[h3][i]The Calm Before the Storm[/i][/h3]

[sub]ft. everyone![/sub]

The common room had emptied as night had well and truly descended over Glenumbra, leaving only a few travelers and locals to stare into the flames or warm their bellies with a drink. Solomon watched them from his vantage point behind the bar while he cleaned the last of the evening’s dirty mugs. The cook closed up the kitchen and retreated to her room, and Henry cast a final glance in Solomon’s direction, eyes questioning whether or not the Imperial had everything under control, and Solomon sent him to bed with a nod. 

He regarded each of his patrons in turn. There was Joy, of course, the redheaded bard who had sang and played her instruments for two hours. Solomon had been forced to admit to himself that she had both talent and skill and he had not minded her music. She had been a lively visitor to his inn, to be sure, and he had heard her voice even when she wasn’t singing, making conversation with some of the other patrons. As far as he could tell, she was genuine about who she was and what she wanted, though it still perplexed him that anyone could be so optimistic and expressive during such -- literally -- dark times. 

Bruno was even more familiar to him than the bard and Solomon was pleased to see that the Nord had stuck around for a drink. Sirius often came up to the man and sniffed his hand, as if to question Bozo’s absence each time, and Solomon had resorted to soothing the dog’s sadness with a few bites of the salted meats that Bruno had brought. 

Then a few people remained that Solomon did not know and had not spoken to. The two Dunmer women were still there, one sitting remarkably far away from the last remaining hearthfire, and the other suspiciously silent -- to the point that Solomon wasn’t sure he had heard her speak at all. Both women had a strange beauty to them, in spite of their ashen skin and red eyes, as elvish women often did, and Solomon had caught himself looking at them a few times, in the same way one might admire a remarkable statue or an interesting painting… or an exotic animal that might lunge at any moment. Elves were elves, after all, even though the dark elves had not given him any particular reason to distrust them other than their general reputation. 

The same could not be said for the Bosmer woman with the hard face and the sword on her hip. She reminded Solomon a little too strongly of the tenacious and elusive scouts and archers of her kind that he had faced during the war, and he watched her more closely than he had done either of the Dunmer women. But she appeared to like her drink and she had provided a sizable portion of his income for the night, so he could hardly complain. As long as she continued to behave. 

And last but not least was the giant of a man that he had seen Joy talk with earlier. His complexion, light hair and great size made it difficult for Solomon to estimate his origins. At first glance he looked like a Nord, but the way he moved and talked suggested something else. Either way, there was a kindness in his gaze and a relaxed, unthreatening quality to his demeanor, and Solomon had seen no reason to worry about the big man throughout the evening. 

With the final mug cleaned and put back in its place, Solomon made his rounds throughout the common room, dousing the candles and wall-mounted torches that illuminated the now-unoccupied areas of the space, casting the empty chairs and tables into darkness. Once he was done with that, all there was left to do was wait for these patrons to clear out, wrap up his business with Joy and then for him to go to bed as well. However, something made him pause. Sirius licked his hand by his side and whined quietly. 

“Alright then, one drink,” he mumbled and scratched the dog behind his ears. Solomon poured himself an ale from one of the barrels and joined his patrons, sitting down on an empty chair next to Joy. He nodded at her by way of greeting, his knowing eyes indicating that he had not forgotten her, or their deal. “Bruno,” he said, raised his glass to the Nord, and then he looked at the rest of them in turn. 

“Strange times we live in, eh?” he proposed. “I hope your travels have found you all well?”

The voice had roused Janus from his reverie in the hearthfire. He looked around for its owner and found it to be the man with the [i]sour face[/i] that Joy had spoken of earlier. Seeing it closer and not across the room almost had the effect of pressing his face up to a cookfire, tolerable from a distance, but searing up close. He’d known a man with a face like that once. Terrible at conversation. He hoped he couldn’t say the same of this man, “Well enough,” he said, getting up from his seat and turning it just so in an effort to keep his relaxed posture while opening himself to the conversation, “Glad I found a roof over my head before nightfall. Spooky stories about, and all that. ‘Sides the ground makes for a bad bed.”

The redhead sat quietly for the first time all evening. There was a rasp in her throat, and her fingers were sore from the strings of her instruments. A tell tale sticking of her hair to her temples from a short break to dance and work up a sweat too and the heat had her tug at the upper buttons of her doublet, letting the air touch her skin. Joy stifled a yawn into her fist as she counted up the coins that had come her way over the course of the evening, the blush on her cheeks dying down as she caught back her breath at last. Thirty-eight septims. That was almost what she had walked in with, and she’d worked for every last one of them. The Nord gave a polite nod to Solomon as he took a seat beside her, her eyes dewy with the night. She hadn’t forgotten her own promise to him either. Thirty-eight septims was still shy of something, after all. 

Floorboards creaking, the other Nord stood up and the table suddenly justled as he propped his boot against its edge, and Bruno raised his drinking horn up high in the air. He was probably a few drinks in and showed no signs of slowing down, but still no less sober than anyone else in the tavern it seemed. His voice carried across the tavern with what must have been minimal effort as he declared, “Shall we put it to a toast, then? To roofs over our heads and good beds! May the wind always blow at your backs, that our days be long as our meals are warm, and may ye have half an hour in Sovngarde before the daedra knows you’re dead!”

