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From the Diaries and Travel Logs of Siriel Glaivesong, Siren of Silvenar. Bard, Rogue, Thief. 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.