Chapter Text
It was a Sundas, the twenty-fourth day of Sun's Dusk. The day had started off poorly. Iriae had found herself tangled in her sheets, barely able to move. She had promptly fallen out of her bunk, and then she'd been informed that she had a meeting with Elenwen scheduled. After a half hour of frantic preparation, she pulled her red hair into some semblance of a ponytail and went to stand outside the Ambassador’s office.
When she was let in, it was clear that Elenwen wasn’t too happy about something. Lovely.
The Ambassador curtly offered her a seat, which she took. She tried her best not to fidget, but it was hard with the tall, stern Thalmor officer staring her down.
“Ah yes. You. I've got a job for you,” Elenwen said shortly, paying more attention to her nails than to the cowering girl before her.
“A job?” Iriae stammered. “What kind?” Her fingers pulled at each other, fighting the battle she wished she could fight with her boss.
“An expedition,” she said with saccharine lips. “You're going to go and collect information from one of those Nordic barrows.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Iriae asked. “Is there a report of Talos worship or something?”
Elenwen’s eyes flashed, and the muscles in her neck tensed. Her hands came down on her desk and she took a very slow breath. “No. This is simply to go… look around.”
“That's not a directive,” Iriae said, feeling very small.
“If you are so desperate for a directive,” Elenwen snapped, “then go look for some godsdamned dragons.”
Iriae sat in her chair, staring at her knees for a long time. She could feel the Ambassador’s eyes burning into her head. After several tense moments, she whispered, “when am I to leave?”
“Tomorrow. You will be sent with four soldiers. I expect you all back before a fortnight’s end.”
Iriae nodded and got up, tugging on her curls as she left. Her eyes stung. They always stung after talking with Elenwen. The woman was worse than chopped onions.
She walked through the halls of the Thalmor embassy, the wine-coloured rugs beneath her feet felt like they amplified her footsteps, rather than muffling them. She made her way down the stairs from Elenwen’s office and out the door into the courtyard. The screams were quieter there.
Her feet crunched through the snow as she walked over to the fence that surrounded the embassy. She pressed her face up against the cold metal for a moment, simply staring out at the Haafingar valley. She could just barely make out the river that served as its centre. Her eyes traced the little ribbon of blue until they rested on the little black structure that she knew was marked “Dragon Bridge” on the map she had in her office. She sighed and gently removed herself from the fence, heating it slightly with magical flames so that it wouldn't rip her face off.
“I don't need to be Nerevar,” she mumbled under her breath, giggling a little. It was probably very wrong to joke about that, but she was too exhausted to care. And then the first golden rays of Magnus slipped over the rooftop.
She then went to her office. Office was a very generous term for where Iriae worked. Work was also a very generous term for what she did, but it was tiring nonetheless.
The basement of the building that Elenwen used to meet with guests and possible allies– what Iriae had taken to affectionately calling “the facade”– was where she spent most of her time. It was dark until she lit up the candles she had snatched from the remnants of dinner parties. The flickering light they cast lit up the stacks of books piled high around a rickety desk. The edges of the table were worn and smooth. Ink stained the wood, and a pile of broken quills lay discarded on the floor beside it, but away from the books. A stack of clean paper, small leather-bound journals, sealed jars of ink, clean quills, paintbrushes, and a pallet of watercolour paints were placed very neatly on one corner of the desk. A well-loved inkwell sat on the other corner, stained black with ink. The stool she had was wobbly and worn, but there were a few tools in the corner of the room for repairing it.
She sighed and walked to the desk, sitting herself down on the stool before reaching over to grab one of the books on the floor. The text on the front cover was angular and straight. She flipped it open and stared at it for a long moment before putting her nose to the page and taking a slow inhale. She sighed and put her head on the desk, gently shutting the book.
“Dragons… dragons? Dragons are extinct. They've been that way since what, the second era? Why would I bother with dragons?”
Her focus shifted to the books again and she picked up one of the candles. Carefully, as to avoid spilling any of the hot wax, she lowered it to shed light on the stack of books as she carefully picked each up and then put it in a new stack just to the left. Finally, she lifted a relatively thick manuscript, bound in dark leather, and put it on the desk. She set the candle back down and turned her attention to the book.
