[h3]Sweat, Sand and Smiles[/h3]
*this one aint Raegor, kids.

[i]Afternoon, 17th of Midyear, 4E208
Gathering of the Tribes, Alik’r Desert, Hammerfell[/i]

[hr]

The mission in the prison had been a resounding success. Not only was the lexicon that Sora had coveted now in their possession, they had also been able to rescue a significant number of prisoners. Alim was back, which was great news, but among the other escapees was one man in particular that grabbed Mazrah’s attention: a tall, burly Nord with the greatest grin she ever did see, and a lightness to his movements that put a smile of her own on Mazrah’s face. She considered herself to be a good judge of character, even if the reality was that she was more likely to be oblivious to subtle deceit than to detect it, and something about him told Mazrah that he was a kindred spirit. There was no real time to talk during the journey as Mazrah naturally gravitated towards the vanguard of the caravan, side by side with Shakti as pathfinders of this ragtag band of misfits, but once they arrived at the colorful and vibrant oasis and finished unloading the supplies -- a task for which they had obviously both volunteered, given their strength -- she tapped him on the shoulder immediately. 

“Hail, friend,” Mazrah said and beamed at Fjolte, noticing with a certain measure of satisfaction that they were of equal height. “Good to see a man around here with some real muscles on his bones! The name’s Mazrah but my friends call me Maz. Who are you?”

By the God's it felt good to be back in his clothes again. A simple pleasure, really, but a pleasure nonetheless. It felt good to breathe in the open air again too. That's what he was doing. Taking in long, deep breaths. Between those breaths he was practically inhaling carrots from an open sack too. He had a never ending appetite - and allowing himself to be in close proximity to a sack of food probably wasn’t his best idea, but he told himself that unloading the wagon allowed him… Certain privileges. 

It was as he was getting into his fifth that he felt a strong tap on his shoulder, he had of course noticed the Orsimer woman as they were going - his eyes had an appetite too, but still she had caught him off guard. “Whoah!” he said, removing the carrot from his mouth, as if he'd been caught red-handed stealing them. But, he was surprised to see that the Orsimer, named Maz, was sporting perhaps a bigger smile than even he could plaster across his mug. “Ahh this is nothing, I'm out of shape. I'm normally twice this size,” he said in jest as he flexed and arm, but also half-eyeballing the incredible physique of the green Goddess in front of him. “I'm Fjolte, of Rorikstead… You can call me whatever you want though…” he said with a playful wink and a smouldering half-smile.

Mazrah had seen that look on many other men’s faces over the years and, feeling mischievous, she decided to play along -- for now. “Is that right?” she asked, cocked her head and bit her lip at him. “I’ll have to think about what I want to call you. Maybe if you… [i]impress[/i] me, it’ll be a nice nickname,” she added and made a show of looking the Nord up and down. “Nice to meet you, Fjolte. How did a man like you end up in a place like that?” 

He laughed heartily at her, “I have many nicknames already - it's but a wonder that people even call me by my birth name these days, sister.” It was true, and he paused momentarily as his blue eyes looked up, as if he were indeed counting off the list in his mind. He nodded, satisfied that he could think of so many on the spot. As he looked back to his new friend, he gave a friendly smile and took another bite from the carrot. 

“You know,” he began, “I had been travelling through the mountains that border my homeland, Skyrim - a wonderful place…” his arm waved out in front of him as if he were painting those very mountains in the air in front of him, his voice suddenly deep with a dramatic flair. “It was a damned storm, and as I set to make camp in a cave for the night, I heard the sound of something deep within its depths…” He then turned to meet Maz's eyes with an intense stare, dropping slightly into a cautious squat. “Damn Dwemer had found me alone up there, they'd heard stories about me you know… They decided to ambush me… But I didn’t go down so easily sister, I must have taken three of them out before they took me down and brought me to the prison.” He rose back to his height, shoving the last bite of the carrot into his mouth before placing his hands on his hips proudly.

