To Kill a Nightingale

Consultation of Good Companions

"To the fallen!"

Three foam-topped pewter tankards clanked together, spilling their froth onto each other, onto the hands gripping them, and onto the already sticky, beaten up tabletop underneath.

Taking hers to her lips, Runa drank deep. A wave of satisfaction. "Aah. The good stuff!"

The Bee and the Barb served precisely the same swill of an ale as did most of the other inns of the province, but somehow over here it always tasted the best. Like adventure. Like a good hard fuck after an adventure!

They were seated at their usual table at the side of the bar, where they could see everything that was happening if they needed to. Where no one could sneak up on them. Not that such a thing ever happened, but in their line of work and with their reputation, there wasn't such a thing as being too careful. Loredas evening saw the place packed full, the clientele at this time consisting solely of faces of varying ugliness and more or less equivalently scarred, the more gentile folk having departed to give room for the less civilized. Ones such as Runa and these two gentlemen she was drinking with.

The strawberry blond-haired one to her left leaned back with an ironic smirk on his lips. "Indeed. And speaking of the good stuff: you'll never guess who I ran into the other night!"

"I won't, Rusty. Though I have the distinct feeling that you're about to tell us."

The man barely winced. He'd grown sufficiently resigned to the nickname over these past few years. He sighed, and then the smirk was back. "Well, none other than Stanvar Son of Erik."

"Oooh," replied Runa. "The old horse-cock is back to Skyrim, is he?"

"Nah. Just popped in. Went back to Daggerfall already."

Popped in, eh? "Well, a night with you will do that. So, I assume you two. . ."

Rusty grinned with his big teeth. "Did we ever!"

"Figures. So . . . you're sitting alright?"

"I'm managing."

Snorting, Runa raised her mug. "I'll drink to that."

Rusty in turn sipped his ale, then set the tankard on the table. He ran a hand over his curly hair in a practiced-looking manner. The otherwise half-long hair was trimmed short right above the ears, with a pair of thin braids at the top. Must have been what was fashionable in the Imperial City that month. "I wonder, though." With a sly look on his face, he tapped his meaty lips with one finger. His pecker-suckling lips, as Runa had dubbed them. And he'd never once bothered trying to deny it.

"You wonder what?"

He aimed his smirk at the man sitting opposite to him. "Just, if Hroar here were to get some action from time to time, I wonder if he'd show us more of that radiant smiled of his."

Hroar frowned, but did not bother with a reply. This was not the sort of conversation that made the man comfortable. And so she and Rusty tried to make sure to have one as frequently as possible.

"Oh, come now," said Runa. "I don't think getting is his problem. If only he didn't keep pushing the lasses away, why, he'd practically be swimming in action. I mean, look at 'im. A man's man if ever there was one! Hroar the Lion!" She growled the last word, grabbing hold of the man's brawny arm.

Hroar winced. "You know how I hate it when you call me that."

"And you know that's precisely why it gives me such joy to do so."

The hated sobriquet, as so often, had originated with Runa. Initially, years and years ago, she'd taken to calling him "Hroar-Like-a-Lion", based on the way he always used to introduce himself. As usual, what had started as a joke had more or less stuck, if in a slightly altered from. And ever since then the man had fought a hopeless war against people calling him that. Much to Runa's satisfaction.