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Skyrim Page 5 - "NAKED! Naked naked naked "

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FUCK YES!

There is no way I'm passing this up...

--

"FUCK YES!" a loud cry came causing the First Emissary Elenwen to pause and General Tullius to lower his glass across from her.

"What was that?" he said and before she could answer there was a loud banging noise from above causing some of the party goers to look up before there was an onslaught of the same curse being repeated over and over, a bit of dust falling from the ceiling.

She found herself looking up briefly as well before her eyes moved and she counted the guests. She was missing someone. Someone who was going to have their skinned flayed off if they were doing what she was thinking.

"Ondolemar!" she called and her senior Justiciar swept to her side, his glass half filled with wine but his eyes were still sharp. "Go see what that racket is and deal with it accordingly."

"Yes, my Lady," he bowed and he disappeared leaving the guests around her to remain silent, the air awkward before the banging stopped. She let out a sigh and turned back to General Tullius though his eyes were still on the ceiling.

"As you were saying, General?"

"I asked what that was," he said making her press her lips together. "Ambassador? I thought you said your Embassy was locked down. Impenetrable."

"It is," she said in a hard tone when beside her one of the new Imperial Jarls smirked and began to speak.

"No one said someone's got in, General," Maven Black-Briar raised a brow as she took a sip of her wine causing the Jarl of Falkreath to smirk beside her. "I think the real question here is, who is missing?"

"Who is missing?" Vittoria Vici asked and she looked around frantically before her shoulders fell. "Well, Erikur is still here. Guess we can rule out him being disgusting upstairs."

"Excuse me? Did someone call for a bitch?" he replied, pretending not to see her. "Because all I hear is the barking from a loudmouth dog!"

"Asshole!" she shot back and Jarl Balgruuf spoke above them.

"Where's Jarl Elisif?"

There was a silence and Elenwen found herself pressing her tongue against her cheek. She looked to General Tullius who suddenly took on a disturbed look and she had to leave, fluttering past her guards who held the door open and she took the stairs two at a time, moving to the bedrooms she knew were aligned with the Hall. Sure enough, she found Ondolemar and he was leaning against doorframe smirking when she came to him.

She looked to him and he merely held his hand out, indicating she could go inside and she stepped in, staring at the Future High Queen of Skyrim along with her companion.

"Rulindil," she spat. "What are you doing?!"

Her Interrogator straightened himself a bit, his black eyes meeting hers.

"Nothing, my Lady."

She turned to Elisif who was flushed and she looked between them both before frantically speaking. "We weren't doing anything. I was feeling ill and I came across your Justiciar who kindly helped me."

She stared at them both before she went to Ondolemar. "Ondolemar, what-"

"Oh, you don't want to know, my dear Lady," he smiled. "But let's just say... the Future Queen is very flexible."

She stared at him in horror and he merely chuckled and looked away.

--

I was so excited to read this, I didn't even notice any grammar mistakes! :D

Oooooh! Is Favova a hardass? Does she love her nephew? WILL SHE UNDERSTAND?!!? XD Y U always leave off on massive cliffhangers?! Shame on Zairan for forgetting the alchemy ingredients. He deserves a smack! :D

Poor Marelle... I hope the wisewoman is at least fair to her, if not kind. She needs a friend/ally.

Ohmahgahd, A!A, please update soon. I can't stand the tension!

PS: I'll get the next couple of parts of You Owe Me up by tomorrow afternoon -- no worries. ;)

<3 OP

“Gak! You taste terrible!” The unknown voice penetrated the fog that had settled around Farkas’ brain, as he clawed his way back to consciousness from a sleep that felt drugged. “What in Oblivion has Janshir been feeding you?”

“Who are you?” Farkas asked, trying to focus and failing.

“I’m Babette. I thought Janshir would have told you about me.” Her features finally converged at the centre of his vision. Babette was a child, a girl, although neither fact explained what she was doing in his cell.

“Why are you here?”

“Would have thought that was obvious,” she said, lifting her lips in a sneer that revealed fangs. “I’m hungry.”

Farkas reacted instantaneously, flying from his bed in an attempt to get as far from her as the cell walls would let him. He stood defensively in the corner, his nakedness emphasising his vulnerability.

“You’ve been feeding on me?”

“I tried, but to be honest, you taste like shit. I haven’t tasted anything that bad since the famines after the Oblivion Crisis, when everyone was half starved.” She looked him over, appraising him. “Are they giving you food?”

“Bread and cheese. Every day.”

