Boethiah came to me in dreams first. She was absolutely gorgeous, a step beyond vampire. Those dadrea know what they are doing. They come to an average undead like me who realizes her vulnerability in the word–thanks Dawn Guard–and thus seeks out damning relics of power to dull the edge of the hunters.

I was assigned the low duty of charming a mortal to Boethiah’s holy patch of ground. I brought them there in the night to confuse them. Since it was just a mortal, I leaned in, grabbed a sensual bit of flesh, and kissed her. “For me,” I teased, pointing to the pillar of power belonging to Boethiah.

Now because Skyrim radiates dark power, you drink it into your body like an intoxicant. And once I saw my mortal humping against Boethiah’s pillar,–shall I say phallus?–I lifted my dagger of sacrifice and let the slick crimson flow.

Boethiah…