Be advised that there is sexual content in this chapter.
It's near the end and it's easy to skip if you're not into it. There's plenty of chapter without it. I almost didn't write the scene because I wondered if anyone would want to read it, and then I remembered that this is the internet and OF COURSE people want to read said scene in question, at least, a glimpse of it.
So, it is a surprise of a pairing but I loved the idea too much to let it be.
Corrections are minimal- sentence structure and the like.
"The ultimate purpose of the Daedra Lords is to instruct and improve the generally deplorable character of mortals." -Follower of Hermaeus Mora
4E 186. Solstheim.
He really shouldn't have touched her.
Neloth wasn't an ill-temperate man; he was civilized, patient, and capable of waiting for whatever he wanted.
But the temptation of a power-hungry female apprentice was too much to pass up. He figured that as an adult, Ildari wouldn't have gotten any silly ideas about the nature of their relationship in her head, but apparently, he was wrong.
More sinister was the fact that she had a lot of power to gain from producing a child off of him. Surely, this was her primary motivator.
He glanced down at the unzipped corpse of his former – well, not lover; they didn't make love. He hadn't done so in thousands of years.
"Varona," he ordered, "get Ulves so this can be taken out."
Neloth watched as her eyes widened in disbelief and waited –
"This?! She has a name!"
Ah, there was the outburst. Predictable.
"That," he emphasized, motioning toward the blood-covered table, "is a corpse. That is not a person. The spirit has moved on, Varona. The corpse is of no value; we are not necromancers. Bury the body if it makes you feel better."
Varona stared at what was once Ildari with tears welling in her eyes. "Time has made you cruel, Master."
"I've done nothing," he shrugged. "Facts are cruel, Varona. Now, do as I said."
Slowly, Varona tore her gaze from the scene – probably the first time she watched someone die – and shuffled across the tower to do as she was told. Neloth shook his head and turned his attention back toward his dead apprentice.
It was a painful death, really; if anyone had the guts to have their chest opened and their beating heart removed to be replaced with a stone of questionable origin, it was Ildari.
She stayed oddly silent through the initial phase of the process – looked a bit shock-y through it. But when he put the heart stone in, that was when things got interesting.
Neloth would have assumed that her screaming and thrashing were merely pain-induced delusions, but the things she said led him to believe that it was no mere coincidence.
After all, screaming about not wanting to die was perfectly reasonable in her situation. What wasn't was shouting the name 'Nerevar' and some nonsense about 'you could have been my bride'.
He shook his head and wiped his bloodied hands on a nearby towel. Not even Dagoth Ur would have been able to handle the nasty woman who became the Nerevarine. Neloth didn't know how Aryon managed to not get himself killed by the orphan brat – in training, in bed, or otherwise.
Still, the strange utterance was proof that the heartstones did indeed have something to do with the crater of Red Mountain. Whether or not they were part of the Heart of Lorkhan or if they were part of the stones which lay next to it for millennia remained to be seen.
Neloth made his way over to the nearby washing basin, grabbed the bar of sload soap next to it, and began the process of washing up. Cleaning the mess would take a long time, but thankfully, he had servants for the task. He wished that he'd gotten more out of the experiment than a tidbit of useless information about Dagoth–
"Boethiah's bollocks!"
Neloth narrowed his eyes and glanced over his shoulder at the shocked cook.
"I warned you," Varona mumbled, giving Ulves a pat on the back.
"She consented to the experiment," Neloth hissed. Idiots!
Rinsing his hands, he quickly dried them and turned around completely to glare at the idling servants.
"That she did," Varona confirmed. "Tough woman, that one. What do you think she was talking about, Master?"
Ulves wrenched his gaze away from the scene, pattered off to Ildari's quarters, and began to strip the sheet off of the bed.
Neloth shrugged. "Something to do with Dagoth Ur, I presume."
Across the tower, muted curses came from the cook's mouth, including some nonsense about 'bad omens'. Varona, however, hid her fear admirably and instead, stepped forward to cover the corpse's bare breasts in a show of odd Western sensibility that went so far as to infect Dunmer culture.
As a modern, young woman, Ildari would have appreciated the gesture.
Neloth found the entire thing trite. Backward human ideas influenced the culture of his people too much. Traditional First Era Dunmer dress would scandalize the modern masses.
