Karsan eyed the pale-skinned man with more than a bit of trepidation as he stiffened, no doubt questioning the smith’s intentions. Mercenaries were a squinty bunch on their own, and in a dead Skyrim Karsan could understand why, so being doubtful was just good business. Not to mention they too were greeted by the same humble nords. What he’d noticed, and hoped to avoid, were the prying eyes his ‘problem’ drew, and with it, the daunting vulnerability. That, and travelling with a wanted deserter and criminal had been, well.. a poetic migraine of its own. All he could count on was Skyrim’s hospitality to prove a bigger distraction, as it had so far.
“Someone will inform you and your companion when we are leaving." Relieved, the smith’s grip faltered from his axe and he grunted in response, but kept himself forward.
“Hm. Bruma isn’t a small town, and barkeeps talk, especially when they’ve $&@! themselves.” He was, of course, referring to the surprise visit by the Archon and his regime in Bruma, and the lingering unease it left in the city. Karsan was glad to have missed that part altogether. “We have a room, so we’ll be waiting. And you are--” He started to ask for the man’s name, a force of habit, but continued on as a statement. “--well-armed, for a dead Skyrim. Smart.” He did note the man’s chainmail and wicked halberd, all terrific arms in terrific condition, and something for him to grow terrifically wary of.
Karsan turned to step away from the taller man when an accented voice called out to him-- that of a Dunmer. The leatherbound elf was a sore sight for sure, and flimsy as he was, Karsan expected he knew the steel, claw-like blades very well. And his hands, painted completely white? He hadn’t seen anything like them, and he’d bet everyone for miles hadn’t either. His brow hardened as a wet khajiit shouldered past him, and he muttered about damp cats and yarn.
“Looks like it.” He nodded simply, again shifting his weight to favor his good leg. But when the elf lingered, his expression flattened and he repeated his name with a hint of exasperation. "Karsan. My companion and I will be traveling with your group, so..” He unnaturally kept himself in place, fighting the urge to rejoin Morva and steal the wine from her. In first impressions at least, he couldn’t arouse more doubt than a one-armed man did already. This was, after all, the final stretch. For his family.
Morva nearly left her skin as the elf nudged a tablet in front of her, her fingers closing on a steel dagger under her thigh. Where he’d come from wasn’t as troubling as why he wanted to talk to her. Or the fact that she’d been too distracted to see him coming. A twinge of shame came over the former acolyte at the thought and, instinctively, she leaned away from him.
Haphazardly, she spared a quick glance at the tablet, then back to him, wearing an unconvinced expression. The girl quietly wondered if not speaking was a part of his act, and less of a hearing condition, or silence vow. Even still, She'd be tempted to slit his spindly throat were they alone.
“H-hello?” She squinted at the elf, as if to unearth a response he was unable to give. When he didn’t , and instead tapped the tablet, she chewed on her lips in annoyance and examined it more closely. Her understanding of common-tongue was, at best, disjointed and basic, let alone her ability to speak it herself. Reading, however, came easier than writing did.
After a few more moments of skeptical silence, she carefully picked up the chalk and began to scribble under the words, scratching her head, erasing with her palm, and cursing in her native tongue. When a few minutes had passed, she handed the tablet back with a response crammed under the elf-- Sylandres’-- greeting. ‘I am Minx. I go walk with Karsan, to help him. Why do you use write? Can you speak?’
She’d swear she saw someone watching the room from a corner, sipping from a goblet as they sat dressed in full armor. But the figure could’ve easily been confused with any number of the locals, some of which wore armor regularly. Still, being here and talking with the empire’s vultures, she was uneasy. But this was, after all, the final stretch. For Karsan, at least.