---

Fjolte Sorikson was of Skyrim, through and through.

Blood ran cold in his veins and his heart was wild at its core, embalmed in steel. His hands were weathered from the work of a men's labour. Of war, and of subsequent retirement from it. The lines were buried deep now, softened, and the callouses worn down.

The man likened Skyrim to being carved with harsh lines, displaying long cracks in hard surfaces, and where he was now was as foreign from Skyrim as ice was from fire. But Valenwood wasn't soft. No, not soft. It was alive, like Skyrim, but in a different way. Skyrim was a screaming song - breath across the mountainous vistas. Valenwood felt like the lungs that gave the breath. Hollowed trees were homes and structures - palatial in their architecture in a way that the Nord's eyes had never before witnessed.

Skyrim was brick and stone and with strong foundations built by the strong hands of strong men and women, but Valenwood appeared as some ethereal vision - growing from the ground in towering, captivating beauty. So green, so alive.

As he moved through it, he felt it all around him, every drop of life that responded to his surprisingly gentle and unobtrusive step. Moss from the ground grazed his ankles, and he consciously held out one hand to touch whatever brushed past him. Vines, leaves, the silken air.

Fjolte felt so out of place - as if he was simply existing in his own waking dream. It wouldn't be the first time that his mind projected images before him. The substances. The healing. The potions. They always brought in hallucinations and then occasional fits of terror but this was different. He was out of place, and yet, the shifting softness beneath his feet paved the way for him as if he was home.

Surrounded by the life of Valenwood, Fjolte was no longer standing deep in his own ache.

Even the hike to their destination had been refreshing. Their. His companion, a stray-of-sorts just like himself whom he had stumbled upon, took a liking to, and found they were headed on the same path anyway. Gwilym.

"So brother," Fjolte began - his voice a patient trailing breath. "Shall we find ourselves a drink and take a rest here? The festival shall begin soon enough, no?"

Gwilym was busy picking the latest of their detestable companions from the back of his neck- a leech this time. This morning it had been a spider the size of his head, the trauma of which still hadn’t left his mind. When the nagging little parasite finally came free from his skin he crushed it in his gloved hand, scowling at Fjolte and his wistful, beautiful, infuriating eyes. “I hate this place.”

He said, hurling the bloody leech carcass as hard as he could back into the endless brush that looked just like the last hundred miles of endless brush, half expecting the creature to come back screeching at him, “Is it too much to ask for a bloody road?” He moped, “Or at least whatever counts as a trail to these heathens.”

“We won’t be here long,” Fjolte answered with a gentle shrug. “We’ll leave and you’ll find yourself missing it,” he added with a smirk— reaching to Gwilym’s neck again to pluck a second leech free from behind his ear.

As they walked further forward, the low sound of drums could be heard just off in the distance. Drums, lutes, flutes— the music of celebration reverberating through the thick air to greet them as they broke free of the brush and out into the opening. A lush village, outlined in long strings of dyed fabric from tree to tree, reds, yellows, and blues that had been hung up for the festival. A welcoming sight. “See!” Fjolte exclaimed, holding out his arms to gesture at the splendour. “You don’t find magic like this following a carved out road my friend!”

The lights flickered in Gwilym’s eyes as he stared inward and past Fjolte. Whatever mental maladies ailed him seemingly vanished at the sight of all this beauty. It was unlike dripping, damp, horrid jungles around it, standing out like a shining beacon in a sea of diseased mosquitoes and sucking leeches. Like a lighthouse to a sailor lost adrift. And this sailor needed a drink and a fuck.

“I don’t know how you do it, Fjolte,” Gwilym said, finally succeeding in the task of ripping his eyes away from all the lights- and a pair of passing voluptuous bosoms and buttocks, “But you seem to redeem yourself every time you fall into my displeasure.”

“You’re not bad for a goat herder or whatever you were before this.” Gwilym smiled, “Let’s find some drink so I can forget the damned walk here.“

“Goat herder?” Fjolte repeated, his brows furrowed and a hand shifted to run through his beard. “I like it,” he added. The Nord could tell that Gwilym was itching for mischief, for excitement. He’d earned it, Fjolte supposed as he reached into a pocket to grab a small pipe. He’d earned something too.

“That damned walk did you good,” he said, taking a drag from the pipe with a smirk. The smoke tingled in his throat, and soon came the familiar soothing sensation, and the light buzz behind his eyes. “Drink though, mmm, could do with that,” a twinkle appeared in his ocean blue eyes as, just like Gwilym, he let his eyes follow some of the women that walked by— jubilant and ready for the celebration.

“Just remember, Gwilym,” Fjolte chuckled, “we’re honorable guests here— don’t go getting yourself wrapped into too much trouble…” With a humorous warning on the table, he handed over the pipe to the man with a wink.

“Trouble?” Gwilym scoffed at that, as if the mere mention of it was like saying Stendarr hated the meek. Gwilym rolled his eyes and waved Fjolte’s words off as he took the pipe and drew on it, smoke leaking from his lips as he smiled, “Trouble, bah. They’ll all miss me when we’re off.”

That brought a strange feeling to the Nord, and his eyes softened just so momentarily. Bringing himself back to the moment, he cast a glance to Gwilym, taking back his favoured pipe with a nod. “Aye they’ll miss you, that’ll be sure,” he commented, exhaling long tendrils of smoke from his nostrils.

It didn’t appear that there was really anything in the way of a tavern or an inn as Fjolte may have imagined one; nothing about this was familiar to him at all — but beautiful nonetheless. There were, however, a row of vendor carts, tables, and displays — merchants singing out to the swathes of people who also seemed to be arriving. Soon enough, Fjolte and Gwilym were simply just two faces in that crowd.

The festival had begun.

Stormy and I

"You there! You look like the sort of lass who could appreciate a luminescent guar statue to light up your stoop! No? How about this blanket that is always pleasantly cool?" Raznog gro-Malak called out to a passing pair of elven women, who only spared a moment's consideration to the wares the bespectacled Orsimer was enthusiastically presenting. Shazali's eye lingered on her companion for a pregnant moment, noticing that even with scaled back attire given the muggy climate, the Orc seemed to try to look somewhat presentable, and perhaps failing via half-measures.

A sleeveless vest covered his powerful torso, the vest missing its paired undershirt, and the fine mahogany coloured trousers were rolled up to his knees with a fancy broach on either pant leg to pin them in place, the look being rounded out with his axe pendant and a pair of crocodile leather sandals he had purchased from this festival only being a few shades darker than his complexion. He wore it proudly and his grooming was as ever on-point, so the Alfiq gave him a pass, turning her attention back to the Investigator Vale novel she was currently enraptured with.

Raznog shrugged as the two prospective clients sauntered off towards the Altmer's perfume stall a few spaces down from where the unlikely duo were set up. He set the blanket down on the bench he had some of the items for sale with their wooden price placards set just-so to the left and folded it with practiced hands. He tapped the stained glass chimes, watching as the elemental enchantments in each pane lit up; the pale blue pane reacted with a flash of lightning, the red a flash of flame, and the white one frosted over before quickly melting again. He slumped down in his wicker chair again, large meaty hands folded on his lap.

"Damn shame; I thought the blanket would have been gone immediately in this climate." he grunted, pulling a stone container from the box next to his chair and pulling a large chunk of fire salt free, setting it into a tray beneath a kettle to boil the water.

"It is only the first night, Raznog; Shazali does not doubt your talents as a salesman. Besides, those two probably couldn't afford my crafts." the Khajiit pointed out, the soft glow of telekinesis encasing a clawed toe that turned the page.

"Probably not." Raznog agreed with a smile, leaning back into his chair, regarding his companion affectionately. "So, has the good Investigator made any leeway in solving the case?"

Shazali shook her head. "No, but if she stopped making bedroom-eyes at the assassin, the Baroness would probably still be alive." Shazali sighed, her head slumping down into a paw to regard Reznog more readily. "This one can't say she cares overly much for the humidity, or the insects that are nearly as large as her, or the fermented meat drink."

"Rotmeth?" Raznog offered.

"Eecth. That is the one. It is good you brought your own supplies, but you may wish to stock up at the festival. The Bosmer will probably get somewhat pissy if you start eyeballing their flowers." Shazali sighed. "Do you think if a Khajiit were to grow Moon Sugar cane in Valenwood, the Bosmer would claim it is a part of the Green Pact? No wonder our people used to fight each other all the time before the Dominion." she pondered absentmindedly.

Raznog shook his head, smiling as he turned his attention to the steam beginning to emerge from the kettle’s funnel. “You know, Shazali, you always grumble about something whenever we go somewhere new, but you always secretly love the new experiences. When we close up for the night, we’ll take a look around and see what strikes your fancy, yeah?”

The Alfiq looked away defiantly. “So presumptuous! Shazali may not be a lightwell of cheer that you are, but she will have you know that Valenwood needs more dry sands and sweet-meats to be tolerable. How do these people make due without spices and real wine? Shazali fears their society will collapse if someone were to offer their King a salad. Would it be considered a threat, an assassination attempt?” she giggled. “Maybe the cherry tomatoes would be seen as his slain children. The horror!” she gasped.

“More likely,” Raznog grinned conspiratorially with his companion. “They’d find a small little cat such as yourself to be a delicacy, what with a lifetime of marinating in moon sugar. You’d be their little sweet meat.”

Shazali pouted with narrow eyes. “There is a darkness to you, Raznog. Shazali will have you know she is too gamey for consumption. More likely, they’d take their tree and run away. Who’s going to chase a walking tree? Simply ridiculous.” She said, returning to her book.

---

Was Fjolte already that high? That drunk? He’d not long arrived at the festival and already the strange happenings were… Happening. There was no way that he could believe what his eyes were trying to tell him.

He’d been making his way through the makeshift market row, on his way to find a quiet spot to take a moment to himself; to escape the crowd momentarily, and to ruminate on the events of the trip… Or simply just to let himself catch up with himself. The lengthy travel through the rough terrain wasn’t sitting well on him. As he shuffled along languidly through the crowd, it was the sun catching the tubes of a wind chime that danced in front of him that stopped him in his tracks and forced his ears to halt and listen too.

The uncomfortably tall man turned his head, running a clammy palm through his thick mane of hair to brush back the carefree strands that would have otherwise decided to stick to his forehead. Humidity he thought to himself in a growl… Maybe he had said it out loud. Something was growling. His stomach perhaps? Fjolte patted one of his hands against it gently as if to encourage it to simmer down.

And then he focussed on the sight, a cat was talking which only made him tilt his head marginally so. He’d met Alfiq before. They weren’t so strange and out of place. Not so out of place as… The Orsimer in spectacles and tailored clothing. Now that was new. It was new, and precisely what he had hoped he might find in Valenwood. A kindly curiosity fell over the Monk as he then turned softly on his heel to walk up to their stall, and quietly he began to admire their wares as they chatted away without yet noticing him. Their very presence was almost enough to ground him from the previous self-inflicted turbulence.

Raznog was fully attentive to the kettle at this point, prompting Shazali to toss a small rock that bounced off of his trousers. The Orsimer looked up to the Alfiq, who pointed a dainty paw towards the newcomer. Raznog turned to see a somewhat disheveled and perhaps inebriated Nord inspecting the wares that were for sale. He stood, grinning widely and approached, appreciating that the Nord looked to be a powerful man who simply was enjoying the celebrations in a way Raznog wished he could at that particular moment.

“Welcome to Claw & Hammer Enchantments and Crafts, friend! We’ve got something for everyone, and if we don’t, we do enchantment services on site. What kinds of wares interest you?” Raznog asked enthusiastically, showcasing the wares.

“We’ve got some more typical things, flaming daggers, frost maces, feather rings if you’re feeling a bit heavy after eating too much, yeah?” the Orc laughed, gently tapping Fjolte’s abs with the back of his hand. “Or maybe you’re in the market for a sweetheart? This dragonfly broach is rather fetching, and it helps mend wear and tear on the body, perfect for long walks without feeling tired! Or if you’re worried about food poisoning in these parts, this band just goes around your wrist and it helps prevent poisoning… I don’t know about you, my friend, but Bosmer cuisine just does not agree with me!”

