A meeting in a crowded tavern

shi-ala:

Shi’ala raised an eyebrow at the Bosmer as he looked away. Meeting someone who didn’t know what they wanted was…different. Especially in this icy land full of brazen idiots who believed they knew what was best for everyone. She took her time with the second mug of mead, mulling over the strange mer. The bustle of the tavern kept much attention away from them, which was lucky considering how utterly out of place they looked. Shi’ala was clothed in her preferred nighttime outfit—muddy grays and greens that helped her blend perfectly into the landscape but made her stand out as much as an albino mammoth in the tavern. As for the Bosmer, he was wearing a strange amalgamation of mage robes and leather armor; practical yet worn gear. The fact that they were bruised and bloody didn’t help dispel the few glares shot their way, either. 

“You’re awfully flighty,” Shi observed, half-talking to herself in an effort to ignore the repugnant patrons. The Bosmer didn’t react, still lost in his thoughts and tapping lightly on his mug. 

She took another gulp of mead, finishing off her second flagon and setting it on the table. After wiping her mouth off on her sleeve she replied with a snort, “And trust me, cur, I wouldn’t do myself the injustice of presuming you were alluding to me.”

Silinde firmly clutched the flimsy pewter mug, continuing his mindless observations into the vibrant tavern patrons. A brief scan revealed the crimson-scaled Argonian had vacated the area, much to Silinde’s disappointment. He couldn’t believe he’d selected such an… unappreciative vassal for his prideful spiel. In a taste of irony, he considered the pain of rejection to be far worse in magnitude than a haymaker to the jaw. If he ever claimed that the estranged Dunmer didn’t have power in her strikes, though, he’d be blatantly lying.

Shi’ala spoke, but her absent-minded observation didn’t register with the Bosmer. He was far gone in the depths of his imagination. Hundreds of thoughts raced through his troubled mind. He was in a world of his own, consumed by conceit with a high regard for self-importance. Among all that, though, were fleeting thoughts of more complex emotions Silinde hadn’t quite begun to understand. They troubled him more than anything – excluding his ‘hunters’.

He was suddenly whisked out of his pointless concentration, blinking wildly. Slowly, the ambient shuffling of inebriated patrons and horrendous twanging of an out of tune lute began to fill his ears as he refocused on reality. Silinde hadn’t entirely caught what she had jaunted him with, taking a few more moments to himself to process it, and—

Oh, of course. An insult. Where was he?

His head swiveled at a painfully sloth-like pace, finally facing the Dunmer again. He was wearing an expression of pure apathy almost like a mask, dragging the tip of his tongue along his rather sanitary teeth in a similarly slow fashion. Silinde was confident he didn’t even need to say anything, instead letting his face speak for him – and his face said a lot. He hoped.