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Meme Announcements!

ANNOUNCEMENTS: UPDATED 12/16/2017

Happy Holidays, fellow Kinkmemers! I have returned and have no reasonable excuse for my absence except LIFE. I will be working on updating the archives. If anyone sees anything amiss, please let me know.

I am also hoping to find another Mod and an Archivist.

The more dedicated people we have in this Meme the less chance of it dying. I admit that being the sole keeper of the Meme is not great for the fandom. If something were to happen to me, for good, this place would go the way of the Fallout Kink Meme. Let's not let that happen! If anyone would be interested in Modding/Archiving, please drop me a line. Thanks! <3

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It's part of my headcanon for all my Dragonborn, that when they eventually have all of their eight Housecarls they ask them to share their bed. Not for sex or anything, it's just after dealing with dragons, thieves, asassins, potentially world shattering magical macguffins and freaking daedra princes, well the dragonborn sleeps better with company.

Unfortunately for them, their housecarl doesn't sleep well when in their company. Not only is the dragonborn fit and strong, but they are witty, confident and just awesome.

They're also gay or straight, and since we have an equal division of gender between the housecarls i can see them getting a bit mopey. I can also see them all renting Candlehearth hall when the dragonborn is off in Solstheim and having a massive bitching session. The girls or guys bitching at each other because half of them have a chance for hot Dovahkiin sex and the other half don't.

And through it all the Dragonborn is completely clueless and so sexually naive he or she doesn't realise his/her stable of housecarls would jump his/her bones in a hot minute.

Now that i think about it i can see the DB walking into Candlehearth hall, hearing about how they all want to jump him and then nervously stepping forward to let them. The guys or girls jump him and the four other housecarls get comfy and watch whilst having sex with each other.

(We're just not going with bi as an orientation because it kind of screws with the gay/straight thing. And let's face it Skyrim is all about duality, Stormcloaks or Imperials, Blades or Paarthurnax, honestly Bethesda would it have killed you to add a middle ground?)

Awesomesauce :D

It was raining. A thick and heavy rain with clouds so dark that it could have been midnight and rain coming down so hard and fast that people were leaving things outside to get washed.

Normally, this sort of rain wouldn’t have been as bad in Markarth as any other Hold because the rain complimented the dreary stone that made the city and the air of the loss of something great that clung like the increasing fog.

However, today Argis the Bulwark was rather hoping that today would have been nice. Because today, of all days, Argis was being assigned a new Thane.

Argis’ last Thane had drunk himself silly and then gotten in a fight. But even with the housecarl’s help, the fool had managed to get a dagger to his belly and bled out before anything that could have been done.

While Argis was in no way at fault for the death of the man, it would have been his seventh Thane dead and his reputation of being bad luck only seemed bolstered by the event. He had trouble finding work doing much of anything, having to settle on a caravan guard for any wayward traveler or merchant that was willing to cough up the coin. Not only that but most people avoided him at all costs and tried to avoid having anything to do with him, so finding food was also a problem.

And then he was called back by the Jarl, who had found someone crazy enough to become Thane and in need of a housecarl. So now he was waiting in the newly renovated house, waiting for his mysterious Thane to appear and listening to the rhythmic pitter patter of the rain outside.

Argis had hoped that it would be nice in case that his Thane wanted a tour of the city or if he wanted to set out immediately. But with this kind of down pour even the shops would be closed, most buildings locked up and just about everyone at the inn for drinks. So going outside would have been useless.

He started a stew out of sheer boredom. But he only had a few pieces of meat and a few dried spices, so he hoped that his Thane liked spiced meat stew and made a mental note to gather some more food and supplies tomorrow or the soonest the weather broke. Argis has almost finished up when the front doors burst open.

He peeked out of the kitchen and saw a darkly cloaked figure standing just inside the main hallway. The figure vigorously shook the water from their black robe before coming further into the house. Realizing that the figure was probably his Thane, Argis quickly served some of the stew and then went out to greet his Thane.

First thought that came to mind was… they were short and thin, exceptionally so with their dark robes clinging to their figure. And second was that they were a warrior by the look of the worn out dual blades strapped around their waist outside their cloak.

“Hello, you must be my new Thane, my name is Argis the Bulwark and I’ll be serving as your housecarl” Argis greeted formally.

The figure tilted their head up and for a brief moment Argis could have sworn that he saw two bright, glowing orange eyes, but then his Thane whipped their hood back. Underneath the hood was a rather beautiful Bosmer, with moderately long pitch black hair clinging to his skull. His full lips were held in a straight line and his bright orange/red eyes were cold and flat.

“My name is Roos, pleased to meet you Argis” Roos said flatly.

At a loss of words, Argis simply rolled with it.

“I have a stew ready, and I could hang your armor and cloak to dry”

“Alright” Roos said before going and disappearing into his room.

A moment later the elf came out in a rather simple set of woolen shirt and pants. He handed to soppy wet mess of leather armor and black cloak to Argis before going into the kitchen where the bowl of stew had been placed out for him.

As Argis used a wooden screen to set out the armor and cloak to dry, he tried to sum up what his initial thoughts of his Thane was.

