#ulumb

[namiraswriting]

“Cynda, your studies,” he reminds her from where he's bent over scattered parchments, reading glasses low on the bridge of his nose. A long sigh rings out from the table in the corner, where the child is meant to be practicing her letters.

“This has nothing to do with magic,” she grumbles under her breath, voice shrill with the fury only an eleven year old can manage. Ulumb tries in vain not to laugh, not wanting to encourage the unruly pupil. She sees Kazara's ear twitch from his place on the floor, seated close to the fire light.

“What mage worth their salt is unable to read?” he retorts, voice distant and distracted as he pens something down, masterfully dipping his quill in a pot of ink without dripping.

Behind them, the child complains further, but the messy sounds of her doodling are quickly replaced by the repetitive lines and swoops of letters being traced.

The peace is not long lasting. Ulumb gets halfway through her glass of wine, watching with bemused interest as Kazara pushes his glasses back up for the hundredth time, before the writing from the other side of the room tapers off. It takes only a moment before he notices as well, eyes not leaving the words on the paper in front of him when he calls out her name, a warning.

She lets out a defensive breath, glaring daggers at his turned back when Ulumb finally glances in her direction.

“You told me to finish the page, and I did,” she complains.

“Alright then, bring it to me,” he says, hand raising expectantly to receive her finished paper. There is a moment of hesitation from the corner as Cyndassa turns back to her work, giving it a nervous once over, her confidence immediately faltering at the raised challenge.

“If you're unsure-,” he starts, but she cuts him off with the sharp sound of her chair scooting out. With a few heavy footsteps, her rain damp boots dragging on the wooden floor, she appears at his side, eyes still scanning her own crumpled paper.

“Here,” she says, nervously placing her work in his waiting hand. She chews at her lip as he pauses his reading to tilt her paper towards the light, illuminating rows and rows of messy letters. Ulumb thinks it's endearing, but Kazara only furrows his brow and hums.

“Your lines are getting better,” he starts, and Cyndassa's eyes immediately light up at the praise.

“Does that mean I can-,” she half shrieks in her excitement, but he cuts her off with a patient finger.

“But,” he says, “your letters are sloppy. I want you to do another page.”

She wilts like a flower before them, lower lip protruding out at the overwhelming flood of despair.

“A whole page? But you said I could have my flute after this!” she whines, hands tugging at themselves.

“I know what I said,” he sighs, “Do another page, and you'll get your flute back”

“But that wasn't the deal!” her voice raises, posture going stiff with frustration. Behind him, Kazara's tail flicks impatiently.

“The flute is a privilege, one that I will revoke if your studies fall behind. You can either rewrite the page, or you can go lie in your bed till supper.”

At that, her face flushes bright red from anger and embarrassment alike. Ulumb can almost see it happen before it does, Cyndassa tearing the paper from his hand in the midst of an outburst. He turns to look at her, eyes stern.

“I'm going, you don't need to say it again!” she yells. When she turns to dramatically stomp away, her boot comes down on his still moving tail rather than the floorboards.

Kazara immediately lets out a pained cry, and the child nearly falls backwards in her urgency to remove her foot from his tail.

“Shit,” Ulumb mutters, rising up in her chair at the sudden commotion.

“I- I didn't mean to,” Cyndassa tries to apologize, tripping over her own words. Kazara's face goes pale in his sudden anger, shooting her a piercing glare.

“Go to your room,” he says, voice just beneath a yell. Her face drains of all color, tears welling up in her eyes. She's gone in an instant, running to her bedroom and slamming the door hard enough to make it shake on its hinges. Only a moment later do the sounds of her muffled sobs begin to echo out.

Still sitting up in her chair, Ulumb frowns and runs a hand over her prickly head. Before she can even comment on the situation, Kazara lets out a deeply tired sigh, setting his glasses aside to bury his face in his hands.

After a beat of silence, she attempts to broker some sort of peace, “you know it was an accident, Kaz.”

Ulumb isn't entirely sure how to answer. On one hand, she's never been all that fond of undisciplined children, especially having been raised rather sternly herself. While Cyndassa has the luxury of learning to read and write, she had been learning the ropes of the lumber trade by this age.

“I know,” he stresses from between his palms, “but what am I meant to do? Let her get away with that sort of behavior?”

On the other hand, she finds herself conflictingly sympathetic towards the child, wanting to shower her with affection despite her better judgment. It wasn't too long ago that Cyndassa lost her parents and was left to fend for herself, something Ulumb can't unsee when faced with her poor behavior.

“Maybe you should try being more.. gentle with her,” she attempts to advise.

Kazara raises up, his tail curling around his lap. He gives her a fatigued look, pinching the place between his eyes.

“I am nothing but gentle,” he argues, “my teachers would've swatted me for sloppy penmanship.”

Ulumb nearly laughs, picturing a much younger Kazara nervously presenting his own writing to stern and unforgiving mages, ready with a branch for striking.

“Yes well, she isn't you and you certainly aren't those teachers,” she chuckles, knowing full well that Cyndassa would hit back.

“I'm aware,” he says dryly.

[namiraswriting]

The inn is nothing special, a shabby wooden building tucked between the trees and stones, lost somewhere along the muddy roads leading up towards Wrothgar. It's known only to the travelers that pass by often, serving as a humble nook for those that know where to find it. The orc behind the counter is absent-mindedly sweeping dirt into a dark corner when she ducks in, her gloved hand reaching up to steady herself on the short doorframe. He gives her a weary greeting as it falls shut behind her.

