Frank stirred awake to the soft crackling of the fire. The wooden hut, modest and worn by time, held onto the heat from the dying embers of the night’s fire. His body felt stiff, but not in the same aching way it had when he first woke up in this strange world. After hunting and fishing, his muscles had toughened, but the soreness was a constant reminder of how real this place was.
Robert’s wolfhound lay curled up near the hearth, breathing softly. The firelight flickered across the dog’s dark fur. He’d grown used to the dog’s company; its loyalty was something of a balm in this wild, unpredictable land. For a moment, Frank just lay there, letting the peace settle over him.
Outside, the early morning sun filtered through the snow covered trees. It was one of those moments that could have been serene if not for the persistent weight in his chest—his thoughts drifted, unbidden, back to Earth. Back to Cynthia.
He sat up, running a hand through his short hair. Cynthia’s face flashed in his mind, vivid yet distant, a memory that felt like it belonged to another life—because it did. He wondered if she missed him, or if the world back home had simply moved on without him.
He sighed, shaking the thoughts away as he muttered to himself, “Get it together, Frank.”
With a grunt, he rose to his feet and began gathering his things, mentally preparing for the journey ahead. He’d leveled up after yesterday’s hunt, which was still a strange sensation to process. The awe inspiring, yet satisfying sound of leveling up still echoed in his mind—a phantom from the game days—but the physical benefits were real enough. He could feel it. His muscles were a little stronger, his body more vigorous. A faint smile tugged at his lips at the thought that he really was inside the game he loved. He ran his palm over his face and then mumbled. “I have to find coffee… or at least tea.”
He went on with his morning routine, and after getting a proper wash at the cold river waters, he dressed in Robert’s cleanest clothes, packed his inventory with some berries and baked potatoes. Frank also grabbed the few pelts he had managed to collect, storing them into his storage. They weren’t the best quality, but they’d fetch something at Ivarstead. The cooked venison had been preserved well enough, and it’d make a decent snack if he needed it. The rest he kept in his makeshift fridge outside, which he sealed with a heavy boulder on top in case an animal was curious about the contents of it.
He took a deep breath and began trodding down the path to town. The cold crisp air carrying the aroma of herbs and flowers filled his lungs and a surge of bliss coursed through his mind.
He then thought about yesterday’s adventure. That extra health boost had already saved his skin, and the small perk in Sneak made him feel more confident about keeping out of trouble. But there was still a long way to go. In the game, hitting level 2 was nothing. But here? It felt monumental.
As he walked he took out the letter. His eyes flicked to the piece of paper he had taken from the dead hunter’s body, a weight in his conscience that hadn’t quite lifted. He still wasn’t sure what he was walking into, delivering this letter, but he’d made the decision. He had to see it through.
The dog gave a low whine as if feeling his concerns.
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The path to Ivarstead was exactly as Frank remembered it. It twisted gently along the riverbank, passing through a sturdy-looking stone bridge. The trees were a brilliant array of autumn colors, their leaves a patchwork of gold, red, and brown, swaying lightly in the breeze. It was so much more alive than he could have imagined it from his screen. The scent of fresh pine and wet soil filled his lungs as he walked.
Yet, despite the beauty, there was a tension that coiled tight in his chest. His eyes constantly darted to the shadows between the trees, to the rustling bushes nearby. Skyrim’s wilderness was peaceful on the surface, but Frank knew better. This place could be deadly if you let your guard down for even a second.
The wolfhound padded along beside him, its keen senses alert, ears twitching at every sound. Frank could feel the presence of danger even if nothing immediate threatened him. His mind replayed scenarios from the game—bandits lying in wait, wolves ambushing from behind trees.
The dog suddenly froze, growling low. Frank’s heart skipped a beat as he instinctively crouched down, pulling the dog close and slipping into the bushes beside the path. “What is it boy?” he whispered.
A moment later, he saw them. Two figures in the familiar imperial armor, dragging a prisoner along the road. Frank’s breath caught in his throat, his pulse quickening. The Imperials. He hadn’t expected to see them this close to Ivarstead. Their red hued clothes and their armor glinted in the sunlight, and their prisoner—a battered, defiant Nord woman—stumbled as they yanked her forward. One of them held a lute in his hands. “Is she the bard from the Vilemyr Inn?” Frank thought, remembering the woman playing the lute at Ivarstead’s only inn. “What could she have done to be dragged like this?”
Frank’s fists clenched. Every instinct screamed at him to stay hidden, but another part of him wanted to help. He remembered fighting these guys in the game, remembered the satisfaction of taking them down—but here? This was different. They were real. And he was just one guy with a knife and a dog. No quick saves. No second chances. He didn’t want to choose sides after all, nor take part in the conflict.
