Disclaimer: Skyrim is the property of Bethesda. I make no money from writing this and I only do it for my own amusement and in order to practice my writing.

Nevar: Welcome to the reboot of my old, unfinished fic "The Story of Nito." This story is vastly different from my old one, although there are similarities between them. I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed crafting it.

In case you're unfamiliar with Potema Septim, who plays a big role in my main character's history, let me tell you a little bit about her. You can also learn this by reading the in-game book series called "The Wolf Queen." Potema is encountered in-game during 2 quests you receive in Solitude's Blue Palace.

Potema Septim, probably better known as the Wolf Queen, was the daughter of Emperor Pelagius Septim, and she ruled over Skyrim from Solitude during the Third Era. This was long before the Oblivion Crisis. Her olders brothers had both become Emperor at some point after their father's death, but the throne passed to Potema's niece when her elder brother died. Angry, Potema and her son Uriel Septim III (no, not the one in Oblivion) went back to Skyrim and began to rebel.

Her son was able to conquer the Empire after a long campaign that came to be known as the War of the Red Diamond. However, Emperor Uriel III was captured in battle by his uncle Cephorus Septim. He was to be taken to the Imperial City to be put on trial, but an angry mob attacked on the way, killing Uriel III. It was decided that Cephorus would become the next Emperor.

This is where Potema becomes branded as pure evil. Upon learning of her son's demise, she summoned Daedra from Oblivion and reanimated the corpses of her enemies. She sent attack after attack on the Imperial Legion until she finally died after a month-long siege on Solitude, at which point all of her human subjects had abandoned her, making the only inhabitants of Solitude her undead forces.

There was a saying that a man who lived life to the fullest would face death with no fear. Of course, all these sayings came from the lips of men who had yet to comprehend just how boring death really was.

Graves was a dead man. He might have smiled, if he could, about how that one line made him sound like the tragic hero of an old song or long. Such fancies could not have been further from the truth. He had faced death twice in his existence, and could say he hated it.

He couldn't even remember the first time; though he was willing to bet it had been a mundane death, likely by plague or some other sickness. Whenever that had been, it was too long ago. What he did remember, however, clear as crystal in his mind, was the second.

He had been a general in the Wolf Queen's army. Her true army, of course, the one that stood by her even as her enemies assaulted Solitude on their way to kill her. Graves would never forget that day...

The forces of Emperor Cephorus Septim were at the walls of Solitude; a tree had been cut down and was being used to ram the gates. Graves had stood on the roof of the Emperor's Tower, the irony not at all lost to him, wearing a leather hood and a tattered fur cloak. The Tower wasn't the tallest structure in the city, but it was the tallest one that happened to have an excellent view of the gates. He'd held in each skeletal hand a staff imbued with magic. In his left had been a Staff of Fireballs, while his other hand clutched a Staff of Zombies. A spare of the former was slung across his back. He'd learned very early in his unlife that, as a skeleton, he was absolutely terribleat casting any spells since his body seemed to naturally resist magic. Potema herself had chosen him as a general at first due to the sheer difficulty of reanimating him. He was, however, an excellent climber, acrobat, and marksman. While the staves worked better for someone who could actually do magic, they certainly allowed him to dish out more punishment against an army than any bow and arrow ever could.

He could see even at that distance that the gate was about to crumble. Silently, he prepared to launch a Fireball. The area around the gate had been coated in a scentless, flammable poison he'd prepared the previous night. The siege had been going on for a month, and the forces of Cephorus Septim had only gotten to the final gate after struggling past an army of Potema's undead over several weeks. Graves had hoped they could stall a bit longer. He knew the humans couldn't have lasted another week from a lack of supplies. He'd been the one who'd suggested sabotaging the supply lines, after all.

