skyrimkinkmeme | Meme Announcements!

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

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Vilkas must not give in! He can find her!

I'd like a path of atonement for Vilkas! I reread all their love story ... it was great ... possible that neither of them do anything? I wonder where is Ariella!

OHH! Vilkas ... as the ship .. you are really a hoot! I like the way the two are interacting now ... I'm waiting for the next ... I'm curious to see how it can go between the two of them! I think it's very interesting!

I'd love a full story, too! It would be nice to see Ulfric and Tullius acting like adults. I rolled my eyes at them throughout the entire Hrothgar summit.

Yes! It was so fluffy I had to hide my blushing face on my knees! I love love LOVE the idea of them sleeping together, that's so sweet, plus the little one on his mommy... DAAAAWWWW IMG. Have all the internets anon!!!

Instinctively he turned towards the wolves . But they were as confused as he was. Vilkas speculated they would find answers closer to the city. But, even the guards manning the gates were baffled.

Skjor suggested they should push on to Jorrvaskr. If they all put their brains together maybe they could find the answer. Reljir noticed there was something off about Whiterun. At first he couldn’t put his finger on it. But when one of the guards suggested they find shelter, he realized the streets were empty.

Reljir could feel fatigue wearing him down. In spite of everything, his thoughts were occupied with Aela. He wondered how he had been so lucky as to form a pair bond. Even his parents Vardan the Bear and Gowen of the Ansei were merely mated. He smiled slightly as he wondered what they would make of all this.

As the group approached Jorrvaskr, Reljir was anticipating sharing a comfortable bed with Aela. Hopefully, she would concur. He felt her eyes on him and looked over. He wondered how long she had been watching him.

Apparently his face revealed something of his thoughts. She indulged in a slow perusal of him before flashing a secretive smile. He tried to ignore his body’s reaction, at lest until they could find privacy. He had to work hard to hold back his laughter. Only Aela could affect him this way. She didn't have to put much effort into it.

Jorrvaskr itself was filled with the aromas of smoke and slightly stale mead. It felt inordinately good to be back among the familiar. The wolves must have felt the same. They wasted no time settling in. Vignar Gray-Mane and Kodlak Whitemane were sitting at the table. They would want to hear all the details. And of course there was the matter of the thundering sound to discuss.

Reljir had expected Njada to have began to relating the tale. But, she was sitting quietly on a bench beside Tilma. Actually, all of the companions were being unusually quiet. He wondered why they were acting out of character. The answer came, when the double wooden doors opened to admit Athis and Ria.

As if on cue Skjor stood up “Now that we’re all here, may this mead hall ring with the stories of this company. They will surely bring honor to us all”. The companions were boisterous in
narrating the dragon fight. But they left off as the story neared its climax. It was Reljir who revealed he was dragonborn.

That little tidbit received a dramatic reaction. Vignar and Kodlak exchanged an inscrutable look. Vignar half stood up, before realizing what he was doing. He sat right back down again. Kodlak spoke up “So it really was the graybeards!.” There was a note of pride in his voice Reljir had never heard before.

“The graybeards?” Vilkas voice was both questioning and disbelieving. Vignar explained “The thundering sound was the voices of the graybeards summoning a dragonborn to High Horthgar. This hasn’t happened for centuries. Not since the time of Tiber Septim himself” Vignars eyes were slightly misty. Obviously he was deeply touched.

Physically Reljir resembled his mother. But, his father Vardan the bear had taught him about the nord side of his heritage. He was suddenly remembering stories of High Horthgar. Awe inspiring tales of revered monks living in seclusion at the throat of the world. “What would such an esteemed body want with me?” he wondered aloud.

Kodlak stood up “If you really are dragonborn they can teach you to use your gift. It is a tremendous honor." He stretched " It‘s time I seek my chambers.” There was a new spring to the harbingers steps. He felt privileged to have such a mystical figure as the dragonborn of legend among the companions.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
authors note:
I have gone a little non-cannon with this part. Again, I didn't want to write about Reljir becoming thane and Lydia following him around. Three's a crowd (evil grin). Once again some of the dialogue in this part are direct quotes or very close to those found in game. I wanted to acknowledge that. Enjoy!

I feel warm and fuzzy when I know someone is enjoying this fill. I'm glad the update could could brighten your day even if just a little. Now that things have settled down around here I should be able to update more often. Enjoy!

*passersby anon*
whoa
do continue!

Therion!Anon
Oh, glad you like it. I was going to stop posting, I thought no one was reading!

“Why do you insist on wearing your hood up?” Therion asked with disappointment. For a man with such carefully groomed side burns, he seemed oddly intent on hiding them from view.

Farengar stood, brushing off his robes.

“Get out,” he said, holding his head high.

