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Hidden 2 yrs ago Post by POOHEAD189
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1st of Last Seed 3E 433
Kvatch Square



On one sunny, summer day in the heart of Cyrodiil, the folk of an entire city thought it fun to come together and watch people beat each other to death. The festivities of Last Seed were in full swing in the city of Kvatch, the second greatest city in the entire province. Even in the square, the roars of the crowd sounded like crashing waves that reverberated off the walls of the grouped buildings. Half of Kvatch was likely there, and probably much of the countryside, including more than a few visitors from Anvil and Skingrad. Over the din of the crowd, a lone voice could be heard:

"Ladies and gentlemen! Men, Mer, citizens of the Empire, I welcome you who have come to my fair city, to the Summer Games!" Cried the voice of Ormellius Goldwine, Lord of Kvatch. No one else would have addressed the crowd so. There was another great cry of jubilation, and the pomp of his speech continued on for a short minute as the fighters were hyped up. Some were locals trying their hand, others had walked the gold road from the Imperial city, and some others having traveled all the way from Daggerfall to compete. The Lord had spent many years playing up the games, some whispering he was seeking popularity in order to retire as a councilman at the Imperial City, whilst more conspiratorial minded citizens thought he aimed even higher.

Regardless, today was all about the fighting elite, so most businesses were closed during the noontime hour, which meant Athrelor the Bosmer had so much to do! His schedule was stacked as high as the White-Gold tower! Everyone had ordered various baked goods to be delivered to their homesteads this night, and even more had set an order for lunchtime tomorrow at the next big fight. The bosmer was agile, and though a bit rounded from his comfortable living, still lithe and athletic from his youthful flounces in the forest back home.

Making deliveries was not for someone of his culinary or mercantile skills, but that nord lad had quit just the day before the Summer Games. Athrelor should have listened to his mumblings on that 'living wage' nonesense, but he had been so busy. Now he paid for it with his skeleton staff holding down the 'fort' and cleaning his bakery as he ran to meet and greet and drop off what he could. His arms stuffed with tightly packed bread, he stumbled out of the yard of Oleta the Healer and hurried into the city square, checking his arms to make sure none of his merchandise had fallen. Athrelor did not curse much, but-

"Fuck!" He cried when he slammed into a random person that he could have sworn was an unmoving statue not moments ago. He had literally bounced off the back of a young man who, for some strange reason, wasn't at the arena with everyone else? The bread had collapsed from his slim arms and spilled onto the street. Athrelor exhaled in despair before he glared at the hale imperial in an archaic garb, hands already grabbing at the bread. He was about to complain before another set of hands reached down to help him.

"I'm sorry, I should have gotten out of the way." The stranger apologized, gathering up the loafs and handing them to Athrelor as the merchant hurriedly scooped them up.

"It's quite alright," the bosmer replied, not having the heart to yell at someone who was trying to make things right. The bosmer knew it was his fault anyway. Once all the freshly baked goods were in his greedy arms again, he got a good look at the stranger. Tan of skin, he looked at Athrelor with dark eyes. The baker would have hired him to run deliveries in a heart beat. He looked strong and athletic, but clearly he had just arrived at Kvatch judging by the knapsack and the satchels at his belt, not to mention the walking staff. "You're missing the festivities, stranger. The Arena's down the eastern road. You can't miss it."

"Actually, I'm here to visit the Temple." The Imperial corrected him. He smiled a smile that showcased a wisdom that belied his age. It was almost infectious, even to the busy bosmer. Athrelor was confused as to why he sought it at the time when no services were being held, but he guessed the lad was a pilgrim, likely from Chorrol or Bravil. One could even believe Hammerfell, though he must have had some imperial blood in him. "Can you point me in the right direction?" He asked.

"Sure, I'll do you one better. I've got to go visit the temple, anyway. Follow me." Athrelor told him, waving about a loaf like a battle standard. The bosmer began to move at his usual scurrying pace, but the pilgrim followed him with no complaint, moving past the central fountain in the square and jogging down the overgrown grass in the empty lot next to 'Southhill Seams' and 'Gorlan's Flagon.' The tavern was barren, but barmaids went back and forth cleaning tables and gathering more chairs for the stream of attendees likely to pour in once the three matches of the day were decided.

"Hey there, Athrelor," Guard Berich waved to the two as they sped by, laughing at their running. "Be careful or I'll catch you with a violation! Paid in donuts!"

"In three weeks, maybe!" He cried back with little regret. He added "and triple the price!" as they turned the corner, going south down the street. He didn't care if the Lord himself demanded his cakes, he'd charge, by Y'ffre! They found the apothecary that stood at the very edge of the road, and passed it to enter a great courtyard, clear to showcase the beautiful mason work on the road, the Temple of Akatosh standing high at its center, spire piercing the sun. The stones of the building were equally impressive, stout and well carved, gently cradling the beautiful mosaics on the stained glass windows. At it's fore were two great doors of oak, heavy and reinforced with iron. The pilgrim stopped to admire the building in the noonday sun, but Athrelor walked right to the door and banged the wood with its iron rings hurriedly.

Seconds passed as the two stood there, awkwardly silent. Athrelor groaned, annoyed at the wait. He stepped from left to right as if he had to take a piss until the left door swung open gently. Out stepped a man in blue robes, with kind, understanding eyes. His mane of brown hair was as dark as the oak in the sun. "Hello friends, how might I-" he began in a rich, sonorous voice. "Oh, Athrelor! You found time to stop by?"

"Always happy to help the chantry, the poor, and the destitute. You know me." Arthelor said with a bow, inadvertently spilling half of his delivery onto the ground again. Everyone present was very glad the loaves were all wrapped, yet again. He tried not to curse in front of the priest, gathering all of the bread up again. "You send folks my way, I outta return the favor. I also brought you a pilgrim. He was looking for the place."

"Thank you for the donation. You've always been good to us." the priest said kindly, placing a gentle hand on Athrelor's shoulder. But his eyes strayed to the stranger, his smile reaching his ears. "And who might you be, friend?"

"Beren Ecthelion. I'm from a small hamlet east of Leyawiin. I have questions about..." He glanced at Athrelor, but not suspiciously. It looked like he was worried for the mer, not himself. "About a dream I've had."

"Leyawiin! That is quite the journey, Beren. I don't know why you came here and not the capital, but I'm sure it's a tale to be told. I am Brother Martin, and I'm here to help you however I can. Come in."
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Hidden 2 yrs ago Post by darkwolf687
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Dalnoria Sarys


Three days afore...

Dalnoria sat on a small bench beneath one of the many white statues of the Imperial city, with her back to the steeple of White Gold Tower and the Imperial City. She wrote her notes with her magic quill, causing a quiet scratching noise as she scribbled and tried to decipher what she had seen. Other than that, it was remarkably quiet and peaceful outside the walls of the Imperial City. The bustle and flow of people was confined to the inside and the main road, which meant that sitting a short way around the side was remarkably cool and calm. The occasional resident on a stroll passed her by, of course - it was a city after all - but most preferred to take their strolls within the more even and better tamed grounds of the Arboretum.

She recalled the dream vividly as if it had been as real as the bench she sat on; The bleached bones of the people had sat under the harsh sky and the city burned to ash. Above it all had stood the four armed monster - Mehrunes Dagon, for that surely was he, the thrice cursed second corner of the House of Troubles.

Yet for all the slaughter and danger that her dream - perhaps more accurately called her vision or her premonition - had shown her, it had given her scant clues on where to begin searching for this danger or how to deal with it. Kvatch, the Imperial City, with the Emperor or the Blades or in a cave full of bandits - it was not exactly as clear as it could be. The true threat was daedric in origin, that much was certain, which likely meant a cult or some angry wizard which she suppose would be the strange robed figures that she saw. But just how much of the vision was literal and how much metaphor? Could the vision of dragons truly be literal even after they had been gone for so long, or were they all just representative aspects of Akatosh or the dragonborn emperors? Too many questions and too few answers.

The two cities had seemed like the best place to start and yet there was not much useful that she could think of that should have set them in the same vision. She had seen a temple in the vision - a chapel and not the highly distinct Temple of the One. The voice had told her Julianos but Julianos had his Great Chapel in Skingrad for as long as she could remember - and she could remember far indeed. So how did Julianos factor into this.

As for the danger that had been seen, well, Mehrunes Dagon had walked the world before, of course - and back then it had taken two of the Tribunes at their height to cast him back into the waters of Oblivion. Sotha Sil had not been seen in an age and it was rumoured that Almalexia too now had disappeared - certainly, she had said and done nothing since the return of the Nerevarine. Even Vivec - who was at least still present from what rumours could piece together - hid himself away in his palace and did little more than that.

