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“Look, if you’re not going to buy it…”

The Altmer girl let out a soft sigh and put the necklace back in the empty spot among the other trinkets the market stall had to offer. She dragged her finger down the teardrop-shaped opal, giving it one last, longing look before she withdrew her hand. Her eyes flicked to the merchant. He didn’t seem angry, but his brow was furrowed and his bushy eyebrows were raised in exasperation.

The girl averted her gaze, letting it sweep over the other stalls that lined the street here on market day in Winterhold. She released her breath in a mist that whirled off in the cold wind and pulled the fur of her cloak tighter around herself. Perhaps it was time she went ahead and got Haran those beets and onions she asked for. When she moved, however, her eye fell on another trinket. She stopped and reached for it, while the merchant cast his eyes to the sky and wearily shifted his weight on his other foot.

She held the piece of jewelry up into the light. It was a gold ring, dark and heavy. It sported a polished deep green gem. There were little hinges on the side and she flipped the lid open. It was just like in one of those books. A poisoner’s ring, a king’s crystal glass of wine… The ring was too bulky and it would look out of place on one of her hands, but it was nevertheless very compelling. Perhaps if she wore it around her neck with a thong…

“It’s a hundred and fifty septims,” the merchant interjected. Her face must have fallen and lost the dreamy quality it had before, because the man snorted. She narrowed her eyes and set her jaw, placing the ring back where she got it.

“Good day,” she said icily, giving a curt nod. Walking off with dignity was difficult, but she could pretend, holding her head high. She released an annoyed sigh between her teeth when she was far enough away, and adjusted Haran’s basket on her arm.

Onions and beets it was going to be, then.

The constant influx of mundane jobs were starting to wear thin. The Breton's hazel eyes lifted up the impressively tall cliff face, and he sniffed as he adjusted the quiver on his back. Despite all of Imyan's talk of greatness, Youngblood had found himself at the bottom tier of the newly reformed Morag Tong organization. Settling petty squabbles between merchants and competing mages wasn't exactly what the marksman had signed on for.

"Better get this over with..." He muttered to himself as he drew an arrow with a broad, weighted head and a small ring set at the base, just below the fletching. His other hand swept his cloak aside, reaching to the holster at his hip and pulling out the folded metal contraption it held. With a quick jerk, the item released, snapping outward and taking the shape of an elaborately designed bow of Dwemer make. He reached to a spool at his belt and tied a thin but heavy line to the end of the arrow before placing it deftly upon the bowstring and lifting his beloved weapon skyward. His eyes focused, brow furrowing as he gave a shiver. "Should have worn a heavier cloak." He sighed to himself before drawing the bow back. He counted the beats of his heart in his mind. One. Two. Three. He exhaled as he released the string, and the missile darted upward with amazing speed. The spool at his belt whizzed and whirled, and he waited until it stilled. His free hand wrapped fingers around it, giving it a quick tug to test the hold. It was firm. He folded the bow back into place and slipped it into it's holster before placing both hands on the line and lifting his feet from the ground, testing to make sure it could hold his weight. Success. Jobs like these were all too easy.

The climb was strenuous and boring, but it didn't take near as long as he'd reckoned. With a last pull, he drug himself over the edge of the cliff, finding himself right beneath the bridge that connected the town of Winterhold with it's mysterious college. He pressed his back to the stone column, breathing softly as he rewound the line on the spool, collecting the arrow with a jerk. He'd be lucky to get another use out of it, at this point, weakened as the shaft probably was after the lengthy climb, but he could exactly leave evidence, now could he?

Medeia studied the available produce with a sharp, appraising eye. She bought the onions and beets Haran wanted, and also got some apples. The woman who sold them came from a long way south, and the apples weren’t the freshest you had ever seen, but they were the best you could expect up here for a decent price. She had a mind to make them into compote, anyway, with the cinnamon and the raisins they had left.

She paid the woman with the money Haran had given her, and nodded curtly at Birna, the local trader, who had apparently come to stock up the pantry as well. Medeia didn’t really like the woman, and the woman didn't appear to like her, but she felt some sort of sympathy for her regardless. Business was bad and depended mostly on the College. And as if that wasn’t enough, she had to take care of that no-good brother of hers who spend all his time getting stupidly drunk at the Frozen Hearth. Medeia guessed that he paid for his habit with his sister’s money. Not that it was bad for the inn, or her total amount of tips at the end of the week, but still…

She headed north along the road that led up to the bridge to the College, passing two more market stalls on her right, and Birna’s trade house on her left. And that was really all there was for a market. Only a few merchants travelled this way, since it was hardly worth the journey.

She stopped by the last stall. It sold a variety of clothing and accessories. She might not be able to afford the ring or the necklace, but maybe she could treat herself to a nice new scarf to make her feel better.

Winterhold was a cold, dreary place, no matter the month or season. Since the city had been sundered when the Sea of Ghosts rose up, those who remained were typically suspicious of anything not of their own ilk. Outsiders were usually treated with distrust and avoided if possible, save for the merchants who believed they could make a quick coin of the trade of travellers. Mages were especially treated with disdain in Winterhold, being that most believed the College was somehow to blame for the cataclysm years past- not to mention the typical nordic belief that magic was a useless toy for the weak. In that regard, at least, he and the Nords were on the same page.

The Breton drew his hood up, as well as a hardened-leather mask which covered the bottom half of his face, and adjusted the strap of his quiver to hide convienently beneath his cloak, thinking to himself for a moment. His lips moved subtly, mouthing indiscernable words in repetition for a moment before giving himself an assured nod and pushing himself up the hill and into the town, approaching the stone steps that led to the College.

The stall’s available scarfs weren’t to her taste, but Medeia found a pair of gloves that met with her approval. They were nothing fancy, but nice anyway. Soft, green leather on the outside and lined with fur on the inside. Rabbit’s, she guessed. Not too expensive. She hung the basket with produce in the crook of her arm to free her hands. She pulled off her old, thinned leather gloves and stuffed them away in the basket to slip on her newly acquired gloves. They felt soft and warm, and instantly wiped away the memory of the rather embarrassing moment at the jeweler’s stall. With a small, satisfied smile, she looked around.

A slight crinkle deepened her forehead when her gaze came to rest on the College. Perhaps she would drop off some apples for her great-uncle there. Yes she would, she decided, and headed towards the bridge. She was never one for whimsical, spontaneous acts of kindness or thoughtfulness, but it never hurt to get on one’s great-uncle’s good side. Especially if one’s great-uncle was a miserly old bastard.