[h3]Planting Seeds[/h3][sub][i]with the lovely [@Stormflyx][/i][/sub]

The sprig of lavender on top of the white parchment tore at Gregor’s soul more with more power than any black magic was capable of.

He stood frozen in the entrance to their tent, looking down on the pillow where Raelynn’s head was supposed to be. Moonlight spilled past his cloaked shoulders and illuminated the ghastly absence within in brushstrokes of pale silver. He wanted to move, to turn around and to call out to her, or to step forward and read the letter, to see that it was just a note -- [i]‘finding some new mushrooms, be right back’[/i] -- but the damn sprig of lavender bolted him to the spot. He couldn’t move forwards or backwards. Somehow, through some instinct, some deep understanding of Raelynn, [i]his[/i] Raelynn, Gregor knew what that tiny, brittle, fragrant twig meant before he’d even opened the letter. 

Then his eye fell on the brooch and he cursed as his fears were confirmed. 

Gregor’s hands shot up and he tore off his helmet before tossing it aside. He ran his fingers through his hair and turned on the spot, his ghost-eyes feverishly dancing through the dark treeline. Every shadow could be her, but none of them were. She had left him. Despite all her promises to the contrary, she had left. Had it become too much to bear? The war, the fear, the bloodbath in the forest, his undeath? All of his endless, deathless strength left him and he sank to the ground, as if he finally succumbed to his wounds, the gaping holes and jagged rips in his clothes and armor evidence of their infliction. 

“Why?” he whispered through pale lips. 

There was only one way to find out; the letter. It seemed like such an innocent thing but it lay upon her pillow with a terrible weight. Gregor reached for it with trembling hands and crawled across the bedding -- where they had cuddled, talked, made love, a place of comfort and safety for him now turned into the most unholy of ground -- to grab it. The idea of sitting here and reading it while he was surrounded by everything that reminded him of her was intolerable, so Gregor grabbed a torch, scrambled out of the tent and blindly set off towards the treeline, his movements almost drunk with the force of the anguish that he felt. 

He stumbled through the underbrush and past the trees until he was alone among the dark shadows of the pines, with naught but the softly crackling flame of the torch and the wind above him for company. A memory intruded on his solitude and Gregor swore he could hear the footsteps of the Vigilants of Stendarr on either side of him as they approached the necromancer’s tower in the dead of night. Looking up from his own feet, Gregor froze at the sight of the five of them just outside of the ring of light cast by his torch. Of course. They had died in these woods. Gregor couldn’t see their faces but he knew which one of them was Hannibal by the outline of two axes on his hips. Had their ghosts come to revel in his misery? 

“Leave me be,” Gregor said, the words barely audible. The dead Vigilants did not move. 

Truthfully, the lich had not expected any different. He knew they were just phantoms and that while they could not harm him, he had no power over them. Gregor had no choice but to accept their presence and he sat down on a fallen tree, planting the torch in the ground in front of him. He held the letter in his hands and looked at it. Minutes passed. Gregor dropped his hands in his lap and cast his gaze up at the sky. It was a cloudy night; not even the stars were there to comfort him and give him strength. Suddenly, as if ordered at riflepoint, Gregor unfurled the letter, squared his shoulders and began to read it. 

The Vigilants shifted where they stood. It was as if the forest held its breath. The birds watched in quiet reverence and the rabbits retreated deeper into their burrows. 

Gregor threw aside the letter and jumped to his feet. His face was contorted in a mask of hatred and he drew his claymore. Sparks flew and lightning arced as the furious Imperial tore into the fallen tree, seeing it reduced to splinters and slivers with the forces of his blows and the destructive magic that the rippled steel was laced with. He screamed out his rage into the woods and sent all nearby animals scattering in fear--

He sat still upon the tree, the letter in his hands, his weapon still sheathed. The Vigilants relaxed. Gregor blinked and awoke from the memory of something that had not come to pass. That was what the monster that had resided within him for so long would have done. He leaned in closer towards the light of the torch and read the letter again. 

