18+ The Plain Gate

[Balomew]

Khamundar
Whiterun Hold, 11th of Sun's Height 4E 201
​

Khamundar's place at the drawbridge offered a decent view of the chaos that had ensued. There was a mess of bodies and a dense scattering of blood. The guards that she had eavesdropped on and talked to earlier were both on the ground, the breasts of their armor ripped and frayed.

A surprise leaned over the guard on the far side, something bright crimson gleaming in his hand. If she hadn't been talking to him moments beforehand, she would have thought that his short stature was a trick of the eyes, that he was in truth appearing shorter due to his posture. It would be an easy assumption to make, even for Khamundar. The mess of blond hair gave his identity.

A second man with long dirty-blonde hair and a height more average for a Nord approached the other injured guardsman. His body interrupted her view of the interaction, but her keen hearing picked up the sound of liquid. What the guard said to the taller man interested Khamundar. She watched as the man rose to his feet and approached Orvar and the guard he was attending to.

He introduced himself as Baroth Hermingfel and complimented Orvar for an action that Khamundar had not been present to see. He pointed at a thief leaning heavily against a wall, closest to Khamundar. She considered helping clear the mess.

Khamundar approached the guard that Baroth Hermingfel had just left. His eyes were half-closed, perhaps drowsy from whatever liquid his attendant had given him or resting to regain strength. He did not open his eyes as Khamundar approached. She crouched next to him and gently examined the front of his armored orange tunic. She was not a practiced medic but she did understand basic anatomy. She looked up at his face - this was the guard that had eagerly gossiped earlier, less aware than his friend.

"This one should not put pressure on the wound," she advised. The guard gave an unintelligible response and opened his eyes. Khamundar repeated herself and added "could this one walk with help?" He didn't seem sure. She looked over at Baroth and Orvar, and then back at the guardsman. "This one will be right back." She got to her feet and approached the two men.

 

[Nocte Aeterna]

As the dust settled (both literally and metaphorically), Orvar left the guard to his own devices. He scrambled to his feet and addressed one of the other men present at the scene. Orvar looked on passively at first, wondering if he should jump in and deliver a victory speech as he used to do during his tenure in the Companions. After a particularly arduous yet well-earned triumph over the Silver Hand, he jumped onto the tables of Jorrvaskr and proudly marched across them all while swilling mead left and right and singing merrily with his Shield-Siblings. But this was neither the time nor the place for such frivolity. Instead, he turned to the large man called Baroth, who had just addressed him.

"Pleasure, Baroth. Name's Orvar, but you're welcome to call me Swift-Sole. That's the name I typically use." He shot a sidelong glance over to the motionless rogue curled up at the base of the cobblestone wall, then grinned. "And I'm definitely living up to it, aren't I?"

One of the uninjured guards ambled past the duo, strode over to the wall, then slung the unconscious man over his shoulder, not uttering a single word the entire time, save for a slight oomph. While the guard slowly inched his way out of Orvar's field of vision, a familiar face slunk into it.

"Ah, Khamundar," Orvar said, heartily greeting the Khajiit from earlier. "Saw the commotion, I trust?"

 

[Balomew]

Khamundar
Whiterun Hold, 11th of Sun's Height 4E 201
​

"Heard," Khamundar replied. "This one is curious about the cause of bloodshed, but this is not the time to tell." She stopped beside Baroth and looked at him. "This one is called Khamundar. This one would help clear this mess, with permission." Her last words were shaped like a question but tempered with a stubborn edge. There was no better way to introduce herself to Whiterun than by helping the city guard recover after a short-lived assault.

 

[fellowknight]

"Pleasure, Baroth. Name's Orvar, but you're welcome to call me Swift-Sole. That's the name I typically use."

Baroth could deduce that, given the kinsman's waylay of the would-be fugitive. He cast a sidelong glance over to the motionless rogue curled up at the base of the cobblestone wall, then grinned. Baroth followed his glance and he too grinned. The buffoon was out cold, like he should've been in the first place.

Baroth noted not to go so easy on riffraff like this in the future.

"And I'm definitely living up to it, aren't I?"

