Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More
After I fucked Astrid, she sent me on a contract in Falkreath.
Apparently, there was some tension between the Flaxen-Haired Leader of Darkness and the Jarl of Falkreath since our unceremonious departure from the old Sanctuary.
I guess it makes sense that there was some value to having the Dark Brotherhood make their home in your Hold. The commoners of Skyrim didn’t know where the Sanctuary was, but they knew that black things emerged from the Pine Forest with sharp knives and dubious intent.
And if you’re the Jarl that lords over that evil, I’d imagine you are afforded some luxuries.
So when Astrid ditched Jarl Siddgeir for the new digs, he was understandably upset.
He was so upset, in fact, that he gave the Thalmor rights to build another embassy on seventeen acres of his land. (Just off the road and out of sight west of Falkreath.) In return for the land, he asked them to exterminate the Dark Brotherhood’s presence in Skyrim once and for all,
A person who betrays the Brotherhood needs to go into the ground. There is no other option.
I took the contract with honor. No more dicking around with gutter jobs or impossible missions. This was for all of us, and I intended to complete the contract with a perfect mixture of grace and wickedness.
I found Falkreath in a state of emergency. Doors and windows closed, barred, and barricaded with thick planks of cedar. About four times the number of guards than you need to protect a city. And—oddly enough—the vast majority of them were gold-skinned elves wearing their ridiculous gilded armor. Siddgeir was expecting me. I liked that.
Made the whole thing more complex. In a good way.
The last time I tried to kill every guard in Falkreath, I got into some pretty hot water and Arnbjorn had to save my life. I enjoy the man, but being rescued like some floppy cunt of a damsel-in-distress was degrading. So there was some temptation to make amends by gruesomely murdering every soldier in the town.
Turn them into balls of steel, maybe?
But this was not the time for horror and rage. This contract was a cold, precise surgery.
It was time to make Skyrim tremble. And people are most terrified by things that they do not understand. A malice that knows no limits.
So I set out to create an unfathomable kind of killing.
The first night was just a message, but it required some skills I hadn’t used in a while. That Dunmer corked up my magic real good, and I hadn’t used the old invisibility and paralysis pools in a while.
It felt good to drink from them again.
I snuck over the walls under the cloak of invisibility. Moved within a cock-length of a dozen Thalmor and they didn’t so much as sniff with suspicion.
Still had it.
Then I carefully paralyzed seven men and drug them—one by one—to the center of town at three o’clock in the morning. It is a testament to the High Elves stupidity that I was able to do this so easily.
Then I paralyzed them all again—real deep. The kind of green magic that burns into your bones and doesn’t ever go away. They would have numb fingers and tingly toes for the rest of their lives, short as they were likely to be.
And then I began to cut.
A frozen man can’t scream while you open his veins and write letters with his blood. But they can feel the pain as you do it. And when they can finally yell out—hours after I had used their essence as ink—they generally try to make up for lost time.
Every citizen of Falkreath came out into the square to see what could cause seven men to make such noises.
My note, scrawled in letters three-strides high, read:
“At dawn tomorrow, I will throw your Jarl into the sky. But he is a traitorous cur, so the heavens will not take him. Watch out for the splash.”
The Jarl saw it too.
I watched him squint as he read the note. I was safely hidden at the top of a tall pine tree on the outskirts of town. He held a hand over his mouth. Glanced angrily at the two guards on either side of him—both of whom I’d slipped past the night before.
“Useless elves,” he whispered. Although it sounded loud in my ears. I was getting better at controlling my extreme sense.
“You and your men will protect me from those leather-clad fuckers!” Siddgeir screamed at the guards, making a big show of waving his arms. “Or I will cut both your heads off and mount them on my longhouse.”
Well, that threat was so ridiculous I just couldn’t help myself.
I activated ten tattoos—necessary at that kind of range—and yanked both the guards’ heads off.
The twin geysers of blood that sprayed from their neck stumps drenched the Jarl of Falkreath in about four seconds. Pretty much ruined his cloak.
When the dead Thalmor were slumped over in the mud, I let a soft whisper slip from my lips. But pushed it forward with my tattoos so that it echoed and shimmered off the wooden buildings of Falkreath. Just enough so that everyone in town could hear, but none of them would be completely sure the voice was real.
“Our vengeance rises with the sun,” I whispered.
Then I curled up between two thick branches and took a nap. It had been a long night.