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  1. Just so I'm clear, what do you mean by "new save games"?
  2. Hello, the guard took me to the door of the mine and spoke. I got stuck and couldn't open the door

  3. I made a little tutorial of the basics a couple years ago: https://jvr2400.tumblr.com/post/159923595993/adding-mods-to-skyrim-a-tutorial
  4. 15072 is the model number for a severely overpriced watch.
  5. Have a Bosch 15055 oxygen sensor
  6. I'm curious how we're on 15014 but this is only post 14805. Did we include some from the attempted new server from a few years ago?
  7. "Do you have any idea how long it's going to take you to make up nine-thousand septims?" Sloan couldn't answer. All she could do was gape. She barely noticed when the chains came off of her wrists and ankles, although the removal of the collar helped shake her from a little of the shock. "I...what...you..." "That's all you have to say?" Seb laughed, jumped forward, wrapped her in a huge hug. "Welcome back! Ooh, you stink. We need to get you to the baths." "I...what...you..." Sloan still couldn't get a sentence to form. Her eyes took in Marie and Kira and the other girls and guys of the Vixen, all laughing and chatting and smiling at her. She wrapped her arms around Seb and buried her head in his silk robe and found herself sobbing as despair turned to hope and relief. She turned her head, though still keeping it pressed to Seb's chest, and gave Kira a watery smile. "I don't care how long it takes, ma'am. I learned my lesson. I'm never leaving here again." The Matron smiled, then turned to the rest of the people gathered around. "Okay, show's over. We have a business to run. Seb, will you help her to the baths? Thank you." Sloan soaked for over an hour, shaved all over, and soaked again, and still didn't feel clean. She wasn't sure she ever would feel completely clean again. When she hit the bed, she didn't wake up for half a day, and even then, she just ate and went back to sleep again. It was not until two days had passed that she felt ready to rejoin the land of the living. She put on her outfit - a smaller size than the previous, she noted with rueful humor - and went back to work, and when she laughed at the stupid repetitive jokes, the laughs were genuine, even if they didn't technically relate to the subject at hand. Then, a week later, she had a sudden flash of memory when one of the girls said something about the orphanage. Aventus' face popped into her head, and she stood up from the dining hall table with enough force to knock over several girls' bowls. She ignored the cries and bolted to her room. It was, she decided, quite fortunate that it happened to be her night off. She dressed in her darkest town dress and pulled on black arm and leg stockings, then wrapped herself in a shawl and grabbed her fur muff. She was on the way out the door when another thought struck her and she turned back. The kitchen was mostly deserted - another stroke of good fortune - so she was able to slip a butcher knife into the muff without garnering attention. A light breeze sent delicate ripples across the canal, and Sloan smiled as she made her way along the walkway. She barely noticed the smell any longer, except for those times when the wind caught a fresh pile of refuse at just the right angle. She climbed the steps to the market district and glanced around. A guard was strolling along one side, going the opposite direction she wanted to go. Good. No one else was about at this late hour. She turned and slipped through the locked market stalls then across the narrow bridge that led to the government district. There were more lanterns here, and a few more people about, mostly silk-garmented government bureaucrats scurrying home, by the looks of them. None paid her any mind as she walked toward the orphanage. The front door would be locked, of course. Grelod had had a dozen bolts of varying kinds installed after Arentino's escape. Fortunately, that hadn't been his means of egress. Sloan slipped around the side of the building to the garden, then got on her knees and crawled - which, she discovered far too late, was not easy in a dress; she had to hike it up over her thighs, and even then it kept slipping down - but eventually she got to the loose board that led to the cellar. It was, she found to her delight, still loose. It was not, she found to her dismay, as large of an opening as she remembered. Apparently she had grown a bit in four years. It took a bit of a struggle, and she ripped the fabric of her dress and lost a couple of buttons, but she eventually made it through. The cellar was dark, but laid out exactly how she remembered, so she was able to maneuver to the ladder without difficulty. She cracked open the trapdoor and peeked into the room above. It, also, was just as she remembered - a row of beds, each with a slumbering child. A dim light shone at the far end of the room, coming from Constance's room. Mianne's was the room after