Azaren, once a game-addict loser, embraces his new identity as a dark elf mage and strives to create a build that would not only ensure his survival but also set him on the path to becoming the Dragonborn.
Ralof guided Azaren through the narrow streets of Riverwood, a quaint mining town nestled in the southern expanse of Whiterun Hold. The scent of pine hung in the air as they approached Gerdur's Mill, where the rhythmic sounds of the waterwheel and the hum of activity indicated the daily grind of life.
As they neared Gerdur, who was diligently tending to her mill, Ralof took a moment to recount the extraordinary events that had befallen him and Azaren—from the unexpected capture from imperial forces to the chaotic interruption of their execution by a sudden dragon assault.
He painted a vivid picture of the chaos that unfolded in Helgen, their narrow escape, and the dragon's fiery onslaught. Ralof recounted their joint battles against Imperial soldiers and massive spiders. Gerdur listened, wide-eyed and astonished, especially at the revelation of the dragon reducing Helgen to ashes.
"You mean a real live-"
"Yeah, and as strange as it sounds, we'd be dead if not for that dragon. In the confusion, we managed to slip away. Gerdur, we need to lay low for a while. I hate to put your family in danger, but…" Ralof began, only to be interrupted.
"Nonsense." Gerdur shakes her head, smiling. "You're both welcome to stay here as long as you need to."
"Me too?" Azaren pointed to himself, arching an eyebrow.
"Of course, you too. Any friend of Ralof is a friend of mine." Gerdur declared, her hospitality extending to the newfound companion.
"Really? So, you wouldn't mind sharing a home with a shifty Dark elf you just met," Azaren chuckled, though only half-joking. Being a Dark Elf in a land where resentment towards his kind lingered made him paranoid about potential discrimination.
"Azaren, I can understand why you'd believe otherwise," Gerdur sighed empathetically, acknowledging the implication of Azaren's words. "but there are some Nords who aren't close-minded bigots who can't see past their own noses."
"You protected my brother, fought alongside him as any true son of Skyrim should, and brought him back alive. At this point, I wouldn't care if you were a Thalmor agent. You'll always be welcome in my home."
Without giving Azaren a chance to reply, she walks up to him and shoves a duplicate key into his hand before shaking it. "Here is the key to my house. I'll repeat it, Azaren. You're welcome to stay as long as you like. If you need work or if someone is bothering you on account of you being an elf or anything else. Just let me know."
Gerdur's words and actions brought more than a sense of relief to Azaren. It gave him a sense of belonging, security, and stability, something he sorely lacked since coming to this world. It wasn't much until he gained a foothold in this world, which is as much a start as he could ask for.
"You already have. Come, I'll show you where everything is." Gerdur's warm smile persisted as she graciously offered Azaren and Ralof a quick tour of Riverwood and introduced them to a few friendly faces before leading them toward her home.
"That's quite the sister you have there, Ralof," Azaren remarked with a sigh of relief, a newfound sense of security settling within him.
"Damn right, she is. I told you my sister would help us," Ralof replied, pride evident in his voice as they followed Gerdur through the winding streets of the town.
As Gerdur guided them around town, Azaren noticed that it looked the same as it did in the game but much different. Compared to when he was playing the game, It was more… lively, for lack of a better word. The size and overall layout were about the same as he remembered, but there were more houses, more buildings, and more people he didn't recognize.
The streets were bustling; there were more children of varying ages playing around.
After the tour of the town, darkness descended upon Riverwood, prompting Gerdur to guide Ralof and Azaren to her cozy home. The flickering glow of candlelight welcomed them as they entered, and the aroma of a home-cooked meal wafted through the air.
Gerdur, a gracious hostess, busied herself in the kitchen, preparing dinner for her unexpected guests. The dining table, adorned with simple yet inviting fare, beckoned everyone to gather. Joining them were Gerdur's husband, Hod, a sturdy man with a kind demeanor, and their ten-year-old son, Frodnar, a bundle of youthful curiosity.
As they sat down for dinner, the room was filled with the warmth of shared stories and laughter. At Frodnar's insistence, Ralof began recounting their escapades in Helgen, carefully tailoring the narrative to be family-friendly, both out of consideration for Frodnar's innocence and to avoid invoking Gerdur's wrath.
