Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More
Photo: Ryan Martinez
Two hundred years is a long time.
I have seen things you would not believe: A man who could kill with nothing more than the tip of his finger. Elf wizards who have lived for millennia, and could fly among the clouds like falcons and eagles. The molten, burning depths of the Red Mountain—and the dark secret sizzling inside of it.
The silver daggers of the Dark Brotherhood, coming for me in the night.
Mournhold, City of Light.
Solstheim, land of snow and ice and wolves.
Every single one of my enemies, dead at my feet.
I have looked into the hearts of this world’s deranged gods, and then I have killed them.
There is still talk of me in Tamriel. One does not do the things I have done—saved worlds and slain deities—only to slip into oblivion.
No, not that Oblivion. The hero of Kvatch can keep the deadric realm and his heroism to himself. I want no part of that legend. I am talking about nothingness. To be completely forgotten—consumed by the indifferent passage of time.
Since I couldn’t have death, oblivion became my last remaining desire. My final quest.
That is why I fled to Akavir. The lost continent in the east.
I have spent years and decades and centuries in this wild land. Stacked up human lifetimes like books upon a shelf. For a time, I reveled in the simplicity of it—hunting alongside the Tang Mo monkey-men. They cared nothing for my sins or my guilt, only for my ability to help them kill the Snow Demons.
And my abilities to reap death and destruction are considerable.
But they eventually learned of my past. That I had slain Almalexia—their savior and hero—in the bowels of Sotha Sil’s mechanical city.
I put an ocean and an era between myself and my dark deeds, and still I could not shake free from them. Not entirely.
So it goes. I have spent the last forty years on a solitary island at the edge of the world. A banished man among an inhuman race. Cursed with a mutated version of immortality that will not quit.
A cure for corprus. That must have been Divayth Fyr’s idea of a joke.
But my longevity came at a steeper price than these endless years of existence. I am bound, somehow, to the magical things of this world.
I felt each gate of Oblivion open in Cyrodiil—like an invisible finger tapping upon by flesh.
And I felt the dragons reawaken in Skyrim. Their brimstone breath wafted across this great ocean like the smell of an old lover I could barely remember, but still longed for.
But more powerful than that, I have felt the roiling in my stomach as the old wizards of Morrowind have reawakened. Divayth and Neloth and the great necromancer, Akavarin. They are moving against each other and pulling at my mind. Ruining my uneventful and endless exile.
I have decided it is time for me to return to Tamriel and see what they are doing.
Oblivion, it seems, will have to wait.