that, and then Grelod's. In short, Sloan would have to sneak the entire length of the building. It didn't work out that way, of course. One thing she had forgotten was how lightly the children slept. Three steps into the room created a minor stir from the nearest beds as small heads lifted and blinked in her direction. Sloan made shushing noises and waved her hands to try to get them settled, but her movement only provoked more reaction. Soon the room was abuzz with whispers as the children sensed something was different. Sloan cringed, still trying to get them to shut up and frantically making plans in her head if the adults should come out to see what was going on. Fortunately, Grelod wasn't one to stir herself if she didn't have to. A simple, sharp, "Everybody settle down!" was all it took to quiet the room in an instant. Sloan let loose a relieved sigh and pressed forward, stepping with care around the boards she knew to creak. She reached the front beds, where the oldest children sat and watched her approach. She saw dawning recognition on their faces. She crouched near the head of the bed to her left. "Hi Max," she whispered. He grinned and started to speak, but she forestalled him. "No, shh, don't say anything. Listen, I need you to distract Constance. Just for a couple minutes. Tell her you're sick or something, please?" Max started to speak, then stopped himself and nodded instead, then got up and shuffled around the corner. "Um..ma'am?" "What is it, Max?" Constance sounded tired. Of course, Constance always sounded tired. And looked that way as well. "I...I think I'm going to be sick." Sloan edged around the bed and to the edge of Constance's doorway. "Well, go to the privy, then! Why are you telling me?" They both spoke in habitually quiet voices - even the staff was afraid of Grelod's wrath. "Miss Grelod said we're not allowed to go to the privy without asking. Please, ma'am, I'm..." A pause, and then a horrible gagging sound. "It's coming!" "Not here!" A shuffling sound, and Sloan took the opportunity to scootch by the doorway in a crouch. She had less difficulty with Mianne's room - the old woman went down quickly and slept like a bear in winter. A quick glance was all Sloan needed to move on. Grelod was also in bed, and by all appearances asleep. Sloan paused a moment, assessing the room, but the sounds of movement behind her as Constance and Max started to leave her room pushed Sloan forward. She slid up to the bed and paused. It should have been simple. Just take the knife and…stab. Or cut. Or…something. She pulled the knife from her muff and held it in her right hand, but couldn't make herself move further. She screamed at herself inside her own head, reminded herself of how Grelod had treated her, had treated all of them, she thought of Arentino's exhausted features as he chopped at the floor and prayed for the Dark Brotherhood. She thought of all of these things, but she could not make her hand finish the job. Grelod stirred, turned. Her eyes opened. She blinked at Sloan, and in the dim light Sloan saw recognition bloom, and felt cold panic sweep her insides. "You. What are you doing..." Grelod started to sit up as she spoke, and her voice echoed in Sloan's brain, swept her through years of abuse and neglect, woke her cold anger from the dormant ashes of time. She cried out and her hand flung itself forward. Grelod's voice was cut off as the steel pierced her larynx, her esophagus, bit into her spine. Blood spewed from the old woman’s mouth and she gurgled and fell back, eyes glazed and empty before her head hit the pillow. The blood sparked another round of panic, and Sloan found herself fleeing before she realized she had moved from the bed. She left Grelod's room and saw the front door ahead, miraculously standing open. She sped through it, only noticing in passing the form of Aeyla, the second oldest child, standing behind it, holding it for her. Sloan fled into the night with little regard to her surroundings. She raced down the steps to the lower levels, but tripped as her skirts got tangled around her legs and splashed headlong into the canal. It was fortunate that there were plenty of things to hold onto, because she had never learned to swim. She gasped to the surface, then spit foul water out of her mouth. The city stayed quiet. There was neither hue nor cry, as she had half-expected. Just a normal Riften night. She dragged herself out of the water and lay for a moment on the walkway trying to catch her breath. The dip in the canal erased her inurement to its smells, and she began to feel sick. She climbed to her feet and stumbled back to the Vixen. Much as she wanted in, though, she took the extra time to go to the back entrance so she wouldn't cause a scene in front of the customers. Now that her duty to Arentino was finished, she was done with anything except her life here, so she needed to make sure she didn't give the customers reason to stay away. There was no way she would ever leave again.
