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.
She’d been watching the inn’s occupants from a shadowed corner when the conversation’d started. Something about a Nord being let go from work and finding a Dunmer had taken his place, or some-such. She hadn’t really been paying attention, distracted as she’d been with scoping the place out.
Nines, she regrets that now. She’d have been able to predict what was about to come when the men began to glance around for prey - but she hadn’t, and they’d found her.
It’s nothing she hasn’t heard before and yet it’s a hundred times worse; scornful, scathing remarks from Nords who don’t understand that she’s like them, she was raised under the glory of the Nine Divines, she’s not a Dunmer, not an ash-breather, she doesn’t abide by their heathen rituals.
But she’s not the same, therein lay the problem. She’s not Dunmer - but she’s 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 everything’s gone quiet.
With barely a second’s glance at the source of the Nords’ 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 who’d lost his job, has to crane his neck to see the Altmer’s face.
“Yeh, I’ve got a problem!” He says, unmindful of the uncomfortable shuffling and murmuring of his pals. “Knife-ears like yourself and that bitch, coming to our country and taking our jobs! Poisonous, the lot of ye!” He hacks obnoxiously, and a glob of spit lands right at Arterion’s shoes.
