"Meeeeead!" Mokaya pleaded with the bartender -- loudly. "It's good! It's all there!" The tallish orc was pushing a few gold coins across the bar, the muscles in her back tensed. "They're dirty, yeah. Clean 'em off! Just as much gold, the filth comes at no extra cost! Is this because I'm Orsimer?!"<br/><br/>Pulling the race card. It was somewhat fun, especially here in Skyrim, where orcs were rare and "spooky". A bit less so in Morrowind, where Mokaya had been travelling before... there, the dunmer just called you s'wit and spit in your food. Here, starting some shit either got you in a pretty awesome brawl, or it got you what you wanted. If you were lucky, it got you both.<br/><br/>After she gouged a bit of crust from the gold coins, showing the barkeep that they were, in fact, gold (at this point they seemed more like very heavy bark), the orc girl grabbed a big tankard of the place's cheapest nordic mead and grunted, downing about half of it in one gulp.<br/><br/>Place was pretty busy. Basic monsters food groups abounded. Man, mer, and even an argonian who was looking thoroughly out of place. And her, of course. Whether orcs were still counted as mer or not was up to the historians, not Mokaya Daggerstomp. Last she checked, they were.<br/><br/>And realistically, Mokaya almost definitely was. In many ways she seemed more elf than orc, causing her to often refer to herself as "orsimer". Her hair was not so coarse, her skin not so pallid and rough, her body not so thick and stocky. Something was different about her -- it was obvious, and she didn't care. She was an outcast mer and a follower of Malacath, a wandering sellsword... or, sellmace. Other people's opinions of her had never been that important.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>