That was an interesting snippet, but I found the style had me lost. It initially started off like it was somebody talking about Niamh, but then it transititioned to your standard third-person narrative and it was never quite clear where (or if) there was supposed to be a break. Left me kind of confused, in the end...

Amidst the wrack and ruin of the once-proud imperial stronghold, amidst fetid death and malevolent necromancy, the dark air that had been on her for some little time previously condenses into a blacker mood of introspection, unwanted thoughts, and perhaps just a touch of sadness. Although faded now, some memory of her former self still lingers in her mind, and occasionally stirs, opening a pale eye to illuminate that part of her where she keeps locked away the thoughts of times that once made her happy, but to which she knows in her heart that she can never return.

Ah Well, the reason is that it was originally purely a character update on the "other" forum. I never intended to do anything else with it so it wasn't written to a narrative convention.
Turned out I rather liked it so l decided to just port it warts and all. The transition point should probably be made a little clearer but essentially it's an update with a preamble.
I just thought it had a certain charm was all.

You continue to work well with the ‘show a snip and run’ style. I should imagine the style to be quite liberating to write. It’s fun to see glimpses of Niamh as she does things like gather guild recommendations in Cyrodiil or hunts for Azura’s Star in Skyrim.

Blimey, there's a pilot to a series if ever I saw one... ...

Excellent stuff, as ever...

While I know that you're more of a short burst, brief encounter type...This one does cry out for follow-up episodes... ...

I'd love to know what actually happened to trap her there...

Loved it!!...

Nice one!!..

*Applauds heartily*...

Menchus, the Imperial Captain, surveyed the wreckage around him, his hands on his hips. He chewed pensively at his lower lip, a worried frown on his craggy face.
There was something very familiar about this.

Presently his sergeant, a bucolic veteran by the name of Benefico Scintillius, came puffing up to him across the debris-strewn ground of the camp. He stood to attention and saluted smartly.
"Yes sergeant?" Asked Menchus, regarding the other with an expression that implied he already knew, or had guessed, much of what his subordinate was about to report.
"They're all dead, sir; all dead and in a big pile over thither in the pines." He gestured away behind him to a darker shadow just visible within the penumbral gloom of the treeline, around which were gathered a number of the men from his patrol.
"'Cepting the wounded," he continued, "they was got in the sick tent, arrer each to gizzard."

His captain was silent a moment then said, "All?" As he asked this his grey eyes scanned the treeline and the rocky ground, pale and glittering with frost in the early dawn light, away off to his left.
Scintillius looked sheepish for a moment. "Um no, Sir, the Stormcloak commander still lives, though he is injured somewhat..." His voice trailed off.

Again there came a pause between them. In the crisp air the sounds of the imperial soldiers could be heard; rough shouts and the occasional imprecation, the clank of iron and the heavy cutlery sound of swords being gathered into piles. Somewhere a wolf howled and was answered by a comrade.
The wind soughed and whined amongst the pines and through the guy ropes of the now vacant Stormcloak tents.

"Explain." Ordered Menchus curtly.
Scintillius bent to the task. "Well Sir, the chirurgeon says that 'e will recover enough from 'is physical wounds to stand trial, in the fullness of time." He looked up at his captain. "Though 'e may never walk again 'e thinks. Apparently two of the arrers - the ones in 'is legs - were fired from so close a range as to be easier to pull all the way through, save doin' it nicely." The old sergeant looked glum. "But the thing is see Sir, the thing is, all 'e will say over an' over is about the "Fanke", and 'er one red eye."

Captain Menchus looked down at his sergeant, who returned his gaze saying, his voice low; "You don't fink...?" He looked around conspiratorially. "You don't fink 'e means 'er, do you Sir? Bjornulf's Bane...?"
Menchus was silent for a moment then, quietly, he said; "Whatever you think, sergeant, you keep this quiet from the men." He jabbed a finger at Scintillius. "There are enough myths and fairy stories going round about this cursed province as it is, and stories about wild elf women living naked in trees and swooping in to slaughter folk in the dark are not going to help." He bent his face closer to the older man, raising his eyebrows as if in emphasis.

Scintillius held his captain's gaze for a moment, and then dropped it. "Yes Sir," he said at length, then tapped his bulbous drink-reddened nose with a gnarled finger, "mum's the word."
"Good." Said Menchus. "What happened to sergeant Bjornulf was a terrible thing and personally I would rather have died than to have what happened..." There was an awkward pause, Scintillius coughed. "...er, happen." Continued his captain. "His commanding officer was a personal friend of mine and a very handy man in a fight, and these men," he gestured with his head in the general direction of the troops, "knew that. I am sure that even you can assemble the pieces from that, and arrive at a conclusion as to what would happen were we to promote further the myth of this creature, whoever she is."

Scintillius rather felt that his commander was labouring the point a little overmuch, and being not as stupid as he appeared, the insult regarding his deductive powers had got through; however he supposed the captain was right to be cautious, after all there had been that entire fort outside Whiterun not all that long ago.
"Still Sir," he said brightly, attempting some semblance of optimism, "least she's doin' the goods with the Stormcloaks, eh?"
Menchus sighed.
"But that's hardly the point, sergeant. And besides," he added, almost to himself, "she's "doing" us as well."
Scintillius looked glum.

Damn, Niamh, you scary...

You mind telling me what the precursor story for this piece is called so I can look it up on your blog, by the way?

From the rocks above the camp, a shadowy figure slender as a willow twig but possessed of a lithe and sinewy strength observed the imperial soldiers through one red eye.
Her dark, warpaint-smeared lips parted in an approximation of a smile, revealing yellowed teeth.

Shifting position ever so slightly, the quiver of iron-tipped arrows strapped to her bare back rustling quietly against the bow slung over one bony shoulder, she directed her gaze to the tall craggy man standing in the centre of the ruined camp.
He had until recently been conversing with a shorter, fat soldier, evidently a sergeant or somesuch.
This latter had now left but the other remained where he was and she could see him scanning the treeline, and the rocks where she was hidden, his eyes passing over her, unseeing.

