The blackness claws at the edges of my vision, an inky tide threatening to swallow me whole. My breath comes in short, shallow bursts, pain radiates from my knee, sharp and insistent, demanding my attention. For a moment, I teeter on the brink, but then I grit my teeth and force the haze away.
No.
My trembling hands reach down, finding the arrow embedded in my leg. The shaft wobbles slightly under my grip, sending a fresh jolt of agony through my body. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, tasting blood, as I brace myself. The world narrows to this moment—this task. With a sharp tug, I rip the arrow free. Pain flares, blinding and immediate, and for a heartbeat, my vision blurs again.
But I'm still standing. Still alive. The pain ground me back to reality. The arrow dangles loosely in my grip, its bodkin point slick with blood. My lips twitch into a faint smirk despite myself. "Took an arrow to the knee," I mutter under my breath, a weak snort of amusement escaping. "Guess I'm really living the cliché now."
The potion comes next. My hands fumble through my pack, movements clumsy with fatigue, until my fingers close around the familiar glass vial. Uncorking it with my teeth, I toss the crimson liquid back. The warmth spreads through me immediately, a soothing balm that dulls the sharp edges of pain and steadies my breathing. For a few glorious seconds, it feels as though the worst of the day is behind me.
Then the potion's magic fades, leaving behind a dull ache in my knee and the lingering fatigue gnawing at my limbs. I glance down at the wound—now a jagged scar—and test my leg with a cautious step. It holds, barely, but the twinge is enough to remind me I'm not out of this yet. I'll be limping the rest of the way to Whiterun.
The arrow in my hand draws my attention again. The slim, deadly bodkin tip glints faintly in the fading light. "At least it wasn't barbed," I mutter before tossing it aside. Small victories.
I need support if I'm going to make it. My hand finds the hatchet tucked into my pack, the rough leather grip familiar beneath my fingers. The rhythmic thunk of steel biting into wood is grounding, each stroke sending vibrations up my arm as I work on a nearby branch. Sweat beads on my brow, but I keep at it, carving the branch into a crude walking stick.
When I finally test the stick with my weight, it creaks but holds firm. Not perfect, but it'll do. I straighten slowly, my body protesting the movement, and cast a long look toward the horizon. A sigh escapes me as I adjust my pack and grip the walking stick tighter. The thought of limping all the way there gnaws at my resolve, but I force my feet to move.
The pain in my knee is a constant companion, but I focus on the memory of earlier—the crackling energy coursing through my arm, the raw power of lightning bursting forth at my command. A grin spreads across my face, despite everything. I threw lightning. The thought alone is enough to spur me forward, the triumph warming me from the inside.
Humming softly, I let the melody of The Dragonborn Comes spill from my lips, the rhythm helping to steady my uneven strides. Each note seems to echo across the open plains, a declaration of my coming.
The sun dips lower, painting the horizon in hues of gold and crimson. The cool evening air brushes against my face, a welcome contrast to the warmth of exertion.
I spot a small grove of trees ahead, their shadows stretching long across the plains. My stomach grumbles, a sharp reminder that the last proper meal I had was in Riverwood. The thought of food and rest pulls me forward, each step a small victory as I limp on.
By the time I reach the grove,The stars pierce the deepening twilight as I limp toward the small grove of trees ahead. Each step drags at me, the ache in my knee a relentless reminder of the battle I barely survived. The makeshift walking stick creaks faintly with my weight, but it holds steady. Around me, the open plains whisper with the faint rustle of grass, the cool breeze brushing against my face like a balm after the day's heat.
The grove rises like a dark silhouette against the horizon, its branches swaying gently. The faint scent of pine and damp earth grows stronger as I approach, mingling with the crisp night air. A perfect spot to rest—quiet, hidden, and just far enough from the road to avoid unwanted company.
Dropping my pack with a soft thud, I lean the walking stick against a tree and stretch, wincing as my joints protest. My muscles are tight, each movement sending a dull throb through my body. Still, I force myself to gather a few fallen branches and kindling, my hands clumsy with exhaustion.
The fire catches after a few tries, the sparks from my flint flickering weakly before the flame finally grows. The warm glow spreads, illuminating the clearing in soft, flickering light. The shadows of the trees stretch long around me, enclosing me in a cocoon of quiet safety.
I sink to the ground beside the fire, letting out a long, slow breath. For the first time in hours, the tension in my shoulders eases.
The fire crackles softly, its warm light dancing across the grove. I pull my pack closer, digging through its contents with tired hands. My fingers close around a small bundle wrapped in cloth, and I pull it free— bread, cheese, and dried meat. Not much, but enough to keep me going.
Unwrapping the cheese first, I pause for a moment, letting the aroma wash over me. It's sharp, a bit earthy, and honestly, better than I expected. A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth as I cut off a small piece with the dagger at my side.
"If only the power of the cheese wheel could heal me," I mutter under my breath, popping the piece into my mouth. The sharp tang floods my taste buds, and I can't help but chuckle softly at the absurdity of the thought. The laugh stirs the stillness of the grove, a small crack in the solemn silence that has blanketed me since the fight.
I make quick work of the bread and dried meat, the tough texture a stark reminder of how far I am from the comforts of home. Each bite feels like a small victory, a quiet defiance against the day's trials. I savor it all—mundane as it is—letting the warmth of the fire and the simplicity of the meal settle me.
The night presses in around me, quiet and still. For a brief moment, I allow myself to forget the pain in my knee, the raw burns beneath my armor, and the uncertainty of the road ahead. Right now, it's just me, the fire, and the food. That's enough.
