The three S's of life: Sass, Sarcasm, and Salt. [Independent Skyrim/TES RP blog for a (half) Dunmer Daughter of Coldharbour. NSFW will always be tagged appropriately. Please read the rules and the about page PRIOR to interaction. Thank you!]
The power packed down into an immortal’s frame, a frame once that of a human in his case, was so great to be considered wrong by some, for a creature so small compared to Tamriel’s other legendary beasts to have. He responded to Navalli’s resistance as expected – with a hideous snarl erupting out of his chest. It took a lot to physically throw Rowan off once he decided to pin something, but another vampire – well, that might just do the trick.
Twisting and scrabbling, a whirlwind of knife-sharp nails and bloody canines, somehow the two ended up separated. Human thought perservered for but a moment, and so he waited to see what she would do. Then, suddenly, the scales wobbled – he sensed it, knew she sensed it – and he was on his feet again, running the hall.
Not usually his modus operandi, behaving as the stag when at best he was the bowman, but it was a scarce, fleeting game he played tonight. One he allowed himself on the rationale that she would be gone again into the shadows of the continent before he knew it, and there was nothing he could do to stop her. A bit of harmless indulgement wasn’t going to make him feel like any less of a vampire. Throwing the moment away might lead to regret and several empty drams – and that was not how a Gael preferred to drink.
A moment passed and the tides turned with it. Navalli watched the tone shift in Rowan’s eyes as they stared each other down, then watched him dart down the hall. Seconds before, they had been at each other’s throats - literally - and now the game of vicious tag resumed.
Vampires stared. Human assistants stared. She only turned to give the nearest one a hiss, a warning to stay out of it, before she was dashing down the hallway after the Lord. Each time she passed an unfamiliar face, she waited for one of them to stop her. Surely someone assumed she was actually after Rowan’s life. Or perhaps enough of them remembered her to know she would never harm Rowan. At least, scratches and bites notwithstanding.
With the hall coming to an end, the number of vampires she passed began to dwindle until few remained. Less traffic allowed for easier following and less judgmental stares. Down at one of the ends was a small courtyard, if she remembered correctly, and Rowan’s smell went right towards it. The perfect place for an ambush.
So be it. She’d stay on her toes.
Senses sharpened, she brushed a hand over her shoulder where a scratch wound was already nothing more than reddened lines. She owed him for that one.
Slowly, Navalli pushed opened the door, braced herself, and waited.
Rowan gave a roll of the shoulders, waiting to pull his bowstring to prevent a bad shot resulting from too much muscle tension. A quick-draw would be best. Now it was just a waiting game – with their companion taking a tumble, likely to never rise again, whom would be next to lose nerve?
“Do you think she expected someone taller?” he quipped at them, throwing a loose gesture towards the confused, bloody heap of vampire and mortal. “Shorter, perhaps?”
Whether it was fear or stupidity that spurred them, the duo exchanged glances and rushed for the treeline, probably assuming he wasn’t fast enough to shoot them both.
He was.
The first shot landed, thwacking target number one from his feet. Panicking, the last of the group summoned a jump of speed and expended much of the air in his lungs with a cry of dismay – a cry that was cut short as Rowan’s arrowhead struck him true between the ribs. He fell short of the withering brush, dead.
Rowan let down his bow and turned around to see Navalli still engrossed in the act.
“Should I return later to collect you?” he teased.
There was some level of understanding to Rowan’s jest, but it was suffocated by the overwhelming gratification of her meal. The woman’s body twitched with the instinctual need to flee, but there was no mercy to be shown. While the last spasms finally slowed and the remnants of her life were taken, Navalli’s grip tightened and a low growl escaped her, be it out of satisfaction or warning or perhaps both.
The thrill finally subsided and she freed her clasped fangs from her victim’s neck. She proceeded to shove the woman into the snow, face half-buried in a shrub, and then leaned her head back into the snow while the warmth of her meal coursed through her.
Eventually, she shaped up a bit and wiped her face with the back of her gloved hand and gave Rowan a partially bloodied smile from where she laid on the ground. “Aye, laddie,” she responded in a terrible mockery of his accent before it returned to her usual lilting one. “Almost a shame you killed the other two. They would’ve given a fun chase.”
She stood and, perhaps it was the giddiness and the excitement from the hunt, but her next action involved springing at him, latching herself onto his back. “Onward, trusty steed!”
Predator AND Prey! HA! (Uh, friendly game of cat and mouse to satisfy dem vamp instincts??? It's like hide & seek on steroids.)
