Meme Announcements!

[skyrimkinkmeme]

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

Comments

Fire and Potions - 1/?

[(Anonymous)]

Happy EXTREMELY belated birthday! Maybe we can call it an early Christmas present? Happy summer solstice?
PAIRING: M!DBAltmer/Farengar Secret-Fire
KINKS: Slash, light bondage, gagging
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Therion breathed slowly, calming himself. His hands trembled with excitement as he turned the page of his book, eagerly devouring the words. Without looking up, he took a sip of mead from his flagon. He savored the sweet nectar as it warmed his body, and let the carbonation tingle delightfully on his tongue. A wistful sigh escaped his lips as he began to feel deeply relaxed.

The door to the keep slammed shut with such force that Therion could feel his chair vibrate. Startled, his feet slipped from the table, causing the contents of his flagon to slosh. He deftly avoided spilling his drink upon his book, covering the cup with his hand. A soft growl escaped his lips as the irksome sound of angry footfalls made his slender ears twitch.

Farengar Secret-Fire stormed into his laboratory, throwing his staff against the wall where it usually rested.

Therion raised a slender eyebrow, curious what could have put the human mage in such a furor.

Farengar snapped his gaze onto the Dragonborn, noticing him for the first time.

“Get out,” he barked, ripping the book from Therion’s hands and tossing it away before turning to his alchemy station where he began to loudly grinding an ingredient with his mortar and pestle.

Therion watched him in a daze. As the shock wore off, however, his blood began to boil. Moving with practiced silence and grace, he stood beside the wizard, hand resting on the black handle of his Akaviri Dai-Katana.

“You’re ruining that nirn root,” Therion said quietly, causing the wizard to jump as he became aware of his presence.

“What? I’m not even… Ah,” he stopped, realizing he was grinding the ingredient he meant to dilute, and placed it on the alembic to boil.

Therion smirked, eliciting an indignant look from the wizard.

“You have a rudimentary grasp of the alchemical art. Are you expecting praise for your ‘help’?” Farengar asked, taking a step away from Therion as he continued his work. “I’ve better things to do than inflating your already oversized ego.”

Therion laughed.

“My oversized ego?” he replied incredulously.

“Are you deaf or simple? I told you to get out. Where did I put those...” he trailed off, turning to search through the contents of his desk.

“Your grand entrance nearly left me deaf,” Therion said, massaging his ear. “What happened, Farengar? You’re more ‘pleasant’ than usual tonight, even for you.”

Farengar slammed his desk drawer shut, empty handed.

“The concern of the great and mighty Dragonborn,” he said with unpleasant sarcasm, “Am I supposed to be flattered?”

Therion snatched the book he had been reading from the table.

“I’ll find somewhere else to read in peace,” he said irritably, tucking the book away.

Farengar waved his hand at the door, waiting for Therion to leave.

The Dragonborn turned to go, and Farengar heaved a sigh of relief behind him. His body tensed as the mer whirled around on him.

“Oh, and approach me in such a manner again...” Therion said, bearing down on the grumpy court wizard, causing him to retreat several steps, “and I may not be so patient next time.”

That he killed more than just dragons for a living was not common knowledge. Therion Adamonest, the leader of the Dark Brotherhood, had a most disconcerting air around him when provoked. He was quick to smile, but just as likely, and as quick, with his blade.

The mage seemed duly frightened as he noticed him shiver.

Farengar looked for escape from his trapped position between the crux of his desk and the armored mer. The Nord’s breathing quickened and Therion remained to ensure the mage was sufficiently intimidated.

“By the Nine, why won’t you leave already?!” Farengar cursed, looking skyward as he found himself unable to escape.

Therion paused. This was not the way a frightened man acted. He made a quick perusal of all the ingredients sitting on his alchemy stand.

Re: Fire and Potions - 2/?

[(Anonymous)]

“Ah,” Therion said in a low chuckle. “Who was it?”

“What fool nonsense are you on about?” Farengar asked, tightly folding his arms.

“Who gave you the love potion? My coin would be on Arcadia, of course,” he said with a wolfish grin. “Short on wisp wrappings, are you? I could try to buy some from Arcadia’s Cauldron, but she might be conveniently out of stock, I suspect.”

Farengar shivered again and looked away as he forced his arms to remain at his sides.

Therion burst into laughter.

“Get out,” Farengar ordered, head held high, glaring defiantly at him from the shadows of his blue cowl.

“Why not call a guard, court wizard?” Therion chuckled. “If you think you can restrain yourself around Whiterun’s finest. As you can barely keep your hands off of me.”

Farengar finally pushed the Dragonborn away, who gracefully stepped away laughing as he did so.

“Is my torment so amusing to you?” Farengar asked, gasping for breath as he spoke. Therion’s smile widened. If he was out of breath, then he was not holding up as well as he pretended to be.

“In a word, yes,” Therion replied. “The most antisocial, introverted man I’ve ever met, driven to find affection mentally, not to mention physically? It’s a delicious sort of irony. Ever been under the effect of a love potion before, master wizard? I suppose not - it doesn’t sound like your field of alchemy.”

“I prefer more academic research - so no, I never tried one for recreation. But I do know how to craft a cure,” Farengar said indignantly.

