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The Prisoner

Hi!!! This is my first story, inspired by a Skyrim session with too many pickpocketings gone bad... It's pretty much unfinished, but I'll continue if you guys think it's alright! Please tell me what you think!! ;*

*****

Njall served duty at the dungeon every Morndas, and these were not his best days. The nights that preceded such days were often filled with anger and frustration - even more so since his wife Finna had taken to the Cloud District, on the pretext of running errands, and did not reappear until well into the night.

Njall spoke to his friend, Joric, about Finna's comings and goings.

"She drives me insane," he'd explained, "and - by the Nine! - it wouldn't be as bad if we at least we fucked some when she comes back, but she's cold as ice."

"I'll tell ya this, Njall - if someone's liftin' your wife's skirt at night, it certainly ain't me," assured him Joric.

"I never suspected you, my friend - and anyway her bein' about has turned.. queer."

"Queer?"

"Queer, as in... y'know, queer," Njall pressed.

"Oh," Joric understood. "Queer like...?"

"Aye, like that woman Aela."

"Oh, Njall, I really don't think yer Finna would -"

"How's a man supposed to know?!" Njall cried out.

"Every word that escapes my wife's mouth is a reproach, or some sorta excuse - not for what you're thinkin', Joric, but for anything really -, and I feel like I sleep with a bleedin' statue everynight."

This was why Njall did not love his duty on Morndas, for his body was rest-deprived and unsatisfied, and his mind kept picking at the same bone over and over: what'd his wife be doing at the time? Whom with? And what tortured him most - why?

Today, however, was bound to be different. And here's why.

*****

Since he'd arrived at the barracks that morning, Njall had heard his fellows talk of an addition to the dungeon - a particular Nord woman who'd caused a terrible ruckus all the way in Solitude, and had been brought to Dragonsreach for containment until she could be sent to Cyrodiil, and there be thoroughly tried.

When he inquired, Njall was told the woman's unlikely story, and it went something like this. Apparently, the woman - who'd refused to yield her name, and was called simply Prisoner - had been caught with others' property inside the Blue Palace, in Solitude, and the guard had been summoned. None could explain what followed, but as soon as the guard was called and her detainer had turned his back on her, she cast a spell on him and sent him flying against the wall. The poor man tore a few stones off the wall, and so savage was the blow that he died in an instant.

Not content with murdering him, the crazed woman made herself at home in the room she'd been captured in; propping tables against doors, gathering whatever could be used as a weapon, barricading herself in the personal quarters of Jarl Elisif. A dozen guards were summoned then and many were murdered, as viciously as by a rabid beast, by the insane woman. It was not until two brave soldiers dared enter through the room's windows - shattering them first with stones from outside - that the woman could at last be overpowered.

She'd been quiet, ever since, in her cell at Dragonsreach unless someone mentioned her or called out to her. Then she'd answer with either no answer at all, an outright-preposterous comment regarding the guards' mothers ("all of them!") or a flippant expression that gathered cheers from all the men in the room.

Njall hadn't yet seen this woman, but it seemed to him that too great of a mess was being made out of her. What kind of person would lock herself up in the Jarl's residence and, avoiding capture, murder half a dozen soldiers before being overcome by their numbers? A lunatic is what she was - not a terrorist or a war-criminal, an agent of the Stormcloaks as they termed her. What purpose would it serve them?

He passed by her cell, and took a moment to study her. She was not the image of insanity - not, at least, by nature. She had a strong and chiseled face, with a wide nose and thick lips; her eyes were like two ambers spitting fire onto all she looked at, and under each eye ran a thick line of black war-paint, worn and made faint by time; and her copper hair she kept tied behind her head in a ponytail.

There was something - something to her eyes, and the way she rested her look on things. She looked calculating - but not cold: rather, as a caged beast weighing every small detail in her enviroment to aid her escape. Njall saw also irritation and displeasure: she knew as well as he did that there was no escape from the dungeons of Dragonsreach.

*****

Honmund was a good soldier and was beloved by his fellows: but he was not a good griever.

"Just let me get at 'er," he raved about the Prisoner, "and I'll make her wish she'd been killed by the boys at Solitude!"

