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 did disturb the young Bosmer was Deia's refusal 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.
"My bow is yours, Emperor, my teeth and blade. My blood, if the Story wills it," the young Bosmer said breathlessly. All her visions, all her dreams, leading to this moment. "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." 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. "I hope your claws are as sharp as they were the last time we crossed paths, Kiffar-Nirthal," Yarmira said as they marched deeper into the bowels of the earth.
The Bosmer accepted Kiffar's praise eagerly, their chest lifting as if filled with the breath of the Green itself. He delayed their escape from this dark place, waiting for "dinner," a concept utterly foreign to her. She did understand his demand for meat, though.
"It… It brings me shame to confess the hunting in this land has been poor for me," Yarmira confessed as she trailed in the Khajiit’s wake. "The quarry is fleet of foot and sharp-eyed, the air restless and shifting, the Green sparse and strange. The great grazing beasts would be easy prey, so docile they are, but it is too much for one Bosmer to devour alone. You look well fed, Kiffar-Nir'thal; perhaps you could teach me to hunt these forests?" The mere thought of stalking prey side-by-side with the feline behemoth sent a wave of warmth through her; a return to familiarity in this far place.
Yarmira squatted beside Kiffar, greeting the dark-skinned, round-eared not-Mer by tapping her heart with two fingers three times. ”Green’s blessing, Darmon-thing,” Yarmira said, following Kiffar’s example. ”I am called Yarmira.” She briefly considered adding more to her name like this Isai-Tegulatoris-Sutris-Armaseptus-da-Leyawiin-Esquire did, but decided his example might not be the best to follow.
She tried to follow the conversation, but there was simply too much she did not understand. The accused shit-drinker was hardest to comprehend of all. Yarmira settled with just studying their features. They were all so different from her people. She’d known they were out there, of course. Y’ffre showed them to her through dreams. But seeing the green pig-Mer in the flesh, the scaly lizard-Mer, even the round-eared Mer still befuddled her. Had they also been pulled from the Ooze and given shape by The Singer?
Yarmira chaffed at Kiffar’s suggestion that the mad woman eat this chatty round-eared Mer. She thought of the rivers that ran through the Green, and the ravenous fish that travelled in cloud-like swarms down its currents. If one’s razor-sharp scales brushed a passing creature, be it a wading Bosmer or one of their number, the fish would descend into a toothy frenzy that would end until only one remained. Should that happen here, Yarmira had no doubt that the only ones left standing would be Kiffar and herself. But the Green Pac would demand they strip the flesh from the bones of their fallen prey, gorge themselves, and make use of their remains. That could take days. She wasn’t particularly hungry, and couldn’t think of a purpose for all the tendon and sinew and bone in the room. Blood, she decided, must not be shed.
Yarmira watched the dark-haired crone as she might a dangerous predator. Her magic set the Bosmer’s teeth on edge. She had seen its likeness only in the sky, a brilliant and dangerous light painting the jungle floor in ghostly flashes. To harness it in one’s hand was unnatural. The stink of rot and death and decay lingered around her, an inescapable miasma that the huntress could detect even in this fetid place. Yarmira was reminded of their tribe’s outcasts, banished for breaking the Green Pact. She would see them beyond the village, driven mad from their isolation. Without their tribe, their family, they were nothing, and had nothing to lose. They were dangerous. And yet Yarmira pitied them, for she knew what it was to be one set apart.
The Bosmer stood and put herself between the witch and her would-be meal, trusting Kiffar to protect her should the crone use their fiendish magics. ”This prey is beneath you,” Yarmira said, her stance loose and easy. ”A better hunt could be had crushing bugs under our feet,” the Bosmer suggested, flashing a wild and feral smile at Isai. “We shall soon be rid of this place, and have our pick of prizes yet again. A wolf does not stay caged for long. This pest is not worth the effort.” In truth, Yarmira suspected there was more to this Isai than he led on, but she kept these thoughts to herself. She studied the woman’s features; the harsh visage echoed in her mind, and the hazy image of wild hair and blunted teeth sinking into flesh came to her.
“Tell me, how does one as untamed as you find themselves trapped in this snare?” Yarmira produced from within her cloak a small leather flask, uncorked the bone stopper, and tossed it to the witch. The astringent smell of fermented meat and alcohol wafted from the flask’s mouth. Rotmeth, a Bosmer delicacy that was both potent and pungent. A peace offering, perhaps, or a challenge of fortitude.
Something orange, black, and furry sat crumpled in the prison cell's corner.
A Khajiit, perhaps. It wouldn't be the first cat of Elswyr to land in the Imperial City's dungeons, and certainly not the last. The cell's occupants were more concerned with tending to their own wounds than waking some drunken Suthay. They had claws, after all, and might use them.
The creature stirred and gathered itself on all fours, arching its back before settling upright on its hindquarters. No beast, this, but a Bosmer. Only one step removed from an animal in the eyes of civilized Imperials. She pulled the Senche-Tiger cloak around her tightly in the cold, dank cave, rubbing the massive and tender knot on the back of her head.
The taste of blood sat in her mouth, both her own and traces of another's. Her vision was blurred in one eye, the flesh around it swelling up fat and purple. Her stomach, shrunken from weeks of little food, was full, though of what she did not know. And to make matters worse, someone had stolen all her things; perhaps they would return her weapons later and demand a ransom, as was tradition with the Right of Theft.
Yarmira didn't quite remember how she'd gotten here, but that didn't bother her. She'd forgotten things before. What troubled the young Bosmer was that there she didn't know how to get out of this cold, dark place. Yarmira slowly rose, and for the first time felt the cold bite of iron on her hands and wrists. She looked down at the lifeless roots that bound her, restricting her movement to a meager shuffle, rattling as she went. Yarmira made her way around the small room, slipping between drunk and wounded giants. She steered clear of the reptilian ones bearing scales, though; they looked hungry, and she didn't have her daggers. Yarmira climbed the far wall where pale moonlight poured through a small window, but it was blocked by what looked like dead vines. She gripped them, tried to wrench the things free, but they did not budge. They were cold and hard and lifeless, like everything else in this alien place.
Heat crept up in her chest as Yarmira squirmed through the press of bodies to the other side of the cavern. More dead vines blocked her way, and through them she saw men and women in strange black carapaces.
"Green's breath to you, friends!" She called out to them in her lilting, singsong voice, panic creeping in at the edges. "We're trapped in this den; could you please help us escape?" The guards either ignored her or laughed, but Yarmira didn't know what was funny about this. She asked several more times, her requests growing more frantic with each breath until she was screaming at them, cursing their ancestors. Yarmira slammed her antlers against the vines in an attempt to break free, but they just rang out with a hollow gong and exacerbated her growing headache.
A harsh, mocking voice came from across the hall. She looked up to see a dark-skinned, red-eyed demon.
"Well, well, a savage little Wood Elf. So far from your precious trees, aren't you? Looks like the days of wandering the green glades are behind you," The thing said, voice dripping with venom. "From the shade of Valenwood to a filthy cage like this... it's almost pitiful. Those walls, they must be pressing in on you, aren't they? Soon enough, madness will creep in; nothing grows here, you know. Then the hunger. That's right, no meat on the menu here. You're going to starve to death in here, little Wood Elf. Die!"
She fell onto her back, chest rising and falling quickly like a snared deer in its last moments. The air felt thick, unmoving, pressing down on her like damp earth over a buried seed that would never sprout.
Yarmira thought of a story their Spinner once told her. Long ago, a tribe of Bosmer fell to Hircine's dark influence. They changed their form into that of animals and stalked the jungle, devouring everything in their path like a swarm of locusts. One day, as they travelled to new hunting grounds, the forest floor fell out from beneath their paws and they tumbled into a deep, dark cave. Try as they might, the shapeshifters could not claw their way out. As hunger grew in their bellies, Hircine's beasts turned on one another in a cannibalistic frenzy, until only one was left, and they eventually withered away to nothing.
Yarmira couldn't remember the moral of the story. Maybe it was don't fall into holes. All she could think of was the strange people in this chamber turning on each other for food, and how she would be the last one left to starve in this place untouched by the Green. Had she offended Y'ffre? Broken the Green Pact? Was this her punishment?
