I don't have much written, but this is a fan-fic I started. I may write some more. The following is a very short prologue, which I'll follow with the short chapters I have.

(I tend to write with much more detail and description when I'm typing on PC. This is being written on an iPad2, and for some reason it's a lot simpler and cleaner than my usual style.)

Enjoy!

Skeeme turned over to his left side on the filthy bedroll. The night air was dense with moisture, and his scales were coated with a thin film of slime. He thought about leaving the tent and warming himself by the fire to alleviate the sticky coating, but the relief wouldn't last very long. A fresh thunderstorm was rolling over the mountainous horizon of Skyrim, and it would bathe Cyrodiil's Great Forest sooner rather than later. The humidity would simply nag his scaly hide until the poor weather passed on.

He absently reached for the small orange cloth sack. It's drawstring was undone, and he tipped the sack over. Thirty-eight gold pieces spilled out in clinks and clunks. Skeeme drew his Elven dagger, Shadow Flash, from it's sheath and poked at the pieces. His thoughts turned to the Tome and his next task.

Find the Dragon Mage.

Skeeme sat up and leaned to his right, where a compact wooden chest sat in the gloom of the tent. The lock had already been picked and he propped the top of the chest open. With great care he removed the red, leather-bound Tome; it was a heavy and thick volume, because it's pages were not made of parchment.

They were made of Dragon Hide.

Each page was a segment of a Dragon's hide and scales. Within each scale, a single Rune was imbedded, although they were invisible. The Tome told, in the ancient language of Dragons, of an enchanted Staff that had been created by Dragons and imbued with their magic. The history of the Staff, it's location, abilities, and the various spells to activate it were also encoded in the Tome's contents. Unfortunately for Skeeme, he couldn't read the Dragon's complex language. He only knew of it's message because the Tome's previous keeper had confessed it to Skeeme.

The Argonian thief removed the sturdy, well-preserved satchel from the treasure chest. The satchel was made of Ogre skin, and Skeeme carefully placed the Tome into it. He slung the satchel's strap diagonally across his body over his neck, and then he scooped the gold back into the small sack. He picked it up, stood, and walked out of the tent and into the rain. He stopped and looked back inside. If he had had lips, they would have curled into a leer of savage self-satisfaction.

The body of Akiloth, the Tome's former keeper, lay crumpled and expired in the back of the tent. His throat was slit almost to the spine and from ear to ear. Congealed clumps of blood sat in the moist soil.

The raspy, sinister timbre of Argonian cadence fell out of Skeeme's leer.

"May you rest in peace, Akiloth. He-he-he." He hefted the sack of coins in his clawed right hand.

"And thankssss for the tip."