Playing Skyrim has inspired what might be called the "artistic spark" within me. While my character never speaks in the game, he has developed a definite voice in my head. Perhaps his voice aligns with your character's voice. Regardless, please enjoy some of these short stories, inspired by actual locations in Skyrim.

A Mountain Wanderer, Kagrenzel

Today, scaling the peaks of Eastmarch in search of fox pelts and venison, I came upon a dwarven structure. Not expecting to find anything so profitable this high in the wilderness, I naturally entered the ruin, noting the impressive stonework embossing the outer walls. As I passed through the gates I could make out some script above the door: Kagrenzel, it read. I had never heard of this particular city, and I later learned why.

I entered quietly (sometimes bears or other, less natural creatures make their abode in such a location), and a glow appeared over a pedestal in the centre of the room. By its light, I could make out the bodies of two dead bandits. While the clothes of one were rather tattered, the other had very fine stitching, and impressive embroidery on his cuffs. My first guess was a falling out between the two; since I possess some scant medical knowledge, I examined the bodies before proceeding further. I could discover no mark or mar on their flesh, and no broken glass to indicate a phial of poison, which led me to suspect the magical light had something to do with their deaths.

Being the adventurous type, I touched the floating orb. With a harsh clang I was suddenly surrounded by metal grilles, and a faint chime and thick smoke emitted from the walls around me. I hastily raised my scarf, soaked in a variety of extracts and potions for just such an occasion.

After a short time the fog dissipated, but before I could think any further, the floor fell out from beneath me. I plummeted hundreds of feet, past mystical carvings and glowing fungi to land, after what felt like minutes of falling, in a deep subterranean pool. I had sprained an ankle, but suffered no worse injury. As I floated in the lake, wondering whether the ripples I saw were from my landing or some more sinister presence lurking in the water, I heard the unmistakable, croaking chuckle of a falmer.

I knew I was in trouble.

A Mountain Wanderer, Gallows Rock

I ran through the trees, on my way from Whiterun to Windhelm, the beat of monstrous wings pursuing me from overhead, and the fearsome cry of a hunting dragon echoed off the distant peaks. I had left my fire-resistant ring, a gift from a pretty girl in the last town, at home, and so was unprepared to face a beast of such choleric temperament. Fortunately, I could see a tower not far ahead, and I quickly made my way inside. I had heard before I set out to be wary of a particular old Imperial barracks, but as I couldn't recall which one (the mead had been quite good), and as I was in pressing need of bulwarks, I slipped inside, noting the exceptional quality of the door's wood.

I quietly closed the door behind me, and the frustrated shrieks of the drake soon became mere memories. I could hear voices and see flickering shadows ahead in the corridor, and I eased my way down the dark passage, wary of what scalawags might make their home in this remote bastion. I peeked around a corner, and a gruesome visage bared its fangs at me. I recoiled with a terrified intake of breath and an impious oath, my heart instantly prepared to bid farewell to this fickle world.

Fortunately, neither the diabolical shape before me nor more human shapes further on in the corridor had heard my quiet exclamation, the latter because they were engaged in a bout of carousing, the former because it was mounted on the wall. I scrutinised the mounted head, which seemed to me to be a large wolf, but with eyes far too crafty for any wild canine. I then saw the glint of silver at the hips of the laughing men, and I put the clues together: I had stumbled into a camp of the Silver Hands, those obscure werewolf hunters about whom I had till now heard only whispers.

I stood and revealed myself to the pair. "Gentlemen," I said, "greetings and good will. Might I share your fire, and perhaps a little drink? I feel a kindred spirit with you, as I myself am a hunter of unnatural beasts." As I prepared to spin a tale of dragon-hunting that would make the eyes of even the most jaded warrior widen in awe, both men pulled their swords.

"We don't approve of trespassers, stranger," the smaller of the two - who happened to be a hand taller than myself - grunted. The larger merely growled in a most inhospitable manner, and I knew that Death had felt cheated at my most recent escape.

I smoothly drew my bow and placed a shaft, then sent it whispering through the air to pierce the throat of the big one. The other fellow blinked in surprise as crimson blood gouted across his face, and before he could move toward me, I feathered his eye. I am very dextrous with my bow, if I do say so myself.

After helping myself to their swords (I feel very fond of pure silver), I descended deeper into the damp stone halls. There seemed to be no one else around, although the amount of wolf's heads - on pikes, mounted, sitting on tables - impressed even me. I had been unaware of the seeming plague of werewolves that infested Skyrim's majestic mountains. I eventually came to a door with a large wooden bar across it. Knowing from years of experience that the best loot was always locked away, I lifted the bar and shouldered the heavy door open. As the shiny silver hinges, set on the outside, squealed, I heard a low, hungry growl echo through the passages before me.

Apparently the Silver Hand does not immediately kill all the werewolves it finds. I knew I was in trouble.

