1 My Modded Skyrim

"Hey, you. You're finally awake".

The fuck? When did I fall asleep? Who the fuck is talking. I can't really see, my eyes are bleary. I try to move my hands but they're stuck together. I still can't see, so I use them awkwardly to rub the sleep from my eyes. I can see a bit better, but without my glasses this will probably be as good as it gets. I see fuzzy christmas tree shaped pines, only they must be huge. They live on some kind of rocky slope. I can see large gray boulders and rocks if I squint hard enough. The air is crisp, cool and tastes oddly good. I didn't know the air could taste good. The light says it's either morning or evening, I can't tell which. I come from a flat humid area and we're clearly nowhere near that. 

"You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there." I've heard this before… The accent is somewhat familiar but different…

"Damn you Stormcloaks. 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. You there-" I can see a vaguely dirty man gesture at me, "You and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

There is no way this is happening. I start blinking, trying to wake up. My eyes start to focus on the original speaker, a muscular man with blue eyes and blond hair.

"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief." the blond man states flatly. I can see him more clearly now. He's wearing chainmail with some quilted leather vest on top and a long blue scarf around his neck that covers the rest of his front. Fuzzy fur boots with what look to be leather plates guard his legs. I know this man. His name is Ralof and I am in Skyrim. 

I don't want to be in Skyrim. I want to play Skyrim from the comfort and safety of my home in my little cave. I don't want to meet the horrors of Skyrim face to face. By the gods are there horrors..

"Shut up back there" barks the Imperial soldier driving the cart. I forgot he was there…

Even if I'm a mythical demigod waiting to be unleashed and I can sweep all these things aside there's still one big problem. 

Do I come back if I die?

Everything seems real enough. My binds are tight, the wood of the kart is rough, as are the rags I wear. I smell the pines, and the unwashed men in this cart, tempered by the chill of a Skyrim morning. I know it's morning now because that's when the game starts. I can feel my heart quicken as the reality of the situation sets in. I gauge the other men in this cart, looking for signs of intelligence higher than artificial intelligence . Ralof keeps looking ahead mostly, the horse thief's eyes dart around constantly, the fourth and final passenger broods silently. To be fair he is gagged.

The final passenger is a strongly built man with a mane of light chestnut hair and matching beard. He wears a dark fur coat with fur along the edges further acting like an extended lion's mane. He wears underneath a matching set of greaves, boots and breast plate with unique but simple, I'm guessing Nordic, inlaid designs.

"And what's wrong with him, huh?", the horse thief finally says. For a second I thought he meant me, but he gestures to Ulfric.

"Watch your tongue.", barks Ralof. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."

"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion. But if they've captured you... Oh gods, where are they taking us?"

"I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits."

"No, this can't be happening. This isn't happening.", the horse thief laments. The dirtiest and scrawniest of the three Nords here, he's in similar rags that I'm wearing with dark grimy brown hair. I guess I could be a Nord too but It's hard to tell without a mirror.

They all seem real enough. Hadvar, a young Imperial Nord, is riding behind us and adjusts in his saddle. We are surrounded by notably more Imperial soldiers than in the game, and most of them are doing similar human things like adjusting or scratching. That one is outright picking his nose.

It's so weird seeing this whole world play out with perfect physics. I so desperately want to ask Ralof questions for more context about the world but I hold back. My guaranteed survival possibly depends on everything playing out almost exactly as it did in the game. Any deviations could possibly be the end of me. 

I bundle my nerves and steel myself. Helgen, the town we're stopping at, should be coming up any time now. The clop of the horses hooves a clock my inevitable doom, which seems to be taking too long. Way too long. By the Gods I hate the waiting, the Gods damn waiting. It's quiet. Too quiet. Actually everyone's stopped talking. They haven't said anything for awhile now. Ralof should have just kept talking like nothing happened. Hell,bwe should be in Helgen by now dodging flaming dragon boogers. Da faqu is going on?

It took some time but the excitement has worn off and now I'm too tired to be tense. And now I get it. I almost broke my silence to ask questions when we didn't arrive on time but I came to the realization after a particularly large bump. Skyrim, the GAME, is a scaled down simulation in almost every sense. That includes time, distance, people, events. It's a fantasy simulator first and foremost. Even if a game maker did succeed in building everything to scale it would take players multiple lifetimes just to complete the main game.

