// just a heads up; I'm writing this since im bored, so expect updates to be random + I'm writing so i can use web-novels sweet ass free text to speech(TTS) and listen to my book in audiobook format after i forget most of it haha, sounds odd till you realise there arent many skyrim fics, and im itching for me.
Either way whether u like this not, i wish u a pleasent day.
Chapter 1: Riften Jail.
I figured if I died in front of my screen, it'd be from a blood clot or maybe starvation. Something dumb but logical. Not an electrical fire caused by 400 mods fighting for dominance over a 7-year-old laptop.
It was just past 3:30 a.m. when my system finally gave up.
I hadn't moved from my chair in hours. The lights were off. The room was dark except for the flicker of my overheating monitor. I was halfway through building another Skyrim load order. It was basically ritual at this point—install, patch, tweak, crash, repeat.
This time I'd gone full masochist. Requiem. Frostfall. Campfire. Apocalypse. Realistic AI. Bandits with better tactics than half the war games I'd played. If you so much as stepped on the wrong rock, a saber cat would end your existence.
Skyrim was no longer a power fantasy. It was a slow death simulator wrapped in medieval aesthetics.
But no, the real problem wasn't survival mods or AI overhauls.
It was the fucking armor.
I scrolled through page after page of Nexus mods, and every time I thought I found something decent, there it was: another set of chainmail that doubled as lingerie.
"Why the fuck is every armor mod made for bouncing tits and thigh straps?" I muttered.
The male gear, if you could call it that, looked like something a beggar coughed up in a fever dream. The difference was comical. And by comical, I mean infuriating.
I leaned back in my chair and sighed. "Yeah. Real immersive."
My laptop fan was screaming. The temperature gauge had stopped updating. I think it gave up before I did. The casing on the side had already started to warp from the heat. I could smell melted plastic.
Still, I clicked Launch.
The screen went black.
Then the Skyrim logo loaded.
No crash. No errors. Just that familiar, thunderous chant and the main menu.
Somehow, it worked.
I actually smiled.
"Let's fucking go."
Character creation. I knew the build before the game even loaded.
Nord. Black hair. Lean, but with broad shoulders. Scar above the brow. A face that looked like he'd say three words a day and only when it mattered. The type that could stand in the corner of a mead hall and make everyone nervous without doing anything.
Name?
Altair Salvatore.
Yeah, I know. Sounds like a knockoff Assassin's Creed character. I came up with it when I was fifteen and never dropped it. It stuck. So did I.
Once the face was done, the mod Alternate Start – Live Another Life kicked in. That dim little room. The statue. The choices.
Arrived on boat to Solitude? No thanks.
Hunter in the wilds? Pass.
Forsworn in the Reach? Absolutely not.
Then it caught my eye.
Start in a cell.
I laughed.
"Yeah, sure. What's the worst that could happen?"
Famous last words.
I clicked it.
Then choose riften since i planned to join the thieves guild for some radiant quests to gain xp and septims.
The screen went black.
Then my laptop made a noise I've never heard before. Not a beep. Not a fan spin. Something like a short circuit mixed with a scream.
There was a flash. Hot and white. I remember hearing a pop, then something exploded.
Pain hit the back of my head like a hammer.
Then everything went dark.
***
I woke up cold.
Not "my room's drafty" cold. This was deeper. Clammy. Bone-deep. I was lying on something wet. It scratched my skin.
Straw.
I opened my eyes.
Stone ceiling above me. Cracked, dark, mold growing in the seams. Water dripped somewhere behind me.
I sat up.
The smell hit first: piss, rotting hay, sweat, and iron. Real iron, not blood. Rust. Old metal.
I looked down.
These weren't my hands.
They were bigger. Scarred. Rough. I held them up. Flexed each finger. They responded, but they weren't familiar.
I stood. My legs were steady. Strong. More balanced than they should be. I moved to the wall. There was a dull scrap of metal bolted to it—scratched, warped, but reflective.
I stared into it.
Black hair. Sharp jaw. Cold, dark eyes.
A face that wasn't mine.
Altair.
No UI. No stats. No menu.
Just me. In this body. In this cell.
"…what the fuck."
The walls were stone. The floor too. One side of the room was iron bars. No windows. Just a narrow corridor outside, lit by a single torch. I saw other cells. Heard coughing. Someone muttered something in a language I didn't know.
