yatta! gonna touch KoL!
Senpai was right about cutting a chap of MtK being problematic…
Mind if I join?
Mind if I join too?
of course not! I NEED war
So 20 minutes?
I’m starting now. But my clock’s a few minutes off so I don’t know when they are in comparison.
Okay I’m starting too
332 words (I stopped a minute early because I finshed the chapter)
wrote to this
“I best not tell anyone that I managed to hold onto my notes for my translation of the Mnoriad Pley Bar,” whispered the poet Gryf Mallon. “They’d probably turn on me.”
Scotti politely declined the opportunity of telling Mallon just how little value he himself placed on the man’s property. Instead, he counted the coins in his purse. Thirty-four gold pieces. Very little indeed for an entrepreneur beginning a new business.
“Hoy!” came a cry from the wood. A small party of Bosmer emerged from the thicket, clan in leather mail and bearing arms. “Friend or foe?”
“Neither,” growled the convoy head.
“You must be the Cyrodiils,” laughed the leader of the group, a tall skeleton-thin youth with a sharp vulpine face. “We heard you were en route. Evidently, so did our enemies.
“I thought the war was over,” muttered one of the caravan’s now ruined merchants.
The Bosmer laughed again: “No act of war. Just a little border enterprise. You are going on to Falinesti?”
“I’m not,” the convoy head shook his head. “As far as I’m concerned, my duty is done. No more horses, no more caravan. Just a fat profit loss for me.”
The men and women crowded around the man, protesting, threatening, begging, but he refused to step foot in Valenwood. If these were the new times of peace, he said, he’d rather come back for the next war.
Scotti tried a different route and approached the Bosmer. He spoke with an authoritative but friendly voice, the kind he used in negotiations with peevish carpenters: “I don’t suppose you’d consider escorting me to Falinesti. I’m a representative for an important agency, the Atrius Building Commission, here to help repair and alleviate some of the problems the war with the Khajiit brought to your province. Patriotism—”
“Twenty gold pieces, and you must carry your own gear if you have any left,” replied the Bosmer.
Scotti reflected that negotiations with peevish carpenters rarely went his way either.
Six eager people had enough gold on them for payment. Among those without funds was the poet, who appealed to Scotti for assistance.
“I’m sorry, Gryf, I only have fourteen gold left over. Not even enough for a decent room when I get to Falinesti. I really would help you if I could,” said Scotti, persuading himself that it was true.
The band of six and their Bosmer escorts began the descent down a rocky path along the bluff. Within an hour’s time, they were deep in the jungles of Valenwood. A never-ending canopy of hues of brown and greens obscured the sky. A millennia’s worth of fallen leaves formed a deep, wormy sea of putrefaction beneath their feet. Several miles were crossed wading through the slime. For several more, they took a labyrinthian path across fallen branches and the low-hanging boughs of giant trees.
All the while, hour after hour, the inexhaustible host moved so fast, the Cyrodiils struggled to keep from being left behind. A red-faced little merchant with short legs took a bad step on a rotten branch and nearly fell. His fellow provincials helped him up. The Bosmer paused only a moment, their eyes continuously darting to the shadows in the trees above before moving on at their expeditious pace.
“What are they so nervous about?” wheezed the merchant irritably. “More Cathay-Raht?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” laughed the Bosmer unconvincingly. “Khajiiti this far into Valenwood? In times of peace? They’d never dare.”
When the group passed high enough above the swamp that the smell was somewhat
177 I had stop to do something a few minutes in.
I woke up with the dull headache this morning. I’d had worse, though.
Alastair had been getting better after what happened last week. He was able to move about the house without tripping or wobbling. He started making his own food again a couple days ago. Not surprisingly, his first was his sister’s special breakfast dish.
That said, I had no clue how he was holding up emotionally. He was either healing or reinforcing his internal walls. They came off the same.
That was actually why I ran my stand today.
I had to get away from him. I had a nearly forgotten nightmare tormenting me. It was awful.
Although seemingly understanding, the townspeople were glad to see me. They must’ve missed my cooking.
A boy who was ten-years-old or so and a woman I assumed was his mom approached my stand. She ordered them ice creams. Actually, I think they were there the day I confronted Alastair to try to treat his wounds.
“How’s Wyatt? Is he here?” the boy asked.
I shook my head. “He’s at home with Honey right now. He’s doing alright.”
There were no customers in sight. Now was a good time to take a break. For whatever I reason, I had to get off my feet. I only had the pesky headache. I didn’t think the two were connected in any way.
“Hey, Cy.” Cole sat across from me and smiled. “You alright, sweetie?”
“A headache. Nothing major.”
He covered his mouth in an attempt to hide his laugh. “You sound just like Wyatt.”
My head ached more. My heart raced. Sweat dripped off my forehead.
Cole put his hand to the back of my forehead. “You don’t have a fever at the very least. It’s just a headache?”
“Yes!” I snapped.
Col jumped up and grabbed a water bottle and napkins. He got the napkins damp and pressed them against my forehead. “Take a deep breath, alright? Getting worked up will only make it worse.”
I would, but my dog fell asleep on my arm so I can’t type properly