» Fri May 16, 2014 2:50 pm Reference document: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1dM0O4dV7lMBQjqDMLfM3MIpcISy6JbaJsBOjiw8YxJI/edit
Scene: Wayrest Harbor; this is the 18th of 2nd Seed, the year 4E 11. It is dusk, Magnus hangs low in the sky, narrowly dodging the steeples of the palace; out to sea, Secunda can already be seen to peek over the horizon though Masser is yet just a faint red glow. A Dreugh man-o’-war coasts into port, its dorsal sails collapsing and anchor paws seeking purchase in the muddy floor of the bay. A pair of Wayrest Navy cutters trail in its wake, their standards (a trio of cream-colored Elysanian Roses resplendent on azure field) flapping in the artificial breeze conjured by a coven of Navy weather-witches and their storm atronach thralls. As the leviathan comes to a stop at the docks, a dreugh merchant slides down from its carapace, its tentacles landing on the pier with an obscene squelching sound, and unfolds a packet of wax-sealed and waterproofed customs documents from a nook in its brother's armor. The stench of rotten fish guts and dreugh wax nearly threaten to overpower the Waterguard officer marching down the dock to inspect the goods stored within the man-o’-war’s gut, but he soldiers on dutifully, albeit with a somewhat martyred expression on his weathered face.
At a berth further along the dock, mercenaries from Hammerfell unload crates from a galleon; these are stamped with the slumbering moon of Sentinel and contain supplies and weaponry for the Orsinium campaign. Two of the mercenaries break into a heated argument with a guard in Wayrest livery; babbling furiously, they repeatedly point to their crates and then gesture in the direction of the castle while the guard impatiently shakes his head and points at a nearby storeroom, shouting at them in broken Yoku. One of the Raga fingers the hilt of his scimitar nervously; seeing this, the guard waves a hand in front of the pair and nods with satisfaction as their eyes become calm and blank, their bodies going curiously slack. The guard gestures again at the storehouse and repeats his order in his native tongue, and this time the mercenaries obediently begin to haul their cargo to the building indicated. The guard follows them a short way to ensure compliance, then resumes his patrol. A moment later, he is running toward a ramshackle tavern nearby, where a Knight of the Rose can be seen dueling with a member of the Lion Guard over some matter of honor while their comrades egg them on and cheerfully shout insults at one another.
Framing this scene is the city of Wayrest itself. An array of reed crannogs painted in the woad devices of the horse-people crowd the mudflats at the mouth of the Bjoulsae River; children laugh and splash in the shallows after crabs and gulls while their elders crouch in front of their huts, hawking bone jewelry, hides and bronze weapons to cityfolk and travelers alike. Tribesmen of the local river clan lazily swim between the posts of the crannogs and docks, their pallid flesh luminous in the fading light. Seizing upon an opportunity he has noticed, one climbs up into a nearby hut and snatches a brace of sea slugs from the wall there. The crannog's owner sees him and yells out in dismay, scattering his wares as he chases after the intruder. Laughing, the younger man stuffs a slug into his mouth and dives back into the water as his companions disappear beneath the waves. Further inland, squat earthen huts belonging to the local fisherfolk and dockhands huddle in the shadow of the city’s timbered walls, framing the city gate. The gate itself deserves special mention, a stone post-and-lintel construction in the native style dating back to the founding of Wayrest; the door is a newer addition, a monolithic bronze construction engraved with scenes of nature, hunting, and warfare. The centerpiece depicts a crowned knight surrounded by a halo of light, his boot on the throat of an antlered dragon. The knight’s shield is adorned by the three roses of Wayrest quartered with the harpy volant of the Earls of Cumberland.
You take in these sights and more as the vessel on which you have booked passage draws close to the harbor. Bypassing the paved stone commercial wharfs, the ship turns instead toward a rotten wooden passenger dock at the far end of the harbor. You tip a drake into the waiting hand of the ship’s Breton captain as you disembark; he winks and flashes an ebony tooth at you. Ahead of you, an Imperial scholar, his nose buried in a book, unexpectedly hits a patch of algae on the dock and yelps as he loses his footing and crashes headfirst into the waters of the Iliac. The ship’s crew laugh and loudly place wagers on whether he will be dredged out before the slaughterfish pick up his scent. The scholar wails and splashes about as a dockhand hastily extends a pole toward him. Taking care to watch your step, you approach a bored-looking census officer at the end of the pier. “The Pearl of the Iliac, eh? We’ve been expecting you lot for a few days now, but with these gods-damned corsairs everywhere, ‘tis no surprise you’ve been delayed.” He makes a tsking sound and spits a dark stream of hedgeleaf into the water, narrowly missing the head of the hapless Cyrodiil who is now struggling up a hemp-and-driftwood ladder which has been lowered down for him. The officer inserts a fresh plug into his cheek before resuming, “You’ve finally arrived, then, but our records don’t show from where…?”
