Adult-FanFiction.org : Games

Her Best Work In Red	By : Johnny-Topside Category: +A through F > Elder Scrolls - Skyrim Views: 30 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Skyrim or any of its characters. I do not profit from this work. Its in Ye Olde Format, but give it a chance, I swear it grows on you!

Chapter List
- 1-The Mad God and the Extreme Unlikelihood of Being
- 2-The Assassin and the Slight Inconvenience
- 1
- 2
Chapter 2: The Assassin and the Slight Inconvenience of Motherhood

1.

Having whiled away the day in a haze of spirits, as was oft her wont, Karin did with great flourish cast wide the timeworn door, its timber groaning. Yet, ere a dozen mirthful tales or jests could spring forth from her lips, they withered, for an oppressive stillness hung upon the air.

Her gaze fell upon Kahira, poised afore a canvas that leaned against the wall like a grim herald. A painting of a pale woman with raven hair, clad in the scarlet raiment of slaughter, loomed gleeful and victorious over a fallen form. He was elven, his golden tresses a shroud over ochre skin, his elegant visage twisted in death’s clasp, and scored by countless crimson gashes.

Karin steadied herself with a quiet breath. Her daughter seemed not to acknowledge her arrival yet. The corpse was “Shana”, another alias perchance, renowned as the Golden Wasp. Yet his true visage was a mystery to the masses. An Altmer so deft in weaving silken guise that he didst outshine her own fair charm. He was even more comely in the garb of womankind, she had once yielded ruefully. He had possessed a hidden treasure of Dibella’s grace, an elixir of longing painted on his fingernails, so potent it ensnared her with mere scratches, drawing her into his arms with a fervor most wild. Nay, ‘twere more just to proclaim that she didst hurl herself upon him time and again, with the fierce abandon she oft reserved for skooma and harlots.

“What curious art hast thou conjured upon this canvas, Kahira?” Her mother asked with great levity.

Kahira, steadfast as a stone afore her creation, turned not her eyes from the work.

“Tis a painting, Mother,” she intoned, her words steady. Karin loosed an easy scoff as feigned as a cheap mask.

“Aye, that I behold, thou clever chit. Yet what tale doth it weave? Some bloody fray, or perchance a wild whim of thy brush?”

Yet any who would gaze upon the scene would know the figure astride the corpse was Karin. There could be no shadow of doubt.

Kahira’s gaze, piercing beyond tender years, met her mother’s.

“Thou knowest full well its truth. ‘Tis thee, and him.”

“Him?” Karin questioned, cloaking herself in the guise of ignorance, though she had become keenly aware of her own heartbeat. “What ‘him’ dost thou prattle of?”

“My father,” Kahira proclaimed, her Breton features their own quiet accusation.

Karin’s spirit recoiled knowing she had finally to tell this tale. How had Kahira pierced this veil, when his name had never graced her tongue? Yet here he lay, immortalized by her daughter’s hand.

“Whence springeth this wild stab? What stireth thee to such a claim?”, she pressed, her tone gruff with mock scorn. “What maketh thee so cocksure?” Kahira’s shoulders lifted in a delicate motion.

“I feel it in my marrow. A shadow hath ever dwelt within me, thou knowest. I hath ever held a glimmer in my heart of what my hands doth paint once it is fully wrought. Even if I cannot ken the visage. When I set pigment to this cloth, ‘twas as if I gaze upon memory unveiled, not spun anew. Pray, who was he to thee?”

Karin’s throat tightened, pretense crumbling.

“Sit thee down, thou prying wench,” she grunted, gesturing to the table with a jerk of her chin. “I’ll spin thee a tale, as best my tongue may weave.”

They settled upon the oaken slab, the air thick and Karin crafted her recounting with cautious art, the words a tattered cloak to hide misshapen nakedness beneath.

“Thy sire was Altmeri, as thou might divine from thy fair visage and this image wrought. He was sly as a veiled whisper and mad for rare baubles and ancient mysteries. We banded once, pilfering a tome from a sacred temple. The deed turned foul, he sought my death, so I wrought his—plain as that. I’d not yield my breath so easily, would I?”

“So thou didst end him?”

“Aye, lass,” Karin muttered. “No shirking it. He raised blade against me, and I’d no taste for the grave.”

Kahira inclined her head, her voice a soft delving through the murk.

“Wherefore did he crave thy blood? What rift parted ye?”

Karin stumbled, the full filth too rank to lay bare.

“’Twas a clash, thou see…greedy knave sought the spoil for himself alone, and I stood in way,” she said, her words vague as mist over marsh.

“And afore that day?” Kahira urged, her tone a persistent quarry. “How camest thou to know him? Was there naught else betwixt ye?”

Karin’s grin was frail as a beggar’s crust.

“We were comrades in that venture, naught worth a bard’s tune. I kept this from thee, my dear, for it be a sorrowful tale, one I deemed unfit for thy tender years.”

Kahira’s gaze returned to the canvas, her voice cool.

“Thou lookest not sorrowful therein, Mother. More like thou savored the act.” Karin’s laugh erupted, a rough peal that shook the beams.

“Aye, perchance I did in the thick of it! Nothing sings sweeter than breathing when the other’s cold!”

Kahira’s silence stretched, her eyes returning to the canvas.

“I comprehend thy words,” she murmured at last, yet her quiet bore the weight of unasked questions. In answer Karin sprang to her feet, clapping her hands with a thunderous crack.

“Enough of this dismal drivel then! I’ll conjure us stew. Carrots, roots, perchance venison if my skill hath not waned. Art thou hungered, thou clever sprite?”

She marched to the hearth, the clang of pots raucous as she hacked a carrot with fierce resolve. Her eyes snagged on another canvas nearby. A sketch of a figure of whimsical madness, etched in bold charcoal lines. His wild eyes were full of mischief, they seemed to pursue her every step, a marvel of Kahira’s craft that unsettled even Karin’s nerves.

“By my heart, lass,” she bellowed over her shoulder, “this visage be quaintly wrought, with eyes that dance in madcap glee. As if he means to caper over my bones. Whence didst thou pluck this character?”

“I know not, Mother. It stole into my thoughts.” Her daughter replied with a reticence uncommon to her. “The eyes seemed apt for his folly.”

Karin studied the sketch, shrugging her shoulders.

“Aye, sweet as a rabid wolf. I cannot fathom whom he doth bring to mind. Perchance some witless fool I hath crossed paths with aforetime.”

She turned back to the cauldron, the food overpowering her troubled thoughts and with luck, those of Kahira as well. The lass’s gift brought coin but was this eve a thorn, pricking too nigh a past she’d sooner drown in ale.

