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From: (Anonymous)

Here's the scenario: your Dragonborn has been critically harmed to the point of where she/he is in a coma, clinging onto their life.
The NPCs who do care about them want and set out to get revenge on those responsible.
It can be a massive man-hunting party, a couple of close friends/comrades, a one-person mission or such.
I want to see who cares and who is absolutely enraged towards the bastard(s) who dare committed such atrocious acts.
I want you Anons to taste and write about the outrage of your PC's followers/friends/spouse/family/devotes/rivals/pets, who want to deliver bloody vengeance on your PC's abusers.

Main kinks are anger and revenge.

No squicks for this one.

Multi and Mini fills are encouraged.

Go nuts and get angry A!As!

From: (Anonymous)

Now this has serious potential - somebody get writing, pronto.

From: (Anonymous)

Oooo this anon has an idea...

From: (Anonymous)

...

I sort of wish I could figure out a way to leverage this into a full-fledged story, because the first thing that came into my mind when I saw this prompt was Ocean's Thirteen. Specifically, the bit where Matt Damon is reading Don Cheadle's -extremely- personal letter to an unconscious Elliott Gould...

"Dear Reuben as the band said: two hearts beat as one.
When men have been in battle together they are bonded like the flower and the soil and the sun and like the moon catches the light... Reuben, I'm gonna go ahead on and leave this here."

From: (Anonymous)

Katrin groaned as a multitude of injuries vied for her attention. Slowly she managed to pry her eyes (or at least the one eye that wasn’t completely swollen shut) open and saw where she was. It looked very familiar and she swallowed down the near overwhelming urge to vomit as she realized she was in the cellar of the Thalmor Embassy. Wonderful.

“Ah, you’re awake. Excellent,” drawled Elenwen, setting down her quill to turn her full amber-hued gaze on the woman hanging before her. “I must admit, Thane Katrin, you are a hard woman to pin down.” She slowly rose and advanced on the woman dangling from shackles on the stone wall, the bars of the cell separating them. “I had nearly given up on being able to have another conversation with you,” she purred.

Katrin’s one good eye narrowed at the Thalmor. “Funny—most people just send a courier to ask for a visit.” She tested the shackle on her wrist, tugging in what she hoped was not too obvious a manner. “The couriers seem to have no trouble finding me.”

Elenwen chuckled. “Ah. Your sense of humor. That I remember quite well,” she tapped her chin, her expression considering. “I didn’t appreciate your antics at my party. And getting poor Ondolemar to help you by having him insult Elisif's thane—tsk, tsk, tsk,” scolded the Thalmor, though the corners of her lips were pulled up slightly. It had been delicious, she had to admit, watching Ondolemar scold the human. Truly decadent.

Katrin glared at the Thalmor ambassador. “Ondolemar may be an ass but at least he’s honest. I can appreciate that,” she added.

Elenwen sighed dramatically, shaking her head. “I had a feeling that you were going to be difficult.” Stepping into the cell, she trailed her long fingers down the side of Katrin’s neck, magic crackling in her fingertips. “That just makes our time together so much more enjoyable though. Now, don’t disappoint me, Thane.”

From: (Anonymous)

(leans forward) Please, continue.

From: (Anonymous)

OP here - Oh yes, Elenwen the Top Thalmor Bitch; a person I'd gladly allow Cicero to STAB, STAB, STAB and invite Eola to eat her bit by bit!
Please do continue Anon! The anticipation is rising...

From: (Anonymous)

F5 F5 F5

From: (Anonymous)

The rapping on the wooden door slowly drew Legate Rikke from sleep. Groggily, the auburn haired Nord slowly pulled herself to a seated position on her bed, looking around. The room was as she remembered it, her armor carefully laid out on the only chair in her room and a pile of papers still stacked neatly on her desk, only waiting for the courier.

Perhaps that was who was banging on her door at such an indecent hour.

