“Nobody plans to die.”

Urzoth picked at a loose metal scale on the thigh of her greaves, pressing it back into its place and making a passing note to check over her armor when they made it to Falkreath. The last thing she needed was a stick lodging in a place it shouldn’t or mud chafing against the joints of her armor in the middle of a battle. She studied Marassa’s features while the woman worked to stop the bleeding on a cut on Urzoth’s cheekbone. The pain in her face was gradually subsiding, and she knew merely by the feel of some of Blade’s clawmarks that they would become new scars. “They just end up doing it regardless when they don’t plan ahead.” 

Urzoth wondered how many new scars Marassa herself had gained in the time since they’d parted ways. An unfamiliar, minute nick near the tip of her snout, trailing across where her fur and leathery nose met, barely noticeable until one was close enough. A faded scratch from a wolf, perhaps? The aftermath of an encounter in a tavern? She remembered that she was staring without talking again, and just as she poised to part her lips, Marassa spoke instead. She listened solemnly, accepting Marassa’s words. “…Anger makes people have outbursts and exposes glimpses of themselves through their defenses. It’s how I determined Sevari was more than just a typical assassin, it’s how I’ll find out if Coin Purse is going to be an effective alley or a disposable berserker. Given his reputation, I’m rather surprised he harbours any loyalty to people, especially when he barely knows them.”

The bleeding on her face had stopped, and Marassa moved to the dark bog-brown bruising that stretched from Urzoth’s left armpit and onto a portion of her pectoral muscle and shoulder. The ache gave way, letting the orc reflect upon the scolding with a little more lucidity. She shook her head. “I don’t think this is about loyalty. He wants to fight, he wants vengeance. Just as good motivators, if you know how to wrangle it down and point it in the right direction.” 

She hummed at Marassa’s forewarning. The idea of leading Marassa or Cub or any of these strangers, some arrogant, some clearly more intelligent than Urzoth, filled her with an odd feeling. She could scarcely describe it, as there was little to compare it to. Pride at Marassa’s recognition of her technical authority, even if her role had been on a more personal level; the ice-cold in her chest at the prospect of leading yet another group of outcasts, the insecurity of relying upon her people skills to inspire others. She was not Zaveed—but, damn him and bless him, she didn’t need to be. The wind chilled her bare arms, but she felt it only vaguely. 

She would surely grow attached to her potential charges, even if only to a few. Her old companions were one thing: she knew of their skills and trusted them to watch after themselves where she couldn’t. The breton woman was only a few years younger than Urzoth, but how young she looked! The human was sharp and could pick her way around a fight, sure, but Urzoth remembered too well the harrowing moments of many bandit encounters where Elayna had strayed a little too close to some thug’s wild axe as a result of a misstep. 

[i]Focus, Urzoth. You’re straying.[/i] “I’m going to find a stream to collect some water to clean off the blood.” Marassa was leaving; the bulk of Urzoth’s wounds mended or significantly made lesser. She flexed her shoulder, rolled it, and grunted at the ache present in the muscle. Healing aside, she would have to rest and stretch, lest she became sore. [i]If I’m even given the chance to rest. Who am I to deserve respite when hundreds frailer than I need it more? No. If I stop it will kill them only faster. [/i] She buried her head in her hands. Exhaustion dusted away the remains of rage and pain and settled in smugly. [i]You have miles yet to travel and feet yet to bleed. You can push onward, only a little more.[/i]

She glanced up from her breastplate and tasset to Cub, watching him and wishing Marassa would return quickly with the bucket so she could don her armor sooner. Even in a thick shirt and greaves, she felt all too vulnerable. Bad thoughts snuck in freely, but so too did…curious thoughts. [i]Cub was not too bad to look at when he was crashing into Blade like a wagon down a slope.[/i] She looked away from him quickly. [i]He also acts like a child with a Daedra’s temper.[/i] She sighed. There were moments when his thoughts seemed almost…alien. Neither orc nor anything else she could so neatly file away. [i]Something you don’t understand. But you could learn.[/i] 

Marassa was back, a furry smudge that burst from the sheet of rain and urgently offered forth a scrap of paper she’d crumpled in her fist to keep from getting soaked. Whatever the note said, it couldn’t be good. She didn’t carry her bucket, she’d left in a hurry. Filth be damned, Urzoth flung on her armor and fastened the straps with just enough carefulness to not make a foolish mistake. Muscle memory did half of her work for her, and she was shuffling her shoulderplates into place as she rushed for her hammer and helmet, both at the log by the fire where she left them. “What does it say?!” She demanded, furiously scrambling to find her sling. [i]Damn you! Wasting energy on a petty power struggle! [/i] “What did you find?! What does it say?! Rrragh, dammit!” She stood tensely at the threshold of the tower, staring out into the darkness as if an army of Oblivion-spawn was poised to greet her at any moment.