[OPEN] this old town don't smell too pretty

[fenorvir]

Riften was a city with a notorious shadow to its name. Well, it used to be, anyway. Once the Thieves Guild had been the biggest operation of its kind in the whole region; just the sound of their name had people nervously drawing their coin purses closer to their person. Nowadays, well... the Guild still existed, but they were a lifetime away from what they used to be. Except from a fairly successful heist now and there, most people didn’t take them very seriously anymore. While they were still quite prominent, especially in the Rift, they didn’t have nearly as much of a presence as they used to. It was quite sad, really, how such a gigantic ‘business’ of sorts could crumble away so quickly.

The Guild’s decline was the only reason that Fenorvir felt even remotely safe entering Riften. Had it been several years ago, the Dark Elf wouldn’t have dared set foot into the county whatsoever, for fear of being robbed, mugged, or worse. Now, however, he could continue his exploration of Skyrim a little more freely, without glancing over his shoulders every few moments, overly paranoid that he was suddenly going to be missing his knapsack or coin purse.

Yet he still felt wary walking along the odd, wooden bridge-like ‘roads’ that made up the city, and still threw those cautious glances over his shoulder, albeit a bit less frequently. Fenorvir was nervous by nature, somewhat convinced that the inhabitants of Skyrim were, well, out to get him in one way or another, although he was easily swayed by kind words and a smile or two. Maybe Riften wasn’t the best place for him, but he was determined to travel the land and visit all of the holds and their capitals. Riften was one of his first destinations.

As always, the first place the Dunmer looked for was the town’s inn – it was best to get a room rented and sorted out early in the day, he thought. Pushing the gold towards the Argonian bartender, he politely refused her offers of food and drink and turned to go to his room. Closing the door behind him and sitting down on the little bed, the grey-skinned elf began to change out of his travelling armour, opting for more city-friendly clothes. Fen had a great dislike for wearing armour; even though he always chose Light Armour, he felt like he was lifting a great weight off of him as he took the bits of metal off of himself.

Walking back into the main inn, Fenorvir sat down at a table, again declining the various drinks and meals that were offered to him. He just wanted to sit back and drink in the atmosphere, observing the world moving around him. That was when the Dark Elf was most happy – sitting in the back, with nobody paying attention to him, and just watching everyday life move around him. The simplicity and peace of doing it really helped him to relax, and it gave him a feel of the town he was in, which was vital for somebody in a new place.

[BRYNJOLF]

Keerava certainly knew who he was, anyway, if the wary glances she continued to steal at him were any consolation. It wasn't an obscure fact that Brynjolf did spend a fair amount of time in the Bee and Barb - in fact, he was rather sure that he had spent more gold on warm mead and spiced wine than what the female Argonian currently owed. That knowledge, on its own, was enough to keep him leaning casually against a wooden support, glancing over at the scaled barkeep and flashing his teeth in a disconcerting grin every so often. She certainly looked nervous, barely able to focus on her clients while knowing that he was there. It was something he did best, sometimes. Looming.

Sure, he could feel Talen-Jei burning a hole in his head with the glare he was giving, but really, it couldn't be helped. The Guild had been more than generous with Keerava's debt, more so than usual, considering the preoccupation and... stroke of bad luck.

That was all Brynjolf could call it, really. He had been in the Thieves Guild for just over three decades; his family had gone through rough patches but always managed to bounce back. Even so, the normally unshakable Mercer seemed more antsy lately, more inclined to take out his frustration in the form of vicious, exasperated backhands. Absentmindedly, the Nord ran a hand over his jaw, the stubble rough on his palm.

Ahh, but he wasn't here to be melancholic and broody. The Bee and Bard was first and foremost, despite his current mission, a sanctuary for him. As if locking onto his current train of thoughts, his icy eyes followed the path of the newest arrival into the bar. Arms folded over his chest, Brynjolf let a more genuine grin light up his features - if it was someone he didn't recognize, it was someone he could stand to coax a bit of gold from. From what he could tell, the Dunmer was new in town; not only did he not recognize the lad, he walked with a certain shaky nervousness to his gait that practically screamed 'gullible!'

