Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More
Outnumbered men generally die because they don’t use the one advantage that fate affords them.
Groups of people—even well-trained, ambushing Thalmor fucks—will never react as quickly as a single soul with a penchant for survival.
The key was to be unpredictable.
And Narova Blackhair could be very unpredictable.
Four attacks came at once, each leveled for a different part of Narova’s body so there was no way to parry or dodge all of them. So she jumped straight up in the air—clearing two of the blades by no more than a finger’s width—and kicked an axe off course so that it wound up cutting off an elf’s hand instead of her foot.
She threw her dagger into someone else’s face on her way down, then landed and immediately swept out her leg, knocking two Thalmor off their feet.
Then she sprung into a high backflip, somehow managed to land on a short Thalmor’s shoulders, and jammed her thumbs into his eyes.
He screamed rather loudly.
Almost all of the dozen-or-so ambushers still on their feet hesitated at the sight of their blinded friend.
Except one asshole, who took a fast hack at Narova’s left leg with an axe.
That quick bastard could have taken her entire leg off if he’d aimed a little better. Instead, he only managed to cleave off a chunk of meat from her thigh and completely cave in the chest of the man Narova was sitting on. Blood shot out everywhere. Narova threw the dead man’s eyes into the crowd and then fell back onto the ground.
After that, it pretty much turned into a cluster fuck.
Narova grabbed a sword and an axe off the ground and just started swinging wildly. Slicing into flesh and crashing into the Thalmor’s parries and counter-ripostes. She killed another six, maybe. Injured a few others. But it didn’t matter—she was still outnumbered, and she was out of ideas. It didn’t take long for the survivors to start slipping around her furious attacks.
Someone stabbed her in the stomach. Another sliced a long ravine down her back. One asshole who she’d disarmed simply stomped down on her foot and then pushed her into the mud. She tried to stand up but got cracked in the skull.
Everything went white. Then blurry and full of spots.
“Crazy fucking bitch,” one of them muttered, moving to the side. He hefted his sword and swung down with a strike that was on course to cut her head clean off.
People generally try to avoid decapitation. But when your lungs are burning, your bones are broken, and there are half-a-dozen holes in your body, giving up and letting the darkness win becomes pretty fucking tempting.
When the blade is on its way, survival comes down to willpower.
Say one thing for Narova Blackhair, say she has a strong will.
Narova did a half roll, then swatted at the blade just enough so that the edge didn’t come down a kill her. Instead, the flat-side slammed into her shoulder blade. Not a killing stroke, but there was enough force to break flesh and bang against bone.
Felt like a frost spider had taken a big fucking bite out of her shoulder.
Narova grunted, then scooped a handful of blood from her stomach wound and threw it into the Thalmor’s face. His free hand went up to his eyes, Narova grabbed his sword.
Jammed it through his mouth so hard that teeth shot out the back and burrowed into the skull of the sap standing behind him.
An impossible amount of force.
“Fuck!” one of the Thalmor yelled. “Her tattoos are moving again. Run! Fucking run!”
The three survivors all split into different directions, but it didn’t matter. They were dead on their feet.
Narova activated every tattoo on her left arm. Blasted a shockwave into one Thalmor’s back that was so strong it tore him in half, then leveled the copse of pine trees he was running towards.
She hooked onto the other two runners—one with each hand—and slammed them together as hard as she could. Bone chips fell against the leaves like rain, and there was nothing left except a big splotch of red in the forest.
Narova wavered. Fell to her knees.