Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-3293219-20140330115358/@comment-24449631-20140413023733

Bruma really wasn’t anything like the rest of Cyrodiil. Or at least, that’s the impression you get when you sit in Olav’s Tap and Tack with your ale. It was a small wooden Nordic cottage, rather cute, with not a lot of beds. If you could call those over glorified coffee tables ‘beds’ anyways. Still… The rooms were cheap and the mead… cheaper.

Which was always a bonus. For a Nord like Rowan at least.

It was already late. You could hear it. Nords in a tavern are excellent timekeepers. The louder they get the later it is. And like I said, it was late. So the Nords were pretty loud. Some poor Breton was even pulled into their wild abandon as they asked him where he was from. It was painstakingly obvious that the Breton wanted nothing to do with it, but these regulars knew their game. It was obvious it wasn’t the first time they had annoyed a stranger with their hollow questions.

Rowan took another swig from his tankard with… What tasted like Nord mead? It didn’t really matter though. It was a drink, it was sweet and it quenched his thirst. Though he wish he could get drunk, unfortunately he had a long journey ahead of him tomorrow morning, so it was best to avoid headaches.

The candle on Rowan’s table was nothing more than a rusty metal stick, covered in wax. With a dim little flame on top. With even the subtlest of movements it almost disappeared. Which wouldn’t be too bad if not all the Candles had the same effect. Yes, Olav’s was pretty badly illuminated. Even in the day the Inn was as dark as a rat’s ass. Because Olav down right refuses to open any windows. Don’t ask me why he doesn’t, but my guess would be simply Nord stubbornness. Which mostly contradicts Logic. Mostly… Not always.

Because of the fact not a single window gets opened, like ever, the whole damn room smells of Piss, Mead and fingernails. I don’t know why I said fingernails… It just does. Which as you could’ve guessed result in quite the aroma. Luckily it wasn’t as bad in the guest chambers. But those rooms were as cold as a witch’s tit, since they weren’t connected in any way to a heat source. Most Nords don’t really mind though, to them it’s more a nuisance than anything else. But I think an Imperial would be better off in the Jerall view inn, or whatever it was called. Unless of course he hates his toes and wants to freeze them off.

But despite all the sickening, poor hygienic qualities of the Inn it was still a fun place. The bard lady was nice, her songs were mighty fine and the drinking hall itself, despite how little it may be, was warm and cosy and kept the Wintery weather of the Southern Jeralls at bay.

Rowan knocked back his Brown mead and whipped his mouth quickly afterwards, as he felt drops of the sticky syrup-like drink trickle down his chin.

He dropped the gold coins for the drink on the table and nodded at Olav that he was going to retire for the night.

Olav just shrugged as he spit in a glass.

Rowan then passed the Bard and simply smiled at her, she was too busy playing her drums to notice though. But Rowan wasn’t going to make any more effort and just walked to his room. The last door on the end of the hall. He took the key, that had also a little string attached to it, from his neck and pushed it into the rusty lock.

With a bit of effort he managed to push open the wooden door, which scrapped over the floor because of a poor carpenter job. You could see the scratches from other guests in the floorboards. It looked pretty ridiculous. But knowing Olav, which surprisingly, doesn’t take long to do. He probably wasn’t willing to spend his money on that.

Gods forbid he might actually have ‘cared’ about customer comfort. Ah, but I digress.

Rowan had to get this mentality out of his head. But the contrast with Riften was enormous. Where everything was decorated in lavish and beautiful wood work. Autumn-Arrow estate alone was a sight to see.

Rowan untied his clothes and armour as he contemplated about how much Bruma differed from Riften, and how he had to change his traveller’s attitude if he was ever going to as great as Rowan the first. Which his grandfather told him, had travelled all of Tamriel.

A goal, which Rowan, the second. Could only dream of. But hey, you gotta start somewhere. And Cyrodiil seemed as good as any...