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Chapter Text

Riverwood. a tranquil place, with little to write home about. Saathel thought of it as a slight downgrade from her previous life in the depths of a wooded area most certainly ruled over by the postulates of serious Nordsmen and their grave voices. She, in all certainty, lacked the will to perceive them as anything other than the sad attempts they made to rule over sacred wilderness rather than form a covenant with it, as she knew Holy, so she hunted and assembled her shelter and supplies out of those carcasses. Bone, sinew and skin were all she needed to survive the inclemencies of Skyrim’s weather. That unforgiving cold that seeped into one’s very insides— when near claimed by it Saathel liked to remind herself why it was that she was there. Sometimes, that was all that kept her going.

Though close to the town, Saathel liked to keep herself unseen, trading only when necessity brought her to dire bartering, known only by a merchant and his mule. It was a quiet life. Lonely.

She hadn’t been expecting plumes of smoke to rise from Helgen, a morning during her earliest hunts. Like most things unexpected, it beckoned to the part of her mind that didn’t know better. In retrospect, perhaps she should have stayed put, ignored the fires, ignored the obvious silhouette of a dragon, rising from the settlement and slicing clouds with its wings.

A dragon. A tale as impossible could bore its most faithful reader by overstating the incredulousness of its witnesses, but in this situation truth was present: Saathel dropped her bow, mouth ajar. She stood there frozen, the only sign that she lived still in the miniscule droplets of condensed warmth that hung in the cold air as she breathed.

"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck."

The thick blanket of cumulonimbus above spoke both of cold weather and a chance of precipitation— and a perfect hideaway for the embodiment of death and fire, whose getaway Saathel could no longer track.

After watching for a good handful of minutes, ears twitching from her over-excited senses trained keenly on Helgen's rising smoke, she resolved that action was the only choice.

The dragon had left, there seemed to be no more unrest in the vaulted sky above the town. Ensuring that it had not made for her portion of wooded sanctuary was a task Saathel performed hastily, feverish, eyes darting to and fro. She discovered soon enough that there was simply no trace of the beast, the ground's twigs and pebbles did not rattle from an impact nearby, and her path was clear from her campsite to the rubble.

With a backpack put together by shaking hands and slung over her shoulders, she set out quickly on her feet.

Accompanying Saathel were her hunting bow and quiver, and a lumber-axe she had taken up for survival in the cold climate when much to her chagrin, no amount of furs could tide over the damp bite of winter. Her weapons would soon prove useful, as she was surprised by a half-singed mare fleeing the town, questing in pain and barrelling towards her.

In a single act the beast had an arrow protruding from its eye socket, Saathel's drawing hand as quick as the projectile itself. She leapt out of the way as the horse keeled over from the sheer impact strength; piercing through eyeball and nerve, in a diagonal straight into the brain, it was dead within seconds. Mercy was written all over the shaft of the arrow as she pulled it out, a boot holding down the mare's heavy skull. Its flank was burned, flesh melted together, the skin connecting its thigh to the trunk a mass of reddish pink wrinkles and blackened splotches. The scent of ruined meat made Saathel retch.

"Y'ffre keep you," she sighed, wiping the arrow down on a piece of leather and slipping it back into the quiver. She knew the spot. Though burned horses weren't her choice of food, no child of the Green could leave such a bounty unused. Sharing with the wolves and foxes was not an issue, the beasts were to her as brothers. Her people knew their song and story as Y’ffre had told it even this far in the North, cold ice Skyrim housed but a different part of Y’ffre’s creation, the one where mountains walked the skyway to meet with the stars, instead of tamarinds, soursops and magnolias.

Her boots slanted in a diagonal across the slippery slope leading towards the valley to ease the mer’s descent down the scene of havoc, the footprint of a passed dragon whose return she still feared enough to cause nervous glances back and forth, and to the sides. Saathel crouched to receive the encroaching scent of fiery substrate, ember and char. It awakened a form of primal unease in her to smell the remains of timber houses and thatched roofs engulfed by flames. Spewing smoke. Those threads of blistering heat weren’t the product of a single uncaring mortal, but spun by an unworldly demiurge against which she was powerless.