I stepped to the bars and looked out.
It was Riften Jail.
But not the version from the game. This one was massive. Multi-leveled. Damp. Rotting. Loud with suffering.
No guard pacing cheerfully. No simple key sitting nearby. No quest marker pointing the way.
Just reality.
"You talk in your sleep."
The voice came from my left. Calm. Amused.
I turned.
There was another man in the cell. I hadn't noticed him. He was sitting on the floor, chewing a piece of something that looked like jerky.
"Something about mods and physics," he said. "Weird shit."
I didn't answer.
"I'm Renar," he continued. "Guild associate. You?"
I paused.
"…Altair."
He nodded slowly. "Sharp name. Sounds like you're used to being important."
I didn't respond.
"You Guild?" I asked.
"Was," he said. "Still am, technically. Depends who you ask."
I walked to the bars again. Looked down the hallway. At least three more cells. All full. The torchlight made it hard to tell who was who. One voice was humming something low and off-key.
"You look confused," Renar said. "Let me guess. You're innocent."
I looked back at him.
He grinned. "Yeah, thought so. You've got that look."
"Why aren't you out?" I asked. "Guild doesn't take care of its own?"
Renar's smirk faded.
"Used to. Back before Maven owned everything. Now, you get on her shitlist, you rot. Doesn't matter who you are. Bribe the guards? She owns them. Try to buy your way out? You'll just disappear."
"Makes sense," I said.
"She owns the courts. The jails. The Black-Briar meadery's just the part of the iceberg above water. The rest of it? It's all rot."
I sat on the edge of the bedroll.
"So we break out."
Renar snorted before he looked at me like i grew two heads.
"You're serious…"
I looked at him.
He nodded slowly. Then leaned back against the wall, chewing thoughtfully.
"You're either batshit crazy or stupid."
I shrugged. "Bit of both."
He chuckled. "Well shit. We might get along after all."
Renar didn't speak for a while after that.
Neither did I.
He chewed his last piece of jerky like it was a five-course meal. I listened to the distant coughs and chain-clinks down the hall. The silence between us wasn't awkward—it was survival silence. The kind that settles between people who know there's no easy way out, and talking too much is just a waste of breath.
The weird thing to me was this unusual, serene calm.
I wasn't panicking.
I should've been. I had every reason to. New body. New world. Trapped in a cell in a city run by a crime family. No way out. No idea how I even got here.
But instead, everything inside me was... still. Like cold water in a deep lake.
That's when I remembered something.
Was it because of that mod?
[Immersive Traits]—yeah. One of the last things I added before the crash. It was a little-known custom mod. Added traits and perks to make characters feel more alive, more unique. Every trait came with its own benefit... and a cost.
I picked one called [Cool-Headed].
In the game, it wasn't a big deal. It made you immune to paralysis, resistant to most slowing effects and reduced stamina cost during combat. Great for immersion. Solid for survival.
But like all traits, it had a unique drawback.
Only this one wasn't much of a drawback. At least not in the game.
[Cold-Blooded] – Emotional responses are dulled. Guilt and empathy are harder to process. Acts of violence temporarily sharpen focus and clarity.
When I first read that, I laughed. It was probably supposed to be flavor text. Something to explain why your character didn't scream after murdering half a dungeon. I figured it'd maybe affect NPC dialogue or make some immersion mod behave differently.
I installed it because it sounded cool.
Now?
Now I'm not sure it was a joke.
Now I'm wondering if that mod didn't just tweak my game—but rewired me.
Because I was calm. Too calm.
Not numb. I still felt things. I still cared. But that emotional noise that used to crash in when things got heavy? Gone. It was like…someone unplugged it.
Empathy... wasn't gone. But it felt distant. Like it was happening in another room.
It scared me more than anything else. Not because I was becoming some cold-blooded monster—but because I wasn't scared enough.
What if this wasn't just me adapting?
What if it was the trait… rewriting how I handled the world?
What if it gets stronger the more I kill?
I stood there for a while, testing myself. Thinking about what I'd have to do if this escape went wrong. If I had to kill to survive. If it meant putting a blade in someone's throat.
And I didn't flinch.
I didn't panic.
I just planned.