That you are.. Baroth imaged the scene again and inwardly smirked. Hell, with such prowess, he began to wonder if Orvar had considered joining up with the Companions or if he already did. He looked the free spirited warrior type, and being Nord and all, it just made sense. Not that Baroth was stereotypical, but no one could deny Orvar's rapidity nor his cool perception on the outcome. Confidence was good too.

Not bad at all..

One of the guardsmen, wounded by sparse lacerations and bruises, walked by and led Orvar's eyes elsewhere. To an approaching Khajit woman, enrobed in dark leather armor that somehow cajoled with her deer spotted fur. Most Nordmen, the average drunk at least, would've been harsh and prejudice toward the woman. It was understandable, but not acceptable and overcoming such racial calamities were rather difficult and in some cases, impossible.

Luckily Baroth had a great many centuries to accept difference and more importantly, observe and understand their struggle, though he was powerless to alter it entirely.

Skyrim was proving less and less accepting of outsiders. A great challenge, which could also be read as a great opportunity to work on his people skills.

Orvar and Khamundar, as he called her, seemed to be previously acquainted and instantly familiar with one another.

"Ah, Khamundar," Orvar said as the feline approached, sauntering. "Saw the commotion, I trust?"

"Heard," Khamundar replied coolly. "This one is curious about the cause of bloodshed, but this is not the time to tell." She stopped beside Baroth and looked at him. He met her eyes, his own angled downward due to differences in height. "This one is called Khamundar." She unknowingly reinformed him. "This one would help clear this mess, with permission."

Baroth recoiled slightly. "Permission?" He blurted, somewhat bewildered before he realized why she felt the need to ask. He chuckled dryly. "Unnecessary, that you need to ask. I'd imagine the lads would appreciate any helping hand by now. Glad you're willing to help and not step over their bleeding chests, like most folk might.." He trailed off, turning to Orvar. "Three hands would be a might faster, if you have the time. The men don't get too many encouraging speeches and proper thank-yous as they should. They saved my ass on more than one occasion so it's the least I can do, for now." He turned back to Khamundar, calloused hand extended with a welcoming smile.

"Name's Baroth. Welcome to Whiterun, assuming it's your first time. Wouldn't be surprised if it wasn't, they get a lot of comers and go-ers these days."

 

[Balomew]

OOC
​

Khamundar refers to others by their full names. It is difficult for a Khajiit to speak as other races do. If a character is bothered by this, s/he may have to repeatedly correct her speech.

Also, I would have left out the dialogue and offered a viewpoint from Baroth and Orvar's perspective, but I decided that a face-to-face account would be much more personal. I'm glad I did.

Khamundar
Whiterun Hold, 11th of Sun's Height
​

Baroth's initial response was a surprise to the Suthay-raht scout. He recoiled slightly and blurted out a bewildered reply before a calm stole over his eyes and he gave a dry chuckle. She listened, looking up at him as she had many times in the past. She was pleased to hear that the guard would appreciate her aid at this time. When he reached out a calloused hand to her, she reached out a slim, spotted hand and shook his hand. Her handshake was quick but not in an unfriendly or businesslike manner. Native khajiit rarely shook hands, so she hoped that she had not butchered the gesture.

"This one has been at the foot of the plain gate for a few years. This one thanks you for the welcome. If this one will excuse Khamundar, she has new work to attend to." She paused, uncertain what Men said to close their conversations, and said "farewell" to the two men. Khamundar turned and walked back towards the guard she had spoken to earlier.

She knelt next to him and touched his shoulder. "What is this one's name?" She inquired.
The guard opened his eyes and looked at her dully, finally responding to her inquiry. "Hanson," he said.
"Hanson, this one is called Khamundar. This one is here to help. Could this one stand now, with help?" She moved his hand away from his chest, looking up to see Hanson nod. "Okay. Pretend this one is floating in water, not sitting. This one will help Hanson to his feet. Is that alright?"
"Yeah," Hanson said. "Floating." He closed his eyes. Khamundar shook her head slightly. Whatever helps him, she thought.

She took his hand and stepped to his side. "Here we go," she told the guard. She hugged him from the side, her left hand - the one holding his hand - pressed against his chest to keep him stable. He rose to his feet without much grace and slouched over, probably with pain. Khamundar corrected his posture and turned him towards the gate, open to a small degree.

