[center][sup]ft. [@Hank][/sup][/center]
It would only be a brief jaunt, Bruno thought, but he still locked up his shack and restrung his bow to bring it and his arrows with him. It was better to be safe than sorry,, he noted as he felt the weakening dusk light cast its gloom over Glenumbra. Especially in times like these, and as much as he’d love to bring Bozo to see his friend at The Loyal Hound, any passerby to see a shack empty of its owner and its dog would be ripe for picking. It was probably best to leave Bozo here so people might at least assume that Bruno was here as well. He picked up the pack of provisions he sought to trade with the innkeep. 


Not for gold, but something substantial. It was a recent deal, but apparently the man liked his beer enough to try to provide some for his patrons. It wasn’t a top-shelf brew or anything, but it was local and the rarity of being made by only a single person in single batches was enough novelty to attract certain customers to it. Which was fair, Bruno thought, just as long as he wasn’t expected to make any more than at the pace he was comfortable with. Along with the beer were some brined meats. Venison and pork and some fish, along with a bottle of goat milk and a small ball of goat cheese. This was quite a lot to give away, but being one man, he couldn’t eat it all, and it was best to trade the excess for things he couldn’t readily access in the wilds.

It took six miles of trekking to reach his destination. The wildlife had gone scarce ever since the ominous falling sun first lost a few hours of its light, as if they knew whatever this foreboding omen meant. Crops weren’t growing like they used to, and when he could get a successful hunt, they were sometimes sick and the meat was no good. By the time he reached the roadside inn, his legs were becoming sore with all the weight he was carrying on his back, and he thought briefly about building himself a wagon before abruptly jolting the door open with a shoulder-check and his heavy footfalls announced his presence to the tavern -- he wasn’t hunting, and he was tired, so there wasn’t any need for subtlety. He lumbered over with the gait of an angry giant and slung the burlap sack of provisions onto the innkeeper’s counter, and more carefully set down a small barrel of rye malt beer. He swung his head around looking for the innkeeper, only he was nowhere in sight. Just a few customers and a few women he didn’t recall seeing here before. He sighed, as if to relax the muscles in his body before he--

[b]“SOLOMON!”[/b]

--did that.

The Imperial took a few seconds to materialize, having dipped out of the common room to take stock of the inn's inventory. Bruno's thunderous voice was unmistakable and Solomon saw the man immediately once he stepped out of the pantry and closed the door behind himself. He saw the sack of goods and the barrel of beer a split second later. Where another man might have smiled at the delivery, he merely nodded.

"Bruno Thunder-Blood," he retorted by way of greeting. "I thought that was you." His tone was dry and supremely calm compared to the Nord's exclamation. He stepped up to the bar and inspected the contents of the sack immediately. Solomon was, if nothing else, thorough and meticulous. "Good, good. And this is the malt rye?" he asked and pointed to the barrel. 

“Aye,” he said. His resting tone was comparably louder and carried further than the Imperial’s. “Still surprised you wanted more of it. You honor me.” 

Sirius bounded over to Bruno’s side, tail wagging with excitement as he investigated the smells on his hand, who looked down at the dog with a frown and, petting the dog’s head, said, “Sorry boy, Bozo ain’t wit’ me today.”

Facing Solomon once more, he opened up the sack and pulled out many different pieces of soaked paper, wrapped around massive cuts of meat. They were already salted and the moisture caught in the packaging was pulled out of the meat by the salt, but still as fresh as the day the animal was killed. “Butchered these this morning.” Bruno said. “The game’s getting skittish these days, as if they know what’s goin’ on. Hmph. Wish they were polite enough to tell us.”

Taking a cursory glance across the inn’s patrons, he continued, “Fewer layabouts than usual. You heard anything?”

Normally, Solomon was averse to giving away his knowledge to civilians, but he’d known Bruno for a while now -- not very well, but well enough to know that he was an authentic man, salt of the earth, free of duplicity or ulterior motives. The spymaster summoned Henry with a snap of his fingers and instructed him to hook up the barrel of homemade beer to the array of other barrels and bottles that lined the wall behind the bar with a few hushed words. 