Eventually, Renar stretched his arms overhead and cracked his neck. "You planning this escape solo or are you recruiting?"
I didn't answer right away.
"You have contacts?" I asked.
He looked at me like I just asked him if the sky was blue. "I do. The Guild hasn't exactly been throwing me coin while I rot in here."
"I don't need ghosts. I need people who won't break under pressure."
He smirked. "That's optimistic for someone who's been awake all of—what, an hour?"
"Don't need time. I just need to know who's paying attention."
That made him pause.
He studied me more seriously now. Not with suspicion—more like someone looking at a puzzle with a few pieces already in place.
"You're not just muscle, huh?" he said.
"I'm not much of anything," I replied.
It was true, without these traits i'd panicked and started crying long ago.
Another pause. Then, "Well, you talk like someone who's used to people listening."
I didn't argue.
He stood up and paced. "Alright. I'll play. We're in the south wing. Rot cells. Not a lot of traffic here. Most of the guards don't bother unless someone starts screaming. Which means we've got time, and space, and nobody watching too close."
I watched him as he gestured lazily to the other cells. "There's a guy down the hall. Name's Brond. Nord. Big bastard. Used to work with the guards, think he was a captain, but then turned against them. Supposedly killed one of Maven's enforcers with his bare hands for some reason, They keep him drugged half the time, cause when he's clear, he's sharp and damgerous."
"You trust him?"
"I trust his hatred more than his brain. And right now, his hatred's aimed at the same people we're about to piss off."
"Alright," I said. "Who else?"
"There's a Dunmer, but he doesn't talk. Been here longer than me. Some say he was a Morag Tong dropout. I've never seen him blink."
I looked at the hallway again. "I want one more. No more than four total."
"Why four?"
"Any more, and someone talks."
Renar smirked. "Fair."
Later that night, after the guards had passed through and the torches dimmed, Renar gave a low whistle toward the next cell.
A shape stirred in the dark. Heavy footfalls. Someone large. Brond.
I stepped to the bars. Saw him more clearly this time. Huge, broad-shouldered Nord. Hair like straw soaked in blood. His face was covered in old bruises and newer cuts. One eye was cloudy white.
"What do you want, Guild rat?" Brond growled.
Renar gestured toward me. "Not me. Him."
Brond stared.
I met his gaze and held it. Didn't say a word.
After a few seconds, he huffed through his nose. "He doesn't talk much. Good."
Renar spoke quickly. "We're getting out. No tricks. We just want to escape, You want in?"
Brond stepped forward bewildered by the sheer stupid worss spoken by Renat "Escape? You crazy? How is that no different from suicide!?, You're completely fucked against fully armed guards when he don't even have a measly lockpick."
"Better than dying in a piss-soaked hole," I said.
He raised a brow. "First words out of you. Crazy kid."
He nodded slowly.
Before he grinned.
"Anyhow I'm probably going to get killed aooner ornlater after what I've done. I'm in. But if you fuck this up, I'll break your spine before the guards get to you."
"Noted," I said.
Next came the planning.
Renar did most of the talking. I listened. Thought. Adjusted details where they didn't make sense.
The jail's layout was simple enough if you had time to observe. Three wings. North for short-term. East for political prisoners and bribes. South for the forgotten.
No patrols at night. Just two guards rotating through every two hours. The door to the sewer access tunnel was old, rusted, chained from the outside. Meant to be used once, during floods. Forgotten. Ignored.
It would have to be the way out.
"There's one problem," Renar said. "The lock."
"I can get it open," I said.
He raised a brow. "You?"
"No. You can. With a little help."
"What kind of help?"
"We'll make the guards open it."
Brond laughed. "And how do you plan that?"
I leaned back against the wall.
"All it takes is one guard trying to check what's going on. One chain undone."
Brond stared at me. "That's the stupidest plan I've heard."
"It'll work."
Renar smiled. "Shit. He's serious."
The plan wasn't airtight yet. We needed access to the jail keys on one of the guards, and we still hadn't figured out what excuse to use when they came down to do their rounds.
That's when I suggested the fight.
"Make it look real," I said to Renar.
He raised a brow. "You sure? Some of these guards are twitchy."
"That's the point. You said the head guard likes beating us over the smallest problems, He'll come down and even faster if they think we're a problem, plus he's the one with the keys we just gotta wait till he comes close to our cellblock."