Ulves padded over to the table, and with Varona's help, he wrapped the corpse in the sheet. With that, the cook hoisted it over his shoulder and finally made his way out of the tower with it. Varona followed closed behind, turning around when she reached the edge of the tower's main floor.
"Master?" she called, her voice quiet.
Neloth sighed and waved his hand at her, signaling that he was listening after a fashion.
"Should we get the Temple over here to perform rites?" Varona asked.
"No," he grumbled. "That woman wasn't religious in the least. Bury the body and be done with it."
"I – "
Varona shook her head, then looked down to the front door of the tower. "Yes, Master."
Finally, she departed as well, leaving him in peace. Neloth glanced back at the bloody table that served as his makeshift operating station and swore. He'd have to notify the Council of his apprentice's death, and would have to submit a request for a new one.
Thankfully, Solstheim was so far away from Sadrith Mora that it wasn't likely that the Council would open an inquiry on him.
With that in mind, he'd pen his letter carefully.
Whomever became his next apprentice had to be the opposite of the nasty one who just died.
4E 201. Cloud Haven Temple.
They did a lot with the place while she was gone.
Mehra shuffled across the main hall of the Blades' new hideout. The broken pottery was cleared out, along with the thick dust around the area. A broom and a mop with a bucket lay against the ancient archway behind her, strange and modern against the ruinous backdrop.
New carpets dotted the crumbling floor of the main hall, accompanied by inadequate braziers. A pair of shelves brimming with food and bottles of drink lined the lower wall of the stairwell that led up to Alduin's wall. To the far end of the hall, a massive amount of weapons and armor sat next to a grindstone, giving Mehra a startling revelation:
Delphine intended to start a new chapter of Blades.
Mehra shook her head and made her way to the stairs. She didn't want a group of followers, nor did she want to be guarded and guided. Delphine wasn't going to like hearing it.
She trudged up the stairs and glanced at the desk and bookshelves to the side of Alduin's Wall. Curious, she approached the small study and peered at the titles of the volumes of books scattered across the desk.
They were all related to the Empire or to the Dragonborn; given the location of the study and the content of the books, Mehra assumed that this was Esbern's corner of the hideout.
There were signs of improvement everywhere, but the ruins' new residents were conspicuously absent. Mehra peered up at the door past Alduin's wall and shrugged. Maybe, they went outside to get a breath of fresh air. It was as good a guess as any.
She jogged up the stairs to her right and approached the propped open door in front of her. Passing through to the courtyard, Mehra saw that her hunch was correct.
Delphine and Esbern stood next to each other, staring out at the landscape below.
" – but now it's too late for escape," Esbern mumbled.
Mehra stopped in her and listened quietly.
"The dragon is upon me – fire and darkness descending like a thunderbolt," he continued. "And not just any dragon, but the Dragon – Alduin, the World-Eater, the dragon who devours both the living and the dead. And then I would wake up. And hope that it was just a dream… but know that it was not."
"So you think you knew about this beforehand?" Delphine asked. "I think your knowledge of the prophecy may have informed your dreams."
Esbern sighed and crossed his arms. "I honestly think that I knew it would happen during my lifetime, and that's the truth. I'm not a prophet by any means, nor do I have visions like the Septims did. But I do have some sort of sight."
Delphine nodded slowly. "And what else do you see?"
"There is another one that I've dreamed, recently," he replied. "Two important figures, but I don't know their significance. A young, strong Nord in black, shrouded armor. All I remember about him is an aura of darkness surrounding him. A Dunmer mage: middle-aged – gray beard – in extravagant silken robes. The design he wears is familiar to me, but I cannot name it."
Mehra's eyes widened in shock. That was unexpected, to say the least.
"The Nord may be Erich Heartfire," Esbern explained. "Champion of Cyrodiil – the one who protected Martin Septim. He was connected with the Dark Brotherhood, hence, the black, shrouded armor. I don't know what his appearance signifies; perhaps, he reached some sort of apotheosis as Talos did. Or maybe, he merely symbolizes hope. I do not know the mage, nor do I know of anyone of significance who fits his description. Maybe he is a representation of the Telvanni mage who guided the Nerevarine. Nothing happens; I simply see a glance of them then wake up. I'll admit this has confounded me for months."
"Hm. Months?" Delphine asked.
"Yes," he replied. "This one is very new."
Mehra stepped forward. She heard enough; she didn't want to know what else Esbern's dreams revealed to him.
"Hey."
The Blades jumped at the sound of her voice and turned in her direction.