“Tinvaak,” she murmured. “Oh what I'd give to speak with with a real dragon… preferably one that won't kill me, but I digress.” She scoffed and started flipping through the pages of the book– each with dozens of jagged characters written on their surface. “You're talking to yourself, Iriae. You're doing it again, ya weirdo…”
“Yeah? Well, it's better than sitting in silence.”
“You have a flute, silly, use it to fill the silence.”
“I can't very well play my flute and read, now can I?”
“Well, why are you talking to me, then?”
“Because I can mindlessly flip through this lovely book while I talk to you, can't I? It doesn't take any hands to talk to you.”
“Stop acting like you're two different people, you're just a crazy lady who's desperate for real people to talk to.”
Iriae gasped. “You take that back!”
And then she heaved another sigh and picked up one of the thicker journals on her desk. “I ought to bring this with me. To make notes of anything interesting.” Another unhappy sigh. “If there is anything interesting…”
***
The Nordic ruin was a little ways off from the embassy. The stone sloped up into a glorious arch with intricate scenes of the Merethic-era dragon cult carved into the walls. Iriae held up a torch to the images and squinted. Snow and wind buffeted her cloak and chewed at her skin.
“This doesn’t say much about dragons,” she called to her group. She carefully traced the draconic runes etched into stone. “Not a single Dov appears here…” The torch was blown out by the wind and she mumbled a curse. “Let’s try inside. At least we’ll get out of this cold, too.”
The five Altmer entered the ruin. It was as silent as the dead within, but noticeably warmer than the snowstorm outside. Two of them began to set up a makeshift camp while Iriae and the other two continued to explore the area a little bit.
More carvings were scattered across the walls. Iriae cast Candlelight, watching the blue ball of light hang above her head. The glow lit up the images more steadily than a torch, and she began to study them, tracing them with her fingers. A thick layer of dust came away with her hand. She brushed it off on her robes and continued to examine the walls.
Her companions began exploring the rest of the ruin while she worked on trying to read the stories left by ancient people long dead.
“Nothing,” she said, stepping back. “It's all nothing!” The light disappeared, and she kicked the wall and heaved a frustrated sigh. “This whole operation is stupid. Nothing is coming of it!”
One of her companions, a Mer in his early hundreds named Amkar, walked over and looked up at the wall. “Nothing's coming of it?”
“There's nothing here,” she cried. “I don't know why Elenwen sent us here! She didn't give any directives, and the one she ‘gave’ was vague as Oblivion and makes no sense!”
Amkar nodded solemnly. “Ah yes. She's quite the bitch, isn't she?”
Iriae’s eyes bugged out and she whirled around to look up at him. “Wha–”
“Most of us want to say it,” he said, looking down at her. “Those who don't want to kiss up to her. For a bonus or something, but gods know we're not getting paid enough.”
She nodded slowly. Their gazes returned to the wall.
“Hey,” Amkar said lightly. “Even if there's no real information here, at least it's very pretty to look at. Those Nords sure were on to something…”
“Weird to hear that from a Thalmor soldier,” she pointed out, pulling out her journal and beginning to sketch the crarvings.
“Just because I'm a racist doesn't mean I can't enjoy art,” he said.
She took a long pause trying to figure out if he was being serious or not. “Are you joking?”
“Am I?”
And that was where he left her.
Iriae followed him a little bit later, going to sit by the fire with the others. It was warm and comforting, and provided enough light for her to finish her sketch. She noticed that it felt like the air wasn't stale like it should be. Something sealed away for so long should have been mustier. And yet, it smelled relatively normal, not too much different from an old house, or a well-lived-in basement.
The other members of her party had removed most of their armour, and were mostly just talking among themselves. One of them pulled out a pot and some dried rations.
“Pass me your waterskin, Norendo,” she said, holding her hand out to him.
Norendo scoffed. “No! Use your own, Alwe!”
“There's snow outside,” the third member pointed out. She was busy poking the fire, but not too busy to join the conversation. “Scoop that up and melt it down.”
“Alright then, mother,” Alwe huffed. She grabbed the pot by the handle and walked towards the entrance of the barrow.
A breath of frigid air made its way to them while she walked back with the pot full of already melting snow.
“I swear to Phynaster, if there are old dead Nord bits in this snow, I'm going to take that hundred years back off your lifespan, Camia,” she threatened.
Camia, clearly the eldest of the group, chuckled. “The dead Nord bits should all be inside the Barrow. They're not buried outside, are they? No. They're all inside. And dead!” She got up and took the pot from Alwe. “Don't worry your lovely little blond head about it.”
