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[b]Gavinyarel: The Roxey Village, The Roxey Steakhouse -- Midyear, 4E 201[/b]

Gavinyarel had planned on going to bed early tonight, but the raucous entrance of a dark-clothed Breton girl stole his attention away from sleep.  There was a slightly smallish crossbow at one leg, and a knife at the other; a quiver of bolts was on her back.  Yet, for all her gear, Gavinyarel noticed the auburn hairs on the back of her neck were bristled.  He thought perhaps she'd met with a highwayman and either parted with her purse the hard way or repaid his aggression with a bolt.  The lack of blood swayed him toward the former.

Once the girl reached the counter, the zeal with which she knocked back her drinks only retold the story her entrance told.  He paid her no more attention then, content to let her mind process whatever had happened on its own.  He twiddled a fork in fingers as he went back to browsing the patrons.  Dusk hadn't quite yet tinged the windows gold, but he prayed for the moment it did so he could retire for the night.  The road to Skyrim hadn't been an easy one at the start, and with the formidable Jerall Mountains looming in the distance, deceptively beautiful to mortal eyes in all their snow-shod grandeur, he hardly expected things to smooth out anytime soon.

Not long after, the Breton girl defied his ignorance by boisterously proclaiming that she was a "professional witchhunter" as she put it, a woman able to face those heart-stopping horrors that dwell within the deepest, darkest, most miserable and isolated nooks and crannies Tamriel had to offer.  Gavinyarel casually glanced around the room and wondered who she was fooling.  He observed her crossbow and her other gear more closely, humoring himself as to why a master of her trade would wield tools of apprentice-level quality at best.  [i]I bet her backpack's got little more than provisions and grooming supplies in it.[/i]

Now intrigued, Gavinyarel followed with his eyes as she marched over to the bulletin board littered with the sketches of outlaws and the brokenhearted pleas of people that were foolish enough to haul their inexperienced hides into some dark, dank cave and drop their lucky rusted butter knife deep inside in their haste to escape the gargantuan shadow inching ever closer around a corner lit by the sunlight coming in through a second opening.  Gavinyarel almost felt more sorry for the little mouse or squirrel that owned the shadow, who'd then round the corner only to find his new visitor frantically fleeing for his life, shouting stammered prayers to any holy-sounding person or being their frantic minds could pull from beneath the cobwebs.  [i]Perhaps she dabbles in bandit hunting or trinket retrieval too...[/i] he thought as he watched her peruse the board.  He smirked at her from his corner for a moment or two, but his smirk soon flipped into a frown when he remembered one particular notice, an urgent demand for some brave soul to take up the sword against a foul zombie defiling the cemetery.  [i]No...surely not...[/i] Gavinyarel said inwardly.

His fascination with her mood's capacity to change with her alcohol content soured as she announced her latest crusade.  He saw her stumble back out of the inn and even watched her blunder against the fence posts for a bit.  He rolled his eyes and cupped his head in his hand.  [i]I'm probably going to regret this, but I suppose I should at least get fifty septims out of this...assuming she survives this.[/i] he thought as he got up and began following her at a distance; he'd interrupted women on missions before, and he'd always been sorry for it in the past.