Sulkan rested his back against the rocks, eyes closed though still alert. The rushing waterfall drowned out the sounds of the birds the nix-hounds, loud enough to hide whatever sounds he made as well. Unbuckling his greatsword, he leaned it gently against the wall before rummaging in his pack for a blue scarf and golden pin. Three times around the neck, pin on his left. One couldn’t overstate the importance of a scarf in Vvardenfel.
He reached into his pack again, pulling out a small piece of parchment that had been folded into quarters. The parchment was dirty, stained with oily fingerprints and bits of rust, the script messy and rushed: a workshop order. With any luck, whomever “Abnur Tharn” was would have been spoken to before hand: Sotha Sil usually guided those who worked under him directly. Anything was possible, however.
The Dunmer’s ears twitched at the sound of footsteps, tucking the note away and picking up his blade before looking towards the cavern. Where he had expected another of his own kin, or at least someone in ‘adventuring health’, there was an elderly Imperial. Lips thinned, though it wasn’t much of a change in expression, as he stood straight and rested his blade by his side,
❝ I hope you received your orders beforehand but, all the same, I will do my best to answer any questions you may have. ❞