[h3]An Encounter After Curfew[/h3] [i]Hank and I wrote stuff[/i] [hr] [i]Dusk, 30th of Second Seed, 4E208 Gilane, Hammerfell[/i] Mazrah grabbed Nuzir, who had fallen down, by the collar and pulled him back to his feet. He hung in her arms like dead weight, screaming and crying something unintelligible, and Mazrah put one of her hands over his mouth. “Shut up, asshole,” she hissed and forced him back against the wall, “or I’ll really give you something to cry about. That was just a warning. Stay away from Marien, you hear me?” She removed her hand and he whimpered meekly. “You broke my arm!” Surprised, Mazrah looked at the wrist that Nuzir was cradling and saw that, indeed, his hand was sticking out of his arm at a slightly odd angle. “What the…” she mumbled. Was he that weak? Her older brother, Maulakanth, had been beaten far worse without ever breaking anything when they were still children. “Well, let that be a lesson. Touch her again and I’ll break your [i]face.”[/i] “I’d heed her warning; My uncle was an orc, and when they threaten to do something, well, they aren’t fond of hyperbole.” a voice came from behind. The Khajiit was leaning against a wall, peeling an apple with a small dagger and impassively watching the events unfold. “So, he got a bit handsy with a friend, I gather?” Mazrah’s head whipped around at the sound of the Khajiit’s voice and narrowed her eyes at the sight. She was relieved that it wasn’t a Dwemer patrol, but at the same time she didn’t need people of other races to stick their noses in her business either. “Yes, he did,” Mazrah replied and shot Nuzir a dangerous glare, [i]daring[/i] him to deny it. He didn’t and simply stuck to nursing his wounded arm and sniffling pathetically. “A barmaid at one of my favorite taverns. Sweet girl. She was in tears about it. You hear me?” Mazrah asked and shook Nuzir by the shoulder. “In tears!” Nuzir gasped and pleaded in soft moans for the cessation of this violence, and Mazrah sighed. She turned to look at the Khajiit again and tilted her head. “Who are you?” “That depends on you, I suppose. For now, a spectator.” Daro’Vasora replied, cutting off a slice of the apple and slipping it between her teeth. “What do you plan on doing with him?” she asked. “I think he learned his lesson,” the Orsimer replied and dropped Nuzir to the ground, disgust evident on her face. “Now I was planning on getting the hell out of here before those gray-skinned bastards show up.” It was obvious she referred to the Dwemer, and she momentarily assumed a typically elven posture, the tips of her fingers pressed together and her lips thinned out in a small smile, before crossing her arms and rolling her eyes. “Pompous assholes. Anyway, what’s it to you?” “I’m new to the city, today in fact. Even so, I’ve noticed the best way to keep out of those ‘grey-skinned bastards’ sight is by digression.” Daro’Vasora pointed out coolly, getting annoyed by the portly man’s whimpering. She walked over to him, crouching down beside him, and said, “Quiet now, the ladies are talking.” Suddenly, the Khajiit rammed the apple hard into the man’s mouth, enough carved away it acted like a gag. She stood up, her full height making her feel like a child next to the grandeur of the Orsimer. “Take you, for example. You are a wild, untamed specimen that contradicts the law and order the Deep Elves are so fond of. Everything about you demands attention, like a tornado or some other natural event that cannot be stopped. How long do you think it would be before this shitstain tells the guards what happened and for them to track you down? A volcano is more subtle in appearance.” the Khajiit said, gesturing down at the sad-looking man by their feet. “Break his jaw and force him to have a liquid diet for a month. Hard for a man without a working mouth to retell this particular tale, don’t you think?” A tornado? That was a favourable comparison, Mazrah thought, and she grinned. “You make a good point,” she said in response to the suggestion of breaking Nuzir’s jaw and looked down at the snivelling heap of Redguard. “Looks like I'll be breaking your face after all. Not your lucky day!” Mazrah lifted up her foot and brought it down on Nuzir's mouth with significant force. A satisfying [I]crack[/I] echoed through the alley and Nuzir started squealing like a pig being slaughtered, the trembling fingers of his good hand shooting up to defend himself from any further attacks and to gingerly touch his latest injury. “As for you,” Mazrah said and