A Real Skyrim Beginner Guide

 I want to make something perfectly clear about starting out in Skyrim. There is NO best way to begin your adventures. Each play style requires certain skills and leveling to make the most of your time, and to keep you from turning into a stealth archer for every save. That being said, there are things you should never do early in the game. The most egregious error made early on is reading skill books or doing favors that increase a skill. One exception to this rule is Speech leveling. But do the speech checks first then collect skill books. I digress, it’s time to get a move on with the real best way to begin a save in Skyrim. 

There isn’t a best race in Skyrim. Some are better, but there isn’t a perfect race. Depending on the play style you choose, it might be more beneficial to use a specific race. If you aren’t sure what race to choose because you’re unsure of how you want to play, I recommend Breton or Nord. Why those two? Passive attributes. Bretons have a 25% resistance to all magic. Nords have a 40% resistance to frost, which a majority of enemies in Skyrim use in combat. 

The passive attributes are more of a factor in selecting a character build over starting skills. If you’re a stealth archer or stealth assassin, magic resistance may not be a factor. If you’re into alchemy, perhaps waterbreathing might be an option worth exploring to easily collect significant amounts of Nordic barnacle for super potions. Maybe you’re an upfront, teeth to teeth warrior who needs lots of stamina regeneration to perform power attacks or double the damage of those attacks. Maybe unarmed combat is something worth trying. Maybe you’re a vampire hunter who would benefit from disease resistance. Maybe you’re playing survival mode and everything I just mentioned no longer matters. There are lots of factors that might influence you into choosing a specific race. Ultimately, it comes down to who you want to play as. For me, I pick Bretons around 90% of the time. Combine their passive abilities and 90 minutes of time, you’ll be resistant to all magical attacks by 40%. That’s nothing to sneeze at. 

So, you’ve picked a race now it’s time to make a plan of attack. Archery, melee, magic, a mixture, vampire, werewolf. This is where the rubber meets the road. What’s your plan? The most spectacular appeal of Skyrim that makes it so replayable are the character choices. But in order to keep every character from turning into a stealth archer you need a hard plan. That is how you best start your character. Make a plan and stick to it. Be hard on yourself. Perhaps make a spreadsheet and map out your perks. Abide by that document and only make changes to the order perks become available. Never place perks in skills outside of your plan. Are you going to be a two handed, light armor warrior who hates magic? Then don’t put points in magic. Want to be something other than a stealth archer? No sneaking, no stealing, no archery equipment. Can’t be an archer without weapons. Don’t even loot those items. There is plenty of money available in Skyrim. 

Like so many people, I started playing Skyrim as a stealth archer. And like many people, I played that way for years. I never used magic, never used alchemy, never used a two-handed weapon. Always had followers in my way. Now, after years of playing, I rarely use stealth archery. Once I broke free on my chains to stealth archery, I quickly found I enjoyed the war hammer to be awesome. Then it was Destruction magic, then my favorite play style with a shield and one handed. I’ve recently found the glorious fun of Illusion magic combined with Conjuration.  I can just as easily play a melee only warrior as I can a mage or thief or assassin. I can play as a vampire or werewolf in any combination of build types. All this is possible because I don’t make errors with build choices, and I stick to the plan. I’m working on a prototype that only engages in outdoor combat while on horseback. And indoors won’t be using sneak. Looking at a legitimate unarmed build, late game (level 65-70) werewolf, and a guy who only uses a fishing pole. But I only ever played as a stealth character most of these builds wouldn’t even exist. 

Another concept people tend to struggle with when starting a new save is being patient. What’s your hurry? An open-world RPG is meant to absorb you fully. Cuddle you in a warm blanket. Erase the trials of real life. Why would you want to hurry those things? Take your time. If the only thing you do for ten levels is build a Hearthfire house or collect flowers, then do it. To tie patience with bad advice from seemingly thousands of quick start guides on the internet, I categorically oppose using skill books before you’re within a certain threshold of your build. And you should never use skill books without Scholar’s Insight from the Black Book The Winds of Change. Why get one training if you can get two? And you should always get the well-rested bonus before reading any skill books. If you need a follower to collect books for you, then do so. Use the correct Standing Stone, even two standing stones if you have the Aetherial Crown with the Lovers Stone stored in the crown.  Maximize your profits, folks. Use skill books when skill leveling is much more difficult. Simple math: Warrior Stone (20%) plus Lovers Stone (15%) plus Well-Rested (10%) is a 45% bonus to Warrior skills. And that’s per level. Nearly 3 full levels per skill book with Scholars Insight. Need I say more? Although it

an exception, you could read skill books that don’t level your character’s chosen skills, but you could fall into danger by leveling up a skill you always fall back on. Best just to avoid temptation until your build is complete, if then. 

