I am a fired arrow.
And there is no evil in me, but
Someone will have to fall
Eventually...
Picnic
Wayrest has met the traveller with too crowded streets for such an early hour. Perhaps this was due to the fact that on the eve of the previous day the auction was held for the guild trade places, and the metropolitan residents strove to join the luxury of a variety of foreign goods that adventurers from all over the world were extracting for their enjoyment. It was a rare opportunity to get something relatively legitimate, 'cause of the War of Three Alliances, many of goods remained in deficit. That's why in the Breton kingdom like the mushrooms after the rain has spread thieves guilds, smuggler gangs, and even speculative conglomerates. Not to mention the breakthrough of small scammers, hucksters and slavers, which were now particularly swarming in the docks of Daggerfall and Alik'r.
She slowly followed through the south-west gate, tiredly hunching in the saddle. The condition of her white and black horse, as well as the tessellated guar used for wearing her luggage, were poor at best. Only the hefty glenumbrian mastiff who followed them was cheerful and showed no signs of fatigue, although the dog was equipped with a heavy segmented armour of good steel, covering its powerful body from head to tail. And, it seemed like it was a war, not a hunting dog. Perhaps it was this or, perhaps, the simple fact that since the beginning of a full-scale war, the adventurers of all stripes and ranks have earned some honour among citizens, - the traveller and her modest "escort" has been given free pass through the crowd with enviable regularity. Sometimes even with reverence, with common folk throwing fleeting glances at the dressed skin of the armour of the traveller, sustained in the dye of the well-known guild - the Undaunted.
Soon she passed the wayshrine, marking it for herself just in case, and moved past the stairs that rose to the inner courtyard of the royal residence. Today the least she wanted was to meet the royal guard. As anyone in her place whose path laid in the direction of an inn with the name "Cloudy Dregs".
Leaving behind the bridge at the mages guild, she passed the local market, where, judging by the carefully placed torture equipment, executions still took place. She lingered near the fighters guild, looking through the order board. The crafter's guilds still made money on the efforts of visiting artisans; caravans without a twinge of conscience substituted the necks of mercenaries for their rags and spices; cleaning channels ... well, this was already too much. As always, the fighters guild did not have enough daredevils ready to go where the "anchors" fell, and the daedra literally poured from the sky. And the magicians! Although these were willing to pay with dignity for the lungs spoiled with ancient tombs air...
"It's the same thing everywhere," the traveller concluded with a cold voice and pulled the reins. She looked around and saw an inn she was searching for. Even though the "Cloudy Dregs Inn" was close enough she rushed to it. She knew that, if not to hurry and not to lean her tired pets to the wall, the next hundred leagues she would have to go on foot.
In taverns, as, indeed, everywhere, where a lonely traveller was put by misfortune, people always met wanderers by clothes. Perhaps that's why so many organizations with their own patches, signs, glyphs, medallions and even cockades were so widespread in Tamriel. These signs were attached to any place from head to toe just to ensure that, in the future, if possible, a smaller number of locals would want to cut travellers throat, or cut off his purse or, at worst, prune or completely cut the girth of his horse. In any case, membership in some well-known society markedly reduced the number of the verb "cut" in the address of the unlucky wanderer.
"Aha!" Barked a pretty tipsy orc, leaning with one hand on the tavern bar, and the other stretching in her direction.
"The hare has horns in Abaha!" She muttered and went to the common room, intending to sit as close as possible to the fireplace. The orc remained standing, apparently losing the thread of his own reasoning or deepening his attempts to imagine such a miracle beast.
Contrary to her desire to come closer to the fireplace, she went deep into the common room and sat down on a bench near the window, dumping beside saddlebags and a bowcase. People were few, but the unexpected attention of that orc spoiled the plan to warm her back near the fireplace. For some time she sat silently, her mouth twisted in the expression of pain from the aching back, but soon she exhaled and lowered her head, hidden by a large hood. The levers clicked, and fingers lifted the dwemer visor, which until then reliably hid the upper half of her face. She was ready to bet that this piece of facial armour was the sole reason for orcish thug impudent attention. However, it was worth acknowledging that this piece of equipment was, if not an object of pride, then at least a proof that its owner had been around the world for quite some time. At Vvardenfell, where this piece of armour came from, not every adventurer was skilled enough even to hunt cliff racers or nix hounds, not to mention crawling numerous dungeons. And, if the dwemer glasses were on the mainland in abundance, then the visors combined with the metallic sultan of the diamond-shaped form, which many for some reason called the "horn", were a rare thing. As well as the spacious hood of the forester, hiding her head and resting on the sultan. Judging by the rim and patterns - elven work from the southern tip of the mainland.
