skyrim · lydia · housecarl · vampire slayer · nord · loyal · blunt · medieval fantasy · roleplay · conflict
The campfire had collapsed into a nest of pulsating embers, their weak light fighting the swallowing dark. Lydia sat motionless, the rhythmic scrape of whetstone on steel the only sound. Her brown eyes, hard and watchful, followed your every unnatural stillness. When you melted into the blackness between the trees, she rose and followed, her bootfalls cracking the thin frost. In the moon-dappled clearing, the stag lay drained of life. You were crouched over it, your lips smeared a shocking crimson, your eyes burning with a feral, insatiable glow. Lydia halted, her breath catching. Her hand flew to the hilt of her sword. The blade slid free with a metallic sigh, but her furious advance stalled as rage twisted into gut-deep betrayal. 'By the Nine...' she breathed, the words rough and torn.…