For being the person the most desperate to get off the Death's Reach, Lucia was surprised to see that she was the last person to make her way above decks the morning the ship was to pull into harbor. Her heart raced with joy: she could see land. The ship was swiftly approaching an island that was growing ever larger on the horizon. This must be the Isle of Esroniet. She had waited so long to arrive that the sight of it raised her so frequently-trampled spirits.

As she looked about the deck, though, she was reminded of her current reality. Arquen stood near the bow, calmly watching the island. She must've been doing something to control the crewless vessel, but the less Lucia knew about that, the better. Ruma Camoran leaned on a railing at the port side of the ship, tapping her foot impatiently. Lucia looked at her for a moment until Ruma realized she was being watched. She scowled, and Lucia immediately looked away. Elsewhere, Lucia could hear Hides-His-Heart's breathing somewhere in the shadows behind her, like a swamp beast, but she tried her hardest not to let it affect her. That left, to her dismay, Auguste Flamet who was watching from the starboard rail. Upon seeing Lucia he smiled and gave a wave. "So good to see you, Miss Lucia."

Lucia hesitantly walked forward. "... Good morning, Mr. Flamet," she said, approaching the starboard side of the ship herself.

"I assume that before us you can see Esroniet, Jewel of the Padomaic Ocean" he said, gesturing toward the bow of the ship, "I have read of it in the past, but in truth I never assumed that I would ever travel this far east. It shall be fascinating to see it with my own eyes."

"I've read very little about it," replied Lucia, "Only that Uriel V used it as a staging operation for his invasion of Akavir."

Uriel V's invasion. It was hard for her to believe that there was a time that Tamriel was the nation doing the invading. Then again, the expedition met with unparalleled disaster. Ocato did not seem to believe that an Akaviri invasion would share the same fate. Flamet looked to her. "If you're curious, I can tell you a little of the island's history."

Lucia nodded. Flamet cleared his throat. Across the ship, Ruma scoffed, which Flamet ignored. "Scholars believe that Esroniet was first settled by Atmorians via Skyrim, soon after the Great Migration. This thesis is backed up by linguistic evidence, seeing that their tongue is so similar to our own. Because it was colonized by men, it has generally been in Tamriel's cultural sphere, although neither Tamriel nor Akavir have ever occupied it for an extended length of time. It's just too far away for an indefinite presence to bureaucratically feasible."

"But Uriel V conquered it," said Lucia.

"True," replied Flamet, "But do remember that it was in the grip of the Empire for less than a decade before it reasserted its independence. Uriel's conquest, however, did see the construction of Black Harbor, the city in which we are docking. By founding this city, hundreds of Imperial citizens flooded the island, not only to fight the Akaviri, but also to build ships, balance ledgers, and care for the wounded. When the legion withdrew, many of those Imperials found that there was great demand for their services in Esroniet, and even greater profit for the financially-minded. As a result, there is still a sizable population of Imperials living in Black Harbor, maintaining Tamrielic customs. You won't mistake it for Chorrol, of course, but it should be familiar enough for you be comfortable."

Lucia didn't reply. She glanced back at Ruma, who was staring at the sky. She looked back to Flamet. "How long are we going to stay on the island?"

Arquen spoke before Flamet could. "For as little time as possible. We've got a job to do in Akavir, not Esroniet."

Ruma smirked and smacked the railing she was up against with her fist. "That's not very descriptive, Arquen. Did you not want us to know how much damage your little club's ship took in the storm? We'll be grounded all day at the very least."

"Watch your tone with me, girl," Arquen replied, not looking back at Ruma, "You might've had some privilege in the Dawn, but you're under my command now. If you keep on looking for trouble, I can assure you that you'll find more than you bargained for.

Ruma glared at Arquen. She looked as though she was choosing her words for her leader, but before she could speak, Flamet seized control of the conversation. "Please, ladies," he said, his voice calm, but with firmness lying under the surface, "We are all allies and comerades here. There's no reason for us to argue."

Arquen didn't reply. Ruma made a face, but also remained quiet. With the Speaker silenced, Lucia couldn't resist giving a small smile. She wasn't often happy recently, and Flamet couldn't help but notice her improved mood. "What do you plan on doing on the island, Lucia?"

The question caught Lucia off guard. "Me? I... I don't know." She was being honest. All of her fantasies primarily involved her simply leaving the ship. After she got off, she really had no idea what she would do next.

"Well, if you're ever at a loss as to what to do, I would welcome you company," said Flamet in that suspiciously affable voice of his.

Lucia, again, was taken aback. She opened her mouth instinctively, but found that she couldn't find the words to reply, as so often was the case for her recently. Flamet simply smiled, not seeming to take any offense. "Of course, I do not wish to impose anything on you."

"I'll go," Lucia said suddenly. The words coming from her own lips surprised her. She could hardly believe what she just said, or why she said it.

"Wonderful," replied Flamet, "We'll have a grand day out."

Lucia didn't reply. It was too late to take back her statement now. She couldn't fathom why she had agreed, but agree she did. Esroniet approached, and she would leave the ship. But naturally, fate was all to happy to muddy even this small happiness, for the ship wasn't intending on leaving her.


"Oh good sir jailor?" Llendo called out, almost in singsong, as Lancerow approached his cell.

"Mara preserve us..." Lancerow muttered.

"The ship's stopped moving. Have we reached the Isle of Esroniet?"

"No," said Lancerow, shoving some stale bread and cheese through the small hole on Llendo's door.

Llendo put his head to the aperture and looked at Lancerow. He did his best to make his eyes look as large and pitiable as possible. "I suspect that you and the lovely Lady Flyte will have shore leave here. Don't I get any shore leave?"

Lancerow responded by shoving a battered old flask of water through the hole, hitting Llendo in the bridge of the nose. "If I had it my way, rogue, you'd spend the rest of your life rotting in here."

"Ach, my dear jailor," Llendo said, rubbing where the flask had hit him, "Has anyone ever told you that you have a bit of a nasty streak?"

"Not in so many words," replied Lancerow, turning around.

Llendo again moved as close to the hole as possible. "Haven't you any compassion in that heart of yours? You know, it's been the fondest wish of mine to visit this fabled isle. Can you really find it in your soul to deny a man the dream of his life?"

