[hr][color=#daa520][CENTER][h1]T H E  G R A Y  Q U A R T E R[/h1][/CENTER][/color]
[table][row][/row][row][cell][center][img]https://i.imgur.com/62fuRGy.png[/img]
[sub] Art by [url=https://www.deviantart.com/theminttu/art/The-Gray-Quarter-274880344]TheMinttu[/url][/sub]
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[cell][color=daa520][sub]1 0 T H  O F  S U N ' S  D U S K ,  4 E  2 0 5 [/sub][/color]

[indent]A cold winter wind whipped through the deserted streets of the Windhelm that night. The snow came down in flurries, twirling through the freezing air, to land on icy cobbles below. It was foul weather to be out, and most of the city's residents were fast asleep. But not all of them, for there, picked out in the warm glow of the torch light, was a figure hurrying along through the drifts of piled snow. His name was Snorri Gunnarson, and he was on a mission.

Snorri Gunnarson was a Nord, though he did not necessarily look it. He shared little similarity with this his people other than the flaxen colour of his hair. For where most people thought of Nords as being greatly tall and strong men, he was slight and short. Where the stereotypical Nord had broad rough features and great flowing beard, Snorri was weak chinned and snub nosed, and his pale beard grew in patch only in patches. There were other differences between him and many other Nords in Skyrim, but those were not so apparent on the surface. 

One difference, however, that was most apparent right now between Snorri are a regular Nord, and that was how he moved. Nords are generally not known for their subtlety or the deftness of their feet, but Snorri was an expert skulker, a born sneak, and tonight he displayed his talents in full earnestness. For he did not walk, or stride, or march through the Snow. Snorri crept. 

He made sure to avoid the patrols of the heavily armed guards that patrolled the streets at night, dressed in Stormcloak blues, the roaring bear emblazoned upon their shields. He ducked around corners, tiptoed down flights of steep stone stairs, and slowly but surely, worked his way towards his destination for that night: The Gray Quarter. His employer had received a tip off from one of his informers, the one they had been looking for would be there tonight.[/indent][/cell][/row][/table]Snorri ducked into an alleyway as another patrol rounded a corner. It would not do for him to be caught out here, even as a Nord. The Gray Quarter was almost empty these days, and any who moved around its streets after dark would quickly fall under suspicion. As the light of the guards torches faded, he slipped out once more, and stole into the doorway of the place he was to find his quarry. 

The New Gnisis Corner Club had seen better days. It had never been the finest of establishments, but with most of its patrons rounded up and taken to Shor knows where, there was not much merriment to found here. The remaining clientele were all Dunmer, and they all stopped their low murmured conversation to stare at the newcomer in their midst. He put his head down and quickly made his way towards the bar.

"Come slumming to the Gray Quarter, have you?" It was Ambarys, the Dunmer bar keeper who spoke first, regarding him with clear disdain. He was thin hard looking man, his grey hair pulled back behind his head. With a cloth in hand he polished a stoneware jar his kind used to warm their Matze or Shien before they drank it. "Well, we don't serve any mead here, Nord. Best find somewhere else to drink." 

"I-I am looking for someone, I was told they could be found here. An Armiger." Snorri stuttered out, trying to keep his voice low so as not to be overheard. The barkeep appraised him again with his crimson eyes, before grunting at him. 

"You'll find him in the back. Just follow the music." He indicated the direction with and outstretched thumb, pointing to a doorway leading deeper into the corner club, partially covered with a ragged curtain. Snorri dipped his head in thanks and made his way to the back room. 

Pushing the curtain aside, he could see it was even emptier than the bar out front. The room was darker too, only the light of the fire and a few battered paper lanterns casting a soft flickering light into the windowless room. At first he was confused because he could not see anyone who seemed to fit the description of the person he was looking for, and Ambarys's cryptic comments were of little help.

It was then that he [url=https://youtu.be/4emogJU_pdA?t=2415]heard it[/url], the strange drifting sound of a low husky voice holding a trembling note into the quiet room, a sparse accompaniment of queerly tuned strings plucked along side the wavering vocal. He recognised the language, but not the words said, for this was Dunmeris, the ancestral language of the Dark Elves. As the voice quieted the strings picked up, faster, more driving, urgent. Snorri craned his neck, trying to see where the music was coming from. 

There was a figure, seated down by the fireside on a laid out floor cushion, their legs crossed, a long necked instrument cradled in their hands. He had not seem them behind the other, unoccupied furniture in the dimly lit room. With the light of the fire behind them, it was difficult to make out much more than their silhouette. But it had to be them, this person had to be who Snorri had been sent to meet. Softly, he approached them from behind. 

