Barbarians they called us back then, because we would not bow to Imperial law. Roaming where we will and hunting what we desired, the Elk and the mammoth belonged to Kyne, not some distant Nedic Emperor. Nor did we bend knee to the Aldmeri gods. Rejecting Kynareth and holding to the Stormveil Kyne, refusing to abandon Shor and honoring our dead in the name of Orkay rather than the elven Arkay. The Empire would complain, but the Jarls would turn a blind eye, back then they still knew what it was to be a True Nord.

  But even a clan like ours had limits, certain rituals too profane to practice, certain gods too unhallowed to call upon, certain hunts too dangerous to conquer. And like all youths with a head full of day dreams and grandeur, I ignored them. Fenrisulfr, he who endlessly hungers, Kyne's blessed creature taken and profaned by huntlord, twisted into a collosal warg. He had prowled the Northen frosts for an age and a day, ravaging travellers be they man, mer or even legion and leaving defiled woodland in his wake. And this small diminutive girl would return to the village wreathed in glory with his head in tow.

  I don't remember the battle, or even if there was one. Nor do I recall stumbling back into the village, beaten, bloody and broken. They told me I lost a month as I lay in my sickbed, ravaged by bloodloss and fever, the clan shaman barely left the bedside. My wounds eventually faded and they called it a success, but the beast had not savaged my body, it had scarred my blood. I saw more than other men in the blackest of nights, I could hear the smallest of insects scuttling amidst the trees and catch the scent of even the most well hidden of prey.

  It was a simple thing to hide when it first started. I could bite my tongue when I felt the rage building, I could be elsewhere when the moon arose. When a chicken vanished, when fences were found broken and the goats found dead and devoured I could point at the local roving packs and a hunt would be called to cull them. But as I grew so did the "Incidents." A lone traveller torn up on the road could be blamed on Skyrim's already savage wildlife, but when our own clansmen were discovered in the bounds of the village, brutally slain before they could even draw their blades I knew I could not remain amongst them.

  I used to stare at the horizons, a small girl wanting to see what lay beyond those mountains and know more than the four leagues our clan claimed as it's domain and now all of Tamriel unfurled before me. New landscapes, foriegn forests and alien beasts. From the highlands of olde Colovia to the endless deserts of the Alik'r, the rolling hills and crags of Glenumbra to the inhospitable ashwastes of Deshaan. I walked them all for years, living off the land. Hunting beast and bandit, with bow and axe on quiet nights, with tooth and claw when the moon arose.

  I have read tales of others. Men with moonsouls who walked into the wilderness and never returned, gave in to the spirits of the wylde and the rage in their blood until they could no longer seperate themselves from creature inside howling for release. Despite avoiding the towns and cities civilized men built and keeping to the company of beasts, I never did. That did not stop the rumours though, a feral child in the forests, a wild woman raised by wolves, a mudcaked savage painted with forbidden runes. They spread far and wide enough that eventually the temple took notice. Kynareth's faithfull are skilled trackers, and when they came, they came armed.

  But rather than battle the temple of Kynareth found kinship. Like me, most of them prefered to walk the woodlands than cower behind city walls, Kyne's winds and wisdom are found in her sacred glades, not the cobbled streets of civilization. I did not wander alone any longer, the Kynrathi priestess, Lyris, followed. I served as an escort and guard as she made her pilgrimage to the monuments of ancient heroes, Doomstones and sacred glades. And in return she imparted the wind mother's wisdom, taught me numbers and letters and the prayers and rituals to honor the Stormveil.

  Kynareth's temples are known for their knowledge of alchemy, curing diseases both common and maelific. But they have other powers, Kyne giving them dominion over the wilds, allowing them to calm and pacify the minds of beasts, even mine. And whilst there are times I would miss the thrill of the hunt, the dissaproving look in Lyris' eye was enough to keep me from it. At some point in our travels we switched from two tents to one, and it wasn't long before we started to share the same roll of furs too by the end of the year our path led not to sites of pilgrimage, but to the chapel of Mara.

  Seems it was an age ago since the wolf reared it's head, even when Masser was at it's peak. Whenever the rage bubbled up she was there with a word, a touch, a prayer to soothe it once more. It was Lyris who convinced me to come back here, to the Olde Kingdom. Build a house and settle down, the barbarian civilized, the wolf tamed. The only time she'd actually welcome back the wild was when the candles burnt low and she'd drag me to the bedroom.

  Domestic life has not always been as peacefull as I might make it seem. It is still Skyrim, wildlife, bandits, stormcloak soldiers passing through on their way to camps or battles. Local legends speak of a pale maiden haunting the crypts and barrows, the Hold's capital Dawnstar is whispered to be lingering under a curse. But to press, little more than stray wolves have troubled us. Peaceful enough for me to leave her be, to ride into Helcharchen for supplies before the long winter sets in.

  I knew on the ride back. Before I even got close to the cabin, I heard the wolf begin to growl at the back of my throat as it began to activate senses I hadn't used in years. Hairs on the back of my neck standing on end, the lack of familiar sounds, foreign scents on the wind, the stench of Orsimer. An empty cabin greeted me, bloodstain on the floorboards, Lyris' blood, not enough to be fatal but I didn't care. Tracks in the snow outside, heavy set feet heading East, two days old.

  She told me I wouldn't need these anymore, throw them away or sell them. I locked it all away instead, no matter how many arrows a Nord takes to the knee they're still Nords and no Nord would willingly give up their axe. They have two days headstart, three if they're on horseback but it's not enough to save them. Even if the snow covers their tracks their scent still lingers and tomorrow is a full moon, no man or horse can outrun the monster in the blood.

 And whoever waits at the end of that trail is going to remember why men used to fear the wrath of the North.

"Who needs the Thieve's Guild anyway?"

  The Pale. One of the oldest Holds of skyrim, settled by the sons of Ysgramor after the mythical five hundred landed their ships on the shores of the Sea of Ghosts and cleaved the elven natives from the land. Where the Reach is unwelcoming for it's crags and the savages that dwell within them, the Pale is inhospitable for it's climate. A barren realm where the weather itself is perhaps more challenging than the beasts that stalk it's white valleys, occaisionally one finds worked timbers jutting from the frosts, the remnants of failed settlements that were once founded here and lost their battle with the blizzards, older attempts at civilization have long since faded, entire hamlets and villages swallowed by the snows, leaving no sign of their former prescence. Only three are known to my maps, Heljarchen, the capital Dawnstar and a lone lumbermill continue to struggle against the relentless winters.

  The ancients perhaps fared better, whilst their civilizations have long since passed, the collosal structures they built still dot the landscape, monuments and monoliths, tombs, cairns and barrows stubbornly poke from the snow to proclaim the grandeur of the kings and cults that ordered their building. Abandoned now of course, home only to dusty bones, Sabrecats, trolls and ice serpents that prey upon what few travellers brave the roads and when such souls are in short supply, upon each other. Riding through this cold and frigid terrain, I expected to see little, endless snow and things made out of snow, broken on occaision by whitecapped ruins. And so the sight that lay before me as I tugged upon the reigns and urged Magnus' slow plodding steps around a snowdrift, caught me entirely off guard and questioning whether the cold had bitten it's way through and started to eat it's way into my senses.

  Beneath the drift, nestled in a hollow carved from the rock by centuries of repeated assaults from the frigid wind was a scene entirely out of place for this cold wilderness. A long table of oiled wood and draped with ornate cloth, more at home in the palaces of kings and Yarls than this frigid backwater. Laid upon it was exquisitely cast silverware, plates, platters and bowls, piled high with fresh fruits and meats still steaming as if cooked and served mere moments ago. Pitchers and goblets of spiced wines lay beside cutlery and in the center a sculpture of a harp. It looked as if places had been set for at least a dozen guests, yet only two souls were present, a man and his dog.

  It was only as I reigned Magnus closer that I could see that it was no man. Physically he appeared to be a mer, a Bosmer perhaps, yet on closer inspection he resembled more and more the Sprite of Ivarstead. tanned flesh covered with inks, swirls, patterns and runes I did not recognise, a pair of antlers crowning his head. Like Sunberry, his face was a picture of joy, a smile and eyes full of mirth as he poured himself another goblet of wine, downed it in one and then burst into song once more. His hound seemed none too impressed with his antics, nor with my approach, throwing a cursory glance and returning to it's lazy slouch.

  "About time!"  He bellowed as I approached. "We've been waiting for you, the mulled wine is almost cold." His voice was jovial, but booming, echoing around the hollow and out across the snowfields.
"Who...What, are you?" I asked as I left magnus to trot away.
"Who am I???" A look of mock displeasure crossed his features. "Has even Highrock fallen so low they don't remember me? I who taught your kin their stories, taught them to sing and dance?" He stopped to slosh more wine into the tankard and proffered it to me, shrugging when I waved it away and draining it himself.
"I am Y'ffre. Storyteller of the forests, and the hound is Vigilance, greatest hunting and drinking companion a man could have, or an aedra for that matter. Enchanted to meet you." With a flourish of his hand he bowed low, the playful smile never leaving his lips. "And you, our sister broke the mold with you hmms? I don't think I've seen such a finely crafted mortal since the Interregnum."

  Y'ffre, Jephre in some lands, the singer, the storyteller, god of song and forest, spirit of the Now. Worshipped primarily in the Valenwood where the Bosmer credit him for creation of "the Green" all forest life from the humblest of grasses to the giagantuan graht-oaks, along with their own people and forming the pact between them. He has his places in Highrock also, brought to that land by the Dirreni. In contrast to the Woodelves who worship him for his wilderness aspects, in the Highrock his followers mostly dwell in cosmopoliton areas, Bards of Shornhelm and Stormhaven in particular, though he also finds the occaisional knights, wishing their deeds will be remembered or immortalised in song and saga.

  "The god of the green, here, of all places?" The being had me intrigued, but still somewhat suspicious.
"Sceptics, phah! Why not here?" He pulled a heroic pose and gestured to himself. "Is it because I wear this, admittedly, rather handsome form? Should I have appeared to you as an indrik? perhaps song, or a whistle through the trees?"
"Fine, then why here?"
"Waiting for you of course. We expected you sooner, perhaps you would have been sooner if you hadn't stopped at every tavern to trifle with every stud and strumpet to batt their eyes at you." He gave a chuckle and a sly wink. "You aided Sunberry, I thought it only right we repay the favour, hence, this." He gestured to the banquet laden table, indicating I should sit. "Vigilance's idea, I was pondering what to get you, he said it was a long journey and you would likely be hungry and tired. Smart hound that one."

  He was right about the hunger, those taverns had slowly dissipated the further north we ventured, ceasing to appear at all once we had passed Heljarchen. The banquet laid before me was mouth watering, given the mischievousness of these spirits I half expected the food to be illusiory but the first bite put that theory to rest, the meats were succulent, venison, fowl, basted in honeyed meads, vegetables and fruits and enough wine to drown even the Alik'r. There were kings in Evermore that did not dine so fine as this. I dined heartily, all the while wondering at my strange host and his connection, to the dryad of Ivarstead. For his part he offered no answers, instead strumming upon a lute and accompanying it with song. His voice was beautiful, some of his ballads I recognised, others were alien, all were mesmerising.

  "Had your fill?" He asked, setting his harp aside. "Good, Sunberry would give me endless headaches if I left you unsatisfied. Still you haven't drunk to insensibility I hope. You will need all your wits when you reach your destination, dark things are waiting there."
"You know I travel to Dawnstar?" Suddenly interested once more I shook my head to try and clear the haze the wine had brought me and pay attention. "What are these dark things that dwell there, the cult?"
"This, I do not know, but there is a bleak pall over that port." He shook his head "It is a powerfull one if it can hide from even my sight, I suspect a wayward sibling. Be watchful"
"All the more reason I should press forward then." I pushed to my feet and gestured awkwardly to the table. "Thank you for...well, all this."
"So soon? You should not exert yourself so soon after dineing, especially not on a feast as magnificent as this." The man held up a hand, looking concerned for a moment then smiling once more. "Stay a while and rest it off, besides, perhaps there is more we can do for each other."
I could use the rest, and whatever malevolence hung over dawnstar, I'd be of little use thwarting it with my head so misty from over indulgence. "More? What do you have in mind?"
"Simple, a trade. I will grant you the blessing of Y'ffre. And you, can offer the blessing of sister Dibella."

 I'm not sure if it was the wine clouding my good judgement, or his mesmerizing smile and the intoxicating twinkle in his eyes, but I accepted his trade. The Nords say Dibella was a bed-wife to Sheor, I doubt any of her mortal followers have ever laid with a god. Not that I was convinced yet that this being was a divine, an aspect perhaps, an avatar,  or just another mischievous nature spirit of the forest. He certainly had more stamina than most mortal men. At some point I became aware of another participant, a rough tounge probing my hind, bringing another brief flashback of Sunberry and Amarok, but the thought had barely formed when he mounted and I was lost in the moment once more.

  At some point the being got to his feet and merely watched, still with that endlessly charming smile. "I can see you two are still enjoying yourselves. I'll leave you to it and find some more wine, hmm?" and with that he stalked off. The hound, Vigilance, seemed not to notice nor seemed to care. He continued to pant and pump, I continued to wail and murmur. Despite my dealings in the Rift, the feeling of a beast thrusting into my slits was still alien to me, and despite all the questions that went through my mind the first time, it was still a pleasurable experience.

