18+ An Era of Dusk

A man in a grey cloak stopped at the end of the dragon bridge leading to the town of the same name. He hesitated before setting his foot down on the ancient stone of the bridge. Not because he feared what lay on the other side; he had face many a monster, both in the wilds and those that lived in dwelling of wood and stone. "Why am I here?" He wondered out loud, glancing around. There was nobody to hear his words, of course. Spoken in an accent that seemed more imperial than nordic, he would have drawn many a raised eyebrow had he taken company with a traveling merchant or family seeking shelter in the capital. That put together with his distinctly unrugged appearance would have had him denounced as an imperial spy in moments.

The answer to his question came from the depths of his mind. 'To help people' that was his purpose. A purpose he'd found years ago, when the civil war had been raging around him. And yet....and yet, a nagging sense of doubt dragged at him, as if he knew there was something else. Something more to his reason for walking all the way from frozen Dawnstar to Haafingar hold. "Why am I here?" He asked again, a sudden hardness to his tone. 'Seek...knowledge...' A voice, one that had been at the back of his mind since his near death almost a decade ago whispered in the confines of his mind. 'Seek....power'.

"Of course." Argus responded dryly, humouring the eldritch entity that had set itself up as the source of his powers. "Why would I presume different?" With that, he began trudging across the bridge. A fierce wind pulled at his clothing and armour, and he pulled his cloak tight around himself, concealing the scuffed leather and steel he wore. Barricades and watchposts had been erected on the far side of the bridge. Clearly, the guards were taking no chances with strangers.

"Hold there!" One of the guards on duty shouted, adjusting his grip on his spear. "You one of them mercenaries? Heard the kings' summons?"

Adjusting his voice to a gruffer, nordic accent, Argus nodded. "Aye. Marched all the way from Dawnstar. Hoping to make something worth my time."

The guard nodded then looked past him "did you see any more on the road?"

"I traveled on my own and came across no one. Seems travelers are in scarce supply these days."

"Aye, and who can blame them, with these gods cursed disappearances. Alright, head over to the inn- that's the four shields. Just down the road a bit." The guard instructed him.

Argus saluted and strode past. Townsfolk eyed him suspiciously and a few reached for daggers or axes. 'Helping these people may be more difficult than I thought'. He mused. The four shields inn was not hard to find, with the guards direction and being the only inn in town. He pushed the door open and stepped inside, where a lone bartender eyed him. "You've got a look of purpose about you. Mercenary, I take it?"

Maintaining the accent he'd used with the guard, Argus said "that'd be right. Worked up quite a thirst on my walk here. Get me your best ale, if you don't mind."

The barkeep gave him a crooked smile "I like you. Good for business, if nothing else, your kind is." He filled a tankard and set it before him as Argus took a seat at the bar. The warlock smiled, tossed the man a small bag of septims, and took a sip of his drink. Then he turned and set his back against the bar, keeping an eye out for any others seeking to make their fortunes running errands for the king.

Dren Ikaris pulled the blankets closer to himself, careful not to disturb the small khajiit woman who slept fitfully beside him. Many often mistook them as a couple, but Dren did little to discourage them. The people hunting him were looking for a lone breton mage. Not a spellsword and khajiit pair. Besides, sharing a bed in this blasted wasteland was good both for warmth and security. Zarrs' keen sense of smell and hearing had saved their hides too many times to count. Dren had gotten them out of tight situations both with his swordsmanship and, in extreme scenarios, his magic.

Pale sunlight began to peak through the clouds and filter into their room. Dawn had arrived, but Dren didn't feel much warmer for it. His thoughts turned to the reason they were in Skyrim. For Dren, it was concealment. Skyrim was relatively recently independent, and its' neighbours still weren't sure about how to approach the northern kingdom. Besides, of all Tamriel, it seemed the north was the least tamed. A good place for a pair of fugitives to disappear into. The fact that people were, quite literally disappearing had him on edge. At the same time as it represented some hidden threat, it also offered opportunity.

