#jo'raya

[therunawayscamp]

Head On [Drabble]

The Sandria, an Imperial frigate chartered by House Sadras for the purpose of hunting pirates on their shipping routes, made it almost too easy. She lay in wait off a small atoll north of Skyrim. Barren rock formed most of the area, but the snow covering it provided ample fresh water for any less than lawful sailors needing a quick hideaway and made it – so Khan Sadras assured the captain – a known haunt of those ruffians aboard the Runaway Scamp. She would be on her return voyage now, he said, and should pass Skyrim no less than two weeks before Tales and Tallows, Ancestor's Day to the Dunmer.

That blasted ship's sails came into view on the fourteenth of Last Seed, exactly as planned. The Sandria's captain gave orders to raise the anchor. A few futile attempts found that the cable had been lodged on a rock, the rudder fouled, and before the lookout noticed the Argonian paddling away through the ocean, the Scamp bore down upon them in a hail of magefire and bellowing, screeching pirates. Those who jumped overboard were spared. Those who remained were not.

A search of the hold turned up a number of crates and barrels salvaged from more successful captures, as well as enough supplies for the final two weeks of the journey home. Bob, tasked with inspecting the barrels and reinforcing the enchantments, performed her work on the weather deck while her shipmates tended to their wounds. She probed her thick fingers around the banding on a keg. The enchantment sputtered at her touch until she urged new magic into it, frowning lightly, or as lightly as an Orc could manage when her face was permanently buried under the weight of its own leathery skin. The work was delicate and tedious. Not a chore she was best suited for, but it had to be done.

After a while she became aware of someone else sat nearby. Jo'Raya had the ability to pad up in total silence and yet the impatient swishing of her tail, the silent burr of her nails digging into the deck, always gave her away. A trail of blood, not hers, slicked the fur down from the back of her head and across her neck, and she flicked an ear at it occasionally. They sat in companionable silence for some time before Jo'Raya said,

'You feel it?'

Bob laid down her tools.

'Feel what?'

'The change. This one smells it in the elves.' Jo'Raya stretched out her legs, spreading her toes and letting the claws shine against the bloodstained deck. 'When Khajiit feels change, there is a restlessness which clings to its fur. The urge to run and pounce and to do.'

Years ago, back in the stronghold, Bob remembered the old chieftain, before he was challenged by his son. She had been young then, but that didn't stop her feeling the buzz around the forge or hearing the whispers running along the walls, as if the air were charged with an unseen energy. Eventually the tension grew so tight the son had to make his challenge simply to relieve the strain on the rest of the clan.

The urge to do. Around them, scattered across the deck, the sailors were working as usual, scrubbing down planking and hauling the spoils back to the Runaway Scamp, but every now and then there would be a glance between them, or a silence where there would usually be friendly insults and laughter. Bob picked up her hammer again, only to tap it against the side of a barrel to no effect.

'Mebbe. Why?'

'The elves can't run away from it. Change hunts without rest.'

'Y'ain't thinkin' of desertin'?'

'No. Where would this one go? Besides, Khajiit says, all kittens must leave their clan mother. Some change is merciful.'

In the wintry light which always lay over the Sea of Ghosts, Jo'Raya's fur looked dark, but the edges were tipped with gold. She held herself perfectly still and poised as she gazed out to the ocean. Bob watched her for a while before shrugging and digging herself into her work.

'Orcs got a sayin', too.' She waited until Jo'Raya turned her head to listen. 'Whatever shit life throws at you, meet it head on, 'cause there ain't much thicker'n an Orc skull.'

Jo'Raya's tailed lifted. Bob had never seen a Khajiit until she signed on with the Scamp, but that was enough to teach her that this was the closest Jo'Raya ever came to laughing.

'Orc and Khajiit, not so different.'

'Cap'n says we ain't Orcs 'n Khajiit 'n elves, we's crew.'

'Then we meet the change head on together, yes? We charge in headfirst, one crew.'

