Chapter Text
Gisela had been in Skyrim for a week, and she had spent almost all of it wracked with withdrawals. Magic was wonderful, between sessions of restoration magic with Aicantar and Bothela’s potions she wasn’t feeling any worse than she would have felt during a very bad flare. Which was to say she felt like shit and she almost wished she were dead just so she wouldn’t have to deal with being corporeal anymore. The Thalmor were exactly what she’d have expected, Calcelmo was a softy at heart, and she didn’t trust any of the politician types who would come to ask questions about her home. Part of her wondered if the Thalmor hated her more for bringing them wandering in whenever the mood struck.
She hated the beds, she loved the linen clothing she wore while bedridden, and she absolutely loathed how little there was to do. Books were wonderful, she had a few on the side table (none of the lewd stories she'd read samples of in game), but her hands ached too much to turn the pages and her arms too weak to even support the weight of a single thin storybook. People watching was highly limited by the people who came to the Thalmor’s makeshift headquarters, and despite Ondolemar’s apparent need to keep an eye on her, he was about as entertaining as watching paint dry.
The altmer always had some microaggression (or macroaggresssion) on hand to wield if Gisela tried to engage him in conversation, and his note taking habit whenever someone talked to her was beyond irksome. Of course, she wasn’t up to crawling out to a busier place like the throne room, she could barely deal with the chamber pots. Weren’t dwemer supposed to be this highly advanced race with their amenities lasting literal ages after their disappearance? She wished they had invented toilets.
Of all the isekai tropes, she got to keep her original body when she was yanked through to a video game world. Her own awful, beautiful, and broken body and still had to complete almost a full month of withdrawals. Luckily, she’d been coherent enough in her shock to ask questions whose answers she knew or suspected, and that they wrote off her surprise at putting faces to names as general nervousness. Her brain fog was a blessing in disguise in this situation, despite prior knowledge of this world and the political situation in Markarth she was on the slower side of recall which made the Thalmor across the room think she was either dumb or distracted. Which was fair.
Speaking of, Gisela now wanted throttle the fans who thirsted for some of these people when they were just numbers in a machine. The real deal, the kind that wasn’t scripted or programmed to act a certain way toward the main character, were so much harder to figure out. Gisela’s fist clenched the wool blankets and fur that was piled on her to help her sweat out the drugs. It was too hot, she was fidgety, and the skin of her fingers already had a few too many scabs on it to keep picking at if she could help it. She had to do something.
“What do you think you are doing?” Ondolemar’s smooth voice broke the silence after she tossed the blankets back to let her body cool. Gisela leveled him with the most withering glare over her dampened mask that she could manage.
“It’s hot,” she said curtly, “If I sweat much more I’m going to dehydrate myself.” She’d done it before, it sucked.
“Then drink more water,” the infuriating man said, as though that wasn't also part of the problem.
“The cup is too heavy to lift that often,” Gisela pointed out, already having been in this situation enough times to have multiple rebuttals handy, “and the more I drink the more I piss and the more you have to sit there and listen to me piss.” Ondolemar’s quill stopped moving.
“Must you be so vulgar all the time?” he asked, turning to level her a look only to freeze and start turning an odd shade of blood orange (it’s fucking red), “Cover yourself up, woman, have you no shame?” Ondolemar closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose like he always did when she was getting to him. A glance down to see what had him so flustered revealed that excessive sweating and thin light colored clothing made for a very transparent combo. Especially when one was prone to swamp boob.
“Yes,” she decided firmly, “I am contractually obligated to be vulgar at least five times a day. And no, shame is for you ableds who don’t have to keep getting naked for doctors and med students.” Ondolemar flushed deeper, whether it was frustration or embarrassment Gisela didn’t know. But she knew how to find out and even the horrid ache in her bones wasn’t going to stop her now. She didn’t need to move to talk. “Besides, you’re a big boy. Haven’t you ever seen a nipple before?” The altmer choked. Point for Gisela.
“Why you-” Ondolemar sputtered, “That is none of your business!” Ah, getting angry at someone who is actively looking for buttons to push. A rookie mistake.
“You keep using words but all I’m hearing is ‘no’,” Gisela told him frankly, "Because that definitely wasn't a 'yes'." She wondered if he was going to blow a gasket if she kept this up. Ondolemar was opening his mouth to say something else that probably wasn’t going to be a hard yes or no when there was aknocking of metal on stone. That agent Gisela had met that first day stood there, gauntleted knuckles to the wall, face smooth and blank but eyes full of mirth. Queyan. Who was definitely trying not to laugh at her superior’s predicament.
