The cold was relentless. Frank’s breath misted in front of him. His teeth clattered together, and despite his best efforts to stay calm, his entire body shook uncontrollably. With the cold sinking deeper into his bones he suddenly stopped.
The distant sight of Ivarstead’s rooftops poked above the low hill ahead, but he hesitated. Walking into town dressed only in a loincloth would be like painting a giant target on his back. He knew enough about Skyrim’s world to understand that survival was all about caution and preparation. If he strolled into a village looking like a lunatic, people would talk. And the last thing he needed was to attract attention before he even had a chance to figure out what was going on. Turning his head, he gazed upon the river, his new destination.
The incident at his backyard kept playing at the back of his mind, as he made his way down a steep slope, carefully placing his bare feet on the hard and cold surface. On his right, the sight of a small familiar plant with purple flowers urged him to approach.
[Thistle: It can be used to make potions.]
The plant was indeed one he knew from the game. He carefully plucked a branch and only then he realized that he didn’t know how to use his inventory. Do I need a satchel or a bag?
Contemplating on the matter, and with the Thistle Branch on hand, he continued his descent. If this world works like the game, I need to build my strength, gather supplies, and get some experience under my belt before engaging with anyone.
With that plan in mind, Frank followed the rough riverbank, hoping for some shelter and a bit of luck. His bare feet stung from the cold, the rushing of the river sent droplets of water on to his body, causing him to shiver. Following the water he scanned a treeline to his other side, trying to spot anything useful.
Then, just as he rounded a bend, he spotted a small crooked hut, nestled among the trees but not too far away from the riverbank. It looked weathered but sturdy, with snow piled high on its roof. Smoke wasn’t billowing from its chimney, and the door was slightly ajar, creaking in the wind. Outside, the remnants of a bonfire stood beside a makeshift wooden rack for drying fish and meat.
"Please be empty," Frank whispered, his voice shaky from both the cold and the fear.
He approached cautiously; closing out every sound. The world fell in an eerie silence. Slowly, he pushed the door open, peering inside. The hut was indeed abandoned, yet cozy. A single chair and a table sat in the middle of the room, a fireplace to the left, and on the far side, a simple bed with worn-out furs draped across it.
Frank took in the sight and he put the harvested Thistle branch upon the table. He could certainly live in this hut, which undeniably required some tidiness. His eyes landed on a pile of clothes strewn across a nearby table. "Thank God," he muttered, rushing over. The clothes were simple—a woolen tunic, trousers, and a pair of fur shoes. They weren’t much, but compared to the biting cold gnawing at his skin, they were a treasure.
Just as he started pulling the tunic over his head, a sharp bark rang out from across the river. Frank froze, his heart beat faster. The sound echoed through the trees, unmistakable and close. He whipped around, eyes darting toward the source of the noise.
A large familiar breed of dog stood on the opposite bank, watching him with intense, almost intelligent eyes. “A wolfhound,” he muttered.
He stepped outside. The animal’s gray fur was matted, its breath visible in the cold air. It barked again, not aggressively, but in a way that seemed urgent.
Frank sighed. "Great," he said and began walking toward the creature. But something in the dog's eyes made him hesitate. It wasn’t snarling, nor did it seem hostile. Instead, it was pacing in place, barking at him as if trying to communicate. The dog’s gaze flicked toward the rushing river, then back at Frank, and it barked again, urging him to follow.
"Are you serious?" Frank looked down at the ice-cold water. “My feet are already numb.” The thought of stepping into the river was enough to make his skin crawl. "You want me to cross that?"
The dog whined and barked once more, then turned and bolted toward something hidden beyond the trees on the far side of the riverbank.
Frank took in the freezing air. "This is insane," he muttered, already peeling off the clothes he had just put on. He couldn’t risk them getting soaked. Grumbling, he stripped down, leaving the warm tunic and trousers draped over the table.
Taking a deep breath, he waded into the river. The water was like a thousand knives stabbing into his legs, sending shockwaves of cold up his body. His teeth clenched, and he bit back a cry as he pushed forward, one slow step at a time. The current tugged at his legs, threatening to pull him down, but Frank fought against it. His whole body convulsed, but he now was certain. Any doubts he had about the reality of his situation vanished into the cold rushing river.
