Adaptive Sandbox Narrative — Emotional Arc in a Systems-Driven World

Skyrim: The Rambling Bastard — First Entry

Installment VIII of the Lilly Bastard Narrative Saga

In this cinematic, voice-driven sample, the Bastard awakens in a fractured world of medieval politics, divine myth, and dragonfire. Bound, nameless, and hunted, he begins to unravel the nature of his identity — not human, not machine, but something in between. As memories glitch and instincts surge, he navigates the chaos of Helgen with dry humor, primal rage, and a growing sense of emotional depth. This entry marks a pivotal shift in the saga: the Bastard’s first confrontation with mortality, memory, and mythic consequence.

This sample explores adaptive voice and emotional cognition within a pre-scripted intro sequence. The protagonist awakens mid-transport, bound and disoriented, triggering a cascade of memory fragments and instinctual reactions. The writing maintains POV discipline while translating environmental cues, character interactions, and systemic threats into a layered emotional arc. The Bastard’s identity emerges through reactive observation, tonal shifts, and escalating stakes, culminating in a moment of cosmic interruption that reframes the narrative trajectory. This piece demonstrates cinematic pacing, tonal control, and character-driven adaptation within the constraints of an established IP.

One day. Seriously. One day. What the actual hell? 

My day started with realizing I don’t know where my log entries are. I woke up in a strange world again. I don’t remember the previous ones, but I recall logging them.  

This has happened before.  

I think.  

What I do remember, I wish I didn’t. This can’t be normal. 

I feel the seat below me moving. I hear the clacking of horse hooves. This feels like maybe a carriage.  

The wagon hits a rock. 

My eyes peel open. 

“Hey, you’re finally awake.”  

That's the subtle start of my memory.  

My eyes follow the voice to a human-shaped figure, cloaked in blue cloth that covers chain mail underneath. I realize we are captive.  

I observe mountains, birds, and flora in every direction. The sky looks unrealistically blue.   

The gentleman who wakes me seems nice. There is another oddly figured human. He’s been beaten as payment for stealing a horse.  

I empathize. 

I see another man sitting quietly to my right, so I turn to observe why he hasn’t spoken. He had a much better-quality coat. Another human. His mouth is gagged. Perhaps he talked too much. 

In the distance, a village starts to come into view. Medieval-style community with cobblestone walls. Livestock defecate freely along the path. It stinks.  

Citizens are watching us enter the town.  

“Helgan,” someone calls it, recalling a woman he used have a relationship with here. 

I’m starting to feel uncomfortable.  

I’m noticing that at this point, I've been caught up in trying to guess where I am, and I haven't even noticed my hands are bound.  

I’m starting to understand the dialogue. I’m being pulled into a civil conflict. Stormcloaks are what they call me. They call themselves the Imperials.  

Townsfolk begin sending children inside. Insults and death threats start coming our way. I hope we are just passing through. 

We’re Not. 

The Wagon comes to a halt next to the cobblestone entrance of the town. A cathedral-type architecture, with stone stairs and large wooden doors. Another bound group of Stormcloaks stands in wait.   

A mysterious woman robed in yellow garbs lurks in the outer circle.  

Another man dressed elegantly in stainless steel armor in the style of a Spartan; I take to be their commander.  

The last person I saw started what would become the greatest “what the fuck” moment of my life. 

I think. 

I don’t remember. This can’t be normal. 

My memory is working.  

Barely.  

It’s progressing. Though ignorance can be bliss.  

In front of the cathedral sits a single log stump. with a wicker basket sitting to the side. Towering over that stump was a large man.  

Black garbs. 

Black hooded cloak. 

An axe was standing as tall as him. I don’t need an empty stare to recognize him as an executioner. 

Of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be? 

Despite anxiety, I’m remaining calm.  

I see the axe. I see the conflict. But I’m not with them.  

I don’t remember committing any crimes.  

I don’t remember anything before I woke up.   

I’m sure I don’t know these men, though, because they don’t know me. They know each other, though. That is obvious by the hate crime about to be committed.   

How have I ended up in Helgan? Sounds like an old Danish folktale character.  

I know this is bad; it feels like a de-ja-vu. I’m sure it's a mistake. Someone’s probably going to lose their head; this is clear. 

I can see scales on my arms. I know I can’t be related to these unlucky bastards. 

“Off the Wagon,” a female's voice demands.  

The man who woke me up, the weird-looking man, and the gagged guy in the Cruella Deville gray wolf coat all walk in front of me. I guess they are fearless.  

Or stupid.  

