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ACT ONE

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Welcome To The Abecean…

10th of Midyear, 4E 200

Off The Coast Of Stros M’kai…

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“No one bests an Orc!”

Captain Robyn Hawkton raised his weapon just in time to block the incoming swing. His assailant’s orichalcum blade crashed down hard against Robyn’s cutlass, jarring his arms. Robyn clenched his sword hilt with both hands, his brow furrowed and teeth gritted as he tried - futilely - to push back against his opponent. The Breton man was down on one knee before the charred helm of his ship, at the mercy of a towering Orc with thick, dirty braids that had just beheaded his first mate. Robyn squinted through long strands of brown hair plastered to his face, meeting the Orc’s fierce yellow eyes.

The Orc stepped in close, boots grinding against the deck, and with a snort raised his weapon high. Robyn frantically rolled to the left, just barely dodging the downward cleave. He staggered up onto wobbly legs, nearly tripping over the arrow-riddled corpse of another of his men as he backed down the afterdeck. The Orc closed the distance in three broad steps, his sword again raised.

“This is the end, human. Any final prayers to whimper to the gods?” the green-skinned brute sneered.

Robyn took another step back, his breathing quick and ragged, the blade in his right hand quivering. What little pride the young captain could still muster hoped the Orc did not see the fear in his eyes. Not that it would even matter soon. Robyn’s gaze swept over the horrendous scene before him: his ship, the Arslan’s Fortune, littered with fallen crewmen; its once proud, white sails torn and flapping wildly as flames engulfed the topside. The clash of steel and desperate battle cries filled the night air as what remained of Robyn’s men fought on against the pirates who had boarded their ship.

Not even four bells ago all had been well. After being blown off course earlier that day by a harsh gale the Arslan’s Fortune found its heading and was set to reach High Rock only slightly off schedule. What some among the crew had feared to be an ill happening was just an inconvenience that drew sighs of relief once passed. Unfortunately, the merchantman had gone far enough astray into dangerous waters to attract the attention of a band of pirates. They gave chase under cover of darkness. By the time the night watch finally sighted the pursuing ship it was already too late. Mage fire had rained across the decks as the brigands surged forward, soaring through the air and skimming across the water by way of magic. Captain Hawkton and his cohort managed to slay the first wave of attackers, but the reprieve was brief. The enemy vessel bore down on them at full speed ramming into the Arslan’s Fortune, the pirates dropping boarding ramps and swinging across in scores.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’.”

Robyn’s eyes widened as the Orc bellowed savagely and took a mighty swing at his midsection. The captain stepped to the right and brought his cutlass up at an angle. There was a metallic snapping sound as the end of Robyn’s sword was broken off by the sturdier orichalcum blade. The Orc swung again, a second overhead strike that Robyn evaded, ducking past his foe and dashing toward the stairs that led down to the main deck. A roaring sphere of flame flew out from the nearby pirate ship and slammed into the steps ahead of him, erupting in a blinding flash of fire and sparks. Robyn threw an arm up as the shockwave knocked him backward. The wooden stairs vanished in a splintering blast, collapsing into a smoking heap that spat embers across the deck. Behind the captain, the Orc closed in again, his heavy steps thumping against the planks as the plume of flame rose high.

Robyn rolled onto his side and hauled himself to his feet. With a sharp breath he glanced at the ruined length of his cutlass then hurled it away, the broken blade skittering across the deck. His hand went instead to his belt, closing around the hilt of his dagger. The surviving crew were fighting like cornered beasts, and even a handful of passengers that had been aboard the Arslan’s Fortune had bravely joined in the defense of the ship. But the attackers were well-armed and had a number of powerful spellcasters among their ranks. Cones of flame and writhing arcs of lightning tore through the defenders just as often as blades did.

Captain Robyn Hawkton had never been a man to give in to despair, but he could recognize the direness he faced. If this was indeed to be where it ended then he should not die cowering. With a silent prayer to Kynareth, matron of the seas, Robyn drew his dagger and took a defensive stance as the Orc’s sword rose high above him.

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All I can hear above me is fire, steel, blood, and screams...

The Nord woman known as Brinlaith remained hidden in the lower decks of the Arslan's Fortune, dagger drawn and held in a steady hand. The storm winds had been brutal, and she'd been fool enough to go to her room and try to get some sleep, only to be jarred awake by the sound of fire spells hitting the deck, alarm bells, and a ship ramming into their hull. Whoever these pirates were, they were either recklessly aggressive or desperate, as the Breton crew cut down their first wave, and still they attacked. Brin knew few outlaws willing to fight when death was a distinct possibility, but maybe the sea created a different breed.

She'd offered her services as a healer to the captain in exchange for passage to High Rock, but with the arrival of the full force of these pirates, it seemed to Brin like the only way to keep this crew upright was going to be necromancy, and that was magic she did not possess. She weighed her options: fight with the Breton crew? They were outmatched, probably mostly dead already. Abandon ship? She had no idea which way to even swim, nor if they were even close to land. Betray them, try to join the pirates? She'd be leaving herself at their mercy, a thought that made Brinlaith sick to her stomach. She needed to get above deck, carefully, and see what she could see. Instinct would guide her from there, as it always had.

She crouched by the door of her quarters, hearing two pirates marching her way down the hall outside. A few were heading below, in search of either easy prey or the chance to be the first to lay hands on precious cargo. Either way, they didn't stop to search Brin's seemingly empty room. As they passed, she stepped out of the doorway, behind them. The nearest was a Redguard man, thin and bald and clearly not thriving from his life at sea. A spell lit in Brin's hand, dark red and angry. She pressed it to the bare, sun-cooked skin of his back, standing up to whisper in his ear.

"Make a mess for me."

She shoved him forward, towards the Imperial woman that had come down here with him. The Redguard flew into a rage, hacking with his cutlass into the side and back of the other pirate. She fell, taken by surprise by her former ally, and Brinlaith watched as he kept slashing, a good one finding the base of her neck, and that was that. She surged forward, now with fire in her hand, and thrust it right into the Redguard's face as he turned around. He screamed, blinded completely, and staggered backwards. Most of his face had burned off, but in his magically-induced rage, he tried to keep fighting, swinging at the air. It was easy work for Brin to sneak around to his side, then shove her dagger through his ribs. He stilled quite suddenly, and dropped.

Brin took a moment to regard the two corpses she'd made, a sudden burst of extreme violence that she'd caused. It occurred to her that she probably could've let them keep walking. Some healer I am. She took a second to see if anyone was drawn to the noise, but the chaos on deck seemed to have drowned it out.

Onwards, to the deck. Brinlaith stopped at the top of the stairs, taking it in. The ship was burning, the crew was dying, and with all the damn smoke and the darkness of night, she couldn't hope to see if there was land in any direction. She was a fierce fighter when it came down to it, but as she surveyed the scene on the deck, all Brin saw was death. Instinct guided her again.

And it took her right back down the way she came. The lower decks had friendlier shadows, fewer pirates, and if need be, the pirates had already blasted a few holes in the hull with spells that she could escape through. Not dying here. Not tonight.

Rul-Aman had worse luck than most, he always thought. When it did not rain, he desperately needed it. When it rained, it ruined one of his plans. Sleep with a pretty woman? She turned out to be an assassin trying to kill him. Sail on a merchant ship? Storms, rocks, pirates, and a really loathesome headache. Not in order of severity, necessarily...

"Apologies, lady." The rogue said, slipping past Brinlaith like an eel as he ascended the stairwell. In his hands were a steel longsword and an iron shortsword, a grim look on his nominally handsome visage. Rul-Aman had fled below to give himself some time to collect his thoughts as the pirates attacked, going through different scenarios of how to get out of this mess. Not for the first time did he curse himself for not deigning to learn any magic. Then after finding himself hiding in one of the hall closets, he suddenly realized there really was no way out. That if he wanted to live, he needed to help defend the ship as best he could.

Diagna and Hoonding were laughing their asses off, he imagined. Damn, and the redguard went to grab his weapons. That was when he made it to the top, and found a maelstrom of blood and combat the likes of which nearly made his stomach turn!

He cursed in his native tongue, but saw a flash of something unmistakably solid, and ducked with the swiftness of a mongoose, cold fear keeping him alert. An axe crunched into the swinging door just behind him, and he rolled away to put some distant between himself and the gap-toothed imperial ruffian that had thought to catch him unawares. The man's hair was long and greasy, and with a jerk he removed the axe. Rul had a brief moment to groan when he realized he should have pressed the advantage and killed him there, rather than roll away like a coward. As he lamented, a shadow fell over him, and he glanced behind him just in time to see a khajit with a cutlass hoping to trim a bit off the top.

Rul screamed like a woman and launched himself to the right, the blade missing him by a hair's breadth. As he did so, he lashed out with his longsword. He expected it an ineffectual move, but the blade bit deeply into the pirate's leg, and the Khajit hissed in rage and pain. Rul found his feet swiftly, and flourished both blades in a dazzling display as the imperial advanced on him. They glinted in the light like a hundred silver coins, and as the imperial thrust his weapon to knock him off balance, Rul pivoted and sliced his longsword up. The blade smoothly amputated the imperial's hand, thrusting his iron shortsword into the roaring mouth of the man to end his life abruptly. It was a one-two combination he had learned to appreciate in situations like this.

Unfortunately, the axe dropped onto his foot. It didn't break the skin of the boot, but it hurt like hells. "Ah, fuck!"

Through the moisture in his eyes, that was when he noticed the Khajit collecting herself, brandishing the cutlass again. Now it seemed to be an even playing field, which to Rul, always seemed like a disadvantage on his part. Hopping on one foot, he held his twin blades in a defensive posture, hoping a third pirate didn't try to cut him down from behind.

Laelette hated pirates.

