It's been a couple of months since Sheogorath has placed me in Skyrim. I haven't really been keeping track on how long it's been. In that time though I've learned a few basics. There are three basic races, each with sub-races. The humans: Nords, Imperials, Redguards, and Bretons. The elves: Altmer, Bosmer, Dunmer, and Orsimer. And the man-beasts: Argonians and Khajiit. Sheogorath always makes the Earth-souls Breton because they are the human race most naturally adept in magic. Speaking of magic, I didn't want to believe it at first, but that's a thing here. Real magic.

I also witnessed a beheading the other day. Turns out before I arrived, some guy named Ulfric came to the city and killed the high king. They beheaded the gatekeeper, Roggvir. They say he let Ulfric escape. If that calls for an execution, then I'd better watch what I do.

I've recently heard the townsfolk speak of dragons returning to Skyrim after eras of being gone and tales of this living legend they call Dragonborn, a man who can absorb a dragon's soul after killing it.

Because of all the dangers I've heard about out in the wilds, I haven't left Solitude yet. Sheogorath keeps pushing me too do so, but I don't think I ever will.

As I climb into bed for the night, I sleepily ask Sheogorath out loud, "How long have I survived so far?"

"In mortal time, about 8 months," Sheogorath answers. "But is it really surviving if you have yet to leave the city?"

"There are fucking dragons out there," I complain. "Do you honestly expect me to go anywhere with those things around?"

"Yes." There was no delay to his answer and no further explanation beyond that.

"I'd rather stay alive," I huff. As close my eyes, I mutter in contempt, "I'm not leaving the city and no amount of madness will make me."

For a moment, there was silence; sweet, tranquil silence. Then Sheogorath's booming voice echoes as he yells angrily, "Fine! Believe that tonight! But come morning, you will see where madness can truly take you!" I lie there shaking, my eyes now wide open and rarely blinking for hours. What did he mean by that? I fear the answer to that question.

I notice the first sunlight of the day peering through the window. I close my eyes and let out a long sigh of bitter relief. But when I open my eyes, I notice I am in a different place. I am in a musty room full of bookshelves, many fallen over.

In panic, I jump out of bed and run through the maze of shelves in hopes of finding an exit. I find a tunnel dug out from the wall and I follow it, it's path twisting and turning ever downward.

I finally found the end of the tunnel, but it's a dead end. There is an altar of sorts there, and on the altar is a mace. It's black with a dark red glow to it. Feeling oddly compelled, I reach for it.

The moment I touch the mace, thick barbed spikes quickly rise up from the floor, impaling me on one of them. I'm rapidly losing a lot of blood. Many of my vital organs have been lacerated. My vision fades to black and I draw my last breath. My time in Skyrim has drawn to an end.