Calm, Saathel, she reasoned with herself. You’re thinking in the language of prey. But her own thoughts offered little in the way of solace when she ducked under a tree’s branches and saw the thawing drip, heat from the initial blast melting away at what was supposed to be a mountainous morning frost, impassive and perennial. Her encasing of fur, too, felt heavy instead of comforting.

Yet as she approached poor Helgen the heat became a part of her surroundings, and hardly more than in the Valenwood. Out came her thick gloves, aided by a tug with her teeth and stuffed inside her side-pouch. Huffing and puffing her way through pylons of still-rising smoke, stepping carefully about corpses made into coal, smelling as that horse had, she was dry-heaving by the time she set foot within Helgen proper. The first thing she noticed was the scene of an execution in the heart of the city. Some poor fool had given their neck; presumably more had been queued when the dragon struck, the unlucky bastards.

There was nothing in Helgen left to salvage. Trails ran cold out of the village where some survived, yet two similar paths caught her eye before waning. Inside a building that somehow still stood whole those trails continued. Saathel opened the door. She looked around, coughing into the inside of her softened pelt scarf and lowered it to take a deep breath allowing the scents to flow into the back of her palate. The scents then spoke to her. The place was as a prison once she delved deeper in pursuit of the still-hot trails of possible survivors. Skeletons. Dead Nords and dead Imperials alike flanking the cages holding excarnated corpses of prisoners who never knew of the dragon attack. Sometimes, to be dead is a luxury.

Too far in to turn back and give in to the nagging thoughts of living a life of minding her own business, she descended into a collapsed series of tunnels dug underground.

“Mole-folk, these Northerners. Just how far have they dug into the—”

A faint sound stopped her. It was only for her ears, and came from far down and out. She paused, tilting face and ears to better catch the cry in their shell, as her eyes grew wide and her pupils dilated from adrenaline.

“Help!”

Survivors, at least one of them. Saathel threw herself forward in a frantic scrambling run, abandoning all of her aboveground elegance in favor of speed. Unknown ground as her enemy, eventually she made it to where the tunnels merged with a cave system. Spider corpses littered the floor. Those were Frostbite spiders, hunters endowed with a paralyzing venom that left their pray sluggish or, in worse cases, surrendered to a thick stupor. Frustration grew in her, there was no time for harvesting their venom sacs when someone might be dying further down. Guano covered the roof and walls, nitric acid impregnated her every breath, and Saathel cursed her heroic streak for deciding to play rescue brigade and woodland patrol.

Soon she was at the mouth of a large chamber within the cave. A colossal spider curled its dead limbs in on itself, and nearby were two paralyzed men. Nords, the both of them, she could smell their poisoned blood oozing from puncture wounds. One of them blearily opened his eyes and his hand shook as he stretched his arm out towards her. “Help us, please.”

Saathel knocked both men out with a precise blow to the back of their heads.

Chapter Text

Fully sized Nord men were difficult to carry. Even despite the strength of the Wolf and the blessed adrenaline turning her body into molten sap, it took time to arrange the limbs and trunks of two massive dead weights on her back. Despite her clumsy paws she managed to tie them to her and bit down on the ends of the ropes, huffing as she tested them with a jostle and a shake.
Secured. Decently so.
Then she trampled the ground on all fours, a lupine chariot, unflinching when the eight-legged inhabitants of the cave attempted to spit at her. Like this, she was immune to their venom even more than with her people's natural flair for mithridatism. They were easy enough to crush under her paws, making them sticky with spider-guts and sickly green ichorous blood. The beast cared not, and neither did she under its pelt. All she wanted was to get to the nearest town, though the daring rescue might cost her pelt.
Riverwood. Where her journey had begun, or at least, the closest inhabited area to her encampment. Not that she knew any of the locals, but the two men tied to her back wouldn't ask too many questions if she said she got help from a passing caravan or a guard, she hoped. Especially not if she insisted she dragged them the rest of the way there. It would all depend on their timing and how fast she could save the distance on her four legs.

As the dark vault of rock closed into a narrow passage, she cursed in the language of fangs and spittle, crawling like a worm to protect both men until she reached the cave's mouth, covered in cobwebs but with her burden unharmed.

