Vanity is bliss.
Feb 22
An existance dedicated to fleeing authority isn’t so bad.
Feb 14
A meeting in a crowded tavern
shi-ala:
Shi’ala shook her head, deciding the strange elf wasn’t worth her time. She threw down a few coins and finished the last mug of mead. A familiar buzz was trying to settle itself nicely in her head but she ignored it. She sniffed and glanced around the tavern. It was noisy but she could leave without drawing too much attention that way. The Bosmer was still lost in his thoughts—good riddance, she thought.
She stood up, fingers brushing lazily against the table as though considering to take the gold back and making a run for it. She made a fist and chose not to, instead turning swiftly around and walking towards the door. Her cloak fluttered behind her as she made her way to the exit.
“No, wait, don’t—”
Shi’ala sighed and turned back to the Bosmer. “I refuse to sit next to a dawdling imbecile whose tongue seems to have been cut off, let alone bother traveling with one.” She shook her head and continued on her way.
“No, you daft wench I’m not talking about that, I meant—”
But it was too late. Shi’ala had opened the door, only to find an assemblage of guards standing outside it, holding a scrap of bloodied cloth. Her eyes widened ever so slightly—not enough for them to notice, of course, but enough that she knew her cover was blown. The leader of the group narrowed his eyes at her, noticing her quiver and bow peeking out from underneath her cloak. Just as she was contemplating what she could possibly do next, she felt a hand on her collar yanking her backwards.
She stumbled away from the guards but whirled to punch her assailant; as she turned, she noticed it was the goddamned Bosmer. That didn’t slow down her punch in the slightest.
The elf dodged nimbly to the side, and Shi’ala ended up boxing a bystander over the ear. As the drunken Nord cursed, he blindly swung around to hit whoever happened to be in his way. He hit another patron, who then threw a mug at the minstrel in the corner, who then took his lute and clubbed someone over the head. Chairs were broken and tables were overturned, and in a matter of seconds the tavern turned into a veritable mire of chaos. The guards had rushed in to apprehend Shi’ala, and were lost in the entropy as well.
“Would you move already?” the Bosmer hissed into Shi’ala’s ear and gestured to the back door of the tavern. He grabbed her arm and dragged her to the edge of the massive brawl. Shi’ala ducked low to avoid being seen by any alert guards, and dive rolled for the door.
The moment the Dunmer rolled for the door, Silinde was slammed mercilessly against the wall by a hulking Nord. The mer’s eyes narrowed at the fleeing girl; he knew if he didn’t get to the darting dark elf, he’d lose track of her in the night. The time for fighting had passed – now was a time for a thorough beating. His thoughts were abruptly cut short as a stiff fist found itself planted against the side of his hood, clunking his head against the wall with a surprising thud. Another punch drove into him like a piston, finally destabilizing the elf. This, in hindsight, was not a good idea.
After Silinde recovered from his stumble, he pivoted on his heel, donning a resolute expression. He brought his arms in to his sides, exhaling gently; the brutish Nord rushed at him again, throwing a heavy swing far to his right. Nimbly, the Bosmer ducked under the wild swing. Before the man could even follow through, the elf drove an impressively powerful stomp into the awkward bend of the assailant’s knee; a resounding crack and wailing cry let Silinde know he’d hit right where he needed to. For assurance, he spun completely on his heel with another flying kick that found its mark directly on the back of the man’s thick skull, plunging him to the ground with notable speed.
The Bosmer could see that every moment in strife was a moment delayed; his new ‘friend’ was lessening the distance between herself and the door. Without hesitation, Silinde vaulted onto an unstable wooden table, launching himself over a miniscule portion of the violent crowd below. His momentum proved to be more than he could handle; when the rushing mer impacted, the frail, worn wood snapped under his force. The table collapsed, flinging the disoriented elf to his side, directly into an inebriated brawler. Silinde didn’t take his time as he did for the last man, instead delivering a swift series of precise jabs and hits into the Imperial’s bare chest, toppling him with a kick square to the sternum.
Silinde’s call was lost in the ruckus of the room. It was simply impossible that she’d be able to hear – or care, in all probability. With his back to the uneven wall, the Bosmer furthered his way to the door, bolting out after the nightly elf. She had been fending off someone of her own who seemed to not crave a fight, but another primitive need. Instantaneously, Silinde’s hand was firmly clamped against her forearm, dragging her west at nearly a sprinting speed. She didn’t seem too overjoyed.