No, Yarmira told herself as she sat upright. You are Y'ffre's Chosen. The Great Spinner would never abandon you. Do not despair. With renewed spirit, Yarmira set about destroying the cold roots that bound her hands. She worked the tip of an antler into one of the rotten brown links and began twisting until it popped loose with a satisfying ping. The incessant mocking from the red-eyed devil came to a sudden halt. She laughed with triumph and started setting about on those that bound her ankles together when there was a terrible screeching that sent shivers up Yarmira's spine.
Across the narrow hall, a great orange tiger tore his way through the dead vines that kept them trapped. Yarmira watched in amazement as it prowled forth upon two legs like a Bosmer. It was the spirit of the very same Senche-Tiger whose pelt she now wore. It had to be. Returned to the waking world by Y'ffre's will to serve as her protector.
She called out using the name she bestowed upon the tiger just before loosing the arrow which ended his life, as all her people did during their right of passage. "Nir'thal, over here!" she cried, but the tiger didn't even look at her; he just walked on by.
Strange.
Moments later, though, Nir'thal returned, flanked by the men in black carapace. The vines opened and closed, and suddenly she was face-to-face with the tiger who almost took her life as a child.
Nir'thal spoke, low and growling, introducing himself with a name alien to her. Kiffar. Perhaps he hadn't cared for the one she gave him; it meant "crowned hunter" in the ancient Bosmer tongue, which she thought was fitting for such a noble creature. She wondered what his new name meant. Yarmira ran up to the towering cat and beamed up at him, her sharp white teeth gleaming, large black eyes full of admiration. It was like seeing an old friend, though he looked quite different in this new body Y'ffre gave him. She bowed as deeply and gracefully as she could with her feet still bound.
"Kiffar-Nir'thal," Yarmira said excitedly, combining both names, "It is an honor to see you again! You were a powerful adversary, and you will be pleased to know that no part of you was left untouched, as The Singer commands. I used your bones to create a beautiful flute, your sinew for bowstring, and your hide, as you see, has kept me warm and dry in my travels." At this, Yarmira spun around to show the Senche-Tiger his own skin that she wore on her back. The Bosmer almost hugged the massive cat, so happy was she to see a familiar face in this strange place, but did not want to offend such a proud beast.
"What a beautiful vessel Y'ffre has given you, Kiffar-Nir'thal! Did The Singer sent you forth to aid me, as my spirit guardian? I will not lie, I am ready to be free of this evil place." Yarmira stepped away from the lifeless vines, ready for Kiffar to rip them away.
Name: Yarmira Age: 60 (20 in pathetically short lives of men) Race: Bosmer Appearance
Yarmira is a hulking behemoth. Standing at a staggering 5’2, she towers above all the men in her home, and most of the women too. Powerful. Strong. Lithe. Feminine. At least, that’s how those in the village see her. To the untrained Imperial eye, Yarmira is a diminutive, scrappy little thing of unknown gender. Bosmer are like that. She is bow-legged from a life spent wrapped around tree limbs. Combined with her predatory hunched posture, the Bosmer’s prowling gait is animalistic and strange. Yarmira’s neck is unusually muscular, and her left shoulder is noticeably more toned than the other from drawing her bow. The Bosmer’s frame is sleek and narrow, with pale skin from living beneath a dense jungle canopy. Deep red tattoos that resemble war paint run across much of her body; smears, handprints, and depictions of forest creatures like prehistoric cave paintings. Her body is criss-crossed with long, dark, slashing scars, the skin raised along these knotted streaks of flesh. She jokingly calls these her tiger stripes. Yarmira’s long hair is meticulously kept; she combs her locks incessantly and braids it with the help of small animal bones. The Bosmer’s face is almost androgynous with sharp features, a prominent nose, and massive, dark eyes with a nearly nonexistent sclera. She has full lips which hide large, sharp canine teeth. Yarmira’s greatest pride is her huge rack. Though they shed every spring, her most recent antlers have grown to a brilliant eight points.
Personality
There was a time when Yarmira thought she knew all there was to know, that the world began and ended with the endless green of Valenwood’s tangled boughs. She knew every beast’s call, every hidden path, every secret place where the trees bent just so to let the light spill through. However, her dreams always hinted at something more. Something beyond. They brought her out of the jungle and into the world, and now the curiosity from her youth has been reignited. She wants to learn everything there is to know about this place beyond the forest.
Because of her waking dreams, Yarmira believes she was chosen by Y’ffre. For what purpose she does not know, but her dreams proved to be real, and so she trusts The Great Spinner is at work. The Senche-Tiger was her first challenge and she knows more are to come. Unsurprisingly, Yarmira adheres strictly to the Green Pact. She will go out of her way to protect the natural world and would give her life to do so. She sees it not as a burden, but a law of existence, as natural as breathing. She has yet to meet anyone who doesn’t live by the Green Pact. In fact, she assumes everyone does. Yarmira does not shy away from violence, but isn’t fond of unnecessary killing. Not for any moral reasons, mind you, but the Green Pact requires her to use every part of fallen foes. If Yarmira spares an enemy, it is likely she just isn’t hungry.
Despite all her wildness, Yarmira is a nimble weaver of words. She possesses a bright, piping voice that winds through the trees like birdsong. She tells stories eagerly and with great pleasure - of the spirits in the leaves, of the hunters who came before, of the city of stone she sees in her sleep. Sometimes, she wonders if her own tale is already written, her path laid before her by The Spinner.
Skills
Archer
Yarmira possesses a keen eye and swift hand, experienced at felling prey at short distances in the dense Valenwood jungle. Her favorite trick is letting two arrows loose in quick succession, launching the second before the first has struck its mark. Her marksmanship is dubious at longer ranges. Bosmer shortbows are not made for greater distances, and arrows can’t travel far in the dense brush of Valenwood, so she’s never tried.
Climber
The Bosmer woman has lived nearly all her life at least 20 feet off the ground navigating Valenwood’s thick canopy. Her tribe lives among the great trees of Malabal Tor, seldom leaving their safety. Yarmira is sure-footed on any surface, able to scramble about with speed and confidence that would disturb city-dwellers. Navigating vertically is almost easier for her than horizontally, and she finds comfort in great heights. She has yet to try her hand at scaling the immense towers of the Imperial City.
Tracker
Yarmira is not one to sit and wait for her prey to wander into her sight. Instead, she prefers giving chase. The Bosmer is a skilled hand at pursuing her quarry from the branches of Valenwood, sometimes for days on end, her sharp eyes picking up the faintest of clues in low light on the jungle floor’s thick brush. Yarmira can remain undetected until the moment she lets her arrows fly. She’s quickly learning that many of these skills do not translate well to the wide fields and forests of Cyrodiil, where prey can spot you from hundreds of feet away.
Bushcraft
The Bosmer are nothing if not a resourceful bunch. Those who adhere to the Green Pact like Yarmira are forbidden from ever harming plant life and must use what they harvest from fallen prey. The young Bosmer can whittle arrows from bone that fly straight and true, sharpen a troll’s femur into a dagger, and concoct crude poultices from bear bile and insect ichor.
Magic
Green Pact Magic
Some Bosmer can call upon Y’ffre, the God of Song and Forest. It is sacred and primal magic, drawn not from the user’s own reserves of magicka, but on the green world around them. There are no scrolls or tomes; instead, whispered agreements with spirits of the wild. They do not bend anything to their will. They seek out Y’ffre’s aid. The most simplistic invocations of Pact magic can help a flower bloom or send a beetle scurrying towards the summoner. Advanced practitioners can shape the very natural world around them, growing immense trees into homes or summon herds of wild beasts to their side.
Yarmira is a mere novice. It takes immense concentration, time, meditating, and chanting, for her to call even a small hawk to her side. The Pact draws these creatures to them and forbids the summoner from harming their newfound companions. She can also use the Pact magic to fortify herself before a great hunt, calling on the wild to hone her senses and bring strength to her bow arm. This magic is strongest in wild, untamed places, and nearly nonexistent in dense cities.