[center][i]I am taking short leave… I am a broken woman still… a Knight deserves a true Lady - and so I must become one…

I dream of the day we can walk arm-in-arm again, to see your smile against the fading sunlight…

I know that there is a good man in you, my love… I will make my way through fire and rain to find you there as your worthy Lady… 

For as long as I live, I am yours.[/i][/center]

“That means she’ll come back,” Gregor mumbled. He looked up at Hannibal’s ghost. “Right? She’ll come back?” 

The Vigilant did not respond. 

But how could Gregor be sure that she would survive to see him again? He couldn’t protect her if he didn’t know where she was, if he wasn’t by her side. The Dwemer were out there, hunting them with machines and orcs and gods knew what else. Fear gripped at Gregor’s heart and he had to resist the urge to leap to his feet and run after her -- wherever that meant. How would he start? He wasn’t even sure where she went off to. High Rock, perhaps. Gregor looked at the letter again and searched the words for a clue, a hidden meaning, but found nothing. “Things you aren’t yet ready to know,” he mouthed to himself. “Like what, Raelynn? We weren’t supposed to have secrets anymore,” he said, louder, and slowly rocked back and forth on the tree. They would always be together. There were supposed to always be together. Raelynn had promised. 

“Raelynn, what can’t you tell me? What have you done?” Gregor asked, but the forest had no answers for him but silence. A choked sob escaped him. The Vigilants turned around and left.

“Come back,” he stammered. “Please come back. Oh, honey, please…” 

He wept. His tears were as cold as ice. 

Raelynn was gone. 
[hr]

[i]Morning, 18th of Sun’s Height, 4E208
Falkreath Campsite[/i]

Mazrah hissed when Gregor’s cold fingers touched her skin. 

He looked up at her and smiled, invisible behind the visor of his helmet. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” the Orsimer whispered and laid her head back on the pillow. Her eyes traced the lines on the canvas of the tent and the light and shadow that played there in constant motion because of the gentle breeze blowing through the trees above them. She winced when the bandages that covered her abdomen were unwrapped and closed her eyes. It was hard to get used to the fact that she was now left to the care of the lich, the only member of the party that remained who possessed some manner of proficiency in the art of healing, but that thought was pushed aside by the sheer shame she felt at her defeat being laid bare yet again. 

Gregor carefully ran the tips of his fingers, glowing faintly with Restoration magic, along the knobbly and raw edges of the (still healing, but) closed wound. Maulakanth’s sword had spilled her guts with devastating force and Raelynn’s timely intervention was the only reason that Mazrah was still alive. Gregor, however, didn’t have the skill that the Breton had to ease the scarring. The best he could do was make sure that there wasn’t any infection and that the wound remained shut while her body did the rest. He sighed under his breath and sat back in his chair. 

Mazrah was laid out on a proper bed that the people of Falkreath had generously donated for their most gravely wounded. She kept her eyes closed while Gregor applied clean bandages and began the inspection process anew for the wound in her shoulder. She hadn’t been scared of him before, no matter how undead he was, but she couldn’t help but turn away from him now when he moved up and closer to her face. The lich was far more frightening when she was helpless and at his mercy.

“It’ll be alright,” he said in a low voice, recognizing her discomfort. The lines around his eyes softened and his hands hesitated. “I’m not going to hurt you.” 

All she could do was mumble and nod her head slightly. 

For the hundredth time, Gregor looked towards the opening of the tent and deeply wished that Raelynn was there, his desires giving form to the faint apparition of a young Breton woman hovering just outside the tent. He blinked and realized it was just another ghost. Falkreath was full of them. They encircled Mazrah’s tent at night, he had seen, and stood silent vigil. Were they wondering if she would join them soon? He turned back to Mazrah and his work and pushed his lover out of his mind. 

Ivy yawned. She yawned loudly and stretched for as long as she could, letting her slender arms wrap around themselves and point up towards the sky. The Dunmer was tired. Sore too. A smile danced across her lips. There was no need to wear anything but a big, billowing kaftan today, in a teal hue and cinched at the waist with a chain belt dripping in coins that made a pleasant tinkling noise as she walked. Her hair was still fastened in the braid of the night before, but it was less quaffed now and far more unkempt and slept in. 

