#S'vashni

[quicksilverdrabbles]

Taliesin: I must say, you've a very good nose for finding injured people, Inigo.

Inigo: Thank you. They are just up this hill.

Kaidan: Peak's Shade?

Lucien: Oh dear, I hope S'vashni hasn't killed anybody again..

Xelzaz: No, this one is still alive.

Inigo: There they are!

Gore: *sitting on the ground with his leg caught in a bear trap*

Lucien: Oh gosh. I suppose asking if you're okay wouldn't be very helpful here.

Gore: N-Not really- *sees Morana standing near the front of the group* Uh.

Morana: *sighs, shaking her head. She pulls out her notebook and begins writing in it, showing the finished phrase to Gore* Hello, my name is Morana. No I am not here to kill you or lead you to your death. *she tilts her head, considering, before turning the notebook back towards her and adding more* Or enslave you.

Gore: You- What? I mean, the killing or leading me to my death I would have believed, but where did enslavement come from?

Morana: *points at Yaksha* That one.

Yaksha: Haha. She saved me from a slaver.

Gore: That.. makes more sense. But, if you're not here to kill me, then... *he stares at the group, confused. His gaze finds Taliesin, and his expression falls into a glare* You're here to imprison me. You're with the Thalmor.

Taliesin: What.

Morana: *waving her hands frantically* No, we're not. *turns to Taliesin* I told you to stop wearing those robes!

Taliesin: Well I don't have anything else to wear!

Morana: I just bought you new Vagrant robes!

Taliesin: When???

Morana: Like a week ago! I told you about them!

Gore: What is happening.

Lucien: Ah, Morana can't speak very well, so she uses sign language. Me, Taliesin and Yaksha can understand her, and the others are learning.

Kaidan: *speaking over Taliesin's arguing* Anyways, Taliesin won't imprison you or anything. If he were still a Thalmor Justiciar he wouldn't be alive right now. I'd have made sure of it.

Inigo: Yes, do not worry.

Gore: ... Right. I suppose I'll believe it for now.. Um. *he winces* Can you guys- just get me out of this thing?

Kaidan: Oh shit I forgot about that- Yeah, we'll get you out. Yaksha!

Yaksha: Right here. Please bite down on this while we get your leg free. *hands him a leather strip*

Gore: Thanks..

Morana: *looks over at Gore's muffled yelling* Oh, you got him free.

Xelzaz: *sigh* No thanks to you!

Taliesin: Don't you look away from me, I am still talking to you!

Morana: *shakes her head*

Taliesin: Don't roll your eyes at me!

Morana: I wasn't even looking at you!

Yaksha: *checking for broken bones and applying healing salve to Gore's wound* How does that feel? Better?

Gore: Very much so. Thank you, er..

Yaksha: Yaksha. And that's Kaidan, Lucien, Inigo, Xelzaz, Taliesin, Styx, and Morana.

Gore: Quite a crowd you all have. Cute nightmare dog.

Lucien: Isn't she?

Styx: *barks*

Taliesin: *still rambling* It's not as if it is my fault the Thalmor hunt anyone suspicious! Of course people like Kaidan are going to be targeted if they stand out enough!

Morana: You're really not helping your case here.

Gore: Er, my name's Gore.

Inigo: Gore? That is quite a strange name.

Gore: It's a long story. Any chance we could talk about it back in town?

Lucien: Oh yes- Yes of course! Is he well enough to stand yet, Yaksha?

Yaksha: I am unsure. If need be, I can carry him.

Gore: I don't think that'll be necessary, big guy.

Morana: *still arguing* For claiming to know so much about fashion, you're certainly attached to those ugly robes.

Taliesin: UGLY?! Why you-!

Morana: *perks up, hearing twigs snapping at the bottom of the hill* Wait shut up.

Taliesin: You dare tell me to-?!

Morana: I said shut up!

Inigo: You heard it too?

Morana: *nods* ...

Kaidan: Yaksha, watch the lad.

Gore: Who the hell are you calling a lad-?

Thalmor Soldier: Well the mutt couldn't have gone off far! Spread out and search for him! And be careful, there are hunting traps everywhere.

Inigo: *whispers, sword drawn* We go on your signal, my friend.

Morana: *nods, drawing her dagger and dousing it in poison* Go.

~

Morana: *taps Gore's shoulder*

Gore: *sitting by the fire, leg bandaged* Hm? What is it?

Morana: *showing him her notebook* How's your leg?

Gore: Fine. Your healer works wonders.

Morana: Yeah, he's the best we could ask for.

Yaksha: *competing with Inigo to see who can fit the most honey nut treats in their mouths*

Morana: ... Assuming he doesn't choke to death himself.

