Hello, players! Welcome to the Wobbly Goblet. This is the main thread and you should start here.


~~~

Aravi stopped and listened. A regular patter could be heard on the leaves of the trees around her. She stopped and looked up. A fat drop of water landed on her nose. She blinked and felt more drops land on her forehead and cheeks. The rain was cool; an involuntary shiver went down her back and into her tail. I hope there’s an inn soon. She saw a flash through the canopy of the Great Forest over her head. A rumble echoed off the mountains to the west. The rush of leaves overhead indicated a wind was coming up. Or a lot of rain. She could smell it on the air. She moved to the side of the road, hoping for some protection under the trees from the approaching storm.

***

The rain started coming down in earnest, lightning cracked in the sky. Wind howled through the trees, the eerie sound brought a mild, but persistent and irrational fear to Aravi’s mind. She was nearly running, looking for any place to weather the storm. The slick mud would have been too difficult for anyone but a Khajiit to run in.

A faint glow faded into sight as she ran. She made for it, well aware that this isn’t the normal territory for a will-o-the-wisp. Several buildings materialized in the gloom ahead of her. The soft glow was from a lamp near the road, lit by a welkynd stone. The windows of the largest building, a two story structure, were warmly lit from within. Aravi ran for it. A sign swung on hinges in the wind. She could barely read The Wobbly Goblet painted in a yellow, flowing script. She reached for the door and pushed. It was unlocked.

She shoved the door shut behind her by simply leaning back into it. She rested like that a moment while she caught her breath.

“Welcome to the Wobbly Goblet, young Khajiit.”

Aravi looked up and had to keep looking up. A friendly looking Altmer wielding a mop looked down at her. He had his golden hair made up in the traditional Altmer style, making him appear even taller than he was. “Hello,” she responded breathlessly as she tried to control her breathing. She was in a warmly lit room with polished hardwood floors and whitewashed walls. Regularly spaced support timbers broke up the uniform white walls in a pleasing pattern. A few people sat upon stools at a bar in the back. The rest of the room was taken up by long tables and a massive fireplace. She looked at his mop, and then looked to the polished hardwood floor she stood upon. Little puddles formed from the water dripping off of her armor and tail. Bits of mud clung to her feet.

Reading her expression, he said, “Do not worry, I expect as much when the weather turns foul. I am quite prepared to deal with it. Are you going to spend the night with us? I fear this storm will persist for some time yet.”

Aravi thought for a moment. She wasn’t sure what time it was, but she knew there wasn’t much light, if any, left in the day. And by the time this storm blew itself out… “Yes I think I will. Are you the proprietor?” Aravi moved to the side as he started attacking the little puddles that formed around her.

“Excellent, I’ll have Lleris take your pack up to one of our rooms. And no, I am not the proprietor, I’m Hethilion. I keep everything neat and clean, and maintain the excellent library on the second floor.”

Aravi heard the pride in his voice when he spoke of the library. She knew a Breton that would get along well with him. “Who do I speak to about settling my room then?”

Hethilion pointed to an orc woman standing near the bar talking with the bar tender. “That’s Bograk gra-Mugshak. She’s the owner.”

“Thank you.” She turned towards the bar.

“Ah, miss? I didn’t quite catch your name.”

She smiled. “I’m Aravi.”

***

When she was done speaking with Bograk, Aravi got some hot tea and stood by the fire. Her armor and fur were still soaking wet, she would have to change soon if she wanted to dry off. She looked around at the nearly empty room. Another Altmer was sitting at a barstool, fiddling with a lute, and talking to an armor clad Legionnaire. Her helmet sat on the bar counter and had the distinctive plume of a rider. An Argonian took his meal at the other end of the counter.

She almost missed the Khajiit leaning against the wall. His black fur helped him disappear into the shadows. He was big, almost as big as Kharjo and just as strong. He had his large ears decorated with several sets of earrings.

Aravi turned her attention back to the fire and watched the flames dance. She enjoyed the quiet, only the snapping of the fire and an occasional murmur from the bar could be heard. She had a feeling that it wouldn’t last, as storm like this was sure to drive other people inside as well.

The wind rose to a howling thunder, and the scattered drops quickly became a downpour. The skies above the Great Forest wept a storm, forcing a young Imperial woman from her sleep. She wasn’t particularly afraid of the rain, and in fact, it rarely bothered her. But once she was awake, it would take ages for her to return to slumber.

Vera picked herself up from beside the log which she used as a pillow, and brushed the dirt away from her laced leather pants and stained, tattered and torn sackcloth shirt with her hands and packed up her belongings and left that dark corner of the Great Forest. She knew it was going to rain today, but she did not expect it would come so soon. The weather in Cyrodiil can be unpredictable at times.

Vera quickly grabbed her satchel and double-checked her personal belongings. Everything she needed was there; A curved hunting dagger with a wicked blade and small green vials containing her secret to bringing back live bounties. Toxins extracted from deadly plants and other ingredients to make a potent result: a type of sedative. One that allows the victim to remain conscious while numbing all feeling and sensation. It disrupts the primary muscle nerves, and yet it won’t shut down the vital organs such as the heart or lungs. Inside the bag was also a heavy sack full of coin, leftover from her last payment, and her official coin to be spent on simple needs such as food, drink, bed and baths.

Knowing that this is all she needed, she hauled the bag over her shoulders and walked through the dark gloom of the Great Forest in the middle of a storm. The forest floor gave way to slippery terrain as the water flooded her feet, drenching her rough-leathered shoes. Her blond hair, drenched to the fullest, clung to her neck and face as she marched through the wilderness towards the source of comfort.

She could smell horse droppings from afar, and it was mixed with the scent of cooking. Vera suspected she was close to a tavern or at least a camp. That was, until she reached a family of shrubs and bushes that gave her a clear sight of a two-story inn up ahead.

Vera was miles away from her lair, and she wasn’t willing to go hunting for her food now. Not in the rain. It would take twice as many hours. With the gold she so desperately wanted to spend, she had decided she would spend some of it at the inn.

The Great Forest was unlike Bravil, and the taverns hosted no vagabonds, thieves or criminals. While she may encounter one or two, she expected to find the basic adventurer or two or the local common folk. The very people Vera liked to be around in times like these for the sole purpose that there was no trouble to be found. She had an empty stomach, constant sleepless nights and a temper. To surround herself with perverted slobs and overfed criminals would be frustrate her. Especially in that time of the month.

Vera arrived at the placed called the Wobbling Goblet, and made haste to the front door. She twisted the knob and entered slowly, unlike the pace she took to get there. The warm air and the scent of food and other things immediately assaulted her nostrils. She breathed deeply and stepped in further.

“Come in! Come in!” a voice said.

She looked down to her feet and saw by the wet prints that there were others who sought to leave the rain for shelter.

Vera focused in on the Altmer man after she took in the scene of the inn and everyone and everything in it. The High Elf was tall, and his bright hair only made him stand out and appear even larger. From the mop in his hands she could already see that he was the one who was responsible for keeping the place clean.

The Imperial woman stomped her feet at the front of the door, kicking the mud and wet leaves off of her shoes right before she walked forward into the tavern. Beside her was a smaller room for the leisure of those seeking peace and quiet.

“How can I be of service?”

Vera blinked water away from her eyes and wiped droplets from her forehead. “I’m looking for food and a room to stay for the night.”

The Altmer smiled. “Well, you’ve found the right place.”

Vera did not answer him right away, and kept her gaze everywhere. She took the measure of the female Khajiit standing with her arms folded at her chest, soaking wet from the rain. And a second black Khajiit that had an aura of authority about him, but there was nothing there that would suggest a connection between her and him.

She turned and looked at the other patrons; an Argonian, an Altmer with a lute, a flour-covered Nord woman scurrying back and forth with plates and dishes in her hands and a big Orc woman with a club at her side.

Vera went straight for the bar after deciding it was too late to answer the High Elf. She carried herself with an air of sheer confidence, an unspoken challenge in the squaring her shoulders and the tilt of her head that dissuaded other individuals from desiring to strike a conversation with her, let alone approach her. Before a warm bath and a warm bed to sleep in, Vera wanted nothing more than to tame the gnawing hunger she had in the pit of her stomach.

She sat on the stool in front of the bar, and was greeted and asked about what she would desire to eat or drink. Vera took a look at the meals available and made her decision right away.

