A Nervous Werewolf In A Breton Bar (Farkas)

 A/N: If you caught the NCIS reference you have my full respect

When Anna had suggested stopping by a local inn for a light dinner I don’t know what I was expecting, only that it wasn’t this. Bars, inns, and taverns in Skyrim are known to be rowdy with drunken patrons often getting into verbal or physical fights. It seems there’s less of that and more overall chaos here in Daggerfall. People speak with at times a  difficult to understand accent, and more often than not are speaking in a language I can’t even begin to comprehend. Then again, language, verbally at least, was never my strong suit.

 The inn itself is good size, primarily made of wood and grey exposed stone, and well lit enough that I can make out Anna across the room discussing something with someone. Loud fast paced music on some type of string instrument and a flute-like instrument plays in the background as the patrons continue talking amongst themselves. Some are eating, more are drinking, almost all are talking. Luckily for me, the tavern room is large enough to find a relatively quiet corner to hide in before overstimulation completely kicks in. I’m used to bar fights and insults, not nearly constant seemingly happy discussions and music that one actually wants to listen to.

The barkeep eventually comes up to me where I stand in the corner, though at first I can’t understand him, I don’t speak Breton. Thankfully like most people he can speak a common nearly universal language as well and gives me a glass of water before going back to the bar. Anna glances over and waves every so often to ensure I haven’t entered a state of panic and attempts to beckon me over, but I’d rather stay here. This little corner is quieter and dark and not overstimulating. That said, I’d still rather be elsewhere, even if it’s just outside. The sensory input is making me more anxious by the second and I begin to seriously consider stepping outside for a few moments.

Just as the thought crosses my mind there’s a blueish flash of light and next to me stands the spectral form of Lucien LaChance. “What’s wrong?” The ghost asks, walking me back further into the corner a bit so it’s easier to hear. I’m confused at the question but manage to get out “why are you here?” eventually. “I felt a disturbance in the void.” The spectre responds all too casually. “Perk of being dead, you’re able to sense when your supernatural friends are in trouble.” he adds after a moment, as if that clears things up.

The barkeep then notices him and says something I can’t understand, Lucien responds to what seems to have been a question which I also can’t understand. Seemingly having cleared things up the barkeep walks away. Lucien then turns back to me and my rather confused expression, unsure of what just happened. “You seem to have forgotten my first language is Breton.” Lucien says to me with a grin. “I always knew you had an accent.” I manage to mutter to myself. With us back in the corner alone he takes a moment to look around, process the scene, and makes a sound as if confirming something to himself. “I know what’s wrong. You don’t speak Breton and you hate crowded places. Come on, we’re going on a walk.” A moment after he takes my wrist and begins to walk toward the door.

Anna notices at that point and comes over just before we exit the building. Lucien explains things, Anna notes she’ll only be perhaps ten minutes more, and the two agree on a meeting place for when she’s done. With matters settled Lucien and I wander off into the night. “As you can see, Breton culture is very different to Nordic culture, which is different to Imperial culture, and the list goes on.” Lucien explains some of the more common customs one might find here while smoothing part of his robes out and continuing to walk.

 Sometimes I forget he was born here, as evidenced by the fact I had forgotten Breton was his first language, and that he spent most of his early childhood on the docks not far from where we are. The meeting place in fact ends up being an old oak tree near the docks, Lucien tells me about how when he was a child he’d climb it and sit for a while on one of the branches until someone would find him. The spectral assassin confuses me at times. As we discuss the old tree he seems simultaneously quite happy and rather sad. I think the fact of being no longer among the living, though he still has a physical form, takes an emotional toll.

The quietness of the docks is calming, the only sounds being the waves, the large wooden boats that carry all kinds of trade goods rocking on the water, the occasional bird, and the wind among the trees. Anna joins us around half an hour later, having caught up with old acquaintances and gotten a few job leads that could be potentially very good. “What is rule  number one?” Lucien asks Anna when she finds us sitting at the base of the tree watching the tide come in. “Always carry a knife?” Anna responds, seemingly confused. The assassin shakes his head “No. that’s rule number nine.” he pauses and points at me “Rule number one is never put a nervous werewolf in a Breton bar.” I suppose he’s right.