The Long Well was an inn situated on the outskirts of the centre of Jehanna, as close to the docks as it could have been. It was old, but had been built strong. Thick beams held it upright through tumultuous storms, and it’s foundations had always been able to withstand a brawl. It was a respected establishment, and while it didn’t have the polish of the inner-city inns of Jehanna, it certainly had the most charm. The interior walls were painted in a crisp white, and burgundy velvet had been the choice for the fabric of the curtains that hung over the impressive bay windows - each with a seat built in. On many an occasion, a window had been broken - but the townspeople and even the rowdy sailors from the harboured ships always had the decency to front the bill. The Long Well was a respected establishment, after all. That clientele always seemed to vary. From the artistic types to families and then to shadier individuals. One mainstay, however, was the witch in the largest suite. A talented healer who simply wanted a decent enough room to ply her trade - to treat the infirm, sick, and sometimes grievously wounded. The proprietor of The Long Well had been the only one happy to allow her this. Since Raelynn Deserine had taken long-term board, he’d seen more customers - and better behaved ones at that. He was always slightly curious as to how she paid for her suite, and the fine clothes that she wore — amongst other things, but as long as she slipped him those septims regularly and on time, he turned a blind eye to anything else she may have been conducting under his roof. It was a mutually beneficial relationship, in that respect. It was a bright and clear day, Raelynn observed as she looked out of the window at the sea view of her suite - standing over a turquoise vase, of Hammerfell style. She paused to take in the sight of it, her workspace near silent save for the sound of the wooden floorboards being brushed behind her. She let a lily fall into the vase, and she looked at it, tilting her head from side to side, before deciding to shift it slightly to the left, gently curling the petals between her thumb and forefinger. Everything was so clean. Her desk had only neatly arranged papers and a quill and ink pot sat upon it, a small golden statue of an eagle as a paperweight. A display cabinet sat up against the wall opposite to a decadent hearth - filled with various silverware and tea sets. A vase of roses brightened it with colour and a light scent. Above the hearth was an impressive piece of taxidermy, a stags head with his antlers completely intact and unblemished. An alpha if ever there was one, his glass eyes watching over the room. Her four-poster bed was hidden behind a fold out partition of mahogany frame and a thick, ivory paper as the screen. Brush strokes of paint depicted autumn branches over the three separate screens. None of the furniture really seemed to match the rest of the inn. It was all her own, and proudly so too. Behind Raelynn, was a younger woman in a simple garb, on hands and knees working the dust out of the floorboards with a dry brush. She seemed perfectly content to do so, only stopping every now and again to take a glance at the woman in the window, arranging her flowers as she so often did. She had known the Lady to spend hours on it. How it must be to have such free time to amuse herself with what seemed like a purely cosmetic hobby. But, she supposed it was to be expected, for Raelynn was a vain and cosmetic woman, that much could be said even just by how she dressed. Today, forest green velvet leggings which hugged at her lean legs. High waisted, cinching at her womanly middle until they met the soft cream chiffon of her frilled shirt. It was such a delicate garment - she knew this because to launder it was always an anxious experience. Yet it looked so good on the lady, just sheer enough to see her skin underneath, and the lining of her undergarments. She got back to brushing, and Raelynn continued to arrange the lillies, one by one, petal by petal. [hr] Fjolte practically stumbled through the doorway of The Long Well, his legs aching, and back even more so. It was usually quiet at midday, but today there were several patrons enjoying a hot meal, which was absolutely torturous for him and he groaned as the scent wafted up to his nostrils. Pheasant roast. It had to be, he could make out the aroma of the crisped potatoes in a roasting pan, and of the rosemary heaped into the gravy turrines. He wanted nothing more than to kick of his shoes and order the biggest plate imaginable, but he had a bag of coin — and an Imperial in need of some assistance at his side. He gave the proprietor a nod of acknowledgement before heading to Raelynn’s suite, Gregor behind him. “Alright, stand up straight and don’t stare…” he whispered, rather ominously before knocking at the door. From inside, Raelynn, still occupied with her flowers lifted her head only just so at the familiar rhythm of the knock. “Shona, answer that. It’s probably Fjolte.” The younger woman did as was told, dragging herself up from the floor with a happy smile all of a sudden. She smoothed down her apron and hair before approaching the door and opening it carefully, making sure to look at the floor, and not directly at the Nord - lest she start to blush again like the last time. Only today, there were [i]two[/i] sets of feet in the doorway. “Raelynn,” Fjolte said in as bright a voice as he could manage, stepping inside, giving Shona smile - tempted to ruffle her hair but since he wasn’t alone, he thought better of it. She turned from her vase at last, looking over her shoulder at him, catching the figure beside him, eyeing him up and down quickly with her piercing eyes, outlined with a black kohl. “You’re back,” she said cooly - turning to walk to her desk, flicking a section of her hair back over her shoulder, it was like white gold in the midday sun. “With a friend?” she added with inflection as she took her seat, looking at the Imperial once more, waiting for his introduction. One thing became immediately apparent: Fjolte was anything but a liar. Raelynn Deserine was one of the most beautiful women Gregor had ever seen and he had to consciously replay the Nord’s advice to him in his head to get himself to stop staring at her -- from her pale blonde hair to her glacial eyes, so much like Briar’s and yet so much more intense, and from her gorgeous, expensive clothing to the womanly shapes visible beneath the sheer fabric. Years of experience in dealing with high society clients had taught Gregor the skill of keeping his face inscrutable, however, and he stepped forward to introduce himself without betraying anything. “Gregor Mercurius, my lady, at your service,” he declared and bowed his head and bent his knees in the Imperial curtsy. Having seen how the Breton decorated her room and the way she carried herself, Gregor was beset upon by a powerful compulsion to make the most sophisticated impression upon her that he could. Simultaneously, he had to suppress a laugh -- now he [i]really[/i] understood why Fjolte had stuck around for as long as he had. He straightened back up with a respectful expression on his face and placed a hand over his heart. “I apologize to barge in unannounced on the coattails of your associate, my lady, but he informed me that you are a healer of some skill. Jodane Lirrencel was wanted not only by yourself, but also by the lord’s steward for his crimes. Master Soriksen and I happened upon each other while we were on the man’s trail and collaborated in bringing him to justice. One of his bandits caught me in the chest with an arrow, unfortunately. It did not pierce my chainmail but it’s caused an awful bruise and my lungs still hurt when I breathe, so… I was able to alleviate the worst of it, but I thought it prudent that an expert such as yourself take a look at it,” Gregor explained, noticing about halfway through that he was being much more verbose than he would have liked -- but at that point it was too late to stop. He finished with a smile and clasped his hands behind his back. “Thus, my presence here today.” At Gregor's side, Fjolte raised a brow - and suppressed a laugh too. Gregor was a man's man alright. Raelynn however, watched Gregor with a keen eye, listening to his words - paying attention to his accent. As much as she could do for looking at him. She kept her own expression as intense as always, but something about the dirt on the otherwise clean man before her had piqued her interest. His rugged shape, paired with the neat and somewhat noble style of his facial hair was enticing. "Well, Mr Mercurius, if you were as helpful to him as you say then helping you with an injury is the least I can do…" she said at last, having fully drank in the sight of him. Fjolte watched as they both locked eyes, and his own brow furrowed slightly. It would never have occurred to him to curtsey like that, and while the two were occupied, he stretched a leg forwards as if to practice such a thing before giving up with a resigned sigh as quickly as he'd attempted the fancy maneuver. "Got the four hundred back," he interrupted, letting the bag drop with a heavy thunk onto Raelynn's desk. "And Jodane?" She asked, without looking at either Fjolte or the coin. "Gregor finished him off," Fjolte answered, "he'll not be a bother to anyone else." “He resisted arrest,” Gregor further elucidated, briefly glancing from Raelynn to Fjolte and back. He had not expected her to ignore the Nord like that and wondered if there was something the man had done wrong, or if it was because of her interest in himself. He wasn’t a stranger to female attention but the way her gaze lingered on him caused his pulse to quicken all the same, though it didn’t feel too dissimilar from being a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. She carried an authority that was far beyond her years. "The troublesome ones always do," she replied to Gregor, before rising from her seat to take the coin purse. She let it sit in her palm, and she raised a brow - watching Fjolte as she did before there was an uptick of a smirk on her lips. "This is more than four hundred, you must have scared him…" she smiled, her eyes sparkled in Fjolte's direction before she walked to the display cabinet, coin in hand. "Shona, go run Fjolte a hot bath upstairs, and have a meal brought for him," she flashed a look to the young maid, who simply nodded. She knew what that meant, and her cheeks flushed pink. "You both did well, then. You'll both be adequately remunerated for your efforts." The drawer clicked shut and she moved back to her desk, placing her palms flat on the surface. "Go eat, get clean-- I'll see to our friend here." Now dismissed, Fjolte gave Gregor a nod and a pat on the shoulder before following after Shona. The blush on the maid’s cheeks was telling, and Gregor could not blame her. He didn’t doubt for a second that he would have had quite a crush on Fjolte as well, if he was a woman. There was little not to like about the Nord. He returned his focus to Raelynn and thought about what she said; if she meant more than just her healing when she said ‘remunerated’ , there was an opportunity here to be paid by her and the steward both. If that were true, this was turning out to be quite the lucrative adventure. “You have my gratitude,” Gregor said and inclined his head. That said, he cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows inquisitively. “Should I remove my coat and vest, or…?” “That would certainly be preferable, Mr Mercurius,” Raelynn answered, stepping around the desk to face him. She took care in rolling up her sleeves, folding the frills of the delicate sleeves back and tucking them away - revealing the equally delicate skin of her wrists. Then, the Breton ran her thumb over the tips of her fingers on her left hand — the familiar glow of restoration magic had formed there in the warmth left behind. “Take a seat, and I’ll examine you,” she said, matter of factly - pushing an armchair out from under the desk with her foot as she leaned back onto it comfortably, tucking her hair behind her ear. A diamond stud twinkled in the sunlight that poured in from the window. Gregor did as she asked and stripped down to his undershirt, placing his overcoat, vest and leather, mailed cuirass over the back of the chair that Raelynn had provided, and rested his sheathed sword against it, before sitting down himself. He unbuttoned the shirt so that she could properly inspect his chest and tried to avoid looking at her too much. Now so reduced to a single linen garment above the waist and just his pants and boots below it, Gregor’s muscular physique was revealed. Forged through years of hard work, plenty of exercise and good eating, he still wasn’t as bulky as Fjolte, of course -- a nigh on impossible task for an Imperial -- but it was clear that there was strength in his arms and the broadness of his shoulders. Unlike a blacksmith, however, Gregor’s hands were not covered in calluses and he was mostly free of blemishes. When he rolled up his sleeves for good measure he re-discovered the cut he had sustained on his elbow earlier in his duel with the Dunmer and mouthed a surprised [i]aha.