I was descending the stone steps of Dibella's temple, and each step reverberated through my body like a strike on a taut string—heavy, real, without the slightest hint of VR artifice. The wind from Whiterun's plains tugged at the edges of my tunic, the fabric sliding over my skin, reminding me: this is not a game. Gravel crunched under my boots, tiny stones clinging to the soles, and the air was thick with smells—hearth smoke, damp earth, the sweet petals that had fallen along the temple path. I stopped on the terrace, my heart still pounding like after a long run.
Whiterun sprawled below—not a few game-model houses, but a real city, with a maze of streets, uneven roofs, and smoke curling freely with the wind, not dictated by an algorithm. The mountains on the horizon, illuminated by the morning sun, seemed so close that I wanted to reach out and touch them.
Before moving further, I noticed a marble bowl at the terrace edge, water trembling within it, reflecting the sky and a fragment of my face. I leaned closer, studying it. It was me—and not me. No longer Andrew, but not fully Mikael either. The face looked fifteen years younger and had slightly sharp, almost rough features: cheekbones like blades, a broader chin with a firm stubble, like a true warrior, not a programmer from a warm office. The eyes were the same, cloudy gray-blue. I ran my hand through my hair—it had become a thick, golden mane falling over my shoulders, wild and alive, like a Nord from the ancient sagas. My body had shifted too: shoulders broader, muscles denser, like someone accustomed to the roads, not an office chair. I had never been ugly, but now I was truly handsome.
Straightening up, I took a deep breath. "Sanguine," I thought, smirking, "you really had fun designing this avatar. Thanks for the upgrade. But what about my inventory?"
I reached into the folds of my tunic, into the belt pouch, hoping for a miracle. Maybe there'd be a dagger, a few septims, or at least a scroll? Nothing. I had only the basket from Dibella's priestesses: a piece of bread, a flask of water, and a note with addresses. No lute either, and I chuckled inwardly: "A bard without an instrument? Looks like singing will have to wait." But inside, a familiar feeling stirred—the same one that in my youth made me wander across Skyrim's snowy passes, listening to the snow creak and the wind howl. Adventure was calling, and I wasn't going to resist.
I wondered—had Alduin appeared in this world yet? Apparently, I wasn't the Dragonborn, and that lizard would surely give me trouble. Or maybe not… But planning was premature; I had not a septim in my pocket and no relevant information. Who even said I arrived during the fifth game's canon? Maybe the Second Era? Or the future? I didn't want to jump into history with Alduin. Dragonborn or not, I wasn't sure I could handle what my game avatar managed. But we'll see—problems are to be solved as they come. If the road led me somewhere else, I could always live as a bard in taverns—or palaces, if lucky. First, I needed an instrument. A good one surely didn't cost twenty septims like in the game. So, step one: find some money for the beginning.
Whiterun was enormous—not a compact set piece, but a living city, with streets winding like rivers in a delta, and houses huddled together like old friends sharing warmth. Roofs were moss-covered, shutters crooked from age, window sills adorned with flowerpots—scarlet and blue. The air smelled of fresh bread from bakeries, wet earth after rain, horse sweat from stables, and something sharp like iron from the smithy. People bustled everywhere: Nords in wool cloaks, Imperials with neat beards, rare Bosmers with sharp cheekbones and predatory gazes. Children ran with wooden swords, shouting nonsense like, "I'm a dragon slayer!" Market vendors called, "Honey from Riften! Sweet as a maiden's gaze!" A girl with a basket of apples caught my eye and smiled, tucking a stray strand of chestnut hair behind her ear.
"Hey, traveler, you look lost," she said, her voice soft, with a slight huskiness, like a real Nord used to the winds. "Looking for something? Or just enjoying the view?"
I smiled, feeling her eyes studying me.
"Yes, a little lost. I'm looking for the 'Bannered Mare.' Can you point me the way?"
She laughed, tossing her braid over her shoulder.
"Of course! Everyone in Whiterun knows where that is. Walk down this alley past the smithy—you'll hear the hammer. Turn right, you'll see the horse sign. And if you still get lost…" She winked, leaning closer, and I caught the scent of apples and fresh bread, "…come back to the market. I'll be here until sunset; I can personally guide you. Newbies like you always find adventures in Whiterun."
