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Some say the crew were finally caught by House Sadras before they even made it out of Blacklight.

Some say the impudent little brig engaged a warship which sailed out of Winterhold to catch her during, yes, the worst storm Tamriel had ever seen, and the crew went down with their vessel and their home, fighting to the last.

And some say she succeeded. That she plunged into Oblivion, challenged the Daedra, and sailed out again victorious. That she sails the seas to this day, blessed by the Three, and if you hang around here in Blacklight for long enough you might meet a scarred old Dunmer or a weatherworn Altmer, propping up the bar with a few stories to tell.

Me, I don't know. I'm only an old mer who likes to spin a tale or two in a cosy cornerclub. Maybe the Runaway Scamp never even existed. Maybe she and her anonymous captain and her filthy, ragtag crew were only ever a collection of stories from across Tamriel, embellished and exaggerated until you'd have to dig damn hard to find any truth in them.

But that's not the point, is it?

The point is that stories have power. That you can wait for your fate to find you on the horizon, or you can sail towards it yourself, eyes open, heart ready. That this impudent little brig was the pride of Blacklight, sera, and don't you forget it.

Now pass me another glass of flin, hand me my fiddle, and I'll give you a song.

The Runaway Scamp, she's a fine old brig The best in all Morrowind, it's true You'd trust her to take you to Oblivion and back But the same can't be said for the crew...

#the works of master vilayn

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The Daedra and the Deep Blue Sea

I

For years, centuries, this had been a part of R'khan's routine. Standing on the quarterdeck and delivering a short speech, something to put the fire into the crew which would see them through the voyage, came as naturally as striding across a pitching deck. They needed to see their captain sure and committed. Instead, for the first time in many, many years, he realised he was hesitating.

He glanced to his right. Vilayn stood beside him. Other than being more tight-lipped than usual, and his eyes gazing at the clouds on the horizon rather than flicking between each sailor below for the slightest break from attention, he was the same as he always was at the start of a voyage, his hands folded behind his back, only waiting for an order from his captain to spring into action. He had read the roll call as usual and as he snapped at a seaman to quit whispering, it was like looking at a different person to the mer R'khan had last parted ways with at the cornerclub. Duty slammed a door on Vilayn's personal troubles and wouldn't be budged, not even when his eyes happened to pass the ship's cook. Casethar, still in his apron, stood tall and grim at the centre of the crew, waiting with them for their captain's speech.

Somebody coughed on R'khan's other side. Tosti had declined to join the voyage, with a promise that he would instead ensure Luca did not sneak aboard, leaving the role of second mate open. After lengthy discussion, and after being outvoted over awarding the role to Sock in preference to the crew’s choice, R'khan had condescended to grant Braskan the position, on the understanding that his first mistake would see him offered as a live sacrifice to the Three. So far, as he oversaw their departure from port, R'khan was not concerned. Morinah had insisted she be allowed to join any voyage attempting to breach Oblivion's gates, and had accepted keeping an eye on her father as part of the terms of her passage. Braskan seemed more afraid of upsetting her than any number of threats to peel the flesh from his bones. That didn't stop him fidgeting impatiently, though. R'khan couldn't blame him. He didn't understand his own reluctance himself.

Time to get on with it, then. He took another breath and tasted salt, smoke, fish, the smells of Blacklight, the smells of home.

'Right, you lazy s'wits. Too late for cold feet now. If you're stood here, you know what you signed up for, so I ain't going to tell you again. But I will tell you this much. We're going to make history. We're sailing into Oblivion itself and by the Three, lads, I truly believe we'll be coming back again, because this crew is two hundred years in the making and nobody, not even the Daedra, beats the Runaway Scamp.'

They cheered, to a man, or mer, or Khajiit, and R'khan thought, how well I know their faces. Every hand aboard had sailed with the Runaway Scamp before in some capacity or other. They were the only ones mad enough to sign on after they heard the details of the voyage. It was almost disappointing that they were so ready to trust him on a mission with only the slimmest chance of success, as much of a blow as Luca's fierce determination to sneak aboard herself. Her face, red and childlike in its anger as she swore she was an adult, furious tears on her cheeks while Tosti held back her tearing hands and kicking legs, was the last thing R'khan would think of before they passed over the crest of the final wave. He shook himself back to the speech.

