A/N: Thank you all for waiting so long for this, sheesh. Writer's block is an extremely evil thing that seriously shouldn't exist. Anyway, the next chapter will most likely be out within the next few days. Keep an eye out for it, and again, super huge thanks for reading! (Reviews are greatly appreciated, I'd like to know what you think so far!)
Chapter Two - Clumsily Escaping a Dragon
Ailith stumbled through the large door that led into Helgen Keep, immediately finding the nearest stone wall to lean against to keep her balance somewhat steady. Ralof slammed the rickety wooden entrance closed, leaving them basked in an unwavering—almost unsettling silence. She flexed her wrists, now free of their restraints—someone must have sliced away the uncomfortable twist of rope during the chaos raging outside—and gritted her teeth at the pain still flaring from both her ankle and the unknown wound that stretched across the pale expanse of her back.
"Let me see that ankle, quickly," Ralof muttered shakily, kneeling down so that he could more easily inspect the wound. She hissed as he prodded at the tender spots with his fingers, pinpointing where it needed the most attention.
They had narrowly escaped the beast howling just behind the few feet of rock protecting them from a now crumbled and wrecked Helgen. Ailith had briefly ran alongside the redheaded Imperial—who she recently found was called Hadvar—and had helplessly watched as a father had been burnt to ash directly in front of his son's young, inexperienced eyes.
She was willing to bet that that the boy's gaze had been virgin to death until today. She had seen mothers and innkeepers and blacksmiths alike fall to the dragon, heard the screams of anguish that sounded much like the ones that plagued her dreams.
"Ah, there we are," he clicked his tongue as he pressed down on the area of the injury that seemed to be shattered worst, ignoring the weak groans of protest from Ailith, and spread this large hand open.
He carefully focused, creases of concentration forming on his forehead, and suddenly, tendrils of white light wove from his palm, slowly snaking around her ankle, repairing the ripped sinew and melding her broken bones. She bit back a sigh of relief, angling her head against the slick wall rooted behind her.
"You're hurt," she observed quietly, auburn eyes flicking over the fleshy muscle hanging from his arm, reddened and inflamed. She decided it best not to inform him of the wound on her back, which was pulsing anguished beats to the rhythm of her heart.
"So are you. I knew that teaching myself some restoration magic would come in handy at some point, what with me being a soldier," Ralof spoke solemnly, shoulders tense as he fought back the pain of his burn. The yellowish strings dancing across her skin were reflected in the azure hue of his irises, highlighting his silent anguish.
The young elf said nothing, yanking her foot from his light hold, testing her weight on the bone. She cringed at the gentle, irritated thrums that still swam around it, but it was nothing compared to the pain she had been laden with before, so she tilted her head in silent thanks and allowed him to focus on his own problems.
Ailith stepped towards a fallen Stormcloak, throwing a sympathetic glance at Ralof, who returned it with a steely expression and a small nod. She slipped the deceased soldier's one handed axe—which was surprisingly heavy, despite its slight size—and gave it a few test swings. She much preferred swords or a bow over any other type of weapon, but she'd make do with what she had.
She swung her head around, inspecting a crumbling door sealed with sturdy iron bars that seemed to lead further on into the Keep. Ailith pursed her cracked lips, tugging on the metal rods to no avail. Gods be damned, it's locked. The ground shook beneath them, clamors of the dragon could be heard now, much too close for their liking, shrieks of fear and misery cloaking the thick, heated air.
She tried her best not to look panicked, and raked her fingers through her knotted head of pallid copper hair. Ailith's eyes narrowed as the enhanced hearing that was custom to her race picked up the faintest sound from across the confined room—the racket of repeating, uncoordinated metal and leather slapping against mossy stone.
Footsteps, the young Bosmer realized with a start. She flung herself around, mouth opened, a warning teetering on the edge of her tongue, but Ralof was already alert and ready, iron dagger firmly held in his experienced fingers. She was suddenly thankful that she had a soldier with her, trained for situations almost identical to this.
Ailith honed in on the voices—a captain, or an individual of high standing, considering the assertive tone, and her underlings, breathing heavily in short, uneven rasps. She readied her axe, hoping that fighting with it wouldn't be as different as it would with her own weapons, and pushed herself against the wall. She balanced her weight on the balls of her feet, shuffling silently towards the door that the horde was approaching.
