Gelebros stalked down the main street of Anvil, walking through the main gates of the city nervously - he didn’t like staying in cities as a matter of course, having grown up deep in the forests of Valenwood. However, needs must, and he needed septims. The last of what he had taken as a guerilla fighting the Dominion had long since vanished, and he lived only by his own capabilities - but he knew he couldn’t live like that forever, day to day with no direction or purpose beyond surviving. He must have looked suspicious, because a guard accosted him - with his armour covered with a deep, hooded cloak, he could have been anyone.
“Oi, what’re you doing skulking about? We don’t want anymore riff-raff on our streets!”
Turning towards him, the Bosmer gracefully pulled his hood down to reveal his tanned skin, high cheekbones and emerald eyes, and his chocolate coloured hair spilled from beneath the material of his cloak. “I am not ‘skulking’, my good sir,” he replied with a mocking smile on his face, “I am actually looking for work here in this ... Charming city.” The last two words were pointed, and apparently made the guard a bit uncomfortable, because he looked away briefly, and couldn’t seem to meet the elves’ eyes again.
‘Clearly he thought I was an Imperial beggar,’ he told himself with a smile, shaking his head.
“Well, yes, then, a-hem, carry on. Welcome to Anvil ...” But Gelebros had already started walking away, looking around with interest; it still seemed incredible to him how all of the cities of Cyrodiil were so completely different - Leyawin and Bruma, Bravil and Chorrol, Skingrad and Anvil. The streets had more people than he was used to, and whilst nervous he attempted to try and fit in, moving easily around the crowds. His eyes alighted upon a specific building and he smiled. ‘The Fighter’s Guild,’ he muttered, smiling, ‘Surely they’ll have work?’ he asked himself quietly.
He was, however, to be disappointed. As soon as he entered the building, he was confronted by a gruff man, who was talking to a slender, powerful looking woman. They turned at the sound of the door opening, and looked at him with hard faces. “Work?” the man asked bluntly, at which Gelebros only nodded mutely.
“There is none. Try the Flowing Bowl. On the docks. Barkeep usually has a few leads.” With that, he turned back to his conversation, only stopping when the woman gestured at the Bosmer who had failed to move. She turned to face him front on, frowning slightly.
“You can go now, Elf. There is no work!” The sound of her voice caused Gelebros to start, and she smirked. “Maybe you aren’t looking for the right kind of work, now I look at you.”
Then it was the elf’s turn to frown, marring his handsome face. [b]“I was just wondering what such a beautiful woman was doing with a troll - it took me a second to recognise the Nordic heritage. I do sincerely apologise.”[b] The man growled, and the Bosmer’s frown turned into a smile as he spun on his heel. Slowly, he made his way down the short street to the Dock Gate’s of Anvil and took a breath of the sea air, chocking slightly on the sudden onslaught of unexpectedly salty air. As he grew accustomed to it, he started to look around the ships bobbing further out in the sea, awaiting their chance to dock. He grimaced. So far, his time in Anvil hadn’t been the most fortuitous, but he decided that the Flowing Bowl was as good as anywhere - at least he could have a drink there, and maybe rent a room. ‘Although the ground might be more comfortable,’ he thought, thinking back to past experiences in inns. ‘Not that the bed was the main attraction!’ A grin crossed his face, and with that delicious thought in mind he walked down the docks to the door of the inn; not the fanciest he’d ever seen, but serviceable enough. Pushing on the door, he grimaced again, before shrugging and walking to the bar. The man serving looked at him pointedly. “Drink?”
“Why yes, I’d love one. Wine, I think.” The innkeep turned to grab a grimy bottle. “But ... Not swill! I refuse to drink human wines; they make me feel ill. A bosmer wine, if you have it. Brandy if not, I think ...”
With a snort, the innkeep turned further and grabbed another bottle from further back, and passed it over the bar. Gelebros started to turn and walk away when a hand grabbed the back of his cloak. “You owe me. It costs ten drakes.”
“But you offered me a drink ...” the elf protested, smiling. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a coin bag, and took a handful. Sliding nine septims over the bar, he flicked the last up into the close air, taking the opportunity to move back slightly when the man let go of his cape. “Oh, and I was ... Referred here, by some Nordic brute at the Guild. Said you could point me to work?”
“Yeah, I can,” was the reply, and a pointed look at the purse still held in his hand. Three more coins passed over the worn wooden surface, and a nod was given in the direction of Dreyva. Gesturing for the elf to come closer, the barkeep muttered, “That’s Dreyva. Smuggler. Looking for a crew. Best going, from what I hear.” And that was that. The man turned and wiped glasses, serving other customers. ‘So much for courtesy,’ he smiled to himself, shaking his head. Uncorking the bottle, he took a swig and looked at the Dunmer and his drinking companion. He waited for some others to gather and then joined them.
"Come for the job, eh? So here's what we have then, tell me your names and your skills. So, let’s get to the introductions then, I have no doubt you know who I am, but what about everyone else? Arvena what do you make of them?" One of Gelebros’ eyebrows raised at this point; the Dunmer was far too arrogant for his own good. ‘That will be the death of him,’ he thought wryly, and shook his head, a miniature smile pulling at his lips. He stepped forward and answered first.
“My name is Gelebros, called ‘Greenwood’. I am skilled in stealth and archery - I’d best any of the others present, I have no doubt. I can hit a sparrow at five hundred yards, using just my ears to guide me. I can become invisible to those I wish not to see me; if I so wanted, I could be less than a foot away, aiming an arrow at your eyes and you wouldn’t even know I was there. And that is who I am. I am also pretty deft with my hands; picking pockets is second nature. A ... Natural gift, say.”
Malochai von Carstein; Terror of Hunger Wood, Lord of Lichenhof Tower
Last edited by Malochai; 01-22-13 at 08:19 PM.