Lurking Krog
Guardian Angel Haruki
tadcfnaf
rush99999
Sister Sable
Lunamaria Hawke
Alisdragon911
DraconicDespairBoats. It had to be boats. No, not a jaunty march through the mountains, nor was it a stroll through the daisies- it was boats. Frelayne looked skyward and permitted herself the briefest of prayers as she gazed sunward. Not a soul could call Frelayne Ildered a coward, and neither could they call her a fool... So long as she was on dry land. Horseback? Dignified. A party? Downright civilized. A stroll through a flower meadow? Positively charming. On a boat? Newborn deer caught in headlights and struggling to keep down last night's dinner.
Oh yes, on this venture she would need all her wits and training at hand. It would not do to make such a poor impression after the incident in Training*. To her credit, when Frelayne stepped upon the boat it was in a gallant stride and with a straight back, a stiff brow, and a damn fine impression of someone whom she imagined to be grizzled. Or, perhaps, seasoned. In short, she looked far too serious and far too clean. Luckily for everyone else, there would be little time for her strange antics upon the trip.
Most of it she'd spend leaning over the side of the vessel retching up whatever meager meals she could manage to stomach, or staggering about the surface of the ship in an effort to continue her duties. If it weren't for the occasional burn of Magicka for telekinetic assistance and her unwavering sense of pride to accomplish her tasks she'd have been a downright detrimental travel companion for the squad on this stretch of the journey. Her days spent shivering and sick. Her nights spent frantically cleaning and scrubbing at her robes as she could find the time. Her meals quiet, trembling hands guiding morsels to forcefully parted teeth. The only solace she had on this trip was the brief glimpses she managed of the statues along the Karth River.
By then she'd began to steady her footing and had finally learned that, yes, it was going to be this cold in Skyrim. And yes, it did indeed get colder.
Ysgramor- Talos- Gormlaith- The Dovahkiin! It was enough to fill anyone with a patriotic fervor. So much so that Frelayne seemingly forgot she was supposed to be seasick and, perhaps, she even managed to walk along the deck without swaying for a time. It was a frequent relayed order to Frelayne to stop 'gawking' and to pay attention, there were scouts afoot. After a mere moment of incensed and quiet, withering, anger Frelayne's inferno of patriotic pride was cooled and the training she'd been instilled with was reasserted as the dominant force in her mind. Soon she was recaptured by incessant illness- but at least she was alert and watching the far shores. Something she could do well; gazing at the stillness of the shores seemed to calm her somewhat, and the rest of the trip was spent under the austere and watchful eye of a now stationary Frelayne.
It wasn't until the boats docked that people began to remember why Frelayne was even along. One of the few members of the legion with a presentable uniform after a long journey at sea-river-ice flow-Hell, she made quite the striking figure. Thick hair brushed well and bundled into a tight, serious bun; uniform somehow clean and unsoiled by wrinkles or sogginess, the white and black standing out in a very contrasting manner on her preciously maintained attire as opposed to the fading or mixing greys of the rest of the legion; staff in hand, reminding all that she, in fact, is a mage.
And a damn good one at that, she liked to think. Modestly, of course.
She exerted herself mildly to make short order of her squad's debarkation process- an affair rendered easy by the burning scent of Magicka emanating off the woman and accompanied by the sight of telekinetically maneuvered crates- so that they could free themselves of work and enjoy a little more free time before the marching began. Now that was something Frelayne was good at; marching. Equal parts transport and parade, the tall woman's features and personage appeared at times as if it was bred for a sort of marching. Just not military marching. She could keep pace easy enough- the training had seen to that, after all- but it was clear from her shifting expressions that every muddy step or imprecise splatter from a nearby comrade was steadily working up her frustrations.
Seeing the Legate assuaged the rising temper of the woman; high ranking authority was something that always had this effect on her. Privately a need to compete, to posture and position and challenge, always arose; openly, a deference, reverence, a catering whimsy and delicate personage always rose to the top. She had no interest in challenging the Legate, no interest in testing his mettle or sampling his personality, but those inclinations were always there. The noble-bred and tutor-instilled need to maneuver and court and intrigue.