That's why there are more soldiers this time. Because why would only one soldier stand between a rebel leader and freedom in the real world? Looking ahead I can see that the number of Stormcloaks with us is also larger. In the original game there were only two carts, the one you start in and the one ahead of you filled with extras. About eight rebels in total, including the player. That's not enough Stormcloaks to cover the in-game event in Helgen, let alone this realistic version. I count at least ten carts filled with rebels, most much more packed than ours. Riding with royalty has its perks I guess, rebel or no.

We still can't see the village from here and it makes sense now. There's a quaint farm outside Riften, a provincial capital in Skyrim, home to the Thieves Guild and a major hub of commerce. The farm itself is no more than thirty seconds walk from the Riften main gate. I can't for the life of me remember the names of the farmers but I remember that in one of their conversations they mention that they're about an hour walk to Riften. In the game you can shoot arrows from the farm at the guards standing at the Riften main gate from the farm in question. Hell I think you could probably shoot over the walls and into the city. If that farm is an hour from Riften then it might still be hours till we see Helgen.

I smell smoke on the wind. That must have been Ralofs cue because he picks up with the line "Hey, what village are you from horse-thief?". Rorikstead. He's from Rorikstead. 

"Why do you care?"

"A Nords last thoughts should be of home" Ralof says, staring down at Helgen. We all do. My worst fears are all but confirmed. Looking back at us isn't the small fortified settlement from the game but a sprawling military complex that would be at home in the last siege of any fantasy epic. Fire and noise seemed to be its main exports. Wooden spike walls erupted at some corners I can see now not from neglect but out of necessity as the settlement grew over the course of this war. This went from a town of less than one hundred npcs to a town of thousands. I might be doomed.

"Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, please help me." pleaded the horse thief and I silently agreed with him. My one last hope was that the number of enemies I would have to face would stay relatively the same. That just wouldn't be true anymore. The game engine itself could only show a limited number of npcs to begin with. Whatever engine I'm in, whether it be a game or reality clearly doesn't have that limit.

"General Tullius sir, the headsman is waiting!"

"Good, let's get this over with" said the man who was unmistakably the General. A nearly full head of white grayish hair sits atop a man of what I guess would be average height. I believe him to be middle aged and his face would look right at home on an ancient Roman coin. He rounds the corner on his stead to undoubtedly argue with the Thalmor agents that have come to try and take custody of Ulfric so they can prolong the war by having him escape later.

"Look at him. General Tullius the military governor and it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves, I bet they had something to do with this!" Ralof growls. We're too far to hear Tullius's conversation with the elf nazis. If only Ralof knew why they were here. 

"This is Helgen. I used to be sweet on a girl from here. I wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in." Ralof muses as we travel the streets. "Funny, when I was a boy Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."

I want to feel bad for the guy but I'm about to barf butterflies. I've barely noticed the townsfolk up till now but now the numbers and murmurs are getting hard to ignore. Townsfolk are then pushed to the side by soldiers to keep the karts moving. We've got even more Imperials guarding us now and I fear it's only a matter of time before we see the headsman. 

Sure enough we round one last corner to see a familiar courtyard only now ten times larger than I remember it. The towers themselves also seem larger, maybe a story or two taller and significantly wider, but exactly how much I couldn't say for sure. The execution stage is now an actual platform. It looks like it's on a slightly raised stone bed where maybe a speaker would present and standing there are two people with a half dozen Imperial soldiers. One is a female in dull orange yellow robes and the other is a ugly looking brute of an executioner. General Tullius arrived by a more direct path through narrower streets and is already walking to what looks like hastily prepared seating for him and his aides to watch the coming slaughter. The karts are lining up by the stonewall in the yard one by one.

"Why are we stopping?" whines the horse thief.

"Why do you think? End of the line" resigned Ralof.

This scene plays out as normal. A rough looking female Redguard captain barks orders for the first two karts to be unloaded and processed. She mutters something to Hadvar, the young Nord who now up close reminds me a bit of Hercules with how his Imperial armor fits on his large Nord frame. Ralof reminds me a bit of a dirty Thor, although this probably isn't his finest hour. 