Her large knife-like ears had picked up snatches of his conversation with his doughy subordinate, their voices rippling this way and that in the squalling breeze, and it had amused her darkly.
So she was become a thing of fear and fancy was she? Well she would give them fear, she'd give them all something to be scared of, gazing out into the dark night as it gathered about their campfires and folded itself softly about their dwellings.
Oh yes, in time they would really come to fear her.

Her hands itched to take up her bow then and there, the thought of putting the soldier standing below her out of her misery made her heart thump against her ribs; blood pulsed, loudly, in her ears.
She took a deep breath, held it and felt the trembling in her long limbs subside, the hammer-blows in her chest diminish. She exhaled, the air hissing out between her teeth.
"Soon." She whispered softly, her eye fixed unblinkingly on the craggy man in the camp.
"Soon..."

...And so, things have a way of changing.
What if Niamh could be different, what if when she arrived in Skyrim - however that was - she arrived alternately, how would that story play out?

We shall see.

It is 5 years earlier, Helgen is a smoking ruin destroyed by a dragon whose appearance has the surrounding countryside in an uproar.
Niamh Esher, 25, a Bosmer of little account and less worth has been recently captured during a sweep of a ruined fort some 2 or 3 leagues from the settlement by Imperial soldiers on the hunt for a group of rebels who had been harassing patrols in the area.

It was very much a case of "wrong place, wrong time" for the Wood Elf, who had only been in the fort in the first place because she was looting it.
Whilst she certainly had no love for the Empire she had equally no sympathies for the Stormcloaks either, preferring to pursue her own solitary path of petty theft, shady deals, assault and - if the coin was good - the odd unsanctioned "assassination".
No, her life was complicated enough as it was, what with managing pilfering, dealing with a string of largely failed relationships and, recently, increasingly disturbed sleep where she would awaken from dreams of a woman like but not like her, a woman who it seemed lived in the province to the south some 2 centuries previously.
She had on and off had these "visions" from her childhood, but over the last few weeks they had grown in both frequency and intensity such that it was taking an increasingly high dose of skooma-laced ale to even catch a few meagre hours of oblivion each night.

Nevertheless, it befell her to be captured - (not without some difficulty) - and stripped of her armour, weapons, sundry trinkets and rather pitiful belongings; given a scratchy rough sacking dress to cover what little modesty she possessed she was unceremoniously bundled into the back of a cart along with a motley crew of other miscellaneous captives and ne'er-do-wells and driven judderingly off to Helgen to face Imperial "justice".

----

Fate, it seems, is ever vigilant however and soon after her arrival, perfunctory "trial" and inevitable judgement, she chose to intervene in a most spectacular way.
During the chaos of the dragon's attack Niamh, who had only seconds before been so close to death that she could feel the tingle of the edge of the headsman's axe against the back of her neck, managed to escape, falling in with a Stormcloak rebel, Ralof, largely because in the first place he was not an Imperial and in the second place because he appeared to know the way out, via a secret path.

Ralof led her out of Helgen via an underground tunnel, following for some small distance a sewage outflow leading into an underground stream.
Poking around in the dungeons on the way, much to the Stormcloak's frustration, the Bosmer located some armour of sorts and unheeding of her - not unappreciative - audience, exchanged her roughspun dress for it. She further acquired dome weaponry, albeit of dubious quality as a result of some few skirmishes with Imperial guards, and also from a wounded Stormcloak soldier who she "released" from the pain of her injuries along the way.

Once outside the settlement Ralof, who had evidently concluded that Niamh's presence implied her cooperation, attempted to persuade her to visit some relative of his, or somesuch, and tell them of the dragon's attack. Niamh, in fact, was more concerned with putting as much distance between Helgen and herself as was physically possible and set off at a run westwards as fast as she could, the erstwhile Stormcloak's words a fading echo in her large ears.
Hungry, thirsty, and penniless she made her way over the course of the day, stealthily and via indirect and little-travelled paths, across the country between Helgen and Falkreath until she arrived at the only place in Skyrim she'd ever really thought of as home; the Bosmer treetop colony of Elvenwood.
(In truth she would have been happier with the Khajiits, but at least Elvenwood had the distinction of being where she left it, they spoke her language and didn't seem to mind her occupying the empty rooms way up in the colony. The beer was good too, even if the singer in the inn only knew Imperial songs.)

On this occasion it proved very much to be a lifesaver and she spent more than a few gold - (gained after some not inconsiderable violence from a foray into the nearby bandit camp, upon discovering she had none secreted amongst her things in the colony) - in the inn on provisions, which, after retiring to her rooms she devoured hungrily, pausing only occasionally to take deep swigs from a bottle of ale, laced as was usual with her in the evenings when she could, with a hefty dose of skooma.
Once satisfied, and feeling the foggy effects of the drug creeping through her aching and trail-worn body, she lay down on the bed and mused upon her situation.

Clearly they were all as bad as each other, these factions. Petty squabbles, what did they know of life? They should walk a mile in her shoes and then see what hardship was, she was badly off she was, not them.
And the Imperials? She hated them them the most, not just because they had caught her, not just because nobody put her to death and got away with it, but because they had forced her hand, and in doing so she had formed, she felt, some sort of tacit alliance with the Ralofs of the world, which irritated her to an almost unbearable degree.

Chewing her lower lip, and in doing so unconsciously playing with a ring piercing the flesh of another Niamh, seen only in her dreams, she turned her head and gazed through the wall of her room northwards somewhat across the long leagues to Whiterun...

Might as well start somewhere.

Interesting story! Just one question - in Niamh's screenshot thread there is a pic of her taken in Riverwood, so was she there as well? Or is that a pic of the other Niamh? Sorry if I sound confused, I'm just curious.

Stories about Niamh are addicting, I wish I had more time to nicely read them from the beginning. Maybe when I retire, in 40 years or so.

Philosophically, "naked" Niamh is a function of Niamh as she exists in Cyrodiil and does not exist in any way in Skyrim until 5 years after the events currently being documented in armour Niamh's story, although they are the same age and the one dreams of the other, initially as she is in Cyrodiil.