They'd almost been buried over the years. The hard days of travel on the road, the dangers afoot, the required violence at times, the sweat and callouses accrued- all of it had formed a hard shell over the noble upbringing and mixed with it to form the modern woman of Frelayne... However there were times and places that the shell broke and she couldn't help but hint at the higher station she came from. Seeing the Legate, regally portrayed in the splendor of Ysgramor, was one such moment. If she'd had a harp, she'd positively have strummed it. Perhaps even peeled a few grapes. Thankfully, with neither at hand, the demure woman had but a brief moment of a soft smile and a delicate swoon before she regained herself and returned to proper marching order.
By the time she'd regained her thoughts, she found herself in the midst of a scattering and scrambling crowd of soldiers attempting to escape into the city before the Legate could-
Ah, yes. There we are, she thought to herself. The order to Stand. That was something Frelayne did exceptionally well; standing at attention. The way she stood very much so made her seem as if she was someone used to being in someone's attention. A natural charisma flowing through features and body language even as turmoil of scattering comrades faded around her. In a strange way, bereft of magic, Frelayne was like a bastion of properness in this chaos- it certainly helped that she was taller than most others around her. The Legate's begrudging permission, brought about in her eyes at realizing he was too late to stop the exodus, gave him a rugged sort of authority to Frelayne's eyes. Crack the whip, but let the horses guide themselves. She could see the merits to the style. Nobody wanted a daft horse after all, and this would be a simple way to weed out the chaff before the seriousness of their circumstances could force the subject in a critical manner.
Frelayne's height was not the only bastion of purpose in the chaos, however; soon Dallio made an effort to address the squad directly, and the woman once more stopped to appraise the company she was in in her own quiet way. She was by no means a rude or unsociable person, but there seemed to be distinct quirks in how she spoke and dealt with others for sure- things she'd claimed came as part of upbringing in the higher echelons of Glenumbra Society as a Hairdresser. She even offered to give people haircuts, though so far none had taken her up on the gambit. The first to speak up was the Dunmer- she could not recall his name immediately, he was a quiet one who she felt was paying more attention to everyone else than they were to him- and, indeed, his question was a most prudent one!
But her attention was swiftly stolen from the Dunmer. Sejanus earned a fleeting glare from the woman- crass language was second only to unnecessary mess in her wrath, and outright rudeness was a swift way to get on her bad side. Choices flowed through her mind, and just as she resolved herself to let it pass for now and to remember this situation for the future Sergeant Dallio's demeanor portrayed much of the same. And then there was Injald.
Once more that bold smile, her features shifting unbidden to something a little softer in the face of such high station and authority. The training kicked in, her posture shifting as she struck a powerful salute. Her eyes flickered to follow his indicating hand- if that giant slab of a thing could be likened to what the rest of us mere mortals have called hands, she thought to herself- and she folded her arms behind her back. Edward Gonard and Tylmaesa. Interesting. Part of her wanted to step forth and demand inclusion in whatever special attention they were receiving- but the practical part of her mind managed to wrangle that in and put it back to sleep. Gonard was a good sort, Breton stock, and proper upbringing. He'd represent the squad well enough- and Tylmaesa was almost a mythological creature to Frelayne. Every so often she had to make sure that the towering auxiliary wasn't a dream she'd concocted. She relaxed as the Legate made his exit.
But finally the chaos was calming, and she offered Dallio a sympathetic smile as her features returned to normal. It could be hard maintaining your own authority when your superior was so stifling, hard to read, and seemingly valued haste and results over the direct chain of command. In an effort to maintain the required respect and hierarchy of the squad, Frelayne offered a partial, but respectful, bow to Dallio as she stepped forward.