  8. There are many others who need good advice, it is true
  9. just to let those of you who read my stories know, i'm heading into a busy time at work and then i'm going to be moving across country, so there will likely be a two to three month pause on steady writing. I just didn't want you to note the lack of new material and think i disappeared. thanks for reading!
  10. i know of him from Aquisitions Incorporated and Critical Role but I've never read his stuff. I don't like to read while i'm actively writing, though, because I have found that it influences the way I write. thanks for the recommendation, though - i'll def look him up at some point.
  11. i don't think so, but if i'm wrong, i'd love to know it. i had a mod idea where the player could disguise themselves as the other gender but couldn't really change the gender (which i wanted so people would treat the player as the other gender) without just having them manually open racemenu.
  12. Yeah, Sian's not one to go into a lot of detail about the specifics of her abuse. Too painful to think about for her, I'd imagine.
  13. I know that I am the Dragonborn, slayer of dragons, devour-er of their souls. But after a dragon saved me from slavery for the second time, I was beginning to feel downright grateful to them. Given the choice, I might have been tempted to take the dragons' side. Jordy kept me as his house pet (although I've never thought of using a cat in the ways he used me) for a few weeks, then sold me to a customer in exchange for a lode of ebony (which, in fairness, I would have been tempted to do as well, had I owned a slave. Ebony is really nice to work with). I never learned what, exactly, my new master did for a living. We left Whiterun and headed north. I kept my beatings to a minimum by reverting to slave mode, but it was very different this time. My heart still ached from being betrayed (and from being soclose to true freedom) and I did not have any history with this master. He didn't speak to me much, just used my body and then tossed me scraps of food. Perhaps, in time, I would have grown just as used to life with him as I had to Oron, but I really don't think so. My eyes had been re-opened; I was tired of being an object. The only good thing that came out of the change in ownership is that my new master had Jordy remove the old collar and replace it with a shiny new one. I really enjoyed the five seconds of neck freedom. Just after we entered the snow line and I was trying to decide the most tactful way to bring up the subject of giving me clothes before he ended up with a slavesicle, a familiar whooshing sound swept by overhead. My master pulled his weapons - gotta hand it to these Nords, they are brave. To a fucking fault (right, Lydia?) - and starting screaming battle cries. My arms were bound behind my back, so I was no use. He took the end of the chain connected to my collar and tied it to the branch of a nearby tree and went running forward, where the dragon had landed and was busy spewing fire at a group of Imperial soldiers. I huddled on the other side of the tree and prayed the dragon wouldn't notice me. After much shouting and clanging and roaring, not to mention the scorching of the opposite side of my tree (pro tip: wood is not a good barrier from dragons), there was another whooshing sound, and then a deep silence. After some time, the regular noises of the forest resumed and I dared to peek around the trunk of the smoldering tree. Charred bodies lay everywhere. My master was nowhere to be seen. I struggled to my feet, then jerked my body until the chain unwound from the branch. It took a good while to find the remains of my master - thank god no one else came by in the interim to re-enslave me - and another good while to get the key in the manacles. Once my arms were free, I turned to the collar, silently thanking my master for replacing the old one. The key turned and with a click I was, for the first time in two-ish years, truly free. I cobbled together an outfit from the less-charred bits of armor, grabbed weapons and what money and food the dead bodies had on them, and got the hell out of there. I was done being a victim. New plan - get to the Greybeards, as Balgruuf had commanded. They wanted to teach me how to use my voice as a weapon? Fine by me. Then, Markarth. The priestess I had met outside Bleak Falls had mentioned something about being a Defender for Dibella. I didn't know what that meant, but if it turned out to be a way to keep unwanted penises out of me and whips off my back, I would do it. I started walking but stopped when I heard snorting off in the trees. I turned and followed the sound and found, wonder of wonders, horses. The