He doesn’t like me

(tags relationship:slash characters: m!dragonborn, Argis kinks: size, vampire(?) and likely more, but for now I leave you with a first taste)

Summary: Thief: someone who relieves you of that which is yours. King: someone to whom the burdens of an entire kingdom belong. Thief: someone who relieves others of that which was stolen from you. King: someone with the right to pardon a thief.

~~~
Yrsarald paced across the snowy steps in front of the Palace of the Kings, frowning, and occasionally blinking the snow out of his eyes. He jumped slightly when a black clad figure stepped out of the swirling snow, and pulled a fur hood back from his head.

Dyce smiled.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Ysarald said.

“I keep my promises. I just had other things to do first.”

“Is it true you captured a dragon in Dragonsreach?” He ushered the Breton towards the doors.

“Yes.” Dyce shrugged. “But I let him go again. I needed his help. Is the Jarl expecting me?”

“Yes. He anticipates your Thu’um will be priceless on the battlefield, and your mere presence behind us priceless in court.” Ysarald opened the doors and ushered Dyce through into the warmth of the great hall of the Palace of the Kings.

“But?” Dyce brushed the snow off his cloak and knocked it off his boots.

“I wasn’t at the peace talks at High Hrothgar, but he seems to think you’re a fool.”

“The only thing foolish about me was my attendance in the first place,” Dyce said with a scowl. “Well, he doesn’t have to like me personally. I’m not exactly enamoured of him, either. I was at the peace talks too, remember.”

Ulfric and Galmar were talking down the other end of the hall, and although Ulfric could see Dyce and Ysarald, he didn’t break the conversation. Over the long table, thief and jarl regarded each other expressionlessly.

“Wait.” Ysarald put his hand on Dyce’s shoulder. “It is good to see you again. And even if Ulfric isn’t sure about you, I am. You’re a hero. You’re the Dragonborn.”

“Maybe, but what is Ulfric?”

“He’s the rightful king of Skyrim.”

“We’ll see,” Dyce said softly.

He’d been dreading this, but the mistakes he’d made in avoiding facing the Greybeards, and the lives that had been lost to dragons in the meantime, had convinced him that he had to be here. The war had to end, one way or another, and the peace talks had convinced him that words alone - even shouts - couldn’t break the deadlock. And all the while Elenwen smiled.

Part of him wanted to believe in Ulfric the way Ysarald did, but he knew too much for blind faith. It was enough to to remain undecided about the man lounging on his throne, watching Dyce approach.

They were discussing Whiterun, and Balgruuf’s continued and unsustainable neutrality.

“I’ll die before elves dictate the fates of men. Are we not one on this?” Galmar asked.

Ulfric’s voice rolled out across the room, “I fight for the men I've held in my arms, dying on foreign soil. I fight for their wives and children, whose names I heard whispered in their last breaths. I fight for we few who did come home, only to find our country full of strangers wearing familiar faces. I fight for my people impoverished to pay the debts of an Empire too weak to rule them, yet brands them criminals for wanting to rule themselves! I fight so that all the fighting I've already done hasn't been for nothing. I fight because I must."

Dyce knew the speech was for his benefit and so he paused a polite distance from the throne and softly clapped his gloved hands together.

The two Nords regarded him silently, but Dyce fixed his attention on Ulfric. Equally irritated with everyone, he hadn’t paid a great deal of attention to him at the peace talks, and this was the first time since that rather hazy morning at Helgen that he’d come face to face with the man.

He looked like a king. His beard and the hair at his temples was starting to grey, and his blue eyes were unreadable and tired. Burdened. He looked Dyce up and down, but what he thought of him, Dyce couldn’t say.

“Jarl Ulfric,” Dyce bowed his head and raised it again.

“Dragonborn. Ysarald says you might finally take a side in this war. All of Skyrim has heard that a Dragonborn is among us again.” A slight pause. “If you fight for me with honour and integrity, as the stories say you do, we will welcome you among our ranks.”

“Mm. Did Ysarald mention how much effort he had to put into convincing me to even be here?”

Ulfric smiled faintly, although it didn’t reach his eyes, “And what might I offer you, Dragonborn? Gold? A title?”

“Answers. You want me to fight? I will. I’ve been convinced I have to. You need to convince me you’re the one worth fighting for.”

“If you have questions, you may ask.”

“You might prefer they be asked in private,” Dyce said.

Ulfric regarded him for a long moment and then indicated the side door with a tilt of his head. His generals obeyed the silent order.

“I have a war to run,” Galmar said as he left.

Dyce opened a pouch on his belt and produced a small booklet, bound in leather. He knew the contents by heart. He held it up.

“This-”

“Stop!” Ulfric stood, glaring down at the object in Dyce’s hand. Dyce obeyed, watching him intently. He clearly seemed to recognise the kind of document it was. “Follow me,” the jarl said eventually. “Even empty halls have ears. The Imperials have spies everywhere.” He turned without waiting for a response, and led Dyce to the private quarters of the Palace.

Unbeknownst to Ulfric, Dyce had been here before, but it wasn’t to the living quarters that Ulfric led him. Instead they ascended several flights of stairs, and Dyce’s feeling that they had to be above the height of the Palace wall was confirmed when they exited a trapdoor into one of the watchtowers that lined the building.