It had so happened that Honmund's cousin, Gunmar, had been there the day the Prisoner was captured. The both of them used to work in Solitude's guard-force, until Honmund was sent south to Whiterun, along with countless other soldiers, to account for the newborn dragon menace. All understood Honmund: he felt he should have been there to protect his cousin, or at the least to die at arms by his side. But the Divines would not have it so, and this drove Honmund mad with revenge.

"Why - why'd she deserve a trial, huh? She killed seven people - all of 'em good men, with families to feed and widows mournin' 'em now! Why's she get so much longer to live than she deserves? Do them Thalmor want an example made outta her? To Oblivion with them! Our fallen comrades are example enough - she oughtta been gutted on the spot!"

Each word he spoke brought more and more to agree with him. Didn't her vicious crimes deserve an equally vicious punishment? Would their dead go unavenged - would they live in Sovngarde knowing no justice was done to them on Earth?

Njall passed by the woman's cell again. She had her back turned to him, and seemed intent on prying the stones out of the wall with her eyesight - so Njall let her be, for a time. Then he grew impatient, or maybe bored - or both. Taking out a small dagger, he rattled the bars of the cell and she turned her head, an expression of annoyance marking her face.

"Hey," Njall called, "is what they say true? Did ya really do that to all those men?"

She didn't answer for a while. She stood up, and leaned against the wall. Against his own will, Njall's throat went dry for an instant when he saw the woman's nipples poking through her thin yarn shirt. Then she crossed her arms over her chest, and Njall regained his self.

"What'd they say 'bout me, soldier?" the woman asked. She held her brow tall and her voice was coarse.

"They say you're caught plunderin' the Jarl's quarters; that a guard caught ya, you smacked him right against the wall, and then killed half a dozen more. That all true?"

"That's what they tell?" She let out a humph, as if unimpressed. "They sure tell a lot of lies to you people. I wasn't plunderin' the Jarl's quarters - I was ransacking the whole darned palace, room by room. Run outta luck, I guess," she shrugged. "When I was caught, and the fool called for help, I didn't throw him against a wall: I threw him against a wardrobe. He went through the wardrobe, broke a desk in halves, and then hit the wall like a sack of potatoes. Bloody mess it was, too!"

She walked away from the wall, Njall's gaze bound to her perky chest, and she pulled a stool close to the bars and sat on it.

"Last of all - how many they say I killed after?"

Njall swallowed. "A half dozen. If not more."

"Ah," she waved her arm, disdainfully, "that's a lie. I killed a full dozen alright; no 'if', or 'maybe'. A dozen. Not one man more. That's how I work," and she smiled a crooked and wholly evil smile to Njall.

"Why would you? Why not try to make an escape, hide - sumthin', for the love of the Eight, but not a bloodbath!" Njall exclaimed.

"Hmm! You see, there wasn't anythin' else to do. Escape? There wasn't no escape, not from the Blue Palace and with the whole guard on my heels. Hide? What for? They'd find me before long - them being familiar with the building and all, and I just newly arrived there. Now - a bloodbath? It might've scared 'em off. At least for some time. Would've bought me thinkin' time at least, and I'd have pulled an antic off. You'd have seen, they weren't gonna pin me there for long. And they didn't," she kneeled on the stool and stretched herself out to Njall (her nipples stabbing at her shirt!), "which is why now I'm here, sittin' and talkin' to you!"

Njall was left speechless for a moment, as he avoided the woman's chest and looked her in the eye; but he was defeated. She let out a coy laugh, then got off the stool and kicked it away.

"Come back when y'want more," she called out to him in a sharp and sarcastic tone, "on the subject of guttin' you knuckleheads and wearin' your skins to the Jarl's banquet!" She fell back to the bottom of her cell, laughing maniacally as Njall quietly retreated from her dominion.

*****

As Njall passed the kitchen, he saw a group of three men making down the hallway with Honmund at their head.

"Hey, Njall!" they called out. "Come with us, we have some justice to serve!"

Taken aback, Njall replied: "How! You don't mean you're... we can't touch that prisoner, y'know that!"

