Private Tales Taming Eretejva

[Sigrith]

"Yes," the woman replied without looking up as she took up the pot from their evening meal and headed outside for more snow.

The men settled down around the fire, filling the rollers with more wood and sparking up a fresh flame. The smallest was covered with a dry pelt and set by the fire - a young man for certain, hardly more than 14 winters to his name.

When Faurosk went to walk by the largest of the three men he caught the mage by the shoulder, "Eh..." he said conspiratorily, "yew travel wit harr?" he nodded his large, bald head back out towards the door, "Tek care wit harr kinn. Witches not be trusted."

As if on cue, the witch appeared back through the doorway, carrying in a pot full of snow and motioning to Faurosk to head out.

 

[Faurosk]

The mage flinched as the largest bugger of them all clasped him presumptuously by the shoulder. He wheeled around, facing the stranger with a cocked eyebrow amidst otherwise startled features. "I think I'll take my chances, thank you," Faurosk responded in what was undoubtedly a singularly peculiar accent, gently swiping the man's intruding hand away. The tension among the three stranger visibly burgeoned as Sigrith made her entrance once more, but the observant or adroit among them would likely notice the way the mage's shoulders relaxed once the Witch returned.

The smallest traveler earned himself a brief look of sympathy. The mage let his hand linger momentarily on the component pouches hanging at his side before continuing out the door - These men had their fire. They would warm soon enough, given time.

It is often said that longing makes the heart grow fonder, and absence doubly so. During their brief reprieve from the bitter winds of Eretejva, however, Faurosk had grown no fonder of the continent's cutting cold. Sigrith would emerge to find her travelling companion scoping out the landscape. Sure enough, the previous night's storm had not been kind, and the freshly fallen snow would make the day harder than its predecessor.

"That was a kind thing you did," he remarked quietly, only narrowly loud enough to be heard over the wind's distant groaning. His gaze settled finally on her mismatched eyes before he gave a nod, glancing off towards the distant mountains they had been trudging towards for the past day. "Let's get going."

 

[Sigrith]

The Witch made no effort of reply, granting the man a slow survey of her colorful gaze before stepping by him and into the snow. Last night's storm had left behind two feet of fresh powder, a tasking and familiar challenge to travel. Sigrith took to it like age-old acquaintances, pressing through it with plenty of strength but little vigor. It would be a long day no matter which way they went, no sense in wasting energy where it wasn't needed.

They continued along the path of the mountain pass, stopping briefly as the sun rose high above for water. Sigrith pulled a pouch from her figure and pressed her fingers into it, withdrawing blackened fingertips that she smeared across her eyes beneath the ridge of her brow. Black marred her face following the bridge of her nose and the sharp point of cheekbones. If asked by her charge, she'd remark that it would help to protect her eyes against the snowglare - the Witch would even offer to do the same for him should he wish. Elsewise, it was time to move on.

With luck the winds died down as morning aged into the afternoon hours, quickly growing cold as the short day began to set upon them. With not but a stretch of open tundra laid before them at the base of the mountains leading to the next chain, their journey would come to another pause.

"There are no sàbhailte taigh until the next mountain range," Sigrith said as she lead the man towards an overhang of stone, "we will camp here tonight."

 

[Faurosk]

A lengthy moment of silence passed before Sigrith took her lead, leaving Faurosk the span of three heavy heartbeats to take a measure of her gaze. It was common folklore across a fair breadth of the Summerlands that practicing wizards could peer into someone's soul through eye contact alone, but the foreign mage had never been gifted with such powers. All he was met with on that abundantly snowy morning was the most peculiarly stunning eyes he'd ever seen, one of which was growing to remind him too nearly of a dear friend.