The guard there saluted and retreated. There was nothing up here but howling wind, swirling snow, and a single brasier. Dyce huddled as close to it as he could without setting his fur cloak alight and pulled his hood up over his head.

Ulfric didn’t seem to notice the cold. He stood with his hands on the stone coping, staring out at the icebergs floating in the sea beyond Windhelm harbour.

“I found this,” Dyce said. “And I want you to answer to it, to me, before I consider fighting your war.”

“You think I have to answer to you?”

“No. But I certainly don’t have to fight for you.” Dyce narrowed his eyes. “You think you know what’s in this. I think you might be wrong.”

Ulfric turned back to him and Dyce handed him the document. He warmed his hands over the glowing coals while Ulfric read. Dyce had to give him credit, Ulfric’s expression never changed; he made a mental note never to play cards with the man, should such a thing be likely.

He finished reading and closed the folio, holding it in both hands, carefully.

“You say you found this. Where?”

“In the torture chamber beneath the Thalmor Embassy,” Dyce said promptly. Then he saw it. A flicker of a flinch, barely a blink, in Ulfric’s right eye. “And it makes sense to me. Does it make sense to you, Jarl Ulfric?”

Ulfric exhaled. “The city had already fallen,” he said, mostly to himself. He looked relieved.

“What about the rest of it?” Dyce demanded. “‘Proven his worth as an asset’? ‘Direct Contact? You’re a fucking Thalmor spy, and this war is your fault!”

Ulfric kept his temper, just. “You should use your words more carefully, Dragonborn. Your actions betray you; this.” He waved the dossier, “Would be an invaluable document to General Tullius, would it not? He would have the people of Skyrim who have not yet picked a side eating out of his hand. But you brought this to me here, instead.”

“It’s plain as the nose on your face that this war benefits the Thalmor more than anyone.”

“Yes,” Ulfric said. “To see Skyrim divided has always been their goal. But the war won’t last forever. And then they will have something to fear. Unless the Imperials win, of course, in which case their dominion will be complete.”

“How can you talk like that when you helped them get where they are. How could you? All that guff about the men dying in your arms - they killed them! They tortured you-”

Ulfric turned and loomed over Dyce, and the Breton resisted the urge to take a step back. There wasn’t anywhere much to step to.

“You have no idea what that bitch did to me! What I endured.”

“Tell me then,” Dyce said. “I want to understand.”

“You have no right to ask.” Ulfric’s teeth flashed and Dyce could feel faintly the warmth of his breath on his face. You did not fuck with men like Ulfric lightly. His house symbol suited him; a snarling, shaggy old bear.

Maybe you could outwit him. Maybe your steel was sharper than his claws. But his eyes gleamed with cunning, and his strength was limitless, and he would fight until the last breath had left his lungs. His voice didn’t need Thu’um to change the world.

Dyce refused to be cowed.

“I am the Dragonborn!” Dyce roared back. “And I have accepted what that means.” And it had hurt. “And when I say this war will end it will end! I slew the World Eater. I have the right. I earned it in Sovngarde!”

“And what was a Breton doing in Sovngarde?” Ulfric growled, turning away in disgust.

“I don’t know.” Dyce shrugged, “I don’t know, Jarl Ulfric. What difference does it make?”

“Skyrim is our homeland. It belongs to the Nords. Sovngarde-”

“Like hell! I have fought and killed and bled for-” Dyce broke off. “Huh. I didn’t come here to debate race politics with you, Ulfric. I came here to ask you if you were a damned traitor.”

Ulfric watched him through eyes narrowed against the cold and snow. “Well, things have changed since the peace conference.” He looked back out to sea. “I am not a traitor. Whatever is in here, is irrelevant now. I will see every Thalmor in Skyrim - in all of Tamriel - put to the sword.”

“Your hatred of the Thalmor is not in question,” Dyce said. “I’m concerned about potential vulnerabilities. Why did you do it, Ulfric? Why do they think they could make you do it again if they had to?”

“Things have changed since that was written,” he said. “I am no longer an asset. They know what kind of response they will get if they dare to try and contact me now; their messenger's head in a box.”

“Those are assurances, not an explanation,” Dyce said.

“You would have all my secrets, Dragonborn? Are these scars not enough?” When Dyce didn’t answer he continued. “Say you are satisfied with my explanation; will you swear loyalty to me and our cause?”

That was the question, wasn’t it?

“Yes,” Dyce said. “If I didn’t think the Empire’s appeasement was nothing more than a doomed attempt to buy time I wouldn’t be here.”

Ulfric turned his head and raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t like the Thalmor either,” Dyce pointed out. “I’ve seen what’s under the embassy. I rescued the unfortunate sods they had locked up in there.”

Ulfric actually looked impressed. “That explained Elenwen’s expression at the peace conference,” he murmured.

“I know what they’re trying to do. Talos is only the first step. I have a friend,” Dyce continued. “I rescued him. Underneath it all he was a really good mer. He was so lonely.” He looked up and met Ulfric’s gaze, “I’ll keep your secrets, my Jarl.”

“I believe you’d try. But there are no secrets they cannot prise from your mind. The harder you grip - I can’t even remember telling them, but they knew. They let me escape so I could see.” He was looking out at the snow, but Dyce was sure he couldn’t see it.

“What did they know?” Dyce asked.

“You will swear your life to me,” Ulfric said. “Or I will take it. Please let this be enough. Not even Galmar knows.” He turned his head and looked at Dyce.

Dyce set his jaw and raised his head, waiting.

Ulfric sighed. “So be it. I have a daughter.”