The horse thief protests as we're made to exit the kart. I don't know why the two of us are in this kart, dressed in rags and obviously not Stormcloak. I also really don't want to rely on a world ending dragon to "save me". If I could build a concise, easy to understand case I might be able to avoid doing something drastic if it doesn't arrive on time for some reason. Even if it doesn't matter for immediate survival, ingratiating myself with the Imperials is a plus. Relative security, connections and access to wider resources are all possible through even the weakened Empire. The Stormcloaks only barely control half of Skyrim and even if they win they still won't be as well connected as the Imperials.

A more realistic plan is to hide behind bodies to give the dragon more time to save me, should it come to that. And right now one of those bodies is about to run away. 

Lokir of Rorikstead is the horse thief that rode in the kart with us and he always dies trying to run away at this exact moment. It would have been a good strategy if he was the Dragonborn as in the game you could run from most things but he's scripted to die running from one or two arrows. I doubt he's scripted to die as rigidly here but he could still die no matter what I do. Still gotta try something.

"No I'm not a rebel you can't do this!" Lokir cries.

That's my que. I stick my foot out and trip him before he even realizes he's running. He hits the ground with a thud, making a small noise as the wind leaves him. He rolls over covered in a fresh layer of dirt to stare at me as I quietly shake my head. He's hoisted up roughly by the captain "On your feet scum" but stares at me the whole time even as he's led away by more soldiers. I stare back but I'm cut short by the captain. " No more stunts. Don't make your deaths any more painful than they have to be."

Hadvar looks up from his list and says "Wait. You there. Step forward. Who are you?".

Ahhh. This is the part of the game where the world would stand still and you'd get to create your character, easily claiming your first few hours of game time. I wish it would stand still for me. It's not often you get to choose your own name. If this world wasn't created yesterday just to torment me then the poor sod who had this body before me probably already had a name. Too bad I can't remember it now.

I give myself one look over for the first time I've woken up on Nirn to buy myself time and maybe give myself inspiration. I'm definitely thinner than I was in my previous life and probably shorter too, although I'm probably not used to the average height of everyone here yet. Previously I was a male approaching thirty who lifted weights for strength but also didn't watch what he ate too closely. I liked being big and cuddly. This body looks soft but much smaller, almost like a… oh shit. I reflexively squeeze muscles I hope I don't have there and sure enough all readings are coming back female. I'm a girl.

"Do you have a name Prisoner?" Hadvar asks again. The Captain clears her throat. Shit, I'm out of time.

"Alexandria…God…Fang" I chew out. It's cringe. I knew it as I said it but I ran out of time. Alex is a pretty flexible name and if I live I was definitely going to try to become a werewolf anyway. I was half a synapse away from Moonfang. Hopefully I can change it later but the name actually isn't too out of place in the Elder Scrolls universe.

"You from Daggerfall, Breton? Fleeing from some court intrigue?" Hadvar says, scribbling down my information.

"I was raised in Cyrodil but when I came of age I wanted magical schooling. Money was tight so I ended up falling prey to warlocks who were going to use me as a test subject. I managed to escape and tried to head for the College here in Skyrim before getting caught up in this mess." I say as convincingly as I can. I can whip up bullshit in a hurry but if speech skills are still a thing it may not matter. It's not far from the truth, the College of Winterhold is top of my places to go. At least now I know I'm a Breton.

"Captain. What should we do? She's not on the list." Havdar says. There is a slight plea to his voice and I can tell he believes me. He should. They all should.

"Forget the list. She goes to the block" the captain spits. 

This bitch.

 "By your orders, Captain. I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are returned to High Rock. Follow the Captain, prisoner." 

As soon as the captain commanded my death Hadvar shut down. He knows my name and that I'm not from High Rock, but refused to acknowledge either fact. The bit about returning my remains was slightly more concerning. Either its standard procedure to send remains of slain enemies to their native homeland or he's following npc scripted dialogue due to hidden world mechanics. 

I need to get out of my own head. Looking up as I follow the Captain I realize the Redguard is not as well built as I would have expected from a warrior race. Wiry maybe but for someone who wears heavy armor I expected a little bit more beef. Perhaps she's more admin. 

