escape from infinite energies

Ours Is Not a Caravan of Despair

Erol pinched the bridge of his nose. Riverwood was a fine alternative, but why hadn’t he known about Helgen? He’d even talked it through with Ket-Tui, with no mention of any… That cold blooded yolk-hatched bastard. They probably purposefully kept it from him, just to watch him make a fool of himself later. He wondered idly, if it was worth it. Casting a sideways glance at the Saxhleel and their Bosmer companion Erol made a silent vow to get back at the creature, by whatever means he could.

“As Helgen is no longer an option, we will divert through Riverwood. From there we’ll continue on the original path to Rorikstead and then finally to Solitude. Two stops. 750 pieces per, if you make it all the way to Solitude you’ll get an additional 700.” It was not ideal. Their caravan was supposed to stop in Falkreath to join with a smaller band of mercs, put together by Erol himself, but now they’d have to regroup in Riverwood. He could already feel his hand cramping from the letters he’d be penning tonight. “We’ll meet back here at dawn. If you’re late, too bad. We’re leaving you behind. Are we clear?” “Yes,” chimed the chorus of orcs, elves, and humans.

“Good.” He turned his attention back to Nura. “And you, Al-Taneth. You know how to read and write?” He did not wait for her response before beckoning her to sit at a rough-hewn wooden table in the corner of the tavern. “You’re going to be our communications liaison. You’ll get an extra 500 septims on top of everything else. Maybe 600 if you write quickly and legibly.” Erol sat at the table, rubbing his knuckles with a gloved hand. The movements were accompanied by a soft crunching sound, indiscernible above the noise of the tavern but painfully audible to him. The infection was spreading, rapidly too. It would only be a matter of days before his fingers were encrusted in the strange dark mass of crystal that covered the rest of his arm. Soon his hand would be entirely immobile. He needed to eat.

Pulling a roll of parchment and a quill from his pack with some effort, Erol pushed the supplies across the tabletop to Nura’s end. Thinking proactively, he also pulled out a coin purse, bulging with gold, and flung it squarely in the middle of the table. “I need three letters written before we depart tomorrow, and the cold is making my arthritis worse. So considered yourself hired.”

“Wh-huh-what?”

While the others dispersed for bar or bed, Nura stared at the heavy little coin purse that had just been plunked in front of her. She knew how to read and write just fine, but this was all rather sudden, wasn’t it? She hadn’t even had the opportunity to agree!

She picked up the quill and inspected the writing utensil. Normally, caravan guards were expected to keep their heads down and ask no questions, particularly if the cargo was illicit. (That way, they weren’t implicated if the local authorities caught wind of the caravan.) And yet, something about this particular job seemed uniquely odd.

Nura looked up to the stony-faced mer. Stone Face. That was a great name for him. “Could I get some ink, as well? I can’t write without ink.”

1idiotthalmorandco

So it was food! Arianwyn was happy to know that this strange-smelling stuff was food but still she was full. Observing the stranger, Arianwyn grew alarmed when the stranger winced. Did the food hurt her in some way or was it horrible to taste?!

Perhaps… Oh no! Perhaps this was all she had to eat! Poor thing! Now very worried, Arianwyn decided that when this woman was asleep she would catch some fish for her.

Still it was important not to waste food, and as the stranger spoke Arianwyn picked up each lump of food, giving it another curious sniff, before replacing it back in the bag. But still she did not understand what the woman was saying, but understood by now she was trying to be helpful.

Smiling, Arianwyn watched at the woman hit her chest followed by the word ‘Nura’. Ah! That had to be her name! Smile broadening, Arianwyn placed her hand on her chest. “Arianwyn.”

Then, pushing the bag back to Nura, Arianwyn slowly repeated the name she had just heard. “Nuur-ra.”

#asdjkldsfjkld ariiiii #1idiotthalmorandco #refusaltobow

“Ari-an-wyn,” Nura repeated, smiling in return. What a strange name - she’d never heard such a name before. Breton, perhaps? But it didn’t sound very Breton. Maybe she had one of those mash-up names that were currently popular among the human nobility.