Truth be told, she hadn't given it much thought before. She had never run into pirates, or rather, knowingly done so, in her travels. She met an assortment of characters, and possibly one or two of them were pirates. No, she was sure she hadn't. And even if she did, she would hold firm to her belief that pirates were contemptuous creatures. They served no purpose other than to be inconvenient to those who were sailing to distant shores, for business or pleasure, and put a real damper on the mood.

Reality check, though, Laelette wasn't in a happy mood when she booked passage. It was more of a spur-of-the-moment type of deal that landed her on the ship. She never wanted to stay in one place for too long. Get settled in and grow roots, and those roots were likely to burn with you well tucked into them.

So she got on the damn ship and made the best of it. The captain was well enough to look at, at least, but she wasn't here for that. She wanted to bunker down, open up a good book, and discover something new.

Instead...pirates.

Laelette heard the commotion before the ship rocked. She could hear the telltale signs of combat. Instinct kicked in, and Laelette slid along the wall. Some of the people she noticed were others who joined her on this cruise, but some of them were clearly people who had a rotten draw in life and decided to take it out on innocent people who wanted nothing more than to be left alone. She wasn't about to die here, so she moved along.

That was, until she collided with a rather stout orc man. He had his back to her and, once she slightly kissed his shoulder, he turned, long sword drawn and a nasty scowl on his face. Laelette held up her hands. "I want no trouble. I have very few valuables on me, but I will give what I have provided I can just move pa-" her words were interrupted when the afore-mentioned orc man had punched her in the face, causing her to tumble back. She felt herself bite the inside of her cheek and tasted blood.

Okay, now she was even more pissed off.

Laelette stood and held out a hand, the orc smiling now in amusement, before a fire bolt launched itself squarely in his face. The orc wasn't smiling anymore (she assumed as his face was very much on fire now), and Laelette launched another as the orc man was engulfed. He flailed around a bit, hitting the wall and some detritus on the ground. Soon, fire started spreading everywhere, and Laelette made the conscious decision that, in the future, perhaps it was best not to shoot fire out of her hands on a ship made with flammable material. The orc was dealt with, though, as she scooted over his burning husk and made her way towards the top of the ship.

Where there was more chaos erupting.

Gods, she fucking hated pirates.

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It is said in philosophies of the Velothi, that all suffering and strife is a sword designed to cut mortals into better shapes. Sometimes Velyn questioned just how small a shape his Lord was trying to cut him down to.

The clash of steel resounded around him as he ducked and weaved his way through the frenetic melee currently taking place where the forecastle of the pirate ship had rammed into the side of the Arslan's Fortune. Pirates were streaming across on several gangplanks while what remained of the crew desperately tried to hold them off of the burning decks of the galleon.

Whether by luck or design, Velyn had not been able to sleep that night. He found that as he got older, he needed less and less sleep, and he was very old by the standards of pretty much everyone these days, so he rarely slept. He had taken to the deck that night then, in hope the the cool sea air might relieve his feverous brow, and he might find some measure of rest, perhaps even compose sonnet or song beneath the starry sky.

In another stroke of luck, or perhaps providence, but in fact most likely paranoia, the old mer had taken to wearing his armour beneath his outer robes once he had discovered the presence of a Thalmor Justicar aboard their ship. The prayer mat strapped to his pack that he had brought up on deck to serve as a pillow just so happened to be wrapped around his sword. And so Velyn found himself armed and armoured when the enemy struck.

A volley of fire had rained down from the sky above, before a band of skulking murderers tried to sneak their way atop the blackened waves to slit the throats of any not killed in the inferno.

In truth he found it somewhat lacking in elegance. Sloppy work for would be assassins, he could have done better. In fact he was almost sure he had done better at some point or other, it got hard to remember the details of every skirmish he had fought in when you had been fighting as long as Velyn had.

For every one that he had spotted and lopped their heads and hands off before they had a chance to scale the gunwales, three had made it over. Perhaps they could have turned the tide if it had been only that, but with their rigging and sails a flame, the parent ship of these lone raiders had closed within grappling range before ramming them and disgorging a horde of fighters onto their decks.

Hence, Velyn found himself here, defending the breach, surrounded by enemies, cutting his path to heaven one sword stroke at a time.

An Orcish warrior, dressed in hides, wielding some great machete like knife had swung wildly at Velyn. The old mer nimbly stepped out of the way, unsheathing his sword as he did so. The quicksilver and moonstone blade blazed bright with burning light as the enchantment on it flared to life. It slid beneath Orc's guard, catching him at his exposed waist in a long drawing cut, disembowelling his opponent in a spill of entrails.

No sooner had he went to return the sword to its scabbard, was he surrounded once more by a Redguard pirate with a curved sword and an female Imperial raider with some kind of hideous sharp boathook. The Redguard lunged at him, making some exploratory slashes at his guard, while the Imperial circled him, jabbing at his back whenever she had the chance.

Sloppy. Crude. Inelegant.

He hated fights like these, where he knew his skill surpassed that of those he fought, but victory remained illusive. If he were a century younger, and not suffering from the lingering injury that still affected his sword arm, he could have carved these pirates up like a sweetroll. By the Triunes, how he hated being old sometimes.

With a whispered word Velyn formed a seal with his free hand and launched a gout of flame at the Redguard driving him back away from the Dunmer. He spun on his heeds to face the the Imperial who herself was already backing away to get out of his range. But that free hand pulled a dagger from the inside of his sleeve, and hurled it spinning end over end to slice into her left shoulder.

It was enough to buy him a moment's reprieve. Velyn needed to reposition himself on the battlefield, most of the crew he had been fighting alongside were dead by this point. With all the smoke coming from the flames on deck, it was hard to see where the fighting was still ongoing, where he still might find some allies. He needed a better vantage.

Before his assailants managed to launch another assault he pressed both his hands together in another, much more complicated arcane seal, whispered something in Dunmeris, closed his eyes, and jumped.

The wind rushed past him, pulling at the cloak that still shrouded the chitinous shell of his armour. He felt the heat of blazing fire beneath him warm the soles of his boots, the taste of acrid smoke filled his nose and lungs for second, and he was clear of it. Velyn opened his eyes just as the spar of the mainmast appeared through the smoke, and tucked his legs up in order to land upon it with feline grace.

Better. He could actually see what was going on from up here.

The situation did not look good. Fires were spreading over much of the deck, by his count more than half the crew was dead, though there was still a pocket of resistance holding at the aftcastle and some of the hatches below, although the smoke billowing out of one of them indicated that the fighting, and more importantly the fires, had spread below as well.

From immediately below him Velyn heard the sounds of combat, and watched as a Redguard man he recognised as a fellow passenger emit a high pitched scream and thrashed about of the decks like fish of out water while trying avoiding two of the pirates closing in on him. He almost dismissed the man as done for, until he neatly sliced off one of the pirate's hands before thrusting a short sword through the back of his mouth. A clean kill, perhaps he had some skill with the blade after all.

His reappraisal was abruptly halted as the Redguard allowed his foot to be struck by the falling axe of his deceased opponent. Sloppy. Still he supposed he should help the fool.

As the other pirate, a Khajit, began to square up with the Redguard, Velyn silently dropped behind them. Over the sounds of the battle raging across the ship they did not hear his feet touch the deck. With one swift fluid motion, Velyn drew his sword. The fiery light of blade flashed again, just enough to make the Khajit to begin to turn in surprise, before the sword met the back of their neck, and sent their head flying from its body.

The Khajit's body collapsed to the floor like a sack of potatoes, the stump of its neck already cauterised by the heat of the blade. Velyn casually flicked the blood off of it and sheathed it once more. He was now face to face with the Redguard. With one hand he tugged off the bug like chitinous helm that up until this point had completely obscured his face.

"Excuse me, sera. You wouldn't mind passing me my pack would you?" He gestured to his discarded travelling pack that lay on the deck just behind the Redguard.

"I think this ship may well be doomed. Tell me, sera, are you a strong swimmer?"

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^{Ahh…
The smell of flames…
Like freshly snipped roses…}

Llaier danced through the shadow and flickering orange glow of rising embers from kindled planks. She watched the soaked planks sizzle as vapor floated upward and bubbles formed along their surface. There was a sudden ‘pop!’ as the boiling water swelled within a large wooden block and expunged a dangerous mist directly into the face of what looked to be an imperial man donning the colors of these pirates. It scalded his face and seemingly disoriented him in the chaos, which Llaier found considerably funny!

She slithered over as she often did, clumsily, bumping into a orcish pirate near the side of the ship that was locked in combat with one of the Fortune’s deckhands. She wasn’t all that interested in this orcish fellow, so she simply bent down at the knee and wound back her fist before punching the orc directly into his unmentionables. Llaier was not the most brawny of wandering jesters, but strength didn’t matter all that much when using the chaos of a burning ship to get a free critical blow onto what would be deemed a annoying bystander.

The orc which she assaulted did not have all too much time to react. But the outcome which followed stoked laughter quite immediately, both from Llaier and the Breton deckhand that was fighting the pirate. The jester watched as the orc buckled, falling to his backside and reeling from pain with low guttural grunts rumbling out from his tusked jaw. The masked dunmeri woman continued to cackle as she watched the scene, though from the outside looking in— it might’ve been horrifying for a masked silhouette to be hunched over a wounded orc loudly making sounds of merriment in such horrifying circumstances.

The mirth continued, but in a strange fluid motion that came without warning, Llaier’s claymore slid out from the scabbard at her back and she spun in a half-circle and with an extended blade. It wasn’t practiced or skillful, the Breton deckhand might’ve even thought it was accidental, but steel met thick orcish skin and sinew.. crimson liquid spewed into the deck as the partially beheaded pirate fell limp along the side of the ship.

