Dawn clawed its way over Whiterun's stone walls, painting the tundra in hues of amber and frost. Gilgamesh stood at the city's main gate, his golden eyes reflecting the pale sun like twin coins. The guard on duty, a burly Nord with a chipped helm, nodded at him. "Off to bleed more bandits dry, sellsword?"
"Off to make the world a quieter place," Gilgamesh replied, adjusting the leather strap of his enchanted satchel. The guard chuckled, but the sound died quickly—Gilgamesh's reputation had teeth. Whiterun's merchants sang praises of his efficiency, but its underworld whispered darker things: the mercenary with dragonfire on his tongue and shadows in his steps.
The plains stretched before him, brittle grass crunching under his boots. A system prompt flickered in his vision, translucent and intrusive:
**[Active Quest Updated: Hunt the Word Walls (1/5 – Shearpoint – Krosis – "Throw Voice")]**
He swiped it away. The "gamer system" had been his constant—and only—companion since he'd clawed his way out of Helgen's ashes. It granted him power, yes, but its notifications carried a mocking edge, as if amused by his mortal struggles.
The road to Shearpoint was a fickle mistress. One moment, the path wound through sun-dappled pines; the next, it vanished into scree slopes and wolf dens. Gilgamesh's *Shadowstep* perk muffled his tread, turning his advance into a ghost's rumor. By midday, he'd reached the crossroads near Honningbrew Meadery. The scent of fermented honey hung thick, mingling with something fouler—rotten meat and iron.
Three bandits lurked by a splintered cart, their leader prying a ruby pendant from a corpse's rigor-mortised grip. Gilgamesh cleared his throat.
"Hand over the bauble," he said, "and I'll let you keep your fingers."
The leader spun, greasy hair swinging. "You're outnumbered, fool."
Gilgamesh's grin was a blade unsheathed. "**System—calculate odds.**"
**[Combat Analysis]**
**Bandits**: Level 12 (x3)
**Threat Level**: Low
**Suggested Tactics**: *Silver Tongue* (Persuasion +25%) or *Fire Breath* (Overkill)
He opted for the former.
"You're *Hrodulf*, right?" Gilgamesh lied smoothly, gesturing to the bandit's rusted axe. "Heard you got your arm ripped off by a skeever last week. Shame. Though I suppose it explains the smell."
The bandit blinked. "I—I'm not Hrodulf—"
"No? My mistake." Gilgamesh stepped closer, golden eyes glinting. "But you *do* look like a man who'd lick a horker's arse for a septim."
**[Persuasion Check Succeeded!]**
**[Intimidation Multiplier: x2]**
The bandit leader paled. His companions edged backward.
"Take the damn pendant!" the leader hissed, tossing it at Gilgamesh's feet. "Just… don't follow us!"
They fled. Gilgamesh pocketed the ruby.
**[XP +150]**
**[Current XP: 23,250/24,000]**
"Amateurs," he muttered.
The mountains grew teeth as he climbed. Frost clung to his cloak, and the wind howled like a scorned lover. Near Darkwater Crossing, a frost troll ambushed him, its matted fur reeking of mammoth dung.
"**Yol!**" Gilgamesh shouted.
Fire roared from his throat, engulfing the beast. It staggered, howling, and he finished it with a sword thrust through its charred heart.
**[Frost Troll Defeated!]**
**[XP +600]**
**[Current XP: 23,850/24,000]**
"Almost there," he growled, wiping troll ash from his face.
By midday, the tundra yielded to pine forests and jagged slopes. Gilgamesh ascended a narrow trail, frostbite creeping into his joints. A shadow passed overhead—a hawk, or something worse. He unsheathed his sword, its edge humming with a frost enchantment.
"Halt, *outlander*."
Three figures blocked the path: Thalmor, their golden armor gleaming smugly. The lead Justiciar sneered. "You tread close to our camp. State your business."
Gilgamesh's smile was a knife. "Funeral services. You volunteering?"
The elf's hand flew to his sword, but Gilgamesh was faster. A flick of his wrist, and a bolt of lightning arced from his palm, searing the man's chest. The other two charged, but Gilgamesh melted into the terrain, Shadowstep silencing his footfalls. A dagger found a kidney. A firebolt took the last elf square in the throat.
**[+300 EXP]**
**[Level Up: 23 → 24]**
**[New Perk Available: "Pyromancer's Fury" (Fire spells +20% damage)]**
He allocated the perk without hesitation. The Thalmor's supplies yielded a handful of septims and a petty soul gem, which he pocketed. "Should've picked a quieter line of work," he told the corpses.
As dusk bled into the mountains, the wind sharpened. Gilgamesh navigated a crumbling pass, his breath fogging the air. Below, the jagged silhouette of Valtheim Towers loomed—a nest he'd cleansed days prior. Bandit bodies still rotted in the gorge, but he felt no pride. Only the system's cold calculus: *500 septims earned. Next target*.
A roar split the twilight.