Perhaps it had been true that the return of the Nerevarine spelt the end of Morrowind's living gods - and if so, what was left that might contend with the will of a Daedric Prince made flesh? The Aedra did not take form as the Daedra did, they could not directly contend the will of a prince. There was hope that the vision of him had been naught but metaphor, but she didn't feel comfortable trusting the gate of Tamriel to hope.

You have been chosen, the voice had said; Given those circumstances, she would rather have been unchosen.

Though for all her fear and haste, now that she was here everything in Cyrodiil seemed so frustratingly normal. The Emperor sat on his throne - as far as Dalnoria could tell, there was no imposter this time - and the Capital milled about its business without any sign of daedric interreference or angry four armed Destroyers striding over its walls. Her investigations had turned up nothing of note and earned her nothing but a guards angry admonishment of her for loitering around in the Imperial Palace. So far the only thing that stood out as destructive was the highwayman that had accosted her on the road and received a very nasty first degree burn for his trouble - but footpads and other such common thugs were hardly agents of Mehrunes Dagon about to bring down the Imperial City.

Dalnoria had been half been tempted to try and warn the Emperor about the impending invasion in the hopes that they might at least prepare for the onslaught even if she could not locate it, but it was hardly as if she was going to be able to secure an audience with the Emperor by showing up squealing about visions in her head and the threat posed by a daedric invasion of Cyrodiil - She was sure more than enough madmen had attempted to petition the Emperor that the palace guard would toss her straight into the Imperial Prison.

She supposed she could break into his chambers at night, awaken him in the bed and pontificate to him then. Of course, if he didn't believe her - and who was inclined to belief a raving lunatic who broke into their bedroom - she would then be truly and utterly stuffed. She didn't fancy her chances against a Daedric horde from a prison cell - especially if the Guards grew antsy and decided to behead the Sorcerer to be safe.

She had wondered for a while if there were other ways to achieve this goal. If she were more suited to deception, she might even try to worm her way into the good graces of the Imperial Court off the back of her status as a sage. Alas, her name did not carry her weight behind it and she suspected that it would be a waste of her time to do so.

Yet she couldn't shake the sense that there was an air of - fate and destiny surrounding the Emperor and the Amulet of Kings in her vision. If there was any truth to the religion of the Nedes descendants, then the covenant between Akatosh and Alessia should have prevented the imposition of such a Daedric Horde onto Tamriel (Of course, it should also have prevented the summoning of lesser daedra and undead spirits too, so Dalnoria put little stock in this claim. Yet there was not smoke without fire, the legends and myths often contained a small nugget of the truth within them.) but beyond that she could gather no clear indication of what she should be looking otu for.

She grunted in annoyance as she scratched out a previous pet theory and looked up, peering out over Lake Rumare as its surface shimmered and glittered in the sunlight.

Perhaps she was being too literal with her interpretation of the vision, maybe there existed some more subtle and hidden messages within. Clearly, there had been unmistakable symbolism within the dream itself. If the Amulet of Kings was not physically lost then perhaps the things that she had seen in the vision were more about what they represented that the physical beings themselves.

The Amulet of Kings ran deep in Imperial and wider mannish culture after all; It was not for nothing that it was once described as the heart and soul of men. Perhaps its presence in the vision was more figurative than little, representing the danger to the beating heart of the Empire and by proxy the danger to the hearts of all men. Or maybe it was to suggest a corruption of their soul. The Empire had once become corrupted and aligned with Daedra, and the worst of them all at that. Could it be that some desperate madness might turn brother against brother again? Had someone in the Imperial Court turned to Mehrunes Dagon to drive forward their ambition? It was certainly possible and wouldn't be the first time the Imperial City played host to ill advised and disastrous schemes.

If she were to consider a figurative and metaphorical level then even the vision of the Padomaic could have wider implications of its own. After all, Mehrunes Dagon was not merely the Prince of Destruction, his domain included change, revolution and chaos. Another interregnum would serve just that purpose. That would further explain the importance of the Emperor in the vision - but assuming it didn't happen in the battle for the Imperial City itself, what could possibly wipe out a dynasty so thoroughly?

There was the possibility that it had already been wiped out. There were rumours years ago that the Emperor's Heirs had all been replaced by dopplegangers by Jagar Tharn during the Imperial Simulacrum. Dalnoria did not suspect that to be any more than idle rumours though, for the Mages Guild would have long since detected such deception. She didn't think even Jagar Tharn could have kept such a back up plan hidden in plain sight for four decades, and so even if Uriel's sickness returned and granted him an untimely death, the line of succession was arranged and should go smoothly.

Dalnoria sighed as the questions without answers continued to vex her. She had been chosen to influence these events in some way, and there had to be some clue buried within as to how she should do that. Even whether these visions were a sign of things that will be or things that may be was clearly not for her to know. She had to hope for the latter and prepare for the former and in that case. Providence could be strange like that.

She stopped short as the splashing of a slaughterfish drew her attention. She looked down to the shoreline to see a fish flopping desperately on the beach; What had driven it to beach itself to begin with was beyond her, a mistake perhaps.

Dalnoria raised her hand and cast telekinesis - she daren't handle the vicious thing with her hands - tossing it back into the water.

A mistake on the part of the fish but a boon for her mind.

Maybe she was vexing herself by over thinking the dream, maybe she was thinking too narrowly, focusing too much on the Imperial City and not enough on Kvatch. She had splashed out of the water and onto the beach. After all, had she not felt something change when she saw Akatosh, a subtle difference in the passage of time, as though it had stopped and then begun to move again? That was when she saw Kvatch.

If the Dragon was truly Akatosh, god of time itself, then didn't it make sense that time would apply differently in his presence. If the order of the events in the dream were reversed then the beginning was the end and the end was the beginning, and that meant that she should begin at Kvatch. Whether Kvatch was the beginning of the problem or solution she could not yet say but with her options exhausted here, what other choice did she have? She was as that fish out of water.

Dalnoria snapped her notes shut and stuffed it back into her leather rucksack. She practically leapt to her feet and moved briskly towards the stable to retrieve Rils.

Onward to Kvatch then.

***

1st Last Seed, 3E 433

As Dalnoria rode down the Gold Road, well away from the Imperial City and travelling swiftly towards Kvatch, the sight of the mighty seated atop its hill drifted into view over the trees. Although its majesty paled in comparison to the Imperial City, she could appreciate it all the same. An eagle soared over her head, flying towards the distant city with a screech.

Eagles, the ancient Aldmeri Symbol for the Aedra and ascension. Not of her faith or culture of course, for the Aedra themselves were not, and she knew better than to ascribe the presence of an animal as some form of divine intervention. No, the Aedra did not work that way, they were distant gods who did not answer their mortals more often than not. At least the Daedra answered - and when giving orders, tended to provide clearer instructions.

It took her a mere further half hour to reach the city and have her horse turned over to the safe keeping of the stables. Cost her two of the coins from her purse as well and she became acutely aware of her rapidly dwindling financial situation. Staying in the Imperial City had not been cheap - and staying long in Kvatch would not be either.

Dalnoria sighed heavily; She would have to seek some form of income before long. Perhaps she could brew and sell a few potions on for a pretty penny; She had passed some blackberry bushes and aloe vera on the way into town. Together, they would provide a potion to stave off weariness, and she knew Cairn Bolete would grow in any of the caves nearby. Pasted Cairn Bolete and Aloe Vera extract would produce a fine healing salve. She could set out to gather some the following day and have the potions ready by the evening.

Dalnoria could hear the crowds and celebrations even before she passed through the city gates. She couldn't recall any holidays that fell on the 1st of Last Seed - not in Cyrodiil at least. A nearby flyer gave her the information she required; The Counts Summer Games, apparently. Dalnoria gave a wry smile as she read over the ostentatious poster - someone had spent a lot of money on these games indeed if even the posters were so elaborate. She had seen this political tactic many times before, of course, it was just Kwama Eggs and Theatres.

Of course, such games meant that there would be all kinds of strangers in the city. In some ways this was both good and bad; It was the perfect time for people like her to blend in and watch without attracting any unwanted attention to herself - and on the flip side of that, it was also the perfect time for anyone with nefarious schemes to blend in as well. Dalnoria peered around the plaza for a moment and then wrapped her travelling cloak around her.

She also didn't dare to think of what this meant for vacancies at the inns and other places of rest. Perhaps Akatosh ought have provided her with divine directions to an inn room while he was at it...
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Hidden 2 yrs ago 2 yrs ago Post by Shu
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Shu

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Colyne Valcal

1st of Last Seed 3E 433
Kvatch
* * *


Colyne Valcal had just crossed the border into Cyrodiil two days ago when the dreams came. After departing the city of Rihad in Hammerfell and proceeding over the Brena River she had decided to spend the night in the Brina Cross Inn. As tempted as she was to swing south to visit Anvil for a day or two the Crusader had reminded herself not to delay her priorities and settled for the quaint roadside establishment. The food was filling enough and the ale, while cheap, wasn’t bad and a decent enough topper for the evening. Colyne had went to bed early with plans to rise with the sun and press on to her destination - Chorrol, where the Chapel of Stendarr stood. Weeks before she had written to her friend and former knight companion Areldur at the temple promising to visit soon in her travels. It would be good to catch up with him as well as look into any affairs that he or the priests needed handled while she was present.

