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Siaenach was idly pushing around some wooden figures.

"Hey." Irri said to Siaenach, curious. "What are you doing?"

"Some of my old stuff. I carry it around all the time. Good for tactical planning and mindgames. Sometimes I pretend they're Nords and throw them into the fire."

"Hm..." Irri sat down next to her. "Did you make them?"

"Some of them. I really just break some cutlery and mash it together. I end up burning them anyways at some point."

Sebastien made his way toward one section of the camp and stopped outside of J'Dar's tent, resting one hand on the hilt of the silver longsword at his hip. He waited a moment, staring at the ground, and then cautiously peered in, leaning over to put his head through the opening. He saw only a flickering tail. "J'Dar?" he called softly. "J'Dar, are you awake?"

"Oh." Irri said. "Okay." She laid back on the ground. "What is your King like? This Madenach, King In Rags?"

"Don't remember him much. I only met him three years ago, when he escaped. That shocked a few people, I'll let you know. I was... Ehm... 16, then. I left to try and gain support for our cause soon afterwards," Siaenach leaned backwards against a shrubbery. "'Twas either that or marriage. And I'm not gonna get married cause my dad says I should. He's all pompous because Uncle Mad doesn't have kids."

"Well... What has happened since then?" Irri asked. "You must have had some interesting encounters between the Reach and Valenwood and Hammerfell."

"The Cyrodiil's refused to speak to me. No help there. They can't even save their own hide. Spent two years in High Rock before that. But Bretons are stubborn folks. Always squabbling among each other. And they've never been oppressed, so they wouldn't know our situation for the life of them. I was down here to try to get the Thalmor to help, but apparently, they don't minge with barbarians, as one of them put it. And to think they tried to keep the Skyrim War going. Bah!" Sianeach huffed.

"Terrible situation..." Irri sighed. "I have heard of the escape Madenach made from Cidnha mine... That they had an Orc with them... Can outsiders join the Forsworn?"

"I think so. If they prove themselves worthy," Siaenach said.

Irri nodded absently. "Interesting..." She said distantly. "So.. That... Weapon, the... Spiky. Stick. Thing. Did you make that yourself?"

"Nah. I'm only skilled in mashing cutlery together. But there are forsworn skilled at making swords."

Siaenach looked at her blade.

"Oh, and before you ask: Yes, this quailifies as a sword."

"It looks a club to Kah'jihreed," the Khajiit said from his rock. "A sword has a blade. That," he pointed at the forsworn weapon, "has spikes."

"A club is like a mace. This," Siaenach said, holding up her sword. "Is not like a mace at all. The edge cuts through most things. It's basically built to cause pain, I believe."

"But it is no blade. The spikes will get stuck inside of flesh," Kah'jihreed countered.

"Trust me, if you get half a dozen spikes in your back, you aren't going anywhere soon. Besides, it doesn't. Never happened to me."

"Kah'jihreed does not doubt it's usefullness," the Khajiit said. "It does indeed look...thretening. He just does not believe it to be a sword. But that is unimportant."

"Well it IS a sword, and that's final."

Kah'jihreed shrugged and continued reading.

Tireace glares at the symbol and tries again, "Ohea..!" Tireace said clapping her hands together and willing to move without moving. she closes her eyes

Ormis sat idly near everyone. He pulled out his favorite book, and started reading it.