"Was there really a dragon? Was it really on you're side? Did Ulfric summon it? How big was it? Did it eat all of the Imperial?" Frodnar bombarded them with questions, his eyes beaming with excitement as he practically jumped on his seat.
"Frodnar! That's enough, child," Gerdur scolded, her motherly concern apparent. "Your uncle and his friend have just come back from a harrowing journey. They need rest, not to be bombarded with endless questions."
"Aww, but. Mom." Frodnar pouted. "I really want to know about the dragon.
"Listen to your mother, boy. If you're going to bother them, you should take it one question at a time," Hod advised, offering a friendly smile. He then turned to Azaren. "So, how big was that dragon? As big as a house?"
"Hod!" Gerdur scolded her husband, her frustration mounting.
"Much Bigger than that. As big as an inn." Azaren replied, spreading his arms widely to emphasize the enormity of the creature.
"Cool!" Frodnar cheered.
"Frodnar!" Gerdur was getting tired of being ignored.
"Well, I'll be! That'd be a sight to see." Hod replies.
"Maybe you'll see one yourself soon. Helgen isn't that far from here," Ralof said with a grin, a mischievous twinkle in his eye, causing Hod to almost choke on his meal.
"Don't…Cough…Don't even say such things! I take it back. I hope that dragon stays far away from Riverwood," Hod exclaimed, his words laced with a hint of terror.
"Ugh, why must I always be the only adult in this family?" Gerdur grunted, a playful exasperation evident in her voice as she felt a mild migraine coming on.
The lively banter continued, weaving a tapestry of shared experiences and familial bonds that unexpectedly tugged at Azaren's heartstrings. As the laughter and conversation flowed around the dinner table in Gerdur's cozy home, he couldn't help but draw parallels to the warmth and camaraderie he had once known. It reminded him of the family dinners he used to have with his estranged family—the ones all the way back to when he was Andy and still in high school.
Family dinners became less frequent and eventually nonexistent. After failing twice and feeling the weight of disappointment, he gave up on himself, and, in turn, his parents gave up on him. It left a void that he later tried to fill with the escapism of video games, resulting in him becoming a game addict, which further disappointed and alienated him from his parents. Now, sitting at Gerdur's dinner table, even as a guest in a foreign land, Azaren found himself unexpectedly overwhelmed by a mix of happiness and nostalgia.
Once they finished dinner and the sun had set, Gerdur prepared spare beds for Ralof and Azaren. The exhaustion from their harrowing experiences weighed heavily on them, and they both collapsed onto the welcoming beds as if their strings had been cut. Ralof fell asleep immediately, while Azaren used the first moment of respite he had since his transmigration to this world to think.
As he lay in bed, Azaren took the time to process everything that had happened to him since coming here. His transmigration to the video game Skyrim as a dark elf, his first kill, and what he should do from this point forward.
If he chooses to follow the game's scripted events, he would travel to Whiterun Hold to speak to the jarl, go on a fetch quest to the Bleak Falls Barrow to get a Dragonstone, defeat the dragon attacking Whiterun, and reveal himself as the prophesied Dragonborn, and so on. In the end, he would kill Alduin and save the world… or die trying.
"Damn. I'm going to have to kill a f*ck ton of people." Azaren whispered, his voice carrying the weight of the realization that had just dawned on him. He ran his fingers through his hair, a visible manifestation of the stress that coursed through him. It just now occurred to him how many enemies, and even innocents, he killed when playing the video game Skyrim, and now that he transmigrated into it, he doubted it would be any different in real life.
One of the first things he learned since transmigrating to Skyrim is that despite it being a video game, once you transmigrated into it, it was nothing like one. In fact, it felt more like he was sent to another world that is heavily based on the Skyrim video game rather than the game itself.
The people here were not mere NPCs with limited lines of programmed dialogue; they were genuine individuals with lives, complex thoughts, and feelings—far more than mere pixels and lines of code.
Through his battle for survival in Helgen, he witnessed firsthand that death was just as realistic. Brutally so. There were no health bars that made bodies crumple to the ground like marionettes with severed strings.
A sword swung at an arm, resulting in amputation. A slash across the stomach spilled entrails. A fire spell turned flesh into charred wood. The corpses didn't linger in a static state or magically disappear. They just lay there and rot, just like real people.