Rowan twitched to attention as he caught the tap of Navalli’s feet; it could not have been heard by mortal ears, proficient as the lassie was in her pursuit. Himself, on the other hand…
He sprung the moment she rounded the corner, and they both went clattering to the floor in the castle hall. Not in laughter, but vicious snarls, and dubiously contained bloodlust.
The passing castlegoers, maid and immortal alike, threw their heads the pair’s way in great alarm and confusion.
There was satisfaction in the act of catching prey unexpectedly; the thrill of the surprise, the instinctual jolt of fear, the sharp intake of air into the lungs. Yet none of those even touched the excitement of the hunt that preceded those acts, nor the gratification of success that followed after.
Antsy and fidgety, Navalli had found herself slipped into a little game with her friend and former Lord. She wasn’t quite sure when it started nor how. All she knew was that both of them had pent-up energy that needed true release, and along the way, they had both become predator and prey to each other’s whimsy, although not all of it pretty. Much of it had become filled with the growling and hissing often associated with the real hunt - not play. There was even blood to be drawn from time to time.
She didn’t take it personally - in fact, she returned it in full. Always. Both of them knew well by now that even in the heat of the hunt, they were much in control of their own actions. It was a rare skill for vampires to have.
So when Rowan sprang around the corner and tackled her to the floor of the large hall with his teeth bared and claws slashing, she gave a loud hiss that slipped from the back of her throat and through her fangs, expression comparable to that of a feral cat caught off-guard.
As her beloved redheaded friend rolled atop her, she shimmied both her feet onto his hips and shoved him with her legs, an attempt to gain space to regain her footing.
There wasn’t any guilt to be had. Rowan long ago decided he would face what he was instead of acting a coward. Father, grandfather, leader, and role model to many, this aspect of his life could not be banished; he would always need to feel fresh blood liven his dry throat, and the kill soon to follow. The key was discernment.
As he gasped, lurching to his feet at the sound of Navalli’s jest, he felt the world around him come under a smooth blanket of reprieve. The bloodlust abated, sinking below his mental plateau of needs to bide its time. His shoulders squared, focus returned.
“Tell me,” he started with the bandits still alive, bow swinging off his back to pair with a plucked arrow, “do the lot of you think I’m elusive, or was it just that lad, over there?” Of course he meant the fellow he had all too recently exsanguinated. “I assure you, the job comes with its fair share of bores. A hunt is most welcome for any vampire worth their salt.”
The expression on their faces when they realized there was not just one, but two vampires, was one for the books. If Navalli could have carved their faces into stone, she would have been able to laugh at it for decades to come. As Rowan came to join her fun, she saw his elegance and pride, blood shining dimly in the moonlight around his lips from his meal.
The mortals, though? She figured all they saw in the pitch black was a shadowed figure with glowing red eyes that promised death to any who dared meet them.
“You... you’re... you’re the Lord...?” The woman glanced sideways at Navalli, who was gracefully moving around the group to lock them between her and Rowan.
Navalli offered an easy, one-sided shrug of her shoulders. “I’d recommend running, but his shot is almost as dangerous as his fangs. Both equally slow, painful... unless he’s merciful enough to shoot you in the heart, of course, but where’s the fun in that?”
She swore she heard one of the two men choke on something - his own tongue, perhaps? It was a shame they didn’t know that Rowan was merciful enough to do just that, on some days at least.
Scoffing, Navalli looked over them to Rowan. “My turn, if you don’t mind, love. Keep ‘em busy?”
And then she was springing at them like a sabre cat, catching the female around the waist and rolling the two of them into the snow, her fangs already sunk deep into the neck of her victim.
Hunkered down, eyes locked, and poised to spring, Rowan was the image of a heart-stammering omen. This was one of the most dangerous ways to encounter him, the top being what followed once a threat was made clear to his child and grandchildren. Soft his embrace may be to those he fathered in all his smiling, hopeful mannerisms, he was a killer, eternal. Vampires lived best when they accepted the fact. An important balancing act, that was.
The idiot running into his path would soon find the wind knocked from him as the lord leapt up with his own inertia, striking and casting him to the ground on the side of the treeline his rogue companions occupied. In a blur he was on him, fangs sunk deep. Some struggle ensued, though fleeting. There were dangers still present, but he confided in Navalli to keep them from reaching him while he gorged. She was more than capable and surely knew he’d do the same for her were the roles swapped.
The sound of Rowan’s take down was muffled by freshly fallen snow. The only indication it had happened at all was the panicked wheezing and the dampened sounds of fruitless blows as the bandit struggled to get free.
Navalli cocked her head at the three who remained standing, sharing nervous glances as they contemplated following the same path as their companion. “To run from a predator is to admit you are nothing more than prey.”