[/i] “I’d forgotten about that,” he muttered, before looking up at Raelynn. “Don’t worry about that one, my lady, I can heal it myself. It’s the chest that concerns me.” She held him under her gaze as he stripped down, and sat down. Her expression was unimpressed, but inside she felt the opposite. He was stunning, in his own unique way. He looked like he could carry plenty and hold his own in a brawl, and for a split second she imagined how it would feel to be held in arms like that. But only for a second. Something else played on her mind, and with Fjolte and Shona out of the room, she’d got the Imperial in as compromised a position as she could have. She pinched at her chin, and something in her countenance changed, the arch of her brows appeared more severe, and the ice in her eyes was more chilling. She lifted a leg, and brought her knee to rest on the arm of Gregor’s chair. Raelynn moved closer to him, unafraid of whether he would bite — perhaps she knew that he wouldn’t. “Why did you follow my associate?” She asked in a quiet voice that sat on the fringes of seduction and threat, her finger pressed against the cut on his arm, a pointed nail sat on his skin at the edge, it wasn't clear whether she was threatening to dip into the wound, or close it just as quick. The abrupt change in atmosphere wasn’t lost on Gregor and he was caught between enjoying the tantalizing physical closeness and the twinge of apprehension that followed immediately after. If she was just a Breton healer and a businesswoman he had nothing to fear from her, but… that was not how she was posturing herself. Gregor tore his gaze from the leg she had placed across the armrest of his chair and looked up at her eyes -- so bright and so sharp that his breath briefly caught in his throat. “For healing, like I said,” Gregor answered cautiously, his brow slightly furrowed. “I needed to be in Jehanna for Jodane’s bounty either way, so Fjolte offered to bring me to you.” All inclination for formal address melted away in the face of the tension in the room. “Why?” he ventured, finding his nerves. “Are you expecting someone with malevolent intentions?” She blinked slowly, the finger against his arm releasing a steady stream of magicka since his answers were to her satisfaction. So far. "Always," Raelynn answered, staring deep into his rich ebony eyes. The finger traced his cut slowly, and she pulled back only a few inches. "Were you following my associate to Jodane's hideout? Was it really a… [i]chance[/i] meeting?" It was clear that she didn't trust the Imperial with his particular style of armour, dress, and sword. He looked too out of place, and the story seemingly too bizarre for the already overly-cautious Raelynn to take him at his word. At least not without toying with him first. The way she said that word -- [i]Always[/i] -- sent a chill down his spine. Gregor could tell that she meant it. Then again, it stood to reason that a woman in a business that required hunting down bandits to retrieve payments probably had to worry about such things. Now understanding her need for caution, Gregor relaxed a little and did his best to mollify her. “Yes, it was. I don’t know how Fjolte found the cave. I followed the directions as given to me by an innkeeper outside the city walls. When I got there,” he explained and smiled at what he was about to say, “Fjolte dropped out of a tree. Like a cat. I was worried that he would spell trouble for me at first, but he was amiable to my request when I asked for his cooperation. He can corroborate that, if you wish.” "Fjolte is trusting to a fault…" Raelynn said with a sigh, finishing up the work she was doing on his arm. "He'll corroborate the story, and then embellish it, and then embellish it some more," she clucked her tongue and rolled her eyes. "But fine." Her eyes fell to his chest, pushing away as much of the linen fabric as she could with a light touch, she felt his heart beating faster than a heart should. What was it that was making it race, she wondered, trying not to smile at that. "Definitely an arrows work…" she muttered, drawing a finger across the bruising. His features and accent were unique, that much was true, and she knew where to place them. "Why are you chasing his bounty? I deal with bounty hunters and… You don't fit the usual description. There aren't so many Nibenese hunters around here…" Her words were still somewhat accusatory, but there was genuine curiosity there too. The Imperial smiled at the way she talked about Fjolte. “Don’t be too harsh on him, he speaks of you very fondly,” Gregor lied, trying to do his new friend a solid. Her further questioning was to be expected and, quite honestly, deserved. Anyone with any sense would be wondering what a man like him was doing hunting down bandits in caves. “My father taught me that it is every able-bodied citizen’s duty to defend the Empire against those who threaten its people and work to undermine its society,” Gregor explained and shifted slightly in his seat. “And I need the septims,” he admitted. “But you’re right, bounty hunting is not my trade. It’s just something I do as a… hobby, I suppose.” "Dangerous hobby," she remarked, removing her knee from the chair the more that Gregor's story made sense to her. "A noble hobby, but dangerous…" Raelynn then brought her attention to the scars across his cheek, being so bold as to hold his jaw in her hand to run her thumb beneath them. The long scars, claw marks of some kind. She wasn't one for apologising to anyone, but she gave him a warmer expression and a softer voice; "I just wanted to be sure, it's nothing personal." Her hand got to work on his chest, and she looked away completely, turning her face to the stag head above the fireplace. "What is your trade then?" She asked finally, curiosity getting the better of her once more. The tension had been so palpable that when she placed her hand under his jaw Gregor had to resist the sudden urge to lean into it. He tightened his grip on the armrests with both hands to steady himself, the sensation of his wedding ring pressing into the wood reminding him of what waited for him back home. As Raelynn looked away from him he blinked a few times, as if to clear his mind, and he settled more comfortably into the chair. It didn’t last very long when she placed her hand on his chest. Breathing in her scent -- flowers of some kind -- he answered her question by bringing his own hand up to the side of her head and he brushed his thumb against the diamond stud that pierced her ear. “I’m a silversmith,” he said softly, Fjolte’s advice entirely forgotten. “Apprenticed to Roderic Mero of Bravil. Is this elvish?” he asked and switched his gaze from the diamond to Raelynn’s profile, his eyes tracing the outline of her nose and her lips. She turned back to him at his touch, or was it the words? Both were of interest. Something about him reaching to her ear was… Intimate, in a way she wasn't sure that she was comfortable with. Raelynn set to remind him that he was [i]not[/i] in control by taking his hand and setting it back on the arm of the chair, pressing firmly down - as if she was regretting not binding him to it. "You have an astute eye, yes, it is elvish." She released her grip from his hand, but not her gaze. "A silversmith from Bravil in Jehanna. Why is that?" The hand on her chest grew softer, brushing in soft circles around the spot where the arrow made contact. Slow, slow circles. Gregor knew he had to apologize for the transgression. Not just for politeness’ sake, but for his own sake, too. He had to make it clear that he didn’t mean anything by it. He was a married man, after all. He had no business touching women like this. But he didn’t. He kept his hands where she wanted them but he held her gaze evenly. “Mithril,” he answered. The way her fingers were circling on his chest made him want to look, but he cocked his head at Raelynn instead. “In fact, that was another thing Fjolte told me. You’re the woman to ask about obtaining some of that.” Raelynn's lips parted slightly, as if she was about to say something but instead hesitated. "I can get you anything you want," she said after a pause. "For a price." There was a smugness in the way she said it, perhaps pride in her business and in that she could, or maybe it was because she had a carrot with which to dangle in front of Gregor now. "What are you willing to pay for what you want?" She asked, quieter now - her magicka had stopped, and now her hand was just resting against the contours of his chest, lingering there. Holding him in place. Fjolte had warned him about that too, so Gregor wasn’t surprised when Raelynn raised the question of what it was worth to him. He was impressed by the way she went about it, however. It was obvious that Raelynn knew exactly what her strengths were and she was employing them artfully. Even being consciously aware of how he was being manipulated was little defense against it, and Gregor took a deep breath, his inflating chest pressing back against her hand. “Its street value, insofar as mithril has one… but I’m open to suggestions,” he said and patted a hand against the blade that rested against the chair. Gregor knew that mithril was more expensive than he could afford with the septims he had on him. “If you need another helping hand in your business, my sword is available too.” Without warning, Raelynn moved away from Gregor, taking her hand off of his chest, making her way to the otherside of her desk. "If you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours…" she said, stealing a glance at him, relaxed in the chair with his shirt open like that. The dark stranger, so apparently dangerous and yet… "I shan't need your sword… But you, actually." Raelynn said, pinching her own chin again. "I have a business deal to close. A very, [i]very[/i] important one." Normally, such things brought her joy, but there was caution surrounding this particular venture and that was clear in the seriousness with which she spoke. Whatever fire had been between them moments ago was dying embers now. "You're as refined a man as I'll find, willing to work with me. If you attend this business meeting with me, and if the deal is finalised. I'll give you your mithril." Being left without Raelynn’s physical presence was like somebody opening a drafty window and blasting him with cold air. Gregor became abruptly aware of himself -- painfully so, even. Gritting his teeth, he checked his chest and found that the bruising had significantly reduced and he realized that the deep breath he’d taken earlier hadn’t hurt him. Satisfied in Raelynn’s work but disappointed in himself, Gregor buttoned his shirt back up while he listened to the Breton’s proposal. He fell silent for a few seconds to contemplate it when she was finished. There was a lot she wasn’t telling him and Gregor questioned whether it was wise to involve himself so directly in her business affairs. Wasn’t it safer to stay on the periphery and remain a tool for her to use, like she did with Fjolte? Then again, taking arrows to the chest wasn’t particularly safe either. The Imperial hoped that it was safe to assume that a business deal would involve a great deal less violence. That begged the question: what did she need him for? He saw no reason not to ask, so he did. “What do you need me for, my lady?” Gregor got to his feet as the appropriate amount of formality returned to their interactions. He began the laborious task of putting his multi-layered outfit back on and added: “My father and my brother are merchants, so I do know something about conducting business, but I doubt it is anything you don’t already know yourself.” "I need you to… Be my accessory. Make me look good," anyone else might have felt embarrassed to say such a thing, and there certainly was no implication in her words that she didn't already look good, of course. "Keep an eye out for trouble, don't let me drink too much…" Raelynn's chin pointed downwards as she reached for parchment. "We won't be on land, per se. It's a formal affair so good grooming is an absolute necessity. I'll provide attire for you, of course…" As her fingers turned over the pages on the desk she chuckled to herself. "You know business, you know high society. Businessmen, nobles, at events like this they generally bring along their wives - to show them off, and also to display a certain image of themselves. I need that image too…" Raelynn finished, watching for Gregor's reaction. "Just one evening, and the mithril is yours." He’d never expected to find himself on the receiving end of such a request. Gregor wasn’t sure whether he should be amused or offended, or any number of things. Then again, there was sense in her reasoning. “Don’t let you drink too much,” he repeated as his arms filled out the sleeves of his overcoat and he chuckled while he adjusted the lapels. “Somehow I feel like that might be the most challenging objective about this whole task.” He took another deep breath, relieved that he could do so without feeling any discomfort, and clicked the heels of his boots together. “Very well, my lady, I will accompany you. When is the occasion? Do you need my measurements?” "No. I have a tailor in town, speak to him and tell him you're working for me, he'll have something in your size. Two nights from now, meet me back here and we shall travel there together." She gave him another look, now that he had dressed before pointing a finger up as she remembered something else. "I almost forgot," she moved to the drawer with the coin purse, opening it with a click again. "I don't know how much your fee is for ridding me of dangerous criminals," she began - the detail that it had been Gregor who killed Jodane was not lost. "But… with my services taken into consideration, this should be more than enough I hope." As Raelynn spoke, she quickly counted and bagged a pile of septims, carrying it over to hand to the man. Not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, Gregor accepted the bag of septims without weighing it. “Thank you,” he said and curtsied again. “Your gratitude is most appreciated. Two days from now,” he reiterated. It was nice to know that he had that much time to himself, and some unexpected pocket money to entertain himself with, without feeling like he was wasting it in any way -- Raelynn was his ticket to obtaining the mithril, after all. With that, he turned around and made himself scarce. As soon as the door closed behind him and he was alone in the hallway of the inn’s upper floor, Gregor exhaled slowly and rubbed his forehead. “Be careful around her, you damned fool,” he whispered to himself. [hr] Now that evening had swept over Jehanna, the streets were lit