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Tavern Tales Skyrim: Volume One


DarkRider
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Tavern Tales: Skyrim
Volume One


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Please keep your adds to the Tales to 1,000 words or less!

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In the Mill Tavern...

“What a steaming pile of bulls-“

“It’s true, I’ve seen ‘im,” Ferrin scowled from behind the bar.

“Yeah, go on, the Dark Rider’s just a story from the old age in Cyrodiil; half-man half dragon...tell us another one half-elf,” the burly lumber bull of a Nord snorted loudly into his beer, “and you Bartap, just keep the ale coming till my gold runs dry or I pass out.”

“Aye sir, as ye like,” Balow answered cheerily, shooing Ferrin away when the boy began to protest, “let the customers have their drinks and be on their way boy,” his words were punctuated by a cool breeze from outside as the door was opened and closed, “ye have stalls to muck anyway.”

“Ghost will need clean bedding too,” Duncan Greyhame added striding up to them as he brushed loose snowflakes from his bracers, “snow’s already kicking up, going to be a cold one,” he slid a few coins onto the hard oak bar, “Ale, Balow, hot.”

Balow quickly filled a sterling mug to the brim and passed it down to his Imperial friend, “Ye have any luck finding those thugs from Dragon’s Bridge?”

“Make quick work of them?” Ferrin asked excitedly, whipping a ladle through the air feigning swordplay. The barkeep roughly shuffled the boy toward the door and he wisely headed out to tend the horses before the heavy snow started.

Duncan took a careful drink before shaking his head in reply, “Followed their tracks for awhile, but wherever they were heading it was higher country than we were geared for. Long gone by now I suspect, let the Legion worry about it.”

“That’s only if there’s anything left to track by morning,” Fiska interjected in her gravely tone as she strode up to the bar herself, “you can see the snow coming down the mountain, clouds are heavy, by morning you could lose a mammoth in it....and in my room,” she turned a keen aye on the barkeep, "The thatch in my room is not keeping the snow out."

Balow’s brow furrowed, “Yes mum, we'll get to patching it up quick," then turned back to Duncan, "Well if you decide to head out again ought to take Grond with you, they say he sniffs ground better then a wolfhound.”

“Grond?” Jack Rackham snorted from where he sat, feet up on the table behind them, nodding toward the snoring arm chair by the fireplace, “Old sauced before dawn?” he and Duncan exchanged a glance and an inside snicker at the Nord’s expense.

Balow shrugged, “He’s a Nord after all, drinking and tracking are in his blood, don’t see why one would impede the other.”

“The drink might not impede his tracking,” Duncan admitted, but then offered with a grin, “just his ability to stand upright.”

Their laughter was interrupted by a surly voice from the fireplace, “If you two hens are done nattering ye can come tell me what yer on about…and bring me more ale.”

Duncan sighed in surrender, taking the ale Balow had readily passed along before he and Jack made their way to the fireplace, “Don’t know why you play on like you’re asleep,” Duncan said, handing Grond the mug before dropping into the chair beside him.

“Right, contrary to what you might think, the ladies don’t actually find that sleeping drunk act attractive,” Jack said in agreement, “well, most anyway, there are a few of questionable taste around here.”

Grond grinned, “There's a lot to be said for questionable taste. So now what’s this about tracking and drinking?”

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  • 2 months later...

The Mill Tavern weathered the storm with ease, the dark clouds broke in the night taking the heaviest snowfall across the ridge to the west, and by morning a warm Skyrim sun had dried out the long grass; melting most of the blanketing they had received. Duncan Greyhame was seated at the tavern bar reading a tattered book and having a breakfast of porridge and wild berries which he washed down with one of the bar keeper’s infamous honey apple meads.

The tavern door opened and a strange figure entered cloaked in a dark cloth, a hood drawn up to conceal their face. Balow stopped wiping glasses and tapped Duncan’s mug to get his attention, tilting his head toward the stranger who was approaching them. “I am looking for a man called Greyhame,” the figure said in a hushed voice so low they couldn’t discern if this figure was a man or woman, or even what their race might be.

Duncan hesitated trying to weigh if this person was after his bounty or his services, “You’ve found him,” he said, finally deciding to run the gambit, though he rested his hand on the hilt of his blade.

The stranger withdrew a pouch of gold from within the folds of their cloak and set it on the bar beside Duncan, “I require an escort to Winterhold, my business is my own, but I will pay this sum again over if you guide me there safely before the end of Rain’s Hand.”

Duncan palmed the pouch, it was weighty, at least a thousand coins, he slipped it into his pocket, “Agreed, I’ll take you. Do you have a horse?”

“No,” the stranger answered.

“Balow will give you something to eat, I’ll collect my gear and the horses, and then we can leave straight away if you wish.”

The stranger sat at the bar, “I do, thank you…please hurry.”

The mercenary left the barkeeper to mind his charge while he hurried to his room to collect his second blade and the supplies he would need for a long trip. He left the stranger’s payment in the lock box hidden below his floor board, taking only enough gold for emergencies. From there he headed outside to the stable and while he brushed out Ghost, the stable boy Ferrin hurried to saddle one of the Tavern Mill’s resident steads, a steady chestnut mare called Gerta.

When the horses were ready, Duncan led them out into the yard and found the cloaked stranger coming down the front steps. They took Gerta’s rein and stroked her muzzle gently. “A kind creature,” the stranger noted approvingly before climbing into the saddle.

Duncan swung himself up onto Ghost and turned his head toward the north trail that ran into the wilds up behind the Mill Tavern kneeing him onward. The stranger didn’t even need to nudge Gerta as the mare simply followed Ghost’s lead at an easy walk. Winterhold was several days ride through treacherous terrain and Duncan mused, it might be some time before he saw the Tavern’s welcoming bosom again.

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