Here follows a story from Skyrim, featuring Niamh as she is there. Niamh's Skyrim is a bleak and harsh place and our heroine is no less so.
The stories of her set there reflect this and as such are very much more "gritty", shall we say, and it's a little difficult to pick ones that are suitable for posting here given the site's rating. I'm hoping that this one is ok, and that you'll enjoy it.
(Slightly edited for content)
"The Pride of Tell Vos"
The bandit chief on the wrecked ship on the other side of the camp from her was dying; unfortunately it appeared as if nobody had told her that.
Niamh had been journeying north towards the shrine of Azura that she had been told lay above the city of Winterhold, where the Mages’ College was, far to the extreme north east of Skyrim when she come upon the wreck, a likely-looking source of much-needed income and resources.
The weather this far up was harsh and cold and the land reflected that, it’s scrubby bleakness punctuated with patchy snow and washed-up sea ice. The air was alive with the sounds of the ocean, and the cries of seagulls. From the rocks some way behind her came the gurgling roar of Horkers. She had been keeping a weather eye on them; although relatively placid they could be vicious if disturbed.
She had been crouched in a crevice in the rocks just across and slightly above the shipwreck for somewhere in the region of two hours now. The wreck itself lay perpendicular to her, broken in two. Waterlogged crates and sacks floated in the water around it, spilled out from it’s hold, the lower section of which was filled to just over waist level with water. In it floated the bodies of several bandits and a couple of wolves.
In the campsite between her and the ship, erected amidst a tumble of looted chests and more boxes, were more bodies. Arrows and weaponry lay scattered about the shingled ground and the squalling breeze occasionally delivered to her nostrils the smell of burning pork, where one of the bandits had fallen into his own cooking fire, shot by one of his comrades.
Niamh shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a position where she could at least stretch out her cramped limbs a little bit. After a few attempts she gave up, and with a quiet harumph settled back into her original position.
From the boat, borne on the air, came the sound of the bandit chief cursing and threatening, hurling imprecations at her, her thick Nordic accent rendered virtually unintelligable through what Niamh knew must be extreme pain.
She risked a quick peek over the rocks, the chill wind ruffling her hair, prickling the skin of her face. Peering across to the boat with her good eye she could just about see one of the other woman’s feet.
The bandit had wedged herself between some barrels and the superstructure that served as the crew quarters . Her position was such that from where Niamh was, she was unreachable by bowshot and for Niamh to shift position to where she was able to fire would mean that she herself was in range, and although the bandit was – as evinced by the spreading pool of blood that surrounded the foot that Niamh could see – clearly in extremis she had proven to be a not inconsiderable shot with a bow, and thus Niamh was forced to keep her head relatively out of sight.
Niamh was unable to simply skirt round her and come at her from the other side of the boat – (“The Pride of Tel Vos”, was stencilled in fading weather-worn black paint on it’s prow) – because the wreck lay on an open area between two sets of high rocks and she could not be sure that her adversary did not have a view to that side as well. Niamh was no tactician and so had decided that her least bothersome, albeit uncomfortable, course of action was to stay where she was and wait either for darkness, or for the bandit to die.
She looked up at the sky; the sun was westering now, she could see it through the ranks of scudding clouds. The shadows on the ground had noticeably lengthened. Again she heard the slurred voice of the bandit screaming hoarsely at her, bearing threats and questioning her parentage.
Cursing herself for the impetuosity and lack of forethought that had allowed her to end up in the situation in which she now found herself, Niamh settled back against the rock in the shelter of the crevice, and stared glumly at the mossy stones beyond her dirty feet; the rock was cold and damp against her naked skin, not unpleasant – in it’s way.
What was particularly galling was the fact that by the time she had arrived at the wreck much of the hard work had already been done for her. Evidently a pack of wolves had turned up not long before, looking for easy pickings. Discovering that they weren’t alone in this regard they had proceeded to attack the bandit gang en masse resulting in the two factions largely wiping each other out.
Upon arrival Niamh had at first only had to duck and weave through the slippery weed-strewn rocks of the shoreline, picking off the – mostly wounded – stragglers almost at her leisure. Such had been her sense of good fortune that she had dropped her guard and the bandit chief – who it turned out had secreted herself inside the wreck and had up until that moment gone unnoticed – had almost skewered her with an arrow. A scant couple of inches to the left and the Wood Elf would have been, like the bodies around her, nothing but food for the gulls and when the tide came in, the slaughterfish. As it was the arrow merely grazed her right arm.
