Aurane Imbendt, Main Deck-training room, Midday

The charcoal danced across the notepad with a serene gracefulness. The Breton had made sure to bring plenty of scholarly supplies on his expedition, but was lacking in the more practical equipment necessary
for his voyage. Aurane had left in such a hurry that he had even forgotten to bring a tangible weapon not that I'll need one. Just me, and my wits- like always. To say the Breton was defenseless, however, would
be a foolish mistake. Many a challenger had underestimated him with his small build and invisible muscles. But who needs muscles when you have Magicka?

His thoughts were interrupted by an audible gasp as a Tsaeci male entered the room with the utmost dignity. Idiots. Aurane's rare smile had molded back into the mask of arrogance and contempt that his a face
that would very well be handsome if not for the mask it was cursed to bear. Instead of showing signs of shock, the Breton began to quickly jab a sketch of the magnificent specimen that lay before him. It was unlike
anything he had ever seen before. The Tsaeci's eyes betrayed a calm fierce fulness that pierced his soul.

In the back of his ear, Aurane heard the voices of the bewildered assortment of the many races of Tamriel, but the Breton made out none. For he was too deep in the lull of a different magick. Not the kind that could
heal a wound or light a torch, but of a different nature. The Magick of art and learning and knowledge that plagues every man blessed and yet cursed to bear its burden. The lines on the page bent to his will as the
shape of a serpent's head slowly formed itself on the paper.


One word managed to pierce his concentration. "Food" Aurane's stomach growled angrily. The young man shut his notepad and listened to what the Tsaeci had to say. The words were lost to him, never to be found
again as the Tsaeci had turned and walked off. Simple anolysis filled his broken ear as a large group of men and mer alike made their way down some stairs.

Aurane tossed his sketch into his backpack and quickly made his way downstairs to cure his hunger. He was met by a large tray of exotic looking fruits and meats, some were so strange he could not differentiate bet-
ween the two categories. Aurane greedily snatched two skewers loaded with what looked to be meat and vegetables. In his haste the Breton's grip failed him and one of the skewers landed at the feet of a fellow Breton
who looked like he had been in a horrible accident.

Wulfgar. Training. Room. Midday.

After the snake-man left, the Nord entered to the training room. He sat down to observe two Akaviri sword fighting, while reading Dissaster at Lonith. He noticed that their fighting style is rather different then from the Legion and other factions back home. He kept observing. He need to know moves like these to increase his chances of surviving Akavir.

Almaric Ashcliffe, Training Room.

The sellsword watched as one of his kinsmen rushed down the stairs into the room, offering a questioning glance he evaluated the mans appearance "Smart [censored]. Some sort of Mage, perhaps a scholar, judging his clothing and air of smuggyness. Atleat his shows fair heritage i suppose." The Mage continued his rush towards the spread infront of them, grasping at two simple-looking skewers of meat and vegetables though in his eagerness fumbled one of them which landed beside Almaric's foot.

Almarics eyes glared at the smaller Breton, though his mouth betrayed his mind and offed a smug look instead. Swapping his gaze between the man and his skewer, he spoke "I'm not too fond of the spread either, though thats alittle much.." he kept his voice somewhat comical, though his slurring of words displayed a certain menace to his tone. Another man cause his gaze, though this one wore some form of disguise. If it wasn't fro the mans height, the Breton would have assumed he was a nord.

Almaric broke his gaze with his fellow Breton, taking a brief step away as to allow him to pick up the skewer, and followed the newcomers eye-line. The man seemed taken by the Akviri swordplay, Almaric had to admit it was impressive but was less inclined to learn a new stance or two. "Guess he's uglier than me, or he realised facial tattoo's were a bad idea once it was too late.."

Main deck
Administrator Katariah (Elene)

It was a thinly veiled attempt to drive that insufferable itch from her palms that always seemed to indicate trouble that had driven the Nibenese to the very side of the ship. Admiring the waves, she hoped, would hopefully lay to rest the niggling worry that had chosen to manifest itself so - to be more specific, the worry that she had none of her usual meat shields to tackle whatever threats might manifest in the coming days. Every agent of the Oculatus possessed the kind of survival instinct that was now telling her that getting into this without the usual advantage of several warm and armed bodies following her was unwise.

