Chimerical
By Mantrid Brizon
Episode 1: Never Get On The Boat
Fjorn leans over the wooden rails of the ship, dry heaving as the vessel bobs up and down through subtle waves. His short blonde braids hang along his face as he looks to the horizon. In the distance is the coast of Morrowind. It is the year six-hundred and thirty-two, in the second era, and the Nord had never seen Morrowind before. He gazes at the mass of earth with his icy blue eyes. Though the dark, ashen lands around Red Mountain seem even more bleak and imposing than the snow-covered mountains of his native village in Skyrim, the fact that the land is growing nearer makes his churning stomach begin to settle.
"I didn't know you could become seasick." A voice remarks.
Fjorn turns to the voice, standing upright as he faces his companion. The six feet and three-inch-tall Nord warrior towers over his friend, an Imperial Spellsword, who is easily seven inches shorter than Fjorn. The wind blows through the Imperial's chestnut hair. It shifts the strands which reach to his upper chest, along with his four-inch goatee, swaying them from side to side. The ship suddenly jerks, startling Fjorn, who grabs the wooden rail tightly as he balances himself. The Imperial chuckles, arms crossing over his chest.
"Don't you have a spell or potion to ease your nervous stomach?" The Imperial asks.
"Not so loud, Nish!" Fjorn replies.
"Nothing is wrong with being well-rounded, and no one outside of Skyrim cares that a male Nord practices alchemy and restoration; you can still be a warrior." Nish replies.
"I don't really practice alchemy or restoration… More like… Dabble." Fjorn forces a grin.
The ship rocks as a gust of wind blows in from the east, pushing the boat hard. Fjorn clutches the rails tightly with both hands as he suddenly heaves, vomiting forth the bread and venison he had eaten this morning.
"Well, then I suggest you advance from dabbling into true practice." Nish remarks.
"Yeah… I'll make a note." Fjorn mutters.
Nish turns and leaves the Nord to his suffering, casually walking through a door that leads below deck. He walks down the rickety stairs and enters the passenger quarters below, where he sees a Dunmer and a Khajiit playing a card game. He watches as the Mer loses. In frustration, the Dark Elf stands up from the small table, where he sits across from his Khajiit adversary. He turns and storms past the Imperial, slamming into his shoulder as he rushes up the stairs.
"Filthy cat!" The Mer yells out.
"Do not be such a sore loser!" The Khajiit laughs.
He takes the drakes that he had won from the Dark Elf, pulling them over to him as he quickly counts his haul. He looks up at the Imperial, who seems to stare at him. He immediately notices the Imperial's earring plugs; brass horns in each ear, that match his own. He stares at the Imperial apprehensively, his eyes like Hessonite Garnets.
"… What is it, Imperial? Would you like to play?" He asks.
"Not if you are going to keep cheating." Nish grins.
"Ah, well… If this one did not cheat, he may not win. It is only this one's luck that the Mer did not notice." The Khajiit chuckles.
"What is a Khajiit doing traveling to Morrowind?" Nish asks, standing by the table.
"This one could ask the same of you, Imperial."
"No reason in particular. I'm just going wherever the road takes me… Or the sea in this case." Nish answers.
"Interesting. Are you some sort of mercenary? A traveling merchant perhaps?" The Khajiit inquires.
"Something like that. What about you?" Nish presses.
The Khajiit merely shrugs his shoulders. He takes the handful of coins and dumps them into his coin purse that is tied around his neck, tucked just underneath his maroon colored tunic.
"That's fine. No need to answer me; you aren't hurting my feelings." Nish chuckles.
The Khajiit glances up at the Imperial, grinning faintly as Nish casually walks past him and into a small adjacent room. The Khajiit notices a tattoo on the Imperial's inner left forearm; it looks like the bottom half of a plant. Several hammocks hang from the walls inside of the room, and act as berths. Nish sits on a bottom hammock to his left, lying down on the rope net bed that hangs just over his brown leather backpack and bedroll. Tucked just underneath his pack and bedroll lie his iron weapons, a Khajiiti sword and axe, and an Argonian dagger. He closes his eyes and listens to the sounds of the waves splashing against the side of the ship. It comforts him, and eases his nerves.
Though he has spent over four of his twenty-four years of life traveling throughout Tamriel, he has never truly adapted to life away from home. He can't help but think that the sound of the waves somehow sounds similar to the wind of his homeland. His mind suddenly races back to his family. He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling of the ship, watching a thick glass lantern that's shrouded in an iron cage. It sways, hypnotizing him as he reminisces silently to himself. He is suddenly jarred from his daze by Fjorn stumbling into the room.
"Thank the Gods; we are almost there. I can't take much more of this…" Fjorn grumbles.
"I'm glad to see you enjoying yourself." Nish smirks.
"Hah… Hah…" Fjorn glares.
"Aren't you Nords the seafaring people?"
"Only when we aren't being oppressed by you Imperials… So no, not really." Fjorn grins.
"I don't appreciate you pointing out my condition." Nish remarks.