For a second, Bob’s fist tightened around the shaft of her hammer. Then she raised it and began beating the iron banding into shape, as the magic flowed through her fingers, and although the ring of metal and metal prevented any reply, the broad, tusk-filled grin was good enough for Jo’Raya. Soon Sham joined them, helping to repair the wood of the barrels, and Luca carried their tools back and forth, and the crew of the Scamp worked on as one around them with change on their heels.

[gravecuriosity]

"This one is not obsessed with treasure." (Jo'Raya)

[Prompt]

“Oh, I didn’t mean obsessed in such a negative way,” Nelle insisted, her smile dimming slightly. “I meant... well, I’m sure you’ve seen your fair share of treasure, right? Not just the shiny stuff -- I mean little hideaway coves and sunsets over isolated islands and things like that. It must be exciting to see so many things most people won’t ever see in their lifetime.”

[vvardenfellcat]

"This one? This one is dishonest." [Jo'Raya]

J’hasi sighed, swiping over his mouth with the back of his hand before looking back at the guardsmen still searching for a certain someone.

“Uh huh…can see that…” His tail tip quirked, then he shrugged a little, almost as if to himself before he jerked a thumb towards some crates stacked behind the fishery.

“Easy way up, scenic. Good place for someone inclined towards dishonesty.”

[therunawayscamp]

The crew have attempted various ruses to smuggle Jo’Raya into cities which refuse entry to Khajiit. Their favourite success was courtesy of Braskan. When intercepted by a guard, he looked him dead in the eye and informed him that Jo’Raya was a Nord, and as the guard wasn’t immediately convinced, pointed out she’s fuckin’ hairy enough ta be one a’ yas, ain’t she? Whether the guard was convinced or only relented upon realising that the large group of heavily armed pirates in front of him was not going to back down is irrelevant; it achieved the desired result and Jo’Raya was permitted to remain with them unharassed.

More usually, however, Jo’Raya and the Khajiit will remain with the ship while docked in Skyrim, or find a sneakier way into the city of their own accord if there’s something they really need. Most of the time it isn’t worth the hassle.

[therunawayscamp]

♤ 1. reject a hug my muse had offered (reverse!)

♤ 1. reject a hug my your muse had offered

Jo’Raya’s fur bristled at the first touch and she rippled away from beneath Nelle’s fingers, with her fur stood on end and her ears tilted back. Her tail, which was hanging low behind her legs, flicked back and forth.

‘Khajiit will manage.’

[therunawayscamp]

Getting Jo'Raya to perform floggings with her claws has had at least one unexpected side-effect. Her inexplicable soft spot for Braskan doesn't mean she goes easy on him when he's being punished for drunkenness - if anything, she's more vicious - and the pain has never seemed to deter Braskan. Increasingly, however, he does seem to be aware of Jo'Raya's disappointment in him, and although it might be wishful thinking, his pumishments do seem to be getting a little less frequent.

[therunawayscamp]

❝ Be careful. There may be a reason this ground has lain undisturbed for so long. ❞

Jo’Raya spared Valen a withering glance, the sort only feline eyes could give, before she resumed scrabbling at the dirt with her claws.

‘This one is always careful. Perhaps the prey should focus on watching for guards, instead of mewling like a distressed kitten.’

[therunawayscamp]

❝ Discretion isn’t really your thing, is it? ❞ (Jocelyn)

‘What gave you that impression?’An honest question, in Drasonval’s opinion. After all, it couldn’t possibly be the parade of guards chasing a select few sailors in circles around the streets and having their pockets picked every time they passed the corner Luca was stood on. Nor could it be the citizens screaming for help as Braskan approached them with his trademark leer, or as Oran approached them holding a piece of poetry, or Vilayn bent double with silent laughter behind both of them. There was no way it could be Xisthia, Bob and Jo’Raya, an Argonian, an Orc and a Khajiit, strolling casually down a street full of Nords, either. Really, the concept that they might draw attention was an absolute mystery.

[therunawayscamp]

Grief

The Scamps have lost more than a few of their own over the centuries, but that doesn’t make it any easier. They each have their own ways of reacting to and dealing with the ensuing grief.

