The morning broke soft and golden, light spilling across the river like molten glass. Gadriel stirred from beneath his makeshift tent, rising with the grace of a man used to waking before danger. He stretched slowly, joints cracking, then moved to the river's edge where he crouched, cupping water to his face. It was cold and clear, a bracing start to the day.
He washed the sleep from his eyes, letting the water soak his short, golden hair and the pointed tips of his ears. The quiet here was different from Skyrim—not deeper, but unfamiliar. He didn't mind. He hadn't yet decided if he liked it. He didn't need to.
After drying off with a cloth, Gadriel returned to his camp and began packing. His movements were methodical. The hides were folded, gear repacked, fire pit scattered and buried. He left no trace. One more ghost in a world full of them.
He slung his satchel over his shoulder and turned toward the river. "Where there's water, there's life," he murmured to himself, then set off at a steady pace, boots crunching on sun-hardened soil.
The river wound like a silver thread through the land, guiding him westward through rocky lowlands and sparse groves. He walked beside it, sometimes on the gravel banks, sometimes cutting across meadows of tall grass. His eyes scanned constantly, trained by years of survival to notice the subtle signs of life: trampled reeds, distant smoke, footprints in the dirt.
As the sun rose overhead and the heat became more pressing, Gadriel paused beneath a bent tree. He took a long drink from his flask, then pulled out his notebook and scribbled a few lines:
River leads southwest. No signs of large beasts. Cracked hoofprints near bend suggest domesticated herds. No response to tracking Shout. World still... silent.
He paused, letting the ink dry. Then he added:
Solitude remains. Not unwelcome.
Hours passed. The shadows shortened, then began to stretch again as the day wore on. And then, as the sun dipped slightly behind a ridge, he saw it.
A village.
No more than a thousand or two feet away, half-hidden by the rise of the land and the bend of the river. Clay and wood buildings, smoke curling from chimneys, a small wooden watchtower barely taller than the tallest tree.
He squinted. Something felt off. Too still. No movement in the fields. No children. No carts.
He descended the slope slowly, caution overtaking curiosity.
It wasn't until he was within five hundred feet that he heard the screaming.
High-pitched. Fearful. Angry. Voices layered with chaos.
Gadriel broke into a run.
He crested the final hill and stopped dead at the sight below.
The village was aflame. Thin pillars of smoke rose into the sky, catching the orange light of the late afternoon sun. Figures on horseback galloped through the streets, chasing screaming villagers. The men lay in pools of blood, some still twitching. The women were being dragged into the dirt, and the children forced into lines with ropes and cruel shouts.
A raid.
Bandits, he thought at first. Then he looked closer. Their weapons were strange—curved like scimitars but heavier, not of any style he recognized. Their armor was piecemeal, and most rode bare-chested, their hair in long braids.
He didn't know who they were.
He didn't care.
One of them, clearly the leader, stood apart on a horse near the center of the square, barking commands in a language Gadriel didn't understand. The man turned his head as Gadriel approached.
An arrow flew.
The leader jerked back violently as the shaft buried itself in his eye and exited the back of his skull. He toppled from his horse without a sound.
Everything stopped.
Thirty pairs of eyes turned toward the ridge.
Gadriel lowered his bow.
Silence lasted no more than a breath. Then came the screaming—not of fear, but rage.
The riders charged.
Gadriel calmly slung the bow across his back and reached for Dawnbreaker.
The blade hissed as it came free. Pale and golden, it shimmered with divine fire. The first rider reached him with a cry and raised his arakh.
One clean slash.
The man dropped, his body bursting into flame where Dawnbreaker struck. The next came, then two more. Gadriel moved like a ghost through them. Each swing of his sword left arcs of light and fire in its wake. Their weapons bounced from his armor or missed entirely.
He didn't roar.
He didn't speak.
He just killed them, one after another.
When the last one fell, screaming as his armor melted into his flesh, the only sound left was the crackling of fire.
Gadriel stood among the bodies, smoke rising from Dawnbreaker, his breath calm. He looked around. The villagers watched him in stunned silence. A child sobbed in the arms of her mother. A wounded man whimpered near the fountain, bleeding from a gash across his chest.
He sheathed his sword.
And then he walked into the village.
He spent three days there.
The first was spent putting out fires, burying the dead, and tending to the wounded. He used what poultices he had left, crafted more from local herbs, and gave water from his own supply. He said little. They didn't ask questions. They simply let him help.
The second day, he rebuilt. He carried wood, lifted beams, stitched what clothes he could. Children followed him at a distance, wide-eyed. Women brought him food he didn't ask for. No one tried to explain what had happened. They had seen it too many times before.
The third day, he sat alone by the well with his notebook and wrote:
Raiders came. Not bandits. Organized. Brutal. Mounted. Burned and enslaved without hesitation. No explanation given. Leader slain. Rest followed. Did what I had to.
He added a small drawing: a horseman with a curved blade.
This world is not so different from mine after all.
When the sun rose on the fourth morning, Gadriel was already gone.
He left without a word.
But the villagers remembered him.