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

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I love when my characters do that! Though it can be irritating at times. "Come on you guys! The plan was to go that way!" So much for planning...

As soon as I find the chance to write them anon ;)

Vilkas’ hands shook as he read the note for the umpteenth time.

“I came across this in my search for Farkis fanfic but this is fantastic! I read the entire thing in one sitting & want more <3”

How could this be? Who in their right mind would write such things about the Companions? He cursed not having the benefits of lycanthropy for the second time. It had been humiliating to have to ask Aela for help. “It smells like the Harbinger.” The woman had said, with a smug air that a less incensed person would have noticed. Vilkas was too far gone for that. He burst into the woman’s room with a violence that echoed through the living quarters of Jorrvaskr. Dragonborn or no, this demanded an explanation. “Harbinger!” He cried, “Explain yourself!”

The tiny woman had hastily thrown a robe over herself, and was frantically trying to tie it shut when he came to see him. “Explain what?” She huffed.

Vilkas merely thrust the note in her face. “This.” He spat venomously. He watched her take the note and pale as she read the contents.

“Um…” She faltered, “I can explain…!”

“You godsdamned bloody better!”

“If you’d give me a damned moment, I will!” Vilkas was temporarily stunned. The Dragonborn did not often lose her temper. “It was a crazy thing I wrote that some accursed thief must have stolen in Riften. I hadn’t meant for that to be published!”

Vilkas put a hand to his head in frustration. If it was published, it was too late. “Well, mind telling what was in that?” The Dragonborn flushed in response. “I’m going to find out anyway. I’d rather hear it from you, first.”

She took a deep breath and muttered. “It was about you.”

“What?”

“About us, really.”

“There is no ‘us’. You shot me down, remember?”

The Dragonborn sighed. “No, I didn’t. I simply…”

“You simply what?”

“I didn’t know what to say!”

He tried not to yell, he really did. “You didn’t know what to say, so you wrote a fanfic?!” Her only response was to bite her lip. “So what was in it that your adoring fan loved so much?”

Vilkas watched the Dragonborn’s eyes go wide as her faced flushed once again. “Um… Yes, about that…”

“Spit it out, woman!”

“Curse it, Vilkas! It was about what could have happened if I wasn’t a gutless idiot!”

The Nord froze, as his mind started down an uncertain, yet hopeful path, “And what could have happened?”

“This.” She seized him and kissed him furiously.

-------

After some rampant sexing, the two lay breathless and sweaty on the Harbinger’s bed.

“So,” Vilkas’ asked slyly, “Was it better than the book?”

The Dragonborn laughed, “Worthy of a sequel, I should think.”

“Please, love, no more of that!”

“Only if you let me live the life and not fantasize about it.” She smirked.

“You would have me?” Vilkas marveled.

She nodded solemnly. “Now and forever.”

“Well then, we should go to the Temple of Mara and see this done.” He watched as she smiled at him.

A thought occurred to him. “By the way… what in Oblivion did you write about Farkas?”

The Dragonborn paled.

-------

END

tags:
char:F!DB, char:F!PC, char:M!NPC, char:Vilkas, kink:crack/humor, kink:romance, relationship:het

YAY!

Omg! This just keeps getting better! Love the Inception fanfic (a fic, within a fic! DUN DUN DUN)

10 points to house Dragonborn for that comment!

I want him to meet Sam (aka Sanguine) so bad...

Okay, I fully expect this to go unfilled, but I can dare to dream!

Farengar is my favorite character. Grumpy, intellectual, loves to get into verbal battles of wit, but still looks like he could kick someone's ass - an athletic intellectual (om nom nom).

I want to read a fill about being one of the only Nord academic/intellectual/magic users in Skyrim.

There are only two other Nord mages I can think of.
Onmund (student at Winterhold). And our favorite 5,000 year old Dragonborn, Miraak. Or you could count random bandits, too.

I want to read some hot and steamy action between Nord mages. Maybe a power struggle to see who's the most badass? Or a stand-off of who has it harder, growing up in Skyrim? That results in making out?

Any smut/crack/angst welcome!!! Any genders. Prefer fanfic to contain Farengar, but any Nord magic user would be cool.

