As much as I wanted to continue my other fanfic, Fated Isekai, I hit a wall on that story. So, instead of banging my head against it and making you guys wait forever again, I started a new fanfiction that I've been wanting to write for a long time now, at least until I can get over this writer's block.
This story will be based on one of my favorite playthroughs of Skyrim. I hope you all enjoy it.
"Finally!" Andy screamed with triumph after finally completing the Skyrim game. He played it three months in a row, playing nonstop. After spending hours creating his character, days and nights strategizing the perfect build for his level 100 dark elf, months acquiring every weapon, armor, and artifact, and conquering every quest in the game.
"Oh, God. What time is it?" Andy drowsily looks at his watch. As the adrenaline of triumph began to subside, the fatigue, previously masked by the excitement of the game's climax, hit him like a truck, so much that he nearly fell asleep face-first on his computer desk.
Cursing under his breath, Andy's eyes widened in dismay as he checked the time. "4 am already? I've got just three hours before work." Closing his computer with a frustrated sigh, he wearily rose from his chair, dragging himself towards his bed. The prospect of facing another ten-hour shift at his repetitive, dead-end job loomed over him, and the exhaustion from his late-night gaming session only intensified his reluctance.
Andy hated his job, but Having flunked out twice due to his addiction to RPG video games and getting kicked out of his house by his disappointed parents, it was either that or sleeping on the streets.
For years, Andy's life had been stuck in a seemingly endless routine. Each day mirrored the last, starting with a mundane morning routine followed by an early morning shift at work. The monotonous cycle continued into late afternoon when he would return home to hastily consume microwavable dinners. His evenings were swallowed by the comforting glow of his computer screen, delving into the immersive worlds of RPG games, with The Elder Scrolls Skyrim taking the lead.
Andy's social life was nonexistent; he had no friendships or romantic relationships, and even his family gave up on him. He had nothing to look forward to or anything to strive for in his life. He grew addicted to video games, trying to fill that void. It's the only place where he felt like he had any control over, where he could be anything he wanted to be as long as he put his mind to it.
Whatever," he muttered to himself, attempting to convince his weary mind as he allowed his body to collapse onto the bed. "Missing one day of work won't get me fired," Andy rationalized, hoping to ease the growing burden of exhaustion that clung to him. A tired yawn escaped his lips, signaling the onset of sleep. As his eyelids drooped and consciousness waned, he allowed himself one final wish, a silent plea uttered in the recesses of his thoughts.
"Real life sucks. I wish I could just escape into a video game. Anything would be better than this." The words hung in the air, a desperate desire for an alternative reality where the constraints of his existence could be momentarily shed. With that yearning echoing in the quiet of his mind, Andy succumbed to the embrace of sleep.
Andy emitted a groan as he was rudely awakened by the piercing rays of the sun, the clattering sound of a wooden stagecoach being pulled by heavy horses, and the biting cold of a frozen tundra.
"wh- What the hell?" As his consciousness slowly returned, confusion deepened. The last thing Andy remembered was his Skyrim marathon until the early hours of the morning before falling asleep at four in the morning. Yet, here he was, seated on a stagecoach, dressed in ragged clothing, wrists bound by leather straps, surrounded by the unforgiving landscape of a tundra that seemed eerily familiar.
"Hey, you. You're finally awake." The words reached Andy as he regained consciousness, uttered by a rugged-looking man seated across from him. This stranger had a pale complexion and long blond hair cascading down to his shoulders with a braid adorning the front left side of his head. His piercing pale blue eyes and a short beard complemented his appearance, and he was clad in a distinctive blue and brown leather uniform over chainmail armor. Andy played and replayed Skyrim too many times not to recognize him at first sight.
"Ralof?" Andy blurted out without thinking, prompting the man's eyes to widen in surprise for a fleeting moment before settling into a suspicious frown.
"How do you know my name, Dark Elf?" Ralof inquired, his gaze locked on Andy with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.
"Dark... what?" Andy stammered in confusion, his gaze shifting to his own body in utter shock.
"Holy shit!" The reality hit him like a tidal wave. Gone was his slightly overweight physique, replaced by a remarkably fit form akin to an athlete's. Something which he would have celebrated if it weren't for his ashen grey skin. He had long, disheveled black hair cascading down to his shoulders, pointed ears extending elegantly, and intense red eyes that reflected his shock.
Andy's once mundane appearance had not only given way to the features of a dark elf but assumed the exact likeness of his favorite game character from Skyrim.
"Well, elf?" Ralof's voice snapped Andy out of his revelry. "I asked you a question. Answer it."
