Markarth was bullshit.
The Dragonborn had ventured all this way on foot to fulfill the request of a bounty on some Forsworn (and a fucking dragon, added in by Jarl Igmund's steward), and ended up staying three weeks at the local inn. He needed some relaxation; Forsworn were some tricky bastards to take out. But it wasn't like the people of Markarth showered him in honor and glory or anything.
Actually, they were pretty rude to outsiders in general. One could guess the Forsworn themselves were to blame, but honestly, it was a little outrageous how wary some people were. Every day they seemed to live in fear of the group of rebels living up in the mountains when they probably had worse problems right at home.
And is it even worth mentioning the inhospitable Silver-Blood family that owned more than half the hold? They were snobby, rich, and total bitchasses.
So yes, it was time to get out of this rockpile. Skyrim was full of places to see and much better people to interact with. No one in their right mind would purchase a house here.
.::.
Despite how blinding the sun was way up here in the mountains of Skyrim, it failed to provide much heat. Sadly, this was typical climate.
The Dragonborn was a Khajiit: one of the catfolk native to the desert lands of Elsweyr. And oh, how he missed Elsweyr! But at least his feline body was built for this kind of muscle strain; you know, walking up hills for hours. But fatigue did not escape him. It'd been about a day and a half since he stepped foot out of Markarth's gates. He hadn't really stopped anywhere yet, either. There just were not any inns conveniently located anywhere this far from the major city. A traveler would have to wait until they got down the mountain.
Luckily enough for the Dragonborn, he had not run into any danger. Yet. But it was sure to happen.
Forsworn made their little nests in caves and built raft towns over the river. They were a populous vermin, dotting the hillsides and hunting off the game that meat vendors from Markarth relied on.
"Huh?" The Dragonborn halted in his tracks and his thoughts when he came upon the scene of a tipped wagon, goods scattered all over the road around it. Probably a trade caravan, headed up to sell its wares to the rich folk of the nearby hold. It definitely did not make it, though. "Forsworn." Our Khajiit hero narrowed his eyes and mimicked a familiar expression, whilst sounding cold and condescending.
He cautiously approached the wreckage. There was no body, but everything appeared to be in fresh condition. So what happened? There was a chance it was bandits, but not even your common thief would set up headquarters in this territory.
Well, it wasn't like anyone was using the spilled goods. The Dragonborn crouched, gathering everything in with his sight: there were pots and bowls, a broken bow, arrows, and torn bags. Not much that could be of use until he reached a town and gathered fresh supplies there.
He sighed, moving to push himself back up. When he did, he met his gaze with that of a pair of narrowed, emerald eyes. The eyes of a well-built Breton man. The eyes of a Forsworn.
In the Dragonborn's sudden shock and lack of reaction time, the Forsworn man brought his fist up and swung right at our hero's face. And then everything was black.
.::.
When he awoke after the cliché happenstance, the Dragonborn was lying on his side in a daze.
Sad thing was, he didn't wake up among unfamiliar surroundings. He'd been in places like this before. It was a Forsworn camp.
Of course, he'd never actually been held captive in one before. He was in a hide tent with his hands bound behind his back by some rough rope. Luckily, that bit of rope was his only restraint. But it wasn't like he could call out for help with all the possible Forsworn lingering about on the outside. Maybe if he could find a dagger...
The Dragonborn turned over onto his back, ears pricked for the sound of footsteps. He breathed in deeply, then forced his upper body forward, and himself into a sitting position. He hurriedly looked around for something to cut the rope with, but there did not seem to be anything else in the tent, save the hide and straw underneath him.
Now was when panic settled in.
Thinking he may be able to fidget with the rope enough to slide his paws out, he proceeded with doing just that. His bindings, though tight, seemed to loosen up the more he turned his wrists. It was working.
"What'dya' think you're doing?" A disgruntled voice boomed over the Dragonborn's head. He immediately turned up to see who was speaking.
After momentary shock, the Breton from before crouched in front of him and looked him harshly in the eye. The animal bones around his neck and hips clanged together as he moved, taking the Dragonborn up under the arms and lifting him to his feet. "We've somethin' special for you, Khajiit." The man cackled, hacked a bit, and then began dragging our hero out of his tent of imprisonment.
Forsworn camps were usually very busy and loud communities. Much like bandit hideouts. Yet, this particular camp felt so...still. So quiet.
The only Forsworn was the man leading the Dragonborn along by a tail of rope. There was clear evidence that many more of the hill people lived here; tons of tents, hide racks, and stolen goods were scattered all around the site. So where had they all gone?
Unfortunately, such curiosity would not have much time to simmer.
The hum of conversation eventually met the Dragonborn's ears. His capturer had dragged him into a clearing where all the before-absent Forsworn members were, chatting amongst themselves, eyes fixed on their new guest. It was horrifying. Some of them were even smirking.
"Here," one of the madmen stood up and spoke, "Falcus has brought us another prisoner."