“What in Oblivion are you doi—“ The Bosmer interjected, grunting. “You act as if I haven’t done this in the past.”
“This? Kidnap a woman?!” His grip tightened on the girl as a sign of some odd form of discipline. He still sounded as unamused as ever. “Hilarious. I believed you to be an assassin, not a court jester.”
Feb 10
A meeting in a crowded tavern
shi-ala:
Shi’ala raised an eyebrow at the Bosmer as he looked away. Meeting someone who didn’t know what they wanted was…different. Especially in this icy land full of brazen idiots who believed they knew what was best for everyone. She took her time with the second mug of mead, mulling over the strange mer. The bustle of the tavern kept much attention away from them, which was lucky considering how utterly out of place they looked. Shi’ala was clothed in her preferred nighttime outfit—muddy grays and greens that helped her blend perfectly into the landscape but made her stand out as much as an albino mammoth in the tavern. As for the Bosmer, he was wearing a strange amalgamation of mage robes and leather armor; practical yet worn gear. The fact that they were bruised and bloody didn’t help dispel the few glares shot their way, either.
“You’re awfully flighty,” Shi observed, half-talking to herself in an effort to ignore the repugnant patrons. The Bosmer didn’t react, still lost in his thoughts and tapping lightly on his mug.
She took another gulp of mead, finishing off her second flagon and setting it on the table. After wiping her mouth off on her sleeve she replied with a snort, “And trust me, cur, I wouldn’t do myself the injustice of presuming you were alluding to me.”
Silinde firmly clutched the flimsy pewter mug, continuing his mindless observations into the vibrant tavern patrons. A brief scan revealed the crimson-scaled Argonian had vacated the area, much to Silinde’s disappointment. He couldn’t believe he’d selected such an… unappreciative vassal for his prideful spiel. In a taste of irony, he considered the pain of rejection to be far worse in magnitude than a haymaker to the jaw. If he ever claimed that the estranged Dunmer didn’t have power in her strikes, though, he’d be blatantly lying.
Shi’ala spoke, but her absent-minded observation didn’t register with the Bosmer. He was far gone in the depths of his imagination. Hundreds of thoughts raced through his troubled mind. He was in a world of his own, consumed by conceit with a high regard for self-importance. Among all that, though, were fleeting thoughts of more complex emotions Silinde hadn’t quite begun to understand. They troubled him more than anything – excluding his ‘hunters’.
He was suddenly whisked out of his pointless concentration, blinking wildly. Slowly, the ambient shuffling of inebriated patrons and horrendous twanging of an out of tune lute began to fill his ears as he refocused on reality. Silinde hadn’t entirely caught what she had jaunted him with, taking a few more moments to himself to process it, and—
Oh, of course. An insult. Where was he?
His head swiveled at a painfully sloth-like pace, finally facing the Dunmer again. He was wearing an expression of pure apathy almost like a mask, dragging the tip of his tongue along his rather sanitary teeth in a similarly slow fashion. Silinde was confident he didn’t even need to say anything, instead letting his face speak for him – and his face said a lot. He hoped.
@ Silinde
con-vincingartist:
The mercenary acknowledged the intruding fingers of cold caressing exposed slivers of copper, with a hitched sigh. She burrowed into deeper into her cloak but the cold refused to ease its uncomfortable grip. It managed to settle into her very bones, doing nothing to quell her surly mood. The steed she’d earned as a token of gratitude from a customer, had galloped off into the dark, leaving her stranded in rather unfamiliar woodlands.
Her crudely crafted torch flickered violently in the oncoming gale, casting dancing shadows in every direction. Kein moved wordlessly amid the labyrinth of mighty tree roots and boulders, straining an ear for the tell-tale clip-clop of hooves against the marshy ground.
Instead, she was met with the sound of wet coughing. Immediately, her torch was thrown to the ground and extinguished with a heavy sabaton-clad foot. Kein was engulfed in darkness, save the thin tendrils of moonlight that filtered in through the treetops.
An endless, soulless gaze pierced through the illuminated night sky. The fatigued Bosmer’s jaw hung low, but his breathing was perfectly controlled. Aside from obviously being on the run, something was odd about this elf. Aside from the blatant, that is.
