The snow fell relentlessly from the heavens above towards the lights of Windhelm. It was cold, practically barren and desolate. This, however, was not unusual in the city of Windhelm. It was always cold, and likely would be for ages to come.

The interior of Candlehearth Hall was only a small difference in warmth as opposed to the snowy alternative. Anyone with half a brain would head straight to the fireplace upstairs. However, the fireplace was surrounded by a group of Nords, about five or six of them, clad in simple steel armor. Their leader appeared to be a full seven feet in height, wearing a full set of steel plate armor, other than the helmet.

One of the simple-clad ones, a rather shrewd, shifty looking Nord amongst the others turned his head. "Gray-skin!" he bellowed, "Play us a song! The Age of Oppression, eh?"

The small, blue-skinned Dunmer stepped forward, biting her tongue as she brandished her lute, performing the requested song. She was beatiful, both physically and in voice, Dunmer as she was. A table of drunken soldiers across the room tried to sing along, though with little success. On the ground floor, one could find three, perhaps four patrons, though many had made their way upstairs.

---

Lysander Fleetwood, dressed in the distinguishable armor of the Thieves Guild, sat at one of the corner tables, eyeing the bard. She was pleasant to the eye, he had to admit, even if the was Dunmer. His gaze turned to the brutish, armored Nords standing about the fireplace. He flashes his confident, trademark smirk. They seem stupid enough, he thought to himself, the big one seems an easy enough mark.

He stood, slowly making his way over. To the eyes of any other patron, it appeared as though he were simply passing by the brood of Nords. However, as he passed by the seven-foot Nord, he curled his hand about his coinpurse, tugging at it ever so slightly.

Much to Lysander's surprise, the Nord turned, a mad look in his eye as he saw Lysander's hand about his coinpurse. He grasped Lysander by the scruff of his collar, raising him nearly a foot in the air. The other Nords in his company brandished their steel swords and axes, now turned fully to provide their leader with back-up. "You try to steal from me?! No sneak-thief steals from Tormir Giants-Blood and lives to tell the tale!"

Lysander found that his throat was constricted. He could barely breathe. As he choked and wheezed for breath, he reached out, perhaps in an attempt to grab at Tormir, though with very little success.

Tormir looked like he really was going to crush Lysander's throat, before the point of a falchion came out of nowhere, coming to rest against the side of Tormir's neck. The giant man's eyes widened as his eyes rolled to his side to regard the sudden addition to the conversation. The men of his company also turned to face the new threat, but they did nothing yet, as they were sure any sudden moves would result in Tormir's bloody death.

"I hit port rarely enough as it is, I'm not going to have a boy choked to death in front of me the one night I'm here. Back off, Tolmir."

"Damn you, Hargjorn. I'l-"

"You'll what? With a yell, I can have thirty five men inside this tavern."

Tolmir released Lysander, walking back over to his men, who begrudgingly sheathed their weapons and returned to their drinks. Hargjorn looked to Lysander, his stern eyes looking the young thief over. He motioned for Lysander to join him at his table, along with two others, who were from his crew. One of them was a tall, muscular Redguard with one eye covered with a patch. The other was a fierce looking orc with a fishhook pierced through one of his lips (as a lip-piercing of sorts. The wound looked too neat to be an accident.) On top of their table was a stack of posters. With a glance, Lysander could see that they read:

SHIP FOR HIRE
ADVENTURING PARTIES WELCOME
INQUIRE WITH CAPTAIN HARGJORN THRICE-BATTERED

"You're lucky I was here, boy. I've been previously acquainted with Tolmir and his mercenaries. The only thing giant about him is his ego."

Lysander looked between the Redguard and the Orc, nodding to both of them. He looked to Hargjorn. "Thanks for that...the man nearly crushed my throat, eh?" He chuckles, holding his throat before smiling nervously.

He looked over to the one member of Tormir's group, of whom proceeded to harrass the Dunmer girl who had been playing moments ago. Lysander turned his head so that they were out of sight and mind. He flincheded upon hearing the door open and close. It was then that they would hear a new set of footsteps below.

