The Daily Round
(A/N): I've returned from the exams, entirely scarred and coated in tears!
I've missed typing the usual A/N ritual that padded out the length of all of my fics, and it only seems fitting that I return with an extra-long one which doesn't relate to the actual fanfic in any way, shape or form!
… Bah, sod it
Ever since the write-up of "The Busty Argonian Barmaid", I've been raring to write up a continuation of it. The aim of this was to flesh out the characters of Stradlater and Silent-He-Wonders just a little bit more, who I personally love writing for :P
With that in mind, I've actually been brainstorming two plots for a while… Alas, education got in the way of my write ups :l
Anywho, to business! This fic is a follow-up to "The Busty Argonian Maid", letting us take a glimpse at a tedious day of adventuring through the eyes of Skyrim's most unlikely duo of adventurers! With that in mind, I'd strongly advise you read the predecessor to this fic – it'll fill you in on the weird relationship between the two! Now, let's see what I've lost after writing a boat-load of U grade essays…
WARNING: Spelling errors, some bad language, pretty much an entirely OC cast, butchery of canon, and some suggestive language! Oh, and Argonian racism... Damned lizards...
Chapter One: The Gist of It
"Can you stop whistling that?" the Argonian grumbled, the rhythmic slap of his scaled feet ringing throughout the high streets of Whiterun. His dark-skinned companion followed in accord, his beefy hands resting in the spacious pockets of his ragged desert garb. "It's bad enough that I don't have any lips, now you're just rubbing it in."
The burly Redguard let out a sigh befitting of a captivated princess – albeit, one with a single eye, a dark complexion, and more battle scars than every Stormcloak warrior put together. "It's a lovely tune," he reminded his grumpy friend, who sneered in response. "You know how much I like the folk music around here."
"Considering it's a tale about a big fat git," the reptilian began, shimmying past a middle-aged Nordic woman with more screaming children in accord than teeth in her mouth; a whole five of the buggers. "Getting his head lopped off for being a big fat git," the marked fighter slipped by the woman with similar litheness – a skill years of getting arrows in the bottom whilst dodging cave traps tended to breed. The party stopped by a small shopping stall "I can see why."
The human folded his arms for a moment, trying to decipher what the venomous mage was trying to tell him. Eventually it ticked, and he felt himself reaching for his waist like a bride posing at a mirror with a golden trim and a roll of measuring tape. "… Are you saying I've got a plump frame?"
"Plump?" the Argonian echoed, tapping his fingers against the stall absently. The Redguard wasn't fat at all. Far from it; he had muscles big enough to lob peanuts at giants with a single flex. Rest assured if there was ever a circumstance where they both had their arms tied behind their backs and they were staging a last desperate defence against overbearing odds, it was a talent that would come in handy. "I've seen pot roasts with smaller breasts."
"Why you…" the tanned man growled, gritting his teeth. A forced cough that would put most parents to shame made the duo jump, prompting them to glance over the stall counter – it was the same Nordic woman who they'd just slinked by moments prior, complete with weeping babies strapped to every limb that could accommodate them.
"… Now dinner... That is, the pot roast... Will be terrible! That's it, terrible." the reptilian mage butted in, wondering just how much of their mildy homoerotic dialogue had been overheard. His companion nodded enthusiastically, sharing his consternation - either her bagged eyes were heavier than a mudcrab chitin, or her eyebrows were raised higher than High Hrothgar in scepticism. For some inexplicable reason, the Redguard felt the latter was more likely.
Forcing smiles more glittery than moon dust, the two made a break for it. The warrior was beginning to wonder if those children even belonged to the Nordic woman, or if she was planning to have them for lunch. He frowned irritably after clearing the crowds, glaring at his counterpart in contempt. "Watch your mouth, lizard."
The Argonian went right back to scoffing, "If you stop whistling," he suggested, his tail stiff in irritation. Once more he began to lead the way, not even taking a moment to let his colleague catch up. "Then I'll happily oblige."
With a shrug of his shoulders the desert warrior took his assigned place and pursued the magician, the two-man convoy slowly progressing through the winding streets of Whiterun. The way to Dragonsreach was a surprisingly tiring one, with the constant incline wreaking havoc on the toes and heels of citizens for centuries. The towering spire of the keep crooned over the entirety of the Hold, like a looming sentinel keeping vigil over the land.