He was wounded; this much was apparent. The soles of what little he had on his worn feet were stained a dark maroon, along with the raggedy magi robes that barely fit him. There was a high chance they were stolen, but his behavior was not akin to a thief’s. No, his actions matched that more closely of a wounded animal, fleeing from a hunter who had already assured victory.
This was only reinforced when Silinde managed to pick up the sound of clanking metal slamming on… something. Discreet as it was, his entire person perked up instantly, wide eyed. No more did he appear to be deep in thought, but instead terrified. As quickly as he heard the trespasser, Silinde lifted himself to his feet with no lack of haste. Crouching low, he bolted off further down the path at an alarming speed.
(via con-vincingartist-deactivated20)
Feb 09
shi-ala:
silinde:
shi-ala:
silinde:
shi-ala:
silinde replied to your post: Oh. Suddenly I have…followers?
I am under the perception you don’t fully grasp my motives, Shi. If it was my task to acquire you followers, all of Skyrim would be at our doorstep.
As usual you are giving yourself far too much credit.
I’m pretty sure if it were up to you to amass followers, any poor citizen that dared come too close would promptly be scared away due to your horrid demeanor.
Humorous, coming from one such as yourself. Dare I even proclaim you to be a hypocrite! Oh, imagine the horror! A horror worse than gazing upon your wonderous face?
Terrifying.
I’d rather be stuck with a horrible visage than with a personality that even makes nirnroot stop with its humming and glowing in a vain effort to run away.
All things considered, I’m fairly certain that you’re the one who got the short end of the stick.
I don’t think any maiden in Skyrim believes I recieved the “short end” of the stick. Quite the contrary, actually. I’m worried, though, that your end still may be longer. It’s a perpetual mystery that I, as a vast intellect, am not willing to solve.
Silinde that’s implying that somehow you got any maidens in Skyrim to look past your soulless, weird-ass eyes and the fact that you look like a serial killer and then managed to bed them. Excuse me if I find that a little hard to believe.
…
As for the latter, I—
I’m not sure that even warrants a response, you swine.
My pork is but of the finest quality, and don’t you forget that. Besides, women enjoy that “bad boy” look, especially if I look as if I recently murdered someone.
…
… I’m… kidding, by the way.
shi-ala:
silinde:
shi-ala:
silinde replied to your post: Oh. Suddenly I have…followers?
I am under the perception you don’t fully grasp my motives, Shi. If it was my task to acquire you followers, all of Skyrim would be at our doorstep.
As usual you are giving yourself far too much credit.
I’m pretty sure if it were up to you to amass followers, any poor citizen that dared come too close would promptly be scared away due to your horrid demeanor.
Humorous, coming from one such as yourself. Dare I even proclaim you to be a hypocrite! Oh, imagine the horror! A horror worse than gazing upon your wonderous face?
Terrifying.
I’d rather be stuck with a horrible visage than with a personality that even makes nirnroot stop with its humming and glowing in a vain effort to run away.
All things considered, I’m fairly certain that you’re the one who got the short end of the stick.
I don’t think any maiden in Skyrim believes I recieved the “short end” of the stick. Quite the contrary, actually. I’m worried, though, that your end still may be longer. It’s a perpetual mystery that I, as a vast intellect, am not willing to solve.
shi-ala:
silinde replied to your post: Oh. Suddenly I have…followers?
I am under the perception you don’t fully grasp my motives, Shi. If it was my task to acquire you followers, all of Skyrim would be at our doorstep.
As usual you are giving yourself far too much credit.
I’m pretty sure if it were up to you to amass followers, any poor citizen that dared come too close would promptly be scared away due to your horrid demeanor.
Humorous, coming from one such as yourself. Dare I even proclaim you to be a hypocrite! Oh, imagine the horror! A horror worse than gazing upon your wonderous face?
Terrifying.
Anonymous asked: I'm not a very strong roleplayer yet, as I am new to the entire thing. Would you mind humoring me with some roleplay to help me improve?
(( Well, sure thing. I’m slightly suspicious about you, anon. Squinty eyes and all that.))