It wasn't unusual. Many a person stumbled into Riften fearful and jumpy, letting the town's reputation hang like a fine veil over their logic. Better not to anger a person by refusing them, no?

If one had the guts, one could handle Riften.

Seeing the swarthy male take a seat in a reclusive corner of the fine establishment, the redheaded thief pushed himself from his comfortable perch, strolling jauntily right over to him and placing a heavy hand on his shoulder with a rolling chuckle.

"New in town, eh?" Brynjolf queried affably, rather obnoxiously pulling a wooden chair closer to the table to take a seat across from the mer. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled.

"No need to reply to that. It's all in your walk, lad; I can tell." He remained silent for a moment, taking a swig from the tankard of mead he had been nursing since he entered the bar. Better to let the elf digest his sudden appearance before getting down to business.

Four or five seconds later, he spoke again (Brynjolf wasn't exactly a patient man, and a viable mark sitting right in front of him had him jumping at the bit).

"The name's Brynjolf. And if you're interested, I have a proposition for you, lad." As if scandalized, he leaned forward, tone hushed, a smile quirking his lips as he turned on what he called 'Merchant's Charm'; something that had him hauling in the gold when it came to his little stall in the Market Square.

"A draught, if you will, that could prove mighty beneficial for someone like you..."

[fenorvir]

Absorbed in watching the city’s inhabitants go about their day, Fenorvir was blissfully oblivious to the fact that somebody had their eye on him. His deep red eyes weren’t glancing around the more shadowy edges of the inn; the bustling centre of the building was much more interesting, much more honest and so much more to his liking than who or what could be lurking in the corners. Realistically, the Dark Elf should have learnt by now to watch the shadows, because the shadows were always where trouble began. And still he kept his eyes on the crowd, continually unaware of who was, in turn, watching him.

In fact, he was so closed off in his own little world that he failed to hear the footsteps coming up behind him. So much so, that when a hefty hand came down on his shoulder in what was a supposedly friendly gesture, the Dunmer was… taken by the surprise, to say the least. More so, it nearly made the elf jump out of his skin. He looked upwards, and was less than comforted when he saw that the person coming over to make conversation was a towering hunk of pure Nord muscle. Fenorvir didn’t like people who were strong. People who were strong could hurt him.

Once he’d gotten over the initial terror that this guy was roughly around twice the size of him and could beat him to an elven pulp in a heartbeat if he wanted to, the second thing he noticed was the accent. It was much different from the normal Nord accents, a world away from their odd lilting voices. The next thing he noticed was the Nord’s bright red hair, and piercing blue eyes. He was very… interesting, to say the least, and very much different from the norm of his race. But what could he possibly want with an agreeably average Dark Elf?

It seemed that Fen was about to find out, as the man began to talk again. Something about how he could tell the mer was a fresh face, just from how he acted. Oh, Divines, was it really that obvious? By the Eight, he was probably already the laughing stock of the city, hurrying around, constantly looking behind him and never straying too far from a guard’s watchful eye. Fenorvir knew that he gave off an extremely nervous and awkward demeanour – he couldn’t help it; that was just how he acted, and how he’d always acted. But he hadn’t realised that people could tell just from looking at him!

He let the Nord – who was apparently called Brynjolf – continue speaking, his eyes on the table as he listened to his strange accent. A proposition? What exactly was he propositioning? Gods, Fenorvir didn’t want to fall victim and become the scapegoat of yet another mercenary heist or thieving scandal. He’d had enough of that to last him a lifetime – more than enough. But, no, Brynjolf was offering him a potion. The Dark Elf breathed a sigh of relief; at least he wasn’t getting coaxed into some kind of dodgy sellsword business again. This guy was just a harmless merchant.

“Um, I don’t… I don’t really…” Fenorvir wanted to say something along the lines of I don’t buy potions from random Nords who start conversation with me out of the blue, but Fenorvir also didn’t want a broken nose. He stammered for a few moments, and then stopped. What was the point of arguing? Brynjolf was more than likely an experienced merchant, and the mer wasn’t exactly a hard target to persuade. He sighed lightly, and glanced back up at the Nord. “Uh, what does – what does the draught… do?”

