[center][h2][b]PROLOGUE[/b][/h2]

[img]https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/a5aa65b8-a039-4510-99b6-e5e86d7bae4f/d2ek3un-336f6bbc-8364-4d46-b952-e247d9ba3504.jpg?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7InBhdGgiOiJcL2ZcL2E1YWE2NWI4LWEwMzktNDUxMC05OWI2LWU1ZTg2ZDdiYWU0ZlwvZDJlazN1bi0zMzZmNmJiYy04MzY0LTRkNDYtYjk1Mi1lMjQ3ZDliYTM1MDQuanBnIn1dXSwiYXVkIjpbInVybjpzZXJ2aWNlOmZpbGUuZG93bmxvYWQiXX0.zzW3_dzZfjhM3vVNiKPH-0hBWKvenfE7gm7T45cQW54[/img]

[i]"Arkay, Guardian of the Dead, Lord of the Wheel of Life,
should the lives of our men be taken, guide them to Aetherius, 
and protect them from being profaned, should the Aldmeri attempt 
to raise them with foul magic."[/i]
[sub]- prayer to Arkay, anonymous[/sub][/center]

[i]Afternoon, 15th of Sun’s Height, 4E206
Common room of the Loyal Hound, 
Kingdom of Daggerfall, Daenia, High Rock[/i]

[sub]with the ever-lovely [@Stormflyx][/sub]

From his vantage point behind the bar of the inn, Solomon could see through the window outside that the shadows were already lengthening and the sky was slowly cycling from a brilliant ultramarine into a bruised violet. He looked at the candle clock in its little alcove in the thick stone wall and counted the markings left below the flickering wick. Scarcely four hours had passed since noon. “Even earlier than yesterday,” he muttered to himself. The innkeeper frowned deeper than usual and he exhaled slowly through his nose. It wasn’t right and it didn’t sit right with him either. Looking at the faces of the patrons of the [i]Loyal Hound,[/i] either warming their hands by the fire or sat scattered throughout the common room at the various tables for a drink and a hearty meal, Solomon knew that it didn’t sit right with anyone. They were a varied bunch, travelers and locals alike. For example, he had spotted not one, but two Dunmer women already, and his professional curiosity idly wondered at what their purposes in the arse end of High Rock might be. 

The place was rustically furnished. Disembodied stag and elk heads lorded over the two hearthfires, their glazed-over eyes staring into oblivion, and comfortable woolen rugs softened the roughness of the splintery floor panels. Wooden beams criss-crossed the open space below the slanted straw rooftop, old and sturdy, and a cast-iron chandelier cast a warm glow throughout the room. The rooms were off to the right, above the stables; a staircase, worn smooth by thousands of feet over untold years, led up to them. The kitchen was behind him and the sound of clattering pots and pans came from there as Lucy, the old cook, was cooking up her signature stew. 

Outside, the fields and forests of the region of Daenia stretched out as far the eye could see. This close to Daggerfall, the dense woodland that had originally dominated the land had been thinned out to make way for agriculture, and the [i]Loyal Hound[/i] was situated in the middle of two fields of amber grain, split in twain by a meandering dirt road. The village of Hamthorn was nearby and the road was populated by nervous farmers and laborers returning home. None dared to stay out in the fields once the unnatural dusk began to descend, though some risked popping into the wayside inn for a meal or a drink. 

Solomon rapped his knuckles on the bar subtly when he caught the eye of Henry emerging from the stables. The boy looked suitably chastised and quickly set about to clearing out an empty table. Nothing went by the spymaster unnoticed. He knew that Henry had lingered longer than his allotted break time to talk to a local farmer’s daughter. As if on cue, she emerged from the stables, feigning ignorance but with a tell-tale blush on her cheeks. She avoided meeting Solomon’s gaze and the ghost of a smile tugged imperceptibly at the corner of the Imperial’s mouth behind his mustache. When Henry chanced a glance to gauge his master’s response, however, Solomon shot him an icy glare and the boy turned back to his work faster than a hare fleeing a hound. 