We reach the execution platform and I search for the next target of plan B. I don't really remember his face but I do remember he reminded me of a redheaded stepchild. I walk behind the likely redheaded suspect. He's close to Ralof, like he was in the game. I suppose I'll at least hear some new banter if this doesn't work. General Tullius steps up to scold Ulfric, who's somewhat separate from the rest of us, having been positioned on the edge of the platform.

 "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." Ulfric Stormcloak, mighty Jarl of Windhelm, can only grunt. "You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace." Ulfric silently stares Tullius down with fury in his eyes. These two men have, I believe, never met before and this moment will probably start a personal grudge.

The animosity between them seems to stop time. An almost imperceptible wave of force runs through the courtyard. Another moment and they break gaze. Time seems to flow again and some in the crowd are even knocked off balance by the intensity of their confrontation, Hadvar being one of 

"What was that?" Hadvar says.

"It's nothing. Carry on." Tullius replies, heading to his seat.

"Yes, General Tullius." eagerly replies Captain Bitch. "Give them their last rites."

The priestess nods and begins her sermon. "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you-".

 The redheaded Stormcloak agitates and makes to move. So do I.

"For the lov- OHUG!" A loud thwack sounds off. As soon as the redhead started to move I nailed him with a swift kick to the balls. He falls face down, ass up.

"-for you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved… Oh dear…" 

"What's going on over there?!" an irate Captain Bitch is starting to round on us, clearly trying to impress the General. 

"He just fell down in prayer ma'am. It's hard to get down with these bindings, so he fell." I lie. The redhead is still twitching on the ground but he does manage a soft " You bitch…"

"Alright just keep it down. Last rites are too good for scum like you anyway." pontificates Captain Bitchhoe.

 As soon as the focus was off us I whispered to the puddle that is the angry redhead and say" Let me have my rites. Didn't you fight this war to worship your god? Well I'm about to die for it so let me worship mine in the last hour of my life." Ralof's mouth is open so wide he could catch frostbite spiders. They both eventually recovered themselves as the priestess goes on " Arkay teaches us that death is natural and to be accepted..". The redhead gives me a nasty look but turns his attention to the priestess and watches quietly.

"... even now Mara's love envelops you all, despite…" 

I feel satisfied at the moment. With this we should have much more time for the dragon to show up and even if he doesn't show up I'll have a few more bodies to hide behind. There's just one thing nagging at me currently. I haven't heard anything from the dragon yet. By this point even if I adjust for how time works we should have heard a faint roar by now.

"...Debella has given you this beautiful day…" The priestess drones on and I start to listen for any noise at all out of the ordinary like my life depends on it. 

A sneeze.

Awkward coughing.

Shuffling feet.

Equipment gently clanking.

Soft sobbing.

Wind flapping through banners.

Two large braziers burn behind the stone platform, cracking lazily.

Small birds chirping.

"This is boring." A boy complains. He's swiftly disciplined. The executioner's ax is outlandishly large and its edge polished. Its darkened metal gleams as if to challenge any who would disturb the peace.

I strain so hard now I think I can hear the void, the absence. It's an endless vortex of dark metal, swirling and grinding. It starts to get louder and louder. The noise is coming from the ax. I can see it now on the edge of the blade. It's reaching out. It's drowning out the priestess. What is she saying? I can't hear her anymore. Oh wait, she's just stopped talking. She's looking at me. Why is she looking at me? Can she see it too? Does she know It's after me? The void gets louder and drifts past the executioner's face. He's looking at me too. He gives me a strange look with his good eye. That good eye fades into darkness as that terrible screeching envelops everything around me.

 It's too fast; the endless darkness has already consumed everything. I can still barely make out the executioner's blind eye, a milky white dot in the distance. The tiny dot grows and morphs into a skull. Now impossibly large I can feel its gaze through empty sockets unblinking. I start to feel other gazes upon me now.

Now there are more eyes; blue eyes, brown eyes, hazel and green eyes! More and more eyes sprout from the void, all staring at me. The void has so many eyes. A pair of blue eyes moves towards me aggressively. I can't move. I'm just a pair of eyes. Eyes can't move. The blue eyes get so close I see individual blood vessels in those bloodshot orbs. So close now I can see my reflection. I'm actually kinda cute. 