He couldn't help but hum the folk tune.
That got him.
"… Don't hum either." the magician hissed, swivelling around so quickly that he almost fell flat against the Redguard's burly chest to resemble the cover of a shoddy romance novel. "Don't whistle, don't hum, don't pull out an accordion and dance across the street." there was an awkward pause, punctuated by the incessant creaking of a poorly oiled shop sign overhead. "Anything else I need to list for you, numb skull?"
Numb skull?
And here he thought the shop sign was rusty.
The Redguard shook his head, and they were off once more.
He lasted a full ten seconds – he deserved credit for that at least.
His shadowy eyes darting left and right as if he was a robber on the run, the warrior took a deep breath. "… Ohh, there once was a- Ack!"
A large, vaguely palm-shaped mark appeared on the Redguard's cheek, glowing an increasingly virulent pink that complimented the maroon and crimson of his garb quite nicely. "The claws are on stand-by," the mage snarled, lowering his scaly hand and slipping it back into its sheath. "Now if you don't mind-"
"Later, we're late." The warrior said redundantly, his low voice suddenly becoming more monotonous than a complete reading into the metaphorical meaning behind the Yellow Book of Riddles with an Imperial noble. He shouldered past the Argonian casually, ascending yet another flight of steps – Whiterun wasn't a Hold, it was a god-forsaken staircase. "No thanks to you."
"No thanks to me?!" The Argonian sputtered, thrown into complete disarray by his colleague's sudden change of tone. He stomped on the floor childishly, leaving faint talon-shaped indentations on the misty morning grass. "Now I'll have you know I… Oi, come back here Redguard!"
He didn't turn.
He loved confusing his acquaintance like that.
The unlikely duo continued their treacherous ascent, navigating several more maze-like markets and scaling more stairways than couriers on treacherous journeys to send parcels to the Greybeards. The Redguard breathed deeply as he at last reached the top of the city, the huge double-doors to the throne room sitting metres ahead. He turned, tugging on his loose clothing to release humid sweat and air from its confines. "Are you done yet?" he sighed, placing his large hands on his hips.
"I'm nearly there." the mage's feeble voice called up to him, a grunt of exertion punctuating every painful footfall. The Redguard glanced at the door in worry, wondering if the Jarl had his court physician on standby. "… I'm nearly there," croaked the Argonian, a sickly green fist emerging from the stairs and slapping onto the spotless white of the keep's cobblestone floor. At last he pushed himself up, poking his head from the ground like an archer emerging from cover. "I'm there!" he cheered, his arms trembling spasmodically. The Redguard shook his head as his companion slowly slid back down to whence he came. "… Wait… No, nearly there."
It was tempting to sit and watch for the next few hours, but the two had a schedule that was tighter than a female magician from High Rock. With relative ease he clutched onto the Argonian's frightfully bony shoulders and hauled him to his feet like a mother teaching their child how to walk – although that analogy ends when it involves a dull Redguard man and an arrogant, selfish and rather racist Argonian. The scarred warrior shook his head in pity, "You've got the strength of a damp noodle."
"And you smell like one, Redguard." the gasping magician responded snappily without missing a beat, the words forming on his tongue before his saviour had even finished his own. The desert wanderer kept him supported as he regained his strength, his limp tail wiggling pathetically like the arm of a diarrhetic legionary desperately hunting for some toilet paper. The mage had a right to complain about the ergonomic choice of Nordic architects. "… Who in the name of all that is sacred designs a city like that?"
The Redguard hauled his friend up straight, slowly assisting him in their march forward. He shrugged his shoulders, the well of his exhausted mind dry of wit. "Someone really high on the corporate staircase…?" he suggested.
There was a shared feeling of disgust. "… I'm not even going to reply to that one." the mage grumbled, much to the warrior's approval. Not another word bandied between them the broken duo continued their restless march, their destination mere metres away. If a simple walk had drained this much breath from them, it was debateable they'd even last the night.
With a dramatic, drawn-out creak the hold doors were suddenly thrown open – and the skinny Argonian thrown back in terror if it weren't for his colleague keeping him standing like a peculiar man and his puppet. The distinctive ring and chilling rattle of chainmail and cold steel filled the way as a towering man clad in ornate plate armour marched outwards, a ginormous broadsword that was clearly compensating for something resting across his heroic spine. The man walked by the duo without comment, his head forever fixed forward as he made for the steps.
