Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More
I knew when I took the Weeping Willow out from behind the counter and placed it in front of her that the Bosmer had a dubious purpose in mind.
I can almost always tell what a customer’s intent is by the look in their eyes when they finally see what their money has bought them. Hope, freedom, love, anguish (sometimes those last two go together), fame, riches, revenge, and murder.
The desire to end a life is the clearest change—as obvious as a dragon’s long shadow descending upon a city that was bathed in sunlight seconds earlier.
Of course, an amateur alchemist can easily judge a potion’s purpose. Poisons for death. Charms for love. Etcetera.
But I am no amateur. My creations are far more elegant than some crude, aimless walk down the narrow trail of cause and effect.
The only chains that bind me are the deceptively flexible limits of possibility we are afforded in this crummy plane of reality.
I can brew a tonic that will temporarily convince a man he is a woman. (I can also make one that will quite permanently make this transfer a reality, but the ingredients and effort are so costly I almost never have the occasion to brew it.)
One of my tinctures alters a man’s taste buds so that everything he eats tastes like chocolate. Or sweet rolls. Or mammoth shit.
I used to make a flying potion but it killed nearly all of the customers who purchased it because there is no such thing as a landing potion.
And, of course, there are the more aggressive concoctions. I can make a man’s stomach implode upon itself. Turn his cock black and brittle so that it falls off if he shakes it too hard after a piss. Or melt his guts down to jelly so that he craps them out while begging for a faster death.
One of my favorite creations opens a plane to Oblivion inside the drinkers head and then closes it again, but takes the brain with it. It always brings a smile to my lips to think that somewhere out in that dark world, this is a mountain of humanoid brains all stacked up like a rock pile.
Incidentally, that’s how Titus Mede I died.
With all of these possibilities just a few ingredients away, how I am to say what my creations will truly be used for?
This Bosmer made for an intriguing customer. Long black hair and dark eyes that gave up nothing and seemed to end nowhere. She wore the armor of the Dark Brotherhood, but I knew she hadn’t been with them long. I know all of their members. Astrid is one of my best customers.
“You’re familiar with all of the effects?” I asked.
“Have they changed since the last time you recited them to me?” She responded. Smartass.
“No,” I reached for a soft cloth to wrap the bottle in. “I just like to hear it one final time, before I relinquish possession of my creation. Puts me at ease.”
“You don’t seem like you have much trouble staying calm,” she observed.
For a few moments, there was silence while she tried to swallow me up with those endless, beautiful eyes.
“Three thousand Septims,” I said after a while.
She blinked once and then ran a hand slowly down her hip and drummed it lightly against her leather armor. There was no denying that she had an impressive figure, but her charms were wasted on me. I burned out the last of my lust for flesh long ago. No easy feat.
“Perhaps there’s another way to settle it,” she suggested, flicking her eyes to the stairs that led to my sleeping quarters.
“There isn’t.” I said. Beneath the table I pulled the stopper off a poison that would turn this beautiful harbinger of death into a bubbling pile of meat.
Can’t be too careful.
She seemed to weigh this. The costs and benefits of trying to kill me. I had no real desire to end her life—something told me it would be an interesting one.
“I do offer a discount to repeat customers, however,” I said, just as I saw her hand start to crawl from hip to scabbard.
“How much of a discount?” she asked.
“For you?” I shrugged. “Fifty percent. So long as you keep putting in orders as interesting as this one.”
Her hand stopped, and then drifted back to her hip.
“What’s your name, alchemist?”
“Deckard. Morlanus Deckard.”
“Funny name for a human,” she said, pulling out a large purse of gold and flopping it onto the table.
“I’m a funny person,” I said. Of course, I’m not actually a human. Potions of racial malleability are something of a specialty for me.
I counted the gold and then pushed the cloth-wrapped bottle towards her.
“And your name?” I asked as she carefully stowed the Weeping Willow into a pouch at the small of her back.
She smiled. “When you hear what’s been done with this poison, I expect you’ll be hearing my name attached quite securely to the event.” She turned and opened the door. The crisp night air filled the room. “See you soon, Morlanus.”
Then she was gone.
I thought about brewing a potion of prophecy, but there was no need. I knew that I would see her again.