Notes: this is a piece of fiction. I obviously make no profit out of it, though I wouldn't mind that payment came from an activity I enjoy, for once.
You'll notice this is not entirely compliant with every single piece of lore out there, but I'd beg that you overlook that in favour of giving the plot a try.
I realize the relations amongst daedra are very much not how I depicted them, and that they wouldn't really stand one another, but to hell with that. As I said, this is obviously fiction and I wanted some murder, plotting and daedric action. Also, I know daedric princes are supposed to be genderless, but I don't much care.
Chapter 1
There was no wind, no music, no sound. The dark gloomy aura of Attribution's Share fell over its twisted stony buildings in impassive monotony.
Boethiah sighed. She was bored.
How long since she last held a good tournament? Those mortals were not working near hard enough.
Why, sure, she had her fair share of followers, but they were mostly mentally incompetent, or so it seemed to her.
Mindless murder is mirthless murder, after all.
Reflecting, she thought she could have held a tournament if she had been paying more attention to mortals in the last few Nirn decades. She currently knew of maybe three decent candidates for battling to death, but they were all dunmer and that just would not do.
What else was there to battle boredom away? She supposed she could think up a way to rile good 'ol Molag Bal into a fit of his destructive rage. That was always a welcome sight, if somewhat unnerving. To mortals, that is.
Scoring one on the horned (horny) fucker was quite something, but right now she did not feel quite in the mood for stepping on the other daedra's tail, so to speak. Now, if she could get her best champion to battle Molag Bal's best to death, maybe...
That thought gave her pause. Oh. But yes! Of course, and then―
She disappeared in a whirl of black and blue.
Boethiah reappeared in the middle of Mehrunes Dagon's Deadlands. Thunder roared in the cloudy red skies above. Before her, a bridge of floating stones arched over a big river of lava towards Dagon's castle.
Always so showy, thought Boethiah suppressing an eye roll.
She stepped over the floating stones and walked carelessly over them as they quaked and faltered under her feet. The angle of the bridge became steadily steeper until she reached a point from which the high rocky towers and lava rivers that coursed through Dagon's wastelands became visible until they got lost in the dark distance.
Boethiah continued her ascent until she finally reached the doors of the castle. Thunders cracked, their flashes of light casting shifty shadows over the gigantic rock construction.
There was an armed dremora at each side of the big stone doors.
"Announce my arrival, scrags," she ordered. The dremora exchanged a stupid look.
"Master Mehrunes Dagon is not expecting anyone," one of them said.
Boethiah blinked, unamused.
"You can either open the door, let me through and run to announce my arrival― or die," she warned.
"I think," the second dremora said cautiously. "That we should do as she says."
"Fuck you," said the first dremora who had spoken. "I take orders from no other than my Master."
It was fast. One moment the dremora was speaking and the next he was flailing in mid-air and falling towards the lava pit that surrounded the castle.
The other dremora gaped at Boethiah's muscled arm (still raised) for a second and then hurried to open the doors.
"I'll announce your arrival, mistress," he said hastily. "Please pardon my manners."
Boethiah tilted her head, secretly satisfied, and let the dremora run before her. She walked regally behind.
"Mehrunes Dagon, Master!" the dremora gasped upon reaching Dagon, "You have visit from Mistress Boethiah."
"Why'd you let her in?" drawled Dagon, his cheek resting in one of his palms. "I was not expecting her."
The dremora opened its mouth to speak, but Boethiah had already caught up with them in the throne room.
"Dagon," she spoke instead. "Is that how you receive me? I have always known you to be a ghastly host, but never this uncaring with your fellow princes."
"Is always bad new, whenever one of you appear at my door."
Mehrunes Dagon was sprawled in his gigantic stone throne, towering over Boethiah with his gigantic size. Three of his arms rested lazily at his sides.
"Where are your fabled weapons?" asked Boethiah.
Dagon shrugged.
"You are as bored as I am, is that not so?"
"Wouldn't presume to know what goes through that nonsensical head of yours," answered Dagon with a grimace. "I honestly prefer it that way."
"It does not deal with Molag Bal this time," assured Boethiah.
Dagon scoffed, unconvinced.
"No more than it with you, Nocturnal, Peryite or myself."
Mehrunes Dagon rolled his eyes.
"Where is your dagger?"
Dagon frowned. There was a moment of silence.
"You mean the Razor?" he asked, trying not to sound offended.
"Indeed. What did you do with it? Have you given it to any mortal recently?"
"No. It's hidden in some nord tomb full of corpses." He seemed to think about it for a moment. "I certainly hope you're not thinking about taking it."
"Not my style," said Boethiah. "Do you have any worthy champions right now?"
"Speak clearly, damn you. Get to the point or leave."
Boethiah smiled to herself.
"I want to hold a tournament," she explained. "Just not the Ten Bloods. I thought we could make a bet of sorts, all the princes. That we could each choose a champion and give them our artefacts and let them battle to death until there is a single surviving winner."
Mehrunes Dagon shifted his massive body in the throne, a well-hidden flicker of interest shining in his yellow eyes.
"What for, Boethiah?"
"Entertainment," she said. "Competition. We could help them cheat and bet amongst ourselves and laugh at the losers for having weak champions."
The hand that had been holding Mehrunes Dagon's cheek was now rubbing his chins thoughtfully.
"I would have to look amongst my followers, but I think I can manage one or two candidates."
"Just one," said Boethiah. "What do you think?"
Dagon considered some more.
"Damn you," he murmured. "You've managed to actually tempt me."
"I have always thought you to be on the smart side of the spectrum."
"Spectrum?"
"Pay no heed."
"And have you spoken to the others?"
"Just you, now," she said. "I was hoping you would be interested enough to help me inform them."
"I might, at that," answered Dagon with a hint of resignation. "You wouldn't know how difficult it is to move oneself around with my size, but if I get too lazy I tend to develop a hunger for mortal souls, and we both know what happens next. It's about time I haul my ass outa this chair."
"You could shrink yourself to a more manoeuvrable size," Boethiah suggested.
Dagon began the slow process of standing himself up and pretended not to hear.
"Just leave Molag Bal to me," Boethiah told Dagon's knees.
She heard the other daedra chuckle softly.
I have written more of this, but decided to start publishing to see if I could get any feedback. As I said at the beginning, I am aware there's some holes and discrepancies with the actual TES lore. Feel free to correct me.
If you read all of this, thank you very much and I hope you enjoyed.