This paragraph clarifies a lot and I think I get it now - thanks for the explanations.

which, after retiring to her rooms she devoured hungrily, pausing only occasionally to take deep swigs from a bottle of ale, laced as was usual with her in the evenings when she could, with a hefty dose of skooma.

The Lonely Suitor Lodge in Bravil had seen a great deal of action in it's time, Bravil was not a town known for it's quiet and relaxed atmosphere. Recently though, much of the action had been down to, or had at least involved, One of Bravil's more recent residents, if not one of it's most consistently present.
The lodge's owner, Bogrum Gro-Galash, had already had to bar Niamh several times, mostly for disorderly conduct, but most recently for blatantly taking money off of the bar in full view of both him and the other patrons. Her contention that it had been hers to start with and that she would give it back when she bought another ale washed with neither he himself nor with his friend Gorbog Gro-Magor, who served as the Lonely Suitor's occasional bouncer.

Gorbog was a hefty slab of meat and Bogrum was not exactly a drink of water either, but despite that, and in spite of the Bosmer's advanced state of inebriation, it had still taken both of them to eject her (twice) from the premises.
Indeed, it was a source of constant surprise to the erstwhile landlord that the Wood Elf's rather scrawny and underfed appearance belied a not inconsiderable, sinewy, strength.

Therefore, it was with no small degree of trepidation that he now observed her walking out of the gathering dusk and into the smoky atmosphere of his inn on, to the minute no less, the first day after her most recent two-month ban.
His hand instinctively groped for the cudgel that he kept under the counter; scanning the common room, he took in the current incumbents. It was a quiet night, with only a few patrons in; two Khajiits up from Leyawiin and on their way north to the Imperial City, a couple of surly mercenaries playing cards in a dim corner, surrounded by a pall of fairly rancid tobacco smoke, and some Pond-Life working their way through a pitcher of Mead.
It was Gorbog's night off so there was only he himself and Luciana - (Galena, local fence in conjunction with the Kat, S'krivva, who lived over by the gate. More importantly she was Niamh's sort-of girlfriend and almost the only person in Bravil that the Bosmer took any real notice of) - she helped out at the bar and waited tables from time-to-time. She lived in rooms atop Niamh's dwelling, just across from the Lodge, next to that Fletcher's shop.
Niamh he knew spent a lot of time in that shop; she was reputed to be able to put an arrow clean through an apple at a distance of two and one half furlongs. Had the claim been made about anyone else then Bogrum would not have believed it, however it was something that he really could imagine her doing. Quite a lot.

She walked round the side of the bar, her pale skin orange-hued in the flickering lamp light, dark eyes glittering, black, red-streaked hair tied in a high ponytail with her customary, incongruously jolly, red ribbon, revealing large and knifelike ears, pierced through with many rings.
The two mercenaries had ceased their card game and were ogling her with open abandon; well they might, thought Bogrum to himself. She was in her customary garb of an excessively - (to his way of thinking) - skimpy leather cuirass affair that appeared to consist mostly of straps, similarly designed hand and arm wrappings, black briefs, and some equally exotic white leather boots.

Not one single bit of it looked like it would protect her from anything stronger than a light breeze, but he had it on good authority that there were a number of discrete and powerful virtues set upon her armour that left her very well protected indeed and, furthermore, proved fairly efficacious at disabling would-be attackers - (there was certainly something odd with her, on more than one occasion when he had been forced to manhandle her he had felt a jolt, like a lightning strike he imagined, through his hands and arms and had been sore for days afterwards).

Regardless of all of that however, the upshot of her choice of apparel was that a considerable amount of white skin, tightly wrapping a slender, sinewy body was on view. Granted it was more often than not more than a little battered and bruised and in truth could have benefited from being cleaned more often, but there it was.
The two hearts tattooed on her lower back didn't really help either. She had a body that shrieked "Look at me!", and a demeanour that growled "... and if you do l will kill you."

Happily for Bogrum he was above all of that nonsense. Happily married for thirty years, and having seen all manner of examples of the fairer sex pass through the doors of the Lodge during his tenure as Landlord, he pretty much considered himself immune to the charms and wiles of the female of any species - (save for his good lady wife of course) - but even if only to himself he would have had to admit that there was definitely a certain "something" about the Bosmer; she was both, it seemed, attractive and terrifying in equal measure - or possibly "attractively terrifying", or, "terminally pretty".
Not that any man would likely get the chance mind you, by all accounts she exclusively preferred her mead served from the "Other Barrel" if you...
There was a cough from across the counter.

Caught off guard and pulled away from his reverie, Bogrum was at a momentary loss for words. Opposite him stood Niamh. Immediately he thought that something about her was a little "different".
"Good evenin' to ye, barkeep!" She said, her voice a harsh yet somehow richly musical brogue.
That was it! She was unarmed, but... Suddenly confused he looked at her intensely in the dim lantern light. something was happening to her face, her eyes were still deeply shadowed pools of palpable night, her nose still had a ring through it as did her lower lip, there was still something Alien about her look and yet...

Smiling.
She was smiling at him. He had never seen her smile before. Her teeth were very white and, he noted with a kind of resigned horror, Very Sharp Indeed; her lips were red and full and...
... Visions of the good lady Gro-Galash floated in front of him. He shook his big head as if to clear it, letting instinct take over.
"Niamh, good evening. Wha... what can I get you?"
She beamed mightily at him. Gods! Her mouth was a deathtrap for the unwary.
"Oi will have an ale, Bogrum." She said, her face still locked in a rictus grin. Bogrum was aware of Luciana, off to his left, watching her part-time paramour intently.
"Coming up." He replied. He had sort of figured out what was going on now. Someone (Luciana) had evidently been educating the wayward Wood Elf in the basics of conversation.
He grinned to himself, well it was a start he supposed, and she WAS trying and no one had died yet so...

He stood up with a foaming mug of ale, an encouraging smile on his lips. He turned around, the smile died.
One of the mercenaries had arrived at the counter, he was eyeing Niamh up with an eye both appraising and openly lecherous.
"You're very tall, for a Bosmer." He said, somewhat drunkenly. "Are you sure you're a bosmer?" He leant closer to her, peering at her through squinted eyes.
Bogrum noticed the two Khajiits heading for the door, quietly and slowly.

