Michael
A sunny day in Whiterun, and a stark-black khajiit is sat in the drivers seat of a covered wagon, humming a jovial tune, only to be interrupted by his wagon wobbling, then falling, as the rear left wheel plops right off, he lets out a laugh then hops off the seat, "Could be worse, it could be raining, aye Zhub?" He says to his horse
Samuel
Laying on a warm rock along the wagon path, a City Orc sits with a warm glow, plucking at a lute with his callused hands. 

Shei is trying an attempt at his own melody for *Jornibret's Last Dance*. He knows the intro formally begins with a lady's vocals, but enjoys her lyrics just the same as the men's, beginning to softly sing aloud;

"*Every winter season,
Except for the reason,
Of one war or another


Shei wasn't phased by the wheel-ed traveller passing by. It wasn't uncommon for a carriage or horse rider to trek through those parts of the territory. What was *Uncommon*, and *Unpleasant*, was the the rocky bumping and *CHU-CHUNK-KUNK* Of the wagon as it hit the ground. The wheel's rolling accompaniment was weirdly pleasant to Shei's ears, however. He could hear it again, if fate allows so.

The bard stops his playing, subconsciously slinging the lute's leather strap onto his back before heading towards the direction of the sound. 

Seeing someone was up and moving made it easier for him to approach. 

"Need any help, friend?" He projects, maybe twenty feet from the driver. "I'm no thief. You can search me if you doubt it."
Michael
He speaks up, straining while lifting the wheel so he can roll it back, "Please, Khajiit will need you to lift up the wagon a bit, so this one can place the wheel back on the axle." He says, not even realizing his face isn't covered, so the glowing blue stripes are quite visible, the glow is... Unsettling to say the least. His eyes glow the same color, "I'd ask Zhubhal'jay to do it, but he is not good for anything. This one wonders why I have him in the first place." He says with a laugh
Samuel
Shei looks at the Khajiit in awe. 

As he meets the rider's side, the orc is mesmerized by the glow, in a blissful state where he forgets that the power of the metaphysical exist for a moment. It was as if the back of his brain was shoving it down so he could process it. 

"..."

That face paint he wears must be expensive. And such high quality that it looks as though it really was attached to the traveller's face, naturally. How did it glow? Was it wet? Perhaps some torchbugs had a queen much like a bee's, which was bigger and thus more powerful? And the queen happened to be blue? And ground into a paste to be facially applied? 

Speaking of *More powerful*, the traveller is nearly Shei's height as he *Hunches about the wheel of his wagon*. The man must be as tall as a tree standing straight.

With an impressed whistle, the orc squats down to push the edge of the wagon further from the ground, a slow breath coming out as he does.
Michael
As Shei lifts up the wagon he gets the wheel in place, then gives it a few solid shoves, moving to the interior of the wagon he grabs a small box, containing a variety of tools, taking one and tightening the fastens on of the wheel, "Phew," He sighs, "Thank you, sir, for your help. This one appreciates it, a lot." He stretches his arms, then coincidentally scratches his forehead, revealing that the stripes *Weren't* In fact something applied to his face, the stripes also seem to go down to his tail, as well
Samuel
"No sweat off my brow, really," The orc chuckles, straightening out a clumped bundle formed on the shoulder section of his clothing. 

As Shei turns to look at the khajiit, he watches the furry man scratch at his glimmering forehead. 

The bard stares with a spaced expression as his mind connects the dots. 

"Oh," He accidentally says aloud, with a quick grab at his own chest. "...Were you born like that?"

Sucking in his teeth, the orsimer covers his tusked lips. "*Mighty Malacath*, forgive me. I don't even know your name."

He pantomimes spitting, with a turn of his head and a cringe. "Ptoo, ptoo! Let me start again."

The orc properly introduces himself, head cocked a tad upwards, to look at the man in the eyes.

"I'm Shei. I entertain the Companions at that mead hall, Jorrvaskr, you know, in the city? ...What's your name, friend?"
Michael
He let's out a hearty laugh, "This one forgets that those who are not from Elsweyr would not know about those who are like me." He says, "This one is a Dro-m'Athra, a Khajiit blessed by the Bent Dance." He laughs again, "I am Ra'Gharesh, a wanderer and bard of sorts."
Samuel
"*Bent Dance*, is that right?"
The orc thinks such label might be an innuendo. Whatever it truly is, has flown over his head beyond the point of him catching it. 
With a quizzical furl of his brows, the orc snorts and shakes his head in entertained disbelief. 

Shei performs a soft, honored-to-help bow. "Well, Ra'Gharesh, I feel that wishing the divines to keep your wagon sturdy will do nothing but vex it, but... May a fellow bard give inspiration for fate to bear luck within your travels."

The orc looks curious to Ra'Gharesh, then to his horse, then to the continuing road ahead. He wonders if the aurora-striped Khajiit is in a hurry. 

"...Where are you heading, *Wandering*, to this day?"
Michael
"Yes! The Bent Dance! A dance without music! Dancing to nothing but the rythm of the beating heart, that of the Dark Moon!" He says cheerfully

His face looks angry and he hisses at the mention of the Divines, "And what have they done for us? Looking down on us like we're lesser, filling our world with light, blocking out the Great Darkness." He says, his words are grim, and yet even in anger he sounds happy. "You may keep Khajiit company if you wish, perhaps we may share a song as well." He says with a smile

"Khajiit wanders from place to place, merely following the roads. Staying in one place is not wise, many groups seek to slay me, maybe even the Companions, someday."
Samuel
"Wh-ow, *Stars above*, that must be so spiritually freeing," The orc admires. 

Foolish Shei believes it truly *Is* An innuendo, maybe a cultural thing cat-folk do when parties get wild. He respects it, albeit knowing deep in his heart he is misunderstanding. 

The orc smirks at the passion and distaste for the divines Ra'Gharesh expresses, then frowns in concern at his last statement. 

"Hmph. ...Their heads are full of tainted mead if they think that to be wise," He mutters. 

Looking down, the shorter of the bards grabs at his satchel hanging off his side. 

"If we're keeping company, would you like to pass a pipe before we share songs? I have a blend of dried mountain flowers and honeycomb with me, it's quite nice on the throat. Nothing addictive, I assure you."

He shimmies out his carved smoking pipe, blowing air upon the chamber in case any burnt remains from prior use lingered.
Michael
"It is truly freeing, to be able to hear the Dark Heart of Lorkhaj, and the secrets Namiira tells me. It feels wonderful!" He says with a slightly unsettling smile, "One secret she told me, it's quite good, if you want to hear it." He says, his twisted grin growing larger

He shakes his head, "Khajiit must decline, this one prefers not to smoke."