Kinks: Smart/magic Nords
Squicks: Bathroom stuff

HOLY MISFIRES BATMAN, look at this page o.O

Thanks! I usually end up writing this stuff at unholy hours of the night, so I'm never quite sure if the stories are insane or not till long after I've hit the 'Post' button. I swear it's as bad as drunk-texting, sometimes...

If you want even more meta fanfic, you should check out these gems:

The College of Winterhold Adult Fiction Circle
4580. html? thread=9897700#t9897700

Getting Familiar with the Familiar
4580. html? thread=8628964#t8628964

Born To Lay Dragons
1639. html? thread=1852007#t1852007

Author’s Note

I made a grave mistake! The dragon language is DOVAHZUL, not DOVAHKUL. A minor distinction, but still. I like to be accurate.

Also, I was surprised to discover that fans have actually created a Dovahzul to English dictionary. And it’s in its third edition. Third! Anyway, for those of you interested in using the Dragon language in your own fanfiction, feel free to make use of this fantastic resource. http : // www . thuum . org / assets / Dovahzul%20Print%20Dictionary%203rd%20Edition . pdf

Found at http : // www . thuum . org / viewword . php?word=423

Thank you for all the wonderful reviews! They keep me writing.
Heads up! This chapter is almost entirely smut.

-----------

As Therion stretched his long legs across the bed, he found his toes brushing up against something hot. Calf muscles fully stretched, he paused, sleepily trying to discern what he was touching, and whether it was hot enough to burn.

After prolonged contact he recognized the smooth flesh of someone's foot beneath his own; someone with a core temperature drastically hotter than his own.

Therion absently ran a hand through his short, disheveled hair, drawing it back, before looking around with bright, albeit groggy, amber eyes.

The sight of fair flesh brushed with auburn hair came into view.

Farengar’s bare chest rose and fell, his face peaceful and his eyes closed. The Nord wizard slept without a blanket as usual, having neither the desire or need of one.

Therion smiled, reaching out and tenderly running the back of his gold fingers across the warm, pale flesh of Farengar's arm. He stared at the rounded tips of the wizard’s human ears in amused fascination, trying to memorize every detail of his body.

Out of all their differences, he mused to himself, he was most intrigued by Farengar's high tolerance to cold. Not only did this allot him full ownership of his superbly warm blanket - currently twisted comfortably around his own naked body - but it consequently granted him a wonderful view of the handsome, naked Nord.

His smile widened, considering another advantage.

Farengar awoke to a hand on his crotch and someone kissing his neck. He murmured in approval, adjusting his hips to allow a better angle for the talented fingers.

Therion tightened his grip around the hardening shaft, drawing his hand up, massaging the sensitive skin below Farengar’s tip and sliding a thumb across the already wet tip.

The wizard shuddered as the elf worked him up and down, alternating pressure, massaging, building up a rhythm that left him breathless and made his eyes roll back.

Therion smiled inwardly, watching Farengar's reactions with satisfaction. The sight of his pleasure was erotic, sending a thrill through his body. Therion savored the low moan that erupted from deep within the Nord’s throat.

Farengar, surprised by his own outburst, quickly silenced himself.

Grinning with determination, Therion began to bite and suck at the sensitive flesh of Farengar’s neck, pausing at the base of his throat, he tightened his grip and quickened the pace of his strokes.

Farengar opened his eyes for the first time when Therion stopped abruptly, switching hands. He looked over the handsome elf - naked from the waist up - his blanket only covering him in the barest of senses.

Therion raised his hand to his lips while continuing to work Farengar with his offhand. Then, slowly he slid his tongue across the palm of his hand, giving Farengar a carnal look that made him ache with anticipation.

With a lick of his lips, he returned to using his dominant hand, pumping quicker, with slick motions that sent waves of pleasure through the Nord.

Farengar felt his body moving of its own accord, caught up in the rhythm of the elf's long, golden fingers.
Therion suddenly wrapped a hand behind his neck, trapping his mouth in a kiss. As the Dragonborn forced his lips apart, Farengar responded without thinking, caught up in the moment, he acted instinctively. His higher mind was pleasantly absent for once. Free of thinking, he found himself enjoying the stimulation without question.

Moaning into the mouth against his, he grabbed a handful of Therion’s short, golden hair and luxuriated in the feeling of it, squeezed between his fingers. The elf smelled like leather and musk, with a hint of cologne. He gripped him close, wanting to bury himself in the delicious scent of him.

