School Supplies.

[Clark]

The skinny Breton crouched in a cluster of blue mountain flowers. Shaggy black hair fell across his eyes. Nimble fingers pinched blossoms off of stems quickly and cleanly then carefully placed them in a pouch at his belt. He eased back until his rump bumped the ground, brushed his hands off on his robes, then tucked his hair back under his hood.

"Well," he said to himself. "That should be enough mountain flowers."

He pulled his instructions from the sleeve of his robe, grabbed a bit of charcoal, then unfolded the paper.

Clark,

Retrieve these items for your next lesson:

Mountain Flowers (Blue)
Butterfly Wings (Blue)
Wheat

Return to me when you have at least 6 of each.

~Colette Marence


Clark put the parchment against his leg and gently scratched the charcoal over the first item on the list until nothing remained of the words but a large black smudge. He raised his head and looked around. Right! He was in Solitude, making his quarterly report to Esilif about his progress at the college. He still needed to get up there to the palace, but had gotten distracted by the flowers. He looked up the road towards his destination when something else blue flitted by his eyes.

"Ah! A butterfly!" He laughed and snatched at the insect. The wind his snatching motion created wafted the delicate creature beyond his reach. The College Novice got to his feet and tried again. Still the butterfly eluded him. Its erratic flight pattern, combined with Clark's good-natured over-eagerness kept the butterfly out of his reach until at last, he lunged.

"Aha!" He shouted as his hands finally closed over the bug. "Got you! Whaooa!" the aspiring mage felt the ball of his foot slip on a pebble and tip him forward. "Oof!" He found himself cheek-to-thigh with some random passerby.

Not wanting to give up his catch, Clark attempted to part with the stranger without the use of his hands. Rather than get back on his feet, he found his face in the dirt instead. Disoriented and spitting dirt, Clark looked about somewhat more frantically than usual until his eyes met those of the person he bumped into.

"Sorry. Slipped. Would you--uh, could you? Help me up? Please?"

[Calloway Sharr]

Calloway Sharr blinked in disbelief at the sight which sprawled before him, and then at his trousers and boots.

Dirt.

Dirt on his good, clean, trousers, besmirching their pristine, pale rose fabric, and that just had to be spit-laden mud sprayed onto the smooth, supple leather of his exquisite traveling boots. What sort of filthy, good-for-nothing, careless, clumsy imbecile would just fall into him and dirty his trousers? The Khajiiit's lips pursed as he tried not to bare his teeth, and then the offender looked up at him.

It was a boy. A grubby, dirty boy in robes. Robes with a hood. Ill-fitting robes with a hood, and no necklace to set it off. Oh, Skyrim was in greater need of the great Calloway Sharr than he had ever imagined. Forgetting his pants momentarily, Calloway sighed, then reached down to take the boy by the arm and help him back to his feet, dusting his paw off on his now-dirtied trousers after doing so.

"I hope you're happy, young man. Now I'll have to change outfits before I get into Solitude," the Khajiit huffed, his head held high as if he were some sort of nobility. The carpet-bag held in his left paw was evidence enough, however, that he was not. "I mean, can't you watch where you're going? You could have knocked me over, if I'd been a step to the left." His tail flicked with agitation, more so than he truly should have for the minor affect Clark had made upon his wardrobe. But, what a wardrobe it was.

An impeccably tailored three piece suit in pale rose velvet, trimmed in raspberry satin, with a pale celedon and seafoam satin waistcoat beneath, with a shirt the shade of pale mint cream. The gold medallion about his neck hung neatly beneath a celedon crevat, setting off the small golden rings in his ears, and the jeweled rings upon his fingers. Tawny fur expertly brushed and glistening with a hint of the finest perfumed oils, the Khajiit, could not have possibly stood out more on the road if he had tried. Had Clark any experience with Khajiit in the past, he would know that Calloway little resembled his race-bretheren. Slight of build, he appeared almost effeminate with his tight trousers and distinguished manner, but still there hung a saber at his hip, gleaming in its silvery scabbard wrought with gold filigree, while a polished ebony buckler overlapping it.

[Clark]

Clark smiled and bowed, hands still clapped together. "I am happy, actually. Not about your clothes! It's just--" He gestured with his hands. "I finally caught a butterfly for my alchemy lesson!"

