[h3]The Mean, Green Beauty Queen[/h3]
[i]30th of Second Seed, 4E208
Gilane, Hammerfell[/i]

After the [i]Intrepid[/i] had arrived at the docks on the southern side of Gilane and its passengers dispersed into the city, another traveler approached the Dwemer-occupied city from the north. Mazrah had departed from Sentinel more than a week ago and taken an ancient route through the desert that had been in use by the Alik’r nomadic tribes for hundreds of years, if not more. While the blistering heat and dry wind made for a tough journey, this particular path took her past a number of oases where she was able to refill her waterskin and rest in the shade of the giant palm trees that stood as lonely watchtowers in the ever-shifting dunes. With her trusty bow and arrow Mazrah was able to hunt two of the hardy, deer-like creatures that roamed the desert in small herds that the locals called [i]oryx[/i]. She had been told it was a Yokudan word that meant ‘fool-hardy’ or ‘stubborn’. The animals were named as such for their perseverance in the deadly climate of the Alik’r. That was rich, coming from the very people who made a living in the desert, she thought. Either way, she was grateful for their existence. She skinned, cooked and ate one of them over the course of her journey and the other she carried with her, slung over her strong shoulders, all the way to Gilane, to be sold to a local butcher’s. 

It was well into the afternoon by the time she came into sight of the Dwemer that stood guard by the city gates beneath a large purple parasol. They kept a watchful eye on her as she approached, quietly murmuring amongst themselves until Mazrah was within earshot. Gilane was so far south that it could very well have been the first time these Dwemer had seen an Orsimer like her. Mazrah was dressed in nothing more than a cropped, sleeveless top and a loincloth made from simple, sturdy fabric, and a pair of boots fashioned from animal hide and leather straps, leaving the rest of her powerful body bare for all to see. Tribal tattoos done with white ink covered her from head to toe, including her face, and her thick black hair stood upright in a large, messy mohawk. The beaded braids that hung down her neck softly clinked together as she walked and her skin glistened with sweat. 

Soon enough the Dwemer found themselves staring up at Mazrah’s face. Her expressive eyes, the color of liquid gold, always betrayed what she was feeling to a fault, and it was obvious now that she was annoyed. One of the purple-robed Dwemer opened his mouth to say something but Mazrah cut him off with a dismissive wave and talked over him. “Yes, hello, greetings, whatever. I only have this dead animal to declare,” Mazrah said and practically threw the oryx corpse on the wooden table that the Dwemer used to inspect the wares that travelers brought into the city with a loud [i]thud[/i]. She’d had enough experience with how the Dwemer operated to know the procedure. 

The Dwemer looked down at the oryx with a weary smile and cleared his throat. “Yes, I see. Very well.” He glanced back up at Mazrah, his eyes going over the large bow and spear she carried on her back, and motioned for his colleague to hand him one of the metal tokens that they used to grant visitors access to their occupied territories. “This token will grant you access to Gilane, but first I must ask: what brings you to our city?” 

“That’s none of your business,” Mazrah spat back, crossed her arms and shifted her weight on one leg in a posture of petty rebellion. She tilted her head and gave the Dwemer the fakest, sickly-sweetest smile she could muster. “Can I go now?” 

This elicited a small chuckle from the guard, who seemed unphased by her attitude and unhurried in his manners. “I’m afraid it is our business. I am only permitted to grant you access to the city if you comply, Orsimer.” 

Mazrah realized she wasn’t going to get her way with the imperturbable Dwemer and threw her hands up as she rolled her eyes. “Fine! I’m here to sell this meat, alright? And I’m looking for a man named Nuzir. Redguard, short hair, beady little eyes, can’t keep his grabby hands off my friends. Does that sound familiar?”  

“No,” the Dwemer said flatly. “I don’t personally keep track of all the Redguards in this city. Please report any infractions of local laws to the appropriate authorities. Take this,” he added and held out the metal token for Mazrah to accept.

