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Chapter One: The Foreigners
19th of Morning Star, 4E 213
The morning sun rose above the quiet city of Solitude, covered in blankets of sparkling snow. The moons of Masser and Secunda slowly receded below the opposite horizon as if they cowered in fear beneath the golden light. Its rays reached out for the windows and doors, vanquishing darkness that resided behind. The alleyways remain shadowed in darkness and to where thieves will seek to shelter. The Winking Skeever has seen the light of day, its old porous walls dully shining against the aging wood and stone architecture of the city. Tsahari opened her eyes when the sunlight shined through the window. She no sooner slammed her eyes shut when the light attacked with blinding pain. For protection, she threw a pillow on her face to shield herself against the antagonizing light. She slowly navigated her way to the window sill to block off that infernal brightness. She stretched her hand out as stiff as a board, grasping for those sills that evaded her very arm. Finally, her hand gripped the elusive sill and pulled it right across the window, eliminating all traces of light in the room. The room is once again shrouded in darkness. Tsahari lowered the pillow from her face to bask in her little victory. She looked around the room to find her clothes as she had forgotten where she had placed them. Her apprentice robes and shoes were laid neatly across on a nearby table, patiently waiting and ever still. She had more than enough time to dress this morning.
The blizzard outside had slowed to a peaceful and quiet crawl. The call of seagulls flew over the awakening city. The bells of the harbor echoed around the sea and the mighty Imperial ships groaned with age. The soft winds rustled the sheets of sails, dragging the ships back and forth. The Solitude flags, embellished the the color of red, white, black, and with head of a wolf, proudly displaying its design to the surrounding world. Slowly but surely, the people of Solitude left their homes to welcome the morning light.
Tsahari, fully dressed, left her room door open as she went down to the empty bar. All the concentrated energy that inhabited this very tavern dissipated upon the morning day. Chairs, tables, tankards, shattered glass, and utensils were haphazardly scattered all over the wooden floor. It seems some people never left to their homes, sleeping on the floor with their faces on their empty tankards. The potent smell of mead and sweat still linger in the air like a foul spirit. Broken glass crunched beneath her feet as Tsahari walked across the room, causing some to stir and groan. The same bartender sat next to the fireplace, albeit in a sour mood. He glanced up to see the mage standing before him.
"Yes?" He asked, with a mood no happier.
Tsahari opened her satchel beneath her clock. She slid five coins across the table. He looked down at the coins and sighed heavily. The bartender pocketed the coins and got up to retrieve a bottle of mead from the counter shelf.
*CREEK*
The tavern door swung wide open, blowing wind and snow into the quiet yet murky air. Curiosity tugged her brain as Tsahari looked over her left shoulder. She had to squint from the morning light, using her hand to block the harmful rays. Standing before the doorstep were three figures, their appearance shadowed from the bright light behind. They look around the tavern, observing the left over chaos that inhabited the tavern. The wooden floors echoed their noisy footsteps as they slowly approached the bar counter. One of them stopped and turned to close the door, obviously aware of the amount of cold air they were letting in. With the light no longer interfering with her eyes, she took a closer look at these newcomers.
At a first glance at their faces, Tsahari assumed they were a group of Thalmor Justiciar, seeking to eradicate any and all Talos worshipers that they all strive to enforce, but those assumptions were soon thrown out the window. Their clothing, if the Gods permit! Surely no snobby Elves would want to be seen in such messy and ragged uniforms. They all had no armor to which to speak off. Their "uniforms", if one could call it such, were all a mixture of molted green, brown, tan, and black, as if a bear painted their very clothes on the way to Solitude. Their chests were covered in a black vest, filled to the brim of numerous intricate pockets, and their thighs were adorned with black strips and wrappings. Even their molted helmets were made of cloth! The newcomer's faces seemed quite familiar but alien as well. Their skins were yellow, with a completely different facial structure. Their heads are far too short and compressed to be High Elves. They lack the long chin, exaggerated slit eyes, and the pointy ears all Elves earn at birth. Their short status would demand an ancestor of Breton origin, but Bretons do not have slit eyes or pale yellow skin. They were hybrids. Perhaps somewhere in High Rock, some High Elves and Bretons got together to make birth new mix. That still doesn't explain their choice of weapons. Their only methods of defense were some pathetic looking clubs strapped to their back. No swords, bows, or even a worthwhile wooden staff were seen on their personal. Only a tiny dagger, sheathed in the vest, was barely worthy of being a weapon. Embedded on the side of their molted-colored shoulders, Tsahari could see a bright symbol of some kind. It is perhaps an emblem to symbolize their rankings with the Thalmor, Imperial Legion, or maybe some bandits who defected for all she knows. Unfortunately, they were too far off for Tsahari to read them. She stood by the fireplace, staring at those newcomers like a predator stalking its prey.
