#sionid

Wait uh is this for the game thing? Or the character thing? And if the latter which trashbaby?

Ahhgghhhg because I haven’t reset the link !!! but also because I haven’t even put them all on there. someone asked me once and I had to list them all off the top of my head, lol. I fixed it, thanks for reminding me! As of yet however I don’t have like, proper bios for my mainly played characters :(

Thanks for asking!

I fixed breakfast. I remembered Narit’s insistence when we travelled together: the only proper way to to start or end a journey is by eating, and eating ravenously. I remember agreeing with her then. I am less hungry now than I usually am, but I think I still agree today, though time has heaped up on both of us since then. So I prepared the last of my coffee. I’d saved the final handful of dark little beans for her return. I charred a little oat-crusted rye bread, and picked out two smoked trout to flake and scrape over the toast. I found in her larder a ring of smoked blood sausage. From town no doubt — Narit cures and smokes and salts and dries meats in her own right, but none of them are very fine things; they do for harsh Winters and fallow times, and minutes upon minutes of laboured chewing. I made ready to fry it with the rest. I made ready my complaints about the lack of vegetables — how I’d turn so pale without them she’d wake one morning and mistake me for a Nord. I prepared wistful panegyrics in honour of fine absent things: tomatoes whose skins I could blister over the fire, if they were in season; fresh Nibenay olives; halved Autumn squash, formed into golden bowls and filled with butter or fragrant rosemary-scented oil… But I realised I didn’t know what time Narit might wake for breakfast. Usually by the time I rose, she was already up and about. Or else, usually, she might not even have slept at all. But instead she was still all wrapped up in the previous night’s miracle: a deep sleep. So I took a stolen moment to wash hastily, and re-dress in trousers, shirt, scarf draped shawlish around my shoulders, and bandages on my mutilated foot. And then set about small things outside, sat about the perch where we cook in the clearing, under the windmill’s creaking arms and tattered sails. I mended rents and holes in my long tunic. Being that it was a gift from Falanu I’m sure she would tut and hiss over the shoddiness of my handiwork. But until I can tempt her here, or find a better tailor or seamstress, it will have to do. I waxed and re-treated my leathers – my deerskin over-leggings, and my shoes – to keep them healthy and happy. I took a whetstone to Foyatra… “Expecting trouble?” asked Narit from her windmill’s threshold. Her hair was wilder than ever from the press of a pillow. Her eyes were bleary but bright. “That depends,” I said, grinning but not looking up till the task at hand was done. “Should I be?” “Looks like you were mostly just expecting me for breakfast.” “Guilty as charged. Sit.” My cookfire was reduced to white embers by then. Enough to keep the coffee warm, but not so much to fry anything. Seeing this I kissed my teeth and set down my spear with an exaggerated sigh. “You’re late, speaking of guilt. Which means none of this till dinner,” I held up the blood sausage like an article of evidence in accusation. “Mm. I’m a layabout and a lig-in-bed. The worst kind of good-for-nothing,” she said as I poured us both a bowl of black steaming coffee, and added a scrape of sugar — one for me and two for her. “But you would be too if you’d just run your way back from Riften with all Oblivion on your tail.” I paused in my pottering. Narit continued. “No. Now I think about it, you’d be much worse. I’ve seen how you run. Or lurch – mmh – that’s a better word for it.” “All Oblivion?” I asked slowly, eyebrows raised. “What sort of daedra did you rub the wrong way?” I tried to joke but the humour came out thin and forced. I’d had an inkling the night before that something might have gone wrong — that she’d had trouble of some kind on her journey. Seems I was right. “No daedra, no atronachs, no—…Screw the rest. Just a man. He took an – uhm – dim view of the business I was tending to down in the Rift.” Narit’s expression was drawn now too. She didn’t meet my eye, and snatched at a slice of toast, a piece of trout. She set to wolfing it down. I ate more slowly and listened, gaze fixed on her, expectant. “Finished the business,” she said between mouthfuls, swallowing more often than she chewed. She slurped her coffee. “All fine, mostly. Half my share up front and the rest pending. Just left off with one little hitch and I think maybe I was followed.” “Followed here?” She nodded, finally looking up. Her eyes were wide but she looked more mischievous than worried. I wish I could say the same. “Followed by?” “Just a man.” “A dangerous one, no doubt.” “No doubt,” she echoed.

