Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More
I’m running through the outskirts of the swamps beyond Morthal. My situation is not good.
A spear through the arm and a murderous Argonian on my trail. You’d think whatever twisted, otherworldly power had set my blood to boiling would also be able to do something about spear wounds.
I’m leaking purple and steaming blood all over my damn arm. It’s so hot it burns my skin—pulls up blisters scalds the flesh from elbow to fingertip. You’d think the boiling blood would come with insulated skin, or something.
Guess I drew the short stick of necromantic curses.
But if there’s one upside, it’s energy. A lot of it. I’ve been running flat out for half a day—barely anything but the balls of my feet blinking along the ground in a blur—and my hands aren’t even shaking. I don’t know how I’m going to get this fucking spear point out of my arm, but at least I don’t have exhaustion compounding the problem.
Might be I can just outrun Kreeves. Almost a certainty, really. But I threw that fucker off a cliff and then wandered all across Skyrim—got my soul torn out and then watched the world get rearranged. And he still managed to track me down amidst all that and get a spear into me.
Somehow, I don’t think me suddenly being a fast runner is going to settle the issue.
And I still can’t use any of my magic.
So without even thinking about it much I steer myself towards the swamp where I hunted Garland the Green. He told me if I was lost and couldn’t find my way, he’d help me. I’m not sure if this exactly counts as being lost, but if I’ve ever needed a bit of help, it’s now.
It would have taken a man atop a horse a day and a half get back to that putrid swamp. I make the trip in half a day, just as the sun is lowering itself down between the western ridges of the mountains beyond Solitude. Not bad for a naked elf with a hunk of metal in her flesh.
By the time I get back to land I recognize, my skin is so hot that my feet turn every pool into a boiling lake. Like a stew pot under a massive flame. The unlucky mudcrabs nearby are left screaming and dying in my wake. Their shrill cries sound like spiteful witches shouting a final curse at me.
A trail of boiled mudcrabs. That’ll make it real fucking difficult for Kreeves to follow me.
At first I don’t realize the sun’s gone down because everything around me is glowing purple. Like a magelight spell I never cast. Or, rather, like I cast a thousand magelights and stuck them all over my body like some kind of pubescent novice at the College of Winterhold who doesn’t know a carrot from his dick.
I slow down some, not so sure I’ve gone the right way anymore. Might be I passed that shrub an hour ago. Everything smells like cooked crab. Am I making circling in my own massive swamp stew?
Around midnight I start to hallucinate.
The edges of my purple halo start to twist and weave. The ragged cloaks of strange creatures floating on the outskirts of my vision. Bony fingers. Purple eyes.
Eyes like mine.
“Narova….” the creatures whisper, voices like dust carried on a gentle wind. “Narova…come to us. Join us.”
“Fuck yourselves,” I grunt. Losing my footing and taking a knee inside of a puddle. It boils and evaporates just in time for me to drop my face into the warm, steaming mud.
“We can give you peace….” they whisper. “We can make the pain stop. All of the pain.”
And right before I black out, I see one of them coming towards me. Except he’s not wearing a cloak like the others. Just the outline of some twigs growing off his shoulders. A mantle of mud and branches.