What was to be a restful night instead was plagued by a vivid nightmare that tormented the Crusader into the earliest morning hours. The White-Gold Tower - the grandest of wonders in Cyrodiil - was ravaged and aflame, a great horned monster stomped through the Imperial City destroying all before it as swarms of Daedra poured through the streets butchering all in their path. As the chaos was sewn a mighty dragon of shining gold rose up amidst the clouds of smoke and the roiling fires, it’s roar deafening and it’s aurora supreme and unyielding. This and other images flooded the night’s fitful sleep - robed figures, monsters and brigands, an amulet, the city of Kvatch, the Emperor Uriel Septim himself, all this and more that Colyne would recollect the following morning brooding over the breakfast the innkeeper had brought her. And then that one repeating verse that had echoed through the chorus of entropy, “You have been chosen.”

Colyne had considered staying another day at the Brina Cross to try and rest but pushed ahead ultimately. As she walked she pondered over her dream - torn between writing it off as a bizarre night terror or taking it as a sign of something horrible to be had. Easy as it was to accept the former the dream was so evocative in nature, every image and sensation pulling at her as she suffered it’s infliction upon her sleep. Colyne had witnessed many horrors in her life as a Crusader; Daedra, abominations, unwilling possessions and profane rituals, and yet she could not remember the last time she had been so perturbed as now. She puzzled and puzzled as she trodded down the road on weary legs unable to make any sense of what she had dreamed.

As the Gottshaw Inn - another roadside rest stop came into view - Colyne resigned that what she had experienced the night before had been a mere nightmare of her own imagining. She reminded herself of this as she lay down that evening, her room paid for and her stomach full again. And yet for the second night the agonizing dream would come again, leaving Colyne’s heart racing and sweat pouring across her pale form as she jolted up in bed. The howls of the Daedra and the roaring of the dragon fading, that final lingering verse the last echo, “You have been chosen.”

It was only the shear exhaustion that allowed the Breton woman to get any sleep, the dream having already made it’s presence that night did not come again. By the time she finally roused herself from bed the following morning the sun was well over the eastern horizon. Colyne decided it best to visit the Chapel of Akatosh when she passed through Kvatch. Aside from the city itself appearing in her “dream vision” there was the matter of the dragon - a spitting image of Akatosh.

Any mystic or fortune teller would be quick to inform Colyne that the Dragon God of Time himself had reached out to her in her sleep, to which she would laugh without restraint. Prideful as she was in her divine duties Colyne was not so arrogant as to believe herself some chosen of Akatosh, or her patron Stendarr even. She was a servant - a willing tool that acted on the will of the god of righteousness to purge heresy and evil where it lurked and festered. And to protect the sick and needy. She was not some messiah destined to lead amid the end times. If anything those whispers in her mind did perhaps mean that Colyne needed to practice inner humility more in her spare moments and her pride in devotion had turned to hubris.

Colyne could not say what she was hoping to find at the chapel or if even going there would help. A part of her still insisted that she was being a bit dramatic, nightmares after all are a part of life and could sometimes persist in one’s mind. She also had never been one to pour heavy thought into dreams, always seeing them as mere concoctions of a restless mind. And yet… She thought that if nothing else talking with the priests would surely help assuage her uneasiness letting her continue on to Chorrol.

* * *


It was noon when Colyne arrived at Kvatch, eyes heavy from two nights of poor sleep. As she entered the city she heard the cheers in the air and noticed the bustle about as she walked the cobblestone road. Boisterous music carried over the cheers and shouts overhead and the smell of baked goods and succulent dishes made her stomach rumble. Curious as she was to what was the source of such festivity Colyne was more focused on speaking with the priests of the chapel.

Once she had what help or counsel they could provide perhaps she would partake in whatever celebrations were afoot. The Crusader had no intention of continuing on the road today as dreary as she was. An evening of relaxation and fine cuisine would surely help her rest tonight after some time to talk with the servants of Akatosh. She assumed that the good Count Goldwine was hosting games in the city as he was fond of doing - usually as a method of fanfare. Colyne had been through Kvatch many times over the years and while not having the knowledge of a local or a Cyrodiilic politician she knew a postering rooster when she saw one. The Count may have been a decent enough man but like all aristocrats he was a social climber.

As Colyne neared the chapel of the Dragon God of Time she took a moment to appreciate it’s majesty, standing tall as a symbol of faith among the daily masses. It’s tower and steeple like a beacon to draw those in seeking the blessing and guidance of Akatosh. The stained glass murals true works of art worthy of the holy house they ornamented. Inhaling and clearing her mind Colyne approached the temple doors, unsure if they were open to visitors on a day of celebration she took hold of the iron knocker and clapped it against the wood three times, chewing her lip in anticipation. If no one received her she would merely wait outside the temple rather than go wading into the merriment searching out a priest.
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Hidden 2 yrs ago Post by MacabreFox
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MacabreFox Wee Witchy Woo

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Two days ago

This had been unlike anything Rhona had ever experienced before in her life. She was…alone. Truly alone for the first time in her life. Alone, in the sense that there was no one else to speak with, no one else to turn to, absolutely no one. And for the most part, that idea did not overwhelm her. She thought mostly of Mercius, and of what her troubled dreams meant. When she closed her eyes, she saw nothing but hellfire, daedra, the wails of the dying. There would be times when Mercius would shake her from her sleep, calling her name in a worried tone. And she would wake, gasping for air, soaked in sweat, as if she stood next to a very hot fire, and every breath she tried to take, was wrenched from her very being.

She found the steel armor awkward, and it chaffed her in uncomfortable ways. Rhona felt out of place, and by the second day in, she thought that she was touched with disease. Perhaps these dreams weren’t some prophetic vision, and that the voice that called to her each night, “You have been chosen…”, like a priest repeating a mantra, hinted to something far more sinister.

What happens when I arrive in Kvatch, and I do not find the meaning to this dream? What if I am sick with some disease that is eating my mind? I should have stayed at the chapel with Mercius. He is old now, and there is no one else to tend to the dead., she thought at times.

Being alone at night, sleeping under the stars, was a new experience for her, one that left her stiff, and cold, when waking up in the morning. Mercius had given her what provisions he could spare, and showed her how to make a camp. Travelling by foot wasn’t ideal, but they had no horse to spare. There were two mares well past their youth, and they were to pull the wagon. Without them, the wagon could simply not be pulled. She wouldn’t hear of Mercius’ suggestion to take one of the spares.

Oh you foolish man, Mercius…, Rhona thought.

By the second day, she had reached the Silver Road, leading south towards the Imperial City. She kept in mind Mercius’ words, “Stay off the roads if you can afford, do not stray far, but stick to the trees. It’ll give you cover lest there be folk out there who seek to rob you, or worse.”.

She did as he said, and stuck to the off-beaten path, walking between the cool canopy of the trees. Rhona took this time to reflect on her life. Whatever may lay before her, she did not regret what she had to endure to bring her to this moment, whether it was a foolish endeavor or not. Of course, she wished to have better siblings, and better parents. She wished to have someone to call her own, someone to love her endlessly… her being ached for that. But, as she had come to accept with her time at the chapel, some wishes will simply not be granted. And Rhona had come to terms with that, love, familial love, romantic love, that was not to be a part of her life. She felt more of a caretaker, than a potential wife.

Not all prayers could, or would be answered.

And, it wasn’t as if she devotedly served Arkay, it was a… mutual understanding. A respect. Someone had to see the dead off, to prepare them, to help them cross over. And it was something that she found herself enjoying immensely. After all, the dead do not speak. They did not want, they did not pester you with meaningless questions. The dead… were simply dead. She was their caretaker. A shepherd for the dead. Rhona smiled at that thought.

As she carried on through the shadows of the trees, Rhona heard the wheels of several wagons approaching. Curious, she neared the treeline, ducking behind a bush to see who approached. It was a gaggle of cheery-faced travellers, all adorned in extravagant clothes. Although, extravagant might not be the correct word… flamboyant? Yes… yes that suited them better. She could blue and purple silks, beaded brassieres, and maidens with flowers in their hair. Rhona counted quickly. There had to be close to a dozen in their company. Perhaps she could hitch a ride with them?

Cautiously, she stepped from the underbrush, and waved at them, trying to appear as friendly as possible.

“Hullo!”, she called out.

“Aye! Who goes there?” A man with a bright red beard with beads adorning his ears returned, reigning in the horses that drove his wagon.

“Where abouts are you headed?” Rhona asked.

“Why, to Kvatch! Haven’t you heard of the Summer Games?”

