Alright buddy, sit down and let me set up a scene for you.
Imagine for a second that you're stuck inside a dark, ancient Nordic crypt. Now, when you think of a crypt, you probably think of something empty, but not this one. This one is filled with rotten inhabitants that refuse to stay dead and wield weapons older than your granny. Weapons that happen to be taller than most of their undead wielders, all of whom use them expertly thanks to a lifetime of battle and strife.
Now imagine also that said crypt is booby-trapped to hell and back, with mechanisms more contrived than the average argument for why the Oscars still hold any real value. They shoot fire, spears, spiky balls of death and darts filled with poison, all there to protect various sorts of Nordic secrets from the usual two-bit adventurers who try to test their luck and also happen to hate the act of breathing.
And adding to the shit pile, do please imagine that the reason you've been forced here is because some random asshole mistook you for an expert in these goddamn death-traps and decided in a fit of ingeniousness to tie you up with rope, sling you over a horse like a sack of the most depressing potatoes in existence, and made you travel like that for a week so he could force you to open a specific door inside that death-trap, an endeavor your kidnapper is banking this entire journey on.
Which is absolutely hilarious considering that you know jack-shit about said doors.
Oh, and let's not forget the cherry on top of this. It being that you're currently hiding under a stone table with five of those undead fellows looking around the room to flay your pathetic ass, with the corpse of the only one capable of killing them—your kidnapper—taking a permanent nap right besides you, with one of your knives stuck square center in his forehead and his throat letting out worrying amounts of blood. Blood which is slathered all over the dagger on your hand, funnily enough.
Also, you're very ugly, smell horrible, and are an asshole of such high degree that even Gandhi himself would get in line to throw shoes at your groin, waiting right behind Nelson Mandela and Mother Teresa. Honestly, the reason why this shit's happening in the first place is probably due to the accumulated Karma you've been piling up in the last six months.
Pretty bad situation, huh? So bad it actually loops around to being funny, in a way. Personally, I'd be laughing my ass off if I wasn't said miserable asshole. Yeah, we all pretty much saw that coming, didn-?
"Dir Vilaan!"
My thoughts suddenly get very rudely interrupted by incomprehensible gibberish and multiple footsteps (which sound heavy as fuck) milling around the room, probably looking for the bastard who threw a jar full of flammable oil and a lit match at them. Sadly, instead of pulverizing them to bloody bits, all it did was turning the smell of rotten flesh into one of burnt rotten flesh, a scent so beautiful its essence should be captured in a series of scented candles and distributed amongst the population of the entire world.
Meanwhile, I'm doing my absolute best to stay still under the table, making a rather poor job of ignoring my heart dancing at 780 BPM as I hold a bloody dagger tightly in my hand, prepared to suffer an undignified death the moment they discover me, which may or may not involve girly screaming.
Taking a glance besides me, I take in the sight of my kidnapper for the past week, now sporting a fashionable knife buried in his forehead and a rather mean cut across his throat. To my amusement, his body is still posing as if about to swing his weapon, which makes him look all the more stupid when laying down on the floor. His face is stuck in an expression of lifeless surprise, which is more the fault of the paralysis poison the blade was obscenely slathered in than the shock of the betrayal itself.
Well, if I end up dying with an additional sixty nostrils on my body, at least I can do so with the knowledge I made the sickest knife-throw in all of Tamriel five minutes ago, so sick it shall be the only part in my effigy that isn't filled with insults against my person and offensive drawings. Small mercies.
In the silence, I can hear their breathing (how they're breathing without functioning lungs is beyond me) and their steps, some getting dangerously close to my hiding place, giving me a near heart-attack every time it happens.
...Eventually, after ten minutes of pant-shittening tension of such degree that it could turn a constipated person into a chocolate fountain, they finally leave the room, leaving me alone with my mate.
For caution's sake, I wait for two more minutes before getting out of the dirty stone table.
I let out a shaky breath of relief, quickly coming to a rational conclusion for this whole ordeal.
"This… is the last time I disguise myself as a Draugr Tamer," I mutter, for the sixth time in half a year.
Taking some moments to compose myself after the near-death experience, I take a look around the room — dirty; all's made of stones and shit; random worthless knick-knacks strewn around; super fucking dark; a bunch of cut rope that twenty minutes ago was around me — before taking the most intelligent decision I've made since my unwilling stay in this country began.