"Pardon me for inter-" Before Snorri could finish his words, there was flurry of movement and the point of a curved steel blade aimed directly at his throat, glinting menacingly in the firelight. He gasped and took a step back. He hadn't even seen them draw it, it must have been sitting in their lap, hidden by the strange instrument. 

"It is considered rude where I come from, sera, to interrupt a musician before they have finished their performance." The voice low and had a slight rasp to it, it was the voice of an older Dunmer. 

The musician had turned their face to speak to him, so Snorri could see properly now. He was indeed a Dark Elf with grey skin and pierced pointed ears. He was an older one too, at least a couple of centuries, weathered and lean. Crows feet radiated from the narrow crimson eyes, his iron grey hair was pulled up into a top knot. There was a riot of faded markings, tattoos or maybe scars, that ran down one side of his face. He was not dressed in armour, but instead some kind of earthen coloured robe, held in place by a bright red sash around the waist. 

"Begging your forgiveness, sir. I was told I could meet someone here, someone who's been causing trouble for the Stormcloaks." The crimson eyes of the Dunmer flicked to the doorway and then back to Snorri, ascertaining whether or not he had come alone. After a few second he seemed to decide that the Nord was not a threat, for he returned the blade to his lap.

"Might be you could, sera, might be you could." The old Dunmer set the lute to one side and shifted over slightly, opening up space on the floor cushions next to him, patting it with one hand. "Come sit with an old mer, do you drink Matze?" 

The Dunmer didn't wait for an answer, but immediately began to pour a small drinking bowl full of steaming alcohol from a stoneware jar set upon the hearth. He passed it to Snorri and stared at him expectantly, with some trepidation he took a sip. The warmed alcohol was pungent, stronger than he had expected too, and though it initially tasted sweet there was an an underlying... saltiness? to it. It must have shown on his face for the next thing the old mer said was:

"Fermented saltrice is an... acquired.... taste I suppose, more for me then." The Dunmer refilled his own drinking bowl and knocked it back in one fluid motion. "So, just who do you think you are looking for, sera? Perhaps I might know them." 

Snorri paused for a moment, should he tell the story to this stranger? What if he had made some mistake and this was not the right elf? But how many armed musician dark elves could there be in one corner club? He decided to speak. 

"The man I work for, he has friends in the Gray Quarter, recently some of them told him an interesting story."

"Well, I am a fan of stories, please continue." The Dunmer interrupted, filling both of their cups again. 

"The story goes that there was a ship between loaded at the Windhelm docks last week, a ship that was loaded under the cover of darkness, and with a great many guards surrounding it. This was because it had an somewhat, unsavoury, cargo. Dunmer, in irons, being taken from the Windhelm gaol to put be put to work in a mine up North." 

"A sad story, I have heard other tales like it before." 

"Indeed it has happened before, but this time things went differently." 

"Oh really?" The old Dunmer's eyes lit up, there was something of a playful look in them. He sipped at the drink in his hand, looking supremely at ease. 

"Yes, the ship departed before dawn with its living cargo, but it never reached the mines. They found it wrecked  near the mouth of the White River, broken on a reef. The guards were dead, but the shackles were empty."

"How mysterious."

"So thought my employer, until a mutual friend found one of the Dunmer who had been chained up on the deck, she had an interesting story to tell too. She saw a someone walking on the water, not the ice floes, the water itself and come climb aboard. They killed the guards by stealth with their spear and short sword, and then freed the prisoners, healing their wounds as they went."

"Sounds like a generous fellow, dangerous though perhaps too."

"Indeed... she had one last thing to say. He wore a masked helmet, but she caught a glimpse of his neck. There was a tattoo there, one she recognised, an Armiger's tattoo she called it. They look somewhat similar to yours, apparently." 

There was no reaction from him, the Dunmer just stared back Snorri, hands folded neatly in his lap. Snorri became acutely aware of the curved short sword that still sat there, blade bare, easily within reach, and he himself easily within its striking distance. He swallowed nervously. Finally the old mer said something: 

"Well... it seems you've found who you seek. Now, what do you want?" 

It was now or never, this is what he had came here to do. This is what this whole expedition to the Gray Quarter was about, finding the man who had attacked one of Ulfric's prison barges and set all the Dunmer aboard free. Now he knew that he was sitting opposite the one who had done just that. He had to answer him. 

"Your help, against the Tyrant Ulfric Stormcloak."

For the first time since he had sat down, the old Dunmer cracked a wide smile, before throwing his head back and laughing loudly.

"Gladly, Muthsera. The name is Velyn Virith."