From there, the exterior was too wide and broad, and the threads of cirrus crossing the sky were cold-bladed knives digging into her nose and ears. No matter, she had to keep going. Saathel slid into an easy trot then, avoiding the trodden path so no merchant or patrol would spot her. No other way existed to get these two to safety. In her usual form, they were too heavy. If she left and came back, they wouldn't have made it.

When she fled Valenwood, a part of her itched with a need for adventure, for finding a broader world outside the walled-down fist of the Thalmor.

Oh, how torn she was now. Opposite pulls that threatened to tear her asunder and Saathel did not know which of the sides to lean for. Even in Skyrim, she had seen from between the cover of her beloved foliage those black-gold suits, heard the harsh Altmeri voices, so much slower than Bosmeri. More nasally, as if they spoke from above, instead of from the bones of the Earth. As if Y'ffre hadn't given them language but only a portion of its fumes instead. And they were high on those fumes, too.
Picking one over the other was impossible. An attempt was made every day when she woke, convincing herself that inaction was not a decision but a necessity. She couldn't pick where to be in a way that mattered anyway: the two worlds battled for the crown of Worst Case Scenario.
Skyrim was troubled, and she wanted no part of this dragon business. On its corner, Valenwood was like a lush forest in which some visitor introduced a mint sapling. Crushed under invasive weight.
Staying or leaving, she had everything to lose, including her faint ties to the Green, if any remained.

At least she would be free to wander the woods once these two lugs were left near the town.

It was all black for a second, and then Kyne's skies welcomed their sight. Two men left in a clumsy heap on the ground began to rub at their faces.

"My head… kills me."

The darker-haired one looked ill as he shifted his weight to one of his arms, propped himself up, and groaned.

"Hadvar, you smell like wet dog," the other, larger blond man complained. He wasn't much better off, but his brash disposition seemed to be forcing him to act natural. A fool's errand when everyone present knew he had just been out cold and somehow dragged through a cave.

"And you are covered in spider silk!"

As they came to, they scrambled away from one another, a curious gesture to prioritize instead of checking themselves for injuries. Saathel felt the familiar tug of her lips, smiling despite herself. "How in Oblivion did we end up here? The dragon—"

"I don't suppose we were carried back by one of your soldiers," the blond one spat. "Must have been the boys!"

The pitiful pair bickered for some length of time, woeful in their comfort, back and forth snapping their jaws with no real reason. They were alive, miraculously so! How one could end up with their priorities so mixed up was far beyond Saathel.

"Whatever it is, we should walk the rest of the way."

That brought her back to reality. The pair would soon be on the move and she wanted to at least have company with her the rest of the way, someone to hear of the pressing matters concerning the dragon in Helgen. Her voice would only be heard if she played her cards right.
Nords, she had been told by a sweetly aged voice before leaving the Green, only heard the language of Strength. The language of the Sword. Honor and Glory were important tenets to these cold-dwelling Men… she couldn't be further from that.
Fake it till you make it, right?

Swallowing her anxieties back, Saathel walked into the path. "Y'ffre's hairy tits, you look like shite! I told that man to be careful!"

At once, there were two pairs of eyes on her. So much for swallowing anxiety. "Were you the one that saved us?"

Think fast!

"Save? Psh! Hah, that's a big word. I saw you two in there and asked for help, then I picked my supplies." She circled them as their stares blinked in disbelief. With her gloved hand, she helped them to their feet one after the other. "Apparently, you can't trust the guards, eh? I wonder if the dragon got to 'em. Maybe they were too busy trying to warn the others…"
She was rambling, but she knew she would have less chances of being found out if she appeared unassuming, common, a normal, scared lass just trying to help.

"Ow. Ow. That thing is still here, somewhere," the one that had been called Hadvar complained. "We need… we need to get word to Whiterun."

Good. They had forgotten that she knocked them out like hogs before the slaughter. What remained now was ensuring they looked after their overly dense, absolutely graceless bodies. The way she dispatched and carried them could have left concussions! Saathel gave a close-lipped smile, cautious not to show her filed teeth.

"If y'two will follow along—"

"What we need is a mender, or if we're not quick enough, a priest of Arkay!" she was interrupted. Of course she was.

"Ralof…"

"What? Is your head not pounding like a troll on a keep wall?"

"Yes, but the dragon," Hadvar attempted to mediate. Saathel's lip curled up, threatening to show off her sharpened incisors.

