My Promises:

1: I'm not describing Helgen. You've read it fifty times and played it five hundred, at least, and having the POV character have slightly unique thoughts isn't gonna make that fun to read.

2: I'm not describing a dungeon crawl bit by bit. You've all been through them, you know how they work.

3: I'm not lazily copying speeches of in-game dialogue. If my characters aren't interesting enough to interact differently, I'm not doing my job right.

4: You'll have a fight in chapter one, a Daedra by chapter four, and a heist by chapter five.

5: The first 'arc' is already written, and will be uploaded weekly, so you don't have to worry about this cutting off with no closure.

If that catches your interest, hi! Scroll down and have fun. If you've clicked, then I hope you're at least interested enough to read this first chapter. Lets see how good I am at writing hooks...

The following is an idea that I couldn't get out of my head and, well, where else do things like that go but here? This fic is partially based on the work of youtuber Space Queen, who does ASMR roleplays. The character L'laarzen is literally hers, and I'd highly recommend you go check her out if you like a certain Khajiit who's about to show up. The others are my OCs, but imma just throw up a blanket 'I own nothing, use anything, I don't mind' sign, so go have fun.

Now, with the minutia sorted...


Four Walking Disasters

Act I: What Do You Want?

Issues Settling In


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Hjarnagredda only wanted one thing; her people back.

A few years ago her desire had been different; she'd wanted strength, plain and simple. It was still a niggling concern in the back of her mind, as her lungs burned from the simple act of climbing up Markarth's front steps and her legs ached from the short trek from her latest campsite. But no, she'd learned to temper those aspirations some years ago.

Learned the hard way.

Her present goal was what had brought her back to the Reach, after years roaming the denser forests of Falkreath hold. Though now, as she pushed open the large Dwarven doors, she was struck by the doubts that had plagued her the whole trip. Would her people remember her? Would they not? Which was worse?

Shaking her head, she entered the city, immediately finding herself facing a pleasant looking market.

A market in which a man had just pulled a knife.

For the love of Talos- She was moving before the curse had fully formed in her mind, drawing her simple iron mace from where it hung at her hip and charging in with an overhead swing.

The man had just grabbed some poor woman about the throat when Hjar's weapon crashed into his right arm, snapping it at an odd angle. He cursed and dropped the knife, but spun in place, letting go of his first target to backhand Hjar across the face.

She stumbled backwards, swinging the mace again blindly, but he swerved out of range and then ran in again, tackling her about the midriff. She heaved, but her legs gave almost immediately and he slammed her to the ground. She punched him, but he shook it off, grabbing her by the throat and wresting her mace from her hand. His arm was clearly broken, but he had enough control over it to raise it over his head, hate on his face.

"Damn invaders!" He shouted. "Skyrim belongs to the-"

And then he was impaled by a Markarth city guard.

Hjar scrambled backwards and back up to her feet as the man was bodily carried backwards. The guard brutally twisted the blade and shoved, and the man was dead before he hit the ground. Breathing heavily, Hjar stood up, and looked off to the woman who'd been attacked. "You alright?" She ground out.

"I'm...I'm fine." The woman shook her head. "By the Gods, that man nearly killed me!"

"Calm down!" The guard was shouting. "There are no Forsworn here! Everyone go about your business!"

Hjal frowned and looked at the woman. "Forsworn? What?"

As they spoke, the crowd that had formed was dispersing, and the guards were grabbing the body and preparing to move it. The woman made a funny face. "Well...That's the thing. Nobody wants to talk about it, but from what I've heard, Forsworn like him have been making attacks like this for a few months now."

"Oh." Hjar gulped. She wasn't sure what to say to that. What could she say, when the Forsworn were the exact people she'd arrived here to find?

Great job. If there's a worse way to introduce yourself to your family than murdering one of your brothers, I sure as Oblivion don't know it.


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Dulurza only wanted one thing; to kill the Jarl of Solitude.

This was not a final goal, nor even an imminent one, but it was in just the sweet spot of being something she could focus on completely.

Take a fight, for example. Your short term goal is to land the next blow, and your long term goal is to take over the hostile Orichalcum mine, but your mind should always be focused on the death of your opponent. That was a lesson her father, Chief Larak, had taught her himself, and one she had always kept to heart.

So, kill Elisif the Fair. The long term goal was to crush the Thalmor and Imperial presence in Skyrim, restoring the Orc tribes to their original independence and glory, but to begin that, Dulurza had been tasked to gain the trust of the Jarl of Solitude, draw her out of safety, and crush her skull, with a possible side objective of hurling her severed head over the battlements. Before that was her short term objective, gaining trust. Which was why she was stood, arms crossed, in front of Falk Firebeard, trying not to roll her eyes. "Ghosts." She deadpanned.

