18+ The Plain Gate

Orvar ducked the blade once more, raising his axe and poising himself to spring like a sabre cat in heat. He caught the end of the blade with his axe, effectively locking it into place. While doing so, he also warily gestured to Khamundar and Baroth (who had just then returned from moving the wounded), using over half of his muscle strength to gradually push Tsee-Keth backwards.

"I really don't want to commit a murder here, lizard," he warned. "I tried prison once. It didn't sit well with me. No mead, only stale bread and rancid water. Besides, nobody hired me to kill you. Had they done so, I'd have your drunk scaly ass down on the ground before you could say 'skeever'. I'm holding back; I've no wish to fight you."

He shoved Tsee-Keth back with all his might, in hopes of causing the not-so-nimble Argonian to stumble once more. He then called back to Khamundar and company. "Are you two just going to stand there gawking? Help me sedate this poor fool."

Khamundar had risen to her feet as she watched the confrontation. She watched the two men keenly, neck muscles pulling taunt. As Orvar spoke, her expression pulled into one of distaste. Her small form and acute eyes do not naturally give a threatening impression. Bloodshed had never bothered her before, although she had always spoken (not necessarily civilly) before resorting to that extreme. Had Orvar not recovered so quickly, her rogue nature would had forced her to act.

She told Orvar as much, approaching the Argonian man, cautious of the magic that he seemed capable of. She could fend off physical blows, but she had never fought a mage-type up close. She had an idea of crossing his arms so that he wouldn't be aiming any spells at her - ahem, them - but it would be better to simply knock him unconscious, except that her daggers were too lightweight to deal such a blow.

So she stepped up to the Argonian and grab his hands and cross them over his chest. "Khamundar would appreciate it if this one does not try to kill her," she informed him. "So stay still. Nobody is hurting anybody." At these close quarters, she caught a whiff of the alcohol in his breath, and turned her head to the side to avoid it.

Baroth watched as the situation unfolded, albeit still on alert with his sword drawn, and let Orvar humor the delusional (and not to mention heavily intoxicated) Argonian. He flailed his blade, the first attack, and lunged himself at Orvar, crying some mess about ruining him. Baroth's own reflexes prompted him to intervene, but a split-second observation told him he wouldn't have to, as Orvar produced one of two Skyforge Steel war axes and swatted the attempt aside.

Naturally, his instincts told him to step in and help settle the matter quickly and quietly, but he'd heard the exchange earlier. This was personal, on both sides it seemed, and that meant they'd need to hammer it out the old way. The lad was definitely impassionate about his chief's death, being a lookout was quite the responsibility, and Baroth could only imagine the shame he went through at the time.

He was drunk, heavily so, that explained his courage to confront Orvar here in the guard's barracks and among friends.

Despite the lad's tenacity on the subject, he had more than one option to handle the situation. Like, for example, knocking.

After helping Jorlin into the far back bedding quarters and tailing Khamundar back to the lounging room, Baroth once again stood uncertain of the duel unfolding. Orvar finally prompted them to help calm the persistent assailant and Baroth stepped into action, following Khamundar's lead as she put Tsee-Keth in a hold and suggested he not resist. He nodded and spoke loud and stern, a vice grip on his own sword.

"Best heed her, friend. You're up against ten daggers from her alone, not to mention two axes from buddy-Orvar, and a huge sharp welcome from me. And you broke my door, so there's that." He glanced at Orvar, passing a questioning expression. He'd definitely follow this up later.

"Now, we're talk gonna about this, whatever this is." He jerked a thumb in Orvar's direction. "He said it was just a job and I get that. You said it was a home that he took away from you, and I get that too." He directed himself at the momentarily disarmed Argonian, hoping he wouldn't do anything stupid. Being this close, his rage must've been boiling and that made his actions very unpredictable, not to mention dangerous.

"Tsee-Keth, right?" He pronounced the name perfectly, compliments of his centuries spent out-of-province. "You're smarter than this. And you only did you job, what your chief told you to do. Tensions run high, I get it. He must've been like family to you. But one man's friend.." He pointed from Tsee to Orvar. "..is another's monster. If Orvar had let him go, he'd continue to kill innocent people, children even, only to feed himself. Friend or no, that's a twisted evil. Orvar did you and those people a favor. And no amount of peer-pressure should make you pursue Orvar with intentions of killing him. You did your job and he did his. It ends there."

