Hunger crackled in her veins. She was distantly aware of other sensations -- cold air in her lungs, dirt felt through the leather of her gloves, how heavy her whole body felt as she knelt and shuddered on the ground, but the hunger washed over it all. Mòrag welcomed it, for the first time in her life, because it was familiar. Second nature, almost. A challenge to be overcome, and thus a means to center herself.
Breaths, in and out. The faint pressure of concentration in her temples and the sockets of her eyes. She was its master. She had it under control. She was Mòrag Ladair. Her fingers tightened in the dirt, her muscles tensed, and she stood.
Phew. The first moment was always the worst... though as she brushed dirt off the clothing both familiar and unfamiliar on her body, she started to think that 'worst' might be about to hit levels she'd never before imagined. All right. First things first. Survival. Survival meant weapons. Her own... nowhere to be seen, fine. A quick moment's work scavenged a pair of rusty swords whose only virtue were being better than nothing -- but they were better than nothing, and she stuck them into her belt in so that she could draw them quickly, and never mind how they might interfere with her movements.
Second? Making it to shelter. No, second was surviving to make it to shelter. Her clothing, even layered with a tunic as it was, couldn't ward off the chill. But there was a reason she was called the Flamebringer, and even now she still had magic.
A swath of flame around her shone brilliantly as she set off through the icy wilderness, a bright beacon that could be seen for quite some distance. Clear warning that a person was here, not subtle in the slightest. Dangerous, but Mòrag felt she could handle whatever danger it might bring. Better than freezing.
On she trudged, eye turned carefully around, looking for those who might approach, or signs that others might be hidden. She needed to know what was going on.
X Marks the Spot
A part of her rebelled, but that part was pride. Realistically, Mòrag knew perfectly well she dared not muster her magic to make the whole distance in a single night, and so she pushed pride aside to where it would only rankle and stepped in.
The conversation went swiftly enough, and left Mòrag with more questions and no answers. Her eyes glittered in the firelight as she swept them across the inn, then without a moment's delay moved to approach those who wore tunics as she did -- no matter their colors.
"Forgive the intrusion," she said, polite and yet with implied insistence that the intrusion would come whether it was forgive or not. "But I hope you can help me with a few questions."
Waking before Awakening
Morning found the elegant and dignified woman working at a table with a stiff-bristled brush as if she were born to drudgery, rather than aristocracy -- and by all rights she was. This had been a common task in the temple to instill discipline and duty, and clearly it had worked. A frown on her face that came from focus rather than irritation, Mòrag glanced up at those coming down to the common room, offering nods to those she might have met before, and assessing those she hadn't.
"No breakfast before chores, I'm afraid."
A City Under Siege.
"I'll not allow this!"
Flames trailing down her blades as her wild magic wrought power into deed, Mòrag lunged into the fray without hesitation, taking an orc from behind with a slash that cut its kidneys and snapped the rusted sword off in its spine. The smell of cooked flesh wafted up as she kicked it over hurriedly, then snatched up the sword it had lost in death, a better replacement for what she'd lost. Then she was in motion once more.
This she understood. This she was born for. This was honor and duty, to herself if nothing more.
Perhaps you find her when she joins you in battle, swift to help those locked in combat with the orcs wherever she can with strikes of her flame or thrusts of her weapons.
Or perhaps you found her dueling with an orc at a disadvantage, her stance and form badly compromised by the need to hold her other hand steady as a wall of flame kept two other orcs at bay. She was skilled and resolute, after all, but only one woman.
Divided We Fall.
Rumors flew like arrows, haphazard and uncaring of what they hit. As if she were still in battle, Mòrag listened to the flights, judged from their trajectories where truth might be hidden, and fired none of her own. She had other matters to attend to.
First and foremost, finding a healer would be pleasant. The bandage wound her wrist and forearm was no longer wet, but the gouge it covered had only barely clotted over. Sudden movement would break it and set her to bleeding again, and that was no condition for a warrior to be in.
Mòrag paused to tighten the bandage, a little clumsily thanks to having only one hand free. "Damn," she said as she worked at it, almost conversationally.
It bites, it burns, it yearns and yearns.
Among the first to join the efforts to fight the orcs, Mòrag was not fool enough to go out into the wilderness alone. A partner, at the very least, would treble her odds of success, presuming she could find someone to work with. So Mòrag hung close to the road outside of town, not far from the guards who she had originally spoken to about recruitment. If anyone looked as if they were so inclined as to join and hunt orcs, she'd waste no time in approaching them.
no subject
Hunger.