“Are you sure?” Therion asked, quirking his brow, “I wouldn’t mind staying-”

“I would,” Farengar snapped, giving Therion a glimpse of his brewing anger and mortification.

“Very well,” the Dragonborn said, holding up a hand in peace. “I was only trying to help, Farengar-”

“Out!” he shouted, wrenching the door open.

“Gods, you are determined to deafen me, aren’t you?” Therion said with an indifferent sigh. “It’s not my fault you drank the damn love potion.”

Farengar descended upon him, dragging him to the door with strength surprising for a mage. Therion put up no resistance save for the last moment. Whirling around to face Farengar, a roguish grin spread wide across his face.

“Was it so awful?” Therion asked, holding onto the door frame. “I, for one, had a delightful evening.”

He savored the scowl on Farengar’s face as he shoved him from the room. Therion stumbled back, watching the door slam shut.

“Come on!” the mer shouted with a laugh, trying the handle and finding it locked. “Open the door, Farengar! I’m not leaving without my armor. A god gave it to me. And not one of the forgiving ones, either.”

Therion froze, a creeping sensation along the back of his neck. He snapped his gaze toward the Great Hall. The large room, which had been deserted all day, was now filled with people, all of them looking his direction. His audience included no less than Jarl Balgruuf, his housecarl, Irileth, his steward, Proventus, and a full escort of guards. As they returned his stare, Therion was suddenly acutely aware that he was standing before them with his shirt completely open and his belt half undone.

Irileth’s eyes were open wider than he had thought possible, while Proventus was staring intently at what looked like a blank parchment, every scrap of his bald scalp flushed bright red.

The Jarl, for his part, just looked amused.

Therion stood up straight and flashed a smile, rubbing his chin as he tried to think. He could already hear the guards muttering about a “lovers’ quarrel”.

To hell with it, he thought, grabbing what remained of his mead and giving a wink heavenward, silently asking Nocturnal to pardon him for losing his armor.

“Good evening,” Therion said, touching his brow with a flourish.

The Jarl nodded back.

The mer strolled away, hands tucked regally behind his back, in contrast to the disarray of his clothing. He saw little point in adjusting it and looking flustered, so he flaunted it. The best way to avoid embarrassment was to wear it with pride.

“Dragonborn,” the Jarl said, and Therion stopped in his tracks. “A god you say?”

He looked back over his shoulder at the court of Whiterun.

“A jest,” he said humbly with a courteous nod before leaving the hall.

If word got around that the Gods were handing him trinkets and armor, he would be up to eyes in thiefs. Not to mention Nocturnal, infamous for her love of secrecy, might disfavor him for drawing attention.

He was not a devout follower of Nocturnal, but he knew better than to piss her off.

Walking through the empty streets of the Cloud District, he paused to run a hand over the tiny tree, Gildergreen. The sapling was growing stronger each day. For a moment he pictured it with ruby red leaves, glowing in the autumn sun beneath his bedroom window. Shaking his head, he removed his hand from the bark and walked slowly back to his small home.

Therion smiled to himself, remembering the last kiss he had shared with the wizard, as he took a sip of his mead. The alcohol warmed his body against the cold and the taste reminded him of fond memories. Though he missed the Summerset Isle, there were times when Whiterun could feel like home. Tonight was such a night. The twin moons shone brightly in the night sky. He looked up, admiring the sight as he descended the stairs toward the empty street stalls and closed businesses.

A cloth was clamped roughly over his mouth, muffling his cry of surprise as he was pulled backward, forcing him off balance. Dropping his mead flask, Therion grabbed at the hand silencing him. His heart raced, alarmed by his inability to use his Thu’um. He felt himself being lifted up as a second and third attacker quickly grabbed his legs and torso, carrying him out of sight behind an abandoned house on the hill.

Thrashing with all of his might, he tried to escape their grip, though his strength seemed to fail him. He managed to throw a fire spell at the closest hooded figure before the man pinned his arms at his side. In the brief, illuminating light of his fire spell, he saw something which made his blood run cold; Thalmor armor. His original attacker forced the cloth into his mouth, gagging him, as he wrapped another cloth tightly around his mouth. The fabric

in his mouth tasted bitter and unpleasant. Therion’s vision began to blur and his body began to slacken, his muffled cries turning into distant and inarticulate moans as he tried to stay conscious. A dead or unconscious guard lay beside him, crushing his hopes further of anyone hearing him. He felt them bind his feet and hands, his arms forced painfully together behind his back.

Blinking hard, he moved his head side to side, trying to stay awake. He knew it was a losing battle as his vision began to darken. With all his might he made a final attempt to call for help, the sound barely audible to himself around his gag. The last image he saw was the hooded Thalmor putting a finger to his lips before he slipping into unconsciousness.

