Skyrim Fic (CH1) (Patreon)

Here it is. I wanted to finish it today, but I'm not sure how it turned out.

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Gasping for air, a man emerged from a pool of a viscous, black liquid. On instinct, he wiped his face, flicking droplets of the mercury-like substance on the stone floor. Blue-fire candles were arranged around his carved bath, illuminating the surroundings in an eerie hue.

Turning his head left to right, he tried and failed to make sense of the surroundings. It looked like the scene of some kind of ritual—straight out of a horror-movie. Despite that unsettling realization, he felt strangely calm. He didn’t even notice his heart beating.

He put his hands on the rim, getting to his feet. The fluid cascaded down his head and shoulders, pooling with the rest. His skin was left dry, if a tad cold.

He quickly spotted what looked like a black robe, draped over a full-length mirror. It wasn’t much, but at least he wouldn’t be going commando in this… well, wherever he was. Padding over to it, he wore the piece of clothing, feeling the silky texture against his skin.

In somewhat of a trance-like state, he habitually went to adjust his appearance in the mirror, only to receive the biggest shock of his life. What he saw sent him stumbling backward, smashing against an ancient dark-wood dresser, toppling it in a loud crash.

He felt like he should be shouting, panicking, doing… something. But the twinge in his chest was a half-forgotten memory of fear, not the real thing.

With his back against the wall, he slowly raised his hand to his face, seeing the reflection do the same. There was no doubt about it. Those slitted, crimson-back eyes—staring back at him—belonged to none other than himself.

He smacked himself hard. The sound of skin against skin rang loudly in the room, but there was no pain. Was he dreaming?

Long, black hair. Handsome, angular features. Ashen skin. And… those eyes. He’d suspect he was a demon, if it weren’t for the lack of horns.

Drawing closer to the mirror, taking care not to step on the broken debris littering the floor, he took a closer look. Sharp, black nails—talons, really—curved from the tips of his toes and fingers. Similarly razor-like teeth filled his mouth. He could tell as much by feel alone.

He turned this way and that, examining his body. He was… in shape. Extremely so. The perfect amount of size and definition; it was the kind of physique only the most dedicated and genetically gifted could hope to achieve.

Flexing his arm, he watched muscle shift under his skin. More than anything, he was struck by a sense of power. His strength felt… limitless. Like he could bend steel with his bare hands.

Suddenly, he leapt off the ground, twisting in mid-air. His hands and feet made contact with the ceiling, his nails finding purchase in the gaps and imperfections in the rock. It was so easy.

He just hung there for a moment, feeling little to no strain. Like a spider, he walked along the ceiling and down one wall. About mid-way, he pushed against the brick, back-flipping through the air. He landed deftly on his feet.

In front of him, a heavy wooden door was embedded in the wall. The surface was polished smooth, bound with bands of dark iron. Instead of a doorhandle, a large metal ring hung from one side.

Hesitating for a moment, he slid the bolt back before opening the door. It sung open slowly, the well-oiled hinges barely making a sound. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous, but his curiosity was far stronger.

A long hallway stretched out before him, the high roof supported by intricately sculpted pillars. It was entirely devoid of light, but his supernatural eyes had no trouble seeing the end. Nor did he miss the pair of figures standing there.

Two black-steel monstrosities loomed next to a stone archway, their runed swords crossed as if to block the entrance. They were enormous. Seven feet tall or more. Ghostly flames burned in the sockets of their skull-plates, their gazes speaking of a hatred for all living things.

The man-… no, the vampire raised his hand habitually. Habitually? Yes, that was indeed how it felt to him. He spoke, his voice deep and rich, the sound echoing inside the hallway.

“Stand down.”

The response was immediate, metal scraping against metal as the death knights shifted to a less threatening posture.

Seeing it, he was momentarily stunned. Memories were welling up from somewhere. Disjointed images and sounds. Vague impressions. Not enough for anything to make sense, but…

He breathed slowly, scenting the icy air, smelling of wood, stone and metal. When he felt a little more composed, he moved, gliding over the burgundy carpet. He stopped between the two knights, pointing at one.

“You. Guide me to my… study.”

The undead bowed, its black armor making little noise. With grace belying its size, it turned, passing underneath the archway and ascending the spiral staircase on the other side. Its movements were entirely natural, possessing none of the mechanical qualities of lesser thralls.

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Unlike the rest of the ancient manor, the study was well-lit, a warm orange light hanging suspended below the ceiling. Bookshelves decorated the walls, filled to the brim with tome after tome. The place was big. More a personal library than a regular study.

Sitting at his mahogany desk, the vampire absentmindedly rolled an item between his fingers. It was a silver quill, with small, foreign letters engraved on one side. Somehow, he was able to understand their meaning.