“Alright!” Mazrah exclaimed, grinning like an idiot, and slapped Fjolte in the shoulder in a display of instant camaraderie. “That’s what I’m talking about. Way to show those pompous shits that you’re not taking it lying down.” She nodded in approval and her grin turned into a smirk. “Doing a good job at impressing me so far. That hammer isn’t just for show, eh?”

“Well…” he began, his disposition softening only slightly at the mention of the hammer that was slung across his back. “Not for show exactly, not that one anyway,” he wiggled his eyebrows and laughed again before turning to the wagon again to take a seat on the back. “What about you? Were you a prisoner too then?” He propped his foot up on his knee, and watched Maz, happy to have found someone of a similar spirit indeed. 

She laughed and rolled her eyes at Fjolte’s tasteless joke. “Me, a prisoner?” she continued and shook her head in admonishment, tutting as she did so. “Malacath would have my hide. I’m with the people that set you free! Between that and our assaults on the governor’s palace and a prison transport, my spear has wet itself with gallons of Dwemeri blood. You have some catching up to do, big man,” Mazrah said and it was her turn to place her hands on her hips and strike a pose.  

“Seems like you've been through a lot together, eh?” He thought over what she had said, a palace and a transport. All while he'd been shut away behind bars. He ran a hand through his hair. He still needed it to be cut, he might have been in his clothes but he felt raggedy and out of shape still. “Oh, and don't tempt me with a challenge like that, I might just take you up on it!” his eyes narrowed and he smirked in delight. “Other stuff to catch up on too apparently… More than one way to [i]wet a spear[/i]” he remarked with a boyish grin, his eyes locked on to Maz's. If nothing else, his crude humour had not deterred her so far.

“I thought it was a hammer?” Mazrah asked as dryly as she could before she chortled, unable to suppress her amusement. For a man that was just broken out of prison, Fjolte’s joy of life and charm were delightfully spirited. She was going to have to let him down eventually, of course. “What’s next for you, now that you have your freedom back?” she asked, changing the subject, keeping him in suspense for a little while longer. 

Fjolte thought about the question, he of course already knew the answer but perhaps wondered if a woman like Maz could understand it. He decided that it didn't matter. “I'll do what is needed of me, and what is fated for me, sister.” He smiled, only this time it was not a roguish grin - it was just made a sincere warmth. “Whatever I do will be right, and will lead me onwards in my journey.” He held a pause for a while, finally throwing an impish wink in her direction as he hopped down from the wagon. “Right now, I'm itching to move and just [i]do something[/i], you know?” 

“It’s a good life, isn’t it?” Mazrah reflected and took a deep breath, enjoying the warm air and the smell of the oasis. “To go wherever your feet take you and do what you feel is right. I’m the same. You should stick with us. The Khajiit over there, Daro’Vasora, has a plan to stop this Dwemer invasion. That would be a noble fate, no?” she asked and playfully punched him in the shoulder. “If you want to do something, spar with me. I’ll kick your ass but it’ll be good practice to get you back into shape.”

“I don’t know if that one really wants me tagging along Maz,” he said with a sigh, “we have… a history - she was less than pleased to see me.” The Nord laughed almost nervously, and shrugged his shoulders. “I’m going to have to do something to get back into her good graces - not quite sure why I’m not in them anyway, you know? Last time I saw her she was pretty happy with me.”

Mazrah stared at Fjolte for a few seconds before her gaze shifted back to Daro’Vasora on the other side of the camp. She burst into uproarious, unrestrained laughter and pointed at Sora. “You and her?” she managed. Another wave of laughter followed and she doubled over, hands on her knees and her lungs gasping for breath. She straightened up and looked away, wiping at her eyes, but as soon as her gaze met Fjolte’s and saw the sheepish expression there she broke down into a fit again, howling with laughter. “I’m sorry,” she wheezed and fanned at her face with her hand. “It’s just -- you’re so -- and Latro’s so --” Once more, her amusement wrestled control away from her and Mazrah actually had to walk away a few feet and hide behind the cart while she fought to control her breathing and stop the sniggering. 