"I…I" Andy was a stuttering mess, still processing what had happened to him.
"I know you heard me, elf. Or are those ears of yours just for show?" Ralof's patience was wearing thin, and his tone grew more assertive.
Sensing the impatience in Ralof's voice, Andy took a couple of deep breaths, attempting to steady himself. He reasoned with his racing thoughts, 'Okay, calm down, Andy. Don't overthink it. There are really three possible explanations for what happened. One: you've transmigrated into a video game like you've always dreamed about. Two: you've mastered lucid dreaming, and this place is your playground. 3: you've finally gone crazy.'
After taking another deep breath, Andy decided to go with the first option for now.
"I… I'm not sure." Andy looked at the glaring man and tried to come up with a decent explanation. "I… I think I took a blow to the head earlier." Andy held the back of his head with his right hand, pretending to be in pain. "Everything feels blurry. I can't… I can't even remember what I was doing. I don't know why, but your name just came to me when I first saw you."
'Rule number one when transmigrating to another world: always fake amnesia. ' Andy inwardly reminded himself.
"So that's how it is." Ralof's expression relaxed, causing Andy to sigh inwardly in relief. "You must have been trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."
Ralof looked at the thief he was referring to, sitting next to him, and shot daggers back at Ralof with a fierce glare.
"Damn you, Stormcloaks." The thief snarled, blaming them for his capture. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to hammerfell."
The thief then looked at Andy. "You there. You and me – we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."
"So what?" Andy replied. "It's not like we can do anything about it."
"He's right, thief. We're all brothers and sisters in binds now." Said Ralof.
"Shut up back there!" yelled an imperial soldier driving their stagecoach, clearly growing weary of the prisoners' inane chatter.
The thief then shot a cautious look at the man sitting next to Andy. He had long blond hair flowing to the back of his head, covering the back of his neck with a single braid on the left side of his head. He had a black-furred mantle and chainmail armor and, despite being in binds, exuded a presence of immense strength and leadership.
"And what's wrong with him, huh?" The thief's wariness stemmed from the fact that, unlike the rest of the captives, this man was not only bound but also gagged. The thief assumed that it must be because he was deemed the craziest among the Stormcloaks, and the tone in which he asked implied as much.
"Watch your tongue, thief." Ralof sternly scolded the thief, irritated by his clear lack of respect for his leader. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true high king."
"Ulfric?" The thief's eyes widened in recognition. "The jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion. But if they captured you..." Terror slowly gripped the thief's heart as he began to fathom the gravity of their situation. "Oh gods, where are they taking us?"
The revelation of Ulfric Stormcloak's identity cast a shadow over the thief's initial bravado, replaced by a palpable fear as the harsh reality of their capture unfolded.
"I don't know where we're going, but Sovergard awaits." Ralof gives an indifferent answer and seems to be resigned to his fate. The thief, however, begs to differ and starts to panic.
"No, this can't be happening. This isn't happening," the thief muttered, his breath quickening as desperation took hold. He frantically searched in every direction for a means of escape, but there was none. Imperial soldiers surrounded the stagecoach from every angle, equipped with bows and arrows, their expressions a mix of hatred and anticipation. It was as if they hoped the captives would be foolish enough to attempt an escape and that they would give them an excuse to put them down like the mad dogs they believed them to be.
Andy could almost smell the thief pissing himself in terror but couldn't blame the thief because, in his shoes, he would be the same. Andy could keep his cool mostly because being inside a game he had played for months on end, he already knew what would happen. A dragon attack would interrupt his execution, and they would escape in the ensuing chaos, and then…
'Wait, what would I do afterward?' The realization struck him that, beyond the game's scripted events, he now had the freedom to do whatever he wanted. The familiar path of the main quest line need not dictate his actions. Heck, he didn't even need to risk his life (assuming this was real) fighting dragons or anyone else.
He could buy a plot of land and live a simple, peaceful life, or he could go to the college of Winterhold to study magic. He could probably leave this nation altogether and let the dragons burn Skyrim to the ground if he wanted to.
In this open-world reality, the choices were his to make, and Andy found himself standing at the crossroads of a journey with endless possibilities.
"Hey. What village are you from, horse thief?" Ralof's question pierced through the thief's terror, momentarily diverting his attention.
"Why do you care?" the thief shot back, his glare unwavering.
"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home," Ralof somberly replied, his tone carrying a weight of nostalgia and reflection.
The thief continued to glare for a few more seconds before his expression softened. "Rorikstead. I'm... I'm from Rorikstead." The admission carried a hint of resignation.