[BRYNJOLF]

A tension in his shoulders Brynjolf hadn't even noticed leaked out, making him lean more comfortably back into the support of the wooden chair. He grinned wryly over the rim of his tankard, not at all surprised at the Dunmer's stuttering. Stereotypes were a thing to behold, weren't they? He had been brought up with the knowledge that dark elves were dangerous and mysterious: bloodthirsty and undeserving of a Nord's attention. Truthfully, the thief did not care very much for Ulfric Stormcloak's opinions, and look where it had gotten him: a potential target. Brynjolf almost rubbed his hands in childish delight: it would be the first genuine pull he had in a few days. People in the market were following Brand-Shei's footsteps and growing ever more skeptical of his miracle concoctions.

If anything, the Nord was confident that he could get a few hundred gold from the Dunmer, if not more. He just needed to play his cards right. Even as he talked, the gears in his mind were spinning, bright eyes gleaming as he sized up the mer. It was these kinds of customers that Brynjolf liked the most; fresh-faced and meek, too afraid to say no. They were second only to the over-trusting, friendly types who had no reason to say no.

Still, though... There was nothing like making a newcomer feel welcome in town. His intentions may have been a tad dark, but the Nord justified it to himself that this was just his lifestyle. There would always be that regret that the people he scammed would never be a companion.

Brynjolf tilted his head at the Dunmer's stuttering, letting his expression fall a tad with the apparent disinterest; whether it did or didn't work in his favor for the following, hesitant query, he didn't care. His face lit up in a grin. Without further adieu, he cleared his throat, calling over the barmaid and ordering two meads: another for himself and one for the elf. It would cost him, but Brynjolf was confident that he'd be some profit.

"It's on me," He said with a wink,

"You can't make yourself comfortable in a new city without some mead to warm your belly." Basking for a moment in the glow of success, despite the lack of gold to prove as such, Brynjolf almost forgot that he had to spin a wild tale to prove the genuinity of his product. He set the tankard down lightly, careful not to spill a drop of mead and with a subtle flourish pulled a golden vial from his tunic. Reverently, the thief placed it on the table, hands spread on a gesture that said 'viola!'

"Have you ever heard of a Draught of Strength, lad?" Brynjolf asked, his voice a husky murmur,

"Very rare. Very hard to come by. Just one sip doubles your strength without any nasty physical changes." The thought of a dunmer with huge, bulging muscles made him smirk a little. The Nord curled his fingers around the vessel protectively.

"It's all yours, lad... If you have the gold." The redhead rubbed his face again, leaning casually back into his chair and letting the shimmering potion sit there temptingly. The elf wouldn't dare try to snatch it, he was sure.

[fenorvir]

Although Brynjolf was clearly a merchant trying to sell his goods, Fenorvir still felt extremely nervous around the Nord, for a multitude of reasons other than the fact that he was wary of everyone. For one, Nords and mer didn’t exactly have an amazing reputation, what with the wars that had irrevocably damaged their opinions of one another, seemingly permanently. As well as that, there were always the horror stories more specifically between Nords and Dunmer, with such terrors as the state of the Gray Quarter and the attitude those inhabitants had to endure every day in Windhelm. And there was the general fact that he was a complete stranger… It all weighed in to make Fen feel very uncomfortable right now.

But despite his gut feeling of wariness, the Dark Elf was still unaware that he was going to fall victim to a giant scam. He was just far too trustworthy and far too gullible – while he knew thieves, bandits and the like existed, he could just never bring himself to believe that the kindly people selling him things or talking to him would associate themselves with such criminals. Every time he was scammed or ripped off, he would accept it and tell himself that next time, he’d have more luck. Next time, it wouldn’t happen. But, of course, it always did happen. He never did learn from his mistakes.

However, he was anything but untrusting of the man in front of him. There was a difference between feeling nervous and not trusting somebody, so whilst Fenorvir was very much showing the first emotion, the latter didn’t even occur to him. It was pushed away even further when Brynjolf called the barmaid over, and ordered another two tankards of mead, pushing one towards the Dark Elf and assuring him it was on the house. Fenorvir was stunned. As stupidly sentimental it sounded, that was definitely one of the nicest things anybody had done for him. “Th-Thank you,” he stammered, clearly surprised by the gesture.

