Sarel groaned in the dark, slightly lit room. He’d been sitting in his chair for several minutes, certainly, but he couldn’t discern if it’d been just that, or that plus several days. The imagined Colovian city pressed against the wall had turned into something more alerting for Sarel. The Colovian cobbled brick turned into vertical narrow slits, the magical yellow gates became gnarly bistre branches. People no longer moved through the streets but shadows shifting in and out of the slits. Sarel’s whole world turned inside out and he was plopped back on the other side in the murky twisting muck. 
He shivered as he remembered the unforgiving nights spent wading through the opaque, damning, Akavirii, swamp. Sarel was at once sitting in his room at the Blackwood Brew and standing in knee-high mud somewhere in Akavir. He caught the tails of shadows in the corner of his vision, but they’d always elude his sight, skipping off into another slit in the background. The slits in the swamps were portals of dim light which for some reason fit perfectly as trees among the dark forest. Sarel whirled around when he felt a tapping on his shoulder. He tried swiping his sword only to find it caught in a trunk. A tiny whisper escaped from the darkness and Sarel spun as fast as he could, his sword out in front of him. He was suddenly in the ashy plains of Morrowind, the dust biting at his cheek and billowing the cape behind him. He could hardly see anything aside from the brief outline of some man in front of him. He called out and the man stopped. 

“Don’t… Sarel, you’ll…statue!...Let’s…!”
Sarel kept walking as the shadow tried to communicate with him. He needed to hear what he had to say. It was imperative, surely. But the man just floated away. He voice did to0, and Sarel was alone. He sank into the ashes of his ancestors and began to cry. His katana laid at his side, Sarel wallowed in the storm as it ravaged around him, swallowing him whole. 
Sarel was awoken by someone speaking, then he sat up quickly. He was in his bed for, whatever reason, half dressed. He realized then that he was the one who’d spoken, he couldn’t tell what. He stood, and dressed, and had tied his wakizashi and its sheath around his waist. Sarel had decided sometime in between waking up and being unconscious that he was hungry. He opened the door and stepped out; he locked the door and began down the hall. The Dark Elf was stopped by a rather large Redguard man standing in the hallway, blocking the way by leaning diagonally across the narrow pass. Sarel thought for a moment, but only a moment, in order to retrieve this man’s face from his memory. It was scared and heavily bearded. This was most definitely a decendant of Isran. 

When Sarel and Beilin traveled Nirn, attempting to train Sarel in the ways of the Order, they lived in many places. One of those places was Hammerfell. Sarel was told by Beilin that he would need to find his own lodgings and food in the mountainous land. Beilin then disappeared, leaving Sarel to his own devices. Sarel, being the adventurous lad he was, accepted the challenge. He set off into the desert and tried to make his way. He found that the land was hard to live by and was not anything like Morrowind, and was very different than even Skyrim. Eventually he found an Orc stronghold, etched into a mountainside. They were slow warming up to him, but once he proved his mettle he was accepted. The Orcs and a local Redguard warrior tribe were at odds and Sarel was caught in the middle. After a series of harrowing adventures and battles at the sides of the Orcs, Sarel was asked to help them take down their oldest enemy, Isran and his band of raiders. The Dunmer was hesitant but eventually agreed. He and the Orcs stormed the camp and Sarel was left to deal with the leader, who was himself a master swordsman. The two dueled for a while as other smaller battles occurred around them. Sarel found himself the victor. After most of the tribe was killed, the Orcs wanted to kill the children and women, Sarel didn’t let them. The Orcs respected his demand because he was so helpful, and assertive, though they did demand one thing of him. He was told to at least take the idol the tribe leader held. It was a tiny coin with the moniker of some kind on it. The symbolism escaped Sarel entirely but he felt obliged. The boy who stood before him now was young and passionate, yet cool, and was most definitely of Isran. The small idol was tucked away in Sarel’s bag. 

There was no one else in the hall and the door leading downstairs was barred and locked. Sarel could see where this was going, but he tried to make peace. He held his hands up and then grabbed the idol from his bag. He was in no mood to fight, his hallucination had drained him emotionally and physically. He felt the tiredness seeped into his bones. He wouldn’t be in fighting shape until he rested and bathed. 

“This is what you want.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Well here, it’s yours, I don’t want it.”
“Then why didn’t you bring it back?” the boy snarled. 
“I didn’t think it would have been that easy.”
“Then why do you think this will be?”

Sarel didn’t really have time to react before the boy moved with the speed of light. A small dagger grew from under the boy’s sleeve and he threw it with mystifying accuracy. Sarel tried to dodge it but was still sliced on the shoulder. It wasn’t a deep wound, but it was enough. Sarel instantly felt his magicka reserves zapped. He was half crouched half stood when his assailant sprinted toward him. The brittle wood panels creaked under his weight as he moved through the corridor with unnerving ease and speed. Sarel tried casting some sort of flame spell but could not, so he simply unsheathed his blade. It was out and infront of Sarel just as the boy had tried slicing at him. The blades met and Sarel felt himself giving in to the weight. He fell to his knees and struggled to keep his opponents sword back. 

“I am Owyn, son of Pyke, son of Lathon, son of Isran!” The boy lifted his sword again to strike down with all his power. “And you shall be slain by my strength!”
Sarel swept the boy’s feet from under him, sending his fully armored frame to the ground. Sarel stood and jumped over Owyn, trying to reach his room. He was met with another Redguard, this one of smaller stature. He punched Sarel in the forehead before attempting a roundhouse kick. Sarel dodged that and hit him in the stomach with the butt of his wakizashi. The second Redguard doubled over at the blow, then having his head cut off quickly by Sarel. Owyn was up and rushing down the corridor even as he watched his brother decapitated. He and Sarel met at the center, this time Sarel was ready. He moved around Owyn’s strike and planted on of his own. It was an upward slice which separated Owyn from his blade and blade-hand. The two fell to the floor with a clump, and Owyn grunted. He smashed Sarel into the wall where he’d ended up and elbowed the Dark Elf in the face. Sarel’s head whirled as he tried to make sense of what was happening. 

Sarel found himself in the center of the hallway facing a window which allowed Secundus to shine brightly into the corridor. He heard crashing foot-steps behind him and knew instantly that he didn’t have any sort of time. He was launched forth after a considerable strike to his back. He flew toward the window, then through it. In moments he was hurtling through the air, an instant later he was submerged in a tiny pond. It was all too much. The hallucinations, the past, and now this fight, it all threatened to eat away at what Sarel was until he was no more; at least that’s what Owyn wanted. Sarel let himself float in the pond for a while, he could hear nothing but the gurgled bubbles he let slip out every once in a while. Sarel resurfaced and stared back up at the window from which he was tossed. Some of the boards were splintered off of the back of the tavern and some lamplight came from the other side of the corridor. Owyn peered out of the window for a moment, then disappeared. Sarel stood up and looked around for something, anything, he could use kill this N’wah with!