Midriél and Evandolas — Part Two of Two (III)

Midriél and Evandolas

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

The Dire-Stones (continued)

The grassy soil was untrodden within and without the circle, and touched only by windborne leaves. A hidden force, almost physical in nature, sought to repel her with ever greater potency the closer Midriél advanced the centre stone. It bore uncanny resemblance to the effect one witnessed when trying to bring together the opposing ends of two witch-iron pieces. And still Evandolas’ firm hand on the slave chain was needed less and less, as Midriél at last hearkened to the primal promises before her.

Intend or time had slanted the outer stones, and them alone. And whilst they were encrusted by moss and lichen, the solitary monolith bore blasphemous carvings across every region of its untainted surface. Mesmerised by the ever-similar yet never-same patterns Midriél tilted to reach them with a finger. A stern yanking on the lead was needed to tear the she-Elf away.

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!

Return to Skyrim

Return to Skyrim

A stranger had arrived at the tavern. What could be seen of her under her cloak’s hood as she was sitting in the inn’s far corner put her origin into the devastated province of Morrowind. From the other tables she received the well-known array of looks, from quick glances to dismissive steers.

One patron in particular seemed to take offence at her presence. A rough article he was. Not nearly in the midst of his years, he already carried the careworn look of a man having seen too many winters.

Akatosh knew, three out of four seasons in this Gods-forsaken land were winters!

Helping himself to a final draught from his cup of mead, the blond fellow rose and strode self-importantly towards her table, albeit with a slight shuffle. The stranger watched him closely, yet made no attempt to meet his provocation in any form. He towered over her for a moment, then let himself thump onto a free chair, utterly uninvited. She met his snide gaze, shoving her own cup to and fro in demonstrative calm. After assuring himself of his mates’ attention, he scoffed loudly.