~~~
A/N: This is nowhere near finished being written. So tags so far would be:

char:M!DB char:Ulfric Stormcloak relationship:slash kink:angst series:dyce

I know it's as of yet unfinished but holy shit Dyce!Anon, I would give you a standing ovation if such things were possible over the intertubes. Fantastic characterization of Ulfric, by the way.

When the innkeeper had left, closing the door behind him, Falda let the soldier's cloak fall from her shoulders as she assessed her appearance in the mirror.

Babette had done an impressive job with the concoction that turned her naturally brown hair into a mane of fiery red. She didn't even look like herself, which is what they had been going for. Falda rather liked it.

She gently touched her split lip and winced. Her cuts and bruises had been won honestly by walking into a bandit camp close to Meridia's Shrine. She hadn't put up much of a fight at first so the blood would be fresh enough to sell her story, but as it became probable that they would rape her, she had produced her ebony daggers and shredded them to ribbons.

As she peeled off what remained of her dress, Falda's thoughts turned to the young Penitus Oculatus agent.

She almost felt bad for the man. He was only following orders, scoping out the cities in Skyrim to keep the Emperor safe from any breaches in security. Still, Astrid had given her a contract, and she intended to complete it, bonus and all.

That didn't mean she couldn't have some fun while she was at it. Her mark was ruggedly handsome, with a voice that made her insides curl deliciously, and the thought of bringing him to the height of pleasure before she sent him to Sithis made her giddy.

She had hoped for more of a challenge, though. He was weak like most honorable men, so rigid they were bound to snap. Shed a few tears, call them your hero - done. They were so easy, it almost wasn't any fun. Almost.

Falda combined ice and fire spells into a bowl to make water so she wouldn't need anyone to fetch it for her. She dipped her hair into the bowl and wrung it out before washing the blood thoroughly from her skin. Afterward she rifled through the room's drawers and turned up a simple blue dress similar to the one the bandits had ruined, as well as a pair of soft leather shoes and a handful of gold.

She snuck into the hallway to retrieve the steel dagger she had hidden beneath a floorboard on her way to Dragon Bridge. Her ebony blades, along with her other belongings, were tucked safely in a mountain crevice near the bandit's camp. She would have to wait to get them after her contract was done.

She hid the steel dagger under the bed, twisted her hair into a loose braid, and headed back downstairs.

This is based off of a thought I had while my DB was working up the courage to finally pop the question to his LI during a playthrough.

I want to see the Thieves Guild dealing with an obviously lovesick guildmaster. The kind of lovesick that involves off-key singing in the cistern, ridiculous love poems hidden among guild paperwork, and lots of loud sighing and groaning about how they are never going to be able to win the affections of this mysterious love interest.

Cue Brynjolf, Delvin and Vex recruiting everyone to find out who the hell the DB is crushing on and begging them to please have sex or marry the DB before they all kill him.

Bonus points if Brynjolf has a moment where he does a "look lad you've been a great friend but if you start singing about this person's eyebrows again I am locking you in the vault."

D'aww I like this! Does OP have an LI in mind or a gender? or any preferences at all?

Passerby enjoyed reading much and can't wait for more. Please A!A continue this awesome story!

Maggie is playing up the sweet girl really well here and I love the conflict that's going through Gaius's head when it comes to his attraction to her. I can't wait to see what happens next!

OP here!
Oh god, please, don't leave it like that. Those two are so hot. You need to continue this. I have to know what happens next.
And I love you forever for choosing Argis. He is by far my favourite housecarl! (simply because he was the first male one I got...)

As you know, my friend, I've been waiting for someone to really cover and explore what's in Ulfric's dossier. So to finally see that happening is a dream come true.

To have it be DYCE! well, that's a wet dream come true.

I realized yesterday that I have a new goal in writing, which is to write out whatever, and then try and make it half as long. Because if there is one thing you understand, my dear Dyce!anon, it's economy of words. (Something clearly I need to work on) You've inspired me to be better, which not many people can say.

And your twist? Fabulous. Of course, something so simple, and yet so likely. It's perfect, and like having an eraser at the end of a pencil, you can't imagine why no body thought of it in the first place.

Finally, it took me a moment to figure out who Dyce was talking about when he said "A really good Mer". At first my mind went to Erandur, because Dyce and Erandur are now permanently linked in my brain. (Which makes it kind of awkward in any 'non-Dyce' story) But then I realized it's Ondolemar and everything fell into place.

