User blog:Lordkenyon/The Silver Talon Part 1: The Foreigner

Uvaryl was not quite sure what to call the settlement. It was larger than a village, yet smaller than a city. He struggled to remember the word Outlander’s used for such a thing, and after a moment concluded that it was referred to as a “town”. The town had a building where Uvaryl could rent a room and purchase food, which was known as an “inn”. The Ashlander still found the concept of such a building strange, but was not one to complain when confronted with convenience. When he entered the building, Uvaryl inevitably drew stares. He was in High Rock, only five days from the southern border with Hammerfell. These people had likely not seen many dunmer, and almost certainly had never seen one clad in bonemold. Uvaryl welcomed the stares. The swords at his belt and the shield on his back identified him as a mercenary, and his damaged armor assured his status as an experienced one. The stares guaranteed the townspeople could see what he was, and one of them could be in need of his services.







The inn’s owner had not lifted his gaze when Uvaryl had entered his establishment. Uvaryl was of the opinion that he was either a very industrious or a very vain man. One would only polish a mug with such care if they were utterly dedicated to cleanliness or exceedingly desperate to see their own reflection. Uvaryl placed his coin pouch on the long table. As with many things, he was unsure what to call it. The innkeeper stood behind it, and people would purchase drinks from the other side and sit in backless chairs along it. The innkeeper saw fit to look up from his task, and glowered at the coin pouch. It was a limp and empty thing, almost bedraggled. Uvaryl was never quite sure where the gold went. At one point he had entertained the notion that the pouch was cursed, and was eating coinage when the dunmer’s back was turned.That idea had been discarded after some time, as the bag would have grown fairly plump if its consumption met the suspected rate. Regardless of its outward appearance, the innkeeper had heard the bag’s dull thud and light clink, and knew that Uvaryl could provide a profit.



“Room? Food?” The innkeeper spoke in few words. This suited Uvaryl fine, there was little chance of words he did not know being used.

“Room. Food.” Uvaryl confirmed. His voice was heavily accented, and due to this his tone was often misunderstood. Not so with the innkeeper, the formerly taciturn man grinned at the Ashlander’s response.

“Room’s yours. What food?” Such efficiency was welcome, other inns in this province had made Uvaryl’s life difficult and complex. All the same, Uvaryl did not like this part. Many of the Outlander’s food had similar names, and there were many of them. There was one that he had taken a liking to, it reminded him of the ash yams of his homeland. When it was cooked it became soft and flakey, and was very good with butter. It also had a skin, which kept it together and trapped heat. Uvaryl decided to order one of those.

“Baked tomato.” The Ashlander answered, confidently.

“Baked… tomato?” The innkeeper seemed confused, and Uvaryl wondered if his accent had tripped up another innkeep.

“Yes, with the butter inside?” Uvaryl offered, hoping to clarify what he was seeking.

“We don’t serve that.” Uvaryl was heartbroken at the innkeeper’s response, but was able to recover from the malady and asked for a different meal.

<span style="color:rgb(0,0,0);font-family:Arial;font-size:14.6667px;font-weight:400;white-space:pre-wrap;line-height:1.38;">“Soup”

<span style="color:rgb(0,0,0);font-family:Arial;font-size:14.6667px;font-weight:400;white-space:pre-wrap;line-height:1.38;">“I’ll get some for you, cook should have a new pot ready.”

<span style="color:rgb(0,0,0);font-family:Arial;font-size:14.6667px;font-weight:400;white-space:pre-wrap;line-height:1.38;">Uvaryl liked “soup” for the most part. He wasn’t quite sure why he almost always ended up with a different meal, but had begun to develop theories. He wondered if this time, soup would contain the red round things with seeds. They were juicy, and apparently grew on a vine. He wondered what one would taste like baked. There were, of course, the orange-icles. They were orange, and before being chopped up reminded him of the icicles he had discovered while in Skyrim. The Outlanders had such a great variety of food, and Uvaryl wondered how they decided which to eat. He made such choices based on what he was able to name, but surely such a predicament did not provide itself to born speakers of the Outlander tongue. His ruminations were interrupted by the return of the innkeeper, who was triumphantly carrying a bowl.

<span style="color:rgb(0,0,0);font-family:Arial;font-size:14.6667px;font-weight:400;white-space:pre-wrap;line-height:1.38;">“Got your soup!” the man called, as he made his way to the dunmer, stepping mindfully to avoid spilling the steaming bowl. “Wife says she’ll try making a baked tomato for you, if you really want one!”

<span style="color:rgb(0,0,0);font-family:Arial;font-size:14.6667px;font-weight:400;white-space:pre-wrap;line-height:1.38;">Uvaryl smiled at the man’s exuberance. Perhaps meeting new people was a source of joy in the man’s life. In any case, the innkeeper’s demeanor was infectious. As Uvaryl opened his mouth to reply he felt a hand on his shoulder. Confused, the mercenary turned. The hand’s owner was middle-aged, his body softened and his nose reddened by drink.

<span style="color:rgb(0,0,0);font-family:Arial;font-size:14.6667px;font-weight:400;white-space:pre-wrap;line-height:1.38;">“You Ashen Sons?” the man asked. The words carried the scent of wine. Uvaryl was perplexed at how the man could guess the mercenary company Uvaryl had fought with, until he remembered the group’s sigil was still painted on his kite shield. That still didn’t explain how the man knew the name, let alone how he recognized the emblem in the cracked and faded paint. The Sons had almost never fought outside of Morrowind, and were not notable enough to be heard of here. Uvaryl saw no reason to lie.

<span style="font-size:14.6667px;font-family:Arial;color:rgb(0,0,0);font-weight:400;white-space:pre-wrap;">“Yes, I-” Uvaryl’s sentence was cut off when the drunk’s meaty fist slammed into his face, striking him between the eyes. The Ashlander’s world flashed white, and he toppled back into the long table. As he regain his footing the second punch caught him in the jaw, sending him staggering. Uvaryl was barely able to keep himself from falling. The dunmer had been in such good spirits, and things had just started to be looking up. As his vision blurred and his ears rung, Uvaryl couldn’t help but wonder what had gone wrong. He rose, focusing through his thickening thoughts, barely hearing the innkeeper’s yelling and seeing only the drunkard’s impending lunge. <span style="font-size:14.6667px;font-family:Arial;color:rgb(0,0,0);font-weight:400;white-space:pre-wrap;">