The door opened again and in strode a high elf - the high elf, in fact. She was the one who had been singled out by the Thalmor. Azeron smirked in spite of himself. No doubt his hypothesis was correct. Even under the soiled gold of the helmet, the displeasure about the woman was clear. As he watched her sit down, the presence of the Breton girl was forgotten.<br/><br/>Thalmor... the word stained his mind. They were the hand of the Dominion, the claws that raked the land seeking to unearth the worms that displeased them.  But Skyrim was not the fertile basin of Cyrodill where the soil was soft. Here, the lands were as tough as the people born from them. The harder the Dominion, and their puppet Empire fought for control, the harder Skyrim would fight back. He admired the land for it. It was the land that could not be conquered, only coexisted with.<br/><br/>The one last maid, a young Nord girl, who worked the Inn while its owners sat outside and gawked at the coming spectacle nodded her acceptance of the order from Dei'Mia.<span style="color: MediumTurquoise">Of course. Immediately.</span>She bowed her head in a show of subservience to the Altmer of the Dominion. She set about after a bowl of stew from a pot still hanging above the fire and a bottle of wine. The vintage was rarer further north in Skyrim, where mead held interest. But, Helgen sat near the border into Cyrodill, and the customs of the main land were easier to acquire.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>