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Darkness, darkness and a low, throbbing noise. Legate Rikke had always wondered what the transition to death would be like. Painful, she had assumed, but this was nowhere near her expectations. In fact, it almost felt warm, welcoming, peaceful…

Out of nowhere, something cold touched the nape of her neck and she let out a loud shriek. Light stung her eyes, blurring her vision as shadows moved about. She swung a fist towards the shadow; sure that it was Ulfric Stormcloak or Galmar Stonefist standing over her with a blade ready to end the life she only just realized that she still clung to.

A grip like steel seized her wrist and a hand fell over her mouth while a voice that she knew, and half-loathed, half-respected; spoke with an authoritative tone. “Easy Legate, relax, no one here is trying to kill you.”

As her vision cleared and her struggles slowed she started to make out the face of the man holding her down, the unique amber eyes that only adorned the face of one man, the one man that had made all the difference in the civil war of Skyrim, the Dragonborn. Or Stormblade, Bone-Breaker, Ice-Veins, or any of the other lofty titles Ulfric and his rebels had foisted on the man pinning her to a bed. Her eyes darted about, taking in the rough stone details of the building she was in, deciding quickly that she was no longer in Castle Dour.

As she was no longer screaming, or making noise similar to, the Dragonborn slowly removed his hand from her mouth. “You cooled off yet? Going to calm down?”

Glaring daggers at the Stormcloak, she nodded silently before asking the obvious question. “Where am I?”

A smarmy grin spread cross the man’s rough, scarred face. “Mundas, Tamriel if you want to be specific.”

She pushed herself up into a seated position, noting a strange tightness in her legs, and scowled at the man. “You know what I mean, don’t be---“

The Dragonborn waved her quiet with one armored hand. “Yes, I get it. You’re in Solitude still, in my home, in my guest bed.” The warrior’s grin faded into a firm line. “You’re welcome by the way, dragging you out of Castle Dour and putting you up in my own home, how charitable to a former member of the Imperial Legion.”

She snarled and pounded her right fist down on the bed next to her thigh. “I am still a member of the Legion!”
T
he Dragonborn shrugged in an uninterested way before responding. “Yeah? Well, good luck showing it for a few months.” His amber eyes fell. “You took quite a hit from old Galmar’s battleaxe, and I don’t think you’ll be up to any soldiering for the foreseeable future.”

Prompted by the Dragonborn’s gaze she looked down towards her lower legs, realizing just now why she had felt so restricted. Both of her calves were swaddled up in a mass of white bandages stiffened with what she could only assume to be brine. Now that it was mentioned, she did recall defending herself from Ulfric and losing track of the old Galmar. She didn’t remember the moment of agony, but that was understandable.

She glanced back up at the Stormblade. “Why did you help me?”

The amber-eyed Nord simply chuckled while standing. “When I figure that out myself, you will be the second to know.” Before she could shoot back and ask what the hell he meant a loud clatter came from somewhere outside of the room the two of them were in, drawing a query from the Dragonborn. “Muiri? Is that you?”

The face of a tan-skinned Breton woman peeked around the door frame. “Yes, my love, I was just cleaning up from dinner.” Muiri stepped fully into view, revealing a fairly petite frame. “Was there something else you wanted?”

The Nord man shook his head. “No, just checking. Wasn’t sure if that was you or Jordis.” He perked up momentarily. “Oh, right, where are my manners? Legate, my wife Muiri. Muiri, Legate Rikke.”

The Breton took a few steps forward and extended a hand, which she shook after an awkward moment. “So pleased to meet you. I mean, you weren’t conscious when Magnus dragged you in here so, anyway, yeah.”

The Dragonborn, or “Magnus,” clapped his hands together once and stood. “Well, now that you two have met I should probably get on my way. You know, places to go, problems to solve, things to Shout to pieces, the usual business.” The Nord crossed the room in two steps and planted a light kiss on the side of Muiri’s face. “Stay safe, and try to not accidentally poison the Legate like you did to me.”

