but find it too wide to get through the gaps in the cage. With some reluctance I tear away the cover which allows me to roll the pages and retrieve the disrobed book.

When I come back up I see Ralof holding out another pair of leather boots. "Try these, should be more your size." I take them and lift my right foot to put them sole to sole. Looks like these will indeed be a better fit so I quickly switch out my footwear. I'm mindful of every wasted second but if the ceiling does come crashing down it would seem very advisable to be able to run.

Borg and I finish our work at about the same time; he seems to have made an attempt to get the robe as well but from the way the corpse's right arm reaches stiffly into the air he gave up when the evident rigor mortis made the task insurmountable. "Hey Borg." I hold out one of the conveniently colour-coded potions, a shining ruby red for healing. "That wound looks nasty, better patch yourself up before we run into more Imperials."

He takes the potion with a frown and uncorks it to swallow the contents in a single gulp. "Thanks Ragnar, I appreciate it." Before I can say anything else he tosses the empty vial over his shoulder where it shatters into glittering shards upon hitting the ground.

I'm slightly taken aback when I realize this is the first time I am addressed by 'my' new name. Ralof seems to be in the habit of being a last-namer. Actually now I think about it all Nords I recall from the game only have a first name, with last names being reserved for titles or prominent clans like Gray-Mane or Battle-Born.

God damn it, did I already irrevocably screw things up when choosing my name?

We keep delving ever deeper through the narrow corridors past several dungeon cells and cages, many of them containing a corpse or desiccated skeleton watching us in silent admonition for their suffering. In the final room one side of the brick wall is broken up by a gaping hole connecting into a more spacious natural cave. The hungry cavern swallows us but I can still feel stairs of worked stone beneath my feet. Instead of tunneling a fresh path this pre-existing corridor was incorporated into the submerged veins of the keep and several places show the mark of man's handiwork; a supporting pillar rising up to the high ceiling here, a coal-fed brazier lighting our way there. Moving into and out of its fleeting aura of heat makes me acutely aware of the fresh breeze but I can also feel the stale air clearing up. There must be some natural circulation down here and the soft babbling of the water ahead betrays further motion as well. But the peaceful brook would soon be stained red.

There's no point in warning them; my Stormcloak companions are already expecting and ready for battle without any interference on my part and I'm not entirely sure of the number of Imperials here in the game anyway. But I know we are going into a disadvantageous position, a large roughly square cavern with a raised walkway going around three of its sides giving their archers an easy shot into our flank while the short drop between us protects them from retaliation. I decide that handling this is the best contribution I can make to our success.

The whistle of arrows starts as soon as we enter the cave; whether or not the Imperials ever learned what the rumble of battle above was about, they were on guard and ready for our arrival. Ralof and Borg take up the front but the short stone bridge is so narrow only a single person can pass at a time. Hjilga abandons her shield to instead switch to a bow and the archers on the other side immediately focus their fire on her while I remain ignored as I try to cover most of my body behind my shield, its rim held right beneath the line of my eyes. I take some quick steps down onto the natural floor beneath the walkway and raise my right hand high to release my spell. I don't know why in the game lamp oil is spilled at the feet of the archers, or why it is so unreasonably combustible for that matter, but I have no intention of complaining. As my flame laps at their feet the shiny purplish liquid catches fire immediately and engulfs the pair of archers in a gruesome display of surprise giving rise to panic and agony. One of them throws himself to the ground while the other seeks refuge in the stream below. I notice his intention too late to fully dodge and his falling body clips my shoulder, throwing both of us to the ground. I give the Imperial soldier no time to recover and grab his head and right arm in a Half Nelson while the pressure exerted with my shield secures his left arm. Without mercy I push the archer's face down into the water he had sought for salvation and he struggles desperately to throw me off, but this hold won't end with a tap-out. The cold stream soaks through my pants and licks at my skin as I wrap my legs around his to make the hold tighter. I am uncomfortably aware of my vulnerability; grappling, while effective, is horribly unsuited to a fight with multiple opponents. I just have to hope what I did was sufficient for the Stormcloaks to handle the rest quickly enough and if the second archer comes back up I can only pray for the fastness of my armour.

His struggles cease in time with the din of battle and I hear unhurried footsteps approach my position. Looking up my vision is filled by fur boots instead of leather. The Stormcloaks have won.

"You done?" Ralof asks me.

"Yeah." The Imperial might only be unconscious right now; after a moment of consideration I pull his head from the water and let his cheek rest on the smooth stone. If he pulls through we'll be long gone before he poses a threat again. Ralof goes through the archer's bag and I see Hjilga do the same with one of the other bodies. "Borg?"

