She was supposed to be sent to the re-education camps, to become a mindless, broken toy for the nobility of Alinor, but luck is on her side it seems, even as she is dazed by the drugs they forced into her, bound by a golden collars, her trusted scimitars gone. Perhaps her feverish prayers to Morwha, the Goddess of Breasts, the Queen of Bees, whose four, muscled arms allow her to grab as many lovers as she can, were listened by someone, for there was a mishap in the shipping schedules, and she is now on the road toward the border outpost of Helgen alongside some common criminals and rebels.

Once at the outpost, Arlimahera is separated from the other prisoners, the women sent to the dungeons to be used as play things by the local nord imperial soldiers, their metal and leather bikinis on men and women alike ill concealing their arousal at the new, fresh meat, as the men are sent to the chopping block and swiftly executed, their apparent leader the first to fall to the chopping block.

As she hears cries of "Do not worry Jarl Ulfric, we're sure your twin sister, Ulfrica of Windhelm, shall pick up your just and holy fight against the pathetic imperial dogs and their elven masters!" coming from one of the other prisoners, one who has tried to talk with her for the whole trip, she is intercepted by a masked woman wearing a dark, familiar robe, a Thalmor, one from a small contingent on horseback who was also assisting to the execution at the back of the crowd, the Thalmor accompanying Arlimahera down the dark dungeons of Helgen Keep, to "interrogate" her for suspected Talos worship, and if Arlimahera wasn't as dazed as she was right now, she would probably spit on the woman's face at the mere SUGGESTION she would follow a false, pathetic god such as Tiber Septim, betrayer of her people, father of the cursed empire those weak Forbearers in the south liked so much, over her great and magnificent gods, like those savage, weak nords have been doing for two centuries till now, as if she would abandon her faith for someone as awful and as ungodly as Tiber fucking Septim.

Still, the imperial soldier holding her leash relents, for sure charmed by the Thalmor's outfit, and she is lead to a secluded cell deep within the keep, where a mockery, a pallid imitation of her Goddess' statue rests, Morwha replaced by the weak and timid Mother Mora, not even the fierce and ravenous She-Wolf of the northern pantheon, the one old man Wulf was always going on about back in Dragonstar, where the misfits and the rejects of the empire always gathered, the ones worshipping those gods deemed unworthy to worship in the "civilized" lands of the empire.

The Thalmor Bitch presents herself, Psysephona Margolotta Elvianna Merenwyn Puttanona Bolwyn of Alinor.

And Arlimahera thought her name was fucked up, named after a long dead queen from the second era who united Hammerfell under her iron fist alongside her pious Forbearer wife and their shared boy toy.

They are alone now, all alone, the soldier having left to get to the "training" of the new "servants," and the Thalmor bitch starts speaking in tongues to her, and Arlimahera has spent enough times in Elinhir to recognize a curse of mind control when she hears it.

With her last remaining strength, Arlimahera breaks her shackles, startling the Thalmor mid incantation. Before she can call for help, she is on her already, slamming her against the ground, one powerful, dominant hand already on her throat, squeezing, choking her, and Arlimahera can't believe the wanton moan coming off of the Thalmor bitch as she does so, a wicked smirk coming on Arlimahera's lips at the sound.

She strips her of her robes, her mask, revealing the woman's sharp features and perfectly coiffed hair, yellow cheeks tinged red with shame and lust as she is so thoroughly dominated by the dark skinned woman. She grunts out a threat, but is lost by her moan of pleasure as Arlimahera's fingers pinch her exposed clitoris.

"Guess who's gona be who's dog tonight, bitch?"

It's risky, but the imperials are probably not going to disturb her for a while, knowing the Thalmor Bitch is supposed to "interrogate" her right now, enough time for her to give her a taste of her own medicine.

They might have stripped her of her curved swords, but at least she still has her trusty strap with her.

Next thing she knows, Psysephone is aligned with Arlimahera's thick, dark fake ebony cock, all her resistances gone as she is slowly eased down on it, as she's forced to bounce on top of Arlimahera's muscular legs, her long legs raised in the air, exposing her and her naked feet, the ones she was expecting the Redguard to worship as her slave, even as she is slowly, methodically fucked to submission, as she is taught to love, worship Arlimahera's fake cock.

After she's done with her, satisfied, Arlimahera drops the Thalmor bitch to the floor, her strap unbuckled, and as a last act of degradation, she pisses on her, golden shower on golden skin and hair, the once prim and proper Thalmor diplomat reduced to some common, strap addicted gutter whore.

Before she leaves, as she tries to undo the golden collar around her neck, maybe to stick it on the Thalmor bitch too while she's at it, the ground shakes as a terrible roar erupts across the Keep, a sound so primal and so terrible, so filled with hunger and hatred, Arlimahera is sure Sakatal himself must have made it.

