Contagion of Madness

O N E

(track: "A Winter's Tale" by Jeremy Soule)

Jorin's arm hits the door of a building with a swinging sign that reads "Silverhome on the Water", pushing it open as he walks inside with heavy steps, boots making puddles on the damaged wood floors. The Breton pulls his hood off his head of long dark hair wet from rain water as the sound of the droplets outside quiets down once the door shuts.

The armor-clad man's footsteps make a resounding noise against the timber walls of the interior, his sword and chain accompanying the iron symphony.

Eyes are on the stranger, a man far from home, a visitor to the verdant lands of Cyrodiil.

"So, what's good to drink around here?" he asks, breaking the silence of the tavern.

A chuckle follows soon after, originating from the table of two drunkards. "Try the 'swine-swill' it'll burn the meat off ye bones!" one says. The two men break out in raucous laughter, lightening the mood of the patrons as conversations resume.

Jorin's head sways into a shrug before he approaches an empty table nearby, something close, a quick exit was always on his mind in case anything unruly stirs. His pack falls onto the table with a heavy thud, the contents rattling within.

He notices then that the two drunkards have begun to arm wrestle and make a commotion doing so.

"Can I get you anything?" the Altmer behind the bar asks over the noise to the newcomer, the gentle candlelight highlighting the elf's gold-gray skin.

"Sounded like the 'swill' was the choice tonight, unless you got any other recommendations," he responds as he relaxes against the backrest of his seat, his gauntleted gloves being removed attentively, a finger at a time.

He lets out a dry laugh. "If you don't want to end up like them," he gestures to the others, "then I have several," he says with attitude, his hand cleaning out a mug with a wet cloth.

Jorin chuckles in his throat once, "Whatever will make me warm tonight, and— perhaps a shepherd's pie," he remarks as his final gauntlet is tossed onto the wooden surface. The Breton pulls out an amulet that was hidden beneath his leather cuirass, an intricately carved silver pendant with an aquamarine setting. Images of vines with grapes growing from stems were carefully designed onto the face. He offers a brief and silent prayer before kissing it and placing it back beneath his tunic.

"Oh boy," the elf says under his breath and puts the mug up. "This is Bravil, nebarra, not Solitude. We've got mutton, apple cabbage stew, and all the stale bread you could want." He pulls down a bottle of mead.

A woman wearing an apron takes it to Jorin and sets it down. "Two gold," she tells him.

Jorin leans forward, placing five coins on the table. "Thank you my lady, let your charming friend know I'll take the mutton and— you can keep what's left," he finishes with a wink before leaning back in his chair.

She takes the money with an eye roll and leaves.

"There's never-a—you've had your head in the swamp too long. Those Argonians beginning to fill your brain with muck," a dark haired Imperial man, a bit tipsy, tells his friend at the bar.

"I know someone who saw one," the man argues.

"An actual gate?"

"No but... when he approached Kvatch he said the sky began to turn red like blood—exactly how the old tales were told."