"Dead." His thumb points me where the mighty warrior's body had fallen off the narrow bridge. I see an arrow sticking out of his thigh but can't make out the wound that ended his life. I didn't even have time for a 'resistance is futile' pun. "Once we've looted the bodies we move on. Looks like the dungeon connected into a natural cave system, if we follow the water we should find an exit. This stream probably feeds into the White River, if I'm right we should leave the mountain to the north of Helgen."

His sense of direction is on point. I just have to make sure we actually get there. A mere dozen meters separate us from the deadline and the fateful collapse might happen at any moment. "We best not tarry too long, we only faced manageable numbers so far but that can change quickly…"

"Calm down Ragnar." Hjilga had moved on to looting the archer on top of the walkway. I notice a pair of arrows sticking out of his chest and stomach so it seems he did get back up after I set him on fire. "Come up here, see that raised wooden bridge up ahead? That likely marks the end of the sections the Imperials had manned in this cave. We should be safe from here on out, at least when it comes to Imperial soldiers."

I know she is right, and I have to admit her observation with the bridge is quite astute. While playing it had never occurred to me this was to separate the outliers of the keep's underbelly from the rest of the cave. But I also know something she doesn't and there's no way to tell her.

With arduous leisure Ralof finally catches up to us at the exit while Hjilga goes ahead to check the mechanism of the raised bridge. That's when a shiver goes through the cave accompanied by a deep rumble I feel reverberating in my very bones. The dread I have been anxiously anticipating is here.

"Run!" I try to make it through but I'm suddenly torn back and land flat on the ground. An avalanche of stone comes crashing down with a deafening roar and my vision is obscured by the thick cloud of dust washing over me.

"Are you stark raving mad!" It is Ralof, lying on top of me. His outrage is interrupted by a coughing fit and through the haze I can see him covering his mouth with his overcoat. "The ceiling comes crashing down and you charge right at it like a duckling running for its mommy. You never would have made it through alive!"

He is right. I was so focused on getting past that point I would have jumped into my stony grave instead of accepting my failure and trying to find another path. It was stupid and only his intervention saved me from my just rewards. "You're right Ralof. Sorry, I panicked. Thanks for pulling me back."

We disentangle and brush the dust off ourselves. My mouth feels dry, I must have breathed in a lot of the tiny rock particles and no amount of spitting seems to make things better. Ralof is checking the site of the collapse but the pieces look much too large to be moved with human strength. "Hjilga, can you hear me?"

He has to shout to be heard but they are able to communicate. Hjilga is alive but the rockslide crushed her leg and she is unable to pull it out. If we can't reach her she will be but another nameless skeleton lost in this cave.

"Hey Ralof, look up there." I point upward to where the warm light of day rains down through a wide hole in the ceiling. "If we get some rope and an improvised grappling hook we could make it up there, then we just need to find another entrance to the cave further on and backtrack to Hjilga."

My companion seems skeptical. "That's pretty high up. But let's give it a try."

Rope as it turns out is easy enough to find, but a grappling hook less so. In the end we have to settle for one of Ralof's axes. He draws his arm back and tosses the roped weapon with all his strength but it falls well short of its target.

"You're doing it wrong."

He gives me a confused look.

"You're not just throwing the ax but also the rope. Here, like this." I grab the rope about a meter from the knot and swing it in a vertical circle, slowly building momentum. When it feels like I can't build up much more speed I release and aim for the opening above. It soars much higher but bounces off the stone instead of going over the rim into the sky.

I feel the urge to make some pun here but I don't think the Stormcloak would appreciate it very much.

We switch out multiple times and it takes us probably something like forty or fifty tries to get the ax over the edge and hooked well enough to withstand our most vigorous tugging; after a while I no longer bothered to keep count. At least this gave both of us time to clean ourselves up and take a drink from the invigorating fresh spring water.

"You go up first, you're lighter." The climb isn't easy but with Ralof giving me a boost at the start I after a while make it up far enough to brace against the wall from which point on the task becomes more manageable. Once up I pull on the rope to reduce the strain of my companion's weight on our precariously secured grappling hook and Ralof too reaches the top. I greedily take in the fresh air and bask in the unobscured sun shining bright on us; I have made it out of the starting dungeon. Granted, I will go back in shortly but nevertheless I feel safer and more confident now than at any point since this deranged nightmare started. I can push my way through and then once no longer harried by the prospect of imminent death I'll have time to figure out what to do about all this.

Up on the untamed mountainside we soon find another hole leading down into a familiar place; two streams merging into one, the leftward one coming forth from a low corridor barred by well-rusted iron. This is where we find Hjilga, her fierce features marred with sweat and pain. She seems to have made it to the wooden bridge but the crushing stone ripped right through and tore her down along with it.

