Post by Zenios on May 20, 2014 18:36:50 GMT -5
"Thanks," Alistair offered to his Orc companion as Crobuck more or less pulled him out of the basement. His head was whirling at the prospect of having been forced into this... this Coffin Company; he really could have used a moment to sit and think, but thinking while he moved to the docks with the rest of the quote-unquote soldiers would have to do. He didn't have a problem with needing to defend himself, and certainly not with the prospect of killing to do so, but Alistair had essentially been sold out by the Stormcloaks. That didn't sit well with him, not at all, and he had a very clear feeling he was going to have to come calling before too long.
Maybe it was just the blow he'd taken to the cheekbone that was making his head spin; his thoughts, certainly, were relatively clear, and focused in a manner such as they'd not been in years. It was almost refreshing, having a purpose again; even if that purpose was no more than the systematic purge of those responsible for sending him halfway across Skyrim with the expectation that he would die sooner or later, it was something he could appreciate. It certainly lessened the throb in his shoulder, gave him a little motivation as far as avoiding any mortal wounds today.
To that end, it seemed a pair of blades weren't what he would have chosen for a full-on fight such as he assumed would be fast approaching. The leathers would have to do, but a shield would be a great help - and to that end, Alistair supposed the most efficient way of acquiring one would be to take one from an enemy. He didn't see much option; equipment seemed a bit scarce around here, and he was proficient enough with his blades that they'd do until he could find one anyway.
It wouldn't hurt to ask, though, so he approached a younger man clearly hurrying about and making preparations. "Boy," he called, though in truth the young Nord was easily twenty-five and easily half a foot taller than Alistair himself, "Know you of any spare shields lying about? I've a feeling I'm going to need one, and while I could take one, that may be complicated."
To his surprise, the Nord hurried off and returned a moment later with just such a protective device, only to scurry off once Alistair had accepted the shield. It was heavy, heavier than Alistair expected--oak ringed with iron would do that, he supposed--but it would do just finely. "Thank you," he called as he moved towards the dock. In the meantime, he had other things to do to get prepared. The first of those was to draw his weapons, ensure that they weren't stuck in their sheaths.
It was a good thing he remembered as much; Alistair had to yank to draw both sword and dagger, and quickly wiped them off one by one as he walked. The residual water and blood in the sheaths would pose a problem, but at least he had gotten most of it, enough that he felt comfortable returning his weapons to their places.
There may not have been much point, Alistair supposed, considering blood was likely to be flowing by the gallon soon - but at least it made him feel better. As, conveniently, did the spell of healing he elected to cast upon himself. Using magic so liberally--to ease throbbing soreness, not to defend himself from threats unknown or numerous or to save himself from a major wound--made him a little uncomfortable, but tonight had become a night of necessity. He needed to be at his best, not slowed down by an injury he was careless enough to sustain - and since he didn't carry any potions as a matter of preference, Alistair's only real recourse was to transform his Magicka into healing energy.
The effects were immediate; he was still going to be sore as Oblivion tomorrow--only a prolonged casting would prevent that--but at least he had regained much of the range of motion in his shoulder.
Alistair found himself not too far from Crobuck when he reached the docks and finally came to a stop; a pleasant surprise, especially given what he'd seen the Orc do. A powerful ally, one Alistair wanted at his side, and so he sidled up towards his comrade. "You ready?" he grunted more than asked, experimentally hefting the shield to get used to its weight and to test his shoulder. For his part, the Breton was more than prepared for what was to come; he certainly didn't plan to die in a pool of his own blood here today. He had a job to do, after this, and after whatever else came.
Maybe it was just the blow he'd taken to the cheekbone that was making his head spin; his thoughts, certainly, were relatively clear, and focused in a manner such as they'd not been in years. It was almost refreshing, having a purpose again; even if that purpose was no more than the systematic purge of those responsible for sending him halfway across Skyrim with the expectation that he would die sooner or later, it was something he could appreciate. It certainly lessened the throb in his shoulder, gave him a little motivation as far as avoiding any mortal wounds today.
To that end, it seemed a pair of blades weren't what he would have chosen for a full-on fight such as he assumed would be fast approaching. The leathers would have to do, but a shield would be a great help - and to that end, Alistair supposed the most efficient way of acquiring one would be to take one from an enemy. He didn't see much option; equipment seemed a bit scarce around here, and he was proficient enough with his blades that they'd do until he could find one anyway.
It wouldn't hurt to ask, though, so he approached a younger man clearly hurrying about and making preparations. "Boy," he called, though in truth the young Nord was easily twenty-five and easily half a foot taller than Alistair himself, "Know you of any spare shields lying about? I've a feeling I'm going to need one, and while I could take one, that may be complicated."
To his surprise, the Nord hurried off and returned a moment later with just such a protective device, only to scurry off once Alistair had accepted the shield. It was heavy, heavier than Alistair expected--oak ringed with iron would do that, he supposed--but it would do just finely. "Thank you," he called as he moved towards the dock. In the meantime, he had other things to do to get prepared. The first of those was to draw his weapons, ensure that they weren't stuck in their sheaths.
It was a good thing he remembered as much; Alistair had to yank to draw both sword and dagger, and quickly wiped them off one by one as he walked. The residual water and blood in the sheaths would pose a problem, but at least he had gotten most of it, enough that he felt comfortable returning his weapons to their places.
There may not have been much point, Alistair supposed, considering blood was likely to be flowing by the gallon soon - but at least it made him feel better. As, conveniently, did the spell of healing he elected to cast upon himself. Using magic so liberally--to ease throbbing soreness, not to defend himself from threats unknown or numerous or to save himself from a major wound--made him a little uncomfortable, but tonight had become a night of necessity. He needed to be at his best, not slowed down by an injury he was careless enough to sustain - and since he didn't carry any potions as a matter of preference, Alistair's only real recourse was to transform his Magicka into healing energy.
The effects were immediate; he was still going to be sore as Oblivion tomorrow--only a prolonged casting would prevent that--but at least he had regained much of the range of motion in his shoulder.
Alistair found himself not too far from Crobuck when he reached the docks and finally came to a stop; a pleasant surprise, especially given what he'd seen the Orc do. A powerful ally, one Alistair wanted at his side, and so he sidled up towards his comrade. "You ready?" he grunted more than asked, experimentally hefting the shield to get used to its weight and to test his shoulder. For his part, the Breton was more than prepared for what was to come; he certainly didn't plan to die in a pool of his own blood here today. He had a job to do, after this, and after whatever else came.