Forbidden Arts: Necromantia

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Silence

Member
This tale emerged as I started to write a journal-but-not type thang as inspired by Hrisskar. As I have limited time, I figured I'd appeal to the other fantastic Skyrim-obsessed writers here for suggestions. This post will be updated when I write out the basic restrictions I plan on using. So, here without any further ado.. is V's story. INPUT WELCOME! Kthx
 

Honourman

New Member
You got me. Great twist at the end and a fantastic character to play.
One question: Are you American? In the last paragraph it say's "but she could care less", which could be a typo, but I have noticed it before from Americans.
I just read the title of the journal, glad I didn't before reading it or my surprise might have been spoiled!
I look forward to your next entry.
 

shongo3258

Vampire of Skyrim
Really awesome entry I have no idea how you could possibly make it better! I suggest reading my journal as well if you already haven't. It isn't as detailed and gory as your's but it is on a similarly evil path. Will definitly be watching this thread
 

Silence

Member
DATE UNKNOWN - FORESTS SOUTH OF MORTHAL ___________________________________________________


Rise. The sun arched over the mountain range to the Northeast, it's colors seething through the remaining low hanging clouds as if struggling to hold it's slipping grip on the sky. As it finally sank and the blessed darkness spread over the land, the sounds of nighttime enveloped the forest. Two brilliant amber eyes focused on a lean young deer standing among the grasses. For over an hour the eyes watched the deer graze, Skyrim winds slipping over the rustling leaves overhead in an ancient dance, scene below oblivious to the impending doom.

Presently the doe's head shot up, lithe neck cocked to one side, enormous brown eyes urgently searching the trees along the river bend.. it's entire form twitching as it strained every sense to find the source of it's fear. With no warning the massive sabrecat launched, hurling it's giant body forward with amazing agility, forelimbs outstretched with curved claws reaching at the startled deer, who made a valiant attempt to leap sideways. The great cat slammed into the frail animal sending it hurtling to the ground with a crack as branches gave way and it tumbled, struggling to find it's footing. The monster cat's claws pierced the supple brown hide, glint of blood shimmering for a split second as the moonlight found it. Wet and nearly black in the dim light, the blood emerged running in streaks down it's rump as the cat took a second swipe, literally crawling over the fragile deer with rips and tears, scrambling for the kill. And then all at once silence descended again, as it had thousands of times before after flashes of the brutality of life here, and the broken deer would run no more. It's long tapering legs kicking as the muscles realized the fate of the whole, hooves spasming in jerks as frothing red clogged it's severed throat. The cat crouched over it's meal, loosing his grip and lapping at the wound in preparation to feed.

Go forth and kill. An arrow darted past the cat's huge head, landing with a thunk in the tree beyond sending it's ears shooting up in alert. A rumbling snarl rose, blood of it's fresh kill slipping down over now-bared fangs as it sunk into a prowling crouch, head turned towards the arrow lodged ahead in the bark. Angered to be disturbed it slunk forward a step, straddling it's kill with wide jaws hanging open as if to taste the very air that hung with an unnatural stillness all around. It's ragged mane up in alarm , a screaming crow pierced the air. The cat braced itself, scowling and turning it's head, in tune with the bird's shrill cries that indicated another presance.

Too late, the trap was set and death called the hunter to it's end. Another arrow exploded into the great beast's face, cracking back into the pit of it's left eye socket. It reared and clawed, slapping it's paws at it's own face, turning defensively with a pained screech as a third arrow struck, this one missing it's intended target and lodging in the cat's foreleg. A crashing ahead startled the cat more so, and it shrunk back against the tree with a fierce roar that would surely send any living being skittering away in terror.

