Despite having been sucker punched enough times to crook the tip of his nose downwards in the past, Sadri had nonetheless found the assassin’s fist quite debilitating, and one to remember amongst the countless ones he had received, even after the whole encounter with the assassins had blown over. He couldn’t help but think whether they had a maximum size requirement for assassins, and whether the gargantuan fellow who had punched him was qualified to be one. As far as he knew, assassins were supposed to be quiet, or at the very least, unassuming. This fellow seemed more likely to burst through a wall and then hack at you with a claymore. ‘’Assassin my ass,’’ Sadri thought, as he slowly pulled himself from his prone position to sit down. His bad eye was practically blind with all the blood pooled in it after the punch, but he felt too tired to take out Mora and let him feed.
Had he been younger, he would’ve felt ashamed for not being able to take out the hulking assassin. But, at 75 years of age, even though his body was young for mer, he had experienced enough to feel old, old enough not to get ashamed, at least. He had experienced firsthand fucking up and feeling ashamed, then having to bury the witnesses. His forehead ached still from the aggressive collision, and he could feel blood dripping from his nose, onto his lips. He licked his lips to clean them momentarily and warm his mouth with some blood.
Not having the noticed the Khajiit walking by and sitting at his side, Sadri was somewhat startled to see an offering of honey. Following Do’Karth’s words, Sadri looked at the jar of honey blankly. ‘’And appreciate it, I do. I just prefer a different kind of sugar.’’ The fellow sounded somewhat melancholic, almost as if they were sharing a common sorrow. Sadri did have much time to pay it much mind, however, since Solveig came around to lift the old fellow. The feeling of her bare arm on her shoulders sent a certain type of warmth through Sadri’s body – the elusive sort of warmth, one that couldn’t be attained through blankets. He saw a sad smile on Solveig’s face, which felt like coals in Sadri’s stomach.
‘’My thanks.’’
Sadri could not blame her for being flat. To Sadri, Solveig looked sensible, crazy, but sensible, and Sadri himself knew what he did wasn’t sensible. It did not require unnecessary celebration, or emotion. He felt like replying to her ‘’My pleasure,’’ but felt that would be too lame. Plus, he wasn’t in the mood for joking. He simply enjoyed the awkward moment with Solveig’s arm on her shoulder, then eventually decided to reply ‘’Anytime,’’ although his reply was a hollow one, much like the rest of his day.
-
The blackened bonemold vambrace held in his hand reminded Sadri of his days of raiding in the Black Marsh. Of course, back then, he hadn’t known that the Nerevarine was plotting with the Akaviri to take over, so he had worn his armor with a sense of pride, bearing his kinsmen’s remains to battle, them protecting him with the last physical remains of themselves. But now, Sadri felt betrayed – betrayed by the Nerevarine, the man for whose cause (and, admittedly, a lack of goal in life and monetary problems) he had committed some of the slightly more despicable acts in his life, and thus, the armor stripped from his men felt hostile to him. Whose bones this armor was made from, he did not know, but considering that they were either made from slaves, who would have rightfully hated him in life, or House retainers, who would’ve felt disdain against this sacrilegious Dunmer for bearing their remains despite no longer working for one of their houses – the possibility of animal bones was not considered by Sadri, who had a preference for romanticism, and a plausible assumption that such prestigious soldiers would not be given bonemold of a lesser material – it was only normal that he’d feel the spite of the remains he was currently holding.
‘’Best to get rid of it,’’ one part of his mind thought, but on the other hand, he also felt angry at the Armigers for trying to kill his companions. Sadri was aware that his anger wasn’t righteous, considering that it was only pure coincidence that had put him amongst the mercenaries and not the Armigers, but nonetheless, he could not deny his feelings, and thus, momentarily enjoyed the feeling of spite. As seconds passed, though, his spite waned, and with it Sadri’s willingness to hold onto the bonemold. Damn thing had a weird smell anyway. He dropped it alongside the rest of the group’s gatherings, and sat down by the fire in the cave, waiting for the sun to rise.
-
Marcel had taken a liking to the comfortable temperature of the cave, and thus, felt a tinge of sorrow in his heart, almost a reminder of when he was taken from his mother’s womb, as the group set off. Having felt an urge to be one of the navigators thanks to the maps in his possession, Marcel had positioned himself towards the front end of the column, where he could hopefully help the company not get lost in the unforgiving colds of northern Skyrim. Back when he was younger and traveling with his mentor, Diarmid, he would often end up leading the duo through longer routes, much to his mentor’s chagrin, but after years of experience, he had at least become capable at reading maps.
