#nathak

“Jagar Tharn was right, actually,” they stated, before yelping as they ducked to dodge Bronwen’s counter-attack -- the heavy spell-tome she was carrying, aimed right at their head.

It had been a few months since Bronwen’s brother Talin had returned from ... Morrowind? Skyrim? Wherever it was he had disappeared for ten years. He brought his father home with him, General Talin - or just the General, as Nathak called him. They never quite understood the habit of people naming children after themselves, but - ah well.

The point was, Talin Warhoft (The One Trapped By Jagar Tharn With The Emperor In Oblivion) and his beloved son, Talin Warhoft (The One Who Saved The Emperor), were back. Jagar Tharn was dead, the Empire was recovering, and Bronwen’s family was together after a decade.

Joking about Jagar was how Bronwen coped.

That was also how Nathak found out that Bronwen, as the second-born child of the Emperor’s highest-ranked advisors, was considered part of the Royal Family. That was a doozy.

“I’ll trap you in Oblivion, see how you like that -”

Nathak dodged the heavy tome again, laughing loudly as the pair began their dance through the Palace Gardens. Bronwen had moved there with her mother after the Talins returned, and she’d turned into something of a rose. She blossomed, her dark skin complimented by the pastel blues and pinks of the robes she wore; she had turned from a shy, scrappy farmer into a proper, honest-to-gods noblewoman.

Except for this bit, though.

“I’m going to fuck your mother for that, Nathak-Nammu!”

Nathak wheezed, picking up a stick and trying to fend off the ruthless attacks. Bronwen was grinning, wild brown hair beginning to fall from its impeccable bun. One good whack broke Nathak’s makeshift weapon.

“My stick!” they wailed, only to grunt as Bronwen whacked the book agains their shoulder. “Ow!”

Nathak visited the Imperial City often these days, at least once a month - twice, if they were lucky. They avoided the Talins out of ... shyness? The father-son duo were intimidating. But Bronwen was always happy to receive them, and Lady Warhoft was as kind as always. Her cooking only got better as her status grew, it seemed.

Nathak dodged another hit, staying low and charging Bronwen - tackling her by her midriff, sending the pair careening right into a bed of carefully cultivated - and extremely rare - Dunmeri Ash Roses.

The thorns pricked at the pair’s skin, and they both cursed lowly as they scrambled to escape the vines. Nathak hissed as a thorn got caught on their skin, yanking the flesh apart as they stood.

“Ow,” they whispered, frowning. They glanced over to see Bronwen wasn’t much better - she was glaring at the tears in her robes, brushing off dirt and mud.

They both froze as they heard light footsteps, followed by quiet humming. They met each other’s eyes, and, slowly, looked downwards at the trampled roses.

The footsteps suddenly stopped, as did the humming. Bronwen was petrified, and Nathak winced deeply. They both raised their heads to see an old man in a royal purple cloak, with a heavy, ruby-red jeweled amulet around his neck, staring at them in confusion and ... amusement?

Ah, fuck.

Baurus watched with some amusement as Martin winced, partly in sympathy, partly in confusion. The Blade cleared his throat. “How much wine have you had, Tha?”