Imagine being at a fancy schmancy, high class restaurant in NYC with your SO. One with crystal chandeliers, expensive wine, food portions the size of a deck of cards, and servers with long aprons and finely pressed towels draped over their left arms. You are enjoying your tiny piece of pork, whose dish name you can not pronounce, while you and your sweetie are dressed in the finest of Dolce and Gabbana formal wear.
As you enjoy your pretentious meal and the sweet ambiance that the live piano player is creating you think to yourself that nothing could make this night any better. Then the piano player starts playing this enchanting medley. Â
You try to concentrate on what your lovely date is saying to you, but you can’t help but let your mind wander to days of a simpler time and a fantastical location. Small cities comprised of stone walls and bustling townsfolk run through your mind as you imagine them set up their market stalls. Everyone has their role to play to guarantee the survival of the city, from the blacksmith that arms and armors each and every guard, to the lonely alchemist whose shop acts as the city’s safe haven for the sick, but shunned by those who fear its magic within. The local tavern is coming alive as those travelers who rented a room for the night are preparing to begin their travels anew, and those who stayed the night unwelcome pick themselves off the floor hoping that the innkeeper is merciful and will at least provide a piece of bread to help relieve the pains of their drink choices the night before. All in all the town is a happy place to be, despite the hardship of working the land for its resources and its sometimes harsh weather.
Then you think of the other hardship threatening the land; the homeland’s invaders who have not only brought their own beliefs and ways of living, but are forcing them upon the land’s governing class to impose upon the hardworking citizens who have built the country with their own hands. People who have bled for their freedoms and gods. People who will not be stifled by this so called superior race of elves! Oh no, they will not take this land and all it stands for! We will fight this oppression with every last one of our breaths! For they can not have us! For–
Suddenly moved by your imaginings you stand from your seat at the table, shoving your chair to the floor behind you and yell, “Skyrim belongs to the Nords!”
Everyone else stops eating and conversing to look at you. You who just made an embarrassing spectacle of yourself in this fine, high class establishment, while your date shrinks back hoping that no one has seen them with you.
The only person in the room to have not flinched at your declaration is the piano player. He continues his enchanting melodies with a look that communicates his pleasure at the situation.
After a few tense moments of no one knowing how to respond to your outburst, someone across the room stands up with a passion matched to your own exclaiming, “Death to all Stormcloaks!”
You see red. How dare this person side with those vile Thalmor and their quest to dissolve all that the people of Skyrim have built.
Before you can utter a rebuttal the hostess angrily stomps into the dining room seemingly ready to end this preposterous disruption. She looks to you first, her face an indecipherable mask. But then her face turns to a glare as her eyes seek out the face of the second person to utter an outburst. The hostess’ eyes reflect hatred at this person before she forcefully states, “Ulfric Stormcloak is the true High King!”
Your date looks to you, pleading with their eyes to leave this place before things get out of control, but before they can vocalize their fears the chef comes out of the kitchen, wielding a hot frying pan that still holds the expensive, organic vegetables that he was sautéing in the house signature glaze that he created with is his own recipe.
“He murdered High King Torygg with his voice,” he says. “Shouted him apart!”
“It was a fair fight,” the hostess retorts with seething emotion. “He will not see this nation be run by the empire.”
“We need the empire!” another patron exclaims.
“The empire sold us out to the Thalmor!” a server adds to the argument. “They can not take Talos from us.
“Talos is just a man!” someone behind you yells.
A man of the cloth who was enjoying his meal at a small table by himself gets up and proceeds to stand on his chair. “Talos is both man and divine,” he states with conviction. He then starts a passioned speech about the mighty Talos and the dangers of the Empire.
More arguing breaks out while the soft piano music still fills the room. The patrons and the kitchen staff scream and yell about the true sons and daughters of Skyrim, and their either love or hate for the Empire.
Chaos ensues as neither side of the argument will hear the other. The angry and the oppressed start to take action, picking up the closest at hand utensils.
Everyone arms themselves with knives or forks, not taking care as to which utensil is the proper one for salads and which one for dispatching their foes.
You yourself pick up your fork and shake off the forgotten bite of fancily broiled pork loin. You grab a salad bowl and place it on your head as a helmet and your plate as a shield. Those who see your impressive utilization of your dinnerware follow suit until everyone is ready for battle.
The clanking of tiny flatware weaponry against fine ceramic china fills the room as tuxedoed men and women in formal gowns take to war inside the small restaurant. Tables and chairs and knocked to the floor causing food to spill under the feet of the impromptu warriors. Gravy becomes the downfall of too many as they slip to the ground, forced into submission of those skilled enough to keep their footing.
War cries and slurs can be heard from every corner of the room as the clinking and clanging of the plates and utensils keeps long into the night.
No longer being needed for his services, the piano player stops his languid melody with a satisfied sigh. He stands from his bench, revealing his small stature and removes his expensive black jacket, giving way to his striped and tattered tunic. He lays the jacket across the keys of the beautiful instrument and retrieves his beloved hat, a prize he earned so long ago, from under the bench.
He slinks quietly through the shadows of the room and makes his way to the exit, proclaiming what seems to be only to himself, “Well, dear mother, it seems our work here is done.
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