  At some point the hound finished and pulled away. I remember little of the rest of the evening. I vaguely recollect Y'ffre returning, I recall far far more wine flowing between us, I'm sure there was more song and a hazy memory of the being unravelling a bedroll and laying me upon it, and after that, nothing. There was also nothing when I awoke. The god? Spirit? The being, and his hound were gone, as were the table and  the cookfires. The sculptre was absent, no discarded plates or winebottles, other than the bedroll I was wrapped in when I awoke, there was no sign any revelry had happened here at all, even footprints had dissapeared. The only other living soul in the vicinity was Magnus, standing dutifully, waiting for the journey to continue.

 Dawnstar was not so far from our stopover, a few hours ride perhaps, but we rode slowly along the roads. Not that the nights after effects had caught up with me, the alcoholic haze had lifted and no hangover troubled me. Mostly I took my time to mull over the previous nights events. A mirage perhaps? Had the cold numbed me so much I had halucinated the whole affair or had I actually brushed, if even briefly, with the Divine?

  The thoughts vanished as I reached the capital. Whatever villainy Y'ffre had spoken of, there was no physical sign upon the town itself, no bleak fog or roiling mist. But the people, the people were certainly under some malaise. It almost seemed as if the after effects of my nights drinking had affected the townsfolk instead, they were moved sluggishly, heavy bags rimmed their eyes, guards at the gate struggled to stand to attention as I passed, a woodcutter, missed his mark, instead dropping his axe. As I dismounted and handed the reigns to a stableboy he stumbled toward the stables leading Magnus along with a yawn.

  The Tavern, the Windpeak Inn, was no better, the few souls within displaying the same slumberous lethargy I had seen outside. The bartender seemed to have trouble keeping himself upright, giving himself a pinch every time his shoulders began to slouch and his eyes droop. Only a small gathering by the bar seemed animated, two women and a Dunmer clad in robes. I could hear their raised voices, had they more energy it might even have been a heated argument, it at least was more audiable than the drugery and mutterings I had been greeted with so far in this town.

"Normal? It's a curse, an evil omen, it has to be..." The woman was distraught, her face was covered with the soot and dust, traces of a long shift in a mine, but the same weary look I had seen elsewhere haunted her eyes.
 "Please Fruki, calm yourself." The Dunmer placed a hand on her shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "The priesthood is doing all it can, in the meantime put your faith in the Divines and all will be well."
His words seemed to have the desired effect and the trio dispersed but the slow shake of his head and the rubbing of his eyes told me whatever troubles the town was having was putting a great deal of strain upon him. When he looked up more he peered right at me, then his gaze lowered and to the amulet at my neck and finally smiled.
"Mara be praised." He whispered with a sigh.

  I took a seat whilst the Dunmer gathered drinks, the bartender, "Thoring" I had learnt, had in his drowsiness spilt as much upon the counter as into the mugs. The Dunmer sat opposite and after taking a deep swig of his ale spoke once more.
"I'd given up hope any relief would come, thought that the other temples had all but turned a blind eye to Dawnstar's plight. And yet here you are." He set his tankard down and gave me a weary smile.
"Who are you and what happened here?" I took in the sleepy tavern once more then turned again to the Dunmer. "I heard talk of a curse."
"I am Erandur, priest of Mara. And a curse is their theory. From my investigations so far I fear the truth may be far worse." The priest sighed.
"What have you learnt?" I set my tankard down, the mead's warmth was welcome, but I had no wish to repeat the antics of the previous night.
"Their lack of sleep, the repeating nightmares. I believe the affliction Daedric in nature, likely the princess of dreams, Vaermina, and it emenates from the tower upon the hill."
I'd seen this tower as I approached the capital, and figured it was the lighthouse, perhaps once upon a time it was, I learnt newer structures now served that function, one above the town and one along the coast.
"I had hoped to return there, penetrate the place and put an end to this malady. But I fear I am not up to the task, and so I remained here, helplessly watching them suffer as I waited for aid."
"It is not the reason I came to Dawnstar." I put the tankard aside and pushed to my feet, buckling Hamal's blade back onto my belts. "But I cannot let this evil stand."
"Steel yourself then. And follow."

  The Tower of Dawn the locals named it, Erandur assured me it was but a short walk from the town. As we approached I could see that it was not simply a tower, once a whole fortress had stood here, broken ruins and collapsed walls littered the area around it, even stout imperial keeps it seemed, could not stand against the march of time and the merciless winters of the Pale. The interior was likewise ruined, dark and grim a pale blue mist swirled around our feet, there was a small makeshift shrine to mother Mara, no doubt Erandur's doing. Pews and benches were shattered and broken, strewn across the room, the entry was perhaps once a chapel, but no shrines or tapestries, no statues or carvings remained to identify the deity it was dedicated to.
 

"Come let me show what I believe to be the source of this corruption." The Dunmer lead me past the chapel, through doors I had previousy not seen and along stair cases winding into the fortress' depths, it seemed the tower stretched as far downwards into the earth as it did upwards towards the sky. Dust and debris lay everywhere, yet there were tell tale signs, recently opened wine bottles, plates of food still steaming against the cold, footprints in the dust, someone had been here recently. The dunmer beckoned me to follow and led me to a grate in the wall, from where we could see down into the center of the tower where some object was encased in power, the distance and the shimmering of it's shield made it difficult to make out, but Erandur filled me in on it's nature.

"Behold the Skull of Corruption." His voice was low, almost reverential. "The source of Dawnstar's woes."

The Dunmer stepped behind me and his voice lowered even further, taking on a more malevolent tone.
"And the closest you will ever get to it."
There was a thud and with that the world went black.

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

With thanks to Resdayn for special guest appearances,

and Vampire lady Alter Native, since browsing her blogs I came across a guide thingy she wrote that shaved

vast amounts of time from my shooting process. (Would probably shave off even more if'n Skyrim was not so adverse to alt-tabs)

We return to our regular scheduled programming soon-ish™. Putting a load order and new ENB in order to actually play rather than derp around shottings,

The Montalion shalt continue sometime thereafter.

❤️

Like the previous entry, this one was supposed to be a much much shorter tale for comical relief,

But a certain person prodded me about doing a thingy with them and convinced me to extend it to accomodate.

Thus it's been sliced in half, part two will follow Soon™

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The sweetness was turned to adamantine, heartless cruelty, and the purity to voluptuous wantonness." ¬Jack Steward, Bramstoker's Dracula

We Failed..."I" Failed.

  I arrived too late, all that remained were ashes and embers, empty hallways littered with broken urns, their treasures looted. The ancient dead, their usefullness as servitors for the vile cult spent they were simply cast aside, empty husks whose souls were now free to claw their way back to Sovenguard or taken, imprisoned in black crystals, for more nefarious purposes.And there in the main chamber left amidst the blood, mud and less pleasant liquids her captors spilt in their debauchery, Safia al-Rusa. Once daughter of a prominent family in Sentinel, graduate of the Rahni'Za school of warriors, agent of the Passion Dancer, now a lifeless corpse, twisted, broken and defiled.

  The road back to Markarth seemed longer than the road that lead me here, and yet it was without incident, neither beast or savage harried the paths, the usual visciousness of the Reach did not venture out this day to intrude in the lives of the faithfull. Even it's fog had abated, the cobbled road could be seen for as far as it stretched, free of the gloom that would hide ambush and horrors from those that would traverse it. Nor did it cloak the mountains, concealing the broken towers and tombs where the Forsworn would beat their wardrums and perform black and bloody rituals, the crags were naked of their mist, stone spires fully visible as they calwed at the skies. Skies that were blue, sunny, cheerfull, either the Dibella did not notice her fallen or did not care, either way the heavens did not weep. It could almost be considered a pleasant day, an enjoyable ride through the hills, were the sad corpse thrown across the back of Magnus' saddle not a constant reminder.

  The priest of Arkay, brother Ikard, had not yet returned from his sojourn to Reachcliff cavern and so mother Hamal performed the funery rites. Between forsworn in the hills, insurgents in the city and the civil war, corpses passed through the streets in a constant steady stream and were no longer paid any heed, and so being a relative newcomer to the city, few knew of the fallen sister, and fewer still came to mourn her passing. The interment was short and somber. The sisterhood removed themselves to the sanctumm to raise a tankard. Nords, they commemorate everything with drink, a successful hunt, a comming of age, a battle, a defeat, a death, anything can be an excuse to break open the kegs.

  I left them to their revelry to instead stalk the bookshelves where I soon learned of the Nord's second failing, records. The temple library consisted of a mere two ill kept bookshelves and little in the way of literary knowledge. Frostlanders keep their histories in song and saga, with the exception of a few luminaries such as Shalidor, there were less than a handfull of notable nordic authors. Nords don't have libraries, they have Bards. I found myself yearning for the grand cathedrals I had left in Wayrest and Bankorai, sprawling studies and bibliotheca with wall after wall of tomes containing everything from travel logs and copied journals, to prayer books and genologies and of course, being temples of the lady, intricately illustrated texts on erotic instruction, often taken from their shelves and read with quiet giggles by novices.

  These shelves lacked all of these, most of them had instead been given over to storage of random clutter, potions, oils and ointments, tools other odds and ends the sisters used for ritual then haphazedley stashed away. Perhaps most importantly they were devoid of the items I sought most, bestiaries, daedrologies, tomes detailing enemies of the faith. Pushing aside another book of bawdry poetry and letting out another sigh of frustration as I rescanned the shelves for anything usefull. The sect behind our newest sorrow must be brought to heel and purged from Tamriel, but to find them I would need knowledge. The order of the Hour or the Knighs of the Circle, would no doubt have entire vaults dedicated to the subject, but as far as I knew neither kept chapterhouse in the North.

  "But Stendarr does."
I had not heard the elder enter the room, slipping beside me to peer at the sorry state of the shelves.
"The witchhunters of Stendarr's Vigil keep a Hall in the North, from there they march forth to harass the populace, seeing Necrology in every shadow and Daedra in every broom cuboard." Her usual shrill shrieking tone that would send novices and suplicants alike scrambling was hoarse, cracked and broken as she peered to me and gave a roll of her eyes, shaking her head and setting her tankard down.
"I always thought them foolish. The Oblivion crisis was over long long ago, they're still trying to fight a war that has already passed and looking for an enemy that no longer exists. But they will have what you seek."

  She stalked to a cabinet and slipped from her robes a key, rusty and time worn, clinking open the doors and removing from it a large roll of cloth, unraveling it to reveal a finely crafted blade, it's edges shimmering in the candlelight, she held it aloft before proffering it to me.
"Hrmphs! Don't give me that look, I wasn't always a grouching old dragon. I stood in your shoes once, full of fire and vigor, of course, I filled out a bra better." It was only a slight break in her stern visage, if I had blinked I'd probably have missed her lips twitching into a smirk and the sly wink before they settled once more into a mirthless counternance. "When I was ordained a knight of the Lily at her Lady's chantry in Anvil the primate granted me that blade. It ended more threats to the faith than you've had virgins, it might as well do so again."
"What do you ask of me Mother?"
"It's a long road to the Pale, but Stendarr's fanatics are the most likely to have knowledge of this cult. You will go and learn what you can of our enemy and then return swiftly, that we may put them to the pyre"

  I unclipped my own blade and set it aside, buckling on Hamal's in it's place.  "I will leave at first light and see it done."
I turned to leave and find my quarters when her voice stopped me once more.
"Tread carefully Montalion. The Vigilants are zealous, fanatic, many of them are rabid in their haste to stomp out the profane." Her familliar shrill tongue had returned, her distaste for the temple of stendar clear in her scathing tone. "When you dedicate yourself to your cause by any means necessary, any means neccessary can mean justifying some extreme things." She began to walk away, back to the sanctum doors where the laughter of the sisters as they told yet another tale could be heard echoing from the stone. "Be sure the woman that comes back to us is the the same one we sent out."

  Hamal spoke truthfully. The road to Dawnstar was indeed long, made longer by the route I had planned, consulting maps and the Legionaires stationed in the great Understone keep, rather than a direct path to the Hold I charted a course that wound through the province, sidestepping known areas of trouble, bandit encampments and sites where the Civil war still raged. Whilst extending the journey would cost me perhaps a month extra on horseback, it did mean I could take in more of the vast landscape. The colossal tundra of whiterun, miles and miles of miles and miles, a vast sea of grass that seemed to extend for an eternity, broken only occaisionally for some ancient monument to deeds and events long forgotten to the ages. The snowcapped Throat of the World, titanic in size, dwarfing the White-Gold and Adamantite tower of Balfiera both, looming over the winding mountain trails where the holds of Whiterun Falkreath and the Rift met. And the Rift it'self, it's leaves the colour of dried blood and rust, as though the forest were eternally locked in autumn.

  The paths we took, thankfully, remained uneventfull. Not that I was naieve enough to believe these realms peaceful, the Reach may be the most grim and forboding of the Nine holds, but darkness and savagery will hide in all corners of the world. But none  harassed my progress, short of a few wolves the greatest danger on the journey was tedium. When the sun rose Magnus was saddled and we progressed, when it fell we slept, either in makeshift campsites or in warm rented rooms. Inns and taverns dotted the landscape, seated upon busy crossroads or important traderoutes and in these places the discomforts of the long days ride could be eased. After all, each of them had strapping young men or delicious damsels, several lonely souls who needed the goddesses' touch as much as I needed to allieviate days and weeks worth of aches the saddle could inflict on one's crotch.