“Which is very astute of you, except,” Therion snickered, “You may have noticed that certain, ah, desires are becoming more and more distracting? Your mind is going to give way very soon, and you won’t have a say in anything you do afterwards.”

Farengar gave him an unsettled look.

Therion held up his hands. “I’m a perfect gentleman. I wouldn’t dream of taking advantage. I don’t need potions to bed someone.”

The wizard relaxed a little.

“However,” Therion added, “If you don’t take an antidote soon, you might, ah, not give any choice in the matter.”

Farengar stiffened, looking more wary than ever.

“Oh, don’t look so anxious. Even if you lived a hundred years, you couldn’t overwhelm me - the maids of Dragonsreach or the guards, however… oh dear, who would win, if you ran into Irileth, I wonder?”

“I’m going to kill Arcadia,” Farengar growled. “I never knew she was capable of such a tasteless humor!”

“Humor?” Therion echoed. “You think she gave you a love potion to laugh at your expense?”

“Why else?” Farengar snarled, searching through his potions for a cure.

“For someone so smart, you’re remarkably dense,” Therion remarked. Who would have thought such an arrogant man would be so humble about his appeal.

“I suppose you believe that Arcadia possesses some inexplicable interest in my mind or body?” he said dismissively.

“Or your heart, more precisely,” Therion said, leaning back against his desk while the wizard continued rummaging for alchemy supplies. “Though you make it sound as if the notion is preposterous.”

“Precisely so,” Farengar said, returning to his alembic.

Therion caught his arm and whirled him around, holding him a breadth away.

Re: Fire and Potions - 3/?

[(Anonymous)]

“What are you doing?!” Farengar demanded, his sea green eyes searching Therion’s face.

“Looking at you,” Therion said simply, using his free hand to tilt the wizard’s face from side to side.

Farengar struggled against the mer’s grip, but his arms were like iron, and he could not drop the potion in his right hand. He glared daggers at Therion, trying to ignore the sensations the mer stirred in him. Locking his gaze on the other man’s amber eyes, he tried to ignore the handsome features of the mer’s high cheek bones, gold lips, and intelligent eyes, searching his own for something unknown to him. Even his hair seemed absurdly handsome, framing his face with elegant, dark, golden curls. As he struggled against the Dragonborn, he wondered, despite himself, what those lips felt like. Therion moved closer, as if he might kiss him at any moment. Farengar’s heart raced in his chest, but he kept his face a mask of irritation and distaste, hoping the Dragonborn could not feel its beats.

“As I thought,” Therion said, his warm breath making Farengar’s head spin.

“What?” Farengar demanded, wishing Therion would either let go or pull him closer and take him. Truly, he could not tell which he wanted, as his head spun.

Therion leaned close, whispering seductively in the wizard’s ear. “You’re actually quite handsome, Farengar.”

The wizard could not help shuddering at the softly spoken words. “You bastard,” he replied. “Did you not just claim you would not try to take advantage of my situation? And now you’re trying to entice me? Why do you mock me?!”

Therion flashed one of his usual grins.

“I said I wouldn’t take advantage of you, I never said I wouldn’t tease you,” the Dragonborn replied, admiring the wizard’s face in his grip. “Though I was quite serious when I called you handsome. Curious, why you refuse to believe me. How might I convince you of the truth, I wonder?” he asked with a dark grin, pulling Farengar’s chin closer.

The wizard’s breath caught in his throat as the mer moved to kiss him. Therion paused, his slender ears perking up, causing the three, tiny, silver rings in his ear to bounce.

“Damn,” Therion whispered. “I may kill that woman myself.”

He released Farengar’s face and ushered him into his bed chamber as the door to Dragonsreach opened.

Farengar gave him a questioning look.

“A woman approaches. I imagine it’s Arcadia. Perhaps with a silly story that this is all some misunderstanding? While she subtly twirls her hair and smiles at you? No matter. She’ll not get what she wants,” Therion said, closing the door.

“Stay away from me,” Farengar said suddenly, moving away, as a demanding warmth racked his body. “I fear I may not be wholly capable of constraining myself much longer.”

“Here,” Therion said, pointing to the chair at the wizard’s desk. “Sit.”

Farengar sat and watched as the Dragonborn opened his pack, removing a length of rope.

“What are you intending on doing?” Farengar asked with distrust.

“I should think that much was obvious. Or would you rather take your chances, with your body overriding your sensibilities? I could let Arcadia in and-”

“Very well,” Farengar said with an exasperated sigh, putting his hands behind the chair. “Place my palms together or I’ll burn my way through the ropes.”

Therion tied the mage’s hands and then encircled his chest.

“You seem suspiciously familiar with how to secure someone in such a manner,” Farengar said, trying to sound indifferent.

“I have a fascinating night job, when I’m not playing hero,” Therion said with a smirk. “It wouldn’t fit well in the Dragonborn ballads, however, so please don’t inquire further.”

“Farengar?”

They both looked toward the door, hearing Arcadia calling.

“I’ll deal with her,” Therion whispered.

The wizard nodded.

“Before I go… sorry for this,” Therion said softly.