A quaint set of footsteps, by the by, it was. The footsteps of a man with a wooden leg, not all too strange for a tavern near a port, but what was strange was the man had two others. Apparently, the answer to the Sphinx's riddle was "Elf", it was revealed, as Drevayne Telvanni entered. Most elves kept to the Gray Quarter, save for a few ill-fated entertainers, and the elderly and infirm rarely graced this tavern.

Though Drevayne kept both hands on his staff, firmly planting it with each step, his back was tall and straight, and his movements not so slow as to cause frustration to those behind him. It looked rather like he might be able to walk firmly without his staff, but that he had it just in case.

He headed in towards the bar.

The woman tending te bar nodded to him, leaning forward. Drevayne would likely be able to tell that this Nordic woman was not exactly fresh into life, as her weathered face would show. Though older than many in the bar, she was certainly not older than Drevayne. She appeared in her fifties, and the gods only know how old Drevayne was. "Looking for a room, or are you here for a drink, Elf?"

---

Meanwhile, Lysander had turned, looking to the stairway. He anticipated that the elder or wizard, as his gait of three legs, one wooden dictated, may come up in the next few moments. He looked to Hargjorn, the Redguard and the Orc once more, his eyes switching between them and the stairway.

Lysander turned his attention to the fliers. He looked up to Hargjorn, then back, smiling under his hood. "Ship for hire, eh?"

"That's correct. I make my money as a merchant, but I think I've accumulated enough wealth for now. I'm seeing if there's any money to be made in hiring my ship out to adventurers." Hargjorn said, drinking from his flagon. The Orc shifted in his seat, eyes slowly scanning the bar, and the Redguard rubbed the back of his head. Both men were armed to the teeth.

"Drink, as always, but I usually come in on your off hours, it would seem, so no harm done. I'll have the usu... wait, you wouldn't know it, hum, what's the name again... Heh.. Been so long since I had to call it by name.." Drevayne stroked his chin for a moment, before glancing over to notice someone else's drink at the bar. "Aha! It's that one, whatever the hell's you call it. That's what the usual is."

Drevayne seemed to completely overlook her implied slight against him. He was, after all, an elf.

The Nordic woman rolled her eyes, taking a bottle of Nordic Ale from below the bar. She slammed it down on the counter, sliding it towards Drevayne as she leaned in. "That'll be 25 septims...Elf."

---

Lysander glanced about, thinking about his home in the Imperial Province. There seemed to be much more to steal there than here in Skyrim, though a better opportunity to steal things was why he had left Cyrodiil in the first place. Skyrim was dry, as far as stolen riches were concerned. He flashed his smirk, after having an idea; perhaps he could come along and find better riches in High Rock, perhaps even in the Summerset Isles if their travels would permit them.

He glanced about again as he took as he turned once more to Hargjorn. "Perhaps I may...come along? I traveled here from Cyrodiil, you see, to see whether or not there was any small fortune to be made here...Unfortunately, this was not the case...so, I was thinking, perhaps I could find riches elsewhere...Of course," He grinned, "I would give you, say...10% of my profits...?"

Hargjorn nearly choked on his ale.

"Ten percent? boy, you're lucky I'm in a good mood today. I got a ship to maintain, twenty four mouths to feed, men to pay. I ain't getting by on ten percent. Besides, I ain't going to hire out to just one adventurer. You want someone to take you up to Cyrodiil all by your lonesome, find a ferryman."

Hargjorn took another swig as he narrowed his eyes at the young boy.

"Mmm... Thank you, darling." Drevayne accepted the Ale deftly, his fingers knowing his way around the glass far too well without even looking. His eyes stayed locked with hers as he leaned in right back at her. Even as he took a deep swig, he kept eye contact. "Normally I'd argue with you to charge what you charge the others, then we'd eventually settle on something in the middle, or I'd get kicked out in the midst of a barfight, but I've got business to attend to." His other hand pulled out a pouch from underneath the bar, setting it on the table with a suitable loud clunk.

"Keep the change, eh, darling?" He gave her a wink as he drained the rest of the ale in one smooth chug, then slid her the bottle across the table. He'd had a lot of time to practice his bar tricks.

And the little illusion that'd last another ten minutes of an extra 20 coins in the pouch that only contained the real price of that Ale? Pretty much the only illusion spell he still practiced.