"Fuck this, I'm outta here."
And so, after doing the polite thing and looting my kidnapper's corpse for anything useful—a heavy pouch of coins, two shitty daggers, a cloak I quickly put around me and a massive warhammer I leave behind for obvious reasons—I retrace my steps and head towards this place's entrance.
Along the way, I notice a lot of draugr's bodies littering the dank place, most of which have a huge indent in their head thanks to my late kidnapper. He may have been a massive idiot, but credit where credit's due, he was a fucking juggernaut. I couldn't even lift that damn hammer, yet he lugged it around like it weighed nothing.
Too bad paralysis doesn't care if you're buff as shit.
As I reach the crypt's entrance, I'm greeted by a cold stream of wind hitting my face with the intensity of a drunk husband on a Friday night.
"Fucking… snow country," I mutter while holding the cloak around me closer, stepping through the open iron doors and walking into the cold snow.
Oh god, there's so much snow I can't see anything... and I'm also freezing. This wouldn't be so horrible if I was wearing anything more than fake wizard clothes under the cloak, AKA, a glorified dress.
"Fucker couldn't even give me some damn pants," I grumble as I trudge along the snow where the horse should be waiting. My flip-flops aren't exactly helping my situation, my feet swapping spit with the cold snow constantly, giving me the fun risk of hypothermia so I don't get complacent.
And, wouldn't you know it, there he is. The horse awaits with a bored look on his face, the fierce wind not bothering him in the slightest. Hell, if I were to judge his expression, I'd almost say he's just slightly miffed about the whole thing.
Hurriedly, I make my way there and climb up the saddle (not before failing the first time and hitting my ass, for comedy's sake). The horse remains impassive in the process, still not giving a shred of shit for his owner's whereabouts.
Once I'm settled, I quickly inspect the coin pouch I looted to see how much dough I have to work with. This guy was fucking strong, so he must have at least a fair amount of riches, which would pay for a night inside an inn and some food. If I'm lucky, it could last until I arrive in the nearest city, and then- FUCK.
"...God dammit. You're kidding me, right?"
Instead of riches, all I find is two septims, a single silver coin that doesn't work as currency here, and the source of all the weight in the pouch: a bunch of random rocks. Not shiny ones or anything like that, just rocks.
Huh… That explains all the times he stopped in the middle of the road while yelling "Ooh~ Pretty!". I thought he just did that to annoy me while I was tied up like a carpet.
I'm pretty sure some god up there is giggling like a schoolgirl right about now.
"Look at this loser!" says God to an angel, dressed in a wife-beater and boxers with a half-finished beer bottle in his hand. "He picked up the pouch, and it was full of rocks! Funniest shit I've ever seen."
I stare at the rocks for a second before taking what little of value is there and throwing the rest behind me. Fuck it, I'm winging this, just another Thursda– uh, Turdas.
Grabbing the horse's reins, I tug at them to establish dominance.
"Hop hop, cunt. You're under new management."
The horse predictably doesn't respond.
"I killed your owner; made the sickest knife throw, it went straight into his forehead. By law of the wild wild west, you are hereby my horse."
Nothing still.
"I did a song and dance the moment I slit his throat with my other dagger. It was hilarious, I tell you. I even pissed on his corpse and everything, too."
Bastard still isn't reacting. Tsk, tough crowd.
Sighing, I tug at the reins harder, making a whip sound. "Just get it on, dumbass. If you don't move I'll die from hypothermia, and you'll be cursed with a stinky, ugly corpse on your back for all of eternity."
That gets him moving. Threats of my continuous presence, in this case even eternal, are one of my few bargaining chips in a world that doesn't appreciate my genius. The horse lets out some air before the sound of his hooves begins resonating within the harsh wind. I just let myself fall forward, finally getting a moment of relief.
God-fucking-dammit, this shit's over. I seriously didn't expect to travel from Markarth to Windhelm in a single week, but here I am; a few kilos lighter and with much less dignity than before, but here nonetheless.
"Ugh, why the hell do I have to deal with this shit again?" I say to no one in particular, trying to stave off my boredom. "I never even wanted to get kidnapped due to a shitty disguise I wore one time, you know!? This is totally unfair, I call bullshit on everything ever and everyone's wrong except me."