Rising, she pulled her robe, a thick woolen thing edged with what appeared to be saber cat fur at the lapel, around herself and over her nightshift. She’d always wondered why Katrin and her husband Brynjolf would snicker at the mere mention of saber cats—it was something that had come up in conversation a few times with her fellow Legate and Katrin had always deflected…saying that you just had to spend time in Riften to get the jest. Shaking her head, Rikke continued on to the door, now secure in the fact that she wouldn’t frighten whomever was on the other side of the thick wood.

The man standing on her doorstep started regardless at seeing the Imperial Legate and second in command under General Tullius standing in her doorway, hair mussed and cheeks flushed from recent sleep. “Ah…ma’am…I’m sorry for the intrusion but…” he trailed off, clearly perturbed.

Rikke groaned, already regretting having risen from her bed. “Spit it out, Legionnaire,” she ground out, her dark eyes narrowing in a glare. “For what purpose have you gotten me out of a warm bed?”

The soldier swallowed visibly, thrusting out a folded paper to Rikke. “I need to bring you—there’s been a body found, ma’am. It might be the Dragonborn.”

Rikke paled, ripping open the letter and scanning its contents. “Talos preserve us,” she muttered, already turning back to go into her room. “Wait out here, Legionnairre. I’ll be but a moment.” She quickly shut the door, lighting a candle beside her bed as she began to pull on her armor. Finally drawing on her boots, she caught a glimpse of herself in the looking glass leaning against one wall. The years that had passed seemed to settle a little harsher about her in the reflected vision she had and Rikke shook her head, clearing the cobwebs.

She had a job to do. She had to follow her fellow Legionnaire and determine if the Dragonborn was truly dead.

Steeling herself, Rikke opened the door once again and, with a quick nod, followed the younger soldier through the streets of Solitude. At first she thought the Hall of the Dead to be their destination, but the soldier veered left from Castle Dour, instead heading for the Temple of the Eight Divines. Their footfalls on the cobbled courtyard stood out in mournful contrast to the otherwise silent night. Even the door, with its creaking hinges, seemed an abomination against the quiet.

A table had been drawn close to the niches that housed the symbols of the eight divines, a figure laid out under a heavy drape. Rikke stepped closer, her eyes adjusting to the myriad of candles lit around the body even as her nose twitched slightly at the incense burning. Where the head looked to be, a priest stood, his face shadowed by the cowl he wore and his hands raised as he said his silent prayers.

“How do we know it’s the Dragonborn?” Rikke asked, stepping closer to the table and its grim contents.

The Legionnaire frowned, pointing to the body. “Legate, she has papers that state she is. But General Tullius wanted to have a verification made—you spent the most time with her other than the General. He thought it fitting that you verify the remains.”

From: (Anonymous)

Rikke nodded distractedly. Of course he would. Now standing beside the table, she gripped the drape, holding her breath as she dragged it back. Her mind catalogued the trauma she saw before her even as she tried to tell the identity of the woman lying before her. Multiple burns and deep lacerating wounds. Severe trauma all over the body, though not the sort one expected to see from battle. Signs of electrocution, most likely of magical origin. Her hands moved down to the arm of the corpse, turning the right wrist to inspect it. It was bare, and Rikke released the breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

It wasn’t the Dragonborn.

Rikke turned to the priest, eyebrow arched. “Why did you think this was the Dragonborn?”

The priest frowned, looking down at the corpse. “But she carried the possessions of the Dragonborn--things only the Dragonborn would have with her." His expression was clearly perplexed. "You are certain that this is not the Dragonborn?"

Rikke shook her head, arms crossed over her chest as she met the priest’s gaze. “I'm certain.” She turned towards the Legionnaire who’d dragged her from her warm bed. “Where was this corpse found?”

The soldier scratched at the underside of his jaw—he’d missed a spot while shaving, she noted. “It was dumped near the statue of Meridia, Legate. But,” he turned dark eyes back towards the body, watching as Legate Rikke drew the drape back over the body and turned to face him, “if it’s not the Dragonborn, then who is lying on that table?”

