Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More
Mortimer came to Skyrim to kill three men.
You could say that he is on a quest, of sorts. Although it’s not one you’ll someday find written in a book of stories or sung by a bard in a crowded tavern. Mortimer’s road is paved by black stones, and there is no reason to sing about his dark path.
When he was a child in Cyrodiil—just four or five—Mortimer used to pretend that he was a great hero like the Nerevarine of old. The sort of man who rescued pretty women from bandits or slew giants for the good of some quaint, peaceful village. A person whose greatness was writ down before him in legend and prophecy, and required only the passage of time to be fulfilled.
The young Mortimer cut at swatches of grass with a wooden sword and told himself stories of the justice and honor and courage that lived within his heart.
Mortimer killed the first man, Gerold, as he was leaving the tavern in Falkreath by bashing his head against the side of a stone wall half a dozen times. When it was done, there were gray and white bits of brain and bone all over Mortimer’s hands.
He even found some of it in his beard two days later.
Mortimer often thinks back to the boy he used to be. The dreams he had. If a hero ever existed inside of him, it surely died about the same time as Gerold’s skull was being caved in beneath his fingers.
The other two men are named Cormac and Vallen. Mortimer does not know where they are in the province, just that they passed into Skyrim a month earlier, so he is set to wandering. There’s a price on his head for killing the man in Falkreath, so Mortimer drifted over to Riften with its wooden stilts and short memory.
He’s at the Bee and the Barb now, drunk on Blackbriar Mead and restless. The place smells like fish and Argonians and it makes Mortimer uncomfortable. He fought Argonians once for the Imperial Legion years ago, in the Black Marsh Wars. Cormac and Vallen had been with him. Brothers in arms.
Between the weight of the mead on his mind Mortimer remembers a time when Cormac stood over him, using a great oaken shield to block the rain of poison arrows that burned down on them from above.
“Don’t move,” Cormac had said between heavy wooden plunks. “You’re still alive.”
You could say that Mortimer owed him a debt. You could say, even, that they were friends.
But now Mortimer spends his nights with clenched fists, muttering Cormac and Vallen’s names and thinking of the day he will watch the life drain out of them the same way that the dark ale he drinks might pour from a cracked-open cask.
This gruesome thought is the only reason that he endures. It is the fuel driving him forward.
Without it, there would be little left of Mortimer besides an old, worn out husk of a man—a brittle shape that some child might crush to bits in his soft hand, and then carry on with his life without so much as a second thought to the thing that he destroyed.
What reason is there to remember such feeble, impermanent things?
There is a rumor that two Imperials had passed through the Rift a few weeks back. This came from the innkeeper after Mortimer’s third horn of mead. The story was, they’d hunted down a group of bandits, cashed in the bounty, and then headed north. Burned out a few small farms on their way out of the Hold.
There is not much to the north of Riften except for marshland, giants, and Windhelm. So Mortimer plans to pursue in the morning. After he sleeps off the drunken stupor he’s brought down upon himself.
He is about to stumble over to the innkeeper and buy a room when a Khaajit sits down across from him. Pushes forward a full horn of Blackbriar.
“You were empty, I noticed,” the cat says in his thick, feline accent.
Mortimer grunts, but accepts the drink.
“You drink quite a lot, but you do not smile. Do not laugh like the others. This, too, I noticed.”
“Well, aren’t you an observant fucking cat,” Mortimer responds, hoping that will get rid of him. It doesn’t, the cat takes a large gulp from his own horn.
“Maj is my name. I am an assassin.”
He says it like he is announcing himself as a blacksmith.
This gives Mortimer pause, and he tries to shake his head free from the lake of alcohol it is soaking in. He looks at that cat closer: he is wearing light leather armor, and there are scars up and down one side of his face. Six golden earrings in one ear. Mortimer doesn’t see a weapon, but that doesn’t mean much with Khajiit and their claws.
“Why are you telling me this?” Mortimer asks, letting one hand drop off the table and wrap around the hilt of the steel dagger he keeps on his hip. They’re too bunched up to try for the Dwarven sword leaning against the wall.
“Because you look like a man who could use my help. It doesn’t seem like the Imperial you killed in Falkreath is the end of your journey.”
“How do you know about that?”
“The Jarl may lose interest in a killer once he crosses into the next Hold, but Maj does not. Maj would like to help you.”
The cat shook his head slowly. “I am what the bards call a ‘solo act.’ No shadow of Sithis beneath my claws.”
Mortimer doesn’t like this. The cat is too eager and he is too drunk to be making bargains with blood. Still, killing Cormac and Vallen by himself was never something Mortimer fully expected to survive. Gerold was a fool and a drunk, but the other two are trained soldiers, just like Mortimer.
“I can’t guarantee there’ll be money in it,” Mortimer says.
Maj shrugs. “But there likely will be.” It was not a question.
Mortimer polishes off the entire horn in one big gulp. “It’s two men. One of them carries an enchanted Daedric warhammer, last I saw him.”
“A valuable weapon.”
“If you help me with them, and he still has it, it’s yours.”
Maj smiles. “You have a deal.”