It's because you chose the shittiest possible career choice you could've possibly chosen, dipshit.
"Oh, right, I forgot: I'm a dumbass," I reply to the voice in my head, as if it was natural.
I mean, seriously? Swindling? I still remember all of our career choices, you know? And one of them was quite possibly the best-case scenario for you, so perfect you promptly spat on it, pissed on it and threw it in the garbage bin with a stupid smile on your face that screamed I'M AN IDIOT AND DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M DOING!
"Alright, listen here, you little shit," I heatedly say. "It was a choice between A, becoming an adventurer and dying to a stray giant spider. B, becoming a full-on thief and dying to a full-on plethora of guards with pointy sticks… Or C, start working at a store like a normal human being. Choosing secret option D, con-artistry and frauds was obviously the correct one."
...Do I even need to say anything? We could've done SO much better things than becoming fucking con-artists on a childish whim. Like, for example… I don't know, prostitution?
"That doesn't sound much better, voice in my head," I mutter, aware of how absolutely stupid this conversation must appear to any onlooker. The horse agrees by giving me a weirded out glance and snort. "Besides, we both know why I chose such a career path the moment I woke up in a forest in the middle of a country that shouldn't even exist."
Because you're lazy and don't want to actually work, much less to do so at the orders of someone else?
"Why yes, voice in my head that represents my inner thoughts for the purposes of interesting inner monologue and mildly funny narration, you are absolutely correct."
This was a horrible choice and you know it. You literally drove yourself to homelessness for the sake of momentary edgy rebellion. Any self-respecting person would laugh at this joke of a choice.
"You think I don't know that!?" I suddenly yell, startling the horse. "I've taken the concept of self-loathing to a new fucking maximum thanks to my dumbass decision! Oooh, I'm in a new world~" I mockingly say, speaking with a higher-pitched voice and twirling my hands around. "I'm going to live this new life on my own rules, ooh~ No more work! No more effort! I'll just cheat the system!"
That was rather pathetic of you. Glad we're on the same page.
"Right!? If I could travel to the past, I'd gladly beat the shit out of six-months-ago me to instill some sense of fucking reason. Sure, I may have to indeed work at the beck-and-call of some asshole, but at least I wouldn't end up like…" I gesture towards all of myself. "This."
A giant asshole with hints of sociopathy who also happened to pick up drinking, murdering, poisoning, knife throwing and self-harm via eating shit from the ground?
"Oi, I ain't a sociopath," I reply, perfectly aware I'm just complaining about one thing on the list.
You sure act like one.
"No, no, there's a difference!" I explain. "See, when I commit atrocities that violate human rights as a whole, I do it for the sole purpose of survival! Not for shits and giggles! Besides, those people are often strangers who wanted to kill me first, so there ain't no reason to feel guilty about it!"
And what about those innocent villagers you sold fake miracle products that could, allegedly, enlarge one's penis while in reality it only gave them a severely bad case of diarrhea?
"Oh, those? I needed to make some cash and all I had were those seeds that made people shit themselves. It was me or them."
...So, a sociopath.
"Pretty much, yeah."
If it's any comfort, we already were massive friendless assholes before this whole dimensional kidnapping situation began, so whatever choice you made... it would've probably gone wrong either way.
"Amazing, that didn't give me any comfort whatsoever. Couldn't you at least say something like 'at least you won't be as miserable once you die' or something? At least promise me heaven, you skank."
Wherever we're going after we finally kick the bucket, it sure as hell won't be heaven.
"Hmm, Heaven or Hell?" I muse in a very philosophical and snobbish tone. "I'm sure if I stop poisoning people I might have a shot at purgatory, at least. Maybe finally settle down from being a fraud and start, I dunno, selling bread or something?"
We CAN make bread––thanks mum––but we'd still be fucked. You do remember there are those wanted posters with your badly drawn face on them, right? The numerous bounties? The fact half of Skyrim wants to either put us behind bars or straight up publicly execute us?
"Whoa, thanks for the reminder." I say dryly. "I was almost able to delude myself for a single second that I could stop this crap."
Thanks, I thrive off of making you suffer.
"Hmm," I ponder for a while, thinking in silence. "There's one thing I'm sure of, at least."
Which is?