Gore: Haha! I can see there's no end of excitement with these ones.

Morana: Are you sure you're okay travelling with someone who used to be a Thalmor? I'll understand if you don't want to.

Gore: Hm, well.. It'll take some getting used to. I think I'll survive, though. As long as he doesn't try anything funny.

Morana: You sound like Kaidan.

Gore: Ha!

Taliesin: *walks out of the tent wearing his new Vagrant robes* ...

Morana: Well, how are they?

Taliesin: ... They are. Acceptable. I thought most Vagrant robes had conjuration enchantments though. Are these destruction?

Morana: I enchanted them myself.

Taliesin: ... I suppose I must thank you, then.

Morana: I suppose so.

Gore: I'm really gonna have to learn your sign language so I know what you're saying without that book.

Taliesin: It seems Lucien has taken up the mantle of resident sign language teacher, if you'd like to ask him.

Gore: I'll be sure to do that.

[electronicdelusionstarlight]

(Look, I think I’m allowed at least one (1) Skyrim problematic fave and that’s going to be this Feral Cat Lady).

And I’m going to start right off with a small fic blurb, right under the cut:

“Are we there yet?” Lucien, her new travel companion, whines for what feels is the 100th time.

She’s met (and attempted to flirt with, much to his flustered bewilderment) the young man barely a couple hours, in the aptly named Dead’s Man Drink, and while he has certainly been proven himself invaluable as the human shield she so desperately needed, deep in the hostile and dangerous lands of Skyrim, but he sure could get... testy at times, almost annoying, especially under this light, early morning drizzle.

Still, he wasn’t the most annoying thing that ever happened to her, and he promised her compensation for her troubles, the man actually believing her to be some seasoned adventurer rather than a out of her luck spellslinger, born under the wrong great house, and a recently escaped convict...

She, is Armidia Arvel. She’s a Dunmer from Cyrodil, and not even half a day ago, she was trying to cross the border onto Skyrim.

Her grandma, bless her soul, was a minor member of House Hlaalu, not important enough to warrant any real mention really, but also a Prominent member of the Twin Lamps. She helped run away slaves cross the border with her boat, in the dead of night, and used to boast all the time about that one time she had met the Nerevarine herself, before she had left the island for the mysterious Akavir...

She had managed to miss the death of their great house by a slim margin, out with granny and dad in the Imperial Province when the gates opened, forced to settle there, in Bravil, after... all the mess that had come to their motherland, the red year, the invasion, the crisis, the purge...

Still, here she was now, born from a family of merchants and politicians, under the sign of the mage. They had tried to have her get a trade, maybe become a jeweler, forging rings and necklaces to sell to the highest bidder, settle down, but she’s always been restless, Armidia, wanting to explore new places, find new knoweldges, meet new people...

No matter how wrong they might be for her.

She sighs, tolerating her new... friend, she assume, dad always said someone should always treat everyone as their friend as long as they don’t lose that right via their actions, she can almost hear him parrot it again...

In fact, she is hearing him parroting it right now, that bastard hasn’t shut up ever since he died during that blasted great war, serving in the 8th legion, as do all of her blasted, bloody ancestors, day and night every day since she turned 8 droning on and on and whispering and SCREAMING and deafening her with their pleas and suggestions and orders and judgement for her choice of profession, a lowly mage, not even allowed into the Fetchers’ university, like some Telvanni rubble, her choices in life, her voyage onto the land of their ancestral enemies, judging, screaming, whispering, overloading her with their chatter their memories their hopes dreams fears hate love-.

Dunmers are supposed to revere and venerate their ancestors. She, on the other hand, can’t help but curse them, the bastards.

She mumbles, hand to her head as she can feel yet another headache coming. Lucien doesn’t seem to notice, but her new dog is. The small pupper, Styx, a being out right from a conjurer’s worst nightmare, budges against her leg with a soft whine, worryingly looking up her master with the bright, pleading stars she has for eyes. She attempts a smile, the soft, shadowy doggo momentarily drowning Her Ancestors’ whining with her mere presence, soothing her a little.

She had met the eldritch beast near the Lover’s Stone, her master’s corpse nearby, surprisingly docile as she approached her, as if she was waiting for her all along, soothing her with her very presence, dampening her Ancestor’s voices to a managable level... She had to keep her with her, no matter how big she migtht one day grow.

She had been en route from the ruins of Helgen, the place destroyed after a creature out of legends struck it down right as she was passing through it, in the middle of some sort of execution of some dissidents or something.

(she didn’t really care about it, politics and criminals had never been her forte really, much to her grandmas and her dad and all those other fetcher’s horror.

