The warm Hammerfell sun beating down on him wasn't exactly what Ibram had bargained for when he decided to set off and explore more of Tamriel, but there was no sense in complaining about it. He took another big gulp of his mug of ice-cold water, pressed his palm against its ivory surface and covertly sent another blast of frost magic through the mug. He knew Redguards weren't exactly keen on magic around these parts and decided to keep his talents to himself.
 
He was seated at a table beneath a cloth pavilion near the market district that belonged to a local tavern. A waitress walked to and fro to tend to the needs of the tavern's various patrons, a motley collection of strangers from all walks of life. Ibram Crowe was no different -- the Breton spellsword was just another exotic traveler, though not quite as foreign as the armored Argonian and his pet goat that were resting on a stone in the sun nearby. Ibram eyed the pair with with curiosity, confident that the Argonian was too distracted by his nap in the sun to notice him, and idly wondered how the Argonian could stand the incessant heat.
 
While he watched he also listened to the conversations around him. His pouch was slowly getting light on coin -- it had been a while since Ibram’s latest job. Experience had taught him that work was most easily found by keeping his ear to the ground and simply waiting for news of whatever disturbance needed to be dealt with to reach his ears. 
 
“It’s the dead, I tell you,” Ibram heard a voice hiss in an urgent tone behind him. “They’re on the move. I heard a merchant say so. Scared of his wits, he was. Didn’t seem like he was being disingenuous to me.” 
 
Another voice scoffed. “You don’t really believe that, do you? The dead don’t just get up and move on their own, and you know how the Alik’r warriors keep a lid on necromancy. Hasn’t been a situation like that around here since the days of the Hart-King.” 
 
“I don’t know, brother… it could be real this time. I feel it in my gut.”
 
Ibram turned around at this point in their conversation and observed the two men -- beggars they were, huddled in the shadow of one of the city’s limestone buildings. Many people didn’t pay any mind to beggars, but Ibram knew that the poor and downtrodden knew a lot more about current events than the rich and pampered gave them credit for. 
 
[i]Now who might be interested in paying me to deal with such a problem?[/i] Ibram thought to himself. The Fighters Guild, perhaps.