------------

Brynjolf looked up at the wooden sign above the tavern door. Beneath green letters reading “Drunken Huntsman” was the illustration of an overflowing mug. Pushing the door open, he was immediately greeted by warm air, laden with the smell of roasting stew. Had he been in search of entertainment, he would have sighed with disappointment. The sleepy, little tavern was too quiet for his taste. He had grown up in Riften, where opening a tavern door revealed roars of raucous laughter and yelling, amidst a cacophony of crashing mugs and glasses. Surveying the room nonchalantly, he looked for exits and coin purses of interest, as was his habit, only to find neither. The red headed Nord shook his head, missing the Bee and Barb. Just what sort of tavern had a jester in it, anyway?

Spying his contact, Brynjolf wove through the patrons and toward the hearth, seating himself and leaning forward, as he spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.

“I came as fast as I could, lass. What have you found?”

The slight woman beside him let out a soft sigh of disappointment from beneath her dark hood.

“Very little,” she said, in a delicate murmur. Karliah’s voice was, as always, like silk to his ears; soft and tender. “He was here a week ago, according to the guards. The housecarl confirmed the same. She’s concerned with his absence as well.”

“We’re calling off the Black-Briar job for now. Maven will have to wait until this is settled,” he said, scratching his beard. “You suppose she found out what was coming and made a move?”

The door opened and several villagers walked to the counter, greeting the owner.

“I don’t know,” Karliah said solemnly, looking up at Brynjolf from beneath her hood, concern in her violet eyes. A war with Maven Black-Briar could cripple or destroy the Thieves’ Guild. Therion had devised a way to destroy Jarl Black-Briar’s choke hold over Riften, quickly and quietly, and had then vanished into thin air.

Laughter at the counter interrupted the heavy silence between the two companions.

“No!” Elrindir shouted in disbelief, the Bosmer owner behind the counter looking positively shocked.

“Yes, it’s true! I heard it from one of the guards who was there!” a villager said to a small crowd of patrons.

“I always wondered what he was into…” someone murmured scandalously.

“Didn’t think he had it in him… seemed like he was more “interested” in dragons,” another chuckled, thinking himself very witty.

A bald, pompous looking man sneered as he said, “I, for one, am shocked. It’s bad enough, fooling with dark, unnatural things like, ugh, magic. But I never thought he was prone to acts of such depravity…”

“Depravity?” the first villager echoed.

The pompous man shook his head looking disgusted. “It’s a disgrace! A member of the Jarl’s court bedding a… a...” he struggled, as if the word was too revolting to say aloud before finally exclaiming, “...an elf!”

Elrindir looked at the man, rage building in his eyes, as though the Bosmer was warring with the impulse to leap over the counter at him.

“Well,” one of the younger men said slowly, “High Elves are sort of pretty, you have to admit. And they’re real good with magic, so it kind of makes sense the Jarl’s wizard would have some kind of interest-”

“It’s unbecoming of a Nord!” the outraged, older man hollered righteously. “And I do not have to admit anything of the sort!”

Brynjolf heard Karliah scoff as she muttered something about ‘a backwater hole of a town’.

Another joined in, “Well, it’s not just any elf though, is it? It’s the Dragonborn!”

Brynjolf and Karliah sat up, more interested in the conversation.

“And it sounds like Farengar rebuffed him! Threw him out a week ago!” the youth went on.

----------------------------

Farengar looked up from his desk, sensing he was not alone.

Since the incident, he had become more irritable than usual. He was a private man, preferring to be left alone. His new status as a celebrity was mortifying. The number of idiotic questions he received daily seemed to have increased a hundredfold.

“What?” he snapped sharply, causing his newest, and most bizarre, visitor to gasp in shock.

“Oh my, Cicero has angered the court wizard! And poor Cicero was just standing here!” spouted the tall jester dressed in black and red, sounding hurt. The bells on his costume jingled as he spoke eccentrically, their melody as disharmonious as their wearer’s gaze. “No, no, no! No time, none at all!” he growled, making a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “Cicero broke the rules, poor Cicero, he broke them! He must speak with the Jarl’s wizard, no time, no time!”

Farengar looked him over.

“I think he’s the large brute by the throne, the one wearing a lot of armor. Go and bother him,” he said, returning to his tome, hoping to pawn the strange man off on the guards. Which, he considered, needed a lesson on whom to allow into the keep.

A disconcertingly shrill laugh came from the jester as he danced from foot to foot. “Ah hah, a jest! The wizard jests with Cicero! Oh yes, how thrilling!” he cackled with veritable excitement. His voice turned unexpectedly low and menacing as he added, “I do enjoy a good laugh.”

Farengar reconstituted himself against his sudden change in tone.

“And what business would a madman have with a Jarl’s court wizard?” he asked, leaning back while secretly placing a ward in one hand and paralyze in the other.

