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 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.

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.”

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.