R’khan gets much stricter and quicker to anger. The only time he has ever hit Luca was after a crew member was killed, in response to an unrelated incident. She didn’t retaliate, surprisingly, but ran away and hid in the hold for a while, where the Argonians kept her company. R’khan didn’t apologise but then again, he also didn’t punish her for shirking her duties.

Speaking of Luca, on the rare occasions when somebody she actually likes dies, she gets stuck in the denial phase of grief. The person in question cannot be dead, and if they are, there must be a way to get them back. That’s what shady deals with the daedra are for.

Vilayn shuts himself away refusing to talk to anyone and drinks heavily; the length of time and amount of booze vary according to how much he liked the recently deceased. He was drunk for three days straight after he found out that his mother had died. Casether is worried about what will happen if (when) Hazil succumbs to his illness.

Tosti becomes cold, almost surgical. He tends to disappear for a length of time as well. If the person who died was someone close to him, and if they died before their time, the people at fault for their death tend to meet an unpleasant fate of their own shortly afterwards.

Azareth takes the news in his usual stoic way. It’s even more difficult than usual to coax conversation out of him afterwards, although he might be found in deep, quiet debate with Ethysil. Eventually he will pour out one for the deceased, smoke one of his fancier pipes in their honour, and move on.

Bereavement might be the only thing which silences Eddis’s laughter. True, he will start sucking and chewing on his teeth instead, but at least it’s a break from his usual giggling. He also becomes more erratic in his behaviour. The last time they lost a crew member and this happened, R’khan, in a moment of genuine concern for his bosun, called Eddis into his quarters for a private talk; Eddis was back to usual when he left.

Drasonval, Braskan, Oran and Sham commiserate with each other. Their omnipresent sense of camaraderie intensifies, and they will gather around, usually with a drink, and if they all knew the deceased they will share stories together until they’re able to laugh again. If only one of them was personally affected, the others will do their best to cheer him or her up or, failing that, just be there.

Bob will take her feelings out on any objects nearby, smashing them until she feels better. Surprisingly, it works. She doesn’t understand why everybody else has to bury their emotions, or sit around doing nothing about them.

Eldnar feels loss keenly, and struggles to hide his sentimentality. It embarrasses him and -- what a shock -- the crew tease him for it, so he tends to disappear in this sort of situation until he’s over the tears.

According to his beliefs, Ethysil is not supposed to consider death an end, merely a return to a greater whole. That’s all very well as an abstract idea. In practice he becomes very sombre, spends a lot more time alone with his thoughts, and either avoids talking to people if he is the only person affected, or listens quietly if other people knew the deceased.

Jo’Raya doesn’t show much in how she deal with other people, but she loses her appetite and spends a lot more time sleeping, or at least curled up in her bunk, than she usually does.

Assuming her surgical efforts did not contribute towards the death in question, Rosie deals with grief reasonably well. Like anyone, she goes through periods of sadness and anger, but they fade in a reasonable amount of time. If her surgical efforts did contribute, once she overcomes the guilt she will be determined to learn from the experience and do better next time, and will throw herself almost frantically into her work and study to ensure this is the case.

Turithys shuts down all personal communication. She will only talk to people to discuss work, and it can take a long time before she is ready to relax and open up again.

Like Jo’Raya, Xisthia’s interactions with others don’t change much, but that’s assuming they can find her. She will spend most of her time swimming and hiding underwater, distracting herself with exploring the seabed and sometimes sitting on rocks down there, watching the ripples overhead.

Zannammu appears to have much more faith in her concept of an afterlife than Ethysil. She is convinced that those who pass on receive their just rewards and uses this to cope with the loss of them in her own life.

[therunawayscamp]

👨‍👩‍👧‍👦Do they want children? 🐶Are they a cuddler? ⚔️ Are they protective of their partner? 🚀 How far are they willing to go for the person they love?

Random Number Generator: Jo’Raya, Eldnar, Braskan, Vilayn.