by torches in a line, and the guards made their patrols. Also on a patrol of his own, was a freshly groomed, freshly washed Fjolte. His beard trimmed, the messier lengths of hair clipped and combed. It was soft now, dirt and grime stripped from it. Styled in a tight bun. He grinned as his idle hands squeezed it while he paced the streets like he was looking to kill time. He had dressed himself in a relatively plain khaki linen shirt, covered by an equally plain black leather jerkin, tucked into some new earthy brown trousers that fit him well. Women seemed to love a man with a sharp appearance. That he had [i]definitely[/i] noticed when he had introduced Gregor to Raelynn earlier. His usual carefree dress was fine enough, but it was always stylish armour that garnered the attention and interest of the fairer sex right off the bat. At least that was the case in places like Jehanna. It was that very observation that had led Fjolte to change his style, just for a night - taking a leaf out of Gregor’s book, perhaps. He was a man on a mission and with a generous bag of coin from a good day’s work just waiting to be spent away. Or, in this case, drank away. He knew exactly where he was headed, and he made a sharp turn on the cobblestones in the direction of a more inner-city tavern, The Thirsty Frog. The Well was a good enough place, but he quite felt like being [i]free[/i] tonight and to do so under Raelynn’s nose wasn’t the best idea. There was that, and also that The Thirsty Frog had the best lamb hotpot this side of Rorikstead. As he stepped in, he stretched his arms out and his lips pulled into a smile at the side, “I’m home,” he breathed out, audible only to himself, rubbing his hands together as he approached the bar. “An ale, a whisky, and a lamb hotpot my good lady,” he said, dropping septims into the outstretched hand of the barmaid. She was a pretty young thing. Auburn hair and dazzling green eyes - curves in the right places that hooked him in straight away. “You got it, sir” she replied, giving him a polite nod as she took the septims. “Take a seat, I’ll bring it right over.” As he took his seat in the corner, his drinks were brought out first. The barmaid placed them down for him he offered her a wink which she seemed to enjoy. The auburn haired Breton then walked away with a giggle and a wiggle in her step. He made a note to perhaps talk to her later, that’s if he could remember her at all. Down went the whisky in one - the heat in his throat like a flame that immediately added gravel to his growl. He placed the empty glass down, and picked up the ale - that one he’d take his time with. Not too long after, by fortuitous coincidence, the door to the Thirsty Frog swung open once again and none other than Gregor Mercurius stepped across the threshold. The damage to his clothes had been mended, his beard had been oiled and trimmed to perfection, the dirt and grime of their underground bandit-battle was washed away and his pouches were much heavier with gold than just yesterday. Bringing Jodane’s spear to the city’s steward had seen him rewarded with another one hundred fifty septims. The coins that clinked with every step saw the ghost of a smile play around his lips all the way from his rented room down to this watering hole. It had been a good day. The heavy footfall of his boots on the wooden tavern floor turned many a head in his direction and Gregor felt their eyes lingering on his outfit and the large bastard sword across his back, but he paid them no mind. The Imperial wasn’t averse to making an entrance when he was in a good mood. He kept his back straight and his chin up while he sauntered to the bar and he placed a handful of septims on the counter, fixing his raptorian gaze on the auburn-haired barmaid. He looked like a bird of prey inspecting his meal for a second before his eyes softened and he smiled properly. Normally, he wasn’t much of a heavy drinker but he felt like he needed a stiff drink after his encounter with Raelynn. “A bottle of your finest Cyrodilic brandy, if you please,” he said, placing his hands flat on the bar and resting his weight on it. He’d already eaten -- Gregor was just here for a drink and a good time. "Course sir," she replied, smiling back at him - impressed too at his noble and masculine appearance. Even if the way he had eyed her had been intense, she didn't flinch from it. Instead turning a blushed cheek the other way. "Take a seat and I'll bring it to you." It was as if his experiences earlier in the day had reignited Gregor’s delight in the wooing of the fairer sex and he smirked behind the shroud of his beard at the sight of the maid’s blush. He rapped the bar with one of his rings and nodded in appreciation. “Very good,” Gregor declared and turned to stand with his back to the counter, inspecting the common room properly and letting his eyes drift over the assembled patrons. They widened in pleasant surprise when he saw Fjolte sitting in the far corner, looking rather fetching in what seemed to be new clothes. “I’ll be with that gentleman over there,” he said to the barmaid over his shoulder before approaching Fjolte with a grin on his face and his hands raised in the same gesture as during their first meeting. It hadn’t just been the smoky haze in the tavern playing tricks on his eyes; Fjolte really [i]did[/i] look different. A little less wild and a little more refined. Gregor immediately decided that it suited him in this environment. “My friend,” the Imperial said by way of announcing his presence and he placed a hand on the back of a chair after Fjolte had looked up at him. “Mind if I join you, or do you prefer solitude tonight?” “Gregor!” Fjolte exclaimed happily after a large slug of his ale, “sit down, sit down! Of course I’ll take your company — another happy coincidence!” he commented with glee. He had expected to see his new friend after he and Raelynn had finished, but it seemed he’d already left by the time he’d finished his bath. So, to see him now was a happy surprise - and in the comfort and warmth of the tavern, the man took on an even more elegant appearance. He looked right at home. “I didn’t think I’d get to see you again so soon,” he said, smacking his lips, running a finger to remove the droplets of ale from his stubble. From the corner of his eye, he made out the hourglass shape of the barmaid making her way back over, and his nostrils flared as he caught the scent of his meal too. His head turned and he admired the manner in which she was balancing the bowl of hotpot, and a bottle and glass on the same tray - taking small and dainty steps to ensure it didn’t wobble or drop. As she closed the distance, she placed down Gregor’s brandy bottle; “Cyrodilic Brandy for this gentleman,” she began softly, bending over the table just enough to be tantalising, making eye contact with the Imperial before placing his glass in front of him too. “And a hotpot for [i]this[/i] gentleman,” she said - practically purring at Fjolte, who was enthralled by it of course, enough to be distracted completely from the food. “Can I get you two anything else?” She asked, flattening the round tray under her chest to… give a certain [i]uplift[/i]. “I’ll take another whisky, and bring a whisky for my good friend here - did you know he saved my life just last night Ma’am?” Fjolte began, tilting his head, softening his gaze upon the young woman. “Oh, is that true?” she asked, turning to Gregor, with a look on her face that showed that she was both impressed and even more interested in the two of them than she initially had been. Heartened, Gregor grabbed the back of the chair with both hands and pulled it free so that he could sit down, his movements more forceful than usual. He nodded when Fjolte expressed his surprise at their second chance meeting in as many days. “Me neither, but it seems the gods have plans for us,” he quipped with a wink before turning and clapping his hands together in approval when the barmaid approached. He listened with a smirk as Fjolte immediately saw fit to embellish the story, just as Raelynn had predicted, but his eyes were on the barmaid, flitting down from her striking green eyes to her bosom and back up again. Gregor couldn’t tell who she was flirting with more, but it didn’t matter anyway -- she was Fjolte’s prize and he would see to it that the Nord received it. Waving dismissively, Gregor laughed and said: “I was merely returning the favor, Fjolte, or have you already forgotten how you overpowered that Bosmer archer before he could finish the job and put me down for good?” Her eyes moved from Gregor and back to Fjolte in amusement, and she even batted her eyelashes in his direction. “Well sounds to me like you’re both capable…” she rounded off with a girlish chuckle, bringing the tray further up to cover her mouth flirtatiously, as if she was suddenly coy and playing shy. “Oh aye, we’re two bruisers alright,” he replied with a glance and a wink in Gregor’s direction. “Anything to keep dangerous folk of the streets and away from good, honest folk like yourself,” he smiled sincerely. She was then staring at his arms, the muscles that lined them and stood out even from underneath the shirt - the lines and ripples. She giggled again. “Well… I’m glad to have good men like you out there.” He glanced between the woman and Gregor, quite pleased with himself too - before sending her off, as much as it pained him. Maybe absence would make her heart grow fonder? “Go on lass, don’t let us keep you from your work - we’ve plotting to do and you’ve drinks to serve,” he remarked with an amorous smirk that only brought another blush to her cheeks - and then she wiggled off once more. “So then Gregor,” he finally said after tracking her movement from their table and back to the bar. “You seem to be in better help now, now? Told you you’d be in good hands.” The Imperial followed Fjolte’s gaze and watched the woman leave as well, his eyes on her swaying hips, before turning back to face his friend with a smirk and a faint shake of his head. He poured himself a glass of brandy and put it to his lips when Fjolte asked after his health and he hastened to put the glass back down again, swallowing his drink hard so that he could speak. “Yes, yes, that reminds me -- I should thank you very much for introducing me to Raelynn. My wounds are healed and I’ve got a solid lead on a batch of mithril,” he said and clasped the man’s hand in order to give it a vigorous shake. “You’re right that she’s going to make me jump through hoops for it,” he added with a wry smile, “but it’s better than paying out the nose for it.” Picking up his spoon, Fjolte listened to the man before plunging it through the layer of sliced potatoes to take a generous mouthful, raising a brow to hear that Gregor had been given a task already. “Oh yeah?” he slurred through a mouthful of potato, meat, and gravy before swallowing it down almost whole. “What hoops are those? Hunting again?” Gregor shook his head. “Nothing so violent, no. I’m to accompany her to a formal occasion of some kind where she’s looking to close a business deal. You know how important men bring their wives to banquets and so on? She says I’ll be there to be her ‘accessory’. Her words.” He sniggered and took another sip of his brandy. “She has a tailor in town that will provide me with appropriate clothes and then I suppose my role will be to look and behave as refined and dignified as possible. I don’t know the details and there’s probably a catch somewhere, but…” He trailed off and fidgeted a bit with his glass, a knowing smile on his lips as he looked at Fjolte. “You know what she’s like. I couldn’t refuse. And I really do need that mithril.” Fjolte’s face dropped slightly, that sounded like something incredibly important — she hadn’t even mentioned a business deal to him, and his brow furrowed in response. “Well, I mean I can be refined too-” he began, not realising that gravy was spilling off the spoon and onto the table as he spoke. He shook his head and sighed, “pffff,” he scoffed, “I just get to go bandit hunting - you get to go for a nice dinner probably,” he continued, laughing in disbelief at the end. “I suppose you look the part more than I bloody well do.” He stabbed the spoon through the potato crust again, immediately over his very minor moment of jealousy. “Least you’ll get that bit of mithril though, she keeps her word, I’ll say that much.” Aware that he had touched a nerve, Gregor nodded along with Fjolte’s words in all seriousness. “I’m sure you can be, but these kinds of affairs come with a whole booklet of instructions and etiquette. It’s hard to learn if you haven’t grown up around it. My father is a merchant and he attended the lord’s court in Bravil pretty often, and my mother comes from old money in Bruma. I was raised to know all the rules,” he explained as gently as he could, “and since the occasion is in two days, I’m afraid there’s not enough time to fill you in. It’s a matter of convenience, I’m sure,” Gregor said and gestured vaguely with his glass, a frown on his face. “Besides, these things can be enormously dull. Tell me, and be honest, would you rather be out in the woods, fresh air and all the freedom in the world, or stuck in a stuffy castle for hours with a bunch of wealthy old people that have never worked a day in their lives?” he asked and raised his eyebrows at the Nord. “I have been around some of those rich folk, and they are really boring, you’re right about that.” Fjolte commented nodding his head and relaxing his shoulders, leaning back into his seat some. “I’m trying to think of who she might be meeting with though…” the Nord glanced down, before quickly shrugging it off. “I’m sure it will be fun for you, if that’s your upbringing. But yeah, being a walking purse seems… Well, you’re a good fighter Gregor, can’t see you getting to swing a sword or throw a bit of magic at a banquet,” he laughed, grabbing his tankard of ale for a swig. He lowered