The fragility of her tale was a gossamer veil too thin to shroud the chasms within. The aphrodisiac’s allure was such that it could cloud even her mind to lie with any man in fevered embrace. Even a mer whose artistry in painting his visage and donning womanly garb surpassed her own. After the fervor that begat Kahira, they fled into the wilderness, their triumph fleeting, for his dread of revelation turned treacherous. He had sought to safeguard his dual visage with her demise and a dagger poised in twilight’s veil. Karin had substituted his cherished aphrodisiac with a counterfeit afore, her clarity unclouded when his ardor faltered. She had ended him with a slow, cruel dance of a thousand cuts with his own elixir upon her blade. Kahira’s dissatisfaction with her mother’s hollow bluster was obvious; the lass saw through the gaps too vast to render sense, no question.

2.

The hearth’s glow cast a tender veil as Karin set the steaming bowls of stew upon the table, the scent rising pleasantly. The cauldron’s clamor had faded, yet air betwixt mother and daughter lingered thick, the paintings’ shadows looming still upon the walls. Kahira drew nigh and took her seat. Karin plunked down opposite, her dress settling like a storm-worn banner. Karin spooned a hearty morsel, her voice yet striving for warmth.

“Eat thy fill. ‘Tis a rare night I wield the ladle instead of the blade, and I’d not have thee waste my labor.”

Kahira lifted her spoon, her gaze flitting to her mother’s face ere dropping to the stew.

“My thanks,” she murmured, her tone softening. “Thou hast seasoned it well.”

Karin’s grin flickered, a rough bloom amid awkward stillness.

“Aye, perchance I’ve not lost all talent for hearthcraft, though I’d sooner gut foe than stir pot. Dost thou find it to thy liking, or be it too coarse for thy dainty palate?”

Kahira took a measured sip, her lips pursing briefly. “’Tis hearty, and that sufficeth. I’ve no complaint, save it wanteth a touch more herb.” Karin barked a laugh.

“Herbs, sayest thou? Next thou’lt have me pluckin’ nirnroot to garnish thy supper, thou finicky wench! ‘Tis meat and muck, as befits my brood! Take it or starve.”

Kahira’s mouth twitched, a faint shadow of mirth, yet her eyes held a question.

“Mother,” she ventured, her voice softening, “art thou yet bound forth this night, to leave me solitary once more? After all which hath been?”

Karin’s spoon paused midair as she met her daughter’s gaze.

“Aye, lass, I venture out with Erik, as oft I do. Our roaming’s be not mere caprice. Together we ward this sodden hamlet from dangers that prowl its bounds, be they man or beast. ‘Tis our toil that keepeth Rorikstead hale, and more, it setteth bread upon this table for thee and me.”

“Be it so needful, then? Doth it truly profit us, thy dangerous ventures with Erik?”

Karin leaned back, her grin crooked with pride.

“Tis true, it filleth not our coffers as thy painted wonders might. Thy brush doth conjure coin where my knife’s edge doth but scrape it. Yet I bear some mother’s pride in my labor. To provide, to cook for thee now and then, ‘tis a joy I claim. I’d not have thee think me wholly a drunken wastrel, leavin’ all to thy talents.”

Kahira’s gaze softened, though a flicker of doubt lingered.

“I meant no slight, Mother.   Doth it please thee, this roaming, or be it but duty?”

Karin’s laughter softened into something more authentic.

“’Tis a wilder song than stirrin’ stew, I’ll grant thee. With Erik at hand, ‘tis a dance of steel and peril that quicken the blood. Yet ‘tis duty too, for thee, for this roof over our heads. I’d not trade it for quiet hearth, but nor would I leave thee wantin’.”

Kahira nodded, her spoon tracing circles in the broth as silence fell anew, a truce betwixt them at least. Karin stirred her meal and pondered the night ahead, where blade and banter would once more claim her, leaving the hearth’s peace to her daughter’s keeping.

The former assassin did her best to banish thoughts from mind as she filled her mouth with more stew.

Meanwhile, the likeness of the unnamed mad god watched the twain as they ate their meal, its grin insane yet full of knowing, as if privy to the secrets mother and daughter kept veiled.

3.

Beneath the silvery glow of a swollen moon, a Forsworn brigand knelt behind a weathered stone rampart, his breath heavy with the fumes of crude spirits and the stagnant air of the Briarheart encampment.

"By the grace of Hircine," he murmured, pressing fingers to his tired eyes.

The night draped the ruins in a tapestry of shadow and light, and there, amidst the stillness, he beheld her, a vision of ethereal beauty, unclothed, her skin as pale as alabaster, her raven-black tresses cascading like a midnight river. She moved with ghostly grace down the corridor of ancient stone, her bare feet silent.

"Is this a specter born of the void?" he whispered, his heart a drumbeat in his chest. He hastened back to the tent of hides where his comrades slumbered. "Arise, you indolent rogues!" he cried, seizing the nearest. "A lady fair and bare as the dawn wanders yonder!"

The other one groaned, batting him away.

"Cease thy prattle, thou art besotted once more. Perchance thou hast glimpsed thine own shadow in a pool, fool that thou art."

"Upon my mother’s honor, I swear she is no illusion!" He retorted, yet his fellows merely turned aside, muttering disdain. "Very well, languish here base curs." Clutching his axe, he ventured forth anew, his pulse a thunderous rhythm as he traced her path. She seemed to float onward, her form a beguiling silhouette.

"Fair phantom, whither dost thou glide?" he called, his voice tremulous. She offered no reply, merely drifting beyond a corner. With a breath of resolve, he pursued, his boots echoing.

The passage narrowed, shadows weaving a cloak about the waning moonlight. He rounded the bend, and there she stood, her pallid countenance radiant and near.

"Hircine’s hairy-" he began, but his words perished as a dagger, swift and keen, pierced his eye. Pain blossomed and he fell lifeless, his blood a dark river upon the stones.

Beyond the camp, the night unfurled in tumult. Three more Forsworn emerged, primitive weapons ready, drawn by the spectral maiden weaving through the grove.

"Behold her elegance!" one chortled, blind to the snare laid before them.

A cry rent the stillness as Erik the Slayer sprang from the verdure, a mighty figure. In his third decade, his countenance bore beard of fiery red, hair flowing like a banner, clad in armor etched with the scars of battle. He wielded his two-handed sword with masterful grace.

"Greetings, ye vile goat lovers!" he roared, his blade descending to sever the first’s head in a crimson arc. The second charged, only to meet Erik’s iron-shod heel and the fatal kiss of steel through his frame.