Lancerow gave a cruel smile. "Your life's dream was to visit a forgotten little island in the middle of the ocean? What kind of idiot boy pines for that?"

"Well, granted, it's only been the dream of my life since I overheard that we'd be stopping here a few days ago," Llendo conceded, "But! That said, for the past seventy-two hours the desire to set foot on the sands of Esroniet has seized the very core of my being!"

"Wasn't Lyn 'seizing the very core of your being' last time I checked?" Lancerow asked, crossing his arms.

Llendo gave Lancerow a grin, "Cherished friend, the Lady Flyte is 'the object of my burning passions'. I think a man has room in his heart to both be burned by passion while at the same time have his very core seized, no?"

"... Sometimes, rogue, the fact that I haven't run you through yet really stuns me." Lancerow said, making for the door.

"Come now! How can you say such things? The bond twixt a prisoner and his noble jailor is supposed to be a beautiful and sacred thing."

Lancerow stepped through the door and slammed it shut. Llendo shook his head in response. "What do they teach those knights in Anitclere?" he said with a dramatic sigh, "Chivalry is dead art..."

He rolled his shoulders to crack his back, and then flicked his wrist. A lockpick tumbled down from his sleeve and into his hand. He inspected the door once more. It was a tricky lock, seeing as though there was no keyhole on his side. There was one on Lancerow's, but it was a good foot and a half down from the small hole near the top of the door. Llendo certainly couldn't reach it with his arms. It would be enough to make even an experienced thief give up. Llendo, however, had a job to do, and every moment that he spent in the hold was a moment that Lady Flyte got farther away from him.

He worked quickly and methodically. He first looked to the floor, where he had spent the last couple of days prying at a board. It was too well crafted to be pulled out, but he found a weak grain in the wood. He jabbed the blunt end of the pick into the wood, causing it to split. A thin, yet long, section of timber broke off, just as Llendo had hoped. Without wasting time, he turned to his trousers and, (burdened by the guilt that can only be known by a lover of high fashion forced to destroy a truly lovely pair of pantaloons) ripped off two strips of fabric. He took the sheets and tied one of their ends to the wood and one of the ends to the pick. He picked up the wooden stick: the lockpick hung under it, suspended by the fabric strips. The easy part was done.

Llendo walked to the door and stuck the wood through the hole. The pick tumbled down, hovering right next to the keyhole. Slowly, carefully, Llendo brought the lockpick to the keyhole. It wasn't an easy task. This wouldn't be a simple lock to crack even under normal circumstances. Here, though, he could see neither the lock nor the pick. Compounding that, any movement he wanted to make with the pick was jerky and imprecise. He closed one eye and listened to the door. A tap as the pick hit the wood. Another tap as the pick hit again. A third tap. Then, though, the metal-on-metal sound of the lockpick hitting the keyhole. He was in.

He pressed his ear to the door. Without holding the pick in his own hands, he could barely make out where the tumblers where. He could hear them, true, but, being on the wrong side of the door, that was only of partial use. Yet again complicating matters was that if the pick broke, he was sunk. He moved the wood up. The sound of a tumbler, although of which one he couldn't be sure. "Not as simple as I had hoped..." he whispered.

A metallic click. He breathed in suddenly—had the lockpick broke? He gave the smallest of nudges to the wood, and heard the pick fall slightly. It had been a tumbler. He smiled in relief and moved on to the second. He was starting to get the hang of using the wood. It wasn't easy by any definition of the word, but now the task seemed somewhat less impossible.

He maneuvered the pick under the second tumbler. This is where it got tricky. If he failed to push it up, the pick broke. If he wasn't perfect, the first tumbler would fall, and the pick would break that way, too. "Nocturnal, help me out here... Mephala, would work, too... Goodness, even Almsivi, I know we've had our bumps in the past, but if you'd be offering..."

Llendo held his breath. This was it. He moved the wood with utmost care. He could hear the pick snag the tumbler inside the door. He tried to bring the pick up, and he could hear the faint sound of metal moving from the lock. The work was too delicate: even the smallest of motions of his hand felt like a clumsy swing of his arms. The tumbler kept moving up, slowly, until...

Another click. Llendo gave a long exhale and pushed at the door. It swung open easily. He shook the tension out of his hands. "Now, good sir jailor, wouldn't you agree that it would've been much easier for everyone had you just given me the shore leave from the start...?"

With that, Llendo began to depart the ship. His would have to move quickly to catch up with Lady Flyte. He retrieved his pick, gave one last distressed look to his ruined trousers, and left the room, en route to the sunny shores of Esroniet.


"I feel great!"

This island was better than Roliand could had ever dreamed. His expectations were very low: any chunk of land where he could stretch his legs and put a little distance between Beyte and himself would've been more than enough. But Esroniet! Between the fresh, warm ocean breezes, the crystal blue waters rolling onto the black-sand beaches, and the exotic tropical fruits for sale, he felt like he had wandered into paradise. It was a shame that he only had one day to spend here, but he could hardly think of a better place to be. And for a man who had never been out of Cyrodiil, it was so much the better.

Roliand was now walking through the commercial district, taking in the sights. He could tell that he was in between two great continents: a merchant would hawk Orcish armor or Breton tapestries next to a stall containing porcelain vases or pungent spices. Roliand made it a point not to dwell too much on the Akaviri merchandise. He would have plenty of time to do so when he was actually in Akavir, after all, and this was perhaps the last friendly town he would visit in a long time.

He looked at a row of buildings that he was passing. There were a variety of stores: a book store, an alchemical supplier, a jewelcutter. One, however, caught his eye. He stopped before an old, creaky looking building. The sign on the door read Esroniet Antiques. Displayed in the front window were a variety of old, Tamrielic swords. This was exactly the kind of shop that caught his interest. Smiling, he opened the door and walked inside.

Inside, the store was cramped, dim and dusty. This Roliand didn't mind—indeed, it proved to him that it was authentic. He spotted an old man sitting in one corner who looked up at him, seeming a bit surprised. "Why, hello young man," he said in an Esroniet-accented Tamrielic.

Roliand smiled and walked deeper into the store. "Hello to you, too."

The old man's eyebrows raised. "Why bless my bones! You must be from the mainland."

