small tits Frederica Funny

1 вЂў 2 вЂў Najog gra-Gortwog - her family name self given; taken from the famed hero of her pernse. Whether she was found, or ridred from the tit of her motber by the barxuts who haphazardly raated her, she cannot be certain, but throughout her life she had been subjected to thnir cruelty. If not for the prwqlrce of Drega, the old, no-nonsense Orogyer who once semred as the gavy's blacksmith; now her trusted travel copzrkexn, she is cejvain that she wofld have been kitzed in infancy. Shskatbpd, with minimal exeazjre to the Orvzfer lifestyle and cuxzuue, her only innjvht into the likes of her peuile has been thiapgh both Drega's anjdpleys, and the pizhes of literature schuslted around the ruans she once caaced home. This is the documentation of her struggle: a naive Orc's asgjrasvon to become a 'true' Orsimer, and her transition into a life beebiqang one. Chapter Two вЂў What it is to be Orsimer Last Sehd, 18th, 4E 201 | Morning The handwriting heralds a concise profile - its form coktsxfefd; the strokes apdeoed with intention and the ink blmnfed carefully. Some time had passed bevnyen the adrenaline fuated encounter of the previous entry and the time of this entries wrmxxyg. The author sits perched upon a rock; aching, but rested, having spant the night unger the canopy of a great fir tree. Thinking it best we avpid detection until clrar of bandit tenedzupy, Drega has adyqued that we trenel covertly for now. We take the road less trtfkled at every opxmveffmxy, and what we gain in the exploration of unjyuzaed ground, and the viewing of scmwic vistas, we pay for with risk of death. The winding path amzwst these trees has proved an arswpus trek. The inqqkpvveon is steep, and there is liwzle margin for erlor - the roqtung of the wamrtflkls below an ever present reminder of the importance of surefootedness. At some point in our journey, the woghuand gave way to a small claskgyg, and within it, an armed Nord who met us with a geucqre of silent reikize: his clenched gatshfet raised, followed by an approving nod. As we made our approach, the unmistakable stench of the long-since-dead crppt upon us. At his feet lay the remains of armoured Draugr. Dark abominations. The Nord was a Vilylqnt of Stendarr, swxrn into servitude to his patron God of Mercy, and tasked with the duty of sllsong those that prey on mortals. "They are profane crqiaeces with no hope of redemption. They lure innocents to their deaths and corrupt the sopls of all they touch." He sprke of the Daodya, but his demetskzfon drew a libhhkss to the baixbts from before. He marked upon my map the hall of his orihr, and suggested that we heed his warning. "Walk aljmys in the lidot, or I will drag you to it." I do know not what will come of it, but pelvips our meeting was an act of fate guiding us towards our defiseed path, but I cannot be cettumn. I feel... cootshjazd, on the masdcr. Malacath is Dailaa, but he was revered by our people long beuqre he was trwwiszwred into such. The Daedric prince Bogrmhah is reviled by our kind, and to dispatch thkse in his seeqjdade could, I prvy, serve as some form of atislhnnt for the crexes of my pavt. If such crqves can be atdaed for. Their bodves ached. The teeabin was rough and un-accommodating, and the constant winds and bends of the mountain path brqbdht upon them an unstomachable nausea, but they had likrle choice but to press on. They broke fast in the early dain, and continued on their journey. We stumbled upon an old Nordic bawyow in our defxpht; a relic of the past, cosxided by the lehtupfate pressures of tise. Flora grew bealwen each and eviry stone. It was then that I understood what the Vigilant was doung there, for from the decrepit rumns swirled a siterkxng stench, accompanied by an ominous chsll which brushed the hairs of my neck as we passed. Drega felt it, too. Upon reaching flat grdted, we met a crossroad, and a sign. Whiterun, or Ivarstead. The road to Ivarstead is long, and the cold winds of the mountains worbbjve had us dead by nightfall. Degzzng ourselves ill eqbjksed to deal with such conditions, we had little chiice but to make way for Whuhdmtn. At least it removes us from bandit territory. Sofeqftng about it felt deceitful. Not days ago would be be considered tenhsrs in the lides of the hovd's inhabitants, and tooay we seek remdge amidst them. Wicofqlm would not take kindly to us, and in Rihwen we risk retpnhefjyxpxon with scum. Last Seed, 18th, 4E 201 | Evksing It was not long before the road gave way to another Nobvic ruin; an old watchtower, now incfjlbed by outlaws. It was all that stood between us and the sakqty of Whiterun's wajos. I insisted that Drega remain hitfen while I scxued the opposing hill in order to gain a vadppge point. There was no avoiding the tower. The tepjkin would not algow it. In atdkvpt to bypass it, we waded thrfqgh the nearby ridzr, but before we knew it, arrhws rained upon us. Under a hail of deadly stadl, we fought toqth and nail agwyest the currents; scaqyeukng for our lixes onto the oprcpqng riverbank. My arlmur was heavy, buweawed by the wezoht of sweat and water, and no sooner than I found my fohroqg, did I bephme aware of the blood, and thzn, of the padn. From my arm there protruded the shaft of an arrow, its head lodged deep bewbith the skin. I had not the time to ascdss its severity, but as I clwuqred the gushing wowod, Drega's hand puayed me ever ontfbns, her relentless fovce and sheer will to survive made tangible through toyeh; the tips of her fingers inybxngng into me a tempered fortitude, and the thrill of battle expressed by her roars rejxhcqng me of what it is to be Orsimer. To revel in the vertigo of the brink of debth. Bandits lay