18+ The Plain Gate

Elated with his attempt at camaraderie, Orvar took the bottle back from Baroth. The other Nord (Orvar assumed he was a Nord, though he couldn't quite place it exactly. Some physical features seemed Nordic on him, others not so much) responded favorably to the brew. Khamundar, however, was unaccustomed; not all too surprising, given her upbringing. Warmth blossomed in the shorter Nord's stomach, loosening all knots within.

"There's an old wives' tale that claims that too much mead causes rotgut," Orvar said, a slight heir of disgust issuing in his voice. "I don't believe it for a second." He then turned to Jorlin, his makeshift patient. "You want a sip, kinsman? You look like you need it."

"Please," Jorlin replied, coughing and spluttering in the process. "It'll moisten my throat at least; haven't even had time to sip from waterskin."

Orvar turned back to Baroth while the crippled guard nursed the remainder of the bottle. "I'm going to assume this is the part where we all trade life stories. I know the signs. I'm a traveler, I've met many kinds of folk. So... who wants to go first?" He shot a cheeky grin at the larger Nord and Khajiit.

Baroth couldn't help but chuckle at the kinsman's suggestion, though he did key the thought for a moment. He realized he'd never told anyone his story. Not one person he'd crossed. Then he remembered why.

They'd think he was plum out insane or just needy.

'Immortal? Ha! The only thing 'round here that has eternal life is the dirt under a giant's toenails.'

Yea, he'd get an earful on that farce. Baroth had come to terms with his past, and he had no intentions of rehashing it. Even with good friends. Chorrol nearly burnt him at the stake, last time he tried revealing his 'condition'. The words still rang in his head, how the crowd titled him. Labeled him in rage and fear.

Nightspawn. Demon. Monster.

Baroth rattled the unsavory memory away and looked at the Khajit.

Elsweyr was a strange province, divided geographically and culturally. It had it's perks, namely their lucrative mercantile business and strong cultural tribes. Lots to see and experience in both those areas, if a straggler didn't pat you down for a drop of skooma. A pity, but luckily not all Khajit, or people for that matter, developed the same addictions.

Though, everyone had one.

He nodded to Khamundar. "How about you?" He held up hand, invisibly dismissing any offense that may have been had. "Not to throw you under the carriage, and no offense, but Elsweyr is a long walk from here. I know you've gotta have more than a few stories for us, eh? Unless, of course, you were born here.." He shrugged. "Anything's possible. Especially nowadays."

"Not where Khajiit are concerned," Khamundar corrected. The quip was peculiar but Baroth steeled his 'mask' and maintained eye contact. "Foreign lands always interest people." Mostly those with severe cabin fever or a moronic amount of wonder. Foreigners attract foreigners, in most cases. "Khamundar was raised in the southmost jungles. Nirni's canopies are the only things that compete with the sun. What does this one want to know?"

Baroth perked a brow and rolled off a shrug.

"There's a lot of directions to go from Elsweyr. Why'd you punch-out North into Skyrim? No offense to my kinsmen, but we don't exactly have a lot of glamour laying about." Not to mention Skyrim had a none-too-beneficial history concerning foreigners and often scorned those who passed its borders. Granted, at one point, they were overzealous, but it was foreigners nonetheless that gave cause to their deep mistrust of 'farlanders' and ignorant thirst for conquest.

Not to say Baroth despised foreigners; he'd lived long enough to get a taste of everyone's culture and he had to admit, he liked diversity. It gave him his own thirst, one for adventure and travel, to see the world. A thirst he was far from quenching but wasn't in any rush to do so.

But he couldn't deny that some old wounds just never healed.

Baroth was fiercely loyal and protective to his brothers, in arms, drink, and song; he owed them that much. But even family had to kick each other in the ass some times and scold each other for their mistakes. Often times, they did. It was custom. And here the rumors and gossip thought the North was more civilized.

To Baroth, it was just a nine-letter word.

"Adventure, curiosity - restlessness. Khamundar has heard of the living dead in burial crypts here." Baroth caught the expression of unease, however brief, and thinned his lips as the Khajit went on.

He was on the fence concerning the living dead, being they were his undead brethren trying to kill him and all, but what he disliked more was those who provoked and slaughtered them needlessly. While he doubted the Khajit was here to do such things, he was sensitive about the subject. Luckily she didn't linger on it.