"To Oblivion with the dragon, now I—"

"Good men!" Saathel cut them off not too diplomatically, clasping her hands and then slapping their shoulders. "Shall we reach Riverwood before the day ends?"

As it turns out, that was agreeable enough to the two concussed, bickering men. Shadows and cold frighten the weak. The sight of a familiar settlement, on the other hand, infused valor in their hearts. They'd need it.

Now that they could more or less walk on their own, Saathel didn't need to shift. She was comfortable outside the Wolf for the moment and didn't intend to leave the relative safety of a village before even arriving at it.

In hindsight that was probably a bad thing.

Chapter Text

Nords. They didn't care how much she squirmed, her many rejections of tea and mead were ignored, and Saathel had nowhere to run: a small feast had been made in her honor, despite her insisting that she hadn't saved anyone.
A small cohort of these overly familiar men and women had ushered her to one of their wooden halls, deployed a long table made of a young fir's corpse, and filled it with a banquet that occupied only wood implements and vessels. Save the occasional tin flagon, pot and kettle, of course. Its walls had nails from which to hang hunt-trophies —an irritating and wasteful practice— and weapons, which was perhaps more acceptable but did not sway the trunk of her despair. Warmth came from a fire smothered under many green logs, smoking the inside of the home, a detail none seemed to mind.

Once seated, comfortably imprisoned between a large man and an even larger lady, Saathel was treated like royalty.

As if.

They made certain to remark on her pointed ears and fiery hair, the color of her face paint and rustic make of her leather clothes. And all through that rough and awkward mingling she was supposed to act grateful and meek, anathema. It made both her and the Wolf stir in discomfort.

Friend, they called her. She was nobody's friend, especially not a friend to the people who supported either one or the other of her would-be executioners. Though, ever the pragmatist, she could pretend for the sake of a warm bite of fowl.

There was an earthly, fresh quality to it, something so unlike the usual deep and ashen of game. Tearing into it was way easier too, the fabric of its meat broken down by a slow boil over a number of hours, only to then be roasted alongside some odd tubers she did not touch.

"You liked the bird, eh?"
Saathel blinked her big eyes, humming through a mouthful. What does it fucking look like? "Mmyeah. Thanks, Gerdur."

They had explained both families to her in hurried introductions, and Saathel had attempted to retain most of it. At least, the names hadn't fled from her grips so far, and she could count that as a small victory over her, frankly put, monumental disinterest in the small town's affairs.

Sigrid was Hadvar's aunt —through marriage with a man named Alvor— and also Gerdur's worst nemesis, if her seething each time Saathel offered the other matriarch some gratitude was to be granted credibility. That both families did not get along would be an understatement: a feast with them was more of a crash course in Skyrim's unpleasant politics; and Saathel was the very unwilling star apprentice.

"What about the bread, lass?" Sigrid slid a brown loaf towards Saathel, cutting into its firm crust with a serrated knife, making a sound much like crunching bones.
Saathel's brow fell on her eyes. She kept chewing.

"Wood Elves don't eat bread."

Now the entirety of the dining table looked at one another as if she had said that Senches were a type of plant. Alvor ceased his chit-chat with Hadvar. The kids stopped bickering over whose dad had the best profession. Ralof closed his sister's gawking flat mouth with the back of his fist and leaned forward.

"Well, now, that just ain't true."

Though she wanted nothing more than to gasp and growl in frustration, Saathel attempted to keep the reins of the Wolf within her grasp. She counted the grain and grooves of the wooden table as if caressing an old friend.
"Don't look like a hangdog," Hod interrupted, patting her back with a too-large hand. "You know, I think someone in this town will wanna see you."

You couldn't trust the Gods to know why that brought a smile to everyone's faces.

The following part of the feast went by without any major complications for Saathel, discounting the mounted Elk's beady eyes staring at her from above the hearth. It was even more inhibiting than having a Nordsman's arm around her shoulders for some joke about the Thalmor "elven invaders". At least, she granted the man, they had that much in common.

It would seem not everyone present was of the same mind. Because of course they wouldn't be.

"I don't think you should call them that."

"Well, then, since you like elves so much, Hadvar," Ralof barked at the other man's attempt to smooth over the insult. "Why don't ya make 'em meet?"

