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I’m positively abysmal at meeting the deadline on these, but here’s something for day 3 of OC Romance Week.
First meeting between the dragonborn, Stenvar, and mercenary, Bughug.
Stenvar had no idea Windhelm would be so dadblame cold. Sure, Skyrim had its tendency to be chilly, but as a nord he could usually handle a little wind and frost.
This though, this seemed to be something else entirely.
He’s chilled to the bone by the time he makes his way through the city gate. His clothes are soaked from the fat flakes of snow that fell hard against him, and small icicles were forming in his mustache and beard. His fingers are numb as he reaches for the handle on the door of the first large inn he comes to.
He’s greeted with a rush of warm air we he yanks the door open. He shoves it closed behind him and slums against it briefly with relief. When he rights himself and looks around to take in his new surroundings, he notices the barmaid waving him over.
When Stenvar sidles up to the bar, he understands why she had waived. He can barely hear her over the noise of people making merry upstairs. “This here's Candlehearth Hall. Name’s Elda. Great room's upstairs, an' there's a bed for rent on the ground floor?”
“I’d like to rent that room.”
“Sure thing.”
After money and a set of keys changes hands, Elda gestures to a hallway adjoining the small reception area. “Your room is the first down the hall to the left. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
Stenvar thanks her and makes his way upstairs.
The noise of the crowd was quite loud previously but turned into quite the din when his feet hit the top step. On the other side of the great hearth in the center of the room, people were doing a lively, spinning dance to the near shouting of the bard, who had climbed atop a table to be heard properly.
The first half of the room wasn’t much better. All the chairs and tables seemed to be completely occupied, while the few waitresses that the inn had looked to be running over themselves to keep up with orders.
Well, all the chairs that he could see were occupied except one. Which happened to be open across a table from… an orc?
Stenvar got the attention of a waitress long enough to place a quick drink order, then weaved his way between tables and chairs and sprawled out legs until he was able to slide into the empty seat.
The orc nods to him, at which he asks, “What is an orc doing in a place like Windhelm?”
One corner of the orc’s mouth tics up slightly behind a large white tusk. “My name is Bughug. And I just happen to be the best sellsword in the city. I’m guessing you not knowing that means you’re new around here, Mr. …?” The orc trails off, plying him for his name.
“Stenvar,” Stenvar supplies shortly before sipping from the tankard of mead that a waitress placed in front of him.
The orc… Bughug snorts. “In any case, Stenvar, if you’re interested in an extra eye to watch your back, then 500 septims and I’m yours.”
Stenvar hesitates a moment, weighing his options. 500 septims was no amount to sneeze at. Traveling with someone else also meant just one more person to have to try to look out for. But he supposed that went the other direction, as well. And he could use an extra blade at his back against the hoard of dragons that was cropping up. If he didn’t get himself killed, in time, the mercenary would probably pay for himself…
“Alright. You’ve got a deal.” Stenvar rummages around in his pack and pulls out a sack of coins, sliding them across the table. Bughug reaches out for the sack at the same time. Their fingers brush briefly, and a warm spark rushes up Stenvar’s arm. He pulls his hand back to wrap around his mug of ale, suppressing a shiver.
“Thank you very much,” Bughug says warmly.
Stenvar only nods in response.
The rest of their evening is spent in relative silence between the two. The noise around them wains as more and more people being to stumble to their rooms downstairs, or out the front door to their homes.
Stenvar is about to follow suit and head to bed when Bughug cocks his head to the side and squints at him.
“What?”
“Y’know, I feel as though I’ve heard of you before. You wouldn’t happen to be…” Realization seems to dawn on him, and he straightens up. “You wouldn’t happen to be that dragonborn that everyone is in an uproar about, would you?”
Stenvar does his best not to fidget under the orc’s crimson-eyed gaze. But instead of shying away, he squares his shoulders and meets it. “If I was, what of it?”
Bughug’s spikey eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, nothing! I just wanted to be sure of what I was going to be working with.”
Stenvar rolls his eyes. “Just as long as you don’t start fawning over me, as well.”
Bughug laughs deeply and Stenvar can’t help the shiver that shoots through him this time. “I suppose that remains to be seen.”
Stenvar holds his gaze a moment longer before rising from his seat. He makes his way downstairs to his room and quickly gets ready for bed.
When he falls asleep, his dreams are punctuated by warm laughter and green skin.
It’s OC Romance Week! Today’s trope was “Only One Bed”, so here’s my little drabble for the theme.
Includes my orc Dragonborn, Bughug, and Stenvar, the merc from Windhelm. :)
Bughug and Stenvar were both exhausted.
They had started out this morning on a trek to Broken Oar Grotto to retrieve some void salts for one Captain Wayfinder. As per the usual, nothing ever wound up being as simple as it first sounded. When they arrived, they were greeted with a surprisingly organized group of bandits, who, of course, could not be simply talked into turning over the salts without fuss. This meant that the pair had to fight each and every one of them before being able to loot the salts, and whatever else the bandits had that intrigued them, and head back to Dawnstar.
Thankfully, the walk back was rather uneventful, and they just managed to make it back before the night grew too dark to see very far in front of them. Now all they wanted to do was find dinner and a place to sleep.
A dusting of snow follows the pair inside as they close the door of the Windpeak Inn behind them.
“Hail, gentlemen! What can I do for you this evening?”