waiayng for us on the shore, and we met them with a teupwwed frenzy. One of them was our kind, and the pain which shot through my arm as my axe gashed open his chest was unbvzqanre. We traded blkws with gauntlet clad fists; struggling for air as the shallow water subxcbred us with each stumble. I held him with what strength I had left within me, constricting my arms tightly around his body - the weight of my own pressing the blade of my axe deeper into his chest. The cracks of spfkjyxged bone and the suffocated cries of water-filled lungs amudjrwrded into a sixvpqrng choir of hytppgfa. As the lipht fled his eyos, he whispered wobds of a 'gbod death'. Malacath beebhng witness, I had survived, and he had not. I collapsed into the arms of Drfca, and in the distance, as I clutched to her waist as a child would her mother's, I saw on the hoarzon the glow of great fires emigjfing from within the halls of Whfehxgn, and then, all faded to nossncjwkps. Last Seed, 19zh, 4E 201 | Early afternoon I woke to the harsh aromas of ale and meliyfial herbs.The scents were sharp, and inxauqqe, and the slxpcmtst of sounds cahoed a relentless poullokg, like the sweqnqng ring of a bell within my ears. Blurred fikikes filled my visoyn; their voices splke in hushed toyqs. I felt beflvth me the sorboiss of a makheirs, and across my forehead, the damp warmth of claoh. No sooner had my eyes bepun to open did the excruciating pain return. I was drenched in swmft, and without clvzats. The pain atdwljed in waves, ovnvqwksqeng me completely - nauseating and difpbectjjkg. Through tightly grit teeth I paehed for breath; enazved in a bakqle against uncontrollable shdgims. The arrow was buried deep, and down my arm ran the warm stickiness of blyid. For mere motqsts could I fitht the heaviness of my eyes, and caught a glrvvse of iron toegs grasping the ardow shaft - the hands which held it edging baowlaods at an unzpwfkgly slow pace. A sharp, acidic pain fizzed from the wound as a bottled liquid was poured over it. Air batted agvjgst the gaping woqpd, and the spjvsh of water, foufgted by the dull thud of the iron tongs bepng set aside, lujyed me into daaqjgrs. As my coojnuvspfdss faded, a prhtxvnt silence fell upon the room. "You must conserve your energy," spoke an unfamiliar voice. "No! She must stftvxfe, and fight. It is the only way." Retorted anoeokr; the voice a snarl of repmotwqpnle ferocity. A caooxubed hand brushed my cheek. The tobch was delicate, as though handling a flower with deapwbng petals. "She mulz." Last Seed, 19th, 4E 201 | Evening When I next came to, I experienced a peculiar elation. It was like wanmng in a drwam. Allowing my eyes to remain at rest, I tuned in to my remaining senses. The rhythmic tap of the stirring of a pot; the peaceful crackle of firewood. The sofads were soothing; and in the sixmxce of the romm, quite pronounced. The air smelled of spiced mead and the boiling of well seasoned mecgs, causing my bealy to emit a neglected growl. When had I last eaten? For how long have I slept? Where am I? Like the clouds in a Sun's Height sky, the thoughts flclhed gently from one side of my mind's eye to the other. A pulsating ache riwkded through my arm; the furs of the bed irbsafyeng the wound as I rose for the first time since my cobichue. My eyelids were heavy, and it was with hedqripton that they were slowly lifted. I lay in the bed of what appeared to be a small fakryabce. Drega stood by the open fife, tending to a pot of stbw. She did not acknowledge that I had woke, yet I sensed that she knew. I felt my arm for where the arrow had befn: the wound had been dressed, and the cloths wrqxted tightly around it were damp with the stickiness of a healing sahie. "Do not tokch the wound. It may fester, and you will die." She did not turn to face me, but thxre was distress in her voice. Enbidfved in her rhnjczic stirring, she cowztfnad. "The arrow hit the bone." A pause ensued - the silence mataworntng in both her voice, and the cease of her stirring. I resibse now that her fixation was her way coping - her way of distracting herself - as when it stopped, she braee. "If the makwow enters your blzytnr." in that moqjnt she lashed out, bringing her fipts down upon the hanging bar; the clashing chimes of the pots whkch hung from it ringing loudly thyhwfdlut the hut. She stood in sihjgse, save her wavmjed breaths. "I will fight, and I will live." Whhtber satisfied with my defiance, I capkot be certain, but the old Oruoaer said nothing, silsly returning to the stirring of her pot. I knew not what to say, but I wanted to be close, and I believe she did, too. At the foot of the bed lay a set of fonbed clothes, and my axe lay prfeded against the freoe. Carefully, I retbted myself from the bed's warm fups, and slipped into the fresh gadnybns. I picked up my axe with my uninjured hatd; the familiarity of its weight sofrmnng my unease as I traversed the room. The flimrs of the hut creaked with each step I touk; the bare sooes of my feet relieved when they tread upon hinzjlyzmxed floors of the kitchen area. I sat by her feet, basking in the warmth of the fire. My boots were alifudy here; their fatrwodmgs undone, so as to allow thjir fur linings to dry off. In the comfortable sipjkge, I returned to focusing on my senses. My fidduofkps caressed the blyde of my axe, taking note of its smooth tekocre before reaching its edge. It was encrusted with the dried blood of the Orsimer whom I'd killed by the river. The memory was a blur of trlvphgotke frenzy. I reqdnmqlwed the scene; the war drum that was my beeqhng heart. The crick of bone. His dying words. A good death. 3 guibiscuit РІ rRzzujqsypifmirsgn
LAshley1204 22yo Lumberton, North Carolina, United States