Before he even had any idea what the potion Brynjolf was selling even did, the Dunmer felt compelled to buy one off of him now. This stranger had come forward, bought him a drink and made him feel welcome to the city, where most people would sneer at the elf, and actively encourage him to leave their inn or town. How could he not go on to entertain the merchant and buy some of his goods? That would be plain rude, Fen thought. Rude and ungrateful. He took a small sip of the mead the Nord had bought for him, red eyes following the golden coloured vial as it was placed on the table between them.

When Brynjolf mentioned cost, however, Fenorvir’s face fell a little. While he wasn’t a beggar on the streets, he wasn’t insanely well off. He had an average amount of money to his name, and he figured that such a draught probably wouldn’t be going at very low rates. Glancing at the shining vial in front of him, he looked back up at the merchant, mulling over the situation.
“Well… How much are – are you asking for?” he asked quietly. He wasn’t sure what answer he was expecting, nor what answer he wanted. He knew that he was going to pay whatever was asked for, and Brynjolf more than likely knew that, too.

[BRYNJOLF]

Nothing, Brynjolf thought to himself absentmindedly, could ever compare to the feeling of a scam going well. With the more distrusting characters around, certainly, there was always the worry that he'd get caught and thrown into a cell, where he'd be left to fend for himself (because it was his own fault for getting caught, Black-Briar, told him once). Right now, however, the nord found himself almost relaxing, completely assured in the fact that there was no way this dunmer would refuse him. The extra few septims had been well worth it - already Brynjolf could see the lad's indecision crumbling away and with a pleased smile raised his cup in his direction, thinking nothing of his thank-you.

He did, however, think mighty hard on the elf's expression falling as soon as he mentioned the cost of the little vial, feeling an unexpected surge of guilt. Blinking owlishly, the redhead realized he hadn't experienced that kind of guilt in quite some time; it was a greenhorn thing, Gallus told him: temporary guilt for getting the gold in a more... underhanded manner than the norm. He was perplexed as to why exactly he felt it with this lad, but it wasn't long before he quashed it, passing it off as a natural response to the boy's utterly guileless character. He didn't have a clue, and the fact that Brynjolf was playing on that made him feel guilty.

"Well, lad..." He muttered, trailing off as he rubbed at the bristles on his face with his hand, something that he always did when he was thinking deeply. To be honest, the thief was struck with the urge to give it to the lad for a cheaper price - but what was the point when, after a minute or so, it didn't even work anyway? He'd been planning to make himself scarce as soon as the elf drank the potion and felt the false strength (courtesy of the Creep Cluster and Giant's Toe). He honest-to-Mara didn't want to rob the lad of all that he had on his first day in an otherwise-rotten town.

"I was going to ask for a modest two-fifty septims, but..." It was almost with reluctance that the great nord continued, smiling almost sheepishly,

"I suppose one-fifty or thereabouts would do me just fine. What do you say?"

Brynjolf knew there was no hope of not getting his head bitten off by everyone else in the Thieves' Guild, but he couldn't help it. He had always been a friendly person, and, having never grown up on the impoverished side of things, wasn't filled with a bitterness that made him want to steal. For the first few years, it had been a thrill for him, something to ease the anger and pain over being forced to leave his home. He only began to take it seriously when he began to view the guild as his family.

He was almost tempted to tell the lad he didn't have to buy it... But he wasn't that idiotic. More than anything, Brynjolf needed the gold, and he'd be a laughing stock if it was found out that he went easy on a gullible like this guy.

The friendly smile didn't leave his face as he thought, though his eyes were sharp, earnest.

[fenorvir]

Fenorvir was starting to think Riften wasn’t all that bad, really. Despite its reputation of being a shady, nasty city (even while the Thieves Guild was diminishing, it still held a shadow of unease to itself), he hadn’t found anything wrong with it. Yet, anyway. So far, he’d been given a good impression, honestly; a warm inn, helpful barkeeps and a kind merchant who’d bought him a drink. Disregarding all of the rumours and scare stories about the scams and robbery that partook within the city’s walls, the Dark Elf was enjoying his stay so far. He’d been given no reason not to be.

