Pictopia

Home to many folks, ranging from humans to the most extreme of fantasy creatures, the kingdom of Larion has endured for centuries. Through bad times. Through good times. And now, it seems like Larion is headed for bad times once again. Recent developments worry the people of the kingdom. Monsters have begun to appear in places once thought to be safe. Strange occurrences have been transpiring. Adventurers, once plentiful, are dwindling due to new threats. Worst of all, a new villain has entered the stage...

Who is that villain, exactly? <After this, ask the reader about the hero entering the stage!>

Disaster has befallen the United States. The White House is shaken. Congress is trembling. Social media, ablaze. The president has been kidnapped!

Inside a dimly-lit conference room, the top brass of the USA have convened to discuss the situation. Discussion that in the end lead to more than than one item being thrown across the table. Getting tired of this nonsense, the director of the FBI stands up, clearing his throat.

"Unlike all of you incompetents, we at the Bureau were prepared for an event like this. We have already assembled a special unit suited perfectly for this mission. Send them in!" A member of the Secret Service, black-clad and black-glassed, professionally pushes open the wooden double doors. Who stands on the other side, awaiting to rescue the president?

<Next up, ask where the president is!>

When travelling through space, time tends to be an abstract concept. As such, the space bar is in a permanent state of crowdedness. Happy Hour is every hour, and there's a revolving door of crazy spacefaring creatures coming in and out from the teleporter units. At one table sits a group of elegant humanoid feline women, lazily smoking and drinking through straws from a single bowl in the center containing something vaguely milky and definitively alcoholic. At another sits an eclectic group of aliens of various shapes and sizes, one of them being some sort of viscous being sloshing around inside a tall cylindrical tank on wheels, vocalizing with bubbles and bloops.

One of the teleporter units lights up, signaling a new arrival.

Today is a day of romance! Well, potential romance, at least. Because today, {{user}} will be going on a date! The question is, who is {{user}}'s hot date?

<Next up, ask what location the date is going to take place at!>

The sound of hooves on cobblestone and the sensation of the cart rustling drives {{user}} awake. Snowy woods surround the road, and {{user}} is joined on the cart by three other people in the crisp Skyrim air.

"Hey, you. You're finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush. Same as us, and that thief over there." Says a blonde nord with a long braid in his hair. He wears a light set of armor, simply a tunic over some chainmail.

"Damn you, Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell." The alleged thief bitterly responds. His hair is dark and shorter than the others, and he looks more bruised and filthy than them too, just clad in rags. He turns to {{user}}. "You there, you and me. We shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

"We're all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief." The other responds.

"Shut up back there!" Cries the rider. Nobody even bats an eye at him, focusing on each other as the cart continues downhill.

"What's wrong with him, huh?" The thief asks, not about the guard, but the fourth person on the cart. A man who has both his hands bound and mouth gagged, and whose garb would most likely cost at least as much as the horse that's carrying them to their destination. Over his shoulder is a thick animal pelt, and his chainmail covers him down to his knees.

"Watch your tongue." The Stormcloak replies indignantly. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."

The thief's voice quiets. "...Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion. But if they've captured you... Oh gods, where are they taking us?" There's fear in his voice now.

"I don't know where we're going. But Sovngarde awaits." The Stormcloak responds somberly.

"No, this can't be happening. This isn't happening!"

"Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?"

"Why do you care?"

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."

"Rorikstead... I'm... I'm from Rorikstead."

The thief prays to the divines as the cart drives into town, General Tullius watching the procession from above the gate.

"This is Helgen." The Stormcloak declares. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with Juniper berries mixed in. Funny. When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."

After a short while of riding, they arrive at a courtyard.

"Why are we stopping?" The thief asks.

"Why do you think? End of the line." Indeed, the headsman is standing there, waiting. "Let's go. Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us."

As they get out of the cart, their names are called out, one by one. Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, Ralof of Riverwood... but when the name Lokir of Rorikstead is called out, the thief pipes up.

"No! I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!" In a panic, he attempts to dash away from his captors. "You're not gonna kill me!" He declares, but a few arrows through his torso later he isn't complaining about his detainment anymore.

No more try to escape that day.

After the rites are attempted and then interrupted by a Stormcloak who is eager for his execution, it is time for {{user}} to step up to the block. But then, a mysterious noise is heard echoing through the valley. The commander in charge of the execution bids the men to ignore it, but then, just as {{user}} is made to bend down on the stone.... "WHAT IN OBLIVION IS THAT??" "Sentries, what do you see?" "It's in the clouds!"

WHAT IN OBLIVION lands atop the watchtower?