"Heigh-ho, look what the stray dragged in!", a soldier jeered at the weary shoulders bearing a pair of elks' generous pelts, antlers, and venison, reaped with precision from the carcass that clearly couldn't have fallen within Falkreath's hunting grounds.
"Aye, friend, you know that's only going to warm one of our beds, right? What about the rest of us?"
Even if Prey had batted an eye, their low gait and the toothy snout resting on their crown gave no degree of acknowledgement, not even to the kind will of a Falkreath guard that piped up in their stead — "Oi, they deserve more credit than that! They've walked further in a day than you have in three to feed our bellies and keep your hides warm at night!"
They didn't know nor care for the Stormcloaks' ethic in productivity, but they could in the very least agree that game within Falkreath had been hard to come by. The demand for their stock and their profits were at an incline within the hold as long as the wilds surrounding were deemed unsafe, though wealth was the last thing on Prey's agenda as they towed the pounds of provisions from beyond Falkreath's borders to the barracks' supply. It was not their sore feet that gave them cause to investigate the body count that was steadily destroying the town's reputation, rather one of their favorite hunting grounds losing its life, and they themself being so unsure of the roads usually familiar to them now making them unsettled, unable to enjoy a night's journey with the mysterious danger rearing its presence. The images of roadkill were steadily bleeding into their dreams, and their gaze, normally tame, showed it. They almost didn't see the guard that stopped them in their tracks in front of the barracks, shield nudging their shoulder and the fingers lifting the nose of their hood making them bristle, but they were soon put to ease upon recognizing the stag insignia in place of the roaring bear.
"I'll take it from here. You look tired, huntsman, why don't you go grab a bed at Dead Man's before you collapse? We can't afford to lose you now, friend." Their palm instinctively lifted to catch the coinbag the guard tossed to them, leaving them a beat to process that he had reserved some funds to pay back their support, before they sighed in resignation and gave the guard their bow of gratitude.
Especially now, they garnered respect with the rations they fetched beyond Falkreath's border in the residents' time of need, though the town had long seen past their uncanny appearance after years of exposure to their loyal company.
The inn's ambience, if soured by the talk of recent events, refreshed their senses. They expected the few friendly nods from the Falkreath commoners who could bear to tear their attention away from grim conversation for all of two seconds, but their attention was soon won over by the new faces. A void blink would answer any question that met theirs, though nothing more as they slipped between boisterous bodies and whispers from hunched forms alike. The Falkreath guard's tip was set on the counter by gentle hands. With the notice of the owner's back turned to them where she busied with dishes from more customers than she was used to, they waited ever patiently, bag secured between their idle palms.