^{“You could’ve been more clean about it.”}

“What do you mean? The poor lad was felled in one blow!”

^{“You’re right, but look, he’s still connected at the spine.”}

“Should I give it another swing?”

^{“No, a messy job’s funnier.”}

“That’s what matters most.”

^{“Let’s get back to examining that imperial who’s probably blind now.”}

“If he is, we should pretend we’re a pirate like him.”

She'd then mosey her way on over to the imperial pirate who'd gotten steamblasted in the face by rapidly heated water. Llaier watched as the imperial man clutched at his face and screamed in agony, to which the dunmeri jester just watched silently from the sidelines. There were signs of blistering where his leather gloved fingers gripped into and she knew that once that hand pulled away, some of his skin would be dragged along with it. Beneath her vile mask she simply smiled from ear to ear, blissfully entertained at the cacophony of inferno, violence, and catastrophe surrounding the ship. If things went poorly, couldn't she just swing on over to the pirate's ship? She was sure if she had given them a little show they might let her stay aboard to entertain the bored men that spent months on end at sea.

But then again..

There were others who seemed to be keeping things at bay. Fellow strangers who found themselves aboard this ship just like herself, but she hadn't spent much time speaking to anyone aboard other than that one khajit aboard that kept asking her for skooma; she did have some on her but it was being saved for a special occasion! Perhaps she'd find some weird chemical aboard and put it in a small vial to convince the poor sod that it was his coveted drug? Llaier had the utmost confidence that she could sell it to him, not for coin, but for a favor or something else entertaining.

^'Shhhwip! ..... "Ahhhh!

There it was! Like a dinner bell ringing in the jester's ears, her wandering mind came right back to the mortal plane and her attention fully focused upon the imperial who'd just decided to pull his hand away from his face. It was a terrible sight really, raw reddened and bloodied skin exposed as multiple layers were peeled away. Out with the old, in with the new! That's what Llaier thought to herself, but all this imperial pirate would hear was hysterical laughter. Llaier dropped her claymore to the floorboard and sat down with her knees tucked in, wrapped her arms around them, and began absolutely yowling like a hyena for the man to hear. She pointed at him, and even though her face was completely concealed by her faceless mask, it was plainly obvious that behind that strange reflective surface her face was twisting into one of absolute mockery of the man. And what else did he see?..

His own face, disfigured beyond repair bar some horrible deal with a daedra.

---

It was supposed to be a pleasant trip to High Rock. It was supposed to be a day or so of bliss before he returned back to Alinor. Eldayon had missed the Black Eagle by a day or so. It was an official Thalmor ship that ferried only Thalmor officials to and from Alinor. The Thalmor had many such ships but not enough to stay in one port for an extended length of time. Because of the previous war with the Empire, Eldayon would rather not board an Imperial ship. Not that there were any ships charting any trips to Alinor. His plan was to set sail to Highrock instead. Though it was still part of the Empire, it was left out of the war. Its people also had Elven blood and though they were still men at heart, they weren't as hostile as the Imperials or gods forbid, the Redguards. There ships from Alinor came to and from reliably enough. Instead of waiting for a month or for another Thalmor ship, he could wait a week or so for another merchant ship to take him to the home isles. That was how Eldayon found himself on Arslan’s Fortune.

An hour or so ago there was rough weather but Eldayon didn't worry about it much. Now, half a wine bottle deep, he was tipsily trying to escape the vessel he was in. The ship moving roughly from side to side wasn’t helping.

“Mara’s blood.” He cursed softly as he tried to navigate the ship.

Random bits and bobbles rolled from one side to the other. Making the Justiciar’s path a little harder. He could hear screaming and yelling. That and the sound of battle. It must have been coming from the upper deck. Under any other circumstance, he would have been a fool to brazenly follow the noise of conflict. However smoke was quickly filling the hallway he was in. His choices were either to join the fray or burn to death.

“Of all the days, of all the days.” He kept repeating. His run of luck kept getting worse by the minute. Finally he saw the way back up to the main deck. His luck seemed to be changing. He swiftly made his way towards it. On his way there though, he felt something tugged at his robe. He looked down to see a sailor. He was clearly injured from what little he could see.

“Help.” The poor Breton muttered out. The last of his strength being quickly sapped out of his body.

Eldayon gave him a boot to the face. A swift kick to free himself from the sailor’s grasp. Then he sprinted for the ladder leading him up to the main deck. Only before he could do so, he would crash onto some miscreant looting the lower deck for valuables. The two paused for a minute. Studying each other in the dim lights of the lower deck. Eldayon studied the man. He seemed to be an Imperial. A pirate? Just his luck, pirates were boarding his ship. Then he noticed something else about the man. There was something on his neck. Something that quickly caught his eye. An amulet with an axe shaped charm. Oh the irony of a Justiciar running into a Talos worshipper. He two exchanged what could have been the longest glance at each other. One that of confusion that turned into bitter resentment.

Before Eldayon could utter a single word, he felt the man’s fist connect with his jaw. For a few seconds he was left stunned. He almost fell to fist feet if he hadn't caught a hold of the wall first. The pirate tried for another jab but this time, by some miracle, Eldayon evaded him. The Justiciar was still shaken by the sudden punch to his jaw. It took him a second to recover. Only to be followed up by a blow to his stomach. This left Eldayon winded. However it also sobered him up. Eldayon couldn't use his sword. Not in such tight quarters. Instead he had to fight with his fist. Eldayon tried to hit the man with his own blows but the pirate was much more adept at this style of fighting. The pirate grinned at him mockingly. This ticked off the Justiciar to no end. This lowlife scum was getting the better of him, a Thalmor official. The best of the Aldmeri Dominion. Eldayon pushed him back and in doing so the pirate crashed into a lamp. Spilling oil on himself. Eldayon would now grin at the pirate. Then he stretched out his arm, opened his palm and let out a short and small burst of flames.

The commotion on the main deck was joined by a man screaming in agony as he ran up the stairs from the lower deck. Then he was followed by a hooded figure in black. Finally Eldayon had reached the relative safety of the upper deck. Of course it wasn't much better up here. There was chaos all around. Here though he could finally draw his sword. The ceremonial blade of his family now put to the test.

“Mara preserve me.” He silently prayed as he drew Larethor’s Wrath.

Captain Hawkton pulled his dagger free from the Orc’s neck, stepping aside as the gurgling brute collapsed. Robyn reached up and touched his right cheek, wincing as he felt the long cut left by the tip of his enemy’s blade. His left sleeve hung in tattered shreds, blood from another cut oozing down his arm and dripping from his fingertips. He wiped his dagger off on his breeches leg before sheathing it, then kneeling down and picking up the dead Orc’s gnarled sword. It was heavier than the captain was accustomed to but it was certainly better than his now-broken cutlass. And he had no intention of leaping into the fray below armed with only a knife.

After giving the Orcish blade a few testing twirls in his right hand, Robyn looked around and surveyed the desperate situation. Most of his crew were dead, the roughly twenty men still standing were being “herded” into the center of the main deck as the pirates slowly encircled them. Among the lot Robyn spotted two of the passengers from Anvil: the flamboyant Redguard man and a figure clad in bizarre armor that he recognized as the wizened Dunmer. The damned Thalmor he had allowed aboard his ship was also topside, easy to spot in his black and gold robes. Robyn quickly reminded himself that under the circumstances at hand he should be grateful that an elite Justiciar was still standing to fight for his side. He imagined that some members of his crew and other passengers might be below deck. Those not already dead, obviously.

By now most of the exterior of the Arslan’s Fortune was charred or burning. The fo'c'sle and bowsprit were engulfed in orange flame, as was the foremast. The small inferno where the starboard-side stairs had been was spreading across the aft deck. Arrows, crossbow bolts, and javelins lined the gunwales and taffrail, resembling pins in a spinster’s cushion. Round scorch marks from the initial attack dotted the hull and the once-pristine boards of the main deck. If the Arslan’s Fortune survived the night, plenty of repairs would need to be done on the galleon before it was seaworthy again.

Robyn took a deep breath and firmly grasped his new weapon. The young captain strode past the corpse of his first mate and started down the blackened portside stairs. As he descended toward the main deck he looked to the enemy sloop. Most of the pirates were aboard the merchant ship or dead, save for a few archers and spellcasters who were nestled in the rigging or taking cover on the enemy deck. A tall, dark figure - without a doubt the pirate captain - loomed near the mainmast, seemingly unbothered by the possibility of being struck by a stray arrow or fireball.

“Die!”

Robyn’s right boot had barely touched the main deck when he heard the savage shout. A wiry Redguard in tattered leather armor charged him, scimitar flashing. Robyn did not bother raising his sword to block but rather met the incoming attack head-on, his newly claimed orichalcum blade crashing into the steel with a force that nearly tore the weapon from the pirate’s hand. Robyn immediately pressed his advantage, driving the pirate back with three powerful, arcing strikes that chewed visible notches into the scimitar’s edge. The Redguard failed to recover in time to block the fourth blow. Robyn’s blade slashed across his chest, cutting clean through the brittle armor. The pirate cried out, his sword clattering to the deck as he clutched at his wound. With a hard thrust Robyn drove his blade through the man's throat, then wrenching it free just as quick. - The captain unfazed by the hot, crimson spray across his face as the dying brigand crumpled in his wake.

Robyn pushed forward across the main deck, his eyes locked on the surviving group hemmed in near the mainmast. The smell of smoke and blood was overwhelming. Robyn started to run only for a second pirate to step into his path. Another Orc, his sinewy, tattooed arms and steel breastplate streaked with blood and soot. The tusked fiend offered a snarling grin and leveled a green-tipped spear, attacking instantly. Robyn knocked the first thrust aside, the impact rattling up his arm. He ducked under a sweeping strike and answered with a slash that the Orc turned with the haft. The two traded blows in a tight, vicious rhythm, their boots skidding on blood-slicked boards with neither giving ground.

