A meeting in a crowded tavern

shi-ala:

Shi’ala coughed and spat out some blood as she picked herself up. She wiped the blood from her lips on her sleeve and glared at the Bosmer, wondering what his game was. 

She took a shaky breath to calm down her trembling muscles. The agitation and exhilaration still hadn’t subsided and she still wanted desperately to punch and kick and run. When she tried to take a step forward, however, her whole body protested against it. She groaned and ran a hand through her hair.

“Fine.”

She walked over to the tree where she’d left her stuff and fastened her cape about her shoulders again, hiding her bow and quiver underneath. She stalked moodily after the elf, entering the tavern as subtly as she could. She hated attention, and the fact that they were both bruised and bleeding didn’t help her remain inconspicuous. 

They sat down at a table in the corner, and Shi’ala immediately ordered four flagons of mead. The Bosmer raised an eyebrow at her. 

“One’s for you. The rest’s for me.”

“Understandable. One does need an exorbitant amount of alcohol to recover from a loss like that.”

Shi’ala let out a small growl. I could kill him, she thought. I could just kill him. I could make life a lot easier for all of Skyrim by just poisoning him. Right here. 

“I let you win. You know I could have incapacitated you right at the very beginning.”

“Of course, if it takes away the sting of defeat, then you should keep thinking that way.”

Their drinks arrived and right away Shi’ala grabbed her mug and downed it all in one go. She took the next mug and sighed. 

“What’s your deal? What do you want?”

The whole exchange forced the Bosmer to grin a bit. His roughed-up state was attracting some attention from overly curious or blatantly racist patrons, but Silinde didn’t seem to mind. If all else, he appeared to be completely unparsed from the vicious beating he’d just received. How did he manage that? Shifting from a prideful, ambitious lust for conflict to a completely stoic, apathetic guise? It aggravated her.

When the mugs came, he didn’t pay too much heed. His company thought otherwise, downing the thick, murky liquid in one hasty chug. An articulated finger traced around the rim of the worn pewter and Silinde’s attention was drawn elsewhere as he glanced off to the side, revealing a bit more of his scar. He almost seemed distant, as if his mind was somewhere far off but he was forced to exist.

“What I want?”

His sudden interjection was rather surprising. He’d been quiet for some time, silently observing the bustling crowd who’d arrived to get indescribably hammered. Silinde’s fingertip tapped against the rim of the full mug a few more times. “What do I want, Dunmer?”

Solid white eyes shifted in their sockets, gazing directly at her, then his visage turned to meet her as well. “Surely the inquiry of the age, girl.” First, he was cocky. Second, he was an eloquent asshole of immeasurable proportions, and now… analytical and enigmatic? He really was obnoxious. “To be honest,” he proclaimed, sighing, “I’m not entirely positive myself.” Speaking of obnoxious, he kept fiddling with his mug. It seemed he really had no intention of drinking, but instead kept it around merely for novelty’s sake. “There’s a possibility I’d trek the world over until my timely demise. Maybe I’m in search of something.”

A slight pout subtly formed across his marred face, and he glanced off again. “Maybe I’m in search of someone, instead.” He stopped tapping the side of his mug, gripping it instead. Another brief moment in silence passed, and suddenly Silinde’s personality seemed to shift entirely. “But, don’t consider even for a moment there is a slight possibility I’m referring to…” He glanced at her again, scowling. “Someone like you.”

As quickly as he looked at her, his gaze shot off to elsewhere.