"Sorry I scared you," Mehra mumbled. They really had no idea she was there?
Esbern shrugged it off while Delphine sent her a glare.
"News, Dragonborn?" the Grandmaster asked.
"Somewhat, yeah," Mehra replied. "None of the Greybeards know the shout. It's called 'Dragonrend', so it's no wonder they wouldn't study it."
Delphine grumbled under her breath about 'damn pacifists'. Crossing her arms, Mehra frowned and continued her explanation.
"Apparently," she said, "the old Tongues created the shout. They used it on Alduin during a fight, as seen on Alduin's wall. After that, they used an Elder Scroll to – well, we don't know what their complete intent was. They ended up shattering time and flinging him forward into the future. Unfortunately for us, the future is now."
Esbern shook his head. "That's fascinating! It explains a lot, including the creation of the prophecy. The possibilities that this brings to research –"
"How does this help us?" Delphine interrupted.
Mehra let out a deep breath. "As I was saying: in theory, if I went to the place where time shattered and had the Elder Scroll in my possession, I could learn the shout from the people who created it."
Delphine threw her arms up in exasperation. "That's it? That's really the plan? Elder Scrolls don't just show up. Unless, you have some sort of idea, Esbern."
For once, Mehra shared Delphine's sentiment. The last she heard of an Elder Scroll was that one went missing from the Imperial Library sometime around the time of the Oblivion Crisis.
"Hm," Esbern mumbled, "well, it's not the kind of thing you'd find in your local bookshop. Perhaps, try the College of Winterhold. If anyone in Skyrim knows about the existence of one nearby, it would be them."
Delphine pursed her lips. "That makes sense," she added. "Look, Esbern, I'm sorry; I'm really frustrated lately. I'm waiting for Alduin to strike another settlement, and that's not something I'd even wish on Windhelm."
Esbern wrapped an arm around Delphine's shoulders and guided her back toward the temple. "I know, my friend. I haven't taken it personally."
He turned to Mehra. "How about you come inside with us and have a bit of lunch? I know this place is in the middle of nowhere. Great for us, of course, but, eh – inconvenient to visit, I'm sure."
She nodded and followed them inside the ancient temple and down the stairs of the great hall to stop in front of the long, stone table in the center of the room.
"Have a seat, ladies," Esbern chirped. "I shall serve you your meal."
Delphine snorted and pulled back a chair. "Ladies?" she repeated.
Mehra chuckled. "Don't have to be a lady to be a woman."
"I like the way you think, kid," she snickered.
Hm. 'Kid'. Sure.
Mehra pulled the chair next to Delphine out from the table and sat down.
"So, Dragonborn," Delphine said, "what's with this armor you're wearing?"
Mehra unstrapped the helm and handed it to her. "Well, it's real dragon. Maybe you two actually believe me on that one."
"Sure do!" Esbern called, then turned back to preparing lunch.
"This particular dragon," Mehra continued, "is the first one I – well, me, Jarl Balgruuf's Housecarl, and a large bit of the Whiterun guard – killed. Since I'm one of the Companions, I decided to see if Eorlund Grey-mane could do anything with the dragon. Turned out that my hunch about it being tougher than ebony was true."
Delphine peered at the dragon skull's empty eye sockets and nodded. "Well, the armor's fitting at least. Seems like you're getting into shape from being with the Companions. That's good; you're working hard and it really shows all around."
She handed the helm back to Mehra. "You're going to need to keep that strong work ethic for what you have to do in the future."
"I don't plan on quitting," Mehra shrugged.
Esbern placed a plate in front of her, then turned to hand a second to Delphine. Mehra looked down in surprise at the plate full of venison and vegetables. The Blades did well for themselves, considering the remoteness of their new outpost.
Mehra thanked him, picked up the fork that lay across the plate, grabbed a forkful of the greens in front of her, and put it in her mouth.
Hm. Sorrel. That made sense.
"Thought you were going to quit on us in the beginning," Delphine admitted. "Whatever you think makes you not special – well, it's not true. You're the last Dragonborn, and you're the only chance we've got. No pressure, hm?"
Esbern laughed as he brought over a plate for himself, then turned to grab a pitcher and a trio of cups. "Delphine, you're going to worry the poor girl."
Mehra chewed and swallowed another bite of food. "Yeah, Delphine," she chimed in, "you're going to worry me."
