Some words.
So... here's a bit of Skyrim fanfic... though hopefully it works well for people who haven't played it, or just plain don't play games at all.
Critiques welcome.
Kirrsan at the Inn.
The greatroom was already fairly quiet when the tired Khajiit shoved the door open, but what little conversation there was straggled to a halt as she stepped forward, and shoved the heavy oaken door shut behind her. She paused for a long moment, for two slow breaths, letting the room get a good look at her, as she swept her gaze warily over the few patrons.
It was about what she'd come to expect in a town like Morthal. A paw-full of sturdy men, farmers and workers, all nords by the look of them. There was a bar at the far end of the room. Behind it stood a tired looking woman, also sturdy, also a nord.
Kiirsan shook her head slightly, and stalked through the room, past the crackling warmth of the great firepit. Her nostrils quivered slightly at the scent of meat roasting, and the mutter of conversation rose again. "Got a room?" she wondered, laying a ten-piece on the counter with a sharp click.
"Sure... it's yours for the night," the dark-haired woman agreed as she scooped the coin up. "Here, I'll show you to it." She turned, and walked to one of the open doorways, and gestured in. "You can drop your things there. We've got food for the hungry, drink for the thirsty, if you want."
The Khajiit glanced back over her shoulder, then dumped her pack beside the stout, hard bed. "Sure. Give me a cut of whatever meat that is roasting..." She grunted as she pulled her helm off, and dropped it on the bed, spending a moment to scratch her ears and headfur vigorously. "And a mug of mead."
The woman only nodded, and turned to go. Behind her, Kiirsan saw a youngster who had clearly been sitting behind the bar. He was watching her with wide eyes, at least until he realized she'd seen him, then he turned away sharply, and fussed with some wooden plates.
She snorted, then scratched again, giving brief thought to stripping off the rest of her armor. But that would take time, and the thought of food was just too enticing right now. She settled for setting her bow on the bed, with her helmet alongside it, then stalked back out into the main room, and found a place at the big central table. Conversation had resumed, low and muttery, as Nords tended to do. The woman who seemed to run the place brought her a wide wooden plate with several generously cut slices of bloody meat, and a stoneware mug of mead.
"There's bread, an' cheese, if ya want it."
Kiirsan shook her head. "This'll feed me fine," she said, pulling out a small pouch that she set beside the plate.
She devoured the first two slices of meat in short order. She wasn't entirely sure what SORT of meat it was, but she would wager it was one of the domestic cattle. It lacked the gamey richness of deer and elk, but still... she was a little surprised to find herself licking her chops with nearly half the meat gone. She took a few long drinks from the mead, letting the complex sweetness flow over her tongue... only whetting her desire for a different sort of sweet.
She glanced sideways as the youngster slid onto the side of the bench, his gaze nervous and downcast, but curious. She narrowed her eyes and let her lips peel back slightly, but the flat-faced Nord was oblivous to the clear signal. Not worth it, she thought to herself. He's not even adult, even by their standards. She shook off the annoyance, and instead focused on working the laces on the small pouch, then dusting a finger of the dusky-tan grains out onto the meat.
Moonsugar and meat made for an odd combination, perhaps, but it was one she'd grown fond of... and as the shimmering glow of the narcotic mingled with the shallower fuzziness of the mead, the world seemed a warmer place. She nearly purred as she closed her eyes and savored the last mouthfull, letting the crystals melt against her tongue, the blood adding its own subtle cast to the moment.
"Are you really the Dragonborn?"
The voice dragged her from that blissful brush with lost days, and back into the cold, stinking hardness of now. It took concious effort to resheath her claws, as she blinked her eyes open and turned her gaze on the youngster. "What?" she growled, and felt darkly pleased that he flinched.
It took him a moment to regather his courage. "They say... I mean, I heard the guards... are you really the Dragonborn?" he managed finally.
Her eyes slitted and ears laid back as she regarded him coldly. "Why do you ask," she said carefully, intently aware of other eyes upon her. Must not gut the nordling. Not wise, Kiirsan. Their pelts are soft and thin.
"I thought the Dragon Born would be..."
Her lip quivered upwards, baring her fangs. What? Taller? Bigger? Male? Another big stumbling Nord? Pasty-skinned, furless, bashing things with a big sword and a big hammer? A proper Nord savior for these proper Nord lands?
"... scaley."
She blinked, then coughed out a laugh. "What? Hah! No, boy, no scales on me." She laughed again, chuffing throatily, and realized she couldn't easily recall the last time she'd done so.
