Snippet #2164428

located in Skyrim, a part of Skyrim: The Mentor & The Sellswords, one of the many universes on RPG.




Characters Present

Character Portrait: Dominicus Drayk Character Portrait: Adrienne Jastal Character Portrait: Lynly Snowsong Character Portrait: Qa'naro
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"Was it difficult to remember?" Drayk asked Adrienne, the pair of them waiting patiently (to a certain degree) on the road for the caravan to arrive, while Van and Sinder were out of sight, as was the plan. Adrienne would likely be able to tell that Drayk's mind was working about a mile a minute at the moment, only partially focused on the fact that they needed to convince Imperial soldiers to let their prisoners be interrogated. Drayk had never been very good at waiting.

Adrienne blinked, initially confused as to what he was referring. She stood presently shoulder-to-shoulder with Drayk, and the comment caused her to turn her head and tilt it upwards, thinking that perhaps the answer would be writ somewhere on his face. It was, to an extent, but he also looked like he was about to say something else, so she preserved her silence, looking back out and over the road they presently occupied. It occurred to her that she should be careful with her answer, but for once exactly how that should be handled was not immediately clear. It was fair to say that she was much more used to protecting herself and deceiving others than both protecting them and being as honest as she knew how. The revelation was not new.

"I mean, I don't think I've seen you cast a fire spell, but you must have lit the wood for breakfast. I haven't cast a fire spell in years. I'm not sure I'll even remember how." That, of course, he knew to be false, and he wasn't sure whether he disliked the thought or not. He'd been making flames since before he even understood what magic was, or how it worked. It was a part of him, somehow moreso than it was for others who could cast it. A living thing, living inside of him. The word parasite came to mind, but Drayk didn't know if it was appropriate.

The young woman's eyelids half-masted, hooding her dark oculars in a way caught between thoughtfulness and sorrow. "I think that it's the sort of thing one never forgets, though eventually it did grow to feel somewhat foreign, yes," she replied softly. "It seems with magic, what you know is what you always know, but some things cannot be learned. Perhaps we're all just made of slightly-different stuff." Her shoulders lifted, lightly, as though it had never once troubled her that things were that way, as though the thought had never crossed her mind that she'd have once given up all her fire, all her conjurations and illusions, for the simplest spark of healing talent. But this wasn't about her, it was about him, and so she didn't mention anything of the sort. "You'll know when you need to."

Foreign. That was the word. It was still there, not at his fingertips at all times as it once had been, but still within him, only now he hadn't spoken with it in so long that it had indeed become foreign to him. His goal was for a certain kind of peace between him and the fire. Not the domination it had exerted over him earlier in his life, and not the repression he'd forced it away with in the past few years, but a working relationship. Perhaps even that was too generous. All it was capable of was destroying. Perhaps turning the tables on it was preferable, perhaps that was how he needed to think of things.

He would have to ponder it later, as their target at last presented itself down the road, coming around a slight bend and into their line of sight. Several horse-drawn carriages made up the bulk of the caravan, the animals pulling large cages on wheels rather than supplies or free passengers. The Imperials themselves looked perhaps thirty in number, and even from this distance Drayk could see that some of them were not well. A few limped slightly, others cradled arms awkwardly as they moved steadily ahead, guarding their newly acquired prisoners. No doubt the Stormcloaks had not gone down without a fight. They could only hope this Vodrin was among the living still.

Persnickety bastard. The Imperial had the gall to call her out for "not sticking to formation". She was not part of his company, she was just attached to it for a little extra muscle. She offered her services to Legate Rikke, and here she is, being chewed out by a haughty Imperial bastard. If it wasn't for her, the stormcloaks would have done a lot more damage than they did. She truly lived up to her name as a defender in the battle, many of those Imperial men, including the Captain. However, she wasn't the confrontational sort, so she took the tongue lashing with zero excitement or emotion. He could run his mouth all he wanted, but what mattered was how he ran the company. As it were, they were currently traveling down a road in the direction of Markarth. She was perched ontop of her chestnut mare, lovingly named Berry, adjusting her armor and taking stock. The next time they found a hammer and anvil, she had some dents and kinks to work out of both her armor and her shield.

All the while the Imperial beside her chattered on about the glory he had won and the promotion he was going to get. She merely rolled her eyes as she checked her gauntlets over for third time. "For this Lynly, Tullius is sure to promote me. It's not going to be Captain Aelius anymore. No, it's going to be Major Aelius." Lynly didn't even raise her head for this. She instead looked behind her at the battered Imperials and the rolling cage of prisoners. It was almost sickening how this Captain was parading about as he was. They had went through hell, and for what? To capture some of her Kinsmen. The corner of her mouth twitched in disgust and guilt. Was she a traitor to her own homeland? Because she sympathized with the Empire-- no Talos' Empire she would turn her back on her people?

