#fawking hell

The back room of Layla’s mother’s boutique felt like a sanctuary, its familiar clutter of fabric swatches, half-finished garments, and jars of shiny buttons were an anchor to simpler times. Irene sank into her usual spot on the overstuffed couch as the scent of lavender sachets mixed with the faint sweetness of the pastry in her hand. After the chaos of the Planemeld, the endless battles and the weight of Tamriel’s survival on her shoulders, this was what she craved the most, quiet moments with the people who had known her before she became the “Vestige.” Though she supposes that such a title was no longer fitting considering her recent reclamation of her soul after her fateful battle with the prince of schemes.

Layla sat crossed legged on the rug, a look of concentration decorated her fine features as her slender hands were kept occupied with a small needle which she used to effortlessly weave an intricate flower into a fine piece of cloth, with a small pile of finished embroideries resting beside her.

Meanwhile, Faelyn sat at an old desk opposite to where Irene was sitting, the budding writer was, as usual, writing in a leather bounded journal that she always kept on her person. The soft scratching of her quill against paper sounded out and mingled with the occasional murmur or conversation from the other three present in the room as the Bosmer began to write out the beginnings of a new chapter.

Elynisi was also nearby, quietly examining a collection of beads that were stashed in a jar for later use should they be needed for whatever garment requires it. Occasionally, she would let out a short remark about whatever idle thought occupied her mind, her words being met with a hum of acknowledgment from either one of the three other girls who would in turn, add in their own input on the matter.

Irene let their voices wash over her, the background noise was like a balm to the lingering tension in her soul. Here, in this cluttered, cozy room, she wasn’t the hero who faced Molag Bal, the champion of the covenant, one of Queen Ayrenn’s eyes or Jorunn the skald kings arrow. She was just Irene, a girl from Daggerfall, laughing with her friends as if the world hadn’t nearly ended.

“Do you think if I told mannimarco that I had the amulet of kings down my pants he’d take a look?”

“…”

Layla looked up from her embroidery just long enough to shoot Irene an unamused look, her blue eyes sparkling in spite of her efforts to look unamused. “Irene. He’s a necromancer.” she deadpanned, the comment earns an eye roll from the Breton across from her as she responds in turn, “who said it’s dead down there?” she finishes with a small grin.

Ely nearly choked on the sip of herbal tea she’d been taking, her eyes widening at Irene’s comment before she quickly set down her cup, the grey skin of her face changing into a light red. “Oh my gods-” she chocked out, unable to stop the amused cackle that followed her words. Faelyn however didn’t look up from her notebook, but a smirk tugged at the corners of her lips as she tried unsuccessfully to smother a laugh.

“What?” Irene says, cocking a brow in feigned confusion as she turned her body to face layla on the floor “I’m not telling any lies and besides— im a beacon of truth~” With every word that left Irene’s lips, Layla’s expression grew stonier and more unimpressed. She sat up straighter, folding her arms across her chest. "Beacon of truth my arse" Layla retorted, shaking her head. "You're a menace that's what you are and you need to keep your 'truths' to yourself, especially around necromancers." Again irene feigned a look of innocence, her lips curving into a smirk as she replied with exaggerated earnestness. "How can I, the beacon of truth, possibly keep the truth to myself? That’d be like asking a bard not to sing, Layla. Besides, the truth craves to be free and you can’t bottle up truth. It’s like holding in a fart."