Spills-His-Cups clicked under her breath, ducking under the red cloth separating the bar from the kitchens. The shanty had ended to cheers and laughter, rowdy men and women clapping each other on the back and sloshing their drinks all over the sticky floor. Tyr, that hulking beast of a Dunmer - a newcomer to Balmora, and a nosy one at that - glanced behind him, watching over the Argonian's shoulder as Merry, his raven-haired daughter, stepped gracefully onto a table and cleared her throat with a grin.
She was twelve years old, Nord by blood, and utterly unhinged. Her right arm was missing, and she was more than happy to spin up any number of tales to an unfortunate traveler unlucky enough to get caught staring; she had told Spills-His-Cups (firstly) it was ripped off by a Corprus beast and (after leaving town for a short time) eaten by a troll. In its place was a beautiful thing indeed - shifting, interlocking bronze plates that Spills-His-Cups could hear clicking gently when it was quiet, engraved with some sort of faintly luminescent crystal, pale blue and shimmering.
Merry Crow-Caller and her father were a whirlwind of gossip and speculation who wore secrecy like cloaks. They knew everyone, but no one seemed to know them.