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and narga 6!

6: luck

word count: 775

cw: death, blood, injury & descriptions of it

this turned out a bit dark, sorry 😔👉👈 BUT at least there’s some backstory in it ig bsdhfbshf

Volpe smells the blood from a mile away. She knows the tribe that dwells in the mountains behind Falkreath- small stronghold, all but a dozen people inside. It would be busy this time of day, in the beginning of morning, their children would squeal as they dip in the cold bathwater, their blacksmith would be stroking the fire in the early haze of dawn, their animals would be loud and demanding with their hunger- but there is nothing as she climbs up the narrow mountain path. No sound of a door creaking open for the first time today, no busy footsteps, no morning chatter. There is nothing but deafening silence and a thick smell of blood. The ground is damp under the gates of the stronghold, black liquid oozing from the other side of it, trickling down the steep road, slowly at first and then building up, like the dread in Volpe’s stomach. She yells a question- by the gods, what happened?- and bangs on the gate, yelling still- can anyone hear her? No answer comes. She slams her wide shoulder against the thick oaken gate, once, twice, and hears it crack- when it does, she kicks her heavy boot into it, and it splinters and creaks, granting sight to the horror inside. All of them lie dead. Slaughtered, like cattle. Their bodies are scattered around, some still clutching weapons, some on their stomach, their backs littered with stabs. Even those of them who were not warriors- their wise-woman, their young blacksmith, the chief's hearth-wife, by the gods, where are the children- have died fighting, it's in the glint of anger that had frozen into their eyes and the fierce expressions that taint their stiff faces. Their life’s blood has seeped into the ground, Volpe’s boots stick into the heavy black mud that it has created, nearly slipping as she stumbles inside. The small mountain stronghold has become a battleground. A mass grave. Who’d cut them down like this? For what? On what power’s will? Volpe stands there, inhaling the scent of blood still, lungs full of death, thoughts filled with cold terror, and her chest overflowing with grief. She does not move for minutes that seem like hours, eyes soaking in the sight that her head cannot quite comprehend. What snaps her out of her terrible trance is, to both her horror and delight, the cry of an infant. It comes from the longhouse. She just now sees the chief's body, her wide back braced against the door of it, protecting it even in death. Volpe lifts her body softly, and lies it to the side, not having the heart to move her from her eternal post just yet. The door is unlocked, it creaks gently as she pushes against it, dragging a line of blood on the floor as it opens wide. Hearing that, the infant now wails louder- it knows someone is inside, and it calls out, the naive thing. Volpe thinks about what would have happened to it if it was so loud while blood was still being spilled outside, but she quickly realizes that she doesn't want to know. She can see the babe's mother from the doorway. She, too, lies dead, a wide gash running across her middle, her body curled up around the child- she bled out, from the looks of it. Volpe removes her stiff arms from the infant, as gently as she can, her heart nearly splitting in half at the thought that she is untangling the child from it's mother's last embrace. She takes it in her own arms instead, cradling it against her chest as if it was her own. The infant had stopped wailing, now it's merely staring up at Volpe with it's huge, gentle blue eyes, it's round cheeks still flushed from crying. She runs her thumb across it's tiny face, wiping down the blood and the tears that had stuck to it, and the child's little mouth parts in a laugh. Volpe smiles with it, albeit with pain on her face. There is a little wooden medallion hanging from the babe's neck- the sort that orsimer children receive on their naming ceremonies. It's carved elegantly, tremendous care showing in the tiny details, even though the thing is barely bigger than Volpe's thumb. It reads "Narga". A girl's name. "And what a pretty name it is, isn't it?" she asks the little one, her voice hushed, lest it breaks. The child, again, laughs, the sound jingling through the dead silence of the longhouse. "You're lucky that we ran into each other, Narga."