“A bit bland, but it doesn’t explain…” Recognition dawned in her eyes. “You’re not eating it. How long?”

Farkas slumped against the wall. For the first time since he arrived, he felt utterly defeated. Denial was pointless. "About a week and a half,” he said. “Are you going to tell him?”

“Depends,” she said.

“On what?”

“I know why Janshir is keeping you here. I’m hungry for other things too.”

Awareness and revulsion flooded through him. In spite of his best efforts, he could not keep some of the aversion from his voice. “I don’t fuck women or girls. I never have.”

“Then I can be your first. I’ve always liked virgins.”

“No.”

“Janshir will kill you if I tell him.” She paused thoughtfully for a moment. “Or he’ll find a way to keep you alive…”

“I can’t do it.”

“I can help.”

Babette’s hand crept between his legs, fondling his scrotum. Fingers stroked his nipples. Although he knew that Babette had to be over 300 years old, these were still a child’s hands. A female child’s hands. An undead female child’s hands. Farkas stood rigid with shock, wishing he could draw his genitals up inside his body. Finally finding his wits, he tore himself away from her caresses. Overcome with a crawling, creeping horror, he reacted primally, beyond reason, knocking her into the wall of his cell.

“Leave me alone!”

Babette picked herself up from the floor. Wiping a dribble of blood from her nose, she studied it on her hand, before licking it off. Farkas expected a reaction, but not the predatory calm that settled over her. She turned to leave.

“Very nice to have met you,” she said. “I do hope you have a long and healthy life.”

Hello! This prompt is about half a year old, but hopefully OP is still around to catch this fill! Hope you anons enjoy. <3

“Don’t Shoot the Messenger”

Characters: F!DB Jaenna, Ulfric Stormcloak
Relationship: F!DB/Ulfric

Tags: relationship:Het, race:Nord, char:Ulfric_Stormcloak, char:F!DB, kink:bondage, kink:denial, kink:prisoner, kink:slow_build_relationship, kink:secretive, kink:invisibility

Jarl Balgruuf’s war axe weighed heavily in Jaenna’s hands. The Nord woman stood in the courtyard outside the Palace of Kings, staring up at the tall double doors waiting before her. Her eyes darted to the blue-clad soldiers guarding the entrance. They watched her just as warily.

They knew she was the dragonborn, but they had no idea why she was here.

Grip tightening on the handle of the axe, Jaenna lifted her chin and strode forwards. She shoved her way through the doors and into the Palace of the Kings. The woman blinked snowflakes out of her eyelashes and squinted into the relative dimness of the long hall. The place was well guarded, soldiers lining the walls of the interior. Heads swivelled in her direction as she glided down the corridor.

Ulfric Stormcloak sat on his throne. His gaze followed her approach. “Well, well,” he said. “What is it? I am a busy man.” His eyes narrowed, warning the dragonborn that he already knew exactly why she was here - warning her to turn back now.

Jaenna stopped at the base of the throne. “You know what this is,” she replied. Locking eyes with the man, she held out the axe. “Jarl Balgruuf sends his regards.”

Nearby, Galmar Stone-Fist growled. Armour rattled as Stormcloak soldiers edged closer, hands on their swords.

Jaenna watched the emotions play over Ulfric’s normally composed face. The Jarl inhaled deeply and leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “You are quite brave to carry such a message,” the man murmured. The corner of his lips twitched. “It is a pity you chose the wrong side.”

The dragonborn snorted. “My arm is getting sore,” she said. “Will you take the axe or not?”

At a nod from the Jarl, the dozen nearby soldiers drew their swords. The ring of steel shivered through the air.

“I think… not,” Ulfric said. He stood, looming over Jaenna from his position on the dais.

“What is the meaning of this?” Jaenna demanded. She threw down the axe and drew her own sword, shifting into a crouch.

“You think I will just let you walk out of here?” Ulfric said, spreading his arms. “The odds are already in the favour of the Imperial Legion. I will not serve them further by announcing my plan to attack Whiterun like desert on a silver platter.”

Jaenna rotated slowly, taking into account each man and woman surrounding her. Twelve to one? The odds were in her favour. “Before they sent me on this mission,” she said, “I promised I would harm no one. That I would do no dishonour.” She eyed the soldiers. “When they forced my oath, I daresay they were not expecting… this sort of reception.” Her glare returned to the broad-shouldered Jarl. “If you do not order your men to stand down, I’ll put them down.”

Ulfric studied her. “Will you?” he challenged.