The female, clearly the bravest of the group, finally broke through her terror and raised her sword as she ran forward to attack. The move was predictable, and as the sword was swung in a circular motion, Navalli stepped back, just out of reach. The blade continued around, swinging downward, which Navalli slid away from with ease.
One other male decided to join the fray while the other hesitated behind, weighing his options. When he took a step back, towards the direction his companion had run, towards where his companion was currently being drained dry, Navalli left her fight to stand in his way. “Going somewhere?”
Albeit reluctantly, he raised his battleaxe to attack. Smirking in satisfaction, Navalli tackled him to the ground, slamming his armored head hard into the snow - not enough to kill, but enough to be disorienting. Then, she ripped off his helm and tossed it away. As she went in for a bite, though, she felt a subtle shift in the air and managed to duck just milliseconds before the female’s sword would have taken her head clean off. Navalli rolled off her opponent and rose to her feet with all three bandits in front of her.
“Any day now, love,” she said to the open air, although it’s unclear to her opponents that she’s speaking to Rowan. Then, to the bandits, “I hope none of you are criers. I have a bet to win.”
“And give us both away? No lass, I’ll leave the theatrics to you while I advance from a different angle,” Rowan’s tactical nature replied for him. He chuckled, tacking on, “but you know I’ll not pass up a drink.”
He never assumed his quarry was of low intellect or retained laughable abilities. Bandits were dangerous, hardy because they had to be - he’d learned this much to his chagrin upon entering the province as a hungry fledgling without his sire’s help. Skyrim was not merciful to anyone. Not that his home had been an easy hunting ground, either…
Opting for a diversion without giving Navalli any say-so, he understood he’d need to put a lot more distance between them. He stole around the rough, frozen foliage rustled by two battling winds from the mountain and the sea. The Lord waited for it to roar past, and as it did he would move, so his crunchy steps in the snow went unheard by the group they hunted.
He crouched behind a huge rock scratched by the waving, dying branches of an aspen. This was a vantage point he deemed particularly favorable, so he settled in. Navalli would realize he’d stopped his stalking, and start her game.
She clicked her tongue at him. “You’re no fun, but fine, love.” After giving his hair a loving and gentle tug, they headed off in their separate directions. Rowan was undoubtedly preparing himself for the pounce, allowing her the space she would need to have a little fun with her dinner.
At times, she hated this desire, but instincts couldn’t be denied. The smell of fear and adrenaline was potent to her senses - there was nothing more satisfying than prey knowing when their life was in danger. Their quickening hearts left the blood to rush through their veins, making them all more enticing...
Why rush the inevitable? Why should she not enjoy every second she could get out of her meal?
Navalli moved closer, taking an agonizingly slow place as she made her way over dried sticks and crunching snow. Each step she took blended in with Rowan’s, which she heard some short distance away under the blazing winds and crashing sea. It was amazing, she thought, that after so long, she was still innately attuned to the quiet sounds of his boots on the forest floor.
When she heard him stop a grin stretched at her features, fangs glinting under the light of the moons. It was time to have a bit of fun...
Knowing full well her opponents wouldn’t be able to see her, not only thanks to the darkness that surrounded them but also to the torchlight that kept their eyes from seeing too far beyond its fire, Navalli paused by a nearby shrub as their conversation brushed by her ears.
“Aye, I saw the man’s face, Bjorn, ya don’t need to keep rantin’ ‘bout it.”
“You saw his face, but Signth didn’t! Ah, the look of fear in his eyes when I told him to stand still so I could make it fast... nothing sweeter than that look, I’m tellin’ ya.”
She cocked her head. If only the man knew...
Deciding it was a good time for the story to come to an end, Navalli reached over and ran her hand through the shrub next to her.
The conversation stopped immediately, heads twisting blindly in her direction. By the time they would’ve been able to lay eyes on her, she was gone.
“What was that?”
“Probably that blasted wind, you thick-skulled barbarian. Just keep moving.”
She was on the opposite side of them now, and she let them walk a few more paces before she stepped purposefully on a twig, the snap of it cutting through the wind.
Again, by the time their eyes fell in her direction, she was no where to be found, already moving to a new position.
“I get the feelin’ we’re bein’ watched. That definitely wasn’t jus’ the wind.”
“Fine, it’s not the wind, but it’s still more than likely an animal than anything. Likely more scared of us than we are of it.” Although she put on a brave face, the female’s tone definitely had a slight edge to it.
“We are in Volkihar territory... what if it’s a vampire or somethin’? I’ve heard their Lord is merciless wi’ people like us.”
“What are the chances the great-and-mighty Lord is here with us? Just stop draggin’ your ass and let’s keep going.”
