I awake to the usual assault on my senses; the constant creaking of the hull and squawking of the gulls, the stench of sweating crewmates and half-rotted wood, and the taste of the sea, salty and dry. Feeling a bit green around the gills from the rocking, even though I should be more than used to it by now, I heave myself up out of my hammock. I get myself dressed, nothing more eloquent than some ragged trousers, a roughspun tunic and a pair of boots. My valuables are sparse, but I treasure them nonetheless - my eerily sharp and strong whalebone dagger, with an ebony hilt and leather straps with a sheath, two enchanted rings, and a bonehawk amulet.
I look over myself, preening my dark blue quills and scrubbing the last bits of shed skin from my face. I was always a dark hatchling, but recently, my scales turned more of a dark slate grey, with cream markings on my head and neck. Suddenly, I realise something’s up.
The first mate, a hulking barbarian of a Nord named Rorjolf, didn’t barge into the minors cabin in the small hours of the morning to wake us up and do the Captain’s bidding. I walk towards the door, preparing myself for the explosion of sunlight I saw creeping through the crudely nailed planks of wood which the Captain calls a ‘hull’. Only a fool like Balcus would approve of such handiwork. I walk out to be greeted by the stench of more sweating sailors and rotten fish. As I glance around the deck, I find myself drawn to the pathetic pirate flag, hoisted up high on the main mast. It was originally black, with the daedric letter for ‘P’ in the centre and two crossed swords, but now had many holes, and was absolutely caked in gull droppings, as was most of the mast.
“What am I doing here?” I wonder aloud.
I find my best mate, Veetrus, mid-way through a shanty I believe to be from Skyrim - Ragnar the Red. A small, brown Argonian, in fact the only other Argonian on board. I find him near the base of the main mast, chucking knots of rope to an even smaller Imperial boy I’d never bothered to learn the name of.
“Where’s Rorjolf?” I croaked.
“He fell overboard last night after drinking too much mead.”
I pondered over this, wondering why exactly we didn’t stop to get him. Suddenly, Veetrus spoke again, reading me like a book. “We didn’t cast the anchor because Balcus said we’re on a ‘tight schedule’. I have absolutely no idea what he has planned, but from what I can gather, we’re headed to Sentinel.”
I reply with nothing more than a raise of my brows, trying to comprehend the situation but at the same time, more concerned with my lack of a breakfast. I plant myself on some crates, and open a barrel near the handrail. In it, I find some stale bread, bottles of ale, and dried fish. I take one of each, and have myself a relaxing breakfast. Of course, on the Skeever, relaxation is strictly banned. Or so it would seem.
Captain Balcus Baneius finally made himself present, kicking the door open like it was something of an inconvenience to him. Checking the sun’s angle, I realise it was 11am, much later than he usually appears. He strolled around the deck, wearing a white leather cloak, and a thin blue and white cuirass underneath. His hair was in a black ponytail, with a black goatee to match. Baneius wasn’t a particularly imposing Imperial, not very broad and certainly not very tall. He marched up to the helm of the ship, almost shooing the newly promoted first mate away from the wheel. Loyalty and remorse it seems, was not something that stood in the way of his desires. With a surprisingly loud and imposing voice, he bellowed across the deck.
“Lizard! What do you think you’re doing, you slimy git!?”
I nearly throw my fish overboard in shock.
“Having my breakfast, sir.” I really despised calling him ‘sir’ like he was my superior. Unfortunately for me, he currently is my superior.
“Get back to work, before I find a more useful job for you, like live bait!” I didn’t even bother to reply. “Full sail, I want full sail, you turgid little imps!”.
Suddenly, a hearty Nord piped up from Portside. “Cap’n! Thalmor vessels - a full fleet!”.
I squinted hard, using my free hand to make a visor. As my eyes adjusted, I saw that really, someone ought to have spotted them earlier. Midnight blue hulls, ornately decorated with eagle figureheads carved out of moonstone, and exquisitely crafted sails. By comparison, our ship had a 20-year-old rotting figurehead of a skeever made of wood. I couldn’t quite make out whether they were approaching or just passing.
Without warning, our own ship banked left, hard. A beached pirate ship was in our path, and because we were too busy looking at the Thalmor, we hadn’t noticed it.
“Pull in the sails, and throw over the anchor!” Baneius commanded, suspiciously unphased by the fleet.
Almost without thinking, he requested that I go and scope out the bay. I grunted, still feeling drowsy from my somewhat recent awaking. I dove into the warm, turquoise water, and began the short but intense swim to the shore. As I hauled myself onto the beach, laden in almost white sand and numerous palm trees, I turned to look at the Skeever.
“What a dump” I sighed.
I headed over to the wreck, and crawled inside the hull. Part of it was submerged, but that wasn’t a problem, I am Argonian, after all. I dove down, and found a chest. My fingertips tingling, I used my dagger to break open the lock, which was corroded beyond repair. Nothing. Upon further inspection, only empty chests remained. I swam out of the hull, and back into the bay. I hoisted myself onto a large boulder, but before I could even take a breath, I was blasted backwards, with fire, sand and huge pieces of wooden hull. The Thalmor weren’t simply passing us, they were hunting us.
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