“I’ll drink to that,” Solomon said and put his money where his mouth was. After swallowing, he added: “Though Sovngarde can wait a while longer, as far as I’m concerned.” 

“Agreed,” Sinalare called. The bosmer was sitting just barely separated from the group, close enough to talk but keeping her personal space well protected. She raised her glass, hand unsteady as it was one of many that evening, and as the ale sloshed around and spilled out of her tankard she leaned her head forward, catching what foam she could.

Sihava smiled hugely as she leaned back in her chair, putting her feet up on the table. Pushing indiscriminately at the magicka nearby--her version of a shout, detectable by anyone near her--she let fly a vision of the inn’s common room, followed by a warm feeling of belonging and comfort. If nothing else, Inzoliah would understand, and could then explain it. She raised her cup of wine to the huge Nord’s toast and met his eyes before taking a huge gulp of it. She’d had enough by now that there was a warmth building in her stomach and face, and she knew she was going to be drunk by the end of the night. [i]Still,[/i] she thought, looking around at the people she found herself in the presence of, [i]there’s worse company for a night of carousing, surely.[/i] She was especially taken by the redhead bard that had been playing for most of the night; a fair bit of the emptiness in her purse had come from giving to her, and she was sad to hear the music go.

Sinalare stiffened at the unfamiliar feeling. The strangeness sobered her up, as much as was possible after so much ale, and she placed her tankard back on the table. She leaned back in her seat and waited, focused now on observing the dunmer. 

Inzoliah hadn’t been drinking up until this point in the evening, only furiously scribbling on her newly acquired piece of vellum. At last she had finished, neatly rolling up the newly minted scroll of fireball and stuffing it in her knapsack. She decided to reward herself by finally giving in to the nagging desire of a cold drink. The Mage headed over to what she had assumed was the proprietor, judging by his actions throughout the night. He was seated near a red-headed bard when Inzoliah made it over. She placed five septims on the surface next to him. “A cold drink please, ‘twould seem the heat of this place is getting to me.” She added, tugging gently on the collar of her robe. 

Both Solomon and Bruno had recoiled slightly when Sihava communicated telepathically with them, flinching -- the sensation was unfamiliar and the spymaster especially was wary of any sorcery that he did not understand. He regained his composure and processed what she had actually meant to convey, namely that she was enjoying herself and felt comfortable. He looked at her, still unsure of what to make of it, before merely conjuring a polite smile. 

The other Dunmer woman demanded his attention next. “Of course,” he replied with professional courtesy, disappearing momentarily into the dark kitchen. It was odd that she was warm at such an hour, what with the unseasonably cool nights they were getting, but it was not his place to judge or question his customer’s orders. 

He returned with a glass of lemonade, chilled with ice; the last of the batch he had squeezed that morning. It was summer, after all, and the farmhands liked to come in around noon for a refreshing beverage. He handed the glass to Inzoliah and looked between her and Sihava. He’d seen the two mages conduct business earlier, and Solomon’s curiosity won out over his hesitation. “How does she…?” he whispered, leaving the question hanging in the air and nodding subtly in Sihava’s direction. 

“Thank you,” Inzoliah said, in between sips of lemonade, “when you get to be my age, temperature does odd things to you.” She noticed his curious glances at Sihava and chuckled at his question. “Mysticism most likely. ‘Tis fallen out of favour as of the last era but it’s not impossible to learn. That’s just my best assumption. I only just met her on the road today.” She explained.

"Ah," Solomon replied inconclusively. That still didn't answer the unspoken question of [I]why[/I], but he surmised that the older Dunmer wouldn't know that either, if they were indeed strangers. He sat back down and made a mental note to write down the exact sensation of the magical communication in his log book upstairs.  

Still counting her coins, Joy lifted her head when the wash of a spell breezed across the room, and she was immediately impressed. Not being so accustomed to magic, that wasn’t exactly a difficult feat for a mage to accomplish -- but this was very different, almost ancient in the way it felt. Completely comprehensible in a way that words simply weren’t. She lifted her hands up and smiled, giggling at the feeling. She recognised that it came from the Dunmer sat across the way, the very one who had left her a number of coins. 

In response, Joy gave a beaming smile in her direction. Something that the woman had learned a little of in her life, was to communicate without words - and with motions. Whether it was to signal something across a noisy patrons lounge, or for the times when words were just not resonant enough. Joy placed a hand slowly on her chest, closing a fist as if to gesture she was holding on to the feeling shared. Upon opening her eyes again, she locked them with Dunmer and bowed her head as respectfully as she could.

Sihava met Joy’s eyes with her own a-twinkle, and she mirrored Joy’s actions, clutching her hand fervently to her chest. Then, lacking the willpower to resist, she lifted her other hand in a cheeky little wave. She was liking this...Nord? The red hair would suggest so, but the slightly olive cast of her skin suggested an Imperial instead. She really didn’t know which she was. But regardless, she was liking her more and more. [i]Maybe we can talk[/i], she gave a little laugh at the word choice, [i]later[/i].

