She cried until her fingers froze, her heart and body becoming heavy as the snow storm rolled in. She had to go find a place for the night but out near the glaciers, the chances of finding shelter were thin. She contemplated just throwing herself into the Sea of Ghosts, to freeze with the ice flows but she knew that was stupid. Her emotions were making her irrational. She packed up her things, shaking as she walked and she sought refuge from the storm. A small cave provided some coverage and she pulled out her bedroll, sliding into it fully clothed, shaking under the furs.
She didn’t sleep during the night, her mind too weary of heartache and the air too cold to let her be comfortable. She got up at dawn, struggling to roll her bed up and she staggered out to catch sight of the morning. The sky was lit with orange, purple, and pink and she stopped, in awe of the colors.
She had to move on. No. She had to move forward. He had and she had to as well.
--
It came out of nowhere and she was taken off guard. That’s how it slashed her face, her chest being caught as well and she shrieked, tumbling back. Blood spilled from the wounds, the sabre cat not relenting and she called upon every spell she knew, fire consuming the beast as it made another turn, its body crumpling and falling into a heap before her. She shook, adrenaline filling her and she realized how badly she was bleeding when blood started filling her mouth and staining the front of her robes.
She grabbed her pack, her bloody hands frantic as she searched for a potion but she couldn’t find any making her panic. She struggled to call on a healing spell, her mind in over drive as she did and the soothing healing winds only closed the wounds. They didn’t seal them properly and she was left with ugly scars on her face and chest.
She sat on the plains, quiet, constantly touching where her skin now dipped, the scratch so close to her eye she was surprised she wasn’t blind.
She found a potion and drank but the scars remained and she sat in shock. She realized she had to accept it; her fault, her complacence did this. She wondered if her Jarl would react if he saw her. Would he rush to her side or care? Her fingers stroked the marks on her chest and she bit her lip.
It didn’t matter. She was already homely enough. Maybe, if she was lucky, the scars would enhance her features. Make her look more rugged or menacing.
She got a look of fright when she met a traveller on the road and it made her pull her hood around her face, self-conscious. She didn’t consider that option.
--
Silverdrift Lair. She had been drawn to it by rumors in the city, tales of a great weapon being hid there, one that would no doubt stuff the Falkreath coffers and she set out in the night to retrieve it before anyone else, her spirits high until she came across it.
It was her first real tomb, one filled with dragur and freshly slaughtered men which fuelled her fear. She didn’t understand Nordic puzzles but she was grateful for the nooks the tomb had. She used them immediately to stay hidden while the dead ran looking for her, their sinewy skin pulled tight as they made foreign noises, mocking her she assumed. She was a frightened Altmer in an enclosed tomb made for the Nords. Of course she was worth insulting, even to the dead.
But she pushed on, her shaking hands and knees not deterring her thirst to gain something for the treasury and along the way, she began to learn. Fire seemed to bring them down the best and certain things on the ground should not be stepped on otherwise a trap would be unleashed. She learned from the markings by watching the dragur accidentally step on them in their mad dash to get her, their mistake costing them their ability to still be alive and she thanked the gods for it.
The Hardest Part [11/?]
She didn’t sleep during the night, her mind too weary of heartache and the air too cold to let her be comfortable. She got up at dawn, struggling to roll her bed up and she staggered out to catch sight of the morning. The sky was lit with orange, purple, and pink and she stopped, in awe of the colors.
She had to move on. No. She had to move forward. He had and she had to as well.
--
It came out of nowhere and she was taken off guard. That’s how it slashed her face, her chest being caught as well and she shrieked, tumbling back. Blood spilled from the wounds, the sabre cat not relenting and she called upon every spell she knew, fire consuming the beast as it made another turn, its body crumpling and falling into a heap before her. She shook, adrenaline filling her and she realized how badly she was bleeding when blood started filling her mouth and staining the front of her robes.
She grabbed her pack, her bloody hands frantic as she searched for a potion but she couldn’t find any making her panic. She struggled to call on a healing spell, her mind in over drive as she did and the soothing healing winds only closed the wounds. They didn’t seal them properly and she was left with ugly scars on her face and chest.
She sat on the plains, quiet, constantly touching where her skin now dipped, the scratch so close to her eye she was surprised she wasn’t blind.
She found a potion and drank but the scars remained and she sat in shock. She realized she had to accept it; her fault, her complacence did this. She wondered if her Jarl would react if he saw her. Would he rush to her side or care? Her fingers stroked the marks on her chest and she bit her lip.
It didn’t matter. She was already homely enough. Maybe, if she was lucky, the scars would enhance her features. Make her look more rugged or menacing.
She got a look of fright when she met a traveller on the road and it made her pull her hood around her face, self-conscious. She didn’t consider that option.
--
Silverdrift Lair. She had been drawn to it by rumors in the city, tales of a great weapon being hid there, one that would no doubt stuff the Falkreath coffers and she set out in the night to retrieve it before anyone else, her spirits high until she came across it.
It was her first real tomb, one filled with dragur and freshly slaughtered men which fuelled her fear. She didn’t understand Nordic puzzles but she was grateful for the nooks the tomb had. She used them immediately to stay hidden while the dead ran looking for her, their sinewy skin pulled tight as they made foreign noises, mocking her she assumed. She was a frightened Altmer in an enclosed tomb made for the Nords. Of course she was worth insulting, even to the dead.
But she pushed on, her shaking hands and knees not deterring her thirst to gain something for the treasury and along the way, she began to learn. Fire seemed to bring them down the best and certain things on the ground should not be stepped on otherwise a trap would be unleashed. She learned from the markings by watching the dragur accidentally step on them in their mad dash to get her, their mistake costing them their ability to still be alive and she thanked the gods for it.