“Ah… yes! I have…” She had not. “I wouldn’t suppose you have an extra seat to spare in your wagon? I’m headed to Kvatch myself.”

The man with the red beard looked to his counterpart, a Redguard woman adorned in red silk, and golden jewelry. “What do you think, Zakyra?”

“Well, I certainly say we do. Can’t let a poor young thing like that wander about the countryside on her own.” The woman named Zakyra waved her aboard, pointing to the rear of the wagon.

“Climb in back, and we’ll be off!”

And so, Rhona came to know that this group were actually a band of troubadours, they were seeking to perform as entertainment for the Summer Games. She could hardly recall any of their names after the first day, there were so many different faces, so many different colors.

1st Last Seed, 3E 433

The wagon full of troubadours came to a halt outside of the city, they were going to set up a camp. Rhona marveled at the sight of the city, it was unlike anything she had experienced in her small village life. This was the farthest she had been away from home. She bade her thanks, and said her goodbyes, and promptly set off into the city.

The dreams had continued, last night in particular left her feeling on edge. It was as if she could smell sulphur, and when she inhaled, it singed her nose hairs. What in Arkay was happening? Now that she was here, Rhona had no idea on where to even start. Was she expecting the city to be in flames upon arriving? Because it certainly did not look the part. There was much life… jovial voices, singing, children running afoot, music playing, the people here were in high spirits. She decided to explore the city, to at least see what it had to offer, and then, to see if she could find the meaning behind her dreams.
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Hidden 2 yrs ago 2 yrs ago Post by Cazzer1604
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Cazzer1604

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1st Last Seed, 3E 433

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

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

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

Were the dreams truly real?

* * *

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

"Just about. It's been a long journey", Khamir responded.

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, Uncle?", the lad responded.

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

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

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

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

The wagon was soon shepherded into well-positioned space in the market square by Aybar. What luck to find such a spot with Kvatch in such a state! Khamir and Arban disembarked and began to unload boxes of wine as well as furniture to display them on and signage to advertise them with. As the trio set up shop, Khamir figured that matters of crpytic nightmares and prophetic dreams could wait, for there was work to do. The familiarity of selling wine would bring him comfort and stability at the very least.
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Hidden 2 yrs ago Post by Fetzen
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Fetzen

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People could be so vastly different even within a small area of space, time, or just family relationships. There were those who only wanted to go through a commoner's existence while others seemed to cling to the hope of becoming some sort of war hero from the very beginning no matter how remote of a possibility that was for them. There were greedy men who wanted to accumulate as many coins as possible while others detested the very concept of virtualizing value and hoping that everyone would be willing to convert a circular lump of metal back into something actually useful at any time. There were people worshipping gods, others believing in nothing but the hidden insights propelled by skooma, and others again considering both other factions to be idiots.

Yet if one sought anything that was close to a common denominator among all people of Tamriel, then many good candidates could still be found particularly if one thought about what could possibly instigate their fear. A very realistic depiction of utter destruction that went far beyond anything a mere drawing or tale could achieve for example. Or stealing some poor individual's good sleep and depriving them of their privacy by replacing their usual dreams with something else for another example. Or, abeit not without a lot of irony to it, just by giving some good reason to believe that all the worshipping might have actually paid out and a divine being had actually cared to get into direct contact with the mortal worshipper.

The latter point did not exactly hold true for Quavanir, but that didn't matter much for this 'vision' had actually managed to hit the other two scenarios simultaneously with pinpoint precision. Would he have decided to make the journey even if it had been a mere beggar repeatedly telling him that his face looked ugly if not washed with some water from Kvatch's temple at least once a decade ? Probably yes, simply because such a method of exchanging information taking place in his dreams was disturbing enough on its own and asking for some sort of investigation.

So it was with a mixed bag of feelings when the Altmer crossed the main gates into the city. Maybe all of this would prove to be an utter waste of time, but maybe there was a lot more to it. Quavanir simply considered not even trying to find out what was true to be the most dangerous of options even if that meant a lot of effort, a pair of aching feet and significantly less coin than usual in his pocket because, of course, he could not attend to his regular job for the time being.

All of these more theoretical considerations however were completely unsuited to spare Quavanir from any sort of practical issues. The first of them was that he, to put it frankly, had not much of an idea about Kvatch's layout. Maybe he should have bothered to learn more about that before departure instead of completely relying on just-in-time reconnaissance ? The latter could prove a little more difficult than anticipated for it was very loud here and no less packed with people who, quite obviously, had more joyful things in mind than answering questions only a complete stranger could ask like where to find the temple.

Quavanir did not even dare to ask for a good inn or the like, but instead opted to find out himself which of the places here wasn't fully booked yet and not blatantly exploiting the high demand by raising prices. He meandered along the crowded streets with his mind focused on finding a good place to rest first, then seeing how much time was left to actually start working on the real reason for coming here before the day's end. The longer he did though the more difficult it became not to get distracted by the festivities around him himself.

Indulging in some of the vices around him had not been forbidden by any kind of vision, right ?

Maybe it was simply because the arena happened to be one of the largest buildings in the quarter why Quavanir ended up there, but soon he found himself trying to peek through any gap in the wall he could find to see what was going inside. It seemed worth actually paying to see the full thing, but the Altmer did not even have to reach for his coin purse to already know that it had become a little too slim for his gusto.

Yet, upon looking around a bit further, it seemed that the overall hiring process for the actual fighters inside was anything but completed. On the contrary it seemed to be much more of an ongoing thing on purpose, and when a bunch of children behind Quavanir made abundantly clear that they did not want the big pointy-eared man he was to occupy the best hole in the wall all for himself he also found himself standing around idly again. Should he not care about this being a bit much of a deviation of his actual goals and actually try ?
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Hidden 2 yrs ago 2 yrs ago Post by Kassarock
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Kassarock W O R L D E A T E R

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G A V | ​1 6 T H O F S U N ' S D A W N | I M P E R I A L C I T Y



To hear the people of Tamriel speak of the Imperial City, you would think that was Aetherius come to Nirn once more. The Aleyid masterpiece, carved in marble, blessed by the Gods themselves and inhabited by a host of Kings and Emperors since time immemorial. But beneath those shining towers, outside those well ordered, well guarded walls of the inner districts, there is another city.

This other city, it sprawls like a corpse washed up by the river on the shores of Lake Rumare, bloated beyond all recognition. It has swollen to take up every sandbar and rock above the tide line, squeezing itself up against the Imperial infrastructure that vainly attempts to keep it in check. In the wet season it floods, and the wooden shacks and shanties rot and decay. When the sun comes out to dry it, the city stinks like sewer skeever in heat.

It is a shadow city. Languishing in the darkness that is cast from the glittering light of its better twin.

It is here that you will find all those things that have no place in that other, better, city. The butchers and tanners that keep the good folk of the inner districts so well supplied in meat and soft supple leather. The beggars and paupers that they do not suffer to clutter up their neat and ordered streets. This is the city of the downtrodden, the dispossessed, the dirty and the dangerous.

And the thieves, of course, this is the city of the thieves.

________________________________________


The Bloated Float Inn was heaving with unwashed bodies that evening. The stale smell of split beer and salt water was partially covered by the stink of cheap perfume. It was Heart's Day, when the Legend of the Lovers was celebrated. The creaking ship turned bar was full on young lovers looking to have a good time, as well the unlucky and lonely desperately searching for someone to spend the night with.

Lucilla was neither of those things. She worked the bar, pouring drinks for loved up and lovelorn alike. She hadn't worked at the Bloat long, and she didn't see herself staying. She knew she was destined for better things. But for now, it paid the bills, and she could save up a little on the side from the tips she got if she smiled coquettishly enough at the sailors as brought over their ale.

"You owe me a drink."

Her back was turned to the bar, so she hadn't seen him approach. If she had she would have gone to serve a gaggle of patrons at the other end. But he always seemed to just appear when without her noticing. Still, even though he seemed to have an uncanny ability to take her unawares, she had held firm against his advances. The other girls had warned her about him.

"Whatcha talking 'bout Gav? I don't have time for your games today."

The shit eating grin that the Dunmer wore only grew wider at her words. He liked playing games, she knew, conversations were never simple with him. He always wanted to banter before he actually ordered a drink.

"Cos' I dropped mine the first time I laid eyes on you."

She sighed audibly and rolled her eyes before turning away to deal with another set of patrons. When she looked back he was sat atop a bar stool, a coin running up and down his fingers by some strange exercise. His crimson eyes weren't following the septim's movement, they were trained on her instead.

"So... Heart's Day is back around once again. You got anything special planned?"

"Knock it off Gav, I told you I ain't looking to sleep with you, I only shag men who aren't complete shit."

The words were hasher than she had intended. It had been a long day, and Gav had been far from the first to proposition her that night. But to her surprise he didn't seem to get angry, he just laughed.

"Ha! Well, good thing I'm a mer then, eh?"

