Narova and Murasame

Narova and Murasame

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“You’re sure about this?” Narova asked.

How many times are you going to ask me that? Murasame’s voice reverberated through her skull, speaking only to her.

Narova scanned the landscape. She was standing on a rocky overlook dusted with snow. A floodplain filled with purple waters dumped out below her—the entire scene stained and burned with the black magic of Akavarin.

Beyond the floodplain, a massive wall rose up, black and relentless. So high Narova figured she could spend an entire day scaling the surface and still not manage to get halfway up. It was a good thing climbing hand over foot wasn’t really something she had to bother with anymore.

“Until I’m convinced you’re not lying,” Narova said. “You’re sure you can kill the creatures in the black void after I’ve been blinking for an hour and they know where I am?”

I was forged by a god, Narova. An insane god, yes, but a talented one. The voidspawn in that dimension are like ants to me.

Ants that had nearly killed Narova on several occasions. She still had scabbed over wounds from the last time she’d blinked too frequently and they’d sprung onto her.

Narova knew she was taking a big risk—there was no way to know what Akavarin had constructed behind those walls. Last time she took a pass at him, she’d spent a week masquerading around in Falmer skin before she got a chance to kill him. And that hadn’t gone so well.

The bastard had literally torn Narova’s soul out of her body.

“What god forged you?” She asked.

His name was Sotha Sil. The Great Maker.

“Never heard of him.”

Of course not. You are a barbarian.

Narova had gotten used to the sword’s casual insults. Murasame threw them out the same way a whore throws out compliments to fat men in the street. She didn’t mind the insults so much as long as Murasame did not say them in a voice that made her want to pop her own fucking eyes out.

By all appearances, the sword should have been entirely unwieldy. From tip to pommel, Murasame was a hand taller than Narova herself. The blade half as wide as her chest. But she was able to heft the weapon as if it were no heavier than an elven dagger.

Fucking magic.

Narova was getting tired of enchantments. Tired of the world never being what your eyes show you.

“How did he die?” Narova asked. “Sotha Sil.”

How do you know he’s dead?

“Because you’re not with him.”

There was a silence.

Sotha Sil was betrayed and murdered by Almalexia, another god who was always worrisomely tolerant of Necromancers and their dark art. It was an arrogance—she did not believe they could harm her. But in turn, she was betrayed and killed by a purveyor of the black art, the Nerevarine. Fucking asshole, that one. Both my creator and Almalexia now rest in the ruins of Clockwork City, beneath Mournhold.

“Morrowind, eh?” Narova asked. “How’d you get here?”

My path is a crooked one. Just like yours. All you need to know is that Akavarin’s death would satisfy a very, very old grudge.

Narova shrugged. “Tell me more about Akavarin, then. What am I going to find over that wall? How many soldiers in his army? What kind of security? What kind of traps?”

The sword did not respond.

“I can’t kill him if I don’t know what’s over that fucking wall,” Narova hissed.

Fine. As you know, Akavarin can move the Falmer like a puppet master making his dolls dance. I would guess there are about two or three hundred thousand of them over that wall by now. They fuck like rabbits. I cannot wait to slice my way through their guts. Nothing is more satisfying than cutting a Falmer in half.

“What else?”

 The Falmer are just foot soldiers. Peons. There will be other necromancers as well. Very powerful. You killed his favorite apprentice, Mordred, but the Morathi Covenant is like a fungus—spores puked up all over Nirn. He’s been calling them back to him for months. Who knows how many are back there. Five? Ten?

“How powerful are they?”

The sword scoffed. It sounded like a metallic sneeze.

When we run into one, you best blink the fuck away.

“Ok. A Falmer army that makes Ulfric’s warband look like amateurs. A pack of corpse-fuckers to make things interesting. That it?”

No. All this purple water….all this time. The landscape will bend to Akavarin’s will. Every rock, every root, every stone will be set against you. I’d be on the lookout for yawning pits that lead to the molten core of the earth. Stuff like that.

Narova cursed. This was starting to sound like a really bad idea.

You smell…strange. Is that what Bosmer fear is like?

“Fuck yourself, sword.” Narova said.

Whatever you say.

She sighed. “Before I head over that wall, I need proof that you can kill those creatures.”

I was wondering when we’d get to this part. I am ready.

“I hope so.”

Narova pulled the mask over her face. The pressure on her cheeks felt familiar now. Comforting. Like slipping on an old pair of boots that she’d walked a thousand miles in.

She blinked, but didn’t focus on a particular spot in her mind. Not yet. The darkness enveloped her—cold on her skin. The smell of brimstone filled her nostrils. The deranged world-between-worlds stretched out around her.

Creatures scuttled around in the distance.

She had never gotten a good look at them before. It was like every horrible creature of the deep had all been to the same disgusting orgy—fucking each other until the worst parts of all of got shat out the other end. Monsters with six legs and sharp pincers. Dozens of eyes. Mouths rimmed with fangs and dripping with poison.

All of them running towards her.

Narova lifted the sword off her shoulder and pulled it back into a high guard.

This will be….a little weird. Don’t fight it.

Narova felt an electric current run through her spine and limbs and fingers. It was like every part of her body was about to have its own personal orgasm.

And then came a strange feeling of vitality. An endless source of energy that Narova had never felt before.

Murasame came alive in her hands, and her hands came alive around the sword.

The creatures approached.

Narova bolted forward and attacked—swinging and cutting in cruel, massive arcs of steel that sliced through the stiff carapaces as if they belonged to fragile beetles and spiders. Green gore and chopped limbs flew everywhere.

The monsters screamed.

Narova laughed while she killed them.

Five minutes later, she was knee deep in a pond of green blood. There must have been a hundred carcasses at her feet.

Told you they were a bunch of pussies. 

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