The Feywild’s soft afternoon light draped our campsite in a gentle, ethereal sheen, the enchanted tent casting a warm glow over the long dining table where we sat. The table groaned under the weight of a feast: golden platters piled with roasted meats, bowls of glistening fruit, and silver goblets brimming with the finest Cyrodiil wine. The air hummed with the scent of herbs and the faint, sweet tang of bioluminescent flowers dotting the clearing. Nearby, the waterfall’s steady rush mingled with the crackle of the campfire, while the clatter of utensils and bursts of laughter filled the space. Alfira sat to my left, nibbling on a pear as she recounted a tale, her lute propped beside her. Astarion lounged across from me, smirking over his goblet, while Karlach’s booming laugh punctuated the air. Shadowheart and Lae’zel traded quiet barbs, their voices a soft undercurrent. Sylvie was still sleeping – her tiny fairy form tucked comfortably into the lavish bed I’d “liberated” from the Emperor during a certain Dark Brotherhood quest.

  I speared a piece of venison with my fork, lifting it to my mouth as I half-listened to the chatter. The meat was tender, savory, but my thoughts kept drifting. Setting my fork down, I leaned back in my chair, letting my mind settle. I let my focus sink inward. A faint prickle brushed my consciousness, and, with a slow blink, the familiar game interface shimmered into view, hovering just above the table like a ghostly veil, visible only to myself. Its familiar tabs glowed softly: Character, InventorySkillsMagicMapHealthMagickaStamina

  The interface was still there, still mine. I haven’t had time to properly inspect it in the Nautiloid, and a lot has happened since then. But, now that I thoroughly scanned the menu, something caught my eye—a brand new tab, its text warped and twitching, like a smudge of ink bleeding across a page. The letters danced in my vision, refusing to settle into anything in particular, their edges pulsing with a strange, restless energy that clashed with the interface’s orderly design.

  An ice-cold shiver ran down my spine. The interface was the one thing I had counted on being incorruptible. Immutable. It seems that was a foolish assumption in retrospect, as whatever brought me here had other ideas.

  My brow furrowed, a piece of bread forgotten in my hand. Curiosity gnawed at me, tempered with caution and a hint of terror – but, who was I kidding? I couldn’t resist.

  With a subtle tilt of my head, I mentally *tapped* the corrupted tab.

  A new window unfurled in my mind, its borders ragged like torn fabric. Five listings stared back: four were very helpfully labeled ?????The Dragonborn ????The Dragonborn. That was me. My title from the game, forged in shouts and battles. Here, though, it dangled like a half-asked question.

  I mentally tapped it, then swiped, willing it to expand. Nothing. The text sat frozen, unyielding. I tried the others—the question marks—too, for good measure, but they were sealed shut, no response, no glow. Frustration and fear coiled in my chest. Was it something tied to the tadpole, that faint squirm behind my eye? Somehow, I doubted it. The changes must have been related to whatever happened to me – the real me – to whatever caused me to merge with my Skyrim character. And, if whatever brought me here, whatever gave me these powers, had the interface, then there was no telling what else may have been changed.

  I really, wasn’t fond of where particular line of reasoning could lead.

  My fingers tightened around my goblet, leaving faint indentations in the metal. Karlach’s laugh, loud and bright, jolted me back to reality. I blinked, the corrupted tab wavering away as my focus slipped. No one had noticed—Alfira was humming now, Astarion swirling his wine with a lazy grin. I let out a sharp breath, rubbing my brow. That corrupted tab unsettled me, a splinter I couldn’t dig out – but, I realized that the tab could wait—tomorrow night’s challenge, on the other hand, could not.

  My mind drifted back to , the VR world where I’d spent countless hours bending mechanics to my will. There was a gimmick in that game—a pure vanity feature—where you could pick up a lute or drum and “play” it. There was no dedicated for it -- just a flashy animation. But the real trick I was thinking of was in the custom soundtrack option. I’d linked my entire – enormous -- music library into that game, turning every dragon fight into its own cinematic masterpiece. Could… that work here?

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  I pulled up my mental menu again. OptionsMusic

  A shit-eating grin split my face.

  I didn’t need to play like a bard; I could like a Dragonborn. Although the people of this world had fairly advanced musical instruments like violins, they weren’t terribly advanced in musical theory at all – if I were to guess, they were still at the equivalent of late medieval or, perhaps, early baroque era. With a little illusion magic, I could pipe the music straight into the air, if not directly into the audience’s heads.