Rigging creaked overhead and a flicker of movement drew Robyn’s eyes upward after fending off a hard thrust. Enemy archers were scrambling along the lines of his ship, boots hooking knots as they strung their bows with practiced ease. Preparing to rain arrows down on the last line of defense of the Arslan’s Fortune. For a breath the noise of the fight seemed to thin. This is the end, isn’t it? The thought came flat and cold. Robyn pushed it aside just as quickly, shifting his grip and stepping inside the Orc’s guard. He drove forward with a flurry of close swipes of his blade. The Orc snarled and braced, spear haft spiraling about to block as the first bowstrings tightened above. Robyn raised his blade again and pressed in as the archers took aim.

---

---

Raad ducked behind a crate as a spray of white hissed over his head. Ice, thick with magic, burst against the far wall and spread outward in jagged spider-webs. Raad countered with fire, a red blaze roaring from his outstretched, calloused hands. His foe - a thin, scruffy man in a baggy shirt and breeches - ducked behind a support beam, flames ribboning around the seasoned wood. Acrid smoke drifted up against the low ceiling of the cargo hold. Feeling the familiar hollowing pull in his chest, Raad ceased his cast and drew a sharp breath. The moment the fire slackened the other man bolted from cover, running past a stack of crates stamped with distant ports and faded seals.

Raad gave chase, teeth bared, his heavy boots hammering against the floor. He rounded the crates and skidded to a stop shortly after. His foe stood cornered before a cargo cage, iron bars bolted into the hull that cradled six red barrels. Most likely some sort of exotic spices or the like, Raad thought on seeing them. The other man’s hands were raised, fingers splayed, but no spells were cast.

“Wait!” the man screamed, eyes wide and desperate.

Raad’s lip curled. Sailors, soldiers, merchant men - they all begged the same when facing the end. And Raad was always equal in his lack of mercy. A pirate never afforded much. Fire surged again, a fan of blazing death billowing from Raad’s hands straight at the horrified man. - And the barrels behind him.

---

---

The explosion tore through the Arslan’s Fortune with a deafening “boom”. Fire and pressure surged outward from the galleon’s heart, the whole ship heaving violently. Along the starboard side the hull was torn open, shards of metal and wood were cast into the sky and the sea. Captain Hawkton, his fellow defenders, and their assailants were flung from their feet. Dozens of bodies slammed down hard across the bloody topside amid scattered weapons and dismembered limbs. The archers that had taken to the rigging either fell into the sea or tumbled to their crushing demise to the decks below them.

The sloop had also felt the brunt of the explosion. The portside hull was cracked open, the seams fractured. The impact had snapped lines, loose rigging now whippping around like striking snakes as burning debris rained down in a hail of charred wood and iron fragments. As Robyn Hawkton and others that had been scattered across the deck sat upright, groaning and rubbing at their heads and bodies, everyone could hear the telltale rushing of water and the faint crackling of splintered wood.

---

---

Brinlaith retreated down the stairs back into the relative safety of the hold, a handsome Redguard man passing by her with two blades and a surprising amount of politeness given their situation. She expected him to come right back down like she did when he saw the state of the fight above, but he didn't. A hero, or a fool... or maybe dead already.

She gave him no further thought and vanished into the shadows, biding her time and trying to gather what information she could with her limited view of the enemy ship and the sounds of combat continuing above. She put some distance between herself and the stairwell, knowing more pirates could come down at any moment.

On her way she came across a scuffle, a fistfight between a pirate and a Thalmor Justiciar of all things. What's one of them doing here? She hadn't spotted any others on her brief time aboard, though Brinlaith had made little effort to make the rounds with other passengers or crew. She watched from her hiding place as he was caught out of his element, battered by the fists of the pirate, and for a second she wondered if he would survive. But the pirate failed to keep up the pressure. Brin's eyes lit up briefly from the shadows as fire engulfed the man, and the pair of them ran off in the direction of the stairs. Good. Maybe someone else will get him up there.

Suddenly a sharp pain erupted in her upper back, and Brinlaith was thrown forward onto her knees, a splotch of her blood falling onto the wooden planks beneath her. She looked down at herself to see an arrow protruding from beneath her right collarbone. Gritting her teeth, she scrambled into cover behind a barrel just before a second arrow whistled past. She chanced a look towards where it came from, finding the sharp-eyed Redguard pirate woman that shot her. Brin hurled a fire bolt back at her, missing and setting more of the ship on fire, but at least forcing the archer to take cover as well and buying her some time.

Without hesitation, Brinlaith took the arrow in both hands and pulled it forward far enough to be able to snap the head off, then reached over her back with her left hand to rip it out entirely. That got her ire up, and she turned and poked her head out of cover just enough to draw another shot. Then she charged with a rage-filled cry, dagger sheathed, nothing but fire in her hands.

She never made it to the archer, because the ship exploded. The Redguard woman was obliterated by it, blasted apart by force and consumed by fire, while Brinlaith was thrown backwards, hitting the wall hard enough to make her see stars. The hull was blown open, sections of the deck crumbling and collapsing, and as Brin came to she found herself sliding forward, leaving a bloody smear behind her. There was nothing to grab, and a second later she fell into the sea.

The salt taste filled her mouth before she could get her bearings and break the surface, coughing and blinking the sting out of her eyes. The wound in her back stung more painfully, and made it difficult to tread water. Pushing red hair from her face, she spotted another flailing individual, reaching out to her. Maybe an Imperial man, maybe a Breton, she couldn't tell in the dim light. Maybe a pirate, maybe crew of the Arslan's Fortune. He was in bad shape, burned and bleeding badly from a wound to his neck.

Brinlaith swam to him, wincing with every movement of her right arm. "Help... me..." he whispered to her, struggling to keep his head above the water. I did offer my services as a healer, free of charge. She began forming a spell in her hands, holding his gaze.

"I'm no fool. And you're dead already, you know."

She touched him with her pale spell, leeching most of the life he had left and healing her own wound almost completely. Brinlaith sighed with relief, moving much more easily, then pushed the man's head down under the water. He stared up at her with wide eyes, some mixture of fear and confusion swirling in them, but then the blackness of the depths quickly swallowed his form.

She gave him no further thought and started to swim. The explosion created plenty of driftwood, she just needed to find something to cling to until she could come up with a plan.

Rul-Aman whirled his blades in a pirouette, a trick he learned that took very little skill but it was impressive to watch nonetheless. It had some small practical use for disorienting an easily balked foe, but mostly it was for show. Rul liked to do it every now and then after a kill, almost like a small ritual, but he also hoped it was at least somewhat intimidating to his next opponent. Unfortunately, seemed it was only for the ritual this time, because the Khajit he was about to fight snarled in anticipation. Fortunately, the Khajit he was about to fight then found an untimely end by the hands of an elderly dunmer.

Rul-Aman winced, shaking his head as the khajit fell dead to the deck.

Behind the corpse of the pirate was an armored figure, Rul-Amal not knowing it was one of the dunmer aboard his own ship at first, of course. He had ghastly armor on that looked made of a carapace, or perhaps wrought of obsidian. Rul-Aman was almost ready to leap at him with his blades next, but once the dark elf removed his helm, the Redguard gave a sigh of relief. "I thought you some daedra," he admitted. Then his newfound ally asked him to pass him his sack.

"Oh, wha-" Rul-Aman remarked, glancing behind him to see a sizeable traveler's pack just behind his boots. How did that get there? First pirates, then damned backpacks sneak up behind him. Hopefully a beautiful woman would be next, and then maybe some mead! He shrugged and looped one of his swords under the strap and sent it sailing softly into the dunmer's outstretched hands. "Of course, the least I can do."

It was only then that he deigned to look at his surroundings after the furious combat. Fighting for one's life tended to alter one's perspective in a limiting fashion. The dark elf seemed to be right for the most part. At least, their own ship seemed the worse for wear, but he had been in worse situations before. He turned back to his elderly ally and sheathed his swords. "Swim?" In the sea? At night? He'd rather take the enemy vessel. "I can swim as good as the next man, but I don't think that will be neede-"

Rul-Aman, along with the entire world to his view, was flung into the air along with a gulf of flame. The noise was indescribable. A roar so loud he felt as if he was next to Akatosh himself, screaming into the void of Mundus. He felt at that moment, that it was his last moment. Yet the moment stretched and stretched, and the pain and ringing of his ears did not stop. There was a weightlessness to himself, the one part of the experience that was not completely unpleasant, before it was dashed and he felt like his body was made of lead. Then he impacted the sea, horribly cold and wet. He began to suck in a lungful of seawater, only to realize his error as he desperately clawed for the surface. Seconds later, he broke the surface and hacked out as much water as he could, doing his best to breathe. Long seconds passed, and when he finally found himself being able to, he wiped his matted black hair out of his eyes and looked around. The Arslan's Fortune was shattered wreck, quickly capsizing before his very eyes. Gods, this was bad. Ironically, he felt immensely grateful for a moment, before he realized dying immediately might have been kinder. He naturally began to look for a piece of kindling, spinning in the water in his search before he found that Brinlaith was floating behind him.

...Well, the woman part came true. Now he just needed the mead.

Darkness and wood had become familiar in the hours since he sealed himself inside the barrel. The air was stale but sufficient. The rhythm of the ship had been steady and long, rolling swells beneath the hull, and the cadence of waves against planks. As the day settled, Leaves-No-Wake allowed the ship to rock him into a shallow rest, waiting for dusk.

As evening fell, the Argonian stirred, listening intensely. The pattern of footsteps above thinned with the change of watch as voices diminished and lantern-light faded between the seams. Only in the deep of night did he ease the lid aside.

