Journal Entry Four

The open path of illusory freedom beckoned me to the north. Deviance from the path would be punished. The Emperor has his plans for me, what they are, I cannot say. I trudged forth in my new traveling boots. Of fine Imperial origin, the black leather is soft of sound to the step.

I followed the suns shadow to direct me north, not half a league from town, I heard a most strange sound of yelling coming from far above me. Drawing my blade, I expect an attack from above, instead I see the fluttering of blue robes as a person falls to the ground from great heights.

He lands not twenty paces from me, and I rush forward to investigate, and possibly offer assistance. It is to no avail, the mage is dead. Upon inspection of his personal effects, including a journal that documents his research that leads him to this point.

His name is Tarhiel, and he wanted to revolutionize travel with scrolls that he enchanted personally that would enable the user to leap at great heights and distance. What he failed to input into his calculations is the fact that the fall isn't what kills you, it's the landing.

Ever the opportunist, I take his scrolls for later inspection, and an enchanted longsword he carried imbued with the powers of the storm. Let the guards take care of his corpse. Thats what they're paid to do, and I have orders from the Emperor to fulfill. Pelagiad was north of here, and I wanted to arrive before the sun fell.


The journey was a travel through swamps meeting large mountain ranges that Elone's map called the Ascadian Isles, just south of the West Gash. The difference in environment was nearly breathtaking. I am not a naturalist, but even I could appreciate the difference between the oppressive nature of the Smugglers Coast, and the uplifting green scenery of the Isles.

Seeking to relieve myself of the fatigue of the last few hours of my trek, I rested at the bank of a small pond, inhabited by little more than mudcrabs. These ones seemed content to leave me be, as long as I returned the favor.



While I sat eating my bread and camlorn cheese, with my bare feet soaking in the water. I realized that in the rocks at the base of the rising hill, there was a door of crude construct not unlike that of Addamsartus. Another smugglers den. Realizing how profitable my last venture was, the corners of mouth went up slightly.




Entering the cavern after I had completed my rest, I was immediately set about by a Redguard woman. The independent spirit of the warrior race often led them to lives of excitement, not necessarily crime, but the Redguards had problems with rank-and-file militias. She was good with an axe, but I was better with a dagger, and the thick hide of the netch did not protect her torso from the point of my filched dagger.

Relying on my years of experience hunting merchants and unwary travelers on the roads between the Imperial Cities, I soon had four more marks for Hermaeus Mora to write in his book of unrecorded knowledge.

From the bandits, I claimed a silver dagger, much finer quality than the iron that was being eaten by the salty humid air of the Bitter coast, and a few new picks.



Also a new short bow, a composite that was made of actual wood and horn, with leather wrapped around shaft handle, much closer to the quality I was used to. I put it to good use as I sniped the final bandit in a makeshift headquarters from the darkness.




The haul was far better than I could have hoped for. These bandits and smugglers had stockpiled various native drinks, and imported Cyrodiilic Brandy, and Flin, a whiskey. Scrolls, soulgems, armor, weapons. The short trek to the north in Pelagiad yielded me nearly 1500 drakes from the local merchants.



But perhaps I get to far ahead of myself. Pelagiad was a pleasant surprise. While Seyda Neen had been little more than a poor fishing village, with a mixture of native and Imperial housing, Pelagiad was a prosperous fort town, taking its name from the fort.
The locals conversations were mostly about about how calm everything was around these parts. A nice little sleepy town. A place where an adventurer drinking at the tavern would get a second glance, the others hoping he would tell his tales of excitement.


After my dealings with a variety of local merchants, upgrading my arrows to silver ones, and leaving my weapons with the smith, an Altmer, who sharply promised that my weapons would be ready by midday tomorrow.





I took a bed at the local tavern for the evening, tomorrow I would collect my weapons and head towards Balmora. Tonight I would drink, and contemplate my situation and decide my next move.