A world away from the scenes of suffering, their sanctuary was as close to an oasis as current times would allow. Pleasing aromas and the sounds of merriment filled the air, carrying its infectious mood throughout the sites dedicated to maintaining this mirage of peace and fulfilment. An arm rose amongst the tight huddle hugging a wooden bar, the patches beneath its opposite elbow looking well worn, like it hadn’t seen the light in an hour or three. There were a few hesitations to heed the summons on the staff’s behalf, though none that would create a minute-long divide between the raised hand and the sustenance its owner sought. It was a request made especially difficult to meet, considering the trading restrictions imposed by the current conflict, but to try and explain that would be to sing fine poetry to a sow without ears. If this foreigner was not associated with the new, more welcome, arrivals from Stros M'kai, their orders would've been tended to simply out fear of having something broken. Wearing creases in her otherwise flawless, honey-like complexion, the bar-maid who drew the short straw delivered three bottles of exotic mead. She pushed aside a braid that hung by her lips, to ask if they had other needs that required her attention; wishing for the answer that relesed her. Without giving a reply, or so much as a nod of thanks, the pale stranger snatched the bottles in haste, making the stacks of empty tankards and clear glasses veer threateningly upon the tray she held. In outrage, the native woman settled it on the counter, curled her lip and let her teeth show, unafraid, for the moment, of having them forcibly removed. The matter was swiftly set fire to and forgotten about, however, when a friendly pair of hands guided her towards the dancefloor. Another hand, the same smooth and rich colour as what the tavern majority drank, reached out towards the foreigner, hoping to receive one in return. The blue-eyed stranger didn't pause, she opened the bottle with her teeth, spat the cork into the man’s palm and drained the bottle in a single turn. The man walked away in disgust, leaving Thyra to the company of her mead and a chuckling barkeep. Barbarians from the Far North were not known for their sunny dispositions.

Adding to her burdensome thoughts of yester-years, the regrets that resisted the plying of a stiff drink began to strip away layers from the inner walls, separating between them and her reflections. Every piece represented a failed argument against her being responsible for the death of their youngest member. It was an unnecessary practice, to review those final moments with criticism for every action taken, and inaction imagined, as if the cross was hers alone to bear. She twisted an arm back, demanding another drink, and felt the weight of her axe pulling at the belt holding up her loose pants. When Zaveed initiated the attack, Thyra became so consumed by the want to destroy, it rendered her oblivious to the need to protect. She could have left the gore where it was, instead of spending the first night scrubbing the axe’s head in a determined frenzy, since it was all she could see on it now. Shadows swayed in the candlelight, mimicking the movements of those on their feet. She imagined them to be the warring sides of her reasoning; flame-like and uncontained, lacking a definitive shape. There was no point in caring now, since the time for that had fallen way behind and below her footsteps out of that cave. Her drinks became almost as dark as her thoughts, and then twice as bitter - though the selection of rum was mostly on the endorsement of a confident Breton. She hit the bottom many times, ordering a refill, never quite reaching a sure conclusion. Before the hour was up, she could feel an inner fire blazing a trail through her heart, spreading heat through each limb and to the apples of her cheeks. The ache of restlessness wouldn’t let her ignore this flux of energy, but at the same her thoughts were too fleeting to provide her body any instruction, so she acted on instinct. Uprooting herself from the darker corner of the front bench, she made towards the exit with a slightly tilted gait, swinging from one footstep to the other. She threw her weight at the stubborn obstacles in her path, which caused a mild ruckus, and either fell or was guided through the entryway. In one hand was the thin neck of a bottle of something potent, and in the other was a stouter form belonging to the man unlucky enough to catch her. She blinked at him a few times, caught in the green shade of his eyes that appeared to glow when viewed against his bronze skin. In under a minute, she caught onto the gist of his crooked grin and shoved him away.

“Not for you, laddie,” she slurred, and stumbled to a stop, working to regain her composure. It didn’t successfully stave off his advance, though, so she moved to specify her intentions more clearly. “I’m here for [i]her[/i].” She took a fistful of his cotton shirt, a shade lighter than the navy one she wore, glared at him and pointed to a person completely detached from the scene. The message was undoubtedly misunderstood, and her orientation might forever be in question, but it served its purpose. The air tasted smoky, and although it was an improvement to the swathe of heat pulsing within the tavern, it clung stubbornly to her skin. She kept pulling at the vest and undershirt the locals insisted she wear to ‘blend in’. They bore the elaborate stitchings and light textures that were typical of Hammerfell’s casual style of dress, yet the humidity made her sweat as if she still donned the steel armour packed away in her foot locker. She dropped herself next to a smallish woman, whose focus was divided between the artful throwing of burning sticks and a the product of sticks when processed. Thyra never understood the appeal of study or theatre, viewing the arts as something Bretons and Imperials liked to squander their time on. She did, however, study the fire-dancers’ rhythmic movements, and suddenly found herself comparing them to the suggestive swagger of a certain tall-haired, Breton king in tights. The Nord also found herself admitting that he was strangely attractive, and to that she immediately threw her shot glass away and drank straight from the bottle. Of all the things to remember from that time, Jareth should be among the last and most forbidden.

“Drink?” Thyra’s offer was blunt and seemed more like a demand, the way she thrust the bottle towards the woman next to her.