Lightning in a phrase. A spell or blanket fell over the gathering, and it was one of silence.
Where a second ago words had been plentiful, now a fly's buzz was deafeningly loud; and it was all due to that sentence.
Though she wore her confusion clearly on her face, Saathel was not offered any manner of explanation: things wrapped up soon, and with Jone and Jode high in the sky, she was finally led outside.

"What was that 'bout? Who are you gonna make meet?"
Her demands fell on quite the deaf ear. Maybe she wasn't intimidating enough, measuring up to the Nord's shoulder at most. Maybe he wasn't in the mood to talk, despite his easy smile.

"You'll see," was all she could get from Hadvar before his heavy footsteps stopped right before an inn. The Sleeping Giant.

She narrowed her eyes at the sign etched in crude Tamrielic. Everything was in Tamrielic in this place. With a sigh, she found her thoughts wandering back to the days of her childhood, when Bosmeris was heard all around. When they weren't forced to read and write in pieces of paper, like carpenter ants leaving their grooves in wood.

"Come on in."

Led by Hadvar's hand on her back —and beatifically allowing him to keep it in one piece—, Saathel stepped into the loud, bright inn and… admittedly enjoyed the environment. At least his human companion wasn't smiling mockingly.
There were torches everywhere. Lard lanterns with playful embers on each table. A brazier in the middle, behind which a pale bard did something resembling music.

"Who's your friend, Hadvar?" asked the man at the bar, a weary looking one who, recognition due, was trying his best for a smile.

Her chaperone deferred that question to Saathel.
"Why don't you ask her yourself?"

At least she could speak for her own person instead of being assumed little more than the man's latest pet girl; if Hadvar was even that type.

"Saathel," she said, an absent look about her as she pondered about his love life in the middle of introductions. Not that he didn't seem the type to like women; rather, Hadvar looked the part of a once married man who had run out of luck and let the furs grow cold.

"Welcome to Riverwood, Saathel. I'm Orgnar. You need anything, you ask me, alright? The owner, Delphine, can help you get settled in a room, and—"

A fur-gloved hand waved in front of the man's face, near toppling over a mug of ale. "That won't be necessary. Thanks for the hospitality, but I've a place to sleep already." Of course none of her tenets forbid finding said place later, even if she had to climb a tree for it.
Luckily for her, Hadvar didn't seem to care and kept his nose to himself.

So, was that all? The reason for the conspiratory looks her hosts had exchanged after insisting she meet someone at the inn, was it this graying man cleaning mugs with an old rag?

No exploration of Hadvar's face proved useful, considering it was buried deep into frothy ale. Saathel's lips wrinkled despite herself as the repugnant stench of cereal ferment filled her nose and pierced her best attempts to keep the back of her palate closed, so she would not have to know of death and harvest.

"Don't like ale?" came a clear voice from right next to her.
Saathel would have liked to boast recognition, say the melodious lilt of that phrase was telling of a Boiche displaced, just as herself, from the embrace of Green covenant.
But she had run out of lies for the day.

Unconcerned thusly, she did what she could, and spat her words at the stranger without even turning her face, assuming another Nord man was mesmerized by her exotic ways.
"What? Don't you know?"

The answer was what revealed this speaker as one of her people.
"Oh, come on. I've been here for shy of a damn decade, I would have gone insane."

Saathel watched him then, lifting her head over Hadvar's chuckling form, able to look at the man's face.
It embarrassed her, how seeing a familiar set of features in an unfamiliar land warmed her guts like a sip of running honey. And, yes, honey was indeed permitted. Her settlement's Spinner had been very clear.

Eyes of its very color, a liquid amber lit from within to frame the delicate spokes of cross-shaped pupils. An advantage in the hunt, those eyes could spot moving prey farther than any mer and were superior to Khajiiti and Saxhleel sight alike. And just as well aged he was, with grooves printed into his skin that collected its tan color to frame freckled cheeks. He was one to laugh, those lines told her, but also to frown and scream, and hold his forehead taut in moments of pause.

She was all too forgiving, dipping her head in suspended judgement as the stranger indicated the weary man at the bar to bring them a round of Jagga, which apparently he had managed to introduce into the town, to his credit.

