Once the door to the tavern was opened, the full brunt of the smells and sounds hit Finnen like that skooma-head in Riften a couple years back. Which is to say, it wasn’t too good. The smell, at least. Twenty people packed into a hot tavern smelling of sweat and road-stink was nothing Finnen liked but he probably smelled of it himself, so that made it fine, he reckoned. He took his place in a corner, overlooking the entirety of the tavern. His eyes took in the information they needed, the wench from earlier pulling the same act she did with him on some other man, a lot of people conversing. It seemed the recruits who’d just signed up were flooding the tavern with their shit, raising tankards and flagons to the Alessians. The waitress walking up to him and asking what he wanted to eat. Today wouldn’t be as bad as he first thought, he guessed.
 
“What’ll it be, love?” She asked.
 
“You have pork?” Finnen asked, throwing his hood back and scratching at his scalp.
 
“We have chicken in a stew. Everyone’s already eaten the pork we had yesterday.” She looked up at him from her parchment, “I wouldn’t be too far off in thinking you want chicken?”
 
Finnen nodded, “And wine.”
 
“We have mead.”
 
“Of course you do.” Chicken was alright. Too lean to be eating if one was traveling, especially on foot. He’d have to ask Quarivien if they were allowed to steal any horses they’d find when the time to leave came. The waitress disappeared from sight to fetch his food and he quietly waited. A small commotion was heard before all the sound in the tavern died down. Someone shouted something about a no-good elf. His brow raised and he looked around for Quarivien or Syndelius in the crowd. Finding neither, he was somewhat relieved before the mer in question was sent tripping to the ground in front of him. The mer looked him in the eyes and Finnen looked back. They shared the moment as a heavy boot came down on his head. He couldn’t have been older than what Men would call sixteen summers.
 
“You have a problem with how we deal with filth here, son?” The old gray-bearded Nord asked.
 
The Bosmer on the ground stirred, letting out a groan. Silence, the whole room thick with it. Finnen didn’t know what to make of it, but the elf-boy was young. Too young to wrong anyone. For a second, he saw a different person on the ground under that Nord and it made him want to cut the Nord’s pride from him. It’d be easy, confront him like a man, get in his face, too close for him to do anything. Last second, go for the heart, or move to the right, stab lung, go behind, femoral cut, then stab for spine, watch him writhe. Lots of blood.
 
“No. But don’t you think spilling blood in a place of celebration on a day of the same mood is bad luck?” He offered, he even went so far as to spit at the elf, “Leave, trash.”
 
The deed tasted bitter. Chicken was good. Mead was fine. His food and drink came and he took a seat with his back to the wall afterwards as the commotion started back up, the crack-voiced bard kept crooning out a song about the Alessians probably written just the night before and the Nord nodded to Finnen before slinking back to his friends.

Jartod moved backed into town after a sucessful hunt, holding various pelts and meat from the animals he had slain. He looked around Falkreath as he saw the city still bustling with action. 

"Hmph, so many people in this hellhole?" Thought Jartod has he went to the General Store

"Welcome back, Redguard!" Exclaimed the Imperail Storeowner

"Three wolf pelts, two foxes, one deer pelt and a moose pelt with some Fox and deer meat." Stated Jartod, looking the Imperaial in her eye.

"Hm... good quality...75 Septims?" Asked the storeowner.

"Make it 80." Stated Jartod

"Sold!" Exclaimed The Imperial, placing the furs to the side. 

It seemed petty to use the guise of a hunter to gain informaiton on the whereabouts of money in Falkreath, but Jartod didn't have any choices to begin with.

"What are the main trades in Falkreath?" Asked Jartod as he picked up his coins

"Well, you have wood mills all over the place, the one that really does have a major stake is owned by a nord." Stated the female as she placed the furs to the side, " Wood and Furs is all we have, a few odd mines here and there but other than that, nothing really that big on that front."

Before the store owner could look to the side, Jartod was gone.