They would need gold, and lots of it if they were to increase their chances of hiding from their hunters. Zarr had told him very little of her past, only that there were those in the empire that would rather enjoy having her head on a pike. Shifting slightly, he stared at the lithe form of his khajiit companion. His only companion, if he was honest. He had long since learned that traveling alone was far better than being stuck with a group. Less complicated if it turned out he had to leave town in a hurry.

If it hadn't been for that thrice damned border patrol as he was entering the Reach, he probably would have still been alone. As it was, they'd accused him of being an imperial spy, and tossed him in prison. It was there that he had resigned himself to his fate. Rotting away while his hunters caught his scent and put him down like a rabid dog. As fate would have it, he had met Zarr in the same prison, and she'd broken them out. They'd run through the wilds of the Reach, pursued by angry guards and baying dogs the whole while. Only a swim in the freezing waters of the Karth had thrown them off their trail.

They had nearly died, then. If not for the cave they'd stumbled upon, and Dren creating a small fire, they would have. From there, they'd counted their meagre possessions and made for the nearest town. Dragon Bridge. They had been treated with suspicion at first, but they'd paid well for their room. Pressed against him, Zarr shuddered. She was dreaming, he guessed, the same nightmares that had claimed her since they had met in prison. Nightmares, Dren was familiar with. Gently, he laid a hand on her shoulder, "Zarr. Zarr, wake up, you're dreaming."

The axe fell. No matter how fast Zar'Niya ran, not matter how hard, the axe fell. The nightmare was an old one, more memory than imagination. No amount of drink could stop it from infiltrating her thoughts and rending her dreams with the screams of victims. She had thought, when she'd first left her home all those years ago, that distance and time would gain her some peace. But if anything, the dreams had become more vivid with time. If she didn't know better, she would have thought them a warning, but that was impossible. She had made sure to cover her tracks thoroughly. Her hunters were clever, but Zarr had taken every precaution.

Not that it'd helped her when she was caught crossing the border. She been hurled into prison as a 'vagrant' and found herself in dingy cell. That was also where she'd found Dren. A breton whos' past seemed as haunted as hers. He hadn't spoken a word of it to her, but she had a feel for such things. She knew a soul in need when she saw one. So when she broke out, she took Dren with her. Things had looked bad for a while, but they had managed to find Dragon Bridge, and the kings' notice.

Zarr had no problems admitting she wasn't much of a fighter. She preferred doing things that involved as little risk to her health as possible. But joining up with a group of mercenaries would provide anonymity beyond what a handful of gold and sticking to the shadows could. Nobody looked too closely at a band of cutthroats.

The khajiit felt a hand on her shoulder, gentle but insistent. "Zarr." The voice said in her ear, "Zarr, wake up, you're dreaming." Her amber eyes snapped open. "I'm awake." She assured her companion as she reached up and patted his hand. Though her accent was less pronounced than most of her khajiiti kin, it was still present, and noticeable, especially to non khajiit. Her eyes narrowed at the pale sunshine filing into their room. In one smooth movement, she flipped the blankets off, swung her legs down onto the floor, and began pulling her boots on. "I'm starved. I'll meet you downstairs for breakfast." She told the human.

True to her word, she pulled on her armour and left the room, fastening the last few straps as she stepped into the common area of the inn. A quick scan of the room showed that she was almost completely alone. A nord sat at the bar, watching the door with something close to expectation. Waiting for someone or something, then. Perhaps he was in town for the same reason Dren and Zarr claimed. The kings' notice. Either way, she had no wish to speak with him, and sat at one of the tables. She ordered a plate of bacon and eggs for herself and Dren, then settled in to wait for her companions' arrival.