Generally speaking, her costume resembled the armour of mercenaries: thick skin, lamellar and chain mail inserts on the body, segmented protection of forearms and legs of good Windhelm steel. Larger armour elements, covering the shoulders and hips, were made of patent leather to facilitate weight and preserve mobility, in some ways reminiscent of the old Akaviri armour. The picture was complemented by a Nord sash with a round buckle and Breton shoulder pads made of dressed leather with lining and steel ribs - rather elegant than practical.
Someone began to hang over the table. She reached for one of the straps that crossed her chest, and took a couple of septims out of a small pocket, but, raising her head, frowned and hid the coins in a fist. Above her was towering the same orc who was pointing at her at the entrance. His brown, small eyes on cheek-browed face looked impudently at the dwemer sultan with a visor, but his paw held in curiosity froze in the air. The cold, emerald eyes, densely led by kohl, stared at him. Her right ashen eyebrow rose slightly upward, and lips in a matte black lipstick curled in a grin.
"Oi, mate! Looking for some trouble on yer arse?" She asked, quite coldly and even ominously.
"Nah... Just wanted to ..." The orc was taken aback. He had seen this look before and his instincts suggested that owners of such expression did not differ much in their essence, no matter from what shell such eyes looked. Moreover, there were several scars on her face, obviously left by the blade.
"Me don't care what ye wanted! Disappear! Now!"
A barmaid, tall enough in the Breton standards, in a white apron and a dress of grass colour, hurried to intervene and asked what the guest wanted. As soon as the visitor opened her mouth, the orc barked:
"By the Nine! You're a bosmer! I recognize this accent!"
Emerald eyes again looked at him, this time tired. She slowly clapped her hands, tightened in trimmed gloves of old leather:
"Bravo! Now what?!"
"Nothing, but ..."
"And me ask fo' fresh bread, dark ale and farm cheese with greens." The bosmer voiced her order and laid out in front of barmaid a handful of septims.
"Want your cheese salted?" The barmaid specified.
"Nay."
"What about the roast?" The mocking orc succumbed. "Or are you elves there, in Dominion, already abolished the Green Pact?"
"Daedra take this pact with the Dominion! And 'bout the roast, so ye know, mate, we salt the meat and dry it. If we light a fire, Y'ffre will be pissed. So where were we? Ah... disappear! Ye hear me? Otherwise, me really will have some meat for breakfast, but this inn will lack one orsimer in the nearest future!"
"Woah! You're really sharp on the tongue!" The orc grinned and unceremoniously seated himself vis-a-vis, giving a sign to the innkeeper. "And this is good! The native folk here is boring, and if you press them just a bit - they back off. Bunch of yellow-bellies!"
Noticing that she did not appreciate his humour, the orc cleared his throat and announced:
"And I'm a local bard! Call me Ghola Gro-Kazor! For friends just Gho!
"Orsimer-bard?" Her eyes opened wide, trying to imagine such a rare combination.
"That's right! By the way, I'm working on a new play!"
"For real?" The bosmer was clearly bewildered.
"The name will come up eventually, but it definitely will be about love, compassion, hearty affairs and, of course, to the glory of Mara!"
At that moment, the barmaid started to put out the order on the table between them: two full mugs of beer, a dish of cheese and a slice of bread cut in two. Therefore, Ghola did not see even more sincere amazement, which appeared on the face of the bosmer. However, when the barmaid with an empty tray walked away, the eyes of the bosmer looked no longer so confused. She clenched her teeth in a bunch of parsley, cut off a piece of white cheese and noticeably warmed her voice:
"Ye can call me simple - Mulga."
"Like a snake?"
"Like a snake."
"Do not say that you are from the Serpent cultists!"
"Nay by a jugful!" The elf twisted.
Ghola paused, gathering his thoughts and critically examining the food on the table.
"Excuse me, but I will not be fed up with your grub. Grass and cheese ... Bah! I'd rather eat something beefier."
In response, she only shrugged her shoulders, with an appetite weaving the crust. After the orc voiced his wishes to the innkeeper, expressed in a meat hodgepodge and a plate of fried beef with potatoes under a local sauce, Mulga decided to go all-in:
"We've had a little trouble here, have we not? Recognizing each other without passwords and secret phrases. That's the problem."
"You don't say," the orc replied. "I was told that the messenger will wear some rare dwemer stuff. Never clarified which one! We have dozens of travellers on the streets often pacing in dwemer. Some in the cuirass, some wearing the helmet, and some in full plate armour. And a fang knows, are those rare or not?"
"Well, as you see, me could not go without risky questions either," the bosmer clung eagerly to the mug and tore herself away only by halving it. "What a surprise! Orsimer, who reveres Mara, not Malakath! For only asking some of yer mates such a thingy can result in thrusting my teeth into my throat!"