As chaos descends on the keep's prisons, as dark wings soar over white skies, hunting for a Dragon Soul trapped within a Ork's body, Arlimahera finds herself alone, disarmed, in the middle of an Imperial fort filled with rebels, soldiers and thalmors, with her former companions travelling the province to enact their terrible schemes for their Thalmor's clients, ready to hunt her down at a moment notice once they find out she has gotten herself freed, and everyone knows the Sinister Seven never leave a job left undone.

Arlimahera smirks.

She likes these odds.

Herma Mora, the Gardener of Men, agrees to give him his dark aid, but in order to do so, he shall be used as a plaything by one of Herma Mora's dark, tentacular monsters first, as Herma Mora works behind the scenes to have one of Magnus' devotees, Psysephone of Alinor, aide of Lady Elenwen at the Thalmor Embassy, another seeker of knowledge, thirsty for secrets, arrive at Helgen with her and, as the Shezzarine within the Keep functions as a Homing Beacon for Alduin to return, attack the keep, and have Psysephone, oh so coincidentally, free him.

First off, it's 3 and 1, the three that are the women, and the one that is the man. It's symbolic, it's Almsivi and Dagoth Ur, or the Three Heads of Talos and Shezzar, or the Kyne Mara Dibella and Shor, or Pelinal Alessia Morihaus and Umaril, or Thief Mage Warrior and Serpent.

The best trinity to use as an example here is probably Azurah, Kyne and Namira and Lorkhan, Azura the Sister, Kyne the Wife, and Namira the Daughter, but sister and daughter are intended in the "What are you doing step-bro" variety of course.

Anyway, symbolism out of the way, some meat and potatoes for the characters.

SERVIUS

Servius is a twenty something Imperial Twink of short stature. He wasn't always names as such, born in the family of a member of the Order of the Hour in Kvatch, raised to take over the chantry once he grew up. Unfortunately, the gods had other plans for him, the boy born with a splinter of Lorkhan's soul within him, a Shezzarine, and one with a Dragon Soul no less, one that gave him the inherent desire to dominate, to conquer, to hoard, power, wealth, lovers, even as he tries to contain these sinful desires, shield himself in piety and worship to a god deaf to his pleas...

But that's not how his story goes.

At eighteen years old, barely legal, he is seduced away from his studies by a a novice of Julianos at the temple of the divines in the imperial city, actually a cultist of Hermanus Mora disguised to infiltrate the church, led outside the imperial city into a nearby clearing, where he loses his virginity to her, unbeknownst to him falling into a dread ritual, as she rides him to completion, tentacles erupting from the cursed ground to molest them both, worm within their holes and penetrate them, a dark mark appearing on his belly, right above his cock, a brand, a tattoo to seal his powers, to make him subservient, docile, pliable, the perfect fuck toy to use and abuse, his cock fat and juicy, his ass rotund and bouncy, his nipples puffy and sensitive...

Servius elopes with the young cultist, his new mistress, abandons family and a position within the chantry, and spends the following two years in the wild as a fugitive, as a Daedric cultist, before his coven is discovered and destroyed under Empress Tita Mede II's orders. His identity long lost, Servius takes on a new name, the one we know him as, and without the woman who cast the dread ritual on him, he is now free, but still easily dominated, easily corrupted by those around him, the young man deciding to head north, to Skyrim, a land ripe with strife and knowledge.

Where he is promptly captured right as he traverse the border, the border guards ratting him out to the nearby garrison even after he let them spit roast him as a bribe, and shipped off to Helgen, where he is collared by the local Captain, and used as her sex toy before being thrown in the keep's dungeon, trapped within a iron cage like a common criminal, waiting for his mistress to pick him up again for their nightly sessions.

ARLIMAHERA

Named after a blood soaked queen from the second era, Arlimahera is born in a family of Crowns in Dragonstar, where the misfits and those who weren't found fit to be in "civilized society" were gathered. Her two mothers lost their husband during the great war, in the year 176 of the fourth era, and she was born soon after. Now 25 of age, Arlimahera learned the way of the Twin Scimitars, a dual wielder wearing light leather armour, a red rag covering her face, her chest piece missing, her plentiful breasts, her hardened, scarred abs bared for the world to see, only leather armoured pants, wrist guards and boots as armour, to both distract her enemies as she cuts her balls or heads, and to appease her exhibitionism fetish.

A sellsword and mercenary, Arlimahera is hired by a mysterious client to escort some important individuals to the nearby Skyrim to aid them in a not better specified task. She isn't so keen to enter the land of the Nords, both due to the general animosity Redguards have had toward them ever since the invasion by Skyrim of Crown territories during the events of the Imperial Simulacrum, her own city having been split in half by the Northern bastards for decades to come, and due to her personal disdain toward the causes of the rebellion, Talos worship the last of her and Hammerfell's worries in the wake of the Great War, especially when it comes to the Crowns, followers of the one true Yokudan pantheon rather than the watered down lies of the Forbearers.

