Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More
There are many stories about my master.
They say that he came from the old world—when Tamriel was still shrouded in a wild kind of darkness. A time when there were no cities or kingdoms. No laws. Only violence.
From that realm of brutality, our Great Lord rose. The founder of the Morathi Covenant.
Akavarin showed the world what necromancy truly was. He was the first to kill with nothing more than a glance—rot out the spindles of nerves that bundled along a living thing’s spine and bend it to his will.
The first to conquer his own death with the dark art and stretch his life across the centuries and millennia.
And when the kingdoms of men began to raise their cities and their walls—bringing the light of civilization to Tamriel—Akavarin was the first to oppose them.
Instead of cities, he built legions of undead warriors. Cunning soldiers and killers that made the uncoordinated sacks of flesh that most necromancers managed to pull from the Netherworld look like maimed children.
Akavarin laid ruin to the cities of Valenwood with his dark army. Turned the Bosmer into a scattered, leaderless people with nothing to worship but the mud and the memory of their homeland.
In place of their tree cities he founded the Empire of Morath. A civilization built from blackness that lasted for three hundred years—the golden age of necromancy.
What I would give to have been alive during his reign! Akavarin was said to have taken on one hundred apprentices. Each of them trained to become an instrument of immeasurable power and villainy. Never before had the bridge to the Netherworld been so strong. The Morathi Covenant drank from the cup of immortality, and it tasted sweet.
And then without warning, Akavarin abandoned his followers.
Nobody in our order knows why. Those that witnessed the event firsthand wrote an unsettling tale: They simply awoke one day to find that all of the Great Lord’s creations had turned to dust in the night—the halls of his dark castle empty and barren. Weapons and armor piled among the ashen remnants of his undead army.
Things fell apart.
The lambs of Tamriel descended upon the Kingdom of Morath. Elves and men attacking with their steel blades and their flames and their self-righteousness. Without the inexorable power of Akavarin, the Morathi Covenant was hunted almost to extinction. Its members scattered to the dark corners of a new, enlightened world.
And there they have stayed. Waiting for the day that their master would ignite his powers once again.
During the entirety of my training—all those years in the Tower of Islamar—I was alone with Akavarin. He told me nothing of his true nature. I have gleaned this information from texts and tomes and whispered stories from other members of my order.
I am the only man for centuries to speak with Akavarin directly. Nobody else knows his mind like I do.
Yet, I had no knowledge of what he had been building.
The tunnel beneath Mzinchaleft led me deeper into the earth than I had ever been. After killing the servant of Sithis, I walked for nearly an entire day before I caught up to Akavarin. Miles below the surface, the walls of the tunnel peeled back and opened into a vast, subterranean world. Buildings made from old Dwemer metal rose in the dimness—towers and manses and forges. Everywhere, the Falmer were coming and going. Working tirelessly on their dubious project. A secret city.
The great Empire of Morath has been rebuilt.
It is time for us to awaken.