She'd ducked the arrow just barely, feeling the wind of it through her hair before she fully dropped to one knee and rolled behind the deadfall for cover.
Naraka was wearing what a fool might consider armor, a shabby ensemble of repurposed legionnaire leathers, cracked and worn with age, left to her from her mother. It would not protect her from the bandit's shots; it would not save her from a wound that would likely fester before she reached any sizable settlement, if the arrow did not prove instantly fatal.
Regret filled her. I have once again let sentimentality subvert my common sense. Naraka had been so proud to wear the armor; it had been her mother's, after all. She quickly realized, hearing another arrow whiz by overhead, that she should've sold it and bought something better.
A good iron suit would've proven more reliable than the glorified tatters she wore then.
Should've listened to father…
One shoulder against the fallen tree, she crouched, listening. The bandit was an Argonian, so Naraka felt she'd be capable enough were the confrontation to evolve into a swordfight, and if she made sure to watch that he didn't get too liberal with his tail. At long range, however, she was helpless. Another regret, not having brought a bow.
For an Orismer, Naraka gra-Bourbuck was a fair archer, though she'd never really enjoyed lining up her shots. It always took too much more patience than a good sword thrust, and lacked the satisfaction of her enemy's blood erupting onto her skin. She would have to take care to claim the Argonian's bow once she'd claimed his life.
"Come out, Orc!" The Lizard hissed.
Dishonorable, she thought, but I'd rather not die today. She gasped aloud, a pained, weak sound escaping from her full lips. "I'm injured," she lied, "mercy, I beg you. Mercyyy!"
A rasping chuckle sounded from beyond Naraka's cover, growing louder as the Argonian approached. "You are a woman, I suppose I can be gentle…"
Naraka angled her sword carefully upward with both hands in preparation, its surface gleaming, her crimson eyes narrowing. "I th-thank you, s-sir…"
The Lizard's scaled hands were the first things she saw, both empty, foolishly, as they came to rest over the rounded surface of the deadfall. She waited another half-moment, barely enough for the intake of a breath, though she would not allow herself to breathe then.
His head appeared, looking down wryly at her for the briefest instant before he recognized Naraka's ploy, or at the very least the point of her blade. He opened his mouth to speak, but her sword had speared up through the skin of his jaw and out the tip of his snout like a metal horn, his blood streaming down the polished steel as though she'd punctured a wine cask.
Naraka deftly pulled free of the corpse and it slumped over the log like a doll. She wiped the Argonian's blood from her blade on the sleeve of his hide armor, and then sheathed it. She unslung the bow and the quiver of arrows from his back and scanned the woods for anyone else.
Satisfied, she fastened the quiver to her back and appraised the bow. It was good oak, and if nothing else, she could make a bit of coin from it, as it looked clean enough. Thankfully the ones that set up camp out in the open like this are never the smart ones…
The road to Riften hadn't been short one, but thus far it had not proved especially taxing for Naraka. She'd only just turned nineteen, but her father had told her that was old enough to strike out on her own for a year or two. To, "learn something useful," he'd said.
Mostly, Naraka had learned how to kill people more effectively. Which was rather useful, as it turned out, and not as much of quandary of integrity as she'd originally thought it might be. Her father had always told her that she was far too concerned with morality, but he'd also told her to make up her own damned mind often enough that she'd always taken what he said with a grain of salt.
Regardless of how she initially felt, Naraka was mildly surprised at how willing and even, at times, obligated she felt when it came to killing any and all who made the mistake of accosting her in her travels.
After rummaging through the camp for anything useful, Naraka made her way back to the road, from which the bandit had first attacked her. Behind her lay the circuitous path she'd taken through the mountains that bordered Cyrodiil, Skyrim, and Morrowind, as the direct route from Cheydinhal to Riften was apparently under heavy patrol by legionnaires, who were turning back any who could not pay the toll.
Or was it the Nords? She wondered.
It could have even been those pompous Altmer. She couldn't remember specifically what the Redguard woman had told her the day previous, only that the direct routes were unclear for easy, and more importantly, free passage. So, she'd taken the advised path into Morrowind and curved about and had been met with little resistance. That land had been strange, and she'd been chased up a hill by a dog-like creature with great long tusks, but it had been an exhilarating chase.
She thought, upon eluding the beast, that she might like to further explore Morrowind under better circumstances. For now, though, her destination was Riften. Naraka had no overwhelming desire to go there, she'd only decided on the city because it was relatively close, only a little over a week if she kept her pace, and because she'd wanted to see Skyrim.
Nords were no great friends to Orcs, but their culture was pervaded with mercenary work and more opportunities for labor than Cyrodiil currently had, and thus it was a logical choice. Her father had, unsurprisingly, questioned her use of logic, chiding her for not wanting to visit the remains of Orsinium.
That land, from what Naraka had read, was in a greater state of panic and unrest than even Skyrim with its civil war, and was thereby a place Naraka did not wish to visit.
More than once on her road to Riften she'd encountered patrols of the golden-skinned elves that made up the Aldmeri Dominion, the Thalmor. They had not cast any kind glances at her, in fact several had even insulted her heritage, calling her "Orc-filth," or "green trash," and she'd nearly grown angry. Though she'd easily rebuffed their words, as they were, of course, spindly, weak-limbed buffoons in gaudy armor and robes. She'd not said this to them, though, not desiring to be frozen solid or burned alive, but Naraka had certainly thought it, and that had brought her solace enough for the road.
The night following her encounter with the Argonian bandit, she met a Nord hunter who offered up his fire and a helping of seared rabbit, to which Naraka graciously accepted. Hunting had never been one of her great strengths.
"You'll have to watch for bears about," he said, indicating the grey-brown pelt draped about his shoulders, clasped at his neck with a purple jewel that did not look especially valuable. "Can't say how many good folk I've seen broken or gored by one o' them. If you run afoul 'o one, just clamber up the nearest rock you can find…"
Naraka did not see that as a problem, she was in a great valley with mountains extending skyward on all sides. She'd always been canny enough when it came to danger, so she was not worried about bears, they would be easy to avoid. Then again, I would like a pelt for my own… She understood it often got very cold in this land. Perhaps she ought to look into the proper method for killing one.
It would certainly be a tale to tell father.
"There's caves along the mountains, but I'd be wary o' those. Some Stendarr worshipers up in a tower, just around that bend," said the hunter; pointing off in the direction Naraka intended to travel. "They've got a shrine in case you're the praying sort."
"Never been much for prayer," said Naraka. She knew that Stendarr was one of the Eight Divines, but of any more that she was unaware. She thought he might have been the one who liked anvils.
The hunter nodded, "nor I." He patted the axe resting against the stump he sat upon, "this here's worth ten times more than any blessing when something wants you for dinner."
Naraka grinned, deciding she might like Skyrim.