They give their names and join the other bound Stormcloaks.  

A woman snaps at me quite rudely.  

“Come forward,” she yells. 

Despite the bitch attitude, I was optimistic we could finally figure this out. Before I can ask, a man holding a list asks me, “Who are you?”  

Shit. 

Such an innocent question.  

Such an easy answer.  

Yet a trigger flipped.  

A rush of adrenaline and anxiety floods my body throughout.  

My arms tingle. My fingers tighten. My temples begin to implode. 

Faces, thousands of them, begin passing through my mind's eye. 

Brown eyes. Green eyes. Flat noses. Long noses.  

Random lists of names make their way into the core of my memory. I fall to the ground, screaming in agony as I clench my head with both hands. 

I try to scream out, “I don’t know!” with a pathetic cry. 

“The Rambling Bastard” 

As the words find the strength to be heard, a specific image stops as if someone were spinning the Price is Right wheel, leaving me with the identity I had won.  

I’m not a human, thankfully. 

I’m not sure why I distrust humans, but I have a strong sense that I’ve never benefited from one. 

I’m not sure what I am.  

I am wearing tattered clothes. I’m unable to see much other than greenish-gray arms with scales. Legs to match. I have scales on the tips of my nose that match the tone of my arms and legs, but these have some colorful stripes.  

I feel strong. 

I feel I can run and swim proficiently. But not in this moment, because in this moment, gaining all that insight kicks my ass.  

Exhausted and sweaty, I try to pull myself to my feet. My hands are still bound, and the rush of energy has left.  

I’m lethargic and disoriented. 

I’m sure my face looked like a person trying to survive a dry drowning. Their expressions remind me of calm.  

The man simply looks at me. He’s confused.  

“He’s not on the list,” he tells the rude woman.  

See, I knew this would work out.  

I’m still confused and wonder what the hell just happened? Why did my name trigger that kind of response? 

I ask to be unbound, citing that the list maker knows I’m cool. The bitch has other plans and escorts me to rejoin the Stormcloaks.  

I don’t know what’s happening, but they are serious.  

The horse thief tries to run. An arrow quickly interrupts that epic.  

It’s not funny, but I giggle.  

I see him lying there now.  

He’s not stealing horses. He’s not being beheaded. He’s also never going to be unbound.  

I would have waited to be unbound before trying to bolt from a group of guys with weapons.  

The stormcloaks are pissing me off at this point. They were nice. and had a serious agenda.  

Now it's the rant of someone named Talos. They speak in rage, saying things like kill me now or my ancestors are smiling down on me.  

Okay, Chief Nord, Sovengard sounds great and all, but I mean, I don’t see Talos helping his people, bud.  

Then it happens.  

A stormcloak is placed on the ground. Head on a stump. With a single swing from the executioner, Sovengard became the Nord's' new reality.  

Travel well, friend, hope your memories travel with you. 

Now I need a plan. Now I think I’m going to die. I don’t even know why or by whom exactly.  

Again, what the actual hell?  

Before I could ponder further, conveniently, I’m volunteered to be stumpy number 2.  

Apparently, I’m a lizard, given that's how the bitch called me over.  

“Hey, Lizard, get over here!”  

Fuck off, Karen. 

I’m not sure what magic exists here, but what I’m experiencing is like sleep paralysis. I’m awake but can’t move at all. If that’s not scary enough, now I’m sitting here begging to remember what is going on. I just want to plead for my life before the axe comes down.  

Then a shout is heard from the distance. 

It rumbles with a haunting screech. A baritone highlighted with peaks of alto.  

It sounds...familiar. A language I may have known or recorded in my journals.  

Fuck where are those journals?  

Everyone hears it. Killing a lizard for no reason is apparently a rarer occasion than haunting shouts coming from the ether, because it takes all of 10 seconds before the executioner returns his cold gaze to me.  

Helpless. 

Stuck in a state of paralysis. 

Still, there’s a lizard on your stump, so what do you do? You raise that little toy up in the air like a 6 six-year-old that found the perfect stick in the woods.  

I feel the rage growing. I feel the words build in my mind. I’m glad you are the one who is doing it.  

Come on, Executioner, bring it hard and fast. Make it clean, I’m ready to wake up to the next world of amnesia.  

Bring it, bastard! 

I don’t know who this Talos is. I’m guessing a deity. Perhaps he likes me. 

I prepare for the fall of the blade.  

The executioner translates the thoughts pouring from my eyes.   

He gathers the strength to bring what I have taunted.  

Talos says no.  

