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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