It's not easy mining beets. That's right, mining them. Even the mud farmers next door seem to enjoy laughing at your regrettable station in life, forced to spelunk after the leftover vegetables grown by those nasty Falmer living in the cave beneath your tiny hut. Of course, you'd just grow them for yourself on the surface if you actually owned any land beyond a tiny circle of straw barely covering the pile of folded burlap you've had to convince yourself is bedding. It's a difficult, mostly pointless little life you've landed in. Most of your family is long since dead, and your friends-well, you don't have any of those, do you? After all, who wants to be friends with a beet miner?

The small hole near your bed that lets you rob those nasty, subterranean farmers below is too small for you, and the gear that helps you descend takes every bit of strength you can muster to operate. It's no surprise you're still sleeping off yesterday's expedition (only six and a half beets after a full days work) come sunrise when you first hear the yelling.

You open your eyes to the large plank of wood jutting up from the dirt near the bottom of your feet. It's been the first thing your eyes have met each morning for as long as you can remember; you've even jokingly taken to calling it your bed's footboard, as if you could afford something so luxurious. You gaze at the strange words scrawled in its surface, wondering, as you always wonder, if this will be the morning you finally determine their meaning: MEEP MERP MUUU.

You sit up straight and yell the words as loudly as you can, another morning-time tradition to which you've become accustomed. Some time ago you decided they were most likely a mage's spell, and if you could only just speak them with enough heartfelt passion, perhaps something magical may happen to this thoroughly disappointing life of yours.

If the words truly are mystical, they aren't working today. You sigh nearly as loudly as you'd yelled the "spell," and drop your head back into the large triple fold of scratchy cloth you call a pillow. Just before you fall back asleep, you hear more shouting, the same as what woke you. You turn your head toward the large hole in your wall that the skeevers often use to come and go, and listen carefully. There it is again. A powerful voice is calling, "Dovahkiin!"

Go back to sleep. After all, those beets won't mine themselves, and you'll need more rest for today's harvest.

Leap from your bed and get dressed. That epic call must be for you. It must be, right?

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