“I won’t waste your time and pretend I have the coin,” Fjolte replied with a chuckle and a half hearted shrug of his shoulders. His eyes, however, did land on the Dragonfly. It was intricate and beautiful, and, the enchantment sounded like something that could in fact be of use to him. He was feeling more sore than ever after this trek — relief in the form of a piece of jewellery he could easily hide away sounded divine. That piece was to be worn proudly though, to catch light and shimmer out with it, not to be stuffed into the shadows.

“Only time food has given me any trouble was when there wasn’t enough,” he slurred with a wink in the Orc’s direction. “You make these yourself?” He asked, meeting Raznog’s gaze with his own glazed and sparkling eyes.

"Only the pretty woodworking and painted bits; the magic touch is the work of my partner over there with the book." Raznog said with a proud smile, pointing to the Alfiq, who quietly sighed as she closed the Investigator Vale novel. Hopping off the table she was perched upon, she crossed the tent in a non-hurried manner before hopping up in a stool near the front display.

"Shazali is the enchanter who is enchanting, yes? She also does custom services if nothing here catches your eye, although would she be wrong in assuming you did not have eyes on the broach, walker?" The Alfiq introduced herself, lifting a paw.

The dragonfly took to the air and floated gently towards Fjolte for him to catch. "A simple health and stamina enchantment etched into the separate glass panes. It is weak and unremarkable for adventuring and fighting, but for someone who simply wishes to have their bodies keep up with their ambitions? Perhaps a voracious lover? It is more than suitable, this one thinks." Shazali explained in a tantalizing tone, as if it were both within Fjolte's price range and was absolutely essential for someone with his physique.

“It has been quite a few winters now since I’ve given much thought to being a voracious lover,” Fjolte admitted candidly with a sigh. Taking a moment to think about his words, he glanced to the Alfiq and then to the Orc again. Perhaps he could give her something to smile about too, they weren’t the only unusual individuals at the festival. Once more, Fjolte spoke — only in the tongue of the Khajiit, Ta’agra. “I walk over many roads, and on paths that should be unwalked.”

When not talking like his kin, his voice softened and his inflections changed — even his accent differed which spoke to the respect that he had for the language and khajiiti culture. He inclined his head to say as much to Shazali too. As he regarded the dragonfly, he sighed. “Beautiful,” Fjolte said, in the common tongue again. “Too beautiful for someone like me, but maybe I could take advantage of those custom services…”

Shazali blinked and tilted her head, pleasantly surprised. It was very unlike a Nord to know her mother tongue, let alone speak it so beautifully. It was clear this man had spent time in Elsweyr, and more-so became immersed in its culture. She liked him, she decided. <You do this one honour.> she replied in Ta’agra before transitioning back to the common tongue.

“And someone like you surely must know you are beautiful, but your humbleness does you credit. What sort of work were you hoping to have done?” she asked.

Raznog for his part regarded Fjolte with curiosity before returning to his kettle, feeling Shazali had it well in hand.

The Orc wasn’t the only one with curious thoughts, Fjolte watched him too, thoughts jumbled in his mind between where Raznog had come from and how he ended up here, in the company of an Alfiq. He was an almost immaculate man, and the Nord looked down at his own Goat Herder apparel with a sigh.

“Hmm?” He mumbled out eventually, realising he’d followed a tangent of a thought that had taken him miles from the conversation with Shazali; he began carefully rubbing a plain silver ring on his finger before removing it with great care. It didn’t look like much at all. It was just a simple silver band with some etching into the side. A curly F, M, and H lined up next to each other — with a larger, and curlier S. Truthfully it was a rather gaudy piece but Fjolte handled it as if it were a flawless diamond.

“My family ring,” he said happily, gazing deep into the Alfiq’s sparkling eye. “Perhaps… the enchantment from the brooch on this. Do you think it would work?”

“Look around you, rhook; Shazali put fire enchantments in wood that does not burn. Tamriel is full of enchanted jewelry; why should yours be any different, hm?” she replied with a warm smile. “She will even do this for nothing more than the cost of the materials and a story about how you came to speak this one’s mother tongue with such grace.” she offered.

“I was lucky enough that travels brought me to Elsweyr after a beautiful and mysterious woman pointed me in that direction,” Fjolte explained fondly, moving his hands this way and that, drawing the curvaceous shape of a woman in the space between himself and Shazali. “I met some wandering Monks, and being a hurt and misplaced youth at the time I followed until they let me join in,” he laughed, blinking slowly. “I learned a lot from their simple way of life. To respect the world around me and the like...” There was clearly more to the story, and it was the details he chose to omit that would become the clues to the truth. The truth was too truthful for right now, anyway. Everyone always wanted a story.

“I might push my luck now, on your gracious offer, but I’d like to hear how you met your companion too, if you have the time to tell that tale,” Fjolte found himself leaning against the table lazily, and yet still not allowing his weight to push against it and topple it in -- he was simply enjoying himself in company that already felt so familiar to him. He had decided he liked Shazali too.

“There is beauty in simplicity, no?” Shazali replied warmly. “It is why Raznog and Shazali have traveled together for many moons. He left home to find a purpose after his family agreed to sell the business, and this one has a bit heavier of a tale she does not wish to share in polite company, but suffice it to say, family is a complicated matter and being free of its yolk has allowed this one to travel and find her own way.”

She looked over to Raznog, who was busy pouring tea into three cups, she took notice of.

“The big guy found this one when… well, when she approached him at a particularly unflattering moment of time and she challenged him to a game of cups so she could forget her brother for a few moments. He listened to Shazali, Shazali overshared, and she found that he was pleasant company and made me forget my troubles for a time. Shazali decided to leave the Baandari caravan that took her in to travel with Raznog, because it looked like he could use a companion and we both had room to grow.” she smiled warmly at the thought. “There have been no regrets so far.”

“It’s nice to know I’ve tricked you into thinking I’m polite,” Fjolte chuckled as a twinkle of mischief scattered over his eyes. “But please, I will not pry,” he added reassuringly with an easy smile.

“I’ve been travelling alone for a while until I met my latest friend, he’s been good company indeed. You… Forget what it’s like to forge a bond,” the Nord admitted, momentarily glancing away from Shazali, there was a hint of heavy regret in his tone that also seemed to take to his body as he slumped forward slightly. “But that is how I live,” he sighed, offering a suddenly wan smile as he looked back up. “I am glad you have each other. It’s clear you make a good team.”

Raznog returned, placing a tea cup down next to Shazali, an adorably miniature sized one compared to his own, and he offered another to Fjolte. “Well pal, it’s never too late to reach out to new people and seeing what sticks. When I left Jehanna, I wasn’t exactly all that familiar with Khajiit or expecting to travel with one, let alone when that’s a mite more articulate than my neighbour’s housecat.”

“And Shazali never expected to entwine her fate to a dapper flesh atronach.” the Alfiq hissed, although it was clear from her expression she wasn’t actually offended; it was playful ribbings between two close friends that many could relate to.

“You’re too kind, Shazali.” Raznog chuckled, taking a sip of the citrus scented tea, the cup seeming comically small in his large hands. “Where’s this companion of yours? Bit of advice; if you’re feeling down about being solitary, maybe try to keep the people you like closeby and share these experiences together. You should go find your friend after you’re done here and see what else this festival offers together”

Shazali smiled at Fjolte. “You’re a curious one, Walker, but it’s clear you carry no small amount of weight in your heart… and so does this one, but it does not mean it removes room for letting life fill it. Maybe in these forests and with all of these people your heart will find a new song to sing… and if ever you can’t find your way, you are always welcome here.” the Alfiq said, before transitioning seamlessly back to Ta’agra. <You are kin to this one, no? You have the heart of Khajiiti.>

<This one thanks you for your words and wisdom>, Fjolte answered quietly, placing a closed fist on his heart as a humble gesture to the kindly Alfiq. Then, he carefully took the teacup and directed a nod of acknowledgement towards Raznog too. The drink was delightfully fresh, a much-needed palette cleanser, and something in it was invigorating enough to ease some of the growing pain throughout his body.

“We’ll see,” he said between sips. The Orc was not wrong; things were better shared, and so Fjolte smiled thankfully at the advice of both. He felt a sense of gratitude towards them, and validation in that his observation of them had been correct. “I’d imagine young Gwilym is on the prowl for a different kind of companion,” he jested -- immediately feeling like the comment was harsh. He suspected that there was a depth to Gwilym that the Breton hadn’t wished to reveal yet and it had become a wish of Fjolte’s to learn more about him.

He sipped thoughtfully from the cup again, “you might not like it if I started to sing,” he said with a half-smile. “I’ve frightened off many a would-be friend that way,” he added with a snigger. The Nord began to straighten up again, “you both have been too kind to me today,” he said, finishing the tea. “I hope you are also here to enjoy this beautiful festival and not just work the whole way through? If there’s a song for me to find, perhaps one for you too, no?”

“Kindness is a currency that is shared too infrequently, I think.” Raznog replied. “Besides, you’re more likely to come back with coin when you have a pleasant experience at our humble little enterprise, no?” the Orsimer teased with a playful wink. “But worry not, pal, we intend to take our own time seeing what’s going on around town and mingling with the rest of them.”

“After everyone closes up tonight, there’s a community bonfire the merchants are putting on. We intend to be there… and you should join us.” Shazali said, sitting upright with a twinkle in her eye. “It also occurs to Shazali she has never asked you your name…?”

“I might just do that,” Fjolte answered after thinking it over, though his attendance depended entirely on how much fun he’d allow himself in the time between then and now. He gave his new found friends a parting wave of his hand, electing to leave behind the family ring on the countertop before him. “Fjolte. My name is Fjolte.”

Then, as quietly as he had approached, he disappeared from their stall — not completely, given that he stood practically head and shoulders above most. He simply became another traveler walking on by with the current of the crowd.

Shazali picked up the silver band Fjolte had left in her care as she watched him go before piping up to Raznog. “See, Raznog? First customer and it hasn’t even been lunch yet.”

Nimriell found that the salted fish she had been snacking on earlier during the day hadn’t quite filled up the hole in her stomach, merely consoling it a little while she was distracted by other more interesting things. If truth be told, she was actually quite missing the food she would cook for herself, or more so, the food her mother would cook, or the other Baandari. Perhaps she was a Bosmer, but her palate was certainly not. Her first taste of rotmeth had not ended well, and it would take a lot of convincing for her to ever taste it again. She was a curious sort and liked trying new things, yes, but she wasn’t stupid and was certainly not going to try anything that involved fermented meat in it.

Rubbing the back of her neck, she let out an almost inaudible sigh before heading out for the makeshift market. Gold was never a problem for her- she didn’t normally spend too much, and having lived with a merchant family, she knew how to save and find good deals. What she wanted right now was something more to eat and perhaps some water, but it was hard not to get distracted with all the different stalls and see what people of different cultures had for sale. From weapons to adornments, from little animals to stones that were most probably fakes that were not imbued with ayleid magic as was claimed by their seller- it was all rather fascinating. The little Bosmer may have had a calm and placid smile on her face, but her eyes were shining with excitement.

A passing wagon suddenly crashed hard to a corner, the wheel coming off on the rough cobblestone wheel. The guar pulling it roared frightfully and tried to run with the dead load behind it, a pitiful sound that caused quite a commotion as wood dragged on stone. The rider was bucked from the wagon, landing roughly on the stone.

Raznog headed the guar off, sprinting from his tent to the scene, throwing his arms around the guar, “Woah, woah! Easy… easy!” he called out to the guar, pressing his boots into the ground against it trying to push and grabbing hold of its reins. It bellowed again, now seemingly more perplexed by the stranger that was holding his own against the beast’s strength than bothered by the wagon. Raznog, sensing the shift in the creature’s disposition, chuckled warmly and stroked the creature’s neck.”That’s a good girl. Don’t like loud noises, do you?” he asked the bipedial reptile, which snorted contentedly to the pats. Raznog took the reins of the guar and quickly tied the lead to a tree before hurrying over to the rider to see if they were okay.

