Chapter Text
Elves' Ear: A type of herbaceous leaf often used in cooking. When refined alchemically it can restore magicka, but it leaves the consumer weak to magic in turn.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Some people might have been driven to madness by the noise, the unceasing echo of water splattering against the century-old stonework.
For Leahan, it was the only thing keeping her sane.
To the young witch, the dripping was a reminder of two things, notions that she clung to in the face of what looked like her death. The first reminder was the existence of the world outside her cell. After several days, the cramped quarters had left her body screaming for something, anything to remind her of the sky. Rainwater dripping in through the cracks of the old half-abandoned Imperial prison wasn't much in the way of enrichment, but it still scratched that primal itch.
The second reminder was that for all the Thalmor preened and crowed about their beauty and power and perfection, the best they could do against the swamp witch of Hjaalmarch was to dump her in some rotting tower thick with the stench of mildew.
Rot. The domain of her god, not any of theirs. And after she'd buried so many of them, too.
By all rights, the Thalmor could have just killed her as soon as they caught her. In a first for the Dominion, it may have ever qualified as a fair execution; after all, she had killed multiple patrols from Solitude that had passed through the swamps of northwestern Skyrim. What's more, she had buried them in her garden as fertilizer, a deliberate thumbing of the nose towards the Aldmeri disdain towards mortality. Few would have missed her if they'd simply cut her through and left her corpse to the mists.
But they didn't. Perhaps the Thalmor believed she would find too much perverse joy in being left to feed the swamp. Or, perhaps, they simply wanted her to suffer the agony of starving to death. Whatever their intent, they'd spared her life upon apprehension, slapped a pair of magicka-draining shackles on her, and carted her all the way out to a ruined prison in Eastmarch of all places. Once there, they'd tossed her in the most out-of-the-way-cell they could and left her to waste without a second thought.
Drip.
Drip.
“Grrngh!”
“Just give me what I asked for, you obstinate cur—”
Of course, part of that may have been because the Thalmor had higher priorities on their Heretic Torture List.
Leahan had only caught a glimpse of the second prisoner once, back when she had first been brought in. She hadn't seen much of him, just dark hair and a large frame mottled with bruises, but she'd heard plenty during the Thalmor's interrogations. Mostly cursing and wordless grunts of paint. At first, she'd assumed that he was a Talos worshiper from Windhelm brought here to be "converted," but the more she'd been forced to listen to, to more she realized that wasn't it. Oh, he swore to Talos, right and good, but the Thalmor never seemed to care about that part overly much.
No, they were torturing him over some sword, of all things. Leahan couldn't imagine a sword that was worth anyone's attention that much. Perhaps it was shat out by Lorkh himself, and that's why they hated it so much – Dominion folk were weird about Lorkh, she'd come to learn. Or maybe it was just specially enchanted to set Thalmor agents on fire.
“Grrgh-rr-agghk—”
Planes, that poor man. Leahan may have been starving to death, but she'd pick that death a thousand times over having the Thalmor's personal attention.
"This could all be over quickly, you know." By nature and faith alike, she wasn't a squeamish woman, but something about the justiciar's voice made Leahan's skin crawl. The lilting singsong of his sentences as he carved open a man's flesh... For those who reviled the Daedra so, the Thalmor always felt too similar to the Princes at their worst. "All you have to" —another grunt of pain— "is tell us from whom you got that sword and why, and we can end this swiftly. I'll even make it painless. Doesn't that sound nice, human?"
"Fuck you." The man's voice was heavy with pain, his already thick accent rendered nearly incomprehensible, but the spite was unmistakable. He wasn't withholding information because it was secret or dangerous. He was withholding it because the Thalmor wanted it, and spitting in the Thalmor's face was as good of a reason to do anything.
“Hm.” The sneer in the Thalmor's voice was equally unmistakable. “The hard way it is, then. Don't say I didn't give you a choice.”
The air began to crackle with a familiar sensation, and Lea's mouth was flooded with the taste of a dry thunderstorm. Even with her senses dulled by the manacles, she knew magicka when she felt it. Damn it all, she couldn't just sit there and let the man be electrocuted.
A quick glance around her cell gave her a potential solution: a small ceramic bowl at the foot of her bed. She hadn't paid it much mind before; it had been empty since she'd been brought in, after all. She grabbed it and flung it against the wall as hard as she could. It clattered, not broke — she didn't have the strength left to break it — against the far wall of her cell.