👨‍👩‍👧‍👦Do they want children?

This is a confusing subject for Jo’Raya. She used to assume she would get round to it one day, for the sake of her clan, but she has never been interested in or enjoyed the necessary process for having children, and the longer she spends at sea the less of a hold her loyalty to the clan has on her. It’s definitely unlikely that she would have any of her own.

--

🐶 Are they a cuddler?

After his time on the Runaway Scamp, Eldnar tends to flinch away from physical contact. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy it, but that he is suspicious of what might follow it.

In other words, no.

--

⚔️ Are they protective of their partner?

Yes. Braskan will often go above and beyond what his partner requires of (or wants from) him, including defending them whether they need it or not. He might not be very successful, unless he can bring the rest of the crew along for back up, but he would try.

--

🚀 How far are they willing to go for the person they love?

Vilayn has already gone to the other end of Tamriel for Hazil, and would go further if he had the ability and thought it might provide a cure for him. On the other hand, he would never give up sailing, even if his husbands asked him to stay home more often, so it would be more accurate to say there is nothing he wouldn’t do as long as it didn’t cross his few personal boundaries.

[therunawayscamp]

Poker Faces

I’ve seen good poker faces. I don’t have one (Azareth says I wrinkle my nose when I’ve got a good hand and kick the table leg and start cursing when I’ve got a bad one – little things, you know), but I’ve seen them.

Aside from the captain and Tosti, both of whom boast an impressive poker face, and Xisthia, who is hard to read at the best of times, most of the crew have fairly obvious tells when gambling. In fact, having had so many years to study their habits, Azareth could compile a comprehensive list of them if he wanted.

For Vilayn, in addition to those listed above, he also taps his fingers gently against his cards, the dice cup or the table when he thinks he's doing well. Azareth hasn’t mentioned this one to him -- no need to give away all his secrets.

Drasonval tugs at his earrings when he has a good hand and twists his wedding band around his finger when he has a bad one.

Eddis is surprisingly hard to read. He spends all of his time giggling and fidgeting anyway -- working out when it’s in response to his hand and when it’s just Eddis being Eddis is the trick. As a rule, he often stares more at people when he has a good hand.

Bob goes very quiet when she has a good hand, setting her mouth in a grim line.

Assuming Braskan doesn’t accidentally tell his opponents what his hand is without thinking, he also tightens his right fist when he has a bad hand. For a while Azareth assumed he took a drink when he had a good hand but, like Eddis, this turned out to be something Braskan does when he has a good hand, a bad hand, an average hand, and when he’s bored.

Eldnar doesn’t understand Dunmer games, making the issue of tells a moot point. When they play games common across Tamriel he trembles, avoids eye contact and goes dead silent if he has a good hand.

Ethysil is reasonably controlled, but blinks more with a good hand.

Jo’Raya is more of a puzzle, since Khajiit faces and body language are so different from those of humans and mer. Watching her tail is the safest option -- the more relaxed it is, the better her hand. Her pupils also narrow slightly with a bad hand.

Oran talks more with a good hand. He sets fire to the cards or dice with a bad one.

Rosie slides her feet about slightly with a good hand. It’s difficult to notice, especially when playing at a table.

If Sham is wearing her earrings, she very carefully doesn’t touch them if she is bluffing, but will toy with them every now and then otherwise.

As a point of morality, Zannammu rarely gambles. When she does, she purses her lips if she has a weak hand and becomes more irritable when she has a strong one.

[therunawayscamp]

❛ You only got one shot. ❜

It was a tough one. The eaves of the house were high and slick with rain, not to mention the years of grime which built up just from existing in Riften, and there was only a rotting crate to use as a jumping point. A yell from the guards punctured Enid’s warning. Jo’Raya’s muscles stiffened and she took a few soft paces back.

‘This one will take it. The prey will not tell the guards.’