The Karth river rushed through the gorge separating the town of Dragons Bridge from the Reach, it's angry waters harshly reflecting the early morning sun as it cut its way towards the distant Sea of Ghosts. High above, on the cliffs south of the small town Lorkas sat, admiring the view. His camp, consisting of nothing more than a small fire with a blanket rolled up beside it, commanded a stunning view of the canyon below as well as the surrounding lands, not least of all, Dragon Bridge itself. From his vantage, Lorkas had admired the sunrise while enjoying a breakfast of cured meat and cheese. While eating, he had spied only one traveler on the road below heading towards the famous bridge and the town beyond.

"Hmm, perhaps Ulfric's notices haven't been so well received." Lorkas mused as he shoved his blanket back into his bag. With a muttered word and a flick of his wrist he doused the fire with a frost spell. His preference for travelling light made breaking camp simple. However, his choice in location, high on the cliffs over the road meant he had to spend almost half an hour carefully climbing down the craggy slopes before he found his way onto the cobbled stone surface of the bridge.

The guards barely paid him any notice as he strode up the street on his way to the Four Shields. It wasn't his first time in Dragon Bridge. It was his first time in the town since the latest disappearance though. As such he wasn't surprised when he noticed more guards than normal on patrol. Being a mage in Skyrim, and a Nord mage at that certainly had it's benefits. Having only a small sword and wearing little armor meant that few people paid him any attention.

Walking up the steps to the tavern, Lorkas pushed open the door and went inside. Only two other travelers occupied the room besides himself and the bartender. A rather small Khajiit woman sat alone at a table near the edge of the room while a fellow Nord stood at the bar nursing his drink. Lorkas was somewhat surprised to see the Khajiit. The feline race hadn't been overly welcomed even while the Empire had been in control but with Ulfric's Stormcloaks running Skyrim he had expected their welcome to be even colder than before.

Approaching the bar, Lorkas decided that the other Nord was probably the one he had spied from his camp earlier that morning. With a friendly nod to the man, Lorkas caught the attention of the bartender, "I'll have an ale as well." He slid a few coins across the counter and rested his arms on top of it while he waited for his drink.

Balgur Nar Shadat, often known only by his first name, marched along the road to the town of dragon bridge, shield slung over one shoulder. His spear, hand crafted with an ashwood haft and orichalcum blade, rested against his other shoulder. His heavy legion gear had earned him more than a few distrustful glares by roadside patrols and town guard. The stares didn't bother him, or the accusations of being an imperial sympathizer. His armor had seen him through the civil war, now ten years past. He had retired from the legion with honor and been granted his gear in recognition of his service. Along with a sum of money, but that was already long gone, sent off to his relatives in Largashbur to care for his son.

His son that he'd been too much a coward to face after the war was over. "After this job." He muttered, answered by the cold, uncaring wind that always seemed to be sweeping across Skyrim. There hadn't been much work after the war had ended. Clearing out a den of monsters, guarding caravans. Easy enough, and well paying, but far between. Now with people vanishing in the night from behind walled cities, the high king was calling on everyone and anyone that had some half-idea of how to swing a sword. Normally, Balgur wouldn't have been tempted, but the reward posted was enough to pay for a years work elsewhere. Maybe with that reward in hand he could work up the courage to face his son. Explain why he'd never come to visit, or raised him himself.

The great stone bridge that gave the town on the other side its' name came into view around a bend in the road. The orc shifted his gear and rolled his shoulders, feeling a wave of weariness come over him. He'd taken a carriage from Riften to Morthal, but the walk had been long and tiring. He'd set out before dawn with clouds overhead, threatening rain. On approach to the bridge, the clouds finally began to clear out, and dawns' rays touched the stone and water below. The sunlight did little to lessen the sting of the wind, though and Balgur grumbled to himself as he crossed over to the town on the other side of the river.

After a quick, somewhat tense exchange with the guards manning a barricade that looked fairly new, he was directed to the four shields inn. To his mild surprise, he found that he wasn't the only one to have arrived in town. Two men, both nords by the look of them, were at the bar, drinking. A small khajiit woman sat by herself, but the plate at the place across from hers indicated she was expecting company. The woman had a shifty look about her, like she was expecting trouble at any moment. The two nords, one armored and one in robes, looked a little more relaxed.

