Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More
Everyone hears stories about the mysterious man and the drinking contests. Sam something-or-other. Every story is the same, just switched-up details. “I met him at the tavern in Riften,” or Markarth…or Solitude. Doesn’t matter which tavern. Sam gets around, apparently.
And the stranger offers a contest. Drink for drink. But after a few horns of ale the guy can’t remember a thing. When he wakes up, he’s naked and getting yelled at by someone, and sure he finds out he’s done a few weird things like trash a temple or marry goat, but none of it’s all that bad.
But the stories I heard, the guy always got something out of it in the end. A staff or a book or a shield. A redguard in Riverwood showed me an enchanted ebony dagger he’d won from the deal.
So when some craggly-faced Dark Elf offered me up an ale-battle at the Candlehearth Hall, you can bet Talos’ ass I stepped up. Nobody ever mentioned the Sam character being so ugly, or a Dark Elf, but I figured this was my lucky day and started dreaming about what my prize would be. I was hoping for a magic ring. Always wanted one of those.
We banged horns and went drink for drink until dawn. Then we went some more.
Then I blacked out.
Except this is where my story takes a wrong turn. I didn’t wake up to a priestess or a stable boy or a bar wench shaking me out of a stupor.
I woke up slumped sideways in a Winterhold alley with a dead man next to me. The same craggly-faced fuck who challenged me to the drinking contest. Half his head was gone and I had blood in my hair and bits of brain on my knuckles. His blood. His brains.
A guard found me, but since there weren’t no one to say which one of us started it—me or the dead Dunmer—they locked me up for a week on account of causing a ruckus and that was that. I was free to go. Nobody really cares about Dark Elves in Winterhold, anyway.
Except my story wasn’t done yet.
Turns out the man I killed was a somebody. Connected to the Comonna Tong out of Suran. At least, they used to be out of Suran. Since the doom of Morrowind they’re all over, looking for a new place to take up root and start selling skooma and running hound pits again.
I lit out for Riften as soon as I heard who I’d killed. Years ago I’d run with the Guild, when I was still half a boy and their luck hadn’t run off to some Deadric hell. We parted ways after I spent one stint too long in a Markarth dungeon, but we’d left on friendly terms.
I guess friendly terms don’t mean shit when the Comonna Tong is after your hide.
“Sorry, Proto,” Brynolf said to me at the Ragged Flagon, all sympathetic. “But I learned long ago not to cross those bastards. More’n likely already took out a contract with the Dark Brotherhood for you, and there’s no stopping those sneaky bastards once your name’s on their list.”
I spent three weeks hiding in the Ratway, which they didn’t name for nothing. Got bit half a hundred times. Couldn’t sleep more than an hour or two without hearing a skeever slinking around in the shadows.
But was it a skeever? The Dark Brotherhood have spells, I’ve heard. Spells to make them invisible, and spells to make them silent. Why wouldn’t they have spells to make themselves into skeevers, too?
Every shadow was a dagger, every scream a dark spell come to claim my life. I ran from the Ratway at midday, straight out of Riften as fast as my skinny human legs would carry me. By then I guess I fit in with the rest of the Ratway beggars and crazies. Everybody just let me pass, didn’t pay me no mind.
I ran until nightfall and came on a three wood elf hunters in a three-sided lodge. More like poachers, by the look of them, but they were friendly enough. I guess they were used to ragged men, being hunters and all, because they didn’t raise an eyebrow to my stained and tattered clothes. Or my wild eyes.
They had salmon roasting on a spit, and they offered me a steak and a share of their ale. Didn’t ask anything in return.
“What’s your name, traveler?” One of the elves asked after we’d started eating. He had dark hair and a young face.
“I’m Simeon. This is Porlack.” He motioned to his companion, who was older and stronger looking.
“There’s talk of dragons,” Porlack said, taking a swig of ale. “You seen any?”
I shook my head and scanned the trees outside the lodge. Listening for the whispers of feet. The drawing of a blade.
“Well, might be it’s just talk. Usually is, stories like that. All the same, we’re thinking of heading up by Helgen to see for ourselves. That’s where they say the dragon attacked.” Simeon continued. “You could come with us, if you can handle yourself outdoors.”
I wasn’t much good with a bow, that much was true. But I could dress game and I knew how to tie rabbit snares.
“Might be I’ll do that,” I said. Taking the ale again and drinking deep.
We spent the rest of the night sharing stories and cracking jokes. I drank too much ale. I didn’t tell them about the Comonna Tong or the Brotherhood. I thought maybe I was clear of that finally. I would spend some months living off the land. A year on the outside. Then I could head back to the towns and pick up my old life again. Maybe start a shop of my own.
For the first night in nearly a month, I slept easy.
I woke up to carnage.
At first I thought I’d pissed myself, wet as I was. But in between wondering how I’d manage to piss in my hair and on my face, I saw the blood. The exploded insides of the Simeon and Porlack were everywhere. Floors, walls. There were even bits of scalp and singed flesh on the ceiling, plastered across the wood like some nightmarish painting done by a demon.
I screamed and curled into a ball. Too afraid to look around and find the face of my killer waiting on me. I stayed like that for a long time. Hours, maybe. But nothing happened.
When I finally opened my eyes again, I saw the message on the far wall, scrawled in wood elf blood.
“There is no escape. I will return in three days to eat your heart.”
They say some members of the Dark Brotherhood are silent and swift. They’ll kill you before you know you’re dead. But there are others, sadists and psychopaths who murder men for fun and bask in their blood. They kill for the pleasure and they take their time with it.
Why couldn’t I have gotten one of the silent ones?
Brynolf said there was no way to take your name off their list. The blood-note said there was no escape. But I saw a hunting dagger in the corner of the room, sticky with blood, and a satchel of food sitting full by the door.
I had to try.