Generally, when race is discussed, Lolly is either one of two things; taking part (and not necessarily in a good way), or watching and not intervening. She is never on the receiving end, if she can help it. Certainly not; until now.
Sheâd been watching the innâs occupants from a shadowed corner when the conversationâd started. Something about a Nord being let go from work and finding a Dunmer had taken his place, or some-such. She hadnât really been paying attention, distracted as sheâd been with scoping the place out.Â
Nines, she regrets that now. Sheâd have been able to predict what was about to come when the men began to glance around for prey - but she hadnât, and theyâd found her.
Itâs nothing she hasnât heard before and yet itâs a hundred times worse; scornful, scathing remarks from Nords who donât understand that sheâs like them, she was raised under the glory of the Nine Divines, sheâs not a Dunmer, not an ash-breather, she doesnât abide by their heathen rituals.
But sheâs not the same, therein lay the problem. Sheâs not Dunmer - but sheâs certainly not Nord. Instinct has wriggled its way in at this point, and Lolly keeps her head down, hoping that they might lose interest. Focused as she is on the wood of the table, it takes her a moment to notice that everythingâs gone quiet.
With barely a secondâs glance at the source of the Nordsâ sudden distraction, she slips away, eager and slightly desperate to get out of the firing line. Let this new guy deal with it.
The apparent leader of the three, the one whoâd lost his job, has to crane his neck to see the Altmerâs face.
âYeh, Iâve got a problem!â He says, unmindful of the uncomfortable shuffling and murmuring of his pals. âKnife-ears like yourself and that bitch, coming to our country and taking our jobs! Poisonous, the lot of ye!â He hacks obnoxiously, and a glob of spit lands right at Arterionâs shoes.