Just like that, the magicka in the air vanished. “What was that?” the Thalmor snapped.
“Ohhh, nothing at all, messire.” Leahan's voice surprised even herself with how dry and raspy it was. She hadn't had much need to speak since she was locked up. Pushing herself away from the wall she'd been slumped against, she hobbled towards her door. “Just a humble 'eretic looking to spread the teachings of the good cult of go fuck yourself.”
The sigh the Thalmor gave in response was drawn-out, long-suffering, and delicious. "We're not finished," he snapped, undoubtedly to the other prisoner, before marching into view. His black, gold-trimmed robes were immaculately pressed and contained only the barest hint of wear and grime from their time in the dungeon, and the hood did an excellent job of hiding the barely-concealed disgust on his face. From a distance, he looked like a beacon of composure and power, just how the Thalmor enjoyed being viewed. At his hip dangled a small key ring, and as Leahan's spotted it, a mad fungus of an idea began to take root in her mind and spread.
It would get her killed. But so would staying and waiting for Namira to claim her.
As the Thalmor approached, Leahan propped her forearms up against the bars of her door, giving him her most wicked, predatory grin. "What's the matter, messire?" she drawled. "Your Aldmeri might not crumblin' all those who stand in your way? Skyrim not lickin' your boots fast enough? You know, y'might have an easier time makin' the local populace kneel to you if you weren't all a pack o' reedy daffodi–hrk!”
She was cut off mid-taunt when the Thalmor's hand shot through the cell door bars and closed around the front of her shirt, pulling her close enough to see the glowing fury in his orange-yellow eyes. “Listen here, heretic." He spat the word as though describing something unpleasant he found on his boot. Jokes on 'im, that's a compliment. “The only reason my men didn't chop off your head the minute they caught you is because we didn't want to give you the satisfaction of the same fate you inflicted on so many of our own.” Ah, so that was the reason why. “But that doesn't mean we don't have ways of making your prolonged execution particularly... unpleasant.”
To emphasize his point, a spark of magicka crackled across her fingers, and Leahan hissed and pulled her head back at the painful sensation. She gritted her teeth against it – hope was dangling in front of her like a lure on a hook, and she wasn't about to let this bastard yank it away at the last second. “Och, I've tasted what Thalmor think 'magic' is. Ain't nothin' but a tickle.”
The justiciar's eyes narrowed slightly. For the briefest moment, the air was alive with magicka. It was the only warning Leahan got before the sharp, numbing pain of lightning coursed through her. “Bloody–” She fought back the expletive, ground her teeth together to keep the traitorous words from slipping through her lips, but the satisfied quirk of the justiciar's lips told her it was too late. He'd gotten what he wanted.
No matter. So had she.
The justiciar didn't put her down so much as he simply loosened his hand and let her fall. The floor rushed to meet her, and it took whatever strength she had left to keep herself from collapsing entirely. "Do not take this as a sign of capitulation, human," he said as he turned, cloak sweeping behind him as he began to walk away. "It is a dismissal.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Leahan spat at his back. He didn't respond. Bastard.
It hurt to move; without the natural resistances her magicka provided, that lightning spell did a number on her, and she hadn't been in the best shape before that. Still, she dragged herself across the floor until she could prop herself against the nearest wall, fists still clenched tight enough to bleed. She let her rest fall back against the stonework and let herself count her victories. She'd pissed off a Thalmor – always a win. She couldn't hear the sounds of torture anymore, which means that she'd annoyed him enough that he'd stormed off entirely rather than return to his work. Her comrade in chains had a bit of relief, at least for the time being. And she—
She turned over her left fist and unclenched it, revealing the tiny key within, a single small sapphire in its bow marking it as the key to a magical lock.
Well. Leahan was no pickpocket, but it was amazing what a person could accomplish with their life on the line.
“Hey.”
Leahan about near jumped out of her skin.
The voice continued. “Are you all right in there?”
Leahan choked out a laugh when she realized who was speaking. “Yer askin' if I'm all right? Sounded like he was flayin' you alive in there.” She sighed. “Yeh, I'm fine. Tickled more than I thought it would, but I reckon they're too busy tryin' to starve me to really fry me.”
A pained chuckle echoed from the other cell. “Well, you didn't have to do that, but I can't say I'm not grateful that you did.” A pause. “Thank you.”