The Imperials passed by, oblivious to Frank's presence in the underbrush, but the sight of the woman’s bruised arms and the way she defiantly spat at her captors gnawed at him.
“I can’t help her,” he told himself, feeling the weight of his decision settle in his gut. “I’m not strong enough. Not yet.”
His heart raced as the group moved further down the path, his muscles tense even as they disappeared from view. He stayed crouched for a few moments longer, the world around him eerily quiet once they were gone.
The dog nudged his leg, as if sensing his inner turmoil. Frank rubbed the back of his neck, sighing deeply. “I know, I know,” he muttered under his breath, finally standing up. “I should’ve done something, but...”
But what? Inaction, as well as action, had consequences. Real consequences.
With a heavy heart, he continued down the road.
----------------------------------------
Frank’s pace slowed as he crested a small hill, taking in the familiar sight. Ivarstead looked exactly as it did in the game: a quiet, rustic settlement nestled at the base of the Throat of the World, the towering mountain looming over the village like a protective wall. Smoke curled lazily from stone chimneys, the smell of burning wood and the faint aroma of cooking food drifting through the crisp air. Frank had everything he needed at his arm’s grasp. The warmth of the cozy, small village beckoned, but he couldn’t shake the tension tightening in his chest.
He shifted his pack, the wolfhound trotting at his side. Despite the serene surroundings, he could sense an unease here. The few villagers he spotted moved quickly through the streets, huddled together in groups, speaking in hushed tones. Frank caught snippets of conversation as he passed—whispers of patrols, the tensions between the Imperials and Stormcloaks, and, more unsettling, rumors of dragon sightings. Even in this idyllic place, the shadow of war and danger loomed large.
“... a puppet of the Thalmor,” a rough voice was heard talking in a hushed tone. Frank’s gaze shifted toward the source of it. An old Nordic man sat on a makeshift bench outside, what Frank supposed was his house, as he expressed his angst toward the Imperials and then spat on the ground.
Frank felt out of place, like an intruder in a world he knew too much about but not in the way the villagers did. His knowledge came from hundreds of hours spent in front of a screen, a version of this world where he could pause, reload, or save his progress. But here, every step felt precarious, every decision weighed with the gravity of real consequences.
As he neared the village’s center, his heart raced slightly. “This is it,” he thought. His first real interaction with the people of Skyrim was near. He had to play it smart, not reveal too much. The last thing he needed was to attract unnecessary attention.
Frank stopped outside the inn—the Vilemyr Inn, just as he remembered. The wooden sign creaked softly in the breeze, its letters worn but legible. Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The inn was dimly lit, with a fire roaring in the hearth and the smell of hearty stew filling the room. His heart raced when the warmth surged throughout his body. He almost felt some tears forming in his eyes. A few villagers sat at wooden tables, nursing drinks, their conversations quiet. The atmosphere was obviously gloomy. As Frank entered, their eyes flicked to him, a stranger, before quickly returning to their own business. He was relieved. He didn’t want to stand out.
Behind the counter, the innkeeper—an older man with graying hair and a weathered face—looked up from wiping a mug. His eyes narrowed slightly as he sized Frank up. Frank gave a small nod, approaching the bar. “Was his name Wilhelm?”, Frank thought before interacting with him.
“Morning,” he said, his voice polite but casual. He didn’t want to seem weak. “Name’s Frank. Been living in the woods for a few days. Thought I’d come in for a warm meal and maybe some information.”
The innkeeper raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking to the wolfhound at Frank’s side. “Welcome to the Vilemyr Inn, Frank. A hunter, are you?” His voice was gruff, and he seemed cautious, though not unfriendly.
“Something like that,” Frank replied, shifting his pack on his shoulder. “Found this dog out there, too. Been sticking with me ever since.” He smiled, hoping to disarm the innkeeper’s suspicion.
The man grunted, but his expression softened slightly. “Well, any friend of a good hound’s welcome here. Name’s Wilhelm. What can I do for you?”
“Ha, I knew it,” Frank exclaimed in his thoughts; a smirk forming on his lips.
Wilhelm eyed him quizzically, and Frank coughed while imposing a serious tone. “I’m looking for someone, actually. A hunter’s wife from the village. Found something of his…” He trailed off, not wanting to say too much too soon.
Wilhelm’s face grew serious. “Ah, I see. You’ll be wanting to speak to Lydia, then. Her husband went missing a while back. Poor woman’s been waiting for news.” His tone was somber, and Frank felt a pang of guilt twist in his gut.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“Thank you,” Frank said, his voice soft. He hesitated for a moment, then asked, “Any trouble around here? I’ve heard whispers about… patrols?”
