Skyrim and the Elder Scrolls series are the property of Bethesda Game Studios.
Chapter 01: A Toy for the Divines
Divines smile on you, friends. They always do. In fact, they smile on everyone. Do you know where the Divines live? Truth be told, no-one really knows, for no-one really talks to them and no-one has really met a true Divine, and so, in their desperation, the people of Nirn have turned to the Daedra, the cunning little beings residing in their not so appealing plane (which, of course, is not quite what it seems, but that is another story) but still manifesting their presence in the world of the mortals. The question is – did the people of Nirn gain anything by doing that? They, of course, have no way of knowing, but we do. There is but one absolute truth in this world, and that is…
42.
Actually, it's not 42. In this case, the absolute truth is…
The Wabbajack. Didn't see that coming, did ya?
Well now, let us look at this case closely. The Divines, in fact, reside in a very merry place, having a very merry time over the bottomless jug of unnamed liquor whose qualities would best not be discussed under any circumstances. As to how many there are and what character they possess, only they can tell, and perhaps it does not even matter to them. Now the Daedra, they are believed to be evil, as opposed to the Divines. But mind you, the Daedra are also a creation of the Divines, so who in their right mind would call them good, merciful or any such word?
Oh, yes. The people of Nirn. The laugh. The pawns on the grey chessboard.
Imagine yourselves existing. Can you do that?
Ah, I see your perception of existence is a little different from what we mean. Let us speculate. Let us say that the Divines exist. No-one knows that, of course, but let us say we know. If they exist, they can, by the definition of the term divine, create, alter and decompose at will. But if you were born as an almighty presence, you would soon find your life lacking in a way. And so the Divines live as they please and do as they please, and yet, there is one thing that keeps threatening their existence.
Boredom.
To fight off boredom, we create. If we get tired of our creations, we toss them away, we scratch them, we shape them and play with them, we create anew or maybe destroy other's creation. Are the Divines different in this aspect? You know the answer by now, don't you?
And so on one very merry day, Stendarr the Merciful found himself bored. He watched a Khajiit get high on skooma and dance on the table, swinging his tail in rhythm of a very merry song with not so merry ending.
Oh, there once was a hero named Ragnar the Red
Who came riding to Whiterun from ole Rorikstead
But this Khajiit soon fell on the floor in sweet delirium and people carried him outside of the inn, relieving him of any excessive burdens like his new enchanted glass sword that he had bought for the coin earned by smuggling the mysterious substance called the Moon-Sugar, and gods know that this was the city of Riften where anything was possible. The city of the biggest laugh, but still, tonight's fun had ended and the boredom prevailed once more as the local thieves retreated to their dens.
Stendarr sighed and turned his attention to the city of Windhelm, where similar scenario was taking place in a cramped locality called New Gnisis Cornerclub. The mead was flowing and the voices rising through the ever present lingering screen of smoke and dust, one elf with ebony dark skin tripping and falling flat on the ground while the other stepped on his backside with a roar of laughter, raising his tankard to toast, but he too lost his balance on the soft substance beneath his feet and followed his victim's example. A real good friend of his who was about to become a former friend, joined the merriment and smacked the bottom of a young waitress. And above all that fun, on the upper floor, kneeling on the wooden panels that creaked with her slightest movement, a Dunmer woman was weeping and begging for mercy. Now that was a sight to behold, a dark elf praying to Stendarr himself, and who was he to ignore the call which could possibly provide for some sort of amusement.
"Ulfric Stormcloak," the woman wailed. "Please, merciful Stendarr, please, let the justice prevail. Please teach him a lesson."
Ah, is that all? Stendarr thought. To teach him a lesson? Very well, it shall be done.
But there were many ways of teaching a man a lesson, so which would Stendarr the Merciful choose?
Ah, there had been that Dragonborn talk, recently, if you know what I mean, for time does not matter to the Divines all that much, and to Stendarr's entertainment, the gleeful Daedra found much pleasure in toying with this particular person. And one of them, the old fun guy named Sheogorath, was just waiting for an opportunity to make his appearance. Ah, and he was wielding a staff of special qualities which would be just perfect for executing Justice. And so Stendarr walked away from that merry settlement of his and decided to visit his old mad friend.
"The Wabbajack! Ehh? EH?! Didn't see that coming, did ya?"
The Dragonborn rolled his eyes. A dark staff materialized in his hands, made in something close to ebony, and he winced as it stared at him with its jaws wide open in a grimace which one would describe as frightful while the other would see it as purely comical. Truth be told, it was supposed to be both and, considering the fact that the staff actually had a face, most people would probably choose the word bizarre. But there was no-one to ask, for out of the people who had come into contact with this peculiar item so far, none of them was able to put a comprehensible thought together, much less articulate it. In this aspect, the Dragonborn had it easy. He simply thought nothing of it.
