Midriél and Evandolas — Part Two of Two

Midriél and Evandolas

Part Two of Two:

The Dire-Stones

For a sennight the welts drawn on Midriél’s rear faded, and for the same sennight her dark desire rose anew. The pleasure she had found under her lover’s cane had been absolute, but oh so fleeting, the memory of it turned to a mocking phantasm. The burning Evandolas’ pole had left in its wake was gone, replaced by an emptiness along her oral passage and up the more sinister one of her bottom.

Sun-danced water caressed her skin, washed away the day’s strains and replenished the Elf-girl. She dove down into the coolness, broke the surface again, the copper of her hair turned rust. Midriél spun about and fell still, floating on the tiny waves, eyes closed against the late light. With her ears submerged she could not hear the forest, yet timely a smile found her soft lips. Neither turning her head nor opening her eyes she began a gentle backstroke towards the sole pebble shore of the steep-banked loch. As the ground reached up she abandoned her levitating pose and tumbled to stand upright. The water bared her shoulders, and she could see – and could be seen from – the stony stretch before the trees.

Evandolas was sitting in the midst of it, next to the boulder on which her attire was neatly splayed out. His voice, teasing and gentle, was carried over to her with the faintest of echoes.

“A goblin once snuck through the leaves,

Saw close a maiden bathing.

He grabbed her clothes, the worst of thieves,

All deer roused by his laughing.”

Midriél and Evandolas — Part Two of Two (IV)

Midriél and Evandolas

Part Two of Two (and of this the final share):

The Dire-Stones (continued)

Midriél’s muscles were exhausting themselves in a twisting frenzy, the uncontrolled trembling of a woman being lashed to madness. Ever deeper the whip reached into her sundered flesh, ever more laboured the cycle of her breathing became. All worlds had shrunken to the black denseness before her and the red mayhem behind. Thrice more the whip struck with such furore that she could not keep her torso under tension. Air came and went in ragged gasps, the thrill of suffocating addictive. Lightheaded, Midriél allowed the pain to overwhelm her whilst the final lines, curving towards the monolith’s very top, were redrawn in her blood. Lust and suffering, her very essence she gave to the stone, and it accepted her gift.

Midriél and Evandolas — Part Two of Two (II)

Midriél and Evandolas

Part Two of Two (and of this the second share):

The Dire-Stones (continued)

Evandolas relished his newly-found wanderlust with vigorous steps. Easy was it for Midriél in her plight to picture herself taken by brutish raiders to be sold into thraldom to some Esvren warlord. In time her truelove might assume the role of such a dreadful master, who would hold her in heavy irons, and whose extinct dialect was said to know a full dozen words for pain.

For a quarter of an hour they followed the winding path through wooded foothills. Each stumbling or slowing of hers was met with a hefty tug to the lead, which in turn resulted in a well-gagged shriek and immediate obedience. Only through a veil of scalding throes did Midriél after such an incentive quicken her gait. Yet quicken it she did, across stony wash-outs and underneath fallen trunks. Sweat stung in the small of her back and the crooks of her elbows, where the stick had roughened her skin. Before her, always a tad too far away for the comfort of her bosom, Evandolas kept a jaunty celerity in spite of this numerous burdens.

Midriél and Evandolas — Part Two of Two (I)

Midriél and Evandolas

Part Two of Two (and of this the first share):

The Dire-Stones

For a sennight the welts drawn on Midriél’s rear faded, and for the same sennight her dark desire rose anew. The pleasure she had found under her lover’s cane had been absolute, but oh so fleeting, the memory of it turned to a mocking phantasm. The burning Evandolas’ pole had left in its wake was gone, replaced by an emptiness along her oral passage and up the more sinister one of her bottom.

Sun-danced water caressed her skin, washed away the day’s strains and replenished the Elf-girl. She dove down into the coolness, broke the surface again, the copper of her hair turned rust. Midriél spun about and fell still, floating on the tiny waves, eyes closed against the late light. With her ears submerged she could not hear the forest, yet timely a smile found her soft lips. Neither turning her head nor opening her eyes she began a gentle backstroke towards the sole pebble shore of the steep-banked loch. As the ground reached up she abandoned her levitating pose and tumbled to stand upright. The water bared her shoulders, and she could see – and could be seen from – the stony stretch before the trees.

Evandolas was sitting in the midst of it, next to the boulder on which her attire was neatly splayed out. His voice, teasing and gentle, was carried over to her with the faintest of echoes.

“A goblin once snuck through the leaves,

Saw close a maiden bathing.

