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Thaurhel can't stop glancing at the netch herder. The Dunmer is hunched with age. He leans heavily on his netchihook with every left step of his swinging gait, squinting his eyes against the bone-dry air. There is an entire lifetime etched in his craggy face and in the notches of his shepherd's hook.
There is also a betty netch's tentacle wrapped around his neck. It floats behind him, bobbing along with his natural rhythm and sometimes emitting a very foul smell. Three bulls tag along after the betty and netchiman at a cautious distance.
As a hunter, Thaurhel makes it his business to know why animals do what they do, and when, and how - but he is new to Vvardenfell. The fauna is alien to him. He has only ever known the depths of Valenwood and Cyrodiil.
Still, he's been on this Blight-taken island long enough to know there are barbs lining the tentacle of a betty netch; he desperately wants to ask why the herder is letting the animal abuse him so, but Dunmer are notoriously bad-tempered and Thaurhel now has first-hand experience of it. They aren't even companions, exactly. Thaurhel caught up to the herder while traveling along this backwater road, so he doesn't feel he has a place to ask questions. The mer is intimidating - being in the presence of an elder makes him feel like an errant child shirking his responsibilities. Maybe because - if he is honest with himself - he is one.
So Thaurhel glances under his lashes at the mer, and runs the tips of his fingers against the bowstring crossing his chest. Sometimes he slides his gaze back at the netch following them. The way they glide through the air is fascinating and unsettling in turns.
"Why are Wood Elves so Blighted fidgety?" The Dunmer finally barks after withstanding a few moments of Thaurhel's constant movement. "Eyes on the sky, traveller."
The "Yes, ser" is reflexive and so is the immediate obedience. Conversation is a trade, however, and the Dunmer opened a deal.
"Why does she do that?" He asks, motioning to the appendage wrapped around the herder's neck.
"Mmm," the Dunmer hums, voice cracking on the ash that has built up in his throat. "She is a worthless, lazy netch," and - wonder of wonders - the mer sounds fond, "and also she is being jealous. Protective. Because you are here."
That would explain the occasional burst of foul smells, if Thaurhel writes it off as the betty marking her territory. "Ah," he replies, having not expected an informative answer at all. "And you let her?"
The netchiman does not move his head, exactly - only tilts his face just enough to better glance at Thaurhel from the corner of his eye. It feels scathing.
"If I fight her, she only holds on tighter and hurts the more." The betty netch bumps against his head like she agrees.
Thaurhel's fingers curl around his bowstring. Well. That is life advice if he's ever heard it. It's doubtless the herder doesn't care about what's going on with Emperors and Daedric Princes and Nerevarines, but it must be some sign that even a Dunmer is telling him to stop fighting against fate.
"I see." Thaurhel says before sighing and dropping his restless hand down to his side.
"Mmm," the old Dunmer grunts knowingly. They both lapse into silence and continue walking.