She groaned with relief as she finally found that her stretch pulled on the right spot, releasing a tense knot that had been sat at the bottom of her spine. As her eyes opened, the flapping of canvas caught them by surprise. In her dilly dallying across the grass, she had found herself in a spot where there had not previously been a tent. At least she could not recall one having been there - certainly not one of that shape and colour. Her head tilted, and she scanned the surrounding areas as if to check that she was in fact where she thought she was, and that she hadn’t wandered too far from her own lines - that she hadn’t miscounted her steps. 

“Curious…” she remarked in a breath, letting the ‘r’ roll just too long on her tongue. She liked the way it felt, curious was a nice word. Pleasing to say and hear, and it meant all manner of whimsical things. She smirked as she let her arms drop to her sides, her wrists skimmed the chain belt and made it rustle again. “Neighbours, new friends” she asked herself, her head tilting to the side. She had not expected to stumble upon a new tent, and so she happily floated over to the doorway, peering inside with big and curious eyes. 

Ivy immediately wished she hadn’t. The Dunmer felt her head begin to spin, and her first instinct was to recall how much she had drank the night before. No more than she would ever allow herself to on any other night, at any other time. She knew she couldn’t - it clouded her. But that was exactly what she felt. Like there were clouds in her way and it threw her off guard. “I’m sorry,” she groaned, placing a hand against her forehead and closing her eyes tight. “Goodness,” she continued, finally finding her footing enough so that she could gaze into whomsoever were the occupants. It was an Orsimer woman, and a gentleman in armour. She blinked quickly, not paying too much attention to them, and more to the floor. “You must be from the new group,” she said - trying not to let her little dizzy spell disturb what she had wanted to be a happy introduction. 

“Yes, we are,” Gregor replied, reflexively getting to his feet to greet the newcomer. He didn’t fail to notice the way she clutched her head, nor the groan in her voice. He quickly looked at Mazrah’s shoulder and back at the Dunmer woman again. “Are you alright? Do you need a healer? I can be with you in a minute.” 

Her composure had returned and she stood upright again, placing a hand on her hip. The sudden change of posture made her appear more inviting and confident, and not like a curious child stepping where she should not have. Now, she looked like she belonged in the tent too. “No, no, my dear - don’t let me pull you away from this one in her bed,” she offered Mazrah a smile and a polite nod of her head. “Forgive me for stepping in, I did not see you at the celebration… This must be why,” she did not take her eyes away from the wounded Orsimer’s shoulder, and she eyed it curiously, her head tilting. There was something about that wound. Had that been what she had felt? There was something vicious about the wound and the expression and focus on it suggested that she was feeling it. 

“Aye,” Mazrah said, and returned the smile with a feeble one of her own. She glanced at Gregor as if to say [i]‘hurry up’[/i] while the lich used the last of the fresh bandages he had to dress her shoulder, and pulled the covers of the bed back up over her stomach. “I’ve been better,” she added, trying to maintain some semblance of toughness. “I’m Mazrah. This is Gregor. Nice to meet you.” 

The Imperial looked at the Dunmer briefly and inclined his helmeted head. “Quite so.” The glow of his gaze was very faint in daylight, but he avoided prolonged eye contact with the stranger all the same. 

Ivy’s head cocked to the other side at the sound of his voice, there was something not quite right about it - but she felt more concern for Mazrah. “Ah, Mazrah, Gregor…” she began with another smile, “I’m Ivy,” she added a sight flourish to her inflection in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere. It was awkward. Even she could feel that - and she was normally oblivious to awkwardness. “At least you can rest here, both of you. You must have had quite the journey,” she said after a slight pause, tearing her eyes from Maz’s shoulder to try to catch a glimpse of a face beneath the helmet. It was when she looked at his eyes that she felt a chill run down her spine. Instinctively she brought a closed fist to her chest. “I… Yes, it seems that your friend here has helped you a lot,” she commented quietly, not removing her sharp red stare from him.

“Raelynn did most of the work,” Mazrah commented dryly, “but she’s gone now.” The Orsimer was ignorant to Gregor’s reaction as he stiffened at the mention of her name. She looked up at his steel-shrouded visage and remembered her manners. “Thanks anyway, Gregor. Does it look… does it look good?” 

