Grok speeds up, and Ruby wonders what Grok would have been like if he weren't being careful. Would he have just, what—Ruby's not sure. He legitimately, honestly, is not sure. Because right this moment Grok is holding onto Ruby's ribs hard enough to bruise, holding him like he doesn't weigh anything, like he's just a fuckdoll, and he's moving his hips at the same time as he's moving Ruby, and he's going faster—

—he accidentally pulls all the way out of Ruby, and Ruby knows that he's just going to ram it back in again immediately and even knowing that's what's going to happen he still screams loudly enough to scare the goats, and he can't find it in himself to care. He just can't.

And he can't hold back anymore, either, he's seeing stars and he's fully lost control of himself and he comes comes comes and he just keeps coming, this is the best orgasm of his life (technically he doesn't know what his life before the amnesia was like but, you know) and by the time he's done he's covered in cum and precum and he's dimly aware that Grok is coming too, now.

Post-nut clarity is not happening. His brain is just full of noise, even as he feels himself get filled up with giant cum he can't think about it, or if he does think about it all he thinks is that this is good and correct, it's right that he's a giant's cum dumpster and nothing more, no more rational thought or feeling, just him and giant dick.

Things happen. His head is full of cotton and noise, and he doesn't quite notice things happening, and if he'd known he'd get this debilitated from that he probably wouldn't have suggested it, this is an amount of vulnerable one should never be. Thankfully, however, the giant is fond of him, and doesn't want to hurt him, so as his consciousness slowly seeps back into him he finds himself lying down on a bedroll in a tent, covered in sweat and cum, filled with more cum and feeling like it'll be a sennight before he'll be able to walk again, being cuddled by a giant who's humming tunelessly and cheerfully to himself.

...so. That happened.

What does he. Do. Now. Is it going to be awkward if he just wants to get up. He wasn't planning on spending the rest of his day cuddling a giant, even if the giant is very cute.

...nah, the giant is probably fine. "Hey Grok? I think I should get going, now. I kinda stole Gleda from someone and they're anxious to have her back."

"Grok give Ruby goat. Ruby good fuck! Grok happy Ruby back. Ruby back any time!"

...he thinks he followed all of that. "I'll keep that in mind, Grok. It was—" Horribly painful. Incredibly hot. The most intense experience he's ever had. "—fun."

"Ruby fun! Ruby good fuck. Grok happy."

And he cheerfully pushes himself up then goes to the pen to grab Gleda for Ruby.

Right, then. That's that.

...how did he bring Gleda all the way here? Gleda isn't as fast as a horse, there's no way he just... walked... is there?

Well, he could always ride the horse and Telekinesis Gleda. He might need to stop a few times to let his Magicka regenerate, but that'll still be faster than walking. Yeah, sure, he'll do that. He can study the horse spell while he does, he think he's nearing the point where he'll be able to start experimenting with casts.

Ennis is absolutely ecstatic to see Gleda again—and relieved by no small measure. It seems that regardless of whether Ruby himself brought it up, the possibility that Gleda could've died had in fact crossed his mind.

He also, uh, notices that Ruby is very sticky, and draws some inferences.

"I hope you, uh, had fun with the giant. I still don't understand why you stole her. Here—you left a note, but it's gibberish."

"It's complicated. And my drunk self wasn't at his smartest." He accepts the note and tries to make sense of it, but it is in fact mostly gibberish.

But what little he can read... "Whiterun. I went to Whiterun?" And who's Ysolda?

The farmer has absolutely stopped paying attention and is making cooing noises at Gleda.

That's fair enough, honestly. He's probably not going to figure out what this is all about by staying here, so he tells Ennis goodbye and gets on his horse. At least Whiterun is a major hold capital and he won't need to consult his map too often to know where to go.

...also he stops at a nearby stream to clean himself because, uh, yeah, he doesn't want to be sticky anymore. He doesn't have any more reason to rush, so he doesn't.

Map of the Trip

When people tell him how long it'll take him to ride somewhere, they're most definitely not accounting for the magic horse. And how could they? It's not just that the ethereal horse can keep galloping without rest; it's that it can just keep riding. You can't ride a regular horse more than about ten hours a day, and even that much is only horses built for endurance.

The ethereal horse's limitations are that of its caster: both the duration of a cast and how often they need to sleep. Even the terrain isn't an issue, for the most part. It can just keep going.

The main problem Ruby faces when it comes to riding for almost sixteen hours a day is the sheer boredom, but on the bright side he has plenty of Spell Tomes to occupy his mind while riding. Hold the book Telekinetically next to his face, make sure to pay a modicum of attention to the road, and he's good. By the time he finally gets to the cluster of farms and other buildings that surround the Whiterun city walls, he's pretty sure he's got a good grasp of the ethereal horse spell, and the next one he'll try to cast will be his own and not from a Scroll.

Whiterun is not as beautiful as Markarth—nor, actually, as Winterhold, now that he's here he's getting an appreciation for the way even the crumbling ruins have an austere, melancholic aesthetic. Which is not too say Whiterun is ugly. It's not ugly.

It's just... kind of... there.

It's a city, It has buildings, and roads. It has a plaza and a market. It has a jarl's hold. The aesthetic is even coherent, there aren't fifteen architecture styles warring with each other. But it's not, actually, trying to do anything whatsoever along the dimensions of beauty. Its existence is orthogonal to that.

Anyway. He asks a guard if he would happen to know a woman named Ysolda; he says he doesn't, but that Ruby might have better luck checking out the inn. Mikael, their local bard, has probably hit on ninety percent of the women in the city, and would most likely know her.

"Ahh, beautiful Ysolda, what wonderfully sharp tongue she has," sighs the bard. "Never paid me any mind, but I can appreciate her beauty even without being able to have it."

...o...kay.

"And do you know where I could find her?"

"She is often in the market, making money off money." At Ruby's inquisitive look he elaborates: "She's a moneylender and reseller of goods. She will always buy anything you want to sell, and she often sells whatever you want to buy."

Huh. That's an interesting sort of person to exist. And not, it seems, a very hard-to-find one: she's in the market, as expected, though she's peddling her goods somewhat less enthusiastically than the other merchants.

"Excuse me?"

"—oh, Ruby! I didn't expect to see you again this soon."

Oh gods.

"Things... happened," he says, lamely.

She narrows her eyes. "This is not a prelude I like."

"Can you tell me, um, what happened. When we met."