She hated when he caught her off guard like that, it made Lucilla feel foolish, like she was a little girl. She could feel the heat rising to her cheeks. She tried to bury it. It wasn't like she wasn't interested at all, he was handsome enough and could be funny and charming, despite being unsubtle and vulgar. But the other girls had warned her about him, warned her to stay well away.

"Piss off Gav, I'm working."

"Your shift is up soon. Come on, no one wants to be alone on Heart's Day. Especially not me."

"Piss off Gav."

There was flicker of annoyance his red eyes this time. That gave her pause, there was something dangerous about Gav when he wasn't playing games. Most of the other regulars either treated him with deference or gave him a wide berth... and there was that scar he had. The girls had warned her that he was not a good person.

But when he spoke again, the voice was still silky smooth and teasing. Gav wanted to play some more still it seemed.

"Shame, I was about to buy a bottle of your boss's finest Cyrodilic Brandy for us to share and everything, looks like I'll have to drink it alone."

"You kidding me? Where the hell did you get the money for proper Brandy like?"

He grinned, gold tooth flashing in the candlelight, and pulled out a leather pouch. When he dropped it, it thudded heavily against the bar. She could hear the clink of Septims inside. She could probably count on two hands the number of times she had seen that much gold in one place, and he was tossing it around like it was nothing.

"You'd be surprised at the things I could get for you." Gav said with a wink.

She didn't say anything for a while. The sounds of bar swallowing up any silence that might have hung behind between them.

"...I still think you're a piece of shit Gav."

"Funny that, cos I know I am, darling."

________________________________________


After they had made the beast with two backs (twice actually) and done a couple of other things that would make even Sanguine, Prince of Debauchery blush, he and... Lucia? Lucinda? Lu... The pretty new barmaid with good smile and a tight arse, had finally fallen exhausted into a well deserved rest.

Gav had known that she would have given into his advances soon enough. They all did eventually. Even if it had taken a couple of weeks prodding and poking. Even if it had taken the best part of a bottle of good Cyrodilic Brandy and hours of listening to her blather on about her boring little life and her boring little 'hopes' and 'dreams'. Gods, it almost put him off of the chase entirely.

It had been worth in the end though at least, she had been one hell of lay, best he'd had all week in fact.

Though he supposed she would go cold on him when she woke up in the morning again. Always went that way in the end, they got tired when you couldn't keep the promises that you make them. Still, if he kept every promise he made to every girl he danced with then he wouldn't ever dip his wick in another one.

Besides its not like they didn't use him either. He had seen the way her eyes had lit up when he had dropped the gold he had gotten from his fence for those extra few trifles in had picked up in Kvatch. Still couldn't believe how easily that had fallen into his lap. If only the girls would do the same.

These were the thoughts that went through Gav's head as he drifted off into a contented sleep in the arms of his soon to be former lover. He looked forward to revisiting some of what they had just been doing in his dreams.

Unfortunately fate had another idea.

You have been chosen...



G A V | ​1 S T O F L A S T S E E D | K V A T C H



From amongst the gaiety of the bright and crowded streets of a festive Kvatch, a lone grey figure in dark leathers stared up at the spire of the Chapel of Akatosh that overlooked the main square. What the fuck was he doing here again? Returning to the scene of the crime? Everyone knows that's one of the dumbest things that a criminal could do.

Still here he was.

All because those fucking dreams wouldn't stop.

The first time had been that night. Heart's Night, after he had flogged the silver that he had nicked from the chapel and used it to buy brandy and shag a barmaid. He had woke up sweating and screaming, and the bint had almost run off. After Gav had convinced himself it was nothing more than some latent repressed guilt about stealing from a temple manifesting itself in a dream, he had convinced her to stay. That should have been the end of it as far as he had been concerned.

But then the next night, after he had tried it on with a teller he'd had his eye on at the Imperial Trading Company, they had come again just like before. Visions of the Imperial City burning, monsters and dragons, and Kvatch. After that one he had needed a stiff drink.

And so on and so on it went. Apocalyptic nightmares every single night somehow about the fucking place that he had robbed from a temple just a few days before. Couldn't be fucking coincidence now could it?

It had cost him almost double what he had been given to get those candlesticks back, curse Fathis that moneygrubbing bastard. But he had had them now, as well as all the gold he had taken from the communion plate, and a hefty donation of his own to boot.

Now he just had to put it all back without anyone noticing and him and Akatosh would be all square, right?
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Hidden 2 yrs ago Post by POOHEAD189
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POOHEAD189 Warrior

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1st of Last Seed 3E 433
Kvatch Square
1:30 PM



"All practitioners of daedric magic are familiar with the almost impenetrable barrier between our world and Oblivion." Martin said to Beren with a gesture of his hand, the two sitting on a pew and sharing cups of tea. They had spoken for the better part of two hours now. The pilgrim had expected a holy old greybeard, but Martin, though around 4 decades old, spoke to the younger man as a peer. He had a humble, intelligent manner, and Beren did not feel worried explaining his dreams to the priest. He felt the same necessity to do so as telling a doctor the symptoms of a recurring sickness. "There are many ways the people of Tamriel view Akatosh, my friend. Auri-El of the elves, Alkosh, the One, some even say he and Alduin are one and the same. But he has spoken to the mortals more directly than any save Talos himself. Akatosh was quite clear, Oblivion cannot connect to Mundus."

"So you think they're just dreams?" Beren asked tiredly, placing his cup down on the small table they had procured. He dared not hope, and even if they were just dreams and not portents of doom, that did not solve all of his problems. He shook his head. "I've never been here in my life, Martin. The furthest west I've ever gone is the Imperial city. But my dreams showed me the way here. I could see this place in my mind and it was just as I envisioned it. How is that possible?"

"Maybe Akatosh does speak to you." Martin expressed. "And it is your fears that have conjured up this vision of fire and death. The Gods touch is rarely gentle, Beren. Perhaps he is trying to tell you something more mundane, and it has coalesced into these dreams?" He smiled, as if they had known one another for years. Martin would be an incredible public speaker or diplomat, Beren realized. His voice was sonorous and strong, but gentle. Some said similar things of Beren's, he remembered. "If Akatosh, God of Time and Endurance, does speak to you, it seems he favors you more than me! I suppose I do not blame him. I have only been a priest for a dozen years, and much of it as an acolyte."

"If they are just dreams, that doesn't help me sleep." Beren replied with a short laugh. "But I suppose I have been sleeping well. The dreams don't wake me up, but they do make my mornings shakier than I would have them, Martin."

"I'll tell you what," Martin said, placing a hand on Beren's shoulder. "I am not an alchemist, but we are required to learn the restorative arts with poultices and spells. Allow me to make you a brew." Martin rose to his feet, walking behind him and moving over to grab a cloth. "A poultice that works wonders. Brother Flavias makes them best, but he's taken a trip to the Imperial City. I'm sure mine will work for you. If these dreams are from Akatosh, it will at least calm your nerves. If they aren't, it should keep them away."

"Thank you. Where would be a good inn to stay at?"

"Well...you're free to sleep here for a few nights if you'd like. But Brominar's Room & Board might have a room, if you're lucky and want a well cooked meal. I doubt they'll have another place to sleep, but we only have ham, some cheese, stale bread and...well no, we have fresh bread now, don't we?"

Minutes later, Beren stepped outside. Martin had just begun the brew, but he said it would take hours to finish. Beren felt the hot sun on his tanned complexion and gazed around, only half a dozen dozen people were in sight, most keeping to their own business. The town truly had been sucked into the arena and the festival surrounding it, had they not? He wished he could get rid of those dreams, and the trepidation on finding out if Akatosh truly called to him was filling him with an anxiety he hadn't expected to experience. What if the God was speaking to him, and all of this was coming to an end? The warm sun now felt like a harbinger of doom, as if the very flames of it could reach out and awash Mundus in flame.

"Fuck," he breathed, lost in his anxieties. Martin had calmed him, and the temple had been a tonic for him, but now out here, he felt exposed somehow. As if Kvatch, the place of his dreams, was an entity all its own. He needed to do something. Something to knock him out of his fears and... wait.

Beren ran off, and minutes later Colyne Valcal had knocked on the great doors of the temple.

Martin stepped away from his brew, the water now close to a boil, and he opened the door for the second time that day. But he closed his mouth when he noticed the heavily armed woman, one part wariness and two parts concern on his face.

"Greetings warrior, do you require healing or absolution?" He asked her, beckoning her to come in.



Athrelor was busy as could be! Busy busy busy. Finished with his deliveries and heading back to the bakery to set up the mid afternoon shop for the festival! His feet pitter pattered on the ground like a small dog's tip tap toes. The bosmer skitted around one of the fences in the road, reviewing receipts of the day's purchases with a quick eye. If only he had better prepared for the day with two extra employees, he thought. Then again, he had done all the work anyway and he needn't pay anyone but Misela back at the shop, so maybe that was just the old mer in him.

