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Skyrim: Plaything	By : GE_The_Beast Category: +A through F > Elder Scrolls - Skyrim Views: 21445 -:- Recommendations : 3 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This story is made for fun, profit and entertainment. In no way do I own anything discussed. I do not own Skyrim or The Elder Scrolls fandom in any way, nor do I intend any profit from this story.

Chapter List
- 10
- 11
- 12
The hike through the hills was made harder by Elayne’s shoes, more than the difficulty of the hike. Years of Forsworn feet had hardened the trail, but she spent more time on her hands and toes with the angle of the hike. By the time they got to the other side of the valley, Fort Sungard sat across the way with the late afternoon sun making it appear orange. There were small glittering people among that, at least twenty legionaries moving amongst the old stones.
“That was a nice hike.” Lydia smirked, eyeing the way that Elayne sat on a rock and rubbed her feet.
“This village hopefully will have some books.” Elayne still felt slightly uncomfortable at the thought of stealing from other people.
“That village is one single building.” Lydia pointed out, crouching on top of a boulder to take a better look. “A very large one, at least.”
After a few minutes to catch their breath, both women approached the single building. It had stables, at least on one side. Another had a full blacksmithing station, with many stones and molds in storage containers. There was a large name carved into the archway above the door. “Hendraheim?” She read. “I’ve never heard of such a place.”
“That’s the symbol of the Imperial dragon on the door!” Elayne pointed out. “But the weapons behind it aren’t something I recognize.” It was an Imperial dragon, but the weapons flanking it were some kind of dunmeri style of blades. “And it’s locked!” The lock was some massive iron construction. It had dragon language on it, and wrapped around both handles and the reinforced steel bands of the door.
“Well, let me just,” Lydia gave a swing with her dwarven warhammer, but the metal just bounced, the object enchanted somehow. “Okay, it’s very locked.”
“Bex.” Elayne read. “That sounds like a shout…” She cleared her throat, the collar beneath her clothing rattling against her skin. “Bex!” She tried, her voice echoing against the doorframe. Like a flower unfolding to the sun, the lock opened. “A dragonshout lock! That’s the most interesting type I’ve ever seen!”
“My thane. Who would have such a thing?” Lydia asked, a large grin on her face.
“The other Dragonborn!” She grinned too, smiling as each grabbed a door and pulled them open. This Hendaheim Hall seemed to be filled with chests, armor stands, and piles of gear. At the forefront was a single armorstand, with a very short dress upon it. The fabric was an inky black, with a white ruffled underskirt. Minimal sleeves and maximum cleavage was designed to be shown with the outfit, along with a beautiful sword laid at its feet. A small plaque was right below it, and Elayne wandered forward to read it.
“My thane!” Lydia called, in warning. Elayne looked down, the wood of the floor lighting up in an arcane circle. It flashed, and she felt herself fall to the floor as the trap seemed to drain all of her mana and stamina. Her eyes fluttered, hearing Lydia also hit the floor hard. The Nord’s face was slumped in sleep, completely taken out by the trap. But she was still moving, using one hand to remove her boot.
“That’s good to know…” Elayne murmured, the spell taking effect upon her as well. They were the ones removing their own clothes! That meant that they were cursed, not being followed by spirits or worse. Elayne’s forehead hit the ground, and she blacked out.

When she came to, she wasn’t naked. That was a welcome surprise! Of course, she did not expect the outfit, either. The tight black dress held to her form so well that her piercings were reflected on the outside of the dress. Looking up, she could see that the statue she had seen coming in was now devoid of outfit, and she stood up unsteadily to look around more closely. The black dress fluttered, the slightest motion enough to send the skirts and white ruffled underskirt swaying. Tight black heels clicked as she stood up, the ankle straps looking large and extremely tough.