As the meal settles in my stomach and the fire's warmth soothes my weary limbs, my thoughts drift to the memory of lightning crackling from my fingertips. I can almost feel it again—the raw energy surging through me, powerful and unrelenting. The thrill of it lingers, tugging at me. Exhaustion tugs harder, but I push it aside. No. I need to try again.
Reaching into my pack, I pull out the spellbook. The flickering firelight casts shadows on its worn cover, the faintly shimmering embossed runes catching the light. I flip to the section on Sparks, the familiar incantation staring back at me from the pages. I skim the steps, my eyes tracing over the words, my mind already running through the motions.
Sitting cross-legged by the fire, I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the tension that's built up from the day. The fire crackles beside me, the sound steady and soothing. I take a deep breath, pushing aside any lingering frustration.
My hand stretches out, palm upward, fingers relaxed but poised. The air around me seems to hold its breath. I close my eyes and try to recapture that sensation, that subtle pull of power I felt the first time.
For a moment, there's nothing. No warmth in my chest, no familiar hum of energy. Just the ache in my muscles from days of travel, the crackle of the fire. I breathe in again, willing the magic to respond. Focus, I remind myself.
I picture the warmth, that spark of power lying just below the surface, waiting for me to draw it out. Slowly, carefully, I push the energy down my arm, reaching for it. The tingling comes, faint and delicate, like the first brush of a summer breeze against skin. It's there. It's real.
Then, without thinking, I thrust my hand forward. The magic surges, faster this time, and a crackling flash of blue light bursts from my fingertips. The spark jumps into the air, flaring brightly before it fizzles out into the night.
I blink, my heart racing as I stare at the spot where it disappeared. My pulse quickens. I did it.
A grin spreads across my face. That's progress. A small success, but a success nonetheless.
I focus again, steadying my breathing. This time, I extend my fingers and push the energy forward with more intent, willing it to leap from my hand like before. The spark bursts from my fingertips again, this time with more strength, more control. The blue light crackles and arcs out in front of me, a bolt that travels a few feet before fading out.
It's not as spectacular as against the bandit, but it's enough—it's controlled. The feeling of power, the control over it, is undeniable.
"I've got you now," I murmur under my breath, the excitement thrumming through my veins. The possibilities flood my mind—what else I could do, what more would I learn. The idea makes me feel alive, fills me with anticipation for the next step.
I lean back against the tree, the tension in my shoulders melting away. The firelight dances against the shadows of the grove as I settle back, the walking stick resting within arm's reach. My body aches, and the raw chafing of my scars beneath the armor serves as a constant reminder of how close I came to falling. Yet, despite the pain, a small smile tugs at my lips, for tonight, this small victory is enough.
The fight plays through my mind as I smile at the vivid memory. But then the memory shifts, and the smile fades. The bandit woman. I can still see her as the lightning strikes her, the sheer force of it throwing her lifeless body to the ground. My chest tightens, unease spreading through me like the aftershock of a spell.
I killed a woman.
The thought gnaws at me, cutting through the lingering thrill of victory. I've always thought of myself as someone who protects women, someone who would never harm them. But this world isn't my own. Here, women can kill me as easily as any man. Hesitation could've killed me. It won't happen again. I can't afford to let it.
I stare into the fire, my jaw tightening as resolve steels within me. The quiet crackle of the flames feels distant now, a mere backdrop to the storm of thoughts in my mind.
With a sigh, I lie back, using my pack as a makeshift pillow. Tomorrow, Whiterun. But tonight, I'll rest. The warmth of the fire and the cool night air wrap around me as I close my eyes. I won't forget today—or the lessons it taught me.
-MD-
-MD-
-MD-
The road rises steadily, each step pulling me higher above the wooded trail I've been following for hours. My knee protests every motion, but the walking stick holds firm, steadying my uneven gait. The incline crests ahead, the forest thinning to reveal an open sky. The late afternoon sun casts the landscape in shades of gold and copper, the air lighter and fresher than before.
Then I reach the ridge, and my breath catches.
Whiterun.
It sprawls across the plains below, a city far larger than anything I've seen in this world so far. The outer walls are tall and imposing, built of stone reinforced with wooden palisades, stretching wide to encompass not just the central city but entire clusters of buildings surrounding it. This is no modest town or small fort. It's a city of tens of thousands.
Dragonsreach crowns the city atop its hill, a golden jewel of architecture that commands the skyline. Its massive hall stands above everything, its roof shining in the sun like burnished gold. Even from this distance, I can see its towering pillars.
The city beneath it is a labyrinth of bustling streets and tightly packed buildings. Stone and timber houses dominate, their rooftops forming an undulating sea that stretches outward. The central district rises higher, closer to Dragonsreach and a huge hall dots the hill to its side- Jorrvaskr , while the outer edges spill into the plains, where rows of farmsteads and smaller homes cluster near the main road. Smoke curls lazily from countless chimneys.
The plains surrounding the city are vast, rolling fields of gold and green that stretch as far as the eye can see. Scattered throughout are clusters of farmhouses, their thatched roofs and barns dotting the landscape like islands in a sea of grass. Wooden fences crisscross the terrain, enclosing crops, grazing animals, and the occasional lone figure working the fields.
Farther out, a solitary watchtower rises in the distance, its silhouette stark against the horizon. To the south, I can make out the faint glimmer of a river winding its way toward the city, its waters catching the sunlight like liquid silver.
I stand there for a long moment, letting the sight sink in. Relief mingles with anticipation, the weight of my journey pressing heavier now that I can see my destination. The sight of Whiterun lingers in my mind as I begin my descent, the golden light of Dragonsreach still shining like a promise on the horizon. My steps are uneven, my knee protesting with every jolt of the walking stick against the dirt. The path curves downward, lined by tufts of wild grass swaying in the breeze.
