Have a story loosely inspired by your prompt, which I have only been working on since June! (Life keeps getting in the way)
You're polishing some glasses when a party of travellers walk into your inn. You know they're adventurers of some sort because of their armour – and the stench. They smell as though they've been living in that armour for several weeks. There's blood splashed around them, thankfully darker than that of any human.
Four of them are Nords. Two large, well-muscled men in warpaint, so similar in appearance that they can only be close kin. A woman, not unattractive, but with a determined expression that suggests she's experienced in battle. The fourth is... You hiss in disgust as you realise he's wearing the hated leather uniform of the Imperial Legion.
“You're not welcome here, Imperial. This is Stormcloak territory.” You'd spit, only you don't want to dirty the floor that you've just cleaned.
You expect the Nord traitor to respond, but instead the fifth member of the group pushes his way forward. You hadn't been able to see him before, behind his hulking companions. An Imperial, clad in the simple robes of a priest; his bright blue eyes startling against his brown skin. When you said “Imperial”, you'd meant political allegiance rather than race. Though you suppose that most men from Cyrodiil are likely pro-Empire.
“We're only looking for a place to lay our heads, and get something to eat,” he says, softly, his accent telling you that he's not been in Skyrim long. “We don't want to make trouble for you. Jarl Ulfric knows of our mission, and his men will not attack us. But if you'd rather we left, we could camp out for another night.”
His voice is gentle, consoling. You look at the five of them and calculate how much gold they'll be spending. Those enormous brothers must be good for at least ten bottles of mead between them. It's been a harsh winter with the Civil War going on, and so few travellers on the roads.
You don't want to let a Legionary into your inn, but you do need the money. “You've spoken to Ulfric Stormcloak?” It surprises you that the Jarl might have agreed to meet this motley band of vagabonds.
“Yes. We've met a couple of times.” The priest offers no further explanation, making you curious. You understand adventurers and sellswords well enough, but why is a priest with them? Especially a priest of Akatosh, rather than Talos – you recognise the amulet around his neck. And how do they know Jarl Ulfric?
“He knows you're travelling with a Legionary?” you ask.
“Hadvar, show him your Writ of Passage.”
The Legionary reaches into his bag and pulls something out. You tense, expecting a weapon for some reason, but he simply unrolls a sheet of paper and hands it to you. You're not the most literate man in the world, but the letter is easy to read. You recognise the simple, blocky print of the Jarl's Steward, Jorleif, from the war reports that get delivered to the village every so often. As for the signature...
You sigh. “What do you need?”
The priest seems about to speak, but one of the brothers shoulders his way forward. “Do you have a room big enough for all of us to sleep in together?” he asks, urgently.
What? Taken aback, you stutter, “Uh... The largest room in this inn has two beds.” The door's open to keep the room aired, and you gesture to your left, showing it to them. A double bed and a single, a wardrobe, table, and a couple of chairs. Your other rooms are tiny, just enough space for a single bed and a chest for possessions.
The big man looks angry, but the woman lays her hand on his forearm. “This'll do, Vilkas. Three of us can sleep while the other two guard, like usual. It's fine.”
He shakes his head in irritation, but concedes her point. Though you feel a little alarmed. What sort of trouble are they bringing to your inn? “Guard?” you ask. “What from?”
The big man shrugs. “Assassins? Fools? Lately it seems that the Dark Brotherhood has nothing better to do than send its whelps after us.” He shakes his shaggy head, and scowls. “I need to wash somewhere that isn't a river. And clean my armour. It stinks.”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
What the Innkeeper Saw - 1/7
Date: 2013-09-26 11:31 pm (UTC)You're polishing some glasses when a party of travellers walk into your inn. You know they're adventurers of some sort because of their armour – and the stench. They smell as though they've been living in that armour for several weeks. There's blood splashed around them, thankfully darker than that of any human.
Four of them are Nords. Two large, well-muscled men in warpaint, so similar in appearance that they can only be close kin. A woman, not unattractive, but with a determined expression that suggests she's experienced in battle. The fourth is... You hiss in disgust as you realise he's wearing the hated leather uniform of the Imperial Legion.
“You're not welcome here, Imperial. This is Stormcloak territory.” You'd spit, only you don't want to dirty the floor that you've just cleaned.
You expect the Nord traitor to respond, but instead the fifth member of the group pushes his way forward. You hadn't been able to see him before, behind his hulking companions. An Imperial, clad in the simple robes of a priest; his bright blue eyes startling against his brown skin. When you said “Imperial”, you'd meant political allegiance rather than race. Though you suppose that most men from Cyrodiil are likely pro-Empire.
“We're only looking for a place to lay our heads, and get something to eat,” he says, softly, his accent telling you that he's not been in Skyrim long. “We don't want to make trouble for you. Jarl Ulfric knows of our mission, and his men will not attack us. But if you'd rather we left, we could camp out for another night.”
His voice is gentle, consoling. You look at the five of them and calculate how much gold they'll be spending. Those enormous brothers must be good for at least ten bottles of mead between them. It's been a harsh winter with the Civil War going on, and so few travellers on the roads.
You don't want to let a Legionary into your inn, but you do need the money. “You've spoken to Ulfric Stormcloak?” It surprises you that the Jarl might have agreed to meet this motley band of vagabonds.
“Yes. We've met a couple of times.” The priest offers no further explanation, making you curious. You understand adventurers and sellswords well enough, but why is a priest with them? Especially a priest of Akatosh, rather than Talos – you recognise the amulet around his neck. And how do they know Jarl Ulfric?
“He knows you're travelling with a Legionary?” you ask.
“Hadvar, show him your Writ of Passage.”
The Legionary reaches into his bag and pulls something out. You tense, expecting a weapon for some reason, but he simply unrolls a sheet of paper and hands it to you. You're not the most literate man in the world, but the letter is easy to read. You recognise the simple, blocky print of the Jarl's Steward, Jorleif, from the war reports that get delivered to the village every so often. As for the signature...
You sigh. “What do you need?”
The priest seems about to speak, but one of the brothers shoulders his way forward. “Do you have a room big enough for all of us to sleep in together?” he asks, urgently.
What? Taken aback, you stutter, “Uh... The largest room in this inn has two beds.” The door's open to keep the room aired, and you gesture to your left, showing it to them. A double bed and a single, a wardrobe, table, and a couple of chairs. Your other rooms are tiny, just enough space for a single bed and a chest for possessions.
The big man looks angry, but the woman lays her hand on his forearm. “This'll do, Vilkas. Three of us can sleep while the other two guard, like usual. It's fine.”
He shakes his head in irritation, but concedes her point. Though you feel a little alarmed. What sort of trouble are they bringing to your inn? “Guard?” you ask. “What from?”
The big man shrugs. “Assassins? Fools? Lately it seems that the Dark Brotherhood has nothing better to do than send its whelps after us.” He shakes his shaggy head, and scowls. “I need to wash somewhere that isn't a river. And clean my armour. It stinks.”