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Dec 10, 2019 5:39 PM
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Malielle is starting to get mildly sick of Sheogorath.

Just. Mildly. It's not all that healthy to be very sick of a Daedric Prince, after all. 

Still, she's run his little quest to help heal the mind of the late Pelagius the Mad, and hopefully he'll drop her somewhere in Tamriel.

(She should really have learned not to jinx herself by now.)

Sheogorath turns from where he'd dismissed his follower, saying, "And as for you, my little mortal minion... Feel free to keep the Wabbajack. As a symbol of my... Oh, just take the damn thing." He pauses, then: "And while I said you're free to go - I feel back isn't quite the best option here. Oh, don't give me that look. This will be quite amusing for me, and only mildly deadly for you! If you ever find your way back, do look me up in New Sheo. We can share a strawberry torte. Ta ta!"

Before she can voice a protest, there's a whooshing noise, and she's elsewhere.

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Elsewhere stinks. That's the first thing she notices, the almost overpowering smell of decaying plant matter. The second thing she notices is that she is calf-deep in think, goey mud, and slowly sinking further. The third thing is the line of bright white cutting across the otherwise dark night sky.

The fourth thing is less obvious, so it takes another moment to come to her attention. The fourth thing is a vaguely elvish looking man, lying on his back in the mud about ten feet away, wearing nothing but the most impressively bored surprised look imaginable.

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She's more curious than annoyed; she can always avoid sleeping and reset if this gets bad.

Malielle tries to access the little pocket dimension where she keeps her stuff - she does not like the clothes Sheogorath's stuck her in. 

It doesn't work.

She tries to call Dawnbreaker to her hand, fails, tries to summon Zephyr, also fails. She frantically pats the pockets of the outfit - fine clothes like nobles might wear - and finds nothing: no gold, no daggers, not even a sprig of lavender.

Okay forget this; she goes to reset. Having to do the day over will be annoying, but at least she can refuse to help Dervenin this time.

Resetting completely fails.

"Fuck you, Sheogorath," she mutters, then calls out to the man (ignoring the nudity; he probably got looted by someone not too picky about vital status of their corpses), "Any idea where we are?" While waiting for an answer, she tries to jump, and if that fails will try to identify the nearest solid ground. 

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It's swamp nearly as far as the eye can see - there are maybe some hills off in the distance thataway.

The man responds, but not understandably. "Ma nátyë. Ma quetat yaisalambë."

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-Oooo a new language. 

She says hello all the languages she knows (which is like five of them, including the dragon tongue). 

...Is she in danger of the muck getting above her waist anytime soon, and are there climbable trees nearby?

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There are reeds that might be climbable if she were very very small. She probably has about half an hour before she's waist-deep, assuming a constant rate of sinking into mud.

The man pulls sits up at her words. "Ma quetat canta lambi."

Perhaps recognizing that words are not getting the message across, he repeats them again, slowly. "Ma" - he tilts his head, makes a thoughtful expression, and shrugs. "Quetat" - he points at Malielle and pantomimes speaking. "Canta" - he counts to four on his fingers. "Lambi" - he grabs his tongue and pulls it slightly out of his mouth.

"Finyalambë" - he points to himself.

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Does moving and trying to step so her feet lift clear of the muck slow that down any?

And a new language - she thinks unrelated to any in Tamriel, wow Sheogorath dropped her far - is way more exciting than muck, or trying to whirlwind sprint towards some maybe-hills. 

She thinks, and points to herself, saying, "Malielle." Then she holds up her hand and counts to five in Tamrielic, pointing to each finger. "Quetat five lambi."

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He frowns, then counts on his fingers as he repeats her five 'hello's. He had mashed two of them together. He does it again, this time correctly separating them. He grins, then stands up - on top of the mud, not sinking an inch - and reaches a hand out to Malielle.

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- That's easier.

She takes his hand.

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And he pulls her out of the muck and sets her down. She starts sinking again. He frowns. "Ma lavat yulunyet." He pantomimes lifting something and walking, then points towards the hills in the distance. Tilts his head, shrugs.

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She thinks, securing the Wabbajack on her back as she does. Whirlwind sprint will probably make a huge mess, isn't very controllable. 

Being ethereal can get her past traps; it should let her wade better. 

"Feim zii gron," she declares, voice ringing, and unless there's something strange about this world, her colors will drain away and she'll fade half from view. If it works, she heads towards the hill at a sprint; if not, she starts trudging. Unfortunately she can only hold it for eighteen seconds, and its recharge is forty seconds, so she'll probably be switching between sprinting and wading a good bit.

