As I watch the scurrying townsfolk, the screaming children, and the panicked guards trying to maintain discipline in the face of a dragon attack, my first thought is not now, you miserable lizard. It’s been a long, brutal day of nonstop travel and fighting. I’m tired. I’m cranky. I’m getting chilly and all my muscles ache. The last thing I want to do is fight another ornery wyvern and be the big damn hero. Again.
Even the inspiring sight of my beautiful badass wife is irritating me. Why in Oblivion did the Divines decide that I was the Dragonborn? Why not pick Jenassa instead? With her disciplined and whip-smart mind, she’s far better suited for the role — not to mention she’s a damn sight more useful in a fight. But no, instead my beautiful badass wife has to constantly back up my sorry ass while I flail around like a gutless mudcrab. I can’t help but feel like this whole Dragonborn racket is nothing more than a big joke the universe is playing at my expense. Or maybe it’s simply setting me up. Like Roddy did.
And now this dragon. Septims to sweetrolls, it’s probably the same fire-breathing nuisance that we saw on the road earlier, here to hunt me down after frying the giant into charcoal. Well, it certainly picked its time. I’m weary of the whole business and unlikely to fight well in this frame of mind. In fact, I’m tempted to leave here with Jenassa, head back to the Greybeards, and say, “Take these Shouts back and find some other sucker. I quit.”