The armored one in particular was keeping an eye on the door and seemed expectant, but not for trouble. The other Balgur guessed was a mage. The man was tall, and looked quite fit, considering he was a magic user. The orc narrowed his eyes slightly, but approached the pair, nodding in greeting. He glanced at the tankards in their hands. "So. Are you celebrating something, or drowning your sorrows?"

A pair of unlikely figures walked along the road towards the town of Dragonbridge. One, was a massive argonian, most of his body covered in heavy armour, a long, curved blade at his side, and a massive shield slung over his back, held there by a wide, leather strap. The argonian had a distinct draconic appearance, with long horns that curved back, away from his skull, along with several bony growths lining the underside of his jaw. His scales were a dark grey, almost as dark as his armour, save for a narrow strip at his neck, under his jaw. A pair of perceptive, turquoise eyes took in their surroundings, keeping an eye out for ambushes.

His companion was so small she barely reached his chest. Her lighter armour made her seem even more diminutive, and the closeness between them made it seem like the massive argonian was protecting her. Hinting that she needed protection. Of course, if someone would have suggested that to the petite dunmer, she would have cut their tongue out in a heartbeat. Still, her large companion would have given his life in an instant to save hers, and she would do the same for him. Not that she would ever admit to such a weakness. In the few years they'd spent together, both had saved the other from certain death countless times. Often in the pursuit of helping others. Something that Sothas' dark elf friend, Aylira almost constantly complained about. And the reason the pair were currently in Skyrim.

"I hate it here." The dunmer griped, drawing her cloak around herself. "It's too cold. And every nord I've met looks at us like we're some sort of dangerous animals." She glanced at her hulking companion. "Well...more dangerous." Sothas tilted his head towards her, eyes twinkling with unshed mirth. Scowling, she swatted his hand "stop looking at me like that. You know what I mean."

"They're frightened." Sothas pointed out, "these disappearances are...unnatural."

"So they should be glad we're risking our hides to help them." Aylira countered, "not slamming doors in our faces, and waving axes."

"Fearful people are seldom rational." He reminded her, his tone admonishing. The argument, or rather a similar argument, had taken place since they'd arrived in Skyrim over a week ago. They'd had to fight both bandits and the more radical elements of the Stormcloaks, who hadn't taken kindly to a pair of non-nords wandering the countryside. The attacks had decreased once they'd passed the town known as Morthal, but the people they'd come across were still wary of them.

"If not for your bleeding heart, we could be drinking Stros M'kai someplace in Hammerfell. Come on, I can see the bridge." The dark elf griped, increasing her pace. The dragonbridge that gave the nearby town its' name was quite impressive, she had to admit. And old. And it cross a canyon, with a fast flowing river at the bottom. She froze at the bridge, staring down into the fast flowing water. The old fear was still there, ingrained into her being, no matter how much she tried to rationalize away the odds of her falling into the freezing, fast flowing river below.

Sensing her unease, Sothas placed a comforting hand on his companions upper back, bracing her. "Aylira?"

"What if it breaks?" She wondered out loud, her voice barely strong enough to be heard above the roar of the river.

"It's stood for centuries. It won't break now."

"But what if it does?"

"Then you'll climb on my back, and I'll carry you across."

That seemed to snap her out of her trance, and she glared at the argonian. "You're wearing armour, you big oaf. We'd sink, and then I'd drown for sure." She stared out across the bridge, at the town that was their goal, and set her jaw. "Let's go." She started across the bridge, stiff legged at first, but gaining confidence as she moved. With a sigh, Sothas followed. The two of them crossed the bridge, which, true to Sothas' prediction, did not crumble and dump them into the rushing water below.

They got some strange looks from the guardsmen at the other side, but were directed to the tavern down the road. "That's where the others are staying." One of the guards said helpfully, as if it should be obvious who those others were. Sothas nodded his thanks to the guard and followed Aylira to the tavern, the Four Shields. Inside, it became obvious who the guard was referring to.