That was how she knew this was real.
Hunger crackled in her veins. She was distantly aware of other sensations -- cold air in her lungs, dirt felt through the leather of her gloves, how heavy her whole body felt as she knelt and shuddered on the ground, but the hunger washed over it all. Mòrag welcomed it, for the first time in her life, because it was familiar. Second nature, almost. A challenge to be overcome, and thus a means to center herself.
Breaths, in and out. The faint pressure of concentration in her temples and the sockets of her eyes. She was its master. She had it under control. She was Mòrag Ladair. Her fingers tightened in the dirt, her muscles tensed, and she stood.
Phew. The first moment was always the worst... though as she brushed dirt off the clothing both familiar and unfamiliar on her body, she started to think that 'worst' might be about to hit levels she'd never before imagined. All right. First things first. Survival. Survival meant weapons. Her own... nowhere to be seen, fine. A quick moment's work scavenged a pair of rusty swords whose only virtue were being better than nothing -- but they were better than nothing, and she stuck them into her belt in so that she could draw them quickly, and never mind how they might interfere with her movements.
Second? Making it to shelter. No, second was surviving to make it to shelter. Her clothing, even layered with a tunic as it was, couldn't ward off the chill. But there was a reason she was called the Flamebringer, and even now she still had magic.
A swath of flame around her shone brilliantly as she set off through the icy wilderness, a bright beacon that could be seen for quite some distance. Clear warning that a person was here, not subtle in the slightest. Dangerous, but Mòrag felt she could handle whatever danger it might bring. Better than freezing.
On she trudged, eye turned carefully around, looking for those who might approach, or signs that others might be hidden. She needed to know what was going on.
X Marks the Spot
A part of her rebelled, but that part was pride. Realistically, Mòrag knew perfectly well she dared not muster her magic to make the whole distance in a single night, and so she pushed pride aside to where it would only rankle and stepped in.
The conversation went swiftly enough, and left Mòrag with more questions and no answers. Her eyes glittered in the firelight as she swept them across the inn, then without a moment's delay moved to approach those who wore tunics as she did -- no matter their colors.
"Forgive the intrusion," she said, polite and yet with implied insistence that the intrusion would come whether it was forgive or not. "But I hope you can help me with a few questions."
Waking before Awakening
Morning found the elegant and dignified woman working at a table with a stiff-bristled brush as if she were born to drudgery, rather than aristocracy -- and by all rights she was. This had been a common task in the temple to instill discipline and duty, and clearly it had worked. A frown on her face that came from focus rather than irritation, Mòrag glanced up at those coming down to the common room, offering nods to those she might have met before, and assessing those she hadn't.
"No breakfast before chores, I'm afraid."
A City Under Siege.
"I'll not allow this!"
Flames trailing down her blades as her wild magic wrought power into deed, Mòrag lunged into the fray without hesitation, taking an orc from behind with a slash that cut its kidneys and snapped the rusted sword off in its spine. The smell of cooked flesh wafted up as she kicked it over hurriedly, then snatched up the sword it had lost in death, a better replacement for what she'd lost. Then she was in motion once more.
This she understood. This she was born for. This was honor and duty, to herself if nothing more.
Perhaps you find her when she joins you in battle, swift to help those locked in combat with the orcs wherever she can with strikes of her flame or thrusts of her weapons.
Or perhaps you found her dueling with an orc at a disadvantage, her stance and form badly compromised by the need to hold her other hand steady as a wall of flame kept two other orcs at bay. She was skilled and resolute, after all, but only one woman.
Divided We Fall.
Rumors flew like arrows, haphazard and uncaring of what they hit. As if she were still in battle, Mòrag listened to the flights, judged from their trajectories where truth might be hidden, and fired none of her own. She had other matters to attend to.
First and foremost, finding a healer would be pleasant. The bandage wound her wrist and forearm was no longer wet, but the gouge it covered had only barely clotted over. Sudden movement would break it and set her to bleeding again, and that was no condition for a warrior to be in.
Mòrag paused to tighten the bandage, a little clumsily thanks to having only one hand free. "Damn," she said as she worked at it, almost conversationally.
It bites, it burns, it yearns and yearns.
Among the first to join the efforts to fight the orcs, Mòrag was not fool enough to go out into the wilderness alone. A partner, at the very least, would treble her odds of success, presuming she could find someone to work with. So Mòrag hung close to the road outside of town, not far from the guards who she had originally spoken to about recruitment. If anyone looked as if they were so inclined as to join and hunt orcs, she'd waste no time in approaching them.