Neira Eis Torelle's Story

It took Finn a while to realise where he was, when he woke from something too superficial to be called sleep. Although his breath still misted the air as it had done down in the cells below the keep, the taut brown canvas a few inches above his face, the call of birdsong and the faint chatter of voices were utterly alien the briefest of moments. Until he remembered.

It was odd that, however much he found his new situation to be strange and unfamiliar, the dank musk of the dungeon and the echo of footsteps on stone seemed a thousand years rather than seven sun-downs ago. It was quite possible that things would always be strange and unfamiliar from now on.

His eyes were raw from the lack of sleep and the chill air and he would have liked nothing more than to close them again and dig himself back under the blankets to find an isolation of softness and warmth that was like being buried alive. But he knew this would be futile; sleep didn't come easily and it certainly wouldn't come twice in one morning. Better to get up and fool himself into thinking he was doing something worthwhile. That and he could smell eggs cooking...

Slowly, painfully, he struggled out of the folds of felt and pulled on his boots with clumsy fingers. The newest additions to the scars on his back, inflicted only a few days before they were freed, tugged painfully as he turned to pull on a fur-lined cloak over his clothes. But it was already pink with newly-healed skin- courtesy of the healer everyone else called Rae- and would soon cease to hurt at all; nothing in comparison with what he'd had to endure before. He fastened it under his chin and tugged it down, further over his shoulders. With the bulk of the fur and the woollen tunic underneath it was almost impossible to tell exactly how gaunt he was; he loathed the way his ribs were visible beneath thin slabs of pectoral muscle, how his biceps stood up like strings as he pushed himself up off the floor of the tent and unsteadily stepped outside into the morning sunlight. It made him feel weak and insubstantial, as if he could be buffeted about by the slightest wind. Worse still, he was reminded of the flesh-ragged skeletons that stalked the walls of the castle.

Slowly weaving his way in between the tents, he lowered himself down onto a seat by the fire. Many of the members of the camp were already up; he recognised the healer and a man so alike her in looks he guessed him to be her brother, a blonde archer who had been part of the raiding party who had retrieved he and Aleric from the dungeons and Neira, the second-in-command who often looked as blank and distant as Finn inwardly felt. With a fleeting grin at each of them, he took the bowl that had been passed to him and hungrily dug into his breakfast, though not as rapidly as he would have liked. Eating too much too soon could make him ill, he'd been told when he first arrived at the camp. But it was so difficult when the smell of cooked eggs seemed akin to the most decadent feasts his uncle had thrown at court in his youth.

Orogoth was among the first awoken among the camp. Those days in which he indulged himself in alcohol, woke up the next morning with his head pounding and bed warm, were over but the fact remained that so many others were still so young and lively. Their very own leader was one such person and to what little observations he had after drinking a glass of beer before quickly retreating back to his small study/tent, sometime during the week, a rather boisterous, roaring drunk. It was good cause for celebration, the prince had been rescued, and no rebel casualties. Though it seemed everyone was in good cause for celebration except for Orogoth himself as it seemed he thought he was the only one who could see how the prince was in no shape of rule. Neither prince, for it's easy to disregard their physical wounds as to be healed by the matron of time, but not the wounds of their minds.

Those wounds are something not even the healing hands of magic can soothe over and there is only so much time the matron can spare.

In just the three months since "Duma" found the rebellion, he had his own fair share of contributions: the most recent of which was the drawing of a main floor plan with what sources and information the rebellion could gather. Although he himself had a blueprint of the castle, they were hastily drawn/copied in secret during his youth, the paper was spoiled, but bits and pieces were salvageable.

As the hunched half-orc sat on his small work-table, tending to a gauntlet with a ring, twine, and a sharp dagger, the scent of food had snaked it's way into his small, yet solitary tent. It was distracting him and with a sigh, he decided to leave his cozy tent, filled with blueprints, and stands of dead birds with their wings spread and left with his own custom crossbow in hand, the same one he slept with. It was half the size of a regular crossbow, light, had a magazine of four bolts on top and a lever which made for faster loading. What remained though, was that it was considerably weak, sometimes misfired, and with a good knock it could easily break. It was a prototype though so he kept a dagger just in case. Improvements would be made, things had to be done.