"Quiet, fools!" Honmund calmed his companions, then turned to Njall. "Of course we know we musn't, Njall - and we won't do nothing bad to her, she'll be left to Imperial justice and all that. But," he hammered his palm with the other hand, "as the guard of the hold, we must have it seen that we'll not be messed about with! All we'll do is give that strumpet a lesson, without a drop o' blood spilt - then leave her be. Come, ya'll see!"

Before he could reply, then, Njall was dragged down the corridor by Honmund and his fellows.

The Prisoner rose her head to see what all the ruckus was about, when she saw the five men coming towards her cell.

"Well-well-well, soldier," she called out to Njall, "seems like ya brought some more of your arsehole friends along."

One of the rasher in the group started: "What'd she call us?" He eyed Honmund first, then the Prisoner. "Whatcha callin' us, you harlot?"

"Arseholes, I think it was!" the Prisoner replied with cheek. "It'd help if you only thought with your arse, though, and let your ears do the hearin' already!"

The young guard started towards her cell. She leaned back on the floor, behind the bars. Her expression changed from untroubled to mildly interested when she saw the youth produce a set of keys and unlock her cell, stepping into her realm.

"Ya do lots of talkin', woman," he moved towards her, "and a damn sure lot of fuckin' around with us. So ya got me thinking: do ya only fuck around with that mouth of yours, or do you also open yer legs and fuck for real sometime?"

She arched her eyebrows when the guard launched himself at her, but even so she was quick and cool. With a howl of pain, the youth fell to the grimy floor clutching his groin as if he'd just discovered it. Blood ebbed everywhere, and the Prisoner held a sharp blade - what miners often called a shiv - in her hand, dripping with the man's blood.

"Shit!" the guards cried as one, and rushed inside the cell to reduce the woman. While two hauled their companion out, another grabbed the Prisoner's wrists - or tried to; for before he could grab her, she had swung the weapon like a Fury and slashed half the man's ear off. Their companion rescued, three guards jumped on the Prisoner at once, ridding her of her weapon and pinning her against the floor.

"Well-well-well," Honmund mocked her past words, "it seems we've finally clipped this bird's wings."

While they held her face-down, Honmund brought his foot crashing down on her face, and a sickening sound of splintering bones was heard. Blood flew everywhere - the youth's, the second guard's and now the Prisoner's.

She coughed and sneezed blood onto the floor, and then spat a tooth.

"I guess that's kinda what it feels like," Honmund gazed down at her, "to be smashed against a wall. Turn her around!"

The guards flipped the Prisoner so she eyed the ceiling - her face a bloody but defiant mess. She licked off a trail of blood, and then said to Honmund:

"Uh... cousin? Brother? What is he? Well, what was he - because now, he's dead," the Prisoner spat at him.

Honmund grabbed her shiv, tossed aside during the brawl, and aimed it under her chin.

"What's it matter to ya, what he was? He's a bloody pulp now, and that's what matters to me," he said to her, before grabbing her breasts through her shirt. "I'd gut you if the Empire weren't in between - they feed all our families, y'see, and there's no point in having 'em starve so we can avenge someone who's already dead. So, since blood won't cut the deal," he began massaging her breasts as he spoke, "we'll have to find a way round this."

He began tearing her shirt apart with the shiv, but her legs were free and with a kick she sent him falling against the stool, which broke into several pieces. Undaunted Honmund stradled her waist and continued his labor.

The Prisoner spun as if maddened, but the guards held her fast in their grip. As Honmund's work progressed soon the Prisoner's shirt fell apart and her rosebud nipples, topping her perky tits, came into view.

All the men expressed their approval, and even Njall stirred at the sight.

"A fine pair, by Ysmir!" Honmund exclaimed, grabbing them and playing with the nipples.

"Get off - now!" the Prisoner barked at Honmund.

The Prisoner's howl was fearsome indeed - daunting like the battle-cry of the Forsworn upon the frozen tundra of the North! But the guardsmen were not daunted, and after a brief awed silence, they gave a loud laugh and resumed their play.

*****

Now all the guards began playing with the Prisoner's small breasts. With the shiv in his hand, Honmund reached behind him and placed the handle between her legs, pushing through her trousers, into her most private part.

