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Aud had a tendency to snarl sometimes, when particularly aggravated.

She didn't know whether it came from her werebear nature, or if it was simply a facet of her personality. She wasn't even sure there was a difference between them anymore. She couldn't recall growling before she turned, but then again, it had also been well over a decade, more than enough time for her to establish a new habit like that, and subsequently to forget about where it came from.

Bushwhacking through Valenwood--one of the few places on Tamriel her travels hadn't previously taken her--was certainly aggravating enough. And so, as she went, she let loose a chuffing growl. Her cloak was rammed hastily into her backpack, but it did little for the rest of her heavy fur clothing as it stuck uncomfortably to her skin. She was sweating heavily, no matter that it was still spring. Springtime in Valenwood was hotter than any Solstheim summer, and far more humid. She interrupted her snarling with a growled swear. She'd need to find something more suited to the climate for her to wear once she arrived at Woodhearth. Until then, she thought sourly, she would just need to deal with it.

And also with the branches and vines that kept snagging in the furs, clinging to her, and catching themselves on the spear hafts that jutted up from behind her. She restrained herself from reaching up to snap off the branches; she'd heard enough about the jaqspurs' merciless hunt that she had no intention of bringing it on herself. So instead, she kept moving, following the sounds of the celebration and counting down the seconds until she could end up somewhere other than this infernal jungle.

She was wondering whether or not it would be easier to move and tolerate the heat if she changed into her armor when she finally stumbled through the edge of the trees, catching her foot on a vine and swearing at it aggressively. She'd arrived in Woodhearth. Finally.

It had been a bit since she’d eaten; lighting a fire to cook meat in Valenwood seemed a poor, poor choice, for a number of reasons, and she didn’t want to go through all of her rations in a day. So it was with a growling stomach as she set off, loping down the festival thoroughfare. Meat, meat, meat. And more meat. She wasn’t sure if there was any cost, and so she hovered about the edge, her nose flaring unconsciously at the unfamiliar smells.

[i]What’s that?[/i] she thought suddenly, seeing people grabbing mugs from a table and joyously tossing them back. The handmade sign said ‘Rotmeth.’ Hesitating for a moment, she grabbed one of the mugs and took a sip before gagging and spewing it out, drawing amused chuckles from the bosmer around her as she tried to catch her breath. “People drink this by choice?!” she choked out in her heavily-accented voice.

“Aye, we do,” came a deep and masculine voice from her left. There stood, swaying slightly, a tall, rough looking man. His eyes were ice, and hair golden and dishevelled. His efforts to comb it all back were futile now and it hung around his face now, obscuring parts of him. As he chuckled, a small gulping belch escaped him and he chuckled some more. “We do indeed,” he smiled — lifting his glass of ‘Rotmeth’ to his lips again. “Fucking weird but delicious, my sister,” he announced, turning to face his fellow Nord with a welcoming gesture, a wobbly wave of a hand that spoke of the level of inebriation that he was experiencing. 

“They’re putting some kind of lamb or thing or what on sticks over there,” he giggled excitedly, pointing a finger in the direction of the food — it was [i]slightly[/i] misdirected, and his finger landed on a gaggle of women who were dancing, as opposed to the open fire that he [i]thought[/i] he was pointing at.

Aud raised an eyebrow at the [i]very[/i] drunk man, and sighed. She sniffed warily at the rotmeth again, and the smell of it turned her stomach. “If you say so. What is this even made of…?” she muttered to herself, putting the mug back down on the table she’d gotten it from. Shaking her head, she reminded herself to not get [i]too[/i] drunk, even if she found anything agreeable. There was still the matter of a possible vampire to deal with, if the rumors she’d heard were true. Her spearcraft needed to be in tip-top shape for that confrontation if it happened. And, she added to herself, she was still hungry, and drinking on an empty stomach never ended well for her.

“Fermented meat juice,” Fjolte replied, letting loose another burp as meaty as the drink itself. “Had to try it once,” he mumbled before placing the still-half full concoction back down with a trembling hand. 

Lips peeled back in disgust at the thought of alcohol made of meat juices, she paused for a moment to compose herself before turning back to the man. She gave a belated wave as she began to move towards the open fire that the man had...tried to indicate to her, mouth watering at the smell of roasting meat. “It’s good to see another Nord here, brother. What brought you to this place?” She waved her hand about towards the trees, indicating “this place” less as Woodhearth, and more as Valenwood. “Just sightseeing?”

“I’m on a travelling adventure,” the Nord said, following along after Aud happily. Whatever was fermented in the drink was bubbling through him now. It was only his sheer mass and unusual level of tolerance  that stopped it from knocking him out completely. “Never been here, wanted to see it. No better time than a festival, no?” He brought his hands together gleefully in a loud clap as they drew closer to the food. “What about you? I’m interested in you,” he admitted frankly. “Your name, what is it?”

“Aud,” she replied. “Aud Longspear. I’m here...” she hesitated for a second. “...for the hunting.” She rapped a knuckle against the spear quiver on her back. “Valenwood is supposed to have good hunting this time of year.” She squirmed a bit, shifting her sweaty furs about on her skin. “Hot here, though.” She turned suddenly, fixing her narrow gray eyes on the man. His eyes were a nice normal Nordic blue, and he was acting far too stupid to be a thrall. “I gave you my name. Your turn.”

With another smile, Fjolte passed but a few coins into the hand of the cook, taking for the offering two fresh skewers of meat. He handed one to Aud. “Fjolte,” he said, eyes sparkling. “Of Rorikstead, and Ivarstead,” he added before leaning closer to Aud and lowering his voice, “King of High Hrothgar,” he whispered mysteriously, with a hint of humour buried in his low growl. He then dug into the treat, his teeth gnawing into the tender offering with glee. He was delighted to find it still vibrantly red in the centre. 