“Cicero is not mad, he is worried! A message for the wizard, message message message! Bring the Listener now, now!” he cried urgently.

“Yes…” Farengar said slowly, vowing to discuss the guards’ sense of humor regarding his visitors with Irileth. “The Temple of Kynareth is what you’re looking for. Danica is a superb listener,” he said, forcing himself to keep a straight face as he described the impatient priestess.

Cicero began to scream with frustration, then quickly shushed himself, muttering under his breath. Farengar watched his mercurial mood swings with growing concern. Perhaps he could tempt him into drinking a sleeping potion, and avoid injuring him in combat.

“Therion!” the jester whined, catching Farengar’s undivided attention. “Loredas, Sundas, Morndas - Cicero waited, waited and worried, pacing beside Mother! Poor Mother was beside herself, inconsolable! By Tirdas, Cicero could wait by himself no longer! The mer always comes on Loredas, to sit and listen to Mother, never late, never! He brings Cicero tidings, and oh yes! Sweet rolls… gooey and delicious. Kind words, he always speaks to Cicero,” he said despairingly, before snapping ferociously, “The wizard must tell Cicero where he has gone!”

Farengar looked at the peculiar man, deciphering what he could from his gibbering.

“I neither know, nor care, where that man is,” he said, tiring of the nonsensical ramblings of the jester. “As you can see, he is not here, in my laboratory. Try looking in a rotting crypt. Or, if he’s not robbing my ancestors, a tavern.” Farengar had no actual knowledge of how Therion spent his time, but he had a general idea of the habits of adventurers and their ilk.

Cicero glared at him sullenly, grumbling ‘no help at all’ repeatedly. As he turned to leave, he shot a maniacal look at Farengar. “If the wizard took away the Listener, if he hurt him…” he cackled gleefully, before his voice fell to a dark whisper, “I will bring him home to meet Mother.”

Farengar watched the lunatic leave with an unsettled, bemused look. Shaking his head, he reached down into his desk and fished out his strongest bottle of ale. As he sat up, he was greeted by two new figures standing before his desk.

“Divines, what now?!” he demanded, slapping his hands on his desk as he stood up. The red headed Nord male in adventurer’s garb and the female figure, wearing a familiar set of black armor, both started in surprise. “No, I don’t want to know! I’m retiring for the evening. Away with you!” he said with a curt wave of his hand.

“Hey now,” Brynjolf said, his voice warm and easy going. “We only need a moment. Then we’ll leave you to enjoy your drink and bed. We’re in search of information, and we can compensate you for your extremely valuable time,” he said, producing a large coin pouch and tossing it onto the wizard’s desk.

Farengar looked at it, a bit surprised. There were at least 500 septims in the pouch, by the size of it.

“What do you want, then?” he asked impatiently, taking the coin purse, as tomes and rare alchemy ingredients, danced in his mind’s eye. “Directions to a crypt? Deciphering an ancient text?”

Karliah shook her head. “We’re looking for information regarding the location of Therion Adamonest.”

Farengar wrinkled his nose, exhaling sharply. “How many more people will break into my offices to ask this question tonight? I have no idea where the population of Skyrim conceived the notion that I know where the Dragonborn hides himself, but I do not know, nor care to know, what that man does in his spare time! Perhaps he was tragically eaten by a dragon!”

Brynjolf nodded to Karliah, glancing over the table.

“What is that?” Karliah asked, pointing to the armor laying beside his enchanting station. Therion’s armor. Which, he noticed, was identical to her own.

“He left it here, last week,” he said with a disinterested sigh.

“And you didn’t think it odd he never retrieved it?” Karliah asked, wondering what Therion saw in this grumpy lover.

Farengar glared at her, reading her tone.

“I never gave him cause to remove it in the first place,” he growled, although it was something of a gray area to the truth. His only comfort from the whole affair was knowing that Arcadia was sitting in jail, carrying out her month long sentence in misery. “He left Dragonsreach and that was the last any of us saw of him.”

“A dead end, it would seem,” Brynjolf said to Karliah.

“Not necessarily… How are you with locating spells?” she asked Farengar, picking up Therion’s armor and gently folding it, before placing it on his desk.

Farengar looked at the armor. “I can use it to track him, but the Jarl would never permit me to-”

“I can pay you five times the amount Byrnjolf just gave you,” she said, producing several brilliant diamonds in her black glove.

Farengar raised his eyebrows, sorely tempted.

“And another 5,000 septims when Therion is safely recovered,” Karliah added, setting the stones atop Therion’s shadowy armor.

Some quick math concluded that his visitors were indeed willing to pay him the price of a house, fully furnished, all to find the Dragonborn.

“What is your association with the Dragonborn?” Farengar felt himself compelled to ask, reminded of Therion’s remark to ‘not ask’ about his night job.