I wish we were in the same hemisphere, so I could show you my appreciation in more concrete ways (Look! I made cookies!) but we're not, so words on a page will have to suffice.

Thank you so much! It's already brilliant, and I have no doubt it's going to become a favorite.

Alrighty, I'll get writting that right now. I had fun writing this short scene. The rest of the night and then some should be done in the next few days. Is there anything else you wish to see? Fluff... ect... Just let me know.

This might be an oddly specific prompt...

The Listener and Cicero are best friends and she takes him everywhere with her. But the Listener has needs. Needs she doesn't expect/want Cicero to take care of. So on one of their journeys she meets up with a friend at an inn and takes him to her room for sexytimes.
Cicero's room is next door and there happens to be a conveniently placed hole in the wall, giving him an uninhibited view of the debauchery... And he loves every second of it.

I would prefer it if the Listener is a female elf or a human. No beast races, please. The "friend" she meets at the inn can be absolutely anyone, male or female. But I humbly request that the sex be dirty as hell.

Squicks include non-con/dub-con and bathroom business.

[OOC: So, if there are random items mentioned that don't sound canon, it's because they're not. and the horse thing I'm fudging slightly because you CAN get a horse into the grounds of the college. (Assuming the stupid thing doesn't kill you both by falling off the side of the bridge). Also, OC is NOT DB, and setting is arguably pre-game.]

Tags: Nord, Imperial, Farkas, incomplete, OC (?), mage, companion, werewolf, het.

Summary: A young mage realizes she's in over her head when given a task from the arch-mage, and enlists the help of Farkas.

She'd been horribly unprepared. Now, at the time of accepting the Arch-mage's quest, the young woman had felt confident enough. Though her specialty was restoration, Nathalia was a competent wielder of destruction, and the ignorant girl had believed a working knowledge would be suitable for the task at hand.

Nope.

As it turned out, using her magic under the watchful supervision and instruction of her teachers was not the same as practically using it in battle. Of course she'd learned this the hard way, between the bandits, the sabre cats, the Thalmor agents (who'd seemed convinced she was a priestess for Talos, for some reason...), the band of Forsworn she'd stumbled across... And then there'd been the incident when she'd accidentally placed herself between a bear cub and it's very angry mamma. And then her mare had nearly unseated her when they'd come across a pair of wolves. The silly thing despised dogs for all she was worth, and was prone to acting stupid when confronted.

The only reason she was still alive after all of that was thanks to her horse; the piebald mare had a keen eye for threats and a strong flight instinct, which Nathalia had used to her advantage. At least until she learned to use her magic practically. The only time, outside of the college, she'd ever had to actually defend herself had been an exploration in a ruin, which one room had been glanced over when there was in fact a Draugr no one had noticed.

Still though, there'd been three students and the teacher, so needless to say the threat hadn't been too real.

But this? Well, Nathalia was finally getting what she wanted - a taste of the real world- and it sucked. Having lived within the confines of those walls since she was just a baby, to say she'd been sheltered would be the mother of understatements. But she couldn't -wouldn't go back. Nope. She did, however, need a game plan. While many of the items she needed retrieving, (and the behaviors she needed to study), she could either buy or otherwise freely obtain, some of them she was going to have to fight for. And she was going to need help. Thankfully, the Arch-mage had realized this, and gave her a good sum to use as needed.

So that was how she'd ended up in front of Jorrvaskr. Might as well go straight to the best, and all that, right? Nathalia really didn't want to gamble with a questionable sell sword when her life was pretty much hanging the balance of her choice in companion. Hesitating at the door, the young woman bounced around on her heels slightly, nerves gnawing at her slowly. There really wasn't anything to prepare her for what was going to happen, so Nathalia took a deep breath before opening the door.

Whatever she'd been expecting, it wasn't... A meadhall. By the Nine, it looked as if there'd been a wild party the night before. Hesitation crept up on her again, doubt slowly entering her mind.

"And what brings you to the hall of the Companions?"

A male voice spoke behind her, and though his words were innocent enough, they were enough to shatter the skittish mage's nerves.

“Her mother did not want her raised as the daughter of a Jarl. She wanted to give her a choice, when she was older. Foolishly, I agreed. We saw her to a different city, somewhere safe. If I were to die in the war, the Stormcloak line would not end.”

“But she wasn’t safe.”

“No. I do not remember it, but I must have betrayed her. And for her, I betrayed Skyrim. But I never gave up. I vowed I would set things right again. They had her. They weren’t even threatening to kill her; they would have ‘educated’ her instead. A Thalmor puppet for a Stormcloak heir.”

“Where was she?”

“Markarth. A wealthy and protected city, but because of that I couldn’t try and rescue her without tipping my hand. But she was close enough to give me hope.”

“And then the Forsworn uprising.”

“I took Markarth back. I knew the Thalmor wanted the region disrupted, so the rivers of silver running into the Imperial coffers would dwindle for a while. So I used them and they used me and I’d hoped in the chaos of war I might snatch my daughter back.”

“But that clearly didn’t happen.”