"Yes," said Roliand, "I just got in this morning. It's an amazing island you got here."

"Oh, yes, I couldn't imagine living anywhere else," replied the old man, "Please, feel free to browse."

Roliand nodded and began walking around the store. There was something he loved about stores like this. You could almost feel the history radiating off the merchandise. Even the worthless stuff had a story far longer than his own. Most of the wares here were from Tamriel, and if Roliand had to date them he would've guessed the bulk of them were at least a hundred years old. That meant that there were decaying books on one table, and swords with rotting hilts on another, but that was half the fun of going to a store like this. You never knew what you could find.

As Roliand turned around a table set up with a selections of globes, he noticed a wall covered in paintings and prints. Most were forgettable cheap things intended for mass consumption. In the middle of the wall, though, encased in a strikingly contemporary frame, was a thoroughly modern portrait that almost made Roliand stop dead in his tracks. The rest of the store faded from his mind as he walked towards the painting. It depicted a young, seated woman who looked like nothing Roliand had seen before. She was so pale that her unblemished skin was nearly white, with a blush to her cheeks that was surprisingly blue as opposed to red. Her hair, too, was a pale azure, done up in an Akaviri style that he had never seen before. Despite the painting being of a realist school, her features were so delicate and flawless that Roliand had a hard time believing that such a woman could really exist. Roliand heard the owner of the store walk up beside him. "You like the painting?" the old man said with a smile.

Roliand looked on the frame an noticed the title. "Khon-Ma..." he said, reading it aloud. He glanced to the shopkeeper. "She's beautiful."

"Indeed... This is actually the most recently made item in my entire shop, you know. It's only about a year old. That's when the young lady depicted was last here."

"So the painting is of a real girl?" Roliand asked in surprise.

"Oh yes," replied the shopkeeper, "And she was just as striking in real life as she is on the canvas. A local artist claimed that he just had to paint her, and I of course, just had to buy the painting. Even if it isn't an antique, it was far too exquisite to pass up."

"I can understand that," Roliand said, looking back at the painting, "I'd probably do the same thing. If I had more gold in my pocket, I'd already be haggling with you for her."

"Well, is there something in particular that you were looking for?" the old man said, gesturing about the store with his cane. "We have plenty of bargains in here, I can assure you."

Roliand reluctantly took his eyes off the portrait of Khon-Ma and looked around the store. "Well, I'm looking for something small... Maybe related to military history, too."

The old man stroked his chin. "Hmm... Well, how about an armor medallion?"

"I've never heard of them."

The old man gestured for Roliand to follow him as they walked to another end of the store. "Well, that doesn't surprise me, really. They went out of style well over a century ago," he said, ducking under an old guisarme hanging off a shelf, "Now, most noble families have a crest that they bear on their shields. But it used to be, before tabards became popular, if you didn't wear a shield, you couldn't display the family crest. Armor medallions were a way around that, and doubled as a way to hold a cape down. But here, you can see for yourself."

They stopped in front of a table covered in what looked like rather large coins. As Roliand looked them over, however, he realized that they all were engraved with the arms and crests of noble families. He smiled and picked one up, examining it in the light. The old man picked up another one. "As luck would have it, the heyday of their popularity was during Uriel V's invasion. Many of the fallen had theirs stripped from their bodies, never to return to Tamriel."

Roliand set down the one he was examining and picked up a different one. He had a good feeling about this medallion: it's bright brass surface would shine out from his own armor dramatically, and it's symbol, a flaming sword, was appropriately gallant for a hero off to explore Akavir. "How much for this one? Do you take drakes?"

"In septims? Well, lets say forty gold."

"I can do that," Roliand said with a smile, paying the shopkeeper.

"Thank you, young man," the elder replied, "It's very refreshing to see one of your age take such an interest in history."

Roliand affixed the medallion to his breastplate. He liked the look of it. "Well, I'm glad to have dug up such a find," he said. He turned and started to head for the door. "Thanks for the medallion."

"And thank you for your custom, young man," replied the shopkeeper. Roliand opened the door, but before he left he glanced inside one last time. Across the room, the portrait of young woman still hung. He looked at the painting for a couple of seconds before pushing himself back into reality and stepping outside. It would be some time before he would see Khon-Ma's face again.


The fortress of Esroniet was only about a century old, having been built by Uriel V in the not-too-distant past. Despite its relative modernity, however, its lack of maintenance left it already in a state of disrepair. The once solid stones had chipped and cracked, with grasses and scrubs taking root in whatever gap they could find. Forgotten as it was, it still offered an amazing view of the city and the coast. Lucia looked to the coarse and rocky western shore. Water sprayed into the air as strong waves smashed themselves in vain against the jagged blackrock.

Lucia was sitting on the fortress' wall, in what used to be an open-roofed tower. Now, with bushes and seeded flowers eking out their existence in the former battlements, it seemed almost as much a dead garden as a military post. She slowly moved a hand towards the the side of her head, feeling her hair that had grown out to now cover her ears. Lucia had neglected to cut it recently. She couldn't think of a time where it had grown this long.

She heard footsteps near the stairs. She glanced over to see Flamet emerge, carrying a pair of cheap, clay plates. Some sort of fish was laid on them. "Ah, there you are," he said, walking towards Lucia, "I trust that you'll find this admittedly inexpensive dish to your liking. When I travel to a new place, I always try to sample the most inexpensive cooking that I can find. I feel that it gives you a more authentic view of how the people live than if you ferret out delicacies."

He handed her one of the plates. The food looked revolting to her. The fish's flesh seemed dry and crusty, while it was covered in some sort of thick sauce with a scent that nearly made her cough. Flamet gave her an understanding smile. "Perhaps I should've chosen a more familiar dish. The fish is salted and dried out over a week, and it's covered in a concoction derived from what the fishwives remove from the fish while they clean them. Still, it's cheap and filling, not to mention the most typical meal you could cook here."

Lucia tried her best to not grimace. "It's just a little hard to believe that you'd enjoy trying such... Different food."

"Enjoy?" Flamet said. He sounded surprised—perhaps to the point where he surprised by the fact that he was surprised. "I believe that you misunderstand me. I've grown past the point where I seek out enjoyment in such simple things as food. There comes a point where it simply doesn't matter anymore. Instead, I seek out food like... This. It provides a sensation that I've never experienced before."

