1st of Last Seed 3E 433 Kvatch Square 1:30 PM [hr] "All practitioners of daedric magic are familiar with the almost impenetrable barrier between our world and Oblivion." Martin said to Beren with a gesture of his hand, the two sitting on a pew and sharing cups of tea. They had spoken for the better part of two hours now. The pilgrim had expected a holy old greybeard, but Martin, though around 4 decades old, spoke to the younger man as a peer. He had a humble, intelligent manner, and Beren did not feel worried explaining his dreams to the priest. He felt the same necessity to do so as telling a doctor the symptoms of a recurring sickness. "There are many ways the people of Tamriel view Akatosh, my friend. Auri-El of the elves, Alkosh, the One, some even say he and Alduin are one and the same. But he has spoken to the mortals more directly than any save Talos himself. Akatosh was quite clear, Oblivion cannot connect to Mundus." "So you think they're just dreams?" Beren asked tiredly, placing his cup down on the small table they had procured. He dared not hope, and even if they were just dreams and not portents of doom, that did not solve all of his problems. He shook his head. "I've never been here in my life, Martin. The furthest west I've ever gone is the Imperial city. But my dreams showed me the way here. I could see this place in my mind and it was just as I envisioned it. How is that possible?" "Maybe Akatosh does speak to you." Martin expressed. "And it is your fears that have conjured up this vision of fire and death. The Gods touch is rarely gentle, Beren. Perhaps he is trying to tell you something more mundane, and it has coalesced into these dreams?" He smiled, as if they had known one another for years. Martin would be an incredible public speaker or diplomat, Beren realized. His voice was sonorous and strong, but gentle. Some said similar things of Beren's, he remembered. "If Akatosh, God of Time and Endurance, does speak to you, it seems he favors you more than me! I suppose I do not blame him. I have only been a priest for a dozen years, and much of it as an acolyte." "If they are just dreams, that doesn't help me sleep." Beren replied with a short laugh. "But I suppose I have been sleeping well. The dreams don't wake me up, but they do make my mornings shakier than I would have them, Martin." "I'll tell you what," Martin said, placing a hand on Beren's shoulder. "I am not an alchemist, but we are required to learn the restorative arts with poultices and spells. Allow me to make you a brew." Martin rose to his feet, walking behind him and moving over to grab a cloth. "A poultice that works wonders. Brother Flavias makes them best, but he's taken a trip to the Imperial City. I'm sure mine will work for you. If these dreams are from Akatosh, it will at least calm your nerves. If they aren't, it should keep them away." "Thank you. Where would be a good inn to stay at?" "Well...you're free to sleep here for a few nights if you'd like. But Brominar's Room & Board might have a room, if you're lucky and want a well cooked meal. I doubt they'll have another place to sleep, but we only have ham, some cheese, stale bread and...well no, we have fresh bread now, don't we?" Minutes later, Beren stepped outside. Martin had just begun the brew, but he said it would take hours to finish. Beren felt the hot sun on his tanned complexion and gazed around, only half a dozen dozen people were in sight, most keeping to their own business. The town truly had been sucked into the arena and the festival surrounding it, had they not? He wished he could get rid of those dreams, and the trepidation on finding out if Akatosh truly called to him was filling him with an anxiety he hadn't expected to experience. What if the God was speaking to him, and all of this was coming to an end? The warm sun now felt like a harbinger of doom, as if the very flames of it could reach out and awash Mundus in flame. "Fuck," he breathed, lost in his anxieties. Martin had calmed him, and the temple had been a tonic for him, but now out here, he felt exposed somehow. As if Kvatch, the place of his dreams, was an entity all its own. He needed to do something. Something to knock him out of his fears and... wait. Beren ran off, and minutes later Colyne Valcal had knocked on the great doors of the temple. Martin stepped away from his brew, the water now close to a boil, and he opened the door for the second time that day. But he closed his mouth when he noticed the heavily armed woman, one part wariness and two parts concern on his face. "Greetings warrior, do you require healing or absolution?" He asked her, beckoning her to come in. [hr] Athrelor was busy as could be! Busy busy busy. Finished with his deliveries and heading back to the bakery to set up the mid afternoon shop for the festival! His feet pitter pattered on the ground like a small dog's tip tap toes. The bosmer skitted around one of the fences in the road, reviewing receipts of the day's purchases with a quick eye. If only he had better prepared for the day with two extra employees, he thought. Then again, he had done all the work anyway and he needn't pay anyone but Misela back at the shop, so maybe that was just the old mer in him. As he approached the market square for the umpteenth time, across the way down another path he saw Sigrid the mystic, a pretty blonde haired nord woman who always surprised people with just how much northern grit she had. He didn't know what kind of magic she specialized in, but he did know she was a member of the mages guild in Kvatch. He never liked the mages here. He always suspected they had a way of conjuring up their own bread, though it wasn't nearly as fresh or well tended as his own superior baked goods. Sigrid was in his good books, however. The alchemist had helped give him a nice recipe for carrot cake once, and a savvy business man never forgot a partner. Oddly enough, she had a focused look to her, walking markedly towards a gaggle of strangers who had suddenly converged at the square, looking at Kvatch as if they sought something outside of normalcy. She strode up to them, and though none of them seemed to be together, she spoke to all of them as if they had walked up to her holding hands. "If you are looking for the arena, go to the big building that isn't the castle or the temple. You are either tourists or thieves or mages guild applicants. I would know which before I go about my day." Arthrelor barked a laugh, but clamped his hand on his mouth before it grew too loud. The ornery mage was going to make a scene! And while normally it was entertaining, Arthrelor felt like he wanted one more win this day, and he sought to make some more potential customers. Jogging over and puffing out of his wide face, Arthrelor waved his hand like a tree branch whipping in a typhoon. "Hail! Yes, hello friend! Yes, hi!" He called, drawing their attention. Sigrid raised an eyebrow as she regarded the baker. "Do you have business with them, Arthrelor?" She asked, her accent as thick as her behind. "Yes, they are my guests." He assured her, planting his hands on his hips and gazing at the strangers up and down. They were clearly travelers, but each of them had a very unique and strange look to the bosmer. Dunmer, Dunmer, Redguard, Altmer, and Imperial. Only a motley band of misfits like them would be here to see the games, and they would have the best seats in the house. "Come friends, follow me to my shop! You'll have cakes and baked goods and grand seats for the coming fights of the day. Andonlythreegoldforthepleasure but let's not discuss that now! Follow me!" He began to jog in place, before he realized they were to follow. Then he sped off like a fat, thin limbed chipmunk.