He was not offended by it, he just listened to her words as they were puffed out in between her bellows of laughter. Hell, it made him laugh too and he had no idea who or what a Latro was. Laughter was infectious, and as long as people were laughing, so was he. “Yes me and Sora!” he said from behind a loud chortle, “only the once!” he followed up to clarify, pointing a finger in Maz’s direction. “Pretty memorable evening, the lass has claws.” Fjolte placed a hand on his own stomach as he felt it pull with each rumbling laugh. “Anyway, it’s in the past now but I guess--” he too found himself wheezing, “if she has a new beau she might not like my being here, that may explain it.” 

He steadied himself on the back of the wagon, his laughter dying down somewhat. “Wait! I’m so what?!” he asked, his mouth half open in confusion. 

Reappearing from behind the cart, Mazrah had finally regained her composure, though a shit-eating grin was still plastered on her face. “Claws,” she repeated and shook her head, laughing silently and massaging her jaws. “You’ve got to stop, my face hurts.” The Orsimer took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before she finally heard Fjolte’s question. “You’re what? Oh, right. You’re so [i]big![/i] And… [i]manly![/i] Latro, her lover, is… well,” she replied, searching for the right words, “not so much those things. In the short while that I’ve known him he’s successfully disguised himself as a woman on two separate occasions. The only way you two could be any further apart is if you were an orc.”

As Maz explained the differences, something dawned on him. There [i]had[/i] been a woman who had taken his eye on their way out of the prison. He’d only spotted her once or twice, but she had been sporting such beautiful long locks of hair. The realisation hit him harder than an angry Giant, and his eyes went blank, his face even more so. “Not that Breton with the long hair, eh? And the orangey eyes?” He took a step back and turned to face away from Maz, this might be the one time that he ever truly found himself embarrassed. “God’s…” he said as he leaned over, placing his hands on his knees. “Fucking hell I thought that was a woman!”

The shrieks, guffaws and cackles of Mazrah’s fit of merriment that followed were loud enough to echo off the high cliffs that surrounded the oasis and she sank down on her buttocks, leaning against the cart for support, tears streaming down her face and her arms wrapped around her abdomen. She laughed and laughed and laughed until she could no more and buried her face in her hands, the silent wracking of her shoulders only interrupted by the gasps and wheezes as she drew breath. For a woman that was already easily amused, Latro’s mistaken gender had been the final nail in the coffin. Mazrah looked up at last, eyes puffy and voice hoarse. “I’m sorry, Fjolte!” she squealed and stamped her feet, almost frustrated that she couldn’t stop laughing. “Oh gods above,” she stammered and cast her gaze to the sky, slowly breathing in and out while she clutched a hand to her chest, her breathing shaky as she almost broke out into laughter yet again. “I really needed that,” she grinned and dried her cheeks. “Yes, that’s Latro.”

He shook his head in disbelief at himself, unable to stay too red-faced over it for too long of a time. The Nord rose back up to his height and smiled, laughing quietly at himself. “Ahh, don’t be sorry. It’s pretty funny isn’t it? I tell you though, he’s a good looking fuck. I can’t be mad at him. Good on him for being a beautiful lad.” He swaggered over to the wagon again, plonking his ass back down on the wooden ledge. “I hadn’t seen a single woman for over a month Maz, it was an easy mistake. Good on Sora though, happy for the lass…” He sighed, brushing away the wetness from his own eyes. He hadn’t really laughed that hard for some time. “What’s this about a spar anyway?” As he spoke, he gave the Orsimer a playful poke in the arm. “You want to go toe-to-toe then?” 

“Hell yeah,” Mazrah said eagerly and got to her feet. The laughing fit was definitely over now and she was ready to do something with all the excess energy her mirth had given her. “If you’re not a pussy, we can spar with our real weapons. I promise I won’t accidentally kill you.”

