<div class="floatleft">(http://i307.photobucket.com/albums/nn313/NovemberWerewolf/Female%20Characters/Half_Elf_Girl_by_kerembeyit.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Drake Turrel<br/><strong>Location:</strong>The Reach, just outside of Markarth.<br/><strong>Time:</strong>Dusk<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Aelfgar, Iljana, Open.<br/><br/><hr/><br/>Drake wasn’t nervous for Asher in regards to the bear they heard; the feline was capable of taking down a troll on his own, yet the thought of not watching his back as he watched hers made the elf uneasy. She almost wished that they had settled elsewhere; away from the bear, away from the Nord, once more lost in the solitude of the land. Since Cyrodill, Drake found herself to become less drawn to people and more reclusive. It seemed the noble had unsettled her in more ways than one; in his life, and now by his death.<br/><br/>With a frown that wrinkled her brow, Drake turned her attention to the Nord’s hand, but didn’t actually see it. The cloth was there dripping with blood, the hot copper bite filled her nose and told her that the wound was clean, unspoiled, but these were just details that were set aside in categories and easily dismissed. It was a short time till she replied, as if unwrapping the cloth at his palm was a task that needed her full attention. “Your family’s skills at the forge are known even back in Valenwood,” she stated. Her father had a piece belonging to this man’s ancestry; one kept on the mantle out of respect to its history. It had been there even before she was born. “Your grandfather Hrolfgar had crafted a dagger for my father some thirty-years ago, if I recall correctly. He called it Wyrm Tongue.” She smiled, a flicker that lasted for only seconds while she used the cloth to clean the gore from his palm. “He fancied the challenge of killing a dragon one day, and used the blade to do so. Your grandfather made a fine weapon that my father is able to depend on.” The death of the dragon had was a story he loved to tell. So much so, she had named her from it.<br/><br/>Drake stretched her much-smaller palm over the Nord’s, allowing it to hover over it for a few seconds as she adjusted her thoughts and recalled the spell to her mind. There were no fancy words or hand-gestures, only a look of concentration before her fingers began to tingle and a soft azure aura covered their hands passing heat through to their bones. It was a comforting sensation, especially out here in the badlands of the Reach. Aelfgar, should he watch, would see the way his skin seemed to expand outward, building up from the dermis layers first, before moving out towards the epidermis. Blood vessels that had been punctured closed, nerves reconnected, until all that was left was fresh skin, just slightly tender to the touch. She stopped the flow of magic as soon as his hand was whole, and dropped the bloody cloth that no longer served any purpose. “I am Drake Turrell, my companion is Asher. We’re on our way to Markarth as well, hoping to rest for a few days and resupply before the last stretch of our journey west to Whiterun.” The elf looked over her shoulder, hoping to catch sight of her lynx. Still nothing. “If the Fletcher we passed was correct… Markarth shouldn’t be far from here.”