The boy's eyes widened. "Then you -are- the dragonborn?" he wondered eagerly, leaning closer.
Grinning wide, she shook her head and waved one hand slightly. "That's what I'm told. The damned Greybeards have done a pretty good job of convincing me, too."
She was amused to see his eyes could go wider still. "You've... -seen- the Greybeards? Climbed the three thousand steps?"
She nodded slightly. "A few times. I don't reccomend it. It's so cold up there, cuts through you like a blade."
He sat silent for a few moments, clearly trying to come to grips with this. She tilted her head back and shook a little moonsugar onto her tongue, and savored the pure taste of it, letting the shimmering warmth wash through her again. So sweet, so rich... and so little left. She hoped Ri'saad's little trading camp would be at Whiterun. That old grey-whisker would have more for her.
"What's... what's it like? Being Dragonborn? Can you fly?"
She grinned again, shaking her head, though doing so made the room swim slightly. Pleasantly, really. Distracting her from the flash of irritation at such a stupid question. "Where do you get these ideas, cub? Do you see any wings on me? No scales, no wings, no flying. No. No flying. I fight, is what I do. I walk these cold, snow-scarred lands and I try to make sense of what the fates seem to have in mind for me. I fight, dredge up some coin and trinkets from the depths, and keep myself alive and warm."
"But... but I've heard songs about the Dragonborn... you can do incredible things! The nine must guide your steps!" He leaned back slightly, his jaw gaping. "Wow. What it must be like..."
She gave a soft snort, her tailtip twitching. "The nine. Your gods are no friends of mine, cub... what's your name, anyway?"
"Oh. I'm Virkmund, son of Thonnir, son of Lorkmir..."
She had half expected him to be distressed by her lack of fondness for their gods, but then... their gods really weren't 'friends', so much as violent, capricious powers to be avoided when possible. "Had you no mothers? No aunts?"
That comment caught the youngster by surprise, and he gaped at her for a long moment, then shook his head slightly. "Uhm... well, yes, my mother's Laelette. Gran died before I was born. Childbirth."
Kiirsan's eyes narrowed slightly. "Then honor her. And honor the one who birthed you."
The boy swallowed with difficulty, but nodded slightly. He was quiet for a short time, then piped up again. "But... what IS it like, being Dragonborn? I heard you killed a dragon, right out near Whiterun! And drove away the one that attacked Helgen! And killed a tenfold of Forsworn!"
She eyed her empty platter thoughtfully, and sighed. Nords. All they ever seemed to care about was their male lineage. And bashing thngs. "Yeah. I did. I don't know so much about Helgen, but I damn sure ended the one outside Whiterun. And the one hunting near Falkreath." She shook her head slightly, then drained her tankard, gulping thirstily at the sweet mead. "Damned Forsworn can all die under ice. Get me another, cub," she demanded, and shoved the tankard toward him.
He stared at her blankly for a moment, before the words fully registered, then he scrambled up and fled several steps away. He paused, then ran back, grabbed up the mug, and ran off. She shook her head absently, then rubbed her shoulder, grimacing. She didn't like the way mead made her gut feel, but it did wonders to dull the aches, something the Moonsugar never really did.
She wasn't quite sure when her eyes had closed, but she blinked them open again as she felt the nord-cub climbing back onto the bench, felt the thud of the refilled mug before her. "Uh," she grunted, giving a slight nod, and took a drink.
"Is it true what they say? That you ate the hearts of the dragons? Tore their spirts right out of their chests?"
She wiped her whiskers on the back of her arm. "Virkmund... have you -seen- a dragon? That heart's the size of a goat. No. Besides, they... they don't die like a normal thing. They.... their flesh peels away. Fades, like fire rippling up off a burning leaf. Nothing left but bones." She paused, remembering. The sight of that massive, majestic creature, arching, roaring... falling to her arrows, writhing and crashing, then going still. Silence all around, but for the roar of spirit swirling, crashing into her, filling her. Teaching her. Gifting her. "Nothing left but bones," she said again, quietly.
The boy sat there, wide-eyed and eager, and silent for once. She grew faintly more aware of the rest of the room... of other ears listening. She pushed the thought, the feeling, away. "What's it like," she said slowly. "It's like ... the world shifts around you, sometimes. Like you're rooted in the heart of Nirn. Like..." She trailed off, and drank slowly, letting her thoughts drift... made fuzzy and distant by the mead, made sharp and otherworld-brilliant by the Moonsugar.