As he approached the market square for the umpteenth time, across the way down another path he saw Sigrid the mystic, a pretty blonde haired nord woman who always surprised people with just how much northern grit she had. He didn't know what kind of magic she specialized in, but he did know she was a member of the mages guild in Kvatch. He never liked the mages here. He always suspected they had a way of conjuring up their own bread, though it wasn't nearly as fresh or well tended as his own superior baked goods. Sigrid was in his good books, however. The alchemist had helped give him a nice recipe for carrot cake once, and a savvy business man never forgot a partner.

Oddly enough, she had a focused look to her, walking markedly towards a gaggle of strangers who had suddenly converged at the square, looking at Kvatch as if they sought something outside of normalcy. She strode up to them, and though none of them seemed to be together, she spoke to all of them as if they had walked up to her holding hands.

"If you are looking for the arena, go to the big building that isn't the castle or the temple. You are either tourists or thieves or mages guild applicants. I would know which before I go about my day."

Arthrelor barked a laugh, but clamped his hand on his mouth before it grew too loud. The ornery mage was going to make a scene! And while normally it was entertaining, Arthrelor felt like he wanted one more win this day, and he sought to make some more potential customers. Jogging over and puffing out of his wide face, Arthrelor waved his hand like a tree branch whipping in a typhoon.

"Hail! Yes, hello friend! Yes, hi!" He called, drawing their attention. Sigrid raised an eyebrow as she regarded the baker.

"Do you have business with them, Arthrelor?" She asked, her accent as thick as her behind.

"Yes, they are my guests." He assured her, planting his hands on his hips and gazing at the strangers up and down. They were clearly travelers, but each of them had a very unique and strange look to the bosmer. Dunmer, Dunmer, Redguard, Altmer, and Imperial. Only a motley band of misfits like them would be here to see the games, and they would have the best seats in the house. "Come friends, follow me to my shop! You'll have cakes and baked goods and grand seats for the coming fights of the day. Andonlythreegoldforthepleasure but let's not discuss that now! Follow me!" He began to jog in place, before he realized they were to follow. Then he sped off like a fat, thin limbed chipmunk.
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Hidden 2 yrs ago 2 yrs ago Post by Shu
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Shu

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Colyne Valcal

1st of Last Seed 3E 433
Kvatch
* * *


“Insight actually.”

Colyne stepped past the priest who motioned her in, turning sharply to the side to avoid brushing against him. As the Crusader entered the Chapel of Akatosh she marveled at it’s splendor, as grandiose as it was on the outside it was even more so on the inside. It’s magnificent stone pillars held the ceiling high over the heads of those who stood within while the colored glass windows showed a radiance unique to the cozy confines of the temple. Great lanterns hung high between the pillars, their dim homey light shimmering across the stones and the glass adding to the reflective glow of the latter.

The priest closed the door behind them snapping Colyne from her momentary reverence. Her chest felt tight, her throat dry. She had come to the Chapel of Akatosh seeking answers about the dreams that hounded her sleep and now that she was here she did not even know how to begin. Well, I can start with telling him who I am… Colyne thought, having noticed the look of reserved concern on the priests’ face when she passed into the Chapel.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” Colyne turned to the priest, giving a half-bow, “I am Colyne Valcal, a Crusader of Stendarr, God of Righteous Might and Merciful Forbearance.”
Standing upright she continued, “I arrived in Cyrodiil a few days ago on my way to the Chapel of Stendarr in Chorrol.”

Colyne paused, allowing her host to process her words as she stepped towards a nearby pew. Rather than take a seat she merely leaned forward, propping herself up on the backrest with both hands. She felt her fatigue settling upon her as she looked absently ahead over the rows of pews. She felt a sudden desire to stretch out on one of them and just rest. Perhaps sleeping within the cradling arms of the holy place would shelter her from the dreams and allow her some peace. That alone she thought would be a worthy boon at this point.

Realizing the priest had said something she exhaled loudly and turned to face him, forcing a tired apologetic smile as she stepped back from her prop, “I’m sorry… I haven’t slept well in days. Ive barely slept at all. I’ve been having these… haunting and vivid dreams that torment me at night leaving me weary and disquiet. I came here seeking insight or at least perhaps a blessing or remedy to help stave these dreams off. Could we sit? I can tell you from the beginning, Brother…?” Colyne trailed off in a questioning tone, requesting the priests’ name which she imagined he had already given her when she was daydreaming.
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Hidden 2 yrs ago Post by POOHEAD189
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The Gates Open



Outside of the arena, the crowd was thick and roiling with men and mer. Stands of drinks, food, and all sorts of beverages across Tamriel was being sold. Some sensitive to the substance might even smell moonsugar, though being illegal, no one without vast connections would sell it openly. The skies above had nary a cloud, and whilst the meaty combat of the arena worked up your appetite, the late summer heat made it a necessity to purchase a drink.

“Oh, don’t buy anything here. They sell goods for criminal prices here! Follow me to my V.I.P. section, and you’ll garner a good meal at a fair price.” He said for the third time. “Arthrelor the Fair, they call me! And not just for my good looks!”

The bosmer kept the group close, having to skip back every now and then to make sure they still had him in eyesight, his small body bounding between the passersby in the crowd like a rabbit. He led them to a smaller set of stairs on the northern end of the greater coliseum, the four sets of stairs were tight and grueling, and one couldn’t be blamed if they thought it was a service entrance. Once they had made it, Arthrelor opened the door, and the blinding light of the sun filled their vision, before they beheld the glory of the Kvatch Arena.

Rhona… wasn’t entirely certain what she had just stumbled into, one moment she was wandering around the city aimlessly, the next moment she had found herself in a gaggle of people (who she thought nothing more of), and now a Bosmer was escorting them through the city. She bumbled along in relative silence, the mace on her hip knocking annoying into her thigh. At this point, she was certain there was a bruise underneath.

She marveled at the sight as she emerged with the others, she opened her mouth to speak but her stomach growled something fierce, forcing Rhona to put her hand over the breastplate as an attempt to soothe the ache in her belly.

The arena was a sight to behold. Hexagonal in shape within its interior, there was over a dozen rows of seats through each subsection. Already the sand of the arena was drenched in crimson, the blood shining in the sun as if in celebration of the lives lost in what might have seemed like senseless violence. But the crowd cheered and jeered. Orcish bystanders roared in approval and many spoke among themselves, asking what they thought of the previous bout and who might be up next.

Arthrelor did not lead them much further, for two rows up they found a small space where tables were set up. An urn of wine on each tabletop, it was flanked by cups of varying sizes.

“Ah excellent, they hadn’t cheated me out of my seats.” The bosmer whispered, satisfied and gleeful. He turned to the crew, his arms out wide. “Come, come! Have a sit down and enjoy the show! I will be back with cakes and sausages! Don’t worry, don’t worry, we can discuss the bill once the bouts are over. Enjoy!” He waved them to take a load off before he scurried away, lost in the crowd of onlookers.

To say that things had quickened their pace would have been a bit of an understatement, but even more was Quavanir left to wonder about the turns they had taken: The Altmer, after some significant consideration, had ultimately decided against joining the arena, but instead had wandered off to the market square in hopes of finding the temple somewhere near to it. Had that made him get there any closer actually ? No, not really. He had run into a bunch of strangers who had looked as if searching for something just as he did and had stayed with them, simply because company sharing the same problems always felt better than being alone.

Now what would Akatosh say in his next dream upon noticing that his favorite Altmer had preferred a round trip back to the bloody arena instead of finally going to the temple ? The more Quavanir thought about it, the less it did go well with his conscience. Also there was the matter of coin: Athrelor, mixed right into his friendly, caring and no less hectic demeanor, had mentioned the words 'gold' and 'bill' a bit too often to keep such a thing as an altruistic facade completely intact, so better not to indulge into this grandiose presentation of food too much!

Quavanir's stomach thought differently. It had been a long journey and he simply needed something to restore the energy lost while moving his tremendous self around all day, so the others would see the Altmer with a considerable chunk of bread in his hands more sooner than later. At least there was one thing he was happy about right now and that was NOT having joined the fighting. Everyone who had taken a trip to the shore once knew just how much water a thick layer of sand could absorb before looking as if drenched in it, so the large reddish patches down in the arena told a story about brutality – and that was not even counting in those participants who had been fried and frosted instead of slashed open.

Dalnoria followed the Wood Elf and his motley band with… caution. This was hardly the first time she had been accosted by a would be salesman or crier, but she had the strangest feeling like she ought to stick with this little group for the time being. She needed to see something of this place and she supposed that the crowds would be gathered at the Arena. The Chapel had definitely been the one from her vision and so she assumed that there was something of note around here.