Equipment
Personal Items
Clothes – No surprises here. Yarmira wears a mishmash of pelts, furs, and leather like all tribal Bosmer. The most striking feature of this ensemble is her cloak, which is fashioned from the orange and black striped pelt of a Senshe-Cat. She even kept the beast’s face to serve as a hood. Stylish and practical.
Flute - Something between a pan flute and mouth organ, Yarmira fashioned it from Senche-Tiger bones, scrimshawed with a depiction of her triumph over the beast. The flute produces a droning, high chords meant to be just one part of a larger ensemble.
Flasks - Two leather flasks; one containing water, the other Rotmeth, a foul-smelling alcoholic drink made from fermented meat.
Pipe and kit – A (you guessed it) bone pipe and accompanying small leather bag of crushed and dried beetles. Smoke them to experience an altered state of mind.
Lockbox
Bow - Her prized possession. A recurve bow made from antelope horn, sinew, and mammoth tusk.
Arrows and quiver - A fur quiver and an assortment of arrows with bone shafts.
12x flint heads for small game 12x with chitin heads for tougher hides 6x of mammoth tusk for penetrating chitin
Sharp things - Yarmira carries a collection of daggers and knifes. A gutting knife and a skinning knife made of elkhorn and insect chitin, two daggers carved out of troll bone, and a small shiv made from treasured obsidian.
Bits and bobs - A variety of trinkets, charms, crafting supplies like sinew, a comb made from her own antler, a small bone fishhook and string, and various small bones which she uses to decorate her hair.
Pack - A small pack of fur and leather in which all this junk lives.
Yarmira’s early life is a mystery to her. The Bosmer’s life began at 15, a mere child for the long-lived Bosmer.
Her first memory is waking up under the Valenwood canopy, light filtering through the dense foliage. She is surrounded by Bosmer men and women staring down at, chanting incessantly.
She is in pain. She cannot move. But she is alive.
Those around her break their spell and burst into revelry, shouting and hugging. Soft arms take up her broken body, the comforting touch of a loved one. She had been attacked, the stranger says. Her mother. Taken from the village in the dead of night by a Senche-Tiger and mauled half to death. But the village searched for her. Drove off the Senche-Tiger Saved her before the beast ate her beloved child. Yarmira’s body was ravaged with long slashes from tooth and claw, and her mind was destroyed by the trauma, but she was alive.
Y’ffre be praised.
Yarmira recovered slowly, nursed back to health by her loving parents. She had to relearn what they had already taught her. How to climb. How to hunt. How to remain true to their ancestor’s promise to Y’ffre, the Spirit of the Now, to honor the Green Pact. They hoped she’d only have to be reminded, but it took her much longer than expected to reintegrate into their village after her near-death experience.
They lived deep among the Grahtwood’s high branches, the darkest jungle in Valenwood. Secluded from the rest of the world, tucked away even from other Bosmer. Yarmira’s curiosity was limitless. She wanted to know everything, as she had much to catch up with her peers. She listened intently to their village Spinner, of how Y’ffre’s first story pulled the world free from the primordial Ooze, bringing the trees and the grass into form. Then came the Bosmer, the protectors of the Green. Forbidden by the Green Pact from ever harming Y’ffre’s first creations, and instead finding life in taking others. She was slow to relearn her people’s customs. Yarmira fell from the trees more times than she could count, missed her mark with the bow constantly, and could not keep all Y’ffre’s sacred ways in her head. The other villagers loathed her clumsy stalking and her unintended violations of the Green Pact, but Yarmira’s parents shielded her from most of their abuse.
Worse still, the young Bosmer was plagued by visions and nightmares. Sights she had never seen in the waking world. Things she couldn’t even imagine. A whirlwind of strange people, hulking giants with pale eyes and yellow hair, others that walked upright like Mer but bore the faces of jungle cats. Labyrinthian stone paths flanked by homes of shattered wood. There was one vision that dominated her dreams each night and occupied her thoughts each day. A sprawling forest of stone stretching as far as the eye could see, and in its center a Great Tree shimmering white that seemed to hold up the world. She spoke with her parents, her brothers and sisters, even the Spinner, but they told her it meant nothing. They encouraged her not dwell on these things, and instead focus on the present. The here and now. Yarmira took them for what they were, though. Visions from Y’ffre. There was something out there waiting for her, something she must discover, and the day would come where she would set out and find it.
As she grew older, Yarmira’s features began to come into focus and her body underwent peculiar changes. Her canine teeth grew long and sharp. Her fingernails blackened and hardened like claws. Budding antlers grew from atop her head. These markings were rare among her people, and an ill portent. To change one’s shape into that of a beast was forbidden by Y’ffre, and these were signs of a wild and unruly soul. One whose very essence sought to break their pact with The Singer.
When Yarmira entered womanhood, it was time for her Becoming. A coming-of-age ritual that signified a young Bosmer was ready to take their place as an adult within the tribe. The ritual was a simple hunt, but with a catch; the inductee must name their prey before departing, and would leave the village with nothing. No weapons, no tools, and no clothes. They would prove their resourcefulness to the tribe by creating their own bow in the wild and use it to bring back a great prize. A meek hunter might come home with a rodent-like Kollopi, while a skilled Bosmer would set their sights on the elusive and fleet-footed Chital deer. Yarmira not only named the most dangerous prey in their jungle in her ritual, but a specific one. The Senche-Tiger that had nearly taken her life. She had much to prove.
Yarmira was in the jungle for months. She worked her way up the food chain, at first hunting like a beast with naught but her teeth as she gathered the means to whittle a crude dagger. Then a bow. Once she’d fashioned a handful of arrows, the real work began. The young Bosmer stalked through the jungle, her feet never touching the forest floor, as she searched for signs of the Senche-Tiger. Scratchings and secretions to mark its territory here. A water buffalo carcass there. Slowly, meticulously, she honed in on the creature until she could hear its harsh yowls call out into the night as it searched for a mate. She finally laid eyes on the beast as it prowled through the jungle. It was massive. Larger than any predator she’d seen, and it bore the marks of battle with her people on its skin. An unmistakable slash across its muzzle her mother dealt it. She’d heard the story so many times. Yarmira felt no hatred towards the beast; in fact, she admired it for its bravery. The tiger had snatched its prey from a den of predators.
A few days later, she strode into her village wearing its brilliant pelt as a cloak.
Yarmira’s tribe treated her much differently after her triumphant return, and much was expected of her. Perhaps she would be the next Spinner. She had the knack for storytelling, after all. Maybe the young woman was better suited as the lead hunter, or perhaps one day, even chieftain. But the thought of settling down into these rote positions, honorable though they were, did not appeal to Yarmira. It was not Y’ffre’s will. There was something out there for her to discover, something the Great Spinner wanted her to find, and she could not rest until this veil was lifted. Shortly after Yarmira’s Becoming, she slipped out of the village under the cover of night.
Yarmira travelled north. As good a direction as any. The forest became thinner, the climate cooler. She was forced to walk on the ground as the trees grew further and further apart. The young Bosmer felt exposed. And yet at night, when slept under the stars for the first time, she was amazed at how many of Y’ffre’s blessing she had never seen. Yarmira travelled through rough country, not knowing that roads cut through much of Cyrodiil, and never saw another soul save for the beasts of the wild. She hunted strange creatures (well, she tried to), admired beautiful new flora, swam in frigid rivers and slept in the branches of foreign trees. Yet many of these things were strangely familiar, present in her dreams. After months of travel and with no food remaining in her pack, it finally came into view on the horizon, as towering and beautiful as it was in her visions. The Great Tree which Holds up the World. Many others had come to see it too, filtering in from beaten paths. She joined their numbers, unknowingly entering the Imperial City.
It was not as wondrous as it had been in her dreams. Dirty, stinking, crowded. And yet she was here, beneath the Great Tree’s shadow. But she became caught up in the crowd, pushing and shoving, all pressing towards the sound of battle. Yarmira knew not to fight against the herd and instead went along lest she be trampled underfoot by these giants. She found herself pressed tight in a mass of bodies, unable to see what they were all enraptured by. Yarmira climbed higher and watched with great interest as two hulking creatures, one with pale green skin, the other with a shock of yellow hair, batter eachother to death. She wondered why they fought. Perhaps they were hungry. Unfortunately, they were both sent away with empty stomachs. Yarmira’s own stomach had been empty for days, and she followed her keen sense of smell to some kind of herbal meat. It looked like several others had as well.
