Nikym's Predicament free porn video

Author’s Notes: Thanks to my lady love for turning a simple stroker into one of my usual rambling epics. Also, a heartfelt shout-out to my beta readers Chris P. and Thornfoote for timely and helpful input. Finally, thanks to alphadachs for providing a tight editing job on short notice.

All participants in sexual acts are adults.

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Stoneridge was the oldest of the Four Cities, a settlement even before Orran united humanity and formed what is now known as the Old Kingdom. It was the closest human town when coming from the elven woods. I knew precious little about it, except that it housed a building which had been used as an embassy, where humans and elves cultivated diplomatic relations – before they decided to ruthlessly expand into our ancestral home. The city had never been razed, thanks to its strategic location atop a high tor and the fact it was mainly built from the same stone which made up the cliff. Flame arrows and spells had a hard time setting things on fire which would not burn. This late October evening, things would burn even less, not with a god-awful downpour soaking everyone – including me, despite my elven cloak – to the bone.

“What is your business here?” a soggy gate guard asked, eyeing me suspiciously as I dismounted.

“I’m here to trade,” I said noncommittally. “What happened to human hospitality?” My hand went through my snow-white hair, tucking a few strands behind a pointed ear.

“That’s gone to shit, Ears.” He gripped his polearm more threateningly.

“Any event in particular or are humans slowly reverting to barbarism?” I asked sweetly, masking my indignation with sarcasm.

“Our woodcutters are afraid to even go near the elven woods these days, food grows scarce thanks to Carver and his brigands clampin’ down on trade and I’m in this here dreadful weather having to gab to a tree-hugger. Pick one.”

Even if I did not know much about Stoneridge in general, most of what he told me about was old news already. True, the elven woods these days were perilous for humans, especially those bearing axes and saws. There were rumors of a new elven faith, the Stalker, and its followers truly lived up to the name, leaving eviscerated woodcutters and trappers in high-traffic areas.

News traveled slowly, but even up in remote Storm Harbor the name Carver was known. My previous client, Urs the Sailor, had mentioned him and his grand crusade to re-unite the Old Kingdoms several times. Going by the haunted look on the haggard guard’s face, his plans were unfolding pretty quickly.

I shrugged. The good thing with humans, if you could call it that, was their short lifespan. Even the most notorious rulers would be dead in a century at most and everyone could resume what they were doing. Unless some black sorcery was at play, of course. That would truly complicate things. But before I would have to deal with any of that, I had to finish my current task. And since I was in the employ of Ser Ethan Wildthorne, another of the notorious Storm Lords, I had better hurry. I decided to be diplomatic. Antagonizing a guardsman would make things unpleasant. They, like rats, came in packs. I fished a few gold from a belt pouch and held them out.

“For a spiced mead once you’re off duty. I’m neither a Stalkerite nor one of Carver’s men. But if you could direct me to a certain Danetta Veritha, I would be much obliged.”

He raised a dripping eyebrow. “What do you want with that floozy?”

I bared my teeth. “My business. None of yours. Where is she?”

“Unless she’s warming a pallet in jail, you could try the Emerald Golem, on Lookout Road.” He made the usual complicated – and useless – direction hand signs.

“Thank you.” I pulled on the reins and got myself and the horse into the city.

The true age of a city can easily be seen by the way it was planned. Or in Stoneridge’s case, how it wasn’t. Beyond the main gate was a somewhat spacious plaza, along with an inn and stables where I could store my horse. Beyond that however, the city was more a maze of narrow streets which gave even me bouts of claustrophobia. The buildings appeared more like roughly fashioned and hollowed out stone pillars than anything with a roof on top, not unlike dark elven cities which were built from hollowed-out stalagmites. It took me a few more gold and the aid of some locals to finally find the “Emerald Golem.” From the outside, it looked like most buildings in the vicinity, but the impression changed the moment I entered. A well-groomed waiter, sporting a burnished chin beard and moustache, stopped me before I had even made three steps into a warmly lit and wood-paneled hallway ending at a curtain. To my surprise, he was armed. A short sword was strapped to his hip and he closed in on me with a hand near the hilt.

I slowly raised my hands and went for the hood. “No need for rash actions we both might regret,” I said, pulling down the soaked fabric. “I am no brigand.”

