[b][/b][b]"You lost, elf?"[/b]

Drelas was two-thirds of his way through his second ale when the crotch of a man entered his peripheral. Leather strands of the all-too-familiar Imperial Legion armour dangled against the bench=edge as Drelas ignored the question, hoping the troublemaker would move on. 

He did not.

[b]"I said, are you lost, knife-ear?"[/b]

A faux-frustrated, gleeful intonation underpinned the repeated words. The overtly more insulting addressal further stated the hostile intentions of the questioner. There was no ignoring this particular dolt, it seemed. This was one drunk Nord that would not tire speaking to a uninterested Meric brick wall.

[b]"[color=ed1c24]No[/color]"[/b], Drelas answered. He was on his best behaviour, but he knew himself to know that such restraint would not last long.

A poorly-masked façade of curiosity continued to envelop the inquisitive thug. Drelas did not need to turn away from his tankard to notice the smug aura the Nord was exuding, nor the showmanship of swagger that was on display for anyone who cared to engage in the racial-led grilling. He took another swig, contemplating the words and actions he could opt to use in this situation and weighing up the consequences of each. He has his reasons. After all, while he was a soldier in the Imperial Legion, he was a Dunmeri soldier in the Imperial Legion, in Skyrim. A court martial would not look on him favourably if he stabbed the bigot in the eye with the nearest butter knife. And he wouldn't make life easy for himself if he was to antagonise half of the local legion by being the 'cunty Dunmer who can't take a joke'. So a 'no' it would remain. For now.

"[b]Well, what's a grey-skin like you doing this end of Skyrim, then?[/b]", the Nord asked, the mocking tone increasing with every question.

Drelas let out a sigh, but quietly and through his nose only. It was drowned in the noise of the tavern, thankfully. "[color=ed1c24][b]Same as you, I'm sure[/b].[/color]", he retorted. Hopefully that response would invoke comradeship and not animosity. Though he did not have much faith that it would. The dark elf mused at the diplomacy he had shown; normally bottles would be breaking by now.

"[b]What, to make Skyrim a home for the Nords again? To drive out the foreigners in our land? I doubt that, elf.[/b]"

Patience was wearing thin, for both parties. Drelas could practically hear the Nord's knuckles clicking next to him, and his own sabbatical in passive non-antagonisation was nearing its end as well. Smart arse-ery was pushing its way to the front of the queue.

"[color=ed1c24][b]You've got a fair few Imperials to worry about first, I should think. They're the reason I'm here[/b][/color]", he said, as he turned to face his aggressor. A middle aged man, clearly not the cream of the crop of fighting men. Clearly not a career solder - his build nor character attested to that. Perhaps a fellow conscript, or an overeager jaded farmer who'd had enough of news of rumours of foreigners daring to encroach on borderlands hundred of miles away. The Nord's eyes narrowed as they met the dark elf's, and brief moment of tension flew by. A pin could be heard dropping, if not for the many loud conversations and ambience of merriment encompassing everything.

Drelas awaited the first punch as he had many times before. Nine times out of ten, they swung with their right. And so his left foot was tensed and ready to propel him away from the blow and out of the bench ready to counterattack.

Instead, the Nord belly-laughed, disarming Drelas with confusion, enough for him to allow a hairy hand to slap his shoulder. "[b]Ain't that the truth.[/b]". The Dunmer would have shaken his head in disbelief of the sudden turn of discourse and emotion if he wasn't still in a state of alert. He'd witnessed and performed too many dirty tricks in fights to let his guard down at this point.

The Nord continued. "[b]Means to an end, though. As soon as we drive out these damn Thalmor, these Imperials will leave, and we'll have a Skyrim for the Nords once again. And we can get back to what truly matters... Mead! Making good mead and revelry! None of this wartime piss that we're forced to drink![/b]"

He let out another glottal laugh as he finished off his own punchline. Drelas was liking Nords less and less by the minute. Not only were they brutish animals, but they were unpredictably so. At least a pig was expected to roll in its own muck and gorge. These Nords would seemingly do that, attack you, then buy you a drink and get back to the rolling. Which was not appreciated by Dunmeri culture or Drelas as a result.

Drelas watched as the man he thought he'd have a tussle with stumbled off, presumably to poke at another poor soul who just wanted to wallow in peace. He looked around the tavern and noticed that everyone was mostly at least with someone else. Whether in giddy carousal, boisterous banter, ice-breaking curiosity or absolute silence. And he realised that on his lonesome he was a prime target for the gibing he'd just experienced, and that the next drunken Nord may be so fickle in their pursuit of a reaction for the fun of it. He needed to at least pretend he was with someone else so any other bully would think twice about approaching two men who could have each others backs instead of a sole Dunmer who kept to himself.

He glanced around the Winking Skeever for anyone who may be willing to accommodate his presence. Perhaps even his company - after all, he'd stuck mostly to himself since he left Morrowind, so it might be good to actually converse with someone else for a little while. As long as they weren't dull, of course.

The cold had somehow crept into his bones despite the warmth of the tavern, and his eyes were compelled towards the fireplace to his right. As he glanced over, he noticed a seat by the smouldering fire become vacant as a old civilian struggled to pull himself up - out of drunkenness or decrepitness, it wasn't immediately obvious. Maybe both. Either way, Drelas was already up and out of his seat to fill the void. The glow of the fire was a welcoming sensation, warming to the core far more than the ale ever would have been.

The dark elf removed the gear on his back and belt obstructing his comfort and promptly sat in the chair before anyone else could claim it, noticing his tankard was running empty as he did. Would he have to go to the bar himself to get it refilled in an adequate time, and risk losing his prime position? Would someone be round soon? He was not familiar with Nordic customs of patronage in such places. He settled to wait for now though, and basked in the inviting embrace of the fireplace as he looked to his flanks.

Snoring to his left was a grizzled soldier in full armour that was slightly to small for him. Or rather, he had grown too much for it. No doubt incurred by the consuming of mead and beer and ale, if the empty bottles surrounding him were anything to go by. The man couldn't even wait for his booze to be decanted into a mug it seemed. And so there he was, fat and passed out.

To his right was a less-grizzled and admittedly handsome Imperial, who was very much awake if a little confused as he stared at the book in his hands. A fellow foreigner, surely, as the local Nords showed no desire to read for leisure. As good as any to strike up a conversation with. In fact, he could swear that he recognised the Imperial from somewhere, perhaps earlier at the docks or on the ship? Time would tell.

Drelas cleared his throat as he hoped to not make a cracked voice his first impression. He said, raising his voice to be sure to be heard above all the rabble, "[color=ed1c24][b]so, what do you make of this place?[/b][/color]"