Alexander rubbed his chin, eyes narrowing as he scrolled through the shifting forms in front of him. Who to be?
"So, is this gonna be a vanilla wake-up experience?" he asked, half-expecting Mara to lay out some standard, step-by-step tutorial.
The statue remained still, but her voice echoed through the space, calm yet absolute.
"You will live a full life. Each choice will carry a weight of its own."
Alexander frowned. "What do you mean?"
The statue said nothing.
Figures.
"Guess I'll find out," he muttered.
First thing was first—who he wasn't going to be.
Not a cat. Not a lizard. No thanks. He liked being human. Khajiit were great for sneaky playstyles, and Argonians had ridiculous survival perks, but spending the rest of his life covered in fur or scales? Hard pass.
Khajiit had it rough in Skyrim. They were seen as thieves and smugglers, always kept outside the cities, forced to peddle goods in makeshift caravans. Didn't matter if they were innocent or not—people saw their fur, their claws, and made up their minds. Sure, they were fast, agile, and had natural night vision, but that wouldn't matter much if he was getting harassed every time he set foot in a Nord-controlled city.
Argonians weren't much better off.
Unlike Khajiit, they were technically allowed in the cities—but barely tolerated. The Argonians in Windhelm were practically prisoners, locked away in the slums by Ulfric's government, shivering in the cold. No surprise they were driven to skooma—Skyrim was a miserable place for their kind.
He had always suspected Argonians were cold-blooded, a reptilian people used to the warm swamps of Black Marsh. It made sense that they struggled in Skyrim's freezing climate. Sure, they could breathe underwater, resist disease, and had an easier time sneaking around, but the trade-off was brutal. A life of constant cold, suspicion, and exile? No thanks.
Elves? Hell no.
Except maybe Dark Elves—they were cool. If he was going assassin-type, Dunmer were always his go-to pick. Fire resistance, an affinity for stealth and magic, a people who knew how to survive hardship? Definitely on the list.
Imperials? No shot. Too vanilla. Yeah, they had political sway, charm, and gold, but Skyrim wasn't exactly Imperial-friendly these days. The Stormcloaks hated them, and even the pro-Empire cities weren't exactly rolling out the red carpet. If he walked into Windhelm as an Imperial, he might as well paint a target on his back.
Nords, though?
That was tempting.
This wasn't a game anymore—this was real. And in real life, blending in mattered. The last thing he needed was to get strung up in Windhelm for "not being Nord enough."
Then there was the survival aspect. Skyrim was cold as hell, and Nords were built for it. That 50% frost resistance wasn't just a stat boost—it was the difference between life and death. He had played Skyrim with hardcore survival mods before, the kind that made every blizzard deadly, where staying dry and warm meant everything. If the reality of this world worked anything like that, freezing to death was going to be a very real concern.
But still… it felt like the safe option. And he'd never been one to play it safe.
Redguard, then? Now that was solid. He'd stand out, but Hammerfell had driven out the Dominion, and Nords respected warriors. Being a skilled fighter might earn him a place faster than blood alone.
Way he saw it, this was going to be real-life survival mode, max difficulty. No more nonsense where he could dive into a freezing lake and be fine. He had a feeling magic, enchantments, or whatever divine nonsense Mara had in store for him would open up other ways to deal with the elements.
He glanced at the statue.
Was Mara the only one who brought him here? If this was real—and he was still debating that—then something bigger was in play.
Then again, he honestly didn't care.
Let the delusion run wild. It felt real. His mind was clear for the first time in years. His legs worked. His body wasn't failing him.
He could get used to this.
He narrowed his choices down to three.
Dark Elf. Redguard. Nord.
Hmm. He compared the benefits.
Dark Elves had a lot going for them—fire resistance, natural stealth, and an almost built-in knack for magic or assassination. Their homeland, Morrowind, was a brutal place, which bred tough, self-sufficient survivors. They were outcasts, outsiders, used to thriving even when the world turned against them. That sounded badass in theory.
But in practice? He'd be treated like absolute garbage every time he walked into a Stormcloak-controlled city. Windhelm was already notorious for hating Dunmer, shoving them into the Gray Quarter and blaming them for problems they had nothing to do with. It wasn't just Windhelm either—plenty of Skyrim's Nords saw Dark Elves as backstabbing opportunists, even if they fought alongside them. He didn't need that headache.
Nord, then?
There was no denying that Nords were built for war. They had the size, the strength, and the raw combat instincts to make them natural warriors. If he wanted to blend in, choosing a Nord was the safest bet. He wouldn't have to deal with racial bias, he'd have an easier time with the Stormcloaks, and he'd get that sweet frost resistance—which was probably going to be a lifesaver in the frozen wasteland that was Skyrim.
But… it didn't quite fit him.
He thought back to high school. He had been a cornerback and a wide receiver in football—athletic, fast, strong, and quick on his feet. He wasn't some towering, slow-moving berserker. He had been a precision player, someone who could read the field, react, and move with speed and control. Nords fit the heavy-hitting, charge-into-battle kind of fighter. That wasn't him.
And when he fought as a soldier? He wasn't the guy swinging around a massive sword or holding the line with a shield. He moved with speed and intent, flanking enemies, striking hard and fast before repositioning. His strength had always been in adaptability—whether it was CQB, mid-range engagements, or tactical maneuvers, he used whatever worked. Being quick, decisive, and relentless had kept him alive.
That left one choice.
Redguard.
He tried to remember their lore, digging through everything he knew about them.
Redguards were warriors. Not just any warriors—masters of combat. Hammerfell had been shaped by war, from the time their ancestors, the Yokudans, fled their doomed continent, to their battles against the Aldmeri Dominion, where they drove out the High Elves and refused to bow.
Unlike Nords, who charged into battle with brute force, Redguards fought with precision, speed, and endurance. Their warriors were disciplined, trained, and relentless.
They were known for their athleticism and stamina, able to fight longer and harder than most other races. Redguards weren't just fighters—they were survivors. If he ended up outnumbered, exhausted, or in the middle of the wilderness with nothing but a sword, he had a better shot at making it through than most.
And their views on magic?
That was where things got interesting.
The average Redguard hated magic. It wasn't just superstition—it was cultural. Their people believed in the strength of the body over the corruption of the arcane. Many saw magic as unnatural, something that weakened the soul rather than strengthened it. The Ansei—Sword-Singers of legend—had wielded mystical Shehai, swords of pure will, but those days were long past. In modern Hammerfell, mages were rare and often distrusted, with warriors and swordsmen being far more respected.
But that didn't mean Redguards had no mages at all.
From what he remembered, the few Redguard magic users that did exist tended to specialize in Destruction, Alteration, and Restoration—but they practiced magic differently than other races. Redguard battlemages weren't book-learned scholars sitting in ivory towers; they were warriors first, spellcasters second. If a Redguard used magic, it was either to reinforce their body, heal themselves, or unleash destruction in battle—never to replace their martial skill.
That sounded a hell of a lot like how he had fought as a soldier. Guns, knives, explosives—it didn't matter, as long as the job got done. Magic could be another tool in his arsenal, nothing more.
Alexander let that sit for a moment.
Magic was useful as hell. It was a tool, just like any other weapon. He wasn't about to limit himself just because of some cultural baggage. Still, the idea of being a disciplined, fast, endurance-based fighter sounded right.
And, well—if Skyrim was as brutal as he suspected it was going to be, being a warrior who never got tired, never slowed down, and never backed off?
That sounded pretty damn good.
He exhaled, rolling his shoulders.
"Redguard it is."