Chapter two in on board. I'd like to thank crackedradio for the helpful review. Hopefully the dialogue flows smoother in this chapter than it had in the first. All the alert notices for this are well and good, so thank you readers.

Going to have a couple views from Durz'gash this time.

Don't own Bethesda, just these two characters.

Expressions that of an Orsimer. Walk and attitude thus was quite similar, and even the way she rolled her words was as if she'd listened only to the curt talk of Orc tongue, but she looked nothing the part. Small and lacking any real bite to her bark, she was unappealing. He watched her follow Adding with a toothsome sneer fit only for those with tusks to make it look threatening, on her she just looked like a rabbit trying to scare off a wolf; endearing in a way, but more bitterly amusing.

She disappeared with the Nords, looking around cautiously; searching the crowd of gathered men as shipments were unloaded by the armfuls. A cargo of steel ingots rested hard on his shoulder, securing the load with fingers curled in the ropes tied tight around it's sides. For him, the load was merely heavy. One of the many fit Nords would manage the crate no doubt, but why would they struggle with it when he could unload it with nary a bead of sweat dripped. The small little human was long gone by the time a sniveling jab from a fellow shipmate drew his attention back to work. She as as distracting as any oddity, unfortunately.

The woman thought herself as vicious as an Orsimer, did she? - well...she was in for a rude awakening when and if she made it to the city gates...such attitude wouldn't be tolerated even from a smooth-faced woman like herself.

"Derg!" a short Nord caught his attention down the dock, "Take this down as well, would you?"

A tight, un-planked crate of oil was hoisted up on his shoulder – the Nord letting out a grunt as he shoved it up most of the way – and, like a dedicated worker, he took it without question, grasping the two crate on either of his shoulders with a tight breath before continuing on his way. Any other bastard and he would have pushed him into the barnacle ridden waters below, but the Nord – Yori - called out a loud 'thanks' and scampered off to grab another shipment with green glee.

A deep, and almost pleasurable burn grew in his shoulders, arms and chest as the weight of the crates began to burden his muscles. This pleasant warmth would wane into strain soon enough, as was common, but the promise of pay and subsequently, mead, was enough of a fire under his ass to take each stride with a wider birth.

Nords, Bretons, and more Imperials than what one would normally find in Skyrim, flooded the now narrow walkway. Tall, packed shipments on one end and dark water on the other; a cold threat for anyone who bumped into the wrong person. Avoiding the obstacle of men, crates and poor attitudes was the most tedious of the work...and the twists and turns with both arms full and snug around his own cargo only tired his back and abdomen as well.

After too long at sea, between ports, this was the last and sometimes the most loathsome task.

While shifting past an Imperial with a noisy crate of chickens, he caught sight of the little woman atop the fifteen crate-tall wall, stringing rope that was tossed up at her with vigor. Her small, mousy face scrunched with each tug; cheeks flushed to expose the swiped marks of orange war paint under her eyes even with the dim light. Those flat teeth that she bared like daggers peeked from her lips as she tightened the flung rope, securing the crates together into neat stacks.

He knew better than to stare while pandering between men with his arms full, and the misstep was something he deserved no doubt. Dragging his feet was a habit he'd not had since his first voyage, knowing well that loose planks were common place, but that knowledge mattered little when his attention was unwittingly drawn away. The worst of it was that she caught eyes with him just before he stumbled, nearly loosing his cargo if it wasn't for the wooden pole holding a fitted lantern.

A post used for hanging rope hit him in the gut, shooting a wire of pain down through his left thigh. The damned woman was already causing him trouble...

A hand grabbed at his tunic, pulling him upright and disappearing – a friendly, mysterious hand that was fairly ordinary between the group of traders, sailors, and galley-workers. He didn't dare look up at the woman. Humiliation burned above his brow as a strangled growl escaped through his teeth. The first crates weren't even secured and he was already loosing his damn mind.

Another string of rope was flung up, slapping loud beside her feet as she watched the thickly stacked Orsimer right himself with the help of a passing Breton, and continue on out of sight into a maze of shipments. Seeing him before, against the old captain had not done him justice. Amidst the sea of crates and humans, he stuck out like a fire in the nigh; all dark skin and hard, bulging lines. Her lips pressed tight, stifling the urge to hop down and corner him in the dark for answers.

"Did you get that one, lass!"

The rough call below her got her moving, she grasped the rope and tugged; her answer an act rather than a word.

Their so called 'task' for her was fit for a sewer rat, if that. Any weakly built creature could catch rope and tie it; hopping from one stack of cargo to the next...repeating the process. She strung the rope tight with a snort of breath and tied it tight, stepping over wide to the next stack – all the while keeping an eye on the stream of heads and crates below, waiting for the Orsimer's unique build to show up among the pale skin and common hair.

Her work must have cause her to miss him, for the next time she saw him, his arms were full once more and his direction was the same as last time. The green eyes did not find hers again...nor did they the next dozen times he passed.