Looking up again as Brynjolf spoke, the grey-skinned mer was surprised as the Nord offered him a discount. Gullible as he may be, Fen was no stranger to merchants and the way they played their game, as he’d fallen prey to them more times than he could care to remember. They would squeeze the biggest amount of septims they could from the buyer’s pockets. (Yes, surprisingly, the Dunmer was fully aware of this fact. He was just too soft-hearted and easily persuaded to turn a merchant away.) For most, it took a lot of bartering to get any type of deal, and it was practically unheard of them to knock off a full hundred septims for somebody they’d just met.

That was just Fenorvir’s experience, anyway. Maybe not all merchants were like the ones he’d dealt with, and his memories were just full of rip offs and scams because they knew they could get away with it. Perhaps some of these sellers were actually good people, willing to make deals and be friendly with their customers and let some people off on costs. There was a first for everything; maybe the Dark Elf wouldn’t be ripped off this time. Maybe, for once, this time it actually would be different, and he actually would walk away with a good deal. Maybe.

He paused, assessing the situation. He was in a brand new town, obviously nervous and obviously naïve. He had been approached by a Nord merchant, who had promptly bought him a drink and offered him a random potion that would supposedly make him feel stronger. Now, had Fenorvir looked back at the situation, he would have probably realised that it was all very shady, to say the least. But, of course, he didn’t reflect on it. He’d already talked himself into buying it, whether he needed to or not and whether it even worked or not. The Dunmer had never been a stickler for common sense, it seemed.

Fen nodded slowly, looking at the golden potion on the table and then reaching into his inside pocket for his coin purse. Carefully pulling out the one hundred and fifty septims that they had agreed upon, he handed the gold pieces over, a small, shy smile on his lips. He figured that Brynjolf was going to take the gold, hand over the potion, and leave, which he found quite disappointing, actually. The Nord had a kind of friendly aura around him that made Fenorvir enjoy his presence. It would be a shame if he’d only approached the Dunmer to make a sale, though that was most definitely the case.

[BRYNJOLF]

Had he been any other person, Brynjolf would have lunged for the gold, given the merchandise and have been on his way, easy as you please. The innocence of this lad disgruntled him; with anyone else, he would have left after scamming all the gold out of their wallet, never to be seen again. This would be the last time he went easy on someone, the thief suddenly decided, watching with an absent smile on his face as the dark elf pulled out the septims: why he decided to go easy on the lad over getting gold and being praised was beyond him. But it wouldn't happen again.

Still, he supposed. There was a certain kind of satisfaction to be had with having someone so obviously impressed by him - grateful for his kindness, even if his intentions hadn't exactly been pure. In fact, it made the man think: if he hadn't been a thief (or even a mill worker), he probably would have found satisfaction in being some sort of boy scout, or a soldier with the best interests of the people at heart. He'd always liked helping people, even if the majority of the time those people were either himself or the other members of the guild.

The Nord gave a content hum as the final piece of gold was counted out. It wasn't the largest amount, to be sure, and it certainly didn't compare to the hauls he'd pulled before, but it was still money, and it could still feed quite a few members of his... illegitimate family. He wouldn't get any extra coin for himself, but Brynjolf promptly decided not to think about that.

"Pleasure doing business with you." He rumbled, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he promptly pushed the golden vial toward the lad and scooped the gold into his own purse. That settled, he looked awkwardly at the draught for a moment - he didn't know if the lad would drink it now and he could leave, or if he should just do so anyway and save himself the trouble.

To be honest, he found himself quite reluctant to head back into the Ratway and his home to face disappointed stares and, with a sigh, he leaned back again.

"All things considered, you should save that for when you really need it."

'Better yet, drink it while I'm not around...'

Clearing his throat, the man offered a cheerful grin, figuring to himself that while there was still some mead in his cup, there was reason for him to stay. It occured to him, suddenly, that he was so preoccupied with trying to scam the elf that he hadn't even gotten his name. The silence stretched on for a few seconds as Brynjolf stared at the darker character, trying to remember if he had gotten the name; far be it from him to be so impolite as to forget one of his wonderful customer's names!