The bright of the day had vanished as quickly as he realized it was even there. Silinde had been traveling on foot for nearly an entire day, pushing forward entirely on bravado and mindless persistence. Caked blood adorned his face, roughly formed around the relatively fresh scars that now marred his visage. A throbbing migraine wasn’t the only factor that he considered stopping for; no, the thin cloth around his feet were unraveling and stained, soaked in blood from endless travel. He bounced the thought around in his mind, plotting all possible consequences. On one hand, there was a chance he could be effectively tracked down and eliminated. On the other, he’d finally be able to rest after hours of trudging over the smooth stones of the Skyrim border.
A hoarse groan escaped his lips as he fell to his knees; he tried to speak or even make a noise but found himself unable. Instead, flecks of blood stuck to the back of his hand as he coughed violently, his coarse throat only amplifying his problem. For several minutes he lay on his knees, staring with a dead expression into the vivid night sky. He didn’t like this feeling.
He didn’t like feeling at all, really. To be completely honest, he was afraid.
But the thing he felt the most was regret.
(( Relatively short post, but slight insight onto his backstory wohohohoohohoh))
Feb 04
OOC Stuff.
[[ Anyone can bother me / send me asks, if you want. I won’t bite! Though, there are only eight of you, anyways. I probably need more followers. ]]
Feb 03
A meeting in a crowded tavern
shi-ala:
Shi’ala coughed and spat out some blood as she picked herself up. She wiped the blood from her lips on her sleeve and glared at the Bosmer, wondering what his game was.
She took a shaky breath to calm down her trembling muscles. The agitation and exhilaration still hadn’t subsided and she still wanted desperately to punch and kick and run. When she tried to take a step forward, however, her whole body protested against it. She groaned and ran a hand through her hair.
“Fine.”
She walked over to the tree where she’d left her stuff and fastened her cape about her shoulders again, hiding her bow and quiver underneath. She stalked moodily after the elf, entering the tavern as subtly as she could. She hated attention, and the fact that they were both bruised and bleeding didn’t help her remain inconspicuous.
They sat down at a table in the corner, and Shi’ala immediately ordered four flagons of mead. The Bosmer raised an eyebrow at her.
“One’s for you. The rest’s for me.”
“Understandable. One does need an exorbitant amount of alcohol to recover from a loss like that.”
Shi’ala let out a small growl. I could kill him, she thought. I could just kill him. I could make life a lot easier for all of Skyrim by just poisoning him. Right here.
“I let you win. You know I could have incapacitated you right at the very beginning.”
“Of course, if it takes away the sting of defeat, then you should keep thinking that way.”
Their drinks arrived and right away Shi’ala grabbed her mug and downed it all in one go. She took the next mug and sighed.
“What’s your deal? What do you want?”
The whole exchange forced the Bosmer to grin a bit. His roughed-up state was attracting some attention from overly curious or blatantly racist patrons, but Silinde didn’t seem to mind. If all else, he appeared to be completely unparsed from the vicious beating he’d just received. How did he manage that? Shifting from a prideful, ambitious lust for conflict to a completely stoic, apathetic guise? It aggravated her.
When the mugs came, he didn’t pay too much heed. His company thought otherwise, downing the thick, murky liquid in one hasty chug. An articulated finger traced around the rim of the worn pewter and Silinde’s attention was drawn elsewhere as he glanced off to the side, revealing a bit more of his scar. He almost seemed distant, as if his mind was somewhere far off but he was forced to exist.
“What I want?”
His sudden interjection was rather surprising. He’d been quiet for some time, silently observing the bustling crowd who’d arrived to get indescribably hammered. Silinde’s fingertip tapped against the rim of the full mug a few more times. “What do I want, Dunmer?”
Solid white eyes shifted in their sockets, gazing directly at her, then his visage turned to meet her as well. “Surely the inquiry of the age, girl.” First, he was cocky. Second, he was an eloquent asshole of immeasurable proportions, and now… analytical and enigmatic? He really was obnoxious. “To be honest,” he proclaimed, sighing, “I’m not entirely positive myself.” Speaking of obnoxious, he kept fiddling with his mug. It seemed he really had no intention of drinking, but instead kept it around merely for novelty’s sake. “There’s a possibility I’d trek the world over until my timely demise. Maybe I’m in search of something.”
