Post by DRIFA SNOW-PROUD . on Dec 22, 2012 6:30:19 GMT -8
some things you have to believe
others are puzzles, puzzling me
[/font] [/div]TAG: Ardan! Words: 690
ONE LAST THING: She mad.
ONE LAST THING: She mad.
Drifa could genuinely not imagine what could compel a Stormcloak ship, in this time of war, to carry supplies for a useless place like the College of Winterhold instead of explicitly supporting the troops and cities that needed their own supplies. Someone was going to have an earful today, and her boots carried her briskly through the slick snow near the college to carry her to that someone.
Admittedly, neither Stormcloaks nor Imperials painted the snow of Winterhold with their blood on more than a very rare occasion. It was almost exciting news to some of the populace, who had little else to stimulate them, to hear that there had been a skirmish or raid in their hold. But those supplies that Winterhold did not need for her Stormcloaks could be carried to the various fronts of the war, such as the nearby Pale or the south of Whiterun Hold or the troops pressing further west. None of them deserved to go to a useless college full of mages that cared not about Skyrim or anyone living in it. Drifa hoped that once this war was one by the Stormcloaks – and it would be, she prayed – that then-King Ulfric would turn his eyes to these mages and see that they were essentially as bad as the Thalmor, if not worse. At least the Thalmor covered up their detestable actions with their parties and decorum instead of hiding like hermits.
The ship’s captain even had the audacity to bring his ship to rest closer to the college than to the town. Whether the ship anchored where it currently sat for convenience in avoiding Winterhold’s mighty snow-drifts or icy peaks didn’t particularly matter to Drifa. Seeing the ship so near to the college – apparently preparing to carry its supplies up the side of the slopes that she was currently attempting not to slide down – deepened her look of displeasure. She hoped the captain and his sailors would notice it as she stepped up to them, loosening her cloak from her shoulders slightly to keep it from covering her mouth as she spoke to them. ”Which of you is the captain?”, she asked over the whirling wind, and several of the nearest men, all buzzing like bees around their crates, regarded her in varying and discomforting ways before the more civil-looking among them nodded to a man standing towards the back and speaking to a woman who wore the same sort of odd cape that he did. Drifa set him in her crosshairs and didn’t let her gaze leave him as she picked her way through the crates to approach him.
She made sure her footsteps made especially loud sounds against the crunching ice as she approached him, near the shore as he was, and settled in off of his shoulder. The woman made eye contact with her and motioned the captain in Drifa’s direction. The face that turned to her was that of one of those sailors – a man who felt immensely self-important because he owned a ship and was convinced every female within miles wanted to enjoy a ride with him. His enthusiasm at seeing a woman standing beside him dampened when he noticed Drifa’s expression, and he waved off the female. ”Ah, yes, lass, can I help you in some way?” Immediately, Drifa tore into her complaint, raising a hand in the direction of the crates behind her. ”Captain, I have to question the sense behind bringing a mage’s college supplies in the middle of a war. The mages can hire their own ships for their supplies; the Stormcloaks don’t need their captains wasting decent space on their ships to hold crates filled with pixie dust and rare elk feces. Men and women in camp need food and blankets, while the mages sit back comfortably in their college. I don’t see why they should take precedence.” Her gaze pressed into him as she finished. The man stood staring at her, flabbergasted, for a few seconds. Drifa started to think that she’d done her job just with that little spat. If so, she was set to be Steward immediately, wasn’t she?
Admittedly, neither Stormcloaks nor Imperials painted the snow of Winterhold with their blood on more than a very rare occasion. It was almost exciting news to some of the populace, who had little else to stimulate them, to hear that there had been a skirmish or raid in their hold. But those supplies that Winterhold did not need for her Stormcloaks could be carried to the various fronts of the war, such as the nearby Pale or the south of Whiterun Hold or the troops pressing further west. None of them deserved to go to a useless college full of mages that cared not about Skyrim or anyone living in it. Drifa hoped that once this war was one by the Stormcloaks – and it would be, she prayed – that then-King Ulfric would turn his eyes to these mages and see that they were essentially as bad as the Thalmor, if not worse. At least the Thalmor covered up their detestable actions with their parties and decorum instead of hiding like hermits.
The ship’s captain even had the audacity to bring his ship to rest closer to the college than to the town. Whether the ship anchored where it currently sat for convenience in avoiding Winterhold’s mighty snow-drifts or icy peaks didn’t particularly matter to Drifa. Seeing the ship so near to the college – apparently preparing to carry its supplies up the side of the slopes that she was currently attempting not to slide down – deepened her look of displeasure. She hoped the captain and his sailors would notice it as she stepped up to them, loosening her cloak from her shoulders slightly to keep it from covering her mouth as she spoke to them. ”Which of you is the captain?”, she asked over the whirling wind, and several of the nearest men, all buzzing like bees around their crates, regarded her in varying and discomforting ways before the more civil-looking among them nodded to a man standing towards the back and speaking to a woman who wore the same sort of odd cape that he did. Drifa set him in her crosshairs and didn’t let her gaze leave him as she picked her way through the crates to approach him.
She made sure her footsteps made especially loud sounds against the crunching ice as she approached him, near the shore as he was, and settled in off of his shoulder. The woman made eye contact with her and motioned the captain in Drifa’s direction. The face that turned to her was that of one of those sailors – a man who felt immensely self-important because he owned a ship and was convinced every female within miles wanted to enjoy a ride with him. His enthusiasm at seeing a woman standing beside him dampened when he noticed Drifa’s expression, and he waved off the female. ”Ah, yes, lass, can I help you in some way?” Immediately, Drifa tore into her complaint, raising a hand in the direction of the crates behind her. ”Captain, I have to question the sense behind bringing a mage’s college supplies in the middle of a war. The mages can hire their own ships for their supplies; the Stormcloaks don’t need their captains wasting decent space on their ships to hold crates filled with pixie dust and rare elk feces. Men and women in camp need food and blankets, while the mages sit back comfortably in their college. I don’t see why they should take precedence.” Her gaze pressed into him as she finished. The man stood staring at her, flabbergasted, for a few seconds. Drifa started to think that she’d done her job just with that little spat. If so, she was set to be Steward immediately, wasn’t she?
with all that noise, and all that sound
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