"Thanks," I replied, winking. "Maybe I'll return. For the apples."
She giggled.
"For the apples or for the company? Good luck, golden-maned one!"
I left, slightly amused—people in this world spoke plainly, without pretense or restraint, and it was invigorating.
Finding the Bannered Mare wasn't immediate—I had to weave through alleyways until I saw the sign: wooden, roughly painted horse under a banner, creaking in the wind. The tavern stood in the lower district, sturdy as a Nord shield, with log walls and a straw roof darkened by rain. From the half-open door came laughter, the clink of mugs, and the smell of roasted meat with sage and rosemary. I pushed the door open, and the hearth's warmth enveloped me like a cozy cloak. Inside was crowded: a long hall with soot-stained beams, a central hearth with crackling logs casting reddish reflections on dozens of faces. Rough wooden tables were filled with clay jugs, bread, and meat. Behind the bar was Hulda—similar to her NPC version but young, with chestnut hair braided tightly, and eyes that saw everything and missed nothing. She was polishing a mug, chatting with an elderly Nord whose beard resembled a broom. A young waitress, about twenty, freckled and blonde, carried ale, deftly dodging drunk hands. Her name was Ingrid—I caught it in conversation. She gave me a curious glance, holding it a fraction too long, smiling as if asking, "Who are you?"
I approached the bar, trying to appear confident, though, honestly, I felt suddenly exposed.
"Good day. I'm Mikael, new here in Whiterun. Looking for work—anything where hands and head are useful. I'm technically a bard, but I can't play—robbed, everything taken, including my instrument. So I need something." I decided to introduce myself with my avatar's name. If changing worlds, body, and lifestyle, the name should change too. Andrew remained in the previous world; here, I was Mikael.
Hulda looked up from her mug, squinting, scanning me head to toe.
"New, you say? I figured—you're one of those who sings for a piece of meat and a bottle of wine. But without a lute… hmm. Well, traveler, there's always work. You look tired—just arrived? Sit, have an ale, I'll treat you to a mug, then we'll talk. What can you do? Fight? Gather herbs? Or just talk?"
I sat on a chair, taking the half-filled mug.
"A bit of everything. But right now, I'll do anything—I need to earn food, maybe weapons."
"Good. I have a couple of jobs. For now… relax. Everyone here is friendly." She nodded.
The ale was excellent. I had never liked it much before, preferring filtered light beers, but local ale could not be compared to the chemical slop from my world. While sipping, I met the gaze of a woman at a nearby table. Uthgerd the Unbroken—I recognized her instantly, though younger than in the game: nearly unscarred face, only one thin mark on her cheekbone, slightly messy blonde hair falling over her shoulders. She held a mug, staring into the fire, but turned when she caught my look. Her gray eyes sparkled with challenge.
"Hey, you," she said, low and husky. "You look like you can handle yourself. How about a little wager? One hundred septims I'll knock you down in a fistfight."
I froze, then smiled—everything was going as it should.
"One hundred septims? Tempting. Rules?"
"No weapons, no magic. Just fists."
She leaned back, smirking, her armor creaking.
"Exactly. Only fists. Win—money's yours. Lose—you pay me. Agreed? Or afraid of a real Nord?"
"You're provoking me," I said, adrenaline surging. "Fine. But outdoors—don't want to ruin Hulda's furniture."
She stood, eyes blazing.
"Ha, a bold one. Let's go, traveler. Show me what you've got."
We stepped into the courtyard—narrow, strewn with straw, barrels along the walls. Patrons followed, forming a circle. Ingrid stood in the doorway, arms crossed, freckles bright against the dark frame.
"Don't break his face, Uthgerd!" she shouted. "He's a real looker—would be a shame."
Uthgerd dropped her cloak, left in light armor accentuating her strong yet feminine figure. Hair slightly tousled, excitement gleaming in her eyes.
"Ready?" she asked, fists clenched. "You first, traveler. Show me."
I nodded, feeling my body respond—stronger than I expected, unsure if fully ready. Stepping forward, I swung—hit her shoulder, she didn't flinch.
"Weak," she scoffed, punching my jaw like a smith's hammer. "Come on! Or you just watch?"
Pain exploded in my head, the world wobbled, ears ringing. Crowd roared. I stepped back, regrouped, swung at her side, putting my weight into it. She winced, then countered—fist into my chest, knocking the air out.
