Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More
This will end in blood, Jolan thought as he poked a small, crackling log with his dagger. The night was cold — flurries of snow trickled down from a dark gray sky and stuck to the pine trees, the hard ground, and Jolan’s brown, travel-stained cloak.
He was three days from Riverwood, and one day from anything close to warmth. Even with the small fire, his ears and face stung with cold. His bones ached as if all the grease in his joints had frozen solid inside of him. Never should have left Valenwood, he thought. Jolan thought that a lot these days.
He had heard about the job from a whore in Riverwood who smelled like pine needles and ale. He’d had to pay another five gold coins on top of the twenty it cost to fuck her, but it meant at least one-hundred if he brought the bandit’s head back to Whiterun. Probably more if the bandits were fresh off a score and he could take their loot.
Magnar-go-Gorlock. Some Orc. Jolan hated Orcs almost as much as he hated High Elves. The Aldmeri may preach culture and magic and grace, but they were just as savage as Orcs in their own way.
Jolan poked at the fire one more time, sniffed the air, and decided it was time.
He sheathed his dagger, slung his quiver of arrows onto his back, and picked up his long bow. He left the fire crackling and looped around the rocky embankment — well away from the main path leading to the mine — until he found a narrow goat trail that he could just barely scramble up. Jolan figured Magnar would have at least one guard posted outside the hideout, seeing has he had a bounty on his head.
Turned out old Magnar had three.
Two of them looked like Bretons. Black hair and slim frames — light fur armor. Probably brothers. The third was a Nord in full-plate. He was one to worry about, but he was also the furthest away from the tree Jolan was hiding behind. Lucky.
Jolan had always been lucky when it came to ambushing people.
He pulled two arrows out of his quiver and stuck them into the frozen ground in front of him. Then he notched a third and drew from one knee. He sighted the closest Breton, adjusted for the weak wind and the distance, took a breath and let it out.
Jolan had notched the second arrow before the first one had buried itself in the Breton’s back. His brother (probably) turned around at the noise of a dying man and had just enough time to put a gloved hand on his short sword before Jolan’s second arrow plowed through his heart.
He screamed once, then died.
The Nord seemed to sense Jolan’s position instinctively. He pulled his massive greatsword off his back and began trotting towards him with huge, powerful strides.
“Never should have come here!” the Nord growled.
Jolan notched his third arrow, aimed for the weak spot between the Nord’s breastplate and pauldron, and let fly.
The arrow glanced harmlessly off the Nord’s breastplate. He growled again and kept coming.
Jolan unsheathed his dagger and waited by the tree, crouched. The Nord came at him with a furious sidecut. Fast and powerful.
But not fast enough.
Jolan skipped back and the blade buried itself halfway through the pine tree. The Nord yanked once on the blade and it came halfway out, but that was all the time Jolan needed. He launched himself forward and pushed the Nord’s helm to the side violently — exposing his pale white neck. He sliced as hard as he could, cutting skin and meat and tendon like a sweetroll. The Nord died gurgling on his own blood, steam rising from his wound in the dark of night.
Jolan headed for the entrance to the mine.
He opened it slowly, hoping to find the Orc asleep or drunk or both. No such luck. The mine was shallow — just a single chamber fifty feet down in the earth — but there was a pile of gold and armor and treasure next to a wooden table and a bed. The bed was empty.
The table was full of Orc. The biggest Orc Jolan had ever seen.
“That you, Needles?” The Orc called in a gruff voice.
Fuck. So much for sneaking up on the bastard.
There was no way to know which one Needles was, but Jolan figured it best to play the odds and breathed in his best Breton accent.
“Just came in for a bit o’ warmth,” he said.
“I don’t pay you to keep yourself warm. I pay you to guard the door.” Magnar was focused on counting a pile of gold on his desk. The voice fooled him.
Jolan said nothing but advanced as quickly as he could, careful of stones and a mining pick tossed carelessly across the shaft floor. He had covered almost half the distance when Magnar looked up from his pile of loot.
“The fuck?” he asked, already reaching for the war axe on the table.
Should have brought the bow with me, Jolan thought as he covered the remaining distance in three quick leaps. Time seemed to slow down. The Mangar’s wrist tightened as he squeezed down on the axe, pulling it backwards and then ripping it forward with all of his weight. Jolan hopped up, his dagger poised to strike, and Magnar’s axe followed. It was swinging right for his head.
Except Jolan’s head wasn’t there to meet it.
He pushed himself off the roof of the cave with his left hand, shooting his body beneath Magnar’s furious cut. Jolan slid along the ground and sliced the back of Magnar’s calf as he passed him.
The Orc fell over immediately, still off balance from his strike. The axe clattered to the ground somewhere in the dark.
Jolan wasted no time. He pushed himself off the ground and cut the Orc’s throat. He watched him gurgle and choke on his own rotten Orc blood and he felt good about it.
When he was dead, Jolan poked around the small cave. It was a decent stash. Probably five or six hundred gold pieces worth, if he could carry it all back to Whiterun.
Jolan threw another log on the fire and then set about the grizzly business of cutting of Magnar-go-Gorlock’s head.