"Not ghosts." He replied, raising his arms placatingly. He was clearly just as embarrassed about the request. "The people come to assumptions about things like that all the time. All we know is that there's been strange lights and disappearances near Wolfskull cave. Could just as easily be bandits, crazy mages or nothing at all. But I'd pay you if you took care of it."

Dulurza looked down at him, (not because of any disrespect, she was just six foot eight) and nodded. "Alright. I'll scout the cave, see what I find."

"Thank you. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to attend to the court." Fall gave her a curt nod and walked away, using one of the side doors to slip back into the Blue Palace.

Off to one side, the executioner Ahtar pushed himself off one of the walls. "Alright then, missy. One meeting with the Jarl's advisor; that was your price, right?"

"That it was. Thanks." Dulurza reached across to him and they clasped forearms. "I doubt an Orc would have been readily invited into the Jarl's presence unannounced."

"Heh. You're right there." He looked over her dark green skin. She wasn't too pleased with where his eyes lingered, but she held her tongue.

"And thank you for helping me with that escaped prisoner. Sybille might have had my head if I'd let them get away with it."

She tilted her head. "Sybille? Not Falk or Tullius?"

"Nah, those two are much too important to care about one prisoner. But Sybille Stentor is the court wizard, and she pays a lot of attention to the prisoners. Takes one out every month or so to 'volunteer' for her experiments." He cracked a dark grin. "Word of warning, since we're friends and all. Whatever you're planning on doing in the palace, it better not piss her off."

And wasn't that suspicious? "I'll keep it in mind." She turned away, then paused, looking back at his weapon. It was well maintained, and it had cut through the poor nord Rog-something's neck cleanly. "I'll fight you for that axe."

"Not on your life! Now go kill some ghosts and stop bothering me."

Dulurza snorted and began walking again. "Sure. As if it's gonna be ghosts."


̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶̶ ̶{o

Alexander only wanted one thing; to become a God.

He didn't think that was too much to ask. There were plenty of Gods already and most of them didn't even have much of a purpose. All he really needed to get there was the whole 'unlimited power and immortality' thing, but he figured that couldn't be so hard. Hence why he was here. Fixing a confident smile on his face, he walked up to the bridge leading to the college of Winterhold.

"Halt!" Called an Elven woman, approaching out of the snowstorm and barring his entry. "Cross this bridge at your own peril! The gates will not open, you will not gain entry!"

"Ah, gates that will not open." He nodded safely, stroking his beard. Well, it wasn't really a beard, more a stubble of coarse dark hair, but it would be one eventually and that was what counted. "Locked perhaps with magical energy, like the tombs of Mar'Shinneh?"

"No. Locked with a lock." She deadpanned.

"Ah."

"The type that requires a key."

"No, I understand."

She crossed her arms and looked him over, taking in his robes, his Imperial heritage, and the staff on his back. "Though I am impressed by your knowledge of obscure legends. I'd only heard of those tombs from Tolfdir, that old rambler...I take it you know full well where you are?"

"Of course." Alexander demurred. "This is the College of Winterhold. The greatest college of magic in all of Skyrim."

"Greatest and only."

"Well yes, but if it's the only college then being the greatest doesn't really...mean...anything..." she was giving him a look. Shut up, moron. He coughed. "I have come here in search of knowledge. To further my understanding of magic and the realms beyond our own."

"Is that so?" The Elf smiled, finally. "The College certainly holds what you seek. But before I invite you inside, I must first burden you with a small test. We can't accept just anyone, you understand."

Alexander gave one of his patented winning smiles. "Come now. I think we both know I'm above this 'test.'" Nailed it.

"No, I'm afraid I don't know anything of the sort."

Urk.

The woman gestured at a large symbol inlaid on the floor. "Are you familiar with the basic 'fury' spell? If so, cast it on the sigil here."

Very well, emergency plan A. Alexander waved one hand graciously. "I'm afraid that Illusion is not my area of expertise. I specialise in Conjuration, if I may demonstrate?"

"Hm...very well. But we both realise that using that staff of yours would not constitute a real show of magic."

"Oh, of course." He fiddled with his right bracer for a moment, before flexing his arms in front of himself. "Observe."

A sphere of purple light blossomed in his palm. Then he thrust his arm outwards, and a portal appeared atop the sigil. Emerging from that portal was a collection of stones, floating in the air, lightning sparking between each one with a swirl of wind at its base.

"A Storm Atronach..." the woman gaped. "That's an Expert level spell!"

"It is." He replied, slightly smugly.

"Well, I apologise for my earlier doubts." She turned to him and held her hand out. "My name is Faralda. I think you will be a superb addition to the college."