Imperials had kept them out of harm's way. Some of them were already saddled. I untied them and slapped the rumps of all but one. My years of experience watching westerns and reading Louis L'Amour books told me they would make their own ways home. I climbed, with difficulty, onto the last horse and proceeded to sit there while it lowered its head and ate some grass. Great. A defective horse. I pulled on the reins and said "giddy-up" and everything else my childhood said I should do, but the horse was recalcitrant. Finally, in frustration, I kicked it with one booted heel. It jerked its head up and started trotting and I almost fell off. Oh, yes, grip the sides with your thighs. I vaguely remembered reading that. I tried it, and the ride become smoother, until my thighs got tired from squeezing. Not so easy, horse riding is, Yoda for some reason said in my mind. The horse and I meandered down the road at whatever pace he felt like going at any given time. Every now and then he would stop, so I would have to kick him again. It took a couple of days of riding (my butt has never ached so much. Well, aside from the whippings. And the forced anal sex. I take it back – the pain from horse riding is insignificant) for the horse and I to get comfortable with each other and for me to figure out how to disassemble and reassemble the saddle and bridle and bit and whatever all the other stuff is called. I silently thanked L'Amour more than once because I at least had a starting point. Still, it took over an hour each day to get everything set up correctly. Totally worth it. Horses are very rare in Skyrim, which meant that the trip to Ivarstead was uneventful. Every time something dangerous-looking approached, whether it be wolves or bandits or giant fucking spiders, the horse and I just ran away from it. The seven thousand steps leading from Ivarstead to the top of the mountain would have been a nightmare on foot. Packs of wolves roamed about and a giant white troll had made a home for itself under an outcropping. We just buzzed by all of them. Really, it's the only way to travel. When we got to the monastery, I had a small dilemma - where to put the horse? I tried to lead it inside, but the monk who greeted us at the door didn't need to say anything to let me know that wouldn't be allowed. I tied the lead to a sconce just outside the door and gave him a pat and went inside. The doorway was crossways to the wind, so I hoped he would have enough shelter to be comfortable. My time with the Graybeards was brief but illuminating. Yes, you are the Dragonborn. We're here to teach you. Here, try learning these shouts. Wow, you learn quick! Two hours later I had learned a shout that would give me a short burst of speed and another that added power to the shout I had already picked up at Bleak Falls. They did not, much to my surprise and relief, act at all concerned or quizzical about why it had taken me two years to get to them after their summons. I left with instructions to complete my training by going to some underground temple or crypt or something to retrieve the horn of their order’s founder, which made me wonder a number of things, such as whether they had moved the horn there once they learned of my existence or if it had been set there ages ago after some long-since departed Dragonborn had passed this same trial. I didn’t really care enough to ask, though. I walked toward the door to the monastery with a spring in my steps. So far, so good for this plan! Next, my horse and I would head to Markarth, then... I opened the door to find the troll feasting on the remains of the horse. It stopped, just as startled as I, and we looked at each other for a long, frozen moment. Then it roared and I shouted it from the steps. It tumbled to the ground at the base of the stairway and I blasted it with my fire and chopped at it with my sword until it stopped moving. Okay. Revised plan. I would walk the three-hundred-plus miles to Markarth. God damn it. The very thought pissed me off again. I pounded the troll’s head with the flat of my sword, sending teeth in all directions, while screaming every curse word I had ever heard (and making up a few on the spot). Once my rage cooled a bit, I gathered up several of the teeth. Eventually I had a necklace made out of them, similar to the shark’s tooth necklace I got at Myrtle Beach when I was a child. Don't feed the bastards - they'll just want more
  14. as far as I'm aware, the original SS was never ported to SE
  15. Thank you for proving once again your continued "Asset" status. I appreciate the response. Take the rest of the day off? Well, thank you. Stay sharp.

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