I sat on a bench near the Gildergreen, watching the leaves shift lazily in the breeze like they weren't rooted in a province about five degrees from open rebellion.
A bottle of mead rested in my hand. The first third was gone. The second was being considered. The third would be regret.I was rationing my existential dread accordingly.
The Talos priest across from me was in full sermon mode, preaching with all the subtlety of a warhorn. Passionate. Zealous. Sweating profusely.
The theological state of Whiterun, summarized: openly Talos-reverent. And somehow not yet crushed under Imperial boots. Jarl Balgruuf is either politically savvy or stalling for time. Possibly both. But it says something about Skyrim when faith has to tiptoe around foreign policy.
I tore off a chunk of bread I'd bought from a vendor whose eyebrows hadn't stopped twitching since I paid with gold covered in bloodstains. Nothing I can do, unfortunately—bandits are annoyingly prone to bleeding when you take a limb off.
I tossed the chunk of bread into my mouth. It tasted like yesterday's regret and flour.
I chewed, watching the preacher wave his arms like he was directing traffic in a divine intersection.
A divine who was once a man. A man who became a god through strength, conquest, and political upheaval. And now the ruling Empire says he's not divine anymore.Theologians call that heresy.Historians call it revisionism.
Who knew that this world isn't that politically different from my own?
Just then, a voice broke the rhythm of the city square.
"You bloody milk-drinker! You and your Battle-Born cowards keep bending over for the Thalmor like whipped dogs!"
"Least we're not traitorous Gray-Manes, dreaming of glory while our people starve and bleed!"
Two men—one older, wearing the worn furs of a working-class Nord, the other younger and draped in armor polished like a metaphor—stood at shouting distance. Which, for Nords, is dangerously close to punching distance.
"I told you, you damn Battle-Borns are traitors! Licking the boots of the Empire while we fight for our freedom!"
"Oh, that's rich, coming from a Gray-Mane who bows to Ulfric's every word like he's the second coming of Talos himself!"
Ah. A Battle-Born and a Gray-Mane. That explains the tension, the posturing, and the lack of coherent logic.
They hurled insults with all the eloquence of two goats in an argument about who smelled worse. Something about honor, something about betrayal, and a lot of personal attacks were thrown like snowballs made with knives.
I took another swig of mead.
Gods. It's like watching a philosophy class taught entirely through fists.
They kept arguing, gesturing wildly, until both turned—at the same time—toward me.
"You!" one barked.
"Yeah, you!" the other added. "You've been listening, haven't you?"
I blinked. "No?"
"Tell us. Who's right?" the older one demanded. "Stormcloaks, or the damned Empire?"
I stared at them, mead bottle halfway to my mouth.
Why is it always me?
I chugged the rest of it in one go, wiped my mouth, and stood.
"Neither," I said.
Their expressions twisted in identical confusion. Which was already poetic.
"Neither of you are right," I continued, dusting crumbs from my robes. "Because you're both asking the wrong question."
I took a breath and gestured between them. "You're caught in a binary trap. Empire versus Stormcloaks. But the moment you frame the conflict as a clean dichotomy, you lose the ability to analyze it. You're not arguing policies. You're defending identities."
The Gray-Mane scoffed. "You're dodging."
"No. I'm contextualizing."
I turned to him first.
"You want freedom. The Stormcloaks stand for Nord identity, autonomy, and the restoration of traditional values. Talos worship. Local governance. Pride. You're angry at the Empire for signing the White-Gold Concordat and 'selling out' Skyrim's gods."
I pivoted to the Battle-Born.
"And you? You value order. Centralized rule. You believe unity under the Empire is necessary to resist larger threats like the Aldmeri Dominion. You see the Stormcloaks as divisive, destabilizing forces."
They both looked unsure. Which was promising.
I paused. Took a deep breath. The mead buzzed in the back of my skull, loosening the words.
"Now here's where it gets complicated," I said. "Because you're both right. In fragments."
I started pacing, barely aware of it.
"The Empire is weak. The signing of the Concordat was a capitulation, and it delegitimized them in the eyes of their own provinces. Their refusal to defend Talos worship fractured loyalty. Their bureaucracy is bloated, disconnected from regional needs. Imperial culture steamrolls local identities and then acts surprised when rebellion brews underneath."
"But," I added, "the Stormcloaks are no better. They've chosen violence over diplomacy. Ulfric's idea of 'liberation' is steeped in cultural elitism. His Nord-first rhetoric alienates non-Nords; Dunmer, Argonians, even some Bretons." I subtly gestured at myself. "That's not a rebellion. That's ethno-nationalism wearing a freedom-fighter's mask."
The Gray-Mane bristled. "You don't know Ulfric—"
"I know political archetypes. I've read this script before."
Modern world, different setting. Strip the armor off and it's the same story with a different coat of paint.
"Ulfric isn't rallying for equality. He's rallying for dominance. That's not revolution. That's replacement."
I paused, letting that sink in.
Then, I looked past them; at the city, the walls, the sky beyond.
"The real enemy," I said, voice lowering, "is the one neither of you are even fighting."