Making his way of to Hargjorn's table, "Heard you're aiming to venture into business most lucrative and ridiculously dangerous. Heh." Sliding himself into a chair if no one made to stop him, he continued. "It's all good fun until someone's choking on his own intestines. As a healer of quite some skill, I'm sure you wouldn't mind me taking one of the shares to make sure you're still able to appreciate yours."

Lysander looks to Drevayne with his trademark smirk, then back to Hargjorn. He took a liking to the old Dunmer immediately. "Probably will need a healer, considering your business and...mine..." He leaned forward. "So there, two adventurers for you, paying a fee of say...25%. How does that sound to you, Mr....ermm..." He extends his hand, a bit unsteady.

Hargjron looked at Lysander's hand for a few moments, and then at Drevayne, before smiling. He took the young thief's hand up, and vigorously shook it. "Hargjorn Thrice-Battered, your captain for your journey to Cyrodiil."

He looked over to the Redguard and the Orc. "Tell the boys to get ready, we depart in the morning." Hargjorn said to them, and the both of them stood up, the Redguard guzzling down the rest of his ale as they set out. Hargjorn himself stood up, stretching his arms.

"We're going to be taking some cargo on, so we're going to be making a stop at the exports warehous on the way to the ship. Any objections?"

"Heh, I'm just the hired healer, I don't care which adventure you take us on." Drevayne nodded, smiling. "Just give me the ship's name and I'll be there to pack my things before nightfall."

He gave a slight glance back to the bar. He intended to be out of here before that illusion wore off, at the very least.

"No, Captain," Lysander chuckled a bit, "no objection from my part." He looked to the Nordic ruffians from before, to the Stormcloaks across the room, then back over to Hargjorn, Drevayne, the Redguard and the Orc. "So, where're we heading first, Captain?"

"The Kynareth's Tear, mage. She's anchored all the way at the end of the dock. We leave at first light tomorrow." Hargjorn said to Drevayne, and turned to Lysander. "We're stopping by the export house before we board. I'm going to be taking on some cargo as well."

"Righto, meet you at the ship. Unless, heh, you want me in the export house in case you fall afoul of splinters and sprained backs." Drevayne commented as he rose and prepared to exit.

Lysander stands, nodding to Harjorn and his crew. "I'll meet you at the ship...once I find it at the docks....but until then," Lysander nods to the sailors, proceeding to follow Drevayne out of the Inn.

Hargjorn nodded, and left the tavern. He headed down to the Windhelm docks, squinting in the afternoon sun as he adjusted his hat. When he arrived, he breathed deeply of the port air. If there was something to be said about the Windhelm docks, is that they were certainly impressive. They weren't a grand affair like the docks at Solitude, but what they lacked in scale, they made up for in practicality. The dock was long enough to hold about forty massive boats. Windhelm (much like Solitude) was a well-known trading port for Skyrim, since it's on the edge of Skyrim lands. Goods from Old Morrowing, Solstheim, and Black Marsh came through here on a regular basis.

Walking past the many boats, Hargjorn approached the single, large warehouse that sat across the road from the docks. A giant sign that read "Helgir and Sons Export House" was displayed prominently, and Hargjorn entered. He was in there for about an hour, before he came out, holding a lengthy cargo manifest filled out with goods bound for Necrom, in Morrowind.

His ship, Kynareth's Tear, was tied down and anchored all the way at the end of the dock.

"Heh, I see you're a cautious one. Not willing to put all your eggs in one basket." Drevayne was already aboard the ship, a large chest at his side being his personal cargo. Then, leaning into his staff slightly with a curious tilt of the head, he asked "What port city have you got in mind that's in need of both goods and adventurers?"

Lysander, who was just now boarding the ship, followed by two Argonians carrying a wooden crate. More likely than not, this crate was filled with (stolen) "personal" effects that he was unable to fence off. He nodded to the Argonians, both of which proceeded to place the crate down on the ground.

Lysander dug into his coinpurse, paying them two golden septims each for their service to him. One gave a hiss to the other, and before long, they had left the ship the way they came. Lysander bit his lip, raising both eyebrows as he turned to Hargjorn and Drevayne. Having heard what Drevayne had said to Hargjorn before he had made his way oto the ship, Lysander placed his right foot onto the crate as he leaned in toward Drevayne and Hargjorn. He gave a mock-smirk to Hargjorn. "So, were are we headed, Cap'n?"