The days draw to the end of Sun's Height and the midday sun beats down across the breadth of the Alik'r. Travellers shelter where able and in the cities across Hammerfell, work draws to a halt as the workers rush indoors to escape the summer heat. Even the great city of Sentinel, cooled by the winds of the Iliac Bay, seemingly sits idle beneath the searing rays.

Yet one business thrives across the city: tea and coffee-houses both, drinks unique to this desert, do their greatest business in this break. Here, over drinks as hot as the sands outside, deals are struck and jobs arranged as readily as in Skyrim's drinking halls or the corner clubs of Morrowind. In this season, both are plentiful with preparations for the harvest in the fields between city and bay continue, protection for caravans and ships to the Empire, and arrangements for the Koomu Alezer'i festival.

Even the city's shadowy underbelly pauses to rest, the illicit trade in Moon Sugar and skooma halting; the vast diaspora of Khajiit to be found here know as well as the native Redguards not to strain oneself under the desert sun. Yet the whispers here take on a more concerned tone--the guards are stepping up efforts to quash the illegal trade, the Dominion makes exports from Elsweyr increasingly difficult from an embargo on the Imperials, and the beggars are the first to fear rumours of an undead menace stirring in the mausoleums in the desert.

As the break comes to an end, the same tensions become more evident across the city. Longshoremen and merchants alike worry about the tariffs and embargoes a resurgent Empire once again begins to enforce. The Fighters Guild looks in eagerness and anxiety alike as the cracks papered over in the past decade, holes still not filled after so many went south to drive back the elves, begin to show with a rise in banditry and beasts. The limited presence of the Mages Guild worries that the tensions will spill into a persecution of the arcane, in a country even more virulently opposed to magic than Skyrim.

Yet for the Empire and wandering adventurers, this is all a glorious opportunity. A stable country would offer no chances--and no jobs. For those with the desire to find them, all sorts of work is there for the taking...

It was incredible. Actual, real warmth from the sun. Having stayed in Winterhold so long, Burns had almost forgotten what this felt like. He had spent the afternoon happily napping on a stone, looking more like a desert lizard than a marsh-walker. But his nap was cut short by the bleating of Goatfrey. The large goat had some sort of red fruit in its mouth, looking rather upset. Burns sighed and rolled over, careful to avoid his armor- which had been sitting in the sun all during his nap. He took the fruit and looked it over, feeling the needles... well, try to pierce his scaly hide. He shook his head.

"Goatfrey, what have I told you about eating strange plants? Don't you remember what happened with those mushrooms?"

"Blaaaaahaaaaaah."

"Honestly..." The Argonian grumbled, looking at his armor and sighing. He really needed to learn a Resist Fire spell. Hist knew that he flung it enough that there had been... incidents. Anyway, he was supposed to do... something or other. It'd probably come back to him in time. For now, though, he enjoyed the warm stone against his back and the companionship of a goat with cactus needles caught in his beard.

The warm Hammerfell sun beating down on him wasn't exactly what Ibram had bargained for when he decided to set off and explore more of Tamriel, but there was no sense in complaining about it. He took another big gulp of his mug of ice-cold water, pressed his palm against its ivory surface and covertly sent another blast of frost magic through the mug. He knew Redguards weren't exactly keen on magic around these parts and decided to keep his talents to himself.

He was seated at a table beneath a cloth pavilion near the market district that belonged to a local tavern. A waitress walked to and fro to tend to the needs of the tavern's various patrons, a motley collection of strangers from all walks of life. Ibram Crowe was no different -- the Breton spellsword was just another exotic traveler, though not quite as foreign as the armored Argonian and his pet goat that were resting on a stone in the sun nearby. Ibram eyed the pair with with curiosity, confident that the Argonian was too distracted by his nap in the sun to notice him, and idly wondered how the Argonian could stand the incessant heat.

While he watched he also listened to the conversations around him. His pouch was slowly getting light on coin -- it had been a while since Ibram’s latest job. Experience had taught him that work was most easily found by keeping his ear to the ground and simply waiting for news of whatever disturbance needed to be dealt with to reach his ears.

“It’s the dead, I tell you,” Ibram heard a voice hiss in an urgent tone behind him. “They’re on the move. I heard a merchant say so. Scared of his wits, he was. Didn’t seem like he was being disingenuous to me.”

Another voice scoffed. “You don’t really believe that, do you? The dead don’t just get up and move on their own, and you know how the Alik’r warriors keep a lid on necromancy. Hasn’t been a situation like that around here since the days of the Hart-King.”

“I don’t know, brother… it could be real this time. I feel it in my gut.”

Ibram turned around at this point in their conversation and observed the two men -- beggars they were, huddled in the shadow of one of the city’s limestone buildings. Many people didn’t pay any mind to beggars, but Ibram knew that the poor and downtrodden knew a lot more about current events than the rich and pampered gave them credit for.

Now who might be interested in paying me to deal with such a problem? Ibram thought to himself. The Fighters Guild, perhaps.