  It was only upon reaching the small hamlet of Ivarstead that cycle of tedium and lusty delights was broken. Nestled at the foot of the mountain at the edge of the Rift's great Fall forest, a handful of timber houses built around an aged barrow, known mostly as a supply stop for pilgrims on their way to meditate at the reknowned Seven Thousand Steps, but otherwise unremarkable. I expected such a place to be as quiet and sleepy as the countless others I had passed through, yet as Magnus trotted towards the bridge over lake Honrich a scream pierced the air, snapping me from my idle reverie to dig my heels into Magnus' sides, urging him to press forwards toward the source. A man, eyes wide with terror scrambling towards the bridge and beyond him, the source of his horror.

  A spectre reared behind the man. A withered wretch, the remains of it's dress tattered and sunscorched, it's features rotten and hollow, stained with filth and gore, and around it's brow a crown of woven brambles and withered flowers, a mockery of the wreaths a comely maiden might wear. Perhaps once it had been a woman, but now it was a repungant abomination, Hamal's blade slipped from it's sheathe as I advanced, but she was faster, unearthly fast. The apparition let out another scream, a howl that could stop a man's heart and freeze his blood in his veins, it was all it took for the man to falter in his flight, stumbling on the cobbles and she was upon him. A heart beat, a blink of an eye and he was gone, her mere touch seemed to sap him, his limbs atrophied in seconds he threw his head back to let out a cry but no sound came, his visage shrivelled and his face became locked in that last desperate look of horror. The abberation abbruptly dropped him to the ground and lifted it's decayed head to glare at me and then, she was gone.

  The remains lay where she unceremoniously cast him aside. Parched and dessicated, as if she had ripped the very life from him, eye sockets and lips blackened and scorched, his clothing burnt away and the flesh where she touched him seared away exposing his bones. It looked as though a man that had expired mere moments ago had been dead for decades. Of his assailant there was no sign, the spirit had vanished into Aetherius leaving no trace, no trails or sign of her passing but the hapless nord she had ravaged. The rest of the street was empty and silent as I had expected it to be when I arrived, a silence suddenly broken by the latching of bolts, the rattle of chains and a creak as a door cautiously opened a crack and a worried, dishevelled head peered out into road. followed by a frantic whispering.

"Psst, you! Quickly, in here before it returns."

  He opened the door wide enough for me to shuffle inside then immediately slammed it shut once more, latching his bolts back into place, I had my doubts that locks, chains and deadbolts would halt the creature's progress should it want entry, but I kept my silence, it obviously makes him feel safe, and if he feels safe, he'll be calm enough to talk. I appeared to be in a tavern, much like the many I had enjoyed on the road here, not as well kept perhaps, but serviceable, larger than I'd expect for a hamlet this size, probably extra space to cater for the pilgrims. Few other souls were gathered within. A man with gritted teeth, sat alone clutching his cup, obviously shaken, a barwench, trying to keep busy sweeping the floors but the grip she kept on her broom and her shaking hands betrayed her nervousness. And the man that ushered me in, now heading to the bar counter where he procured a bottle and proceeded to pour a tankard, sliding it to me before filling his own, lifting it briefly before draining it in one long mouthfull.

  "So it got Skagrim." He said topping up his tankard once more. "I told him. I TOLD HIM! Stay indoor, but no, probably thought he could sneak out catch a glimpse of Tembra or Fastred bathing, Idiot!!" He proffered the bottle at me again, I waved it away.
"You knew him?"
"Aye. Skagrim, Vanskyr and Hrorond. Used to be miners in a place called Soljund's, came into town months ago and took work at Temba's mill." Another drink, slower this time less frantic. "Rogueish scamps the three of them, always chasing the skirts, but harmless, good boys mostly. Or they were, Now both Vanskyr and Skagrim are gone, taken by it."
"What is "It?""
"The thing from the barrow. I told them, I told everybody. That place is haunted, it's always been haunted. But they all laughed, Wilhelm, spinning tales, trying to lure people to the "haunted tavern." pPyah! Look how many of them are laughing now." The man lifted an arm and gestured to his two patrons, sloshing alcohol on his counter with a scowl.
"Nobodie's been to investigate the Barrow?"
"No, nobody's been foolish enough, before the hauntings began Reyda used to go there, collecting herbs. She was the first to be taken by it. These days? Nobody veentures out unless they have to. Except Naarfi, but he's...."Different.""
"Who's Naarfi?"
"Naarfi is Reyda's brother. Harmless if a little eccentric, hasn't been the same since his parents passed, and once his sister was taken, well..." A pause, another drink. "He won't leave the remains of his house, no matter how much I urge him. So far It's left him alone, but it's a matter of time."
"I'm going to need a room." I dropped a small pouch of coin on the counter. "And a list of people the wraith has killed."

  "Reyda, Reyda, Reyda." I'm not sure the innkeeper's description of "Different" was a strong enough term to describe the hermit. "I can't see you Reyda, why are you hiding? Hidey, hidey, hidey."
I found him in the ruin of his family home, a wreckage of timber and ash, I had my doubts the wraith had caused this devastation, did the fire happen before or after his family had died out and who caused it? I'd have to make a note to ask Wilhelm. Whatever had happened to this family, the man's mind was gone, dancing with Shegorath in the isles. His clothing, long neglected, was now rags, torn and tattered. Looking him over I couldn't detect any charms or wards, no amulets that might explain why the spectre choose to leave him be. Perhaps it feared his madness, or perhaps it simply took pity upon him, a lost soul as wretched as she was. Either way, with his mind in this state he was a dead end in my enquiries.

  Geirmund's Hall, Wilhelm's "Haunted Barrow". According to the innkeeper the source of the hauntings for generations, yet in the afternoon sun it looked peacefull, a serene island on lake Honrich. A cursory walk around the locale revealed no traces of the wraith's passing, clawmarks had been scrabbled in the ground in places several trees bore fould smelling stains but no signs of the scorching the fiend's touch brought, probably wolves frequenting the island marking their territory. The only sign I found that the island was visited at all by men was a woven basket, dropped haphazardly to the ground, spilling flowers and herbs, most of them now withered. The innkeeper had told me Reyda, the first victim. frequented this place to collect flowers and herbs. So the basket was hers and this is where she fell, but where was the corpse? I'd have to venture deeper, drawing my blade and entering into the barrow's cave entrance in search of answers

  Another ancient crypt, built to house the Nordic dead whilst they await the call to Sovengarde. If you believe the tavern boasting of adventurers and treasure hunters, every nordic tomb is a hive of walking dead and festering evil, the same claim can be heard in Cyrodil, Highrock, Alinor and any other realm where necropoli were built. Truth is far more mundane, most crypts are quiet somber graveyards, devoid of both life and unlife and perhaps more dissapointing to those same treasure hunters, devoid of riches. This barrow followed that pattern, no rattle of chains, no moans of shambling draugr, as far as I could tell there was no tampering with the crypts, the dead slept soundly and seemed content to remain that way. Despite the presence of yet more stains, their scent betraying that the wolves had wandered into the crypt at some point, and a number of large cobwebs, my exploration was not interrupted by beasts that might have laired within. Like the island's exterior, it seemed as though Geirmund's barrow had been almost free of trespass. Untill I found the corpse.

  Nord, female, somewhat young. Tethered to a plinth with worn leather binds, they didn't look like the work of the ancient nords, a newer addition to the crypt. She had curious runes scratched into the flesh around the collar and a number of other bruises and wounds but probably not what killed her. she was thin, too thin, gaunt face it's lips stained with dried blood, small teeth marks, human, dotted her arms at odd angles almost as if she'd made them herself. Starved to death, twisted her head around and tried to chew through her own arms to stave off her hunger. Her wrists were discoloured from the cuffs and her fingers bore dull the dull green stains of someone who'd been handling flora. Reyda then, the flower girl. I rose to my feet again, dusting off the dust and debris and simply stood peering at the sorry thing. The phantom hadn't killed her, even if she'd have had the tell tale marks where it's touch had seared her, I doubt the spectre would have gone to the trouble of chaining it's victim up and leaving her to expire from famine. Someone else was behind this.

  I left the gloom of the catacomb behind, more questions spinning their way through my mind. The tales of a haunted barrow kept most locals away from the isle, made it a perfect spot to ambush and kidnap the girl. Ivarstead was a small community, tiny really, that narrowed the list of subjects. Mulling through my thoughts I did not notice as she unfolded her arms and peeled herself away from her tree, a smile curved on her lips and brown eyes twinkling as she watched me. Her hair was grass-green, crowned with a pair of antlers. Her skin was a dull green patched in places with tree bark with dark veins visible, pulsing as she approached.

  "Curious, isn't it? Yes! Things of Flesh do not come here, do not like it's island, fear it. But not the Thing of Fire, no she is not afraid, much like the Thing of Flowers is it not? yes!." Her voice was cheerfull, but shifted in pitch constantly, soft as a gentle breeze then shrill as birdsong and back again. "Poor, poor thing of flowers."
"It's her isn't it? Reyda is the Wraith." I paced forwards, slowly, not gripping the hilt of my blade, but keeping my hand close. She didn't seem to be a threat, but I wasn't about to take chances.
"Curious, isn't it? Yes. Asks a question and then answers it." She paused in her steps and seated herself on a rock, still beaming her smile, arms swinging by her sides. "Yes. Poor Thing of Flowers is now a thing of sorrow." She peered past me to the cave entrance and her smile briefly broke into a frown.
"I'm assuming you weren't behind it. And I'm guessing you don't know who is?"
"No, she does not. The Thing of Flowers, she would come and visit, she would talk with the forest and she would sing. But then she cried, and the cries became screams. She screams still and her screams sicken the forest." The creature shook her head slowly and raised a hand gesturing around her.
"And you, what are you?"
"She is her." The creature nodded firmly then noticing my confusion burst into quiet giggles. "She is a thing of the forest, so are the others like her. The Thing of Flowers called her "Sunberry""
"Sunberry, that will do. You're a spriggan? A sylph maybe?"
"Spriggans, sylphs, sisters! All the same, all things of the forest. The mother of winds planted the seeds, they grew into the forest and they grew into things."

  There's a myriad of forest spirits, Stormhaven alone was home to at least a dozen, their demeanor's varied greatly, from cheerfull nypmhs and mischivious sprites to Spriggans and Neireids. Whatever manner of creature this one was, it seemed benevolent for the most part. She seated herself on a boulder and started to sing to herself though not in a tounge I recognised, a beautifull voice, it made me wonder what Reyda's voice sounded like when she came and they sung together. Reyda came here as she had done countless times before, yet this time she'd been waylaid and left to die, alone and in agony. A tragic end, and enough to keep her spirit here, angry and vengefull.
"Going to have to bury the body. And investigate the village, someone knows something." Musing to myself really, didn't realise I'd muttered aloud untill the creature spoke up.
"You should start with Amarok." She beamed her smile once more and hopped from her rock, arms swaying.
"Wilhelm never mentioned Amarok, who is he?"
"Amarok is what the Thing of Flowers called him when he'd come to the island to cool in the waters and leak all over the trees."
"The claw marks...sprite, wolves's can't talk."
"The Amarok can't speak in the tounge of the snowmen, so he can't tell the thing of fire things. But he comes to this island often, and he has eyes."
"How does that help us?" I raised a brow at her, suddenly curious once more.
"Come, she will show you!" She reached out to grab my wrist, tugging me along as she began to turn and prance through the forest.

  She entered the lake and submerged, appearing at the other side a short while later, I unhitched the small rowboat and took it in her direction. She lead me through the forest, still singing her merry tune as she skipped and traipsed effortlessly through the undergrowth. Occaisionally she would pause, dashing from her path to pluck up wild flowers, sprigs of grass or mushrooms, she seemed to know their locations almost by instinct, springing back into step and never pausing in her stride. Wildlife that would usually scamper into hiding as soon as there was so much of a hint of human intrusion paid us no heed, whether Sunberry was purposefully soothing them or if her mere prescence put forth a calming aura, I could not tell. Whilst deer, squirrels and rabbits gave us no more than a cursory glance, I wasn't prepared to take that chance with the wolf.

  The wolves' den was carved into a cliff, the great mountain of High Hrothgar looming overhead. The small grotto sat beside the river, fed from waterfalls leading down from the direction of Ivarstead and the mountainside, Nirnroot chimed along the banks, Sunberry stooped to snatch them up as she has so many other herbs along the way. It was probably a reliable source of fish, salmon serving to stave off hunger when the beasts hunts failed. That didn't seem to be an issue for them lately, I could see the carcase of deer and goats, along with the dry bones of other animals the bear had already picked clean. None of the remains looked human, but I imagine given a bad hunt and enough desperation that could change. I placed my hand on the blade's hilt, I've never been a hunter, but I knew enough that I could handle a wolf, both of them if need be.