She accepted the bag, resolving to dump the sand-covered contents later. Now that she thought about it, they weren’t terribly far from a common trading route. There were opportunities to buy more rations later.

But first things first, Nura had to get this poor, naked, possibly confused woman to safety. “Cold?” She asked, miming a shiver. “I don’t have much on hand, but I think that my spare tunic will fit you. Here.” She whipped out a long shirt, cut from an iridescent southern Hammerfell pattern, and presented it to Arianwyn. “Here, I made it myself!”

Ours Is Not a Caravan of Despair

thenobletruant:

Finally some defiance. “Erol, and if it wasn’t clear, I’m the leader of this convoy. Any other questions?”

“I have a question!” A rather nasally voice sprang from behind Nura. It was the Breton, wringing his hands along the gnarled wood of his staff. Before waiting for a response from the Bosmer he continued, “How far is the caravan going? The Argonian just said Skyrim but it is, as I’m sure you know, a broad and veritable country.” Erol leered at him, unconvinced of the mage’s need to know. Judging by his comportment he would not be here long. “Our destination is Solitude. But let’s see if you can make it over the Jeralls first. What do you do?”

For the first time, the Breton stood with his shoulders back, looking confident. “I’m a healer. Restoration mostly, some Alteration for when the going gets tough.” Erol looked at the mage’s staff, the orb at the top glowing with a pale green light. He held back an involuntary shudder. “And by the by, my name is Tristan Ulayne.” “I didn’t ask.” Erol continued down the line of mercenaries. Ket-Tui’s new… friend, the Bosmer woman, greeted him with a row of sharp teeth and the Bosmeris honorific “Vendan,” although her tone was less than honorable. Obviously Ket-Tui had their fair share of influence over her. The three Orcs were equally irreverent, one of them muttering “Better not ask me to do any push ups or else I’m walking right out of here and back to Stormhaven.”

Last was the bard. The simpering fool was staring at him from under that ridiculous cap. “You. What are you expecting to do here? Boost morale? Because it’s not working. I find your very presence demoralizing.”

The bard gulped. He opened his mouth, stammering over his words. “I’m seeking safe passage to Solitude, to join the Bard’s college there. I’m no warrior or mage, but I’ll do whatever I can to assist you. I - I can fix a broken axel. I’m good with oxen. I’ve even got my own rations. Y-you won’t even know I’m there unless you need something.”

“I won’t know you’re there because you won’t be joining us. Hire a carriage.” Erol turned his attention back to the group of mercenaries. His eyes landed on Nura. “As for the rest of you. We’ll be making three stops along the way. The first in Helgen, then Falkreath, last in Rorikstead. The farther you get, the higher the pay. We’ll increase in increments of 750 sep-”

The Breton’s nasally voice broke out again. “I’m sorry, sir, but did you say Helgen?” Erol stared at him, silent. Tristan fidgeted with his staff again. “I’m not sure if you’ve heard. Helgen was destroyed by a dragon.” The rest of the group turned to look at the pair.

Erol paused. Too much had changed in the past few years. Obviously he was still not caught up with current events. A dragon, though. Was that even possible? He took a moment to gather his thoughts.

Tristan, still fretting with his staff, smiled nervously at Nura. “Do you think this is a good idea? Following a caravan that doesn’t even know where it’s going? I don’t know if the gold is worth it.”

Nura grimaced in sympathy at the bard’s miserable expression. Erol’s dismissal was awfully mean, but she could understand how someone without martial ability would fare poorly with this caravan. With the sensitivity of the cargo on board, it was likely that it would get targeted by bandits or Forsworn at least once.

She turned her attention to Tristan. He was right - it was indeed strange that no one knew about the dragon attack in Helgen. “Well, it does - just not for the first stop,” she assured the fretting wizard. “News about the dragons might not have spread through the other provinces very quickly. Besides, with caravan routes, there’s always the possibility that things have to change at the last moment. Like now.”

