Vanilla Start - You were caught crossing the border illegally.

"Such is the strange and twisted hand of fate," Mara's voice echoes within you once more.

Just as abruptly as your entry into this Universe, so too was your second reality-bending trip in as many minutes, the cell blurring out of sight as the weightless sensation of free-fall churns your stomach. On reflex, you squeeze your eyes shut in the face of this unpleasant sensation but it soon passes. Just as quickly, you feel a rough impact on your rear, jarring you back to reality to find yourself seated in a rickety, wooden cart rolling down a cobblestone road in the early winter hours in Skyrim.

"Hey! You're finally awake!"

You recognize that Scandinavian accent and familiar line from all your countless restarts in the game, though seeing Ralof in person was far more telling than any pixels or game engines could accomplish. His eyes were quite deep-set and sunken, suggesting that sleep has been eluding him for quite some time, and his windswept braided hair was askew and unkempt, caked with dirt and dried bits of blood, though you couldn't tell whether the specks were his or that of a fallen opponent. Wrinkles weathered his cheeks and brow, belying his numerous years as a proud, Nedic warrior, and his blue-dyed animal fur and leather armor, the standard uniform of Ulfric's Stormcloaks, was just as worn and faded as you'd expect from a veteran of many battles, and just like a warrior, he had the build to match.

"You were caught crossing the border, just like us! You and that thief over there."

This Nord, unlike Ralof, was much skinnier and slight, and not nearly as imposing. Said thief was dressed in bland and boring sack cloth to include a loose tunic and long, baggy trousers held up by a tied length of rope.

"Damn Stormcloaks, Empire was nice and lazy until you all came along."

It was at this point that you tune out the entirety of the conversation, sparing only a quick glance towards the bound and gagged form of Ulfric Stormcloak seated to your right. His outfit matched the dark blues of his soldiers, but was also accented with regal wolf pelts, spike studded leather boots, vambraces and shin guards, and an ornate steel cuirass carved with various symbols central to Nord folklore, including the Jagged Crown and a bear's head.

What followed was more or less how you expected. Ralof complained about the Empire being slaves to the High Elf Thalmor, the thief devolved into begging for mercy from the Divines as he realized his coming execution (if only he knew another sort of Divine was seated there with him), General Tulius announced his inevitable victory to a contingent of Thalmor soldiers who rode out on horse back to receive them, and the villagers of Helgen oggled the entourage of said General and his trophy in the form of the Stormcloak Rebellion's nigh insurmountable leader. Curiously, you note that the crowd is far more populous than how you recall in the game, your eyes scanning over a congregation easily numbering more than a hundred, and the size of Helgen much more befitting of an actual city from Medieval times. Before you knew it, the carriage rolled to a halt and you, along with three other wagons of rebels were corralled around the headsman's block as the Legionnaire Hadvar began calling out names from a list.

He was much younger than Ralof in comparison, easily appearing five or seven years his junior. Maybe he was a newer recruit in the Legion? Perhaps he simply hasn't seen as much battlefield action as his rebel counterparts? It certainly showed in his state of dress as his standard issue leather armor was polished to an impeccable shine, and the maroon tunic warn beneath showed absolutely no blemishes or dirt patches. This young man seemed to have been in garrison life for quite some time. Standing beside him was an Imperial officer whom you concluded was his superior, and superior she was with her commanding barks and dark, stern visage. Unlike her subordinate, she was clad in the steel armor of an Imperial Captain.

In that moment, her sharp amber eyes lock with your own, and you hold each other's gazes in rapt attention. She sneers in an attempt to intimidate you but you simply flash her a smirk in return, full faith and confidence in your powers to free you from the dismal fate of the prisoners around you. If she was at all bothered by your audacity, she refused to show it, especially after the thief whom you overheard was named Lokir suddenly made a break for the main gate. He hardly took five paces before he was slain by a volley of well-aimed arrows at the command of the unflinching Captain. Tough egg to crack, assuming she survived the inevitable arrival of a certain flying lizard. Perhaps you should intervene when that time comes? So lost you were in your thoughts that you scarcely notice Hadvar calling to you.

"Step forward, prisoner," he repeated for the third time, an edge to his normally calm voice. "Who are you?"

You give him a look of playful ignorance and shrug your shoulders.

"Some people call me the Space Cowboy, others call me the Gangster of Love, some even call me Maurice cause I speak of the pompitous of love," you quip without missing a beat.

You're met with blank stares, incredulous looks, and a penetrating glare from more than a few Legionaries. Hadvar appears to be at a loss of what to say until his superior officer steps in for him.

"Your name, Prisoner," she demands, expecting immediate compliance.

You can't help but grin in response.

"Okay fine. There are some who call me... Tim."

This appears to be enough to grind her patience into dust as she pinches the bridge of her nose in exasperation.

"Forget the list, Soldier. He goes to the block."

"As you say, Captain," Hadvar states with a nod of understanding, before turning to face you once more. "Not exactly the smartest of things you could've said given your situation, but at least now you'll die in your homeland, Kinsman."

Kinsman? So did that mean you were a Nord? You hardly took the chance to inspect yourself since you were so caught up in being in the game. You sure seemed built for it now that you put aside some time to look, with thick arms and a barrel chest to match. Of course there would be plenty more time to make a proper inspection once you had freed yourself from the execution line.

As a rough hand guides you to the block, you notice the distant roar of the coming storm echoing over the snow-capped mountains, and while you're **** to your knees to lay on the blood-soaked slab of marble awaiting the headsman's ax, a jet-black mass of scales, teeth, and leathery wings perches itself upon the tower overlooking the execution block with a resounding boom.

"Dragon!" you hear a villager cry in alarm.

Understatement of the year. Godly powers aside, you still had to admit that Alduin's grand entrance onto the scene made your bones shake. That fear was only magnified when his blood red eyes came to rest upon you, singling you out specifically amongst the panicking mortals. The seconds dragged on like hours as you stared back at the World Eater until he grows uninterested with the standoff and lets loose a mighty roar. His power barrels into you with unrelenting ****, bringing with it a churning storm of rock and fire.

With a surge of strength, you effortlessly snap your bindings apart and roll to the side mere moments before a blazing chunk of rubble buries itself into the Headsman's block, showering you with ash and dirt. Eyes narrowing, you glare up at the World Eater as he circles the village, shrugging off all manner of projectiles as they harmlessly bounced upon his armored hide, wondering if your power could eclipse his and bring him into the ground. Then again, it might be more beneficial to keep your true nature a secret for the time being. This was, after all, a Universe with other Deities and you doubted they would take kindly to a foreign God encroaching upon their territories.