The Wobbly Goblet Playground Options

[Rohirrim]

Khan shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Maxical, I am glad to have met you. May Azura favor both of us. Now, I've got to get me and Bran here supped and bathed."

And with that, Khan walked away.

[mALX]

*

Maxical:

Maxical held up her hand stiffly and turned it from side to side in imitation of the late Uriel Septim's royal wave to the crowds. She hated to even think of him as belated. Beloved yes, but never belated. He'd live in her memory as long as she was on Nirn.

Watching that dog wolfing down the ham Khan gave him made her glad the dog hadn't decided to taste her bony legs. As little as she was, he'd have swallowowed her in no time.

She sighed, leaning her back against the wall again and scanning the crowds for anyone who looked like they may poison someone.

[Rohirrim]

Khan sat in the wooden bathtub, reflecting on the day's events. "Well," he thought aloud, "at least there's a steady supply of company to be had, and the food is indeed excellent." Turning to Bran, he smiled. "Our bags should be down from Skyrim in a few days, and you know what that means. Yes indeed. Fishing and hunting out the eyeballs. It'll be fun. Alright," Khan said, stepping onto the slick wooden floor, "your turn, buddy."

[Rohirrim]

Khan stepped out onto the grounds around the Goblet, Bran following closely behind. They were both thoroughly refreshed from their food and bath. It was late at night now, and no one else seemed to be around. They stopped at the pond.

Khan sat down on on of the rough benches beside the pond. He sighed. And he thought. Thought of his wife, back in Skyrim. Thought of the past, in the war. Thought of the tribe that he still owed his allegiance too, high in the Jeralls. Thought of his days in the guard. Thought of the future, and his unborn child. Thought of Alamere, his blood brother gone astray. Thought of Jalvus, his spirit brother gone to the house of his fathers.

And he thought of them both, and wept.

[Darkness Eternal]

Lycus took pieces from the large loaf of bread that was in his hand, popping them into his mouth from time to time to sooth his growing hunger. He'd remain inside the inn, but outside he could be himself. Nature. The stars, the wind, the grass and the dirt. It was his home and he felt right there.

The visions were gone, the pain was gone, too. Abiene had done a splendid job. He mentally thanked her.

It was night over Cyrodiil and the crisp air felt wonderful against his skin. He only had a few nights to enjoy this, for the following dark hours would be only illuminated by an army of stars and a very full moon. He wouldn't remain near the Goblet when this happens. Though everyone is prey . . . he wouldn't bring these people closer to fate's door and push them over.

But as for right now, he'd have to find his woman's clothes. Put you to good use, she says.

Walking alongside where she last bathed, Lycus heard sobs in the air. He looked over one of the tall shrubs and saw a tall and well-built khajiit sitting on the bench, weeping. He'd wondered, only briefly, if he was related to that former slave girl only because of his fur.

Lycus wondered what could possibly make a man of this stature cry. It could be many things. The loss of a wife or family, even a friend. The loss of material possessions so great that could result in one taking his or her own life. Or even the pain of life upon his shoulder.

The man's hound took notice to his presence, surely sensing a familiar kin nearby. Lycus smiled, only faintly, at the sight of the dog. Accessing the oldest memories his mind still contained, he reflected on Tiber, the young wolf cub he found and raised when living as a farmer. Wolves and hounds always was a man's best friend, a hunter's greatest companion.

"Such a beautiful night to be weeping," Lycus said as he approached the man from the side, standing there. "Plenty of things to clear the mind from the burdens of the heart."

This post has been edited by Darkness Eternal: Aug 17 2013, 07:02 PM

[Rohirrim]

Khan looked at the man approaching him and smiled grimly. "Indeed. So what brings a man such as yourself to a moonlit pond in the prime of the night? Seems almost like one of those sappy poems the scholars write." Khan motioned toward the nearby bench. "Take a seat. I could use some company."

[Darkness Eternal]

Lycus parted the bread in half with his large hands, and tossed a piece on the khajiit's lap. He took a seat beside him, and leaned back to look at the dark sky above him. "My mind is refreshed when I am outdoors."

He looked at the man, without smiling. He does look like he can use company . . . perhaps he sheds tear of solitude? Perhaps some tavern wench can warm his spear.

It was always the case with a former slave that fought alongside him. A large Suthay who's custom was to seek comfort in the loins of questionable women and to drown in a sea of wine.