Her caution only grew as he declared himself 'The Fair' and told them not to worry about the price for they would discuss the bill 'later'. She hadn't lived so many hundreds of years on Mundus to be taken in by a scam and so she did not dare touch anything the Mer had offered them. The Fair indeed, it was perhaps fortunate for him she was not some other Telvanni wizard - or any attempt a scam might see his ashes scattering in the wind.

Before she could even challenge him on this, however, the elf was gone - disappeared into the crowd of people. How odd he was, he reminded her of a scamp - and that did little to ease her concerns about him. Dalnoria thought on each of the people thus far she had passed that caught her attention - though for some she wasn't quite sure why.

A pallid skinned Imperial who seemed quite taken aback by her surroundings now she was in the arena - perhaps she had scarcely been to a city before. There had been an affluent and keen looking Redguard with beautiful armour and garments, a trader or noble perhaps. An Altmer of quite striking appearance, imposingly giant and simultaneously young and old looking - Dalnoria entertained for a moment the possibility of another aged spellcaster, but careful examination suggested he was truly young. Another Dunmee too -very young and with a face as sharp edged as a dagger, certainly looked to be the rough and tumble type. There had been a Crusader or Knight with rather elaborate light armour near the temple too, a stern looking Breton. Dalnoria had half the mind to approach her and speak with her before the Wood Elf had come.

"I can't help but feel that I am waiting for something important to happen - but what?" Dalnoria wondered aloud as she peered down towards the bloody arena floor. There was a most curious sense of destiny and history to where she stood now, as if she was witnessing some grand historic event. Not the tournament - something larger and far more ancient, wrapped up within the dreams and the visions. Something was happening and she was now a cog within it. And she felt that had blundered her way into the right place, the place she needed to be.

Sometimes you just have to plod along, putting one foot before the other, look up, and suddenly, there you are; Right where you wanted to be all along.

The Dunmer woman’s voice distracted Rhona from surveying the room, and the arena before them. How true a statement. She had wandered around Kvatch looking for something, a symbol, a sign, anything hinting at the dreams that had tormented her for the better part of two weeks now. The other half of her felt that she ought to simply wait. But wait for what? Her stomach growled again in protest, and once more she placed a hand over it to silence it. She had her own provisions to eat, but that would run out in due time, and the assortment of food on the table certainly looked tempting…

Khamir enjoyed a couple of hours of normality, of peddling the family wine and other miscellaneous goods exotic to Kvatch. Many locals and tourists alike had browsed the stall, and slightly less than that had purchased bottles of the good stuff. Returning customers were gleeful to see the Al-Damars back in town and new customers had their eyes widened by the samples offered. It was therapeutic to be back at it, for a while at least.

But once the sun was a few degrees higher, a niggling feeling arose in Khamir's stomach. An indescribable urge to be somewhere else, but nowhere in particular. Just not here. The more he ignored this sensation, the stronger it got. Before long, it became unbearable to the point that Khamir hadn't noticed Arban trying to get his attention multiple times, it was only the clicking of fingers in front of his face that awoke him from his trance.

Eventually, Khamir had declared that he needed a break from the hawking and wandered into the centre of the square, absorbing his surroundings. The crowds were beginning to thin out masses of citizens funneling towards the Arena district, no doubt for the festivities that were about to start. He recalled his stomach beginning to purr in hunger, but was unaware that it had begun to puppeteer his actions - for why else would he have followed this elf to the Arena on the back of vague promises of food and entertainment? Had he been victim to a Bosmeri incantation of Illusion?

He hadn't the chance to ask before the elf scattered away and he found himself alongside several strangers, equally as confused and curious in appropriate measures. They appeared to be fellow seductees to the merryment of their eccentric and eager host, but there seemed to be no pattern to them. It would make sense for him to be one amongst other out-of-town middle class tourists, who had the money and bemusement to indulge in luxurious hospitality. But the more Khamir inspected the cohort, the less sense they made as a group. A Dunmer mage, a few rogues of all shapes and sizes, a knight of some kind, a couple of young women… and a Redguard merchant. This wasn't the set up to any joke he's ever heard of in his travels…

Quavanir did not seem to share much interest in his most immediate surroundings as long as he could busy himself with the loaf of bread in his hands, but all good things eventually had to come to an end. So, with his stomach now much more filled, the pointy-eared man found it rather easy to look over the other's heads and down to the arena, but there was a small pause in the fighting right now so he turned towards the others. Even before given any of them a close inspection something burst out of him that had been lingering there for just too long.

"So I doubt it is a sheer matter of coincidence that we're all here, is it ? Personally I just had too bad a series of nights over the last week so I'm quite happy to be here now for some relaxation. How about you ?"

The Altmer reached for a bottle of wine and let a small amount of the red stuff flow into his glass. The label told that it was a rather average-ish, cheap and common item, but given how little to no care he had given about that before wrapping his giant hand around the bottle the liquid inside it could have been worth more than half a city or less than a broken fingernail either. He just needed something in his hand, something he could use to give the impression that he was totally relaxed with regard to his own questions.

Quavanir wasn't. In fact, had he been his own outside observer, he probably would have called himself out 'weird' at this point. These were complete strangers who had come together under quite unknown circumstances and his whole motivation to have joined them was laden with inherent uncertainty, too! If only any of the others would now talk about weird dreams and certain gods it would make Quavanir a significantly happier man in an instant.

Trumpets sounded, keen and unceremoniously loud, despite the ceremonious circumstances. Arthrelor held his hands to his large, pointed ears. He looked perturbed and vehemently annoyed, but not surprised. Apparently he knew they sat right under the orchestra booth. The elves would feel it more than the rest, but it wasn’t easy on non-mer ears either. Arthrelor chewed his cake as he waited out the music. The blasts of noise rose and fell for a good half of a minute, until it halted just as the coliseum gates on the northern and southern walls began to open.

The group sat within the southwestern section of the stadium, judging by the sun. They could see the contestant at the north, firstly. A male Khajit stepped out, a battle axe in his hand that gleamed silver in the sun. Perhaps not the most common choice for the lithe feline, but he held it as if he knew how to wield it. The raiment he bore was light but protective, though he had deigned not to use a shield, likely to capitalize on the natural speed of his race. The Khajit hissed at the crowd, the long, drawn out noise ending in a wild cat’s screeching crescendo.

Much of the crowd cheered, but a ripple of murmurs arose from the lower sections that had a better look of the arena’s floor. There was a small pause for the group as it took a few moments for them to see the Khajit’s competitor. It was one none of them would have expected, particularly not Arthrelor, who’s eyes popped out of his head when he saw who stepped into view. He began to say something, but it came out garbled and bread fell out of his mouth.

It was a man, just out of boyhood. He could not have been more than twenty one summers old, maybe younger. Fit and hale, he did not wear any raiment. Just simple, baggy breeches and a vest. He looked strong, but stranger than not wearing raiment was the fact he bore no weapon.

“Today is a special, once in a decade match! We don’t get a lot of volunteers folks, but it seems we have a special treat on this momentous day!” The announcer called, his voice echoing off the walls. The stone meticulously set so the voice set at the correct location would bounce off and reach every ear in the stadium. “A veteran of the games, Ta’shik Do’ran fights a man who signed up not an hour ago, Beren Ecthelion!”

Quavanir had been on the verge of raising his hands in order to press them firmly against his poor ears and, in fact, his internal reminder about this potentially being a provocative gesture towards their hosts had come a little to late to prevent the move as a whole, but at least it had stopped it while still in an early stage of development. Not that the arena as a whole would have been a particularly quiet place anyhow, but the proximity to the orchestra was... acoustically volatile! If he'd come out deaf than Akatosh would probably be the only thing for him to listen to for his whole life!

The Altmer learned forward a bit as if not realizing that even at his height such a stance did little in terms of shortening the line of sight between him and the opponents down on the sand, but still it felt... right... for his intrigued self. The Khajiit was interesting, but compared to the other man -- or rather boy ? -- simply not out of the usual enough for his show not to get stolen by his opponent. No weapons ? For Quavanir this was indication enough that this Beren was either a lunatic or a mage. So would he now be able to see some fireworks ? He could do that himself, but a caster's own perspective had always felt differently to him than actually seeing the thing from much further away.

Time would tell, soon. For now however everyone could see that their pale-skinned, golden-eyed mate was intrigued to say the least. If he'd lean over just a bit more he might fall over the railing and crush some poor spectator on the ranks below... Maybe he should have had the guts to sign up for the arena himself ? A bit of regret was there, definitely.

Rhona peered down into the area, glancing one at the Altmer companion who was keenly gazing below as below. “Mm.” She uttered softly, she had no real tact for battle much less actual hand to hand combat, but she did not see this ending well for the man with no armor let alone no weapons.

“What a queer array of events, from the dreams, to this journey, and now… here.” She muttered to herself, her words barely audible over the cacophony of the arena.

Dalnoria's ears stung from the cacophony of the band - What an awkward place to find herself in, she momentarily considered if she could find a silence spell or something to save her poor sanity from the trumpets and the crowd.

