Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More
Kreeves tracked the burning path Narova had left in the earth. It was not hard to do.
The seared shape of her footprints grew with time. When Kreeves first reached the place she had fled from him, the marks were little more than tiny brands in the ground. Easy to follow, but small.
As the miles stretched on, the elf’s tracks grew in size and strength.
After the first day, the grasses around each of her footfalls were scorched for a foot in every direction. Some of them even had small embers in the middle that still burned hot.
Kreeves didn’t like it. He’d tracked more or less everything that walked or crawled this earth—from rabid skeevers to vicious frost trolls—but none of them seemed quite as dangerous as Narova Black Hair.
He didn’t understand her. And it was difficult to kill something you didn’t understand.
By late morning on the second day, Kreeves began to catch whiffs of the swamp: salty and thick and insincere. That was the thing Kreeves loved about the marshes of his homeland—they would lie to you all day long. Tell you north was south, east was west. Say the day was clear when there was a storm burning down on you. Whisper that the dark, shallow water was safe.
Each man had to see the swamp’s lies for himself. That, or perish.
As the dimness of evening slunk down, the ground became so soggy and uneven that Kreeves was forced to dismount. He smacked the stolen horse on the rump and sent it cantering back to Whiterun. He’d thought Narova would be harder to track once he moved into the swamp, but he was wrong.
All Kreeves had to do was follow the trail of cooked mudcrabs—his mouth watering from the smell.
It felt good to be back in a swamp. Just like home. Whatever Narova Black Hair had become, she would be easier to kill in this place. It was a world that he understood, even if he didn’t understand the thing cutting a path through it.
At midnight he stopped. Watched the moon for a while and listened to the creatures of the swamp slinking past him. He could smell Narova, now. She was close—maybe a half-day’s walk from where he sat. But there were other smells, too. Lavender and moss, and some kind of strange burning that didn’t fit the land or Narova at all.
That made Kreeves uneasy, and while part of him wanted to keep on—fast and heedless through the night—the rest of him knew caution was required. If he did not take whoever was making these smells by surprise, they would kill him.
He stood and poked around in the silvery darkness until he found what he needed: a shallow bog filled with mud and shit. Then he set to work.
Slowly and deliberately, he packed the mud into his skin. Lifting up each scale and pushing in a sliver of mud. Sometime a few scraps of plant or herb or crab shit. It was unpleasant, but it was the only way to hide his smell entirely. After several hours of careful work, the only part of him that wasn’t covered were his two reptilian eyes—swimming in a murky depth of muck and mire.
At dawn, he pushed forward. Soon it would end, one way or another.
He was sure of it.