Open Through a Mean Place

[Lance Windhelm]

10th of Fall 523, Morning

The smell of last night's fight still hung heavy in the air as Lance walked down the steps to the common room. The Drunken Fish was what he called, "home", where he was pretty much forced to live for the foreseeable future, and he would make the most of it. He nodded to the slave who's focus was more on sweeping up broken glass than it was on him. Everyone here always seemed to have their head down, their minds busy on something else. Lance thought he was starting to catch on, crime was so big in the city that it must just be the easiest way to stay out of trouble. Though, there is only so much you can pull from a slave who refuses to look up.

"How are you today?" He asked. No answer. Just a glance up, then the slaves eyes focused on the broom. "It must be very interesting." Lance said as he continued to study her.
"Breakfast?" Cira asked from across the bar.
"Same as yesterday." He said, not looking back.
"Hm, like I remember what you had yesterday." She sighed and put a hand on her hip.

Lance looked over, pealing his eyes from the shinning bits of glass that were piled up into the dust pan.

"You are a sight for sore eyes, you know that Cira?" Lance said, smiling at her, resting his hand against his chin.
She fought off a smirk, "Two eggs, bacon, and a piece of toast." She giggled.
"Yup. And an ale."
"Coming up." She said and vanished into the back room.

Cira, Lance had learned about her the hard way. For the first few months she had his heart wrapped around her finger, but he wasn't stupid. Anyone who watched things carefully could see what it was. But he played along. Who wouldn't? New in the city, alone, afraid, stupid, who best to learn from than someone who had something to gain from him? He looked at it like a transaction, he'd give her a few extra silver coins here and there, she would give him whatever information he needed. All would be verified of course.

After breakfast Lance walked out of The Drunken Fish. The cool winter air pushing through him and into the bar. He pulled the door closed and made his way north. His leather coat was warm, but acted like a sail, pushing him back as he fought his way further into the city.

Word Count: 412