Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More
Kreeves was beginning to lose patience.
Asriel had tracked the black-haired Bosmer to a hidden lair east of Whiterun. The hideout had been empty, but their prey was not far ahead. From there, they trekked east to Riften—all the while Asriel traveled as if a god was whispering directions into his ear.
But five miles outside of Riften, the trail had gone cold.
“What do you mean, you’ve lost them?” Kreeves had asked the taciturn Dunmer after he delivered the bad news.
“Could be a lot things,” Asriel said, shrugging. “Perhaps they’ve become lost themselves, which makes them difficult to follow.” He scanned the horizon with his burning red eyes. “There are also more…mystical things they could have done to throw me off the trail. The Dark Brotherhood are trained in the arts of stealth and camouflage, after all.”
“What do we do?”
“Head north.” Then he turned and walked off with just as much confidence as he’d carried when he still knew where they were going. Didn’t bother to explain why north was a better direction than any of the other options.
That had been five days ago. Now they were somewhere outside of Winterhold, stuck in the middle of a blizzard that showed no signs of letting up. Kreeves was almost fully healed, but he was just about ready to kill the Dunmer and leave his quest to freeze in the tundra.
Sujava had been an evil bastard, what did that sadistic merchant do to deserve revenging?
But his doubt did not last long. It never did. Always, the Hist whispered in his ear—reminded him of the blood debt he need to repay.
His soul would not be safe until Narova Blackhair was dead.
“If we’re lost, just admit it,” Kreeves said, kneeling down close to the fire and hugging himself for warmth. It was impossible to get warm in this icy world, but it didn’t stop him from trying.
“Not lost,” Asriel said in his familiar tone that dripped with apathy. “They traveled through here several days ago. Coming from Winterhold. Or going, maybe.”
“So she’s still with the werewolf?” Kreeves asked.
He nodded. “Be patient, Okan-Shei-Kreeves. They will reveal their destination soon. It is…inevitable.”
Kreeves was about to ask Asriel to cut the skeever crap and give him a straight answer, but something stopped him first—a scent in the air.
Kreeves snatched up his spear and searched the area around their camp. Visibility was shit—he couldn’t see anything besides a sheet of white snow and the skinny outline of a few snowberry bushes up ahead.
It didn’t matter, though, the Frost Trolls weren’t trying to hide.
They appeared at the same time—three shaggy outlines lumbering out from the storm. All of them were fully-matured males. Ten feet tall and laced with sinewy muscle.
They snarled to each other and began to spread out—moving into the instinctual formation that all creatures of death knew.
Asriel was standing now, too, but he hadn’t armed himself. As far as Kreeves could tell, he didn’t even own a weapon.
“Any chance you can tell them there are some other travelers just over the hill who’d taste much better than us?” Kreeves asked hopefully.
“Unfortunately, no,” Asriel said, unconcerned. “There is too much rage in them for that.”
Kreeves frowned and squeezed down on the shaft of his spear. “What would you do if I wasn’t here to fight them?”
“The same thing I’m going to do if they kill you,” Asriel said. “Run.”
Trolls were dangerous bastards. They healed quickly, and for all their strength and bulk they moved surprisingly fast and didn’t tire out like bears did. Kreeves had killed a few of them before, but always when they were alone and easy to surprise.
Best move fast and try to even the odds, he thought.
So he sprinted forward—cutting up the snow with his feet and pushing his tail out parallel to the ground so he could keep his balance in an all-out dash on the soft ground.
The middle troll that he rushed toward almost looked surprised for a moment—his three eyes widening in unison—and then he curled both hands into killing fists.
When Kreeves was three strides away, he sprang into the air—vaulting over the troll’s swiping attacks—and jabbed his spear deep into the beast’s neck. It was a lightning-fast thrust that flicked through fur and skin and muscle, extending all the way down through its chest and piercing the heart before Kreeves pulled the shaft free.
The troll was dead even before its knees hit the ground. The corpse slumped over in the snow.
The other two didn’t waste any time. They charged from both sides simultaneously—releasing twin animal howls into the wind as they came for him.
They’re fast and strong and mean, but they’re not very smart, Kreeves thought.
He held still until the last possible moment, when both trolls had heaved back with their massive fists and just begun to swing forward with brutal attacks.
Then he jumped fifteen feet into the air, curling himself into a compact, reptilian ball.
One troll slammed his fist deep into the snowy spot where Kreeves had been crouched a moment earlier. The other one lost his balance in the confusion and smashed his brethren’s face in. There was a crunching sound as troll-fist broke apart troll-skull.
Kreeves landed behind the last living troll, but sunk knee-deep into the snow from landing with such force. He was stuck there, but he had a perfect view of the final troll’s asshole.
“Sorry about this,” he whispered.
Then he stabbed upward with all of the strength. His ash spear jerked the trolls back to attention, as if he’d shocked him with a bolt of electricity.
Kreeves, now unarmed, pulled himself out of the snow and scrambled away from the troll.
Slowly, the beast turned around. The spear point was poking out through the troll’s mouth—coated with blood and gore.
The troll released a final, almost pathetic snarl. Then it fell over dead.
Kreeves was trying to decide whether it was worth attempting to retrieve his spear from the corpse when Asriel came up beside him, offering a skin of Alto wine.
“Fine work,” the Dunmer said.
Kreeves took the skin and drank deeply. “You best find that elf,” he said. “I am out of patience.”