"Now do us, and yourself, a favor and drop that blade."

The trapped Argonian finally seemed to realize his predicament, and after glaring daggers in the general direction of Orvar, released his grip on the blade, letting it clatter to the floor, while putting out the flame that writhed in his left palm as his tail drooped.

"You speak Tsee-Keth's name well, tall one," grudgingly, he added, "and tell truth... Too many blades to reach Orvar, but Tsee-Keth does not fear dying, only not bringing prey to Sithis with him." Tsee-Keth jerked his arms away from the Khajiiti's paws, and stumbled back before regaining his footing. Without warning, he tried to run at the diminutive Nord, but tripped and fell on his stomach, issuing a groan before he vomited the remains of his ale onto the floor, and passed out.

Orvar jumped backwards and watched the lizard retch, his expression rapidly shifting from constant vigilance to exasperation as the Argonian finally met the ground on his own accord.

"Sithis..." he repeated. "He couldn't possibly be affiliated with the Dark Brotherhood, could he? I highly doubt they'd send a drunken lout to collect my head, but I suppose one man's trash is another man's treasure."

He strode over to the safety of Khamundar and Baroth, their watchful gazes bearing little if no reproach at all. Always a good sign.

"Thank you, you two," he conceded after a short few moments. "He really was no trouble at all, but I don't spill blood unless I'm paid to do so. Khamundar, that was a nasty hold you put him in. You train in Khajiiti martial arts or something? As for you, Baroth, that was quite the nobleman's speech. You could give old Balgruuf a run for his money, I'm sure."

The stout Nord carefully stepped over Tsee-Keth's motionless form, taking care not to step in the liquid revulsion adorning the floor. The putrid scent wafted itself into both of his nostrils as he did so, causing him to gag. Producing a piece of cloth and wetting it with his water-skin, Orvar gingerly addressed the puke, trying his utmost damndest to not make skin contact with it.

I never got this bloody smashed! he seethed silently as he cleaned the remainder of the mess.

(OOC Argonians worship Sithis, even though many aren't affiliated with the DB. Remember the Shadowscales? They were originally kingsguard, if I remember correctly.)

Baroth grimaced as Tsee-Keth fell flat on his stomach and regurgitated the remains of his previous meal, drink and all. In the rancid stench that began rising, Baroth caught a whiff alcohol and what smelled like cheesy bread; not a great combination, but the fella wasn't feeling to great before the consumption, Baroth was sure.

Before he could even address it himself, Orvar practically read his mind.

"Sithis..." he repeated. "He couldn't possibly be affiliated with the Dark Brotherhood, could he? I highly doubt they'd send a drunken lout to collect my head, but I suppose one man's trash is another man's treasure."

On one hand, Orvar very well may have been right, about Tsee being an expendable hand of the Dark Brotherhood. And given Orvar's past, it was a genuine surprise an assassination didn't come earlier. On the other hand, Argonians worshipped Sithis from the start, especially the infamous Shadowscales. Certainly a suspicious fact, but most were honestly unaffiliated with the Dark Brotherhood, a few oblivious to their existence even.

"Thank you, you two," he began after a short few moments. "He really was no trouble at all, but I don't spill blood unless I'm paid to do so. Khamundar, that was a nasty hold you put him in. You train in Khajiiti martial arts or something? As for you, Baroth, that was quite the nobleman's speech. You could give old Balgruuf a run for his money, I'm sure."

Baroth smirked slyly and sheathed his blade with rubbery clasp.

"Going on the third-election this year." He joked, passing an appreciative nod to Khamundar. The lass was awfully nimble, he'd have to note that. Orvar was cleaning up the puke and Baroth stepped up to offer a hand. "Here, i'll get it. It's best we find a place to put him, anyways."

He kneeled down, extending a hand to the rag.

(OOC I forgot to mention, I will have Tsee-Keth out until the next day, so he'll be oblivious to anything that happens until then.)