He immediately gave a laugh that suggested he knew something that she didn’t. He shifted himself off the wagon, tugging at two long, red cloths he was wearing as a belt. He untied the knot that held them in place and began winding one of them around his left wrist, taking it over his palm and fist. He wiggled his fingers like a wave at Maz, saying nothing as he did the same for the other hand then tilted his head to one side so that his neck cracked. A smug grin crept over his lips as a hand reached to free the hammer from his back. He watched Maz closely to see her reaction as he swung it one handed playfully before letting it drop onto the sand with a soft crunch. “Oh sweetheart, I [i]am[/i] the weapon.” He winked at her before bringing his right leg back, the knee of the left at an angle to the ground, his right arm came up to protect his face and as he waited for her to ready herself, he moved in this stance - switching between legs and arms, almost like a dance.

It was an impressive display. Mazrah rolled her eyes and blew him a raspberry before shooting him a cheeky grin. “Alright, big guy. Have it your way.” She took off her bow and quiver and propped them up against the cart, out of harm’s way, before she removed her spear from its strap. She brandished it with a flourish, spinning the long weapon around her, just as close to choreography as Fjolte’s movements, her feet moving fast in the sand. Finding a spot she was apparently satisfied with, Mazrah dropped into a low crouch and held up the spear with her right arm over her head, angling the shaft so that it rested on the back of her outstretched left hand, the tip of the spear pointing at Fjolte. “Ready when you are.”

“I’m a Nord! I was born ready!” he laughed, watching her movements closely. She was sticking to what she knew, and so was he. This would be interesting. Moving around on the sand like that almost made him forget that he probably wasn’t in the best shape to be doing this, and with a nice ranged weapon like that she might find it easy to make fast work of him. He’d have to play the long game for this one. He took a quick dive in her direction - hoping that his body would behave itself. Last thing he wanted was to go for a flip and end up arse over tit. He had to groan, but he got enough height to spin his body for a single rotation at least, his leg was straight and pointed for a kick he knew would not land, but he wanted to show her anyway. He dropped back onto the sand, balanced on one foot in a low squat - the momentum of the spin was enough to move him in a crouching roll to Mazah’s right - close, but not close enough for her [i]just yet[/i].

He was fast, at least. Mazrah hopped backwards from his approach to stay out of his range and stabbed in his direction with her spear, guiding the weapon with the splayed fingers of her left hand, like a billiards player showing off with his pool cue. It was flashier than it was practical, but what was the point of sparring if not to show off a little? She had the advantage and pressed it, forcing Fjolte to evade the thrusts of her orichalcum spear -- she wanted to see how he would do so. 

He smirked at her as she came at him. She was good with her weapon, precise, efficient. He couldn't find it within himself to be worried about her just yet though. He watched her movements closely and as she came for him with the spear he bent himself backwards, his right leg at a sufficient distance from his left so as not to trip him over. If she was going to show off, he would too. Or at least, continue too. The theatricality of a spar was half the fun after all. It was uncomfortable though, and he slipped a little as he came back up to his height. “Gods, I'm all out of shape,” he panted, “you're going to give me a workout and a half, aren't you, gorgeous?” He grinned, working his feet against the sands again to draw nearer to her still. He wanted to tempt her to start closing the distance.

“You better believe it,” Mazrah purred. She continued to prod and poke at Fjolte, maintaining her distance and not caving to Fjolte’s desire to get up close and personal. She grinned, enjoying the sight of the Nord contorting himself into all manner of positions to evade her spear. They were at the edge of the camp, but some people had caught sight of them and stopped to watch. It must have been a very outlandish sight for the desert nomads. Mazrah wasn’t above to giving them a good show, and she backed away from Fjolte only to run towards him instead. She planted her spear foot-first into the sand and hoisted herself up and into the air, bolstering the momentum of her own leap by using the spear as a pole-vault, and somersaulted clear over Fjolte’s head. 

“Hyah!”

Hands still on the spear, she quickly pulled it in close to her body before sending the tip straight down while she sailed over Fjolte, emulating the way she had killed a Dwemer guard on the streets of Gilane back when they were freeing Shakti from the prisoner transport. Mazrah completed the corkscrew somersault and landed elegantly on her feet, dropping low into a feline crouch to disperse the kinetic energy. The gathered tribesmen and women ooh’ed and aah’ed appreciatively and a broke out into a small smattering of applause. 