She needn't have worried about that, however, for the unfolding events in the arena led to the crowd murmuring in confusion rather than cheering; A man had entered the arena, apparently entirely voluntary, with nothing but his fists.

Well. Dalnoria thought, that made things odd. To enter a bout with a professional killer so unarmed was daring indeed.
Still, she had seen more surprising things in her long life than those, and she wasn't about to discount the fighter in appearance alone; She'd seen a few monks of sorts before, back in Morrowind, men and mer who'd trained with their fists and blunt weapons such as staves over the use of blades, axes and other common implements of war. A traveller well versed in hand to hand could get by when it came to self defense. She figured this man, simple in clothing, may be such a figure?

"Not a matter of coincidence in what way? I am sure it is no coincidence that each of us, individually, chose to come here for whatever reason - but if you mean it is no coincidence that we specific individuals happen to be here, why, I'd have to ask what leads you to believe there is anything particularly remarkable about this assortment of strangers. I shall say Coincidence is often as powerful as providence." Dalnoria mused aloud casting a sidewards glance to the Altmer. Sometimes, things really did come down to happenstance and luck - for excess or want of the latter, the history of Nirn had been thrown to chaos a hundred times over.

"As for relaxation, I confess I find little relaxing about watching people die for sport and money. It is to me evidence that for all their talk of high culture, the Imperials succumb to ignoble barbarity as readily as any other race." Dalnoria said with a frown, watching the gathering fight in the arena.

“Begin!”

The Khajit moved forward with steady steps, somehow very humanoid and yet able to stalk on two legs like the hunting cat his people emulated. He held its weapon casually, axehead down and pointed at the ground just ahead of his feet. The unarmed man stepped carefully, moving to the right. Anyone who could see his eyes saw he was incredulous, but not overly scared. As if he had decided to spend his life savings, or to tell his parents he was marrying against their wishes.

The combatants looked about to converge, a hush falling over the normally raucous crowd as violence grew so hot in the air one could smell it. It had the wiff of sulphur, flame, and brimstone. There was a strange, wrongness to it. An alien quality that was almost palpable. It happened so slowly, no one realized the smell had begun before the fight. It was only now that hell wished it to be known, letting a growing fear gnaw at the mortals present. Just between the two fighters, the earth cracked asunder, making a hole as large as a dining table.

Suddenly there was a snap, impossibly loud. Grinding began to fill the air, and slowly the ground moved. One couldn’t tell what was happening immediately due to the density of the audience on the northeastern side, but as the moments passed, it was clear: The coliseum was splitting in half, and the seats opposite of the group were split and hewn, people falling down and screaming from the new earthquake now forming.

In the center of the ring, a towering structure made of obsidian stone began to rise from a pit of horrid red light, flames licking out from below. Those not dead or fleeing were stricken in horror as the thing lifted from what could only be Oblivion, forming a great, daedric circle as large as any castle gateway. And within, energies that threaten to tear the very fabric of reality coalesced, forming the appearance of a great eye wreathed in flame.
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Hidden 2 yrs ago 2 yrs ago Post by Fetzen
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Fetzen

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He should have seen that coming, right ? Or no -- he actually had seen that coming! The structure that looked as if hewn out of one giant block of solidified volcanic output and subsequently adorned with mysterious looking carvings and etchings exhibited such an eerily similarity to a few things Quavanir had seen in his dreams that the one word he had liked to debate about just a moment ago, 'coincidence', was out of the question immediately.

The Altmer had regarded the whole endeavour of coming here as quite a bit of an experiment, an experiment about whether this would help getting rid of his dreams or at least finding out something about them or whether he'd have to search for their source somewhere else. Yet if this kind of view was correct, then... this was success happening here. This was what the dreams had predicted and it happened right where they had guided him to. All doubts eliminated instantly, any fears of any expenses having been in vain rendered irrelevant all at once!

However the definition of 'success' in this case was a very cruel one as it obviously already included the death of quite a bunch of individuals not related to any of this. Also even if Quavanir had been a completely cold blooded, purely analytic and reckless mind far beyond any reasonable bounds, he still would have had to acknowledge one important detail: he had no real answer about what to do in case of that 'success'. The great folly of so many experimenters! Those dreams had been quite motivating in terms of getting here, but also quite lacking any clue about how to properly act against a monstrosity like the one down in the arena. That thing didn't have some magical lever he could telekinetically pull in order to trigger an emergency shutdown, did it ?

"I suggest we leave this place!" Quavanir shouted to the others, firmly convinced that what had happened to the seats on the other side could still happen with their own ones as well at any moment. No matter how one looked at things: Still being in the spectator's position would not help anyone he thought.
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Hidden 2 yrs ago 2 yrs ago Post by Kassarock
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Kassarock W O R L D E A T E R

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G A V | ​1 S T O F L A S T S E E D | K V A T C H



Well, things had taken a turn to the fucking weird hadn't they?

For all his inclination to be a flashy bastard, Gav' prided himself on his ability to stay inconspicuous. That was actually the harder part of being a sneak thief. Not being seen was easy, but being seen and still not drawing attention to yourself? That was the hard part. And he had been trying his damnest to stay inconspicuous as he had made his way to the Temple in order to return what he had 'borrowed' from the old Dragon God. The crowd should have helped a bit, easier to blend in when there's more to blend with.

But in the end, it hadn't done him a lick of good had it?

Somehow that blonde Nord bint with the ice blue eyes had spotted him right away. Walked up to him and a bunch of people he didn't know and declared them Tourists, Thieves or Mages. The only thing that tempered his annoyance was just how pretty she was, more than pretty enough for Gav'. He made a mental note of her, every disadvantage could be turned into an opportunity.

Before he had a chance to say anything, some other bleedin' idiot came over, claiming that they were his guests and that he would take them to his shop. Gav' was appreciative enough of the distraction to go along with it and follow the bosmer and the motley little group that he had gathered out of square, before taking the very first opportunity to slip away when none of them were looking.

That was a fucking close one.

Gav' still wasn't quite sure how that had all happened back there, but he was free to do as he pleased again. He wish that group of weirdos well, and hoped they would enjoy being ripped off by that pint sized purveyor of poor quality baked goods. He had more important things to do. Gold to return, Gods to appease.

He slipped through the busy streets, a quiet shadow amongst the merriment and gayety of the festival. It took him longer to circle back around to his destination than he would have liked. But a circuitous route seemed like the more sensible option, didn't want to run into that Bosmer again, or the pretty Nord... well... not yet at least anyway. Maybe later on tonight when he had time to buy her a few drinks and work his charms on her, now that would be a pleasant end to this business, wouldn't it?

The square seemed a little quieter upon his return. He guessed the main events at the arena would be starting soon if they had not already. That would mean less people about, less chance of being seen. Perfect. He would do it now.

The quiet shadow detached itself from the wall beneath an coloured awning and skirted around its edge. He shunned the main set of doors and instead made for a small side entrance that he knew from experience opened up half way up along the nave of the temple. It had been unlocked last time, with luck it would be again. Gav' gently pressed the handle down.

Click.

It opened, and swung inward silently on a set of well oiled hinges. It looked like luck was still on his side after all, eh?

The inside of the chapel was still bright, only the very corners of the high vaulted ceiling and the tips of the stone columns lost in shadow. The rest of the temple was filled with the sunlight that streamed in through the vast stained glass windows that lined each and every wall. From the far end of the nave, away from the altar, Gav' could hear low conversation being made by at least two people on the rows of wooden pews.

He left the door slightly ajar, in case he needed to make a quick getaway, and snuck down the side of the chapel. The lines of pillars made good cover to keep out of the view of whoever was talking at the other end. This was almost as easy as when he had taken the damned things.

Within seconds he was kneeling behind the altar, burlap sack in hand. From out of it came a pair of large ornate silver candle sticks that he set back upon either end of the altar. To this he added his gold purse, which contained all the gold he had taken from the communion plate, plus a substantial donation of his own.

As soon as it was out of his hands Gav' already felt better. He closed his eyes and made a whispered prayer to the mighty Akatosh, the divine to which this temple had been raised, and whom Gav' had so recently drew the attention of. It went a little something like this:

"I don't really do this kind of stuff very often... praying and that. But I guess if you're a God and everything you can hear me? Anyway I just wanted to ask... we cool now? Cos I gave it all back, everything, plus a bit extra to y'know sweeten the deal, and I would really, really, really, like to get some uninterrupted sleep."

Silence.

"...Guess I'll take that as a yes then?"

More silence.

"Okay... cool. I mean, would it be too much trouble to give me a sign or something?"

Suddenly he felt it, the very ground beneath him beginning to tremble and shake, knocking dust from the down from the high vaulted ceiling and setting the new returned silverware to rattling upon the altar.

It was an earthquake.

Fuck.
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