"What condition? Being an Imperial?"
Nish doesn't respond. Fjorn sits on the bottom right hammock, struggling to steady himself as he slowly lies back. After a long moment of pretending to relax, a Dunmer deckhand steps into the doorway of the room. He raps his knuckles against the doorframe, gaining the men's attention.
"We're about to dock in Seyda Neen. Collect your things." The deckhand grumbles in a hoarse voice.
"How many years have we traveled together?" Fjorn suddenly asks.
"Just about two years now, if I recall correctly." Nish replies as he gathers his pack, bedroll and weapons.
"In that time, we had never sailed before. Once we leave Vvardenfell, I expect that we will never sail again." Fjorn comments.
They climb the stairs from the lower decks and exit to the main deck, where they stand at the rails as the ship grows ever closer to the shores of Vvardenfell. Dock workers prepare to moor the ship as deckhands raise the sails. Fjorn braces himself as the ships inches its way into the only port. Nish looks around at the crew and the other passengers. He notices the Dark Elf gambler, still angry from before. He glares at the Khajiit male, a Cathay-Raht with orange-rust colored fur, lined with dark black stripes of equal proportion to the opposing color; the Khajiit has no mane.
The other passengers stand eagerly at the rails as they look to the distant horizon; Netches and giant mushrooms are visible in the distance. The dockworkers and deckhands throw each other thick ropes, mooring the ship and sliding a gangplank along the port side. The passengers disembark; Fjorn rushes past many of them, barely able to contain his excitement to touch solid ground. Though he may be twenty-three-years-old, he acts like a young child with their first sweetroll. The Dunmer scoffs as he passes Fjorn. The Khajiit doesn't seem to notice, quickly disappearing into the town of Seyda Neen. Nish calmly walks down the gangplank, departing last.
"I haven't seen you this elated since we first met." Nish comments.
"Nearly dying in a cave in Cyrodiil will do that to you." Fjorn remarks.
"That's an exaggeration, my friend."
Nish slings his leather backpack, his bedroll tied to the bottom of the pack, and then fastens his belt of weapons. Fjorn takes a deep breath, sighing in relief as he puffs up his chest and stretches out his arms. They begin walking through the port town, heading for the main road. Suddenly, Fjorn stops.
"Hold on a moment." Fjorn calls out.
Nish turns back, only to see Fjorn motioning for him to follow. Fjorn heads off the road, walking towards the nearest tavern inn. Nish rolls his eyes; he hopes that Fjorn isn't going to backslide. He rushes up to follow his comrade, entering The Saucy Nix. Fjorn checks his coin purse and promptly orders several Nut Brown Ales from the innkeeper. He takes the four mugs and turns, stopping to see Nish glaring at him.
"What? … I'm just going to unwind after the trip… One of them is for you!" Fjorn assures him.
"Thank you, but it isn't sweet enough." Nish quietly replies.
Fjorn shrugs his shoulders and moves for an empty seat. Nish approaches the counter.
"What can I get you?" The innkeeper asks.
"Do you have anything with honey in it?" Nish replies.
"Barley Nectar and Honey Lager." She says.
"Hmm… This one… … I would prefer Honey Lager." Nish places his order.
The innkeeper raises an eyebrow, then pours the drink. Nish pays the appropriate number of drakes before joining Fjorn in the seat next to him. Nish takes his time, while Fjorn guzzles each mug as though it were going to be his last. Fjorn, having struggled with alcoholism, isn't fazed by the four mugs of cheap ale, while Nish begins to feel a mild rush from his single lager. They leave The Saucy Nix and head back for the road; Nish is eager to move on from the little port town.
They come to a fork and look at a set of signs. One points to Vivec City, while the other to Balmora. Fjorn looks to Nish, who looks left and right, trying to decide which way to go. He turns back to Fjorn and takes out a single drake from a separate pocket; it's his lucky coin.
"City, or big city?" Nish poses.
"We'll have a higher chance of dying out in the country." Fjorn answers with a smile.
"Balmora it is." Nish grins.
He places his lucky drake back into his pocket and takes the left trail, walking north toward Balmora. They walk silently along the path, admiring the change in scenery, and listening to the strange sounds of the native wildlife. Suddenly, they hear a decidedly different sound.
"This one did not cheat you. You simply have bad luck, yes?" A familiar voice calls out.
"No! You did cheat! I know that you did, you filthy cat! Admit it, and I'll kill you quickly!"
The duo creep along the trail. Fjorn draws his Nordic iron longsword with his right hand, taking up his wooden round shield in his left. His shield, reinforced with an iron rim, bands, and boss, is painted black, while the iron components are an icy blue. Nish draws his sword with his left hand, the strong one, and charges his right palm with a small purple-blue orb of lightning.
"Alright… So perhaps this one did cheat you, but would you not have done the same, if your opponent was not clever enough to see it?" The Khajiit asks.
"Damn you…" The Dunmer grumbles, drawing his bow.
"Hold it!" Nish cries out.
