[sup]ft. [@Father Hank] and [@Chicken][/sup] [i]Noon of the 5th day of Last Seed, 4E205 Solitude, Skyrim Aboard the Kyne’s Tear[/i] While the rest of the mercenaries, able-bodied men and women all, carried their belongings (if they weren’t already there) and supplies onto the ship, Niernen had made herself comfortable on the deck, sitting cross-legged on a crate, reduced to watching the proceedings unfold. She was useless when it came to heavy lifting. Her meager belongings were already stowed below, so she supposed that she could have helped a bit with telekinesis, but it was draining to have to lift something as heavy as the mercenaries’ chests and barrels of goods and she preferred to have her magicka reserves fully replenished when they set sail. Her time at sea hadn’t exactly been uneventful so far -- the Dunmer sorceress had been involved in two-and-a-half naval battles just in the past week. You never knew when you needed to hurl fireballs at opportunistic pirates or, gods forbid, the Kamal. Word had come through the grapevine (i.e. Dough-Boy telling everyone who wanted to hear about it) that some new recruits had signed up with the Company. Niernen had already spotted one, a Khajiit, but he looked like he didn’t feel very well so she left him alone. She thought about the people that had died or vanished so far and sighed. Valen’s demise, especially the look on his face as the dying Kamal dragged him into the waves, was still etched into her mind. Niernen hoped that the worst was behind them now and the new sign-ups wouldn’t have to endure the same hardships. A dark-skinned Hammerfell warrior started past the ship, but stopped and peered back at it. The warrior turned back and started toward the vessel, heading up onto the deck, his - wait, no, [i]her[/i] - padded cloth just a [i]bit[/i] too bright and red, and the chainmail decorated with a tabard of what must have been some Redguard symbol of some kind. Certainly, though, the fighter was a little short for her race… Niernen squinted at the approaching woman and spied some of the same facial features she recognized from Wylendriel. Wait, was that a Bosmer? She was [i]tall[/i] for her race. The dark-skinned elvish woman stepped up aboard the ship, then focused her attention on Niernen with haughty, sharp amber eyes. She removed her helmet, tucked it under her arm, then shook her head so her dreadlocks waved from side to side. Niernen returned the Bosmer’s gaze with a mixture of trepidation and politeness. Odds were that this woman was one of the new recruits, but Niernen’s anxiety made her wary all the same. “You work for Ashav,” the odd elf said. Her tone was matter-of-fact and allowed no argument. “Tell me where my quarters are.” Surprised and bemused at the Bosmer’s tone, Niernen raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know,” she replied. “But based on your outfit I’m guessing that you’ll be joining the infantry, so probably with the rest of us on the first level of the hold. What’s your name? I’m Niernen, the company’s resident battlemage.” “Are not battlemages normally hale and hearty?” mused the Hammerfell warrior. She gave Niernen a scrutinizing look, peering up and down at her. “You are barely in a shape to walk, let alone fight.” Then she let her wrist rest idly at her side, and she bowed in a cordial, formal fashion to the seated Dunmer. When she spoke again, it was with pride: “I am Adaeze at-Djer. I am [i]Ra Gada[/i].” “Charmed.” Niernen frowned and bit her tongue -- her own pride was hissing at her to inform this callous Adaeze woman that physical prowess was irrelevant when it came to incinerating her enemies, but she didn’t. The Bosmer would eventually learn that Niernen was just as dangerous as the rest of the mercenaries. Actions speak louder than words, after all. But she couldn’t resist a prying question about Adaeze’s own appearance, and said: “And [i]you[/i] look a little elvish to be calling yourself that, Adaeze.” That brought a twitch to the Bosmer’s eye. “I thought the Ra Gada were Redguards. Isn’t it --” “I [i]am[/i] Redguard!” snapped the elf with a hiss of a tone. Her eyes were narrowed in a glare, and at a second glance it appeared she was [i]gripping her sword’s hilt.[/i] Niernen was a little taken aback by this and her sour expression made way for one of surprise. It took a very visible effort - an effort seen on Adaeze’s face as she closed her eyes and took a deep breath - to pull her hand away from her sword. The dark-skinned elf exhaled, then snapped her eyes open, regarding Niernen with a stony expression. “I am Redguard,” she repeated, her voice shaky. “And it besmirches my honor that I nearly struck at you. You have my apologies. But,” she added in a warning tone, regaining her composure, “do not mistake my apology for allowance to repeat your insult.” “Ayem’s mercy, woman,” Niernen said, her tone slightly exasperated. “And I thought [i]my brother[/i] was prejudiced towards Bosmer.” “I’m not prejudiced,” protested Adaeze, folding her arms over her chest. “I’m merely speaking truth. I am [i]Ra Gada.[/i]” [i]Can you not be Ra Gada and Bosmer at the same time?