Nura turned back to Erol and politely cleared her throat. “What about stopping at Riverwood, then? It’s about an hour from Helgen and takes a bumpier road, but it’s roughly on the same route and has stables and boarding. Just a recommendation, of course.”

Ours Is Not a Caravan of Despair

thenobletruant:

He watched with a raised brow. It was a 50/50 shot, but Erol was still surprised by the outcome. He wasn’t actually expecting her to do it. Any merc worth their salt would have told him to piss off till he showed them some coin. Nura was either desperate or humble.

Al-Taneth - judging by the name she was a long way from home. Her armor and weapons, however, not so much. She carried two swords, not unusual for a Redguard from Hammerfell, but their blades were straight, implying their origin lay outside the Alik’r. Nura was making quick work of the assigned push ups. Her form, much like her posture, was impeccable. It was clear she was a seasoned fighter with some formal training. Still, her naivety nagged at him. How seasoned could she be if she was willing to literally drop to the floor at a stranger’s command? At least she was quick about it. When she was done she practically jumped to her feet, offering him an eager salute.

“Put your hand down, we’re not playing soldier,” he growled. “This is real work. And we are not going anywhere until you answer some questions. For starters, what are you doing in Bruma?”

Nura began tying her belt back around her waist, blinking at Erol all the while. This man was stern, very much so, and it was clear even with their brief interaction that he’d little sense of humor. That was a shame, really!

She cocked her head at Erol. Something she normally kept well-suppressed clawed at the back of her mind, but she was able to banish it again without too much thought.

“Well, the caravan I’d guarded before ended its line here. I’ve stuck around for a few days - I like the scenery.” Nura decided to turn the questioning back towards Erol. “You should tell me - us - about yourself, too, keep the lines of communication open. What’s your name?”

Ours Is Not a Caravan of Despair

The bard let out an undignified honk as Nura skirted past him. He fumbled for his lute, barely managing to catch hold of it by the frets before it tumbled further out of his grasp and on to tavern floor with a vibrating thunk. Erol shut his eyes, certain that he could feel the phantom pinpricks of a headache forming. This was the best they had? Operations would be hearing from him, no doubt about it. These conditions were ridiculous. No crew, and yet they expected him to cart a ransom worthy noble and the entirety of his inheritance halfway across Tamriel.

“Nura al-Taneth, at your service.”

The newcomer’s introduction was met with an appraising scowl. She seemed young, but not inexperienced. Determined too. Erol had seen her hands waving wildly behind the blockade of Orcs, but found it fit to ignore her until she made a real effort to get his attention. Now she had it, and he hoped, for her sake, that she was prepared for that.

“Okay, al-Taneth. Drop and give me 50.”

“Uh-ummmm-?”

A test of endurance, maybe? She’d had stranger things asked of her by her employers. With everyone’s eyes on her for the moment, Nura shrugged off her belt of weaponry and lay down on the floor, braced on the palms of her hands.

The first thirty push-ups were easy - she was in relatively good shape from all the work she’d previously done. The last twenty were a little more difficult, if only because of the plated leather armor that was weighing her down and making the experience more sweaty and unpleasant than was needed.

“Done!” She announced breathlessly, clambering to her feet and saluting the Bosmer. “Where are we going?”

Ours Is Not a Caravan of Despair

@traitorofmeridia

Bruma was as cold as he remembered it. How many years had it been? The same ancient braziers stood burning, the smoke draping the air with the heavy smell of pitch and cinders. He took a deep breath and felt a knocking in his lungs. Ice - shaking loose from the webbing of his bronchi. Ket-Tui was late. The moons peered past a veil of clouds overhead, farther south than they had agreed on. At the stone base of the brazier slumped a hooded figure. Its single shrunken hand clasped at its dirty shroud. Erol could smell the decay already. It hadn’t been long - an hour, maybe two. Hypothermia from the drop in temperature. It wouldn’t take much. The cold was inescapable, even by the haze of the flames, and the body was visibly malnourished. Soft, white hair sprouted from the withered forearm.