The plains stretch wide before me, a patchwork of fields and dirt roads crisscrossing the landscape. I can make out the distant forms of farmhouses, tiny dots against the vast expanse, with smoke curling lazily from their chimneys. The fields roll gently toward the city walls, but the distance is deceiving; even with the city in sight, it will be hours before I reach it.
The thought draws a tired sigh from me. I adjust the walking stick and take another step onto my aching knee, forcing myself onward. The city is close, but not close enough to ease the weight of the road. I'll pass farms, perhaps the Honningbrew Meadery if I'm lucky, but stopping feels unthinkable. The dirt road crunches softly beneath my boots, the sound of each step blending with the faint whisper of the wind. The walking stick taps a steady rhythm against the ground, a counterpoint to the ache pulsing in my knee. Whiterun looms in the distance, its golden roof still visible, but my thoughts drift elsewhere as I limp along.
I think of everything I've seen so far—Helgen's fiery chaos, Riverwood's quiet simplicity, the wild forests that seemed to stretch endlessly. And now this. A sprawling city on the horizon, bustling with life, ready to swallow me whole. I wonder briefly how I'll be received, a lone Dunmer wandering into its walls, battered and scarred. Outsider, foreigner, stranger. The words circle in my mind, but I push them aside. There's no point worrying about it now.
Then it happens.
A sound like thunder rolls across the plains, low and guttural, shaking the air. I stop dead in my tracks, the walking stick hovering mid-step as I scan the horizon. My heart jumps, the ache in my knee momentarily forgotten. It's a roar—deep, primal, unmistakable.
Surely not.
"This is an actual world," I mutter aloud, the sound of my voice strange in the open air. "There's no way the timing of my arrival lines up with the Companions fighting the damn giant."
But the thought gnaws at me, refusing to let go. I grip the walking stick tighter and turn toward the direction of the sound. The plains stretch wide and open, the golden grass rippling in the breeze like a restless sea. My eyes search for any sign of movement, any clue of what lies ahead.
Another roar echoes, fainter this time, but enough to set my pulse racing. I let out a frustrated sigh, adjusting my pack as I change course. Limping forward, each step sends a sharp twinge through my leg, but I push through it. Curiosity outweighs the pain.
"Of course," I mutter to no one. "I have to check."
Not suicidal, huh? The words flash through my mind. "Shut up Zero," I mutter.
The roar echoes again, deeper this time, vibrating through the air and settling in my chest like distant thunder. I grit my teeth, forcing my leg to cooperate as I limp forward, the walking stick digging into the dirt with every step. The sounds of battle grow louder—crashes of something massive hitting the ground, sharp shouts of effort, and the occasional whistle of something slicing through the air.
The terrain ahead flattens as I crest another small rise, my heart pounding as the noise intensifies. Then I see it.
The giant is enormous, a wall of muscle and fury that towers over the battlefield. Its swings are devastating, the massive club in its hands carving through the air with audible force. When it misses, the ground quakes and breaks beneath the impact. It roars again, a guttural sound that reverberates across the plains.
Opposing it are two figures moving like greased lightning.
Aela stands at a distance, bow raised and steady. Her red hair catches the sunlight like fire as she draws and releases in one fluid motion. Each arrow she looses splits the air with a sharp crack, burying itself deep into the giant's flesh. The force is terrifying; it's as if she's firing ballista bolts, not arrows.
Vilkas is a blur of motion, meeting the giant head-on with a greatsword. His parries defy belief. Each time the giant's club comes crashing down, Vilkas' sword meets it, deflecting the blow with a shockwave that ripples through the air. His movements are a blur I can barely perceive.
I stop, breath caught in my chest. They move on a level I can barely comprehend. Each action is faster, stronger, more lethal than anything I've seen before. The ground shakes beneath them, the air filled with the crack of impacts and the giant's bellows.
But I can't just stand here.
"No way I'm sitting this one out," I mutter, forcing my legs to move again. The memory of my Sparks earlier flickers in my mind, and I feel the faint tingle of magic as I prepare myself. Limping forward, I adjust my grip on the walking stick. I may be weak, but no way could I stand by when I could fight a giant.
As the roar tears through the air again, the giant swings its massive club in a wide arc. The sound of the wood cutting through the air is deafening, it reminds me of when they brought down the old water silo. When it connects with the ground, the impact sends a shudder through the earth, rippling outward and nearly forcing me off my feet.
I press forward, though my steps falter as I take in the full chaos of the fight.
Aela is a study in precision. She doesn't move unless she has to, standing firm as her bow sings with each release. Her arrows whistle through the air like they're alive, striking the giant with terrifying force. One slams into its shoulder with such power that it stumbles briefly, its roar cutting off into a sharp grunt.
The giant roars in frustration and turns its attention toward Vilkas. He meets its fury head-on, sword flashing in the light. His strikes deflect or redirect the giant's attacks. The sheer weight behind its swings would crush anyone else, but Vilkas doesn't yield an inch. Every clash sends shockwaves rippling through the air, the force palpable even from where I stand.
I watch as the giant raises its club for a devastating overhead strike. Vilkas side steps at the last moment, bringing his blade around in a sweeping arc that glances off the giant's thigh. Blood splatters across the ground, dark and thick. The giant roars in rage, swinging wildly, but Vilkas is already repositioning, his movements almost too fast to follow.
My heart pounds as I watch them. The sheer speed, strength, and precision of their movements are beyond anything I've seen before. It's not just skill—it's superhuman. The Companions are leagues above me, their power making my earlier fight with bandits seem laughable in comparison.