"Ralof, please, I don't want to lose my leg today." She seems close to crying and I can't blame her; being decisive and determined in battle is one thing, lying in agonizing uncertainty for however long it took us to get here quite another. From the boulder's size her leg must be more crushed than broken. If we had the necessary strength we'd probably rip it off before managing to pull her free.

"Don't worry, we'll figure something out." Ralof kneels down to wipe the sweat from her brow. He looks up at me. "Potions?"

I check my bag. It seems my earlier fall has reduced one of them to useless shards but the others are luckily intact. "Got four left. Best keep one for after we pull her leg out, might rough her up again on the way."

Using the flat of Ralof's ax we hammer some pieces of the shattered bridge between ground and offending rock to relieve the pressure on her leg then quickly exhaust our magical healing supply. The suppressed pain visibly fades from Hjilga but her persistent fear is evident.

Ralof and I ready ourselves to pull her out. "Alright Reinhardson, grab tight, we'll pull her out on three."

"Is that one-two-pull or one-two-three-pull?"

"… One-two-pull."

I nod. "Alright. Ready when you are."

Ralof takes a deep breath to center himself then gives the command. "One, two, three!"

After a moment of unyielding resistance I can feel her captive leg slowly moving and redouble my efforts, my own right leg braced against the stone and pushing hard to unbend itself. We keep the momentum going and soon free her from rock and boot, the latter remaining stuck.

"You alright?" Ralof asks with clear concern.

She nods tensely. "Looks like everything's still attached. You guys saved my life."

"Just the leg dear." I hand her the final potion to handle the scrapes and bruises she had sustained on the way out.

Hjilga scoffs derisively. "Like I would have made it through here with only one leg."

I can't argue with that so I remain silent. There is still some fighting ahead of us. The feeling left by draining my magicka hasn't subsided so it seems regeneration is many times slower than in the game. I'm pretty sure the mage's hood I took raises your magicka so it might be good to switch out the officer's helmet. Although… do I have to? I struggle to think of a good reason why the hood shouldn't work while worn over or under a mundane helmet. I can see two magical headpieces not working in conjunction through some kind of interference, like with the body slots in Dungeons & Dragons, but the same makes little sense for mundane gear. Although there must be some form of enforced exclusivity, otherwise why should mages only wear flimsy robes into combat? Sure, they wouldn't be trained in or comfortable with the heavier types of armour, but even a simple gambeson offers some mild protection. Best guess I can hazard is that it is culturally rooted for mages to remain unarmoured.

I will have to ditch the officer's helmet soon anyway, it is too recognizable. In the game no one minded if you waltzed by an Imperial or Stormcloak patrol clad in full garb of their enemies. I have severe doubts this will hold true now, thus the helmet is exchanged for hood and shield or sword likewise give way to the bow I had taken from the Imperial I drowned.

"You might want to take the shield," I say to Ralof.

"Why's that?"

"If we're going to fight anything down here it won't be Imperials. You did well with the axes, but it won't help you block a troll's claws or a spider's poison spit." Rather a bear's claw instead of a troll's, but I have no intention of advertising my foreknowledge.

He makes a face like he had just bitten into a particularly sour lemon. "Oh Divines, anything but spiders."

"You'd rather fight a troll? I'm pretty sure we'd lose."

"Yes, but… at least it isn't spiders."

I can see Hjilga even started smiling at the byplay so I decide to keep teasing him a bit. After the ordeal she has been through a bit of a laugh is good medicine. "You know, I think I get it. At least Sovngarde awaits if a troll rips your head off, but I doubt they'd open the gates if you died screaming in terror because eight legs freak you out."

Ralof gives me a sour look. "That was mean. And there I was planning to put in a good word for you if I die first."

"Well I would likely need it, if you die down here I expect I'd be soon to follow."

His lips curl up in a smile and he claps me on the shoulder. "I think you got that right. Now hand over that shield before I change my mind."

"And there they always say it's the girls who are afraid of itsy bitsy spiders," Hjilga says, standing slightly off-kilter with only one boot to her name. "I never knew this of you Ralof. Well, since you were so nice to save me I will not spread this tale with our companions. Probably."

Ralof grumbles but elects not to answer, perhaps expecting it will only draw yet another jest. I can see a shiver go through his body when soon after we pass through thick cobwebs on our path but when it comes to fighting the over-sized arachnids he does well enough and with two shielded fighters in the front and me in the back providing support with spell and bow things go without a hitch. I even kept our empty potion vials in anticipation of collecting their poison. Or venom? I confuse these at times since in my native German tongue there is one term for both.

Rather inconveniently neither Ralof nor Hjilga know where the spider's poison sac is located and how to drain it. I try it myself with a sharp steel dagger but only end up cutting too deep at an inopportune moment and the sickly green liquid bites into my hand with its icy touch. Healing the wound consumes the last of my magic reserves and only the knowledge that I can use a magicka potion for some more healing gives me the confidence to try again. In the end I manage to fill four vials with the pestilent fluid and I hope it was worth the pain.