With a yell of surprise and pain she reacted instinctively and hared up into the rocks. The bandit had been exposed on deck at that point and Niamh had managed to loose off two arrows, pivoting on one foot, the other slamming down behind her, bracing her against the rock wall as she nocked, drew, and fired almost in one movement, her lithe and sinewy body flowing like water through the well-practised moves.
Her aim unfortunately was less impressive and the first of the shots went way wide of the mark, but the second, however, hit home. There had been a shriek of pain from her adversary who, dropping her bow, fell backwards onto the deck of the ship clutching at her midriff and the shaft that protruded from it.
Niamh’s eagerness to finish the job proved to be the bandit chief’s temporary salvation as her next arrow flew wide as well. Seizing this opportunity the woman dragged herself painfully into the position wherein she had remained, growing (presumably) steadily weaker and more delirious – though no less potentially lethal, as Niamh had discovered through more than one near-miss.
+——-+
And so here she was waiting, essentially, for the other woman to die. The shouting had stopped a short while ago and now the only evidence of life on the boat was the occasional wind-born whimper of pain. Niamh took a look over the rocks again. The foot she could see had been withdrawn leaving a smear in the blood that caked the deck.
There was no sign of any other activity.
After a brief pause for consideration, Niamh pushed herself up onto her haunches and as surreptitiously as possible strapped on her quiver. Picking up her bow she proceeded in a crouching run down from her rocky hideaway and across the debris- and body-strewn camp, to the wreck itself.
Murky water sloshed in it’s lower hold, the wind whistled through the gap between the two parts of the sundered hull, blowing Niamh’s lank hair back from her face and making her eyes water.
She made her way inside, into the gloom, all smelling of brackish water and seaweed, a coastal smell tinged with blood and damp wolf pelt. Crouched silently in the cold sea water, Niamh listened intently for any sound out of the ordinary.
There was nothing.
To her right was a flight of eight or nine slatted steps heading into the upper hold. Gripping her bow tightly,she headed for these steps and crept stealthily upwards, out of the water and damp greyness.
The second deck appeared to have been more-or-less stripped bare, save for some mostly broken up crates at the far end, tumbled up against the stern of the ship where it was canted back into the chill waters. Like the level below, this deck was also relatively well lit, on account of the break in the hull. Across from her position at the steps, on the other section – the bow – of the broken ship, lay a tumble of bodies, both bandit and animal, a couple of narrow planks of splintered wood lay across the narrowest point of the gap, up against one side of the hull, leading from one part to the other.
Niamh made a mental note to go through the corpses later, in case there was anything worthwhile for the taking. Looking above her, she turned her attention to the upper deck, and the crew quarters.
This was no place for a bow.
Uncomfortable as she was with fighting face-to-face, there were times when even Niamh had to accept the fact that it might be necessary. Although she carried a blade she was certainly, and by her own admission - (although perhaps only to herself) – not exactly an expert with it and so it was that she kept it sheathed, and instead held up her hands palms outwards, fingers spread. Taking a deep breath of air she briefly closed her eyes and tensed the wiry muscles in her arms, straightening her fingers and expelling her breath as she did so.
There was a sizzling noise and the smell of ozone and when she opened her eyes once again there in her hands, cupped in each palm, was a ball of blue energy, quietly crackling.
Again she was still for a moment, her head turned up toward the opening above her, large pointed ears straining for any sound that might indicate an agressor.
There was nothing.
Taking a deep breath, she mounted the steps to the upper deck.
It was empty and silent but for the natural sounds of the coast and the creaking of the Tel Vos’ battered timbers. Nevertheless, having been a student of bitter experience on previous forays, Niamh exercised a degree of caution as she climbed through the trapdoor.
The opening was more-or-less in the centre of the crew quarters, and having climbed through the Bosmer crouched and scuttled, crab-like, to the shadowed corner of two walls, at the opposite end of the space to the door to the outside, through which streamed the harsh sunlight of the early evening.
The room was large, covering in length fully two-thirds of the main section of the broken deck and in width nearly close to the ship’s entirety, as far as Niamh could tell. Like the holds below, it too had been largely stripped bare and it’s contents, she assumed, laid out on the campsite that had grown around the vessel. It seemed as if the Tel Vos were some massive sea creature that, washed up on the beach, had been found by scavengers who had systematically butchered it, leaving it’s innards exposed around it upon the bleak, rocky shore.
One of these scavengers, she reminded herself, might still be alive.
This thought triggered her to turn her attention to the opening in the far wall. She could see nothing of any significance through it and owing to the direction of the wreck’s tilt there was no sign of blood either. Flexing her hands, the skin of her fingers prickling with sparking blue energy, Niamh crept the length of the room and along the wall to the door and peered out, blinking in the sunlight.