Daggerfall Dan’s was packed to the brim when a brawl broke out. The diminutive Bosmer, accustomed to a more communal lifestyle, simply started eating from other’s plates, which earned her a black eye she’s still sporting. A bite here, a kick there, and the next time Yarmira opened her eyes, she was without her weapons, locked up tight, and quickly becoming familiar with the concept of claustrophobia.
Ambition
Guided by her dreams and visions, Yarmira seeks to uncover whatever destiny Y’ffre has in store for her.
Name: Yarmira Age: 60 (20 in pathetically short lives of men) Race: Bosmer Appearance
Yarmira is a hulking behemoth. Standing at a staggering 5’2, she towers above all the men in her home, and most of the women too. Powerful. Strong. Lithe. Feminine. At least, that’s how those in the village see her. To the untrained Imperial eye, Yarmira is a diminutive, scrappy little thing of unknown gender. Bosmer are like that. She is bow-legged from a life spent wrapped around tree limbs. Combined with her predatory hunched posture, the Bosmer’s prowling gait is animalistic and strange. Yarmira’s neck is unusually muscular, and her left shoulder is noticeably more toned than the other from drawing her bow. The Bosmer’s frame is sleek and narrow, with pale skin from living beneath a dense jungle canopy. Deep red tattoos that resemble war paint run across much of her body; smears, handprints, and depictions of forest creatures like prehistoric cave paintings. Her body is criss-crossed with long, dark, slashing scars, the skin raised along these knotted streaks of flesh. She jokingly calls these her tiger stripes. Yarmira’s long hair is meticulously kept; she combs her locks incessantly and braids it with the help of small animal bones. The Bosmer’s face is almost androgynous with sharp features, a prominent nose, and massive, dark eyes with a nearly nonexistent sclera. She has full lips which hide large, sharp canine teeth. Yarmira’s greatest pride is her huge rack. Though they shed every spring, her most recent antlers have grown to a brilliant eight points.
Personality
There was a time when Yarmira thought she knew all there was to know, that the world began and ended with the endless green of Valenwood’s tangled boughs. She knew every beast’s call, every hidden path, every secret place where the trees bent just so to let the light spill through. However, her dreams always hinted at something more. Something beyond. They brought her out of the jungle and into the world, and now the curiosity from her youth has been reignited. She wants to learn everything there is to know about this place beyond the forest.
Because of her waking dreams, Yarmira believes she was chosen by Y’ffre. For what purpose she does not know, but her dreams proved to be real, and so she trusts The Great Spinner is at work. The Senche-Tiger was her first challenge and she knows more are to come. Unsurprisingly, Yarmira adheres strictly to the Green Pact. She will go out of her way to protect the natural world and would give her life to do so. She sees it not as a burden, but a law of existence, as natural as breathing. She has yet to meet anyone who doesn’t live by the Green Pact. In fact, she assumes everyone does. Yarmira does not shy away from violence, but isn’t fond of unnecessary killing. Not for any moral reasons, mind you, but the Green Pact requires her to use every part of fallen foes. If Yarmira spares an enemy, it is likely she just isn’t hungry.
Despite all her wildness, Yarmira is a nimble weaver of words. She possesses a bright, piping voice that winds through the trees like birdsong. She tells stories eagerly and with great pleasure - of the spirits in the leaves, of the hunters who came before, of the city of stone she sees in her sleep. Sometimes, she wonders if her own tale is already written, her path laid before her by The Spinner.
Skills
Archer
Yarmira possesses a keen eye and swift hand, experienced at felling prey at short distances in the dense Valenwood jungle. Her favorite trick is letting two arrows loose in quick succession, launching the second before the first has struck its mark. Her marksmanship is dubious at longer ranges. Bosmer shortbows are not made for greater distances, and arrows can’t travel far in the dense brush of Valenwood, so she’s never tried.
Climber
The Bosmer woman has lived nearly all her life at least 20 feet off the ground navigating Valenwood’s thick canopy. Her tribe lives among the great trees of Malabal Tor, seldom leaving their safety. Yarmira is sure-footed on any surface, able to scramble about with speed and confidence that would disturb city-dwellers. Navigating vertically is almost easier for her than horizontally, and she finds comfort in great heights. She has yet to try her hand at scaling the immense towers of the Imperial City.
Tracker
Yarmira is not one to sit and wait for her prey to wander into her sight. Instead, she prefers giving chase. The Bosmer is a skilled hand at pursuing her quarry from the branches of Valenwood, sometimes for days on end, her sharp eyes picking up the faintest of clues in low light on the jungle floor’s thick brush. Yarmira can remain undetected until the moment she lets her arrows fly. She’s quickly learning that many of these skills do not translate well to the wide fields and forests of Cyrodiil, where prey can spot you from hundreds of feet away.
Bushcraft
The Bosmer are nothing if not a resourceful bunch. Those who adhere to the Green Pact like Yarmira are forbidden from ever harming plant life and must use what they harvest from fallen prey. The young Bosmer can whittle arrows from bone that fly straight and true, sharpen a troll’s femur into a dagger, and concoct crude poultices from bear bile and insect ichor.
Magic
Green Pact Magic
Some Bosmer can call upon Y’ffre, the God of Song and Forest. It is sacred and primal magic, drawn not from the user’s own reserves of magicka, but on the green world around them. There are no scrolls or tomes; instead, whispered agreements with spirits of the wild. They do not bend anything to their will. They seek out Y’ffre’s aid. The most simplistic invocations of Pact magic can help a flower bloom or send a beetle scurrying towards the summoner. Advanced practitioners can shape the very natural world around them, growing immense trees into homes or summon herds of wild beasts to their side.
Yarmira is a mere novice. It takes immense concentration, time, meditating, and chanting, for her to call even a small hawk to her side. The Pact draws these creatures to them and forbids the summoner from harming their newfound companions. She can also use the Pact magic to fortify herself before a great hunt, calling on the wild to hone her senses and bring strength to her bow arm. This magic is strongest in wild, untamed places, and nearly nonexistent in dense cities.
Equipment
Personal Items
Clothes – No surprises here. Yarmira wears a mishmash of pelts, furs, and leather like all tribal Bosmer. The most striking feature of this ensemble is her cloak, which is fashioned from the orange and black striped pelt of a Senshe-Cat. She even kept the beast’s face to serve as a hood. Stylish and practical.
Flute - A flute Yarmira fashioned from Senche-Tiger bone, scrimshawed with a depiction of her triumph over the beast.
Pipe and kit – A (you guessed it) bone pipe and accompanying small leather bag of crushed and dried beetles. Smoke them to experience an altered state of mind.
Lockbox
Bow - Her prized possession. A recurve bow made from antelope horn, sinew, and mammoth tusk.
Arrows and quiver - A fur quiver and an assortment of arrows with bone shafts.
12x flint heads for small game 12x with chitin heads for tougher hides 6x of mammoth tusk for penetrating chitin
Sharp things - Yarmira carries a collection of daggers and knifes. A gutting knife and a skinning knife made of elkhorn and insect chitin, two daggers carved out of troll bone, and a small shiv made from treasured obsidian.
Flasks - Two leather flasks; one containing water, the other Rotmeth, a foul-smelling alcoholic drink made from fermented meat.
Bits and bobs - A variety of trinkets, charms, crafting supplies like sinew, a comb made from her own antler, a small bone fishhook and string, and various small bones which she uses to decorate her hair.
Pack - A small pack of fur and leather in which all this junk lives.
Yarmira’s early life is a mystery to her. The Bosmer’s life began at 15, a mere child for the long-lived Bosmer.
Her first memory is waking up under the Valenwood canopy, light filtering through the dense foliage. She is surrounded by Bosmer men and women staring down at, chanting incessantly.