We soon eagerly return to pleasant daylight after sneaking by the bear. Alduin doesn't make a convenient fly-by as we exit the cave. I suspect he took off long ago. I take in the lush vivid landscape and dazzling scent of unfamiliar flowers in bloom before the ominous backdrop of Bleak Falls Barrow looming in the distance. It was rare to see such pristine untouched nature back home before what is for all intents and purposes an isekai plot. Sadly this one doesn't come with fancy world-breaking powers, unless of course we count being the Dragonborn which presumably I am; I was put in the very same situation as in the game and so far there were no major deviations. Also, I think Alduin's attack wasn't random, I always assumed he sensed the presence of the Dragonborn but I could be wrong about that. Either way I should confirm this as soon as feasible.

"We should probably split up. I'll make for the Falkreath camp and report to commander Thorygg, perhaps he can send some men to run interference if the Imperials send pursuers after Jarl Ulfric." Hjilga had taken part of their eponymous cloak to make a wrap for her foot and bound it with some untangled fibers from our rope. It certainly isn't ideal as far as footwear goes but it would have to do. She resolutely refused offers to take one of our boots.

Ralof nods in agreement after considering for a moment. "That sounds like a good idea. I'll make a stop in Riverwood, my sister runs the mill there. Then I'll see if I can catch up to Jarl Ulfric on the way to Windhelm. Reinhardson, what about you? You're welcome to spend the night, after a day like this some rest and a good drink are certainly advisable."

I nod slowly as I pretend to consider his offer; apart from Hjilga this sequence of events was already expected and planned for. "Sounds good to me. After my first real fight already had a dragon and spiders and Imperials, I don't need a pack of wild wolves mauling me in my sleep."

"That was your first?" Hjilga looks visibly startled. "I knew you were a bit green but you drowned that Imperial bastard like it was nothing."

I shift uneasily. The longer I've spent with people here the more I've come to see them as real independent persons. I've never had any moral misgivings about someone using lethal force in self-defense but actually having to go through with it in person is quite another matter. "Actually I pulled his head out of the water after he passed out. Might still have killed him or someone came along in time to save him. Either way, a single soldier shouldn't turn the tide of the war, right?"

I'm not sure what to make of her reaction. She seems disappointed, perhaps because I don't share her homicidal hatred for the Empire's soldiers. Ralof of course already knew, I told him back when we were stuck in that cave longer than anticipated. But after checking on the Imperial himself he assured me the man wouldn't come to any time soon, if ever.

We soon embrace and say our goodbyes then split up with Ralof and me taking a scarcely beaten path down the mountain's slope towards the churning White River at its foot. The flora is much more colourful and varied than I remember from the unmodded game, its lush greens speckled with blues and reds and violets of manifold flowers. I know some of these are alchemy ingredients but neglect to start collecting them; it would be much more work than a simple click and I probably don't have the time to get proficient in alchemy anyway. Right now the civil war is on a simmer thanks to the central Hold of Whiterun maintaining strict neutrality but sooner or later the conflict between the Empire and Stormcloaks would wash over Skyrim with fire and fury. Becoming a skilled fighter, mage, smith and alchemist would take years. No, that is still too optimistic, there are people with a lifetime of experience ahead of me in their respective craft. If I want to do anything but hide in the clash between Imperials, Stormcloaks and dragons I need to attain power fast and take any shortcut I can think of.

The civil war is the first matter where I feel I can right now make a small difference with a simple step. I have already thrown in my lot with the Stormcloaks and I intend to stick with that. I've seen people compare them to Nazis but that always seemed superficial at best to me, blond blue-eyed dudes with Norse iconography and some issues with racism, but that is where the similarities end. They are an insurrection seeking independence from a continent-spanning empire to escape religious persecution, nothing about that matches the decade of darkness in my country. And Elder Scrolls already has a Nazi equivalent in the Thalmor anyway. Taking the analogy further, that would make the Empire a British Commonwealth that had lost the war and was forced to accede to a peace treaty outlawing the Jewish religion and allowing the Third Reich to send Hans Landa wannabes into their lands to root out any persistent faithful. The Stormcloaks in turn would be Jewish separatists in the Levant who decided to rise up instead of facing violent persecution in their ancestral homeland.

Quite the opposite of a Nazi in my book.