Four people were already up and moving about. Three men, one of whom was an orc in what seemed to be legion armour, or a very close imitation of it. There was a nord in a mix of steel and leather armour, and a robed man who was actually taller than Sothas. All three were at the bar, and he guessed one of the three was in charge of the mercenary group the kings' men had been posting notices about. The fourth person in the place was a diminutive khajiit woman, who sat alone at a place set for two. "Get us seats" Sothas muttered to his companion. "I'll see what I can figure out here."

They split up, with Aylira headed to a vacant table, and Sothas to the bar. He motioned the barkeep over "a meal for my friend and I, sir." He plunked the septims down on the bar, then glanced over, to the robed nord. "I don't suppose you have any more of an idea of who's in charge than I do."

Aylira chose the table nearest the lone khajiit, taking a seat and stretching her legs out. Then she looked over to the woman and the two plates. Clearly, she was expecting company. Whether that company would be trouble for Aylira, she wasn't sure. Deciding to find out, she got the womans' attention with a small wave. "So you eat by yourself often? Or does your friend" she nodded to the empty chair, "usually make you order their food for them?"

Dren watched Zarr strap on her armour and leave the room. It was only then that he swung the blanket off and began collecting his own gear. He had been so exhausted the night before that it was a small miracle his armour was still somewhat in one place. His sword, he'd been much more careful with. The weapon had been his companion ever since he'd given up his magic. Or at least, since he'd stopped using it in combat.The scars on his chest and arms burned with a renewed fire, and Dren shook his head vigorously, clearing away the memories that threatened to flood his mind.

Dressed in his armour, he fastened his sword belt and threw a tattered robe over all of it. Leaving the room, he considered donning his hood as well, but decided against it. Inside in the relative warmth, a hooded man would only draw more attention. Emerging into the common room, the first thing he noted was the quartet of men at the bar. All of them were of various heights and armament, as well as race. Taking care not to stare for too long, Dren joined Zarr at the table she'd chosen. A female dark elf was speaking to her. Ignoring the conversation, or at least giving the impression he was, Dren tucked in to his meal, careful to keep an eye on the door as he ate.

Strolling down the road, dressed in a long coat that clashed spectacularly with the bleak Skyrim landscape around him, Thoras Lorian cut quite the figure. The tattooed dark elf was alone, but that made little difference to him, as he whistled softly, twirling the glaive he held in lazy patterns through the air around him. The pale light of dawn made the gold and silver strings binding his dark hair shimmer, and caught on the golden thread that edged his coat. In truth, he looked more like an exotic circus performer, rather than the experienced bladesman he was. His knee high boots clicked on the cobbled road as he walked from the gates of Solitude towards the small town of Dragon Bridge, near the Karth river.

He'd only recently arrived in Skyrim, having taken a ship from Anvil, in Cyrodiil, to Solitude, the most populated and bustling of Skyrims' port cities. It was there that he'd acquired directions to the town named after a bridge, and the site of the most recent disappearance that seemed to be plaguing the land. It was a strange thing, to name a town after a bridge, but then the nords were a strange people. Obsessed with honour and mead, and ready to fight for either. But Thoras was not one to judge, nor had he any desire to. The people of Skyrim needed his help, and perhaps more importantly, the lure of adventure beckoned to him.

He entered Dragon Bridge shortly after the sun had finished rising, though it was late enough in the year that its' rays did nothing to banish the cold that covered the land. A chill wind came in from the sea, pushing against Thoras' back and chilling his ears. Not for the first time, he considered investing in a cloak. A warm cloak. Preferably one with lots of fur. Surely that was something the nords did not lack, with such foul weather.

