[i]17th Suns Dawn Daggerfall, High Rock[/i] [hr] The uneven patter of pointed feet crossed the leathery grey surface of scales, the six legs moving in a precision that all insects seemed to have, bringing about an instinctual revulsion from those who typically walked upon two legs. There was no personality, just an almost clockwork like rhythm that spoke to the extremely rudimentary intelligence that occupied the insignificantly small brain; the cockroach that crawled across the Argonian’s face was a product of eons of little more than instinct, never to serve a function more than to produce a significant amount of offspring before perishing to the cruel wheel of nature’s cycle. These were the thoughts that passed through Lurks-at-Dusk’s much more advanced and significantly larger brain as with the stillness of a crocodile he waited for the cockroach to approach his lips before suddenly shoving it into his maw and biting down into the hard carapace, the juices splashing across his tongue as pointed teeth pulped the insect that had become his first meal of the day. The Argonian stretched on his makeshift bed, a few sacks of what he assumed was flower or grain, and his eyes adjusted to the scant amount of light that seeped through the levels of deck above him, and he knew that the ship had not made port because of how it still moved across the waves. On either side of him, across from only a few inches of specially prepared wood fastened together but what he hoped were talented shipbuilders and artisans was the wrath of a large body of water that likely contained large animals that would love to bite into him much the same way he bit into insects. The thought didn’t particularly trouble Lurks-at-Dusk. After all, he was an exceptional swimmer and could breathe underwater thanks to the physiological gifts the Hist bestowed upon all Argonians. He wondered idly if he would take over as the captain of the sunken Kismet, the underwater scourge of a ship that could not sail, or move from the sandy seafloor long after the crew and passengers of the vessel he was currently on had perished from not having lungs that could breathe water or those large animals who wished to bite into the hapless dry skins like his breakfast had a rare delivery that only tended to happen after a battle at sea or a particularly unsavory storm. The Argonian decided that it would be a rather boring life, and eating exclusively raw fish and being unable to have a conversation would grow tiresome. After all, just because he could breathe underwater didn’t mean he could [i]speak[/i] underwater. That would be silly. He pulled himself up from the sacks, working his jaw around and running his tongue across his teeth, claiming the rest of his meal that had not slipped down his throat quite yet. It wasn’t quite filling by any stretch, but the Argonian certainly knew that there was other food on this vessel that was certainly adequate and dare he say quite enjoyable. The young Nord boy, Fally, Faldor, Fanon? Something of that nature, was quite exceptional at putting a bunch of ingredients together into something decidedly more appetizing than Lurks’ traditional signature dish, a freshly killed squirrel on a stick roasting over a fire. He doubted very much that there would be any rodents on the ship, perhaps a rat or two, but those likely wouldn’t make it into a cooking pot unless the boy was one who appreciated fresh meat and had a sense of pragmatism that wasn’t tempered by the squeamish sensibilities of dry skins. Lurks-at-Dusk didn’t require much preparation to make himself presentable to head topside; he was still freshly waxed from the night before and wearing the same blue tunic and tan trousers without any footwear. It seemed appropriate, given their current nautical inclinations. His shirt didn’t quite match the sea, or the sky, or any other natural phenomena, but the harbour district of Anvil didn’t exactly have a lot of options for him to steal on such a short notice. It had taken him over two hours to find something his size, after all, and he wasn’t exactly going for the wealthy traveler sensibility this time around. This trip, he simply was a transient worker who had scrounged up enough coin to pay his fare, hoping his next port of call would bring him better windfall to feed his wife… husband? Kids? The Argonian’s throat swelled and his tail stiffened for a moment, a minute reaction that made him realize perhaps he didn’t think of a story that would be convincing and not something he’d tried a dozen times before. By the time he made his way to the surface of the Kismet, he decided he would improvise. It was not as if he could get away with taking the belongings of those on board; that would be stupid. After all, there was no way off the ship that did not involve quite a bit of swimming that he did not feel quite refreshed enough to tackle, ignoring the simple fact the Argonian had no idea where they were exactly save for a vague direction of where the mainland was. He did not fancy swimming for days to find himself as the first person to step on Thras for thousands of years; the Sload from the stories seemed to be particularly unsavory and he did not fancy someone using his dead body as entertainment. He was not a good dancer in life, and he assumed he would somehow be even worse in death. There were others on the ship, and to his pleasant surprise, there were other Argonians along this particular voyage. He barely recalled the destination, it hadn’t seemed important when he handed Captain Ravana, a rather handsome Redguard man with a rather fetching plumage of dark hair on top of his crown, the admission for sailing. All Lurks-at-Dusk knew was that he was growing bored of the Daggerfall cuisine and he was pushing his luck with the guard for the rather sizable pile of goods he had stockpiled in a cabin only ten minutes out from the city; someone would be happy when they discovered it, which brought him joy. Perhaps that one person’s good fortune would make up for the dozens of others who had decidedly bad days when the Argonian took their things. As his eyes adjusted to the light, Lurks-at-Dusk realized that the Kismet was still in port. What day was it, he wondered. Hadn’t he boarded the day before, or was it earlier in the day? He could have sworn they set sail by now, or maybe that was just a particular dream he had. It had seemed so real, so vivid. Perhaps it was the drink he had yesterday to try and convince the captain he was down on his luck, or heartbroken, or something, and he needed a place to stay. Maybe Ravana had let him aboard the ship early out of pity or compassion? Or did he pay him in some treasure he had pilfered in his pack? He didn’t recall exactly what he deemed worth holding onto, but he certainly didn’t stuff that gold-rimmed conga drum or the engraved mammoth tusk in his pack; they simply did not make back packs that size for whatever reason. Lurks-at-Dusk shrugged as he took in the salty morning air, enjoying the sensation of the large vessel bobbing upon the shallow waters… like an apple. The Argonian’s stomach growled. He decided it was time to find the Nord boy, for it was a better use of his time to have someone prepare him a meal than to hunt for insects below deck. Besides, the boy seemed easily impressionable; maybe he had something enticing to share about his crew. Lurks-at-Dusk did not care for salacious details or off-putting affairs of cardinal instinctual desire, but rather what kinds of sentimental goods they had sequestered away. A family pipe passed down for generations? A necklace belonging to one’s grandmother? The Argonian’s mouth salivated at the thought. [I]No,[/I] he thought to himself, [I]that would be because I smell something delicious.[/I] Treasures could wait; they sat around waiting for him for years. Good food was fleeting, and Lurks-at-Dusk was a man of sensible priorities.