He blinked away towards the horizon as the Witch began trudging her way through the fresh snow, and he took the opportunity to shake thoughts of pretty musicians and playful kisses from his head. The thigh high drifts would prove a challenge to the ill adapted foreigner, and he would need every bit of acuity he could scrounge up to fend off the ever present threat of boredom. More than once in the first leg of the day, his hands made familiar motions of their own volition, attempting to flex out cramps in his mind through a light flash of prestidigitation. Each time, the mage managed to catch himself before anything came of his absent efforts, and the occasional headaches persisted.

When the Witch stopped to drink and smear her face with what looked to be char, Faurosk met her with his curiosity. Part of him was a bit put out by the practicality of her explanation, having hoped to learn of some custom he'd grown unaware of. Still, he couldn't refuse her offer of aid against that right bastard of a sun, accepting a stroke of black across both eyes. Sure enough, the pale bridge of his nose no longer glinted quite so brightly, and his sight slowly returned to its usual level of inadequacy.

The day wore ever longer, and he couldn't help but subtly rejoice as Sigrith claimed it was time to make camp. Their walk towards the overhang was made with renewed vigor on the mage's part, and his face wrinkled with the faintest lines of a smile. Sàbhailte taigh... Her tongue was a strange one, but Faurosk relished in the unfamiliar. For all the joys a common tongue can bring, there was nothing quite like dialects and unknown words to bring out the poetry of language.

"So we will," he said plainly, half wishing to have made more from his first words in hours. Another day passed without error, and he couldn't help but stay hopeful for the journey to come. If two new words were enough to ignite his wonder in a way the College's teachings had failed to for his most recent tenure, there was no way to know what amazement the coming weeks would work.

 

[Sigrith]

"We'll need a windbreaker here to keep a fire through the night," the Witch drew a line through the snow from the back of the overhang in a northwesterly arc, "pull stones and snow to build a wall. Keep it compact and tight. I will scout for game and firewood."

She was making her way out before she even finished speaking, ensuring not to waste time. Sigrith strode out along the wall of snow and rock several yards before coming to a pause and lifting a hand into the air. She let her wrapped fingers trail through a faint wind as if sifting from it all manner of scents and sensations carried on its current. They snared at something unseen, closing like a trap and brought it down to her nose.

A pause, a glance to the west and she was off again in that direction.

 

[Faurosk]

"A shelterbelt," the mage queried as he shrugged his pack off. Winds from the last night's storm had swept knee-deep drifts of snow under their stony shelter, and he began to kick a small circle clear while Sigrith drew out the base for their windbreak. "I reckon I can manage that by the time you're back."

She was off before the words had left his mouth, stopping only briefly to get her bearings by some means beyond comprehension and continuing far off into the wastes. While the Witch went on her hunt for food and fire, her companion took a seat in his newly made, Faurosk-sized clearing and focused his efforts inward. Two days had passed with a single fire lighting charm being his only expenditure of arcane power, and the mage could feel the world was ready to reshape itself at his call.

He felt the power in the wind as it brushed past his face and whistled through the overhang like some sort of natural flute. Reaching outward, his fingers curled into a loose fist and the wind came to a slow, gradual halt. With three gentle syllables, Faurosk flicked his fingers outward and summoned up what wind he'd caught; Snow pushed outward all around him, reaching Sigrith's line before piling higher and higher. Within ten seconds, the previously loose carpet of material had condensed into a wall half a foot thick that stretched to the overhang's ceiling.

The mage rose to his feet, dusted ice from his butt, and took a look around. The ground of frozen dirt, previously covered in two feet of snow, was laid out before him. Picking through what little kindling he could find, Faurosk wondered for a moment just how long the sticks and twigs had been entombed in their perpetual shell of inclement weather. This thought was dismissed just as quickly as it arose, though, for he may grow too attached to set them alight upon Sigrith's return.

The mage pressed a hand into his transmuted igloo of a wall, exerting just enough will against it to melt a doorway tall enough for him to duck through. Well, that was about five minutes out of his evening... He retreated back into the shelter, finding a dry corner to sit in and cracking open a book from his pack-- Might as well get in some light reading while he had the sunlight.

