Introduction Note: I’ve been following this author’s stories for a while now. I actually found him on twitter as SkyrimProblems. His tweets are very entertaining (I suggest a follow). I figured since his stories are some my favorite Elder Scrolls fan fiction, then I should post them here. This specific story is the first of a fairly extensive continuing narrative of a Bosmer assassin for the Dark Brotherhood. The character, Narova Black Hair, is one of my favorites of all time. Now, please enjoy from The Tales of Narova Black Hair,
Of course Nazir gives me a bullshit assignment on my first contract. Doesn’t think a woman can handle herself, eh? I’ll show him. I’ll show them all. Astrid and the rest. They may have given me the armor—that supple black leather that fits my elf-skin like a glove—but I am not one of them yet.
Soon I will earn my place among them. With blood.
I walk over snow in the night. There should be a crunching noise, I know. There used to be. But the assassin’s boots I wear hide that somehow. I am as silent as the white flakes that fall on my shoulders, mingling with my black hair in a way I find oddly erotic. Can’t say why. Maybe the white mixed with black reminds me of that redguard warrior I had a fortnight ago. He was a decent enough lover, but dumber than a skeever.
Nazir sent me to kill some beggar who lives in Ivarstead. It was a six day ride from the sanctuary in the Pine Forest. I’m sure that’s part of my initiation as well—head out to the middle of fucking nowhere just to kill a flea ridden beggar who probably doesn’t even have the strength to get a hard-on.
My plan was to ride out in broad daylight and do him where everyone could see. Send a message: This sexy assassin isn’t afraid of anyone or anything. If you’re on her list, you’re as good as dead.
Thing was, the guards here remember me, even with the new getup, for a little scrape I got into last spring. I fucked a fat merchant staying at the inn and slit his throat right before he could spew his vile seed inside me. It was disgusting, but the bastard had almost three thousand septims on him.
Hey, a girl’s got to eat.
Anyway, let’s just say our “lovemaking” attracted some attention, and I had to leave this shithole town in a hurry. Haven’t been back in The Rift since.
One of the guards must have had a memory like a mage, because he spotted me right off and started shouting like big Nord idiot.
“You’re Narova Black Hair! You’re under arrest!”
Seriously, could their accents sound any dumber?
Three of his Nord butt-buddies were on me before I could so much as notch an arrow on my bow. I wasn’t about to take on four guards all by my lonesome, so I hightailed out of there and lost them in the wilderness. Looped around the far side of town after dark.
Bringing me here, crouched down behind a rock outcropping and watching the pathetic beggar pacing around his burnt-out shack of a home. I can take him from where I am with an arrow, but that’d be too easy. Sets a cowardly precedent for my long and furtive career as a merciless killer, too.
So I leave my bow and arrows in the snow, unsheathe the ebony dagger I stole from a drunken Imperial solider in Anvil, and start picking my way down the cliff face.
I stay low and small, wound up into a little black ball of death even Daedric prince wouldn’t see coming. Hop, hop, hop. The only sound is the light sigh of leather as my legs flex and unflex from the descent.
In half a minute I am on the ground, fifty feet from the beggar, who has his back to me and appears to be fully invested in dislodging the contents of his left ear.
Step, step, step. There is no snow on this ground, just wet mud. I move forward silently until I’m so close to the flea bag I can hear the sound of his finger digging out earwax.
I widen my stance and flex the fingers on my left hand.
Grab his mouth, slit his throat, I say to myself.
And then there’s a voice from across the river.
“What is that? Who’s there with you…NARFI LOOK OUT!”
Narfi-the-flea-ridden-fuck turns around, finger still in his ear. A stupid look in his eyes.
My clean kill is blown, but I’m not about to bungle the job any more than I already have, so I rear back and slam my dagger into the beggar’s ear, punching through that greasy finger and deep into his brain. He’s dead before his body hits the ground.
“Pick that out, why don’t you,” I say.
That blade is the most valuable thing I own, but it’s buried hilt-deep in the shit-pile’s skull and I don’t see it coming out very easy.
Plus, it’ll send a message. Not the one I’d planned on sending, but a message nonetheless.
“Guard! Guards! Somebody do something!” That same voice yells. I make a note of that sound in my head, because I’m coming back to kill that loud-mouth at a more convenient time.
I crouch down and head north along the water, losing myself in the shadows of the trees. There is a clatter nearby and I look across the river where a guard is already notching a second arrow on his bow. Two men are running up from behind him with swords drawn, heading for the bridge.
I forget the sneaking and bound for cover behind an outcropping.
Leap, leap, pain. Pain you wouldn’t believe.
An arrow gets me in the thigh, digging into the meat of my leg like a bolt of lightning. I don’t scream. I don’t make a damned noise. I collapse behind the rocks and catch my breath.
“She’s over there!” The guard who shot me yells. “Come around both sides, she’s trapped.”
“Fuck,” I mutter, nice and soft. A gentle whisper to myself. That’s all the time I give myself to panic.
Then I grab a handful of cold mud from the ground and press it over the arrow to stop the blood from dripping, pack it nice and tight.
I don’t want to use the invisibility potion, but there’s no other way. I pull it out of a pocket on my belt and gulp it down in two swallows.
Tastes like a mammoth’s asshole mixed with Falmer spunk.
The potion sits heavy in my belly for a moment and then spreads through my blood in a matter of seconds. And I’m invisible.
I hobble towards the rocks ahead, going as fast I can. Pull myself up on the boulders and move.
Climb, climb, climb.
“She’s not here. Where’d she go?!” I hear a guard yell, but I don’t look back, I keep climbing and counting.
Only thirty more seconds, got to keep going.
“Look around, look for blood. I definitely hit her. She can’t have gone far.” The bowman says in a world that’s so far behind me it might as well be a fairyland.
“…no blood…think you might have missed her.”
Ten more seconds. I pull myself up over one last cliff and roll towards a dark shadow in the cliff face.
And what do you know? That dark shadow turns out to be the mouth of a cave.
I roll down the short tunnel just as I feel the unapologetic weight of visibility return to my skin. For ten minutes I don’t move a muscle, just let my heartbeat return to normal and my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Listen for the sound of guards.
I don’t hear anything, but I can see the contents of the cave now.
A bedroll, a moldy piece of bread, and four bottles of Blackbriar mead. All of them are full.
I smile and uncork one, take a huge swig of the delicious liquid to shush the burning pain growing in my thigh. It’ll be an unpleasant night of digging out the arrow, but I’ll survive. And I’ve got a healthy supply of booze to help me along. Things could have gone better, but they could have gone a lot worse, too.
Call it beginner’s luck.