  "I assume you have a plan? Some kind of forest magic?" I asked her as I crouched low, not wanting to alert the beasts to our presence just yet.
"Oh yes. she knows a mixture." She chuckled, patting the small sack of herbs she'd picked. "When it bubbles it will make Smoke, the Thing of Fire breathes this and she will see what Amarok has seen."
"We should get to it then, start mixing." I didn't take my eyes off the beasts, yet despite the situation, I couldn't be frustrated at Sunberry. Her constant smile and enthusiasm were infectious.
"Soon. She needs one more ingrediant, Amarok's liquid." She waved a hand at the wolf and nodded.
"You want me to get you it's blood?" I tightened my grip on the hilt once more, it was going to be a battle after all.
"Of course not!" She gave me a look of pure panic, horrified I'd even suggested it, flailing her hands in a circular motions whilst she tried to find the words. "His seeds!"
"Calm dow..wait what?" It was my turn to stare at her bewildered, my jaw flapping as I tried to form words. "His seed? How do you expect me to get that?"
"Copulation! Procreation!" I was speechless, my mind stunned  but she seemed entirely jubilant about the idea. "You mate with him of course."
"Sunberry...it's a wolf." I wanted to yell the words at her, but all I managed was a quiet hiss. "How?..Why?...What??"
"It is simple, the Thing of Flowers did it all the time."
"Reyda... Reyda laid with wolves?" My thoughts were reeling, this woodland spirit had gone from joy and cheeriness to utter madness.
"Not wolves, A wolf. Singular." She pointed at Freki. "And now you must, we need the seeds."

   I was still trying to process the fact that Reyda had lain with the beast, let alone that Sunberry now wanted ME to lay with the it. But She had already gripped my wrist once more and had started to drag me towards the lair, even as I started to form protests to stammer at her.
"Shhh. No loud noises. The Thing of Fire follows and watches, yes?"
Both Amarok and his fellow cainines had by now awoken, giving a quiet growl, a shake of the fur and pushing up onto all fours, watching the scene cautiously. As with the other woodland critters, they made no warnings or took effort to move, beyond a yawn, Amarok took no actions at all, clearly Sunberry's presence had a calming effect on the forests.
"Move slowly, yes? You will handle Amarok, she will occupy the other. Watch her carefully and do exactly as she does." Letting go of my wrists she turned, crouched, thrust out her hands and got onto all fours, lowering herself and lifting her rear.
"Now you. Yes, yes. Loose some cloth weaves and then do as she does."
I stood, somewhat limp and simply stared at the scene aghast, the creatures ears had perked up slightly, it lifted it's head and sniffed the air, suddenly curious. I began to question whether Sunberry was a creature of Kynareth or of Sheogorath, this was madness. Yet after a brief hesitation I found myself stripping away cloth and chain, clenching my teeth, biting into my lip and mimicing her, squatting down, crawling to all fours and assuming the same position the Sylph had.
"Good, now shake yes? entice him." She began to shake her rear, peering at the wolf, her firm round cheeks swinging back and forth to tantalise the beast. With a sigh I began to sway my own, she sent me a wink. "And now we wait."

  It was the snout first, hot breath on my posterior as he began to sniff, cold wet nose eventually pushing into my buttocks nudging the cheeks appart to investigate the scent more closely then moving down towards the mound snuffling at it. A quiet whine had me peering across to Sunberry, the wolf examing her somewhat more eager than Amarok, it had already begun to graze her with it's tounge, I could see her tense and arch her back, giving a small shudder with every touch. Either encouraged by his pack mate's example or simply to prove he was still the alpha, I soon felt Amarok push against me. His coarse tongue starting to rub against my crevice, nudging appart the folds to better lap at the soft flesh. I could already feel the heat fush into my cheeks and embarassing as it was to admit feeling arousal at the contact and as much as I tried to fight it, I couldn't help emulate the forest woman, giving involuntary shivvers of pleasure.
"More yes?" Sunberry's voice had me peer across, she'd shifted her body, coiling around to brush the wolf's fur and reach beneath him, taking his manhood first to her hands, then to her lips. "More yes. Need to encourage them to get what we needs." I heard her splutter between licks and slurps against it's prick.

  It's disturbing to admit how reluctant I was to break contact with Amarok, but eventually I turned myself to peer at him, trying to catch my breath and gather my thoughts. Thoughts that went something like this. "Are you doing this? It's done, you can stop this insanity. Do you want to stop this insanity? You want to continue. You NEED to continue." And that was that, before logic and reason could reassert themselves I found myself sliding beneath the hound, his cock now fully unsheathed and his sacks bulging I steeled myself and extended my tounge. Warm and slick and surprisingly tasty, Amarok pawing into the mud told me that it was as enjoyable to him as I was finding it, masaging his testicles as I moved up and down washing his member with my tongue, planting soft kisses against it's sticky surface. Dibella's faithfull have been accused of harlotry since time immemorial, but this? This was a new level of debauchery, this wouldn't be discussed in the cloistered halls with the other sisters.

  The sound of gasps and spluttering told me the nymph had already milked her quarry. I could hear the sensible voice in the back of my mind, wishing that her beast was the alpha so that we would now have the prize we sought and we could be done with this debauched absurdity, it was drowned out by a louder voice, one that was wanton and shameless and wanted no end to the depravity it was enjoying. Amarok was not going to give away his bounty as easily as his packmate had, pulling away from my lips he paced around me, I'd thought he'd lost interest and heard the quieter voice give a sigh of relief, the thought had barely formed when his weight landed upon my back, I could hear his hind legs scrabble for purchase against the ground as he sought to push aside my lower lips and impale me on his thick round member. The voices returned, one urging a prayer to Dibella for deliverance, the other offering a scream of delight, in the end I did neither instead scrunching my eyes shut and clenching my teeth as he entered, his bulbous tool expanding and then beginning it's assault.

  An initiate into the temples of Dibella see's a great many genatalia, all shapes and all sizes, those who go onto take their vows will taste and experience a great many more, with varying degrees of satisfaction. I wonder how many had experienced one such as this, and how many would admit to it? Rutting in the mud and dirt, it was at once horrifying and liberating, it was unlike any I had taken training as a novice, and unlike any I had trialed since. Amarok's girth alone allowed him to stretch my chasm further and lunge deeper than any man or mer had, and his vigor outstripped them all never once pausing in his violation of my chamber, nor did I imagine my own stamina been put to such purposes, the more he fucked I found myself fucking back.  Glancing to the nymph drenched in white filth and her companion his own piece still on display, the pair of them only furthering my lust, so much so that I found myself reaching for him wrapping my fingers around his organ and tugging him closer. As euphoric as Amarok's onslaught was, if this was to be my path to Oblivion, I wanted more and he obliged.

   If one hound felt divine, two was utterly rapturous, all thoughts and concerns evaporated, replaced with a frenzied delirium. All orrafices plundered and despoiled, first my lips, then my rump and sore yet still eager cunt. Involuntarily thrashing and wailing like a whore untill I could take no more,tensing and then releasing with a last shudder, I broke. Neither seemed to notice, neither seemed to care, both continued to pummel their throbbing lengths into both whoreholes. I was spent utterly, just a ragdoll to be speared for what seemed an eternity before they too threw their heads back letting loose unified howls of victory as they released a deluge of warm white cream building up inside and then exiting in sticky torrents down my thighs and across the floor.

  "If you listen closely, you can hear the mother of winds rejoicing!" The Nymph chirpped at me jubilantly whilst I gasped for breath. The beasts were spent and with a yawn, curled up once more to sleep. I wanted nothing more than to join them, dripping with sweat, mud and filth and leaking from the holes that had been so thoroughly used, the ravaging the beasts had given me, left me exhausted, every muscle in my body seemed to ache. Huddling into their warm fur to rest was more than tempting. Unlike the ever cheerfull Sunberry, I couldn't hear any celebrations on the winds. I doubted either Lady Kynareth or Dibella would be overjoyed at this outcome, Hircine perhaps, Sheograth likely, Sanquine absolutely, but I imagine the Divines hid their gaze in shame.
"I Assume we got what you needed." I asked her through ragged breaths, I didn't glance over at her, I still wasn't sure if my expression was one of humiliated or lusty triumph.
"She did! You are covered in it yes?" Sunberry chortled at me. "And the Thing of Fire got what she needed to did she not? Yes! Strenuous workout, sensual whines, rosey red cheeks. Does the Thing of Fire feel all warm and glowy?"
I didn't bother answering and instead just waved for her to collect her "Sample," then with some effort got to my feet and staggered to the river to bathe, the sooner I cleansed the smut and grime away the sooner I could hopefully forget this whole ordeal and see what new mischief the Nymph would inflict to discover what lead to Redya's sorry state.

  The last ingrediant for Sunberry's Mixture, would have to come from Reyda herself. Blood, hair, I was told it mattered not, just something to focus the beasts vision. The Nymph was visibly less chipper, becoming more and more nervous as we probed further from the surface and progressed through the crypt, trying to navigate the labyrinthine corridors and retrace my steps back to the tragic body. I was hoping that if we could identify who did this to her, the wraith would be pacified, but there was no room for chance, the body was going to need to be buried properly, both to set the spirit to rest and because leaving her here in this state was unconcscionable. A hamlet the size of Ivarstead would have no dedicated priest, I couldn't grant her Arkay's law, but what sanctifications Dibella could provide was hopefully enough.

  Sunberry put her unease at this place aside, or at least suppressed it and began her mix her concoction. A strange sight to watch, unlike most alchemists and herb women who'd carefully prepare their ingrediants and measure out precise dosages. Sunberry's blend seemed to be created haphazzardly, plucking handfulls of the herbs she'd gathered and simpley tossing them into the bowl as she pranced around it. Perhaps the strange jig she danced as she worked was just part of the forest magic, I had heard rumours of an elixir the blasphemous clerics of Vaermina would brew, it would take months to prepare, the ritual surrounding it as important as the complex alchemies, perhaps this was similar? And much like the vile daedric draught, the Nymph assured me this woodland mixture would allow us to see previous events through anothers eyes, albeit the eyes of a beast rather than a man or mer, much less reliable. I tried not to remind myself it was the same beast I had stretch my pussy a few hours prior, lest embarassment flushed to my cheeks once more, or worse a stirring between my thighs. I had no part in the ceremony and so instead I settled myself down and kept alert lest the spectre return to the place of it's demise and hamal's blade was required to fend it off.

  "The Mother of Winds, she see's all things." The Nymph sang at me. "Every tree, every leaf is her ears, every beast is her eyes, every breeze is her tongue. Now Come, breathe deeply."
Sunberry gestured across to me, urging me to push to my feet and pace over to inspect her work. If the nymph had created a witches brew it certainly looked the part, a pulsing green liquid, faintly glowing and billowing with smoke. Despite it's appearance, it did not smell foul, more a sweet mix of forrest fruits and herbs than eye of newt. And it was intoxicating, as soon as I peered into the bowl and the vapors hit me my eyes began to water, my throat felt like it was on fire causing me to throw my hands up and clasp it, vision blurred and the room started to spin.

 The crypt, the bound and broken Reyda, Snowberry and her brew all faded from view to be replaced with the fall forest, it's colours muted and hazy. I could hear the quiet noise of Amarok's heavy breathing and another sound, voices, male, several of them, and as the vision padded closer I saw them, one I recognised, the man on the road who had fallen to the wraith's touch, Wilhelm had identified him as Skagrim. Two others stood together in convosation as he approached.
"Hail Skagrim!" One lifted his hand in cheerfull greeting and beckoned his companion over. "You come to watch this fool too?"
"Hail Hrorond, what mischief is he up to now?"
"Phah! Fool found a journal and an old stick, now he thinks he's Shalidor himself." The pair stood together and observed the third man, clutching what looked like some sort of staff with a look of intense concentration on his face.
"We'll see who's laughing when hordes of Oblivion answer me. If I could just get it working."
"Give it up Vanskyr, you're more likely to summon splinters and a burst blood vessel than a daedroth." They burst into laughter at their compaion's expense. The man, apparently named Vanskyr wasn't giving up so easily though.
"Who want's a daedroth?" He made a series of gestures in the air then tried once more, aiming his staff at the ground to no effect. "Haven't you seen the fresco's at the temples? Shapely women with Dibella's curves and six tits to boot. Imagine what you could do with a woman like that serving you."
"No doubt six cunts too." Skagrim smirked, "Bet you wish you could summon yourself six dicks to match them, though from what I hear, one would be an improvement."