Lycus didn't judge this man to be part of the Krin, but he had the look of a fighter about him. Lycus knew, for he led murderers and cutthroats and killers of all reputations. This man was certainly no stranger to combat, but his heart is currently melted.

"What brings a man to shed away tears? Loss of a woman? Loss of coin? Family?"

[Rohirrim]

"Well, it is indeed a long story, such as the old crones spin around the fires in winter. You see, I grew up here in Cyrodiil." Khan took a bite of the bread and a drink from the flask at his hip.

"Bruma, it was, or at least in County Bruma. A tribe of trappers and furriers. That is where I got my love of the hunt." He looked the man up and down. "You have it too. I can see it in your face. The adrenaline is unlike anything else, no? Anyway, I had a brother, Alamere. He was our tribe's best. Nothing escaped the cruel twanging of his bowstring. Myself, I was always the sword type. Nobody messes with a tiger, especially if that tiger carries a big sharp lump of metal, eh?" He took another swig from the flask.

"I joined the guards in my sixteenth summer. I was paired with another young lad, as much a warrior as I. You learned in the saddle on that beat, and my, did we grow strong. The boy's name was Jalvus, Jalvus Svegarde, a strong young warrior of twenty. He could pull off all kinds of feats with that spear...said he got it from his days in Morrowind. Eventually, the Duke saw the talent in us, and sent us off to join the legion. This was ten years later. So we were on our way to City Isle when a horseman overtook us. Rebels, he said, funding a Skooma gang back in Bruma. It was only a couple of days before we kicked down that door to their lair."

"But the bastards were waiting for us. Ten crossbows, all pointed at the door, greeted us. I was wounded, got this scar, but Jalvus...." Khan paused. "Jalvus was killed. One of the rebels was packing ebony, one of Jalvus' old friends, wanted to get revenge on him for joining the Legion. The rebels took me as a slave and then, after a few weeks, I escaped. Took up drinking and mercenary work, both to help me forget. Then one day, I discovered something terrible. People were dying, all around Skyrim. The arrows, so perfectly fired, could only be Alamere's work. One of my brothers was dead, and the other was an assassin."

"So as soon as I finished mourning, I figured if I had two dead brothers, I could honor their memory by joining the Legion, and killing the man responsible for the death of Jalvus: Ulfric Stormcloak."

"That first battle, at Ustengrav, I was pumped full of adrenaline. When I saw those Stormcloaks, I went into what would be my first real taste of battle frenzy, the beast that lies within me. In addition to those soldiers, I killed five of our own. The Legate said not to worry, that those deaths would be counted as accidents, not fratricides, but I still couldn't shake the feeling that I was a murderer."

"Well, the war was won, and I married the girl of my dreams. Her name was Sonita, and we moved into a house in Whiterun. After a few months, she suggested I come here. You know, take a vacation, get the dog out of the house, see some old friends. But so far this has brought mixed feelings from my heart. So then, stranger," he said, offering him the flask, "what's your story?"

This post has been edited by Rohirrim: Aug 18 2013, 07:29 AM

[Darkness Eternal]

The khajiit’s tale was no different than his. Young hunter growing up to the call of life and getting involved in an all too familiar environment of death and betrayal and the loss of friends. The part of him being a slave for a few weeks was not missed to Lycus.

A few weeks, he murmured in his mind, try three and a half years.

Then, he continued his story and explained how it was personal. How he sought to avenge the death of his friend against a rebel leader.

“That first battle, at Ustengrav, I was pumped full of adrenaline. When I saw those Stormcloaks, I went into what would be my first real taste of battle frenzy, the beast that lies within me.”

Lycus had his share of beasts that dwelled inside. The Dread Wolf of fear and doubt, that ate away at the walls of his sanity, one that he believed he could conquer if he made the right choices. There was the other beast, the violent one that every man is born with and that stirs when you put a weapon in his hand. And lastly, there is another type of beast altogether. One that fills a man or a woman’s mind with thoughts of the hunt and of other animalistic urges, the beast that only a few come across and even fewer can truly make peace with.

“In addition to those soldiers, I killed five of our own. The Legate said not to worry, that those deaths would be counted as accidents, not fratricides, but I still couldn't shake the feeling that I was a murderer."

Lycus could relate. He remembered well the first pains of guilt when he killed his first man. An argonian named Polish-His-Spear and later being the killer of two of his friends. It was a feeling that wouldn’t leave if one allowed it to cloud his judgment.