The giant stomps forward, its footfall shaking the ground, and uproots a chunk of earth with its free hand. For a moment, I think it's going to throw it at Vilkas, but instead, its eyes lock onto Aela.
Aela sidesteps the projectile with the grace of a dancer, her bow already drawn as she lets another arrow fly. It slams into the giant's chest, forcing it to stagger back. The way she moves, the intensity in her eyes—it's mesmerizing.
I can feel the Sparks building in my hand, the faint tingle of magic growing stronger. My mouth goes dry, but I force my legs to move, the walking stick digging into the ground with each step. My heart pounds in my chest, the sheer scale of the fight unfolding before me exhilarating and terrifying. Sparks dance faintly at my fingertips, the tingle of magic growing sharper as I push closer. My knee screams in protest, but I shove the pain aside. If I can distract the giant, even for a moment, maybe they can bring it down.
The giant rears back, its roar splitting the air as it swings its club in another wide arc. Vilkas ducks low and circles, the massive weapon passing over him in a blur. He counters with a brutal slash across the giant's calf, blood splattering across the ground. The creature stumbles, its massive hand clutching at its wounded leg.
Now's my chance.
I extend my hand, focusing on the growing energy in my palm. The Sparks surge outward, crackling through the air and striking the giant's exposed side. The electricity dances across its skin, harmless compared to the arrows and blade already tearing into it, but the effect is enough. The giant lets out a guttural growl, its head snapping toward me.
For a brief, exhilarating moment, its gaze locks onto mine. My breath catches in my throat, the weight of its attention like a physical force. The creature starts to shift toward me, its massive frame looming larger with every step. My pulse races, panic creeping into my chest, but before it can close the distance, another arrow from Aela slams into it, forcing it to falter.
Her eyes find mine across the battlefield, sharp and intense. It's only a moment—a flicker of acknowledgment—but it feels like she sees right through me. A chill races down my spine, not from fear, but from the primal presence that brushes against me calculating and assessing.
I shake off the sensation, throwing another burst of Sparks toward the giant. It roars again, swiping at Vilkas in frustration, but the Companion sidesteps effortlessly, his sword ready for another strike. My magic is weak, my body screaming with every movement, but I refuse to stop.
"No way I'm retreating now," I mutter, steadying myself for another burst.
The giant lets out a guttural roar, its massive frame swaying as blood pours from its wounds. Its movements are slower now, the once-devastating swings of its club reduced to sluggish arcs that Vilkas dodges with ease. Sparks still crackle faintly at my fingertips, but my strength is fading fast. Each burst of magic I send feels weaker, more fleeting, like trying to hold water in my hands.
Vilkas presses his advantage, his sword a blur as he sidesteps another swing. The giant's club crashes into the ground, shaking the earth and sending dust flying into the air. Using the opening, Vilkas lunges forward, his blade striking true. The sword carves through the giant's knee with a crunch, blood spraying across the ground in a wide arc. The creature roars in agony, the sound ripping through the air like thunder.
The giant collapses onto one knee, its enormous weight driving it into the dirt with a resounding crash. The ground shakes beneath the impact, nearly throwing me off balance. Its head dips low, its massive hand clutching at its wounded leg as it lets out a final, ragged bellow.
Then Aela strikes.
Her bowstring sings one last time, the arrow slicing through the air like a bolt of silver lightning. It pierces the giant's eye with a sharp crack, the force of the impact snapping its head back. For a moment, the massive creature seems to hang in the air, caught between life and death.
And then it falls.
The giant's body crashes to the ground with an earth-shaking thud, the sound rolling across the plains like distant thunder. Dust and debris billow outward, and the battlefield falls silent save for the faint whistle of the wind.
I stand frozen, my chest heaving, my fingers are numb, the Sparks that once danced across them now completely gone. My gaze shifts to Vilkas, who pauses only to wipe the blood off his sword with the air of someone who's done this a thousand times before. And then to Aela, who stands as still as a statue, her bow lowered but her sharp eyes scanning the battlefield to make sure no more threats appear. Her hair catches the sunlight, glowing like fire..
I force myself to take a shaky breath. It's over. But I can feel the weight of this moment pressing down on me, a stark reminder of how far I still have to go.
The dust settles, the echoes of the battle fading into the stillness of the plains. My chest heaves, every muscle in my body screaming with the strain of the fight. The walking stick bears most of my weight now, digging into the dirt as I lean on it heavily. My knee throbs, and the faint aftershock of magic use leaves my fingers tingling and weak.
The Companions turn toward me, their casual demeanor a stark contrast to the chaos moments ago. Vilkas approaches first, his sword resting lazily on his shoulder, his sharp eyes fixed on me. His expression is calm, but there's a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He's appraising me—measuring me.
"Ho there," he says, his voice rough but not unfriendly. "Why'd you jump in? Injured as you are?" His gaze flicks to the walking stick and back, the faint smirk widening. "Can't use that sword, so relying on magic, ash-skin?"
I shift slightly, the effort sending another sharp twinge through my knee. "I'm injured, you ass," I shoot back. Vilkas chuckles, his smirk growing into something closer to an approving grin.
Before I can say more, Aela joins us. She moves with the fluid grace of a predator, her piercing eyes locking onto mine. For a moment, I feel pinned under her gaze, the intensity of it sending a shiver down my spine. Without a word, she tosses me a small vial, the glass catching the sunlight as it arcs toward me. I catch it clumsily, nearly dropping it in my exhaustion.
A health potion.