"You'll have to forgive me, lad, but I don't think I got your name..." He trailed off, chuckling sheepishly, before continunuing.

"And now that our business is sorted, I can't help but ask... What brought ye to Riften?"

[fenorvir]

Fenorvir nodded, satisfied with his purchase – for now, anyway. Obviously he would later feel the effects (or rather, the lack thereof) of the potion and realise he’d been swindled. But for now, he was content with the deal he’d made with the other man. Once Brynjolf had taken the septims and pushed the vial forward, the Dark Elf picked it up, putting the potion away to try later on. He leaned back in his chair a little, feeling more relaxed than he had done in months. If every visit to the hold’s capitals went like this, he could learn to love the region of Skyrim, he reckoned.

He nodded at what Brynjolf said: ‘All things considered, you should save that for when you really need it.’ It wasn’t like Fen to use up something quickly, anyway; he was very careful with using what he had, not wanting to put anything to waste. He preferred keeping and collecting things, like a hoarder, almost. He was sure the draught would last him quite a while, especially as the Nord claimed that only one sip was needed to feel its effects. If that were true, then the potion would last him even longer, which made Fen even happier with his purchase.

The Dark Elf was happy – delighted, almost – when the other man decided to stick around instead of taking his gold and never seeing the mer again. It was a nice change, and while Fenorvir may have been terrible at socialising, he did enjoy the rare conversations he had with people. Taking another sip from the tankard of mead (it seemed to taste sweeter, namely due to the fact that it had been a free drink) in front of him, he responded to Brynjolf’s giant friendly grin with a hesitant, nervous smile. He was trying his best to be relaxed and friendly, honestly.

Fen blinked as the Nord mentioned that he hadn’t been told what the darker skinned elf’s name was. Truthfully, he’d never been one to spring up to people, shake their hand eagerly and introduce himself. It wasn’t exactly like he didn’t want people to know his name, or he had some kind of secret identity, or he didn’t trust them with the knowledge of his name; he just… forgot. Shrugging a little, he replied, “My name’s Fenorvir. Or, um, Fen, if you’d like to shorten it.” He never really got close enough to people to be on a nickname basis, but Brynjolf seemed like the kind who’d apply such nicknames to people whether they liked it or not.

And what brought him to Riften? Well, if Fenorvir was honest, he wasn’t even that sure himself. Apart from wanting to travel around all of the counties of Skyrim, he couldn’t help but feel that something else made him want to go to Riften first. As odd as it sounded, he’d been curious about the rumours of the Thieves Guild, and he wanted to see if the city was as bad as most people made it out to be. He didn’t like to make assumptions of anyone or anything without finding out for himself, so he’d wanted to scope the town out for himself.
Shrugging again, he answered, “Um, travelling, mainly. I just, um, wanted to see what the place was like, really.” He decided not to mention the Thieves Guild, because goodness knows what Brynjolf’s opinion of them was.

[BRYNJOLF]

Brynjolf hadn't ever really spoken with an elf, and the poisonous slander of many of his own race coupled with personal experience (Brand-Shei was a very... confrontational fellow) put the fair race very low down in the general opinion of the public. Suffice to say that the Nord wasn't really expecting to be having such a good - if not slightly awkward time - with the dunmer. There was nothing like sharing mead with someone, even if that someone was barely an acquaintance. The lad was new, and couldn't bore him with disparaging rumors that circulated around Riften. Not to mention the thief was certain he'd made a good impression, and if worst came to worst the boy could defend him from the pointing fingers. There were many people who wanted him out of the picture and it was getting increasingly difficult to continue slipping out of the Guards' grasp without Black-Briar's help. Such dependence was unheard of in the guild.

"Aye, a grand name. Strong," The redhead murmured, nodding his head with a smile and raising a brow at the elf's awkwardness.

"Don't mind if I do, Fen," He chortled, trying to ease the atmosphere for the lad. There was something oddly hilarious at how utterly awkward the elf looked, though Brynjolf was quick to take another gulp of mead to stifle the growing laugh. He always became giggly when it came to having too much cups of mead, and since he had been here quite a while before Fenorvir arrived, there was quite a pleasant buzz making him relax. He almost forgot about why he had been here in the first place, the objective sitting quietly in a corner of his mind whereas under normal circumstances he would pursue it like a man possessed.