The blue eyes shake me and I blink with eyelids I don't have. Now Ralof is shaking me. He's saying something to me.

"I don't envy you but you gotta move Breton, before they take you in for torture!"

"We'll cut off your arms and legs first if you don't MOVE IT BRETON!" Shouts a slightly hoarse Captain Bitch, sword unsheathed 

Oh. I get it now. Not only is the dragon not here on time, I'm going first. And I'm hallucinating. Without any skooma. All right, plan A and plan B have failed. Time for plan C. 

Crying.

I step toward the platform and fall to my knees.

"In the name of Stendarr I call for mercy!" I cry out. "I am a citizen of his Imperial Majesty's Empire. I had neither sword nor blue cloak upon my capture. Whatever else you believe my crimes to be, I am not with the rebellion. I ask for fair trial, as is my right." My voice rings throughout the square as I use every bit of myself I can in the plea. No tears or panic. Right now there is only room for determination. 

For a moment the square is silent. Everyone starts to look at the General to see what he does. It appears he wasn't going to say anything but sensing the mood around the courtyard he speaks up.

"I'm sure she's done something to deserve death. If she hasn't well… we'll just have to ask Stendarr for forgiveness." There's a mocking tone to his voice. The priestess looks appalled and even a few soldiers look uncomfortable.

 "Carry on, if anyone else delays us then execute them on the spot. I want this done."

"Yes General!"

"To the block prisoner, nice and easy."

These bitches. Fine. Plan D then. Dramatic.

A dark sphere of rotating oblivion appears behind me with a sound of warbling fire and from its center a transparent wolf appears. I'm hunched over in pretend despair trying to hide the magic in my hands.I need to buy as much time as possible, even seconds count. There's an immediate uproar but luckily the situation is confused enough that nothing immediate happens to me. The wolf dashes before anyone can move, following my intentions as I concentrate.

I wasn't even sure I could cast magic before this. In-game every new player gets access to the flame and healing spell regardless of race, no questions asked. Some races know additional spells like the Bretons, my favorite race to play. They get the spell summon familiar, and it works exactly like it sounds. The wolf is bound to my will and will even follow commands as able. It turns out that using spells is a bit like riding a bicycle. You might get rusty but once you know how you don't forget. I thank the previous owner of this body for learning it. 

The wolf easily outspeeds the reactions of everyone here and could have jumped almost anyone. I so desperately wanted to give that Bitch some payback before I died but no, I hold back to make a play. Summoning the familiar also took nearly all my magicka and I doubt the Captain is weak enough to die to a poorly summoned wolf spirit. 

The wolf instead lunges at my intended target with a vicious snarl. Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak now lays on his back writhing madly as my wolf tears at his face. I've stood up now. I need to see this next part. The wolf lunges and snaps at the Jarl's gaged face as he tries to fight back. But the Jarl is bound, and the wolf is vicious. Finally the wolf spirit hits the mark. I fill my lungs with air. I'll only get one shot at this or it'll be all over. Where's that damn dragon!?! My familiar, job done, calmly steps off the beaten Jarl. I can see the damage has been done. I loose a vicious war cry directed at the captive Stormcloaks

"You can die bent over like whores or you can die standing! Are you True Nords or not!?!"

Ulfric looks up at me dumbfounded, his gag now torn from his face. Everyone does. Stormcloak, Imperial and villager just stare at me for what seems like forever. 

Well, I tried. Sorry for trying to live. At least I think I've got enough magicka left in the tank for a little fire and my wolf's still here so at least I can try to maim some bastard before I go out. 

I see Ulfric's mouth start to move. Finally! It's hard to hear what he's saying though so it's probably not a sho-

There's pressure at my back suddenly and warmth flowing down my lower half. I look down to see part of a sword jutting from my abdomen. My legs give out and I'm on my knees before I know it. The blade retracts and I'm pushed forcefully to the dirt by a boot. The earth and stone are cool, relaxing even.

I should try to concentrate on healing magic now. I've never done it before. Thinking is so hard now. Giving up doesn't seem so bad anymore. I'm tired now.

There's a growling sound somewhere around me. Wolf. I hear that dumb Bitch's voice again, "Stupid mutt, I killed your master, go back to hell already!". Well there's one reason to keep living. I'm not sure I've got much longer though. 