his head and raised his glass. “I thank you for the compliment. My father taught me how to swing that sword. He was a Legionnaire before he was a merchant. You know,” Gregor mused and ran a hand through his beard, “I think the two of you would get along like peas in a pod. My father is a very worldly man and he always speaks very highly of the Nord comrades he fought besides in the Great War. He doesn’t talk about the war much, but when he does, he’s a good storyteller.” Smiling, Gregor shrugged. “As for the banquet… I don’t know about it being fun, necessarily. I deal with the rich enough on a daily basis -- someone has to make all that jewelry they wear, after all -- and like I said last night, I was just having fun being something [i]other[/i] than what I was raised to be. But it’s good to know that Raelynn will come through on her word. The promise of a reward will make it tolerable, at least,” he said, wisely speaking nothing about what he thought of being in Raelynn’s company, and finished his drink, immediately reaching for the bottle again. A jolly redness was already rising in his cheeks. That redness did not go unnoticed by Fjolte, and a wicked thought occurred to him, the kind of thought that only boys being boys had. He could tell already that Gregor was a lightweight, he knew the signs. He’d drank enough people under the table to spot them a mile off, and so he chuckled to himself, passing it off as a light cough to clear his throat. “If you’re Pa is anything like you, then I’m sure we would. My father is a bit of a stiff, honestly but he’s been a farmer all of his life - he’s earned his right to be a grumpy old git,” he smirked. Once more, the barmaid approached - two glasses of whisky on her tray this time. She placed one in front of the two gentlemen. Giving Gregor a slow smile before she turned back to Fjolte, bending just a little more across the table for the Imperial. An extra button had been undone in the time she’d spent back at the bar. When it came time to pay attention to Fjolte, she blinked at him, “I hope you’re enjoying your meal,” she ran a finger across her collarbones - which Fjolte followed with his own eyes - forgetting about Gregor entirely in the moment. “Oh aye, aye I am.” He nodded, unaware in a way that his hand had moved to the small of her back to give her a light tickle, which she delighted in before moving off again, looking back over her shoulder at them both with a giggle. Fjolte raised his eyebrows and exhaled, “she’s a bubble of trouble that one,” he muttered - proud of himself all the same. He cleared his throat for real this time, picking up the whisky glass and holding it out to Gregor. “Alright friend, down in one?” Normally Gregor would have politely declined such a proposal but he wasn’t about to allow himself to be further emasculated by the man that had just so completely and irrevocably stolen the barmaid’s attention away from him. The game was on. Gregor grinned. “Of course, what do you take me for?” he boasted bravely -- perhaps more bravely than he should have. Their glasses clinked together and Gregor threw it back in one go, as promised, but he visibly winced as the alcohol burned a way through his esophagus. “Mara’s mercy, that’s… that’s good stuff,” he managed, before beckoning for Fjolte to put his own glass down. He reached for the Cyrodiilic brandy and made to pour them both a shot. “Now let me show you what we drink in my country, eh?” Fjolte too had to bring a fist to his mouth to prevent himself from wincing at the strength of the spirit. He watched with delight in his eyes as Gregor couldn’t hold his own back, and with equal parts delight and curiosity observed the brandy being poured into the empty glasses. “Bottoms up,” he said, clinking the glass again and knocking it back. It was sweeter than the whisky, that was for sure - and it caught him by surprise. “Kyne’s breath that’s a girls drink Gregor,” he hissed through gritted teeth, holding the sugar down. “Another!” Gregor stared, slack jawed, in incredulity for a second or two before he closed his mouth and scoffed. “I’ll have you know that this is the drink of my forefathers, my good sir,” he moped in mock offense while he obliged Fjolte’s request and poured him another, but his eyes betrayed his merry amusement. “If it offends your sensibilities that we had the good sense to make our spirits actually [i]taste nicely,[/i] I do apologize.” “If that’s the drink of your forefathers… Well…” Fjolte began, losing his train of thought before he could finish it. He took the shot of brandy, finding that this was easier to swallow the second time around, and as he felt it slosh in his stomach he eyed Gregor mischievously. “Get that arse up to the bar and get us a real drink, a bottle of Shein…” he chuckled, wanting to see how much of a sway Gregor would have now. He even took out the septims from his own coin purse. “Go on…” Gregor shrugged and pouted in the way that only toddlers and inebriated men could as he got to his feet. “As you wish.” He clicked his heels together -- on the second attempt, anyway, having missed one foot with the other on his first try -- and made way to the bar, blinking fiercely to keep himself focused and steady. “Shine… shine…” he repeated incorrectly to himself and frowned. “I don’t know of no drink called bloody [i]shine,”[/i] the Imperial muttered in his bemusement. Still, Fjolte seemed to know what he was about when it came to booze, so he weaved his way through the other patrons, successfully avoiding the creation of a mess. One for the history books, he thought. He sidled up to the bar and presented the barmaid with his most affable smile. It took him a few seconds to recollect his thoughts and as the silence stretched on between them, he held up a finger before bringing his other fist to his mouth and burping as elegantly as he could manage. “Apologies, your honour. Now, where was I? Yes, [i]shine.[/i] Something like that. My friend has sent me here to procure a bottle of it. Do you know what he’s talking about? Because I don’t.” The barmaid watching in disbelief as the very man who had been so eloquent and civilised earlier leaned over the bar - using it to hold him up even. “It’s a spirit,” she chuckled in a slightly higher pitched voice, “a strong one,” she explained as she reached behind the bar for what looked like an urn. She placed it down in front of the Imperial with another giggle. “It’s not like your nice brandy I’m afraid,” she smiled knowingly. “I think your friend is trying to get you very drunk good Sir.” Once again, the flirty barmaid batted her eyelashes at Gregor. Meanwhile, back at the table, Fjolte was stifling his guffaws into a closed fist he’d placed by his mouth, sinking his teeth into his fingers to stop from making a ruckus. “Bah,” Gregor grumbled. “He can try! Damned Nords, everything’s always a contest to them. He’ll have his contest. As for the spirit, that… this thing,” he settled on and pointed towards the bottle of shein, “you say it’s strong, yes? Good. Because he was complaining about the brandy earlier.” Gregor drew himself up and something between a frown and a disapproving sneer emerged onto his face. “He said it was a [i]girl’s[/i] drink,” he spat, as if it was a great insult to him and his family’s honor. He pointed a finger at the barmaid. “The Emperor himself drinks it, you know that? The bloody Emperor. Girl’s drink my… my [i]arse.”[/i] He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, and his face relaxed before he opened his eyes again. As the barmaid swam back into focus, he smiled broadly. “Anyway, don’t worry about that, or about me, or about anything. You’re too pretty for that. Thanks for the assistance.” “Well, I think it’s a dignified man’s drink,” she purred, running a finger against the drunks forearm with a mischievous look to rival even Fjolte’s. “But tell me how you like that shein when you’re done. If you can.” With that said, she made her way to serve another patron, leaving Gregor with the dangerous looking urn, the smell seeping out each time the lid rattled around with his movements. “Gregor!” Fjolte called from the table, “bring the drink already!” “Yes, yes, alright, calm yourself!” Gregor yelled back, snatching up the urn -- immediately spilling some of the shein over the edge and into the fabric of his gloves -- and returning to the table. He dropped himself into his chair like a sack of potatoes and, in an absurd display of contrast, gingerly placed the drink on the table. “There’s your precious… stuff,” he grumbled and straightened up in his chair a little, as he was already threatening to slide off of it entirely. “I was having a [i]wonderful[/i] conversation with somebody in this establishment that has some [i]good sense,[/i] I’ll have you know. You called the brandy a girl’s drink but the girl thinks it’s a dignified man’s drink,” he explained and jabbed a hand in Fjolte’s direction. “And I trust her judgement in this case. So there.” Satisfied that he had made his point, Gregor waved towards the urn. “So, what in Zenithar’s name is this? Who in Oblivion makes this stuff? It smells like death.” Fjolte could only laugh at Gregor. He was still managing to be still in his seat, it hadn’t taken to him like it had to the Imperial that clear as day. “Yeah, alright then it’s dignified,” he laughed - taking the shein to pour a shot for himself, and one for Gregor. He let a little extra spill into his friends glass, knowing that he wouldn’t notice that. “This is Dunmer drink, so that’s why it smells like death,” he grinned. Even Fjolte was apprehensive about it. This was the drink you partook in if you wanted to eradicate an entire week from your memory. It might just throw Gregor off of Nirn altogether. He waited for Gregor to lift his own glass, and as they had been doing - they clinked the glasses together - more of Gregor’s toppled over the rim but Fjolte’s did not spill. He brought it to his lips quick, and swallowed it quicker. He brought a tightly closed fist down onto the table with a loud slam, stomping a foot at the same time - a vein or two popped out onto display on his neck as he strained. “Ffffffff,” he wheezed, his eyes wide and bloodshot. “It’s like…” he continued, unable to breath, “like a finger up my arse!” Not even the forewarning of shein being a Dunmer drink had stopped Gregor from cheerfully toasting with Fjolte, but when he brought the glass up to his face the smell was so overpowering that he, in a brief moment of clarity, stopped and lowered the glass back to the table -- his eyes were already watering merely from being in proximity to the stuff and he placed a hand on his midriff, swallowing hard to keep himself from dry-heaving. Watching Fjolte’s reaction to the shein did nothing to improve his enthusiasm about the drink. “You know,” he stammered, visibly pale, “I’m not sure I should drink this stuff. It’s not… not that I can’t, or anything,” Gregor improvised, trying to put on a brave face, “but I just killed a dark elf last night and it feels wrong to be sitting here and drinking his drink the day after. It’s disrespectful, you know? We must respect the dead,” he blabbered on and made the sign of Arkay with his free hand. “Gods rest his soul, and all that.” “I can [i]see[/i] the Gods,” Fjolte continued, strain still in his voice, still unable to breath. He managed to turn quite quickly back to Gregor, pointing a finger in his direction, “[i]drink it,[/i]” he commanded in a voice that was suddenly about five octaves lower. The Nord finally took a breath - several in fact in quick succession, the walls behind Gregor began to blur before his eyes. “It’s more disrespectful to refuse a gift,” he growled, finally finding something of a composure. Gregor had to admit that the man had a point. He sighed and inhaled deeply, steeling himself for the trials ahead, and sat up straight -- there was more lucidity to his eyes than he’d had at any point since he started drinking. “You’re right,” he said and grabbed the glass firmly, placing his other hand on his knee. He raised his drink. “To your father, because I think the old git would enjoy a drink that tastes just like him. Bottom’s up.” And up the bottom went. Gregor almost choked on it because his body’s desire to swallow and gasp for breath fought for dominance for a moment -- fortunately, swallowing won out and the drink went down without incident. At least, not immediately. “Fuck Akatosh in the arse with a halberd!” he swore colorfully and his hand gripped his knee strong enough to leave a red welt beneath his trousers. He had to resist the urge to throw the glass and the whole urn away, as if it was a hive of bees -- the whole experience felt rather like swallowing an entire colonly of stinging insects. Gregor put the glass back down with shaking fingers and looked at Fjolte with a furious, red-glazed stare, sucking in short breaths as he did so. “Bastard,” he managed to hiss. It was wearing off for the Nord, not by much, but by enough for him to laugh — only, the laugh got caught in his throat and made him gag and his head lurched forwards - threatening to send the contents of his stomach flying. Instead, a rather meaty burp erupted that made him jump in his seat. “Fuck…” he whimpered, a hiccup fit taking hold of him too. “Well, we’ll say that’s [i]hic[/i] the man’s man [i]hic[/i] drink.” He no longer felt comfortable in the seat, his heart racing in his chest. “I gotta [i]hic[/i] run that shit off, fuck [i]hic[/i].” Then he stood up, his whole body swaying - convulsing terribly with every hiccup. “Come, Gagar!” he yelled in a slur before attempting to start off in a sprint for the door. “[i]Hic![/i]” “What?” Gregor asked unhelpfully. He had trouble using his eyes to follow Fjolte; in fact, he had trouble using his eyes for anything. “Do we need to run? Are the elves coming?” he mumbled and stood up to follow Fjolte, which resulted in him falling over face first and landing on the tavern floor