Gavinyarel: The Roxey Village, the Roxey Steakhouse -- Midyear, 4E 201
It was the middle of summer that late afternoon in northern Cyrodiil. The lofty Jerall Mountains stood silhouetted against the deep blue sky awaiting the twilight sun to color it its gentle orange-red. The forest stretching north from the village was full green with tall, strong trees, and children and their pets could be seen romping around in their efforts to squeeze a few more precious moments of playtime out of the day. The villagers were finishing up the day's chores, trying to set one more fence post or bind up one more hay bale before heading to the Roxey Steakhouse for their supper.
The steakhouse was a grand, two-story edifice among the village's simple homes, its size surpassed only by the great barn behind it. A tall stone chimney poked up from the roof. The first floor catered to the hungry and thirsty, while the second held the rooms where weary travelers could rest their heads on a pillow.
Gavinyarel was seated in the back corner of the tavern, halfway through his dinner of roasted venison and fried potatoes, and on his third mug of ale. He was leaned against the back of his chair, silently observing everyone else and appreciating how they dug into their meals with all the gusto of hard workers finally able to lay down their tools for a little while. He wished he could share in their rapture, but he knew all too well that his mission would drag him out of bed at the crack of dawn and spur him ever closer to Skyrim. In a way, he envied them.
The northbound Altmer quietly ate the rest of his meal and downed another mug of ale before the sleepiness began to come. He scooted his chair against the wall and rested his head in the corner as he contemplated how wonderful a real bed would feel compared to the bedroll he had resting beside him, which was only ever as soft as the ground upon which it lay, which of course meant rarely soft at all.
Little did Gavinyarel know that things would soon get much more interesting.