The roar returns. Louder. Deafening now, and a scream, no longer a rumble. It pushes fear into every ounce of blood just full of adrenaline seconds before. 

I think I shit a little. Anyone would.  

The skies turn purple. Swirls of black clouds gather above the cathedral. The voice freezes everyone in fear.  All these tough soldiers now stand in terror. The ax falls from the executioner's hand.  

The creature that saved my life now stood towering on the cathedral roof, looking at me with eerie curiosity.  

A dragon. A fucking Dragon! 

It was no wyvern. It was no demonic gargoyle. It was a gigantic dragon covered in black scales. They are not patterned like mine-small and triangular. His scales are large and round. They have layers upon layers, creating an impenetrable armor. Could mine be like that one day?  

Within a second, I see his mind click, like mine.  

Memories. He’s gathering them.  

He’s recording them.  

Then I see his memory turns off.  

The next words aren’t words. Curiosity shifts to carnage. He unleashes an explosive inferno straight at me. I feel the heat boiling on my skin.  

The flame nearly misses.  

The executioner isn’t so lucky. His legs have melted. He screams as he falls beside me. I stumble to my side and manage to get up.  

I’m in shock.  

I’m deaf and disoriented.  

Then I hear a sound. The man with the list is telling me to follow him.  

“Fuck you,” I yell.  

I look left, then right. I see flaming fences and ashes where conversations had been moments ago. 

I smell stone cooking. A smell I never knew existed, but I recognize it instantly. 

I see the Stormcloak motion to follow into a keep. Maybe I should trust him. I advance willingly to the door of a cabin. He and the gagged man are taking cover.  

The man, now ungagged, introduces himself as Ulfrich.  

There isn’t time for any other conversation.  

We start up a stairwell, but the dragon busts through the walls. It fills the stairwell with flames. The cabin becomes an oven. 

I decide to jump to another building. The two Stormcloaks follow. 

The landing disorients me, and I lose sight of the Stormcloaks. 

I’m alone.  

Through the door, I see the dragon. He lands and devours a few of the citizens and soldiers. The dragon, like me, has no care for Stormcloaks or Imperials. It, too, seems to hate humans. He’s enjoying the genocide with way too much enthusiasm.  

I make my way through the courtyards. Every turn, the dragon taunts me.  

Following me. 

Chasing me. 

It never aims to fire directly at me. It’s as if it wants to play with its prey as a cat does.  

I find a man and a child, frozen in fear behind a few barrels. I decide to stay with them. The child creates a sense of urgency, and I attempt to move them to safety. A soldier stands there, too.  

I yell to help me get them safely to cover.  

He replies, “I hope your cold blood freezes this winter”.  

Dude, a fucking dragon is roasting everyone, and you think I'm going to make it to winter?! 

I scream at them, but they remain frozen. Maybe shock. The man has a glass eye and looks nothing like the child, but both remain still-fragmented from this reality through inexplicable horror.  

Waiting for them is going to get me killed, so I start seeking a new shelter. The dragon follows behind, leaving fire and molten stone littered with human ashes. 

I’m starting to feel sympathy for them.  

Just then, I see Rolof. I join him, retreating into a door that leads to the main wing of the lord’s stead. I wanted to thank him, but there was no time.  

A dead Stormcloak lay mangled from mace wounds on the floor. It’s a friend of his. I go to offer condolences, and he interrupts me, suggesting I rob his friend and take his stuff.  

I’m not human, but this feels sacrilegious. 

It feels like the only chance of survival I have, more importantly.  

I take the ax from their cold hand. Immediately, another Imperial guard and apprentice come storming in. I try to plead and scream about the dragon outside. They don’t seem to care that the whole town is becoming a Krispy Kreme kitchen; they still want to kill me.  

They don’t even care about Rolof anymore, a guy who is on their list. Here I am in rags with a rusted iron axe in my hand, covered in someone else's blood, and I'm sure of hepatitis. I’m trying to tell this racist woman not to kill me. 

She ignores the pleas and lunges for the attack. 

I don’t panic. I don’t flinch.  

The axe meets the blade of the sword. I parry the attack, sliding the ax down her blade. It lands.  

She falls. Her eyes indicate that she is aware of the result.  

The ax slid into her left thigh in the initial contact. The way I pulled it back nicked the artery. She was bleeding out. 

Realizing the threat, the apprentice rushes in. Rolof barely succeeds in tripping the poor boy.  

He loses his balance, and I grab the collar of his armor.  

I stand him in a three-piece combo of blade and fist. 