"This is most kind of you, Sergeant. It is a debt then, to be repaid when next we receive our wage as well as with duty upon the march." Her words flowed with an elegance as she shifted the staff in her hands, an idle twirling of the object accompanying her flowery language. "I certainly know whose name I will be toasting tonight, and to whom the blame for my hangover will go come the morn."
She laughed. It was a strong laugh, but also faintly musical.
Oh yes, on this venture she would need all her wits and training at hand. It would not do to make such a poor impression after the incident in Training*. To her credit, when Frelayne stepped upon the boat it was in a gallant stride and with a straight back, a stiff brow, and a damn fine impression of someone whom she imagined to be grizzled. Or, perhaps, seasoned. In short, she looked far too serious and far too clean. Luckily for everyone else, there would be little time for her strange antics upon the trip.
Most of it she'd spend leaning over the side of the vessel retching up whatever meager meals she could manage to stomach, or staggering about the surface of the ship in an effort to continue her duties. If it weren't for the occasional burn of Magicka for telekinetic assistance and her unwavering sense of pride to accomplish her tasks she'd have been a downright detrimental travel companion for the squad on this stretch of the journey. Her days spent shivering and sick. Her nights spent frantically cleaning and scrubbing at her robes as she could find the time. Her meals quiet, trembling hands guiding morsels to forcefully parted teeth. The only solace she had on this trip was the brief glimpses she managed of the statues along the Karth River.
By then she'd began to steady her footing and had finally learned that, yes, it was going to be this cold in Skyrim. And yes, it did indeed get colder.
Ysgramor- Talos- Gormlaith- The Dovahkiin! It was enough to fill anyone with a patriotic fervor. So much so that Frelayne seemingly forgot she was supposed to be seasick and, perhaps, she even managed to walk along the deck without swaying for a time. It was a frequent relayed order to Frelayne to stop 'gawking' and to pay attention, there were scouts afoot. After a mere moment of incensed and quiet, withering, anger Frelayne's inferno of patriotic pride was cooled and the training she'd been instilled with was reasserted as the dominant force in her mind. Soon she was recaptured by incessant illness- but at least she was alert and watching the far shores. Something she could do well; gazing at the stillness of the shores seemed to calm her somewhat, and the rest of the trip was spent under the austere and watchful eye of a now stationary Frelayne.
It wasn't until the boats docked that people began to remember why Frelayne was even along. One of the few members of the legion with a presentable uniform after a long journey at sea-river-ice flow-Hell, she made quite the striking figure. Thick hair brushed well and bundled into a tight, serious bun; uniform somehow clean and unsoiled by wrinkles or sogginess, the white and black standing out in a very contrasting manner on her preciously maintained attire as opposed to the fading or mixing greys of the rest of the legion; staff in hand, reminding all that she, in fact, is a mage.
And a damn good one at that, she liked to think. Modestly, of course.
She exerted herself mildly to make short order of her squad's debarkation process- an affair rendered easy by the burning scent of Magicka emanating off the woman and accompanied by the sight of telekinetically maneuvered crates- so that they could free themselves of work and enjoy a little more free time before the marching began. Now that was something Frelayne was good at; marching. Equal parts transport and parade, the tall woman's features and personage appeared at times as if it was bred for a sort of marching. Just not military marching. She could keep pace easy enough- the training had seen to that, after all- but it was clear from her shifting expressions that every muddy step or imprecise splatter from a nearby comrade was steadily working up her frustrations.
Seeing the Legate assuaged the rising temper of the woman; high ranking authority was something that always had this effect on her. Privately a need to compete, to posture and position and challenge, always arose; openly, a deference, reverence, a catering whimsy and delicate personage always rose to the top. She had no interest in challenging the Legate, no interest in testing his mettle or sampling his personality, but those inclinations were always there. The noble-bred and tutor-instilled need to maneuver and court and intrigue.
