9th Sun's Height

The citizens of Pyandonea were in a religious harmony. For an entire era they'd been pushed – directed by Orgnum and his government – into a collective state of mind that thirsted for expansion. For bloodshed. Uldondil almost envied the Grand Priest for being allowed to show his vigor openly. At least he could be honest. Instead, the High Admiral kept a blank face. He hated parades. He hated peasants. He hated families, parents, and children. Uldondil had a pet once: his friend at the time cooked and ate it. Orgnum was giving a speech. He'd already known the particulars, and what weighed more on his mind was Hierdan's account of agreeing to another war. Two fronts and two allies. Undondil couldn't help but disagree, although he did look forward to leading the men into Hammerfell.

Relieved when it was over, he confronted Irweni. Ho'Okioi. Vampires with leashes. She couldn't even go into public, and only three knew of her presence and order. Her unnatural rainbow coloured eyes gave Uldondil's raging stare a target. 

“Elsweyr.” He rarely said more than necessary.

Irweni spoke with a raspy and shrill hiss instead of a voice. “Little to be gained there. The citizens of Tamriel already did our work for us.”

He nodded slightly and moved on. Irweni already knew anything he would have told her about Black Marsh and Hammerfell. Maybe more. He hated spies.

Entering the war room, he issued his final orders to the fleet leaving for Alinor. Merchant ships were among them. Merchant ships. To Alinor. He'd go there himself to ensure the Altmer didn't try anything. Altmer sails could be reverse engineered given time, probably quickly knowing the Altmer magicks. He hated Altmer.

The High Admiral faced his subordinate in command of the fleet leaving for Black Marsh. There was still doubt about how to successfully occupy the place. 

“Black Marsh is a pit. There will be no occupation. Archon, Lilmoth, Soulrest. Burn everything.”

He turned on his heel and set out for Alinor, a message already before him to inform the wretched Altmer of his arrival. There they would finalize plans for Hammerfell.

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T’Mol was progressing nicely. Orgnum has made use of its communication facilities to aid his journey to Morrowind. As of now it was one of few final pieces which were not completed. He stared at it hungrily when he could, either in person or from a magical viewing apparatus in his temple. Ageless as he was few things stirred him but T’Mol practically sent his emotions into frenzy. It would change warfare. His pupils narrowed into slits as he stared, his tongue forking as it tested the air. Even from across the continent he could taste it. Taste them. And they were so very delicious.
In contrast to Orgnum’s nearly palpable single hunger, the Shipbuilding Guild was bustling with minds centered on joy, determination, and ambition. The Bard’s Guild had been contracted to help ease the long hours everyone was working, mostly by volunteer, to bring all of Pyandonea’s dry docks to functional status again. Families which had made a name for themselves in shipsbuilding came out of retirement, resenting the scaleback they’d suffered under nearly a decade before. Eager families and young elves whom had never been of age or sufficient training joined the fray to seek their glory.
There were few ways a Pyandonean could move up in the world, to break his place in life permanently. Many elves were placed in their station by birth, serving to perfect their craft in Orgnum’s name. No family was impoverished any longer, not since the Holy Coffer was recovered, but elevation in wealth only made honour and fame more valuable. To serve in Orgnum’s Holy Temple was the highest honour one could attain, and secured superiority in history. Great warriors could serve in the temple. Great designers drafted for the King himself. There were few ways a Pyandonean could move up in the world. Shipsbuilding was one of them.

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In Morrowind, among the myriad of other detachments being trained in the Akaviri and Dunmeri ways of warfare, the Sand Boots had a particularly skilled pale elf. This Lieutenant Commander of Pyandonea’s specialized marine forces had exhibited great prowess in fighting, and exceptional leadership qualities. In training exercises her men dominated land engagements, but she suffered on the waters. This had kept him from attaining a command rank of any significance. Friwama intended to bring the Sand Boots to greater fame than merely a highly trained and effective raiding force. 

In her training she was devoted entirely. Between sessions the Sand Boot studied every military history she could get her hand on. The continental nations had a fascinating military history: each one kept an army separate from the navy. This was in contrast with Pyandonea, whose land forces were under command of the naval forces, and she saw why: no foreign forces had ever landed on Orgnum's beaches. Having lived this history gave her a somewhat unique outlook on Tamriel's armed forces, but only as an outsider. 

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-100 Ships to Alinor. Trade with Alinor commenceth. Three transports to go loaded with Maormer, one with Dunmer from Morrowind.
-60 Ships to Black Marsh, 1 Transport per city. (total of three)
-Shipyards underway
-Convoy return from Morrowind
-Uldondil departs for Alinor
-Training in Morrowind underway. 
-T'Mol still under construction.
[/hider]