Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-29461586-20150518062512/@comment-5543592-20150519231309

Scire received his payment from the Breton manager.

“You know, you’d make a great fighter. And you’ve got a lot of years ahead of you.”

Scire just fixed the man with a look, as he proceeded to gather up his armor in order to cover his bare torso. One each bicep there was a tattoo that circled around the middle of the muscle, and on his back there was a large tattoo of a falcon.   Several of the men were watching him, staring at the intricate, archaic markings on his body with furrowed brows.

Once his Chitin armor was donned he eyed up the manager. The man was watching him.

“Your name’s not really Farseer, is it?”

Scire shrugged, like it didn’t matter, and headed off, away from the pen. He drew his dagger from its sheath and twirled it around on his fingers absently. It wasn’t long until he heard the pounding of footsteps behind himself.

He stepped around to face several angry looking Bretons chasing after him, about eight in total. They were all unarmed.

“Hey! Kid!”    One shouted at him. “I lost four hundred Septims because of you!”

“You kidding? This punk cost me six hundred.”

Scire took up an defensive position, holding the dagger underhand. They aggressively advanced on the Dunmer, and Scire was prepared to go on a killing spree, when a guard stepped in.

“Hold it there, men.”   The guard declared. “What’s going on?”

“This elf robbed us!”   One shouted. Scire didn’t even open his mouth to defend himself, his black, pupiless eyes twitching back and forth. It was impossible to tell where he was actually looking, as his eyes were a dark black color. It was the physical manifestation of his sense.

Scire, although he could’ve, didn’t bother speaking because the guard would likely believe half a dozen Bretons than one Dunmer. And the fact that Scire was armed, and they were not.

“I’m going to have to take you up to the dungeon lad.”   The guard started on a path towards Scire. The Farseer didn’t lose any of his cool, the dagger still tight in his hand. The guard stopped and the man’s own hand drifted to his sword. “Nice and easy. Let’s not do anything we’d regret.”

Scire hesitated a moment, before reluctantly sliding the dagger into his sheath. The guard didn’t deserve to be injured for the men’s idiocy. The guard motioned for Scire to walk out front, and the Dunmer relented, letting himself be led on.