  "A curious image. But you are doing it wrong boy."A new voice, somehow I or Amarok smelt him before we heard him. Unlike the village boy's humble earthly smell the stranger's scent was...Wrong, fetid and foul. The trio seemed as surprised as I was at his arrival, whirling around to face him, startled. He was tall, robed and hooded in black with an ornate mask.
"Who goes there? Who are you?" Vanskyr recovered from his startled state and spoke up first.
"A friend." The stranger spread his arms out wide and gave a deep bow, whilst his mask concealed his face, for some reason I could picture a smile beneath it. "Perhaps even a mentor."
"You? Mentor me?" This time it was Vanskyr that chuckled.
"You seek to contact the maidens of the swirling void? This sorry shaft of wood will not aid you with that task. But I?" The stranger shook his head and traced a symbol in the air, sparks of light began to circle his hands as dull flames becan to dance along his palms which he raised aloft for the group to observe. "I have studied in Winterhold, in the halls of the whispered college and the faculties of the Synod. I have probed the endless libraries of more..."Forgotten" academia. I know much of what you seek."
The villagers watched awestruck, taking a step back from the strange magician, save Vanskyr, suddenly emboldened by this display.
"You know why this staff doesn't work then?"
"It is depleted, empty, a hollow shell of dead oak." The stranger dismissed his magics and tilted his head to peer more closely at the nord boy. "And even if it were not so, they would not answer."
"Then how DO I get myself a daedric whore?" Vanskyr threw the staff aside in frustration and turned to face the magician once more.
"You haggle for them." The stranger explained calmly and upon seeing the nord's puzzled expression continued. "Conjuration is an exchange, a bargain. Like any market transaction, to gain Oblivion's favor, you need to give them what they want."
"And what do they want?" Vanskyr asked. I could not tell if it was desperation or fascination in his voice. The wolf who's eyes we borrowed had seemed to loose interest and turned to plod away through the forrest. As the vision faded I heard the stranger's words.
"Come closer and I shall tell you."

  The fall forest again, damp and wet, the wolf was on the shores of the lake. cooling itself in the waters. The sound of birds chirping and of a woman singing, a soft cheerfull voice, not beautifull but neither unpleasant and then another familiar face strolled into view carrying a basket full of flowers and herb clippings. Reyda. Fully clothed in white and not covered in dirt and blood. She looked a lot younger than I'd assumed, and beautiful. A girl like that would have rose quickly through the clergy in Dibella's temples, were she in Highrock, she could fetch a Wayrest duke's ransom as a dowry, it was hard to imagine that this spritely youthfull thing had wound up the sorry crumpled corpse I discovered in the crypt, much harder to picture her becomming the screaming spectre that benighted these woodlands.

  Her flower basket spilled to the floor and song broke off, suddenly replaced by a yelp as she was grabbed from behind. Hrorond.
"Got her!" His voice wavered as he struggled with the young maid. Tightening his grip he called out to his companions once more as they appeared. "You..you're sure about this, I mean.."
"You heard what he said." Vanskyr spat as he paced around to inspect their quarry. "An exchange, they want souls. The purer the better, and none of you've managed to knob this bitch. Bet her brother tried a few times though ehh? Crazy bastard. Speaking of, Skagrim, you taken care of him?"
"House is alight, they'll be busy fighting the blaze for hours." Skagrim muttered. He didn't seem to happy with the thought, nor did he seem pleased with their current situation, he didn't even look at the girl squirming in Hrorond's grasp, just paced past them and into the crypt.
"Well, lets get on with it then. I memorized the chant, going to have to come back every new moon and do it again. Bring her in." Vanskyr turned and began to follow after Skagrim.
"In there?"
"Where else? It's quiet, secluded." Vanskyr peered over his shoulder at his companion and gestured for him to follow. "No one ever comes here, Wilhelm has the entire town thinking it's haunted. WhoooooOOOooooo! Fucking scary!" He gave a cold chuckle then dissapeared into the depths, Vanskyr tailed after him not long after, the flailing Reyda in tow.
I did not see what happened next, I didn't need to, I'd seen the miserable corpse, "Every new moon" Vanskyr had said, did they forget about her? Or merely neglected her as they performed the stranger's cruel rite?. Amarok did not follow, as the vision faded he simply looked to the skies and let out a long mournful howl.

  As the darkness abated I found myself laid on the floor, blinking away the  to find Sunberry looming over me.
"Oh, it is alive isn't It? yes!" The Nymph chirpped as I pushed her away and tried to sit upright. "Did the Thing of Fire see things?"
"I saw enough. More than enough." I shook my head trying to clear the fuzzyness coulding my head, entering into the vision state had been sudden and somewhat alarming, coming out of it was slow and hazy, even adjusting to colours again rather than the muted hues of Freki's sight left a queasy feeling in my stomache and a faint buzzing in the back of my skull heralded a coming headache.
"Did she learn how to stop the Thing of Flowers howling?" Sunberry trilled whilst I sought to get to my feet and wobbled unsteadlily for a moment before finding my footing.
"I've a good idea how to put her to rest." I told her as I tried to recall all I could remember of spectres from the libraries back in High Rock. Either raised unwillingly by black necrologies or in Reyda's case, bound to the world by a violent, unjust death. She was seeking justice, but she was enraged. I'd watched Skagrim fall when I'd first arrived and Wilhelm had listed Hrorond amongst the previous victims, the others? Probably just had the misfortune to stumble into her path as she rampaged. Wilhelm hadn't mentioned Vanskyr though.
"Probably best if you weren't here for it." I gazed over at the woodland Nymph, She'd found her smile again, even in this place. "I don't think it's going to be pretty. And..ehh..Thankyou Sunberry. You were a great help in this." I tried not remind myself what I had to do to acquire that help, I'd process that some other time.
"The Thing of Fire is welcome isn't it? Yes!" She bounded across and gave my hair a ruffle, it was foolish, it was childish, and I could not help but chuckle. "Comes then, we leave yes? Sunberry will go and see what the willow tree is doing and the Thing of Fire does....hmmphs, whatever Things of Fire do!"

Once I knew who I was looking for, finding him was simple. And my activity would probably cause a problem in normal circumstances, but the fighting men had been drawn away by the war, Ivarstead found itself without guardsmen, the streets were empty of people who might ask awkward questions as I spirited the man from his bed and through the town. I'd cracked him over the head to ensure he remained in senseless slumber but he awoke on route to the isle and began to struggle and spout muffled protests through the sack, I gritted my teeth and ignored them, after what I had seen I had no sympathy no matter the pleadings, and even less mercy. It wasn't untill he was securely tethered in the same spot he'd restrained Reyda that I removed the hood from his head and he became audiable.
"Who are you? Where are we?" His spluttered questions fell on deaf ears whilst I tried remember  what I knew of spectres and how they hunted, Sound? Scent? "What are you doing?"
I gripped Hamal's sword by the blade and brought it's hilt down on his leg. I could hear the crack of a shattering bone even above his screams, hopefully she could too. His wailing eventually died to a sobbing whimper.
"Why?..Why are you doing this?" He begged.
"You wanted a maiden from the realms of spirit didn't you Vanskyr?" I meant it to sound intimidating but even I was surprised by how cold my tone was.
"Wha..how? Why..wha.."
"I'm just giving you what you wanted." I turned to walk away, leaving him to scream in the darkness as she had. "Luckily, she wants you too."

  Sunberry had picked the location. A quiet spot upon a hillside, overlooking the lake and the village she'd called home. A quaint funeral with a quainter attendance, Sunberry singing, Amarok and his wolf pack and with some effort I had managed to bring Naarfi from his ruined house. Whether he understood who was just buried or not, I could not say, but his babbling madness had for the moment ceased. For my part I performed the rites given to me by the priesthood. I'd stayed a few more nights to be sure, but the spirit had not been seen since Vanskyr had vanished from the village. I had to assume revenge and a hallowed burial had finally put her to rest. I did not think I could spare more time, I'd tarried too long already and my task lay in the frigid North, in The Pale Hold. And so I departed, first leaving Naarfi with his sister's necklace, and the hope that in time his mind would find peace.

  A quiet moment, they seem few and far between now. With a new Sybil enthroned in the sanctum the temple has become bustling once more. Pilgrims flock from distant cities to see the holy seer, The Markarth city watch come to recieve blessings before they march into the hills to cross swords with the godless savages that dwell there. Old men with "discreet" problems, too afeared to go to Bothela, the old native herbalist, lest she bewitch them. Young men and maidens, freshly come of age come for instruction, and occaisonally practice, in the passion dancer's arts.

  And then there are the applicants. The tale of the battle at Broken Towers traveled far and wide, how an adept of the Order of the Lily marched in to liberate the Goddesse's chosen oracle and put to flame the corruption of the primitive Forsworn. Warriors and sorcerors, Mercenaries and Mages, they come to the sanctum. Spurred on by bard's stories some wish merely to earn personal glory, to battle enemies of the faith and thus immortalise their deeds in song and saga, earn their place in the great Edda. Others, few others, are brought here by genuine faith, eager to lay their blades on her altar and take vows in her name. It's one of the latter that Mother Hamal interrupted my bathing to speak of. A shame, it was a quiet moment.

  Safia al-Rusa, a Redguard, born to a wealthy merchant dynasty in the city of Sentinel, her family had won great glory battling the Altmer during the long and brutal great war, she had expected to do likewise but by the time she had come of age and completed her training in the Rahni'Za school of warriors, that war had been fought to a standstill. Knowing she'd instead be married off to some withered merchant thrice her age to increase her father's wealth and influence, she wandered, untill she came to us. Wishing to be ordained and pledge her blades to the goddess.

  Her knowledge of the divine mysteries impressed many and her sword work was solid, Hamal had blessed her and welcomed her into the Sisterhood and I had her kneel and be ordained into the Order Militant, not a knighthood, she would need to travel to the Grand Cathedrals of Daggerfall, Anvil or the Imperial city for that, but an Novice Errant. She was young, shapely and beautiful, all qualities that the Lady of Love seeks, she was firey and headstrong, clashing wills with mother Hamal repeatedly. And very well versed in the bedroom arts, clashing tounges with me after lengthy training sessions in the arts of love and war.

  And now she was missing. A traveller came to the temple from Hroldan seeking the order's divine aid. Draugr, the embalmed dead of Skyrim, the majority of them are enshrined in ancient crypts dating back to the Merithic era, thus most of them date from a time before the pantheon of the Nine Divines was established here and were not subjected to blessings and rituals that would bind them to Arkay's law. That makes the old ruins and necropoli across the Fatherland's landscape a favorite haunt for necromancers and the dark powers. A tomb near Hroldan had awoken, and it's dead had begun to emerge and wander the countryside aimlessly. They had not yet assaulted the small tavern but many visitors had seen their distant forms shambling through the mist in the distance, and Eyedis sought a solution before they found their way to the lonely Inn.

  The undead are usually handled by the priesthood of Arkay, but Brother Verulus had been absent, a wanderer had already sought his services in clearing an infestation and sanctifying Reachcliff cavern. And thus Safia had taken up her blade and set forth for Hroldan, alone. An initiate should not travel alone, certainly not into dangers, much like the squire to a Knight they are to travel with a more experienced member, partly to reign in their excesses, partly to point out their mistakes and judge their performance. Senna however had allowed her to leave and now Mother Hamal feared the worst had come to pass, as did I. She was not ready.

  I am ready. 

Isabella and Hamal will be angered, but I am no child to be babysat and coddled. I am redguard, the blood of generations of Yokudan sword masters flows through my veins, graduate of the Rahni'za, I have walked the circles of Hunding and conquered. More than a match for any Nordic warrior and certainly a match for a shambling corpse. My steel is tempered and given weight by Moth gro-Bagol, a veteran of the legions now serving as a master smith in the keep of Understone. The edges silvered with ores hauled from Cidna, where the knaves and the villanous are turned to honest labour, and then blessed at her lady's altar to smash through rotten flesh and bone like the fist of Ebonarm himself.

  Faith shields my body and burns through my enemies with the force of a thousand suns, tearing profane sorceries from the dead and letting them rest once more, crumbling their heretical forms to ash and freeing their souls to ascend to Arkay's embrace. They retain little of their old knowledge of battle, or perhaps they never had any. Their ancestors came from old Atmora and purged the land of Mer in a tide of blood and murder, it is hard to believe these wretches are of the same lineage, has age atrophied their minds as well as their limbs? Or is the vile wizardry that makes them rise again simply not strong enough. It matters little, they pull themselves from their slumber and lurch forward, ragged throats trying to form words as they shamble forwards with jerky, almost insect like movements, only to fall, shattering under holy wrath. I need no accomplice here, no superiors, and when I return to the temple victorious my Isabella will be forced to accept me as equal. What could go...

...Wrong.

  I work with imbeciles. It seems I always work with imbeciles, first the College of Whispers, they claim to be free of the restrictions the Synod places over it's members, to plum depths of magic that most would consider forbidden, but they trembled just the same, afraid to delve to deeply. The independant college of this frigid waste, perhaps worse. Free of the politics that tear appart the institutions of Cyrodil, but not free of their own fears, so anxious, so concerned with what the primitive Nords think of them that they will barely cast more than a cantrip let alone rend aetherious asunder and learn the secrets of Magnus himself. And now this rabble, rogues and outcasts, the remnants of the great Worm Cult now bound together in my Pale Acadamy, pathetic what classes as a conjuror in this land. They find the girl and their first thought is to carve her for spare parts.

  After all I went through to bring her here. Travelling to that infernal stone city in the guise of a simple traveller who had been assaulted by the dead of this very crypt, pleading for aid. Shuddering when I stepped through the doors of that "Holy" temple, I should have known better, the spirits of Aetherius are powerless, Dibella did not strike me down with holy might, the harlot of the divines is impotent. But it was necessary, The temple recently took up arms against the forworn, if my own work here is to progress uninterrupted I cannot allow a house of painted strumpets to grow in power and influence. She was all too eager this cleric, so hasty to sally forth and take up arms against the foes of righteousness, and yet here she is bound and beaten. So much for Dibella's champion. Do you see her goddess? Can your eyes penetrate this tomb? Will you watch as she is defiled?