"My name is Alexander." He replied, shaking it. "I'm happy to be here."

Faralda turned and led the way across the bridge. While she wasn't looking, Alex took the opportunity to reach his right arm over the edge and twist his wrist in just the right way. A small cloud of ash, ash that had once been a 'Scroll of Conjure Storm Atronach', fell from the bracer and was swept away in the wind.

It had taken him weeks to build that bracer, weeks to practice using a concealed scroll in a way that made it look like he'd cast the spell himself, and a hefty pile of gold to purchase a scroll he'd thought was impressive enough. That had been his only one. But now he was in, into the college, where he just knew his future lie in wait for him.

It was hard, the road to Godhood.

Even harder when you had the Magicka capacity of an Orc teenager, and the magical talent of an average Winterhold resident.

Whistling cheerfully, he followed Faralda across the bridge.


L'laarzen only wanted one thing; to open a luxury haircutting and fur styling parlour.

"And that is why L'laarzen's dream is to open up a luxury haircutting and fur styling parlour!" She said, enthusiastically.

"That so, lass?" Chuckled Brynjolf. He shifted in position slightly on the chair, hand steadying himself on her hip, and she stopped for a moment to let him. Around them, Riften's market bustled. The fish merchant sold fish, the armour merchant sold armour, and the meat merchant was stealing a ring from the jewellery merchant and attempting to put it in the pawnbroker's pocket. Good times.

"Indeed. L'laarzen has so far been doing as she does now; carrying her life in a bag and peddling her skills across Tamriel." She continued with her work, snipping deftly at the more chaotic strands of her subject's hair. "But, many do not like having such a private ceremony done in such an open area such as this, (the Mer especially), and there is more risk than Khajiit would like travelling Mundus. That is why Khajiit came to Riften; there was word that a house could be bought relatively cheaply here! Unfortunately, eight thousand Septims is still far outside L'laarzen's budget. Excuse me..." she leaned forwards and made a particularly risky cut towards Brynjolf's beard, healing it over with a flash of restoration magic.

"You know lass, if it's gold your looking for, there are quite a few opportunities for it in Riften if you know the right people to talk to." Brynjolf leaned up to meet her eyes.

"Oh?" She smiled, warmly. "Does this one perhaps mean opportunities of a...legally dubious, nature?"

"Now, what makes you think that?"

"Well, the fact that you have tried to steal L'laarzen's coin purse, comb, and necklace already throughout the course of your cut."

Brynjolf's face fell, and his hand went to his pockets, but she laughed easily. "Do not worry, friend. L'larzen has reclaimed what was hers, but has not stolen anything of yours. Khajiit has a rule not to harm or steal from a paying customer."

Brynjolf chuckled, relaxing back into the haircut. "Well, colour me impressed lass. There aren't many who can find their way into my pockets without getting caught. Do you have practice with this sort of thing?"

L'laarzen coughed. "Well, not everyone is a paying customer, and not everyone is a friend. And fingers that are deft at cutting hair are also skilled at cutting purses and picking locks."

"Fancy putting those skills to use?" Brynjolf asked, a little quieter than before.

She paused again. "...L'laarzen does not wish to become a criminal, friend. Enough of that trouble was had in Morrowind, in her early years. Laws are often unfair, and malleable, and Khajiit does not mind skirting them, but will not harm those who have done no wrong for personal gain."

Brynjolf chuckled again. "I show up to assess a new visitor, maybe make some quick coin while I'm at it, and here I am getting my hair cut by a pickpocket with a conscience. Well, given our luck, I can't say I'm surprised. Tell you what, lass. My organisation works with a lot of powerful people. Influential people; the kind who care a lot about their appearance. Put some work in for us, nothing too dirty, don't worry, and I'll get you into a room with them. How'd you like to ply your trade for a member of the Black-Briar family? Or even for the Jarl?"

L'laarzen paused. Smiled.

With a few last snips, she finished her task and brushed the excess off the back of his clothes. "There, that should do it. You like?"

She held up a hand mirror, and he took a look at his reflection. "Aye. Pretty good work."

"The best in Tamriel." She brushed some of her own dark grey fur out of her golden eyes. "So, perhaps as payment, the friend can tell L'laarzen where his organisation works from?"


And there they are. An array of races, an array of intentions, and an array of mischief being encountered already. Where each character will be going from here might be obvious simply from the city they're in, but I promise to try and put an original twist on familiar guilds and quests. You'll also notice I followed the maxim of 'when in doubt, Capitalise Everything that Might Be a Proper Noun.' Is it elves or Elves? Who knows; I'm erring on the safe side.

Next chapter: Someone moans in joy, someone gets called out, and someone gets a free drink.