Niamh had turned to the mercenary, he was a big Redquard, and she had to crane her neck to look up at his face.
She was still smiling.
"And you're very Ugly even fer a human, so ye are." She said matter-of-factly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bogrum noticed Luciana put her head in her hands.

"Izzat so?" Growled the merc, tensing his shoulders, his big meaty hands balling into fists.
"Yes." Replied the Bosmer, and kneed him in the crackers.

The big man's eyes crossed and he went down like a sack of particularly weighty potatoes. Niamh watched him go, Bogrum grabbed his cudgel and the other mercenary stood up, pushing over the table as he did so.
"Gods," thought Luciana pulling out her blade, "it had all been going so well..."

"How about a horse?" Asked Luciana the next morning.
She paused in the act of frying potatoes and crabmeat for breakfast and looked back over her shoulder at the room's other occupant.
"Oi don't like 'orses." Said Niamh grumpily. Despite sitting, or rather lounging, on a bench seat beneath a flickering lantern she still contrived to be mostly in shadow. What could be seen of her skin reflected the sooty, dancing light pallidly. Her dark eyes glittered; sunlight caught in deep woodland pools.
Luciana loved those eyes.

Their owner however was currently being her usual difficult self with all the mystery of a small child. Luciana made a face and turned back to the breakfast pan.
For a moment there was silence but for the pop and crackle of cooking food and hot butter. Behind her she heard the sound of the Wood Elf pouring herself another ale.
"But," she said over her shoulder, "I've heard tell it's dangerous now between here and the city."
Niamh made a disparaging noise. "Oi've never had much trouble."
"Maybe not." Replied Luciana. "But they say there are more Daedra about now, and then these gates..." she took the pan off of the stove and padded barefoot over to the table.

"They say a lot of things." Said Niamh, picking a small loaf of coarse bread up from the table and tearing off a chunk with her long fingers. "So they do." She cocked her head to one side, looking at Luciana and shrugging her shoulders. "And it's only the one gate anyway so it is."
Biting off a chunk of the bread she chewed it thoughtfully for a moment, marshalling her words, all the while gesturing at the other woman with the remaining piece. Luciana ladled out their meal into wooden bowls, accompanied by the sounds of Niamh chewing and as a counterpoint, the tolling of the bells of the Chapel of Mara across the waterway.

"Anyway, that whatever-his-name-is is going to fix it for us. Apparently." The Bosmer said eventually with rather facetious emphasis upon the last word. She dropped the remains of the bread into the bowl with the fried food and grinned wolfishly at Luciana revealing white teeth and disconcertingly long, pointed canines.
Luciana took a swallow of mead, picked up a spoon, and after looking at it dubiously, rubbed it against the sleeve of her tunic.

"But nobody's seen him for months," she pointed out, "Not since he disappeared into it, Gods, he could be dead for anyone knows."
Niamh, who had been packing food into her face in the manner of a starving refugee stopped mid-shovel and stared intently at the Breton seated opposite her. "Why?" She asked. "What d'you care anyway?"
"Um..." Replied Luciana, suddenly aware of the earth starting to shift beneath her. "Well, I mean that that gate destroyed Kvatch, and, I don't see anyone else stepping in to help if he's gone and got himself killed and there are more of them." This last was said rather pointedly. She didn't want Niamh to go anywhere near the gate if she were honest, but sometimes - more often than not lately, it seemed - her attitude got her hackles up.
Niamh ignored the remark anyway.
"It's over aways yet." She gestured in a vaguely westwards direction. "Besides, any gate'll have to come through me first, to get to you so it will." She winked at Luciana.

Oh that's rich, thought Luciana. She did not, in her heart of hearts, believe for one second that her erstwhile lover would be anywhere near her if another gate were to open and become a threat to her, to either of them - regardless of the Elf's admittedly conveniently timed assurances that she herself was a changed woman who would do right by the other.
Luciana snorted and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Is that what you told Jo, up in the city?"

Niamh never even batted an eyelid. "No," she said through a mouthful of potato, "we've not really spoken of it."

Well, at least she was honest; although alternatively she might just not care enough to lie. On balance Luciana preferred to believe the former was the case, or at least to hope so.
She put her spoon down in her half-empty bowl, blinked a couple of times and swallowed. "You're leaving soon, then?"
Opposite her, Niamh sat back from the table, leaning against the rough wooden planking that made up the wall of the dwelling. Luciana had made an effort to cover the walls of her home with furs to insulate it; money being tight though, she had not been able to finish the job and so bare wood was still very much the way of it. Bare wood and drafts.

The Wood Elf belched loudly.
"Good." She said, indicating with her eyes the now empty bowl in front of her. The other smiled, perhaps a little sadly, at her as she picked at her teeth with a long fingernail; chipped black nailpaint still clinging to it.
"And yes, Oi do intend to go soon. The city and up to Cheydinhal..."
She didn't bother finishing the sentence, Luciana knew very well what Niamh did, occasionally, for a living; it remained unspoken between them though, the Bosmer's one real concession to the other's more delicate sensibilities.

That Luciana was upset there was no doubt. Despite, or rather in spite, of her outwardly flirtatious and lively demeanour she was at heart a sensitive soul and had increasingly fallen for Niamh of whom she felt, for all of her overt selfishness and seemingly uncaring nature; not to mention her obvious lack of fidelity, had something about her worth saving and worth fighting for. It had never been just a physical thing, for her at least; although she had nothing to complain about in that department.
Mentally, spiritually, and emotionally though she increasingly felt as if she were cast adrift in a stormy sea, strapped to the Elf and doomed to be tossed with her wherever the whims of the latter's ephemeral, fey nature may take them. It was a journey that once she would have relished, but one that now, increasingly, she had come to approach with a dreadful trepidation.
All this she kept to herself though. She doubted it would have made much difference to Niamh, if she were to know her true feelings; whether she would care.