"Ssssometimessss..." she rumbled, slowly, playing with the feel of air over her tongue. "I feel death touch me. See it take those around me. And yet I stand." She reached out a hand, and grasped slowly at the space above her plate. "Sometimes. It's as though... I can see my death. Watch myself fall... and then it's a vanishing memory, as I stand again. Not again... still. Maybe it's your damned gods working through me, I don't know. But it's like they won't -let- me fall." She knew the moment the words were in the air that they were the wrong ones to say.
"Or maybe it's my own damned gods. I don't know. Dragonborn." She shook her head slowly. "I don't know. I get hurt real enough, like anyone. I carry the scars, like anyone. But it's like... sometimes I look a little way into the future. I see... that Dragur, tearing my belly open... and I know to hold back a little further, so it never happens."
"Dragur," the boy whispered, going pale, and the inn became utterly silent.
She twitched an ear, tilting her head slightly. The breath of those around her. The soft sigh of wind in the eaves. The more distant hiss of wind swirling through the trees. The sudden feeling of BEING where she was. Powerfully, fixedly. Like the moments ahead could play out again a hundred times, and the past was... past.
There was an uncomfortable cough, and conversation started again, stumbling. Someone brought out a drum, and after a few uncertain strokes, started thrumming out a familar tune.
"What's it like? My family fled the warm sands of Morrowind when the earth tore apart and the skies tumbled black with ash. I came chasing the rising sun to find adventure, only to get caught up at the border by the guard."
Something inside of her stirred subtly. Like the muddy water seeping back into a pawprint. She drew a deep, slow breath. When the door slammed open, she was the only one in the inn who didn't jump.
"Dragon!" cried the panting road-guard, leaning against the doorframe. "Come in off the east ridge."
"Get my bow, cub," Kiirsan growled, as the men in the tavern scrambled to their feet. He stared at her in disbelief for a moment, then looked to the other Nords as they shouted at each other and the guard. "Now," she added with a darker snarl.
He leapt up and raced across the room. She took another slow draught of her mead, then stood up as the youngster returned. He held her bow in two hands as though it were some kind of serpent, his knuckles pale from the tightness of his grip.
She tugged the little pouch of moonsugar closed, then tucked it into her belt. "It's not going to bite you, cub," she chuckled, stepping away from the table. "Give," she added, reaching to him. He thrust the bow into her hand eagerly, clearly glad to be rid of it. It shimmered subtly as she tucked it against her leg, then leaned hard into it to re-string it. A glimmer of a color no mortal eye could truly see hinted across its surface.
"What... what are you going to do?" Virkmund wondered, moving toward the door, as two of the men charged out through it. She could hear a deep, wild roar echoing across the the land. Challenging.
"What are -you- going to do, cub?" she wondered.
"I'm gonna get my sword, an' fight!" he said proudly.
"Aye, he is! With fine Nord steel!" shouted the clearly drunken man who straggled behind, "Nae dragon yet's bested my blade!"
"No, you're not," she growled fiercely, to the boy. "No dragon's even seen that fool's blade, let alone tasted it. But if he even manages to get out the door, it's more likely to taste his flesh. You stay in here, cub." A sudden wind thundered over the inn, shaking the rafters and rattling the floorboards. A moment later a wild defeaning roar sounded, followed by an anguished scream that cut off with terrible suddeness.
"You stay on the porch and you live. You learn to fight something like this proper, how to live through it." She glanced over as the drunken nord staggered out through the door, brandishing his sword overhead. "You step off that porch while that dragon's alive and I swear I'll send an arrow through your arm to keep you alive. You -watch- me fight, cub. You hear me?" She had no idea why she was saying these things. What did she care about one more damned nord living or dying? One more blunt-toothed face spitting stupid comments about making a rug out of her?
He moved, for a moment, as if to disobey her, shoving the door open, holding it that way, looking yearningly down the road, to where the others were gathering, shouting at the sky and waving their weapons futilly. Then he looked back at her, and bit his lip. "I'll stay here, Dragonborn. And guard the inn!" he added determinedly. Then, "What's your name?"
"Good choice, cub." She pushed past him, stepped down toward the muddy, stony street, and glanced back at him. "Virkmund. I'm Kirrsan. Daughter of Ri'Bassa and Ra'jhera." And then she took off at a run as a gout of flame lit the world toward the edge of town, roaring a challenge toward the sky in a language that sounded so very like the roar of the dragon above.