A bell rang sharp as the men below started to thin out in numbers, but the ropes kept coming up and she kept tying them even after her hands had started to burn from the wiry fibers.

"Two more!"

She growled, hopping to the next stack; catching the next rope, "What an utter bore..."

The last rope went as easily as the rest had, and with a kick of her heel she nudged the tip of her boots into the gap between boards, climbing down the tall stack with ease Mother had instilled tree climbing in her at a young age, and this was no different. There was even a brief feeling of pride as the slightly impressed and baffled faces of the three Nords watched her descend; landing on two feet with a blank stare.

"Not bad, lass...You look like a waif, but I'd say you can hold your own as well as any deck hand," his pat on the back was a chummy affront that should have annoyed her...but...the anger never grew above an ember. Still though, a deck hand? - she could sneer easily at that one, though they seemed to enjoy the look more than anything by the chuckles and the smiles.

"I'd say the lady deserves a flagon or two."

"Aye, a meal too. Look at those cheeks, could cut rock bread on 'em"

She ignored them as they followed her down the now nearly deserted walkway. The sound of the licking water under the narrow dock was a comforting sound oddly enough, despite the smelly company of the three men, their stale jokes and carefree jests.

They had reason to be happy she supposed with a look ahead of her. Their work was done until they set sail again. A steady, predictable job like this had its benefits. Work, get paid, drink, relax and work once more until the process eventually ended with death or a comfy little farm on the cliff-side. Mother came to mind – the farm and the cliff also stirred up old memories as the starry night sky, with all those colorful lights, greeted her with their wispy curls, reminding her of how stuffy the inside of the trading hub had been.

"What do you say, lass?" a hand landed on her shoulder, gently pushing her out of her locked gaze with the sky, "A drink. On us lot?" The middle-aged man with the stubble and the sappy smile looked down at her, cheerfully awaiting her acceptance.

"Just the one?" she sniped sarcastically with a miniscule smile. She'd spoken little, which was more than she'd conversed with others - Nord and the like unless it'd been necessary for survival. These three didn't seem so terribly troublesome, and who was she to decline a free drink if it was offered?

Another clap on her back turned her smile to a sneer, but neither of the three caught wind, "That's the spirit. You play your hand right with ol' Fraki over here and he might buy you the whole cistern." The one called Fraki gave her a modest smile – the scuff of his beard making the movement seem large and warm.

"I suppose," she muttered, staring wearily at the smiling Nord before walking with them as two started to laugh and sing a song unlike any she'd heard Mother sing to her – a male tune full of burl and vigor. They were still boggling and odd – in manner, look and custom – but to be accepted despite her tendency to shun, was at least something...and though her mind wandered to the Orsimer male and his heaving arms and sweat drenched brow, she found herself enjoying the company as she had not expected too.

They hiked up the steep trail, littered with cobblestones and assorted rock – all the while the men never shut up about one thing or another and she was happy to remain silent through their chat of women, work and war.

Guards passed by with blazing torches; one pausing and give them a warning look before mumbling something unintelligible before going about his rounds.

The city was heavy with stone, tall and busy with men she recognized from the docks. Vendors were out with torches and lanterns lit, while a bard played as he strolled along the streets. Dressed up women laughed and soldiers conversed with citizen and fellow man alike. She saw no Orsimer, nor anything but man...even Elf seemed absent...and suddenly, she felt all too small in the sea of humans. The feeling was not unfamiliar, but greater now that the the density of peoples had grown triple from what she was accustomed to. Panic rose as the Nords beside her ushered her into a tavern with chuckles, unknowing of the terror rising in her gut like searing minerals from a geyser.

"They said there are Orsimer down in the village though...how could you not want to see them? Warriors...Males! When was the last time you were witness to a male, Mother?"

"Morn. We are fine where we are." But that was not a good enough answer for her, not anymore. It wasn't even a good answer when the last trader had said he'd seen children in the village, why did Mother think it would have been a proper answer now when the children of her wishes had turned into Orsimer; male Osrimer! She'd been caught trying to dispel the ache in her body herself not last moon cycle. Did that not tell Mother she was ready yet to coheres with a male?

Like an insolent child she pressed her lips out, feeling the need to scream arise and fall, continuously growing closer to exploding in a tantrum all too un befitting a female of her age and intellect. Her body had known exactly what it craved for too long, and now that the bane of her desire was but a days travel...there was nothing that could stop her from going out herself. No threats could keep her in bed any longer.

"I will see the males, Mother..." she let out like a kettle starting to expel steam. Uncaring to the pot about to overflow, Mother gave her that infamous blank stare; daring her to do as she'd just threatened. This was the moment in her life where she either caved in under Mothers rules, or proved she was ready to take care of herself.

The silence decayed her words before they could come out; her mouth simply flapping as the steam ran cold and her courage grew equally nonexistent. It was her moment to defy and prove her independence, and yet...she let her knees go, sat down before Mother at the table and didn't move until sunrise.

The blasted little woman was inescapable.