From behind his back the Redguard and Argonian glared at the armoured man as he slowly hauled himself down the staircase, the heavy set of metal weighing him down and making it thrice as difficult to descend the steps of Dragonsreach to the markets below. In spite of that he still managed to do it whilst maintain a perfect posture. They knew exactly who he was; everyone did.
Dovahkiin, Dragonborn.
The Saviour of Skyrim, the Light in the Darkness.
And a total tosser.
They had every reason to hate the smarmy bastard, who roamed the fields of the province slaying monsters, solving problems, getting girls and stealing salt from people's draws. People like the Dragonborn were the individuals who would be remembered in history for their feats, while the ordinary heroes that trailed behind him would be left in the dust.
Or in their case, cast into the flames completely - their struggles forgotten.
The scarred Redguard remained silent, yet it was clear through his single eye that he bore little respect for the tin man escaping his sight. In contrast the Argonian was a tad bit less secretive, a single talon-tipped finger flipping the Dragonborn off out of his sight. "I hate that guy." the mage hissed ferally to his comrade, his dying tail becoming stiff with aggression. "He's a real bastard."
"We shouldn't think like that." the larger man warned, glaring at his vocal companion. No hero could save the entire province of Skyrim and its people on their own. That was a task for the layman; he and his friend. The Dragonborn would win his glory, they would win a night's rest. "He has his orders, we have ours."
Argonians are rather skilled at scoffing, what with their elongated snouts and nostrils like twinned bores. The magician demonstrated this proficiency with a rather skilful and phlegmy snort, yet beyond that ceased his whining. With the legendary dragonslayer out of sight – no doubt throwing buckets on the heads of merchants to steal things – the unlikely duo wandered over the bridge, well-kept oak wood damp with rains of nights past.
Another extended creak.
Someone really needed to oil those hinges.
Three figures emerged from the keep, clad in the infamous grey and gold of Whiterun's town watch. The two at the flanks were bog-standard guards, just faceless Nord peasants drawn from nearby villages who had swords blunter than a snarky Khajiit's sense of humour. What was slightly more interesting was the lady between them – a short woman; clearly of rank, with a bow, buckler, and rather vicious looking hatchet in accord.
A Bosmer.
"Hold it there now." the wood elf signalled with a raised hand in the universal gesture. The adventurers stopped in their tracks like wolves in the shifty gaze of fur traders, too exhausted to really say otherwise. The woman stood back as her boys walked forward, puffing their chests to try and look taller – a challenging effort with the large Redguard before them. Her fingers fumbled at the head of her axe, as if she were hushing a newborn desperate for some cake. There was tedium in her voice, but with it a sense of professionalism and control. "State your names, and your business."
"Pretty rude for a damned wood elf." the Argonian hissed in annoyance, glaring at the guards as they man-handled him. He feebly tried to break free of their grasp, yet their grip was firm. "Shouldn't you be swinging off tree vines and shagging cave bears, woman?"
The guards exchanged glances through their visors, and then went through the same procedure with the Redguard. The dark warrior spoke up, offering no resistance as he was patted down. "That insult doesn't even make much sense."
His reptilian friend rolled his eyes, having hoped that the tall man would give him some back up. After an awkward pause in search for a response, he squeaked irritably. "… Shut up, I'm trying."
"Stradlater?" the wood elf suddenly spoke up after a long moment of silence, her surprisingly muscular arms folding across her chest and a grin that would put Ragnar the Red to shame sprouting on her lips. The named Redguard raised his chin, his suspicions confirmed as she closed the distance. Even with her heeled boots the height difference was significant, much to the amusement of the magician. She scanned the charred warrior up and down, her eyes betraying a sense of both disgust and bewilderment. "... What's a scrawny green tosser - and an Argonian - doing lurking about in my city?"
"Got to make a living somehow, I suppose." he responded plainly, ignoring the Argonian tugging on his sweaty desert robe begging for attention. He lowered his gaze and glared into the night-black of the Bosmer's eyes, seeing his scarred visage reflected in their eternal glow. If there was one thing he knew for sure, it was that he never thought he'd meet her again under these circumstances. If he'd known he would've worn a tie. "And what's an Bosmeri game hunter such as yourself doing in the Whiterun guard, Faelindra? Finally hit it big back in the Rift?"