“Didn't do it because I thought I had to,” Leahan replied honestly. “Did it because I wanted to. Among other reasons.” She started fumbling with the key in her hands, struggling to find the lock on her manacles. If she'd gone through all this trouble just to end up grabbing the key to the justiciar's lockbox full of secret Lusty Argonian Maid copies or the like, she was going to have a right fit about it. Come on, come on... there it is! She took a deep breath. Namira, have pity on your wretched child.
The key slid into the lock perfectly, and the manacles fell from her wrists and into her lap.
It was like a weight she hadn't even known was there had been lifted from her shoulders. Magicka trickled into her lungs with every breath like the sweetest air, and the lingering pains from the shock spell evaporated. For a brief, blissful eternity, Leahan felt like herself again.
“Ey, swordsman,” she croaked once the feeling wore off. “You got a name?”
There was a moment of silence before he responded. “Kaidan... my name is Kaidan.”
“Kaidan.” Leahan rubbed at her wrists. It would take a while for her magicka to fully return to her after having been suppressed for so long. If she wanted to get out of here, she would need to be patient. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Kaidan. Name's Leahan. Say, think you can do me a favor? I'll repay it in kind, promise.”
Kaidan gave a weak chuckle in response. “Not much I can do for you at the moment.”
Right; he'd been chained to the wall when she saw him on her way in. “Ain't askin' for anything involvin' movement, promise. Just... stay alive until nightfall, aye?”
She heard a deep, shuddering breath. “Aye,” Kaidan said. “Aye, I can manage that.”
With night came the flooding.
Outside, the storm had gotten worse. Leahan could hear the whistling of the wind through the cracks in the walls, punctuated by frequent, deafening peals of thunder. Freezing water had begun to pool across the floor of her cell, driving her to seek refuge on top of a small table. Thankfully, she knew that Kaidan's cell was higher up than hers, so neither of them were in any severe danger of drowning or losing a toe to the frigid waters.
She would have to make a move quickly, though. She had heard the justiciar speaking to the guard earlier — evidently, whatever was keeping them there wasn't enough to weather a flood, and they were planning on abandoning the tower soon. Whether they were planning on taking Kaidan with them or leaving him to starve with her, Leahan didn't know, and she wasn't going to give them the chance to do either. She'd promised she'd repay a favor, and judging by the heavy breathing coming from the other cell, he'd kept up his end of the bargain and lived.
She'd have to make her move now.
The chill of the water bit at her toes as she dropped down off the table. Every sudden movement triggered a wave of painful nausea in the pit of her stomach, but she pushed on. As she reached the cell door, she saw the cell guard at the far end of the hall, his gilded armor gleaming in the light of a dying torch. She idly wondered what would happen if a Thalmor were ever in a position where they were forced to rely on stealth. With armor like that, they'd be spotted by an archer from a mile off. “Oi.”
The guard's face was already twisted into a disdainful sneer when he turned to look at her. “Come to beg for your life, worm?”
“Nah.” Leahan took a deep breath, focused her magicka, and flashed her unshackled wrists at him. “Just lost something. Was hopin' you could help me find it.”
His eyes widened in shock. “You slek–” He drew his sword and marched down the hall.
Bad choice for him, aye.
While she'd grown up in the marshes of Hjaalmarch, Leahan was Reachfolk in both her ancestry and her upbringing. She shared the magical resistances of her Bretonic cousins, along with their affinity for manipulating the underlying fabrics. That affinity had been honed by her mother's training into a razor edge, a knack for cold and death that was unmatched by the average hedge wizard. Part of that training had been her mother's stern and repeated emphasis that magicka was to be cast, not simply unleashed, lest Leahan court explosive consequences.
Of course, if “explosive consequences” were what a mage sought...
Kr-krrrshhh!
After three days of having her magic repressed, it felt fucking good to feel the power coursing through her veins.
It felt better to watch the cell door get ripped off its hinges and flung into the guard's face by the sheer force of her will, sending them both flying and landing on the far side of the hall with a sickening crunch. The effort of pushing most of her recently-replenished magicka out like that was enough to leave Leahan reeling as she stumbled out of her cell, and the numbing chill of the floodwater wasn't helping. But she knew that adrenaline would only carry her so far, and she didn't intend on dropping until she was free.
Until they were both free.