Both men frowned.
"The Thalmor."
"Those knife-ears?"
"No," I said, sharp. "The Dominion. The ideological machine. Theocratic. Authoritarian. Fascist, if you want the word."
They blinked.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
I nodded. "Let me translate."
"Fascism is the belief that the state—not the people—should have absolute control. It glorifies the past while rewriting it. It suppresses dissent in the name of unity. It demands obedience, crushes identity, and wraps it all in the illusion of purity and divine right."
"Sound familiar?"
The Battle-Born clenched his jaw.
"The Dominion doesn't just want Skyrim silenced. They want history rewritten. Talos erased. Cultures homogenized. And they're doing it through the Empire by tying their hands politically. The White-Gold Concordat was a leash disguised as a treaty."
"Talos is a threat to them not because of what he was, but because of what he represents."
I exhaled.
"If Skyrim falls to the Stormcloaks, it splinters the Empire further. If the Empire suppresses Skyrim, it kills cultural faith. Either outcome is a win for the Thalmor. You're both chess pieces in a game you haven't even seen the board for."
I looked between them again.
"If you had any sense, you'd stop fighting each other and build a third path. Merge the best parts of both ideologies: cultural autonomy with mutual defense. Reform, not rupture. Decentralized unity. A Nordic Council bound by heritage, not subservience. A state with a spine and a soul."
I blinked.
...Am I still talking to them or just ranting?
Eh, who cares.
The Gray-Mane and Battle-Born stared at me like I'd spoken in Daedric.
I was about to launch into a tangent about realpolitik when something slapped the back of my head.
Hard.
I turned, already scowling.
Kaela stood behind me, looking like she'd just crawled out of someone else's hangover. Still armored. Still armed. Still grinning like she'd just robbed a Daedric prince.
"Professor," she said, "we've got a crypt to loot."
I opened my mouth.
She raised an eyebrow.
I closed it again.
With a final sigh, I adjusted my satchel and followed her down the stairs toward the city gate.
Behind me, the two men looked at each other. One shrugged. The other scratched his beard.
And they walked away in opposite directions.
The Talos preacher was still talking.
***
We stood at the fork just outside the Whiterun stables, the early morning breeze carrying the scent of dew, horse dung, and responsibility.
Kaela scratched her head, eyeing the split in the road.
"So…" she said, hands on her hips. "Which way's the crypt full of dead guys?"
I didn't answer immediately.
I was too busy staring at the landscape.
The old Skyrim—game Skyrim—was open. Clean. Designed like a painter's canvas: clear skies, empty plains, and conveniently scattered rocks placed just right for cover. Simple. Navigable. Artificial.
This… wasn't that.
The plains were different than I remembered. Not in a "wow, new lighting mod" way. This wasn't aesthetic. It was structural. The land had changed.
The land had grown wilder in my absence. Or my presence, if we're being technical.
The grass stretched nearly to the knee where the road didn't stomp it down, tall and swaying like it had somewhere to be. Wildflowers spotted the edges in bursts of color too vibrant to feel real. The trees had multiplied. There were so many of them, sprouting every few meters like stubborn thoughts.
What had once been an open field was now a living thicket in waiting.
More cover. More predators. More things to step on, trip over, or die behind. Perfect.
Kaela tapped her foot. "Well?"
Ahead, the road forked.
To the left: the longer path, circling up toward Riverwood and then around the ridge. A trail of memories and metaphorical bruises.
To the right: the Western Watchtower, and just past it, the base of the mountain where Bleak Falls Barrow sat like a hunched shadow.
I pointed down the right-hand path. "That way. Western Watchtower."
She tilted her head. "Why not the way we came from? Isn't that closer to the Barrow?"
"Not if you plan on climbing the cliffside like a goat," I replied. "The Watchtower route curves south, and there's an actual trail up the mountain face. Less vertical screaming."
Kaela gave me a look. "That's your metric for navigation?"
"I'd use landmarks, but the trees have unionized."
"Hmm." She accepted that with a thoughtful grunt, and off she went. Sword on her back, hair tousled by the wind, humming a cheerful, slightly off-key tune that sounded like a tavern song if you replaced the lyrics with knife wounds.
I followed.
One of us was clearly enjoying this.
And as we walked, I couldn't help but curse softly under my breath.
The world's bigger. Not metaphorically, literally. The terrain stretched further, the scale increased. Every "short walk" was a march. Every "gentle slope" was a damned hike. This wasn't a level map. This was cardio.
I need a horse. Badly. If there's enough gold in that ruin, I'm buying one. Kaela can jog alongside like a well-armed lunatic. I'll get her a carrot or something.
About ten minutes passed in repetitive scenery, and I was just about to have a mental breakdown over the sixth identical shrub when we spotted them.
Three figures seated just off the path, shaded by a tree whose roots curled up like lazy fingers.
There was a firepit, still warm.
Weapons nearby.
People.
I immediately tensed.
No uniforms. No faction identifiers. No Imperial red. No Stormcloak blue. And no farmer tools either. Too clean. Too poised.