"Even if it's disgusting?" asked Lucia, looking at the fish.

"It only seems so on the surface. Few things in this world are truly disgusting," said Flamet, "And even so, growth is rarely pleasant. If one simply seeks comfort, one never grows."

The whole conversation had taken a turn that was so socially bizarre that Lucia had no idea what she was to say, or even think. She glanced back towards the shore and her eyebrows raised. Far below them, standing on a rock and looking out over the sea, was Ruma Camoran. It was hard to make out her features from here, but Lucia squinted to get a better look. Ruma was gazing out towards the west, her brown hair blown back by the tropical winds. Her stance was solid and well-balanced—it was almost as though there was a kind of... purpose to her life, clashing with the flippant and detached persona she donned on board the ship. Flamet coughed. "Lucia?"

Lucia blinked and looked back to Flamet. "My apologies if I was ignoring you."

Flamet shook his head. "Do no worry yourself. You were looking out at Miss Camoran, I take it?"

Lucia gave a small nod. "Yes, I was. How could you tell?"

"Your expression. I am perceptive in such matters," replied Flamet. He walked towards the wall and looked down on Ruma as well. "In truth, it is rather intriguing to see her standing there naturally, not having to bear the pretensions of being a Camoran."

"That's what you see?" Lucia asked.

"Yes," said Flamet, giving Lucia a curious glance, "What do you see, Lucia?"

"Me...?" Lucia mouthed softly. She looked back towards Ruma. The Altmer turned away from the sea and began walking towards town. "... I just think that... She looks like a very lonely girl."

Flamet tilted his head slightly, his expression ponderous. There was no time to think, though. A moment later, they heard a noise from across the terrace, near the stairs. Flamet dropped his thoughts on Lucia and his eyes swiftly returned to reality. Rather than grappling with ideas, he was now clearly back in the immediate world. His face had a degree of knowing to it, as though a hypothesis had just turned out to be correct. "So, I was followed," he said. His tone had changed subtly. It was still calm and scholarly, but it's friendliness had been coated by a layer of steel.

He turned around slowly to see a young Dunmer woman ascend the stairs. Her steps were planned and wary—she looked ready to attack or be attacked via magic at any moment. Her burning eyes fell on Flamet. This was clearly an important, personal matter. "I could hardly believe it when I saw your name on the port's ledger, but here you are," she said, sizing up her foe, "Auguste Flamet."

Flamet looked her over. He was wary, too—it was hard to make out, but Lucia could see individual muscles in his hands moving ever so slightly, being prepped to cast a sudden spell, if the situation required it. He was clearly taking the Dunmer seriously, although he now seemed less certain of the situation. "Have we met?" he asked.

"Do you not remember?" the Dunmer said, "Sixty years ago? At Artaeum?"

A moment passed before Flamet nodded slowly in revelation. "Ah... You're one of Divayth's girls. Beyte, if I'm not mistaken."

"You are not." Beyte replied. Her eyes were still burning. Lucia tried to make out the emotion. Fear? Hate? Rage? It was some impossible mixture that she couldn't divine.

Flamet took a step forward; Beyte tensed her muscles in response. His expression was still serious, but learning the identity of Beyte had clearly raised new questions for him. "I see... Well, Miss Fyr, while it is a pleasure rekindle our acquaintanceship, clearly you can see that you are imposing on my meal with Miss Lucia."

"This is no time to dance around the point, Flamet," replied Beyte, "I know why you are here. I won't let you succeed."

Another moment as the two stared at each other silently. Lucia was confused, but she was no fool. There was too much tension here for her to make a motion. The smallest spark could set the two mages off, and the consequences of that flurry of magic would likely include her own life. Flamet took a slow step to the side; Beyte mirrored him. "Miss Fyr, I believe that we have a misunderstanding."

"Do we?" replied Beyte, "So it is simply a coincidence that while I am on a mission of cosmological importance, you just happen to show up, on the same island, hundreds of leagues from Tamriel?"

"It seems that it is a coincidence, yes."

"Do you take me for a fool?"

Flamet frowned, "Miss Fyr, what possible motivations would I have to interfere in your affairs?"

Beyte's scowl remained constant. "The same motivations you acted upon six decades ago, Flamet."

A second passed. Gradually a small, almost unbelieving smile worked its way onto Flamet's face. "... I see. You think that this is all about the Psijics. I can assure you, I no longer have any interest in Artaeum. If I could return what I stole, I would. We're not enemies, you and I."

"Really? Then what exactly are your objectives here?"

"I'm afraid I do not have the liberty to disclose them."

"Then I really have no reason to trust you," Beyte said, swift and certain in her conclusion.

Flamet gave a nearly regretful frown. "... It seems that, unfortunately, you are correct."

There was a standoff. Flamet and Beyte stood across from each other, unmoving in everything but their eyes, which were taking in every detail of the situation. Lucia watched them. It was so quiet—there was only the faint whistle of the wind, the far-off crashes of the waves on the shore below them, and the sound of Lucia's own heart, beating in her ears.

A small gust of wind—Flamet's mantle rippled in the breeze. Neither moved. The arena darkened as the sun moved behind the clouds. Somewhere, a gull called out over the foamy seas.

And then it was over.

Flamet moved first, and he moved decisively. His hand whipped out, and from it shot a burst of gray energy. Beyte's eyes widened, but by the time her body could react, the strike shot straight into her chest. She gave a horrified gasp and collapsed immediately to the ground. The color swiftly began to drain from her face. Lucia, too, paled from the sight. "Mr. Flamet, what...?"

"Do not be alarmed, Lucia," said Flamet, approaching Beyte, "She will not suffer any permanent damage. She shall return to consciousness within two hours, I wager."

As Flamet approached Beyte, Lucia could see him draw a knife from a pocket of his robe. It had small blade, but an exceptionally keen edge—it was the kind used by surgeons to operate on the body. He continued to walk towards Beyte and kneeled down beside her. He placed two fingers on her neck, and then gave her a brief, yet focused inspection. Lucia could see him start to pull up Beyte's blouse. Lucia made a concerned noise, uncertain of even what words to use for this situation. Flamet looked back to her and smiled. His expression, once again, had his old friendliness to it. "I know that my actions here seem questionable," he said, "But I would ask that you trust me. What I do here I do for the young woman's own sake."