Confusion played on Janus’ brow when he felt the wave roll over him. It wasn’t something he was accustomed to, like a wind, but through his very being. It didn’t play with his clothing like a breeze, more like hands across the whole of him. His eyes crossed the room and noticed the ones that drifted towards the quiet Dunmer. He understood then, and it did not bother him. There were worse ways magic had been used on and around him. He chose to raise his mug, “Well, we all know that we’re sharing company.” He smiled his soft smile around the room and addressed the lot of them, “But, I like to know who I’m sharing an evening with, name’s Janus. And yours?”

Sinalare shifted her attention away from the Dunmer, relaxing her nerves and dismissing any concerns for the time being. Her demeanor shifted in a return to her previous calm, as she reassured herself that it was simply a normal evening; nothing was about to break down the door, and nor was there reason for anyone in the room to be hostile. She turned to Janus and a smile spread across her face as she lifted her drink once more. “Call me Sinalare.” 

"Solomon," the innkeeper answered truthfully. He had not failed to notice how Sinalare had been on edge after the mute Dunmer's display of magic as well. In addition to her rough appearance and the arms she carried, Solomon was beginning to think that she shared his instincts, finely honed over a blade's edge. Was she an old soldier after all? It was impossible to tell with elves, but it was entirely plausible that she was old enough to have fought in the Great War, undoubtedly on the other side. The memories of the conflict were burned too deep into his nervous system for him to remain entirely relaxed and he continued to watch her like a hawk. 

Still, the spymaster in him had to know. "What brings you to the Empire, Sinalare?" he asked and fixed his gaze on her resolutely.  

Sinalare tilted her head to face the inkeep, smiling slightly. “Oh, you know, work. Mercenary work, mostly.” She shrugged, tipping back her drink and finishing it off. “I fight, and I drink… The Empire’s as good a place as any.” 

Her thoughts drifted briefly to Valenwood, to home. A twinge of guilt hit her as she thought about the ale she was drinking. A bit more of it would assuage that, she thought, glancing down at the empty bottom of the tankard. 

As conversation began to flow, the Nord swung one leg over the other and answered too; “and I’m Joy,” before beginning to unlace one of her boots, making a mental note of the names so far.

[i]Ohh dear, names. Names, names...how am I going to introduce myself?[/i] Sihava fretted a moment before standing, fishing around the edges of the hearthfire and grabbing a cold chunk of charcoal. Tossing it up and down for a moment, she began to write on the wall just above the fireplace in elaborate, stylized script: [u]Sihava Blackthorn[/u]. Then she stood back, admired her handiwork, and took an exaggerated bow. As she did so, she swept her quickly across the crowd.

[i]Janus and Bruno don’t seem the type to carry valuables on them. Solomon and Sinalare are too suspicious for me to try either of them. Joy doesn’t seem like she has a great deal, and Nocturnal would frown upon me taking what I’ve freely given. Inzoliah, then. Perhaps she’s finished with that scroll.[/i]

“Who gave you permission to write on the walls of my inn?” Solomon asked, visibly irritated, and he pointed to the charcoal letters. “Take that down.”

Inzoliah raised an eyebrow at the commotion and gave a sidelong glance at the other patrons. Messing with other people’s property was a great way of getting everyone fed up with you. On the other hand though, it was just charcoal. It’s not like it would stain. “My my,” she whispered, “the boldness of youth.”

At the site of the letters upon the wall, Joy cocked her head to the side — admiring the woman’s penmanship and for a moment wondering if it was Minasi herself who had shown Sihava how to write too, this prompted yet another giggle, despite knowing that Solomon was not appreciative of it. 

“I… How about a drink everyone?” The Bard asked, sliding the septims across the surface to pile in front of Solomon. Maybe that would give him cause to simmer down. As everyone else continued their chatter and as looks were fired around the room, she hastily made her way behind the bar with mischief on her mind. 

Bruno grunted a silent, “Hmph,” as Solomon addressed the dunmer’s defacing of his inn. It was one of agreement and respect, though Bruno likely would’ve stopped it before it ever happened should the dark elf ever try such a thing to his own home. “Take your hand back or I will,” he’d say, or at least something along those lines. He did well to be polite with his earlier toast in the company of strangers, but now quiet in their company with the time to hear their voices, names, and be witness to their actions, he found himself watching the three elves. Solomon was especially more wary around them it seemed, and surely the man either had his reasons or was old enough to be set in his ways. 

Bruno personally didn’t have much reason to hate them; the war and Thalmor never affected him, though it would be Sinalare’s altmer brethren enforcing the ban of Talos worship in his motherland. He wondered if she would notice the amulet hanging from his neck that he had no intention of hiding, for he felt no shame in his worship of Talos. The mute one was strange, wielded magicks not too unlike the Reachman witches and therefore he felt careful treading was warranted enough. The other… Inzoliah, was it? Well, she was at least fetching if nothing else. For a dark elf, that is. At the sound of the other nord in the room, a true maiden, he smiled and raised his empty drinking horn. 

“Who am I to refuse a free drink from a sweet lass?” He said. “Oh, and why the hell not: try cracking open that little cask I brought in. Wouldn’t anyone mind a taste of the [i]Ol’ Bruno Reserve?[/i]”

At Solomon’s rebuke, Sihava hastily rubbed the charcoal from the wall. It was left nearly unnoticeable, if perhaps just a shade darker. She turned and dipped her head deferentially, letting a rush of apology sweep over him, before retrieving her writing tools and vellum and taking a seat near Joy’s, waiting for her to return. A drink and some company sounded pretty good about now. She was already a little bit drunk, or she probably wouldn’t have done something so forthright. Inzoliah’s scroll wasn’t going anywhere; no harm in a little fun.

