u/Luminara_Veil

The killings began at the ancient Word Walls.

Three Dragon Priests murdered in ritualistic fashion, their throats cut with surgical precision and their bodies arranged facing the stone. The Greybeards found two of their own floating face-down in the snow near High Hrothgar, blood drained and voices silenced forever. The final victim was a solitary Nord hermit whose chest had been carved open, his final shout still echoing faintly in the frozen air hours after death.

Astrid, leader of the Dark Brotherhood, took the contract personally. This was no ordinary assassination. This was something far more dangerous.

“Someone is stealing Dragon Shouts,” she told her inner circle in the blood-lit sanctuary. “Not learning them. Extracting them. Whoever is behind this understands the Thu’um better than the Greybeards themselves.”

The investigation revealed a chilling pattern. The victims had all possessed unusually pure connections to specific shouts. The killer wasn’t collecting power for personal use, they were harvesting the voices themselves.

Astrid followed the trail north, growing increasingly suspicious of leaks within her own family. Information was reaching the killer too quickly. Someone inside the Brotherhood was feeding details to the enemy.

The evidence pointed directly to Castle Volkihar.

Under a moonless sky, Astrid and a small team of her most trusted assassins infiltrated the ancient vampire fortress. The deeper they went, the more horrifying the truth became.

In the lowest crypts, Lord Harkon had constructed a massive ritual chamber. Suspended in glowing crystalline vessels were the stolen Dragon Shouts, swirling, ethereal essences of Fus Ro Dah, Yol Toor Shul, and older, forbidden shouts long thought lost to history. Detailed journals revealed the conspiracy’s true purpose.

The Dragon Shouts were never simply gifts from the dragons. They were fragments of Alduin’s own soul, anchors that bound the World-Eater to Nirn. By collecting and binding enough pure shouts, one could reverse the ancient Dragonrend and grant absolute control over dragonkind and through them, the world.

The mastermind wasn’t Harkon. He was merely a powerful ally.

The true architect was Astrid’s second-in-command, a woman named Vexara, who had spent years manipulating Brotherhood contracts to identify and isolate individuals with strong Voices. She had sold the Dark Brotherhood’s secrets to the Volkihar in exchange for immortality and a seat at the table of the new order.

When Astrid confronted her in the blood-soaked chamber, the betrayal ignited a vicious battle.

Vexara unleashed one of the stolen shouts, sending assassins flying into stone walls. Astrid fought with cold, calculated fury, her blades flashing in the crimson light. The battle was brutal and personal. In the end, Astrid drove her dagger into Vexara’s heart, her voice steady and merciless.

“You turned my family into tools for monsters.”

With the last of her strength, Vexara shattered several of the crystal vessels. The released shouts erupted in a cataclysmic storm that shook the entire castle. Astrid barely escaped with her remaining loyalists as parts of Volkihar collapsed into the sea.

Standing on the cliffs as the fortress burned behind her, Astrid looked out over the dark water, her face a mask of controlled rage.

“The Dragon Shouts were never meant for us,” she said quietly. “We were never supposed to know their true purpose.”

The conspiracy had been broken, but the journals suggested there were other players still hidden across Skyrim. Other Word Walls. Other vessels.

The Dark Brotherhood’s leader turned away from the ruins, her expression colder than ever.

Some secrets, once uncovered, could never be buried again.

The End

Helgen was supposed to be a quiet little town where people got executed. Instead, it became ground zero for the worst idea in Skyrim’s history. 

Dennis Reynolds, the golden-haired Imperial captain with perfect hair and an even more perfect ego, stood on a barrel in the middle of town. "Listen up, you filthy peasants! We're not dying today like a bunch of jabronies. We’re playing Chardee MacDennis 2: Electric Boogaloo!”

Mac, a wiry Redguard Stormcloak who insisted he was “100% pure warrior stock,” nodded aggressively. “Yeah! This game will make us legends. Also, I’m definitely not compensating for anything.” 

Sweet Dee (a screeching Wood Elf who everyone called “the Bird”) flapped her arms. “This is the stupidest idea you’ve ever had, and that’s saying something!” 

Charlie, the filthy Argonian who lived in the sewers and spoke mostly in clicks and conspiracy theories, was already eating random mushrooms. “I brought the Nightshade Cordial. And the rats. The rat knows things, man. The rats are watching.” 

And then there was Frank. Frank Reynolds, the unhinged Imperial veteran who looked like he’d been hit by several carts and enjoyed it. He was grinning like a madman, wearing nothing but a bear pelt and a loincloth. “I brought the special rules. And the fireworks. Mostly the fireworks. And some weird glowing powder I found in a cave.” 

The entire population of Helgen - soldiers, villagers, even General Tullius - got roped in. Because when the gang from Hell convinced you to do something, resistance was futile. 

The game quickly devolved exactly as expected. 

Dennis tried to seduce the points out of the judge (a very confused Hadvar) and got slapped. “Do you know who I am?! I’m a Golden God!”  

Mac kept yelling “This is a test of strength!” before failing every physical challenge and screaming “I’m still a badass!” while stuck upside down in a barrel. 