"The moment the fucking Dragonborn reveals himself––or herself, whatever–– I'm legging it. I mean, it shouldn't be hard considering this place's way bigger than in the game and with a ton more people and even villages, so hopefully I'll be able to just avoid this mess of a plot until Alduin's killed. No reason to get myself involved."
As long as we don't die, we don't need to worry about anything else.
"...Bah, why the fuck do I do this to myself, again?" I ask to the skies, not bothering to imagine a reply from the non-existing entity in my head. I had enough of insulting myself for today, so for now I settle with staring at the clouded sky while the horse keeps moving.
The only sounds around me are from the hooves hitting the ground and the harsh, cold wind.
"...So, six months, huh? Seis meses, por la mierda," I mumble. "Jesus Christ did I fuck up with this crap… Then again, how in the ever-loving fuck was I supposed to react at getting interdimensionally kidnapped into a fucking video-game? I was in my goddamn pajamas when I woke up here, for crying out loud..."
The sky keeps silent, probably making offensive gestures with its cloud formations while poking fun of my late relatives.
"Todd Howard, you handsome rogue, you did it again," I mutter. "You went from selling Skyrim to putting people inside the damn thing."
The horse continues to move forward while I do my best to not sleep, fall off and die.
Man, I love when shitty, unimaginative isekai stories go right.
After about three hours, I finally stumble upon the greatest sight a man with no pants in the middle of a raging snowstorm can lay his eyes on (besides a pair of pants), an inn located in the middle of nowhere, with nothing besides the building itself in sight for at least a couple kilometers.
B-But why is an inn there!?—I hear you say, with a nasally voice that would make any human being worth his salt want to punch the lights out of you—That's stupid! How the hell does anyone make any money like that!?
And to that I answer: No fucking clue. Business deals in medieval times are as nonsensical as one would expect. Nowhere else would you see people buy stupid-looking genie clothes as a symbol of status or willingly shave their foreheads to somehow represent fertility.
Still, I ain't gonna question it too much considering that I'm in the process of freezing over and turning into an ugly ice-sculpture, so all I can do for now is to go along with the medieval nonsense. What? Marrying my cousin and forming a royal family that could only be described as an ode to endogamy? All in, baby!
...This fucking dress is making my legs turn blue for fuck's sake. I need to get inside that place ASAP.
Quickly parking the apathetic horse besides the building and leaving him tied up with rope I'm not too confident in, I make my way towards the door and open it as fast as I can, closing it as soon as I'm in. The change in temperature is instantaneous. Aaah~ Warmth! Not dying!
The relief of not freezing almost makes me forget the lady behind the counter, eyeing me with a weird look. I wasn't making any weird expressions of pleasure, right? God, I hope not. I don't think I could take it for a third time.
Thankfully, the lady decides to be merciful and clears her throat. "Uh, welcome!" She greets. "I wasn't expecting anyone to arrive at this hour, but please, come on in!"
Still trembling a bit from the cold, I walk to the counter, making sure my bullshit story is good enough to convince this woman to let me sleep in here for free.
Once at the counter, I start putting the moves on her.
"D-Do you have any rooms?" I say, intentionally stuttering to seem more miserable; not that I needed any help in that department.
"Well, yes," says the innkeeper, nodding. "Not many people go through here at this hour."
"A-Ah, how much is a room, then?" I ask, making my voice a bit smaller and pathetic. Please be something like five septims.
"Fifty septims a room. Seventy with the food."
Goddamn blood-lechers. Does capitalism know no bounds!?
Holding back a curse, I instead look to the side and make my lip tremble. "O-Oh… I- uh, don't have any money on me, at the moment…"
The innkeeper's face grimaces. "Sorry, but I can't let you stay if you don't pay," she says, uncomfortable with the situation. "I wish it was any different but…"
Damn greedy bastards, why don't you just cough up all the coin and let me have it!? Stop being so obsessed with material possessions!
Time to activate the waterworks. I stutter even more. "C-Can't you make a-an exception? I… I came to a crypt nearby with a friend and- and it didn't go well. He… He didn't make it."
The lady looks at me with pity. "It happens to anyone, but I still can't-"
"P-Please!" I interrupt, my voice higher and more annoying, if her scrunched up face is to trust. "I-I don't have anywhere else to go! The storm outside has already killed my horse, and with it were all of my belongings! I-I could go look for them tomorrow morning, b-but please, just one night, you don't even have to give me any food, j-just… Please," I finish, the last word especially pathetic.