Narit works hard to maintain her privacy out here. The solitude that I shattered. She showed me how — or rather, she went on with the day as she would have without me, but let me tag along, with curious eyes and questions. Funny that those are usually the traits her whole being is built on – in memory for me until now – but now it’s my turn to wonder with wide eyes. She led me out into the woods with her. The path was winding and would have lost me quickly if I didn’t have her for a guide. But she trod it with a well-practised step. There were small carved things, hung in the trees along our way: wind-chimes fluted out of reeds and fallen deadwood; little pyramidal cages of bone, twisted together with dried up nettles, weeds, hair. “This might not be how it’s done,” she said as we walked and she worked. “It’s almost definitely not how the Mages’ Guild would do it, or even the College. If they could do it all, I mean. But it’s how I do it.” She paused now and then to realign or fix one of her little hanging trinkets. Sometimes she would stop by a tree – appearing like any other tree on our route – and draw a little single-edged skinning knife, and use its point to scrape away the bark, and beneath it carve her mark: nonsense things, looking almost like Aldmeris but deviating into spirals and lazy meanders. “They’re ways to pin it down,” she said, slowly, as if the words – the explanation – came with some effort. “The Magicka, I mean. Like sticking a butterfly so it stays. I let a little bit go into all this lot, so the forest’s full of it. It’s not one big spell. That’d be hard — I wouldn’t know where to start — Would you? It’s just lots of little ones…” “Can I help?” I asked. She didn’t seem too strained by all these small spells, but if I could offer a pinch of the Magicka that lives in me then it was the least I could do. “I’m…not sure. Maybe one day. Probably not yet.” J’adra trotted along behind us, not riding in my pocket as usual. Sometimes I’d look around to find her gone. Anywhere else, I’d say she was chasing a bird, or squirrel, or butterfly or somesuch. But here there is no birdsong, and no animals scurry as they should. “Your cat doesn’t seem too bothered by it all?” Narit asked, after a time. “Why’s that Sim? You enchanted her? No. She seems…She looks familiar. She is a she, yes? She’s the one you picked up in Haafingar? Same coat, same eyes, but better fed than she was before.” She turned about and squatted on her bare haunches in front of J’adra, reaching out a hand for her to sniff. “Hello hello, little one. D’you remember me?” “Memorable as you are, I think it’s more that she wouldn’t forget. She’s – uhm – not a cat.” Narit looked up at me, with those same burning curious eyes as ever. No words needed — only that look. “You’re talking to an Alfiq. And a damn good mage, though you never really see her do any magic. You just know notice it when it’s happened, not when it’s happening. She’s a friend, I think, after all this while. And her name is J’adra.” “A Khajiit?” said Narit, in froggish open-mouthed disbelief that quickly twisted into a grin. “That Khajiit!” “That one indeed. We found what we were looking for after all.” Narit checked her traps meanwhile, as we travelled the roundabout way back windmillwards. Little snares she’d set for the skittish local rabbits and hares. She found a brace of them, each on different sides of her forest: one caught around the back foot, one around the neck. The latter was already dead when found, but not unfresh. The former was writhing in the leather thong that held its foot. Narit drew her knife again, and, with blade-press and thumb, half-cut and half-tore the head off — her precision was casual and clean, like I might slice an apple. They hung upsidedown from her left hand as we wandered back home. “You can skin a rabbit, can’t you?” she asked as we sat out amongst the eaves of her scaffolds. “Gut one?” “I can cook one…” I said, quietly, almost embarrassed. “I’ll teach you. Then you can cook two.” She demonstrated on the first: a large hare. She took off the feet as she had the head. A small cut up the belly and then a pulling motion, wrenching the hide away quickly, then gently setting it aside. “Might use it. D’you want a pair of gloves? Hm. Or I might not…” She opened the cut a little further, from ribcage to between its hind legs and pulled away its viscera. I’ve killed people, but any fascination I felt was tempered with a grim feeling, watching her at work. “Keep the liver, heart, those bits. All good. Throw the rest wherever you’re not sleeping. The green wobbly bit in particular. Don’t eat the green wobbly bit, whatever you do.” I followed suit, fumbling a little with the hide. She took my hands and guided me, sitting behind me in silent concentration, fingers over my fingers, as my shoulders stiffened and the tendons in my neck thrummed tight at the touch… Narit only has one pot. A little black iron kettle. She gathered kindling and fuel as I added ingredients to the pot: a little of a nondescript red wine bought in Ivarstead; a couple of bay leaves; thick rounds of carrot; water and a few scrapes of the sugar cone I’d brought with me, purchased in Darkwater Crossing. I cut the meat into joints and added them, knowing that there couldn’t be any frying here first. The fire was ready then, and I lit it with a gesture, and set the pot hanging above it. “Stick some of these in too,” Narit said, coming back with another armful of deadwood. She held out a handful of little black berries, dried already, looking like black pepper. “No idea what they’re called, but they’re good. Like liquorice or—…I don’t know what. Put them in.” She was right. The stew was good. Narit’s manners, not so much. But from her, I never expected more. “There’s only one bed,” she said, matter-of-fact after dinner, and not-quite-serious after a few swigs of the wine. “It’s yours. For tonight anyway.” I tried to object. She objected too. “No, Sim. Are you a dog? Is your cat a dog too? Simra? No. You’re a guest and you’re sleeping in the bed. I’ll be fine.” So I slept in the bed. Or rather I tried to. It was small, even for Narit’s frame I imagine, and I had to crook up my legs and curl in on myself to fit. And I slept clothed, like I would in the wilds, under sheets I think might well have been sewn together from sackcloth, amidst the creaking timbers and shifting bones of this long-dead windmill — and the sound of Narit’s footsteps, even light as they are, coming and going all through the night…

Ironsides, arcanist malifaux master. That is some awesome looking character design.