"Open the eyes. We are going to start walking. Take each step; if this one runs, this one will bleed."
She didn't see him nod, but a strange look came over Hanson's face, an expression Khamundar had never seen on a Man before. Hanson looked at her and said, "The Jarl hasn't permitted you inside the city yet."
Khamundar offered Hanson a small, confident smile. "But Baroth Hermingfel has, and Khamundar will not leave Hanson now." She glanced back at Baroth and Orvar and then faced forward again. "We walk now," she warned Hanson. The Khajiit and the guard made their way into the city, Khamundar staring straight ahead and Hanson looking at the road near his feet, occasionally looking up at his attendant.

 

[Nocte Aeterna]

"Right, get up if you can," urged Orvar to the dazed guard beneath him, taking Baroth's suggestion. "That potion should've sped up the healing of your injuries. If not... well, maybe a priestess or a maester could help you. What's your name?"

"It... it's Jorlin, sir."

"Sir? Do I look like a noble to you?" Orvar chided, making a visibly disgusted face, much like the kind a foreigner to Skyrim would make when trying diced horker meat for the first time. Lending his right hand to the kinsman, Orvar assisted in hoisting the guard up. He grunted and winced, but the deed was by and large without incident. "Alright, Jorlin, you probably want a good pint by now. After we get you to safety, of course. What say you, Baroth? Drinks after we play hero?"

The short Nord expected a rebuttal to his snide remark, but he soon realized that nobody was paying attention. Something he was all too used to. Half-shrugging, he began walking the slight incline of a path that led to Whiterun's gates, allowing Jorlin to utilize his shoulder as means of a crutch.

 

[Balomew]

OOC
​

Nocte, Khamundar asked Baroth for permission to enter the city the help the guards recover. He gave it and she's at the gate now, helping the other guard to the barracks (where she assumes there is a medical station with more qualified individuals). Would you like to change your post, or should we assume that Orvar wasn't paying attention to the conversation? Either is fine with me. (She'd most likely look at him over her shoulder and grin or shrug.)

 

[Nocte Aeterna]

(OOC: Should've been clearer. I meant how she's going to enter the city and not be treated like dirt and have debris thrown at her and such. I get really self-conscious when people ask me to edit my posts because there's little I hate more than making stupid errors. Regardless, I'll change it now.)

 

[Balomew]

OOC
​

You should know that I meant no offense. If it puts your mind at ease, I've never requested for anyone to alter their work. I see now that you're touchy about this topic. I can see how you could have misinterpreted the last few posts. Khamundar asked Baroth for permission to enter the city to help the guard(s) recover. It's like a temporary emergency pass - she'll talk to the Jarl later for an official invitation. It wasn't a stupid little error, it was an easy misunderstanding, and I'm sorry for the disruption.

I didn't think about the people's reactions, truth be told. I assumed that, since Khamundar was with an injured guard (two factors), people would refrain from physically attacking. I thought that they might stare, whisper, and stay far away. They dislike Khajiits, but I don't think they hate them. Children might throw stones, though. I don't know.

I don't have much to say IC at the moment, and I'm not feeling up to it. It's your turn, fellowknight. We're waiting on you.

 

[fellowknight]

Baroth bowed his head at the Khajit as she shook his hand quickly but understandably so, and moved attend to Hanson. He almost grinned at the contrast in the handshake; his burly, muscular hand enveloping her slim, petite one. She helped hoist the man up after prying his name and moved off into the city, easing him along at a steady pace.

Baroth hoped she wouldn't run into too much trouble, and watched as she led Hanson towards the gates. At that moment, Orvar chimed in, addressing Jorlin and heaving him up. He suggested something, a drink after the play hero, but Baroth didn't quite catch it; he was more focused on why the thieves just brandished daggers out of nowhere and attacked the guards like that.

Maybe it was nothing, a simple act consternation, but it didn't make any sense. In order to assault the guards like that, they must've felt threatened to some level, but even at that, they must've known they weren't going to get away.

When Orvar hoisted Jorlin up and walked him of towards the gates, Baroth snapped out of it and swept the crowds for Jorvir. He couldn't find him anywhere. How odd. He must've been taken to the barracks by some of the other guards. Or perhaps he carried himself to seek medical attention. Either way, Baroth hoped he made it away safely.

