9 I really hate Dragonborn

Riverwood was quiet, wind drifting through the pines like it was ashamed to disturb the peace.

Ralof led the Dragonborn down the dirt path toward the sawmill, his boots leaving firm prints in the soft earth. He didn't speak for a long time.

The Argonian behind him was humming.

Humming.

Off-key. Loud. Confident.

"Feels good to be in town," he said, tail swishing behind him. "You think they'll have a shop that sells enchanted shoulder oil? This armor's real tight."

Ralof didn't look back.

He just sighed.

When they reached the sawmill, Ralof's sister—Gerdur—came out to meet them. Tall, strong-armed, red-blonde braid. She wore an expression like she hadn't slept in a week.

Before either could speak, Ralof gently pulled her aside.

"Gerdur. Listen—don't ask too many questions."

She raised a brow. "Why?"

"He helped me escape. From Helgen. But…"

He glanced back. The Dragonborn was standing with one foot on a log like a posing statue, scanning the treetops for dramatic effect.

"He's not right in the head."

Gerdur looked past Ralof, eyes narrowing.

"I see."

While they talked, the Dragonborn wandered toward the sawmill.

He spotted a log.

Big. Fresh. Heavy.

"Perfect," he said aloud, grabbing it with both arms and dragging it toward the blade bench. "Gonna make some coin, clear some trees. Hero work."

The log wasn't like the others.

This one was treated wood—a support beam meant for building, dense with resin and hardened to resist even Dwemer chisels.

But he didn't know that.

He slammed it onto the saw's runners, cracked his neck, and yanked the lever.

The saw came alive—wooden gears whining, blade shrieking as it spun.

It hit the log.

And exploded.

Steel teeth flew like shrapnel.

The blade split in half. One chunk buried into the nearby stump. The other sheared off into the river.

Smoke poured from the motor.

He blinked.

"Oh. Whoops."

Gerdur and Ralof came running around the corner.

They stopped.

Stared.

The saw was destroyed.

Gerdur's mouth fell open. "What. Did. You. Do."

Ralof froze. "Oh no."

The Dragonborn turned to them with a beaming smile. "Hey! So this log was like… super strong. You guys using magic wood now?"

Gerdur's jaw clenched. "That was a treated construction beam for a shipment to Whiterun. Worth more than your head."

"Ah. Well. I thought it was a free-use log."

"It was clearly marked with red wax—"

"I thought that was a color code!"

"GET OUT. GET OUT OF MY MILL."

Ralof raised his hands. "Gerdur—he didn't mean—"

"You're paying for it," she snapped. "Both of you. I don't care how you get the coin. You want to stay in Riverwood, you earn your place."

She stormed off toward the riverbank, fists clenched.

The Dragonborn watched her go.

Then turned to Ralof, chipper.

"So… we fighting bandits or what?"

Ralof closed his eyes.

And considered if this was all some kind of divine punishment.

Part II: The Bear and the Gold

The inn was warm, noisy with quiet tension.

Word of Helgen was spreading. The bartender had already heard about the dragon—though he laughed it off, blaming "Nord ale and trauma."

Ralof ignored it.

He leaned across the counter. "Any work?"

The innkeeper wiped a mug. "Iron mine up the road—north side of the ridge. Bandits took it last week. One guard still posted. Poor bastard's probably freezing by now."

Ralof nodded. "We'll take it."

Behind him, the Dragonborn stretched, cracking every joint he could. Loudly.

The mine wasn't far. An hour's walk through pine-thick paths and patches of melting snow.

The guard stood outside the entrance, arms folded. Leather armor. Iron sword. Young.

"Only one?" the Dragonborn said with a grin. "That's almost insulting."

Ralof's hand twitched toward his axe. "Don't—"

Too late.

The Dragonborn roared something half-cool, half-nonsense and charged.

Hammer raised.

He swung—

Missed. Wildly.

The guard sidestepped, grabbed his own blade, and kicked the Dragonborn square in the gut.

The Argonian landed hard, tail first, gasping.

The guard stepped forward, blade thrusting toward the center of his chest.

Ralof was already moving.

He blocked the blade with the head of his axe—clang—and stepped in, fist slamming across the guard's jaw.

The young man hit the ground hard.

Unconscious.

Ralof exhaled.

Then—

CRACK.

The Dragonborn had scrambled to his feet, lifted his hammer, and brought it down full-force onto the guard's head.

Skull. Shattered.

Blood sprayed across the snow.

Silence.

Ralof stared.

Then barked: "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

The Dragonborn straightened, confused. "He was still alive."

"He was unconscious!"

The Argonian frowned. "I thought we were doing, like, a no-loose-ends kind of thing."

Ralof's eyes flared.

"We don't kill the defenseless," he growled. "We're not monsters."

The Dragonborn looked at the corpse.

Then shrugged.

"Guy shouldn't have kicked me. Kind of asked for it."

Ralof stepped back.

Something about the way the blood steamed in the cold made it feel final.

"This isn't a game," he said.

The Dragonborn just wiped his hammer on the guard's cloak.

And walked toward the mine entrance like a man who thought he'd won a tutorial.

Part III: Steel and Stone

The chamber was dark, save for a single fire and the shadow that stood beside it.

She was taller than either of them.

A female orc with a neck like a tree trunk, her light armor wrapped tight around scarred shoulders. Her iron sword hung at her side, worn and chipped—but carried with ease, like a limb she'd been born with.

She stepped forward slowly.