The first person whisked into the room, sword and shield wedged within his hands, clad from head to toe in the armor of an Imperial. She reduced her breathing to brief intakes, just enough to where it was comfortable, but not loud enough to be heard, and began quietly sliding up behind the burly man.
"Death, or Sovngarde!" Ralof hollered, thoughtlessly discarding Ailith's idea of stealth for that of a warrior.
She only gave it a second of consideration before letting out a near feral snarl, burying the blade of the axe into the side of the Imperial's neck, the dense bone of his spinal chord causing the strong swing to come to a grinding, unsightly halt. His thick crimson blood spilled over her fingers, warm against her hand, and within a few measly seconds, the stench of the Nord's recent death swamped through her nostrils.
Ailith let out a strangled yelp as her hair yanked backwards against her scalp, led by the rough hands of another large soldier. Lukewarm liquid was teetering above her bottom lashes as she slammed onto the cold ground, nicking the fragile skin on her cheek against the rugged stone.
The brute of a man raised his war axe—nearly five times the size of hers—over his head, lips pulled back in a cold sneer. The itchy, thin tunic seemed like the biggest burden she's ever had to bear, then, as she prepared for the oncoming agony of the sharpened blade sinking into her flesh. If only she had a better set of armor. She refused to clamp her eyes shut, instead facing the Nord with a stare that she hoped looked fearless.
She recoiled in shock as the tip of Ralof's dagger pierced straight through the Imperial's neck, the metal jutting out just below his chin. He yanked it free with a faint grunt, and the man collapsed, a gurgling mess of blood and sloppily sputtered curses.
They barely had time to gather themselves as their Captain bounded into the fray, bellowing out a throaty battle cry as she swung her sword towards Ralof's head, undoubtedly aiming to kill in one rage induced blow. Ailith, thinking fast, lashed out at her knees with her feet, feeling a bolt of triumph shoot through her as the Nord skittered to the side, caught off guard, but not disabled.
Ralof took this moment of dumbfounded confusion, lasting for only seconds, to swing his dagger at her, muscles in his arms coiling in tension. Only, she was more experienced than her comrades, and she easily dodged the wide arc of his blow with a quick duck downwards.
Ailith pulled herself from the rocky ground, jerking the axe forward. The blade uselessly scraped across her sturdy armor, leaving a shallow gash where the metal had been peeled away. The Imperial woman whipped around, momentarily distracted, eyes ignited in anger. And before she had the chance to blink, Ralof's dagger pierced through her throat, ripping through the raw, meaty inner flesh of her neck and tearing open the opposite side, the tip of the blade stained red with her lifeblood.
He ripped his weapon from her flesh with a thick, wet sound, breath heaving through his lips, her own filtering heavily through her nostrils. She latched her axe into its scabbard, cringing at the strengthened stench of death that had engulfed the room. Ralof lazily rolled his shoulders, hardly taking notice of the crimson liquid wallowing around their feet.
Ailith's calculating gaze swept over the armor that the three soldiers had been clad from head to toe in, taking in the sturdiness of the materials and metals, the deadly sharpness of their blades, and briefly weighed her options.
She slipped two of the swords from their previous owners and tossed them off to the side, the iron clanging loudly against the floor before clattering to a stop. The young Bosmer made quick work of stripping the female of her uniform, tucking herself within the slightly over sized leather, tugging the straps into place, despite the low growls of disapproval from Ralof.
"I'd wager that this armor will protect me more than the scraps of cloth that make up yours," Ailith lightly teased, lips twitching in what she hoped look like a smile rather than an annoyed scowl.
"Oh, I don't know about that. I think you'd be surprised," Ralof responded, attention almost fully focused on the doorway that the Imperials had hurled themselves from.
"I'd rather not test that theory right now," she murmured sourly, snatching the nearly identical one handed swords from the ground, cautiously twirling them around in her grip, adjusting herself to their—thankfully—much lighter weight. "Let's go."
"Troll's blood—"
Ailith frantically motioned for Ralof to silence himself as they made their way down the wide, chipped staircase, throwing him a molten glare as she prayed to the Gods that the Imperials awaiting them nearby hadn't detected their presence.
Her scuffed boots made spongy, watery sounds as they suctioned down against the grassy moss that dotted the rock. She blew the thick section of moist, tangled hair that had fallen over her vision away with a strong huff and wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, smearing dirt and ash into long black line.