The dragonborn’s fist clenched around the hilt of her sword. It would be so easy – almost… enjoyable to cleave through the wretched Stormcloaks. Her voice could throw the soldiers across the room, stunning them. They wouldn’t even have a chance to deflect her sword before she executed them one by one.

But why stop there? Jaenna’s predatory eyes flicked back to Ulfric Stormcloak. If she were to go on a homicidal rampage through the Stormcloak ranks, she might as well shove her blade through the gut of the most wanted man in Skyrim.

But, damn it, Jaenna had given her word. She was not to harm any of them. The Imperial Legion had forced her to promise, and she was honourable. They knew what a bloody mess she could create if threatened. She cared little of politics and the impact of her actions on the people she represented. Both the Legion and Jaenna knew her oath was to prevent her from doing something stupid and sabotaging all they’d fought for.

Even though she could make the Legion’s troubles all go away, she wouldn’t.

It would serve them right for sending her on this suicide mission. They could’ve sent any soldier, but no, they’d ordered her, the dragonborn, to do this menial task.

It was spiteful and petty, yes. But Jaenna was sick of being ordered around like a common soldier, sent on ridiculous tasks such as this one. Let the Imperial Legion understand her absence as a warning to defend Whiterun. That was all the help they were going to get from Jaenna until they proved they valued having the dragonborn on their side. She would take a timely rescue from Windhelm’s dungeons as an apology.

Jaenna tossed aside her sword. It slid along the stone floor, throwing up sparks. The soldiers around her shifted uneasily, inching closer, but the dragonborn only had attention for the Jarl. “I will not harm your delusional warriors,” she said. “I, unlike some who are present in this hall, have a sense of honour.”

“I am counting on that.” Ulfric’s eyebrows lifted. The Jarl hesitated. “When you fight a war for freedom,” he said, “childish traditions like the deliverance of that war axe mean little.”

“And if you cannot even honour such a simple tradition,” Jaenna snapped, “I shudder to imagine you as high king.” She threw back her head and laughed. “You fight for freedom, yet you forsake honour to take me prisoner? A fine and just king you would make, Ulfric Stormcloak.”

There were gasps and murmurs. Galmar drew his blade at the insult, his lips twisting into a snarl.

But Jaenna was not done yet. “You are nothing more than a coward,” she mocked. “You are an opportunist and a hypocrite.” She looked around herself, spreading her arms and smiling grimly. “Fine qualities in a man who wants to lead Skyrim to its supposed freedom, don’t you agree?”

“Clap her in irons!” Galmar commanded.

One nervous soldier held out a set of shackles. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. He approached the dragonborn as if she were a wild sabre cat.

Jaenna’s head whipped around. Her eyes pinned him to the floor like a lance. “If you touch me,” she said, “I will kill you.” It wouldn’t be the first time she’d ended the life of a Stormcloak soldiers with her bare hands.

The soldier froze. He sent Ulfric a pleading look. The Jarl gave a near-imperceptible shake of his head. “Lead her to the dungeons,” he ordered. “And do not touch her.”

The soldiers surrounded Jaenna. She let them direct her through a side door. The dank passage wound downward, past the barracks and into the cold dungeons. Four empty cells lined the right wall. She waltzed into the farthest one without any prompting.

“Lovely accommodations,” Jaenna said, her feet tramping on rotting hay. “Here, allow me.” She smiled and closed the cell door for the soldiers. One of them gave her a very uncomfortable look as he locked it. “The bars seem rather insubstantial, but it’s quite cozy,” she continued, one eyebrow arching. “At least the Imperial Legion will know where to look when they send their warriors to rescue me.”

The Jarl had followed his Stormcloaks into the dungeons. He gave her an unreadable look through the bars. “Swear that you will not attempt to escape,” Ulfric said.

Jaenna flashed a toothy grin at the soldiers standing by the Jarl’s side. “I will swear no such thing. It is only a matter of time before I grow bored and am on my way. No one will even notice me slip out, unless I’m feeling particularly dramatic that day.”

“Promise.”

“To you?” Jaenna said. “Never.”

Ulfric spun away and strode towards the exit. To the soldiers following him, he said, “I want three men guarding ever junction. Should the dragonborn leave her cell, do not move to let her pass. She will not break her vow and hurt you.”

Soon, they were all out of sight. Jaenna heard the distant grating of Galmar’s voice. “And if I find out some milk-drinker let her past, there will be pain to pay.”

