Ah Fuck It's Not Wednesday
. . . But I feel like sharing some of my WIP anyway <3
I'm technically between four or five different writing projects for Skyrim anyway because I'm, uh. Insane. My main project is still Breathless of course, but it's refreshing to have other things to work on when my brain isn't being particularly nice about anything. It's still good to write and try new things regardless, so that's what I attempt to do!
Which brings me to what I'm sharing. For those of you that read the series--or specifically Petrichor--, you know of Yotul, who is the main foil and antagonist to Vigdis [and Serana]. A while ago I had thought it would be cool to write about when she was first turned by Harkon, and then realised it would be even better if I wrote about her like I did with Valerica and Mevunsi where the story is comprised of several scenes over time. As of right now, Yotul's story is planned/formatted to have four total scenes, although this may change as I write it. It's been fun so far as I'm using this to try some new writing things and explore a different kind of relationship. Alright Senu enough rambling we get it--
Without further ado, I'm going to share the first scene that I have written, as I'm pretty proud of it thus far. As always things are bound to be tweaked and I don't know when this piece will be fully completed. Some day, hopefully! Naturally her story will contain spoilers for Petrichor, but that will be more applicable in the later scenes. For now, please enjoy! c:
Yotul was supposed to die.
Her tribe would say it was the least she deserved. Blood for blood, an eye for an eye, they vehemently preached. Some of them would no doubt argue that dying this way was still too honourable for someone like her, a mercy in the eyes of Malacath: slowly bleeding out from the deep claw wounds of a sabrecat in the middle of the snowy woods, utterly alone but ultimately triumphant in battle. The creature’s wheezing had ceased minutes ago, while hers still rebounded harshly through the frozen air.
After everything she had done—namely, murdered the chief’s wife out of spite and jealousy—, it was no surprise that this was her fate. She only regretted that she didn’t burn the stronghold to the ground when she had the chance. It was the least they deserved.
She coughed—a wet, gurgled sound that sent flecks of blood splattering across the stark white ground. The soft crunch of powdered snow beneath heavy boots flitted to her ears, barely audible above the ringing that began to reach its crescendo as the black dots in her vision splotched larger and more frequent.
This is it, she thought distantly. This is how it ends.
“Yes,” a smooth, low voice mused as her vision fully succumbed to darkness. “You’ll do.”
Yotul woke unexpectedly with a raspy, desperate gasp. She was assaulted by the overwhelming aroma of patchouli and the chafing velvet sheets wholly alien to her. Pain throbbed from the base of her skull through her jaw at her wild motions, eyes still bleary from unconsciousness.
She immediately froze at the familiar voice—but not before her gaze landed on the dark-haired man that sat beside her. Studious topaz irises shrouded in ebony scleras blazed brightly, set within a strong face beneath black brows. His arms were crossed over His chest and a hand rested absently on His bearded chin.
“Good,” He finally murmured. “You are awake, at last.”
She tried to shrink away from Him, yet felt . . . inexplicably drawn to Him. “Who are you?”
The man leaned forward; His elbows now rested on His knees, though the intensity of His gaze did not dim in the slightest.
“As expected, you have questions.” His voice rippled through her, each word a string that tugged at her heart. “I am Harkon, lord of this court. We are vampires, among the oldest and most powerful in Skyrim. I found you, and bestowed my gift upon your dying mortal form, so that you may rise again to serve me. Now tell me: what is your name?”
Realisation dawned on her, as though the sun had sunk below the horizon to reveal the starry night sky. He had found her. He had saved her. She lived now because of Him; owed Him a debt that she could never fully repay. She pressed a clutched fist to her chest and bowed her head in respect.
“Yotul.” A shiver coursed down her spine at the sound of her name on His lips. He smiled slowly. “With my guidance you will have purpose; you will become my deadly instrument, striking terror in the hearts of mortals wherever you tread. Over time, your powers will grow in strength, and you will find new ways to use your gifts in my name.” He laced His fingers and tucked them under His chin. “I have a task that will test your new powers and prove your loyalty to me. Are you ready to begin?”
She inhaled, her lungs filled with patchouli and stone and blood.
At that, He smiled wide. “Good. Find your stronghold and burn it to the ground. Leave no fool alive; they will rue the day they left you to die.”
