Iman wandered inside, leaving the noise of Markarth's streets behind her and looked about wonderingly. The air was smoky and thick with the scent of stale beer. The flickering lights of the candles on the bar barely served to illuminate the vast, stony cavern of the place. But still, despite everything, it was impressive. Candlelight gleamed on the intricate dwarven stonework and the heavy brass doors shone like gold in the firelight.
No one moved as she strolled in. The other patrons remained buried in their pints, oblivious to the sound of her footsteps.
The bartender glanced at her suspiciously when she hopped up on a stool, put her elbows on the counter and looked up at him beseechingly. He turned away without acknowledging her.
After all these months, it was still so strange, walking into an establishment and not being immediately fawned over by the owner. Not being waited on, hand and foot by every blandly smiling worker with their hand out. A part of her ached at the loss, but the smarter part reminded her that in this province, she was no one.
She'd have to get to work on changing that.
She smiled sweetly at the bartender. Well, as sweetly as a girl who had recently had half her face mangled can manage. The wounds themselves had been healed by the finest Aldmeri magician available, but there was something wrong with the underlying muscles of that part of her face.
Her smile was one-sided; one half a smirk, the other, drooping downward.
"A bottle of your finest wine." she crooned, tapping her fingers impatiently on the bar.
"Go home to you mother…" the bartender mumbled, walking away to fetch a dirty glass on the other side of the bar.
The other half of her mouth drooped just as low as the sagging side. Her eyebrows connected in the middle of her forehead in a stormy frown. She reached inside her jacket and pulled out a bag of gold with heft suitable enough to make a sound when she dropped it on the bar.
"I want a room." she said coldly, her gaze fit to drive daggers into even the stoutest of warriors' hearts.
The bartender slowly turned around, the rag limp in his hand, the glass, unwashed.
"I want a meal." she went on, the corner of her mouth lifting into a smile again. "I want to sit in that chair by the fire with a glass of wine in my hand and a book on my lap. I will need to put my feet up…"
Her gaze shifted to a flaxen-haired woman bouncing a baby on her knee. The baby had the same bulbous nose as the bartender.
"Yes." she said softly, her teeth showing in her growing smile. "She will do nicely, seeing as you have no footstools. Will you accommodate me?"
The bartender glared at her. The woman had stopped bouncing her child.
She put another purse on the bar.
The bartender eyed it hungrily, the tip of his tongue showing between his lips as he thought.
"Kleppr!" the woman wailed indignantly as she rose to her feet, the baby balanced on her hip.
He set the glass down, raised a hand up to silence her and pocketed the purses.
*.*.*
The wine was sweet, with just the slightest hint of flint.
The fire was deliciously warm, after the chill weather she'd come through.
The meal was hearty, if inelegant.
The book was lurid and silly, but that was all part of the charm.
She wiggled her toes and dug her heels into the warm flesh beneath them. Her feet felt as though they could walk for miles more.
The woman shivered beneath her. The baby wailed in its father's arms.