To her left, against the outside wall, stood a cluster of barrels. Checking about her quickly, she crept over to them and slowly peered around the side. The bandit was sitting in a pool of drying blood, her back against the barrels, her legs out straight in front of her, arms limp in her lap, bow on the deck. Her head had lolled to one side, and was resting against the wall of the crew quarters.
Niamh watched her for a full minute before making any further move. The woman was motionless save for the occasional twitch of a limb and slow rise and fall of her chest. The Wood Elf could hear the woman’s laboured, pained breathing rasping in and out of her mouth.
Satisfied that there was no immediate threat, Niamh crept around the barrels and stood up in front of her.
The bandit was a mess. The arrow had, it turned out, impacted her on the right-side, passing between her lower two ribs. Evidently it had punctured a lung, for even now bubbles of bright red blood emerged from between the woman’s lips when she breathed.
Her face, chin and throat were stained bright red, at some point she had stripped off her cuirass and the skin of her chest and her stomach were all painted in the same crimson shade. It appeared that she had attempted to remove the arrow in her delirium and had succeeded only in opening the wound, causing further bloodloss.
Niamh was impressed, it appeared to be a testament to the bandit’s will to live and refusal to give in that she was still alive at all.
What skin there was that was not blood-soaked had an unhealthy pallor; a waxy sheen, damp and sweaty. There was a smell about her also, of blood and other things, evidently she had at some point fouled herself quite seriously.
Suddenly the woman jerked, Niamh instinctively jumped backwards a step readying her hands to spark immediate electric death should that be necessary.
It proved not to be, that much was soon apparent, and Niamh extinguished the energy and lowered her arms.
The bandit had raised her head and was now looking in her direction, although it was clear that she wasn’t seeing Niamh in any real way. After a moment, and with what was obviously a huge effort of will, she spoke.
“I’ve been… waiting for you.” Her voice was breathless, but thick and clotted, the words accompanied by the passage of further blood from her mouth. Her long blonde hair was plastered to her head and sweat ran in rivulets down her face, sparkling in the evening sun.
Her chest heaved in and out, as she struggled for breath to speak.
“You will not… kill me. I will… ” Another deep, shuddering pull of air “Die when I choose.”
Her expression was a grimace of pain and hate and defiance, though her eyes were still as unfocussed and glassy as those of one of the dolls that Niamh had seen for sale in Whiterun’s Pawnbroker.
Niamh looked at her silently for a moment before speaking.
“For what it’s worth, ” she said at length, her softly lilting voice – so different from what it had once been – was quiet and low, “you’ve done well.”
The bandit coughed pitifully, more of her life’s blood frothing from between her lips. Her hands and wrists, where they rested in her lap, appeared as though they had been dipped in red paint.
Niamh continued; “But all things must end. Even the bravest of us must finish.” She looked down at the woman, chewed her lower lip for a moment as if considering an option that she must weigh up the pros and cons of.
“And we cannot always choose when that finish will be.” She said softly. “Even you.”
“Even you.”
The bandit’s head snapped up and her eyes seemed, finally, to focus as Niamh sparked the power back into her hands. The injured woman seemed about to speak again, her chest rose as she struggled to draw enough breath to make the words come.
But it was past time for further talk and whatever it was she wanted to convey was lost as Niamh opened her hands wide, spreading her fingers and releasing twin streams of flickering blue plasma, thick , coiling cables of spitting, snarling power.
The other woman jerked spasmodically, physical death and unnatural, electrified, animation competing within her as the release of energy into her body melted her eyeballs out of their sockets and sent them running down her cheeks, exploded her tongue from her mouth and curled her body and her limbs into a tight ball, a solid rictus of electrically frozen muscle and tendon and frying, melting skin.
Niamh continued until the power within her diminished and was spent, leaving her breathless and panting.
The corpse was curled in upon itself, the hair burnt off the head, the remaining leather armour burnt away, the skin and underlying tissues charred and crisped. The air stank of burnt pork and ozone.
She stared at the smouldering corpse, chewing her lip again, for a moment or two. The sun was beginning to sink below the peaks to the west, the wind was picking up and the air, already chill, was growing colder.
She looked up at the sky dubiously, there was a storm brewing.
“Even you.”
She walked away, back inside the ship, to see what had been left for her to find.
+——-+
-END-
...
...
...
) dead...
especially since I am a very horrible person and only killed her off to see what it would be like - (it was unpleasant) - it's no wonder she's so unhinged if her narrator goes about doing that sort of thing to her....
...Well done there!!...