'So let's show 'em that as long as we got a ship to sail and some blood left in our bodies, a Scamp will never stop fighting. We'll steal from the devils themselves and damn well live to tell the tale. For Morrowind! For ALMSIVI! And for our own wretched lives!'

They cheered again, Braskan loudest of all, and for a moment R'khan almost believed it himself.

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II

Normal mage drills had been replaced by tutorials from Ethysil in how to perform the ritual. Sails sighted on the horizon, not that there were many of them, had been roundly ignored. Drasonval hardly cared how close he brought them to the outcrops and submerged rocks in the Sea of Ghosts, so intent was he on following the brig's progress across his charts inch by inch. If they missed the location, if they went too wide or overshot, if they performed the tasks they spent so much time practising and had nothing to show for it but a bare patch of seabed, they would never know if the Gate was out there somewhere, only a few miles to port or starboard. A suicide mission was one thing, but an unsuccessful suicide mission hardly inspired a second attempt.

And so it was that when they came upon the correct mark, Drasonval finally slammed his hands down on the maps and nodded. All hands were called on deck. They fell into the routine immediately, the mages chanting in a circle around the Waiting Door which Ethysil had carefully transferred to the weather deck, the sailors holding the brig steady. At first that was no hard task. The Sea of Ghosts never lay still, but it pushed and rocked in a steady, predictable rhythm, the tidal heartbeat they had followed all their lives.

The chanting rose. So did the waves. Under clear skies, water lashed against every face from the storm building beneath them. The prow lifted, tilted back so far it threatened to buck each man into the water, then plunged forwards as the wave passed, swaying, shuddering. The heartbeat became increasingly irregular. R'khan kept his place on the quarterdeck, muttering commands to Vilayn who passed them on in a loud, clear voice.

A hand slipped, skittered to the edge of the deck, clung on to a line and hung suspended as the brig heaved across another breaker. Those who tried to rescue their shipmate ended up in the water as the planks turned treacherous and slippery underfoot. Then, just when it seemed it couldn't grow any worse, the chant stopped.

Magic seared the air and R'khan thought he heard a burst of song, a swell of female voices singing in harmony, before the waves parted and reared up in an impossible arch around a vast, burning portal, dark at the centre despite the flames which defined it. For a minute, a long and slow minute, the deck went still, perched atop an impossible sea. R'khan felt an elbow against his side.

'Should I reef the topsails, r'khan?'

'Somehow, V, I don't think there's anything we can do to change our course now. We're set, off to hell where we belongs.'

'I always said I'd follow you into Oblivion if you asked.' Vilayn breathed in, half lifted a hand, then turned to face the deck. With his eyes on the sailors, he said, 'It's been an honour, Rulanik. Throughout all these years.'

Relkhan Hlaalu Rulanik tightened his hands behind his back.

'Don't be getting sentimental on me now.' His red eyes stared across a raging, demonic sea, stinging with salt. 'But I thought of one thing you can do. Go below to me quarters and check me sea chest. You'll find a new fiddle in it. Give us a shanty to see us out.'

Ever prompt and efficient, Vilayn disappeared below to the cabin, and in only a few minutes returned to the deck with the fiddle tucked beneath his chin. The strains of Morrowindbound danced beneath his fingertips, proud, true, and the stillness cracked. The wave plunged down, the Runaway Scamp still balanced on its crest, sailors hanging from the shrouds and taffrails, cheering, singing, and all were swallowed whole by the Gate.

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III

A small fishing boat passed the same way only an hour later. It found the seas calm, the skies empty, and not even the echo of a song to suggest that anyone had ever sailed there before.

#the works of master vilayn

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Through Hell and High Water

R'khan did not take much convincing, that was the first surprise. When Ethysil presented his idea to the captain, with Vilayn sat numb and mute beside him like a corpse propped up in the chair, he watched R'khan frown, the same way it did when the officer of the watch presented him with news he didn't like, then settle his brow into a familiar line of determined resignation.

'You sure this'll work?'

'No, relkhan. Not in the slightest.'

'Very well. Give me time to think on it.'

