[h2]A Gift in the Ground[/h2]

[hr]

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 [i]she[/i] 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.