with a dull smack almost immediately. He blinked slowly and pushed himself up enough, his cheek coming loose from the sticky floorboards with a gross sucking noise, to try to see whatever it was that Fjolte was doing. Whatever happened to Gregor, Fjolte was unaware of it as he pushed his way out of the tavern and into the street, making strides through the brisk air, breathing it deep into his lungs as he followed his path to a small patch of grass which…. Started to look very, very comfortable. He sat himself down on it, and stared up at the sky, watching it spin around in circles. “Gagar? GRAGAR?” he shouted out, pointing at a disapproving guard as he walked past, “Grag? is that you?!” He had looked up just in time to see Fjolte leave the tavern. Groaning at the sight -- because that meant getting up and following him -- Gregor counted to five, taking a minor detour past twelve to get there, and clambered back up to his feet, using the wall of the tavern for support. How had it all gone to shit so fast? He hoped the barmaid wasn’t looking as he shuffled towards the door. Emerging into the evening air was a relief and Gregor was suddenly grateful for Fjolte’s decision to leave the warm and smoky tavern. He paused just outside the door to take a few slow, deep breaths, but a handful of patrons that followed through the door after him complained that he was standing in their way, which was undoubtedly true, so he moved on. Where Fjolte’s pace had been rapid, Gregor’s was sluggish and unsteady, and it took him a little while to find the patch of grass where the Nord had made himself comfortable. “Hello there!” Gregor called out and waved at Fjolte. He lifted his (suddenly) very heavy head from the ground to lock eyes with Gregor - but even finding them was like trying to pin a tail on a donkey. He gave up. “I admit it,” he puffed out, “crossed a line with that shit,” Fjolte wheezed before dropping his head again, closing his eyes to protect him from the moving sky. He did slap a hand on the empty space beside him, smacking his lips - he was incredibly thirsty for water now. “I just need the breeze and then I’ll get… [i]hic[/i] right back on it.” “You really did,” Gregor said and fell down next to Fjolte, remarkably accurately aiming his body on the patch of grass the Nord had indicated as available. “Fuck that drink and fuck the Dunmer for making it.” He rolled over onto his back and tried to focus on the sky, or on the rooftops visible at the edges of his vision, but everything was spinning way too fast. He could feel himself breaking out into cold sweat and his mouth was filling with saliva. “You’re bigger,” he wheezed, arms grasping uselessly for support. “Get me to somewhere I can throw up.” "I don't know how they made that flavour…" Fjolte groaned as he pulled himself up, with a heave he had Gregor back onto his feet - guiding him towards a darkened corner. "Go for it, we'll get back in… a hotpot. That'll fix it all…" he said, with a hint of quiet desperation in his voice. He really hoped it would. It wasn’t even necessary to stick a finger down his throat. Merely closing his eyes and leaning his head forward was enough to send Gregor’s dinner and most of the liquor they’d consumed back out the way it came in. He wisely remembered to keep his nose shut with two pinched fingers and when he was done, he straightened back up feeling rather relieved with how smoothly it all went… up, he supposed. Still swaying but with a severe and focused expression on his face, Gregor retrieved his handkerchief from his coat and wiped his mouth clean. The last thing he needed was chunky vomit in his beard. “There we are,” he said, his voice hoarse and throat raw, “all better.” He still looked like he’d been poisoned by an Argonian Shadowscale, but that was besides the point. Gregor’s stomach immediately complained. “What did you say? A hotpot? Yes, yes,” he mumbled and held onto Fjolte’s shoulder. “That sounds great. Wonderful. Delightful. Lead the way, my brave donkey.” "If I'm a donkey, you're an ass." Fjolte laughed before, patting Gregor's back before helping the man back into the tavern. Surprisingly, the warmth of the tavern was a comfort again, and nobody had taken their table. Hell, there was half a hotpot still there - but so in fact was the dangerous drink. Fjolte left Gregor standing in the doorway while he swaggered over to the bar, grabbing the attention of the barmaid with a wave of his hand. "Miss…. Ma'am…?" He asked, realising he didn't even know her name. She appeared, smile and all -- she'd seen the whole incident, and the grin on her face communicated that to Fjolte. "Yes?" She asked, pushing her chest out provocatively still. "Think you could move that poison… And err, two more hotpots?" He asked, smiling sheepishly back until her bosoms appeared in his eyeline. "Of course, wait right here," she said before setting off to move the shein. She gave Gregor a smile once she was by their table. His skin was so pale and he had that cold sweat sticking to him that she'd seen so many times before. "Are you alright mister?" He, too, smiled sheepishly. “I will be, but you’re sweet to ask,” Gregor said, some of his sophisticated charm returning to him. “I could do with some water, though,” he added and glanced at Fjolte. “We both could.” Having said that, Gregor sank back into his chair and rubbed his face with his hands in an attempt to reinvigorate himself a little. “You win,” he told Fjolte, peeking at him between his fingers, his voice a little muffled. “Let’s… let’s just enjoy our drinks now, yes? Not another race to the bottom.” Fjolte nodded, slipping back into his seat too. "Got carried away and excited, but at least we survived the poison…" Even in his state he still felt smug over it and that couldn't be hidden. "So let's just slow down for a bit…" he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Tell me something," he began - feeling a grumble in his stomach that made him scrunch his nose for a second. "Tell me a secret, or something." Gregor dropped his hands to the table and thought about that for a bit. “A secret,” he repeated. Another deep breath saw him regain the ability to sit up straight and he settled into his chair, cleared his throat and smoothed over his clothes. They were slightly sticky from falling onto the floor earlier and he sighed at that. “Well, my father always says that the Emperor didn’t really lead the charge in the Battle of the Red Ring, and that another man wore the Emperor’s armor that day, and that there’s a whole conspiracy at the top of the Imperial hierarchy to keep that information from becoming common knowledge,” he explained flatly, fully aware that it really wasn’t the kind of answer that Fjolte was after, but not in the mood -- just yet -- to dig into his personal life. “I don’t know if I believe that but if it’s true, then it’s a secret, right?” "I'll have to think about that…" Fjolte said in response, absolutely seriously. "That's as well guarded a secret as the golden plants, Gregor." He added with a nod of his head. Before Gregor would be able to react to that, the barmaid had reappeared - large glasses of water on her tray, as well as the hotpots. She'd done well to balance it all, and as she had been doing all evening, she made quite a titillating show of putting everything onto their table. While Fjolte's gaze was drawn to her bottom that she'd positioned beside him, she gave Gregor a wink and bit her lip. "This will make you feel better," she said and pushed the hot stew towards him. There was nothing she liked more than flirting with the patrons, and when they were as attractive and responsive as Gregor and Fjolte, she ate the attention up. "And for you as well Sir," she said to Fjolte with a wink - placing his second portion down in front of him, puffing out her chest a little as she leaned across the table. Chuckling to herself as she went - unable to tell whether this was a joke now that she just had to keep raising the bar on. "Anything else gentlemen?" She asked, hiding behind her tray again to snigger. After helping himself to a generous and very welcome gulp of water, Gregor’s eyes flitted between Fjolte and the maid and an idea came to him. “Yes, actually, there is something you can help me with,” he said in the most amiable tone he could muster. “What’s your name, my dear?” “Camile,” she answered, as if she was taken aback by the rather mundane question. Fjolte, on the other hand, watched Gregor with a glare of his own - what was he up to? “Camile, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Gregor. This is my friend Fjolte,” the Imperial said and gestured at the Nord that sat opposite him. As far as he was concerned he was being as smooth as any man could possibly be. “Like we discussed earlier, he saved my life last night, when we were up against one of Jehanna’s most notorious bandits. I scarcely knew him then but he still did not hesitate to come to my aid.” Gregor paused to make sure that the yarn he was spinning was made of a single thread, made use of the moment to take another sip of water, and continued. “Such a fine man is a rarity and I must say I feel rather terrible keeping him all to myself this evening. Would you be so kind as to alleviate me of this burden and come see us when your shift is over?” Going in for the kill, the masterstroke, the coup de grace, Gregor leaned back in his chair nonchalantly and smiled up at Camile with languid ease. “I should very much like for you to get to know him a little better.” “Get to know him?” she asked, her head jolted backwards and her smile dropped. “I… I already do!” she laughed again, and looked at Fjolte expectantly. Fjolte’s eyes widened, and he scrambled through whatever memories he could find in his inebriated state, and he took on the look of a frightened rabbit all of a sudden. “Y-yes… Camile, I know. I know.” He absolutely did not. With all of the melodrama in the world, Gregor sighed, threw up his hands and a forlorn look fell over his face. “Oh, Fjolte, I thought the healer took care of that -- I’m so sorry, Camile,” the Imperial said as he turned back to the barmaid, thinking quickly. “He wasn’t joking when he said that I saved his life in turn. It’s about all he can remember from the encounter. He took a terrible blow to the head and I think his memory has been…” He dropped his tone conspiratorially and leaned in closer towards Camile. “On the fritz, as it were. You’re not the first person this happened with. I had to reintroduce him to his employer just earlier today. We saw a healer afterwards, but… I guess what with the drinking, this was to be expected…” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Since I don’t know him all that well, it’s been quite the adventure trying to figure out who knows him and who doesn’t. Please don’t hold it against him,” Gregor pleaded innocently. “You expect me to believe this?” Camile answered, rolling her eyes and tucking the tray under her arm with a laugh of disbelief. Fjolte, on the other hand, was still going through his thoughts, his expression remained the same. A pause dragged out until eventually something clicked for him. She hadn’t always worked at the Frog, she was the frisky woman he remembered having a… rather excellent romp with and as the memory flooded back a blush appeared on his cheeks. “Camille, Camille…” he spoke out, smooth and confident again. That was a nice save by Gregor - but he’d have to work harder at the woman if he wanted to salvage any chance of a second encounter. “Of course I remember… I’m sorry for my rudeness, I just -- “ he looked down momentarily, bowed his head to the ground. “I didn’t want to come on too strong with you,” he confessed with a deep sigh, before lifting his head back up to look at her - a complete and utter smolder had taken hold of his expression. His eyes sparkled, and his lips pouted just enough. “I wanted us to rediscover that chemistry… That wonderful spark that allowed us that…” As Gregor had done, Fjolte also leaned in closer to her, flashing a look that could only have been described as naughty in the Imperial’s direction. “That special night in the barn…” That made her blush again, and she looked between them both and giggled. Believing every word, hell, it made the whole thing a whole lot better for Fjolte if she now recognised him as some kind of romantic. “Maybe I can see you later… Maybe,” she said teasingly, restraining herself from touching him. She was still at work after all, and there was also a part of her that wondered if this was some kind of lie… But the look on his face was something irresistible. She didn’t want to hang around, and so she flounced off - a spring in her step that made her curves just… [i]bounce[/i] around. Fjolte looked quickly to Gregor, biting his lip and shaking his head. “That was close…” he whispered, retreating to his water to try and stop himself from laughing. Gregor spread out his arms, a magnanimous smile on his face, and his eyes were like droplets of rich honey in the warm light of the fireplace. “You’re welcome,” he said, a god bestowing a blessing upon His disciple. Having said that, his face dropped a little and he resumed nursing his water. “Would’ve gone a lot smoother if you hadn’t [i]forgotten that you knew her,[/i] Fjolte. Heavens above… how was I supposed to account for that?” “It’s not like I didn’t warn you I enjoy my women!” he replied with a shit-eating grin. “But that’s not good is it?” he admitted, suddenly feeling like a bit of an idiot. “It was a good night, I may have been a bit drunk, or stoned, or both…” He gave a nonchalant shrug anyway. “Not a bad end to a an already good night… so thank you for your assistance friend.” “Think nothing of it, my friend,” Gregor said with a hand over his heart. “For a married man such as myself, living vicariously through a free spirit like you is one of the small pleasures of life that make it all worth it,” he joked and finished the rest