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Finyalambë follows, at a light jog across the top of the mud (And the water, when they come across pools of it)

It takes about an hour and a half at their pace, but they make it to solid ground. There are gently sloping hills - beyond them, mountains. To the south, a forest. 

Finyalambë lies on the ground. "Ma natyë. Ma casta."

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Ma natye - he'd said that before, when she first appeared. And 'ma' seems to indicate questions. Maybe something like 'where are you from'? She's uncertain about the second phrase.

She hasn't ever met anyone who can just jog across water like that, and she didn't see him casting a spell for it or anything. 

She wonders, idly, if there's a Shout for translation.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand you. Ma natye? Ma casta?"

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"Nanyë Finyalambë." - he points at himself - "Nanyë Anno." - he touches the points of his ears - "Natyë Malielle. Ala natyë Anno." - he gestures at her ears - "Ala natyë awarthad. Ma natyë."

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So natye must mean something like 'to be.' "Nanye Malielle. Nanye dovahkiin. 'Feim zii gron' natye thu'um. Thu'um natye... Dovahzul lambe?" she says, guessing at the grammar: I am Malielle, I am the dragonborn, 'feim zii gron' is a shout, shout is dragon language.' 

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" 'Feim zii gron' nasë thu'um."

"I'm sorry. I don't understand you. I'm. Sorry. I. Don't. Understand. You. You don't understand I. You understand don't I. Youm sorry. Youm dovahkiin. 'Feim zii gron'm thu'um. Ma nasë 'don't' understand'. Ma nasë 'Sorry'. I." He points at himself, "you." He points at her. "Ma mára."

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"'I'm sorry, I don't understand you' nase Tamrielic lambe," she clarifies. "You don't understand me. You are sorry, you're sorry. I am sorry, I'm sorry. 'Feim zii gron' is thu'um." She has no idea how to translate 'sorry' or 'don't understand' with charades. Maybe - "I understand Tamrielic. You don't understand Tamrielic. I don't understand 'ma mara.'"

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"Am. Nanyë. Are. Natyë. Is. Nasë. I don't understand Tamrielic. You understand Tamrielic ar Dohvazul. Ma you understand 'ar'."

"Ma 'understand' nasë 'quet'." - pantomimes speaking - "Ma 'understand' nasë 'hlar'." - cups a hand to his ear.

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"Understand is," she taps her head. "Quet is speak. Maybe," she shrugs, "understand is hlar. I speak and understand Tamrielic and Dovahzul and Ta'Agra and Daedric and Orcish." She then lists each greeting she'd given with its language. 

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"I speak and understand yaisalambë and analambë and yelillambë and amollambë and casallambë. Yaisalambë and analambë and yelilambë is lambi Annalieva. Amollambë is lambë Awarthatwa. Casallambë is lambë Anglieva."

"Annalieva is... annalië speak and understand lambi Annalieva. Annalië don't speak and understand lambi don't Annalieva. Annalië is anno and anno and anno and anno and..."

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"Yaisalambe and analambe and yelilambe are lambi Annalieva," she corrects. "They are lambi. They are languages. Annalie don't speak non-Annalieva languages. I don't understand 'anno'. Annalie is many anno? Natye anno?"  Then - "We" with a gesture to the two of them "speak Tamrielic. We speak yaisalambe?"

They can probably go on like this for a while, can't they.

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Finyalambë certainly doesn't seem to have any intention of stopping!

 

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Malielle's fully willing to keep going until her stomach grumbles for lunch, for sure.

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The sun is just starting to rise at this point. Finyalambë has, over the course of the past few hours, transitioned from lying on the grass to sitting up. He notices the grumbling.

"I don't have eat-things. There are animals in the forest." - he gestures south - "I am not good at grabbing animals, and the forest is not very safe but we need eat-things." (He repeats all this in yaisalambë, somewhat more fluently.)

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She corrects his grammar, adds new vocabulary, and delightedly absorbs the new words. "I am good at hunting. I do not have a bow," she pantomines shooting an arrow at 'bow'. She repeats herself in yaisalambe. 

(She really regrets not learning the bound bow spell.)

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He fills in the gaps in her vocabulary. They have a good system going, here.

"I am not good at hunting, but I am not bad at hunting. I also do not have a bow. I can hunt without a bow, but not every...aurë" - he points at the rising sun, then sweeps his hand in an arc across the sky - "and food does not stay food long enough. It will be enough for now."

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