“Fine, I’m fine! I think I’m more startled than bruised…” the young Imperial woman laughed, wiping her brow of sweat. “Bella’s been acting strangely the past day or so, like she’s wound up and ready to run. She’s always been sensitive.” she explained, smiling up at the Orsimer, he returned the smile. “Thank you, sir. It could have been so much worse without your quick reaction!”

“Think nothing of it! A person in need is just a friend you haven’t met yet, my father always told me.” offering a hand, he helped the woman to her feet. “Let me help you get your wagon wheel back on, yeah?”

He looked around for it, finding the wheel nearby a curiously garbed Bosmer woman. “Pardon me, miss! Mind bringing that over?”

"Not at all!" Nimriell had quickly gotten out of the out of control wagon's way as any normal person would, not wishing to get hurt or possibly run over. She wasn't too unfamiliar with rogue vehicles herself, but it was never so common an incident that she would have expected it. Quickly picking up the wheel and standing it on the path, Nimriell then easily rolled it over to the odd looking orc who had helped the lady with her guar.

"Here you go, five-claw," she said, pushing the wheel at the orc, though keeping a grip on it until he took it from her. Her eyes quickly wandered over his appearance. This person was like no other Orsimer she had seen before. The relatively clean and taken care of appearance, the spectacles, the clothes- it was a far cry from what she was used to. Then again, she supposed she too looked a little odd in her mixture of Khajiit and Bosmer attire.

"This one has to admit that was quick thinking on your part," she added, eyeing the guar and its owner before looking back up at the orc. "The rest of us scattered like wasps from a disturbed hive."

“Five-claw?” Raznog repeated with a grin. “You sound like my partner over there. And think nothing of it, miss; big strong guys like me have a responsibility to step in when the situation calls for it. You grow up on a ship yard, you get used to putting yourself in the way of heavy, out of control objects and hoping for the best.” he replied with a hearty laugh.

Picking up the corner of the wagon, he instructed Nimriell, “Alright, if you’re able, just slip the wheel over the peg there. This nice lady and her guar have already drawn enough attention; I’m sure they’d like to carry on their day.”

Nodding, Nimriell carefully lifted the wheel and carefully slipped it over the peg until it was sitting as it should. "There, that should be good," she commented. giving it a pat before straightening up to look at the Orsimer. "Feel free to let it go, it should be fine now, this one believes!"

She was rather curious about his comment on his partner; truth be told she hadn't even realized what she had said until he mentioned it, it was so habitual. But she kept her curiosity in check for the time being. There was still the matter of the wagon being ready to roll.

Raznog set the wagon down gently and slotted in a new pin that the Imperial brought over. After a quick thank you and farewell, Bella the guar and her master carried on down the road. The Orsimer stretched, satisfied at a good deed done. He regarded the Bosmer with polite curiosity, adjusting his spectacles. “Five-claw, this one… are you an Ohmes, by chance? Pardon my ignorance, I’ve tried to learn from my partner about all the different kinds of Khajiit that roam Tamriel, but stories don’t always match up to life experiences, or the lack thereof.” he shook his head, smiling. “But where are my manners; Raznog gro-Malak, at your service. Thank you for your assistance, miss…?”

"Nimriell Briarwood," the Bosmer replied, giving Raznog a friendly smile, "though this one is also known as Green, a childhood nickname that has stuck throughout the years, perhaps due to the green clothes she chooses to wear." She then shook her head, a small chuckle escaping her lips. "There's no ignorance on your part, Nimriell can full well understand your confusion. This one's actually a Bosmer, but since she has grown up with a khajiit family almost since birth, there is not much Bosmer left in her save looks " She pointed to the antlers protruding from her forehead before tapping at the markings adorning her face. "It's true that this one could pass as an Ohmes, but it's more habit now than anything else."

"And yourself? There's much this one hasn't seen or heard of, but perhaps this is the first time Nimriell's met an Orsimer with a Khajiit partner."

“Lots of strange and wonderful things happen when you travel around, miss Nimriell. Pretty name, by the way!” Raznog said warmly. “My partner and I happened to be in different caravans when we chanced by each other and decided to travel together, fresh start and perspectives for both of us. It’s been good so far.”

He looked back at the tent where Shazali had already lost interest in the wagon commotion and was setting up her enchanting supplies for the custom order that had come through. “So what brings you to the festival? Anything in particular you might be after?” the Orsimer asked.

Nimriell had followed Raznog's line of sight but then looked away, not wishing to be impolite. Smiling at his question, she shook her head no. "This one wouldn't say anything in particular," she replied, lightly rubbing her chin in thought. "Coming here was more for seeking knowledge perhaps? This one may look like a Bosmer but has no real idea as to the customs of the wood elves." She paused a moment, eyes lingering over the market stalls. "This one was adopted by a Baandari family, and so she knows to travel with a purpose. Now her brother is far off in Anequina, and her parents, the Sands behind the Stars. So now Nimriell is simply a vagabond, hoping to learn more about the ways of others."

Raznog nodded somberly. “I’m sorry about your loss, lass, but I’d like to think your folks are looking after you even from the Sands Behind the Stars. Shazali’s told me a lot about it, so I’d like to think I know a thing or two.” he said warmly. “Whatever it is you find on your travels, I hope it brings you the answers you need. What have you learned so far?”

She shook her head at his condolences. “Thank you, this one appreciates your sentiments, though her parents lived quite a good life; this one thinks they are living a well deserved rest now. As for what this one has learned…” Nimriell smirked before letting out a small chuckle. “Rotmeth is probably not a drink this one’ll ever learn to love after a life of khajiiti food. But in all seriousness, this one’s been enjoying spending time away from arid lands and amongst the trees, and it’s quite interesting to learn about the different ways people view things. In her recent travels, Nimriell met someone who followed the Green Pact… this one doesn’t think she could even follow those kinds of staunch rules.

“What about yourself?” she continued after a moment’s pause, stepping a little back so that she could see the orc properly. “There has to be much you learned even before you met your partner if it was in a caravan.” She looked around a moment before settling down on a rather large root of an even larger tree. “This one’s originally from Reaper’s March, but lived mostly in Malabal Tor. What about you?”

“A good story always takes time to unravel, I always found. Maybe yours is just starting to get interesting?” Raznog chuckled heartedly. “And don’t feel too bad; I always enjoyed munching on a carrot from time to time, myself. I’d be a terrible wood elf.” he said, leaning up against the tree himself to continue the conversation.

“I hail from Jehanna, grew up working at a shipyard, so I learned from a young age how to work with wood and ropes and all that other nautical goodness on one hand and how to sell those services with the other. Part of why I always favoured a hammer; when you’re dealing with something that’s meant to support the weight of several dozen steers or enough supplies to keep a town happy for a month, it requires a little bit of extra persuasion to make sure things fit nice and snug from time to time.

“My mother is a Breton, she married into the family after I was born, so I suppose that’s where I got my open-mind about people and a sense for dressing presentably. In that way, I suppose we have something in common.” the Orsimer smiled, adjusting his spectacles as he regarded Nimriell warmly. “You meet all sorts of interesting folks from all over when you grow up in a port city, so I guess it never occurred to me that meeting Shazali and agreeing to be her companion was all that strange of a proposition. The world’s a nicer place when we all look after each other, yeah?”

"This one completely agrees with that sentiment," Nimriell replied with a little grin, thinking of her mother and father. "She for one wouldn't even be here if her khajiiti parents didn't pick her up and bring her home with them. We too met quite a few people throughout our journeys- one of the best things about being a family of Baandari merchants. But this one has to agree that living by a port city would have opened your eyes even more to the world than most. Nimriell and her family travelled for the most part through Valenwood and Elsweyr and seldom headed north. She has heard of other khajiit heading to colder places, even Skyrim! Even the thought makes her one shiver."

She feigned herself shivering, wrapping her arms around herself before letting them fall loosely to her side, chuckling as she stood up. "It would be a shame if Nimriell didn't ask about you and your partner's wares, friend." The Bosmer gave the tall man a friendly wink. "This one knows all about people who come to stalls and walk away without even inquiring about an item or two."
“Ah!” Raznog clasped his hands together, pleased with the sudden shift in topic. “Why don’t you come and take a look yourself? Crafts and enchantments of all kinds! Pretty sure I still have tea in the kettle, and if not, I can brew some more. I’m sure something a Khajiit-at-heart Bosmer lass like yourself will find something to your liking; our enchanter is an Alfiq, after all!”

"Tea sounds like a lovely idea," Nimriell admitted. She was feeling a little parched, and being able to chat some more over tea and wares seemed like a fun idea. "This one's parents would sell spices and clothes, that sort of thing. There was no one quite with magicka in our family- this one is quite certain if she tried to spell something, it would go very awry." She shook her head, hair swaying to and fro as she started towards the tent. "Nimriell would help with setting things up and bringing over potential buyers, though later on she learned to use the bow and hunt, as well as a little alchemy." Raising her hand, she waved it. "Nothing too powerful though- this one has a long way to go for that."

“You and me both!” Raznog explained with a grin. “Just because mother was a Breton doesn’t mean I share her genes; she could do some dazzling things with her talents. Me? I just stubbornly make tangible things take the form I want. Kind of more fun for an Orc like me, you know?” he said, escorting Nimriell to his tent. “Hunting is an important skill, especially for traveling caravans! I’m sure your folks were very proud of you.” Raznog said warmly.

They reached the tent, where Shazali was waving off another pair of customers who were making off with the guar nightlight. Her amber eye locked on the pair with a curious tilt of the head. “It turns out your heroics helped drive a sale; that customer felt inspired by the brave little guar and her eyes turned to our wares. So considerate.” she chuckled, taking notice of the Bosmer accompanying Raznog.

“And this one must commend you stepping in to help, even in such a capacity. Thank you for looking out for others; you probably helped salvage that poor girl’s experience in Woodhearth, yes?” Shazali said to Nimriell.

"Oh," Nimriell replied, waving her hand and shaking her head, "it was nothing much, this one did very little compared to friend Raznog over here, she simply helped set the wheel in place." She smiled at the alfiq khajiit, not at all surprised to see a khajiit who may have simply been thought a normal house cat by unaware and ignorant people. While her immediate adoptive family had no alfiq (and quite the opposite with her senche-raht brother), she had known a few family friends who were talented with magic as this khajiit seemed to be.

"This one was hoping to look through your wares and perhaps enjoy a chat or two," the bosmer added after a moment. "Nimriell is this one's name- you must the be one named Shazali? It's a pleasure to meet you."

Shazali bowed her head slightly. “Raznog talks this one up, but that’s because the novelty of a talking cat has yet to wear off.” she replied, gesturing towards the displays. “Everything here is enchanted by me, and if it is made of wood, carved by Raznog. If there is anything you might be interested in, Shazali will help you find it, five-claw.”

She regarded the Bosmer for a moment. “You speak not unlike this one, a slightly different dialect, Shazali thinks. Are you from the Redfur Trading Post to the Northeast?” the Alfiq asked.

"This one's been to the Redfur Trading Post before many times, but she is from further north, Malabal Tor," Nimriell replied with a small grin. "The Baandari Trading Post is where this one grew up and spent most of her time when not travelling. Nimriell’s family was originally from Reaper's March but moved west very early on in her life." She raised an eyebrow, curiosity apparent in her expression. "Are you from Valenwood as well? Or perhaps from Elsweyr? This one’s brother lives there now."

“Shazali hails from Dune, the Western, arid part of Elsweyr. Where this one is from, there is not so many trees… or bugs that are the size of Shazali.” the Alfiq sighed, shaking her head. “But when one is Baandari, you get used to the road and seeing the good to go with the bad. This one hasn’t really missed it yet; there were reasons for me to leave, and not enough to return. Shazali has never been one to settle for long.” she said warmly. “What has prompted your travels?”

"This one's family was also Baandari," Nimriell replied, enthusiasm in her voice clear even though she had attempted to veil it so as not to look too exuberant. "It's why she is so used to travelling as it seems you are as well. Nimriell did stop for a while when her parents became too old, but resumed once more after they took their journey to the Sands behind the stars." She smiled and feigned a laugh; she didn't wish to make the conversation heavy and morose. "This one's quite sure they're enjoying a nap right now in moonsugar!"