Good, that left Baroth with crowd-control. Most of the guardsmen had departed by now, but the few that lingered seemed to gather in little groups, deciphering the situation and giving their take on it.

A few of the guards approached him and thanked him for his assistance, unnecessary but they felt obligation to do so, then asked for a report on what happened. Hesitatingly, with a glance at the departing individuals, he obliged with a grim nod.

 

[Balomew]

Khamundar
Whiterun Hold, 11th of Sun's Height
​

If Khamundar had entered the city a few hours later, the city would be dark and asleep. As it was, the city now was bustling with townsfolk heading home for supper and sleep. Briefly, she found herself wondering what the beds in the tavern were like. She compared her experience with the people with an interesting bug found by a child. As she was noticed, people stared with piercing pale blue eyes that followed her path and looked colorless in the recent absence of the sun. A child - a squat little thing with a chubby, fleshy face - threw a stone from the corner of Khamundar's vision. The stone missed but must have been close, for a Nordic woman rushed up to the young girl and chided her. People did not gather, but they did watch, all with the same eerie set of eyes. Some turned to return to what they were doing previously. Khamundar kept looking forward, her gait remaining lopsided as she helped Hanson

"Where are the barracks?" she asked Hanson. He was quiet for a moment, though he continued to walk with her without trouble. Then he pointed at a building straight to their left. She steered Hanson and walked toward the door. He leaned against her, perhaps becoming drowsy due to the blood loss. Khamundar had been so determined to keep him from hurting his rib(s) further that she had forgotten about blood loss. "Almost there," she muttered to Hanson. "Hang on."

She approached the door and opened it. A fireplace and a set of chairs were the first items she saw inside.

 

[Balomew]

OOC

A close-up of Khamundar. Unedited, straight from the Live Another Life starting cell.​

In memory of this thread. Look closely at the create-a-holiday date.

​

 

[Nocte Aeterna]

Almost embarrassingly, Orvar came to find that Jorlin was larger than him; the latter must have been a half-foot taller than him, and certainly quite heavier. Yet this did little to stop the shorter Nord from completing his self-imposed duty, no matter how many times he panted and grunted from the taxing weight upon his left side. His shoulder began to ache and his steps erred on the side of staggering, but he was still plenty strong enough to escort the guard back into the city. As the gates opened, Orvar shifted his weight to his spare side, allowing for greater control.

Of course he wouldn't be a scrawny little Wood Elf, he thought vehemently, the straw-thatched roofs and superior marble-work of Whiterun's many residences and businesses now coming into full view. The city was built into a hill, with the governing body, Dragonsreach, resting at its summit. It was visible at a distance on a clear mid-summer day such as this one, and Orvar felt his head tilt upward to capture the large palace in his field of vision. Good old Boot-Licker Brothel. I wonder if I'd be able to ask Balgruuf how many women he's bedded in the past fortnight.

A small crowd began to amass as Orvar, Khamundar, and Baroth navigated the city's frontal side, as that was where the guard barracks were located. They ogled the Khajiit, naturally, but none of the grown townsfolk raised ire or even jeered at the group. One bratty child aimed a stone at Khamundar, but the makeshift projectile missed and broke apart on impact with the cobbled pavement. Full marks for good behavior, Whiterun, the Nord observed in passing.

The group eventually found itself at the barracks; a building that looked virtually identical to the rest of them, save for it being slightly larger in surface area and more fortified structurally. Khamundar went ahead, prying the door open with her free hand. Orvar stepped in next with Jorlin in tow, feeling the warmth of the entry room cascade around him courtesy of the fireplace. He then held open the door in order to allow Baroth entry as well.

 

[Balomew]

Khamundar
Whiterun Hold, 11th of Sun's Height​

Taking notice of movement behind her, Khamundar looked over her shoulder and saw Orvar behind her, managing to hold the door ajar with a spare hand. "This one does not know where she is going," she admitted.
Hanson drew her attention. He had hardly spoken during their flight but spoke up now. "Medical station is to the left." Khamundar thanked him and took the door to the left. Linen spreads over thin cushions lined the room except for the righthand side, where an alchemy station and a cupboard stuffed with bandages, ointments and an array of strange tools. It was currently empty.
Khamundar made her way to the closest bedroll-like setup. "Floating again, Hanson. Lay on the back. This one will help Hanson get comfortable if she needs to." Hanson closed her eyes again, but Khamundar took no noticed this time. She helped the guard lower and settle upon the cushioned fabric. "And keep hands away from the chest," she scolded, moving his hand away from his ribs. She moved further into the room to make space for Orvar and the guard he was assisting.