The dungeon descended into silence. There was a steady drip drip of water sliding off the craggy ceiling. Jaenna expelled a deep sigh. The cold cell sucked the bravado out of her as easily as it leeched away the heat from her skin. She collapsed into a corner and drew up her knees. Her head rested in her hands.

She was a prisoner to her own honour. Maybe Ulfric Stormcloak had the right of it, being a disreputable bastard.

***

Jaenna guessed it was sometime in the morning of the following day when a servant ventured down into the dungeons. The woman held a steaming bowl. Biting her lip, she cleared her throat to catch the dragonborn’s attention.

“Your meal,” the servant said. She knelt down, opened the small latch in the bottom of the door, and slid the bowl into the cell. She didn’t stick around to watch Jaenna eat, but turned and hurried away.

From her corner of the cell, Jaenna sniffed. Whatever slop was in that bowl didn’t smell the least bit appealing. She shuffled over and stared into the murky liquid. There wasn’t a spoon. She dipped her finger into it. The stuff was only lukewarm.

“Disgusting,” Jaenna muttered. She stood and clasped the bars. “Guards!” she shouted.

After a minute of shouting, two soldiers, a man and a woman, arrived at the lowest level. “What is it, prisoner?” the woman demanded.

Jaenna smirked. “Prisoner? That’s cute.” She beckoned the two soldiers closer, bending over to pick up her bowl of gruel. “What is this?”

The two exchanged looks. The woman leaned nearer to inspect the gruel. As she did, Jaenna threw the contents of the bowl into her face. The soldier jumped back with an indignant gasp. Clumpy, milky liquid dribbled down her face and armour.

“If the servants can’t bring me proper food,” Jaenna snarled, “then bring me nothing at all.” She tossed the bowl against the iron bars with a clatter and turned her back on the two guards. The first soldier looked ready to barge into the cell, but the man grabbed her arm, stopping her from drawing her sword. With some coaxing, he persuaded her to leave.

The dungeons were quiet once again.

***

By the third day, Jaenna’s stomach ached with hunger. That was nothing compared to her thirst. She could go days without eating – she had before, travelling the frigid, unforgiving mountain ranges of Skyrim. At least then, she’d been able to melt snow in her mouth. Now, her tongue felt like dried leather.

She rubbed her sunken eyes and glanced at the glistening walls of her cell. Moisture beaded on the cold stones. She considered licking the stone, wondering if she could bear the indignity. That, or she could just barge out of her cell. Easily. A Shout could take the cell door off its hinges.

Her promises seemed much less important with thirst dogging her.

Jaenna slept again, as there was little else she could do. She awoke to the sound of a set of heavy footsteps approaching the dungeons. She shivered and stirred. Without a proper meal, the cold was sucking away all her body’s warmth.

Ulfric Stormcloak entered the dungeons. He walked to stand a ways from her cell. He tilted his head and studied the dragonborn. A soldier stood nearby bearing a torch. Jaenna wondered if they both would be taken aback by the way her eyes glowed like a dragon’s, reflecting the firelight.

“What is this I have heard about the servants refusing to feed you?” Ulfric demanded.

“I sent them away.”

The man stared at Jaenna as if he thought she wasn’t quite right in the head. And maybe she wasn’t. The dragonborn never professed to think like regular people. “You sent them away,” he repeated.

“A starved dragonborn is less accountable for her actions,” Jaenna replied with a toothy smile.

Ulfric shook his head. “I will have someone send you food and water,” he said.

As he turned to leave, Jaenna scrambled to her feet and went to the cell door. “Wait,” she said. “What news of Whiterun?”

Ulfric hesitated.

“I promise I won’t roast you alive,” Jaenna cajoled.

Ignoring her, the Jarl left.

True to his word, a servant arrived later that evening. He shoved a tin of hazy water into the cell, followed by more of that foul gruel. Jaenna growled under her breath, causing the servant to jerk away from the bars.

“I said,” Jaenna murmured, “to bring me nothing at all if you can’t bring me proper food.”

“This is what we feed prisoners,” the servant responded, hopping from one foot to the other.

Jaenna took a deep breath. Her hands clenched around the bars of her cell, her knuckles blanching. “Come here,” she said.

The servant took a step backwards. He moved away towards the exit one careful step at a time, not daring to take his eyes off the dragonborn.

Jaenna shook the cell door, testing the strength of its hinges. “This is the last time I will tell the Jarl’s staff,” she said. “Bring me this… this disgusting sludge one more time, and I will tear this palace down stone by stone.”