“I want two bottles of apple cider, with a side of roasted mutton with cheese and tomato salad.”

Aravi heard the door open and looked over. Sure enough, another person was driven in by the storm. The arrival was a thoroughly soaked Imperial woman. She was rough looking, Aravi thought, like she lived off the land mostly. The Imperial stalked off to the bar, her body language clearly indicating she wanted little to do with conversation. Aravi returned her focus back to the fire in front of her.

Yetta sliced a generous slab of mutton and laid it across the steaming mashed potatoes. Garlic, onion, and juniper berries filled the cavity left by the bone. Spring onions pulled up while they were small and roasted until golden filled the rest of plate right up to the edge. When Auguste brought back the order he had raised an eyebrow in a way that suggested their latest guest was very hungry. Or he may have been practicing another of his charming expressions. It was hard to tell with that Breton. In any case he had headed back to the bar with two bottles of cider. Yetta would wager that the guest was hungry. She filled a small pitcher with gravy and perched two rolls on top of the mutton.

A quick sprinkle of Gold Coast salt finished the salad. Yetta smiled at the tiny tomatoes. It was too soon for the slicing varieties to bear fruit, but her early vines were laden with these bite-sized treats. She had cubed the cheese and arranged them together in a pleasing pattern on the lettuce. ‘It all goes in the same place,’ her Ma used to say. ‘And then back out again. Ha!’ But Yetta liked things to look nice on the journey.

She balanced the salad on her arm, picked up the pitcher and mutton, and strode through to the tavern.

The Khajiit Aravi stood by the fire, still armored with tea in hand. Yetta reminded herself to check if she wanted a meal. Perhaps she had dried off and warmed up by now.

A blonde Imperial sat at the bar ignoring Auguste, Borgak, and Tooth-in-the-Grass, the two cider bottles at her elbow. Yetta slid the plates in front of her. The woman’s eyes caught the candlelight like liquid gold. She looked as if she had been sleeping rough. She’s much prettier than me, Yetta decided.

The woman’s demeanor did not invite conversation.

Yetta couldn’t help herself. “I’ve a nice blackberry crumble, if you care for dessert. And there are fresh apples in the pie, not dried. I kept them in the cellar all winter.”

Vera’s presence attracted a few curious stares. She guessed they didn’t get a lot of bedraggled Imperials in these parts, especially at this hour. Her heart skipped a beat momentarily as she spotted the Legionnaire sitting down.

Were the guards still looking for her concerning that last job with that Breton bookie? Whatever happened a year ago was old news but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t still in hot water with the local authorities. And she also had one of them killed back in Bravil, a captain, no less. How could the guards be after her? But they were looking for The Huntress. The ebony-armored bounty hunter known around Cyrodiil and not a regular Imperial woman.

To add to Vera’s relief, the guard gave her only a cursory glance, before returning to his meal. Everyone else seemed more interested in their food and drink and talk more than the latest arrival.

Thank Hircine for small favors, she thought.

After her long walk in the rain, it felt good to be out of the cold. A happy-looking Nord woman prepared her order and Vera waited impatiently for her food. Her stomach growled like a famished werewolf. She licked her lips in anticipation, and refused to give into the feeling of tapping into the table as she waited.

Daedra, I feel as if I could eat a horse. She was starving, but she wasn’t that hungry. Yet.

Vera got warmer by the time the woman returned with her food order. She slid a large plate of roasted mutton and a salad in front of her, along with a pitcher. Vera couldn’t complain about the size of the portions; the diced cheese, juicy miniature tomatoes and meat was practically overflowing the plate. The smell of sea-salt overpowered her nostrils. The food was rich, heavy fare with a side of light, exactly what she was in the mood for. She smelled the food for anything unnatural . . . nothing.

Vera reached for a fork and speared a chunk of mutton with it and took a bite. She chewed the food slowly and liked what she tasted. The savory dish went down fine. Better than fine, in fact; it tasted amazingly delicious. Without patience to eat slowly, she started shoveling forkfuls into her mouth, wolfing it down ravenously. She couldn’t eat the stuff fast enough. She reached for the bottle of cider and washed her throat down with the sweet drink. Within moments, she had finished half the plate and was thinking about ordering a second.

“"I’'ve a nice blackberry crumble, if you care for dessert. And there are fresh apples in the pie, not dried. I kept them in the cellar all winter.”" The Nord said, striking up a conversation with Vera. It almost as if she’d read her mind on more food. With the way she ate, Vera didn’t doubt the woman expected a patron to still be hungry.

The young huntress raised her head and locked eyes with the Nord. She chewed on her food and stared. For the longest of time, she gnashed her food down and blinked. After awhile Vera swallowed down her food, she looked down on her plate and nodded.

"“Yes, I'’d like that. And milk. I want milk, too.”" Vera said after pause. Then she continued to eat her food.

“I have a hungry Imperial over there, would you like me to prepare something for you as well? I have mutton out and could have a plate ready for you in a few minutes.”

It took Aravi a moment to pull herself back into reality. She looked over and saw a Nord woman, lightly dusted with flour, waiting for her answer.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Yes, I’ll take some. And more tea as well.”

“Do you want me to get a table for you or would you like to eat at the bar?”

“The bar will be fine.”

“Great! I’ll have your food ready in a moment.”

Aravi sipped the last of her tea and lingered by the fire as long as she could. Her armor was still damp, but she was warm now at least. Aravi kept an eye on the bar. True to the Nord’s words, a few minutes later a plate of mutton and a cup of tea were placed on the counter for her, just a couple of seats to the left of the rough Imperial.

She went over to her meal and sat on a stool. She took off her helmet and like the legion rider; she set it on the counter. Her tail curled around her stool, she learned to keep it out of the way of possible traffic painfully once. She adjusted her sword belt. At least she could sit comfortably on the stool without having to take it off.

When Aravi was set, she looked over at the Imperial. Half her plate was already gone and she was quickly making her way through the remaining portions. The Nord returned to the Imperial, adding another mug to the first two, and leaving a small plate with a delicious looking dessert.

“What’s that?” She asked either one, referring to the dessert.

Kayla's shoulder connected hard with the ground as she slid on the mud, caking her short auburn tresses with mud. She spat out a mouthful of the wet earth that had gotten into her mouth as she cried in pain, looking around wildly. The vampire was nowhere in sight. She stood up, panting, her enchanted silver sword held tightly. She turned in circles, looking for her prey. Thunder rumbled, briefly overpowering the loud patter of rain. Lightening flashed, and before her eyes an invisibility spell was heard being dispelled to her left.

Kayla grunted as the vampire knocked her to the ground, the claws of the Dunmer slashing at her frantically. She dropped her sword, letting out a shriek. She kneed the dark elf in the groin as soon as she hit the ground. he groaned in pain, and she punched him in the mouth, knocking him backwards.

She stood up, quickly grabbing her sword and plunging it into the chest of the vampire. The look of pure rage quickly dissipated as he died. She sighed with relief and pulled the sword out of his chest. She drank a cure disease potion for the nasty gash on her right cheek, one that would surely add to the medley of scars on her body, and sheathed her blade. She looked around as the water droplets ran into her eyes.

'No shelter ANYWHERE,' she thought grumpily to herself. She shivered and walked until she found a pathway. she let out an ecstatic sigh when her eyes brushed over the sight of a two story inn. She trudged onwards, her boots sloshing in the mud.

"Blech!" She said as her toes began to swim in her boots. She opened the door and glanced around, her eyes wide. She began to take her wet armor off, leaving her light green soaked shirt and black cloth pants on. She kicked off her boots and poured the water off, leaving them at the door.

"I am so, so sorry!" She said to the barman, her thick Nordic accent contrasting the sight of her pointed Altmer ears. "If you give me a mop, I'll clean it up. it's just, everything I have is soaked, but my septims are still good." She gave a nervous laugh.

Aravi’s question about dessert was interrupted by a new arrival. An Altmer entered the inn seeking shelter from the storm. Not surprisingly, she was muddy and absolutely soaked. Her voice was a surprise however; she had the familiar accent of a native of Skyrim. Aravi’s ears perked in curiosity. She didn’t expect to run into another traveler from Skyrim.

She listened as the housekeeper, Hethilion , assured the new arrival that the water and mud was not a problem.