of his water. It was only then that he felt his nausea had subsided sufficiently to pay proper attention to the food that Fjolte had ordered. Arming himself with his cutlery, Gregor tucked in, too preoccupied with eating to say anything more. “Yeah… Yeah,” Fjolte huffed from his chest - lifting his tankard to his lips to gulp back at least half of the content in one fell swoop. “I saw you enjoying yourself as well…I might be drunk but I can still follow your eyes.” Once again, his lack of self-awareness prevented him from realised that might have been offensive, and it was only his overly friendly constant state that stopped it from sounding like nothing but sass. “Hard to ignore a woman like that when she’s right in your space like that, I’ll admit…” he mused, running a hand through his stubble again thoughtfully. Gregor frowned for a moment but he quickly realized that Fjolte meant nothing by it. He swallowed his food and shrugged. “Nothing wrong with inspecting the wares, as long as you stay loyal to your current supplier,” he said and immediately regretted it. Briar would have slapped him for that one if she had been there to hear it. “Not that I think of women that way,” he added and looked over his shoulder, afraid to find Camile there, but she was fortunately still occupied elsewhere. Fjolte merely nodded in agreement, having taken a quieter turn as Gregor ate. “Get that down your neck, shein is no joke, don’t want you in a bad way for this important meeting of yours,” he stabbed his spoon into the top of his own hotpot, tucking in with delight and wolfing it down as he did with all food. “So… say Gregor, think you’ll just move on when you get that mithril then?” he asked, having enjoyed the evening — and Gregor’s company in general over the last day or so. The thought of him moving on so quickly didn’t exactly make him feel great. Gregor looked up at Fjolte with a small smile. He hadn’t failed to notice the slight apprehension in the question. It was nice to know that Fjolte didn’t want him to leave just yet. Truthfully, Gregor felt the same way and had been thinking about the same thing. “It’s what I promised my wife,” he said, a guilty undertone to his voice. He took another bite of food and thought about it some more while he chewed. Saying it out loud would make it more real, and therefore make him more tempted to do it. He wasn’t sure if that was a good idea. He sighed. “But I also told her that it wouldn’t be easy to get any mithril at all, let alone a sufficient quantity. If Raelynn comes true on her promise I’ll be way ahead of schedule. Just two days in Jehanna? I was expecting to be here for much longer, and I told my wife as much,” he added and, possibly fueled by the alcohol in his blood, a mischievous twinkle appeared in his eyes. “So I suppose I wouldn’t [i]have[/i] to go home immediately, no.” That brought a smile back to the Nord’s face in between his bites. Of course, he didn’t like to think of Gregor’s wife back home, waiting for her husband - but if what he’d explained the day before was true then perhaps she was enjoying the time apart too. It was much easier to enjoy Gregor’s company himself if he didn’t have to picture his wife pining for him as a result of them working together. “I’m sure Raelynn would like the help too, she’s already got you working on some things she has nobody else for… Maybe she’ll keep paying you in mithril. Enough mithril to make an armour suit if you wanted to!” he chuckled, inhaling the food - the spoon scraping the ceramic sides of the bowl. That prompted a laugh from Gregor. “I think you might overestimate how much mithril she has access to,” he said and slipped into a scholarly voice that came surprisingly easy to him. “Most of the mithril in Tamriel was mined out of the earth by the Dwemer and now exists in circulation as already finished objects. Jehanna is one of the few places that still has mithril ore veins in the mountains near the city and the East Empire Trading Company guards the chartered right to mine them quite jealously,” he explained, completely oblivious to Fjolte’s probable total disinterest in geological matters. “Anyone with enough mithril to forge a suit of armour out of it is a rich man indeed, especially these days.” He sat back in his chair and looked at the table, his gaze slowly shifting from his plate, to Fjolte’s, to their glasses of water and then finally to the empty space in between all of it. It suddenly dawned on him what he was looking for. “Where’s the booze?” he asked, bemused. Had they really drank all of the brandy and whiskey? Unbeknownst to Gregor, Fjolte was listening - as always, and interested too. His explanation was sound and made sense, but he didn’t know what Raelynn was capable of procuring. Gregor hadn’t seen the items that Fjolte had boxed up into storage and to be couriered. In that regard, maybe it would be better for the man to head back home after all. But maybe he was right, maybe whatever mithril Raelynn had her hands on was limited indeed. Still, Fjolte was not going to be surprised if she revealed a stash of it behind a bookcase in her suite. If it was as valuable and rare as Gregor made it out to be, she’d have a hand in it - and if not her, then most certainly her father would. “I suppose you’re right,” he said wearily all of a sudden, like the weight of what he’d seen suddenly slipped out. “As for the booze, I had Camile clear it away… I was worried about the smell after your bodily performance earlier.” Fjolte said, a smirk returning. “Ah, quick thinking. Probably for the best.” Gregor had finished most of his hotpot, not quite as voracious of an eater as Fjolte, as decided to leave the rest for what it was. He ran a hand through his hair and replayed the evening so far in his mind. A smile appeared on his face as a thought formed in his mind. “Your turn to tell me a secret,” Gregor declared and looked around him to see if he could spot Camile. He wagered they were ready for a new round of shots. He knew just the secret to tell, and he pulled his chair around the table so that he was closer to Gregor - he lowered both his head and his voice, looking around the room shiftily… “Once when I was much younger — my mother had made an apple pie... “ He then looked at Gregor with severity etched into his features, “you don’t repeat this to anyone, Mercurius…” he warned darkly…. “Anyway, I was hungry… I ate the whole thing. When my mother asked where the pie had gone… I blamed my twin sisters and let them both get a smack for it too…” He covered his mouth and laughed into it, “I didn’t even feel one bit of guilt, and it wasn’t the first time I’ve blamed my eating on them…” He slid his chair back to where it had been, laughing still. “You ever go through Rorikstead? Say nothing about the apple pie eater, friend.” Maybe Gregor had been looking for something more serious, even Fjolte wasn’t going to indulge him in that - preferring to keep things light than to dig deep for the [i]real[/i] secrets. He knew even touching the lid on that particular jar was too risky. “On my honour,” Gregor said, sat back, chuckled softly and shook his head at Fjolte. It was clear from the way that he rubbed his brow with his fingers that he was torn between being amused and annoyed by the Nord’s answer. “Truly, you are a merciless fiend, and I take great pity on your poor mother,” he added, sarcasm dripping from his words in thick ropes of vinegar. “When I asked for a secret I didn’t realize that you would be confessing to such crimes. Do you know what you’ve done?” he asked and stabbed an accusing finger at Fjolte’s face, though he couldn’t keep the half-smile off his face. “You’ve given me another burden to bear in this life, for carrying this secret with me to the grave shall weigh on my soul like… like…” He ran out of steam and waved dismissively. “You get the point. Gods, I need a drink to handle that one. Where [i]is[/i] that girl? One second she’s all bouncing and flouncing and I’m up to my eyeballs in tits and the next she’s gone,” he grumbled, a combination of inebriation and food fatigue unearthing a crass side to him that he hadn’t shown Fjolte before. “Well…” Fjolte began, leaning back in his seat, stretching his arms out as if to say [i]what do you want?[/i]. “I don’t have any real secrets… I’m an open book! If it’s a titillating story you’re after you need only ask-” As if on cue, Camile was back - four shots of whisky on her tray, and a sly smile on her face. “Alright boys,” she said, placing them down on the table one by one. Another button undone on her shirt this time so that her breasts practically threatened to be the next thing to spill over the table. She enjoyed the way that Fjolte’s mouth hung open at the sight. How his eyes just about fell out of his skull. The next trick up her sleeve involved a coin that she [i]accidentally[/i] dropped behind her. With the flounce that Gregor had been requesting, she bent down in front of him to pick up it up - her skirt only just covering her modesty. There was probably nothing else left in her arsenal to tease them with now unless she stripped off completely. With that in mind, she skipped off, but not before slipping a finger under Fjolte’s chin to close his mouth. “I’ll see you later,” she whispered in a coy voice that was barely sincere. By the time that Fjolte would have recovered enough to turn back to face Gregor, the sight that greeted him was a wildly amused Imperial sniggering into the glass of whiskey he was nursing -- he wouldn’t make the mistake of trying to match the Nord in the race of shots consumed again. Now, he was going to drink at his own pace. “I do believe that this makes me the greatest champion of Dibella on this side of the Niben,” he said and raised the glass in a toast. “Orchestrating such [i]salacious[/i] encounters with but a single story… truly,” the boast continued, “I am a genius.” Having finished his spiel, Gregor’s eyes jumped from Fjolte’s to the retreating derriere of Camile and he couldn’t help but bite his lip. He would behave, of course, but no man could have been exposed to that manner of cleavage and buttocks and emerge on the other side unscathed. “Lucky bastard,” he shot in Fjolte’s direction, but he added a wink to soften the blow. “Oh come off it,” Fjolte scoffed, downing one of his shots, the burn non-existent now that the shein had seemingly obliterated any kind of taste buds he had left. “It’s only at most half of your… matchmaking skills,” he added, waving the hand with the glass in front of Gregor, “the other half is the fact she’s already a right sort…” He placed the glass back down on the table. “But yes, Gregor, thank you — however can I repay you for your virtuous deeds in helping me… in my [i]love life[/i]?” Considering his marital status this served as a somewhat awkward segue, but Gregor glanced over that. He wasn’t about to pass on the opportunity. “I asked for a secret and you told me some boll-- I mean, a very cute story, but there is something I truthfully want to know more about. I took a chance in trusting you when I met you, but I also believe there’s such a thing as taking too many chances,” Gregor began, introducing his request rather at length. He realized what he was doing and settled for clearing his throat and just asking the question. “Tell me about Raelynn. I’d like to know more before I accompany her to this… thing of hers.” He ran a hand over the back of his neck at that, raising his brows and huffing out a long sigh. “I mean…” he began, eyeing up his second shot and feeling like he was about to need it. “I’ve known her for about a year — just over, I don’t know so much about her. She…” His eyes flicked to meet Gregor’s, and he was reminded of the way the two had looked at each other earlier in the day. “She’s intelligent, not to be underestimated in that respect. She learned her trade from her father who is… His reputation is greater than hers.” His hand fell on the rim of the full glass, and he lifted it, just above the table - not to his lips. “She loves flowers,” he added with a quick smile. “Flowers, and books. She likes to read, but more than that I think she just likes the smell of books because sometimes there are just open books across her desk when she’s working and not reading…” Fjolte wasn’t looking at Gregor at all, instead at a point in the distance, his eyes glazed over as he thought on anything he could say about her that wasn’t too telling of her own secrets. They were hers, not his. He brought the glass to his lips and took a slow sip, instead of taking it as a shot. “I just… I don’t really know how to answer that question, Gregor.” More so than learning anything particularly useful about Raelynn, Gregor found that he had learned something about Fjolte. He wasn’t sure if the Nord himself was even aware of this: he was in love with her. Gregor nodded slowly, his elbow leaning on an armrest and his fingers brushing over his beard and his mustache. That was alright, he thought, and an almost imperceptible frown flickered over his features. Of course it was alright. Why wouldn’t it be? Why was it necessary for him to acknowledge that it was alright that Fjolte was in love with her? [i]"Always," Raelynn answered, staring deep into his rich ebony eyes.