In the end it is the Thalmor who benefit the most from a protracted civil war to weaken the Empire before the inevitable next conflict and the best thing would be a quick and decisive resolution in favour of either side. To me it feels like a devil's choice between pragmatism and idealism; an Empire standing united against the Thalmor would have the best chances in the coming war but allowing the persecution and murder of Talos worshipers to go on in exchange for better odds at winning a war years or even decades away is morally bankrupt. I have always been more on the side of pragmatism and realpolitik but the awesome power of the Dragonborn is a game-changer. Brought to its full potential it can bring the Thalmor to their knees without having to bow to their demands.

My decision set I put the first domino on the board. "Say Ralof, isn't there a shrine of Talos close by? I think I saw a mention of it when reading about the Guardian Stones near Riverwood."

He nods. It seems my explanation was reasonable enough to not draw scrutiny. "You got that right. Why, do you want to stop by?"

I make a wide gesture with my arms. "After what we've been through I'd say thankful prayers have rarely been more warranted, don't you think?"

Ralof laughs. "I guess so. Good to know where you stand my friend. Didn't have much opportunity to talk about things not of immediate concern."

My reasons for visiting the shrine are less spiritual of course. Ralof's good mood soon evaporates when we take the final steps up to the worship site and see the butchered bodies lying in the shadow of Talos's stone-hewn effigy. Men and women, all of them in simple civilian garb, cut down mercilessly with a cruelty reserved for those with burning hatred for their victims.

"Talos's beard, what happened here?"

"Thalmor." I kneel down next to the one body that matters and sift through its belongings for the written orders I expect to be here and my efforts are soon rewarded with a folded piece of paper. So paper does exist in Elder Scrolls, not just parchment. Opening the fateful document I realize this will be my first time taking a look at Skyrim's script; in my hurry to escape the dungeon I had no time to give the two recovered books a closer inspection. I think it looks about the same as in the game which had one font for books and another less elaborate hand for single pages like this though it can't quite be called a cursive. Probably closest to a Carolingian Minuscule which makes sense since players are supposed to be able to read this without going through a palaeography course first. Round s in all positions, no variant letter forms in general, majuscule where one would expect it in English orthography, some of them in Uncial form. This is the kind of stuff I can nerd out over for hours although I fear it will end up a letdown; perfectly regular letter shapes, standardized modern spelling and no ligature or abbreviation to be seen. So in the end it is pretty much just a modern font that pretends to look somewhat medieval. In a way I'm even disappointed the native script wasn't transformed into something more challenging when game became simulated reality.

"Reinhardson, what does it say?" Apparently I have taken long enough to study the document.

"Written orders to track down this shrine, signed and sealed by Elenwen."

Ralof's face scrunches up in fury. "That vile cur! I hope the dragon is digesting her right now."

"I doubt it, the Thalmor don't seem the kind of people to have their superiors lead from the front." I start disrobing the cold, stiff body with some difficulty. It seems Thalmor robes are a more narrow fit.

Ralof approaches with a frown. "What are you doing?"

"Taking the very distinct Thalmor dress of course. The more proof we can offer of this the better. Jarl Balgruuf maintains strict neutrality, right? I expect he would not be too happy with what the Empire allows to happen in his Hold." In the game Whiterun ultimately sided with the Empire when the Jarl could no longer play at being Switzerland after Ulfric, driven by foolish arrogance, forced his hand. If I want to achieve a clean Stormcloak victory this unfolding of events is something I have to change.

"He hasn't declared for either side much to Jarl Ulfric's annoyance," Ralof answers as he kneels down to help me in undressing the Altmer. "There's bad blood between them, they have been at odds with each other for years even before the war started. But he is a good ruler who looks out for his people. I know my sister thinks highly of him."

"That's probably why he so adamantly refuses to join the fight for Skyrim," I reason. "Whiterun is the central Hold and would suffer the most in open warfare between Stormcloaks and Imperials. And as long as both sides have hopes of turning him to their cause they will be hesitant to anger him with military actions inside his territory. Balgruuf is dancing on a knife's edge to keep the war from spilling into Whiterun. If he is to be swayed despite his misgivings about Ulfric he has to be convinced of two things: one, that the status quo with the Empire is unacceptable. Two, that the Stormcloaks will end up victorious." The power of the Dragonborn will be invaluable for the latter – if indeed I am the one who holds it.

The Nord warrior gives me a puzzled look. "What kind of status?"

I open my mouth to explain but then hesitate and think better of it. So far everything here seemed to match modern English, but I guess Latin terms even when in common usage are out. "What I mean is, the situation as it is right now is not one he can bear to maintain. He has to understand that change is vital, and if he keeps just standing on the sidelines it could well be a change for the worse."