By the time he stumbled out of the river and onto the other side, his entire body was trembling uncontrollably. His legs felt like lead, and his mind was fuzzy from the cold, but the dog was waiting for him, standing next to something lying near a patch of snow.
A body.
Frank’s guts tightened as he approached the lifeless figure. The man was dressed in simple hunting clothes, his face pale and still, but he wasn’t that old. Maybe forty, Frank thought. The dog sat next to the corpse, whining softly, nudging the man’s hand with its nose.
"Your owner?" Frank asked softly, kneeling down. Did he get killed?, he thought while examining the body.
There were no signs of a struggle, no wounds. Just a man, dead in the snow. He didn’t know how or why it had happened, but the dog’s mournful expression told him everything he needed to know. The hunter had been this dog’s companion, and now he was gone. I wonder how long he’s been out here.
Frank sighed, his heart felt heavy. "I’m sorry, buddy," he whispered, reaching out to pat the dog on its head. The dog looked up at him, his eyes watery.
Despite his hesitation, Frank knew what he had to do. In Skyrim, looting was a way of life, a necessity. But here, in this moment, standing over the body of a man who had lived and died in this world… It felt wrong.
Still, Frank knew better than to let sentiment get in the way of survival. He carefully searched the hunter’s pockets, finding a small pouch of gold coins, a letter, a rusted key, and a child's doll, obviously worn by time, not playing with.
Frank’s nose was now runny and he sniffed as he looked at the doll, his mind wandering to the hunter's possible life. A family? A child waiting for him somewhere?
He sighed heavily, feeling a pang of guilt, but he kept the items. "Thank you," he murmured to the hunter. "I won’t waste this."
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The dog watched him intently, as if understanding. Frank stood, glancing back at the hut across the river. He couldn’t leave the body here in the open, not with wolves and worse creatures lurking nearby.
"Alright, let’s get him back," Frank said to the dog, who barked softly in agreement. Then, he put the man’s items back into his pockets to keep them dry, as he himself lacked a bag or even a pocket for that matter.
It took all of Frank’s strength to carry the hunter’s body across the river, his muscles screaming in protest with each step. By the time he laid the man down near the hut, Frank was exhausted, his breath coming in sharp gasps. The dog followed close behind, its eyes never leaving its fallen companion.
After a quick search around the hut, Frank found an old, rusted shovel leaning against the back wall. He put on the clothes and waited for his body to warm up before he began digging.
The hours passed slowly, the cold gnawing at his fingers, but he pushed through. By the time the hole was deep enough, the sun had dipped behind the mountains, casting long shadows over the forest. Frank lowered the hunter’s body into the grave, his arms aching from the effort.
When it was done, he stood over the freshly turned earth, the dog sitting quietly beside him. "Rest easy," Frank whispered, wiping the sweat from his brow. The dog whined softly, nudging the grave with its nose.
After what felt like an eternity of shoveling, Frank leaned heavily on the rusted handle, sweat mingling with the bitter cold that gnawed at his skin. The grave was finally deep enough. His muscles burned from the strain, especially in his shoulders and arms, and his breath came in ragged bursts, misting in the air.
With a groan, he lowered the hunter’s body into the earth, the dog standing nearby, watching silently with mournful eyes. Frank patted the freshly turned soil, feeling a strange sense of completion. It wasn't a grand burial, but it was the best he could offer in this world.
As he wiped the dirt from his hands and stood up, a familiar chime echoed in his mind. It wasn’t the wind, nor was it something in the distance. It was that unmistakable sound he’d heard thousands of times before, during his hours in Skyrim.
A soft golden glow flickered in front of him, and then, without warning, a message appeared in the air, suspended as though it were part of the very sky itself.
[Two-Handed Increased to 16]
Frank blinked, momentarily dumbfounded. "Wait... what?" he muttered, staring at the glowing notification.