Critiques welcome.
Kirrsan at the Inn.
The greatroom was already fairly quiet when the tired Khajiit shoved the door open, but what little conversation there was straggled to a halt as she stepped forward, and shoved the heavy oaken door shut behind her. She paused for a long moment, for two slow breaths, letting the room get a good look at her, as she swept her gaze warily over the few patrons.
It was about what she'd come to expect in a town like Morthal. A paw-full of sturdy men, farmers and workers, all nords by the look of them. There was a bar at the far end of the room. Behind it stood a tired looking woman, also sturdy, also a nord.
Kiirsan shook her head slightly, and stalked through the room, past the crackling warmth of the great firepit. Her nostrils quivered slightly at the scent of meat roasting, and the mutter of conversation rose again. "Got a room?" she wondered, laying a ten-piece on the counter with a sharp click.
"Sure... it's yours for the night," the dark-haired woman agreed as she scooped the coin up. "Here, I'll show you to it." She turned, and walked to one of the open doorways, and gestured in. "You can drop your things there. We've got food for the hungry, drink for the thirsty, if you want."
The Khajiit glanced back over her shoulder, then dumped her pack beside the stout, hard bed. "Sure. Give me a cut of whatever meat that is roasting..." She grunted as she pulled her helm off, and dropped it on the bed, spending a moment to scratch her ears and headfur vigorously. "And a mug of mead."
The woman only nodded, and turned to go. Behind her, Kiirsan saw a youngster who had clearly been sitting behind the bar. He was watching her with wide eyes, at least until he realized she'd seen him, then he turned away sharply, and fussed with some wooden plates.
She snorted, then scratched again, giving brief thought to stripping off the rest of her armor. But that would take time, and the thought of food was just too enticing right now. She settled for setting her bow on the bed, with her helmet alongside it, then stalked back out into the main room, and found a place at the big central table. Conversation had resumed, low and muttery, as Nords tended to do. The woman who seemed to run the place brought her a wide wooden plate with several generously cut slices of bloody meat, and a stoneware mug of mead.
"There's bread, an' cheese, if ya want it."
Kiirsan shook her head. "This'll feed me fine," she said, pulling out a small pouch that she set beside the plate.
She devoured the first two slices of meat in short order. She wasn't entirely sure what SORT of meat it was, but she would wager it was one of the domestic cattle. It lacked the gamey richness of deer and elk, but still... she was a little surprised to find herself licking her chops with nearly half the meat gone. She took a few long drinks from the mead, letting the complex sweetness flow over her tongue... only whetting her desire for a different sort of sweet.
She glanced sideways as the youngster slid onto the side of the bench, his gaze nervous and downcast, but curious. She narrowed her eyes and let her lips peel back slightly, but the flat-faced Nord was oblivous to the clear signal. Not worth it, she thought to herself. He's not even adult, even by their standards. She shook off the annoyance, and instead focused on working the laces on the small pouch, then dusting a finger of the dusky-tan grains out onto the meat.
Moonsugar and meat made for an odd combination, perhaps, but it was one she'd grown fond of... and as the shimmering glow of the narcotic mingled with the shallower fuzziness of the mead, the world seemed a warmer place. She nearly purred as she closed her eyes and savored the last mouthfull, letting the crystals melt against her tongue, the blood adding its own subtle cast to the moment.
"Are you really the Dragonborn?"
The voice dragged her from that blissful brush with lost days, and back into the cold, stinking hardness of now. It took concious effort to resheath her claws, as she blinked her eyes open and turned her gaze on the youngster. "What?" she growled, and felt darkly pleased that he flinched.
It took him a moment to regather his courage. "They say... I mean, I heard the guards... are you really the Dragonborn?" he managed finally.
Her eyes slitted and ears laid back as she regarded him coldly. "Why do you ask," she said carefully, intently aware of other eyes upon her. Must not gut the nordling. Not wise, Kiirsan. Their pelts are soft and thin.
"I thought the Dragon Born would be..."
Her lip quivered upwards, baring her fangs. What? Taller? Bigger? Male? Another big stumbling Nord? Pasty-skinned, furless, bashing things with a big sword and a big hammer? A proper Nord savior for these proper Nord lands?
"... scaley."
She blinked, then coughed out a laugh. "What? Hah! No, boy, no scales on me." She laughed again, chuffing throatily, and realized she couldn't easily recall the last time she'd done so.
