Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More
“This is a crap contract,” Narova said.
Astrid rolled her eyes and reached for her glass of wine. “You’d say that no matter where I sent you. This is as good as anything.”
Narova had been bored out of her mind while she waited for her leg to heal, but now she was angry. And Arnbjorn still wasn’t back from Riften. Taking his sweet time, although Narova had a pretty good guess as to why that was.
“Festus goes after an infamous necromancer, Nazir goes to the Summer Set Isles to kill a corsair, and you send me to the marsh outside Dawnstar to track down some geezer?” Narova crossed her arms. “I hate Dawnstar. I hate marshes. And I hate this assignment.”
“You realize that you sound like an infant, right? Do you hate going potty like a big girl, too?”
That was it. Narova drew her dagger and bared her teeth. “Say that again, and I’ll gut you.”
In an instant, Astrid changed. One moment she was lounging in her chair like she always did—about to take another sip of wine—the next she was crouched and coiled like a sabre cat ready to pounce. Her eyes filled with the calm, icy intent of a seasoned killer. Narova had never seen that part of her.
“Go on,” Astrid said softly. “Make your move, elf-bitch.”
Narova hesitated, put on her heels by the sudden change. That was all it took.
Astrid flashed forward, sneaking inside Narova’s blade and thumping her over the head with the wine goblet. Narova’s world went white, and then she was tripped and pressed into the ground. She felt the pain flash through her face—burning along the bones that had just finished healing.
One arm was pinned painfully behind her back, and the dagger she’d held in her own hand just moments ago was pressed into her neck.
“You were smart not to try,” Astrid whispered, her lips so close they could have kissed. “ Because I’d have killed you, and then laughed about it afterwards.”
“Just be done with it,” Narova hissed at her. “Spare me the lecture.”
Astrid clicked her tongue a few times like a schoolmaster might do to a child.
“Little Narova. A scarred, beat up ball of fury, that’s all you are.” She pulled the dagger away and released Narova’s arm. Let her stand up and shake out the pain. “You’re life isn’t worth taking.”
The two women glared at each other for a few moments.
“But you are going to Dawnstar,” she continued. “You are going to kill this man for me. Then you’re going to come back and get a pat on the head from me.”
Astrid smiled at her as if she’d just invited her for tea and a nice, sweet afternoon fuck.
Narova knew what she was doing. One lioness to another, making sure she knew who led the pride. Narova also knew she could just leave. Part of her wanted to. Say screw it and kick off. Never learn another spell from Festus. Never hear another one of Nazir’s jokes. Never see Arnbjorn again, or say that she was sorry for the things she’d said. Just walk out the door without looking back.
Somehow, the notion didn’t seem very appealing just then. That made Narova angrier than all the rest of it together—to get tied down like that without even realizing. Invisible chains held you down the same as iron ones, and Narova didn’t care much for either.
But instead of walking out the door, she grabbed the bottle of Alto wine and took a big gulp.
“The Blades are dead and gone,” Narova said, and then took another long drink. “Everyone knows that. You’re sending me to murder a peasant’s story.”
“They aren’t gone, just…severely diminished.” Astrid tossed the dagger casually into the air. Flipping it end-over-end and catching it lazily.
Cocky bitch, Narova thought.
“Until this contract, I knew of exactly three members living in Skyrim,” Astrid continued. “Two swinging dicks and an innkeeper, believe it or not. Apparently, there is a fourth Blade.”
“Who asked for this?”
“Someone who wants The Blades diminished a little further, obviously.” Irritation crept back into Astrid’s voice. “You don’t need to know who it’s for. You just need to go kill the wrinkly fuck living in the marsh.”
They glared at each other some more. But there wasn’t much point to it, anymore. That much was clear.
“Fine,” Narova hissed. “Do I get my dagger back?”
Astrid flicked the dagger into the air one last time, caught it by the blade, and held the handle out to Narova. She crossed the room and took the hilt. Astrid let go and grabbed Narova’s arm, pulling her close again.
“When you get back, you’ll stay away from my husband. Or I will kill you. Clear?”
Narova locked her dark eyes with Astrid’s and let out a slow breath.
She left Astrid’s chambers and got her things together. Bow, arrows, a few days’ worth of food, and a skin of wine. She was cinching the saddle on her horse outside the sanctuary when Veezara, the sly and quiet Argonian, stopped her.
“Best watch yourself on this one, Black Hair,” he said. His voice was nothing like the tough-bastard she’d killed in Markarth, but it reminded her of him all the same.
“It’s just an old man,” Narova said over her shoulder. “Most dangerous part’ll be the mudcrabs.”
“This one does not agree,” Veezara said carefully. “The Blades are cunning warriors. And it is so very few who have managed to keep the blood warm in their veins. They are not the last survivors by chance.”
Narova swung herself up into the saddle and pulled the hood over her head. It was going to be a wet ride. She looked down at the Argonian and squinted at him.
“You ever heard of a lizard named Okan-Shei-Kreeves?”
Veezara’s eyes narrowed and the spikes on the back of his neck bristled. “This one knows him.”
“Well I put that fucker in the ground, so a cunning warrior who wakes up three times in the night to piss shouldn’t be much of a problem.”
She spurred her horse and galloped off into the cool, damp morning.