Old Friends

While on Solstheim, Amalthea decided to pay a visit to the ‘shroomtastic little town of Tel Mithryn. There’s a fungus among us.

Tel Mithryn is the myco-licious home of Neloth, a powerful Dark Elf and one of Amalthea’s most favorite people ever. She has a mad crush on the witty, tyrannical narcissistic genius, and he’s one of a handful of Skyrim residents for whom Amalthea doesn’t mind serving as errand girl. Hell, if the mer whistled, she’d come running to heel at his feet, tail wagging and pathetically hoping for a pat on the head.

It’s no surprise, then, that Amalthea jumped at the chance to hunt down and kill Neloth’s vengeful, murderous ex-girlfriend. Although, to be fair, Neloth may have given her a slight nudge off the Psycho Cliff.
“Oh, Neloth. I would never annoy you by dying.”

After Neloth divined the location of his crazy ex, Amalthea set off to find the unfortunate girl. She fought her way through Highpoint Tower, a ruin filled with flaming fucking spiders. Because how do you make pony-sized spiders even more nightmare-inducing? If your answer is “make them spit fire at people,” then you obviously work for Bethesda.

Although burdened by the knowledge that some major fire-spider PTSD was in her future, Amalthea managed to find and quickly dispatch Ildari. She was rewarded with a ironic dying statement from the troublesome cooze.
“We’re terribly sorry, ma’am, but your heart stone is out of warranty. Thank you for contacting Red Mountain Customer Service. Goodbye.”

Amalthea freed the lone surviving prisoner of Ildari’s sadistic little empire — Niyya, a sister Redguard. Niyya spoke of the atrocities committed by Neloth’s former assistant; however, she was disappointingly vague.
“Before I can free you, I’m going to need all the details. It’s just SOP, you know. The Chief would have my badge if I didn’t follow procedure.”

Niyya remained tight-lipped and traumatized. Amalthea explored the dungeon in search of answers but was unable to find evidence of anything particularly innovative.
Is this the best Ildari could do? She should have taken some lessons in torture at the College of Winterhold.

Amalthea ran back to the magical mushroom tower to tell Neloth that his ex-apprentice was now dead, and also not a terribly creative sadistic mastermind.

To her delight, Neloth still found her useful and desired her assistance. The besotted Dragonborn eagerly agreed to serve as a volunteer for one of his experiments, and then…then he said the most romantic words she’d ever heard.
“Oh my Sithis, I think I love you.”

She obediently went out into the world to test her beloved’s spell and make note of any side effects. And there was quite a doozy of one.
That seems normal enough, amirite girls?

Kicking ass in Solstheim

For your viewing pleasure, here is a lovely gallery in which Amalthea is heroically awesome and Eola is helpful and eloquent.

The Temple of Miraak

While exploring Solstheim, Amalthea couldn’t help but notice (and laugh at) the enthralled people tirelessly puttering around a bunch of rocks. Apparently the human ants were bewitched Skaal, and apparently the person who did the bewitching just might be the same person who’s been sending Cultists to kill Amalthea.

Amalthea does not like it when people try to kill her.

Although it amuses her to see humans turned into mindless slaves, she is above all a clever, worldly woman, one who understands that sometimes sacrifices must be made in order to obtain one’s ultimate goal. Amalthea is currently after not only revenge against the douchebag who’s behind the assassination attempts but also the ability to ride a fucking dragon. If she has to free some people from psychic slavery to accomplish her objectives — well then, she’ll free them, even if it breaks her shriveled black heart to do so.

First, though, the Dragonborn wanted to lay eyes (and sword) on the asshole behind the Cultists. She ventured off towards the Temple of Miraak, taking a moment to quietly enjoy the sunrise over Red Mountain. It’s beautiful, when it’s not trying to kill you.