A smile curling her lips, Navalli dashed through the trees, hissing as she did so, the sound following her. The hiss stopped, but she continued moving, allowing her steps to make that much more noise as she did so.
They were truly beginning to panic now, and the smell of their racing blood was a hard one to resist now.
Her game paused, but only for a minute while they stood around like clueless does just waiting for their lives to end.
A low growl rumbled in her chest.
“Who goes there?!” One of the men shouted, trying to shine the light in her direction. Their hands moved to their weapons, and they began to brace themselves for a fight.
This time, Navalli ran through them, knocking the torch from the man’s hands. It sizzled out in the cold snow within seconds. All that was left for them to see was a pair of glowing crimson eyes that surely promised death.
“So,” Navalli began with an eerie calm, “what’s this story about a man facing death?”
Two of them stammered and took a step back from her.
“Just- just leave us be! You’re outnumbered, vampire!” The female, voice quaking as hard as the others shook.
“And you are very outmatched.”
A second of silence as the wind soared over them before one of them began to run...
Mo charaid. They called each other those words in writing, but it had been a long time since he heard Navalli say with his own ears. Comfort of familiarity, of home, knocked on the door to his heart. This was one reason she used his language with him, he knew that as truth. Thoughtful lass.
His appetite climbed quickly as he followed the scent trail over all manner of rugged terrain. He sensed the same of her.
“We live in relative comfort,” he said after a dwelling moment, after an honest reflection. “If there wasn’t blood on the floor when you were let into the keep, we’ve foregone serious troubles for the night. Orthjolf is as much a posturing idiot as he was the day you left, if that pleases you, but he does not forget his place. The lad you taught is completely self-sufficient. And your dog…” The Lord made a face but beared her no ignited kindling. “… Takes his bones in my bed. I suppose I’m second best, in his eyes. No greater,” he chortled.
Hands brushing aspen trunks and pine bark with his passing, Rowan briefly broke the outer layers with small grips of his claws and the glands under them, marking the trees with his distinctive smell, his identity. He probably did not even fully realize he was doing it. Territorial by nature, vampires safeguarded the grounds closest to home, warning rogues to venture elsewhere in pursuit of prey. Undead of a lesser caliber would be damn near suicidal to hunt where the Lord deemed they should not.
“We’re getting close,” he thrummed Navalli’s way, sticking to the trail with keen observation of snow-blown shoeprints and traces of smoke that would have inevitably plastered to the bandits’ clothes as they quelled the campfire. “Eyes peeled, lass.”
His descriptions of the on-goings in the castle were no less humorous and vivid than they were in the letters - in fact, they were more so since she could hear the words herself. Reading pages of letters and imagining his lilting accent only went so far and never compared to the actual sound. While some may have found it rushed or perhaps clumsy, she rather enjoyed hearing his voice.
Or perhaps it had just been too long since she had been around him that led her to such a conclusion.
Navalli watched him leave a trail, resisting the natural instinct she had to wipe it with her own. She had enough of her own markings, though most of them not on Nirn and done to piss off a certain being or two who would no doubt wipe such a claim away as soon as it was discovered. Oh, how she loved to play with fire.
At his command, she gave him a sarcastic salute. “Aye-aye, captain.”
After only a little more time, they reached a small path, no doubt one meant to keep them from the main road. It was mildly well-traveled, indicating that they weren’t the first bandits to walk the path, nor would they be the last. Up ahead, she could hear voices, laughing so carelessly as they walked away. These were certainly the bandits they were looking for.
Two - no, three males and a female. Good, there would be no vampires fighting over a spare body, unless of course Rowan wanted to take one or two back for the castle...
Gods, she prayed not, she wanted blood at this point.
She stopped, but only to give him a brief look. “Dibs on the lady.” A rare grin graced her cheeks. “What do you say we have a bit of fun, Ro? A few well-placed growls and some brush shuffling, I’ll bet we could have this lot pissin’ their pants within minutes.” She elbowed him gently in the side. “Round of drinks on me if you get one of them to cry.”
“Just a week and then some,” replied Rowan, a smile of enfeebled whimsy lighting his voice as he climbed out of the desk chair with achy limbs, “but, aye, I’ll appreciate a good run… with a lassie as dear as you to boot.”
Really he couldn’t argue with the woman. Having something to sink his teeth into would settle some of his stress, as well as his belly.
It was more difficult with Farkas gone, getting through each workload to the end of his nights. Knowing the large Nord would not be there to warm the bed when he finally did retreat from his coven’s line of sight, to be an ear when so many others were just voices, dragged so much of him to the ground. No… Farkas would never occupy that room again, never greet him with a husky gaze or that simple “c’mere” – he would lay forever cold in the cultivated garden, Skyrim’s wild aurora tossing colors above his grave as a beautiful tribute to his memory and the life that lived on in the vampire lord, leaving such a lasting touch.