The Breton, apparently named Falcus, waved his free hand in acknowledgment. He had stopped in the very middle of the clearing. He seemed to gaze around for a moment, then paused and began untying the ropes binding his victim. Once they were undone, a chance of escape could not be had. Every Forsworn had stood at this moment and cheered, fists in the air.
After their caterwaul, a group began to split apart, making way for two more men who were dragging a large sack behind them. Something was moving inside.
The Dragonborn, too frightened to move, curled up with tail tucked underneath and ears flat. He could only watch as the men emptied the sack before him. A mass of feathers, claws, and flesh fell out. The creature shrieked and every Forsworn man and woman seemed to jump.
And there it was. A Hagraven. Every citizen of Markarth and around the area knew how absurd the practices of the Forsworn were, but their dealings with Daedra and dark magic were among the worst. These Hagravens were living husks, quoting Herbane, that gave up humanity for their powers. Purely wretched and disgusting. And the Dragonborn was now face-to-face with one.
She stood crookedly, snarling. Her wrinkled and dirty face was twisted in the most gruesome way. The creature had a large, beak-like nose and sunken, beady eyes that made her more animal than human.
A few members of the on-looking crowd were grinning. Some were even laughing. Laughing
Why in Oblivion were they laughing?
"Our Hag's in heat," Falcus's deep voice held a sickening humor. The Dragonborn could feel his stomach lurch. "And we had this little idea that we could use her for our entertainment, you see."
No, the Dragonborn didn't want to see, nor stick around long enough to find out. He drew his lips back and hissed at the crowd. Not in a kawaii-desu-adorable-kitty kind of way, but in a weird, pissed-off-humanoid-cat kind of way. Falcus just laughed along with the others. He obviously saw the approach as a joke.
Too focused on the crowd, the Dragonborn didn't see that the Hagraven was inching ever closer on her bird-like feet. He snapped his attention back when he could hear the congested breathing. Her talons were extended, reaching for him.
In a vain attempt he tried crawling away, but a sharp shove to the back sent him in the opposite direction. At that moment, the Hagraven lunged at him.
The Dragonborn fought the beast, kicking and punching and scratching. It didn't help with Falcus returning the abuse with a kick to the ribs here and a shove there to keep him down. The Hagraven, though, had sharper claws than any Khajiit warrior, and used them to cling to her poor victim.
When the dust and feathers settled, she had somehow pinned down the Dragonborn. Or just took advantage of his now-crippled state. He was clutching his side where Falcus had last kicked him when the Hagraven loomed over him, still snarling. For a moment, he thought she was even drooling.
"Play nice with 'er now. She can get real feisty, that one."
But the Dragonborn ignored the taunting comments and tried again to kick the Hagraven away. In an impossibly swift movement, she caught his ankle and pulled his leg up, causing his head to hit the ground. Hard.
Once again the one with the advantage, she climbed on top of him. And started to rub herself against his leg.
This caused our hero to let out a string of curses and to struggle more, uselessly. He wasn't sure if the Hagraven was really just this horny or maybe it was mocking him in its own way. Whatever the case, this wasn't acceptable by any standards.
She moved from his leg to his stomach, a slow, but steady, progression.
He had drawn his legs up again, not to kick, because his position wouldn't allow it with the Hagraven now straddling him, but to try and push off one more time. Once again, he was stopped by Falcus, who had grabbed the collar of his leather under-armor. "Look," he spoke with a new harshness, "Entertain the crowd, and I will reward you with your life. Deal?"
The Dragonborn was in no position to argue.
So, left without any real choice, he ceased struggling against the perverse intentions of the Hagraven and took half minute to think. What he had to do to leave this camp alive was no question, but gaining the stomach for it was the real challenge.
Unwillingly, he slid his hands down to his waist, right between the Hag's legs, and started fidgeting with his armor. It was hard to work the iron plating off, but once he managed, he could more easily peel the remaining leather away.
All the while, he felt disgusted with himself and the situation. Saying he was "embarrassed" would be an understatement.
He was down to one, thin cloth covering his Khajiit manhood. He was bare; exposed.
Then, the Hagraven did something he didn't expect, though he'd witnessed it before. She spoke.
She spoke right to the Dragonborn as she began undressing her lower regions. "Do you like…my pretty pussy?" She had one, long, dirty claw hooked on her own loincloth, bringing it down slowly. A tuft of hair was already peeking out.
The Dragonborn felt like the air had been knocked out of him. This creature had more hair underground than twenty Khajiit women.
He cursed the Divines under his breathe, closed his eyes, and nodded.
Pleased with this, the Hag brought up her other, clawed hand and started to slide it down her furry happytrail. This didn't really seduce the Dragonborn, but whatever.
