Lake Geir
Grimjulf woke to the sound of horses entering the camp. He had been dreaming about her again, and opened his eyes to an ache that demanded relief. It was not yet morning even though the thrushes had begun to stir in the leaves overhead, and he guessed it was still several hours before dawn. He tried to roll over, but the rigidity in his groin and the hardness of a thin bedroll made that uncomfortable. After a few minutes of waiting, he realized this was not typical morning wood. From the intensity of the dream he'd been enjoying, he knew too that this one wasn't going to go away so easy, and as the image of her returned, the stiffness became intractable.
He remembered then the first time he'd seen her, when she was brought into the camp, bound and bruised, in the back of a cart. When she had made her way to the medical tent in such a humbled position, she had still managed a smile, and even though it wasn't for him, Grimjulf could not forget it, could not forget how the fullness of her soft lips stretched over her glistening white teeth. And it was that mouth of hers he was thinking of now as he grabbed his hardened cock and began stroking. The image of her, in his dream, was so striking and vivid: how she came towards him, slowly loosening her legion uniform until it fell from her shoulders to reveal the silky olive expanse of her firm breasts, the nipples erect in the middle of their perky areolas, and how she knelt before him, her gorgeous mouth open and the pink wetness of her tongue inviting him in.
He groaned and let out a ragged breath. Had he been able to divide his concentration, he would have thanked Dibella for her mercy. This wasn't going to take long. He went on, maintaining the pace for a few moments, and then grunted in relief as he spurted upwards, noting with some amusement the height of the arcs he'd achieved.
"Winter-Heart!" a man shouted from just outside the opening to his tent.
Shor's bones! Grimjulf nearly yelled in surprise.
"Winter-Heart," the man began again, "when you're done wanking, I've got a job for you. Meet me at the work bench, soldier."
"Yes, Tribune," Grimjulf replied. How long had the Tribune been standing there watching? By the Nines, the man was a menace! He sat up, searched around his tent for a rag, and finding one, wiped himself off. He grabbed his blacksmith tunic and pants and dressed hurriedly. When he arrived at the grind stone, he saw Tribune Marcus Aetius standing there impatiently. In fact, the officer seemed almost nervous.
"Winter-Heart," the Tribune said, "this isn't your standard military assignment, but it is critical. I'd do it myself, but it is apparent that a Nord, familiar with the people here and the surrounding territory, would be a more appropriate choice. "
Oh, yes, Grimjulf thought. I am a Nord therefore I know every hold and every backwater town in Skyrim like the back of my hand. But he kept his words to himself.
"We have a visitor," Aetius explained, "a very important visitor. Important to Praefect Serenus particularly. You may remember her appearance her a few weeks ago." Grimjulf's mouth went dry and his throat tightened. She was back? Whatever the Tribune wanted, Grimjulf hoped it would not involve talking to this woman. After pleasuring himself for the last month to thoughts of her, he didn't think he could look her in the eye without turning crimson. "She has a habit of wandering," the Tribune continued, "and you are to follow her, into town if necessary. Keep an eye on her. And don't make it obvious. We've chosen you because if you find yourself in Ivarstead you'll blend in."
Grimjulf barely stifled a laugh. Of course, in a small town like Ivarstead, no one would notice an outsider like him. While he wasn't too much taller than the average Nord, the demands of his occupation as blacksmith had broadened his shoulders, and even in civilian clothes he left a distinct impression of size. Moreover, should he actually have to speak, with his accent, with the lilting cadence of the northern holds, with the rolling 'r's and softness of unaspirated consonants, he would be marked as a man of the Pale at once. He could recall more than a few times the typical dialogue with a southerner:
"Tankard of mead, if you would."
"Man of the Pale, are you?"
"Born in Dawnstar, actually."
"Hah. I've known a few of your type. Stop me if you've heard this one, will you? How many Pale men does it take to change the lamp oil? 500. First they have to hunt the horkers for the fat. Then they worship them. Finally, they wait for an Imperial soldier to find the burned out lamp in the dark. Haha."
