I’m awoken by the rising sun. The force of the blast must have knocked me out for a good nine or ten hours. I stand up, and immediately feel a stab of pain in my right leg, and a crippling chest pain. I diagnose myself accordingly, with a broken leg and a cracked rib. Right then.
Calling on the power of the Hist, I find myself to be better within the hour. Using a nearby palm tree for support, I heave myself up, and - gritting my teeth - put my weight on my previously shattered limb. Nothing, not even a tickle of discomfort. How I love the Hist.
Recalling that my best and only friend must have been killed in the attack, I realise it would only be right to stab every Thalmor I see for a long as I live. I’m no avenger though, no, I find myself to be much too stoic for that. I grab a bottle of rum I find washed up on the beach, and take a swig. I also notice that I’m going to need new clothes and some food, since my clothing is torn and the food stocks are spoiled. I pace up and down the beach, realising that I could be here for quite a while. I’ve been stranded on a remote beach before, but never by myself. I’ll have to wait until the tide brings in the wreckage of the Skeever before I can pick it over, unless I want to risk being crushed by the pathetic and crumbling hull.
Suddenly, I hear a rustling from some bushes nearby. I bolt up into a huge nearby tree, my sharp claws coming in pretty handy. I'm something of a budding free-runner, a practise that comes in handy on the huge network of beams and ropes of a ship, or the thick, boisterous jungles of southern Tamriel. I see a silhouette picking over the remains of one of my crew mates. Rest assured, I’d do the same thing. But what if he has supplies? He has some handsome-looking armour, and a bow and arrows too, so I instinctively do what any desperate lizard would do. I creep on to the branch above him. I remember a small bottle of poison I kept in my pocket, in case there was a time I should ever need it.
This was definitely one of those times.
I drip the watery white liquid on the edge of my blade. I was told this was a paralyzing venom from some horrible creature in Black Marsh, and I really didn’t have any doubts it would do its job.
I drop down and within the blink of an eye, it was dead. I roll it over, to find ‘it’ was in fact a lone Imperial. He must have been the only one on that already-beached ship. My only confusion was his armour; I’ve never seen anything like it. I take off my own ragged clothing, and swap it for the Imperial's disappointingly shabby, but nevertheless unique armour.
It was light grey, had brown stitching, boots and gauntlets, made of quality leather and had the weave and studding of some metal I couldn’t quite define. It had thick, layered pads on the shoulders, a bandolier with many pouches and pockets, and unusually heavy gauntlets that had metal studs in the knuckles. It also had surprisingly comfortable leather boots and a knee length cloak, but best of all it had a big, thick hood. It might need some adjusting and a few modifications, but for the most part it was perfect, albeit a bit tatty. His knife was plain steel, which I’ll sell, and his bow was a simple hunting bow with iron arrows.
After cutting a hole in the legs for my tail, I take off, feeling much better equipped than when I had left. I search the Imperial’s pockets as I make my way over to the wreckage of the Skeever, and take what I can. In them, I find a nice selection of what I presumed to be poisons, some food and a vial of water. I chew at the food, dried beef from what I could make of it, and sip the water.
It was then I realise I need to find Veetrus, or what’s left of him, and get to Helgathe, which I remember was our next docking point. I pick over the crew; I hadn't really spoken to the majority of them so there were no moral issues as far as this went. I ended up with a hefty amount of gold, a few tools to sell, and a compass. No sign of Captain Baneius though, which worries me somewhat.
Just then, I hear an unmistakable voice from within the wreckage - Veetrus. He has a nasty shrapnel wound in his abdomen. I knew a basic healing spell for myself and others, but really, his Argonian superior biology is what he needed most. I carefully remove the shrapnel, and using a somewhat clean tunic, create a makeshift bandage to stop him from bleeding out. My healing spells, coupled with a salvaged potion or two and power of the Hist have him raring to go in just a few hours. It would have taken a Nord months to recover, if they lived through it at all.
Pfff.
He tells me that Baneius had dove into the water toward the Thalmor ship just before the Thalmor attacked, without so much as issuing a warning to his crew. I knew something was up with that man, and it was then I made my decision that if I ever saw his face again, I would feed him his own teeth.
A day or so of travelling later, we arrive at Helgathe. It’s late morning when we get there, and so that the guards would not be too suspicious of me, I withdraw my hood. Inside, people of many races and faces were bustling through the carved sandstone and marble streets. After asking one of the guards for directions, we make our way to an inn just a way from the main street. The innkeeper is a burly Redguard, and he seems less than pleased to rent a room to a couple of Argonians. Oh.
It’s one of those cities.
I take the key and pay my gold, and after having something to eat, I make my way down to the docks. Veetrus said he had a contact and that he was going to lay up here for a while, but would be sure to write if I didn't fancy staying. With that said, I decide to take a look around the docks. Sure enough, Argonians. I stroll up to the rows of stalls, sell my pilfered goods from the Skeever, and find a fairly rich looking Argonian wearing fine clothing - a tailor by the looks of it, selling yet more fine clothing.
“Greetings, Marsh friend”.
Acting upon his friendliness, we get talking, and tells me his name is Pissus, which he demanded was pronounced 'Pisoos'. Rather childishly, I snorted. He shoots me a look of despair, like he was entirely used to it, and told me how he had a cousin named Madesi in a town called Riften, up in Skyrim.
“Skyrim, huh?” I pondered over how amazed I was that I’d never been there, despite all I’d heard about the great history there.
“Yes” he sighed, “I fear for his safety. Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl of Windhelm, has started an uprising against the Empire. Something about worshipping their man-hero, Talos I think they call him. The Thalmor want his worship outlawed, it’s all very messed up”.
Just then, a hunched Breton interrupts us, and nearly grabs my dagger out of it’s sheath.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I growl.
“That dagger! It’s made of….. of dragon bones!”
I give him a blank, lizardly stare of dismay, before finally scowling and informing him that dragons haven’t been around for thousands of years.
“I promise you son, that dagger is made of dragon bones! You should take it to Skyrim, up north, and get it evaluated. Some serious coin could come of it.”
I give him a stern “Hmm.”, before bidding them both goodbye and heading back to the inn. I remember crafting this dagger from some salvaged ebony, and a bit of bone from what I thought was a whale skeleton, while diving off the beautiful rocky coast of Elsweyr. The skeleton itself was only partially visible, mostly hidden under the sand. It had to be sharpened with ebony no less, and had never went dull since. 6 years of wear however, had left it quite serrated. It was perfect for me. I also remember the ship’s smith, an Orc, telling me it was a ‘good bit of bone’ and would pay me for more, but I never bothered going down for more.
Later, I find myself being rather social while standing on the promenade with everyone, having a good drink and watching the sunset. Just then, I feel my dagger sheath move on my hip. I turn to see a hooded figure legging it into the city with my dagger in hand, and immediately give chase. He’s faster than me in a dead sprint, and so I have to get creative. I run up a barrel and onto a low stall roof. I pursue him from the rooftops, leaping from roof to roof as I go. I see my chance, and take it, leaping down, and crumpling him under my weight. I lift my hand to adjust my bracer, and out springs a small blade. Now this, this right here, is why sometimes, killing a man and taking his armour is a good thing. The lad whelps in fear, and upon relaxing my hand, I sheathe the blade. I snatch the dagger out of his hand, and walk off, amazed at the contraption hidden in my bracer. I get myself familiar with the action needed to unsheath and sheath the blade.
Time to find myself a new crew, I think.
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