This is the first thing I've finished in awhile. I've been picking away at a few others of mine (Deliverence, On the Ice, In the Sea, and a new story with Charon and the Vaultie). Until then, maybe everyone can enjoy this burner. I had intended this as a personal story, but found that it coincided well with a prompt over at the Skyrim Kink Meme, so it can also be found there.
This is about an Orc hunter and the female Dragonborn whom he rescues and nurses back to help with the company of his dog. During my fourth play through I found a place called Bloated Man's Grotto, this place inspired the story as it's probably the prettiest place in Skyrim aside from the Eldergleam Sanctuary.
Disclaimer: Don't own Skyrim, just my characters and the mongrel.
The blood on her brow was still wet when her savior had lain her down on a pile of fetid furs. It wasn't hers – the blood, at least she didn't think it was. It was probably her savior's, but this time she didn't think it came from her enemies. Nothing really hurt, everything just felt like a ball of fluffy cotton. She couldn't recall landing a proper blow though. How and why things had gone as sour as they did she couldn't say either, but death had once again escaped her and the one she had to be thankful for was by her side.
Her vision lay obscured through tears, not that she was sad or in any great state of pain...but more from shame. She'd taken down dragons and trolls with less personal experience, but this time it was nothing but a group of racist soldiers that managed the drop on her this time. Yes, this time is was the embarrassment that brought the tears to her eyes.
"You in your right mind, little elf?" The voice above was like the drag of a saw blade on an unruly stump; not mean, but curt and guttural. Her savior was not Bosmer, that much she could tell.
Stickiness trapped her throat in a soundless bubble, but she nodded with little effort as she blinked away the blur. Gradually her savior came into focus, first with a bulk that took up near her whole vision...and then, just as slowly she found him. Studious, golden eyes were trained on her with a grimace wrapped around chipped tusks. He was an Orsimer – a large one, even larger than the largest she'd seen in her travels. Towering over her, she knew an elf of her own small, lithe size would have felt trapped, but there was nothing but gratitude that accompanied her personal shame. Despite his tight, almost furious stare, she smiled and right then she knew he was something more than her eyes could see. He had saved her after all. A savior would not rescue only to harm...
A forgotten thrown rock to her head left her slipping in and out of sleep for hours, days...she couldn't rightly say, but the taste of bitter potions filled her mouth when she finally managed to lift herself up on the back of one shaky elbow. Time had gone by, of that she was certain...and her place of rest had changed. The smell of running water, spiced meat, flowers and sappy trees lifted towards her.
A breeze and the comforting churn of a water fall helped clear her mind of fog.
Her other arm was stiff and wouldn't bend when she attempted to fall back upon the furs with an air of control, instead she toppled like a fallen tower on her back. When she spared the offending limb a glance it was wrapped tight in ragged cloth; braced with hard rods of wood twined tightly together. Darkness surrounded her, but the soft blue hue of the night sky coated enough for her to take in her surroundings, and enough yellow light from a bustling fire down a hard slope flickered light over her savior.
Her nameless Orsimer was slumped opposite her against a high jut of rock, sitting but asleep. She'd been right before that he was a large one. The flames licked yellow and orange over his features, and the expanse of soft hair covering the muscles that made up his stony chest as well as the bow and arrow gripped tight at the ready. The strain in his fists said he could have been awake for all she knew...but when she shuffled up to sit, the furs slipping down her half naked body, he didn't stir at the delicate sound.
It wasn't normally safe to leave yourself vulnerable in Skyrim, especially not with a fire luring in curious passerbys and hunters. Despite the sight of the open sky and open atmosphere, something about it felt contained and secluded. The night shrouded most, but the distinct shape of high rocky walls bordered the starry night sky.
An announcement of her awakening bubbled in her throat, but it was sucked down at the sight of a toothy mongrel patting up the slope, it's tail swishing behind it almost gallantly. A hunting dog, it was.
She smiled despite the way her jaw ached up to her ear as the shaggy dog toed it's way to her side, sniffing at her bandaged arm for a long moment before planting it's rear within arms reach. It's tail rhythmically brushed against her naked thigh as she dared to give it a short caress against the neck. It panted, eyed her with a brow raised before looking to it's master. Suddenly her Orsimer being asleep seemed less dangerous now.
"Little elf?"
She looked over too quickly, wincing at the crick in her neck as he rose just as hurriedly. He seemed almost clumsy as he rose on those bulky thighs, resting the from his lap bow and arrow where he'd sat on his way to her side. The glint of a dagger off the fire light caught her eye as he squatted besides her. Behind him she saw a worn, but well kept great sword lying on a pile of cotton and leather. An image of that sword slicing through meat and bone, a leg maybe, came to mind – it may have been a recent memory or a fervid thought, but either way she grew a sheen of gooseflesh over her skin at the picture she painted.
