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•. ☾. . * .·. °. ✧:. ·.
|Word Count: 15,249|
𝘊𝘪𝘳𝘪 – 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘙𝘦𝘥 𝘞𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘴
"𝐖𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫!"
"You're saying we should let this die?!"
"Women don't fall from the sky or bring this...snow as you call it!"
"You do understand it has given us ample water for the whole Khalasar? We now may stand a chance in crossing the Red Wastes!"
Ciri grumbled as she'd hear the two male voices argue, one deeper toned and familiar while the other younger and foreign. Slowly her senses were coming to her, feeling the warm dry air across her skin and a worn bedroll at her back. She'd quickly realize that her furred collared coat, light leathers and cloth shirt were gone. All she had covering herself was just the linen wrapping around her chest, leather pants and her boots.
"Ugh...what is...going on?" Already a rush of adrenaline started kicking in as a flurry of situations filled her mind. She'd tug her right hand which was at her side, only to feel something holding it in place. Half-closed eyes looked to see a rope around her wrist, the bond staked into dry earth to keep her from escaping. "Why am I...bound up?" Already she'd tug, strength quickly returning to her body.
"Please be still Ciri."
Quickly she'd glance about until she saw the familiar face of that man who had found her, Jorah from what she could remember. His skin was tanned, short hair sun-bleached brown and face creased from being outdoors. His clothes were simple and practical, fitting for the hot climate they seemed to be in, though it showed the man's muscular build more openly. There was a ruggedness about him that reminded Ciri of Geralt, though his hazel eyes shared a friendly nature.
"She should be tied up...." A man behind Jorah muttered. His appearance reminded Ciri of one of the people Zerrikanian, considering his copper colored skin and braided black hair. His clothes were much more tribal when compared to Jorah, being a mix of brown furs and patched leathers. He had an odd sickle shaped sword in hand, obviously on guard because of her. "She must be a witch of some kind..."
Looking about, she'd notice she was in a crude tent, pieced together with worn cloth, leather and scrap wood. The ground was dry and rocky, colored light red like faded blood. Already she had a feeling she was in the complete opposite wasteland then the one she had just been battling in.
"Last I checked we didn't have any Valyrians left in Westeros, much less Essos. Remember your Khaleesi swore by her family name that she'd protect this woman." The gruff man remarked as he'd quickly free Ciri's arm. The tribal man muttered in a foreign tongue before lowering his weapon after that stern remark.
