Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More
Narova Blackhair leaned back in her saddle. Tired.
They’d been riding for three days. Ambling their horses along the road leading north from Falkreath.
Earlier that morning, they’d crossed onto the great open plain west of Whiterun. Nothing but small trees, a few streams, and the endless green shimmering of the grasses moving in the wind.
Narova didn’t like it. They were too exposed and vulnerable. She kept her eyes on the horizon, searching for small black dots of leather or steel armor rising over a hill. Bandits liked the plain, with its hidden caves and small shelters.
Good places to hide after a score out of Whiterun or Rorikstead.
Gonja and Korman rode ahead a ways. The two sea-smugglers weren’t used to horses, so Narova had wanted them in front of her where she could see them. Never knew when one of those buffoons would take a tumble and crack his skull open.
Plus, Gonja never shut up. Distance was the only thing that could silence that man.
Arnbjorn rode beside her on a black destrier, casting a massive shadow across her smaller courser. Narova didn’t mind—she liked the cool respite from the sun.
“You look nervous, Blackhair,” he said to her.
“Cautious, more like. I do not like being so exposed.”
Arnbjorn shrugged. “If anyone’s got cause to be nervous, it’s me. I didn’t leave the Companions on the best of terms. The Jarl of Whiterun and I had our disagreements as well.”
“Tall bounty?” Narova asked.
“No, not quite.” Arnbjorn shook his head. “More like a burning need to see my head on a spike.”
Narova laughed. “Yeah, I’ve got a handful of spots in Tamriel like that. Don’t think I’ll ever see the white walls of Anvil again. Not unless it’s the last thing I want to see.”
They rode in silence for a little while.
“What did you do?” Narova asked eventually. “I mean, why’d you leave the Companions?”
Arnbjorn glanced over at her, and then turned back to the road. Squinted his eyes a little. “The Companions are brave warriors. Strong. And the Blessing of Hiricine made them even stronger.”
“The Blood of the Wolf?” Narova asked. She had heard rumors that some of the Companions passed lycanthropy down to each other.
“That’s right. I was changed by Aela the Huntress. The first time was like…” he trailed off for a moment. “It was like the world had been draped in a black sheet my entire life. And someone finally pulled it off. Everything was sharper, clearer. Burning, even. That never goes away. Even after you change back, you’re never the same. People always think of Hircine’s Blessing as the wolf’s body—all fur and claws and howls. But that’s not what it is.”
“It’s the simplicity. The lack of fear or doubt or guilt. The feral instinct is stronger than all that human shit. But the Companions are afraid. Timid. They never embraced the wolf. It’s just a tool to them.”
“What is it to you?”
He let go of the reigns and spread his hands out wide. “It’s me. Down to the marrow.”
“You haven’t answered my question, though,” Narova pointed out. “Why’d you split from the pack and become a big bad assassin?”
Arnbjorn shrugged casually. “I killed for fun. Ate the Jarl’s daughter and shat her back out on that prickly bastard’s throne.”
Narova looked over at him, searching for remorse or guilt and not finding any. She liked that. The honesty of his brutality made her fingers tingle.
They were the same, she and him.
“I went feral for a while,” Arnbjorn continued. “Living off the land. Naked and wild…but alone, too. Eventually, I threw in with Astrid and the others.” He paused. “Every wolf needs a pack.”
“Fair enough,” Narova said. Figuring it was best to leave it at that.
They road up over a small hill, catching a strong gust of wind in their faces. Twisting all the smells of the plain up in a bundle. Gonja and Korman’s heads were just disappearing down into a small ravine ahead.
“What about you, elf. What’s your story?”
Narova smiled. “It’s long and dark and full of sex. You wouldn’t like it.”
“Not fair, I spilled mine.”
“Yeah, but you’ve seen me naked. Call it a fair trade.”
“At least tell me where you’re from. How you got so good with that bow?”
Narova drifted back to the forests of Valenwood in her mind. The tropical rains and endless mangroves. The soft footfalls of the migratory trees at dawn. It seemed like someone else’s life. Too long ago to still have been her walking along that forest floor.
“Not today,” she said softly.
Arnbjorn looked like he was going to say something else, but just then they dipped down into the ravine, and saw that Gonja and Korman had stopped.
There were nine bandits in front of them. Mounted and spread out along the rocky ground. Four of them had bows drawn tight.
“Perfect,” Arnbjorn muttered.