When out on the road, the Khajiit found that mornings typically were quiet, calm things, watching the sun rise with either quiet, sleepy incomprehension and mild awe, or groaning and pulling his blankets over his head to ease the agony of a hangover.
That was not the case in Winterhold.
Hearing others wake up in various states of mind, scrambling for clothes and books and homework before shuffling off to get a bite before class was noisy, irritating depending on who or what he could hear, and by the Hist he could hear everything in this damned hall. Even without his sensitive hearing, everything echoed and made it impossible to have a private conversation in this place.
As it was this morning, hearing the Thalmor brothers downstairs bickering about something, J’zargo striking up a conversation with a less-than-enthused Onmund, and it was just too much for his hungover mind to handle right now, pulling his blankets and furs over his head in a vain attempt to muffle the noise. It was only a few moments of silent cursing before J’hasi shoved them off of his head, groping for the water he usually set out for himself in the mornings after drinking.
The Khajiit only found a half-empty bottle of mead, hissing out a quiet curse in Jel before tipping the rest down his throat. He swiped the back of his hand over his mouth, grimacing at how godsdamned dry it was before getting up and getting ready for class.
vvardenfellcat 