Rikke frowned, arms crossed over her chest. “It can only be one other person. The Dragonborn was traveling with her Housecarl, a woman sworn to protect her and carry her burdens.” Turning back to the body, she bowed her head for moment. “You found no other bodies with this one?”

The soldier shook his head, watching as Rikke’s lips thinned grimly. “No, ma’am. Only this one. There wasn't enough blood in the snow for what were done to her to have happened at the statue.”

Rikke nodded. “Then that is where we go next. Rouse the men. And tell General Tullius that the Dragonborn isn’t dead. At least not yet.”

From: (Anonymous)

##00##00##
(Author's Note: This part includes mention of rape and torture. I know these are major squicks for a lot of people, so I wanted to give fair warning.)
##00##00##

Ondelamar gaped at the Ambassador for the Aldmeri Dominion, realizing just how mad the woman before him was. “You arrested the Dragonborn?” He rubbed at the spot between his eyebrows that suddenly throbbed. She was going to get every Altmer in Tamriel slaughtered—not to mention destroy any influence the Dominion had left with the Empire. “The woman who killed the World Eater and ended the Civil War? You do realize that she is a Legate in the Imperial Army.”

Elenwen sipped her wine, slanting a pleased glance at her subordinate. “She and her Housecarl were easy to capture. I’m only sorry you missed out on the festivities.” Setting her wineglass down, she took a bite of the pheasant. Pleasure bloomed in her eyes at the savory tastes. Her cook had outdone himself. “The Empire will never do anything about this. She’s expendable.”

“Not a trait I would assign the Dragonborn,” he countered. “She’s shown herself to be resourceful and willing to work with whomever she must to get things done.” Ondolemar shook his head, swallowing the bile that rose in his throat. He pushed away the plate of food that had been set before him, certain that if he ate anything at this moment he would be ill. “She also lacks the implicit hatred against the Altmer that many of her fellows do.”

Elenwen sneered at the trace of respect in Ondolemar’s voice. “Don’t tell me she spread her thighs for you, Ondolemar, and corrupted you. I thought better of you.” Shaking her head, she took another drink of her wine. “She’s in the cells below if you wish to have a reunion fuck. I’m sure that she might even welcome you—my men tell me that she is truly excellent.”

Ondolemar’s eyes widened as the reality of what his superior was telling him sank in. “I would see her if I may.” His voice was strangled and he kept his gaze fixed on the tabletop, afraid of what Elenwen would see if she looked closely at her fellow Altmer.

Elenwen sighed dramatically. “Very well.” She drew the key to the cells from her pocket and tossed it to Ondolemar. “Oh, and you might need this,” she added, dangling a potion to cure disease. “Wouldn’t want you developing whatever rot that bitch might be carrying.”

Ondolemar nodded tightly, tucking both the key and the potion into his pocket and descending through the embassy to the cells beneath. He passed the guards silently and stepped into the cells, the smells immediately assailing him. Blood and sex. Closing the door behind himself, he lit a lantern and stepped further into the cells. Just as he recalled, there was a desk set against one of the largest cells, its iron bars pressing against the wood. A book rested on the tabletop and he flipped it open, amber-hued eyes scanning the words written in Elenwen’s recognizable hand.

The bile he’d tamped down before rose again and he swallowed reflexively as the words sank in. The woman would get them all slaughtered if any of this came out. Picking up the book, he tucked it into one of the many pockets of his voluminous robes. He wasn’t sure what he would do with it, but he knew that he had to do something. Better to remain in the rocky wasteland that was Markarth for eternity than to allow Elenwen’s clear derangement to destroy the Thalmor and the Dominion.

“Ondie?” came the barely heard whisper. “What are you doing here?”