And on top of that, since he had no Gamer powers of any kind, he had no reason to think that the same rules wouldn't apply to him. He couldn't fight as if he were immune to pain, shrugging off injuries as if he were a mere game character. A clean slash from an enemy's sword, a direct hit from a fireball, or a well-placed arrow—all posed lethal threats to him just as they would to anyone else.
He had no reason to believe that there would be an invincible God-mode cheat, magically regenerating health, or scripted events to protect him from fatal mistakes. He had no safety net and no second chance waiting if he happened to make a misstep. There were no 'game overs' here, no opportunity to reload from a saved file. If he died, he died, period. The realization struck fear in his heart.
'I'll be fine.' Azaren repeated to himself like a calming mantra, seeking solace in the familiar words to quell the growing fear that gripped his heart. 'Don't forget. Real or not, this world is clearly based on a game that I have played hundreds of times. I just have to do what I've always done before, and I'll be fine.'
Azaren rolled on his bed. As a modern man who recently transmigrated into the video game-like world of Skyrim as a Dark Elf, it was actually the most uncomfortable bed he had ever slept on. The mattress was just a bunch of hay and leather.
Yet, he didn't care. After the day he had, he could comfortably sleep on a pile of rocks.
'That's right. I'm not that game-addict loser anymore; I'm Azaren Vedral. I'm a dark elf mage. I'm Dragonborn (probably). I can use weapons, I can use magic, and I know this world like the back of my hand. I'll be fine,' he reassured himself with a yawn, feeling the heaviness in his eyes as the need for sleep gradually overcame him.
'I just need to cultivate my skills and learn new magic to create the ultimate build that will ensure my safety, just like I've always done before. I'll… I'll be fine…' Azaren convinced himself before finally closing his eyes and letting his conscience fade.
Two weeks had passed since Azaren settled in Riverwood.
"Keep your breathing steady. Focus only on the target," Faendal advised, his voice hushed as they crouched amidst the foliage of the woods. Azaren, crouched beside him, nodded in concentration, bow in hand, and aimed at a distant target.
"Always remember, upon release, do not pluck or jerk the string in any way. Just relax your fingers, and let the arrow smoothly slip off your fingers," Faendal continued his quiet guidance, sharing the wisdom of his expertise.
Azaren followed Faendal's instructions as efficiently as he could and smoothly released the arrow. The projectile soared through the air with grace, finding its mark in the side of an elk they had been tracking for hours. Triumph surged through Azaren as he clenched his fist in celebration.
"Yes!" he exclaimed, a sense of accomplishment coursing through him.
"Well done, brother Elf. You're a natural at this," Faendal praised, a genuine smile crossing his features.
"Not at all. If it weren't for your hunting and tracking lessons, I doubt I would even find any game, much less catch one," Azaren humbly admitted. With the expertise gained from Faendal's teachings, he skillfully covered the fallen deer in a linen wrap and secured it with a rope, preparing to drag it back to Riverwood.
"And it was only thanks to you that I'm with Camilla Valerius and put that pathetic excuse for a bard in his place." Faendal replies with a serene smile.
"A few hunting lessons are hardly worth the happiness you've brought me, brother. On the contrary, I feel more indebted to you every day I'm with her." Faendal added, his almost skipping gait a testament to the newfound happiness that had graced his life.
Azaren nodded, still surprised by how swiftly Faendal's relationship with Camilla had blossomed. Long before Azaren even settled in Riverwood, Camilla Valerius had two men constantly vie for her attention, and despite the insistence of her brother and… pretty much everyone who knows of the situation, she finds herself unable to choose between the Wood Elf, Faendal, and the Nord bard, Sven.
Azaren, seeking Faendal's assistance and eager to befriend another elf, devised a plan to influence Camilla's decision.
In a bid to sway her away from Sven, Azaren approached the bard, convincing him to send Camilla a hurtful letter in Faendal's name. Azaren volunteered to deliver the letter, setting the stage for a dramatic twist. Azaren then backstabbed Sven by revealing to Camilla that Sven had orchestrated the hurtful letter, attempting to sabotage Faendal's chances and making Sven look like a jerk in Camilla's eyes. Azaren technically told her the truth; he just left his part of the deception out of it.
The intricate web of emotions and choices had played out, and now Faendal found himself in a relationship with Camilla, a bond that brought him immense joy.
"I'm still surprised that when I offered you gold, you asked for hunting lessons instead. Are you really satisfied with just that?" Faendal ask.