The servant lifted his chin, rebellion sparking in his eyes. Jaenna, confident that the bars could withstand at least one word of power, turned to him and said, “Fus.”

The air rippled as a wave of force surged past the cell door. Hinges groaned. The servant let out a shriek as the blast threw him off his feet. He landed on the bed of the torture device sitting against the far wall, saving him from a nasty bruising on the stone floor.

The stone chamber rumbled around them, dust and debris fogging the air. Shouts echoed down the stairwell.

The servant clawed at his chest as if unable to believe that he was unharmed. “T-they said you wouldn’t hurt no one!” he babbled. “They p-promised!”

Jaenna snorted. “If I meant to hurt you, you’d know it,” she said. “Now get out.”

The man scrambled off the torture device, his face paling when he realized flakes of dried blood covered his shirt. With another screech, he staggered for the exit and ran out of the dungeons.

Moments later, soldiers stormed downward. Half a dozen men and women filled the dungeons, their weapons drawn. Jaenna sat back down in her corner, pulling the smelly furs over her legs to keep them warm. She admired her handiwork with a smile, gulping down the water the servant had brought her. She set the tin cup on the floor with a sigh.

After a while, the soldiers edged back out of the dungeons. Not a word was spoken.

***

A thin, ugly-faced man brought Jaenna her water the next day. Fortunately, there was no gruel, but there was no real food, either. Jaenna growled and snapped at the man and demanded he bring her whatever the soldiers were eating upstairs. The man stared at her blankly, unfazed, and left.

With her keen senses, Jaenna could smell the meal the soldiers ate in the common room above the dungeons. Her stomach twisted angrily. She could almost taste the warm, fresh bread, the roasted pheasant, gently scorched, the gourds steamed and filled with melted cheese.

Nothing of consequence happened for several days. Jaenna tracked the time by counting when the stolid, ugly man brought water. He was the only person she saw, appearing twice a day at what she presumed to be morning and evening.

At this point, Jaenna remaining locked in the dungeons was a battle of wills. Ulfric wanted her to break. He wanted her to smash her way free, to prove to him that she couldn’t keep her word. But she was not as dishonourable as that wretch. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

So she would await her rescue.

Except… it wasn’t coming.

Jaenna had been incarcerated for at least a week now. She hadn’t even had a single guest, never mind a hint that the Imperial Legion had sent a rescue party. Either they couldn’t, or they wouldn’t.

The dragonborn wondered which it was.

Ulfric visited her on the eighth day of her imprisonment. He was alone. “Well,” he said, coming to stand a safe distance from her cell door. “Have you changed your mind about the food yet?”

Jaenna glared at him. It was too much effort to feign indifference and joviality at this point. She didn’t bother to stand. She felt so weak she thought her legs might tremble and she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing that.

“I could not convince any servants to come down here to ask,” the Jarl continued. “Not even Hrothar. He’s the one with the broken nose. A man of few words, but quite loyal.”

Jaenna continued to watch him through narrowed eyes.

Ulfric’s eyebrows lifted. “I suppose I will take your silence as a ‘no.’”

“Tell me,” Jaenna said, her voice venomous, “how many rescue attempts have you foiled? How many of the Imperial Legion have you slaughtered because they’ve tried to rescue me?”

The Jarl regarded her evenly. She would swear there was some pity in that cool gaze. “None,” he said. “Although I doubt you believe me.”

“You’re right,” Jaenna replied. “Why trust a man with no honour?”

“Perhaps I am dishonourable, but I am not a liar.” Ulfric Stormcloak shrugged. “Maybe you should reconsider which side of this war has the most dishonourable collection of individuals?” he suggested.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Jaenna stood, her knees wobbling with weakness.

“Perhaps the Imperial Legion’s pet dragonborn has become too unruly,” the man said. “Perhaps she is too headstrong. Too defiant. Perhaps they said, ‘Let’s use her defiance to our advantage. Let’s send her to our enemy to deal with.’”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!” Jaenna spat.

Ulfric rounded on her, his own gaze heated. “That is the only explanation,” he retorted. “Why else send the dragonborn on such a menial task? Why make her swear not to harm the Stormcloaks, when you could easily have killed us all? Tell me that, dragonborn.”

Jaenna’s jaw worked, but she couldn’t think of a good reason. Finally, she felt something inside her snap. She was tired of playing this game, feigning patience. Her lips drew back into a snarl. “Fus ro dah!” she Shouted at the Jarl.