Wilhelm’s expression darkened. “Aye, the war’s creeping closer. Imperials passing through, Stormcloak sympathizers hiding in the woods. And there’s been talk of…”, he said before leaning in to whisper to Frank, “dragons.” He glanced around as if saying the word might summon one. “It’s got the village on edge.”
Frank nodded, keeping his expression neutral, though inside he felt a flicker of unease. Dragons. He knew they were real here—he’d seen it all before—but hearing it spoken aloud was different.
“Thanks for the heads-up, Wilhelm,” Frank said, tossing the wolf pelt on the bar. “I want to exchange that for the meal you mentioned. And maybe a bottle of honey mead and a bit of bread for the road.”
Wilhelm gave a curt nod, studying the neatly folded pelt, while eyeing Frank. “Well preserved and expertly cut. Fine, I’ll get what you asked.”
Frank left the inn with a bottle of mead, and a warm loaf of bread tucked into his pack and made his way to Lydia’s house. It was a modest place, tucked near the edge of the village. His steps slowed as he approached, nerves gnawing at him. He wasn’t good with this kind of thing—comforting people, delivering bad news. It was so much easier when everything was just a quest, something you could complete and move on from with a click. But this… this was different.
He knocked lightly on the door. After a moment, it opened, revealing a Nordic woman in her late thirties. Her face was pale, with lines of worry etched deeply around her eyes. She looked at Frank with curiosity and a flicker of fear.
“Can I help you?” she asked, her voice wary but polite.
Frank cleared his throat, glancing down at the pack slung over his shoulder. “Are you Lydia?”
The woman nodded, her expression growing more guarded. She looked at the dog and her face frowned as if she recognized him.
“I… I found something,” Frank began, pulling the letter from his pack, his voice low. “It’s your… It’s Robert. I’m sorry.”
Lydia’s eyes widened. Her face crumpled as she took the letter from his hand, her fingers trembling. She clutched it to her chest, her eyes filling with tears even before reading it. Frank stood there, feeling awkward, not sure what to say. He wasn’t used to this kind of raw, human emotion.
“I found his… his body,” Frank continued, his voice halting. “And… this.” He reached into his pack again, pulling out the small child’s doll. The one he had found with the letter. Lydia gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as the tears spilled over.
“He… he kept it,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “For our baby.”
Frank didn’t know what to say. He shifted awkwardly, feeling the weight of the moment, the heaviness of her grief pressing down on him. After a few moments, Lydia wiped her eyes, and began reading the letter. Then she looked up at him with a mixture of sadness and gratitude.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “Thank you for bringing this back to me. It means more than you know.”
Frank nodded, and filled in with the details. Of how he buried his body and stayed at his hut to survive the cold. He then waited. “She could think I am the one that killed Robert,” he thought, still unsure of how to properly weave around the implications. She seemed to trust him though. “I know that I can trust you…”
“Frank,” he said.
She smiled. “Frank. you could have easily let his body be drifted by the current, and none would ever question you. Yet, you did the right thing, and even brought me these things. This is more than I could ever ask, but I have one more request.
“I wish I could give you more gold,” Lydia said, her voice trembling. “But this is all I have,” she said, giving him some gold coins. “And… Please, keep the dog. His name is Matt. He deserves someone who will care for him.”
Frank blinked, surprised by the sudden offer. He looked down at the dog, who wagged its tail, looking up at him with those soulful eyes.
“Matt, huh?” Frank murmured, crouching to pat the dog’s head. “Seems like a good name. And what about the hut?”
Lydia’s face straightened. “I will inform his brother Cedric, to come take care of it. He lives in Whiterun, and I suspect he won’t be here before the end of the month. So, you have a few more days there, I guess.”
Frank nodded, and accepted the gold and the dog feeling a little guilty about taking it, but Lydiainsisted. “You brought me peace,” she said softly. “That’s worth more than gold.”
As he left the house, the familiar sound of a quest completion rang in his ears.
[Quest Complete: A Doll’s Return]
[Speech: Increased to 16]
He blinked, surprised to see a small notification appear in the corner of his vision, along with a sum of gold now visible on his inventory screen: 30g.
Frank chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “So that’s how this works, huh?”
With Matt by his side, Frank walked away from the house, the sun shining down on them as they headed deeper into the village. For the first time since arriving in Skyrim, he felt… something close to peace.
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The door to the Vilemyr Inn creaked softly as Frank entered once again, the comforting warmth and scent of a hearth greeting him like an old friend. After the emotional weight of the encounter with the widow, the familiar hum of an inn full of people was a welcome change. The clink of mugs, the murmur of hushed conversations, and the occasional crackle of the fire filled the air, creating a sense of coziness that reminded Frank of simpler times.
He moved to a corner table, Matt—the wolfhound—settling loyally by his side. The dog was drawing a few curious glances from the patrons, but Frank paid them no mind. Instead, he waved over a serving girl and ordered ale. Nothing fancy, just a drink to sooth his spirits.
