Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More
Narova had taken her time returning to the Falkreath Sanctuary. Didn’t see a reason to rush on back to her dark life of shadows and murder. She’d spent almost a week in Dawnstar, getting drunk and recovering from the marsh hunt that came damn close to killing her.
Then, instead of taking a carriage back she bought a mangy horse for 400 Septims and headed south through the backcountry—staying clear of the cities and the towns. Riding past the snowy pine groves and crumbling ruins. Following the banks of unnamed rivers and fishing her breakfast out of placid mountain lakes.
There was a peace in that wild country. A quiet.
She used the time to let the mercy she’d shown Garland the Green sink in. Tossed it around in her mind. Narova still wasn’t sure it’d been the right thing to do, letting him live.
Might be she’d never be sure.
And when she reached the edge of the Pine Forest, she thought of the last time she’d returned on this road. The way Arnbjorn’s scent had mixed with the thick, loamy smell of the woods. She was thinking of the way his mouth felt between her legs—and smiling in spite of herself—when she turned a corner.
And there he was.
He was ahorse—riding that massive destrier of his. Together the man and the beast damn near took up the entire road. She had expected to have another half-day before she had to see him again—time enough to build some walls around her feelings. Stop the desire and the regret and whatever else she felt about him from leaking out around the edges.
Now though, like this, she could only look at his silver hair and his pale blue eyes and fumble around for words. She opened her mouth to say something, but then just closed it again.
“I was chopping wood this morning,” he said. That familiar animal voice booming through the quiet woods. “Smelled your scent on the wind. Figured I’d come out and meet you.”
Narova liked that. Smiled at the idea of him cinching a saddle to his horse and leaving without telling anyone where he was going. Riding out to her.
“Arnbjorn, I…” she paused, not sure what to say. “I wish things had gone different, the last time we were together.” She stopped and looked up at him. But she didn’t see understanding or compassion or even hate in his eyes.
She just saw sadness.
“Something’s happened,” he said, swallowing hard. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, and he looked up into the sky. Blinked a few times. “Something bad.”
Narova felt a shudder run down her spine. A feeling a dread spreading in her gut.
Arnbjorn winced, as if the thought alone was an open wound. “Festus Krex is dead. The Necromancer he was sent to kill got him.”
Narova’s vision got blurry and she tightened down on her reigns. Dug her fingers deep into her palm.
“How do you know?”
“He sent his body back to us. He’d turned him into a…” Arnbjorn trailed off. “We had to burn him, to end it.”
Narova didn’t know what to do. What to think. She hadn’t cared about anyone but herself for a long time. Years and years. Giving a shit about some dead man wasn’t something she was used to.
But this thing burned inside of like she’d swallowed an ember and washed it down with lamp oil.
“Come back to the sanctuary,” Arnbjorn continued. “We’ll talk more.”
She spurred her horse forward, but turned towards Falkreath instead of the road to the sanctuary
“You got words that’ll make Festus any less dead?” Narova asked.
Arnbjorn shook his head.
“Then I don’t have a fucking word I want to say to you,” she hissed, kicking her horse into a gallop.
It was all a rush of tears and trees and the sound of her horse’s hooves beating into the earth. She came into Falkreath and jumped off her horse. Didn’t even bother to hobble him. The mangy beast could wander off back to Dawnstar for all she cared. On instinct, she took her sword out and slung it over one shoulder.
Then she went into the tavern.
It was early morning outside, but inside Dead Man’s Drink it was dark and musty. The place smelled like sawdust and ale and piss. She pushed her way through the door and up to the counter. The innkeep was leaning against it and polishing a glass with a dirty rag.
“Ale,” Narova said.
“We have a number of vintages available,” he piped up, setting down the glass and the rag. “Our Honningbrew varieties are quite flavorful, but if you’re in the mood for something lighter—”
“Shut the fuck up and pour me a drink,” Narova hissed. “Or I’ll kill you then and pour it myself.”
The man’s jaw hung open for a few seconds, but then he dug out a big bottled of Nordic Brown, pulled the cork, and placed it on the counter.
Narova dropped a handful of Septims—probably enough to buy three bottles—snatched the drink, and went off to corner. She’d took three big gulps and let the alcohol seep into her skin. The drink didn’t care if you were tired or sad or so angry your bones hurt.
It just did its work its work on you.
Narova was halfway through her second bottle when one of the townfolk came over to her. Still solidly drunk from the night before, judging from the way he walked.
“You’re a pretty little thing,” he said, voice slurred.
Narova glared at him—tried to send every bit of anger and hate she had inside out with her eyes. But he was drunk and stupid and didn’t seem to care much.