  She is delightful, how she struggles so feebly against her bonds, how she clenches her eyes shut and bites against her muzzle as she is entered over and over again, her muffled sobs and squeals as the circle takes her again and again. So much for Dibella's champion. Do you see her goddess? Can your eyes penetrate this tomb? Are you watching as she is defiled? That vicious stare through hatefilled eyes, smudged with tears, the rattle of her chains. But she is not done yet, she will provide entertainment for days, perhaps even months, perhaps eventually she will grow accustomed to it, is it not every Dibellan's wish to be a whore for their goddess? No she is not done yet, the circle may be spent for now, but there are other things to keep her holes ripe, she can satisfy the servitors.

  This is what the forsworn fear? The witchmen of the North now cower in their hovels because of this? A Sanctum of sluts. What did this little Redguard whore hit them with, flowers? Despicable, the conviction of the people in this land. When a chapter of the Vigilants or the Order of the Circle plants it's banners in the Reach, then perhaps I shall have reason to pause. But for now the Pale Academy will be the dominant force here. These necropoli, the constant skirmishes between the city and the Forsworn and the idiotic civil war will provide an ample supply of corpses to fuel the Worm's hunger. And with this whore in chains, to be used and abused as I see fit, who is left to challenge?

  The Reach. Much of Skyrim's geography is harsh, merciless, when not battling the creatures that lair in the North, citizens are wrestling with the very land itself and loosing that battle can prove deadly. But no hold is as forboding as the Reach. It's rocks eroded into sheer cliffs ready to drop the careless traveller to his doom. It's valleys are prowled by beasts their hunger driving them to hunt stray men as often as they do venison and game. It's mountains claw at the skies, broken only by Dwemer spires shrouded eternally in mist. And the few roads that snake through the jagged landscape are stalked by the Forsworn, godless savages always on the lookout for travellers to snatch away and sacrifice in bloody rituals to the dark powers.

  How does civilization exist in such a place? By the blessings of the Divines of course. The people of the Reach accepted the Lady of Love as their patron and from her temple in Markarth her passions burn away the gloom that life may claw an existance here. Yet even that has dimmed and the demeanor of the common folk has become as dour as their landscape. On entering our Blessed Lady's sanctum I recieved no welcome befitting a sworn sister of the cloth, indeed their greetings were sour and morose, almost angered that another had come to share in their despair. Only the native priestess Senna remained somewhat welcoming, if curt, and the novice Amelie, both intrigued at the arrival of a new sister, slithering around each other in a bid to captivate me. The temptresses both eager to test the newcomer's knowledge of Dibella's arts, something I shared with them gladly.

  The cause of their gloom was divulged to me when the Matriarch, Hamal, lead me into the cloisters. Like the rest of Markarth carved by the Dwemer, master artisans capable of great crafts yet with no love of the gods, favoring sideways logic, obscene reason and diabolic machines. It pleased me to see their blasphemous halls sanctified and turned to peity. The infernal devices of the deep folk had long fallen into disrepair and eventually ceased altogether leaving only heavy foot falls to shatter the eerie silence. And there she revealed to me the source of their woes. The seat of the oracle, and it stood vacant.

  The Sybil of Dibella, a prophetess, the faithful would say that she speaks with the voice of the goddess, spending their existance in communion with the blessed lady and passing on her visions and decrees. Chosen through a ceremony known as the Exhalted Protocol, remaining a virgin for their lifetime and serving their kingdom as expressions of the goddess' will. Markarth's Sybil had served for decades but age had eventually caught up with her and toppled her from her seat. Hamal believed the new vessel to be in the tiny mining village of Karthwastern, I resolved to seek out the new chosen in the hopes that with a new oracle to guide them the hold's malaise could be lifted, a vain hope perhaps, given the stubbornness of Nords. I left the sanctuary to gather supplies but my trek through those streets did little to lift a growing unease. Indeed, overhearing the gossip of the townsfolk, my unrest only grew further.

"Another gone, Yngfa this time. Folks woke up and found her bed empty, mother's beside herself with worry."

"Divines sake, have they sent the guard? Arranged a search party?"

"Of course they did, it was a Nord this time. Can't spare men to search for a native woman, but one of their own vanishes into the hills.."

" Vanished? Pffts. More like she's gone to some secret dalliance."

"That's what you said about Aera, and Idona. and neither of them's come home yet."

  Whilst restocking for the journey and turning half an ear to the rumour mongering of the citizenry I counted at least six missing girls, two of them mere childeren. All of them in similar circumstances, Bedded down for the night in their family home and all of them gone come sunrise, as if they had evaporated into thin air. The officials had all but turned a blind eye, believing the natives had simpley fled into the hills to join the Forsworn, only when the daughter of a prominent Thane followed the pattern did they sound the warhorn and comb the surrounding countrysides. I would consult with the sisterhood on my return and perhaps mount our own investigation. But first the Sybil must be found and before I departed there was the matter of the old one. It would be indecent to depart without first paying my respects.

  The hall of the dead was kept by Brother Verulus, and Imperial priest of Arkay, a young man that was growing old before his time dealing with the dilemmas plaguing Markarth, clashes between the city's soldiery and forsworn along with the Stormcloak uprising, ensured a steady flow of corpses overwhelming both the priest and the catacombs, he explained they had already been extended twice and feared a third cavity would need to be dug. As he lead me through the catacombs to the mother's resting place I thought his situation a shame, were it not for the troubles weighing on him and the vows he had taken to the lord of seasons he would be a fine catch for some maiden, young and strong and if not covered in the garb of office, considerably handsome. Whilst my mind drew arousing pictures of what lay beneath his robes I almost stumbled into him, he had stopped dead and dropped his torch in shock, I quickly banished the thoughts from my head before they turned blasphemous and leaned forwards to see what had startled him and drew in a sharp breath.

  The Sybil had passed not four days before my arrival through the mountains, Veralus had already begun the embalming process and yet the corpse before us seemed to have been dead for decades. I expected a elderly woman, wizened even, but this was withered beyond recognition, looking more like some nightmarish ghoul than a servant of the Divines. Her once kind features were contorted into a grimmace, rigor mortis had twisted her shape from a dignified sleeping position into a gnarled model of horror. Yet worse were the telltale signs upon her, her eyelids crusted with dried blood, lips pulled back giving her an expression of agony, her tongue withered and blackened. This woman had not passed peacefully of age as the sisterhood assumed when she was discovered, this had all the damning evidence of poison or black sorcery.

  The revalations in the Hall of the dead increased my worries and added more urgency to my task, there was more to Markarth's misery than mere coincidence, the Sybil had to be located swiftly. I had acquired a steed from the city's stables, Magnus, a magnificent stud, not the swiftest of beasts but they are bred for traversing the treacherous terrain of the Reach. Saddling him I set forth, Karthwastern was a mining town to the north of Markarth, one of many small communities that dotted the landscape here. As vicious as the crags could be they were also rich in minerals making mining the Reach's main industry and fuelling Markarth's ecconomy. The twisting paths that wound around the cliffs were quiet, almost peacefull, the echo of distant howls betrayed the presence of predators but none haunted the roads. It was only upon reaching the village I was reminded of the land's hardships once more.

  Karthwastern is an oddity in the reach, being one of the few tracts of land owned by a native rather than the Nords. Ainethach, the village hetman, explained to me the disturbances afflicting his community. Recent forsworn raids had drawn brutish sellswords to his lands, claiming protection whilst extorting him and his workers. Yet worse here I learned of more dissapearances, once again all young women, vexingly any one of them could be the one I sought. The native son of the Reach seemed to share my assumptions that these were more than simple kidnaps. I was told how the women had become morose in mood, several had began talking in their sleep or being afflicted by night terrors. During their waking hours they had been wistful, unresponsive when called, often caught gazing off into the distance with a vacant expression and murmering to themselves a childish rythme the words of which Ainethach never caught.

  This new information on the dissapearances along with the discovery in the hall of the dead only served to deepen my confidence that this was the work of dark magic. Due to it's jagged terrain space to settle in the Reach is limited, what little is not taken up by the miners is claimed by the heathens. Forsworn encampments are littered all throughout the hills and valleys, and though I could not be certain of their involvement, they were a start to my search. The pagans serve the princes of oblivion and in return are blessed with black powers, they'd also benefit from the chaos inflicted on the Nords. Finding which camp however, would be an issue. The Reachmen both here and in Bangkorai, split themselves into tribes, each with their own rituals, beliefs and each serving their own patron power. Which tribe would be behind the events here and where do they dwell? It was whilst pondering these questions that I saw her.

  A serving wench from the Silverblood inn. Hroki was the innkeeper's daughter, buxom and shapeley, she drew the lustfull attentions of many eyes in the city, mine included. Yet here she was walking the roads, alone, far from the city. Approaching her and calling out, she made no effort to stop when I hailed her, just continuing to wander her path with a sway of her hips. drawing closer I could hear her singing, a childlike rhyme in a language I did not know, her eyes were clamped shut as if sleeping. She was hexed, perhaps under the same spell that had led to the dissapearances of the other women. I began to follow, hoping she could lead me to the source of the enchantment. Her path was a long and winding one yet no man or beast appeared to hinder her progress and not once did she slow her step untill at last she came to an old abandoned fortress, pushing open it's rotten doors and sauntering inside.

  Once the Imperials had forts built all throughout the provinces, fully manned at strategic position to protect the populace or put down unrest. But with the opening of Dagon's gates the legions were recalled to Cyrodiil and the provinces left to fend for themselves, in the years that followed the crisis further events crippled the Empire, leaving many of their ancient forts empty, never to be reclaimed. Many fell into ruin, others were taken by villany, bandits, monsters and far worse things crawled into these keeps and infest them to this day. This one was no different, following in Hroki's steps the signs were everywhere, Forsworn. Imagery of the old Septim Empire now ravaged, decorated with skulls and other grisley decorations of their primitive culture. Old torture devices had been dragged from the dungeons and complimented with their own impliments of agony.

  The first sentries fell swiftly allowing me to explore their twisted occupation further and what I saw appalled me. Corpses in piles, devious machines of pain covered in blood from fresh use, cages where their captives had been held, beaten and broken. The further I ventured into their citadel the more vile the scenes became, the childeren, it appeared had simpley been slain, left in piles, ravaged occaisionally for the organs used in their sickening rituals. Those that had flowered into maidenhood I found bound and tethered, their captors still in the act of violating them. My anger could no longer be held in check, I moved in a frenzy, blade aflame with divine rage. This place had become an affront to all that was holy, it's inhabitants must be exterminated, their imagery and existances purged.

  When the celestial anger dissipitated I gasped for breath and surveyed the scene, scanning for even a twitching limb or still heaving chest, but all lay still. The cages, like the fortress, had long fallen to disrepair and decay, their locks collapsing into dust under repeated blows from the hilt of a sword. The women within seemed as terrified of me as their jailors, several had to be shaken untill sense returned and they attained a state of mind that could offer explanations. All were maidens that had heard the voice of the goddess, Dibella had told them they were destined to become her next Sybil, the Divine's song had called them, lead them to this place. Upon arriving the godless infidels had put them in chains, children they had slain, others they defiled, taking their first blood to remove their candidacy for her lady's chosen. The savages sought to deny Markarth it's Sybil, weakening it's divine protections that they could assault it once more. The Forsworn had been enchanted as much as the damsels, a witch had appeared and enthralled them inspiring a feirce loyalty, it was her song they had followed here.

  I bid them leave swiftly and took up the great blade once more and began to ascend the tower. I expected a hag, a wizened elder such as the Glenmoril covens or the Raven-crones, but instead I found a creature of beauty, young and shapely, were she not ashen covered in black runes, and wreathed in profane sorceries I would have mistook her for yet another hostage of this place. She made no movement as I approached, blade held high, ready to cleave this vile witch. She simpley smiled and then I heard it, the chant in my head that had enraptured so many others, it was exquisite, no creature so despicable should be able to voice a chorus so beautifull.

My grip on my blade began to loosen, I had to grit my teeth and steel my resolve calling on the goddess to block out her sacrilegious psalms, I would not fall under her sway. When she saw me regain controll and continue towards her the smile dissapeared and she let out a screech, it hit like a hurricane throwing me and everything nearby backwards across the room, there was such force I was suprised it did not take half the wall out and send her tower toppling.

  Struggling to my feet I saw her rear up, cloaked in icy blue flames as her body contorted and stretched, eyes glowing with hatred as new limbs sprouted and she took on new shapes. Her true form revealed the daedra lunged forward with a howl and battle was joined. She was fast, far faster than her gnarled form should have allowed, claws met blade, dark fires met holy light as we danced and whirled around the tower.  It's assault was relentless, there was barely time to catch a breath as soon as one flurry of talons was deflected another began, it became clear I was going to tire before the creature, I needed to find an flaw in her attack and swiftly. She gave me the opening I needed when she reared up once more and lifted all four arms to bring her claws crashing down, it was merely a split second but it was all that was needed for reflex to take over and drive the blade into her exposed neck swinging it back around in an arc to sunder the fiend's skull.