Air whispered across the floor. Small pebbles rolled up against the man’s boots. His blond hair whisked back in a breeze.

Even Ulfric looked surprised.

Jaenna stumbled away from the cell door. For the first time, dread stirred in her belly. Her Shout had no power! The matted furs caught her heel, and she fell hard on her rump. The cell walls seemed to close in around her now that she realized she couldn’t break free.

Jaenna Shouted again. Rotten straw puffed across the floor. Her empty tin cup rolled away and clattered against the cell bars.

Oh, no.

Ulfric approached, his shadow falling over her. “You have weakened,” he observed.

What a genius! Jaenna folded her arms across her chest to disguise the tremor in her muscles. “I just decided I didn’t really want to smash you against the far wall,” she retorted. “You know, didn’t want to sully my honour. It seems to be in short supply around here.”

Unimpressed, but also not mocking her, Ulfric turned away. “Guards!” he called. He waited a moment. When none arrived, the man grumbled and stormed back up the stairs and out of the dungeons.

Jaenna listened with interest to the sounds of shouting the next level up. The voices echoed down strangely, so she wasn’t sure what was being said. Eventually, Ulfric returned to the dungeons, towing with him a white-faced guard and the ugly, impassive man Jaenna assumed was Hrothar. The guard slowly approached the cell door and shoved the key into the lock. Perspiration glistened on his forehead in the light of the torch Hrothar held.

“What is this?” the dragonborn asked, rising into an unsteady crouch.

“You are hardly a threat now,” Ulfric said. “I thought I may as well take this opportunity to show you that the Stormcloaks can treat the dragonborn better than the Imperial Legion has.”

Jaenna stared at him for a moment. “I see,” she said. She walked forward, exiting the cell. As she did, she stumbled against the guard.

He reached up and caught her shoulders. In one smooth motion, Jaenna drew the man’s sword and whipped around. Her stolen blade arched toward Ulfric Stormcloak’s neck.

Steel screeched against steel. Ulfric’s own sword flashed out, parrying the blow. Beside him, Hrothar didn’t even blink. The soldier, on the other hand, panted with fear.

“Are you sure I’m no threat?” Jaenna grinned.

Her eyes remained focused on Ulfric’s even as she heard the soldier behind her draw his dagger. Jaenna’s free hand snapped out to catch his wrist. However, she didn’t account for the weakness of days without food. Even the dragonborn was mortal.

The soldier was able to rip his arm free of Jaenna’s grasp. He grabbed the dragonborn’s long braid and jerked her head. In a second, the soldier had her staggering backwards, a dagger at her throat.

“That is enough,” Ulfric said.

The soldier wrestled his sword away from Jaenna and backed away. He gave her a sharp push, sending her sprawling onto the straw of her cell.

“At least someone can take a joke,” Jaenna muttered, rubbing the back of her head. She gave the soldier an ugly glower.

“Your point has been made, dragonborn.” Ulfric extended a hand towards her.

Jaenna squinted at him. She didn’t want to be petty, so she accepted his help up.

“I will make you a deal, O Honourable One,” the Jarl continued. “If you swear not to leave the Palace of the Kings, I will leave you free to wander within its walls. Maybe you will see enough to convince you that you have chosen the wrong side in this war.”

Jaenna arched an eyebrow. “All I’m like to see is your battle plans, which means you’ll never allow me to leave here.”

Ulfric’s lips quirked. It was subtle, but she caught it. He said, “Promise you will not leave the Palace of the Kings. And assure me your promise not to harm anyone within will continue.”

“And if I won’t?”

“You can go back inside,” Ulfric nodded back towards the cell. “And satisfy yourself with gruel and nothing else.”

The man had her there. Jaenna felt light-headed at the reminder of her hunger, but she forced her discomfort back down. “Will I have access to your kitchens?” she asked. Her stomach rumbled at the thought.

“Once I have your promise,” Ulfric said.

Jaenna made a show of considering it. “And… a guest bedroom?” she wheedled.

“There are some available. You may choose one to your liking.”

“Is there anywhere… off-limits ?” Jaenna grinned.

The Jarl narrowed his eyes. “If you ever want to leave here alive,” he said, “you might choose to avoid examining my battle plans in great detail.”

Which of course meant it hadn’t even crossed the Jarl’s mind that she would snoop around his personal quarters if given half a chance. Would it really be thieving if she ‘borrowed’ a few things from the man keeping her prisoner?