“What did we get hit with?” She wondered aloud, looking around. Lydia was on the ground near her, wearing a duplicate outfit. She would be angry about that for certain, and so Elayne decided to just let her wake up without any assistance. A simple Muffle spell, and she could move around without a sound. “What kind of outfit is this?” That was the real question. Not a stitch was on her body other than this dress and heels. Her other clothes were not on the floor, but stacked at the top of her bag and left at the foot of the armor stand she had first seen this dress on. Now at least, she could read the plaque.
‘In memory of Eola, my madwoman of the reach. You deserved better from life. A good friend, an excellent maid, and an anal queen in bed.’ Elayne blushed at the last. This was a maid’s dress! She moved to take it off, but found that it was somehow locked upon her. A belt wrapped around the tightest part of her waist, and was locked. The sleeves were capped off at her biceps, which also had stiff locked bands. All of the keyholes were on the back, and the most she could do was know their location. She couldn’t get an angle on being able to pick them. To reach the lock around her waist, she would need to lift her skirts all the way up in back, one hand holding the pile of fluffy fabric when the other tried to pick the lock. It was frustratingly impossible for her to remove.
It tickled her nipples mercilessly, and the skirts seemed to just flutter from only one single step. Elayne realized that the neckline could easily be pulled down, leaving her tiny breasts on display. Tempting for a moment, she shook her head and walked around the building. There was only one entrance, which from this side seemed to be locked once again. The building had a small alchemical area, and an arcane enchanter right across from it. Chests and storage containers were all over the place, and out of curiosity she opened one. Inside were one item, and one item only. The chest was filled to the brim with Forsworn armor. Bloodied and damaged, all. Dozens of Forsworn must have died to fill this chest!
She moved to the next, and the one after. Every single chest was filled to bursting with the remnants of Forsworn armor. Elayne’s mind swam, skirts a flutter as she tried to count how many people died to make that possible. Her answer wasn’t a comforting one. At least four hundred Forsworn worth of armor was kept in these chests. The bone and leather was kept almost as a trophy to it all. Shuddering, she shut each of the open chests and went to the small bedroom area. The fireplaces were cold and the cookfire dark. No one had been here in quite some time. Her heels made tracks in the dust, as she stepped over to the living space.
Only a few books were here, one of which was a journal. Eola’s journal. Elayne read it, but soon realized Eola was a hard one to read. Her handwriting was tough, and complicated. She liked to write notes in the margins. The first pages seemed to document meeting the Dragonborn. He’s really something. Brought us one of those fussy Khajit to consume. Their flesh tasted exquisite. Namira was honored in it. He has asked me to be at his side when he calls. I plan to say yes. Elayne could feel her nipples drag against the dress as she turned the page, looking at the open admission of the daedra worshipper.
Her ass hit the large bed, sending a wave of dusty particles into the air. The fluffy skirt didn’t even bother staying around her thighs, riding up enough that her skin was in contact with the dusty blankets. The Dragonborn has asked if I might accompany him throughout Markarth and the Reach. He says that between the two of us, we can eat and consume every single Forsworn we come across. They will pay for what they did to my family. The Dragonborn has some unpronounceable name I can’t get right. So we made pet names for each other. He calls me Peaches. I call him Stick. The names fit together like we do. A little note was made in the margin, about something called Namira’s Ring Lies.
“Lies where?” Elayne wondered. As she turned the page, this one just documented numbers and dates. Three here, four there. It looked like the numbers were adding up to dozens, until Elayne realized that there were thirty pages of this. Hundreds of numbers, along with the day associated. Her stomach rolled when she realized what those numbers meant. Dead Forsworn. And the chests here were full of that evidence. Elayne flipped through the rest of these pages with little interest, trying to find something more than a tally of the dead. She found it near the end of the book.
Stick says we are running out of Reachmen to find and kill. Between Silver-blood’s bounty and our private war, we are running out of good tasting meat. But I still haven’t tasted the one meal I truly want. The one who really needs to die for the cause. Madanach must die. Stick says that he might be able to find him, but only if I accept his collar. Become his permanent bitch. He hasn’t let me cut my hair, and keeps controlling the food we eat. He wants my ass bigger. Well. He’s damn impressive in bed. I might accept being his bitch sometimes, but all the time? The entry ended there.