“Don't talk to me like I'm a kid,” the other huffed. “I'm a perfectly capable adult!”
“Oh yes, so very capable.”
Alwe mumbled, “oh yes, so capable!” under her breath is a high, mocking voice.
“Why are you two fighting?” Iriae asked.
“Oh, that’s my mother,” Alwe sighed.
“Oh!” Iriae felt her cheeks flush, and she looked between the two women again. “I guess I didn't notice the similarities.”
Camia laughed and reached a hand over to ruffle Alwe’s hair. “I used to be retired, but I joined the war effort during the Great War to make sure my daughter was alright.”
“She joined as a medic,” Alwe clarified. “And she didn't need to. But it was nice to see a familiar face every night after coming in from the battlefront.”
“She was also a medic, but we were in separate units,” Camia explained.
“There's more glory in being a healer than a fighter, in my opinion,” Amkar said. He poked the pot of hot water as Norendo added in the dried rations. “I would have died during the War if not for a medic. I don't remember his name, but he saved my life when I had my arm nearly ripped off.”
“How'd that happen?” Norendo asked, looking away from the block of rations.
“I fought a Blade,” Amkar said, sounding proud. “Those Akaviri katanas are no joke.”
“Woah… that sounds amazing!”
“How old are you, Nor?”
“I'm thirty.”
“Ah. Makes sense.” Amkar gave the pot a good stir. “Never seen combat, have you, boy?”
“No,” Norendo admitted. “But I grew up on stories of the Great War!”
“Trust me,” Amkar told him, “peace is better than war.” Camia and Alwe nodded in agreement. “After the war, during my recovery, I picked up a habit of going to art galleries,” Amkar explained. “Whatever beauty is in war is far outshined by the creations that people make during times of peace.”
Norendo stewed on this while he poked the embers of the fire. His brows were knotted together and he chewed on his bottom lip. “I guess that's a good idea to have.”
Eventually, the food was done cooking and the five of them settled down to eat it. It didn't taste very good, but it wasn't terrible. It was filling, and that was the important part. Alwe attempted to use Illusion to make hers better, but gave up after a few minutes due to exhaustion.
“How long are we supposed to be here?” Alwe asked.
Iriae shrugged. “We'll probably go back tomorrow or the day after. There's not much here. Tomorrow, I'll try to explore the main part of the barrow, which shouldn't take long. Then we'll go back to the embassy.”
Alwe nodded and breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. The air will get to me if the food doesn’t first.”
That produced a few chuckles from the other four.
They didn’t bother to set up watches that night, since the barrow was full of nothing but dead Nords and the snow outside made it nigh on impossible to get in– a problem for tomorrow’s Iriae, but a benefit at the moment. That didn’t abate the strange uncomfortable feeling Iriae had as she lay in her bedroll, staring up at the ceiling of the tomb.
The air was too fresh. It smelled too much like outside and not enough like dust and bones. She had only been to one other Barrow, but it had smelled musty and dank. This didn’t. It smelled alive.
Iriae got to her feet without saying a word to her companions. Most of them were already asleep anyway. Her footsteps echoed off the stone walls as she headed toward the actual burial chambers. She hadn’t bothered to arm herself– everything was dead here. The embalming tables were empty of bodies, which made sense for something that shouldn’t have been touched in a few centuries. Any new bodies would be in halls of the dead, not there.
The darkness was more potent there. Iriae lit up a torch and held it above her head. Flickering firelight glanced off the walls. The hallway seemed endless, but eventually, she came into another, larger room. She stood in the darkness with her torch held above her head. The silence was thick and uncomfortable, aside from the sounds of her light source. After a moment of hesitation, she pushed a little further into the crypt.
The walls were lined with holes, wherein bodies lay. The smell of millennia of decay couldn't be masked by whatever perfumes and oils had been used during the preservation process. But she could deal with the smell of the dead, her office was next to the torture chambers. It always smelled bad there, the trapdoor over the pit of bodies didn't do anything to help the stench. Besides, she thought, after four ages, there shouldn't be much to rot left.
The really disturbing thing was the footprints in the dust that caked the floor. They had no shoes, and the structure of the foot itself was shotty. Almost as if…
Cold dread trickled down the back of her neck as she began backing out of the crypt. She'd seen enough experiments done on corpses to recognize the feeling that overcame her. The chill in the air. The smell of powerful magic dragging souls back from their resting places.
