[ After a moment hesitating in the doorway, watching the armored figure leave... another follows quietly, bare feet soundless on the way, though his own, lighter armor rustles in a manner no doubt familiar to the dovahkiin.

Fenris has been trapped in the party long enough to drink himself drunk and then to sober again. He's an even height for an elf, but short by human standards, and the cruel shape of his gauntleted hands neatly grip the stems of two champagne glasses. One, he wordlessly offers to the pale-haired warrior. ]

You look roughly as I did, when they told me there was no leaving.

[ His voice has the roughness of one who speaks rarely, drinks much, and is approximately bitter enough to sour an ocean. ]