Elayne flipped the page. It was almost at the end of the book. Her hands thumbed the iron collar around her own neck. Madanach tastes like ass and regret. We chased him down almost to High Rock. He had a few followers left. They were all hard, and I was heavily wounded. I’ve lost some toes, and it looks like I won’t be able to run around as much anymore. So. It didn’t take much to decide after that. I’m young, sure. But I lost my eye as a child. Lost an ear to Thonar. Now Madanach took my big toes. He took both of them. I can barely pivot around anymore, except that Stick made me some pretty shoes. Sure, I finally have to wear some heels like a prissy bitch, but it can compensate for my missing toe. There was a long gap towards the end of the page. He let me hold the collar tonight. Decide if I wanted it. Left a custom designed copy of his own Stick for me to ride all night, too.
There was one last entry. I’m wearing it. I’m actually wearing it! I can barely talk, it’s so exciting! I rode his fake Stick all night long. But I can’t breath. Something’s wrong. I think Madanach poisoned himself. He knew I would do it. He knew I’d eat him. Well, fine. I don’t care if I die, knowing I ended the Forsworn. I’ll die his bitch. I’m wearing the collar. Even the sexy little dress he put out for me. I put your Stick in my drawer. Thanks for everything, Shashev. I would’ve been happy to live, but somehow this fits me better. So this one last night, I’m yours. Goodbye. Elayne set the journal down, feeling extremely awkward. This was the dress that Eola died in. This might have been the bed she died in.
She stood up, unsteady on her shoes. The room was the one place that was personalized. That was how she saw it. Like a trophy on the top of the armoire, there sat the collar that she had worn. It was huge, and made from red tinted Ebonite. All of it made for the neck of a Breton. One very much like herself. It went from the underside of the chin all the way to the shoulders, molded to fit a very specific person. Her thumb caressed her neck, the slim iron seeming simple in comparison. Biting her lip, she put the journal in her bag. There were very few other books here, other than a few cookbooks. Those, Elayne avoided. The dresser was nice, and full of a few clothes. Remembering her aunt’s words, she took all of the smallclothes. She was running out, at the rate that Captured Dreams kept taking them away.
The bottom drawer seemed to be filled with jewelry. There was a gold diamond necklace in that drawer, she could already see the shine of it. Elayne took it all, chewing her tongue as she felt guilty. She was stealing from the dead! But on the other hand, it was someone that had most likely killed her Aunt Gwynabyth in this world! Someone with plenty of blood on their hands! Still, she felt extremely uncomfortable as she removed all of the items from the drawer. Oddly, not a single gold septim was in the house. Normally people let a few roll around, but here it seemed that every single piece of gold had been taken. The other drawers seemed to have clothing, of which she dared to look at one outfit. “Ew! I’d look like a cultist.” It was black, a little dress covered in daedric symbols matching death and suffering. She stopped looking in the clothing, instead digging and pawing through the bedside tables. Elayne found a collection of teeth, which were immediately dropped. But next to that was a leather wrapped bundle that seemed to take up half the storage space.
The leather wrapping was soft, and came undone in her hands smoothly. Inside was a soul gem, but it looked like it had been carefully ground and cut to resemble something much more phallic. The soul gem was a deep purple, and had thin bands of Ebonite running through it. The bottom had small lettering, labeling this as ‘Stick’. Elayne felt heat rush through her cheeks, realizing exactly what this was from the journals before. This was what Eola had been using! Elayne leaned around the corner, and could see Lydia still asleep over by the trap. Judging by the dust, no one else had been here in months. She chewed her lip, thinking about the likelihood of being disturbed. It seemed highly unlikely.