Speaking of the next IC day, it must be very late evening by now.
"Hardly," Khamundar replied. She had been looking at Baroth as he spoke, finding it difficult to keep her ears from perking forwards with interest, but now she slighted her head towards Orvar. She looked down at the unconscious Argonian, edging away from the mess. "Would the inn accept this one? If need be, this one will take first watch," she suggested. She could imagine the expression of the innkeeper and patrons as the three helped an unconscious Argonian into a room. It would not be pretty, but she didn't know of any other options.

(OOC: I know the Argonians typically worship Sithis, but there's no reason Orvar would know that. He's only been to Hammerfell, Cyrodiil, and Morrowind outside of Skyrim.)

Orvar nodded in response to Khamundar's inquiry. "Indeed. I don't see why not. The innkeeper in Riften is an Argonian herself. There shouldn't be any law prohibiting them in Whiterun. You tagging along then, Baroth?"

He rubbed his temple gently. "It's getting late anyway. I could use a pint. Unlike this lizard, I can hold my ale."

(OOC Hey! He also never got as hammered as Tsee-Keth. "Unlike this lizard, I can hold my ale." Sheesh.)

(OOC: Let Orvar be himself. )

Baroth kept a steady eye on the three patrons despite the evolving surprises and heavy on the third, newest arrival. He was old enough to learn almost everything there was to know about the mortal mind, thousands of years spent in the archives and on foot. In all that time, he truly learned one thing: People were always changing, and absolutely unpredictable. Not that these folks were, but he had a bad history with trusting the wrong people.

Though the right ones always had a way of proving themselves in the end.

He heard something about heading to the inn and nodded, blissful fatigue finally setting in.

"I'm paying, no exceptions people." He absently scratched at the budding undercarriage of his beard. "I know the people here, and they know me, so we won't have any trouble. Not too much any ways.." He admitted in earnest, falling to a kneel by Keth's side. He slung one of the scaly arms around his neck, gripping the wrist and hooking a hand through the lizard's belt, hoisting him up. He paused, eyeing the pair.

"Uhh, it'd look more..proper, if there were two people carrying him about. I'm sure we can cook up a farce when it comes to it."

Consigned to assist Baroth by default, Orvar slung Bathes-in-Booze's free shoulder around his own, confident that the Argonian's unconscious form would neither hinder nor hurt him. Had Tsee-Keth not been passed out, he wouldn't have bothered for fear of an arcane-infused backlash, but it was plain to see that the threat had been subdued for the time being. Calm before the storm.

Upon walking past Khamundar and meeting bright shimmering sunlight once more, Orvar was able to look beyond his passenger at Baroth, who wore a nonchalant expression throughout the walk to the inn. "I guess I still have some old enemies," he said wistfully. "Not that I'm surprised or anything. To quote you from before, 'one man's friend is another man's monster'."

He slowed his pace ever so slightly as the trio reached the main thoroughfare, where Whiterun's bustling market was located. Wooden stalls, erected as if they were ornamental statues, dotted the center of town in a circular fashion. The daily crowd was making its rounds, though unlike the crowd that was drawn unto the group on the way into the city itself, this one was too immersed in their shopping to really take notice. A welcome reprieve; Orvar always felt a surge of adrenaline and invigoration well up in the bowels of his stomach (no pun intended, of course) whenever he was surrounded by people. The inn would be a beneficial change of pace for him, and with any luck, his newfangled comrades as well. He'd down a stiff drink, listen to Mikael prattle on about exploiting women in lyrical form, dream about bashing the aforementioned sexist milk-drinker's face in, and perhaps get to know his associates. "Perhaps" being the key word.

But before long, their destination was met: The Bannered Mare loomed over them, melding surreptitiously into the the buildings surrounding it. Were it not for the large sign etched with a knight riding a decorated mare, the inn would quickly be lost among the homogenous construction of Whiterun.

"Khamundar, the door?" Orvar called back to her as they approached the dwelling.