The Breton ineffectually shoved the much bigger man. “It was just that one time, and like you said it was an accident!” With a huge, shit-eating grin on his face the Dragonborn backed out and vanished into the house before a door closed off in the distance. The Breton woman took the opportunity to air an idle thought. “Oh, that man can just be so infuriating at times!”

She silently rolled her eyes and thought to herself, ‘You think? The one man that essentially kicked the Legion out of Skyrim?’

Muiri spun about with her hands clasped in front of her. “I’m sorry, you must be starving. Do you want something to eat? We just finished dinner so there’s plenty left.”

She started to object, to say that she was fine, but a tremendous rumbling from her stomach essentially answered the question for her. Honestly though, she was famished. She’d been too strung out to eat anything during the entire siege of Solitude, which had lasted for hours. She’d been far too busy waiting for Ulfric and the Dragonborn to come bursting through the doors of Caste Dour with swords flashing and Thu’um thundering. Well, she’d gotten both, and two broken legs for her trouble.

Apparently taking her very vocal stomach as an answer Muiri darted out of the small bedroom with a smile. Clinking silverware and plates rang out, quite a lot of them actually, and the Breton returned in less than a minute bearing a silver tray burdened with enough food to feed a small family. Understandably, her eyes widened in shock at the prospect that Muiri actually expected her to eat all of that, and she said as much out loud.

The Dragonborn’s wife just looked at her with that persistent smile and a small laugh. “You don’t need to be so modest. Magnus is a soldier, and I’ve cooked for him and his fellow Stormcloaks on quite a few occasions. Soldiers have very large appetites, and you’re going to need the extra for those broken bones anyway. So eat up, I’ll get Jordis to clean up the rest later when she gets back from the Morthal market later today.”

‘The rest?’ She thought, there was still more where this came from? Either this woman went way overboard when deciding what to make for dinner or, well, what else could it be? She looked down at the platter, really looked at it, and in spite of herself felt her mouth water just from the sight. A half loaf of bread, with what looked to be a honey drizzle and bits of fruit baked in that still steamed. There was a steak, a huge slab of meat with an aromatic glaze decorated with a dash of herbs. A small bowl of candied fruits rested on the edge beside the steak, sugar glittering like diamonds in the low light. And a full bottle of mead stood on the corner of it all, a bottle decorated with the logo of Honningbrew, her favorite.

Giving in, though she still tried to maintain her sense of dignity, she put on a show of reluctance as she reached for the loaf of bread. “Well, I guess I could eat something.”

Muiri’s smile morphed from kindly to a disturbingly knowing grin, and the Breton woman sauntered out of the room, shutting the door behind her. Did that woman really think that highly of her own cooking? Suddenly suspicious she turned back to scrutinize the tantalizing array of foodstuff before her. Before she could really think it over though her stomach violently protested the fact that it still wasn’t being filled and almost without conscious thought her mouth darted forward and took a large bite out of the bread.

All suspicion fled her mind the moment the loaf hit her tongue. As a soldier she was used to rough, sometimes stale bread, occasionally with s stick or two of smoked meat to help choke it down. But this, this was like biting into a slice of Sovengard itself. It was soft, warm, the fruit bits gave it just a hint of sweetness that beautifully complemented the honey; quite literally it was the best thing she had eaten up to this point in her life. She practically inhaled the rest of the loaf, silently wishing that Muiri had brought the whole thing instead of just half. When she was done, it felt like she had eaten air, and her growling stomach still gnawed at her.

She turned to the steak, snapping up the provided fork and knife and sawing off a piece around the size of a single septim. After the bread her expectations were quite high, and she was not disappointed. The meat was piping hot, and the glaze she had noticed was a spicy concoction that bolstered the heat further, letting the taste linger on her tongue long after she had swallowed. In between chunks of meat she sampled handfuls of the candied fruit and downed gulps of mead, letting each sooth the spice enough to prevent the sensation from becoming overpowering.