The novice looked at the Kahjit's pants. "Does the dirt come out easily?" he asked as he returned his attention to the butterfly in his hands. Clark closed his eyes and whispered the spell of Calm. A faint emerald light shone briefly in his hands, and he opened them. The young Breton couldn't help but chuckle. Magic was so fun! Next he shifted the butterfly into his left palm and did like Colette showed him: he pinned one wing down under his left thumb, then lifted the other wing with his right index finger. Carefully, slowly, he pinched the delicate wing right against the insect's thorax and pinched hard with just his nail. he pinched again on the other side of the insect's thorax, but squished the insect's body in between his fingers. Clark sighed. It would have been fun to study the insect's body. At least the wings were in tact. The student brushed the bug guts on his pants, then put the butterfly wings in his apothecary's satchel.

[Calloway Sharr]

Calloway watched, his face shifting through no less than four shades of horror. First that this young man had no understanding of how difficult it was to clean velvet in the wild, then at the use of magic right before him. In Cyrodiil, magic was practiced, but the Khajiit had always seen it done in more ceremonious manner, by men and women in stunning robes. To witness it performed by a rag-tag youth out amongst the trees seemed almost wrong, in a sense.

He had little time to ponder on the subkect, though, as he cringed, watching this lad pluck the wings from the living creature, and then he nearly retched as Clark not only squished the insect's body, but he wiped the mess on his pants! It was filthy, it was disgusting and base and barbarian and, well, downright rude! Lost for words, the tawny cat stammered momentarily before he could speak.

"But, you, but, that's... don't you even possess a kercheif?" He finally managed. "And don't you know it's much easier to catch butterflies with a net?"

[Clark]

Clark shrugged. "I used to, but it got so filthy I threw it away. I suppose a net would be nice. I don't have a lot of money, though, so I'm having to do things the old-fashioned way." He smiled. "It's ok, though. I get to see the insects up close."

The student idly looked around, hoping to find more butterflies nearby. "What brings you to Solitude?"

[Calloway Sharr]

Oh, the wistful, carefree days of youth... how they were wasted upon this lad. Calloway sighed, brushing at the dirt on his trousers, hoping it would dust off, but there was no such luck to be had. He would have to change, no doubt about it.

"You can wash kercheifs, you know," he said, his voice slightly exhasperated. A quick glance at the boy's scruffy appearance, made him roll his eyes. "Though, that would imply you knew about washing in general..." he muttered under his breath.

The walls and towers of Solitude, visible just above the tops of the trees ahead brought him back on track, just as a whiff of the stables drifted his way as the winds so unpleasantly changed direction. Wrinkling his sensitive nose, Calloway straightened his posture and announced, "I am Calloway Sharr, perhaps you've heard of me?" When that failed to elicit even the most remote spark of recognition, he continued, "I am the greatest tailor Cyrodiil has ever seen, come to this far-flung province to enlighten and embellish the wardrobes of the most noble and worthy, and to teach these Nords what fashion truly is. I have come to Solitude to seek an audience with the Jarl, so that I may ply my serives and greatly improve their appearance. The clothes may not make the man, but they can make the man, or woman, better."

He gave a tug at the base of his waistcoat to straighten it, proud of his own work as he puffed out his narrow chest. "But, I wouldn't expect a boy like you to know much of anything that goes on in courts of nobility, so my trade is likely meaningless to you," he harrumphed.

[Clark]

"Lady Esilif manages the affairs of the Hold, and for now the affairs of skyrim as a whole. She meets with her advisors to discuss trade, cops, dealings with bandits and other rogues, and lately..." Clark paused and his expression soured, "the civil war between the Imperials and Stormcloaks." His expression turned merry again. " She's also providing for my education at the College of Winterhold."

He gestured in the direction of the Blue Palace. "I need to make my quarterly progress report. We can go see her together!"

[Calloway Sharr]

The Khajiit's eyes went wide, then blinked owlishly at such a revalation. This boy was in contact with the Jarl? Could get him into the court without needing an invitation? Well, that would certainly save himself a lot of work impressing the townsfolk, or forging an invitation dated some several months earlier that the Jarl might have "forgotten" about. Gears and wheels turned inside Calloway's head as he began to smile.

"Yes, see her together. That sounds like a splendid plan, my good lad," he found himself saying without even thinking about it first.