A lumbering shadow emerged before the cat. Dim light found the edge of a massive axe held high over a mass of scraggly dark hair, gathered atop the Orc's muddled greenish head in warrior fashion. Ripped flesh and congealed blood marked the recent battles upon his lined face, a face that had seen and valiantly defended his family stronghold, saw many a foolish fighter on his path to Sovengarde before his exile, turning hapless bandit for Shor-knows what offense. But something amiss, and even the great cat sensed it, hissing furiously and swiping a powerful paw forward only to have it slide harmlessly over gleaming bits of what remained of his formerly shiny Elven armor. Mud and filth caked up under his chin this Orc showed no fear, no concern, only fury brimming through empty eyes as it moaned with a distorted deep voice, wordless and groaning. He plowed the axe down, shuddering with force, but the cat easily avoided the clumsy strike, closing the gap and sweeping at the Orc's legs sending him off his feet and flat on his back, the sound muffled by the leaf-coated forest floor. Following with a leap of lightning agility, jaws wide and arrow still protruding from it's skull the sabrecat aimed for the throat.

The next arrow found it's mark, slamming up under the cat's great chin. With a shocked scream it tumbled to one side as the hidden assailant stepped forth, longbow still raised and aimed with expert grace. A hood concealed the features but the tall, slender form belied elven descent. He sidestepped with arrow notched, circling the fallen cat in practiced steps, making time for the hulking Orc to shuffle and stand. In blind rage and pushed by maddening pain, the sabrecat hooked a paw forward again and again, thick skull at a dangerously low angle emitting a perpetual hiss that shot blood spurting outward from it's gravely wounded face. Cocky now, the hooded wood-elf archer called out to the surrounding darkness in a smooth, boastful voice, "We have him Lady, the hunt comes to an end!" No response came forth and he chuckled, a light airy sound as he flipped his hood revealing a smooth angled face and long white hair pulled together behind his neck. He grinned, a youthful twinkle in his eye thinking he'd proven his usefulness and reward would come to him. He was just coming into his own, this one. Two-hundred-fifty (this being rather young for a wood-elf,) years old, born basically with a bow in hand he'd shot past the ranks of his peers to become quite the talent. Like most who are fortunate enough to learn their calling so early in life, he was unafraid and confident in his ability. He just needed now to make a name for himself, and working for her, here in these wilds of Skyrim, a land on the verge of greatness.. or chaos, the chance for riches and fame beyond his wildest.. He could barely contain his excitement!

Just as the dead-eyed orc shuddered to raise his great axe again, the Elf moved to step back and allow the Orc to deliver the finishing blow. In a split second his expression jerked, contorting into a look of horrified surprise as his boot caught just barely on the limp carcass of the dead deer, it's giant eyes rocking in it's head as it's body was further desecrated. The graceful archer's arms shot up in attempt to regain himself, but far too late he realized with a curse, and he smacked into the tree's base just below his initial arrow, first shot into the tree to distract the cat. In twisted irony the last sight his well-trained eyes would witness was that very arrow.

Great Imperial human scholars say that it is likely tbrainless beasts are in summation a function of survival instinct, with no reasoning or thought behind their behavior, simply carrying on endless as all of nature like well-oiled machines. Heedless to this theory, the pain maddened sabrecat would take his vengeance, and turned sharply to clasp it's viciously sharp claws into the light armor of the elf's chest. The beast's great weight forced a curdling scream from his lungs as the air was crushed from his body. In a flash fangs shredded delicate skin. Flailing tendons were ripped into the chill of the night air erupting from the destroyed throat with a steaming burst, heralding the soul's departure from the mortal plane in grand fashion, yet not quite as fufilling as the promising archer had hoped.

She watched this pitiful circus, unamused. Seething and angered by the inadequacy. Not good enough, another failed experiment. She strode with otherworldly quiet. A creature of the dark, languidly moving over the brush until she was several feet away, watching silently as the cat tore with a symphony of gurgling snarls, chomping at her former companion with the reckless abandon of a wounded predator. Oily crimson matted over it's thick fur. She observed, lost in thought, her mind beyond somewhere. The Bosmer archer's corpse above the shoulders was reduced to an unrecognizable mass of jagged flesh and pink chunks, still complete with a neat ponytail dangling from the side. Pale eyed and strangely foreboding for her diminutive stature, her robes engulfed any hint of the shape beneath save for long unkempt strands of dark auburn framing what little was visible of her face. Delicate girlish brows pulled together seriously, her gaze was pulled away from the messy scene at last by the lumbering form of the Orc, his booted foot caught up to the ankle in a mass of roots as he groaned. Her anger rose a notch higher. He was a bandit in his most recent former life, and she mused silently to herself about his now improved intelligence as he finally stumbled and broke free to stand. He was indeed massive. It was a shame he was not good enough. She waved an arm impatiently, and he jerked the brutally curved axe high and brought it down upon the back of the cat's neck, which promptly split open and added even more red life fluid that soaked in a oozing puddle among the leaves. The cat released a final lowly hiss as it convulsed and snapped at him blindly, the arrow breaking off from it's eye socket and sending the bodies of the deer and the elf into a swath of tangled flesh. Useless.

