A bottle was offered, then two, and Urzoth took the one from Francis’ side, swishing the wine for a moment. She mulled over Falkreath and Zaveed before taking a few reserved sips, thinking of where they came from and where they would go. The sweet-smelling liquid went down like a snake through the mud, hardly feeling any kind of burn, as she should. She pushed the bottle into Cub’s hands and made her way to her log, plopping down and hunching over her pack to pull out her more preferred mead. The way her uncle brewed, he would spit in her face for drinking something so watery. But he was dead. She drank half the bottle in a great big gulp. Different people spoke of different things, and for the most part their words blurred together into its typical drone. The little Breton woman, Elayna, ladled herself some soup, and Urzoth watched her hands glow gently to cool it. How convenient magic must be! She almost wished she could cast a spell or two, in that moment, if only to blast Blade square in the chest with a well-placed fireball. Marassa was speaking, and she listened in just enough to pick out the gist of her angry words. It radiated into Urzoth, and she felt the impatience well up, like an old, trusted friend.
Blade. What a fool. As soon as he hissed and grumbled and threw Marassa’s earned respect back into her face, Urzoth rose up, glared at his back as it turned. She could hear drums, not so distant, not quite so terrifying. The pace quickened. Her foot stamped lightly along with the beat and she growled.
“You claim to be too humble to want a statue, and yet every word from your mouth marks you as a pretentious, selfish little girl who only gives back as little as is necessary to get what you want.” Urzoth’s heartrate jumped up. To insult her comrade, her friend! If Marassa didn’t have half the mind to gut this damned lizard Urzoth would do so with her fists. “Too good to even give respect to those that have lent their blades to your defense. Those simpletons have more courage and honor than you could even begin to comprehend." Her shoulders, arms, and legs quivered, the nerves standing on end, goosebumps prickling up beneath her armor like hackles raising. Her blood boiled. She blinked and saw the outline of the Dragonborn, a god in the body of a man. The crackling of the fire and the pounding of the rain became roaring, screaming, Shouting. The firepit jumped up into her memories as a blazing rocket, Yol Toor Shul. She would be dead if Marassa hadn’t bashed into her at the last moment, as the flame shot forth to nearly engulf them both. She owed Marassa her life, and so she owed Marassa a defense. "You may slight my deeds, my honor, my abilities, I don't care. But I warn you now cat, if I hear you sully the memory of those who have fallen or their allies again, I will rip that poisonous tongue from your pompous mouth." A threat. Empty or not, her chance.
"I have no objections with going to Falkreath, but if you choose to put your faith in Miss Perfect, don't be surprised to find a dagger in your back when you needed her; because she left your side to find the one she cares about." She felt like a collared dog. How could anyone let him go on this long? He was preparing to storm off. Not on her watch. "I find it hard to believe that you and Zaveed are related in any way." The final nail in Blade’s coffin. She realized she still gripped the bottle of mead by its neck, and she squeezed it so tightly the glass cracked and mead poured down into the dirt. She discarded it, abandoned her companions and followed him into the rain, the drums hot at her back.
In Morshum, he would be fought until he learned to shut up and respect the chief. Was Marassa even the chief? Or was his disrespect of her in turn disrespecting Zaveed? He was their chief, and every one of the Heroes knew it. Did Urzoth even care for any kind of fairness or honor now, or did she only want to take this lizard and pummel him and let him strike her until they were both bleeding and bruised and felt a little better? The rain washed away what was left of her warpaint. She could reapply it in the morning. Through the haze of fog and water, Blade’s outline cut a powerful figure. She stomped down the slope until she was several paces behind him, her arms pulsing with a desperate need to fight, like how she did years ago. “BLADE! You spit upon her and you spit upon me!” At the very least, she would strike him once. If he fought back, she would gladly accept the challenge. She narrowed the space between them, grabbed his scaled shoulder to spin him around, and bunched back her right arm to punch him across the face. A terrible area of the body to begin at, but she needed the satisfaction. At least she didn't have her spiked knuckles attached.
ChronicleMan