And just like that, seemingly no longer than a blink, it was over. And she was confronted with the realization that she had devoured the entire platter, something she had thought sufficient to feed a small family. She looked down towards her abdomen, taking in the sight of her now massively swollen belly, and silently gawked in awe for a second or two before the first feeling of pain hit.

She let out a moan, cradling her engorged stomach with both hands as her head fell back into the supple embrace of the pillow. “Why did I do that? By the Nine, why?”

The door opened, and Muiri poked her head pack in. “Legate, are you all ri---“ The Breton’s eyes bugged out of her head slightly. “Oh my, I, I didn’t actually think you’d…” Muiri shuffled in shyly, a red sheen hugging the bottom of the yellow tattoo across her face as she picked up the empty tray. “I, I’ll just get this out of your way and let you, um, rest. I’m sorry I’ll, uh, I’ll try and give you a more appropriate amount next time.”

The Breton left, throwing the occasional embarrassed glance back towards her, still blushing.

Rolling halfway onto her side, deciding against completing the action the instant her left leg shifted and sent a shock of pain up her flank, she mumbled to herself. “Rest, right, that’s perfectly possible when stuffed like a holiday bird.”

Deciding to try anyway she did her best to snuggle down into the generous bedding, shooting a last amazed, and slightly disgusted look at her distended stomach before shutting her eyes and drifting off.

About an hour later:

Awakened from fitful slumber by the distant slamming of a door, Rikke’s eyes snapped open and she attempted to sit up out of long habit, only to be thwarted by her still swollen midsection; and though it had diminished somewhat it still felt like she had swallowed several iron ingots instead of a small feast, and thus still ached rather badly.

Through the door, she heard Muiri calling out to someone. “Jordis, is that you?” The answer was unheard, but the Breton’s response was still clear. “Well hurry along, we have a guest in the spare bedroom. Be a dear and introduce yourself.”

Moments later the door of her small prison swung in to admit a young, fair-skinned Nord woman with red hair. “Jordis” was adorned in a shoulder-less variant of the standard steel chest plate, although the woman’s exposed upper arms and face looked a little puffy. Extra weight aside she looked perfectly competent, and through further force of habit Rikke’s eyes were drawn to the long, steel blade hanging from Jordis’s hip.

A light of recognition flared in the young Nord’s eyes. “Legate Rikke? I’ve seen you around Solitude a few times. What are you…” The red-head’s eyes drifted down to her bandage wrapped legs. “Oh, right. I should have known. Magnus and his charity cases.” A look of mild alarm flashed across Jordis’s face. “Ah, not that I’m not glad you’re alive. Just, my Thane has marked habit of being unable to avoid helping anyone.”

Before the Nord woman could elaborate Muiri’s voice rang out again. “Jordis, I saved you some food from Magnus’s victory feast. It’s waiting for you on the table.”

The young Nord looked heavily conflicted for a moment, understandable considering her own experience with Muiri’s delectable cookery, but Jordis slowly walked out anyway and returned moments later bearing a silver tray as heavily burdened as the one Muiri had provided for her, perhaps even more so. The red-head took a seat to the left of the bed on a small bench, propping the tray up on her knees, and again a look of inner conflict crossed Jordis’s face.

She vocalized her observation. “You look a little, uncomfortable.”

Jordis went a little red in the face, but laughed a little anyway. “Heh, ‘uncomfortable’ is the word.” The Nord woman tapped her chin in silent thought for a few seconds. “Oh, to Oblivion with it.”