  Stepping away, panting, clawing for breath as it's serpintine tail gave it's final thrashes and fell limp. The fiend crumbled quickly burning away to ashes, not dead, they never die, they are hurled screaming back into the waters of Oblivion, those tides would eventually release it to be reborn in it's master's realm. Not dead, but for now banished, the Reach would be free of it's influence for some time. Investigating it's chamber revealed all manner of occult paraphernalia, tomes and arcane volumes, charms and alchemical tinctures and there in an alcove the statue of our lady, desecrated and splattered with blood and beside it a final cell. I knew before I even broke open the cage, I think the daedra knew also, that is why she was here, seperated from the other captives. Fjotra of Karthwastern, the child I sought. Thankfully unharmed and unviolated but somewhat shaken by the horrors she had seen here.

  It would be some time before she forgot those horrors. But she was the chosen of Dibella, when the sisterhood had prepared her for her role, she would have seen first hands the enemies of the faith. Likewise it would take some time for the divine's influence to reasert it's dominance over the Reach, time the Forsworn and other terrors would no doubt exploit. But for now the seat of the Oracle is occupied once more, and that is enough.

  Skyrim, The Old Kingdom, The Fatherland. It began here, not the family, they are of Olde High Rock and always have been. There have been Montalions at the Bjoulsae River since before the first foundation stone of Wayrest was laid and there will likely be long after it has crumbled to dust. And in that great bastion of the arts their claws are sunk into every aspect of society, from the merchant halls and trade floors, their banks and counting houses, from the underground dens of the thieves to the very courts of King Barynia himself. Tugging on the strings of society in their endless struggle with the Selenu, across the bay.

  No, not the family, the taint. The curse that spread from this cold hard land to infect every corner of Tamriel. The people of the North held belief in the constellations of stars or primitive worship of totem spirits. It was here that the most blessed of Arkay, the Nedic priestess Lamae Beolfag, walked the bring the lord of seasons' light to the savages of the North and bring them into the worship of the Divines. It was on these frosted roads that the wandering pilgrim was ambushed and assailed, not by brigands and beasts, but a hunger far far darker.

  The Maelific princedoms will ever war with the virtuous, turning the honest to villainy and the faithfull to debauchery, virtue to vice. And none are more persistant than the Fire-stone, Molag Bal, Lord of Schemes and Prince of Domination. Seeking to assault Arkay's temple and undo his influence upon the world, the virgin priestess was waylaid and savaged, brutally beaten and raped by the prince of rage and left to die in the crimson stained snow, a single drop of his blood the only sign of his passing through Mundus.

  It was the nomadic tribesmen that found her, broken and violated, and carried her to saftey. Though alchemy and sorcery were in their infancy amongst men they worked their primitive mixtures and rituals in a bid to revive the molested maiden and treat her wounds. Compassion turned to terror as those very wounds, marks that would cripple or slay a mortal man and leave him crossed with scars most hidious, vanished overnight. And yet she lay still, unmoving, unbreathing, pale as the fresh fallen snow. Fearfull of dark sorcery a pyre was built and the virgin priestess laid upon it, Rituals were performed, rites incanted and dirges sung as it was lit.

  Arkay did not lift his chosen to Aetherius that day, perhaps the corruption of Molag obscured her from view, perhaps the rituals of primitive Nedes insulted him, for whatever reason, he turned away. We know the rest of the tale, Lamae awoke amidst the flames, dazed, confused and enraged. The nomads fell before her fury, women and childeren slaughtered indiscriminately , the men violated as savagely as she was. When the red thirst abated and senses returned, she stood amongst the dead she uttered a cry to the heavens, beseeching Arkay for aid and when no answer came forth she cursed the Divine and Molag Bal both and strode into the land of mortals once more, spreading her taint to spite both the damned and divines.

  When her curse found it's way into High Rock and when our noble line fell before it, I do not know. Vampires of the Iliac Bay and other texts I have read in the years since suggest the Montalion line has been befouled since at least the third era, nor do I know when it found it's way into the veins of my immediate family. Ancient Elders had been taking the most promising members each generation, when they came for my parents and siblings I am not certain. I saw no signs when growing up in the old manor, I don't recall when the windows were barred and the curtains were finally closed, never noticed when their lives became nocturnal.

  I remember when I came of age and it was my turn to bathe in the blood of Lamae, recoiling in horror when they revealed themselves for what they had become. All the hours studying with the scribes, all the days at court, all the jousts and tourneys, none of this was to prepare for knighthood, merely to give the clan's elders another pawn in their endless games. I remember fleeing, persued by the servants, by blackened hounds and more indescribeable horrors, twisted creatures that even the most crazed and depraved of the isles could not conceive in fevered dream, yet somehow were given form and loosed to writhe over Lorkhan's corpse. For days upon days I ran, I do not remember when or even if their hunt ever turned from my trail.

  Perhaps they thought me dead, the priesthood certainly did when I burst into the sanctum, beaten and bloodied. Old legends say that the blood of Lamae cannot enter into holy ground but old proofs put the lie to that myth. Indeed several Balspawn have not only entered but infiltrated the holy orders entirely, Movarth Piquine's notorious penetration of the Order of the Circle is well recorded in the tome, Immortal Blood. But none of the Montalion hunting hounds darkened the door of her Ladyship's temple and so it became my sanctuary.

  Arkay's order of the circle would have perhaps been a better choice for one who has seen the darkness and wishes to end it, or the Vigilants of Stendar. Likely I would have chosen either, that I came into this one was mere chance, it was the first chantry of the divines I stumbled into on my flight. And years of my life were spent within it's walls. When I became sure I was no longer looked for I would venture out with the sisters and take the Passion Dancer's message to the masses, elsewise I would study within it's grand library, arming myself with knowledge of her foes. Eventually I was ordained, a cleric of the Order of the Lily and when I returned to my ancestral home, it was I that was the cause of fear.

  I grew up with these people, I had known them since I was a child, the servants, the nursemaids, the knights that patrolled the estate. I should have felt something, heartbreak, despair, but there was no emotion other than rage, a cold wrath that the world I had known was a lie and that our name was not only tainted but had been for centuries, perhaps millenia. Even as my father fell before the blessed blade and I sifted through his ashes, there was only apathy.

  Of my mother, my siblings, there was no sign. How long they had been absent from our ancestral domain I could not discern, the order swept the demense entirely, clearing room after room of abomination , discovering some hidden chambers that even I, after spending half a lifetime within these walls, did not know of. I sat and watched as it burned, a childhood reduced to ashes and embers in a matter of hours, by the time Arkay's light lit the sky not even that remained, only a collum of black smoke marked the site. But it was not over, Mirabelle and Arnaud still stalk the night, a mother and brother I had loved still tainted our name. And so I wandered the realms, spreading the Lady's blessings and ending the evils that plagued her people, always seeking, always hunting even a trace of a cursed family.

Which brings us here. To skyrim, The Old Kingdom, the Fatherland. Where it all began.

So Isabella Montalion, who is totes not French honest.

and since I was lookin' at new mods and checkin' load order buggerups, I shot lewd bits, so yeah, here.

O'course, whilst shooting that and zapping mod conflicts. It occured to me I'd never gone the other direction either, I'd never made an actual truley evil bugger. I'd never actually finished the Dark Bro'hood, I'd never joined the Volikhar. Between the Vampires, the brotherhood, gods know how many daedric princes and of course this is lovers lab, knowin' the mods on here there's plenty o' room for corruption.

So now Imma torn. Do I want Good or Evils? Light or dark? Deus Vult or the endless night?

this is prolly why I've never actually got so far as to kill Alduin :3

  I still remember my first lute. It was a rare prize, not that the bosmer don't have music, song and dance, every village has it's musicians and every household knows the old songs, but the greenpact forbids the cutting of trees, and thus instruments were an uncommon sight. This one made it's way into my hands from distant Daggerfall. an ensemble of jugglers, acrobats and troubadors, hadd made a small fortune carrying Breton culture and song to Silvenar and now they intended to travel to Falinesti to repeat the performance. Sadly they stopped over in Black Park, where the Silver Crescents made their home, and thus found themselves leaving far less jovial and far far less wealthy.

  Not long after acquiring this treasure I met the lady Larenia of Longvale, a songstress that had charmed the entire Dominion. Welcome in any hall or wizards tower, from from Elden Root to Senchal, from Dune to Sunhold, they said her beauty was such that Aldmeri nobles would offer their entire estates just to spend one night with her and that her voice could split Aetherius asunder and make Dibella herself weep. It was Larenia who changed me, from Siriel of Meadow Run, to the Siren of Silvenar and it is from her that I learnt the most important lesson of being a bard, it is not about musical ability, the quality of your instrument or your vocals, it is about attitude. If you want to be treated like an Empress, act like an Empress.

  So, if I was going to enter Skyrim it would be a grand entrance, it wouldn't be as a rag tag thief, it would be as the wealthy, talented and irresistably beautiful Siren of Silvenar. Talent and beauty I already have, what I need is wealth. Know who has wealth in Bruma? Count Decilus Carvain, both in his private treasury vault and in the age old Carvain family obsession, the Akaviri collection. The Akavir collection has already vanished, taken by a Breton thief, he's on my list details to take care of before I leave the province, as for the vault, it will do more good in my pockets than neglected  in a cold dusty room. So a heist then.

  The last heist I was involved in took place on the Gold Coast and went sour quickly, Umbranox was waiting for us which means someone sold us out, that's what happens when you rely on others instead of your own skill. You'd think the more people you take on a job the more people to watch your back and the faster you work, that's false, the more people you take increases the things that could go wrong and increases the number of suspects that can betray you. Spent a solid two months in a cell, served as "Entertainment" for the Anvil city watch, but I've never found a lock on all of Tamriel that can keep me out OR keep me in. Snagged a key off an "Entertained" guard, wasn't sure which of our merry band sold us out and so I'd left all of them to rot in their cages and took my leave. This time, this time there will be no mistakes or backstabbings, this time I go in alone.

  Need to get into Skyrim to escape Cyrodiil, need wealth to get into Skyrim, need a heist to make wealth, vicious cycle. Thus why I'm prowling these mountains. The most important part of any heist is not the memorizing guard patrols, it's not the locks or the traps, it's the escape. The Imperials have the Pale Pass closed to travellers, the Nords being primitives, have gone to war with themselves and the empire doesn't want it spilling into the heartland, thus the border is locked down. But Imperials are fat and lazy and the mountains are vast, plenty of paths over them, plenty of paths under them, I just need to find one. Luckily, there's someone who can help with that.

  A former bandit of Thorina's Cutters, an unimaginative name for a criminal organisation but these Imperials have no humour, no flair and what little Style they do have they stole from the Altmer. "Mucky" Ovacca used to raid with them but now she's looking to go straight, repent to the Divines and lead an honest life. She also knows of a way past the border, a quieter way, Serpent's Trail. An old smuggling route used to take skooma and other contraband into the North, perfect, of course no criminal does anything for free. Occava's being persued, a group's been sent to track her down and make sure she "retires". Seems Thorina isn't happy about turncoats, given my time in Anvil I wouldn't be either, but this one has something I need.

  Which brought us here. I'm not sure why City guards have such a hard time finding bandit camps, I've always found you can smell them long before you see them. This one belonged to "Retching" Cornelius, the man the cutters had sent to track down Ovacca. How he got his name, I did not ask, it's the kind of title that can fill your imagination with more horrors than the actual story. Judging from the scent of their campfires, I'm surprised more bandits aren't killed from food poisoning than a city watch sword. No matter, there was work to do.

  I'm not a warrior, if I have to do battle with a man I prefer it an unsuspecting one. A true thief prefers not to do battle at all, a corpse doesn't generate gold and bloodstains can be followed, we're happier when the guard aren't knocking on our doors asking awkward questions on where we were when Nibs the Nibenese had his misadventure, but sometimes there's no choice. A bandit never feels like murder though, there's a difference between senselessly carving a red slit over a sleeping merchant's throat and putting down some savage on the highways. Most folks would lump us in the same basket, but the bandit is not brother to the Fox, there's no skill to brigandry, no art, no passion. And so there's no sense of guilt when Cornelius' eye's flicker and roll skywards as he dropped his hammer and slid from the blade.

  Arms were numb, combat does that to you, another reason to avoid it, dancing around a maniac with a giant hammer, the dodges and feints, the deflections, will wear you down eventually. Every muscle ached and I was covered in blood but I couldn't tell if it was mine or their's, if I'd taken a wound I couldn't feel it. A rag taken from the bandit's tent cleaned the dagger back to a shine but the rest of was going to take some extra effort. I don't mind it, the smell of sweat mingled with blood and mud, City folk hate it but to a Bosmer that's just the country side, it is nature, it is how the world should be and how it was before they built their towers and walls everywhere. Still it wasn't going to make the right impression going back to the city in this state, luckily,  the river was nearby.

  A cavern overhang by the falls provided perfect cover, room enough to build a fire to dry off again and perhaps cook game, sheltered from the wind enough for a comfortable slumber and out of sight of anyone that might want to catch sight of a bathing siren. Not that I'm prude, all women want to be admired, but if eyes are going to roam over your curves they might as well look their best, clean and glistening, smelling of wildflowers. Despite the appearance of some in the Imperial Province, soap is not hard to come by, fat taken from any beast, boiled with salt and fragranced with flowers or berries, it doesn't take a psijic alchemist. And so peeling off my garments and leaving them aside the fire I stepped into the icy current.

