Everything was going pretty well, all things considered, due in no small part to the fact that Balen spoke to her some words that she recognised – true, it was in a dialect tinged by others and by a dead language, an older idiom but it checked out. Understanding Tamrielic spoken slowly and in short bursts was also something she was capable of, even if half of it did sound like gibberish to her pointed ears; all-in-all she had not loosed an arrow at anyone and was even lowering her weapon...that was until Do'ava arrived in [i]possibly[/i] the worst way possible.

For a creature that was, no matter how sentient they may be, essentially a bipedal feline – along with all the pros and cons that went with it – this particular Khajit seemed to have absolutely no idea just how close hew had come to being skewered. Riding headlong onto the scene had been bad enough, and the adrenaline of a fight-or-flight response coursed its way through the Bosmers veins even as she stood rooted to the spot in the middle of the river. Nor did it help that she had never even seen a Khajit before, especially not one who suddenly began yelling in the direction of the larger group; to her this cat-man was both a threat and a prize whose head would look very fine mounted on the wall of her families homestead.

Within her chest the strong heart pounded, blood circulating at an accelerated rate and her breathing becoming almost a hyperventilation, yet she neither ran forward into the attack or backed away toward the brush from whence she had sprung. In lieu of any such actions she appeared even more comical than she already had, glaring at the black furred irritation – not that you could even tell where she was looking – and gauging whether the apparently peaceful man-cat could bleed like other creatures.

Calming herself with a few more swift breaths had become her priority, each passing moment seeing her tense frame becoming [i]somewhat[/i] less inclined to leap forth. Like all animals, from the largest Mammoth to the smallest ant, she had no real violence in her unless otherwise provoked...and no one had provoked her, yet.

Taking her eyes away from the Khajit, though not her ears and with some reluctance, she padded first to her right and away from Do'ava and his rather fine looking mount – seeking to get some distance between them - and then across the short length of sandy riverbank until she stood within feet of the small encampments perimeter. By this time her bow was replaced on her back, the arrow slid back into its quiver once more, even as her hands hovered dangerously close to and unmoving about the hilts of what could be called her secondary weapons.

Standing closer to Balen than the others, the Dunmer acting as a sort of middle man between them, she cocked her head and squatted down at the edge of the camp. All these outsiders, all these strangers in shiny suits of metal and all wearing weapons, even the way they had made their camp, it all unsettled her and she could feel the flesh on her limbs and spine prickling even in the sweltering heat of the day. Nostrils flared as she took in the stench of them, while her eyes picked out the glinting ruby of the Captain's pommel, the smooth cheeks and youth of Roland, and the air of internal solitude that the hook-nosed Dark Elf in what would have seemed like a glance to many others.

“Erissil,” she then piped up in a lilting voice directed at Hector, the man she correctly concluded was the leader here, sitting back on her haunches and placing a hand to her chest by way of introduction, “Hektor Sea-bass-iass?”

The hand moved to point at Hector and then lower itself back to resting on one patterned thigh.