On the fields of Sovngarde a rain of meteors crashed down upon three great heroes of old as they fought against the soul of the first dragon, Alduin the World Eater. For the second time in their long existences they raised their swords in defence of Mundus. But this time, as they faced the wrath of their ancient enemy, they felt the mighty dragon’s end approaching. For this time they fought alongside the Last Dragonborn, the great hero of his age: a naked Khajiit armed with a fork.
Simon slumped back in his chair after directing the anthropomorphic cat on the screen to slash his fork at the boss, a tired grin on his face. As Alduin’s death cries played through the speakers of his computer, he turned off the stopwatch on his second monitor.
16 hours and 37 minutes. Not his best time, but he was always slower when he tried out a new type of run. Having noted the time, he closed the timer and opened a spreadsheet, scrolling through the mess of tables until he reached the space he had made for Glitchless, Unarmoured, No Enchantment, Fork Only runs.
After shutting everything down, he got up and grimaced as he glanced at the clock. Caught up in the rush of finishing an unreasonably difficult playthrough, he’d gone quite a bit later than normal. He preferred not to go to work exhausted, but he thought he could squeeze in a short run and some beans on toast before going to bed.
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In the endless void beyond worlds a formless cloud of grey smoke, filled with tormented faces, turned towards a planet sized mass of tentacles and eyes. “This is your recommendation to replace the Chosen? Are you sure you haven’t been smoking the wrong kind of skooma, Hermaeus?”
A mountainous eyeball turned to look at the smoky cloud, managing to convey disdain despite lacking most of the facial features needed.
“He is…
“...
“...
“...
“...the best…
“...
“...
“...
“...available option.”
A thousand faces warped in confusion. “But he’s so… pathetic.”
A dozen eyes joined the first in disdain. “You look…
“...
“...
“...
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“...but do not see…
“...
“...
“...
“...Sheogorath. At his core…
“...
“...
“...
“...he is…
“...
“...
“...
“...suitable.”
A tendril of smoke stretched out to scrape across the fragile surface of the world before them. After a few moments, the Mad God’s many faces began to cackle and howl and gibber with laughter. “Oh,” he breathed, “oh yes. This will do nicely.”
“Very well, Sheogorath,” came a voice from the void itself, the sound uncomfortably similar to nails on a blackboard. “Then we shall begin.”
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Simon jolted awake. Sitting up, he looked around at the darkness of his bedroom. A frown formed on his face. Something was off. Something so subtle that he almost thought it was an illusion. It was too dark.
Through a crack in the curtains, he could see streetlights and stars and yet, as he watched, the shadows grew deeper and deeper. Mere moments after waking, he couldn’t see anything at all. On any other day Simon would have assumed it was a cloud and gone back to sleep. But, as he sat in the pitch black, he was filled with an inexplicable sense of dread.
Throwing off the covers, he stumbled and shivered his way over to the light switch, his frown growing as he felt the chill in the air. When the lights failed to come on an icy sliver of fear crawled its way up his spine.
“The fuse must have tripped,” he muttered to no one. “It’s just the fuse.”
Simon rubbed his hands together for warmth as he made his way into the hall, intending to seek out the fuse box. So distracted was he by the creeping darkness, that he didn’t notice how extreme the cold was becoming until his breath began to freeze on his lips.
When he did finally notice, his eyes widened and his heart pounded. True panic started to set in. He looked around only to discover that, in the absolute darkness, he could no longer tell which direction was which.
He reached out to find the walls. They weren’t there.
As he stood with his arms outstretched, frozen in shock and fear, the feeling of carpet beneath his feet shifted to something hard and smooth and bitterly cold. A chill rose up through his feet. In moments he lost all feeling below his ankles.
Simon began to run, pushing off the ground as hard as he could to maximise his time in the air. It was more than a little desperate, but stuck in a freezing, seemingly endless void with nothing but his underwear, all Simon could do was hope that some combination of exertion and time off the ground would keep him warm. That and pray that he wouldn’t suddenly rediscover his hallway wall.
The cold almost seemed to take offence at his efforts. The temperature began to fall faster and faster. In a handful of seconds he was running through mist as the cold started to affect the air itself. Simon’s breath came in short, shuddering gasps that felt like a thousand needles forcing their way into his chest.
The numbness in his feet spread rapidly up his legs, twisting through his veins as it crept ever higher. The cold sapped more and more of his strength, his run slowing to a jog, a walk, a jerky, shuddering stumble. Until finally, the numbness began to encroach on his lungs and heart. He fell.
And fell.
And fell.
He cried out in terror but, with the cold finally conquering his vital organs, he soon lost the strength for even that. As he died, cold, terrified and alone, his final breath came not as a scream but as the barest of whispers.