“Excuse me, sir,” the waiter said, affording me a respectful half-bow. “Can’t be too careful, with all the rabble about. Do you have a reservation?”

I shook my head. “Sadly, no. But I was hoping to meet someone here who might have.”

“Does this person happen to have a name?” His suspicions were back and the hand was much closer to the weapon. For an establishment catering to guests, this place was surprisingly unwelcoming.

“Yes. Danetta Veritha. I was told she might be here.”

His posture didn’t change and his face took on the look of someone who had just ingested half a bottle of vinegar. “Yes. She is here.” His sigh came from the deepest bottom of his heart. “Who shall I announce?”

“My name is Nikym Salearn. We haven’t met before.”

“Nothing new here. Please wait a moment. You can leave your cloak over yonder.” He indicated a small dressing room off to the side. A small fireplace offered heat to dry up in. While he traipsed back to whatever awaited behind the curtain, I hung my cloak up to dry and helped myself to a shot of complimentary spirits. From the engraving on the oddly shaped stone bottle, I could gather that it was a popular, if not very good, blend of dwarven Stone Water. I filled a shot glass and tossed it back. I regretted my haste almost instantly as a medium-sized fireball erupted in my innards. The taste of wet stone and some obscure herbs wasn’t anything to write home about either.

When my eyes stopped tearing, I noticed the waiter hovering near the dressing room’s door.

“Mistress Danetta awaits,” he said. I left the dressing room and followed him. Instead of going through the curtain into what I presumed was the taproom, we went up a narrow and well-concealed stairwell and along another hallway, the windows padded from the inside. He stopped at the last door on the left and knocked.

“Enter!” came a curt bark from inside.

“Can I get a decanter of Dream Wine? Preferably something undiluted?” I asked the waiter.

“I’ll see if we have anything to your taste,” he said stiffly.

“I can pay.” I dropped a handful of coins into his palm. Ser Ethan had been wise to provide a handsome advance for moments such as this. The waiter’s attitude softened somewhat and his gait was much less angry as he swept back down the corridor.

I opened the door to the indicated room. It was dark save for a single oil lamp. The flickering circle of light was barely enough to reveal a low table between two wide sofas. A dark, musky fragrance hung in the air, somewhere between patchouli and sandalwood. She tried her best to meld with the shadows but thanks to my elven vision, I could clearly see the petite woman lounging on the left sofa. As I watched, her contours seemed to shift and swim apart. There was the sound of fabric tearing.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

Her answer was a sigh. “I should have brought a spare robe.” The voice was low, a strained whisper. Then, a throaty chuckle. “So ... you prefer powerful women, eh?”

I had reached the table by now and turned the lamp’s wick a bit higher. The woman on the sofa hissed and shielded her eyes. She was almost naked, her modesty preserved by the remains of a red velvet dress about four sizes too small for her. One arm covered her cleavage.

I sat down opposite her. “I don’t mean to be rude, but...”

“You aren’t. Asking questions is only natural and since we’ve never met...” She lowered her arm, revealing creamy skin and ample curves along with some kind of tattoo almost disappearing in the valley between her breasts. Two hands raised in supplication, tied together at the wrists with golden barbed wire. “You have asked for me. I am Danetta Veritha. High Priestess of Desire in these parts.”

I cursed inwardly. My contact over in Lordehome didn’t tell me who exactly she was, only that she would be a perfect source to find what I had been tasked to obtain.

“You look none too happy. Is it my appearance? My vocation? Or don’t you like women after all?” The dress rustled as she moved a hand under it. “Hm. That’s not it. No surprise genitalia tonight.”

Before I could outline my reason for being here, someone knocked at the door.

“Your drinks, I guess. The waiter would rather die than come in here.”

“Why?”

“I’ll explain once you’ve had a good drink.”

“Excuse me then.” I rose and returned to the door. Danetta had been right. The waiter had placed a tray on the floor with a bottle and two glasses on it.

“No tips for him,” I said, carrying the drinks back towards the table. “Can I tempt you?”

“Please don’t,” Danetta said. “Alcohol and I don’t mix. Not anymore, that is.”