There's a crack of thunder and a wind so powerful it sits me back up on my ass. That must be those magic bullshit words from Ulfric, finally. Oh yeah, magic. I could try healing magic. It's so hard to think though… my thoughts are faint. There's a lot of blood. I should stop that. Maybe magic? Yeah focus, stop the bleeding. I concentrate as best as I can but the spell doesn't work. I can feel the last of my energy leave me as my body begins to slump over. 

I hear a dog whimper as my body slowly sinks into the ground. I'm barely conscious but I can somehow still sense that my familiar is gone. That's it then, guess I'm dead. This sucks. As pessimistic as I was about trying to survive here I was really looking forward to trying the whole hero/adventurer thing out. To die here in Helgen without even seeing the dragon is unbelievably disappointing. 

There's another thunder crack, a much gentler breeze caresses my cold face. I guess those Stormcloaks are still going at it. I can hear large chunks of rubble falling, maybe Jarl Ulfric hit a weak spot in the wall to escape? I bet it looks cool. 

People are rushing past my lifeless body now, bumping into me. Someone is touching my feet. Stop it weirdo! They grab my ankles and start to drag me. Look guys, I'm dead! Just leave me alone so I can sleep! It's starting to hurt!

I try to rest through the pain but it's too much. My body shoots up instinctively to avoid road rash. I see Ralof who's apparently dragging me to safety. Sorry for calling you weird. He must have noticed me jerk up.

 "Come on Breton get up!", he says urgently.

I look around for the first time since I fell and I'm met with total madness. Something impossible is happening with the sky. Its sunset orange and swirling madly, spitting fire all the while. Meteors are raining everywhere, smiting whatever they land on. Bodies are everywhere and with different states of integrity. There should be more blood but the fire cauterizes it.

Ralof drops my feet and extends a hand, " Come on the gods won't give us another chance!".

I take the hand and with his support hobble to the tower I knew should be waiting for us. We pass graveyards worth of bodies. Stormcloaks bodies were strewn mainly along the now broken and flaming carts. Imperials and townsfolk corpses were spread out more sparsely, they could run to cover more easily. Those who are living hide but a few brave soldiers take potshots from cover. As we make it to the tower I see the body of Lokir, riddled with arrows. He must have tried to run for it too early. Oh well. Ralof closes the tower door behind us and on Lokir.

"Jarl Ulfric, what is that thing? Could the legends be true!"

"Legends don't burn down villages. Lay our friend down next to the others and get ready. We need to move soon." Ulfric says motioning me to the triage station they hastily set up at the base of this spiral tower. He gives me a curious look before peering out the window. 

I'm laid against the wall next to half a dozen injured rebels. Various wounds both dragon and manmade are on display. The Stormcloak doing triage is impossibly busy but Ralof looks me over. 

"Ah, that wound's pretty deep but it looks like the bleeding has stopped. I honestly thought you were dead. We should probably be thankful you're still moving. Wait here, I'll see if we don't have anything to patch you up."

He stands up and starts to turn around. I gaze at my wound and come to a realization. I concentrated and now consciously cast the spell I thought I had failed earlier. I must have stopped the bleeding and that tired feeling I had was from a lack of magicka. A warm golden light surrounds my being as the pain dissipates and my flesh stitches back together. Ralof and the soldier in trying to save the others stare at me in awe. 

" You can use healing magic? That's amazing!", the medic says.

"Yes, but I only know the spell to heal myself." I say guilty." Sorry"

"It's more than enough." Ulfric states turning towards us." It saves us resources to heal others and gives us our best mage back." 

I've got mixed feelings on that statement, but it does make me a little happy. An impossible roar interrupts the moment, rattling the tower and everyone in it.

 "We need to move, now!" yells Ulfric.

"Up through the tower, let's go!" Ralof urges.

Ah shit. Someones about to die. Climbing the tower actually takes a little bit more time in the game because of the scaling difference and all the while I keep trying to summon my ghost pupper. I can't tell how much magicka I have. I was hoping to use my familiar to save this next guy but magicka doesn't regenerate quite as fast as it did in the game. I think that by healing myself completely I might have doomed this next guy. We reach the second story and there's a doomed Stormcloak moving rocks.