Delphine rolled her eyes. "You seemed nonchalant about the whole thing, if anything," she said. "Now, I'm curious how Winterhold is going to treat you, given that you're a Companion."
"Oh, I study there," Mehra offered. "I'm an apprentice so it'll be fine."
Esbern sat down at the table with the pitcher and chuckled. "Well, you're a talented young lady, then. It's our privilege to guide you."
Mehra stuffed another bite of food into her mouth. No matter what happened, people would always treat her like a kid; she didn't look her 200-something odd years, and she never would.
She'd have to just get used to it. People meant well most of the time, anyway.
They continued their meal, making small talk about Mehra's studies of sword and spell. Delphine told her that she was to come back so she could do a skill assessment and give her any necessary training when they didn't have the pressing matter of the Elder Scroll.
Mehra agreed to it and resolved that she wouldn't hold back; the Blades needed to be confident in her skills, at the very least. It wasn't as if they'd go around telling everyone about how well she could fight.
As far as her secret of being the Nerevarine was concerned, Mehra wasn't sure about telling them just yet. There was something about them – more Delphine than Esbern – that told her to withhold that bit of information.
Paarthurnax told her to trust her instincts; she'd listen to his advice.
And she certainly wasn't about to tell the Blades about Paarthurnax. The Blades started out as dragon slayers, and Mehra didn't want to tempt them into wanting to hurt a valuable ally just because of what he was.
She answered the Blades' questions about her life as vaguely as possible, making sure to not tell them too much. With a bit of generalities, Mehra skirted around the truth of who she was and finished lunch with them none-the-wiser.
"Got to get going," she announced, pushing her chair back from the table. "I've got a contract in Morthal, and from there, I'll head out to Winterhold."
"Talos guide you, Dragonborn," Esbern said.
Mehra gave him a nod. "I don't know how this Elder Scroll business will go," she admitted. "Arch-Mage Aren – well, Master Irvine, really – runs a very strict practice. Anyone who experiments on the profane or dangerous is liable to get expelled."
"You seem like a responsible young lady," Esbern shrugged, "I'd certainly trust you with an Elder Scroll."
Delphine pursed her lips and shook her head. "If there are those sorts of rules in place, be careful, Dragonborn. Come back to us in one piece. Rorikstead is a little less than halfway between here Morthal – due east, actually. It's a small town full of good people. You should stay there for the night."
Mehra turned to her and shrugged. "Thanks for the tip; I'll stay there. In the meantime, I'm not planning on doing anything stupid until I have to stare at an Elder Scrolls with my bare eyes."
Esbern laughed, while Delphine winced. Sensing her discomfort, he walked over to her and put his arm around the Grandmaster's shoulder in reassurance.
"Talos guide you," Delphine sighed. "Talos guide us all."
Mehra gave them a quick wave, then made her way out of the Temple. As she stopped outside the strong, ancient building, she peered toward the sky.
"Well, we have shared blood," Mehra mumbled. "So, if you don't mind a Dunmer, then please, guide me, Talos."
Of course Talos didn't mind Dunmer; what happened between he and Barenziah was proof enough.
Casting her gaze toward the horizon, Mehra shook her head. Lady Azura was on her side, too, as was Sheogorath. And, Nerevar always guided her from within. She wasn't so foolish assume that she was invulnerable, but the ties she had certainly helped.
Mehra peered down the road as she walked, searching for signs of a settlement. Eventually, the scraggly, rocky forest gradually gave way to the plains of Whiterun Hold. Many hours later, just as the sun began to sink below the horizon in a wash of orange, she caught sight of a dozen or so small thatch buildings and farms. At the center of the village were two large buildings of stone, wood, and thatch; these had to be the inn and lord's manor.
She let out a sigh of relief. This place was the perfect distance to have traveled. Delphine's calculations were excellent.
Mehra picked up her pace toward the village, eager to get off of her weary feet in the nearby inn. Gradually, the path in front of her thinned until it disappeared into nothing; it was likely that people didn't travel toward Rorikstead from the west, and if they did, they certainly didn't travel through the land occupied by the tribal humans – whatever they called themselves; they were fierce, dangerous Bretons who attacked on sight, at any rate.
She waded through tall, sparse blades of new, bright green grass toward the village, intent on her goal until a large, dark pile of earth to the right caught her attention.
Was that a dragon burial mound?
