The Flatulent Nord - A stinky tale

[ghowriter]

Ah, “The Flatulent Nord”—a truly unique and aromatic addition to the world of Skyrim!

In the frosty land of Tamriel, where dragons soar and ancient ruins await, there now exists a legendary Nord whose presence is both feared and… well, smelled. Let us delve into the tale of this extraordinary character:

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The Ballad of “The Flatulent Nord”

In the heart of Skyrim’s frozen tundra, where mead flows like a mighty river and warriors clash under the watchful gaze of Sovngarde, there arose a hero—or perhaps an anti-hero—whose deeds were not sung by bards. His name? Gromar the Gassy.

Chapter I: Origins

Gromar hailed from the small village of Stinkhelm, nestled between the pines and the hot springs. From a young age, he exhibited an unusual talent: the ability to produce noxious fumes that could fell a mammoth at fifty paces. His parents, both blacksmiths, tried to keep his condition a secret, but the villagers soon caught wind of it (pun intended).

Chapter II: The Unwanted Hero

As Gromar grew, so did his flatulence. His mere presence at the local tavern could clear the room faster than a dragon attack. The bards sang songs of his exploits, albeit with their noses pinched shut. His battle cries were less “Fus Ro Dah” and more “Pffft Ro Pah.”

Chapter III: The Quest

One fateful day, Gromar received a summons from the Jarl of Whiterun. A foul stench had enveloped the city, and crops withered in its wake. The Jarl suspected a Daedric plot or perhaps a necromancer’s curse. But no—it was Gromar, on a diet of cabbage and moon sugar.

Chapter IV: The Epic Battle

Armed with his rusty iron sword and a belly full of beans, Gromar set forth. His enemies fell not by blade or spell, but by the sheer force of his emissions. Draugr crumbled, bandits surrendered, and even the mighty Alduin paused mid-roar.

Chapter V: The Legacy

And so, “The Flatulent Nord” became a legend. His deeds echoed through the halls of High Hrothgar, where the Greybeards debated whether his Thu’um was truly Dragonborn or just indigestion. The bards composed a new song:

"Oh, Gromar the Gassy, our hero so bold, His rear end a weapon, his tale to be told. From Riften to Solitude, his fame did expand, A symphony of butt trumpets across all the land."

Epilogue

And thus, dear adventurer, if you encounter a foul odor on your travels—a scent that combines mudcrab dung, troll sweat, and a hint of despair—know that “The Flatulent Nord” is near. Approach with caution, for his gas knows no bounds.

May your journey through Skyrim be filled with laughter, adventure, and the occasional nose plug.

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Edited March 3 by ghowriter

[ghowriter]

Ah, the Fits of Laughter spell—a whimsical creation that dances on the precipice of hilarity and peril!

Allow me to weave its incantation into the annals of Skyrim’s arcane lore:

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The Arcane Scroll of “Fits of Laughter”

I. Origins

In the dusty chambers of the College of Winterhold, where frostbite spiders weave their frosty webs and novice mages accidentally turn their brooms into cheese wheels, a forgotten tome was unearthed. Its title? Laughter Unleashed: A Practical Guide to Pranks and Perils.

II. The Spellcraft

A. Ingredients

1. Illusionary Feather: Plucked from the wings of a daydreaming griffon.
2. Ticklewort Herb: Found only in moonlit glades where giggling sprites frolic.

B. Incantation

"Feather light, mirthful might, Whispered chuckles in the night. Tickle the bone, unleash the glee, Fits of laughter, set them free!"

III. The Casting

A. Gesture

The caster extends their hand, fingers splayed like a mischievous jester.

B. Verbal Component

“Tee-hee-hee!”

IV. The Effects

Upon casting, the following cascade of hilarity ensues:

1. Target Selection: The spell homes in on the nearest unsuspecting soul—be it bandit, dragon, or overly serious guard.

2. Illusionary Feather Manifests: An ethereal feather materializes, its downy plumes shimmering with mischief.

3. Tickle the Funny Bone: The feather dances toward the target’s ribcage, tracing invisible circles. The victim’s stern expression wavers.

4. The Laughter Unleashed: The target erupts into fits of laughter. It begins as a polite chuckle, then escalates to snorts, guffaws, and full-blown belly laughs. Tears stream down their face, and their knees buckle.

5. The Contagion: Nearby creatures—wolves, mudcrabs, even the occasional Dwemer automaton—join in. The very air vibrates with mirth.

V. The Cautionary Note

A. Mortal Risks

Four out of five wizards have indeed met their demise:

• Some choked on their own laughter.
• Others were trampled by mammoths during their convulsions.
• A few vanished into alternate dimensions, where they now serve as court jesters to Daedric Princes.