"We've got cider and ale," he says, voice deep and booming in the small interior. Someone coughs from their seat by the hearth. Ulumb clears her throat, a nervous habit, and approaches the counter with a quick shake of her head. She feels guilty lying before she's even done it, despite it not being her own lie, and even with knowing that this innkeeper would never know or care. Her hands rub against the old, worn wood of the counter. Her thumb finds the letters of someone's name, carved deep and partially sanded away.

"No, thank you," speaking barely above a whisper, she fights the urge to look over her shoulder. She's not even sure if she should be worried that someone less kind might be searching for the same individual, that there might be people out there aware of their connection. The thought makes her feel cold and anxious.

Words stall in her mouth, the kind eyes of the innkeeper avert from her gaze, giving her an odd sense of privacy.

"Do you... is there an Erwan here? Erwan… uhm. Forgive me, I'm not sure of the full name.."

The innkeeper scratches his chin, let's out a long breath that smells of meat and tobacco. Ulumb's face burns with embarrassment, not a feeling she's accustomed to. This whole situation is out of her comfort zone, the secrecy of it all is a far cry from the lumber business.

With broom still in hand, the innkeeper taps the knobby handle against the ceiling, only a short distance from both of their heads. He ignores the thin cloud of dust that falls from the planks.

"Upstairs, first room to your left," he says. Behind her, the door swings open again, and the sound of chipper bretic fills the stuffy air as a small group of travelers enter the building. Immediately, the innkeeper's attention is gone from her, yelling out once again of cider and ale. She's left to stare at the few rickety wooden steps that had been so lovingly referred to as a staircase. Pacing across the room in a few short steps, her hands find the wall, gaze meeting the poorly lit second story.

The hallway atop the steps is claustrophobic, she ducks down and makes herself small to avoid the walls and short ceiling built without someone her size in mind. First room to her left isn't hard instructions to follow, especially when the inn itself only has three rooms to speak of. She places herself quietly before the scuffed wooden thing, eyes lingering on the doorknob, and stands for a long time. She finds herself feeling hesitant and uninvited, despite what the Argonian had told her a day prior. He'd given her the information willingly, told her the exact place to go to, the name to ask for.

Making up her mind, she knocks once, curt sounding even to her own ears. She worries for a moment that it won't be recognized as a knock, sounding instead like someone bumping against the wall. Before she can raise her hand to try again, there's a faint sound from within, a voice saying something she can't quite make out. It sounds enough like a welcome for her to reach for the doorknob, it squeaks miserably as she turns it, letting herself in.

The room is darker than the hallway, dark enough that the light she lets in illuminates a round wooden table in front of her, covered with trinkets spilling from a leather bag.

"Erwan?" she asks tentatively, not sure of what else to do. There's a laugh from somewhere in the room, warm and familiar sounding, and it's confirmation enough for her to close the door behind her. As her eyes adjust, she's able to make out the rest of the room. It's small and quaint, with only a table, a stool, and a lumpy looking bed. From the doorway, she can only barely make out the shape of him beneath the covers, a candle on the floor beside him nearly burning itself out.

"Will you be calling me that for the duration of your visit?" he asks.

"How did you know it was me at the door?" she asks in return. He moves slightly in bed, still out of her sight.

"It wouldn't be anyone else".

"You aren't worried about being followed..?"

He laughs again, and she hears the sound of a book snapping shut. There is a thin quality to his voice now, and it makes her frown. She tries to ignore the lingering acidic smell of herbs and metal still hanging heaving in the room. Or the way he doesn't move to greet her.

"No, I'm not," he puts shortly.

Her heavy footsteps make the floorboards groan as she approaches the table, eyeing his few scattered possessions, evidence of someone who'd arrived in a hurry.

"You knew Wih-jei would send for me?" she asks. She removes her gloves, one careful finger at a time, listening to him haphazardly drop something onto the floor beside his fading candle.

"I thought he might. Orsinium is the closest city."

She shrugs off her coat, still speckled with raindrops, and sets it down on the table. She's mindful to avoid his remaining bandages, left in a pile near his bag. It's disorderly, in a way so unlike him, that she finds herself wondering if the disarray might be Wih-Jei's doing. The alternative is slightly more worrying, the image of him alone and hurting, fumbling through his own things. She pushes it out of mind.

"How bad is it then?" She addresses the elephant in the room, the reason for her rushed departure from Orsinium. She looks towards the bed, sees the reflection in his eyes flicker back at her. He sighs long and heavy, a hand reaching up to muse with his own hair. She can make out the dark color of his shirt now, hanging loose on his frame.

"I don't think I'll be returning to Wayrest anytime soon," he jests. When he's met with nothing but her brooding silence, he complies with a proper response.

"It's nothing but a scratch," he says.

"You stink of blood"

There's a long pause at that. He rests back against his pillow, head lulling to the side, staring at her fully now. The light from the candle turns his face a pale yellow, the shadows around his eyes seeming deep and foreboding. She worries her hands, frowns at his lack of a response.

"It'll heal," he says, finally. There's no argument in it, no assertion that he isn't as hurt as she's worried he might be. His tone is defeated in a subtle kind of way, something that feels too honest coming from him. Still, it's an answer, as indirect as it might be, and she feels the weight on her shoulders finally giving away.