The gate finally broke, and the Imperial Legion flooded in like water from a broken dam. Of course, water didn't quite burn as easily as Legion soldiers. A great ball of fire flew from the tip of the staff in his hand, sailing over the structures where thousands of his brethren lay in wait. He felt a grim satisfaction as the Imperials at the front of the wave stopped in their tracks as they realized their fate. It was too late, however, as the fools in the back continued to push forward for the Emperor. The carpet of liquid caught flame, painting a good chunk of the city in dancing red and purple and orange, and the soldiers of the Emperor along with it. It looked as if the very jaws of Oblivion had erupted to life in order to defend the Wolf Queen. The toxic smoke that rose from it was an excellent bonus, as well. Satisfied with his handiwork, he loosed a Magelight spell into the sky- the signal to attack.

A tugging sensation interrupted his dreaming. His eyes, if they were still there, revealed nothing different to him. His soul still floated in the Void- that dark realm where the Daedric Princes and Sithis resided in. He could feel the pull becoming slowly stronger. The feeling was familiar, somehow, even though he couldn't remember when he'd had it before. As the suction grew in force, he began to feel two things that he hadn't felt in ages: panic and excitement.

Vivette sat cross-legged on the grassy plains of Whiterun Hold. As much as she considered Fellglow Keep her home, she preferred to practice her art outside whenever the weather was fair. The female Breton mentally prepared herself for the task of controlling multiple undead through the power of the Ritual stone, the blessing of which she'd taken the previous day. An assortment of skeletons littered the ground about her, some of which she'd procured during their exodus from Winterhold. Bodies, she'd found, were only as powerful as their owners. She'd taken much effort to attempt raising each of the bodies she'd collected with spells of various levels. None of the bodies surrounding her presently could be resurrected with Adept-level spells, which were the strongest she could cast. The Conjurers she shared a room with often laughed at the limitations of Necromancy. When she revived these mighty warriors, she would see who would be laughing.

Pushing herself up to stand, the Necromancer began to channel the blessing that had been given to her: the familiar blue energy of reanimation began to erupt around her, although she didn't feel any different on the inside. It seemed that the borrowed power was not quite as satisfying as raising the dead with her own will. She could only faintly feel the minds of the skeletons around her, each one hesitant but willing to serve. While she would never admit it, she was glad for it. The strain of controlling so many would have proven too much. She wondered how the great Necromancers of the Third Era had managed, hundreds of years past. One by one, the skeletons began to pull themselves together, and to their feet. Vivette smiled. It was not as satisfying as she'd thought it would be, but that would change once she'd had these strong warriors of ages past break a few of her roommates' Atronachs. In her excitement, she'd failed to notice the one skeleton that had yet to stand.

Graves could feel it before he could see it. He had body parts where he'd had none for so long. The feeling in them was incredibly dampened, of course, as he had no skin, but all Necromancy spells gave their targets a semblance of touch. His bare spine could feel hard, dry soil beneath it. His hands could feel grass brushing against them in the chill breeze. The sun felt like a warm fire after spending so long in the cold dark. Slowly, his sense of sight returned and he could see blue and white and yellow, his gaze directed at the sky and sun above. Out of habit, he attempted to inhale air with organs that simply weren't there. The result was disappointing, but he was so glad to just be there. Questions began to fill his mind where only apathy for the living once reigned. How long had he been dead? What year of the Third Era was it? He very much doubted Potema was still alive, but what had happened? Was the Empire still ruled by the Septim dynasty?

The biggest question, of course, was the first one he voiced.

"Hoo as bro me ba at-" he stopped himself. It had been so long since he'd had a mouth that he'd forgotten how to speak properly. Slightly annoyed, he sat up to get a better idea of where he was.

The first thing he noticed was the young, brown-haired woman in black robes. The skeleton concluded that she must have been a powerful Necromancer, indeed, to have animated his body at such a young age. The girl looked to be only in her late teens, when Potema Septim herself had been well past the age of bearing children when she'd recruited him. What's more, his new mistress seemed quite relaxed and not at all winded by the effort of calling him from beyond the grave. Had he found someone stronger than the Wolf Queen?

The woman must have felt his presence then, as she turned to regard him. She apparently noticed he was of slighter form than most, because a scowl grew on her face, as though disappointed by the fruit of her efforts.

"Do I... not please you, Mistress?" Graves rasped, finding his voice and managing to work his mouth properly. He was quite pleased with that small victory.

