[skyrim] ★ Early Return
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plotdevicedTheme Prompt: #005 - Minor Characters
Title: Early Return
Fandom: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Rating/Warnings: None
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 687
Summary: Hadring knows as much about people as he does about pouring drinks. A scene from between the quests 'The Horn of Jurgen Windcaller' and 'A Blade in the Dark'.
Originally posted here for Challenge #005 atfandomweekly
Hadring used the long handled metal rake to move the coals back and forth, stirring them to produce as much heat as they could. The wind had picked up again this evening, blasting out of the north, carrying with it the dampness and chill from the Sea of Ghosts. It made the door rattle against its hinges, and even inside, he could hear the creak and moan of the trees outside, bending against their grain beneath the gale's assault. The innkeeper looked warily at the pile of already chopped logs next to the fire pit, and hoped it would be enough to last through until morning. If he didn't have to be out there at fourth bell in the morning chopping, he'd be a happy man.
Maybe he could convince Fultheim to do it, for a free round.
No, he grimaced a scant moment later. He'd likely chop his own leg off, swinging at the log and missing.
Putting the coal rake back, Hadring glanced at the far-most table of the taproom, where his two wayward adventurers were sitting, heads bent close as they spoke in undertone. He hadn't expected them back so soon, not when they'd said they were heading back to High Hrothgar once they were done at Ustengrav.
When did I start thinking of them as my adventurers? he wondered, returning to the bar and wordlessly refilling Fultheim's tankard without shifting his gaze from the other two. The man grunted a response that would probably have been thanks, had he not been on his sixth mug.
Daulinna had blood on her armor; it shone where it caught the firelight, the cold and damp air outside having kept it from fully drying. The stains didn't trouble him (it was not, after all, the first time she'd returned and asked for a hot bath before her feet finished crossing the threshold) so much as the grim expression she wore. Normally, the Dunmer archeress returned from her escapades smiling.
Irfon had been favouring his left leg when he'd come in, and even as Hadring had been watching, the spellsword had been shifting it uncomfortably, trying to keep pressure off of it. Unlike his companion, however, the blonde Breton looked angry. He jabbed angrily at the scrap of paper that had been occupying their attention.
Despite his curiosity to know, the proprietor knew better than to try and eavesdrop on their conversation, and after having served them yet-untouched hot mead, had left them alone... although he kept watch, and learned from their body language. Decades ago it had served him in battle, reading the movements of his opponents before they struck. Now, as an innkeeper, he read his patrons.
Upset, and worried. Angry, but also impatient. No telltale signs of coming down from that too-familiar adrenaline high... this wasn't just the aftereffects of a battle, even one in the depths of an old Nordic tomb.
Irfon made an aborted noise of frustration, shoving the paper into one of his belt pouches and standing, limping his way toward his room. He offered Hadring a curt but polite nod, as apparently whatever had happened still wasn't enough to break his nobility-gilded manners. He'd find a poultice of frost mirriam on his table, to bring down the swelling of his ankle, so he could at least put his boots back on come the new day.
Daulinna rose from the table a moment later, carrying the two tankards back to the bar. Setting them down, she tugged a bit of dried waterweed from her red hair. "Hadring," she said, offering him a weary smile. "I know the hour is late, but could I trouble you for--"
The Nord smiled. "The water's already heating for you, lass. I'll see you in the morning."
Daulinna smiled at him gratefully, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Hadring watched the door close behind her, swapped Fultheim's tankard out for a fresh one -- seven, now, definitely not trusting him with an axe -- and decided they might as well be his adventurers, even if they didn't know it.
Title: Early Return
Fandom: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Rating/Warnings: None
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 687
Summary: Hadring knows as much about people as he does about pouring drinks. A scene from between the quests 'The Horn of Jurgen Windcaller' and 'A Blade in the Dark'.
Originally posted here for Challenge #005 at
fandomweeklyHadring used the long handled metal rake to move the coals back and forth, stirring them to produce as much heat as they could. The wind had picked up again this evening, blasting out of the north, carrying with it the dampness and chill from the Sea of Ghosts. It made the door rattle against its hinges, and even inside, he could hear the creak and moan of the trees outside, bending against their grain beneath the gale's assault. The innkeeper looked warily at the pile of already chopped logs next to the fire pit, and hoped it would be enough to last through until morning. If he didn't have to be out there at fourth bell in the morning chopping, he'd be a happy man.
Maybe he could convince Fultheim to do it, for a free round.
No, he grimaced a scant moment later. He'd likely chop his own leg off, swinging at the log and missing.
Putting the coal rake back, Hadring glanced at the far-most table of the taproom, where his two wayward adventurers were sitting, heads bent close as they spoke in undertone. He hadn't expected them back so soon, not when they'd said they were heading back to High Hrothgar once they were done at Ustengrav.
When did I start thinking of them as my adventurers? he wondered, returning to the bar and wordlessly refilling Fultheim's tankard without shifting his gaze from the other two. The man grunted a response that would probably have been thanks, had he not been on his sixth mug.
Daulinna had blood on her armor; it shone where it caught the firelight, the cold and damp air outside having kept it from fully drying. The stains didn't trouble him (it was not, after all, the first time she'd returned and asked for a hot bath before her feet finished crossing the threshold) so much as the grim expression she wore. Normally, the Dunmer archeress returned from her escapades smiling.
Irfon had been favouring his left leg when he'd come in, and even as Hadring had been watching, the spellsword had been shifting it uncomfortably, trying to keep pressure off of it. Unlike his companion, however, the blonde Breton looked angry. He jabbed angrily at the scrap of paper that had been occupying their attention.
Despite his curiosity to know, the proprietor knew better than to try and eavesdrop on their conversation, and after having served them yet-untouched hot mead, had left them alone... although he kept watch, and learned from their body language. Decades ago it had served him in battle, reading the movements of his opponents before they struck. Now, as an innkeeper, he read his patrons.
Upset, and worried. Angry, but also impatient. No telltale signs of coming down from that too-familiar adrenaline high... this wasn't just the aftereffects of a battle, even one in the depths of an old Nordic tomb.
Irfon made an aborted noise of frustration, shoving the paper into one of his belt pouches and standing, limping his way toward his room. He offered Hadring a curt but polite nod, as apparently whatever had happened still wasn't enough to break his nobility-gilded manners. He'd find a poultice of frost mirriam on his table, to bring down the swelling of his ankle, so he could at least put his boots back on come the new day.
Daulinna rose from the table a moment later, carrying the two tankards back to the bar. Setting them down, she tugged a bit of dried waterweed from her red hair. "Hadring," she said, offering him a weary smile. "I know the hour is late, but could I trouble you for--"
The Nord smiled. "The water's already heating for you, lass. I'll see you in the morning."
Daulinna smiled at him gratefully, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Hadring watched the door close behind her, swapped Fultheim's tankard out for a fresh one -- seven, now, definitely not trusting him with an axe -- and decided they might as well be his adventurers, even if they didn't know it.