But still, for all that, she missed her when she was away, worried for her safety; looked out for her return. She hated her indifference and her blatant sleeping around.
She loved her and she wished her dead but mostly, mostly she was confused and a little lost truth be told - She'd rather be with Niamh than not, and some Niamh was at least better than none at all.
...

She had a body that shrieked "Look at me!", and a demeanour that growled "... and if you do l will kill you."

"terminally pretty".

"And you're very Ugly even fer a human, so ye are."

"Izzat so?"

"Yes." Replied the Bosmer, and kneed him in the crackers.

Any relationship with Niamh was never going to be a simple affair, Luciana had figured that out pretty soon after making the Bosmer's aquaintance. The Wood Elf was clearly, if not unhinged, then not fighting with a full quiver of arrows, and was deeply if not worryingly odd in any number of ways.
Still there was something about her though that the Breton just could not let go of.
If only she could put her finger on what it was.

That she was ferociously attractive was an absolute, but even that beauty carried with it an ambiguous darkness - her eyes were a very dark chestnut, nestled in deep, black sockets. Her skin was pale and smooth like porcelain, yet up close she was smeared with a layer of grime and dirt; her hair - which at first sight was lush and thick, long and black with deep red streaks, tied in a high ponytail - on closer inspection was revealed to be greasy and as dirty as her skin.
She seemed to Luciana to be at once like some darkly splendid forest-thing who had stepped out of one of her mother's stories and into her life and yet up close and upon further inspection she looked, and smelt if it came to it, like the complete antithesis.

A woman of immense contradiction then, a woman whose physical opposition was reflected very much by the fey and random nature of her mind and spirit, a woman whom Luciana had come to realise was at once as cruel and selfish and uncaring as she was passionate and possessed of a vigorous and overwhelming spirit of life and love.
She was an enigma to be sure and Luciana, enamoured of her as she was, wanted to find the key that would unlock her mysteries. She wanted to find out what made her tick and most of all she knew, she just knew, that somewhere inside was a bright and shining kernel that was yet hidden under layers of pain and sadness; themselves wrapped in a thick blanket of seeming bravado and studied nonchalance which Niamh wielded like a shield, to cut off the world from her and her from it.
She fascinated Luciana, at least at first.

Had she done the right thing?
Sometimes now she wondered, wondered whether she would not have been happier just walking away and never knowing what might have been; what actually was, was not what she had thought it would be.
But therein lay the problem, she had not thought about the consequences of what she had done until later, too late; but equally she could not have not done what she did if her very life had depended upon it.

She had let Niamh into her bed on a sudden impulse, though her mind had counselled against it her heart and her body had yearned to be a part of the lifeforce that streamed out of the Bosmer.
One night, some six months ago she had got her wish, and more besides.
++++
Niamh had been back in Bravil for about a week or so whilst Luciana had been out to Leyawiin on an errand for S'krivva.
She had returned that morning to find a note pinned to the door of her dwelling, on the floor above Niamh's. Unpinning it she had gone inside her house and lighting a candle - it had been getting on for six of the evening and the light was failing - she had held it up and read it, squinting as she did so. It was from Niamh, in her spidery hand and as usual terribly spelt and appalling written:
"Haye Loocheeyanna weare ar yoo meate mai atte th sooter"
She had grinned to herself, suddenly happy, even though she was tired from her journey; the country between the southern city of Leyawiin and Bravil was a little awkward in places and on more than one occasion she had been forced to ride hard to escape the unwelcome attention of bandits.

It was ten minutes later when she arrived at the Lonely Suitor Lodge, just along from their dwellings. It was on the whole a quiet inn, not generally known for trouble even given it's location in Bravil which was not the most salubrious of settlements, if one were honest.
She opened the door to the smokey, dimly lit interior and stepped inside.
The interior of the tavern was warm and muggy, especially after the dry, relatively chilly air outside. Luciana looked around and smiled when she located the Wood Elf.
"But of course..." She thought to herself and set off to the darkest corner of the common room, out of the firelight. There really wasn't any other part of the place that the Bosmer would be. Even in bright sunlight shadows clung to her.

"Took yer toime." Grinned Niamh when the other sat down. "Got ye a drink." She gestured to an ale, alongside a plate of meats, cheeses and a couple of slices of coarse, nutty bread. Simple fair but filling.
"Thank you." Said Luciana, and set about the food with gusto.
"S'nuthin.'" Shrugged the Bosmer, taking a swig of her own drink. "Just figgered you'd be starved after yer journey an' all." The Elf's voice, although outwardly rather harsh had an underlying lilt to it, an almost musical, rich brogue that made Luciana tingle when she heard it.
She stuffed a heroic chunk of bread and cheese into her mouth and took a swig of her drink, she grinned at Niamh, who shook her head and smiled.

It was funny, thought Luciana, for all of the other's studied detachment, Niamh cleared liked her; and yet she couldn't shake the feeling that it was as if she had been befriended by some wild creature who could turn on her at any moment, whose favour she was in only for as long as the wind blew in the right direction.
She finished eating, pushed the only half-emptied plate away, took a swig of ale to wash out her mouth.
"Best make the most of it then..." She thought to herself.

"I missed you, you know." She said.
Niamh looked round at her, her eyes deep pools of black, dotted with faint points of light much as a fathomless lake, when seen at night, might reflect a twisted image of the moon or stars.
"Did ye?" She asked, sitting forward, leaning on the table. "Did ye really?"
Luciana's heart suddenly began to pound in her chest, it felt as if someone were hitting her on the breastbone with a hammer. She took a deep breath.
"Yes."
Leaning over the table, she slid her hand around the back of Niamh's head and pulled the other woman's face to hers, their lips met and Luciana kissed her, hard, pressing the Bosmer's mouth firmly against her own even until she felt the other's unfeasibly sharp canines draw blood from her lip and felt the metal ring that pierced Niamh's lower lip grate against her teeth.
Niamh's breath was hot and sour with ale, Luciana's tongue thrust inside her mouth and Niamh, whose initial surprise at the other's sudden and impulsive behaviour was rapidly disappearing, responded in kind.
The two women kissed each other hard, breath snorting from their nostrils, tongues entwining, saliva mingling with blood from Luciana's cut lip - the iron-sharp taste swapping back and forth between them.