[i]So you can jump too…[/i] he thought with a smirk, his eyes narrowed. Now was not the time to underestimate her. She struck hard and fast but he dodged each thrust with the movement of his stance. A quick pull here and a sudden duck there. She was set about in a rhythm that was easy enough to crack. She was performing for the crowd. This had become much less about the spar as it was the attention, and Fjolte felt the same. 

The moment she jumped up he readied himself for her lancing motion, placing his weight on the back of his right foot. As it came down, he pulled himself low to the ground and into a backwards cartwheel with a slick fluidity. Her spear whistled down past his ear. “Nice stunt,” he commented with sincerity, genuinely impressed at her. “I pity whoever takes the two of us on for real, eh sister?” he laughed as he planted his hand to the ground, using a swing of his legs to propel himself into the air just as she had done. He didn’t get as much height as she, but that wasn’t necessary - he wanted to spin. He managed two rotations of his whole body in midair, leg outstretched as it had been earlier in the spar. This brought them close enough together to go for it if she wanted to. His impressive jump had elicited another cheer from the crowd. If she was going to get applause, he wanted it too. 

“Not bad, not bad,” Mazrah said and flashed him a mischievous grin. She fell to the temptation and moved in to attack Fjolte from close range, using her spear as if it was a (very long) quarterstaff. The duel would look more spectacular that way and, besides, she wanted to see what those big hands were good for. She was light on her feet as she danced around him and swung her spear sideways in a two-handed grip, angling to give him a good smack on his ribs. 

And he let her. Had to let her land something after all, he took in a sharp breath and tensed his upper body and arms as if to brace for the impact. He caught the tail end of its graceful swoosh through the space between them, it thwacked against his bicep. No way was he letting that Orichalcum smack his chest. He let force of the hit guide him into a quick roll on the floor. The crowd gasped - the two of them had the people fully enthralled in the action. “Ooof,” he exhaled with a laugh, moving ever closer to her - almost too excited, “impressive way to handle that length… That really fucking hurt.” he joked with a quiet chuckle.

It was his time now though, and with a rapid movement of his feet on the sands he closed in on her, his stance shifting and changing entirely as he finished playing evasively - his fists came towards her at her shoulder height. He wasn't about to catch a handful of tusk, afterall. 

Fjolte’s strategy worked. His fists struck her in the shoulder repeatedly and Mazrah almost dropped her spear. He still had the strength of the bear inside him, despite his captivity. The Orsimer hissed in pain initially but that was quickly replaced by an appreciative peal of laughter while she fended him off with her spear and struck him twice sideways across the leg. “You’re stronger than you look,” Mazrah joked in turn. 

“I bet you’re exactly as strong as you look,” he huffed out as he took the hits to his legs. They stung too. But this was good - the burning sun on the back of his neck, the soft sand beneath his feet, and the fresh air moving in and out of his lungs. It was exhilarating, and he didn’t care that she would probably best him. As the spear came back to flick his legs again, just in time he jumped up high enough to avoid it. “Come on Maz, give me what you’ve got,” he said with a smirk of concentration as he ducked into a squat on the ground, and gave a quick sweeping motion with his leg to knock her to the ground.

The sweeping strike connected and Mazrah felt her own weight being torn out from beneath her. She twisted in the air as she fell so that she landed on her hands -- but in doing so, she’d dropped her spear. “Clever,” she grunted and flipped back on her feet. 

Now was the time to move, he closed in on her with another impressive flip back into the air. “Gods it feels good to move!” He yelled out into the air, his hands were closed fists and he moved as though not to punch Mazrah, but to push back her arm from taking a swing at him. 

Mazrah accepted the challenge that Fjolte’s arms, rippling with muscle, posed and pushed back against him, her heels digging into the sand until they cracked the solid ground beneath. She strained with effort as the Nord and the Orsimer struggled against each other. Fjolte was bigger and heavier but Mazrah’s denser muscles gave her greater pound-for-pound strength. She grinned, beads of sweat on her forehead, and stared Fjolte in the eyes. “Are you ready for this?” she grunted. 