In the end, his tale of suffering had founds it climax with an antidote to the wounds. A temporary and sometimes lasting treatment for a frozen heart. Love.

Lycus learned to love. In fact, he’d learned it the hard way when women he sought to be closer with died by his own hand. It was a lesson that taught him that fragile creatures would never thrive in a place where a beast prowled. It was then that he had met someone compatible, a killer with a tragic life like himself.

Lycus took the man’s flask, and downed a bit of the drink before setting it down on his own lap. “A man shouldn’t walk the path of life looking over his shoulder, for he might miss his next step and stumble.”

He took a swig of the drink and tossed it at the man’s lap before settling himself in the bench. “I was born here in Cyrodiil just near the Great Forest. Raised in a peasant family.”

He crossed his arms, accessing the deepest memories he had. “My father had been drowning himself in considerable death by getting involved with the wrong type of people. The stress got to him and broke our family apart.”

Lycus recalled the beatings he received from his drunken father, and the oppression his mother suffered too. The feeling of betrayal knowing that her husband spat upon her loyalty with brothel whores at the Waterfront and the knowledge that her life was in danger because of his poor choices.

“I loved my family. I loved my farm and I loved my animals. It wasn’t my desire to see them go. I deeply believed that I could save my family, for I was the other man of the house. It was my responsibility to at least make an effort.”

“I spent my younger years hunting and collecting plants. Figured I could make and save enough coin to help with our situation.”

He left the part where he made offerings to Hircine out. Daedric involvement was a dangerous thing, and someone in the tavern already knew too much.

“I believed that I could make more coin if I gambled. I was one of the best card players at the Waterfront, you see. I had won more gold than I had done farming,” he scoffed. “One night I won against a pack of imbibed and ignorant soldiers who ambushed me a few hours later. I was drugged, dragged into a slaver’s ship right there at the Waterfront and sold in Morrowind without so much as a word to my father or mother.”

“Years later I found myself back here in Cyrodiil faced with the choice of paying for my father’s mistakes. I still honored the vow I made: to rectify my father’s debt and improve our financial situation.”

He leaned back and looked at the stars once more. “Life is not easy. Pain is a god, you know. A taskmaster. To be alive is to be a slave to pain. To breathe is to be a victim of its cruel whip. It can also be a teacher, too, I believe. For no lesson can be learned if not purchased with pain. It can break you or it can make you unbreakable. It is also power, for too much agony makes you want to change what is happening . . . to ease the pain you must have the power to stop it and power comes from too much of that pain."

He was no historian but he knows that pain is the wheel and engine of civilizations.

“In the end, it all depends on who you are and how much you work under that pain. The past will anchor you if you allow it.” He looked at the man’s tear-wet eyes. “Take comfort in joyful memories and let the horrors and lessons of the past fuel you, not drag you to the depths of despair.”

And with that he ripped apart another loaf of bread and shoved it into his mouth and quite frankly, the bread did nothing to conquer his growing hunger.

[Rohirrim]

Fresh tears flowed down Khan's face as he smiled in earnest. "Wise words, friend. Thank you for sharing them. You know, I feel much better now, hearing what you went through, compared to my tribulations." Khan stood up and put the flask back into his belt.

"Thank you again, kind sir."

Khan walked back to his room, Bran in tow. When he entered the room he looked around and frowned.

"Now where's my urn got to?"

This post has been edited by Rohirrim: Aug 18 2013, 10:06 PM

[Uleni Athram]

Hjalbir Starsight

Facing down three scrawny bandits brandishing pig-iron sticks, and demanding all of his gold, reminded Hjalbir of a certain parable preached by one of his old acquaintances. He remembered that it was about dogs. The story begins in a wasteland, he remembered, after a disaster that swallowed civilizations and reduced the various races into savage scavengers. In that kind of world, might dictated what was right, and the mightiest ruled unperturbed over the meekest. There were no rules to follow, only survival. Living in that world, was a little pup. He had been born to a couple of alphas; the male was the strongest, and the female was the smartest. Alas, but he had been born cursed; unusually small and with weak claws and fangs. The alphas, smelling this, cast him out of the pack; he was too small to even be a decent meal and the lowest packmembers deemed even him beneath them. So he was left at the mercy of the harsh elements, a mewling pup chirping for its parents. His lungs were small, and his cries either went unheeded or ignored.

