Snippet #2027023

It didn't snow enough in the Free Marches, and she hated its insects. They weren't large enough to pose an actual threat like the beasts from her homeland, oh no. They were small, buzzing and buzzing around excitedly to see revealed flesh tanning under the sun's heat; then perching, suckling, spitting or vomiting or whatever the hell they did to make one itch like a flea-ridden mabari bitch. If she had more free time (and a little more madness), she would have personally undertaken a quest to murder their queen. All their queens. Drive them to extinction, claim their little antennae for the glory of the Mountain Father. It was the mountainfolk way of dealing with nuisances.

Other than that, the journey was relatively painless, and the company she kept was well enough. Solvej was a good girl, but arguably not the best sort to be alone with for hours on end. But then, who was? Their third comrade lingered enough to have his presence felt and share some choice words, but otherwise seemed to make himself scarce in conversation (which she boiled down to either a distaste for human contact, a neurotic need to scout ahead, or frequent chamber pot breaks). And Blathnat herself? Why Blathnat, when she wasn't noiselessly grumbling about bugs and slapping her forearms, was humming in the manner of a bear in a feathered hat stirring a pot of stew. That is, with her roughened throat, chin higher than usual as though sniffing a whiff of something alluring (or trying not to fall asleep at the reins), and pleased just enough. No more than was necessary. It wasn't her idea of making merry, though she'll admit her Avvar tribespeople are known hummers and feet-tappers. She remembered those long nights when they had enough wood to make a fire great enough to lick the Lady's ankles above them; the melodies carried in unison between men tending their weapons and wounded; and the girls quietly whispering so as to not interrupt them, whispering from the brush of betrothals and arrangements, chortling in silence as they pushed, shoved, teased each other. Grandfather once told her he'd heard them even as a boy on flatter lands: barbarian music, the constant hum that was carried by the wind, latching into the very mountain and its stones like a clawed ribbon. It warned strangers and other, less combative tribes to steer clear of their current home, told them of their sheer number--hers was well over a hundred strong. Needless to say, the weaker tribes kept to silence.

But today, she hummed for the sake of one horse. It was a creature that preferred being spoken to and reassured constantly (or else it would stop, stomp a bit, then begin pacing in circles like the baboon it was at heart); Blathnat was not about to tell bedtime stories and let her breath go dry for the sake of the clomping animal, so she hummed, and it took no issue.

She was cautious to dismount, as she was literally on unfamiliar ground upon arrival. The ground was something of a saturated gold, made up of grounded pebbles and flecks of... sand that sunk under thre pressure weight in copious amounts. She'd seen sand before collected in vials and tipping glasses, but never an entire landscape composed of the stuff--nor what it was all collected to border:

The great blue that buffeted shore in heaving waves.

She had to admit she was almost unnerved by the sight, but found her attention drawn by the gathering just before them. Just in time to see a charge and dive in their midsts from an ally, at that. "Take care not to slide off the side of a cliff face, boy," she chided quietly--more as a note to herself (and perhaps the templar) to watch out for that rather than an actual scolding. An impressive range of heights surrounded Lukas, and she wondered if she should have been amused. One dwarf--female, and so not the familiar face she'd been half-heartedly expecting. That Seeker was likely here already, somewhere. Lurking. And then there was...

Ah, the Chasind mage, towering over the lot like a sacred boulder. The barbarian woman cocked her head (which bobbed as the horse took its time settling), and inquired, "Wasn't I there when you showed up muttering your admirations for the Wardens?" She might have spoken for him a little if so--normally she would be aloof towards tribes not her own, even viewing them with the same distaste with which most flatlanders viewed all tribes at times, but after waltzing through Ostagar and being making friends with its inhabitants, she couldn't help but feel a certain kinship for her outertribe family. But perhaps she dreamt it after too many mugs of ale and Malik regaling her with the tale. Like Suicide, she was dressed more lightly--not shirtless, though it was terribly tempting. Blathnat did not forget the last time she stripped off her top in a Grey Warden camp. Apparently exposing one's breasts wasn't something "ladies" did in "civilized" settings; she didn't get the why, but she consented that it tended to make non-tribals uncomfortable.

She dismounted, cupped the beast's cheek for a moment, and moved on. She found her sight drifting slightly downwards. "And you're the one the Commander spoke of, are you, girl?" She said, hand on her hip, fist to her pursed, appraising lips. Then, rather abruptly, Blathnat gave Ethne a few pats on the shoulder, saying little more than "Worry not" before folding her arms and meagerly trying to get a better glimpse at the view.