[/i] Gregor blinked repeatedly and sat up straighter. “I suppose I should have been more precise,” he said and smiled the subject away. “I meant her business. Is there anything about the way she conducts it that I should know? It’s already a given that she deals with bandits, and I’m curious about what implications that might have.” The change in subject brought Fjolte back around, and it was as if he had a moment of awareness too. He tipped back the glass more, swallowing down the whisky that suddenly tasted bitter. “Ah, the business,” he said - adding a clarification in his voice, like he was about to get there anyway if given enough time. “It’s not her business. It is, but it isn’t. Part is - the… certain parts are hers. Much is her father’s and she manages it for him. She manages his Jehanna clientele. Artifacts, precious goods, trinkets… Shit like that.” It was hard to be as sharp and perceptive as he usually was with this level of alcohol coursing through his veins, and Gregor mused over the answer for a few seconds before taking another sip of the whiskey. That would surely help. “So how did Jodane fit into that picture?” he asked eventually, arriving at the correct followup question to ask. “She paid him to go and collect something,” Fjolte’s eyes moved from the rim to Gregor’s, he didn’t want to say too much. “An enchanted weapon,” he said, lying. “He decided not to, and he took her money instead. Happens a lot to her.” “Aha,” Gregor said, a moment of epiphany breaking through his buzz. Now he understood why she wanted him to come along on her business deal. “That must be frustrating, not being taken seriously,” he reasoned and smiled, reassured. Going along with a businesswoman to make sure that she wasn’t swindled by the people she was dealing with was a sufficiently noble pursuit to put his mind at ease. “She’s just like anyone else,” Fjolte responded, resting an elbow on the table. “Wants to make something of herself but she’s also just a person underneath that ambition.” He was saying too much, he knew it. But the two of them had reached the midnight hour where the deep wells just opened and flowed with ease. The alcohol sitting in his system. Whisky warmth and the comfort and buzz of the tavern. His finger drew over the rim again. “You have your quest to prove that you’re a master of your craft - she’s trying to be a master of hers.” That was an interesting revelation. Gregor hadn’t gotten the impression that she was someone with anything left to prove. Then again, it was obviously in her favor not to advertise something like that. Without thinking, Gregor downed the shot glass of whiskey in one go after all, and scrunched up his face when the burning ethanol reminded him of what he’d done -- so deep had he been in thought. Also interesting, he thought when the discomfort subsided, was that Fjolte knew all these things. “So you’ve seen the person beneath the ambition?” he asked and resisted the urge to smile as he reached for the second glass of whiskey. He was still sharp enough to make such deductions and that pleased him. “I’ve spent enough time with her,” Fjolte said back, in a quickfire fashion. As if there was more to that than he wanted to share, or wanted to be pressed on. “Worked for her enough, I’ve seen the sorts of things she does. You want to know a secret, Gregor?” he asked, stretching out a leg outside of the table. Gregor tilted his head a little as he regarded Fjolte and he eventually shrugged lazily. “Only the ones you’re comfortable sharing,” he replied good-naturedly and raised his glass in a toast. The warm atmosphere of the tavern, the now pleasant buzz of the alcohol and the excellent company he was keeping had elevated his already good mood to even higher levels, and he felt a great affection for Fjolte while they sat and talked. “No businessman or woman in Jehanna would hire Shona,” Fjolte began, taking a deep breath in through his teeth, meeting Gregor’s warm eyes. “She’s mute, you see,” he explained further, placing his glass back down - feeling like it was only Gregor and himself in the tavern now. “Thought she’d be bad luck, or just that she wouldn’t be capable of a job. I got told that the first day Raelynn arrived here? She looked for a handmaiden and saw a dozen girls — and then she met Shona. She was told it would be a poor decision to hire a mute. She did it anyway, either to spite them, or whatever. But she gave that girl a job when nobody else would. I tell you - she smiles [i]everyday[/i]. You think someone who has been around shit people for that long would stick with Raelynn if she wasn’t — well, at least halfway decent?” His lips curled into a slight frown. “Nah, they wouldn’t.” “Wow,” Gregor mouthed sincerely. He, too, had slouched deep enough in his chair for his feet to stick out from under the table at the other end, and the tilt of his head had deepened further, now only held up by the arm he’d propped up underneath it. He was touched by the story and he reflected for a moment on the truest of all lessons coming through once again; never judge a book by its cover. “If she wasn’t halfway decent, you wouldn’t be as fond of her as you are,” he said and smiled broadly. “Your character does her credit, so I already suspected she wasn’t awful.” He frowned. “Does that make sense?” “Aye, aye it does.” The Nord gave a lazy shrug, “she pays me, keeps me busy, and I have a set of working eyes. Course I’m fond of her,” he chuckled, trying to draw in some levity again. He’d said enough and he could feel the regret already begin over that. “You’ve got eyes Gregor, and a good read of people. You tell me what [i]you[/i] see of her if you’re so interested.” Had he struck a nerve again? Gregor wasn’t sure. The idea that either of them could offend the other in this state and atmosphere seemed ludicrous. All was right with the world, after all, and everything was beautiful. “Well,” he began and drew himself up a little bit, only to sink back after a few seconds, “I saw someone ambitious, like you said, but also wary. She questioned me while she healed me,” Gregor said and chuckled at the memory, trying to push the more intimate parts of the encounter out of his mind’s eye. “Who I was, what I was doing in Jehanna, that sort of thing. She even asked me if I’d followed you to Jodane’s hideout.” Mulling over his words, Gregor sipped on the whiskey again and found that his taste buds had been so blunted that he actually enjoyed the flavor. “I saw strength, intelligence, resourcefulness. But not much of the person beneath, I suppose.” He pointed at Fjolte with his glass. “That’s your domain, of course. You know her much better than I do.” “As if I could have been followed and not realise it…” the Nord scoffed with humour in his voice. “Followed by an Imperial silversmith no less!” he laughed, it caught him off guard and the laugh was loud and real. “Please!” He rubbed the back of his neck again as his laughter quickly died back down. “Honestly, I’m telling the truth — I don’t know her that well. I just have faith that she’s a good person under everything.” He needed that. Faith. To do what he did. Faith that it was for a greater purpose. “I’ve worked with her a year and you’ll get a better opportunity to get to know her than I’ve ever had when she takes you out.” He grabbed for his glass again, swallowing the last dregs from the glass before placing it down. Now he was definitely detecting a hint of bitterness, Gregor thought, and he exhaled slowly through his nose. “Nonsense,” he retorted nonchalantly. “It’s a business deal, she’ll have way more important people to talk to. I’m just there to look pretty.” An idea came to him and he already started chuckling while he untied the ribbon in his hair. The ponytail came undone and he moved his head to emulate the hair flip he had seen Raelynn do when he’d first stepped into her chambers. Still trying not to laugh, he gave Fjolte his best smolder, his face now framed by long, smooth locks of hair, reaching down to his shoulders. “What do you think?” he asked in a hushed whisper. “Fucking hell,” Fjolte breathed before laughing out loud, placing a hand on his stomach that immediately seemed to ache. “That aint right, friend.” He said through spurts of laughter. As they continued to laugh and play their games, Camile sauntered back over to the table, the empty tray outstretched to collect their glasses. She stopped dead in her tracks, scrunching her nose at the sight of the boozed up gentlemen, slouching in their chairs, halfway about to each fall off and be consumed by the underside of the table. She cleared her throat to try to grab their attention. Fjolte looked first, tipping his head right back so that she was upside down. “Camile! It’s Camile, my favourite… honey…. Sweetpea… cabbage,” he mumbled out, reaching out a hand for her to come closer. She obliged, face still scrunched. She placed her hand into his. “Your glasses, please. And do you want any more drinks?” she asked them both, looking to Gregor for him to take the lead. Fjolte was occupied with watching her from his upside down vantage point. That brought back memories alright. Gregor cleared his throat and quickly tied his hair back into its usual ponytail before gathering up the empty shot glasses and handing them over to Camile. “We were just horsing around,” he offered by way of explanation and leaned back into his chair, mustering as much gravitas and enigmatic charisma as he could muster. “Chasing bandits is grim work, you know. A little levity afterwards does wonders for the spirit,” he said in a low, deep voice. “As for drinks…” He tapped his chin thoughtfully and a slow smile spread across his face. “I think we should end this night on a classy note. Do you have a bottle of the 195 Surilie red? If you do, add a cheese platter, please. Local varieties. I’d like to try something new,” Gregor ordered. The mere thought of red wine and cheese had him sit up straight and he even made an effort at smoothing over his clothes. "I'll see what we have, I know that there is a local goats cheese we serve," Camile answered, looking down at Fjolte, before turning away from him completely to talk to the Imperial instead. She knew exactly what she was doing in that respect… "The honeyed figs are good with the cheese too, Sir. Would you like a serving of those too?" The young Breton batted her eyelashes in Gregor's direction. Ignoring Fjolte's finger that was tapping on her back. “That sounds excellent, my dear,” Gregor said in accord, eyes bouncing between Camile and Fjolte’s attempts to get her attention. He suspected that she was teasing him and not ignoring him out of malice and he smirked at the sight. ‘Bubble of trouble’ had been more than right. Gods, if he were a younger man, without responsibilities… the fantasies simmered in his gaze as he looked Camile up and down. “Red wine, goat cheese and honeyed figs,” he summarized and laced his fingers together in his lap. “Bring us that and I shall be [i]most[/i] grateful.” He let it sit as he watched Camile, walk away, but Fjolte had a raised brow. Quite happy that she was out of earshot, he glanced to Gregor with a mocking expression; “195 Swirly red… Cheeeeeese… Honeyed figs!” He picked up his glass, sure to stick out his little finger like a noble might. “Now we’re really getting dignified, posh bastard,” he laughed. Dragging himself up in his chair to match Gregor’s posture again. Not one to rise to such a bait, Gregor merely gave Fjolte a seraphic smile. “We’ve done things your way, my friend. Now it’s time to do them my way. You’ll enjoy this, I promise. The taste sensation when you combine the dry, full flavor of the red with the salty tang of the cheese…” He brought his fingers to his lips and kissed them. “Simply divine. My father taught me that. He said he and the other officers would get together after a successful battle, having requisitioned such food and drink from the locals, and enjoy an evening of fine wining and dining. It was the only thing about the war he truly enjoyed.” He breathed in deeply, as if he was already savoring the smell of the wine. “You want to meet new people and experience new cultures, don’t you?” “I do,” Fjolte answered with a nod. “I’m not without my own taste too I’ll have you know… Every time there’s need to celebrate back home - we roast a whole pig,” he began explaining. “My Pa brews his own ciders too. Pork and apple Gregor, pork and apple.” The Nord suddenly sighed, thinking of home and his family, “I’ll try your wine and cheese. I’ll never say no to food and drink, whatever shape it takes… Your Pa must have been important then?” He could picture the scene quite clearly, but for Gregor it was like something out of a children’s book -- stories about peasant families from ages past. Nords still lived in the old way in many places in Skyrim and it seemed Rorikstead was no exception. “That sounds like quite the feast,” he said as he looked up at a point above Fjolte’s head, imagining the smells and sounds of the Soriksen family at their most jolly. Looking back down to the Nord, he rubbed his chin and thought about his question for a moment. “He was a Tribune,” Gregor answered. “A Legion is led by a General. Then there’s the Legates, the General’s closest advisors and direct subordinates. They usually oversee a single battlefield or Centurion of soldiers. The Tribunes are the officers that oversee the Legionnaires on the frontlines. There’s still several ranks of lesser and petty officers below that. So… yes, pretty important, I suppose. He served with distinction.” There was a clearly audible swell of pride in Gregor’s voice when he talked about his father. “What if there was war again?” the thought occurred to the Nord, if Gregor’s father held such esteem in the Legion, would he fight again? Would he expect Gregor to? “I mean, you are a silversmith [i]now[/i] — but… Surely there is a pressure...” he said quietly, seeing something of a different side to Gregor now that [i]he[/i] was opening up. “If the elves attacked again?” Gregor’s spine visibly stiffened. “We would answer the call. All of us. It would be an honour to fight for gods and country,” came his reply, perfectly patriotic, and someone with a lively imagination might be inclined to hear Imperial trumpets and the echoing call of bellicose oratory through the streets of Cyrodiil somewhere in the distance. Fjolte ran his thumb over his lip, brushing his fingers through his beard again. “You know, you’re a good man, Gregor.” Any small feelings of inadequacy in his presence were amplified now, and he resigned himself to it. “There’s an honour about you that is rare to find. You’ve given me a lot to