Shazali bowed her head slightly. “This one is sorry for your loss, she did not wish to bring up hard memories, but Shazali is certain you’re right; they’re enjoying paradise right now and keeping an eye out for you.” the Alfiq said kindly. “But since you’re here and experiencing new things, what has caught your eye?” she asked, gesturing towards the displays.

"Hmmm..." Nimriell did want to buy something, especially when she had spent so much time chatting with the two and stealing time that could have been used to call people over. Her eyes looked over the various items displayed before stopping upon one- a beautifully carved wooden box. A soft smile on her lips, she couldn't help but remember the music box that would always accompany her father during their travels; he had always been the merrier of her two parents.

"This one would quite like to take a look at that," she said, nodding towards the box that had caught her eye.

“Here, let me help you with that.” Raznog said, approaching with surprising grace and soft-steps for an Orc of his size. He lifted the lid of the box, snowflakes falling from the lid and with ginger fingers, he turned the handle on the side quietly in a few rotations. A quiet chiming song began to play, two lovers entwined dancing atop of the mechanism. Raznog set it down in front of Nimriell for her to witness it.

Nimriell's eyes widened, following the dancers as they moved to the song. It was hard not to feel a sting or held back tears, thought her smile was wide, beaming one could say. "Jone and Jode, this is more beautiful than Nimriell imagined! So beautiful, magical!" She stared avidly for a good moment before straightening. After a quick sniffle and wipe of her eyes with the back of her hand, she looked at both Raznog and Shazali.

"This one would like to purchase this, it has stirred quite a few fond memories of her father."

Raznog smiled warmly. “I think sometimes fate has a funny way of bringing you the things you need when you least expect it. I can tell this box has a lot of personal warmth for you, and you should have it.” he glanced over to Shazali, who simply nodded in turn.

“Tell you what, Nimriell; just pay what you think is fair, and in exchange, you join us at the fire tonight. What do you say?”

"But that..." She looked at the two and could see the sincerity of their offer. Rather touched by the friendly, thoughtful pair, the Baandari Bosmer put a hand to her heart and bowed her head. "Deal. This one will keep her side of the bargain." Standing up straight once more, she fiddled in her satchel for a moment before pulling out the right amount of septims, placing them in Raznog's hands.

"This one will be happy to join fellow Baandari by the fire tonight."

Raznog pocketed the coin and wrapped an arm around Nimriell’s shoulders with a broad grin. “And we’ll be damned happy to have you! We’re all a long way from home, but there’s no reason any of us should spend the time alone.”

Shazali spoke up, “And you do not need to be on your own, Walker; from one Khajiit to another, we need to stick together, yes?”

Nimriell nodded in agreement, a grin playing on her lips as she looked at Shazali, appreciating the inclusion in not just companionship, but as a Khajiit. "Indeed, this one wholeheartedly agrees with that. The benefit of travelling, yes? A few steps this way or a few steps that. and a new friend to be found, stories to tell and jokes to laugh at!" She sighed, a breath of happiness.

_{with @Peik}

“I must be the only Dunmer here,” the gray-skinned alchemist muttered to herself.

The hustle and bustle of the jungled village passed her by while she had taken a moment to rest on a street corner, leaning against the walls of a house that looked like it had been grown straight from a tree, her spear nestled in the crook of her arm and her hackle-lo pipe dangling from her lips. Smoke curled and turned lazily in the air before her eyes as she exhaled slowly. The architecture of the village reminded her a bit of the Telvanni mushroom towers of Morrowind and she mused for a moment on the fact that her diminutive elvish cousins turned out to be just as liable as her own kind to grow homes from plants. A coincidence, or not?

Then Ina hoisted her backpack onto her shoulders and resumed her languid exploration of the village, taking in the sights, smells and sounds the festival had to offer. Other visitors and locals bumped into her from time to time, their excitement speeding up their pace and preventing them from clearly seeing where they were going, but the unhurried mer paid them no mind. She stopped to inspect the wares of a textile merchant for a few minutes, the Bosmeri merchant looking at her with expectant eyes that grew increasingly annoyed as the minutes stretched on, and Inanna heard a disapproving tut behind her when she turned away at last without having purchased anything. She chuckled to herself and moved on.

She stopped at a glassware merchant’s shop next, who inhabited a space that looked more like a permanent storefront than anything she had seen so far. Ina let her eyes wander over his wares for a while before looking up at the man himself, expecting to see a local. Instead, she was greeted by the sight of a very Imperial man, the style of dress and grooming immediately familiar to the once-inhabitant of the Imperial City, and she raised her brows in surprise. Ina took her pipe out of her mouth and gesticulated at the man’s storefront.

“You live here?” she asked flatly. Not one for etiquette and propriety, Ina forewent a greeting of any kind and her gaze was as irreverent as ever.

“A customer!” must have been the first thing to cross the man’s mind upon hearing Inanna’s words, for his eyes glinted so visibly with elation that one could’ve thought of it to be magic. Eyeing the Dunmer up and down momentarily in what was no doubt an assessment of disposition, the man’s face took a rather worldly expression before he started speaking.

“I guess I really don’t look the part, do I?” he said in a rather humorous tone, leaning more towards breaking the ice rather than disparaging the province’s residents. “No, sera, I’m afraid not, I’m originally from Cheydinhal. This here’s a temporary establishment.” He stopped for a moment. “Garo Secundus Minassian, at your service,” he said, opening his arms as he spoke as if to show that the store was also at her service as well.

Her expression softened at Garo’s usage of the proper form of Dunmeri address, a smile playing on her lips, and she nodded along with him when he mentioned Cheydinhal. That explained his familiarity with Dunmer customs. But it was his family name that prompted an audible ‘ah!’ of recognition. “Minassian, I know that name,” she said, approval evident from the tone of her voice. “Quality glassware. Well, well, your reputation precedes you.”

Ina smirked and inclined her head gracefully. “Inanna Aryon, alchemist. A pleasure, serjo.”

She placed her spear against the wall and looked back at the displayed wares, taking in the rugs on the ground, the shelves full of crystal glass goblets, wine cups, pitchers and vases, the trays settled on the walls behind the goblets, and the pillows scattered everywhere. Ina deduced that their purpose was to break the fall of anything that might drop and shatter, but it had the additional effect of looking remarkably cozy.

“Vials?” she asked without looking back up at him, her eyes still searching through the glassware but not seeing what she was looking for. “Do you have those?”

Garo accepted the woman’s compliment and introduction with a curt, yet graceful nod, smiling with a half-humble, half-proud expression and keeping silent to let the woman observe the products that covered the walls without interruption. There was a queer air about her, the way she smirked and put her spear down and eyed the shop as if she owned the place – had he been younger he would’ve warned her about being careful around the products, but at his age and experience he knew that a merchant’s reputation, while as brittle as glassware, was much harder to substitute.

“Vials? Of course we do,” Garo replied confidently upon hearing the question. “Although I keep them in the back. They’re not as appealing as luxury wares on the storefront, you see. Hold on, let me show you some.” He pointed up as he turned back, as if to signify he’d be back in a minute, and indeed moments later he’d come back, holding a box of oak, narrow of height but horizontally wide, with an iron frame and hinges. He put the box on the counter, turned it towards Inanna and pressed a rather nondescript button on the front of the box, unlocking it with a metallic ‘click’. He opened the top part, revealing three rows of seven equal-sized vials of a dark amber color, resting side-by-side in a generous padding of soft red velvet. The vials in the middle row had crisp patterns branching out from the bottom to cover the bottles’ exterior, as if there was lightning caught inside.

“A pleasure to hear that you have a high opinion of our glassware, and a pleasure to meet you as well, sera,” he said as he pointed at the vials with an open hand. “I’m afraid they don’t come in any other color, it’s a side-effect of our special hardening process. This way they have a tendency to cave in when struck, rather than shattering outright,” he added, his wording quick and softly emphasized.
“The ones with lightning patterns just are the same, it’s just decorative. One of my brothers came up with the idea. Looks quaint, doesn’t it? Makes it feel magical… Of course, one can make it so, I guess. I had a few customers who bought them to separate magic or potentially harmful brews.”

Ina nodded appreciatively -- that was Minassian glassware, alright. Looking at the well-furnished box they came in and the lightning tendrils that spiderwebbed across the vials, Ina’s first reaction was to doubt whether she could even afford them. She’d learned long ago not to skimp out on materials she used for her profession, of course, but being a wandering alchemist was not as lucrative a position as she might have liked and she was almost always short on cash.

She looked back up at Garo while he talked, taking in the way he spoke and the way he gestured, her head slightly tilted to the side. It was clear that he was an expert on the topic at hand, and a good salesman; swift, effective, empathic but soft-spoken. He wasn’t the boisterous, dramatic type, many of whom were manning the stalls that she had passed, that annoyed Ina so much.
“I’d be using them for a similar purpose,” she said when he had finished his appraisal, but let the implication that some of her brews might be poisons go unaddressed. “Good to know.” Her fingers fidgeted with her hackle-lo pipe for a moment before she took a draw from it, let the smoke swirl in her mouth for a bit and exhaled, never breaking eye-contact with Garo.

“How much for the lot?” she asked at length.

The glass merchant did not waver from the sudden gust of hackle-lo smoke and consistent eye contact, except for a slight moment when he rubbed his chin as he thought of the pricing. She wasn’t a bad looking woman at all – he wouldn’t let that act as a subconscious price discount.

“The clear ones are three Septims each… The ones with lightning are four, owing to the magic processes they’re put through. I have regular vials for only two Septims but those get no impact resistance guarantee. The contents of the box are 70 Septims in total, you want the box wholesale, I can give you a 10 Septim discount on the house, along with the box, and the corks for the vials. What do you say?”
It was a big expense, but she was in the market for new vials… and the impact resistant quality that Garo claimed they had was interesting. Azura knew Ina had enough small nicks and cuts on her hands over the years from working with inferior glass. She reached for her purse and weighed it in her hands, estimating how many septims she still had. Was she going to haggle? He’d already offered the bulk discount without her saying a word. Must be her wily charm at work. Ina resisted the urge to scoff at the thought.

“60 for the whole box,” she repeated and nodded. “You’ve got yourself a deal.” Ina started counting out the coins. As she counted, Garo leaned down under the counter and pulled a sack from below, untying its mouth to reveal its contents - hundreds of identical corks.
“Only the best corks from the finest Colovian Oak. You can have some extra on the house - though if you take more than ten I’d have to start charging again,” he added, chuckling.

She took precisely ten corks with a coy smile, thanked him for his business and stuffed the box of vials in her backpack, which was now positively overflowing with belongings. It was time to find a room. Ina wandered back onto the streets until she found a large tree-home that advertised itself as an inn, with a sign that had grown straight out of the branches of the tree that enveloped the building. It was quite inventive, and Ina chuckled at the sight.

Thirty minutes later Ina had obtained a room, unpacked her clothes and equipment, and changed into something more comfortable -- a black satin robe, with loose folds and flowy textile. The hum and buzz of the festival outside grew louder while she applied the kohl makeup to her eyes, and she felt the familiar purr of excitement in her chest. Losing herself in a crowd of strangers, locking eyes, quickening pulses… this was her favorite part.

“Let’s have some fun,” she whispered to her reflection and winked.

---

Even the gentle weight of her footfall crunched leaves in her path, drove them down into the soil, vine by vine as she sprinted through - bag in hand, clutched in between bloody fingers. She was a shriek of silver amidst the deep, dense green. She ran.

In the silence she left behind, the sound of blood drops making their way from stem, to leaf, to root became a deafening trail to supernatural ears.

For the woman running, she at least had in her tense grip exactly what she came for. Her two companions were nowhere to be found. She worried about the Nord, and less about the wiry Imperial thief. But she had it.

Feeling as if there was enough distance between herself and the danger, she forced herself to stop. Any further was dangerous too. The gash in her side and the blood at her neck wouldn’t take care of themselves.

Under the gleaming, milky light of the moon she squatted down to her haunches and let her palms erupt into shining gold, pressing here and there, stitching her own flesh back together by sheer force of will and masterful magic technique.

“Y’alright there ma’am?”