The boy's eyes widened. "Then you -are- the dragonborn?" he wondered eagerly, leaning closer.
Grinning wide, she shook her head and waved one hand slightly. "That's what I'm told. The damned Greybeards have done a pretty good job of convincing me, too."
She was amused to see his eyes could go wider still. "You've... -seen- the Greybeards? Climbed the three thousand steps?"
She nodded slightly. "A few times. I don't reccomend it. It's so cold up there, cuts through you like a blade."
He sat silent for a few moments, clearly trying to come to grips with this. She tilted her head back and shook a little moonsugar onto her tongue, and savored the pure taste of it, letting the shimmering warmth wash through her again. So sweet, so rich... and so little left. She hoped Ri'saad's little trading camp would be at Whiterun. That old grey-whisker would have more for her.
"What's... what's it like? Being Dragonborn? Can you fly?"
She grinned again, shaking her head, though doing so made the room swim slightly. Pleasantly, really. Distracting her from the flash of irritation at such a stupid question. "Where do you get these ideas, cub? Do you see any wings on me? No scales, no wings, no flying. No. No flying. I fight, is what I do. I walk these cold, snow-scarred lands and I try to make sense of what the fates seem to have in mind for me. I fight, dredge up some coin and trinkets from the depths, and keep myself alive and warm."
"But... but I've heard songs about the Dragonborn... you can do incredible things! The nine must guide your steps!" He leaned back slightly, his jaw gaping. "Wow. What it must be like..."
She gave a soft snort, her tailtip twitching. "The nine. Your gods are no friends of mine, cub... what's your name, anyway?"
"Oh. I'm Virkmund, son of Thonnir, son of Lorkmir..."
She had half expected him to be distressed by her lack of fondness for their gods, but then... their gods really weren't 'friends', so much as violent, capricious powers to be avoided when possible. "Had you no mothers? No aunts?"
That comment caught the youngster by surprise, and he gaped at her for a long moment, then shook his head slightly. "Uhm... well, yes, my mother's Laelette. Gran died before I was born. Childbirth."
Kiirsan's eyes narrowed slightly. "Then honor her. And honor the one who birthed you."
The boy swallowed with difficulty, but nodded slightly. He was quiet for a short time, then piped up again. "But... what IS it like, being Dragonborn? I heard you killed a dragon, right out near Whiterun! And drove away the one that attacked Helgen! And killed a tenfold of Forsworn!"
She eyed her empty platter thoughtfully, and sighed. Nords. All they ever seemed to care about was their male lineage. And bashing thngs. "Yeah. I did. I don't know so much about Helgen, but I damn sure ended the one outside Whiterun. And the one hunting near Falkreath." She shook her head slightly, then drained her tankard, gulping thirstily at the sweet mead. "Damned Forsworn can all die under ice. Get me another, cub," she demanded, and shoved the tankard toward him.
He stared at her blankly for a moment, before the words fully registered, then he scrambled up and fled several steps away. He paused, then ran back, grabbed up the mug, and ran off. She shook her head absently, then rubbed her shoulder, grimacing. She didn't like the way mead made her gut feel, but it did wonders to dull the aches, something the Moonsugar never really did.
She wasn't quite sure when her eyes had closed, but she blinked them open again as she felt the nord-cub climbing back onto the bench, felt the thud of the refilled mug before her. "Uh," she grunted, giving a slight nod, and took a drink.
"Is it true what they say? That you ate the hearts of the dragons? Tore their spirts right out of their chests?"
She wiped her whiskers on the back of her arm. "Virkmund... have you -seen- a dragon? That heart's the size of a goat. No. Besides, they... they don't die like a normal thing. They.... their flesh peels away. Fades, like fire rippling up off a burning leaf. Nothing left but bones." She paused, remembering. The sight of that massive, majestic creature, arching, roaring... falling to her arrows, writhing and crashing, then going still. Silence all around, but for the roar of spirit swirling, crashing into her, filling her. Teaching her. Gifting her. "Nothing left but bones," she said again, quietly.
The boy sat there, wide-eyed and eager, and silent for once. She grew faintly more aware of the rest of the room... of other ears listening. She pushed the thought, the feeling, away. "What's it like," she said slowly. "It's like ... the world shifts around you, sometimes. Like you're rooted in the heart of Nirn. Like..." She trailed off, and drank slowly, letting her thoughts drift... made fuzzy and distant by the mead, made sharp and otherworld-brilliant by the Moonsugar.
