This is an old prompt and has already had two fills and one of them was a Dyce!fill (lucky us) but it wouldn’t give me peace until I’d written it all down. First fill of the Meme so please tell me if I’ve posted in the wrong place and I’ll sort it out. Enjoy!
Summary: Sometimes the game’s more fun than the prize.
The biggest problem, Enthir mused, with being the guy who could find those hard to get items wasn’t the danger or the people he had to deal with or even the constant squirreling away of a little something or two as protection against the day when it would all go spectacularly pear-shaped. It was the damn hours he had to keep. It wasn’t like he could set up shop and sit on his arse from dawn to dusk in Winterhold where most of the population would happily tip him into a crevasse. And he certainly couldn’t be completely open within the college, not under the eye of the archmage and his “advisor”. So he’d learned to keep an ear open at all times, get by on about six hours sleep a night and put up with the damned interruptions.
Mainly, these were the usual apprentice mages, desperate for some ingredient or another that was absolutely necessary to their research and they had to have it right this minute and to Oblivion with his need for sleep. Not that he cared that much; desperation was a costly position and they never complained about his fees.
This was different however. He’d been leaving the Frozen Hearth after a well deserved evening of drink, dice and needling Nelacar with scraps of tales and gossip from the College, when he’d seen the bundled figure lead a tired nag into one of the ruined buildings. Ah, so she was back. And not bad timing either. That Nord boy, Onmund, was wearing his patience thin with his begging and pleading. A man should learn to cut his losses in this life and move on to the next opportunity. Obviously this wasn’t a lesson that the Nords took to heart. If they did then maybe this miserable ice-patch in the arse end of Tamriel would be in better straights. No matter. Enthir couldn’t give a cracked Septim about politics unless it brought along a few hundred of its healthier friends to convince him.
He’d had time to get back to his room, stash his snow-covered hood and boots, find a book, a bottle of decent wine and settle himself on his bed before he heard the knock on the door. “Who is it?”
“You know full well who it is, Enthir.” came the voice.
“Come in, it’s not locked.”
The door opened and she pushed through, closing it and leaning back against the rough boards. She let a heavy pack slide from her right shoulder but in her left hand she held a long, wrapped bundle. Unlike the other mages of the College, this Dunmer woman wore robes only when engaged in classes in the Hall of Elements or while studying in the Arcaneum. When Hedvani set out for whatever errand seemed important enough to make her disappear for days or weeks on end, she went armed and armoured in leather and moonstone.
He judged that she’d come to him just after she’d arrived. She’d given herself enough time to change from her war gear and wore a linen shirt, warm but thin enough to show the line of her body, and soft leathers that clung to her long legs. A belt with scabbard and dagger, and a mage’s ever-present pouches were at her waist. She’d washed the dirt of the road from her hands and face but her dark hair was damp and the braids that pulled it out of her eyes seemed still frozen. Enthir had always found it hard to read the grim countenances of Dunmer with their ashen skin and their house markings but even he could see the lines of weariness etched around her eyes and the hard, straight line of her mouth. There was a cut too. No more than a few days old and starting to scar at the right side of her lips. The kind of thing, he remembered, that potions and restoration magic found difficult to remove due to the constant movement of the muscles. Or so he thought he remembered from the last time he overheard Collette haranguing a group of apprentices.
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timeasmymeasure
Enthir/F! DunmerDB "Negotiations" 1
Date: 2012-11-18 10:55 pm (UTC)Summary: Sometimes the game’s more fun than the prize.
The biggest problem, Enthir mused, with being the guy who could find those hard to get items wasn’t the danger or the people he had to deal with or even the constant squirreling away of a little something or two as protection against the day when it would all go spectacularly pear-shaped. It was the damn hours he had to keep. It wasn’t like he could set up shop and sit on his arse from dawn to dusk in Winterhold where most of the population would happily tip him into a crevasse. And he certainly couldn’t be completely open within the college, not under the eye of the archmage and his “advisor”. So he’d learned to keep an ear open at all times, get by on about six hours sleep a night and put up with the damned interruptions.
Mainly, these were the usual apprentice mages, desperate for some ingredient or another that was absolutely necessary to their research and they had to have it right this minute and to Oblivion with his need for sleep. Not that he cared that much; desperation was a costly position and they never complained about his fees.
This was different however. He’d been leaving the Frozen Hearth after a well deserved evening of drink, dice and needling Nelacar with scraps of tales and gossip from the College, when he’d seen the bundled figure lead a tired nag into one of the ruined buildings. Ah, so she was back. And not bad timing either. That Nord boy, Onmund, was wearing his patience thin with his begging and pleading. A man should learn to cut his losses in this life and move on to the next opportunity. Obviously this wasn’t a lesson that the Nords took to heart. If they did then maybe this miserable ice-patch in the arse end of Tamriel would be in better straights. No matter. Enthir couldn’t give a cracked Septim about politics unless it brought along a few hundred of its healthier friends to convince him.
He’d had time to get back to his room, stash his snow-covered hood and boots, find a book, a bottle of decent wine and settle himself on his bed before he heard the knock on the door. “Who is it?”
“You know full well who it is, Enthir.” came the voice.
“Come in, it’s not locked.”
The door opened and she pushed through, closing it and leaning back against the rough boards. She let a heavy pack slide from her right shoulder but in her left hand she held a long, wrapped bundle. Unlike the other mages of the College, this Dunmer woman wore robes only when engaged in classes in the Hall of Elements or while studying in the Arcaneum. When Hedvani set out for whatever errand seemed important enough to make her disappear for days or weeks on end, she went armed and armoured in leather and moonstone.
He judged that she’d come to him just after she’d arrived. She’d given herself enough time to change from her war gear and wore a linen shirt, warm but thin enough to show the line of her body, and soft leathers that clung to her long legs. A belt with scabbard and dagger, and a mage’s ever-present pouches were at her waist. She’d washed the dirt of the road from her hands and face but her dark hair was damp and the braids that pulled it out of her eyes seemed still frozen. Enthir had always found it hard to read the grim countenances of Dunmer with their ashen skin and their house markings but even he could see the lines of weariness etched around her eyes and the hard, straight line of her mouth. There was a cut too. No more than a few days old and starting to scar at the right side of her lips. The kind of thing, he remembered, that potions and restoration magic found difficult to remove due to the constant movement of the muscles. Or so he thought he remembered from the last time he overheard Collette haranguing a group of apprentices.