Another blink snapped him back to reality, and his smile vanished in an instant. "Though now I will certainly need to change, first. Why don't you... find yourself another butterfly over there while I duck behind the stables, here?"

Without giving Clark a chance to object, Calloway hitched up the carpetbag in his paw and made a swift escape to the semi-privacy offered by the back wall of the stables. After a few minutes of rustling cloth and slipping buttons, the tawny Khajiit emerged once more, this time in a suit of pale yellow, his jacket cropped a bit short as to show off the brilliant red and rose striped silken sash girdled about his waist, a spotless white shirt with pale pink trim above it, and a red silk cravat about his neck to match his beltlike sash. The gold medallion was still there, and his boots had been hastily cleaned and polished, and all-told he looked no less foppish than he had in his pink velvet suit.

Running a comb through the front of his longer headfur to set it just so, he smirked and said, "There. Now I look ready to meet a Jarl, I believe. Shall we go, my good lad?"

[Clark]

Clark was plucking butterfly wings when Calloway returned. "Of course," he said. The pair walked together up to the gate. The guards shifted uneasily. Between Clark, who looked every inch a wizard, and Calloway, who of course was Khajit, it was a few seconds before they spoke to either of them.

"He's not allowed in the walls," one of them said to Clark. Clark looked over at Calloway. "Why?"

Clark had met Khajit before, travelling with his parents as a child. He thought the way they spoke was funny, but never thought more of them than that. He later learned that many of them traded in illegal goods, and were sometimes hired as assassins.

"He just wants to sell clothes."

[Calloway Sharr]

Calloway stood unfazed by the guard, having experienced such racism many times since coming to Skyrim. But his mouth fell open at Clark's last words.

"Clothes? I dont't just sell clothes, I sell the finest garments this Reach has ever seen!" he balked. Straightening his posture, he lifted his chin, looking down his muzzle. "I am Calloway Sharr, the greatest tailor in all of Cyrodiil, and I have come for an appointment with the Jarl!" he stated.

Tail flicking in agitation, he continued, "And if you are going to stand there and tell me that I, a world-renowned artist, am not welcome in your city soley because of my race, then sir, you leave me no choice but to prove my worth to you as an equal!"

The guards both reached for their swords as Calloway slipped a paw into his jacket, but they eased back as he withdrew a gold seal set with lapis and amber, mounted to a leather pad. "This, my good men, is the grand seal of Zenithar, marking me as His ambassador! If you refuse me, you refuse His blessing! Is that what you truly wish for your city? For your forges to go dark, your shop to shutter, and your port to go empty? Think carefully, my good men."

[Clark]

"At any rate," Clark put in quickly, "fine garments aren't illegal, and I don't think he would tolerate his outfits to suffer the grisly consequences of wet works."

The magician turned his palms down. When he turned them up, they held the potential energy of a Calm spell. "No need for curses or hard-nosed stubbornness."

The guards backed up. "Whoa whoa WHOA! Watch the magic! We meant no harm! Just doing our duty! He can enter, but you better watch him!"

The young mage turned his palms over and the magic vanished from his hands. "Thanks, fellas!"

The gates opened. Clark waved his new acquaintance inside. "It's a direct path from here to the Blue Palace!"

[Calloway Sharr]

Calloway's eyebrows had fallen, flattening the tops of his eyes into a displeased melancholy at Clark's display. His words should have been enough. The cheap, gold-plated seal he'd made in jewelery class should have been the icing on the cake. Now he owed someone. Calloway hated owing people. People typically wanted to collect on it in the end.

Still, the gates were open, and he was being allowed inside. At the moment, that was enough.

Pocketing his seal once more, Calloway marched into the city, head held high, ignoring the gasps and shocked expressions of those around him. It wasn't every day they got to see fashion like his, so he would let them stare uninterrupted upon his magnificent handiwork. And in return he would gaze upon his new place of business. Each passerby was a possible client, every one of them with their own unique personality and style. Even the beggar who claimed to have been in some war, once, had a way about him that could be made more convincing if only he were to allow Calloway to ply his trade upon him. Influence was also taken from the types of businesses that were most prominent in town. First was a tavern and inn, which made sense by the gates, then some clothing shop called Radiant Raiments - ha! he would be the judge of that! - followed by an alchemist's shop and a general goods store. Overhead he could hear the clanging of a smith's hammer, and the stripping of feathers for fletching, marking those two merchants as being located up the hill, near the barracks. Solitude ran in two separate circles, then, one for soldiers who lived above the common man, and the other for people living out lives of what appeared to be luxury. All told, it worked in his favor, as it meant a wider breadth of his talents could be showcased, presuming people had the coin for it.