Solomon accepted the apology with an inclination of his head and looked at the faintly smudged spot above the fireplace with scrutiny before he put it out of his mind. 

Inzoliah set her now-empty lemonade glass down on the bar after hearing the announcement from the pretty little human child. “Twould not hurt to try some of the man’s homemade drink.” She offered, her curiosity now piqued somewhat. 

“Indeed,” Sinalare agreed, twirling her empty mug around by the handle. 

Tinkering around behind the bar, the sound of bottles and glasses alike could be heard rattling as Joy looked around, a list in her head providing the ingredients that she knew very well. One by one, she placed six glasses up on the bar - she did not want to deny the loud gent his own ale, or to drink from his own horn either but she was still trying to find herself some employment. She could make some humour of it at least…

“Oh darling, no,” she began. “I thought, what with all these dark days and all I’d make everyone a glass of sunshine, if that would be quite alright by you. On any other day-“ with a bottle in one hand, and a dustier one in the other, she began shaking both in a lively fashion. “Oh I’d love to taste some of the brew from your horn,” her expression was blank and doe eyed - as if she was unaware entirely of the innuendo she had spoken.

Bruno immediately choked on his drink, spitting and sputtering some out of his mouth and sending the rest up his nose as he coughed and throwing his arms up to pat his face dry on his sleeve.

Even Solomon chuckled at that, and he turned around in his chair to see what the hell Joy was doing with his supplies. He sipped on his ale while he watched her mix a cocktail together and he raised an eyebrow -- clearly a habitual expression for him. "Conjuring sunlight on a night like this would be quite the magic trick, miss Joy," he said, voice dripping with scepticism. "Especially with the state my liquor cabinet is in. Oh, that reminds me," he added, suddenly serious and businesslike. "Don't forget to mark whatever you've used in the ledger on the counter." 

“Oh but of course,” Joy replied brightly, turning herself in a circle and nonchalantly tossing a bottle into the air by its neck before catching it with a practiced ease. 

Janus was content with watching the goings-on in silence while sipping at his ale, finding some quiet amusement from the interactions. A bout of vandalism in good nature had ruffled the innkeep’s feathers, and then the big Nord almost drowned himself on a mouthful of drink. When Joy began some sort of culinary adventure behind the counter, he rose from his seat and took a place closer to her at the bar, “I never did get a chance to make good on what I said,'' he reached into his coin purse and withdrew a few, sliding them across the counter to her, “Take it as payment for, uh, whatever you’re making. Buy you a drink at the next tavern, should we meet.”

Placing her bottles down either side of Janus, Joy took the coins and passed them back to him, winking back at the man; “it’s on me, or if you like -- keep the coin as payment for a lesson, [i]should we meet[/i].”

Janus smiled at the sentiment and replaced his coins, patting the purse. Only ninety-seven more for a lesson, he thought, but decided to let that lie. He liked Joy. He turned to the Nord, still wringing drink from his beard, and spoke, “Bruno, is it? You brew?”

It took a moment for him to recover and properly respond to Janus, as the man was still cleaning himself up, coughing, and snorting down the cheap ale that got caught up in and started burning his nose. After he finished murmuring something under his breath about how a lass would be the death of him, he spared a look toward Janus and, brushing off the few remaining droplets from his beard, answered, “Aye, I am. And aye, I do. Won’t claim to be somethin’ special, but there’s somethin’ to be said for beer made with your own two hands instead of whatever it is they do to beer in the city. Big vats of watered down piss, I reckon. Can’t spare no love for batches weighin’ more than seven stones, and no love means no liquor. You catch my drift?”

“Oh, aye,” Janus raised his mug, and took a gulp from it, “Something to be said about a thing a man makes with his own hands and care.”

Sinalare knew she’d drink the piss so long as it did its job, though she followed the conversation with interest. For such a heavy drinker, she knew rather little about alcohol itself. 

The innkeeper slowly nodded along with Bruno. He wasn’t a brewer himself, but running an inn had intimated him a little more closely with the logistics that surrounded the production of the products he needed -- alcohol included. It was definitely true that there was often a special touch of flavor, something different and unique, to every homebrew drink as opposed to the common stuff he purchased in bulk to fuel his tap. 

The same could be said for every drink mixed together by an expert and Solomon returned his gaze to Joy. There was so much flashy movement going on that it was impossible for him to tell whether or not she was a master mixer that was putting on a show or a ridiculously incompetent amateur that was trying to hide her inexperience. He exhaled sharply from his nose and shook his head, muttering under his breath. “Showoff.”

As the patrons chatted amongst themselves, Joy continued her showy efforts with the bottles. A shake here, a pinch from her pocket there, another twirl - anything to distract the eyes from what her hands were doing with the empty bottle she’d procured to mix everything in. The magic was always in the showmanship.

Inzoliah was having trouble following all the brewing chatter, it bored her. She enjoyed some alcohol here and there and she even had some skill in alchemy, but as far as she was concerned, alcohol was alcohol. Love or no love. As long as you had the right ingredients it would come out exactly the same. Of course this was something she dared not voice out loud. Nords could be very touchy about their drink and she had no intention of starting a barroom brawl today. 