After a moment she broke their staring contest, a gloved hand tending to the buckler adorning her arm. "After a few decades, the hunter's life starts to get a little bit dull." she sighed, this strange reunion of acquaintances baffling the forgotten wizard clinging onto Stradlater's side to no end. He'd never mentioned her before, but then what did he mention about himself? "I guess I get more action around here than I did with you."
"Never saw you as much of an action girl." the Redguard mumbled, fidgeting under the scrutiny the wood elf provided. The Bosmer briefly returned the gaze, her expression as firm as a man whore's arse cheeks - as it had been moments prior. Yet deep down in the ebon sparkle of the woman's shining eyes he could sense her sheer displeasure, discomfort and offence by his mere presence. Maybe deep down, she'd hoped that they'd never meet again? A lot had changed in just a few years. "... I already said I was sorry."
"You certainly said that a lot." Faelindra replied, raising her pointed chin in overbearing pride. There was a distinct stench in the air radiating from the exhausted duo, the Redguard's chest rising and falling to a deep rhythm. She looked them down in judgement, throwing her arms to her sides – there were rotten skeevers that would pose a greater threat to the Jarl. "… You never did have much stamina, did you?"
The guards exchanged a snicker as the wood elf turned, beckoning the collective to follow her lead through the open entrance into the keep. Stradlater shook his head in irritation, his companion still more confused than a farmer pestered by the Daedric Prince Sheogorath. "Who in Oblivion is she?" he demanded, staring at the back of her brunette head of hair. Part of him wondered if she had eyes on the back of her skull, like most housecarls seemed to bear – the other part knew.
"An old friend." Stradlater answered simply, slipping his hands into his deep pockets casually as the guards led the way. It'd been several years since he'd last encountered Faelindra - since he'd first encountered Faelindra, to be exact. A lot must've happened since he'd left Riften. The mage remained silent for far too long, which often meant he was thinking; a terrible occurrence in most circumstances. "What? What is it?"
"… Those were sex jokes." the Argonian began, his eyes darting left and right as if scanning the pieces of an oversized puzzle. "… You had sex." he linked, prompting the warrior to flinch. He shot his gaze upwards like a cat chasing a firefly, his expression resembling that of a loyal wife who'd just discovered the love letters of another a woman under the pillows. "Stradlater, did you have sex? Sex with a wood elf?" he asked, shaking the burly man's arm. One of the guards glanced back at the creepy Argonian, wondering if a restraining order was needed – for him, not the Redguard. "Sexysex?"
"Stop saying that word, you perverted chameleon." Stradlater spat, wrapping his brawny fingers around the mage's snout. His low, bestial growl like a dog butchering a chew toy prompted him to release the reptilian. "… I guess so." he admitted. The silence was deafening, as the Redguard wondered just how damn long the court of the hold was. "… Look, mead and ale on a cold, lonely night makes you do weird things. Like wood elves."
Glancing dubiously at the housecarl like a student passing notes in class, the magician tapped Stradlater's shoulder and beckoned him to a whisper's distance. "Listen Redguard, you do realise that Bosmer are cannibals?"
"Yes, yes." he grumbled, pushing his companion back somewhat. He wasn't a fan of the Argonian's racial rambles – all Dunmer were slavers, all Khajiits were thieves, all Bretons were racists, all Orcs were buffoons, all Imperials were terrible singers. "She told me all about that." Stradlater assured.
"... When she said 'I'm going to eat you up'," the curious wizard began, a taloned finger tapping at the tip of a growing grin. "I take it you thought she meant your pen-"
"Shut it."
Before he could speak up in reply the Bosmer housecarl returned to her tangent, pushing another set of heavy hold doors open with a single arm. "Who's your lover boy then?" she asked, casting her gaze across the heavily populated throne room. "Got him off the Stormcloak market no doubt? I hear that's what they're doing with them in Windhelm nowadays."
"We're not gay!" the two shouted in perfect unison, promptly drawing the gaze of Whiterun's court. Under hundreds of eyes, the two simmered down.