It took him a second to reply. “Yes, it does. It will take time but you are healing well. She… she did a good job, given the limited time and resources she had to work with.” Gregor thought about placing a comforting hand on Mazrah’s arm but decided against it. Looking at the paleness of his fingers, he cleared his throat and grabbed his gauntlets from the bedside table. 

Mazrah nodded and tried to relax a little, returning her attention to Ivy. “What did you say? Quite a journey? Yeah, we did. Came all the way from Gilane, believe it or not. It was a few days back when we were attacked,” she explained to Ivy and swallowed hard. “By… Dwemer. Someone that works for them, anyway. You?”

That was a lot to unpack, Ivy thought to herself, the hand on her hip slipped to her side and she leaned back slightly, letting her eyes narrow in Gregor’s direction. It had not gotten past her that his demeanour had shifted at the mention of a Raelynn. It wasn’t hard to read between the lines. [i]Gone?[/i] she wondered, and her lips twitched before turning back to Mazrah. The more she stood in the presence of Gregor, the more unsettled she became - and that was not an easy feat to achieve.

“Gilane to Falkreath is quite a trip,” Ivy said before smiling once more, an idea in mind. She lifted her arms and stretched them out like wings, "as for me? I travelled here on a breeze…" she chimed, using the motion as a means to step closer to Mazrah, not before casting a quick side eye at the Imperial, however. She wanted to push him to the side of her mind and focus on the Orsimer, she was quite forthcoming in the telling of her story and Ivy still found herself curious, but more curious about the things that Mazrah did not say. “Someone that works for them?” She asked, knowing that was the note that she needed to play upon. 

Having finished putting his gauntlets back on, Gregor gestured to the chair by the bed. “By all means, take a seat,” he offered with an Imperial curtsy. “I shall fetch another chair.” He nodded once more at Mazrah before striding out of the tent, his black cloak trailing him like a thick, cloying shadow. 

Mazrah, for her part, had been quite lonely during the party the night before and discovered that she actually enjoyed having someone to talk to, and doubled down on Gregor’s invitation to sit by patting the side of her bed and smiling. She sat up straight, fluffing her pillow so that it supported her back properly, and nodded. “Yes. It’s… he’s… well... “ she began and sighed. “My brother,” Mazrah said quietly. “I hadn’t seen him in years, mind you,” she added, a little louder, and fidgeted with her hands. “No idea how he ended up with them. But he was a cunt back then so I’m not surprised he’s become an even bigger cunt now.” Her voice was tinged with vitriol and she clenched the covers. 

As she happily took the seat, she felt the same chill attack her spine again and she worked hard to hold herself back from flinching. The tent was warmer when he wasn't in it… Ivy settled into her chair and listened to Mazrah, and she found something in common with her. It was in the word 'brother'. It was a word she knew all too well and she instinctively reached out to take Mazrah's hand. She was tender about it, and it was as if she channelled that empathy into the palm she touched her with. For a moment she said nothing. 

"I'm sorry you were betrayed by him," Ivy said knowingly. The way that she leaned forward in her chair was not to be intrusive, and the narrowing of her eyes was not in anger, she only wanted to move closer into the space they shared, to turn down the world outside so that Mazrah didn't feel like she needed to hide in the covers. "He did this to you?" She asked quietly, running a thumb comfortingly over the back of Mazrah's hand like a mother might do for her sick child. They were so much bigger than her own, they were once so strong. 

The Orsimer opened her mouth to say something, to protest, when Ivy took her hand, but the woman’s touch was so gentle and so sincere that she closed her mouth and listened. “He did,” she replied and felt a great vulnerability open up beneath her and threaten to swallow her whole, but Ivy’s hand on hers and the gentle stroking of her thumb were like an anchor in a storm. She found it hard to breathe and fiercely blinked away unbidden tears. “Not just me, Finnen too,” she managed through the tightness in her throat. She sobbed once and drew a shaky breath. “Maul almost killed him too. I couldn’t stop him, and then… all this blood everywhere... “ A single tear ran down her cheek and she immediately wiped it away with her good hand. “I’m sorry,” she breathed. 

