#jo'raya

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♤ 1. reject a hug my muse had offered (reverse!)

♤ 1. reject a hug my your muse had offered

Jo’Raya’s fur bristled at the first touch and she rippled away from beneath Nelle’s fingers, with her fur stood on end and her ears tilted back. Her tail, which was hanging low behind her legs, flicked back and forth.

‘Khajiit will manage.’

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Getting Jo'Raya to perform floggings with her claws has had at least one unexpected side-effect. Her inexplicable soft spot for Braskan doesn't mean she goes easy on him when he's being punished for drunkenness - if anything, she's more vicious - and the pain has never seemed to deter Braskan. Increasingly, however, he does seem to be aware of Jo'Raya's disappointment in him, and although it might be wishful thinking, his pumishments do seem to be getting a little less frequent.

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Grief

The Scamps have lost more than a few of their own over the centuries, but that doesn’t make it any easier. They each have their own ways of reacting to and dealing with the ensuing grief.

R’khan gets much stricter and quicker to anger. The only time he has ever hit Luca was after a crew member was killed, in response to an unrelated incident. She didn’t retaliate, surprisingly, but ran away and hid in the hold for a while, where the Argonians kept her company. R’khan didn’t apologise but then again, he also didn’t punish her for shirking her duties.

Speaking of Luca, on the rare occasions when somebody she actually likes dies, she gets stuck in the denial phase of grief. The person in question cannot be dead, and if they are, there must be a way to get them back. That’s what shady deals with the daedra are for.

Vilayn shuts himself away refusing to talk to anyone and drinks heavily; the length of time and amount of booze vary according to how much he liked the recently deceased. He was drunk for three days straight after he found out that his mother had died. Casether is worried about what will happen if (when) Hazil succumbs to his illness.

Tosti becomes cold, almost surgical. He tends to disappear for a length of time as well. If the person who died was someone close to him, and if they died before their time, the people at fault for their death tend to meet an unpleasant fate of their own shortly afterwards.

Azareth takes the news in his usual stoic way. It’s even more difficult than usual to coax conversation out of him afterwards, although he might be found in deep, quiet debate with Ethysil. Eventually he will pour out one for the deceased, smoke one of his fancier pipes in their honour, and move on.

Bereavement might be the only thing which silences Eddis’s laughter. True, he will start sucking and chewing on his teeth instead, but at least it’s a break from his usual giggling. He also becomes more erratic in his behaviour. The last time they lost a crew member and this happened, R’khan, in a moment of genuine concern for his bosun, called Eddis into his quarters for a private talk; Eddis was back to usual when he left.

Drasonval, Braskan, Oran and Sham commiserate with each other. Their omnipresent sense of camaraderie intensifies, and they will gather around, usually with a drink, and if they all knew the deceased they will share stories together until they’re able to laugh again. If only one of them was personally affected, the others will do their best to cheer him or her up or, failing that, just be there.

Bob will take her feelings out on any objects nearby, smashing them until she feels better. Surprisingly, it works. She doesn’t understand why everybody else has to bury their emotions, or sit around doing nothing about them.

Eldnar feels loss keenly, and struggles to hide his sentimentality. It embarrasses him and -- what a shock -- the crew tease him for it, so he tends to disappear in this sort of situation until he’s over the tears.

According to his beliefs, Ethysil is not supposed to consider death an end, merely a return to a greater whole. That’s all very well as an abstract idea. In practice he becomes very sombre, spends a lot more time alone with his thoughts, and either avoids talking to people if he is the only person affected, or listens quietly if other people knew the deceased.

Jo’Raya doesn’t show much in how she deal with other people, but she loses her appetite and spends a lot more time sleeping, or at least curled up in her bunk, than she usually does.

Assuming her surgical efforts did not contribute towards the death in question, Rosie deals with grief reasonably well. Like anyone, she goes through periods of sadness and anger, but they fade in a reasonable amount of time. If her surgical efforts did contribute, once she overcomes the guilt she will be determined to learn from the experience and do better next time, and will throw herself almost frantically into her work and study to ensure this is the case.

