The New Faces of Skyrim

Chapter Eight - Qa'shan

There was two things Qa'shan could admit to herself.

One, was that out of all the men and mer in the known world, she admired Azaril the most. He had a sense of purpose and grace to his walk, lighter on his feet then most khajiit, and a straightforward gaze that split crowds. When she had first met him, watching her with hawk's eyes from behind three skeletons, she hadn't believe he was real. Everything about him was familiar and foreign at the same time. He was an enigma, a strange, wonderful enigma that loved to bathe his hands in blood.

But, he also knew how to let himself relax and have fun in strangely domestic ways that only involved one of his three biggest qualities -- his charm.

Qa'shan envied him the most for that.

The second thing that she could admit to herself was that Mynil was tougher than he appeared. She decided this mostly because of how long he held himself together with Betne half draped across him. The Nord's voice dominated the room, telling the elf how she came from Markarth, despite the fact that before she had told Shadows she came from Riften, and Azaril that she came from Solstheim.

"You asked for these?" Azaril's silk voice touched her ears now, the furry appendages swiveling on her head to catch the sound of his feet scuffing gently across the stone floor of the sanctuary. In his hands he offered several Daedric arrows, their wicked tips glinting in the light.

Qa'shan took them, rolling them through her hands and nodding her approval. "Thank you, Azaril."

Azaril offered a simple sound in reply, sitting next to her to watch the activities. Azaril had insisted they leave in the morning instead of immediately, and it seemed that both Mynil and Qa'shan shared qualms about it. It was all for entirely different reasons. Qa'shan for one, simply wanted to get everything done with. Mynil, for the other, wanted to run far away from Betne.

"Should we leave him to suffer?" Azaril wondered. "Or will Shadows intervene?"

As if on cue, Shadows clapped his book closed, gathered as many of its nearby brothers as he could carry, and left.

Azaril grimaced. "Maybe he'll handle himself?"

"This one doubts he could handle much."

A devious smirk spread across Azaril's face. "I bet he could handle quite a bit," he said, propping his chin on one fist.

Qa'shan curled her lip. "Do you have to?"

Azaril gave her an innocent look. "I can't help it."

"Qa'shan is willing to bet that you could."

"It'll ruin my image if I stop."

"Do you mean the drawing that guards are given so that they know to kill you on sight?"

Azaril gave her a hard look. "Fine. Make fun of me. I don't mind. Not one bit," he stood up, stretching his arms above his head. "I'm going to go talk to our resident magic user. Stop by my room later so that we can talk. And that's an actual order. Don't skip out on me like the eight hundred times before."

"Qa'shan will see if she feels up to it." Qa'shan gave him a small shrug in reply. Azaril let a breath escape his mouth and walked away. When Qa'shan looked back up, the elf was walking away with a nervous Mynil at his side. Azaril was making wild gestures and talking loudly about magic. After a moment, Mynil laughed a shaky laugh and gently corrected him with smaller movements of his own hands and lit his palms on fire, much to Azaril's delight.

Shaking her head, Qa'shan stood up, stretched herself, and made her way up the stairs. The door shuddered when she grew close, opening up with a blast of cold air that made her hiss. She'd spent several years in Skyrim, but before that she grew up in Elsweyr, on the warm sands and under the hot sun. The cold weather and perpetual snow of Skyrim only made her ache for it more than ever.