His half nakedness, coupled with her own unnerved her as he stared painfully deep into her face before lifting up her damaged arm for a better look. To her credit she did not flinch. She thought of telling him she was fine, that there was really no need or desire to be taken care of like this, but regardless of his inappropriate attire and closeness, she couldn't say she didn't enjoy the attention. When was the last time she'd been treated with such a skilled, yet gentle hand, and how did an Orsimer have such talent in the healing arts without being a mage.
She watched while mute and hot in the cheeks as he pulled the wooden reeds from her arm and bent her elbow in a manner of different ways until a muscle in her forearm bit and she growled low. The sound he made at her reaction must have been some sort of chuckle, but she couldn't have been certain.
"You been awake for long, have you?" he asked with that grindstone-on-steel rasp.
Finally she cleared her throat to speak, "Not long," but it sounded so shaken and weak she took a swallow and tried again, "I...felt hot. The heat woke me from the fire" He turned to look at the fire as she took on a sour look, she sounded delirious while she obviously was not, and her excuse was foolish when the fire was a good ways away from her. She was not heated by the fire, so why did she think to say it? He turned back and a large, mottled-green hand pressed against her forehead – the whole of his palm covered the sweaty swath of skin like she was but a small child. His unexpected, strong contact sucked out her breath like a kick to the belly, but in a way it was less unpleasant than she'd thought.
"You had an arrow in your leg. Poisoned maybe...I can make a tonic for that if you grow feverish."
She wasn't sure what to say but 'thank you', so she did as honestly as she could while her voice cracked under his intense stare. He looked as though he hadn't heard her though, still staring with a nearly harsh light. She opened her mouth to repeat herself but his hand grasped the furs around her hips, tugging them down with little warning. Her own exposure didn't bother her as much as the situation did. To an onlooker this would have looked...too personal. But she couldn't bite out a retort when he started to finger the bindings on her thigh, noting the spot where blood had seeped and dried a grim brown color. This wasn't a situation to grow angry of, not when he was merely trying to help her, especially when she couldn't remember taking an arrow to the leg.
"It went through clean," he muttered and she felt his breath waft down briefly on her thigh, "Stuffed the exit hole with juniper bark, front with blue flower paste. It will heal well."
Dumbly she nodded as he lifted her leg at the knee. Callouses on the skin of his palms rubbed at the sweaty, sensitive skin behind the bend of her leg. She watched him in the soft, flickering fire light as he unbound her thigh with a subtle flick of his wrist. Blood had dried and flaked around the wound, but he'd been right – it was a through and through shot. A crusty substance broke apart and slid between her legs when he touched it. He muttered something about that being 'a good thing' before his thumb poked at the exit hole and she gasped. Her hip jerked to take her leg from his grasp but he held on like a bear trap, all the while shoving the nubby bark further inside without a single trace of pity on his face.
The pain brought a sheen of sweat to her legs and brow, enough that his finger grew slick against her skin while he let her blood ooze out in a hot trickle around his thumb. She'd never been victim of the old healing ways. It was brutally sweet.
She fell back on the furs, holding in her moan with both hands tight over her mouth. His hands were gone as soon as she arched her back, but a soft ripping sound said he wasn't done. Strips of cloth were tightened around the wound, and again she whimpered like a babe as he secured it with a tuck.
"I have wine for the pain," was all he said as she lay there in her smalls, sweat drying on her skin and his half naked self looking down at her. There was almost an intimacy to it all, so when she agreed to the wine with a nod she could hardly bother to question anything about this any more. What was a drink at this rate?
The wine was heated and delicious on her pallet, as was the venison he slapped on a plate for her. The comfort he managed to offer led her to look deeper into the darkness where only the softest of moon light touched. It seemed a grotto, or even an open cave and it told her she was enclosed enough to be safe from prying eyes or the stray vicious animal. A simple bit of bread and honey was set down besides her before she watched him toss a roasted leg at mongrel. It started it's feast with excitement.
"The honey will help with the fever, little elf. Go on." His voice was like a growl even when it was meant to be soft. She'd never heard one like it. The Nords had their sweet accents, and the Mers she'd come across had their lyrical voices...but this Orsimer had none of that and she still wished he'd speak more.
She looked over at him chewing at a tougher piece of meat, his expression said to do as she was bid. The honey was sickly sweet, and the bread was too spongy for the typical mountain bread she'd had to eat – but it was delicious and she showed her gratitude with a smile as he watched her swallow, bite after bite.
When the last bite was down her throat, she took another sip of the now luke-warm wine. The soft ache in her head had dulled and the pain that had once been acute in her thigh was dimmed to a gentle throb. She gave a deep breath and looked over to her Orsimer as he finished stripping a hock of meat from a rib bone; teeth sharp and dangerous looking in the yellow flames.
"Why?" she asked, and just as suddenly she regretted saying it at all.
He paused, staring at her with a frown. In her chest she felt her heart start to pound in a tempo fast and uneven. She was struck between voicing her question further and retracting it completely, but she wanted to know why he would help her like he was...and why he asked nothing in return.