Shivering, Fedura Hlaalu made another effort at pulling her cloak tighter around her body, and failing that she turned her eyes back to her bag to make sure that water had not begun to leak through the leather. The heavy steps of the mare were barely heard due to the heavy smattering of rain against the road, yet the woman could feel every movement and so knew that they still rode upon uneven cobblestones.

The heavy drops of rain distorted her sight somewhat, but she could make out the shape of a large manor in a glade further down the road. Spirits heightened somewhat by the prospect of a warm fire and a filling meal, she leaned forward a bit and smooched at the mare, whose ears flickered slightly before she lengthened her gait.

Coming in through the gate, she steered her horse towards the building that looked to be the stables. There was a large concentration of life force from certain points in the building, all of them shaped as a large four-legged animal. The mare stopped just outside, and she dismounted, taking a hold of the reins as she turned towards the stables. The big doors were slightly askew, and she looked around curiously when she pushed them open enough for herself and the mare to enter.

“Hello, is someone here?” she called out softly, not wishing to disturb the horses. Then her eyes shifted to a spot further in as a shuffling sound was heard and one of the stalls were opened by a short man who stepped out into the stable aisle.

“Good evening, ma'am, are you staying at the Wobbly Goblet?” the man asked, he was an elf, she could see when he got closer. By his short stature she guessed that he was one of the Bosmer.

“Yes, I'm Fedura Hlaalu,” she introduced herself as the other elf smiled and looked over at the mare standing behind the woman.

“My name is Lowren, and I take care of the stables here at the manor. Now, why don't I take care of your beautiful mare, and you can go in and warm yourself by the fire,” the bosmer said.

“That would be nice. Her name is Ceylye,” Fedura said as she handed the reigns to the wood elf after taking her bag from the saddle, and he smiled before walking down the aisle with the black mare. The dunmer woman turned after a moment and headed out through the door, trying – and failing – to avoid the many puddles of water on her way to the main building. When she finally slipped in through the door water had just begun to seep in through her boots, and though the cloak had protected her from the worst of the rain, it had not done a very good job in keeping out the cold.

She surveyed the room quickly before taking of her cloak, habit forcing her to note all the exits and the customers in the room. The closest was an Altmer who was standing near to the entrance - dripping water all over the floor - but none of them seemed like a threat to Fedura, and so she was finally able to relax as she walked up to stand next to the fire, intending to regain some warmth in her body before speaking to the proprietor.

Abiene

Lighting flashed. Thunder rolled. Abiene cast the spell to fortify her stamina so she could keep up her brisk pace through the rain. Darnand’s bracelet kept her dry and Jerric’s ring made the spring chill seem balmy, but neither charm prevented the wind from tearing at her clothing.

The trees creaked and roared. Abiene cast a Shield spell, hoping that none would topple. A falling branch would still crush her, but at least the weak spell kept flying leaves and twigs from scratching her face.

Oh, why did I decide to walk? she groaned to herself. In a carriage I would have made it home by now.

She had awakened that morning under a glorious red sunrise at the Wayshrine of Dibella. Walking had seemed like a good way to prolong and savor her relaxation before returning to work in Chorrol. Too bad she was unskilled at predicting the weather.

An arcane glow illuminated a sign at the side of the road. The Wobbly Goblet. Abiene stopped, pulling her hood up against the wind. Before long she would reach Weynon Priory and the shelter they offered fellow servants of the Nine. But this tavern had a reputation for safety and cleanliness, if not for innovative cuisine. A night in an inn bed would seem like luxury compared to her sparsely appointed chamber at the chapel. With few expenses she certainly had the coin to spare.

Abiene turned her steps toward the tavern, tucking her chin for the final dash.

Inside the door she found herself standing in a mud puddle amongst a pile of discarded armor. Her eyes went up and up until they met the author of the mess. A gorgeous young Altmer woman with short auburn hair, soaked and apologetic.

Another high elf stood nearby, wielding a mop and assurances.

“Oh my,” said Abiene.

She offered them both nods and smiles as she stepped between them. Several folk sat at the long bar while a Dunmer woman warmed herself by the fire. A large Khajiit idled in the shadows. Abiene hung her cloak and pack on pegs and walked over to the bar.

A gowned orc chatted with a dark-haired Altmer man at one end. A blue-feathered Argonian sat near them eating. Abiene’s gaze was drawn to the busty Nord woman dressed like a cook. She stood behind the bar speaking to an armored Khajiit and a scruffy Imperial woman. Both of them had plates before them. Abiene suddenly smelled mutton and garlic over the scents of woodsmoke and sweat. Her stomach growled.

“Welcome, traveler,“ said the barman. He slid a Bill of Fare across to her. “What’ll you have?”

Abiene smoothed her windblown hair as she glanced over the menu. “A glass of Tamika’s, the stuffed mushrooms, and a cheese plate with strawberries, if you please.” She pushed the parchment back to him. “Do you have a room available? I’d like to stay while the storm passes.”

“That we do.” The barman exchanged looks with the Nord cook and the orc, no doubt confirming that her order had been heard and understood. In a twinkling he had placed a glass on the counter and filled it with a flourish. “Here you are, miss.”

“Thank you. I’m Abiene Metonne, of the Great Chapel of Stendarr.”

The Breton raised his eyebrows. “Are you a priestess?”

“Oh no, I’m a healer. I pass by here fairly often. I suppose it was high time I stopped in.” She extended her hand over the counter.

The barman took it in his own. “Auguste Allard of the Wobbly Goblet. A pleasure to meet you.”

Abiene smiled back. “How do you do.”

She climbed up onto the barstool and sipped her wine.

"What's that?" The female Khajiit asked. She, too, is surely hungry. It didn't surprise Vera that a plate of dessert would peak her curiosity. The felines are notorious for their love and obsession with all things sugar and sweet.

"Food." Vera replied, mostly to herself though. Her mouth was full, and she had little time to talk now.

Vera heard lightning strike again, but this time it was much louder than before. Her ears perked up, and the she turned to the source of the sound. The entrance door was open, and yet another woman entered. From her looks alone Vera could tell she was a High Elf. Their golden skin, yellow eyes, and tall stature is a dead give away to their haughty race. But her voice, however, betrayed her origins. Or at least her home.

There was a thick Nordic accent in her voice. It was unmistakable. This woman had no doubt spent her time in the frigid province of Skyrim, or at least had been raised by Skyrim-born Nords. The red gash on her cheek was not missed by Vera, who could smell blood from across the room.

Just behind her another Mer materialized from beyond the door. This time, it was a Dark Elf lady.

Its raining women tonight . . .

The Dark Elf woman was cloaked. But it wasn't her attire that struck out to Vera, though she found the wolf skin cloth quite humorous. It was the white in her eyes that meant she sustained some damage in some sort of violent attack or accident. She surveyed the room, much like Vera had when she entered. Vera stared for a quick moment, and turned away. But her mind remained on what she just saw.

There was no way of telling if someone was a killer or a hunter unless the individual was one too. And Vera was quite good at reading people not only from their speech and dress but their mannerisms and gestures. And this woman had the subtle gait of a murderer. As long as she didn't try to kill her, and her targets were not Vera's, then they would have no problems.

The chit-chat in the tavern rose and Vera could pickup a few sentances from the conversations of other people. Most of it, however, did not interest her right away.

She pushed her empty plate aside, and pulled her dessert closer. The blackberry crumble looked absolutely savory and Vera waste no time in admiring the food that sat beneath her face. She had room in her belly for more, and her fast metabolism would allow her hunger to rival that of an Orc.

She dug a silver spoon into the food, and picked off a large chunk and shoved it into her mouth and without barely even chewing it, she washed it down with milk.

By then another person(a Breton woman) entered. Vera didn't need to turn around, for she heard the woman approaching the bar to make an order. A narrow-faced Breton in brown trappings with the softest brown eyes one could look upon. She introduced herself as Abiene a healer of the great Chapel of Stendarr.

Vera betrayed no emotion. She never had a good history with healers. The last healer who tried to help set a pack of villagers to kidnap her on her estate. And the last servant of Stendarr placed her for vivisection due to his deep-rooted hatred for what she is and his religion. To ease her mind, Vera glanced over the bill to buy one last drink when she noticed she was being watched.

"The bill won't be too expensive, but it isn't exactly cheap either with that portion there," the large Orsimer told Vera as she dug into her food. "If you're willing to pay for it, I'd be happy to collect the gold right now. At your convenience, of course."