 

[Sigrith]

It would be some time before any sounds heralded an arrival outside again. Heavy footfalls that could have marked the approach of a certain Nord Tundra Witch carrying the weight of her quarry. A hefty grunt as she heaved herself up the uneven trail of snow and stone. A thud as she dropped the carcass to the ground. A hearty growl of effort.

Scraping. Scraping. A snort. My but Sigrith was feeling her grits, wasn't she?

Thumping, rumbling.

Something heavy bashed into the side of the igloo.

 

[Faurosk]

The cold must be getting to her, Faurosk thought as he set his book aside. He could probably mix up a concoction to quell whatever might be ailing her, but it would take a few reagen--

Something slammed into the side of the windbreak, bowing the wall inward at a dangerous degree. It only took one more bash for half of the structure to crumble away entirely, pelting the shelter's intruder with a rain of compacted snow; The troll hardly flinched.

Faurosk leapt onto his feet, pressing against the wall in fright as he faced what may as well be the visage of death itself. Bony protrusions rose from the creature's shoulders like spikes of stone, matching perfectly with the nubby horns that crowned its head. It's white fur was tinged to brown down its front, having caught the drip of a few too many kills to maintain its natural color.

Before the mage could pull himself out of shock, the beast was upon him. It took him in one hand, throwing the comparatively diminutive human out into the dwindling sunlight. Faurosk sailed through the air and landed in a snowdrift five feet beyond the overhang's end. Scrambling onto his feet once more, the young man could already hear the troll closing ground behind him, lumbering forwards with killing intent. With only seconds to spare, he forced his will down his arm and turned to face the beast.

An invisible bolt rippled through the air in an instant, striking the troll squarely between its eyes and scrambling what little graymatter it had. The creature stumbled to a stop before dropping to one knee and grabbing its head with both hands, loosing a mournful wail of pain that tore across the muffled tundra. Despite the beasts awful show of confusion and fear, Faurosk knew his stunbolt would only buy a few moments at best. His mind raced, trying to find some way to handle the foreign creature before him. He was only barely an adventurer, let alone a monster hunter-- What was there to do?!

The answer came to him in a flash of inspiration, lighting up his prospects like a spark in a powder keg. Snow blanketed the landscape, and it wanted to melt, it really did-- To do anything more than that, well, it might need some urging. The mage dropped to his knees as the troll stopped groaning. One shouted incantation and two very cold hands later, the snow around them melted in a flash and swirled up the troll's legs. Faurosk threw a splayed hand skyward as he waited for the right moment, but the beast was hardly patient. It stepped forwards, bringing a heavy arm down towards the human's head. Razor sharp claws slashed a trio of deep grooves across the mage's features, leaving lines of white hot pain that trailed from his temple to his jaw.

Frigid water wrapped up the troll's torso and back down its arm, and Faurosk held onto consciousness just long enough for the liquid to bubble around the creature's head before he crushed his fist shut. In an instant, the transmuted snow grew still. Ice encapsulated the troll from its toes to its horns, capturing it in a moment between primal fury and bone-shaking terror.

The mage fell back into the snow and stared up at the veritable ice sculpture of a troll before him, chest heaving with a mixture of diminishing panic and arcane drain. He was exhausted and fading from consciousness, sure, but very gratefully alive.

 

[Sigrith]

It would be nearly an hour later before the witch made her return with a small caribou doe hung over her shoulders. Though the sun had sunk well beneath the horizon her path was illuminated by the baleful silver glow of the moon, reflected by an endless swathe of white tundra. When the moons were both full, it could be nearly as bright as day during the twilight hours over the snowy lands of Eretejva, though the skies were seldom clear enough for that.

She arrived on the scene with irritation furrowing her brow at the absence of a fire and a shelter. Quickly, however, that irritation drained into shock as the hulking silhouette of a frozen ice troll framed itself out over the shadow of her charge motionless on the ground. With haste she deposited her kill off to the side and moved forward to inspect Braun where he lay. His wounds had clotted ... rather, frozen shut in the chill of the night air, and she trusted that would have kept him alive far more than the ice presently encapsulating the troll.