Lynly sighed, her nerves frayed. She wished the war would end. She wished it was over. She wished she didn't have to fight her kinsmen for an ideal. She rubbed her platinum brow with the lining of her gauntlet, and if that Major Aelius didn't quit yapping his trap, she'd have to slap him with the gauntlet. As if that wasn't bad enough, there was also a blasted Khajiit Caravan following them. Her day was just getting better. And it didn't seem to slack up as two figures appeared on the road up ahead.

How many times had they shirked his company? He'd been knocking elbows with them since joining their merry little Caravan and they weren't reacting as he'd imagined; surely not with camaraderie and lit pipes. Instead, they'd answered with the same bald-faced indifference he'd met with in the majority of city's he'd stumbled in. None in Skyrim seemed to like the beast races, much preferring to keep them out in the cold where they belonged. It was puzzling. Silly bludgers must've been jealous of their silken coats. Why else would they shun them? It wasn't as if they'd enslaved the Nords, injudiciously expelled of their past crimes, when slavery was outlawed, as if it were merely a misunderstanding. Not only were they bitterly bigoted – and beautiful, but he digressed – but those paper-skinned Nords couldn't take a joke; humour must've been as rare as warm weather in these parts. The cat's sharp, intellectual eyes were focused directly on him, flitting occasionally on the Imperial company marching ahead of them. For the time being, it wasn't as if they were bothered by their presence, so long as they stood out of the way. He'd already been told to keep that blasted flute stuffed in the deepest recesses of his satchel.

He puffed his cheeks solemnly and turned his claws in front of him, twisting them about, observing the unfortunate nicks chewed across the edges. Such disarray. Never had they been in such poor condition. Only a good jig would rest his dampened soul – but alas, those Nords would not allow him the pleasure. The rest of the Khajiit Caravan hadn't seemed any keener on his consonant exploits. An involuntary shiver travelled down his spine, reminding him that he'd better snatch up a heavy cloak whenever he had the chance. He was dressed in a tight, form-fitting leather vest, which obscured very little of his furred frame. His garments allowed for flexibility and agility; which was little required in such a frozen wasteland. To allow him to really stretch his legs if need be, in combat, while sprinting, or even climbing. The pines speckled across the landscape were hardly noteworthy. There were no hanging vines or interconnected trees or dewy waterfalls with overhanging vegetation. Even still, the Khajiit was unused to Skyrim's prickly pines, looming mountains and that fluffy substance they called snow.

The striped Khajiit hunched his shoulders against the wind, rubbing his arms as if that would somehow lend him some warmth. They were getting some particularly nasty looks from the surrounding troupe of Imperials, not so subtly thrown over their shoulders as they continued walking. On more than one occasion, he asked why they were following so closely, and each time he was met with the same halfhearted response: same direction, same road, same path, nosey. Apparently, the nomadic merchants wanted nothing to do with his curiosity: or him, for that matter. He caught them saying so one night while they thought he slept. His heart had clenched, forming a tight ball of comprehension. Fine, fine. More the better, they'd lose out on a grand adventure. And so, the striped Khajiit ventured dangerously close to the Imperial group, busying his hands behind his back, and walking as if he were suddenly on a tightrope, performing for a much more pleasant crowd.

The convoy, Imperials and Stormcloaks and Khajiit and all, rolled on into the Reach, their leader remaining proud, even if his company had paid dearly for their capture of the Stormcloak rebels. The Khajiit were a mere annoyance, a threat they had to be aware of, but one they could do little about. They were causing no trouble, and it was unlikely they were spies, nor could it be said that they were harassing the men. Still, Aelius would be asking them to hold back sooner rather than later, especially if they caused any trouble.

He held up a single fist upon noticing the pair of travelers on the road, and the caravan ground to a halt, the Stormcloak prisoners stirred from the monotony, craning their heads about around each other to see what had caused the captain to stop. It was not surprising that they were armed, given their current location. The woman carried a sword and the man a shield, and both wore the robes of mages, though the man's gloves and boots were plated with Nordic-made steel. Aelius spoke down to them from atop his horse, the majority of his men seeming glad for the opportunity to rest.

"Hail, travelers. A dangerous place to stand about in the road, wouldn't you say? This is an Imperial convoy. Please step aside. These prisoners must be delivered to their destination with all haste." There was silence for a brief moment, before a loud and booming voice spoke up from the prisoner's wagon. "Hail, Sellswords!" At which point the entirety of the group of prisoners shouted together. "HAIL!"

Aelius looked a bit dumbfounded, glancing back at his prisoners. "...Shut it back there!" he called. Lynly merely grinned to herself.