Vera sensed she had her eyes on her the moment she walked in with tattered clothing and worn leather pants. The lack of bruises or cuts in her face would suggest to most that she didn't sustain any injuries but didn't any coin and was a wandering beggar. The Orc woman, who Vera could only guess was proprietor, must have suspected Vera had no coin in her pockets to pay the bill.

She wasn't exactly her prettiest at the moment. Dark circles under her eyes, mud caked on her wild and unkempt hair, shirt and face and water soaking her pants. She was still dripping wet, and yet made no effort to dry herself immedietly. Her small satchel didn't tell others she was an adventuring hero with a lot of gold. But still. Like a book, No one could judge a pack for its cover. Adding to that is the luxurious inn she found herself in, contrasting tremendously with the appearance she gave off.

But Vera was no beggar, and she certainly wasn't poor. For those who knew her when she was "alive" she was indeed wealthy, and inherited territory in the Great Forest. Everything about her life in Cyrodiil—the estate, the clothes, the social calendar was part of her nobility. Her family surrounded themselves with wealth and material comforts; a far cry from the austere lifestyle Vera chose to have.

Life on the run had been hard, but it had kept her strong. And she couldn't help but come to the conclusion that her former life as a daughter of nobility had made her soft. Life was a constant struggle; the strong would need to survive in any way nescessary. But for a mundane noble, a luxurious living would be the what lulled one into a false sense of peace.

As her lover once said, chains were not always made of iron and steel; they could sometimes be woven of expensive silk and gowns. The easy life was a snare as dangerous as any hunter could be. The sense of urgency and the threat of danger had to be constant, and an easy living would only yield the ennui of security and contentment.

Vera flexed her fingers. Her tone suggested a bit of hostility, but it was due to the lack of sleep. "Will it be too expensive?"

"Are you a beggar?" the Orc woman replied.

Vera licked bits of food from her inside her mouth. "Do you see me begging?"

The proprietor rested her hand on her vicious looking club and offered Vera a terryfing smile.

What's the club for? To butcher the horses outside for meat?

The Imperial gulped down the last portion of her drink and reached for her satchel below her feet. She searched for a sack of coin, and retrieved it to set it upon the counter. "I'll pay for it in full. And I want to rent a room for the night. With a bath."

The Orsimer turned the bag upside down and counted all the coins. More than she expected, surely. Vera could not help but wonder what the woman's reaction would be if she discovered this coin was blood-money. She probably would not care. Coin was coin after all. Vera awaited her response before she would decide to go to the library.

“Food,” the Imperial grumbled. She was in no mood to talk. Aravi was fine with that; there were times when she just wanted to be left alone. She looked to the cook who was still there.

“That’s my blackberry crumble. Would you like some?”

“Yes please,” Aravi replied.

Behind her, she heard the door open a few more times to admit more travelers seeking shelter. Aravi didn’t bother to turn and look this time, instead focusing on her meal.

She cut a small portion of meat and ate it, finding it tender and pleasing to her tongue. She sampled the sliced and buttered potatoes and bread next, dipping each into the puddle of gravy on her plate.

A Breton woman came to the bar and started speaking with the barkeep. Every other patron came out of the storm soaking wet, however this woman showed no signs of braving the storm except her windblown clothes and hair. Interesting. I wonder how she managed that? Spells? Aravi listened as she ate her food to the two speak.

“Thank you. I’m Abiene Metonne, of the Great Chapel of Stendar,” the Breton woman said.

Aravi recognized the name. Is this is the woman I’m looking for?

“Are you a priestess?” The bartender asked.

“Oh no, I’m a healer. I pass by here fairly often. I suppose it was high time I stopped in,” Abiene replied.

It’s definitely her. She finished the food in her mouth and wiped her mouth on the cloth napkin before speaking.

“I overheard you speaking to the bartender. You are Abiene Metonne?” Aravi asked.

Kayla quickly ordered a room and sheepishly trudged to it, looking back apologetically at the fellow Altmer with a mop. She set her clothes out to dry and quickly bathed, thankful for the warm air. She dried out another set of clothes, another pair of black pants, and a soft light blue shirt, and threw them on. She came out in a soft pair of moccasins and sat at the bar and watched the bard, a playful grin on her face.

Abiene

As the auburn-haired Altmer joined them at the bar, the armored Khajiit spoke. “I overheard you speaking to the bartender. You are Abiene Metonne?” she asked.

Abiene didn’t have to search her memory to know they hadn’t met. The Khajiit’s white fur and leopard markings were distinctive, and her green eyes reminded Abiene of Lildereth’s.

She smiled. “Yes, I am.”

Bograk

Bograk separated the gold into two piles, pushing one back to the Imperial. Everything had a price, and this filthy woman had more than enough to pay. Even if her voracious appetite continued at breakfast. After all linens could be boiled and furniture scrubbed. Though she hoped the woman would make thorough use of the bath.

The orc made her pile of coins disappear and gestured for Hethilion to bring a bath to the south chamber. His spells would make quick work of the task.

She slid a key to the Imperial. Offering to help with her satchel was likely to just annoy her. “Upstairs on the left. Hethilion will leave the door open for you.”

Bograk hated to leave a customer with that much gold in their purse. “Would you like a nightcap sent up? Tea, a late snack? A bottle of brandy?” She glanced around but didn’t see Stefania.

Laegon began to play his lute, exchanging smiles with the now-clean Altmer guest. That should bring her barmaid sashaying and simpering through the tavern looking for attention. Blast! Where was that girl?

“Yes, I am,” Abiene said.

“I’m Aravi,” she introduced herself and offered her hand to Abiene. “I came from Skyrim looking for you. Two friends, Darnand and Jerric, said you are one of the best healers in Tamriel.”

Abiene

Abiene took Aravi’s hand in both of her own and squeezed affectionately. “Aravi! Of course they have told me about you. I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance!”

The significance of Aravi’s words sank in. A scar on the right side of Aravi’s face was the only evidence of injury that Abiene could immediately see. Skyrim had no lack of healers, so something must have driven her to make the journey.

Abiene spoke softly. A Khajiit would be able to hear her over the tavern racket. “Is something—” she began, but the cook interrupted.

“Mushroom caps and a selection of cheeses with strawberries,” the young woman announced, placing the plates in front of Abiene. She unnecessarily swiped the spotless bar with her towel and rocked back on her heels. Auguste gave her an annoyed glance. “Will you have some apple pie with the cheese? Or blackberry crumble?” The Nord nodded eagerly toward the plates in front of Aravi and the blonde Imperial.

The stuffed mushroom caps were larger than Abiene’s head, and there were two of them. This is a small plate?

“Thank you, but let’s see how much of this I can manage first,” Abiene said. The mushrooms were stuffed with breadcrumbs, grated cheese, chopped onion and more mushroom, and what smelled like very spicy sausage. Abiene gestured to the plate and looked at Aravi. “Would you like some of this? My goodness, it’s nearly enough for Jerric!”

Aravi smiled. They were definitely talking of the same Jerric. “I’m sure she makes her dishes with someone like Jerric in mind! Thanks for the offer, but I have my own plates to worry about. I’ll have enough trouble with this as it is.” She gestured at the meal in front of her, hardly a dent could be perceived. And then there was her dessert. She had to make sure she ate that… maybe she’ll eat it first before continuing with her meal. She took a small sip of her tea.

“What brings Chorrol’s healer out here on a day like this?” Aravi asked. She was hoping to learn a little more about this healer. None of the others could help her, but Darnand assured her that Abiene knew things other healers did not. He refused to elaborate beyond that, but Aravi hoped he was right.

“What brings Chorrol’s healer out here on a day like this?” Aravi asked.

Abiene sipped her wine while she considered how to answer. A frank reply might bring the wrong kind of attention. She settled on part of the truth.

“I’ve been at the Wayshrine of Dibella, south of here in the Great Forest. It’s under the protection of an order that’s familiar to me. I used to live in Anvil, and I know the high priestess and one of the knights from the chapel there.”

Aravi’s face didn’t hold judgment, so Abiene continued.

“The knight is under my care. Their armor is enchanted but quite revealing, and they disapprove of visible scars. You can imagine the difficulty. Anyway, I’ve been doing some… work that has helped me treat her.” She put down her goblet and picked up the cutlery. It would be bad form for a surgeon to fumble slicing up a mushroom. “I decided to walk back to Chorrol, but then this storm! The Great Forest is no place to be when the trees start coming down.” She glanced over at Aravi. There was surely something serious on her mind. She kept her voice soft. “Did you really come all the way from Skyrim to see me?”

