The sun had already risen by the time Gadriel stirred. The wind had shifted—no longer the gentle breath of dawn, but the dry hiss of a waking steppe. He sat up slowly, brushing bits of grass from the ornate dragonbone armor he still wore, its pale ivory now duller with dust. His breath came steady and calm. The world had changed, but his discipline hadn't.
He stood and surveyed the endless landscape around him. Waves of golden grass rippled under the morning sun like a restless sea, stretching to the horizon in every direction. This was a land without mountains. Without snow. Without the weight of old Nords chanting from mountaintops. Skyrim was gone. Tamriel was gone. There was only this now.
A lesser man might have despaired. Gadriel did not. He had known from the moment Akatosh showed him that vision that there would be no return. He had accepted this exile, strange as it was. The gods could not reach him here. Neither could the Daedra. That alone gave him peace.
Still, he had no illusions. Peace did not mean safety. And survival would not come on nostalgia alone.
He pulled his cloak tighter over his shoulders, hiding most of his armor, and began walking west, guided by the sun. Three days passed like this. He moved with the patience of a seasoned wanderer, walking until dusk, then making small, fireless camps at night. There were no beasts to trouble him, only the distant cries of birds and the rustle of insects in the tall grass.
He drank from streams. Ate the dried meat he kept in his satchel. When it ran low, he snared rabbits and roasted them quietly, seasoning them with wild herbs. Skyrim had taught him well.
On the third morning, smoke curled above the horizon. Faint but real. Civilization.
By midday, Gadriel reached a rutted dirt path, winding like a vein through the sea of grass. It led him to a modest trading post. There were no stone walls, no soldiers. Just a few sun-bleached buildings, faded tents of red and yellow cloth, and a crowd of rough-looking traders and herders bartering over food, cloth, and livestock. The voices here were loud but sharp—a language he didn't understand, though occasionally someone would bark out a word of the Common Tongue.
He pulled his hood up to shade his face and kept his pace steady, unhurried. A few people glanced at him, more curious than suspicious. One woman selling dried peppers frowned slightly at his ears, whispered something to her companion. The companion gave a shrug and muttered, "Born strange, maybe."
Gadriel moved on.
The market square was little more than a circle of flattened dirt, surrounded by haphazard stalls and crude wagons. Goats bleated somewhere behind a canvas curtain. Smoke rose from a brazier where someone was cooking skewered meat.
A man with a thick black beard and sun-darkened skin stood beside a fruit stall, arranging melons and figs with lazy care. Gadriel slowed and approached.
"Morning," the merchant said in accented but clear speech. "You look like you've walked half the world. Thirsty? Hungry?"
Gadriel glanced at the fruits. They looked fresh, if a bit dusty. He nodded. "A few of each."
"Good choice. These figs come from near the Rhoyne. The melons? Grown right here on the edge of the Sea."
Gadriel pulled a few gold coins from his pouch and held them out. The merchant took one, bit it, raised an eyebrow.
"Don't see many coins like this around here," he said.
"It spends the same," Gadriel replied, his tone neutral.
The merchant grinned and slid the coins into a pouch at his belt. "Fair enough. Here."
He handed Gadriel a small cloth sack filled with a few ripe figs, slices of melon, and a flask of water. "You might want to stay off the main roads, friend. Some of the khalasars have been riding closer lately. You don't look like someone who'd go quietly."
Gadriel gave a small nod of thanks and turned away.
He found a shaded corner near an old crumbling stone pillar and sat down. The figs were sweet. The water clean. For a moment, it felt almost normal.
He watched the market in silence. Listened.
The traders spoke of rising taxes in Volantis, pirates along the coast, unrest in the slave cities. One drunken man leaned against a barrel, telling a wide-eyed child a story.
"...swear it, boy, saw it with me own eyes. Black wings, Two of them, bigger than ships. Flying over the Red Waste. Breathin' fire."
"Dragons?" the child whispered.
"Aye. Or something worse."
The boy gasped. The man laughed, then winced as someone smacked him on the back of the head. "Too much wine," another trader grumbled. "You probably saw smoke and a bird."
Gadriel said nothing. But his ears had caught every word. Dragons. It was only a story, a drunk's tale. Still... he knew better than most that even legends had teeth.
As the sun began to dip, he wandered deeper into the market. He found a merchant selling simple supplies: maps, thread, flint, rope. Gadriel bought a waterskin, a worn but serviceable brown cloak, and a roughly drawn charcoal map. It was vague, but it showed a few major rivers, cities, and landmarks.
East of Volantis. Near a tributary of the Rhoyne. Far from anything familiar.
A boy tried to pickpocket him as he turned from the stand. Gadriel caught his wrist without even looking. The boy froze, wide-eyed.
Gadriel stared at him, silent.
The boy pulled away and bolted. Gadriel let him go.
He exhaled softly and whispered, "Fus."
A breeze stirred the dust at his feet.
That night, Gadriel found a spot beyond the edges of the trading post—a broken archway surrounded by weeds and dry earth. Perhaps once it had been part of a fort or a temple. Now it was nothing but a skeleton of stone.
He set no fire. Instead, he unrolled his bedroll on the dry ground, drew his cloak tight, and leaned back against the arch.
Above him, stars unfamiliar and countless stretched across the sky. He watched them without emotion, feeling the immense stillness of this place. No voices of the Greybeards. No whispers of Daedra. No call from Akatosh.
And yet... he did not feel lost.
He had been born with a purpose. Had fulfilled it. Now, finally, he had the space to be.
Not a hero. Not a god. Not a weapon.
Just a man.
And that, perhaps, was enough.