Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More
When I woke up there was a cat sharing my branch.
He was gray and black, mostly. White paws like he’d been walking in snow for his entire life, and the fur had finally given up and changed sides.
“Hey there,” I said.
The cat looked up at me, pupils adjusting. His irises were a misty kind of green. Soft and natural. A part of this earth.
Not like mine.
Every mirror and quiet pond showed me the outlandish nature of my glowing, emerald eyes. The strange magic that was wrapped around my bones seeping out. Beyte had tattooed me enough to contain the beast, but it felt like a cage made from rotted wood.
The creature within would escape eventually.
Back on the branch, the cat took a few silent steps forward. You have to admire their ability. Everything soft and coordinated—as if the entire world was a silk scarf laid out before them.
I have a serious kind of envy for that feline grace.
Sunset was streaking its way across the western sky on my left. Oranges, yellows, blues. I stretched both hands over my head and cracked the knuckles in my fingers. The cat bounced back a step—silently, of course—and watched my hands carefully for signs of danger.
“Time to go to work, my friend,” I said. “Might be I see you again. I like this forest.”
Then I jumped off the branch and let myself fall a hundred strides to the ground. Softened my landing with a few tattoos. I was getting much better at controlling that sort of thing—I barely bent the pine needles on the forest floor.
While I was sleeping, about a hundred more Thalmor had arrived in Falkreath. I figured Jarl Siddgeir would panic, but I had underestimated his available resources. Most of the newcomers were Thalmor Mages—dressed in those stylish leathers and radiating magical energy. A simple cloak of invisibility would not work on them, unfortunately. And every wall, alley, and rooftop was covered with the golden-skinned fuckers.
But that made things more interesting.
There were a lot of ways to get this done. The power inside my bones would have let me stand in the center of town, string every Thalmor around the neck with an invisible noose, and yank it hard enough to crack spines.
A unified, magical kind of lynching.
But that wasn’t what I wanted for this. I wanted there to be rumors. Stories that didn’t make any sense. Tales of darkness and woe. Events that people wouldn’t admit to believing, but still got them twisted up and sweaty in the night when there was nothing around except the darkness.
So I dug.
Groundhogs and moles don’t have shit on my tattoos. I blasted through the soil of Nirn faster than a bum in Riften drinks his way through a free horn of Black-Briar. Down fifteen feet—below the foundations of the walls and buildings—then forward.
The only way to I could get my bearings was to prick up my ears and listen. No easy feat with seven strides of mud overhead, but I managed. Pewter mugs clinking in Dead Man’s Drink. Then the hissing of a cooling forge. I wondered who worked metal in Falkreath since she’d maimed Lod.
It took about an hour of tunneling before I started to pick up Siddgeir’s voice. Shrill and thickened by mead.
I was right below the longhouse.
Siddgeir puttered around for three unbearable hours—hassling his Thalmor guards and demanding reports. While he was frittering about, an earthworm the size of a Redguard’s cock burrowed its way into my tunnel and then back out the other side. I wondered how long it’d been since I last fucked a Redguard.
If I couldn’t remember, it had been too long.
Finally, Siddgeir’s steward got him to take a few puffs of Skooma and the idiot went to sleep. I began tunneling up as soon as I heard snoring.
I don’t know what kind of moron puts his bedroom on the ground floor of a longhouse, but Siddgeir is one of them. I cut through his floorboards with an ebony dagger and let the circular hole fall down into the mud. I’d entered right below his bed. It was easy to emerge unseen into the room, which had the orange glow of a half-dozen candles.
There were two Thalmor keeping Siddgeir company. One of them was in the bed with him, the other was in a chair on the far side of the room.
I couldn’t see the one in the bed, but I assumed she (or he, I wasn’t sure) was naked and asleep. The one in the chair was well-armored, alert, and—from what I could tell—quite powerful. One of those silver-haired, imperious looking Mages who is an asshole to everyone, but has the skill to back it up. I could feel a Shield in front of him that was so powerful it would have reflected a shockwave right back into my face and killed me.
In fact, he probably would have given me some serious trouble except for one thing: He was watching the door, not the bed.
I crawled out from the far side. Ghosted my way across the room and behind the chair.
Then I cut the Mage’s head off.
I’ll give the slut-Thalmor in Siddgeir’s bed some credit, the bitch reacted fast (boring, turned out to be a girl). She awoke before that big geyser of blood you get from decapitations even had a chance to splatter into the ceiling. She was sitting up and actually got the first syllable of a spell whispered—a high-level kind of Flame, I think—before I had a good grip on my new projectile.
I activated fifteen tattoos and threw the Mage’s head at the slut so hard that both of their skulls exploded.
There was a wet, squishy noise. The bed was pretty much drenched in brain—it’s amazing how much of it we manage to keep inside of our skulls.
Siddgeir didn’t wake up. Just wiped a bit of gray matter off his nose and farted loudly.
I didn’t move for a full minute. Only listened. The other fifteen Thalmor in the longhouse did not react. Most of their attention was focused on the entrances, so that wasn’t so surprising.
I grabbed Siddgeir and pulled him back into the tunnel. Down into darkness.
It was two hours till sunrise.