Kayla listened to the conversation of the two next to her with little interest, until she heard the names Jerric and Darnand. She waited until there was a lull in the conversation before turning her attention from the handsome lute player to the two women conversing.

"You two know Jerric and Darnand?" She asked the pair. The scent of the food suddenly hit her, and she swiveled all the way around to see the plate. She felt the hollow pang in her stomach and realized she hadn't eaten in a few hours. She stared at the stuffed mushrooms and ordered a plate, along with some water. She turned her attention back to the women.

Abiene blinked up at the Altmer woman with the northern accent. “You know Jerric and Darnand, too?” Her first reaction was astonishment, followed immediately by an irrational surge of jealousy. He’s unlikely to have slept with every woman in the province, she scolded herself. “Did you meet them when they were in Skyrim?” Her face heated with sudden embarrassment. “Forgive me, where are my manners? I’m Abiene Metonne.” She extended a hand. “I met our mutual friends through the Mages Guild when we all lived in Anvil.”

Fedura had closed her eyes in the warmth of the fire, not opening them when the door was once again pushed open and lightning struck outside. She stood in the warmth for a while, ignoring the gazes she could feel upon her body, listening to the conversations that had begun to spring up around the room. For a moment, she almost let her guard down.

Opening her eyes again at the sound of a lute being played, the Dunmer woman folded her cloak together and tied it to the top of her pack, finally turning away from the fire to move up to the bar where several people where already sitting. Two women, a Breton and a Khajiit, were talking to each other. Something she only noted because the female Breton was newly arrived, and her clothing was still dry.

She put the pack against the legs of the chair that she sat down on, making sure it wouldn't be in the way for anyone else. The Orsimer woman came over and introduced herself before handing Fedura a Bill of Fare, which the Dunmer regarded with a puzzled expression.

“I'm sorry, but I cannot see what's written here,” Fedura said with an apologetic smile, and the orc blinked in surprise before telling her what food and drink they sold. “Thank you. I'll have a glass of firebrand wine, a plate with roast mutton and cheese with grapes. I would also like to rent a room for the night if that's possible,” she said after thinking for a moment.

“Of course. Firebrand wine is quite expensive though, are you certain that you can afford it?” Though she could definitely understand the proprietor's concerns, Fedura was still annoyed by her question. The simple armor she wore was very rarely the chosen outfit of someone wealthy, and she had never been all that concerned about her appearance. However, her former occupation had paid well, and a hunter had very few expenses. So she'd taken to allow herself a few luxuries on the rare occasion that she stayed the night at a tavern.

“I'm certain,” she said and smiled, but couldn't quite hide the annoyed tone in her voice. To emphasize her statement, Fedura took the coin-pouch of her belt and held it up before the other woman's eyes, before once again tying it to her waist and looking back at Bograk. “Now, how about that meal?” she queried, and the Orsimer nodded before walking away. Fedura, weary from spending such a long time in the saddle, slumped forward in her seat and used her arms to support herself against the counter of the bar.

Kayla took Abiene's hand and gave it a firm but gentle squeeze. "I'm Kayla. Just Kayla." She gave her a friendly half-smile. "I met Jerric and Darnand at a birthday party for Buffy. I'm not much for girl stuff, but it was a fun party." She let go of Abiene's hand. "I only know them by sight and name, though. We didn't converse much. They left us girls alone while we tried on clothes." She sipped the wine brought to her and smiled at Aravi. "And you're Aravi?"

Aravi was a little surprised by Abiene’s answer. I suppose it was a house call, in a way. She was careful with her expression, she didn’t want Abiene to get the wrong idea. Aravi saw no harm in what Abiene was doing, nor was it really her business to judge.

“Did you really come all the way from Skyrim to see me?” Abiene asked.

Aravi was about to answer when one of the other patrons, the Altmer that drug in all the mud, recognized Jerric and Darnand’s names and spoke up. Aravi listened as Kayla and Abiene introduced themselves.

"And you're Aravi?"

“Yes, nice meeting you Kayla.” She made sure she said the name so that it sticks in her memory. “It seems Jerric and Darnand have made a lot of friends. And did I hear Buffy’s name?"

For the next ten minutes the armored man battled the pelting storm. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the storm was gone, the dark cloud passed on in the breeze.

The Imperial a fearsome sight to behold, but no more so than any mercenary, bounty hunter, or warrior. Clad in a modified armor, he was remarkable more for his height and weight than anything else, but hardly unique in these parts of Cyrodiil.

Ebony plates guarded his shoulders and knees. A menacing helmet, made in the likeness of a snarling black wolf, concealed his entire skull. His eyes hidden behind the wolf’s. A shafron and crinet served as shields for his horse’s head and neck. Steam jetted from the mount’s flaring nostrils. The man pulled back the reins and the horse came to a halt.

Trees lined the sides of the road like columnsof some ancient temple. The air was scented with damn wood and moist dirt. Ever sense alert to both danger and prey, he looked in every direction. He listened closely to the nightly murmurs of the Great Forest in which he hunted ever since he was a young man. Unseen creatures ran through the bush and foliage. Bats flapped around in the skies above and an owl hooted nearby. The wind shuffled away rogue leaves around the legs of the muscular steed. He held his breath, every muscle in his body primed and ready for action.

No obvious threat presented itself, and yet . . .

In the distance he could hear a howl tear through the night. More of a shrieking sound that went forever still. The wind carried over the smell of cold, dead blood and ash. The horse whined.

“Easy,” the man whispered with a smile. “The night spawns the undead. But they aren’t the only terror here.”

Ahead of him was a dimly lit torch and voices. Though he could see far, he strained his vision a bit more to see two Imperial Legionnaires riding horses toward his direction. There was no way they could see him, for it was dark. Unless a lightning strike illuminated the path. The man wanted no contact with the law. Not after he had a bounty on his head. He set his path to the woods so he could go around.

With his sword in its scabbard, the man goaded the horse to spring forward into a gallop through the road. Trees grew out to the side and greedy branches reached out for him, making him grateful for the helm protecting his face. He ducked his head few seconds before an overhanging branch took his head off. A log blocked the path, but the horse vaulted over it with ease.

The horse thundered through the wilderness as he spotted a building in the distance. He could finder shelter there . . .

****

The armored man dismounted off his horse, grabbed his gear( his sword and his shield) and his sack, and marched over to a young Bosmer petting a mare. He was short, as many of the representatives of his kind, but he was nonetheless bold enough to look up to the towering helmeted giant that approached him. He dropped a coin in the hand of the little Bosmer.

“Take care of the steed, boy,” he said. He offered his back and headed to the entrance of the place called The Wobbling Goblet.

He opened the door, and set a foot inside. His heavy metal boot making a loud sound as he entered joined with the music of his armor. He turned toward a High Elf, who was mopping the floor with a soaking mop.

The High Elf was surprised at this man of stature, and glanced at the tall man from head to toe. “What can I do for you?”

“You can start by giving me a warm bed. Surille Brother’s wine, red as blood. All a man needs.” His eyes(concealed from behind the helm) turned from the High Elf to further in the tavern where he saw many faces. An Argonian, two Khajiit, Bretons, an Orc, a Redguard and others. They were mostly female. “And a woman.” He added with a low voice.

Kayla nodded and smiled. "I believe you were absent at your own party." She flicked a still-damp lock of auburn hair from her nose and grinned, hoping the small Khajiit would see she was only teasing. She turned her attention back to the bard and shot him a flirtatious smile before looking back at the women. "It was nice to meet the three of them. What kept you away?"

“…What kept you away?”

Aravi nodded. “I did miss my celebration. I’ll have to find Buffy while I’m down here.” She paused. “I was in Skyrim at the time. There were some vampire problems up there that I was involved in. You sound like you are from Skyrim unless I’m mistaken?” She asked.

Her attention was briefly taken away from Kayla when she heard a crash of armor at the door. She jumped at what she saw; her hand went to her blade. Then she recognized what it was. A man in elaborate armor, not a Wolf. Her face heated up in embarrassment and her ears remained somewhat flat in irritation. She hoped she didn’t make a big stir.

Kayla opened her mouth to answer Aravi when the crash startled both her and Aravi.

