Hjor managed to lift his head from the stickied, viscid table. He was at home, he concluded - and a carelessly kept one at that, too. He managed to recoup his aged vision (as bad as it was) to survey the events from the night before; Mead bottles had been managed to have been distributed to every nook of his dwelling - though largely the floor and the table. As he recalled his last few conscious hours, he licked his greying whiskers, still tasting the Black-Briar mead.
It was steadily flowing back to him now - coming home from hunting - and, by the looks of things, wasting no time in necking the mead he'd (rather immorally) acquired from the Black-Briar's meadery yesterday. Romlyn would have to be the scape goat for this one, Hjor thought. He knew that wretched liquid was stolen, but now that he'd drunk it all, it was probably a good a time as any to out Romlyn for his thieving little ways... there was no way he was fessing up to Indaryn that he'd managed to swig his way through - by what looked at a quick glance around his kitchen - a good 30 or so bottles. Hjor readily admitted to himself if he was younger he'd of done the same deed himself, but his maturing vision, slumping beer gut, and pure decreptitude in his golden years was enough that even he had known that procuring enough mead in one go just like that, that he just wasn't up to that kind of red-handed lunacy anymore.
Hjor just about persuaded himself to stand up from the rickety chair he'd been hunched over the sides on from what felt like far too long. Hjor tottered his sizable rump towards the window to look outside at the weather - And caught his own reflection in the window as he did so.
Hjor stood about seven foot tall - a stature so grand even he found it hard not to pride himself upon it. There was, however, things he didn't pride himself upon though, too - his overly greyed hair which was about as unkempt as his disheveled abode - complete with a mustache, which was probably hairier than his crown, which hung over his top lip and down besides the corners of his mouth like a comatose skeever. The deep pock marks in his cheeks were mostly covered by his straying, wiry stache. He lifted his hands, which were the size of dinner plates, over towards his forehead to brush away his hair from his face to get a closer look at his worn, venerable, Nordic appearance.
His large, gaping nose managed to cover a rather ashamedly generous portion of his face, which sat rather tilted underneath his lazy hazel eyes (he considered they were more tawny, than the hazel everyone described). His ears were rather plain, yet Hjor still favored them over the rest of the misshapen, monstrous oddities of his face. His forehead was large enough to hold Ysgramor's own shield, whilst the admittable road map of wrinkles on his head only drew attention to the fact - they were like Skyrim's trodden paths themselves.
But Hjor was not the embarrassed type, though; Least of his by his facial features. His mace arm was enough to defend himself from any insults thrown his way. He'd glanced at his mace whilst thinking this aswell, strolling over by the smouldering fireplace to hoist it into it's rightful place - the leathered hook on his hip. He decided not to bother donning his armor before going out - it took him bloody ages to get it on anyway - and it was sure to be warm enough outside, it was the middle of Last Seed. After all, he quite liked his leathery waistcoast, even if it was quite dirtied and bloody from hunting.
As he stepped past the threshold of his cabin as he shuffled outdoors, The tepid waft of freshly caught Abacean Longfin hurriedly hit Hjor's fleshy nostrils - much to his distaste. He didn't really know why he moved from Anvil in Oblivion to the sewer-stunk fish grave of Riften; The Great War was certainly the start of a good excuse, though. Just thinking about those loathsome, bastard Altmeri - Hjor's knuckles glowed white whilst he clenched his shaft mace in his ungodly grasp. Now he felt like hunting again...
Ah, even he had to admit he wasn't the 'on-a-whim' kind of person; Of course, there was obviously a few exceptions - a handful of off-the-cuff racial comments, a number of slurs under the breath - usually all dealt with the proper Nord way - a drunken fist-fight or a sobering crack around temple with Hjor's bestfriend - His mace; He'd even named it 'Volendrung' - the same name given to the mythological Daedric artifact of Malacath's - his mother had told him the stories when he was little; He didn't believe any of them, though...he believed anyone that did was more of a fool for being so easily manipulated by such fables.
As he thought and strolled past the town guard - "Staying out of trouble, kinsman?" - through the city gates out into crisp, speckless breeze. "Hunting..." he murmured to himself. "Perfect weather." He'd forgotten he'd left his crossbow on his back from last night's session of elk pursuance. He'd actually found a rather gratifying clearing that the deers often travel through. He'd have to recommend it to Destri - that Redguard was the best hunter he knew - and he knew many - because hunting was nothing as risky as doing another job with Delvin.
