The tavern was writhing with intoxicated revelers. They walked into a crowd of frenzied onlookers — a ring of shaking fists and carelessly held mugs that spilled ale onto the floorboards, sweaty shoulders and necks and the stench of alcohol fumes, smoked meat, and body odor so thick you could lean against it like a doorjamb. In the center of the circle of bodies, two fighters swayed and dripped blood from their broken lips, swollen glares exchanged when the fists didn't quite land. Shouts and jeers twisted into a slurred cacophony of battle rage deflected onto a spectacle.
In other words, a typical night in the Silver-Blood Inn after the right amount of booze had been consumed.
In the midst of the chaos and shouts, Undnar stuck out like a slightly lopsided pillar of virtue in a den of iniquity — his enormous frame towering over even the tallest Nords, let alone the Bretons. Unlike those assembled, however, he seemed calm and remarkably poised — in his usual affable-bear-that-might-just-gut-you sort of way. He was leaning back against the bar, a mug of ale in one hand, and a half-gnawed shank of some medium-sized mammal in the other — too small for a goat leg, too large for a bird. Grease gleamed in his beard.
At Vera's approach, he gestured with his ale, tawny eyes still trained on the two combatants. "What started it?" Vera asked, at the same time as the Dunmer behind her queried "What's the bet?"
The Mad Nord bit into the shank with a worrying crunch — Vera wondered idly if his eating habits might explain his chipped tooth — and responded with a mouthful of fricatives. He masticated, then tried again. "Two hundred on the dark-haired Breton."
Sero drifted to lean against the bar at Undnar's side and gestured at Kleppr, who poured him two fingers of murky brandy, and, for some mysterious reason, did not ask for money. Curious. Kleppr wasn't exactly known for indulging in the gift of charity.
"The blond one is faster," the merc commented, in the tone of someone who didn't have money in the game. He gestured at Cosnach, who, at that moment, had just landed a nasty left hook on the side of Hathrasil's face. The smelter worker spat blood onto the floor, his mouth twisting in an uncharacteristically vicious snarl — Vera didn't know Hathrasil well, but he'd always been courteous, if a bit harried and thereby on the laconic side of small talk — and retaliated with a series of blows to Cosnach's ribs.
"Stick and move, you sodding milk drinker!" someone in the crowd screeched, to more hearty jeers.
Undnar's eyes crinkled in an approximation of amusement. "And that, Teldryn, is why I make the bets, and not you." Something odd passed between the two men, some undercurrent subtext left outside the frame. Vera kept her face neutral as Undnar turned to her. "As to your question, Snowberry, it started like it always does — some bloke rolls into a tavern to have a nice sit-down with himself and his ale, but finds his favorite seat occupied. And because — now, follow along, there's a valuable lesson in this story — his back aches from working from sunup to sundown, and his better half wrinkles her nose at him and feigns sleep right away — if you catch my meaning — and his ears buzz with the insults hurled at him from, say, one large Orsimer fellow with a nice sharp whip, and a sharper tongue... Well, a bloke like that, after however many days of such treatment, might find his feet getting restless and his fists getting itchy and a great big thirst in his throat that no amount of ale will slake." He took a swallow from his mug. "And from there, say this bloke finds out that this other bloke…"
He didn't finish. The crowd roared in jubilation and swayed forward just as Hathrasil feigned a jab and lured Cosnach to open up straight into a vicious uppercut. The porter doubled over to a great many hoots and not a few insults. Someone threw a mug to the floor, clay smashing against the stone tiles with a crackling hiss. The smell of yeast and juniper meal rose to mix with the other odors of the tavern. Vera caught Kleppr's expression — a tightened jaw, but bored resignation in his eyes. Market Day always came with more broken inventory than the usual night — he'd still have plenty of gold at the end of it to make up for a few missing mugs and wobbly chairs. Unless an all-out brawl broke up, he wasn't going to intervene.
"You filthy hagraven's crotch-berry, will you give up or should I keep going?!"