"I'm afraid I'm less of a diplomat than you are a warrior," Ralof says with a thoughtful expression. "But what you speak makes sense Reinhardson. Someone has to bring news of Helgen to Whiterun anyway, and if you're already in the Jarl's good graces it would be a good opportunity to present evidence of what the Empire allowed to happen here…"

"That's quite the astute observation for someone who claims to know nothing of diplomacy," I say with a smirk. The Thalmor agent has been stripped down to his undergarments and I put the silken smoothness of his robes into my knapsack. Looks like he was done in by a single stab to the side that must have perforated his lung, probably a dagger. It is my first close look at someone who isn't human; the tall and wiry body would easily pass for a man safe for the skin's golden hue and I doubt the lack of body hair is the result of diligent waxing. I also notice that his facial features lack the rough, blocky lines I saw in the games and are more in line with the classic Elven image as it was depicted later on in the Elder Scrolls Online trailers. "Think you can organize a party in Riverwood to retrieve and bury the bodies?"

"Don't you worry, my sister will see to it. She has a way that makes people listen." His tone is bitter-sweet. Was Gerdur the bossy older sister type, or perhaps even the type that would intentionally play on his fear of spiders? As adults we often forget that children can have a casual cruelty amongst their peers.

Our business here concluded, we move on to Riverwood, fortunately without getting waylaid by overly aggressive wolves. On our short stop at the Guardian Stones I put my hand on the central Mage Stone. At first nothing happens, leaving me to wonder if there is something I'm required to do to activate it, but then a soft tingle crawls up my prickling skin and the constellation carved into the menhir alights in a radiant blue-white. When I withdraw my hand there is a lingering, pleasant warmth. These ancient stones are in a way a method of rewriting your own fate, choosing the constellation that favours you instead of having it be determined by the time of your birth. I smile at the fortuitous thought. Rewriting my fate through my own efforts. An endeavour worth pursuing.

The walk is much longer than I remember and it must be late afternoon by the time we arrive at Riverwood. I've been up and about since early in the morning, wearing unfamiliar footwear and going through a physical and mental ordeal unlike anything I have faced before, so it is with great relief I more fall than sit down on a recently cut tree stump while Ralof introduces us and tells the tale of what we experienced to an attentive audience comprised of Gerdur, Hod and their son Frodnar, the latter particularly eager to hear all about this adventure. I'm not sure when people are considered to be of fighting age in Skyrim; the boy looks to be on the verge of becoming a teenager but he still has some miles ahead of him before the first fuzz will grow above his lips. I don't think I like how Ralof says he will soon be old enough to join the fight but I have to keep in mind that things were much different in earlier times. A hundred years ago men were expected to fight and die in the trenches at an age when nowadays people still go to school. Although I have to wonder how much of all that really happened; for how long has this 'Main Simulation' been running?

"So what will you do now?" Gerdur asks once Ralof has finished his telling.

"We'll rest for the night then we make for Whiterun. Reinhardson here will give a report to the Jarl while I continue on to Windhelm. With any luck he can convince Balgruuf to station some guards around here. It may not be enough to handle a dragon, but people at least need the sense of security to go about their lives in peace."

"We should probably pick up some fresh clothes before we head out," I point out. "If we come across an Imperial patrol it would not be advisable to wear Stormcloak colours. I'd rather avoid another fight, especially since an important task hinges on our safe arrival."

"I can see if Hod has anything your size, or check the Riverwood Trader. He might have other things you need, tell Lucan I sent you and to settle whatever you buy with the 15 Septims he still owes me, that's the least I can do to thank you for saving my brother," Gerdur says.

"His version of events has been overly generous, he saved me more than I saved him."

The Nord woman makes a dismissive gesture. "Either way, you have been of great help to me and my family and I am very grateful for that. Now as for you Ralof, you will escort this fine gentleman here to Whiterun and not engage if you come across any Imperials. Sovngarde be damned, you better not die on me a day after you survive a dragon."

"Gerdur, please." Ralof's tone is somewhere between begging and wailing.

"Oh shut up little brother, if I wanted to embarrass you I'd tell the story with the hornet's nest from when you were nine."

"… Yes, Gerdur."

Jormungand's teeth, that poor guy is completely whipped. And by his sister no less. If he ever gets married to such a woman he might as well geld himself right away and hand her his manhood instead of waiting for her to take it herself.

I make no effort to hide my groan as I ponderously regain my feet. I earned the right to that groan, thank you very much. Luckily my protesting legs won't have much further to walk, though the little hamlet of Riverwood seems to stretch over a larger area than in the game. Still, the Riverwood Trader is easy enough to find as the building is the only stone structure around save for the water mill and the guard gates on the main road hugging the river as it runs through the village. Both Lucan and Camilla are on the ground floor with its wild assortment of displayed wares though they seemed to be talking about the violently mundane topic of supper instead of letting me overhear their argument over the Golden Claw. Oh well, I won't tackle that quest right now anyway. Not a chance in hell I will start beating up bandits and draugr only carrying the most basic gear while not enjoying the conveniences of hit points, save games and enemies tailored to my current level. But luckily I know how to get some quality equipment without having to go through any combat…

My appearance doesn't bring out the eager salesman in Lucan Valerius and I see the features below his receding hairline scrunch up. "Another Stormcloak, huh?"

