Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More
My name is Orthon Brant, agent of the Penitus Oculatus. The following report includes five first-hand accounts of Jarl Siddgeir’s assassination on Middas, 5th Day of Hearfire, 3E 389.
Siddgeir was a steadfast supporter of the Emperor’s claim to Skyrim, thus we investigated his demise with the utmost zeal.
My recommendations—and a request for further investigation—can be found in a separate report. Needless to say, the Dark Brotherhood has become a major obstacle in the Emperor’s control of the region.
We must act. And we must act quickly.
Ellethen Lourd, No Trade.
Nord. 4 years of age.
The Jarl got sick, so the shadows planted him in the ground to make him feel better. Probably the shadows used their thumb to plant him…but maybe they knew a better way because he grew really fast. Much faster than the tomatoes in my garden.
But if that’s true…I guess it worked a little too well, because the Jarl sprouted and didn’t stop! I saw him bloom, and then I heard him say something.
“The silk cries a sad song to the tattooed fox.”
My momma says I have a real good memory, so you can write that down. Go ahead….write that down in your notebook.
Right, next the Jarl sprouted wings, except the shadow gave him the wings, so they were invisible in the daylight. I couldn’t see them flapping or anything. Plus they didn’t work right. They took him straight up. WHOOSH.
My momma didn’t let me see what happened to the Jarl next. But I did see the shadow sneaking away between the buildings. It was wrapped in black silk, and had black hair, too.
I heard that the Jarl fell. That’s too bad.
Last summer I fell off the Falkreath Wall and broke my ankle. I had to stay in bed for a whole month. I wonder how long the Jarl needs to stay in bed before he’s better again.
He fell from a lot higher than I did.
Balgrum Splint, Falkreath Guard.
Nord. 42 Years of Age.
That fool of a Jarl didn’t trust us to protect him. Said we was too dumb and slow to defend against a Dark Brotherhood assassin.
So he hired out a hundred Thalmor to do our jobs, and I got piss-drunk at the tavern.
Good decisions all around.
I can’t swear to every detail of what I saw, seeing as I was drunk and all. I know you twig-necked empire men are all about the particulars, so I’ll save you the trouble of going over to Dead Man’s Drink and asking just how drunk we’re talking.
Seventeen horns of mead. That’s what I had.
But let’s keep in mind that my cock weighs more than your leg, eh? Seventeen horns isn’t so bad for a man my size.
Anyway, I finished up right around dawn and then I went outside to have a piss.
I was about halfway through an epic kind of urination—you know how it is—when I noticed something fishy. Two-dozen people in the town square, all of them looking straight up at the sky. Some were Thalmor, but most were folk I recognized: Zaria, Solaf, and Leelan Moss, the Dark Elf who took over the forge for Lod.
I finished up my piss and walked over. Tried to figure out what was going on. I was about halfway across the center of town, just about to bellow out a “What’s the ruckus?” kind of thing when I got hit across the face from nowhere. Force of it knocked me on my ass.
It felt wet and sticky and also kind of warm. Like I somehow managed to piss all over myself. I wiped my hand down the side of my face and took a look at it. Covered in blood.
Then I passed out.
Zaria, Owner and Proprietor of Grave Concoctions
Redguard. 33 years of age.
I was up early measuring out herb packets. Its time consuming work, and you Empire lot keep putting in orders for more health potions every week. Difficult to keep up.
Maybe ten minutes before dawn I heard the noise. A muffled kind of thing. I figured raccoon. Maybe a fox that had an unlucky run in with a snake, but then it changed.
Got that high-pitched kind of whine only a human can make.
So I left my packets where they were on the alchemy station, grabbed my dagger, and went outside.
And there’s Jarl Siddgeir in the middle of the square, covered from head-to-toe in mud. Like he’d been digging a fucking tunnel or something.
I sheath my dagger and walk over. The Thalmor had pretty much taken over Falkreath, so I knew something was up. It wasn’t the first time Siddgeir wound up drunk wandering the town, though, so I didn’t think much of it right at the start.
But as I got closer, I saw that it wasn’t just mud he was covered in. There was blood and brain on his clothes, too.
So I screamed. Can’t say I recall the exact words, but it was loud enough to get some attention. People came running.
I’d say there were ten of us out there when it happened. One of the Thalmor had rushed out of the Longhouse and was about to grab Siddgeir by the sleeve. So close…another second and maybe he’d have done it.
Then Siddgeir just shot upwards. Like a falcon diving in reverse.
One second he was there on the ground, the next he was a dot in the sky—I could just barely make out some flailing arms.
I don’t want to talk about what happened next. Ask someone else.
Leelan Moss, Blacksmith, Former Mercenary (According to Official Records)
Dunmer. 102 years of age.
Note: Subject was particularly hostile. Recommend continued surveillance.
What’s this about exactly?
Huh. Like I trust that for a second. You Empire lackeys are all a bunch of cocknuggets.
Oh, it’s treason to call you a cocknugget, is it? Draw steel on me, cunt. See what happens.
[At this point, subject placed one hand on his sword. Dwemer made. Well-cared for.]
That’s what I thought. Ask your questions, minion. I’ve got work to do.
Yeah, I saw it. I was up early to start the forge. She’s an old bitch, that forge, takes a while to heat her up. But reliable once things get going. Lod was a moron to sell her to me, but I’ve come to expect very little in the way of clever thinking from those milk-skinned monkeys. You understand, I’m sure…or is that kind of thing treason, too?
Anyway, Siddgeir cropped up right at dawn. Exactly dawn, I’d say. The Dunmer have a sense for these things—the sun feels like an animal turning over inside our chests. Can’t miss it.
What do I mean by “cropped up”? I mean he sprouted out of the fucking ground like a weed. What, you think I’m being metaphorical?
[Subject spat on the ground near interviewers boot.]
That’s what I think of metaphors.
Then he just kind of stood there for a minute. I stopped hammering and looked at him. It’s not every day you see a Jarl pull the potato act on you. Then he starts mumbling something about black silk and swimming tattoos. I couldn’t make it out exactly.
Then he got shot up into the air. I’d say he made it seven-thousand and eight strides up. Dunmer have a sense for that kind of thing, too.
Then he came back down. Made a big, messy red splash.
Yeah, write that down. Your precious Jarl turned into fucking jelly when he landed. Knocked over some idiot guard who was so drunk he couldn’t even tell what happened to him. Although I guess flying Jarls are a bit irregular.
We done here, twerp?
Veurlun Telmar, Thalmor Wizard
Altmer, 182 years of age.
Note: Subject stole and destroyed my notebook during the interview process. Of course, I had already made copies of the previous interviews. This account was recorded from memory.
Stop writing this down. Give me that notebook.
[Subject insinerated my notebook with a magical spell]
Listen, there is going to be trouble in Skyrim. This is just the beginning. My order will wage a private war against the Dark Brotherhood for what happened here.
That is a ridiculous question. The Dark Brotherhood wrote a fucking note saying they were going to kill him. And who else could sneak past 100 Thalmor and kidnap a Jarl from his own Longhouse, then rocket up him into the air?
Let me be clear: we will handle this. I suggest you forget your investigation—and the things you have learned here—and return to your precious Cyrodiil. In several week’s time you will receive news of the Dark Brotherhood’s destruction.