Delphine settled into the chair with a sigh. She felt the elation of victory, and was even enjoying the unusual sensation of not being screwed out of her pay but the taste of ash and blood on the air was an unpleasant companion. Reaching down she took the bottle of Cyrodilic brandy and slugged from the neck. Doubtless this was an offense against excellent liquor but Delphine had always taken her booze where she could get it. With the Empire in chaos and the rise of pirates, slavers, and bandits the stuff was much more expensive than the apple brandy the Bretons made. She took a long drink and felt the burn of it in her throat, it was smooth and rich with the subtle taste of the apricots it was distilled from. The vapor coming off it made her eyes water pleasantly. The bottle was pleasant to look at, a soft brown glass with a cast seal of some distillery in some place called Bravil.


“We play truth or dare here,” she told Amal, “but I suppose we can drink in stead of dare.” She held up a finger and took another belt of brandy, gasping and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. It did seem to be helping with the taste.


“Why did you come to High Rock?” she asked bluntly. 


“It is a nice enough place all things considered,” she said, making a gesture that mentally encompassed the destruction wrought by the pirates.


“But people that come here from afar go to Daggerfall, or to Wayrest, must be a story as to how you ended up here.”