And that does it, whether it was the sob story or the fact she was just tired of hearing me drive on with it, her face softens up, albeit still looking a bit reluctant.
"Well…" She says, trailing off. "If it's one night I think I can allow it."
Sucker.
I put a hand over my mouth as if to choke down a sob. In reality, I'm just hiding the shit-eating grin that wouldn't get me kicked out of here any faster unless I began a sentence with "I'm not racist, but…"
"T-Thank you…" I say as solemnly as I can. "I-I don't have words to express-"
"I-It really isn't necessary," she says, her hands held up in the universal sign of Please STFU. "Just enter the room on the left and we can discuss it tomorrow morning, alright?"
I nod and slowly walk to the room, muttering some gratuitous "Thank you, thank you," to pile up onto the guilt-trip pie.
Once inside the room with the door closed, I let my hand fall off my mouth, letting my asshole smirk fill the empty room.
"Imbécil," I whisper, looking around. "How the heck is anyone supposed to pay up fifty septims? Just for that alone, I'm looting this whole room."
Without even thinking, I begin checking the closet to see if there are any pants to cover my bare, hairy and sexy legs. I find nothing but one of those dumb-looking noble hats someone must've left behind.
Reluctantly, I grab and put it on. I'm willing to commit any number of crimes against fashion for warmth at this point.
Besides that, there isn't much of interest in the room besides the bed itself. I did manage to find a couple of septims, but no way could they pay for the damn room I'm using. Just because I can, I carve out a little verse on the door with one of my regular daggers:
HAHA SUCKER
I have always been known to be extremely mature.
Grabbing the chair inside the room and setting it against the door, I throw myself to the bed. It's as comfortable as it looks, which isn't much. I dearly miss my modern-day beds made out of massive animal exploitation, but hey, I take what I can get.
Ugh… I hope I can at least have some good, uninterrupted sleep for once… I hope that the innkeeper didn't have those… fucking posters…
And so, with a hand on my belt's dagger pocket and another behind my head, I drift off to sleep.
Of fucking course I don't get uninterrupted sleep. What did you think this was, the Teletubbies?
I get harshly awoken by heavy knocking on the door. God dammit, don't tell me they had those posters.
"Open the door right now!" Yells a rough, deep voice outside. "There is nowhere to run!"
Yup, they had those posters. Fuck.
Still a bit dozed off by the awakening, I calmly stretch, pick up my things and yawn. No need to rush, really. These guards are rather polite once they're convinced they have you cornered and shitting yourself.
Grabbing one of my special-crafted daggers from my belt and holding it on my back and therefore out of view, I move the chair working as a barricade and open the door with as much nonchalance as I can muster. I'm greeted by a guard with a KKK-looking helmet and a raised sword. On the side I can see the innkeeper watching this unfold with anger on her face.
I don't know much about proper etiquette, but I'm sure this doesn't exactly get you many points on Yelp as far as wake-up calls go.
"Uh, yes?" I ask, already aware of the following lines. "Can I help you?"
"Francis the Fraud!" He loudly exclaims, making me wince from the volume alone. Jesus, are they still calling me that? "You have committed crimes against Skyrim and her people!"
Past me would've giggled the moment such a line was said against me. Come on, it's the funny meme quote! How is anyone supposed to not laugh at something like that?
Receiving that line more than a dozen times with swords raised against you. That's how.
Rubbing my eyes, I move my hand around. "And what crimes have I committed, exactly? I suffer from severe, crippling memory loss, you see, so I tend to forget these sorts of things."
The contemptuous gaze from behind the helmet could burn holes in my head. "Your crimes are as listed: thievery, bribery, swindling, obstruction of justice, resisting arrest and murder," he states, clearly annoyed at even having to remind me.
I nod at the list. "You forgot public indecency," I helpfully add.
"Enough!" He snarls. "Now pay the court a fine or serve your sentence!"
Grimacing, I decide to bite the bullet. "A fine which would be…?"
Without breaking sight, he reaches behind him and pulls out a small slip of paper. He hands it to me.