The more rational and scheming part of her mind, of course, insisted that such worries were stupid and premature. What was it that the captain said? A few more days until this part of our journey is complete, and then I doubt they'll throw us into the thick of it right away. Plenty of time to make alliances and short-lived friendships. Elene was quite confident that she could offer something to at least some of her companions to persuade them of the wisdom of keeping her alive. If I don't spend all this time worrying.

Alas, the uncomfortable sense of impending danger was not so easily brushed aside, not least because of the highly unusual nature of the situation she was in - which, as the agent suspected, was the chief source of such worries that were normally unbecoming of her.

'The Oculatus cannot afford to be surprised. And right here, right now, you are the Oculatus.'

Platitudes once spouted by her mentor did little to appease the itching palms, so Elene was quite glad for the distraction of a tap on her shoulder. Light and gentle the motion had been, which had the reassuring bonus of telling her that the disguise of someone used to the higher circles of life and thus, all things considered, rather more fragile physically than the average member of this ensemble, had at least somewhat succeeded.

"Yes?" The faux Katariah made certain to confer a curious note to the ever-present gleam hidden behind the dark brown of her eyes. That same curiosity, faint and polite, had already found its way to her voice without needing to be invoked. "Can I help you?" From the fine - but not too fine, so as not to distract from those better dressed and of higher birth that she would be expected to accompany - cloth of her robe to her pose, hands behind her back and a hint of calmness that reassured the other end of the conversation they were her sole focus at the time, she seemed to represent the upper-end strata of the Imperial capital's bureaucracy quite well indeed.

Were it not for the distinct lack of any shift in Aetherial energies around her, one might've thought she had devised a spell to channel the atmosphere of White Gold Tower's long, winding halls and all that came with them. Or perhaps it was just the perfume, just slightly stronger at its source than the trail she seemed to leave in her wake, and the way it was at odds with her surroundings.

Wulfgar, training room, midday

The Nord had to admit that the snake-men are excellent fighters, that's is probably why the blades were supposedly so good until the Empire abandon them. He noticed a couple of moves that seems unique compared to the others. One of which was a move that simply had the sword almost break the enemy's defense and brought him to a killing position in a matter of seconds. Wulfgar need to learn some of these moves, as clearly he would not survive Akavir long otherwise.

He noticed that a Breton is looking at him.

"What do you want Breton?" He said with his gravely voice.

When practically all of the others wondered off in different directions Trannigan decided to head off outside himself. He stepped through the door and took a nice deep breath of the ocean air. He gave a smile as he moved past a woman dressed in a robe and one of the male Bretons and walked along the rail of the deck, looking out across the sea and at the horizon. He admired the view and the almost cloudless sky for a good few minutes before turning and looking around. A group of Tsaesci workers were toting about large sacks and wooden boxes. Trannigan stretched his shoulders a bit then walked over to the men, asking if they wanted a hand.

"Eh, Sure. I guess. Here." Answered the lanky snake man as he hefted the bad into the Imperials arms. Trannigan held the bag firmly and followed the others to where ever they were carrying the supplies.

Almaric Ashcliffe, Training Room. Midday.

Almaric admired the same fighting as the hooded man across from him, he could tell these Akaviri would match him in combat and perhaps even best him in a straight fight. Between the clashes of steel from the sword practice they observed, the hooded man spoke out in his raspy voice. "Fast eyes, Caught my gaze. Dexterity, not strength. Nordic, but from mixed background." he summised, though he'd need to see him in action before confirmation. "I'm assuming you're addressing me, Hood, so i'll endulge your question. Let me see.." He spoke with a somewhat mocking tone, though he retained a serious stance by the feasting table. "Enough gold to retire, and a fair Breton lady in my bed at night. Perhaps the oppertunies to eat in peace."