“He and I are not romantically involved, if that’s-” Karliah began.

“That is NOT what I was inquiring,” Farengar snapped.

“Brothers in arms,” Brynjolf supplied with a casual shrug of his shoulders.

“I’ll inform the Jarl I’m departing to investigate the location of his missing Thane,” Farengar said. Adding, as something occurred to him, “5,000 septims when he is safely recovered… and if he’s dead?”
“I will honor our deal. And you may help yourself to the pockets of those following him closely to the afterlife,” Karliah said with dark promise.

Therion had slowly come around to find himself surrounded by Justicars. A nightmare he had often had. As the reality settled in that he would not wake up in his bed, he looked at the vile Thalmor armor, so overwhelmed with terror, that he eventually felt numb. All he could do was wait, a form of torture all on its own.

The door to the small room opened, and the Justicars made respectful bows of their heads and departed. Through a drug addled haze, Therion heard a file tossed on a table and a chair set before him. A man sat down and leaned forward, observing him. Therion’s pulse quickened as he pulled a knife from the sheath on his belt, bringing it up to his face.

With a quick motion he cut away Therion’s gag and cast a healing spell, clearing the fog from his mind. “You are a difficult mer to get ahold of, are you aware of that?”

Therion looked up at Head Justicar Ondolemar.

“Auriel help me, you scared me half to death, you bastard!” Therion said in a rush, heaving a sigh of relief.

Ondolemar’s eyes smiled, though his face remained neutral. Doubtless a result of disciplined practice, Therion reflected.

“You know, cousin, there are much easier ways to get a hold of me. Ways which do not take a hundred years or more off of my life,” Therion said, though he suspected he was not a prisoner to the Thalmor on Ondolemar’s behest.

His cousin’s thin lips lowered in a frown.

“The Dominion took notice of your swift resolution to the civil war. You’re to be questioned in Skyrim, then returned to the Summerset Isle for execution,” Ondolemar explained, relaxing back in his chair.

“Well, that’s a relief. For a moment, I thought I was in trouble,” Therion said, cracking his neck and adjusting his shoulders as best he could. Therion looked at Ondolemar a bit jealously, uncomfortably shackled to the wall as he was. There was no way around it of course; if someone walked into to find him sitting comfortably, Ondolemar would have a difficult time explaining himself.

“Apparently,” his cousin, continued conspiratorially, “The Emperor was recently murdered. The few surviving witnesses all attest the assassin was dressed in Thalmor robes. Cyrodil is in an uproar.”

“Imagine that,” Therion replied innocently, with mock curiosity. “How sloppy of the Thalmor assassin, getting seen like that.”

“Indeed,” Ondolemar said, nodding his head. “The Dominion can only guess as to the identity of the assailant,” he added meaningfully, to Therion’s relief.

“It was you,” Therion remarked, thinking back to the mer whom had placed his fingers to his lips during his abduction. “You were there, in Whiterun.”

“I wanted to ensure my agents weren’t… over zealous,” Ondolemar explained, trying to sound indifferent.

“You really do care about me, cousin! I’m positively misty eyed. Be a dear and wipe my tears?” Therion teased.

“Oh shut up. You really are insufferable,” Ondolemar grumbled sourly.

“You love me, admit it,” Therion said with his most imperious smile, to further irritate his kin.

“You may think otherwise, when you hear what I have to say,” Ondolemar said, suddenly serious.

Therion carefully masked his face and voice to sound unconcerned, so as not to make life more difficult for his beloved cousin.

“You have my permission. Get on with it,” he said uninterestedly.

“I haven’t even told you what I have in mind,” Ondolemar said irritably.

“No, but it’s not hard to guess,” Therion said impatiently, having come to the same conclusion as soon as he had recognized his captor. “The Empire is in an uproar. But it’s not quite enough to inspire them to action. Whereas, Skyrim is practically begging for an excuse to war with the Summerset Isle…” he trailed off. “The Dragonborn, hero and brave savior of men, the scourge of Alduin, the bane of kings… found tortured half to death by their evil, elven oppressors… well, it writes itself, doesn’t it? How many songs do you think they’ll write?”

Ondolemar’s perfectly impassive face, began to look strained. “You could always “overpower” me and escape using your ‘Dragonborn’ powers,” he said, knowing neither of them was in favor of the option.

“That would make a lousy song. I do that to Thalmor on a weekly basis, and no one’s written so much as a ditty,” Therion said with a laugh, maintaining his casual attitude for Ondolemar’s sake. “I know it’s been hard for you. I’ve no right to complain at all, the way things worked out for me after I escaped. It was I who asked you to join the Thalmor. Out of every member of the Laloria Malatar, you were by far the most talented at subterfuge. Now,” he said encouragingly. “You’re almost done. I’ll be the last one you ever have to interrogate. Which, all things considered, is poetic justice,” he said guiltily. “As a result, we’ll bring war to the Summerset Isle, conquer our people, and have every last Thalmor tried and executed. The Altmer will be free from the vile rot we allowed to seep into our homeland.”