He grabbed her clothes, the worst of thieves,

All deer roused by his laughing.”

Midriél and Evandolas — Part One of Two

To celebrate the tenth anniversary of the release of The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim (the only piece of art yours truly ever geeked up enough to write fan fiction about) I would like to share this two-part story with you. Though not set in the Elder Scrolls universe, it shares certain concepts and plot points with it. It also borrows from The Whispering Woods, the elusive book series so prominently featured in Pony Boot Camp. Last but not least I duly state movies_maidens_n_manmeat’s spicy narrations Camelot and Oruale and the Saxons as strong, if not initial inspirations.

Midriél and Evandolas

Part One of Two:

A Sylvan Meeting

Her keen ears had guided her to him long before the forest granted sight. As she finally descried him, the familiar sting found her heart anew. The climax of longing, ere it turned into desire in the face of the desired and longed-fore. Evandolas was sitting on a burly trunk, cutting away at a hazel rod whilst reciting his latest work. Words were smoothed, verses piled upon verses to ever greater splendour as his voice floated across the sunny clearing, rich and sweet. Midriél listened in her hiding spot behind the mighty oak trees for far longer than decency allowed, and only moved when Evandolas had ended his poetry with a sigh only those could vent who truly suffered for their art.

Rückkehr nach Himmelsrand

I find it appropriate to reveal this, the German version of Return to Skyrim, today, given the fact that the videogame on which the story is based was released on 11^th November 2011. Return to Skyrim was posted exactly three years later, and its main character even stated that “[f]or three years I travelled these savage lands far and wide”. Consequently I’ve adjusted that line for the translation to seven years. Now I’m off to fire up my gaming rig and endanger the dragon population of the Old Kingdom!

Rückkehr nach Himmelsrand

Eine Fremde hatte die Taverne betreten. Was von ihr unter der Mantelkapuze zu erkennen war, als sie sich in der hintersten Ecke niederließ, verortete ihre Herkunft in der verheerten Provinz Morrowind. Von den anderen Tischen aus erhielt sie die bekannten Blicke, vom kurzen Streifen bis hin zum geringschätzigen Starren.

Ein Gast im besonderen schien Anstoß an ihrer Anwesenheit zu nehmen. Ein grobschlächtiger Geselle, nicht einmal in der Mitte seiner Jahre, doch bereits mit dem verhärmten Gesicht eines Mannes, der zuviele Winter gesehen hat.

Bei Akatosh, drei von vier Jahreszeiten in diesem götterverlassenem Land waren Winter!

Pony Boot Camp — Part Forty-Two

We Interrupt this Ponyplay Porn to Bring You More Crap about Wood Elves

“You look like shit.”

“Yeff, ma’am,” I mumbled meekly.

No-one could argue with her statement. That Miss C. had brought it up during the group fall-in showed bad form, yet held nothing new to the other girls. More than once I had woken them up with my groans during the night. Having them witnessed the effects of my punishment fell in line with Kandrin’s “show, don’t tell” doctrine.

“You have my permission to see the doctor.”

“Fhank you, ma’am.”

Khisara’s Last Walk

Khisara’s Last Walk

Never before had Khisara witnessed such splendour. Even in her distressed state the Great Hall made her marvel in utter awe. One hundred and twenty cubits the numberless columns reached into the air, and upon entering the hall, one’s eye could not fathom its far end. The palace guards marched her along, keeping the chain to her high gold collar free of slack, but felt no need or inclination to drag at it. Whither could she flee? How could she form the mere concept of defiance in such overwhelming manifestation of unquestioned power?

Am I seeing double, or is it just me?

On several occasions I have wondered how unique or generic my literary ideas were, and today it is time for it again. A couple of weeks ago I finished reading a book which sported several scenes resembling those descript in a story of mine (all in the same chapter, actually). To make this absolutely clear right from the start: I do not believe that the author has read my story and taken notes. And even if, it would not be plagiarism in any way, nor would I be pissed off – quite to the contrary. I would be intrigued by the rather absurd idea that somebody drew inspiration from my writing. However, since this is in all likeliness not the case, I am left in awe of the uncanny resemblance of scenes written separately by two different authors.

Pony Boot Camp — Part Thirty-Four

Social Interaction

No sooner had I finished my reading than Sixteen materialised next to my bunk. She turned her bleach-blonde haired head left and right, as to make sure she would not be overheard.

“I think they put stuff in our food.”

I made the fatal error of humouring her:

“What stuff?”

“Stuff!”

Oooh, stuff…! I sat up on the bunk edge.

“Mind expanding on this a bit?”