He passed a disapproving look at the skewer which remained by his foot, then to the Breton who dropped it. "Take care scholar, perhaps you'll be the next for the subtle-mans questions." Almaric turned back to face the spread of food, picking over those which looked somewhat recognisable. "Oh i do love making friends. Such a grand way of passing the times on these blasted boats.." his mind wandered once again, his fingers scanning over the tables offerings.

Saresh, Goblin quarters, Midday

Saresh narrowed his eyes at the Sload's words. "Though I am very grateful, I do not have payment for these. The seers will provide that when we arrive in the capitol. And as for your fang, you will receive it when this journey is over and we've averted the crisis. After that, you are welcome to a fang of your choosing." He reached for the scroll that the Sload had indicated, opening it as he did so. He read with a slight frown on his face. "The Bonded Tsaesci known as Saresh is to be brought before the Council to face his trial of competence." Saresh laughed as he thought, Ah, they want to make sure I'm doing my job. They will find I've done my duty admirably. Without a second thought, he tore the paper with a smirk on his face and let if fall,showing just how little concern he had for his impending trial.

"As for the rest of the voyage, you are free to move about the ship as you see fit. However, I request that you avoid causing any... disturbances. I do not know what our Tamriellic neighbors think of the Sload, but it's unlikely to be positive, given your race's reputation. Any room that is unoccupied is available to you. Now I will return to the middle decks. Do as you wish." With that, Saresh left the room and made his way back to the spiral ramp leading to the middle decks. He squeezed through once again, regretting that the opening was not meant for beings of his size. He slithered his way to the training room, greeting the crewmen (and women) he passed. When he arrived, he could see most of the crowd from above had moved down here.

He slid over to the table with food, grabbing a portion of a sauropod leg, with the leathery, striped skin still attached, and began eating it. His sharp Tsaesci teeth making short work of the tough skin and meat. He took his meal to the edge of the fighting rings, observing the tsaesci and akaviri crewmen training. The akaviri were going through sword drills using katanas, while a small group of tseasci were engaged in an unarmed match. He continued eating as he watched the fighters' progress.

Saron was seated near the edge of the ship watching a storm, in deep thought barely paying attention to the captain, He didn't even catch the name of his race
All he knew was he was being traded mastery of his skills for assisting these....things

the "captain" of this ship had slithered away and valor stayed near the bow to admire a far off lightning storm.... sadly it was moving away he(valor) would've loved to admire it a bit longer

hmm none of those men and women looked trustworthy....
except the captain....
well then the lightning storm isn't staying nearby,
these are near daedra, the snake people....
on any other basis i would've murdered every single one of them
but....
for the trade to master my skill it is worth it to be passive.
Until any of these people show some sort of backbone,
he wouldn't be bothered by any of them.
Then a passing by crew member moving loudly broke his train of thought

Saron had tapped one of the crew members and asked for a strong drink so he could pass out in his chair,
he had also asked not to be bothered unless it is the captain himself.

Thankfully the crew member wasn't busy and got it for him
Saron had wondered why the crew men hadn't told him to get it himself.

Saron is now sleeping, with his chair leaned back, facing towards where the storm used to be.

Wulfgar, training room, midday

Right there, Wulfgar was insulted. Breton didn't inderstand what he went through and why he has to wear the hood. It was simple. The Thalmor thought he worsiped Talos. They went to his home in some vilage in Skyrim, dragged him and his family all the way to a fort nearby the Thalmor head quarters. There, they tortured him; whipped hims so much and so hard that there are still markings on his back, Just so he can admit to worshiping Talos. What made him confess was when they finally threatened to kill his family. And then they killed his wife and son anyways. Not only that, but he was whipped more, and a Justiciar summoned fire on his hand, and smeared the fire all over his face, only to put water on it before it killed the Nord. It is why the Nord is so bitter. It is why he wears that hood. And it is why he wanted to go to Akavir.

He stood up, walked closer to the Breton. "Do not test my patience." He said clutching his fists.

Trannigan followed the Tsaesci to a ramp that lead downward when the one directly in front of him ceased moving, causing the Imperial to bump into him. "Non-Crewmen aren't allowed down there. Captains Orders." He hissed calmly to the human, still looking straight ahead.