The third stood transfixed as the lady Karin emerged nude from the shadows. She was nearing forty summers, yet was a tempest of ferocity, pale blue eyes alight with wild fervor.

"Hark, thou gawping swine!" she cried jaggedly. "Feast thine eyes ye shitting cur, for ‘tis thy final sight!" With twin blades she struck, and the last Forsworn fell, his lifeblood upon the sod.

Erik cleansed his blade upon a fallen foe, his breathing heavy.   Karin in turn cast a gobbet of spittle to the ground, spinning knife in hand.

"Verily, Karin, thou art still a gale of splendor. Thy ruse was a verse of exquisite cunning."

"Well said, thou crimson-maned gallant. These wretches knew not the doom that awaited." She regarded him with a tilt of her head. "Thou wieldest that grand blade with no small skill, I’ll grant thee."

Erik smiled in return, a hand upon his beard.

"Thy praise doth warm me, lady. Might I propose a union of our talents, perchance enduring?" His tone bore jest, yet his gaze lingered with earnest intent.

Karin laughed at that, a sound sharp and hearty.

"Thou art a charming soul, thou great oaf, yet my heart strays not to men’s shores. I’d sooner embrace a beast of the wilds, with no slight to thee." She struck his shoulder in camaraderie. "Still, thou art a stalwart companion in battle. Shall we plunder these fallen and toast our triumph?"

Erik’s laugh rang out in return, tinged with a flush of chagrin.

"So be it, thou fierce spirit. Lead on."

Together they stepped over the vanquished, the night enfolding their path, a quiet tension blooming amidst the silence.

4.

Karin cast herself upon her bed and there she slumbered deep into the morrow’s light, leaving her daughter to fend alone. As oft was her custom. When at last she stirred her bones, Kahira was once more at her craft, her brush dancing over canvas. Her spirit seemed lifted high, as dawn after tempest. The painting of her sire and dam, that grim tableau of blood, lay mercifully veiled and banished from sight.

The humble dwelling mother and daughter claimed was a trove of mismatched relics. Its air suffused with delicate fragrance of Dragon’s Tongue oil and the gentle labor of her daughter. Karin took a moment to appreciate the daughter she had somehow wrought from vile follies.

The maiden, still in bloom of youth knelt upon weathered planks, her ashy blonde tresses spilling as she adorned canvas with vibrant pigments. Karin pulled a blue dress over her wiry form, its fabric bearing faint dignity of partial care, its hue yet resolute. She set the sack of plundered Foresworn spoils by the threshold.

“Verily, Kahira, thou dost wield thy brush as a warrior his blade,” Karin proclaimed, her voice earnest with maternal pride as she donned her gloves over hands etched with scars. “Pursue this craft, my child. Paint the realm in hues of flame and tempest if it please thee. A rare gift doth reside within thy soul, and I shall be thrice cursed ere I permit it to wither.”

Kahira lifted her gaze, her countenance a delicate blend of bashful honor and gentle weariness.

“‘Tis but a humble endeavor,” said she modestly. As her mother afore her, she was no novice to weaving falsehoods. “A pastime to while away the hours when thou art abroad in thy tumultuous pursuits.”

Karin settled upon a creaking stool, retrieving a phial from the folds of her dress and partaking of its fiery contents ere she leaned forth, her elbows resting upon her knees.

“Humble, forsooth? Nay, thou dost conjure beauty from the void. Now, speak true, my spirited one. What of the lads in this hamlet? Doth any among them stir thy heart or set thy pulse aflutter with their glances or deeds?”

Kahira’s cheeks bloomed with color and she daubed a streak of cerulean upon her canvas with a restless hand.

“There’s naught to tell. I’ve met no lad that interests me. They’re all brash or dull as stones, and I’d sooner tend my paints than chase after them.”

Karin’s laughter swelled, a rich and melodious peal that reverberated through the rafters.

“A lass after mine own spirit! Let them languish then, unworthy of thy regard. Yet should a maiden’s grace kindle thy affections, so be it! I shall herald thy choice with joy, be she bold or gentle. Love is a wild and wayward force, heed not its bearer, so long as it ring true.” Her smile unfurled, a crooked arc. “Yet pray, spare me tale of wooing an Argonian! I’d needs draw a boundary there, thou impish sprite.”

Kahira’s eyes rolled heavenward, a faint smile blossoming as she tended her canvas with care.

“By the Divines, Mother, thy tongue doth run most foul. I’m content as I am. Neither lads nor lasses claim my fancy, only these hues and I.”

Karin’s smile softened her fierce visage.

“Aye, and Mephala and the Nine and whomever else be praised for thy steadiness, Kahira. Thou art a beacon of reason beside me. I was a shrieking tempest at thy age. Thou art a finer soul than I shall ever claim.”

She rose, stretching her lithe frame, and turned to the sack by the door, unveiling a grim harvest. Forsworn daggers encrusted with the stains of past carnage, pendants of bone adorned with teeth, a silver ring dulled by time’s passage.

“These I reaped from the fallen upon the ridge,” she declared, hefting the sack with practiced ease. “They shall fetch a fair coin at market, sufficient to sustain us anon.”

She lingered by the portal, her thoughts drifting. Here she and her daughter were known as Snow-Fell, mayhaps a lazy deception, but effective. Rorikstead had once reviled her, the boisterous maelstrom, her true name a malediction upon their lips, her loud and reckless fury a blight upon their fields. Now, they bore her presence with reluctant sufferance, their scorn tempered to muted nods, and she knew Erik’s steadfast shadow loomed large in that transformation. His quiet honor was a bulwark against their enmity, rendering her a fixture where once she was a scourge.

Her fingers traced the notched edge of a dagger. Only for Kahira’s sake had she wrested herself from the narcotic haze of skooma and the sanguinary rapture of visiting torment and death on others that once sated her leisure. Each day a battle against the siren call of old vices, yet the mantle of exemplar for her daughter had made victory near certain. Her frame was a vessel weathered by tempests, her scars a cartography of a life roared too loudly. Yet within lingered assassin and bandit and unhinged wretch. Wild, unrepentant of a crimson tide of gore no flagon could quell. She drank to dim it, yet that essence endured beneath her faded veneer.

“Mother?” Kahira’s voice pierced the stillness, her gaze lifting from her canvas with a tilt of curiosity. “Art thou well?”

Karin blinked, her grin returning like dawn’s first light.