She is in pain. She cannot move. But she is alive.
Those around her break their spell and burst into revelry, shouting and hugging. Soft arms take up her broken body, the comforting touch of a loved one. She had been attacked, the stranger says. Her mother. Taken from the village in the dead of night by a Senche-Tiger and mauled half to death. But the village searched for her. Drove off the Senche-Tiger Saved her before the beast ate her beloved child. Yarmira’s body was ravaged with long slashes from tooth and claw, and her mind was destroyed by the trauma, but she was alive.
Y’ffre be praised.
Yarmira recovered slowly, nursed back to health by her loving parents. She had to relearn what they had already taught her. How to climb. How to hunt. How to remain true to their ancestor’s promise to Y’ffre, the Spirit of the Now, to honor the Green Pact. They hoped she’d only have to be reminded, but it took her much longer than expected to reintegrate into their village after her near-death experience.
They lived deep among the Grahtwood’s high branches, the darkest jungle in Valenwood. Secluded from the rest of the world, tucked away even from other Bosmer. Yarmira’s curiosity was limitless. She wanted to know everything, as she had much to catch up with her peers. She listened intently to their village Spinner, of how Y’ffre’s first story pulled the world free from the primordial Ooze, bringing the trees and the grass into form. Then came the Bosmer, the protectors of the Green. Forbidden by the Green Pact from ever harming Y’ffre’s first creations, and instead finding life in taking others. She was slow to relearn her people’s customs. Yarmira fell from the trees more times than she could count, missed her mark with the bow constantly, and could not keep all Y’ffre’s sacred ways in her head. The other villagers loathed her clumsy stalking and her unintended violations of the Green Pact, but Yarmira’s parents shielded her from most of their abuse.
Worse still, the young Bosmer was plagued by visions and nightmares. Sights she had never seen in the waking world. Things she couldn’t even imagine. A whirlwind of strange people, hulking giants with pale eyes and yellow hair, others that walked upright like Mer but bore the faces of jungle cats. Labyrinthian stone paths flanked by homes of shattered wood. There was one vision that dominated her dreams each night and occupied her thoughts each day. A sprawling forest of stone stretching as far as the eye could see, and in its center a Great Tree shimmering white that seemed to hold up the world. She spoke with her parents, her brothers and sisters, even the Spinner, but they told her it meant nothing. They encouraged her not dwell on these things, and instead focus on the present. The here and now. Yarmira took them for what they were, though. Visions from Y’ffre. There was something out there waiting for her, something she must discover, and the day would come where she would set out and find it.
As she grew older, Yarmira’s features began to come into focus and her body underwent peculiar changes. Her canine teeth grew long and sharp. Her fingernails blackened and hardened like claws. Budding antlers grew from atop her head. These markings were rare among her people, and an ill portent. To change one’s shape into that of a beast was forbidden by Y’ffre, and these were signs of a wild and unruly soul. One whose very essence sought to break their pact with The Singer.
When Yarmira entered womanhood, it was time for her Becoming. A coming-of-age ritual that signified a young Bosmer was ready to take their place as an adult within the tribe. The ritual was a simple hunt, but with a catch; the inductee must name their prey before departing, and would leave the village with nothing. No weapons, no tools, and no clothes. They would prove their resourcefulness to the tribe by creating their own bow in the wild and use it to bring back a great prize. A meek hunter might come home with a rodent-like Kollopi, while a skilled Bosmer would set their sights on the elusive and fleet-footed Chital deer. Yarmira not only named the most dangerous prey in their jungle in her ritual, but a specific one. The Senche-Tiger that had nearly taken her life. She had much to prove.
Yarmira was in the jungle for months. She worked her way up the food chain, at first hunting like a beast with naught but her teeth as she gathered the means to whittle a crude dagger. Then a bow. Once she’d fashioned a handful of arrows, the real work began. The young Bosmer stalked through the jungle, her feet never touching the forest floor, as she searched for signs of the Senche-Tiger. Scratchings and secretions to mark its territory here. A water buffalo carcass there. Slowly, meticulously, she honed in on the creature until she could hear its harsh yowls call out into the night as it searched for a mate. She finally laid eyes on the beast as it prowled through the jungle. It was massive. Larger than any predator she’d seen, and it bore the marks of battle with her people on its skin. An unmistakable slash across its muzzle her mother dealt it. She’d heard the story so many times. Yarmira felt no hatred towards the beast; in fact, she admired it for its bravery. The tiger had snatched its prey from a den of predators.
A few days later, she strode into her village wearing its brilliant pelt as a cloak.
Yarmira’s tribe treated her much differently after her triumphant return, and much was expected of her. Perhaps she would be the next Spinner. She had the knack for storytelling, after all. Maybe the young woman was better suited as the lead hunter, or perhaps one day, even chieftain. But the thought of settling down into these rote positions, honorable though they were, did not appeal to Yarmira. It was not Y’ffre’s will. There was something out there for her to discover, something the Great Spinner wanted her to find, and she could not rest until this veil was lifted. Shortly after Yarmira’s Becoming, she slipped out of the village under the cover of night.
Yarmira travelled north. As good a direction as any. The forest became thinner, the climate cooler. She was forced to walk on the ground as the trees grew further and further apart. The young Bosmer felt exposed. And yet at night, when slept under the stars for the first time, she was amazed at how many of Y’ffre’s blessing she had never seen. Yarmira travelled through rough country, not knowing that roads cut through much of Cyrodiil, and never saw another soul save for the beasts of the wild. She hunted strange creatures (well, she tried to), admired beautiful new flora, swam in frigid rivers and slept in the branches of foreign trees. Yet many of these things were strangely familiar, present in her dreams. After months of travel and with no food remaining in her pack, it finally came into view on the horizon, as towering and beautiful as it was in her visions. The Great Tree which Holds up the World. Many others had come to see it too, filtering in from beaten paths. She joined their numbers, unknowingly entering the Imperial City.
It was not as wondrous as it had been in her dreams. Dirty, stinking, crowded. And yet she was here, beneath the Great Tree’s shadow. But she became caught up in the crowd, pushing and shoving, all pressing towards the sound of battle. Yarmira knew not to fight against the herd and instead went along lest she be trampled underfoot by these giants. She found herself pressed tight in a mass of bodies, unable to see what they were all enraptured by. Yarmira climbed higher and watched with great interest as two hulking creatures, one with pale green skin, the other with a shock of yellow hair, batter eachother to death. She wondered why they fought. Perhaps they were hungry. Unfortunately, they were both sent away with empty stomachs. Yarmira’s own stomach had been empty for days, and she followed her keen sense of smell to some kind of herbal meat. It looked like several others had as well.
Daggerfall Dan’s was packed to the brim when a brawl broke out. The diminutive Bosmer, accustomed to a more communal lifestyle, simply started eating from other’s plates, which earned her a black eye she’s still sporting. A bite here, a kick there, and the next time Yarmira opened her eyes, she was without her weapons, locked up tight, and quickly becoming familiar with the concept of claustrophobia.
Ambition
Guided by her dreams and visions, Yarmira seeks to uncover whatever destiny Y’ffre has in store for her.
Mand'alor's Tower // Keldabe Administrative District // Mandalore
The Mand’alor’s Tower stood at the center of Keldabe. It was the heart of the city, of the entire planet, and from it everything grew. A massive, ancient spire of stone and metal and glass that dwarfed everything else on the planet. A source of pride to natives and fear to outlanders. Its shadow stretched to the horizon in these moments before twilight. A seat of power for the entirety of the Mandalorian people, a symbol of their leader’s immense power.
With the coming of night, celebrations intensified. Fireworks shot off at random into the darkness, lending bright and evanescent stars to the constellations passing east to west above. Drunken revelers formed impromptu feasts and parades in congested streets. There were fights. It was Mandalore, after all. Fights for honor, fights for wagers, fights for fun.
Inside of the Mand’alor’s Tower was a different kind of fight. No blasters fired or punches thrown, at least not yet. Diplomats from around the galaxy, locked in verbal combat. They fought for influence, for mercy, for trade or for alliances. It was more vicious than any cantina brawl or battlefield melee.