And she was running, sprinting forwards, reaching towards the roof before her feet left the ground. Her tail swung round for balance, claws dug into the wooden beams, scrabbled, found a grip. All her strength concentrated itself into hauling up the rest of her body and dragging herself onto the rooftiles. Once there she spent a second testing her weight against the moss before she was off, disappearing over the top with a flick of her tail.

[therunawayscamp]

The Lash

One, because just one never hurt anybody. Two, because there had to be something to follow the first. Three, because why not? Four, because by that point he no longer cared.

‘Brass. Eight bells, Brass. Brass! B’vehk, you gonna be right for the watch?’

Sounded like Drasonval. Braskan didn’t know and didn’t care about that, either. He said some words, in the hopes that the voice would leave him alone, but no, no such luck. He was shaken and hauled up and dragged onto the deck, where the cold air bit into his skin and did nothing to blow the clouds away from his thoughts. Fortunately. Imagine having to deal with those in a state like this.

‘Get the topgallant stun’sail ready for setting!’

It was mechanical, something he could do in his sleep, something he’d done a thousand, a million times before. Braskan’s fingers slipped across the gear, dropped the lines, all while muttering curses against old Ratface and his constant shouting.

‘Belay that. Braskan! You fetching son-of-a-nix-whore’s bah’ata! Who gave you their ration? I’m going to gut them and use their insides to replace the lines we just lost.’

In a way, it was nice to put the work down, stand in front of Vilayn and let the rebukes wash over him, swaying slightly with his eyes closed. Nice until the punishment, anyway. Twenty lashes. He was brought up before the crew and made to kneel, back exposed and already well-scarred. Jo’Raya unsheathed her claws.

One, because just one never hurt anybody. Two, because there had to be something to follow the first...

[therunawayscamp]

Between a Captain and an Officer [Drabble]

On days like this, when the weather folded in around the brig and both sea and sky were a uniform shade of slate, R'khan saw as much from inside his cabin as he could from standing on the quarterdeck. More, in some ways. He could observe without being seen, listen to every movement as it travelled through the boards to his ears. Right now he could hear Vilayn loping back and forth across the weather deck, swearing at the fog, and the Ald Varay following his orders to trim sail, while the sugary smell of skooma smoke told him Jo'Raya was leading the Khajiit in one of their rituals. An occasional scratch against the hull would be Xisthia on a swim, hopefully scouting ahead while visibility above water was poor, but probably oblivious to anything which wasn’t shiny rocks. A steady rustle and thump, Ethysil studying his holy books. Rosie sharpening her tools in the surgery. Azareth taking stock in the hold. The watch changeover finished not five minutes ago, too, so that meant any moment now--

'Captain?'

R'khan capped his inkwell, slotted the quill into its stand, and folded his hands on his desk, leaving the letter he was writing in full view. The ink shone in the lamplight.

'Enter.'

Tosti slipped through the narrow doorway, leaning to avoid hitting his head on the timber, and stood before the desk, bent at the shoulders, until he was waved into the seat opposite R'khan's. He lowered himself with a sigh.

'Thank you, captain. I'm here to report on the Vel Varay. Not that there's much to say.'

'Say it anyway, lad.'

'No incidents, and the weather was mostly calm. Wind's getting up from the south, which might blow some of the fog away.'

While he listened to the finer details of the sounding and Drasonval's opinion on their location, R'khan reached across to the cabinet set into the bulkhead, where he stored a selection of bottles and glasses. He picked out a bottle of Hunding wine and poured it into two glasses, one of which he slid forwards across the table, hand firmly on the base until Tosti had lifted it to prevent it toppling off the table with the roll of the brig.

'Thank you. I'll write it in the log. Now, if I ain't much mistaken, you look as if you wouldn't mind sharing a glass. This damned fog is getting under everyone's skin.'

'That's kind of you, captain.'

'Just don't go talking politics on me. If we ever find that bleeding Company frigate again, I ain't holding back.'

Tosti only smiled and took the glass.

'Did you pick this up in Morrowind?'

'Me? Nah, lad. Straight from source. Markets'll gut you for a crumb of scuttle, let alone good wine. If you can't get it straight off the ship, go and fetch it yourself.'