His musings on whether or not to purchase a cloak were rudely interrupted by an armoured shoulder. Thoras spun gracefully on one heel, keeping his footing and coming around to face the blue-clothed soldier that had bumped into him. Deliberately, the elf suspected, seeing the bear sigil on the front of the mans' surcoat. "Watch yourself, elf. Your kind aren't welcome here."

At once, Thoras swept into a theatrically low bow. "I beg your pardon, good sir. I was so enamoured with your town, I failed to watch the road." Apparently mollified, the guard went about his business. "Bastard" the elf muttered cheerily, and continued towards the tavern. If there were going to be any mercenaries gathering, it would be there.

Inside, his suspicions were confirmed. More than half a dozen people were inside, none of them looking like typical townsfolk. He glanced towards the bar, where several people were in conversation. Rather than join them, he walked to an occupied table,and leaned down, putting his elbow on the surface of it, and leaning his chin into his open hand. He knew how to spot people who didn't want to draw attention, and he knew they were often the best source of information. His blue eyes twinkling, he said "and what might you two be up to on this fine day?"

Argus was not along for long. Like he'd guessed, warrior types began filing inside, one by one or in pairs. The first was a tall man, a nord, like himself, but taller. Being close to two metres in height it was a surprise to see someone, even a fellow nord, able to look down on him. The man took one look at his ale, then ordered the same. An orc entered, and gained Argus' instant attention. Not because of the scars that were visible on his face, but the armour he wore. Legion armour. Either the orc was a mercenary who'd come across or scavenged the gear or, he was an imperial legionnaire, retired or otherwise. Argus had no dislike for the legion or the empire. He'd always thought of the war as a stupid waste of life. Besides, that had been ten years ago. He nodded politely to the orc, who asked "So. Are you celebrating something, or drowning your sorrows?"

"I can't speak for my friend here," he nodded towards the other, robed nord, using the same accent he had with the barkeep,"but that remains to be seen for myself. I am Argus." He sipped the ale and gestured towards the others with his free hands, noting with interest the strange eyed dunmer who had walked in and was currently pestering a khajiit woman and breton man. "Am I correct in guessing that you're here because of the noticed the kings' men are passing around?" He directed the question towards both the orc and the robed nord beside him. As he spoke, a grey scaled argonian joined them at the bar, clearly a companion of the dark elf sitting at one of the tables.It seemed Ulfric was getting help in the form of people that most nords would never consider living alongside, let alone asking for help.

Kilaar snarled as the man swung his fist in a wild, blind attack. His sword, and other hand, lay in a small pool of blood a couple feet away. The man was a bandit or thief or some combination. They'd come across her simple camp some time before dawn, intent on taking her meagre possessions. She had been somewhat less impressed with their attempt. The human attempted to use his greater weight to knock her over, but she was fast, even haven been so rudely awoken a few minutes ago. As the mans' companions had found out, she wasn't nearly as vulnerable as she looked. Her crescent blade, Moonfang, swung out horizontally, and the tip of the blade caught the mans' midsection.

The human fell to his knees as his entrails began to spill onto the cold ground. She knelt down in front of the disemboweled, one handed man. "And let that be a lesson not to steal from people" she said as she went through his pockets, snatching a few coins and adding them to her own purse, which was far too light for her liking. Ignoring his groans, she went about packing up the rest of her belongings, and made her way back to the road.

The town of Dragon Bridge was somewhat less impressive than Solitude, where she'd left the ship that she'd taken transport on. From what she had heard, the latest disappearances had taken place there. From what she could tell, people were on edge. More on edge than they usually were, in her experience. She did get a few strange looks, as was usual for a khajiit woman with a sword that was nearly as tall as she was. She spent a few minutes reading the notice boards, before glancing towards the tavern.

The four shields, it was called. She stepped inside, eyes scanning the interior. The place was relatively crowded, for so early in the morning. It looked like mostly the mercenary types, either at the bar or sitting at a couple of tables. She got the attention of one of the serving girls, and with her scavenged coin, bought breakfast. Without a word to anyone, she took a free seat and enjoyed her food.