“I’m Lod. The Blacksmith, that is. I was thinking we could talk a bit. Get to know each other.”
He stood there, waiting for her to say something. Swaying to the left and then again to the right.
Narova took a long gulp from the bottle.
He frowned at that. “Well that’s a bit rude. No matter, though, I’ll sweeten you up.”
He crashed down into the chair across from her. Leaned in close and smiled. Narova could see a set of brown, broken teeth in his mouth. Smell his drunken breath mixed with the soot of the forge.
“I’ve heard that Wood Elves have the tightest little cunnies around,” he said, voice low. “That’s funny, because round here I’m known for having one o’ the biggest cocks around. What say we test out the rumors, eh?”
Narova had always thought it strange, the reason a thing happens. The math of it that makes you do one thing, instead of another.
If she hadn’t decided to spare Garland the Green in that swamp, she may have had some mercy left for that fool. If she hadn’t just found out Festus Krex was dead, Narova probably would have just gotten up and walked away. Kept a low profile. And if she hadn’t drunk two bottles of ale in five minutes, she may have been sober enough to think past the rage boiling up inside of her.
But Garland was alive, Festus was dead, and Narova Blackhair was fresh out of mercy and anything close to patience.
She grabbed her sword from where it was leaning against the wall and popped the hilt into Lod’s face.
She heard two or three of his teeth crack apart and saw his eyes roll back in his head from the impact.
“Guuuuh,” he moaned.
Then she reached forward and grabbed his cock and balls through his pants with her left hand, squeezed down some.
“Does that feel tight?” she hissed into his ear.
When he didn’t react, she squeezed harder. Felt one of his balls twist and then turn to mush in her hand.
That got a reaction.
He started screaming and howling and blubbering for her to stop. Kicked both of his feet up and down and pounded his fists on the table. His friends all shot up from the table at once. By the way they moved it was instantly clear none of them were as drunk as he’d been. One of them drew a rusty knife from his belt.
Then Lod vomited on the table and passed out. Narova stepped away from him, sword still sheathed, but her right hand on the grip, ready to draw steel. There were four men between her and the door.
“Best just let me walk on out,” Narova said. “Your friend isn’t dead, but if you try and stop me, nobody’ll be able to say the same for you.”
Their fight drained out pretty fast once they got a look at her black armor and her sword. They knew what she was, and they didn’t much want a part of it.
Then an idiot guard came barreling through the door, sword drawn, and things went to shit.
He was a tall, barrel-chested Nord who scanned the room with small, idiot eyes. He took a look at Lod and then at Narova. Squinted some and then pointed his sword at her.
“You’re under arrest.”
Narova didn’t move. Just clenched her jaw and waited. There were a lot of ways out of this spot, she knew. A lot of simple, clean ways that didn’t involve prison or death or blood.
But right then, in that moment, Narova had a taste for some blood.
The guard took a few steps forward. Sword ready.
“Nice and easy,” he said. “Put down that sword nice and easy.”
When he was three feet away, Narova drew her blade and cut off his arm.
He started screaming—that high-pitched wail of terror you only hear in recently amputated men. Narova slammed her blade into the top of his skull, biting down all the way to his mouth. His eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled to the floor.
The rest happened quickly.
One of men tried to go for the door, so Narova threw a dagger at him that got buried hilt-deep in his skull. His friends tried to get out after him, but his corpse blocked the way so it was nothing for Narova to cross the room and slaughter each of them with three easy sword-strokes.
They died fast, but they died loudly. And when Narova came out of the tavern there were five guards headed towards her—weapons drawn and ready for dark work.
Ten or twelve more coming up from the barrack on the other side of town.
Fuck it, Narova thought. Everyone dies of something.
She charged them hard. Not bothering with paralysis or invisibility or any of the magic Festus had spent hours and weeks teaching her.
This was about carnage.
She killed four or five of them before they got her surrounded. Then things got harder. They circled up their shields and jabbed out with swords and spears. Giving her nowhere to run. She parried and dodged and snarled. Rammed her blade through the cracks in their shield-wall and beat a few of them back. Stabbed one in the liver, she thought. Probably he’d die later that night.
Then she felt a wooden pop on the back of her head. Her vision went white and she hit the ground with her knees. Then with her face. All she saw was white and little bits of colored spots.
Someone crushed her further down into the mud with her boot.
“Do we arrest her?” a voice asked.
“Bitch just killed eleven men. She gets the axe,” came another one.
There was some grumbling of agreement and the sound of metal being pulled out of a leather scabbard. But just before things went black, Narova heard a distant sound coming from the west. A strange sound.