Sontaire wouldn’t be telling Shey, but she had been expecting her. Aura had told Sontaire that Shey needed help, and… despite all that had happened, she would not abandon her in her time of need. And, from what the lady had heard… the Imperial was in need for certain.
“Shey.” Sontaire called from off to her right, regarding her with both concern and a steely sense of composure.
Shey tried not to be sullen, she tried not to skulk. She didn’t want to see Sontaire. She hated healers. She would rather her eye sting forever. Yet, here she was, because Auranel had asked her to.
“Sontaire.” Shey kept her stance loose, waiting. “Aura told me to see you.”
Everything was in order, planned to perfection. She was wearing bright green silks that matched her eyes, trimmed in gold and offset by dark brown leather boots up to her knees and gloves of the same to her wrists. She cradled a ship-shaped bottle of brandy in one arm, the other resting easily by her side. She deposited her daggers and knives as she entered the bordello, as she was supposed to, straightened her silks, and then asked after Sontaire.
After being given the proper directions and assured that Sontaire was accepting visitors, Shey took to the stairs. The hall s were easy to navigate, and soon she found herself before the womer’s door. This being the last obstacle before seeing the exquisite Altmer, herself, Shey once again checked to make sure she was in order, then rapped on the door.
(( So, to start, Allie is a gorgeous, loving lady who takes no shit and tells it like it is. But she’s also fantastically knowledgeable, informative and respectful.
Her art is beautiful. I mean, just look at it. And not only that, but there’s a range of body types and facial structures and so much diversity but they’re all gorgeous as fuck.
And then she tackles these really heavy topics and she does it flawlessly. And they’re scary and frightening and horrifying because they should be, but they aren’t the be-all, end-all of her characters and their development. They aren’t excuses for angst, they’re just real things that happen and real reactions and–!!!!!
And the characters are dimensional, and fun, and exciting!
And Sontaire!mod herself is just awesome. She’s always so excited to share and be shared with and help educate people and honestly she is just fantastic, but if you fuck with her you’re going to get it full on, no holds barred because she doesn’t have to apologize to anyone for who she is and what she’s been through.
And that’s why Sontaire!mod is fantastic and if you don’t agree, go sit in the corner and think about your life and your choices. ))
He’d stopped in Wayrest. She’d be waiting for him, wondering what was the matter, because he’d taken a day to survey the crude remains of his youth. He was older now, more haggard looking, and admittedly had a bit more weight on him. That, coupled with the cloak he was mindful enough to throw over his head ensured that not a soul would know him. He was just another traveler, an aging Orc with a mutt that simply refused to leave his side. Now, as he had been the first time he entered Wayrest, Dakog was a nobody.
And so, uninhibited by the burdens of his past, he walked through the city like a spectre. He visited the Roundshield Inn, or what used to be the Roundshield Inn, where he’d come to celebrate so many victories. Now it was the Broken Board, and even more run down than he remembered. House Bossuet was on its last leg, he heard. Lord Mathias just couldn’t hold the Bledtower after Gervais and that Orc of his were gone. Pirate territory, they said. The thought brought a smirk to his face.
That’s when the boy, who was a man now, met his gaze. For a moment, nothing. Then the little serving boy, who was now the barkeep, took a half step back, eyes widening in surprise. Dakog got up and walked, and he kept walking until the city was part of the past once more.
The seadogs can have Wayrest, for all I care.
Daggerfall had fared better over the years. It was just as obnoxiously rich as he remembered it, maybe even more obnoxiously now. If the two kingdoms had once been in competition for economic and cultural dominance in High Rock, it was hard to tell now.
With Maush stabled, and Angus trailing at his heels, Dakog marched along the path to the estate. His steel boots clinked and his armor clattered as he walked across the stone, as if he were some sort of automaton. Silent in his approach, he made solemn haste toward the the small but elegant manor.
He was a day late already, and she’d be wondering what had kept him.
It would never cease to amaze Elegia how much trouble a single person could be put through in a mere two-week period.
It was also constantly surprising exactly how many bandits and wild animals thought it would be an excellent idea to target a lone mounted individual during the long bloody ride from Markarth to Riften, not to mention constantly astounding how many mountains one had to go around on the way there.
But, against all odds (and she would be sure to underline that fact to Sontaire), she had succeeded, and it was clearly her right to slam the door of the House open a tad more enthusiastically than necessary, and if the aggression and frustration practically flying off her happened to set the poor woman at the door a bit on edge, well, that was too bad. At least she knew who she would be looking for.
The Orc was exhausted, and rightfully so. His last nights in Hjaalmarch had been far from the quiet tending of affair he’s expected them to be. There’d been more things in need of his attention than he’d realized, and more new developments than he’s been expecting. And then there was… well, the incident.
His right bicep was wrapped tight in a leather binding, concealing the deep wound below. His lower torso had been bound as well, everything below his chest. There were a few other wounds, but those were the worst of them. He might have been better served to use actual bandages, but he hadn’t exactly been keeping them on hand. Unused pelts, on the other hand, were available in surplus throughout the shack. If Dakog was one thing when it came to medical treatment, it was inventive.
All the same, it pained him to move. He could hardly swing his axe without a surge of pain sweeping through his wounded arm, and bending over in even the slightest seemed to start his abdominal injuries bleeding all over again. He was next to worthless. Letting Sontaire travel the roads alone had been safer than letting him do it in his condition.
He made it however, and no later than he said he would. For once, Dakog had been true to his word. Leaving Maush stabled with the man who’d sold him, the guardsman made his way into the city and through the streets with purposeful, albeit burdened stride. All this walking was going to kill him.
He was thankful, at least, that nobody seemed to stand in his path through the Bordello. Mevure saw him making his way in, but seemed unable to find appropriate words of greeting before he’d nodded and left her standing alone. He didn’t have time to lose being welcomed back, told to get lost, or otherwise. His mind was on one thing and one thing only.
Dakog didn’t knock. He always felt silly knocking. What was the point of punching a door repeatedly? If he wanted it open, he could do it himself, and punching it down just seemed excessive, even to him. Instead, he turned the handle with a rather clumsy left hand, leaving his right to rest limp at his side, and strode in with an easy swagger that he hoped would mask just how much it hurt to move.
Lamia can’t cook for shit, and so she’d rather have other people do it for her. She likes Aran’s cuisine the most, but he’s very often away doing his dark-brotherhood-assassin-y business. So she used to go through all the trouble of summoning him with the black sacrament (it worked faster than sending a courier). She was told to stop after several times, but it was good while it lasted.
Fly Amanita: Clothing/materials headcanon
Lamia prefers to wear clothes that are ligth and tight-fitted, more than heavy and poofy. The latter never sits right, it’s uncomfortable, not to mention flapping of the fabric is loud. Capes are a no-go too (no capes!)