Love and Bounty

Chapter Seven: What She Needs

Shor's bones, what just happened?

Hrolf and Jaree-Ra could only watch as Deeja stamped up the stairs and disappeared around the corner. The look on her face had been inscrutable, flush with a flurry of potent emotions that baffled Hrolf. Was she okay? What happened? Did he say something that offended her? Hopefully not.

Chatter trickled back into the swath of tavern patrons. Hrolf and Jaree-Ra exchanged uneasy glances, and the Argonian cleared his throat as he slid back into his chair.

"Don't mind my egg-sister," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "She flusters easily."

That felt like a little more than being flustered. That felt like complete and utter embarrassment or dejection—even worse than before. "Will she be okay?" Hrolf asked.

"She should be fine in the morning," Jaree-Ra muttered, giving the empty staircase a glance. No sign of her there. "Now, shall we get back to discussing business?"

Ah, right. The topic at hand. Hrolf couldn't help but sneak a glance at the stairs. She seemed like the type of person that preferred a moment of solitude after a difficult situation comes and goes, but appearances could be deceiving. Perhaps she was still upset about his outburst—had he not apologized?

He didn't. Shame settled in his chest like a lump of lead and washed over his shoulders like hot water. He had to apologize to her. It might have been within his right to be angry, but his near-outburst was uncalled for. How could he make up for it?

"Excuse me," the red-haired Breton barkeep said, suddenly standing over the broken chair and the long scratch marks that Deeja had left on the table. Those claws of hers were no joke. "We're going to need some kind of compensation for this property damage."

Jaree-Ra let out a dramatic sigh and produced a hefty coinpurse. "How much?"

"Fifty septims should cover the table and chair."

Displeased, the Argonian growled curses under his breath in a language that Hrolf didn't understand as he fished out exactly fifty good pieces. "Here," he grumbled. "Now leave me."

The barkeep scraped the coins off of the table and into his palms. "Thank you. Enjoy the rest of your night."

"Xuth ojel," Jaree-Ra hissed, closing his coinpurse with a tug of the string and dropping it in his lap. "Sorry for that interruption, friend." His hateful tone and demeanor had vanished in an instant. "Were you about to say something?"

Hrolf took another glance at the corner Deeja disappeared behind. No sign of her. Then he nodded. "Let's talk business."

Jaree-Ra flashed a toothy smile and leaned forward in his seat. "Excellent, excellent..."

Their discussion about 'business' used plenty of tricky language, most of which he was familiar with. Working as a thief had its long-term perks after all. Hrolf quickly gathered that these 'Blackbloods' Deeja told him about were a group of bandits led by none other than the Argonian siblings themselves. The sting of betrayal still throbbed in his guts, with resentment not far beneath it, but this was the sign he needed. The flow, as Kyne guided, had led him to Jaree-Ra and Deeja—into the waiting arms of the Blackbloods.

Come to think of it, the honest work he had done was driving him crazy. He hated the monotony and repetitive cycles that came with such work, and while he enjoyed being a traveling bard the most, even that was starting to become dull. An insatiable, half-buried part of him longed for the adrenaline rush that followed a good raid or valuable prize claimed, and he had kept that thrill-seeking part of him in its shallow grave for long enough.