Outside the temple, she met Frea, the daughter of the Skaal shaman. Like the Dragonborn, Frea had a vested interest in kicking the shit out of Miraak. United in their desire for bloody vengeance, they entered the temple and beheld the inner workings of Miraak’s mind. And they’re a lot like Amalthea’s, apparently.

Oh, bro, I feel you. I have so been in meetings like that before.

Frea is apparently a decent person, and she fretted aloud about the horrific tortures that Miraak had obviously inflicted upon scores of people. Amalthea just got wet.
“Yes, Mr. Holmes, brilliant observation.”

At one point, Amalthea thought she’d found the long-lost Solstheim Museum of Natural History, but it turned out to just be more of Miraak’s arrogant interior decorating.
It certainly makes a bold statement.

Amalthea eventually found her way to a large Black Book on a pedestal. This excited her, because she loves to read. Ignoring Frea’s doomsday babbling, she began to brew a pot of tea and got ready to curl up with the imposing tome.
“I don’t think this is going to be a relaxing source of escapism, after all.”

Our befuddled Dragonborn found herself in a green-tinged world of Lovecraftian horror, confronted by a Dragon Priest.

When she realized that the masked figure was Miraak, the source of much of her woe, she tried desperately to attack. To her consternation, she couldn’t move at all, so she had to settle for glaring angrily at him. *glare*

And then, like a depressed drunk waking up after a bender, Amalthea was sucked back into sobering reality.
Yes, Amalthea is a fairly transparent person.

Feeling as though she’d accomplished basically nothing, Amalthea moseyed on back to Skaal Village with Frea. There, she chatted with Frea’s daddy about Miraak being the First Dragonborn. The Skaal shaman misunderstood Amalthea’s questioning, thinking — as everyone in Skyrim does — that the Last Dragonborn was nothing more than an eager errand girl just jumping at the chance to do everyone else’s work for them. No wonder Miraak enjoys torturing and enslaving people. Amalthea can sympathize. Being the Dragonborn means being surrounded by perpetual incompetence.

The Altar of Thrond

Currently, our fearless heroine is mucking about on Solstheim. A few mornings ago, she was meandering aimlessly around the barren island when she spotted a splash of red against the endless white. The sight of blood in the distance always excites Amalthea, because it means that there is possibly a nice corpse to be looted (and/or eaten), so of course she jogged over to investigate.
“Empty.”

The ever-present voices in Amalthea’s psychotic head told her that this was the Altar of Thrond. The voice did not, however, explain who Thrond was, or what Thrond wanted with the hearts and femoral arteries of shapely young women. (Whoever Thrond is, he/she/it has not figured out that there are far more fun parts of shapely young women.)

Being an Adventurer, and therefore cursed with both high levels of curiosity and a low sense of self-preservation, Amalthea set off into the nearby cave. Maybe someone in there would know who Thrond was.

Eola attempted to be helpful by using her Super Cannibal Senses.
Sweetheart, a microsmatic dolphin could smell this much blood. You’re not exactly a scenthound.

While there was no book called Thrond: Who the Fuck Is He? within the cave, there were three of Amalthea’s favorite enemies – Hagravens! Unusually enough, these fair ladies had names. Amalthea made sure to write them down in her Little Black Book of Death and Dismemberment.
Just don’t ask her to try to tell them apart. All hideous bird-woman hybrids look the same to her.

Amalthea left the cave with some sweet loot, but she lacked her usual sense of accomplishment after a bloody battle. If only she could have found out who Thrond was. Because that guy has a lot to learn about chicks.

Hidden in the Midden

Whilst frolicking about in some ruins with the students and staff of the College of Winterhold, Amalthea stumbled upon the mysterious sphere called The Eye of Magnus. Our dear Dragonborn – uninterested in anything she can’t torture, sell, or use to kill things – left the Eye in Professor Tolfdir‘s somewhat-capable hands.

Apparently Tolfdir immediately rolled the thing like a big mystical beach ball straight to the College.
“But we’ve got the biggest ball of them all!”

