#Erolian steppe nomads are notoriously elusive

[smol-feralgremlin]

FebruarOC Day 21: Ulric

Ulric glanced up from sharpening his sword to once again eye the woman sitting across from him. Ves, her name was Ves. He’d tried to call her by the name on the contract that his sister had tossed at him seconds after pushing Ves into his arms. Ves apparently didn’t like her whole name being used, and refused to give him a family name of any sort. Right now she was messing with one of her new skirts, or multiple of them really. If her appearance hadn’t given her Erolian heritage away, it would’ve been the fact she was ripping into seams and such to create the flounced tiered skirts that the nomadic women of Erolia. Earlier she’d mended his clothing, something he hadn’t asked of her and hadn’t ever asked of her.

“Do whatever you want with her,” Isme had said while tossing the papers for Ves’s sale to him. Anything that didn’t involve trying to get rid of Ves. Not that Ulric had any intention of doing that. He knew exactly why Isme had done what she did, and she could dress it up as Ves being a birthday present for him all she wanted. Ulric knew better. Isme wanted to use Ves to hurt him. How? He didn’t know. But Isme had done far too much to make him suspicious.

And he was suspicious of Ves. 

Or he was trying to be anyway. It was hard. She didn’t come off as dangerous or even a little harmful. A plump Erolian who used a staff to help her bad leg and the limp that went with it and that spent her days hanging herbs in her little set of rooms off of his own while also doing small chores around his rooms. Lavender sachets hung around his bed, their scent easing his sleep, and he’d started finding tiny stitched flowers on the hems of his shirts, small symbols made of twisted grass and sticks hanging over doorways and windows, coloured candles with dried herbs embedded in the wax, and she really seemed to hate the idea of windows being covered or closed on days she declared as nice. She didn’t even speak all that often.

Ulric was more baffled than he was suspicious and deep down the constant pit of unease had been surging with all the might of its bilious nature.

Even with her limp, Ves could move quickly. Ulric found himself taken off guard by how she was sewing one moment and gone in the next, leaving her staff abandoned where it leaned against a sack of sand. Shaking it off he was on his feet just as quickly and grabbing her staff to set off after her. Where the fuck did she think she was going like that?

Ves limped determinedly down the hall, her hands fisted into her skirts to keep them clear of her feet. Ulric caught up to her easily, used to the pace of forced marches and loping scouting runs. Catching up to Ves wasn’t a difficult task even if she did move quickly with an odd hopping run.

“Where are you going?”

“Your room is done being cleaned.”

“You can’t possibly know that.”

She didn’t have far to look up in order to run him through with a poisonous glare. “I can and I do.”

Well now he had to humour her, more out of curiosity than anything. She refused her staff, still moving the same as before with the same level of determination. Her thick dark braid swung in tandem with her steps. Green and grey ribbons wove together throughout the braid to tie at the end with tiny disks of copper that clinked with the movement. Once he’d gotten a look at them to find tiny symbols etched onto them. There had to be some meaning to what she did and the symbols she used. Now with her odd behaviour he was going to have to find out.

Sure enough the door was closed and had the hanging of blue strips of fabric to denote the room had been cleaned hanging from the side of the door. Ves dropped her skirts and when Ulric reached for the knob, she knocked his hand out of the way.

“I could have you disciplined for that,” he informed her, “nobody usually gets away with hitting a prince.”

“Stay behind me and don’t touch anything.”

He blinked at her and stepped back. He had to see where this all led. His now more than familiar and comfortable friend suspicion rose up to wrap its tendrils around him like a good wool cloak. 

The moment Ves stepped foot in the room she was all business. Her footing was as careful and precise as a watchful deer as she circled each and every room, her fingers of one hand outstretched as she talked to herself, her other hand deep in the pouch she wore tied around her waist to rest on hip. Ulric stood in the centre of each room, observing her. Limp aside, she was graceful and purposeful in her hunt for…something. The same kind of focus reserved for her sewing or knitting rested in her darting eyes in an otherwise solemn face. Suspicious and curious, he followed her as she touched the hanging symbols before moving on to the next room. 

Entering his bedchamber, she blocked his way while drawing down the veil she’d been using to keep more of her hair back down so she could cover her nose and mouth with it. “Stay out. Please.”

“What’s going on?”

His demand was met with the door being closed in his face. His own blasted door! It was recalling the plea in Ves’s voice that stopped him from slamming his fist into the door. Instead he paced a square in front of the door, trying to listen for whatever Ves could be doing in there. Sharp stabs of caution mixed with suspicion turned him into a pincushion of growing worry.

The door opened and Ves came out with something wrapped in the yellow veil. She met his eyes and she grimaced while holding up the wrapped item. “Did you know your sister is trying to kill you?”

Ulric did actually know. “Who and what are you?”

For the first time since she’d been shoved into his arms, Ves smiled. “I'm a herbalist by trade.” Her smile turned sly. “I believe that here in Creshova, I’d be referred to as a witch.”