Lithelle shifts the hefty satchel up and over her shoulder adjusting the heavy weight of her bag.  The sun  is starting to set, changing the already crisp Skyrim air, into a blithering cold.  The Bosmer shivers and stops in the road, opening the satchel and removing a long fur lined cloak and hood.  In the past she had wondered if she’d find a need to wear the garb again, as the tepid climates of Cyrodil had spoiled her. Right now Lithelle is thankful she never could find a buyer for the old things , Hircine knows she tried on a dozen or more occasions to trade the cloak in for a night in a tavern.<br/><br/>The elf notes the dimming sunlight, and brushes the leaves from a nearby stone before taking a seat atop the make shift stool. She snaps her fingers, conjuring a quick cat eye spell upon herself, and sets to open up her map.   Thin, nimble fingers meander over the worn  paper, trailing along where she thinks she might be. She looks up into the night sky, noting smoke from the east.<span style="color: olive">“RIften…” </span>she mumbles trailing along the river on the map then looking up. The the river starts no more than 200 yards in front of her.<br/><br/>The elf folds her maps, pulls the draw string on her rucksack closed, and hefts the weight over her shoulder. Her bag gets heavier each day. Skyrim has tremendous wildlife, and because of this her bag is overflowing with pelts.  Bears, wolves, rabbits, if she could catch it , Lithelle killed, ate and skinned it. It kept the natural order of things..the whole world was a delicate balance of life and death, and she took her part in 'culling the herd' very seriously. As much as she was at home in the wilderness,  after a few long days in the  Skyrim forests, she could stand a little city life for a bit.<br/><br/>She could find a place to unload her goods, and lay low until she was contacted for more work.  If she’s lucky , the furs will fetch enough Septims to keep her in a state of inebriated bliss, in a fine tavern- Maybe even have enough left over for a night of fun with the local flavor of Nord whore.<br/><br/>Lithelle tries to make haste into the town, running at a silent steady pace, hoping to make it to town before the blacksmith called it a night. She hoped she’d get a nice warm bed  and a pint for the evening, and that wouldn’t happen if she couldn’t unload some furs.<br/><br/>Her trek is made a bit slower then usual as the stinging pain in her side is getting worse as she trots over the rugged landscape. Her last mark was a bit of a rough customer.  He got her square in the gut with his dagger before she choked the hell out of him with her bare hands. It was her own damn fault for being seen anyhow, but that didn’t make the pain any less.<br/><br/>No matter, a few days rest would do her good. She’s sure of it.  She manages to scamper into town twenty minutes before most shops closed.  She stops to ask a guard to direct her to the nearest blacksmith, and she heads off in that direction, pushing her way through man, woman and child.<span style="color: olive"> “Sorry…sorry…MOVE.” </span>She grumbles.<br/><br/><br/>She reaches the blacksmith, and tugs at the doorknob. It doesn’t budge. She groans and starts to pound on the door….she was only a few minutes late…the owner HAD to still be there.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>