“Give it to me already,” he said back through clenched teeth as the two were locked, ready for one or the other to buckle and make the next move. As he continued to push, somewhere beyond Mazrah, from the corner of his eye he saw a flurry of bright blue, then green, then pink. He knew what that was. He brought his attention fully to Mazrah, nostrils flaring as he swiftly let go and ducked down again for another leg sweep, hoping the force that Mazrah had put behind her would bring her down instead.

This time she was ready for him and Mazrah leapt over his head instead, flying clear of the leg sweep and landing behind Fjolte. She whirled around as her eyes went over red and she flooded her body with the hyper-adrenaline that was unique to the Orsimer race. Her grin turned into a feral snarl and her muscles bulged with enhanced strength. She wrapped her arms around Fjolte’s torso and locked his arms in place. Her body pressed up against him from behind and she attempted to wrestle him to the ground. “Here it is,” she growled, her voice raw and guttural. 

He made the decision to go down, to follow where her strength was pushing him. Whatever she was doing was intense. Not only could he feel her strength, but there was a shift in her energy too, as if something else had taken over. [i]Interesting[/i] he noted to himself as he struggled to free an arm. It was useless, and so he took a powerful stance as he came down. “If you wanted to get me on the floor…” he hissed - jaw clenched, his arms trembling under her strength, “shoulda just asked…” 

There it was again, the flashing of colour in the distance - except it wasn’t so distant  now and he could make out the forms of three beautiful women… Three beautiful dancers doing what they did best. Moving in unison with each other, their bodies sculpted but still soft, movements sultry and sensual. His mouth opened at the sight, that was it now, the arms wrapped around him were no longer leading his attention…

Despite her every intention to show Fjolte who exactly was the biggest, baddest bitch between the two of them, Mazrah’s gaze followed his and she, too, forgot what they were doing as the dancers flaunted their femininity. And so the pair of them sat in the sand, her grip around Fjolte relaxed and casual, staring for a few seconds, until Mazrah realised what they were doing. Her face scrunched up with mirth and she started laughing, patting Fjolte on the shoulder. “Looks like we have that in common,” she giggled. 

It took a while for what she was implying to register, in between stealing glances at the women he looked back to Mazrah, an eyebrow raised as he put it together… “Well shit, knew you were too good to be true Green Goddess…” he laughed too as he relaxed into the sand with a deep sigh, feeling the adrenaline leave his body with each breath thereafter. “Gave me one hell of a kicking though, I'll give you that… Can't wait to see what you do when someone's not on your side…” 

“Sorry not sorry,” Mazrah teased and poked her tongue out at him. She appreciated how easily he accepted what he would be losing out on. Too many men would get mad instead. Seeing that the fight was over, the crowd dispersed with a feeling of anticlimax. Mazrah didn’t care. She’d made a new friend, that was all that mattered. “The trail of dead and broken Dwemer I’ve left behind since Gilane speaks for itself,” she said smugly. “You’ll see for yourself sooner rather than later, I think. This fight is far from over. Forget what Sora thinks about you, man. I want you by my side, kicking ass and taking names. How about it?”

“Not just Sora though…” he said with a comical grimace, sucking air through his teeth awkwardly, but there was a glimmer of boyish humour sat in his eyes. He shrugged his shoulders and held his hands out before releasing a louder laugh when he realised how ridiculous the situation was. “But really, I haven’t travelled with a tribe like this before, I’m a nomad not a warrior - least not anymore. I’ll think about it though sister. I always get to where I’m meant to be. Maybe it’s with you and with Sora again, and Raelynn too.” [i]SHIT![/i] he thought, he’d named her. He turned his head sharply to look back at the dancers and away from the Orsimer’s gaze while she put two and two together… He hoped that wouldn’t make her laugh as hard as the first time, but actually, he didn’t mind if it did. People needed to laugh.

Another surprise. Mazrah raised an eyebrow at him. “What’s this about Raelynn?” she asked slyly. “She’s also spoken for, you know. Damn shame. I don’t blame you. How do you know her name already?”