  It was not the heated waters of the Jeral Bath house, but it was enough, Each wipe and caked mud slopped away, falling into the waters with a splash before being carried away down stream. As knots and debris were pulled from my hair I started to look like a mer once more and not a monster, smelling of Dominica and Elderberries rather than blood and shit. Emerging from the waters with a flick of soaked hair, I felt the gaze before I saw him, sat on the banks, head tilted, watching curious.

  Wary as I slinked out of the waters, but not feral. He made no move, made no sound, no warning growls or bared teeth, he just watched as I returned to the fire. The god's do not figure in my existence, but there are times it nags at me, guilt for not observing Y'ffre's pact. But devout or not the storyteller has not seen fit to take his gifts from me, the forest still sings, the winds still whisper and the beasts still listen. He was of the frosts, not of the forests, but the tongue is not so different, not enough for words, but certainly for intentions and feelings. He was young, he had no pack, he was alone, he'd been following a scent, whether prey or a mate I could not tell, he seemed to radiate confusion about the matter, and now he was curious about the dripping woman before him.

  Of course he was, I am Siriel Glaivesong, charmer of men and mer, When I pluck a harp string, people fall in love, when I smile, hearts break, when I swish past, trousers bulge a little more and maids blush with embarrassment at their suddenly damp knickers. Why not beasts also? We are kin, we're both born of Y'ffre's wilds and from my position seated aside the fire, I could see between his paws a slick red bulb slowly unsheathing. An imperial would give him a yell or a swift kick, I gave him a smile, tried to radiate warmthas I uncoiled myself, inviting him to come closer and see he was amongst friends, not threats.

  He made no challenge as I reached out to ruffle his hairs, didn't even make protest when my hands traveled beneath him, roving his fur to find his manhood. His sacks were large, heavy in my hands as I massaged them and his prick was soft, slick and warm, lowered myself for a better view as I squeezed and tugged at him, he let out little whimpers of pleasure telling me he enjoyed the attentions his privates were recieving. But just the sight of that thing brought hungry stirrings to me, touch was not enough, I wanted to taste it, HAD to taste it. Had to slither into position beneath him to bring my lips into contact, planting ravenous kisses along the shaft. Lashed him repeatedly with my tongue all the while clasping and massaging it, eventually bringing him to my lips to suck, gag and gurgle as it twitched in my throat.

  I'd tasted him, I assumed he'd want to return the gesture, and so he did, timidly nuzzling me untill he noticed I made no move to dissuade him, then he began a more eager exploration, first with his nose then with his tounge. That sensitive sense of smell led him to all the right places, muzzling my cheeks appart so he could swirl his tongue around the tight hole they hid from him, and then lower, tounge pushing aside my folds so he could lap merrily at the softer flesh. I've had tongues in my knickers before, but a man and mer can't compare to a cannine, the texture alone is more stimulating, and his eagerness ensured repeated shocks of pleasure ran up me to elict the occasional moan.

  He'd found something he liked and wasn't prepared to let go of it, I thought I'd have to put in effort for him to go further but all it took was a nod and a tap of my hand upon my leaking mound. He mounted slowly and somewhat clumbsily, paws on my shoulders, soft fur against my chest and his hot breath against my face, he struggled to find purchase and I remembered he was young, I was going to have to aid him, I licked my hand and reached under to grip his slick bulbous prick and guide it into place. His first pushes slow and deliberate, hesitant and unsure but once the feeling took him his hind legs began a much more rythmic pump, heavy ball sacks slapping against my thighs as he widened my fuckhole and pistoned himself inside.

  How do you describe that feeling? Many Bosmer know it well, but how do you put it into words that a man or mer of the North would understand?  His initial indecisive thrusts soon gave way to more confident rythmic strokes and those gave way again to a more furious assault. All his inexperience and hesitation was gone, replaced by pure animal instinct. I could feel his cock swell as it pushed deeper, determined to probe the entirety of this tight, damp ravine and fill every available space with hot red meat. When he began to slow I feared he'd spent himself already and peered down only to see he was fumbling for more firm footing. I unhooked myself from his knot and rolled over to a more familiar position, once again inviting him to take his place.

  The more stable ground helped us both and as he ressumed his barrage against my cunt I was bent on makeing him earn it. Tightening myself around his cock, trying to hold his meat in place and squeeze every last drop of pleasure from it. It had the desired effect, the more I resisted the more he pushed on, the harder I fucked back the deeper he plumbed and the more squeals of delight he pulled from me. I lost the battle before he did, he seemed to draw on endless reserves of stamina as he hammered my hole again and again. With energy spent I simply flopped forwards legs spread and arse in the air, all slutslits on display for him to abuse as he saw fit, all I had to do was wail and enjoy it.

  He threw his head back and let out a howl of triumph when he broke, His hot load angrily bursting from his fat cock to sluice into every available space, he pumped a few final times to ensure he had emptied himself completely and then pulled away, tilting his head to inspect the damage he had done before padding to my side and laying beside me. And there we lay as the sun descended and Magnus' children arose to ignite the skies. Covered once more in dirt, filth and my companion's thick warm seed it occured to me I would need to bathe once more in the falls before I returned to the city to find Ovacca and finish our exchange.

  For now though I was content to lie back and share in the hound's warmth. Peering into his twinkling eyes, I elected to name him "Midas", partly after an ancient king of Wayrest, said to be fabulously wealth, and rumoured to be more than a little insane, but mostly because he had the golden touch when it came to satisfying a girl's urges. Midas was warm and friendly, loyal and energetic, as sleep took us both I knew I had not just found a hunting hound, not just a travelling companion and not just a friend, but a lover.

  My mother used to tell me that all men think with their dicks, that might actually be relevant later, but for now I think it affects women too. Because as I stalked through the streets of Bruma I found my brain deep in argument with my cunt. "You have more important things to be doing." My Head would try and explain. It was correct of course, I had a heist to plan, Count Carvains treasury vaults would be mine. And before I even attempted to pull that off I had to find a way across the mountains, an escape route into the North and out of reach of the city watch. The war in Skyrim had the Imperials locking the border down, I'd need to find another way past them. It didn't worry me too much, Imperials are fat and lazy and the mountains are vast, plenty of paths over them, plenty of paths under them. I just needed to locate one.

  My crotch meanwhile, was focused on the task at hand. I used to work with a lockbreaker by the name of Cassida Scribbonia, notable only because one of her anscestors was a famous author, Casta Scribbonia, responsible for "Woman Gone Wild" and other bawdry tales. Cassida had left me an object in a stash before she left to take up residence in the Imperial Prison. A simple thing, a shaft of carved and polished wood attatched to a brace of leather straps, she'd call it her "Lady's aid." It did it's job just fine, but I wanted something more, I wanted an enhancement to it, and for that I needed sorcery.

  No, not them. I need actual sorcery, the only magic the Synod ever pulled was hoodwinking the Elder council into giving them a charter. Back in Elen Root or Silvenar, there are tree-shapers, those who can give life to dead wood. But no such thing exists outside the Valenwood.The Witches of the Glenmoril Covens would be an option, but Bruma has no witches. What Bruma has is...

  Razzada the Resplendant. A Redguard, merchant, mage and complete charlatan. He knows his target audience, he knows Nords are not to bright and thus he uses flashy titles and long complicated words to empty their pockets and line his own. In another time he'd have been in the Garden's of Dareloth, fencing supplies for the Fox and selling bridges to tourists. Now though he was a pauper on the streets of Bruma, he needed coin and I needed his services. I discreetly explained my requirements and unsurprisingly learnt he did not know such an enchantment. Not wanting to loose out on the possibility of a sale though, he explained he had something just as good, a recipie for an oil, told me to brew it, wear Cassida's "lady aid" and then lubricate it with the mixture. Simple.

  Creating the mixture was easy enough, I have some skill with alchemy, mostly perfumes  and "Aphrodaisiacs" the occaisional poison, but not often, You can't make a profit of a corpse. What I needed was somewhere to test it. The Jeral View Inn. Not my rooms here, Dar'taqto has the habit of wandering in at the most inappropriate times. But the Jeral View boasted a bathhouse that saw no useage, most Nords don't seem to know what a bath is and don't care to unless they can beat each other other the head with it. A quick scan revealed it to be deserted as always, moment of truth then. Stripped out of my leathers and attatched Cassida's aid.

  Rubbed on the oil and waited for a reaction, nothing. Applied a more generous amount, working it into the wood, still nothing, I began to question Razzada's recipie and angrily emptied the entire bottle, tossing the vial aside, tapping my foot in frustration. Was about to clothe myself again and head back into the streets to find and throttle that Redguard conartist when it happened, the results were not what I was expecting.

  A tree-shaper or a witch would have simply given life to the inanimate wood, but this? A few tentative, suspicious prods confirmed that the oaken shaft had been transmuted entirely and perhaps more surprisingly, I felt each of those hesitant jabs. I curled my digits around it and peered down to inspect this new discovery, watching it slowly uncurl in my fingers, stiffen and stand to attention at the touch. A few tugs confirmed that it had not only completely melded with my crotch but it had complete feeling, sending pleasant sensations rushing up my spine to my brain, a brain that was suddenly silent and no longer arguing it's case. At some point I noticed those few tugs had turned into many, a constant rythmic massage, and I couldn't stop myself, the sensation was too good.

  Discovering you suddenly have a new organ is somewhat shocking, someone else discovering you have a new organ is embarassing. So when I heard the sound and looked up I could feel my cheeks flush red. Alammu Nethre, a Dunmeri noble that had taken rooms in the Jeral View, playing the damsel in distress all in a tizzy over a missing family heirloom. She was leaning against a post staring down at me with a devious smile, murmuring her approval whilst licking her lips. I simply pointed and tried to stammer an explanation. This wasn't what it looked like?

  Embarassment was being replaced with anger as I pushed to my feet. I didn't need to explain anything, she did, what in Oblivion was she doing there? Looking like a painted harlot bedecked in red jewels, had the present situation not had me flustered I'd probably already be plotting a way to seperate her from her rubies. As she stepped forwards I could see she was touching herself, hand between her legs, slender fingers rubbing against her dress. Her smile never left her face and her eyes never lifted from my crotch and I could feel the rush of blood to it as it lifted itself even further, liking the newfound attention, wanting it.

  Alammu didn't give any explanation, didn't bother with my stammered protests at her presence at all. She just strode forward, slinking out out of her dress, stepping out of it as it pooled around her feet and placed her hands on me. My own hands felt good, her's felt better, she knew just the right places to touch, when to tug, when to massage, exactly how to nudge and manipulate my new sacks for maximum pleasure. And if her fingers felt good, her lips were phenomenal, planting kisses along the shaft, tongue swirling as she worked her way up and down. I wasn't sure if my new length could mimic the real thing in all aspects, but it felt damned near ready to explode as Alammu wrapped her lips around it, taking it into her mouth and began to suck. The sensation was exquisite, made all the more so as she gurgled and gagged.

  "All men think with their pricks" my mother had said, honestly I think it more likely that theyr'e enslaved by their pricks. There was no choice when she finally released me from her lips and laid back, spreading her legs and dancing her fingers down to peel open her folds. I had no say in the matter, it was an invitation and my new organ intended to accept, no choice, only lust. I imagine this is how Imperials new to manhood feel when they loose their divine given innocence to their first tavern wench. Clumbsy, fumbling, she had to reach down and guide me into place and the first few thrusts were slow and hesitant. But once I'd found purchase in her crevice it was like I'd been there a thousand times before.

  The dissapointment when she pulled away, my member wasn't done yet, it had more to give and two sacks to empty. Was that it? Was she nothing more than a cocktease? She gave me an answer when she pushed me over, toppling me onto my back and clambering on top. Delicate fingers opening herself again as she squatted down, sliding herself onto an eagerly awaiting cock. Seems she was as hungry for more as I was as she began to bounce with a passion, gripping my legs for support as she slammed herself into me again and again, the sight of her backside jiggling in rythm causing me to harden even further.

  As Alammu's panting grew heavier and her movements slower I knew she'd spent what energy she had and it was my turn to push her off. She toppled forward throwing her hands out to stop her tumble, the perfect position to finish her. Pulling her legs appart to accomodate me I placed my hands against her hips for support and pressed into her once more. More urgency this time, my alchemy created ballsacks aching with the need to empty themselves as they slapped against her again and again. I could feel her trying to tighten herself around me but there could be no resistance and the dick plummed her dephs harder, faster, hungrier.

  Eventually neither of us could take much more. I broke first, letting out a feral howl, the sound mingling with her wail of pleasure as it rushed forward, exploding from the tip and gushing into her. Pulling away and falling onto my backside, speechless, breathless, panting. She simply collapsed in place, taking deep breaths, equally as exhausted. I went limp again and could feel the enchantment slowly dissipating, a numb feeling starting at the tip and pulsing towards my crotch as flesh became wood once more. Sitting there, staring at her raised backside and her fuckhole, her own juices leaking out and mingling with my alchemy infused seed as it ran down her thighs to pool at the floor. Two thoughts occured to me, first, I needed to find  that heirloom of hers and hope it would earn myself more of this filthy dunmeri whore. Second, I needed to distil more of this oil.