The air was thick. Not just swamp-thick, not just fog-and-mosquitoes thick. It was something else. Something heavy that pressed into my chest the second I set foot deeper into Morthal.
In the game, this place had always been… unsettling, yeah. But it was manageable. You came here, picked up the quest about a burned house, solved the mystery, done. Nothing beyond that.
But here? Standing in the real Morthal, in this Skyrim-that-wasn't-my-Skyrim, it felt worse. Different.
The whole town seemed to sag. The houses leaned crooked on their stilts, planks warped from damp and time, and the fog wasn't just rolling through—it clung, refusing to move. The lanterns swayed faintly in the breeze, but the light didn't reach far. Every shadow lingered. Every whisper carried.
Meridia walked beside me, her head high, her golden eyes scanning everything. Her presence alone cut through some of the unease, but it didn't erase it.
I caught sight of a man watching from one of the porches. His eyes were hollow, cheeks gaunt. When he noticed me looking, he didn't wave or nod or greet. He just vanished back inside, shutters closing.
"Friendly bunch," I muttered.
Meridia's lips curled, but not in humor. "This place is choked by despair. I warned you, mortal. Darkness seeps through the cracks here. The people are hollow shells."
Her words rang truer with every step. The few townsfolk I passed had the same look—tired, worn, haunted. Like they weren't just living here. Like something was feeding on them.
In the distance, I heard coughing. A child crying. Then silence, smothered too quick.
It didn't feel like a quest hub. It felt like walking into a grave that hadn't realized it was buried yet.
The inn stood crooked at the center of the town, its sign swaying faintly in the mist. The moment I stepped inside, the smell hit me—damp wood, stale ale, smoke. A few locals hunched over their mugs, shoulders curled in on themselves. The chatter I expected? Gone. Just whispers, low and uneven, like they were afraid to speak too loud in case something heard them.
The innkeeper glanced up, her face pale and drawn. She forced a smile that never touched her eyes. "Rooms are open. Take one if you've got the coin."
Her gaze flicked past me to Meridia, and her smile faltered. Just for a second. Like she saw something in Meridia that scared her more than it should have.
Meridia ignored her completely, already moving to a table, seating herself like she owned the place. Which, knowing her, she probably thought she did.
I paid for a room, slipping a few coins across the counter, and the innkeeper took them with shaky fingers. She didn't say "enjoy your stay." Didn't say anything at all.
When I joined Meridia, she was watching the locals with sharp eyes. "They are husks. Something festers here."
"Yeah," I muttered, lowering my voice. "Doesn't feel like the Morthal I knew."
Her gaze flicked to me. "Because this is not your game, mortal. This is reality. Do not forget."
The words hit harder than I wanted them to.
That night, lying in the small bed upstairs, I couldn't sleep. The swamp sounds outside were bad enough—frogs croaking, water dripping, wind howling through the gaps. But it was more than that.
It was the silence between sounds. The way the shadows in the corners of the room seemed to shift when I wasn't looking. The way my chest felt heavy, like the air was pushing down on me.
I rolled onto my side, staring at the wooden wall, and muttered under my breath, "Why here? Why does this place feel so much worse than it should?"
From the other bed, Meridia's voice came sharp, unyielding. "Because corruption festers unchecked. The people of this town are prey to something greater. And now that you've stepped into their mire, you will see it for yourself."
I turned my head toward her. Even in the dim light, I could see her sitting upright, arms crossed, eyes glowing faintly like embers in the dark. She didn't look tired. She didn't even look human.
"Great," I whispered. "Exactly what I needed."
Her lips curved into the faintest smirk. "Do not falter now, mortal. You wished for purpose in this world. Purpose rarely comes without dread."
I lay back, staring at the ceiling beams. Outside, the mist pressed harder against the shutters, and for the first time since I'd arrived in Skyrim, I wondered if I should've turned back.
Because Morthal wasn't just eerie. It was wrong. And tomorrow, I had a feeling I'd find out exactly why.