“I couldn’t find her, but I learned something else. The Thalmor didn’t have her either. The family we’d left her with had snatched her back and hidden her somewhere in the city. She was just a tiny child, and easy to hide among others. I couldn’t ask where she was hidden; the Thalmor had got to them first, and they were all dead. None of the interrogators had the skills Elenwen did in keeping their prisoners alive.”

“After the uprising, the Thalmor installed a permanent presence in the city. To look for her, but also to keep me away. Keep me on their books as an ‘asset’ no matter how uncooperative. For twenty-five years I lived in fear that they’d find her. But I could afford to wait no longer; was I to die an old man, watching Skyrim forget Talos? I went to war. But always the thought of her held me back, as they knew it would.”

He looked at Dyce, “You did well to remove Elenwen from the peace talks. She would never have let Markarth fall into Stormcloak hands even if it cost her a dozen other holds. But she wasn’t there and she didn’t.” He ground his teeth, “And now I am free to scrub the Thalmor stain off the face of Skyrim. And you.” He turned to Dyce. “You are going to help.”

“Yes, Jarl Ulfric. I will fight for you,” Dyce said quietly.

Ulfric was still holding the dossier and with one swift movement he cast it into the flames of the braiser. Dyce didn’t make any effort to stop him or fish them out again.

“Get out of my sight,” Ulfric said. “Galmar will have a task for you and if you survive it you can take the oath.”

Dyce bowed his head, “Jarl Ulfric.” He lifted the trap door and descended the stairs, glad to be out of the cold. Certainly any potential eavesdroppers would have frozen to death.

The guard was sitting with his feet on a table and his helmet next to him when Dyce appeared. He hurriedly got to his feet.

“Should I get back to my post?” he asked, adjusting his helmet.

“I think it might be a good idea to wait until the Jarl comes down first,” Dyce said.

Out of sight of the guard, Dyce leaned against the stone wall and shakily let out a breath he felt he’d been holding since he arrived. Please Divines, he thought, don’t ever make me have a conversation like that one ever again.

For better or worse, he was now going to war under the Stormcloak banner. And as for his commander, he honestly couldn’t say what he thought. But he didn’t think they’d be having too many fireside chats. Just end the war, and get out, he thought, as soon as he possibly could.

Ulfric passed his hand over his eyes and almost hoped that whatever test Galmar set for the Dragonborn, he wouldn’t pass it. But as much as he wasn’t looking forward to meeting the Breton’s unwavering blue gaze again, Ulfric had paid his price for the Dragonborn and now he was damned if he wasn’t going to make him earn his keep.

He did return, and was duly sworn into the Stormcloaks. He looked grave and pale, but he cheered up a bit when Galmar explained about the crown. Ulfric wasn’t convinced, but while they waited for Balgruuf to make up his mind, it would be a good test for their new recruit.

Dyce, for his part, seemed relieved and even somewhat delighted by the idea.

“I’m always fetching things from tombs,” he said brightly. “This will be easy.” Ulfric was nonplussed by the response but couldn’t fault his enthusiasm.

He was less impressed when the news came back that Dyce and the crown had been captured by Imperial forces, but almost as soon as the messenger had caught his breath a second one arrived to say Dyce had managed to escape with the crown.

Indeed he had, and he strode into the Palace of the Kings with it on his head, although at least he had the sense to hide it under his hood. Ulfric accepted the crown, and turned it over in his hands; he honestly had never expected it would still exist, and his heart quickened slightly to hold it.

A crown didn’t make a king, he knew, but still, it was something.

He put it aside and looked at Dyce.

“They told me you’d been captured.”

“I was. But not for long.”

“No Thalmor? They didn’t interrogate you?” Dyce was now the holder of too many secrets for comfort.

“The Imperials don’t like the Thalmor much more than you do. They didn’t have any with them. I was interrogated by one Legate Rikke,” he smirked. “Luckily I didn’t have anything useful to tell her. She was interested in troop movements and why would I pay attention to that stuff?”

“Rikke? She’s not a torturer. She’d never...” Ulfric trailed off.

In answer Dyce started undoing the catches on the strange, sleek armour he wore, and Ulfric could only stare as he revealed a lean, muscled chest and pale skin blotched with darkening bruises.

“To be fair,” Dyce said. “She seemed to prefer less crude methods, but bloody hell if she didn’t near break me in half anyway.” He straightened his back and winced.

Ulfric didn’t know if the squirming feeling in his gut was jealousy or despair. Rikke a torturer? He stared at the bruises that Dyce was gingerly prodding. He knew Dyce had no idea how lightly he’d got off, and he hoped he’d never know. No one should know. The intelligence was that Imperial forts now commonly had torture chambers; the influence of their golden-skinned allies.

“This war has to end,” he said. “Rest tonight. I’ll have more orders for you tomorrow.”

“Yes, my Jarl.”

“Would you do your armour up? You look untidy.”

Ysarald came in at the sound of voices and his concern for the bruised recruit was unfeigned. Dyce smiled at him with genuine affection and Ysarald herded him upstairs and told him he’d find some food. By this point the Jagged Crown had lost its novelty and Ulfric went upstairs himself to sleep before the sight of one of his generals playing nursemaid made him feel worse.
The next morning, thankfully, Galmar had returned from the tomb, and was most approving of Ulfric’s new sense of purpose.