“And if it’s all for nothing?” Ondolemar pointed out. “If nothing goes as you’ve intended?”

Therion fixed him with his powerful gaze.

“Then history will remember us as butchers. Our nobility, our achievements, our entire existence, will be cursed and spat upon by all the races of man and the young races of mer. And one day a reckoning will come,” he said darkly. “We brought this upon ourselves. And only we can restore the nobility of our race.”

Ondolemar pulled a potion from his robes.

“You’ve always had a flare for the dramatic,” he said dispassionately. “I can’t guarantee you’ll survive, if something goes wrong with this haphazard plan.”

“I’m well aware,” Therion said.

“And how will we make sure the Nord people find you?” Ondolemar asked.

Therion laughed.

“If someone doesn’t show up from either the Thieves’ Guild, the Dark Brotherhood, the mage’s college, the Blades, the Imperial forces, or any other number of organizations or groups, then I have done a decidedly poor job of infiltrating this country,” he said with a laugh. “Stall if you have to, but someone will come eventually.”

“Alright then,” Ondolemar agreed, though he remained still in his chair.

“The sooner begun, the sooner done, a Nord once told me,” Therion said, thinking fondly on his favorite resident of Skyrim.

“Are you in such a hurry?” Ondolemar asked, rubbing his eyes with his free hand.

“Just once more. One last time. You’ve done this many times, Ondolemar-”

“But never to you! Never to my little cousin!” he said savagely, his hand still covering his eyes. “I taught you to shape fire, when you were small. I convinced you to join the Laloria Malatar. You’d still be home, safe and comfortable, had you never become a spy.”

Another passerby here. I should definitely should have posted earlier to say how much I liked this. Apologies for that.

Thanks for the updates as well. I thought something was a bit off about Therion...he was just a bit too ethical with Ferengar, but now I see why.

Can't wait for more updates. :)

Therion bowed his head.

“You don’t have to be the one to do this,” he told the anguished mer. “You can order your subordinates-”

“No.” Ondolemar said with an air of finality. He opened the potion in his hand. “Drink this. Scream for as long as you can. As soon as you lose consciousness, I’ll go to work.

Therion nodded his head. “Promise me something though, will you?” he asked.

Ondolemar looked at Therion, awaiting his request.

“Be careful with my face, it’s my best feature,” he said, laughing despite himself.

“Your vanity knows no bounds,” Ondolemar sighed, giving him a cynical look.

“Seriously, though,” Therion continued, “When I am rescued, run. I need to know you’ll be safe. The company I keep can, at times, make the Thalmor look like Mara with an armful of kittens.”

“I will,” Ondolemar said with a nod. “Someday, you will tell me more of your adventures here," he added imploringly.

“Look forward to it,” Therion promised.

Drinking the potion, he took a deep breath and screamed as if a dragon were ripping him to pieces.

He glanced at Ondolemar who gave him a hint of a smile and silently applauded his performance between gloved hands.

He screamed himself hoarse until he began to tire from the potion, but continued to groan for as long as he could, so Ondolemar would be sure when he was finally unconscious.

Therion!Anon

Aw, thanks! This is my first fill - just found the website a week ago. I was beginning to think the site wasn't active anymore, so thank you for the kind comments! They got me posting again :)

Anyway, I hope you guys like the updates and where everything goes (I was a bit nervous to continue because things move away from the Love Potion theme).

Vilkas had set out as soon as the sun was peaking over the horizon. The light was dim and the snow was thick but the wind had died down a bit. Vilkas wasn’t cold but he still had his arms wrapped tightly around himself as he walked.

Vilkas felt a shudder go through him and he pretended that it was from the cold and that his eyes were just stinging from the wind.

He trudged through the snow slowly, feet dragging. The walk of a broken man, truly. She would never have made it down the mountain, she probably collapsed in the snow somewhere and froze to death, or perhaps she had a far more merciful death from some animal or she stumbled off the mountain and fell.

Thinking about it didn’t make him feel better. He tried counting his footsteps like he had done on the way up but it was hard to concentrate, his mind just kept wondering back to her.

Vilkas.

He stopped dead in his tracks, wind picking up and blowing in his ears. He listened for a few moments more praying the wind would stop.

Vilkas.

A faint voice, carried by the wind or drowned out by it. Yet he heard it, he heard her.

“Ariella!” He shouted, as if cursed by the gods snow began falling and falling fast. Snow and wind drowning out his voice as he called for her. He had heard her, he knew he had heard her!