“Well,” Janus looked at the different faces between them, appreciating the differences, but wondering if there were similarities, “We all look well-traveled. Anyone care to share a story or two? Tell us of home?”

Solomon finished his ale and flipped the mug over in his hands, catching it on the way back down. “Cyrodiil is my home,” he answered, eyes fixed on a point somewhere above Janus’ shoulder. “The Imperial City, to be precise. I grew up in the gardens and on the white marble streets. It was… good,” Solomon finished awkwardly, unsure how to describe his childhood. It seemed so very, very long ago now. 

“That was before the war, of course.” He glanced sidelong at Sinalare and sighed. “City wasn’t the same after, and I couldn’t stay. Traveled all over the Empire and even a bit outside of it. But then I got old, and I had to settle down somewhere. High Rock it is. Suits me well enough.” 

He conveniently skipped over a whole boatload of stories and hidden truths to arrive at that conclusion, but it was a story he had sold a dozen times over since he had arrived and taken over the inn, and lying about his past came habitually to him. Solomon nodded to himself and looked over his shoulder at the red haired bard once more. “Where’s that drink, miss Joy?”

Sihava nearly choked when Janus said the word ‘home,’ and the smile faded on her face. She went still, and for a moment, she almost forgot to breathe. Swishing the dregs of her spiced wine around the bottom of the cup, she stared at the swirling liquid and remembered things that she’d rather not have.

She pushed out an image to the people in the inn, then: the Palace of Kings in Windhelm, in the deep winter. But no homey warmth came along with the image. Instead, it was a kind of coldness that had nothing to do with the snow that blew in from across the eastern sea. It stayed only for a moment before she let the magic fade, and returned quietly to her drink, downing the dregs and wearing a heavy sorrow previously unseen.

The shift in atmosphere had not gone unnoticed by Joy, and while she checked the glasses out in their row, a familiar image materialised in front of her. Windhelm. She saw too the sorrow in the Dunmer’s eyes — she had also felt it. A bitter breeze she knew all too well, it was confronting and without so much as a tell on her face that it had bothered her, she stood upright. Ignoring the chill that trickled over her shoulders. [i]A laugh was required.[/i] She placed down her now full and opaque bottle, contents hidden and a hand found its way to her hip. “You know, Solomon,” she began, sighing and staring off into the middle distance dreamily. “I do wish I could be in your shoes,” Joy said, letting the inspiration of those marble streets carry in her voice. 

The Imperial narrowed his eyes at her. Solomon had lost nearly his entire family to the war and the White-Gold City had become a place haunted by pain and suffering, and crisscrossing the continent hadn’t been the best of times. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing enviable about anything he had just related, and it struck him as a strange comment after Sihava’s chilling and strangely mournful projection of Windhelm. “Why?” he asked, and Sirius barked once as if to say ‘yeah, why?’.  

Not missing a beat, she spoke out — sounding ever so slightly exasperated all of a sudden. “Well Sir,” her lips pulled to the side and she sighed. “Mine are all the way over there, and my feet are cold.” She waved her hand with a finger to point, and sure enough, her boots were beside the table she had been sitting at. The Nord has also pulled her face into one of deadly serious distress, yet couldn’t resist breaking the deadpan punchline with a quick glance in Sihava’s direction, hoping it might have conjured a smile, or even a twinkle of appreciation in her eyes. 

A faint ghost of a smile played over Sihava’s face at the joke. Good comedic timing was always admirable, and if she was in a better mood, it might have sent her into gales of silent laughter. As it was, she wasn’t quite feeling up to merriment, and so she elected to continue staring at her now-empty cup after giving Joy a brief nod.

The slight smile stayed, though.

It had been as much of a deflection, as an attempt to stave off the chill. Joy hoped her contribution would be enough to keep potential questions of her own heritage at bay, since it seemed to be the topic of the hour. She had no home, nor had she ever had one to speak of. That talk didn’t make for interesting conversation at all, and yet she found a sense of solidarity in Sihava’s nod - the silent communication that she understood. 

Once the image had faded from Janus’ mind- and the very real goosebumps disappeared from his arms at the conjured cold- he rose his brows and made like the bottom of his empty mug was the most interesting thing in the wide world and he hadn’t just witnessed half the room almost physically recoil from his question, coughing sheepishly into his fist.

It was to be said, a younger Janus might’ve also recoiled, “So, about this inn, then. Nice place, isn’t it… good drink, too.”

“Was a real shithole when I got it,” Solomon said flatly. “Took me a year of hard work and renovations to turn it around.” That much was true. “I won it in a game of cards.” A bald-faced lie. “I think the previous owner was just glad to be rid of it.” 

He looked around the common room, eyes flitting from one wall-mounted stag head to another, and he exhaled slowly. This place was as much a prison to him as it was a comfortable home. The Penitus Oculatus had restrained him, a moth pinned to a board in a glass box, when they tied him to this place. Still, it could be worse, and he had grown somewhat fond of the lifestyle. At least it wasn’t paperwork. 

“I named it after him,” Solomon added and patted his dog on the head, who quirked his head to look up at home, tongue lolling out of his mouth. “This is Sirius, by the way. Try not to spoil him too much or he’ll get fat.”

