Author's Note: This story was hard to write. It was for a class, and I had a deadline so it was a bit rushed. It also does not help that there is almost no information about Akavir. I took some liberties based on research I did, which will probably be wrong if Bethesda do ever end up disclosing more information on Akavir. This is my first story, and I can't say I did as much as I would like.
It is 4E 113, 18th First Seed. An Argonian sits back in his chair, sighing easily and holding a bottle of Ale. He has two curved horns on his head, with amber eyes and scales as black as the night. The armor he wears is strong steel. Battered, but still gleaming from good care. His name is Eleedal-Lah Callenes, an adventurer aboard a ship bound for Akavir. He sits in the dimly lit galley, thinking about the events that led up to this strange journey. The sailors warned him when he paid them for the trip. They said that it was a backwards land, that it is too dangerous. Eleedal chuckles at the thought. He is no stranger to peril, and would not miss the opportunity to journey to the mystical Akavir. He was raised in Windhelm, where it was dangerous just to be a non-Nord. His early childhood was spent working on the docks, and his teen years were spent as a bandit. When he became a man, he left the life of a brigand behind. He journeyed across Tamriel, in search of comfortable life. He's been from Hammerfell to the Black Marsh, and has seen more than most adventurers can even hope to claim. These traders don't know what danger is. Eleedal downs the rest of the bottle of Ale in one swig, and sets it down next to him. He relaxes there for a while, until the First Mate, Hjolfgir, trudges in, and takes a seat across from him. He's okay, for a Nord. At least he doesn't look at Eleedal like he has some kind of disease. Hjolfgir is much older than Eleedal, who is around 28. Hjolfgir has been on the seas for many years, and has grown old. But age has done nothing to affect his strength, or his stomach for drink. He has long grey hair, and a trimmed beard. Both are unkempt. His face is creased slightly with wrinkles, but his brown eyes still shine with the vigor of a younger man.
"Greetings, Eleedal. How does the morning treat you so far?" As he asks, Hjolfgir reaches behind him, grabbing two bottles of Ale from the shelf.
"Greetings to you as well, Hjolfgir. The morning treats me fine. How long until we arrive in Akavir?" Eleedal is anxious to finally arrive.
Hjolfgir sits down, chugging both of the bottles before replying. "In a couple of hours' time, we will be in Tsaesci country. Impatient to be off, are you?"
Eleedal nods and answers "Aye. I grow restless just lounging about on a ship."
Hjolfgir chuckles and jokes "I thought Argonians felt at home on the water!"
Eleedal laughs heartily, picking up on the jolly nature of the joke. They both lapse into a comfortable silence, and wait for the sound of timber striking shore.
They arrive as the sun continues its lofty ascent through the cloudy sky, and it appears that it might rain. They have come to port, in a remote location on the coast of Tsaesci country. There is a shabby dock, jutting from the coast with a forest lying just beyond. Eleedal and the Captain stand near the ship. The captain is an Imperial, named Rexunroy Greganius. A tall, but otherwise frail man, he makes his living trading with the Tsaesci He dresses in fine clothes, and hasn't worked a day in his life, honest or not. H mainly just sits in his cabin and pores over The Lusty Argonian Maid. An Argonian himself, this disturbs Eleedal, but he needs this man to give him passage home.
Rexunroy points at Eleedal, and states "We'll be here until next Turdas. If you want a ride home, be here by sunset on that day. If you are not here, we leave without you."
Eleedal nods, and walks towards the forest without a word. He does not like the man, and he does not wish to honor him with a goodbye. He only has six days to experience as much as he can. As he enters the forest, the coast behind him seems to disappear behind a green wall of foliage. The sounds of the forest envelop him, and he grows wary. He draws his two swords, both dai-katanas, favorites of his. He found them during his travels across Tamriel. Ever since, Eleedal has had them sharpened and enchanted. Now, they were killing machines. Nothing was going to surprise him in this forest and survive the encounter.
He moves forward silently, scanning the undergrowth as he creeps forward. For hours he walks, simply taking in the sights, and hoping to run into a Tsaesci settlement. The sounds of the forest now seem purposeful, centered on him. Eleedal knows he is watched, be he does not yet know if he is being hunted. Behind him, an even greater racket arises, and Eleedal turns, only to narrowly dodge a swing aimed at his calf. Eleedal jumps back, and readies himself for a fight. In front of him, a goblin stands. He has a crude, rusty sword and a small leather shield. Dressed in rags, it bears its pointy teeth and charges forward.
Eleedal sidesteps the goblin, and skewers it with his sword as it charges past. The goblin's small, green body flails once, and is still. Eleedal pushes the goblin off of his sword with his boot, and wipes the blade off in the foliage. He resumes walking through the forest, and travels a short distance before he hears more rustling, and suddenly his world goes black.
Eleedal awakes, lying on a simple cot in a small room. The back of his head aches. He guesses he was hit with a club or sword pommel. He still wears his armor, and his swords lean against the door, apparently carried with him. He checks the simple, wooden door, and finds it unlocked.
