Skyrim Syndrome

I have a confession to make. About a month ago I was arrested and sentenced to death row. My crime and origins are of no consequence. My captors took me by wagon to an unfamiliar town, where the citizens gathered with distrust and scorn in their accusing eyes. Fathers hid their children while others shouted with bloodlust buried deep in their gut.

Once the wagon stopped, my fellow captives and I were ordered to line up and await execution. The bound fellow next to me introduced himself and tried to make small-talk, but I was too concerned with my pending mortality to pay him any heed. We were then ordered one-by-one to head to the chopping block, while the executioner honed his giant axe. I stood there silent as the death blade took its first head. It rolled across the elevated stage toward me, and I regretfully pondered, 'What was his name?'

Then it was my turn with the executioner. As I headed toward my doom an unholy cacophony of terror came from the heavens, like an erupting volcano filling the skies with a legion of flaming bats. An enormous horned dragon from days of yore swooped down and laid waste to the town. Thatched roofs lit up instantly and the townsfolk ran screaming for any shelter withstanding the scalding horror circling above. Amidst the tumult, I found sympathetic brethren by the name of Alvor and his uncle Hadvar who helped me make my escape. They instructed me to report the attack to the Jarl of the neighboring town of Whiterun. I ran North as far as my furry legs could take me. Also, I should mention. --- I'm a cat.

At this point, if you are not playing Skyrim, the tale recounted above sounds like the mutterings of a madman. To those playing the game, they are the merely the first steps of an engrossing adventure in the land of Tamriel. Skyrim is the fifth Elder Scrolls game, a series that Bethesda has lovingly crafted as an uber-action sandbox RPG of limitless possibilities. Do you want to follow the main quest, ridding the land of the dragon-scourge beast-by-beast? Feel free. Do you want to harvest thistle, nightshade, and giant toes to create magical elixirs at your Alchemy table? Do that. Do you want to attend Bard College and learn ancient songs of heroism, heretofore lost before you found them? Yep, that too. Skyrim is your oyster, and there are many pearls for the taking.

Although, what happens after the last pearl has been harvested? (Spoiler Alert!) After many hours and countless adventures, I defeated the ancient dragon Alduin, who had resurrected his brethren and heralded a new age of dragons. He fell under the weight of my powerful ancient shouts and cutting ice storm spells. The dreaded beasts soar the skies no more. I halted a civil war by creating a new age of peace, both the Stormcloaks and Imperials are no longer at war. After slogging through limb-numbing frozen mountaintops and dank dismal caverns, I rid the college of Winterhold of a corrupt advisor who murdered the Arch-Mage. Consequently I'm the Arch Mage now, and I rule the school with a velvet glove. We've come a long way from the paddy wagon, Baby. So I ask you, patient reader, what now?

The following morning, I drove to work through rush hour traffic in Atlanta. The highway was filled with glowing red break lights, and congested as a sinus infection. Once parked, I went to my cubicle carrying my lunch and jacket. Lydia was no longer there to begrudgingly hold my things, or hesitantly do my bidding. She could print my Powerpoint slides, or fix my coffee the way I like. Once a valiant troll-slayer, now a percolator. It was business as usual, answering emails, making coffee when the pot ran dry, greeting the mail man as he passed through. I desperately wanted him to stop by my cube to drop off a well-worn parchment roll with instructions from the Dark Brotherhood for my next covert operation. Alas, he did not.


Eight hours passed under sickly fluorescent lights, and I saw not a single drawbridge, Dwemer, or Daedra. No caves to explore, no treasures to find, no one’s pleas to help the helpless. Once freed from work, I hopped on my trusty steed (a '95 silver Honda CRV) and rode off into the cold winters night, searching for new adventures.

I know of a place from the works of an ancient scribe. A vast land nestled between rugged snow-capped mountains, what cut through billowing clouds like a warm blade through butter. A land where giants herd wooly mammoths next to towering campfires. Dwarves build enormous subterranean cities and intricate gadgets from the ore they have mined for generations. A place of werewolves and vampires, of trolls and dragons. A world brimming with magic and myth, of heroism and deceit. Indeed, I acquiesce to the call of the sirens, beckoning me back to the land of Tamriel.