“I’ve heard plenty, but nothing but rumors,” Solomon said at length, keeping an eye on the boy while he struggled to hoist the barrel up to an empty spot. “Supposedly the dead are walking around the old mausoleum in the swamp, and a few people talked about an old logger that went stark raving mad up in Fisher’s Pond, blabbering to anyone that would listen to him about a giant in the woods, with four arms and fire for eyes.” The Imperial shrugged. “But nobody can confirm that, and I’m sure you’ve heard what the king has to say about all this, so… nothing to do about it but be cautious, eh?” 

“Cautious?” He scoffed. “Walkin’ dead is one thing but a giant with four arms and fire eyes? Does somethin’ like that even have a name? I’ll believe it when I see it.”

There was a drinking horn slung around Bruno’s shoulder, and when Henry came to take the keg, he stopped him from walking away by clasping a having mitt over his shoulder before which he tapped the barrel to fill the horn halfway. He silently mouthed the word [i]“tax”[/i] before drowning himself in beer. Judging by the bobbing of his throat, he only took two or three gulps or so, so he probably just poured most of it directly down his throat. Taking a disproportionately small breath after downing his mug’s worth, he leaned against the counter and looked at Solomon with a relaxed and rather laissez-faire attitude. “Undead, huh.” Bruno mused, as if he was testing the sound of the word in his mouth. “That’s why you won’t catch me settling anywhere near Camlorn. Folks up north can’t keep the dead [i]dead.[/i] That or they can’t keep their ancestors appeased. Wonder what they’re doin’ that grandpa can’t remember to stay put in the dirt. Backstabbing? Stealing? Fornication? Bretons can’t give it a break, huh?”

It was the man’s own beer, Solomon thought. Having the first sip seemed only reasonable. He didn’t say anything while Bruno threw back the contents of his horn in the inimitable way that only Nords could drink and instead poured himself a small glass of brandy. “Cheers,” Solomon said and briefly gestured with his own drink in Bruno’s direction. “To a mutually lucrative partnership.”

The Nord’s other comments were crass, but Solomon couldn’t help but chuckle. “Big talk for a man whose own homeland is riddled with draugr barrows, if I remember correctly,” the Imperial said with a wry smile. Bruno did not like to mince his words and Solomon appreciated the frank and honest banter he could have with the shepherd -- Bruno’s implications about their character were perhaps a little excessive, but Bretons were, at the very least, a [i]linguistically complicated[/i] bunch. 

“Pfft, as if I don’t have words to say about the motherland either?” Bruno retorted. “Was still raised up at the foot of the Reach, mind you. The only real home I get to have is the one I build with my own two hands.”

“So,” the innkeeper said, turning serious once more. “What do I owe you again?” 

Bruno scratched at this beard thoughtfully as he was figuring out the numbers in his head. Truthfully, he wasn’t much of a man who had a use for septims, but this wasn’t the market either. He doubted that Solomon had much to barter with him, so it might just be best to take his septims and spend them later this week at the market for some ingredients he’d have a hard time foraging. Or on tar to slather the roof with so he could reshingle the shack. Yeah, the dockmaster would probably be open to trading some tar.

“Fifteen septims for all the venison,” Bruno said decisively, “ten for the pork. Already trimmed. The beer… twenty-six septims, since a standard mug is worth five… tell me if I’m wrong: fifty-one spetims total.”

The circumstances in High Rock had deteriorated to the point that trade had diminished rather severely; merchants chanced the roads less and less, and Solomon’s usual supply lines had either hiked their prices or regularly failed to deliver in the first place. The Imperial had wisely built up a well-stocked pantry and cellar over the years precisely for situations such as this, but being able to source local meat and beer from Bruno was still a godsend, so he wasn’t about to argue with the man’s assessment. 

“A fair price,” Solomon agreed and began to count out the coins from the hefty purse at his waist. Once he was about halfway through he suddenly looked up and summoned Henry with a snap of his fingers. “Fetch a bottle of Cyrodiilic brandy for the man,” he instructed the boy, who ducked out of sight and disappeared into the cellar. Looking back up at Bruno, Solomon smiled -- a rare sight -- and placed the coins on the counter in three neat stacks, ready to be counted. 

“Us locals have to stick together in times like this,” he said, his voice low as not to be overheard. “And save the brandy for a special occasion. It’s the finest spirit my homeland has to offer.”

Bruno smiled at that and tipped his empty drinking horn into his direction and said, “May your belly be full and your booze be strong, you bastard.”