He did not seem to have any other visible injuries, but it was difficult to see broken bones through layers of fur, pelts, and leather. Sigrith's hands sifted through the myriad pouches strung upon her person, digging out one in particular from which she dispensed a foul smelling fungus collected from the waters just beyond Withereach and contained within boiled leather lined with whale oil. The odor was enough to turn most large predators away and would even make a swamprat reconsider a meal. She held her breath as she opened the pullstring of the pouch and held it open beneath the man's nose. If it could wake the dead it should be enough to rouse a concussed mage.

 

[Faurosk]

A mind can conjure quite the nightmare with an hour's unconsciousness, but Faurosk's fantasy had been blissfully kind in its nonsensicality. The mage dreamt of a fancy tea party the likes of which he would never be invited to; The banquet sized table was lined with the most dazzling individuals his concussed brain could conjure, and sitting in the chair beside him was a frost troll dressed in immaculate fashion.

"Well, I say," the creature burbled in the surprisingly charming tone that rolled past its nubby tusks. "What is that on your cheek, good sir?"

Faurosk swiped a finger across the right side of his face, and sure enough, a dollop of warm honey sat on his fingertip and strung the digit to his temple. "Oh, how peculiar!" The mage mused his thoughts aloud, holding the oddly scarlet substance out to his fellow party goer.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that, after all," the troll grumbled in his gravel tones, "here, give the tea a sampling." Massive, clawed hands gingerly poffered a teacup to the dehydrated mage, and he couldn't help but grin as he took the porcelain trinket. "Don't mind if I do!" With a single sniff of the beverage to test its fragrance, th--

The single most horrible scent to ever grace Faurosk's nostrils pulled him from his dream and sent him plummeting back into the tundra. His body rolled onto its side, turning his nose away from the Witch and her ammonia hemorrhaging fungus. "Oh, fuck me," he shouted out in shock, the decorum of his dreamland quickly fading in the face of wakefulness.

It was only after his sudden tears were blinked away that the mage noticed a figure towering over him -- Two, in fact.

The troll had fetched its friend.

He flailed for a moment, turning onto his back and scuttling a meter away from the living ice sculpture and his imposing guide. Two tense moments of ragged breathing passed in stillness before Faurosk rediscovered his voice, the frozen blood on his cheek stinging him further into consciousness as he recognized Sigrith's twilight lit features. "I'm not dead yet, am I? Could've sworn whatever's beyond was meant to be warmer than this."

 

[Sigrith]

Soon as she noticed physical reaction to the stench she had begun to close the bag up again. The aroma would linger on the air well enough to push him to full consciousness, and the outburst garnered a faint smirk on her shadowed face.

The Witch refrained from commenting on the 'oh fuck me' part, feeling the looming presence of the moderately frozen troll easily sapping away any sense of humor she had a that present juncture.

"I know nothing of what's beyond for you, kulean," she said, pushing herself to stand again, "but you haven't reached it yet. We can't stay here, that troll won't stay frozen for long." Troll fighting might've been part of the games of childhood for a Nordenfiir, but she didn't fancy putting herself to such a task tonight. It would be difficult to find another bluff to camp under, especially with the light of day now gone, but they had a meal they could eat at the very least and fresh snow they could burrow into in a pinch.

The most important part was putting distance between themselves and the troll.

"Can you walk?"

 

[Faurosk]

He lightly tapped two fingers against his injured cheek, recoiling at a sudden jolt of pain the cold had managed to suppress during his catnap. Alright, that frozen mass definitely wasn't honey... Faurosk slowly pulled himself onto his feet, trying not to topple over as his layered furs shifted and fell back into place.