Therion roughly gripped Farengar’s chin between his index finger and thumb, forcing the wizard’s lips hard against his own with ferocious intensity. The elf’s passionate desire made Farengar’s stomach tighten with need. The elf devoured his lips feverishly, his long-fingered touch nearly wrenching another moan deep from the wizard’s throat, but Farengar managing to just barely stifle it, as some incessant part of his mind surfaced, bemoaning the impropriety of it all. The prideful half of him agreed, while another part of him was tempted to say to hell with all that was proper and dignified.

Therion, meanwhile, forced his tongue across the other man’s lips, moving suggestively of talents not yet explored. The elf’s tongue moved in time with his hand, and he grinned against the wizard’s lips as this time, despite his best efforts, a moan tore helplessly from the wizard’s throat, his internal debate forgotten.

As he grew closer, Therion sped up his movements, tightening his grip, and causing Farengar to grunt and gasp as he abandoned himself to the pleasure of it, rutting against the elf.

Intense release washed over him all at once, the elf’s wonderful touch driving him past the brink.

Farengar blinked, his conscious mind resurfacing as Therion broke away. He was still feeling euphoric but at the same time, slightly embarrassed. Or perhaps worried, was more apt a description. If word got out he’d had a one night stand with the hero of legend, was that potentially how he would be remembered by history? The court wizard of Whiterun, an easy lay for the flirtatious and polyamorous savior of Skyrim. Why had he gone through with it? A moment of weakness, surely. It had been a long time, he told himself peevishly. Additionally, the elf was obviously quite talented - and blatantly proud of the fact, Farengar noted.

Therion’s smug grin caused him to scowl. Infuriatingly, this had its usual effect; causing Therion to smile all the wider.

“You look altogether too pleased with yourself,” Farengar huffed, standing up and gathering his garments from the floor.

“Then we have something in common,” Therion chuckled. He sat up sharply as Farengar approached the door. “Hold on!”

“What? Why?” Farengar asked. Startled, he looked around.

“My ward…” Therion began, but trailed off.

“There is no ward here,” Farengar explained after a brief examination, cinching his robes. “I would have remembered you casting one last night. Your hands were otherwise occupied at the time.”

Therion's merely continued to stare dumbfounded at the floor beneath his door.

“I always cast a ward,” he murmured stubbornly, sounding thoroughly perplexed as he stood up. He took the blanket with him, swaddled up in it against the chill air.

Farengar shrugged and returned to rummaging around in search of the rest of his garments. Bending down, he retrieved his pants from beneath a desk. Placing a hand on the desk to steady himself, he pulled them on. A painting spread out beside his hand caught his eye.

Bright, fiery-red paint covered the canvas. Curious what could be so colorful, he leaned closer for a better look. The art was crude. It took him several moments to realize he was looking at an exotic tree with a trunk made of crystal or diamond, covered in leaves as vibrant as if the branches themselves were on fire.

“I’m afraid I’m not much of an artist,” Therion said, just beside his ear, causing Farengar to jump in surprise. The elf could move as silently as a whisper.

“Evidently," Farengar replied, silently contemplating a way to keep Therion from sneaking up on him. Bells, perhaps. "Although, I find the colors quite striking.”

Therion did up his belt, hiding two daggers in it.

“So do I,” he agreed, Farengar wondering at his fascination for concealed weaponry. “I couldn’t do it justice though.”

Farengar quirked his brow, suddenly interested.

“There’s a real tree? Like this?”

A look over his shoulder revealed Therion smiling in response, but something about it rang false. Farengar could all but feel pain, grinding like a dagger in the other man’s chest. He had little interest, and even less talent, in reading people’s emotions. But with Therion it was intuitive. Almost perplexingly so.

“Molagleyes," Therion said with what Farengar knew was false cheer, the elven syllables beautifully rolling off his tongue. "Or, leyes, for short. They grow in Alinor. Their bark is solid crystal. Their leaves petals - soft, thin, and oddly enchanted. Just as mer hold magic in their bodies, so does our homeland. The plants, the trees, even the rocks and soil.” he trailed off, looking nostalgic. “My home was surrounded by leyes trees. When the sun hits the leaves, they burn with intense light, as if they're on fire. The effect is unparalleled.”