The hold smelled of tar, rope and grain. He remained crouched, straining his ears. No one around. No irregular breathing overhead. The vessel’s patterned sway was unbroken.

He slipped from the barrel and closed it carefully behind him. Luckily the ship's supplies were close at hand. A water skin taken from an already opened crate. Hard bread broken into smaller pieces and wrapped in cloth. A strip of dried meat cut cleanly and evenly. He removed nothing in excess and ate without haste.

When finished, he moved through the hold in silence, stretching cramped limbs in the narrow corridors between cargo stacks. He let the ship’s oscillation travel through his legs until balance no longer required thought. When footsteps crossed above, he stilled. When they passed, he continued. Before first light, he returned to concealment.

The following night required less waiting. The Argonian knew the sound of the watch changing and which sections of the hold remained undisturbed. He took what he needed for another day and left no obvious sign. By the end of the second day, the ship no longer felt unfamiliar. Its movements were catalogued. Its creaks and groans distinguished from one another with ease. He did not know how long the voyage would last, but the routine could be maintained indefinitely.

That certainty lasted only until the pressure changed.

The ship no longer rode the waves; it struck them. The motion beneath him sharpened, rising faster and falling harder, the hull complaining with each descent. Wind pressed against the planks in sustained force, no longer passing in brief gusts.

Leaves-No-Wake remained in the barrel this time. Cargo shifted across the hold as the deck tilted more steeply. The roll no longer followed any pattern. It hesitated, then lurched. Somewhere above, men shouted – not in alarm, but in effort. Lines were being hauled. Orders called over the wind.

The vessel corrected its course. Then overcorrected.

Even as the storm broke, the turmoil above did not lessen. If anything, it deepened. The sound that followed confirmed it. A hollow impact against the hull. Rope thrown and caught. Wood scraping under strain. Boots crossed the deck in numbers unfamiliar to the crew’s cadence. Steel struck steel, sharp even through the muffling planks. The fighting moved quickly. A body hit the deck with enough force to jar the barrel. Smoke began to seep through the seams, thin at first, then thicker.

The ship listed violently.

Something heavy crashed nearby. A crate split apart against the curve of the hull. Heat followed the smoke. Then the explosion tore through the vessel.

The force travelled through wood and bone alike, a concussive shock that shattered the barrel along one seam and tore the lid free. Flame flashed through the dark before the world inverted. The deck vanished beneath him and the sea rose to claim what remained. Cold closed over him, and he did not resist it.

The turbulence churned splintered beams and torn canvas around him, dragging fragments of the ship downward. He allowed the current to expend itself before pushing clear of the broken staves. Water replaced smoke in his lungs without issue.

The sea was different from the marsh. Heavier. Salt stinging faintly at the thinner skin between his scales. The swell was broader, less tangled than the waterways of home. It was odd, but not unsettling.

The Argonian’s bow remained slung across his back. He reached for it at once. Saltwater would loosen the string if left to whip free in the current. He slipped one arm between stave and cord, drawing the bow tight along his side so the string lay protected against his body. The upper limb settled near his shoulder, the lower along his hip, stabilised by the angle of his torso.

The quiver had shifted under the blast. He pulled several arrows free before they could drift away, holding them carefully between his teeth while he tightened the strap and secured it flush against his back. Once satisfied, he returned the arrows to their place.

Only then did he open his eyes.

Darkness pressed in around him, broken by distorted light from the burning wreck above. He drew magicka inward and released it behind his vision. Night-Eye spread in clarity, sharpening the water into dim dark-blue hues. Broken beams drifted past. Rope coiled and uncoiled in slow descent. Bodies turned with disturbing calm as they sank.

Above, the ship was failing. He angled upward and broke the surface long enough to catch a glimpse. Flames climbed the rigging of what remained of the boat as the masts collapsed. Shouts carried across the water, scattered and thinning. A pirate vessel remained locked against the wreck, burning and taking on water, but it was no longer his concern. None of it was.

Sinking beneath the surface once more, the noise dulled instantly. Preferring the quiet below, Leaves-No-Wake turned from the burning wrecks and began to swim, long, controlled strokes carrying him through the dark water and away from the sinking ships.

No sooner was his pack in his hands once more, that Velyn's intuition suddenly proved correct, there would be many wishing that they were strong swimmers this night. It was funny how often his intuition was right, he supposed he must be lucky, or perhaps... blessed? Though if Velyn was living a blessed life then he shuddered to discover what it would mean to be cursed by the Gods.

Presently though, the old mer had no time to reflect or savour his clairvoyant intuition, because he was sailing through the air in an explosion of fiery destruction. A swarm of deadly splinters from the decks below racing by him as he was lifted off of his feet. Red hot lines of sharp pain ran tracks across the side of his exposed face, something stabbed under the overlapping plates of his pauldron and into his right shoulder as he tumbled down towards the black waves of the dark waters below.

Despite the fury and terror of all he still felt oddly calm. The spectre of immanent death was practically an old friend of Velyn's by this point, they had spent much time in each other's company. He felt his free hand go to his chest, felt the amulet that hung there still. A battered oval of gilded brass set with Kagouti Ivory, its inscription in Dunmeris so worn it could hardly be read.

He still had his ancestors with him. He would not die in any explosion as paltry as this. Gods, he has survived much worse

The images flashed through his mind once more. The waters of the Inner Sea boiling under skies choked black with ash, the waves swallowing the Ascadian Isles, drowning slave and master, manor and saltrice paddies alike. He felt the heat from the rivers of fire that had flowed from the mountain until Molag Mar was a lonely island amongst the flames. A city of tens of thousands, the home of a living God themself, gone in the blink of an eye.

The Red Year.

The old mer began to laugh to himself as the midnight sea rushed up to meet him. No, he did not think that he would die this night. Too much to do still, too many things left unfinished, too many questions left unanswered. An enigma that must be removed.

He clasped his hands in prayer and began to whisper something under his breath once more.

"The waking world is the amnesia of dream. All motifs can be mortally wounded. They will fall apart like a stone that recalls that it is really water. Shape this dream to the will of the walker, and recall that water is really a path. For the ending of the words is ALMSIVI."

Velyn slammed into, or rather onto, the the surface of the water feet first. His knees buckled and he dropped and rolled across the surface of the waves to lessen the damage of the impact, arm wrapped protectively around his pack and the precious cargo it carried within.

When he slid to a stop, the waves lapped around his prone form as he gingerly stood up again, his joints protesting each any every movement. A trickle of blood leaked from beneath the armour of his right shoulder, his discarded helm bobbed in the swell beside him.

Gods, he was getting too old for this.

Behind him was a conflagration of ruin and fire. The masts of the galleon was gone, one of them crashed down across the pirate sloop, pinning it to the burning wreck. There were screams coming from both of the ships and from the swirling firelit waters themselves. What a mess this had all turned into.

He looked around to get his bearings once more, the horizon was dark save for a speck of light towards the northeast. They had sighted an island there, during the storm the day before. Stros M'Kai. It was likely the only land that he would have a chance to reach before his magicka failed him. Wincing, Velyn reshouldered his pack and plucked his helm from the bobbing waves at his feet, and began to make his way to shore.

All of that any would see of him if they were to watch from the burning wrecks of the combat riven ships would be a figure shrouded in shadow, leaping from one whitecap to the next, as they strode across the surface of the sea itself.

---

There's nothing more offensive than being cutoff mid-thought, and Llaier was quite literally contemplating what she should do with the disfigured and infuriated pirate staring her down as if she was the one who molded his hand to his face. Words were being articulated in the exact moment that suddenly, inferno, smoke, and cinder ruptured in a cacophonous orchestra and the ship began making its unceremonious journey into the abyss for an early grave. She rushed to the side of the ship, abandoning the fun of the game stumbled upon and looked down into the roiling current caused by the downswirling weight of iron and oak. Getting stuck beneath something would inevitably drown her but choosing when to jump was a gamble, the ship was going down fast...

Faster than she could predict.

Krrrrrrsh!

Was this due to the pirates, or was something else at play? It wasn't like Llaier to be introspective, and truly she was not trying to be. But the rapid escalation of circumstances was strange, even for her, though it would be difficult to deny how entertaining these circumstances continued to be. Even as her feeble body was thrown upward with the concussive force of fire catching ethanol or perhaps gunpowder down below, she smiled whilst soaring through swirling smoke and breathed in that sulfuric smell with joy. Her body throbbed in pain with each rapid beat of her heart, the air in her lungs forcefully expunged outward, and all this still paled to the shock of her body landing atop a large piece of welded iron and wood barely floating along. The jester was still alive, and that meant that the play goes on until twisted dunmer's heart could beat no longer.

^{“Someone must've really wanted whatever that ship was delivering to sink.”}

“Bad luck ..ngh, just some extra unexpected fun?”

^{“Your clothes have caught fire.”}

“Keh.. Wai- , my clothes are on fire?”

The battered and bruised clown twisted ever so slightly upon their claimed chunk of boat debris in an effort to locate where the kiss of increasing heat was felt along her skin. It was around some frills at her right hip, where colorful cloth and small bells had once jingled to the sound of her movements; they were gone and even as the embers crawled further down onto the cloth of her leggings, she sulked. Beneath her faceless mask she frowned and moaned in dismay, after all, it wasn't often you'd come across a seamstress or tailor that could weave such artful decor for the body.


Painfully she would slide her lower body into the water. The sting of saltwater on freshly earned burns felt like acid. They were a reminder that she was alive and healthy, so she smiled at the excruciating pain as it wracked against her nerves and kept her conscious. The sclera of her red eyes beneath the mask waned as her eyes squinted shut, she was still disoriented from the shock of it all. Her muscles tremored but she'd still grip the sides of the wood as it was carried who knows where? At that thought she would turn her head to look off in the distance to take a distant gander to where the pull of the sea was dragging her. Far-far off in the distance there was the glimmer of lights cast by civilization; maybe she'd wash ashore in some time, maybe she'd drown and her body would be recovered there?