Shakily, he raised a hand to her hip, lightly grazing her wrinkled skin. She didn't protest, to his disappointment, and so he continued the touching. This rewarded him with something between a moan and a snarl. Apparently a positive reaction, because the Hag proceeded to rip the loincloth completely off with one flick of a talon.
"Get on with it!" One of the Forsworn called, which stirred the rest of the group up.
"Come on, cat!"
"Fuck her!"
The Dragonborn could feel all their eyes burning into him. He'd been stripped of pretty much all of his dignity already. Giving in was the only option. He had to please the crowd, like Falcus had demanded.
He groped both of the Hag's hips and flung her back, causing her to wail. Then, acting just quick enough to pull himself on top of her, he pinned her veiny wrists by her ugly head.
Before the Hagraven could pull her lips back in a hiss, the Dragonborn planted an unpracticed, sloppy kiss right on top of them. The embrace was neither romantic nor intimate in any way, but he did use tongue. For whatever unholy reason, he licked the cavern of her old lady mouth clean.
She tasted like she'd eaten a dead thrush that'd been laying in the sun for a few days. Eugh.
The sounds the Forsworn were making were half-disgusted, half-sickeningly-pleased. They were finally getting some sort of action.
"Can you please…my pretty pussy?" The Hagraven groaned once the Dragonborn removed his lips to take a breather, hands free of her wrists. To his horror, she was beginning to tear the hide cloth that covered her chest.
He blinked, but that was all it took before he opened his eyes to find two, shriveled mounds staring back at him. Wrinkly, decayed, dirty milkduds. Nasty, old lady tatas.
"Oh, fuck me…" The Dragonborn meant it as a curse, not a command, but what happened next, happened.
"With pleasure," the Hagraven growled and reached for his loincloth, tearing it free and producing the package behind it. Immediately, she groped his shaft and ran her rough palms along it. The Dragonborn, utterly shocked and strangely aroused, arched his rump. This only encouraged more of the palming.
If things weren't already gross enough, the Hag brought two of her spindly fingers to her lips and somehow managed to wet them past the talons. She used this as a lubricant, despite showing signs of how…moist she already was.
The Dragonborn was actually glad he couldn't see her shriveled womanhood through the bush of hair and feathers, but how in the name of Sithis was he going to go through with this?
She decided for him.
After wetting his cock, the Hag, gripping him a little too tight, directed him to her wormhole. He winced, though he slid in rather easily. It was awful. She was like a worn out bag. Were Hagravens even supposed to mate? Probably not.
She let go, and it was the Dragonborn's cue to continue. He moved himself in a half-hearted motion, up and slowly down. Unsure.
"Bed the bitch!"
"Fuck her!"
He had to. He really had to do this.
He raised himself once more, grabbed the Hagraven roughly by the waist, and began to pound into her. Relentlessly. Like the force. He just shoved, packed himself inside her.
The Hag screeched in both pain and pleasure. Or that's what it sounded like.
Shutting his eyes was the only way the Dragonborn was able to keep the contents of his stomach from spilling out onto the wretched thing's face as he mashed himself into her. The thick, flabby sound of skin-on-wrinkled-skin was sure to turn the head of anyone for miles.
The Forsworn cheered.
The Dragonborn slid his hands down the scrawny legs of the Hagraven, then hoisted them up over his shoulders. She didn't squirm, only bucked up into him.
There should be a shout that makes fucking a Hagraven easier. But only the Dovahkiin fucking a Hagraven would ask for such a thing.
Anyway, he kept pumping into her rough pouch. He quickened his pace only because he dearly wanted this to be over. And he hoped that Falcus didn't notice.
It wasn't like he was unable to still get the raw pleasure of sex. Hagravens were, at one point, humans. Women. Kind of, sort of, no? He could dream!
So, why hadn't our protagonist just shouted all the Forsworn down? Why hadn't he used the ability given to him by the Gods? Maybe he forgot. Maybe. Or maybe, if he had done that, this amazing little scenario would not have played out so humorously. So stop questioning it.
"Yesss," the Hagraven hissed. She really was drooling now. In ecstasy? That had to be it. Oh, Talos forbid she be rabid! "Say my name. Say it."
"Wait, what?" The Dragonborn ceased all movement.
"Esmerelda."
"Oh, Gods, no."
"Say it," she seethed, "Like you mean it."
"Esmerelda." He tried to sound sexy.
"Again. Make me beg."
"Fuck this…" he breathed, then spoke louder, "Esmerelda!"
This went on for about another five minutes until the Hagraven heaved and choked a groan. Just as she climaxed, so did the Dragonborn. He spilled his seed shamefully all over her body as he pulled out.
He breathed a word of relief, pushed his tired self up, and glared at Falcus.
The man seemed to know exactly what the expression on the Dragonborn's face meant. In an instant, his lips were twisted in a crooked and cruel smile. The pat on the back he gave the Khajiit was a little too casual and congratulatory. "Of course, you realize I can never allow such a gifted pornstar to just…walk out. Why not stay a while?"