"Alright then." retorted the Imperial in a slightly bored tone and proceeded back to the ships deck. When he got back outside, instead of admiring the nice weather he was instead admiring the beautiful ship. These people really do have remarkable craftsmanship. Makes Elven craftsmanship back home look amateur by comparison. Trannigan gazed up at the huge black and gold sail of the ship, and gave a little smile at the respect he held for anyone who could have crafted this vessel. He would have stayed out there and kept to himself if not for remembering the captains words that there was a place to train and eat inside. he knew he would have to stay at the top of his game to survive in Akavir if even some of the stories were true.

Heading down below again he found the training room and looked around at all of the others going about their business. Then by one of the walls he noticed a large, sapphire colored pillar with an odd symbol inscribed on it. Trannigan stepped closer to the pillar, examining it for it's purpose when one of the Akaviri man neared him and gave an explanation.

"That pillar there is a mana receptacle. It's purpose is for those who wish to hone their arcane arts safely. The pillar simply absorbs spells cast at it and dissipates it safely instead of destroying a ship."

"Very Impressive." Trannigan remarked, still staring at the blue, chest-high object. Then he took a few steps away from the man and let a shock spell build up in his right hand. He listened as the air around his palm crackled and waited until he had the familiar tingles creeping up his whole arm before hurling it at the receptacle which did it's job efficiently. The Imperial smiled and cast 3 more destruction spells of different magic effects.

Mathyn spoke quietly and politely o the young looking lady. "I hate to be a bother but I have to ask what a lady like yourself is doing on an adventure ship like this." He motioned to the sailors and adventurers around him. "These people aren't exactly nobles but you seem different. More....civilized...it's not the right word I want but it's close enough."

He looked at her trying to figure out who she was. But he couldnt figure her out. She confused him.

D'vatla, Mouth of Seqen-Alta: Mid Deck to Main Deck, Midday.

The sload was expecting as much a response from the well known treachery of the tsaesci. It had been predicted and measures put in place.
Indeed, his plan now was to cautiously vacate a tsaesci from one of the larger rooms, make dwelling and then feast on the ship's food pantry.
A sload's appetite was well known across the empire of Tamriel, even extending to the remote reaches of pyandonea, alinor or even yokuda.
His vengeance would be pure, even sweet. Without the burden of hostility. For he was a guest among this ship's hold and such he would exploit.

Time eventually whispered to D'vatla that the goblin had returned, to which presented him with an interesting opportunity or say.. a common interest.
He spoke in akaviri to Oro, with simple request: "Now that you've completed that task, goblin, you are to travel with this one for the better."
The goblin slave enquired in response as to why this was the case: "Me sirra is contract to Shup Maestar Saresh, me sirra does not think this change."
To which made D'vatla slowly re-phrase his communication: "Your master is preparing a grand feast, you see. Goblins are the main course."

Oro was shocked by this deliverance of news, but figured that it connected well with the jar he presented to the head cook of the goblin soup kitchen.
It's contents being quite weird for a goblin barely off his own mother's teets- lacking the knowledge that is common among those of the shanty towns.
At any rate, he took this new position as another underling to the sload very seriously. For he had already began brushing thras barnacles off his skin.
Which to a sload was the closest thing to a bath one can get, barring the thought that steam or sea water actually cleanses the amphibious of parasites.

When he had finished with the subsequent evaluation of his skills, the small crew made their way through the various hallways of the tsaesci ship.
They were heading for the quarters of the most important, usually found within the reaches of the top decks. Under the notable anchorman's footing.
Here one could find Saresh's steamed quarters, the treasury, as well as the rooms of the foreigners and Saresh's most trusted friends or advisors.
Some tsaesci stood and stared as they made their way up- twas' an odd sight to see, but that would be reduced soon to a small remedy of seclusion.