An indignant bark echoed through the room and Solomon looked over to see two men he knew as farmhands holding a piece of bacon over Sirius’ head, keeping it just out of reach of the shaggy dog. Growing tired of their teasing, Sirius suddenly leapt up and snatched the morsel out of the Breton’s hand, toppling him backwards out of his chair in the process. Uproarious laughter erupted around him from his friends. Sirius wagged his tail innocently and returned to Solomon’s side, his tongue lolling out of his smiling jaws. 

“Good boy,” he mumbled and scritched the dog’s head obligingly. Sirius was the only employee in the place that Solomon couldn’t deny anything. 

It had felt like a long day, a long day that was already being cut short by the waning sun. High Rock, and in particular, Daggerfall, was not Skyrim. The Nord who walked the gravelled paths felt out of place, even with her summer olive complexion, she did not feel any more at home in this kind of countryside. The lute and lyre that hung over her shoulder only drew eyes to her, alerting her to those who were around as a stranger. But Joy had no choice, she’d wandered to most of all the establishments with little luck of employment -- people were wary, and understandably so.

The woman reached into the pocket of her apron, reminding herself of the few coins she had left. A loud bark pulled her from that thought as she approached the doors of [i]The Loyal Hound[/i]. This was to be her last stop for the night, if the proprietor did not accept her as an employee, she would be spending the last of that coin to at least room for the night. 

Before she entered, the red-head took a deep breath, puffing out her chest as she adopted a more powerful pose, letting confidence flow through her -- the rejections of the day did not bother her, not as much as her empty stomach was, anyway. 

Her old, tattered boots shuffled across the floor as her gaze tracked the room slowly, looking for who appeared most likely to be the owner. She had an eye for it. If she felt out of place outside, she did not inside. This was her world, it always had been. There he was, the rather sour and tired looking gentleman behind the bar. She approached him with a spring in her step as if she already worked here, and had for years. 

Joy came calmly to the bar, propping her elbow there, flashing a smile at the gentleman behind it. “Why so glum?” she asked as a twinkle fell into her eyes and her other arm came down upon the surface. “It might never happen, you know.”

Solomon looked over to see a red-haired woman smiling up at him. Sirius, curious who had interrupted his scritching time, came around the bar and sniffed the hem of her apron. The innkeeper himself raised a single eyebrow, a well-practiced expression as evidenced by the wrinkles in his forehead. He had never seen her before, so she was not likely to be a local, and the olive tan of her skin informed him that she was equally unlikely to be a Breton. An Imperial, perhaps, like himself, though the brightness of her eyes and the fire of her hair told a different story. “Can I help you, miss?” he asked, his servile question and aloof tone of voice betraying nothing. 

The dog at her side was a distraction, quite frankly she had not seen an animal of that size before, and she stiffened slightly as Sirius sniffed. Quickly she sensed that he had no inclination of aggression towards her. “Good boy,” she muttered slowly down at him, wondering if there was a crumb of food in her pockets that he had noticed. She gingerly placed her hand out for him to investigate, before turning back to the owner. “Actually,” she replied with a smile, “I was hoping that I could help you.” 

Joy was certain that he would have seen his fair share of wanderers come by with the same tactics, and from his response to her so far -- she was half expecting a roll of his eyes. “I’m the best barmaid that’s ever walked into your inn,” she said confidently, closing her eyes briefly to flash a beaming smile at him. “So it’s your lucky day.”

“You don’t say,” Solomon retorted dryly. He had to admit that the girl had spunk and that was an important trait for a good barmaid to have, but he looked past her into the common room -- a Breton with curly hair and and a fair complexion was collecting empty mugs from the tables, smiling at the patrons and laughing at their jokes. “I have a barmaid as it is,” he said and his eyes shifted back to the woman in front of him. “What makes you think you could do a better job than she does, hm?”

“Oh you do, do you?” Joy asked playfully, widening her eyes in expression of surprise, leaning back from the bar to peer left and right in search of her. Without so much as another look around the room, she brought herself closer to the owner again, mischief in her eyes. “I didn’t realise… Only because those three gentleman by the window, their glasses are empty.” Joy paused, gazing fearlessly into his eyes. “There’s also an older lady waving her hand behind me, she’s been waving for a little bit now…” She sighed slowly, turning her eyes to the ground - acting out bashfulness. “I’m not going to lie Sir, it’s also… Very… Quiet in here.” 