Jordis set the tray aside on the bench and reach for the wide, leather belt encircling her waist. With one sharp tug the thing came undone, causing a curious burst effect and producing a profound look of relief on the young Nord’s face. Jordis shrugged the armor off, revealing a figure decidedly more plush than previously expected. The red-head’s abdomen was obscured by a cushion of pale flab, rolling down barely over the waist of the housecarl’s pants. But far more impressive, relatively speaking, was the younger woman’s chest. Jordis’s swollen breasts, oozing out around the too small bra, were large and heavy enough that they were starting to droop down the young Nord’s flabby stomach. They weren’t resting on the housecarl’s flabby midsection yet, but…

Jordis shot her a rough scowl and started to tuck in to the platter of food, speaking between mouthfuls. “Don’t give me that look. You clearly know just as well as I do that Muiri makes good food, or did you suddenly become pregnant in the last month?”

She stammered out a reply. “I, I overate once. It’s not going to happen again!”

The young Nord woman took a large swig of mead, this bottle originating from the Black-Briar Meadery, and cupped her swelling belly with a free hand. “And what do you think I said when Muiri first came here little over a month ago? I’m lucky Magnus takes me along on his errands as much as he does, and luckier still that he catches all the attention so I can just stand in the back and pick people off with a bow. When he leaves me here to work with some of his, less savory associates…” Jordis shuddered, but there was a look of disguised delight in her eyes. “Most of the time Muiri keeps me too stuffed to think straight.” A flash of sympathy drifted through Jordis’s eyes. “I can only imagine what she’s going to do to you.”

Riften: The Ragged Flagon Cistern

Magnus the Mighty, Dragonborn, Guild master of the Thieves’ Guild, Harbinger of the Companions, etc; was having a good day. Only one wizened dragon had attempted to waylay him on the long road from Whiterun to the Rift, and it had been stupid enough to land right in front of him and roar, not even shooting fire with its first breath, allowing him the perfect opportunity to shove his sword up through the roof of its mouth. Considering dragons, he just had to wonder what Delphine was doing with herself over at Sky Haven Temple with nothing to do but sit and twiddle her thumbs. After all, he had pretty much told her and Esbern to rot in Oblivion when they had demanded that he kill Paarthurnax, and she was certainly too proud to admit that she was wrong, or seek his forgiveness.

Either way, he was back in his home away from home, or one of them anyway. The Flagon had never been the most pleasantly aromatic place he had been, but it sure beat a Falmer hive. And there was nothing better than being surrounded by friends that shared a love of a good clean heist, other than actually performing one of the aforementioned heists.

A voice called out to him from across the Cistern. “Hey Boss, a little conspicuous don’t you think?”

He whirled on the source, the recruit Garthar, and responded. “Tell you what boy, when you can sneak around in leather as well as I can in full ebony plate, then you can complain that I’m conspicuous.”

One of the other thieves chimed in. “Good luck, he couldn’t hide if he painted himself black and went outside naked on a moonless night.”

Laughing at the joke at Garther’s expense along with his fellow thieves he passed through the Cistern and into the Flagon.

He took literally three steps inside the bar and Delvin Mallory raised a glass and voiced a boisterous toast. “And here’s the man himself, the best thief I’ve seen in an age and the man that dragged us out of the bloody gutter.” The master thief beckoned him over to the table. “Pull up a seat and have a drink; I’ll catch you up on all the details.”

He walked over and helped himself to a pint, but did not sit down. “Thanks Delvin, but that’ll have to wait for a second. You seen Vex? I didn’t see her in the Cistern and was wondering whether she was finally on her feet again.”

Delvin’s merry attitude guttered out like a blown out candle. “Ah, well, about that, we got Vex up just a day or two ago but…” The man’s eyes flicked towards the deck. “She’ll probably want a word, at least.”

Suddenly quite leery, especially considering how the two of them had last parted, he looked towards the shred of black leather he could see seated at the corner table. A botched theft of Mistveil Keep had ended badly for Vex, and she had been bedridden for at least the past six months.

