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Deia pocketing her flask of Rotmeth hardly fazed Yarmira; she barely had a concept of personal possessions, with her tribe constantly stealing from one another in a sort of never-ending game. She would steal it back later, perhaps with a few other things as well, though Yarmira wasn't sure what else she could take from the tall woman. She wasn't quite as talented as her brothers and sisters, who could steal the clothes off of someone while they slept. But Yarmira would find something. 

What [i]did[/i] disturb the young Bosmer was Deia's [i]refusal[/i] to share her story. It was unthinkable. Unimaginable. To tell one's tale was to honor Y'ffre, the Great Singer, to breathe life into the world as He did in the days when nothing held a true form. Spinning stories anchored them to this world, ensured their wisdom and deeds would be remembered long after they were gone. A Bosmer with no story was like a tree with no roots. It spoke to a life wasted, or a life of shame. Perhaps, Yarmira considered, this Deia had been exiled from her tribe, and sought to hide this dishonor.

She shook her head in pity as Deia threw herself against the bars of their prison, forgetting that she herself had exhibited a similar frenzy moments ago. Yarmira realized she misjudged Deia, and more importantly, the subject of her wrath. The Bosmer listened intently to Isai, fixing her dark eyes on him. She understood little of what he actually said, but the man possessed the qualities of a powerful Spinner. A lilting voice, engaging presence, and a deep knowledge of the world around them; certainly greater than her own, judging by the authority with which he spoke. Yarmira decided she could learn much from this strange man. From his story, she pieced together that a great chieftain named Emperor had captured them here, and would pass judgement on his captives by tomorrow. A strange custom, but this was a strange land. Yarmira decided she would parlay with this Emperor, offer her services as a huntress in exchange for freedom from this snare. Kiffar-Nir'thal seemed unwilling or unable to assist in their escape. This did not surprise Yarmira. The big cats of Valenwood were known for their mercurial temperament, flitting from one desire to the next with the changing of the wind. It was not her place to command him. But she suspected it was a test. A way to see if Yarmira was still worthy of his guidance.

Yarmira was planning her petition to this chieftain when a horrendous cacophony echoed through the halls, like some thunderstorm that threatened to tear the world asunder. More not-Mer in carapace armor came into view, only theirs was not dull and dented but colored and brilliant; the markings of a great warrior, Yarmira suspected. The fighters were confronted by some beast that walked on two legs but wore the face of a demon. They made quick work of this creature, working in tandem like a pack of fierce wolves. Yarmira watched on, transfixed, as one emerged from their ranks. There was no doubt in her mind. This was Emperor, the Mighty Chieftain of the White Tree. White-haired and wise, draped in the fur of some unknown yet surely powerful beast, and surrounded by strong war-makers. Yarmira's plan of entering his service fell apart immediately in her head; what use was she to a being of such immense power? And yet he spoke of his dreams, dreams which brought them together. Yarmira, too, had visions of this strange place. Such a thing could not be coincidence, but the will of the Singer. They were under attack, and fate brought them here. There was no doubt in her mind. With a reverential bow, Yarmira stated her oath. 

[color=00FF7F]"My bow is yours, Emperor, my teeth and blade. My blood, if the Story wills it,"[/color] the young Bosmer said breathlessly. All her visions, all her dreams, leading to this moment. [color=00FF7F]"May Y’ffre weave this vow into the story of the world, and may my service be as steadfast as the oak, until the winds shift and the tale turns anew. So long as I draw breath, these red demons will not harm you."[/color] If she had a knife, Yarmira would have sliced open her palm and bled into Emperor's mouth to seal this pact, but from the way his warriors looked at her, she suspected this would not be well-received. She was slowly learning that her customs might not be shared by every being in the world. A difficult concept for her. 

Others sought their belongings upstairs, but if these armored behemoths were fleeing from there, what chance did they have with naught but their fangs? Yarmira followed the others into the tunnel, confident that she could find something suitable to defend Emperor along the way. Such was the way of her people. Her eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness, accustomed to the perpetual twilight that Valenwood's thick canopy created, only to be blinded moments later by a brilliant flash of light summoned into a mage's hand. [color=00ff7f]"I hope your claws are as sharp as they were the last time we crossed paths, Kiffar-Nirthal,"[/color] Yarmira said as they marched deeper into the bowels of the earth.