B. Safe Distance

Stand back at least 20 yards. The contagion spreads faster than a bard’s tale of lost love.

VI. The Legacy

And so, dear adventurer, wield the Fits of Laughter spell with care. For in its echoes, we find both folly and freedom—a reminder that even in Skyrim’s darkest dungeons, a snicker can pierce the shadows.

May your foes laugh until their armor rattles, and may your own chuckles echo across the Throat of the World.

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Disclaimer: The author assumes no responsibility for accidental giggling fits, sudden levity, or unexpected chicken impersonations.

[ghowriter]

Listen well, my friends, for this tale unfolds in the shadowed crypts of Skyrim—a place where the dead slumber, and the living tread lightly, lest they awaken wrathful spirits or, in this case, wrathful winds.

Our heroine, **Elysia Frostblade**, was as dainty as a snowflake pirouetting in a blizzard. Her Nord blood sang of mead halls and epic sagas, but her delicate constitution yearned for adventure beyond the meager offerings of mead and mammoth cheese. By her side marched **Grukka the Gassy**, a half-orc, half-high-elf hybrid—a concoction so improbable that even the gods raised their eyebrows.

Together, they ventured into the ancient barrow known as **Draugr's Delight**. Its entrance yawned like a tombstone's grin, and the air clung to secrets older than the Dwemer's schematics. The walls whispered forgotten spells, and the cobwebs clung to the ceiling like reluctant memories.

**Elysia** adjusted her fur-lined hood, her breath visible in the chill. "Grukka," she murmured, "we must tread silently. The draugr slumber, and their snores could wake the very dead."

**Grukka**, her tusks gleaming in the torchlight, grunted. "Silent as a shadow, lass. But beware—I had a hearty breakfast of horker stew and moon sugar. My innards churn like a Dwemer steam engine."

And so, they crept deeper into the crypt, their boots brushing dust from the stone floor. The walls bore runes, each etching a warning or a recipe for pickled skeever tails. **Elysia** read one aloud: "Beware the wrath of the ancient dead, for their vengeance is—"

But before she could finish, **Grukka** clenched her fists and let loose a sound that would echo through the ages. It began as a low rumble, like distant thunder. The torches flickered, and the cobwebs quivered. The draugr shifted in their sarcophagi, dreaming of Nordic feasts and mead-soaked revelry.

And then it happened—the **Fart of Ages**. It started as a mournful moan, rising through the octaves like a bard tuning a lute. The very stones trembled, and the draugr sat up, their hollow eyes wide with disbelief. One ancient warrior dropped his sword, which clattered like a drunken bard falling off a tavern stool.

**Elysia** clamped her hand over her mouth, her eyes watering. "By Kyne's frozen braids, **Grukka**, what have you—"

**Grukka** grinned, her tusks parting like a castle gate. "Fear not, lass! This is my secret weapon—the **Orcish Windstorm**! It clears dungeons faster than a Thalmor purge."

The draugr staggered, clutching their spectral noses. Their millennia-old dignity crumbled like stale bread. One whispered, "Is this the end? Are we to be defeated by... flatulence?"

But **Elysia**, ever resourceful, seized the moment. "Draugr!" she cried, her voice echoing. "We come not to desecrate your tombs but to seek the lost Scroll of Breezy Breeches! Aid us, and we shall spare you further auditory assault!"

The draugr exchanged glances, then nodded solemnly. They pointed down a dark corridor, where spider webs clung like regret. And so, our heroes pressed on, guided by the lingering scent of **Grukka's** legacy.

And that, my friends, is how **Elysia Frostblade** and **Grukka the Gassy** retrieved the Scroll of Breezy Breeches, saved Skyrim from an eternity of draugr flatulence, and earned a place in bardic ballads across the land.

So remember, when you venture into ancient crypts, beware not only the undead but also the half-orcs with a penchant for pungency. For their farts, like their hearts, are both mighty and mysterious.

[ghowriter]

Ah, my dear friend, gather 'round the flickering fire, for I shall regale you with the scandalous tale of “The Lusty Argonian Maid: Volume XII.” A saga so steamy, it could melt a Frost Troll’s heart—or at least defrost its toes.

In the frost-kissed land of Tamriel, where dragons soared and sweetrolls were the currency of choice, there lived an Argonian maiden named Lifts-Her-Tail. She was no ordinary lizardfolk; her scales shimmered like moonlit water, and her tail had more curves than a Dwemer blueprint.

Now, Lifts-Her-Tail had a secret—a passion that burned hotter than a forge in Blackreach. She yearned for adventure, romance, and a partner who could appreciate her unique talents. And so, she embarked on a quest to find the legendary Volume XII of the infamous series.