Kaidan's cell was just around the corner, and a keyring on a small table outside the cell door made the matter of actually getting it open rather simple. "That's convenient," she muttered as she pushed open the door. "Still with me, swordsman?"
Now that they were face to face and not separated by distance, iron or stone, she could get a better look at him. To her surprise, he didn't look like a Nord; based on his stature, she'd expected him to be one of "Skyrim's sons." Though... he didn't look like an Imperial or a Breton or a Redguard, either. Pale skin, marked across the contours of his face by a deep red tattoo, straight black hair tied into a half-bun, and a pair of brilliant crimson eyes. It was the eyes that startled her the most – she knew that some of her Reach kin sported red eyes, but she'd never seen any in person, and he was far too big to be a Reachman in any case. They might not have been fully Bretonic, but that High Rock height was pervasive even for them.
He was also a mess, a mottled canvas of bruises and half-healed cuts that set Leahan's stomach roiling with pity. “Shit,” she hissed, rushing towards the shackles keeping him bound to the wall. “Thousand planes of Oblivion, swordsman, how'd this even end up happenin' to you?”
“The Thalmor invited me to high tea, what do you think?” After a few tense moments. Kaidan sighed wearily and tipped his head back against the wall. “I dunno... some justiciars ambushed me outside of Falkreath.”
Leahan had managed to get one of the locks open while he was talking, quickly moving on to the second one. "Because of your sword? You sure you didn't accidentally spill your drink on one of them in a tavern or somethin', because I can't imagine going through the effort of trackin' you through the woods over a hunk of stee–"
The words died in her throat when she freed Kaidan from his shackles and let him fall to his knees on the floor, and she got a good look at his back for the first time. Whatever they'd done to his chest, they'd done to his back a hundred times worse — what had to have been dozens of weeping wounds crisscrossed each other, and it was impossible to tell which of his injuries were fresh and which had been reopened by the strain of moving. Even being chained to the wall, back pressed against the stone, must have been its own form of torture. "Planes," Leahan whispered. "They really were flaying you.”
Kaidan let out a humorless chuckle. “That bad, huh?” he asked.
“Looks about as bad as it probably feels.” Just one more reason to hate the Thalmor. As if she needed more. Leahan knelt down next to him and pressed her hand right above his heart, where his pulse was the strongest. She felt him inhale sharply at the contact. "Easy. Just makin' sure you don't bleed out before you see sunlight again." She focused on the loose remains of her magicka and channeled them into the most potent healing spell she could muster. Beneath her touch, the bruises across his skin began to fade, and she could see the cuts knit themselves close.
Kaidan regarded her with a mix of wariness and awe across his face. “You're a healer, as well? That's a rare talent.”
“Not so rare, I'd think,” Leahan murmured. “Just need to know where to look for it.” She pulled her hand back and checked her handiwork. “Didn't have enough in me to keep this from scarrin' something fierce, but I can keep you from bleedin' out where you're sittin'.”
“Eh, I can live with a few scars.” Kaidan pulled himself to his feet, rolling his shoulders. “Gods, it feels good to be able to move again.” He peered down at Leahan, who hadn't moved to stand. “Are you alright down there?”
To be honest, she wasn't. True to her expectations, the rush of escaping her cell was beginning to wear off, and her strength was starting to crumble. Every muscle in her body was screaming at her for putting it through its paces in her current state. "Been worse, but... I've licking rainwater off the walls for three days, swordsman," Leahan muttered. "I'm basically being held together by magicka and spite right now, and without any Thalmor to toss around, spite's a bit lackin'.” She moved to stand up, only to be knocked back down by a wave of painful nausea. “Pissin' shit.”
Immediately she felt a pair of hands wrap themselves around her arms as Kaidan helped her get to her feet. His grip was... gentler than she expected from someone of his general size. "There you go," he said. "Can you stand now?"
Gods, she must have looked just as much of a mess to him as he had to her. Leahan had never been a put-together young woman in the first place; her light brown, freckled skin had always been smeared with dirt and residue from scratching at her nose or wiping the sweat off her brow during a long day of gardening or alchemy, and the omnipresent circles under her olive eyes always gave off the impression of exhaustion no matter how many hours in the day she slept. She usually did manage to take better care of her hair — loose, dark curls, with a single braid near her temple — but her incarceration didn't leave a whole lot of options in the way of bathing.