looked up at Daro'Vasora with the gleam of amusement in her eyes, “I like you. You're very flattering. Keep talking.” “Away from the rapist, his pity screams are nauseating.” The Khajiit replied dryly, starting to walk away when she looked at her hand, and back to the Redguard. “Oh. Right.” Walking briskly back to the Redguard, she gingerly took the man’s hands into her own. “I would say I’m sorry for all of this, but I am a terrible liar.” she said softly, before suddenly gripping the man’s index and middle fingers in a tight grip and snapping them backwards with force, creating a loud crack that echoed off the walls that were only downed out by the man’s gurgled and pained screams. She offered the man a pithy rub on the head before turning back to the way she intended to depart. “Shall we?” she asked the Orsimer, before gesturing and walking briskly away from the screams. Several alleyways later, she asked. “So, what do I call the striking lady of imposing stature I found in some dark alley beating the shit out of a degenerate?” the Khajiit asked, her posture relaxed and loose, but her eyes darted around with predatory purpose, searching for threats in the dark. Mazrah joined her newfound partner in crime, leaning against the wall on one arm, the other resting on her hips. She laughed at Daro'Vasora’s words. “My name is Mazrah gra-Durash, but my friends call me Maz. Who are you then, mysterious and complimentary Khajiit?” “Daro’Vasora, my non-existent friends call me Daro’Vasora.” she replied, allowing the faintest of smiles. “Friend is a term that doesn't come easily to me, I prefer to assume the worst about people, but I can already tell you are more of a stab someone in the face type rather than a long term schemer.” with a pause, she concluded. “I appreciate that in a person. You must beg my pardon when I say you are unlike anyone I’ve met before.” she said, gesturing at the Orsimer’s immodest attire. “You're right about that. I don't make plans, I just do what I want whenever I feel like it. I'm a hunter, so I can feed myself. I don't mind sleeping out in the wilderness. Hammerfell is warm enough. And if I want some extra coin, I'm good enough with my spear to kill you and all your friends. It's a good life.” Mazrah looked down at herself and smiled slyly. “You like what you see, kitty cat?” That was a disarming way to put things, the Khajiit decided. There [I]was[/I] something undeniably intriguing about the Orc, but it was hard to say if it had more to do with her tattoos and scars, her bold wardrobe, or her full and powerful figure. The Khajiit rarely paid women much more than a curious glance, but the giant beside her earned more than that. Was there an attraction? It was hard to say, and something Daro’Vasora considered often. “You are a hard person to ignore,” she managed diplomatically, her expression unwavering. She’d mastered that much. “I will stay unique and unconventional things tend to catch my eye, people are no different.” Deciding to change tact, she said more lightly, “I would prefer you refrained murdering myself and my associates. Except for maybe a certain High Elf, but he’s getting slightly more tolerable.” the Khajiit joked, looking over to study the face beside her. “You’re probably the only person I’ve heard of that describes Hammefell as, ‘warm enough’. The Nedes used to call this place the ‘Deathlands’ for a reason. From how you said it, I presume you aren’t a native to these parts?” Mazrah kept her gaze focused on Daro'Vasora's face while she talked and she smirked at the steadfast, inscrutable expression that the Khajiit maintained. Whatever she thought of Mazrah’s body, she hid it well. Mazrah, in turn, let her eyes wander over Daro'Vasora when she switched topics and decided that she couldn't fault the cat for having a practical and decidedly less immodest outfit. There was a hint of her figure beneath the red tunic that she wore, however, and Mazrah liked what she saw. And there was enough to like about her face, too. Mazrah found it hardly a punishment to let her gaze drift back to Daro'Vasora's sharp green eyes. “Then the Nedes, whoever they are, were sissies.” It was obvious that Mazrah hadn't exactly enjoyed a classic, academic education on Tamriel’s racial history. “Not a native, no, but close enough. I'm from Orsinium, up north. Are you from… what's it called? Elsewhere?” Elsewhere? The mispronunciation was adorable. Had it been someone else, the Khajiit would have replied bitingly, but the slip-up