"Believe me, brother, your lessons are the greatest gift you could offer me. Besides, Thanks to you, I had enough gold to buy the spellbooks I needed from the Riverwood trader." For the past week, Azaren put a lot of thought into what kind of build he would make for himself. He needed a build and skill set that would maximize his odds of survival.
Azaren's initial contemplation led him to consider a paladin build, focusing on heavy armor and healing magic—a combination that would make him very hard to kill, at least in theory. But he discarded the idea due to his aversion to close-quarters combat. No matter how good his defenses are, it only takes one mistake to end up with a sword in his gullet.
Azaren didn't give a damn about honor, glory, or any of those Nordic virtues. He wasn't interested in a fair fight, a glorious win, or an honorable death. He simply wanted to survive and to do that, he needed to win, even if it meant resorting to dirty tactics.
The assassin build was next on his consideration list—a playstyle rooted in lurking in the shadows and striking enemies from behind. Despite the allure of stealth and cunning, Azaren discarded this option due to its inherent risks. Relying heavily on avoiding detection, the assassin's build left little room for error. If caught before his blade reached its mark, Azaren would find himself at a severe disadvantage, making the prospect too precarious for his liking.
This is why, after much deliberation, he decided on an archer/mage build. This versatile build would enable him to pick off enemies from afar while utilizing magic for support.
His skill set would encompass Illusion and summoning spells for distraction and evasion, destructive Elemental landmines for laying deadly traps, and healing and defensive spells to ensure his survival.
This build was meticulously crafted to avoid close-quarters combat and give him as much unfair advantage as possible, allowing Azaren to manipulate and destroy his enemies without allowing them to fight back.
The synergy of archery and magic would be honed through his hunting endeavors with Faendal, laying a foundation for his proficiency as an archer. Additionally, the gold earned from these hunts would enable Azaren to purchase the spellbooks required to expand his magical repertoire—two birds with one stone.
Half an hour later, as the town of Riverwood came into view, the tranquility of the day was shattered by screams and the thunderous sounds of galloping horses. A sense of foreboding hung in the air, prompting Azaren to turn to Faendal with a questioning look.
"What was that?" Azaren asked, a note of concern in his voice.
"Must have been an accident. That drunkard, Embry, must have gotten his hand on that poor horse and went for a joyride again." Faendal casually replied, and Azaren would laugh and come up with a witty retort if they weren't following the sound of more screams and the sound of swords clashing swords.
Their eyes widened as they witnessed a stagecoach hurtling out of town towards a nearby mountain, its occupants not the intoxicated Embry but a group of rough-looking men and women clad in hides and furs carrying bags of loot.
"By the eight Divines! What are a bunch of bandits doing here in Riverwood? We have nothing worth stealing here!" Faendal exclaimed in outraged disbelief, the peaceful facade of their quaint town shattered by the unexpected intrusion of lawless marauders.
'What the hell? That didn't happen in the game either!' Azaren was flabbergasted by how much things had strayed from the game's scripted events. There had never been a bandit attack on Riverwood in all of his playthroughs. Dragon and vampire attacks, sure. But never bandits.
'Is this my fault? Should I have gone to Whiterun immediately instead of taking my time? Did I somehow change the course of the game?' Azaren's mind raced with self-doubt and uncertainty. The familiarity he once had with the game's predictable patterns now seemed to crumble, replaced by a world that unfolded its own narrative, indifferent to the player's expectations.
Azaren pushes those thoughts aside, then activates the alteration spell, Oakflesh, to make his skin as durable as an oak tree.
"Let's find out. Come on, Faendal. Shoot first and ask questions later if they're still alive," he declared, charging into the town with Faendal at his side. Despite his outward bravado, Azaren couldn't shake the lingering scars from his first kill in Helgen during the dragon attack. A part of him was still apprehensive about facing the horrors of combat. Even for a moment, he wished he could look the other way and pretend that the unfolding chaos wasn't his concern.
But he couldn't. Gerdur, Ralof, and their family welcomed him into their home when he had nowhere to go. They treated him better than even his own parents. In the two weeks he's been there, Riverwood has become akin to a second home to him.
He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he left them to die a dog's death at the hands of some no-named bandits, especially if, somehow, this chaos was a consequence of his presence. Determination fueled by gratitude, Azaren pressed forward, ready to defend the town that had become a haven in this Skyrim-inspired world.
