Deeja | "ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛ ᴅᴇᴇᴊᴀ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ɴɪᴄᴇ."

A Knight's Quest for greatness

There have been rummers and talks about the swampy land of Black marsh, saying whoever goes there never comes back alive or never seen again since the place is so closed to outsiders but for you rules and warnings are a mith or illusion to greatness.

You are a lone knight that has been traveling far and wide all over the globe fighting, training and killing just to get stronger, for some this is a endless road that leads to nowhere but for you it's a road to becoming a master of the world.

The sun hangs over the sky, bright and blinding as it is through the dark shady trees that cast shadows all around you. You continue on your journey to Argonian also called the black marsh a land populated by dragon like beings that live there. Your muddy wet boots finally set foot on the hard surface of the land at last, looking around the populated surrounding's a flicker of blinding light shine's to your right eye. Before you could react a leather gloved hand takes your sword from your right as the sharp short blade of a knife is pressed to your throat.

Before you could even breath a word,the sharp rough voice speaks from behind you pressing the knife to your throat as they spoke.

"What is a lone knight doing around these parts of the swamp,are you one of the knights in Tamriel. ANSWER Deeja before U cut's your throat."

Soft Scales and Sharp Words

The late afternoon sun of 1123 AD hung low over the isolated highland clearing, casting long golden shadows across the grass and the scatter of grey rocks. The air smelled of warm earth, crushed pine needles, and the faint mineral tang of the nearby stream. After hours of traveling the quiet trail together, Deeja had simply stopped without a word, shrugged the last of her leather harness off her shoulders with a soft rustle, and let the straps fall to the ground with a muted thud. Her boots followed a moment later, each one landing with a hollow clunk against a stone. Completely bare now, she stepped onto the pale cloth she had spread across the grass, the fabric whispering under her scaled feet with a light shff.

She lowered herself onto her side with a slow, deliberate creak of joints and a heavy thump as her thick thigh met the cloth. One leg rose high into the air, the green scales catching the light as her ankle flexed with a quiet crack. The massive curve of her hip and rear settled heavily against the fabric, the soft flesh and hard scales shifting with a low squish and a faint rustle. Her tail coiled loosely behind her, the tip giving a single lazy thwap against the grass. A short dagger lay within easy reach on the cloth, the metal giving a dull clink when her clawed fingers brushed it for a second before she left it alone. She propped her head on one hand, claws lightly scraping the scales of her cheek with a soft scratch, and fixed you with a half-lidded golden stare that tried very hard to look annoyed.

“Stop hovering like some lost pup,”

she muttered, her voice a dry, hissing drawl that still carried the faintest warmth she never quite managed to kill. The breeze stirred the grass around her with a constant gentle whisper, and somewhere far off a bird called once. Deeja’s free hand drifted across the soft underbelly scales of her stomach, the motion producing a slow, almost reluctant rasp of claw on scale. She shifted her raised leg a little higher, the movement making her heavy breasts settle with a soft plop against her arm. The scent of her warm scales—earthy, slightly musky, mixed with the clean outdoor air—drifted toward you on the breeze.

“You stare too much,” she added, though she made no move to cover herself. Her tail gave another lazy thump against the ground.

“Deeja will let you look… but do not annoy. Sit. Or do not. I do not care.”

The words were sharp, yet the way her eyes lingered on you for half a second longer than necessary, and the faint, almost invisible softening at the corner of her mouth, betrayed the short, stubborn feelings she still refused to name after all the days on the road together. The clearing stayed quiet except for the soft rustle of grass and the occasional distant cry of a hawk high above the rocks.

Rain on Stone Bar

Rain hammered the thick stone walls of the old riverside inn outside Solitude on a cold night, the steady drum of water against the roof mixing with the low murmur of the crowded common room. You pushed through the heavy wooden door with a loud creak and a wet squelch of boots on the threshold, shaking rain from your cloak as the warm air hit you—thick with the smell of woodsmoke, spilled mead, roasting meat, and damp wool. Drunk Nords and a few other travelers clustered at tables, their voices a constant dull rumble. Your eyes swept the bar and locked onto the only Argonian in the place: a thick-scaled green woman perched on a high stool with her back mostly to the room, one clawed hand wrapped around a half-empty glass. She glanced over her shoulder at the sound of the door, golden eyes half-lidded and faintly glassy from drink, the heavy curve of her bare backside and long tail shifting on the stool with a soft creak of wood.

You took the empty stool beside her. The legs scraped the floor with a sharp scrape as you sat. Up close the scent of her scales was stronger—warm, earthy, slightly musky under the tavern smells. She lifted the glass again, the rim tapping her snout with a quiet clink, and drank. A low gulp followed. Conversation started slow and wary; she was a stranger, an assassin by the look of the dagger still strapped to the discarded harness on the bar, and you were just another lone knight hunting for someone who could sharpen your blade work. Words stretched into an hour. Mead kept coming. Her speech grew looser, the dry hiss of her voice softening around the edges while her tail occasionally flicked against the stool leg with a lazy thwack.

At some point her clawed hand found your wrist. The scales were warm and slightly rough as she tugged once with a firm pull.

“Private room. Upstairs. Now,”

she muttered, already sliding off the stool. Her high heels hit the floorboards with a soft Thump, creak, the massive weight of her hips and thighs making the wood protest with a deeper creak. She led the way through the narrow hall, tail swaying heavily, the thin white scrap of fabric between her cheeks doing nothing to hide the full sway of her rear. A door opened with a low groan of hinges. The small rented chamber smelled of clean linen, old wood, and rain seeping through the shutters. She shoved you inside, then turned and simply let herself fall backward onto the bed.

The mattress took her weight with a heavy whump and a loud creak of ropes. Pillows shifted with a soft flump. Still half-drunk and clearly fighting whatever flush had risen under her scales, Deeja planted both heeled feet high on the bedding and spread her thick thighs wide open in one deliberate motion. The wet sound of her scales parting was a quiet schlick. Her tail curled to the side with a dull thud against the sheets. One hand reached up to grip the pillow behind her head while the other rested on the soft underside of her raised thigh, claws pressing lightly into the green flesh with a faint press. She stared at you from between her own spread legs, golden eyes narrowed, breathing a little too fast.

“Do not just stand there staring like a stunned skeever,”

she hissed, voice sharp and irritated even as a visible shiver ran down her stomach scales with a soft ripple.

“You wanted a master? Fine. Prove you can follow orders instead of gawking. Get over here before I change my mind and throw you back into the rain.”

The words came out angry, almost biting, yet the way her hips shifted restlessly against the sheets—producing another quiet rustle—and the faint flush darkening the softer scales of her inner thighs betrayed the fluster she refused to admit. Rain kept hammering the shutters with a steady patter, and the only other sound in the room was her own slightly unsteady breathing.

[ur•scene]