One day, a child chanced upon the pup and taking pity, he took the wretched creature in. The child was parentless like the pup, and he barely fed himself picking through the corpse of the world. But nonetheless, he took him in, and fed him what scraps he could gather. Years passed them by, and they grew together. The child remained himself; weak, naive and oppressed by those mightier than himself, never standing up for himself, letting himself be led around like a follower. The dog took up after him, and they lived like that for years.

One day, they encountered a band of raiders gushing over a large kill they had made. It was a baby mammoth, and larger than any horse. It would feed them for a time. The boy and the dog saw this, and as was their way, they slinkered over and begged for the leftovers.

Unfortunately, the raiders were also cannibals.

They professed as much to the boy and their designs on him, but the boy, being himself, stood paralyzed with fear and absolutely did nothing as they dismembered him and ate him then and there. The dog saw this, and rather than help his owner, he turned and ran as fast as he could. Fortunately, he was small enough to be overlooked. He wondered the wastes all by himself, afraid and bewildered, and he went hungry, for he depended upon the boy's grovelling for their food. He didn't know how to hunt. As he wandered and drifted, he chanced upon a large carcass of a sabercat. He went over to feed, but he was not alone. A large wolf, ten times the size of the dog, had killed the sabercat and was not about ton relinquish his catch.

With a growl, he pounced upon the dog, hoping to add his meat with today's feast. But the dog was hungry, terribly hungry that he was not his usual self, and he fought back at the wolf. Desperation gave him strength; when the fight was over, the small dog fed on the wolf and the sabercat.

A good story with a good lesson behind it.

While the bandits were desperate enough to rob a man bigger and more skilled than them with malleable iron sticks, Hjalbir was not about to let himself be robbed and beaten to death. When his final words of reasoning simply failed to get through, he simply killed all three of them with contemptuous ease.

He left their corpse on the road, and continued on the black road. He had been walking for hours, alone on the route when night befell him. He continued on for a little longer, hoping to find a decent place to rest, when he saw the inn. It was a large establishment in a forest clearing, probably about three or two stories high, and it had a stable and several outbuildings.

He still had money to spare for food and drink, and there was a threat of rain in the night sky, so he saw no reason to camp and went to the inn. When he entered, his senses were assaulted by various scents of meat, the bright lights, and the soft crackling of a fireplace. It was a large building alright, and he spied several people. Among those people was a Khajiit.... with fur whiter than his cloak! It was clear that she was an albino.

He went over to the counter and sat, finally relaxing his taxed body. The barman took one look at him and smiled nervously.

Hjalbir gave him a nod as he read the Bill of Fare. Weeks and weeks of travelling had dusted him up; he supposed he could treat himself to a little luxury as he rested here.

"I'll have three of the largest slabs of grilled ham you have, two legs of roasted mutton and some of that stuffed mushrooms too. For drinks, I'll have.."

He scanned the menu.

"A large glass of cold milk, sweetened with honey please. And how much for a room?"

"Fifteen septims a night."

Fair enough, Hjalbir thought. As he waited for his meal, he surveyed the hall around him. He was curious about the white khajiit, truth be told. He had never met any albinos in his travels and seeing one in the flesh was curious.

[Rohirrim]

Khan saw the large, no, HUGE Nord walk into the inn and order what amounted to a small feast. What bothered him, though, was the insignia of the bear on the man's cloak. That was both the banner of Windhelm and the Stormcloaks, so it was a bit of a touchy subject. Nevertheless, Khan approached the man.

"Are you in service to the Jarl of Windhelm? I see your cloak bears his...and others...sigil. Ah, how rude of me, I am Khan; Tribune Khan, First Legion."

[Uleni Athram]

It seemed he had already attracted attention, as a muscled Khajiit approached him. There was a certain stiffness in the way he walked, and a glint on his feline eyes. He saw the mark of the Windhelm bear on him, and the Nord saw the Khajiit's gaze harden.

When he introduced himself as Khan, a tribune of the First Legion, his suspicions were corrected. It was only a matter of time, he supposed. But what surprised Hjalbir most was that Khan didn't attack him. Or even curse him in his face.

He repaid that courtesy in kind.

"Well met, Tribune Khan," the Nord rumbled in that soft voice of his. "I am Hjalbir Starsight, and yes, I once served Jarl Stormcloak. But what would a Tribune of the First Legion be doing here? Are you on leave?"

[Darkness Eternal]

Entering the Goblet, away from the light of the sun, Draken began to feel a strange familiar feeling about being around this area. Hackdirt was something else. This area had brought old and distant memories. Just miles away, three and a half centuries ago, he had rebels who wanted control of the region from the local count impaled and set as an example along the roads.