struck her as the words of an earnest person who simply wasn’t well versed, giving Mazrah an almost innocent charm… if one were to overlook how she just brutalized a man. “Cyrodiil, born and raised. I am an Imperial citizen.” Daro’Vasora replied. “Isn’t it rare for an Orsimer to leave the kingdom? I’ve never met someone from there, nor had the opportunity to visit. What’s it like?” she asked, her sensitive ears picking up commotion the way they came. She started surveying doorways, formulating a plan as they walked and needed a quick place to slip out of sight. “Are you now? Interesting,” Mazrah mused. Not many Imperial citizens had come to Hammerfell since it seceded from the Empire. She looked at the Khajiit in a new light and saw how the pieces fit together. The eloquence, the tunic; it made sense. “Orsinium is… a good thing for our people. I'm proud to be an Orsimer but I don't like everything about how things are done there. Women aren't respected as much as I think they deserve. When my brother was exiled because he's a stubborn, prideful idiot, I decided to take my chances and leave as well. I haven't regretted it so far.” She paused, seeing that Daro'Vasora was on her guard. “What is it?” “You are a huntress, what happens when the predators hear the wounded cry of prey?” the Khajiit replied, settling on what appeared to be a shop that had closed for the day. She pulled a lock pick from her waist cloth and set herself upon the lock. “I knew it wouldn’t be long until your friend attracted the authorities, so I’ve been searching for somewhere to duck out of sight. Two minority travellers caught out at night and a brutalized Redguard? We would be so lucky to see a jury.” The lock gave without much issue and Daro’Vasora slipped inside, beckoning Mazrah to join her. She closed the door and locked it behind her, stepping carefully through the shop to make sure it was vacant. Boots passed by a few minutes later, and lights shone through the curtains that concealed the store. The threat passed, Daro’Vasora found a counter to sit on, leaning against a support post. “Societies are seldom fair in other provinces, I’ve had a number of doors closed to me because of my race. People do not trust Khajiit, even if they prove they are more educated and literate than they are. I understand all too well what it means to be cast down because you aren’t like those in power. People like us have to make our own fortunes on our own terms, I suppose.” the Khajiit replied at last, studying the Orc’s markings. “Those tattoos and scars, they’re ceremonial, are they not?” Mazrah had followed Daro’Vasora inside without protest -- she did not like hiding from people instead of confronting them, but even she realized that it was suicide to stand up to the guards that pursued them, whether they were the Dwemer occupiers or Gilane’s own. She made silent note of the cat’s skills with the lockpick. It was impressive. Ducking low to avoid her profile being seen through the curtains when a lantern passed the window, she cursed and found a place to sit out of sight; a table that presumably displayed wares whenever the shop was opened would do. She listened to the Khajiit’s words with a scowl on her face. “If an Ornim is beaten then they were too weak to defend themselves and deserved what happened to them. I would never have been hunted like this in Orisinium. It’s harsh. I’m not sure it’s fair. But it means only the strong survive,” she explained and sighed. The change of topic that followed brought a smile to her face, however. “Yes, they are,” Mazrah said and there was a warmth to her voice that hadn’t been there before. “My mother bore these and her mother before her, as long as we can remember. The ink represents my mastery with the spear, the bow and the shadow, and the scars are one each for every type of beast I have hunted. Deer, elk, fox, wolf, sabercat, bear, troll… you name it. My mother passed her skills on to me and with every new achievement, the Wise Women marked another part of my body. It goes all the way from here,” she said and pointed to the top of her skull, “down to there.” Her index finger traveled down her body until she was pointing at her toes. “Do you like them?” “They’re beautiful.” Daro’Vasora replied sincerely, enraptured by the story the Orc spun. It was like living archeology, a story told on skin instead of stone. There was much significance to the wild markings, and superficially, it reminded her of the stripes and spots of her own