Immediately on edge, she drew a knife from her belt and pointed it at the absurdly tall Nord who had arrived silently behind her. She was surprised to see him hardly flinch. Instead, he tilted his head with a warm, yet curious expression and simply uttered “I wouldn’t ma’am.”

“Get back then, at least,” she barked.

With a carefree smile, Fjolte let his eyes trace over the woman’s slender figure. He made note of the widespread redness around her ribs, pulling the otherwise loose cloth taut to her actual skin. “You’re very hurt,” he observed.

“I’ve survived worse,” she said, taking small steps back now, the bag firmly in her hand. “What are you doing here?” she asked aggressively with a raised brow, twirling the knife in her hand - still pointed at him. Fjolte raised his hands carefully.

“Took myself for a walk, wanted to sit in peace for a while,” he smiled slowly.

“Lies,” the Breton woman shot back, narrowing her glacial gaze at him. “What did you see here?”

“Just a woman who might have been in trouble, but I know she’s well -- I see she’s well,” Fjolte answered with a reassuring nod. It seemed to disarm her just enough to lower the blade, and release at least half of the tension in her knife hand.

She continued to glare, pacing around him as if she was a predator deciding whether or not he was about to be her next meal. “You saw nothing, that’s right,” she spoke out as her lips toyed with curling out of the intense frown into at least a smirk.

“But if the woman does need for some care, I’d like her to at least know I can,” Fjolte added, remaining steady in his spot.

“Some kind of hero are you then?” the Breton asked - showing her smirk at last. “Think you’re saving a damsel in distress?”

“Only if she should ask me too,” he answered back quickly.

The woman scoffed at that. “As much as I wish to continue on, I have to keep going. Don’t follow me. If you follow me, I’ll kill you,” she warned - she meant it.

Fjolte nodded again, lowering his hands non-threateningly. “Oh this I know for sure.”

Soon after, she turned on her heel and bolted again. Only a gentle thud took Fjolte’s attention away from watching her blur and fade away. A heavy thunk of something landing upon a cushion of soil.

As he approached it, his own eyebrow saw fit to quirk in amusement. A diamond, the size of his palm, half splattered in blood, sat in the ground.

“Well colour me fucked…” he muttered before he reached down to pick it up.

Woodhearth, Greenshade

It hadn’t seemed to have taken long for the festival to get underway. No sooner had Fjolte and Gwilym arrived, they had found their way to a prime drinking spot. In the Nord’s glass was a strange beverage he’d never had before. Something served lukewarm, slightly sour, and thick. It was rather delicious, actually.

The man had found himself to a quiet spot, on the outside of the action. Even sitting, his towering frame still towered - a long shadow spread before him. Fjolte was peaceful sitting, drink in one hand, pipe in the other. Amongst the Bosmer people, he stuck out for looking so… Well, so Godsdamned Nord. Broad shouldered, strong jawed, and with a mane of windswept golden hair, tossed over one shoulder and adorned with various beads and hoops - partially dreadlocked and partially smooth. It suited him though, so many textures and shades throughout it and there wasn’t a hair that looked out of place on his head.

There was a peaceful glaze that blanketed the otherwise sharpness of his bright blue eyes, and there was no tension held in his body either. Fjolte gazed out before him, at the swirling shapes and colour — people moving so gracefully like silk caught in a breeze, dancing around each other to the music. Was that Gwilym? He thought, squinting to find the details of a particular figure, sandwiched between two giggling women. It could have been, he couldn’t tell. He drank from his glass, savouring the taste as the space in front of him began to glitter.

Fjolte smiled at it, and then, a gentle laugh.

From across the shimmering mass of dancing, colorful revelers, a Dunmer woman with a mane as bright as his, light silver instead of radiant gold, had been watching him for a while. The sight of a Nord as, well, godsdamned Nord as this one, brought back unpleasant memories of Windhelm, but the more she looked at him, the more intriguing he became. He had caught her eye while she’d been sat people-watching for a moment, and then kept it there over the past few minutes. There was an air of nonchalance about him that softened his size and his features, as if he had nothing left to prove to anyone. That was what had bothered her the most. That incessant need to prove themselves to their friends, by competing to see who could make the Dunmer girl cry the most. But he looked different.

She got up from her seat, drink in hand, her loose satin robe, black as night, trailing behind her in the air and across the grass as she made her way to him. The garment did not cling to her body, but occasionally fell a certain way with her movements to silhouette her curves, just for a moment. The mass of people moved around her like a river around a rock, and where the current of excitement threatened to be too strong, she waited patiently for the people to pass -- but she never took her eyes off him.

Emerging from the crowd, Ina stepped up to Fjolte and gazed down at him, one hand on her hips and a half-smile around her lips. “Far from home, are we?” she asked, her husky voice low in tone, but sharp enough to cut through the noise from the festivities with clarity.

Of course such a shimmer had caught his attention. Not that Fjolte directly watched, of course, more so that he let her appear in his peripheral vision, acutely aware that she was heading for him. It was like another sense, intuitive and natural. With an easy smile, he cast a sidelong glance that directly met her own curious gaze. “Closer to home than ever before, in fact,” he replied. The Nord allowed that to sit in the air for just a moment before he shrugged a shoulder, breaking the eye contact to look at the vibrant green grass below him. “But… Yes. Far from home in the obvious respects.”

Fjolte brought the glass to his lips and took a small sip, inhaling the scent of the rich amber liquid too. “You must be too,” he said, his voice gentle.

“Furthest I’ve ever been,” Ina affirmed and sat down next to Fjolte, leaning back in the chair and draping an arm across the railing. She swirled the contents of her glass -- a clear, bright, yellowish drink that she had been told was jungle-grape wine -- and looked sideways at the man. “Do you like it here? It’s not too warm for you, is it? Or do you need some Skyrim snow to cool your junk with?”

She chuckled at her own joke. If this man was anything like the Nords she remembered from back home, he’d appreciate the banter. “I’ll conjure it, but then the next drink is on you.”

“No warmer than Elsweyr, and not nearly as scorching as Hammerfell…” Fjolte answered with a slight smile, observing the Dunmer as she took her seat, his eyes rested on her for a moment as he took note of her features appreciatively.

With a laugh, he shrugged once again and lifted a leg and began to shake it slightly. His linen pants were cut just past the knee and so the hem flapped about with his movements, “so long as I keep letting the air in, the boys and I will be fine— but thank you for the offer,” He said with a wink and another laugh.

“Wanted to see the festival,” Fjolte said with a nod. “Anything else really… the weather… the insects that my companion is not so accustomed to…Well, those things are just small things to me.” He then held out his glass towards her, in anticipation for her to raise her own. “Fjolte, by the way — and you are…?”

“Call me Ina,” she said and clinked her own glass against his. “Nice to meet you, Fjolte.” Her hunch had been right, and the ice had been broken. And he hadn’t eyed her with distrust merely for being a Dunmer. She decided that she liked him.

His words indicated that he was vastly more well-traveled than the average Nord, and more curious about the world around him to boot. “You sound like you’ve been all over,” she observed and turned her head to look at him properly, resting her cheek on her fist, slowly sipping on the wine. “You’ll have to tell me some stories later. I bet a big man like you gets in all sorts of trouble,” she smirked, dragging out the last few words in a mischievous drawl. It was clear that the jungle-grape wine wasn’t Ina’s first drink of the night.

“Who’s your companion?” she asked.

Not wishing to engage too deeply, the Nord simply smiled and nodded. “Only so far as I’ve been able to walk, Ina,” he sighed happily, leaning back into his chair comfortably. “As for my friend, his name is Gwilym,” Fjolte answered with a smirk. “Not sure if he got lost on the way to refill his glass…he gets into all sorts of trouble” he laughed.

“Are you travelling alone?” He asked, tilting his head in her direction — his own drink bringing about a familiar happy tingle inside.

“No, a friend brought me here,” Ina said and cast a cursory glance around the dance floor. Venwen wasn’t in the neighbourhood. “Though I don’t know where she is. I wanted to explore on my own for a bit.” The Dunmer shrugged and downed the rest of her drink. “I’ll find her later,” she said and burped quietly into her fist.

“My, my…” a curious voice drifted over from the hubbub of the growing party around them. The soft crunch of expensive boots in grass accompanied it, and there stood a man dressed like a noble who’d gotten so lost somewhere between the trip from his bed to the banquet hall. Out of place, almost.

His face made it seem like he wasn’t busy hating this place just a short time ago. A content smile and a tasteful haze in his eyes was behind an outstretched hand as he bowed to Ina in the manner he was taught to greet fine ladies of the court long ago. “You grace me with your presence, my lady,” he purred, “My apologies for my simple friend here, I hope his Nordic mannerisms did not offend you.”

He smirked and winked at Fjolte, a good-mannered ribbing between the two. “Gwilym, your excellence.” He introduced himself.

“My excellence?” Ina repeated after him and scoffed, though she was more amused than annoyed. She remembered Gwilym’s foppish demeanor from the Breton students at the Synod’s dances and galas, their pomp and ceremony always a great source of amusement for the poverty-born Dunmer. Though it were only three generations ago that the name of Aryon stood for something entirely different in Morrowind, Ina herself had decidedly not been raised in the manners of the elvish aristocracy.

She took his hand and shook it firmly. “Inanna Aryon. At ease, soldier. I am no excellence. Call me Ina.” The alchemist withdrew her hand and let her gaze wander freely up and down the nobleman’s appearance. “I thought mountain-man over here looked like he was far from home, but you must be positively bewildered out here. Did you manage to put your britches on all by yourself this morning, or have you brought an entourage?” she teased, looking up at him with a coy smile.

“Mountain man? Goat herder?” Fjolte scoffed with amusement. “What are you both trying to say to me today?” He raised a brow cooly before drawing from his pipe again, letting the herbal concoction soothe and settle what was angry inside. It had been a long and especially tiring walk, after all. He knew there was something stronger in his worn breast pocket too, but that was for later. “The pair of you look dressed for a far different occasion, at least I’m blending in…” he chuckled.

Gwilym laughed at the jests thrown at him and his person from Ina. Though deep down, a reaction like that stung, he would never let it show. It was custom to show no pain in the fencing tournaments though you might be bleeding from a hundred cuts, you show no pain. He smiled at Ina, “Please, Ina, I may look a useless noble boy, but I assure you I am not. Having got a little money, maybe, but my friend here keeps me frugal.” He smiled genuinely to Fjolte, and back to Ina, “I’m already well accustomed to ballrooms and barrooms alike. My rough and tumble rapscallion friend is making me into a rakish young gentleman borne of the wildlands.”

He chuckled, “So, yes, I guess that does mean I can dress myself very handily now.” He nodded at Fjolte, “Even if I have to settle for this Nord as my entourage. Being honest, you’re about as welcome a sight in all this dazzling confusion as Fjolte was when we rescued each other from that pack of bandits on that Anequina road. What brings you here?”

“Alright then, Gwilym, borne of the wildlands it is,” Ina said, satisfied with his defense of his character, and that the young man’s pride was not too great for him to play the game of wits. She gestured for him to sit and join them. He was looking like good company after all. Then she turned her head to look back at Fjolte and narrowed her kohl-framed eyes at him, keen crimson accusing him playfully. “What occasion does it look like I am dressed for, hm?” she asked.

“Well Gwilym here is dressed for an occasion I’d never so much as see an invite to,” Fjolte said with a laugh. “But you? Perhaps a party I wouldn’t mind attending.” His brow raised and he ran a hand under his beard and sighed. “Something indoors, only slightly modest in size and then probably filled with…” he paused to eye her, narrowing his eyes as if he was trying to peer at a secret, to figure her out. “Artists, perhaps. Artisans… craftsmen...” Satisfied with his observation, he went back to his glass with another of his smirks and obscured himself half with it. “Am I close?” He asked quietly, flashing her a quick glance.

Ina nodded, impressed with his deductions, and smiled appreciatively. “You have a keen eye for people, Fjolte. Close -- I’m a mage, educated at the Synod in Cyrodiil, but I specialize in alchemy. You could call that a craft, of sorts.” Her gaze lingered on him for a moment, and her eyes sparkled when he cast her a quick glance over the rim of his glass.

Weighing her own empty glass in her hands, she looked between the two men. “Now, before we continue, which one of you boys is going to fetch me a new drink?”