“Ariella!” He kept shouting as he frantically ran through the snow towards her voice, her beautiful voice. “Ariella! Ariella!”

He listened for it again but he heard nothing. “I’m coming Ariella, hold on!” He scanned his surroundings and saw nothing but the white covered mountainside. “Ariella!”

He followed his instincts that were surely leading him towards her. Vilkas felt his wolf beginning to rise within him but the man easily squashed it.

“Ariella!” He shouted out over and over yet never got a reply. He trudged through more snow and stopped in his tracks when he reached a cave.

He never would have thought anything of it, probably the lair of some beast he would rather not trifle with. He would have done just that; turned and left, if it weren’t for the tiny red handprint at the entrance, placed as if someone had used the wall for support as they struggled to get inside.

I'm shuddering, for Vilkas and Ariella! He must find her! Must defeat the wolf!

Farengar regarded Brynjolf and Karliah with incredulity.

“We don’t have time for this,” Karliah said irritably, trying to usher the wizard into the dilapidated keep. “Therion could be anywhere inside!”

“And there could be anything waiting within those walls,” Farengar said, refusing to budge. “I for one, have no desire to disturb whatever, or whomever, can subdue the Dragonborn.”

Karliah started to argue with him when Brynjolf shushed them both, motioning them over. They moved to his side and observed two Thalmor Justicars exiting the main door. The two men dragged a bound, struggling Nord between them who began to cry out, begging for Talos’ intervention.

One of the justicars stopped and backhanded him, yelling, “Nord beast!”

In the blink of an eye a fireball engulfed the mer. Karliah looked up at Farengar in surprise, watching him advance on the other Justicar, the fire burning brightly in his hands reflecting the look of unbridled rage in his eyes. The second justicar drew his sword and began to charge, but grabbed his neck as it sprouted an arrow. Farengar turned as the mer collapsed dead on the ground and found Brynjolf joining him, bow in hand. The two men shared a mutual look, a silent friendship forming between them.

The Thalmor prisoner sobbed gratefully as Karliah freed his hands with a knife.

“Please!” he implored loudly, looking between the three of them, “The others… save the others!”

Karliah nodded, trying to quiet the shouting man without success.

“Well, so much for the subtle-” she stopped, noticing Farengar and Brynjolf had already entered the keep, leaving her behind. With a terse sigh, she followed the two Nords, gracefully drawing a sword in either hand.

An eager figure followed after her, quite literally with bells on.

Inside, the two Nightingales and wizard moved swiftly, disposing of three more justicars guarding a prison cell. Brynjolf flicked his wrist, producing a pick from his sleeve, while pulling a dagger from his bandolier. The prisoners, twelve in total, watched him with bated breath as he picked the lock and swung open the metal door, its hinges letting out a loud groan. He stepped aside, allowing Farengar to sweet inside and begin healing the sick, tortured prisoners.

Though he would have preferred using his much superior proficiency in destruction magic on the rest of the Thalmor in the keep, Farengar could not ignore the helpless Nords looking up at him, and put his limited healing talents to work.

Brynjolf took a moment to locate the keys on a dead justicar and tossed them to Farengar before going on ahead, Karliah as his side, as they continued their search to exterminate the justicars within the keep.

Grabbing the key ring, the wizard tried various keys until he the shackles on the first prisoner opened with a click. The Nord, an old man with gray hair, took the key ring thrust into his hands, and went to work freeing the other prisoners at Farengar’s silent command, allowing the wizard to return his attentions to tending the wounded.

Small beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he toiled, commanding the golden, healing light.

A soft set of footsteps caught his attention. Suspecting it was Karliah he turned, but found a bitter looking blonde woman. He recognized his associate, Delphine, from his past dealings with her regarding the Dragonstone.

“Farengar! Have you seen the Dragonborn?!” she demanded, looking around wildly with her sword in hand.

"No!" he exclaimed, frustrated and annoyed by the question, as he turned his back to her and began healing a sick child.

He heard her leave, but no sooner was she gone, than a small voice spoke directly in his ear.

“Good evening,” said a little girl innocently, though Farengar found her tone off-putting. How had she snuck up beside him? “I’m looking for my friend, Therion. Have you seen him?”
Farengar glared at her with mingled irritation and distrust. “No,” he said, glancing furtively at her as he continued draining his Magicka and letting it replenish. When he glanced back toward the eerie child again, she had vanished. He idly wondered how so many visitors had come to the same location, and decided he was too tired to care and had more important concerns.

Farengar sighed, draining a green stamina potion. He could literally feel his woefully inadequate restoration abilities improving as he repeatedly worked himself to the point of exhaustion.

A clambering of many feet made him turn, ready to launch into a volley of fire spells if they were beset upon by justicar reinforcements. He watched a small unit of Imperial soldiers round the corner, their troubled faces taking in the scene with distress.