Frowning, Mehra jogged over to the site and confirmed her suspicions. Much to her dismay, it appeared that the grave had been disturbed; large clumps of dirt and rock lay about the site, broken stones crumbled away from the carefully placed circle around the grave, and scratch marks scored the dirt in all directions. Mehra crouched down to examine the claw marks in the ground, but eventually gave up trying to age them. If she had Aela's wolf sense, then maybe –
"Dragon came to life about two weeks ago."
She turned her gaze up from the ground to see a dirty Nord girl standing in front of her.
"How many dragons were here?" Mehra asked.
"Two," the girl mumbled. "One landed here and did something to bring the dead one back to life. They were mean dragons."
Alduin. It made sense that he'd go to every burial mound he could find in search of allies.
"Did they hurt anyone?" Mehra asked. This village was so tiny; she hoped it was beneath the World-Eater's notice.
The girl shook her head, and Mehra sighed in relief.
"I had a dream after that," the girl said. "There was a good dragon. He was old and gray, but he wasn't scary."
Paarthurnax? So, this girl had visions. She wondered if the child was even aware of her gift.
Mehra approached the girl, knelt down, and put her hand on her shoulder. "Just between you and me," she murmured, "I think you might be right; there's got to be at least one good dragon out there. But if you see any dragon, hide in a cave or cellar until you're sure they're gone, understand?"
"Sissel! Stay away from that damned mound! Get over here now!"
The girl flinched at the sound of the man's voice but did as she was told. Frowning, Mehra assumed that perhaps, the girl – Sissel – played around the dragon burial mound one too many times. Once was more than enough, truthfully; had she been there when Alduin showed up, the kid would be dead.
Mehra left the mound behind and followed the loose, rocky slope that lead downward from the site to the main road that passed through the village. Shifting her pack on her back, she walked toward the tavern in the center of town, noting that the nearby farmers stopped in their work to stare at her. She caught the attention of a Redguard in a simple set of home-fashioned leathers and an ear-flap hat to protect his head from the sun.
"Tavern?" Mehra asked, pointing at the large building in the center of the village.
"Aye," the man replied. "You here from the city?"
"Kind of," she shrugged.
"I travel to Whiterun to make deals," he continued. "You don't look like a merchant, ma'am."
Mehra chuckled. "I'm one of the Companions. Just passing through."
His eyes widened in surprise. "Well, you are quite welcome here, Companion. I've no doubt that you'll have a refreshing rest at our inn."
She gave him a quick thanks, then headed through the town toward the large building at its center.
Mehra was grateful when the villagers didn't question her about what happened at the burial mound.
They wouldn't have liked like her answer.
Days later, in Morthal.
The Silver Hand hideout wasn't much to look at, but the werewolf slayers dug themselves in deep to the cave. Dispatching them, however, wasn't difficult. Her expanded understanding of the Unrelenting Force shout seemed to give the shout much more power than it had before.
After taking care of the Silver Hand, Mehra moved on to do Farkas' job. Skeevers in a cellar were far below her skill level, as Farkas said, but at the same time, the objective was to help people out. After a quick ten minutes of extermination, she left the grateful clients to make her way to the inn at the edge of the town.
There was nothing to do in Morthal, but this suited Mehra just fine; she didn't want to be in a noisy, crowded tavern all night. Moorside Inn was mostly empty, the last time she traveled through town.
Mehra opened the door to the tavern and found this to be the case once again. Aside from the keeper and the horrible bard that lived at the inn, the room's only other occupant was a Breton man dressed in black conjurer's robes – brown eyes, black, shaggy hair, a handsome face, and a very mischievous smirk.
He looked up from his ale and pushed the chair across from him out with his foot. "Saved a spot for ya," he drawled.
Mehra laughed. Well, she could join him, she supposed. She unstrapped her helm and breathed a sigh of relief at the fresh air on her head.
"Welcome back, Mehra," the innkeeper called. "Heading back to the College?"
"Yep. Gotta do some research in the library."
Well, she had to find an Elder Scroll, but it was technically research.
Mehra turned to wave at the orc bard in the corner then approached the conjurer's open table. She slung her bag down and slumped in her chair.
"So, teleport waypoints," she drawled. "Wouldn't those be novel?"
The conjurer leaned in and smirked. "But that would involve ending up near a temple. And who wants to do that?"
Mehra snorted. Apparently, he was the irreverent kind. She didn't mind it either way.
"Well," she replied, "One could make obelisks in the shape of Vivec's spear and place waypoints there. I'm certain that would be non-offensive."