Turithys shuts down all personal communication. She will only talk to people to discuss work, and it can take a long time before she is ready to relax and open up again.

Like Jo’Raya, Xisthia’s interactions with others don’t change much, but that’s assuming they can find her. She will spend most of her time swimming and hiding underwater, distracting herself with exploring the seabed and sometimes sitting on rocks down there, watching the ripples overhead.

Zannammu appears to have much more faith in her concept of an afterlife than Ethysil. She is convinced that those who pass on receive their just rewards and uses this to cope with the loss of them in her own life.

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❛ You only got one shot. ❜

It was a tough one. The eaves of the house were high and slick with rain, not to mention the years of grime which built up just from existing in Riften, and there was only a rotting crate to use as a jumping point. A yell from the guards punctured Enid’s warning. Jo’Raya’s muscles stiffened and she took a few soft paces back.

‘This one will take it. The prey will not tell the guards.’

And she was running, sprinting forwards, reaching towards the roof before her feet left the ground. Her tail swung round for balance, claws dug into the wooden beams, scrabbled, found a grip. All her strength concentrated itself into hauling up the rest of her body and dragging herself onto the rooftiles. Once there she spent a second testing her weight against the moss before she was off, disappearing over the top with a flick of her tail.

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The Lash

One, because just one never hurt anybody. Two, because there had to be something to follow the first. Three, because why not? Four, because by that point he no longer cared.

‘Brass. Eight bells, Brass. Brass! B’vehk, you gonna be right for the watch?’

Sounded like Drasonval. Braskan didn’t know and didn’t care about that, either. He said some words, in the hopes that the voice would leave him alone, but no, no such luck. He was shaken and hauled up and dragged onto the deck, where the cold air bit into his skin and did nothing to blow the clouds away from his thoughts. Fortunately. Imagine having to deal with those in a state like this.

‘Get the topgallant stun’sail ready for setting!’

It was mechanical, something he could do in his sleep, something he’d done a thousand, a million times before. Braskan’s fingers slipped across the gear, dropped the lines, all while muttering curses against old Ratface and his constant shouting.

‘Belay that. Braskan! You fetching son-of-a-nix-whore’s bah’ata! Who gave you their ration? I’m going to gut them and use their insides to replace the lines we just lost.’

In a way, it was nice to put the work down, stand in front of Vilayn and let the rebukes wash over him, swaying slightly with his eyes closed. Nice until the punishment, anyway. Twenty lashes. He was brought up before the crew and made to kneel, back exposed and already well-scarred. Jo’Raya unsheathed her claws.

One, because just one never hurt anybody. Two, because there had to be something to follow the first...

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Head On [Drabble]

The Sandria, an Imperial frigate chartered by House Sadras for the purpose of hunting pirates on their shipping routes, made it almost too easy. She lay in wait off a small atoll north of Skyrim. Barren rock formed most of the area, but the snow covering it provided ample fresh water for any less than lawful sailors needing a quick hideaway and made it – so Khan Sadras assured the captain – a known haunt of those ruffians aboard the Runaway Scamp. She would be on her return voyage now, he said, and should pass Skyrim no less than two weeks before Tales and Tallows, Ancestor's Day to the Dunmer.

That blasted ship's sails came into view on the fourteenth of Last Seed, exactly as planned. The Sandria's captain gave orders to raise the anchor. A few futile attempts found that the cable had been lodged on a rock, the rudder fouled, and before the lookout noticed the Argonian paddling away through the ocean, the Scamp bore down upon them in a hail of magefire and bellowing, screeching pirates. Those who jumped overboard were spared. Those who remained were not.

A search of the hold turned up a number of crates and barrels salvaged from more successful captures, as well as enough supplies for the final two weeks of the journey home. Bob, tasked with inspecting the barrels and reinforcing the enchantments, performed her work on the weather deck while her shipmates tended to their wounds. She probed her thick fingers around the banding on a keg. The enchantment sputtered at her touch until she urged new magic into it, frowning lightly, or as lightly as an Orc could manage when her face was permanently buried under the weight of its own leathery skin. The work was delicate and tedious. Not a chore she was best suited for, but it had to be done.