people. It was a mark of who you were, just this was more meaningful than what bloodline you spawned from. “We Khajiit simply stick with honourifics to show who we are.” Daro’Vasora said with a smile. “And while I do not doubt Orsinium sees strong and decisive leaders, does it not lead to situations where only the most physically intimidating rules? Orsinium has fallen many times in the past, and unchecked strength can lead to cruelty and stifling the talents of those who could contribute in other ways.” she observed, aware she might as well have been speaking heresy to Mazrah. Deciding to change tact somewhat, she concluded, “I’d much prefer my healer or tailor spent more time on their craft without having to train themselves to fight constantly. I’d make a terrible Orc, but I’ve kept history alive. Even fighting these Dwemer in Cyrodiil, my allies have leaned on me for what I know of the enemy because of the years I’ve spent plundering their lost cities.” “You are right, the strongest rule. I don’t know what Orcs are like everywhere else but the Ornim of Orsinium, who follow the Old Ways of Malacath, are stubborn and headstrong. If their leader cannot best them in single combat, they will not listen to them.” Mazrah snorted derisively and continued. “Orsinium has been destroyed many times because the ruhi sim, the ‘lesser-bodied’, the… weaker races, are afraid of us, but they outnumber us. Bretons and Redguards and Nords have teamed up every time to see Orsinium burned down. My people always need to be ready for total war.” She paused and looked at Daro’Vasora with a knowing smile. “But does it lead to cruelty? Yes. Is it always the best practice? No. My father was the Hand of Mauloch of Orsinium. Leader of the warriors. He was very strong but also very cruel. My brother, Maulakanth, was groomed to follow in his footsteps, which was only possible if Maulakanth killed my father in single combat. So my father put him through… horrible, horrible abuse, really. I have no other words for it. He became big and strong -- [i]very[/i] big and strong -- and he defeated my father when the day came. But Maulakanth was twenty-two. His victory over the Ornim that had tormented him his entire life got to him. He thought he knew better than anyone else. I tried to give him counsel but he no longer listened to me. And eventually the king was tired of his incompetence and threw him out.” Mazrah shrugged. “Perhaps it is time for a different way of doing things now. But good luck telling them that. Enough about Orsinium, though. You said you fought the Dwemer in Cyrodiil. I’ve been very disappointed that the Redguards are not fighting back, so tell me about that.” The time for swapping stories about their heritage was over. Mazrah looked serious now. If this Khajiit was really fighting the good fight against the Deep Elves, she was very interested indeed. “If you will humour me for a moment longer, perhaps it is that perspective that has made Orsinium feared. Distrust of outsiders, thinking friends and alliances are pathetic signs of weakness, and a value of raw strength above all else. Is it not a strength to recognize your weaknesses and find ways to rectify them? Nords are incredible warriors, but they lack mages. Bretons are the opposite, and Redguards are renown swordsmen, but technique alone can’t pierce superior plating and a fearless warrior culture. They feared your people more than each other because they recognized that they had other strengths. Is that not a strength in its own?” the Khajiit asked. “It would be like if you were pitted against a Senche-raht, you’d want to even the odds with weapons and equipment because you alone are no match for something of that size and strength. Turning to others to make up for your shortcomings is a strength; you’ve utilized my skills to evade being caught in a battle you may not win. You’re welcome, by the way.” Daro’Vasora said with a smile. She adjusted, leaning forward to stretch her legs, mulling over their mutual situation. “The Deep Elves are a cunning and ruthless enemy that have used machines and weapons that outclass anything we have. The same Imperial Legion that fought the Aldmeri Dominion to a standstill was brought down in a matter of hours to their airships and hand cannons. So far, any attempt to bring the hammer down on the anvil has resulted in the hammer shattering. We need new ways to look at everything, because the old ways don’t work.” she admitted. Shifting and nimbly sliding off the