A Mature Bishop Short Story
( 4927 words)
"Would you quit stopping to pick every damn mountain flower you see? You're only making our trip to Solitude take twice as long" Bishop groaned with an irritable tone on his tongue as he watched the woman he's been traveling with for several months. Said woman crouched down to a small patch of blue mountain flowers at the side of the path they had been traveling on, carefully plucking them and placing them into a small jar wrapped in leather she had, filled with the same type of vegetation, before placing it in her knapsack.
"Bishop, you're being overdramatic" She simply stated as she closed and buckled up her knapsack, her braid of unruly red hair falling over her shoulder. He sighed in response, rolling his amber eyes and rubbing his index finger in a circular motion on his left temple.
"Ladyship, we left Whiterun a few hours before the afternoon," he started his retort, gesturing towards the direction of the sun. "The sun is setting now" the Dragonborn's body froze for a second at the realization of how many times she had made the ranger halt in their trip to gather ingredients.
"Okay, fair point," she said, chuckling awkwardly as she put her bag onto her back. She got up from her lowered position and stood, Karnwyr sniffing her hand to get a whiff of the new scent she acquired from the many stops. "But in my defense, these are going to make some useful potions! Anyway, come on, let's get going. I promise I won't stop again"
"Hold up there, princess," he said, grabbing her shoulder just as she had turned and started walking. "The damage is already done. Even though this trip should have only taken a few hours, nightfall is coming. And my feet are fucking killing me; we're making camp" he stated what he said in a matter-a-fact way, demanding instead of asking; as was his nature. The Dragonborn cringed a little at his unnecessary use of profanity but silently agreed with him that setting up camp wasn't a particularly bad idea.
"Alright, Bishop, you win. Let's find a place to rest" she said, adjusting her unique armor, she had made herself. She was crafty one, skilled in alchemy and smithing. She made almost all of the tools and weaponry she carried. Of course being the Dragonborn, she was talented beyond belief; taking part in archery, dual wielding, spells, and many more skills. To top of this fierce warrior that could kill a man with her voice, she was easy on the eyes. Bishop often questioned how someone like her could exist; strong and strikingly beautiful, enchanting green eyes that could fool anyone into thinking she was innocent. Well, anyone besides Bishop, he saw the trauma and emotions hiding beneath the green hue. With how willing she was to help any poor soul he swore she would be the cause of his death. Yet he didn't leave, he didn't want to, and he didn't know why.
Going deeper into Skyrim's wilderness, the Dragonborn got to work setting up the campfire, while Bishop went hunting for their dinner. The redhead sat on her knees at the firepit she set up, placing dry grass and small twigs into a neat pile in the center. She held her hand out and clenched her fist tight, then quickly opened her hand, a flame dancing in her palm. She rolled it around in her hand as if it was a solid object before she made it shrink and snapped her fingers. The flame shot from her forefinger and ignited the kindling, so she began to add more sticks, moving onto bigger pieces of wood as the fire grew. Once the fire was stable and there was plenty of kindling to keep it going, she got her bedroll and laid it out a comfortable distance from the fire. Sitting down tailor style, she waited patiently for her travel companions to return with food. She kept her emerald eyes trained on the crackling fire, watching the flames lick at the fresh wood, turning the bark black with time.