His sire was good for venting to, partial to him as any maker should be, but not like Farkas. Maybe it was the array of expression made by his late husband’s face, rough and shifting with concern as each detail of recollection became known to him. Maybe, it was the thick blackness of his hair helping to swallow him up in comforting shadow as he buried his nose in it, breathing him in. No one else would ever be as good. No one.
Though a familiar face such as Navalli’s, here in Volkihar territory, warmed his soul. He was glad to receive her, and he wanted her to know it.
-
Out of the castle, the pair tracked their mortal quarry. Wilderness embraced them on the mainland. The wind did not blow violently tonight – or perhaps it did, and Rowan was just so taken by his friend’s visit to be affected. The company did him well.
“I’ll take the lead,” he said, head bobbing as he smelled his way to the dinner table they weren’t invited to join.
While she smiles at the compliment, she can’t help but feel a twang of guilt in the pits of her stomach. She didn’t deserve to be called dear for any reason, especially not after leaving as she did. After not coming when he informed her Farkas had passed. Yes, she wrote, though not very often just to be safe. Yes, she would leave random gifts if she was having a particularly rough time and missing him.
But she didn’t deserve to be called dear.
She wouldn’t express her thoughts out loud. She never would.
Her nose tilted to the air, Navalli took a deep breath, letting the fading scent of the bandits wash over her. There were three of them, though possibly four. She prayed for an even number so she and Rowan didn’t end up butting heads. That was the unfortunate side of hunting with another vampire - instincts demanded possession and uninterrupted feeding. With another vampire, there was always a risk of interference, even unintentionally.
Instincts were nasty, uncontrollable things, even for some of the best of them.
“I wouldn’t have expected anything less from you, mo charaid.” She couldn’t resist using the old term of endearment, it seemed. She gestured to the path she knew he would take her on. “Lead the way.”
As they set off, she asked, “So, how are the dealings with the Volkihar these days? No serious troubles? Orthjolf still fighting in the ring at every passing opportunity? Fjori staying out of trouble? Ardanach getting enough bones?”
“Eligius was rapidly made aware of the responsibility in taking the hand of my child, no matter how grown.” A dangerous accordance. Perhaps moreso where his sire was involved, if it could be believed, for Cormag called Runa his granddaughter of sorts, and the old one had differing opinions on the extent in which mercy should be dolled.
Rowan’s hunger constricted his attention. His fangs, throat, and stomach all ebbed with pain, singing of torturous need. He would benefit greatly from what she proposed. The thought came to him over the past couple of weeks but he’d put it behind courtly tasks of a more pressing nature. Alas, it was time.
With a small, gamely smile, he asked, “Abandoned? Where do you assume they’ve gone?”
Elated by his response, though her external composure remained save for a one-sided smile, Navalli responded, “Tracks and scent seemed to go north, but I didn’t follow to check. Fire was still smoking when I passed. They haven’t gone far.” She’d left them in hopes Rowan would agree to hunt them down with her. It was something they could do together that they both enjoyed - certainly not an opportunity to be wasted.
She removed her cloak and draped it over a chair, opting to leave it behind for now. A note that she would return with him, if only briefly to retrieve it before leaving the castle once again. “Come on, Lord Rowan,” she said his name and title with ease and jest, “Your expression tells me it’s been a while. Let’s have some vampiric fun.”
A long, weary chuckle rolled out of the longstanding Volkihar lord…
“I live each day with gratitude for what I still possess.” A soft, merciful way of describing his daily struggles, for just then it was not in him to draw too much attention to the loss of his wolf husband.
“My daughter is healthy as a war horse, as are her own wee bairns.” Not really babes, anymore, the two of them – but to him they’d always be. How could they not, when he’d bounced them proudly on his knee so many times, before the Hall?
“She has asked of you more than once with notable enthusiasm, ken? I simply explained you were well. Let the worry be mine.”
A sad smile met her. So Runa thought of her from time to time. It was a touching thought. While she of course adored Runa, she had never expected the feelings to be reciprocated. If only she could write Runa a note, leave an anonymous gift…. drop by to say hello... but she wouldn’t dare take that risk. She cared far too much about Runa to put her and her family at risk.
Dammit all, she was already taking a big enough risk seeing Rowan now.
“I’m happy to hear she’s doing well. And her children. I also assume her husband is a fine man given you haven’t murdered him yet to my knowledge.” A light chuckle at her attempt at humor.
