Roliand returned to consciousness gradually like the shipwrecked soul that he was, his waking mind wading waist-deep through the brackish black waters of dream. He was groggy. It felt as though his head were still swirling in the ocean. The last day's events were slowly coming back to him, in all their horror. It seemed unreal to think of—the destruction of the Telvanni ship, Beyte's desperate attempts to keep him alive, and that horrible creature. He had seen it for a fleeting moment, he was sure, but his memory had mercifully forgotten it. There are some things that are not good to remember. He read that once, in a book, but only now did he realized its truth.

He attempted to stretch his limbs out. Then a shock, and he realized to his surprise that he couldn't. His hands were bound together, as were his feet. And then he realized that he wasn't imagining that his head was bobbing up and down: it actually was. The day hadn't gotten better after all. Roliand reluctantly opened his eyes.

He saw dirt. Sometimes closer, sometimes farther, it seemed to move about as his head descended towards the ground and then back up into the air at a steady interval. Keeping his hands and feet in mind, Roliand knew he must be bound to some pole, and being carried down a path. He had been in Akavir for so little time, and yet he had already been captured by the natives—and then it dawned on him that there must be natives. Roliand looked up, and would've given a start, had he been able to move his body.

In front of him was a pack of creatures he had never seen before. They were humanoid in appearance, but only around three feet tall. Most strikingly, they were covered with hair—they grew a thick, wiry fur, with especially large fluffy tufts on the sides of their heads as well as their shoulders. They walked with loping, uneven gaits, sometimes falling on their knuckles, sometimes not. Roliand suddenly thought of the betmer, of Khajiit and Argonians, but he knew that these weren't any kinds of beast folk he met before. They were Akaviri.

As he jerked his head around, he could tell that there were lots of them—at least three dozen were in his range of vision, with more in front of and behind him, judging by the noise . They seemed comfortable in great packs, not caring about personal space as they bumped and prodded each other. One with particularly long silver chops nearly knocked over his brown furred neighbor. The brown creature did not take kindly to this slight and pushed the larger one, making a horrible howling sound. His teeth were long, sharp, and yellow. The silver beast roared in return, and suddenly there was the cry of so many around Roliand's head. Birds flew out from the trees, and just like that it was over—the combatants slunk off to other sides of the road, and not a drop of blood was shed.

Roliand sighed. "Mara preserve me."

"You are in Akavir, Roliand. It would be wiser to pray to local gods. They're more likely to hear you."

Roliand gasped and turned his head back as far as he could. She had survived! Her clothes were stained from the ocean, and her hair a mess, but she looked mostly unharmed. That neutral, unfazed expression she was so fond of hadn't even tarnished at all. She, like Roliand, was tied to a pole held horizontally to the ground, held at either end by one of the creatures that had captured them. Roliand broke into a broad smile. "Beyte!"

"Yes?" she replied.

"What—? No, never mind. Beyte, what happened to us? Where are we?"

Beyte had the strangest ability to seem utterly calm, even when bound and captured. "We are in Akavir, of course, but where precisely I cannot say. When the ship crashed, I passed out as well."

So they were certainly, definitively in Akavir. And they were already captured. Roliand's cheeks reddened from the shame of it. "And these things that captured us…?"

"Remember your education," replied Beyte, chidingly, "These are the monkeyfolk of Akavir, the Tang Mo."

Tang Mo. Roliand had indeed read about them, but he had always assumed they would be more… Words eluded him. Going by first impressions, Roliand had assumed that these creatures were Akavir's parallel to the goblins, but certainly not one of the four full-fledged civilizations. Were their howls speech? It mattered little: they were, to some degree, intelligent. Escape would not come easily. "What's the plan?" asked Roliand.

"The plan?"

"Well, yes. The plan. You know. To escape?"

Beyte raised one of her brows even as her head bobbed up and down. "There is no plan to escape, at least not currently. My hands are bound. I can do nothing."

It took a moment for the words to sink in. "We… Don't have a plan? What do you mean? What are we going to do?" Roliand replied, his voice betraying his nervousness.

"I presume that we will be carried deeper into the jungle by the Tang Mo. There is little agency on our part, Roliand."

"But what do they want to do with us?" Roliand replied. He wanted to move his hands to emphasize the point, but instead felt his wrists chafe against the rough, hempen rope, "What if they eat us?"

"Had they wished to eat us, don't you think they would have already?"

"But Beyte, that's not the point—"

"Branch," Beyte said swiftly, interrupting him.