It was always the same. But still Grimjulf didn't know whether to be nervous or excited at the prospect of following this woman. As a soldier of the legion, he was bound to do as commanded, and follow her he did for the rest of the day, keeping his distance as best he could among the tents, with a practiced look of insouciance, just waiting in case she left the confines of the camp. A couple of times, their eyes met across the distance, and he looked away quickly, hoping not to be noticed. And as he watched her, the furrow of concentration in her brow as she cleaned her sword, the smile she offered the quartermaster, the look of pleasure on her face as she tasted the stew bubbling over the cookfire, the more the stirrings in his groin grew in intensity.
In an attempt to ease these yearnings, he had spent all day trying to think of the specific formulas for smelting metals or of the proper spellings of all the capital cities in Tamriel or of the unique sound of a hag raven about to cast a particularly painful spell, but none of them succeeded for very long against the sight of her rounded bottom swaying in close fitted legion armor as she walked. He was thankful that the weight of his heavy smithing apron provided some cover. But by the end of the evening, Grimjulf had given up. If nothing else, complete immersion in the winter coldness of Lake Geir would take the edge out of his desire.
As a young boy, Grimjulf had leapt into the icy waters of the Pale more times than he could count, but he knew the risks. Even as a Nord, he was not completely immune to the danger the shock of cold could present. He was accustomed to the metabolic impact of sudden immersion and the way the muscles suddenly ceased working, the way the heart rate went mad, and the way you started panting even without any effort. These responses would soon stop, if you stayed in the water long enough, and then it was possible to enjoy a bath for a while. But even then, it was the wise man who started a fire first, so that he could warm up easily once on the shore.
On the way to the lake, Grimjulf collected the birch bark, needles, and fungus to start a tinder nest, and the wood kindling to coax the fire to a flame. Once he found the shore, he scanned the lake for a spot that was sheltered from the wind, and built his fire. He had brought a bedroll and blanket with which to dry himself, and he dropped that beside the fire along with his great bear fur cloak. Finally, he removed his blacksmith's tunic, pants, and boots, and headed to a stone overlooking a calm depth of water into which he could safely dive.
When he hit the water he felt the familiar pleasure, the icy burn and body cramping that made every muscle rebel, and he subdued the strong instinct to gasp, containing the heaving in his chest until he had slid through the water in for a long moment of ecstasy and his head finally pierced the surface. As soon as he felt the cold sting of air on his face, he let in a huge breath, shook the water out of his long hair with vigorous shakes of his head, and exhaled with a loud Nord roar.
Suddenly, to his left, he heard a feminine shriek of surprise, a curse, and a then splash. Someone human, he supposed, had fallen in the water and was now thrashing about in a panic. Grimjulf wasn't sure where she was; in the dim moonlight it was hard to see, but he could hear the racket of her erratic motions in the water and he swam in that direction.
When he reached the source of the noise, he saw that she was paddling furiously to stay afloat in a way that would mean certain drowning in the cold water of the lake, even though they were only a short distance from the shore. He grabbed her shoulder in an effort to pull her toward dry land and was rewarded, without warning, with a mighty punch in the face. He felt the crunch of cartilage and the sting of pain that brought tears to his eyes, and tasted blood in his throat. Stendarr's mercy! That was a heavy hit. But the effort behind the punch seemed to have used up the last of the woman's energy, and she was left merely floating, her face barely above water. When he tried to take her again under the arms, she did not resist, and as soon as his feet planted firmly on the bottom of the lake, Grimjulf hoisted the woman over his shoulder and carried her to shore.
He put her down by the fire and she stood before him, gasping and shivering wildly, hugging herself against the cold. "You need to get out of your wet clothing and get dry," he suggested. He could carry her to the camp, but it was a twenty minute jog even so, and by that time, there was still the risk of hypothermia. He walked over to his pile of dry clothing and picked up the bundle; when he returned, he offered the blanket to her. "Miss?"