Farengar almost felt empathetically home sick, staring into the painting and imagining the reality.

“Do they shed bark?” Farengar asked, eyes suddenly alight.

Therion laughed.

“Always the alchemist. Yes. And they’re extremely useful in numerous potions. Most of the plants in Alinor are.”

“I should like to see the Summerset Isle,” Farengar mused, already eagerly imagining all new reagents to memorize in happy, academic anticipation. “The alchemy ingredients alone are enticing enough. What sort of libraries and colleges exist there?”

Therion shook his head and reached across him, turning the painting over, as though dismissing the idea. Farengar watched the brilliant red paint disappear, leaving the plain, white canvas in its place and the tiny initials 'T.L.' neatly scrawled in the lower right. Something seemed wrong about the initials. Therion’s surname was Adamonest. They were faded, perhaps the A had lost some of its ink?

“Alinor isn’t the safest place for Nords,” Therion cautioned, his tone suggestion this was an understatement. “Or any race other than Altmer. And even then...”

“You mean the Thalmor?” Farengar asked, disappointment written across his face. Images of crystal bark samples and ancient tomes of magic faded away in his mind’s eye. “Or the war on the horizon?”

Therion shook his head.

“It’s more than that. Alinor is an isolated country - my kin don’t accept foreigners easily. You could be arrested for fabricated crimes. Or attacked out of fear or hatred by the citizens,” Therion said, frowning as his imagination went down darker paths left unsaid. He had seen more than his fair share of Thalmor handiwork in his long life.

Farengar recalled reading some accounts of travelers in the Summerset Isle, clearly oblivious of the protective look on Therion’s face.

Therion privately wondered, as he often did, how Farengar could practically read his mind on some circumstances, but remained clueless to his every sign of outward affection. Pride and self esteem, apparently, did not go hand in hand.

“It can’t be as bad as all that. I’ve heard of some foreigners reaching the ranks of nobility.”

Therion brushed his fingers through his hair, wishing Farengar would let it go.

“There are several foreigners who have established themselves, yes… but with great dint of effort and financial connections. They remain close to the capital city and keep an Altmer nearby at all times, as a guide and body guard.”

Farengar looked him over, considering.

Therion winced.

“Wait… I didn’t mean me,” he replied quickly.

“You would prefer not to mix company with a human, in the Summerset Isle then?”

“No!” Therion snapped, offended.

“Ah, I see. I’m sorry to have presumed you would be interested in traveling together,” Farengar surmised. “Forget I mentioned it.”

“What? Stop jumping to preposterous conclusions,” Therion said with an irritated frown. Wrapping his arms around Farengar, he rested his chin on his shoulder.

“There’s nothing I’d rather do, than take you there. You’d love it. And I miss it more than I can say,” he said, a bit forlornly. “I just don’t think it’s likely.”

Farengar craned his head around to look up at him with determination.

“You are, as you say, nothing if not irreverent. And Nords are not known for giving up,” he said.

Therion smiled a little, feeling more like himself and less melancholy the more he looked into Farengar's resolute stare. Remembering home always made him a little uncertain who he was. There were few reminders, in Skyrim, and he had been away from home a long time.

“Besides,” the wizard added, “I hear the Dragonborn is intent on waging war against the Thalmor. I doubt they’ll be around for much longer.”

This time the elf laughed, pulling him closer for comfort. The closer Farengar was, the more he remembered himself.

“Indeed. I’d hate to have such a ‘handsome elf’ like him for an enemy.”

Farengar scowled, searching for a retort when he heard the familiar feral cry of a dragon erupt. Its scream shook the very walls of the house. From outside cries went up. “Dragon! Dragon!”

“You have to go?” Farengar asked, looking toward the window with anticipation despite his last near fatal encounter with a dragon. Therion seemed nonplussed however, simply content to hold him close, ignoring the ear splitting cries outside from beast and man alike. Presumably from practice.

“No, the guards can handle it,” Therion murmured, resting his face in the crook between his neck and shoulder.

Farengar quirked his head.

“What… really?” he asked in surprise.

Therion remained silent a moment before breaking into heartfelt laughter.

“No,” the Dragonborn replied with a cynical chuckle.