 

[Nocte Aeterna]

Orvar deposited Jorlin on the bedroll next to Hanson's, letting a sigh of relief issue from his lips. He massaged his shoulders and arms with opposite hands accordingly, then sat cross-legged on the stone floor next to Jorlin, who was still applying pressure to his wound.

"Here," Orvar began, once again thrusting a hand into his satchel and fishing around for another healing potion. He took one out and placed it into Jorlin's trembling outstretched palm. "This should help with the fatigue. Your lack of energy is from blood loss, kinsman. I'm no healer, but I know what a nasty gash looks like." He leaned in slightly. "And I may or may not have added a splash of mead to this one as a little pick-me-up."

Jorlin grinned halfheartedly, then spoke up for the first time since the ordeal. "I wish you were serious. Could really use one of those right now..."

The seated Nord chuckled. Perhaps showing good faith to others was not a bad thing after all; the usual craving he had for coin was nowhere to be found at this moment in time. Orvar craned his head slightly, looking around the room. He observed Baroth entering, and watched as the larger man began to settle in.

 

[fellowknight]

Baroth finished giving his report in time to join the others and assumed the tail-end position as they emerged into the city and neared the barracks. People began to accumulate along their way and eyed the individuals peculiarly, muttering amongst themselves in hushed tones and whispers. Sudden movement tickled his peripheral and his hand instantly gripped the sword hilt strapped to his waist, his eyes darting to inspect the source.

It was a child, a little chubby girl, whom had chunked a stone at Khamundar out of nowhere; luckily, the youngling had yet to improve her aim and missed the shot, the projectile bursting on impact with the cobblestone asphalt. A woman, presumably the adolescent's mother, hurried over and scolded the young child before hauling her off. Baroth grimaced slightly and shook his head, keeping pace with the others.

Savages. Strangers, now. Baroth had known these people for decades and could identify every face present. Yet now, looking out at this crowd, he couldn't recognize anyone. Violent outbursts and silent speculation weren't of Whiterun's people; they were of a docile and most certainly neutral nature. Least to say, he was disappointed.

No wonder they stay in Elsweyr and travel in caravans...

They reached the entrance to the barracks and Baroth couldn't help but address the small crowd. A familiar face at odd times was always calming.

"The situation has been resolved, people. No one died, I assure you. Best go home now, before you miss supper."

With an appropriate gesture, Baroth turned and entered the barracks, thanking Orvar for holding open the door.

Almost immediately, Baroth was overcome with the subtle aroma of burning wood and stale bread that he was all too familiar with. The room was more or less lounging quarters for any guard who found himself/herself off shift and particularly hungry, thirsty, or tired. A few bedrolls were laying about, along with a table and a couple of chairs around it. Ahead, two doors would lead into either the storeroom on the left, or the armory on the right; both doors were usually left open for convenience and quick access, but lately they'd been left shut.

Down the hallway between them were the bedding quarters, for the guards who found themselves more tired than anything and had enough time to catch a few winks. The beds were nothing special, far from the word, but they were made extra comfortable to promote liveliness and vigilance in the sleepers. An eerie silence told Baroth the room was vacant, so he turned his attention elsewhere.

Khamundar and Orvar settled with their 'patients' and gave them the needed attention. Though neither was dying, they were very weak and surely tired from blood loss and excruciating pain; at best, they'd be up and running in a week and a half, and that's with healing scars and sore limbs.

Baroth fell in behind them and adopted a chair, unclipping his steel breastplate with a relieving sigh. Underneath was a linen tunic, moist with sweat and clinging to his chest. He pinched the fabric and flapped it several times, providing himself with cool air. Despite the room's warm welcoming atmosphere, it could be really stifling after a long day spent under the sun.

"I definitely owe you two a drink. It's been one hell of a day, and it may very well have been more hellish without your aid. You didn't have to help, but you both did and I really appreciate that. So, thanks."