Lorkas was mid-sip, his mouth full of ale when the Orc who had just walked in asked what he was drinking for. Before he could swallow, the other Nord answered, "I can't speak for my friend here, but that remains to be seen for myself. I am Argus."

Argus, who had been preoccupied with watching the door, now seemed to be eyeing up the Orcs well worn Legionnaire armor. Lorkas was more than surprised that the Orc had survived traveling through Skyrim wearing such gear, even if it was obvious that he knew how to handle himself. "Am I correct in guessing that you're here because of the noticed the kings' men are passing around?" Argus questioned the Orc in return.

In the brief amount of time since the conversation had begun, Lorkas had noticed several more likely mercenaries wander into the tavern. First, a heavily armored Argonian along with a Dunmer woman arrived. The woman, went and found a table near the Khajiit woman who had been there when Lorkas arrived. The Argonian made his way toward the bar and ordered a meal for himself and companion before turning toward Lorkas, "I don't suppose you have any more of an idea of who's in charge than I do."

Lorkas, having just finished his ale, shook his head and set the mug down. "I'm afraid not. I'd thought that someone would have been here when we arrived but other than Argus here," He cast a quick look towards his fellow countryman, "And those two over there." He nodded towards the table with the Khajiit woman and a human man. "I suppose we'll have to wait and see who else shows up."

As he spoke, Lorkas noticed another Dunmer walk in, this time a man and shortly after that, another Khajiit. It was turning out to be a rather assorted mix that had taken an interest in the notices .

Dren ignored the conversation between the dunmer woman and Zarr, and tried to finish his meal in peace. He'd never really been one for conversation, and he tended to be fairly awkward when it wasn't Zarr. The door opened and he watched an unusual dunmer with blue eyes and a purple long coat walk inside.

The elf looked around for a moment, then strode directly to their table. "and what might you two be up to on this fine day?" Dren set glanced quickly at Zarr. As unlikely as the elf was to be a bounty hunter, they were wanted fugitives. "And, if I may ask, what is it to you?" He said, moving his hand ever so slowly towards the edge of the table and the hilt of his sword.

Kaliir finished her food and watched as a strangely dressed dark elf waltzed inside, looked around for a moment, then made his way towards the table occupied by the other khajiit and the breton man. Immediately he began asking about their business, and her ears slightly angled backwards. "It takes a special kind of person to barge into someone's business." She drawled at him.

"And, if I may ask, what is it to you?" The breton asked, and Thoras noted his hand edging towards his belt. And the sword hilt there. "Merely curious, my friend. There's no need for-" he nodded at the sword "that." Another voice, this time from off to the side, spoke up; "It takes a special kind of person to barge into someone's business."

With his customary smile back in place, Thoras spun towards the khajiiti accented drawl. "It does indeed." He swept a low bow "Thoras Lorian, at your service." He noticed the greatsword slung over the small khajiits' shoulder. "That is an impressive blade." He gestured to his glaive, held in his right hand. "I'll show you mine, if you show me yours." He said with a wicked grin.

Balgur grunted at the mans' response and nodded, then the human asked his own question. "Yes. The kings' men aren't being very subtle about their need for people to actually do something. " He nodded towards the big argonian standing nearby "don't imagine they'd be hiring him, or dark elves if they weren't desperate. No offense."

The barkeep cleared his throat, glaring at the legion armor and gladius sitting on his hip. The orc turned to fully face the nord. "Problem?" He grunted, resting his spear against the bar and hooking his free hand into his belt, dangerously close to the hilt of the gladius. The man shrugged "don't see much of your kind around here any more."

Balgurs' eyes narrowed, "what? Veterans, or orcs?" he growled, now up against the bar. The nord man, suddenly realized he had offending a heavily armed and armored warrior, and glanced at the others for help.

The khajiit woman hadn't yet answered when a man, seemingly breton, perhaps imperial, joined her at the table. He didn't acknowledge Aylira at all, and the dunmer narrowed her eyes in annoyance. Normally, she would have kept to herself, but the pair had the air of fugitives. If they were here for the job the nords had posted, she wanted to know what she was getting herself into.

