No rest for the wicked [Runwil and Lamaenor]
Altmers are perhaps not seen as the most festive of races, especially when viewed through the eyes of savages (Nords) or beasts (Khajit), but they do have a prediliction for large, unwieldy and incredibly lavish parties which makes you feel incredibly unimportant and incredibly self-satisfied at the same time.
The embassys main hall is decked out in fine drapes and expensive flowers, most of which has been shipped all the way from Alinor. They lend the air a sweet smell, and true to the Altmeri spirit, they made some poor servants dot each and every petal with fine gems.
Poor high-commander Elenwen does what she can, delegated as she is to this gods-forsaken country. It is a testament to her skill to say that even the most smug, unsufferable nobles find little to complain about except the weather.
It is crowded, but most are only on their first glass of wine, so the volume is still pleasant. Lamaenor, with an untouched glass of red wine in his hand, moves through the crowd, smiling pleasantly and inclining his head to those he passes. His shadows, delegated to the sidelines for the evening (they stand in the shadows of the room, their eyes following his every step with a very certain kind of fever), are not accompanying him.
"Inquisitor!" A slightly round, red-faced lord exclaims as Lamaenor nears him, "What a surprise to see you in Skyrim! Hera is not with you?"
Lamaenor inclines his head, subtly tilting his head just a tad so that the mers horrid breath does not waft towards him. Lord Serik Hypos, he hears his wifes dry tone in his head while taking the hand of the Lords tittering wife, a drunkard and a fool, but a mer with certain sway over the more liberal council members. Lamaenor smiles slightly at the mention of his wife, and when he speaks his voice is soft, “Ah, sadly not. I am here in business, my Lord, and she could not accompany me.”
"Perhaps it is for the best!" Serik says again, just a bit too loudly, the wine in his glass are dangerously close to spilling, "I doubt Alinor would hold up for long in her absence!" It is kind words, but they hold a kernel of truth. Lamaenor misses his wife. He would much preferred to have her on his arm this evening, bend his head every so slightly to listen to her harsh, unkind assessment of the others attendants, sharing hard-earned gossip and whispers with him. He smiles, a bit ruefully,
"Is that not the truth, my Lord."
Serik nods at him, carefully avoiding to look into his eyes (Lamaenor is respected, or at least respected enough, but few look into his eyes for longer than they have to, the blank and colourless appearance of them unnerving most), “Ah, but I had someone I wanted to introduce you too…” He looks around, craning his short, fat neck, brightening when he spots who he was looking for, “There he is! Runwil, my friend, over here!”