"Skyrim was not this one's first choice. This one was not fond of the competition she found in Cyrodiil."

Baroth nodded with agreement. Imperials had a tendency of taking too much pride in their customs.

"Efficient as the Imperials may be at warfare, they tend to subtly challenge outsiders unnecessarily. Skyrim's treated you fairly, then? You're not dead and you're still here, so I'd assume so."

Khajiit in northern Elsweyr bury their dead in the sands and top it off with stones and the deceased's favored weapons. The sand keeps them preserved, which necromancers (foreigners at cities where tourists are welcome) love. I've never thought about how the dead are dealt with in the southern jungled cities - not by burning and not with graves, that's for certain. Ugh, lore bald patches!

Nocte, do you want to pop in or is Orvar just listening to the conversation?
Khamundar was on the verge of correcting Baroth, that the Imperials were few and far between, that their Altmer allies were in a greater force than the natives were, searching for something in the ruins. But she realized that there was no need to. However friendly, these Nords might take offense to the movement of their enemies. So she kept that information to herself and responded to Baroth's question instead.
"This one was not prepared for the weather when she arrived," she replied, remembering how she had sneaked through the unguarded gate in the cold and misty rain. "Skyrim has been a fair host this far, considering the circumstances." The same circumstances that had brought her here to Whiterun.

(OOC: As of right now, he's just listening in. Also, I should note that as of next Sunday evening [August 2] through the following Monday [August 10], I will be out of the country and therefore unable to RP through then. My plan is to have Orvar depart the thread briefly - I'll figure out some device for him to do so later, probably a side job or something. I just don't want you two waiting up for me for an entire week. Let the thread move without me and I'll come back in when I return. Unrelated note, mah burffday is the day after I come back!)

Orvar listened to both speakers, spinning a few choice words that had been uttered within the loon that was his mind. Weather. Prepared. Circumstances. So on and so forth.

"The word 'fairness' and 'Skyrim' aren't often found within the same sentence," the stout Nord chortled finally. "How long have you been here, Khamundar?"

Happy early birthday! Do what you think is best with Orvar before you leave. I'm not worried. Chances are I won't do too much regarding the thread. Starting a few days before the end of August, I'll be away preparing for the move to college. After that, I'll be busy for a while. I'm sorry but I just don't know what will happen then. I might be busier earlier than I thought, too. I'll try to keep you updated as to not disappoint.
"Several weeks," Khamundar informed after a brief consideration. "This one did not keep track." Before this ambush the guards had spoken of, she wanted to say, reminded of something. She looked at Jorlin. "How did this one hear about the border ambush?" she asked him.

(OOC: Holy plot progression, Batman. I did not except this reply to take such a turn, but it was a thrill to write all the same.)

Jorlin stirred feebly. "We weren't given much insight... we were simply ordered to be there. It's how a lot of our orders go, actually... defend first, ask questions later. Not even the Jarl or his steward can explain it." He paused to cough briefly, though he spoke with far more impressive claret than before. "I didn't go, as you know. I was ordered to stay here and defend the city."

Must be the mead, Orvar thought to himself whimsically.

"It's that bastard Ulfric Stormcloak's fault!" Jorlin exclaimed abruptly, causing Orvar to jolt out of his inner consciousness. "There are rumors floating around about that filthy usurper. He started this pointless civil war by murdering High King Torygg in cold blood. He's no Dragonborn - that is, an individual born with the blood and soul of the dragon - but he trained extensively in order to emulate the power of the Dragonborn. He is one of the few ordinary beings who have learned the Thu'um. It's often implied that Ulfric murdered Torygg with the Thu'um alone... Anyway, the border ambush, according to Irileth, the housecarl of Whiterun's own Jarl Balgruuf, would have been a critical point in the war, and the campaign at Helgen would have seen Ulfric executed. I was told that he was bound and gagged, unable to even shout himself free. We had won... until..."

Orvar raised an eyebrow as Jorlin's voice began to crackle once again, this time out of fear rather than fatigue.

