A Chipper Mage

'Huh. Go on, you lot, back to work, nothing to see here.'

It took a bit of chivvying, not to mention moving his hand very pointedly towards the hilt of his sword, but eventually the townsfolk moved on to see whether the theatre would continue at the palace. Soon most of the market was empty, with the exception of a few stallkeepers who suddenly took a great interest in rearranging their wares. Trond turned to R’jhere and huffed, mopping his brow with a gauntlet. 

Insulting Trond was one thing, and a thing he had to deal with on a daily basis from citizens and superiors alike. That was fine. He could deal with that. But bringing poor, innocent sweet rolls into the discussion? That was low. That was dirty. This woman was clearly a dangerous, deranged criminal and no mistake.

Which meant she had to be treated properly, with caution, tempting as it was for Trond to draw his sword. He eyed the waggling broomstick carefully.

Part of the crowd was going to follow her, that much was clear, though the other half remained to gawk at Trond and R'jhere.  The Khajiit was uncomfortable with such attentions and shrunk into his cowl, tail between his legs as he tried to attract as little attention as possible.  He also froze to an extent, watching Trond anxiously and doing his best not to move- lest more people start watching him.  

"I grew up in Elsweyr for six years before my family and I— well, we had to move. We moved through northern Elsweyr and then Cyrodiil for a year or two, before getting separated in the Jeralls. After that, uhm— I believe I would save for another time if you were at all interested." Ma’Jaara shifted uncomfortably, pulling at her corset. 

"I knew no Cyrodilic when I came here, so I had to learn from the Nords. Suffice to say, the residents of Skyrim are incredibly slack-jawed. I learned more eloquent Tamrielic by reading. I assume that is what you meant by asking?" She pursed her lips, stealing a glance at the student’s bed. It was painfully obvious he was a full-fledged Elsweyri native. 

"That is quite a tale," he agreed, "This one would be pleased to learn more of it when time permits."  Even her clothing seemed exotic in nature, clearly not of Elsweryi design and lacking in both loose fabric and colorful patterns.  His own was almost obnoxiously bright- he was out of place here, but hiding his clothing didn't help that, so he'd wear what he pleased.

But rather than berate R’jhere further, Trond marched up to the stall and did his best to tower menacingly. Although he was not built for towering, being on the shorter side for a Nord, his size in general certainly gave him a considerably amount of presence.

'That's assault, that is,' he said, jabbing a thumb at the broom in the stallkeeper's hand. 'You could take someone's eye out with that, you could. And as for the rest of it, well, can't arrest you for speaking, can't arrest you for words, but this here is a citizen of Skyrim, see?'

He gestured to R’jhere. Most of the other shopkeepers were peering over now, thoroughly enjoying the street theatre, and a few of the Bannered Mare’s patrons were poking their heads out of the door to find the source of the noise. Their eyes flicked between Trond, the unfortunate Nord at her stall and R’jhere, delighted to have a scene breaking out which caused them no personal concern.

Either oblivious to his audience or enjoying the attention, Trond folded his arms and continued,

He was extremely surprised when Trond turned the situation around on him, instead going after the shopkeeper for assaulting him and refusing to serve him.  Such a thing had never happened to R'jhere before, and his mouth hung slightly open, tail stilling at the scene.  When he finally regained himself, he couldn't keep his ears from perking towards Trond at the woman, though all the attention from the Nords in the area was making him nervous.  He did his best to keep his tail from bristling while Trond spoke.

He continued to finish the fish that had been untouched for some time. “… it has been a good day, though.” Another bite swallowed. “Uh, aside from the blizzard.”

He peered at the mage, nodding at his book-filled arms. “… Would you like some help with those?” The Senche-raht’s words were smooth and elegant in his native language, and it was a welcome change from the awkward speech of the Nords.

Ja’rahk pawed carefully around the crumbling bridge of the Mages’ College, wrapped in a thick cloak that was firmly clasped around his body. He lifted his head and narrowed his eyes, peering at the looming spires before him, blurred by the falling snow.

"… hm." He tilted his head, approaching the gates. It was his first time to the College- he had worked with the mages before, of course, as a Vigilant he had many uses for the College’s magic- but he had never seen the building up close.

The absurdity of his situation hit him like a pile of bricks and he let out an unbecoming chuckle, albeit quieter than another mer’s. He took a deep breath, and regained his composure.

"Uh, I’m… Karis. It’s nice to meet you, uh… yeah. It’s been nice." He glanced back over his shoulder, rolling conversation topics over in his head. The mer was a slow talker, that was for sure- he never said anything he hadn’t considered carefully.

Finally, he decided on the one that could shed some light on the Khajiit’s situation.

Responding to the question he posed was difficult, and he allowed his tail to swish lazily behind him as he thought.  "It has been what this one expected," he finally said, "Which is to say, very racist and difficult."  He felt bad for Karis who had to live here, at least he could leave and go back to the college.  Karis was stuck in a city of rebellious, racist Nords who were always looking for trouble.

He was quick to trot after Valaire, ignoring the subtle glances from the other Thalmor they passed on the way to the archives.  The library was impressive and neat, and though it was not the largest it was stacked nearly floor to ceiling with books.  

R'jhere started at the tingle of electricity in the air, hackles raising as he glanced around for the source of the crackling sound.  While it was nearly silent to most, his sensitive ears had picked up on it immediately.  Whatever the Archivist was about to say to them was cut off and their book quickly located.  The electricity dissipated as quickly as it came, and the Khajiit made a quick effort to neaten his fur back down, as to not seem like he'd noticed.

Any sort of emotion on her face vanished, though, when the reaction she received was not what she expected.

"No, I’m— I’m twenty-three years old. I believe, anyway. I lost track after my parents left. No use having a birthday by yourself, hm? 

"This one does not find a need to track years, the moons cycles are enough," he explained.  "R'jhere's tribe kept track with those cycles, but ages and dates," he held a hand up, wavering it from side to side.  "Not so much." 

Did his forest cousins keep track of dates of birth?  It was possible, as the mer tended to congregate closer to that area, but he doubted it.  "This one does not believe the Pa'alatiin Khajiit keep track either, but maybe the trees obstruct the moons," he said with a shrug. 

His comment on the ‘magic book’ did make her wonder, though. There were all manner of books that could be considered magical to some degree, and she was certain that there was a book on Necromancy somewhere in the Thalmor Embassy. They had everything. She wondered if half of them even had a moral code.