Their presence soon came to make notice of a particular room to the sload's liking. A spacious compartment, just to be filled with odd bits and bobs.
A tsaesci was there, plying over a map of the eastern oceans. His tools of measure looked to be for chartering a course. So he was valuable, then.
"This one politely requests that you reconvene such importance in a tactician's room." "This room now belongs to the sload, D'vatla. Here."
The man looked hesistant at first, but after sighting the creature's form, made haste with his equipment to the other room, down through the hallway.

With the pest gone, they began heaving the small amount of D'vatla's belongings upon the largely fanciful floor. Such as it was the best convenience.
Ma-'Renrij and the dunmer, Dratha Serimilk were left there to prepare his quarters, as well as magically maneuver any more needed furniture into it.
The silly goblin, Oro, was ordered to clean the room of pests or of stains- to which the little scrapbrain did with uttermost glee with naive ignorance.
As what the sload aimed to perform was not needed of their beneficial acquaintance, for he wished to see what harlequins the tsaesci had hired.

Such a task took little to no effort on his part- a door to the open deck was within sight and thus he twisted the ring lock with ease and came in sight.

Main deck
Administrator Katariah (Elene)

"Fragile?" The alleged ambassador suggested, her smile taking on a slight tinge of sadness that spoke of enough self-apprehension to realize how badly misplaced she must've seemed. "Certainly, that is how I would describe myself, given the circumstances. Although I cannot claim to be of noble blood, the group assembled here by our Tsaesci hosts is colourful enough to exaggerate any qualities more ordinary."

From mauled Bretons to perpetually hooded figures to their very serpentine captain, Elene's current personna certainly seemed to be the most normal thing for miles. To a Tamrielic eye, at least; as far as she knew, the Tsaesci might've found her the oddest one present, depending on how different their society actually was from the Empire.

Noting the perplexion she seemed to have caused for the rather youthful Dunmer, the Nibenese dropped the slight hint of a curtsey, as if she was too used to the motion to forgo it completely but aware that a full-blown one was rather too formal for the atmosphere of a simple chat. "Katariah Attrebia, at your service. I have the honour to serve as mister Curio Lepidus Bantrus' administrator, and it is largely due to his grace that I am present aboard this vessel. Were it not for my honoured master's" The momentary and slight change in pitch there assured that he was anything but, at least after this incident. "passion for all matters Akaviri, I might very well not have ended up here."

Well, that at least was something of a half-truth; she wasn't, after all, present here of her own accord, unlike the majority of those the Tsaesci had gathered up for this task, or at least so she suspected for the time being. The Penitus Oculatus found in her a candidate if not willing, then certainly conveniently located and loyal enough not to talk back, and, with little else than a metaphorical pat on the back by informing her she had her superiors' full confidence, unleashed upon Akavir. To collect information, forge cautious bonds if possible and hopefully live to report back about it.

"And, please, I am not bothered at all. The journey is monotonic enough, at least as far as is possible given our mode of transport, and I more than welcome any conversation to distract from it..." 'Katariah's' voice trailed off as she spotted the door leading to the lower parts of the ship opening from over the Dunmer's shoulder. Her left eye twitched slightly, but otherwise she remained commendably (and perhaps unusually) indifferent, considering the sight that emerged.

Sload. Great. And I had so much hoped I'd seen the last that I would of those particular bastards during the Leyawiin fiasco.

D'vatla, Mouth of Seqen-Alta: Main Deck, Midday.

'How amusing,' the sload thought. 'So Mora was correct after all, the maggot's fetchers are wishing to open their legs in the fields of the gravia.'
He had thought this for he would have seen before him an imperial woman noted from Hermaeus's answers, 'Elene the maestro of herding swines.'
D'vatla stubbed toes came to meet the awful liar, as well as another dunmer. 'This must be of the dunmer telling, Mathyn, morrowind's playful story.'