The immense stone doors to the dimly lit great hall swung open, and those close to the entrance turned to see this newcomer. Instead, there was a shadow. A loping beast on all fours with a sharp and narrow head, black fur and black eyes. If it were not for the brilliant bioluminescent quills on the creature’s spine, they might not have seen it at all by the brazier’s faint light. The congregation near the door grew hushed, some knowing what the arrival of this strange form meant, others simply baffled by the beast’s appearance.
“Lady Ellia Errant, of the Corellian Hegemony,” The herald announced.
Ellia strode into the lion’s den, not with any particular grace or elegance, but with confidence. A small smile on her lips as eyes fell upon her. She looked a far cry from the others in the dark chamber, all dressed in fine clothes or polished armor. She wore an unbuttoned fur-lined parka and dark pants bearing the Correlian bloodstripe tucked into with heavy shin-high boots, a decidedly casual fit for the occasion. Her clothes were coated in fine red and white powder. Ellia’s left cheek was freshly bruised and cut, as if struck by a gauntleted hand. She looked to the herald.
"I’m no lady. Just rich. Close though, right?” Ellia said as she patted her vulpine companion’s large head. Dasri, her four-legged shadow. Before the partygoers descended upon her, Ellia felt an arm loop into hers and tug her away from the limelight, with Dasri trotting close behind.
“Where have you been?” The harsh, whispering voice belonged to Green Jedi Bren Bastra, a nephew of Lord Jaster Erelen. Her escort for tonight, or the other way around if Hegemon Novar was to be believed. Correlia’s leader had assigned her this inauspicious task personally.
"Apologies, your eminence, I was held up at Crait. Pirates.” She pointed to her bruised cheek with a grin. A lie.
“Crait?”
“Crait.”
“And why were you at Crait, pray tell?”
”Why do I go anywhere? For the sake of going.”
Bren sighed. “Is that why you’re covered in… What is that, salt?”
“Salt and rhodochrosite.”
“Salt and rhodochrosite,” he muttered in disbelief. “You couldn’t have cleaned up?”
Ellia shrugged. "Did you want me here, or did you want me cleaned up? Besides, I know you don’t care for these Mandalorians, but this,” Ellia said, sweeping a hand over her dusty outfit, "is far more interesting to them than that,” she nodded to his crisp, clean robes. Ellia knew the Mandalorians were a people of action, not words, who bore their deeds and battles proudly in the form of battle scars. Some dusty clothes weren't on the same level, but perhaps a step in the right direction, anyways.
Bren sighed. “Fine, fine. But you owe me after this, leaving me with these… People,” Bren said, almost shivering in disgust.
"Of course, I owe you one, Bren. I’ll let you buy me a drink tonight. That seems fair, no?” Ellia looked up into his face through hooded eyes. Bren paused for a moment, mind churning. She knew what he was going to say before the words came spilling out of his mouth.
“You wouldn’t catch me dead at one of these cantinas. We'll have a nightcap at my quarters. The view is quite nice, actually. This city looks beautiful once you’re high enough to not see any of these barbarians.”
Ellis giggled and hid her revulsion well. Bren wasn’t an unattractive man; quite the opposite, despite his many failings. But he was a Jedi. A particularly weak Green Jedi, but still a Jedi.
“And what will your wife say about this nightcap, Lord Bastra?” He wasn’t the lord of anything. His uncle was. But Bren always smiled when she addressed him as such.
“My wife. My wife thinks whatever I tell her, the sow,” he scoffed.
Ellia let out a laugh that didn’t sound forced in the slightest. “Well, I'll see you tonight in your room, my lord.” Another lie. She would not see him tonight. Something else would come up. She’d make sure of it. "Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to mingle. Believe it or not, but some of these Mandalorians actually like me.”
Ellia slid her arm out from Bren’s, giving him one last fleeting smile before striding towards a group of Mandalorians who’d been watching her anxiously, waiting to be recognized.
“Ori, Mav, I was hoping I’d see you here! I just got back from Crait; you’d love it there, whole aquatic world under the surface just waiting to be explored. They do have a bit of a pirate problem in that sector, though I don’t think that’d be a problem for you two...”
Drel Kibul walked down the dim corridor, Deathwatch jailer at his heels like some beskar shadow. The Sunrider and her crew had been planetside on Mandalore for a week now. They hadn’t heard from Ellia in over three days.
He hated doing this. Looking for her. It was almost a ritual now, when they couldn’t find Ellia. First, he’d check the cantinas. Then the streets and alleyways. Next, brothels and spice dens. After that, he’d start to get worried. The hospitals. The jails. Morgues. The Devaronian had been a member of her crew since the beginning, and hadn’t ever found her in jail or the morgue.
Yet.
They passed rows and rows of cells, almost exclusively occupied by dour and drunk tourists sleeping off early morning benders.
“And who is it you’re looking for, again?” The jailer asked, sounding bored.
“That is no business of yours,” said Drel.
“That is exactly my business, friend.”
Drel spotted a set tan and freckled arms hanging limply from between the cell bars. His pace quickened until he was before her. The smell of stale vomit hung in the air.
Ellia looked a mess. Her whole body was slumped against the bars, head nearly wedged into a gap. A thin trail of drool hung from her open mouth. The woman’s fashionable clothes were torn and stained with blood and sick. Fresh bruises and abrasions covered her arms and hands. If it weren’t for the shallow rise and fall of her chest, Drel would have thought her dead. His hands tightened into fists. The Deveronian wanted to tear the little jailer in half. He could probably do it too, beskar and all.
“What did you do to her?”
The jailer scoffed. “We didn’t do anything. She did that to herself. Well, aside from the shiner on her cheek there. That was one of the arresting officers. Once we threw her in the cell, she really lost it. Started tearing everything up, throwing things. Nearly killed herself trying to break through those bars. CO just hit her with a tranquilizer so the mad dog wouldn’t break her own neck.”
Drel stood in silence, looking down at Ellia. He’d seen her look worse, he knew, but really couldn’t remember when. “Do you have any idea of who this is?”
“No, should I?”
“No. And you should keep it that way.” Drel pressed a handful of credits into the jailer’s hand. Probably a month of his salary.
“I’ll go unlock the cell door.”
Drel nodded, staring down at Ellia. She’d always gotten herself into trouble, but it was getting worse lately. He watched the jailer make the long walk back to the control room. Something grab Drel's leg with a vice grip and he nearly jumped out of his skin. He looked down to see Ellia’s bruised and bloody hand digging into his calf. Her eyes, collared with ruined makeup and grime and deeply sunk, were now alight with terror.
”Get. Me. Out.”
Bright lights burned her eyes. She was in a white room. Sterile. Someone was looming over her, but she couldn’t tell who. She hurt all over. Her hands were cold. Her entire head pulsed with every breath as if it had a heartbeat of its own.
What happened?
Ellia tried to form the words with her mouth, but it came out wrong.
”Wahpen?”
“You tell me. You’re the one who got yourself into this mess. Drel carried you in here about an hour ago. What a sorry sight that was.”
Ellia knew that voice. Dr. Creel, the Sunrider’s xenobiologist and doctor, when needed. So she was on the Sunrider. The medbay. Safe. Free. Ellia felt tension leave her body she didn’t even know was there. Ellia sat up slowly from her bed and looked around. Her hands were dunked in small vats of bacta. She must have hurt them something awful to get that treatment. The human doctor stood beside her, disappointed as ever. In one hand she held a syringe.
”What’s that for?”
“Stimulant. Help you wake up from that little nap the Deathwatch thought you needed.” Without warning, Dr. Creel plunged the syringe into Ellia’s leg hard and fast.
"Ow! What’s that for?” Ellia repeated, rubbing the tender injection site. The grogginess wore off instantly, and in its place came waves of nausea.
“For making me worry about you.” A crack in Creel’s grim facade.
Ellia slumped back down and groaned as sensation returned to her heavy limbs, and with it, more pain. “Listen, Creel, I know what this looks like, but trust me, it wasn’t my fault this time.”
“I hate when you say that.”
“Say what?”
“Trust me.”
”You say it too.”
