Bus Ride Fantasy

Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More

The List of Promises

Plains of Whiterun

It was cool and crisp when the Elf woke Mortimer with a swift kick to the stomach. He sucked in air. The hope he’d gone to sleep with suddenly replaced by a sickening pain.

“Come on, then,” the Elf said.

They set off in familiar form—him in the lead, hands bound by the leather cord. She continued to jerk him around left and right as it pleased her. No hint of mercy or gentleness in her action. Guess he’d been reading the signs wrong.

Again.

Should have just kept quiet, Mortimer thought. Or cried and begged. That works, sometimes. But nobody likes being told they’re at odds with the world.

Around midday they crested a small hill. The Plains of Whiterun dumped out below them. Wide and vast and clear. In the far distance, Mortimer could just make out the hazy edges of Whiterun’s walls. They could get there by nightfall, he figured.

Before he knew what was happening, his arms were jerked up and the leather cord sliced from his wrists. He turned around to look at the Elf. She backed away a few steps—dagger in one hand, sheathed sword in the other. He waited for her to slip the dagger back into the leather cord around her thigh, but she just stood there. Blade not quite pointed at him, but not pointed away, either.

“People don’t generally need to keep their daggers drawn if they have mercy in mind,” Mortimer said. “You promised me.”

The blade didn’t move. “The list of promises I’ve kept is a deal shorter than the ones broken.”

He put his palms up, as if one more try at surrender might finally prove effective.

“Look, I’m a nobody,” he said. “I’m not gonna hunt you and I’m not gonna tell a soul about you. I’ll forget I ever saw you the second I disappear over that hill.”

The Elf gave him a sad look, as if Mortimer was a child who’d just told her the world was a decent, gentle place and the gods were on our side.

“No you won’t,” she said softly.

The Elf flicked the dagger point-first into the mud and then drew her sword.

Mortimer took a good look at her naked body, lingering a long time on her small, hardened nipples and the raven-black patch of hair between her legs.

As far as dying views went, it wasn’t so bad.

He clamped his eyes shut then and pretended that pretty view wasn’t about to chop is head off. His heart beat in his chest. Once, twice. Three—

“NAROVA BLACK HAIR!”

The reptilian voice cut through the windy plain like a jagged knife through deer flesh. Mortimer opened one eye, wondering how many times he could close his eyes and get saved by some stroke of luck. There was an Argonian standing on large, flat rock behind them. A long ashen spear in each hand. And behind him, there was a bored looking Dunmer dressed in plain black clothes.

The Elf—or Narova, Mortimer guessed—turned around.

Okan-Shei Kreeves,” she said calmly, as if the words were a matter-of-fact observation and didn’t have anything to do with the six-foot tall reptile who had snuck up on them.

“I have been looking for you,” he flipped one spear around into a throwing grip, “for quite a while now. I thought maybe the darkness up north had claimed you.”

“Not quite.”

“Who is this…person with you?” Kreeves asked. His flicked a pair of disdainful eyes over to Mortimer and then immediately back to Narova.

“Just some dead man.”

Mortimer fidgeted at that, not sure he’d ever been more uncertain what he was supposed to be feeling at that present moment. Fear? Embarrassment? Anger?

“He doesn’t look very dead,” the Dunmer observed from his place in the back.

Narova ignored him. Just crouched down a little bit and flexed her sword arm.

“Is this going to be our time?” she asked.

Kreeves nodded slowly.

For a few moments neither of them moved. It was just the wind blowing and all that grass waving like a thousand green fingers that threatened to swallow everything whole and leave the entire situation unresolved. It went on for so long that Mortimer opened his mouth with a plan to say something about how he’d just be on his way, and there was no need to involve him in whatever carnage was about to take place. Opened his mouth, couldn’t think of anything to say. Closed it again.

Kreeves threw his spear.

And then it was the windblown grass’s turn to seem slow compared to the flash of the Argonian’s scaled wrist and the dark flicker of a wooden missile careening through the air. Mortimer blinked once and Narova was four strides to the left—crouched down with one hand on the grass and looking as lithe and graceful as a sabre cat.

Mortimer had just enough time to wonder what happened to the spear and then he keeled over on his back and puked up an alarming amount of blood. He rolled over on one side to spit it out and squinted up at a tree that seemed to have sprouted up behind him.

He thought it was strange that a tree had escaped his attention earlier, then wondered why it was so thin and straight. Then he tried to take a breath and nothing happened except pain.

And as the darkness came, Mortimer tried his best to keep both eyes open. Because he knew he wouldn’t get lucky three times in a row.

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One comment on “The List of Promises

  1. Pingback: The Liver Shot | Bus Ride Fantasy

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This entry was posted on May 14, 2013 by in Skyrim Fiction, Tales of Narova Black Hair.
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