Gilgamesh froze. Above Shearpoint's peak, wings darker than midnight beat against the sky. A dragon—its scales the color of storm clouds—circled the Word Wall. Its eyes glowed like frozen stars, and frost crackled in its wake, turning the air brittle.
"*Dovahkiin*?" it boomed, landing with earth-shaking force. "No. You… *reek* of mortal ambition."
Gilgamesh grinned. "And you reek of dead lizard."
The dragon's jaws gaped, frost gathering in its throat. Gilgamesh rolled as a torrent of ice shattered the ground where he'd stood, jagged spikes erupting like teeth. "**Yol!**" he shouted, flames licking the beast's flank. It snarled, tail whipping in a sweeping arc. Gilgamesh leapt, but the scaled appendage caught him mid-air, slamming him into a boulder.
**Health: 320 → 240/320**
He spat blood, his ribs screaming. The dragon took to the sky, circling like a vulture. "*Zu'u Thurliin, strunmah dii vokul!* (I am Thurliin, my ice is eternal!)"
"Eternal?" Gilgamesh barked a laugh, chugging a healing potion. The warmth knit his bones as he scrambled for cover. "Let's test that."
Thurliin dove, frost billowing from its maw. Gilgamesh channeled magicka into his boots, sprinting up the mountainside as ice devoured the rocks behind him. At the cliff's edge, he pivoted, hurling a chain lightning spell upward. The bolt struck the dragon's wing, sending it spiraling into the mountainside.
**Stamina: 280 → 180/280**
**Magicka: 410 → 310/410**
The impact shook the earth. Thurliin thrashed, dislodging boulders. Gilgamesh lunged, driving his sword into the beast's throat. Black blood sprayed, sizzling against the frost. The dragon roared, its tail coiling around Gilgamesh's waist, crushing the air from his lungs.
**Health: 240 → 160/320**
"*Fus!*" he shouted, the Unrelenting Force tearing him free. He landed hard, rolling to avoid a snap of razor fangs. Thurliin's breath came in labored gusts now, its movements sluggish. Gilgamesh seized the opening. He climbed the dragon's back, dagger in hand, and plunged the blade into the base of its skull.
Thurliin shuddered, then collapsed. Its flesh dissolved into ethereal threads, leaving only bones.
**[+2000 EXP]**
**[Level Up: 24 → 25]**
**[New Perk Available: "Dragon's Resilience" (Health +50, Frost Resistance +25%)]**
Gilgamesh reached out, expecting the rush of stolen soul…
**[ERROR: Host Incompatible.]**
**[Dragon Soul Absorption Failed.]**
**[System Note: Did you forget you're a knockoff protagonist? Stick to killing things. It's what you're good at.]**
"Damn you," he hissed. But as the dragon's essence faded, something lingered—a flicker of memory, sharp and cold. Instinctively, Gilgamesh clawed at it, his mind tearing into the fading echoes of Thurliin's consciousness.
Visions flooded him: glaciers grinding continents to dust, ancient Nords chanting at a Word Wall, and a single, throbbing syllable—***"Iiz" (Ice)***—carved into his psyche like a brand.
**[Warning: Unauthorized Memory Extraction Detected.]**
**[System Override: Partial Shout Acquired.]**
**[Shout: *Iiz* (Frost Breath – Word 1/3) – "Your plagiarism is impressive. Enjoy the frostbite."]**
Gilgamesh staggered, his breath frosting in the air despite the absence of magic. The Word Wall above Shearpoint pulsed, its ancient carvings now whispering secrets he could almost grasp.
Night fell. Gilgamesh camped in a shallow cave, sharpening his weapons. The Word Wall loomed above, its runes glowing faintly. He flexed his fingers, testing the new weight in his voice. "**Iiz…**" A puff of frost escaped his lips, crystallizing a patch of stone.
*Not bad*.
He pulled up his status, the blue screen casting his face in pallid light:
**STATUS**
**Name**: Gilgamesh
**Level**: 25
**Health**: 200/320 (Regen: +2.5/sec)
**Magicka**: 110/410
**Stamina**: 60/280
**Shouts Mastered**:
- *Fus (Unrelenting Force – Word 1/3)*
- *Yol (Fire Breath – Word 1/3)*
- *Iiz (Frost Breath – Word 1/3)*
**Perks**: *Silver Tongue, Arcane Theorist, Shadowstep, Pyromancer's Fury, Dragon's Resilience*
**Active Quests**:
- *Hunt the Word Walls (1/5)*
- *Train Lysia to Apprentice-Level Destruction Magic*
- *Contract: Retrieve Redguard Heirloom (Markarth – 800 Septims)*
He dismissed the screen. Above, the dragon priest Krosis stirred in its tomb, the seal on its sarcophagus cracking faintly. Gilgamesh smirked. Let it come.
Sleep evaded him. The System's laughter echoed in his skull, but beneath it, Thurliin's memories whispered of older, colder things. When dawn crept over the mountains, Gilgamesh rose, his golden eyes fixed on the Word Wall.
"Time to make some noise." .
**[Objective: Stop talking to yourself. It's sad.]**