She skittered the rest of the way down with a few nearly inaudible bounds and slithered up against the wall, breath silent but heavy, and slowly peeked into the humid room.
The first thing she noticed was the thick, molasses like blood splattered across a square shaped elevation in the center, rosy liquid trailing across the small step leading to the dirtied platform and leaking into the spaces between the stone engraved floor. Three Imperials, a few large, rusted cages with deceased Nords slumped within them—she could tell by the distinct scent of their race—and a tall wooden bed with multiple leather straps embedded in the lumber to hold a body in place. A torture chamber.
Ralof let out a small sound of disapproval, hardly loud enough for the patrolling soldiers to pinpoint, and scraped the blood from his dagger onto his disheveled cuirass. His unruly blonde hair was matted with sweat, clumping large portions of the strands together, soot and mud tarnishing his pale features. (She briefly wondered why he wasn't tanned, as most soldiers were, but the realization that he must spend a decent amount of his days in Eastmarch—where the ground is constantly infested with an endless blanket of crystalline snow—slammed into her skull and quickly silenced her curiosity.)
She jerked her head towards the Imperials in a silent command, grip instinctively tightening on her duel blades before they charged out into the fray. They made quick work of them thanks to the combat technique that they subconsciously developed.
Ailith distracted them with a harsh, but not nearly fatal blow, and Ralof would heave his dagger through their flesh, the meaty tissue and muscle breaking apart like butter at the sheer force that he possessed. The two of them were so caught up in the clash of metal against metal, the adrenaline that combat brought with it, that the rest of the world became flushed out and pallid, the bleak red of the Imperial's armor the only color that they saw, their blades glinting orange in the light of the lanterns.
They blinked as reality enclosed around them, humid and foul smelling, the bodies of their enemies scattered across the confined quarters. Ailith's gaze drifted over Ralof's comrades—whom she didn't realize had been there, aiding them in the midst of the fray—and immediately tensed as she felt the pressure of Ralof's back pressed against hers.
She hurled herself away from him, shoving her swords into their scabbards strapped at either side of her narrow waist, and threw a skeptical glance at the blonde haired soldier. She had never felt that type of connection in battle before, being able to anticipate his next move and base her next attack on that, being able to completely trust him to know what action to take.
"Move your eyes away or I'll make quick work of ridding you of them," Ailith threatened to the Stormcloaks that were indiscreetly gawking at her with cold, bitter stares, their gazes slowly—deliberately—scanning her Imperial armor with disgust. "I'm nor Stormcloak or Imperial."
She snatched up a large onyx sack that was slumped against a wooden table atop the blood slathered platform, working it open with one hand and rooting through it with the other. She pulled out a healing potion, the solvent sloshing within the glass bottle, an apple, and a few lockpicks.
She stared at the small metal tools with an almost fond familiarity, her grip involuntarily tightening on them. Ailith dropped the fruit and the potion back into the depths of the bag and slung it over one shoulder.
"Hey!" Ralof hissed from the side of one of the rusted cages, motioning for Ailith to approach him. "There's gold in there, might come in handy. Mind trying your hand at this lock? Never did have a talent for it myself."
She nudged him out of the way, hardly realizing that the action was slightly more exaggerated and rude than she had anticipated, and hurriedly set to work. Ailith forced her mentor's words to break to the surface of her mind, he'd hammered the method for lockpicking into her brain until it was lodged there, unmoving.
Think of lockpicking as a lover, you don't want to move too swiftly, nor too slowly. And don't use too much force, kid.
She ground her teeth together, swiftly moving the tiny, rickety shaft to the left and to the right, efficiently looking for the lock's weak spot. Once she found it, she rotated the key slot until she heard a satisfying click, and the door slowly creaked open.
The young Bosmer scooped up the septims with a small palm and slid them into the bag still dangling from her back, nodding as a signal that she was ready to move on.
The Stormcloaks made it a task to keep their sight trained away from her, as if the equipment she was wearing was a toxic poison to them. She nearly smirked at that, since the armor that she would normally be clad in would bring her twice as much scowls and long glances of disapproval.
Ailith tried to ignore the fact that Ralof was now inspecting her with something like a newly found curiosity, two blonde eyebrows raised in question, undoubtedly due to the nearly nonexistent amount of effort it took for her to pick her way into the cage. She kept her head angled towards the space just above the tips of her boots and swiveled around, quickly stalking from the room.