Vera looked around for the shortest path to the exit. This wasn't an ordinary tavern brawl — the anger, the sheer battlerage, the way Cosnach's eyes glinted and narrowed in his blood-smeared, swollen face, his breath snarling in his throat as he readied himself for a counter-attack. The porter's hand shot to his belt, the dull glint of drawn steel catching the firelight. Hathrasil was bigger and wider — but he was unarmed. Still, rage rippled around him, radiating off him in thick waves, as he reached for a barstool.
She should have known this would end with knives. What the fuck did Cosnach do to get the smelter worker so riled up? Hathrasil wasn't the trigger-happy sort.
Sero materialized at her elbow — too close even for the plausible deniability of a packed tavern. His hand curled around her upper arm and he yanked her against him, the front of his thighs pressing against her ass. Vera bit back a what the hell are you doing — before backing into him further, just in time to get out of the way of an airborne plate, thrown, she guessed, by one of the patrons in Cosnach's camp at his counterpart on the opposite side of the betting pool.
The Dunmer's breath brushed hot against her ear. "Unless you fancy participating in the local idea of entertainment, best hold the upcoming conversation elsewhere." His usual sardonic purr had an edge to it — bright and sharp with tension, somewhere between annoyance and the contagion of bloodlust. Not itching for a fight, exactly, but not opposed to it either.
"No, I don't fancy. Let's get Undnar-" Vera turned quickly — on instinct, the itchy prickle at her nape overriding the other stimuli. Over Sero's shoulder, she caught sight of a hulking shape detaching itself from the wall with deceptively casual purposelessness, the tanned leather armor — and the greasy mop of brown hair — resolving into the unpleasant, scruffy mug of Yngvar the Singer.
She tensed. Yngvar was bad news. Not only was he on the Silver-Bloods' payroll and had effective immunity as far as the city guard was concerned — he also augmented his official role as enforcer and all-purpose thug with a nasty streak of racketeering. It was well-known that he skimmed off the top of his "debt collecting," and with the Hag's Cure closed, he had just lost a portion of his weekly revenue. Vera tried to duck her head in the hopes that he wouldn't notice her, but it was too late by then — the bastard was looking straight at her, a deep scowl bracketing his mouth.
"Shit," she muttered. If he decided to extract what he was owed from the only employee of the apothecary not currently behind bars, it was unlikely that anyone would notice — let alone intervene, considering the current mess. The brawl was spreading like wildfire. At least most of the fight was on the other side of the tavern, but that wouldn't last. Kleppr had prudently retired from his position at the bar — she spotted his bald head and flimsy rat-tail bobbing along the perimeter and promptly disappearing in the kitchens. He'd wait it out with Frabbi and the kids, the heavy door bolted from the inside — and then cut his losses, and wax philosophical about "mining towns" and "letting off steam" and "what was he supposed to do, all by his lonesome, you know how things get, and what the guards are like…" And speaking of guards, if Sero and Undnar got dragged into this, once Markarth's Finest finally showed up — an hour late and a septim short as per usual (for which shortage they'd make up in fines in no time, but who's counting) — they would likely find the two newcomers to be convenient scapegoats.
And then the door to bailing out Bothela and Muiri would slam in her face faster than you can say "The Jarl of Markarth Licks Thalmor Boots."
Sero had already pivoted, following Vera's nonverbal cues to assess the new threat. Yngvar the Singer (a misnomer if ever there was one) paused, his eyes narrowing at the sudden hurdle of the unaccommodating-looking merc, but whatever he saw didn't stop him entirely — just made his scowl deepen into outright hostility. Not a great aficionado of Dunmer mercs, apparently.
It would have gone very badly from there, for everyone involved, if not for Undnar. The Mad Bear appeared on the other side of Vera, a blinding, inappropriately jovial grin twisting the tattoos on his face into an upside-down V. He waved at Yngvar with disturbing enthusiasm. "Fair tidings to you, friend!" The greeting was affable enough on the surface, but the Nord's tone sounded more like "do you like your head to remain where one usually finds it?"
Yngvar stopped in his tracks, quickly calculated his odds, and went the parley route. "Bloody enough for you, outsider?" he inquired, mostly focusing on Undnar and the enormous axe at the Nord's back.