“The peace treaty is no longer in effect. The matter of Whiterun must be settled one way or another; delaying it only needlessly prolongs this war.” When Ulfric handed Dyce his axe to get a final answer out of Balgruuf, the Breton looked deeply worried. But he didn’t argue. He bowed his head and strode out.

“What do you think?” Ulfric asked his old friend.

“Ysarald seems to think highly of him.”

“I’d noticed.”

“He did kill the dragons. But his heart’s not in this war. He doesn’t think it’s his; he’s just obligated to fight it.”

“Maybe that will be enough.”

“Maybe. We’ll see how he goes on the battlefield. If his Thu’um is anything like yours, Jarl Ulfric, we will turn the tide.”

Dyce was gone for two weeks, and he returned empty-handed.

“I told you Balgruuf would come around,” he said to Galmar.

“Not so fast,” Dyce said sharply. “There are conditions attached to Balgruuf’s co-operation.”

“I told you to deliver an axe, not to open negotiations.” Ulfric never knew how much Balgruuf actively suspected about his contact with the Thalmor, but ever since the Great War, the other Jarl had barely tolerated him. Easy for him to say; he had his family safe under his own roof.

“I am a Thane of Whiterun,” Dyce said. “Balgruuf is both my friend and my Jarl. Besides.” He took a deep breath, “If we can’t provide Whiterun with what they ask for we won’t be able to persuade anyone else, either.”

He was so intense, this little Breton. Ulfric had missed it at the peace conference, but when he actually had something to say he said it clearly and forcefully, and left no doubt that he was behind every word he said. It was irritating in one way but refreshing in another, and Ulfric could picture him browbeating Balgruuf into letting him cage a dragon above his palace all too easily.

And now he was repaying the debt. It was a useful insight that Ulfric filed away for later.

“What would you have us do, Dragonborn?”

“Defend Whiterun. The Imperials don’t know that Balgruuf has given his answer, but once they do they’ll try and take Whiterun back. Prove we can hold Whiterun on the way to holding Skyrim!” He threw his words down like a challenge.

Ulfric glanced at Galmar. “Well?”

“If the choice is defending Whiterun or laying siege to her, I think we’d all prefer the former. Holding the plains won’t be as easy as holding the city, however. Inflict enough losses the Imperials’ll cut and run eventually. We need to show them they’re wasting their resources against us. That’s where the Dragonborn comes in. His Thu’um will send them packing with their tails between their legs.”

He could tell Galmar was champing at the bit to test his army in a full battle against the Imperials and it was time to see what Dyce was like on the battlefield.

“Very well. Mobilise our forces. Whiterun will be ours in two days.” Galmar left to start giving orders, but Ulfric called Dyce back. “Balgruuf would have sided with the Imperials?”

“He has no love for the Thalmor, but he believed the Imperials were the only ones capable of defending his city. He trusted I could prove otherwise.”

