In 2040, the gaming industry didn't just step forward—it somersaulted, knelt before the audience, and, spreading its arms, declared: "Surprise! Now it's all real."
That day, an already gray-haired Todd Howard stood on the stage of a virtual convention center, more like a temple of the future: glass domes that seemed to gather sunlight from around the planet, cascading glowing panels reflecting the audience avatars—from sharp business suits to cosmic chimeras. His voice, familiar to millions since the early 2000s, sounded confident and warm:
— Ladies and gentlemen… Skyrim Epic VRMMORPG Edition. This isn't a remake. This is a world where you can live. Live for real.
He smiled that trademark smile of someone who once promised, "It will work, and you'll love it"—and hit the mark again.
At the same time, social media erupted with cheers, and algorithms stood in honor guard: #EpicSkyrim, #AreYouSerious, #SkyrimAgain—and, of course, a thousand variations on "This time I'm definitely buying the capsule."
The new standard VR capsules resembled the escape pods from sci-fi movies of the past: glossy white shells with soft contour lights, cable conduits along spine-like brackets at the back, a transparent lid with anti-glare coating, full noise isolation. The control panel was thin as a blade, and the camera eyes—large, kind, and attentive. In commercials, models in business suits smiled and lay inside as if in a cozy bath, then "woke up" in other worlds, squinting against Skyrim's snowy sun and slinging a hunting bow over their shoulders.
Doctors argued with esports pros in live streams: "Is it safe to fully disconnect the body?", "Where's the line between therapy and addiction?" TV producers were jealous. Developers of other VR projects pursed their lips and prepared patches. The world changed a little.
I, Andrew C., middle-aged, a software engineer at a respectable city company, approached my capsule not like a child before a gift, but like a host greeting an old friend who visits once a week—and whom you're always happy to see.
My apartment was modest and tidy: a concrete ceiling with traces of plaster, worn parquet; in the kitchen—a coffee machine too clever to just make coffee, too proud to stay quiet in the morning; on the wall opposite the sofa—neatly hung guitars: an electric guitar with a scratch on the body, an acoustic with rich wood grains, a small "travel" ukulele I occasionally played with.
In the corner of the room stood the VR capsule, massive, like a thing from the future that somehow ended up in my small apartments. In the dark, its glossy side breathed softly with blue indicators.
I loved Skyrim as a childhood memory. In 2011, I could wander for hours through snow-covered passes, deep caves, and dark forests, and on the dullest day, thinking, "Tonight—Skyrim" made it somehow easier. I had grown up, changed three jobs, traveled half the world, almost married once, started a garage rock band with friends—and yet that boyish enthusiasm, always calling me to adventure, stayed in my heart.
The capsule wasn't bought for the trend. More to check if the way back to that world, where simple things—a lute's sound, the creak of tavern doors, and after a quest, the dark nights of caves—somehow healed, was still there. But I rarely played: "Forty isn't seventeen," I joked to myself. Work ate attention, rehearsals took evenings, and in free hours, I often picked up my acoustic rather than dive into VR's depths.
On a Friday evening, when the capital smelled of a coming storm and the kettle whistled cozily in the kitchen, my friend Simon called. Simon was the kind who, in 2040, had given his entire free time to VR: more streams than sleep; more capsule than daylight. Through the headset, I could hear laughter and clinking mugs (virtual, but sounding alive).
— Andrew! — Simon shouted so loud that the noise suppression whined. — You hear? We're opening!
— What?
— The guild! "Dragon Shadows." We're having a massive festival. Stage, tents, fireworks, tournaments. I need a bard for the main stage. You. Tavern songs first, then your originals.
— Simon, — I smiled, — I yell in the garage with a guitar. That's not the same as performing in Whiterun in front of a thousand eager Nords.
— You're not yelling, you're leading. That's the difference. And who says Nords don't like rock? You know Skyrim by heart! "Ragnar the Red", "The Age of Aggression"—sing them right and you'll wake half the neighborhood, everyone will join in. Then your ballad, and a few cheerful ones. Come on, don't chicken out.
I looked at the capsule. At the guitar. Back at the capsule. At the kitchen, where the kettle still whistled and a coffee-stained mug hadn't been washed. At the street, reflecting lamplights in puddles. Something clicked inside.
— Alright, — I said. — But you're in charge of stage and sound.
— Of course! Be ready at eight. Coordinates will be in the mail. Stage at Dragon's Reach. And wear something… bard-like. They just got a new costume catalog.