And then there were secrets. A divided society ran on information, but did not freely disseminate it amongst themselves. There would be intel known to one side that the other might pay well for, or to keep secret. A good tailor dealt in more than just needle and thread, after all...

Regular patrols of guards walked the streets, marking it as a society of law which covered an innate distrust of each other. That too, could hold promise for his coinpurse, should he learn just why that distrust fomented in the first place.

But of trust, Calloway was most thankful, and most suspicious of Clark. First, he didn't know the young wizard's name, nor his true intentions, and he had been willing to stand up for Calloway at the gates, not even knowing him. Was it innocence? Was it good nature? Or, was it as he suspected, a way to get Calloway in his pocket. Goodness knows the lad needed a tailor's help; those robes were atrocious. Still, Clark had helped, and for that Calloway was grateful, smiling the whole way to the doors of the Blue Palace - which to Calloway's surprise was actually blue. Sort of.

[Clark]

"Well, here we are!" Clark exclaimed. "Lady Esilif is inside and directly up the stairs. The guards will let us in; they know me by sight."

They entered together and ascended the curving stairs to Lady Esilif's court. Clark waved lightly at the court wizard, Sybille Stentor, and patiently waited for Erikur to finish his debate with Falk Firebeard. For Clark, waiting usually meant mentally checking out--keeping an ear or eye open only for something that directly addressed him, like a gesture or his name. As a child, he daydreamed about all manner of things. Now that he was older, he would mentally rehearse history, names, alchemical formulas, and other more useful things. At the moment, he rehearsed his list of items to gather for Colette, and brought to mind the spells he was still practicing.

So far, he mastered Candlelight, Calm, Flames, Oakflesh, Healing, Conjure Familiar. Clark could already perform basic enchantments with instructions. Soon, he would learn Soul Trap, and then he could really get started on his enchanting training.

As Falk and Erikur's debate continued, Clark only really registered the hard "C" words: "clash," and "collection," and "coraling," and "curtailed."

All the while, Clark reviewed his spells.

[Calloway Sharr]

Calloway, on the other hand, paid a great deal of attention to the chamber about him, while under the guise of not doing so at all. While he looked down, adjusting the fit and fall of his clothes, his ears swiveled about, catching any conversation which sounded even remotely relevant. An emory file worked its magic upon one of his claws as his eyes scanned the room and its inhabitants. Advisors, politicians, nobles with vested interest, and military representatives, each of them appeared to line the court chamber in equal number - a good sign as that meant no one party truly dominated. That was important, as it meant Calloway had four sources of clients, each of whom would wish to out-do the other, and looking good was always the first step in doing so.

But then there was more to learn than just who his best clients might be. Easing the file along his clawtips, sharpening and polishing simultaneously, Calloway trained his ears on the conversation between Erikur and Falk, finding them to be the most immediately relevant among those in the chamber. They spoke of war, betrayal, and tactics to oppose their enemies. Numerous negative references to the Stormcloaks indicated that this was a city firmly on the Imperial side of the coin, which meant Calloway could stress his connection to the Imperial City in Cyrodiil as a selling feature while in Solitude. And goodness did these people need his help.

Mismatched colors or fabrics abounded, among styles at least ten years out of date. Everyone tried to look their best, but Calloway outshone them all with ease. If these garments were what that Radiant Raiments shop had to offer, Calloway would make a killing in the cliffside capitol. And, of course eyes did turn his way, some because of his impeccable worksmanship on his suit, but most because he had ears and a tail. People eyed him with distrust, and he could see the movements of lips as they would whisper to each other, all asking how a Khajiit had come to enter the Jarl's court.

A glance at Clark revealed the lad lost in his own thoughts, and so Calloway's eyes returned to the empty throne before a door opened and an honor guard made his way through, Jarl Elisif behind. All went quiet as the Jarl took her seat upon the throne, and Calloway could not help but measure her up with his eyes. Thirty-two, twenty-six, thirty-four. Not absolutely ideal, but he had dealt with far worse and still found success. Jarl Elisif would make a most glorious canvas for his handiwork.

