Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-5543592-20151108001053/@comment-5543592-20151108025042

Lazarus Grimm wrote: Danric said nothing more as he took the key. He didn't use his words more than necessary. Besides, his hands were his ways of putting words into action. They were his tools — his weapons. He'd let the aristocrats use their words to serve as their weapons.

He went upstairs, entered his room and sank down onto the bed. He had some planning to do... Danric, on his way up, passed an incredibly slimmy looking man on the stares, with an even slimmier looking grin. He looked like he was up to nefarious business of some sort, with how he was leaning against the wall of the first landing, but hadn't interupted Danric's climbing.

The furniture inside Danric's room was sparse. He had a desk with no chair. A creaky, grey bed. A table with a stool, and a lamp that sat next to an end table. The walls and floor were a worn, dull wood, and the white washed ceiling was covered in cracks. In fact, Danric could see into the room above his. His room had one window with what would've been a nice view if it didn't look out onto the slums of the Inner CIty.

The guard looked at Zir'Khan with a bewildered expression. There weren't many Khajiit in mournhold, espically not ones that greeted with 'good after noon.'

He glanced at one of his comrades before extending his hand to Zir'Khan.

"Papers."