Thoughts about the sights that could not be unseen bombarded Almad's mind as the door widened. A drinking contest, a brawl, a naked individual prancing around as mead wet the floor, or a mead drinking contest in which the naked individual has to prance around those brawling? He did not know what to expect. He had seen but a handful of Nords at most, each reveling in their many tales about the [i]lively[/i] inner workings of a Nord inn, but day broke only a few hours ago. Surely they could not start the day with a clamour, he thought, and then he recalled the words of a rowdy Nord of a bard and shipmate. True Nords bathe in mead and clean their teeth with fists. 

Certainly an exaggeration, he assured himself, but he had seen stranger things. He braced himself for what lied beyond the doors and stepped forward, and inside was, calm.

He removed his hood and exposed his damp braids to the warm air that carried the lingering odour of alcohol, many scents of food, and burning wood that held a soothing crackle. Innkeepers woke those who made the tables their beds, an older Redguard man with more scars than hair on his head being the more noticeable one. He traded words with a Nord and a Bosmer, words that were not discerned in great detail. Three more individuals soon made their presence known, one of them—a Nord—invoking a defensive response in the other Nord, as did he to Almad though for different reasons. 

He glanced away when he saw the offending Nord's face and expelled air through his nose. The vain pleading, hapless screaming, and stench of burnt flesh and heated blood twisted his gut. He forced down the air in his clenched throat and took only one step. 

One of the Nords, the well groomed one, advanced and began speaking to the Khajiit. Mercenaries, he heard them discuss. Perhaps they numbered amongst those who arrived in town not long ago. As he was about to walk forward, the Nord began speaking to him, mentioning healing and snow demons, and departed. Almad narrowed his eyes as the Nord left. The Kamal, he asked himself. An inquiry for another time, perhaps. 

The Nord with the marred face then crossed paths with the Khajiit. Almad's left brown began to twitch. He glanced at the barkeep and strolled forward, catching a glimpse of the Nord burying his one scrutinizing eye into the stranger. “Great," the Nord uttered. The disdain in his voice was thick enough to sharpen a blade. "Another ass-licking cat. Just great.” 

Almad sat his staff against the countertop and sat on a barstool. He ordered a mug of water, a wedge of goat cheese, and soup with potatoes, tomatoes, and gourds. He pulled out two pieces of hardtack from his backpack and softened them in the soup. More bodies occupied the dinning hall as time passed, and they were accompanied by a spread of various meals that were sweet the nose and inviting to the eyes, courtesy of Gustav's coin purse, which had left with that very man not long ago Almad learned. An interesting gesture, he thought, and nothing more. Something about about accepting unsolicited or unearned pleasantries from random people, and people in general, was unsettling.

“Alright everyone... gather around," said a masculine voice. Almad turned to see the bald and scarred Redguard taking charge, which came as a surprise. He expected the gruff Nord to lead a band of mercenaries in the harsh province of Skyrim, not that the Nord lacked a position, Almad figured. The Nord slapped food from an unsuspecting individual's hand and barked orders of paying respect. "It's fine," the Redguard replied. "You may continue[s]d[/s] eating."

The Redguard continued and piqued his interest with talk of Winterhold, home of its namesake and esteemed institute of magical study. He intended to visit the college at some point. For what exactly, he had no clue, but the act of venturing to an enclave of legend held its own reward. He wondered how the local Nords would react to yet another mage in their midst. The potential wealth of folklore excited him, even the tales obviously pulled from one's backside, and the inquiry a foreigner would engender left him contemplating the many ways he could stretch their minds, and then the troubling news came. 

“Apparently, Winterhold had another disaster, and some say the town's gone, permanently. Now this man,” said Ashav as he pointed at the Khajiit, "said he heard some rumors. The Kamals might have been somehow responsible.”

Almad growled under his breath. He put the mug to his lips. "Crap," he whispered. That was the second time he heard that name associated with conflict.

"Any questions?" the Redguard finished.

Almad cleared his throat. "Yes." He spoke with an accent and in a calm, inquisitive manner. "The man who departed not long ago said your mercenaries, I presume, might have wounds in need of attention. I wish to offer my services as healer on this journey to Winterhold."