I’m not far into Skyrim when I’m walked into a stronghold basement where emaciated prisoners lean against cage bars. There are sharp utensils on a nearby table and blood on the floor. There’s also a single book with a black cover sitting on the table. I have a look at it. The book is about some god-touched individuals known as the “Dragonborn,” and how their presence is foretold in documents known as the Elder Scrolls. I realize then that the Imperials, the Roman-like soldiers running this Abu Ghraib of an operation, are using enhanced interrogation techniques to root out information regarding these so-called Dragonborn.

In a fit of dramatic irony--that’s when the audience knows something the characters in a play don’t--I keep my head down and mouth shut, knowing that the poor sods in this prison are being tortured in order to extract information about me, a Dragonborn. Unfortunately they haven’t got any information as to who or what I am. I make a point not to loiter.

I cross the countryside where the environment rocks and rolls with hardscrabble topography. My alchemist eyes gravitate to the hard, bright flowers clinging between the rocks and the pine trees. I pick them and seek out tables topped with scientific equipment where I can grind and combine components into potions and poisons.
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