Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More
I crunch through the snow.
Sure, I could have muffled the noise. Could have cast invisibility, too. But why bother? I was coming home to my family, and there was no reason to hide my return to Skyrim.
Arnbjorn had been right, the Dark Brotherhood’s new sanctuary is a fortress. A castle, really. Massive walls of granite laid up against a mountain deep within the Reach. A gate and portcullis that would give Windhelm a run for its money. Chamber and towers and solars stretching up into the overcast clouds above. I wouldn’t call the place impregnable, but even an imperial legion would think twice before they tried to force their way into the place.
I pass through the open portcullis and then hop up the long series of steps leading to the main citadel—shivering a little at the way the silk rubs against my skin. I’ll be honest, it gets me a little wet. But what good is living if you can’t indulge yourself?
One thousand and fourteen steps later, and I’m at the door. Teakwood, expensive. Big ugly face carved into the middle. I place my left hand against the surface, and wait for that creepy-ass whisper from everywhere and nowhere.
“What is the music of life, sister?” it asks.
It’s not the right answer, but before the Creepy Door has a chance to shut me out, I activate seven of my tattoos—just enough to overpower the door’s magic—and blast the wooden fucker down a long hallway, where it shatters.
Inside, there is the familiar smell of poisonous herbs, oiled leather, and Arnbjorn.
And I get a little wetter thinking of him. Damn tattoos—everything turns me on now.
There is a long hallway with two dozen doorways opening up on either side. None of my favorite smells are coming from those passages, so I ignore them. There are enough braziers set up for me to see another stairway rising upwards at the end of the hall.
I make the climb.
My tattoos prickle and wave on their own as I ascend. Beyte said that might happen. Apparently it can only mean one thing: there is magic in this place. I do not know how Astrid found this fortress, but things have been done here. Dark things.
I like it immediately. Festus would have loved it.
At the top of the stairs, the décor changes. It’s not stone walls and cold hallways anymore. The floor is covered with a plush carpet and there are candles everywhere. One corner of this large chamber is a makeshift armory—all the daggers, swords, staffs and hammers that we kept in the old sanctuary are there. Another entire wall is a shelf of books and glass potion bottles. I get the sense that my dear family hasn’t fully unpacked yet, and this huge room is just a staging area as they expand to the rest of the castle.
There is another, smaller staircase in front of me that leads to a second level gallery. There are half dozen shadowy figures standing up there, looking at me. Astrid in the center. Her tits look better in that armor than I remembered. It could be the tattoos messing with my mind, could be she got new armor.
I can make out everyone else, too, except Arnbjorn. He may not be here, but his scent certainly is.
“Oh hey,” I say.
Silence. Although Veezara blinks once, and that makes a gross kind of smacking noise that’s pretty loud for me. Again, the tattoos.
“Been a while?” I offer.
Astrid swallows. I watch her neck move and plan the order of the killings if anyone so much as twitches towards a blade. She’ll go first. Dangerous bitch, that one.
“Where have you been?” Astrid finally asks.
I shrug. “Fulfilling a contact. Mordred the Puppet Master is dead.”
“His life was not yours to take. We do not have many rules here, Narova. But my word is law. And you have been living outside of it for quite some time now.”
I just stare at Astrid for a while. I am aware of how unsettling my green eyes are.
“Might be you all want me dead. If that’s the way it is, I say we square up now. No reason to dick around with all the shadowy intimidation nonsense.”
Veezara clears his throat. “You are…changed,” he says says. The Argonian voice reminds me of Kreeves, and that reminds me of getting my face smashed in. “But I am glad Festus has been avenged. Welcome home, Narova.”
Murmurs of agreement. The gentle sigh of leather as each assassin shifts a bit, relaxing.
“I like the getup,” Nazir says in that deep, rumbly voice of his. “The silk suits you.”
Astrid is a cunt, but she’s not stupid—she knows that everyone in the room needs to want me dead if I’m going to go into the ground without taking most of them with me. She takes a quick breath: in and out.
“We’ll speak privately,” she says.
Her quarters are quite an upgrade from the Falkreath Sanctuary. For starters, they’re about the size of the fucking Falkreath Sanctuary, but the style has improved, too. Roaring fire, carpets from Hammerfell, more cushions than I can count strewn across the floor, furniture made from the Summerset Isles—I recognize the smell from my recent trip.
Astrid leads me into the chamber, and at first I wonder why she’d be so careless and turn her back to me. But then I see the massive mirror taking up an entire wall on the far side of the room (right in front of the bed…classy) and her eyes staring at me through the reflection. One hand on her precious dagger.
“If I was going to stab you in the back,” I say, “I wouldn’t have broken down your front door on my way in.”
She hmphs at me, then sits down in an ornate chair near the fire. The design gives off a distinct “throne vibe” in all the worst ways.
“What am I going to do with you?” Astrid asks, stretching out into the chair with a feline grace.
Yes, yes, the sight of her lithe body turns me on. I am going to have to control myself better.
“I can’t trust you anymore,” Astrid continues. “But I can’t really kill you, either. Morale is low enough as it is, despite the new sanctuary. Everyone misses that grumpy old man. And for reasons I fail to understand, the Family likes you. So what to do, Narova? What…to…do?”
I pull a little bit of air over from the bed with one my tattoos and give a sniff. She’s been fucking someone over there, but it’s not Arnbjorn. Smells like a woman. Babette? That’s a creepy thought.
I shrug. “You could chain me to the bed and keep me as a slave?”
Astrid doesn’t respond.
“No? Okay. Send me out on an Angel Fart.”
“Yeah, you know—one of those impossible contracts that you pretend don’t exists because the asshole performing the sacrament asked us kill off a Daedric Prince or something. We all know about them. Festus called them Angel Farts, because if anyone ever pulled the contract they’d have an angel fart’s chance in Oblivion of coming back alive.”
I give her a big smile. Again, no reaction. For all the sex smell wafting over from the bed, she sure is giving me the cold shoulder.
“That is a ridiculous idea,” she says after a while. “And the whole not trusting you thing extends to situations where you appear to be trying to get yourself killed.”
“Just trying to throw some ideas out there,” I say. “Help you out of this jam. I’ll even tell everyone it was my ideas, that I wanted to…makeup for my disobedience with a job that would make Skyrim fear the Dark Brotherhood again.”
“Fuck yourself, Narova.”
I shrug, and—for totally unrelated reasons—adjust a bolt of silk near my left thigh.
Astrid sighs. Runs a hand through her flaxen hair and squeezes the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. It makes her look like a pissed of librarian.
“Fine, I’ll indulge you,” she says. “But only because one of these…Angel Farts…just happened to arrive this morning.”