Nobody even knew exactly what the Bosmer had done, sending a man twice his weight to the ground without a single drop of blood.
The farmer didn't get up, he just lay there staring at the vaulted ceiling, blood rushing to his ears in embarassment. The Bosmer tisked and cussed softly to himself, hurriedly opening his bandolier and shifting around the contents. “Oh, simply wonderful.” He said, quite suddenly miserable and holding up what looked like pieces of an earthenware pipe. Hulda apologized profusely, inspecting the damage to the foreigner's cheek from afar. “This was my favorite fife, had it fashioned and glazed by an old friend of mine outside Corinth..” He was heartbroken inside, shaking his head and ignorant to the sounds of praise from around the Inn of his victory. Suddenly a bloated coinpurse was laid out before him, “Here, I know it can't replace your flute, but this is for your trouble. I've been trying to get that man knocked sober for quite a while now. It's two hundred septims, and again I'm so sorry.”
Hulda couldn't help but smile sadly for him, she'd seen strangers come and go but this poor mer had a tougher time than most. He was quite handsome too, a pity a large bruise started forming along his cheek. “You know, you should join the companions. I hear they're looking for new recruits. With skills like yours, I'm sure you'd impress someone.”
“Ah, You see, I've already given them a visit. To be honest I just wandered in without even knowing it was home to a league of warriors. They told me off, but I guess that's what I deserve for being clueless.”
“Well, you have me vouching for you!” Another drunken voice sounded from behind him, this one far more jovial than the last. He turned and brushed two beaded lanyards away from his cheek, seeing an imposingly tall and bearded blonde gesturing towards him, mug in hand. “That was quite a kick, never seen anything like that.” By the nine, he was quite friendly. “And” he burped, it reaked-”Don't you listen to what noooobody says in Jorrvaskr until old Kodlak had a look at you.”
“Kodlak. Balding, missing an eye?” Apparently not, maybe he could earn a meager living in this town once more. The musician was still quite sore over being repeatedly belittled for his race, and he was grouchy enough to test his mettle against those who questioned him.
“Nah, thats Skjor. He don't like nobody. Hey hey, tomorrow you should come back. I'll tell em you got lot of spunk.” Whether the drunk was just hitting on him or being honest to his word he'd have to find out tomorrow. There was no getting to Solitude with the money and armor he's got.
“T-Thank you, friend. I will.”
“Name's uh...uh. Name's..”
“Don't worry. You'll remember.” The charming stranger smiled, defeated yet interested in making a friend- any friend. He'd always been that way. “Have a drink with me?”
“Now I really like you”
The next day the musician entered Jorrvaskr with a little more gusto, and a lot more information. He'd spent a good portion of that night entertaining the blonde he learned to be named Torvar, and in turn being entertained by the way he blindly praised everyone that passed him, even for the littlest of reasons. But if he was true to his word, then the Companions would give him a thorough looking over.
And by Mara, hopefully everything Torvar spewed about their history in Whiterun was at least vaguely correct, or he'd be making a big fool of himself. Jorrvaskr smelled of ash and kindling, Nord and mead. It was definitely the prettiest building he'd seen so far, now that he alone walked in with more ambition to look about the place. He was stared at by unfriendly eyes, none he'd seen before. A pair of severe reds of a Dunmer, cold and nasty hazels from under a warmaiden's helm. “I'm interested in joining the Companions, I believe Torvar said to speak with a Kodlak?” “Pft, good luck shorty. Heard about you from Skjor.” She was quite charming, wasn't she? “We don't need any battle drummers, and I hate flute, so-”
“Yes, yes, of course. Anyway, Kodlak? Is he here, or not?” He snapped back, glaring down the bitter warmaiden. Technically, she couldn't kick him out, but oh divines did she want to. It was enough having a snappy, overbearingly prideful Dunmer around.
Re: Muses and Mead 3 (Vilkas M/M)
The farmer didn't get up, he just lay there staring at the vaulted ceiling, blood rushing to his ears in embarassment. The Bosmer tisked and cussed softly to himself, hurriedly opening his bandolier and shifting around the contents. “Oh, simply wonderful.” He said, quite suddenly miserable and holding up what looked like pieces of an earthenware pipe. Hulda apologized profusely, inspecting the damage to the foreigner's cheek from afar. “This was my favorite fife, had it fashioned and glazed by an old friend of mine outside Corinth..” He was heartbroken inside, shaking his head and ignorant to the sounds of praise from around the Inn of his victory. Suddenly a bloated coinpurse was laid out before him, “Here, I know it can't replace your flute, but this is for your trouble. I've been trying to get that man knocked sober for quite a while now. It's two hundred septims, and again I'm so sorry.”
Hulda couldn't help but smile sadly for him, she'd seen strangers come and go but this poor mer had a tougher time than most. He was quite handsome too, a pity a large bruise started forming along his cheek. “You know, you should join the companions. I hear they're looking for new recruits. With skills like yours, I'm sure you'd impress someone.”
“Ah, You see, I've already given them a visit. To be honest I just wandered in without even knowing it was home to a league of warriors. They told me off, but I guess that's what I deserve for being clueless.”
“Well, you have me vouching for you!” Another drunken voice sounded from behind him, this one far more jovial than the last. He turned and brushed two beaded lanyards away from his cheek, seeing an imposingly tall and bearded blonde gesturing towards him, mug in hand. “That was quite a kick, never seen anything like that.” By the nine, he was quite friendly. “And” he burped, it reaked-”Don't you listen to what noooobody says in Jorrvaskr until old Kodlak had a look at you.”
“Kodlak. Balding, missing an eye?” Apparently not, maybe he could earn a meager living in this town once more. The musician was still quite sore over being repeatedly belittled for his race, and he was grouchy enough to test his mettle against those who questioned him.
“Nah, thats Skjor. He don't like nobody. Hey hey, tomorrow you should come back. I'll tell em you got lot of spunk.” Whether the drunk was just hitting on him or being honest to his word he'd have to find out tomorrow. There was no getting to Solitude with the money and armor he's got.
“T-Thank you, friend. I will.”
“Name's uh...uh. Name's..”
“Don't worry. You'll remember.” The charming stranger smiled, defeated yet interested in making a friend- any friend. He'd always been that way. “Have a drink with me?”
“Now I really like you”
The next day the musician entered Jorrvaskr with a little more gusto, and a lot more information. He'd spent a good portion of that night entertaining the blonde he learned to be named Torvar, and in turn being entertained by the way he blindly praised everyone that passed him, even for the littlest of reasons. But if he was true to his word, then the Companions would give him a thorough looking over.
And by Mara, hopefully everything Torvar spewed about their history in Whiterun was at least vaguely correct, or he'd be making a big fool of himself. Jorrvaskr smelled of ash and kindling, Nord and mead. It was definitely the prettiest building he'd seen so far, now that he alone walked in with more ambition to look about the place. He was stared at by unfriendly eyes, none he'd seen before. A pair of severe reds of a Dunmer, cold and nasty hazels from under a warmaiden's helm.
“I'm interested in joining the Companions, I believe Torvar said to speak with a Kodlak?”
“Pft, good luck shorty. Heard about you from Skjor.” She was quite charming, wasn't she? “We don't need any battle drummers, and I hate flute, so-”
“Yes, yes, of course. Anyway, Kodlak? Is he here, or not?” He snapped back, glaring down the bitter warmaiden. Technically, she couldn't kick him out, but oh divines did she want to. It was enough having a snappy, overbearingly prideful Dunmer around.