A Mountain Wanderer, Liar's Retreat

After spending several evenings pilfering some of the shinier baubles in Markarth, I deemed it appropriate to vacate the Reach, since guards' eyes inevitably rest upon the stranger--an unfortunate fact made even more inauspicious because of my own incontrovertible guilt.

I had heard tales of a hideout in the hills on the way to Solitude, a dark and discreet repose for the less-than-honest. Liar's Retreat was reputed to stock wines of the finest quality, employ a barkeep who asked no questions, and cater to those elements of society who, like myself, wished to drink in peace. As I crept through the culvert outside Markarth, narrowly avoiding the Watch's torches, I could already taste the sweet drops of Honningbrew mead that would soon caress my parched gullet.

Hours later, after miles of walking, I came to the tree that had been described to me, that ancient and twisted twig that marked the path to Liar's Retreat. Its gnarled trunk scratched at the sky, talons curled in a menacing gesture that seemed to threaten Masser and Secunda in their crescent glory. I crunched down the path and found a door set in a cliff face, with only a guttering torch to mark the entrance. I boldly entered the cave, prepared for some well-deserved carousing.

As soon as the door closed behind me, I felt a strong sense of unease. My premonitions have served me in the past, and while the sounds of jollity down the corridor mollified my discomfort, I nevertheless loosened my dirk in its sheath. Wild shadows danced on the walls of the tunnel, and as I approached the main cavern, the sounds of merrymaking warped into the clash and clack of iron on buckler, and the screams of wounded men. I crept closer, but kept my form shadowed in the layers of blackness hugging the stone walls.

I had clearly entered at the end of the fray: when I cautiously emerged into the cavern, bodies lay strewn across chairs and flung in corners, and blood spattered every surface, but not the slightest breath of breeze stirred the gore-soaked tableaux. My eyes roved the scene and I took my bow from my back, expeditiously stringing it and nocking an arrow.

As I lurked, I heard the cave door slam open, and a cool draft waved the torches illuminating the scene of butchery. The tramp of several feet approached down the tunnel, and a loud, overweening voice shouted out, "Barkeep, set us up with a round of...". It trailed off as the owner caught sight of the carnage. "What in Oblivion happened here?", the man incredulously wondered.

"I was pondering the same question, friend," I spoke from the shadows. Immediately all three men drew their various weapons. I stepped forth, showing open hands.

"Who are you?" demanded the obvious leader, a giant orc with a steel briastplate surely two inches thick.

"Merely a wanderer," I replied calmly. "I have just arrived at this fabled outlaw's paradise, and was sorely disappointed at the poor company offered."

"What happened here?" the giant asked, axe still held ready.

"As I said, I have only recently entered, and found the scene as you see it. What is your name?" I inquired.

"I am Crusaw, toughest orc in the Reach!" he triumphantly proclaimed.

"Well, Crusaw" --I distastefully pronounced the crude syllables-- "I heard fighting as I entered, so I surmise the perpetrators are as yet deeper within the bowels of this foul pit of iniquity."

"What?" The orc's brow furrowed as he puzzled out my words, and I smiled to myself.

"Those who did this have not left the cave," I translated. "I propose we join forces and eliminate the evil-doers who have so inconsiderately ruined my foretold evening of drink."

Crusaw's lips moved as he repeated my words to himself. He lowered his axe and his men followed suit, and he said, "Ok. But I get first pick of the loot." He glared at me and his cronies as he laid this term, and we all agreed that he would have preferential access to any booty. As he shouldered past me into the cavern, he paused and glanced at my weapon. "Nice bow," he smiled. "I could use one just like it."

I grimaced and cursed my short-sighted pride. While the orc may not have had a grasp of syntax, he clearly knew the worth of valuables.

We strode across the main hall, occasionally checking a body to confirm its cadaverous appearance. The cave was small, perhaps able to seat sixty men at table, with a few rooms for other pleasures off a side passage. The kitchen had also been terrorized, but meat and mead rather than man had been victim here, with only a few green foodstuffs still in evidence.

We discovered a hole in the bricks at the back of the kitchen, and Crusaw poked his head through the broken stonework. "Damn falmer," he said simply as he withdrew his tusked visage. "I can smell 'em."

"Those shrimps ain't no match for us, boss," Crusaw's Nord follower rumbled. I thought I knew better, for I had seen firsthand the foul magics the falmer could conjure.

For now, we were working toward a common goal, but I had seen the avaricious glint in the leader's eye as he gazed at my ebony bow, crafted at the Skyforge for a year's honest wages. Even if we survived the falmer and retook this dacoit's den, I would have to watch my own back and trust none of these bellicose bandits. The dull croaks of falmer rituals and the creak of chitin rebounded through the opening before us; an arrogant chuckle, anticipating slaughter, came from the cutthroat behind me; Crusaw's implacable steel pectoral hulked before me.

I knew I was in trouble.