A slight pout subtly formed across his marred face, and he glanced off again. “Maybe I’m in search of someone, instead.” He stopped tapping the side of his mug, gripping it instead. Another brief moment in silence passed, and suddenly Silinde’s personality seemed to shift entirely. “But, don’t consider even for a moment there is a slight possibility I’m referring to…” He glanced at her again, scowling. “Someone like you.”
As quickly as he looked at her, his gaze shot off to elsewhere.
Feb 01
A meeting in a crowded tavern
shi-ala:
She disliked this elf more and more by the second. But he had a point. The adrenaline of killing the khajiit pumped through her blood, and after all the two times this elf had stumbled across her path she’d wanted nothing more than to punch him in the face. And here he was, openly invitingit.
Even she had to acknowledge the temptation of it all. But first, she had to clear things up.
“You’re making the mistake of assuming I want anything to dowith you. What I meant was, I walked into this town only to discover that you, of all people, were here as well. Choosing this tavern as my…hunting grounds, it is only unfortunate that you happened to choose it as well.”
She pursed her lips in thought. A fight. A fight. A chance to put this smug bastard in his place, to punch that cocky grin off his face. The corners of her mouth turned upwards, in the slightest of smiles. What did she have to lose?
She jumped out of the tree, her cape billowing behind her as she landed swiftly on the ground. She stood up in a flurry from her crouched landing and placed her quiver and arrows by the tree. She faced the Bosmer with the glowing eyes and spoke as she unfastened the cape from around her shoulders.
“But…you’re damned right.” The cloth fell from around her and she rushed at the elf.
Shi’ala’s fighting style was more about counterattacking and manipulating her opponent’s momentum against them, and less about brute force. As she charged at the elf, he grinned, pulling his arms into a fighting stance. When she was within distance, he lashed out in a right hook, which Shi’ala deftly ducked and avoided. She spun around to his back, walking around him in circles as he attempted to turn to face her.
This didn’t last long, as the Bosmer kicked out behind him and caught Shi’ala by the ankle and tripped her. She fell to the ground, rolling sideways just in time before the elf’s fist collided with the dirt. He swore and ran at her, but she nimbly sidestepped his charge, simultaneously grabbing his outstretched arm and using his force against him, making him stumble away.
“For someone so itching for a fight, you’re awfully keen to avoid hitting me,” spat the wood elf. Shi’ala sneered at him. She really did want to punch him.
She ran at him, and he was prepared to catch her blow. But at the last second, she ducked low to the ground and hit him with an uppercut, her knuckles colliding with his jaw with a painful crack. He took the opportunity to knee her in the stomach. Coughing, she stepped backwards to avoid a punch to her nose. Snaking around to the elf’s exposed left side, Shi’ala waited until he swung to face her, and used his lunging attack to grab his arm and twist it backwards. The elf grunted in pain but then kicked up and over her head, forcing Shi’ala into a backbend. He freed his arm and slammed his elbow into her chest, driving the air out of her lungs with a sharp, dry sound.
They were both admirable fighters. It was clear that either of them could have easily ended the fight with just a few simple moves at one point or another. But despite the ringing in their ears and the dirt caking their bloody knuckles, the point of it all was to fight, not to win.
Before she was able to reach him, he grinned ear to ear, adopting a protective fighting stance.
“I know.”
Assuming she was just a stereotypical brawler, he lashed out with a right jab to her jaw, only to be unpleasantly surprised as the nimble Dunmer quickly ducked, spinning around him. A scowl formed on his visage and he spun on a dime to face her, but couldn’t seem to actually lock eyes as she kept dancing around him, spinning in circles.
Grunting, Silinde jetted his leg out behind him, smirking yet again when he felt her impact on his foot. As the Dunmer collapsed to the ground he quickly pivoted on his heel, driving his fist to the ground. Gods, she was fast. As much as he didn’t like to admit it, he was having quite a bit of trouble connecting a hit.
“For someone so itching for a fight, you’re awfully keen to avoid hitting me.
The words flew from his mouth against his will with venom; spit flew from his taunting maw as he spoke. He really just wanted to hit her.