Uncorking it quickly, I down the liquid in one go. The warmth spreads through me instantly, soothing the aches and mending the sharp pain in my knee. Strength floods back into my limbs, and for the first time since the bandits, I feel whole again. I straighten slowly, letting the walking stick fall to the dirt. I flex my leg experimentally, a small grin creeping onto my face.
"Why'd you join in if you're injured?" Aela asks, her tone even but laced with curiosity. Her gaze doesn't waver, and the weight of her attention feels heavier than any blow I've taken today.
I grin wider, meeting her eyes. "It just looked too fun not to." My words hang in the air, and to my surprise, her lips twitch into the faintest smile. It's brief, but it's there.
Vilkas breaks the moment with a hearty laugh, clapping me on the shoulder hard enough to make me stagger. The force reverberates through my armor, but I manage to keep my feet. "You've got spirit," he says, the approval in his tone unmistakable.
Aela steps closer, her voice carrying a warmth that surprises me. "Come back to Jorrvaskr. Have a drink with us."
The offer lingers, tempting, but I shake my head reluctantly. "I need to see the Jarl first. Maybe next time?"
She nods, the faint smile returning. "The offer stands."
Vilkas glances toward the fallen giant, then back to me. "We'll walk you to the gates—just give us a moment to grab an ear as proof of the kill. Not like the guards are going to welcome a strange, armed Dunmer into the city without someone to vouch for you."
-MD-
-MD-
-MD-
The road stretches ahead, winding gently through the plains. The walls of Whiterun loom larger with every step, towering above the scattered fields and farmhouses. Around us, life is in motion—farmers tilling the earth, traders hauling goods in creaking wagons, and herders shouting at wayward livestock.
I walk steadily now, the earlier pain in my leg gone, though the aftereffects of my Sparks linger faintly in my fingers. My eyes drift to Vilkas' cloak, and that's when I see it—the sigil unmistakable. Wuuthrad. The mark of the Companions. A small smile tugs at my lips. Good. I have an excuse to start a conversation and learn more about them—about how they work in this world, beyond the game's shallow surface.
I let the silence stretch for a moment longer before I speak. "That symbol on your cloak—Wuuthrad, isn't it? The weapon of Ysgramor. So you're Companions."
Vilkas glances back at me, a brow raised, and his lips curl into a smirk. "Sharp eye. Not many outside Skyrim know that name."
"I'm well-read," I reply lightly, letting a hint of curiosity slip into my tone. "The legends of Ysgramor reach far. Even Dunmer children hear of his axe and the Five Hundred."
Aela glances at me, her gaze sharp but unreadable. "Stories rarely capture the truth," she says, her voice steady and calm. "We fight for honor, not the bards."
"And fighting a giant," I probe, "that's honor?"
Vilkas chuckles, the sound rough but not unkind. "Aye. A worthy opponent makes a worthy warrior. That's what it's about—not just the kill, but how you earn it."
His words settle in my mind as we walk. They're different from the game, I think. Just like with Ralof; the game simplified things, but here, they feel alive.
I glance between the two of them, a flicker of curiosity passing through my mind. Wasn't there supposed to be three of you? I think. I suppose three for the one giant would have been overkill.
Whiterun's walls grow ever larger as we approach, their height and scale more imposing than I had imagined. The outer stones are weathered, streaked with the marks of wind and rain. Archers patrol the towers above, their silhouettes cutting sharp lines against the clear sky. Their bows are ready, their sharp eyes scanning the plains, though they spare only passing glances at us.
The road itself is no less impressive. It winds strategically, narrowing into choke points and flanked by bulwarks—low stone walls reinforced with timber. Defensive measures, designed to funnel attackers into tight spaces and leave them exposed to arrow fire.
Well designed and deadly, I think, my gaze tracing the layers of protection. The towers above are evenly spaced, providing overlapping fields of fire. Archers here would rain death on anyone foolish enough to try breaching the gates.
I catch a glimpse of additional guards stationed near the outer bulwarks. Their scale mail is reinforced with steel plates along the arms and legs, the open-faced helmets they wear are adorned with intricate dragon etchings along the sides, their polished steel gleaming in the light. Cloaks flutter behind them as they stand at attention. Halberds rest easily in their hands, their shields lean casually against the stone walls beside them—always within easy reach but not yet needed. The way they stand, poised yet relaxed, shows that these guards are used to their duties, with a discipline that's clearly more than that of a town patrol, these are soldiers. Though for one moment it almost looks like one of their swords is a wooden toy before I shake my head—surely I was imagining that.
The gate itself soon comes into view—a massive structure of steel-reinforced wood, its surface etched with carvings of Nordic design. It's wide open and traffic flows freely through the gate. Traders guide their carts past the guards, farmers herd livestock across the uneven stone, and travelers clutch their cloaks tightly against the breeze. The hum of the crowd grows louder as we approach, blending with the faint clang of a distant forge and the chatter of townsfolk going about their day.
I glance at Vilkas and Aela as we near the gate. They walk with the ease of those who belong, their presence unchallenged by the guards above or below. For a moment, I wonder how long it would take for me to be so respected in this world.
The closer we get, the more details I notice. The wooden supports near the gate's base show wear from decades of traffic, but they're solid, reinforced with iron brackets that gleam as if freshly maintained. The archers on the walls above shift slightly, their attention flicking to us and then away. They see the Companions, and that alone is enough for them to relax.
Two guards flank the entrance, their presence commanding despite their stillness. Each holds a halberd—tall, elegant, and wickedly sharp. At their hips hang arming swords in finely tooled scabbards, the crossguard simple - decent steel arming sword.