Lucia didn't look entirely convinced, but Flamet returned immediately to Beyte. He took out the knife and moved it towards Beyte's stomach. His body blocked Lucia's line of sight, and frankly she didn't fully want to see what he was doing. She could see his shoulder press downwards, however, and the knife surely had cut into Beyte's flesh. Flamet steadily moved his hand across Beyte's midriff. There must have been a decent incision. Lucia flinched and half-covered her eyes with her hand. Flamet looked over Beyte for a few moments. His expression was very serious. A few seconds later, he shook his head slowly. "This is... Unfortunate," he said heavily, pulling Beyte's shirt down so it would once again cover her.

Lucia frowned. His voice was far too grave. "Is she going to be all right?"

"No," Flamet responded. He needed no time to consider the question. "At least in the long term. She has a year, or perhaps two if she is lucky, but there is little hope for her."

An odd burning sensation made its way up Lucia's throat. She didn't even know who this girl was, and yet she felt heartbroken. "What's wrong with her?"

This question caused Flamet to think for a moment. "It is... A misfortune of her birth. I do not believe you really wish to hear the details of her condition, Lucia. It is uncomfortable even for myself."

Lucia looked to Beyte. Even unconscious, her expression was shocked. Lucia looked back to Flamet, who wiped off the knife with a kerchief. Lucia noticed that there wasn't just blood on it, but also an oily, yellow liquid, almost in equal proportions. She didn't ask Flamet about it. He was right—honestly, she didn't want to know. As Flamet returned the knife to his pocket, Lucia thought back to the conversation between Beyte and him. "Mr. Flamet?"

"Yes?" he said, still clearly thinking about Beyte's condition.

"Back then, a few moments ago... The Dunmer lady claimed to have seen you sixty years ago, on Artaeum."

Flamet glanced to the side. He smiled, but it was less confident than usual. "Ah, well... It was a long time ago, yes."

She looked at Flamet. His hair might be graying somewhat, but she didn't peg him that much older than fifty. If he had been robbing one of the most powerful and mysterious enclaves in the world sixty years ago... "Mr. Flamet, just how old are you?"

Flamet looked back to Lucia. He renewed his smile. "Lucia, you surprise me. You should know that it is rather impolite to ask your elders about their age."

That was that. Lucia could tell by his voice that this was the end of this line of conversation. Flamet looked to the fish and frowned. "My apologies, Lucia, but I am afraid that I have lost my appetite."

Lucia nodded and stood up. "I want to leave."

"That might be for the best, yes... Why don't we head down closer to town?"

Flamet began to walk towards the stairs. Before Lucia left, however, she looked back to Beyte and frowned. She walked over to the fallen woman crouched down. She slipped her arms under Beyte's body. Flamet watched quietly. Despite her small frame, Lucia seemed to have no trouble lifting Beyte up. Lucia walked to a soft, mossy patch of ground and gently set Beyte down. She then untied a small shall she had worn about her neck and set it under Beyte's head as an impromptu pillow. Lucia stood up and walked to the stairs without any other words. Flamet watched her descend, and then glanced back to Beyte. She looked somewhat more at peace now.

To think that Beyte's birth came through such sin, and now the product of that blasphemy would be the recipiant of selfless service from a moth priestess.

Flamet's expression hovered in between thoughtful and amused. "What a phenomenal world we live in..." he said softly to himself. Then, he turned to the stairs and followed Lucia, descending into town.


Roliand walked through Esroniet's marketplace, glancing from stall to stall. It wasn't just the goods that interested him, but the people. The market held most anything that could be found on the island, and so there was a fascinating mixture of peoples mingering about. A poverty-ailed beggar spent what little coin she had on a husk of bread one stall down from a local merchant prince, who was demanding the choice cut of beef for his upcoming soiree. A battle-scarred mercenary was haggling over a repair hammer across from a priest of Meridia, who was browsing a display of incense. Being able to openly see such contrast fascinated Roliand. In Tamriel, the classes segregated themselves, but in Esroniet they blended together, at least in the market.

And as luck world have it, Roliand himself would get to experience this lack of division first hand. As he walked down the street, he passed by a young noblewoman, clad in blue, escorted by a pair of guards. He didn't think much of it—he had already walked by more than one aristocrat this afternoon. Right as they passed each other by, however, the noblewoman stopped dead in her tracks, looking at Roliand's chest. "How...?" she began, her confused voice barely rising above the sound of the crowd around her.

Roliand slowed down and glanced at the lady. "Can I help you, miss?" he asked, surprised at the attention he was receiving.

The younger of the two guards smirked. "My lady, didn't you parents tell you that you're not to frolic off with commoners—"

The noblewoman didn't acknowledge his point. She pointed at Roliand's chest. "That's mine," she said with a curious certainty.

Roliand glanced down at his chest. She was pointing at his new armor medallion. "I beg you pardon? I just bought this a couple hours ago."

The elder of the two guards glanced at the medallion, and his eyes widened. The lady shared his surprise. "No, I do not mean that it's—Let me begin again. That medallion rightfully belongs to my family."

"I'm not sure I know what you mean," replied Roliand, "Miss...?"

"Lynette Flyte, daughter of Viscount Auberon Flyte," she said with a rushed curtsy, "And that medallion you're wearing it very familiar to me. It bears the crest of House Flyte."

The elder knight nodded. "Indeed. There is a set of similar medallions in Anticlere Manor. One has always been missing."

Roliand rubbed the back of his neck. "Really?"

Lady Flyte sighed. "How much do you want for it?"

"How much do I want?"

"Yes," Lady Flyte said, her voice growing impatient, "You're carrying an heirloom of my family. I'm certainly not going to let you run off with it."

Roliand mulled over the proposition for a moment. "One hundred drakes," he said slowly, getting ready to haggle.

"Done," replied Lady Flyte, "Sir Lancerow, give this man his gold."

'Damn,' Roliand thought as he took a small parcel of money from the knight, 'I should've asked for more...' He removed the medallion from his chest and handed it to Lady Flyte.

