A man in fine clothes pulls up a seat at the crowded bar, clearly distraught. "Ever since I've been married, my wife tries to charge me to trade items. Then, I came home to Vlindrel Hall in Markarth from a trip to Solitude and found her with Argis the Bulwark. I never liked the way he sat there eating his apples and glaring at me, now I know why."

"Well, where to begin... I guess with this armor. You see, I'm an armorsmith, and I take great pride in my work. I travel from hold to hold selling my wares, but every time I wind up coming across ridiculous amounts of bandits, foresworn, or any number of other creature just deciding out of the blue that they want to kill me. Well, my armor is typically made well enough that I usually don't have much to worry about. The problem is, well... I'd rather not kill someone else if I don't have to. I usually stay my hand if they yield, but more often than not they get back up and attack me when I do so... So I tried to make some armor with a more... fearsome design. Something to intimidate, you know? To get them to back down so as to not need to fight..."

The redguard woman sighed.

"It didn't work well at all. They still came, and still faked their surrender. As I traveled through Whiterun to deliver an order, some random little girl just walked up to me and boasted of her lack of fear. I swear it sounded like she meant it, too. I dunno, maybe I'm not cut out for this stylistic design stuff. I think I'll be sticking to simple, functional armors from here on. Still... I invested alot into this armor. To have it not do what it was intended... It's just disappointing, you know? I can't sell it, either. Only a nobleman is likely to be wealthy enough to buy it... No, I think I'll stick to something more proven. Perhaps Orcish... or if I can get some metal to smelt down, I could try some Dwemer metal armor..."

(Fish-Breath, an old Argonian whose breath always stinks of salmon)

*Sees Sam Guenvere and almost chokes on his Argonian Ale*
*Notices his sweet roll has been stolen* Noo!
*Decides to go order another sweet roll, but...*



*...bumps into Sir Percival Trollsalot* Hey, it's not your turn yet! Go back to the end of the line.

*Walks in and goes to the counter*
"What you do have for sale?"
(can sell anything to anyone)

The Imperial sitting nearby perks up when he hears the redguard women's comments. He shifts towards the bar, his haversack shifting over the legion's armor.

"I hear you Citizen. Bandits and the like up here are a little loose in the head if you ask me. They come charging at you with no chest armor on sometimes. I mean, back home in Cyrodiil, all bandits were running around with Daedric and Glass armor. You would guess the Nords to be smart enough to do the same."

He takes a sip of his mead and proceeds to go back to his book while jealously guarding his sweet roll.

I don't know why I found that so funny, but I almost spewed ice tea onto my keyboard when I read it

A young man wanders in, bearing the markings of a Reachman and wearing leather armor familiar to anyone hailing from Riften. He settles at a lone table and wearily pulls back his cowl, signalling after a few moments to the barkeep.

"Sir, I'd like a loaf of bread, an Elsweyr Fondue and a Honningbrew."

He then reaches into a modest coin purse on his hip, withdrawing a half-handful of septims.

((I used to be a ship captain, then I took a fishy stick in the knee.))

This looks like a lovely place to burn to the ground!

"Wow that's pretty unlucky, when I crafted my gear I was hoping for the same effect but I got nothing, but the Nords sometimes mistake me as a Thalmor agent which is just plain insulting." The Bosmer sighs.

"You never gave me your name or told me where you're from."

I am a regular ass game nerd and I approve of this message.

Then again, there's nowhere else to go..Maybe I'll just kill a few when they're alone..

Er, uh. Gimme some mead..

Good Greef. :shakehead:

:celebration:

A female Dunmer materializes out of the shadows.

"This appears to be an Argonian tavern, but if there's any chance I could have a drink without being accused of spying for the Imperials, it would be a hell of a lot better than a Nord tavern."

The Khajiit looks over to where he heard yelling as he pulls out a dagger he says "Watch it, you'd make for a good dinner with some Black-Briar Mead."

Walks up to the bar and asks "for a flask of the purest cleanest H20, no skooma, no mead, no wine, oh no! Ah... need a clear mind" and reaches into the inventory and fingers the roll of paper he has been collecting. Then thinks to himself, 'Now how to put this to some good use...'

and the drewmer parts I've been collecting might just work...

"Yer on, Nord. *hic* Jusht... jusht let me go shoot that schweetroll first..."

*The Khajit totters off outside for a moment. There is a flash of blue and white, a few twangs, and an Argonian yelp of surprise. Moments later, the Khajit totters back in, a glowing blue bow disappearing from her hand in a puff of ether*

"Eesh... gonna be a while 'fore that horn... grows back! Hee! I got the schweet... boll though? Where'd it-ah, nevermindsh. Hey, Nord! Your-hic-your turn!"

*turns nose up at Fish-Breath and brushes imaginary dust from his high class jacket* "watch your step next time you foul smelling lizard, you beasy folk are all the same, good for nothing lay abouts. You shall be served your pig swill after my good self and you shall like it. *proceeds to cut in front of the argonian and orders a fine cyrodillic wine.

*The Bosmer cneches his fist and stares directly at Sir Percival Trollsalot* "Carry on talking like that and I'll slit your throat in a heartbeat" *The Bosmer continues his conversation with the Redguard women.*

*sir percival laughs haughtily at the bosmer* "just try it you jumped up midget, you bosmer always have been a savage lot, resorting to bows, knives and other such barbaric means of defence. That blade of yours pales in comparison to my magic, I'd reduce you to cinders before you came close enough to even scratch me" * Percival turns his back on the bosmer, collects his wine and with a smug stride slinks off to sit in a dark corner of the room. He begins to sip at his expenive wine, a look of deep disdain in his narrow yellow eyes as he observes the other patrons of the inn.*