Three days later, the permanent crew of the Runaway Scamp crammed themselves into Casethar's cornerclub atop the hill. The last of the daylight clung to the walls long after the rest of Blacklight fell into darkness and shone on the river until it burned. The name Firewater for the club had been well chosen. Before anyone could settle in with a glass of its other namesake, however, R'khan stood up on the bar. Although the wood was still gleaming, untouched since the day of Hazil's wake, Casethar didn't bat an eye at the boots scuffing across it. He had an arm around Vilayn's shoulders and seemed oblivious to anything else, least of all the sailors sneaking towards the bottles on the shelf.

'Hold yourselves, lads, I want you clear-headed for this.' R'khan paused, eyes settling on a cheerful, patient smile in the front row. 'Mr Braskan, what is Mistress Morinah doing here? I made it pretty damn clear that this'd be crew only.'

After a long silence, presumably spent hoping his captain would forget asking the direct question, a nudge from Morinah's elbow finally prompted Braskan to answer. He threw in a lazy salute as well, clearly hoping this would win him some favour from R'khan's stony face.

'Well, R'khan... there's this rumour, see, that ya's gonna ask us ta sail inta Oblivion, an' I might a' mentioned it ta Morinah. Only as a rumour, like, but she said if we was then mebbe she'd be useful, seein' as she works with all that Daedric shit.'

Everybody else in the room leaned forwards slightly while R’khan rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Gossip spread through the crew faster than ataxia. It took the wind out of his sails somewhat, but then again, they had heard the rumour and turned up to the meeting anyway, which at least meant they hadn't dismissed the idea out of hand. He cleared his throat.

'I don't know how you does it, but you ain't far off. Most of you knows Farel Hazil, our own Mister Vilayn's husband, and his recent passing.' He paused, expecting Vilayn to flinch, or close his eyes, anything to show he was still alive, but no. Only stillness. 'And you also knows we can't go fishing every lost soul out of Oblivion, or wherever they ends up. But for reasons I ain't telling you 'cause it don't bloody concern you, this is different. Mister Ethysil believes that although the Oblivion Crisis sealed off paths from Oblivion to, ah--'

'Mundus,' supplied Ethysil, in an undertone. R'khan swept on as if he'd said the name himself.

'--there's still gates as go in the other direction, like the one Lord Seht used in 2920. There's reports of one underwater, out in the Sea of Ghosts, but with Ethys's magic and a bit of help from our... mutual friends, he believes we may be able to access it.'

He waited to see what effect his words would have. Perhaps he should have waited to make the announcement, let them get a good amount of the bar's contents down them before proposing such madness, but something had prevented him from doing so, in the knowledge that being tricked into an undertaking of this scale would kill their morale. Besides, he couldn't be alone. The years had been catching up to them recently, cold and relentless, and he knew no person could outrun them forever. Time and tide waited for no man.

So far the general attitude seemed cautiously positive. Most of the crew were talking amongst themselves, and there were heavy looks on all their faces, but only a few were glancing towards the door or outright scowling. One or two, most notably Braskan and Sham, were not excited, exactly, but already decided. They nodded unconsciously, settled, assured, eyes on their captain. Drasonval, sat beside them, seemed less certain, and as soon as the muttering died down he stuck a fist in the air.

‘What about getting back again?’ he asked. ‘Let’s say we find this gate, face whatever’s inside, and find what we’re looking for. How do we get home?’

R'khan stamped his foot on the counter until the whispers subsided.

‘You want the honest answer, Mister Drasonval? I don’t know. Could be a one-way trip to hell.’

‘Ya’s always sayin’ ya wants ta get away from th’wife,’ said Braskan. Somehow, faced with the prospect of his imminent doom, he still managed to maintain the lazy smirk. ‘Here ya go. Perfec’ chance.’

Before the exchange could develop into a scuffle or, even worse, a ruckus, R’khan kicked the counter again.

‘Some of you -- Mister Azareth, Mister Braskan -- you lived through the Oblivion Crisis, I’m guessing ‘cause even the Daedra couldn’t find a use for your worthless hides, so you knows what we’re up against. But you’ve also sailed with me and Mr Vilayn a damned long time, and not once have you turned your backs on a challenge.’ He lowered himself down so that he was sat on the bar. Although he spoke quietly, he had their attention now, even over the temptation of the bottles behind him. 'I don't think I need to tell you, my lads, that this ain't just about Mister Hazil. We've all felt it, and been feeling it for a while now. We been on the sea since the last era and that's a bloody long time. But if we're going to finish it, if it's got to end, I ain't retreating quietly into a comfy house where I can't feel the wind on me face. I'm going to die where I belongs, and that's on the deck of me brig, the sea beneath me feet, doing something outrageously bloody stupid just because people told me I couldn't. Now, I ain’t making of you do this. I’m telling you now it’s madness, so none of you is obliged to follow me, and there ain’t no hard feelings for those as stay behind. But by the Three, those who do, we’re going to leave you a damned good story to tell and you'd better bloody tell it. So -- who’s with me?’