I try to give him a reassuring smile. "Not quite, though I understand the assumption. I'd rather avoid further such misunderstandings so I'd like to get a new tunic and cloak. I'm thinking something like brown for one and a dark green for the other, either way works fine."

"Sure, that can be arranged…" He gives me a critical look. "You're not a deserter, are you?"

"No, I just happened to be at Helgen and when the dragon hit I grabbed whatever was available to get out of this mess alive. With my life on the line I'm not too picky about colours."

This statement draws quite the reaction, startled from Lucan but more eager and curious from his sister. Interesting. "You… you saw the dragon?"

"Yep. Close enough to count his teeth. Or hers. Though I didn't get close enough to check on that part."

Camilla smiles, revealing a set of dimples below the high cheek-bones of her captivating features that seem to hungrily draw the light to turn all the lesser sights around her into an indistinct haze. Well, no wonder at least two guys are madly in love with her. In Greek mythology a face like hers might well launch a couple dozen ships. And unlike mine her dimples are symmetrical whereas the one on my right side is far more pronounced than the other. As I understand it facial symmetry plays a huge part in attractiveness, so point for her I guess.

I end up leaving with a dark green cloak, two sets of clothes in brown and a deep blue bordering on black, a water skin, dried meat and berries, soap, a comb carved from bone, sturdy but lightweight rope and a couple extra arrows. The merchant isn't too happy when it turns out I won't be handing over any coin for his wares but in the end he has to acquiesce and I say my farewells without having to part with any of my hard-earned cash. He didn't ask me to retrieve his treasured claw, either because I have to be the one to initiate that conversation after overhearing them talk about it or because in all honesty I probably still don't look much of a warrior even with armour obscuring some of my more slender frame. I wonder if he will task anyone else with rooting out the bandits at Bleak Falls Barrow or if perhaps they will just move on to another location. If they manage to retrieve the Golden Claw from that humongous spider and wander off to parts unknown I will be so fucked. I need the Dragonstone, and I need that Word Wall to confirm whether or not I am indeed the Dragonborn but breaching that gate without its peculiar key would be a Herculean task. It could probably withstand a barrage of cannon shots.

There is a topic worth thinking about. When not constrained by the game's options, what useful 'inventions' can I come up with? Gunpowder is one of the first things anyone's mind would wander to, but I'd consider the chances slim at best. One, I may know the three ingredients but that is a far cry removed from making a suitably explosive mixture. What's more, this isn't time travel but a bona fide fantasy setting and I have no guarantee whatsoever that the underlying physical laws work the same way I know them to. Didn't I once read something about the sun being a giant hole in the plane of Oblivion instead of a celestial body? The Elder Scrolls has some weird and convoluted lore. I'm not even entirely sure this world is round. Though I'm quite confident it is not balanced on the backs of four elephants.

Lest Darkness Fall is a classic of alternate history with its modern protagonist getting transported into the Ostrogothic kingdom in the Italy of late antiquity. I remember his experiments with gunpowder failed too. What were his early steps again… Introducing Arab numbers – well, Indian actually – for way easier calculation and book-keeping. A clever idea, but I already saw modern numerals in the Thalmor document. Paper, already present. The printing press, an invaluable innovation for the advancement of society but not a pressing need given the current situation.

Chemical warfare and hot air balloons. No guarantee here on the former, for all I know the basic building blocks of matter here might as well be the classical elements of fire, air, earth and water instead of atoms. But I saw smoke rise up so it is lighter than air, thus the concept of a hot air balloon should be sound. Actually, what about flight spells? In Morrowind they were available. Was that magic lost somehow with the passing of time or did the game creators just not include it because it would be inconvenient for their dungeon design?

I'm still absorbed in my considerations when I'm approached by a blond Nord who crosses his arms and looks at me with an expression of smug superiority. I immediately dislike him so I assume it is Sven. My educated guess turns out to be right and after seeing me exit the Riverwood Trader he gives me his spiel and bids me to deliver that letter to Camilla. I stalk off to Faendal who tries to entice me into the very same harebrained scheme but I decide to talk him out of it.

"Faendal, I can show Camilla that fake letter of Sven's to let her see what kind of guy he is, but do you really want to stoop to the same level? Even if it works out, you'll always know deep down that your relationship was built on a foundation of lies. If she really likes you it will work out without such trickery." Now to see what his true colours are. If he persists I think neither of them deserves to reap success in their amorous endeavor, least of all with my help.