Still, in this deathly cold, even in his greatcoat and boots, his hands shivered too much for him to be able to read the maps properly. Silently, he followed the lead of the others, occasionally looking to see if they had gotten lost – which, he felt, they had. Marcel pulled down his kolpak and buried his head deeper underneath the upturned collars of his greatcoat, squinting to keep the snow from getting into his eyes. As he moved, hand clenching to the map, and snow nesting upon his coat, eyebrows and cap, he chose to feel that he was like a great tree, bearing the brunt of winter, hoping to find some warmth in the childishness of this thought. Had the weather allowed him to, he would have lit his lantern, but now Marcel was glad he hadn’t, for the unrelenting blizzard would have rendered the act useless.
Following the Khajiit’s footsteps to the best of his ability, and trying not to get thrown off balance by the flying pieces of scenery and the angry gusts (Marcel was quite sure someone in the Company had cursed the Earth Bones, for them to be so unforgiving against him and the rest of the poor souls caught in this gargantuan shroud), he huffed out a sigh of relief that turned the caking of snow on his beard into drips of water. As his feet plunged in and out of snow with each step, he remembered his mentor Diarmid’s advice to him. ‘’Never be afraid of spending coin for good clothes,’’ the old man had said, as he compared leather boots in a shoemaker’s store, ‘’But don’t be extravagant with them either. Clothes that attract attention won’t stay with you for long.’’ The man had then bought dark red leather boots, twice-treated with oil, with knee-high shafts lined on the inside with velvet. He had taken that advice to heart, and now could congratulate himself for doing so, for his clothes were doing one hell of a job keeping him safe from the cold. Nonetheless, he could feel his body temperature dropping further and further, and having to use one of his swords’ scabbards as a support meant that he was getting weaker. He threw glances at the leading Khajiit’s silhouette occasionally, trying not to lose sight of him.
‘’This one smells fungus! There’s a cave ahead!’’
Marcel found in himself renewed vigor upon the mention of fungus. He hadn’t eaten mushroom in a while. They went really good with melted cheese.
-
‘’They’re coming outta the walls! They’re coming outta the goddamn walls!’’
Sadri did not exactly remember who had uttered that, but the sight of Falmer and Chaurus had ended up reminding him of that quote, and his youthful days – then again, it was hard to find something that didn’t remind Sadri of his younger days – which had ended up filling him with energy normally not seen in the mer. Of course, the fact that they were under attack probably had something to do with it as well, but one way or another, the scarred mer, experienced in fighting in close quarters after years of stabbing at Dwemer vestiges who weren’t happy with his friends dismantling them for scrap, moved out quickly despite having recently survived the cold, into the fray.
As the Dunmer moved, quickly but cautiously towards the danger, he could not help but notice the fighters, those being Sevine, struggling with a Chaurus, and, once again, Solveig. Sadri was old and had seen enough, and thus, was not likely to repeat a mistake, but more importantly, he was a fool, a self-aware fool. And thus, once more, knowingly, and begrudgingly, Sadri lunged in quixotically next to Sevine, his backsword crushing down onto the creature’s black, glassy mandibles. A crack, this time audible, marked the strike, and Sadri, quicker than his last fight, struck again, not giving the creature any time to breathe, this time landing his sword’s edge in the beast’s mouth.
With the strike, the giant insect recoiled, and Sadri, hoping that the third time would be the charm, struck down again, finally cracking open the plate above the head of the chaurus. He spat into the creature’s wound, his bad eye bloodied further under the stress, and swung another downwards strike, chopping into the cracked plate, and coming out the side of the beast’s mouth, having cloven right through. He turned to give an affirming look to Sevine, only to turn when he was shaken by a slight thud in his arm. Looking out, saw an arrow sticking out, with its tip stinging against his shoulder. It had been unable to go through all of the armor on Sadri, and thus stood an annoyance as Sadri turned to the wretched archer who had let loose this arrow, and charged forward with a frustrated huff, his poor form matching only his effectiveness in mocking refined martial arts.
Spoopy Scary,
ButtsnBalls,
Naril