“Sorry for wh-” Farengar began, but was interrupted by a cloth being forced in his mouth. He yelled something incomprehensible as Therion gagged him.

“I’ve had this delightful potion once myself,” Therion said, his eyes dark and angry at the recalled memory, “And very soon you’ll be shouting as the effects grow worse. Best to avoid anyone else finding you like this, no?”

Re: Fire and Potions - 4/?

[(Anonymous)]

Farengar glared at the mer, breathing heavily through his nose.

“You’re welcome,” Therion said with a wink, heading out the door.

“Oh, Dragonborn,” Arcadia said in surprise, looking up from Farengar’s alchemy station. “What are you doing here?”

“Robbing the good wizard,” Therion replied with a smile.

“You’re what?” Arcadia asked, looking alarmed.

“Only joking,” Therion said, leaning casually against the alchemy station beside her. “What are you doing here?”

“Ah, I was just looking for Farengar…” she said, glancing at the door to his bed chamber.

“Oh, what business do you have with him?” Therion asked, leaning a little closer, causing Arcadia to flush. “Are the two of you… involved?” he asked, with a touch of disappointment in his voice.

“D-Dragonborn,” Arcadia stammered, looking up at the tall mer. “Um, no, not really. I was, ah, just dropping by to see if he might like an alchemy ingredient I acquired, you see.”

“Oh, really?” Therion said happily. “May I see? I dabble in alchemy a bit.”

“Uh, sure, I suppose,” she said uncertainly, things clearly not going as she had expected. Reaching into her bag she retrieved a shimmering set of wisp wrappings that floated ethereally in her hand.

“They’re quite lovely,” Therion said, placing his hand on hers as he took them.

Arcadia blushed and swallowed, letting him examine the ingredient. “I’m glad you like them.”

Therion quickly placed them in his pocket. “I’ll make sure Farengar gets them, I’m sure he’ll be very grateful for your visit when he gets back.”

“Gets back?” she asked, looking at his pocket, about to demand the ingredient back.

“From the Temple of Kynareth. He seemed quite keen on seeing Danica,” Therion said.

“Danica?” Arcadia repeated. “Not the priestess?!”

“Yes. Perhaps he’s feeling ill?” Therion said.

“Sorry, I have to go!” Arcadia said, looking pale and dashing from the room.

Therion took the wisp wrappings from his pocket and turned to Farengar’s alchemy station. “Dabble” had been putting it mildly about his alchemy skills.

As he put together the antidote, he recalled the last time he had tasted it and sighed to himself. People who used potions and devious means to attain another’s heart or body riled him. He ignored the sick dread that filled him, knowing what the last stage would be like for Farengar. “I still might kill that woman,” he murmured to himself as he worked. “Though that would be poor manners. I wouldn't want to rob Farengar of a little vengeance of his own.”

With the potion complete, he returned to Farengar’s chamber where the wizard struggled futilely to free himself, a small trail of black smoke coming from his palms. Therion shut the door behind him and removed the wizard’s gag.

“UNTIE ME!” he bellowed, before Therion quickly muffled him, placing his hand over the wizard’s mouth.

Re: Fire and Potions - 5/?

[(Anonymous)]

“Ah yes, this lovely stage of the potion,” Therion said, glad he had tied the mage to the chair when he had the chance. “Farengar,” he whispered into the wizard’s ear as he struggled and grunted. “If you shout again, I will gag you and leave you locked in this room. Do you understand?”

The wizard stopped.

“Good,” Therion said, removing his hand. “Now, you must be thirsty. I’ve brought you a flagon of my best mead. Here.”

Farengar moved his face to the side, stubbornly refusing the cup.

“Too good for elven mead?” Therion asked, taking a sip of the cup.

“I don’t want what’s in that cup,” Farengar growled. “Untie me.”

Therion suspected he might refuse the antidote at this stage. He had done the same. It was a vain hope he would fall for such an obvious ploy.

Well, on to plan B, he thought.

“I know what you want,” he said seductively, moving to lean casually against the desk in front of the wizard. “And I have no reservations about giving you what we both desire,” he said, allowing the lust to shine in his amber eyes.

“Then untie me!” Farengar demanded looking pained and half mad with desire.

“We both know I can’t do that,” Therion said, slowly undoing the buckles of his black Nightingale armor, under Farengar’s intense gaze. “But, if you do as I say, I can make it worth your while.” Moving his hands slowly and deliberately, he tossed aside his chest piece and began undoing the buttons of his white shirt, gradually exposing the gold skin of bare chest.

Farengar looked torn.

Therion bolted forward suddenly, grabbing his face as he had before.

“Drink the potion,” he told the wizard, “And I’ll finish what I started, before we were interrupted.”

Farengar’s eyes looked lost and wild, but stubborn as ever. “No,” he said through clenched teeth, though he sounded divided.

“Gods, but you are stubborn! Even I wasn’t this bad!” Therion said, kicking the desk in frustration, he uttered a curse in the Ayleid tongue of his ancestors. “Why can’t you be cooperative just once?”

“Because you’ll leave the moment I've consumed that damned concoction!” Farengar shouted, struggling against his bonds.