Jartod looked left and right at Falkreath, has he slowly moved off towards the tavern to gather more information on the mill. The Mill, if in his hands would help him generate profits but also allow him to set up a disguise for himself, not only that but it could allow him to learn about where the gold in Falkreath is heading to, and who is getting it mostly.

Finnen occupied himself with eating and drinking. Nothing like a room temperature mead to wash down tough, dry chicken and bland stew. He did have to admit that after days on the road, stew and mead were a very welcome change. He caught sight of his tall companion enter the tavern and spared a glance to the Nords from earlier. He hoped the Nords wouldn't try to start any trouble, but their anger seemed to only extend to that of the mer races. As he looked at the tall Redguard, Finnen nodded for him to sit in the chair next to him. It was a risk being seen associating, but he wouldn't make it obvious. He wondered why he hadn't seen the Redguard about town while he was here, though he'd hardly left the tavern. Once the Redguard sat, Finnen, without looking at Jartod, spoke, "Tell me, what are you doing with your day, Redguard?"

Jartod seemed to sit right beside Finnen, he nodded to the barkeep , before saying to the Breton right beside him. " I hunt for a living Breton, what about you?" said Jartod, before he looked to the keep. " Three bottles of ale, two for me and one for this man right here, also place a good Vension stew on the pit and some nice Vension as well, two pieces" stated Jartod. Jartod then grabbed a piece of paper nearby , with a quill also in reach. He wrote in cursive, the message:

"I Need help with an task, meet me outside of the Tavern when you're ready "

Jartod folded the paper up into a perfectly square piece, before he tossed it on the ground nearby for Finnen to reach.

" I think you dropped something Breton." stated Jartod

Finnen smiled to the Redguard, craning his neck to look up at him before leaning down and snatching the paper up, "I fear it is time I retire. I wish you good luck with your endeavors. Until we meet again, Redguard."

With that, Finnen returned to his room to get some actual rest after reading the hasty but neat note, unlike the excuse for it they settled for on the way to Falkreath. Sleep took him easily and he woke up not an hour later, feeling good enough. He stepped out into the barroom of the inn and did not spot Jartod. He assumed he was outside and made his way in that direction. Once he stepped outside, he took in a lungful of the forest air. The sounds of the smithy emanated not far away and people mingled and meandered to and fro to different areas of the town. He hardly had to look before he spotted the tall Redguard. Finnen watched for any nosy people and, spotting none, he made his way past the Redguard, "Follow at a distance." he said as he kept walking.

Once he slipped around a corner out of the way of the main traffic coming through the town, he addressed his companion, "You need my help?"

Jartod sipped the bottle of ale, nodding to the Breton

"Let's get straight to the point shall we? "

Jartod pulled out a crude map of the area around Falkreath, a place circled probaly a good 2-3 times laid on the map. Underneath, the words "DEADWOOD LUMBER MILL" were there.

"To gain acess to the economy of Falkreath, I somehow have to appear to be a major player. With some research and asking here and there, there's a huge mill, owned by a Nord. Rumor has it, this Nord is a Stormcloak, thus Alessian Empire Sympathiser. I want to somehow gain access to the deed of the mill, my thoughts are either a forgery copy in the real deeds location, steal it or murder.. thoughts?" 

[i]Or we could save time and blow it all to Oblivion,[/i] Finnen mused, "I vote we blow the pile of stone and wood to the void, Redguard. Gaining access to the economy of Falkreath could all just be a fancy word for smashing it to pieces. We should wait until the Imperials send us word that they're coming and start causing trouble. What bigger trouble could there be than blowing up one of their sources of income? I reckon a few of their officers could take a walk to the other side too." He remarked.

"I have pressing business to attend to. Make sure to find me again if you want to have a chat. I'm open to suggestions." Finnen said.

Back in the inn, he made himself comfortable on his bed, drfting to sleep before awaking in the dead of night to slink into the barracks.