Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More
Narova Black Hair walked out of the Wizard’s Tower two months after dragging Beyte’s unconscious corpse inside of it. Her body was wreathed in silk—dozens of jet black bandages bound around her limbs and across her chest. The fabric—and the tattoos covering her skin—helped keep the heat inside of her body contained.
But it was the months of training with Beyte that kept the power inside of her under control.
She was going to kill Asriel.
This revenging would be a bitch without her magic, but it wasn’t like she had a choice. That gray-skinned fuck was the whole reason she couldn’t do magic in the first place.
Narova hired a carriage to Whiterun. She tracked the Dunmer charmer from there to Riften. That cesspool of a city was swelling with information, if you knew who to pay. Narova’s old guild ties weren’t severed yet, and it wasn’t hard to find an open hand.
Apparently, Asriel had taken a ship to the Summerset Isles. Thrown in with some Khajiit merchants who had grown tired of the miserable cold and the racist Nords.
That’s what Brynjolf had told her, anyway. And it only cost her fifteen Septims and a flash of her tits from between the bolts of black silk.
Narova didn’t mind. She’d always thought Brynjolf was cute.
Narova followed Asriel as a stowaway aboard the Thalmor frigate, The Burned Tree. Spent the entire trip sneaking around the cargo holds, munching on goat cheese and sucking back as much wine as she could fit inside of her. Gods knew there was enough to go around.
When they reached port at Sunhold, Narova snuck into town and stole a set of expensive robes and perfumed oils from a clothing shop near the dock. Then she emptied the shop’s lockbox and hopped out a window that opened into a cobblestone alley.
The air was warm and sticky—like walking through a soup. Narova threw the stolen raiment over her patchwork silk bandages and rubbed the oils into her hair. It didn’t quite hide the smell of the cargo hold, but it was better than nothing.
Then she wandered out into the strange city.
The shops and homes were nothing like the buildings of Skyrim, which carried such a permanent feeling among their heavy stone slabs. The Altmer seemed to have built their entire world from fragile wood—everything was graceful and vivid and delicate.
These people had never seen fires on their hills. Never heard the war cries of their enemies in the night.
Narova didn’t know whether to envy them or pity them.
Asriel was almost as easy track down in Sunhold as he had been in Riften. A gray-skinned face stands out among the golden Altmer. Narova used the stolen gold to bribe a fishmonger, a carriage pilot, and an apprentice mage for information.
They all told her the same thing:
The Dunmer had stayed a week in Sunhold and then traveled east along the shore to a city called Dusk. It was a three day’s ride along the coastal road. Narova made the journey on foot, hoping she’d run into a merchant caravan heading the opposite way she could get information from.
No such luck.
Instead, she padded into the unwalled city an hour after midnight and found a good vantage point halfway up a tower built from cedars and white stucco. She could see every avenue and half the alleyways in Dusk from there.
Now she just had to find a gray face amidst that sea of gold, which took about fifteen minutes after the sun rose the following day.
PART TWO COMING SOON…