The Dark Elf spins around and hastily lets loose his arrow, completely missing Nish by several feet. Nish fires a blast of charged energy, striking the elf's hands and causing the Mer to drop his bow. He cries out in pain as the Khajiit quickly turns and runs away, leaving his saviors behind to deal with the enraged Mer. He dives for the bow, but Nish fires a ball of flame, engulfing it. He draws a simple iron dagger instead, rushing Fjorn, who quickly knocks him back with his shield.
The Dark Elf rolls back as Fjorn swings his sword, the blade kicking up dirt as it strikes the ground. The elf swings his dagger, just nicking Fjorn's right forearm with the blade. The Nord brings down his sword, as the elf tries to block the strike. In his haste, however, he braces his dagger by the blade, instead of flattening it against his palms. As Fjorn's sword strikes the dagger's blade, it pushes into his opponent's hands and cuts him deeply. Blood oozes from his left palm as he yells. Fjorn gives him no time to recover.
He bumps him with his shield, and as the elf falls back, jams his sword into his gut, before drawing it back and slashing his throat. The elf gurgles blood, as he squirms. Fjorn seems annoyed by his lingering and jams the sword into his chest several more times, until he stops moving. He turns back to Nish, who seems to be looking around for the Khajiit they had rescued.
"A shame you burned his bow. It looked like yew; it would have been worth a few coins." Fjorn comments.
"There's everything else he has… Well… Except for his tunic." Nish chuckles.
Fjorn tears a piece of the Mer's tunic and carefully wipes the blood from his sword, before casually sheathing it. He slings his shield onto his back and suddenly notices a trickle of blood on his right arm. He summons an orb of gleaming yellow-white light. He carefully drags it over the wound, closing it without leaving a single mark behind. He kneels down and looks over the corpse, quickly searching it for valuables. The dagger is severely gouged from his sword strike, and no longer worth selling. The elves clothes are barely middle-class, and his coin purse is empty.
"Well, no wonder he was so angry." Fjorn chuckles.
Around his neck, Fjorn finds a single heirloom necklace made of silver, with a family crest engraved onto it. He takes it from the corpse, before dragging the body from the road and tossing it into a large bush to rot. Returning to Nish, they continue north. They walk for about an hour, when they see a figure turning a corner, quickly approaching them. Fjorn places his left hand on his sword sheath, but Nish grins, holding out his right hand to stop Fjorn. He turns his head to Nish, lowering his hand from his sheath. The figure holds the reigns of a pack guar, which is heavily laden with goods.
"Greetings!" Fjorn calls out.
The older Khajiit male stops his guar and stands before them, his fur and hair slightly greying.
"Greetings." The Khajiit begins.
"Hello. Where are you coming from?" Nish asks.
"This one is a humble merchant, traveling back to Seyda Neen." The Khajiit speaks.
"A free Khajiit in Morrowind?" Fjorn asks in surprise.
"Not all Khajiit are slaves…" The merchant scoffs.
"Returning to Elsweyr?" Nish inquires.
"Perhaps. This one goes wherever there is coin to be made, but Vvardenfell is no longer worth the effort." The merchant continues.
"We're heading to Balmora." Fjorn chimes in.
"A lovely city." The old cat nods.
"This one would be interested in your wares." Nish comments.
He briefly closes his eyes in embarrassment as Fjorn turns to him in surprise. The elder Khajiit merchant narrows his yellow eyes at the Imperial.
"Do you mock me?" He growls.
"I apologize. I would never do such a thing." Nish begins, bowing his head respectfully. "It was a slip of the tongue."
"What do you mean?" The Khajiit presses him.
"You could say that thi-… I am very well versed in Khajiit culture." Nish begins.
The old cat suddenly notices the brass horn earring plugs Nish is wearing, as well as the uniquely shaped Khajiiti sword, sheath and axe. Nish lifts his head and steps up to the Khajiit. He draws back the sleeve of his left arm, revealing an intricate nightshade tattoo.
"Ahziss vaber fetaka iho Khajiit. Ahziss shir fado vaba Ko'Adhasa. Ahziss hadal-ziir Khajiit vado ariit." Nish explains in fluent Ta'agra.
The Khajiit's eyes widen in surprise. He looks over the Imperial before laughing aloud. He pats Nish on the shoulder.
"This one I like!" He exclaims.
They seem to share a laugh, speaking to each other in Ta'agra, to Fjorn's confusion and annoyance. They take a moment to glance over the Khajiit's wares; Fjorn trades the heirloom necklace for bottled alcohol, while Nish purchases dried white fish for their trip. Nish waves goodbye to the merchant as they leave, his spirit lifted from the encounter with the elder.
"A little taste of home?" Fjorn chuckles.
"Something like that… Don't you ever miss yours?" Nish asks.
"No…" Fjorn grumbles.
He pulls the cork from the bottle and quickly takes a swig.
"Well, I do… I think about it all of the time." Nish admits.
"So why not go back?" Fjorn poses.
"And miss out on all this fun, while I'm still youthful?" Nish grins.
"That's the spirit." Fjorn grins.