[/i] Niernen thought but she didn’t vocalize the question out loud, lest she taunted Adaeze into actually striking her down with that sword of hers. It was a dangerous looking sword, to be sure, large enough to slice someone in twain, and with a silvery sheen. “Enough of that,” the Hammerfell woman said. “I should know when we mean to set out, and whether you know what manner of deeds we’ll be committing in High Rock. Tell me that, if you will.” Her words were clipped and terse, and she stood a few steps further back than she had before she exploded. “Very well,” Niernen acquiesced, glad that the confrontational moment was over and eager to move onto a less offensive topic of conversation. “We are to set sail today, as it so happens. I don’t know what we’ll be doing in High Rock. That shall depend on who becomes our employer. We served the Jarl in Dawnstar before this so I imagine that Ashav and Gustav will offer our services to the local authorities first. And it’s High Rock, you know what Bretons are like,” Niernen said, attempting a moment of camaraderie in being condescending towards a race that [i]wasn’t[/i] one of theirs. “Always scheming.” “They’re a squirmy lot, to be sure,” Adaeze mused, peering off toward the ocean. “But as much as we’ve fought in the past, they’re at least better than the orcs. Their unique style of swordsmanship is well-suited to fighting armored foes as well. I look forward to learning what I can while we’re there.” The warrior paused, then looked back at Niernen. “Are there any aboard this vessel whom would duel, should the mood strike them?” The dark Bosmer tapped the sheathed sword at her side. “I look forward to testing my mettle against that of seasoned mercenaries, and it would help prepare us for the coming days.” Niernen immediately pictured Adaeze facing off against Narzul and his ebony sword and failed to suppress laughter at the thought. She had no way of gauging the skill of this Bosmeri Redguard, of course, so it wasn’t the forecome conclusion of the outcome that she was laughing at, but it seemed a stretch to assume that the elf would fare well against Niernen’s brother. Even so, what she was really laughing at were the barbed insults that Narzul would undoubtedly taunt Adaeze with, if his encounter with Wylendriel was anything to go by. Normally Niernen didn’t take kindly to Narzul’s racism but Adaeze’s apparent inclination to rise to the bait of such venom made for too much of an amusing mental image. “I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you,” the Dunmer clarified immediately after. “Then what [i]are[/i] you laughing at?” demanded a once-again sour-faced Adaeze. “Ah, well, it’s just such a forward question, you know?” Niernen lied, improvising another plausible reason for her laughter. “You’re the first person I’ve ever met that’s immediately inquired after potential sparring partners upon meeting new people. Nothing wrong with that, just unexpected. Now, let me think,” she continued and tapped her chin with her index finger. The words seemed to mollify the Bosmer. She calmed, closed her eyes, exhaled - a refrain to the previous deescalation - and then finally waved her hand in a ‘go on’ sort of gesture. “Though I have never seen him do so, you might find one of our Khajiit, Do’Karth, to agree to a sparring match. He’s a very agile pacifist that fights with a staff. Quite unorthodox. There’s also a Nord woman on board named Sevine.” Niernen swallowed hard and suppressed the emotions associated with that name. “Nords love a challenge. Oh! Daixanos, one of the Argonians, is a very skilled hunter and warrior, and I believe he acted as a champion in a duel before. I don’t know the full story, wasn’t around for that, but you should ask him.” Then she sighed. “And then there’s my brother, Narzul. Redoran warrior. I would stay away from him for the time being if I were you, though. He’s… really, really Dunmer. Know what I mean?” “He wears bugs?” asked the wood elf in a confused tone. Apparently, that passed as ‘really, really Dunmer’ for Hammerfell folk. Dumbfounded, Niernen took a second or two to answer. “What? No. No bugs.” “I am misinformed,” Adaeze mused, then peered about the ship, as if to try and spot the crew Niernen spoke of. “And who among all those people you mentioned would be the most handy with a blade? I wish to face the best this company has to offer. If I win, I shall understand the limits of what I will learn from my compatriots. If I lose, I shall have a goal.” “That would be Narzul,” Niernen replied without hesitation. “But let me clarify what I meant before when I said ‘really, really Dunmer’: he will not only call you a Bosmer upon seeing you, he will also incessantly insult you for being one -- not that I’m saying you’re Bosmer! But he will say that. Most of my people are… well, pretty racist. I try not to be. He makes no such efforts.” “I see,” mused Adaeze. She reached up with one hand and stroked her chin, seeming deep in thought. Perhaps reason had found purchase. Perhaps she [i]wouldn’t[/i] go and immediately- “I should like to fight him right away,” the wood elf decided. “Perhaps when he is beaten he will learn some humility.” Niernen nodded slowly. “I see. We tried that before and it didn’t work, actually.” “I have a way with swords,” the wood elf said. “He’ll see my viewpoint.” “If you insist,” the Dunmer replied, thinking quickly. “I’ll go find him! You wait here, alright?” Niernen waved a quick goodbye as she hopped off the crate and set off as fast as her sore legs could carry her towards the stairs down to the hold, determined to find Narzul and insist that he [i]did not, under any circumstances,[/i] duel Adaeze. Or engage with her at all. She didn’t trust him not to aggravate her too badly, and she had enough of dealing with the social mess Narzul made. As she fled away, Adaeze