Virhalla whirled away with a disgusted sigh. She didn't even begin to consider recovering the gear, and had to force herself to not stomp away like a spoiled child. With another wide gesture, her thin arms snapping up and over her head in a fluid circle, the undead Orc slumped forward over his former target's still-warm carcass with axe still gripped as life left his body for the second time. She didn't bother to glance back and stalked into the trees leaving the ball of death behind, having wasted another night with useless tools. The townsfolk would be up in arms after finding the scene she had just left but she could scaracely find it within herself to care now, dissapointment tearing at her sharp yet obviously unstable mind, and again inklings of the feeling.. that she was indeed insane. Perhaps a drink would calm her and kill her frustration enough to allow for rational thought. Madness? Never. She was perfectly sane. A simple thing, her quest for perfection in the power that she wielded. By the time she could sense life ahead again she had convinced herself. The torches ahead cast rings into the night, wavering like wraiths and beckoning her back to the cursed town of Morthal.
 
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Honourman

New Member
You took my rep cherry, glad it was a girl, ha ha.
It could just be called "Forbidden Arts"?
In the UK we say "couldn't care less" because we literally couldn't care any less. To say "could care less' insinuates that one cares a certain amount as they could care less than they do! I like discovering the cultural differences in our shared language :)

Thanks for commenting on my characters, they are all retired now as I have gone on a Dead Is Dead spree. This has left a pile of dead characters, all under level 7!

Khalfani - Redguard - As big, black & bald as you can get, met his end in battle, but through a sword in the back by his follower Uthgerd the Unbroken, bitch.

Tacitus Septimius - Imperial daedric artifact hunter - met his end returning to the shrine of Azura when a dragon came out of nowhere and well, that was that.

Chief Wildblood - Orc Chief of Dushnikh Yal - Got a bit over zealous when stumbling upon a Forsworn camp, whilst focusing on destroying them, he did not see the Hagraven approaching from behind. Knocked unconscious and kept as a sexual play thing for the twisted witch.

Gunnar Volundr - Younger brother of Felix - Still ALIVE! Taking his time learning his skills, under the tutelage of his hero brother. He has the largest set of play restrictions, as I want him to retire from old age!
 

Silence

Member
Now I feel special.

I am Honoured to.. lol, horrible joke. I'm actually confused as to why people don't give rep more often. I mean, you should have many more than mine, just for having the courage to make a ginger Skyrim warrior (avatar). Is that Gunnar? Now that you've explained that typo, I am mortified I've never taken the time to actually think about the phrase. I've always been aware.. and a little jealous of the superiority of the English form of english, it is interesting how a group of people can so decimate alter a language over time and distance. -sniffle- The title is not changeable now, but at least I took the offending word from my sig.

Chief Wildblood, we salute you. Surely his torture has earned his place in Sovengarde! Amd of course the token Redguard! Nice chars, I have to try that. So, with dead is dead... don't you get sick of doing the same beginnings over and over? That was one of my only complaints about the game. If it's replay value is so massive, why not have a way to change settings for different playthroughs? Thx again, cleaning up rough writings to post more.
 

Honourman

New Member
Gunnar is now my avatar. He shares the same hair colour as his older brother Felix, is slightly smaller in stature but easier on the eye. In fact, I think Felix might be gay with Golldir. Long story, check your inbox.

Trust me, many people over here bastardise the language! American English has it's benefits, and some very logical spelling!