Sinalare looked down at the dog and smiled. She offered him her hand briefly; she’d always enjoyed the company of animals, even though she’d eaten and hunted more than her fair share of them. She always found dogs pleasant.

“An inn for a game of cards?” Janus quirked a brow, “I won a card game once. Only got this sword though. Come to think of it, I don’t know which one of us is better off for winning.”

“You’re telling me.” Bruno remarked, still casting a sidelong glare at Sihava. It was one thing if a person couldn’t speak, but there was something about forcing a person to witness an image or a feeling without their consent that felt violating, even if the intent was fairly innocuous, and it was for that reason he didn’t have the greatest feeling about the dark elf, and he was going to make sure she knew that. He began by addressing the conversation where it was first, “An entire house, shithole or not, ain’t nothin’ to scoff at. I should know, I built my own. My father his, up in the Reach near Evermore.”

Then his head joined in his eyes in where they were aimed. Towards the dark elf, the tone of his voice fell serious and critical. “Watched my childhood home burn to ashes, I did. Forsworn took the heart of my ‘stead and of my folks, but you don’t see me forcing you lot to watch that, do you?”

Returning to his drink, Bruno continued, albeit remarkably nonchalant despite the heavy tale he had dropped on the others. “It is what it is. I’m a grown man and I’ve moved on, and after so many years I’ve come to realize that it’s just the way this world works. Everyone’s got a sob story, but ain’t one of them no more special than the next.”

And just like that, Sihava’s frail, reborn smile winked out. She stood violently, shoving back the bench as she slammed her hands on the table, eyes wide. White-knuckled, she took her quill and ink--a message too detailed to be explained in images--and slashed off a piece of vellum, writing fervently on it before tearing it off the counter and slamming it down explosively in front of Bruno. The writing was a far cry from her usually carefully-ordered, flowing penmanship; it was jagged, all harsh lines and sharp edges, [i]very[/i] rushed and nearly punching through the vellum in several places.

[i]I showed you a picture of a city. A single picture. There is a difference between that and wholesale slaughter and a burning farm. I don’t think I should need to SAY this, but I do not speak, Bruno, which means it is very, very difficult for me to communicate without writing out a message like this. It takes a long time, and I cannot respond with the flow of the conversation. It is cumbersome and frustrating. If you don’t wish for me to communicate with you in my usual fashion, feel free to tell me. I have no wish to intrude, and I can exclude you in the future. But don’t insult me like that. You are TAKING YOUR WORDS FOR GRANTED.[/i]

With that, she stormed back to her seat and curled in, frustrated despite herself. She was reacting too strongly, and she knew that. But the memories of Windhelm had her distressed, and the alcohol had lowered her guard. [i]Come now, Siha,[/i] she found herself thinking, [i]this is not how a priestess of Nocturnal should act.[/i] But she hadn’t been able to help herself.

It didn’t take a smart man to read the room and figure out there was brewing tension. For anyone that was taking too long on it, the Dunmer herself seemed to explode with activity, aggressively slamming the parchment down next to the bigger Nord a head taller than herself. As if in reflex, Janus was watching every movement of the Nord, not that it showed on Janus. All he did was set his mug on the bar top, place a foot readied on the floor, and sighed.

So much for an uneventful stay.

If she had expected a reassuring reaction, Sihava was about to find herself in a much more precarious situation. Bruno glowered unflinchingly into the Dunmer’s own searing gaze, and parchment on which she wrote fell onto the table before him with the weight of its own vitriol. Without taking his eyes off of Sihava, the Nord calmly took the note and crushed it into a crunchy ball of paper before carelessly tossing it into the fire, having not read a single word of it. 

“I don’t give a shit what your excuses are.” He sneered. “Before you cast [i]any[/i] of your Gods’ forsaken sorcery on me, you get my permission. Or else I’m selling your witch fingers to an alchemist.”

With a final huff, he leaned back into his chair and his drinking horn to his mouth. His eyes were hovering just above the rim as they darted back and forth between everyone in the room, his nose still in his cup, before addressing them too, “And that goes for the lot of you, too. Not that I dislike any of you… but I don’t know you either. Just don’t trespass on [i]me.[/i]”

Inzoliah watched lazily as the room’s mood shifted from warm to cold and back again. Of course it was cold all the time where she was seated. A small price to pay for safety from the eternal enemy. The image of a cold and rather dreary looking city entered her mind, no doubt the witchery of Sihava, and as quickly as it entered her mind it incinerated as if by a spell of her own design. She had no use for dreary northern towns or childhoods that were not her own. Evidently someone did as there was the rustle of vellum and the slamming of feet and other objects. None of this registered with Inzoliah on any deep level, her own attention was firmly entranced by a game of her own recent invention; it was simple, she attempted to relight a candle across the room by flicking sparks from her finger. So far she was unsuccessful in her endeavour. 

The tension in the atmosphere seeped into Sinalare’s bones and she withdrew, the alcohol-fueled friendliness she had previously was temporarily paused as she watched the situation transpire. She waited to see how the other customers would react. As she considered it, though, Bruno had a point; the idea of someone digging around in her head was off putting. Still… She glanced at the fire, and wondered what Sihava had written. 