"I just need to clear the rubble and-". Boom. The wall explodes open.

"Get back!", 

A gout of flame pours through the hole and finishes off what was left of the poor rebel. A massive black shadow leaps from the tower and flies off leaving us with what remains of our friend. The rebels' flesh is still bubbling, hair burnt off, smelling like a macabre barbeque. Fighting the urge to vomit I reflect that I could have dealt with a perforated liver for a little longer to save him. Sorry buddy. The dragon is long gone and we do our best to ignore the still flaming corpse as we gaze out of the hole in the tower a dragon made. 

Helgen is burning. Its people scattered like ants. A great shadow torments them. Like a spoiled child he burns the little ants for amusement. Some of the ants organize and fight back. But they are only ants. And he is no mere child. He is Alduin, firstborn of Akatosh, the world-eater. The harbinger of the end-times. 

Ralof's gaze is a touch more hopeful than my own. Looking out he sees an opportunity, 

"See that inn on the other side. Jump through the roof and keep going!" he says.

I look at where he's pointing and I don't see an inn. I see a flaming hole of doom. It's a wooden building at least a story below us and it's on fire!

"Go! We'll follow when we can." insists Ralof. 

If I were doing this blind I might have told him to fuck himself but since I know that this is the path we are supposed to take in game, I oblige. I jump, hands still bound by cordage, down into the flaming inn. I miss judge the jump and bash my shin on one of the logs in the roof falling flat on my face. It takes a minute to recover my dignity and heal myself. It looks like I've got enough juice to dull the pain and keep moving. Magicka seems to regenerate slow enough that you need more than a few in-world minutes to get something useful out of it. Fast enough for prolonged encounters but too slow to be relied on in a pinch.

I walk gingerly to the other side of the inn. It's a hot broken mess, kinda like me. Bottles, boards and furniture are everywhere. The boards on the upper floor are not as sturdy as the game led me to believe. I find the opening in the floor and slither my way down, not keen on jumping anymore than I have to. I can hear voices off in the street. They are begging a boy to abandon his father. I stumble a little through the rubble and head outside.

"What are you doing? Get off the road!" Shouts an old bald nord in what I think is iron armor.

"Hamming, you need to get over here. Now!" Hadvar commands. The boy finally runs from a wounded lump in the road. I can see in the distance that it was probably his father that convinced him to leave. His mouth is moving as the boy leaves. Words of encouragement, perhaps.

 "Atta boy. You're doing great!" Hadvar says as the boy draws close to their hiding spot.

There's a smile plastered on the wounded man's face, even as his doom crashes down in the street behind him. A monstrous ebony shadow, several times bigger than what I remember, thunders down to fill the wide street. He doesn't appear to have scales, just a skin of dark light-eating metal. This metal seems needlessly sharp and wickedly curved wherever the dragon's form ends. Wherever there are divots or natural creases on the beast the light seems to just disappear, save for those two massive glowing red eyes. The monster opens his maw, a mouth that could fit three men easily in its depths, and breathes a stream of blinding fire. 

"Gods, everyone get back!" Hadvars voice cracks in the immediate heat. We all shrink back further behind the ruined house that we hoped was obscuring us from the winged demon.

Skyrim the game doesn't really prepare you for the horrors the fire damage causes. The npcs just flop over dead, maybe with a fire effect still attached. They are human shaped pinatas. 

I watched the hair evaporate from his head. His eyes boiled and exploded like some macabre jelly popcorn. I watched the skin crackle and burn. The flesh underneath melts like wax. We are too far away for the smell but it's already everywhere so it wouldn't have mattered. I might not ever have barbecue again, or meat for that matter. 

The great beast, satisfied with the immolated corpse, flaps its massive wings. For a moment the sun is gone and then so is the dragon, off to terrorize the rest of Helgen. 

Hadvar peeks out from our hiding spot and notices me for the first time.

"Still alive prisoner? Keep close to me if you want to stay that way." 

The balls on this boy grew three sizes without that little redguard bitch around. 

"Gunnar, take care of the boy. I have to find General Tullius and join the defense."

"Gods guide you Hadvar." the bald nord nods,

"Follow me, quickly!" Hadvar says to me. 