"You can talk!" the Necromancer almost screamed.

"My apologies," he said with a bow of his skull. "I'd assumed someone of your power had encountered souls capable of free speech before."

"I'm sorry," the young woman practically whispered. "I- I'm not a very good Necromancer. I just used the power of a standing stone to bring you guys to life."

Graves' eyebrows would have risen in surprise at that if he had them. It was one of those occasions when he was glad he didn't have a face. His expression would have ruined everything. He'd actually heard of a power that could raise the dead which was different from Necromancy, but this information had been from long before. He looked at the woman's face, glad his eyes were but twin orbs without pupils, and saw her ambition. The girl was young, and had not yet lived life fully. Had not yet overcome her fear of death. A plan had formed in his mind. He decided to take the risk.

"Do you speak of the Ritual stone?" he asked, making sure to keep his voice as even as he could.

"Yes, exactly that," the young Necromancer said, almost quaking in her boots.

Graves almost considered simply using threats, but how likely was this opportunity to come again? The afterlife was boring, and surely there were still things a walking corpse could do to amuse himself in Tamriel. He decided he needed to be patient with this one. His scheme was already risky enough without letting her catch on.

"Do you know the limitations of the Ritual stone?" he asked, as if he knew and was testing her. In reality, he had no idea whatsoever. It was likely it had some limit, of course. Otherwise all the Necromancers would use it.

"Of course," the girl answered, apparently slowly getting over the shock. "The power only lasts an hour before those raised sleep once more. Then I have to wait a full day before I can call upon it again."

"Indeed," Graves kept his head down and praised her, although he had no idea if that was correct. He could tell she was being honest, though. "My mistress is well learned. Why stop with an hour a day, though?"

"I'm sorry?" the young girl looked surprised. "You mean to tell me you know of a way to break the stone's limits?"

"Got you," Graves thought to himself quietly.

"But of course!" the skeleton lifted his bowed head. "All you need is an empty Black Soulgem."

"Is that so?" the girl beamed, in a manner so innocent that Graves almost changed his mind. Not quite, though. "Stay right here! I'll be right back!"

The girl ran off in the direction of an abandoned ruin that the skeleton had previously ignored.

"What a fool," Graves muttered to himself when she was out of earshot. "Don't they teach novices not to trust the things they summon anymore?"

He couldn't believe his luck.

Vivette couldn't believe her luck.

All her life she'd trained thinking it would take her ages before she could control multiple bodies for more than an hour, and then here came this skeleton with a solution to her problem! She'd always worried she would be wrinkly and old by the time she could command any kind of respectable power, but now doors had opened for her! She entered the Keep quickly, passing the ruined walls that offered no protection whatsoever. Not even the dark atmosphere could dull her euphoria. As she entered the main hall, she took a left, heading towards her room. She'd had an empty Black Soulgem in her trunk in case she ever needed one. Now was certainly one of those times.

In her haste, she failed to notice the ash piles on the floor- the only traces that remained of the other skeletons that she'd ordered to teach her roommate a lesson. She'd nearly made it to her things when she found herself roughly pushed up against a wall. The Breton girl suddenly felt as if she'd been pushed under the ice, to the murky waters below. Almost literally, as she realized that it was a pair of frozen limbs that had pinned her to the wall. The Frost Atronach had no facial features of course, its head being a chunk of ice. Behind it, her Altmer roommate Analmo glared at her as if she'd assaulted him. In a way, she kind of did.

"Do you think that was funny, Half-Elf?" Analmo growled, making the girl tremble in his grasp. "Sending a bunch of weak skeletons to assault me?"

"N-no," Vivette stammered. "It's just you k-keep p-pushing me around!"

"Oh?" the High Elf fumed. "I think you need to learn your place, wench. My ancestors took yours as slaves, in case you've forgotten. And when they took them, I do mean they took them."

Analmo closed the distance between them, slipping under the arm of the elemental Daedra that held her. Vivette couldn't see Analor through the icy arm of her captor, but she could feel the Conjurer's hands roughly groping her thigh through her robe.