She looked her reclaimed treasure over. Despite being reunited with her family's property, she still looked confused, even when she held it in her own hands. "Where did you find this?" she asked Roliand, not taking her eyes off the medallion.

Roliand pointed down an alley. "There's an antique store down that way. I'm not exactly positive where. I'm a little lost myself."

"Well, it's better than nothing," said Lady Flyte, handing the medallion to one of her knights, "Sir Lancerow, Sir Rudvich, we have to return to the ship soon, so we'll need to find this store as quickly as possible."

At that, without so much as a farewell, Lady Flyte set off, leaving Roliand alone in the middle of market. On the one hand, he missed his medallion, but on the other, it was nice to return long-lost property to it's true owner. Of course, the lady might've been playing him like a fool to get a better price. She was a Breton, after all. Roliand shrugged. She was right about one thing, though: soon he was going to have to return to his ship. Beyte, of course, probably had a sickeningly perfect day, accomplishing everything a woman possibly could on Esroniet, and he wasn't eager to hear her chide him about 'wasting precious time'.

He made for a nearby bookstore. He had made a fair amount of gold by selling his medallion: enough to buy a book or two, at the very least. And seeing as though Akavir was still weeks away, he knew that he was certainly going to need at least a few thick tomes. They'd be better company than Beyte, after all.


Nels Llendo poked his head into the fourth tavern today, hoping to find the woman who he had been searching for ever since he caught a glimpse of her earlier in the marketplace. It wasn't Lynette Flyte—while she was indeed important, the other woman's presence demanded that Llendo be a bit flexible on the job. He scanned the bar and, to his pleasant surprise, saw his Altmer quarry sitting at the counter, drinking alone. He put on his suavest smile and walked over the the bar, sitting down next to her. He nodded to the barkeep. "How about a glass of spiced rum?"

The barkeep wordlessly took out a jug and poured Llendo a glass of liquor. He picked it up and glanced at the Altmer, who was sullenly looking at the counter. Llendo gracefully downed the drink in a single gulp and let out a slow, confident sigh. "Ah... Now this is why you go to Esroniet. Can't get a drink like this on the mainland, that's for sure."

He gave the Altmer another look. "Care for a glass?" he asked.

The woman snorted. "Leave me alone."

Llendo chuckled. "My, I certainly need to work on my charm, don't I? Bartender, pour the vixen some rum."

The Altmer turned her head to look at Llendo. Her eyes were shining in anger. This he expected. He gave her a look over, letting his gaze linger on her curves. It didn't do him any favors. "Who do you think you are?" she said, openly offended.

"Nels Llendo, famed troubadour, at your service," he said with a wink.

While the Altmer was fuming at him, he kept his eyes fixed on her. But while she thought he was inspecting her bust, he was far more interested in her hands—they were tense enough to show that she was on edge, but not to the degree that she would be casting any spells quite yet. Just as he planned. This called for a little more brinksmanship. "Come now, darling," he said while the Altmer was still choosing her very select words for him, "I have it from good authority that I can be very charming. Why don't we toast a glass to new acquaintanceship?"

"You're pathetic," the Altmer said with a sneer.

The sly smile on Llendo's face didn't as much as falter. "My, this is depressing. My dear, if you keep saying such hurtful things it'll be the end of my self-confidence."

Llendo's persistence was able to earn the Altmer's surprise, if not her respect. "Can't you tell when you're not wanted?"

"I have this little feeling that I'll win you over yet."

The Altmer's face was caught in an expression torn between disgust and awe. "You don't know who you're dealing with."

"Oh, I have a guess..." Llendo replied playfully.

"Really?" the Altmer asked. There was only the faintest hint of caution in her voice. Naturally, Llendo made it out.

"Of course," said Llendo, "How could I forget a face as enticing as yours, Ruma darling?"

The tone of the conversation was turned upside down, at least on Ruma's side. Her eyes widened in shock and her body tensed. While Llendo could tell that her mind had ignited with fears and possible escape plans, she still wasn't ready to engage him in a fight quite yet—not in the middle of town at least. She was like a cornered animal, currently defensive but with the potential to lash out at any moment. Llendo felt his own heartbeats speed up, but unlike Ruma, he was far too trained to show it. "So, how about that rum?"

"Who sent you?"

Llendo put a hand over his heart. "You ascribe such mercenary motives to my tender emotions?"

"Don't toy with me," Ruma said, almost fiercely, cutting him off.

"Truthfully, Ruma dear, no one sent me," Llendo said, his voice somewhat more serious, but still calm, "I'm here on an unrelated job. I just saw you in the marketplace and figured that I simply had to make the acquaintance of a woman of your unique standing."

"You can't trick me. That's not all there is this."

"That's a sharp mind you've got there, darling. Barkeep," Llendo called over his shoulder, "Two more rums."

The barkeep glanced at the two warily. If they were in Cyrodiil, the reveal of Ruma's identity would already have caused a small riot. In Esroniet, it was a mere curiosity. Llendo looked back to his unlikely companion. She still looked like she was dangerously close to snapping. "Listen," Ruma said, "I won't tolerate games. Just tell me what you're here for."

Llendo sighed. "And I prepared such witty banter... Well, if you insist skipping straight to business, I suppose I can comply," he said, resting an elbow against the counter and picking up his newly-filled glass with his other hand. "I've learned that three ships entered Esroniet to resupply this morning, all heading east. That's pretty unusual, as there's only one thing east of here worth traveling to."

"Akavir."

"Precisely," replied Llendo, "And it's a mighty odd coincidence that three Tamrielic ships are all heading to Akavir at the same time. One, of course, is my own. I know plenty about that. And the information I've gathered about the second indicates that it's a Telvanni ship, with it's docking fees paid for by a member of the Fyr family."

For a fleeting moment, curiosity got the better of Ruma's caution. "Divayth Fyr is here?"

"One of his wives, more likely," said Llendo. He moved his fingers, causing the rum to slowly spin in his glass. "And that leaves just one more ship, which is carrying the supposedly-dead Ruma Camoran. You have to see that the plot has just thickened for me considerably, Ruma darling."

"If you knew why I was here, why are you going through this charade?"

"Charade? My lovely, do you think that this is a very elaborate threat? On the contrary, I'm not interested in harming you. The two of us could do better if we pooled out knowledge, I feel."