Gwilym offered out his hand for her glass, “It would be my pleasure,” he said, “I need a new one too, as it were.”

As Ina placed her glass in the palm of his hand, he took it almost dutifully, eyeing the two and then quirking a mischievous brow. Young as he was, he liked to think he knew when there was fucking afoot. Maybe. Fucking afoot for him, anyways, and it was clear that Ina had been snagged by the contemplative barbarian, the noble savage, Fjolte. “You two just conversate in my absence.” He spoke through his smirk, “I’ll only be a little.”

With that, he turned on his fine Colovian leather boot’s heel and walked off with a pep in his step. It was about time that Fjolte had gotten something out of their travels. Even if it stung him to see someone so enamored with another man. It had been quite some time since Gwilym had seen someone with eyes like that for another, and he’d left them some time ago for this nonsense. For the first time in a long time, it dawned on Gwilym.

Godsdamnit, he was lonely, even amongst all these things to get lost in- wine, women, all of it. He sighed, shaking his head and stiffening himself to keep his composure while he waited for the barkeep...drink merchant… ale man… mer... whatever the hells they called them here to notice him. Lamely, he raised his hand only to be ignored once more for another patron, and he tried to make it seem like a stretch instead, fake yawn and all. “These uneducated savages can’t recognize a patron in need, half-brained imbeciles, all of them.” He rolled his eyes, “Must be the Thalmor racism to ignore a man like me…”

He resigned himself to sitting on his lonesome, back to the raucous crowds, and sighing as he clinked his and Ina’s glasses together. “A right party, I say.” He managed something of a smile as he eyed a passing elf girl, slender body moving with ease to wherever she went, and already his mind was onto something new...

“Breath of fresh air, that one,” Fjolte said with a sigh, watching as Gwilym wandered away and off into the crowd. As much as they joked with each other, and had built a camaraderie upon those jokes, there was a genuine appreciation there. The Nord certainly felt it, when he thought of Gwilym, he saw himself in a way — young and with something to prove, perhaps something bubbling under the surface just slowly. He meant it when he called his new friend ‘Brother’. “Mouth on him from time to time but he means well,” he smiled, finishing his drink.

“I like having him around,” Fjolte added with a genuine nod. Raising his empty glass into the air as if in toast to him.

Ina sensed deflection in the way Fjolte ignored her looks and sang his friend’s praises in his absence. She didn’t mind -- the Dunmer woman didn’t need to be everyone’s type, or perhaps there was something in the Nord’s life that meant he wasn’t interested. That was a feeling she understood all too well. So the alchemist looked at where Gwilym had disappeared into the crowd instead. “Tell me about him,” she said. “What’s a man like him doing all the way out here?”

Maybe once. Maybe before, he wouldn’t have deflected. He would have taken the opportunity presented for what it was, the fact he didn’t want to, the fact that he couldn’t made him feel lonely too. The itch was there, but the will to scratch it… Fjolte turned back to face Ina, as if shaking that feeling away to instead enjoy her company peacefully. “Those are his stories, not mine,” he said with an almost playful smile.

“But it’s as he said. We met each other on the Anequina road. Not too terrible a day — of course, I was about to be mugged for what… Little I have —“ as if to demonstrate, Fjolte reached into one of the pockets of his pants and pinched at it, pulling free only a thumbnail size of fluff that just escaped into the wind anyway. “Gwilym could have just walked on by, but I think he liked the trouble — or it liked him. The rest, is… recent history.” A deep laugh rumbled in his chest and his eyes sparkled as he recalled the fond memory. “But anyway, Synods… Mages… Snowballs…?”

Ina chastised him with a tut. “Not so fast, young man. I’ve already told you where I was educated. If you’re not going to tell me about Gwilym, then at least tell me something about yourself first,” she said and sat up a little straighter in her chair, pulling up her legs to rest them on the seat with her. “You must be from Skyrim, that much is obvious. Where exactly?”

“What would make you say that?” Fjolte asked with a humorous grin, stretching in the chair to make himself more comfortable, his elbow finding the wicker arm of it so that he could tuck his hand under his chin. “But… Fair enough. My family and I are from Rorikstead, but I lived for some time in Ivarstead,” he answered honestly. “And where are you from, Inanna Aryon?” He shot back before she had time to ask anything else, there was something amusing to him about denying her another question.

“I trust neither of you were gossiping about me.” Gwilym smirked as he stepped up to the pair, two full drinks in hand.

“Why? Was I not to share the salacious stories?” Fjolte remarked jokingly.

It had been a bit of a wait for Gwilym to get his drinks, but it was not unfruitful. The sights here were to die for, in Gwilym’s opinion, but not the same ones Fjolte busied his eyes with. Surely, there were peaks and valleys, barely covered by these tribals. If he had been fretting the lack of comforts of civilization before, he was now howling the praises of simpler means of living. His arm outstretched towards Ina with her drink, “For you.” He smiled.

“Thank you,” Ina said and returned his smile with her own. “I did ask Fjolte about you, but your friend saw fit to keep your secrets for you.” The Dunmer made a show of pouting into her glass and took a sip.

The Nord had said that it had been Inanna’s turn to answer a question, but Gwilym’s return was a convenient excuse to turn her back to him -- in a manner of speaking -- and deny him his question instead, and she focused her attention on the Breton. “So I guess you’ll have to tell me yourself, Gwilym,” she proposed, and a sparkle of mischief gleamed in her eyes again. “What’s a man like you doing in a place like this?”

If he was to sit any longer, he’d become one with the chair, Fjolte thought as he watched Gwilym and Ina spark up their conversation again. The man had also only brought two drinks back which left as natural a segue as any for the Nord to start to make tracks. As they got reacquainted, he pushed himself free from the chair with a groan, standing to his full and impressive height. “I suppose I’ll be getting my own drink then,” he said with a raised brow, looking directly at Gwilym knowingly.

Fjolte knew he was a flirt, best to leave him to it perhaps. “Ina,” he continued, beginning to feel a lightness throughout his body. “A pleasure to meet you, I might see you around during our stay,” he said with a warm smile in a drawling tone. “And I’ll see you later,” he chuckled at Gwilym, again with a knowing, boyish sparkle in his eyes. Then, he was off — slowly and calmly through the crowds, meandering to his next destination, whatever that would be.

Gwilym shared Fjolte’s smile until the Nord walked off into the crowd in search of his next pleasure. As for Gwilym, he turned the smile on Ina, “Oh, it’s a long story of grief and excitement. Great mirths and melancholies. As for why I’m here, or anywhere I am at this point, it’s because I’m in search of something, you see,” Gwilym chuckled, swirling his drink in his glass- whatever liquid this was, he wasn’t sure- and sipped at it before smiling at Ina again with a wink, “When I find out what it is, you’ll be the first to know.”

Ina was no stranger to melancholies and she quickly empathised with the glimpses of Gwilym’s story that she could read between the lines. “I’ll drink to that,” the Dunmer said with a knowing look and took a big sip. Now that she knew, it was easier to see the layers in the blue deep of Gwilym’s eyes -- layers that no wink could hide, no matter how charming. She’d seen that look many times before. More often than not, it was those with a past they were trying to forget that Ina shared a fire with at night. “That makes two of us,” she said and laughed, more to herself than anything else.

She looked around the festival and the reaching tendrils of the jungle canopy that encroached over the village overhead. Not even in Cyrodiil were the woods this thick. Slowly spinning her glass in her hands, she glanced back down at Gwilym, a small smile on her face and her eyes narrowed inquisitively. “Do you think you’ll find it here?”

Gwilym pursed his lips and shrugged, taking another sip and warming up to the conversation he and Ina were having, “I ask myself the same thing everywhere I go.” Gwilym said, nodding slightly, “I might. I might not. Sometimes, I think I’ll just have this feeling the moment I see it, you know?”

The charming glint in his eyes, the look that spoke of nothing but carnal pleasures and good conversation just like every other vapid young man with a prick waned a bit. For only a moment as he held Ina’s gaze, his eyes reverted to the way they were when not even Fjolte was looking, answering the question for her, “I think you do.” And then the glint was back just as soon as his glass left his lips again, a smile replacing it, “I hardly think parties are good places to wax philosophical. Even if I don’t find what I’m looking for here, I know I’ll find something.”

She caught the hint and moved to a lighter topic. “Then you’ve never been to a philosophers’ party,” Ina quipped and smirked into her drink at the memory, gaze fixed at a point over Gwilym’s shoulder. The Synod maintained friendly relations with several other institutes of academic learning in the Imperial City and she had been to her fair share of student parties of other disciplines. “It’s like a pigsty. Bunch of grown men yelling and throwing wine in each other’s faces. But they swear by it.” She shrugged and feigned innocence. “Who am I to question those who are so wise in the ways of science?”

“Marching to the beat of their own drums.” Gwilym chuckled, “Sadly none of them settled on what song they were playing.”

Gwilym remembered sitting in on his father’s meetings. Boring topics such as the state of the city walls, the latest rumors about raids from the Reach, how the Orcs were doing this time of year and what trouble they were planning if they were in a group larger than two. He never quite got it, so to speak. “I’m wondering what scholarly pursuits a woman such as yourself could be looking for in a place like this.” He remarked, casting a sidelong glance at Ina, “Or is this solely for pleasure?”

Ina let her head rest in the palm of her hand again and looked at Gwilym sideways. “Pleasure?” she repeated slowly, as if she was tasting the word, her lips slightly open. Then she laughed and stretched out her legs, revealing that she was barefoot and making herself extra comfortable in her chair. “A little bit of both. I’m an alchemist and Valenwood is home to many exotic and… powerful ingredients,” she explained, “that are hard to come by elsewhere. Tree saps and insect husks with potent healing properties, and other things too, for more sinister purposes. Things that would make your tongue sizzle by merely tasting them.”

She shook her glass and looked down at the sloshing liquid inside, raising her head up momentarily to down the last of her drink before dropping back down on her hand again, her silver curls bouncing with the movement. “But nothing that a real scholar would consider anything like the equal of their noble pursuits,” she said. “So don’t let them hear you say that.”

Gwilym’s eyes followed every movement Ina made as she spoke, eyes drinking her all in with almost as much fervor as she downed her drink. She wasn’t as scanty as some of the locals, but he found that with every inch of Ina covered it made him more interested in what lay beneath... To speak of Gwilym’s scholarly pursuits he had in mind. He was a man, after all, and a young one at that. Even the tone and tempo at which she talked simply forced him to listen. He nodded slowly at first, as he took the reins of his mind back from whatever controlled it but a meandering moment ago, “And so I shan’t.” He chuckled, “But if you’ll take my opinion, I do find that quite interesting, if only because my ignorance of the fascinating subject.”

“My studies were not so book-oriented, most of the time.” He patted his belt, where his steels would be if he hadn’t checked them with the town guardsmen, “A simple fencer, I am. Wandering duelist, from time to time.”

Gwilym chuckled, downing his own drink in much the same fashion as Ina, “Only if there’s money in it, of course. I didn’t buy this coat with honor.”

He looked to Ina with a small smile, “If you ever need someone to go into the jungle with, I’d be more than happy to.” He said, “Protecting a lady? That’s honorable, isn’t it?”

Ina laughed at that. “Ah, yes, the knight in shining armor saving the damsel in distress. That’s how it goes, isn’t it? I’d heard you Bretons are fond of stories like that.” Life in Morrowind was difficult enough that the Dunmer had long ago stopped coddling their women, and Ina had grown up around the shield-maidens of the Nords to boot. It had never occurred to her that she needed a man’s protection, and she could take care of herself with fire and flame.

But that was an amusing secret to keep. “That said, I suppose it is honorable. Alright, Gwilym, you can protect me,” Ina said with a smile after a moment’s pause. “I was going into the jungle tomorrow to gather ingredients so I can use the help. Thanks.”

“Sounds like it’s settled then.” Gwilym smirked as he regarded all of Ina with a sidelong glance.

And with that, the Dunmer got to her feet and shot Gwilym a final, flirtatious smile. “I’ll see you around, my knight,” she said and blew him a kiss, the barefoot alchemist laughing softly to herself as she disappeared in the crowd once more.

