Bus Ride Fantasy

Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More

Narova Black Hair’s Second Kill

I spent two weeks recovering from the arrow wound I earned on my first assignment. That was a fuck-up if I’ve ever had one.

The arrow didn’t hit anything except the meat, but it was one of those barbed, Orcish types that chews through whatever it can get its hands on. And its hands got on an awful big chunk of my leg.

I spent three days hold up in a cave outside Ivarstead and then hobbled my way back to the sanctuary. Only the gods know where my horse ended up.

The others had already heard what happened. They told me I’d done well, that it was a decent kill for a newbie, but I could hear the snickering echoing off the stone walls before I was halfway to my bunk.

The werewolf was the only one who didn’t make fun of me. I wouldn’t have missed that animal growl mixing in with the rest of their scorn. He even came to me later and helped me with the arrow wound.

He’s a pretty one, that werewolf. And I do believe Astrid noticed the extra attention her lupine hubby paid me while I was laid up in bed.

Probably why she gave me such a bullshit second assignment.

Muiri—what a pussy.

I’ve fucked my share of shitty men. Most of the time, I did it so I could rob them or murder them afterwards, but once or twice it was me who came up on the short side of things. You can’t make a fuss about it. That’s how they win.

I’d have thought finding out her cock-supply was actually a bandit would have spiced up her otherwise completely uninteresting life. Seriously, the most exciting thing this girl’s ever done is make a hard-on potion, and when she finds out her lover’s a seriously successful thief and murderer, she immediately has him killed?

I’d have joined him. And when the time came, I’d have killed him myself and taken his place. That’s the way to do things. You don’t go whining to the Dark Brotherhood because your heart got broken. You deal with it yourself.

Like I said, such a pussy.

But a job’s a job, and I need to make up for the last time. Astrid and the others will never respect me otherwise. Never fear me.

And if they don’t fear me, I’ll never survive my turn on this crummy world.

I was on the road for eleven days all together. Four days to Markarth where I got the details from Muiri, and then six days and a night to get to Alain Dufont’s hideout. Holed up in some Dwarven ruin called Raldbthar on a mountainside southwest of Windhelm.

I lost a lot of respect for Alain when I got a look at his outfit—undisciplined, drunk skeever-fuckers who smelled almost as bad as they sounded. Farting and burping every three seconds by the fire they kept outside Raldbthar.

It would have been nothing to choose a good shadow to hide beneath—pull a few arrows from my quiver and pick them off one by one. They’d have been dead before the last one had time to draw his sword. But that wouldn’t have won me any respect. The others would have said I botched my first close-quarters kill and was afraid to try again.

I had to be perfect this time. Invisible, until the opportune moment.

So I left my bow in the snow, just like last time, and started picking my way up the side of the mountain.

It felt good to be moving in my leather again instead of straddling a horse. I was a black cat stalking through the night. None of the morons saw me. They couldn’t even begin to fathom me—the silent fury I carried on my shoulders.

I came up above the entrance and dropped down. Cracked the door just enough to let myself in. As I closed it softly, I heard the rumble of another idiot’s fart and the laughter of his friends.

They won’t be laughing come morning, I thought, when they see what I’ve done to their leader.

The inner hall was mostly deserted. Just one sleeping guard who I didn’t even bother to tiptoe past. He smelled like the inside of a meadery, so I didn’t figure him for much of an alarm.

The pathways split—a long hallway to my left and a wall of flame to my right.

I went right, leapt over the flame and did a quick roll to silence my fall on the other side. The tunnel ended at a tall, heavy gate.

And on the other side I heard voices.

“Why bother with another score so soon?” one voice said. I could tell by the deep, guttural rasp that he was an Orc. “We’ve got mead and food aplenty for a month at least. Let’s just stay here and enjoy ourselves. Get some women to keep us company.”

“Because Winterhold is ripe for the taking,” another voice responded. Alain, I figured by the superior tone he took with the Orc. “And if we pull this job off, we’ll be free and clear for a year at least.”

“That’s what you said about the last job,” the Orc responded.