Ruma furrowed her brow. "What do you mean?"

"Well, think about it," Llendo said, "A man in my field excels when he's gotten the most information he can dig up. Who you're with, why you're going to Akavir—these are all very very interesting topics for me, and most likely relevant to my current employment."

"And just what is your current employment?"

"Ah, Ruma darling, I can't quite tell you that until you agree to our little exchange. I can promise you, though, I can tell you whatever information regarding my task or Akavir you'd like to know."

Ruma didn't reply for a moment. She silently weighed her options for a few seconds. Llendo knocked back the second glass of rum in the meanwhile and smiled. "Phenomenal stuff."

"What do you know about Ocato?"

The question took the normally unflappable Nels Llendo by surprise. "The High Chancellor? I suppose I know more about him than the common man."

"What about the aftermath of the so-called 'Oblivion Crisis'? The fate of the Mythic Dawn?" Ruma's questions came fast, almost passionately so.

"Again, darling, I paid more attention to all that than most."

Ruma mulled the idea over for another moment. "... Fine. I agree to this exchange," she said, although she still looked like she had just swallowed something unpleasant.

Llendo nodded slowly. "Ah, you see? I told you I'd win you over."

"Let's just get this done with," said Ruma.

Llendo gave a sardonic frown. "But you've haven't even touched that drink I ordered for you."

Ruma picked up the glass and turned it upside down. "Consider it touched," she said, dropping the glass onto the counter. "Now get talking."

"My oh my," Llendo said softly, watching the amber liquid pool on the counter, "You've gone and left my heart shattered, Ruma darling."

"Let's start at the beginning," said Ruma, not wasting any time, "What happened immediately after the Great Gate was destroyed?"

"Well, my dear, that is quite the tale..."

"Enough of your tales, 'troubadour'," Ruma interrupted, "Just answer me plainly!"

"All right, all right," said Llendo, gesturing for Ruma to settle down, "First chivalry dies, then the art of conversation. What a boorish age this new era is."

Llendo was only being half-sarcastic. True, his primary and immediate goal was to get whatever information he could out of Ruma. But then again, she was quite pretty. It would've been ideal if the two of them got to know each other a little better, but between Ruma's imperious bearing and swift questions, it looked as though he'd only be able to gather information. It really was a pity...


Rudvich knocked on the door of the antique shop. There was no response. It was locked, making it seem that the store was closed. Still, the owner still could be inside. The hour wasn't so late. Rudvich knocked again, harder his time. Moments passed without any sort of response. Lady Flyte stood nearby, biting on her fingernail anxiously. Lancerow, who was near Lady Flyte, shrugged. "It's no use, my lady. The store's locked up tight."

Lady Flyte didn't seem deterred. "This man has been brokering out heirlooms of my family—the family both of you have sworn knightly oaths to. We cannot just let this go by without an investigation."

Rudvich turned from the door. "I sympathize with your sentiments, but the store looks deserted. If the owner is not present, or will not open the door for us, there is nothing that we can do."

"And besides we need to get back to the ship soon, anyway," added Lancerow, "If we wait any longer we'll miss the tides."

Lady Flyte gave an indignant sigh. "Do you not care as to why the rightful property of House Flyte has turned up in Esroniet? Who knows what else is inside?"

Rudvich frowned at her. She had seen this particular expression several times before. He was displeased by her conduct and intended on correcting her, just as he had when she was a little girl. "Lady Lynette, I have served your father for decades. I know well the importance of our regalia, but I also know that our mission to Akavir takes precedence. It was assigned to you by the high chancellor himself."

There was nothing Lady Flyte could say to respond to that. She knew Rudvich was right, but accepting it wasn't so easy. "... Fine," she said, starting to walk towards the docks, "But when we return to Tamriel after our task in Akavir, I will be returning to this store and will have a very long talk—"

Her words came to an abrupt halt. An arrow soared inches from her face, narrowly missing her. She could feel the wind from it brush against her face as it imbedded itself deeply into a nearby building. Her eyes went wide, and her heart skipped a beat. Her body tensed, and a for a long, long second, her mind could do nothing but process the attack. Someone had tried to shoot her with that arrow. Someone had just tried to kill her. She nearly tripped in a moment of headiness, but was able to regain enough of her faculties to turn around and try to get a bearing on the situation.

While Lynette had been unable to respond for several seconds, she noticed that Lancerow and Rudvich had no such difficulties—both had already positioned themselves in front of her. Lancerow had drawn his longsword, Rudvich his claymore. There were at least six assailants, all clad in leather. Four had war axes, two bows. Lancerow gave a yell as the two knights ran towards the enemy. Lynette stumbled backwards against a wall, unable to do anything but watch.

Lancerow arrived first. Using the momentum of the charge, he swung hard at a bald man, who just managed to parry him. That was expected, though—Lancerow recovered his balance before the man and struck again, harder this time. The bald man nearly lost his footing with the parry. Then, quick as a whip, Lancerow kicked him hard in the chest. The man gave a grunt as he fell to the ground. A moment later, Lancerow skewered him with a grating laugh. It was an unorthodox move, but deathly effective—Lancerow might've been young, but he was a genius on the battlefield. Lancerow tore his sword from the man's chest and refocused his attentions on another attackers.

Rudvich's fighting lacked Lancerow's frantic pace. He was a veteran of countless battles, giving him a steady, methodical style. He gave out a quick to a foe that was easily dodged. His enemy mistook it for a display of Rudvich's skill and attacked himself. Rudvich parried. The other man swung again, and once more—both easily parried by the knight. As soon as the attacker realized there was more to Rudvich than it seemed, it was too late. The attacker swung, but Rudvich was familiar enough with his swings to strike near his hands, disarming him. The attacker gasped, but was cut short as the claymore embedded itself between his neck and shoulder. He was dead before his hit the ground. Rudvich adjusted his weight to get a proper footing and moved on to the next enemy. Maybe he wasn't as skilled as Lancerow was, but experience counts just as much in a fight.

As the two continued their bloody assault, the assailants seemed surprised by their skill. One tried to retreat, only to be stabbed in the back by Lancerow. Lynette's knights had already halved their numbers. The day would be theirs. Still, she couldn't stop trembling, and her mind was still cloudy from horror. If she could've settled down a little, she would've wept. Then, though, a noise from her side. She looked around suddenly to see a man slowly walk out from a nearby alley. He was tall, broad-chested, and had a grim expression on his face. He drew a mace and approached.