'This is precisely why I face the door.' She thought to herself. she had seen the door swing open at the corner of her eye, but the ruckus was completely unexpected. She imagined her entrance was similar to that of the man in wolf armor, but less boisterous. She swung her head back around to make a snarky comment to Aravi about the man's armor, but noticed she was tensed up. She saw the warning signs of stress in Khajiit by way of the flattened ears and the irritated flick of the tail. Kayla shot Aravi another grin.

"Look at that guy, huh? What an entrance! Looks like he startled you too!" She let her eyes brush briefly over Aravi's hand on her blade hilt. She leaned her head on her hands while resting her elbows on the bar, looking at Aravi.

"You know, my mentor, Ma'Dat, his tail and ears did the same thing when I scared him as a child." She laughed, her brown eyes twinkling.

Aravi shook her head and forced herself to relax. She was only partially successful, she still felt energy coursing through her limbs. Her reaction didn’t go unnoticed. “Some Khajiit learn to control it better. Your mentor and I have not,” she said in reply to Kayla.

She turned back to Abiene. "Would you be willing to meet me sometime before you leave tomorrow? I would like to discuss something with you."

Abiene tore her eyes away from the enormous suit of armor in the doorway.

“Of course,” she murmured to Aravi. “I rise early, so check my room when you wake. I won’t leave the inn until we have a chance to speak.” She glanced over at the dark Khajiit in the shadows. He remained leaning against the wall, expression inscrutable. Abiene did not have the sense of danger shared by these warrior women, but Jerric had impressed upon her that she should always have a plan. If that Khajiit made a move toward any guest, she would simply disappear.

“It seems to have stopped raining,” she said, sounding inane to herself. She took a sip of wine.

Abiene couldn’t help glancing back at the Dunmer with the cloudy eyes. She seemed to have no vision, yet somehow she could see. Her healer’s curiosity needled her, but there was no polite way to bring up the subject.

Divines, she suddenly thought. Did Kayla just ask me something? She cast a glare into her goblet. Has Auguste been refilling my wine?

Hethilion

Hethilion stowed his mop and moved toward the bar. “Very good, m’lord,” he said over his shoulder to the wolf-armored man. “A room and a bottle of Surilie Brothers red.” Bograk and Auguste heard and quickly filled the order. Hethilion turned back to their latest guest. “Will you take your wine in your chamber? Shall I send up a meal? Would you care for a bath?” And good luck with the women, he thought to himself.

Kayla raised her brows as Abiene ignored her question. In fact, she ignored her completely, looking into her glass. Kayla shrugged and sighed.

'Women.'

She turned her attention back to the bard who hadn't seemed to take notice of her. She was used to it. Her scars often set men away from her. Especially the long claw marks left by a werewolf on her breasts. She inwardly shrugged. The ones on her face seemed to intimidate men and women alike. She touched the scar extending from the top of her lip down to her chin absently.

Vera sat there as the Orc counted and piled the coins and gestured for the High Elf to make a bath for her. He was still mopping the front when an armored fellow walked in with a heavy thud of his boots.

He was physically imposing, and his spiked shield and sheathed sword were intimidating when held casually. She couldn't imagine what they would do to someone in combat . . .or perhaps she could. She'd seen that shield bash a criminal in the side of the head once, and that sword cleave an outlaw almost in two.

He spoke in a deep, gruff voice and made a specific order for wine, a plate of food, a bed and a woman. Vera turned away from him, picked up the satchel and the key given to her. "I'll have two bottles of Cyrodiilic Brandy." She said without looking directly at the Orsimer.

Vera was heading toward the Altmer housekeeper so that he could lead the way to her room when she caught a whiff of something. A scent that was familiar to her, but faint and distant all the same. She recognized it. In the room there was a wolfen taint of the blood that called other Lycanthropes to others. It did not come from the man who entered, his was too strong. And she knew the scent well. No, this was another.

She disguised her sniffing as if she was catching a cold from the rain, and averted her eyes to the female Khajiit who introduced herself as Aravi. The smell, though faint, came directly from her.

There was confusion in Vera's expression, and she quickly controlled her face when realizing she stood there for too long. She headed toward the stairs to wait for the High Elf. Her hair still dripping wet from the rain, falling over the once-dry floor she stood over. This should surely bring the High Elf to her service soon enough.

As she stood there, she shot a glance at the tall man who entered and watched as he removed his wolfish helmet. The man's true face was worn, but strappingly so. It was full of soot and mud, but not enough to conceal his tanned skin. A short beard and scruffy mustache covered his face. Disorderly black hair fell to his broad shoulders, shielded by dark plates. His eyes were bright with a feverish fire, and his face marred with fresh scars and cuts.

He held his helmet below his arm, and his shield in his other hand. His bad remained by his foot.

“Will you take your wine in your chamber? Shall I send up a meal? Would you care for a bath?”

The only room this man needs to be is in my room, Vera thought. And I've already paid for the damn bath . . .

"I'll take the wine now," the man said in a commanding voice. "I'll eat the meal here."

Vera climbed the steps, and left the man downstairs. It has been awhile since he's been in the company of so many women.

Lucky for the women . . . Vera murmured to herself in her mind. Considering how many he's put in the dirt in his life and beyond, though some uninentionally. It didn't matter though. Knowing him, there won't be bloodshed this night. Not after what happened days ago. If anything, they wisest choice would be shying away from violence. Especially with a Legion guard in the tavern. She wasn't exactly an unwanted woman, and the armored man was also being sought after in other regions of Cyrodiil.

Vera climbed the stairs further, and up into the halls.

“Thank you,” Aravi murmured to Abiene. Aravi appreciated her discretion and she felt relieved that she might finally have a cure.

She looked beside her and saw the Imperial woman had left. She turned her head and saw the woman’s back heading up the stairs.

Aravi looked back at Kayla, and saw her absently touching one of the many scars on her face. She didn’t get those scars living a peaceful life. Aravi couldn’t help but touch the one on her cheek briefly. The contrast of the fur and scar tissue always felt interesting to her. She put her hand down quickly.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what is it that you and Ma’Dat do?”

Kayla almost didn't hear Arabi's question.

"Oh, what do we do? Vampire hunters. We''re sworn to the service of Meridia. He picked me up with the rest of the cult when my town was-" she stopped and cleared her throat.

"That is, he's a father figure to me after my own passed away. Left by my Altmer parents to be raised by Nords to be raised the rest of the way by Ma'Dat. It's actually S'Dat now, but to me, he's Ma'Dat." She gave Aravi a half grin. "I even got a fresh wound defeating a vampire right before I stepped into this inn. Little one." She pointed to the gash on her cheek that had finally clotted. "What about you, Aravi?"

Lycus Desselius mentally thanked the tavern’s patrons for staying up this night. He needed a place to rest, and the rain wasn’t exactly good for his armor and quiver of arrows. As he entered further he was greeted by a rush of hot air. He basked in the sudden warmth as he looked about his surroundings with an inspective and intense focus. The interior of the tavern was luxurious. The patrons sat on wooden chairs and stools in front of the bar. Candles and lanterns glowed atop the tables, while a lamp glowed from the ceiling. Sawdust covered the floor. Old barrels were stacked in the corners. A High Elf bard played a soothing tune with his lute, the group of women talked amongst themselves at the bar, and others were on their way to prepare his order.

Lycus headed toward the bar, shield and helmet in hand, stepping with a measured pace that failed to hide the loud clanking of his metal boots. There were open seats left, and he took one to the far side of the room near an armored figure. Quite truthfully he wasn’t in the mood to speak too much, but he was given no choice. He was hungry, and he didn’t want to cast suspicion to him by hiding as a craven criminal.

He set down his shield and set his helmet on the bar just below his face. He removed a sack of coin and set it on the table as well. A man came and gave him a bill, and Lycus murmured his order to the bartender.

“Grilled ham and mushrooms, and extra potatoes.”

He leaned back and looked around him, slightly frowning. His frown grew only deeper when he saw that he was seated next to a white-eyed Dunmer woman. Lycus remembered living in the Dunmer lands for three and a half years as a slave to the cruel dark elves. He recalled the vivid memories of wandering the lifeless wastes of Vvardenfel. Most of the areas he's been to were nothing but dirt and rock. It was an ugly, ravaged terrain: by all rights it should have been without life. And yet the lands teemed with desperate creatures and people scratching and clawing to carve out a meaningful existence for themselves. And though Lycus despised his life as a slave, he learned to accept it. His brutal childhood in Cyrodiil and savage upbringing in the ebony mines and saltrice plantations in Morrowind made him fight to survive had helped forge his desire for victory. Molded him from a slave who had nothing into a warrior.

