((Sir Mudcrab, sworn Defender of the Nirnroot and possibly a long-lost relative of Pinchy.))
((As of now, #postcards from cyrodiil will be used for of my out-of-character Oblivion-related posts, mostly screenshots. I don’t have many planned, but if you want to keep your dashboard tidy (or if you tend to run away in horror from unmodded Oblivion), go ahead and block that tag.))
((I have spent some productive time in Oblivion to bring you Frithjofr’s Helpful Guide To Winning Battles.))
((If it wasn’t obvious from my flagging activity, I’ve had to put Frithjofr on another hiatus.))
Gandil does not bother counting the coin, as his generosity nearly overcomes him. The Altmer later raises a brow.
— If you wish to sit and read, I can offer you a chair. You seem quite engrossed in that book.
Pride battled with comfort for a while, Frithjofr shuffling his feet, and for the first time it was the latter which won out. He nodded sheepishly.
'Aye, if you could? I don't want to get in your way or anything, but, uh… I don't find it as warm out there as I used to. Must be all the dragons, taking up the heat for themselves.'
Luth had been lazily chewing, looking out at the lake and nodding her head as she listened. Once she’d finished the bite of venison, she took a deep breath and sighed, enjoying the feeling of the sun on her cheeks. Then she cocked her head to look at Frithjofr, and frowned as he spoke the last bit.
"You ended up all the way in Markarth?" The thought of a befuddled Frithjofr wandering aimlessly through the wilds, or even worse the bandit-littered roads, was very upsetting for Luth. "That settles it. I won’t hear any arguments. I am sending you on the carriage, and you can take all the walks you want when you are closer to your home."
'All right, ma. And I'll put on my hat 'n gloves 'n everything, too.'
He grinned at Luth over the venison, until a drift of leaves blew across their picnic and forced him to shunt the leaves aside with his foot.
'Y'know, I'll only get lost when I'm home again anyway,' he said, once his attention returned to his food. 'I could get lost inside an empty room. In fact, I probably couldn't even find the empty room to get lost in it in the first place.'
"Grab him!" She called out to her partner. But as soon as she spoke the words she realized it was too late. Though injured, the lively mage was still fleeing. Misora growled and picked up her pace, running as fast as her feet could carry her. There was no chance for her to catch up, the womer had only one way to stop this suspected murderer.
Her feet skidded against the gravel as she came to a stop, charging up a final firebolt with both hands and the last of her remaining magicka. The Dunmer’s spell sailed through the air and crashed into the mages back. He moaned loudly before slumping against the ground.
Misora stood still for a moment, watching the body, waiting for a twitch. When several minutes passed and no movement occurred, she turned to Frithjofr. “I’ll make sure he’s dead, could you try to find my spear please?” The womer asked him politely, though slightly out of breath.
'Aye, I'll do that. Spear, spear, spear, spear…'
Keeping well away from the bodies, Frithjofr started fumbling across the ground, doing his best to follow instructions without accidentally sticking his hand into a pool of blood or a patched of charred, burning glass. Since this meant touching practically nothing, he didn’t meet with any success until he conjured up some healing magic in his hand, intending to smooth out some of his wounds, and its light flashed against something in the dirt.
He snatched up the glass spear before he could lose it again and hurried back to Misora, holding it forwards like a dog with stick.
'Here. You all right? You looked kind of, uh, not all right for a while there.'
In his past, Frithjofr showed an interest in several Daedra. Hermaeus Mora was not one of them.
It wasn’t for lack of trying. Most of his approaches to Daedric cults in Cyrodiil were made in the hope that their Prince could tell him what happened to his family, and Hermaeus Mora, with all of his intelligence, was one of the most logical choices. For some reason, however, cultists of the Lord of Knowledge and Memory were reluctant to accept Skyrim’s stupidest, most absent-minded Nord into their fold, and used to throw sticks at him until he went away.