Their eyes narrow slightly as they notice me—an armed Dunmer in battered armor trailing behind two Nords. Their suspicion is palpable, their gazes cold, but it's Vilkas who breaks the silence.
"Ho there," he calls to them, his voice steady and confident. "Another day of honest work keeping the riff-raff out?" He smiles as he gestures toward me. "He's with us. Not trouble—unless you're looking for some."
One of the guards—the taller of the two—shifts his stance, his halberd moving slightly. His voice is deep and measured. "We'll hold you to that, Companion. The Jarl's orders are clear. No trouble inside the walls."
Vilkas nods, his smile never faltering. "I'd expect nothing less."
The other guard glances at me again, his gaze sharp but not overtly hostile. "Dunmer aren't common here. Keep your business clean." His words are short, clipped, and carry the weight of warning.
Aela steps forward slightly, her calm presence enough to shift the guard's attention back to her. "We vouch for him," she says simply, her tone leaving no room for argument. "That should be enough."
The guards exchange a brief glance, and then, with a short nod, they step aside. "Go on, then. Don't make us regret it."
As we pass through, the traffic grows louder—farmers arguing over livestock, traders haggling over prices, and the creak of overloaded carts. The guards' words stick with me, though. Suspicion isn't new to me now, but here it feels different- this isn't some small town like Riverwood.
The moment we step through the gates, Whiterun greets us with a rush of noise and life. The city unfolds along a wide, sloping street, stretching toward the massive silhouette of Dragonsreach far above. Even from here, the golden roof of the Jarl's hall gleams, a beacon of authority perched at the city's peak.
But it's not the hall that draws my attention first. Off to the right, not far from the gate, the forge of Warmaiden's burns bright. Its stone base is built sturdy and wide, supporting a timber-framed shop that radiates heat. The air around it shimmers as sparks fly from the anvil where a tall woman—Adrianne, no doubt—hammers steel into shape. Rows of weapons and armor line the racks outside, each piece gleaming as if fresh from the forge. A younger man moves between the grindstone and the forge with practiced efficiency, his hands steady as he sharpens a broad blade.
As we continue walking, the street climbs gently, curving past the first line of buildings. The Bannered Mare is the next landmark to catch my eye. The inn is enormous, sprawling across two stories with carved beams and a stone foundation. Laughter and music spill from its open doors, mingling with the warm scent of roasting meat and spiced mead. A bard's melody drifts faintly through the air, a soothing backdrop to the chaos of the street. I feel the warmth calling me but force my gaze away- I have things to do.
On the opposite side of the road, The Drunken Huntsman stands out, its exterior adorned with trophies from hunts—gleaming antlers, polished pelts, and even the skull of some large beast. The building is smaller than the inn but still commands attention, drawing a steady stream of patrons.
The market square opens ahead of us, and the sheer scale of it is almost overwhelming after the peace of the wilderness. Stalls are arranged in neat rows, overflowing with goods—fruits and vegetables, textiles, and finely carved trinkets. Traders shout over the din, their voices rising above the clamor of haggling buyers and the creak of carts. To the side, the statue of Kynareth stands tall, her serene expression a contrast to the chaos below.
Above the square, on a slope to the left, Jorrvaskr dominates the skyline of this side of Whiterun. The Companions' hall is far larger than I expected—a massive structure built like a ship turned upside-down, its timbered beams arching skyward like ribs. It looms over the market, a reminder that Whiterun isn't just ruled by its Jarl.
Aela stops at the edge of the square, her gaze turning toward Dragonsreach. "There's your next stop. The Jarl's hall," she says.
Vilkas grins as he gestures toward Jorrvaskr. "And if you're looking for us later, we'll be there. Don't get lost."
I nod, meeting Aela's gaze briefly. "Thanks for the escort. I'll find my way."
She smiles faintly, her expression softening. "The offer for a drink still stands. Come by when you're settled."
They turn and head toward Jorrvaskr, their strides purposeful and confident. My eyes linger on Aela's form as she walks away before I turn towards Dragonsreach.
The stairs seem endless, a steady climb that twists and rises toward the hall dominating the skyline. Each step pulls me closer, and despite the ache in my legs and the weight of exhaustion pressing on my shoulders, I have to fight the urge to sprint. Just a few more minutes, and this letter will finally be delivered. The thought of sinking into a proper bed—one that doesn't involve dirt or rocks—drives me forward.
The golden roof of Dragonsreach glints in the sunlight, its brilliance undimmed even as the day wanes. The intricate carvings of dragons etched into the beams catch my eye, the way their forms seem to twist and ripple in the light giving them an almost lifelike quality. It's a fortress, but more than that—it's a statement. Power radiates from it, not just in its size but in its presence, its defiance of the wilderness sprawling below.
As I ascend the final set of steps, I catch my breath and pause for a moment to take it in. The carved archway that frames the entrance is massive, pressing down on anyone that walks through.
The doors are reinforced wood, thick and iron-bound, their edges worn smooth from years of use. Almost there, I think, forcing my legs to move again.
A pair of guards stand on either side of the entrance, their polished helms gleaming faintly in the sun. They watch me as I approach, their faces unreadable beneath their visors. I offer a small nod, more habit than courtesy, and step past them toward the doors. One of the guards shifts slightly, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, but he doesn't stop me.
My hand presses against the cool surface of the door, and for a moment, I hesitate. This is it. The threshold. Beyond here, that is where things will truly begin.
The doors groan softly as they swing open, and the warmth hits me like a wall. I pause for a moment to take in the grand hall, my senses overwhelmed by the sight, sound, and heat. The massive hearth at the center of the room crackles with a fire so large it almost feels like a beast of its own. The heat radiates across the room, pushing the chill of the outside air from my bones as my cloak shifts with the warm draft.