She ran back to where her team was sleeping by the ashes of the fire. She doubled over, gasping for breath as she tried to stammer out her fears. “Wake up!” she cried, shaking them awake. “We need to get out of here!”
Camia groaned and sat up slowly. “Slow down, girl. What's happening?”
Iriae couldn't stop trembling. She stammered out a few words about dead bodies before giving up and shaking the other three awake.
By then, she could hear the murmur coming from throats that should have rotted out long ago.
“Bovul,” they rasped from down the hall. “Deyto fin Nahl.”
Iriae’s eyes filled with tears. “Please please please,” she whispered, backing towards the door to the barrow. “We need to go,” she cried to her companions. “Please! Now! Don't worry about your armour, we need to–”
With a strangled cry, an arrow found its way through Camia’s neck. Alwe screamed and collapsed to her knees, cradling her mother's head as blood spurted from the wounds to cover her hands. Iriae ran back to her side and tried to pull her away from the body whose life was quickly seeping between the stones.
“Please– you cannot do anything!” Iriae shouted, grabbing Alwe by the wrist and pulling her attention to her face.
Tears and red streaked Alwe's cheeks. “I have to try–”
“You cannot try!” Iriae told her, dragging her to her feet. “Come on!”
Alwe staggered after her, choking and weeping. They made it to the door, but it was blocked by snow. Iriae shut her eyes and blocked out the shuddering sobs to reach through Oblivion and drag forth an atronach.
Flames and stone materialised before her, and she snagged the daedra’s will and shoved it towards melting the blockage behind the door.
Norendo was back to back with Amkar, both with their swords drawn. Amkar also had some spell clenched in his first, which he threw at the approaching draugr. The resulting thunder crack broke even Alwe out of her grief in shock, if for nothing but a moment.
The doors became free just as Norendo was cut down, and shut just after Amkar’s head was wrent from his shoulders.
Iriae pulled Alwe through the huge drifts of snow for what felt like hours. Finally, they stumbled beneath a jutted out piece of rock that formed a shelter from the blizzard. It was there that Iriae lit a small fire to wash the blood and tears from Alwe’s cheeks and hands.
Little reddish icicles had formed on her chin and hung from her eyelashes. Iriae held a warmed cloth to her face. Alwe shook violently. Iriae awkwardly held her in her arms, trying to comfort her. It felt strange to see someone so emotional. Of course, it made sense. Iriae couldn't imagine what it would be like to watch her own mother die in her arms. She could imagine her father doing such a thing, but that certainly had a different connotation in her head.
“I should have tried to heal her,” Alwe sniffled. “I shouldn't have left her there. She doesn't deserve to rot with those… fucking corpses.”
Iriae ran her hands through Alwe's hair in what she hoped was a comforting manner. Saltwater soaked her shirt, and it was starting to sap her body heat. She hummed softly to her distraught companion, focusing what little magicka she had left to calm Alwe. The sobs slowly calmed down to sniffles, and then to quiet raspy breathing.
“You need to rest,” Iriae told her.
“I didn't expect such a young Altmer to be the one to comfort me like this,” Alwe mumbled, resting her head against Iriae's shoulder.
“I didn't either,” she said. “Rest now.”
Within minutes, the other was asleep. Iriae remained by the fire, feeling the weight of tired distress heavier on her shoulders than the actual body there. Once her clothes were dry, she pulled out a little blue potion bottle and took a sip. Then, she waved her hand groggily and watched as thin, shimmering tripwires surrounded their little alcove. Once the alarm spell was successfully activated, she allowed herself to sleep too.
For hours they slept, huddled together. The light of the morning brought with it renewed mourning for Alwe. Iriae helped her carve a few words for her mother and their fallen companions into the rock face, before the two of them headed out again.
It took ages to return to the embassy. Elenwen didn’t even bother asking about the others. Iriae took Alwe down to the barracks and took it upon herself to care for the woman as she lay there silently. The first mission she’d had outside of the basement aside from some expeditions to battlefields of the recent civil war, and she’d only managed to bring back one person. And that might only be applied to the physical body.
In total, out of her six years in Skyrim, she had left the embassy maybe ten times. Other than that, she was hid away in that room by the torture chambers, bent over ancient scrolls, carefully translating the materials as best she could.