  ’d hear what heard. In real time. And I’d blow. Their. Medieval. Minds.

  But first, I needed an instrument—something worthy of the plan brewing in my skull.

  I shot to my feet, startling Alfira into dropping her sweetroll. “I’ve got it,” I muttered, already halfway to the forge I’d conjured earlier that day. The others glanced up, spoons pausing mid-bite.

  Gale tilted his head, curiosity sparking in his eyes. “Relax,” I said, cutting him off with a wave. “I have an idea for the contest – it won’t take long.” My hands itched to get started, the forge’s embers calling me like an old friend.

  The group exchanged skeptical looks, but I was already gone, lost in the rhythm of creation.

  I’d forged blades and armor in , but the skill download I received made me a good Arcane Smith – and an unparallelled enchanter to boot. This time, I’d craft something entirely new, something this multiverse had never seen before—an electric guitar, a true beast of sound to channel my music library’s power. It had to fit the Fey’s vibe, of course, something dark and mystical, yet bold enough to stand out – I was giving them all a show, after all! Ebony ore was to be my base—deep, black, and humming with energy, hauled from the mines’ depths in my VR days. I’d use enchanted Silver for the strings, pure and resonant, to cut through silence like a blade. And… I was thinking about pure gold for the runes—melted-down directly from the ore in my inventory—because this wasn’t just a I was making; it was a statement.

  The forge roared as I fed it, heat washing over me in waves. I tossed the ebony ore into the crucible, watching it liquefy into a pool of midnight. Then, hammer in hand, I shaped it, each strike a pulse in the air. As quickly as thought, the body of my masterpiece took form—sleek, angular, its surface gleaming like wet obsidian. The neck was next, slender and strong, capped with a headstock I etched with silver filigree for flair. The strings came after, six silver threads stretched taut, their tension singing with potential. Then came the runes—I poured molten gold into the grooves I’d carved, tracing patterns of power that glowed faintly as they cooled.

  This wasn’t just a guitar, not just a musical instrument; it was a of sound, forged with the precision of a warrior and the soul of a trickster.

  Looking up from my work, I noticed that another Skyrim mechanic seemed to have made it in with me – for, although I vividly remembered working on every detail of the instrument, no time at all seems to have gone by from when I first began my work. It was as if I had stepped away to an eternity between instants and emerged with a fully completed work product – an amazing mechanic that was full of possibilities, and which I would definitely be

  later…

  For now, I stepped back, chest heaving with pride, and fully took in my Magnum Opus: ebony dark as the void; silver strings glinting like moonlight; gold runes pulsing with a faint, arcane shimmer; a black netch-leather strap. It was —dangerous, even. I plucked a string, and the note rang out, sharp and clear, echoing through the clearing like a challenge.

  It was time to test it out. Gently picking up the instrument, I took it back to the table, my companions looking on in awe. I mentally thought of playing a few cords of the -- Queen’s masterpiece, bold, layered, and perfect for a trial run.

  ()

  The opening chords kicked in, thrumming in my skull, and I strummed along – utterly effortlessly, fingers finding the frets by instinct as if I was born playing the instrument. It seems that, to do this much with a single instrument, illusion magic wasn’t even necessary! The guitar’s voice erupted, enhanced beyond all reason by the runes, filling the air with a gentle melody amplified by an undercurrent of potential electric fire.

  Shadowheart stirred from her spot, eyes glinting as she walked herself next to me. “Impressive,” she purred, her voice dripping with mischief. “You’re better with your fingers than I would’ve thought.”

  Karlach, mid-sip of wine, choked at that, spraying a fine mist as she doubled over laughing. “Gods, Shadowheart!” she wheezed, wiping her chin.

  I smirked, letting the final note linger. “Thanks. See, Lae’zel?” I called to the githyanki, who sat with a scowl. “Don’t count me out yet—I may be no bard, but I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

  Lae’zel’s eyes flicked up, narrowing. “Tricks,” she snorted, though her expression faltered for a heartbeat. “Prove their worth, then.”

  “Oh, I will,” I said, slinging the guitar over my shoulder.

  The contest was tomorrow night, and, with my library and – perhaps -- a touch of illusion, I’d give the Fey a show they couldn’t ignore. Let the competing bards strum their lutes—I’d bring the .