They continued to walk in a linear fashion; that is until they saw the Khajiit mage. The newcomers paused in front of Tsahari, gawking at her appearance as if they had never seen a Khajiit in their entire lives. The looks on their faces were amusing to say the least. Being the northern most part of Tamriel, it is uncommon for some folks to lay eyes on a graceful desert walker. True to some extent; some Nord farmers remain rather ignorant of the existence of the Khajiit, let alone seeing one with their very eyes. But they are different. They were not the hardened Nords who either strive to prove their worth in battle or die for their souls in Soverngarde. Nor were they the snobby Elves who are gifted in the ways of the arcane. Fixating their eyes on her, they slowly made their way towards the table beneath the mounted bear head. The foreigners sat by the radiant warmth of the fireplace. The fire crackled and danced, devouring the logs underneath. They covered their mouths as they whisper to one another. What she saw next baffled her. Drawing their hands on the table, they waggled their fists in the air, chanting as they do it. Their arms flew to a halt, holding their fists in the air. One of them had two fingers protruding. That newcomer left the table and walked cautiously around the wreckage littering the tavern floor. He still stared at Tsahari, with a glint of curiosity in his eyes. The fireplace illuminated his almost alien face. The newcomer raised his arms high and hailed the bartender. He raised an eyebrow at the newcomer's appearance, but shrugged and followed him to the counter table.
"Welcome to the Winking Skeever. What is it that you want?" His cheery mood was gone from last night.
The newcomer garbled in a language unheard of in her life. He sounded like a man who was taught to pronounce each syllable awkwardly as if each sound had an individual meaning. The words bounced off the bartender's face, failing to register what had just come out of that newcomer's mouth. Holding his temper, he asked again.
"I'm sorry sir, but we speak only Cyrodiilic here." He scratched his head and sighed, "You know, the common tongue?" He was not in the mood for this.
The newcomer pointed at a few bottles of Nordic mead standing at the corner of the bar counter. He then sounded out six syllables, each with individual music-like tones. If he sounded out the name of the object or a full sentence, Tsahari does not know. It can be incomprehensible gibberish for all that she matters, or to annoy the bartender even further for his own amusement. The foreigner showed three fingers then pointed to himself and then his friends. The bartender glanced at him then followed his finger to his fellows sitting near the bear head. Nodding, he snatched three bottles from the bar counter and placed it in front of him.
"I assume you want three bottles of mead, right? That will be fifteen gold pieces." The newcomer raised an eyebrow, a quizzical look on his face.
"Right, um," he reached into his pocket and drew out five gold pieces. He straightened the coins in a neat line next to a bottle, "Here," he pointed, "One bottle. Five gold pieces."
Nodding, the newcomer reached towards one of many small pockets on his chest. Tsahari and the bartender winced as he opened a pocket. The sound it made was abhorrent, like if someone ripped clothes out of pure anger. He withdrew fifteen gold pieces, stained with dried blood, and gently placed it on the counter table. The newcomer took the bottles before the bartender had a chance to say anything. He walked past Tsahari, continuing to stare wide-eyed at her. His companions at the table talked to him and to each other, with the same toned syllables as before. He nodded and looked straight towards Tsahari's large but curious eyes. The newcomer reached out his hand and wagged his fingers at her. It took her a full second to register that he was beckoning her to sit with them.
She took her mead and slowly made her way towards their table. The closer she got the more tense they became. One of them reached towards an ebony dagger, strapped to his right thigh. Tsahari slowly sat down with her hands at her lap, waiting what they would do next. The one who ordered drinks pulled out a small journal of sort and began to scribble something on the paper. At this distance, Tsahari was able to clearly see their symbols, embedded on their shoulders.
