Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More
At eleven thirty at night—with just a half hour left to complete the contract—I stand up. Stretch each of my limbs very carefully. And then unwrap the silk around my chest and torso. Don’t get any creepy ideas—it’s not that I enjoy committing mass murders while I’m half naked.
The tattoos just work better when they can breathe.
I watch the shift change for a few minutes. Get a feel for the guards’ patterns.
The magic inside of me is powerful, but it has limits. For one thing, the force must always come directly from my body. There’s no way to set traps or pull anything in a direction besides at or away from me. Clapping two shockwaves from each hand together is possible, but difficult to control.
Also, all of it is fucking exhausting.
You’d think remembering shit and making inky marks move along your skin would be easy, but it’s not. Beyte made that very clear. And it’s different from magicka: If I push too hard—and use it too much before my body and mind can recover—it will kill me. No embarrassingly weak or failed spells. Just death.
So killing everyone inside the fort isn’t exactly a forgone conclusion. But it’s certainly not impossible, either. Like everything, it requires a mix of planning, creativity, and luck.
Most of the patrols are working their way around the walls, but they circle around a central point in the main courtyard—all of them moving clockwise like a wheel rotating around an axel.
I’ve never been in the army (obviously) but Festus made me read Mixed Unit Tactics and every other book on Imperial warfare twice over. If they were following protocol—and Imperials always follow protocol—some general had drilled it into all their heads that they needed to protect the heart of the fort. And that meant keeping the center safe.
Decent advice, I guess. But it’s going to get them all killed.
I take exactly fourteen sprinting strides across the rocky outcropping and then shoot myself into the air with a blast from both hands. It makes a wooshing noise, and pretty much every soldier that’s awake looks over. But I’m already two-hundred feet up in the air. Out of sight.
From high above, the fort looks kind of like a star. That, or a girl’s asshole.
Landing is tricky. I let gravity do most of the work and then push out against the ground hard enough to slow my fall, but not so hard that I shoot off into the air again. I don’t get it exactly right, and I wind up bouncing back up about ten feet in the air and detonating a crater the size of a wagon into the ground. It makes a very loud noise.
Then there is a strange kind of quiet as the soldiers turn to see what has crash landed in the middle of their fort.
Then I start pulling them towards me.
All that steel armor would make them hard to kill if you were an archer. Or a spearman. But it’s almost laughably easy to yank that weight across the battlements and then stop them a few strides from where I’m standing. Once I rope them in, I clap my hands together and crush them like a child making snowballs.
At least that part requires concentration.
Before anyone has had time to do more than draw their sword and start panicking, I’ve constructed a tit-high wall of metal orbs made from the bodies of crumpled men. Thirty or forty of them, at least, arranged like a mini-fence around the crater I landed in.
There is some shouting from the survivors.
“It’s a devil! It’s a devil! We’re all fucked!”
“Silver! Who’s got a silver sword!?”
“The cunt turned Bjar into a…a….Gods!”
This is the tricky part, because I’m relying on that famous imperial lack of imagination to make my plan work.
I stretch my hands out—they all gasp and shout—but I don’t activate any of my tattoos. Then I shake my palms a bit, make a desperate kind of gurgling noise, and collapse in the snow with my eyes closed.
For a few moments, there is no noise except for the heavy, scared breathing of men. Then some doors open—eight, by my count—and I hear about four hundred footsteps thumping all over the fort.
“Dumb bitch tapped herself out,” someone mutters.
After that, a surprisingly calm, authoritative voice. “Shield wall. Now!” That’s probably the Fort Leviathan Commander.
More noise: steel and leather pushing together. A spell being cast.
In the event of a mystical attack that appears contained, standard protocol is to have a Mage cast a Reflection spell on a ringed shield wall. Then the magically protected circle of men pack in close until they can mash the remains of the body into a pulp. The maneuver is called the Necromancer’s Soup (pretty clever name, actually). It really only has two weaknesses:
One, everyone needs to leave the security of the fort to complete it. Two, my magic can’t be stopped with a Reflection spell.
I count heartbeats while the shield wall closes in around me. Fifty men in the shield wall. Four-hundred and twelve other men in the yard. Plus the forty I turned into makeshift cannonballs, that makes five-hundred and two imperial soldiers.
When the shield wall is four strides away from the first man-ball, I open my eyes and release a shockwave that uses twenty seven different tattoos.
The result is… impressive.
The metal people-balls shoot off in every direction so fast it looks like they’ve just disappeared. But they leave behind plenty of carnage: hundreds of men turned into red, chewed up meat. They scream in horror at their newfound deformities—legs and arms shattered, nothing but splintered bone and twisted tendons on the end of ragged stumps.
But the initial butchery isn’t what I’m after. It’s the fort itself. Every wall, support beam, and arch get blown apart by the metal balls. I close my eyes as the dust rises and the rumble of destroyed architecture fills my ears.
Total collapse. Most of those four-hundred soldiers who weren’t in the shield wall were unlucky enough to be standing beneath a wall or tower. All of them are buried.
I stand up and take a look around. About twenty soldiers have managed to avoid injury. They charge pretty fast, crying out for vengeance and stuff like that.
I still have a good bit of energy left, so I just shockwave their faces one at a time. It’s kind of like throwing darts. Well, exploding-head darts, if we’re getting technical.
After that there is some groaning from the maimed survivors. I draw a steel dagger from the closest corpse (I didn’t bring my own blade, figured that’d be a nice touch) and start slitting throats.
It’s hard work—a lot of the soldiers have gorgets I have to stab through, and the Nord Imperials have necks like oxen. But I don’t mind, it gives me time to wait and see if any survivors emerge from the rubble.
And three men actually do. Determined bastards. I’m almost tempted to let them live for the sake of perseverance alone—and to tell stories about what happened—but a contract is a contract. I stab them each in the back of the spine—right where neck meets skull—as they crawl to safety.
Figure they deserve a clean death, at least.
The sun is still very far away from the horizon as I leave the ruined Fort Leviathan behind, whistling a secret song to myself.
I feel pretty good about the night’s work.