Lying next to Alwe a few days later, gently braiding her hair, Iriae began to contemplate her situation. She was chained to the Thalmor. She was a prisoner to an organisation that she didn't want to be in, and that probably didn't want her either. They had done nothing to try and recover the bodies in the barrow. Not that there would have been much to recover, but the lack of care was disturbing.
Organisation is a gentle word, she thought, tying off the braid and glancing at Alwe’s sleeping but tearstained face. The Dominion is a cult.
That night, as darkness blanketed the embassy, Iriae slipped from her bed, and began making her way too the door to the rest of the embassy. She wasn't doing anything wrong, she reasoned. It wasn't like a member of the Aldmeri Dominion couldn't wander around their own station.
Besides, she thought to herself with a morbid little smile, my office is right by the pit where they dump all the bodies!
But, instead of the quiet, calm walk downstairs and subsequent escape that she had envisioned, Iriae found chaos. The sights and sounds that met her eyes and ears were nothing short of frantic. Justiciars were shouting orders at soldiers who were scrambling around corners and down stairs. Elenwen was standing in one room Iriae passed, questioning Master Rulindil with a sharp tongue and snappy gestures. The staircase was barely navigable, as she fell in line with those rushing down them. She nearly tripped on the last step, and barely avoided being trampled by grabbing onto the wall.
"What's going on?" she asked one of the mages passing her.
He rolled his green eyes. "Like we'd be told. Something 's wrong, though. I think one of the, uh, prisoners escaped."
Iriae briefly thought back to the wails of agony that had wafted through the walls from the torture chambers. Her stomach twisted, and it must have shown on her face. The dark-haired Mer before her chewed his lip and gave her a stilted nod before turning and hurrying off to where he was meant to go.
Iriae pushed her way outside into the courtyard. The frigid air of Skyrim in winter hit her like a brick wall. It took a moment to regain her breath. The courtyard was bustling too, which made sense, since the dungeons were in the next building. She slipped into the building that was the dirty underside of the embassy; the violent, bloody part that Elenwen desperately wanted to keep hidden.
Her office was downstairs, the path almost lighting up in her mind as she hurried along. The minute she had the door open, she was scooping books and journals and writing supplies into her backpack. Anything she couldn't live without, which was mainly her dictionaries she'd handwritten, her nice pens, the letters from her siblings, a few ancient manuscripts she'd only ever come across once, her flute, some alchemical ingredients, and her watercolors. And her skooma pipe, which had never touched moon sugar.
With heavy backpack in hand, she made a mad dash for the torture chambers. She'd only seen bodies being dragged out once, but the sight was burned into her brain like a brand. She crouched by the trap door and fiddled with the lock for a bit before getting it open. Foul air met her nostrils, and she recoiled, trying not to retch. She could hear footsteps and loud, frustrated voices coming towards her, and that was all the push she needed.
The drop was farther than she'd expected. Her feet slammed into the ground and her knees gave way. With a whimper, her body thudded into the rocky ground. She pushed herself up onto her hands and knees, gasping.
The first thing she noticed was the smell. Of course, the pit where they dumped the bodies wouldn't smell good, but it smelled really bad down there. Not like the decay in the barrow, more like walking past a sheep pen.
That was when she heard it. Heavy, huffy breathing, like a draft horse after a hard day of labor. Iriae had never encountered a bear, but if she had, that would have been a better example of what she was hearing. Fortunately for her health, but unfortunately for her ability to identify the threat, Iriae had encountered nothing but docile animals that made such noises. Until the thing smelled her, and started roaring.
Iri peeked over the edge of the ice shelf she was on, and nearly soiled herself. Before her was a huge, hulking, hairy beast, who looked up at her with three beady eyes. It roared again, nearly stopping her heart.
"Oh no," she whispered, scrambling back from the edge, hands struggling to find traction on the frozen shelf. She shut her eyes tightly and reached out to Infernace with all the mystic strength she could muster through the adrenaline. Much to her very vocal displeasure, the only thing that met her summons was a little fiery pixie.
Sensing that its wrangler wasn't of the soundest mind, it fought desperately to escape her grasp. Iri growled through her teeth and used every bone in her body to will the little shit to go harass the troll. Fortunately for her, the atronach also enjoyed that idea.
As the troll started to try and swipe at its miniscule assaulter, Iriae took the opportunity to sprint as fast as her legs could carry her towards the opening. She tried very hard to remember what that book she'd read said— trolls were super territorial, right? It wouldn't follow her out of the cave. Not only was it being fed a steady supply of tortured Thalmor prisoners, it had a nice, safe, easily defensible home.