“That’s what this is about!” Therion said, clapping his hands. “May I live to see a thousand, I won’t understand how you can be so arrogant yet completely insecure! You’re handsome, the most intelligent and inquisitive human I’ve ever known, and although you’re a complete bastard half the time, I would eagerly drag you into my bed and pleasure you until you forgot your own name!”

Farengar looked up at him in surprise.

Therion placed his hands on the wizard's head and lowered his cowl, looking at him without the ever present secretive shadows shrouding his face.

“Farengar, you’re going to drink this potion. And I will still be here after. But make no mistake, you are drinking this potion,” Therion said, staring intently at him.

Farengar locked his jaw, glaring back at Therion with dogged determination.

In a flash, Therion took a swig from his flagon and grabbed the mage by the back of head. Tilting him back, he pressed his lips against Farengar’s and opened the wizard’s mouth with his tongue.

Farengar moaned and opened his mouth, unable to resist. Therion kissed him deeply, the honeyed potion passing the wizard’s lips at his encouragement.

“Swallow it,” Therion told him, “And I’ll do it again.”

Re: Fire and Potions - 6/?

[(Anonymous)]

Heat flowed through Farengar’s body and he swallowed the brew, and stared longingly at Therion’s exposed golden flesh.

Therion drank from the flagon again and once more trapped the wizard’s lips with his. This time he released Farengar’s brown hair and gently ran his hand along the wizard’s cheek and neck, eliciting a low moan from the Nord.

Farengar swallowed the potion.

“Mmm, so you can do as your told then?” Therion said with a mischievous chuckle.

He took a third swig of the flagon, and eagerly tasted the wizard, holding either side of his face as the wizard eagerly returned his fire, matching the deft and skillful movements of his tongue. The Dragonborn felt his head spin as he reluctantly pulled away to give him the last dose.

“Wait,” Farengar begged, looking away, his breathing ragged. “Please, just untie me. You want me as much as I do you. Please…” he whispered desperately at the Dragonborn in the small, dark, bed chamber. When he looked back at Therion, his eyes were filled with longing and heartache. “I would know your love. Or I’d prefer to know nothing at all.”

His voice pained Therion, as he had known it would. The enchantment drove him to speak as though he might never again feel such love again in his life. Therion lifted the cup to his lips to take the final sip, but stopped as Farengar looked at him fiercely, and said, "Don't."

“I don’t want the last of that potion,” Farengar said, the raw misery in his voice unexpectedly cutting deep into Therion. "My heart can take no more of this torment."

And now I’m certain, I will kill that woman myself, Therion thought silently, watching the wizard suffer. What to do… the wizard might spit the potion out if he forced it, and then the effect would be weakened or undone, depending on the strength of the spell infecting him, which seemed unduly strong. Therion lowered his head and sighed, tapping the cup in thought. What to do, what to do...

“Farengar,” he asked. “Do you trust my honor?”

“In what way?” the mage asked still sounding wretchedly forlorn.

“If I make a vow, I am an honorable man who will uphold my oath, am I not?” Therion asked, looking at him in earnest.

“What sort of vow?” Farengar asked.

“I’ll untie you and make passionate love to you, if you drink the last of this potion first,” Therion said, toying with the belt of his black Nightingale armor.

Farengar fought with the idea. “If I recover my senses, I might not feel as I do now. I want you now. Please…”

“Those are my terms,” Therion said with finality, moving his hands away from his belt.

“I suppose the residual influence would be in effect for at least an hour, “Farengar said, considering. “If you promise to uphold your end of the bargain immediately, on your honor, then yes,” he agreed, his breath quickening.

“Very well, on my honor,” Therion said. Taking the last of the potion, he pulled a dagger from his boot and placed it at Farengar’s ropes. Gently, he gave Farengar the last of the potion, letting the kiss linger long after the wizard swallowed the last of it.

When at last he broke away he gave the wizard a small, sad smile, as he removed his knife and sheathed it. “I’m sorry, Farengar.”

The devastation and pain in the wizard’s eyes hurt like a dagger in his chest.

“You swore on your honor!” he shouted.

“Yes. Fortunately, you don’t know me very well. Or you'd know I have none,” Therion replied with a cheerless smile, quickly gagging the man as he began to yell.

Therion laid in Farengar’s bed, his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. The wizard remained still, his head bowed, all of the fight having gone out of him, his heart broken. Therion wondered if he had ever felt so damned wretched, in all his hundred thirty-four years, as he did at that moment.

Therion rubbed his fingers together, fire sparking and coming to life in his hand. With a look around the room, he flicked his hand, and a tiny ball of flame spun and split off in five directions, lighting all of the candles in the room. Farengar watched with a flicker of interest before once again looking away in silence.

Re: Fire and Potions - 7/?

[(Anonymous)]

“I learned it on the Summerset Isle,” Therion said, speaking toward the unresponsive figure. “I was barely thirty back then. I used to sit in my room, bored to tears. So I made a game of seeing how many I could successfully light. My parents became legitimately concerned about the number of candles I kept in my room. And the singe marks on my walls and blankets.”

Farengar remained still.

“My record, if you’re curious, is twenty-six,” Therion said, a little pride in his voice.