Ailith didn't plan on relieving him of his silent inquiries, her life was her own business.
Ailith kept her crimson eyes firmly trained on the luminous, minty glow of the mushrooms lining the cave walls. The pale light manifesting from the fungus outlined the slimy moisture clinging to the rock, dripping from the high, craggy ceiling. The damp perspiration clung to the tangled roots of her hair, itching against her scalp.
It always seemed to be nearly as cold as Windhelm within confined places such as this, goose flesh lined her arms and legs, and she could see the smoky puffs of breath curling from her lips as she exhaled. It hardly seemed to effect Ralof.
"So, you seem to have had your share of practice at picking locks," Ralof murmured casually, careful to keep his voice low.
"You've had dozens of your comrades fall within the past few hours, some were trapped back in the Keep by boulders, there's a dragon wrecking Helgen above us, and that's the path of conversation you choose to take?" Ailith snapped tartly, fiery orange eyes burning a hole into the left side of his face.
"I'd rather not talk about what's going on outside," he responded languidly, his irises briefly clouding with sadness at the thought of how many friends he's lost. "What you did back there, it was impressive. I've never unlocked anything without snapping the Gods damned pick."
"Practice makes you better at things you're not skilled at," she grumbled discontentedly, hurriedly jerking an arrow from its quiver—she had snagged a long bow from a deceased Imperial back in the Keep—as she heard a loud crash from somewhere deeper within the cave.
"Ah, so you've had to practice, then? Wonder why you'd need a skill like that," Ralof quirked a brow at her paranoid behavior, leisurely stepping forward from his spot a few paces behind her. "Relax, it was likely just a stone."
"For situations such as the one we ran into back in the Keep. And I will not relax, have you forgotten about the danger we faced back there? The dragon—"
"Ailith," Ralof spoke sharply, the sound of her name scraping from his mouth snapping her from her stupor. (She didn't recall ever telling him what she called herself, but everything has been happening in a blur, so she wouldn't doubt it if she had informed him and forgotten about doing so.) "We're fine. Perhaps I should take the lead?"
"As you wish," Ailith allowed him to lead her further on into the cave, but her arrow still remained nocked into her bowstring. "I've been through much worse than this, but I've never seen anything like a dragon, for Talos' sake."
"You're a Talos worshiper?"
"I've lived in Skyrim for thirty years," the young Bosmeri woman responded tersely, gaze trained on the small stream trickling beside her foot. "I think I'm entitled to worship whomever I please."
"So it seems," Ralof mumbled, the pebbles and soil that lined the uneven ground crunching and sloshing beneath his boots. "You must be rather young, for an elf."
"For a Mer, yes. I'm around twenty five in elven years," she explained halfheartedly, wincing as a faint pain enfolded her ankle. "In Nordic years, that's a different story."
"I won't ask, women often times think I'm an inconsiderate oaf when I do," the burly Stormcloak sniffed. His arm suddenly shot out from his side, muscles ferociously shifting as he did so. "Quiet, there's a bear up ahead. See her?"
Ailith nearly rolled her eyes at his overcautious behavior. They had just been attacked by a wicked scaled beast at least ten times more malicious and malevolent than a measly cave bear.
She squinted, sharpening her vision somewhat so that she could get a better view of the animal, and sucked in a large breath as she readied her bow, subconsciously straightening her spine as she did so. She focused in on the tarnished, mucky rolls of hair on the bear's neck that lifted and fell as she breathed, and released.
"What, never killed a bear before, soldier?" Ailith teased lightly as the large, furry creature let out an infuriated snarl and fell.
She hardly repressed a laugh at the look of irritation that crossed his features.
Ralof let out a relieved sigh as he felt the sunlight continue to warm the skin hiding beneath his mangled and soot infested cuirass, his lips drawing back in a wide smile as he stepped down the stone embedded pathway.
He heard the sounds of nearby water lapping and rolling over stones, the chirping laughter of children, the birds singing overhead, all the unique noises that could only make up one place in all of Skyrim. His home, Riverwood. The tranquility and ignorance that the whole of the small town was basked in aided in ridding his mind of the dark, winged figure that had torn through the pallid sky as he and Ailith had finally broken free of the fiery claws of Helgen.
