Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More
Beyte moves fast, but Kreeves is faster. A mud serpent come from nowhere.
She manages to duck and dodge a few of the Argonian’s spear thrusts, but he whirls around when she’s off balance, cracking her in the temple with the shaft of his weapon. Her eyes turn a strange kind of white, and then she falls over.
I can’t tell if Beyte’s dead, but it’s clear she won’t be helping me out much.
Garland is dead for sure, though. His eyes are still open and there’s the last hint of a smile on his lips. But no life. The strange blue liquid that kept him alive and gave him all that power turns dark and thick in the mud.
I dig my eyes into that Argonian mountain of shit.
Kreeves takes a few steps to the left so he’s got good footing and space to move. He’s slathered from head toe in swamp mud. I can’t smell him at all. Fuck, if he closed his eyes I might damn well lose sight of him.
But I am going to murder that lizard-fuck in the next two minutes.
“Killing that man is the worst mistake you ever made,” I say.
Kreeves shrugs. “If that’s true, killing Sujava was yours.”
He takes another step to the left. “But I didn’t figure you for someone with a stake in anyone’s life except your own.”
I smile then. An evil, twisted smile that sets my tattoos skittering and gets the reptile to finally show some hesitation. Some fear.
“You’re right,” I say quietly. “But Garland the Green is tattooed on my skin. And now I know how to move him.”
I feel the mud-clad swordsmen drawn on my third rib start to move—his blade slashing back and forth in the air.
Kreeves makes the smart choice and rushes me. Spear up and prepared for murder.
But as fast as he is—or was—he is not fast enough for me anymore.
I feel the air around my body shimmer and wave. I smell an acrid kind of burning as time bends right along with the air. Kreeves’ feet and body move in a slow, predictable way—his spearpoint inching its way towards me like a scared dog that’s afraid of getting slapped.
I step to the side and grab the shaft of the spear—just below the point—with my left hand as it passes by. Snap it off with my right elbow.
Flip it around and jam it into the lizard’s collarbone.
Then I pull all the rage and anger and fear I felt the first time I came to this swamp to kill Garland the Green. Pack it up into a writhing ball between both my fists and throw it at Kreeves.
The place he’s standing becomes such a cluster fuck of muddy destruction that I don’t see what happens to him—although the slippery bastard is quick as ever trying to dodge it.
Behind him, though, the trees and shrubs and pools of the swamp are demolished. Everything leveled to a flat kind of nothing as far as the swamp-fog lets me see. That isn’t very far, granted, but it’s far enough to know the damage is considerable.
There are some scales and blood strewn about the ruined ground in front of me.
Then there is the splintered end of a spear being jammed into my back.
I whip around on instinct and wind up crunching my elbow into Kreeves’ face. Feel his strange reptilian bone structure rearrange from the force of it.
Then we’re on the ground grappling. Punching and kicking and clawing at each other. He’s ripping at my hair and I’m pulling out scales hand-over-fist. Kreeves is snarling and trying to reach around and grab the splinter of wood in my back—figuring he can punch it a little further in, I assume. But he can’t get a grip with all the blood we’re suddenly covered in.
“Should have let me be, lizard,” I hiss into what seems like his ear. Although it’s mostly red pulp and broken scale now.
Then I head butt him and he goes limp just enough for me to get some momentum going behind my fist. I punch down on the spearpoint in his chest. Once, twice.
It’s all the way inside. Halfway through his lung, I think.
I grab him by the tail and activate the tattoo of the first bum I killed by that limber mill—the pathetic bastard who wouldn’t stop picking at his ear. Then I spin Kreeves around once and send him careening into the only tree within a mile of here that I haven’t already knocked down.
The Argonian hits the tree square in the back with a crunch that sings of snapping vertebrae. Moans some.
I walk over nice and slow. My insides feel light and hollow—like all the weight’s been sucked out of me. But Kreeves isn’t going anywhere now. Some weakness should be all right.
“That other Grayskin that was with you,” I say. “He’s alive.” It’s not a question.
Kreeves wheezes and blinks a slow, dying man’s blink.
“Yes,” he says with a great deal of effort.
“Where is he?”
“Give me answers and I’ll kill you quick. Make me dig for them, and I’ll pull you apart one piece at a time. Wear your head as a hat until they call me Narova Argonian-Head.”
He blinks again. Considers that.
“I left him in Whiterun.” His voice is full of struggle—hard and wet at the same time. Like damp stones clacking together on a creek bed. “At the inn…You weren’t supposed to have any magic left.”
“This isn’t magic.”
He nods at that, as if it’s a fair explanation. “Now I understand why he wanted you dead. I should have been faster.”
“Any last words, Kreeves?”
He looks up at me. One eye entirely ruined, the other filled with blood. I’m not sure he can see me at all, given the damage.
“May the Hist torment you for eternity, as she will me.”
I nod. As far as dying curses go, that one’s pretty decent.
“You’re the best I’ve ever fought,” I say. “I’m doing this because I have to, not because I want to.”
Then I take three steps forward—activate the tattooed ears on a horse I stole once—and twist Okan-Shei-Kreeves’ head off with the energy.
I promised a quick death. Not a clean one.