Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More
“This is it?” Narova asked me.
“What did you expect, bubbles and mist?” I responded. I am all-too familiar with the disappointment people sometimes experience when they see what I have produced for them. The power of my concoctions does not align with their appearance.
It is a difficulty all master alchemists must face.
Narova picked up the small glass bottle. Eyed the light-blue liquid warily.
“It looks like a watered-down magicka potion,” she muttered. “Like somebody pissed in it, or something.”
“I assure you, nobody has ‘pissed’ in that bottle.”
The werewolf laughed at that, a guttural scoff. He stood by the door this time. I am still unsure what he found amusing about my comment. He continued to eye me suspiciously, even as he mocked me.
Still wondering what I really am, eh wolf? I thought. Look all you want. Sniff all you want. It will take much more than a beast’s instinct to solve the mystery of Morlanus.
“How does it work?” Narova asked.
“I told you when you brought the ingredients,” I said, impatient. “No necromancer will be able to reach into the Netherworld while this poison fills its bloodstream.”
“That’s what it does. I want to know how it works.”
I rolled my eyes. “Shall I explain to you the nuances of Nirn’s rotation around the sun as well? Or perhaps you’d like to know the complete history of Dwemer civilization—from the first wriggling dwarf to the great disappearance?”
“Now, there I was thinking you didn’t have a sense of humor,” Narova said.
It was strange, I’d have thought that would provoke her to violence—at least get her hand moving toward the dagger on her hip a bit. But she just smiled at me, not moving.
The angry wood elf appeared to have tempered her rage. That made her far more dangerous than she used to be. For the first time since I found out who she intended to kill with the poison, I thought she might actually be able to pull it off.
“I need to know how it works, so that I don’t use it improperly and get myself killed.”
“A fair point,” I allowed. “A necromancer uses the potency of his own soul to reach into the Netherworld and draw power. They are like infants sucking at their mother’s tits, drawing darkness into their bodies. This poison will…fill their mouths’ with wax, or so to speak. They’ll suck and they’ll suck, but no milk will come out.”
“You can do something like that? Without magic?” Narova asked.
“You wizards and nightblades are all the same,” I said with a sigh. “Always reaching into the other worlds for strength—bartering with the Gods for your power. It isn’t necessary. Everything we need grows in this world—in the shadowy moss between two stones, the tiny ribs beneath a mushroom cap. It’s already here. You just have to know where to look.”
She considered me with those dark, endless eyes.
“How much?” she asked softly.
“Twenty-thousand Septims,” I said. “And that’s with the discount I gave since you gathered some of the ingredients yourself,” I added quickly.
Without hesitating, she reached up to her neck and pulled an amulet violently from around her throat. Threw it on the desk.
“Do you know what that is?” she asked.
“Sujava’s Seal. I might have known you’d use one of his treasures to pay.”
“Do we have a deal?”
She scooped up the vial of poison—packed it safely into an alchemist’s satchel she kept on her hip. Then she turned to leave. The werewolf was already opening the door for her.
“There’s something else,” I said. She turned back around. “That amulet is worth forty, maybe even fifty thousand Septims.”
I reached underneath my counter, opened an ebony lockbox, and retrieved its contents—a small vial filled with black liquid—and placed it in front of her.
“Your change, if you want it,” I said.
She picked it up. Scrutinized it with her elven eyes. “What is it?”
“There is nobody else in the world who can brew this potion.”
“Good for you,” she said. “What is this?”
“It’s a potion of racial malleability. My specialty. This one will instigate a temporary metamorphoses into a most twisted and depraved race. One that has been enslaved and downtrodden for millennia.”
Narova stared at me, waiting for a real answer.
“It will turn you into a Falmer,” I said. “For about six days.”
“And why, dear Morlanus, would I want to turn into a Falmer for the better part of a week?” she asked.
I leaned forward, pushing myself close to the beautiful creature of death’s face, and spoke softly. “I know who you are hunting, Narova Blackhair. You must travel to a place of darkness to find him. The most extensive pit in all of Skyrim. Maybe all of Tamriel.”
I paused. Searched her face for some sign of hesitation or fear. Didn’t find any.
“When you are alone, and out of options. When there is nothing left beside you except blackness; perhaps the skin of the Falmer—these creatures of the deep—will save you.”
She frowned, considered the vial. “You sure it’s not just poison?”
I smiled. “Farewell, Narova. I very much hope to see you again.”
And it was true. It really was.