Once outside, she scrambled down the hill, freedom filling her lungs to bursting. Her escape was cut short, though, as she heard heavy breathing and a few stifled whines of pain. The source of the sound was a figure huddled up against a rock. Her skin was yellow and her hair was reddish-brown. A hastily-tied, bloodstained bandage covered half of her face.
"C'mon, Nellie," the figure mumbled to herself. "You can get up!"
She tried, unsuccessfully, to push herself to her feet, but her body seemed to be actively at war with her intentions.
Iriae stepped forward and nearly tripped as her foot found a rock she hadn't expected. The other Altmer flinched and whipped her head around. Her body tensed further as she saw the Thalmor scribe robes Iriae was dressed in.
Iri quickly dropped her hood and held her hands up in a placating gesture. "Don't scream," she begged. "Are you alright?"
The other Mer stared at her. "Auri-El preserve me," she hissed, recoiling as much as she could into the cliff side.
"I'm not here to hurt you," Iriae whispered. "Are— are you the prisoner that escaped?"
"Are you Elenwen's little helper?"
"No! No, I'm leaving!" She held her very full bag up. "All my things are in here!"
The other Mer stared at her for a long time, then her shoulders slumped. "Help me up, will you? My legs aren't… exactly cooperating right now."
Iri rushed to her side and scooped her up under her armpits, pulling as much of the other Mer's weight onto her shoulder.
"You look… bad," Iri mumbled. "What happened?"
"Would you believe me if I said a frost troll?" she asked.
"Yeah. Just escaped it myself. I'm Iriae."
"Cirinel."
"So… you're who I heard in the dungeons." Iri said, starting the long walks down the road towards Dragon Bridge.
"You heard things?" Cirinel asked.
Iri nodded. "Yeah. My office was right next to the dungeons. I'm… sorry. Is your eye…?"
"Dead," Cirinel grunted.
"Ah."
They continued to trudge down the mountainside. "So," Iriae began, "you got out of the Dominion's prison? How?"
"Slipped my chains, made my daring escape, got down into that rocky pit you just came out of, then…"
Iri nodded. "Frost troll."
"I just barely managed to get by it," Cirinel sighed. "You don't happen to have a healing potion on you, do you?"
Iri shook her head. "No, all I have is my, uh… skooma pipe."
"Do you tell everyone you've just met this stuff?"
"I don't meet a lot of people."
"Oh. I guess that explains it."
Iriae felt a little flush hit her cheeks. She didn't like that very much. It wasn't like Cirinel was wrong, but having her incompetence called out didn't feel great.
She pushed it aside, though. There were more important things at hand— like not being caught by the Thalmor patrols around the embassy.
The roads would be the easiest, fastest way to Dragon Bridge, but they'd almost certainly be spotted. Iriae briefly cursed herself for majoring in Alteration and not Illusion as they stumbled down the mountainside. It was slow going, especially since she had no potions to give her companion, and was worse at Restoration than she was at Illusion. Not to mention how being in an underground office all day and never leaving the embassy had left her in less-than-ideal shape. That fact was becoming as painfully obvious, as the aches in her legs and shoulders started up.
Iri was near collapse herself as the two Mer staggered up the stairs. The stitch in her side made it hard to breathe. It wouldn't have been so bad if she wasn't supporting a whole other person, but to say she would have been fine would be lying. Every time she did any strenuous activity, her lungs always felt thirsty for air.
The door swung open with a creak, warm light from the tavern spilling out onto the threshold. The chatter in the room came to an abrupt halt as Iriae dragged herself and Cirinel in. She beelined for a chair and dumped the injured Mer there as gently as she could muster while fighting to stay upright.
"Sorry," Iriae whispered as Cirinel hit the seat with a groan of pain. She turned to the tavern. Tense jaws and wide eyes met her gaze. Trying to shove down the nervous bile in her throat, she strode up to the innkeeper and dropped fifty septims on the table. "A room, please. And something to eat."
The inkeeper, a bulky Nord woman who looked like she could throw half the patrons across the room, looked between the money and the Mer. There was a long pause, before she said, "What do you want to eat?"
"Horker stew, if you have it?"
"Done." She swiped the money off the counter and into a pouch. "I'll show you to your room."