"Silent-He-Wonders is my name, and I don't take kindly to such accusations you arrogant little woman!" the Argonian hissed irritably, burying the urge to blow her head off with a well-placed lightning bolt. Realising that he had an image to maintain in this royal courtroom, Wonders quickly descended into diplomat mode through using words larger than mammoth tusks. "May I ask why you believe there could be a… Relationship… B-Between an Argonian and a grease-stain?!"
"Look, I explained that to you." Stradlater grumbled defensively, butting heads with the offensive mage. Wonders snarled at him, recalling their ill-fated supper at the Drunken Huntsman weeks ago like the back of his claws. "I just spilled your mammoth cheese bowl on my lap, and it-"
"Your tail is wrapped around his thigh." Faelindra answered plainly, paying no heed to their quarrel.
"My tail is wrapped around his…?" the Argonian began, his metaphorical eyebrow rising high. He glanced downwards at Stradlater's leg reluctantly, only to spot the offending appendage cosily curled around his warm, sweaty legs. Wonders froze nervously, his reptilian toes clacking against the cobblestone of the court. "My tail is wrapped around his thigh." he acknowledged, as if he'd casually noticed a muddied mark in the carpet. "… He put it there."
"Of course." the afflicted warrior sighed in response, standing stiffly to accommodate the scaly mass "I thought it would really accentuate my eye". Stradlater waited obediently for the mage to remove his tail from him like a pitying girlfriend with their premature lover, having noticed its presence since Faelindra had first appeared – as if Wonders was a nervous child clutching onto him for protection. "… You haven't actually moved it yet." he pointed out after a considerable pause.
Wonders glanced at his coiled tail, the prehensile limb remaining taut across the Redguard's beefy leg. Irritably he wiggled his hips like a disgusted dog walker with his pissing pet, eventually managing to break Stradlater free from his scaled clutches. "… It was cosy." he defended himself, fumbling with his hood as he backed a few steps away from his crutch-serving friend. "… You have no idea what it's like being cold blooded."
"I journey with you; it makes you moody, greedy, aggressive, and permanently hungry. " Stradlater listed, having had many a meal swiped from him by the lazy Argonian mage. The 'cold blooded' excuse was one that Wonders employed nearly every day, and it tended to get him a free pint from taverns who hadn't heeded to the Redguard's warnings. "I know exactly what it's like being cold blooded."
Glancing between the Redguard, the Bosmer, and the duo of faceless Nords that led the procession Wonders took the viable alternative to setting the throne room ablaze - and mumbled the last words. "... Suave, Ra Gada."
With that said, the awkward convoy at last arrived at its destination like a conga line full of senile pensioners. Stradlater hadn't actually been in the throne room of Dragonsreach before, its long hall of endless tables covered in the finest cutlery surrounding a roaring hearthfire conveying the prosperity of Skyrim's de facto capital. In some ways it reminded him of the lush Yokudan palaces of home; the rich showed little variety across the vast provinces of Tamriel, it seemed. Tackiness seemed to be the norm.
And at last ahead; upon a shining throne, upon a raised platform, upon the highest stones of Whiterun's expanse sat the great Jarl Balgruuf - one last god-damned staircase laying in his wake. Among the noble lord stood many stewards and squires, each one vying for his attention whilst going through page after page of scrolls and bills. Low murmuring filled the court as he answered each question and proposal with the approval or contempt of a language tutor, signing documents and working to maintain his city.
"There he is." Wonders muttered, his arrogant posture tripling in effort. The Redguard feared that if his colleague stood any straighter his strained spine would snap in twain, yet quickly found himself mimicking him at the foot of the throne. The Argonian sized the Jarl up like a wrestler in the ring, glad for the moment that no eyes were upon him. "Fatter than I thought - ugly and hairy as I guessed though."
"Speak only when spoken to." Stradlater advised, having some recollection of courtly etiquette. The two were in a very alien environment, and he was adamant in getting them out without losing an eye or tail. He nudged the reptilian in warning, noticing a devious grin spreading across his spiked teeth. "And whatever you do, none of your Argonian diplomacy.
Wonders pouted mockingly, his long tongue drooping from his bestial maw. "You take out the fun, Redguard."