"Not bad," she panted. "For a newbie. But I've seen better. Now hit properly!"
I staggered, gasping, tried a counter—jaw, stomach—but she was a rock. Her eyes sparkled with excitement, observing my movements, how I gritted my teeth after each blow.
"You twitch like a puppy," she teased. "But you've got fire. Again!"
"Aim better!" she shouted, dodging my next swing. Her fist found my jaw again—I fell to my knees, straw pricking my palms. Crowd cheered. Uthgerd grabbed my tunic, lifting me against a barrel. Her face so close I felt her warm breath, honey and skin scent.
"Give up?" she whispered, playfully. "Or continue? You fought better than I expected."
"Yeah… you win," I exhaled, jaw throbbing, but her proximity distracted me more.
Crowd applauded. Ingrid called:
"Good fight! Uthgerd, not too hard on him?"
Uthgerd released me, hand lingering slightly on my chest.
"Not bad. But I still won. Pay up—one hundred septims."
I spread my hands, catching my breath.
"I have none. Robbed on the way to town. Everything taken. Honestly didn't expect to lose so easily."
Her face darkened, eyes narrowing.
"What? You accepted a wager with empty pockets? Cheated me?" She stepped closer, fists clenched. "I don't like that. Pay, or…"
The crowd fell silent. I braced. But she paused, gaze softening, tracing my hair and cheek bruise. Exhaled, cheeks tinged pink.
"Alright… this time I forgive. You fought fairly, didn't chicken out. Pay when you have money. You… don't look like a liar. Just don't make wagers with empty pouches. Now… sit, drink with me. Tell me where you came from with that golden mane."
She patted my shoulder—firmly, warmly—and added softly:
"Maybe we'll train again. I'll coach you. You're fine."
I returned to the tavern, rubbing my jaw. Ingrid rushed with a cloth, damp with cold water.
"Oh, poor thing," she giggled, pressing it to my bruise. "Uthgerd rarely shows mercy. She likes you, huh? Looked at you like sweet honey. Press harder, or you'll swell, and the market girls won't recognize you."
"Thanks, Ingrid," I smiled. "Always this caring for travelers?"
She winked, freckles dancing in candlelight.
"Only for charming travelers. Where from? Not Whiterun, for sure."
"Long story," I replied. "Maybe later, over an ale?"
"Now about work," I said to Hulda, ignoring Ingrid. "Anything? I need to earn, ready for anything reasonable."
Hulda nodded, tapping fingers on the bar, scanning the hall where a pair of Nords were raising their voices.
"Yarl's steward has a job. Recently, wolf-men started attacking farms outside town. Kid dragged off. Pack about ten, maybe more. Kill at least five, bring skins—Avenicci pays 300 septims. Kill all of them—maybe 500. But you're unarmed… and don't look like a hunter."
"I'll help," Uthgerd said, returning with an old iron dagger and battered bow. "Take it, traveler. I'll go too. Don't want wolves eating you day one. After that fight… a shame if you died. And maybe you'll sing if you find a lute."
Her eyes softened, adjusting her armor strap.
"Tell me on the way—where from? Why unarmed?"
Hulda smirked.
"Another: Arcadia from 'Arcadia's Cauldron' needs herbs—fireflower and mountain flower, hundred each. She can't go because of wolves. Gather them—100 septims. Be careful, wolves are sly as foxes."
I took the dagger, feeling its cold weight. Not bad, unsure how it'd help against wolves, but we'll see. Maybe find a sturdy rope, make an improvised spear—good for a beginner. One fight should do. Coins should follow. I abandoned the bow—I couldn't use it. All my experience ended in childhood with a toy plastic one.
"I'll do it," I said, looking at Uthgerd. "Thanks, just in time. Didn't expect kindness after missing those hundred septims. Promise—once we get payment for the wolves, I'll return everything. And once I buy a lute, first song is yours. Ready?"
She nodded.
"Let's go. Don't lag behind, golden-haired."
The city outside buzzed with life; ahead awaited wolves, herbs, and other adventures.
"Tell me about yourself, traveler," Uthgerd said, once we were outside, her voice softer than in the tavern.
"Where to start? Maybe how I ended up lute-less?" I answered, and she laughed.
"Start at the beginning. The road is long."