“Aye, child, merely wandering the halls of memory. Paint on, I venture to the tavern for a draught or five, to cleanse the dust from my throat.” She adjusted the sack, her voice falling to a murmur as she turned. “The past doth not yield to burial, yet I shall endeavor to drown it again for an eve.”

The door sighed as she pressed it open, stepping underneath a blue and untroubled sky and trod the path with purpose, her daughter’s serene rationality a radiant ember against shadow. The first drink would sear, the fifth would haze, and betwixt them, she would grapple with the specter of her former self, loud, and ever unbowed.

5.

The marketplace of Rorikstead was a modest assembly of stalls indeed. Only three in truth. Karin sauntered along the road to its bounds.

To linger in melancholy and introspection ill-suited to her, a soul tempered in blood and organs and ribald mirth. In times past, she would have scorned such ponderings as the refuge of feeble-hearted bards. The regard of others? Beneath her notice, especially that of a man like Erik. In the days of her former self, she would have deemed him a simpleton ripe for exploitation and cozened gold and drink from him, beguiled him for her own ends, and dangled the lure of her embrace like a mirage, her laughter a cruel jest as he pursued a phantom she’d never yield.

That erstwhile Karin also would have proclaimed this tranquil existence a vicious punishment from the Divines. Rorikstead’s placidness, its lethargic residents, for a lifetime?   A fate worse than a blade in the guts. This serenity, this constancy, and Erik’s unwavering presence had woven a subtle grace into her, and more vitally, into Kahira. The maiden’s calm heart blossomed here unmarred by scarlet veil of Karin’s yesteryears. It was a prison the assassin had never sought, yet one she no longer yearned to be released from.

She approached the stall of Britte, whose voice bore the edge of her wares’ cost. She was wedded, somehow, and had all the mirth and ardor of a fish long cold in death’s embrace. Such was her beguiling nature that her twin sister had hied herself to Winterhold the moment she came of age. In days gone by, Karin might have sought to rouse her to the charms of womankind, yet in a hamlet so scant as Rorikstead, such were a deed too foolish even for one so bold as she.

Britte surveyed the sack’s contents as Karin spilled them forth upon the counter, the chime of bone and metal eliciting a frown.

“More of thy barbarous gleanings, I see,” the woman observed brusquely. “What value dost thou place upon this trove?”

“Sufficient to sate my thirst and provision my kin,” Karin replied. Her gaze alighted upon a delicate silver brooch gleaming amidst Britte’s wares, ripe for pilfering. The ancient urge flickered. On its heels a persuasive whisper that the brooch would suit Kahira well.

Instead, she let a septim slip betwixt her fingers, watching it dance beneath the stall. “Alas, my grasp doth falter,” she lamented.

Britte sighed, stooping to retrieve the errant coin, her frame straining the fabric of her garb. Karin inclined her head, a lascivious smirk blooming as she savored the spectacle, her gaze lingering upon the woman’s contours.

“Hold thy coin more firmly, thou rogue,” Britte chided, arising and casting the septim back. “Ninety for the bounty, accept it or be gone.”

“So be it,” Karin acquiesced, tucking the payment away as attention snared upon Willik, a youth of dim wit, laboring with sacks nearby. Memory surged of Kahira’s hushed recounting of his rough jests, his claim of mere sport when pressed. Karin had whispered a vivid promise that could never be repeated aloud, and he had shunned Kahira thenceforth. Now, she approached with a stride of intent, her smile broadening into feral crescent.

“Willik, thou lumbering oaf,” she hailed, her voice a cheerful clarion that turned heads. “Dost thou yet stumble over thine own limbs in pursuit of my Kahira?”

The lad recoiled, his pallid face blanching as a sack slipped from his grasp. “I’ve wrought no ill! I swear it by the Nine!” His words quavered, eyes darting in frantic plea.

She drew nigh, her presence looming, and lowered her voice to a whisper.

“Stray not from it, lest I bind thee by thy vitals for the crows’ banquet.” She struck his shoulder as if in fellowship yet with force enough to unsteady him, then pivoted back to Britte with winsome laughter, leaving Willik quaking in her wake.

The coins jingled in her purse as she drifted from the stall, her step enlivened by the sport. She cast an eye toward the tavern’s aged ensign. Once, she’d have razed this hamlet for mere caprice, but now ‘twas her only place in the world.

6.

Quaffing spirits at the tavern did not to banish Karin’s melancholy. Nay, the visage of Reldith robbed her of the drink’s solace. She swore to herself ‘twas naught but vexation, Britte lay beyond her grasp as forbidden fruit, and Rorikstead’s scant offerings yielded no other bounty for her. Yet wherefore did her thoughts stray to Erik whenever her eyes fell upon the elven matron? Reldith, catching Karin’s stare, and wearied by such glances through the years, bestowed upon her a scowl. Karin raised her tankard in toast.

She discovered herself in the uncommon plight of returning home with her wits but lightly clouded and coin yet nestled within her pouch. Thus did she set herself to instructing Kahira in the knife. Erik loomed nigh, ever ready to undo her teachings with endless discourse of a warrior's virtues. They sparred on a rise just short walk from their modest house.

A breeze rustled the grass, carrying the faint musk of wild flowers, as Karin, her dress hitched to her knees, gripped dagger in hand. Kahira faced her, a slender sapling ‘gainst her mother’s storm-hewn oak, clutching a smaller blade with resolve bordering on arrogance.

“Hold thy blade thus,” Karin commanded, raising it to demonstrate. “Grip it firm, as if ‘twere a lover thou’d not let flee, yet keep thy wrist loose to dance with the steel. ‘Tis not brute force alone that fells a foe.”

Kahira adjusted her stance, her fingers tightening ‘round the hilt, her eyes fixed upon her mother’s hands.

“I strive to heed thee, yet the blade sitteth foreign in my grasp, as a brush doth not.”

Karin’s grin bloomed, a garland of mirth.   Her daughter possessed greater skill than she avowed; this was but one of her stratagems.

“Aye, ‘tis no brush to paint thy pretty visions, thou tender sprout! This be a fang for the fray, and I’ll yet teach thee its bite. Should a cur come at thee, aim not for his heart straightway, for that be guarded well. Strike low, where he thinketh not. Slash the meat of his thigh, or better, kick his jewels to the heavens afore he knoweth thy intent.”

Kahira’s cheeks flushed, though her lips twitched with faint amusement.

“Such counsel be foul,” she murmured, “yet I see its merit. Doth it truly avail in a brawl?”