“I do. That’s how I know what those words are worth.”
Ellia sat up, shaking out her legs. She felt like she’d been hit by a speeder. ”No, really! I was at this cantina, and I had one drink before this Outer Rim dumbass comes in, starts shooting the place up and shoving people around. Next thing you know, some Mando is taking a swing at me, everyone’s fighting, the Deathwatch are pulling up, and… You’re not buying this, are you?”
The doctor shook her head. “Oh, hell, I don’t know, El. I guess I do. Everyone’s all riled up about this Founding thing. I just worry about you, is all.”
”I’m fine! I’m fine. Trust me.”
“There’s those words again.”
Ellia sighed. She swirled her hands around in the bacta. They were already feeling better.
“Let me have a look at your face, there, El. You’re pretty hardheaded, but not as hard as beskar.”
Ellia pulled her hands from the vats and stood up. ”Sorry doc, no time. I’ve got places to be, you know how it is.”
Dr. Creel scoffed. “I thought you’d skip that. You look like shit.”
”Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Besides, I’m expected there. Got a hot date.” Her words dripped with sarcasm.
“At least let me patch your face up. Don't want to meet the vaunted Mand'alor with an open wound on your cheek,” Creel said, words dripping with sarcasm. The doctor had hardly any loyalty to her homeworld Corellia, but she had just enough to harbor some distain for Mandalore.
”Nahhh. It adds a little character. Hey, where’d Drel run off to? I thought he’d be here.” Drel always waited around for Ellia to come to after a night of debauchery or when some thug cold-cocked her at a cantina. Another ritual of his.
Dr. Creel shook her head. “He left. Said he was going to the local observatory. Something about that Deveronian comet or whatever it was. You remember how obsessed he was with that for a while. He didn’t seem too happy with you.”
”Well, he’ll get over himself. Always does. Hey, thanks for the help doc, I appreciate it.” Ellia winked at the doctor as she made for the door.
“You know I’d do anything for you El. Just try to stay safe. I can’t bring you back from the dead.”
Ellia left the medbay and just made it to her quarters before she started hyperventilating.
Ellia stood on the balcony like a woman come to the end of something, starbursts of fireworks coppering her dark face and a cold wind blowing out of the west. She looked out at the city below and leaned on the sweeping balcony’s ledge. Ellia took a drag from her cigarette, watching the wisps of smoke drift into the wind. Thasero Konnar, the Sunrider’s eccentric linguist, hand-rolled them himself. Inside was a concoction he refused to share. His own “special blend,” probably harvested from a dozen different systems. Whatever they contained, Ellia couldn’t get enough of them. The smoke was sweet, almost floral.
Her hands were shaking, and not from the cold. She could still feel her bruised palms pressed around the metal bars, the steel biting into her face. It was as though she’d be turned into some beast, caged and left to tear itself apart. And Ellia had. Just a taste of what she deserved, what she felt coming around the bend in every waking moment.
Ellia braced herself against the stone railing as if to steady herself or to slow the world that was rushing around her. She watched as rockets exploded into ephemeral blossoms of light and sound below. They started to taper off, preparing for a grand finale. She watched speeders pass by. Ellia took another drag of her cigarette.
She reached down and idly stroked Dasri’s soft head, and the four dark eyes looked into her face in response. Ellia saw in the strange vulpine being what she did not possess within herself. Honesty. Dasri wore no mask. He told no lies. His feelings and desires were shown plainly on the luminous quills that lined his back. Dasri allowed himself to feel everything fully. Ardenthearted. She envied this.
Ellia knew she'd have to go back in soon, or they’d come looking for her. Despite being Corellian, she was a great favorite among some of the Mandalorians and the other diplomats. Perhaps because she wasn’t a diplomat, something novel among their circles. The star power helped too, she theorized. For maybe the first time in her life though, Ellia wanted to be alone.
Through the din of gunfire and screams, Itxaro heard Shirik's harsh voice call out to her. She froze. Run back across the bridge through all that shit? She felt a breeze pass by her face, ice cold. Itxaro spun around to follow that feeling just in time to watch Shirik's ice shard embed itself into another monster, stopping it just before it slashed its vicious tentacles down on her. The creature looked frozen solid, half-immersed in the river like some grotesque statue.
She didn't second guess Shirik after that.
Itxaro holstered her now-empty weapon and took a deep breath as she watched the flaming creature slowly lumber towards her. Injured, perhaps, or just sizing her up. She saw the Glenn behind it, gaping wound in its chest from which blood flowed freely. Her doing. Itxaro's legs went weak.
Don't think about it.
Itxaro grounded her boots into the crumbling bridge and took off towards her companions, trying to stay clear of the burning monster. The beast jolted into action, jabbing a burning limb at her head like a spear. She ducked, stumbling, just as another burning tentacle swiped at her legs. Itxaro hurdled over the sweeping attack and fell to all fours, scrambling over the fallen Glenn's corpse. A searing jolt of pain shot up her leg as a burning barbed tendril lashed against her calf. She cried out and pulled her way instinctively, but the dark figure was upon her in an instant. Itxaro felt the heat emanating from the creature in waves as she tried to gain purchase on the wet stone, dodging blows that slammed into the crumbling bridge.
Her grasping hands found the dead Glenn's sabre. Itxaro rolled to face her pursuer, sword clutched in both hands, and with a graceless swing cleaved through several burning appendages just as they were about to strike. The severed limbs skittered off the bridge and the creature shrieked in anger or in pain. Itxaro couldn't tell which. All she knew was that it was time to run. The engineer lurched to her feet and put some distance between herself and the beast before the tendrils reformed and it renewed its pursuit.
Things were not much better reunited with her comrades. Several more Glenn were maimed or killed, Mallory had been injured, and Eva's mech was tangled up in a struggle against another creature's tentacles. Itxaro joined the other Glenn in their attempts to free Eva, hacking viciously at the ropey beast attempting to penetrate her armor; the weapon felt strange in her hands, unbalanced and too heavy for its shape, but it was still less alien to her than the gun at her hip. The ground beneath her shook as something emerged from the bridge, almost part of it.
Then Shirik cried out, "Now!"
Her wide eyes narrowed to slits as she continued mindlessly hacking and slashing at the creature, shouting like some half-crazed warrior, hoping whatever Shirik had done would save them from this nightmare.
Itxaro was too focused on not falling into the raging river underfoot to notice much. Shirik's cheers of encouragement. The ominous silence that followed. It wasn't until she heard their voice again, warped and strangely distorted, did the engineer realize something was terribly, terribly, wrong.
And by then, something had her leg.
She tried pulling away without looking, assuming she'd gotten snagged on a branch knocked loose by the torrential flood, but it tightened around her calf, digging into the heavy cloth. Then Itxaro looked. A black tendril coiled up her leg, its grasp slowly constricting, while another crept towards her other. Some kind of snake? Vine?
She barely had time to yelp before all hell broke loose.
Strange, shifting figures erupted from everywhere, all ropes of black sinew striking with deadly speed and strength. "Shit, shit, shit," Itxaro muttered breathlessly as she was pulled onto her back with incredible strength by the tendril. Time seemed to slow as she watched her comrades struggle against the beasts in whatever way they knew; sword, gun, fire. It all seemed woefully ineffective.
No help coming here, Itxaro thought as she struggled to keep her body out of the water. Already she was submerged to the knee, tentacle climbing up further and further. She drew her heavy revolver and pressed the barrel against the tendril's surprisingly yielding flesh, sideways so as not to blow her own leg off, and pulled the trigger. Jet black powder splattered across the wet stone as the tendril was nearly severed from the large caliber round. Her ears rang from the gun's boom and her hand felt numb from the recoil, but Itxaro seized the moment and pulled her leg free from the weakened thing, scrambling to her feet.
The damaged tentacle withdrew just as the other seized her wrist holding the gun. She might have wondered at the creature's intelligence, apparently able to realize that gun equals weapon, had it not started to try and crush her organic arm while simultaneously drag her into the water. Itxaro howled in equal parts anger and pain, her finger instinctively pulling the revolver's trigger. It fired into the air to no effect.