 

[Balomew]

11th of Sun's Height 4E 201
​

"This one was happy to help," Khamundar replied, sitting next to Hanson and looking up at Baroth. She seemed unaffected by the slight hostility she had received outside. "What is this 'mead' your kinsfolk seem fond of?" she asked both Nords, her eyebrows clenched together, mystified.

OOC
​

Fun fact: In real life, I like the taste of mead - although it heavily depends on who made it and with what.

 

[Nocte Aeterna]

(OOC: Never tried mead, but I love most kinds of ale and beer in general. Then again, it's probably my Irish ancestry talking.)

"A fine question, Khamundar," Orvar replied, perhaps a little sooner than was socially acceptable. It was no small wonder that the short-yet-burly Nord was seldom one for courtesies, but akin to most of his kind, a tall flagon of mead was to them as a vial of skooma was to most Khajiit. "Mead's made from fermented honey, mostly. Honningbrew Mead is the stronger brand here, and it's the stuff I prefer. None of that Black-Briar sludge they produce over in Riften."

Orvar stood up and strode over to a nearby cabinet perpendicular to the set of bedrolls, a loud creak issuing from its hinges upon being opened. "Sometimes the guards here need a bit of a pick-me-up," he said, taking out and holding up a half-depleted bottle of the beverage. "This still looks fresh, and sharing is a commonality in Nordic culture. Well, at least it should be." He took a swig of the mead and swilled it between his tongue and throat, back and forth, fore and aft. His taste buds burst forth into rapturous applause, as if they were the audience of some grandiose yet magnificent play.

He then pushed the bottle towards Khamundar, secretly hoping that the feline-esque being's digestive tract was biologically similar to his. "It might be a little strong for a Khajiit, but go on anyway.

 

[Balomew]

OOC
​

I've never considered how a character's body might respond to alcohol, especially a Khajiit or Argonian, as their body functions are slightly different than those of mer and men. My guess is quite well to some products and less to others, depending on experience. Khamundar is fairly new to alcohol, so she may be more effected by smaller quantities of stronger drinks.

11th of Sun's Height 4E 201
​

Khamundar took the large bottle with an uneasy expression. At Orvar's final words, her facial muscles pulled into an unmistakable snarl. "Strong is for moon-salt. Khamundar detests the taste of skooma. She had, once, on a dare.." She looked down at the branded bottle of mead, ears tensed back, her expression fading with her words. She looked up at Orvar and across at Baroth. Her lips were parted in a grin of forced amusement. "This one is not afraid of mead."

She raised the drink to her lips and tilted the bottle. When the liquid met her mouth, her tastebuds reared at the taste. It has the tart taste of alcohol, of which she rarely consumed, which threw her off-balance at first. She set it down after that swallow and nearly swallowed it, but withheld from doing so when she noticed the faint tang of acidic fruit. It was a taste unfamiliar to her tongue. Curious and less cautious of the alcoholic taste, she swished it around her mouth, testing it, and then swallowed.

She still had the drink in her hand, lowered near her lap. She looked down at it dully. She was quiet for a moment. She looked up at Orvar and shook her head slightly. "This one is not accommodated to alcohol," she admitted frankly. "There is a fruit taste that Khamundar is unfamiliar with. This one wonders how Nords would react to moon-sugar." She offered the bottle to Baroth, stretching towards him.

 

[fellowknight]

Baroth raised a brow at the Khajit's defiance of Skooma. Some dare she'd done had made her regret it, and Baroth could understand such a thing. Prior to his...history in Skyrim, Baroth had exposed himself to it's temptations, indulged himself for months; a temporary collapse in his strength he'd much rather forget, but nothing he would feel remorse for.

If there was one thing Baroth had learned, it was to cover your tracks while you're still ahead.

Extending a beefy arm out, Baroth accepted the bottle from Khamundar and took a swig himself. The conversant sting of the alcohol tickled at his tongue and throat as it went down, followed by the rich tang and fruity aftertaste.

"Ah.." He breathed out, momentarily refreshed. He spun the bottle around and examined the label. "All the remedies I know, and not one taste better than this. Huh." He reminisced, passing the bottle back to Orvar and glancing at the Khajit, noting her earlier comment. He grinned.

"We'd never lose another war, I assure you that."