“Yes, yes, I’ll take your stupid token, grayskin,” she grumbled and snatched it out of the Dwemer’s hands before fastening it to the fabric of her top over her left breast. “There, happy?”

“Quite. Enjoy your stay, Orsimer.” The Dwemer’s smile widened ever so slightly.  

Mazrah bit back a sharp retort, picked the carcass back up and stomped through the gates. She despised the Dwemer’s regal arrogance and how they strutted around everywhere like they owned the place after only showing up recently. She didn’t understand that the Dwemer thought they could simply come in and take over the entirety of Hammerfell, nor did she understand that the Redguards had seemingly… let it happen. She knew that the Dwemer used to live here before but that was, quite literally, ages ago, and hardly seemed like a good excuse to her. Additionally, Mazrah had been out hunting when the Dwemer arrived and did not learn the news until she was confronted with one of their patrols, and it had only been her intuition that warned her to back down that prevented her from being taken in or possibly even killed on the spot. That encounter had left a sour taste in her mouth. She had roamed these lands for years already -- if anything, [i]she[/i] had the right to question the Dwemer about what they had been doing out there, not the other way around! 

These thoughts and more were still swirling through her head when Mazrah arrived at the butcher shop she always went to whenever she found herself in Gilane. This was her first time in the city since the Dwemer arrived, however, and to her not-so-pleasant surprise she saw that it was the young assistant, Bakran, who stood outside the shop beneath the shade of a pitched tent to sell the meat. There was nothing wrong with the boy, as far as she knew, but she’d expected to see the familiar face of the shop’s proprietor, Caser. 

“Where’s the old man?” Mazrah asked as she stepped up to Bakran’s stall. He looked up at her with a hint of fear on his face until he recognized her -- a common response, and one that caused Mazrah to flash a grin despite herself. It was always fun to scare the common folk a little bit. 

Bakran looked around to make sure that there weren’t any Dwemer patrolling by that very second before he leaned forward, planting his hands on the few inches of countertop that weren’t covered with various meats. “He’s been taken, Maz,” he said in a low voice. “Refused to comply with the Dwarves’ new rules. Started hollering he was going to join the resistance. That was… two weeks ago. I’ve just been running the shop since.” 

That soured Mazrah’s already foul mood. “Zugra crun,” she cursed in Old Orcish and bit her lip as she looked away. 

“You keep your head down, you hear me?” Bakran hissed. “It’s not worth the trouble. I’ve kept to their rules and I’m doing fine.”

“Don’t you want revenge? For Caser?” Mazrah snapped as she leaned closer as well, until their faces were only a few inches apart. 

Bakran visibly balked. “Not as much as I want to lead a normal life!” He raised his hands and backed away a little bit. “Don’t involve me in whatever it is you’re thinking. Just… let’s do business and then you can be on your way.” 

Mazrah took a deep breath and sighed. It seemed like nobody she talked to saw things her way. Bakran was pleased with the oryx buck she’d brought him and Mazrah was compensated with a significant handful of septims that she stored in one of the pouches that lined her waist. 

Just as Bakran was about to help the next customer, Mazrah frowned as she realized what he had said earlier. “Wait a minute,” she said. “So there is a resistance?” 

“Excuse me miss, one second.” Bakran turned to look at Mazrah with an inscrutable look on his face and Mazrah raised one eyebrow in response. “Look, Maz, that’s just what Caser said. I don’t know and I don’t want to know. Like I said, it’s not worth the trouble.” 

Frustrated, Mazrah shrugged and left. 

Gilane was beautiful, particularly at this time of day near the end of the afternoon, when the orange sunlight bathed the entire city in a warm blanket that caused every hint of gold to sparkle even brighter and make the simplest glass decanter look like it was fashioned from precious crystals. Mazrah found that she couldn’t appreciate it anymore. Every time she was about to begin to unwind a little bit, another Dwemer patrol walked by to remind her that nothing was as it should be. As a group of already inebriated Redguards wolf-whistled after her and called her derogatory slurs (did they want to insult her or sleep with her? Mazrah couldn’t tell) she wondered why she even bothered being upset on Hammerfell’s behalf. She liked the Redguards, on the whole, but there were far too many rotten apples among the bunch for her to unconditionally appreciate them. Like Nuzir. 