She dug her hands into the fabric of her dress and screwed up her face. A moment later, the garment began to change, going through a rainbow of colors and styles until it settled down again, a fresh new crimson robe. Danetta rose, the golden light from the oil lamp painting islands of illumination onto her curves as she dressed.

“My calling makes some things difficult,” she said. “When I was younger, I was ugly as sin. No idea how my mother and father were related, but going by my buck teeth, warts and misshapen arms and legs, they had to have been too close, if you get my drift.”

I filled my glass and decided to let her talk. I was slowly drying off and the wine’s aroma promised at least a little comfort.

“My parents sent me to buy and sell stuff in the market, thinking that my horrendous looks would elicit sympathy from the customers. They were wrong. The only people buying from me were either blind or some Light clerics with their bleeding hearts. One day, on the way back to the farm, I found a strange idol amidst the rotting apples I didn’t manage to sell.”

“Cupped hands, eh?”

She nodded. “That was the first thing I owned. Not that it immediately did anything, but it was mine. One day, a knight came to visit the village. He needed his horse shod and I couldn’t stop drooling. He was so tall, muscular and handsome, unlike everything I had ever seen. That night, when I told my idol about the day’s events, there was a voice answering me. It said, ‘I could make you everything he’ll ever desire.’”

“I can see where this is going.”

“Can you?” Danetta laughed, a sound tinged with madness. “There was a sharp pain in my palm. Some stone splinter had dug deep into my skin, drawing blood. But I didn’t care. The next morning, I went to see the knight. And standing before him, I changed. My skin suddenly turned green, tusks broke from my lower jaw and I grew a cock!” She reached for the empty glass, only stopping as her fingers touched it. “Turns out ‘my’ knight had the hots for one of his brothers in arms – and turning into his love interest didn’t help. He threw me out and there I was, a naked, malformed orc with tits and a cock!”

“And you shape shift whenever you meet someone new?”

“Yes. My body reacts to their own hidden desires. I have no control over it. Well, working as a whore on the side does have its benefits,” she said, her expressive face a crooked mask of sarcasm. “Now, enough sob stories. What can I do for you. It’s obvious you’re not here to fuck me.”

“Is that so?”

“Most people won’t bother talking to me. It’s pants down, legs apart and uh-uh-uh.” She made a horribly rude gesture. “Only those looking for my goddess seem inclined to chat.”

“You were exceptionally easy to find. There was a gate guard who knew exactly where to find you.”

She spat. “Of course they do. Prostitution is illegal here unless you work at a church-sanctioned brothel. And worship of Desire is illegal as well, thanks to those Light fanatics. So they have enough reasons to toss me in jail regularly, fuck all my holes until they tire of me and then I may go again.”

“Can’t you curse them?”

Another bitter laugh. “I can grant their wishes. My body shapes itself to their desires. Somehow, many guards seem to have very strange ideas about their sons or daughters. But to receive my goddess’ attention, they need to enter into a contract and most guards are frankly too stupid for that.”

“And leaving isn’t an option either?”

She shook her head energetically. “I know most of the town by now. My body won’t try to break itself appealing to every single passer-by. I’ll take a few days of fucking the guards over one hour of my body trying to please every single soul in view.” She leaned back against the sofa. “High Priestess doesn’t sound so fantastic now, does it?”

“I could almost pity you. But after your first ‘gift’, you asked for more.”

“Yes. After the first, there was no turning back anyway. So why not make the best of it?” She shrugged. “One learns to cope.”

“All right then. I am looking for an item. Something called a ‘Mirror of Wishes.’”

She eyed me curiously, her pupils shimmering in a weird gold color, as if they had been replaced by golden coins. “But you don’t want it,” she muttered, her voice coming from far away.

“Not for me, no. I have been tasked with finding and procuring one.”

Her eyes faded, returned back to their original color, a rather mundane hazel. “A man named Gilo Kurvas has it. He lives in town. My mistress has decreed that it’s time he passes it on.” She sounded surprised.

“Gilo Kurvas. I think I can find him. Thank you.” I drained my glass. “Before I go, is there any way to track the item?”

Danetta shook her head. “Only Desire ever truly knows where Her favored items are. Where would be the surprise if any dumb mortal could scry for any wish-granting artifact?”