Ondolemar lifted his head, following the sound of the Dragonborn. He had thought himself prepared, given his past experience with Elenwen, for anything. He wasn’t prepared to see the Dragonborn dangling from shackles against the wall. “Gods.”

A rattling cough was the Dragonborn’s answer and she shook her head. “Don’t think they’re answering anymore,” she croaked. “Can I have a drink?”

From: (Anonymous)

(Author's Note again: Same warning as in part 1c...mentions of rape and torture.)

Ondolemar nodded quickly, turning away from the woman he had first met in Markarth, his mind having trouble reconciling the charming creature she had been with the broken woman shackled against the wall. Pouring water from a pitcher into a goblet, he stepped back to her, raising the rim to her lips and watching as she swallowed the water greedily. “What happened?” he questioned, his tone urgent.

Katrin shook her head. “Nothing good, Ondie. She sent you down to have a turn?”

Ondolemar shook his head, revulsion filling his eyes. “No. How long—“

Katrin shook her head again. “Not sure. She’s going to kill me, Ondie. I’ve accepted this.” Her voice was quiet, her eyes watching a point behind Ondolemar’s head somewhere on the stone wall. “Just get a message to my husband. Tell him I loved him.”

Ondolemar swallowed and turned back to put the goblet on the table. “She wouldn’t kill you. Our superiors would never forgive her.” His fingers gripped the table’s edge, knuckles whitening with the force. Even he had to admit that was an empty statement--Elenwen was determined to destroy the Dragonborn.

A dry, cracked laugh made him turn back. “Ondie, I don’t think she has anything to worry about. No one will miss one Breton whore, as she put it.” A spurt of coughing interrupted her. “Dragonslayers aren’t much use once the dragons are gone.”

Ondolemar turned back, arms crossed over his chest. “The woman I met in Markarth would never have given up so easily. Where’s your fight, Katrin?”

Her one good eye burned with a rage he remembered. “Think it got fucked out of me by Elenwen’s guards, Ondie. Fight does me no good when I have no weapons to help me. No Thuum. No magicka. Not even a bloody axe or bow. So you tell me!” Her battered body vibrated with emotion and she drew a ragged breath. “When I can’t even save the woman who stood by me longer than anyone else in Skyrim from being murdered in front of me—you tell me where my fight is.”

Ondolemar stepped to within a breath of the Dragonborn, towering over the Breton. “It’s still there,” he promised. He took a breath, making a decision. He pulled a vial from his pockets—the potion to cure disease that Elenwen had tossed him in fact. “Drink.” He watched as she obediently swallowed the contents, though she made a face at the flavor. “I’m going to poison you,” he offered, pulling a vial with a purple liquid inside from his other pocket. “It will put you in a death state, Katrin. You understand what that means.”

Katrin offered a wan smile at the Altmer. “Promise me that you’ll tell my husband and children that I loved them, Ondie.”

Ondolemar nodded tightly and pressed the vial to her lips, watching as she swallowed it down, her eyes shut and tears slipping from beneath her lashes. Stepping back, he watched as the woman who had faced dragons and Stormcloaks thrashed against the stones, the poison spreading through her body.

Finally, the thrashing ended and Ondolemar stepped to the door, pulling it open. “The prisoner is dead. Put her in my carriage. I will personally dispose of her,” he ordered the guard, who nodded to his fellow and went to follow the Thalmor’s orders.

From: (Anonymous)

OP here: Oh YES! Go Ondolemar, I knew you would make the right decision and save the Dragonborn!
Oh my god A!A, I am just feeling so much for Katrin - poor woman, despite the acts of torture and rape she is still going strong despite her negative thinking!
Ooh I'm sensing a serious man-hunt party, no, ARMY here - can't wait to see Elenwen getting what she and her lap dog minions deserve~

From: (Anonymous)

Ondolemar folded the last parchment and handed it to the courier, the message joining the other two already in the man’s hands. “The first message is for Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood in Dawnstar. Into his hands only. The second message is for Delvin Mallory of Riften of the Thieves’ Guild. Into his hands only. This third is for Legate Rikke of the Imperial Army in Solitude. Again, into her hands only. Do not fail me. Now go.” Rising from his chair, secure in the knowledge that the courier would do as he was bidden, Ondolemar headed back towards his charge. He shook his head at the irony that he, a Thalmor, was doing everything in his power to keep the Dragonborn alive. Then again, he shouldn’t be that surprised. The Thalmor had been cleaning up messes after Elenwen for some time—it was bound to bite him in the ass at some point.