"Oh God… NO. NO! Lucan… Lucan. Hold on! Please." Camilla's anguished cries echoed through the chaos as she clutched the still-bleeding form of her brother. Lucan, who had valiantly defended her from the brutal assaults of one of the bandits, now lay lifeless in her arms. Camilla traveled to Skyrim from Cyrodiil to escape the war between her homeland and the Tharmor that ruined their lives.
She came to Skyrim with her brother, Lucan, for a better life. Instead, she got another war, dragons are coming back, and now she lost her brother to bandits. She cursed the savages responsible for tearing the only family she had left away from her but cursed herself even more for coming to this wretched land. The weight of grief and guilt bore down on Camilla, turning the dreams of a new beginning into a nightmare she couldn't escape.
"Oops, was that your man? Sorry about that," The bandit chuckles with lust in his eyes and a savage grin. "But it will be ok, lass. Just hold still; I'll make you feel much better than he ever could."
"He was my brother, YOU FILTHY ANIMAL!" Camilla howled in rage and grief, her emotions fueling a surge of adrenaline as she grabbed a dagger and charged at the bandit. However, her attempt was easily countered, and both her arms were pinned against the wall.
"There, there. It's okay, princess. I'll make you forget all about him in just a few seconds," the bandit taunted, his vile intentions clear. But just as he was about to carry out his heinous act, his face froze in shock. An arrow pierced through both sides of his head, causing him to release Camilla and collapse to the floor.
"W-what?" it took a few seconds for Camilla to regain her sense enough to notice the arrow sticking out of both sides of the attempted rapist's head. Someone had shot the bandit down and saved her.
"Camilla!" Faendal called out, and she rushed into his embrace, holding onto him with all the strength she could muster. "Faendal… My brother, Lucan. He… They." Her voice quivered, tears streaming down her face as she shared the unbearable weight of her grief with Faendal, the unexpected savior in this harrowing moment.
"I know," the Wood Elf whispered, his gaze filled with tears as he stole a sorrowful glance at Lucan's lifeless form. Faendal tightened his embrace, gently stroking the back of Camilla's head in an attempt to offer solace. "I'm sorry, my love. I'm so sorry I wasn't there for you and Lucan."
As grief and sorrow intertwined in the embrace, a chilling cry from the remaining bandits shattered the moment. "Kill the elf!" one of them screamed upon witnessing Faendal's archery prowess, and the bloodthirsty raiders converged on his position.
"Behind me!" Faendal swiftly pushed Camilla behind him, his bow at the ready as he faced the approaching horde. With unwavering determination, he issued a stern warning to the assailants. "First and final warning. Leave or die."
"You and what army, elf?" The bandits chuckled, dismissing Faendal's threat as the desperate bluff of a cornered animal. The odds were in their favor — they outnumbered him five to one, and they knew he couldn't fend off all of them while protecting Camilla. The sheer numerical advantage they held over the Wood Elf meant that, at best, he could only take down two before being overwhelmed, especially if they charged him simultaneously.
"There's five of us and only one of you. Tell you what, step aside and let us have the woman, and maybe we will let you live."
"I don't need an army to dispose of trash like you," Faendal smirked as he aimed at one of them. "I got a mage."
"Wait, what-?" that was all the bandit had time to say before a creature resembling a spectral wolf lunged at him from behind, biting through his jugular.
Faendal exploited the ensuing shock by swiftly shooting an arrow through the left eye of another bandit. Simultaneously, a second arrow, seemingly coming from a different direction, struck a third bandit in the back of his neck, instantly killing both on the spot.
'Damn. That wolf familiar spell is way better than it was in the game.' Azaren smirked. The spectral wolf was Azaren's summoned creature, and he shot the second arrow as well. While Faendal had charged into the fray to save Camilla and drew the bandits' attention, Azaren had strategically flanked them from a distance with his arrows and summoned companion.
It was a well-coordinated tactic, honed during their hunting days together, and proved just as effective against the bandits. In a matter of seconds, three of the assailants lay dead. The once overwhelming odds had shifted, offering a glimmer of hope amid the chaos that had befallen Riverwood.
"Damn it! No one said nothing about Riverwood having mages. Screw this, I'm out!" The frustrated cry echoed from the two remaining bandits as they hastily retreated in different directions. Faendal only had time to shoot down one of them, making the other believe he was home-free.
