Dragonborn: Or How I Learned to Stop Save-Scumming and Love the Glitch

I died from avocado toast.

Not the toast itself—the lethal combination of unripe fruit, deadline panic, and attempting to slice with a butter knife. Blood everywhere. The avocado looked guilty. I died thinking: At least I didn't post it to Instagram.

I woke in a cart.

Not metaphorically. A wooden cart, hay-strewn, jolting along a mountain road. Next to me sat a man with onions on his breath and the resigned expression of someone who has seen too many cosmic jokes.

"You're finally awake," he said.

I blinked. The sack over my head had fallen off. And I saw... Ralof. The actual Ralof. Pimples, scar, and that particular facial expression that says: I will be your tutorial, but I don't get paid enough for this.

"Talos preserve me," I whispered in English, because my brain hadn't switched languages yet.

"What?" The Nord frowned.

"Nothing. Um. Where are we?"

"You were trying to cross the border. Walked right into that Imperial ambush. Same as us. And that thief over there."

I looked around. The cart. The pines. The mountains. That specific rock formation where players used to farm iron ore.

"This is Skyrim," I said in the voice of someone realizing the scale of catastrophe. "This is actual, literal Skyrim."

"Smart one, aren't you?" The bald man with the snake tattoo smirked. "Go ahead. Say something else clever. Maybe mention dragons?"

"Oh, honey," I turned to him with a smile of complete madness, "you have no idea."