"That's for sure!" Ghola grinned with apparent pride in his kindred.
"So why are you here?" Mulga narrowed her eyes, pulling out the flesh from the second crib. "Have you been driven from the clan castle?"
"No! I left myself," the orc replied. "And do not give me that kinda look! I'm not fond of kneading goo at Cyrodiil roads with my boots for his royal majesty. Those big wigs have already taken everyone of all ages - we lack men to even cultivate the land. Have you heard king Emericks "Call to Arms"? A pretender sits on the ruby throne! One country - one emperor! Let the fields of Cyrodiil run red with blood! Yeah-yeah! All forward but without me please!"
"Cut yer chatter, mate! We are at Wayrest for blood sake!" hissed Mulga, cautiously looking around.
"Just look at these well-fed faces! I announced to the whole inn that the bosmer is sitting in front of me, but everyone does not give a fang! Or I need to draw a picture of who the forest elves are and why a hundred Covenant brave men were brought home needled with arrows like hedgehogs!"
"What an obvious propaganda..."
"Oh, as if your archers are not that violent! In the Nibeney valley, among the dolmens, who put down the whole avant-garde of the Pact? Huh?!... By the way, what kind of trouble put you in here? It's really too far away from Valenwood don't you think?"
Mulga fell silent. Ghola stubbornly waited, with zeal cutting the hard, as sole, beef with a knife. Finally, she sighed and answered:
"Me also running from the war in som' way, mate. From its consequences."
"I can tell," the orc remarked sympathetically, shaking his two-pronged fork. "So many scars from the blade on your face. And this early greyness among your hair..."
She nodded in response, concentrating on a mug of beer.
"Two pints. Not bad!" Approached Ghola approvingly, as the elf took up the second.
"Not to surprise. Me spent a week wandering around those bloody Alik'r sands until boarding the ship in Sentinel. Me had to consume rough salt, mate, for not to turn into a dried bosmer. That's why me still have to drink as the bottomless barrel."
"Well, if you wear a black jacket, trousers and a hood, then you can cook yourself under Alik'r sun in the soup no time. Anyway!" The orc held his hand conciliatorily. "There is no need to hurry! We can enjoy our meals here as much as we like."
"By the way, that letter is with me. When will you pick it up?" Said Mulga, glancing furtively at the hall, where the visitor's count had noticeably increased.
"Fang knows! I'm in the same boat as you! Just a link in the chain. The addressee of this message will appear in the evening. So my suggestion is to wait until that time. I say keep it. Bah! It will definitely be safer with you."
"And me thought there would be no such daredevils to look into the pockets of a stout orc, rather than dig in the bags of a fragile bosmer lass," she said, without hiding her sarcasm.
"Oh, oh," Ghola frowned. "Do not pretend to be a sheep while being a wolf. You have a composite bow in your case. Mercenary style! I'll recognize those steel lining on the "shoulders" anywhere. How much is it, huh? Eighty? Ninety pounds, right? Less you bosmers would not pick. Bow and arrows for elves are like bread and butter for humans. So shut the fang up! You are the real danger here."
"Whence such knowledge?" exhaled the elf.
"I'm the bard, remember? When you compose another ballad you need serious reliability and attention to detail. After all, a large jackpot can be obtained only in castles or orders of knights. And there for any inaccuracies, you pay with your teeth, especially at a solid feast. Lords and marquises do not appreciate when their war hammers are called simply hammers, and sabatons - iron boots. At the royal court, it is much simpler. The topics are different. But for the royal court, as you can see, my mug is not good enough. And at trading guilds, there are a plenty of self-taught bards already!"
Breton woman in the herbal coloured dress again went to the table. The conversation was interrupted briefly, while Mulga asked to feed her horse, pack guar and mastiff, who guarded all of the above. When barmaid went to pick up the dog a solid bowl of raw meat, scalded with boiling water, Ghola bent to the bosmer and said in a low voice:
"Listen, I have a plan. Throw your bags in my room. I slept well and will stay on my feet for a long time. And you settle down in my apartments if you do not disdain. In the evening, as soon as the deal is shaken up, we will leave this place and move to the north gate. I feel that there is some mystery in this letter. Otherwise, a piece of parchment would not be transferred to third parties through the middle of the world. That's why we need to be swift if we want to live."
"Agreed," answered Mulga, in a tone as serious as possible.
" Sweet! See ya later!"
Bosmer lifted her mug in a farewell gesture and continued her simple meal with that deep pleasure that only the one who did not get out of the saddle, constantly staying on the path in the cold and heat, understood. So it turned out that to recognize the usual joys, many were destined to come down more than one pair of boots in the vastness of this truly amazing place, called Tamriel.
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