Amalthea hoped that might be the end of that, but of course it wasn’t. I don’t know how the people of Skyrim survived without a Dragonborn running their errands, solving their mysteries, recovering their shit, and fighting their battles for them. Seriously, did anything ever get done in this fucking place? No wonder the Empire is falling apart.

Just as Amalthea was wrapping up with Tolfdir, they were interrupted by Ancano. Any hope Amalthea had of being done with the un-sellable, un-torturable orb ended when Ancano informed her that Quaranir, a member of the Psijic Order, had come a-calling. Of course he was insistent on meeting with the Dragonborn, because obviously no one else in the whole of Nirn is competent or intelligent enough to deal with a floating ball.

But if Amalthea had been expecting answers from Quaranir, she was grievously disappointed. After some vague, prophetic-type mutterings that explained nothing, Quaranir finally told the Dragonborn to go discuss matters with the Augur of Dunlain. Because the advice given by mystical sources of divination is always super-helpful.

And so our grumbling heroine made her way to The Midden, where the incorporeal source of wisdom called Augur of Dunlain lives – er, exists. Or something.

Almost immediately, she began to see evidence of the College’s darker proclivities.
She’s down with it, for the record.

During her travels, she discovered the Atronach Forge. Fortunately it came with an operator manual.
“Experimenting wildly with the Forge is dangerous.” Also, do not operate Atronach Forge while under the influence of medication, ale, or Skooma.

Seriously, though, this place is fucking weird. Which doesn’t exactly set it apart from most places in Skyrim.

After gleaning some interesting home decorating ideas, Amalthea found her way to The Midden Dark. There, she came upon a large clutter of skeletons.

This incident report provided an explanation. When, oh when, will our nation’s youth finally realize the dangers of attempting to summon powerful, dark supernatural entities?
Conjurer’s burn is not, as I had previously thought, a particularly nasty type of STD prevalent among the mage population.

Apparently the late overambitious students were practicing their hoodoo on this impressive Daedric Relic.

Always a shining example of respect and decorum, Amalthea examined the relic without a single childish thought in her pretty little head.

Finally, after a hundred forevers, she found the right door.  It usually does.

After convincing the voice that she was goddamn dead and determined to visit with it, she was allowed into the sanctuary/prison of the shining ball of energy that was once a student. (Students of magic everywhere – being too ambitious is not good.) The conversation was about as enlightening as Amalthea had expected it would be.

Really, for a mystical source of endless wisdom, the Augur certainly can’t read people very well. If he could, he’d know that Amalthea could literally not care less about knowledge of the Eye – unless, perhaps, it was knowledge that the Eye did, in fact, have a high retail value.

He’d also know that she was already consumed with corruption.

But just as the Dragonborn was rolling her eyes and thinking fucking divination to herself, the Augur laid down some actual help. He could do with a few lessons in phrasing, however.
I’m truly overwhelmed by the amount of jejune jokes running about and tripping over each other inside my head right now.

Like a well-trained terrier, Amalthea trotted back to the College to file her after-action report with Savos Aren. He wasn’t too keen on the Augur’s advice to find the The Staff of Magnus. I think there might be some deep-seated insecurities there.

I’m sure you would love to be the proud owner of a mighty staff, Arch-Mage. But just because you can’t handle one doesn’t mean you should deprive the rest of the world.

Because Amalthea needs it. Oh yes, she does.

Scenery – The Rift (also, abs)

Don’t you just love it when you’re lining up a shot of the pretty scenery in The Rift…

…and some shirtless Nord douchebag wanders into the frame?

The crossroads, on the other hand, is a beefcake-free zone. For better or for worse.

She used to be an adventurer like you

Guards in Skyrim are such pussies. I mean, Amalthea’s still adventuring…

Fun with followers

With the exception of the charming asshole Marcurio, who serves as Steward of Windstad Manor, Amalthea employs only females to her service. (She’s building an army of crazy bitches. Soon the whole of Nirn will be fucking begging the World-Eater to just go ahead and devour them, please.) This dynamic can lead to all sorts of fun and interesting situations.