But while the land and his brutal masters helped give him an advantage in life, the crimes and atrocities of the Dunmer could not go unpunished. Blood demanded blood. Those were the days were the oppressed took it upon themselves to become the oppressors. Where greed, vengeance and bloodlust triumphed over sympathy.

Those days, however, are long past, but the scars yet linger within the wounded. And Lycus was seated next to one of the Dunmer, a race who were one of his greatest problems time and time again. There were ashlanders, and native Dunmer and provincials. He could not tell who the woman beside him was, but couldn’t help but be darkly curious about it. He'd heard of the atrocities the Argonians commited against the Telvanni before the land itself was destroyed in due payment. While there were few Dunmers in the world, he knew some might belong to the Great Houses. And such, retribution would have to be swift.

“A long way from Ruhn(home), is it not?” Lycus said in an almost fluent Dunmeri. “Julan bal isra gah foyada. Va at mer kogo. Oegnithr, ven asta mora. Bete goris, nagrai ae anyai."(The land where ones rows life in the great fire river. The land where people are unbreakable. Bad change, coming to this forest. Strange creatures, dead and alive.”

Aravi looked at the fresh cut. “A vampire near the inn?” she kept her voice down, she didn’t want other patrons overhearing, and deciding that they should leave. If there were vampires about, they would be safer here until morning arrived. “I’m a member of a relatively new organization in Skyrim. They call themselves the Dawnguard. Before that I worked with a small group based in the Imperial City. I’m a vampire hunter as well.” She looked at the gash again on Kayla’s face again. “Do you need a cure disease potion?”

Kayla followed Aravi's lead and kept her voice low. She adjusted herself on the bar to where she was still leaning on the bar, but also leaning towards Aravi. Her eyes glittered with interest.

"Dawnguard, huh?" She bit her lower lip in thought. "I've heard that name before. Never joined, as I've got...well, just Ma'Dat now, but we used to have about thirty of us in the cult before old age and, well, job hazards claimed them." She straightened up and casually looked around the room, pretending to comb some tangles from her hair as she leaned towards Aravi.

"I've got plenty of potions. I make my own. I've even learned to make a poison strong enough to paralyze a vampire. Comes in handy when you're lopping off their head." She let out a bark of laughter. "They're less grabby when they're on the ground. Thanks, though." She gave Aravi a genuine smile.

When her meal arrived a while later, Fedura smiled and thanked the woman who'd set it down before her. A sip of the wine immediately sent warmth through her body, and she was just about to take her first bite of mutton when the door opened again and the heavy noise of metal armor reached her ears. Turning slightly in her seat, she quickly evaluated the newcomer, a man wearing steel armor and a helmet shaped like a dogs' head. He was a warrior, that much she could see at first glance, but whether he was a possible threat or not was another matter entirely.

She turned back to the bar, having only looked long enough to know the appearance of the one who entered, and continued to eat her meal. Savoring the well-cooked meal, she was surprised when a shield, the dog-shaped helmet and a sack of coin was set down on the counter next to her. When the man, after sitting next to her for a short while, addressed her in Dunmeri, Fedura was hard pressed not to gape at the man. Having barely heard the language for the last two centuries, she was silent for a moment as she tried to remember exactly what it meant, and how to answer him.

“That depends on where home is, and I have none at present,” she said in Dunmeri as she turned her head towards the man, seeing that he was an Imperial with black hair and beard, and many scars on his face. Her language was far from fluent, but she could salvage enough from her memory so as to get on pretty well in a conversation. “I have been so long away from Morrowind that I barely remember it. Meeting someone who speaks Dunmeri is rare, and you speak it much better than I. If I may ask, how did you come to learn the language?” she asked finally, and continued eating as she waited for him to answer.

Abiene stared at Kayla, astonished again. A poison that can paralyze vampires? She must be an alchemist of tremendous skill!

She waited for a pause in the conversation. “Do you suppose the one you killed was alone? I mean, this inn is possibly the safest place in Tamriel tonight with all of you warriors, but I fear for the farmers of Weynon Priory.”

Abiene twisted her fingers in her lap. The cut on Kayla’s face was bothering her. Some wear their scars as badges of honor, she reminded herself. And some have good reason to avoid a healer’s touch.

Kayla looked at Abiene and nodded. "He was the last of five. Persistent bastard. You okay there?" she saw Abiene wringing her hands. "They were on a cave a little ways down the road, off the beaten path. I took care of them."

Auguste

Vampires outside the inn, thought Auguste. Great. He dunked two tankards through the wash water and swiftly rubbed them dry.

The barmaid sauntered in from the tea room. She dipped a shoulder at Laegon and leaned on the end of his bar.

“Nothing to do, Stefania?” Auguste stashed the tankards and sloshed two goblets into his basin.

“All of my customers left when the rain let up,” Stefania pouted. “No more tips for me.”

“Go get some plates from Yetta.” Auguste nodded at the Imperial in dark armor. “That man is waiting for his meal.”

He gritted his teeth as she loitered for another moment. He hated correcting staff in front of the customers, and Stefania was on his last nerve.

Finally she headed into the kitchen.

Lycus pulled off the heavy gauntlet that dressed each of his hands, and set them aside. The Breton barman slid a bottle of wine to Lycus, and shortly after the large Imperial was given his food by a younger Imperial girl. A rather fetching Imperial girl . . . delicate and innocent looking, but with an attitude that was normal for girls of her age.

He'd met plenty of girls her age, plenty of times. And it was only a bad habit that he stared with a fiery and intense look that suggested nothing friendly. Noticing the girl was unnerved, he kept staring even more until she slid the plate and hurried off.

The food was simple, but beautifully prepared and Lycus ate his fill. And with a stern voice, he looked to the bartender. “Who here can polish my armor and my shield?” he inquired with a mouthful of food.

He pushed away the cup given to him, and took the bottle in his hand and gulped down the drink. The white-eyed Dunmer woman spoke to him as he chugged the drink.

"An wanderer," Lycus said in a sigh as he set down the half-full bottle of wine. “Morrowind is not a safe place for any traveler. Not since the explosion. Not since the Argonians sacked the place. You'd be surprised to find others who still speak your people's language.” He gazed around the bar, and at the patrons and returned his eyes to the Dunmer. “I spent some time with your people there. Learned Dunmeri. Not many of them speak the tongue.” He swallowed his food before adding. "You're native to Morrowind or were you spawned elsewhere?”

Hethilion

Hethilion hustled up the steps and past the still-dripping Imperial, a bottle of brandy in each hand. “This way if you please, mistress.”

Inside the chamber he placed the brandy on a small table. He uncorked one bottle and then paused, uncertain. Does she plan to drink both bottles? Is one for her journey? Should I bring a bucket in case she needs to vomit later? Eventually he placed the corkscrew on the table. She looked like a woman who could manage a cork on her own, if necessary.

The large copper bathing tub stood on its end in a corner. Hethilion cast a Feather spell and moved it easily into position near the fireplace. He swiftly put the arming racks and clothing stand into their places and dropped a bathing mat beside the tub.

“You will find towels and bathing cloths in the cupboard,” he said, bringing more spells to mind.

One hand held palm-downward over the tub cast a spell that turned the air within it to water, while the other heated it until steam began to curl up from the surface.

Hethilion clicked his heels together in self-satisfaction and turned, tucking his arms behind his back in a formal gesture that belied his coarse attire.

“Shall I light the fire?” he asked.

Auguste

The big Imperial gave Stefania a look that should have stripped the meat from her bones. Auguste smiled to himself as she scuttled away. A few more scares like that might put some sense into her head, he thought. I’d hate to find her tied up behind the barn some morning.

“Who here can polish my armor and my shield?” the man demanded. Auguste resisted the urge to check behind him for the army he must be addressing.

“Lleris,” Auguste said as the Imperial downed half the bottle of wine. The man turned and spoke to the blind Dunmer without replying.

Auguste stepped to the kitchen door. Stefania was there taking refuge with Yetta. “Go find that kid,” he told her. “The big fetcher wants his armor polished. I’d stay away from him if I was you, or he might have you polishing something else.”