"Summerlander was easy enough to decipher," he muttered slowly, giving his shoulders a roll and stepping with each foot in turn to feel for fractured bones. No breaks sprang to awareness with a white-hot flash of pain, but the mage felt as though he'd been beaten halfway to hell. "But you've lost me with 'kulean'. No sense talking linguistics now, though." His closing thought was tacked on with a fearful glance to the troll, frozen yet evidently still a threat to their safety. How the hell had it survived? More questions for another time, perhaps.

He took two more steps before giving the witch a nod, glancing to the carcass she had cast aside in her haste to aid him. "I think I can shamble on for a while longer. Let's hope the night keeps our friend here from thawing too quickly." Faurosk limped back to the overhang that would have made a shelter for the night. He reclaimed his bag, shoving a scattered book back into its embrace before joining back up at Sigrith's flank.

 

[Sigrith]

"Good," she replied, moving to hoist the body of the doe back over her shoulder with a grunt, "you will need to shamble quickly." Her gaze silently cast back towards the hulking ice sculpture of the beast and she knew the distant groaning was not the wind, but the ice slowly giving way.

"Keep up, Braun."

The witch pushed forward through the snow with purpose, her pace more clipped than that which they kept during the sunlit hours. She did not slow for nearly an hour, and before that full hour had passed they could hear the distant roar of a frost troll breaking free from its icy prison. They were downwind, and that was the only thing keeping the troll off their trail. Trolls weren't well equipped for tracking things, but they could follow a scent on the wind with ease.

Their new location offered more shelter than the previous: a copse of trees set against the side of a snow-covered slope. With the trees blocking the wind, they could easily build a fire and settle in. She tasked the mage with the fire once more so she could tend to skinning their dinner and getting the meat prepped. Within a short while there were new flames crackling and meat roasting on the spit.

"Let me see your face. Those cuts must be cleaned or they will fester."

 

[Faurosk]

And shamble quickly he did.

An hour came and went with few more sounds than the periodic grunt or wince of pain. He figured his leg must have taken a heavy blow during his scrap with the troll, and the limp he sported threw off his gait to a point of constant annoyance. Distant shapes formed the first signs of sanctuary, and before long, the indistinct silhouettes had resolved themselves into a small grove that promised shelter from the wind.

With a pinch of red powder and a pair of muttered syllables, the travelers had a fire and Faurosk took a moment to consider his wounds. He sat near the campfire, drawing a silver knife from his hip and using its reflective surface to look over his marred features. A jagged cut trailed from temple to cheekbone, flanked on either side by shorter, shallower slashes that may just heal without scarring.

"I'd be grateful for the help, Sigrith," the foreigner said, turning towards the trees and letting his wounds catch the light of their fire for the Witch's consideration. "If you know how to suture, I have a spool of catgut and a needle in my bag. They're yours to use so long as you aren't allergic to iron." He gave the witch a brief glance before looking to the treeline once more. Between her mismatched eyes and her other striking yet intimidating features, Faurosk had yet to rule out fae ancestry as an explanation for the woman's eccentricities.

 

[Sigrith]

"I have no allergy to iron," Sigrith said in return, the stilted accent of the Nordens heavier on her words than usual, a sign that even she grew weary from the day's travels but not simply for the travel itself. Her hunt had been on four legs instead of two and the transformation had left her winded. To follow with a further trek carrying her quarry left little in her reserves.

With luck, treating wounds took very little energy indeed, merely concentration.

She took hold of the man's chin turning his face into the light of the fire, noting that the central slash was deep but clean. Nothing her witch's supply couldn't handle. She hadn't an iron needle or catgut - the witches used thorns of the naddergot tree and shiversilk to sew wounds, if they sewed them at all, both of which she had. Yet...

"Let us see, then," Sigrith held out her hand for him to produce his tools.

 

[Faurosk]

A strangled wince rattled through his throat as his face was turned further towards the light, but their long walk in the cold left him with just enough willpower to starve his discomfort of a voice. Faurosk bit his lip, chewing the moment until his chin was relinquished and Sigrith held out her hand.