Hadvar leads us down the same street Auldin just lit the new roman candle. We pass his corpse and thankfully it's too charred to be much further nightmare fuel. Running down the street we come across what must have been the old stone wall before Helgen needed war expansions. 

" Stay close to the wall!" Hadvar shouts, his voice breaking.

 He jumps down a small ledge and hugs the wall as a soft boom crashes above us. Two massive metallic wings, like blankets of midnight, pull us against the wall as Alduin uses it as a perch to decimate the house right in front of us. His wings seem to actually absorb light, instead of simply causing shade. I can only hear the screams and the roar of hot fire. The wings lift up a moment later, nearly knocking us over again with just wind pressure as the dragon flies off again.

After a moment Hadvar races us through the newly wrecked structure. I guess it is smart, it's the least likely place the dragon will strike next. If we can avoid the hazards. There were other paths we could have taken at different points along this dash. Unlike the game it seems we are not confined to one predetermined path, but Hadvar takes a very familiar path in most places. As we work our way through the smoldering wreckage I can see it was not targeted indiscriminately. Inside are several smoldering Imperial corpses. I try not to look at them as some are very recognizable as human corpses, half melted or worse.

Emerging from the house we see General Tullius with a company of soldiers by the gate, hurling arrows and fire at the dragon. Even the world eater might take damage if he directly attacked this position. The men fight with desperation, defending townsfolk as they make their desperate escape. There are only a handful battle mages flinging spells into the air, mostly fire bolts. They have strange paddings around the chest or girdle modifying their armor. There must be something about magic I don't quite understand that this more realistic world had to account for.

"Hadvar, into the keep soldier. We're leaving!" Tullius shouts as he sees us leaving the burning wreckage.

"It's you and me prisoner, let's go!" Hadvar shouts. I tear my eyes away from the Imperial formation. I guess they consider handling me to still be important enough to leave a soldier on me, even with the dragon attack. It was like this in the game too. Neither the General or Ulfric followed you into the keep, instead they escaped off screen. We run through the long street to the keep, watching as soldiers get picked off the old walls surrounding the village. Finally we reach the courtyard of the keep breathless. Ralof emerges from behind some debris to meet us here with ax in hand. 

"Ralof, you damn traitor! Outta my way!" Hadvar spits, somehow sounding angrier with the Stormcloak than the dragon.

"We're escaping Hadvar. You're not stopping us this time" Ralof replies firmly. An Imperial falls screaming from the sky with a crunchy thud and is promptly ignored by these two. That crunch might live with me forever.

"Fine, I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!" Hadvar hotly declares.

 It sounds like Ralof and Hadvar have a history but in the game it's never explored. They're from the same hometown so that makes sense, but this exchange makes it seem like they have history. There's a sadness in Ralof's eyes and way too much venom from Hadvar. Top of the list of things that are not my problem. They move to speak.

"You-"

"Wit-"

Both men are cut off by a booming doom. The ground shakes and my feet leave the ground. I fly for a moment and can't stick the landing. Any sense I had was knocked out of me and my body rolls like a ragdoll into a small ditch at the foot of the keep. Flopping over as soon as I can I look beyond some scraggly weeds at where I think the dragon landed. I can see the top Alduin but I can't see much further. I try to raise my head but my body needs a minute before I can move properly. I hear the scream of dragon fire, pouring out right where I think the other two men were. I can finally move a little and use healing to power through the shock. The dragon flies off before I get very far in a great cloud of dust and grit that gets in my eyes and throat. 

Finally I can stand, rubbing the grit from my eyes. I look over to see what became of the other two and all I see are scorch marks and a destroyed doorway leading to the keep. Whatever else happened to them I can't worry about it anymore. I've got to get inside before the other door is attacked too. I sprint back to the last door into the keep. The sudden burst makes me cough up the dust. Alduin picks up another soldier from the ground to drop from altitude. I get to the door and push as her screams fade into the air. 

I push on the door and it's locked. I give it everything I have, breaking and bashing the door with my new smaller feminine frame. It doesn't budge. I hear her screams again, getting louder as she freefalls. I don't dare look. her wails of terror end when I hear that familiar wet crunching sound again. Some of the splatter hits my back.