"You think me a beast that would let a female receive such treatment?" he rumbled as if only slightly insulted, which made her feel even worse. It was as though he had, in some small form, expected her to finally question him about this.
"That..." she started, feeling small, "that wasn't what I meant...I meant no offense."
A rough sound eased the hairs along her arms to stand on end; his snort of dismissal. She closed her mouth as he took a heavy draw of wine from the bottle, feeling as though she'd disturb him if she spoke. Dimly she wondered if he was intoxicated, and drink effected him in less amiable ways than it did her, but he appeared unclouded to her eye.
"Do not explain yourself," was all he said before standing just as clumsily as he had before. She watched him from her pallet, raised on one elbow to right herself, as he threw a hunk of chopped wood on the fire. He watched the flames rise and loose fibers crackle in the air. The shaggy dog paced at his side with a swinging tail until he squatted to give the mutt a long pet like that of a close companion. The affection she watched her Orsimer give to that dog made her roll upon her side to watch against the light of the fire. To see such a large, bestial man like him stoop to touch the head of a dog was curious...and again, comforting.
Crickets buzzed in the night like a strumming bard in a tavern and she smiled despite herself. Somewhere in the distance she saw the flitting trail of torchbugs.
The wine was pulling her into a slumber and she was weak to it's lure. Her eyes were dropping just as he stepped from the fire. He stopped beside her, towering so tall that she rolled with a sigh of mild pain upon her back to stare up at him with half clouded eyes.
He said nothing.
"What's your name?" she managed with sleep laced in her words.
"Does it matter?" was his reply, as his eyes raked down her like a man would at something he'd never seen in his whole life, and may never see again. That look left her to lie back deeper into the pelts with a heavy breath. The stare did not scare her as it should have.
She wondered only briefly if she ought to tell him her own name, but as her eyes closed and she drifted, she realized she liked his makeshift name for her much better than her true one. Sometimes, she figured, names had no use when it was just two people and a dog in the woods while the crickets made their music.
For another day she was of little use. Her leg had not swollen as she'd expected but hobbling on one leg got her nowhere, expect back on the pallet with an annoyed Orsimer at her heels. She had been left with the dog and a dagger. The day light and her short walk from her furs had allowed her sight of a trickling waterfall. All she could think of was washing off the sweat and what ever goop he'd put on her thigh. It smelt putrid and the smell combined with her sweat only made for a nauseous combination.
When he returned she noted there were several fish hung from a pole over his shoulder and a heavy satchel strung over the other. The shaggy dog made a keening noise at it's masters arrival, but did not bark. Her Orsimer gave it a gentle shove with his foot before lying the pole of fish over the cooking spit, their scales glimmering a vibrant pink in the dimming sun light. She had woken earlier in the day to him salting the rest of the venison he must have caught before saving her – it was hanging from some winter trees where the smell of salted and spiced meat grew thick and oddly sweet.
He gave her a nod and pulled the dagger from the furs at her thighs as if lifting his hand up against her bare skin was nothing sordid. She still flinched at the touch regardless of whether she wanted to or not. He didn't seem to care one way or the other; turning away from her to gut the fish.
She watched placidly as the mongrel ate the guts with relish before taking a nap while it's master started the stacking twigs and dry brush for the fire.
"I'm going to wash," she declared lightly, as if the lower her voice the less chance he'd hear and demand she stay put.
After a moment of silence she started to rise.
"No." It was a firm response that left nothing to argue over, but she wasn't someone a man, Orsimer or not, said no to.
His back faced her, sitting on a thick chopping block while the sound of steel on scales began grating in the air.
With the furs secured around her bareness, she rose with a stumble and hobbled her way to the spit. Her Orsimer growled when he noticed her. "On the pallet," he ordered, but she took a seat on the large oak log besides him with an defiant expression. If she was to be confined to the state she was in then she didn't want to wallow in her own filth while so useless.
"Even a woman with a bum leg can wade in the water without drowning" she said with a slight smile. He seemed only half ready to pick her up and put her back on the furs, but she admired his catch of fish and that seemed all it took to quell the beast inside him.
"Very well," he groused sourly.
He rose to help her and momentarily she balked at the idea. A large hand, rough looking and an off-hue of clammy green was splayed before her. Hesitantly she took his hand and suddenly his other was at her back, lifting her like she were made of a thousand tiny pieces.
She was keenly aware, as he helped her to the rippling water, that she was thankful for he'd taken it upon himself to guide her to the water. This was she didn't have to ask him halfway there for assistance. Her humility would have been thick enough to see if that had happened.
"Dog," he beckoned and the mutt galloped to them as he helped her into the first foot of cool water. The mongrel stopped at the water, tongue out a panting with an air of happiness she was oddly envious of.
"Don't worry about me." And then he was gone, leaving her to tremble on her two feet with the dog watching her with bright, suddenly dutiful eyes.