It was never, from there, going to end any other way.

Don't worry, I'm pretty sure reading on this site, and the mods, can read a tasteful scene of two people kissing each other without their heads exploding. We're a group of Elder Scrolls fans here, not Amish.

Phon, no worries here from a mod perspective.

You did a fine job of creating the erotic atmosphere you wanted while controlling the specifics. Fortunately, imagination often conveys that better than more detailed prose and you, along with our other writers, clearly get that.

Luciana Galena is a very neat NPC and I can well understand Niamh’s attraction to the sultry and worldly Breton.

At the southern end of the long hall was a tumbled pile of broken stones and smashed blocks, fallen long ages past from the ceiling that, high above, arched over her head in a spectacular vault of white marble and limestone, shadowing into inky blackness as it approached it's apex; beyond the reach of even the ethereal glow of the Welkynd stones that dotted the walls of the place at regular intervals, nestled in elaborate sconces fashioned from some strange dark metal.

She was sitting cross-legged behind one of the largest masonary pieces, her back against the smooth, still plastered wall of the mighty chamber. The dry, chill air was very still with only dust motes, drifting lazily in the Welkynd light, revealing the presence of vague currents.
A great silence weighed heavily upon her such that even though she knew that the place wherein she found herself was vast, she nonetheless felt oppressed by the sheer mass of soundless gloom that the hall held within its space.
Indeed, it was as if the darkness within the ancient hall, above the level of the Welkynds, seemed to be possessed of a fearful weight; and it seemed to her that it was only by the intervention of those strange crystals and their eerie glow that she was not crushed utterly.

She was breathless and overwhelmed, particularly after the frantic activity of... when? It could all have happened mere moments ago, or hours for all she knew. Time in this place was meaningless, so much of it having passed within its walls that only a span on the order of a century or more would have any significance at all.
She tilted her head back and looked up at the darkness above her, straining to see the apex of the vaulted ceiling. She took a few deep, slow breaths to calm her heart, the dusty air had an ancient stale taste to it, and she stifled a cough; nervous in the brooding silence, wincing at the accompanying pain in her chest from where she had been bundled roughly over the blocks and into cover.

Her leather britches were torn and her tunic was missing some buttons. She made a face and shifting uncomfortably, grasped tightly at the hilt of her short sword where it lay in her lap. She directed her gaze downwards towards the faerie-glow of the stones on the wall away to her left, not far from the opening.
After a moment, she felt as if a velvet cloak of stillness had closed about her, stifling her senses and pressing her, as it were, down into the hard marbled floor. Unable seemingly to move or to perform any action at all, she closed her eyes and concentrated on keeping calm, running back over what had just happened.
---
she'd elected to visit this particular ruin more out of curiousity than anything. It was reasonably close by and she'd always had a fascination for the ancient Ayleid structures, the opportunity to visit had presented itself and so obviously she had jumped at the chance.
What could go wrong?

The trouble had started almost as soon as she was through the door, she had spotted the bandits almost at the same time as they had spotted her and a frenetic period of cat and mouse had followed, accompanied by the clash of blades, the twang of bow strings and the whine of arrows; added to that the shouts and screams of the wounded and dying and she had come very rapidly to regret her decision to play tourist and to question the wisdom of ignoring the repeated warnings that she had been given.
Eventually staying safe had become virtually impossible and she had ended up behind the pile of rubble. Bruised, battered, breathless and terrified she had remained as silent as she could, listening to the sounds of combat and running feet ebb and flow not ten feet away and fearing that she would be discovered and slain horribly and violently at any moment.
Finally it was with a certain relief that she heard the noise disappear off down a side passage, through the opening in the wall that she could see from her hiding place.

It did not help at all that she was perfectly aware of the fact that not that far from her hiding place were several corpses, additionally she herself was not exactly proficient with a blade being, as it were, more of a non-combative cat burglar as much as anything and that was not something she had done very much in the last few years.
Worse though was the fact that she was alone with no idea what had happened or, if the worst had happened, what she should do next. Try as she might to ward it off, the spectre of fear was climbing up her back with cold hard fingers. Her stomach suddenly became heavy and she felt as if her heart were pumping ice water around her body.
"Breathe!" She commanded herself in a soft whisper.
Slowly she regained some control of herself. She should, she supposed, be glad it was only bandits. It could have been much worse.

Suddenly, her breath caught in her throat.
Right at the edge of hearing she could have sworn she heard a noise, the sound of a single, soft footfall. Just one.
Her eyes widened in fear and, her heart pounding in her ears she sat as still as she could, desperately trying to hold her breath and straining to hear any sound at all.
She scanned what she could see of the hall that she was in, but all looked as it had and certainly she had not seen anything come out of the passageway.
For a moment all was silent and stillness, as it had for centuries beyond count, reigned supreme.
But then...

...To her right she caught a movement in the shadows by the wall. Almost against her will her head turned towards those shadows, she could almost hear the tendons in her neck creaking, her breath trembled in her throat, perspiration beaded on her forehead.
There was something moving stealthily towards her.
Placing her hands on the cold stone of the floor she started to shuffle away to her left until she was pressed up against the unyielding rubble that surrounded her.
Still the shape came on, she could see it - a darker shadow against the blackness of the corner behind it. Any moment now it would move into the light.
At least she would face her destiny, that was something she supposed.

The figure came on, into the light of the Welkynds, it was holding a sword, jewelry glittered in it's long ears, it opened its mouth. She closed her eyes and turned her head away, holding up a hand.
"Gods! Make it quick..." She thought.

...and...

"Looch!" Hissed Niamh impatiently. "Stop muckin' about!"
Luciana opened her eyes and looked up into the Bosmer's face, HER Bosmer's face.
"Come on. " Said Niamh more gently, "sorry I took so long, place is bigger'an I thought. It's best we get back home, d'ye think?"