Grudgingly, Therion pulled away, gathering together his weapons and armor.
“DOVAHKIIN!” they heard a deep, booming voice cry overhead. “WE MUST TINVAAK. SPEAK.”

So pleased to see an update to this...well worth the wait. Thanks. :)

There was a three month break there! I'm relieved to hear the wait didn't sour it. Working on the next installment right now. It will probably take awhile, but I am going to finish this, so help me, I'm going to get to the end!

You are a gift, A!Anon. Hit up every filthy pervy bone in my body. Love the forced pleasuring and porny dub-con and size differences are two of my biggest kinks.

Thank you again, I'll be in my bunk.

Summary: Aela enjoys herself in her own room, with a little help from a special toy…

Tags:
Race:Nord
Char:Aela
Kink:Masturbation
Kink:Toys
Kink:Voyeurism
Prompt:Filled

Aela shut the door to her room with a quiet sigh. Everyone was upstairs drinking the evening away, celebrating the new Harbinger. And while Aela liked Vigar, she needed something tonight, something more than mead or war songs. She just hoped he wouldn’t think she was being disrespectful on purpose. Or ask for any kind of explanation for her disappearance.

The Nord beauty locked the door firmly, sitting down on her bed. She unlaced her boots, slipping them off with a heavy clank. Her gauntlets were next, pulled off finger at a time. Aela rubbed her legs and wrists, standing removing the metal leg guards. She placed them down and took off her pauldrons, finally unlacing the leather dress and slipping it over her head. She hooked her fingers into the waistband of her knickers and shimmied them down her legs, kicking everything to one side as she crossed the room to a cupboard.

Opening the doors, she took out a grey bottle and a specially-carved horker tusk. Long ago, when she was a maiden, a friend of hers had gifted her the tusk, whittled lovingly to be shaped like a phallus and enchanted by a mage who had wished to remain anonymous. It would have been expensive to use if she hadn’t been a Companion. There was a slot that fitted a soul gem fragment at the bottom, and a special kind of lubricant. Her friend had provided the first bottle and given Aela the recipe. Usually, she had Arcadia make it. It was a mixture of troll fat, dwarven oil, creep cluster and torchbugs, and while it had sounded disgusting, the end product had been amazing. Said friend had also provided her with different kinds of sensory oils, stimulating heat, cold or shock to make her experiences wonderful.

Aela’s obvious resistance to cold had caused her to switch up part of the recipe, meaning that the liquid was composed of dwarven oil, wisp wrappings, fire salts, ice wraith teeth and an entire bottle of frost weakness potion before the cold had much effect, but once she’d found the correct way around the resistance the effects were mind-blowing. Tonight, she was in a shock mood, and pulled out a large yellow bottle. She poured a little of the lubricant from the grey bottle on her hand, rubbing it over the cock and sliding a few fingers between her legs to lubricate her slit. Her fingers played, her oily thumb rubbing over her clit, as she aroused her own body. It had been so long since she’d had time to do this. With Skjor gone, a man whom she had spent many pleasurable nights with, it hadn’t been the same, and Aela had been so worked up about the Silver Hand that relieving her stress and having a good orgasm or two had completely flown from her mind.

She lay back on the bed, opening the yellow bottle and slowly drizzling some over her body. Putting it back on her dresser, she began to rub it in, caressing her breasts and teasing her nipples. She rubbed her cunt with her hand, including her ass and sinking two fingers inside herself. When she was ready, and the little, pleasurable shocks had set in, she picked up a black soul gem fragment and slotted it inside the toy. It began to buzz immediately, and Aela rubbed it over her clit with a soft moan of pleasure.

She’d missed this. She was so glad she had some time to unwind now. The toy was ridged, and as each bumped passed over her clit she panted in pleasure. She angled the toy against her flaps, and rubbed herself along it, moaning gently. Teasing her entrance, she slid an inch inside her quickly lubricating snatch and drew it out again. She loved that needy sensation. She’d spent hours prolonging an orgasm once. When she’d finally cum it had nearly killed her, it was so strong.