I take them through different beginnings, like heading out for daedric artifacts, or off into the wilds, or returning to his stronghold, or joining a faction. I created myself, which was really fun to play through, but alas I died (as I would in reality in Skyrim). It does get frustrating when they die, I think I need to get over it and pretend they got knocked out and had all their gear looted!
 

TamrielsSavior

The Dark Nord of Helgen
Great story, Silence! Got a good chuckle out of the English version of english, too.

Replaying is easy if you just do something different out of the gates. Screw the main story, just go wherever. Instead of heading to Riverwood, head to Falkreath instead, or start exploring the lake, or head up to Rorikstead or Markath or something. Then get around to the main story later, if you even want to.

I agree with the title change, just Forbidden Arts...... and leave the suspense for later!
 

Silence

Member
Thanks Savior, it's nice to have a few readers and to count you among them! Nogar is one of my favorites. Gonna def try some new starts, have a lot more inspiration now.. for some reason my OCD always pushed me onto the same beaten path.. until now.

Figures. I can't edit the title. Thought I'd be able to but apparently not.. so here I learn a lesson, and hopefully avoid tacky titles from here on in.
 

shongo3258

Vampire of Skyrim
I don't quite get why more rep isn't thrown around either I think I'll start giving some but I don't think I have ever received rep either. Not sure
 

Silence

Member
I have mental issues. :D The gore is my outlet for what I'd like to see happen to the obnoxious kid at the drugstore who can't count change.
Thx so much! More to come, cleaning up second post for sometime tomorrow.
 

Flapjoe

New Member
Wow. Awesome writing style. Definitely exited to see where this goes.
Thanks for commenting on my journal!
 

Silence

Member
DATE UNKNOWN - MORTHAL ___________________________________________________

Argonians stink. They perpetually reek, even worse then the stench of deep Morthal swamplands. Virhalla stepped through the thicket, her nose very aware of the lizard-being that strode just behind her. The lizard wore mottled set of fur armor, stained by blood and torn in many places, He was another bandit, and he had a way with frost magic that made her now-free mind wonder. She had awoken at dusk, creeping up from the basement of the house and finding Roggevir asleep. She smiled, thankful to be spared his worship for once, and taking more of his lifeblood then was necessary to sustain her in order to sink him into a deeper sleep. This stroke of luck made her excited for this night's possibilities, and she slipped from the house with a dark smile, heading around the back and into the forest. She tied her old robes up as to move more freely and set off, heading northward after a bat fluttered in that direction, adding it's wing flap to the swell of forest sound that enveloped her in it's welcoming embrace.

Luck is a fickle thing. Nearing the edge of the trees she crouched, tugging her hood up and gazing out over what lie ahead: a wide expanse of muddy earth, pitted with pools of hot water that seemed to breathe blistering shoots of steam skyward. Off in the distance she felt life's call, and her pale eyes scanned for it's source and came upon several tents in the distance at the water's edge. A fire crackled merrily, dancing with the darkness and adding it's own smoke to the humid cloud that hung over the area. She heard the rise of a woman's laughter, and pushed away the barrage of memories that sprang into her mind, memories of the women Sinnis preyed upon, laughing as he wined and dined before brutally murdering them. Craning her neck to gain a better view, Virhalla made out three humans, either hunters or bandits surely, stripped down to their undergarmets and splashing merrily among the hot pools. A tinge of jealousy cut into her and she frowned seriously, having never known such joy. She didn't belog here, and slunk back into the fold of the forest as if defeated. But she would remember this place. They must be punished.
The moons rose ever higher as she picked her way among the trees, skirting a group of wolves twice before emerging onto the plains. The metallic clang of hammer on steel alerted her before she saw the makeshift fort ahead, wedged up against a rock outcropping with one side surrounded by a shabby wooden fence. Virhalla crept over a ridge and lay flat on her belly, noting the archer atop the fence and openings on either side. Bandits for sure. She smiled and then gagged, the scent of grime and roasting meat wafting down over the hillside from the encampment. She lay there a while, thinking, wind ruffling her hair as it flowed incessanlty up the hills.