Kaela, oblivious as ever, waved like they were old drinking buddies.
"Morning!" she called cheerfully.
I fought the urge to grab her by the collar and pull her behind a tree.
Every encounter on the road so far had led to death, violence, or monologues. Sometimes all three. I was not in the mood to gamble on a fourth.
One of the strangers stood up.
An orc, tall and broad like someone tried to chisel a mountain into the shape of a man, with a jaw looked like he eats rebar for breakfast. He wore leather reinforced with steel plates and had an orcish warhammer slung across his back like it weighed less than regret.
He grinned.
Friendly.
Too friendly.
"Morning!" he echoed. "Didn't expect to see anyone else out this way. You two mercs?"
Kaela beamed. "Yup! You?"
The orc nodded. "Name's Ragar Iron-Tusk. These are my crew."
He gestured to the man sitting with one knee up—a wiry Breton in black leather, face partially covered. A glass dagger rested under his armguard like it was hiding from the sun.
"Thorgar," Ragar said. "Thief, scout, mood-killer."
Thorgar gave a noncommittal shrug.
The third was a woman in a deep blue mage's robe, worn over leather armor that had seen better decades. A longsword was strapped to her hip, and her posture said she knew how to use it.
"Lissette," Ragar continued. "Former noble. House fell. Picked up a sword instead of crying about it."
She gave us a nod. "It's cheaper than court life."
Kaela whistled. "You're my kind of people."
She jabbed a thumb at herself. "Kaela. Warrior. Bear-puncher. Grave-robbing enthusiast." She jabbed it toward me. "And this is Spar—"
I stepped forward and pushed her gently aside.
"Lucen," I said. "Scholar. Mage. Not a bear-puncher."
"Yet," Kaela muttered.
Ragar chuckled. "A mage who keeps up with a murder-siren. Impressive."
"Not by choice," I muttered.
Ragar chuckled. "Well met. We're heading to Bleak Falls Barrow. Client wants something recovered. Thought we'd get a head start before the snow gets bad."
My brow twitched. "That so?"
He nodded. "What about you two?"
Before I could answer—before I could lie, preferably—Kaela said brightly, "Oh, we're heading there too!"
I slapped my hand against my face.
Ragar's brow lifted. "Really? Huh. Small world."
I forced a smile. "Tragically."
There was a brief pause as the two groups weighed each other.
Lissette broke the silence. "You said you're mercenaries. Who hired you?"
Kaela's mouth opened again.
I shot her a look.
She froze. Then backed up with an exaggerated step and a grin.
I sighed.
"The Jarl of Whiterun," I said. "He assigned us personally to retrieve a dragon-related relic deep in the ruins."
That landed like a rock dropped in a still pond.
Ragar's eyes widened. "The Jarl?"
I nodded once.
He let out a low whistle. "Damn. Must be some powerful mercenaries to get that kind of trust."
I said nothing. My mouth pulled into something vaguely like a smile, but only because I didn't have the words please don't encourage her carved into my teeth.
Kaela, meanwhile, had wandered off in pursuit of a butterfly.
Lissette studied me carefully. "Jarls don't usually outsource their problems. They have housecarls. City guards. If he turned to you…" She trailed off, but her gaze didn't.
She was smart.
And that made me nervous.
Ragar, oblivious in a way that was almost charming, stepped forward and clapped his hands together.
"Well then," he said. "No point doing this alone if we don't have to. Same destination, different contracts. Why not work together?"
Lissette folded her arms. "Bandit numbers in the Barrow have increased. A local gang apparently moved in last week. Even if we've got separate goals, cooperation benefits us all."
Kaela nodded enthusiastically. "And if we get bored, we can see who can kill more draugr!"
I stared at her. "That wasn't part of the job description."
Lissette smiled faintly.
Kaela, having just failed to catch her butterfly, gave a thumbs up.
Ragar turned to me. "What do you think?"
What do I think?I think walking into a dark ruin full of death traps with three strangers is a bad idea.I think smiling orcs make me nervous. I think masked thieves are rarely trustworthy. And I think people who wear both swords and robes are the most dangerous ones in the room.
But…
I looked at Lissette again.
Her posture wasn't defensive. Just observant. Her eyes didn't flick to Kaela's weapon once. She wasn't measuring our threat level, she was measuring our competence. That's not opportunism. That's calculation.
I looked to Thorgar.
Relaxed. Careless. But his fingers hovered near his dagger like he was always half-ready. Not aggressive. Just wired that way. Not an assassin. A survivor.
Then Ragar.
Still smiling. Still holding out his hand. Open stance. Exposed midline. He didn't expect betrayal, and probably wouldn't recognize it even if it was happening in front of him.
A leader, but not a strategist. A good man, but maybe too good.
The silence started to stretch.
Ragar's hand was still out.
I could walk away. Keep our secrets close. Trust no one.
But if I do that, Kaela's going to say yes anyway. Probably before killing a man by accident.
I blinked.
Smiled, awkwardly, imperfectly, but it was the best I could manage.
Then took Ragar's hand and shook it once.
"Alright," I said. "Let's go rob the dead."