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Act I: The Forbidden Library

In the dimly lit archives of the Arcane University, Lifts-Her-Tail discovered a dusty tome. Its cover bore the title: “The Lusty Argonian Maid: Volume XII.” She blew off the cobwebs, and the book practically purred in her hands.

Act II: The Sultry Scholar

Within its pages, Lifts-Her-Tail read of a dashing scholar named Professor Quillius, whose inkwell wasn’t the only thing he dipped. His spectacles fogged as he deciphered ancient runes, but his heart raced when he glimpsed Lifts-Her-Tail across the library stacks.

Professor Quillius: “My dear Argonian, your scales are like polished emeralds, and your tail—oh, your tail! It coils like a forbidden scroll. Shall we conjugate some irregular verbs together?”

Lifts-Her-Tail: “Oh, Professor, I’ve been longing for a direct object. But beware! My participles dangle dangerously.”

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Act III: The Enchanted Bathhouse

Their love blossomed like a Nirnroot at dawn. They rendezvoused in secret—behind the alchemy lab, under the moonlit waterfall, and once, in an enchanted bathhouse where the steam swirled like desire.

Professor Quillius: “Lifts-Her-Tail, let us conjugate wildly! Our love shall be the greatest allegory since Pelinal Whitestrake and his enchanted helmet.”

Lifts-Her-Tail: “Oh, Professor, your metaphors are as tangled as a skeever’s nest. But yes, let us conjugate until our subjects agree.”

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Act IV: The Forbidden Ritual

But their passion had consequences. In a hidden glade, they performed the forbidden ritual—the Argonian Knot. It involved mud, moon sugar, and a sprig of lavender. The earth trembled, and the Hist trees whispered ancient secrets.

Hist Tree: “Lifts-Her-Tail, you shall bear a child—a half-scholar, half-lusty Argonian. His name? Quillius-Tail.”

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And so, dear friend, the scandalous tale of “The Lusty Argonian Maid: Volume XII” ends. But fear not! For in the next volume, Quillius-Tail embarks on a quest to find the lost Amulet of Excessive Elegance while juggling three love interests and a basket of sweetrolls.

Remember, my friend, in the world of Tamriel, love knows no bounds—whether you’re a Dragonborn, a Daedric Prince, or an Argonian with a penchant for conjugation.

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Disclaimer: The events and characters in this tale are purely fictional. Any resemblance to actual Argonians, scholars, or enchanted bathhouses is purely coincidental. The Hist trees, however, are real, and they’re judging us all.

 

[IsharaMeradin]

Please tell me that Gromar the Gassy is related to Rigurt the Brash.  His story seems like it would be something descendant kin of Rigurt's would be capable of doing.

[ghowriter]

lol, i never read met that character in Skyrim; i seldom get past the greybeards before starting over

Edited March 4 by ghowriter

[AaronOfMpls]

He's in Elder Scrolls Online, not Skyrim.

(Thus he's living about 1000 years earlier in Tamriel's history.)

[ghowriter]

4 hours ago, AaronOfMpls said:

He's in Elder Scrolls Online, not Skyrim.

(Thus he's living about 1000 years earlier in Tamriel's history.)

That explains it. I dont have that version. I dont want to be forced to play online.

[ghowriter]

**Title: "Love, Trolls, and a Nord Named Bjorn"**

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In the frost-kissed land of Skyrim, where dragons roared and mead flowed like a river of questionable decisions, there lived a hero named **Bjorn the Baffling**. Now, Bjorn wasn't your typical hero. He had the chiseled jaw of a Dwemer statue and the intelligence of a mudcrab. His battle cry? "For Thalos!"—which was a bit awkward, considering Thalos had been outlawed by the Thalmor. But Bjorn wasn't one to let logic get in the way of a good chant.

One day, a nobleman named Lord Fancypants summoned Bjorn to his opulent manor. Lord Fancypants had a problem: his collection of rare relics lacked a certain je ne sais quoi. Specifically, he needed the Amulet of Excessive Elegance, rumored to be hidden in the crypt of Barrow McFancypants (no relation to Lord Fancypants, of course).

And so, Bjorn set forth, his trusty sword Shinyslicer strapped to his side. The crypt was dank, dark, and smelled like a skeever's breath. Bjorn's torch flickered, revealing ancient runes that said, "Beware of draugr, and also gluten."

Down, down he descended, past cobwebs and the occasional disgruntled ghost. Finally, he reached the last chamber—a cavernous space with a single, flickering torch. And there, sitting on a pile of bones, was the most unexpected sight: a female cave troll named Gertrude.

Gertrude was no ordinary troll. She wore a flower crown and had a penchant for poetry. Her tusks were filed to a dainty point, and her eyes sparkled like moonlit mud puddles. When she saw Bjorn, she gasped, revealing a missing tooth.