Already she warmed up to anyone who knew of her preferences. The fermented drink was far too unsavory to be made in the Valenwood, and she hadn't caught sight of the keg or skin or bottle that contained it, though it would probably be unlabeled either way.
Despite the brewer's obvious lack of skill, she could do with losing herself for a split second, and downed glass after glass with no care for the price. Having Nords who owed her had its upsides.

So time passed and they spoke without exchanging names. A time-honored custom said that names were unneeded when the night was soon to lift, leaving those in her cover to forget about one another. Hadvar was focused on something else too, leaving Saathel free to run a near liter of the stuff down her throat at his expense. That made things easier.

Eventually, and as they discussed in Bosmeris the differences between this land and Valenwood, the mer Saathel had been speaking with turned to his right and switched languages to snort out something like, "I never liked the meat mandate anyway."

His lips drew in a small pout, conspiratorial. Oh. He hoped she would agree.

At any other time, she would have found it amusing, but as the only two Bosmer in a plain of Men, he had committed an offense his cast could not save him from. The Wolf spoke before Saathel could, voice curling into a low gurgle of disgust.

"Salad muncher."

The entire inn fell silent. Even the bard held his strings and caws when the Mer stood from his stool. One could stand to reason that they were adept slur-slingers, recognizing a pejorative term at the drop of a hat. Of course only the Bosmer among them knew the true depth of that term.

"What did you just call me?"

Saathel pushed her own stool back and stood, eyeing him from the angle her height afforded.

"You heard me."

Chapter Text

Swift on her feet, Saathel's reflexes alerted her of a shove that could have landed her sad behind right on the brazier. The second she was burned, the odious smell would become known to those around her. Then, she would finally have overstayed her welcome; for that reason she thanked every dexterous god for her nimble avoidance.

An avoidance which, of course, didn't mean she couldn't retaliate.

Left fist. Right swing, up. Snagging on his hair, pulling. She was determined to coax the cornered beast from him.

Still, despite her apparent enthusiasm, a drunk bar brawl was the last thing Saathel expected to be involved in when she agreed with some reluctance to approach the inn and its regulars. She enjoyed letting out some of her spirit, truly, she did; but making enemies was well beyond the scope of her little adventure. An adventure which, by the way, she still wasn't fully consenting to.

The dragon's threat continued to preside over their heads and hardly anyone present took a moment off of making merry to remember. Maybe two Bosmer fighting would ease the burden of familiarity. Remind them she was not a tourist. She was there as a living memento of something foul. They ought to pay attention to her.

Hard to be taken seriously when one measured up to the shortest man's sternum at best. Next time, she would have a scribe send a missive in her name, and hopefully the written word supplied what she lacked in legitimacy.

Perhaps she would have spared herself a black eye that way.

Around them the rising specks of concern blended with the inn's chatting. Hadvar's voice pleaded once or twice. An older woman tried to stand in the middle of the pair, but she was held back by someone who warned in a gritty voice: "They're feral."

While leaping towards the other Bosmer, she briefly wondered how he dealt with it. Was he mistreated or dismissed, assumed less civilized? Was he used to it? She growled in his face, showing off all her filed teeth, and delighted when his angular nose wrinkled. Just as he had lodged his hand under her jaw to keep her from attacking, the sound of steel made itself heard from the door.

Heavy footfalls and unsheathing of a blade. They had called the guards.

"Trouble-makin' little elves. I expected it from an outsider, but you, Faendal?"

Saathel pulled at his wrist, struggled against the vice that kept her jaws half open like a hound who wouldn't release its quarry. The wet slide of saliva from the corners of her taut lips made him shiver in disgust. Meanwhile, the guard circled them, each footfall wrestling for their attention. Faendal, so his name seemed to be, didn't let go of her cheeks. The guard drew closer and with his approach her adrenaline died down. Small though the town may be, they possibly had a cell with her name on it. Perhaps even an executioner, eager to split an outsider's head from an outsider's body.

When the guard gripped the back of her hood, Faendal released her face. An ugly bruise would soon form there, no doubt, but the red on his scalp from all the hair pulling and his own tender nose spoke of an even match.

Saathel was lifted off the ground like a Senche cub, and she had not the energy to gnash her jaws one last time before being brought to level with the guard's evil little eyes. Those beady things squinted at her, and she soon realized Faendal was getting the same treatment. Embarrassing, demeaning.