Confidence swelled within the Bosmer. A fury welled up in his eyes, glowing brighter than before. Once again she was headed in his direction with a blazing speed and he readied himself, mentally planning out her followup. He hated surprises. He really, really did. Especially when it involved someone nearly besting him in a conflict; let alone one he challenged someone in. When her boney knuckled rammed against his jaw, something inside him went off the edge. A flying knee jammed into her stomach and his lips curled as what little wind she had left was forced out of her, and he followed up with another wild swing directed her face – nowhere in particular, just… her face.
Aedra, curse this woman. Daedra too.
Once again, she had him in a hold as a result of his reckless swings. Silinde grunted, accidentally exposing his fatigue. The breaking point of the elf had been met; he kicked off the worn trail and launched himself into a backwards flip, his sash and robe fluttering as he passed over her head. It was obvious she was surprise, and even moreso when he slammed his elbow into her chest, smirking at the loud report. As she was forced to the ground, he immediately took a few steps in retreat, maintaining his pose.
Hopping on his feet a bit, he grinned through the thick blood oozing from his brow. After a brief pause and silent introspection, he moved his hands to his hips triumphantly. “Well,” he boomed, covering up his wheezing gasps for air. “Allow me to claim the title of first orator and state that, Gods, that was a decent fight. I’ve obviously had better, all facts considering.” He cocked a brow as she stood, dusting herself off. “Drinks on me?”
There was a time for strife, and there was a time for mead. This was one of those times.
Jan 24
OOC: What happened? Where is everyone?
Jan 16
A meeting in a crowded tavern
shi-ala:
She took a deep breath, her lips set in a snarl. Gods how she loathed this elf. She considered shooting him. Repeatedly shooting him. If this was Nocturnal’s doing, what with mixing around fate and all, she was going to find that Daedra and give her a talking-to. She trusted the Daedra more than the Divines primarily because they chose to mess around with the mortal world—that garish display of power seemed better than just blind faith. But this? This was taking it too far.
I could scare him. I could do that. She grinned, pulled back the string, and loosed the arrow.
It landed right in between the elf’s feet.
“I’m already aiming higher. True, I’d tracked you some, although the fact that you frequent a tavern I’d already chosen for target practice is a repugnant twist of fate. My planning to kill the Khajiit has nothing to do with my current plans of killing you, and illustrating it as otherwise doesn’t matter to me. “Affirmative action” my ass—listen Glowy, before you end up like that rank, fly-bitten mongrel, answer me: Why the fuck do you keep showing up where I am, and what in Oblivion do you want from me?!”
He paused for a while, keeping quiet as he eagerly awaited the reply of the Dunmer. When her fleching landed between his legs, the elf flinched. Not physically, per say, but mentally, as his train of thought was jossled beyond belief. He… was expecting it, but that didn’t change how surprising it was. Not to give away his masquerade, the Bosmer took another step foward, cocking his head to the side to the woman’s retort.
“Now, I don’t mean to upset you — that’s a lie, I do, but in specific ways — but might I inquire as to what in Nirn you even mean? Your… logic, if you can call it that, is completely riddled with fallacies.” His hand sneaked to his chin again, rubbing the rough, scarred skin. That same obnoxious, prideful smirk gleamed in the frigid night. “You wonder why I keep showing up where you are, yet… you admit to tracking me? Now, come on, we both are very aware that you can do mind-blowingly better.” After a few more bated steps forward, the elf stopped, tilting his head to the opposite side. From this distance, Silinde could see the brightness from the tavern being reflected in the Dunmer’s eyes. How satisfying it would be when she finally confronted him on the ground. “And, my! Such strong language! If I didn’t know any better — which, I do, in case that didn’t cross your mind — I’d say you have issues with grudges. But, I digress, to my main point: I believe the issue isn’t what I want with you, but instead the other way around. That is, if we were to ignore the blatant fact you completely blew me off, refusing to apologize in Windhelm.”
His eyes glared directly onto her now; oddly terrifying for someone who was so focused on remaining hidden. “Let me get directly to the issue.” The Bosmer’s tongue ran along his teeth once more, heart pounding with anticipation. Excitement had overcome logic again, and sent the elf into a pride-fueled frenzy.
“You desire a brawl.” His arms flung to his sides, exaggerating how open he was to the idea of a fight.
Jan 12
A meeting in a crowded tavern
shi-ala:
Shi’ala froze. From her angle she hadn’t seen the face of the man that emerged from the tavern, as it was concealed by his hood. But that voice was unmistakable.
