“We all need a bath,” the priest replies. “And a hot meal. And if there's enough hot water, to wash our clothes as well. It's been a long time since we were last at home.” He runs a hand through his thick hair, and sways in exhaustion. “How much?”
Normally you'd charge 10 septims per bed, but there's the matter of the Imperial Legionary and what your few regulars will say about him, as well as the risk of the Dark Brotherhood... “50 gold for the room. 10 each for the bath.” You're making these numbers up as you go. “I can do you a nice stew for 7 gold apiece.”
“Fine,” says the priest, closing his eyes for a moment. His face is lined with fatigue, making him look older than he really is. “Lydia, pay the man. I... I need to rest.” He stumbles through to the bedroom, pulls his boots off, and falls onto the larger of the two beds, asleep before his head even hits the pillow. No one comments on this.
You go down to the basement where you keep your furnace, grumbling to yourself. You need to bring in enough washing water for five adults, two of them huge – how many trips outside will that take? Suddenly the light is blocked as the two enormous brothers stomp down the stairs.
“Where do you get your washwater?” asks the one who was speaking before. You wonder if the other is mute.
“In summer, from the lake. But in winter, the snow outside is good enough.”
“Aye. Buckets?”
You show him the slop pails that get repurposed for anything... well, everything except the privy. He nods, and they both pick up a couple of buckets. “C'mon, Icebrain.” He heads back up the stairs, his brother lumbering after him.
About an hour later, the tank of water is steaming nicely, and one brother is soaking in the bath while the other scrubs at his armour. You're busy chopping up vegetables and a little meat for tonight's stew. There's nothing but a small screen between your kitchen and the washing area, and it can barely hide the two large men behind it. You're still curious about their group. For what reason is a priest travelling with four armed bodyguards?
You realise that you've blurted your question out loud when the brother who talks looks up and tells you “We're ridding Skyrim of dragons.” There's no uncertainty in his voice. This man has faced a dragon and lived.
“What, only the five of you?” The question slips out, and you realise belatedly that you don't want to anger either of these men. Neither is armoured right now, nor armed with any weapon other than his own two fists; but you're very aware that any one of those fists could mash you flat.
But the big man grins. “My brother and I are Companions. We are worth about a dozen soldiers each. Lydia is a housecarl, trained in the service of Jarl Balgruuf and awarded to his Thane in recognition of the great deeds he did for Whiterun. And Hadvar is a Prefect in the Imperial Legion, or some other such silly name. I don't remember their ranks.”
Of course you've heard of the Companions of Ysgramor. So has any Nord. And you've heard the Stormcloak generals bemoaning the fact that the Companions won't take a side in the war, because they 'don't deal in politics'. The Imperial Legion rank means as little to you as it does to the big Companion, but you do know what a Thane is. One of these men is a Thane of Whiterun?
“And that priest? Is he... your healer?” You can't think of any other reason why a man in cheap robes should be with a team of proficient dragon slayers.
Both of the brothers burst out laughing, filling the low-ceilinged room with deep rumbling. “Aye, lad,” says the talkative Companion. “Our healer, and our leader. That priest, as you call him, is the Dragonborn.”
“What?” You're sure they're joking with you, and your cheeks heat uncomfortably. It's not your fault that you were never any good at fighting, and chose to take over your father's inn rather than joining Ulfric's army. “The Dragonborn is an Imperial?”
“Aye. They say the Septim emperors had the Dragon Blood, and even they were Imperial by the end.”
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timeasmymeasure
What the Innkeeper Saw - 2/7
Date: 2013-09-26 11:33 pm (UTC)Normally you'd charge 10 septims per bed, but there's the matter of the Imperial Legionary and what your few regulars will say about him, as well as the risk of the Dark Brotherhood... “50 gold for the room. 10 each for the bath.” You're making these numbers up as you go. “I can do you a nice stew for 7 gold apiece.”
“Fine,” says the priest, closing his eyes for a moment. His face is lined with fatigue, making him look older than he really is. “Lydia, pay the man. I... I need to rest.” He stumbles through to the bedroom, pulls his boots off, and falls onto the larger of the two beds, asleep before his head even hits the pillow. No one comments on this.
You go down to the basement where you keep your furnace, grumbling to yourself. You need to bring in enough washing water for five adults, two of them huge – how many trips outside will that take? Suddenly the light is blocked as the two enormous brothers stomp down the stairs.
“Where do you get your washwater?” asks the one who was speaking before. You wonder if the other is mute.
“In summer, from the lake. But in winter, the snow outside is good enough.”
“Aye. Buckets?”
You show him the slop pails that get repurposed for anything... well, everything except the privy. He nods, and they both pick up a couple of buckets. “C'mon, Icebrain.” He heads back up the stairs, his brother lumbering after him.
About an hour later, the tank of water is steaming nicely, and one brother is soaking in the bath while the other scrubs at his armour. You're busy chopping up vegetables and a little meat for tonight's stew. There's nothing but a small screen between your kitchen and the washing area, and it can barely hide the two large men behind it. You're still curious about their group. For what reason is a priest travelling with four armed bodyguards?
You realise that you've blurted your question out loud when the brother who talks looks up and tells you “We're ridding Skyrim of dragons.” There's no uncertainty in his voice. This man has faced a dragon and lived.
“What, only the five of you?” The question slips out, and you realise belatedly that you don't want to anger either of these men. Neither is armoured right now, nor armed with any weapon other than his own two fists; but you're very aware that any one of those fists could mash you flat.
But the big man grins. “My brother and I are Companions. We are worth about a dozen soldiers each. Lydia is a housecarl, trained in the service of Jarl Balgruuf and awarded to his Thane in recognition of the great deeds he did for Whiterun. And Hadvar is a Prefect in the Imperial Legion, or some other such silly name. I don't remember their ranks.”
Of course you've heard of the Companions of Ysgramor. So has any Nord. And you've heard the Stormcloak generals bemoaning the fact that the Companions won't take a side in the war, because they 'don't deal in politics'. The Imperial Legion rank means as little to you as it does to the big Companion, but you do know what a Thane is. One of these men is a Thane of Whiterun?
“And that priest? Is he... your healer?” You can't think of any other reason why a man in cheap robes should be with a team of proficient dragon slayers.
Both of the brothers burst out laughing, filling the low-ceilinged room with deep rumbling. “Aye, lad,” says the talkative Companion. “Our healer, and our leader. That priest, as you call him, is the Dragonborn.”
“What?” You're sure they're joking with you, and your cheeks heat uncomfortably. It's not your fault that you were never any good at fighting, and chose to take over your father's inn rather than joining Ulfric's army. “The Dragonborn is an Imperial?”
“Aye. They say the Septim emperors had the Dragon Blood, and even they were Imperial by the end.”