“Hm.” Ulfric dismissed Dyce and he hurried off with that strangely noiseless tread of his.

~~~
The battle for Whiterun lasted two days, but in the end the Imperials cut their losses, as Galmar had predicted, and the news that the Stormcloaks had struck the first decisive blow crossed the country as fast as men could ride.

The title of Ice-Veins was bestowed on Dyce for his part in the battle. He didn’t take it well.

“What?” He laughed. “Wait, are you serious? Um, my name is Dyce, I’m quite happy with it, really.”

“Just go with it,” Yrsarald prompted him.

“But. I don’t have icy veins. People say I’m hot-headed. I mean, um, thanks. It’s an honour. Although know I do want to know why you guys call him Thrice-Pierced-”

At this point Yrsarald hauled him off and Ulfric could hear him laughing delightedly from the hall.

“He already knows, doesn’t he?” Galmar said. “He wouldn’t have mentioned it if he didn’t.”

Ulfric really didn’t want to think about it. “How did he fight?”

“He hired a dark elf to watch his back.”

“I never took him for a coward.”

“He didn’t shirk the fighting. He was going through the motions the first day, but he got the hang of it.”

“So it’s worth putting up with him for now.”

“I don’t think he realises what he’s capable of, but he will. You did well to get him on our side. I’d hate to face him in battle.”

Ulfric didn’t say anything, but he wondered if the smiling Breton might someday be a rod for his own back. Still, the man couldn’t be immune to a dagger in the ribs if it came to that.

When Ulfric retired to sleep that night, one image stayed with him, of Dyce, jaw set, eyes flashing, demanding that Balgruuf’s city be defended. That was loyalty, pure and unwavering. And what could he do to earn that?

“You don’t let Argonians inside the city walls?” Dyce asked incredulously. “But it’s freezing out there. Admittedly it’s equally cold in here, but still.”

“No, I don’t,” Ulfric said flatly. “Isn’t it enough that I have a colony of elves within my walls? Or would you tell me how to run my city?”

Dyce shifted his jaw, clearly trying to work out what kind of answer he could get away with. “No,” he said eventually. He turned and marched back out again.

Ulfric found Windhelm was soon practically infested with the man. If he wasn’t running around in the early hours of the morning with Jorlief solving mysteries, or whatever it was they couldn’t shut up about, he was dragging Yrsarald off to go drinking.

The war progressed as wars often do, in fits and starts. Wars were won not merely against the enemy but against weather, and logistics, and Dyce clearly was incapable of sitting still for two minutes at a stretch. Not that he was always causing trouble. He tracked down dragons and bandits, and when Jorlief eventually explained what had been happening in Windhelm’s streets at night Ulfric realised he had every reason to be grateful.

And when Galmar sent him off to war he went, and more often than not came back victorious. They named him Bone-Breaker and Dyce just shrugged and laughed helplessly.

Galmar liked him. Even when he came in with a split lip and a black eye and Rolff Stone-Fist’s blood on his knuckles for the third time Galmar didn’t seem to take it personally.

“Tell your idiot brother,” Dyce said wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “That if he wants to still have teeth by Yuletide to stop shouting at the elves.”

“I think you’re telling him pretty clearly,” Galmar said, watching him spit and wince.

“Yes, but he’s not listening to me. It’s like he completely forgets who I am, and he sees a puny Breton he thinks he can beat up. On the other hand, I am making a fortune, but no one but Rolff himself bets against me anymore.”

Dyce may have been making a fortune, but he certainly wasn’t keeping it. After Dyce helped liberate a good many Stormcloak soldiers from an Imperial fort, Ulfric decided to reward some of his hard work by making him Thane. He was getting so well known that half the guards had started assuming he was Thane already. There was some risk involved by publicly supporting someone who opposed him openly on political matters, but Ulfric knew that once he worked out how to acquire Dyce’s true loyalty, Skyrim would be his.

But Dyce always floated just out of reach, even as he made friends with everyone he met. Except possibly Rolff.

“You will be allowed to purchase property in Windhelm,” Ulfric explained.

“Yeah, Balgruuf made the same offer,” Dyce said. “I couldn’t afford it though. He wanted five thousand gold for a little house. How much is Hjerim going for?”

“Twelve thousand,” Jorlief said faintly.

Ulfric pinched the bridge of his nose at Dyce’s expression. “I take it you’ve never managed to earn that much in your life.”

“Oh, I’ve earned ten times that amount, surely. I just don’t have it on me.”

“How much do you have?” Ulfric asked, out of sheer curiosity.

“Oh. Um.” Dyce patted down his pockets and weighed pouches of gold and counted gems and did sums. “About two thousand. Not bad.”

“Perhaps you could make a deposit now and pay the rest back whenever you have the money.”

“My Lord?” Jorlief looked at him with surprise. “Is that wise? It’s not usual-”

Ulfric shrugged. “It’s just sitting there empty. If nothing else Dyce can prevent it becoming a hideout for the next murderer. What do you think, Dyce?”

“I think that’s very fair of you. Here you go.” He handed over all his valuables to Jorlief and wandered out.

“But it’s empty right now,” Jorlief said. “He can’t live there. Can he?”

Ulfric shrugged. Oddly enough, Dyce did manage to get furniture and objects for his house, but he never explained where they came from. Ulfric wisely decided it wasn’t his business.

Well, I've had this idea for a while

After the battle against Alduin, the Dovahkiin takes the post of leader of the dragons and suddenly his/her body transmute to the form of a dragon, losing his mortal form forever.
While the new dovah(khiin) maybe a little surprised, he/she feel more comfortable with their new form (After all his soul was always that of a dragon and more on than one occasion he/she felt outside her/his mortal body). But there is something that still ties to his/her old life, her LI. So I want to see how the Dovakhiin tries to explain the situation or perhaps say goodbye to his/her LI. I'm Ok with a sappy ending

Bonus: If the LI at the beginning confused or frightened by the situation finally recognizes the dragonborn by some unique feature that he/she had. (A silly nickname that only he/she would respond, a scar, the patron of tattoos)

Ooh, a Dyce fill AND it's Ulfric! Nice! For all you said you were a bit worried about writing him, you've done an excellent job so far. I am looking forward to more.

Of course, now I'm wondering who Ulfric's kid is. I'm assuming she's a grown woman now, which could be very interesting as she'd be around Dyce's age (well, within five years or so anyway, assuming Dyce is late twenties/early thirties) and might even have been a lover of his. I'm not sure if that would be more awesome or awkward.

Oh gods, what if it's Vex? Her reaction, oh gods.

Ahem. I shall stop speculating. I just wanted to let you know I enjoyed it and am looking forward to the rest.

Interesting start... but it's mislabeled in delicious for some reason >.>

Oh Baby!!! Was this hot or what??? Yes please continue this oh so sweet interlude with Argis and his thane! I'd like you to work in a size kink for me, Argis is all Nord after all, everything is extra large on those guys if you get my meaning? Also make his thane reconsider his eagerness once he sees the "full" extent of his house carl's "assets" wink, wink. Either senario I will be happy with and for the OP thank you for posting this great Kink, I love Argis a lot!!!

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