The safehouse would, of course, have to be abandoned after this. It was one of a network of houses that he had set up over the years—secure locations known only to himself. The priestess in the next room would be made to forget. But there were others, people who would have seen something and remember it, that could not be dealt with. So, the house would be abandoned. A shame, really, since he rather liked this house.

“M’lord, the poison has been flushed from her system.”

Ondolemar nodded absently at the priestess, arms crossed over his chest. “And?”

The priestess sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Her wounds are many. She is asleep now—whether she will ever awaken is not something I can say. Her body could not—I’m sorry, but the baby could not be saved.” The priestess glanced behind herself at the doorway through which the Dragonborn rested. “If she survives she may yet have more children but—the trauma, you see.”

Ondolemar winced, feeling as if he had been punched in the gut. So she’d been pregnant again. What would that have made this one—her third babe by that thief she’d married? He wondered if she had known when Elenwen had been torturing her, if she’d asked for mercy for her unborn child. “I see. Thank you. The donation to the temple has been made, as promised.” He nodded towards his servant, who stepped towards the priestess at his signal. “We will see you home now.”

The priestess nodded, following the servant and leaving Ondolemar alone with his thoughts. His time was limited, he knew. Elenwen would be in a rage that her plaything had been taken from her and, insane as she might be, she still was his superior. It wouldn’t take long for the courier to find Rikke, and even less for the Legate to come. Stepping through the doorway of the bedchamber of the Dragonborn, he stared down at her. Her skin, usually pale, was practically as white as the sheets she lay upon. Her hair was spread over the pillow, not in her usual twin braids that hung over her shoulders. “Katrin, I’m so sorry.” He leaned down, pressing his lips against her forehead, her skin cool to the touch.

Turning, he strode out of the bedchamber and down the steps to the doorway. Stepping onto the street, he pulled his hood over his head and strode away. The darkness swallowed the Thalmor as he disappeared into the night.

From: (Anonymous)

Damn, this is exciting to read.

"xx

From: (Anonymous)

If there was anyone who badly, BADLY needs to die for this, it's these bastards. Not only for the horrendous torture of our DB here (which I'm glad she's out of now so that she can make a proper recovery), but also for killing one of my favorite characters, who I put up with despite all of her snark about carrying my burdens, right in front of her.

Make them bleed, guys. Make. Them. Fucking. BLEED.

From: (Anonymous)

A!A here: They will. Oh, they will. And there will be blood. Lots of blood. Don't want to give away too much because I'm still writing but--yeah...this is not a happy sweet story. This is very dark, at least for me.

From: (Anonymous)

This is fantastic!! I am holding my breath until the next installment!

From: (Anonymous)

Rikke swung down off the bay mare, her eyes narrowing at the building before her. According to the courier that had skidded through the snowbanks outside Solitude to find her at the Temple of Meridia, the Dragonborn lay within. Drawing her blade, she nodded to the soldiers she had taken with her. She’d left the bulk of her force in the snow and ridden for speed with just a few soldiers. Even if the Dragonborn lay within, it was still Rikke’s responsibility to find out what had happened to Lydia and the Dragonborn and, more importantly, make them pay.

“Do you think she’s within?” asked one of the soldiers, his Cyrodillic accent thick. If she recalled correctly, he’d been one of the Legionairres that the Dragonborn had rescued from a Stormcloak fort before the final battle.