It wasn’t just the words. He could feel it, too—an odd sense of progress, like his muscles had learned something from all the digging, even though it was nothing like swinging a battle-axe. His body felt... stronger.
Before he could fully grasp the implications, another small chime followed, and a bar flared up in front of him, hovering faintly above the snow-covered ground. The thin, silver experience bar crawled to about a third of the way full, accompanied by another notification.
[Level 1]
He let out a soft, incredulous laugh. "No way..." Frank muttered, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "Does digging a grave help me level up?"
He looked around, half expecting someone or something to leap out at him, but the forest remained eerily quiet, save for the occasional rustling of wind through the trees. The notification slowly faded, leaving behind only the cold, the dog, and his thoughts.
Frank chuckled to himself, shaking his head. "Of course. It wouldn’t be Skyrim without random skill-ups for the weirdest things." He flexed his arms, feeling the subtle strength coursing through his muscles. Though it was small, the increase was real. And it was another reminder that he wasn’t in a mere simulation.
As the dog whined softly beside him, Frank sighed. He crouched down next to the dog and ruffled its fur. "Well, buddy, I guess burying your owner wasn't for nothing after all."
The dog wagged its tail slightly, as if acknowledging the strange situation they found themselves in.
Frank straightened up, pulling the warm tunic tighter around his body as he glanced once more at the grave. "Rest easy, man," he whispered to the fallen hunter.
"Alright," he said softly, feeling the slight weight of progress settle on his shoulders. He walked inside, shuting close the door. And as the night fell over the wilds of Skyrim, Frank pulled a warm blanket on his shoulders, grateful for the comfort. He then sat on the bed leaning against the wooden wall. He patted the dog, as his eyes fell on the letter.
"Come on, buddy," he said softly and the dog leapt upon the bed, curling into a sizable ball.
Frank unfolded the letter, its edges worn and yellowed. He narrowed his eyes, witnessing that he no longer suffered from myopia. Excited, he began reading. The words were scrawled in a shaky handwriting style.
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Dearest Robert,
I can no longer bear this emptiness that surrounds us. You are a good man, but I feel I must seek love elsewhere. I am leaving, and though my heart aches to do so, I must seek a life where I can be fulfilled—where I can raise a family. The child we lost still haunts me, and I cannot live in the shadow of what could have been. I will take the memories with me, but I cannot stay.
Please understand, this is not your fault. I hope one day you find someone who can love you the way you deserve.
With love, Lydia
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As Frank finished reading, a wave of sadness washed over him. He looked at the doll in his hand. It was a simple wooden figure and yet it felt heavy with unspoken emotions. He imagined the same happening to him and Cynthia and felt a pang of agony grabbing his guts. He sighed and let out a long held breath, as realization hit him. He was so far away from Cynthia now, that these thoughts made no sense at all.
Suddenly, another familiar chime resonated in the air, drawing Frank's attention. A new notification appeared before him, glowing softly against the wooden backdrop.
[New Quest: A Doll’s Return]
Objective: Deliver the child’s doll to Lydia, Robert’s ex-wife, and inform her of Robert’s passing.
Quest Details:
* Locate Lydia in Ivarstead to provide closure for Robert’s soul.
* Bring the loyal dog, Matt, to comfort them in their grief.
Rewards:
* Experience Points
* Potential Items: "Lydia’s Token"
* Unknown.
Frank’s heart raced as he read the quest details. This was more than just a task; it felt like a mission to bring closure to a tragic story. He glanced at the dog, who was still sitting curled on the bed; his muzzle was wet. Is he crying?, Frank thought. The dog’s head tilted slightly as if it understood the weight of the moment.
“Looks like we have a job to do, buddy,” Frank said, trying to lighten the mood despite the heaviness in his chest. “We need to find Lydia and let her know what happened. It’s the least we can do for Robert.”
He looked down at the doll again. “This belonged to their child… or maybe it was just a reminder of what could have been. Either way, we have to make sure it gets back to her.”
The dog let out a soft whine, and Frank inhaled deeply. “First, we need to rest,” he murmured, glancing around the dimly lit hut. “Then we can figure out where to find her.”