I had no rights, not even to that of how I looked. And why wasn't I able to craft my character? Because I was a prisoner. Of course I felt trapped I was a prisoner. I was one of a handful of prisoners bound for execution, and everything from the lack of a character creation screen to the claustrophobic nature of the cart was a clever manipulation of mechanics to make the player feel like a prisoner. I could only turn my head, crane my neck awkwardly at snow-dappled scenery that passed by too fast. One of them, Ralof, mused meaningfully that "a Nord's last thoughts should be of home", while another, a horse-thief, blathered to himself in an unintelligible panic. I wasn't sure if it was because of the awful angles of the cart as it jerked downwards over rock and fallen timber, or because of the company three men sat on the cart with me, dirtied, mumbling pitifully for their shortening lives. There were no fanfare: the word "SKYRIM" quietly gave way to a scene in which I sat on a horse-drawn, downhill-bound cart. Where was the character creation screen? Had I missed it somehow? Would I not have the chance to decide my name, my background, my facial features? Suffocated by the bleak cutscene I'd been dropped into, I mashed my WASD keys uselessly.
Before the pine trees and the snow of Skyrim had even faded into view, I was uneasy.
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