Elayne stepped back over to the bed, looking it over. Well, she was dressed as a maid. The thought brought a cackle as she went to the cupboards in the room and changed the hay and animal skins to ones that weren’t covered in dust. Her skirt kept flipping around as she moved, the underskirt ghosting touches at the bottom of her ass. Now that the bed was made, she felt more comfortable sitting upon it. As she sat down, the troublesome skirts drew back so that only skin was touching the bed. Then she faced the aforementioned Stick. She shouldn’t be afraid of a piece of crystal and ebony, and yet here she was. Afraid. “Bigger than Belethor.” Or her memory supplied. Wrapping her hands around it, it took both to hold the object. She felt almost ashamed, just holding the damning thing.
“What in Oblivion!” Lydia’s roar carried through the entire house. “Elayne!” She bellowed.
“Over here!” She shoved the giant sex toy underneath one of the feather down plllows. Standing, she could hear the thunderous stomps and another crash as the Nord cursed. Lydia came around the corner, fluttery skirts akimbo and rolling along the ground. She slid to a stop against the doorframe, bracing herself with the heeled shoes. “Lydia? Are you okay?”
“I tripped.” The Housecarl explained. “These shoes are locked on.”
“They are?” She hadn’t checked. “I just know the dress is.”
“This thing is locked on me?!” Lydia looked horrified. “What kind of trap did we fall into?”
Elayne reached over and pulled Lydia’s skirt lower. “You’re flashing the world, Lydia. I have a few answers about that, however.” She sat back down on the bed. “I found out what is causing us to wake up naked. I think I also figured out the trap.”
Lydia sat down, her skirt also refusing to lie low enough to cover herself. On Elayne the maid dress looked fitting, tight and comfortable. On the Nord it looked ill fitting, not covering enough. The skirt was even more ridiculous. “It’s not easy to get out, I take it?”
“I think it will knock us out if we try to get through the front door. And as we saw from the outside, there is only one way in.” Elayne splayed out her hands. “I think we’re cursed, too. That Dwemer trap we went through in Blackreach. It’s the only thing that makes sense. I watched you strip naked, once the trap got you. We are the ones taking off our things. It’s not a conscious effort.”
“And the outfit and murder shoes?”
“That one I don’t actually know. I think the trap was well designed enough to handle it.” Elayne shrugged. “But it’s locked around the waist and our arms. We could cut off some of it, but it’s going to take some lockpicking to get off. I’ve found no keys or lockpicks throughout the entire house. And no coinage for that matter.”
“Odd, for a house.”
“They’ve got enough Forsworn armor in here to cover an army. All of it covered in its owners blood.” Lydia frowned, seeing what that meant. “I’ve got a journal from the person that killed them.”
“It’s the other Dragonborn, isn’t it.” Lydia guessed smoothly. “He’s committing genocide?”
“Yes.” The Forsworn died here, in this world. “He killed and then ate all of them.”
“He ate them?” Lydia looked horrified.
“He and a woman named Eola. I’m wearing her dress.” Elayne clenched the fluffy skirt. “And I stole her jewelry.”
“Good.” Lydia gave a look at her shoes, as if she didn’t trust them. “I bet we can carve our way out of here. Mages don’t usually plan around stupid ideas like that. Though I haven’t found my bag.”
“It’s by the front armor rack.” Elayne remembered. “Want me to get it?”
Lydia took a long moment to think about it. “In this moment, yes. Even if I can’t walk in these shoes, I can hack apart a wall.”
Elayne nodded. They found out that the windows were all magically resistant to damage. Even a dragon shout didn’t manage to damage them. But the wood and stone? Well, that started breaking. But as all things do, people get tired. A few stones were damaged, and Lydia was starting to bend the haft of her warhammer. She slumped onto the bed, heaving. “Give me,” She spat. “A few hours and I shall break out of here.” She patted the animal furs. “You made the bed?” She seemed surprised.
“It seemed like it might be helpful. I’ve been reading the books and looking for clues into the other Dragonborn.”
“Find out where he lives?” Lydia joked, setting her warhammer against one of the four posters of the bed.
“He was sleeping with Eola.” She decided to inform Lydia.