Eleedal grunts, surprised. He opens the door wider, and grabs his swords. He decides to sheathe them. He wasn't a prisoner to be sure. Might as well appear friendlier. The next room is large, and reminiscent of a Jarl's Hall back in Skyrim. The craftsman ship is smoother than Nordic styles, though. It seems everything is curved, even the walls appear rounded. Two guards stand near a set of double doors on the other side of the room. Both wear dragonscale, and wield katanas similar to his. They are large, with protruding cheeks and a serpent-like lower half. Their eyes are reptilian, golden with a savage gleam. They both seem to acknowledge him, but make no move to approach or apprehend him. He approaches and of the guards says in a garbled tone "Proceed into the throne room." His Tamrielic is awful, but Eleedal understands.
Eleedal decides to try and talk to the guard, to perhaps glean some information from him.
"Where am I? Why did you knock me out in the forest?"
The guard only replies "Proceed into the throne room." Eleedal does not know whether the guard is refusing to give him answers, or if that is the only phrase he knows how to say. He decides it does not matter, and pushes open one of the doors.
The inside is well lit and about half of the size of the Hall behind him, and filled with lavish items. All of the chairs have cushions, and majestic banners adorn the walls. Heads of animals Eleedal do not recognize glare forward, mounted on wooden plaques. In the center of the room, another Tsaesci "stands" leisurely on a raised platform, with a ramp leading down to the floor. The Tsaesci wears Dragonscale like the rest, but this armor is more ceremonial, with designs and other materials all throughout. The Tsaesci notices him, and spreads his arms wide, as if to greet an old friend.
"Ah, may the Hist guide you, friend! I am Versheck Titonac, and you stand in my court! What is your name?" This one speaks in a tone of grandeur, and his Tamrielic is much better than his guards. He even knows Argonian greetings, which surprises Eleedal.
Eleedal keeps his composure and replies "May the Hist guide you as well. I am Eleedal-Lah Callenes. I do not wish to pester you with questions, but where am I? Why am I here? Why do you speak Tamrielic so well?"
Versheck nods, acknowledging the questions and begins to explain. "You stand in the court of Versheck, Lord of this town, and its lands. As for an actual name, I believe the Imperials once called this place Ionith. You are here because you are a beastfolk, like us. You carry katanas, like us. It seemed only right to greet you as a guest instead of kill you. You are lucky. We haven't had an adventurer for hundreds of years. Last one was an odd fellow. He claimed to be called the "Nerevarine." As for my Tamrielic, I was a part of the force that invaded Tamriel. After we were given amnesty, I served as a member of the DragonGuard for many years. But, I decided to return to my own country. But I never forgot the language"
Eleedal simply absorbs this, and decides to ask one more question: "What day is it?"
Versheck ponders for a moment, and replies "Sundas, I believe."
Eleedal almost jumps back in surprise. "I was out for 3 days?"
Versheck shrugs apologetically. "Yes. The Shaman used a little too much sleep mixture on you, I'm afraid. He simply was not used to someone of your constitution. I digress from that uncomfortable topic. I suppose you would like to see the town, correct? I will leave you to your wanderings." Versheck tosses a large sack to Eleedal. "That sack is full of rations and our currency if you fancy a bit of browsing. There is more than enough in the sack to purchase anything you desire. You may stay here for the night if you wish, but I will understand if you desire to continue your journey."
"But how will I talk to the merchants? Do they speak Tamrielic as well? Also, I came here on a ship that leaves on Turdas. How will I find my way back to it?" Eleedal wears a worried expression.
"Most educated Tsaesci know enough Tamrielic to get by, and as for your ship, the only place I can think of it being is Septimia, two days travel to the West. They are one of the only Tsaesci towns that allow trade with outsiders. All they ever want is silk. They have the opportunity to learn something about Akavir, yet their only desire is Akaviri silk. It is for the best, I suppose. Tosh Raka and his damnable tribe is enough. The last that we need is another Imperial invasion."
Eleedal nods. "Then it is decided. I will go forth to Septimia."
Versheck's previously ponderous expression becomes grim. "I warn you, friend. There is no road to Septimia. There is only a beaten path. Many who use the path are never seen again."
Eleedal nods, and throws the pack over his shoulder. "I have no choice. I MUST go to Septimia. I thank you for your kindness, and I wish for your life to be prosperous." With this, he turns around and strides out of the room. Back in the hall, Eleedal has two choices; there are a sort of ramp on his right, and a large set of double doors on the left. He reckons that the exit is not on the second floor, and makes his way to the double doors. Pushing them open, Eleedal steps out into the afternoon light. The building rests atop a large platform, with a long, gradual slope leading downwards into the town. In the center, a busy market forms as circle around a strange sort of reflecting pool. Eleedal takes a deep breath, and begins his descent into the market.
TO BE CONTINUED?
(It is very possible it will not be. I have a way of abandoning projects.)