with [@Spoopy Scary] [i]17th Suns Dawn, Aboard the Kismet, Daggerfall[/i] [hr] Dro’Sintaba had been enjoying the gentle swaying of the Kismet on the waves. A closed fist held his chin up, and his other hand held a distance away from his face a weathered looking book, not too big of a tome, perhaps a collection of poetry or short story. He was concentrating on the words from behind his bespoke spectacles. The spine was cracked, and he held it mid-way through the pages. A long sigh left his nostrils, and his tail flicked at the sound of a distorted voice. It was not the time to be annoyed by it, he was sitting on a boat after all, in the open. He’d wanted a quiet moment but they couldn’t always be afforded in public places. His mouth quirked slightly at the gentleman’s words. “If I was on a honeymoon, do you think I would be out here with a book?” The Cathay-raht asked with a careful measure of humour, bending the page back, and placing the book away into the folds of his jacket. Next off was the glasses, and he squinted his eyes before re-opening them, turning his head to the owner of the voice. A Dunmer. A rather modest looking fellow too, thin and covered in his threadbare clothing, the warm hues setting off the rich crimson of his eyes nicely. Modest, but clearly knows how to dress himself, and most likely more than that… Dro’Sintaba’s eyes narrowed with curiosity. “Business trip. We’ll go with that,” the khajiit concluded, eyeing up the Dunmer still. “What about you then? A holiday away from the politics of Daggerfall is it?” “Quite bold to pry into my affairs after hiding your own.” Garil chirped without much admonishment or subtlety, craning his neck forward and invading Dro’Sintaba’s personal space as he deliberately avoided the inquiry. The stranger was tight lipped, and yet was quick to question Garil’s own motives. It was like staring into silvered glass, so he couldn’t bear to criticize the khajiit’s conduct without criticizing his own, but he could safely call him out without repercussion -- after all, he had asked first. Fidgeting with the red shawl that was draped over his shoulders and shirtless body, shielding his pecs from the cool ocean breeze, he continued, “But let’s suppose you were on a business trip, I wonder still what you would be doing with a book. What awaits you in Cyrodiil, friend? A scandalous affair? Don’t you worry, us dunmer tend to be a promiscuous sort ourselves…” “Can’t a man enjoy a hobby?” Dro’Sintaba retorted, closing his eyes and making a mental note to look around next time before sitting for a moment of quiet contemplation. “Nothing waits in Cyrodiil except the other half of a payment for a job.” He hoped that would satisfy the Dunmer’s curiosity enough - and he was certainly not about to entertain the idea of anything seedy, as he had tried to suggest. It seemed to satisfy the Dunmer enough as he nodded and withdrew his head. “What are you planning in Cyrodiil then?” he asked after a pregnant pause, his tone flat as he cast a sidelong glance at the man. “Don’t tell me, you’re going to find yourself a harem perhaps?…” “That’s one possibility.” Garil answered as he reached his hand into a pouch of nuts and seeds, acquiring a small handful before pouring them into his mouth. Then he proceeded without much consideration, “Mmf, Sheer-o-dill ish phull of wonderth, sho thereth pwenty to shee ofer d’ere, ah’m shure.” A quick swallow of half the food in his mouth he added with barely any clarification, “Old Ayleid ruins, swaying grain of the Gold Coast, the White-Gold Tower-- they must be beautiful sights. What do you think of that?” Dro’Sintaba openly curled a lip at the sound of the Dunmer’s chewing in his ear, and he rolled a shoulder in response. “I’ve seen them before. They do have a beauty about them if you like that. Maybe I’ll head to the Gold Coast,” he offered with a shrug. The truth of it was, he hadn’t paid much thought to further plans once he arrived there. Just his payment, really. High Rock had been interesting enough of course but he’d long grown impatient of it. “Perhaps I’ll cross over to Hammerfell, who knows, really…” Dro’Sintaba certainly didn’t. “Been a while since I was in the company of a Dunmer,” he added with a sigh, it was an attempt at being friendly, even if the rumble of his words in his throat felt more accusatory when they left his mouth. “Do you have a name?” “Garil,” the Dunmer answered with a dismissive wave of his hand, as if to downplay the significance of his answer, “but I’m not like a lot of Dunmer. I’m what you’d call a [i]n’wah[/i] -- I don’t come from Morrowind, but by Oblivion, I can hardly say I come from anywhere. Truly, I suppose you could call me a child of the road and stars for they are what have guided me all this time. I’m a farmhand by trade, and you, sera? Your manner’s quite unlike your kin, so could it be you’re quite like me? Outrunning your ghosts, going where the wind takes you, and finding work along the way? To be so old for a cat and to wear so many stories on scar-sprinkled skin, surely, there’s one or two of them worth telling!” Garil twisted his neck around, left and right, prompting a string of popping sounds to crack from his neck, before taking a long, deep breath. He swept a long glance across the sea before it landed on Dro’Sintaba and added, “I hope to hear a few of them before this voyage is over. I smell a storm coming. It’d be a shame to see you done in by a spattering of water, khajiit, there’d be something ironic about that.” Dro’Sintaba didn’t appreciate the suggestion of drowning - or the level of humour in his voice as he spoke, he raised a brow in suspicion and in a way, disbelief. “You talk a lot, don’t you?” he asked with yet another sigh. “And you’re nosy.” He held a breath for a moment, meaning no offense - it was just a correct observation, and he was quite often just a man of few words. It seemed that Garil had more than enough to make up for it. He was slightly poetic in his speech too, and in a way Dro’Sintaba was envious of that quality. “Indeed.” Garil replied with a toothy grin. “My name is Dro’Sintaba,” he said, pre-empting the Dunmer’s next question or curiosity; “I'm a travelling mercenary. Have been for many years, trying to retire. Maybe this is my last job but I can’t seem to stop.” His tail flicked at his own admission, he tried to keep his cards close to his chest but at the same time, he was old enough to realise that the truest facts of a person were not always worth hiding, and that his life wasn’t that interesting. “If you like talking, you should meet my companion, she’ll have your ear off.” “Is that so?” Garil chirped before unraveling his foot from the dockstay and stood atop the rail. He clutched one of the backstays for support and, smiling wryly, looked down at the khajiit. He would still probably stand only at an equal height if Dro’Sintaba decided to do so as well. “Well then, that makes me a lucky mer! My apologies, sera. I might be nosy, but I’m not daft. I’ll leave you to your peace. Hopefully soon you are willing to share your stories, and in turn, I, mine. Over supper, friend?” As the ship swayed on the water, the dunmer swayed with it along the railing’s edge, kicking out a foot to balance himself while his back hovered over the water, and by pulling on the mainstay was he able to right himself before hopping off and landing on the main deck. His bare feet slapped against the woodwork, and he slipped them into a simple pair of sandals before walking backwards away from Dro’Sintaba. “If you know anyone in need of a private room, send them to me! I find the still air stifling and the beds uncomfortable, but I’m sure there’s someone who enjoys that sort of thing.” The khajiit sighed again, closing his eyes. He'd been a rude git, again, hadn't he? It felt too late to change the Dunmer's mind about their conversation, not that he really had much to talk about anyway. He felt an embarrassment sitting on his chest over the whole thing. Maybe later he'd approach the gentleman and try to make up for his social faux pas. But Dro'Sintaba knew already that he wouldn't. Supper would involve him sitting as far away from the din of idle small talk as he could. This was going to be a long, [i]long[/i] voyage. "Fucking hell," he growled under his breath, admonishing himself.