Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More
The black-haired Bosmer returned. Bursting through the front door of my apothecary like she owned the place.
She still had those dark, bottomless eyes—like twin wells on a moonless night—but the rest of her face had changed rather dramatically since I saw her last. No longer an immaculate example of elven beauty. Her nose and face had been mashed to pulp and then repaired by someone with an extremely crude grasp of Restoration magic. A snaking scar ran from the bridge of her nose down beside her mouth, and then twisted its way along her left cheek.
The other side of her face still held the remnants of fresher wounds. A few yellowing bruises. Scrapes and cuts scattered around like mud crabs in a pond.
Life goes hard on an assassin, I suppose.
And she brought a massive Nord with her. Silver-haired and massive. His animal stench filled my shop and betrayed his true nature.
I never cared much for werewolves. They’re undoubtedly powerful creatures, but I always feel like they’re just a hair’s breadth away from pissing on the floor. Too much beast, not enough…culture.
But the Bosmer’s new weapon was the most interesting thing about her return. Instead of a rusted dagger at her hip, she had somehow acquired an Akaviri katana. Generally, to come by a weapon like that, you have to kill a member of the Blades.
And there are precious few of them left to murder. I should know, I killed a rather significant number of them in my youth.
What can I say? The Thalmor are insufferable but they pay extremely well.
“Morlanus,” she said by way of greeting. “Have you learned my name yet?”
I smiled. “As promised, word of Narova Blackhair’s dark deeds arrived on my doorstep some time ago. Sujava’s…transformation is the talk of Skyrim. It is an honor to have such a creative killer in my presence. I must say, however, I expected you back much sooner.”
She shrugged. “Sithis is unpredictable.”
When she didn’t elaborate, I turned to her companion. “And you must be Arnbjorn, unless there is another lupine member of the Dark Brotherhood I am unaware of?”
Arnbjorn narrowed his eyes—looking at me like I was some kind of snack.
“That’s right, hamshank. I’m the werewolf. And you’re the poison maker.”
“Guilty,” I said, reaching below the counter and pulling the stopper from a Poison of Mass Incineration. Can never be too careful.
“No need for that,” Narova said casually. “We’ve come for your help. Not your life.”
“What a fantastic relief,” I said, leaving the stopper off but setting the bottle down on a shelf behind the counter. It was clear Narova Blackhair was no longer the single-minded seductress I had met before. “Tell me, what do you need?”
She pushed out a breath and placed both hands flat on the counter. “I need to put a Necromancer in the ground.”
I nodded at her sword. “That blade won’t do it?”
“Let’s just say I’m erring on the side of caution for this one.”
“After living your life so fearlessly thus far? What’s changed?”
“This corpse-fucker killed Festus Krex,” she said.
I never liked that wrinkly wizard, but his propensity for murder was undeniable.
As a rule, Necromancers are difficult to kill. People who can raise corpses generally don’t become them without a fight, but everyone with great strength also has a weakness. Necromancers draw their power from the netherworld, so it was just a matter of denying them access.
I started thinking about the ingredients I’d need to put something together—with the proper elements I could create a blockade on the underworld. But I became distracted by the werewolf.
The feral bastard wouldn’t stop sniffing.
“Excuse me,” I said, “but it’s difficult for me to think with you making all of that…noise.”
He literally growled at me, and then took one final, extremely loud whiff of the air.
“You’re not a human,” he said.
That surprised me. Perhaps he wasn’t just a dumb brute after all. It had been a long time since someone had been able to see through my potion of racial malleability.
“Neither are you. What of it?” I asked, although I decided not to wait for an answer. “I can help you with your Necromancer, but it will take some time.”
“How much time?” Narova asked.
“Two, three months. There are some ingredients I need coming in from Hammerfell that won’t arrive until the passes open up again in Dragontail Mountains.”
“No,” she said.
Even for a master alchemist such as myself, four narrowed eyes of Dark Brotherhood assassins is an unsettling sight.
“If you don’t want to wait for the ingredients to arrive from the caravan,” I said carefully, “Savos Aren probably has them as well. Although he is not known for being generous with his personal collection.”
“Savos, the Archmage of the College of Winterhold?” Arnbjorn asked.
“The very same.”
“Not a good idea,” Arnbjorn said, turning to Narova.
She just scowled.
“If we ride hard, we can reach Winterhold in two days,” she said. “What ingredients do you need?”
“Five ounces of Deathgrass, and at least seven strands of Dremora hair. Ten would be better.”
“How will I know it?”
I turned to my bookshelves, grabbed my copy of Flora and Fauna of the Underworlds, and rifled through the pages. It didn’t take long to find the proper entries. Narova didn’t strike me as someone with the patience to wait around while I copied the descriptions, so I cringed and tore the Deathgrass and Dremora hair pages from their home, and handed them to the assassin.
She looked each one over, then folded them neatly and pressed them down the front of her shirt.
“I’ll be back in four days. You best be ready when I return.”
“I always am,” I replied.
She nodded once and then turned for the door.
“It will be quite expensive. Don’t you want to discuss the price first?”
She let the door slam on her way out.