"Fine. You wanna throw hands with me, or should I do the throwing?"
I paused. "You threaten me. I beg. Then you beat me up."
He grinned. "Didn't know you were into roleplay."
"Stick to the script."
***
The noise started as expected.
Brond passed Renar something small—a shard of bone, sharpened to a crude point. The guard hadn't seen it. But if they did... Renar would be in deep shit.
Perfect.
He stormed at me, grabbing my collar and shoving me into the bars.
"You little shit!" he yelled loud enough to shake the air. "You tell the guards what you saw, I'll carve your godsdamn tongue out!"
"Please!" I shouted, stumbling back. "I won't say anything, I swear!"
The inmates perked up. Some started banging on the bars.
"Beat his ass!"
"Yeah! Milk-drinker thought he was tough!"
Renar shoved me again, hard this time. I hit the stone and dropped to my knees, gasping. The noise was perfect. The chaos was building. Two guards started yelling from above.
"South wing! What the fuck's going on down there?"
"Shut it down!"
Footsteps stomped toward us.
Just as planned.
Two guards rounded the corner. Iron armor, leather boots. One had a short-sword. The other—closer—had a sheathed dagger on his hip. I locked eyes on it for just a second too long.
They moved fast.
The one with the sword grabbed Renar, slammed him to the wall.
"What's this?"
The other pointed down. "That's Brond's. He wasn't supposed to have that."
They pulled the shard out of Renar's sleeve and punched him in the gut. He grunted. Dropped to the ground.
"Get back, prisoner!" the second one barked, stepping toward me.
I backed away slowly, palms up. Breathing heavy. Heart racing—but not like panic. More like... calculation.
My back hit the wall.
"Stay there!" the guard snapped, drawing his sword halfway.
I started crying.
It wasn't fake.
It wasn't real either.
Tears ran, but the rest of me stayed frozen. Blank. I don't even remember making the decision.
My eyes locked on the dagger.
Then something took over.
The motion was one clean, fluid line.
Right hand to the guard's belt. Fingers slipped under the leather. Pulled the dagger free in silence.
The second his head turned toward Renar, I moved.
Blade up, hand around his throat—stabbed just under the jaw, angling up. Didn't even scream.
He dropped. Twitched once.
The other guard barely turned in time to register what happened.
Too slow.
I was already on him.
Two steps forward. Blade across the neck, clean and deep. Blood sprayed the bars. He gurgled, then fell forward, hitting the ground like dead meat.
It was over in three seconds.
The noise in the block stopped.
Everything went quiet.
The cheering. The shouting. Even Brond's usual sarcastic muttering.
Gone.
Just me, standing over two corpses. Blood on my arms. Face emotionless. Breathing steady.
I blinked once. Looked at the blade. Looked at the bodies.
No tremble. No guilt. No hesitation.
Was this Cool-Headed? Was this Cold-Blooded?
Whatever it was, it didn't feel like murder.
It felt the same as in the game.
This should've already scared the shit out of me.
But I was…
Calm.
Like i was simply playing the game.
Renar groaned on the floor. Looked up at me, eyes wide.
"Fuck," he said.
I tossed him the keys from the first guard's belt. "Get up."
He caught them. Stared at me like I'd just turned into something else entirely.
The inmates started whispering.
"He was crying."
"Talos! He looked so harmless—what the hell was that?"
"Did you see how fast he moved?"
Brond's voice came, quiet for once. "That was no milk-drinker."
Renar and I dragged the bodies into the supply closet near the end of the block. One of the torches came with us. We cleaned what we could. No time for finesse—just enough to delay suspicion until morning.
When we returned, I wiped the blood off my hands with a rag. Sat on the bedroll like nothing had happened.
Renar stood over me, looking both impressed and freaked out.
"You're not what you look like," he said quietly.
"Good," I replied.
"I mean it. That was... godsdamn surgical. You rehearsed that in your head?"
"No."
He nodded slowly. "Shit. You're scarier than Brond. At least he tries to be intimidating rather than stupi—"
"Shut up Renar, before i cave your skull into the wall." Brond says resentfully as i open the cell door with the jail keys.
"See?" Renar said with a grin to me.
