Cassius glanced up as the door was opened and a large group, six in total, an argonian, three humans, and a pair of elves joined the table. One of the humans and the elven woman spoke at the same time, both seeming interested in heading out sooner rather than later. Looking to the human, a breton, unless Cassius missed his guess, he said "would you happen to have information the rest of us don't, friend?" He knew he sounded hostile, perhaps a little demeaning, but he suspected he was still slightly in shock and he knew he was tired from the long journey. "I'd guess there's no less than four ruins in any direction in the blasted province." He clamped his mouth shut before he said something he was sure he'd regret.
It was just as well, because a moment after he'd stopped speaking, the frequently used door to the tavern was thrown open, bringing in yet another gust of cold air, and a man in a ragged overcoat with it. At the bar, the innkeeper grumbled something about letting all the hot air out, before going back to wiping down the counter top. The newcomer looked around for a moment, before his gaze settled on the large group at the table. A gleam entered his eye, as he walked purposefully over to the table. He snatched up a free chair, taking a seat almost directly across from Cassius, beside the breton who was now smoking a pipe he'd only just recently lit. "Well,well,well!" The man said with a chuckle, in a gravelly voice, eyes alight with what seemed to be merriment. "Don't you lot stand out like a bleedin' jester in a funeral procession."
It was immediately clear to Cassius, and probably everyone else at the table as well, that this man was no lord. His face was rugged, his scraggly beard ill kept and tangled, and teeth were more yellow than white. The well worn hilt of a sword could just be seen at his belt. A mercenary or hired thug, then, though whether he'd been hired by this lord was still in question. Whatever the case, Cassius didn't care for his attitude. "It may be different here, but in Cyrodiil, it's rude to sit at a table you weren't invited to."
The man grinned a crooked grin and pointed a gloved finger at him, "no, no, I wasn't. But you lot were" at that, the man stood and out of the perhaps fifteen other people in the tavern, eight others joined him, standing from various tables around the inns' common room. All were armed, each sharing the same grubby mercenary look of the man in the overcoat. "His lordship sent us to eh...'fetch' you. We've carriages waiting to take you to him at the south gate." The man bowed theatrically, sweeping one arm towards the door. "If you fine people would do us the honour...we are on a time limit here." Around the room, the other eight men shared a laugh, but their eyes never left the assembled adventurers.
Out of the corner of his eye, Cassius caught sight of the inkeeper watching the conversation, knuckles clenched around a tankard he'd been cleaning. The remaining regulars were either watching as well, or paying a little too much attention to their drinks. The barmaids had stopped doing their rounds, keeping close to the walls as best they could. The former legionnaire realized they really weren't being offered much of a choice. He didn't understand the tension in the room, but he didn't trust the strangers he'd met less than an hour ago and he certainly didn't trust the mercenaries sent to fetch them.
He nodded and stood "you haven't told me your name, by the way" he mentioned idly.
"Name's Miller. But don't you worry about that. After you, noble adventurer," he nodded to the door. As Cassius went to leave, Millers' hand clamped onto his right bicep. "One more thing," the mercenary breathed in his ear, breath fouled by the sour stench of ale, "you're not in Cyrodiil anymore." The mercenary leader clapped him on the back with his other hand, sending him out into the cold, cloudy afternoon air once more.