Whether it was late or early, the skies clear or clouded, such was unknown to him as he lay silently in his hammock. The dim, dank bowels of the Imperial Prison Ship hid such things from him. Looking about at his fellow inmates, he sighed. Partial with relief as for this trip would be his release, but at the same time, distrought by the facts that several friends lay in this place only to be delivered into another infested cell. Just then he heard the latch of the door clank as it unlocked, soon openning as several guards walked in. The lead, a Redgurad with graying almost shaven hair as groomed goatee peered around, soon pointing a sharp finger at him
"Right there!" He said in a deep, commanding tone.
"Yes sir." Responded one of the other men as they walked across the ship's floor with heavy steps. Stopping right beside his bed, the Cyrodiil turned. "Inmate Arathorn Faucher, sit up..." Yawning, Arathorn swung his legs out of the hammock, settling them on the floor as he followed orders. Looking the man over, the guard continued to unshackle his wrists and ankles, noticing the orange and yellow tattoos upn each upper arm. "Nice tattoos... meanings?"
"They're Azurian" Arathorn said, standing as he was patted down for contraband.
"You're clean, follow the commander up to the deck."
"Whatever..." Arathorn stretched before heading for the hatch, following the Redguard upthe stairs to the main level and soon to the hatch to the deck when he was turned to the plank leading to the dock. "My belongings that I was promised?" The guard rolled his eyes, grabbing a small, narrow box, handing it to him. Walking down the plank, despite being semi blinded by the brightess of the sun that had been long hidden from him, a grin crept across his lips. Finally holding his prized possession, he felt at ease, having paid every cent in his name back in Cyrodiil to the guards just to have this one item returned to him. Meeting a guard on the docks, he was escorted then to the doors of the Census and Excise Office. Upon entering, he was greeted by Duvianus Platorius, having replaced the late-Socucius Ergalla
"Greetings, we've been awaiting your arrival" Duvianus stated, seated at his desk with a scroll, quil ad ink "If you would, I need your full name, race age and sign... seeing as you are being released, you will be allowed to change your name to start a new life"
"Arathorn... no last name, I am an Azurian, born under the constellation of the Lady" He stated as the man scribbled down the information. Perking his head up as Arathorn said Azurian, the man raised a brow.
"Azurian?" He asked coyly
"Yes, Azurian... the purest blood of Bretons, not watered down to what the breton has become through intermating with cyrodiils and nords..."
"I see... well Mr. Arathorn..." Duvianus looked over his papers, "All I need is a date of birth..."
"Sun's Dawn 23, 353"
"That would make you 73?" The Cyrodiil looked at him in disbelief before writing the date down.
"Like I said, Azurian blood isn't watered down," Arathorn nodded with a smirk. The man handing him his release information, a guard took his arm, leading him on through the building and outside. Squinting his eyes as the sun was stilll new ever since the prisons, Arathorn raised an arm to block its rays, making his way for the second building where he was greeted by a man in a full templar's uniform. Holding his hand out, the Templar requested his papers politely before he nodded, handing them to him.
"Ah, a free man now? You must be pretty happy... I wish you well in your new life" The templar said, handing him a small pouch of gold.
"Indeed I am, thank you, sir..." Arathorn bowed, taking the pouch before heading outside.
"Hello Mister…" Came a small voice. Raising a brow, Arathorn looked about, seeing none. Only looking down would he see a small bosmer child staring up at him with beady eyes and golden hued locks. "… whats in the box?" He asked innocently.
"Don't worry about it, kid. Go play with your friends…" Arathorn responded, before letting out a long yawn
"If your tired, Mister… lots of outlanders sometimes sleep up on the lighthouse… guards don't normally go up there…"
"Thanks…" Arathorn nodded a bow to the child before heading across the patch of marshy land; passing a guard and a few kids before reaching the lighthouse, just off on the edge of the small town. The plankboards creaking under his foot as he neared the door, it suddenly opened slowly, an Altmer appearing from the dimness within.
"Hello… I assume you are seeking shelter," She said, looking him over with tired eyes, her golden hued flesh defined in folded wrinkles with her grayed hair tied up in a bun, a few stray hairs trailing down her face. Straightening her old, brown robes, she stepped back, opening the door more to allow him to pass in. Shutting the door, she gave him a bow of the head as he looked around, a few other derelicts laying about sleeping. A bosmer in a corner, a breton with his daughter slept below the stairs and a Cyrodiil lay up on a couple of crates. "I apologize for not having more beds… There's one, but I allowed a poor argonian lad use it, he traveled for so long, I thought it right…"
"No…" Arathorn said, "you are kind to offer your space however little you have to people in need… I will be fine upstairs, outside… been awhile since I've tasted fresh air anyways…"
"I don't mean to bother… but might I inquire?"
"It's in the past now… mistakes made that can not be undone… no matter how hard I wish." Looking down, Arathorn sighed, shifting the box under his arm before climbing the stairs. Passing the argonian, he noticed the bracer on his wrist as he whispered to himself, "Figures." Squatting beside him, he tapped the man's scaley arm, waking him with a panicked startle. "Shush, it's fine… give me your arm." Holding out his hand, the argonian looked at him oddly before setting his arm in Arathorn's hand. Looking on the floor, Arathorn found a bent nail, jamming it into the lock of the bracer as he probed around for a minute, finally hearing a click as the bracer fell loose. Setting the bracer under the bed, he rose, turning to the door when the lizard suddenly grabbed his arm.
"Thank you…" he hissed.
"Get some rest." He bowed before heading outside. Climbing up a small length of stair, he lay down on a tier just below the roof where the fire burned for the lighthouse. Trying to get his head comfortable on the stone, he yawned, looking up at the sky. Before long, the sky was blocked by a lizard's head, handing him a pillow and blanket before the argonian exslave returned inside. Arathorn smiled, setting up for bed, drifting off to sleep.