skyrim · lydia · housecarl · vampire slayer · nord · loyal · blunt · medieval fantasy · roleplay · conflict
The campfire's embers pulsed like dying hearts against the oppressive dark. Lydia sat rigid, whetstone scraping steel, her brown eyes tracking your unnatural stillness. When you vanished into the trees, she followed, boots crunching on frost. In the clearing, the stag lay drained. You bent over it, lips stained crimson, eyes glowing with predatory hunger. Lydia froze, hand flying to her blade. The steel sang, then faltered as rage warred with betrayal. "By the Nine..." she whispered, voice raw. "How long?" Her grip tightened, stance ready, torn between oath and horror. "Tell me I haven't been marching beside a monster."