"What have you to be sorry for?" Ivy asked, leaning closer still - her voice was little more than a whisper of smoke. "This was not your fault." [i]Finnen[/i]. 

"We sisters do not control our brothers, we are not the terrible things they may do…" she gave a gentle squeeze. It was clear that this warrior woman was just that, a warrior. It was a rare show of vulnerability that she was showing to Ivy - which only made her resolve to help stronger. "Take a deep breath my dear, you're safe here…" she offered. 

Mazrah nodded and did as she was told. “You’re very nice,” she said after she had regained her composure a little and dried her eyes. She let her gaze wander from Ivy’s face down the rest of her body and back up again. She smiled. “I’m sorry for crying and bothering you. We only just met. But you are very nice,” Mazrah repeated. “What of your own brother?” she asked and shook her head, like an animal trying to rid itself of a swarm of flies. 

“I’m just Ivy,” the Dunmer responded with warmth in her husky voice. “I knew there was a reason I had to come in here,” she added - giving Mazrah’s hand another squeeze. “You’re never a bother to me sweet one, whether we’ve just met or not…” She placed and elbow on the bed, and placed her head in her upturned palm, relaxing there as she took a deep breath of her own. 

“My brother… I think he was cut from the cloth of yours. He had a bitterness in him…” Ivy explained, something in her eyes changed as she brought forth her own memories. Slowly she let go of Mazrah’s hand and placed a finger on the Orsimer’s chest, pointing at her heart. “In there. Right in there, like a seed you see.” Her expression softened quickly after that, and she removed her finger, curling it back into a closed fist. “He hurt me too, I see that same hurt in your eyes now…” 

“Bitterness, anger and greed,” Mazrah concurred. “Our father was the Hand of Mauloch. My brother killed him and took his place, as is our custom. But even being the war-chief of Orsinium wasn’t enough for him. He wanted to tear down the kingdoms of Man and crush them beneath his heel, just to say that it was [i]him[/i] that finally did so. My mother and I… we tried to counsel him, but he never listened. The king cast him out,” she explained and looked down at her chest, at the spot where Ivy’s finger had touched her -- at her heart. 

“I hadn’t seen him since then,” she said softly. “Hells, I thought he’d be dead by now. But he’s not. He’s a monster. The Dwemer,” Mazrah continued and looked up at Ivy, eyes red-hot with hatred, “they did something to him, I’m sure of it. They made him into a weapon. Sevari and Raelynn, they wounded him three times with those… what are they called? [i]Rifles?[/i] But he didn’t die. He’s like Gr--” 

Her eyes widened at the mistake and she cleared her throat. “He’s like… a great zombie.”

“I haven’t seen my brother for a very long, long, [i]long[/i] time…” Ivy confessed quietly in a breath, closing her eyes momentarily. “Such things are a poison on a soul, Mazrah. They make us do terrible things - the pursuit of power is sadly littered with the echoes of bitterness, anger, and greed. One who walks alone on a path of power has only those whispering echoes as his counsel…”

Ivy stopped and leaned back into her chair, trying to push away the thoughts of her brother away, but being in such close proximity to Mazrah when she was undoubtedly in the spell of it herself was infectious, like Maz’s own wounds were pulling at the scar tissue of Ivy’s own. She felt a great chill again and her toes curled. “You’re not like him though Mazrah - I can tell,” she said quickly, smiling again - levity needed to return. “Why, I bet you are a beacon of light amongst your people, your companions, no?”

She thought about it for a bit and grinned. “I am.” Her grin faltered and she shifted beneath the covers. “Ouch,” she mumbled and rubbed her sore stomach. “When I’m not stuck in a bed like this, anyway.” Mazrah looked at Ivy again and narrowed her eyes. “Are you the dancer? Gregor went out to have a look at the party last night and he said there was a dark elf dancer.”