She pulled against the tentacle, pain shooting up and down her arm, before realizing she had two hands. Well, one hand and a prosthetic, but a very strong prosthetic at that. She grasped the tentacle with her unfeeling mechanical hand, and with a squeeze, crushed the pliant flesh in her metal palm to black dust. She nearly fell back into the water but stumbled and remained upright. Her arm was sore, and purple bruises were already appearing around her wrist, but she was alive and free.
Itxaro watched in silent horror as another malformed beast sprung from the water and onto the collapsed, now engulfed in fire. She thoughtlessly fired her remaining five rounds into the creature's back (was it the back?) and dark powder erupted from the exit wounds on the other side. The bullets seemed to pass clear through the monster. "Shit," She repeated, knowing her gun was now empty and the ammo for it could only be found in her cinched-up backpack.
Keldabe Administrative District // Mandalore // Mandalore Sector Mentioned:@Bastian
"Rask Coburn. 'Some time' is underselling it a bit, I'd say. I'm still kicking, myself."
Tybren smiled and Rask smiled back. He wondered just how sincere the Mirialan's was. He thought of predators on the Rim that would bear their teeth before striking.
Rask gripped the Mandalorian's beskar-clad arm. A small gesture darkened with a certain ambiguity. He knew full well that the Mandalorian could crush every bone in his forearm to powder if he so chose. Rask thought back to the last time they met. Rask had been a young man then. In his prime and dumb as hell, but getting wise fast. Not fast enough, as it had turned out.
"Kickin's nothin to scoff at. Lotta people from the bad old days ain't around anymore to kick much of anything. After 22 years, seems like theys all droppin like flies."
He thought of all those faces from his past, those he'd never see again and those he hoped to see one last time before he put a blaster bolt through them. The passage of time usually bleached out men's stains, made past infractions that seemed unforgivable in the moment just petty slights after a few decades. Rask hoped that this was true for Tybren for his own sake. To him, though, the past only festered like an untreated wound.
"Of course, it's a bit different nowadays. I'm retired, mostly. Doing a lot more talking than shooting."
"A semi-retired mercenary," Rask chuckled. Not the full story surely, but one he hoped to pry out. "Well if that don't beat all."
"What about you? Here for Founding Day, I'm guessing. You still... working?"
Rask didn't have to look down to know that Tybren was resting his hand on the pommel of the sword at his hip.
Same old Tybren.
He didn't take much offense. Last time they crossed paths, Rask knew he'd been a real bastard.
"I'm not ridin with the Irregulars, if that's what you're askin, or any such outfit. The string on that trade run out not long after we parted ways. For me, anyways."
Parted ways. Pretty way of puttin it.
"I ain't sure if I quit them or they quit me. Quits, either way. I been with the Outer Rim Regulators since then. Keepin the peace on the frontier, or somethin like that. Gave a run at retirement like you, but it didn't take with me."
Rask tried to downplay his status as a Regulator marshal. Relations between the Regulators and Mandalore were rocky at best, and the badge didn't open doors and earn trust on Mandalore like it did elsewhere on the Rim. The Mandalorians were fiercely independent and never much cared for Regulators interfering with their affairs, the Death Watch especially. He suspected they viewed themselves as the inheritors of the Rim, and just saw the Regulators as an obstacle to that. An unfounded suspicion, granted.
Rask pushed his battered wide-brim hat back on his head and looked up at the massive tower before them, like some mountaineer eyeing their next conquest. A problem to be solved. "Hell, I'll be honest, I forgot about the Founding. I'm planetside lookin up old friends is all, just worked out that I ended up here at the worst damn time for it." A half-truth. "You weren't on the itinerary, but I'm happy I ran into ye." Perhaps another. Rask wasn't sure yet.
"You look like you done well for yerself, Tybren. How'd a merc like yourself come into retirement? That don't happen every day. Make it big, or you got a side gig goin?"
Pounding drums cut through the din of the crowd, all in near-perfect unison. A chill ran down Rask's spine though he did not know why. Despite the celebratory mood, the drums seemed ominous to him, some primal herald of blood and fire to come. Mandalore unified after years of strike. He did not think they would be content to sit on the sidelines of the great galactic game any longer.
Keldabe Administrative District // Mandalore // Mandalore Sector Mentioned:@Bastian
The sun faded in the west like an evil dream, its departure from this world hastened by the jumbled skyline that sliced off the sunlight like a ragged scythe. It was something Rask never quite grew used to in bigger cities. Early sunsets and perpetual twilight. Back home, when the sun went down, that was it. You turned in.
Home.
Rask turned his focus to the task at hand. The Mand'alor's Tower. There was little doubt in his mind that his quarry was inside. The fulcrum of power in this volatile world, an obelisk of dark stone that pierced the cyanic blue sky past pale clouds. No better place for a traitor.
Zi’Aii.
A Republic commando, once his gang’s lifeline so many years ago. She’d come to them during the Irregular’s heyday, when they were at their strongest. Sent by the Republic, she said, to provide assistance and intelligence. Apparently, Jak’s Raiders were getting noticed by Republic High Command. Zi’Aii, young as she was, certainly proved her worth. The Twi’lek had been a deadeye with a blaster, but her real skill was with explosives. With her, they’d probably blown up a system's worth of Sep supplies. The young woman also provided them with Republic intelligence, which, in the early stages of the war, was always accurate and actionable. Later, not so much.
As far as Rask was concerned, she’d only slipped up once. She sided with Jak. Gunned Rask's mutineers down, left him for dead, and went rogue with the rest of the Raiders. For that, she earned herself a hefty bounty in nearly every system. Then, like so many Raiders, she just disappeared.
But Rask had her now. She was working with the Separatists, some sort of diplomat for Ryloth. Last Rask had heard, Ryloth was engulfed in civil war, so she was likely trying to curry favor with Mandalore. Trying to stop them from shipping supplies to the rebels, maybe. It didn’t matter to him. He wondered if she was ever true to the Irregular's cause, or if she was just in it for the money. As he got older, Rask suspected most of them were.
Rask worked his way through the throngs of revelers, studying the Mand'alor's Tower. He needed to know the building’s layout in case things went south. Rask looked for entrances and exits, windows and balconies, of which there were few. He looked for guards, of which there were many. There must have been a landing pad at the upper levels, judging from the whine of starship engines powering up from above the clouds. The front entrance was certainly an option, since he could just walk right through. But access to higher levels, where the important folks were? Not likely. Rask wouldn’t be granted landing privileges if he hopped in his ship, nor could he scale the sheer building even if he had the gear or inclination. They’d just gun him down. No, he’d have to figure something else out.
More than one way to skin a womprat.
Rask ordered caf from a stand and paid the vendor and idly stirred his drink with a small plastic spoon, although there was nothing to stir for he took it black. His sharp eyes remained on the tower, as if to unlock its secrets and will his way inside. Rask knew he’d find a way in. He always did. It might not be elegant, it might not be pretty, but he’d find a way. The celebrations were picking up in energy now as the sun faded, and he was offered drinks and food and company by carousers, but he just smiled and politely declined. Rask knew he would need his wits about him now.
Rask peeled his eyes away from the tower long enough to spot a familiar face in the crowd. A strange one, at that. One he’d not expect to see ever again, and one he wasn’t sure he’d like to. Scarred green skin. More tattoos than he remembered. Gleaming white beskar. The last time their paths crossed was over 20 years ago, and it had not ended pleasantly. The Irregulars hired him and several other mercenaries for what was supposed to be a big blow to the Separatists out on the Rim. It didn’t work out like that.
Still, Rask had no choice. Cel, though helpful, was just a low-ranking bureaucrat, and an outsider on Mandalore at that. The mercenary, though, was a true Mandalorian. Perhaps he’d have enough pull to get Rask where he needed to be. The Mirialan was currently choking down some food, an embarrassing position for such a strong fighter. Rask opened, as he always did, with a joke.
“Sometimes, I think starving would be preferable to Mandalore’s food. Ain’t never developed the taste for it, myself,” Rask said as he approached, armed with an easy smile, unsure of how the mercenary would respond. “Ain't seen you in some time, Tybren. How you been?”
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