“Known her for years, oddly enough. Nine actually.” His mind trailed back to the memory, and when he thought hard enough on it he could still feel the searing pains across his body from the bandit chief, Logvsim, and he happened to run his palm over his chest as if to check whether they were truly gone. “And yeah, I know. Met Chuckles in the prison, actually. Barrel of laughs that one.” Fjolte’s voice became strangely distant as the image of Gregor puppeteering a corpse in the abyss of Kthrakz came to mind. 

She laughed at that. “Chuckles! Yeah, he’s a bit stiff, but I think he’s nice. Sora threw a party for us back in Gilane and… well, long story short, Raelynn and I did moon sugar and rolled around on the carpet for a while. Gregor didn’t mind. I thought that was pretty gracious of him,” Mazrah said, still oblivious to the necromancer’s true nature, her voice light and breezy. “So did you and Raelynn ever... you know,” the Orsimer said and batted her lashes at Fjolte, [i]“do it?”[/i]

“Hey, don’t bat those lashes at me it won’t work now,” he spoke quickly, in a teasing manner of his own. As for what she was wanting to know… What he and Raelynn had was different to the one-night affair he’d shared with Sora. They had never been an item, or in love, but he had a deep respect for Raelynn and what they’d experienced together. “We did,” was all that he felt like saying to confirm Maz’s question, when all of a sudden he was intrigued by what [i]else[/i] she had said, and he turned his head back to her, “you did what now!? Rolling around on the carpet?” That gave him a reason to laugh again. “I would pay to see it, I really would,” he wheezed.

“Of course you would, you old pervert,” Mazrah purred and rolled over so that her leg was hooked around Fjolte’s and her chest was pressed up against his side. With her mouth close to his ear, she continued. “We were like this, gripping and clawing at each other’s flesh, caught in the throes of the moon sugar,” she whispered and planted a kiss on Fjolte’s cheek, her tusks grazing his skin gently. She was grossly exaggerating, of course, but she couldn’t resist the opportunity to tease Fjolte like this. 

Having Mazrah wrapped around him again like this, in a far more… suggestive fashion was [i]definitely[/i] welcome to him, but it also felt a little off - it was a joke he wasn’t too keen to be the butt of. “Hey, slow down there - I get it, I get it. How am I going to find cold water in the fucking desert you absolute tease?” he laughed. 

The thighs though... Now those he did give a second look too… Hell, if she was going to misbehave so was he. He pressed a finger to the back of the very leg that was wrapped around his and slowly he dragged it over her skin and found that despite her incredible musculature, it still had the unmistakable feminine softness to it that he adored so much. “Maybe I could stand to hear a little more…” he admitted in a soft breath of a voice. He knew she was about to eat him alive, but he couldn’t give a shit. 

“Too bad,” Mazrah said bluntly and pushed herself away from Fjolte, her eyes alight with mischief and schadenfreude. She leapt to her feet and retrieved her spear from the sand, looking down on Fjolte with amusement. “That’s all for now. Maybe I’ll tell you the rest of the story another time. I guess you’ll just have to stay with us to find out, eh?”

And there it was, she did indeed throw him back out but that was to have been expected. It was a nice moment all the same. He knew what kind of woman she was now, and he decided that probably wouldn’t be the last time she’d try such a thing with him for her amusement. The Nord laughed and formed a faux-sad face at her, to reassure her that he was not mad or put out by her sudden, but inevitable betrayal. “You want me around that badly Green Goddess, I guess I had better,” he winked and gave his usual grin at her before he found his feet too. 

“This has been grand! I’m glad to have met you today, I’m glad we could sweat it out together too.” His voice was jovial, and expression roguish but it soon slipped away to one of genuine appreciation and humility. His eyes warm and honest, “I mean that, I needed it. Thank you Maz!”

“Think nothing of it,” she said and clapped Fjolte on the shoulder with a wink. “What is it they say in High Rock? [i]The pleasure was all mine?[/i] Something like that. Don’t be a stranger, big boy.”  

And with that, the Orsimer gave him one last wave and departed at a light jog in search of food. She could eat a horse, she felt.