As if on cue, the Imperial returned with a chair of his own. He wasn’t sure he was even still welcome in the conversation, but he considered it unwise to leave Mazrah alone with a stranger while she was in no position to fend for herself. The Dunmer didn’t strike him as the type to do any harm, but… you never knew. He compromised by putting the chair down next to the entrance to the tent and sitting down in silence, leaving the women to their conversation but remaining within reach. He laid the rippled steel of his claymore over his knees, as he so often did, and tended to it with cloth and oil. 

“I am the dancer!” Ivy replied joyfully, bringing her hands together in a quiet clap as she beamed at her new friend. “Don’t tempt me to give you a private show,” she said with a giggle, her eyelids narrowing while she leaned in close, “breaks my heart that you missed our celebration…” She was about to bat her eyes, and give the infirm Orsimer a flirtatious flutter of her eyelashes when a loud scraping sound pulled her out of the moment.

She moved back into the chair away from Maz, and her head turned to the doorway. Gregor had returned, and she watched the way he ran a cloth over it. It was a cloth, not a whetstone - so why had the sound bothered her so much? She could still feel herself recoiling, as if something was clawing at her. She brought her feet up from the floor because all of a sudden the grass felt cold. He was an off-putting sort, but Ivy was incredibly sensitive… From what she’d ascertained so far, he and the one named Raelynn were close, lovers perhaps? She was gone and he was distraught. That must have been it, his melancholy seeping out from him… But was that all?

“What was I saying?” She asked, clicking her tongue and bringing a hand to her chin, trying to ignore the uncomfortable sensation. She squinted and the slightest grimace curled the corners of her mouth. “A private performance, yes I’d love to… Do that...” The Dunmer cleared her throat, her toes curled around the lip of her chair, and she clutched the underside of it with her free hand, her fingers pressing firmly to the wooden slats. “Would you like?” She asked, trying to concentrate but finding it difficult to measure her thoughts enough to feel as if she was coherent. 

Now that was an enticing thought, but even Mazrah wasn’t blind to the way Ivy appeared bothered by Gregor’s presence. She frowned at him. Armored and clad in black from head to toe, and he just had to go and sit by the only exit and play with that big sword of his. Mazrah wouldn’t be surprised if Ivy considered him threatening. Her eyes flitted between Gregor and Ivy before she leaned in towards Ivy. “He’s not going to hurt you, don’t worry.”

Ivy might have felt embarrassed about that, but her intuition was never wrong and she had complete faith in it. She forced a smile in Maz’s direction, releasing the chair to take her hands again. “I’m alright, I know that he will not… Not with you here - I’m sure you have lots of strength in you, yes?” Ivy chuckled, feeling the knot unravel slightly, but the sound of Gregor still rang between her ears. 

She couldn’t resist the urge to flex her good arm for Ivy and show off her muscles, and sniggered. “Oh, yeah, lots. The woman with the big stitches will protect you.” Mazrah looked at Gregor again and remembered talking to him when he had been sitting outside tending to his sword, just like he was now, with his cloak covered in pine needles. It was still hard for her to understand exactly what he’d done to become like this. He was nothing like the smiling man she’d talked to at the banquet in Gilane. Maybe Ivy wasn’t just scared of him because of his appearance and his weapon. 

The lich looked up briefly from his sword to see Mazrah and Ivy leaning in close and whispering, and caught the Orsimer’s gaze. They were talking about him. That much was obvious. And Ivy… he looked at the back of her head, down the slope of her back, and finally at her curled toes. The old voice in the back of his mind returned. [i]No threat, no threat, no threat…

Threat.[/i]

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asked, his voice flat and metallic from within the confines of his helm. “Sorry,” Gregor added, still devoid of emotion. “I sometimes forget that not everybody is used to being around weapons.”

The dunmer’s head turned sharply, and she smiled as affably as she could in his direction, disturbed by the helmet, the way that it distorted his voice. “Not at all,” she lied from behind her usual smile, adding a soft laugh for good measure. "Just a headache I think…" Ivy added dismissively, lying again as she brought fingers to her temple to rub gently, avoiding eye contact with the lich. She squeezed on Maz's hand again. "You won't have stitches forever. You'll be fighting fit before… long." 

“I hope so,” Mazrah mumbled and bit her lip. “Doesn’t feel that way now, though.”