Hmm… Hmmm… Wow, is that really- HMMM…
I nod at the paper. Yes, this would be a most useful paper if I knew how to read. On the paper all I see is a bunch of gibberish symbols that mean absolutely nothing to me. Is that character a phallus? Ay Dios, don't tell me my fine involves some casual prostitution.
I look up towards the guard, who's getting more impatient by the second.
"Yeah, no," I say, shrugging. "Don't have my wallet with me. I'm broke."
His sword grip tightens. "Surrender now, then."
"About that…" And as I say that, I begin Operation: Oh God I Don't Want 2 Go 2 Jail.
In one, swift motion, I throw the dagger I pulled out earlier, instantly burying itself in the guard's chest. Bullseye.
"Damn you!" He yells. "HYAAR-!"
His sword swing plus manly war-cry gets interrupted by his entire body going stiff as a rock, falling forward rather dumbly. Ah, seems they weren't briefed on my dirty tactics involving gross abuse of paralysis poison. Good, otherwise I'd be more or less fucked considering I'm astonishingly incompetent at fighting, as one would expect from a kid of the 21st Century.
Stepping over the guard while pulling out another dagger, I look around to see if there's anything else that needs to get ROCK HARD with my ROCK HARD SUBSTANCE. All I see is the scared innkeeper lady, staring at me with clear fear in her eyes. Oh thank God, she doesn't want to go all unga bunga warrior on my ass, so I get to keep this dagger.
Giving her a cheeky thumbs up to establish dominance, I run outside towards the horse that should be waiting for me. The great escape begins now! Come get me, government, you cannot stop me! You are all massive inoperative cunts who- FUCK!
Once outside, I find myself surprised with the revelation that there's a distinct lack of equine creatures waiting for me to ride them. Shit, I knew I couldn't trust those ropes. At least I hoped the horse would've stayed, charmed by my assertive masculine wiles.
Cursing, I resign myself to do this trip the long way and begin running down the road, still feeling the cold through my pant deficiency. At least the storm stopped overnight, so my hypothermia meter has lowered down.
"Over there!" Oh shit.
Looking behind me while running, I see a group of six guards with weapons drawn chasing me, two of them with bows and arrows and the rest with swords and shields.
"Francis the Fraud! Stop right where you are!" Yells the one at the front. "This is your last warning!"
Time to pull out the real goodies.
I didn't lie when I said my fighting capabilities are awful. A goddamn thirteen year old with a bat could do quick work of me if he tried hard enough. I just suck and that's that. However, there's a reason why I managed to survive six months in this cold frost land where encountering sabre cats and giant killer spiders is common business.
Predictably, it isn't an honest reason. I'm pretty sure that exploiting a system in this world that for some reason hasn't been abused to death isn't exactly honest.
In a practiced motion, I pull out a small bottle from my multi-purpose belt without ever stopping. The liquid inside is as disgusting as it gets, with a sick black-ish color that makes every hair in my body recoil in disgust.
Popping the cap off with my thumb, I drink the garish liquid in one quick swig. Tastes as disgusting as it looks.
Five seconds after consumption, I turn invisible.
"W-What!? Where did he go!? Look for him!"
Not bothering to gauge their full reactions, I run to a gathering of trees nearby, hoping to lose them for good. Ugh, this is what happens when I wish for some proper sleep. Where the hell do I go now?
Now that I think about it, as I run for dear life and struggle to ignore my rapid heartbeat, I haven't really introduced myself, right? At least not formally, although the guards already did a fine job of ruining my chance of doing it properly. If I'm going to narrate my life to myself, at least I want my name out for the record.
The name's Francisco Guerrero, also known as Francis the Fraud for some probably stupid reason. Coming from the faraway lands of Chile to the cold hellscape that is Skyrim, I have been surviving the past six months by a mix of thievery, swindling and casual murdering from time to time, which seems to have gathered some attention. I enjoy nice, long walks on the beach, not suffering a horrible death from anything with or without a heartbeat, eating random shit off the ground to craft potions and poisons and most importantly...
Gold. I love gold to pieces, and I love it even more when it's obtained by scamming people with lies and deceit. I would name my child Gold if anyone was unlucky enough to be in that position, with the second one being Gaslighting, of course.
Half-a-year has already gone past and half of Skyrim wants my head on a pike. Let's see if I can complete the full year without fucking this up more.
...I really need to stop talking to myself