"General Tullius, sir!" called an imperial soldier at the entrance of a fort where the soldiers were bringing the prisoners. "The headsman is waiting!"
"Good!" General Tullius nodded. "Let's get this over with."
At the mention of the word 'headsman,' the thief's panic surged back at full force. Desperation etched across his face, he fervently prayed to every god he could think of. "Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, please help me." The words escaped in a desperate plea, echoing the realization of the grim fate that awaited them at the hands of the executioner.
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As they enter the fort, Ralof glares at the imperial general with rage and disgust. "Look at him, General Tullius, the military governor. And it looks like the Thalmor is with him. Damn, elves. I bet they had something to do with this."
"I'm sitting right here!" Andy, now a dark elf, snarled, suddenly aware of the potential challenges he might face settling in.
'Crap, I forgot. I'm now a dark elf in a Nord nation that has a grudge against eleven kinds. I'm probably going to have to deal with a bunch of racist assholes.' Andy inwardly grumbled, once again considering leaving Skyrim and letting the dragons burn it to the ground.
"That's not what I... Apologies," Ralof interjected, slightly lowering his head in embarrassment, realizing the unintended insensitivity of his remark.
The tension within the group simmered as their stagecoach navigated through the settlement. Andy found himself contemplating the array of options at his disposal, considering the potential challenges of being a dark elf in a land with a deeply rooted aversion to his kind. The thief, still visibly shaken, continued to desperately search for an escape like a cornered deer. Ralof wore an expression of resignation, still embarrassed by his unintentional racial slur, while Ulfric remained stoic, revealing little emotion as the inevitable moment of reckoning drew closer. The air within the stagecoach crackled with a mix of uncertainty, fear, and silent contemplation as they approached the foreboding destiny that awaited them.
Top of Form
"This is Helgen," Ralof began, attempting to ease the tension. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with the juniper berries mixed in."
"So, you used to live here?" Andy chimed in, catching on to Ralof's effort to divert their minds.
"That I did," Ralof chuckled nostalgically. "Funny, when I was a boy, the Imperial wall and towers used to make me feel safe."
As the stagecoach neared its destination, Andy and Ralof continued their conversation, a temporary respite from the impending doom. The children of Helgen peeked out in curiosity, pointing at the unusual newcomers, only to be hurriedly ushered inside by their vigilant parents. The mundane recollections of days past, contrasted against the current gravity of their situation, provided a brief moment of distraction, however fleeting, from the reality when their stagecoach had stopped.
"Get the prisoners out of the carts, now!" A female Imperial captain ordered as soon as they arrived.
"Oh, gods. Why are we stopping?" the thief asked in a panic.
"Why do you think? End of the line," Ralof sighed, his resignation palpable as he mentally prepared himself to face his death. "Let's go. Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us."
"No. Wait!" As they got out of the carts and formed a line in front of the female imperial captain, the thief desperately tried to plead his case to save his life. "We're not rebels!"
"Face your death with some courage, thief," Ralof looked at him with disdain.
"You've got to tell them! We weren't with you! This is a mistake!" The thief's plea was laced with tears.
"Step towards the block when we call your name. One at a time," the captain ordered, her gaze fixed on the executioner's block where the headsman awaited, indifferent to the desperate pleas echoing in the air.
"The Empire loves their damn list," Ralof grumbled as an imperial soldier held a list of names.
"Ulfric Stormcloack. Jarl of Windhelm," the soldier called out the first name from his list.
With stoic resolve, the Jarl and leader of the Stormcloak rebellion stepped forward. Ralof looked on with a mixture of pride and sadness. "It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric!"
The soldier then called out the second name. "Ralof of Riverwood." Ralof followed his leader without hesitation.
Then, the third name was called. "Lokir of Rorikstead," hearing his name caused the thief's heart to skip more than a beat. "No! I'm not a rebel. You can't do this!" Lokir screamed with bloodshot eyes, driven by fear and desperation. In a last-ditch effort to save his life, he sprinted away in a random direction, shouting, "You're not going to kill me!"
"Archer!" Unfortunately for Lokir, his desperate attempt barely covered ten meters before the imperial captain ordered the archer to shoot him down, sealing his fate. Lokir was writhing on the cold ground of Helgen, choking on his own blood, before life finally left him.
Oh, gods." The gruesome scene unfolding before Andy nearly made him sick. It marked the first time he had witnessed someone's death, at least not in real life. Despite the countless instances of blood, gore, and death in video games, nothing could prepare him for the stark reality of witnessing it in person. The dream of being transmigrated into a video game suddenly lost its allure.
"Anyone else feel like running?" The Imperial Captain's scream echoed through the courtyard, addressing the remaining prisoners.
