#ardwe

A sensation prickled down her arms and through her hands. She was using lightning magic, but it didn't feel like lightning. It felt like a shiver, or maybe more like sawdust clinging to skin. This was normal. Ardwe couldn't explain why, but she loved it. Certainly, the ways she described how it felt, it didn't sound like something to look forward to. It sounded irritating more than anything, but then, she figured worldly descriptors could never do magic justice. That, and any associated physical discomforts or joys on the caster's part were pure phantoms, so it wasn't as though it could ever be accurate. Lightning knew Ardwe, suited Ardwe, and she would go so far as to say it chose her, not the other way around. She, like lightning, was a brilliant flash of energy in most people's eye. But people were ignorant, often willingly so. Ask any person who had the fortune of seeing a lightning strike up close, and they'll tell you of the haze and heightened aura around them just before witnessing the power of gods. Much the same way Ardwe herself operated, in a sense. Alarms for the incoming were well known, well documented, but for some reason, largely ignored. All one had to do to avoid the strike was to take heed, and did anyone ever? Not really, they'd rather pretend all the warning signs were not there. Animals, on the other hand, did not have this in-born desire to disregard things, unfortunately for Ardwe. The rat she had been targeting had wisely decided the top of a metal display might be a poor perch as soon as she began to pull magicka from her veins. It had dashed into unlit corners, squeezing between floorboards to cheat death. This creature would be back, but would probably be found in a place inconvenient for blasting it to pieces. Father would pitch a fit if she damaged his hideous wares.

Mannior's home from a certain angle

She couldn't help gawking at the room. A sad stack of kitchen needs were piled up haphazardly on a minuscule table next to the fireplace; there was no dedicated kitchen, all his cooking was done in this single great-room, she supposed. But then, by the way things were layered, it didn't look to be that he did much cooking here at all. Or, if he did cook for himself, it was in an unusual way. Pots and pans were not nearly as accessible as teacups and decorative spoons. Actually, the more she looked, the more oddly his belongings were spread out. There was an easily reached cooking pot, but on the wall to the right with the entrance they'd come through, snuggled in on a shelf that also held a painted rock, three glass paper weights in the shape of fish, and a broken abacus. And on a shelf above that, there was a woodworker's plane, a jar full of buttons, a tiny hour glass, and a child's doll. Next to that series of shelves was a nightstand that displayed a fishing rod, two pairs of scissors, and a bit of rope. As her eyes traveled, she saw more and more of this. Odd things, plain things, mostly uninteresting things, set lovingly in deliberate placement as if these were shrines. Ardwe twisted around to see more of this strangeness. Did these belong to dead loved ones? Mementos from good memories of his past? Random garbage he thought would liven up his living space? She pondered the choices until her attention came to rest on a low table directly behind her. On it was a dead plant, preserved and propped in an admittedly pleasing way to mimic its life, but the artful arrangement wasn't what gave her pause. She stood, walking closer to this shrine to be sure she wasn't mistaking things. An old dress was folded on the table, house slippers sitting on top of it. A chipped mug held some badly-maintained paint brushes, a mostly-used pot of facial cream next to that. And there was a book. She picked the book up, opening it to exactly where she'd left off. Her bookmark was still there.

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Stone floors held temperature in ways Ardwe never appreciated, it was the bane of bare feet. According to everything she knew, it basically went without saying that shoes and socks were terrible and should be avoided at all costs, meaning the stone floors were equally as terrible as shoes. Shoes were constricting to her toes, and socks always gripped her too tightly. On occasion, she would find ways to sneak them off her feet when her parents weren't looking, and it would be glorious until they realized what she'd done. Mommy was never too angry about it, but Daddy would tie her shoes back on her feet so tight, he was the only one who could untie them again later. That being the case, Ardwe ran with all the speed she could muster in her little legs to avoid the terrible, shoe-requiring floor, leaping at the drawers she sought to climb as soon as she could. Getting up to the counter was, frankly, a matter of life or death in the moment, no thought was spared to how strange it was that her mother still hadn't reappeared. Only the delicious, forbidden butter mattered as her toes gripped perfectly around handles and fingers reached for the next above. One, two, three, four, four was how old Ardwe was, four was how long until she flopped herself onto the counter top above. One, two, three, four, that was how many bottom scooches it took until she was within grasping distance of the heavy ceramic dish that held the butter. One, two, three was how long it took to grasp it with both hands. Ardwe was careful to set the dish to the side slow and quiet. Shh, now, shhh, she shouldn't be up here and she knew it. She would be scolded for eating the butter, she was sure, and if she wasn't stealthy she wouldn't get any at all. That her mother wasn't there was not relevant, that her father wouldn't be home for ages of no concern. Soft, slick, thick resistance squished between her fingers as she grabbed two entire hand-fulls of butter. It was stuffed into her mouth, barely needing to be chewed, and mostly mushed against the roof of her mouth briefly before it was gulped down.

An over-dressed snob, a nervous wreck, and an invisible man walked into a bar; they recognized a co-conspirator and decided to sit with her, but not before purchasing a bucket full of foul smelling sludge for the table. This wasn't the start of a bad joke, this is what was currently seated around the table with Ardwe. On second thought, maybe it was a joke, she could hardly see how this could even remotely be a sincere situation. What, for love of the gods, could have possibly brought her contacts to her in such a ridiculous state? The tale they told was absurd. Bosmer were creative, she had to give them that. There was a certain level of admiration for the situation. It was mostly marred by her befuddlement, but still, it was there a little bit. "So," she said, resolute. "To surmise, the party was a trap." "Erm, well, not exactly. More like infiltrated." The invisibility from the speaker didn't mask the uncomfortable little shimmery wiggle he produced when attempting to clarify. "A secret party for resistance leaders was infiltrated by… Excuse me, do you mean to tell me that a separate entity decided to disrupt attempts to sever Bosmeri involvement with the Dominion? One that was not sent by the Dominion itself?" A quiet scoff escaped the over-dressed Bosmer. Ardwe turned her attention to the woman, daring her to dredge back up the attitude Ardwe had sunk mere hours ago before they left for the soiree. She cleared her throat, looking uncomfortable. "I think it was more like a rival, actually." Elbows dropped to the table, faces fell into hands, groans tumbled from lips. Apparently, three of the four people seated here thought this was a layer of needless complication too many. The last hold out was not daunted if her expression was anything to go by. As she glared around the table, she pursed her lips and folded her arms across her chest, all defiance and no apology. "Why," Mannior chocked out. "Why wouldn't they just let things be? They're so determined to make things easier for the Dominion every time they make a stand. What's the point of it at all if they're going to be so simple?" He took a strangled breath. "Why are they all so stupid?!" "That's enough of that," Ardwe lightly chided. "They'd be stupid with or without all the self sabotage. No point in lamenting it now, we've been putting up with it for ages already." "It wasn't a total loss," the finely dressed woman cut in, grabbing herself a ladle of putrid liquid. "We now have the name of an extremist group even if we lost some separatists." Ardwe nearly gagged watching her take a generous mouthful. Mannior's head shot up. "You heard a name in all that chaos?" The Bosmer woman looked around herself. Ardwe did too. The Bosmer leaned into her drink, as if it might help conceal her words. "Boiche Mech."