Meanwhile, Sothas nodded at the robed nords' words. It seemed no one had stepped up to take the leadership position,and that they would have to wait to see who else arrived. "It seems that way," he agreed, watching a rather colourful tattooed dark elf sauntering over to a table with a khajiit and breton seated there.

"Certainly an interesting group that's gathered" he said, and turned back to the nord man, "My name is Sothas. My companion and I" he pointed out Aylira, "have traveled from Cyrodiil. News of these disappearances traveled quickly."

Zarr opened her mouth to reply to the dunmer woman who was staring over at her from another table. She'd come in with the towering argonian at the bar. The khajiit wondered briefly if they were going to be trouble. Bounty hunters tended to frequent inns and taverns as much as anyone else. It would be just their bad luck to run into a couple now.

Before she could come up with something that would deflect suspicion, two things happened. The first,was Dren coming out of their room and joining Zarr at the table. She noted his quick glance towards the dark elf, but doubted the elf herself caught it. He began to eat the food that Zarr had ordered, but he suddenly seemed more alert than he had a moment ago.

The second, was that another dark elf, this one wearing a long coat and carrying a dangerous looking blade on a staff, walked in. He looked around for a moment, then sauntered over to the table she and Dren were seated at, before asking after their business. Dren bristled and Zarr prepared herself for trouble.

She didn't think the elves knew each other, but two people approaching them in less than an hour didn't seem like a coincidence. The men at the bar, two nords, an orc, and the argonian, weren't paying much attention. A second khajiit, a massive sword over her shoulder, intervened, and Zarr breathed a little easier. She looked over at the elf woman once more. "If you must know, I am not eating alone. I was just waiting on my friend. Who are you, to so boldly interrupt our breakfast?" She asked, her guard still very much up.

The wind tugged at Merrics' cloak and a few strands of loose hair. It was bitterly cold, even with the sun beginning to peak through the clouds. An omen of winter, and further cold the imperial guessed. His long coat did little to protect him as he stood on the ancient bridge.

A bridge, he'd heard, that had been built long before the town on the other side of the canyon was. "Dragon bridge" he muttered the name to himself, hoping it would stir up memories. Nothing came to mind, and he sighed, disappointed, and continued walking towards the town.

Ever since that fateful day, waking on the rocking deck of a fishing vessel, he had sought clues as to who he had been, what he'd done. So far, his search had been fruitless. His reasons for coming to Skyrim had not been entirely out of the goodness of his own heart.

Despite the High King's thoughts on outsiders, the people of Skyrim needed help to defeat who, or what was taking folk from their home. But Skyrim was also the one place Merric hadn't visisted in his search for his own history. So far, he had found no leads, but he was determined to keep looking. As determined as he was to deliver the people from their unseen tormentors.

He crossed the bridge and entered the town with only a brief challenge from the guards. He was directed to the Four Shields and found the place easily enough. He also found a greatly varied group of individuals inside, ranging from a breton man like himself, to a gruff looking orc warrior in legion gear.

At the moment, the orc was glaring at an increasingly nervous looking barkeep. Several other mercenary types were talking among themselves, or watching the door. Merric stepped further inside, to introduce himself, and was nearly knocked forwards as the door swung open wide behind him.

He turned to see a trio of soldiers, wearing scale armour and the blue of the high kings' army. The one in the middle wore a horned, open faced helm, revealing a nose that looked lkike it had been broken more than once, a scar across his face from left temple to the right corner of his mouth, and a knotted, blonde beard.

The man, flanked by his two comrades stomped to the center of the room, glaring at the assembled adventurers and mercenaries. He sneered upon seeing the khajiit, dunmer and argonian. Spitting on the floor of the tavern, he said "Right. I'm captain Torhulf. Which of you leads this...rabble of cuthroats?"