Mom understood tho. She used to anyway, before she died with her father and the 8th legion, leaving her with her heartbroken, demanding, yet loving Grandmas, still alive down south in their home in Bravil...

The only one of her blasted ancestors she wanted to hear, her mom, at least one last time, and she refused to talk, as if she wasn’t there to speak to her in the first place...)

She was just passing through, minding her own business, when a blasted DRAGON attacks the place, scanning the crowd of onlookers, watching the execution, for something or someone...

She was probably one of the few that survived the whole mess, if with a few burns and scraps. Not that she’s complaining really, she managed to meet some hot guy in uniform after all, even ended up meeting his family, she thinks his name was Hadvar, a bit naive, but definitely a catch, helped him fight a bear too, before leaving for her trip to Falkreath’s shrine of Arkay...

(Her hope was the local priests knew of something to keep the blasted ancestors at bay. No such luck unfortunately, and she ended up getting even tasked with fetching the head priest’s journal for him and witnessing a funeral, the whispers loud and bloody clear all the time)...

She shakes her head, Her grip on reality  finally in check thanks to the cute yet slightly terrifying puppy, the whispers momentarily subsided, she looks up, their next destination now in sight.

It’s a dilapidated Nord Tower. The inn keeper at Falkreath had indicated it as a possible place of interest, and she had been planning to go there, snoop in in case it contained some loot or some spell tomes to upgrade her frankly subpar collection of spells, before leaving the hold and taking off toward the next destination in her trip, Riften, where a family friend was supposed to live, a member of house Dreth if she remembers correctly...

Lucien comments on the architecture of the place and she ignores him, the whispers blessedly murmured, as she circumspectly enters the tower. Grass and vegetation as overrun the place, claiming it for its own, and the structure has collapsed ages ago. A chest is standing against a far wall, a severely decayed skeleton corpse resting at its bottom, his armor miraculously intact. Her ancestors whispers grow louder for a second, muttering something about “The Sly” meeting his end, before her eyes lie on the huge, heavy shield, a complicated design engraved onto it.

That thing will fetch her a pretty fortune, she thinks, despite everything still a Hlaalu in blood and flesh, and for once she can feel her Ancestor’s approval at her greed, her desire to gain... Money...

Lucien is in tow, his eyes widening at the shield, as if he’s recognizing it from one of his dusty books, but she doesn’t care, she puts a step forward, eager to get her hands on her prize... only to trip on an upturned root, going face down on the grassy ground with a hump.

Styx yips worriedly behind her, waiting outside the door, and Lucien bumbles his way toward her fallen form to help her back on her feet... Only for the slow, deliberate sound of a blade being drawn to cut the whispers, like a knife through butter.

“Well well well, what do we have here?” A voice says, with a accent similar to the ones the Khajiit in Bravil used to have, and she looks up from her heap on the ground, Lucien frozen in his tracks behind her as he stares in horror, at the armored Khajiit woman now standing between her and the chest, the shield, her sword, so particular in design,help aloof atop her shoulder...

She lowers it toward her chin, slowly tipping the blade against it, not hard enough to draw blood, but forcefully enough to get her head tilted upwards

“Two lost little fools, eager to fall to their doom? Did the Thalmor send you to rat me out, or did you simply wish to... lose your life by my blade?” She humphs, a strange look in her eyes as she tilts away her blade from her prey, leaving her wide eyed on the ground, staring up at her, “Well, I’m not interested. I’m not going to butcher either of you, you are not worthy of my steel, too green, too... weak, killing you would make me no batter than those puffed up fools, wishing to kill the great white stag for some foolish concept of... glory, pfah”

Armidia stares up at her, her voice lost, the whispers, the judgement, they are still there, but is getting drowned out by something within her, something strong, floating into a mindset and a void within her she had never felt before, as she looks up at the dangerous, definitely murderous khajiit, giving her a cocky, self reassured grin, as if she was the strongest swordwoman in the entire world and she knew it too.

Armidia gulps, her throat suddenly dry, as her life is spared with the cock of the Khajiit’s brow, one thought finally crashing and burning into her mind, stronger than Red Mountain’s fire, louder than the screams of her ancestors, giving her one, terrible, absolute command, to fulfill, or die trying...

“I must get rawed by this cat be it the last thing I do.”

[mazurga]

S'Vashni leaning up against a stone wall. She is a Khajiit wearing the armor of the Blades. There is a large thistle plant in front of her, and some tall grasses moving in the wind.

[depresanesfreetime]

[raksha-the-khajiit]

Our (almost) whole clan. From the left: Shavari, J'zargo, Raksha, Tsavani, Kharjo, S'vashni. In front of us is Ma'isha, our adopted daughter.