So much had changed that the roads now had flowers in place of pikes. Smoke had been replaced by scented air of pollon and grass and a small campite nearby is now the grounds of which this tavern was constructed.

How things change.

He'd figured the exterior might do the place justice, but the interior was much more luxurious than he imagined. It had the feeling of a simple family home with the comfort of a castle. There was plenty of food and wine to be had, and the people working there seemed to enjoy doing their work, which meant they did their task to the letter to near or certain perfection.

The sleeve of his velvet shirt was torn, bearing burn marks, his face was filled with blood and dust and his entire clothes an unholy mess. This, he was certain, would attract the attention of some of the patrons. So he kept to himself for a moment and retreated into the shadows near the fireplace to take a seat, though he didn't get too close.

He saw the bartender, already occupied with a rather large brute of the north. Is that even a man?

The Breton caught glimpse of Draken the moment he walked in and whispered into the ear of a young woman.

"Stefania, go and make yourself useful, go over there and see what the man wants. I'm sure he needs something."

Draken remained seated, rubbing the length of his arms while feigning distraction until she walked up to him. He turned his head with his mortal mask in place. To her, he offered a faint shadow of a smile and was delighted and yet unsurprised that she returned an even greater one.

Ah, that is right, he realized almost immedietely. I am the man forever trapped in this youthful form. Young ones come to me like moths to the flame.

Among the disadvantages of being a creature of the night and the various natural(or perhaps supernatural) headaches that comes along with them, he had to admit that this was indeed one of his many blessings. He thanked his dark patrons that he'd been born an attractive individual otherwise he'd spend eternity casting seduction spells that would had never worked in the start of his unlife.

Young women were always lured to him. In parties, in inns and taverns, and everywhere he walked upon. Not all of them were desirable, and the ones that were beautiful and otherwise unengaged in special relations had a very special place in his underground cattle cell, forever trapped in a catatonic state.

Sleeping beauties . . .

Draken smiled back to her in that knowledge, and to what she might have perceived as attraction. This was terribly obvious by her charming pout she just gave him. She was so distracted with his eyes and face that she seemed to ignore the scorch marks on his arm altogether.

Absent-minded, this one.

"What would the good sir require?"

Blood. A dark room and perhaps you disrobed, sprawled upon a bed and under my teeth.

She handed him a menu, and he scanned the page. "Quite a selection you have presented here. I would be delighted if you brought me a leg of mutton and ham . . . if you would keep it a bit fresh and only slight less burned, I would be grateful."

"To drink?"

"Surille Brother's red."

She nodded with a bit of a chirp. He turned around for a moment and her, after some time, looked at his arm and the side of his cheek and gasped. "Oh! What happened?"

"I am well," he said. "There was a minor issue with renegade mages not too far from here."

"If you need anything else I would love to help. Just ask for-"

"Stefania."

She looked puzzled. "How did you know?"

"An educated guess," he offered a sheepish smile. "The most beautiful women in Cyrodiil go by the name of Stefania. In old Cyrodiilic it means crowned. You have that presence of a princess about you."

"You're flattering."

He shrugged. "I am but honest."

Her face flushed with red. "I appreciate your honesty. Best honest words I heard all week. Well, I'll go get your order."

To plant the seeds of ideas in her mind, Draken added. "Ah, how much for a night?"

"Fifteen septims."

"Wonderful," he said as he reached into his coin purse. "I'll stay for the day, today. Depending on everything else I might even consider spending the night."

The expression on her face was not missed. She liked that idea, very very much. And so did he.

This post has been edited by Darkness Eternal: Aug 19 2013, 01:19 AM

[Rohirrim]

Khan's eyes softened slightly. "Yes, indeed I am on leave, after the war we all got a year's rest at least. Now, I don't care whether you WERE a Stormcloak, and as far as I know the emperor has pardoned all those left alive, but if you were to be found committing treason again...I am terribly sorry, one's heart should not dwell on such dark matters. Barmaid! A bottle of Ashfire, if you please. So, do you hunt? I've got some hunting gear being shipped down from Skyrim, and I think I'll get some people together during the Harvest's End Festival, if you're interested."

Khan looked down as Bran rubbed against his leg. "Ah, this is Bran, my war dog. He's served me well over the years, and he seems to like you." Stefania brought over the bottle of mead, and Khan uncorked the bottle before disposing of the cork. He took a large gulp of the spicy-sweet Solstheim brew. "Lovely place, Solstheim. Ever been?"

