Simon reached behind him and grabbed the boot spike, then directly pulled off the shoes from the thief's feet, revealing a pair of purple feet. It seemed to be a female Dark Elf.
After her shoes were removed, the smell of sweat in the air suddenly became strong, and the Troll couldn't help but roll his eyes three times.
The thief still didn't surrender. She flicked both hands backward, each shooting a sleeve arrow. Simon released his right hand from her throat, leaning back to dodge. Just as he avoided the hidden arrows, a cold glint flashed, and the icy metal sliced through the spider silk mask, gliding along the Troll's flat facial features, finally tearing his hood. The dagger flipped and plunged downward.
Simon didn't want to kill, so he had to retreat a few steps. Two pieces of silk fabric fell, and he gently touched his cheek. There was a thin scratch on his ugly face, which healed instantly.
The Dark Elf thief sprang to her feet, picking up her longbow. It was a black, beautifully sculpted weapon, and the silent poisoned arrow from before had come from this exquisite creation.
"This is the second time, Elf!" Simon warned.
The other party was looking at the Troll's distinctive face in surprise, and couldn't help but sigh in Dunmer (Dark Elven): "By Nocturnal (one of the Daedric Princes, the Lady of Night), what do I see? A talking beast?"
Simon furrowed his brow, making his expression even more ferocious.
At this moment, the smell of blood on the thief was very strong. Her waist and abdomen were constantly seeping blood; the Troll's kick had inadvertently reopened her wound. The continuous blood loss made her weak, and her dark purple face showed an unnatural pale yellow, her body swaying precariously.
Simon asked again, his tone icy, "Surrender, or die?"
The thief squinted. Her vision was already blurry, and her bow-holding hands unconsciously drooped, but her reply was calm and steady, in Common Tongue: "You said you came for money? I can hire you, give you a large sum of money, as long as you come with me to kill someone."
"I will not leave Winterhold Hold."
"The reward will be very generous."
"You can lure the enemy here, and I will be responsible for killing them."
"Beast! Curb your arrogance! Standing before you is the champion of the Lady of Night, the sacred guardian, the king of thieves—Nightingale!" The woman's speech grew faster and faster, trying to say everything in one breath, "And that enemy is also a powerful Nightingale. Without working together, there is only death. I summon you in the name of the great Nocturnal…"
Before she finished speaking, the woman, who called herself Nightingale, collapsed to the ground.
The atmosphere was deadly silent.
Suddenly, a ring of fire spread from her body, forming a circle on the ground, surrounding the Dark Elf.
This was Ancestor's Wrath, a racial ability.
Loving ancestors would still protect their descendants after death, a remarkable trait.
The Fire Elemental hovered around the Ancestor's Wrath's fire ring for a moment, extinguishing the flames, leaving only a faint, dim golden glow on the surface, the unextinguished spirit of the deceased.
Simon slowly approached, slowly stepping into the glowing circle, without being harmed.
He squatted down to observe, confirming that the Dark Elf thief was unconscious, then removed her armor, exposing the wound.
Aside from several small wounds that had mostly healed, the constantly seeping blood came from a sword wound. It didn't look infected or rotten but had been partially cut away and simply stitched, but had not received proper treatment.
Simon searched the thief's pouch at her waist and found some poison vials, some needle and thread, and some fresh plants: three Blue Mountain Flowers, two Yellow Mountain Flowers, and two bundles of Hanging Moss.
Everything in this world flows with magic energy, and everything also has its characteristics. Often, even weeds by the roadside are excellent alchemy ingredients.
If it was like in the game, these three plants would all be beneficial for physical recovery.
Simon took a portion of each to taste. Sure enough, they felt warm after entering his stomach. After confirming their effectiveness, he crushed them and fed them to the thief.
It was still bleeding.
He took the needle and thread to stitch the wound.
It was still bleeding, though much less was seeping out. He didn't know if it was effective or if she was simply running out of blood.
The Troll scratched his head. A clever housewife cannot cook without rice. He had no internal energy, nor did he know restoration magic. What could he do? He couldn't save her.
The Dark Elf's injury likely affected her internal organs, and simple treatment would be futile.
At this point, there was only one way to save her: Simon's lycanthropy—Troll's Blood!
Trolls can rapidly regenerate their bodies; such a small injury would be nothing. However, the consequences needed to be considered. Lycanthropy is the power of the Daedric Prince Hircine, and the injured person is a follower of Nocturnal, another Daedric Prince. If the Dark Elf accepted this power, it could lead to some unpleasant consequences. Whether to choose life or the purity of her faith was something she had to decide for herself.
…
An Imperial man was hunched over a table, writing furiously.
The Dark Elf thief stood silently behind him, watching the soft, moon-like glow from the horn lantern on the table. A small Candlelight flickered within the hollow, ochre-yellow horn, gently swaying. Was it swaying with the man's breath?
Perhaps not.
The man wrote in silence, the strokes of his black quill pen pressing against the papyrus, emitting a soft, low hiss.
Around them was a deadly, cold silence, like the heartless night of ages, or rather, the annihilation at the end of a silent soul.
So many destinations after death. Tears streamed from the Dark Elf's eyes. Gallus, did you ultimately not reach the Lady of Night's Ebony Swamp? Does it hurt here? Is it cold?
The man suddenly chuckled softly and began to hum a melodious song.
In the endlessly low, yet endlessly joyful tune, the female thief's soul and body both flew away. She was moving further and further from the singing man. When the Dark Elf could no longer suppress her sorrowful cries, the man transformed into light, into the sun. A beautiful world unfolded in the light. At the end of the horizon, the man holding books smiled with confident ambition.
His gaze roamed the sky for a while, then suddenly plunged into the mortal world. An endless crowd suddenly surged forth. The Dark Elf wanted to push through the crowd to get a little closer to him, but she could only ever see his back receding, seeming to fall below the horizon.
Suddenly, the man turned his head. The people around them parted, clearing the line of sight between him and her.
The man, with a scruffy beard, scratched his head, narrowed his eyes, and gave the Dark Elf a gentle smile.
"Kalia! You must live well! Mercer Frey, who betrayed the Lady, will get his just deserts! I saw it! Hahaha…"
The world shattered.
Darkness once again reigned supreme.
…
The Dark Elf heard the whistling wind and snow, and the burning firewood.
She was covered by bedding, feeling warm.
She didn't open her eyes, trying to move her fingers, which were very flexible.
Kalia silently sat up, the firelight penetrating her eyelids and entering her eyeballs.
She opened her eyes.
The snow-white Troll sat with his back to her in front of the campfire. A tiny Fire Elemental was flying around him. His back was straight, his waist and back broad. Although still quite short, he had a steadfast demeanor, like a rock.
"White Rock…" Kalia murmured softly.
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