She cursed under her breath. Not this asshole again, she thought to herself, getting another arrow ready onto her bowstring. Before addressing the Bosmer, she took a moment to observe her handiwork. The arrow jutted so perfectly in the Khajiit’s spine. Sad, to see a Khajiit resort to becoming a bandit. They made excellent merchants. She closed her eyes briefly to say a prayer to Hircine—nothing flourishing, just simple thanks for the hunt. That’s what she saw this as: a hunt. Not retribution, not murder. Hunting. A long time ago she actually held remorse after a kill, but she’d done a good enough job pushing away those feelings since then.
She opened her eyes again, hearing the elf move about below her and pinpointing his direction via the sounds. She aimed an arrow at his shoulder—the same shoulder she had shot before—and called out, “What do you mean, ‘someone like me?’ Watch what you imply when speaking to an arrow aimed at you.”
Is there no getting rid of this reprobate? I thought I’d seen the last of him.
Lady Luck had visited him. Surely, that was the only reason Silinde figured how such a situation was even possible; especially when it eliminated his problem for him. His ecstatic expression was ever present on his face, now more prominant considering he slid his hood down as she spoke. His tone was sharp, sarcastic, and impossibly fulsome.
“Well, Miss Attitude,” he replied, chortling to himself. His hands fell to his hips and he began pacing, “Maybe I was complimenting you. Highly unlikely, but we’re barely even acquaintences. I should possibly get to know you better before our first moonlit dinner!”
His words are simply dripping in mockery. It appeared that the normal rational of, ‘this person has a high chance of killing me’, did not cross his mind, or it might have been that he already knew what the outcome would be. Silinde’s ear-touching grin subsided a bit, and he confidently took a few more steps down the obscured trail, crossing his arms. Just like the last time they met, his ghastly eyes shone a bright blue, illuminating a very small distance in front of him. His tounge ran along his teeth as a buffer, stopping himself from speaking out of place for a moment. The Bosmer understood that he was clearly superior to the cowardly Dunmer — At least, that’s what he believed — but he still understood fully the fact that arrows, regardless of who they were fired by, are still extremely painful.
“I jest, Dunmer. Fret not. No, what I meant by, ‘someone like you’,” he spits out coldly, as if he’s about to bite his tongue off in a vain attempt to control himself, “was that, from our previous experiences, I thought you were not one to take affirmitive action. Unless, of course, this confrontation is purely by accident, in which case…” He pauses for a while, cocking his head. After some time in deep thought, he simply shrugs, crossing his arms once more. Three fingers find their way to his chin, idly tapping at it.
He’s aiming to provoke her… non-lethally. The terrifying part for him, though, was that he truely was unsure what her actions would be.
Here’s hoping to luck.
Jan 11
A meeting in a crowded tavern
shi-ala:
The dunmer’s idea of entertainment varied from most peoples’. She sat in the crook of a tree, just outside of the noisy tavern. The sounds of laughing and music spilled out onto the silent landscape, swallowed by the forest that hugged the back of the tavern. A thin trail snaked its way out to the front of the building, encouraging drunken patrons to get themselves out to the main road before collapsing. She held her unstrung bow in her hands, leaning her back up against the trunk of the tree. Her legs were straight out in front of her, and her quiver was strung around her hip, just within reach. It wasn’t that she couldn’t glean information by interacting directly with people, no—it was simply more fun, more challenging, to do things secretly. Shi’ala loved watching through the windows, determining the alpha presences in the room, seeing which adventurers went where. Stories, so many stories, all jumbled together along with the smoke coming out of the chimney. She loved it.
For her, the pleasures of life that she allowed herself to partake in were the simple ones. A clean kill. A straight shot. Correct information. And on some nights, when the moons shone bright and the skies stayed clear, she was content with just listening. On nights such as this one, however, she had a much more macabre purpose. Clouds drifted over the moons, not letting much light through. The warm light of the tavern was dim enough that most patrons couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of them if they exited from the back. The woods gathered right around the exit and the shadows provided excellent cover for bandits and thieves. On nights like these, Shi’ala took it upon herself to partake in some target practice.
