Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More
Dreams and smoke and boiling water. Needles and flame. Pin pricks and ink all along her skin.
The needle looked like a tiny sword—so small a mouse could wield it—running drills along the flesh of her arms. And chest. And stomach.
It danced. Poking and prodding at the great scar Mordred gave her. Plus all the little ones Sujava and Kreeves and life in general threw into the mix before that.
Prick by prick, a new design was drawn along Narova Black Hair’s battered body.
A heat that would never die. Burning out from her bones and filling the room with warmth. Piece by piece, the searing secret was drawn over. Covered and controlled. As if the tattoos were rewriting some bloody history and skipping over the dark deeds that had been done.
But blackness cannot be undone. Only hidden and ignored and forgotten.
Humming and wine and burning lavender. Red silk. Moss and dirt. The curl of sticks and twigs casting crooked shadows on the walls of a cabin built from pines. The room lit by a fire in the middle.
Time passed like a petulant child forced into the Temple of the Divines. Fidgeting one way and then the other—uncomfortable and sulky. Day and night, late afternoon. Morning for a moment, and then somewhere else. Always yearning for a different time. Restless to the core.
Narova woke up wrapped in silk. Black and smooth, just like her hair.
She could feel ever slippery fiber of the cloth against her skin. Wound like a long skirt around her legs and then over each shoulder—crossing in the middle and covering her breasts. Coiled down each arm.
She sat up and frowned. Darted her eyes around the room.
Green eyes, now, instead of yellow. Still flecked with purple.
The room was empty except for the fire. Just embers and a final log that was close to dying out.
Slowly, she stood. Letting her body speak to her—tell her what had happened. She could feel the tattoos on her skin. The silk rubbed against the marked and unmarked skin differently. As unalike as a lover’s caress and a stranger’s. Although Narova couldn’t tell whether the tattoos took the stranger’s touch, or the lover’s.
The heat was still inside of her—wreathed around her bones. But caged now. A beast waiting to be set free.
Outside, the swamp screamed. A million screeching insects and squawking animals vying for attention in the wild.
And one humming man. It sounded like he was about a hundred paces past the front door of the cabin.
Narova stepped forward and opened the door.
The smells were overpowering. A thousand smells. More, even. Mud, putrid water, rotting wood, wandering elk, prowling wolves, mushrooms, and shit. Each scent part of an unruly aroma that was The Swamp. And rising above all that fecundity was the unnatural, oily odor of the Dwarven machines.
Garland the Green sat cross legged in a clearing by the cabin. The sword across his knees. He was an ancient, gnarled thing. White teeth smiling at Narova amidst the suit of dirt and plants that encased the rest of his body.
“Narova. You returned.” He did not seem surprised.
She took a few steps forward, enjoying the way the silk felt as she moved.
“What did you do to me?” she asked.
“Very little.” His eyes moved to the left. “Her, on the other hand…”
Narova turned around to find a Dunmer leaning against the wall of the cabin. She wore a black tunic that was covered by a silk cloak—its ruby folds filling the ground around her. A thin silver sword hung at her hip. All at once a flood of lavender filled Narova’s nose. Returning like a forgotten memory suddenly recalled.
“Who are you?” Narova asked.
“Beyte,” the Dunmer said, pushing herself gracefully away from the wall. “I saved your life.”
“Might be you come to regret that,” Narova said. “I’m bad news.”
Beyte smiled. “We’ll see. I didn’t do it for free.”
Narova shifted a bit in the silk, and became suddenly aware that she was the only member of this conversation without a weapon.
“Let’s start with how you did it,” Narova said. “Then we’ll get to the why.”
Beyte pursed her gray lips at that. “It’s difficult to explain in a way that you’ll understand.”
Narova just glared at her. Narrowing her green, otherworldly eyes at the Dunmer.
“Fine,” Beyte said, sucking in a breath and frowning a bit. “You could say that I…rewrote the story of your life. At least, the story that your soul knows.”
“You what now?”
“And which parts were those, exactly?”
Beyte narrowed her eyes. “The ones that Akavarin wrote.”
Narova glanced at Garland, who was still sitting placidly on his rock. He nodded a little—almost imperceptibly. But Narova got the message. She is telling you the truth.
“The heat doesn’t feel gone.”
“It’s not,” Beyte said quickly. “Just altered a bit so that it can be controlled.”
“And you can do that—change a person’s soul with tattoos?”
“How did you learn to do it?” Narova asked.
The Dunmer smiled. Then gracefully unhooked the clasp of her cloak. Unwound the sash on her tunic and pulled the cloth aside, revealing her dark skin and naked breast. The entire right side of her body was covered in an intricate tattoo—full of patterns and symbols and ink-drawn creatures. It looked like a story, almost. Starting at her collarbone and weaving its way down past the curve of hip. Out of sight.
“I had a good model,” Beyte said softly.
Narova hadn’t seen her own tattoo yet, but seeing Beyte’s send a tingling shudder prickling across her skin. Almost like the start of an orgasm.
“The markings can have rather…seductive effects,” Beyte said, smiling and licking her lips. Pink tongue forming a stark, beautiful contrast to her gray lips and skin. “You’ll get used to it.”
Narova felt her cheeks flush and a wetness form between her legs.
Seductive indeed, she thought. Then Narova shook her head, doing her best to cast the lustful feeling off, and pulled her eyes away from the half-naked Dunmer. “So what’s next?” she asked, focusing on what looked like a pile of mudcrab shit about fifty paces away.
“As you demanded, that is the how,” Beyte said, slowly pulling her tunic and cloak back into place. “Now for the why.”
Narova turned back to her, feeling more in control of herself now that the tattoo was covered. She waited for Beyte to continue.
“I want you to tell me everything you can remember about what happened in Mzinchaleft.”
Narova frowned. “Why?”
Beyte locked her burning red eyes on Narova. “Because my father and lover were in there with you, and I want them back.”