[Clark]

Clark snapped to when the Jarl entered. Hearing her name announced reminded him of the trouble he had had with it over the last two or so years. "Elisif," not "Esilif," he muttered to himself. He always got it wrong.

"Hello, my Court," the Lady Jarl said with a gesture that included the gathering in the room. "And of course, honored guests."

She inclined her head towards Clark. "What interesting company you keep, Clark."

Clark bowed. "Oh, yes, my Lady. This is Calloway Sharr, a the finest tailor from Cyrodil. He wanted to sell his wares here in Skyrim. He needed to speak to you or the Steward about a shop, and wanted to arrange an audience. I, uh, promised the guards I would watch out for him."

"Such generosity to show a stranger, and an outsider!" Erikur piped up, his voice full with false admiration.

"No more than the Lady showed me, when I was a stranger," Clark replied.

Half the court hid their smiles--partly because Clark's rejoinder stung Erikur's pride, and partly because Clark had no idea what he had done, apart from being honest. Erikur tried to hide his consternation--he was not as oblivious as Clark to court intrigue.

"My Lady," Clark pressed on, "We will be happy to speak with you when your duties allow."

"Oh, Clark, I always have time for you," Elisif smiled. "Come, show me what you've learned during your first three months."

Clark stepped forward into the center of the room. "First, I suppose, will be Healing. It only works on me, and has to be channeled for the effect to last."

No doubt Elisif knew most of what Clark was saying from Sybille, but having repeated it all in his mind, couldn't help but repeat it out loud. Clark turned a palm over, and when he turned it face up, he was holding an orb of tinkling light. Clark concentrated, and swirls of light spun around him, wreathing him in the spell's power.

Clark demonstrated Oakflesh next. "It's like a magic shield," was all he said as he prepared the spell. A second later, a loud clashing sound erupted from Clark's hand he was covered head to toe in a deep green sort of light.

Conjure Familiar generated a ghostly wolf in the middle of the court.

For Flames, Clark pointed his hands at the vaulted ceiling and loosed a gout of red fire. Elisif actually clapped for that one, as though she had never seen it before.

Calm was the hardest one to demonstrate. "Why not use Erikur?" Falk half-laughed.

"I am not a Skeever, Firebeard!" Erikur snapped.

Sybille walked over to Clark and pressed a vial into his hand. "To give you a boost, Dear."

Clark looked at Elisif, who nodded slightly.

Erikur sputtered, "I object!"

Clark swallowed the vial's contents, aimed the Calm spell at Erikur.

"I OBJE--!"

Clark released the spell. Erikur's face relaxed and his arms returned to his sides. No signs of anger showed in his expression or posture.

"Erikur, my Thane," Elisif addressed him, "How do you feel."

"Calm, my Lady."

"Like it says on the cover," Clark answered.

His demonstration done, the novice wizard gestured to Calloway. "Will you be seeing him as well today?"

[Calloway Sharr]

From the sidelines, Calloway watched with guarded interest. He was genuinely impressed, having little experience with magic, himself, but he had to appear as if he'd seen a great deal of it, as to establish a false history with Clark. At least Calloway now knew his name, even if he'd overstated the Khajiit's intentions in Solitude. Opening an actual shop might be a bit much, but he was there to work.

Of all Clark's spells, the Calm spell troubled Calloway the most. He had always felt in charge of his emotions, and the idea that someone else may be able to change them at will felt disturbing, though Calloway doubted Clark would use such trickery on himself. Still, Calloway awarded the lad's display of magical prowess with soft applause, like most of those gathered in the court did. And then it was his turn.

Standing at attention, Calloway looked to Jarl Elisif, awaiting her desicion. He could see conflict on her face, and he knew that look well. It was the same look he always received from those who did not know him: the look of distrust and skepticism of him purely due to his race. But, with a look to Clark, Elisif relaxed, nodding.

"Yes, I would see this Khajiit, if only out of curiosity," she answered.

A small storm of whispers erupted through the chamber at such permission, but Calloway paid it no mind as he stepped forth to the center of the room, facing the Jarl directly, and set his carpetbag by his side. With one paw over his stomach, his other arm sweeping out to the side, the tawny cat gave a deep, elegant bow before righting himself, tail swaying just slightly.