Turning at the waist, he hauled his bag across the ground and produced a small wooden box that was clearly handmade and covered in ornamental designs. He passed the palmable kit off to the witch in short turn, and she would find a set of needles, gut, and gauze within. "Feel free to stitch your initials should it strike your fancy," he muttered, once more turning his face towards the light. The mage took a moment to steel himself, knowing all too well how long the painful process may last. "Or we could make conversation, but it seems neither of us has much energy left for such endeavors."

 

[Sigrith]

She first inspected the box, quietly taking in the craftmanship of such a small and simple thing. If there was one thing a Norden could appreciate it was skilled and useful work. Nordenfiiri artwork was simple compared to much of the summerlands, but complex in its own way. Lore interwoven into figures and symbols, knotwork demonstrating a complicated pattern that told the story of one's life without a single word. Such things took years to master and illustrate and even she, a Nord and a witch to boot, could understand the work that went into even something like a box.

Next she plied at the catgut spool, pulling it open just enough to inspect the string. Giving it a sniff, she rolled it between her fingertips and even gave it a tentative lick before deciding quite promptly it would not do. Sigrith did not even bother looking at the needle. She packed the spool back into the box and returned it to its owner just in time to see the lines of wince working its way onto the man's face.

"Mine is better," there might've been a faint smirk on her face but it seemed to dance away with the flickering of shadows from the firelight, "you will see. Now ask your questions that I know you have."

She procured from her array of pouches a naddergot thorn and roll of shiversilk, the former a gleaming black in color and the latter like spun silver, as fine as a spider's web.

 

[Faurosk]

He watched with growing skepticism as she sniffed, rolled, and finally licked his hand spun thread. What started as a raised eyebrow quickly turned into a grimace as the bruised muscles of his brow creaked in anguish, and once more a wince tugged as his features. It was a vicious cycle, really; Pain lead to wincing, a wincing lead to renewed pain.

Faurosk pocketed the box, feeling a touch more offended than he really should have as the tiresome day took its toll. If she was sure that her supplies would serve him better, though, he wasn't going to start an argument. When she opened herself to his questioning, he responded with a slack jawed sort of surprise. It wasn't so much that he had no questions, really, but more that he had backlogged a great many queries over their travels. The sheer overload of pent up curiosity stayed his tongue just long enough for the Witch to produce her own supplies, and the sight of her thorn and silk brought even more questions to mind.

"I should ask if the cost of your medical aid will be added to my tab, first and foremost," he said with a lopsided smirk that strategically kept the working surface of his cuts from wrinkling. "But in all honesty, it feels a bit rude to hound you with questions without giving anything in return. I would offer answers for answers, but to be frank, I'm not half so interesting as you might hope."

With a sigh, Faurosk let his eyes drift shut in thought. This was one of the first times she had offered conversation since they set out on this journey; Should she grow tired of his yammering, he would hate to have wasted what few questions he got. "Alright, I have one. It's clear enough you're a practitioner of some creed or another, but one of the locals we crossed paths with this morning said you're a witch. Is that the case?" Judging by the serene look on the mage's face, it was clear he wasn't too bothered by the prospect of travelling with her whether she's a wizard, a witch, or even a dragon in disguise. Sigrith had yet to do him a bad turn, and in return, he treated her with the same sort of trust travelers needed to have in one another.

 

[Sigrith]

The witch was listening, albeit distractedly as she masterfully threaded the thorn with the shiversilk and pulled free a length from within the shell of a large treenut.

"The questions are for keeping your mind off the pain," active discussion did wonders for taking the mind off many things. Sigrith set the thorn through the fabric covering her legs to hold it in place while she shifted to gathering necessary implements for the first order of business: cleaning the wound. A glance from behind the black encircling her eyes was given at the question, the sort of glance that might have made him think twice about asking it. In truth it was not an offensive question. Not to her, at the very least.

