Letters just weren’t the same, tied with Plava’s poor (but Gods, did she try) writing that was improving in Winterhold, what was just a brief distance felt like continents and years between her and Arythn. Certainly, it had been a big change to leave in battered armour a thin longsword and return with one of gold light and a staff strapped to her back, galloping on pale horseback.
It felt like there was an age between her and Windhelm now, but it was the thought of her friend that had Plava weathering the blizzard on her new horse, her fluffy dog asleep on an overlarge mostly-empty bag tied strategically to the horse.
“Easy Damocles, easy, I’ll cast a spell and put a blanket on you, we’ll travel when the snow lets up,” – she paused at the smell of something delicious wafting from her shack betwixt Windhelm and Riften. She drew Dawnbreaker warily before sheathing it after a moment of thought. Bandits wouldn’t hole up there, there wasn’t enough room for more than two people.
“ ‘Hullo?” calling in before walking boldly in, snow on her shoulders and amber eyes glistening at the scene. A tall, Elven woman, tending a fire and making food. Plava had to wonder if it was here being too tired from riding for so long that she was hallucinating, you could have them in the desert, so why not in a blizzard? Gently waking Frostpaw up and holding the giant dog in her arms, she walked in.
“Arythn honey, is that really you?”