counter, Daro’Vasora approached the seated Orc, who still was almost eye level with her. She placed a hand over her heart, her tone rigid and defiant. “My uncle was an Orsimer, and he was the man who taught me all of my skills and to appreciate the wonders of the world and the people in it, died in that attack. He died fighting to protect two young boys, and I was too late to even try to save him. “I lost one of the very few people I loved that day, and because of that, I may not be a warrior nor particularly strong, but I will keep fighting these bastards on my own terms. I have my wits and my knowledge, and that alone has brought down their powered armour even if I wear nothing but thin leather and carry a mace that can’t can't dent their alloys. I have a group of like minded individuals, who like your Redguard, Nord, and Breton enemies of yesteryear, have joined together to fight a singular overwhelming enemy that terrifies us. I want you to witness it yourself; strength isn’t just how much you can lift or how many foes you can vanquish, it’s about admitting you’re outmatched and finding a way to win, anyways.” the Khajiit implored. [I]I am not good at these speeches.[/I] she thought, suddenly feeling the urge to chew on anything to keep her focused. Mazrah kept her face under control for as long as she could but a few seconds after Daro’Vasora was done talking, she cracked a smile and burst into laughter. “Great gods of nowhere, do you always talk that much? I didn’t need [i]that[/i] much convincing, Daro’Vasora. You’re probably right about that whole ‘working together’ thing. I’d love to meet your group. See who’s been taking it up with the Dwemer, even if you haven’t been winning. It’s better than doing nothing. And… I’m sorry about your uncle. Like I said, I don’t know much about the Orsimer of the Empire. I’d like to hear more about him some time.” She paused and got to her feet, now positively towering over Daro’Vasora, but she felt this uncle of hers deserved a salute. Mazrah placed her hand over her own heart now. “He died a voshu tumn. A good death. That’s all any Orc can ask for. Malacath is proud of him, I'm sure of it.” Daro’Vasora felt a flush of embarrassment; she really did prattle on when she lost herself in thought, didn’t she? She cleared her throat, sparing herself a few moments to look away and compose herself. “I suppose it’s part of my charm, but yeah, sometimes, when I’m nervous or trying to make a point words tend to flow like wine.” She returned her gaze to the Orc’s beautiful golden eyes, and even in the low light they seemed to shine brilliantly. “Thank you, one day perhaps I’ll tell you more about him. He likely wasn’t at all what you’d expect, but he always did the right thing.” she sighed, shaking her head. Was there such thing as a ‘good death’? Perhaps, but she would have given anything to get him back. “You are kind to say that, Mazrah. Should we carry on?” she asked, gesturing towards the door. “Yes, let’s,” Mazrah said with an earnest smile. She stepped outside gingerly, her long years of experience as a hunter subconsciously having activated her stalker-mode now that the guards were looking for them, and swept the street with her eyes. It was getting quite dark now and Gilane looked mostly deserted, save for a few stragglers making their way home. “Oh, right,” Mazrah mumbled. “The curfew.” She had forgotten about that. She turned her head to look at Daro’Vasora, whose grayscale fur and dark red tunic made her almost invisible in the shadows, and asked: “Where to?” The Khajiit was finishing locking the door behind them while carefully slipping the lock pick back out of sight. “I have a place where I am staying with my companions. You’re welcome to come along if you think little old me might help you get what you want, I know we could use someone like you.” Daro'Vasora said, gesturing further down the street. “That sounds great. I didn't have anywhere else to stay. Thanks!” Mazrah followed Daro'Vasora as quietly as she could, and added: “Just toss me a pillow and I'm golden, by the way. Don't need a whole bed.” “Same, we can take turns using mine. Word of warning; some of my roommates are kind of tight asses. They're probably going to have a fit, and it's going to be magnificent.” Daro’Vasora replied, firing back a wink as the skulked along through the darkness. “I have to say, I couldn't have asked for a better night out.” Mazrah grinned from ear to ear. “I think you and I are going to get along juuust fine.”