Words escaped her again. Small talk was not her forte, it never had been. It was easier in letters when she only wanted to tackle major events, but now, in person, it was so much harder. It felt shallow.
“I saw a freshly abandoned bandit camp on my way in,” she said, “I was thinking maybe you and I could go on a hunt while I’m here. For old time’s sake, you know?” Navalli shrugged her shoulder. “Not sure if you’re busy, but I thought I’d offer.”
Only a couple decades. In the grand scheme of things, that was hardly anything. Time stretched endlessly on for each of them, which meant a couple decades was hardly a scratch on how long their lives would be. What they had already lived.
Yet, those couple of decades felt like forever. Not a day passed where she didn’t long to wander the halls of the Volkihar again. She missed wrestling with Ardanach on the floor of her bedroom in the dim candlelight and helping new fledglings learn to walk in their new life.
But those were both only the beginnings of all that she missed.
Navalli folded her hands behind her and raised her chin to the awkwardness she felt. There were a lot of words she wanted to say, and all of them ran from her like rodents from a torch light. Many of them revolved around her guilt for leaving, a guilt that had been gnawing at her insides for years. Others involved expressing how dearly she missed him. Some were gratitude for his part in helping her move forward in her life.
Scatter, rats.
She inhaled sharply as her thoughts broke before finally asking, “How have you been fairing? And how’s Runa?”
“The book is sacred to our clan. It was created for us by Hircine, but it was stolen by servants of Molag Bal around two hundred years ago. Ironically enough, it deals with our rites and rituals and also defines our code of hunt. Most importantly, it contains the main ritual involved in the creation of our briarhearts.”
Honora had only managed to track down the book in the past year. For two entire centuries her clan had sought where Bal’s servants hid the books. Being the one to finally return them to Bloodthorn hands was supposed to be a great victory for her. But of course, someone just had to take a werewolf-sized shit on something that was supposed to bring her glory. Finding and killing that bastard was as much for her own pride as it was for vengeance.
“With that book, someone could recreate our magic and unleash their own bastardized version of the briarhearts upon whomever they wished. You could just imagine the kind of hell that’d bring down upon the clans of the Reach, seeing as though the civil folk are just itching for a reason to march on us.”
The Reachwoman turned on her heels, using a raised hand to beckon for Navalli to follow. The trip back to the encampment was fast, though there wasn’t much of a camp left to find. It was all packed up, and Honora’s people were ready to begin the trek back to their stronghold. “Hope you don’t mind the cold. Or heights,” Honora mused to Navalli as she signalled for her people to begin their journey. It would only be a few hours before they arrived; an absolute blessing considering all of Honora’s patience had been dashed by the losses her clan had suffered that day.
“Thankfully, the book is protected from misuse because it appears blank to all but the shaman of clan Bloodthorn, which happens to be me. Even Bal himself couldn’t pillage its secrets. However, I fear more attacks on our clan should the thief learn of this and seek to force my aid.”
“Cold and heights are fine.” She loved heights and cold didn’t affect her greatly, so it made no difference to her.
Navali exhaled slowly. “Why would the servants of Bal take such a thing if no one but you can read it? Sounds like a pointless thing for them to take.”
It didn’t sound like something Molag Bal really wanted - if he had, it was only because he didn’t want anyone else to have it. Stubborn bastard would do something like that, she supposed, only for fun and games. And it would be exactly like him to send her after it for additional entertainment.
Asshole.
Unless, of course, his servants acted without him. Wasn’t completely unlikely, but she had a feeling that wasn’t necessarily the case.
Still, from the sounds of it, compromising may not be an option, but if there was some way to avoid trouble or worse, bloodshed...
“I understand the significance of an original copy, but if it’s that important, why not make another? Can no one else create a similar spell effect that prevents others from reading it?”
The flickering light of the hearth against damp wooden walls that could barely resist the storm.
The sound of beating rain on the rooftop. A leak in the corner of the room, the floor saved by a bucket below, drops hitting the tin between rolls of roaring thunder. The unnerving silence after unforgiving chaos.
The feel of her leather-wrapped blade handle under her fingers, of soaked fabric clinging to her skin.
The smell of wet pine and sweet red wine.
The taste of fresh poisoned blood on her lips.
But let’s back up to the beginning, shall we? There’s so much you missed. Don’t blink this time, or you’ll miss it again…
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Honora gave a coy grin. “Nice to meet you, Navalli. Let’s hope I don’t regret that statement after I see what happened to my men.”