“’Tis filth that saveth thy hide, thou guileless dove, not sparkling honor! A dagger’s edge be even fairer with words to still or enrage a temper. Thrust swift, twist deep, and if he seize thee, drive thy knee where his male pride doth strut and he’ll cry like a whelp.” She stepped closer, her shadow falling over Kahira as she raised a hand. “Come, try it now. Pretend me thy foe.”

Kahira hesitated, then lunged, her blade darting low as Karin sidestepped with nimble grace.

“Well struck, thou crafty minx!” Karin crowed. “Yet hear this too. The wilds teem with saber cats and bears, and no prattling word swayeth their maws. A jest won’t spare thee their fangs, nor shield thee from men with roving hands who’d clutch a lass like thee for their sport.”

Kahira lowered her blade, her brow creasing with thought.

“Erik hath taught me afore. He speaketh of strength in battle, of standing resolute and wielding prowess to fell a foe.”

Karin’s eyes sharpened with a glint of judgment as she glanced at Erik, who stood vigilant yet endeavoring to feign innocence.

“Erik’s teachings be stout, thou see. Might and mastery suit a hulking ox like him. Yet thou hast not the brawn for such deeds. His arts be not for thy frame. Thy strength lieth in the quick and canny, not the clash of giants. A small wisp of a lass must dance ‘round her foe, not stand to trade blows.”

Kahira nodded, her grip tightening anew as she raised her dagger.

“Let me learn thy shadowed arts then Mother, that I may stand ‘gainst beast or man.”

“So be it, thou eager spark! Mark this! Should a bear rear up, dodge its swipe and plunge thy blade ‘neath its ribs, where the hide be soft. For a saber cat, cast dirt to blind its glare afore thou strike, and for a lecherous dog, feign a falter to draw him nigh, then bury thy blade in his gut. Thus doth a slight maid prevail, by guile, not girth.” She beckoned Kahira forward. “Again! Come at me with all thy cunning, and let’s see if thou canst topple thy old dam yet!”

Kahira sprang forth, her blade a flicker of silver as Karin parried with a laugh. Erik stepped nearer, his eyes alight with amusement.

“What be these shadowed arts she speakest of, Karin? Canst thou teach them unto me?”

Karin wheeled to face him, smile still upon lips.

“Thou wouldst learn my arts, thou great lumbering bear? If I had time enough to live ‘til I be a withered husk, perchance I’d school thee! ‘Tis a craft of sly steps not fit for thy habits. Yet mayhap a taste of it would sharpen thy edges, eh?”

“A taste, then, ere thou shrivel, lest I grow dull in thy shadow.” Karin clapped his shoulder.

“Patience, I’ve a lass to train afore I waste guile on thee!” She turned back to Kahira, her eyes ablaze. “Once more, show thy fangs!”

The hill rang with Karin’s raucous bellows for an hour, a tapestry of mother’s lessons and comrade’s jests, woven ‘gainst the cruel and wild threats of the world beyond. Later as sun dipped low over the grassy hill, Eric took his turn, his broad frame an unyielding anchor against the evening breeze. With steady hands he tutored Kahira in the ways of the sword, its heft a challenge she met with a grimace and a glint in her eyes,

“Hold thy stance firm, lass,” Erik advised, his voice a warm current as he corrected her grip. “The blade’s thy shield as much as thy claw.”

Kahira nodded, then feinted a faltering swing, letting the sword fall to the grass with a dull thud. In an instant, she surged forward, dagger pulled from belt and aimed at Erik’s ribs with a grin. Erik’s laughter boomed, rich and unrestrained, as he caught her mid-charge, twirling her into a hearty embrace.

“By the Divines, thou’rt thy mother’s daughter!” he exclaimed, tousling her hair as she laughed, her arms encircling his waist. From the hill’s crest, Karin observed atop a large stone, her heart swelling with…affection? No shame did dwell in it.

Erik had come into her life when she was heavy with Kahira, a lone rogue with a swollen belly and a snarl for any who dared approach. Kahira was Karin’s alone, born of a man whose name remained unspoken, a specter consigned to oblivion.

Yet he lingered, fed them, shielded them, raised Kahira as if she were his own. Had Eric been born with a woman’s gifts, Karin would have claimed him to her bed long aforetime, with unyielding grasp, and had he faltered, she’d have hunted him with ardor a thousandfold beyond any flame he’d e’er kindled toward her. ‘Twas a cruel jest of the Divines, or perchance a caprice of the Daedric powers, that she should find so tender a mirror to her soul in a form that stirred her not. Fate delighted in naught so much as to heap great steaming shit ‘pon her whensoe’er it could.

His goodness gnawed at her, a quiet accusation that he loved her merely for her presence, a fixture he was too loyal to abandon. She loathed herself for clinging to his light when she ought to set it free. What tenderness might he glean from one as rough as she? He could scarce hope for aught more from her, even in this hour.

That night, after a simple meal of broth and bread, they sat by the hearth in their small home, the fire’s embers casting gentle glow. Kahira’s chatter faded into yawns until she shuffled off to her bed, leaving Karin and Erik in the stillness. She nudged his arm, a smirk playing on her lips.

“Thou’rt an addled soul, teaching her such tricks. She’ll skewer thee yet, mark my words.”

“Aye, and I’d praise her for it.” He grinned, his eyes crinkling. He stood, moving behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders. “Let me ease thee, Karin.” His fingers pressed, firm and practiced, unraveling the tension in her muscles. Once, such gestures repelled her. She could not believe them so soft and sincere. Now, she leaned into them, relishing a comfort she’d grown to cherish.

“Thy turn, thou great lout,” she murmured, turning to face him. Her hands slipped into his crimson strands, fingers weaving, massaging his scalp with a tenderness foreign to her nature. He sighed, a low, pleased sound, his eyes drifting shut.

“Thou enjoyest that, eh?” she teased, but her expression darkened. This, stroking his damned hair, was the extent of her gift to him. A meager offering, a shadow of what he craved. She’d pondered, at times, easing him with a hand’s touch, but no man rests content with such scraps. Erik would, though; he’d smile and feign satisfaction, and that would be a torment to both.

His breath grew even, head sinking as slumber overtook him. A faint snore escaped his lips. From Kahira’s room drifted her own snores. She kept her fingers in his hair, tracing idle paths, her gaze fixed on his rugged face.

“Thou’rt too fine for this half-lived bond, ye fool,” she whispered, words lost to his dreams. The fire waned, and she lingered there, tethered to them both in the hushed night.

7.