Still, she was breathing and on her feet. That was more than enough for her — leave being put together to the elves. "Yeah. Need to get out of here as soon as possible, though. Don't fancy our odds 'gainst the floodwater if the walls start fallin' apart." She moved to leave, only to be stopped when Kaidan's grip around her arms tightened slightly, gentle enough not to hurt but iron enough to keep her pinned. "What is it?"
Kaidan's gaze was locked on the other side of the cell, where another hallway led towards a set of stairs leading out of sight. "Look, I know that I've no right to ask this," he began. "I wouldn't even be standing if it weren't for you. But I need to get my sword back; the justiciar took it up there with him when they brought it in."
“Your— is it really that important?" Leahan said. She was reasonably sure that her robes were up there, too, if that was where the Thalmor took the stuff they'd confiscated. But she wasn't willing to drown over it.
"This isn't me being sentimental," Kaidan retorted. "They kept asking about it. If it's important to them, they shouldn't have it." He finally let go of her. "There's no way he didn't hear the noise when you crushed that other Thalmor. If he hasn't come down to stop us yet, it's because he doesn't think he can."
“Or because there's another entrance up there,” Leahan pointed out.
“Maybe, aye,” Kaidan said. “But with luck, he's cornered like a rat.”
Leahan looked over to where the other Thalmor had crumpled beneath the broken cell door. She didn't have enough magicka to pierce whatever arcane defenses the justiciar no doubt had up his sleeves directly, and she didn't fancy her odds in close combat, not without her poisons. But... she did have a couple tricks left, and with Kaidan's help...
And gods, wouldn't it be nice to see the look on that justiciar's face when she reminded him just how mortal he was?
Leahan pushed herself out of the cell towards the guard's corpse. Kaidan watched her, brows creasing together in confusion. “Where are you going?” he asked.
"Getting you armed," Leahan replied. "I've got an idea for how to incapacitate 'im, but I'll need your help with the actual killin'." Getting closer to the body, she was able to more closely inspect her handiwork from that explosion of magicka earlier. The guard's limbs were bent at odd angles, and the crooked bump in his neck suggested that he'd died a mercifully quick death upon being struck. Pity. “And while I don't doubt you could beat that justiciar to death with your bare hands...” She knelt down and unbuckled the ornate sword from his belt. “I reckon you'll have an easier time cutting his throat than breaking it, aye?” She turned around and held the blade out towards him.
Realization crossed Kaidan's face as her words sank in. “Aye,” he said, “reckon that would be easier.”
Leahan could tell when she explained her plan that Kaidan wasn't entirely on board with it. She couldn't tell if that was from some general distrust of magic or if he just didn't want to trust his odds of survival to one half-starved witch in rag's likelihood of facing off against a Thalmor justiciar alone. Still, he seemed to recognize that it was their best chance at success, and agreed to linger at the foot of the stairs as Leahan slowly crept up.
As she reached the upper landing, she could hear the justiciar mumbling to himself. Least that means he hasn't escaped through some hidden second door. S'good. “–that buffoon Mithilar is almost certainly dead. It's hard to believe that this is a 'high-priority matter' when they assign me soldiers like that reckless idiot. Ugh, no matter. I'll still have the sword, even if I won't have the actual prisoner. That will have to be enough for–"
Leahan whistled.
“Huh?” The justiciar whipped around to face her. His eyes narrowed. “You.”
Leahan was ready for the bolt of lightning this time. Power wove through her skin, protecting, absorbing the magicka radiating off the spell as it struck her and making it her own. A little gift from her High Rock ancestors, and enough to give her the energy she needed to turn that stolen magic into a proper healing spell. Regenerated by the justiciar's attack, she closed the gap between them in an instant and pressed the heel of her palm against the center of his ribs. She took a deep breath, stared into his wide olivine eyes, and called upon the stars she'd been born under.
His body froze up, face locking into that twisted mask between shock and pain as the poison took hold. Leahan immediately ducked under his outstretched arm and slammed into him from behind to send him tumbling down the stairs. “Kaidan!” If he hadn't been killed by something vital breaking in the fall, the giant pissed-off man with a sword at the bottom landing would do the job.
Sure enough, she heard the familiar shnk of a blade piercing flesh, and when Kaidan stumbled into view, the shortblade in his hand was stained with blood. "Son of a bitch had it coming," he spat. "You okay? I could taste the magicka in the air from that spell."
