#and everyone's favorite barkeep wilhelm!

[sigil-stone]

mercenaries at the vilemyr

(a tiny drabble featuring @skyrimlesbian‘s mercenary group! i’m Tired and In Pain, please forgive any typos!)

Y’ffre have mercy on her, Armel was fucking tired. She’d left in the early hours of the morning to scale the mountain, the sun just beginning to rise - and, she noted dully as she pushed open the door to the Vilemyr inn, it was already late into the night. Stupid High Hrothgar. Stupid Greybeards. Stupid Dragonborn.

The Breton took a moment to savor the warmth emanating from the hearth in the middle of the inn. Lively conversations filled the air and she was fairly sure there was some sort of contest going on between a Bosmer, Orc and Argonian at a table near the inn’s bar. A general air of comfort and leisure after a long day overtook her, especially as her nose was met with the smell of roasting venison... Venison? Really? Had Skyrim lowered her standards that much?

She made her way towards the bar, wincing a bit as she sat down on the worn barstool. That damned frost troll had gotten her pretty good. Fuck it all to Oblivion, she figured, she’d deal with that later.

“I’ll take the strongest stuff you’ve got,” She said, exhaustion dripping from her voice.

The barkeep raised a brow at her, placing down the flagon he was cleaning to grab a new on and pour some mead - Or, at least Armel assumed it was mead - out of a keg. He damn near slammed the frothing flagon in front of her.

She muttered her thanks as she counted out and pushed a few septims towards the keep. She took a long swig, “It’s been a long week, friend.”

“I can tell.” Wilhelm always had a sort of laughter in his voice, she noticed. Except when he was talking about - 

“That barrow outside of town. What can you tell me about it?”

“Oh, that?” Wilhelm shot her a sheepish smile. “It was taken care of. We were made fools of, all of us.”

“Truly?” Armel’s brows shot up. “Who took care of it?”

“That’d be them, right over there.” Wilhelm pointed over towards the table where the Bosmer, Orc, and Argonian were sat. Armel could see now they were playing some sort of card game. “The ‘Beast Folk’, I think they call themselves. Mercenaries, and good ones, at that.”

The Bosmer seemed to notice - hear, maybe? - that their conversation had turned to the unlikely-seeming friends. He glanced at them, suspicion written on his features. Armel made a note not to cross him. The bow on his back looked well enough to take down a giant.

“Do you know their names?”

“Uh, let’s see, there’s... Weedum, I think. Argonian one, with the fancy robes.” Armel could hear Wilhelm mutter ‘an Argonian mage, imagine that’ under his breath. “Rindolin, the short elf over there. And... Uh, the Orc lass over there. Name starts with a B, I think.”

Armel glanced over at the group again, awkwardly meeting the Bosmer, Rindolin’s, eyes. She quickly lowered her eyes, trying again a moment later. That Orc... She looked familiar. Uncannily similar to -- 

“Badbr?”

“Yeah! That’s the Orc’s name.” The Nord grinned at her rather brightly. “How’d you know?”

Armel had already abandoned her flagon, making her way to the mercenaries.