"Awk!" the Prisoner gasped.

"This wench likes it, fellas! Shall we give it to her - one long cock at a time?" Honmund called, and all the guards agreed.

Honmund have out another cackle when he felt the Prisoner writhing under him, and with a wide grin on his face he slowly bent over and spat on her face, hitting her between the eyebrows. Then he turned around, again reaching for her lower half: but he was cut short when one of the Prisoner's legs darted out of his own legs' grip and, and she kneeded him in the jaw.

Honmund fell back clutching his mouth, oozing blood through his fingers. The Prisoner shook like a madwoman, fettered to the ground by the guards' shackle-like grip.

"Zu'u fen shik nau hin qeth, mey!" she spat back at the man, fighting with all her strength to flee herself - if only to jump on Honmund and throttle his neck.

Joric bent over to help the fallen Honmund, but was shoved aside when the angry guard stood up and walked over to the Prisoner. His face a bloody mess not unlike hers, Honmund snapped at the others:

"We done playin' games with this lutka."

With that, as the Prisoner glared at him with a mix of hatred and satisfaction, Honmund stood next to her; then, at a pace of complete leisure, he bent his leg and brought his shin crushing down on the Prisoner's left leg.

For a moment, none said anything and nothing was heard: then, the Prisoner's howl of pain pierced the dungeon as her leg twisted in awkward angles.

"Can it! Can it, strumpet!" Honmund yelled over her, as he bent down and took her right leg in his arms. "We ain't even begun yet - ya'll get to scream later!"

Then, Honmund stretched her other leg into the air before crushing her knee with his elbow, and another terrible scream of pain filled the cell.

He dropped her leg, which wobbled about broken and formless. The Prisoner's howls filled the air and tears ran streaking her bloodied face, inflaming the men's lust even more. Honmund took a step back, and called to her.

"Well! We can't seem to get it together and talk like civilized folks - so, until passions've calmed down, talk to the other fellas."

At his sign, the other guardsmen pounced on her. One straddled her waist with his long cock on his hands, and aimed it at her mouth.

"Open those lips o'yars - do it!" he barked at her. Sunken in pain, she didn't even notice the guard, and this infuriated him. "Why ain't she even - hey! Hey!" he barked at her, but she didn't stir; her glare had gone misty, as if a veil had been dropped onto her eyes.

"If she's swoonin' on us," Honmund called, sitting on a stool, "just bring 'er back. And make it hurt."

The other guards snickered at his comment and grabbed the whimpering Prisoner by her shoulders. Then they flipped her over, so her bare breasts chafed against the cell's mucky floor. She offered no resistance as they tore off her pants, ripping them from the knees to the waist and exposing her fleshy cheeks.

"Ho!" one of the guards exclaimed. "She not only cusses like a man: she sports a man's arse too!"

The men emitted all manner of sounds, ranging from disapproving to mocking.

"What'd ya expect from a she-warrior? Ha! All that time bouncin' up-n-down on the saddle must've made her ass harder than any good poundin' can!"

"Agh, so what of it? I'm getting me a piece of her anyways!" called Joric, now cock in hand and fondling with her cheeks.

Stepping in between her legs, Joric rested his thighs on the Prisoner's and with his hand opened her hole up, pushing her cheeks aside. Slowly he squirmed his finger inside and she moaned at the intrusion; but soon he leaned down and - gradual but steadily - he entered her fully, feeling her insides drawing him in deeper and deeper. A shiver ran down the Prisoner's back and she groaned a pain-filled groan.

She was slowly coming to again. "No... no... you... fuckers!"

Honmund, sitting on the stool and watching the scene unfold, slapped his knee. "Ha! I told ya, fellas: we'd sooner or later stir life back into her."

The guards laughed at the pun, and Joric settled in inside her. The Prisoner yawped as if impaled, but nobody took notice.

"Well, I don't give three shits if she's awake or asleep," he offered, "but I sure damn love me some warm, alert arsehole milkin' me!"

He then grabbed her elbows like a horse's reins: and he began pounding her like he'd ride a horse.

"Ogh! - agh! - ogh! - ogh! - " she kept uttering as Joric left and entered her, over and over again.

*****

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