He took one step around the stack of crates concealing Vex, and was unable to stop himself from letting out a sharp whistle of astonishment. The lithe, lean thief he had known was long gone, buried under a thick layer of fat. From the neck up she looked largely the same, though there was the hint of a double chin. Below that, her breasts seemed only slightly swollen, but below that there was a flabby, globular belly just starting the task of filling the young woman’s lap. And below that, well, that was the amazing part. It was like someone had split a full-size barrel down the middle and had slapped them onto the thief’s thighs. And her buttocks, her ass had gotten so wide that it was flowing down around the edges of the chair, practically swallowing the poor piece of furniture.

At his unwilling outburst the heavily overweight thief jerked back and shot him a glare that would wither the heart of a Falmer. “Oh, so you think this is funny you bastard? You walk away from that job smelling like a rose and I get stuck flat on my face for six months!”

Faced with such a tide of sudden aggression he got defensive, and sarcastic. “Oh, so it was my fault the horse attached to the hay wagon got spooked after you jumped from the fourth floor window? It was my fault that you landed on the edge of the cart and couldn’t stick it, falling backwards and flat on your ass?” He shrugged nonchalantly. “And is it my fault that I Shouted one Word and landed right next to you without a scratch? Not fair, probably, but in no way wrong.”

Flummoxed by his irrefutable logic Vex could only sputter and glare, still fearsome despite the fact that she probably could run as far as the bar without getting red faced and gasping for air.

Delvin came up behind him, silent save for his words. “So, guess you see the little problem we’ve got, eh? Vex here is in no shape to be stealing anything, unless you count food off of a table.”

If it was even possible, Vex grew even more livid. “You, you take that back!”

His tongue clicked against his teeth, letting his growing irritation be known. “Look, Vex, Delvin’s right. How sneaky can you be when your hips probably won’t fit through most doors in Skyrim? Face it, we really don’t need you down here in the Flagon.”

Surprisingly, shock and a veiled look of hurt crossed Vex’s face before the fury settled back. “You, you can’t be serious. You can’t fire me! I’ve, I’ve been in the Guild for the last five years at least!”

He held up a hand and the obese blonde stopped ranting. “Hey, easy, I never said anything about firing you, if we have ever done that. I’m just talking about, possibly, reassigning you to a different post.” Full knowing Vex’s primary motivation in life he quickly added, “And there should still be plenty of coin flowing into your purse.”

Mollified by that statement, Vex went from ‘furious’ to simply ‘wary.’ “I’m listening.”

He started to outline his plan. “Well, I’m sure the rest of you are aware that our, ahem, dear patron Maven Black-Briar has been getting quite pushy with her demands of the Guild recently. It almost looks like she thinks she owns us, and we can’t have that.”

Delvin broke in. “Hold on, you’re thinking of outing Maven Black-Briar? You’re mad, she’s the only reason the guards don’t bum rush us right out of the Ratway.”

He countered. “Not if the right bribes are made, and I can get that done within the hour if need be. Now, as I was saying, we all know that Maven has some very shady dealings, but if they were brought to light by, say, an upstanding citizen simply doing their civic duty…” He shrugged. “Well, it wouldn’t ruin Maven but she’d sure need to clear out of Skyrim damn quick before, say, someone decided to sic the Dark Brotherhood on her. That ought to make her open to a buyout, from, say, a certain lady thief.”

Delvin commented again. “I take it back, that’s not crazy, it’s bloody ambitious. Putting a member of the Guild at the head of one of the biggest businesses in Tamriel…”

He finished the comment. “Exactly, and just think of all the coin we’ll get in kickbacks.” He turned his gaze back to Vex. “Which of course would be almost nothing compared to what you’ll be making.” He flashed a smile. “So, what do you think Vex? I know you probably have some kind of hoard stashed away so I’ll stake you half the cost so you aren’t broke when getting the Meadery back on its feet.”

Vex’s chubby face twisted into a smile, one that positively sang with greed. “I’m in.”