Balgruuf glanced down from his chair to spot his latest housecarl Faelindra, gesturing to an Imperial steward with less hair on his head than attractive women in an orc fort to pause his ramblings. The Bosmer woman ascended the steps, bowing her head respectfully. "My Jarl." Faelindra greeted gracefully, to which he prompted her rise. Eventually she turned from the Nordic noble and descended the stairs, beckoning her guests over like a lonely child begging a dog to chase a stick. As Stradlater neared she nudged him in the stomach, mumbling to him lowly. "… Mind your manners, and we'll have no more trouble."
"I'm holding you to that." Stradlater responded to her advice, receiving no response as she took up vigil on the flanks of the building. Several guards were in similar positions. If so much as a spider got too close to the Jarl there'd be more javelins in its rump than tomatoes in tavern pantries. Stradlater and Wonders ascended the steps and stood alert, the undivided attention of one of the most influential men this side of Skyrim fixed on the two adventurers.
"Well." he sighed with lordly composure, resting against his fist like a dozy Winterhold student working overtime. By his side stood a slim Dunmer clad in the characteristic leather armour of an assassin, her steady hand resting on the ornate hilt of her blade. She was glaring at Wonders as if he'd stolen her sweet-roll; no doubt a sign of the dark elves' general distrust towards Argonians. Balgruuf snuck her the slightest of glances without breaking his calmed visage, prompting her to return to attention obediently. "I'm certain you two know why you're here."
"Yes, your highness." Stradlater nodded, cutting off Wonders before he insulted every race within a mile radius. They'd been tipped off at the Bannered Mare by a drunken Battle-Born that a considerable bounty had been posted on a bandit camp close by, raiders and highwaymen having robbed several caravans and brought trade to and from the other holds to a stand-still. "We've... Come to do... I mean, enact... ... Participate in...?"
"Redoran's Retreat." he reminded the two, fidgeting in his seat. Stradlater bowed his head in acknowledgement - Wonders simply glared at the Dunmer, hoping to provoke a response from the degenerate elven hag like an unruly older brother in the backseat of a carriage. Balgruuf spoke in his bored administrative tone, "You two are mercenaries who are offering to flush out those bandits, yes?"
"Mercenaries?" Wonders suddenly croaked in offence, folding his weedy arms defensively. The Dunmer tugged on her blade ever so slightly to reveal its polished steel, eager for an excuse to slice the Argonian's tongue out. "If I am a mercenary, you must be a whiny flea-ridden-owch!" the mage was quickly subdued by a well placed stomp on the foot from the boot of his Redguard colleague, prompting him to mumble timidly. "... Yes, milord."
The Jarl paused irritably, before turning back to his steward. "I'd rather not rely on the sort, but you're all I have." he noted, reaching for a quill and scribbling on a scroll. The steward gestured at the scroll's text, and Balgruuf promptly exchanged nods with him. "Faelindra will fill you in on the details. Now if you don't mind, I have a city to keep."
"Of course, sir." Stradlater bowed once more, forming a perfect right angle that would put most architects to shame. "Thank you sir." he muttered lowly, remaining in the same posture for an awkwardly long moment. The Jarl's attention had since been taken, yet Wonders was quick to kick him in the shin. The Redguard stood tall once more, stepping back yet not turning his back on the throne - the mage simply pivoted and wandered off. "We... Uhhh... Thank you, bye.."
Faelindra nudged one of her fellow officers with a snigger, nodding at the hulking Redguard and whispering - although to be honest it sounded louder and more attention-drawing than the preaching of a Talos fanatic who'd been hitting the Skooma. "He was that apologetic back then too, you know. Word for word." she grinned, prompting a chorus of hearty chuckles from her guards. Stradlater at last turned from the throne, joining Wonders with a pained limp alongside the wood elf. "Any other variations of 'thank you sir' to utter, or are we good?"
Stradlater snarled, fiddling with the straps of his vambraces. "Fine, thank..." the wood elf grinned at him as if he was eating a potato she'd personally coated in skeever urine, prompting him to shake his head in distaste. She hadn't been this smiley when they'd met. He tapped Wonders on the shoulder, who hissed like a tabby cat in response. "Come on, let's get a move on."
