All manner of sounds and scents filled the Gaptooth Grin, not all of which inviting. Faruq entered alongside the others and enjoyed the type of attention reserved for sizable groups of travelers unfamiliar. He felt the eyes of strangers upon them. One breton in clothes neither humble nor fine eyed the altmer, Cyrendil, with a studious if somewhat worrisome expression. Meanwhile, a larger fellow with an abundance of body hair, so much in fact that Faruq wondered if the altmer might suspect him among Hircine's accursed, stared at the alchemist and mage unabashed. He wondered if the word [i]stare[/i] did the peculiar look justice. And yet as Faruq followed Brynn and the rest to a table a certain charm impressed upon him. The barmaid spoke kindly and with warmth despite appearing worn by the day. If the drinkers seemed a rowdy sort, who could folk letting off steam after a hard day's work? By the time Brynn placed their order, the redguard had decided he liked the place. 

What Faruq would not enjoy is drinking in a suit of steel. Years of marching and hard riding from one encampment to another made the feel of armour familiar, but only in the way one learns to accept the need for a tunic, yet yearns to feel the air upon their skin. He slid back his chair and followed the barmaid who took their order a moment before. A great many drunkenly tilted back in their seats or leaped to their feet, each shoving the redguard aside, and somehow leaving the barmaid untouched. His jaw nearly dropped as the woman spun upon a heel to avoid a man so drunk he fell to the floor laughing. Soon the barmaid had arrived to the front of the tavern where she quickly informed the cook and began filling a pitcher with ale from a tapped barrel. 

The barmaid spoke without paying Faruq a glance. "Something come to your mind after I left? Too shy to ask in front of your friends, maybe."

[color=bc8dbf]"I wonder if there might be a room available. Not for the night, that is. Only a moment,"[/color] Faruq replied, writing off her words as if the rambling of his mentor. [color=bc8dbf]"I assure you I shan't be long."[/color]

"Most men promise the opposite. Long or short, so long as you've the coin it matters not. You look a touch soft, no offense, fancy the [i]sausage[/i] I reckon?" Her words came with an amused rhythm as she set a filled pitcher atop the bar and began on a second, this time of mead. 

Faruq stood speechless before and after the veil of the barmaid's words lifted. Blushing, he finally managed to choke a few words of his own, [color=bc8dbf]"I-I need only to remove my armour."[/color] The barmaid let out a soft laugh then looked upon red faced Faruq and quickly fell quiet.

"Oh... Of course. Down the hall to your left, second door on the right. Mind that your quick as the room won't be free long."

After an exchange of awkward nods Faruq made his way down the hall to the empty room. He shut the door, ignoring the surprisingly clear moans and throaty grunts that penetrated the walls and looking over the space. The bed was small with simple linens and a chest on the ground at its foot. Otherwise, there was a barrel acting as a nightstand and a wardrobe with doors that looked too weathered to be functional. Faruq could not help but imagine the sorry lot who considered frequented such a hovel. While he fingered the leather straps of his spaulders, he wondered if a painted young woman was being paid to do the same the next room over. The heavy thump against the wall and muffled shout 'smooth like sheepskin' convinced Faruq these men were of a different sort. He might of laughed if the words had not penetrated the walls so easily. After a few moments passed a knock came upon the door. Faruq removed the steel shell latched around his boot, then opened the door to find the barmaid, who quickly glanced about the room. He nodded his thanks for the privacy, strapped his armour to his bag, then made his way back to the table.

Faruq returned to his seat as Cedric and Brynn wrapped up a conversation and poured the first of the drinks. When one of the pitchers came within reach, the redguard stretched out an arm and filled his tankard. The lightness of his arm was surprising at first, but welcome. His leather doublet weighed little and breathed profoundly better than plate. For a moment he thought of the freedom the fiery haired imperial must feel. As the thought turned another direction, a cheery, albeit hard voice interrupted. 

"To the living, lads and lasses. Let's laugh as much as we can while we're among them, it'll be hard to after. Now, Faruq, how's about a story or somesuch? Or Cyrodiil, what's it like hunting witches and demons?"

[color=bc8dbf]"To the living!"[/color] the redguard proclaimed along with the rest. He raised his tankard then enjoyed a long and much needed drink. Faruq gulped down the sweet mead until confident the others had taken notice. Satisfied, he dropped the tankard to the table hard and raised his free hand with fingers spread wide. [color=bc8dbf]"Imagine if you will,[/color] Faruq began in a low voice, his hand waving over the group. [color=bc8dbf]"An ancient city of snow and ice, lost to men and mer alike. Lost to all in fact, except for the forgotten folk who called the city home. These curious folk resembled Cyrendil in all ways but the snow-white glow of their skin. They erected towers and sculpt great halls of ice that glistened in the cloud-softened light of the sun. Truly this was the land of the Snow Elves. They might still be forgotten too were it not for two khajit merchants and their dunmeri mercenaries --"[/color]

A good storyteller knows to watch the eyes of the audience. Big, gaping eyes hinted to awe or immersion, while a fleeting gaze suggested a change of material was in order. Faruq noticed the latter first, then heard the ruckus from elsewhere. By the time he turned in his seat, the fiery haired imperial was reducing the hairy man he'd noticed before to a pathetic lump. They stood near the mage and the alchemist and from the way she spoke to them after and the story leading up became all too clear. He watched her saunter back to a table with the sneak-thief, the young imperial's eyes tellingly wide from her display. Faruq furrowed his brow. Pangs of jealousy dug into his heart, though he quickly scolded himself for such immaturity. If he meant to truly continue the path of a proper knight such childishness must be discarded as quick as it reared its head. He repeated the thought to himself until the words became like a chant.

[color=bc8dbf]"Pardon me, I seem to have let the ale go right to my head. If you'd excuse me,"[/color] Faruq apologized and stood from his chair. Though he hated to leave a story half told, especially such a promising tale, his mind and heart had strayed. Perhaps another time.

After a bit of air and a piss, Faruq re-entered the tavern. Only then did he notice Cyrendil sat separate from the rest. Harsh as the altmer was on those his order deemed undesirable, such steadfast conviction felt familiar. Faruq remembered the way soldiers spoke of the Thalmor before battle. Quick as the thought came, the redguard decided to put it to the test. He approached the table casually, placed a hand on an empty chair beside the altmer, and made his introduction. 

[color=bc8dbf]"I wonder if I might join you a while --Cyrendil was it? My name is Faruq, they call me the Bone Knight."[/color]