Middas, 5th of Morning Star, 4E 180
Since his arrival in Windhelm, Dakarus Githyron had accepted a simple truth: only the powerful get a say.
That wasn't to say he didn't have any influence; he got along well enough with the other Dunmer in the Gray Quarter, and even some of the Nords that didn't stumble through the slums after a night of drinking. He had even made a name for himself as a mercenary in several holds. But each time he came home, the Gray Quarter seemed worse off. His kin had already given up on the idea that things could change long before he arrived from Solstheim seeking a life more exciting than what the Redoran Guard offered. Even Brunwulf Free-Winter, one of the few vocal Nords that spoke on behalf of both the Dunmer sequestered in the slums of the Gray Quarter and the Argonians banned from entering the city at all, had all but given up trying to change the new Jarl's mind.
Dakarus had done more than his fair share to make living in the Gray Quarter bearable. He had delved into ruins and fortresses to kill gangs of criminals and beasts for multiple holds, and spent every septim trying to improve even the most basic aspects of their lives. But each night, a group of Nords drunkenly swept through the Gray Quarter to cause any kind of chaos they could. Whether it was vandalism, theft, or even assault, they knew it kept the Dunmeri morale in check.
This was why Dakarus was in the New Gnisis Cornerclub finishing his seventh round of sujamma. He looked from the broken slats of the walls to the bartender, Ambarys, and motioned for another round.
"No more, serjo. You don't need to be getting into another brawl with some half-wit Nord," he said as he grabbed Dakarus's glass. "Go home and get some rest before I embarrass the both of us by trying to kick you out." With a short nod, Dakarus dropped a coin purse on the table. Once he gained his balance, he managed to stumble out of the club without tripping over his own feet. The cold air was refreshing, but he could do without the smell that seemed to exist solely in the Gray Quarter. But the smell couldn't compete with the liquor running through his body, and he felt himself drift to sleep.
Pain erupted in Dakarus's ribs and forced the breath out of his lungs. His eyes snapped open to see a boot crash into his nose. The kick forced his body to roll over and land his face in the snow. Blood streamed down his face onto the ground as his now-broken nose throbbed. "Damn elf, drunk as a dog and sleeping on the street. Where'd you get that armor, Grayskin? Steal it from some poor soul on your 'travels'?" the assailant mocked.
Dakarus arduously rolled to face his attacker. He was a Nord man, dressed in light clothing with a mug in his hand. His mustache dripped mead onto the snow, and his body swayed as he stood in front of Dakarus. Next to him was another Nord, this one with thinning hair dressed in rags. Dakarus knew their names, but the liquor in his belly and the pain in his head clouded his memory. "Fuck off, icebrain," he slurred. He tried to stand, but the Nord with the mustache unsheathed a dagger and placed it to Dakarus's throat.
"Try to fight back, you filthy ashface! Give me a reason to have the guard ransack your gods-damned trash heap and show your grayskin friends what we think of them," he hissed through clenched teeth. Dakarus was an excellent warrior, but he knew when he was beat. He slumped his head in defeat, which the Nords took as understanding of their threat. The Nord with the mustache removed his dagger from Dakarus's throat and shambled off. When they were out of sight, Dakarus felt his consciousness slip as his head fell into the snow.
The next morning, Dakarus woke to Ambarys slowly pouring water into his mouth. His nose and ribs were throbbing. Definitely broken, he thought angrily. He had taken some abuse, verbal and otherwise, back home in Solstheim with the guard. Nerevar's balls, he had dished some out himself. But to beat a man when he was piss-drunk? They had never stooped so low.
"Welcome to the land of the living, serjo. I found you passed out in your own blood when I went to take out the garbage," Ambarys said. "I patched you up the best I could, but you're going to want to see a healer or get some potions. They don't teach those things I the Legion, unless you're born with it that is."
Dakarus breathed deeply, which hurt like Oblivion.
"Don't worry about me, Ambarys. Just take my gold and get me a few potions. I'll try not to bleed on your floor in the meantime" Ambarys nodded, took Dakarus's pouch of septims, and left. Not five minutes had passed before the door to the Cornerclub flew open. Suvaris Atheron, the Dunmer steward of the Shatter-Shield family rushed to Dakarus, concern in her eyes. "It was Rolff, wasn't it? That Nord son of a bitch finally had the nerve to go after the one person protecting us," she said, tears welling in her eyes.
This wasn't the first time one of the city's Dunmer had gotten emotional over his actions, but it didn't make Dakarus any more comfortable with the situation. Give him a bandit chief or a horde of rieklings, and he was comfortable with crushing their skulls with his mace. But emotions? They weren't his strong suit.
He awkwardly shifted on his bed roll. "It doesn't matter if it was Rolff, Suvaris. His brother is the Jarl's right hand man. That's a fight even I'm not willing to lose," he said. This, of course, only made Suvaris start to sob.
"Dakarus, I've done everything I can to change things here. Before you came, all I could do was pay off guards to make some patrols through the Gray Quarter. I've even resorted to trying to call those Dark Brotherhood cutthroats to get rid of Rolff!" She buried her face in her hands. "You must think I'm pathetic, resorting to murder to try to get some kind of peace in this shithole."
Her face was hidden in her hands, so Suvaris couldn't see the plan forming in Dakarus's eyes.