"Sober up outside, you don't get to come back in a tenday!"

Well, that was a soft-handed punishment.

None of these people would last an hour in the Green, that was evident.

At the wooden porch they were even, twin failures exiled from drink and company. Embarrassment was the great equalizer, and Saathel was mortified, yet contorting in involuntary giggles.

"Are you happy? You got us kicked out."

His cheeks were red, his brow bent like a cane and he seemed to be chewing on his own cheek like a ruminant. Though it wasn't much, the scolding brought Faendal down… Saathel was unfortunately not the sort to look her own mistakes in the eye. Even less was she the sort to apologize to a stranger for them.

"Gotta admit that was right funny, the way that guard picked us up like kitt'ns."

She closed both hands into loose fists in front of her chest.

"What… what are you doing?" It was too late for Faendal. The drunken way she imitated a cat rubbed off any lingering upset, and he snorted— he actually snorted at Saathel, causing her to cackle louder.

No shadows interrupted their sky anymore. Nothing could break Saathel's spirit, not even Nord guards or the anchoring glances cast from the occasional patron who returned home for the night.

"Look, 's fine if you're eatin' leafy greens 'round here, I won't judge. Honest," she slurred, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Just don't try t’get me to agree, alright?"

It wasn't an apology, they both knew that, but like a strainer couldn't allow a rock passage, she would not yield or show her neck. A tut and a flash of grey made it clear enough. Faendal understood. They had solved the bad blood, it only pooled underneath the skin on their sore faces like a reminder.

Silence embraced the pair like a foggy blanket in the cold air, dew coalescing minimally into suspended crystals stinging their faces with an adder's mettle.

Faendal flinched, sinking into himself. Unlike Saathel, he wasn't all too dressed for the weather.

"C'mere, fur is large enough."

He was unlikely to accept the kindness she had decided to extend, unlikelier to even look past her ill-fitting furs and decide he could nest in their warmth; but he did. Finally able to rest her senses, adrenaline died down and she took a moment to assess him properly. He smelled of timber, and it did not bode well. Saathel found herself at the edge of pity and shame.

"They don't like our sort 'round here," She started, moving to a side so he could cover himself with her cloak.

"You don't say," Faendal snorted, blowing warm air into his hands and rubbing them together.

"Mmh-hmm, and I'll make them hate me."

His amber eyes went dark, almost lifeless for a second. It scared Saathel how eerily similar he looked to that mare she had killed earlier. Like an open flame, it spread; she knew the name of the emotion that tangled with her thoughts when death and the waking world mingled in such a way. The bruise on his face was already an angry red.

He shook his head. "Not a good idea. If they hate you, they'll do anything to make you feel unwelcome. Trust me."

If she looked at it enough, there was a thread begging to be pulled there. One of history, ready to see the light. Just a question was required, and Saathel was drunk enough to pry: "Sounds like experience."

His expression continued on its darkened course. Anything to see it lighten, anything but the touch of a mage.

"Well, I made myself an enemy. Sven, the bard in there—" Saathel interrupted him with a too-tardy smirk, gesturing her hands along.

"Nord plucking the strings like he's fingerin' a lass?"

A loud snort, more giggles shared under that pelt. Sometimes beating up a stranger was a good conversation starter.

"Y— Hah! Don't say it like that. I'd rather not have to picture that." Once Faendal could calm his breathing down, he sighed, shook his head, and continued. "We fancy the same woman, Camilla, the Trader’s sister. He's made my life here miserable ever since I started courting her."

An owl passed soundlessly over their heads, the night hunter casting a shadow on them when its wings hid the moon. Saathel grinned. Inspired by its flight, she too could be silent and deadly.

"Court ‘er harder and better. Or set ‘im up for failure."

She didn't even need to suggest that, apparently. Faendal's eyes glittered, alight with energy and scheming once more. To be in pursuit of one's desires… always, the sweetest part of the hunt is the chase itself. She knew that to be true even when dealing with heart-hunts. For his part, Faendal looked to agree.

He wet his lips, cast a glance towards the dying lights of the tavern, and smirked.

"They don't know you… Think you could help me with that?"