Bus Ride Fantasy

Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More

The Purple Scar



Mortimer found the girl near dusk, when the dying of the sun had thrown up a weary assortment of reds and oranges into the sky. A last stitch effort to make an impression before nightfall. He’d known a whore in Riften who used to prattle on about the majesty and beauty of those final pieces of daylight. Used to say it gave her a reason to live.

But the sunset did not move Mortimer. Few things did these days.

Half of northern Skyrim had been covered in that steaming purple water—farms and valleys turned into boiling lakes overnight. Thousand-year tundra pines burned down to nubs in the space of an afternoon. Some said the entire population of Dawnstar was boiled alive and then raised back to life through some unnatural process. Set to roaming the scorched countryside with murderous intent.

How could a pretty bunch of pretty colors above compete with such ugliness below?

And besides all that, Mortimer had been out in the wilds for near a month now—trapping elk and bears and not having much success at it. His old partner, Ajorn, had promised him an easy stretch of labor followed by a long stint filled with all the brandy and ale he could stomach.

And Mortimer could stomach quite a bit of both.

But Ajorn had slipped and shot himself in the face with his own damned crossbow, and that left Mortimer to his own devices. He’d played his hand at a number of trades in his life and come up on the losing end each time:

Alchemy in his youth, which he’d had to abandon after accidentally blinding a man. Soldiering for the empire in his prime, until he took an arrow to the knee and had to give it up. Then banditry, for lack of a better idea. All that had earned him was betrayals and jail time.

There was no denying it, each of Mortimer’s vocations had been filled and punctuated with failure.

Trapping was no different.

So Mortimer had been left wandering the outskirts of the Flooded Lands, hoping to stumble on something of value that had washed clear in all that ruin and destruction.

There were stories of Daedric armor and priceless gems being found in areas where the waters had started to subside.

Instead, he found the girl.

Mortimer squatted on a flat rock—leaning back on his haunches and picking at his teeth with the point of his dagger—and watched her.

She was naked. Probably a Bosmer, although it was difficult to tell for sure with her body curled up and her jet-black hair covering her face and ears. She had the lean limbs of a Wood Elf, at least.

But it wasn’t her nakedness that held the lion’s share of Mortimer’s attention just then. And the odd way that the current of steaming water had diverted around the girl on both sides—leaving her to sleep unharmed on an island or sorts—was certainly curious, seeing as the waters seems bent on destroying most everything else available. But that strangeness wasn’t particularly compelling to him, either.

No. Mortimer’s attention was almost entirely focused on the sword she had between her arms. She cradled the thing like a mother might hold a newborn. The scabbard was made from polished ebony wood, inlaid with silver. The grip wrapped in what looked like red silk.

That was a sword that a man could sell, Mortimer figured. Stay drunk for a month or two off the coin he made.

And all Mortimer had to do was hop over and grab it. It’d be far easier than capturing wild animals.

Resolved to action, Mortimer took one last dig at his teeth and then sheathed the dagger on his hip. He stood up and stretched his legs a few times. Rubbed his hands together. The girl hadn’t so much as twitched a finger in the half hour he’d been watching her. Only reason he knew she wasn’t dead was the steady rise and fall of her rib cage.

Mortimer blew out the air in his own lungs and leapt out over the purple water.

He landed one foot in the protected area of grass and rock that the elf slept on. Tottered briefly—other foot hanging dangerously over the death water—and then found his balance. The little island wasn’t more than six paces across, so Mortimer didn’t have to go far before he was leaning over the girl. Definitely a Wood Elf.

Up close, though, she was a bit more alarming.

Her back was crossed and notched with more scars than Mortimer had ever seen collected in one place. Looked like a Dremora had danced a fucking jig on top of her for a week straight. The side of her face that he could see had a snaking scar running across the bridge of her nose and up along her cheek.

Whatever person or god had been charged with her safety, they’d done a piss poor job holding up their end of the bargain.

But worst of all, there was a crescent-shaped gash running vertical across her ribcage—starting just below her tit and curving down near her naval. The rest of her scars looked like they’d seen a turn or two under the sun, but this one was fresh.

And glowing purple, same as the water that seemed so intent on not killing her. Though the rest of the world seemed to have given it a pretty decent try.

Mortimer snuck forward and got one hand wrapped around the grip of the sword. Gently—so very, very gently—he pulled the blade away from her body. He hadn’t budged the thing further than a finger’s width before the elf’s eye snapped open.

And then not a heartbeat later Mortimer felt something sharp and cold pressing against the bottom of his chin. His own damned dagger. Still wet from picking between his teeth.

“Who…are you?” the elf asked.

Can’t even perform a simple bit of thievery, you moron, Mortimer thought.

“Mo-Mortimer,” he said.

The elf wound herself up into a balanced crouch, keeping the dagger fixed beneath his chin the entire time.

“Stand up, Mortimer.”

Mortimer, the elf, and the knife all rose together.

She stared at him for a long time—eyes narrowed and hair picked up by the wind. Mortimer risked a quick glance down at her and—in spite of the very real chance he was about to be killed—he couldn’t help but feel a stirring in his pants at the sight of lithe, naked body.

“Any reason you can think of I shouldn’t shove this bit of cheap steel through your skull?” the elf hissed.

That question stopped the blood flow to his cock pretty abruptly.

“I, uh, yeah I probably can…” he trailed off.

“Let’s have it, then.” She pressed the dagger into his flesh a little harder. Enough to make him bleed.

Mortimer winced and swallowed. Mind filling with an army of shitty reasons to keep living. Ale, brandy, sunsets, mercy.

“I can lead you out of here!” he half screamed, voice cracking. Not even sure that was true.

“Too thin.”

She pulled the dagger back, making ready to slice his throat open. Mortimer closed his eyes. But a few seconds passed and the killing stroke didn’t come.

Just silence.

He opened one eye cautiously. The elf still had the dagger drawn back, but she was looking at the purple water rushing around them. As if she was noticing the landscape for the first time.

She lowered the blade.

7 comments on “The Purple Scar

  1. Y'ffre
    May 4, 2013

    Hey, I just want to say that I’m loving this series and Narova has become one of my favorite characters from any type of fiction. Also, I wanted to let you know/ask that I’ll be posting some of your stories on my new WordPress site, http://ofmerandmen.wordpress.com. It’s just a fan fiction collection site that my friend and I update daily/weekly. I’ll be giving you full credit with links to both your WordPress and twitter accounts.

    Check out the site if you get the time, and keep the great stories coming!

    • Fargoth
      May 4, 2013

      Thanks for the kind words about Narova! You’re definitely welcome to repost with links back + credit, and I’ll be sure to check out your stories this weekend. I always enjoy finding new stuff!

  2. Carlos Murrain
    May 6, 2013

    he was a soldier until he took an arrow to the knee lol

    • Fargoth
      May 6, 2013

      Had to slip it in there eventually 🙂

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This entry was posted on May 2, 2013 by in Skyrim Fiction, Tales of Narova Black Hair.
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