Farengar made no response, but Therion felt the mood lighten ever so slightly, even if it was just on his end.

“The heartbreak…” he said slowly, hesitant to revisit the past. “It hurts like hell. My friends had to drag me out of town and tie me to a tree. I even broke Talamagne’s arm, poor bastard. I'd have beaten all five of them to a pulp if it hadn't been for Aran knocking me senseless. A blessing he didn't leave me simple too, I still see stars just remembering him cracking my head against Auriel’s statue," he said, rubbing the back of his head nostalgically. "After they forced me to take the antidote, my heart ached so awfully within my chest, I wished I could die. But after an hour, the love, heartbreak, desire…” he waved his hand absently, “All gone. Just temporary illusions, created by someone who wants to force you to feel as they do. So they can rob you of your senses... and take what they want of you.”


Farengar looked toward Therion as the mer fell into an uncharacteristic silence.
He watched in fascination as Therion began to absently weave an elegant pattern of fire in the space above him, staring at the ceiling as he did so.


“Love doesn’t take what it wants,” he said solemnly, looping a trail of fire into his intricate design without looking. The glowing artwork bathed the room in warm, red light. Farengar watched the design grow, until Therion sighed and extinguished it with a gesture, as if waving away the past as well.

Reaching behind his back, he removed the book there.

“Have you ever read A Dance in Fire?” Therion asked, his usual playfully aloof demeanor returning, as he cracked open the worn book. “I’m going to assume you have, and read it to you anyway. Hopefully it will make the time pass quicker,” he said, clearing his throat, “The scene: The Imperial City, Cyrodil. The date: seven Frost Fall, third era, three hundred ninety-seven. It seemed as if the palace had always housed the Atrius Building Commission, the company of clerks and estate agents who authored and notarized nearly every construction of any note in the Empire…”

Therion read on, bringing different voices to each character and giving them individual personalities, while settling into the role of narrator and pouring his deep, resonating voice into each line.

When he closed the book, he was certain at least two hours had passed. He cleared his throat, feeling a bit hoarse. The wizard would be completely cured, and that was worth the extra wait. Pouring two glasses of water, he removed the gag from Farengar’s mouth and sliced his ropes apart.

The first thing Farengar did was to pull up the cowl of his robe, shrouding his face once more.

Re: Fire and Potions - 8/?

[(Anonymous)]

“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.

Re: Fire and Potions - 9/?

[(Anonymous)]

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.

Re: Fire and Potions - 10/?

[(Anonymous)]

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?”

Re: Fire and Potions - 11/?

[(Anonymous)]

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.



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

Re: Fire and Potions - 12/?

[(Anonymous)]

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.

Re: Fire and Potions - 13/?

[(Anonymous)]

“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.

Re: Fire and Potions - 14/?

[(Anonymous)]

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.

Re: Fire and Potions - 15/?

[(Anonymous)]

“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.”

Re: Fire and Potions - 16/?

[(Anonymous)]

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.

Re: Fire and Potions - 16/?

[(Anonymous)]

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.

Re: Fire and Potions - 18/?

[(Anonymous)]

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.

Re: Fire and Potions - 19/?

[(Anonymous)]

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.

Re: Fire and Potions - 20/?

[(Anonymous)]

Therion let out a half conscious groan in protest, as he was lifted onto a horse behind Farengar. The wizard stiffened as Brynjolf rested the Dragonborn against his back and went about tying him in place, so as to secure him against falling from the saddle. As the Nightingale tightly cinched the mer’s torso, Farengar heard him utter a low, cry of pain, conjuring to mind his recently healed broken ribs. With only the barest trace of sarcasm, Therion muttered, “Kill me,” into the wizard’s shoulder.

“Though it would make my ride considerably more enjoyable,” Farengar said, craning his head over his shoulder to observe the mer slumped against him, “I suspect your entourage would have some rather strong words with me.”

Therion said nothing back.

Already asleep again, Farengar thought, looking at his closed eyes and even breaths falling against his blue robes.

The wizard shifted uncomfortably under the watchful gaze of what seemed like an absurd amount of people. The 8,000 septims worth of jewels had not been worth so much hassle, that much was certain. However, freeing the Thalmor captives from the keep, and ridding Skyrim of a den of justicars, had made the trip more than worthwhile.

General Tullius rode up beside him on a powerful looking war horse, his unit of soldiers awaiting him by the road, each on their own mounts. The General was a regal looking figure with an air of authority about him. His shortly trimmed, white hair, stood out against his tanned skin and leather armor. Though his face was wrinkled, his muscular physique was unmistakable, leading Farengar to suspect that anyone who fought him with the expectation that he was past his prime, would have a rude awakening in store.

“Where are you heading?” the General asked, addressing Farengar directly for the first time since he had arrived.

“Riverwood,” Farengar replied. The little rural town on the water was not far, making it the logical choice, though Farengar was all but itching to return to Whiterun. Traveling and dealing with people were two of the activities he loathed most.

“We’ll provide an escort for you,” the General said. From his tone, he gathered it was neither a request nor a suggestion. “Running into a pack of bandits on the way would be a terrible way to start your morning.”