She was largely quiet as she followed Navalli. Her senses were trained on the world around her. They weren’t preternatural, no, but she knew this forest well enough to notice if there was trickery afoot. Her supposed bravery neither blind nor foolhardy. Rather, she knew what she could handle, and she knew she could at the very least escape a confrontation if Navalli turned out to be deceiving her in the end.
When the bodies came into view, Honora became more confident in her temporary companion’s honesty. This scene looked similar to all of the others. The shaman knelt beside a pool of blood, muttering ancient words as dark magic swirled from her hands into the crimson. Her eyes turned white, and for as long as she continued her quiet chant, a living vision of her hunter’s deaths played out before her and Navalli.
The phantom hunters faced down against a single foe; a werewolf three times the size of any normal lycanthrope. She watched as the wolfman took them out, noting how the damage caused by their weapons did little to stop the beast. When they were all slain, the werewolf returned to his mortal form and ripped a tome from a hide satchel on the ground before fleeing to the east.
“Just as I suspected,” Honora remarked as she ended the spell and turned to Navalli. Her frustration shined in her voice.“That creature targeted them on purpose. They were sent to retrieve that book for me, but he got to them before they could return. The same beast has done this to all the parties I’ve sent out to retrieve artifacts.”
She rubbed the back of her neck, gnawing at her lip as her brows knit with anger. A sigh abated the swelling rage within her, and she looked up at Navalli.
“Thank you for bringing me here. Like I said, I wish to reward you for what you’ve done for my people. I have no means to do that here, but I’d like to invite you to our stronghold. It’s only a short distance; we can reach it by the time the nightfall.”
Honora’s words didn’t quite have the effect on Navalli as one would’ve thought. Rather than being relieved as her innocence was proven, she found herself stiffer - tenser.
Was it a coincidence that Honora’s men were after a book - same as her? Was it a coincidence that they had been killed in the process? Her gut twisted uncomfortably. If Honora and her were, by chance, seeking the same book...
She didn’t want to think about it. She had to convince Honora to stop chasing the book - her life, quite literally, depended on it. That is, assuming they were searching for the same thing. If they were and Honora refused to back down... there would be unnecessary bloodshed and Navalli didn’t want to do that to a woman who seemed decent.
“They were sent to retrieve a book?” She asked, keeping her tone casual. “Seems rather... unimportant. Or, at the very least, not something worth killing over. Did it teach you how to grow coins on trees or something?”
“We will learn the truth when I see the bodies,” Honora nodded. She walked past the woman towards the direction she came from.
Revenge had a special place in their society. It wouldn’t have mattered if they were direct targets or collateral damage, though Honora already suspected that they were the intended targets based on why she had sent them to the forest.
The one thing all of the slaughtered hunting parties had in common outside of being from clan Bloodthorn? They were in the process of delivering sacred artifacts to Honora when they were killed. This sinister trend is why Honora followed them with a second, much larger group. She had hoped keeping them close to back-up would save the most recent party. Unfortunately, she misjudged the culprit’s tenacity.
“Thank you for the warning, but I’d prefer not to watch you like you were some wild beast. We’re both grown women; I’m sure we can handle our business in a civil manner. They will all stay here to pack up camp and prepare for our return home, and I will go with you alone,” Honora gave a half-smile, gesturing for the stranger to lead her. “My name is Honora, by the way.”
She shrugged her shoulder. It was an astonishing amount of trust that Honora was putting into her. She wasn’t about to break that, of course, as she had no intentions of harming Honora or anyone in her... tribe? Group? Family? What was the proper word?
With Honora gesturing for her to lead the way, she inclined her head and began to move forward, retracing the steps she had taken (and using her keen sense of smell for the moments she forgot where her feet had gone).
“You’re a rare lady, Honora,” she mused, “braver than most, I’ll say that.”
A hum escaped her briefly. “My name’s Navalli.”
Short, sweet, and to the point.
The trip back to the bodies was much quicker than her travels to find Honora, mostly thanks to the fact she’d already made it one way and only had to go back.
“They put up a fight against whatever attacked them,” she said as the bodies came into view. “Their opponents didn’t leave unscathed.” Their own weapons had been bloodied, a strong sign that they had done their best to defend themselves.
In the end, their efforts hadn’t been enough.
Navalli crouched down and tilted one of the member’s heads to the side, examining the state of the body. “The scavengers haven’t had the opportunity to dig into them yet,” she said, “so I bet they haven’t been dead more than twelve hours. I’d place their deaths early this morning sometime.”
Honora adjusted her crossed arms as she watched the woman lay down the belongings. Her eyes searched them for a prolonged moment, checking for any arcane trappings, hidden spells or enchantments meant to harm. Honora would not put anyone above tricks; especially not someone unknown to her and her people. Despite a faint, detectable presence of Daedric magic on the woman herself, the items were clean of any meddling.
