Once she got to one of the gates, Asta pulled out an apple; That got Rusher's attention immediately, the gelding trotting to close the distance before breaking down to a walk and finally stopping by her, immediately lipping at the apple. Having not had the foresight to cut it to slices previously, Asta had to wrangle half of the apple out of his mouth before he tried to swallow it whole and choke himself to death.
Opening the gate, Asta didn't bother with putting a halter on him. Instead, she laced her fingers in his mane, right on his pole and directly behind his ears. Despite the fact the massive monster of a horse could pop her shoulder right out of its' socket if he wanted, the horse followed her lead as gently as a puppy on a leash. Walking him towards the empty stalls, Asta parked him in front of a feed bin that had a pile of hay next to it- he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. Gathering up everything she needed, Asta went through the usual routine when prepping Rusher for a long trip; nice, thorough brushing, clean his hooves, give them a good check to make sure they didn't need to be trimmed, brush him again, put the pad and saddle on, all while the black boy munched happily on his breakfast. Checking everything once more, Asta bridled him and walked back to the main road before mounting him, heading off towards Solitude.
The trip was actually fairly uneventful. Asta stayed on the main roads rather than trail blazing as she normally did, which immediately cut down on the odds of running into predators. While there were always exceptions, they simply didn't hang around where there was a strong chance of people being present. What problems she did encounter were quickly handled with a stealthy arrow followed by a blast of fire.
She was competent enough with long range, but over the course of her travels, the woman had developed a deep seated love for close range- specifically her battleaxe. It was like Extreme Polo, swinging the thing from atop Rusher's back (though of course, the gelding did not approve in the slightest).
It was early evening when she finally arrived at Windhelm. The stablemaster, an Altmer, had been a nice fellow, taking her sweat slickened horse to get a well earned, thorough cleaning from the tips of his ears to the bottom of his hooves. Asta would be lying if she said she wasn't surprised to see the Altmer tending horses, happy as a clam. Ulfric was not known for his open minded tolerance of the elven races.
The guards were a bit more whiney than the ones in Whiterun but let her in without much fuss.
If she was being honest, Asta was... well, a little underwhelmed. The city looked to be in disrepair, for lack of a better term. But then, not every town could be Whiterun.
“You come here where yer not wanted. You eat our food, pollute our city with yer stink, and you refuse to help the Stormcloaks!”
Eyebrows furrowing together, her attention was immediately locked onto two Nord men who seemed to be trying to corner a Dunmer woman.
“We haven't taken a side because it's not our fight.”
Asta turned her entire body towards the trio, watching very carefully. None of them seemed to notice her in the slightest, but she was very aware of the Dunmer trying to inch away.
“Hey, maybe the reason these grey skins don't 'elp with the war is because they're Imperial spies!”
What on Nirn did she just walk into. Granted, she had been witness to stranger scenes than this, but this man was practically doing everything he could to justify lynching this woman- there was no way a rumor of an Imperial spy would be taken lightly in the capital of the Stormcloak rebellion.
“Imperial spies?! You can't be serious!” Her voice was as incredulous as Asta felt.
“Maybe we'll pay you a visit tonight, little spy; we got ways o' findin' out what you really are.”
That was enough. She'd be damned to Oblivion before she allowed this go on.
“Is there a problem here?” As she spoke, Asta subconsciously drew herself up, head held high, shoulders back and holding eye contact, daring him to run his mouth.
Of Gods and Monsters [4a/??]
Opening the gate, Asta didn't bother with putting a halter on him. Instead, she laced her fingers in his mane, right on his pole and directly behind his ears. Despite the fact the massive monster of a horse could pop her shoulder right out of its' socket if he wanted, the horse followed her lead as gently as a puppy on a leash. Walking him towards the empty stalls, Asta parked him in front of a feed bin that had a pile of hay next to it- he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. Gathering up everything she needed, Asta went through the usual routine when prepping Rusher for a long trip; nice, thorough brushing, clean his hooves, give them a good check to make sure they didn't need to be trimmed, brush him again, put the pad and saddle on, all while the black boy munched happily on his breakfast. Checking everything once more, Asta bridled him and walked back to the main road before mounting him, heading off towards Solitude.
The trip was actually fairly uneventful. Asta stayed on the main roads rather than trail blazing as she normally did, which immediately cut down on the odds of running into predators. While there were always exceptions, they simply didn't hang around where there was a strong chance of people being present. What problems she did encounter were quickly handled with a stealthy arrow followed by a blast of fire.
She was competent enough with long range, but over the course of her travels, the woman had developed a deep seated love for close range- specifically her battleaxe. It was like Extreme Polo, swinging the thing from atop Rusher's back (though of course, the gelding did not approve in the slightest).
It was early evening when she finally arrived at Windhelm. The stablemaster, an Altmer, had been a nice fellow, taking her sweat slickened horse to get a well earned, thorough cleaning from the tips of his ears to the bottom of his hooves. Asta would be lying if she said she wasn't surprised to see the Altmer tending horses, happy as a clam. Ulfric was not known for his open minded tolerance of the elven races.
The guards were a bit more whiney than the ones in Whiterun but let her in without much fuss.
If she was being honest, Asta was... well, a little underwhelmed. The city looked to be in disrepair, for lack of a better term. But then, not every town could be Whiterun.
“You come here where yer not wanted. You eat our food, pollute our city with yer stink, and you refuse to help the Stormcloaks!”
Eyebrows furrowing together, her attention was immediately locked onto two Nord men who seemed to be trying to corner a Dunmer woman.
“We haven't taken a side because it's not our fight.”
Asta turned her entire body towards the trio, watching very carefully. None of them seemed to notice her in the slightest, but she was very aware of the Dunmer trying to inch away.
“Hey, maybe the reason these grey skins don't 'elp with the war is because they're Imperial spies!”
What on Nirn did she just walk into. Granted, she had been witness to stranger scenes than this, but this man was practically doing everything he could to justify lynching this woman- there was no way a rumor of an Imperial spy would be taken lightly in the capital of the Stormcloak rebellion.
“Imperial spies?! You can't be serious!” Her voice was as incredulous as Asta felt.
“Maybe we'll pay you a visit tonight, little spy; we got ways o' findin' out what you really are.”
That was enough. She'd be damned to Oblivion before she allowed this go on.
“Is there a problem here?” As she spoke, Asta subconsciously drew herself up, head held high, shoulders back and holding eye contact, daring him to run his mouth.