Just a stones throw away she stood aside Adding and his nephews, seemingly emotionless if not for the slight patina of sweat and shifting eyes exposing her. She looked frightened; like an outnumbered warrior she seemed to size up each and every man, woman and...then she caught his eyes again in her own and he felt like she'd flung something scolding in his face. The almost catching terror in her eyes dwindled and by Malacath's right eye she smiled...at him.

Gaining her attention like that was asking for trouble, but not only did she smile, she completely ignored Adding's youngest nephew asking her a question – no doubt what she wanted to drink – as she made her way through the crowd straight towards him.

The cold bottle of mead seemed to warm as his fist wrung around the glass; tensing as she reached him with a quickness no human should have to get closer to an Orc. Surly, this did not look good...

"You have been paid I assume," her strong voice spoke, whether it was a question or statement he was not certain – either way he found himself nodding shortly until she was suddenly sitting down besides him, making his neck stiffen as well as the rest of him.

"I will trade you a garnet if you purchase me a beverage then," she said with her back straight and hands upon the edge of the small table, " though it may turn into a few beverages," she added almost ruefully, while pushing a finger to the candle tray beside his death-grasped bottle.

For a moment he paused to look at her small, pale hand; flat upon the table aside his bottle-grasping, dark-skinned mitt. Ugly and pretty...a perfect example right in front of him...

What was there to say than 'scoot to another table' or 'scram'? - could she not see they were staring at her...and at him. But no, no he said nothing, just stared at her as he shouldn't have with the bottle feeling more and more fragile in his fist. "I will take your silence as a yes." - and with that he watched her hold out her hand as if he'd drop a septim into the cup of her palm just like that, and...

...he did.

It didn't even dawn on him until she was well across the tavern that he'd just given the little thing his coin...and how terrible it must have looked to the watching crowd.

Only a few eyes remained on him, the rest that'd been looking were turned to the bar as she filled thin arms with bottles of mead – her Nord friends still looking almost bemusedly...amused.

"I purchased the lot," she motioned to her full arms, bending forth to rest them noisily upon the table, one twirling on it's side and falling before he righted it with a quick hand.

Confusion still filled him more than his second mead did, but it didn't matter how much he glared at her to explain herself, she did nothing more than press the glimmering garnet on the table before him as she uncorked her mead as if she had child's fingers.

"I can not except this." he growled, shoving the small shiny gem back to her with one thick finger.

"I am merely trading with you, as I would with any vendor. There is noth-"

"Woman..." he could not contain his growl despite the curious, judgmental eyes on them both. She gave him a side-ways glance after finally un-corking her mead. "What do you think you're doing?" he asked with barely enough control to not hiss it. Those amber-laced, brown eyes stared, then proceeded to gaze about the room as if she were surveying how many enemies lay within a dark cave.

"Retreating from them...They're ways are not bad, I have found, but there are too many," she pandered a look at him, not making eye contact but frowning enough to make him feel a shame as if she'd been staring right into his own, "I wonder how you do not feel the same way." The smooth space between her brows furrowed and the line under her eyes bunched as if he had confused her greatly.

Her query was a valid one, but not something he would answer her. Instead of saying something he'd regret, he simply gave a heavy exhale and clanked his bottle with her own – a signal of his defeat before glugging down the rest of the warming brew.

She didn't look away even after he'd started on the fresh one she'd brought him. If she wanted a conversation she was in for disappointment – he didn't do that sort of frivolous behavior, and certainly not with a little woman like her.

"Mother didn't have horns," she peered up at his thorny brow, "do you keep them sharp? - do they not grow dull? I noticed the chip on your left tusk, did that hurt?" she kept on asking and he just let the rim of his bottle fall from his lips as he gawked at her running mouth.

"Mother said her tusks hurt when they came in, bothered her, worse than when she delivered me...but I find that hard to believe. They don'tlookpainful," she paused and he blinked slowly down at her open expression. Was it him or had she leaned in closer? - certainly he had not felt the warmth of her breath before.

He dared a look again at the tavern to see two thick Nords from the docks staring; a rash of indignation over their faces. They glared as if his hands had been on her breasts. Her insistent attention was ruining his reputation of not having one...and it angered him.

"Well," then her lips pursed gently at him, quelling his rage a brief moment, "they are quite deadly looking actually...and impressive." The sly little way her mouth turned and her narrowed eye contact suggested she was...trying to exchange flirtatious banter. Who did she think she was? - throwing herself at him like this is the middle of a damned tavern. She think she was some mighty Orsimer bitch?

She gave a bare-toothed smile, like a courting Orsimer. Then it made sense...and he felt the simpleton. The obvious gait she took, way she pronounced words and comments she made – his Pa would have been humiliated for him for being such just a slow-minded pup. She, for whatever damnable and naif reason, thought she was an Orc...

Thank you as always for reading. For writers, reviews really do mean a lot, even if it's just a 'awesome' or 'hate it because (insert reason)' comment. If you have the time, please do let me know what you liked and/or disliked.