Once more, Joy sighed, letting her shoulders drop as she took to her seat on the stool in front of Solomon. “But I’m sure your barmaid will get to it soon…” 

The innkeeper hummed once, but said nothing. Instead, he poured the woman a drink -- a fresh apple cider -- and found a few glasses to clean. While wiping them down with a washcloth, his eyes darted from what he was doing to the movements of Jenny the barmaid around the common room and the people that had been pointed out to him. Sure enough, the drinks of the three men by the window were empty, and there was an older woman that was visibly eager to order something. However, while he watched and waited, Jenny noticed these same things too, and after delivering the round of mugs for Solomon to clean, she promptly attended to the patrons in question. 

“There,” he said curtly and glanced at the redhead at his bar. It was impossible to tell whether he was amused or annoyed. “She did get to it.” Solomon thought over everything she’d said and his eyes landed on the instruments she carried with her. He gestured towards them with a dirty mug. “I suppose those aren’t for show then, miss…?”

“Joy. [i]Just[/i] Joy.” The Nord said happily, before she shushed herself. If he had been expecting her to give up, he was going to be disappointed. This time, she gave him but a slight smirk, taking the cider into her hand, letting him have his little win. Joy just watched him cleaning the glasses as she took her first sips. It was a well flavoured drink, that was to be sure, and she held out the glass and admired it in silence, watching the sediment from the cider sink to the bottom. 

“They’re for [i]a[/i] show,” she answered eventually, reaching over her shoulder to take hold of the lute, placing the lyre on the bar carefully. It was a delicate looking thing, far more pristine than the lute - which appeared to have seen better days entirely. “Are you asking me to play you a song, Sir?”

He thought about that for a moment. Solomon wasn’t a big fan of music -- or anything he considered frivolous, truth be told -- but he had to admit that that wasn’t the case for most people, and given the unease and the tension in the air, perhaps… Before he had anything to say about that, however, Solomon narrowed his eyes at her. “Joy? That’s it?” The suspicion that she was traveling under a false name came to him immediately and, leaning in, his piercing gaze inspected her closely, as if he was trying to look right through her. “Hm,” he grumbled and returned to his original distance between them. “What is that, a stage name?”

She blinked quickly as he came closer to her, and his question caused her to falter in her answer, her smile briefly faded - more from being forced to think about it. “It’s just…” she muttered out, clutching at the lute in such a way that she inadvertently plucked a string. “That’s just my name…” she finished, a brow arched. She cleared her throat when he moved back and frowned, playing off the moment with a cartoonish pout. “You don’t believe me do you?”

Her reactions were too sincere to be faked, Solomon knew, and he sniffed once before he turned back to the mugs that still needed cleaning. “Two hours of music, miss Joy,” he said, the washcloth deftly swirling through a particularly large mug that looked fit for an Atmoran. “You’ll have a meal and a bed for the night, and you keep half of any tips you collect.” The spymaster looked up at last, regarding Joy sternly with ice-gray eyes. “Are these terms acceptable to you?”

He would have barely finished speaking, and Joy had unbuttoned her cloak, revealing a much more flamboyant doublet underneath. It was quilted, and an attractive shade of teal. Without so much as a word from her own mouth, she had hoisted herself up onto the bar, her thumb pressing the strings of her instrument to mute them from anymore accidental plucks. 

As Joy fashioned herself into as alluring (and still comfortable) of a position as she could, she glanced over her shoulder to catch Solomon’s eye once again, the smile of victory played across her lips. “You won’t regret it… Mr…?”

The aquiline arch of his brow deepened at Joy’s forward and unfettered attitude and he considered rebuking her for climbing on top of his bar without his permission, but one glance at the common room was enough to see the sea of faces that had turned to look at this unexpected spectacle. He sighed. “Antabolis. But call me Solomon.”

Lowering her head into a respectful bow for her temporary employer, she couldn’t help but find the last word for herself; “I shall consider the night a success, only when I can see [i]your[/i] smile, Mr Solomon.”

He rolled his eyes at that, threw the washcloth over his shoulder and made himself scarce. Sirius rose from the floor and followed him, bushy tail wagging lazily.