<strong>Name:</strong>Ilya Evermore<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Riften, in front of Mistveil Keep<br/><strong>Time:</strong>Morning<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Kreios, Nar'Rystlyn<br/><br/>Ilya was picking at the caked blood above his eye as he was approached by a large Nord man. He straightened up a little and stopped picking at the scab, but it had already opened and new blood started trickling down into his eye. He turned to face him with a crooked smile but was repelled by the obvious smell of mead coming of the man. He recognized that movement as well, he had tried it several times himself and had in the end found that it was less revolting to whomever you approached if you just stumbled up to them. Then at least you knew what you had to deal with.<br/><br/>"Uhm..." He tried to get a word in between all the questions that the drunk was throwing at him when suddenly something all together different appeared to at his side. The first thing he noticed was that there was no face to focus on. His eyes blurred a little with greys and whites before it cleared and he started to recognize what was in front of him. He had never imagined that he would be approached by myths and legends the first thing that happened when he arrived in Riften. Second he noticed curves. Rather attractive ones at that. He tried to smile wide but found that another tooth had come loose so he quickly turned around, spat it out with a glob of blood in his left hand. He took a second to look it over to see if it could be salvaged through restoration, but found it unlikely and threw it away. Turning back to the two he kept his left hand behind his back, wiping it of on the inside of his cloak as he finally managed a bloodied smile and a curt bow worthy of the Blue Palace, that was more turned towards the obvious woman than the burly drunk Nord. It didn't matter if she was the real thing or not, he would rather trust a thief than a drunk. Mostly because thieves had standards. Drunks pissed in flower pots. He knew from his own experience.<br/><br/>"Humble apologies, for I am a mere outlander traveling here from the other side of Skyrim." He raised up again, his smile in splendor. Even though blood was pooling around his gums and he had a few teeth missing it wasn't in how it looked but in how you presented it. Huge difference. Even a toothless beggar could smile more warmly than a cold-hearted prince. And in that regard Ilya's smile was always warmest of them all, even if he was trying to force a bottle of Alto on an angry troll. "But my manners fail me! I am Ilya Evermore, Bard out of Solitude and tinkerer of mechanic goods out of Markarth, at your service."<br/><br/>He took the female's hand and kept it at that. He wouldn't want to bloody her hands with a kiss, for now at least. The Nord he just gave a nod to. He would rather not touch rabble unless it roused, in which case it was a whole other sort of kiss that would be given. "I am indeed lost and in need of some assistance. My Luggage here and I ran into a nasty pack of Draugr and then had to take to fisticuffs with a troll, which ended in a triumph that could have gone better." He glanced back at the troll-head hanging from the construct's side, a bit of fat running down its dead eyes from the crack in the skull much like his own blood was starting to take a toll on his vision.<br/><br/>Apparently the drunk was from out of town as well as the lady addressed him as such. He heard a bit of a purring sound to her voice and he painfully raised a triumphant brow. "If my senses serve me right you are not originally from these parts either. From furthest south perhaps? No matter, pardon my manners once more, I'm delirious and in need of healing and a nap perhaps..."