[b][i]1st Last Seed, 3E 433[/i][/b]

The grand gates of Kvatch were wide open. The townsfolk were joyous and elated. A faint whiff of sulphur laced the air, but as a result of pyrotechnics, not the fire and brimstone of Oblivion.

There was no Daedric menace to be found here. No grand spectacle of doom and destruction.

Khamir scanned the entrance to the city with suspicion and a quiet bewilderment. These sights were not what he had expected following several sleepless nights of awful visions and terrible prophecy, from tossing and turning in the twilight hours as horrific scenes plagued his mind. Dismembered corpses, entire families slain without a second thought, blood trickling through the streets of the Imperial City, Kvatch and beyond. Tamriel on fire, her cities raped and pillaged and its peoples reduced to slaves and playthings of a cruel and merciless tyrant.

Were the dreams truly real?


*             *             *                     

The nightmares had begun a little over a week ago. The first, he dismissed. Who doesn't have a bad dream every now and then? The second time, he changed his evening routine. No more cheese and wine before bedtime. Upon the third consecutive night of being haunted, Khamir knew something was wrong. He visited the healer in Hallin's Stand, hoping for a diagnosis of Witbane or some mundane mental ailment that could be cured with a simple spell or a concoction. However the Healer could not explain the specific and recurring dreams as a symptom of any known disease. Instead, he suggested writing down what Khamir saw and attempt to interpret the dream's meaning and significance.

These were not words Khamir wanted to hear, because he understood the messaging of the dreams well enough. Those four words echoed through his mind each morning, afternoon and evening until they would reiterate within his mind once again come nightfall. In fact, their intensity grew by each passing day.

With not sleeping for the rest of his life a viable option, Khamir succumbed to the unexplainable urge to travel to Cyrodiil, and had prepared a trip to Kvatch, which he had instantly recognised from the visions and which was closer to him than the Imperial City. The journey had fallen at a convenient time - a trade run to Kvatch to sell another shipment of wine was overdue. Therefore, Khamir was gladly joined by his brother Arban and his nephew Aybar, who would at the very least do their familial duties and return to Bangkorai with gold and goods, should Khamir need more than a couple of days in Kvatch to investigate the cause of his dreaming.

*             *             *     

It was a cryptic start, as Kvatch seemed normal, albeit more lively than usual. Clearly there was an event or some other gala occurring within the city walls - it was not uncommon for Count Ormellius Goldwine to put on such a debacle, if only to flaunt his wealth and status and not for the benefit of the townspeople. He was a vain man, and vainer than most Counts and nobility that Khamir has come across. Which was saying something given the indulgence of Cyrodiilic culture and the debauchery displayed in Sentinel.

[b]"You still with us, brother?"[/b], said a voice to Khamir's right, beside him on the wagon upon which he was seated. 

Snapped out of his pondering, Khamir turned his head towards his questioner. Arban was looking ahead, steadily guiding the horses forward into the city and taking care to not trample the many townsfolk shuffling in and our of Kvatch. However he had clearly noticed that Khamir was lost in thought in his peripheral. The younger brother was a large man, well-built and solid. A true worksman, with callused hands and refined, powerful muscles clearly observable even through his linen tunic.

[b]"Just about. It's been a long journey"[/b], Khamir responded.

He had not told anyone besides his wife about his nightmares. And even then he had not described to Alha in full detail what he had seen behind closed eyes - not just death and destruction, but the Divines themselves. Most prominently a draconic and regal figure and a motherly matron. And also vague feelings of authority, love, fate, compassion and justice - but experienced as raw emotions, not as the concepts they are. Khamir felt it prudent to not divulge those details, for he did not understand them himself. Hopefully this trip to Kvatch would help with that.

The wagon had breached the gates of Kvatch and Arban continued to gently control the horses through the sea of citizenry. The hustle and bustle did not agitate the beasts, and neither did the firecrackers and exclaiming street vendors they passed. They were well-trained, and well worth the coin paid for them. 

As the troop approached the Market District, Khamir turned to look into the wagon itself, hoping that they had not left their nephew somewhere on the Gold Coast. It was no shock that Aybar was excitedly darting his eyes around the place, seemingly overwhelmed with the activity and camaraderie that the city was experiencing and exuberating. It would be more difficult than usual to keep the boy focused.

[b]"Aybar"[/b], Khamir called. Not loud enough, for his nephew was still enthralled by a group of jugglers that plied their trad on the street-side. 

[b]"Aybar!"[/b], he repeated this time louder and more authoritative, which got the boy's attention.

[b]"Yes, Uncle?"[/b], the lad responded.

[b]"Run ahead to the market square and try and secure us a spot. As central as possible"[/b], Khamir commanded.

With just a nod, Aybar hopped out the back of the wagon as if he had been chained there for days, overtaking the Al-Damar brothers in a bounding and playful gallop. Khamir watched as the boy weaved between the crowds, his wiry hair quite distinctive among the straight-haired denizens of Kvatch and despite his low stature as a still-growing teenager. Eventually, though, the bobbing head disappeared and become one with the jovial herd.

As Khamir began to listen to the conversations they passed, he discerned that the event in question was a Summer Games festival - held in honour of the Count, of course. Nothing more than expected, but the increased traffic and business of the city was hardly ideal for his quest, of which he had no concrete ideas how to start. It would be hard enough at the best of times, but with such a fiasco going on there would be disruption to taverns, shops, politicians and people of note - all decent places to begin his investigation into... dreams?

The more he thought about it, the more ridiculous the situation became. Was a simply nothing more than a madman, chasing clues planted into his mind by an early onset of dementia? Where was one to begin looking for the reason behind premonitions of apocalypse, when no evidence of such thing existed?

The wagon was soon shepherded into well-positioned space in the market square by Aybar. What luck to find such a spot with Kvatch in such a state! Khamir and Arban disembarked and began to unload boxes of wine as well as furniture to display them on and signage to advertise them with. As the trio set up shop, Khamir figured that matters of crpytic nightmares and prophetic dreams could wait, for there was work to do. The familiarity of selling wine would bring him comfort and stability at the very least.