Sanguine sat on a barstool in Whiterun, his hands grasping a tankard full of mead. Behind him, a Nordic bard sang gleefully about the demise of Ulfric Stormcloak. Sanguine knew the man to be an arrogant womanizer. A fire crackled in the middle of the room, illuminating the Bannered Mare for all its guests. Only a few people sat by the fire, though, each with their own tankard of mead grasped in their clutches.
"Are you certain that this will work?" asked the deep, powerful voice of Molag Bal. It echoed through Sanguine's head, filled the other daedra's mind with an eerie echo. Sanguine let out a sigh.
"I'm sure of it," he spoke back into Molag's head, his own voice sounding almost drunk. He wasn't drunk at the moment, though – not yet. To hear them, the latter would seem almost inferior to the other daedra. He wasn't, though; in fact, both were just about equal in strength and power. Both were daedric princes, residing in their own planes of Oblivion. Sanguine was the prince of debauchery, while Molag Bal was the prince of domination, slavery, rape, corruption, and vampirism. Sanguine sometimes envied that Molag possessed so much.
For a couple of weeks now, Sanguine and Molag had been planning this night. It had surprised him when Molag appeared in Misty Grove, a location within Sanguine's plane of Oblivion, demanding a word with the prince of debauchery. Molag had interrupted what was supposed to be a relaxing night of drinking and fun, but his proposition had been worth the time spent discussing.
Molag Bal had told Sanguine that there was a woman in the province of Skyrim whom he wished to seduce – a Nord, a mortal. The intent with which Molag spoke had startled Sanguine, who had gone on to question what was so special about this woman.
"Have you not yet heard of her?" Molag had asked, almost taunting the other daedra.
"No, I've heard nothing," Sanguine had told him, and he had repeated his question.
"She is the Dragonborn," Molag had murmured, which certainly sparked Sanguine's interest.
"The Dragonborn?" Sanguine had asked.
"The Dragonborn. Called to the Throat of the World by the Greybeards, and prophesized to defeat the dragon, Alduin," Molag had continued, and Sanguine was hooked.
"You wish to seduce the Dovahkiin?" Sanguine had asked, and Molag Bal had continued: She was a fair-skinned Nord with loose waves of brown hair and piercing sapphire eyes. From the moment he saw her, Molag told him, he had wanted her.
"And that, my friend, is where you come in," Molag had concluded.
The plan was detailed and thorough: Sanguine, in the guise of a Breton man by the name of Sam Guevenne, was to challenge the Nord to a drinking contest. The drinks weren't just any drinks, though; they were special, laced with an herb that would cause the woman to faint for a short amount of time. When she awoke, she would be in the upstairs room in the Bannered Mare – rented by Sam Guevenne for this evening – and Molag Bal could have his way with her.
"Don't hurt her too bad, Molag," Sanguine had told him at this point in their plan. "You don't need her all night, and I'd like to have a bit of fun while she's drunk out of her senses."
Molag haf perked up somewhat at this, his serpentine eyes watching Sanguine.
"Ah, the prince of debauchery would like to bed the beautiful Dovahkiin for a night?" he had asked, but Sanguine shook his head in response.
"No, not that," he'd told the other daedra. "I'm sure she'll be spent by the time you're done with her. She wouldn't be up for that. Running around the province and playing some pranks, though, that'd be a real adrenaline rush."
Molag had gazed quizzically towards Sanguine for a moment at hearing these words.
"A night with the most beautiful mortal to ever set foot in Tamriel, too drunk to resist your offers and incapable of remembering anything that has transpired in the morning, and you want to pull pranks?" Molag had asked, a hint of annoyance in his voice.
But it was what Sanguine wanted. The prince of Debauchery loved pranks, but it had been too long since he had traveled to Nirn and had fun wreaking havoc on the mortals. If he was going to Skyrim anyways, he was going to have some fun.
And so, it was settled. Sam Guevenne would provide Molag Bal with a drunken Dragonborn, and when Molag finished, Sam and the woman would have fun of a different kind.
"She approaches," said Molag's voice suddenly, interrupting Sanguine's train of thought. It was now or never, do or die. Not that the daedric lord would die if he backed out, of course – but Molag Bal would certainly be furious, and Sanguine dared not invoke the prince of domination's wrath.