The hall itself is a cathedral of wood and stone, every inch of it designed to project power. The beams rise high above, intricate carvings of dragons and warriors twisting along the walls, their figures almost alive in the flickering firelight. I look around at the banners that hang from the rafters, rippling softly in the currents of air..
Servants bustle back and forth, their feet moving swiftly across the stone floor as they carry trays of food and pitchers of drink. Guards stand at attention in the corners, their armor gleaming faintly in the dimming light. The clink of metal on metal and the murmur of low voices fills the air, but it all fades into the background as my gaze is drawn to the raised platform at the far end of the room.
There, on a throne adorned with dragon heads, sits the Jarl of Whiterun. Balgruuf. His furs are thick, draped over his broad shoulders, and the way he sits—commanding, regal—gives him an air of authority that was heavily missing in the game. At his side, standing stiff and watchful, is his housecarl, Irileth. I can feel her crimson eyes on me, measuring, weighing. I take another step forward, feeling the weight of the room settle around me. This is no mere meeting. I'm standing before a figure who commands far more power than I do- for now.
For now, I'm a messenger. A simple delivery of news. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, and walk toward the platform.
As I make my way toward the Jarl, the guards shift, moving in front of me as I near the platform."Halt, stranger," one of them commands, his voice low but it carries. The movement is swift, precise—well-practiced. The halberd in his hands shifts slightly toward me. "We cannot allow you to enter the Jarl's presence so heavily armed."
I stop dead in my tracks, my eyes flickering between the two guards as they take a step closer, their bodies blocking the path. So much for a grand entrance, I think, a wry thought crossing my mind. But I don't challenge them. Not here. Not now. Not yet.
I glance down at the weapons strapped to me—the sword at my side, the dagger at my belt. They feel like second skin, something I've grown accustomed to. But here, in this hall, it's clear that not just anyone can walk in armed. Reluctantly, I begin to unbuckle my sword and slowly pull the dagger from its sheath, handing them over one by one. The weight of the steel leaving my hands feels wrong as I pass them over, but it's the way of things here.
"Everything you've got," one of the guards says, his voice stern, but not unkind. I nod and step back, watching as they handle the weapons with the care of people who understand the weight of what they hold.
"Satisfied?" I ask, my voice a bit sharper than I intend. But I'm not going to fight it. I just want to get this over with.
The guard holds up his hand as if to signal for the rest to stop their scrutiny. "You'll get them back when you leave, stranger. The Jarl will see you now."
A part of me bristles at the way they refer to me, but I keep my mouth shut. Stranger... right. I'm nothing more than a messenger to them. Still, the discomfort of standing unarmed in the presence of these guards gnaws at me.
I offer a slight nod, stepping past them. They step aside, allowing me to approach the throne, but I can feel their eyes on my back as I walk. The walk to the throne feels like an eternity. Each step toward Balgruuf feels like it carries the weight of the world with it. The hall is large, imposing, and the echoes of my footsteps bounce off the high ceilings. I skirt the firepit, the warmth briefly soothing my travel-worn skin before it's swallowed by the cold air creeping in from the outside. My cloak shifts slightly with the movement, and I feel the weariness in my bones.
When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I stop, my eyes meeting the Jarl's gaze. Balgruuf sits on his throne with the quiet authority of someone who's used to being in charge. Irileth stands beside him, ever watchful. Her eyes narrow as she studies me, but she stays silent, allowing her Jarl to handle the situation.
I step forward, bowing my head slightly before I speak. "I bring a message from Gerdur of Riverwood. She asked that it be delivered directly to you."
Balgruuf takes the letter, breaking the seal. His eyes quickly scan the paper, and the room falls into a tense silence. When he finishes reading, his eyes lock onto mine, sharper now.
"A dragon at Helgen?" he says, his voice steady but laced with skepticism. "You say you were there?"
I nod, trying to keep my voice steady despite the weight of his gaze. "I was. I barely escaped with my life."
Irileth steps forward slightly, her fingers grazing the hilt of her sword, her stance challenging. "A dragon? At Helgen? You expect us to believe this?"
Balgruuf raises his hand, silencing Irileth with a glance. His eyes flicker back to me. "Gerdur is a pillar of her community, if she vouches for him I shall believe it and if this is true... Whiterun has far more to worry about than the Shadow Hounds."
He glances to the side, addressing his steward. "Proventus," he commands, "summon Cassius. We need his counsel immediately. And Farengar—bring him here as well. A dragon returning is not something we can ignore."
The steward hurries off, and the Jarl turns his attention back to me. His eyes soften slightly as they scan my road-worn appearance. "You've done well to bring this news," he says, his tone carrying a hint of gratitude. "Few could have survived the chaos of Helgen, and even fewer would have come here to deliver this warning."
He looks at me a moment longer, as though weighing something, before he steps down from the throne, the heavy fur cloak shifting around his broad shoulders. He motions for his attendants, who are already anticipating his orders.
"First," Balgruuf continues, "I think you'll want to rest. You've earned it. Speak to Hulda at The Bannered Mare—tell her I sent you, and she'll see to your comfort."
The mention of rest is like a balm to my tired body, but I'm not done here. Balgruuf pauses, his eyes narrowing slightly before he speaks again, his voice taking on a softer tone. "You've earned more than just a roof over your head for the night, though. For bringing this message, and surviving the horrors of Helgen, I can offer you a boon. Should you need anything in the future, anything at all, come to me, and I will see to it."
