Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More
WARNING: CONTAINS GRAPHIC LANGUAGE
Narova Blackhair’s body went rigid—a terrible current of undead energy searing through her nerves and veins and muscles. The crooked gash along her side filled with the purple pus of the Netherworld. Piss ran down her leg.
Her eyes began to smoke.
Akavarin used telekinesis to pull the dismembered chunk of his hand back towards the stump of his arm—sealed the severed bone back into place with the same unearthly pus that was filling Narova’s ribcage. He kept the elf suspended in the air, but turned the rest of his energy to Mordred.
For a man who had lived with such grace, his apprentice had died in a most undignified way—testicles stuffed into his mouth. Heart and lungs filled with holes. Akavarin reached into the Netherworld, trying to find Mordred’s soul wandering the Far Plain.
Nowhere. Nothing. Mordred had died while that strange poison still flowed through his veins, cutting him off from the source of his power. He was gone.
All those years of hard work wasted. Mordred was the best he’d ever trained. There may never be another with such talent.
“You will suffer for this, elf,” Akavarin rasped. “I’ll kill you a thousand times over. I’ll let every single one of my Falmer rape you to death. The gods will weep when they see what I’ve done to you!”
He increased the current of energy flowing through her body—letting it squeeze down on her organs. She gritted her teeth and met his eyes. He could still see the fury burning inside of her, boiling up from beneath the layers of purple energy.
“Fuck yourself,” she whispered. Then she spat in his face.
Strange. With that much current, she should not have been able to do that. But Akavarin wasn’t particularly interested in necromantic anomalies right at that moment.
He ripped Narova Blackhair’s soul out and left her crumpled body on the stone floor of the platform. Then he pulled the soul towards him and drank a small sip of it. It had an odd flavor—like a mossy forest floor mixed with sweat and sex and shadow.
What life had made that taste? Akavarin wondered, in spite of himself. So brutal and raw. No wonder her rage had burned to the top like that.
Behind him, that Falmer heaved the Blue Orb forward. He was about to order them to hold—he needed a moment to prepare himself for the activation of the Orb—but the idiot Falmer had gotten the thing’s momentum going too strong.
The Orb rolled off the platform and was pierced on the spike.
It made a sound like a giant being stabbed—as if the massive Dwarven creation was a piece of living flesh that had just been wounded. Then the intricate scales that covered the surface of the Orb began to blink. The pattern was frantic and fast—completely different from the gentle hum Akavarin had grown used to over the days they’d spent excavating the thing. The message was clear: panic.
The blue liquid began oozing down the spike that had impaled the Orb, and Akavarin was just about to gulp down the remaining bits of the Narova’s soul—which he still held inside of his mouth—when the blue liquid reached the ground.
There was a blinding light. Both of Akavarin’s ears popped. His jaw fell open and Narova’s soul was blown away by a sudden and powerful wind.
Something strange and wonderful filled Akavarin’s body.
Akavarin hadn’t felt so vulnerable in a thousand years. His skin ached. His eyes burned. He could feel the weight of all those miles of stone and earth above him. The pull of gravity from the core of Nirn, below.
And he could feel, deep down, the ability within himself to change them.
Akavarin took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Everything was different. He could see the souls of every one of his Falmer—their wildness clawing around inside of their brutal bodies like a separate being. He wasn’t just ordering them around anymore. He was them. Akavarin could move their hands as if they were his own. Blink their eyes. Gnash their teeth.
Akavarin could see through the eyes of the Falmer further above, too. They were being slaughtered—cut down by Divayth Fyr and the Nerevarine as they came for him. It mattered little.
They were too late.
Akavarin turned to meet his two soon-to-be-destroyed assassins, but something caught his attention from the corner of his eye.
The elf’s soul had been thrown against the far wall of the cavern. Somehow, it was still intact. Vague, almost mist-like appendages were stretching out along the platform floor. Whatever it was the Orb had done to him, it seemed to have had an effect on her soul as well.
No one’s soul should be able to survive outside the body for that long.
Slowly, weakly, she was crawling back to the naked body Akavarin had pulled her from. The ethereal ropes of purple mist looked desperate but determined, inching forward along the ground.
“You’re a stubborn one,” Akavarin said.
Her soul ignored him. Just kept moving.
Akavarin’s instinct was to absorb her soul again, but when he tried to suck her back into his mouth, he couldn’t do it. It felt like trying to stick his head into a lake and drink it up in one gulp.
Fine, he thought. The other way, then.
Akavarin crossed the room and picked up her corpse. Dangled it in front of her soul by that neck as if it were a children’s toy.
“Do you want this?” he asked. The soul just kept crawling. “Here then, take it.”
He flung the body off the platform, where it fell into one of the grave pits the Falmer were so insistent upon digging, and then disappeared into the darkness. Akavarin looked down at her soul. He almost thought he could see two rage-filled eyes looking back at him. Almost.
“Pathetic,” he said. “To think you could have killed me. When the last wisps of your soul are dissipating, and you finally realize that your existence is over, know that the best you could do was cause a minor inconvenience.”
Akavarin left her there—turned towards the large tunnel leading to the surface. He intended to turn Divayth Fyr inside out and then use his mutilated body to suffocate the Nerevarine.
And he highly doubted they could stop him.