Kaldmit stood up and took off his hood and looked at the Inn keeper and swished his scaly tail in wonder, then picked up his bow and arrows and walked up to the counter

Things were getting stranger by the minute, and this stranger proved even more outlandish than the other two. Yet, who truly belonged in Keizaal, this frozen land? For once, Ralund found himself missing the icy shores of Atmora.

"Pruzah grind, siigonis," he told the Argonian, and pretending to wash a tankard behind the counter with his grip still snow-white about the knife. "Zu'u draal hi siiv faad ko daar krah sahsun. Aal hi siiv faad het, nid? Hi lost wundun gut."

(It'll be Ruvgein's turn next to react to Nelithuun.)

It appeared White-Gold spared no expense on their courier.  From his heavy armor to enchanted sword.  And yes, a strong enchantment too, Veabris could sense it.  Clearly don’t want him to draw it from its sheathe soon.

Veabris’s weight shifted to the other foot and told him that if he was tracked down so easily, how long before garauvolinau, their enemies, found the letter. 

With quicker tongue than feet, combat was not wanted.  The king had ordered for the letter to be brought to him, a fully armored warrior was not a part of that plan!

If he could simply hand it over, the king would know what secrets White-Gold is keeping from the smaller kingdoms, why none had been allowed the knowledge of this courier in the first place.

That is, if he would relinquish the letter.

Southeast of Windhelm, at the edge of the forest, the sounds of footsteps and clanging of steel broke the morning's silence in the wooden stronghold roughly placed into the mountains. There, daily routines were well in place after the early pre-dawn hunt brought in its regular kills to feed to rough Orcs that made their home and living there in Narzulbur. Those who weren't tending the walls or the mine were training in various weapons, bring strength and glory to the Stronghold, and honor to Malacath. The prominent Longhouse roof still towered over the walls guarding all sides. Near the front, there were various huts set aside for daily use, including the Shaman's hut.

"Nothing is WORKING!" Crunzugr shoved Glorza aside as she tried to wipe off the medicinal paste she had applied to the latest open wound.

"Get OUT NOW!" cried the Shaman in response, ushering Crunzugr out with a solid hit to his back with the club she kept in her medicine hut.

Frustrated, the Orc Hunter bullishly lumbered out toward the Longhouse entrance where his father the Chieftain was staring him down as he passed. He was wincing all the way toward the shelter and past various blood kin who either gave him no attention or clearly showed their disdain with growls or huffs. As he reached toward the door to the entrance, a swift strike bluntly knocked him in the lower back, stunning him, and eliciting a snarl from him as went to a knee in excruciating pain.

"You attack my wife again and your blood will decorate the outer walls, you piece of goat filth!"

This didn't phase the onlookers at all as some grinned and others continued about their daily business of dressing and preparing the latest kills from the latest hunting party.

"You're not going in there. You're sick, so you will not step a foot inside the main living area where others can get sick, too. "

Crunzugr knew what the Chieftain meant, but didn't want to listen. He eventually relaxed his shoulders in submission.

"Go to your hut, or go train." said Lumnak sternly. This time, Crunzugr chose the hut, if not only to relax his muscles from the latest medicine that was applied to the open sores on his back. No matter what he did, the disease remained. He washed many times, ingested cure potions many times, and took in more than a single kin's share of medicine. Exasperated, Glorza, the Shaman and First Wife came to Lumnak the Chieftain with the look he knew well. She was not happy, and not much would calm her.

"Nothing is working. Everything is done. I can do no more." She punctuated the words, as was her manner when she wanted action.

"Why aren't you DOING anything?" again accused the Shaman. When she saw him shifting his tusks and grinding his teeth as he often did when declining a response, she huffed and swung around toward the Shaman hut, all the while raising her hands in frustration.

Standing next to the archery training targets was a small group of seasoned hunters watching the scene from a distance. Bogum, the Stronghold's head archer, leaned toward the others who listened with increasing interest.?

Very late that day, an Orc Hunter approached Chief Lumnak. He indicated that he and others would take Cronzugr along for the next morning's hunt instead of his normal weapons training routine.

Kaldmit was about to speak, but then he sensed someone looking at him and turned. Upon noticing Nelithuun he walked over to a nearby table and sat down. "Drem yol lok, zu'u los Kaldmit. Dreh ni kos faas, zu'u los ni aan paal." said Kaldmit. While saying this, he started to heal his wounds with his Histskin. Then he proped his bow on the edge of the table and looked at Nelithuun with his pitch black eyes and smiled his fanged smile.

Identification?  What did he expect to see?  Veabris had no seals from White-Gold, no oficiel letters.  Mordarre!  This was not as simple as the king said. 

A lizard started talking over Veabris, as if he outranked the Mer in the room.  How rude.  This creature was ignored as the conversation continued.

The courier was told that no Identification was brought.  That there wasn’t time to retrieve the proper letters and reach him in time.

The cloak sways, a hand moves over a dagger.

Nelithuun noticed a movement under the Strangers cloak. He didn't by the B.S. that he gave, that he didn't have time to get his identifacation. He was coming back now, he had plenty of time to find him. He placed his hands on his waist one near his sword, sensing a fight coming. He replied saying this is outrageous and that he doesn't have time for this trickery. He walked over to the siigonis and sat at the table. "Drem, fahdon Kaldmit. Zu'u los Nelithuun. Zu'u los Ayleid. Los hi pruzah?

Kaldmit looks at Nelithuun with pitch black eyes and smiles. "Geh, fahdon, zu'u los pruzah." says Kaldmit. He turns and looks at Veabris, sensing something wrong with this situation, he reaches for his bow. "Wo los fin bein pook?" asked Kaldmit, reaching for an arrow.