She nodded, "Yes, I am a Witch," dried moss was plied from a compacted balling within another satchel which she soaked shortly in water from her waterskin. A hand raised to take the man by his chin once more, directing him to look into the fire, the other hand lifted to firmly dab at the red of his face.

"We are unwelcome by most, feared by many, hunted by some."

 

[Faurosk]

Faurosk bit back a grimace as she directed his face towards the flame, dabbing-- Was that moss? --against his still-tender wound. Aside from the discomfort inherent to her work, though, the mage was remarkably calm about their situation, her answer included.

"That figures," he said quietly as the witch settled into her cleaning. Perhaps she was right, that talking would distract from the more visceral pain still to come. Even if it had just been a lie meant to assuage his nonexistent worries, well, it was still worth a shot. "The same goes for people like me, but I won't ever comprehend just how bad you must have it."

His hand flicked upwards in his lap, not wanting to disturb Sigrith's work. "People don't like the supernatural," he continued lucidly, making sure to thoroughly chew over his last word. It was idiotic, really-- Magic is just as much a part of the world as wind, or trees, or griffins, so why do people always prickle at witches and wizards? Perhaps Faurosk would never understand.

"Anyways," he went back to halfway muttering, turning his eyes back towards the depths of the fire. A thought rose to mind, then flashed, then faded - The mage was at a loss for questions, overloaded by the quantity of queries crammed inside his head. After a long moment, he spoke up once more, giving Sigrith a glance from the corner of his eye as a lopsided smile wrinkled his cheek. "Are you quiet because you loathe me, or is it simply to keep up an air of mystique?"

A laugh burbled its way into their small clearing, but the mage was quick to quell it with a small shake of his head. "Sorry, I know you're working, but I haven't joked in days... If it's for the latter reason, by the way, congratulations. It's working."

 

[Sigrith]

Magic had its place much like everything, this Sigrith knew better than most her age. But he was right, magic was a polarizing subject and practice, one that even her own mother's people to this day turned over with suspicion. It wasn't uncommon among the Nordenfiir - most of them could preform simple magics and did on a daily basis, but great magics of the south? The esoteric powers of the Witches? That was rare here and as often misunderstood as it was judged.

Sigrith thought about all this without verbalizing any of it, her expression as cold as the winter winds surrounding their little camp. His words that followed gave her pause and the icy expression on her face - what had come to be known as her resting-witch-face - went faintly slack under a pair of dark, raised brows. The Witch eased back from her ministrations, hands lifting away as the man had his laugh and his banter. He thought she loathed him? Sigrith couldn't imagine why.

Mild annoyance surfaced through narrowed eyes, a tethered humor to be hand nevertheless, "If I loathed you I wouldn't have agreed to take you out here." Could have also found any number of ways to leave him to a long and painful death along the way, too.

"Or I might have left you with that troll," she added stiffly, the flash of a smirk caught in the dancing shadows of the campfire. Leaning forward she caught his jaw again to finish cleaning the wound, a shallow sigh of breath, "I am quiet because it has always been safer for me to be."

 

[Faurosk]

The firelight flickered across Faurosk's wince as his jaw was directed once more towards the flame, though his grimace was forged in sympathy rather than discomfort. The college may not be nearly as environmentally hostile as the tundra, but silence was just as important for survival there as anywhere else. One minced word, one idea too bold, one sleight against the wrong maester, and it could mean expulsion and years of study wasted. Hell, that survivalistic silence was half the reason he'd left Elbion to forge his own path.

But Sigrith didn't seem the type for such talk, and the wizard wasn't one to seek out pity. Instead, he focused on that smirk of hers that seemed to dance amidst the fire. It may have been quelled by her sigh, but with any luck, he could tempt it out once more.