Eight p.m. The capsule lid closed softly, the soundproofing whispered in my ears, the control panel lit up with warm, rounded icons. Neuro-sensors hugged my temples with a chill; a faint ozone scent—and deep in my stomach, a mix of light anxiety and familiar impatience: "Here we go again…"
The first breath—and I was no longer in the apartment. I stood on Whiterun's stone square, wind running across the cobblestones, carrying with it curled dead leaves. The sky was like a thin blue blanket. Dragonsreach, like a ship planted on the mountain, proudly loomed over the city.
The Dragon Shadows festival was already in full swing, spinning like a carousel: tents with colorful banners, guild-emblazoned tapestries, mead stalls with barrels frothing temptingly, braziers smelling of meat and sage, shops with leather pouches, earrings, and ribbons; quest markers fluttering like playful butterflies at building corners. NPC merchants shouted, "Today only!" Players acted as if at a real city festival: arguing tournament rules, dueling "to first blood, only magic," swearing eternal friendship and immediately forgetting Discord passwords.
The stage at the foot of the wide staircase to Dragonsreach drew a crowd. At the edges, vases with juniper branches released a spicy scent. On the microphone stand—of course with magic—hung a crystal orb amplifying the voice across the square.
Simon—tall Altmer archer with a perfectly straight profile—met me, now Mikael, the fair-haired Nord, handing me a lute with a glossy amber body:
— Five minutes. Ready? Don't forget your slight rasp, it's part of your voice.
— Taking care of my rasp, huh? — I smirked.
I didn't know how to play the lute well, only general principles—but the game had an AI assistant for that. The voice, though, was all mine.
Did I look like a bard? More like a man enjoying a costume that fit well: a soft dark-blue tunic with cuff embroidery, a belt with brass buckle, knee-high boots. Hair arranged slightly better than reality. Eyes truly alive.
I stepped onto the stage. Someone whistled; another wrote in chat: "Oh, a real bard, not NPC!" A small illusionary firework burst above the stage in golden fish shapes.
— Good evening, Whiterun. Since there are many of us, let's start with something everyone knows.
First, the classics: "Ragnar the Red" in a light manner, prompting sing-alongs. It didn't quote the lyrics word-for-word—unnecessary. The crowd clapped, laughed, tapped rhythms on mugs.
Next, "The Age of Aggression", with those refrains making true Nords feel something ancient, players nostalgic for dorm days singing in three voices, neighbors below pounding on ceilings.
Then—"Dragonborn Comes", magical fireflies lighting the square, the crowd singing as one organism.
With each song, I straightened, stopped thinking about appearances, and simply lived. The lute responded like a lover. My voice matched the city's rhythm. Scents of honey, roasted meat, and dry herbs teased my palate, making everything feel simple: here—the stage, there—the people, between—the sound.
Then I moved to originals. A ballad with northern motifs: long notes like wind through a crystal canyon, words about every Nord having a place to return to, even if just a corner by the hearth and a tall chair.
Next—a playful, almost mischievous song: an orc wooing an alchemist, mixing reagents, so that instead of compliments, bubbles flew from his mouth. The crowd roared. Chat exploded: "Bard, you killed me!", "Sell the track!", "Where are donations?" A female avatar with cat ears sent a private message: "If you keep singing, I won't leave the game tomorrow. Your fault." A flirty smile appeared.
NPC dancers spun at the stage edge—ribbons, flowing steps, similar faces. A nearby stall sold daisy wreaths (+charisma buff for an hour); half the girls in the crowd bought them. Two old Nord NPCs argued about who had more dishonorable magic—Imperials or damn Winterhold mages. The "damn mages" laughed, drowning in honey. I realized singing on such a square—the intimacy, the simplicity—was what I'd always missed. Not stadiums, fame, or heavy careers, but this: me and the people.
Getting ready for the last song, I noticed movement by the Dragonsreach stairs. Heads turned, air thickened, like pre-storm.
He walked lightly, predator-like. Nickname — Lord Sanguine. Daedric skin, could be bought for huge donation. But here, perfect: deep red, subtle glow in eyes, black horns curved like knives, slight tail shadow. His robe — between ceremonial and mantle: wide sleeves, lazy chest fold, subtle golden trim. He stopped near the stage, smiling without raising his head, like knowing the answer before the question.
— You sing well, bard, — he said. Velvet voice, soft echo. — The city listens to you alone.
Hmm. How much for that skin? I've seen expensive skins, but this one — special.
— Thanks, — I said. — Air itself sings tonight.
— Air always sings, — he replied. — The question is who hears it.
