You're not one of the Betrayed.. so what are you d-doing down here, in Blackreach?
He’d gathered the bodies from aboveground and presented them to Nimhe, titan archnid wrapping the still-wriggling pests like holiday gifts, Mafrewel suffered the heat of Blackreach everyday for this precious spider of his, “I gotta feed Nimhe everyday, otherwise she gets into stuff she’s not suppose to: Chaurus eggs, other falmer, not to mention their human servants,” an absentminded quip left the snow-elf’s lips, heat and humidity agitating him as the blind man screeched– A simple sound spell meant to detect still moving entities, but this THING stuttering before him wasn’t beast, falmeri, or human! “Who are YOU? What are you doing down here, in Blackreach?”
Mzainth bit back a shriek in response, hand almost slipping away from the staff that held her up as she straightened up by instinct.
“Mzainth Erhist, daughter of Kyzbalan Erhist— I–I live hhh–here…” she stammered her way out of an authoritative tone, “Nimhe? Th–th-the spider? You actually… You actually managed t-to get past her…?”
Her face creased up as she shook her head, taking a deep breath to try to regain… some of her poise.
“How’ve you survived so long?” she began in unsure falmeris, trying to focus on his shape in the dim glow of the mushrooms.
“Oh, I did MUCH more then simply get past Nimhe,” the snow elf’s voice beamed with pride as he reached down and carefully handled the silk webbing surrounding the spider’s domain, judging by the unsteadiness of the voice in front of him, Mafrewel signaled the alert for prey, and all massive eight eyes focused on Mzainth!
Mz's breath caught in her throat, eyes open wider than the moons as she blinked up at the spider. The gods had quite the sense of humor, apparently.
"I dd--don't want to fight you," her tone was firm for once, a soldier's forcefulness in her undertones, "Wh----what good is there to killing me...?"
Her hand fumbled with a belt clasp, rough leather sliding over her shoulders as a massive blade came into view; it sat comfortably over the half-stump of her bicep where her arm had been. Another clasp clicked shut, the almost-zweihander stretching to her calf--- it had been sharpened out of idle boredom to frightening degrees and hung at her side, its tip sinking into the wet soil underfoot in somewhat of a yielding gesture.