The tavern in Rorikstead thrummed with the usual dulcet murmur of its handful of wayfarers and villagers. Karin, her strange eyes agleam with intent and quiet desperation, wove through the assemblage. She descried Reldith seated at a secluded table, the tawny Altmer farmer cradling her wine with the air of one who longed for solitude. Middle-aged now, her golden locks threaded with silver, Reldith still bore an aura of dignity that cast Karin’s rough-hewn demeanor into sharp relief.

“Greetings, thou refined lady of grace,” Karin declared, depositing a brimming tankard of mead before Reldith with a smile that unveiled a gallery of worn teeth. “Pray, partake of this, a gift from mine own purse. Methinks a tiller of the soil such as thee might welcome a draught to ease thy burdened spirit.”

Reldith’s lips pursed, her amber gaze narrowing as she regarded the offering with patent disdain.

“Ever the uncouth soul Karin. I suppose I owe thee gratitude for not dousing me with it this time. What scheme dost thou weave now, thou inebriate harbinger of discord?”

Karin’s laughter rang forth, a hearty peal, as she straddled a chair in reverse.

“Verily, I bear a proposition most rare, Reldith. Lend me thine ear. Envision thee, myself, and Erik, the crimson-maned warrior with his mighty blade, entwined in amorous tryst. A night of passion. Thou couldst serve as my surrogate, for my heart inclines solely toward the fairer sex. Yet Erik harbors an ardent fancy for me, and I beseech thee to render this service in my stead.”

Reldith’s goblet halted midway to her lips, her countenance a portrait of astonishment.

“Thou dost entreat me to share a bed with thy sellsword companion? By the Eight, Karin, this is a depth unbecoming even of thee. If thy desire be to lie with me, forswear this charade and speak plainly.”

“Nay, thou lofty dame, misconstrue me not!” Karin countered, leaning nigh, her voice a fervent whisper. “Behold Erik, youthful, vigorous, his limbs as robust as ancient oaks, his form a marvel to behold. A prize most worthy, dost thou not agree? Yet I, a devotee of womankind, find no solace in such pursuits. Alas, he clings to me as ivy to stone. I have endeavored to bestow him upon others. Tavern maids, courtesans, even a priestess of fair countenance, yet he remains steadfast, his gaze ever upon me.”

Reldith placed her goblet upon the table with measured precision, her arms folding in quiet judgment.

“Thus, thou hast devised this fanciful contrivance that I might slake his yearning whilst thou dost sate thine own? Spare me thy guile, Karin. If thy affection for him be true, wherefore dost thou not yield to him thyself?”

Karin’s mirth wavered, and she raked a hand through her tangled mane, her stature diminishing.

“Reldith, ‘tis not so simple a matter! I cherish him betwixt a brother’s bond and a lady’s ardent flame. He is too noble for one such as I, marred by scar and bedlam. I know well I should release him to some gentle soul, yet after these many years, my heart is a selfish captor. I cannot relinquish him. This path alone permits me to grant him proximity to my essence without rending our bond.”

A pregnant silence unfurled betwixt them, the tavern’s clamor a distant echo. Reldith sighed, her stern visage softening as she beheld Karin’s weathered features.

“Thou art a fool, Karin. If thy soul doth bend so toward him, why not embrace him wholly? This surrogate folly is but a craven’s refuge.” Karin scoffed, yet her eyes shimmered.

“Me, lie with Erik? ‘Twould be as coupling with mine own kin—too strange a deed. I’d sooner lie with a hagraven. But thou, Reldith, thou art steadfast, adorned with elven poise he’d fair worship. I might…partake without shattering us. I beseech this of thee as a boon, thou austere lady. For him. For me.”

The quiet lingered. Reldith exhaled, her gaze drifting to the tankard, then returning to Karin.

“Thou art a tempest of ruin, Karin, yet I’ve seldom witnessed such tenderness from thee. Curse thee for it.” She pressed a hand to her brow, then murmured, “So be it. I shall accede. Once, and solely as a mercy to ye twain. Should this venture falter, I shall claim thy hide as recompense.”

Karin’s visage bloomed into a crooked smile, and she struck Reldith’s shoulder with vigor. “Thou art a veritable paragon, thou elven wench. Erik shall owe thee a harvest’s bounty for this. And I? My debt to thee is greater still.”

She lifted her own vessel, her tone softening nigh imperceptibly. “To our wayward fellowship, aye?”

Reldith offered no smile, yet she raised her goblet in kind, sealing their curious accord amidst the flickering glow.

8.

That night twilight descended upon Reldith’s humble abode like a silken veil, fragrant with the bouquet of hay and the fields beyond. Within, a lantern cast golden radiance across the chamber, bathing the trio seated about in warm embrace. Karin, her eyes agleam with restless zeal, reclined with a flagon of wine clasped. Erik, locks of ardent crimson cascading over shoulders broad as the forge’s anvil, sat ensconced in his armor, taut with expectancy. Reldith, her sun-gilded flesh a testament to years of toil, perched with stately poise, her gaze upon her guests tempered with reserve.

“Pray, how prosper thy fields this season, fair Reldith?” Erik ventured as he accepted a chalice from Karin’s proffered hand.

“They prosper well enough,” Reldith replied, sipping the ruby vintage. “The soil yields what it may, though I misdoubt it concerns thee overmuch this eve.”

Karin’s laughter blossomed, rich and earthy, as she poured herself an over generous measure.

“Verily, a discourse most charming! Yet let us not dissemble! We gather here with purpose plain. I propose we partake of this nectar ‘til our spirits rise to elation, eschewing inebriation. Let it unbind our reticence.” She lifted her chalice in a flourish of mock ceremony, her smile audacious.

The wine flowed freely, and though a flush of warmth suffused their visages, ponderous quietude lingered. Reldith toyed with her chalice, Erik adjusted his vambrace with restless fingers, and Karin’s forbearance frayed.

“Shall we linger here as timid doves, or embrace our intent!?” she exclaimed, her chalice striking the table. “I shall undertake this venture myself!” She arose with grandeur, seizing Erik by the arm. “Stand, thou noble warrior of fiery mane,” she decreed, her deft hands unfastening his armor and divesting him of his tunic. The iron fell with clangorous hymn, unveiling his sculpted frame, a canvas of sinew and scars wrought by valor.

“Behold, Reldith! Let thine eyes drink deep of this vision. Is he not a marvel?”

Reldith’s cheeks bloomed with a deeper hue, her gaze flitting to Erik’s form ere darting aside.

“Thou art boldness incarnate, Karin,” she murmured, her grip tightening upon her chalice.

Karin’s lips curved in a knowing arc as she approached.

“Aye, and thou art next, O lady of grace. Wilt thou permit me?”