* * *
Hjor managed to lift his head from the stickied, viscid table. He was at home, he concluded - and a carelessly kept one at that, too. He managed to recoup his aged vision (as bad as it was) to survey the events from the night before; Mead bottles had been managed to have been distributed to every nook of his dwelling - though largely the floor and the table. As he recalled his last few conscious hours, he licked his greying whiskers, still tasting the Black-Briar mead.
It was steadily flowing back to him now - coming home from hunting - and, by the looks of things, wasting no time in necking the mead he'd (rather immorally) acquired from the Black-Briar's meadery yesterday. Romlyn would have to be the scape goat for this one, Hjor thought. He knew that wretched liquid was stolen, but now that he'd drunk it all, it was probably a good a time as any to out Romlyn for his thieving little ways... there was no way he was fessing up to Indaryn that he'd managed to swig his way through - by what looked at a quick glance around his kitchen - a good 30 or so bottles. Hjor readily admitted to himself if he was younger he'd of done the same deed himself, but his maturing vision, slumping beer gut, and pure decreptitude in his golden years was enough that even he had known that procuring enough mead in one go just like that, that he just wasn't up to that kind of red-handed lunacy anymore.
Hjor just about persuaded himself to stand up from the rickety chair he'd been hunched over the sides on from what felt like far too long. Hjor tottered his sizable rump towards the window to look outside at the weather - And caught his own reflection in the window as he did so.
Hjor stood about seven foot tall - a stature so grand even he found it hard not to pride himself upon it. There was, however, things he didn't pride himself upon though, too - his overly greyed hair which was about as unkempt as his disheveled abode - complete with a mustache, which was probably hairier than his crown, which hung over his top lip and down besides the corners of his mouth like a comatose skeever. The deep pock marks in his cheeks were mostly covered by his straying, wiry stache. He lifted his hands, which were the size of dinner plates, over towards his forehead to brush away his hair from his face to get a closer look at his worn, venerable, Nordic appearance.
His large, gaping nose managed to cover a rather ashamedly generous portion of his face, which sat rather tilted underneath his lazy hazel eyes (he considered they were more tawny, than the hazel everyone described). His ears were rather plain, yet Hjor still favored them over the rest of the misshapen, monstrous oddities of his face. His forehead was large enough to hold Ysgramor's own shield, whilst the admittable road map of wrinkles on his head only drew attention to the fact - they were like Skyrim's trodden paths themselves.
But Hjor was not the embarrassed type, though; Least of his by his facial features. His mace arm was enough to defend himself from any insults thrown his way. He'd glanced at his mace whilst thinking this aswell, strolling over by the smouldering fireplace to hoist it into it's rightful place - the leathered hook on his hip. He decided not to bother donning his armor before going out - it took him bloody ages to get it on anyway - and it was sure to be warm enough outside, it was the middle of Last Seed. After all, he quite liked his leathery waistcoast, even if it was quite dirtied and bloody from hunting.
As he stepped past the threshold of his cabin as he shuffled outdoors, The tepid waft of freshly caught Abacean Longfin hurriedly hit Hjor's fleshy nostrils - much to his distaste. He didn't really know why he moved from Anvil in Oblivion to the sewer-stunk fish grave of Riften; The Great War was certainly the start of a good excuse, though. Just thinking about those loathsome, bastard Altmeri - Hjor's knuckles glowed white whilst he clenched his shaft mace in his ungodly grasp. Now he felt like hunting again...
Ah, even he had to admit he wasn't the 'on-a-whim' kind of person; Of course, there was obviously a few exceptions - a handful of off-the-cuff racial comments, a number of slurs under the breath - usually all dealt with the proper Nord way - a drunken fist-fight or a sobering crack around temple with Hjor's bestfriend - His mace; He'd even named it 'Volendrung' - the same name given to the mythological Daedric artifact of Malacath's - his mother had told him the stories when he was little; He didn't believe any of them, though...he believed anyone that did was more of a fool for being so easily manipulated by such fables.
As he thought and strolled past the town guard - "Staying out of trouble, kinsman?" - through the city gates out into crisp, speckless breeze. "Hunting..." he murmured to himself. "Perfect weather." He'd forgotten he'd left his crossbow on his back from last night's session of elk pursuance. He'd actually found a rather gratifying clearing that the deers often travel through. He'd have to recommend it to Destri - that Redguard was the best hunter he knew - and he knew many - because hunting was nothing as risky as doing another job with Delvin.
* * *
