Untitled

Notes:
This is the first chapter I have written for this story; I intend there to be many more after and a few that take place before this to establish the two characters. I wanted to write this first to figure out what kind of style I wanted to do. I may end up writing the story in 3rd person because I want to incorporate some of Bishop's thoughts as well. Currently undecided; let me know what you think!


         “Okay, so here’s the plan. You draw him out and I’ll shoot.”
         Bishop snorted and cocked an eyebrow. “Him or me?”
         I flashed him a grin. “I’ll decide when you’re both in my sights.”
         “Listen, Ladyship. Don’t think that just because you’re Dragonborn you can up and order me around like I’m one of your drooling admirers. I’m the ranger here. I should be the one shooting while you lure him out with your—” He plucked a leaf from my unwashed hair and twirled it in his fingers. “—feminine wiles.” There it is again. That smirk that made me want to smack it off his face.
         “I’m sorry. Whose wolf are we here to collect? Was it mine? Oh, wait, no…it’s yours. Now get out there. Let’s see how your wiles are, ranger.” I slid my bow off my shoulder and nocked an arrow, shifting minutely to get at a better shooting angle.
         “You wish you could see my wiles, wench…” Bishop grumbled and slipped past me, quieter than I would have thought possible for his size. His feet seemed to find the softest places to step without his needing to look—after throwing a steely glare my way, his eyes soon trained on where he guessed the bandit to be in the small stone outcrop a few yards away. By the sounds of it, the man was stoking his campfire, making light and shadows dance on the cliff wall that towered overhead.
         His gruff, orcish voice echoed off the rocks around him as he mumbled to himself, “..kill him... he talks like that to me again... get him while he's sleeping or poison his meat...see how he likes that...” Another flicker of light as he apparently stabbed at the campfire again.
         I threw my gaze back over to Bishop, paused behind the brush beside the dirt path that lead to the outcrop and the bandit’s lair. Bishop’s eyes met mine and he gave me a nod. I returned the gesture and focused on the spot where the bandit would emerge from behind the brush that blocked my view.
         “Oh, there once was a hero named Ragnar the Red, who came riding to Whiterun from ol’ Rorikstead…”
         I had to drop my arrow to cover my mouth, stifling the laughter that threatened to bubble out of me. I was not expecting that stupid bard-song to ever escape the lips of my gruff companion. I glanced over to see Bishop striding lazily up the path, his hands buried in his pockets and eyes turned toward the stars that were just beginning to appear overhead.
         “The hell?”
         I was snapped back to reality as the bandit—an Orc—scrambled into view, clutching a mace in one large, meaty hand and a small stick in the other. Realizing, he was still clutching the stick he had used to prod the fire, he hastily tossed it aside and switched the mace over to that hand. Well, no one ever claimed an Orc was an overly intelligent creature. He was a green-skinned, fur armor-clad brute with drool dripping from the canine teeth that jutted from his bottom jaw and overlapped his upper lip. Visible brawn, but questionable brains. I hurriedly retrieved my dropped arrow, nocked it, and pulled back on the bowstring, lining up my shot. This would be easy enough.
         “What is it Barzlrog?” I tensed as another voice came from the other side of the outcrop. Oh, okay. So there’s…two…bandits. Well then. I stayed my arrow and waited for the other bandit to appear.
         “You picked a bad time to get lost, friend.” Barzlrog snarled at Bishop, ignoring his compatriot’s question. The string of drool from his jowl whipped to-and-fro as he spoke.
         Bishop continued to make his way up the path toward the Orc, a dreamy look on his face, and his arm outstretched, indicating the setting sun. “Oh, I’m not lost, friend. I’m just basking in the glow of the dusk.” I had to stifle another snigger, but this time I managed to without unseating an arrow. The second bandit came into view now, his own nocked bow in his hands. I relaxed only slightly, seeing that he was a Breton. Bretons weren’t known to be great archers, but even he would have a hard time missing Bishop at that range. He became target number one.