With Reldith’s reluctant assent, Karin’s dexterous fingers moved, unfurling the Altmer’s modest vestments to reveal her sun-kissed form, still lithe from seasons of labor. Reldith folded her arms, her eyes averted as the scrutiny of Erik and Karin bore upon her.

“May the Divines shield me,” Reldith whispered, “to stand so bared before ye twain.”

Erik shifted, his countenance yet unstirred by passion’s call. Undaunted, Karin cast aside her own tattered raiment, letting it cascade to the floor in a heap. Her pallid flesh gleamed liked moonlight in the lantern’s glow as she stood unabashed before Erik. The vigor of days spent clashing and fleeing yet lingered in her limbs, unyielded wholly to repose, and though scars wove jagged tales ‘cross her frame, her bosom yet held firm, she deemed.

“Behold Erik, all this I offer for our cause,” she declared, then turned to Reldith with a gentler timbre. “Fear not, fair one. I shall not compel thee beyond thy desire. This is for all our sake, is it not?”

With a sprightly grace, Karin flitted about Reldith’s unveiled form, her fingers grazing the Altmer’s skin in a delicate dance, her grin blossoming.

“Come, ye twain, bestow upon each other a kiss!” she entreated, her voice lilting. She interposed herself betwixt them, orchestrating their convergence.

Erik inclined toward Reldith, his lips meeting hers, his gaze fixed upon Karin over the Altmer’s shoulder. His hands wandered, one tracing the contours of Reldith, the other brushing Karin in tender homage. Reldith tensed, then yielded to the embrace, her breath a sigh as Karin pressed nigh behind her, a conspiratorial warmth against her spine.

“Thou art a wonder, my indomitable flame,” Erik intoned, his words a velvet cascade over Reldith’s lips, though crafted for Karin, his voice laden with ardent yearning. Karin, now reclining beneath Reldith upon the furs strewn across the floor, gazed upward with rare and luminous softness.

“Aye, my valiant one,” she breathed, “cherish her as thou wouldst me, let it be a union sweet and profound.”

Erik joined with Reldith, his hands cradling her as he moved, his eyes ever tethered to Karin’s. Reldith gasped, her voice a soft reverberation to his fervor.

“Thou dost weave words most fair,” she murmured, answering Erik’s declarations of love and desire, though they were spun for another. Karin’s hands roamed Reldith’s contours from below, her voice rising in a tender litany.

“Aye, Erik, bestow upon her all thy fire, let her know the depths I’d have thee plumb in my stead.”

Reldith’s breath faltered, her hands clutching the furs as Erik’s cadence hastened, his thrusts waxing more resolute, the rhythmic union of their flesh a primal song in the flickering glow.

“Thou dost proclaim me thy muse,” she gasped, her voice a tremulous thread woven with rapture, answering Erik’s words. “Thy fervor…it doth engulf me!.”

Erik’s hands ascended, cradling Reldith’s visage as he inclined to bestow upon her a kiss both tender and fierce, his gaze steadfast upon Karin’s wild eyes gleaming from beneath.

“Aye, my beloved,” he breathed, his loins undulating in a ceaseless, ardent tide, his breath a warm gust o’er her flesh, “thou art the maelstrom I would brave, the blade I would wield. Every tremor of thee doth mirror mine own desire.”

Karin shut fast her eyes, her spine arching like a bowstring drawn taut, and loosed a gasp in harmony with Reldith’s own. Unable to endure the sight, Erik leaned to claim her lips, yet Karin turned her visage aside, granting him naught but the curve of her ear. Their gazes entwined, and hers, with a silent gesture, pointed to the elven dame betwixt them, as if she were a bulwark raised ‘gainst his ardor. Karin’s smile unfurled, her ivories glinting as she shifted beneath Reldith, her hands descending to clasp the Altmer’s thighs, parting them wider to receive Erik.

“Thus, thou ardent soul, strike true! She doth receive thee as a sovereign, doth she not?” Her voice grew husky. “Each plunge is as though thou dost reach through her unto me. Cease not, I beseech thee.”

The air grew dense with sweat, the lantern’s shadows pirouetting across their entwined form. Erik’s broad shoulders flexing with each thrust, Reldith’s lithe form beneath him, and Karin’s limbs threading across them like a tether. Reldith’s cries swelled as Erik’s rhythm ascended to a fervent apogee, his breath labored.

“By the grace of the Divines,” she whispered, voice fracturing, “thou dost rend me with thy passion! Speak more, I entreat thee!” Erik’s grasp tightened upon Reldith’s hips, his thrusts now a current, each ingress resounding with the wet cadence of their union.

“Thou art mine eternity, my fierce and untamed spirit,” he rasped, his words to Karin, though they cascaded over Reldith’s quaking form. “I wouldst entomb myself within thee ‘til the heavens dim! Feel me, my soul’s own radiant flame.” He shuddered, a low groan escaping as he buried himself to the hilt, his ardor cresting in a torrent of heat that pulsed within Reldith’s embrace.

Karin’s hands ascended, encircling Reldith’s bosom as she pressed her cheek to the Altmer’s back, her voice fervent.

“Aye, thou dost grant her all, dost thou not? Fill her with thy essence, my valiant one! Let her bear what I would claim of thee.”

Her fingers teased Reldith’s taut peaks, eliciting a whimper as the sensations converged, Erik’s unyielding vigor above, Karin’s ardent caress below. Reldith’s cry soared, her form seizing as ecstasy overmastered her, clasping Erik’s manhood in a trembling rapture.

“Thy words… thy touch…” she panted. They unravel me…I am undone by thee.”

Erik followed, a moan tearing from his depths as he released within her, his hips faltering as he rode the tide of his culmination, his gaze ever bound to Karin’s.

The lantern’s glow softened their tableau, the sheen of perspiration and mingling of breath a testament to their release. Erik loosed a groan, deep and resonant, as if the burden of years’ had at last been cast from him, whilst Reldith uttered faint murmurs of contentment. They lay entwined, a weary heap too drained to stir their limbs, and ere long, the steady rhythm of slumber’s breath did fill the air. Karin turned ‘pon her side, cradling the twain within her arms as best she might, savoring their nearness with tempered joy, yet striving to find peace in the moment’s yield. She stood both weaver and warden to a fervor she could not wholly name her own.

9.

The morrow’s light crept timidly through the shutters of Reldith’s abode as Karin stirred from her slumber, alone, but still warm with the echoes of the night’s fervor.   Rising, she donned her garb, wan flesh prickling in the chill, and ventured forth to seek her host. Through the window she spied Reldith, toiling amidst the fields, her form bending to the earth’s bounty. Karin strode out to greet her.