They'd almost been buried over the years. The hard days of travel on the road, the dangers afoot, the required violence at times, the sweat and callouses accrued- all of it had formed a hard shell over the noble upbringing and mixed with it to form the modern woman of Frelayne... However there were times and places that the shell broke and she couldn't help but hint at the higher station she came from. Seeing the Legate, regally portrayed in the splendor of Ysgramor, was one such moment. If she'd had a harp, she'd positively have strummed it. Perhaps even peeled a few grapes. Thankfully, with neither at hand, the demure woman had but a brief moment of a soft smile and a delicate swoon before she regained herself and returned to proper marching order.
By the time she'd regained her thoughts, she found herself in the midst of a scattering and scrambling crowd of soldiers attempting to escape into the city before the Legate could-
Ah, yes. There we are, she thought to herself. The order to Stand. That was something Frelayne did exceptionally well; standing at attention. The way she stood very much so made her seem as if she was someone used to being in someone's attention. A natural charisma flowing through features and body language even as turmoil of scattering comrades faded around her. In a strange way, bereft of magic, Frelayne was like a bastion of properness in this chaos- it certainly helped that she was taller than most others around her. The Legate's begrudging permission, brought about in her eyes at realizing he was too late to stop the exodus, gave him a rugged sort of authority to Frelayne's eyes. Crack the whip, but let the horses guide themselves. She could see the merits to the style. Nobody wanted a daft horse after all, and this would be a simple way to weed out the chaff before the seriousness of their circumstances could force the subject in a critical manner.
Frelayne's height was not the only bastion of purpose in the chaos, however; soon Dallio made an effort to address the squad directly, and the woman once more stopped to appraise the company she was in in her own quiet way. She was by no means a rude or unsociable person, but there seemed to be distinct quirks in how she spoke and dealt with others for sure- things she'd claimed came as part of upbringing in the higher echelons of Glenumbra Society as a Hairdresser. She even offered to give people haircuts, though so far none had taken her up on the gambit. The first to speak up was the Dunmer- she could not recall his name immediately, he was a quiet one who she felt was paying more attention to everyone else than they were to him- and, indeed, his question was a most prudent one!
But her attention was swiftly stolen from the Dunmer. Sejanus earned a fleeting glare from the woman- crass language was second only to unnecessary mess in her wrath, and outright rudeness was a swift way to get on her bad side. Choices flowed through her mind, and just as she resolved herself to let it pass for now and to remember this situation for the future Sergeant Dallio's demeanor portrayed much of the same. And then there was Injald.
Once more that bold smile, her features shifting unbidden to something a little softer in the face of such high station and authority. The training kicked in, her posture shifting as she struck a powerful salute. Her eyes flickered to follow his indicating hand- if that giant slab of a thing could be likened to what the rest of us mere mortals have called hands, she thought to herself- and she folded her arms behind her back. Edward Gonard and Tylmaesa. Interesting. Part of her wanted to step forth and demand inclusion in whatever special attention they were receiving- but the practical part of her mind managed to wrangle that in and put it back to sleep. Gonard was a good sort, Breton stock, and proper upbringing. He'd represent the squad well enough- and Tylmaesa was almost a mythological creature to Frelayne. Every so often she had to make sure that the towering auxiliary wasn't a dream she'd concocted. She relaxed as the Legate made his exit.
But finally the chaos was calming, and she offered Dallio a sympathetic smile as her features returned to normal. It could be hard maintaining your own authority when your superior was so stifling, hard to read, and seemingly valued haste and results over the direct chain of command. In an effort to maintain the required respect and hierarchy of the squad, Frelayne offered a partial, but respectful, bow to Dallio as she stepped forward.
"This is most kind of you, Sergeant. It is a debt then, to be repaid when next we receive our wage as well as with duty upon the march." Her words flowed with an elegance as she shifted the staff in her hands, an idle twirling of the object accompanying her flowery language. "I certainly know whose name I will be toasting tonight, and to whom the blame for my hangover will go come the morn."
She laughed. It was a strong laugh, but also faintly musical.