It smelled worse from whatever infection rooted itself in the body while it was still breathing. Yet his mind leapt to the tender flesh and offal nested within the fresh cadaver, incarnadine and sweet. Probably still warm. Probably still poxed. At the very least gristled. And, thinking rationally, decidedly unsweet. Besides, the guards in their hysterically yellow tunics were making rounds. No need to create a whole ordeal over what was essentially jerky. Still. It would be a waste to just leave it here. Erol knelt at the corpse’s side, leering under its cowl.

At once the stranger twisted its face to meet his. “I beg of you! I beg of you!” Came the rasping shriek. Its clawed hand snatched at Erol’s face, shearing his cheek with its jagged nails. Worse still, the creature’s eyelids pried open, the flaccid pale mass of its eyes boring into him. “A septim is all I ask! A single coin to change this beggar’s fate!” Erol took another breath and contemplated the crudeness of the sensation. “Hej Pakseech, squatting like a rooster trying to lay an egg. What could be so demanding of his attention?” He did not hear the Saxhleel approach. Ket-Tui crouched by his side, blue tongue flicking against the frosted air. “Ah, We see. Here We thought Nords were resilient against the cold. Poor sodder, it’s enough to humble Us. Could be colder.” Erol brushed his fingers over his cheek. The skin there was rigid and firm to the touch, but unharmed. Another deception. He’d have to document it. He could already hear Casien’s mocking disbelief. “After all the things you’ve seen, that’s what frightens you? Someone asking for money? Typical, Brother. Typical.” “You’re late.” Erol stood, folding his arms across his chest. He looked up at the Saxhleel. Their latticed scales were coated in a black lacquer trimmed with fur. An intricately woven scarf covered the bulk of their face so only the slits of their pupils shone through. “Yes, Our journey was pleasant. How kind of him to inquire.” That forked tongue sipped the atmosphere again. “Change of plans. Those ones are meeting at the Tavern down the path. There are five in all last count, there could be mo-” “I specifically told you nowhere public. What happened to the safe house?” “Funny. We never understood why call it a ‘Safe’ house when it is obviously a place only enemies want to find.” Ket-Tui looked far more smug than Erol considered professional. “In other words, it is no longer safe.” “Yeah, I got that. How was it compromised?” He let out a sigh. The ice rattled in his lungs. “Let Us walk with him. We will brief him on the path.” *** Six. There were only six. A caravan of this merit needed at least an envoy of fourteen, yet it was just the two Khajiit guards, the Saxhleel, and Erol. Even if all of the gathered mercs met contract, they were still short four bodies, and by the looks of them Erol was not liking his chances. Three orcs, big as houses, perched on wooden stools so small in comparison they might as well be sitting on mushrooms. Despite their size, the orcs seemed remarkably adept at balancing their weight so the spindled legs didn’t snap like twigs from under them. Next to them, a lad in a foppish feathered cap and violet cloak. Erol could not see any weapons on his person, but he was plucking nervously at a lute. Hilarious. So five. Seated next to the clown was Ket-Tui, their arm already slung around the neck of a plump Bosmer huntress. Next to her, a Breton, gangly and bespeckled, standing conspicuously in the midst of their circle and awkwardly clutching his carved oak staff as if he had just been given hands and did not yet know what they were for. Erol took a deep breath. It was a frivolous and nostalgic gesture. “Is there anyone else?”

“Me? Hello? Hello!”

Nura couldn’t see a thing. The three big orcs, even when sitting down, were simply too tall and broad for her to peek over. After she tried hopping and waving a few times, she gave up and tried to scoot behind the gathered mercenaries towards whoever was speaking. This was one of the most high-value caravans that she’d had to guard recently, after all - she wanted to make sure she heard everything essential before they all departed.

