They didn’t give Ulfric a wide berth simply because there wasn’t room, but he was watched by a dozen or more red, oval eyes as he made his way slowly around the room, looking for Dyce.
He found him sitting at the bar downing Cyrodilic brandy and telling unlikely stories to a pair of elves, one of whom was playing with his hair. Ulfric got the satisfaction of making Dyce’s jaw drop when he pulled back the free stool next to him and sat on it. Dyce shut his mouth and grinned.
“Well if isn’t my old friend, uh, Griz.” He draped an arm around Ulfric’s shoulders. “We’re old hunting buddies,” he explained. Ulfric found himself the recipient of knowing, amused looks.
To hell with it then. If he was going to be undercover, he may as well put some effort in.
He wrapped an arm around Dyce’s waist and pulled him sharply against him and the Breton nearly fell off his stool. Dyce’s blue eyes gleamed with amusement; he didn’t seem to mind any, although Ulfric realised his cloak and hood were far too warm for a crowded bar.
“Are you here for a drink or just a cuddle?” he asked.
Ulfric pointed at the bar in front of him with his free hand. Gratifyingly fast, the Dark Elf behind the bar slid across a ceramic tumbler of brandy, and it went almost as well as mead did. Dyce suggested he leave the bottle and given no money was in evidence Ulfric deduced he was a regular customer.
“I was really not expecting you to show up,” Dyce said, pouring himself a drink with the exaggerated carefulness of someone who’s been drinking most of the evening. “You should meet some people. Everyone, this is Griz, and he’s shy.”
Ulfric did not like the sound of elves laughing at him, and he had another drink. He wondered if Dyce kept his arm around his shoulders in case he tried to do something. However, the elves soon lost interest in him; he was bad conversation, but vouched for, and so he was basically ignored. At that point Dyce unwound his arm and rested his elbow on the bar instead.
Ulfric didn’t move his arm. That leather was something else. It invited stroking. Ulfric caught his hand moving against Dyce’s side a couple of times and stilled it. He probably couldn’t feel anything. Dyce was warm. Ulfric could feel him shudder when he laughed. Ulfric drank and let the noise wash over him.
Talos, what was he doing here?
“Are you hungry?” Dyce turned to him. “I am. Food! Ambarys! Feed us!”
Ulfric found himself staring at bowl of what looked like jellied egg yolks. Steam was rising gently from them. Dyce was sprinkling salt over his, spoon in hand.
“What are these?” Ulfric asked.
“Kwama cuttle,” Dyce said, slurping one off his spoon. “House speciality.”
Talos, what was he doing here?
Ulfric was not a fearful man. He unwound his arm from around Dyce and copied him by sprinkling salt over the dish. Then he braced himself, picked up a spoon, and dug in. He managed to eat about half of it as fast as he could before pushing the bowl away.
“I already ate,” he said. He poured himself another drink, while Dyce smirked at him.
“Well, you tried. I’m proud of you.” Dyce ate all of his cuttle and the half a bowl Ulfric had been unable to stomach. “If you’re looking for an acquired taste, try the scrib jelly,” Dyce said. “Still can’t get the taste for that.”
“Why would you care to?” Ulfric asked.
“Why not?” Dyce asked. “The more things you like the richer and more varied your banquets. It works for sex, too,” he added casually.
Ulfric choked on his brandy.
Dyce yawned, apparently sated. “Well, I suppose I should get some rest. I’m sure someone important will want me to do something tomorrow.” He stood up and started bidding people goodnight. Ulfric followed, although he said not a word to anyone.
The cold air outside the Cornerclub was like a slap in the face. Dyce shivered and tucked his hands under his arms before starting to tromp back through the dirty snow up the slope towards Windhelm proper.
Ulfric wasted no time following. It was depressing down here, now they were out of the warm, and he was tired and a bit drunk.
What's a Thief to a King? M!DB/Ulfric 9/??
He found him sitting at the bar downing Cyrodilic brandy and telling unlikely stories to a pair of elves, one of whom was playing with his hair. Ulfric got the satisfaction of making Dyce’s jaw drop when he pulled back the free stool next to him and sat on it. Dyce shut his mouth and grinned.
“Well if isn’t my old friend, uh, Griz.” He draped an arm around Ulfric’s shoulders. “We’re old hunting buddies,” he explained. Ulfric found himself the recipient of knowing, amused looks.
To hell with it then. If he was going to be undercover, he may as well put some effort in.
He wrapped an arm around Dyce’s waist and pulled him sharply against him and the Breton nearly fell off his stool. Dyce’s blue eyes gleamed with amusement; he didn’t seem to mind any, although Ulfric realised his cloak and hood were far too warm for a crowded bar.
“Are you here for a drink or just a cuddle?” he asked.
Ulfric pointed at the bar in front of him with his free hand. Gratifyingly fast, the Dark Elf behind the bar slid across a ceramic tumbler of brandy, and it went almost as well as mead did. Dyce suggested he leave the bottle and given no money was in evidence Ulfric deduced he was a regular customer.
“I was really not expecting you to show up,” Dyce said, pouring himself a drink with the exaggerated carefulness of someone who’s been drinking most of the evening. “You should meet some people. Everyone, this is Griz, and he’s shy.”
Ulfric did not like the sound of elves laughing at him, and he had another drink. He wondered if Dyce kept his arm around his shoulders in case he tried to do something. However, the elves soon lost interest in him; he was bad conversation, but vouched for, and so he was basically ignored. At that point Dyce unwound his arm and rested his elbow on the bar instead.
Ulfric didn’t move his arm. That leather was something else. It invited stroking. Ulfric caught his hand moving against Dyce’s side a couple of times and stilled it. He probably couldn’t feel anything. Dyce was warm. Ulfric could feel him shudder when he laughed. Ulfric drank and let the noise wash over him.
Talos, what was he doing here?
“Are you hungry?” Dyce turned to him. “I am. Food! Ambarys! Feed us!”
Ulfric found himself staring at bowl of what looked like jellied egg yolks. Steam was rising gently from them. Dyce was sprinkling salt over his, spoon in hand.
“What are these?” Ulfric asked.
“Kwama cuttle,” Dyce said, slurping one off his spoon. “House speciality.”
Talos, what was he doing here?
Ulfric was not a fearful man. He unwound his arm from around Dyce and copied him by sprinkling salt over the dish. Then he braced himself, picked up a spoon, and dug in. He managed to eat about half of it as fast as he could before pushing the bowl away.
“I already ate,” he said. He poured himself another drink, while Dyce smirked at him.
“Well, you tried. I’m proud of you.” Dyce ate all of his cuttle and the half a bowl Ulfric had been unable to stomach. “If you’re looking for an acquired taste, try the scrib jelly,” Dyce said. “Still can’t get the taste for that.”
“Why would you care to?” Ulfric asked.
“Why not?” Dyce asked. “The more things you like the richer and more varied your banquets. It works for sex, too,” he added casually.
Ulfric choked on his brandy.
Dyce yawned, apparently sated. “Well, I suppose I should get some rest. I’m sure someone important will want me to do something tomorrow.” He stood up and started bidding people goodnight. Ulfric followed, although he said not a word to anyone.
The cold air outside the Cornerclub was like a slap in the face. Dyce shivered and tucked his hands under his arms before starting to tromp back through the dirty snow up the slope towards Windhelm proper.
Ulfric wasted no time following. It was depressing down here, now they were out of the warm, and he was tired and a bit drunk.