Once again, the room had slipped to an almost cloying tension and Joy cast glances between Bruno and Sihava both. It so far wasn’t anything she hadn’t seen before - aside from the strange magic at play, she was accustomed to patrons getting rowdy and uptight with each other. Oh if only Janus had asked for stories about that, she had more than a few to tell. But it wasn’t her place to get involved with either party, and her blue eyes finally landed on Solomon, a slight uptick of her brow followed. The drinks were overdue, and in the silence, Joy’s voice came through from behind the bar. “Six glasses of sunlight, coming up!”

After she had announced it, she flicked the stopper out of her mixing bottle, and tipped it over the first glass. Into the first glass, liquid the colour of dandelions fell, and not wasting any time she tipped the bottle back, before pouring into glass two. As she did so, she made sure to set her stance just so that she was alluring and feminine, leaning forward when she needed to, making eye contact when it was just right. It was all a performance, and she had perfected the art of it. When she came to each glass, the colours of the concoction kept changing. She continued with her pouring until there was a line of drinks displaying the colour yellow and ending in a deep red. A sunset sat on the strip mahogany bar in the dimming candlelight. The woman was proud of her work, as always, and she looked down at them with her trademark bright and beaming smile. There was a sourness about it all though, the image of Windhelm still sat in her own mind, and Bruno and Solomon’s stories had been heard, and felt. She had to remind herself that it wasn’t her place to get involved.  

“Come and get ‘em,” she said, pushing the thoughts back so she could present her tone invitingly, she took to leaning back from the bar, resting against the cabinet behind her, hoping the last of the evenings patrons would be receptive to it, and that for now, the situation could be diffused. 

Bruno might’ve been a crass loner who wasn’t so good at being a good shoulder to cry on, but he wasn’t a completely oblivious idiot. When Joy came around setting down drinks in front of everyone and working her curve, it was clear as day that she was trying to bring down the tension and, whether out of charity and playing the same game as she was or simply being so honest with his thoughts that it was easy for him to move on from conversation to the next, he accepted the drink with a smile and kicked his feet up. He didn’t know exactly what she was thinking, but he thought he had a pretty good idea. He decided it might be time to share some more entertaining stories to support his earlier point (about everyone’s lives is pretty much about getting rawed by a frost troll and learning to move on after).

“It wasn’t all bad, anyways.” Bruno said, moving on from before. “Got stories ‘bout my first, spectacularly awful hunt, or settin’ up my father’s fence and little Bruno havin’ himself a civil disagreement with a gopher hole. Or tryin’ to herd the meanest and stubbornest cock of a rooster you ever saw, and climbing up the Wrothgarian mountains to look for a milling boulder. I’ve traveled the road between here and there and suffered all the mishaps in between, like… how about the time some fifteen or something’ year old snot fancied himself a highwayman and tried to mug me on the road? We all got plenty of stories as soon as you realize life’s just one long, dumb joke.”

After so much talking, Bruno moved to wet his tongue on the drink Joy had given everyone, only for his mouth to almost immediately recoil and lips pucker after his first mouthful. He quickly forced it down, and with his eyes still squinting and mouth smacking, said, “That’s… a lot goin’ on at once. Real sweet.”

“I have been told on occasion that my juice is very sweet, Sir,” Joy shot back, as if the answer had been pre-prepared. The redhead smiled innocently once again. 

Sihava roused herself at Joy’s peace offering of a drink, forcing her breathing to calm down. Another drink mightn’t be a good idea, since she was already having trouble controlling her outbursts; she’d never exactly been the most resilient to alcohol, and it didn’t help that she didn’t often drink. But she always did have a weakness for something sweet, so when Bruno nearly had to pull back for how sweet it was, her interest was piqued enough for her to rise and uncurl, making her way up to the counter and grabbing the most reddened of the glasses. She gave Joy a wan smile--a thanks, and an apology--before returning to her seat and examining Bruno through careful, hooded eyes.

The drink [i]was[/i] sweet. But it was good. She sipped it gratefully, warmth returning to her face as her hands stayed safely under the table. The illusion magic that danced across her fingertips, desperate to unleash itself upon Bruno’s cocksure psyche, was better to keep hidden, she thought. She’d already ruffled feathers. Starting a barroom brawl by playing with a fellow patron’s mind was a surefire way to get herself booted out of the inn.

Sinalare accepted the drink gratefully with a smile. She sniffed it, curious at Bruno’s comment about its sweetness. Having taken a sip, her face contorted at the string flavour in surprise, but after a second the aftertaste became delightful. Happily, she took a large second drink. Really, who knew a drink could taste like [i]this[/i]? 

“Moving forward,” Janus’ voice came, and he smiled at Joy as he accepted his drink, “I think any attempts at communication should be, uh, done in writing... If it can’t be in words, friend.”

Call it years of war and fighting, but he hadn’t expected such an otherwise lovely evening to be marred by an exchange like that. His heart had upped its tempo in the threat of excitement and he still hadn’t settled, muscles tensed like springs he had to work at undoing. Tonight was not a night he wanted to lift a finger for something senseless. And barred from ever returning to such a fine establishment. “I’d like us all to remain friends, s’all. No reason to make that hard.” He gave his smile to Sihava first, and Bruno second, raising his cup to them both, “Everyone keeps their fingers. Easier to hold a cup that way.”