Dee kept getting sabotaged and screeched, “You people are ruining my life! I’m the best player here! I’m a bird! CAW CAW!” while accidentally setting a chicken on fire. 

Charlie was somehow winning by eating literal garbage he found on the ground. 

But it was Frank who broke the game. 

During the final round - “Cataclysm” - Frank decided the “ultimate chaos round” needed “real dragons.” He lit every single firework he’d smuggled in, plus several Dwemer explosives he definitely wasn’t supposed to have, while yelling “WABADABADOOBY BABY!” 

The sky cracked open. 

A massive black dragon, Alduin landed on the tower with an earth-shaking roar. 

“FUS RO DAH!” 

Chaos exploded. Buildings crumbled. People screamed and ran. The gang immediately started betraying each other while trying to loot everything in sight. 

“Frank, you degenerate piece of s***!” Dennis screamed, diving behind a cart. 

“This is your fault!” Dee shrieked, already halfway up a tree. 

Mac struck a dramatic pose. “I’ll hold it off! I’m a warrior...OH GODS IT’S LOOKING AT ME!” 

Charlie just waved at the dragon. “Hey buddy! You want some rat? You want some mushrooms? They make you see cool stuff!”” 

As Alduin burned Helgen to the ground, Frank cackled from inside a burning house, holding up a single sweetroll he’d stolen during the panic. 

“Best game night ever!” 

In the smoke and flames, as the Dragonborn began his legendary journey, one thing was certain: 

It was all Frank’s fault. 

The End

In the snowy hills outside Whiterun, the Dragonborn was having a terrible day.

Varyn had just fast-traveled to the plains only to realize he’d left his favorite enchanted greatsword back at Dragonsreach. Again. “By the Nine,” he muttered, reloading his autosave for the third time that morning.

That’s when he saw her.

A lone Dunmer woman in dark mage robes was attempting to sneak past a giant. Emphasis on attempting. She moved like a drunk mudcrab loud, clumsy, and somehow drawing more attention.

Crunch. She stepped on a twig the size of a sweetroll.

The giant roared and swung its club. The woman yelped, rolled dramatically, and shouted the only thing that came to mind:

“FUS RO DAH... wait, wrong shout!”

Varyn couldn’t help it. He laughed so hard he nearly dropped his bow.

He saved her anyway, of course. One well-placed arrow later, the giant was down. The Dunmer woman dusted snow off her robes and glared up at him.

“I had that completely under control, Dragonborn.”

“Sure you did,” Varyn grinned, offering her a hand. “Name’s Varyn. And you are…?”

“Lirael Redoran. Scholar. Researcher. Not a damsel.” She ignored his hand and stood on her own, cheeks faintly purple with embarrassment.

The moment their eyes met, something ancient stirred. A golden thread of fate snapped into place between them. The rarest of dragon bonds, triggered when two souls meant to change Skyrim crossed paths.

Neither of them knew it yet.

Over the next few weeks, they kept bumping into each other across the game loop of Skyrim.

First in Riften, where Lirael was investigating ancient Nordic ruins and Varyn was… trying to retrieve a stolen sweetroll from the Thieves Guild (“It was a quest item, okay?”).

Then in Markarth, where Lirael accidentally triggered a Dwemer trap and Varyn had to Fus Ro Dah her out of a collapsing hallway while yelling, “I swear this never happens in my other saves!”

The bond between them grew stronger with every shared adventure. Varyn found himself saving more often just to make sure she survived his terrible decisions. Lirael started carrying extra healing potions because the Dragonborn had the survival instincts of a drunk horker.

One crisp evening in the forests near Falkreath, after they’d cleared yet another draugr dungeon, they sat by a campfire.

“You know,” Lirael said, staring into the flames, “I came to Skyrim to study the dragons. I didn’t expect to get… attached to one.”

Varyn looked at her across the fire. The golden bond glowed softly between their chests.

“I’ve died a hundred times in this world,” he said quietly. “Reloaded more saves than I can count. But every time I see you… it feels like the one thing I don’t want to reset.”

Lirael’s sharp expression softened. She reached across and took his hand. Their fingers laced together, warm and certain.

When he kissed her under the auroras, it felt like the world itself saved the moment. No reload needed.

Of course, the very next day they got absolutely destroyed by a random dragon attack because Varyn forgot to equip his enchanted armor. Again.

As they lay dramatically in the snow waiting for the loading screen of death, Lirael started laughing.

“You absolute walnut,” she wheezed. “How did you become the Dragonborn?”

“Pure skill and charisma,” Varyn deadpanned, then grinned. “And a lot of quicksaves.”

When they finally defeated Alduin months later, the bond between them had become something unbreakable. Aperfect blend of mortal love and draconic fate.

Lirael stood beside him on the Throat of the World, watching the new dawn.

“So,” she asked, leaning into his side. “What now, Dovahkiin?”

Varyn smiled and pulled her close.

“Now we go find that sweetroll I lost in Whiterun. Then maybe save the world a few more times. Together.”

Lirael laughed and kissed him again as the dragons sang overhead.

In Skyrim, some loops were worth repeating forever.

The End