They kept talking. I snuck my up to the big gate. It was a complicated lock, but I’d learned the tune of the tumbler song a long time ago. I took a lockpick out of my belt and went to work, digging slowly and methodically at the rust door.

Twenty seconds and I had it open.

I only pushed the gate only as far as I needed to get through and then closed it again. There were four men on the other side, sharing the warmth of a fire with a skewer of meat across the top. All of them had their backs to me.

Perfect.

I drew my steel dagger—a downgrade from the ebony blade I used to carry, sure, but what can you do? Then I moved forward, sticking to the flickering of shadows the firelight afforded me.

Just breathe. I told myself. Breathe and visualize.

I came up behind the closest bandit—a short, stocky human—so that the rest of them wouldn’t see me. I watched their eyes as I approached, searching for signs of recognition.

I was two feet from the human before I saw the Orc’s eyes turn into little discs of white. I was just a black whisper in his vision, but a whisper that did not belong.

I lunged forward and plunged my blade into the human’s neck, severing every artery he had.

The blood gushed out of his wound like a geyser, splattering the Imperial next to him blind. I shoved the dying man into the soon-to-be-dead Imperial and moved towards the Orc across from me. I learned a long time ago to always kill the Orc as soon as possible. They’re a fearsome breed, those greenskins.

He had his sword halfway out of its sheath before I buried my blade beneath his chin, sticking it up into his brain. His body went slack and his eyes got all googly.

Then I heard the whisper of something massive coming down behind me.

I ducked, and the warhammer dug into the already-dead Orc with a wet crunch. Nearly cleaved him in two. It was Alain, but I wasn’t ready to finish him just yet. The Imperial was still clawing at his face, trying to get some sight out of his blood-stained eyes. My dagger was still buried in the Orc’s skull, so I pulled free the ebony blade he had on his hip and slit his throat with it.

Look at that, I thought as his red smile cracked open before me. I’ve got my old baby back.

Alain took another swing at me with that magic hammer, but I ducked and rolled out of the way. Then faced him. Blade up and ready.

“Who are you?” he growled. For a Breton, he was actually pretty handsome. I could see how Muiri got swept off her feet. He was all dark skin and bright eyes. I figured women had always come easy for him.

“I am the black bird that comes knocking in the night,” I said. Circling around to his weak side, stepping lightly over the bodies of his comrades.

“The Brotherhood?” he asked. A hint of panic in his voice.

“It’s your doom,” I said. “Call it whatever you like.”

I saw the resignation in his face, then. The acceptance of what came next. It was in that moment that I knew I was going to love this job.

None of the people I’d killed before him had seen me for the harbinger of death that I was.

“Well,” Alain said. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

He lunged at me with a downward swing of his hammer. A good thought, given his range advantage, but he didn’t account for my speed.

I waited until he was sure he had me—I could see the victory in his eyes—and then I dodged left.

His hammer pounded into the cobbled floor with a metallic echo and bounced away. I moved around behind him and jabbed the ebony blade into the back of his neck—right between two of his vertebrae and through to the other side.

He was dead before his body hit the ground.

“Poor Alain,” I whispered. “You fucked the wrong alchemist.”

I pulled my new blade out of his neck and wiped each side clean on his hide armor. Sheathed the dark metal on my hip.

Now I’m off to kill Alain’s lover, Nilsine Shatter-Shield, in Windhelm. After that it’s back to Markarth for my reward.

When word of what I’ve done reaches the sanctuary, they’ll finally start to fear the name Narova Black Hair.

I know it.

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3 comments on “Narova Black Hair’s Second Kill

  1. Elspeth Aurilie
    November 15, 2012

    Excellent! I’m glad you decided to tell another story with one of your established characters.

  2. ericanorth
    November 16, 2012

    So well written. I could see every scene, even when the orc recognized the shadow in the dark that didn’t belong. I love your stories. They always leave me wanting more.

  3. Pingback: A Lesson in Alteration « Bus Ride Fantasy

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This entry was posted on November 15, 2012 by in Skyrim Fiction, Tales of Narova Black Hair and tagged , .
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