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ANNOUNCEMENTS: UPDATED 12/16/2017

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Never Our Tenderness (F!/DB Imperial/Ulfric Stormcloak) – 10a/?

[(Anonymous)]

They had taken to calling her the Nightshade Queen.

Not many had seen her face in recent months, and the ones who had, those wandering tradesmen with whom she replenished much needed supplies, likely didn’t even know it.

Rarely seen, but death followed in her wake as sure as the storms came in winter, and dragons fell from the sky like the frosty snows of the mountain blizzard.

It was as if a new rhythm of the passing of hours and days, a rhythm as sure and as consistent as time itself. Dragons rose and so dragons fell, sometimes in close succession but in places that seemed too distant from each other to be easily traversed in the way of man.

So legends spread and grew and swelled in the telling.

She was the manifestation of Skyrim, a shade of the very land itself, rising up to purge this damning pestilence, so some said.

Others said that she had absorbed so many souls she had taken on the form of a dragon herself, and this is why she carefully avoided the company of man or mer.

Some had even heard tell of the rumor stemming from the College of Winterhold that she had found an Elder Scroll, that she had read it without paying the requisite price, but this was met with much scoffing and speculation and was often dismissed as mere blundering attempts by the college to re-gain lost renown.

And those who whispered throughout Skyrim of her unflinching fury and wealth of fearlessness in the face of Alduin might have been surprised to see the Dragonborn in her current moment, her perfectly human face and well-worn, well-dented armor hidden within the billowing folds of a deeply hooded cloak, as she eyed the last steps to Jorrvaskr with no small amount of trepidation.

It had been many months since she had graced this noble hall, and she was not sure of her welcome.

She had her reasons for avoiding her duties here. Shame, at first, for her loss in battle. Then perhaps confusion, regarding how to deal with her status as banished wife to a new High King. And soon enough her hunt for Alduin had allowed ample distraction and outlet for her rage and grief.

And even after she’d learned the awful, agonizing truth that there was not a dragon soul in all of Skyrim that could fill the empty ache of her lonely existence, she kept her distance.

Melancholy is an easy trap for a dovah to fall into.

Paarthurnax had been right to warn her of the dangers of keeping so far away from companionship, but she had lingered at the Throat of the World nonetheless, even after Alduin’s fall, lost in the tongue of the Dov.

The spur that finally set her path away from the mountain had come from unlikely source.

Ulfric Stormcloak.

She had not seen him since their wedding night, and although she attempted to push him from mind and thought, snippets of rumor still reached her. His status as High King, his training of new armies, his strengthening of the holds.

And even without news to remind her of him, he found ways to enter her thoughts, as if he were a part of her, as if absorbed into her being like the dragons she devoured.

Except dragons did not torment her flesh in the dark of night. They did not leave her filled with want and lust and itching such that, after her guilty musings had been pushed down by more carnal concerns, her body clenched and tightened with the quick, sweet release brought about by her own knowing fingers.

She was ashamed, that she yearned so for his touch, that her own body betrayed her. Even now, hidden in plain sight, she felt her cheeks burning at the thought of being claimed by him, pushed to her knees to be mounted and rutted and filled with the warm spurt of his seed and when had her fantasies become so brazen?

Perhaps she was going mad, perhaps she shouldn’t have isolated herself so completely. Perhaps he had been right to send her that message, which had come as no small surprise. She thought of the letter now, stuffed in her traveling bag, with his scrawling, bold script that swept across the page, letters tumbling over their lines, words battling for room and position as if each sought to reach her eye first with no concern for order and precedent.