I’ll post accompanying videos with each post as I go through given tips and tricks that will be useful. 

Bloomfield, Canada: Last Day In North Carolina (Fan Fiction Farming Simulator 22)

The porch swing creaked and groaned beneath me, the tired wood protesting my weight. Early morning sunlight glinted off thousands of dew drops clinging to blades of grass and trembling leaves. The breeze whispered like a lover’s secret. Occasionally, a fish rippled the surface of the pond, breaking through for a careless insect.

These were the kinds of mornings my dad had loved. A chill in the air, steaming coffee in one hand, the newspaper in the other. Sometimes a stogie instead. Now, the space beside me was empty.

An icy hand walked up my spine, one finger after the other. Goosebumps chased it.

“Here, this’ll knock that chill back.”

Mom had slipped through the squeaky screen door, a steaming cup in hand. “Your father wouldn’t want you to be like this.” She nodded toward my legs. I pulled them in tighter so she could sit.

“Like what?” I asked, taking a sip while eyeing her over the rim of my cup. Black and bold—Sumatran dark roast. The heat burned my tongue just enough before it sank into my chest and pushed the cold out.

“You know what. Don’t play coy.”

Her voice was firm, with just a trace of heat behind it. Enough to warm me further.

She was trying to be strong—for both of us. But Dad’s death sagged her shoulders, slowed her steps. Her grief was deeper than mine, hidden behind fake smiles and relentless busywork: pulling weeds, polishing china fifteen times in a week, laundering linen that hadn’t been touched in five years. Anything to keep her hands moving. Anything to outrun memory.

It showed. Mom seemed to have aged a year for every month since Dad passed. Her skin bruised easily now, her crow’s feet were now hawk’s talons, and the luster in her gray eyes had dimmed.

I looked across the pond—the ripples had settled. Songbirds were in full chorus. The dew was nearly gone. I took another sip of coffee and imagined myself shrinking, small enough to fall into the cup and disappear into its blackness.

“The longer you hold in the pain,” she said, “the harder it’ll be to shake it. Your father doesn’t want that for you.”

I sat upright, too fast. “Don’t you mean didn’t!”

The words burst out before I could stop them—raw, bitter, with the kind of thick, black fury sadness leaves behind. My throat tightened on the tar. I cleared it twice before speaking again. “I’m sorry. It just came out.”

Mom had already turned back toward the house. She paused at the door and looked over her shoulder.

“It’s okay to cry.”

“No, it isn’t,” I said, still crass. “Dad never did. Jacob never did. And I won’t.”

Jacob, my older brother, had died during a training exercise ten years ago.

She disappeared inside, then returned a few minutes later holding a diary in one hand and a box of tissues in the other. She sat beside me and patted the spot next to her. 

“Do you remember when you broke your arm?”

“I was six, so…vaguely.” I sat down, feeling the edges of suspicion creep into my mind.

“Your dad and I used to talk every night after you kids went to bed. That night, after we got home from the clinic, I tried to get him to open up. He was so upset...”

“I don’t remember that. I don’t remember him being upset at all.”

“Why would you? You were distracted by the cast—it was like a shiny new toy to you.” A small smile lifted her face as she thumbed through her diary. When she found the entry, she handed it to me.

I found Robert in the barn. He was slumped over the workbench, holding himself up with shaking arms. His chest was heaving. He was crying. I walked to him and put my arm around his shoulders.

“What is it?” I asked, cupping his face in my hands.

He poked his chest with one finger. “It’s my fault.” Weak, defeated.

“What is?”