As the pain subsided Llaier would begin to feel her consciousness fading. It was as if the ebb and flow of waves were rocking her to sleep like a baby and she'd feel the grip of her hands onto splintered wood slip every time a large one lifted her before dropping her back down. She'd gasp and grunt whenever this happened, and on one final rise and fall her face would plop down hard onto the wooden surface she clung to which dealt a mighty enough blow to render her unconscious.

Her fate would be to the Sea itself, she surrendered herself to that thought.

---

The churning waters were not making things easier. Laelette was starting to realize she hated sailing. All other circumstances be damned, she was prone to sea sickness. She struggled to keep herself stable as she progressed forward. She heard the battle cries and the clanging of weaponry from the other passengers and crew as they battled the pirates.

Laelette scanned her immediate area. She needed to get off the ship somehow and away to safety, but that was easier said than done. As she wandered, the damage to the ship was causing things to crumble in the wake of the attack. The ship was going down whether she liked it or not.

Laelette heard a crack and felt herself fall before she sprang herself upward as planks below her crumbled and fell below to the depths of the ship and the ensuing fire. She pulled herself up and stood, now being more cautious in her step. No one was paying her much mind, which she considered a blessing as she didn't really want to engage in another fight since the last time she did her surroundings caught on fire and nearly trapped her in.

Laelette stepped forward as the planks below her started to crack more. She took a step back, glancing around. She had precious little room remaining on either side of the ship.

Laelette heard something break and scanned to see the main mast of the ship buckle and start to fall. As it did so it fell across the pirate ship's sloop. Laelette thought for a minute that maybe that was her way off, but reasoned against herself. Then she reasoned against that. She needed to make a move.

She stepped forward, but the ship rocked, and she stumbled, trying to grasp onto something to hold herself up, but slipping and hitting her head on the floor. She would have a huge headache later. She felt dazed, too much going on.

This wasn't how her journey was supposed to end.

The corsairs had begun to encircle Eldayon and the rest of the remaining crew and passengers on the top deck. Forcing them into a small area. This was fine with the elf. He didn't have to constantly watch his back as there was somebody there already fighting a pirate. Of course he didn't trust the competency of the others there. If they were other Thalmor agents or Dominion soldiers, he could rest assured in their skills. These gaggle of survivors hardly seemed combat capable. Though they were holding their own. The altmer would deflect a blow from a pirate who swung his sword too wide. Eldayon was able to dispatch of his foe with a more conservative strike with his sword. Out here, out in the open space of the deck, Eldayon's skills as a veteran soldier would shine. He would parry and evade strikes made at him and counter them masterfully. Once he was able to throw off another pirate foolish enough to get in his way, he took stock of the situation.

To the best of his abilities, he tried to figure out who were pirates and who, like him, were the crew and passengers of the Arslan's Fortune. The scene was chaotic. It was hard to make friend, or at the very least temporary allies, from foes. However the first figure he spotted in the fray was an elderly Dunmer fighting the pirates not too far from him.

'A fellow mer. By the eight.' He thought silently.

He maybe of Velothi stock but he would take him over the Redguard and Imperial pirates any day of the week. Speaking of Redguards, here was one nearby the Dunmer. He didn't seem like a pirate. He was actively fighting them too. A sellsword perhaps. Still any arms that fought with him was welcomed.

Eldayon's anger would truly flare when he spotted a special someone on the deck. The captain himself. The altmer felt a swell of rage when he found the man. He quickly broke off his stance and ran towards him.

"You there!" Eldayon yelled through the noise around him. Though the man didn't seem to acknowledge the Justiciar. That might because he was too busy stabbing a pirate. Then in a supreme show of arrogance that only a high elf could muster, he began complaining to the man fighting for his own life.

"I paid you extra in the promise that you would keep me safe! That was 300 Septims! I could have bought my own ship with that money! But you sailed us through a storm and now we're dealing with buccaneers! As soon as we reach land I will demand compensation!" Eldayon yelled out defiantly. Amidst the raging battle, this lone Thalmor agent had turned his back on the fighting to air out his frustrations.

It would have been the end of him too. A pirate slipped past a sailor and ran towards the black-robed Eldayon. Being a bit taller than most folks on the deck and wearing his distinct black and gold robes, he stood out like a sore thumb. A sword almost went through his gut if fate had not intervened. The ship exploded and it threw both Eldayon and would-be killer a foot or so into the air. They both landed against a mast. Eldayon's landing was greatly cushioned by the pirate now behind him. He groaned as his vision became blurry. He tried to move his hands. He quickly gripped his sword and clutched onto it tightly. He tried to stand up, but even with his padded fall, he found his legs too sore to brunt his own weight at the moment.

"Auriel, Trinimac, Mara... God's blood whoever is out there. Save me." He raggedly whispered a prayer. Everything after seemed hazy to him. His fate was in the hands of the gods now. He wished them to be merciful to him in his time of need.

There was a fierce snapping of wood as the main deck of the Arslan’s Fortune was completely sundered open. Broken boards, bodies, and equipment all fell down into the belly of the galleon. The ship groaned in protest as more of it’s hull cracked under the pressure and sea water rushed inside, flooding the lower decks. Those trapped below were driven to claw and kick against the brutal inrush, fighting their way toward open air; the rest pulled into the churning darkness. Topside, the afterdeck was now, like the front of the ship, engulfed in searing flames which climbed the barely standing mizzen mast. Soon, water was spilling across what remained off the main deck of the Arslan’s Fortune, extinguishing some of the fires and gushing down into the already waterlogged interior. The Arslan’s Fortune was sinking fast. And it was taking the pirates down with it.

The fallen main mast of the Arslan’s Fortune was wedged across the body of the pirate sloop. It’s rigging tangled with that of the smaller vessel. The dead weight of the sinking galleon pitched the sloop to one side. Pirates still aboard their own ship were hurled into the black maw of the Abecean Sea amid an avalanche of barrels, crates, and debris. Several of their band were clinging to the railings or mast but their efforts were clearly in vain. With a long, splintering whine, the sloop gave way and rolled onto its side, striking the water with a thunderous crash as the Arslan’s Fortune disappeared beneath the waves. Those not crushed under the capsizing sloop were forced underwater by the surging wave that followed, or cast across the rolling sea.

Salty foam and bubbles boiled up, turning the water a silky whitish color. For a few lingering breaths the pirates’ black flag floated upon the swells, its pale skull grinning up at the night sky. It too was then tugged under, the fabric twisting as it trailed down into the deep. One by one the last remnants of the battle disappeared. The tip of a mast lingered like a marker over a grave before the sea closed above it. What remained were the few survivors, most of whom were wounded, clinging to scorched planks and other pieces of wreckage as the darkness pressed in from all sides. The stars above only faintly illuminated the sky. No sails could be seen on the near horizon and the distant glow of some far off city seemed to grow ever distant. And beneath their drifting feet the waters did not grow still. Slaughterfish had been drawn to the scent of blood and were voraciously tearing at floating corpses and darting off with severed limbs dangling from their toothy jaws. Those who survived the night would need the favor of some god or another to find safe haven, and the untamed Abecean Sea knew little of the gods’ mercy.

---

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END OF ACT ONE …

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An attack at night, a humble ship set upon by vicious sea dogs, and few survivors to tell the tale of a bloody battle. The fate of seven hapless souls are thrown with the dice as they are far from familiar shores and perched on the edge of the map. As the sun rises on a new day, one must ask what awaits this very unique smattering of castaways in the near future?

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ACT TWO

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Crown And Cutlass…

10th of Midyear, 4E 200

Stros M’kai…

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The golden morning sun shone down across the breadth of the Abecean Sea, casting its light upon Stros M’kai. A solemn, scorching island perched on the edge of the known world, steeped in legend and inhabited by people as unyielding as the place they call home. The Ra Gada denizens of Stros M’kai carry the legacy of ancient Yokuda, their steadfast nature second only to their immense pride in their bloodlines. In every grain of sand and every weathered stone some say that Stros M’kai itself carries the very spirit of Yokuda, nurturing its descendants with a subtle will. Even setting aside such sentiment, there is no denying that the island and its people exist as testaments to the past and promises of a future.

The skies this day were mostly clear and the sapphiric vast of the sea sparkled as the unrelenting Midsummer heat made the air over the water shimmer. The soft, briny breeze carried the cries of seagulls fluttering overhead. Waves rose and fell in a slow, rhythmic breath, their ascending crests dissolving as quickly as they formed. The ever-fickle tides of the Abecean gently lapped against the white sands of Stros M’kai, making for welcoming scenery and fair sailing.

A single dhow, its twin sails taut in the wind, glided along the coastline with the sun at its back. Its bowsprit pointing at its destination: Port Hunding - capital of Stros M’kai and jewel of the Abecean. A wealthy city and a center of trade, culture, and diplomacy. Named after the legendary Sword-singer, Frandar Hunding, Port Hunding was a symbol of refuge and strength. From a distance, its white stone buildings and fortified harbor stood resplendent against the rolling dunes and craggy hills beyond. Several buildings rose high over the rest, engulfing parts of the inner city in shadow. The two most prominent structures were a grand temple, easily recognizable by its colorful stained windows, and a domed palace fit for a king.

The harbor was crowded with merchant vessels and fishing boats, though none could be seen entering or leaving. A peculiar stillness hung over the water, ill-suited to so great a port. The dhow gracefully entered the embrace of the harbor, the crew taking in the sails as the helmsman delicately guided the small vessel among hulking galleons and longships.