Faelindra raised a hand, pushing the impetuous warrior back with surprising strength. "You don't even know where the Retreat is, do you?" she inferred, folding her arms authoritatively. The two mercenaries exchanged glances, before shrugging their shoulders in unison. Faelindra sneered in distaste, raising a judging eyebrow like your average Thalmor looking at an Orc butcher. "You always were too thick headed to pause and think, Stradlater."
"Oh yeah? Well..." the scarred warrior paused in thought, his comeback bank having been drained by extensive use courtesy of Wonder's arrogance. He'd never been good at exchanging insults with anyone but the Argonian - and it was showing. "... That's... That's what you said when... With the thing and-"
Wonders hissed with pity, casting his eyes back towards the throne to try and spot the Dunmer again. In these parts the Redguard and Argonian's collective reputations were combined, and he didn't want the villainous dark elf to see any weakness in his resolve. "Stop while you're ahead, Redguard." he advised, like dad teaching his son a thinly veiled moral lesson about giving up.
"Yeah, that's a decent idea." he agreed abruptly, his long brown fingers returning to the safety of his drooping trouser pockets. Mumbling with Wonders like a family at a pizzeria Stradlater was caught off guard when Faelindra turned from the conversation, making for the exit of Dragonsreach casually. "... You aren't even going to give us a map?" he called.
The Bosmeri ranger kissed her teeth irritably, waving her drawing hand lazily as she descended another set of - gods be praised - stairs. "I'll take you as far as the Western Watchtower," she offered, much to the delight of the Redguard "the rest is up to you."
Seeing that as permission to follow, Stradlater gestured to the magician to follow his lead and pursued the housecarl hastily. The Argonian lazily shuffled in pursuit, like a tired child at the end of a day-trip to the Cloud District. Stradlater wandered to Faelindra's side, giving his best mock-up of a friendly smile - it conveyed all the grace and love of a rampant kiddy fiddler. "I don't know what to say, Fae."
He could've sworn that the Bosmer flinched from head to toe at that. "Well, for starters," she grumbled, speeding up her pace. She hated the nick-name the Redguard had given her. Not that she always had, mind. "Don't call me Fae."
"How about 'Fael'?" Wonders suggested, several steps behind the two. Part of him didn't want to get in the way of the pair out of respect. The rest of him wanted to exploit their past like a politician would exploit newly struck ebony veins. "It fits you well, what with the rhyme and all..."
Faelindra scoffed - stalemate. "Doesn't your boyfriend need help getting suited up?" she grumbled judgingly, prompting the Argonian to flush red. At the court's landing she nudged the keep door open with little apparent effort, gesturing at the two. The armoury was close-by - a Falmer wouldn't be able to miss it. "I'll give you thirty minutes. He'll only last two, no worries."
Wonders hissed lowly, as if to utter the phrase 'why doth thou forsake him so?' in a single bestial sound. As Faelindra closed the door behind her, Wonders flicked his pointed talons forward as if bearing twin crossbows "... Suave, Bosm-."
"Stop saying that." Stradlater growled, beckoning the Argonian to follow. In unison the two made for the Keep's armoury, thankfully an easy location to spot what with the circle of guards exchanging spears and helmets there as if it were a Hammerfell bazaar. After a moment of calm, the Redguard couldn't help but repeat the Argonian in confusion. "... 'Fael'?"
"Fail?" Wonders pointed out, shaking no response from the dumb-founded Redguard. "Failure?" the magician spat, the growing smirk on Stradlater's face conveying his realisation. Wonders couldn't believe the man's foolishness. "Defined as the opposite of success?" he squeaked. Stradlater remained silent as he walked ahead, tugging at his Yokudan headwraps and peeling the sweat-pasted cloth from his cranium to reveal a thick brush of coal-coloured hair. "You do understand the common tongue, yes?"
The Redguard continued to grin goofily, shimmying through the guardsmen in the cramped haven for warriors. Wonders stood by the armoury's entrance, hopping on the spot frantically to try and spot Stradlater amongst the mass of beefy Nordic bodies. He could still hear the smug git chuckling to himself - had he finally lost his marbles?
Wonders was simply lost for words. "What?"
X
(A/N): Ooofff... That felt a bit painful to write :S
I guess all the exams really have taken their toll - I'm quite unsure about this one _
Well, in the end I can't be the judge can I? Hopefully you've enjoyed part one and hopefully I get around to writing part two! Until then, god-speed!