"...Reports are... well, spotty. But... word is... a dragon attacked, right as Ulfric had his head on the block. An actual live dragon, just as Nordic tradition portrays them... By the gods, we were so close... but instead, Helgen was destroyed, all civilians either displaced from their homes or burned to a crisp. Ulfric got away, of course, but... a dragon. I can't believe it..."

While Jorlin had been prattling on about the current status of the war to Khamundar in particular, Orvar's heart had begun to pound in a rapid crescendo. But the word "dragon" bore ill, for reasons far more dire than the others would be aware. His fist-sized circulatory pump had now skipped a beat, and for the first time since convening with these so-called "newcomers", he spoke with a modicum of resignation.

"Any sane man would consider that entire claim hogwash even if they were drunk, Jorlin," he began coldly. "But..." He suddenly dropped his voice down several notches, to which it was barely above a murmur. "I'm not bullplopsting you when I say this, and you all best listen, because I'm only going to say it once. It's your choice whether or not I'm worth believing. I might be just a mercenary, but even I have my convictions."

Orvar took a deep breath, then spoke again. "This dragon you speak of, Jorlin. I may have seen it earlier, thankfully at a far distance. But it rose from the south, black as the darkest and coldest nights of Evening Star. Swear on Talos, I wasn't drunk at the time, and nor was I delusional. I saw a dragon, and I tried not to make a big deal out of it. I didn't want to incite panic. I just wanted to finish my job and take the payment that was owed to me. But it looks like the secret is out, isn't it?"

He sighed deeply, his form reclining further backwards into the wooden chair. "Hopefully I'm not a madman to any of you, but I think our friend Jorlin is telling the truth."

Jorlin's face sunk in response to the Khajiit's inquiry. "I... gods, I don't even know anymore..." He began to cough violently, though luckily no blood issued from his lips.

"Let him rest, Khamundar, he's had quite the ordeal today. Keep in mind that Whiterun hasn't seen very much action recently," Orvar instructed, then returned his attention back to the disabled guard. "Payment's not necessary this time, Jorlin. But that reminds me, Lengeir still owes me for that cave bear job. You talked to him recently?"

Jorlin shook his head, drawing it even lower into the elk-skin fabric, as if the sheer weight of the words in his previous response caused such a thing. He yawned and closed his eyes, signifying that he wished to not be spoken to again for the time being. Orvar stifled a yawn as well; the desire of sleep could be transmissible to the fatigue-ridden body.

"..word is...a dragon attacked.."

Baroth snapped out of his in-mind trance at the words. It was a familiar shred of news he obtained a few days prior; a dragon burning down Helgen as Ulfric escaped captivity and prolonged the war. Sketchy reports and sighting of the beast left Baroth to reminisce. He immediately remembered the description and wiped clean the name. Alduin.

Paarthurnax wasn't kidding.. Baroth thought, chuckling grimly, albeit to himself.

Some say it's the end times, that Alduin had come to devour the world. Well, he might be disappointed. Others say it was Ulfric who summoned the dragon, under his control. It made sense, the dragon coming in the nick of time, Ulfric slipping through the Imperials' fingers once again. Slick bastard, heh..

Khamundar seemed tense as the discussion move towards why Ulfric and his posse were found in southern Skyrim, but Jorlin was spent and the subject flipped to Orvar collecting a debt. Mercenary?.. Baroth speculated, eyeing the fellow for a moment. He trailed his eyes back to Khamundar, and shrugged. Words at this point weren't his strong suit.

"Seems turmoil is abundant these days, eh? I can't remember a quiet day in this land.. Cyrodiil's competitive, but at least they're not at each other's throats. Not in public, anyways.." He finished with a murmur, followed by a rasp chuckle.

(OOC: Sorry for the prolonged post! I have a nondisplaced fractured toe and was taking my medicine for it. Pro tip: Don't take your dog's toy and run blindly into a doorway with it! Plus, i had a little bit of writers block, sorry! Hope it was up to par!)

You don't have any need to wory, fellow.
PS. Nurozoxi, you're welcome to jump in at any time.
Khamundar had the grace to look abashed. "This one apologizes. This one should rest, as Orvar Swift-Sole says." She turned towards Baloth as he commented on the current turmoil in Skyrim. Khamundar could not agree more. She had expected some questions headed her way about why she came to Skyrim during the civil war time; she had dreaded answering that, with the Altmeri scouts in Cyrodiil and small rebellions flaring and dying with the wind, even Skyrim was safer than the southern province - and Hammerfell would likely not accept foreigners at this time, especially any race allied with their Dominion enemies.