---

Valenwood... If he had not been forced to live here for a number of years that was increasingly laborious to count Vraurdoin's Altmeri nature would have burst out in a fit of displeasure. The air ? Who said that one needed stone or wood in order to build something... It felt as if some kind of sadist had cast a spell aeons ago in order to turn it into an infinite pile of invisible bricks so thick it was. The water ? No need to worry about a lack of it, but there was an important distinction between just 'water' and 'drinkable water'. He didn't want to scorn the infrastructure of his elven brothers, but even in the finest offices it had always felt as if no amount of reservoirs and piping could ever eliminate that certain taste of it. The taste of the morass. Maybe those born here were immune to it, but he certainly wasn't. And then the roads or rather the lack of them. On one hand he silently admired those living here for still being able to have an economy here, but on the other hand everything was crying out 'Inefficiency!' towards him.

None of this was to be heard off Vraurdoin though. Whenever those thoughts came crawling up into his consciousness en masse he tried to hammer them back down into the abyss they belonged to. He still was some sort of guest here, not anyone to criticize things harshly. And perhaps he had just stayed in those fine offices for too long and forgotten that things weren't totally bright when one had to live on the street on the Summerset Isles either.

He had heard of the festival and decided to join it. Yes, a big crowd with many opportunities for spies and other sorts of attentive people to hide in and watch, but also just as many opportunities for him to blend in and remain unknown. Well... as good as someone of his stature could blend in anywhere anyway. Vraurdoin had dressed himself in his second set of everyday clothes, the one that hadn't become completely dirty over the course of the past few days. A white linen shirt, gray-ish trousers of similar making and a pair of simple leather boots would have to suffice.

As he wandered along the edge of the crowd, absently chewing upon a straw of grass he had picked up somewhere, his eyes already focused on the tables bristling with food. So much of it! Even if it contained ugly water... he couldn't resist. Patience was demanded however if one didn't want to push people aside in order to get through quicker.

"Quite a crowd, yes? This one thinks it must be as much a task for one as tall as yourself to easily make way through as it would for her." The statement came from not too far away, voiced by a small, olive skinned bosmer in a green and blue tunic, along with subtle face marking. Nimriell had been standing at the edge of the crowd, leaning against one of the many trees surrounding them. She had been contemplating another snack when her bright eyes caught sight of the Altmer. Not that he wouldn't have been noticeable as he towered over her, even at distance. Even among Bosmer she was considered a bit smaller than usual, and it certainly was the same with her khajiit family, so she was quite used to it.

"This one is Nimriell," she offered with a curve of her lips. From his attire, it seemed to her that he had probably visited Valenwood before- she had seen other less prepared people who would dress in highly inappropriate clothes for the hot and humid weather that had to be endured in the jungles. "Would this one be wrong in guessing you've been here before?"

This one ? It was a minor subtlety, but it stroke Vraurdoin’s attention. Didn’t only Khajiit speak about themselves this way ? The Altmer turned his head to look at the woman from more than just the corner of his eyes, but that didn’t change anything about the fact she clearly was a Bosmer as well. He decided against addressing this observation right away, saving it for a later moment instead. For now Vraurdoin struggled with the idea of crouching down in order to spare them both craning their necks, but it just seemed to be a little too awkward.

“Greetings, Nimriell. I am Vraurdoin and yes, I’ve in fact been living in Valenwood for quite a while by now.” That was the truth, but not a very specific one. It was perfectly safe to tell so much he thought. Maybe he should just relax. “It’s my first visit to this festival though. How about you ?”

"A little embarrassing but it is this one's first time at this festival as well," the Bosmer admitted with a nod, casting a glance at the crowd by the food stalls. "Nimriell had passed through before, but never long enough to actually enjoy the sights and sounds." She nodded towards a merchant's tent, making note of what was being sold before looking at Vraurdoin once more. "This one's family were travelling merchants, Baandari; we didn't stay in one place for too long."

She was quite curious why an Altmer might have been living in Valenwood. An emissary from Summerset perhaps? A wandering scholar? Perhaps a merchant? She was an open book herself, but from experience she knew that many wouldn't like pointed questions like that. "Whereabouts in Valenwood have you been? This one was born in Reaper's March but lived mostly in Malabal Tor."

“I think I’ve never been so far to the Northwest. I come from pretty much the opposite corner, Grahtwood. I decided to settle over to Valenwood because I wanted to get to know the world, but as you might have already guessed I spent most of my time here so far on… learning the culture ?” His face produced a slight smile and grin. “Sometimes the environment here is a little harsh to us Altmeri people.” Yes, that was an acceptable cover story and it wasn’t even completely a lie.

So she was associated very much with the Khajiit then ? He didn’t know all too much about those, but that only helped to boost his curiosity. “Aren’t the Baandari some sort of Khajiit traders or the like ? Excuse me, I don’t know that much. How does it come that you ended up with the Khajiit ? You even speak like one sometimes!” Part of him already wanted to try the impossible and call back his spoken words, full of fear that they might be too provocative.

"Ah, Grahtwood. This one has been there on occasions." But once again, she had never stayed there quite long enough before moving along to different pastures. Growing up with a merchant family meant she had visited many places, but there was never much time for tourism or entertaining oneself, especially when she had to help with most of the physical aspect of their small caravan.

For a moment she had been lost in the thought of her parents' tents above her head, but she was brought back to the present by his next question. "Ah." She couldn't help but chuckle, though she quickly stopped to clarify why. "Nimriell doesn't mean to offend, just she's been asked this question many times today. Which is not surprising, of course, this one is indeed a Bosmer. Her parents passed when she was just a kitten- ah, baby, so their travelling companions, a Baandari family, adopted this one and raised her like their own child." She paused, giving the tall man a nod and smile. "And yes, we are indeed traders, travellers. This one has wandered through Valenwood and Elsweyr only, but there are many who head out even further."

“You are not offending. It is just a quite unusual thing, so I couldn’t resist asking. Just like everyone else I guess.” Vraurdoin’s eyes briefly wandered towards the tables bristling with food again. He felt hungry - and whether this was actual hunger or merely hunger induced by greed on sight did not matter for him at this point. “So you won’t stay here for long ? Well, I probably won’t either. I sort of have given up living a stationary life so to speak. Things are much more interesting if you keep moving, aren’t they ?” He smiled a bit, hoping that this rather generic explanation would keep his conversational partner satisfied.

“Are you hungry ? Because I am! I’ve been looking at the buffet for quite a while now and it only became more and more attractive. Maybe our chances of getting through to it quickly are better if we join forces ?”

“This one thinks that’s a good idea,” Nimriell replied with a grin, leaning away from the tree and standing up straight, brushing at the back of her tunic so there weren’t any stray leaves or bits of bark on her. “Staying stationary isn’t what this one is quite used to, but it can be comforting at times to know there is some place to return to if things go awry, or when this one’s parents simply became too elderly for the wanderer’s life. We would return to the Baandari Trading Post.”

She started towards the crowd, though at a slow pace, waiting for the Altmer to come along as well. “This one hopes for something sweet to eat,” she declared, silver eyes attempting to peer at the food through the gaps between the people.

Vraurdoin felt anything but surprised about Nimriell hoping for sweet stuff. After all she was used to Khajiit traditions probably, so they might very well have taught her the Khajiit way of food as well. “I’m sure we’ll find something. The question is if we’ll do so at the same table or not. If not we’ll have to either split up or find our way through the crowd twice!”

No, he wasn’t looking forward to that at all. However it seemed that a very comfortable number of people automatically decided to make way for them as they felt the Altmer approaching, even though gently. Was that because they were afraid of his size or because they mistook him for a higher ranking representative of Altmeri authority here in Valenwood ? He himself knew all too well how easy it was to piss one of those guys off and that doing such almost never had a particularly good outcome.

They ended up at one of the tables full of food and Vraurdoin reached for a pile of jerky. No need for anything complicated! He just picked a few pieces, stacked them in his bare hands and shoved the whole agglomerate into his mouth, starting chewing intensively. From his perspective he had a better overview over the various offerings than Nimriell probably had, so he also was able to detect something that looked like it contained sugar. Still chewing he grabbed the whole plate and held it in front of her nose.

Nimriell paused in her steps, eyes a little crossed as she looked at the plate before stepping back to properly inspect what was before her. "Now that smells delicious, this one's mouth is watering already." She took hold of what she could only guess was a sticky sweetroll and took a bite, smiling as she was rewarded with a sweet yet spicy taste, reminding her of her mother's cooking. Looking up at the much taller elf, she smirked when she realized all he had eaten was the jerky.

"You shouldn't deprive yourself of something tasty," she pointed out, nodding to the still laden plate. "This one believes you should have a taste as well." Even as she spoke, her eyes shifted slightly, noticing that crowd was still giving them a little bit of a berth. “Hm…” She looked up at Vraurdoin, a spark of mischief in her eyes as she attempted to elbow him. “This one thinks the others have mistaken us for scary beings, or perhaps worried about their pockets lightening.”

Vraurdoin felt something impacting the side of his belly region. “Hey!” he exclaimed towards her, losing a few small fragments of chewed jerky as he had not yet finished it. “I’d say just let them mistake us. As long as it’s only scary beings I don’t see much of a reason to worry.” and he grinned. That was indeed true, at least from his point of view. Being mistaken for a man-eating monster probably was less dangerous for him than not being mistaken at all but his true identity being revealed instead…

“I can just tell them that my hands are too big to sneak into their pockets, and you can tell that you’re too small for your hands to reach their pockets!” Having said this, he picked one of the sweet rolls off the plate and put it back onto the table, albeit at a place that was much easier to reach. “Hmm, tastes unusual, but good! Have you seen any chairs?”

Nimriell let out a small chuckle at his exclamation, though she stifled it with a quick apology, knowing it had probably surprised him more than anything else. "Ah, this one sorry. However, don't be too hasty in thinking she may be too small to get what she wants- she is Baandari after all!" The hint of cheekiness remained, though it was well hidden as she shaded her eyes to look for someplace to sit, hopefully away from the crowd. She was used to being around many folks, that was the life of a merchant after all. However, she felt that though the Altmer was friendly enough, he'd probably prefer to relax a bit away from the general hubbub.

"How about over there?" Nimriell pointed to a small clearing a little away from the bouffet, where there only seemed to be a handful of people who were minding their own business, probably seeking a little peace and quiet themselves.

The left corner of Vraurdoin’s mouth jerked upwards slightly as he heard Nimriell’s words. “If you want to get something out of my pockets please tell me. I could lift you a little to make things easier…” The elf started walking over towards the clearing casually, already scanning the area for a nice little patch of grass to sit down. The one he ultimately decided for had a tree nearby, its trunk thick enough for both of them to lean against it easily.

“It’s not even swampy here! I’m… kinda disappointed. Did they drain all the water for the festival beforehand or is this a natural occurrence ?” he said while sitting down, patting the ground right next to him for her to sit down as well. Then Vraurdoin revealed that he had not left the previous place empty-handed, but presented Nimriell with another sweetroll for her and another bunch of jerky for himself.

Nimriell shook her head but she was really finding herself amused by the hidden cheekiness of the Altmer, who it seemed had not received the memo that High Elves were meant to be stuffy folk who looked down their nose at most others. Giving him a grin, she happily accepted the sweetroll as she sat down, stretching out her legs while she took a bit of the sweet treat.

“Nimriell thinks that if you follow the coast, you may be able to find the swamps you’re looking for,” she commented once her mouth was no longer full. “Though this one also has to admit that it’s nice to have dry grounds to sit upon while watching the sea. Where she’s from, there are streams and rivers, but nothing as open as the coast over here.” She looked at him curiously, wondering where Vraurdoin had originally come to Valenwood from.

“Are you from the Summerset isles?” she asked after a moment.

“Yes.” and Vraurdoin nodded, happy that, just once, he could tell the truth flat-out instead of having to develop some kind of workaround quickly. “Like pretty much all Altmer, I think. I wouldn’t be surprised if most of my kind here in Valenwood were not born here, but came here either voluntarily or by assignment.” He started feasting on the jerky.

