“Helping a traveler. Poor bastard was jumped by some bandits.”
It was a bright clear day in Cyrodiil. Somewhere between Kvatch and Skingrad, Elrain and Merri’sa were meeting up on an overlook near an abandoned Ayleid temple. Merri’sa arrived later than what the two agreed the day before.
“Still noble, eh? I would’ve just ignored.”
“Never bored of it. What’s the situation?”
Elrain handed her a wooden monocular, a handy little tool that she had always carried during her travels. Having an ability to see objects at extreme ranges was considered crucial. Identifying a potential threat before it got close could mean a huge difference between life and death.
Merri’sa looked through the monocular, observing the place from a safe distance. From the lenses she could see a swarm of bandits armed to the teeth as well as some individuals in blue mage robes in between them, surrounding the temple like a pack of wolves guarding a den.
“That’s a lot of targets, El.”
“Not something we can’t handle, yes?”
“I don’t have enough arrows for this many threats. You want to go in there now?”
“Countess of Skingrad wants them taken care of this week. Besides you will have been asleep by the time the moons are out.”
Elrain was, to put it mildly, an impatient individual in terms of getting all her works done. The young wood elf would try finding the fastest method possible of finishing it, although occasionally her actions had proven not only a danger for herself but also for her Khajiit companion whenever they’re together.
Merri’sa was the oldest of the pair, having more wisdom and experience out of the two. Being a marksman, her skills included careful planning, patience and certainty. And on a septim she knew that trying to assassinate sword-wielding murderers under bright sunlight was far from ideal, let alone entering the fight severely outnumbered.
Despite frequently having disagreements over combat strategy, the Bosmer-Khajiit duo maintained a good mutual relationship. Countless times they have helped each other escape from tricky situations. They’d been together for about 5 years, and their bond was stronger than any known metal.
“It’s suicide.”
“We haven’t tried yet. C’mon, Mary.”
“If I had more arrows, I will. I know you think I’m a sureshot1, but going there right now is just not worth it.”
“Fine, what do you want to do?”
“Get back to Chorrol first. Could use some food, really.”
“Alright.”
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1: Sureshot (fanon) is a Cyrodiilic term to describe a very skillful marksman.
