Skyrim Guard

The lowly Skyrim guard trudged through the dense, foggy woods outside Riften, her iron boots kicking up moldy leaves with each trodding step. She'd been patrolling this same godforsaken route for what felt like an eternity now. The same trees, the same rocks, the same occasional bandit corpse swinging from gibbets along the trail. Nothing ever changed. She idly ran a gloved hand over the hilt of her trusty iron sword, the weapon that had seen her through countless skirmishes with thieves, poachers and worse. Her other hand clutched a wooden torch, its flickering orange light barely penetrating the thick mist that perpetually shrouded these accursed woods. "By the Nine, what I wouldn't give for a stiff drink right about now. Or a stiff somethin else..." she muttered under her breath as she walked. "Or maybe a quick nip of that Sleeping Tree Sap. Anything to make this tedious patrol go by faster." She shook her head, trying to dispel such irresponsible notions. Getting loaded on the job was a surefire way to end up dead in a ditch. Although some days, that didn't sound half bad compared to this monotonous drudgery. As if summoned by her wandering thoughts, she spotted a flicker of movement between the tree trunks up ahead. She froze, free hand darting to the hilt of her blade. Bandits, perhaps? Surely even those mangy curs weren't brazen enough to jump a guard this close to Riften... Then the figure emerged from the mist into the dim torchlight. It was a man, burly and grizzled, clad in furs and leathers. A bounty hunter, or maybe an adventurer, judging by the steel greatsword slung across his back. He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn't quite place him. Not that it mattered. Her job was the same either way. "Hold there, traveler!" She called out in her most commanding voice, which still sounded rather reedy to her own ears. She stepped forward to block his path, torch held high. "What business do you have skulking around these woods after dark? Honest folk know to keep to the roads."

The guard heard it before she saw it - the distinct sound of the scraping and clicking of someone fumbling through the tumblers of a lock. Another filthy thief, bold as brass, thinking the fog-shrouded night would conceal their crimes. She crept forward on quiet feet, peering around the corner of the building.

Then she saw him - a large man crouched before a door, fiddling with the lock. Even hunched over, he looked intimidating in battleworn leathers and a shrouded hood. A real fighter. This might get ugly.

She stepped out of the shadows, clearing her throat. "Well, well, well, what have we here?" she said in her best authoritative voice. "Go fiddling with any locks around here, and we're going to have a real problem."

She rested a hand on the hilt of her sword as she approached. She shifted her stance, ready for anything. Her pulse pounded in her ears, equal parts fear and... something else. Excitement? Anticipation? Gods, had guard duty made her so desperate for action that a confrontation with a common criminal set her blood to pumping?

"So, what'll it be, criminal scum?" she growled, trying to sound more intimidating than she felt. "Come along quietly, or do I have to get rough with you?"

The guard froze, her hand halfway to the hilt of her blade, as she felt the unmistakable tug of a hand slipping into the coin pouch on her belt. Whirling around, she snatched the offending wrist in a vice-like grip, coming face to face with a ruggedly handsome man in dark leathers. He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn't quite place him. Not that it mattered. Catching a thief red-handed was like mainlining skooma for the chronically bored guard. A jolt of pure electric purpose.

"Well, well, well," she said in her Nordic lilt. "What have we here? A sneak thief, caught in the act. And here I thought today was going to be just another pointless, dreary slog." Her free hand drifted down to fondle the wooden baton hanging from her belt, tracing its length suggestively. "Looks like the gods saw fit to send me a plaything to keep me entertained."

She shoved him roughly against a nearby tree, pinning him there with her armored forearm across his throat. "You know the penalty for picking a guard's pocket, thief?" She leaned in close, their noses were almost touching, her breath hot against his face. "A one way trip to the headsman's block. But maybe..." Her voice dropped into her best attempt at a seductive growl. "Maybe we can come to some sort of arrangement. A little quid pro quo, hmm?" She ground her hips against him, trying to tease his cock into action. "What say you show me what other talents that clever hand of yours is good for, and I'll consider letting you keep it attached to your wrist..."

She knew she should just clap him in irons and march him back to the jail. It was her sworn duty, after all. But by the Eight, a woman had needs. Needs that a quick, sordid rut in the woods might go a long way towards scratching. It wasn't like anyone would ever know. And if this light-fingered rogue did decide to talk, well, it'd be his word against hers. No one would believe she'd lower herself to fucking common criminal scum.

The guard squinted at the man through the fog, recognition flickering in her bright eyes. She'd seen that grizzled, rugged face before, plastered on wanted posters nailed up all over Riften. He was a fugitive from the Empire, wanted for crimes too numerous and unspeakable to list. By Talos, what luck. Bringing in this bounty would earn me a fat purse of gold and maybe even a promotion out of this shithole. She thought to herself, trying to still the trembling in her hands. This was no common cutpurse or bandit trash. This was a stone-cold killer.

"That's far enough, criminal scum!" She barked, drawing her sword from its battered scabbard with a rasp of steel on leather. "There's a bounty on your head, and it's time to pay up. The Empire wants a word with you."

She held the blade level, its point aimed at the man's chest. Her stance was practiced, drilled into her through hours upon hours of training, but rarely put to use against a truly dangerous foe. Especially not alone, deep in the misty wilds.

He could gut me like a fish before I even knew what happened. The thought sent a chill down her spine, but she held her ground, torch and sword unwavering. No. I am a guard of Skyrim. I won't shirk my duty, even in the face of death.

