The ride into the lands stretching out from Castle Forsair was for the most part uneventful, save for the odd troop of guards on the road that would stop them now and again and ask for their identities and proof of authorized passage (Shadowmere had a disguise, too, so the men did not falter at sighting him– that had been a very simple thing to acquire from another enchanter, a horseshoe that altered the color and extinguished the hazy glow of his eyes). The new Laird had granted that on the grounds of Rowan being of strong Gaelic heritage– MacQuarrie, or so his name was. Being a noble had its advantages. All Rowan had to do was pique his interest via letter and courier and he and his wife had a place to stay in the Gael lands.
There was just the matter of the small but undoubtedly aristocratic meeting with the Laird that he would need to attend… with Evela. He’d purposefully neglected to tell her that for the sake of keeping the trip something for her to look forward to. Besides, they’d not need to meet him right away. So long as they did before their departure for Skyrim… Rowan wanted to have the chance to come back, and he’d do his best to stay in the Laird’s good graces.
“The tavern is different,” noted Rowan as they rode into the town below the castle. It wasn’t surprising; the original building had been reduced nearly to rubble in wartime, so it had probably been replaced for the most part. He read the sign displaying its new name, slowly. “Ah… òir drama. The Golden Dram. Fitting,” he laughed.
The village square was mostly unoccupied, being so late as it was, but the lights from the drinking house were glowing in its windows, beckoning night owls to come in for a pint. There were other buildings in clusters around the area, but even with the torchlight flickering over their entrances, it was hard to tell what they were.
“Are you hungry? We can stop for a wee bite before we see our lodging. I need to see the Innkeeper about that anyway,” he said, wisely choosing the word “we” over “you” when speaking of dining. He needed to at least pretend to eat around company that did not know him. Gaels were hardy, ravenous eaters, and it would look strange if he didn’t touch a morsel of food.
He looked back at her in the saddle.
“Come,” he bid, dismounting near the tavern and tying Shadowmere to the post. The beast would not flee, but the people here needed to know he had a good hold of his animal.
“A little,” Evela said lightly, trying to downplay the fact that she could probably eat an entire elk on her own if given the opportunity, but then a loud rumbling in her stomach belied her answer. She flashed a sheepish grin, opening her mouth to make a snarky remark about the appetites of werewolves, but she caught herself at the last moment; they weren’t exactly alone, so their usual humor would have to wait until they were out of the earshot of people who wouldn’t understand the quality of a monster joke if it clamped its jaws on them. “Ravenous,” she amended instead, and then let her gaze wander the town square as her husband tied Shadowmere at the post.
She half-expected to find herself submerged in a world completely alien to what she was used to, but instead she encountered the opposite. There were obvious differences between Skyrim and the Highlands, which was something to be expected, yet there were some similarities that made her feel less like she had taken only a few steps from her doorstep rather than ride hundreds of miles on horseback. She liked the familiarity of it, and how Rowan’s earlier words—we’re home—seemed more accurate as she took in the scenery around her. It occurred to her that if she wanted to investigate the strange lands, people, and customs that more seasoned travelers warned her about, she would have to venture a little farther than High Rock.
When Rowan finally returned to her, she took the liberty of looping her arm through his and letting her head rest his shoulder. As they crossed through the doorway of the tavern and her attention became immediately drawn to a group of rambunctious young men gathered in one part of the building, she tried to picture Rowan among them, minus ten or fifteen years and maybe without the short fiery beard on his face.
“Getting reminiscent about your lost youth yet?” she asked in a half-joking tone, nodding towards the rowdy crowd. Not that she needed to point them out—between the way they cheered and hollered at each other, and the small crowd they formed almost at the center of the tavern, they drew attention to themselves.