I sighed
We stepped out into the hall. The door's groan was low, rusted, almost mournful—like the place itself was begging us not to leave.
Brond cracked his neck. "We moving, or we just gonna admire the mildew?"
I ignored him and handed him one of the guards' swords. The blade was worn, cheap iron, but in hands like his, it became something else entirely.
He tested the weight. "Good enough. First neck I see, I'm swinging."
Renar grabbed the dagger from the other body and tucked it into his belt. "We need to go left. Sewers are past the old mess hall. Should be empty."
"Should be," I echoed.
We moved fast but low. The torchlight was behind us now, shadows clinging to every corner. The stone under our feet felt like ice. Above, I could hear faint boots—patrols on the upper levels, too far to hear the screams. Or maybe they heard and just didn't care.
"Next turn," Renar whispered.
We turned.
Stopped.
A prisoner stood in the hallway ahead. Thin. Tall. Dark red skin. Eyes like twin coals.
The Dunmer.
He didn't flinch. Didn't speak. Just looked at me with a gaze like stone—sharp and still.
I took a step forward. "We're leaving."
No answer.
I glanced at Renar. "You said he was dangerous?"
"He is. Just quiet. They say he never sleeps. Watches everything."
The Dunmer looked past me. At Brond. Then at the corpse we left behind—blood still staining the floor behind us.
He nodded once.
Then turned.
And followed.
Renar blinked. "That's it?"
"He's in," I said.
Brond growled. "Just what we needed. A shadow with red eyes."
We moved quickly now. The south wing bled into older stone—part of the jail that had collapsed years ago. Some said it led to the old rat tunnels that once connected Riften to the meadery and beyond.
And right now, that sounded like salvation.
We reached the rusted grate. Thick iron, wrapped in chains.
Renar bent down and checked the links. "These are old. Not even locked. Just looped to look secure."
He yanked. The chain gave with a scream.
A gust of air blew from the tunnel beyond. Wet. Rotten. It smelled like decay and freedom.
Brond shoved past him, sword first. "Move, before they realize their friends are bleeding out on the floor."
We dropped into the tunnel.
The moment our boots hit the waterlogged stone, the world changed.
No more torchlight.
No more warmth.
Only cold, echoing dark and the sound of distant water. The Dunmer moved like a ghost—silent, precise. Renar pulled the door shut behind us and pressed the chain back around it, loose but convincing.
"I give us fifteen minutes before they find the bodies," he muttered.
"Plenty," I said.
We walked for what felt like forever—no words. The water reached our ankles in some places, our calves in others. Rats skittered past. Brond kicked one like a football.
Then the sound came.
Scratching.
At first I thought it was rats again.
Then something hissed.
We stopped.
A wet shape crawled out of a pipe ahead. Then another. Pale, hunched. Misshapen bodies, eyes like dead pearls.
Skeevers.
But wrong.
Bigger. Twisted.
"Modded?" I whispered.
"What?" Renar asked as he didn't understand what i meant
"Nothing..
The first one charged.
Brond didn't hesitate. Stepped forward and split it with one blow—cleaved its skull like overripe fruit.
The others swarmed.
"Back!" I barked, dragging Renar behind me.
The Dunmer didn't move. He slid past me—low, fast, like oil on stone. A blade appeared from his sleeve. Curved. Ornate.
He didn't fight.
He removed things.
One stab, one motion. A throat. An eye. A ribcage. Every movement clean, lethal, quiet. His face didn't change once.
Renar whistled . "Okay, yeah. He's terrifying."
"Damn it Thief can't you shut up for a moment?" Brond says in exasperation.
Renar only grinned which was somewhat visble under his thieves guild hood.
We cleared the last of them, breathing hard. Brond wiped his blade on his sleeve.
"I hope that's all of them, I hate rats, eapecially the talking kind" He said as he glanced at Renar who looked nonchalant.
"Noted," He muttered.
We pushed deeper. The tunnel curved down, then up again. We reached a grate that overlooked the canal that ran behind the Black-Briar meadery. Dim moonlight cut through it—our first glimpse of real freedom.
The tunnel curved once more, and I knew we were close.
Not from instinct. From memory.
Game memory.
This was the Ratway.
