Who would name a land Skyrim?
What breed of mankind, to call horizon's end their home?
It is like a distant mirage made into an unfolding epic;
a realm entered in dreams, becoming the adventure of a lifetime
Today I walk in an alien country,
stand among mythic landscapes,
and carry the mantle of ancient hope.
Yet Yahweh was pleased to use a virtual world
like a Nordic saga, that stirred Tolkien's tales and Clive's chronicles before me,
as the haunting means that I might seek, and then cherish, something beyond.
Banners bleed red, fields washed white, corpses clad blue.
A winter of war divides sister from brother.
Do I offer my sword to Empire's armies?
Honoring those who have always ruled, and guarding a greater good,
Or am I summoned by conscience to serve the Stormcloak cause?
Respecting remembrance of their noble ways, and upholding the right to free worship.
My heart longs to cast my lot with rebels;
my soul stirs to usher in an exiled king.
What mystery, that a man once ascended to heaven.
How glorious, to stand on divine faith against all odds!
But my principles compel me to preserve order;
virtue requires a path of submission
Why liberate Nords only, when Elves are their neglected neighbors?
Who is truly pious: the violent zealot, or the gentle martyr?
No matter the allegiance I choose,
on the day of final conquest,
my spirit is torn as Skyrim's children.
Still, I embark on another new road.
Ambushes along the highway are a welcome challenge.
Clearing, cavern, and crumbling dungeon alike beckon curiosity.
With mastery of steel and spell, shadow and shout,
fear and frontier are both mine to conquer.
By aurora's lantern at night,
I emerge from the dungeon laden with treasure.
Beside kindled hearth in a storm,
I hail companions with news of a fully complete work.
A hundredfold bizarre feats, from tundra banks to forest peaks,
unceasingly whet my appetite for fresh wonder,
just as the simple delight of building home and family,
is enough for that moment to mingle restlessness with rest.
"What is better: to be born good,
or to overcome your evil nature through great effort?"
A forked tongue poses the philosophical question;
my primordial foe, the dragon, testing everything I am.
Of course, my identity is that I am reborn and righteous,
this by given grace, not my own force of will.
A truly wicked core could never be quelled within.
That said, I see beauty in the broken beginning of our story;
radiance springs forth from the sorrowful song of repentance;
captivation, that the Hero bore corrupt flesh to call us all clean.
I recognize the dual truth in your words, bronze serpent.
I acknowledge your aid in averting apocalypse, again.
I even offer thanks, for this fire-proven wisdom to carry in this world and the next.
Nonetheless, my blade remains raised against your kin,
as long as they insist on deceiving my own "mortal" kind,
to believe that your brood alone is eternal, when life beyond time is in our grasp!
In Tamriel's cold north or in Asia's distant east,
as long as the people tremble, who are sealed with a Breath superior to your own,
my blade remains raised against your kin.