There were still some drinks leftover on the counter, and one woman in particular had barely stirred in the last few moments of excitement - it hadn’t gone unnoticed by Joy. Perhaps it was time to take her seat again, but as the others murmured around, close to the fire, the Nord couldn’t help but feel a pull towards the elderly Dunmer back in her darkened seat. Taking one of the drinks in hand, she made her way to bring the drink herself. The woman was focussing on something, a candle that had snuffed out, and Joy’s eyes moved between the candle and Inzoliah. 

It was apparent she was a shyer type, or just the type who didn’t want to be at the centre of the crowds, and so Joy approached her as such - soft and slow, carefully setting the drink down in front of her. “For you, Ma’am,” she said quietly. “Are you quite alright here? Would you like me to fetch you something? A blanket even?”

Inzoliah exhaled quietly and raised her hand, flicking out with her middle finger and sending a small mote of fire arcing towards the candle, it hit the wick with surprising accuracy and ignited properly only moments later. Only once that had happened did the Dunmer become aware of a human girl, the very same one she had seen earlier playing an instrument, attempting to talk with her. She smiled at the human. “Tis quite alright, child. You needn’t bring me anything more, though I do appreciate the drink. I’m just not fond of sitting too close to the fire. You understand, I'm sure. ” She left her explanation at that, as if that was all anyone needed to hear. As if all people shared her perception of fire. She sipped the drink set down in front of her. “Fruity. And sweet.” Inzoliah offered, rather flatly, though her words were meant sincerely. 

Instead of finding offense in her use of ‘child’, Joy seemed to find it endearing. It suggested to her that Inzoliah was older, and wiser, and in that respect she didn’t mind it at all. She wouldn’t correct her or dispute it. “Ah!” she exclaimed, her eyes widening as she watched the wick of the candle take flame. “Brilliant,” she added, turning to look back at the Dunmer - truthfully, Joy had always had some envy towards those who were talented with the arcane arts, it wasn’t something she’d had opportunity to learn about beyond reading the tales of it in books and hearing an anecdote from a traveller. “Do you think you could light that one?” she pointed a finger to a candle held in a sconce on the wall, asking with a twinkle of excitement in her eyes.

Taking another sip of the drink, Inzoliah raised her free hand and pointed her finger at the indicated sconce, after a moment a beam of fire leapt from the finger and struck with wick with well-practiced aim. She set the drink down and smiled again at the human girl. “Any other requests?” The Mage asked. To some mages, small tricks like those became tiresome once they had moved on to more esoteric spells. Not so for Inzoliah, any act of arcane arson also lit her up on the inside, no matter how small. Any request to do so was just an easy excuse in case things got out of hand. Not that it had helped her case in the past. 

“I don’t know about that,” Joy admitted, casually glancing back over her shoulder to see if they were being watched. Solomon seemed the type who wasn’t much of a fan of a certain kind of hijinks in his Inn. Still, getting the woman to open up was a worthwhile pursuit, and so Joy found another sconce on the wall a little closer to them. “I wonder, Ma’am, if you don’t mind my prying, how do you get to learning a trick like that?” She asked with an encouraging smile — taking a seat opposite Inzoliah. 

“Hah, well, my mother was a mage so maybe it just runs in my blood.” Inzoliah said, teasingly. She let her obviously unsatisfactory answer hang in the air before she spoke again. “Of course she must have learned somewhere and while I can’t speak to how she learned it- that must have been, oh around 300 years ago at this point- I learned it from her and then the Synod. Before it was called the Synod it was the Mages Guild.” Stopping her explanation for a moment she casually backhanded a blob of flame at the sconce and continued once the other torch had lit up. “Though I could always teach you the basics, for a fair price of course, after all I have to eat. ‘Tis fortunate though, if you wish to control flames now I can sell you this scroll I made tonight. No practice or prior talent needed, just read the inscription and hurl a fireball at whatever you wish.” The Dunmer slid the rolled up piece of vellum out of her pack and set it on the table. 

Joy regarded the scroll for a moment, biting gently on her lower lip. “That’s a nice offer, but I don’t know when I’d get a chance to do that,” she rounded off her words with a girlish titter of a laugh. “Maybe on an overly enthusiastic drunk, who can’t keep his hands off. Send him into Oblivion with a kiss,” she laughed. “Between you and Mr Janus though, I’d be a spellsword in just about no time.”

“Funny you should say that. I’m banned from a duchy in eastern High Rock for something along those lines. Ah well, there’s time enough to learn later.” Inzoliah said, slightly disappointed and rolling the scroll back up. 

They could barely hear Bruno muttering something along the lines of “lucky bastard” into his horn as he forced himself to take another swig of the sugary swill that Joy prepared for him.

Solomon tried Joy’s concoction while keeping a neutral, inscrutable expression and he swirled the drink around in his mouth for a while before swallowing. A few seconds passed until he nodded, looked at her and, finally, smiled. “I might keep you on as a barmaid after all,” he said, voice softening for the first time since she’d stepped inside [i]The Loyal Hound.[/i]

Before he could say anything else, something knocked on the door, slowly and rhythmically and with a heavy hand. The innkeeper’s head whirled around, as if on a swivel, and he fixed his raptorian gaze on the door. A quiet hush fell over the common room.

[i]Thud… thud…. thud....[/i]