“Maddy’s broken arm. I turned my back for just a second.” He pinched two fingers together. “I heard her hit the ground. I heard the bone snap. I grabbed the bridle and hurried Jess away—didn’t want my horse panicking and stomping her. You know how skittish Jess is. When I got back to her, she was already trying to stand. But one arm…”

“Go on,” I said, my heart already splintering.

“Her arm just dangled there.” He paused, then looked at me. “My job,” his voice broke, “is to keep her safe. And I didn’t.”

I shook my head. “No, no, no. It was an accident. Maddy doesn’t blame you. I don’t blame you.” I held him until the storm passed. After a while, he spoke again.

“I wanted her to cry. But she wouldn’t. She never does. I wanted to be her rock. I wanted to tell her it would be okay. But she just held her arm and said it hurt.”

I didn’t finish the rest. I couldn’t. I closed the diary and handed it back.

“I didn’t know.”

“Of course not. Your dad didn’t want you kids to see him cry. He didn’t want you to think he was weak.”

She reached out and placed her hand on my arm—right where I’d broken it so many years ago.

“You can cry, Maddy.”

Then she stood and went inside.

I sat there for a long while, turning over the pages in my mind. The box of tissues sat next to me on the swing, a quiet invitation. A final hint.

I stared blankly over the water. But I didn’t cry. Not then.

Maddy’s Journal 9 (fan fiction Farming Simulator 22)

What do I actually remember about that day is a question I’ve asked myself for many years. Like so many memories, some of the ones that soldered into the wiring of my brain have simply failed to secure the connection. Or short circuited and I’m not certain if they’re memories of true events or more like false memories. The false ones created by combining what we actually do recall and what others have told us or muddied up for us. Like when people say the remember their first step. It’s only a memory because so many people have told you about it. Think about it, no one remembers their first time using an actual toilet. Your first step is always more joyous than the first time you went to the bathroom anywhere other than in the clothes you’re wearing. I’ve heard it said the potty training is often the most traumatic event of our lives. So much so, our brain’s physically block the memories. We only understand where the appropriate places are to tinkle or pooh and not the training. 

Without question I remember the stomach churning smell of burning flesh and singed hair. In fact those aromas would become permanent enough for all of us that my parents sold the car to the scrap yard. Partly as a sort of soul cleanser and partly because the stench just wouldn’t dissipate enough for any of us to ride comfortably. At least that’s how it felt. 

I also believe my parents scrapped the car as a way to prevent future buyers from asking questions about the burned smell. And in a way, I think my dad needed the car to be crushed as therapy. Put all those horrifying moments in the compactor and destroy them. He needed relief from his nightmares. But he never did get rewarded. It’s a wonder my parents are still married given his terror-filled dreams. 

***

My brother and I used to play the typical travel games (license plate game, Slug Bug, even Trivial Pursuit) when he and I were in primary school during longer road trips. Longer road trips. Those words seem funny now that I’ve traveled into the Midwest and closer to the mountain states. The distances between towns and cities are certainly longer than those in the east. Even “rural” North Carolina is more tightly packed than the population centers in Ohio, Iowa, Indiana, and others. That’s saying nothing for the vast distances LW told me about in South Dakota, Nebraska, and Wyoming. He said it takes a full eight hours to span Wyoming from east to west and over six hours north to south. And he said you could travel for hours on some roads and not see another person. 

But the morning of the fog (on the way to Chattanooga) we didn’t play any games. We didn’t even talk. Both of us in our own teenager thoughts that little—if anything—had to do with each other. Or anyone. 

There are times when our minds play vicious little tricks on us, and it asks us questions we simply can’t answer (and maybe don’t want to answer). For me, two things stand out as the most common: what horrors lie in fog, and how would I have turned out if I hadn’t fallen asleep that day? 

One question I can never answer because…well, time travel is still in the testing phase. 

As for what horrors lie in the fog, I’m still searching for all the answers. But I do have a few answers. 

***

What I woke up to was screaming. In my grogginess, you know the type of discombobulated feeling of nodding off for a nap but not getting fully asleep before waking, or the zombie-like feeling after waking up from a NyQuil induced sleep, I thought it was Mom lashing at Dad for his driving. Again.