The Bosmer still seemed rather shaken, with a much too pale complexion and shaky, unsteady movements. Except she still managed to have a tongue sharp as Eorlund Gray-Mane's steel, so he didn't dwell on it much. He watched as her gaze darted uneasily around the cobble stone embedded dirt, sunset colored irises lingering on the happy demeanor that glazed over the townsfolk, save for a few.
They stepped onto a wooden platform beside a tall cabin, the sturdy boards whining beneath their weight as they rounded a wide corner. The loud stream flowing and sloshing beneath the timber faded off into the distance as they continued onto a spacious, verdant area that looked to be a Mill.
A stout blonde haired woman let out a faint groan as she threw an armful of thickly chopped lumber into a large pile, smearing back the few dampened clumps of hair that stuck to her forehead by sweat with her fingers. She rested her palms on her dirt slathered knees, ruffling the muddied hem of her long dress.
"Gerdur!" Ralof hollered, relief flooding into the heavily accented brogue of his voice.
Gerdur's azure eyes widened at the sound of the soldier's voice, her features softening in something along the lines of a deep rooted affection as her sight settled upon him. She ran towards him with a palm covering her mouth, tears already welling beneath her eyes, and he caught her in a strong embrace, nearly tugging her from her feet. Ailith dragged a hand through her tawny locks, cringing as her thin fingers caught on knots and yanked at her scalp, attempting to keep the tense feeling that was tangling her stomach at bay.
"Brother," Gerdur said, feminine voice muffled by the dense padding that covered Ralof's shoulder. "Thank the Gods you're safe."
"I wouldn't be," Ralof retorted smugly, stepping back from his solid grasp on the Nord,—who Ailith now realized strongly resembled him, she had the same curve of the lips, the same piercing blue irises, and the same solid, firm jaw—keeping his large hands on top of each of her shoulders. "If it weren't for her."
"Oh—" Gerdur slurred, gaze politely scanning over her tarnished appearance. "Good to meet you..."
"Ailith," the young elf spoke, tilting her head in a terse greeting.
"Take whatever you might need from here," she murmured good naturedly, a few wisps of sun colored hair breaking free from the loose bundle at the back of her neck. "Any friend of Ralof's is a friend of ours."
"Thank you," Ailith mumbled shortly, and Gerdur offered her a slight smile and swiftly stepped towards the Lumber Mill.
"Hod, come here!" She hollered up into the large structure, attempting to be heard over the loud ruckus of a log being sawn in half by machine.
"What is it, woman?" A deep, raspy voice howled back, irritation edging his words.
"Just come here for a second!"
The ear shattering machine curtly silenced, and a towering man with a small rounded belly tromped to where he could be seen. And almost immediately, his sweat enveloped features brightened at the sight of Ralof.
"Ralof!" He jogged down onto the green tufts of grass, a big, dimpled beam tugging at his pink lips. He clapped the Stormcloak on the soldier and pulled him into a brief hug, releasing a measly second after he had jerked Ralof to him. "By Talos, you look like shit, boy."
"Right back at you, old man," Ralof jeered playfully, letting out a small chuckle as Hod's hand sloppily ruffled his hair.
Gerdur's thin eyebrows furrowed, head slowly shaking at their playful banter. She looked as if she were about to speak, full lips parted, but she was suddenly interrupted by an awestruck, childish gasp.
"Uncle Ralof!" a small Nordic boy scrambled away from the hustle and bustle of the village, and Ralof bent down onto one knee to lightly cup his upper arm and give it a gentle squeeze. "How's the war going? Is it fun? How many Imperials have you killed?" His barrage of questions thankfully ceased there, swinging a large sword that existed only in his imagination through the air as he spoke.
"Too many to count, little cub," Ralof responded fondly, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he grinned.
"Whoa," Ralof's nephew spoke as soon as his wide, bewildered irises settled on Ailith. "Are you a real elf?"
Ailith blinked hard a few times, ridding herself of her persistently approaching fatigue. Her features were still as stone as she stared down at the small Nord standing before her, and she self consciously straightened her posture. She didn't want to look careless and indifferent in front of his parents.
"Yes, a Bosmer from the woodland regions of Valenwood," she spoke slowly, unsure if her tongue was working properly as the words flurried from her throat. She never was particularly skilled at speaking to those a considerate amount younger than her.
"Is Valenwood as pretty as they say in books?" He asked eagerly, practically bouncing on his heels, his imaginary blade quickly forgotten.