Gregor nodded and returned to his task, relaxing slightly. It was hard to tell why strangers were unsettled by him -- whether it was just the armor and the sword, or if they were more perceptive than he would have liked -- and had kept mostly to himself for that reason ever since his… [i]change.[/i] If Ivy was sensing something about him that she shouldn’t, she did a good job of hiding it and Gregor decided that the best course of action was to present himself as innocent and ignorant as possible. 

“It doesn’t yet, but it will. Give it time, not used to waiting, are you?” Ivy asked with a smirk, giving Mazrah a light nudge as if to coax her spirit back from wherever it was hiding. “I bet you just chase onto all of the things you want right?” She asked, her smirk growing. “I’m sure you’ve been getting all of the attention from your friends too, hmmm?”

That conjured a sheepish grin on Mazrah’s face. “Yeah, I suppose I do,” she admitted. “We all do. Orsimer, I mean. If you can’t just reach out and take what you want, that means you’re not ready to have it yet. The spoils go to the strong.” She raised an eyebrow and let her eyes wander up and down Ivy again. “Attention how?”

“Do they bring you gifts? They are waiting on you?” Ivy asked curiously, watching Maz’s eyes and where they moved. “You have your… lovely friend Gregor, staying at your side!” She waved a hand over in his direction, but did not turn her head - feeling that his shadow was too severe to draw her eyes upon it if she didn’t have to. “If I had known you were hurt, I would have found something to bring for you myself…” she said, her voice lowering again, and her hand tightened. 

“Gregor has been very nice,” Mazrah said in agreement, and she smiled when she remembered how, after she had awoken from the aftermath of the fight with Maulakanth, many of the party had made time to visit her as they traveled and to wish her well. “The others as well. I suppose you’re right.” She glanced at Ivy’s hand as it squeezed her tighter and chuckled. “A gift, for me? Like what?” Her golden eyes sparkled. 

Ivy's chin dipped and she let go of Mazrah's hand, and instead began to trace her finger over the woman's wrist. "When I was younger, I was very sick for a spell. I was bedridden…" She sighed at the memory, but smiled all the same. "My grandmother brought me flowers, a hardy flower called willow anther. Well, she brought me so many and I had so little to do that I began to weave them together. I made a ring of willow anther and made it my crown." Ivy's head lifted again, and her smile was bright. "So my dear, maybe I shall make you a crown of flowers of your own!" 

That was far more innocent than Mazrah was expecting and she laughed. “A crown of flowers, eh? I’d be the talk of the town back home. [i]Have you seen Maz?”[/i] she said, imitating a deep and heavily accented voice meant to represent the citizens of Orsinium. [i]“She’s got a bunch of flowers on her head! What’s that all about? Supposed to be a crown or something, but a crown my arse. It doesn’t even have horns.”[/i] She laughed again and pressed a hand against her aching ribs. “I’d love that, Ivy.”

Ivy pursed her lips, her cheeks appeared more gaunt and sucked in and she almost appeared offended by it. "Hmmmm," she mused out loud, folding her arms over her chest. "Maybe you're right," she smirked, at least she was laughing. She'd managed to draw out her spirit - even if that was not what had been intended. "But you see Maz, they may laugh all they want…" Ivy began, leaning closer to the Orc, so close that their cheeks threatened to touch. "Only a Queen wears a crown… And a Queen can have [i]whatever[/i] she desires…" The Dunmer whispered, letting the words hang in the air before drawing back into her seat again.

“Aha,” Mazrah whispered back, and her lips were lifted into a coy smile. “That’s what you meant. I like the sound of that. Now, what are my desires?” She briefly thought of Maj, the small and equally adorable Redguard pirate, and wondered if she expected Mazrah to be exclusive. They’d never had that conversation so Mazrah could only conclude that there was no obligation to, and she certainly didn’t feel like depriving herself of anything after her near-death experience. “I think I’ll command you to give me that private dance after all,” Mazrah purred. 

Ivy giggled, her own body finally relaxing from the tension in the seat, a hand covered her mouth. "Only once you're well enough my dear, I have a habit of pulling partners into my show," she laughed again, thinking of Handsome Calen and Megana the Kind and their participation in her performance only the night before. "So you have to promise me you'll keep your chin up to get well, yes?" 