Marien, one of the barmaids of the [i]Scintillant Scarab[/i] outside of Sentinel and Mazrah’s friend, had tearfully confided in her that Nuzir had molested her one evening while she was closing the bar. Mazrah had taken it upon herself to find Nuzir and teach him a lesson and it was this mission that had brought her to Gilane. It turned out that the drunkard wasn’t too hard to find. Karrod, the bald and deep-voiced bartender of the starfish-shaped [i]Yokudan Crown[/i], was able to point her in the direction of Nuzir’s usual haunt; a far less reputable and upscale establishment that didn’t really seem to have a name. After a spot of dinner Mazrah set out to find it. It was tucked away in an alley close to the [i]Three Crowns Hotel[/i], marked only by the lit candle that stood on a barrel just outside the door. That’s what Karrod had told her to look out for. 

Dusk had fallen as Mazrah knocked on the door and found herself looking down into the crimson eyes of a Dunmer, to her surprise, when he opened the door slightly. “What do you want?” the Dark Elf asked. They were a rare sight in Gilane and Mazrah took a second longer than usual to find her words. 

“I’m looking for Nuzir. Is he here?” she asked and tried to look past the Dunmer’s head to discern the gloomy interior of the bar. 

“What’s it to you?” the Dunmer asked and moved his head to block Mazrah’s line of sight. “You don’t look like you belong here.” 

Improvising, Mazrah smiled apologetically and chuckled. “I’ve got a message for him, from a woman named Marien. He’ll know the name. And tell him it’s good news,” she said in a husky tone. 

The Dunmer looked at her quizzically, but shrugged and complied. He closed the door in the meantime. 

After only a few seconds the door opened again, fully this time, and the Dunmer beckoned her inside. It was everything she had expected from a back alley watering hole: filthy glasses, dim lighting, ramshackle and mismatching furniture and the heavy scent of moonsugar and skooma in the air. Mazrah wrinkled her nose. 

“That's Nuzir,” the Dunmer whispered and pointed at a portly, ill-looking Redguard playing cards with a few others. Nuzir had large bags under his eyes and his wiry hair was disheveled. It was obvious he was already drunk and probably had been all day. The stacks of coins in front of him, however, did not lie. Mazrah figured he was rich enough afford being fat and lazy. [I]But not rich enough to be a rapist,[/I] she thought. She approached Nuzir with as much sweetness and femininity in her gait as she could muster and sank down on her haunches next to him. He looked into her golden eyes with his own dark, bloodshot gaze and huffed in surprise.

“You're the one that's got the message from that bar lady, then?” he slurred and turned to face Mazrah properly, blinking slowly as he did. “Don't look like I expected. But that's okay… you've got somethin’ special to ya too.” 

Mazrah was revolted and it took every inch of self control not to let it show. If Nuzir was sober he would have noticed the momentary expression of disgust that flitted across Mazrah's face before she managed to replace it with a winning smile. But he wasn't and he didn't. “I'm not here for myself, even though I'm flattered. Marien wants me to tell you… look, I really can't say with these other gentlemen present. Can we step outside for a bit?”

Bemused but intrigued, Nuzir got to his feet and stumbled, unsteadily but surely, out the door. Mazrah followed close behind. Once outside she leaned in close to Nuzir and put her hands on his shoulders.

“Listen, Nuzir. The truth is that Marien can't stop thinking about you since that night in the [I]Scarab[/I]. She wants to know if it was just a one-time thing or if there can be more between the two of you,” Mazrah said in a honey-sweet voice. 

“Really?” Nuzir asked, surprised.

Mazrah's face was suddenly set to thunder. “No, of course not.” And with that she kneed Nuzir in the balls. He doubled over, gasping in pain, and Mazrah followed that up by ramming her shoulder into him and against the wall. He screamed.

Some people in the next street over turned their heads at the commotion.