The air was nice and cold, Orogoth only too used to Magna's climate, dressed in only leggings and a dirty tunic with long sleeves. For his feet, they were wrapped in a thin cloth and placed into sandals, for what little warmth that can offer.

Although he could have just had at the stale pieces of bread he had saved up in his room, the taste and texture of actual cooked bread, with meat or eggs, became something of a luxury meal nowadays. Neira, passed him as he went to the fire, and he recounted how generally odd it was that the leaders of the rebellion were women save for that one guy. Back when he was still an architect, he had worked with high-ranking officers of the Magna military, generally in making their homes, and he observed that they were always male. Of course, Orogoth himself couldn't speak about military tactics, and he wasn't the one who rescued the heirs to the throne, so really it was a dead thought.

Still, there was something about Neira. Maybe it was just the contrast when put beside their lively leader, Tacita, but something was odd about her. Orogoth didn't trust her but then again, he didn't trust anyone.

In the midst of justifying his distrust, he walked into the body of one of the young rebels, just a slight taller then himself, his shoulder rubbing off of him. "Watch it." He instinctively growled before he even took a look at the man, noticing it before he continued to move before stopping, turning round his heel, and staring right at him. Three months in a small and steady group and it was in the first and a half before he get a general feel for everyone's faces.

Then again, he pulled this shit the day before the rebellion snuck into the castle, nerves as it was. In a way, it made sense that this was actually a spy, considering that throughout this whole week, they were at their least vigilant, celebrating.

Standing just about six feet away from the suspected intruder, Orogoth barked at him in both an english and quickly after an elvish tongue, slightly raising the small crossbow he held in one hand as he did so. The string wasn't pulled back but there was no way anyone but Duma knew thanks to its strange design that hid the bowstring from sight.

"Who are you?"
"Who are you?"

After those questions, his left hand had gone to his hip to check if he was missing anything, like an empty leather pouch. What can he say, old habits die hard, and after 170 years of checking his pockets everytime someone bumped into him in the city, the habit needed to be decapitated, quartered, gutted, asphyxiated and smothered before it can ever die.

Having collected and donned the majority of her clothes, and shooed her bedmates out of her bed and then from her tent, Lenia approached the bronze wash basin that one of the men had thankfully filled with clean water fresh from the firepits just before Flavinius had arrived. Not wanting to waste the fading warmth while living in such a cold place, she reached her hands in and, making for herself an adequate cup, brought the water up to her face in an attempt to remove her previous disheveled appearance. After repeating this process until her vanity was sated, she was quick to dry every inch of her that had gotten wet so as to avoid experiencing any more of that damnable cold that she despised.

With said morning routine completed, and the appearance of her reflection acceptable, she approached the table on which Flavinius had set her breakfast and slid the bowl of assorted foods to the side so she could examine the map that lay under it. The table wasn't as big as she would prefer, what with a, rather small, map occupying the majority of it, but such luxuries were sacrificed for practicality. Taking a seat in the stool beside the table, she dragged her finger across the map along the path she would prefer to take, stopping just before she crossed the border. Though it was under layers of extra cloth and furs, she was still wearing the vivid red clothing of her native land, and seeing its name scrawled on a piece of parchment made her desire to be home and her resentment of the place she now resided even fiercer.


Once free from the gauntlet of people swarming the heart of the camp, the walk passed quickly and Neira reached Lenia’s tent without incident. She hesitated outside the entrance, not wanting to intrude unannounced and see something she was not meant to. Since fabric does not lend well to knocking, she indicated her presence verbally. “I am here… Neira.” She drew the door aside and peered in to the tent. Seeing Lenia seated at the table, she assessed that the work had begun and it was alright to enter. She crossed the tent with careful steps respecting the area belonging to the one she served under. Stopping next to the table she looked over the small map. “Time for our next move, is it?”