"You look as stiff as an altmer in a pig-sty, lad," He snickered, mightily amused at both his recapitulation and his accuracy.

"That's what the mead is for, little elf. Relax!" Contentedly, he leaned back, listening to the elf's somewhat unimpressive story with a nod. He had no idea why Fenorvir decided to travel to Riften first, of all places, but Brynjolf supposed he couldn't fault the lad. Best to get the worst over with first, no?

"You keep traveling," He said, suddenly serious,

"Don't let yourself end up here when your adventures end, lad. You'd be better off in a nice, cosy town like Whiterun." Shaking his head, eyes glinting, he took another small sip of mead, trying to imagine how on earth the dunmer would even be able to survive in a town like this. All things considered, Fen was quickly becoming a friend to the giant nord, and of all things Brynjolf found himself feeling concerned for his latest victim.

"Aye, it's tough life here... But it's satisfactory," Ever the optimist, the Nord gave a light grin,

"You'd grow tough without the need of a draught in this town."

[fenorvir]

Fenorvir had little experience with talking to Nords, not only due to their general distrust of mer but also because he had a very little amount of experience of talking to anybody, really. Generally, he stuck to himself, not looking for conversations or idle chat, and only speaking if somebody else initiated the communication. Indeed, his conversational skills with any race at all were rather undeveloped, to say the least. Truthfully, the conversation he was holding with Brynjolf right now was one of the longest he’d had in a considerable amount of time. But it was a nice change from the norm, just sitting back in an inn with a new friend and chatting idly.

He smiled as he heard the other man use a nickname rather than Fen’s full name. He’d expected him to, really – as he’d thought before, Brynjolf just seemed the type to give nicknames to everyone. He seemed like the perfect person to go to for laid back discussions and a few tankards of mead, which was exactly what the Dunmer was doing with him right now. Fenorvir failed to notice the Nord’s stifled giggles, which was really a good thing; he’d have felt awfully self-conscious otherwise.

Blinking in surprise at the bearded man’s comments about how uncomfortable he seemed, the Dark Elf held back a small sigh. It was a comment he heard all the time, that he looked unhappy or anxious or upset. He was trying to relax, he truly was, but it didn’t come easily to him. Even around people he knew and trusted, he still felt inexplicably shy, thus always remaining quiet and awkward. But, Brynjolf made a good point; ‘that’s what the mead is for.’ Nodding in agreement with the words, Fenorvir picked up his still mostly full tankard of mead and took a large sip from it, relishing in the sweet honeyed taste of the liquid.

He was again taken aback as Brynjolf spoke; this time giving what sounded more like fatherly advice than anything else, advising him on how he shouldn’t stay in Riften and how he’d be much more suited in a different, nicer environment. Although Fenorvir had had no reason to dislike the town as of yet, he couldn’t help but feel that the Nord had a point. Threats such as the Thieves Guild were always omnipresent even through their decline, and besides, Riften just didn’t feel like the right place for a Dunmer such as himself. Even if it hadn’t happened to be the headquarters of a major thieving operation, it was still a fairly shady area, and gave off a general vibe of distrust.

Besides, Brynjolf obviously knew this town a lot better than the Dark Elf did, and was clearly a lot more knowledgeable on topics such as the one they were discussing now. If he said the city was tough and not a good place to linger, then it was probably true. Fen nodded, taking in the advice, though he would probably still spend a few nights in Riften, to look around and such.
“So… How long have you, uh, been in this city, then?” the Dunmer asked, curious. Brynjolf seemed to be fairly well known, judging from how the barmaid was constantly glancing over at him.

[BRYNJOLF]

Brynjolf wasn't quite certain as to why he had decided to import that particular information to the lad. Even the manner in which he'd spoken it was odd. When he'd been Fenorvir's age, he hadn't let Riften's shady reputation prevent him from doing his job (as in, picking rich pockets). Then again, he hadn't been desperate enough to move to the city in the first place - it was rather more circumstances out of his control - and he had only stayed out of a strong sense of obligation towards Gallus. The man had saved his life, after all. Brynjolf owed it to him. Still did, even if he wasn't exactly alive. The redheaded thief had remained working in the guild, at first and especially after Gallus' death, only out of that same sense of commitment.

