<strong>Name:</strong>Ilya Evermore<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Riften, in front of Mistveil Keep<br/><strong>Time:</strong>Morning or something, Oblivion if I know!<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Open<br/><br/>It wasn't every day the peasants and miners of the Rift had the pleasures of seeing an Argonian riding on a six-legged chest towards town. He had straddled it like a horse and looked very tired, dried caked blood covering his left eye from a rather vicious wound on his brow. The roads were usually safe around the holds, but who could have known the damned Draugr had taken a fancy to banditry along the paths winding through the forest. Had it not been for the troll that suddenly joined in the fray he could well have been dead by now. There had been at least three dozens of the vile creatures, which translated from Bard's tongue to about one dozen or less, and he had managed to take down a few before the troll came by. Once they had finished of their common undead enemies it seemed the beast didn't take kindly to sharing a bottle of Alto with his temporary ally to celebrate, which meant the Argonian Bard had suddenly been involved in a rather dangerous brawl complete with fisticuffs and wrestling. He shook his aching right hand, carefully rubbing his cracked knuckles. The punch that had finally crowned him the victor had been aimed at the troll's temple, a powerful hook that would have completely crushed a man's skull but in this case would have to be content with dealing enough head trauma to finally fell the beast. The slack-jawed head hung from the back of the Dwemer construct, it's head cracked open to make a makeshift container for all the troll fat he had managed to rend from the dead creature.<br/><br/>"Hist be praised... there's the damned town finally."<br/><br/>Ilya Evermore, a rather unknown individual along these parts, had travelled for many weeks from the city of Markarth after a little incident that landed him the honor of being banished from its hallowed halls and streets. He had fought his way past Forsworn, bandits, wild beasts and the occasional bounty hunter. Had it been that he had not wrecked his own workshop and a small part of Markarth in a successfully failed experiment with Dwemer automatons he would have stilled lived a rich lizard's life in the city. But now he was instead on his way towards Riften, the furthest away he could come from the old Dwemer city. Perhaps he could catch a ride out of there to Black Marsh.<br/><br/>Perhaps he would have been stopped at the gate by the guards without his unusual mount anyway. He was obviously not from around the Rift, his rather travel-worn and stained clothes more of a Solitude cut than anything else. Didn't help that he wore an alabaster elven chest-piece of unknown design either, which of course made the watchmen ask if he had travelled from the Dominion. The blood caked eye and the two cracked fangs didn't make much of an impression either, no matter how much Ilya stubbornly defended his very rugged Argonian handsomeness. The only thing that kept the guards from taking him in for interrogation was that he was a full head taller than them and probably built for two. Fist-fighting anything from wolves to giants sort of had that effect on any body. When they decided that they wanted to search his Dwemer Luggage for contraband he countered with "Of course, Watchmen, be careful though as it's rather hungry." In the end he got to walk through the gates untouched. The hold simply didn't pay them good enough to fight large lizardmen and be bitten in half by six-legged containers.<br/><br/>Ilya jumped down from his unusual mount and gave a groan as he felt the reverberation of his act painfully make its way up his feet, legs and back. He had probably broken more than his knuckles in the bout with the troll. His eyes blurred a little as he gripped the Luggage to steady himself. What he needed now was a healer and an inn. He knew nothing of the town though and as his eyes cleared he could see plenty of shifty and curious eyes eyeing him and his walking chest. Woe to the fool that tried to steal anything from his Luggage, but if they tried to rob him now he wouldn't be up to fighting back. He would have to find refuge away from the streets, but to find such a place he would need an ally to help him.<br/><br/>"I'm not really up to playing a song right now, Luggage... unless someone takes pity on a poor bardic soul I guess we will have to find an inn by ourselves..." Was he really talking to his contraption? Had the troll knocked his brain loose? And why the hell had he not bought that<em> Guide to the Rift</em>book that the travelling salesman had tried to sell him?