This post has been edited by Rohirrim: Aug 19 2013, 01:31 AM

[Uleni Athram]

Even from here, Hjalbir could hear the sizzling of meat being cooked as Khan talked. There was such a fine aroma in the air that he couldn't help but lick his lips. It had been a while since he tasted proper food.

Hjalbir then mulled over the Khajiit's words. So the rebels were pardoned then? That was lenient of the Emperor, but Hjalbir supposed that was the logical choice, if humankind must stand together against the Dominion. But that was a talk for another day. Right now he considered the Khajiit's offer. It wouldn't hurt, he decided, and there must be a promise of pay.

"I'll consider it," he said regarding that and then looked down at a finely bred war dog between them. He was a husky, and he had a fine coat. The giant reached down and scratched it behind the ears.

"Bran. A worthy name. But most likely he likes me for my approaching meal." Hjalbir rumbled a soft laugh. "Dogs are smart like that. And yes, I've been to Solstheim once. A gentle land, but one full of dangers. Have you visited the Thirsk Meadhall? They rebuilt it, folks say."

[Rohirrim]

"Thirsk? I've been there, but the place was overrun by Rieklings at the time, and I haven't been back. Tell you what though, the Skaal are some of the nicest people you'll find outside of a Daggerfall harem. Just saw me coming, gave me a drink and a bite to eat, let me have a look round, and I went on my way without receiving so much as a "Who goes there". Not like those Redoran and Tribunal folks in Raven Rock. More uptight than a Qwama's...well, you know."

Khan took another drink, relishing the cold bite of the icy beverage. "So, you're from Windhelm? Nice place Windhelm, beautiful old city. Shame the General had to damage it with those catapults, it was some beautiful masonry, especially on the bridge. Say, you look the type, do you have a homestead anywhere? I've got a little one in Dawnstar, hoping to give myself a little armory out there, get all the great monstruous weapons out of my wife's knife drawer." Khan was, by now, somewhat tipsy.

This post has been edited by Rohirrim: Aug 19 2013, 02:45 AM

[Uleni Athram]

"A firm, but fair lot those Skaal," Hjalbir agreed. His meal had finally arrived at last. Perhaps the breton barman had informed the cook of Hjalbir's size, because looking at the slabs of ham, even he considered it a large palatte. The meal was fresh and hot, and the residual smoke from it danced a tantalizing allure that seduced Hjalbir's nostrils. Bran was staring at Hjalbir's dinner intently. When the serving girl set it down, Hjalbir wasted no time in attacking it with cutlery. He gave a large and considerable cut of ham to Bran. From the spices and the way the meat was served, Hjalbir suspected the cook was a Nord. He gave himself a mental note to frequent this place, if only for the food.

He washed down the gastronomical delight with large gulps of honeyed milk. He turned to Khan.

"I agree about Windhelm, but I'm actually not from there. I'm from Markarth you see, and we had a little manor by Karthwasten."

He continued eating, and after several minutes of wolfing down the last of his dinner, he turned to Khan once more.

"Dawnstar? I would think that that place would be the last place any non-Nord would call home. Isn't that place a little too cold for you?"

[Grits]

Auguste

“Open another crate of Ashfire,” Auguste called to Riad. He opened a bottle and slid it down the bar.

Yetta staggered past carrying a serving platter. Lleris and Tooth followed with more.

Stefania trotted over to the bar looking hassled. “They’re still ordering meals!” she complained, slapping a drink order down.

Auguste opened the bottles while she filled a bowl with iron nuts. He debated whether to pretend sympathy and then put a boot print on her backside, or go straight to the boot print.

Before he could decide she was back serving her customers. He could stand to hear less of that mouth, but there was no fault in the way she did her job.

Bograk stood near the stairs, fists on hips. Two of the overnight guests faced her in the same posture. “Lleris!” Bograk hollered.

[Rohirrim]

"Ah, you see, I'm in the south, on the border of the tundra, so it's not blizzard country, just a refreshing nip. Plenty of game out there, and it's only half an hour by horse to Whiterun. Please excuse me; Stefania! Another bottle, and a plate of chicken. What do you mean you don't have; fine, fine, stuffed mushrooms, and a wedge of sheep's cheese, that oozy kind from High Rock."

Khan turned back to Hjalbir. "So what about you? What do you do for a living?"