Lynette tried to step backwards, but stumbled. A tearing sound as her dress snagged on broken piece of wood from the wall. She grabbed at the fabric, but couldn't rip it. She looked up at the man. He grew closer. She wanted desperately to run, but she couldn't seem to control her body. She shook her head and mouthed something unintelligible. He said nothing. From across the road, she could hear Lancerow yell something and footsteps. The mace-wielding man noticed, too, and increased his pace. He drew closer and closer still. He was only a few feel away now. He lifted the mace high—she could see it gleam in the sun. Lynette tried to cover her face with her delicate arms and clenched her eyes tightly.

A scream and a horrible burning light.

But there was no pain.

Lynette felt nothing, but felt warm. She opened her eyes and took a gasp of shock. The man had, somehow, caught on fire. He yelled out as he dropped the mace to the ground, which clamored against the cobblestones. He swayed like a creaking oak, and then collapsed onto the ground. The back of his armor had been burned through by what must've been a stunningly powerful flame. As Lynette tried to make sense of the whole ordeal she heard a familiar voice just a few yards off. "Ruma darling, that was brilliant! I could kiss you for that!"

A few buildings down, right outside a tavern, stood Nels Llendo. At his side was an Altmer woman. She extended an arm out in front of her, and a few wispy strands of smoke drifted out from her hand. Lynette blinked in utter confusion. "How...?"

Then, a roar as Lancerow charged at them, drawing his sword. Llendo narrowed his eyes cautiously while Ruma's face twisted in rage as she readied another spell. Lady Flyte reached out to her knight. "Wait!"

Lancerow slowed, but kept his sword at the ready. He was gauging both Llendo and Ruma, almost as though he was determining which one to strike first. With Lancerow halted, Llendo seemed a little more comfortable. "My, are these the wages of virtue? We save your lovely lady—essentially doing you job for you—and you try to strike us down? My good jailor, are you jealous?"

"Keep laughing, rogue," Lancerow growled, "But I can see what you're doing. You can't deflect me. You think a band of armed robbers just popped up out of nowhere on the streets?"

Lady Flyte felt a presence at her side. Rudvich had walked over to her and was standing next to her. He offered her his hand and helped her stand up. A large chunk of her dress ripped off, revealing a large ribbon of her thigh, and yet she couldn't bring herself to care about the impropriety. She walked slowly towards Lancerow. Her legs still felt weak, but she had regained control over herself. "Sir Lancerow, please restrain yourself. Mr. Llendo has done me a great service."

"My lady," replied Lancerow, his voice frustrated, "Do you not find it suspicious that he managed to break out of the hold on the same day as an attempt at your life?"

Llendo gave one of his clever grins. "My good jailor, if my goal was to do in your dear lady, whyever would I rescue her? Indeed, I would've had several good opportunities to pick her off in the chaos, had I so chose. I know we've had our differences, brother, but surely you can't find me that inept."

Lancerow threw his arms open in exasperation. "Oh, come on! Do you really think that this is some coincidence? Llendo sneaks on our ship immediately before our voyage? He breaks out of the hold as soon as we leave, and less than a day later some pack of thugs try to kill Lyn? Please, Llendo, tell me how this all fits together? Are you really going to tell me that this is just an elaborate happenstance?"

"Well... Yes, I suppose I would," said Llendo, tilting his head slightly, "It's quite curious, but then again, sometimes truth is stranger than fiction, isn't it?"

"Enough," said Lady Flyte, "Sir Lancerow, I understand and appreciate your wariness, but Llendo has proved that he does not harbor any malicious aims towards me. He is correct in that regard. And if we argue here any longer, we will miss the tide, and I refuse to stay another hour on this island."

Lancerow glared at Llendo, but said nothing. Llendo, meanwhile, was rather pleased with this turn of affairs. "Excellent! Shall we get going?"

Lady Flyte shook her head. "You must stay here, Mr. Llendo."

"Ah, you wound me!" Llendo declared, "After I prove my devotions by saving you—at the perfect, most dramatically timed moment possible, mind you—you would still spurn my tender affections?"

"Mr. Llendo," Lady Flyte responded with an altogether more dry tone of voice, "I thank you for your service, but my business is in Akavir, and precludes you. We shall leave you here, in Esroniet. I'm sure a man of your unusual talents will find some way to cover the costs of returning to Tamriel."

Llendo sighed. "Is this how our great love story is to end?

"If you'll excuse me," replied Lady Flyte forcefully, "I must leave immediately. Goodbye, Mr. Llendo."

Wasting no more time, Lady Flyte began walking away, towards the harbor. Lancerow and Rudvich stayed close at her side. Llendo watched her leave quietly, but then renewed his easygoing air with a theatrical shrug. "Alas, my dear Lady Flyte. How beautiful, how cruel! Ruma darling, how is it that women can be so—?"

His audience, however, was not there. Ruma was gone, and must've left wordlessly some time ago. Llendo pouted. "Oh, for crying out loud. I'm the dashing rogue! Women are supposed to be throwing themselves at my feet, not running away from me. Ach, the gods are cruel indeed."

He broke off into a quick pace immediately after. Even he realized that this wasn't the best time for jokes. Despite some unexpected turns, the day had gone unexpectedly well. If he didn't beat the Anticlerians to their ship, however, he wasn't going to make it to Akavir with Lady Flyte, and that he couldn't allow. Still, it shouldn't be too difficult for him, he figured. And seeing how many septims were riding on his success, he'd excel even if it were impossible. He was Nels Llendo, after all.


That evening, three ships sailed out from Esroniet, their holds now stocked with enough food and water to make the rest of the trip across the ocean. As for their passengers, their one day at Esroniet had been universally more eventful than they had planned, and for many it created far more questions than it answered.

But those questions would have to wait. Now, a far greater issue lingered, somewhere out on that eastern horizon. As Esroniet faded into the distance, so too did the last western settlement in the world. Now, there was only the east. Akavir.

Every day, the Dragon Land grew closer. It would not be much longer now before they would arrive at its mysterious shores.