Tension cut through the inn's air like an Atmoran longship through stormy seas. Would that Ralund could find a voyage home, but unlike Ysgramor he could never have a Return of his own. Not with the Atmoran Dragon Cult waiting for him back there. He had hoped to find a new life here in Keizaal, one with less excitement than the present predicament.

The siigonis reached for an arrow as the hooded elf seemed to be drawing a blade. There were too many blades in this inn by far, Ralund, thought. He needed something to temper them, to distract them long enough to check on the attic.

"Huzrah, fahdonne!" he announced. "Het piraak key-slen goraan nol yol." He lifted two spits of roasting horse meat from the fire. It wasn't boar or mammoth, but with livestock succumbing to the biting cold, the Nords of Hoffeheim made the best of what they could. He slapped the sizzling meat on wooden plates and pushed them across the counter. "Het, fahdonne, drem ahrk kip. Zu'u fen daal..."

(It'll be Ruvgein's turn next, but Zin, feel free to post your bit leading up to the inn whenever you have time.)

Uhz, uhg, aht. One, two, three...  Three firm hits prodded his side; this was all that was needed to wake him up. Crunzugr’s sleep was never heavy -- the frigid air as well as his constant aching and sores would never allow it. No retaliation was needed, because he knew what it meant. Morning hunting parties always woke in silence, prepared in silence, and killed in silence. With a muted grunt he lifted himself from the straw and many furs that blanketed him out in his makeshift den from an old shed. He was not allowed in the main longhouse for fear that whatever blight had taken ahold of him.

He discreetly put on his heavy furs, attached his sheathed steel dagger to his waist and collected his hunting bow and steel arrows on his way out to meet the normal hunting party who were gathered at the west gate. This was not Crunzugr’s normal time to hunt, but Chief Lumnak ordered him to join the party for reasons he didn’t know. A fresh layer of snow had blanketed the stronghold grounds, and it was still harsh and windy -- that would work to the hunters’ advantage. The final hunter showed up, and the leader signaled for the party to head out.

They advanced through the snow and sparse forests at the foot of the eastern mountains of Eastmarch Hold for a good hour, slowed down by the visibility of the snowfall and the winds, as well as the need to avoid detection from their quarry. Their luck had finally come when Bogum pointed the faint silhouettes of a pair of deer standing in the snow. They hadn’t spotted the hunting party, thank Malacath. Yasguk the party leader indicated to Crunzugr and they inched slowly to a position where they could make a shot, about 90 meters from the game. Yasguk separated himself a little from Crunzugr who had his bow knocked and was extending the string. Just as he was about to release, to his frustration he heard a twig crack. Unfortunately, the deer heard it as well, and began to dart off Northward and out of the reach of the hunters. He quickly released to shoot, but was off and just hit the rear flank of the deer. However, Yasguk and another hunter had their bows drawn as well and in quick succession shot down both deer with impresive shots. With a short cry, the animals fell dead in their tracks. Grunts of approval were heard in the hunting party, except for Yasguk, who got up to Crunzugr’s face.

“Pathetic. You couldn’t even get a simple kill right.” Crunzugr stood up to him and squared his shoulder in challenge.

“I’ll tell you what, you retrieve that deer over there, and I won’t tell everyone you weren’t weak and pathetic and a shame to even Malacath himself!”

Crunzugr pushed him back and made his way to the deer, which had already bled out, its warm red blood pooling beneath it into the snow.  As he bent down to pick it up when suddenly he felt a searing pain behind his left leg, which quickly began numbing him. He cried out in excruciating pain. He could barely control his fall as he tipped forward in front of the carcass. He suddenly heared the telltale creaking and tried to muster all his strength to heave his body over the carcass. He was too slow. An arrow sprouted from the left side of his chest, just missing his heart. He couldn’t move, however; no doubt it was poisoned. It all became clear to him why he was chosen, as he fell into the pool of the deer, their blood intermingling.

The Mer’s fork poked the meat.  It was apparently juicy in addition to somewhat red and soft.  It was slightly burnt on one side from not being turned often enough, though it’s meaty smell still wafted off it.  Without having taken a single bite, Veabris pushed the plate away with a mild look of disgust.  Though faintly hungry, it was hard to have an appetite when strangers drew bows and chose sides without a second thought.

Veabris didn’t turn to look at them.  The letter was needed, but now either they stared judgmentally, or ignored and spoke among themselves.  The letter was needed, but they would collectively protect it.

A silent sigh and fist clench later, the Mer disappeared out the door.

The other Ayleid seemed to want some meat, but instead he went out the door. The meat still sat there, and Nelithuun reached for one. It had been...long since he had eaten last, and the previous happenings didn't make him feel ant better.

He picked it up, ignoring the fork, and ate it in a few seconds. He looked at the Atmoran innkeeper in anticipation that he would get some more.

Sensing the lift in smells, Kaldmit put the arrow back in it's quiver and stood up. As he walked towards the counter to grab a plate, he sensed something above him and he quickly put his hood and facemask up, spun around, drew his bow and aimed it up at the top floor. "Wo los til?!" he shouts in a demonic voice.

Lost on her way to return to her home in Windhelm, Yenkry, a young female Khajiit dungeon delver, stumbled upon this inn. She read the sign, noticing it was in what appeared to be Dovah. Though her understanding of the language was limited, she could tell that she would find shelter and food in the place. The cold of Skyrim is unkind to her small frame, but she nonetheless was used to the weather in this bleak and snowy land. She opens the door to see many curious figures, and the Argonian especially catches her eye. She had a strong hate of the species after the massacare of her family by a single one of the creatures. She decided to keep her distance and throw up the hood concealed beneath her mismatched armour. She kept one hand resting near a concealed knife, while her bow and arrows remained strapped to her back. Her vibrant purple eyes scanning the room for any possiblity of violence.