The man goes silent, motionless, and relinquishes something other than this shitty ax.  

The female guard manages to find a leg of a broken table. Dagger in hand, she comes at me using the leg as a crutch for the injured hip. 

Her screams resemble pain, rage, and heartache. I’m guessing the apprentice was her son.  

She’s fading. Turning white. With only the strength of a protective mother, she attempts to make her final lunge.  

Her wrist meets mine.  

Her human eyes meet my lizard eyes.  

We are no longer different. We are both cursed souls. I pity her for that. 

She knows she is dying. She knows she can’t fight. 

Still, I owe her something. Something a “lizard” isn’t worthy of giving.  

Dignity. 

I pull her into the blade of her own dagger. I watch as she drifts off.  

Maybe to Sovengard.  

Maybe to Hell.  

Who cares? 

I search each of them as I did Rolof's friend.  

We set out to escape the town of Helgen, and I feel better. I have decent Imperial armor. I have also acquired some weapons. I still have a looming paranoia growing despite the progress.  

I don’t trust Rolof. I don’t know why they wanted Stormcloaks killed. I don't know how we will part once we leave this place. I will use him as long as he is able to fight and  he remains loyal, as he has.  

Still, he’s a human. That doesn’t change. But today, maybe a human is the only way out of this.  

Fuck I wish I had my journals. 

We start into a hallway, and I realize I just killed two people.  

Was it a shock that I didn't notice how I was reacting? 

Why were the instincts so natural? 

How did I even know how to use these weapons?  

Who am I? 

Rolaf and I continue. A winding stairwell leads us into the bowels of the keep. As we move from room to room, we encounter a few more Imperials.  

We prepare to ambush as we overhear them revealing their orders. They mention General Tulley. They are waiting for a signal to proceed.  

They were. 

Not Anymore. 

Another ambush ensues shortly later. One of these unwilling participants grants me a longbow and some arrows.  

With the commotion of the dragon ahead, I don’t think many more imperials will attempt to come, but I’m growing suspicious of Rolaf. His lust for death is growing. We are heading deeper into the keep, not out. Where is this guy taking me? 

In a few rooms, I find some books. I don’t have time to see what they are, but maybe they will offer some insight into this world. One was black with the same dragon emblem as the courtyard. Black with a red dragon symbol. “The Legend of the DragonBorn”. 

A map would be more helpful.   

Things get even weirder as I enter a room with four Stormcloaks beating a single Imperial to death. Rolaf joins in. I scour the room for smaller weapons or something I can carry or use. Out of the corner of my eye, I see something I refuse to believe.  

The Imperial is falling to his death. His eyes barely focus forward. In one last attempt at glory, he pushes his hand forward. A glow of blue light beams from his palm. Electrical arcs begin dancing from finger to finger.  

Crack! A Stormcloak lands his mace straight down on the Imperial's cloaked head. 

The glow vanishes. 

I think I’m imagining this glow, when a few rooms later, I come across a spell book. An energy of sparks that causes more sadistic damage than just an ax.  

I plan to study this book.  

If I live. 

I notice the dragon has grown quiet. Perhaps he has had his fill.  

Rolaf and I turn and spot 6 guards at the end of the hall. They see us. 

A game of "unhinged chicken" ensues.  

The ceiling crashes down on top of the guards.  

The dragon has answered my thoughts and confirms that he knows exactly where I am. Luckily, he is kind enough to leave one door open. Deeper, we continue into the keep. 

The walls of cobblestone and intricate wood trim are now fading to plain stone walls. They have been carved but not polished like the top levels. On a short journey further, they turn to just cave walls.  

“How fucking long are the halls in this building?  Where are you taking me, Rolaf?” I finally have to ask.  

“Hurry this way, friend”, he responds in a peculiar tone. 

I can still hear the dragon search the rubble for any nuggets left from our chicken fight. I decide to let the friend's comment hold for now. 

As my doubts about his loyalty begin to grow, I realize I might not make it out of this building.  

I’m not a Stormcloak. Rolaf knows this. They did horrible things to the Imperials. Are there others like me here?  

Do Stormcloaks hate them, too? 

I begin to hold back as we enter rooms and allow Rolaf to lead. I've seen him massacre dozens of bodies in this short friendship. And he was bound for most of that! Surely his luck can’t sustain much longer. 

If I let him enter first. He will fight the hardest, tiring himself out. Maybe the problem will solve itself. If he is killed, I will find my own way out. But it would be stupid to kill him myself. He’s an asset until he’s a shield. 