“I hate swamps. They just make moving more difficult, give you illnesses you haven’t even heard before and stink. I’d much more prefer a desert than a big bog, but still… Valenwood does have its nice places, too. Otherwise I probably wouldn’t be here.” The elf noticed that Nimriell apparently had already finished her second piece of lunch. “Need more ?”

"And this one thought you were actually serious about being disappointed," Nimriell told the Altmer with a chuckle. "You would enjoy Reaper's March or even this one's home of Malabal Tor then. Or perhaps even Elsweyr, where this one's brother lives. It is quite dry and sandy, yet equally beautiful."

She shook her head at his question. "Nimriell thinks she may have eaten a little too much today," she admitted. "This one has a sweet tooth, and it's only due to hard work and walking that she isn't quite round." She finished off the rest of her sweetroll and leaned back on her hands, letting out a satisfied sigh.

"If this one ever crosses the sea, perhaps she will visit your homeland. Nimriell one has heard from others that is is quite beautiful there, the trees, the water, even the animals."

“My homeland ?” Vraurdoin had trouble not to add something to Nimriell’s last words that was about its humanoid inhabitants not being so nice in general, but suppressing that kind of statement was of utmost importance for his own long-term survival. “Maybe I can accompany you there once the time has come…”

^{with @Lemons}

Aud had a tendency to snarl sometimes, when particularly aggravated.

She didn't know whether it came from her werebear nature, or if it was simply a facet of her personality. She wasn't even sure there was a difference between them anymore. She couldn't recall growling before she turned, but then again, it had also been well over a decade, more than enough time for her to establish a new habit like that, and subsequently to forget about where it came from.

Bushwhacking through Valenwood--one of the few places on Tamriel her travels hadn't previously taken her--was certainly aggravating enough. And so, as she went, she let loose a chuffing growl. Her cloak was rammed hastily into her backpack, but it did little for the rest of her heavy fur clothing as it stuck uncomfortably to her skin. She was sweating heavily, no matter that it was still spring. Springtime in Valenwood was hotter than any Solstheim summer, and far more humid. She interrupted her snarling with a growled swear. She'd need to find something more suited to the climate for her to wear once she arrived at Woodhearth. Until then, she thought sourly, she would just need to deal with it.

And also with the branches and vines that kept snagging in the furs, clinging to her, and catching themselves on the spear hafts that jutted up from behind her. She restrained herself from reaching up to snap off the branches; she'd heard enough about the jaqspurs' merciless hunt that she had no intention of bringing it on herself. So instead, she kept moving, following the sounds of the celebration and counting down the seconds until she could end up somewhere other than this infernal jungle.

She was wondering whether or not it would be easier to move and tolerate the heat if she changed into her armor when she finally stumbled through the edge of the trees, catching her foot on a vine and swearing at it aggressively. She'd arrived in Woodhearth. Finally.

It had been a bit since she’d eaten; lighting a fire to cook meat in Valenwood seemed a poor, poor choice, for a number of reasons, and she didn’t want to go through all of her rations in a day. So it was with a growling stomach as she set off, loping down the festival thoroughfare. Meat, meat, meat. And more meat. She wasn’t sure if there was any cost, and so she hovered about the edge, her nose flaring unconsciously at the unfamiliar smells.

What’s that? she thought suddenly, seeing people grabbing mugs from a table and joyously tossing them back. The handmade sign said ‘Rotmeth.’ Hesitating for a moment, she grabbed one of the mugs and took a sip before gagging and spewing it out, drawing amused chuckles from the bosmer around her as she tried to catch her breath. “People drink this by choice?!” she choked out in her heavily-accented voice.

“Aye, we do,” came a deep and masculine voice from her left. There stood, swaying slightly, a tall, rough looking man. His eyes were ice, and hair golden and dishevelled. His efforts to comb it all back were futile now and it hung around his face now, obscuring parts of him. As he chuckled, a small gulping belch escaped him and he chuckled some more. “We do indeed,” he smiled — lifting his glass of ‘Rotmeth’ to his lips again. “Fucking weird but delicious, my sister,” he announced, turning to face his fellow Nord with a welcoming gesture, a wobbly wave of a hand that spoke of the level of inebriation that he was experiencing.

“They’re putting some kind of lamb or thing or what on sticks over there,” he giggled excitedly, pointing a finger in the direction of the food — it was slightly misdirected, and his finger landed on a gaggle of women who were dancing, as opposed to the open fire that he thought he was pointing at.

Aud raised an eyebrow at the very drunk man, and sighed. She sniffed warily at the rotmeth again, and the smell of it turned her stomach. “If you say so. What is this even made of…?” she muttered to herself, putting the mug back down on the table she’d gotten it from. Shaking her head, she reminded herself to not get too drunk, even if she found anything agreeable. There was still the matter of a possible vampire to deal with, if the rumors she’d heard were true. Her spearcraft needed to be in tip-top shape for that confrontation if it happened. And, she added to herself, she was still hungry, and drinking on an empty stomach never ended well for her.

“Fermented meat juice,” Fjolte replied, letting loose another burp as meaty as the drink itself. “Had to try it once,” he mumbled before placing the still-half full concoction back down with a trembling hand.

Lips peeled back in disgust at the thought of alcohol made of meat juices, she paused for a moment to compose herself before turning back to the man. She gave a belated wave as she began to move towards the open fire that the man had...tried to indicate to her, mouth watering at the smell of roasting meat. “It’s good to see another Nord here, brother. What brought you to this place?” She waved her hand about towards the trees, indicating “this place” less as Woodhearth, and more as Valenwood. “Just sightseeing?”

“I’m on a travelling adventure,” the Nord said, following along after Aud happily. Whatever was fermented in the drink was bubbling through him now. It was only his sheer mass and unusual level of tolerance that stopped it from knocking him out completely. “Never been here, wanted to see it. No better time than a festival, no?” He brought his hands together gleefully in a loud clap as they drew closer to the food. “What about you? I’m interested in you,” he admitted frankly. “Your name, what is it?”

“Aud,” she replied. “Aud Longspear. I’m here...” she hesitated for a second. “...for the hunting.” She rapped a knuckle against the spear quiver on her back. “Valenwood is supposed to have good hunting this time of year.” She squirmed a bit, shifting her sweaty furs about on her skin. “Hot here, though.” She turned suddenly, fixing her narrow gray eyes on the man. His eyes were a nice normal Nordic blue, and he was acting far too stupid to be a thrall. “I gave you my name. Your turn.”

With another smile, Fjolte passed but a few coins into the hand of the cook, taking for the offering two fresh skewers of meat. He handed one to Aud. “Fjolte,” he said, eyes sparkling. “Of Rorikstead, and Ivarstead,” he added before leaning closer to Aud and lowering his voice, “King of High Hrothgar,” he whispered mysteriously, with a hint of humour buried in his low growl. He then dug into the treat, his teeth gnawing into the tender offering with glee. He was delighted to find it still vibrantly red in the centre.

“I used to hunt with my father when I was a young whelp,” Fjolte said nostalgically through a mouthful of food. “It’s my pleasure to meet you here, Aud Longspear. Of all the corners of Tamriel — how were we fated to encounter one another so far from our homeland?” he asked, having changed the subject quickly— his eyes alive with whatever Bosmer mirth had been brewed in the Rotmeth. “It makes it all the more special.”

Aud shrugged, taking an enormous bite of the meat and ripping it off, gulping it down like an animal after not eating for half a day. She hummed contentedly for a moment at the rare meat, letting it wash away the aching in her stomach as she swilled from her waterskin, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “We may be Nords, brother, but we have different homelands. Skyrim is as foreign as Cyrodiil for me, even if I make my home there now.” She reached for the thong on her neck, pulling the Stalhrim dagger out and dangling for a moment as the frigid blue caught the light. “I am Skaal.”

Then, as she replaced the dagger, she said more quietly, “touch the dagger and you lose that hand.”

“I want to take all of my limbs to Sovngarde, so that is duly noted, Aud Longspear,” he chuckled as he continued to dig into his food. Filling his stomach, even briefly was having a more sobering effect and the giggly lightness was wearing off. “Solstheim… A corner of our world I haven’t ventured too, but I wish to indeed. What should I be careful of, sister?”

“The southern ashlands are filled with choking ash, and with ash creatures. They’ll kill anybody who isn’t prepared. Don’t anger a bull netch. Nordic tombs are full of draugr and reavers. Along the coasts and in the wilds, you’ll find both reavers and rieklings, little buggers that attack in swarms. Farther to the north, the climate will kill anybody who isn’t dressed for it, and occasionally,” she pulled her shirt’s collar aside, revealing a huge, jagged claw-scar trailing down from the top of her shoulder, “you’ll find large, angry animals. I haven’t been into any of the Dwemer ruins, but I knew someone who did, and he never returned. Solstheim isn’t for the faint of heart. If you want to go, I hope you can defend yourself, and have a better reason than ‘because.’”

She drained the last of her waterskin, and grimaced. “I hope they have something other than rotmeth here.” She tilted her head a moment, then turned back to the Nord. “I gave you my name, but I never got yours. Care to give?”

Fjolte tilted his head this way and that, ruminating on the points delivered by his new friend, and with a carefree shrug he raised a hand under his chin, considering it all over again until he heaved out a long sigh. “Still sounds a safer place to be that Rorikstead after a Sorikson feast, you know?” The Nord gave an easy smile, his eyes sparkling with the mirth he was feeling.

“I told you, King of High Hrothgar,” Fjolte grinned, placing a hand on his hip as he tore the last piece of meat free from the skewer, the still pink middle dripping blood over his chin.

“I’ll have another!” He spoke, glee in his eyes and a jovial tone of demand in his tongue as he handed over yet another loose coin from his purse. “And for the lady too!”

Aud grinned. “Fine then. King. Scribs-For-Brains it is.” She accepted the skewer of meat, tearing into it savagely as she did the first one and gulping it down near-whole.

“I hope,” she spoke through a mouth running with bloody juices, “that you don’t expect favors for the meat. Otherwise,” she swallowed, “you’re probably out of luck. Still, thanks.”

With two skewers of meat in her, she was feeling far less grouchy, and far more patient. She sat down by the fire, pulling out a spear of gray wood and steel that gleamed with a cold gold light. She rasped her whetstone along it the keen edge, sharpening the blade with a single-minded intensity.

“The only favour would be your company, and I don’t mean like that,” Fjolte grinned, taking a seat a healthy distance from her lest she get the wrong idea again. “Just thought I’d share festivity with you, a fellow Nord, in this place.” He softened then, his posture got comfortable on the floor and he felt as though he could sink into it.

Taking in a deep breath, he let a long one go as well and closed his eyes briefly. “I think I like it here,” he said honestly, tucking back into his skewer. “So hunting,” he began, letting his gaze fall to her weapons as he observed the care she took with sharpening the blade. “Are you seeking any beast in particular?”

The whetstone’s rasp grew quicker, and Aud’s face grew sharper. She gave him a quick, pointed glance. What’s your angle?

A moment later, though, she figured that he seemed innocent enough. Simultaneously too smart and too dumb to be a thrall, and his eyes, while bright, didn’t glow like cinders. And, while she was loath to admit it, she did feel better knowing that there was another Nord nearby. Something about this nord in particular just...radiated an aura of easy trust that made it a little easier to relax than she was comfortable with.

She gave a short bark of humorless laughter. “Some of the bigger game out there.” She paused her sharpening, holding the spearpoint out for him to inspect as it glowed like a star. “I’m Dawnguard,” she finished quietly, trusting that a fellow Nord would understand.

“I see,” Fjolte murmured after a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. He’d had nought much to do with the like of Dawnguard, but he understood— and he felt a shudder try to escape his system at the thought. Had he been a younger man, less experienced, less at ease — he may have cast a cursory glance across the way. “Ex-Stormcloak myself,” he added without enthusiasm. As if it mattered. “Now I’m just a wandering arsehole,” he chuckled pithily. “You be careful out there with that kind of game, lass.”

“Hunting is no fun without some risk.” She smiled a grin that would have looked more appropriate with fangs. Then, a moment later, she smacked her lips and frowned. “I need to go find something to drink that doesn’t make me retch.” She stood. “Thanks for the meat,” she tossed back as she walked away.