The sky was still tinted with indigo when Gadriel opened his eyes. A faint line of gold touched the edge of the horizon, casting the first rays of morning over the still-sleeping world. The silence was deeper than any temple or battlefield. Peaceful. Honest.
He sat up beneath the broken archway, stretching his limbs and adjusting the folds of his cloak. His armor creaked faintly with the motion, a familiar sound now muffled beneath the dusty brown fabric. Gadriel took in a slow breath, held it, then let it go.
This place was still unfamiliar, but it no longer felt alien. It breathed differently than Skyrim. Lighter, warmer. The wind lacked the sting of mountain snow but carried the scent of dry grass, smoke, and life. He rose and packed his things, leaving behind no trace of his presence save for a faint imprint in the dirt.
He left the edge of the market without ceremony. There were no goodbyes to make, no eyes watching him go. Just the wind, the open steppe, and the slow rise of the sun behind his back.
With a steady pace and no destination, Gadriel began to walk.
By midmorning, the land had already shifted beneath his feet. The grasses grew taller here, in thick golden waves that whispered with each breeze. A few withered trees stood like forgotten watchmen, and insects buzzed lazily around their twisted branches.
As he moved, Gadriel pulled out a small leather-bound notebook from his satchel—something he'd kept since the days before Alduin's fall. He flipped past pages of ancient Shouts, rune translations, and scattered philosophical musings until he reached a blank sheet.
He paused, knelt in the tall grass, and began to write:
Day Five. West of trading post. Land remains dry but fertile. Vegetation sparse, hardy. No large predators sighted. People few, wary but not hostile.
He sketched a rough map from memory, marking the direction of the sun, the rise of hills, and the shape of a bird he did not recognize.
Sky clearer here. Stars alien. No moons match Nirn's. Still no trace of Aetherius. Unnerving. But quiet.
He closed the book and rose again, slipping it back into his pack. It gave him purpose, however small—a record. A witness to whatever this world became to him.
By midday, the grass gave way to dry, cracked earth. Dust coated his boots, and heat shimmered on the horizon. Yet Gadriel pressed forward without complaint. He walked for the sake of walking, each step a quiet act of rebellion against stagnation.
Eventually, the shimmer became something real: a glint of light on moving water.
He crested a ridge and found a narrow stream winding lazily between dry rocks and patches of moss. It wasn't much, but it was clean. Cold, even.
He knelt by the bank, cupping water into his hands. It tasted of minerals and mountain stone. Not unlike the rivers near Whiterun. He drank deeply, washing dust from his throat, then splashed water on his face and neck.
Satisfied, he stood and looked around. The stream bent near a cluster of trees—a rare bit of cover. Good sightlines, few approach routes. Quiet.
A good place to rest.
Gadriel spent the next hour gathering what he needed. He stripped bark for cordage, set up a windbreak of branches and hides, and pulled the rolled-up skins of a few deer and desert foxes from his pack. He had tanned them days before using traditional Nord techniques, though the heat of this land had dried them quickly.
With a bit of effort and more than a few improvisations, he erected a simple triangular tent, leaning the hides over a frame of curved branches and tying them down with braided grass. It wouldn't withstand a storm, but it would serve well enough for the night.
He started a small fire using flint and dry brush, then set a strip of salted meat over the coals. The scent was earthy and rich, mingling with the crackle of the flames.
As the sun sank low and the first stars emerged in the sky, Gadriel sat cross-legged by the fire, his cloak drawn tight around him. The heat of the day faded quickly, replaced by a creeping chill.
He pulled out his notebook again.
Camp made near stream. Water safe. Game plentiful. No signs of habitation nearby. One fox, two deer earlier today. Clean kills. Used skins for shelter. Food adequate.
He tapped the quill once against the edge of the book.
No voices. No summons. No signs of the divine. But I dream without fear. I wonder if that is a gift.
He closed the book and leaned back, resting his head against the fold of the tent.
The sky stretched wide above him, dark velvet speckled with unfamiliar stars. There was no constellation he recognized, no guiding moon to speak to him of home. But still, he did not feel alone.
He was beginning to understand something he hadn't allowed himself to before: that this exile was not punishment. It was not banishment. It was freedom.
He had been forged into a weapon by prophecy, honed by fate, aimed at Alduin like an arrow. And then… nothing. The bowstring slackened. The world forgot.
But here, there were no expectations. No scripts. No divine voices calling his name.
Just grass. Wind. Fire.
He smiled, faintly, and whispered aloud:
"Tomorrow, farther."
And with that, Gadriel Dovahkiin closed his eyes, and let the silence of this new world carry him into sleep.