“Or Thalmor,” Farengar added pointedly, watching the Imperial’s reaction.

The General glanced back at his soldiers, safely out of hearing, then leaned forward in his saddle, the morning light reflecting the gold trim of his officer’s armor.

“Between you and me,” he said, looking directly into Farengar’s eyes, “I wouldn’t mind having an excuse to kill some Thalmor. Even if it means causing a diplomatic incident.”

“A sentiment I can relate to,” Farengar replied, thinking of the prisoners from the Thalmor keep. His anger brewed, wondering how many more Nords were locked away while he was casually conversing with the general.

“I haven’t put an elf to the sword since the Great War. Twentysix years…” the General said, a hint of longing in his voice. He spared a curious glance at the slumbering Therion. “Where do you suppose he fits into all of this? The Thalmor are his kin.”

“I have never asked, and he has expressed no opinion on the matter, but I would hazard that the Dragonborn is not an enthusiastic admirer of the Thalmor,” Farengar said with obvious sarcasm.

“Remarkable, that of everyone here,” General Tullius said thoughtfully, ignoring the cynical remark. “Therion preferred entrusting you with his safe keeping.”

Farengar was inclined to agree, especially given that the General had an entire army at his command.

“Well, enough talk. Let’s get my Legate to Riverwood,” the General said, turning his horse around.

“Legate?” Farengar echoed.
“Yes,” the General replied, nodding at the Dragonborn. “You didn’t know he was an Imperial Legate?”

Re: Fire and Potions - 21/?

[(Anonymous)]

Farengar spared a curious glance at the sleeping mer. Dragonborn… Legate… Thane… How many more faces did the mer have, he wondered.

General Tullius spurred his horse and Farengar followed, his second rider jostling awkwardly in the saddle with him. They made good time, arriving in Riverwood just as the sun finished cresting the horizon.

The citizens of Riverwood stopped their morning tasks to look at the Imperials in their leather armor and red cloaks with curiosity, trying to catch sight of the two men at the center of the riders. Stopping outside the Sleeping Giant Inn, the General dismounted and helped Farengar with his slumbering charge.

Farengar watched in weary annoyance as a murmuring crowd of people formed around them. Embry, the local drunk, cracked open an eye and looked up from his stoop before the inn, shading his eyes as he squinted up.

“Hey! I knowsh that elf! That’sh the Dragonshborns!” the blonde man shouted, slurring his words. “What’sh wrong with my favorite drinkin’ buddy?!”

The Imperials gently moved Embry aside as he tried to pry his way closer, and Farengar hoisted one of Therion’s arms over his shoulders, supporting his weight. A little girl with braided, brown hair crawled up to them, scurrying to avoid getting stepped on by the soldiers. Farengar glared at her as she grabbed a handful of his robe and tugged on it to get his attention.

“Hey! Hey, wizard! What’s wrong with the Dragonborn?” she shouted, jumping up and down.

Farengar glanced around, hoping one of the soldiers would pluck her off of him. Finding himself alone, he tried to shake her away.

“Get off of me,” he ordered her through grit teeth.

She frowned at his unhelpfulness, but let go of his robes none-the-less, much to his relief. Instead, she took Therion’s limp hand and squeezed it.

“Hey! Dragonborn!” she shouted, shaking his hand. When this had no effect, her face clouded.

“Dorthe! Get yer hide over here now!” Farengar heard a man shout, and the little girl stiffened.

She looked up at Farengar to give him a final look of disdain, before she gave Therion’s hand a quick kiss, in what she seemed to consider a manner too subtle for the wizard, or any other observer, to detect.

Her father shook his head as she rejoined him.

“Don’t go running into packs of soldiers!” Farengar heard her father yell, as General Tullius helped him move the Dragonborn into the inn.

“...probably a dragon,” he caught part of the conversation as they moved away.

“No, Papa! He was cut up real bad, like… like he fell in a mill or something!”

The door to the inn closed behind them, cutting off the din of conversations outside, but was quickly replaced by an all new group of spectators. Farengar felt his head spin, as they seemed to press in from every direction; crowds of gawking, gossiping, people.

Re: Fire and Potions - 22/?

[(Anonymous)]

A no-nonsense looking man with a cleaning cloth in hand approached them, apparently the innkeeper.

“We got rooms and food,” he said gruffly.

Farengar was about to ask about the lodgings when the innkeeper leaned forward, jutting out his chin.

“Follow me,” he said, opening the door to one of the small rooms.

Farengar felt a great wave of relief wash over him as he walked inside, leaving the voices and press of bodies behind.

“I’ll bring some food,” the innkeeper said, turning to leave, as Farengar laid Therion on the bed.

“How much for-”

“Ain’t no charge,” he replied, tossing his cloth over a shoulder. “Delphine’d kill me if I took your coin. You like skeever liver?”

“I’ve never had the pleasure. And I’d prefer to keep it that way,” Farengar said, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion.

The innkeeper left with a ‘hmph’.

Farengar sank into the chair facing the bed, already half asleep. He started as General Tullius entered.

“We’re heading out,” the General informed him. “Anything I can do for either of you before we leave?”

“Apparently food rations would not go amiss,” Farengar said, dropping his hand from his eyes to his side.