It was in a shape of a shield with a gold trim. The shield was colored with blue, red, and black, each separated with a small gold line. The large red strip was adorned with a white sword and a lighting pattern. Above it, golden characters filled the rest of the space. These symbols looked daedric in origin but simplified significantly, removing the unnecessary spikes, tails, and strokes she frequently found in those conjuring tomes. The first letter was a horseshoe on its side, followed by two pillars with an interconnected bridge, a single pillar, a compressed lightning symbol, and a triangle that grew two legs.
Tsahari shot up as a paper was placed in front of her. She cautiously took the paper covered in incomprehensible symbols. What madman created this alphabet? Staring at the Khajiit scholar , the three foreigners chucked at Tsahari's wide-eyed attempt to read his paper. These symbols were completely undecipherable. Each one of them consisted of multiple lines, brackets and squares. The simplest she could find was a rectangle with a line piercing the middle. She folded the paper neatly and slipped it down her satchel. If Tsahari ever got back to the College, she'll give it to someone who could make sense of this scribbled nonsense. These newcomers were a strange bunch to be sure, but quite interesting as well. She will call them foreigners for what they are currently.
For the entire morning, the three foreigners tried to communicate to people around the tavern. Recovering from last night's activities, most of them had quite a hammering hangover. The newcomer's response was usually met by insults, laughter, and mockery.
"Did a troll bash your stupid elvish face in when you were a baby?"
"I'm sorry. I don't speak gibberish."
"Your cloths are hideous! What are you? Blind or just lacking in intelligence?"
"What's with the silly looking club on your back? It couldn't harm a skeever even if you tried!"
The overwhelming negative responses they received amount to nothing if these foreigners lack the understanding of even the basic of the common tongue. Soon, the foreigners returned to a different seat, drowning the rest of the morning with some mead. They took very careful attention to Tsahari. She swore that she heard a mechanical click from their hands, but dismissed it as a figment of her imagination.
By noon, the sun had risen up high over the busy city of Solitude. The foreigners left their empty bottles on the table and left the tavern, fully unaware that the same curious cat was tailing their very backs. Outside, the roofs of Solitude were blanketed with brilliant white sheets of snow, glittering beneath the sunlight. The sounds of vivid life and energy echoed throughout the city streets. Colorful triangular flags were adorned high above the heads of many people. The streets were crowded beyond recognition, with all manners of children running to and fro. A starving lone dog ran between the legs of the foreigners and took off into a nearby alleyway in search for food and scrap meat. Beggars slept on the streets and thieves lurk between the foul dark alleys. The poor pleaded for coin, shoving their dirty hands to the crowd of many, while others use those very hands to picket the pockets of others. The castle dour and the Blue Palace dominated the city skyline and shadowed smaller buildings like a stone goliath. Seagulls were perched on the roof while others flew over the city. They bellowed their call in the air, announcing their presence to the crowd below. The snow on the street was stained with brown and dirt, constantly trampled and kicked to those who thought less of it. Everyone's footsteps left a mark on the ground in a crunch after each step. The smell of urine and feces linger in the air, seeping through the cracks of homes and doors.
The foreigners gathered their thoughts in the mists of the rush. Their uniforms attracted the eyes of many, curious about their garments in which they wore. The foreigners paid no heed as they seem to dwell in their own sense of superiority. Tsahari assumed that they attract this type of attention everywhere they go and every step they make. The foreigners began to walk down the street, shrouded by the heads of a hundred. Tsahari had to push and shove to keep up to their rapid pace. People opened windows to discard their unneeded garbage above the heads of others. A foul smelling undergarment landed on the head of one foreigner, much to his surprise. No sooner was he about to yell when the offender slammed his window shut. His fellow buddies laughed at his misfortune, granting them a slap in the face with the same undergarment. They stop laughing and returned to their serious stature. As if anyone can be intimidated by the mess they garnish. A quarter past an hour zoomed by, the foreigners taking in the life of the city in which they tread in. The cat followed close behind. Sometimes, they would pause to observe the painfully decorated signs of shops, scribbling down on their journals. A few solitude guards walked past the group, their masked helmets hiding their rugged faces. Their eyes narrowly missed Tsahari, as she hid within the moving crowd. Up ahead, stalls upon stalls of food and weapons gathered around the city square. It was the busiest part of the city, pockets ripe for those who seek them. Upon reaching the entrance of the market, they looked around the area, interested of all the activity that surrounds them.