Such as the time when Amalthea was engaged in Steward/homestead logistics and wound up looking like the lead singer of a barbarian girl band.

When she became a Thane of Falkreath, Amalthea was granted the services of the Housecarl Rayya, a sister Redguard and fellow fierce warrior-woman. (Doesn’t that just roll off the tongue?)

Amalthea immediately appointed her Steward of Heljarchen Hall, and upheld the Redguard warrior’s dignity by changing her into a more appropriate outfit for working around the house.

One day, Amalthea stopped in at Lakeview Manor, where the lovely Lydia serves as Steward. Imagine our heroine’s surprise when she was greeted by this sight (courtesy of some glitch I incurred, probably by being awesome). “I’d like you to put some clothes on, you goddamn harlot!”

Amalthea is not known for being a forgiving (or caring, or generous, or sane) mistress. Lydia’s transgression earned her some quality time on the hard, cold stone floor.
Don’t pout so. This builds character!

Amalthea dug the aesthetic, but she was convinced that it could be improved upon. So, with filthy ideas floating like bloated bodies in the bog of her sadistic brain, she made her way to Proudspire Manor and its doll-pretty Housecarl, Jordis the Sword-Maiden.

Jordis had done nothing to upset our dear Dragonborn, but Amalthea eschews outdated, sentimental concepts like “cause-and-effect” and “fairness.” She led Jordis into the most appropriate room of the manor – for a woman – and was pleased to see that this was, indeed, an improvement on the original.
A moderately useful kitchen appliance.

Giants are not big animal-lovers

It was a chilly Morndas, the 17th of Sun’s Dawn – the day after Heart’s Day, which Amalthea had spent at home with her family. After awakening wrapped in her Lover’s Comfort and full to bursting with a Mother’s Love, Amalthea bade her family goodbye. Adventurers, she said, get few vacations. And so she and Eola left the happy homestead and mounted their beautiful, strong, fast, expensive horses.

They rode onward into the snow-covered wilderness of The Pale, making their way to the next big adventure. The faithful, gorgeous, bought-with-my-hard-earned-Septims horses turned what could have been an arduous trek into a peaceful ride among the snow and pines.

Suddenly, in the distance, Amalthea spied a giant. Most giants seem cautious but nonaggressive, the Dragonborn thought to herself. In fact, she was certain that she’d read just such a thing in one of the countless tomes within her impressive collection of libraries. 

I’m sure it will be perfectly safe for us to continue on our way, as long as we don’t look or act threatening, she thought. Just two nice girls out for a brisk morning ride.

As Amalthea unsheathed her sword – the smell of horse blood, like wet copper, enveloping her senses – all she could think was, That didn’t go quite according to plan.

Actually, that’s not true. All she could think was, Fuck some giants, yo.

A new addition to Casa Dragonborn

Amalthea had been giving a lot of thought to adopting a second child. Lucia would probably enjoy having a playmate, and Senna needed more to do around the manor, anyway. And so, still dripping blood from a recent adventure, Amalthea made her way to Honorhall Orphanage to check out the merchandise. Er, meet the children.

The headmistress, Constance Michel, was not at all put off by the gore and stench covering the prospective mother. She conducted a brief interview with Amalthea to ensure that she was suitable for a parental role. Although it’s hard to imagine anyone with a lifestyle and disposition less suited to the task of raising children to be healthy, functional adults, the headmistress apparently was desperate to unload some kids. Constance approved Amalthea’s application for adoption, and the Dragonborn set about determining which lucky tot would become her new minion. Er, child.

Once she met this charming and ambitious Nord boy, she realized her search was over. Amalthea always appreciates a fellow predator.

And so she asked young Hroar if he might want to come live at one of her mansions.

She then celebrated by doing what she always does when she visits Riften – falling into Lake Honrich.
Oh yes. Superb mother material.