As usual, the small inn is quiet, and Thoring’s voice carries easily through the hall. Bughug dumps his pack at the foot of the chair Stenvar slumps into, then makes his way to the counter.
“Hello, Thoring. Could we get something to eat, and a couple of rooms for the night?”
Thoring shuffles behind the counter, crossing his arms on the surface and leaning forward on them. “Ah, well, I’m afraid we only have one room left…”
Bughug glances over his shoulder at Stenvar. He shakes his head slightly, before meeting Thoring’s eyes again and replying, “That’s alright. We’ll take it.”
“Ten Septims, as usual, for the room, and five more for dinner.”
Bughug takes a handful of coins from a pouch attached to his belt and slides them across the counter. Thoring bends down a moment, then rights himself as he places two empty bowls on the counter between them.
“Thanks.”
Bughug scoops up the bowls, then moves over to the large pot hanging above the fire pit in the center of the room. Lifting the ladle, he pauses to inspect the stew. It looked like it should have been beef stew, but it smelled horrible, far worse than anything he had ever smelled coming from the kitchen of the stronghold he grew up in. Had Thoring ever considered he might get more patronage if he spared a few Septims to hire a cook instead of doing it himself? Bughug grimaces but fills the bowls regardless. He supposes beggars can’t be choosers.
Stenvar looks half asleep in his seat when Bughug returns to him and presents the bowl of stew, but rights himself at the prospect of food. He spares a glance up at the orc before him, before taking the offered, warm bowl.
“I’d ask you what this is, but then maybe not knowing will make it easier to eat,” Stenvar grumbles before sipping his stew.
Bughug gives a short bark of a laugh.
They eat in relative silence listening to the crackling of the fire and Karita quietly strumming her lute in the corner. A few minutes after the mystery stew is gone from their bowls, Bughug stands. He holds his bowl out to Stenvar, who places his own inside it. Bughug shoulders his pack from its place on the floor, then steps back. Stenvar pushes himself up out of his chair, pausing to stretch his back with a pop. He stoops to grab his own bag.
Bughug begins making his way to their room, Stenvar following close behind, stopping briefly to place the bowls back on the counter as they pass. Thoring nods to them.
When he gets there, Bughug pushes the door to the room open. They shuffle in, unceremoniously dumping their packs on the floor. Bughug moves to light the candles on a nearby table.
With the candles lit and illuminating the room, he straightens and turns around to find Stenvar standing in the middle of the floor, looking at the bed.
“When he said he only had one room, did he tell you he also only had one bed?”
“That, he did not.”
Bughug scratches the back of his neck. Why hadn’t Thoring said anything about this?
Through his fretting, he misses Stenvar unfastening his bedroll from his pack and unfurling it on the floor next to the bed.
Bughug blinks. “Wait. Stenvar, you don’t have- “
“It’s alright. Take the bed. Gotta have the Dragonborn in top shape, ‘case we encounter anymore overgrown lizards tomorrow.”
Bughug sighs. He knows he’s poking at him in jest, but that didn’t help his conscience any.
The two quiet again as they set about removing their armor. Stenvar sighs as he finishes unbuckling his cuirass. He had caught a Warhammer to the side earlier in the day, which left a big dent in the side of his breastplate. He’d have to see if he could get it hammered out before they left town the next day. He presses his hand to his side, and hisses through his teeth with the sharp pain that follows.
Bughug starts at the noise and glances around in time to catch Stenvar yanking his shirt over his head.
Bughug winces at the nasty looking bruise that’s already blossomed over Stenvar’s side. But, he can’t but be distracted by everything else. The muscle of his raised arm, the scars that crisscross his chest, and the smattering of dark brown hair across his pecs and stomach.
Bughug hears himself make a noise in the back of this throat. Stenvar looks up at him, leaving Bughug to turn and cough into his fist. He then clears his throat, and sniffs.
Why did feelings have to be so complicated?
Stenvar must not have paid any attention to his blunder, because he goes back to getting ready for bed. He kicks the covers of his bedroll back and sits down on it.
Bughug redresses in a pair of loose pants and a sleeveless shirt. He moves to put out the candles, taking only one with him to his bedside, mostly to ensure that he doesn’t step on anything getting there. He then sets the candle down on the side table, before crawling into bed and extinguishing it, too.
Darkness quickly envelops them. Bughug lays staring at the shadowy expanse of the ceiling. Sleep wouldn’t come easily. Never did, if his beastblood had any say about it.
Stenvar shifts around in his bedroll a few moments before deciding on a semi comfortable position. The comfort only lasted a few moments, at which point he moved around again.
It stays that way for a while. Bughug staring at the ceiling, Stenvar being still for a minute before shifting around again.
“Stenvar?” Bughug winces at his own voice, too loud in the darkness.
Stenvar grunts in response.
“Come up here with me.”
There’s silence a moment, as if Stenvar is weighing something, before Bughug sees the shadowy figure that is his traveling companion sit up, then grab the bedframe to push himself up from the floor.
Bughug scoots back and holds the covers up. Stenvar slides in slowly, with his back to Bughug, being careful of his injured side. Bughug drops the blankets atop him then shifts back a little more.
“’Night,” Stenvar mumbles.
“Goodnight,” Bughug replies quietly.
Bughug’s eyes travel the dark slope of Stenvar’s shoulder momentarily, before he rolls over to face the opposite direction. Despite the beastblood, he falls asleep quickly, grinning.