As it turned out, it wasn’t my mom screaming at my dad. But there was screaming. Metallic and human voices both. 

Maddy’s Journal 8 (Farming Simulator 22 fan fiction)

I got a little sidetracked in my last entry. Well, a lot sidetracked. But that’s the benefit of a journal and not a—gasp!—diary. When I journal I can take every rabbit trail I want and not feel like I broke some unwritten rules. I always found diaries as too specific and full of excessive introspection. Me, I just prefer to write whatever comes to mind. Sometimes those ramblings jar loose rusty memories, which is where this entry is going to take me. Back to December 11, 1990. The day I became terrified of fog. It was a Tuesday. 

The decision to begin Christmas break early my senior year was not my idea. I wanted extra days to spend with friends. And hit up your typical high school party. A little drinking, petting, strip poker. You know, standard young person exploration mixed with stupidity stuff. I’ll admit to being on the wild side. I was safe, or at least I believed I was safe at that age. Okay, okay. I had been on the pill for five years already, so I was a lot more careless than I should’ve been. At least looking through the twenty-twenty hindsight eyeglasses, I was safe. Before you all think I was the local bicycle, I had—yes had—as in not anymore, a physical condition that birth control managed. Of course, how would I know? Mom is the one who insisted I be on birth control. 

TMI, I know. But you’re the one reading this so don’t throw stones in my direction. 

My dad’s family all lived in Chattanooga. And I do mean all his family. They had migrated up and down the east coast from Florida to Maine and back south again. They were like migrating animals always chasing the rainy season for greener pastures. But when they arrived in Chattanooga, it was like they arrived at the Mara River, and not one of them was willing to take that first leap into the River of Death. 

And that’s where we were headed on that Tuesday morning. We had to leave early even though we had driven all the way to Asheville, North Carolina the day before. Still almost four hours to go. So, we were out the door by six that morning, and planned no stops until arriving at my uncle’s house. 

At Knoxville we took Interstate 75 south after leaving Interstate 40 from Asheville. I don’t recall what the traffic was like. Or the weather. Or anything, really. My mind concerned itself with other things far more important to an eighteen year old. Besides I wasn’t driving. And Knoxville wasn’t new. We had been there before. An hour later all hell had broken loose. And the images I saw that morning still haunt my sleep. 

If it wasn’t for my dad’s heroics, I’m not sure I would’ve ever come to grips (as flimsy as they still are) with the carnage. But what my dad did that day for so many people has always provided me with a lifeline. And the scars on his arms are a not-so-subtle daily reminder of the events that started with the fog. 

I’ll need a break for now. The memories are too overwhelming for me to focus on writing. And the tears in my eyes are making the screen blurry. 

Maddy’s Journal 7 (Farming Simulator 22 fan fiction)

 I was already fuming, positive I had smoke billowing out both ears like two chimneys when LW called. The fog had rolled in thick just west of Cleveland. It wasn’t enough I had been driving on the Ohio Turnpike, which cost me nearly twenty bucks, but now there was fog. I should have stayed home. 

But I couldn’t. What had gone on in North Carolina was the reason I hit the road three days early. 

I grew up in Swan Quarter, an unincorporated little village in east central North Carolina. Not that far from the eastern shore of the Atlantic. For generations my family ran a small farm with rich, black soil in the area we refer to as The Blacklands. Maybe you’ve heard of it? 

The Blacklands, which covered several counties near the Atlantic coast—eight or ten counties, I think—was originally a cypress swamp. But some engineering Dutch, German, and Midwesterners, descended into the swamp in the 60s. They drained the water and chopped down all the trees. They plowed up the land, and wouldn’t you know it, their crops grew bountifully and lush. 

Of course with the rate at which the Outer Banks are eroding (ten to fifteen feet a year), I suspect the rich, organic soil of The Blacklands will soon be washed away or sterilized by the encroaching ocean. At least that’s what my alarmist family members think. And in there lies the rub. I’m an optimist and they are pessimists. All doom and gloom. Sharks, hurricanes, aliens, nuclear apocalypse, global warming, the whole gamut of disasters from the Book of Revelations, and some that don’t. Especially the aliens, but I can’t get into that. I’d rather burn my ear with a curling iron. 