"Oh, yes," Ailith murmured, though the measly amount of memories that she held of her birthplace were anything but beautiful. "A truly awe inspiring sight, though, is the White-Gold tower in Cyrodiil. It's so big you could never see the top even if you tried."
"You've been to Cyrodiil?" He squeaked, eyes so wide she was briefly afraid that they'd pop from their sockets.
"Frodnar," Gerdur scolded softly, gently pulling her son away from Ailith. "The boy's always had a fascination for elves, only ever seen one in his life," she spoke, facing Ailith as the words slipped from her mouth.
She looked to be about to say more, but the grave, crestfallen look that washed over her brother's face seemed to convince her otherwise. Her lips compressed to a thin line, and she swiftly murmured something into Frodnar's ear in hushed tones, and the small Nordic boy reluctantly nodded and backed away with one more bewildered glance Ailith's way.
"I assume we have important matters to discuss," Hod quirked a brow, his tone taking on a questioning, suspicious edge.
"Yes," Ralof spoke quietly, huffing out a terse breath as he collapsed onto a gigantic stump of a once towering and verdant tree, all the energy seemingly wiped from him. "We were at Helgen, I'm assuming you've heard the rumors?"
"We've heard some ridiculous talk of dragons—" Hod started, but Ailith hurriedly cut in, her statement dripping with dry unamusement.
"The talk you've been hearing is hardly ridiculous. There..." the young Bosmer sucked in a breath through her half parted lips—still cracked and sore from earlier on in the day—gathering strength from the action. "A dragon attacked Helgen, it's likely there were few survivors besides us."
"And Ulfric?" Gerdur inquired slowly, her voice wavering and nearly faltering as she spoke the Bear of Markarth's name.
"I... didn't see him escape," Ralof breathed, a flicker of deep rooted sadness passing over his soot slathered features.
"Start from the beginning, tell us everything," Gerdur blurted lightly, briefly leaning against Hod as if for support.
Ailith slowly slunked onto the large stump, rubbing tiredly at her eyes as Ralof began to retell their experience from the very beginning.
The orange fire blazing inside the Sleeping Giant Inn whipped from within its restraints, warming the few residents gathered in the main room. The smell of over salted roasts and pork wafted through the air, accompanied by the clink of silverware against plates, or the sound of mead being sipped from a metal flagon every so often.
Ailith was thankful for the homely feeling the place brought, it was much more enjoyable than being forced to spend the night camped within a cluster of mountainous trees, despite that the thousands of white, flickering stars that guarded the evenings was a breathtaking sight.
She had been sitting on a rickety wooden chair inside of her rented quarters for so long she couldn't remember when she had started, pondering over Gerdur's request that she send Jarl Balgruuf a letter insisting that Riverwood was in need of guards.
Ailith could hardly blame the Nordic woman for being set on edge, the vivid image of the dragon lancing through the sky above Helgen still slammed through her skull, sending shock waves of chills through her bones, nestling within her stomach and causing nausea to twist and curdle there.
She shivered, her fingers gripping the quill shaking beneath the pressure of her thoughts. Ailith attempted not to think of the events of earlier on that day, instead focusing on the crinkled parchment spread out before her.
It had been two years since she's spoken to anyone from the likes of Whiterun, and the thought of the Gods damned Jarl being the first person that she make contact with was almost laughable. She downed a large gulp of ale, and carefully began to write.
Jarl Balgruuf,
It's been a long while since I've spoken to you, and I'd prefer to start this letter on a more cheerful note, but the events of Helgen are still weighing heavily on me. You've likely caught wind of a rumored dragon attack there, it was a rather nasty situation, to say the least. (I'd rather not go into detail about it, if you don't mind.) By the end of it all, I found myself in Riverwood, and they request immediate attention to the fact that there aren't any guards to protect them against possible attacks in the future. If you could send some of your men here at once, it would be greatly appreciated.
An old acquaintance, Ailith Dawn-Sabre.
She neatly folded the letter and firmly sealed it shut with crimson wax, setting it off to the side for when she decided to go and speak to the Courier resting in the main room beside the hearth.
The young elf allowed herself to slump over the desk in front of her, cradling her head within her lazily crossed arms. She hesitantly closed her eyes, and attempted not to remember the foreboding image of the black, winged beast with blazing crimson irises that would undoubtedly be the center of her nightmares tonight.