Gisela gave her the most innocent of smiles, knowing the crease of her eyes would show what the mask hid, and let up on poor Ondolemar as Queyan delivered her paperwork for review. She listened to the elves talk, already bored again, something something suspected Stormcloak sympathizers. Poor fuckers, nothing like classic red vs blue politics where both options are shit. Damn Todd, was this supposed to be a caricature of American politics? It feels like a caricature of American Politics. Fuck.
Oh, more guests. Gisela jerked herself out of the roller coaster of ADHD as well as she could at the moment, which wasn’t much but she was at least paying attention. Mostly. This time it was two big nord men. She could tell they were nords because they were very tall, almost as tall as an altmer. Ouch, now who’s being kinda racist? The men approached her bed under the watchful eyes of her keeper, and she self-consciously pulled the blankets back up.
The shorter of the two men was dressed in quilted looking finery, while the taller was one that she had definitely seen in the Jarl’s court. The one that thought she was a nutcase. Then it clicked. Silver-Bloods. She pressed her hand on the side of her jaw, relishing the loud pop and the wince from everyone in hearing range, and thanked the gods that they would now mistake her clenched teeth for some kind of cripple bone thing.
“Well met,” the fancy pants man said, “My name is Thonar Silver-Blood, this is my elder brother and family patriarch Thongvor. I had some questions about the country you come from that I hoped I could ask.” Gisela noted both Thalmor quiet down dramatically, and Ondolemar slid her file closer to himself. Thongvor must have noticed too, because he shot the elves a look that would kill if such a thing were possible.
“Shoot,” Gisela said. When the men gave her a confused look, she sighed dramatically and said, “That means go ahead.”
“What are your country’s main exports?” Thonar asked. Gisela laughed. He was right to the point for sure.
“Fuck if I know, dude,” she said, “It doesn’t concern the little free-loaders like myself. I think my state does coal, but it’s been coal since at least the 1800's.” The Silver-Bloods exchanged looks.
“...Could you explain that a little more please?” Poor man needed a bone thrown to him.
“My country is fifty-two tinier countries in a trench coat pretending to be a giant,” Gisela said, relishing the look of alarm on the bastard’s face. “Not counting a few territories that conservatives will still argue as being foreign despite what the passports say. Each tiny country is called a state, and a state is like a very very big hold. We have the big head honcho and his people who rule over the states and the big laws, and smaller governments who manage the littler things with their own taxes and laws. Governors and senators and representatives of the people, shit like that. All of them were elected. No! Most of them.”
“Sounds complicated,” Thongvor chimed in. Of course, he was the family politician. This was his language she was speaking now.
“It’s called a democracy,” Gisela continued, sensing the opportunity to rant. She always loved a good rant, “but it’s honestly more of an oligarchy with the illusion of choice. The people in charge pretend to care about the common folk, but do the bare minimum to appease the majority and the rest is tax breaks for their rich buddies or wars for oil. It’s such bullshit.” Thonar looked like he wanted to intervene, but Gisela didn’t give him an inch, “And the corporate leaders like to think they’re better than us because they have money, as if money saved the last of the French monarchy from the guillotine. Fucking let them eat cake. We’re starting to remember how effective mobs are for dealing with their types. Unions exist because the miners and factory workers used to just drag their bosses out of their homes in the middle of the night to lynch ‘em in front of their whole familys. This is the peaceful option. I’m a democratic socialist myself, you know. The government should be for the people, by the people. What good is a society if it doesn’t serve the participants? That’s what a society fucking is!”
“That is a very interesting situation,” Thongvor said, “Can I ask you about-"
“Anyway!” Gisela interrupted, winded from the rant, “Eat the rich is our rally chant. Super catchy, we put it on shirts and shit. My head is killing me and I'm very tired.” The nords went silent. “What did you want to ask me about again?”
“You look rather peaked,” Thonar said cautiously, “Perhaps we should continue another time.” Gisela stared them down with a triumphant glint in her eyes the entire time they walked towards the exit. The moment they were out of hearing range, Queyan cracked.
“That was… Certainly thrilling,” she gasped between muffled laughing into her hand. Ondolemar even seemed amused, probably grateful to not be on the receiving end of Gisela’s rambling for once. Gisela sagged into the straw mattress, exhausted by the effort of talking so much. Worth it though.
“I’m gonna pass out now,” she told them frankly, and then she did.