And then there’s the Mothman, an urban legend my uncle swears he saw in West Virginia. But, that’s a tale for another day. That’s worse than both ears burned. 

The real problem is my parents wanting to give up the farm. They’re looking to sell lock, stock, and barrel. Pack their bags and leave town. They’re moving, so they say, to Bloomfield, Canada. To hell with The Blacklands, and the country, and just everything. Onward to the frozen north. Free healthcare and long live the Queen. Canola oil and hockey year round. (My dad’s a huge hockey fan—rah, rah, ree, go Carolina Hurricanes.) 

Strange, most retirees move to Florida or Arizona. 

It was during dinner last night when my mom finally let the cat out of the bag. Unceremoniously, I might add. She just spouted, “We’re thinking hard about moving to Canada.”

“What!” I said. “You don’t know French.”

She must’ve expected my response, prepped for it. Her cheeks flushed, and her eyes flared. And although her bright red hair had faded over the last decade, it seemed to find its former glory when she snapped back. “Not everybody in Canada speaks French.”

I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t recall seeing my mom suddenly so passionate about…well, anything. So I poked the bear. “True, but how do you expect to learn a new language at your age? You barely even speak coherent English.” 

I felt bad the moment it popped out. Mom’s hearing had faded rapidly in recent years. She never did hear well, anyway. She had suffered nerve damage from a severe ear infection when she was four. Rural North Carolina didn’t have cutting edge medical facilities, she doesn’t in fact. And now here I was attacking her vulnerability. Mom is good humored, but I electrified a nerve. 

She burst from her chair. The bottle merlo tipped over and rolled off the table. It smacked our eight year old Border Collie on the rump. He’s going blind, but that didn’t keep him from snapping wildly, and caught Mom on the left ankle. She kicked out, and struck the leg of the table hard enough to rattle silverware.

I braced myself for what would come next, but the tirade didn’t come. Instead, Mom stomped out of the dining room to her sewing nook, and slammed the door behind her. 

Dad and I heard her sobs as I wiped up the spilled merlo. Neither of us gathering the to nerve to speak. It was two hours before my mom let me apologize. She no longer wanted to talk about moving that evening. 

Maddy’s Journal 6 (Farming Simulator 22 fan fiction rough draft)

 September 1

It’s early afternoon here in North Carolina. LW called here around 8, so 6 his time. He said some of the estate money had trickled in. He told me he wanted to make a land purchase and get contractors in to build a chicken coop, a couple pigsties, and a cow pasture. I told him to go ahead with the purchases, and I would see him in a week. 

He sounded shocked at that. When I asked him why, he said he didn’t expect me to return so soon. But the way he said it burned my ear a bit, and for a few moments I didn’t see him in my minds eye. I saw a greenish, drooling troll running across a bridge with an army bag stuffed with cash. And for the first time since I met LW, I wondered if he was on the level. Or was he taking me for a ride? 

Then he asked me if I would be willing to sell calves. The price wouldn’t be better than adults, but if we managed to get 40 top quality heifers, and if they bred well, we would end up with 40 great cows. Quality breeders were more valuable in the long run. Maybe 8-10 years. 

He warned me that the livestock would likely need to be fed by purchase. But next fall we would have grown all the crops needed to produce our own feed. 

And finally he put a bug in my ear about cotton. It wouldn’t be of any benefit to the animals, but the current market was good, and we could use it as a cash crop. Maybe even ship some off by train for a premium price. The initial investment would be high, but he thought it would be a boon in the long game. 

Then he signed off. He said a long day was just beginning. 

Just now heard from LW. He said a local farmer just sold off his entire spread. Something about a grisly divorce. He would be willing to sell all his slurry to us on the cheap. Since I wanted to go as organic as possible to told LW to get it all. 

Treva's Watch from the "Saga of Regine" by Brunhilde the Bard.

 The following is an excerpt from The Saga of Regine (Biography of a Vampire) as told by Brunhilde the Bard. 