**Gertrude: "Oh, my stars and sweetrolls! A handsome Nord! Are you here to slay me or sweep me off my moss-covered feet?"

**Bjorn: "Uh, greetings, fair Gertrude. I am Bjorn the Baffling, seeker of relics and occasional wearer of mismatched socks. I seek the Amulet of Excessive Elegance. Have you seen it?"

**Gertrude: "Ah, the Amulet! It lies atop that pile of skulls. But first, answer me this riddle: Why did the chicken cross the road?"

**Bjorn: "To get to the other side?"

**Gertrude: "No, silly Nord! It was to escape the Thalmor tax collectors. They're ruthless, you know."

Bjorn climbed the skull pile, retrieved the amulet, and presented it to Gertrude. She gasped, her eyes wide with admiration—or maybe it was indigestion after munching on the giant frost spider earlier that morning.

**Gertrude: "Oh, Bjorn! This amulet is more exquisite than a sweetroll dipped in honey! But before you take it, there's something you must know."

**Bjorn: "Speak, fair Gertrude. My heart flutters like a startled mudcrab."

**Gertrude: "I am cursed, Bjorn, cursed to fall in love with any who enters this crypt. It's terribly inconvenient. But you, with your rugged beard and questionable life choices, have stolen my heart."

**Bjorn: "Wait, you're not going to eat me?"

**Gertrude: "Eat you? Oh, Bjorn, I'd rather nibble on a sprig of thistle. Let us be together! We'll roam the tundra, recite bad poetry, and share our deepest fears. Mine is spiders. Yours?"

**Bjorn: "I fear commitment and accidentally stepping on goat droppings."

And so, beneath the flickering torch, Bjorn and Gertrude pledged their love. They left the crypt hand in claw, Bjorn wearing the Amulet of Excessive Elegance and Gertrude humming a trollish love ballad.

And Skyrim? Well, it never saw a romance quite like theirs. For in a land of dragons and destiny, sometimes love blooms in the unlikeliest of places—even atop a pile of skulls.

And they lived awkwardly ever after.

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*Disclaimer: No trolls were harmed in the making of this. The Thalmor, however, remain deeply offended.*

[ghowriter]

The Wild Smite Spell: A Capricious Concoction

In the shadowed alcoves of the Arcane Academy, where scrolls whisper forgotten secrets and novice mages mix potions with trembling hands, lies the tome The Wild Smite Spell: a brew of meteorological mischief and electrifying absurdity. Handle it as you would a mead-steeped Nord: with equal parts caution and curiosity.

I. The Incantation

1. The Words: "By the tempest's caprice, I invoke The Wild Smite!"
2. The Gesture: The caster must flings their arms wide as if embracing the very storm they're about to unleash.

II. The Unpredictable Effects

1. The Weather Whimsy: the spell may create any of these effects or may not.
   1. Rain Dance: The skies darken, and raindrops patter down. The bandit grumbles, slipping on mud, while the dragon flaps its wings in annoyance. "Really?" it roars. "I just had my scales polished."
   2. Snow Squall: Flurries whirl, frosting beards and fur alike. The necromancer curses, her skeletal minions shivering. "I didn't sign up for this," she mutters. "I'm a lich, not a snowman."
   3. Hail Havoc: Ice pellets descend, denting helmets and dentures. The thief ducks, pockets bulging with stolen gems. "Well," he grins, "free ice for my mead."
2. The Caster's Quandary: the spell may or may not create one of these effects.
   1. Fizzle Folly: The spell fizzles. The caster's eyebrows raise. "Did I forget the incantation?" they mutter. "Did this scroll just yawn?"
   2. Bolt Backfire: Lightning zigzags from the caster's fingertips—straight into their own chest. They stagger, hair smoking, and giggle uncontrollably. "Note to self," they wheeze, "avoid self-inflicted smiting."

II. The Use Warning

1. Fizzling: The scroll's tiny print reveals the truth: This spell has a 50% chance of fizzling leaving the caster looking like a soggy bard at a tavern brawl.
2. Lightning Roulette: Even smaller print readable only with magnification or an enlargement spell: 200% chance to smite self.
3. The Unwritten Rule: Never cast it during a dragon attack. Dragons have no sense of humor and tend to interpret absurdity as an invitation to barbecue.

IV. The Legacy

And so, dear adventurer, wield the Wild Smite Spell with mirth and meteorology. For in its chaos, we find both calamity and comedy—a reminder that Skyrim's weave is as intricate as a Khajiit's fur but with less fleas.

May your laughter echo through the halls of Sovngarde, and may your boots remain dry, even in a hailstorm.

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*Disclaimer: The author accepts no responsibility for accidental giggling fits, sudden levity, or unexpected chicken impersonations.* .