“As a lover, or was it just a winter fling?”
“It was serious.” She nodded. “Judging from the book, they were sleeping together for months. While they were killing the Forsworn.”
“So this place was theirs?” Lydia was bemused. “I’m glad you changed the sheets. Did you check more than the main floor?”
“You think there is more? I didn’t see a tower.”
“Nords like to dig. Through ice and stone and time. No matter where we are, we like to have basements.”
“Except Breezehome.” Elayne pointed out.
“That was designed by an Imperial!” Lydia retorted, her breasts heaving in the tight dress. “That isn’t a Nord’s house!”
“So you don’t like Breezehome?”
“Don’t make me answer that.”
“This place has a basement. It’s a Nordic building.” Elayne repeated. “So shall we go find it?”
Lydia needed to be taught how to walk in them, but Elayne was an expert! And certainly enough, there was a basement. The stairs were old stone, and both women had to lean against one another to get Lydia down them. “I feel like a deer on ice!” Lydia murmured, as they reached the bottom. It was a single wide chamber, with support structure running along the room in two lines. On the left side, a daedric shrine had been added. It looked like a predatory insect, but feminine. It loomed over a table, upon which a body lay. Enchanted Forsworn armor was upon it, but the flesh looked to be carved off of it. The face was left in a mummified state of agony, and Elayne gulped in discomfort. The man’s personal items lay around him, as if celebrating him.
“I don’t like this.” Lydia said, looking at torture equipment lining the right wall, and some form of dungeon established. “This is a dark place.”
“It’s a Daedric shrine, Lydia. You rarely find them in nice places.” Elayne felt the need to correct her. “Hold onto that post. I’m going to check it out.”
A candlelight spell illuminated the chamber better. The shrine of Namira was clearly active, the feeling of Oblivion around it. A heavy knife was deep inside the chest of the deadman, with forks and carving knives on all sides. Plates were even down here. It just felt sick and wrong, seeing better quality tools here than on the dinner table upstairs. At the head of the altar, there was a journal. This one, Elayne skimmed. She kept an eye on the glowing altar as she did so, feeling some kind of penalty for it.
It was an old family record. Going back for hundreds of years, linking between someone named Ard Caddach all the way down to the present day. The last of a bloodline, apparently. It ended at one name. “Madanach.” She whispered. But the tree didn’t end. Madanach had children, through different women. Only one seemed to still live, a Glooredhel. “He has a descendant.” A daughter, apparently. Born in Markarth during the uprising. The last page of the notebook had a few addendums, along with a note in some kind of smooth hand. ‘This line is ended. By the hand of the Dragonborn.’ The death of Glooredhel was listed for a specific day. Shivering, Elayne drew out the journal that belonged to Eola. The dates were the same. She knew that the Forsworn had been hunted down by then. There would have been none left. Which only left once conclusion.
“Who is it?” Lydia asked, concerned.
“Eola. She is the daughter of Madanach.”
“But she hunted down his people!”
“She might not have known.” Elayne stared up at the altar of the daedric prince. “But kinslaying is considered harsh even for worshippers. Eating your own father? Killing an entire people?” Elayne’s eyes swam. “She had to have been driven to do it.”
“What about the Dragonborn?” Lydia considered. “The genocidal one.”
“I think he was the one who killed her.” Elayne pocketed the journal. “She thought the meat was poisoned. But maybe it was the collar.”
“We can inspect it for poison later. Take that ebony dagger, it’s worth a lot.” Lydia pointed to the body.
“Fine.” Elayne replied, stepping towards the head of the table. The dagger was right there. Just underneath the gaze of the statue of Namira. “Wait, I think that’s a daedric dagger.” Elayne considered. “It might be part of the offering.”
“I think there will be more we can use in here.” Lydia considered. “Surilie brothers wine, for instance!” Elayne filtered out whatever else her housecarl was saying, instead looking at the dagger buried in the chest of Madanach. It looked like he had died from a single strike. The enchantment seemed strong, from her perspective. But she did promise her Aunt that she would take anything of value. A Daedric weapon was right along those lines. Her hand tingled, as she drew the magic weapon from the corpse.