A greeting was exposed to the couple in conversation. Snide was his tongue as he spilled words meant to ally or beleaguer those most unfortunate.
"Please excuse the rueful interruption, this one's good friends. It merely wished an audience with those whom are this ship's company."
He bowed slowly and politely to each of them, in request of civility. The hood D'vatla wore was slung back as well, in an attempt to be free, honest.
"This one is happy to make your acquaintances. It's name is D'vatla, of the agonio isle. But what would be your real names? if it may ask. "

The sload quaintly predicted that there was no benefit from the Elene woman, for she was already of scorn. Instead he flipped his greeting over.
"Ah, nevermind. This one remembers now." He looked to the dunmer. "Mage Lord Ravel of the Resdayn, lovely to see the man in person."
His view twisted elsewhere, to the human woman. "Elene 'Katariah' Laviscia, yes? a beauty to this one's nostrils and sight, it's dear lovely."
While slurring these words, D'vatla's mind worked to examine the effect on how much these compliments would pay for in the long run. If anything.

The sload was careful not to act against his best interests, so he did what he could to gather as many of these social callings to which mortals loved so.
If he payed attention to their right movements, actions could be thwarted before they even began. Measures put in place to further his plans of sloth.

Almaric Ashcliffe, Training Room. Midday.

"Yet another overly aggresive sell-sword, perhaps his hood hides his insecurities." Thought the Breton, continuing his gaze over the food. "I'd reccomend returning to your reading, stranger." he said bluntly, choosing to pick up a a similiar skewer to that of the Scholar. Almaric continued to keep his back towards the man, listening intently to any signs of movement from the mans arms. "I wonder if he's the backstabbing type? Not a very honourable trait for a Nord.." He took a bite from the skewer, it's contents were a mixture of meat and vegetables. The flavours were unfamiliar, though tasted far from foul.

Almarics ears kept their focus one sounds of movement, he half expected someform of svcker punch from the Nord who's voice gave off an offended nature. "You're unknown to me, therefore i address you with the same respect you choose to use. Creating a negative atmosphere over a passing gaze is non something to be considered a reasonable action when you're likely to remain amongst their company for extended periods. Once again, I'd reccomend you regain interest in that book of yours." The Breton kept his tone diplomatic, seeing no reason for fighting just yet. They'd be dragged into combat sooner or later, and he'd prefer to remain on form for those 'Matches'.

Aurane Imbendt, Training Room, Midday

The Breton stranger shifted his tone to a more apologetic nature. Aurane didn't blame him; something about the hooded man didn't seem right. His voice seemed to contain years of built up sorrow and hate.
Aurane quickly stifled his sympathetic emotions, after all emotions are what gets the best of all men when not controlled. They turn the most dignified intellects into slobbering fools.

Aurane bent over to retrieve the fallen skewer and proceeded to set it down stealthily back into the tray form whence it came. An explosion of flavor flooded into the Breton's mouth. The dish was both savory
and sweet, unlike anything he had ever tasted before.

Aurane looked over the two strangers and sighed. If I'm going to be stuck with this lot for gods know how long, I better get to know some of them.

He turned his gaze to his fellow Breton and said, "Hello, my name is Aurane Imbendt, of the Colle-" For a split second Aurane felt a presence of some sort. As if a slimy omniscient tentacle had probed into his
thoughts and searched his brain.

"Do you feel that?"

Its been a few hours and Saron is now awake with the urge for another drink.
but he also notices no one is anyone around only a few crewmen
"hey you!" he said to one of the crew a bit loudly
"ive got a few questions for you."

"if your asking me to get you another drink and let you sleep for 3 hours than no." the crew member replied a little annoyed.

Saron chuckled a bit "ha, if only i could command you like your captain then you might!" saron said rather loudly again feeling a bit happier,
the crewmen assumed he was slightly drunk.
"speaking of your captain..." saron continued. "Whats his name? Also what is the name of your race? I never heard the exact name."

"ah yes you were sleeping weren't you? well the captains name is Saresh, our people are known as the Tsaesci."
the crew member polity and quickly answered Saron's questions.

"well were might everyone be? i saw a massive crowd here before i was asleep."
Saron continued the questions
"One last question what is the name of the drink you brought me?"

"as far as i know most of you travelers went to the training room to observe the matches and get something to eat"
"the drink was titled The Black Ink, most likely isn't sold in your homeland due to its strength, that's why you were asleep so quickly."
the crew member finished with
"now i must return to my duties, feel free to wander the ship."