The elf… mer is pensive for a while but then returns his gaze to me with a determined look in his eyes. "You're right. I guess I overreacted, the thought of her falling for that snake was unbearable but I must trust her judgment of character. The truth must suffice for her to see who he is, no trickery." I'm not entirely convinced he had a true change of heart or just tries to appease me to secure my help, but in the end I too have to trust Camilla's ability to see the true character of her suitors.

The rest is simple enough though it turns out unexpectedly hard to part from Camilla who is all too eager to hear everything about my adventure well after the anger at Sven that darkened her face gave way to an endearing exuberance. In lieu of payment I negotiate for Faendal to give me some pointers in archery for the next couple of hours. My body might well be planning a coup d'état against my brain for that unpopular decision but it was mostly my legs that were strained today, although my arms quickly catch up during Faendal's archery training.

"The draw weight is too tough on you, you should do some physical training and get a lighter bow in the meantime."

"That's a nice way of saying my arms are too spindly for me to become a decent archer," I say with a mirthless smile.

We made good progress and I feel like I have gotten noticeably better in archery after thoroughly drilling the basics for the very first time, but I don't have the impression that my improvement was better than it would have been with a decent trainer back in the main simulation. So, the superhuman learning speed from the game, not in effect. Thus there is no point in going through the smithing introduction here since I have no time to acquire yet another complex and highly taxing skill. Which is a shame, my maternal grandfather was an exceptionally skilled smith and I wish I had learned some things from him before dementia forced his mind into a sharp decline.

On the upside, without levels the equipment available in shops shouldn't be leveled either so it won't be necessary for me to smith things myself. I should be able to acquire better materials once I have the requisite cash. As for a weapon, I should probably get myself a crossbow. It is much more convenient to use, point and click whereas becoming skilled in archery takes years of training. I know crossbows were introduced with the Dawnguard expansion, although I only ever played the base game. I should be wary of any new threats the expansions introduced I'm not familiar with from my own playthrough. I'm quite sure there were three of them. Dawnguard with the vampires. Hearthfire gave you new options for building a home and family, so basically The Sims I guess. And Dragonborn… what did that one add exactly? I have absolutely no idea beyond some basic things like new Shouts and items.

I have to be on the lookout for any time-sensitive events that will only get worse if not attended to. The civil war and Alduin are the obvious ones. There was the Eye of Magnus at the College, although I don't remember what calamity is supposed to occur when it falls into the wrong hands. Will they even discover it on their own? I remember it was the player character who stumbled upon it during the excavation.

The sun sets on the ominous events of the day, bathing the world in twilight reflecting off the dark waters of the White River. I have one more unsavory task ahead of me before I can finally let sleep claim my exhausted body. I take a short walk along the currents to remove myself from prying ears and with my foot draw a sign into the dirt before speaking.

"Console. Open console. Menu. Open Menu. Escape. Help. Exit. Quit. Options. Pause. Command – console. Command – quit. Control alt delete. Debug mode. Enable debug mode. Quicksave." My foot shifts a stone half a meter to the left. "Quickload."

Nothing, of course. Jailbreak wouldn't come so easy, but I had to try. I scrunch up a handful of dry dirt and toss it into the air; thousands and thousands of particles, each moving independently, but it has no effect on the 'frame rate'. This simulation is near as I can tell perfect with no hardware limitations as I know them. I briefly toy with the idea of going higher than the highest mountain and trying to break things with render distance, but I'm quite certain that would work no better than in the main simulation.

But, despite the scant few words that booming voice spoke to me they may have inadvertently given me too much. Initiate experimental simulation. In my previous life there was nothing to betray that the physical reality as I know it wasn't real, no glitches, no bugs or other noticeable abnormalities. But the same need not hold true here. This is something new and untested enough to be called experimental. There will be flaws, mistakes, and if I manage to locate them I can pull things apart at the seams to look behind the veil and see the world for how it truly is.

I decide I have delayed the unpleasant part long enough. I take several deep breaths to ready myself for the ordeal that is to come. The white glow of my healing spell alights in the growing darkness and it isn't long until I again feel the sharp jolt of pain from the very start of this ill-begotten adventure. The urge to bite down is overwhelming but my teeth need the room to push out my metal fillings as they regrow. After a seeming eternity the excruciating pain finally fades and I sink to my knees with sweat dampening my hair and clothes. I spit the metal fragments into my hand and close my fist over them, taking several minutes to recover as my breath returns to a slow and steady pace. My aching body returns to its feet and I toss the former dental parts into the White River turned black with night. Tomorrow, we would make for Whiterun, and after that continue on to Windhelm where the next step of my plan awaits.

Rejoice, young man. Your prayers are about to be answered.