“Dead slow ahead,” the captain called as the port side of the ship eased into line with an open dock. The dhow was commanded by a man named Isam, a ranking member of the Port Hunding city guard. His humble vessel belonged to the patrol fleet, which had sent out a small flotilla at dawn to investigate fires that had been seen in the night less than a league from Port Hunding.

When the flotilla arrived at the site of the fires earlier that morning, they were met first by flotsam strewn across the sea and bloated corpses drifting among it, mostly Ra Gada and Cyrodiilics. Four survivors were discovered soon after. The blazes, Isam and his fellows learned, had been from a battle out at sea. When questioned the four said they were from a merchant vessel. Their ship, the Arslan’s Fortune they had called it, was on its return to High Rock from the city of Anvil when it was blown off course and later attacked by pirates. During the fighting both ships were damaged by a sudden explosion and sank. Isam was ordered to deliver the survivors to Port Hunding and leave them in the care of the authorities. Afterward, he was to rejoin the flotilla along the southern coast of Stros M'Kai.

The dhow’s mooring lines were secured, Isam turning from where he stood at the bow to gaze over the four people huddled together near the main mast. Two of them were scraggly Ra Gada men, wearing the plain linen clothing and tall leather boots common among sailors. Of the other two one was a northerner - a Nord or maybe a Breton given her pallid skin and light hair. Isam could rarely tell with mainlanders. She was adorned in the fine robes and gloves typical of nobles and apprentices. If she was a magic user she would find little welcome here. But that was of no concern to the captain. The fourth was strange, Isam could think of no other way to describe her. Or at least, he assumed the fourth survivor was a woman, their face indecipherable to him and their colorful clothes were of a bizarre pattern. Several of Isam’s men had been staring since they had first pulled that one from the water.

With a slight shake of his head Isam stepped forward, chainmail clinking beneath his billowy shawl. One of the Ra Gada recoiled as the tall, bearded guardsman came close, his dark eyes passing scrutinizingly over each of his “passengers” for a moment before he finally spoke.
“We have arrived. Welcome to the grand Port Hunding,” Isam paused for a moment then continued, his tone turning slightly callous, “I must tell you all I have not the time to guide any of you through the city. And I see no reason to have you escorted to the garrison. There is naught else I can do, other than offer my sympathies for your lost fellows and suggest that you visit the embassy. It is not far from the docks. If you need food and a place to rest you should go to the Palm and Shell nearby or - if you happen to have the coin - the House of Pearls in the noble quarter.”

One of the other guardsmen nearby chuckled to himself, thinking his captain being sardonic. There was a thunk as the gangplank was dropped across the short gap between the side of the ship and the dock. Isam stepped to the side, waving his right arm to indicate that it was time for the hapless sojourners to leave his company. Even with all the ships in the harbor huddled together, unmoving, there was still life in the port. Dockhands shouted to one another as they hauled cargo about. Sailors tended to various needs of the resting ships while vendors haggled with customers over goods. Fishmongers gutted the morning’s catch at long wooden tables. Even amid the harbor’s palpable uneasiness the docks carried on with its daily cadence.

“Say your thanks to Tava that we found you so far out at sea. Perhaps we will find others. You must go now so that we may return to our duties. My sympathies again, and better fortunes unto you.”

The world was water for the briefest of moments.

At least, that was Laelette's world after pirates attacked the ship she had sought passage on and, inevitably, broke up and sank. There was no safety on or off the ship, so she had to take her chances in the water. It wasn't as if it were her choice. The cool water on her skin warmed by the flames of the burning ship, was a nice juxtaposition.

What wasn't so nice was her swimming in a sea of nothing.

She was sure this was the end of it. Her journey, with all its ups and downs, was about to end here, and what had she done? Sure she made a name for herself, kind of, a name whispered as a warning, but there was no legacy. She had wanted to explore, to learn more, to seek out magics across the land and make them her's.

And now, here she was, struggling not to drown.

She didn't know how much time had passed before she felt strong hands pull her up, and she was saved. Well, saved was a strong word, wasn't it? Those who helped her, and a few others, did not seem like the altruistic type. If anything, it seemed she had caused them an inconvenience. Part of her wanted to use her magic to warm herself up, dry her clothes, but something told her to withhold the flames for now, the burning carcass of the ship a warning to her.

Eventually, they came upon a port. She was thankful to see people abound on their daily paths. The man who had aided them giving fair warning as well as directions. Garrison? Did he believe them to be the cause of their troubles? Sure, she may have aided in the ship fire, but she was protecting herself.

She needed to get a lay of the land and there was often no better place to do so than the local tavern. She would avoid the Noble court for as long as she was able to and she expected less than a warm welcome at the embassy, so the tavern it was. She slogged her way over, wishing upon all the gods she had a change of clothes with her.

The tavern, the Palm and Shell, was bustling with activity. Many people milled about, speaking to long-time friends and short-time acquaintances. Laelette strode towards the bar and ordered herself something strong. She couldn't help but overhear talk of increased pirate activity. "Yeah, fucking pirates," she said to herself as she drank.

She would drown her sorrows a bit and see if she could get more information before she moved on. If she was going to be here a while, she would need to find shelter first. She may be stuck here a bit.

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Brinlaith wasn't safe from the battle just by being dropped into the sea. Men were literally raining down around her, the first one at least splashing down entirely intact. She nearly drew her knife underwater before realizing it was the same Redguard man that had passed her on the stairs earlier. So he wasn't dead after all. Probably meant he was at least a decent fighter, if he hadn't been cut down immediately on the deck surrounded by all those pirates. Maybe not the worst person to have at her back in a time like this.

Their first goal had to be to get clear of the battling, sinking ships, find something to keep themselves afloat, and orient themselves. If there was land anywhere around here, they could at least survive the night. "Follow me," she instructed, awkwardly forcing her way through the water until she located a chunk of the Arslan's Fortune's hull large enough to cling to. She was not a natural or experienced swimmer, but at least good enough to keep her head above the churning waters.

"Current's taking us away," she pointed out, noticing how they were drifting away from the light and the heat of the blazing wreck that was their ship. "Good. Need to get clear of these pirates..." She kicked slowly beneath the waves, trying to aid their progress, before examining if the driftwood they'd found was big enough to climb on. Maybe, maybe not.

"I'm Brinlaith, by the way. And this was my first time out to sea." She shook her head, eyes gleaming orange as they reflected the firelight from the ship. "I must be cursed."

Rul-Aman had been at sea before. He had even learned to swim, which was rare for a sailor. However, the entire debacle had left him speechless, save for quips. He couldn't think of anything clever when she bade he follow her, so he kept quiet and did so, He would have done anything without question at that point. His survival instinct had overridden his normal functions, and all he could consciously focus on was the air being drawn in and out of his lungs. As long as that continued, he would be elated.

He made it to the debris with Brinlaith, clasping hold of it. Immediately he knew they could not both get on it to escape the water, and despite himself, he realized he would not kill someone else over it, especially a woman.

When she said "good" referring to the current taking them elsewhere, he echoed the word. He gave no inflection, but it was meant to be somewhat sarcastic. It was true, they needed to flee the pirates, but in the darkness, he was more frightened of an endless ocean. He had only sailed for a year, but even in that short time, he had been victim to innumerable stories of ghastly seabeasts and raiders like the Maormer.

"No more cursed than I," he promised her, a vibrantly comical look of defeat on his handsome face. The water was colder than he expected, but soon his body grew acclimated to the temperature. He gave her a grin of comraderie as they began to paddle gently, his dark hair black as the endless void, even in the firelight. "Still, I have faith we'll make it to shore." He said. "I have a feeling our combined luck will see to it that the gods will allow us to live, if only to torture us further. How fun."

Brinlaith didn't know how long they paddled. It could've been an hour, it could've been four. It felt like an interminable torture, either way, but with the rising sun the pair discovered that they were within striking distance of land. It was an island of some sort, difficult to determine the size, but anything was better than the bit of ship debris they were restricted to at the moment. Brin thought she spied a tower or an obelisk of some sort, poking out above the top of the palm trees. Any sign of civilization was good.

Leaving their two-person ship behind, Brinlaith and Rul-Aman made the final push to shore, aiming for that lone structure they could see, and eventually found themselves washed up on the beach by the waves. Brinlaith was exhausted, crawling through wet sand, but she refused to let herself stop until the waves stopped crashing over the top of her and the sand dried out. Rolling onto her back, she closed her eyes and let the sun warm her face. She would've immediately fallen asleep had she not been so hungry and thirsty.

Groaning, she got to her feet, finding her legs to be unsteady and the sand treacherous. Her voice was hoarse, forcing her to clear her throat before speaking. "What do you think? Wait for a ship to come along, try to signal them? Or try our luck heading inland? I saw... something, through the trees."

Rul-Aman wished he could look so good being exhausted. Instead of rolling over to bask in the sun like a proper person, he crawled onto the beach like a waterlogged hound, and then collapsed face first into the sand just beside Brinlaith. Without ceremony or grace, he might add. However, darkness did not completely take him. His stint as a thief meant he spent everything wisely, from coin to time. While he lay there, he ran through what his tired eyes had seen in his head.

An obelisk of some significance. Magnificent, actually, now that he had a moment to ponder it. Dare he hope it was a structure from old Yokuda? It felt oddly familiar in that sense, but perhaps he merely wished it so. Still, he would find out, just as soon as he got his leaden body moving. He felt the sun drying his limps as he lay there, but hearing Brinlaith stir, he immediately began to follow suit. Damn, but he was beyond thirsty!

He stretched like a panther, feeling his back muscles constrict and relax. Rul-Aman blinked, and did his best to wipe the sand from his face as he rose to a sitting position. Briefly, he glanced out toward the sea, but decided he did not want to see the water for at least another week, and so his petulance made the decision. "Let us move further, inland." He said, groaning as he lifted himself off the sand. He slowly drew his blade, hefting it in his tired hand. "My blade will be of little use, but I can still bat aside a few vines I think."