“Good to know. I’ll go see Gilo Kurvas then.”

“Be careful around him,” Danetta said. I paused. Her voice sounded different. This was an assertive voice, completely different from the strained whisper of the tormented person opposite me. “He has had the Mirror for at least a decade and might be a bit ... unstable.” The woman on the sofa tossed her head back and laughed, loud enough to rattle the tray.

I decided to skip any formality and left. The waiter hovered around in front of the door.

“Come, Arthur,” Danetta called, her voice changing as she spoke. She suddenly sounded very young. “I’m here for you, Daddy!”

The rain and cold night air were suddenly a very welcome prospect.

Gilo Kurvas’ house was the second biggest structure in all of Stoneridge, eclipsed only by the local Church of Light and their monastery grounds. Even the local lord had to make do with a smaller residence. Compared to most of the surrounding city, the Kurvas estate was practically brand new, built in the low, expansive style favored in the rolling grasslands between the Old Kingdom and Storm Harbor, complete with a lavish park. I wondered how many of the old pillar houses had to be taken down to make room for it. And another thought crossed my mind: How did Gilo manage to include parts of the city’s ramparts into the fortification for his estate?

A deep, booming bell tone rang out from the Church of Light’s clock tower, announcing that it was unfashionably late for a house call. I wasn’t in the mood to find one of the flea-ridden human inns though, so I decided to let propriety be damned. The estate grounds were surrounded by walls fit for a small castle, with a simple and sturdy iron gate offering a means of ingress. I operated the heavy knocker fashioned to look like a monster head clutching a ring between its teeth. To my surprise, I heard the sounds of gears and levers and with nary a sound, the gate opened wide enough for me to slip through.

The grounds were dark and quiet. No guard beasts either. Come to think of it – no guards whatsoever. The usual owner of such a large estate would have at least two squads of henchmen on hire, patrolling the gardens and being as pompous and impressive as possible. I’ve quickly realized that these house guards usually lived too soft a life to be real threats, more concerned with the fit of their doublets than regular combat practice.

Their total absence puzzled me. What I found even more unsettling was the house itself. Not only were most windows dark – not surprising given my late arrival – but many were boarded shut. The roof showed obvious signs of disrepair. I took a quick detour off the main path and had a look at the stables. They were generously sized, with room for at least half a dozen riding horses, a quad team of draft animals and not one, but two large, four-wheeled coaches. Given the narrow streets I had walked to get here, there had to be other ways out of the city, because these monstrosities would never have made it back the way I had come. But the boxes were empty. Not a single horse and, going by the smell, they had been empty for a long time.

A feeling of unease overcame me. Something was off, very much so. Habits took over and I patted myself down, making sure my weapons and tools were all there. Throwing knives. Daggers. My garrotte. The only thing remaining of my old life as protector of the forests – my nymph-enchanted long blade. Several sets of lock picks, probes, wire cutters, caltrops and other tools of the trade. All in order. I left the cold and empty stables and made my way back to the main entrance. No light here either. Again, most owners of such estates loved to flaunt their wealth, keeping the front of their houses lit and well-maintained at all times. Not here. There were the obligatory oil lamps, but one of them had been shattered not too long ago and the other had been rusted so badly, the once elaborate burner mechanism was a shapeless clump. The knocker adorning the massive double doors didn’t fare much better. This one was made to look like a hand with some kind of weighted bracelet dangling from the wrist. It had rusted solid, unable to perform its function. I used the back of my riveted gloves and knocked for all I was worth.

The response came quicker than I dared hope. There were the sounds of keys turning in locks and bolts being slid back. The door opened just a crack, wide enough for me to see half a face. It belonged to an ancient, stick-thin human wearing a faded livery.

“Go away,” he snapped, slamming the door in my face. Or at least he tried. I had wedged the steel-capped toe of my boot into the gap.

“I’m here to...”

“I don’t care. Go away. And get your foot out of the door.”

I afforded him my most dazzling smile. “Can’t we start over? My name is Nikym-”

His own foot hit my shin. Reflex took over and I took a quick step back. The door slammed in my face.

Odd. But not unexpected. Gilo Kurvas wasn’t too keen on guests. I should have arrived at that conclusion sooner, especially considering his connection to the cult of Desire.