Saron headed into the training room and was about to order another black ink, when he noticed that snake man from before
what were they called again? Tsaesci?
hmm......
he looks strong, respectable, yet.... Somethings off
the way he looks about, the way he watches reminds me of the way some of the birds hunted back in Skyrim.

He decided to go speak to him and see whether he is honorable
"hello captain, When you spoke to everyone i was too enticed by a far off lightning storm to pay much attention, no disrespect of course, merely a...... interest of mine."
"what about you? you must be enticed or interested in something, From a first glance it seems you are enticed in battle, In combat,
not to see it just to watch blood fly but to watch it as an art, the movements of both men trying to overthrow the other."
"So i ask again, What is it your interested in?"

Saresh, Training Room, Early Afternoon

Saresh had finished his meal, and was intently watching the fights in the rings. In one ring, two Tsaesci were fighting hand-to-hand. They were fairly evenly matched, most blows being blocked or avoided on either side. Eventually, their guards were worn down, and blows made it through. Over the next few minutes, they both became bloodied as the fight went on. He was still observing his crew training when a large human walked up to him and began speaking. Saresh listened calmly as the man asked his questions. Saresh briefly considered the man's words. With a grin on his face, Saresh replied, "What interests me? Many things hold my attention. But battle is among them; to face an opponent, knowing that either of you could join the gods. One cannot truly know someone until they have seen them fight."

At this point, one of the Tsaesci in the ring spotted an opening, a weakness in his opponents guard. He reached with all the speed he could muster and grabbed his opponent's neck. Before the Tsaesci could react, he found himself flung to the ground with the victor standing over him, hands ready to strike again. The man on the ground merely nodded his head, and the hands that had been prepared to strike instead changed to offer assistance. The victor helped the defeated onto his feet, and the two clapped each other on the back, grins on their faces, before leaving the ring to find a meal.

Saresh watched all this with a placid expression. Nonplussed at the culmination of the match. He turned back to the man who had addressed him.

"Battle is, and always has been, an art form. One which the Tsaesci are eager to explore. And what about you, human? What are your thoughts on the matter?"

"my interest in battle? hmm......Its all ive known, from a young age i was taught to fight in the arena."
Saron pulls a chair over and leans back against a wall.
"so tell me, how does this sparring work? In the arena we killed each other, there was no point in which we aided the other and called it even.
We beheaded the other for the crowds enjoyment, then in the companions in Skyrim i killed for gold.
Now i fight or rather travel with you for information.
So tell me on this ship how does this sparring work?"

Wulfgar. Training room. Midday.

Wulfgar listened to what the Breton had to say.

"All I wanted was to know why you were looking at me? There has to be a reason. Then again, it probably has to do with this damn hood. Everyone alive will never understand why, even if I took it off. Now unless you had something else to say I want to be left alone." His fists were still clutching but slightly loose.

Saresh, Training Room, Early Afternoon

Saresh listened to the man's question and responded politely, "A sparring match is simply a non-lethal fight. We can't risk killing each other in training, you see. It's simple, to spar with anyone on board, simply challenge them. They have the right to refuse, of course, but most of the crew will be happy to fight. The one you challenge is allowed to set the terms of the fight, and once the terms are agreed upon, both parties go into the ring and fight until one concedes or can no longer stand. If one breaks the agreed upon terms, then the other is free to do so as well, though some will refuse to do so."

He gestured around the room and said, "Feel free to challenge anyone you wish, as long you you keep the fights in the ring." He smiled at the man, and continued, "Just tell me when you challenge someone, as I've yet to see anyone in the group in action, and you look to be a promising fighter."

Saron laughed with a very slight grin.
"Captain do you not see who came in with me? mostly mages, or they have strange handicaps. Oblivion one only has half a face!
so captain there is only one i wish to spar...
You. I have heard you've been sleeping a while, So come lets see who is stronger, the Nordic traveler, or the Tsaesci captain.
But one condition, lets make this a bit of a spectacle, after all this should be interesting.