ONE

Regine approached Treva’s Watch from the shoreline of the Treva River. The fort sat large on the northern shore of the river. The southern wall faced the river, and a single gate secured the entrance. Several timber ramparts protected most of the wall sections, providing cover for archers or mages. The fort’s tower occupied the northwest corner, providing an elevation advantage agains any assaults from the north where enemies could attack along a hillside. A campfire provided some orientation on the northeast wall where bandits could rest and eat when not on patrol. 

East of the fort another campfire offered some illumination against the growing darkness of night. As Regine approached she notice three Nords sitting in a half-circle around the fire. They were engaging in conversation she couldn’t quite make out. 

A man named Stalleo sat on a wood stump. He had gray hair cut in a thick stripe and the sides of his head were shaved to the scalp. A large beard extended well beyond his chin, almost to the chest, and matched his hair in color. His eyes were deep set and blacked with war paint. Across from Stalleo a female donned in heavy steel armor sat, her features muddled by the firelight and steel helmet. A male in fur armor and a hunting bow sat to Stalleo’s left. He turned toward Regine, and asked if she was there to help, mistaking her for a mercenary. 

She told him he was and she would be better than anyone else he could find. Her fee was high though. Stalleo agreed, and told her a story.  

It was about three or four months ago when everything started going bad. My friends here, and my family, we’re doing work to the exterior of the fort when a Stormcloack courier arrived. He walked to the gate and asked if he could come inside to discuss the militia that was forming. As a good son of Skyrim, I agreed to hear him out. I opened the gate and let him in the courtyard. 

It turned out he was visiting every village and city in Skyrim. He didn’t have a horse, or carriage ride to hold capitals. Only his own two feet as mode of transportation. He looked exhausted and weary. He limped profoundly. His eyes were sunken and dark, the whites more red than not, and his cheekbones looked like they would burst free at any moment. “Come on in and have some meade,” I said.  He started to refuse but I cut him of with a hard glance. “You’re coming in for some meade and a meal. You look like you’re an hour away from being a draugr that escaped the Ansilvund crypt.” He mulled it over for a moment then nodded his head slightly as if too much movement would cause it to tumble off his neck and roll into the Treva River. I slapped him on the shoulder and guided him toward the door where my wife stood ready to ring the dinner bell. 

I led him into the dinning room and offered him a seat. “What’s your name, soldier?”

He sat down, slowly, and with a grimace splitting his face into one part pain and one part exhaustion. He sat for a moment before speaking, and when he did the words seemed just as pained as his face, “We aren’t supposed to give anyone our names, sir.” He shrunk farther into the chair, head bowed, arms limp to his sides. 

I finally noticed this man wasn’t in his late twenties or early thirties but not even out of his teens. He likely took the courier job to show his loyalty and patriotism, but didn’t account for the severe impact such a job would take on his health and body. Walking long distances for hours and hours, avoiding wolves, frostbite spiders, trolls, and Imperial patrols could age a man years within weeks. And here he sat so worn down from trying to prove himself to the Stormcloak cause he appeared to be decades older than his years actually accounted for. 

I felt a knot of sorrow and sympathy far deep inside tying up my guts and heart. This is the toll that war takes on not only those on the frontline but by everyone. When this conflict with the Imperials finally ended the whole of Skyrim and her people will bear the burden for generations. Friends and family will be dead from enemy attacks, others will die of starvation, and more still will succumb to disease and illness. Proof sat at the table, broken and scarred physically and emotionally. 

“Here you are,” my wife said, placing a bowl of tomato soup, a plate of carrots with apples and cabbage, and a platter with beef steak and crab cakes in front of our guest. “Ale or meade?” She waited for a moment, but he didn’t answer. She placed a flagon of ale on the table. My wife handed the rest of us a bowl of tomato soup and ale. Then she sat down and gave me a slight glance, I nodded in reply. 

The message bearer sat for a time, staring at the food and drink before him. I didn’t think he would eat on his own. “Go ahead. Dig in.” He grabbed a fork with a shaky hand and took a mouthful of crab cakes. It must’ve been tasty as he ate without so much as a look up. Every morsel of food was consumed in less than five minutes. None of the rest of us had done anything but watch him eat.