I had two options. Try the front door again until I got somewhere or enter the mansion by other means. One thing my kind does not get enough credit for is patience. With a lifespan measuring centuries, we can afford to waste hours or even days on some menial issue. So, I raised my hand and rapped on the door.

The church bell rang twice. And a moment later, the door opened again. The same ancient human, only this time he had brought a pretty impressive hunting crossbow, the kind used to impale angry boars to trees with.

“I said go away,” he snarled, fighting the weapon into a firing position. Even braced against his shoulder and held with two hands, it was way too heavy for him. No way he would hit me, even at point-blank range. But just to make sure no lethal accident would occur, I stepped against him, pushing him back into the main hall. My hand came up and plucked the bolt from the weapon. Smiling, I tucked it into my belt. His eyes went wide in alarm.

“I’m here to see Master Gilo,” I said, keeping my voice calm and level. “No need to get in arms about it.”

“Master Gilo is seeing no one,” the human said, lowering the crossbow. “You have wasted your time.”

“Please don’t tell me he’s dead.” That would indeed be rather unfortunate and probably would require me spending another evening in Danetta’s company, something I did not look forward to.

“No. He isn’t.” His voice was laden with a strange emotion. He almost sounded as if he wished his master’s demise. This evening was getting weirder by the moment. The man released the crossbow’s string and sighed. “My name is Hobbs. I am Master Gilo’s butler. I also manage his estate during his ... indisposition. Are you here to collect outstanding payments?”

“My outfit may suggest it, but no. I’m no loan shark’s hired blade. At least not tonight.” I shot Hobbs a quick grin. “I was hoping to procure something from Master Gilo.”

“I am sorry. What was your name? Nikym?”

I bowed. “Indeed. Nikym Salaern. I work for Ser Ethan Wildthorne in Storm Harbor. You may have heard of him?”

“I am deeply sorry, Master Salaern, but I am unable to afford any new transactions on Master Gilo’s behalf. You’ll have to wait until he’s better.”

“When might that be?”

The look on Hobb’s face told me everything I needed to know. He paled and his eyes darted left to right and back, as if something was haunting him. His words were all the confirmation I needed. “Not any time soon, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. If you see your master, give him my regards. I wish him a speedy recovery and sorry again for dragging you out of bed at this hour.”

“Don’t mention it,” Hobbs muttered. “My apologies for wasting your time.”

With almost undue haste he maneuvered me back onto the porch and closed the door, but with much less emphasis this time. The locks and bolts were put back in place.

To keep up appearances, I retraced my way back to the entrance gate, only to take a sharp left before leaving the grounds. I crept along the shadows offered by the garden walls. Not that Hobbs would see me, not without vision to match my own at least and from what I’ve seen of him, the butler was old, drained and tired beyond belief. How he even managed to exert enough energy to winch up a crossbow was a miracle in itself. But when I didn’t want to be found, it was indeed nigh impossible. In part thanks to almost two hundred and fifty years in this line of work, in part thanks to my enchanted cloak which would, during daytime, take on the pattern of anything around me, allowing me to blend with my surroundings. At night, it would amplify the shadows surrounding me, granting almost complete invisibility. Sure, someone able to detect magical energies could probably find the signature emanating from the enchanted garment, but I was fairly certain Hobbs didn’t have an eager battlemage on hand to sic on me.

Half an hour later, I had the grounds scouted. The back of the mansion was separated from the town’s main wall by only a few dozen yards of forested garden and my earlier hunch had been proven correct. No guard beasts, no guards, not even simple tripwires with bells on them. In my younger days I would have fallen to my knees and praised Sikka for such an easy joint.

The feeling of unease hadn’t gone away though. In fact, it had intensified to the point where my innards were coiling up uncomfortably. Granted, I hadn’t had anything decent to eat since morning, but that wasn’t the problem here.

I was trying to figure out where Gilo Kurvas’ rooms were. If he indeed was sick, one would guess that access to fresh air might help his recovery. But no side of the mansion had any open windows. Also, and that was curious as well, all chimneys on the flat roof were smoking like crazy, as if someone was having all fireplaces lit at once.