Alas, the coin is good, and it seems like a cushy job at first, just escort some forbearer noble or something, but Arlimahera realizes far too late, as she's in the middle of the lion's den, the true scope of her clients' plans, and who they are truly serving. Knocked out, disarmed and unarmored, drugged out of her mind, molested and abused, almost to the point of mind breaking, Arlimahera is sold off as a chained, gagged slave to the slave market of Skyrim, her clients' nefarious plans continuing unchecked. But within her, the fires of rage still burn bright, ready to be unleashed at the opportune moment, even as a slip up between schedules and lists has her ship her off not to the slave markets of Sadrith Kegran, but to an imperial garrison in Helgen, alongside many other prisoners.

She has to bid her time until her chains will come unbound, and then, she will be able to seek the ones who did this to her, who attempted to tame her, the one who bears the name of the blood soaked queen, and expected no retaliation from her. She has little to base her search on, their liar probably deserted by now, only a name, of the person they were supposedly here to capture.

Iman.

PSYSEPHONA

Psysephona, a young forty years old Altmer, is considered on the same level as a teen by her people. Her voluptuous curves are hugged by the finest silks Alinor can offer, jewellery adoring her body, across her neck necklaces filled with precious gems can be found, on her fingers many rings of exquisite facture are placed, golden earrings dangle down her delicate pointed hear, shown off by the complicated up-do of her long, blonde hair, golden piercings adorning her puffy nipples, a diamond stud on her belly button, another, smaller, on her clit.

She was, in a way, a walking treasure trove, defenceless, ripe for the picking, and completely unaware of it.

She's the spoiled, arrogant heiress to a influential family, her daddy sitting within the Thalmor high command itself, and she's been trained all her life in the arcane arts, or so she claims at least. As of now, she's been sent to Skyrim on a diplomatic mission, to follow around Lady Elenwen within her personal entourage, so to learn from her the fine arts of politics and crushing the lesser races beneath one heel.

She is part of that same entourage, now in Helgen to witness the supposed execution of Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, some pathetic mongrel who still worshipped the false god, the monster, the Demon of Alcaire, the scourge of Alinor, Tiber Septim, cursed be his name and his seed, and she is utterly bored as the ambassador exchanges idle talks with the local Imperial Captain.

Most of what they are saying is going straight over her head of course, but she isn't really that bothered right now about it, since most things do tend to do that, her superior elven brain being far above such things such as "understanding things" after all, that's what the servants are for.

Still, the coming execution seems like it's going to be a drag.

Maybe Auri-El will send her something to amuse her before she dies of boredom. Anything to make the event more lively at least.

URZOGA

Urzoga Gra-Shar, twenty and eight years of age, Green Skinned behemoth of a woman, no scar on her rippling muscles, dark red tattoos criss crossing her body, her arms and thick legs, like lighting bolts, as if to show cracks on a statue that was about to shatter, all covered by a bulky iron armour, her head uncovered, sporting her dark hair, cut short into a severe pixie cut.

Urzoga the Undefeated, Urzoga the Unconquered, Urzoga the destroyer, breaker of men, despoiler of virgins, tamer of beasts. Once the daughter of a chieftain in the Kingdom of Bloodfall, she grew disgusted with the restricting, traditionalist ways of her stronghold, the way they expected her to be nothing more but cattle to be exchanged, even when her stature dwarfed many of the warriors in the stronghold, or her muscles could shatter rocks with a single flex. She left, wandering the world, and applying a new creed to her life, not Malacath's, but her own.

She had fought and laid with many men and women in her voyages, but none of them ever managed to defeat her, either in battle, or in the sack, each of them neither ever making her cum before she could make them cum, nor managing to penetrate her womb with their seed, taming her, filling her with child. She decided therefore to name herself Urzoga Iron-Boar, or Iron-Womb when she was mocking the few who dared challenge her in the skills of love rather than war, mocking them while she was taking them, either by riding their pitiful, weak cocks, or by ruining their quivering, defenceless holes.

Now, her peregrinations lead her to Skyrim, where she's heard Malacath's hammer resides. She will conquer it, like she has conquered everything in her life, and then she shall challenge Malacath himself, to see if the God of Outcasts will finally prove himself a match for either her war hammer or her womb.

But before, she'll sample some of the... local cuisine of course, see what Skyrim has to offer her. And as she reaches the frontier outpost of Helgen, ready to rent a room, hopefully one big enough to contain her girth, she notices a commotion coming from the main square of the small town, the towering Orsimer approaching it to check what was going on there.

-

None of them know this right now, but this moment, right here, as the rebellious Jarl is sent to the headsman's block, will be the start of their new lives, in the harsh world that is Skyrim.

And the end of everything they thought they believed in.