Even her loudest ‘excuse me’ was lost over the buzz and commotion of the tavern. Most of them ignored her presence completely, besides the poor bard who nearly jumped out of his skin when she brushed past him. She took the opportunity to slide by with a hasty apology and stand straight-backed in front of the other mercenaries, hand fisted tightly over Dawnguard’s cloth-wrapped pommel.

“Here!” She announced to the stern-faced Bosmer man who seemed to be leading the caravan. “Nura al-Taneth, at your service.”

1idiotthalmorandco

Arianwyn began to calm, for even though she could not understand what the land-walker was saying, she did not seem to be such a threat as a few moments ago. For one thing, the glowing weapon had been tossed aside and now the woman was rummaging through a bag.

If this stranger had been going to attack her she would have done it by now. Growing bolder (but still a bit wary) Arianwyn crawled closer, gripping her pelt tight to her chest as she watched the stranger pull all manner of curious items out of her bag. She had never seen any of these things before and so they held her attention much like they would a child’s. She wanted to touch them, investigate them further but Arianwyn held back, no matter how much she wanted to hold that cloth.

It was then her attention was drawn by more unfamiliar words as the stranger held out a bag to her. Staring at the bag for a few moments, the Selkie crawled closer to inspect it, unsure of why it was being held out to her. Was this stranger gifting her with something? Why?

Keep reading

The naked woman had calmed down, which was good. But she didn’t seem to understand anything Nura was saying or recognize any of the items that she’d pulled out of her pack, which was not so good. Maybe she was a sailor who’d hit her head on some rocks or debris while swimming to shore from a wrecked ship? It wouldn’t explain the nakedness, though.

The woman dumped out the smoked mutton onto the sand, sniffed at a chunk, then held it back to Nura with a blank expression. “It’s not poisoned, I promise!” Nura cried, holding her hands up. “Look, I’ll even prove it to you.”

She took the piece of meat and mimed putting it to her mouth. “It’s edible. Meat. Good for you.” She popped it into her mouth and chewed, trying not to wince at the sand that had gotten into the food when Arianwyn dumped it out. The mutton itself was still in good condition, though, so she managed to swallow. “See? Not bad. Take the rest.

“Oh! I should introduce myself too, shouldn’t I? So rude of me!” Nura thumped a hand against her chest. “Nura.”

#1idiotthalmorandco

xmusiings

I’ve been cold, I’ve been merciless But the blood on my hands scares me to death Maybe I’m waking up today

#nura #musings

Lover of the Light

#lover of the light #aetheriumshard

aetheriumthreads:

Sybille wasn’t built for this. She came to that conclusion rapidly upon their descent. She wasn’t having a good time, but did appreciate the consistent warnings and tips from Nura. She leaned to the right, as instructed, and used the periodic rocks to prevent herself from falling headlong down the mountainside.

As they got lower, she noticed that the wind was dying down, as well. It was easier to breathe when copious amounts of air weren’t fighting to fill your lungs.

“Sybille Bernard,” she responded. “I am from High Rock, but have come to Skyrim to study.” That was the truth. It wasn’t the whole truth, but what she did share was fact.

“Thank you for guiding me down the mountain!” Sybille added, louder than before.

She almost fell when her toe caught an upturned rock, but caught herself at the last moment. Rather, she started going down faster; a tad spooked. Sybille was not keen on staying on the mountainside much longer.

“Where are we going?”

Nura bobbed her head, oblivious to any information that Sybille might have been withholding. “It’s nothing! Are you a mage from Winterhold, then? What are you doing in the Reach?” The inquiry was curious, rather than demanding. Winterhold was awfully far from here, after all.

“I think we’re getting close to the bottom, but we shouldn’t linger in this valley for long,” she explained as she inched her way along a narrow lip of rock overlooking a small but treacherous crevice. “The Forsworn might be active here. If you’d like to join me, I think that Solitude may be due North if we follow the river!”

Lover of the Light

#aetheriumshard #lover of the light

aetheriumthreads:

“It is no problem,” Sybille replied; albeit at a softer volume than necessary to be audible. “That’s my duty.” She watched as the woman lifted herself up. She didn’t bother extending a hand. The stranger had risen to her feet faster than she’d had a chance to offer more help.