"He certainly thought he was clever, didn't he?"
They both laughed, and Mehra was surprised he caught the reference.
"My name's Sam," the conjurer said.
He offered his hand and Mehra shook it. Their eyes met – oh, he was very handsome indeed.
"Mehra," she said. "So, Sam, what are you in for?"
Sam grinned and laughed. "You make it sound like I'm in prison."
"I mean," Mehra mumbled, "it's not the same at all but one could feel otherwise."
She took pity on the innkeeper, who undoubtedly overheard what she said. "Jonna, you know I mean Morthal and not your inn, right?"
Jonna shrugged. "I know what you mean, Mehra. Dinner?"
"Yes, please."
The innkeeper nodded and pulled a large knife from behind the counter and turned toward the fire. "You're lucky today," she called, "Lurbuk is paying for his room today in game."
In the back of the room, the orc practiced his lute, oblivious to everyone.
Mehra leaned in toward the conjurer across from her. "Be careful in this town," she said. "The locals don't like our type, here. You look like you can handle trouble just fine, but be careful."
Sam shrugged and gave her a cocky grin. "Don't worry about me," he chuckled.
"She's right," Jonna said. "They suspect the worst things about my brother here, just because he's a conjurer."
"I'll consider myself warned, then," Sam replied, taking another sip of his ale.
The innkeeper piled a healthy cut of venison onto a plate and tossed on some roasted carrots and potatoes. Quickly balancing a fork off to the side of the plate, she brought the food over to the table and placed it in front of Mehra.
Mehra made a move to grab her coinpurse, but Jonna waved her off.
"Just pay me tomorrow at breakfast," she said. "Relax tonight."
Shrugging, Mehra dug in to her meal. Jerky and an apple weren't much of a lunch, and she was very hungry after a long day of work.
"Should have been born a noble," Sam mumbled, staring down at the plate of food. "Damn, I love food."
Mehra swallowed the bite of venison in her mouth and nodded. "Shit luck, I'm afraid. Could find your way in, though; mage-folk are always in demand."
Sam chuckled and leaned back in his chair, tipping it on its back legs. "I'm too much of a cuss to make it happen," he admitted.
She laughed along with him and finished the plate of food. There was something about Sam that was different from anyone she'd met in a long time. He was more than just a run-of-the-mill conjurer punk; Sam was unapologetically himself and didn't appear to give a damn about his reputation.
And Mehra got the sense that Sam could easily back up his cocky words with a show of incredible magical power.
Jonna walked forward and grabbed the empty plate from the table. "Drinks?"
"Now you're talkin'," Sam beamed.
Mehra nodded in agreement. She was in good company and figured she could let loose some. As Jonna turned her back to get ale from the tap, Sam leaned across the table.
"I challenge you to a drinking contest," he said.
Oh. She hadn't had one of those in years.
Mehra laughed. "Sam, I'm a bit old for that."
"Nonsense!" he insisted. "Besides, what's a little fun, anyway?"
Jonna placed two pints in front of them and let them know she had plenty more. One glance back up at Sam and his smirk made Mehra cave.
At the very least, Jonna would make good money off of the pair of them.
"I have no problem with losing," she said, "just so you know."
Sam was likely half a head shorter than her, so maybe, she stood a chance. They picked up their gigantic Nord-sized mugs of ale, clinked them together, and began to drink. Mehra swallowed as fast as she could, but the ale was warm and foamy and quite honestly, awful.
Sam finished before she was even halfway done. Counting it as a loss, Mehra stopped drinking and surfaced for air.
Jonna walked by, grabbed Sam's mug, then took it back for a refill. Mehra decided to gulp down the rest of hers before she returned.
The awful taste of the ale hit her again, but she wouldn't quit so easily. Seconds later, the end was in sight. Mehra put in a final burst of effort before finishing. She pulled the mug away from her mouth and panted.
When she looked over at her drinking companion, her eyes widened. Against reason, Sam already finished his second mug.
"How are you doing that?" she asked.
"Two to your one, so far," Sam smirked.
Jonna came back again to grab the mugs for another refill. "Please do not vomit in my inn," she murmured.
Mehra felt the familiar pleasantly hazy and warm sensation of the alcohol affecting her already. She stared at Sam, noticing the way his cheeks flushed pink and the way his mouth was set in a permanent, soft smile. He felt it, too.