She pressed it back in, this time a little further, and twirled it around, crying out softly. Still twirling it between her fingers, the Nord pulled it out almost to the end, and then pressed it back in. She found herself bucking, and cooed. Withdrawing the tusk, she returned to rubbing it on her clit, pressing it firmly against the nub for a few seconds before she swiped the head over the sensitive spot. Her cunt was clenching a little, and Aela slowly slid the tusk inside, feeling each ridge caress her walls. When it was fully in, she started to slide it back and forth, her left hand playing with her clitoris as the right held the vibrating toy. The base was flared, meaning that it couldn’t go more than six inches within her, and six inches was all Aela needed. She slowly increased the speed of her hand, needy with lust and the pent-up desire for orgasm. Still fucking herself, she grasped another gem fragment and slotted it in. The vibrations increased, and she fell back, moving faster.

Her orgasm was powerful when it came, and she sat up, bracing the toy against the bed and starting to ride it as she climaxed, literally riding out her orgasm. She wasn’t done by a long shot, and pinched her nipples, rubbing her clitoris with her right hand as her powerful legs pumped her up and down the man-made shaft. She started to sweat, bracing one hand against her bed as she rode her favourite toy. The other fisted into her hair, and she pulled the red mass, hard, as she attempted to recreate some of the ways Skjor had taken her. Hair-pulling had always turned her on. That little jolt of pain was enough to heighten her arousal, and sweat began to smear her green warpaint. She fucked harder, the shocks on her tits and cunt sending shivers of delight down her spine. She pinched her nipples, rubbing her sex and digging her nails into her ass. She was a mess of sensation, and the only thing to make this encounter better would be someone pulling her hair, sinking their teeth into her.

Her next orgasm turned her knees to jelly, and she slowed down, eventually stopping and collapsing back on her sheets. She panted helplessly, wiping her sweaty face and watching the sweat trickle over her stomach muscles. She closed her eyes, fanning herself. The toy was still buzzing away inside her, and she let it, adding another fragment and curling her toes as the vibrations shot through her. She pressed it in to the base, and held it there, the flared knob covering her clitoris with the magical sensation. Gods yes, she would just let the pleasure wash over her now. Her fingers fisted into the sheets as she rubbed herself with her thumb, purring in delight. Murmuring in delight, she lay back, touching herself slowly as her next high began to slowly build. Slowly, her noises grew, until she didn’t hear the door open. It was only when a large, warm hand touched her face that Aela’s eyes snapped open.

Vigar was leaning over her.

Vigar smelt good.

Aela pounced.

Almost forgot
char:F!NPC

I'm more and more looking forward to this story, I need to figure out how it will be for Vilkas and if she is really dead ... or if there is atonement!

Audric stood on the edge of the ice floe, the frigid wind whipping his hair and his clothes in all directions, biting at his skin. The sea went on forever, the horizon a faint, gray line in the inconceivable distance. Septimus Signus, as it turned out, was a lunatic, and an unhelpful one, at that. “‘It’s all nearby!’,” Audric mimicked to himself. “The old fool's probably sent me on a wild goose chase.” Digging through his pocket, he produced the strange, brassy cube; he was tempted to chuck the damned thing into the ocean. But better to have and not need, than to need and not have.

He trekked across the ocean, terrified with every crack of expanding ice, with every strong gust of wind. He hated open water, and now that his curiosity had been sated, it was increasingly difficult to ignore the chilly depths below. He hopped along the icecaps, a lonely figure in the vast, monotonous emptiness.

Back in town, the weather was milder; there was hardly a breeze, only the gentle fall of snow, quiet and insular. He left a farewell for Enthir at the inn, and took a hot meal before hitting the road. Winter persisted during his journey through the mountains: Septimus had sent him looking for Alftand, a Dwemeri ruin, geographically not so far from Winterhold. But, trying to drive a horse through snow that deep, and dealing with all manner of wildlife along the unpaved, winding paths...it wasn’t worth it. So Audric had resolved to travel around, and to take a mountain pass on the other end of the gorge.

It took him hours, but at last, he reached a fork in the road. From the top of the hill, Windhelm was visible, even through the frosty dusk. Smoke rose up in columns from the city, and the foggy glow of civilization tempted him. But then, it was out of the way.

It was soon dark, and Audric took his rest at the Nightgate Inn. He slept fitfully, dreaming of big hands and a warm bed.