The doors of the inn opened, and the brown eyes of Sam Guevenne shifted to watch. Through the door stepped an absolutely stunning woman. She looked just as Molag had described her – her brown hair tumbled to her shoulders in loose waves, silky and smooth as could be. Her eyes were a startling sapphire, and they briefly met Sam's as she looked around the inn. He held her gaze a moment, but then she looked past him towards Hulda, the Nord who ran the place.
Sam's brown eyes crept downwards, wanting to get a good look at the brunette's assets. She had a pretty face, but Molag didn't pick his women based on their faces. Sure enough, this woman would meet the other prince's standards. She was dressed in a tight-fitting outfit that was black and red. It hugged her every curve, flattering them beautifully. A number of straps and buckles adorned the outfit, but Sam knew that Molag would make quick work of the Nord's clothing.
Sam watched as the woman moved silently towards the counter. She stood right near him and told Hulda that she would like to rent a room for the night. Even her voice was beautiful – musical and soft, both sweet and sour at the same time. She sounded like a beautiful innocent who had just learnt herself to be much more powerful than she ever imagined – and Sanguine was almost certain that was exactly what this woman was.
Hulda apologised and told the woman that the room upstairs was already rented out. A frown crossed those full ruby lips, but the brunette reluctantly nodded. Hulda went back to cleaning the counters, and for the second time that evening, Sam's eyes met the pretty blue ones of the Dragonborn.
"You look like someone who can hold their liquor," he said to her, flashing a charming smile. "How about a friendly contest to win a staff?"
The brunette looked surprised for a moment. She was silent, as if unsure what to say, but when she did speak, that sweet voice was filled with confidence.
"A drinking contest?" she asked him. "You don't stand a chance!"
Sam was surprised by the certainty with which this lovely little vision spoke, and he just laughed.
"We'll see about that," he told her, a knowing sparkle in his eyes. "This is a very special brew, very strong stuff."
He brought out the bottle, and handed a tankard to the woman, who stood before him and held it. It was certainly a sight to see, this woman so ready to participate in a drinking contest with a man she'd never met before – he was beginning to rethink his decision to pull pranks. Perhaps Molag Bal had the right idea, after all.
"Let's get started," he told her, standing up and filling the tankard with his special brew. "I'll start round one. Down the hatch!"
He brought the cup to his lips and downed it, knowing that he had to be careful. He had to let her win, let her drink herself to unconsciousness. Otherwise, their plan would go to ruin.
"Your turn!" he told her, filling her tankard, and she laughed lightly.
"Here we go," she murmured, lifting the tankard of the brew to her lips and downing it.
"One down, my friend. One down," Sam remarked, already impressed. "And another one for me."
Wanting to hurry up and get the contest over with, Sam filled his tankard and drank it down, wiping his mouth absently on the back of his sleeve.
"And how about you?" he asked her with a knowing smirk as he finished it.
"A second drink. Easy enough," she said, watching as he filled the tankard. There was a sparkle in those sapphire eyes as she drank it down.
"So says you," Sam said, taking on the voice of somebody with a liquor capacity much lower than his, somebody who was already done. "I think I've hit my limit on these things. Tell you what, one more and you win the contest."
The Nord's entire face seemed to light up at his words. The confidence was absolutely radiating off of her.
"One more. No problemsh," said the woman, though there was a slight slur to her words. He filled the tankard, his hands a bit wobbly so that she wouldn't suspect him. She drank it down, and Sam smirked.
"Wow. You've really done it. The staff is yours," he told her, though he knew fully well that it would be some time before she got the staff.
"Thash grape!" she exclaimed, a goofy giggle escaping her ruby lips. Hopefully she would be a little more coherent and less silly when Molag had his way with her. Molag Bal certainly wouldn't enjoy a goofy little pet.
"You know, you're a fun person to drink with," he told her, rather seductively. "I know this great little place where the wine flows like water. We should head there." He had no intentions of taking her to Misty Grove with him just yet, though.
She went to answer, opening her mouth, but she was swaying on her feet. The special brew was taking its toll on her, he knew it.
"Hey, you don't look so good," he said, and no sooner had the words left his mouth than the woman stumbled forward, blacking out. He caught her quickly in his strong arms, laughing a little. Hulda's eyes darted to the two of them, looking suspicious, but Sam just grinned.
"Guess she couldn't handle it," he remarked casually. He lifted her up, holding her bridal-style in his arms, and began towards the staircase. He knew that Molag was waiting upstairs, eagerly anticipating the arrival of the unconscious Dovahkiin.