“Take these and put them in my tent. Wrap them up and keep them safe until we have a shaman purify them so they can be presented to their families,” she commanded to one of her servants with a snap of her fingers before turning back to the woman. Her tone was less accusatory, though there was still a touch of tension hidden beneath. “Thank you for returning the hunters’ tokens. To my people, they are worth more than their bodies.”
Clan Bloodthorn saw no point in burying bodies or burning them unless they were plagued. The dead were best served by being given back to the wilds of which they came, for it allowed them to bolster their clan beyond their own deaths. They would nourish the plants and creatures of the wood, which in turn would one day provide for the clan in the future. They might even serve the macabre rituals of the hags and shamans. It was irreverent, yes, but there was nothing ceremonial about the normal cycle of life and death, anyhow.
“Still, it would be best you took me to where they died so I can investigate myself. I need to completely absolve you of guilt, lest my people be outraged for letting you leave. I would also like to reward you in some way should you prove honest when everything be settled.”
Well, that was worth note should she ever find herself with more dead Reachmen in the future. Or, at least anyone from this Clan. She really should more know about their culture, she figured, but many times these days Reachmen were too spear-happy and not conversationally happy.
As these Reachmen had proven already.
Navalli held up her hands, palms out. “Not about to argue your logic.” She looked towards some of her people. “I’ll warn you... whoever did this wasn’t just after coin. Perhaps your people got in the crossfire or were mistaken for the actual target. I don’t know.”
Her eyes scanned the men and women that were still eyeing her suspiciously. Not that she blamed them - she had a tendency to put off even average, unsuspecting people simply because of her ties to Molag Bal. Prey naturally shied from predator, even if it wasn’t a conscious action. “How many of these ones you taking with? I’d recommend at least three if you’re looking to keep me in check.”
Honora could hear the stranger’s voice from inside her tent. What a bold woman, to approach a camp of Reachfolk like that. Hadn’t she heard all of those horrible stories that civilized people like to tell about them? A lot of them were embellished and plumped with melodramatic nonsense, but not all of them were false.
The sound of scrambling that arose in the camp drew a sigh from Honora as she rose from her bed-furs and closed the book she was reading. It was strange for a woman of the Reach to indulge in the writings of other cultures, but no one was stupid enough to question their chief and her hobbies. With a snap of her fingers, her two male servants placed her deer-skull headdress atop her head and opened the leather panels of the tent for her to exit. The followed closely behind her, spears in hand in case any violence broke out.
“What is the meaning of this?” she yelled to her warriors, who grew silent at her words. Seeing them crowd around the strange woman with raised spears like a bunch of idiots was aggravating. For the love of Hircine, they certainly didn’t do much to help outsiders’ perception of the Reachfolk, did they? “It’s a sad day when a Clan-Matron cannot sit in peace because her escorts have turned into howling skeevers at the sight of a stranger.”
The camp parted as Honora made her way to the strange woman. There was something off about her. Daedric magic of some sort? Most likely. Once in talking distance (while still safely out of the woman’s reach) Honora looked down at the items she presented. The blood spattered possessions clearly belonged to the hunting party she had sent out to collect something for her.
So, they’d been slain as well.
Honora had sent three parties total to retrieve the artifact she sought, and all three had been found dead. These attacks were not done by other clans. No, these were the work of an outsider that was targeting her people.
“And just what would you be doing with those, lassie?” Honora crossed her arms. “I’m assuming you’re not the culprit. It’d take someone truly stupid to kill my men in cold blood and then come confess it to my face.”
Navalli stood there as if she didn’t have a dozen or so spears threatening to turn her into minced meat within seconds. In fact, she look positively bored by their attempts to threaten her. It was too bad none of them had any idea that she could kill them all within seconds by opening a simple portal...
Well, at least the so-called Clan-Matron seemed just as aggravated by their cowardliness. She was impressed, if she admitted it - they all parted at the mere sound of her voice. Some amount of power and respect she must have.
The vampire smirked under her facial covering. “Good thing for both of us I’m not that stupid, then.” Unsure of what else to do, Navalli set the belongings on the ground and took a few steps back, giving the Clan-Matron a chance to take a closer look from a “safe” distance.
“I found them all dead. Five of them. Looked to be the work of bandits or something of the like, I’m not sure. Definitely wasn’t an animal, at the very least. I figured I would pass the information of their deaths along appropriately. I would have carried them back myself had there not been five of them.” She folded her arms. “I can lead you to the bodies if you’d like, but otherwise,” she looked to the number of Reachmen who still looked like they wanted to skewer her, “I need to be on my way.”
