You awake to a beautiful morning, fresh as a daisy, the manliest of flowers. The sun peeks over the horizon and lights the forest, rousing the woodland creatures from their rest. You pack up your stuff and hit the road. It's time for morning exercises.
You look for the local wildlife to challenge to them to feats of strength, speed, and endurance. All you manage to spot are some deer, so you take the most fleet of hoof in a race, but are interrupted by a challenge of might by a giant wasp!
The insect seems to take issue with you passing through. Buzzing with power, it seems to wish to test your strength.
You happily oblige.
The wasp is pretty dazed, but you think it said that you can go. Following the path, you come to a sign.
Now, you don't know a lot about Cyrodiil, but "Imperial" sounds pretty important, you suppose. There could possibly be things to fight that way! To the city!
After a while, you come see a man clad in heavy armor. You admit that it's pretty awesome-looking, even if you're STRONG enough where you do not need such things. He greets you and you him.
Hail, you say. Greetings, citizen, he says. You introduce yourself as Swordbeard Dickpunch. He says that it's an interesting name, and tells you that his is Maxim Morrelius, but he's been nicknamed "The Muscle". You nod approvingly and compliment him on his nickname-title and MANLY armor. He says thank you. You ask if he forged it himself in the fires of his own masculinity. He says no, he just got them when he joined the Imperial Legion, but concedes that that would be pretty rad. The Imperial Legion, you ask? He says it's the army that guards and fights for Cyrodiil. You say oh. He says that the job can get a bit monotonous, but the pay is pretty okay. You ask if he has to take people on in a lot of fights, and if he would accept a duel among men, the men being him and you.
Maxim tells you that they have to keep their skills sharp, but actual fights aren't common; the most trouble they get is from the local thieves. As for the duel, he says he would like to, but he is currently on duty, and cannot indulge in such MANLY activities when he has a city to watch. Actually, he has to get going and head to the guard tower nearby for an important briefing. You say that you usually just freeball. He says not that kind of brief. You just sort of nod. You both say good-bye and part ways. It's good to know that there are bros even in Cyrodiil.
You eventually come across what looks like the city's port. There's a lighthouse, some sailors and... is that...? Could it be?
It is! A boat!
Oh my god, and it's an inn and bar, too? That is just way too awesome. You commend the owner for having such a great idea, and cheer the ship. You can feel the raw strength of the vessel increase and are sure that it is now at least 1.5x manlier. There are a number of barrels and crates scattered about.
You find a coin and a pair of discarded shoes, both of which you toss into the handy sack you found on the dock the night before. You should probably hold off on adding too much to it; space is already at a premium with all of that ale you stuffed into it. It is when you are going to check that when you notice that someone else is standing nearby.
A female someone. Maybe she wants to fight. Time to issue a challenge.
You say hi there. She doesn't respond the first time and sort of gazes off in another direction. You greet her more loudly and flex a bit. Oddly not taken aback by such a stunning display of muscle, she asks what you want. You say that you just wandered into town and are interested in fighting worthy foes, but would not decline discharging some of your MANLINESS into anyone who would be willing to join him in a tussle. She says what. You say that you can tell that she would be formidable to face in such a duet, as you are working up a MANLY sweat just looking at her. She doesn't respond to this. You ask what such a sleek specimen of womanhood is doing hanging out at the docks. She says that she's waiting for someone, and seems to be hinting at something. You, however, have no idea what that may be. You flash her your most beardy, winning smile and say that you would really like to take her on in a struggle.
She seems impatient for some reason, but you can't really fathom why, so you decide it's because she wants more details about how this is going to go down. This is how we, I mean it, is going to go down, you say. With muscles tense and hearts beating powerfully, we come at each other like feral animals and begin to push and pull at each other. Then, groping and clawing each other, and possibly emitting some sort of loud war cry, we unleash all of our strength on the other until only one is left standing, or we are too exhausted to continue.
She seems appreciative of the idea and turns away, you suppose, to think on it. Your powerful pecs seem to have left her speechless. Aw yeah. Just another day in the life of the manliest man on Nirn.
Near as you can tell, the Imperial City is either on a peninsula or an island. It's too foggy to tell how far the other shore is, though. The sordid remains of a once-majestic sea craft sit in the water near the graveyard. A somber scene.
You come across a small house. You knock, but no one answers. The door is locked.
The locals don't seem too keen on you hanging around. Time to step things up a bit.
You loudly proclaim your identity and endear yourself to the people. Overcome by admiration, it is not long until, beggars and travelers, they are cheering your name and whooping happily. Basking in the glow of their adulation, you are free to walk the waterfront as you please. What better way to use this than to check out the discarded barrels sitting around?
You're not sure what this is, but there seems to be a lot of it around here, much like those posters.
Who's this douchebag?
A ruckus catches your attention and you come across an exasperated young lady and a flock of unruly sheep. Just look at these hooves on the loose. Good luck settling them down. You approach said damsel and inquire as to what in the name of Ysmir's beard is going on, and if you could maybe help.
She says that her name is Malvulis, the first mate, and is having trouble herding the shipment for their Captain, who is away on important business. Though she is loathe to accept the help, she says that if you could help get the sheep on the ship, she would greatly appreciate it. There is only one way for a man to herd sheep:
At high velocity.