Stefania lifted her chin and flounced out the back door.

Yetta glared at him from her spot by the water kettle.

“What?” Auguste asked. He trotted back to his bar, shaking his head. The skirts hung together in this establishment.

Vera The Huntress.

Vera followed behind the Altmer who sped past her to lead the way. Each of his hand holding the brandy she requested a few minutes earlier. She stepped aside as they entered the room, and stood watch when he set the two bottles on the table. Uncorking one while uncertain whether to try and open the second. Vera was glad he didn't open the second one. She was saving that for a special occasion.

The Imperial folded her arms at her chest and waited as the High Elf used a spell to levitate the tub from its place, and maneuvered it toward the fireplace. He added a clothing rack near the large tub, that was placed near the fireplace. A mat was dropped just beside the bathrub to avoid getting the floor wet.

Anymore than it already is?

Vera was aware those who worked in this tavern prized efficient work and luxurious quality above else, and the friendly atmosphere was not missed. The huntess noticed from the moment she walked in that the entire place had a calm, soothing air to it. Unlike most of the taverns and inns she'd been to. Then again, Vera was never in the company of good, calm people. Though she was still sure some of the women in the floor below had their own stories and problems, and of course skills in a school of combat despite their warm demeanour.

The Hethilion told her she would find towels and bathing attire in the cupboard. Then he used another spell, and used it inside the tub. Miracuously turning the air into water! Years ago Vera would have dropped her jaw for seeing such a thing. Living in her home most of the time, and in the Fighter's Guild, she rarely saw mages or skilled spellcasters work their wonders. But as a seasoned woman who's been to the other side and seen countless things, she wasn't entirely impressed. But she was, of course, pleased.

The cold water began to boil, and steam rose up from the surface of the filled tub. He then held his arms behind his back, moved in a fancy gesture, and inquired if she would like to have the fire lit.

Vera turned to the fireplace, and stared. Then she turned back to the Altmer and nodded. She reached into her pocket, and grabbed the single coin given to her from the Orc proprietor. She flicked the gold piece into the air, and expected the Altmer to catch it.

"For your services, elf." She said. "Hell of a job you do here."

Fedura Hlaalu took another sip from her glass as the man spoke, then continued to eat her mutton. It was filling and warm, seasoned with spices that she rarely had the opportunity to taste, and she did not hurry in consuming her meal, even though hunger had been nagging at her for a long time. Impatience or hurrying could result in suspicion towards her, something that Fedura did not wish to happen.

Her eyes shifted between the man next to her and her meal as she ate, observing him and trying to learn more about the man. He was a warrior, that much was obvious with the confident way he moved in the heavy armor, and he was also experienced. One of the inhabitants of the room who could prove to be a threat, for she still could not judge his character. And he spoke of Morrowind, a place which she held no memory of, and had never had any great wish to visit. All she knew of her homeland was what she'd heard and read.

"You're native to Morrowind or were you spawned elsewhere?” The question almost caused a frown to come upon her face. Spawned, who used that kind of language in polite company? As if a child was a daedra or some other abomination. Perhaps he did not much care for people, or perhaps he did not like her race in particular. It was hard for her to tell, and she did not give voice to the question that lingered in her mind.

“I was born in Morrowind, though I have no memory of it, as I did not live there long. And I have had no inclination to return to the place since, as I'm much too fond of the woods,” she said, uttering a half-truth that was vague, yet not impolite. Her white eyes looked right at him as she spoke, and she only turned them away from him to drink of the wine. “And what of you? From where do you hail?” she asked as soon as the drink had slipped down her throat and she turned her eyes to the human again briefly, before resuming the consumption of her meal.

Abiene

“You okay there?” Kayla asked. “They were in a cave a little ways down the road, off the beaten path. I took care of them.”

Abiene smoothed her palms over her skirt. “That’s good to know. All of my defenses are against mortal threats, and I don’t often need to use them. I wouldn’t have the first idea what to do if I met a vampire. I mean, they can smell a mortal’s blood, can’t they? And an invisibility spell wouldn’t keep one from hearing a frightened heart beating.” She glanced at her plate and then back up at the Altmer. “Kayla, I know we’ve just met, but may I offer you some of these mushrooms? Look, I haven’t even touched this one.” She leaned in a little. “And don’t look now, but that lute player has been glancing over here at you. Should I ask him to play a song?”

I wish I could make poisons that strong. Aravi imagined what something that potent would do against a common bandit. Best not waste something that valuable against those pests.

Abiene’s reaction to the news of the vampire was exactly what she feared and hoped to avoid. Hopefully nobody else heard. Aravi was glad to hear the nest was taken care of, otherwise she would feel obligated to keep watch rather than rest for the night. She heard there were hot baths available and she intended on taking full advantage of the luxury. She imagined the hot water erasing all the aches and pains from her body. I wonder if they have bath oils? She would certainly ask, she loved the way her fur looked and felt after a bath with oils.

Abiene pointed out the lute player and Aravi watched for Kayla’s reaction.

~Lycus Desselius~

Lycus finished his fill with the hunger of a ravenous hound, and he gave no room for proper breathing. He picked off the remaining pieces of ham and mushroom with his dirty finger, and pushed the plate aside when there was nothing left but sauce.

There was no telling of the Dunmer woman who sat beside him other than she was a rogue, and was no stranger to combat. Not many Dunmers who were born in Morrowind and left shared in their native people's ideals. Outsiders, as the Dunmers always say, are people who do not belong in their lands. Even their own race born or raised in other provinces were outlanders.

She told him how she was fond of the woods, and not the barren ashland that use to be her people's home. Lycus drank his wine and slammed the bottle down. "You must be part Bosmer." Lycus muttered.

In the backround he heard conversations about the local nosferatu just a close distance outside of the tavern. It didn't surprise him. At this time of night, and with the storm, mortals made easy prey. In a stormy night no one could hear one scream, and in the Great Forest, it never really mattered.

The ones he'd encountered were feral creatures, howling and screeching in dark caverns. But there were those certain ones who could walk in a tavern dressed as a man and wearking the skin of a mortal. Those were the worse, and they had no issues with ordering the deaths of their own kind in hopes of securing territory or to conceal themselves. Lycus' woman once took a job from one of these noble vampires, to kill a man and also clear out a cavern filled with his own that was giving him too many issues. And personally, they were of no grievence to him. Lest they sniffed him out and revealed to others that he himself was not a mere mortal man.

"I hail from these lands," he told the Dunmer woman without looking at her directly. "But I've been just about everywhere and seen just about everything."

Weary from travel, and with a stomach full of food and wine, Lycus got to his feet and craned his neck from side to side, giving an audible crack. Of course, as any man would be who rode on a horse for days, he wanted nothing more right now but to sleep. An a full stomach paved the way for exhaustion. The brutish-looking Imperial grunted as he stepped grabbed his helmet, reached for the bottle of Surille brother's wine to drink and was slightly dissapointed that it was empty. Without pausing to even think, he threw out his hand and picked up the dunmer woman's Firebrand wine from beneath her and gulped down all of its contents. The new taste and the warm burn exploded in his mouth, and down his throat. His stomach felt hotter, too. With a gesture, he tossed away the empty glass bottle into the fire.

"I've been riding from Leyawiin. Took me days. Such a trip drains a man." He said, though it was more of a lie. He'd come from Anvil. He didn't want the Legion woman in the room to take notice of him, or have clues that he was a wanted man, though it would take four days or so for the word of his crime to reach the ears of those in that area. As far as he was concerned, they were still searching for him along the Gold Coast, and were inclined to believe he'd taken a ship to Hammerfell by now. Still, it didn't hurt to be careful. "Keep your eyes open. They say vampires are about, and I doubt these wenches too care of the last of them, if they did anything at all." He whispered in a coarse, mocking tone that only the dark elf woman or those with extremely good hearing could hear.

Whatever conversation he had could wait until tomorrow after he was rested. If he'd make it to tomorrow, that is. The owls and the creatures outside would keep him from sleep, and the noise and beating hearts of the talkative women would keep him awake all night. And of course, there was that one thing that would never let him sleep even after he's been riding half through Cyrodiil.

She'd better allow me to sleep it off, he thought. I'm not in the mood for it tonight.
Satisfied, the Imperial grabbed his shield and looked about for . . . what was his name? Lorkis? Larhist? Lheris?

"Lleris!" Lycus called out gruffly.