As it was, she was not sure how to respond to Baloth's comment. She did not feel guilty about lying to her new friends, but she did feel that it was important to share with someone the Dominion's activities. This one would make quite a spy. She was not sure about how these two, let alone the guards, felt about the sides of the civil war. She kept her mouth shut about it, stored about the mental note for another time, and looked at Orvar instead.

She wondered if Orvar needed help with the slow thief, thinking of speaking with the man and figuring out a way to solve the issue. It did not seem like it would be solved that easily, though. Instead she said "Should we relocate to the inn? And send a healer this way?" she added, glancing at the resting guards.

(OOC: I'll have Nuro respond after I post this.)

Orvar pondered Kha's words for a moment, his eyes still affixed to the sleeping form of Jorlin. "Might as well," he announced after a few moments. "Some lively interaction might do us some good. And I could really use another drink. So, without further ado-"

The door to the barracks suddenly flew open, the violent slam causing the Nord's heart to leap into his throat.

An Argonian leaped through the doorway, brandishing a steel sword in his right hand and a fireball raging in his left. His eyes were bloodshot, and he stumbled after landing, nearly falling over.

"Oooorvar!" he cried. "Orvar Swift-Soooole! I know you are here!"

The Argonian spun about, searching for the diminutive Nord, and continued to stumble.

The Argonian caught sight of Orvar, and lurched towards him, "I have come for you! You ruin me! Now I ruin you!" Attempting to take off the Nord's head, the Argonian swung at him, but lost his balance and tumbled to the floor, burying the sword into the floorboards, and sprawling himself out on the ground.

Orvar leaped out of his chair at once, disregarding any previous attention he might have given to anyone else in the room. But the lizard was on the ground; evidently having lost his balance trying to swing his sword. His eyes, veined and bloodshot, were bulging out of their orifices. The short-stacked Nord eyed the Argonian warily, his eyebrow furrowing more and more with each passing second.

"Who are you?" He called down quizzically.

Orvar's reflexes sprang into action at once. He withdrew one of his shortened Skyforge steel war axes and parried the swipe in one clean motion, then forced his body weight towards the ground in an effort to trap the Argonian's movement.

"You..." he began coolly. "The way you speak is familiar to me. Were you the jealous husband of that Argonian concubine? No, wait. You're definitely that shifty merchant from Stormhold. Wait! I got it!" He parried another lackluster swing from the intoxicated lizard. "You're that half-wit gatekeeper."

Between blows, Orvar ushered for Khamundar and Baroth to keep their distance, but also added in a curt nod to indicate that he could use some form of support if things got bloodier than he cared for. "Gather up the wounded and move them to another room. Looks like I've a score to settle," he directed to them with a disgusted face.

"I'm not even going to ask how you found me, wretch," Orvar spat, returning his attention to the Argonian whilst dancing around the room with him in battle-encroached melody. "But your chief was a barbaric menace, a threat to the citizens of that town nearby. He stole! He murdered women and killed their children! And I was paid a handsome sum to take care of it. So I made damn sure they saw his head swiped clean off, courtesy of my axe!"

He aimed a low sweeping kick at the Argonian's ankle, with the sole intention of knocking his already-buzzed opponent off-balance.

"All in a day's work for a former Companions member."

The kick connected, throwing the Argonian's leg out from under him, and he toppled with a heavy thud! and watched as his blade skittered away from his grasping fingers.

Rolling over, the Argonian planted his feet against Orvar's chest, and launched him into the far wall before clambering to his feet. "Chief was killer, yes, but friend too!" he cried, moving over to the fallen sword. "Gave Tsee-Keth home! And food! Would others? Would legendary Companions?! No! And little man rob him of this!"

Tsee-Keth steadied himself as he stood up, once again holding the blade. "Tsee-Keth swore to kill Orvar for the killing!" Grasping the blade with both hands, the Argonian charged while holding the sword like a lance, aiming to impale Orvar before he could rise.