Despite his hard-set, hatchet and difficult-to-read appearance, she noticed the solemness and gloom plaguing his long-strides and the deflated, weighed look of his shoulders. The Breton scolds herself for being foolish but is it possibly her stalker-now-captor feels guilt over raping her. After all he had helped her by fetching a health potion, cleaning her up then guided her into her bedroll putting a sizeable gap of space between them with his back turned.
Even if he does care about her well-being, it was made crystal clear to the scholar that he was not planning on letting her go.
The Dunmer still kept her wrists bound by some sort of unfamiliar leather that shocks her every time when attempting to summon her magick. Even on their brisk, 2 mile trek from Vahlok's Tomb to this forgotten cabin he looped a thin but sturdy piece over her restraints; gods, she felt like a pet being leashed by her new "owner".
A deep grunt draws her attention to the Mer sitting next to her. His burning eyes peered under the slope of his broad brow, his thin lips pressed in a tight line of uncertainty than anger. He straightens up his sloughing posture, coughing a little for measure in preparing what he was going to say to her.
Marelle sat alert. Waiting anxiously for him to speak.
He curls a chitin-leather hand into a fist, drawing it to his left breast plate then rapped against his chest as he inhales breath for what he has to say.
"Zairan..." The Dunmer states to the anticipating Breton. She was taken back by surprise. He told her his name. After a few moments has past, he uncurls his fist gesturing to her to speak.
Oh. He wants her name.
"... Marelle..." The scholar said after great hesitation, reluctant in giving the Dunmer her name but knowing the foreseeable results if she did not do so.
"Marelle..." The Dunmer named Zairan repeated her name, tested the sound and feel of it on his tongue. The husky quality of his deep voice, choked by ash, resonated in the Breton's ears. It was as if his voice was imprinting itself to her library of memories, to lie in wait for any chance given to dominate her thoughts and dreams. The Breton suppresses the unusual shiver caused by the Mer's exotic, smoky baritone.
He looks away in thought, planning on what to say to her next. She already sussed out that he knew little of the Common language.
Where in Oblivion is he from? Clearly from some small community of Dunmer who strictly spoke in their own tongue. He must not be a Reaver; he would've raped her then cut her throat before he stole her belongings. The only Dunmer populace Marelle is aware of on this Isle is Raven Rock. The design of his chitin armour was different from the standard type; it has the Dunmeri swirls and spools painted blood red on the beige and ochre plates of the armour.
"You listen good." He states to her, breaking the Breton away from her collection of thoughts. "I take you home... My home... You are n'wah," He places a firm hold of his daunting on her shoulder, strengthening the impact of his explanation of her dire situation; his hand seared a brand into her flesh, her layer of furs and robes useless as comprehension sinks it's teeth in. "My slave..."
It hit the Breton like an ice spear, piercing her back as the ice seeps into her flesh. Her body frozen in place as she is made vulnerable to the predator claws of fear clamping down, dragging her away into a prison filled with taunting nightmares and poisonous, backstabbing emotions with a vile intent on wearing down her strong will into nothing.
No...
She stared at the Dunmer. Her master. Terror drains the colour from her face. Zairan, this Dunmer who stalked, raped and captured her, is an Ashlander.
The Dunmer heaves a sigh at her dismayed expression before continuing.
"You follow and serve only me. You do as told by me. You behave well, life easy for you. If bad, punishment. Worse punishment if you run away." He finishes, grasping both of her shoulders. His fierce gaze bores deep in her eyes, waiting for her to confirm her understanding.
With a single nod of her head, she whispers a silent and defeated "yes".
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timeasmymeasure
The Ashlander and his Enslaved Scholar (1i/??)
Date: 2014-04-22 09:36 pm (UTC)Even if he does care about her well-being, it was made crystal clear to the scholar that he was not planning on letting her go.
The Dunmer still kept her wrists bound by some sort of unfamiliar leather that shocks her every time when attempting to summon her magick. Even on their brisk, 2 mile trek from Vahlok's Tomb to this forgotten cabin he looped a thin but sturdy piece over her restraints; gods, she felt like a pet being leashed by her new "owner".
A deep grunt draws her attention to the Mer sitting next to her. His burning eyes peered under the slope of his broad brow, his thin lips pressed in a tight line of uncertainty than anger. He straightens up his sloughing posture, coughing a little for measure in preparing what he was going to say to her.
Marelle sat alert. Waiting anxiously for him to speak.
He curls a chitin-leather hand into a fist, drawing it to his left breast plate then rapped against his chest as he inhales breath for what he has to say.
"Zairan..." The Dunmer states to the anticipating Breton. She was taken back by surprise. He told her his name. After a few moments has past, he uncurls his fist gesturing to her to speak.
Oh. He wants her name.
"... Marelle..." The scholar said after great hesitation, reluctant in giving the Dunmer her name but knowing the foreseeable results if she did not do so.
"Marelle..." The Dunmer named Zairan repeated her name, tested the sound and feel of it on his tongue. The husky quality of his deep voice, choked by ash, resonated in the Breton's ears. It was as if his voice was imprinting itself to her library of memories, to lie in wait for any chance given to dominate her thoughts and dreams. The Breton suppresses the unusual shiver caused by the Mer's exotic, smoky baritone.
He looks away in thought, planning on what to say to her next. She already sussed out that he knew little of the Common language.
Where in Oblivion is he from? Clearly from some small community of Dunmer who strictly spoke in their own tongue. He must not be a Reaver; he would've raped her then cut her throat before he stole her belongings. The only Dunmer populace Marelle is aware of on this Isle is Raven Rock. The design of his chitin armour was different from the standard type; it has the Dunmeri swirls and spools painted blood red on the beige and ochre plates of the armour.
"You listen good." He states to her, breaking the Breton away from her collection of thoughts. "I take you home... My home... You are n'wah," He places a firm hold of his daunting on her shoulder, strengthening the impact of his explanation of her dire situation; his hand seared a brand into her flesh, her layer of furs and robes useless as comprehension sinks it's teeth in. "My slave..."
It hit the Breton like an ice spear, piercing her back as the ice seeps into her flesh. Her body frozen in place as she is made vulnerable to the predator claws of fear clamping down, dragging her away into a prison filled with taunting nightmares and poisonous, backstabbing emotions with a vile intent on wearing down her strong will into nothing.
No...
She stared at the Dunmer. Her master. Terror drains the colour from her face. Zairan, this Dunmer who stalked, raped and captured her, is an Ashlander.
The Dunmer heaves a sigh at her dismayed expression before continuing.
"You follow and serve only me. You do as told by me. You behave well, life easy for you. If bad, punishment. Worse punishment if you run away." He finishes, grasping both of her shoulders. His fierce gaze bores deep in her eyes, waiting for her to confirm her understanding.
With a single nod of her head, she whispers a silent and defeated "yes".
~~~~~
Almost finished!