One-by-one, you fling the sheep onto the deck of the ship. It takes a while to chase them all down, but you get the job done.
Malvulis thanks you for your help, and says that the crew will get them below deck. You say no problem. She asks if there's anything she can do to say thanks, just to break even. You say you're kind of hungry. She says that they have some food in the cabin, but they have to restock. You say it's cool.
You enjoy some grapes, sweetrolls, and a mug of ale with the first mate. Sweetrolls are pretty hard to come by in Skyrim, so you enjoy it to the utmost. After the snack, she says that she has to go check up on the crew to make sure all of the cargo is corralled. You say thanks for the grub. Suddenly, you hear something in the storm outside.
Bangs, yelling, and some kind of other sound. You think you recognize the sound. It seems very familiar.
welp
The lightning flashes and illuminates a large bear that seems to have found its way onto the ship deck. Or perhaps out of the ship? You're not really sure what other manner of fauna they are transporting for trade. The crew are dealing with the situation the best they can, which is to say, poorly. The bear is really doing a number on them. Poor guys. Time to do what you always do in situations with formidable foes like this.
Challenge it to a fist fight!
Claws slash, teeth gnash, growls echo across the harbor as the wind howls and the rain falls. You stare each other down, ready to commence the fight. You exchange a Man Roar, the universal sign of a duel between great forces.
LET'S DO THIS.
From the first swing, you could tell that this would be a struggle for the ages. The bear does not give an inch. Neither do you. When two diametrically opposed forces of equal strength meet, something great will happen, as it was decided by the Macho Council in the Year of the Fist. However, you know that this cannot be a fight between equals. Someone has got to give, and it sure won't be you.
The encroaching aura of power and anger encloses on you, making you tense up and putting a knot in your rock-hard abs. Your skin crawls and tingles, your hair stands on end, and even your beard feels bushier than usual. Every movement the bear makes causes the boat to sway a bit more in the gale, every step makes the boards shudder and creak under its weight. It lunges, the force sending you sprawling on your back, holding the animal at bay with brute strength. Foul, hot breath assails your senses and adds a grimace to your face, already contorted with effort. Your mighty hands are absorbed into the shaggy fur as the bear bears down on you, as bears are wont to do.
Finding purchase, you throw the beast from you and scramble to your feet, using the mast as support to draw yourself up. Lips drawn in a tight, grim smile, you nod once. The bear bumbles to its feet on unsteady paws. The swaying of the ship makes it difficult to remain steady on the rain-slick wood, and you feel your feet shift under you. No time to wait for the attack to come.
Man and bear close upon each other, draw apart, and close once again. Blows are traded with abandon and wanton fury is unleashed from both sides. You throw a punch only to have it absorbed by thick fur. The bear swipes, its mighty paw meeting the steel-hard resistance of your mangrit. A punch knocks the wind out of the bear. A swipe scratches your leg through your prison garb. It is now apparent that the bear is out of control; it has become a fight to the death.
The flurry of attacks pushes you to the stairs. You have not had such a fine test of strength in a long time. This is a contest that you fully intend to win. You are Swordbeard fucking Dickpunch, manliest man in Cyrodiil, professional bear wrestler, and you sure as fuck aren't going to lose your first bear battle in this province.
You run up the stairs and stand on the quarter deck. Does this little thing even have a real quarter deck? Bellowing a challenge, you yell the bear up to you. It is bound to take less of a liking to the stairs than you. As it begins its ascent, you discover that you were correct; in a physics-defying leap, it abandons the stairs to assault you in a more direct attack.
Only to be met with a mighty FIST.
The bear crumples against the brunt of the attack, and rebounds off onto the deck below. You hop down after it and continue your deadly dance of punches and feints, swipes and dodges.
A final MIGHTY DOUBLE-FIST DOWNWARD SWING brings the bear down. He's not getting up from that one. The storm subsides in the face of such extreme manliness.
You raise your worthy foe into the air, victorious. The crew cheers and celebrates, grateful for your intervention on their behalf. You are not a professional bear wrestler for nothing. The first mate doesn't have much to part with, so she gives you her set of dinnerware and a book about the Empire. You ask why. She says that she doesn't like to be in debt to people, and also that it was a pretty sweet fight.
You... you guess this could be useful?
Time to show off your crafting ability. In the absence of your bear vest, perhaps you can make do with something else. Your sack is, after all, only able to fit so many items. You create something beautiful and functional. It is a masterpiece. The pinnacle of your ability manifested in a practical accessory. You dump all of your various belongings on the deck and begin to organize.
You were positive you had more booze than this.
It is glorious. Everything fits. You mount your creation on your back and let the contents settle. This was possibly the best idea you've ever had. It is immediately followed by another one: let's go to the boat bar to celebrate.
Inside, it seems to be Happy Hour. Everyone's knocking back stiff ones and guzzling the hell out of it. This is your kind of establishment. You decide it's time to get your drink on and you gulp down the sweet, golden-brown nectar.
This was a good day. You buy a room and end it on a high note. The light rocking of the boat gently lulls you to sleep.
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