Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More
Narova woke up to the sound of Festus Krex humming as he worked at the alchemy table. The stony tap of the pestle beating against the mortar worked in time with his quiet tune.
“Still alive,” Narova whispered to herself.
“Eh?” Festus said, stopping his song and craning around to face her.
Narova was lying on a table in the middle of Krex’s laboratory. Naked except for a thin sheet of silk draped across her chest and legs. She pushed herself up with one arm and winced at the pain in her leg. The damned Argonian had done a real number on her.
“Easy now,” Festus warned, crossing the room. He had a small, wooden bowl filled with an orange salve in his hand. “You’re not fully recovered. Lean back.”
Frowning, Narova let the old man guide her head back to the table. He put a hand on her forehead and then gently tested the bones in her nose and cheek.
“Face seems to be healing nicely,” Festus said. “And your fever has dropped.”
He stepped back and looked at her.
“I was about ten minutes away from cutting off your leg at one point. Most of your thigh had mortified and turned black.” Festus smiled at her—his skin wrinkling like a dried prune. “But, it would seem that my restoration skills have not abandoned me entirely.”
He scratched his bald head and glanced down at her leg.
“I supposed there’s not such a vast difference between turning a man inside out and healing rotten flesh,” he mumbled to himself, then picked up his salve again and stirred it a few times with a stick.
“How long?” Narova asked. Her throat and mouth were bone dry. Her voice more a croak than anything else.
“Two weeks since you came stumbling back to our doorstep,” Festus said. He gently pulled back a bit of the silk sheet, revealing the wound on her thigh. It was red and open, but healing. “Your wounds were a few days old by then, though.”
Narova remembered riding in the back of a wagon after she’d slipped from Markarth. Her revenge complete. She’d paid the teamster two-hundred Septims to take her to the edge of Pine Forest. Then she’d stumbled through the foggy trees and soft ground, wandering in a fevered haze until she found the stone door to the sanctuary.
Sure, death had wrapped its oily fingers around her neck, but it hadn’t managed a very good grip.
Festus wound a piece of cloth around the end of his stick, dipped it in the salve, and then brushed it gently onto Narova’s wound.
She gritted her teeth as the sting worked its way into her skin.
“Gods, go easy!” she gasped.
“Quit whining,” Festus said. “It’s not that bad.”
She closed her eyes and leaned back on the table as Festus finished applying the salve and then wrapped her leg with a clean bolt of linen. When he was done he carefully replaced the silk sheet.
“Where is Arnbjorn? Did he return with the Moon Sugar?” Narova asked.
Festus frowned at that. “Aye. He brought back the powdered treasure. Now he’s taken it to Riften so he can sell it to Delvin Mallory. Left a day ago.”
Narova nodded once. She felt sad she couldn’t see him, and then angry at herself for feeling sad. It was a girl’s emotion.
“He refused to leave until you were out of danger,” Festus continued. “Spent most of the time pacing in the doorway and asking me how you were doing.”
“Him and doorways. Always lingering,” Narova said, thinking back to the chat they’d had while she was taking a bath. It felt like years ago.
Festus seemed to read her thoughts. “You’ve chosen a dangerous road to walk down, Narova.”
She snatched the smile away from the corners of her lips and glared at him.
“My road is none of your concern,” she said.
He put his hands up in mock surrender. “Just be careful, that’s all. Astrid didn’t become the head of this family through grace and understanding. She’s a killer.”
“So am I,” Narova hissed.
Festus smiled sadly. “Aye, so are you.” He put the salve back into his cupboard of medicines and wiped his hands off on a soft towel.
“I’ve made enough salve to last you for another four days,” he said, lowering himself slowly into a chair beside the table. “When it’s used up, your leg should be healed.”
“Where are you going?”
“It would seem that a necromancer has murdered the entire population of Tel Mithryn. A number of relatives have performed the Black Sacrament in their stead. So, I am off to exact revenge for them.”
“An entire town? Must be some necromancer,” Narova said.
Festus shrugged. “One bone-raiser is much like the next, I find. They’re slippery bastards, but they die just like everyone else.”
Narova considered the sanctuary without Arnbjorn or Festus. It wasn’t a pleasant notion.
“I’ll go with you,” she said. “You might need help.”
“With that leg? You’d just slow me down.” Festus shook his head. “No, you need to rest a bit longer.”
“I don’t like waiting around in this damp shithole.”
“Patience, my dear. There’ll be another life that needs taking soon. There always is.”
She sighed heavily, and then winced at the pain it caused in her leg. “As you say.”
He leaned forward and put his hand on her wrist. Narova could feel the magic inside of him—powerful and focused. Nothing like her own wild ways.
“When I return, we’ll talk more. And keep on with your training.”
“Aye,” Narova said. “When you return.”