“Thou art early at thy labors, Reldith,” she called. Reldith straightened, her countenance flushed from toil, and met Karin’s eyes with a sheepish flicker.

“Aye, the fields wait for none,” she replied, her voice soft o’er the breeze. “As for yesternight…I confess, I found joy in it, yet I know not if I’d seek such flame anew.”

“’Twas a fierce dance for thee at least, I’ll grant thee that. Dost thou shun it wholly, then?”

Reldith’s eyes drifted to the horizon, her words halting.

“Nay, not wholly… but my heart wavereth. Soon my adopted son and his bride return from Whiterun to tarry here. ‘Twere best we speak not of such matters whilst they abide.”

Karin nodded, her lips pursed.

“Aye, fair enough, let the wind carry it hence for now.”

When Karin returned to her dwelling, the fierce orbs peering from with the windows frame gave her a start. Yet swiftly she kenned ‘twas naught but Kahira’s sketch, that countenance of capriciousness propped against the window. Its eyes agleam with the cunning of countless wayward jesters and madmen shone even from afar somehow.

“That quaint scoundrel yet keepeth watch,” she grumbled low. In fleeting wonder, she mused wherefore Kahira had set it so, pondered her own startled leap, and deemed the jest a merry one worthy of her praise.

She hastened inside, finding Kahira at her canvas.

“Thou farest well, lass?” Karin asked.

“Aye, Mother,” Kahira murmured, her brush a steady whisper. “The morn hath been kind.”

Karin rummaged for bread and cheese, breaking her fast with swift, ungentle bites, then set forth to Rorikstead’s market, the dust of the path rising ‘neath her tread. There she found Erik ‘midst the stalls, bartering with Britte. His eyes met hers, and a flush crept over his visage.

“Ho, thou stalwart soul,” Karin greeted, her tone a clumsy jest. “The day findeth thee hale?”

Erik’s grin was strained, his voice a low rumble.

“Aye, hale enough, Karin. I…thank thee for yesternight, for the gift of it. Not to seem ungrateful, but I wonder…might we twain venture a simpler thing. Perchance a kiss, betwixt us alone?”

Karin’s brow arched, both her hair and heart a tangled thicket.

“Nay, I think not, thou eager ox,” she replied, her words firm yet tinged with rue. “Not yet. Let it rest as it lieth.”

Erik nodded, his flush deepening, though his eyes betrayed unquenched want.

“So be it,” he muttered, less convinced than his words professed. He turned his attentions back to the merchant as Karin walked away with haste, her thoughts awhirl. Had she, with this gambit, driven Erik and Reldith into each other’s arms? Reldith, unwed and still fair enow, bore elven vigor that time would scarce wither, a match for Erik’s years yet to come.

Though Karin and Erik shared a camaraderie, forged in hours of toil and peril. Yet such bonds could pale ‘gainst the fire of ardent touch. Did she not know it well? A vague gladness stirred within her, that she’d sated their desires, yet her own flesh ached for release unclaimed.

To the tavern she wandered, and there she quaffed spirits to dull the edge of her musings. As if in answer to her silent yearning, a Dunmer lass approached, her dark skin aglow, white hair like sea foam, and purple eyes glinting.

“I be Vayniya Navalnim,” she declared, her voice a lilting burr Karin adored, “a sell-sword roaming through these parts.”

Karin raised her flagon, her grin welcoming.

“Karin…Snow-Fell! Ho, thou dusky blade! What bringeth thee to my shadow?”

Vayniya leaned close, her interest keen.

“Thy life, thy craft. I’d know thee better.” She pressed a coin to the barkeep, securing Karin more drink, her gaze unwavering.

“And wherefore so bold?” Karin asked, her tone a gruff probe as the ale warmed her veins. Vayniya’s smile was plain and sharp.

“’Twas the swiftest path to thy acquaintance, thou wild vixen.” Karin’s eyes traced Vayniya’s form. The dark elf was fair, yet shadowed with a weariness that bespoke sleepless years.

“Thou lookest as if rest hath shunned thee long,” Karin observed.

“Aye,” Vayniya sighed, “the toil of my trade doth plague my slumber, and I rest ill when my bed lieth empty.” Her gaze turned speculative, a spark igniting within. “Come with me, Karin, to a secluded mere beyond Rorikstead…let us there share a sweeter spoil, and I’ll tend thy desires.”

Karin’s blood quickened, for the night with Erik and Reldith had been more their feast than her own. Vayniya’s whispers, both foul and fair, murmured in her ear, stoking the ember of want.

‘Twas a rare and startling hap to cross paths with so brazen a temptress, much less in the ripeness of her middle years and amidst the sodden mire of Rorikstead. The hour of its coming seemed a prayer fulfilled, or perchance the cunning snare she herself might have laid in youthful days upon a contract of silent slaughter. She drew back, her voice reluctant.

“I must ponder it, thou fair and comely lady. If thou lingerest later, perchance I’ll take thy offer.” She bestowed upon the elf her most beguiling smile. “Perchance we twain might forge a bond, the very best of…comrades in this weary world. Yet I cannot cast my will to the winds upon this day, no matter how sweet the lure. Duty and care yet bind me, though thy visage doth tempt me sore to forsake them.”

With a raised hand Karin ordered an expensive spirit for the Dunmer and bid her farewell.

As the faded woman staggered forth, Vayniya’s visage darkened beyond even beyond her dusky complexion, offense burning in her violet eyes. Her hand gripped sword’s hilt tightly, a look of pure venom unseen by Karin flashing ‘cross her features like a storm o’er the sea.

Long right? Next should be shorter. When I first came up with this fic, I actually didn’t really want to write Karin. I felt like I’d written her enough times, and I’d have to either water her down until who cares, or ruin the whole tone with her trashy ways. She only had to be in the plot enough to set things up, we’d focus on Kahira. But I enjoyed writing this more “mature” Karin so much, normally she’s just this Rob Zombie-esque cartoon character but I feel like I injected realism without cheating the character. Why’d I use Erik and Reldrith? Those are the characters I have in Rorikstead, but I feel they’re simply perfect. And I like to think Karin’s foul mouth still translate to Ye Olde Format.

Next chapter:

We shift perspectives again and finally learn Vayniya’s agenda from her point of view, as well as who Vaermina’s agent is. We catch up on things happening behind the scenes till now, as the “Snow-Fell” family and Erik are maneuvered into a vicious trap.
- 1
- 2
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Her Best Work In Red