He took a sip and nodded his approval. After a few moments of easy, companionable silence, Tosti patted a hand against the table, beside the letter.

'I see you're writing to the Admiral.'

'Reading me personal correspondence, eh?'

'I guess I am. But you wouldn't have left it there if you didn't want me to.'

The ink was almost dry now. R'khan tilted his glass from side to side and crossed one leg over the other, beneath the desk.

'Maybe I left it there to test you,' he said.

'Did I pass?'

Not a trace of worry showed itself on Tosti's face as he waited for his judgement. Every move was perfect, from the way he settled his elbow easily onto the side of his chair to the casual taste of wine. After a pause which went on for only a second too long, R'khan smiled.

'Sure you did, lad. Aye, I'm writing to the old anchor. Get it in the neck when I come home if I don't keep her informed of me movements. Worse than the guard for that, she is.'

It was Tosti's turn to stare across the table. He could have been savouring the wine, which was sweet and tingled with the spices infused throughout, but his eyes remained steadily on R'khan's, creased and just a little heavy. Footsteps pattered overhead, followed by Drasonval's voice, heavy in the fog, reporting the latest results from the sounding lead. Both men below listened, and relaxed at the same time when the numbers were safe and as expected.

'How did you meet her?' asked Tosti at last. R'khan rolled his eyes to the skylight.

'Can't you ask Vilayn?'

'I did. He said she was a rival pirate captain called the Butcher, who agreed to settle down, live up to her namesake and marry you after you bested her in a duel as punishment for stealing your treasure.' Tosti grinned. 'Took place in during the worst storm Tamriel had ever seen, if I remember right, but I could be mixing it up with one of his other stories. A lot of things seem to happen in the worst storm Tamriel has ever seen when Vilayn talks about them.'

'And that ain't that good enough for you? B'vehk, what else do you want me to add? That we was fighting with swords we'd stolen from the Daedra? That Lady Ayem presided over the ceremony?'

'If you don't mind, I thought maybe the truth. Between a captain and an officer.'

R'khan lowered his glass, fingers firmly around the stem, and slid the letter across the desk towards himself with his spare hand. The ink, now dry, covered most of the page, awaiting only his name to finish it off. He tucked the parchment into one of the desk's hidden drawers without adding anything more.

'The truth ain't that interesting,' he said. 'We met in the market back in Blacklight, I asked her to dinner at the cornerclub, and that's about it.' He shook his head. 'Sometimes the story is better.'

'And there's no truth to it at all?'

'About as much truth as there is to me hanging skeletons off of the masthead so they dances in the wind as we approach. Sorry, lad. Didn't know you had a romantic streak.'

Tosti's face did look thoughtful, but he pressed his lips together at the rim of the glass. The breath from his nostrils fogged up the crystal and rippled the surface of the wine.

'I don't. I just think it's strange.'

'What?'

'You meeting her in the market. You said you only buy straight off the ships or from the source.'

‘Taking a shortcut, wasn’t I?’

‘It’s never a shortcut through the market. You get stopped by fifty merchants trying to sell you fake jewellery before you've taken a step.’

A pithy retort, a neat excuse, some sort of comeback had to be coming. No doubt it would have been irrefutable. Whatever it was, however, it was lost as the boards outside the cabin creaked. The sound was too quiet and the tread too light to be Vilayn's. R'khan glanced across at Tosti, for the first time since the discrepancy had been pointed out, and barely had time to bid the visitor enter before Luca tumbled into the cabin.

In the limited space, she had to push up against the back of Tosti's chair to make herself seen, although as a rule Luca's presence was hard to ignore. She passed off her version of a salute and leapt into an explanation of her arrival.

'Mister Vilayn's compliments, R'khan, an' he says the lookout seed the frigate to starboard.'

R'khan drained his glass and fixed it into its holder, his back to Tosti. When he turned again he was smiling.