He then blinked, and realized something, immensely embarrassed. He had been so preoccupied the entire night, he did not realize he had never introduced himself. He turned to Brinlaith, and placed the hilt of his sword, along with the hand that gripped it, to his chest. "A thousand apologies, I am Rul-Aman. Sailor, adventurer, and thief, when it suits me. Allow yourself to be comforted, for I shall see our to safety, lady Brinlaith." He then performed a sweeping bow, a genuflection he performed with the best of them in all cases but now. This time, he was so exhausted, the sudden performance could not be halted. As he gave the gentlemanly showing, he pitched forward and once again hit the sand face first, looking for all the world like a falling stone tower.

Almost immediately he scrambled to his feet again, fixing his black mane of hair and rubbing his face of sand, coughing. His voice sounded wretchedly hoarse. "_{Sh-kall we g-ko, my lady?}"

Brinlaith's response was to start giggling. What would've been a single laugh or a chuckle was amplified by her exhaustion and near-delirium, turning into a laughing fit that she couldn't seem to end. She stumbled on the uneven footing of the sand, almost falling, her mind screaming at her to pull herself together, but the sudden ridiculousness of his introduction amidst their dire circumstances was too much.

"I'm sorry," she laughed, hands on her knees. "I'm sorry, I don't know why that was so funny to me..." She took several deep breaths, in and out, the laughs almost bubbling back up, but she forcibly suppressed them. At least she had some idea the kind of man she was stuck with here. Even if some part of that was an act, he hadn't faked his decision to rush onto a burning deck full of pirates. Blustery, perhaps, but capable at least. That was good.

She straightened, composed again, her voice quieter. "I'm, um... a healer by trade. Not really one for battles, as I think you saw on the ship." She averted her eyes momentarily. "I'll follow your lead. I admit, I have no idea where we are. Geography was never my strongest subject."

"You don't have to rub it in," he said touchily, but there was no animosity in his voice. Her laughter was like a ringing bell, despite her parched throat, and it struck a chord in him and made the mirth infectious. Despite himself, he laughed as well, if only under his breath. He could not hide his grin, however. It was like two cups of hard liquor on his spirit. His body running of fumes, as the dwemer were reputed of saying, along with the mirth, made him more honest. Not that he wasn't usually honest, but he tended to hide it behind a wall of flattery when it came to pretty women in his company.

"I'm not much one for battles either," he admitted as they began to trudge up the gentle slope. Luckily, the trees did not crowd into one another like he had feared, and other than the occasional fern or disconcertingly large spider web, they could march unmolested. "I know fighters. Real ones. They have that gleam in their eye. You can tell they would rather be nowhere else in the world but that place, that moment, locking blades with a foe." He let the image linger as he spoke, before dropping his free hand. "That is not me. I run and scream and stab when I have to. I would rather dice and gamble, climb buildings and drink. Healing is a far more valuable trade than my own. My own skills are self serving, and they barely achieve that."

He shook his head, lamenting without wallowing in it. He chopped through another tangle of vines, thinking it looked suspiciously like tangled hair from hours at sea, before they fell away and he could spot the Obelisk in its full glory, barely half a mile to the north. He took a moment to admire it, before glancing back at Brinlaith. "I cannot guess, but it seems like it was made by my aaaa-ASSS I LIVE AND BREATHE!" He was sorry if that startled the woman, but he turned her head to what had once been hidden by a wall of brush. Behind them lay a small, abandoned camp. Three logs for sitting, and a small crate under the cover of ferns. There were even water skins! Despite himself, his more earnest side dissipated and he gave her a wink, as if it was his plan all along. "Stick with me and you'll go far, aye?"

Brinlaith's immediate instinct was to warily inspect the abandoned camp, though her thirst compelled her to take one of the water skins. She pulled the stopper, sniffing and smelling nothing, then greedily took a drink. Warm, but most definitely fresh water. She sighed in relief, and had to resist the urge to down the entire skin's supply. They didn't know when they'd find more.

"Some decent luck to balance us out," she commented, taking a look around. "Not sure the scales are even just yet, but it's a start."

There was food as well, some fortunate enough to be wrapped and dry in the crate. Dried fruits, nuts, some jerky. Little more than snacks, but it was more than they'd had before. Looking around, Brinlaith spotted scattered fishing equipment, a few tents in various states of disarray, and a smattering of tracks all around.

"Whoever was here abandoned it in a rush. Left without their tools." It went without saying that it was cause to be careful. Still, she didn't see signs of a fight, or obvious animal tracks, and she couldn't deny she desperately wanted to rest, at least for a little while. They had shade, food, and water, and that felt like luxury right now.

Brinlaith seated herself on a log, slowly eating out of the palm of her hand. "Maybe we should take some time to rest? No idea what's waiting for us after we leave here." She could see inside one of the tents there was at least one bedroll left behind. "I can keep watch."

"Well they didn't leave in a rush for poison, thankfully." Rul remarked, greedily eating the various nuts and berries that had been left behind. The jerky particularly was enjoyed, and he felt like a wolf lazily enjoying a kill as he had his fill sitting atop the log. He began to wish for wine or some other comfort, but the gods were fickle and he did not wish to curse their new fortune. Rul-Aman stretched his neck for a moment, still feeling the tuck and turn of the waves on his bones, but sleep still tugged at him. Initially he was going to refuse he rest first, but he supposed if trouble were to arrive, he was the one with the combat experience, with what little that afforded him.

"Alright, but as soon as you begin to drift off, you wake me, Brin." He bade her, too tired to realize he shortened her name. Rul-Aman was a man light on his feet, with a slim build, but he felt as heavy as a lumbering bear when he crawled into the tent to find merciful respite from the sun. He felt dizzy, but his stomach was moderately full, and the waterskin had quenched his dry throat.

He wondered where he was going, and why he was even here. He thought back to his words on the sea. They had been given this blessing, but a dark thought lingered. It was only to keep him alive for some other nefarious torture, he suspected. Oddly, his last thought before he drifted off to sleep was that he hoped Brinlaith did not find some grisly fate due to him. It would not be good for what little conscience he had left if he awoke to her dead.

That would suck.

"Sweet dreams," Brinlaith wished him, though her warm smile faded away to a cold focus once Rul-Aman was asleep. Disastrous though the night had been, she was remaining open-minded about the possibilities. One place was as good as the next for her right now, and they'd already encountered signs of life, so this island wasn't empty. That, and... her new acquaintance seemed like a useful sort, probably much more reliable than her previous companion in the wilds.

She wondered if this working relationship would have a similar end.

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Rocked to bed by the waves atop some flotsam just to be awoken by the sound of some fisherman throwing fish guts for the sharks nearby. The putrid stench of brine and coagulated fish blood twisted Llaier’s stomach, so much that she proceeded to puke over the chunk of ship that she floated upon over night. Soaked and filthied she kicked her legs through the water to propel herself towards the shore until she could climb up onto the sand and rocks beneath the boards of docks. Parts of her outfit had been burned, but it was intact enough to wear into town, at least to the point that she could find a seamstress to sew some colorful off-color patchwork onto it. But that could wait... there were more pressing matters at hand, like where she was?

She dusted the muddied sand and loose pebbles from her knees and kicked some loose debris off her waterlogged boots. To look like a mess was par for the course with Llaier, but dirty? That wasn't something she wanted attached to her reputation. It seemed that the Madman had delivered her somewhere that she had not expected, but whether it would lead her towards what she was looking for wasn’t something she could control.

“Know where we are?” She asked out loud.

^{“No we don't.”}

“Perfect! I love the unknown.” She replied to the voice in her head.

Llaier climbed, straddled, and stepped up until her soaked soles pressed down onto the salted oaken boards. She stood there, taking in the ocean breeze behind that strange mask and drawing in a deep breath before sighing it out. Alive to see another day. Alive to paint smiles onto stiff faces and spark flame within lost souls… or just find some fun? Her strange silhouette caught the gaze of many of these fishermen, dockworkers, and sailors waiting for their time to embark out onto the blue. But only one of them was brave enough to approach her.

”Forebears, you’re a frightening thing to crawl out from the ocean aren’t you?” The gray bearded redguard brazenly remarked with a gold-toothed smile.

“Frightening? That’s quite the compliment. Where are we?” The masked jester tilted her head and stepped towards the man, forgoing personal boundaries to inspect the man closely.

”Port Hunding, why?” The redguard’s scrutinizing eyes squinted at the masked stranger, and he backpedaled as she drew closer to him.

“I’m looking for something dark, mysterious, and powerful. Would you happen to know where a fool like me could find such things?…”

”Weh— well that sort of stuff is above a fisher like me, strange one. But you would have better luck asking around the more flamboyant, socialite types, nobles and those ilk.” He stiffened up and scratched the back of his head, running calloused fingers through black and silver curls.

“That’s all I needed to know, thank you kind stranger.” Llaier arches forward towards the old man and stands on her tippy toes. Her mask closes the distance, swiftly drawing closer to his face with her own until it touches the redguard’s scraggly cheek… and then a smacking of lips can be heard behind the mask in some strange faux kiss of his cheek.

And with her thanks given, she raises both her hands overhead before bending backward and hopping to perform an effortless backflip, swooshing through the air and in the opposite direction. At first she’d land on her hands, and then the next flip her feet, and then hands again, until she was quite some distance from the helpful fisherman. Once she was on the main footroad that serpentined through the markets and housing strips she’d return to a normal stride, glancing aboutst the new sights and faces of the Port. She wasn’t sure where this wealthy district was, but she’s watch for gaudy dresses or men with greased hair or fancy hats to follow deeper into the hustle and bustle of colorful faces that called this place their home.

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