General Tullius chuckled. “About the only edible thing Orgnar makes is mead. So long as you don’t let him open the bottle,” he said, nodding to the bottle of Black-Briar Mead on the table beside Farengar. An all mead diet, Farengar thought ruefully. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.

“I’ll leave a few men posted outside the door. I need to return to Solitude to attend to some important matters. Like why the hell the Thalmor kidnapped and tortured the Dragonborn. Take care of my Legate, wizard,” the General said with a final glance at Therion. With a nod to Farengar, he left, closing the door behind him.

The wizard sighed, wishing he was back at Dragonsreach, about to settle down into his own bed. Each time he closed his eyes and began to imagine he was home, the cursed lute music seemed to drift through the door and dispel the illusion. He shifted around in the hard, wooden chair, but he only seemed to become more uncomfortable. Grunting, he folded his arms and tucked his chin against his chest. After a few minutes, he snapped his head up in irritation and futilely rearranged himself with a sigh of aggravation.

Farengar’s eyes fell on the Dragonborn, his chest rising and falling silently.

The color had returned to his skin somewhat, though he was still a terrible sight to behold, covered in bruises and lacerations. Farengar’s healing magic had reconnected his broken bones and replenished his blood, but the rest of his injuries would take a day or two. His body would need some time to adjust before it could take any more restoration magic.
He closed his eyes, wondering how he had wound up in such a troublesome position. Despite everything, a part of him wished the Dragonborn would wake up and smile. Therion’s face, emotionless and empty, was somehow completely unnerving to Farengar.

Re: Fire and Potions - 23/?

[(Anonymous)]

When Therion finally awoke, the room was quiet and still, lit only by the dull flame of a single candle. His breath caught in his throat, as he took in the small chamber, unsure where he was. Pulse quickening, his wide amber eyes swept the place, searching for Thalmor. The sight of Farengar, sitting stiffly in the chair beside him, took him by surprise. The tall Nord was sleeping awkwardly in his seat, his frame bent so uncomfortably, Therion surmised he could only have achieved sleep through a combination of sheer, prideful, determination and exhaustion.

Therion inhaled awkwardly, his breathing becomingly increasingly difficult. He tried to breath normally, but found his chest was tight. Each time he drew breathe, his upper body responded with aching violently, forcing him to breath in quick, shallow breaths, lending him to anxiety.

Wincing, he remembered his final evening with the Thalmor. Though he quickly tried to dispel the memory, he could still recollect the violent, forceful blows of justicar boots kicking his chest with, what seemed to be, remarkably boundless enthusiasm. Ondolemar had found them and intervened, shouting in outrage. An argument had passed between them as he had laid gasping on the floor, something about rank and status being yelled back and forth, when they were interrupted by a sudden commotion within the keep. Shortly after, he had awoken to find what seemed like half of Skyrim shouting in disagreement.

Rubbing his fingers together, Therion tried to summon his magicka. A weak, golden light, flickered erratically in his palm, refusing to obey his weary command.

Farengar’s head drooped forward and slid from his shoulder, causing him to wake with a start.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked sleepily, looking disapprovingly at Therion’s vain attempts at restoration. The wizard extended his hands, enveloping the mer in shimmering, gold light. "Apart from trying to kill yourself with exhaustion, I mean."

Therion relaxed slightly, a small sigh of relief escaping his lips as he felt the tightness in his chest begin to give way to the soothing warmth of the magic washing through his aching body. Farengar paused momentarily, letting his magicka regenerate, then Therion heard the spell resume with its familiar soft chimes. The wizard was clearly unsuited to healing magic, regularly pausing to recover his energies.

Therion was just able to comfortably draw a full breath of air into his lungs when Farengar stopped. Opening his eyes, he slowly pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed and look at the mage.

Farengar had slumped forward in his chair, leaning precariously to one side, dark circles evident beneath his closed eyes.

"Hypocrite," Therion said softly.

Startled, he watched Farengar drift slightly too far to the side, and dashed forward, catching the man just as he collapsed. He held the unconscious wizard in his arms, momentarily dazed.

Farengar's lean frame was sturdy and strong, unlike any other wizard he had ever encountered. That was the Nords for you, he thought, even their mages seemed to be built for warfare. Even through his thick, blue robes, he could feel the remarkable warmth of the Nord's body, compared to his own. Had Farengar been mer or any other race of man, he would have thought him feverish.

Reluctantly, he took one of the wizard's arms over his shoulder, and gently laid him on the bed to rest.

Therion stared into Farengar’s face, suddenly unsure of himself... perhaps he was simply over tired and troubled from his recent experiences. However, as he gazed at the sleeping wizard, an overwhelming wave of protectiveness gripped him, the ferocity of his feelings catching him by surprise.

Of all the humans in Skyrim, Therion had always enjoyed Farengar's company most. The wizard's humorous, sharp wit and thoughtful nature, found Therion returning to Dragonsreach often. At first he had wondered if he simply found Farengar similar in attitude to his own people, but in time, he had found Farengar was uniquely, well, Farengar. Skyrim was a lonely place to be mer, but teasing the proud mage always made the days more pleasant.

