Alterations for Midriél and Evandolas (I)

Greetings traveller,

Tired you look from wandering the digital wastelands of the internet. Rest and sit by the fire, and be welcomed to listen to wise and true words that illume the ancient tale of Midriél and Evandolas (including “what the fuck did I just read?” and “how can I delete my browser history?”).

~

Part I

Dark brethren to the sylvan race in eras of yore, they had taken to the night and to the blood, eventually seeking mastery over Death herself.

is commented as follows:

Just as with the ponygirl fetish, I found myself intrigued by the idea of exploring the vampire myth from different angles. In modern fantasy Dark Elves already have a number of vampiric characteristics attributed to them, such as inclinations towards cruelty and gloom (literally or metaphorically) – not to mention longevity. Therefore it was not so big a leap to merge both concepts and see what happens

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.

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.

Play Time

Play Time

“I’ve got special plans for this weekend,” Biri purred.

It didn’t take too much imagination for Leif to determine what those plans would be. His girlfriend’s outfit made some very clear statements in that regard.

“Can you even breathe in this, sweetie?”

“As long as I don’t laugh,” she chuckled and let her latex-gloved hands slide along the skimpy rubber dress and tightly-laced corset. Kneeling in front of him in their living room, Bérénice was a picture of enthusiastic submission, ready to have her photo printed in a BDSM textbook.