The candles in the tavern had burned out, the inhabitants all resting in their rooms or in their mugs. Grond with his head on the bar, Errandran with his head on Grond. An hour past. Then another. There was a light stirring in some deep corner of the tavern, nothing that anyone minded.
The door opened. No, not opened, SHATTERED, a large orc was flung through the air, across the bar, blood coating his pale green skin, turning it an ugly violet. A shadowy figure stood in the doorway, a red glow in his eyes and toothy grin on his face. The orc struggled to get his bearings, standing and tripping over Grond to find his way to the floor, nose first. The figure in the doorway approached, his simple iron blade bare, his light violet skin fluorescing in the darkness, a soft, cold glow. A green light burst from his hands and the orc, still trying to get up, suddenly fell asleep.
Maxwell, the Dunmer who'd so severely damaged this orc, hoisted his foe onto his shoulders and slowly, shakily, made his way to the door. Once he was out he placed the Orc on his horse.
"Home," he whispered in the horses ear, and off it went, to Anvil, to Maxwell's home.
Maxwell turned back into the tavern, just as still as it had been before his entry, just in time to see Grond's blues eyes glint in the sunlight.
"You need a drink.... A REAL drink," the Nord said, thrusting a bottle into Maxwell's hands.
"I suppose I do," Maxwell laughed, taking the bottle and drinking deeply. Then, without another word, Grond plopped back to the bar and began snoring.
There they sat, the tavern now lit by a shattered door, until late in the day.