Eyes that one could lose themselves in, color hard to define. Reflected lights like deep cup of strong drink.
— Shall we drink? — Lord Sanguine offered a cup. — To new possibilities.
Cup thin silver, almost white. Edge engraved with rose, tiny symbol, shifting like fire reflection.
— You understand — in this version, a little more truth. Body feels when soul sings. Edges thinner. Sweeter, — playful smile. — Maybe now you won't just play a bard, you'll become one. Night, month… a lifetime. Who knows?
— In the quest "A night to remember," — I said, — I was offered a drink once. Woke in Dibella's temple, apologized a lot.
— Today you drink — with me. Don't chicken out. And no one drags you to Rorikstead to herd goats. Unless you want to.
Tone made me smile: reference too precise for ordinary player.
I took the cup. Liquid warm, smelled unlike real-life wine, honey, or spices. More like nights after concert, narrow alley, wet stone, soft laughter, deciding whether to go home or stay. Sip. Second. Slight citrus bitterness on tongue.
— To new possibilities, — he repeated, clinking the edge. — And for you to feel them.
We talked ten minutes more — music, city changes at night, sometimes people in-game more honest than reality, sometimes the opposite. Then I asked:
— How much did your skin cost?
— Sometimes good isn't paid in gold, — he said softly.
A small tray of snacks appeared: transparent slices like spiced dried fruits. Taste perfectly rendered — made me want to laugh with pleasure.
He nodded to the stage:
— One song for everyone, one for yourself. Don't mix them up.
Smiled, vanished in the crowd. I caught rhythm, claps, whistles, a strange anticipation inside — like jumping off a high board: scary, thrilling.
Festival rolled into warm, lazy night. Tents lit amber, shadows of dancers, laughter under awnings. Simon, proud to gather the server, patted me on shoulder, handed discount token, said:
— You made this festival. Let's go, fire show in half an hour.
— Let me check something first, — I said.
Opened menu, fingers on familiar interface zones. "Journal," "Settings," "Profile." But "Exit" spot — empty.
— Simon, — I called. — I think I caught a bug.
— Not the first. Server update — some temporary glitches. Restart the capsule?
— Checking logs…
Tried service menu. Combo every user who feared freeze knows. Nothing. Air thick, crowd sounds distant, like through glass.
Peripheral vision — white dot. Small, then grew fast.
— Joke? Not bad, but…
Dot expanded, burst white and warm like milk flash, silent. Everything else blurred for a moment. Like milk drowning the world.
Body responded like mis-tuned instrument: spine thump, ears blocked, chest hollow. Step — no floor. Breath — no air. Hands, legs — disappeared, like stored on a shelf.
"Panic — worst advisor," inner rationality laughed. "Count to ten: one, two, three…"
On "three," my heartbeat returned — heavy and loud. On "four," my hearing came back, though at first it was not sounds, just a warm, velvety hum. On "five," the scents hit me — so intense I jolted my eyes open.
I was lying on a stone. Cold, slightly damp. The air was thick with aromas so real I wanted to laugh: incense, not artificial, but a resinous trail; delicate petals of something sweet, maybe rose oil; and the purest water, like mountain springs.
Before me stood a statue. A topless girl holding a massive flower, her gaze soft and playful, yet the curves of her body were so perfect that even thinking of crude thoughts felt like sacrilege. Gilded trim adorned the pedestal, while colored sunlight streamed through stained glass, casting azure, pink, and honey-gold patches on the floor.
This temple of Dibella was no longer a set piece. It was alive. Echoes of bare feet, whispered prayers, the faint chime of silver on the altar, the rustle of fabric in the halls — all of it resonated. Columns rose like slender trees, carved with lilies; niches held tiny statues adorned with garlands of fresh flowers.
Across the room, a pool reflected the candlelight. From it came a cool, clean scent, and neat, wet footprints on the marble suggested someone had passed moments before, leaving faint crescent marks of their heels.
"He's awake," said a soft voice, gentle but sure.
"Let's go," another replied. "But don't rush. First, we understand."
I sat up, scanning the room. Priestesses in thin, dewy-like robes surrounded me, their outfits revealing more than they concealed, drawing the eye. Threads, ribbons, simple silver pendants adorned their hair.
The eldest approached. A stray lock of hair framed her temple, and somehow, that tiny imperfection made her feel more real.
"Traveler," she said. "You stumbled into our temple at night, when there should have been silence. You sang loudly, your songs full of… passion. You laughed, drank, and called the statue your bride. This is Dibella's temple. Here, we ask for beauty and carry it into the world, not… make a spectacle."