"Meats! Here and fresh in all of Haafingar!"
"The freshest fish fresh from the Karth River!"
"Need armor? I have a wide variety of choices for the brave adventurers!"
"Meats! Meats! Get your meats here! Got plenty of meats!"
"A sharp sword with a sharp wit will strive to survive. Get your blades here!"
"Fresh fruits and vegetables! All freshly picked and ripe for eating!"
Chickens flapped and hopped in their wooden cages, attracting the eyes of small children. They laughed and pointed at the animals with glee before being herded by their parents. Men and women around the market bartered and yelled, thrusting their hands out filled with gold coins. All manners of products were laid in front of prying eyes. The foreigners walked along the market street, leaning in and out to browse an assortment of foods and weapons sprawled around ground and stalls. One of them hefted a steel sword from the table to scan its quality. He returned the sword back to the table with a smirk on his face. Why he chose that silly metal club over a solid steel sword is beyond Tsahari's knowledge. Maybe it shoots ingots or fireballs, or perhaps an entire chicken for that matter. The Staff of Superior Chicken Throwing, that'll give Sheogorath's Wabbajack a run for its money. Tsahari grinned and chucked to herself at such thoughts. She failed to notice her apprentice hood that fell lazily on her back. Two legion soldiers stood near the stone well, keeping a keen eye for thieves and pickpockets. It wasn't long before both spotted the distinct head of a Khajiit that stood among the crowd.
"Hey! You're not supposed to be in here, cat!" He yelled, "How did you get pass the walls?" The guards gave chase, their armor clanking like a bag of tankards.
Their calls sent a chill down her spine, their shouts grew louder as they came frighteningly closer. Tsahari tugged the hood over her head and quickly merged into the growing crowd. She waded swiftly between the bodies of Nords and Imperials. The sound of heavy footsteps followed close behind. One of the guards still recognized the purple robes that she so adore to wear.
"There she is! After her!" The guards moved faster.
The guards pushed and shoved their way through the street, causing most to yell and scowl. The Khajiit took off in a sprint, dodging oncoming crates and stalls. The market area was a complete maze. Her heart pulsed faster; her eyes scanning everywhere for a place to hide. There! In the corner! Tsahari took a sharp right in the gap between two stalls and hid behind the trunk of a large pine tree. Those legions soldiers came soon after, searching frantically for that Khajiit.
"Where is she?" One yelled.
"I think the cat went over there," The other pointed to the south," She can't get far. There's only one Khajiit in this whole city."
"You make it sound easy." One complained.
"Oh, quit your gripping."
They continued down the street until their armor was no longer visible in the sea of the market. Tsahari gripped the tree behind her, her chest growing bigger and smaller. That was close. That was very close. She had barely enough money to bribe one more guard, let alone two Imperial soldiers. The Khajiit was not welcome in any Nord city, for fear of selling skooma or robbing people blind. More caution was needed if she were to further travel in this city. Or stalk the foreigners for that matter. Wait, but where are those foreigners? Tsahari franticly swiveled her head left and right, in search for those molted clothed Breton-elves. Those imperial soldiers caused her to lose track of them much to her distain. Where have those foreigners gone? Finding them in the market square was near impossible, for the amount of people walking around here. She'll have to think forward. Before the chase, one of them took a sword from a stall and examined it. Perhaps they seek finer weapons to replace those haphazard clubs on their backs. A very vague lead, but it's a lead nevertheless. The closest blacksmith was near the castle dour, but quite a distance from the market. She'll have to move quickly. There's no telling how far those foreigners got, as she lost time evading those soldiers. Tsahari took off west in a cloud of dust. She flowed through the crowd like a fish in a river, giving chase to those foreigners whom contained secrets she seeks to uncover. Tsahari hadn't had that much adrenaline and fun throughout her life as a scholar. There's no way she'll give up now.
The noon sun still shined brightly above the clear sky, purely unaware of events below. A group of bandits, seeking a good place to settle and plunder, sought a lonely cave. The cave known as Wolfskull. They entered the gloomy place, expecting to find it abandoned. They did not.
Multiple cracks of thunder hammered the quiet air. Then silence filled the void once more.
The bandits were never heard of again.