It was still funny, though; the manner in which he'd spoken of his home. His constant optimism wasn't just a personality trait, it was necessary in such a doom-and-gloom town that seemed to personify all that was wrong with Skyrim. It was what kept him out of the frying pan when his customers grew suspicious - after all, would they rather believe a shady character over an exuberant one?

Eventually, he knew his luck would run out. And with the way things were going recently, he suspected it could be soon.

... Actually, it was one of his own customers (and one who'd suspected his shady dealings, no less) that had told him that it was entertaining to treat everything less serious that it actually was. He supposed it was a rule he lived by, if only subconsciously. He floated through life half-happy, half-in denial. Brynjolf had never thought too hard over what would happen if he was legitimately caught scamming a person. It had never happened before, however, and he likely wouldn't start weighing the pros and cons of his life now.

Fenorvir, however, looked like he didn't follow that rule as reverently. Brynjolf smiled as the little (and that wasn't just a term of endearment) elf finally took his advice and actually drank some of the mead he'd spent good money on. His own mead was dwindling to the bottom of the tankard and the great nord mourned the loss as he finished it off. Not knowing if it was such a good idea to purchase another - he almost winced at the memory of his last... binge - the redhead chuckled as the dunmer actually (willingly) spoke up.

"Nigh on three decades, lad," He chuckled in response, though he eventually blinked at how very old it made him sound.

"Though I don't look it, do I?"

[fenorvir]

As a general rule, Fenorvir avoided any kind of danger or any kind of people who would get him into any kind of trouble. He was most certainly not the adventurous kind, preferring to lead a safe life and stay away from anybody who could lead him astray. Well, that was how he’d like life to be, anyway. He’d been coerced into more shady businesses than honest ones, a fact which he often lamented over. The Dark Elf just didn’t have very good… perception, you could say – he was far too trustworthy and compliant. He wanted nothing more than an honest, quiet life, but luck seemed out to get him, he seemed.

It more or less just came down to the fact that Fenorvir didn’t like the idea that the people he had spoken to had ever had ulterior motives. Realistically, the person in front of him right now could full well be working for a different cause than he said. It was possible, always possible; especially since he was in the Thieves’ Guild’s base of operations right now… and yet Fen didn’t want to dwell on that plausibility whatsoever. It couldn’t be true, could it? Brynjolf had been nothing but nice to him. There was no way it had been a ploy for a scam – most merchants went for the intimidation and in-your-face kind of marketing when it came to the timid Dunmer. No, this Nord was honest; of that, Fenorvir was sure.

Fenorvir blinked, the surprise at the Nord’s age clear on his face. He was right, he most definitely did not look like he’d spent thirty years in Riften, and goodness knows how long before that. While Brynjolf didn’t necessarily look like a fresh faced whelp, he didn’t show any serious signs of aging, and certainly not over three decades of it – the Dunmer had mentally estimated the other man to perhaps be in his thirties or so. But, thirty years of being in this town? Fen hadn’t even been alive for that long! “No… No, you don’t look it,” he agreed, smiling a little.

Taking another decent sized sip of his mead, the grey skinned elf looked back up at Brynjolf. He wanted to ask the other man questions about Riften and its people; what was it like here, truly? Were the rumours true? Was it just another run down, comme-ci comme-ça Skyrim town? Or was it actually bursting with prospect, with nothing holding it back other than an unshaken reputation? Fenorvir may not have been adventurous, or very confident, but he had a burning sense of curiosity the majority of the time. He wanted to ask these questions, but he wasn’t sure which were relevant, and which could be taken offensively in one way or another.

“Well – what’s there to… do around here? Anything to see before I, er, leave?” he asked carefully, deciding it was best to not mention anything about the town’s reputation. That was good – nice and vague, so Brynjolf could answer it in any way he wished. The last thing Fenorvir wanted to do was somehow upset or offend the Nord.