"W-what are you doing!?" she trembled. "Stop!"

"You know, I had a feeling you were going to say that," Analor stated flatly. "It seems I have much to teach you."

His laughter filled her ears then. It was cruel and, she thought, filled with a dark sort of happiness. It was becoming clear that Analmo had been looking for an excuse to do this, and she'd given him the perfect one: retribution. When a rogue mage hurt another, there were no rules. Injury could be answered with death. Vivette didn't want to die; she had so much more to do! But in the face of Analmo's obvious intentions, she was starting to think dying was the easier way out. Silently, the girl prayed to the Divines for death to come. Maybe the atronach would squeeze to hard and she would suffocate, or maybe she could cast a flame spell and kill both of them... Although given her resilience to magic, that could take a while.

"I was wondering what was taking so long," a voice came, and Vivette looked at the Atronach in shock.

"You can talk!?" she exclaimed.

"This again?" the voice rasped, and she realized it was coming from beyond the Frost Atronach. "I do grow weary of this excrement, Mistress."

That was when she realized the Divines had answered her prayer. Death truly had come, but not for her. She hoped.

Graves had to physically stop himself from smacking his hand against his skull. On a hunch, he'd followed the girl into the abandoned fort or keep or whatever it was when he realized he had no idea how long the standing stone had been in effect already. He'd come to make sure she would make haste, and it seemed his hunch was correct. The fool girl had gotten herself captured by a rather wimpy Frost Atronach, as well as an ugly Altmer who seemed to be in heat.

"Who dares interrupt me?" a High Elf demanded, turning on him with the arrogance of his ancestors. "I see you have yet another skeleton with you. No matter."

The High Elf snapped his fingers, and the golem-like Daedra dropped the girl and turned to face the skeleton. Graves almost swore, but managed to keep his courteous act up. While he was powerful in his own right, he was unarmed. What was a marksman without a weapon? A dead man. He needed to remember that one next time he needed to be funny, whenever that would be.

His eyes wandered the main hall for something- anything, really, that he could use as a weapon. To his great disappointment, the closest thing he could find that might hurt a Frost Atronach was a torch. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. The entire structure did seem to be inhabited mostly by unsavory characters with an inclination for magic. He grabbed the torch and hurled it at the Frost Atronach, not really expecting it to do anything. The flaming stick, for he might as well have thrown one, had the expected effect on the Atronach. Nothing. It did, however, cause an unfortunate amount of collateral damage to the table it tumbled to after bouncing off of the Daedra. The piece of furniture caught fire, and the chair beside it soon followed, as did the trunk beside that. Maybe not so unfortunate.

"Not in the plan, but I'll take it," he remarked. "Girl, I hope you have some sort of resilience to fire. It's about to get very warm in there."

"You fool!" the Altmer shrieked. "You're going to set everything on fire!"

"You Altmer and your statement of the obvious," the skeleton chuckled darkly.

The Frost Atronach immediately pressed itself to the burning furniture in order to douse the flames. To the Altmer's credit, the crude countermeasure worked. The furniture was black where the fire had spread, but the flames had ceased. However, the Atronach had melted to almost half its mass, becoming smaller than an average man.

The moments after went quickly. Graves tossed a quick Fear spell at the Altmer, to ensure that the fool would stay panicked a little longer. The skeleton's magic was weak, of course, and the spell wouldn't have worked at all if the dumb Elf hadn't already been panicking. Before the Elf could make sense of things, Graves had slipped behind him and coiled two bony arms around his neck.

"Bind his soul!" Graves commanded, momentarily forgetting the role he was playing.

The girl reacted quickly, firing a purple bolt of energy at the High Elf. A moment after it struck, Graves snapped his neck and the Elf fell to the ground with an expression on his face that might have been considered comedic under different circumstances. The Atronach similarly expired, sinking to its knees, no longer bound to the world by a master.

"Are you alright?" Graves asked.

But before she could answer, his body stopped, and everything went dark.

Nevar: Please let me know what you think, especially if there were parts of this that bothered you, or that you found questionable. Thank you.