‘Drakul V. Tepés’

It was a recognizable name. Enough to clear up a lot of confusion on its own, if not for an unassuming piece of paper laying nearby. It seemed innocuous enough, but holding it up to a flame revealed… a bloody watermark, shaped like a handprint.

A closer look revealed a cypher, one that ‘Drakul’—perhaps Vlad was less of a mouthful—solved without having to think about it. It revealed a rather… shocking message.

‘My humblest greetings, master Tepés. I hope this letter finds you well.

Recently, the brotherhood encountered a unique individual, offering a most singular contract.

If not for its extraordinary nature, I would not dare disturb your seclusion.

A dragonborn has appeared in Skyrim, attested to by our client, as well as various other sources.

Their identity is that of a female Nord—Sonja of Dorn, titled thane of Whiterun.

I have confirmed the veracity of this information myself.

The reward is negotiable, though I guarantee the client as someone of great means.

Whether it be black souls, powerful corpses, forging materials or forbidden tomes—nothing is off the table.

They are very keen on the contract’s completion.

If you find this unappealing, or the matter simply too troublesome, I understand.

I simply wished to bring the matter to your attention.

May the Dread-Father ever guide your steps.

You servant,

Nazir.’

Finished reviewing, Vlad flicked his fingers, setting the letter on fire. The yellowing paper quickly burned to nothing, the remains swept into a nearby ashtray.

He held up his hand, turning it this way and that. Tongues of blue flame danced between his fingertips, easy as breathing. At first, he’d overlooked the tremendous reservoir of magic inside him. Not for any other reason than his body simply being too used to it.

This was Tamriel. He was a vampire, a supremely powerful one. And then his name—Drakul V. Tepés. It was him. Somehow.

After a long hiatus from Skyrim, he’d felt the urge to play it again. The result was this character: a vampire with maxed skills and all perks unlocked. It had taken a while to grind everything out, but it fit the image of ‘Vlad’ in his head—an immortal being, secluded from the world, obsessed with gaining power.

It was a form of roleplaying, a way to spice things up after countless playthroughs. His background—the product of a mod—was part of that. He wasn’t the dragonborn. Because the ‘chosen one’ trope was uninteresting, and because the main quest held little appeal for him.

Though, he’d done… practically no quests anyway. He’d encountered the dark brotherhood—to pickpocket the Blade of Woe off Astrid—and done the mission for Bloodchill manor. But that was it.

Running a hand over his face, Vlad chuckled to himself. His memories were fragmented, but that did fit the image of his predecessor. It would take something truly world-shattering to drag him away from his studies.

Not everything was the same. His relationship with the Dark Brotherhood was a prime example. He wasn’t a member, but more of an… honorary one—a result of his long, storied history with the organization.

Needless to say, an orphaned boy’s contract was beneath him. The original Vlad didn’t even know who Aventus Arentino was, nor would he have cared if he did. The Dark Brotherhood as a whole were glorified errand-runners to him—a way to track down materials or information.

Nazir, having more sense than his leader, Astrid, facilitated that. With Vlad’s power, getting on his bad side was… a terrible idea. A single of his death-knights—once ancient vampires in their own right—could slaughter them to the last without drawing its blade.

Then, there was Bloodchill manor. Unlike in the game, the subterranean mansion had been in Vlad’s possession for hundreds of years. In fact, he was its original owner. Having stumbled across the Dwemer ruins long ago, he’d slowly converted it into an opulent castle, of which he was the sole inhabitant.

Here, all his gathered knowledge and worldly wealth accumulated. It was something of a paradise for him—a space entirely crafted to fit his preferences, where he would never be disturbed.

Pushing his chair back, he stood, turning to a stained glass window. Though Bloodchill manor was underground, parts of it were exposed to the outside. Located in Winterhold—the least populated of all Skyrim’s holds—the odds of someone accidentally finding themselves on his doorstep were vanishingly small.

The densely forested environment contributed to that. Though he was technically in Winterhold, a largely barren environment for the most part, Bloodchill cavern was nearly as far south as the city of Morthal.  The seasons weren’t too unbearable—for the most part.

Outside the window, he watched the sleet coming down, the trees shaking in the cold wind. The sun had almost set, illuminating the ancient woods in brilliant golden colors. Above the horizon, even darker clouds rolled in, roiling with bolts of violet lightning.

In a daze, Vlad pressed his hand against the textured glass. It was a magnificent scene. One a city boy like him—the other him, that is—would never get to see. The time would come for him to consider the future, but right now, he wanted nothing more than to enjoy a moment’s tranquility.

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