The Imperial bloody prison. Sovor grumbled in annoyance as the guards shoved him into the cell and locked the door behind him. He was surprised to see he wasn't alone; a Breton woman already occupied the cell. Sovor stared at her for a few seconds before shrugging and sitting down on the stone floor, his back against the wall, the cell's gate on his left-hand side. He looked out through the bars and pinched the bridge of his nose. [i]So this is where I spend the next twenty years... fucking n'wahs.[/i] 

From the opposite side of the corridor someone started talking to him. "Hey, there! You! Kinsman! I haven't seen another Dunmer in here in I don't know how long. Where you from, huh? Vvardenfell? You got a wife back home?" 

Sovor looked up and narrowed his eyes at the other Dunmer. Untraditional hairstyle, no tattoos, smooth skin, clear voice. "No, outlander, I don't," Sovor replied. His voice sounded like tanned leather and grit, affected by decades of ash storms. "Now shut up before I find a way into your cell and do things to you that would make your ancestors scream, little swit." 

Taken aback, Valen Dreth, the Dunmer in the opposite cell, balled his fists. "Think you're so tough, n'wah? You'll change your tone after the guards are done with you. Oh, that's right. You're going to die in here!" 

Ignoring the outlander's whining with a dismissive wave, Sovor turned his attention back to the Breton woman in the cell with him. "Fucking outlanders, right?" he said companionably.