She had no skills to speak of, besides those of deciet and trickery she'd learned at the hands of Sinnis and the powers of her curse. Drawing a small steel dagger from her waist she clutched it to her chest and called out. Her frail voice was lost to the winds, and so she yelled again, finally attracting some attention from the fort. The archer drew his bow, looking out over the plains in her genral direction, as two more bandits flew from the break in the fence and charged out, seeking her.

Her heart would have raced if it still beat, but it did not. Closer and closer they edged, and for one very long moment she thought they would turn and go back to their mead, but luck again found her this night. As they began their ascent of the hill she hid just over, she could make out their race, one being some human and the other most obviously Agronian, his clawed hand outstretched and a icy blue blooming upon it. Frost magic. She pinched her eyes shut, summoning the powers of her curse and all at once becoming unseen as the stepped right in front of her just over the ridge to pause, having surely felt some movement.

She jumped up, arms shooting upwards as the spell launched over them. The human was clueless, a confused expression marking his face, but she saw the Argonian mage recognize a trap just as the magic washed over him and took hold. He turned to his fellow and the blooming blue in his hands exploded upward and into the human's chest in a bolt of ice, piercing his iron breastplate and knocking him over the hillside and well out of the fort's sights. Scrambling to one side to watch, she held her breath as the human's mace came within inches of finding her face and slammed down into the mage Argonian's shoulder. Blood burst down the lizard's chest and he cast again but weakened, shooting ice spikes that missed the human and instead sunk with a crackling hiss into the hillside. She heard yelling far off as surely the bandits at the fort had heard, and she prayed silently this would end as she'd hoped. Again the human swung heavy mace, connecting with the mage's face this time as he tried desperately to get back a ways. Scales parted and the flesh beneath ripped with a disgusting crunch, and she stuck her leg out, feeling her invisibility fading. The Argonian tripped and fell, opening him up to the final blow, which the human was glad to deliver with cruel haste, smashing the life from the lizard that was his comrade just moments before.

Virhalla saw her chance and threw herself forward, dagger gripped in her tiny hand. Just as the man dropped to a knee to recover, gasping for breath with ice melting from his side, her blade found it's mark. The sharp blade slipped easily into the exposed flesh and she jerked it wildly, sawing deeper as she was lifted off the ground when man stood to his full height. His blood splashed over her in a wave, thick as jelly and covering her face as her victim flailed his last, arms swinging up to his neck. His elbow connected with her face with a crack, knocking her out cold as she was thrown onto the grass.

The grasses wavered, dancing in the swirling wind. When Virhalla opened her eyes she felt a strange peace around her. Surely she had left the mortal world. But she quickly realized that her body ached as it had when she lived as her hands reached back blindly to feel the bruised mass on her temple where she was hit. She exhaled, mouth open, gazing up at the stars, eyes welling with icy tears. It wasn't fair. She wished she had been done for, as she had a thousand times before at the hands of Sinnis, her cursed body left to the scavengers in this lovely setting under the skies. She wasn't quite sure until the lizard's stench assaulted her, and she rolled to the side to come face to face with the gaping neck wound of the human bandit, blood congealing around flaps of flesh that remained after her dagger's work on his throat. It took her several minutes to sit up and she did so with a groan, head spinning, eyes adjusting to the sight before her that made her smile, if just slightly.

The Argonian lay where he fell, limbs lifted in rigor mortis, his long thin tounge dangling from his jaw. And the human beside her, she stuck a leg out to kick his carcass sharply in the face. Panic spread as she remembered the yelling before she was knocked out. The fort! Where were they? Surely a search party was out now, looking for the bandits that now lay dead beside her. Quickly she rose, head swimming as she stood, gasping as she flipped her arms back to draw her sleeves away. She must hurry or risk loosing it. Pale eyes narrowed in concentration as she waved them in the graceful arc that would bring the Argonian back to serve her.