Leahan rolled her shoulders. “The best part about huntin' Thalmor is that you get good at turnin' their tricks against them,” she said. “Gods, fucker better have had some food up here.” She cast a glance around the small room; likely some sort of warden's office, back when it'd been in use by the Empire. She didn't see any food — fucker — but what she did see was more than enough to catch her eye: a long, thin blade in a black scabbard, laid out on a worn-out desk. “Oi, swordsman!” she exclaimed, staggering over to the sword and picking it up. “This what you were looking for?”
Kaidan's gaze tracked her movements, and he immediately lit up upon seeing the sword. “Aye, that's it!” he said as he cast the elvish blade aside. He watched as Leahan drew it a few inches from its scabbard and examined the blade, the corners of his mouth quirking up into an amused grin. “Mind you don't cut yourself on that. That blade's almost as big as you are.”
Leahan shot him an unamused glare. “Och, laugh it up.” The blade was... pretty, she supposed. She had no eye for smithing, but it didn't look visibly rusted or chipped, so she reckoned that was a good sign. The runes carved into the blade, a blend of dots and lines, stuck out to her. Leahan didn't recognize the letters at all, but something about them still seemed... familiar, like a word trapped on the tip of her tongue but refusing to form itself at her lips. Unsettled, she slid the blade back into its scabbard, muttering, "What's so special about it?"
"The question on everyone's mind," Kaidan replied, "even mine." He reached out and gently took it from her hands, running his thumb across the soft leather wrappings of the hilt. There was something dark and solemn about the expression in his crimson eyes. "The sword belonged to my mother. I never knew her, but it's my only real clue to finding out who she was." He looked up from the sword to meet Leahan's gaze. "Listen, I owe you my life. I know you could have walked out of here without giving me a second thought, but you didn't, and I'm not a man who's comfortable being in debt. If you have need of me, I'd be glad to fight alongside you 'til that debt is repaid.”
Leahan's eyebrows shot upwards. “Well now,” she murmured. “That is certainly a temptin' offer.”
She knew where she stood at the moment. A Reachfolk witch, ripped from her home and carted halfway across the nation into the hold ruled by the very same man who her mother had told her bloody horror stories of? And what's worse, the staff that she'd relied on so much was gone, having been left in pieces in the swamp after being crushed beneath a Thalmor boot. Having someone larger to hide behind in the event of a bandit ambush or even just some prejudiced Nord would make things a lot easier for her in regards to certain matters.
And more complicated in others. Namely, the regards where Leahan worshiped one of the... less-broadly-understood Daedric princes. If he found out about that, he might not care overly much about his perceived debts.
Still... Eastmarch. And the Stormcloaks. They'd judge her whether she worshiped Daedra or not. Leahan would rather have the one she had to hide parts of herself from over the ones who didn't care to know any part of her before passing judgment.
“Well, then, swordsman,” she said, dragging herself back to the present moment. “In that case, hows 'bout we start this partnership by lookin' for something a bit heavier to wear before the lower levels flood entirely? I ain't goin' out in that storm in rags, and you...” She gestured to his bare chest. “You need a shirt." Not that she minded the view. But Skyrim's rains were cold, and she wasn't losing her knew bodyguard two seconds after getting him.
Kaidan nodded. “Aye, I was hoping I'd have a chance to look for my armor. It's been like a second skin to me for years now.”
They found their gear in a nearby chest: Kaidan's armor and war-bow, and Leahan's old robes and scarf. Something about holding the scarf, the knitted black wool bunched in her hand, made Leahan feel a bit more at ease. Impulsively, she leaned down and pressed her face against it, taking in a big sniff. The lingering smell of deathbell and bog water flooded her senses, and for that one moment, she was standing in the front entrance of her cottage, looking out at the early morning mists settling over her garden.
She looked up to see Kaidan, half-dressed, giving her a bemused smirk. “What?” she said defensively. “It smells like home.”
Kaidan shook his head. “I'll take your word on that.” He shifted so that he was looking away from her as he buckled his chestplate — a curious piece, strips of steel overlapping each other with a pair of sabre-cat-looking beasts embossed into the chest — into place. "Best get dressed. The sooner we gather our things, the sooner we get out of here."
“Aye,” Leahan muttered as she got to work changing into her robes.
She'd be all too happy to see the back of this place.