She observed as a khajiit made his way out of the tavern, then looked over his shoulders before darting to hide behind a tree. He’d probably picked out an easy mark in the tavern, she thought, and proceeded to silently string her bow. It was a simple longbow, made of a sturdy elm. She’d spent years perfecting her bowmaking and this recurve was one of her finest creations. The reddish wood had grooves which were darkened with charcoal, camouflaging it at night and making it look exotic and beautiful in the day. She nocked an arrow loosely on the string, and waited.
Silinde made his way through the bustling tavern, dodging off to the side as man after mer tried to throw their arms around him, inviting him to stay for a bit longer. He had already mentally assesed the situation, running over every scenario possible. It seemed, to him, that victory was gaurenteed, before even having to lift a finger — metaphorically, at least. Although the impossible was possible in a land such as Skyrim, he wasn’t ruling out the idea of a possible defeat, to his ire. His scarred hands darted up to the edges of his pale yellow hood, flipping the worn cloth as far foward as possible. The rear exit was within sight now, and Silinde hastened his pace. A sly grin had found its way across his marred face, and his heart pounded with anticipation and maybe a bit of anxiousness. Much like before, the Bosmer found himself overly excitement over something that probably shouldn’t be celebrated, but he didn’t care. The possibility of exposing someone to the error of their ways - especially if it proved his superiority - was almost like a drug to him, and he was absolutely addicted.
Silinde extended his hand for the door, shoving it open with the blunt force of his shoulder, pausing a bit once he could see clearly into the night. Clearly wasn’t exactly the best choice to use, considering how late into the night, or, how early in the morning it was. A thick blackness had fallen over the entire area, circumnavigating the tavern and held at bay by a few torches resting in their stands, and the light shining from the interior. The moons shone brightly overhead, but a thick overcast kept what little light that shined through to be cast upon the treetops, creating a ghostly glimmer at the canopies of the forest. His cocky expression slowly dissipated and his gaze skimmed over the immediacy of the small trail, once again running over his pre-planned defense. The Bosmer knew that filthy Khajiit was nearby, but what disturbed him was that he could not tell where. Something else felt… off to him, but there was no more time to ponder as the same Khajiit from earlier lept out from behind a well-covered tree with a rusted iron sword in hand.
The feline shouted something at the elf, who didn’t really seem to catch much. Silinde was far too busy slowly sliding down his hood, shifting his face to the side a bit as if subconsciously displaying his scars as some sort of fear mechanism. The Khajiit, clad in some basic, middle-class clothing and not much else, seemed to agree. His whiskers twitched, if only for a moment, ultimately signaling a sign of extreme trepidation. A devilish smile found itself sneaking onto the elf’s face once more, and those soulless white eyes of his began to glow a soft, innocent blue. It almost seemed as if his cheeks could not stretch further as his grin grew to menacing lengths as he realized that his previous plans were falling into effect. This simple thief had no intention of losing his life, but Silinde was not about to let him off that easily — at least, without groveling at his feet. That seemed like a good idea. The elf took a rather extended breath, cocking his head to the side. Once more, the bandit tried to speak up again, visibly shaking.
“I- I said I—”
Nearly instantly, his speech was cut off by a divine arrow, piercing through the blackness of the forest like a gift from the heavens. The shaft found its way into the thief’s upper back, burrowing nearly into the base of his neck and ripping through past his sternum, the tip of the arrow piercing through the front of his chest. Instantaniously, the Khajiit’s sword fell to the ground as he gripped desperately at the front of his chest, now spilling blood at an alarming rate. The bandit dropped to one knee, then the other, and collapsed on the ground, making not a single sound except for the impact of his lifeless body on the soft dirt, and a slight gurgling that made Silinde unreasonably happy. Instead of celebrating the death of his assailant, he ducked out of view from the forest, pressing his back firmly against one of the immense trees that littered the outdoors. His eyes darted desperately do the downed Khajiit, suddenly finding himself a bit too focused on the arrowhead that protruded from his chest. Two prongs, much unlike a normal arrow, adorned the front of the fleching… it was all too familiar. All of his excitement found its way back to the elf, and that same grin was plastered over his marred visage. He stepped out from the ancient tree, taking a few steps onto the worn trail. Raising his voice, Silinde spoke up,
“Well! I never expected someone like you to actually follow through on my prediction.” He threw his arms out to the side, cocking his head. “I suppose you’re here me, hm?”