Goodness, he was handsome. Mehra wondered if he liked Dunmer girls.
Jonna returned with the pints and set them down. As Mehra picked up her ale, she figured she ought to give Sam a little test. She bit her lip and gave him a smirk as they clinked glasses again.
"Cheers," she said.
Mehra tilted back dramatically to drink her pint, stretching her leg under the table to brush past his. After gulping down half of the pint, she peered over the rim of her glass to her drinking partner and whimpered. He was finished with another pint.
Putting the mug down again, Mehra sighed. At least the ale didn't taste as awful, this go-around.
Jonna came back again and took his mug to refill it. Realizing that she was running a losing proposition, Mehra decided to change tactics.
"You drink like a Nord, Sam," she pouted. "I don't think I could ever keep up."
Out of the corner of her eye, Mehra watched Jonna fiddle with the tap, then put Sam's empty mug on the countertop. "I have to go to the cellar," the innkeeper called. "Be back up in a bit."
Mehra crossed her leg under the table, allowing it to come flush against Sam's. He leaned in to her; she took this as a good sign.
"Oh," he purred, "I can drink much more than a Nord, my dear. Now, you need to finish up."
She took another few swigs of the drink, until there was a quarter left. Sam seemed disappointed when she stopped drinking again, but there were other things on her mind.
Mehra swirled the drink in disinterest and decided to make her move. "Let's forget this game, and let's play another."
"Oh?"
"Let's get a room."
"Oh," Sam repeated, "A little debauchery for two? I'd like that." His gaze flicked down to her chest, then back up again.
Jonna came back up from the cellar with a small keg in her hands. Mehra stood, bracing herself against the table when the alcohol hit her. She shook it off as best she could, trudged up to the counter, and leaned over.
"Jonna," she murmured, "we want a room."
She chuckled. "Can't say I didn't see that coming. Room's over there. Pay in the morning."
Mehra turned to give Sam a triumphant smile. Slowly, he scooted his chair out from the table and made his way over to the room. Mehra followed close behind.
As soon as they were inside, Mehra shut the door and cast a silence spell over the entrance. She turned around to give him a smirk.
"Don't want them to hear me make you cry," she said.
Sam looked delighted. He closed the distance between them to pull her in for a kiss that –
She never had a kiss – a simple, quick kiss – that instantly ignited a fire of longing that made her want to tear both of their clothes off. Mehra held on to her self-control by a mere thread as he leaned up again and kissed her again – stronger this time, with his tongue darting out to taste her.
Her self-control shattered. Mehra lashed out at him like an animal, kissing him and tearing at his robes with a fierceness that consumed her.
Sam's hooded robe fell to the floor, along with Mehra's armor, boots, and shirt. As they kissed again, Sam reached up to untie the leather cord that kept her hair up and directed her hips toward the bed. Mehra fell backward without grace – couldn't tell if it was the alcohol or lust – and watched as he drew back to admire her with hungry eyes.
"I swear, you look just like her," Sam panted.
Oh?
"Always refusing me," he continued, "always looking down on me and some of my family."
He drew her in for a suckling kiss, then pulled back to run his hands through her hair.
"Looks like it's made of dusk," Sam mumbled. He sobered for a second and his gaze traveled back to meet hers.
"The resemblance is uncanny," he admitted, "but I'm under no illusion that you're someone else. Don't worry about it, alright? Let's have a good time."
"If you love someone, then –"
Sam scrunched his face up in disgust. "No, no no," he said, "not that at all. She's pretty and I wanted to have a go. That's all. I never thought I'd see another one so beautiful like her, but well, here I am, and here you are."
She searched his eyes and came up with nothing that seemed off about what he said. Shrugging, Mehra took it for what it was: she looked like someone he fancied.
"This beautiful black skin," he purred. "You are so lovely."
Mehra smirked and leaned forward to grab a handful of his shirt. "This. Off."
"Yes, Mistress," Sam drawled, chuckling when she reached out to give his arm a playful slap.
There was a strange alchemy between them; she couldn't deny it.
Sam kicked off his boots, tossed his tunic over his head, and joined her on the bed. They met in the middle for another kiss – tongues tangling, moaning quietly – before Sam gently pushed her backward to lie down and trailed reverent kisses down her neck to her collarbone.
He continued lower to her breasts, his hands drifting downward to grab the waistband of her pants and tug them down to her knees. Sam leaned back on his haunches to remove her pants entirely and admired her once again.