"It's a good thing you decided to drag my dead weight along," he replied with a deadpan that had saved his ass on more than one occasion. "I don't doubt that troll would've seen me as quite the morsel." Despite his initial intentions to get her smiling, something caught in the mage's chest. Something that needed to be remarked upon.

"I'm glad I sought you out, Sigrith," Faurosk continued after a moment, his own lopsided smile faltering away in the face of honesty. "You've proven something I always hoped was true; That no matter where you go, there's always someone worth trusting. The fact that you're my guide, well," he added with the faintest line of a smirk. "That's just an added boon."

 

[Sigrith]

He'd not have lasted a fortnight out here, of this she was absolutely certain. Survival of the mother tundra was no task fit for anything short of what she'd born herself. Magic, as Faurosk surely discovered, would only get one so far out here. Much like most other lands of Arethil, the creatures here had their own powers to speak of. But it wasn't the mage's guile or intellect she doubted, it was his aptitude to provide for himself in such a bleak landscape. His ignorance of known but well-hidden routes. His lack of cold resilience.

Of all the ways he could die out here, he likely would have starved to death before any creature would have made a meal of him. The cold burned food far faster than any summerland climate.

She finished cleaning the cut, though the fresh disturbance had drawn new blood. A firm swipe upwards from the bristle at his jaw mopped up the dribble into the moss. Sigrith set that aside and took up the thorn and thread, pausing as his last words reached her ears. The Witch could not recall the last time she'd heard such words spoken in earnest to her, or even in jest. The years spent roving out across the white wastes, on her own more often than not, had given her a far-reaching reputation and recognition. But these were not always of positive nature.

Most settlements she visited tolerated her only. Most people she spoke to wasted as little breath on her as possible. If it weren't fear or disgust of a Witch, then it was fear or disgust of a Nord. Kind words were as rare as the summer here. So rare that she hadn't any way of knowing what to do with them, so she did with them what she did with most other words; collected them in silence.

The thorn and thread gleamed within the dancing firelight and she held it up towards his face with a measure of rare delicacy, "New question," the tip of the thorn rested against his skin at the bottom of his wound, pressing through with surprising little burn and less pain than iron needles often caused. The shiversilk could hardly be felt as she pulled it through, it whispered through the skin like a breeze through the trees.

 

[Faurosk]

Breath hissed out in quiet harmony as shiversilk sang after thorn, pulled through skin with surprising care and gentleness. Faurosk soon found himself pulled into the rhythm, a faint tug upward here- Then back, then forwards once more. It was almost possible to tune out the pain entirely, but the occasional wince still came along to break his placid facade.

"I've had two," his fingers padded a mute beat along the furs of his knee, the faint line of a smile still breaking across his face. "Seems only fair you should take one in return."

What could be more enlightening that hearing what the Witch wished to know?

Many things, perhaps, but the mage's mind was still thoroughly padded with the concussive force of an ungentle giant. Questions didn't exactly rise easily through that mire. Besides, few things could distract Faurosk more than an opportunity to blather on a moment or two, and was that not the purpose of their inquisitive little game?

 

[Sigrith]

If Witches were known for open and voiced curiosity Sigrith couldn’t say. Their whims and wants often went unspoken, taken as they were to the idea of observation over intrusive inquiry. More often than not one could find the answers they sought through the simple act of being, listening, watching, experiencing, and absorbing. Cast in this light, it perhaps gave them a more wordly, wisened appearance than they truly deserved.

And some of them were worldly and wise, but some of them were just as ignorant as the rest. They simply hid it beneath a veneer of dispassion.

The quiet suited Sigrith well enough that her own naiveties and ignorances often went unnoticed. As she had come to learn, it was best to remain in silence than to open ones mouth and remove all doubt of ineptitude. Her wisdoms came in exacting doses of a survivalist’s needs and instinctual nuance, but her lack of knowledge accounting to the realms beyond the tundra were great indeed. She knew this landscape as intimately as a lover and could not for any reason understand why a man such as this would seek it out.

“Why are you here.”

There was his question.