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Silence

Member
DATE UNKNOWN - MORTHAL ___________________________________________________

The steps leading down into the cellar called to her. She prayed to old gods, ones that had long ago forsaken her for simply existing at all, the abomination she'd become... that she might not spend her rest in thought. Plagued by thoughts. One blessed rest, unconscious to the maddening swirl of ideas and memories that pushed her towards the inevitable urges. She dared not try to understand this calling, this addiction. It made no sense in her logical mind, and so she chose to simply do and avoid the larger implications.. focus on the potential for power. It was freeing to not be trapped in the past any longer.

Virhalla gestured at the Nord that sat before her on bended knee and he quickly stood, clasping a cloth to the puncture holes her slender fangs had left. As she stood, adjusting her too-long robes over her tiny figure, the man continued bowing his head over and over, pleading for further acknowledgement. Again with that sniveling smile he professed his undying loyalty to her. It was almost as bad as the urges. She knew he was entranced, and it sickened her more so until even looking upon him made her angry. Roggevir, you are truly pathetic. But she had a use for him, at least for now.

He was infatuated. Common men are so weak-minded. When tragedy strikes hard, as it had him with first the fiery death of his human wife and child in a questionable manner, and then again with the sudden "disappearance" of his former mistress, a human man looses all rational thought. That and perhaps a smidgen of the powerful curse, a curse that had pushed her already sociopathic self into a rather arrogant, ambitious sociopath self. She felt awakened for the first time in.. ever. Alive, yet dead.

Now she moved to the stairs, pausing to lift her small hands and extinguish the oil lamp leaving Roggevir alone by the smoldering remains in the fireplace, his broken voice stammering after her, "Goodnight to you dear! I hope you feel better when the sun rises! We'll pick flowers, and dine in the.." She grimaced as she descended, already cold skin pricking at the strange scent of the Morthal dirt on either side that made her rush into the heavy cellar more quickly every time. It was the swamp stench, and it penetrated everything, a constant reminder of what a dead hole this end of the hold was. No one came out of their way to visit Morthal without some very good reason.. or a very sketchy past. Safety was never guaranteed to those who suffered the affliction she was cursed with, and her story would not draw the townspeople's sympathy for long. The people of Morthal were well used to the depressing environment, terrifying beasts and legends of undead that stalked the surrounding bog forests, but the scenes the hunters had been coming upon lately grew more grim since she'd weaseled her way into Alva's former safe house. No matter the story, she was still an outsider.

The day she had truly arrived here was a cold one, and she found herself exhumed so to speak from her former resting place. She knew of the small town nearby, but not very well as she had briefly stopped there for supplies over a year before, in the time of her living. A lifetime before. An entire world before. She was no longer the small hireling she had been, when she was a child in both body and mind.. and a runt at that. Her Master was a man known throughout the lands as Sinnis Sejanus, lauded as a scholar of some import, having written several volumes on his tomb explorations in Cyrodil and parts of Hammerfell, applying a very dry, logical view to the idea of death and discrediting any sort of magic. That was a public persona, and beneath that carefully crafted reputation was a very sick man, a man so obsessed with death that the living actually disgusted him. But no one knew his addictions to the Dark Arts, they saw what he wanted them to see. Sinnis had purchased Virhalla outright, after seeing her obvious helplessness, first to to abuse and second to unknowingly teach- in that order. Her sufferings at his hands had been many and grievous, and left her mind in a far away place, a place where no one could touch it, desensitized to death and fading to become a shell of a person.

Sinnis Sejanus hated any and all who were above him in status, strength or especially power, and so had left Cyrodil to pursue that which was severely looked down upon there, the craft of Conjuration that would make his power greater and greater. Even here in the Fatherland of ancient Skyrim Necromancy was feared and hated. But to the young girl who carried his bundles and slept with the mules and was lucky to catch the scraps of his bread, it was fascinating, freeing. The disgusting pig of a man had a very bad temper, and for his entire life had viewed women as inanimate playthings. He would toy with her need for security and attention, constantly barraging her with what he termed "Imperial knowledge", instructing her and then smashing her frail face with the back of his hand after she listened intently.