Luciana was so relieved she didn't know whether to hug the Wood Elf or slap her. In the end she did neither, and just burst into tears.

PATRIARCH

Well, Jenseric had tasked her with clearing out this particular nest of Wampyres and by Azura she had done just that, or almost.
There was one left, just one.

It had remained hidden, secreted away in the cold dark depths of the fort.
It had been quite a trial, and had taken her some considerable time; but Niamh had found the entrance to the inner sanctum eventually.

She'd finally located the way in at the end of a flooded, downward-sloping passageway barely taller than herself and only just wider.
The water at the end of the passage was cold and slimy, about thigh-high on her. The passage itself was pitch black, so dark that even the enhancing properties of her hood only provided vague red-tinged shadows and a generalised sense of her surroundings.
Far back uphill was flickering yellow firelight, from greasy torches burning in sconces in the room beyond the opening.

The passageway to the sanctum had been hidden behind a wall in the corner of the room, an old common room for the troops by the looks of it. The trigger mechanism for the secret door was located a fair distance up the wall in the opposite corner.
Niamh, having cleaned up the Wampyric guards and vassals whom she had found in the common room had found it necessary to pile up the, in some cases still twitching, bodies against the wall in order that she could climb onto them to reach the switch and thus trigger the door.
She'd winced at the screech from the ancient mechanism and dived into the shadows, unsheathing her wakizashi, as the sound echoed around the room and away down the corridor from which she had entered.

After a few moments, when it had become evident that she was to all intents and purposes alone, she had snuck up to the newly exposed opening.
The air in the passageway beyond was stagnant and still, smelling of mildew and wet decay. From somewhere far below came the thick sloshing of oily water in the darkness of what she could only presume was the end of the passageway, as some benighted cave-dwelling thing went about it's business.

Nevertheless, she grinned darkly.
"Gotch'e." She whispered under her breath, and taking only a moment to check the room again she drew a deep breath and gripped the hilt of her blade more tightly.
"Brace yersel'..." She said to herself, and plunged on down the passageway and into the thick, dank shadows.

----

And so here she stood outside of what she presumed must be the final door. It was evidently made of several thicknesses of solid, heavy dark wood, tinted darker still from hundreds of years of exposure to the filthy water that had pooled before it, and not least also from the permanently damp atmosphere of the passageway.
As far as she could tell the wood of the door was reinforced by rusty iron straps, rivetted in place and in the false light of her night vision, glistening sullenly.

Obviously the door was locked.
Closing her eyes she held out a hand, gloved palm facing the lock but not touching it, her long, bare fingers spread out in a fan-shape.
A moment of concentration...
...Nothing happened.
"Did'nae think so..." She muttered to herself. Belatedly she thought of how she should perhaps have practiced the whole "Opening Locks" thing a little more.

Pausing for a moment, she chewed at the ring in her lower lip and scratched absently at herself. Finally she rummaged in a pouch at her waist and dragged out an elaborately detailed key made from many tines and prongs.
As quietly as was possible she inserted it into the lock and slowly rotated it until she heard the thunk of the stubborn tumblers falling reluctantly into place.
Removing the skeleton key she stowed it carefully away once again - it had become possibly one of her most valued possessions.

Crouching behind the door, so it would provide some kind of shield, she oh-so-very slowly turned the handle and pushed it open. She was at once relieved at the apparent smoothness of it's hinges; but equally a little frustrated at the unavoidable sound of water running into whatever space was beyond it, from her side.
As the door opened, she detected a glow, flaring in her enhanced vision and when the gap was large enough she cautiously peered around the door, conscious that at any moment her reliance on subterfuge and stealth to keep her brains inside her skull could turn out to be terminally misplaced.

She had to squint. The light in the chamber that opened out beyond the door, amplified by the effect of the hood, was intense.
She grabbed at the hood and pulled it off of her head, stuffing it inside her armour for the time being. Immediately the light dimmed to a lambent red glow that wavered and pulsed slightly, almost in waves, like ripples in a bay or a lake.
Once she had become more used to the light, she took in the chamber.
"Well, there's interestin'" She murmured, raising an eyebrow.

The room itself was unremarkable, the door through which she was looking was upon a ledge at one end of it, this ledge dropped into a dip or gully, relatively shallow, before climbing steeply again up the other side to an area as equally rough and rocky as the one upon which she found herself.
Shadows were harsh in the glow within the chamber and the contours of the rocks that were strewn about the space were outlined in sharp relief.
But for one thing the chamber would have been utterly deserted; however this one thing - it's sole occupant - came to demand her full attention.

----

Suspended above the barren floor of the gully, maybe twenty feet in the air, was a man-like figure. It was facing towards her and was naked. She could that it was very obviously, and had she been of a different persuasion, eye-wateringly masculine.
This, then, was the Wampyre Patriarch. Tall and slim, yet well-muscled, his body toned and tight as a drum, his skin smooth and clear.
His face was directed straight ahead of him, the features angular in strangely animal sort of a way, the lips thin and hard; the nose long and narrow, matching his chin.
His eyes were closed, and were set deep in their sockets beneath dark brows. Long and thick, his hair fell around his face and shoulders in luxuriant black tresses.

Even to Niamh, a woman for whom men were a largely undiscovered and unnecessary addition to an already complicated world, he appeared outwardly perfect, and yet...
...underlying that perfection; his arms were rather too long, they hung down by his sides depending, almost at his knees, in large long-fingered hands the palms of which were turned forwards, facing her.
He had only two fingers and a thumb on each hand, each digit terminating in a black-coloured sharp-looking nail or claw.
Likewise his legs, slender and smoothly-muscled as they were, seemed too long and ended in large feet each with three, clawed, toes.

She realised also that his body was the source of the lucent red light by which she studied him, and which in turn illuminated the chamber about them both.
She noticed also that there was a curious scent in the room; vaguely floral in nature but with an underlying sickly carrion sweetness to it.