Jaenna restrained a giddy laugh. She pretended to give her cell a wistful look. “Well, I suppose I must accept. I, Jaenna, swear I will not attempt to leave the Palace of the Kings… unless I see the doors unguarded or you are dead.”

Ulfric Stormcloak didn’t seem to like that much, but he nodded his acceptance. “Fair enough. And?”

“And I again promise I will not harm anyone within the walls of the Palace of the Kings,” she said. She tapped her index finger against her lips. “Well, not physically.”

Ulfric turned on his heel and marched away, beckoning the others to accompany him. To the soldier, he said, “I want four warriors guarding the entrance at all times.” To his servant, he added, “Hrothar, attend me.”

“So just like that?” Jaenna called after him, annoyed.

“I will let the soldiers know you are free to explore the palace,” he said over his shoulder. “For now, I have work to do.”

With the three men gone, Jaenna breathed a sigh of relief. She leaned against the back wall and sank down. Her muscles trembled at even that small exertion. She was so hungry, still so thirsty.

She would rest a bit, and then venture out of this icy place.

***

I will see about posting part 2 in the next couple days! Let me know what you think so far. :)

I am stalking this fill daily! Please update soon!

I need more!

OP is still around and delighted to see this getting filled!

OP again. I'm loving this so far! I really like this Dragonborn and I like that the story is going to be a slow-build. Keep going! :)

I'm still alive, guys, really! And I've been working on this. If you don't mind, I'm going to throw the first two parts up so that you don't get bored with me. c:

Summary: Kerek is an orsimer bandit that seeks to escape his dishonorable chief, Morey, but wants to do it in a way that doesn't corrupt his own honorability. When a certain breton gets involved what does it mean to Kerek, and how is he going to mess it up like everything else?

Tags
Characters: OC, F!DB, Farengar, Mikael

Kinks: I haven't gotten there yet, but there will be kinks, I will post those when it comes time.

Kerek was bored. He was bored of his post, which was given as punishment for not following orders, and he was bored of the distinct lack of fun in their little clan. "Ever since Morey took over, it's nothing but work," Kerek grumbled to himself, digging a toe into the soft dirt. "If Jasim hadn't been locked up-"

A twig snapped somewhere near Kerek and he put a hand on his war-hammer, ready to fight. He scanned the path leading up to him and even looked above where the outcropping of rock hung over the mine entrance. He sat still for a few more minutes and then put his weapon away, mumbling about a rabbit. But as he leaned back on to the wooden support beam, he saw it. A pair of impossibly large green eyes staring back at him. The little thing gasped and jumped up to run away, but Kerek was too fast for the breton. He grabbed her by the back of her robes, bloody things that were much too large for her and indicated she had pilfered them off of some dead mage, and lifted her from the ground.

She kicked backwards at him, just barely missing some vital components. "What are you, nine, ten?"

Kicking back at him some more, she mumbled, "Please put me down. I'm very sore."

Kerek chuckled. "And what, pray tell, would a nine year old be sore from?"

The breton blushed. "There was a dragon." She whispered, and Kerek raised his eyebrows. "It destroyed Helgen, and I almost died."

Kerek laughed, lifting her higher and hanging her from a nail he often used for lamps. "You expect me to believe that a dragon destroyed Helgen and I didn't hear a damn thing?"

She looked away from him, staring down at her feet in the too-big shoes. "It did happen." She insisted, and Kerek turned and looked at her, hard. Raising her head, she locked eyes with him and whispered, "I promise."

Kerek quickly looked away, his mind's gears turning. He could use her as a way to escape these bandits. "I could get in a lot of trouble for not letting the others know you're here." Behind him, the breton opened her mouth to respond, but he cut her off. "But again, you're pretty young."

"I'm 20." she interjected quietly.

Kerek shrugged. "I'm not for this whole raping and pillaging thing Morey's got going on. Think you could take care of him for me?" The breton shook her head, but didn't elaborate. "Well, why not? If you survived a dragon you could surely take care of a few bandits."

Swallowing, she shook her head again. "I don't know any magik." She said quietly.

Kerek stared. "You took down a dragon without any magik, or weapons?"

"No." She retorted, "I never said that. I said I survived."

"What's the difference?"

The breton looked up at him studiously. "Living."

After a moment or two, Kerek shrugged. "Then I guess I'll just have to tell Morey about you."

The breton's face flushed. "No, that's not- What I mean to say is- If you let me go I'll never come back."