Even now, stronger then she had ever been in her tragic life, her slender back bore the scars of hundreds of lashes, their raised lines spreading from the back of her head down to her calves where her pale skin was split over and over by his mule whip or goblet, whatever was within reach. Sinnis was outwardly charming and probably considered exceptionally handsome for an older Imperial, with streaks of gray touching his thick dark hair just above his temples and a slim, tanned adventurer's face. Virhalla had something that was beyond hate for the way he could manipulate. She could scarcely count the poor women who had fallen for him and experienced the un describable agony of dying multiple deaths, after first being subjected to his twisted sexual desires. He preyed exclusively on the drunk or too trusting, or.. she suspected, the good hearted ones. How could they not see the coldness in his eyes, as she could? He lived to destroy, and no one knew it but her! The traders, shopkeepers, Jarls.. all admirably welcomed him and his studies, not having even a slight idea of what he truly was, what he was truly seeking. Sinnis only hurt her where others couldn't see or were far too polite to ask, and it was in his nature to charm anyone that he came across. No longer. That was history.

Oh, how he would have hated her now. He was gone, her true Master having put him where he belonged and allowing her to feel the power she never realized she held. Virhalla had stumbled into Morthal again, a year later and leaner, slightly taller but pallid and lost looking, and in Roggevir's view she was the niece or godchild (Goodness, she didn't even recall now the story she gave!) of his beloved Alva. Sent to live with her after her own parent's death. A sad and sickly child, needing comfort and care. She even altered the hue of her hair when in his presence, as to look closer to Alva's dark tresses and so to fool this tragically hopeful man more.

Virhalla shut the thick wooden door and slammed the heavy steel locks home. She didn't see her current position for the trickery it truly was, although somewhere in the back of her mind came the haughty voice of Sinnis with his "scholarly" quips of knowledge instructing, "Show them what they wish in their hearts.. and they are yours for the taking!" She ignored this, slamming the casket's lid up with a creaking screech and grasping upward to fuss with her hair, stuffing it into a pile atop her head.

She pushed the memories from her mind, face pinched in a hurt and angry scowl, ripping off the slutty tavern clothes and hurling them across the blood spattered room. fluff this place. She decided then and there she'd hated working in the dimly lit inn, serving perhaps one ale an evening in this desolate hold, to the same creep of a guard she always saw, and she knew enough of this bleak world to see his obvious intentions. Her shoes caked with dust and muck she kicked them away too, seeing a sudden barrage of red as her anger peaked.. darkness, the drip, drip of blood as it found it's way from the back of her mother's head to the stone floor. Then lightning quick flashes, snapshots of the horrors, the first rotting yet living corpse that was her sole company beside Sinnis and the mules for an entire two years, the back of it's empty eyes infested with very confused maggots.. the twist of his rough hand into the once-pristine flesh of her back. Screams of the many women she barely knew, yet felt a kinship with.. and then calm.

Virhalla took a deep breath, although her body needed no such mortal trapping. Pale eyes snapped shut and the coffin's lid sank slowly to close over her. No witness to see the slow smile that spread over her delicate lips as she sank into slumber. There was nowhere but up, at last. She would make the world pay.

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Silence

Member
Wow. Awesome writing style. Definitely exited to see where this goes.
Thanks for commenting on my journal!

Thank you! I love darker characters. Skyrim was intended to be a harsh, cruel place, and I enjoyed the evil side far more once I started this character. Posted a couple more, I hope you enjoy and thx for reading! Heading over to Klone now. ;D

Just wanted to let readers know what direction I'm heading with this. I decided story telling is great, but from now on, since I just posted most of her backstory I'm gonna use real played game events and just add to them. Hope you all enjoy, it's certianly fun to write and much more satisfying to play after filling the character out so much.
 

shongo3258

Vampire of Skyrim
In post 2 you kept saying Sinnis I don't know if this is someone but I think you ment sithis. Anyway great entry's! Your talent at writing, especially in this setting, is remarkable.
 

Silence

Member
That was intentional, and if you read post #3 you will see who she constantly refers to. It's kinda a carrot to lead people to the third post which is her back story. ;) Thx for reading shongo, your input is always welcome!
 

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