<strong>-Ilya Evermore, getting out of Silver-Blood Inn-</strong><br/><br/>Ilya had come to Markarth broke, one could say destitute. Between the tolls, wine and wenches gold trickled quickly between his clawed fingers, but there was always a steady supply. A good bard knew how to play an entertaining tune and could earn his living on it. A<em>really</em>good bard knew how to use his tricks to squeeze that extra bit of gold out of his patrons. Sure, he had broken his picks while he tried to break into the Treasury House the other night, but that was no reason to sulk. Instead he had put up a great performance at the inn, weaving his illusions into the tunes and songs to make sure that his bounty was plentiful and his admirers the more willing. A bit insidious perhaps, but the ladies had hardly been unsatisfied by the end of the night. It was a pity he had to leave on such a short notice, lest he had taken a morning-nip as well.<br/><br/>However he had heard the barmaidens whisper outside his door just a few moments ago. The Stormcloaks were marching on Markarth. And he sure didn't want to live through a siege or the probably lynching that would come afterwards. Living in Skyrim was becoming a bit of a nuisance. Perhaps he could manage to slip into Hammerfell, make his way down to Cyrodiil. Elsweyr perhaps, it was warm and exciting and he had always had a soft spot for the Khajiit. His feet were light as he sneaked out of the room and down the stairs to the main hall where breakfast was served. He kindly denied the keeper's offers of hospitality and made his way out the door, where a bit of a panicked chaos was growing. He wasn't far from the gate, but even so it took him several minutes to get there through the crowd. Even so, it had been locked and barred, no way out. He considered the old dwarven catacombs for a moment, but remembered his last visit into the dwemer depths which had almost cost him a leg.<br/><br/>Looking around he saw nothing but desperate faces and the very impersonal helmets of the city guards. H sat down on a fallen block of masonry and rested his hooded head on his knuckles. This surely was no place for an Argonian to be, and even though his masters in the College would argue that the battlefield is a prime place for a bard of his caliber to seek inspiration, he couldn't agree less. In the bottom of a pitcher and a foot deep into a lusty lass, that is where the best inspiration is, so to hell with their ideas of tales chivalry. Looking off to his side he saw something rather different though. a small gathering of what looked like capable adventurers. Sellswords even? the kind that could take him through the catacombs and out of this city. Surely they didn't mean to defend this hellhole! Right? Standing up straight and clearing his throat he marched through the crowd up to the group and with a deep and theatrical bow he introduced himself.<br/><br/>"Greeting, strangers! Welcome to Markarth, Pearl of the West, Marvel of Masonry and soon to be Smokiest Ruin of Tamriel!" If his little speech didn't get it through their skulls that he was of a bardic occupation, surely his exotic white armor and lute on his back would. He pulled back his hood, revealing a rich blood-red plume of feathers which reach down to his shoulder-blades and a pair of sparkling yellow eyes accompanied by a sharply teethed but pleasant smile. "I noticed you look to be swords of talent rather than shields of need. Might I be so straight-forward as to ask if you are in fact available for hire?"