‘’Oh, that’s good, keep at it, suck it good…’’ The Mer’s somewhat incoherent mumbling expressed a degree of bliss as his long-time companion’s skill released more and more fluid from his swollen meat, swallowing it all. To an eavesdropper outside the tent, the monologue, accompanied by sucking sounds, could’ve been related to certain sexual acts. The truth, however, was far more disgusting (unless you’re into that sort of thing) – the Dunmer was not on the receiving end of fellatio, but was simply allowing a leech to suck out the blood from the side of his eye. This Dunmer, old compared to most men, was ailing from cataracts, a problem that simply did not fix itself with the usual healing potion or spell. Like the leech, these solutions were only temporary. But at least, the leech’s secretions would stop the clotting in the area for some time, and thus allow for a longer lasting effect than the potions. Plus, it kept the Dunmer from distracting himself with magic.

After the leech dropped upon sucking enough blood, this scarred Dunmer raised himself from his makeshift bedding and looked at the thing. Years ago, when he had been first introduced to this leech, he remembered being quite disgusted. Over time, however, the Dunmer warmed up to this rather intriguing creature, even giving it housing, in the form of a can full of water, and a name. Mora, he called it, named after the Daedric Prince. For all he knew, the Prince’s form was that of writhing tentacles, and this thing did not seem that different than the description. The Dunmer spent about a minute watching the creature’s odd movements, and after deeming it satiated, rubbed some ash on it, taken from his Skooma Pipe, to make it release the blood it had sucked out. After letting it empty, the Dunmer clasped on Mora with two fingers and put back in its small housing.

As always, his eyes felt more in sync after this treatment. He rubbed the bleeding spot with the sleeve of his right arm. The edge of the sleeve had reddened over time thanks to this, but the Dunmer didn’t mind that. He wasn’t paid to look good. In fact, the truth seemed to be quite the opposite. In his current line of work, it seemed that the uglier you looked, the better your impression. And he, thanks to some of his bad decisions, had racked up a good amount of scars on his face. While this caused him to be seen as a rather shady and unattractive type (again, unless you’re into that sort of thing), he was seen as a ‘tough looking sonuvabitch’ by the recruiter, and this meant that he was received with an amount of respect, even amongst the Nords. 

His skooma pipe was still warm. He brought the mouthpiece of the pipe to his mouth and took a drag to help ease his mind for the new day. As he let the smoke out through his mouth and nostrils, he couldn’t help but feel relaxed, most likely thanks to the odd properties of moon sugar. His eye was good, the sugar was quality, and his sleep was uninterrupted.  He couldn’t think of much better in life. As the fog of the sugar cleared from his head, he took a sip from his flin. He felt the liquid wash his insides with warmth, which provided him with enough energy to finally get up on his feet. After putting on his armor, he slowly squeezed himself out of the tent and threw a gaze at the misty mountains of the Reach. Why they called it the Reach, he had no idea, but certainly it was a nice place to look at. Aside from that quality, there wasn’t much to it. But that was enough for him. He had been in plenty of places that were not accommodating and ugly also.

All around him, the camp was bustling. Men and Mer carrying around crates, shouting, the one note songs of hammers hitting iron and the crisps of campfires far and near seemed to fill the air. He wished to enjoy this moment of commotion going around him as he was relaxed, to feel himself unbound-

‘’Sadri! You’re on patrol duty!’’

Oh fucking shit.

[hr]

The Nords were a hardy and stubborn people – so stubborn in fact that they could defend absolute bullshit as truth just because someone else suggested the opposite. Sadri knew this and simply took a non-confrontational stance in most arguments, but the Nords themselves seemed not to understand, or more likely, they were just too stubborn to change their ways. In a way, he admired that, similar to how he admired a goat climbing up a mountain just because. But to spend time amongst goats was not wise, for any moment they could get pissed and ram you. Then again, Sadri never did pride himself on his smarts.

Thankfully, most of the goats here were too busy with each other right now. Sadri wasn’t even listening to their argument, although he could make out swears flying out like lightning bolts from a Storm Atronach. In his gut was a feeling that warned him for an upcoming fight. And as if on cue, one of the Nords warned the group to arm themselves. Sadri’s right hand went for his broadsword, only to bounce off the hilt. He looked back at his right arm – it wasn’t there. Just a stump made of treated bone. ‘’[i]Oh, yeah,[/i]’’ he thought to himself. He often forgot. He pulled it out with his left hand instead. There was no need to entertain anyone with nifty magic right now, and over time, he had gotten used to using it with his left hand as well. Hopefully things wouldn’t get intense enough to make him use his right 'hand'.