"Bloody?" Undnar's bushy eyebrows shot half-way up his forehead. "You call this bloody? Bah!" Somehow, his voice managed to carry over the ambient cacophony. He batted at a flagon someone had launched at his head — without so much as turning to see where the projectile came from — and he sent it crashing over the bar, its contents splashing Vera's armor before she could jump out of the way, hemmed in as she was between Sero and the Nord. At her side, the Dunmer hissed something about Boethiah's ambiguous anatomical attributes. He used the nearby stool to deflect an incoming brawler, sending him on a tangential trajectory and away from their little island of relative civility. "I've seen weddings get more bloody than whatever this is," Undnar continued, "though I'd be happy to rectify that for you, of course. But only,-" he wagged his finger for emphasis, "-if you ask politely." And now, the threat was no longer masked at all.
"Just want a quick chat with Bothela's little scavenger," Yngvar placated, looking about as friendly as a freshly-woken draugr. "Can't hear myself think in this ruckus. Won't mind if I take her outside for a moment, will you?" His eyes flicked to Vera, lingering on the pack at her back — probably searching for the outward signs of a stash of coins.
"Splendid idea!" Undnar boomed and clapped the thug on the shoulder, making Yngvar stagger before the racketeer caught himself and adjusted his stance. Vera's spine prickled with ice. Undnar was a bastard, but still, he wouldn't just- "I could use some fresh air," the Mad Bear added in performative confidence. "A nice evening walk to soothe an old warrior's restless heart, aye? What's your name, friend?"
Yngvar bristled. "This is Markarth business, outsider. Nothing that concerns you, and I don't remember inviting you. Why don't you just… enjoy the Silver-Blood Inn's hospitality for a bit longer? Drinks are on the house until the guards show up." He tried for chummy, but landed somewhere between annoyed and impatient. "Come have a little chat with Uncle Yngvar, lass. It won't take long, I promise."
Before Vera could tell Yngvar to kindly fuck off — she'd take the tavern brawl over dealing with the enforcer — Undnar nodded sagely. "That's right! You didn't invite me — so I thought I'd correct this oversight, and invite myself, eh? Sero, you about ready? Let's go hear what our nice new friend has to say to our associate, hmm?" He turned to Vera. "What about you, Snowberry? See," he threw his arms wide. "I'm minding my manners, rising above the muck of my infamy in your edifying presence, and all that. Also, you never told me you had an uncle!" He turned back to Yngvar. "I had an uncle once too, you know. Splendid fellow, funny as could be, real life of the party. Liked to put his hand in other people's pockets — but no one's perfect, eh? So," he smiled, "one day, when I found his hand in my pocket, I hung him over the hearth by his own entrails. But that's bloodkin for you, isn't it? Sever the social ties that don't serve you, I say."
Yngvar took a step back. "You threatening me, outsider?" Some of his earlier leery confidence had frayed a bit.
"Threatening? As the Divines are my witnesses, I never threaten. Anyway, the story about my uncle — it had a point, aye?" He leaned forward, taking advantage of his absurdly large frame to tower over his interlocutor — still this side of jovial bear, but getting less jovial by the minute. "Lay a finger on what's mine, friend, and you won't regret it. If you catch my meaning." He leaned back. "Now, I wouldn't mind finding out more about this business with the apothecary — just when I was going to stop by and purchase more of my favorite dragon's tongue ointment, too — keeps my skin nice and soft, goes over well with the ladies — bam, it's closed. Now, I hear you're well-connected. A good man to know, eh? Maybe there's an advantage to be gained for both of us here."
Yngvar narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but the Mad Nord flashed him a grin and patted his hip, where a fat coinpurse hung, conspicuously visible. Bait, Vera thought. He uses the money as bait. In more ways than one.
"I might know something," the debt collector admitted finally. "Beyond what's being fed to the sheep, anyway. If you have the coin."
After a quick nod for Sero and Vera to follow, Undnar threw his arm over Yngvar's shoulders and steered him towards the exit, stepping around two brawlers going at each other with chairs. "I always have the coin, friend. Let's find a nice quiet place to chat."