After a while she became aware of someone else sat nearby. Jo'Raya had the ability to pad up in total silence and yet the impatient swishing of her tail, the silent burr of her nails digging into the deck, always gave her away. A trail of blood, not hers, slicked the fur down from the back of her head and across her neck, and she flicked an ear at it occasionally. They sat in companionable silence for some time before Jo'Raya said,

'You feel it?'

Bob laid down her tools.

'Feel what?'

'The change. This one smells it in the elves.' Jo'Raya stretched out her legs, spreading her toes and letting the claws shine against the bloodstained deck. 'When Khajiit feels change, there is a restlessness which clings to its fur. The urge to run and pounce and to do.'

Years ago, back in the stronghold, Bob remembered the old chieftain, before he was challenged by his son. She had been young then, but that didn't stop her feeling the buzz around the forge or hearing the whispers running along the walls, as if the air were charged with an unseen energy. Eventually the tension grew so tight the son had to make his challenge simply to relieve the strain on the rest of the clan.

The urge to do. Around them, scattered across the deck, the sailors were working as usual, scrubbing down planking and hauling the spoils back to the Runaway Scamp, but every now and then there would be a glance between them, or a silence where there would usually be friendly insults and laughter. Bob picked up her hammer again, only to tap it against the side of a barrel to no effect.

'Mebbe. Why?'

'The elves can't run away from it. Change hunts without rest.'

'Y'ain't thinkin' of desertin'?'

'No. Where would this one go? Besides, Khajiit says, all kittens must leave their clan mother. Some change is merciful.'

In the wintry light which always lay over the Sea of Ghosts, Jo'Raya's fur looked dark, but the edges were tipped with gold. She held herself perfectly still and poised as she gazed out to the ocean. Bob watched her for a while before shrugging and digging herself into her work.

'Orcs got a sayin', too.' She waited until Jo'Raya turned her head to listen. 'Whatever shit life throws at you, meet it head on, 'cause there ain't much thicker'n an Orc skull.'

Jo'Raya's tailed lifted. Bob had never seen a Khajiit until she signed on with the Scamp, but that was enough to teach her that this was the closest Jo'Raya ever came to laughing.

'Orc and Khajiit, not so different.'

'Cap'n says we ain't Orcs 'n Khajiit 'n elves, we's crew.'

'Then we meet the change head on together, yes? We charge in headfirst, one crew.'

For a second, Bob’s fist tightened around the shaft of her hammer. Then she raised it and began beating the iron banding into shape, as the magic flowed through her fingers, and although the ring of metal and metal prevented any reply, the broad, tusk-filled grin was good enough for Jo’Raya. Soon Sham joined them, helping to repair the wood of the barrels, and Luca carried their tools back and forth, and the crew of the Scamp worked on as one around them with change on their heels.

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The crew have attempted various ruses to smuggle Jo’Raya into cities which refuse entry to Khajiit. Their favourite success was courtesy of Braskan. When intercepted by a guard, he looked him dead in the eye and informed him that Jo’Raya was a Nord, and as the guard wasn’t immediately convinced, pointed out she’s fuckin’ hairy enough ta be one a’ yas, ain’t she? Whether the guard was convinced or only relented upon realising that the large group of heavily armed pirates in front of him was not going to back down is irrelevant; it achieved the desired result and Jo’Raya was permitted to remain with them unharassed.

More usually, however, Jo’Raya and the Khajiit will remain with the ship while docked in Skyrim, or find a sneakier way into the city of their own accord if there’s something they really need. Most of the time it isn’t worth the hassle.

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❝ Be careful. There may be a reason this ground has lain undisturbed for so long. ❞

Jo’Raya spared Valen a withering glance, the sort only feline eyes could give, before she resumed scrabbling at the dirt with her claws.

‘This one is always careful. Perhaps the prey should focus on watching for guards, instead of mewling like a distressed kitten.’