Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More
I knew an Ashlander medicine woman who moved so quietly across the grasslands of Morrowind that the guar barely even lifted their muzzles as she passed. She could run her dark-skinned hand against their hides and they wouldn’t even flinch—mistaking her touch for the passing breeze.
Gods how I missed her now.
Divayth Fyr walked a few paces ahead of me—Daedric armor clanking with each stride that he took. Birds and deer and even the butterflies fled from the metallic racket he made as he marched forward to Mzinchaleft.
“Tell me, Divayth, do you consider yourself a naturalist?” I asked.
He stopped walking. Turned around to face me.
“An attempt at humor?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Just wondering if you make this much noise deliberately, or you simply can’t help alerting the entire forest to our journey.”
The Telvanni wizard narrowed his red eye at me, then waved his left hand in a lazy circle. His body glowed slightly—as if he’d been dripped in some kind of supernatural honey—and when he stepped forward again, there was no noise.
“Better?” he asked.
We walked some more. My mind wandered back to Beyte. It was strange to me that I could revile a man so much, yet find myself so entranced by his daughter. Not even a true daughter, at that. Divayth had created her through some divine means. Perhaps that was the reason I could not shake her from my thoughts—touching her was like touching the edges of some secret story written in a language I could barely understand.
Those moments almost made my cursed immortality worthwhile.
“So tell me, what do you think about all these dragons?” I asked, trying to move my mind to a different subject.
“You ask for quiet, then you make noise.”
“A quiet question does not send the fauna running in terror.”
Divayth shrugged. “It won’t be the end of the world, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“How do you know?”
“Because it’s never the end of the world. Do you know how many apocalyptic harbingers I’ve seen in my lifetime? Cults crying for the end of days and psychotic daedra working their dubious plots? A hero always rises. Life always prevails. You should know—you were one of them.”
“Who will stop this one?”
“Some Nord. Kills dragons by the dozen and sucks out their souls, or so Delphine tells me in her letters. She asked for my help, of course, but I’m not interested.”
“A distant successor of your old friend, Caius Cossades. The Blades are somewhat diminished since you last walked Tamriel, though. Sad to say. You’d hardly recognize them. Even Garland the Green is no more.”
“A pity.” I had always liked Garland—one of the last Blades with real passion. “What happened to him?”
“I had him killed,” Divayth said in the same tone he might use to order breakfast. “Too much liability, having someone around with those Dwemer implants. Especially with Akavarin sniffing around and stirring up trouble.”
“I don’t see how the two are connected,” I said.
“Of course you don’t.” Divayth snorted. “With the Dwemer, everything is connected. Every screw. Every lever. And every synthetic heart you jam into a man’s chest.”
“You’re sure he’s dead? Garland didn’t’ strike me as someone who’d be easy to get into the ground.”
Divayth paused. “No, actually. But the assassin sent by the Dark Brotherhood brought his sword back from the marsh—I do not expect Garland parted from his weapon easily.” Divayth glanced at my own katana. “But then she disappeared. I was unable to interview her and…verify the truth of her claim.”
Divayth looked like he was about to continue—probably some rubbish about the reliability of Sithis’ assassins—but he was stopped by a jagged bolt of lightning that came ripping through the trees from the east.
Divayth cast a shell around himself. The lightning curled around his shield and then shot towards me. It was a weak spell cast by an amateur wizard—I soaked it up into my armor. Felt the electricity warm my veins like a big gulp of Cydroiil brandy.
Ten Altmer melted out of the forest. All of them dead men—they didn’t know it yet.
Each one wore the same uniform, which I did not recognize. Black leather lined with silver. Expensive staffs in their hands, the customary imperious attitude of High Elves in their eyes.
“Divayth Fyr,” one of them said, coming forward. His staff was still sizzling from the bolt of lightning he’d shot. “By orders of the Thalmor, you are under arrest.”
“Is this a joke?” the wizard grumbled. Eyes narrow.
That made the Altmer hesitate—and for a moment I thought they wouldn’t die after all—but then he narrowed his eyes and took a defiant step forward.
“Come with us peacefully,” the golden idiot said, “and no harm will come to you.”
Divayth glanced at me. “Do you need the practice?”
“No,” I said.
Almost immediately, the air around each of the ten Altmer’s heads began to quiver—like a coat of armor shimmers against the heat of a summer day. There was a moment of unsettling quiet as the Elves looked around at each other. Some of them put a hand up to their temple or ear, clearly experiencing a strange feeling within their skulls.
Then all of their heads exploded.
Brain and bone and hair flew everywhere. For a moment, the decapitated bodies remained upright—geysers of blood shooting from their necks—and then one-by-one they tumbled to the ground.
Divayth had the decency to cast a shell around us both, so I was spared the bother of cleaning Elf-gore off my armor. He was already picking his way carefully through the toppled forest of death—humming to himself and clearly unmoved by the murder of ten men.
“Why were they after you?” I asked, moving to catch up.
“Who cares? The Thalmor are nitwits. Probably something to do with me worshipping the wrong gods—I’ve lost track of which ones are en vogue these days. Who knows what they’d do if they knew the Godslayer was in Skyrim.” He look over at me and smiled. “Let’s keep on, Mzinchaleft is still a day or two away.”
I had to admit, this was certainly more interesting than my life of solitude across the Eastern Sea.