#a hopeful queue

[norokyolsil]

Things that don't scare Ella: -Assassins -Thieves -Dragons Things that scare Ella: -Rabbits

[norokyolsil]

Thistle and Weeds, pt 2/3

Trigger Warnings: Violence, gore. It was expected, the blindingly fast swing. And she was prepared. Her body moved into a lunge. All of her weight shifted forward, toes turning over the mossy rocks that formed a tenatively stable ground. Around she spun, the two blades slicing harmlessley through empty air. Backwards the elf stepped, but her sword remained in its blocking position. She could have easily taken the Breton out at that moment, when his back was turned. But it seemed too cowardly. Backstabbing (literally and figuratively) was in her opinion, the lowest of means by which to kill another. She gave him time to turn, and parried the next hack he attempted. Quicker was this one, reckless. That was good. Reckless meant he'd be less worried about himself. A critical hit was possible. Or not. Two long minutes passed. Many near hits were made, neither actually injured. Just exhausted. Gasping for breath, arms shaking, the two actually stopped for a break that lasted ten seconds. Neither made a move to attack in this space of time. Ella watched her former friend with the shadow of a smirk. Her sword tip sat against the ground. Resting. Mercer, however, wasn't so trusting. He stood like he was ready to fight again at any moment. Once he even lifted his dwarven blade, but dropped it again after only a half-second. The mer's smile widened into a teasing grin. "What's wrong, love? Having trouble keeping your sword up?" This ended the break. Into battle again the two went. Unlike the first time, however, a clear winner was emerging. It wasn't Ella. Elves were small, sneaky creatures. They had endurance and speed. Strength, though, was an attribute many lacked. Including the Nightingale who fought with all of her (admittedly limited) strength for her life. The strikes were too fast, too brutal. With every strike her grip on her sword lessened. A new, more painful injury formed on her skin. Nicks and cuts, slices and bruises all began to blossom with alarming frequency. Skittering on her feet she tried to think up a plan. Survival was key. A few cuts could be taken so long as they weren't fatal. If she could get him to let his guard down- He wouldn't. She knew he wouldn't. He had been driven mad by anger and envy. Perhaps years ago she could have beat him. He taught her swordplay, after all. They were evenly matched. Except for now. When all he had on his mind was bloodshed and gold. 'It's the damn key, too. Boosting his abilities.' How else could he strike with such accuracy? She was struggling to keep up. Worry clouded her ordinarily clear thoughts. Panic and terror soon rose in tandem. Backwards up a staircase she advanced. Then right, up further. All the while blocking strike after strike, trying to throw a few of her own. Her eyes flickered aside. Not for long at all. Just to judge the distance at which she'd had until the wall. That was when the pain of ten thousand cuts exploded in her stomach. Like fire on her skin. In her gut. It was impossible to escape, to think of anything but the agony. She turned slowly, and looked down. At the two blade that had torn into her stomach. Ripped into the flesh from which blood now dribbled. Not even a scream came from her throat. A low whimper of pain almost did. Her teeth snapped together. Weakness would not be shown. Not even in death. Because that's what this was. The end. He grinned murderously. The edges of her vision blurred. All strength gave way from her knees and she began to fall just as he yanked the weapons free of her flesh. Dark, rich blood poured more fiercly from the wound. Into the steadily rising waters it fell, clouding it instantly. Her sword fell from hand, slilpped down the steps to an unreachable distance. Each heartbeat was slower, a pang of body-shaking agony. She lay curled up on her side, one arm clutched over her wound. The other lay on the ground, fingernails dug into the stone steps. He took a deep breath, hoisted his dwarven blade high above her head. She knew when it came down, that it would cleave her in two. And there was no stopping it. 'I'm sorry Gallus. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me.' The sword came hudling downwards. A scream built up in her throat. When the blade was two inches from her skin, it turned into a Shout.

[norokyolsil]

Headcanons: The Guild (pt 2/?)

-A conversation between Ella and Gallus could transpire in up to 5 languages, from Ayelid to Dovahzuul and everything in between. Much of the Guild found this to be bizzare, and generally ignored the two when they got into their scholarly “debates.” -Their scholarly debates were educated arguments. -Ella’s first friend when joining the Guild was Karliah. They remain sisters in bond to this day. -The current record of most mead drank in one sitting stands at 13 tankards, held by the ever present Delvin. -Each 3rd Sundas of the month is “game night.” -Game night is drunken debauchery night.