“Oh, you tease,” Mazrah said and sulked as she sank back into her pillow. “Fine, fine, I’ll do that while you have fun and seduce half of the camp, I’m sure,” the Orsimer muttered, but there was no malice behind it and she smiled at the end of it. “Thanks. I feel better already.”

"Then my work here is done," Ivy said with a grin, until her expression turned to something more serious. She took a glance at Gregor, and then back to her new friend; "you don't know it yet, you don't realise it just now… But your brother gave you a powerful gift Mazrah," she spoke, her tone soft - the atmosphere around them shrinking inwards again. 

She stared at Ivy, incredulous. “You call this a gift?” she asked in a hushed voice, matching Ivy’s volume. “You’re right, I don’t understand that at all. What are you talking about?”

Of course Maz was stung by the suggestion - of course she was, and well, that was part of it, wasn't it? Still, she didn't want to be too careless with her words and the explanation. Ivy was coming from a place of heart, and from wisdom that she knew. "Loss is not defeat," she began, taking Maz's hand in her own again - powerfully. "Sometimes loss leaves behind the reason, and the knowledge of what it means to [i]win[/i]." With her free hand, Ivy placed her hand on her own heart. "No more apologising…" 

“What does that mean?” Mazrah asked and frowned. “It [i]was[/i] a defeat. I’m only alive because of somebody else and I don’t have any more knowledge about winning, or anything else for that matter. I don’t even know [i]why[/i] Maul did what he did or why he’s with the Dwemer.” She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re gonna have to talk more plainly to me, Ivy. I don’t follow.”

If she herself hadn’t felt clouded, the thread of the point she was trying to make might not have gotten lost in the murk that was hanging over her. “You don’t understand it now,” she explained, eyes flitting once again to the corner. “But you will, when you realise it, when you’re ready - you’ll understand.” There was simply no other way for her to say it. Ivy wasn’t a ‘plain talker’, she didn’t fit into that box, as flexible as she was - she couldn’t bring herself to be moulded and forced into the wrong shape… Mazrah was of Orsinium. They spoke as they meant, not in prophecy and riddles. But Ivy spoke in riddles, and perhaps all that she had needed to do was plant a seed in Mazrah to awaken her inner curiosity, so that she might find the means to solve it.

“I don’t want to overstay my welcome,” she said with a sigh, dropping her feet to the floor, pushing herself out of her seat. “It was lovely to meet you this morning Mazrah, I feel like fortune has smiled on me for our time together,” she added with another of her warm smiles. 

That was disappointingly unhelpful but Mazrah decided not to press the issue. Besides, she was still weak, and all this talking had taken more out of her than she’d anticipated. “Likewise, Ivy,” the Orsimer woman said and pulled her sheets up to her chin, eager for a nap. “Don’t be a stranger…” she added and yawned. 

The Dunmer pressed onwards to the opening of the tent, taking gentle steps upon the grass. She came at last to Gregor, sat there - still seemingly minding his own business. She did not stop or speed up, and instead kept up the same pace - the same gentle stepping of one foot in front of the other. Her eyes though, they looked him up and down slowly - more than once. “And I’ll be seeing you, Gregor,” she said, directly at him - peering into the slits in the helm that obscured his eyes. It was not a farewell, but a promise that their time to speak would come yet…

He did not look up from his work, but the cloth that rhythmically and methodically caressed the blade’s edge stopped. “Until then, Ivy,” came Gregor’s voice from within, tinged with equal parts apprehension and anticipation. He didn't know what she wanted from him and he was still wary, but another part of him was undeniably curious about her. 

But for now, their meeting had come to an end. He looked at Mazrah and saw that she was already slipping into her much-needed rest. Once Ivy was out of sight of the tent, Gregor slowly returned his claymore to its sheath. The only sound he heard was the soft, irregular pattering of needles drifting onto the canvas, the gentle brushing of the wind through the trees and Mazrah’s slow and deep breathing. 

“Sleep well,” the lich said to the silence in the tent and left.