As he waited for his drink, he leaned back in his chair, taking in the inn’s atmosphere. It was different from the game. More... tangible. The wood felt rough beneath his fingers, the smell of smoke and mead was sharp in his nose, and the people—once mere NPCs in his mind—were real. They had lives, fears, and hopes that went far beyond scripted dialogue.
Frank’s thoughts drifted as he watched a group of men at the bar, their voices low but animated. Something about their body language caught his attention. With a glance at Matt, who seemed content to rest his head on his paws, Frank let his gaze drift.
His senses sharpened slightly, his breathing steadying as he focused on the conversations around him. His newly improved body wasn’t just about fighting; it was about blending in, about becoming adaptive. He caught the tail end of a conversation at the bar.
"... patrols in the area again," one man muttered, his voice low. "The Imperials arrested Lynly, Daren. I heard that she sang a forbidden song. Forbidden bullshit…"
The second man nodded, his brow furrowed. "It's getting worse, no doubt. And dragons… I've heard the stories. I never thought I'd live to see one, but now… people are saying they've seen ‘em."
Frank’s heart quickened at the mention of dragons. He knew the day would come, but hearing it spoken so casually made it all the more real.
Further along the room, another conversation caught his ear, this time between two older women. They whispered about food shortages, the rising tension between the Imperials and Stormcloaks, and the strain it was putting on villages like Ivarstead.
"Mark my words," one of them said gravely, "the war’s coming to us sooner or later. It’s only a matter of time before they start conscripting. My brother's already fled to the mountains, said he’d rather face the snow trolls than be caught between the Empire and Ulfric's rebellion."
Frank shifted in his seat, his mind swirling with the information he was gathering. The war wasn’t just background noise anymore—it was an ever-present threat. The people of Skyrim weren’t just talking about it; they were living it. And now he was, too.
When his ale arrived, frothing and hearty, Frank drank slowly, his thoughts heavy. The beverage was simple but satisfying, warming him from the inside out. He glanced down at Matt, who was staring at the bowl with hopeful eyes. Frank chuckled and tossed him a piece of bread, which the dog eagerly devoured.
As he continued to sip at his drink, his mind wandered to the weight of his decisions. In the game, everything felt light. He’d never cared much for the political landscape of Skyrim, choosing to skip dialogue and focus on dungeon delving or leveling up. But now… it was different. Every decision, every action felt heavier.
He glanced around the room once more, seeing the faces of people who had no idea how small their world once seemed to him.
The golden light of the setting sun bathed Ivarstead in a warm glow as Frank stepped out of the inn, his stomach full and his mind still heavy with thoughts. The village, though small, felt more alive than it ever had in the game. Children played in the fading light, and villagers were finishing their chores for the day, preparing to retreat to the warmth of their homes. Yet, underneath the peaceful scene, Frank could still sense the tension.
With Matt trotting happily beside him, Frank headed toward the edge of the village, wondering what his next move should be. He had no clear quest marker, no objective. Just the knowledge that if he wanted to survive—and thrive—he needed better gear, more experience, and a deeper understanding of this world’s complexities.
As if answering his unspoken thoughts, an older man approached him near the outskirts of Ivarstead. His eyes lingered on Matt, recognition flickering across his face.
“That dog…” the man said, his voice raspy. “He belonged to the hunter, didn’t he?”
Frank nodded. “Yeah, found him out in the wilds. His owner… didn’t make it.”
The man sighed, his face creased with sorrow. “A shame. He was a good man. I bet he delved into that cursed place” His gaze shifted to Frank. “If you’re heading out of the village, there’s something you should know. Just north of here, there’s an old Nordic ruin. Been abandoned for as long as I can remember, but there are stories. Treasure hidden deep within, guarded by the dead, they say. But, I urge you. Stay away.”
Frank’s heart skipped a beat. He remembered the ruin. A minor dungeon in the game, one he’d cleared more than once. But now, the idea of facing draugr, the ancient undead, sent a chill down his spine.
The old man continued. “It’s not worth your time. Be careful. The place is cursed.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Frank said, though his mind was already racing ahead. A dungeon. A chance for better loot, to level up, to gear up for the challenges ahead.
As the man wandered off, Frank glanced down at Matt. “Looks like we’ve got our next destination,” he said, scratching the dog behind the ears. The wolfhound wagged his tail in response, as if ready for the adventure ahead.
With Ivarstead behind him, Frank set out toward the hut. The path ahead was uncertain, filled with dangers he hadn’t truly faced yet. But with Matt by his side, a new goal in his heart, and the subtle weight of the gold in his pouch, he felt ready to face whatever Skyrim had in store for him.