Drahkma
Dashing Imperial Officer.
Devorin Halstead was liking Skyrim less the more he stayed in the former province. It had been five years since the leader of the rebel stormcloaks had been killed by whom, the dunmer knight wasn't sure. Some said it was his own followers that had turned on him. Others, that the empire had sent assassins, a spiteful last strike against the victorious nords. Devorin had even heard a few tales that an entirely unaligned third party had been hired to remove him from the throne. He wasn't sure which of these stories were the truth and he didn't much care. He had come to Skyrim because one of their jarls had sent out couriers calling for aid. The knight didn't know much of nords, but he did know they were incredibly stubborn. Or could be, at any rate.
Since he'd arrived, he hadn't been treated poorly, as he had heard some dunmer were in holds that were once loyal to the rebels. He hadn't exactly been welcomed with open arms, either. The nords weren't overly happy with outsiders making their way across the border, it seemed. But the work was good and most jarls were willing to pay well for the service of a dunmer knight who knew how to handle himself. Though the weather did tend to dampen his enthusiasm somewhat. Blistering cold and pouring rain with icy winds that cut flesh better than the keenest blade seemed to make up most of Skyrims' climate. It was...unpleasant, to say the least.
That was more than a little bit of an understatement, Devorin mused as he strode along the cobbled road, the cloak he wore plastered to his back as rain poured from the sky in a relentless deluge. Wishing he'd thought to bring his horse rather than go by boat to Solitude, the knight stomped through mud and puddles where the road was less maintained. It was hard to discern the time; the clouds were low hanging and dark and he had been walking for a while. The terrain of Falkreath hold did not vary greatly. Tall pine trees, the occasional ruin, and swift running streams.
The walled city came into view, the faint light of guttering braziers and a lit guardhouse gave him the strength to press on. Well, that and the promise of a stiff drink and warm fire to rest by. He certainly hoped Sidgeir did not expect whatever mercenary band he'd hired to traipse all over the woods looking for bandits in the pouring rain. Approaching the guard house, he was less than pleased to see no one on guard. "Sloppy" he growled, before peering inside to see a trio of nords sitting around, drinking and talking like old friends. "Hey!" The knight snapped, "what's an elf got to do around here to get a good drink?" He noted that only two of the nords appeared to be guardsmen. The third wore the armour of a sellsword or perhaps some hapless adventurer. Though he certainly looked like he could handle himself.
Since he'd arrived, he hadn't been treated poorly, as he had heard some dunmer were in holds that were once loyal to the rebels. He hadn't exactly been welcomed with open arms, either. The nords weren't overly happy with outsiders making their way across the border, it seemed. But the work was good and most jarls were willing to pay well for the service of a dunmer knight who knew how to handle himself. Though the weather did tend to dampen his enthusiasm somewhat. Blistering cold and pouring rain with icy winds that cut flesh better than the keenest blade seemed to make up most of Skyrims' climate. It was...unpleasant, to say the least.
That was more than a little bit of an understatement, Devorin mused as he strode along the cobbled road, the cloak he wore plastered to his back as rain poured from the sky in a relentless deluge. Wishing he'd thought to bring his horse rather than go by boat to Solitude, the knight stomped through mud and puddles where the road was less maintained. It was hard to discern the time; the clouds were low hanging and dark and he had been walking for a while. The terrain of Falkreath hold did not vary greatly. Tall pine trees, the occasional ruin, and swift running streams.
The walled city came into view, the faint light of guttering braziers and a lit guardhouse gave him the strength to press on. Well, that and the promise of a stiff drink and warm fire to rest by. He certainly hoped Sidgeir did not expect whatever mercenary band he'd hired to traipse all over the woods looking for bandits in the pouring rain. Approaching the guard house, he was less than pleased to see no one on guard. "Sloppy" he growled, before peering inside to see a trio of nords sitting around, drinking and talking like old friends. "Hey!" The knight snapped, "what's an elf got to do around here to get a good drink?" He noted that only two of the nords appeared to be guardsmen. The third wore the armour of a sellsword or perhaps some hapless adventurer. Though he certainly looked like he could handle himself.