Ralof muttered, "She's the chief."

The Dragonborn cracked his neck, already grinning. "Let's get cinematic."

He charged.

His hammer whooshed through the air—once, twice.

She parried every swing.

Then she caught his arm, twisted him sideways—

And slammed her forehead into his face with a sickening crack.

He dropped to the stone floor like a bag of rotten apples. His warhammer spun across the room.

The chief turned toward Ralof.

Raised her sword.

Didn't say a word.

Ralof moved in.

Axe up. Feet light.

They clashed.

Blade against blade. Steel rang out like thunder in the stone chamber.

The orc was all power—every strike a test of endurance. Ralof countered with control, ducking, redirecting, cutting low when she came high.

They fought hard.

Fast.

Real.

And then—

"RAH! MAGIC TIME!"

Ralof and the chief both flinched mid-swing.

A blue spark shot across the room and missed both of them by a solid five feet, striking the wall and sending a puff of dust into the air.

The two fighters froze.

Both turned slowly to see the Dragonborn—on one knee, holding out his hand, a trickle of Sparks magic flickering between his fingers like a dying torch.

"Did I get her?" he asked, panting.

The orc stared at him.

Ralof stared at him.

No one spoke for a second.

Then the orc pointed and said, flatly:

"What was that?"

Ralof stepped back, breathing hard. "You okay?"

She nodded, still watching the Argonian like she'd just seen a chicken try to cast a spell.

Ralof lowered his axe.

The orc lowered her sword.

And for a brief moment, confusion trumped combat.

Part IV: The Fall and the Flow

The stillness after the missed spell didn't last.

The orc's expression shifted—from confusion, to understanding, to rage.

She reached behind her belt, grabbed a throwing knife, and with one swift, brutal motion—

THUNK.

It buried deep in the Dragonborn's shoulder.

"AAAAHHHHHH!" he screamed, collapsing backward, hammer forgotten. "I'VE BEEN STABBED! I'M BLEEDING! I'M GONNA DIE!"

He rolled in circles on the floor.

Ralof, still locked in stance, stared at the blade in his companion's arm, then back at the orc.

He did not smile.

But inside?

Pure joy.

Unfortunately, duty called.

He stepped forward again, raising his axe.

"Hey! Stand down—!"

The orc didn't.

She roared, her whole body trembling—and lunged.

Her sword came down like a falling tree.

Ralof barely blocked it.

The impact knocked him backward into the stone wall, dust puffing from his boots.

That was when he saw it—her eyes.

Blood-frothed.

Dilated.

She'd gone berserker.

"Nope," he breathed.

He sprinted past her, grabbed the still-screaming Dragonborn by the collar, and dragged him to the edge of the mining platform where a narrow rapid fed a long underground river.

"WAIT—WHAT ARE YOU—"

Ralof didn't answer.

He jumped.

The current snatched them instantly, roaring through the dark tunnel like a beast.

They exploded from the river mouth seconds later, launched into open air, crashing into the stream outside.

Ralof hit the shore and clawed for grip, boots scraping against wet stone.

The Dragonborn thrashed wildly in the water, arm flailing, face twisted in panic.

"I CAN'T SWIM! I'M DROWNING!"

"You're an Argonian," Ralof grunted, hauling himself out of the water.

"I'M TOO BULKY—"

"YOU CAN BREATHE UNDERWATER."

The Dragonborn froze mid-panic.

"…Oh."

He let himself sink for a moment.

Then bobbed back up.

"…Still hurts though."

Ralof lay flat on the bank.

Staring at the sky.

Soaked.

Exhausted.

Contemplating murder.

Part V: Tavern Math

The Riverwood inn smelled like smoke, mead, and fish oil. It was perfect.

Ralof stomped in, his clothes still dripping, hair stuck to his face, a dull ache spreading across his back.

The Dragonborn followed, favoring his right side, one arm dangling awkwardly with the knife still buried in his shoulder.

"Hot meal," he groaned. "Maybe a bard song. A fire. Something dramatic."

Ralof slumped into a chair and didn't respond.

He just waved for ale.

The Dragonborn finally sat—backwards on the chair, resting his chin on the top rail like a kid in time-out.

"So," he said, "loot recap?"

Ralof turned and gave him a look.

"No, really," the Dragonborn said, frowning. "We definitely got something."

Ralof pulled a satchel onto the table and dumped it out.

One iron throwing knife.

"…That's it?"

"We lost your hammer," Ralof said flatly. "We left the mine half-cleared. I nearly got cut in half. You got stabbed. And we have—" he held up the knife like it was a dead rat, "—this."

The Dragonborn nodded slowly, thoughtfully.

"Okay. Okay. So we sell the knife… get, like, twenty gold—"

Ralof scoffed.

"Fine. Ten."

Ralof pointed at him. "You owe Gerdur a new saw blade. That's eighty gold minimum."

"I was trying to help!"

"You cost more than your help is worth."

"Don't be dramatic," the Dragonborn said, poking at the table. "We're leveling up! Progress isn't always linear."

Ralof stared into his drink like he was trying to drown himself through the eyes.

After a long silence, the Dragonborn said, "You think we can pawn the knife?"

"No."

"Maybe say it's magical? Like cursed by the orc or something?"

Ralof stood up.

"I'm going to sleep," he said.

The Dragonborn blinked. "We didn't talk strategy—"

Ralof walked upstairs without another word.

The Dragonborn looked at the knife.

Then grinned.

"One knife closer to greatness."