Silence hung in the air, and the captain grinned sadistically. "Thought so."
Then, the soldier holding the list focused on Andy, giving him a suspicious look. "Wait. You there. Step forward." The question pulled Andy out of his thoughts, prompting him to walk toward the soldier. "Who are you?"
"A…" Andy was about to offer his real name when a sudden realization struck him. Being a dark elf in a new world meant using his actual name might not be wise. He quickly decided it was more prudent to adopt a name common to his new race and culture.
"Azaren… Vedral. Yes. My name is Azaren Vedral." That is the name Andy usually picked for his dark elf characters. Since he was now a dark elf himself in the game, he decided he might as well adopt it for himself.
The soldier nodded and took another look at his list. "Another refugee? Gods really had abandoned your people, dark elf." After scanning his list for a few more seconds, he addresses his captain. "Captain, what should we do? He's not on the list."
"Forget the list." His captain dismisses his concerns with a wave of her hand, "He goes to the block with the rest of the traitorous scum."
If Azaren, as Andy would now be known, didn't already know the scripted fate that awaited him, he might have been screaming bloody murder at the perceived negligence and unfairness of the Empire. He could have accused them of being thoughtless and racist, hurling words that no child or mother should ever have to hear.
Words that could make a Draugr blush. Words that could make a dragon cry. Words that could potentially start the Tamriel equivalent of a world war.
'This. This is why I always side with the Stormcloaks. This is why I murder Imperial Patrol just for funsies. F*ck the Empire!' Azaren angrily thought.
By your orders, Captain," the soldier somberly replied, offering Azaren an apologetic look. "I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are returned to Morrowind."
Azaren remained entirely unmoved, his indignation simmering in his eyes. 'Yeah, how about you choke on my remains instead, you imperial jerk.'
"Follow the Captain, Azaren," the soldier ordered, and he obeyed with bitter resolve. He walked toward where the Stormcloaks were being herded, directed toward the executioner's block. There stood the headsman, a priestess, and General Tullius, who now faced Ulfric Stormcloak.
"Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne." the Imperial general declared to the rebellion leader, who could only grunt through his gag in reply.
"You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace," the general continued, resolute in his judgment.
Suddenly, a loud yet distant roar echoed through the air, startling everyone present, except for Azaren, who wore a knowing grin. He had anticipated this moment.
"What was that?" asked an Imperial soldier, his gaze scanning the surroundings.
"It's nothing. Carry on," the general dismissed the unsettling sound, attributing it to some wildlife in the distance. Little did they know that the roar marked the impending chaos that would soon disrupt the planned execution in Helgen.
"Yes, General Tullius," the captain acknowledged the order and turned to the priestess, instructing her to administer the last rites. The priestess proceeded with the ritual until impatience got the better of one of the Stormcloak soldiers.
"For the love of Talos, shut up, and let's get this over with," the soldier exclaimed, walking up to the executioner's block and placing his head on it himself.
"As you wish," the priestess replied, her annoyance evident at the interruption.
"Come on, I haven't got all morning!" the soldier boldly declared to the headsman, who willingly obliged, raising his axe.
"My ancestors are smiling upon me, Imperials. Can you say the same?" The Stormcloak soldier's defiant words hung in the air for only a moment before the headsman swung his axe down, severing the soldier's head from his body.
"As fearless in death as he was in life," Ralof remarked solemnly, acknowledging the bravery of his fallen comrade.
"Next, the dark elf!" proclaimed the Imperial captain.
Yet, another distant roar echoed through the air, this time sounding much closer than before. Close enough that they can feel the roar shake their bones. The anticipation of the impending events hung in the air, and the atmosphere in Helgen became charged with an unspoken tension.
"There it is again. Did you hear that?" What began as bewilderment slowly turned into fear in the Imperial courtyard. The source of the roar was getting closer by the second, creating an unease that permeated the air. The unknown threat drew a collective sense of dread among those present.
"I said next prisoner," yet the imperial captain dismissed it as well and spoke with a commanding voice to keep her soldier in line.
"To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy." Ordered an imperial soldier. Azaren took a deep breath, slowly walked toward the block, and laid his head, facing the headsman as he raised his axe to take his head.
And right on cue, another screeching roar came from right on top of them. This time, it was close and loud enough to nearly burst their eardrums. The source of the roar was now plain to see as it landed on one of the towers of Helgen, causing the ground to quake.