Pharis walked the streets of Sentinel, having his wolf furs to defend him from the sun. His hood was big enough to cast a shade over his face, his ears kept hidden as well. While he was far enough from the Dominion's hold, the pressure of being a fugitive still holds its sway over the Bosmer. He'd rather keep his face hidden, after all...

The desire to stay inconspicuous was short-lived, however, as the Bosmer's stomach growled loudly. Pharis wasn't used to not being able to hunt for his foos, and the deserts of Hammerfell are quite treacherous and harder to navigate for one so attuned to the woods. Still, it was something he kept note of when he made his way to Hammerfell, and knew just how he was supposed to make a living in such a desolate land...

Pharis needed to find work.

He approached the nearby tavern, entering it and walking towards the bar. Pharis only had a handful of septims, placing one down.

"Water," he asked in a matter to hide his otherwise strong Bosmeri accent, "Please." Pharis waited a moment for the barkeep to retrieve his drink, which didn't seem to take too long, before he decided to ask his next question. He took a long sip of his refreshment, sighing in relief after finishing and putting the cup down.

"Do you know of any place I could find some work?"

To be frank, the heat was rather unpleasant. However, such unpleasantness was nothing in the face of the duties the brunette girl held in her heart.

... That didn't mean she had to like it, though. Clad in a lighter travelling gear, though with a hood to keep out the intense sunlight(who wanted sunburn?) Tylane Carth still kept one item on her person even if she was not currently armored. The warhammer that was her tool against wicked things currently remained strapped to her back. The girl knight wasn't particularly used to quite this weather, but she was hardly going to let it slow her down. She came here with a distinct purpose in her mind, and that was the destruction of the undead menace that seemed to threaten Sentinal.

But for now, Tylane had a different duty in mind.

That duty being to satisfy her thirst. With the sun hammering down on her as it had been, she couldn't help but need a drink of water. It seemed she was not the only foreign adventurer who had found their way here and had a similar need, as she noticed many faces that did not appear to originate from around here as her way into the tavern and swiftly ordered some water, which was thankfully quickly served to her. She let out a sigh of relief as she took a drink.

Tylane would refresh herself and then proceed to look for a job, to bide her time and do some good, hopefully, or perhaps be directed after the undead right away.

@Cu Chulainn

Ibram sidled up next the Bosmer, Pharis, and greeted him with a wink. "An excellent question, friend," Ibram cooed, and pressed his mug against the Bosmer's in an unsolicited toast. "You see, I am also looking for work. Two able-bodied fellows like ourselves should be a fine addition to any company in the business of slaying undesirable entities," he continued, taking a quick glance at the bone shortbow the Bosmer carried with him. Ibram's assumption that Pharis was looking for a job in the same line of work as the spellsword was a guess, but an educated one, and the Breton carried on with his spiel. "An expert Bosmer archer, finest in all of Tamriel, and a Breton swordsman of respectable skill. A fine pair, if I do say so myself."

Smiling, and with a twinkle in his eye, Ibram took another gulp of refreshing cold water and turned his attention back to the barkeep, after his gaze briefly lingered on the short woman carrying a peculiarly large warhammer that had just approached the bar. "So, what say you? Where might the two of us find such an employer?"

Janus Faustus sat at a small table in the back corner of the tavern, purposefully positioned so that he could scan the length and breadth of the room without exposing his back or leaving any unnecessary blind-spots in his vision. His coffee was as dark and bitter as his sense of humor, but at least it kept him awake and made the heat of the room seem more than bearable compared to the heat of his mug. It was true he was an Imperial, but he was sun dark and wore clothing in the airy, concealing desert fashion favored by those who chose function over fashion in the face of desert living. Today there was a single scar that ran from under his right eye across the length of his right cheek, a fake but an excellent one.

Occasionally, he would set down his mug and fiddle with the long dagger he wore on one hip, or adjust the short sword that balanced it on the opposite side as if he might have to clear them from their sheathes in a hurry, but other than this seeming habit he seemed to be a road-hardened tradesman long at ease in Hammerfell, as indicated by a number of rings on his fingers and a bulging coin purse at his waist. He watched the party of travelers as they entered and approached the bar. He'd paid the bartender in advance to direct any who might want rougher work over to his little table. After all, he was a man of means looking to get his name out there by financing parties of do-gooders for hire: an Adventure Capitalist of sorts.

At least, that was the rumor he'd paid the bartender to tell, the one he'd be peddling himself as well. For now, it was enough.

@Hank

Living life the way he did, Pharis had avoided making acquaintence with anyone. The Dominion has many spies, and he should know better than just about anyone in this tavern... he was approached to serve as one, after all. He had always kept to himself, keeping quiet enough, and had avoided settlements as much as he was able to. Being in Hammerfell, however, it was almost impossible for him to live the lifestyle he was used to.

Pharis had only wished he asked with a more quiet tone, and yet, here he is, drawing the attention of a man, a Breton sellsword, he says, and one with quite the big mouth, as well. As he moved his mug closer to his own, he pulled it away with enough subtlety not for it to seem rude. Instinct had told him to leave, to find a job someplace else. He knew how to run, how to avoid conflict, how to blend into a crowd. If he left as soon as he could before this potential agent could reveal his location, that would be more than ideal...