"My Lady, I must first offer you my deepest thanks for allowing one such as myself inside the walls of your fair city, furthermore inside the gates of your palace, and most of all, I thank you for allowing me this audience with your eminence," Calloway spoke, his voice clear and almost musical as he stressed his Imperial City accent.

Those gathered in the Jarl's court went silent as Calloway spoke, a collective shock washing over them. None had ever heard a Kajiit speak with such elegance or refinement, and in that moment all began to forget his race and focus on Calloway as an individual.

"What young Master Clark spoke is true, to a point," Calloway clarified. "I am a tailor, and I am of Cyrodiil, and while I am here, visiting your beautiful Reach and your splendorous city, my ambition is not to set up a permanent shop, but merely to drape and dress the finest of your people while I am here. I need not a storefront, but simply a place in which to do my measurements and work for as long as I am within your walls. I specialize in the highest, most current fashions, and my works have adorned the highest nobles in Cyrodiil, Hammerfell, and Morrowind, to name but a few. I have traveled great distance at my own personal peril, now, to come to you, and offer you my services before any other in Skyrim, as I believe you to be its most noble leader, Lady Elisif."

The silence in the room held, as all waited for his next words.

"If you would permit me, my Lady, I would show you samples of my work, so you may see the that I make no idle boasts, and my work and skill is that of a master," he asked, sweeping a paw down to his carpetbag.

Upon her throne, Jarl Elisif arched one eyebrow, quite curious about this extrodinary Khajiit. At last, she nodded. "Yes, I would see your handiwork, Mr. Sharr."

The courtroom whispered among themselves as thier Jarl addressed a Khajiit as if he were a normal man, with a normal name. Calloway failed to register their reaction, at lest visibly, and he knelt to unfasten the buckles on his bag. From his inside jacket pocket he produced a pair of crystal spectacles on a thin silver chain, and he perched them upon his muzzle as he looked into the bag. In but a moment he withdrew a hard-sided slipcover box that was far too long to have fit in the bag, but he simply carried on, standing as he opened the box.

From it flowed out a full-length gown of radiant silver and ivory silks and satins, its corset shimmering in woven brocade, while trim sparkled with tiny cuts of brilliant crystal. The seams were flawless, and the whole garmet seemed to radiate with etherial cold light as he drew it out to its full length. "This, my Lady, I call the Starlight Walk, perfect for an evening party, where you would appear so radiant it would seem one of the stars had fallen from the heavens to walk among we mere mortals."

From the side of the room, two Altmer women glared at Calloway, and the dress, with seething jealousy before silently making their exit.

[Caethras Maur]

The sparkling gown held the entire court spellbound - so much so that most of the assembled luminaries hardly noticed the echoing crash of the front doors bursting open, nor the ensuing parade of hardened boots clattering over the marble floors and up the stairs toward the throne. Falk Firebeard was the first to come to his senses, and with a strained face he leaned to whisper in his Jarl's ear.

"M'lady, there is a scheduled audience today, and it sounds like they've just arrived."

Elisif did not take her eyes off the shimmering dress. "Who's just arrived?" she asked.

"A delegation from the Thalmor Embassy, come to discuss security in the Hold."

"Well, they're going to have to wait their turn," the Jarl said.

"They may not appreciate that."

The first of the delegation appeared at the head of the grand stairs, a slender Altmer woman in brilliant gold armor, followed by two staid Justiciars in solemn black robes, and finally, half a head taller than the tallest man in the court, a towering elven warrior in full ebony plate. He was kingly in his bearing, but his pale eyes were cold and his lips curled with disdain as he assimilated the strange scene before him.

"Lady Elisif the Fair, Jarl of Solitude and Regent of Skyrim..." The woman in the gold armor spoke in a clear, proud voice, but hesitated for a moment when half the court glanced gormlessly between the Thalmor procession and the Khajiit with the silver dress. "I present to you Lord Caethras Maur, High Justiciar of the Thalmor."

The elven warrior stepped past his gilded emissary, regarding the tailor and the queen with equal dispassion. "I do hope we are not interrupting."

