"It was at my farm late last night." Jurgik, a Nord clad in simple peasant clothing, slightly slurred as he waved about his drink.
Some of the mead spilled out his tankard and landed on the table and himself. The man didn't seem to notice and took a deep swig of whatever he had in his hand.
The Retching Netch was busy tonight and the Dragonborn was irritated beyond words at having to be here. She hated dealing with drunks, especially Nord drunks.
"And what do you think it was?" The Dragonborn prodded impatiently.
She wanted to deal with Jurgik and get back to the mainland as quickly as possible but it looked like that would take longer than she thought. All she wanted was a book.
Why in the Nine's name did that mean she would have to go about doing favor after favor for people until they gave her what she wanted?
This man could easily give her the book, he didn't seem to really care for a dusty old tome as he himself stated, but no.
Jurgik would only give it to her if she killed some beast he saw the other night.
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