'Looks like I'd best be off. Those skeletons ain't going to string up themselves, eh? You got five minutes to arm yourself and be up on deck, Mr Tosti. Don't waste 'em going through me desk 'cause you won't find anything interesting.' He strode to the door and paused. 'Only... stories.'

[therunawayscamp]

The Recovery.

Our first sight of the Kintyra in the feeble dawn, when the winds had calmed and the rain was thin and drizzly, almost convinced us not to go in search of survivors. She looked pathetic. A ragged pile of wood, half-submerged in a frothing, angry tide that continued to burst higher and higher over her remains. That was all that was left. A few shards of timber against a watery sky and the hulk of Vvardenfell smoking behind her. There was no movement – only the slow drift downwards towards the seabed.

We brought the Scamp in as close as we dared and were rewarded with one small mercy: Jo'Raya, damp and cold and shivering, had clung to the bowsprit after the vessel went down. She leapt across to the line we threw her and arrived sopping wet on our main deck. We asked her if there were any other survivors. She told us that most of the crew had abandoned ship, but Braskan had held on to the last, and after that she wasn’t able to say any more. In the end, we opted to drop anchor and send out the boat to comb the beach.

If we were sombre and silent on the Scamp, it was worse on the shore. Vvardenfell's Bitter Coast was, as I remember it (and I remember it pretty damn well because even before I signed up to the Navy we used to ship our definitely not smuggled goods from Solstheim to Hla Oad), a solemn sort of place even in its heyday. Vivec City was busy enough, but as soon as you pulled out of the harbour and made your way north it was all quiet, misty marshes, lit by the dim light of coda flowers, serenaded by the groaning of the netch. Peaceful, but mournful.

Since the island was deserted, it had become much worse. No netch or guar for company. No ramshackle villages straggling out into the water. Only swamp, and the backs of rocks rising out of them. Some were smooth and rounded boulders, coated in moss, rocks which had sat there for years. Others were like black glass striking out of the earth. Those were the ones vomited out of Red Mountain and the ones which had ripped apart the Kintyra's hull. It was as silent as the ancestral tombs carved into the hillsides and, also like the ancestral tombs, scattered with bodies. Not many of them were alive.

Zannammu became aware of the water before anything else. It was oily, covered in a film of muck which left a grimy trail across her cheek, and the salt in it stung the wounds too numerous to count across her body. She tried to lift her head and got it as far as something green, slimy and stinking of rot, at which point she decided that maybe drowning in two inches of swamp water wasn't that bad after all. She had never known a pain like it. It burned and froze her, wrenched at her muscles, slammed into her head. She could hardly breathe. Every single bone in her body felt as if it were fracturing apart. Like the wood. The deck. The Kintyra.

When she finally hauled herself up on her elbows and crawled away from the swamp, dawn was breaking on the stretch of coast. The Scamp, battered and limping but not yet broken, was anchored further out in the bay, while her boat pulled towards the shore. Zannammu's last great effort was to send a burst of magefire up into the sky as a guiding light. I remember seeing it from the boat, navigating towards it, the boat grinding across the mud as we inspected the damage in silence. Without that light, we might never have known there was anyone left alive.

We saved who we could. That wasn't many. Braskan we found headfirst in a dead scathecraw plant and managed to bring him back to life with a few kicks to the chest, which dislodged the seawater in his lungs. He and Zannammu sat side by side on a grassy hill and watched the rescue efforts through empty, glassy eyes. The first words Zannammu spoke were rough, scraped out of a throat raw with salt and deadened screams.

'A judgement from Azura.'

Even that didn't spark off some reaction in Braskan. Nor did being presented with a bottle of rum to himself, or the news that Sham and Oran had made it out alive, or being bundled into the boat and rowed back to the Scamp. There was nothing. Zannammu, crammed in beside him once again, had to watch wordlessly as she left Vvardenfell, the Ashlands, her homeland, for the final time.

[therunawayscamp]

“To wives and sweethearts…may they never meet.”

'They are not the same for this one?' Jo'Raya's tail waved lazily through the air as she thought this over. 'Khajiit has much to learn.'