"Lord Maur," Elisif said graciously, "we welcome you to our halls with open arms. But - and I do apologize - as you see, we are currently enjoying an exhibition of fine craftsmanship. Please, join us. We will hold audience with you in just a few moments."

Caethras Maur stood with his lips parted, his face blank like a statue of alabaster. "My Lady," he said, "will you set aside the security of your Hold to examine dresses?"

Falk stiffened where he stood at his Jarl's side, but Elisif was unmoved. "This is the people's court, Lord Maur," she said, "and even in troubled times, life goes on. I'm sure the security of the Hold will not be harmed by a few minutes' indulgence. Please continue, Mr. Sharr."

[Calloway Sharr]

Calloway endured the rude interruption with a mask of pleasantness he had learned from his mother. It was no secret that almost any man of the Imperial City loathed the Thalmor, and though Calloway had been but an infant when the Aldmeri Dominion attacked, and sacked the Imperial City in Cyrodiil. He had been found in one of the temples, a crying infant wrapped in rough cloth, likely left there to the will of the Divines after his true parents had been slaughtered outside the city walls. He had grown up with a healthy hatred for Altmer, and their Thalmor thugs, but his father's line of work had helped temper his hatred, focusing it in a manner that could be beneficial instead of destructive, and in such a manner Calloway responded to his party crashers.

"Thank you, my Lady," he said, bowing as he reclaimed the floor. Lifting an eyebrow at the tall, plate-armored fellow, the tawny cat spoke, "If you wouldn't mind?" He then ticked his head to the side, indicating that Caethras and his band of not-so-merry men should clear the center of the room and join the others in the audience. When Caethras did not do so, Calloway cleared his throat and ticked his head again, that time gaining the desired effect.

"Now that I have reclaimed that which was so rudely taken from me," Calloway announced to the court, "I shall continue. Oh, but one moment. Madam?"

Calloway stopped the gold-armored emissary in her tracks, calling her back to his side. "Thank you. Now, please be a dear and hold this while I get another," he said, pressing the shoulders of the dress into her hands, and raising them so that she held the gown up, displaying it while he reached into his bag for another box.

"Of course, any tailor can make a pure flight of fancy, but it takes someone like myself to make even everyday wear just as stunning," he called out, his voice still musical and carefree. Opening the second box, he withdrew a beautiful dress of simple materials, but its cut, color and finish made it appear to rival the Starlight Walk, and it was made even more splendid when he layered a close-fitting crimson robe over it, with ornamental quilt-stitching throughout to create a flowing, regal design into the surface of the woolen fabric, its collar and cuffs lined with mink fur. "I see no reason a lady should ever have to look less than her best, no matter what she is doing. Or men, for that matter, though I doubt you would find my jerkins and trousers as much to your liking, Lady Elisif," Calloway said with a coy smile. "Though, if you should have pressing matters of state, as this gentlman has insisted upon, I shall choose to yeild the floor to him, if you would be open to a private viewing of my wares, or should you wish to try on some of my works for yourself, my Lady."

Folding the robe and day dress back into their box, he slid it back into his bag, followed by the exquisite gown in its own box. Giving a deep bow, Calloway then took up his carpet bag and backed to the edge of the crowd, not turning his back to the Jarl. Giving a nod to Caethras, the Khajiit smiled, "You may take the floor, sir, I am done with it."

[Clark]

Clark stifled a whistle. No one he knew ever used a member of the Aldmeri Dominion as a coat rack. Altmer were dangerous, his parents had said so. They were now nestled deep in the affairs of the Empire thanks to one treaty or the next. The White-Gold Concordat? He wasn't too smart about events that weren't present-time or centuries old.

"Are you sure that was wise?" Clark whispered as the Jarl began her meeting with Caethras. "They're some of the most dangerous people in existence!"

[Calloway Sharr]

Calloway simply smiled, removing his spectacles and putting them back in his inside pocket. "Perhaps not wise," he whispered back to Clark, "But it was beautiful, wasn't it? I mean, there we had an armored warrioress holding a lovely gown; it made her look feminine even in all that plate. And not to mention, it made me look fantastic. If I can command Thalmor to hold a dress, now the Jarl must be imagining what else I can do. I don't think I could have asked for a better interruption!"

There was no shortage of giddiness in the Khajiit's voice, and he continued smiling, only then starting to listen to what the Thalmor had to say.