think about…” he confessed before huffing out a single laugh. “We’re from completely different worlds and yet we can still bond over shit booze and a good fight…” Before there was time to react, Camile had made her way back over to their table. A bowl of sticky looking fruit, and a small cheese platter beside it. “Sorry Sir, no 195 red… But there is this Daggerfall vintage I found. Will it suit or shall I bring you another?” she asked politely with a smile, placing the food in the centre of the table - the sour scent of the cheese would have been overpowering were it not for the sweet and floral aroma of the honey. Gregor wanted to respond to Fjolte but he was obliged to address Camile first. He took the bottle and inspected the label for a moment, until his eyebrows raised in surprise. "175…" he mouthed and a look of concern flitted across his face. This was undoubtedly going to be expensive. He looked at Fjolte again and nodded. "Ah, hell, when you're indulging yourself and introducing a friend to new experiences you might as well do it in style. It's perfect, Camile." He took one of her hands in his own and kissed the back of it gently, his lips merely brushing against her skin, as if he were a nobleman greeting the belle of the ball. "Thank you ever so much." He looked up into her startling green eyes for a moment before turning enthusiastically to Fjolte and pouring them both a glass. He raised his own and remembering their last topic of conversation, he somberly said: "To the Emperor. Long may he reign." He tried to take hold of the glass as gently as he could, in a way emulating the way he’d seen others do it. But.. try as he might, a wine glass place in his hand - even if he looked the part for a change. Still, it was nice to play at being more sophisticated than he was for a night. “Long may he reign,” he repeated, touching the side of the glass to Gregor’s. This had been a [i]lot[/i] of drink mixing. He’d be sure to be punished for it come the morning. To his surprise, it was a nice drink indeed. Warm and earthy. It had an appeal to it that he’d never really noticed in wine before. Maybe that was partly to do with the company too. “Well,” he began, smacking his lips in appreciation, “it doesn’t compare to how good the shein was, but I’ll take it.” He took another sip, refusing to gulp it down like he would with an ale - but taking his time to let the flavour settle in his mouth first. “This has been a good night Gregor, I’m glad we ran into each other.” "I agree," Gregor concurred amicably. "About what you said, about honour," he began and looked over Fjolte's head again, digging into his memories. "Even though large tracts of the Empire and many old and famous provinces have fallen or may fall into the grip of the Dominion and all the odious apparatus of Thalmor rule, we shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end. We shall fight in Cyrodiil, we shall fight in Hammerfell, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the arenas of magic, we shall defend our Empire, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight in the forests, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender," he recited, his voice growing more impassioned with every passing word. When he was done he sank back into his seat, having come to sit fully upright while speaking, and he pointed at Fjolte as if it was wisdom he wished to impart on the Nord. "Emperor Titus Mede II, on the eve of the Great War. Maybe you feel differently because Skyrim was never invaded but what happened afterwards in Cyrodiil…" Gregor shook his head. "The Slaughter of the Imperial City will never be forgotten. We trusted the Altmer to be a civilized foe and they proved us wrong. It's not about honour. It's about survival. Should there be another war, the Dominion will find an arrow behind every blade of grass. As long as a single Imperial draws breath, they will not know peace." “Fair enough,” Fjolte said after a pregnant pause - both impressed by Gregor’s passion and somewhat shocked by it in equal measure. He gave a slow clap to the man, before lifting the glass to his lips again. He could never wish to be so eloquent, but where Gregor had a deep intensity - Fjolte felt confident in his own uniquely cool charm and charisma and he gave a smirk in the Imperial’s direction. “I’ve seen what you can do to bandits, friend, I have no doubt you’d fight to the very end if you had to. But I don’t know if I see the world quite like you do… I just want to walk every path and turn every stone. I wish that man wouldn’t go to war for the land that belongs to us all…” “That’s the way of the world, unfortunately,” Gregor said. He liked Fjolte a lot and was just as glad to have met him as the Nord was to have met the Imperial, but he felt that there was a naivety to him that was not suitable for the reality of Tamriel. “A world where all races live in harmony and are free to go where they please only exists in history. You would have loved the Empire of the Third Era, my friend. The Septim Dynasty maintained the peace for hundreds of years. Now, Tamriel is more divided than ever since the days of Tiber himself.” He sighed and laughed. “Sorry, I don’t mean to bore you with history. It’s just… something I feel passionate about. Let us return to a more enjoyable, lighthearted subject of conversation, yes?” “I’m not bored, just wish I knew more about it myself…” he sighed with a slight chuckle. “Gregor, I can’t even fucking read,” he admitted with a laugh that came out louder than he’d expected - the wine was a different kind of drunken experience. “I grew up on a farm. Can’t really read or write, but I could chop firewood when I was a wee boy.” Just then, he had an idea, and he pulled himself up straight as he’d slouched again. “Say, do you think I [i]could[/i] learn to be more… noble? Learn to fence with a sword or appreciate art… Good wine? I don’t know if it would suit me though…” he said, rubbing a hand under his nose. “Gregor, what do you think is… The thing that you do best?” “Of course you could,” Gregor said with encouragement in his voice. “You already have a great nobility within you, Fjolte, like a giant… lion,” he said and scratched his beard, wondering where that had come from. “But I don’t know if you should, honestly. You’re a great man just the way you are and if I try to picture you with a glass of wine staring at a piece of Altmeri glass sculpture, making pretentious comments about the… the…” He frowned and gestured with his wine glass. “Fucking refractory quotient or the artist’s spiritual vision, or something, you just look pretty silly in my mind,” he settled on and looked at his wine, only now noticing that it was already almost depleted. He shrugged and poured himself a new round. Sitting with one leg crossed over the other, Gregor thought about Fjolte’s question, swirling the wine beneath his nose. “That’s a tough question,” he mumbled and frowned pensively. “I suppose… my craftsmanship, or… being agreeable…” He had trailed off at the end but he repeated himself a little louder. “Being agreeable,” he said and looked at Fjolte with a question in his eyes. “Does that make sense? Is that a skill? I think I’m very good at being agreeable. I don’t quarrel with people, I’m polite, I try to be friendly and helpful, I respect my elders and I’m loyal to my loved ones,” he explained and then chortled, raising his glass. “Just the way my mama raised me.” When Gregor told him he was noble, he puffed out his chest in response — face filled with pride at the compliment. “Damn right I’m a lion, king of the pack in fact…” he said without laughter. “I agree with you Gregor so I suppose that does make you quite agreeable and good at agreeing with things someone else might disagree with you on.” Fjolte explained, stumbling over the words, the wine in his glass sloshing from side to side. “You’re a bloody great man, Gregor… Gregor the Great in fact!” The Nord slammed a fist down on the table again — he hadn’t really heard anything else Gregor had said, he was too busy imagining himself as the king of the pack… A goofy smile appeared on his face, and his cheeks turned red from the alcohol. “Gregor the Great and Fjolte the Lion,” he repeated. “That’s two Nord heroes if I’ve ever heard of them, they’ll be writing stories about our exploits…” Now, as Gregor had done just moments ago - Fjolte began a passionate speech of his own. His words slurred and came fast, and unlike Gregor, he didn’t exactly give much thought to the things he was saying at all. “Gregor the Great and Fjolte the Lion! They fought and cleared every stinkin’ bandit hole! Took all the jewels and presented them to their…. Beautiful women! And the women flocked to the heroes because they were so… Great! And manly!,” he stopped for a moment, belching freely into the air. “They traveled Tamriel in search of all of the secrets - Gregor for his Emporererer, and Fjolte did it all for love!” He clenched a fist and went to raise his glass, only he lost his grip on it and it flew - seemingly in slow motion through the air, at least a quarter of a glass of the red wine left came crashing to the floor, shattering into what looked like a thousand pieces. “Well, shit my arse…” he commented as he looked down at it. “Butterfingers…” Gregor burst into laughter, more loose and free than he had been all evening, until tears ran down his cheeks and his belly ached with every bout of uproarious merriment. It had been a decade or more since he had laughed and caroled like this with anyone. "Oh Fjolte," he managed eventually, gasping for breath and clutching his abdomen with both arms, "what'd you do that for, my dear fellow? Now Camile is sure to be cross with you!" “It wasn’t on purpose!” he exclaimed desperately, looking at the pieces and the red wine puddle. Camile appeared, an exasperated crease across her forehead. “You’re both too drunk,” she said, her hands on her hips as she looked at the men in despair. “Too bloody drunk!” she repeated, her voice more serious now. Unable to take the petite woman seriously, Fjolte simply leaned on the table and pointed at Gregor with a boyish look “he started it! It was his fault!” In utter disbelief, Gregor inflated, thunder on his brow, and got to his feet, pointing at Fjolte with his arm and index finger fully extended. "I did no such thing!" he declared with utter certainty and balled the first of his other hand. "You made this mess all by yourself and you know it! Take that back!" He turned to Camile. "I paid for that wine, surely you don't think I'd throw it on the ground? You owe me, Fjolte! You owe me--" Frowning, he leaned a little closer to Camile. "How much does he owe me?" Even as Gregor pointed a finger, anger and all, Fjolte could not help but giggle drunkenly. “Sweetpea!” he said, reaching his arms around Camile’s waist. “It was an accident…” Camile frowned, somewhat humoured by Fjolte’s touch looked back to Gregor, “Four whiskeys.... Two hotpots… Cheese, figs, wine…” she rolled her eyes - staring upwards as she counted up the value of each item. “You haven’t even touched the food!” she cursed, as she eyed up the still full bowl and plate. “Well, I’m saving my appetite… For my real dessert…” he purred, looking up at her before pulling her closer - which, if the giggle was anything to go by, she enjoyed. Now that he’d closed the distance between them, he nipped at the loose fabric of her shirt with his teeth. “Accident…” he repeated, his eyes aglow with desire now that she was in his arms. “Fine… Fine… Fifty septims, [i]each[/i]...” she replied, brushing a strand of Fjolte’s hair free from his eyes. “But you’re both too rowdy to stay…” Drunken anger never lasted for long and Gregor’s was no different. It melted away quickly and he nodded in acquiescence to the proposed settlement. If it was time to leave, however, he wasn’t ready to part ways with the still half-full bottle of vintage Daggerfall wine, so he snatched it up and cradled it in his arms, looking around if he had left any of his belongings scattered about. He hadn’t and remembered that he had only come in with the sword on his back, after all. “Fifty septims, very well,” he said and counted out the coins, mumbling along so that he didn’t forget his train of thought halfway through. He used the bag that Raelynn had given him to neatly drop the owed money in Camile’s palm. Their business concluded, Gregor looked between her and Fjolte and chuckled. “You two should really go home together,” he said, eyes alight with fondness. “Not home,” Fjolte remarked with a salacious expression. “We have unfinished business in that barn…” he giggled almost wickedly, before getting to his feet, arms still wrapped around the waist of Camile. The woman was lifted up off the ground, where he proceeded to position her over his shoulder. “My shift isn’t finished!” she proclaimed, hardly putting up a fight of [i]actual[/i] protest. Fjolte grinned again, “it is now.” He’d watched Gregor steal away the bottle of the vintage, and he turned to face his drinking companion - stretching out a hand for him to shake. “Been a good evening with you Gregor, we should… do this again.” Between Camile and the bottle of wine Gregor knew which of them had come away this evening with the better prize, but he held no grudge in his heart. Gregor shook Fjolte’s hand firmly. “Absolutely, my friend. Have fun.” He winked and looked at Camile, whose precarious position over Fjolte’s shoulder revealed a similar view as she had displayed when she bent over to pick up the coin. Gregor allowed his gaze to linger for a few moments and smirked. “You too, Camile. Be nice to my friend, alright?” That made the Nord laugh, “oh I hope she isn’t…” he quipped, before letting go of Gregor’s hand and heading to the door, feeling incredibly proud of himself. The alcohol in his system giving him an unbridled enthusiasm to shout out into the dark, midnight streets “I’M THE KING OF THE PACK!” and then he was away.