Then, over the wind, her recommendation reached Sybille’s ears. It was so hard to hear and see and think with the wind. In those mountains, during a wind storm such as that, it was best to find a small cave and hope for the best until things died down. However, that posed the risk of getting attacked by animals or by the forsworn which were so prevalent in the area. It wasn’t worth it to risk such a thing, she decided. “I will follow you!” She shouted back, and grasped her hood so it wouldn’t fly off her head. The last thing she wanted was for her hair to be exposed to such sadistic currents.

Sybille gestured down the mountain, pointing out a foot path. She’d cast a bit of light over them, but she was afraid of drawing attention to them. Especially with the forsworn presence.

Either way, this woman was probably a more skilled traveler than her. If she wanted to guide Sybille down the mountain, Sybille wouldn’t refuse.

Nura managed a nod before turning on her heel and beginning the arduous crawl down the mountain. Although the Forsworn (and perhaps, earlier generations of intrepid Reachmen) had left many winding paths along the mountains, she was starting to get nervous. She’d been chasing the Briarheart for hours, maybe even a day or so, and she could not recognize the surrounding hills at all.

“This way! Lean to your right so you don’t fall off!” Dawnbreaker served as a lantern of sorts, shimmering even through its bindings. Nura kept one hand on the blade and the other trailing against the jagged rocks marking the footpath as she descended, glancing over her shoulder every once in a while to make sure Sybille was following.

The wind wasn’t quite as severe at the lower altitudes, thank the Divines. Nura felt some of the pressure in her head evaporate as they continued to head downwards. “I meant to tell you before - I’m Nura, Nura al-Taneth! What’s your name?”

tsunamiwavesurfing

short girls always wanna fight yall like mini batteries overflowing with energy cause yall bodies too small to contain it if only yall had used it to grow instead

#nura #shitposting

Lover of the Light

#aetheriumshard #lover of the light

aetheriumthreads:

“Oh, dear,” Sybille said once the woman responded. She certainly was not a corpse, nor was she did from what Sybille could tell. In fact, she was certainly alive - but she was in poor shape. Prompted, she knelt down and helped the woman turn onto her back. Everything after that was routine for Sybille.

Restoration was an easy school to master. It didn’t take long before the fur-clad woman was in relatively good order. All it took was Sybille touching her and radiating the healing magic through her body. It could be painful, especially in areas where the wounds were deepest. Other than those injuries, however, Restoration most commonly felt like a bath that was almost too warm. Sybille personally loved the feeling and never wasted time in healing any scrapes or bruises she gathered during her travels.

Confident that the woman was not on the brink of death any longer, Sybille fished around in her pack and offered a small health potion to ease any other ailments that may have wormed their way into her system. Oftentimes, after all, Restoration could not help things like illness. It was most typically used for physical wounds. In her opinion, that is where it fell short.

“Are you alright, now?” she asked; in a tone strangely void of true concern, possibly because she had to yell over the aggressive wind. “If there’s anything else that needs healed, tell me. I need a moment to recuperate my magic.”

Nura held still as the woman placed her hands on her abdomen, and let out a shuddering sigh of relief as she recognized the sting and warm burn of Restoration magic. Her largest wound slowly stitched itself together, along with the various other cuts and bruises of battle. Afterwards, she was left with little more than a dull ache, and was able to sit up with significantly less effort.

“Thank you.” She accepted the health potion and popped open the cork to down the contents. “I think I’ll be fine - really, I owe you one.”

Nura managed to stagger to one knee, one arm thrown up to protect her face from the wind. “Are you a traveler, too?” She managed to shout over the howl. “We should head down the mountain!”

Lover of the Light

@traitorofmeridia

The wind rushed through the Reach’s valleys; turbulent and aggressive. Sybille’s hair fluttered rapidly, knotting itself into odd-looking chunks of curls. She had a hood, but it was so windy it wouldn’t stay on her head. That, coupled with night’s rapid approach left her bearing against the onslaught of air uncovered. She hoped nothing would find her with murderous intent. Although she could successfully raise the dead, she wasn’t sure how easily she could re-animate herself.