“I used to hunt with my father when I was a young whelp,” Fjolte said nostalgically through a mouthful of food. “It’s my pleasure to meet you here, Aud Longspear. Of all the corners of Tamriel — how were we fated to encounter one another so far from our homeland?” he asked, having changed the subject quickly— his eyes alive with whatever Bosmer mirth had been brewed in the Rotmeth. “It makes it all the more special.” 

Aud shrugged, taking an enormous bite of the meat and ripping it off, gulping it down like an animal after not eating for half a day. She hummed contentedly for a moment at the rare meat, letting it wash away the aching in her stomach as she swilled from her waterskin, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “We may be Nords, brother, but we have different homelands. Skyrim is as foreign as Cyrodiil for me, even if I make my home there now.” She reached for the thong on her neck, pulling the Stalhrim dagger out and dangling for a moment as the frigid blue caught the light. “I am Skaal.”

Then, as she replaced the dagger, she said more quietly, “touch the dagger and you lose that hand.”

“I want to take all of my limbs to Sovngarde, so that is duly noted, Aud Longspear,” he chuckled as he continued to dig into his food. Filling his stomach, even briefly was having a more sobering effect and the giggly lightness was wearing off. “Solstheim… A corner of our world I haven’t ventured too, but I wish to indeed. What should I be careful of, sister?”

“The southern ashlands are filled with choking ash, and with ash creatures. They’ll kill anybody who isn’t prepared. Don’t anger a bull netch. Nordic tombs are full of draugr and reavers. Along the coasts and in the wilds, you’ll find both reavers and rieklings, little buggers that attack in swarms. Farther to the north, the climate will kill anybody who isn’t dressed for it, and occasionally,” she pulled her shirt’s collar aside, revealing a huge, jagged claw-scar trailing down from the top of her shoulder, “you’ll find large, angry animals. I haven’t been into any of the Dwemer ruins, but I knew someone who did, and he never returned. Solstheim isn’t for the faint of heart. If you want to go, I hope you can defend yourself, and have a better reason than ‘because.’”

She drained the last of her waterskin, and grimaced. “I hope they have something other than rotmeth here.” She tilted her head a moment, then turned back to the Nord. “I gave you my name, but I never got yours. Care to give?”

Fjolte tilted his head this way and that, ruminating on the points delivered by his new friend, and with a carefree shrug he raised a hand under his chin, considering it all over again until he heaved out a long sigh. “Still sounds a safer place to be that Rorikstead after a Sorikson feast, you know?” The Nord gave an easy smile, his eyes sparkling with the mirth he was feeling.

“I told you, King of High Hrothgar,” Fjolte grinned, placing a hand on his hip as he tore the last piece of meat free from the skewer, the still pink middle dripping blood over his chin. 

“I’ll have another!” He spoke, glee in his eyes and a jovial tone of demand in his tongue as he handed over yet another loose coin from his purse. “And for the lady too!” 

Aud grinned. “Fine then. King. Scribs-For-Brains it is.” She accepted the skewer of meat, tearing into it savagely as she did the first one and gulping it down near-whole. 

“I hope,” she spoke through a mouth running with bloody juices, “that you don’t expect favors for the meat. Otherwise,” she swallowed, “you’re probably out of luck. Still, thanks.” 

With two skewers of meat in her, she was feeling far less grouchy, and far more patient. She sat down by the fire, pulling out a spear of gray wood and steel that gleamed with a cold gold light. She rasped her whetstone along it the keen edge, sharpening the blade with a single-minded intensity.

“The only favour would be your company, and I don’t mean [i]like that,[/i]” Fjolte grinned, taking a seat a healthy distance from her lest she get the wrong idea again. “Just thought I’d share festivity with you, a fellow Nord, in this place.” He softened then, his posture got comfortable on the floor and he felt as though he could sink into it. 

Taking in a deep breath, he let a long one go as well and closed his eyes briefly. “I think I like it here,” he said honestly, tucking back into his skewer. “So hunting,” he began, letting his gaze fall to her weapons as he observed the care she took with sharpening the blade. “Are you seeking any beast in particular?”

The whetstone’s rasp grew quicker, and Aud’s face grew sharper. She gave him a quick, pointed glance. [i]What’s your angle?[/i] 

A moment later, though, she figured that he seemed innocent enough. Simultaneously too smart and too dumb to be a thrall, and his eyes, while bright, didn’t glow like cinders. And, while she was loath to admit it, she did feel better knowing that there was another Nord nearby. Something about this nord in particular just...radiated an aura of easy trust that made it a little easier to relax than she was comfortable with.

She gave a short bark of humorless laughter. “Some of the bigger game out there.” She paused her sharpening, holding the spearpoint out for him to inspect as it glowed like a star. “I’m Dawnguard,” she finished quietly, trusting that a fellow Nord would understand.

“I see,” Fjolte murmured after a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. He’d had nought much to do with the like of Dawnguard, but he understood— and he felt a shudder try to escape his system at the thought. Had he been a younger man, less experienced, less at ease — he may have cast a cursory glance across the way. “Ex-Stormcloak myself,” he added without enthusiasm. As if it mattered. “Now I’m just a wandering arsehole,” he chuckled pithily. “You be careful out there with that kind of game, lass.”

“Hunting is no fun without some risk.” She smiled a grin that would have looked more appropriate with fangs. Then, a moment later, she smacked her lips and frowned. “I need to go find something to drink that doesn’t make me retch.” She stood. “Thanks for the meat,” she tossed back as she walked away.