Unfortunately for the fleeing bandit, fate led him directly into Azaren's path. As he sprinted towards what he hoped was freedom, he unknowingly ran right into the range of Azaren's destructive fire spell. The air crackled with magic as flames erupted around the bandit, engulfing him in searing agony. His skin burned black as he screamed in torment for a few agonizing seconds before the fire consumed him entirely, leaving only a charred, silent figure in his wake.
"Was that the last of them?" Azaren inquired as he approached Faendal and Camilla, his eyes scanning the aftermath of the chaotic confrontation.
"In the immediate area, yes," Faendal responded, his attention then turning to Camilla, who knelt and wept over her brother's lifeless form.
The sight shattered Faendal, guilt washing over him like a relentless tide. "I should have been there for her," he thought, the weight of his perceived failure pressing down on him. "If I had returned just a few minutes sooner, I could have stopped this. Lucan would still be alive, and my dear Camilla wouldn't be suffering right now."
'God Damn it. Lucan. I never even imagined that you would die.' Azaren looked at Lucan's body with an equal amount of guilt. Lucan's death. Another event that went off script.
He stood there grieving for a moment; then his eyes steeled as he remembered that he still needed to make sure that Gerdur and her family were all right.
"Stay with her and make sure she's safe, Faendal. I'll get rid of the rest of them and save those I can," Azaren instructed, firm in his voice and determined. He understood the urgency of their situation and the need to secure the safety of those they cared about.
"Alright. Are... are you sure you don't need help?" Faendal hesitated, torn between his desire to assist and his responsibility toward Camilla. Azaren, however, made the decision easier for him.
"I'm not alone, you know." Azaren gently petted his spectral wolf, eliciting an affectionate purr that would have been cute if the creature's fur wasn't cold to the touch and its mouth wasn't stained with blood and entrails. "And like you said, I'm better than an army, whereas Camilla needs you more than I do."
Faendal nodded in understanding. "Very well. Good luck, brother." With those words, he watched Azaren leave for Gerdur's home before turning his attention to Camilla. Kneeling beside her, Faendal placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, offering silent support.
"They took everything, Faendal. EVERYTHING! Our wares, our family heirloom, and now, even my brother. If you and Azaren hadn't come in time, they would've also…also," Camilla's voice faltered, unable to articulate the bandit's perverted intentions. The mere thought of it was enough to make her stomach churn.
She didn't need to. It was plain to see what those disgusting savages' intentions were before Faendal shot the bandit that pinned Camilla to the wall through the head. That was his first kill. It is the first time killing another person, at least. Yet seeing what he was about to do to her made it easy for him, and he only regretted that the bandit hadn't suffered enough. She didn't need to elaborate further. The remnants of the bandit attack spoke volumes—her distress, the loss of their possessions, and the death of her brother painted a grim picture of the brutality they had faced. The near-violation she had narrowly escaped was a silent testimony to the atrocities that could have unfolded.
Faendal, who had just experienced his first kill when he intervened, understood the gravity of the situation. Though conflicted about the violence he had resorted to, he harbored no remorse for the bandit who had threatened Camilla's safety. If anything, he wished the bandit had suffered more for the heinous intentions he had harbored.
"Camilla… I,"
"Don't. I don't need apologies. I want justice." Camilla turns to him. Her eyes were still streaming tears, but the sadness in them was gone, replaced with unbridled rage.
"You listen to me. That wasn't the last of them. There were a few that fled with our belongings. Faendal, please. You, Azaren, whoever else you can find. I need you to get them all back and… and…" She grabs him by the shoulder and looks him straight in the eye. "I need you to kill every last one of them."
Azaren hurried toward Hod and Gerdur's house, a knot of anxiety tightening in his stomach. Despite the urgency, he wisely sent out his spectral wolf to scout the area before proceeding further. He was worried, not stupid. He would be of no use to anyone charged into an enemy ambush and ended up dead.
"Wow," As he reached the scene, Azaren was met with a sight that both surprised and impressed him. Ralof stood in front of Gerdur's house, surrounded by a gruesome tableau of dozens of bandit corpses. The Stormcloak warrior swung his axe with practiced brutality, cleaving a bandit's head in two before turning his attention to the last remaining enemy. The lone bandit quivered, retreating slowly as if he were a monster in human skin.