Roliand thought a moment to respond, but a second later he felt a strike to his temple. Bitter leaves forced their way into his mouth, and branches scratched as his temple, with one almost clipping his eye. He coughed, but the Tang Mo didn't slow down their pace. He glanced at Beyte, who returned a rather unconcerned glance. "You were hit by a branch."

Roliand scowled, "I could tell."

Beyte gave a disapproving frown. "There's no reason to become cross, Roliand."

There were very good reasons to be cross, but after a moment of thought Roliand decided not to press the point. "So what are we going to do? Just be carried into the jungle?"

"Again, Roliand, we can do nothing. All that we can do it wait. An opportunity will rise, in time."

Roliand hoped the opportunity would show itself within the hour. It did not.

The pair were carried deeper and deeper into the jungles, following an unpaved but much-tread road. The tight ropes scratched at Roliand's wrists, and the constant bobbing gave him both a headache and an upset stomach. The canopy above them grew denser and denser as they progressed. Soon, sunlight barely filtered down upon them.

"The Long Dusk," said Beyte, breaking a long silence.

"What do you mean?" asked Roliand.

"The Tsaesci wrote that the Tang Mo lands were those of the Long Dusk. It's literal. It seems dark because the sunlight is stopped by the leaves." Beyte gave distant smile, "I had assumed it was something metaphysical."

Roliand didn't respond. He was thirsty, sore, and tired—none of those endeared him to Beyte's academic musings.

The tree trunks were large. Roliand had never seen the great boughs of Valenwood in anything other than the faded prints in the academy's library, so plants of this size were a wonder to him (or, perhaps, would have been a wonder had he felt less sullen). Roliand figured that each tree was a least two horse-lengths in diameter, and perhaps as tall as the guard towers in the Imperial City. Many had crudely hewn tables pressed against the trunks. Little offering were left there: berries, nuts, and animal bones, mostly, along with some glass. As the Tang Mo troop passed these sites, at least one would break off from the pack and leave something upon the table.

Superstition. Roliand looked to Beyte to see if the eternal scholar had some wisdom to relay to him, but she remained quiet, watching the little rituals. Her eyes were still so bright and curious. Roliand hung his head.

Time passed. From time to time the troop would pass over a stream or river, the banks linked together by arching, wooden bridges. The bridges were not embellished, but admittedly were well made. Roliand knew something of carpentry, and was certain that primitive creatures couldn't have built those kind of structures without aid. Maybe the Tang Mo kidnapped tradespeople for skilled labor. It was possible.

It was a far better alternative than being eaten.

Each time the troop crossed a stream the silvery-furred Tang Mo would make a howl, and some of his followers would echo him. This intrigued Beyte to no end, but Roliand tried his hardest to tune it out.

Roliand couldn't remember when he first fell asleep. It was hard to keep track of time in the jungle, where the sun always seemed elsewhere. He nodded off while he was being carried, and awoke to find himself not bobbing. He was still outside, but couldn't make out anything other than the darkness around him. He tired to move his arms—no good. His wrists were still bound. Maybe Beyte was out there, in the blackness. He couldn't tell, and wasn't about to yell.

There was a buzzing next to his head. A bug landed on his ear and stepped about. Roliand shook his head and the pest flew off.

He felt like a mule. So much for his adventures in Akavir.

When Roliand awoke it was once again the Long Dusk, and he was once again being carried. He looked to his right. Beyte wasn't there: only the sauntering Tang Mo. Roliand took a sharp breath. He tried to look ahead or behind himself, but he couldn't move his head well enough to get a good sight. He tried to call out her name, but halfway through the first syllable a Tang Mo pounced towards his head and gnashed his teeth.

Some sweat beaded on the tip of Roliand's nose. Maybe Beyte was safe somewhere ahead or behind him. Or maybe the Tang Mo had feasted upon her for dinner.

The troop passed another tree, and a Tang Mo scampered off to place a little bone on the table. Was it from a bird or Beyte's arm? Roliand was too far away to get a good look at it.

Then he remembered. That one night on the ship, so many days ago, where Beyte had her attack and seizure. Roliand had given her the strange potion in time, but how often did she need it? And if she were alive, how long could she hold out without a dose?

Roliand tried to call out her name again, only to be silenced by the Tang Mo with those large, curved teeth. Some spittle landed on Roliand's cheeks. It smelled like rotting raspberries.

The troop crossed another river and barked to commemorate the event. Roliand still had no clue where they were headed, or even how long they had been wandering in the jungle. But even if he couldn't tell what hour it was in this Long Dusk, he had the feeling that Beyte could.

He prayed that the count would be short enough for her.