Kerek lifted a hand and took her by her chin, golden eyes growing dark. "If I let you go, Morey'll have my hide." He let go of her chin and turned to look out at the barrows. "Not that I can't take care of myself. But he's always got 3 or 4 of those marauders with him. And, although no one bests an orc, 5 could."

The breton furrowed her brow, trying to think of a way out of her situation, but nothing was coming to her. Just when it was dawning on her that it was hopeless, Kerek took her off the nail and half threw her down the path. "Don't show your pretty face around here anymore." He mumbled, leaning his back on the post. Kerek watched disinterestedly as the breton stumbled to her feet and dusted herself off, her face looking curiously like she was blushing. "Let's just hope no one saw you here." She nodded and took off running.

---

It was an uneventful month for Kerek. Morey was still angry that he hadn't sucked up to him immediately after Jasim's imprisonment, so Kerek was still stuck on guard duty. The morning was cool, so there wasn't much to complain about, except the boredom, but if Kerek had been inside, he'd still be bored out of his mind. He was just thankful no one had seen or heard him talking to the breton girl a month prior, it made it easier for him to focus on how he'd slip away without anyone being the wiser. Except, he reasoned, I work guard duty and could just walk away without Morey finding out immediately.

Kerek stood and took a step forward, determined to just do it, damn the consequences. He had just got to the end of the path when he heard a scream. Kerek's hand flew to his war-hammer and he broke out into a run. Another scream, this time accompanied with a bear's roar. Faster. Harder. The screams and roars got closer and closer and then, there they were. A big, dark cave bear was standing on his hind legs, arms raised, over a figure on the ground. Her screams had ceased into little more than quiet whimpers and thick, dark life blood dripped from the bear's claws.

Moving forward in long purposeful strides, Kerek raised his war-hammer high and swung it down in a mighty arc, the flat face of the weapon hitting the bear's head solidly with a sickening crack. The bear fell and Kerek's head whipped over to where the woman lay, whimpering weakly. His blood ran cold when he realized it was the breton girl.

He tucked his war-hammer into it's holster and scooped the woman up into his arms. Whiterun was a fair distance away, and Kerek's restoration skill was shoddy to say the best, but he lit his hand with the spell and pressed it into the breton's chest. "What's your name?" he demanded, trying to focus her attention as he sprinted to Whiterun. Riverwood didn't have any great healers to speak of, and wouldn't be of much help. No, Kerek knew the girl's only hope was Whiterun's Temple of Kynareth.

She mumbled something about being cold into his bicep and he hugged her closer. "Your name, woman." He demanded again, lightly shaking her to keep her awake. She said something else but Kerek couldn't hear her, but he could see a guard and the front gates of whiterun looming ever closer.

The guard shouted something and took off running behind Kerek. At the gates, the guard caught up with Kerek, both of them panting heavily. "It was... A bear." he said between breaths, handing the breton to the guard, who seemed over-encumbered by the girl's weight.

"Sure it was, Orc." The guard grumbled, taking the breton into the city, leaving Kerek blinking at the large gate as it closed in his face. He huffed and threw himself down on the small step, his eyes slipping closed. Why had he even bothered? It wasn't like she was going to come running out in the morning and ecpress her undying gratitude to him.

Kerek stood, moving down the cobblestone road back towards his camp. He really ought to have been more faithful to his orsimer ways. Morey was a milk-drinker who hid behind three or four bodyguards at a time, but the nord was still his leader. And an orc didn't just run away because the man who was picked to lead was dishonorable. No, a real orc would have stood his ground and challenged the dishonorable, if he died, at least it was a good death. One that Malacath himself would be proud of.

As he approached the cave entrance, Kerek steeled himself. No one was outside, so that meant they probably hadn't noticed his disappearance. He rolled his shoulders and pushed open the makeshift doors to see a mess. Three or four men laid dead, but there was more blood around than what belonged to them. "Morey's looking for you." One of the nords growled out of the side of his mouth, "He's pretty pissed."

Ahh I can't wait to see what happens next! O: I hope she's the angry "WHY WERE YOU EVER BORN BOY IF YOU CAN'T EVEN BRING US ANYTHING USEFUL OTHER THAN DAT BITCH?!!"-type. xD

I'm writing a sadistic part, but it has absolutely no sexual undertones at all. It's just a bit of power crazy punishment from Kerek's chief. Is this okay..? Or would you rather me just cut it out of the story all together?

oh i wonder what will happen now?? :D

So smexy! OwO Post more soon!

Ooooh! yaya!

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