Two portals to Oblivion opened, and blue-skinned Dremora appeared. One was wearing robes, with bloody symbols and large carving tools along her wrists. She also had a spear. The other Dremora was wearing daedric armor and had a greatsword. But also at his belt was a whip. “Lydia!” She yelled. Her housecarl tottered forward, hefting her warhammer. But all that Elayne had was this small dagger. Daedric it might be, she didn’t have armor or anything else to help her. Heels clicked loudly as both took positions.
“You steal from Namira, Breton!” The male Dremora declared. “Prepare for the punishment!”
Battle was joined, as the male dremora came after her, and the female after Lydia. She cast spells, Lydia rolling into one of the equipment rows to dodge it. She held her small dagger out, as the male took out his greatsword. He charged, blade coming in impossibly fast. She had to step back, but the Dremora’s follow up strike was an elbow into her gut, leaving her breathless. She shouted, the first shout that came to mind when fighting something this overpowering. “Zun! Haal!” She gasped, sending the greatsword out of his hands and into a pile of baskets. Then she took a heaving breath and used the dagger, trying to cut him.
Instead of staying in range, the Dremora stepped back, and Elayne had to get her breath back. She glanced over at Lydia, seeing that her housecarl was beset by spells and having trouble getting close to the other Dremora. Before she could decide her entire body lit up with pain, as her nipple seemed to explode. Crouching, she gave a gasp and only heard the crack of the whip afterwards.
The male Dremora was still armed. The whip was cruel, and he seemed to be a master of its use. Already he was winding up for another strike, far outside the range of her dagger. She rolled, but the whip seemed to have a life of its own, biting into the bare skin of her thighs. Preparing a spell, Elayne found herself out of magicka entirely. The whip! It must be draining her! She ran behind a pillar, the air snapping as she barely dodged his next strike.
“You shout?” The male laughed. “A female Greybeard?”
“There are none alive.” The female corrected. “Surrender, girl. Your friend’s life will be spared, if you prove yourself to Namira.”
“Lydia?” Elayne called. There was no response.
“She has lost.” The female called, and Elayne looked across the room to see. Lydia was slumped against a wall, chains surrounding her form. Blood was flowing from a gash along her temple, and the female Dremora stood above her, spear tip aimed at her neck. “What are you, girl?”
“A Dragonborn.” Elayne spoke, as both Dremora laughed. It was a dark and horrible thing. “I came for knowledge!”
“Our Lady of Death does not recognize you. But to thieves who steal from her, there will be punishment. If you want your friend to live, return the dagger.” The male said loudly, standing near the altar. “And then apologize. If your apology is good enough, we won’t kill both of you.”
Elayne scowled. Lydia’s life was worth saving. Taking a deep breath, she stepped out into the cover she had, and walked towards the altar. The male was standing beside it, whip unfurled but not in an attack stance. “How does one apologize to Namira?” She asked. This world might be different. Her shoes were the only echoing noise through the basement as she stepped underneath the glowing altar once again.
“Choose to celebrate life,” The male spoke, creully. “Or death. One ritual but two paths. Speak, mortal maid.”
She knew how Daedra worked. Both paths would result in her probably having to sacrifice Lydia or herself. “I offer another choice.” She stared at the altar, whose glow seemed to be brighter somehow. “I will save Eola and elevate her in my own world. Give your worshipper power and friends that she has not had before.”
The Dremora seemed to pause, both looking at the altar. A voice, from everywhere in the room and nowhere at the same time broke the silence. “How daring, mortal. To demand where others dare not? Yet I see your shadow upon two worlds. Two shades of Mundus, where all others cast but one shadow. How curious, you have a life here and a life there.” The glow from the altar seemed to carry forwards. “I care little for the life of one worshipper. Especially when I have a far more important catch in front of me. You wish to prove yourself worthy of the Prince of Darkness? I have a challenge for you, Dragonborn of two worlds.”
