Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More
After she threw Jarl Siddgeur a thousand feet into the air and watched him decorate the ground with his intestines, Narova headed back to the Reach.
It was a two-week walk. She didn’t rush—staying clear of the road and enjoying the wild.
There were things that you missed when your life revolved around murders. Rivers filled with trout who popped up along the surface of the water, hungry for dragonflies. A fox ghosting its away along a ridge and thinking nobody could see him. Bee hives vibrating on heavy limbs. Hidden lavender fields that went on for miles.
Each night, Narova pulled a few trout from the river, strung them up over a fire, and watched the stars while the fish cooked. She listened to the mournful call of an owl that seemed like it was following her on the journey back to the new Sanctuary. A few times she caught sight of the bird’s yellow eyes, high up on a tall pine.
It was strange—she had an owl tattooed on the migratory tree that ran down her back, too. Beyte had shown it to her using a mirror. Told her that the owl would protect her if she let it.
Walking through the forest was the happiest Narova had been in weeks, and she thought about pointing her feet south and just walking to wherever the woods took her. Leaving the Brotherhood behind without ever looking back. It was just a fantasy, but it was an intoxicating one.
Mid-morning on the seventh day, Narova stepped on the bamboo needle.
It had been wedged between two rocks and hidden with a clump of moss. She’d been sloppy—distracted by the idea of a feral life in the forest—and hadn’t seen the trap. But she could feel the warm surge of poison flowing up the veins in her leg perfectly.
Narova recognized the smell of the poison. It was the same mixture she’d used on Mordred and Akavarin. And the same dark magic flowed through her veins now. The poison would freeze all of her tattoos in place temporarily. Keep her powerless for five, maybe six minutes depending on how much soaked its way into her system.
That’s what you get for daydreaming.
It was the first word she’d spoken in seven days.
Narova reached down to pull the needle free. When she was fully contorted and off-balance, the mechanical whisper of twenty crossbow bolts releasing in unison filled her ears.
A perfectly executed ambush. Almost.
They had shot the bolts about three heartbeats too soon, and Narova still had a little bit of power left along her spine.
She activated the leaves of the migratory tree that ran down her back. Somehow, she even managed to blink the eyes of the owl that lorded over the top branch.
The small shockwave was enough to send the bolts off course. They whispered their way into the trees above, burrowing into the bark and the branches and the leaves.
Narova drew her dagger and—for lack of a better idea right that second—sprinted forward.
Her eyes picked the ambushers out of their hiding spots right away, now that she was paying attention. Twenty Thalmor had encircled her, but they weren’t wearing any armor. Instead they’d caked themselves head-to-toe in mud—even their white hair was a mat of brown wet earth that smelled like lavender and loam.
Devious and clever fuckers, this score of Thalmor.
The closest elf was halfway hidden by a tree and attempting to rewind his crossbow like a moron. Narova kicked the weapon out of his hands and jammed her dagger up through the bottom of his jaw, straight into his brain.
She pulled four bolts from the dead elf’s quiver as he fell over. Jammed them into the next-closest elf’s chest. Just deep enough to kill him.
That took enough time so that the other eighteen Thalmor were on her—golden swords and axes drawn. There was no time or space to run.
It would have to be a fight.