"Cheese!" shouted the man before him, although to call him a man would perhaps be inappropriate. "Do you mind? I'm busy doing the fishstick. It's a very delicate state of mind!"
"Of course," the Dragonborn said, turning his head to examine his own outfit which, surprisingly, did not in the least seem familiar to him. Shrugging at last, he walked the strange place, a fairly empty grey world with a feast waiting for whomever occupied it at its center. If you consider an infinite number of plates with all kinds of cheese arranged on them a feast, that is.
Three paths meeting at the said center led to three places that were just as grey and empty as the rest of this strange plane, save for a bed at one of them and a strange arena at another. There were apparitions waiting for him, a mad emperor who changed size, a goat, a wolf, a number of atronachs… and the voice in his head, of course. The Dragonborn, fortunately, was among the very few who failed to form a decent thought when it came to it, so much that the dullness of his mind threatened to expand into a whole new dimension of stupidity. It was also highly infectious, and some people even devised a strategy of how to vacate a city in five seconds so nobody would have to come in contact with the said man. It involved a hammer, a hat and a mysterious black box with a screen showing moving pictures. And so in the world where an average person would succumb to panic and madness due to their thoughts swirling and mixing together in a torrent of chaos, the Dragonborn walked freely, swinging his Wabbajack on a whim. Eventually, after a long sequence of random swishes and flickers, the Daedric Lord currently occupying this realm would release him along with the grimacing staff and send him to spread his influence in the curious world called Mundus.
Eventually, the Wabbajack would awaken and leave the Dragonborn, finding itself in the hands of a certain Nord woman whose qualities were quite questionable. Still, unlike the Dragonborn, this particular Nord had a mind filled with thoughts, well, relatively speaking, and this mind could be controlled. This woman was also one of the many who were allowed into the private chambers of a certain jarl, and perhaps even further.
The man known to others as Ulfric Stormcloak sat on his throne, if the word sit could describe his fairly relaxed half horizontal position and his limbs spread around him higgledy-piggledy, which, contradictory to what he was, made him seem like all but nobility, issuing orders left and right. Then a man in expensive clothing lined with richly woven patterns rushed into the hall, announced by the guards as Jorleif, his steward.
"Sir, there continues to be unrest in the Gray Quarter," he informed breathlessly, wiping a stream of sweat from his face.
"Blasted dark elves," Ulfric grumbled, his face showing no signs of being bothered by the news. "I don't suppose you could tell them that I presently have larger concerns? Such as all of Skyrim?"
"They don't seem to be very sympathetic to our cause, sir."
"Let me know if you hear anything more substantial."
"Of course, my lord."
There was, of course, nothing that would make the Dunmer substantial for Ulfric Stormcloak, unless they would threaten to burn down the city which would prove highly disadvantageous for them. Talos was the witness to him that there was no place for the dark elves in Windhelm and Skyrim was the land of the Nords, and once he saved it from the obnoxious Empire and the high elves, he would cleanse it of the remaining filth. Talos who, coincidentally at that very moment, was laughing his non-existent lungs off at the devious plan presented to him by a certain fellow deity, not caring about his most loyal worshipper more than he would have cared for a fly passing his head in his life. Godhood sure had its perks.
A Nord woman then entered the room, with long hair of the same weed color as Ulfric's, flying freely around her face, her thick lips parted slightly in an alluring smile. She was the epitome of a true Nord woman, Ulfric thought, temperamental on the field and in the kitchen alike while docile in the bed. She was his favorite, a cute little toy he would enjoy spending time with after a long day of ordering people around and devising strategies to corner his enemies.
He straightened his back and nodded to her, ignoring the meaningful look Jorleif gave him. Then he noticed the staff she was carrying, a dark needlessly large rod grimacing at him like a madman at his final stage.
"I brought you a souvenir, dear," she purred, raising the staff. "A kind man gave it to me for a chunk of bread. It makes wishes come true."
Ulfric chuckled at that, thinking of appropriate use for such a fine piece of ebony. Sure, it could make wishes come true, and considering its shape, he knew exactly what he would use it for. The question he failed to ask himself was, whose wishes it would make come true.
He rose and offered her his arm, leading her to his chambers. The fire was lit and warmth welcomed them, and his eyes trailed off to the soft bed made in silk linens. Then he examined the table beside it and came to the conclusion that it was far too empty for the occasion.