In the game, it was a joke—like a half-baked puzzle someone forgot to finish. A few low-tier thugs, some stairs, a trap or two you could spot a mile off. Maybe a skeever if the AI didn't bug out. You could sprint from Riften's surface to the Ragged Flagon in under three seconds flat.
But here?
It felt like a throat.
Choked. Cramped. Damp enough to taste mold in the back of my mouth. Every step echoed louder than it should have. Cracks in the brick. Crates stacked like barricades. The water stank like something died and no one cared enough to fish it out.
Renar slowed in front of a battered wooden door with a warped iron handle.
"This is it," he muttered.
He looked back at the group, like checking if anyone had second thoughts. No one spoke.
Then he pushed the door open.
The Ragged Flagon opened up like a wound. Low-lit, stale air. Lanterns swinging on rusted chains. A few figures hunched at tables, faces half-hidden beneath hoods and suspicion. The smell of wet stone and cheap mead clung to everything.
The man behind the counter looked up.
Leather armor. Close-cropped beard. Eyes like he'd seen too many lies and not enough coin.
He blinked when he saw Renar.
"…Well shit," the man said. "Renar?"
Renar gave a casual shrug like he hadn't just walked out of a prison cell. "Still breathing."
"I thought you were—"
"Jail," Renar cut in.
The barkeep's face tightened like he didn't quite believe it. His eyes flicked past Renar, landing on me. Then Brond. Then the Dunmer.
"Let me guess. This is your doing?" he asked.
Renar nodded toward me. "Altair. He's the reason we made it out. Did most of the work, too."
I didn't say anything. Just stood there, calm, steady.
The man behind the bar looked me over. Not impressed. Not suspicious either. Just… calculating.
"You've got a stare like someone who's already worked out everyone's weaknesses," he said, then offered his hand. "Name's Vekel. Welcome to the Flagon."
I didn't take the hand. Just nodded. "Thanks."
He leaned back behind the bar. "So what now?"
Renar looked at me. "Figured I'd put in a word. Let the Guild decide if they want someone like him."
Vekel raised an eyebrow. "And do you want in?"
I glanced at the others. At the grime on my sleeves. The cold steel still strapped to my side.
"I don't have much of a choice," I said. "Not until things cool down. Pretty sure Riften's not gonna let this slide."
Brond stepped forward, arms crossed. "I'll stay a while too. Got things I need to handle. People I owe some unfinished conversations."
He didn't elaborate. He didn't have to.
Vekel looked at the Dunmer.
No words. Just a slow, single nod.
That was enough.
"Well then, if Renar think you capable, you'd better go speak to brynjolf" Vekel said pasuing momentarily before he spoke again.
"But why don'tcha take a bath first, you all look like shit and smell like it too."
The four of us nodded.
Vekel jerked his thumb toward a narrow hallway behind the bar. "Bathhouse is that way. Don't clog the damn drain with skeever guts or blood. I just got someone to clean it out last week."
Brond snorted. "Tell 'em to burn the water when we're done."
Renar rolled his shoulders, already moving. "Come on. Let's wash off the rot before someone thinks we belong in the sewer."
The Dunmer said nothing—as always—but moved like he'd been here before.
I lingered for a second longer, letting the sounds of the Flagon settle around me. The quiet clink of tankards. A fire crackling low. Voices behind curtains. This place was as familiar as it was strange. In the game, it was just a hub. A vendor stop between jobs.
Now?
It felt like a crossroad.
Not just in the narrative sense.
In the real one.
Everything ahead was unknown. I didn't have quest markers. No journal objectives. Or a system, but hey I wouldn't complain, The traits alone helped more than anything and I'm not some spoiled bitch who doesn't appreciate what he's got.
I followed the others into the hallway. The stone underfoot slick with the same mildew-stained damp as the rest of Riften's underbelly. Steam curled around the corners ahead, warm and faintly herbal. Probably Vekel's way of pretending the water wasn't pumped from the same canal rats pissed in.
But I didn't care.
Not about the water. Not about the dirt. Not even about the blood still crusted under my nails.
What I cared about now—was what came next.
If the Guild took me in, I'd have a roof. Resources. A network.
More importantly?
A very samll imperceptible small appeared on my emotionless face.
I had a direction.
Unlike in my previous life, where i did nothing but game, read novels and watch movies.
I glanced at my hands.
"What a fucking day."
Chapter End.