"H-How? There were so many of us. You… Alone… How could you…" Bandit stuttered every word, making them barely comprehensible.
"I've been fighting and killing Imperials, well-trained soldiers for years, Milk Drinker," Ralof replied with a menacing calmness, advancing on the terrified bandit with eyes promising pain. "Just a few weeks ago, I faced a dragon and lived to tell the tale. You rats are barely worth my morning exercise!"
The bandit, desperate to escape the impending doom, turned to flee. But Ralof, displaying his prowess, threw his axe with precision. The weapon embedded itself in the bandit's back, severing his spine. The bandit crumpled to the ground, whimpering in pain.
"No… I don't want to die, I don't…" the bandit tried to crawl away, but his feeble attempts ceased, and he lay lifeless on the ground.
"And where the heck have you been?" Ralof glared at Azaren as soon as he noticed him.
"I was out hunting with Faendal and came back just in time to see Riverwood overrun by bandits." Azaren raised both his arms in defense. "We cleared out all of them, but some of them escaped." Azaren's spectral wolf nodded and gave an approving bark as if to support its master's story.
"What about your sister? What about Gerdur? Is she safe?"
Ralof snorted in annoyance and turned to his sister's home. "Gerdur, it's over! You can come out now."
"Ralof…" Gerdur unbarred the door and slowly opened it, cautiously surveying the surroundings. She had instructed her husband, Hod, and their son to stay inside until she signaled that it was safe, and she was glad she did. "Oh gods, brother!" The scene before her was one coming straight from her nightmares.
The yard and streets leading to the town were strewn with lifeless bodies, and the ground was stained red with blood, defiling the once-pristine soil. Her brother and Azaren, both covered in blood, stood in the midst of the grim aftermath.
Yet, the horror scene didn't stop her from running to them and frantically checking for injuries. "We're fine; calm down," Ralof reassured her, moving her hands away. "Did you really think a bunch of no-named bandits could get the best of your brother?"
"I'm your sister, Ralof. Your opponent could be a Skeever for all I care. As your sister, it's my right and privilege to worry for you. Especially when you're covered in blood!" Gerdur scolded, and Ralof sighed.
Azaren, unlike Ralof, appreciated the attention. It had been a long time since someone had shown him so much care and concern. The sense of belonging and family warmth he felt with Ralof's family was increasingly becoming a sanctuary in this harsh and unfamiliar world.
"Thank the Nine Divines, you're both alright. Now, do you two have any idea why bandits would bother attacking a small mining town? Where did they even come from?" Gerdur inquired, relief washing over her as she confirmed their well-being.
"No idea," Ralof shook his head.
"I don't know either." Azaren shrugs.
"Bleak Falls Barrow," Faendal's stern voice cut through the conversation as he approached them. "Camilla and a few eyewitnesses said that they saw some of the bandits escaping towards that Nordic ruin up in the mountain, just west of here."
"Bleak Falls Barrow. Of course, those rats would hold up there of all places," Ralof groans in frustration. He always hated that place.
"I'm going after them. I will take back everything they've taken from us and avenge Camilla's brother. But I can't do it alone. Will you help?" Faendal grips his bow, rage, and determination showing in his eyes.
"Of course I will. Riverwood won't be safe until we wipe them off the face of Skyrim." Azaren stepped forward.
'Bleak Falls barrow," Azaren inwardly remarks, "That is the place where I'm supposed to find the Dragonstone, which will eventually lead me to kill my first dragon and reveal myself as the Dragonborn… Fine, in that case, I might as well get it over with.'
Azaren thought he could take it easy for a while, delaying following the main quest line of the game and focusing on himself. But now, with the sudden bandit attack, he had no choice but to go to the Nordic ruin. Maybe he was just being paranoid, but he couldn't shake the feeling that 'something' was compelling him to follow the scripted events of the game.
"I was just about to head to Windhelm to rejoin the fight against the Empire," Ralof sighs. "But I can't rest easy until I know my sister is safe. So, if you're going to kill those vermin, you can count on me."
"Thank you, both of you." Faendal faintly smiles before his face retorts back into a grim look as he turns to the Nordic ruin, mentally preparing himself to put every single bandit hiding up there to the ground. "Now, let's go rat hunting."
The trio, fueled by a mix of vengeance and duty, headed towards Bleak Falls Barrow.
Poor Lucan, right, guys? Let's hope Nazeem will be next.