The following morning was the coldest of the year thus far, and Audric couldn’t even bring himself to bathe, for the cold asked too much of him. He wrapped himself in his clothes and his armor, and an elegant black fur he’d liberated from a wardrobe. Even so, the icy sting of winter seeped in.

The sun rose just as he crested the pass. An old, decrepit shrine lay broken in the middle of it, and a few weapons were strewn about, but there was no sign of life. The tundra before him lay barren, and that was the way he liked it. Eventually though, the chipped, tin tops of towers rose from the white hills, the sunrise flashing gold and fiery on the cracked, alabaster stone. He tied the horse in a shed, and stooped to investigate the wreckage; there were corpses strewn about, and Audric kept his his guard up.

There were journals, but none of them helpful; all research, all notation. He flipped through page after page, looted pocket after pocket, and when he found a pittance of coins, he left one a piece to the dead, holding onto the rest.

Following the rickety plank bridges down, he delved deeper into the ruins until he found an entrance. Blood splattered the glacial walls, but he tried not to panic, unsheathing a dagger. The thrum of motors and pistons, the hiss of steam as it slithered out from between coils put his hair on end. He disliked Dwemeri ruins, and if what he knew from his history books was true, he disliked the long-since disappeared Dwemer, as well. Cruel, unrelenting creatures, he thought them, made savage by their implacable pursuit of knowledge.

The automatons were not much of a challenge, but they were terrifying to him in their mystery. He did not understand how they worked, how steam could bring cold metal to life. He picked them for loot, and for curiosity, but he made more gold than he did progress. The catacombs were dim and dank, made humid from the steam, water drip-dropping from the ceilings and pipes. The sounds of metalwork overtook his footsteps, and Audric worried he wouldn’t hear an approaching threat.

Deeper and deeper he delved, where the warmth and moisture was suffocating, and soon, a familiar, foul stench permeated the air. He lifted his cowl over his mouth and nose, and sheathed the dagger; if there would be Falmer ahead, he’d rather go unnoticed. The sound of them was wretched: flat footsteps – the sound of bare skin against stone; their ragged gasps for breath, as if they were drowning in the dark corners of the world. Audric resolved to wash his boots when this was all over.

One of the reasons he so despised these ruins was that he always lost time down there; without the sun and without any measure of passing time besides his own discombobulated hunger and drowsiness, he had no way of knowing when an hour had passed, or several, or an entire day. It was disorienting and it put him on edge. But with patience and stealth, even the ruins of Alftand gave way. An immense stone tower rose above a crumbling staircase, overlooking a quiet, decaying alcove. A handful of Falmer patrolled the ground, but in their beastly stupor, they tread the same paths over and over and over again. Picking his way along a wall, Audric avoided the lookouts. Prideful at his skill, he took a congratulatory moment in the alcove to sneer down at the creatures below him...but the screech of rusted metal awakening spurred him back into motion. A Centurion removed itself from its decorative arches, and began searching for the source of the disturbance, but Audric, heart in his throat, kept to the shadows. Back against the wall, he almost tripped over himself to find shelter.

Another chamber was carved into the stone, and in it were two people. Audric remained unseen and watched, still keeping an ear on the clanking atrocity just outside. The two – an Imperial and a Redguard – were arguing, something about glory and abandonment, and Blackreach. Audric had waited long enough, though, and was getting increasingly worried about the Centurion, so he sprang for the lift behind the arguing couple. They tried to catch him mid-flight, surprised by the small, uninvited Breton.

“I’m very sorry!” he hollered before Shouting them off, knocking them back into the stone. And just as he yanked the lever on the lift, the Centurion came back into view. “I’m so, so sorry,” he said again, a solemn murmur.

But the lift took him up, not down, and he found himself above ground, outside an empty camp. The sun was midway through the sky, and as he realized how much time had gone by, exhaustion overtook him, and he crawled under some furs in a weatherworn tent, and curled into sleep.

* * *

When he woke, he could not guess the time, for it was dark, and the sky was obscured by clouds. With no way of telling where he was, he was resigned to getting back into the lift, and
dealing with whatever waited for him at the bottom. He rummaged through the abandoned packs and found some bread. His stomach growled angrily but he ignored it to the best of his abilities.

The descent down felt quicker than when he’d come up.