Rather enamored with her imaginings of what it would be like to be back home; bathhouses, warm weather, having several servants, and people who could actually read, Lenia was unaware of her second's presence until she spoke from right behind her. Recoiling her hand from the map and turning her body just enough to see who it was that had stormed their way into her daydreams, she took a moment to recover and let her pulse calm itself. After the momentary and awkward second passed, she turned her attention back to the map and rested her elbows on the ragged wood of the table. "The time for our next move was days ago, now we must pack up camp immediately and make our way to one of the borders." Placing her finger on her preferred destination she turned her gaze slightly so as to look upon her native advisor. "I plan to head south; winter is coming and I lack a savage's tolerance of the cold."


“Mm…” Fixing her eyes on the point Lenia had selected on the simple map, images of the area in question began to surface in Neira’s mind. She scanned the paper trails between the suggested destination and their current position. Though trying to remember a great many of the thoughts stored in her mind felt like trying to grab snowflakes with warm hands, something about spatial memory made it return to her clearer than anything else. She felt that she could travel almost anywhere in the kingdom just by closing her eyes, though the images she saw was not always accurate down to the detail, as evidence in minor changes to the lands they had traversed thus far in the rebellion. After pouring over her memory for a moment she opened her eyes. “Yes, that is a good plan.” She hovered a finger over the map, highlighting an area just off where Lenia had selected. “There is a warm wind that blows in from the south over the border just here. The area has good visibility. There are some fairly large bugs – but they are high in protein.” She moved her finger to a portion between the two places. “There are some unmarked swamps here. Not too serious, but you may lose a boot or two if you’re not cautious.” She retracted her hand and brought it to her mouth, making sure she had not left out anything of importance.


The lack of a proper topographer and the confidence that a barbarian could even create an accurate map had left the rebellion with a rather uninformative map. While cities and major geographical locations were noted, the knowledge that Neira had just provided with her chief would likely only be found by associating with those Lenia would prefer not to associate with. Regardless of their poor map status, it was good to know that her preferred location had some actual value besides being near the border and being somewhat warmer, evidenced by the nodding of her head whenever a new detail had been described. Finally, after Neira had withdrawn her hand from the map, Lenia placed her hands upon the edge of the table and, using the leverage provided by them, stood with enough force to send the poor makeshift seat tumbling back. Admittedly, the back of her calf, which had been the body part to strike her former seat, was rather sore from the unexpected impact of her attempt at being dramatic. After a brief and hopefully unnoticed contortion of her face in response to the pain, she regained her complete composure and addressed her second. "Then it is decided that we make for the southern borders. If the tyrant manages to stumble upon us, we will cross the border and hope he is fool enough to follow."


Neira watched the stool as it tumbled backwards and rolled to a stop an admirable distance away. A subtle smile emerged in response to her commander’s enthusiasm, and she turned her eyes back to address Lenia. “Yes, we can hope,” she said in approval. She wondered briefly what was over the border that could assist them. If there was more men there why not just recruit them to this side? The thoughts melted away with the simple trust that Lenia knew what was best. Believing that there was not any further help that she could offer, she took a step towards the door. “I’ll go and assist the preparations – if there is nothing else you need.”


With important terrain and locations now added to the makeshift map through an incomprehensible shorthand of scribbles, everything that required Neira's presence had been completed. Seemingly aware of this, Neira had began making her way towards the exit while the symbols were added to the parchment. Lenia, with the last drops of ink scattered onto the map, glanced toward her advisor as she left. "That will be all." Flavinius would likely be bringing the sickly prince to her ten soon and it would be very awkward to have a native witness any of the scenarios she had planned for their meeting.

Returning her gaze to her newly altered work to plan out an actual path to travel on, she uttered a slight reminder. "Next time, Neira, bathe before you come to my tent. It's been a week and you still smell like a corpse."


A moment of silence passed. Neira took a small whiff of the air around her but could perceive nothing. Not that her sense of smell had been all that reliable as of late. “Yes… o-of course.” A somewhat awkward bow of the head was offered before she turned and she left Lenia to her work. As she watched the dirt pass under her feet, he fingers grazed over the wound on her arm. She had bathed, quite thoroughly at that. The wound the only thing she could think to blame for the scent arising. A soft sigh left her lips as she came to terms with the idea that she could not evade medical attention for much longer.