The offer hangs in the air between us, and I feel the weight of it—a promise from the Jarl himself. A boon from someone with this much power means more than just coin. It's an opening to something greater.
Then, he motions again to his attendants. "Bring him a pouch of gold."
They turn to rummage through a chest before handing me a small but heavy pouch. I take the pouch, its weight substantial in my hand. The coins inside clink with a comforting sound, but it's the Jarl's boon that I know will be the true value of this exchange.
-MD-
-MD-
-MD-
I step into The Bannered Mare and immediately feel the warmth of the hearth wash over me. The heat from the fire is a welcome relief after the chill of the night air, and the low hum of conversation fills the space. The tavern is lively, bustling with activity, but not in a way that's overwhelming. The atmosphere is cozy, inviting—exactly what I need after the long, exhausting trek to Whiterun.
I scan the room briefly, noting the familiar faces—traders, a few adventurers, a couple of locals chatting by the bar. The scent of roasting meat and freshly baked bread hangs in the air, and I can already feel my stomach grumbling in anticipation. I don't go to the bar just yet.
Instead, I make my way through the crowd, finding a quiet corner at the far side of the room. It's a perfect spot: tucked away from the noise but still close enough to enjoy the warmth and the energy of the tavern.
Once I sit, I let out a long sigh of relief. The weight of my armor is a constant reminder of the journey, but it feels like I've claimed a small victory at least. I place my hand on my sword—it's comforting, more than I expected, to have it close again. The familiar weight of it offers some measure of security, unneeded as it may be at the moment.
I pull my cloak tighter around me, trying to settle into the chair and shake off the fatigue from the road. The heat of the room is like a balm to my sore muscles, and I start to feel the tension slowly leaving my body.
Maybe it's time to rest, I think to myself. The bed promised sounds like a paradise right now.
But as I close my eyes for a moment, taking in the sounds of the tavern, I feel the pull of curiosity. My gaze shifts, drifting across the room to take in the rest of the scene. The conversation fades a little as I let my eyes wander—then, my attention catches. A woman, sitting by herself across the room. She's sipping from a tankard, looking around lazily, her posture relaxed but somehow poised. She's nothing remarkable—just a pretty face in a crowd—but something about her catches my eye, makes me pause longer than I should.
Maybe... I think with a slight grin. Maybe it's time to test my luck there.
Her eyes sweep across the room, and for a moment, they meet mine. I'm still a little far off, but her gaze locks onto me for just a brief second. There's nothing overt, no obvious sign of recognition, but she doesn't immediately look away either. There's a small, knowing glimmer in her expression—like she's aware I'm looking.
I've been on the road for far too long, I think, a small smile tugging at the corner of my lips. I've barely had time to rest, let alone enjoy the simple pleasures. The thought of sitting here and spending a bit of time with her doesn't seem like such a bad idea.
I can feel the pull now—the temptation to get up, walk over, and see where the night takes me. No expectations, no pressure. Just a drink, some conversation, and maybe a distraction before I finally crash into bed.
Why not? I think with a shrug. What's the worst that could happen?
-MD-
-MD-
-MD-
I wake slowly, the warmth on my chest drawing me back to the present. At first, I just lie there, enjoying the softness of the bed beneath me, the familiar weight of her body still curled beside me. Her hair is splayed across my chest, soft against my skin. I smile briefly at the sight, a flicker of peace before the events of the night come back into focus.
She sleeps soundly, her breath slow and steady, and for a moment, I think I could just stay here. The warmth of the bed, the comfort of being free from my armor, makes me want to close my eyes again. But it's fleeting. I can't stay here forever, not when there's so much left to do.
Carefully, I slip out of bed, making sure not to disturb her. The cool air of the room hits me as I stand and stretch, my legs aching from the journey, but it's nothing compared to the weight of the night before.
I glance toward the corner where my armor is piled in haphazard fashion—thrown aside without a second thought. It's an ungainly heap of metal and leather, and for a moment, I appreciate the relief of not being strapped into it.
But that moment passes quickly. I need to get back to business, and I can't waste any more time here.
My gaze drifts toward the mirror on the far wall—the one I had intentionally ignored last night. I knew I didn't want to see myself then, I didn't want to face the truth of what this new body looks like. But now, curiosity draws me toward it.
I stand in front of it, and the man who stares back at me is a stranger.
My skin is ash grey—darker than it used to be, but still lighter than I had expected. My face is angular, sharp in the way it's shaped. The scar on my eyebrow stands out, a clean slash through it. The lichtenberg scar trails up my left arm, dark and jagged.
My eyes glow faintly violet in the dim morning light, their color striking against the grey of my skin. I reach up, running my fingers across my face, feeling the sharpness of my jawline, the curve of my brow, the jagged edge of the scar. It all feels so... alien.
I stand there for a moment, feeling weightless. Detached, almost like I'm observing this new body from a distance, unsure of how to place myself in it. For a brief moment, I feel as though I've lost something—like a piece of who I used to be has faded, replaced by something I can't fully grasp.
But then the feeling washes over me, a rush of overwhelming sensation that threatens to knock me off balance. This isn't my body. This isn't who I am. This isn't my life.
I shake it off immediately, pushing the thoughts down deep. There's no time to reflect on this. Push it down. Move forward, I remind myself. Make it your body.
I turn away from the mirror, and my gaze shifts back to the bed. She's still sleeping soundly, unaware of the whirlwind of thoughts running through me.
With a quiet sigh, I walk over to her side, already thinking about what comes next. I still need to get properly outfitted. I've wasted enough time with this gear. It's time to see the blacksmith.
What was her name again? Doesn't matter. I'll remember once I'm there.