"Ssssometimessss..." she rumbled, slowly, playing with the feel of air over her tongue. "I feel death touch me. See it take those around me. And yet I stand." She reached out a hand, and grasped slowly at the space above her plate. "Sometimes. It's as though... I can see my death. Watch myself fall... and then it's a vanishing memory, as I stand again. Not again... still. Maybe it's your damned gods working through me, I don't know. But it's like they won't -let- me fall." She knew the moment the words were in the air that they were the wrong ones to say.
"Or maybe it's my own damned gods. I don't know. Dragonborn." She shook her head slowly. "I don't know. I get hurt real enough, like anyone. I carry the scars, like anyone. But it's like... sometimes I look a little way into the future. I see... that Dragur, tearing my belly open... and I know to hold back a little further, so it never happens."
"Dragur," the boy whispered, going pale, and the inn became utterly silent.
She twitched an ear, tilting her head slightly. The breath of those around her. The soft sigh of wind in the eaves. The more distant hiss of wind swirling through the trees. The sudden feeling of BEING where she was. Powerfully, fixedly. Like the moments ahead could play out again a hundred times, and the past was... past.
There was an uncomfortable cough, and conversation started again, stumbling. Someone brought out a drum, and after a few uncertain strokes, started thrumming out a familar tune.
"What's it like? My family fled the warm sands of Morrowind when the earth tore apart and the skies tumbled black with ash. I came chasing the rising sun to find adventure, only to get caught up at the border by the guard."
Something inside of her stirred subtly. Like the muddy water seeping back into a pawprint. She drew a deep, slow breath. When the door slammed open, she was the only one in the inn who didn't jump.
"Dragon!" cried the panting road-guard, leaning against the doorframe. "Come in off the east ridge."
"Get my bow, cub," Kiirsan growled, as the men in the tavern scrambled to their feet. He stared at her in disbelief for a moment, then looked to the other Nords as they shouted at each other and the guard. "Now," she added with a darker snarl.
He leapt up and raced across the room. She took another slow draught of her mead, then stood up as the youngster returned. He held her bow in two hands as though it were some kind of serpent, his knuckles pale from the tightness of his grip.
She tugged the little pouch of moonsugar closed, then tucked it into her belt. "It's not going to bite you, cub," she chuckled, stepping away from the table. "Give," she added, reaching to him. He thrust the bow into her hand eagerly, clearly glad to be rid of it. It shimmered subtly as she tucked it against her leg, then leaned hard into it to re-string it. A glimmer of a color no mortal eye could truly see hinted across its surface.
"What... what are you going to do?" Virkmund wondered, moving toward the door, as two of the men charged out through it. She could hear a deep, wild roar echoing across the the land. Challenging.
"What are -you- going to do, cub?" she wondered.
"I'm gonna get my sword, an' fight!" he said proudly.
"Aye, he is! With fine Nord steel!" shouted the clearly drunken man who straggled behind, "Nae dragon yet's bested my blade!"
"No, you're not," she growled fiercely, to the boy. "No dragon's even seen that fool's blade, let alone tasted it. But if he even manages to get out the door, it's more likely to taste his flesh. You stay in here, cub." A sudden wind thundered over the inn, shaking the rafters and rattling the floorboards. A moment later a wild defeaning roar sounded, followed by an anguished scream that cut off with terrible suddeness.
"You stay on the porch and you live. You learn to fight something like this proper, how to live through it." She glanced over as the drunken nord staggered out through the door, brandishing his sword overhead. "You step off that porch while that dragon's alive and I swear I'll send an arrow through your arm to keep you alive. You -watch- me fight, cub. You hear me?" She had no idea why she was saying these things. What did she care about one more damned nord living or dying? One more blunt-toothed face spitting stupid comments about making a rug out of her?
He moved, for a moment, as if to disobey her, shoving the door open, holding it that way, looking yearningly down the road, to where the others were gathering, shouting at the sky and waving their weapons futilly. Then he looked back at her, and bit his lip. "I'll stay here, Dragonborn. And guard the inn!" he added determinedly. Then, "What's your name?"
"Good choice, cub." She pushed past him, stepped down toward the muddy, stony street, and glanced back at him. "Virkmund. I'm Kirrsan. Daughter of Ri'Bassa and Ra'jhera." And then she took off at a run as a gout of flame lit the world toward the edge of town, roaring a challenge toward the sky in a language that sounded so very like the roar of the dragon above.