It's the first heroic thing you've accomplished in your life, and not one person seems to care. At first, you try to act adorably coy, slinging nary more than a ho-hum expression and shrug of your shoulders at passersby, hoping the hulking frost troll corpse beneath your boot will do most of the work for you. When that doesn't work you try a more forward approach. "Hey," you say to a passing merchant, playfully placing your hand on her shoulder, "so I killed this frost troll that was menacing the city. No big thing really, I just thought you--" She coldly jerks her arm from your hold and continues her hurried walk toward the center of town.

Actually, that seems to be where everyone's headed. What's going on over there, anyway? It must be something quite impressive indeed to overshadow the recent accomplishments of a beet miner turned troll slayer!

You wait a few moments more before sadly releasing the monster's arm from your grasp to the ground below. You stomp toward where the crowds are gathered, and grumpily push your way through a tightly packed teem of cheering peasants to see what in Tamriel could be eating so much of the townsfolk's attention.

Standing in the circle's center with a dragon's skull stowed casually beneath his massive bicep is a tower of man, smugly waving at the adoring crowds surrounding him, an obnoxious double-horned helmet cocked fashionably atop his head.

Suddenly, the same shouting that woke you earlier echoes loudly down from the top of the nearby mountain. "Dovahkiin!" it booms, shaking the ground at your heels and moving the sky to thunder.

"Excuse me good townmen," the man in the helmet suddenly exclaims, "but I believe that's my cue to leave."

"No, it's not!" you yell, trying to edge your face above the pair of tall shoulders clasped tightly together in front of you. "That shout's for me! I'm the dova-thing!" No one can hear you over the excited murmuring of the large crowd. They cheer, they clap, and they part like the sea from the helmeted man's way as he dashes to the mountain.

Suddenly worried he means to steal your fate, you run after him, only to be stopped a moment later by a short, ragged man with a dirt-caked face. "Do not follow the Dovahkiin," he says to your ear. "You have a destiny, my dear child, but dragon born you are not."

As you start a reply, the man opens his mouth a screams an ear-piercing string of absolute gibberish. "Oh, sorry about that," he says through a crooked smile. "Happens sometimes. Now, follow me please." You notice a dagger half-hidden beneath the sash he wears around his waist.

He turns and walks toward a nearby hut. It somehow looks to be in even greater disrepair than the home you left behind. You look back to the helmeted man, already gone from sight up the base of the mountain. If you don't follow him now, you may never catch him.

Follow the man who thinks himself Dovahkiin.

Follow the dirty man.

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