Huddling in the wet bushes would get me nowhere. So, I dashed up one of the sturdier trees and leaped across, easily catching one of the windowsills of the manor’s back facade. They were low and wide, easy stepping stones for a halfway decent climber. The boards used to shut the windows for good were sturdy enough to be used as well, so I could reach the roof without much effort. If anything, it felt way too easy.

I sniffed one of the chimneys and my stomach reminded me again that it had been almost sixteen hours since my last meal. Someone was cooking down there, roasting meat or something – and it smelled delicious!

The roof hatch was locked from below. Probably a simple latch with maybe a lock holding it in place. Instead of pulling out a saw I produced one of the few spell scrolls I kept on my person. It was written in faintly luminescent ink so even at night it was useful. The words, despite my having spoken them numerous times by now, were still unfamiliar and a trip hazard for my tongue, but eventually I had the formula pronounced. The Dimension Door spell engaged and deposited me three feet below my current position.

Which, in this case, was halfway between floor and ceiling of some storeroom. I broke my fall by rolling into a tight ball and came to my feet. Numerous pieces of furniture, neatly sheathed with white cloth, had been crammed into the room. Even if I had managed to break open the roof hatch, I couldn’t have used it – the top of several large wardrobes blocked any access. Thankfully, my spell had dropped me in the only bit of usable walk space. The door was not locked and I made my way into a long corridor. The occasional hint of light managed to slip in between the boards, which in turn enabled my night vision to pick out enough to work with. There were other rooms on this floor, but their contents mirrored the one I had come in through. Whatever they had been originally, now they were glorified storerooms, their contents covered with white sheets. Going by the general shapes, I could see one room full of statues, another full of paintings, a third one had huge boxes stacked atop each other from floor to ceiling. One had been cracked open, revealing a veritable river of coins which had spilled onto the expensive, dust-clogged carpet.

When I reached the stairwell leading down, my sensitive nose picked up that smell again, the utterly delicious aroma of roasted meat. Seasoned with all manner of herbs, no less. My stomach growled so loud, I was afraid it would give my position away. But by my count, I was still one floor up from the entrance hall and I had yet to see signs of habitation.

In accordance with the general shape of the building, the second floor was quite a bit larger than the previous one. And every room I searched caused my own bewilderment to grow. The city had serious food issues, yet every single room I entered was food storage of some kind. Several were stuffed with sacks of corn or rye or wheat, others piled so high with potatoes, I nearly got buried under an avalanche of spuds when I carelessly opened a partition. One large room, probably a dining hall of some kind if the naked arms of a gigantic chandelier were anything to go by, had been tiled and transformed into a meat locker. Clusters of Cold Elemental Stones had been placed in ice-covered bowls which kept dozens of animals frozen and fresh. I saw pigs, cows, horses and even some monster carcasses which had been finely drawn and prepared for further use. One row of shelves held hundreds of sausages of all kinds. I left before the chill could overwhelm me.

Eventually, I found a small set of rooms not converted to food storage. They reminded me of barracks – several crowded rooms with bunk beds and the bare essentials for people to call “home.” A bathroom. But the beds had not seen any occupant recently; they all were untouched.

Now truly curious, I made my way to the ground floor. The narrow staircase I used took me to an inconspicuous door. I had seen similar construction before – these semi-hidden accessways were used by staff to discreetly bring food and drink to merrymakers or allow the house’s owner to move about unseen, depending on the occupation and temperament of those involved. By all logic, the door should lead to some kind of formal reception room or dining hall or ballroom. I tried the handle and pushed it open a hand’s width.

Beyond, I saw no ballroom. Instead, there were long rows of tables where exhausted-looking servants and chefs were preparing food by the trough. The huge fireplace had been crudely turned into a rotisserie and what looked like a whole ox was roasting over the flames. A squad of people was peeling potatoes which were then boiled and prepared, along with a staggering amount of vegetables. Somewhere to the side, I saw others prepare cookies by the sheetful. They were carried out of the room, probably into the kitchen proper. While I watched, the trough was filled with gallons of sauce, piled high with potatoes and veggies and finally, again probably coming from another location, a huge piece of rib was placed on top. Four servants grabbed the vessel by large carrying rings and made their way towards the door I was hiding behind. Quietly, I closed it and dashed up the stairs, hiding in the gloom above.