The snow fell relentlessly from the heavens above towards the lights of Windhelm. It was cold, practically barren and desolate. This, however, was not unusual in the city of Windhelm. It was always cold, and likely would be for ages to come.
The interior of Candlehearth Hall was only a small difference in warmth as opposed to the snowy alternative. Anyone with half a brain would head straight to the fireplace upstairs. However, the fireplace was surrounded by a group of Nords, about five or six of them, clad in simple steel armor. Their leader appeared to be a full seven feet in height, wearing a full set of steel plate armor, other than the helmet.
One of the simple-clad ones, a rather shrewd, shifty looking Nord amongst the others turned his head. "Gray-skin!" he bellowed, "Play us a song! The Age of Oppression, eh?"
The small, blue-skinned Dunmer stepped forward, biting her tongue as she brandished her lute, performing the requested song. She was beatiful, both physically and in voice, Dunmer as she was. A table of drunken soldiers across the room tried to sing along, though with little success. On the ground floor, one could find three, perhaps four patrons, though many had made their way upstairs.
Lysander Fleetwood, dressed in the distinguishable armor of the Thieves Guild, sat at one of the corner tables, eyeing the bard. She was pleasant to the eye, he had to admit, even if the was Dunmer. His gaze turned to the brutish, armored Nords standing about the fireplace. He flashes his confident, trademark smirk. They seem stupid enough, he thought to himself, the big one seems an easy enough mark.
He stood, slowly making his way over. To the eyes of any other patron, it appeared as though he were simply passing by the brood of Nords. However, as he passed by the seven-foot Nord, he curled his hand about his coinpurse, tugging at it ever so slightly.
Much to Lysander's surprise, the Nord turned, a mad look in his eye as he saw Lysander's hand about his coinpurse. He grasped Lysander by the scruff of his collar, raising him nearly a foot in the air. The other Nords in his company brandished their steel swords and axes, now turned fully to provide their leader with back-up. "You try to steal from me?! No sneak-thief steals from Tormir Giants-Blood and lives to tell the tale!"
Lysander found that his throat was constricted. He could barely breathe. As he choked and wheezed for breath, he reached out, perhaps in an attempt to grab at Tormir, though with very little success.
The interior of Candlehearth Hall was only a small difference in warmth as opposed to the snowy alternative. Anyone with half a brain would head straight to the fireplace upstairs. However, the fireplace was surrounded by a group of Nords, about five or six of them, clad in simple steel armor. Their leader appeared to be a full seven feet in height, wearing a full set of steel plate armor, other than the helmet.
One of the simple-clad ones, a rather shrewd, shifty looking Nord amongst the others turned his head. "Gray-skin!" he bellowed, "Play us a song! The Age of Oppression, eh?"
The small, blue-skinned Dunmer stepped forward, biting her tongue as she brandished her lute, performing the requested song. She was beatiful, both physically and in voice, Dunmer as she was. A table of drunken soldiers across the room tried to sing along, though with little success. On the ground floor, one could find three, perhaps four patrons, though many had made their way upstairs.
Lysander Fleetwood, dressed in the distinguishable armor of the Thieves Guild, sat at one of the corner tables, eyeing the bard. She was pleasant to the eye, he had to admit, even if the was Dunmer. His gaze turned to the brutish, armored Nords standing about the fireplace. He flashes his confident, trademark smirk. They seem stupid enough, he thought to himself, the big one seems an easy enough mark.
He stood, slowly making his way over. To the eyes of any other patron, it appeared as though he were simply passing by the brood of Nords. However, as he passed by the seven-foot Nord, he curled his hand about his coinpurse, tugging at it ever so slightly.
Much to Lysander's surprise, the Nord turned, a mad look in his eye as he saw Lysander's hand about his coinpurse. He grasped Lysander by the scruff of his collar, raising him nearly a foot in the air. The other Nords in his company brandished their steel swords and axes, now turned fully to provide their leader with back-up. "You try to steal from me?! No sneak-thief steals from Tormir Giants-Blood and lives to tell the tale!"
Lysander found that his throat was constricted. He could barely breathe. As he choked and wheezed for breath, he reached out, perhaps in an attempt to grab at Tormir, though with very little success.