         The Breton suddenly collapsed, hands desperately grasping at his neck and finding my arrow firmly lodged in his windpipe. My second arrow was nocked even before Barzlrog whirled around in surprise at his fallen comrade. Seizing the opportunity, Bishop unsheathed his dagger and dashed forward. But the Orc was not as interested in the fate of his fellow bandit as much as would have been convenient. He spun back around, saw Bishop’s advance, and bellowed with rage. Bishop nimbly dodged as the Orc’s mace came swinging down, creating a sizeable divot in the ground where Bishop had been. The ranger’s knife slashed across the bandit’s arm, encouraging another bellow from the beast, and Bishop darted away from yet another swing of the mace.
         “Would you shoot the damned Orc already?!” Bishop called out after dodging a third time. He leaped back, giving me space to do so. I decided to cut it a little close despite the afforded space.
         “Yes, dear.” My arrow whizzed just inches past his ear and embedded itself in Barzlrog’s right lung, staggering him back a few steps. Bishop’s knife was soon buried in the other. His face frozen in a look of surprise and disbelief, the Orc was dead before he hit the ground. The Breton archer, too, was still; the silence atop the cliffside was broken only by the occasional crackle of the campfire.
         Bishop glared at me as I stepped out of the brush. “What the hell was that about?” His eyes took on the same steel as when he had his prey sighted down his own drawn arrow. For a moment, I wondered if I had gone too far.
         “What was what about?” I tilted my head in mock confusion. His eyes tightened further.
         “Oh, I don’t know. Taking so long to shoot this milk-drinker, for one. And why you decided to try and shoot my ear off when I gave you plenty of room to not do that. And ‘yes, dear’? Was the sarcasm really necessary?”
         “Hey, sarcasm is my native tongue, so get used to it. Secondly, I was ready to down the Orc right away, but you had to go and get your swings in. As for why I shot so close: well, after I recalled you calling me a wench when I distinctly remember telling you multiple times to never call me that…my hand slipped.” I smiled, knowing my point had been driven home.
         To my surprise, Bishop said nothing. His stony expression remained fixed and his eyes bored into mine, searching for something. I didn’t like that look; I started to feel a knife’s edge of regret stabbing into my stomach, like I had done something that ought not to have been done.
         “What?” I dropped my smug façade and tried to read past the ice in his gaze.
         “Did you really have to decide who to shoot when we were both in your sights?” He spoke quietly, referring to our earlier quips. It almost sounded as though he were asking himself more than me.
         I felt my face fall. The regret-knife in my gut twisted painfully. My voice came out just as quietly as his had. “Are—are you serious? Of course I didn’t have to think about it. I told you I would come all the way out here to help you and Karnwyr. You think I would go back on my word after its been given?” Anger was slowly beginning to replace regret, though it didn’t hurt any less. I walked over to the crumpled body of the Orc and, with a sharp jerk, pulled Bishop’s knife free. After wiping the blade off on the Orc’s fur armor, I turned and thrust the knife at him, hilt-first. “Then you’re gonna need to get to know me a little better.”
         Bishop stood searching my face a moment longer, thoughts hidden behind a blank visage. His eyes drifted down to the knife, lingering there as if seeing something else entirely—something far away. I didn’t dare speak, suddenly feeling like I was an unwanted intruder. I wished I could see behind those carefully constructed walls of his.
         Apparently arriving at some conclusion, Bishop gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head and his eyes lazily floated back up to me. His gaze had thawed, and a flirtatious smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. “I need to get to know you better, huh?” His sudden, though slight, change in demeanor caught me off guard and I stood gaping, my unwavering ability to come up with clever comebacks temporarily…well, wavering.
         A chuckle escaped his lips and he accepted the knife from me, breaking me from my stupor. “Oh, get over yourself, ranger.” I felt a flush start to work its way into my cheeks, so I turned and started up the incline to the cave entrance before he could take notice. I was secretly glad to have the old Bishop back; the doubt and suspicion that had briefly overtaken his features bothered me more than it probably should have.
         “Hey, you’re the one that said it, Princess.”
         “Oh, shut up. Come on and let’s get this over with. Some of the bandits inside probably heard all this commotion.” Arriving at the cave’s entrance, we snuck into the enveloping darkness swiftly and cautiously.
         “Yes, dear,” came his whispered reply.
         I started counting the number of ways I could catch him off guard and break his nose.