I never wanted to be part of this.
From the moment Elan and Zavir exchanged glances, I knew my protests were pointless. No matter how much I refused, no matter how many excuses I tried to give, the two of them wouldn't hear me out. To their eyes, I wasn't some clueless outsider who had stumbled into Skyrim—I was a hardened adventurer.
They looked at me as if I'd fought countless battles, survived countless ambushes, and carried with me the experience of a seasoned warrior. Even the chipped edges of my sword seemed to reinforce that illusion. Every scar in the steel, every notch in the blade, convinced them further that I was someone who had faced death and returned stronger.
And the fact that I was still here, alive and breathing? To them, that was proof enough that I must be capable.
But I wasn't. I knew I wasn't.
Still, it was useless. I had been roped into this quest whether I wanted to or not. Part of me wondered if Meridia had a hand in all of this—her unseen influence pushing me along, forcing me into challenges so I could "level up" before I reached her temple. If that was true, then she had a cruel sense of humor.
Zavir clapped me on the back with a broad smile. "I'm glad to have you on board, Chad! With your help, I'm sure we can finish the job!"
I forced a smile, though inside I wanted to vanish from the room. I didn't have the confidence to face a gang of bandits, let alone some notorious figure called the Unseeing Bandit. Still, I found myself reluctantly nodding, muttering something about how I would "do my best."
Elan, clearly pleased, insisted that I stay at his inn free of charge as a token of gratitude. "Since you're part of this quest, you're free to use one of my rooms. Consider it a reward for your bravery."
He didn't give me a chance to decline. With a cheerful grin, he led me up the stairs and opened the door to a small chamber.
The room wasn't impressive. A single bed, a wooden chest, a chair, and a shuttered window. Compared to the hotel rooms I had stayed in back in my world, this was bare-bones at best. But it had a certain rustic coziness. The faint smell of cooked meat drifted up from the kitchen below, and the blanket on the bed, though coarse, looked clean enough. It would do.
As I dropped onto the bed, the weight of expectation pressed down on me harder than the mattress ever could. Elan's hopeful smile, Zavir's confidence—it all rested on the assumption that I could be a hero. I wasn't sure I could even swing my sword properly in a real fight.
Reluctant as I was, a realization dawned on me: I had become part of something bigger. Skyrim wasn't going to let me slip by as a background character. I was tangled in its web now, whether I liked it or not.
Zavir returned later that evening, knocking on my door. "Come with me. We need to sign the documents for the quest."
Documents? I raised an eyebrow but followed him downstairs.
At a small table in the corner of the inn, a man in a fur-lined vest handed me a sheet of parchment covered in neat handwriting. Zavir explained that it was a standard contract—an agreement that if anything happened to me during the quest, the committee wouldn't be held responsible. No compensation, no benefits, no guarantees. Just my name on a page that basically said you're on your own.
I skimmed the lines and my chest tightened. They wanted me to fill in details—birthplace, lineage, residence. I froze. I wasn't from Skyrim. I didn't even belong in this world. Making things up felt dangerous. If someone cross-checked the details and found lies, I could be branded a fraud—or worse.
"I… can't really fill this out," I admitted carefully, keeping the truth hidden.
Zavir glanced at me, then shrugged. "Don't worry about it. I'll handle it. I'll just write you down as a mercenary under my hire. That way, you're covered."
Relief washed over me. I signed my name where he indicated, my shaky handwriting marking the paper with finality. The moment the ink dried, my fate was sealed.
Zavir gave me a pat on the shoulder. "Good. Now, get your sword fixed. You'll need it in proper shape for what's ahead. The blacksmith's workshop is just under the inn."
The smithy was everything I expected from Skyrim. The heat hit me first, washing over me like a wall as I stepped inside. The smell of burning coal and hot iron filled the air. Sparks danced in the dim light as the blacksmith hammered away at a piece of glowing metal.
When he noticed me, he set his hammer down with a clang. "How may I help you?"
Wordlessly, I drew my battered sword and placed it on the counter. "I need this sharpened… and repaired, if possible."
The blacksmith lifted it with a grunt, inspecting the blade with a practiced eye. He ran his thumb over the chips, turned the weapon to catch the light, and let out a low whistle. "It'll cost you a hundred septims."
My stomach dropped. I had no money. Not a single coin. Meridia had dragged me into Skyrim with nothing but the clothes on my back and a damaged sword at my side.
"Um… can I pay after the quest? I'll be fighting bandits in the Dwemer ruins. Once we succeed, I'll have the money to pay."
The blacksmith gave me a stare sharp enough to cut steel. "Why should I trust you?"
I sighed. He had every right to doubt me. I probably looked like a desperate fool begging for credit. Still, something reckless stirred in me. I met his eyes and said the first thing that came to mind.
"If I don't make it back… you can keep my sword. It'll be worth double what you're asking."
The words left my mouth before I could stop them. Was I really gambling my life like this?
The blacksmith studied me for a long, tense moment. Then, slowly, he extended his hand. "Let me examine the weapon properly. If it's worth what you claim, I'll consider the deal."
I handed the sword over. He weighed it carefully, turned it, tapped the flat of the blade against his palm, and squinted at the faint markings etched into the steel. His expression shifted ever so slightly—interest, maybe even respect.
After a pause, he returned the sword to me. "Fine. I'll do it. Come back tomorrow morning."
I exhaled a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. For the first time that day, something had gone my way.