Despite the cries of the inn’s patrons in the early morning hours, Leif did not rouse from his slumber, rather he carried on in sleep, snoring as loud as a cave best in hibernation. Granted, when he did wake, he regretted drinking so much ale the night prior. Scratching away the dried, crusted spittle at the corner of his mouth with the tip of his fingernail, he pushed himself up into a seated position. Immediately, his head began to pound with such an intensity, that it prompted him to return to his bed covers, where he then pulled the wool blanket up to his chin. His eyes narrowed into slits as he glared miserably at the light seeping into his rented room. 

     As he lay there in agony, woefully regretting his decision of ingesting a large amount of alcohol, the reason why came blazingly into the forefront of his mind. Sevine. And that stupid Khajiit, Do’Karth. Were he not in his present condition, he would have risen from his bed with gusto, and challenged the Khajiit to a duel in Sevine’s honor. Yet, at the same time, his heart weighed heavily in its cage of bone, and his mouth was dry with bitterness.

       After fighting back wave after wave of nausea, Leif managed to pull himself out of the wood frame bed, and make himself proper for the day by combing out his sandy-brown locks, and braided the hair that grew over his temples. He washed his face and combed out his beard, re-braiding this as well and secured it with a painted bead. 

        He had returned to sitting on the edge of his bed, fighting the nausea of his hangover, and the growing sadness he understood to be Sevine’s choices when a prompt knock drew him from the depths of his thoughts.

“Time to check out, Raven-Stone.” Came the familiar voice of Thoring, the inn keeper. 

“C-coming. Give me just a moment.” Leif called, his voice shaking. Any moment, his stomach threatened to heave in a violent fit, so talking only made him sicker.

      There came no response from Thoring, so he deemed that the man had moved on to rouse the other inn tenants and reclaim the room keys. A few seconds later, Leif’s stomach won the battle, and what he could muster, came spewing out into the chamber pot. His breath came in ragged pants as he tucked his head between his legs, well at least the worst was over.

      When he made himself proper, Leif pocketed the room key left on the bedside table and made his way to the bar. Even now, his nose picked up on the repulsive scent of liquor, causing his stomach to turn. 

“Feeling any better, Raven-Stone?” Thoring asked, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow at the paler than normal Nord.

“Aye, if you could say that. Might I have a flagon of water?” He inquired, his hands trembling. Thoring merely nodded as he retrieved the key, slipping it onto a key ring at his waist. 

“The [i]Tamrelic Gazette[/i] came in today. Care for a read?” Thoring offered as he returned with the water, sliding it across the wooden table top. Absent-mindedly, Leif reached for his coin purse, and widened his eyes at the weight, nothing. Not a single coin left. Had he really spent every last coin last night? Or had he been swindled by sticky hands?

“Ah, I'm afraid not. I’m certain someone will tell me.” Leif said with a regretful smile. He stayed there, and sipped slowly on his water, still fighting the mighty waves of nausea.

“Heard there's a duel going on, one of your members made a disgusting scene this morning, and now he’s to pay. Faheed, or Farid, and some Argonian are going to face off. I would check it out if you can, it's always a good day if there's a duel to be had.”

---

       Not only had the entire mercenary company gathered to form a ring around the dueling members, so had other citizens of Dawnstar from apparent word of mouth. With arms crossed over his chest, Leif’s teeth were wedged together in agitation. His eyes were glued to one particular person, or rather [i]persons[/i]. Do’Karth and Sevine. He paid no heed to the fight, only glancing on occasion to Farid and Daixanos. From where he stood, he had a clear view of the new lovers. 

      A deeply rooted rage began to boil within the depths of his heart, he simply found it impossible to tear his eyes away. And not only was there rage brewing, but therein also brewed a pain so intense, his eyes began to sting with the threat of tears. How could she deny him? It did not come down to his past conquers of women, rather the fact that he truly did feel an emotion so profound and so rarely experienced for Sevine, that the thought of rejection, albeit not outright, pained him even more. Every caress, every glance shared, and every touch, burned a wild fire, slowly focused on the idea of shaming Do’Karth. Where he stood, he spotted the new amulet that hung around her neck, one of Khajiiti make, that much was certain. An evident token of affection from Do’Karth, one that Sevine proudly wore without shame. 

       When the dark red blood of Farid began to ooze from his chest wound, Leif turned away in disgust, moreover Sevine than with Farid, he had heard already from those gathered near him the wrong-doings of the Redguard. His rising waves of mixed emotions led him away, his thoughts returned to Jorwen, and of the talk they shared. Now, without the aid of alcohol to ease his rage, the veteran warrior’s words were harder to stomach. There was nothing greater than death that could ease his pain. No woman, no amount of liquor, only the release through death. He silently vowed that he would become the most remembered Nord, one greater than the mighty Red-Bear, or the fearsome Huntress. He would make his own name for himself, and it would make Sevine look upon him with new eyes. Leif the Noble. Aye, that was a proud name to have, even if it meant death at the end of his path. Talos guide him.