As she walked, Sybille stumbled over something with a familiar texture. She stopped a few feet away and turned back around to inspect the inconspicuous lump. Upon reaching it, she realized it was a person - unconscious, and likely injured. With a curious expression, she nudged them with her toe to ascertain their state of… existence.

She figured if the person was dead, they’d make for decent practice if nothing else.

#aetheriumshard #aetheriumthreads #lover of the light

The lump of fur did not respond for a good minute. Just when it seemed as though Sybille had stumbled upon a corpse, it twitched, then lurched, then a woman sat straight up with a violent gasp.

“...ohhhhhh,” she groaned, then laid down again. Nura’s head swam with the effort, and she sent a prayer up to every Divine that was listening to stop the bout of pain that was currently assaulting her head and gut. She’d given that renegade Briarheart a good ice shard in the belly, but even that had not stopped him from jabbing his spear forwards as he tumbled off the cliffside. Her armor had taken the worst of the blow, but...gods, just from the feel of it she knew the injury was bad enough to need attention.

A face swam into focus, and Nura became aware of a young curly-haired woman peeking down at her.

“Help?” she croaked, praying that the newcomer wasn’t Forsworn.

1idiotthalmorandco

Arianwyn had been in the middle of regaining her balance, absorbed in her giggles and concentration before she heard a cry of alarm, caught completely off-guard, Arianwyn stumbled and overbalanced to land in a heap on the sand.

Looking up in confusion her smile left as her eyes grew wide with fear. No, no, no, nononono! She had wanted to see the land-dwellers but not so soon! And she had been hoping to just observe them! Here she was, with nothing but her pelt. Her pelt she needed to desperately to hide lest it indicate what she was.

Clutching the rich pelt close to her chest as she tried to shuffle backwards, Arianwyn’s legs soon became entangled in it as she found herself trapped. Wide eyes staring straight up, the selkie soon found herself frowning in bafflement. Why hadn’t this land-walker moved and why was she covering her eyes? It was only now that Arianwyn could not help but feel a small amount of excitement as well as an increasing curiousity. Perhaps it was because this land-walker had covered her eyes, the Selkie felt less threatened. This was a human! An actual human!

Arianwyn had dreamt for so long about seeing the land-walkers she could not help but forget her fear, even for just a moment. The rounded ears were so peculiar whilst the woman’s facial decoration fascinated the Selkie. What were they?!

Keep reading

Nura uncovered her eyes to peep down at Arianwyn, then covered them again when she saw that the other woman was indeed still very naked, sans an unusual fur pelt that was thankfully covering most of her private areas. She slowly lowered her arms, holding out her hands to show that they were empty. “O-okay, I think I startled you. Sorry, I just - were you shipwrecked here? Do you need help? No towns nearby, but I’ve got supplies, um, food and water...”

She shrugged off her bulging backpack and dug around in it, sinking up to her armpit as she dug around for the items she was looking for. Dawnbreaker she tossed to the side, the sword flopping to the ground in a soft puff of sand, its glowing hilt pointing straight up towards the sky.

From the backpack came two fist-sized chunks of wood, crudely carved to resemble human faces; a strip of intensely bright and patterned cloth; a box filled with tiny multicolored stones and tinder; and a set of carving knives. Finally, Nura pulled out a bag of smoked mutton and held it out to the stranger. “Sorry it’s not much, but here. You need your strength, first and foremost!”

#1idiotthalmorandco

fellhjarta

“ i am. just like you.” (traitorofmeridia)

First Meeting/Ice Breaker

Tilting her head curiously, looking the uniquely armored woman over. She appeared fit, tough perhaps, despite her unfortunately stunted height and extremely cheery disposition, but she wasn’t quite sure what would make the both of them similar - at least in the stranger’s eyes. “And what might I be?” She asked plainly.