simply smiled contentedly. “What a helpful woman,” she said to herself. “You handle yourself like a Jaqspur before the hunt,” said the sound of an amused feminine voice. Adaeze's first instinct was to grip the hilt of her sword, alarmed that someone could have sneaked up o her. It came a couple of feet away from Adaeze’s side and, upon investigation, it became clear it had come from a shorter bosmer woman dressed in green and brown robes made of various furs, wool, and leathers. She was leaning against the taffrail around port side of the main deck, crossing her arms, and a bemused look seemed to liven up an otherwise weary face. Adaeze didn’t speak immediately. Indeed, she didn’t do much at all but raise her eyebrows and stare in a sort of dumbfounded manner at the other Bosmer woman. As the uncomfortable silence fell, the only word that escaped the Hammerfell woman’s mouth was “Jaqspur?” in a bewildered tone. The smile on the priestess’ face turned back into a frown for a moment, then almost into a look of pity. She rocked her head to the side and sighed, “I thought not. It’s a shame to see a daughter of the Earth Bones born so far from home.” “My home is [i]Hammerfell[/i],” said the other elf matter-of-factly. At first the priestess shook her head, apparently not agreeing with the claim Adaeze had made, but there was a moment of hesitation where no words or argument came out. Instead, she merely dipped her head out of respect, clearly seeing that she has offended and showed her apologies through this simple gesture. Looking back up to face Adaeze, her tired yet welcoming expression became a touch more somber. It was a look of disappointment as much as it was one of understanding. “Ah… sorry then.” She said. “I suppose I was hoping for some familiarity here. Skyrim has been… inhospitable.” “The land is frozen, the sky rains ice, and the people that dwell here are walking bears,” muttered Adaeze. She absently rubbed her hands together for warmth. Her hand was away from her sword for once! “I will rest easier when we arrive in High Rock. The Bretons can be disagreeable, but the land itself is comfortable, if rocky.” The woman just smiled and stifled a bit of laughter, trying instead to keep her composure. She nodded and said, “Yes it’s cold, but that’s nothing you can’t get used to.” She stuck out her hand to Adaeze and greeted her with a warm expression, saying, “My name is Wylendriel. I’m this company’s chaplain.” Yet Adaeze didn’t answer immediately. Her attention was focused on Wylendriel’s smile - or, more specifically, her sharp teeth. A frown slowly drifted onto her face. “Of course,” said the swordswoman, not truly having heard the other Bosmer’s words. Wylendriel retrieved her hand and absentmindedly held her arms together close to her body, raising an eyebrow at Adaeze. Her curious look became more scrutinizing as she said, “Did I offend?” “What?” The warrior’s stare flicked away from Wylendriel’s teeth. “Offend? No.” She spoke in a clipped tone and swept her left hand to the side, then let it rest on her sheathed sword at the wrist, just as she had earlier. “You are what again?” “A chaplain.” Wy repeated. She studied Adaeze more closely now, making note how her eyes would quickly flit one way then back to eye contact - one way, then back to eye contact. She was looking at her own mouth, leer intently at her eyes, perhaps to the sides of Wy’s head; her ears? Though the priestess was previously self-conscious and guarded, her disposition softened, as did the manner of her countenance. “By Y’ffre,” she cooed, “poor thing. Bela fara, don’t tell me you’ve never met your own kind before.” Something about the way Wylendriel spoke sparked a fire in the darker-skinned elf. Adaeze scowled at the other woman, and seemed about to retort. Her right hand rose up, one finger raised, and she seemed ready to burst. She stopped, however. Instead, the Hammerfell warrior lowered her hand, and said in a level (but cold) tone, “I believe I need to settle in.” That was all. Adaeze started marching away from the other elf, down toward the lower decks. Wylendriel watched, puzzled and slightly worried, as the proud warrior left her view with an angry scowl dressing her face. Part of her wanted to grab the collar of the lass and yank her back like the child she was and get to the bottom of her haughty attitude, sitting her down by force if she must! But the more she thought about it, the more perturbed she felt about what had just happened. The first time she got to see another bosmer in Skyrim, and she looked at her like she was an alien, then left with a cold shoulder to her own devices. She felt the heat of her ire welling into her chest, but it suddenly sank low and heavy. Cold. [i]‘Why does this keep happening to me?’[/i] She thought. [i]‘Is all of this my fault?’[/i] The priestess looked off to the side to see the old khajiit once again, next to Dough-Boy who was hard at work at cleaning the laundry that Ashav must have appointed him to. Poor kid. The new blood was distracting himself with meditation, and though he was difficult to read, it seemed not even he could hide the signs of a bad case of nausea. Perhaps another day she would have greeted them - helped them even, but with one failed meeting already under her belt, she didn’t feel up to any more disappointments for today. With a word on the tip of her tongue, she closed her lips and remained silent. Instead she meandered off elsewhere, continuing her rounds around the ship.