With her eyes fixed on the figure before her, suspended within a light of it's own making, she crept stealthily into the chamber, ensuring that the door by which she entered was not fully shut.
Cautiously she sheathed her wakizashi and with exagerrated slowness unshouldered her bow and silently plucked an arrow from her quiver.
The arrows that she favoured had a virtue of Shock placed upon them and she felt a pulse of energy run through her hand and up her slender arm as she set the arrow to the catgut string of the bow.

Taking in a deep, quiet breath and holding it, she drew back the bow.
"Nice an' slow, keep it neat..."

The Wampyre opened his eyes.
They looked At Her, Into Her.
"Gah...!" She gasped.

The arrow dropped from her nerveless fingers and clattered onto the floor of the ledge. Her bow likewise slipped from her grasp. Unable to help herself, she sat bonelessly down cross-legged on the rocky floor with a thump, her arms lying limply in her lap.
She tried to move her body but seemed to be unable to control her limbs.
All she could do was stare at the creature, suspended in the air before her. Her mouth was hanging slackly open and she felt a thin trickle of saliva run out of it and dribble down over her lower lips and chin.
"Unh..." She said.

The Wampyre Patriarch regarded her, his eyes a deep and rich purple. They were not cruel as such, but they were piercing and hard and flint-sharp.
She felt the temperature of the chamber drop, a wave of frigid air seemed to wash out from him. Her breath steamed from her nose and mouth, the small hairs on her arms stiffened and came erect.
Desperately, in her mind, she fought to release herself.

The Patriarch raised his long arms until they were straight out from his shoulders, perpendicular to his tight body, the palms, now sideways, still directed at her.
The red glow flowing from him became deeper, its pulsing more insistent and pronounced. Niamh's head began to ache.

He moved silently through the air towards her, his body descending until he touched lightly down upon the rocks of the ledge some ten or fifteen feet away from her.
As he had moved closer to her, her sense of paralysis had seemed to increase, but to alter also, such that it now felt as if she were being crushed into the chamber's stony floor by some massive implacable weight that radiated outwards from him.

He stood before her for a moment; silent, still.
Then he smiled.
His mouth widened until it seemed as if it would split his face clean in two, the corners of it spread up almost to the long fleshy lobes of his ears, half-hidden as they were by his thick hair.
His lips pulled back revealing teeth, far too many teeth; marble-white, long and needle-sharp. A thin black tongue flickered out between them for a second, and was withdrawn.

"You Have Done Well, To Get To Me In This Place." He said.
His voice seemed to come to her ears from far away, down through some vast gulf of time; breathy and sibilant, empty of warmth and dismal as a winter wind soughing through lonely pines on some snow-dusted hillside.
"Urg, uhh." She struggled to speak, her mind screaming at her body to respond, tears starting from her eyes with the useless effort.

The Wampyre-thing regarded her intently for a long moment, seeming as he did so to lean impossibly forward towards her, until his hard, perfect face appeared over hers.
"You Are Strong, Little Elf." He said at length. She looked up at his face, into his purple eyes. She had no choice.
He bared his teeth at her again and the pressure holding her down increased to near unbearable levels, she slumped backwards onto the ground, the back of her head thudding painfully against it, her back bent awkwardly over her quiver.
She wheezed, struggling to draw air into her aching, compressed lungs; unable to take her watering eyes off of him, they felt dinnerplate-sized in her skull.

"Move! Curse Ye!" Screamed her brain, but her body was as a dead thing. There was no response from it.

Above her the Patriarch chuckled, his laugh the dry whisper of dead leaves on barren ground.
"I Applaud Your Efforts, Little Elf." He sighed. "But They Are In Vain. I have Lived Long Ages Past."
His face pulled back away from her, the pressure on her slim body lessened slightly and she drew a deep, hoarse breath down into her air-starved lungs.

The Wampyre cocked his head to one side, observed her as a cat might look at a bird or other small creature that it has caught for it's pleasure.
"You Will Not End My Time, No." He hissed quietly, snake-like. "It Is Not My Time."
His eyes burrowed into her for a long, long moment.
"I Have Foreseen The Manner Of My Death, Little Elf, And It Is Not By Your Hand." He continued at last. "But Neither Will You Die By Mine. No." His mouth spread in a wide, half-amused grin. "Your Time Will Come, Niamh Esher, But Not Yet."
Again a pause.
"Not In This Place."

He turned his face away from her then.
The scent of flowers grew stronger in her nostrils.
"Leave..." His voice was the faintest susurration, a suggestion of a word.

Still with his face turned away from her, the Wampyre Patriarch extended one large hand towards her, palm outwards, three fingers spread wide.
"Leave..."
The floral smell became hugely cloying; a sudden intense crushing pain closed around her body, finally forcing a shriek of agony from her dry throat.
The world went black around her and a feeling of being dropped as from a great height lurched in the pit of her belly.

----

She landed hard on cool, grassy earth, birdsong painfully loud in her ears.
She stumbled up onto her feet but dizziness and nausea immediately overwhelmed her and she fell forwards onto her hands and knees, jolting her shoulders painfully.
For a moment she breathed raggedly, and then was violently sick into the grass between her hands.
Head down and spitting out sour bile, she stayed staring at the ground, breathing harshly through her nose.

At length she sat up, kneeling on the grass, hands on her thighs.
She shook her aching head and looked across some three hundred yards of bare earth to the door of the fort whose dark foundation she had only moments ago been within.

Wiping her mouth with the back of a still-trembling hand she looked up squinting into the clear blue sky, and at the bright, shining orb of the sun.
"Gods, " she whispered to herself, "but was somethin' different, so 'twas..."

Then, thoughtfully, she directed her gaze back to the door of the fort, narrowing her eyes.

"I'll decide when 'tis my time to go, thank ye. " Then she grinned and looked around for her bow.

"And when 'tis yours, too."

--END--

OK, I've really enjoyed these last few pieces, but I have a burning question: where did Niamh get her Dwemer power armour, can we have a picture or two, and where can I get my own? Because that idea sounds awesome.

Heh, thank you.
If you check out some of her recent screeneez, it's the tight-fitting black armour with the blue pipes.
(It's *actually* - (OOC) - from a mod called "Ghost Armour" but in Niamh's world, as many things are, it's a bit different...)