“To Skyrim?”
The thought of it nearly made me jump from my seat.
My father nodded.
“Yes. Skyrim. That damn cold snowy place up north. Lots of Nords. And, shockingly enough, the home of the only reputable institution of magic.”
He poured me another glass of wine, as was our people’s custom. Always with the customs.
“What about a private tutor. In the city, perhaps?”
I took a sip. Good, a tad sweet, but good. I looked at the bottle; Tamika’s West Weald.
“The last tutor gave up on you.”
“The last tutor was fifty years ago.”
“I've already paid for the boat fare. You're going tomorrow afternoon.”
I stared at the table. Tomorrow I'd be going halfway across Nirn to the third most hostile place in Tamriel. It was rather jarring to think of.
“And Viranirn?”
“She knows.”
Viranirn knew and didn't tell me. I suppose that's a sister’s duty; lying to one’s siblings is all too common in Altmer affairs.
My father slowly stood up and walked over to the window, wine in hand.
“I saw Lord Lovillon the other day. It seems Elenwen is in Skyrim; perhaps you'll run into her.”
It was my turn to roll my eyes.
“By the Gods, I hope not.”
“Just because His Lordship denied you the ability to continue courting his daughter does not mean you should shun her. She may prove useful up there- a First Emissary and such.”
Elenwen would not have been my first choice- that honor went to Lady Grayal –but Father insisted I court somebody more involved in politics. Hence, Elenwen was the only real option at the time. Her father, Lord Lovillon, disapproved. His exact words had been far too aggressive to even write in this account.
I excused myself from dinner and left the restaurant and onto the streets of Alinor. It was a glorious city, marble statues and fountains. Orange trees between buildings and whole fields of them outside the city. A few miles north of the fields was our estate, nestled in the rolling hills.
A stroll into the less-trustworthy part of town brought me to the door of the Muddy Mug, a tavern plagued with sailors and workmen. It also happened to be my bar of choice; it was a place a Mer could get drunk on something other than fine wine while in the company of people other than business partners and immediate family.
I walked in and came face to face with unwashed drunks, many spilling ale on their beards when they took a swig. Most people I knew would be repulsed, but I for one was glad to see that not everybody was obsessed with proper behavior.. A Khajiit in the corner played a song on some foreign instrument made from what looked like a deer skull and a Skooma pipe, and the smells; by the Gods, the smells! Vomit and pastries, with a hint of sea salt and unwashed pig farmer all dripping with ale.
However happy I was to be out of my normal environment, I had to be cautious. Being clearly wealthier than most people in the bar, I was a prime target for pickpockets and petty thieves.
I knew my friend would be there soon because he was always there at around that time of evening, so I waited. Had a drink.
Aldaril came in and sat down a few minutes later.
“So, Sir Milordship, how's it been?”
He often jokingly called me “Sir Milordship”.
“Interesting. I'm afraid I'm off for Skyrim.”
He paused mid-sip and looked at me like I had just pissed in his drink.
“Why would you want to go there?”
“I don't. I'm being sent like a damn letter in the mail. Some business about a College of Winterhold, learning magic, blah blah magic magic blah. You know my father.”
He finished his drink and and looked at me for a moment pointing his dirty finger at me. He began to say something, then stopped, then began again, stopped and frowned, and finally figured it out.
“You're not joking.”
I chuckled.
“If only.”
“I'll miss you being around here to drink with. Luckily for you though, the Thalmor made a big fuss about Elenwen being the new First Emissary up there. Rekindle the old flame, eh?”
“No, no, no, and no.”
We talked a bit more before the tavern’s “debt collector” came in and spoke with the barkeep. Anytime someone who hadn't paid off their tab in a long time was a problem, this big brute of an ass would rough them up until they paid.
He left the counter and sauntered to the center of the room.
“I'm lookin for one ‘Aldaril’. Any of you drunks know him?”
Aldaril clutched his flagon until his knuckles turned white and sweat dripped down his face.
“I am he.” He announced with his eyes tightly shut.
“Aldaril, how much do you owe?”
“About a hundred Towers.”
Towers were our currency, instated after the war to distinguish our nation from the Empire and distance ourselves from Tiber Septim. They bore the likeness of Crystal Tower of one side and the Council of Justiciars’ hall on the back. They were valued slightly higher than the Septim, but not by any real meaningful amount. They were easily exchanged at any major port, though it wasn't needed by law, but most outside the Dominion wouldn't touch our money.
“I will pay for him. Give me until tomorrow morning and you'll have your money.”
“Your friend there still needs to learn not to do this again, don't he?”
The Muddy Mug was empty now, except for us. All the other patrons tended to leave when the collector walked in.
He was standing at our table now, looking at us like a butcher looks at a pig.
“Stand up, you two. I think you both need a lesson.”
He raised his fists and prepared to fist fight us both. Instead of waiting to let him start, I swung my flagon into the side of his head and we ran out the door.
We heard him cursing at us from inside so we continued down the street and ducked into an alleyway. We listened to his footsteps on the stone street approach us, so Aldaril led me further between the buildings.
We emerged a few streets away from the Mug.
“That was… exciting. Nice hit.”
“Yeah. I think I'll let you defend yourself next time.”
“I guess we need a new tavern.”
We laughed and wiped away the sweat, and we walked back to a safer district of the city.
"I'm not doing that again, you know."
"I figured not."
Comments
Nice to see a story from this view point. You done well here Accursed.
You don't find any Argonian Werewolves in that mood
Mind you if there were more Argonian werewolves then there be one hell of a fight in a certain hall in Whirte... more
Gee, I wonder why?
I liked how you captured his dour mood. Poor thing thinks Skyrim is an icky place right now.