i; arrival [Curled in the shadow of a dragon's ribs, skins stretched over then between to block the worst of the snows when dark had started to fall. Her bow in her hand clutched tight; Skyrim is lawless, you never know what might come creep into the tent in the dark.
She's slept in worse places. High ledges, tucked into what looked like a warm dry place that gave beneath her in the night or when something appeared and she had to turn from it, or high in branches not so suited to it as those in Valenwood. Falling hard in the night, swearing to the moons hanging in the--]
Y'ffre's green-knotted bones-- [not daedra, not draugr, but enough to get the bow up when she bares her teeth at them. The snarl catches in her throat, turns to a rattling feral hissing as she takes aim.
(Her hand is glowing. It isn't a priority. Survival is a priority.)
Squinting past the glow, the ache, into too many eyes, limbs stretched out she fires. Thinks of flames like cold fire that lit the forest, of flesh that burns from the inside out and the dragon's belly she'd been sleeping in. The arrow punches clean through one of the eyes of the spindly creatures that puts her in mind of a spriggan gone horribly wrong as it lurches her direction.]
ii [After and Brónach breathes.
Sets the bow back. Salvages arrows. Seems relatively unconcerned with the mud covering her person as she sets about conducting a thorough inspection of herself for injuries then through her possessions. The greater part of it wasn't strapped to her so that's-- that's somewhere else.
Not here. Another hissing curse. Easy enough to interrupt any of this as she moves quietly and quickly, an eye for anyone watching her once she starts to investigate the left hand with intent.
After that it's the turn of the remains, a wicked blade flipped into her palm to open up the few remaining parts (whatever happened, they're gone; her mouth pulls in a question) with a critical eye. Weighing them. Sniffing. Prodding with the blade.
The questions come in order of importance to someone used to chasing down game and not always having a map.] Where am I, how did I get this thing in my hand, how do I get back?
[Not your name, not the offer of hers. Skyrim made her stop caring about that one a long time ago.]
brónach | skyrim | ota
[Curled in the shadow of a dragon's ribs, skins stretched over then between to block the worst of the snows when dark had started to fall. Her bow in her hand clutched tight; Skyrim is lawless, you never know what might come creep into the tent in the dark.
She's slept in worse places. High ledges, tucked into what looked like a warm dry place that gave beneath her in the night or when something appeared and she had to turn from it, or high in branches not so suited to it as those in Valenwood. Falling hard in the night, swearing to the moons hanging in the--]
Y'ffre's green-knotted bones-- [not daedra, not draugr, but enough to get the bow up when she bares her teeth at them. The snarl catches in her throat, turns to a rattling feral hissing as she takes aim.
(Her hand is glowing. It isn't a priority. Survival is a priority.)
Squinting past the glow, the ache, into too many eyes, limbs stretched out she fires. Thinks of flames like cold fire that lit the forest, of flesh that burns from the inside out and the dragon's belly she'd been sleeping in. The arrow punches clean through one of the eyes of the spindly creatures that puts her in mind of a spriggan gone horribly wrong as it lurches her direction.]
ii
[After and Brónach breathes.
Sets the bow back. Salvages arrows. Seems relatively unconcerned with the mud covering her person as she sets about conducting a thorough inspection of herself for injuries then through her possessions. The greater part of it wasn't strapped to her so that's-- that's somewhere else.
Not here. Another hissing curse. Easy enough to interrupt any of this as she moves quietly and quickly, an eye for anyone watching her once she starts to investigate the left hand with intent.
After that it's the turn of the remains, a wicked blade flipped into her palm to open up the few remaining parts (whatever happened, they're gone; her mouth pulls in a question) with a critical eye. Weighing them. Sniffing. Prodding with the blade.
The questions come in order of importance to someone used to chasing down game and not always having a map.] Where am I, how did I get this thing in my hand, how do I get back?
[Not your name, not the offer of hers. Skyrim made her stop caring about that one a long time ago.]