The chamber was devoid of life, now. The body of the Imperial lay strewn, broken and bloody on the floor; the Redguard woman was nowhere to be seen, and Audric hoped she had escaped. Beyond, he could still hear the heavy footsteps of the enormous automaton, but only occasionally. Slumping against the wall, he gazed around, tired and frustrated. There was no other lift, and this one only went up.

There was, though, something glimmering in the dark that caught his attention: at the center of the room, nestled into the stone, there was a decidedly sphere-shaped hollow. Moving through the dark, careful as could be, Audric approached, drawing the tuning sphere from a pocket. The small thing fit like a key inside of a lock, and quite suddenly, the floor gave way to a spiraling set of stairs, and Audric descended.

Eventually, he came to Blackreach, and it was beautiful, and foreboding. A great, cavernous country unto itself, immeasurable by the naked eye, its unending darkness seemed to swallow him whole. Never in his life had he felt so small as while crawling tentatively along the roads of the broken Dwemeri city. He wondered at the luminous flora, the phosphorescent pools, the towering mounds of shimmering rock. He could spend a lifetime down here, he thought, dipping his bare feet into the water. It was warm, and left his skin feeling soft and clean. He collected a few vials and moved on. He did not know how many hours he spent in the yawning depths of Blackreach, but eventually, hunger and exhaustion forced his attention back to the task at hand. He fumbled his way to the Tower of Mzark, but determined that he would have to return one day and see more of what was hidden so closely in the earth.

At the top of the tower, Audric found himself in a sepulchral chamber: it was humid and refuse littered the place: books in various states of ruin, gears and levers, bits and pieces of machinery long since defeated. Audric plundered a rucksack nearby and found a journal that, in coarse terms, described the plight of a man who had come before him.

Finding the Oculory, Audric stared in awe at the complexity of lenses and arms above. He wandered up and found the table that operated the machine, just as Septimus had described to him. He pressed and prodded at the mechanism, but nothing happened until he fixed the lexicon into its receptacle. Then, the thing came to life, pulsating with a soft glow. Audric fussed and fidgeted with it for a while until he worked out a pattern to it: to the left, twice, then to the left again, once, and so on… Patiently, he played with the lenses for some time, arranging them until he finally coaxed the machine into submission.

Encased in crystal trapping, the Elder Scroll was his.

His heart thudded hard in his chest and his veins filled with adrenaline; he was almost dizzy with the unexpected thrill of beholding it. He wasn’t sure what had come over him: up to this point, it had been just another artifact, another cobble in the road he was forging. But the nearer he came to it, the more frenzied he felt.

Picking it up, he turned it over. It was light, and the parchment felt almost soft, like tenuous leather – not quite there. He didn’t dare open it, not after what Urag had said about it. Instead, he tucked it into a hide tube, and hid it in his bag. The humor of toting an Elder Scroll amongst his regular belongings did not escape him, and he chuckled to himself on his way out to the lift.

He’d almost gone alone, but now that he was lying on his back in the snow, bleeding out from his arm, he was very glad he hadn’t. He could hear Enthir’s voice, though the words didn’t make sense for him. All the same, it was a comfort to have the sound of a friend, especially while that same friend mended him up. Healing magic was always nasty: the process of bone and sinew regrowing was never as painless as people often imagined.

As Audric fell back into consciousness, he heard Alduin’s distant roar.

“Come on,” Enthir linked his arm with Audric’s uninjured one and pulled him into a sitting position. “Come on, you’re alright.”

“Like hell,” Audric rasped. He could still smell smoke and his eyes watered, the condensation freezing on his lashes. He felt Enthir’s grip on him tighten and winced; then, he felt the sweep of dragon wings, and the shudder of stone.

“By the Eight,” Enthir murmured.

“You truly have the voice of a Dovah.” Paarthurnax crowed proudly. “Alduin’s allies will think twice after this victory.”

Choking on the cold, Audric snarled. “It wasn’t much of a victory, since he, you know, escaped.” He glared, but his bitterness was wasted on the endless patience of the ancient dragon. “I need to know where he went!”

Calmly, Paarthurnax nodded, considering. “One of his allies could tell us. Motmahus...it won’t be easy to convince one of them to betray him…” The three of them held still in the frigid evening, puzzling over what to do. “Perhaps the Hofkahsejun,” Paarthurnax suggested.

“The what now?” Audric asked impudently.

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