"What in Oblivion is that!?" one of the soldiers screams in terror. The horrifying creature they witnessed was one that came from the legends. It was covered in jet-black scales, enormous black wings for arms, long black horns on the crown of its head, and a trail of black spikes from the top of its back to the end of its tail. It had piercing red eyes that exuded so much hate that if looks could kill, everyone in the area would die from a heart attack on the spot.
"It's a dragon!" another screamed in panic before throwing discipline into the gutter and running away faster than he had ever run before. He didn't understand what was going on, nor did he care. He just wanted to live.
The unexpected and terrifying arrival of the dragon shattered the carefully orchestrated execution, plunging Helgen into chaos and panic.
"Crap. Crap. Crap!" The good news is that just as Azaren expected, the appearance of the dragon and the resulting chaos had saved him from getting a nice clean shave from the headsman axe. The bad news is that he was now one hundred percent certain that he was not dreaming. Or even lucid dreaming.
Just like everyone else, he felt the dragon's roar nearly shatter his eardrums and brought him to his knees. The temperature rose a dozen degrees by the second as the sky was literally raining fireballs. His heart pounded a mile a minute. It felt far too real to be a dream.
There was no denying it anymore. He really did somehow transmigrate into Skyrim. This was real. It was real! He could die for real!
'Calm down, you idiot!' Azaren cut that thought short and forced himself to calm down. 'No matter how real it is, it's still a f*cking video game. One that you played and beat literally hundreds of times at the hardest difficulty. It doesn't matter if it's real. Just do what you have always done before, and you'll be fine.' He reasoned himself into calming down, drawing on his extensive experience within the virtual world of Skyrim.
"Hey, Azaren!" Ralof grabbed Azaren by the shoulder, snapping him out of his momentary daze. "Get up! Come on, the gods won't give us another chance!"
"R-right." Azaren forced himself on his feet and followed him to a keep where Ulfric and some of his soldiers were. The imperial soldiers were too busy trying to defend themselves and the civilians from the dragon's attack even to notice them escaping.
"We need to move now!" Ulfric declared urgently.
"Up through the tower. Let's go," Azaren followed Ralof's lead as they climbed to the top of the tower. They arrived just in time to witness the black dragon ramming its head through the concrete wall, engulfing two unfortunate soldiers in its fiery breath until they melted into a red and black, smelly, gooey puddle before flying away.
'Fuck!' It took every ounce of Azaren's willpower not to puke at the gruesome sight and the overwhelming stench. 'That was not in the game.' The harsh reality of this world, with its tangible consequences and visceral horrors, hit him hard, and Azaren grappled with the stark realization that the dangers he faced were no longer confined to the pixels of a video game.
"Never mind them! You see that inn over there?" Ralof pointed outside through the hole in the wall the dragon had just made, directing Azaren's attention to the inn with a hole in the roof. It was a precarious but necessary escape route. "Go jump toward there and run for it. We'll follow when we can!"
With a nod of understanding, Azaren steeled himself and leaped into the in through the roof. He made it but had a rough landing, leaving him sore all over. He worked through the pain, got up, and ran outside of the inn and, to his displeasure, ran into Hadvar, the Imperial soldier who had stood with the captain earlier.
"Still alive, prisoner? Keep close to me if you want to stay that way."
'Says the guy who was about to see me executed!' Azaren inwardly grumbled but said nothing and simply nodded and followed his lead. The world was burning around them. Now was not the time for personal grudges.
They ran through the burning settlement, doing their best to dodge the fire and avoid attracting the black dragon's attention. Luckily, battlemages and archers were diverting the creature's focus with spells and arrows.
However, their attacks proved ineffective, merely irritating the dragon. From its perspective, the puny humans were as threatening as a human would find an annoying fly.
Still, they had bought enough time until Hadvar and Azaren ran into Ralof again.
"Ralof!" Hadvar yelled in anger. "You damn traitor. Out of my way!"
"We're escaping, Hadvar. You're not stopping us this time," Ralof replied, making Hadvar grit his teeth in frustration.
"Fine. I hope that dragon kills you all!" Hadvar spat out before running ahead, and Ralof led the others in a different direction, each pursuing their own path to survival.
"You! Come on, into the Keep!"
"With me, prisoner. Let's go!"
Ralof and Hadvar said to Azaren in unison while going in different directions, each expecting him to follow them over the other.
'Hmmm…. What a choice. To follow the Stormcloak soldier I've already built a strong rapport with, being a fellow captive or the imperial soldier who not only would have had me executed just a few minutes ago but also keeps calling me prisoner. A tough choice indeed…' Azaren sarcastically thought for a second.
But only just a second.
"Hey, Ralof, wait for me!" Azaren said as he followed Ralof into the keep.