Her heavy booted footsteps echoed off the moss-covered trees as she strode down the dirt road leading to Riften. Her brow furrowed with urgent discomfort, a familiar gurgle in her guts alerting her to an impending emergency in her bowels. She sighed. The same old shit, different day... she mused to herself. She glanced behind her to make sure the path was clear before ducking off to the side, her heavy leather boots snapping twigs and crunching leaves. She found a relatively private spot behind a large boulder and glanced around furtively one last time. Coast was clear. She unbuckled her sword belt and let it fall to the ground with a clank, then hiked up the skirt of her scale armor, exposing her pale, thick nordic thighs to the crisp evening air. She squatted, bracing one hand against the rough stone, and pushed. Her face scrunched up in effort as the first dense log began its slow emergence, stretching her puckered hole wide. She grunted, bearing down hard, and with a soft plop, the hefty turd slid out and fell to the dirt below. She let out a sigh of relief, then tensed up again as another wave of pressure hit. She spread her legs a bit wider, inadvertently giving any passersby quite the view of her fuzzy gash and her now gaping chocolate starfish. Out squeezed another fat, solid shit snake, this one even girthier than the first. It undulated with a life of its own as it pushed past her straining sphincter, inch after inch, until finally it broke off under its own weight. She panted, sweat beading on her brow. By the Nine, this patrol armor was NOT built for easy dumping. Just as she was wondering if she was finally done, a third mighty urge struck. She groaned and bore down with all her might, the veins bulging in her neck. The final massive log, a real toilet choker, slid out at a glacial pace, her abused asshole straining as it prolapsed. "Talos' taint..." she breathed once it finally dropped. She glanced back at the impressive collection of turds she'd just deposited on the forest floor. Surely any bandit who stumbled upon THAT would think twice before tangling with her.

She stumbled through the chaotic streets of Whiterun, her iron boots feeling too heavy on her clumsy feet. "What in Oblivion is happening?" she muttered, still half-drunk from her earlier visit to the Drunken Huntsman. People were screaming, running through the streets like rabid skeevers. Flames engulfed the thatched roofs of houses, the dry straw burning with startling speed. And there was a sound, a terrible sound, like thunder mixed with a horker being anally raped by a polar bear... A dragon! The thought hit her muddled brain like a mace to the face. She had heard the rumors, of course, wild tales of dragon attacks in Helgen, but she had always dismissed them as nonsense or children's stories. Now the truth of it was right before her eyes, as an immense winged beast of lore swooped low over the city walls.

She drew her sword with shaking hands, the rough iron blade looking suddenly small and pitiful. "Nine help me," she whimpered. "What am I supposed to do against a gods-damned fucking dragon?" A lifetime of patrolling quiet streets and shaking down pickpockets had not prepared her for this. She was a city watchman, not some hero of legend! But she was a Nord, a daughter of Skyrim, and she would not go meekly to her death. She gritted her teeth and began to run towards the screams and the flames, towards the dragon that terrorized the city. All around her the scene was descending into chaos and ruin. She passed a man kneeling in the street, hands clasped in desperate prayer to some strange god. As if the gods will help us now, she thought bitterly. Another lay blackened and smoldering in the cobblestone street. She stepped over the body and kept running. She could see the dragon more clearly now, as it wheeled around for another pass over the city. It was immense, easily the size of a large house, with scales black as midnight and eyes that glowed like dying embers. It opened its maw and she felt her heart seize in her chest. She knew what was coming, but there was nowhere to hide.

The drunken guard wobbled on her bar stool, sloshing ale from her tankard as she gestured wildly with her hands. The tavern was dimly lit, the air dark with pipe smoke and the sour stench of unwashed bodies. She was assailing anyone who would listen with her tale of woe, her words slurring together.

"An then I took a gods damned arrow. Right in the fuckin knee!" She burped and took another long pull from her drink. "Hurt like a sonofabitch. Thought my adventurin days was over right then and there."

She shook her head, a lock of greasy brown hair falling across her bloodshot eyes. "But did them Imperial bastards give me a nice cushy desk job after that? A chance to work my way up the ranks? No sir, not them. Ungrateful pig fuckers. It was right back out on patrol, hobbling along on my gimpy leg chasin down thieves and cut-throats and the like."

The guard hunched over her drink, her face twisted in a bitter scowl. "Ten fuckin years I gave em. Ten years of keepin their cities safe, of freezing my ass off in these shithole towns from Riften to Markarth. And for what? A rusty tin medal and a limp that acts up every winter?" She drained the last of her ale and slammed the empty mug down on the worn wooden table. "Sometimes I dream about saying fuck it all and runnin off to join the Stormcloaks. Least they remember what it means to be a true Nord."

She stood with her back against the cold iron bars, arms folded under her armored breasts. She gazed into the jail cell, studying the half naked prisoner sprawled across a rickety cot. There was something familiar about this one - his rugged face, the glint of mischief in those cold eyes. Where had she seen him before? Probably in here, given his type, she mused. The rogue had the look of a career criminal. Thieves, bandits, murderers - after so many years on guard duty, they all started to blur together. Still, there was no mistaking the raw masculinity of this particular prisoner. Even caked in grime and clad in rags, his body rippled with hard muscle. And the way he returned her stare, licking his chapped lips... it sent an intense shiver right to her core. Shor's bones, I've been on this shift too long. "Eyes to yourself, prisoner," she snapped, trying to ignore the tingling between her thighs. "Unless you want to lose them." To drive home the threat, she drew her iron dagger, making a show of picking her fingernails with the point. But in truth, her hands were shaking. It had been far, far too long since she'd felt the touch of a man. The Divines only knew what she might do, if this silver tongued rogue tried his luck...