Rikke stepped up to the front door and tested the door. Locked. Stepping back, she slammed the sole of her boot against the door, splintering it from the frame and forcing it to swing wide open. “We’ll soon find out,” she replied, stepping through the broken door to start her search. The house was what she would expect of Solitude—lots of stairs and small rooms filled with expensive things. Nothing to give away the identity of any person who stayed or owned the house. “Fan out. We search every room. If she’s here, we find her now.” Rikke watched the men scatter to search the rooms and continued on down the hallway. There was a room at the end, its door cracked slightly enough to allow only a sliver of light to escape. Steeling herself, she pushed open the door and stepped in. “Talos preserve us.”

##00##00##

Nazir stared at the courier, the young man before him clearly unnerved by the Redguard assassin. “What do you mean, you have a message for me?” It was sheer insanity—who would send a letter to the Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood? Taking the folded parchment, he cracked the seal and scanned the contents. Then reread them. Looking up, he met the gaze of the courier with fierce black eyes. “You were never here. If I ever hear tell of you speaking of this or what you have seen, I will ensure that you never see another sunrise.”

The courier nodded, all but skidding out of the Sanctuary and past a slender man in a jester’s costume. Cicero turned curious eyes on the departing courier and then glanced back at Nazir. “Mother misses the Listener. Is that from the Listener?” he asked, hope glistening on each word as he danced from one foot to the other.

He hadn’t liked Cicero—not when he’d first brought the Night Mother to their Sanctuary nor when he’d learned the Listener had spared the Keeper. But the maddened jester had, over the years, grown on the Redguard. He figured it must have had something to do with Cicero’s journals being “accidentally” left by the Listener for Nazir to read. Or the fact that the Listener treated the mad jester like a long-lost homicidal little brother. But no matter—Cicero would understand what Nazir was feeling. Nazir ground his teeth for a moment. He had not felt this kind of rage since the Penitus Oculatus had attacked their motley family. It was a clean kind of rage—one that burned white hot and wouldn’t be extinguished until it was spent on the bodies of those who hurt his own. “No, Cicero. Someone has hurt the Listener.”

“WHAT!” roared Cicero, bounding meters in the span of time it took to take a breath, fingers gripping the Speaker’s tunic as he growled at his fellow Dark Brotherhood member. The madman snarled, dark hazel eyes wild before they calmed, his expression smoothing dangerously. “Who would dare hurt our Listener?” he purred, undercurrents of rage and jealousy swirling beneath his words. If anyone was going to be hurting the Listener, it should after all be one of her own. Strangers had no right to the Listener.

Nazir grinned at the smaller man, his own expression feral. “Cicero, I want you to sharpen your blades. We have an embassy to cleanse.”

From: (Anonymous)

All. Of. My. Yes. This is so exciting!

From: (Anonymous)

You know, when I first read the prompt in question, my thoughts turned immediately to our favorite ax-crazy jester (who I spared on my assassin playthrough) and how he would just go fucking BALLISTIC upon receiving the news that the Listener was hurt like that. Because Cicero has a scary kind of loyalty towards any Listener who spares him, and his wrath toward the Listener's tormentors would be truly frightening to behold. Sithis have mercy on them.

From: (Anonymous)

Keep them coming!

From: (Anonymous)

OP here - Oh my god Anon, this is so brilliant and thrilling!
I was over the two moons when you've included Cicero and how Nazir said " Sharpen your blades. We have an embassy to cleanse."
Please keep it coming, sweet Anon~
DEATH TO THE THALMOR!!!

From: (Anonymous)

Damn, I need to search for my rifle...
*hurries off*

"xx

From: (Anonymous)

OOOO here comes trouble! (Evil Grin).

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(Anonymous) - Any - Avenging the Dragonborn/Harbinger/Guildmaster/Arch-Mage/Listener/Legate

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Skyrim Page 5 - "NAKED! Naked naked naked "

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