"Any special request for the dinner?" he asked her, reaching for a loose lock of her hair.
"Of course!" she grinned at him, and he thought that her smile was out of this world. Unfortunately for him, he did not realize how literal this mental statement of his could become.
"And what would that be?" he inquired.
"Cheese!" she exclaimed.
"Ah, cheese," he said with a smile. "With wine, I presume? I'll have it delivered right away."
A while after, a maid stopped by and left behind a tray with a jug of wine, two silver goblets and a plate full of Eidar cheese, backing away hastily when the grimacing head of the staff pressed to the line between her breasts. Ulfric's companion laughed at that, making him raise a brow.
"This is the stick of truth," she said mysteriously. "And it can see right through you. Weren't you just looking at them?"
"Just looking," he pointed teasingly. "Now what can this stick of truth do?"
"You want to know?" she whispered.
He nodded and she raised her hand, waving its face towards him.
"I am a part of you," the woman breathed. "You just don't know it."
There was a flash of reddish pearlescent light. And then the world drowned in darkness. Somewhere in a faraway dimension, a group of gods sitting around a table let out a roar of laughter.
A knock on the door woke him up. He sat up abruptly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and took a deep breath to drive the sleepiness away.
"My Jarl?" Jorleif's voice came from behind the door.
He looked around. Observation number one: The room was a mess. A butterfly was hovering over the table, a sight he would not have expected anywhere in Windhelm, much less in his own chambers. Then there was… blood? A fox in the corner. A severed head. He covered his mouth with his hand to suppress the disgust that materialized quite tangibly in his throat. He had seen countless severed heads. But not in his own bedroom. And the cheese! There was cheese everywhere, and he could swear that he had never ordered so much.
Observation number two: He felt funny. Of course, there could be other words to describe his state, but funny was the one that first came to his mind, and he could not quite come up with an appropriate description. He just felt funny. His chest was tight, and somewhere down there, something was missing. He rose, staggering to the door, and reached for its handle.
The door opened and behind it stood his steward, a stack of papers in his hands, but they came flying all around the moment Jorleif set his eyes on his jarl. His jaw dropped and for a moment, he reminded Ulfric of a certain staff he had seen recently. Then his face turned bright red and his eyes fumed with fury.
"Where is Jarl Ulfric?" he snarled.
"Jorleif, what in Oblivion…" he tried to say, but stopped the moment he realized his voice sounded a good fifth higher than it should have. He was shoved to the ground, Jorleif's blade pointing at his neck.
"Intruder!" he cried out and a cacophony of noises rose above them in an instant. "You better explain yourself, wench!"
"Jorleif, for the love of Talos, it's me, Ulfric!" the confused jarl groaned, but he was dragged away, down into the dark cellar which served as the local jail and interrogation room. He fought with the steward, fist meeting fist, until he freed himself, knocking the startled guards who had gathered around them out of his way, wincing in pain every time his bare hands clashed with the hard steel armor of his opponents. To his advantage, he was probably the only one who knew every crevice of the city, and so he sneaked skillfully through the narrow passageways of the sewers and catacombs below, places that no-one had visited or even heard about in years, making his way to the docks.
An Argonian man nodded at him, which by itself seemed odd, considering who he was. He quickly rushed along the bank towards the river mouth, searching for a quiet place where he could sort out his thoughts in relative peace. Then he found it, a cozy little hollow with a cove where the water reflected the sunlight and the shadows cast by the surrounding trees. A butterfly hovered over it and he scowled at the bitter memory of his room.
He approached the pool a little timidly, hesitant to look into the natural mirror, but he gathered his courage at last and leaned over its edge. He stared at the face that had appeared before his eyes, and there was a moment of absolute stillness before the newly acquired information sank in. Then he jerked backwards in belated reaction and let out a shriek of horror.
He finally took a good look at his hands, frowning at the contrast of the dark ebony skin against the surrounding snow. They were slender, elegant even, without a single fault, but to him they seemed filthy, repulsive. Then he paused to think and the realization sank even deeper. He looked around, and when the air seemed clear, he cautiously slid his hand down to his waist, tugging at his belt. Slowly uncovering the lower part of his body, he dared take a peek. Instinctively, his head jerked to the side and he averted his eyes, exhaling deeply in attempt to rid himself of the unsettling feeling that spread through his body like poison. So that was what was missing.
Uhm. Well, yeah, I'm writing yet another story. I didn't plan for it, it just happened and I kind of needed to relieve myself of some stress and frustration, so I did it this way. Don't expect frequent updates, this story requires some delicate state of mind to let itself be written.
Reviews, favs and follows much appreciated.