Re: Fire and Potions - 24/?

[(Anonymous)]

Therion rubbed his forehead, baffled and slightly worried by the direction of his thoughts.

Developing legitimate feelings for a human was not a thought he had ever seriously entertained; his life was complicated enough.

He shook his head and laughed.

Well, he thought to himself with a low chuckle, it hardly mattered. Whatever his feelings were toward Farengar, more than likely, Farengar would be the last person in Tamriel to be aware of them. He was surprisingly dense about such matters. Furthermore, Therion would not remain in Skyrim much longer; he had a war to wage on his kinsman.

After a final glance at the sleeping wizard, he quietly left the room, emerging into the main room of the Sleeping Giant Inn, his folded Nightingale armor in hand. The Imperials beside the door turned to face him and, as they recognized his identity, saluted. One was a young man with short blonde hair, the other a more experienced looking veteran woman with braided, black hair.

“At ease,” Therion said, closing the door behind him. “How long have I been out?”

“Only since this morning,” the young man replied quickly, eager to please Therion. “Is there anything you require, Sir?”


“Yes,” Therion replied, keen to get away from both of the soldiers and be alone. “A bath. You’re both dismissed. Eat a hot meal, enjoy your evening, and return to General Tullius after you’ve rested.”

“Sir!” the young man replied in protest as Therion turned to leave, “The General was very adamant that we remain at your side.”

“What he means,” the woman chimed in, “Is that the General will have both our arses on a platter if you walk out that door and get mugged. No offense, but you look like death warmed over. Sir.”


Therion ran a hand through his short, gold hair. He detested relying on others and was in no mood for pointless social pleasantries, but he had to admit that even a mudcrab could give him a run for his money in his current state. Between thieves, Thalmor, vampires, and Gods forbid, dragons, walking down the street was taking one’s life into their own hands. Little wonder Nords were the most stubborn, resilient race on the face of Nirn.

“Fine,” Therion agreed, gesturing to the young Imperial. “You may follow me. And I will do my utmost to stay alive so the General doesn’t toss you both from Castle Dour. You,” he said, turning to the older imperial, “May stay here and see that my sleeping friend isn’t disturbed. I’ll return in a while.”

Therion swiftly turned away and left the inn before either could argue, emerging into the night air of Riverwood, as the young Imperial soldier scurried after him to keep up. A light rain began to fall as they made their way toward the Riverwood Trader. Therion enjoyed the cold drops and open sky, having been cooped up indoors far too long, and happily let the rain fall on his bare skin. The soldier beside him kept staring at the him with such intense fascination Therion finally stopped in his tracks.

Re: Fire and Potions - 25/?

[(Anonymous)]

“Spit it out,” he said more plainly than he meant to, too tired to muster his usual charm. Nothing like a week of semi-conscious torture to make a mer peevish, he thought to himself with bitter sarcasm. “What is it...?”

“Lorgren,” the auxiliary replied, introducing himself. “I… That is… Everyone calls you ‘Dragonborn’. I only just transferred here from Cyrodiil. The Nords in the Imperial City say you have the soul of a dragon and can shout words so powerful, they tear the sky apart! That you can shout a man to death, or bring them back to life!” Therion stared flatly at the boy as they resumed their walk, partly amused by the rumors and partly regretting letting him play bodyguard; his enthusiasm for talking seemed to know no bounds. “Some say you’re Tiber Septim, reincarnated! We all thought they were embellishing, but then we found out the tales of dragons proved to be true, we started to wonder, what else could be? Well, when I arrived in Skyrim, many of the other auxiliaries confirmed a lot of the stories. And, well, I never thought I’d meet a living legend.”

Lorgren grinned a bit sheepishly, watching the Dragonborn.

Therion stared at the eager faced child for a moment before he began to chuckle, then burst into hearty laughter.

“Sorry,” the Dragonborn finally said to the confused Lorgren. “I’m just trying to imagine the- the old Imperials in the Elder Council, choking on that rumor… An Altmer reincarnation of their precious “Divine” Emperor… Oh that would be rich, I don’t know who would want me dead more, every mer on Nirn, or the entire Empire,” he held his sides, concerned that he might re-injure his ribs. The most delicious irony, he kept quietly to himself. He doubted Lorgren would appreciate hearing that he had personally sacked the Imperial Palace during the Great War. Cyrodiil was still rebuilding the palace.

“My soul is mer, Lorgren. Not Imperial. Not dragon. I am mer,” Therion said firmly. Though he hated the Thalmor, he was still Altmer, a fact that many seemed to prefer to forget or ignore. “And I cannot raise the dead. That’s necromancers. And the results are less than desirable.”

Lorgren mumbled something and looked at his boots, walking with a bit less spring in his step.

Therion stopped.

After a moment, Lorgren turned back to look at him.

Taking a deep breath, Therion lifted his head up, shouting “Lok… VAH KOOR!” toward the sky. His thu’um echoed loudly, the force of his words creating a ripple of light as the air around him exploded in a loud ‘crack!’.

The rain slowed, and stopped, and as Therion walked on, the dark clouds overhead dispersed, revealing the constellations and the shining twin moons.

Lorgren ran after him with a large grin on his face.