“I’d like the record to show that I do not approve of this plan.” Tarene muttered under his breath as he sat on the cold road, his face hidden beneath the edge of a large hood, and his usual cloak and armor foregone for a much less protective outfit. The Khajiit crouching low in the muddy embankment below the road rolled his eyes and growled softly.
“Whine, whine, whine,” Azaron retorted in a harsh whisper. The threatening thunder that rolled above kept their voices from carrying too far, even in these mountainous hills, but their quarry was not far off, and they couldn’t afford to be careless. “This was your idea in the first place, remember?” Tarene crossed his arms over his chest defensively, though he would later deny the childish huff.
“That’s because I didn’t expect to be the one in the dress.” He shot back, gesturing to the torn, dirty red garment he was currently draped in. When he had suggested a few nights prior - admittedly after imbibing too much mead - that one of them pose as a ‘stranded lady’, this had not been what he’d meant.
“We’re going after elves who have a preference for elves. You’re the only one who can convincingly pull off the dress.” Azaron paused and cast his partner-in-grime, crouched beside him in the mud, an apologetic glance. “….present company excluded.” He added quietly. Their targets were a small group of elven bandits who had become quite notorious in Haafingar for their specific targeting of women. Primarily elven women; they held far little interest in the fairer sex of man and beast.
By default, elven women were taller than any race of man, and they needed to catch these bandits’ undivided attention. Azaron was far too sturdy to every pass for a woman of any race, except maybe Orc, and Harbinger Luana was just too short. Taraene, by the cursed luck of some Divine joke, was just a tad short for an Altmer male, and he was the only one tall enough to fit into the only dress Azaron had been able to acquire.