For a conjurer, he was decently built; large, short, and strong. Like most Breton men, his chest was covered in a wolf-like mat of hair. He reminded her of some of the first men she fumblingly lay with when she was young in Daggerfall.
"Something on your mind?" he asked, snapping her back into the moment.
Mehra leaned up to give him a quick kiss. Slowly, she ran her hands over the planes of his chest and the thick, black hair that lay there.
"You're very manly, Sam," she purred.
He chuckled and leaned in for another kiss. While he was distracted, Mehra palmed the bulge that tented his pants, causing him to moan against her mouth. Gently, she stroked him a few times as his head fell forward. He panted in short, hot breaths against her neck.
Sam drew back, pushed her hand aside, and unstrapped the belt buckle around his waist. "Couldn't resist, eh?"
She shook her head and bit her lip, watching as Sam removed his pants and tossed them on the floor. With renewed boldness, Mehra scooted closer and wrapped her hand around his cock to stroke him again.
Sam grinned, put his hand over hers, and guided it to show her exactly how he liked it.
"Excellent," Sam breathed. "Just like that. Mm, smart girl. Such a fast learner."
Oh, thank Oblivion he was a communicator. They'd know exactly what each other liked, or at least, they'd learn quickly.
Mehra leaned down to plant a kiss on the side of his jaw. "Gonna teach me something new, Sam?" she murmured.
He turned his head to the side and gave her a slow, sensual kiss. "Oh darling," Sam crooned, "I'm going to teach you as many fucking tricks as I can."
With that, his hand skimmed across her hip and down to caress the front of her mound. Deft fingers dove between her folds, spreading pleasure and warmth throughout her body with the simplest touch.
Mehra opened her mouth to instruct him in the same way he did to her, but all that came out was a strangled moan. Whatever he was doing was perfect. In the wake of his touch, the hand that meant to continue to stroke him forgot what it was doing and dropped to her side.
A quick flick of his finger over her swollen clit sent her bucking against his hand and nearly screaming from the strength of the sudden orgasm. After what seemed like an eternity later, his finger slowed, allowing her to breathe. Mehra clung to his shoulders as her body trembled.
"Sam," she panted, "you're so gifted. Really."
He gave her a sly smile and removed his hand. "You're a sensitive woman, I think," he insisted. "Quite gifted yourself, in that regard."
Sam brought his fingers to his mouth and made a show of cleaning them off. Once finished, he shifted on the bed then lay back against the pillows on his back. He grabbed his erection and pointed it upward.
"Got a seat for ya' right here," Sam chuckled.
"Oh, I see that it is open," she replied. "How kind of you to save it for me."
Mehra crawled across the bed and straddled him on all fours, leaning down to give him a languid kiss. When they parted, she leaned back to grind against him, earning a pleasured hiss. With one hand, she braced against him, and with the other, she grabbed him and guided him toward her entrance.
Mehra lowered herself on top of him slowly, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside her. As she leaned back, closed her eyes, and reveled in the sensation, a pair of wily hands crept up her thighs to gently grip her hips.
She cracked her eyes open to stare down at his flushed face. "How do you want it, Sam?"
Giving her a small smile, Sam directed her hips slowly, their bodies sliding together perfectly. Once again, his directions were perfect.
As she ground against him and found her pace, one of his hands slid forward to gently rub her clit. At his slightest touch, Mehra jerked and moaned, her body clamping down on him like a vise.
"Oh, I love a strong warrior woman," Sam groaned. "Strong arms, thighs – even your cunt's strong."
He punctuated his statement with another, stronger stroke, causing her to shout again. Not wanting to waste any more time, Mehra ground down on him mercilessly, bucking her hips as fast as she could. Still, his hands guided and stroked her, and after a short amount of time –
Mehra thrashed wildly above him, shouting and moaning as she rode him to another climax. Below her, Sam groaned and joined her, thrusting deep inside her body. They ground together slowly as the last remnants of climax ebbed away.
It was fast – too fast – but he was so good that she just couldn't help it.
"My turn," Sam panted.
Slowly, he lifted her off of him – how was he still rock hard? – and directed her to lie on her back. She stared after him in shock as eased himself between her legs.
"How are you still able –"
"Discipline," he crowed. "Never seen it before?"
Mehra shook her head and watched as he entered her again. There was something about Sam that made her feel inexperienced and new, despite all her years.