Their leader, an important looking Imperial, locked eyes with Farengar. “Have you seen-”

“I DON’T KNOW WHERE THE DRAGONBORN IS!” he roared before the man could finish his sentence.

The soldiers hurried away, eyeing the fallen Thalmor, technically their allies, saying nothing.

Farengar glared after them. His kinsman, tortured and left to die in filthy cells, and all of Skyrim fixated with finding one damn elf. As if it were the only thing in the world that mattered. If one more person asked him that question, by Shor’s bones...

Farengar had just consumed another stamina potion and gone to work healing a small, elderly woman when he heard the least subtle approach of the evening. Heavy footsteps running flat out, punctuated by jingling bells. He looked up at the approaching madman from Dragonsreach, the jester Cicero, with disdain. He was in no mood for more of the man’s insane babbling.

To his surprise, Cicero said not one word. Instead, Farengar found himself yelling protests as the jester grabbed him by the arm and forcefully dragged him from the cell. Cicero silently twisted an arm behind his back, forcing him to move at a run down the hall.

Farengar snarled questions and threats at the man, though he was too exhausted from healing to resist as he was thrust into a surprisingly crowded room. Cicero used Farengar to knock people out of his way, including the two Nightingales, forcing them both to the center of the half circle, where he tossed him unceremoniously to the ground.

A bloody figure with gold skin lay sprawled on the floor. Recognition dawned as Farengar spied three, small, silver rings in one long, elven ear. He stared at the mer, momentarily taken back. The Dragonborn looked like a stranger, his face deathly pale and empty of its familiar mirth. The helpless, pitiful demeanor felt uncomfortably, terribly wrong on the heroic adventurer. For an awful, wretched, moment, Farengar found himself wondering if he would ever hear the bothersome mer’s laughter again as he leaned nonchalantly against his desk, mocking him over some bit of idle nonsense, smiling merrily, aloof in the face of his rancor.

Sitting up, he stretched out his hand and began to pour healing light over the deathly still elf. He drank every Magicka and Stamina potion he had to restore his energies, but Therion did not stir in the least.

The small girl from before appeared by his side, slipping more potions into his hands as he worked. The people surrounding him watched intently, tension in the room mounting.

After what felt like eternity, Farengar saw the mer’s eyes flutter open to resounding cries of relief and excitement amongst the strange gathering.

The leader of the Imperials stepped forward, ordering his unit to collect Therion and quite suddenly, the previous mirth vanished as all hell seemed to break lose.

The various gathered parties argued over who would take the Dragonborn, no one trusting the Imperials, and the Imperials trusting no one else. Therion blinked, his amber eyes taking in the room with growing comprehension. Summoning his strength, Farengar heard him quietly call out, only able to hear his voice because he was beside him.

“Zul, Mey Gut,” the magical words transformed into a voice which seemed to come from every direction. Therion’s voice, saying one word. “SILENCE.”

Everyone fell quiet and watched Therion struggle to lift his hand, slowly motioning Cicero closer.

The jester loyally leapt to the ground upon his hands and knees, lowering his ear to Therion’s lips. He listened intently as the Dragonborn whispered in labored breaths.

Cicero chuckled manically to himself, nodding, “Oh yes, they shall, Listener, they shall,” he said the last two words two octaves lower and so menacingly Farengar felt compelled to thank Talos he was probably not the intended target of whatever was being discussed. Cicero laughed gleefully after another series of whispers. “It’s as though Cicero is the Listener today!” he cackled, dancing from foot to foot as he stood. “General!” he said, looking at the Imperial leader, “A folder for you on the table! Oh yes, a gift! Full of interesting tidbits about nasty Thalmor plots against the Empire! A fun read, full of gritty details,” Cicero said in, what Farengar considered, frightening fascination. He turned to Brynjolf and Karliah, “The two little birdies are coming with me and my sister dear,” he continued, the little girl appearing once again apparently from nowhere, to stand beside Cicero. “So much to do!” Cicero exclaimed happily, clapping his hands.

“What about the Dragonborn?” Delphine demanded, looking disgustedly at the jester. She deplored the Dragonborn’s choice of associates, and found the clown on par with his interest in mixing company with dragons. “Who does he want to go with?” she asked, glaring at General Tullius, who returned her scorn with confused irritation.

Cicero dropped once more to Therion’s side, eagerly listening, chuckling to himself over his wonderful new role, whispering ‘Cicero, the Listener’s Listener!’ playfully to himself. After a few labored breaths, Therion managed one word, before his eyes began to flutter once more and he appeared to fall into an exhausted sleep.

“Wizard!” Cicero repeated loudly for all to hear, relishing his role.
Farengar looked up, finding himself abruptly and unexpectedly, at the center of attention.

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