This was originally by Reg do Kun but she's trying to start a family and all, so no more time for stories and I figured since I have all this time on my hands, I would give it a shot. Sort of same plot, I will be editing it a little bit, but only a little and I request a handful of people message me because I would love your opinion on a new way this plot could go instead of the original.

The time she set it in was a monumental task to finish and I'm not saying this one would be easier, but its just to see if anyone would be interested or if you want to keep the regular plot.

Just PM me and we can discuss it, otherwise I hope you all enjoy this reboot and leave a review!

THE WOUND

each time i love ( no matter who
or what it is ) fiercely, readily,
it is a wound i open -
like a hole
dug by the animal in me:
I let that which I love
crawl inside

- Segovia Amil

She sits.

She sits upon a throne of antlers, watching them squabble with the most bored of expressions. Her fingers stretch languidly over her lips as she covers her yawn, her legs crossing, armor clanking together as she does so; no one seems to notice, too caught up in fighting each other to remember she is in the room, she supposes, that is how it appears.

"Petty," she murmurs in distaste, looking over at the servant girl holding a platter towards her; she snatches a goblet of deep wine.

This seems to startle the young servant, as girl gasps and drops the platter, sending wine across the stone at the feet of the throne, the crimson liquid bleeding out across the floor. This sends the woman clad in armor into a fit, cackling and spilling her own wine at her feet, droplets bouncing off of her own knees as she does so. The room is silent, taking in the sight of the cackling woman, wary expressions upon their faces.

When she suddenly silences, she fixes a glare at each of them and they quietly, and quickly, shuffle from the room, parchment and meals left behind for the servants to clean. The servant girl goes about doing just that, casting wary glances at her master all the while; but there is no attention paid towards her, her master seems lost as she cradles her head in her hand, leaning onto her knees.

After a moment, there is a sigh, and the woman rises from her throne, grabbing the sword from where it had been leaning against the side of aforementioned throne; the blades chill ebbs from its sheath, but she is used to the feel and straps it around her waist without a second thought.

Stalhrim, as hard as a dragons hide and as cold as death.

She strides from the room with her chin held high, a smirk upon her lips when servants bowed their heads at her passing.

"And so was the War Lord brought down upon the unsuspecting tundras of Skyrim. And she performed under his will, swinging a mighty sword in the name of her master and King, The World Easter, Alduin.

Lorolei, of the village Skaal.