... But Pharis needed the money.

"Why, yes, my colleague and I are both the best and brightest in this establishment of yours," Pharis said in a similar tone to the Breton's, "and we'll bet our lives on it, too. Give us your most dangerous job, if you wish. If the pay is lucrative enough, then maybe we'll do it, after all."

"Work? If it's mercenary work you're after, the merchant in the corner would be the best place to start, says he has some things he wants help with. You'll get a better cut than if you go through the Fighter's Guild, I reckon," the bartender said, placing the well-cleaned mug on a shelf behind the bar before turning, running a hand through his beard, "There's always the Guild if you don't mind all them rules. And Jathlanie wants adventurers for something--but he's a picky sort, I don't know if you could get in to see him."

Observing the Breton and Bosmer chatting it up is a lanky male Khajiit. He seems quite bored, munching on a sweetroll while reading up on some of the desert mausoleums. He might be able to get some money and decent equipment...if he didn't bake to death on the way there. Hammerfell heat felt a bigger danger to him than the colds of Solstheim, or even the chilly summers of northern Skyrim. His large ears perk up upon hearing the mention of work.

Curious.

He heaves himself out of the chair, and heads towards the bar with his large backsack, papers, and meal floating behind him in a glow of dull-rust-hued magic.

"I hear something about a job?" He quietly asks, eyeing the barkeep and the two patrons.

"Is that so?" Ibram asked in response to the barkeep's suggestion. He looked over his shoulder at the merchant in the corner, the one who was playing with the long dagger he wore on his hip. An interesting looking fellow. "Never judge a book by its cover, they say," Ibram whispered to himself, and turned back to the barkeep to thank him for his advice.

After that, he nodded to Pharis and prepared to saunter over to Janus when a tall Khajiit approached them and inquired after work. "Indeed, my good fellow," Ibram said and raised an eyebrow at the Khajiit's effects that floated behind him in the air. "If you're as good in combat as you are in magically levitating objects you're in luck. We're just about to hear out this, ah, merchant, over there in the corner. Why don't you tag along?"

With that, Ibram approached Janus and sat down at his table. Janus looked like he belonged here in the desert more than any of them, and it took a few seconds for Ibram to realize that he was looking at an Imperial, not a Redguard. The facial features gave it away. "Hello there," he said and conjured his most charming smile. "The name's Ibram Crowe. This here is my associate," he continued, gesturing behind him to the Bosmer that had presumably followed him, "and I believe the cat is also interested. We're looking for work and the barkeep here seems to think you have a job for two -- ah, three enterprising adventurers such as ourselves. What say you, friend?"

Janus suppressed the urge to grin at the travelling adventurers and sellswords that had approached his little table. It seemed that his bait was working perfectly. There seemed to be a varied group of sorts if a small one forming here, that would work well for his purposes.

"Well my friends, you seem capable and I'm willing to pay well for capable sorts, far more than the Fighters Guild's pittances! If you're looking for heavy work, I'm sure keen individuals like yourselves are aware by now that there's a small undead problem plaguing the desert. Going tomb-diving to thin the herd of them before they grow too large would do a lot to ease the public's concerns and make us all heroes of the common folks. Not to mention there are usually all sorts of old artifacts that are worth the risks for all of you. If you don't think you can handle that though, I'd be more than happy just compensating you for each bandit and robber you manage to permanently dissuade from that particular line of work. Safe roads and safe wildernesses make for easier trade, after all!"

Janus leaned over the table toward them, grinning conspiratorially in a way that seemed to stretch his scar tight across his face.

"I have better work, of course. The sort for which I'd make sure each worthy arm here could afford to live in luxury once all was said and done..."

With a gesture he slipped a gold septim out of his sleeve and twirled it between each finger, dancing it across his knuckles before flipping it to nestle in his palm where a second, third, fourth joined it before all vanished in time with a theatrical wink.

"...but first you have to prove your quality! A good merchant never buys without making an appraisal, after all!"

The word 'undead' was all that was necessary to snatch Tylane's attention. Rising to her feet, the short girl approached the group of men quickly, stopping just beside one of them. She stood upright and as tall as she could, intent on making a good impression. She did not wish to be turned down for a job that was so utterly related to her duties. She didn't require payment, though she would hardly reject it. Exterminating undead for the good of the living was its own reward, knowing that she had made the world safer was all she needed. But a little more coin to spend wasn't unwelcome either. She wouldn't ask for any payment, regardless. Clearing her throat, the paladin promptly explained herself.

"I could not help but overhear your intent to hunt down and destroy undead," Tylane began, "I would like to volunteer my services. As a Knight of Faith, it is my duty to aid in the extermination of such terrible creatures."

There. That ought to do it. If they rejected her services, they were utter fools! ... And she'd figured out where they were heading and go anyway. She wasn't just going to sit out eliminating undead.