“Your challenge may be preferable to what your dremora would demand from me.”
“You stink of Mora’s magic. Yet I also feel the touch of another Prince upon you. You are rather different from the Dragonborn here.”
Elayne clenched her fists. “What do you mean I exist here?”
“You do not understand. You exist in this world as a life already. It is why Mora can take you back and forth. Your existence in this world is not dead, and yet when you cross over you are touched by it. Perhaps by the end you and your other existence will become one.” The voice was whimsical. Amused. “Your appearance becomes more like hers with each visit, such is the nature of the enchantment you use. Mora cannot take you by his own power, you see. That power you have used belongs to another Daedric Prince, and they are jealous of its use. Now, I know you are capable, but I wish to see you humbled. Stealing from my shrine and knowing full well that you should not! I will take from you your companion, and give you until sunrise.”
Lydia and the female Dremora disappeared into a portal, taken into Oblivion. “What would you have me do?”
“My Dremora shall remain here, to observe you. And guarantee that you do it. From this corpse on the table, you shall prepare a meal. You have stolen from my offering, and now you shall partake. Use the corpse, and offer gracious thanks to me. Then, return here to my altar.”
The male Dremora folded its arms, as if he found all of this satisfying. But she was more than just some adventurer. Elayne was well aware of the daedric cults, and an accomplished survivalist. Fuming, she trotted over to the table and stared down at the desiccated corpse. The flesh was dry, though unmarred by insects. And she had to eat some of this if she were to get Lydia back. So Elayne thought through it. She had until sunrise. First things first, she had to get the fire going. So she walked upstairs, taking wood from the small pile and starting the cook fire pit. The pot she filled with salt, water and a pinch of garlic. All of this while acutely aware of her bleeding thigh, and her aching body.
The wounds she healed before she was back downstairs. Thighs quivering, she approached the altar and the Dremora who remained. He was grinning, his teeth on full display. Elayne at least tried to ignore him, her skirt sliding back and forth as she moved around the table to reach the legs of Madanach. She tore the leg off, using a carving knife. Then she removed the bones from the legs, until she had a handful of the ill gotten objects. Back upstairs she went, conscious of the hour. It was dark. The bones would take hours to break down. Clenching her teeth, she went to the alchemy area and brought out the mortar, hammering the bones with all of the rage and pent up anger she had.
“Stupid dress.” She murmured, glaring at the tented bits of fabric from the piercings below it. It had been pulling at them all the time she had been in here, and beyond everything else it was pissing her off. Glaring down, she pulled the tight fabric up and out, until it no longer pressed against her nipples. “That’s better.” She was alone here. The Dremora would stay at the altar, to make sure she took action. It wouldn’t come out of the basement. Biting her lip, she pulled down the front of the dress until both of her small breasts were hanging freely.
If she had to eat this corpse, it wouldn’t be chewing on old bones and old flesh. Not a chance. But bone broth took a long time to make. Even grinding the bones down would only make it take most of the night. But it would at least be edible. Once the pot was boiling, all that she had to do was maintain the fire. This house had enough charcoal for that, the small spheres easy to use. Frustratingly, there was little to do once the pot was boiling. It was just her, locked into an outfit. She had hours until this meal was prepared, and went to sit in the only part of the house she knew she could handle.
Her nipples ached as the soul gems swung back and forth, coming to a stop as she slumped onto the bed. “Damn it.” She grumbled, slamming her fists into the sheets. But as she did so, an object touched her wrist. As if she could have forgotten what she hid under the pillow. Staring her almost in the face was the Stick. And suddenly, she felt as though she had a choice about how she would spend her time. Lydia would at least understand, right? “Fuck.” The word felt alien on her tongue, Elayne rarely swearing. But that crystal and ebony object was made by the other Dragonborn, and a part of her wanted to know more.
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Skyrim: Plaything