Baroth and Orvar worked their way out of the barracks and onto the cobbled pathway of Whiterun. He always found his kinsmens' common work to be rudimentary and solid, but traditional as well and he respected that. From the time of the early nedes in the Merethic Era, a people of thatched roofs and mud-dried floors, to the present day Nordsmen, a people of plied roofs and stone floors, Baroth had to admit they'd come a long way.

People turned heads as they navigated towards the inn, peculiar and disturbed somewhat at the sight; it certainly wasn't the first they'd seen of a drunk and his fellows carrying him to bed, but the Khajit brought an unfamiliar air. Baroth kept his eyes peeled for any would be stone chunkers as Orvar spoke, about having enemies and what Baroth had said prior.

He bore his eyes into the crowd ahead, shifting and bustling, oblivious to the group's passing. He kept running his own words through and through.

"Yea well, the life of a mercenary does that to you." He cracked a smile and chuckled as they hobbled on. "World's got a funny way of fixing things, huh?"

He didn't see the imperial fella anywhere but wasn't exactly surprised; an Imperial stick like that definitely wouldn't lounge about in the boiling sun, bearing a local's cloak. Baroth did, however, spot the cloak draped over the well and reached out to grab it as he passed it by. But not before two giggling rascals zipped by and snatched it from his grasp, ripping it a little as he instinctively jerked back.

He could only watch as they vanished in the crowds, his cloak flapping behind them, their giggles taunting him. While he was very much tempted to chase the gray-wool cloak and what was likely the Amren twins, he was exhausted and carrying a two-hundred pound lizard. Not to mention in need of a thorough bathing. A grumble was the best he could do as they neared the entrance of the Bannered Mare, Khamundar propping open the door for them.

He was almost immediately hit by the sweet aroma of fresh bread and charred wood and, in such close radius to bedding quarters, was even more tempted to drop Tsee-Keth and buy a bed and pass out in it. But even so, the main room and bar included, were scarcely vacant; one drunk at the bar was happily enjoying a sound nap and the other sipped his mead quietly on a fire-side bench, lost in thought.

I'm leaving my post at this unfinished point to give Baroth time to intervene, in case that's what he would do in this scenario. If he wouldn't, then we can move on from here.
It was when the group entered the inn that Khamundar, focusing on the woman behind the counter, realized that Baroth had promised to pay for the night. She closed the door behind them and thought briefly about how to deal with this unexpected obstruction. She had septims enough to pay, though she wasn't sure how much a room would cost, much less three of them.

She crossed in front of her friends supporting the ex-bandit and approached who she assumed was the innkeeper. The woman had dirty blond hair, grey eyes, and an angular face. She straightened as this one approached, her expression difficult to read. "Ma'am," Khamundar greeted the Nord. "This one is Khamundar." She glanced at the unconscious Argonian. Seeing them spurred her courage. "How much is it for a room?" she asked.

"10 for the night," the woman responded. Khamundar made to open her coinpurse and took out a small pile of coins.

Baroth, after plopping the incapacitated sentry onto a barstool, glanced twice at Khamundar's outstretched hand and did a double check. Surely, she was only being charitable but Baroth had far more money than the little pouch on his belt, and if not, he could always find some more. It was a recurring habit he had, but it implied generosity and benevolence; two things sorely absent and sadly taken advantage of. Not that he was trying to impress anyone with his wealth, but, he did believe in selfless acts, even at the wrong times. He always was stubborn on that.

He hastily snagged the coin-purse off his belt and gently held a palm in between the exchange, dropping the pouch in Hulda's hand and pushing her fingertips back to cradle it. She craned her neck his way, raising a brow, and he nodded to her.

"Should be enough for all three of us. Drinks-too-much can bunk with one of us, I'm sure." he glanced to Khamundar, and shrugged. "A promise is solid, no matter what. I'll be getting supper and breakfast too, so have a good read through of the menus. Save your coin. Better to have it and let it collect dust, right?" He patted her shoulder and proceeded to hoist Keth up again, taking lead to the ground-floor room that was apparently vacant.

(OOC First Bathes-in-Booze and now Drinks-too-much? Lawd, what's the world coming to that a lizard can't get staggeringly drunk without having names pegged on him?!)