"I…" I croaked, my voice hoarse. "I… have a problem with the… exit button."
"The what?" the younger priestess asked, genuinely surprised.
"It's a long story," I muttered, automatically reaching for a menu. Nothing. Air remained air. No menus, no holograms. Only a candle trembled lightly.
The elder studied me, trying to decide if her instincts were wrong or if something extraordinary was happening.
"You drank with him?" she asked.
"With who?"
"With the one who loves wine, songs, and mischief. Who sometimes brings young people here to teach them how to truly live. Whose name I would rather not speak in this hall."
"Yes… I think so," I said. "Though at the time I thought he was a player in a very expensive outfit."
"He rarely asks what you think. He proposes. And you accept. And you find yourself exactly where you were meant to be, only afraid to go: a place your soul has long yearned for."
She gestured two young acolytes away. Their movements were ordinary, human — one tilted slightly on the edge of her foot, the other's lip twitched nervously — far from polished VR animation.
"We won't be harsh," the elder continued, "but rudeness in the temple — even playful — is not welcome. Still…" she smiled faintly, "I don't think you're a villain. You came with music. Music is the best apology when paired with action."
"I didn't plan to 'come,'" I admitted, thinking for the first time: if this is real, it's not VR.
My skin felt the air like cold water. My knees sensed the floor: smooth marble worn by years of footsteps. Incense wafted from burning resin, not a spray. Tiny ripples radiated from the pool, the ceiling light shimmered. VR doesn't do this — magnificent, yes, but never like this. Here, it was real.
The acolytes returned: one with a broad bowl, the other with a cloth and a basket smelling of bread. I drank the cool water slowly; each sip seemed to revive me, confirming this was real.
"You really called the statue your bride?" the younger asked, shyly.
"I…" I flushed, recalling fragments of the evening — laughter, a cup, strange phrases, and him, entirely self-satisfied. "Maybe I was… in a mood."
"Hm," the elder said. "Interesting. But that doesn't matter. Can you listen?"
"I think so."
"Tamriel is vast. Music isn't only on stages. It's in the roads, the grass, river rapids, taverns where wet cloaks smell of horse, and a stranger's laugh is unexpectedly pleasant. If you are truly a bard — in soul — go, sing, and learn."
A childish thrill rose in my chest: "May I? Really?" The outside world — dangerous, unpredictable, sharp — now seemed to call, just as a winter night once called me from a stairwell to the yard: "Let's go, see what's there."
I stood. Slightly stiff, like after a long rehearsal, but confident. Petals lined the path from the altar. Light flowed along it like honey, and the dust motes glinted like golden flakes.
Outside, the stone terrace opened onto the city — heavy, real: roofs, smoke, people, merchants' cries, children, pigeons, stairs, arches. In the distance loomed Dragon's Reach. Flags fluttered lazily on the fortress walls.
The sky was soft, deep suede. Smoke rose, mingling with the smells of bread, fish, and markets. A harp was tuned nearby; children laughed; footsteps ran down stairs, light and conversational.
At that moment, the childhood dream — where I had always been "there" — became reality.
The younger priestess appeared with a basket: bread, a small flask, and a rolled-up note.
"For the road," she said, lowering her gaze. "And forgive my frankness. I liked your singing. Next time — not on the altar."
"Not on the altar," I echoed, eyes drinking in her curves through the translucent fabric. "I promise."
I took the basket. The strap pulled pleasantly on my shoulder. The flask clinked, the note rustled — addresses: tavern, Companions' headquarters, Bard College.
The world itself was nudging me forward.
I stepped toward the stairs and suddenly remembered Sanguine's smile — too predatory for a player, too lazy for a random NPC.
I looked up at the deep blue sky."If you really…" I whispered. "Thank you for the push."
The wind caught my words, carrying them down a side street. Somewhere, someone laughed — warm, playful, like a feather on a wrist, not cruel.
I descended. The market square shimmered with lights. A girl with a ribbon twirled near a stall, her laugh a delicate bell. The blacksmith tossed coal. A child "roared" at a wooden dragon so convincingly even adults smiled. The city lived. The night promised to be long. Music — would continue. Adventures — didn't care if I was ready.
On the temple steps, I shook off the chill like someone leaving warm water for the wind. Gravel ground softly under my boots.
And I went. For the first time in years, I didn't feel like hiding from the world. I was stepping into it.
This time — without an "exit" button.This time — truly.