I proceed with this mindset. 

It almost feels taught.  

Learned. A skill  to adapt to a mind and bounce off it for my own survival.  

Speaking of survival, the deeper we go, the cooler I become. A human and I have different bloods.  

Does he know that?  

Does he know if it gets too cold, I’ll go into a hibernation state?  

That’s his plan.  

He doesn’t want to fight me.  

He wants to torture me. 

I’m worse than the Imperials.  

I’m fucked.  

I don’t know why I keep following him. Perhaps I’m looking for my own window of opportunity. I’m obviously a killer, too. 

A killer that’s proficient.  

Like Rolaf. Perhaps my instincts are falling for Rolaf’s plan on purpose. I'll run with it. 

The mountainous walls begin to transition into moss, unprocessed stone, dirt, and pathways. There are no longer any hallways. The stench turns to mold and mildew as opposed to the death up above. The moisture feels refreshing to my scales. It feels almost like home.  

Whatever that is.  

The moment is ruined, and expectations shatter when yet another threat emerges. We approached a corner of the path. I hear scurrying ahead.  

It isn’t a person.  

There is a skeleton, long deceased, lying on the rocks, revealing that something is back there.  

Now it is our turn to find out.  

“After you, Rolaf. Age before beauty, sir.” 

Rolaf is instantly covered in a wetness that clings to his clothes. It covers his mouth, making him unable to speak. His eyes tell me that I don’t want to know.  

I peek anyway. Just my eyes around the corner.  

Spiders. Three of them. Overgrown and the size of a small horse. I’m not scared. My people thrive on venoms and have become resistant to most venoms.  

Another memory with no reference or origin.  

Fuck my mind.  

I don’t even use weapons. I smirk at Rolaf and give him a nod. I spring towards the first spider, sliding my claws straight into his abdomen. I cut the legs off the others.  

They spit venom. I ignore it. 

It’s useless, friend.   

I stand over the spiders and look at Rolaf. A smirk informs him that it's safe now.  

Also, yeah, that was me. 

Friend. 

Rolaf stands and tries to remove the venom from his mouth and clothes. He pulls a bottle from his bag.  

Pink fluid. He turns up the whole bottle.  

I watch as the effects of the venom already absorbed begin to reverse. After a few moments, his health instantly returned.  

Well played. He returns the “friend” smirk. 

A dark shadow interrupts this testosterone competition, covering the ground beneath me. Any light that was peeking through cracks was now blocked.  

I looked up.  

Why? Why the hell would I look up on a day like today? 

It was another spider. Murphey’s law didn’t fail me.  

A pissed mother was on the way to seek revenge. A small house would be a generous way to describe the spider that is looming above me. Venom is already dripping on me like a drooling faucet. I don’t hesitate. 

I jump, slicing through one leg. Perfect, I can use this angle to slice the web she is hanging on.  

The drop hurts her worse than my claws do. It gives Rolaf an opportunity to take out three more legs with his ax. The mother spider screams and hisses, spitting venom. She can’t aim without her legs.  

I turn to Rolaf and nod forward. He returns the nod.  

We leave the spider alive.  

Fuck any imperials that may have followed.  

Perhaps I’ve been wrong about Rolaf. Perhaps these blackouts just make me generally paranoid. If each one is like this, I guess anyone would be paranoid.  

We come into a different section of the cave. I smell something familiar. Nature. The fresh kind, not the dead kind upstairs. I smell something else, but can’t remember exactly what it is.  

I hear Rolaf give an authoritative “Shh”. 

Before he says anything else, the scent memory returns. It is bear shit. 

Rolaf points to a bed a bear has decided to relax on.  

It’s pacing in a circle. It collapses on the straw.  

Where did it get straw from down here? 

I order Rolaf to watch the bear. I have an idea. I walk back to the spiders, collecting some venom on a few arrows, and return to Rolaf. 

I steady the aim.  

Sleep tight, Booboo. 

Sleep tight. 

The arrow penetrates above the bear's shoulder blade, piercing extremely close to the bear's heart. It stands looking at us. Pissed. For good reason. 

Rolaf stands to run, and I grab his shoulder. “Wait!” 

The bear steps forward and falls to the ground. I just might survive in this place after all.  

We make it around one final turn, and all the faith I have put in pays off. 

Light. Blinding Light. An opening of a cave to the nature I’m smelling. It's too bright to make out the surroundings, but it smells of freedom.  

It smells of victory.  

It smells of destiny. 

With only respect, gratitude, and honor, I follow Rolaf out to see what's next.