#the works of master vilayn #captain r'khan #braskan #drasonval #morinah #ethysil

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home.

We all come home to different things, I wrote once, and I said that I came home to two smiles waiting.

There were fewer smiles than there used to be when I wrote that. Hazil's illness was getting worse and we didn't have a lot to smile about. It's why I began writing this manuscript. I want to travel the world like you, Hazil said, I want to meet the people you meet and see the sights you see but I'll never be able to, so I said if I couldn't do anything else then I would try and bring my world to him through these stories. Silly things. But they made him smile.

I came home to something very different after our last voyage. Not even Casethar waiting for me on the sea wall, and when I came home

when I came home

it was so quiet. Our little house. Sunshine filled the garden, autumn, late afternoon, sun on the bench which Sham helped Ethysil build so Hazil could sit outside. Cold inside, except for the sick room, which we never could keep as cool as Hazil wanted it.

That's where they were. In the sick room.  Casethar dragged me through the door and dropped me down beside the bed so I could see him and he could see me and everything went cold and grey, then hot and... a curious shade of orange, and then

He wasn't dead, but he was dying. I think he said my name. His lips were so dry it was hard to tell, but I kissed them anyway and held his hand and promised him I wouldn't leave and

Which brings me to what we knew was going to happen, really, from the moment we met him.

What do I say? What am I supposed to say?

I'll write it down, I said, but every time I think I'm ready to talk about it my hands start to shake and the ink goes everywhere and the parchment ends up too damp to write on. I can't light this damned hackle-lo without getting ash all over the desk. I want to go back. I want him back. I want to write him back into existence and I can't, I fucking can't.

The week after it happened is all in bits. I remember lying there holding his hand for hours (it was cold. It was so cold). I remember looking up and finding he was gone, because I'd fallen asleep and Casethar moved me into our bedroom. I remember staring at a bookcase when R'khan arrived to offer his condolences, but I don't remember saying anything. I remember my hands being too numb to fasten my sash on the morning of the funeral. I remember Casethar's hug hurting as he pushed his jaw against my head, pulled the bones of my shoulders into his chest. I remember a lot of hot soreness in my eyes, my chest, everywhere. I don't remember drinking but there are a lot of empty bottles around here and my head hurts so I think that happened too.

After all these fragmented images appeared and faded I was at the funeral. It was a nice evening. Warm air, purple sky. Dartwings in the firelight. The sort of evening we would have walked up the hill together. Ethysil said a few words and then so did everybody else. I had the violin, the painted one R'khan gave me on my wedding day, the one which sounded so beautiful it would have brought Lord Seht to tears, and I think they expected me to play it. I threw it on the pyre instead because how the fuck was I supposed to play in that situation? How do I ever play again?

And then I came back to a place which didn't feel like home any more, locked myself in here and picked up the quill. Now I know what it's like to lift a feather and find your energy drained. I know how he felt.

I can't go to sea again. I'm not sure I can go outside again, so my history of the Scamps ends here. I wish them well, whatever they find on the horizon, and thank them for all we did together.

I can't write any more, Hazil. I'm sorry.

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Epilogue

'How is he?'

'Bad.'

'Can I talk to him? I think I can help.'

'You can try, but he won't listen. He doesn't want to hear any of it.'

'He might want to hear this.'

Vilayn stabbed at the parchment with the quill, blotting the page and upsetting the vase of stoneflower stalks. Before the water splashed onto the manuscript he swept it aside, letting every word fall to the floor, and picked up a new sheet to write on. His hand jerked angrily across the page.

fucking priests and their fucking bloody thrice damned words oh I'm sorry how awful how sad let me know if there's anything I can do think about all the good things he's safe now he's with the gods now isn't that lovely isn't that so fucking nice for them fuck that make them give him back he isn't theirs he's ours I want him back I want him back I want him back why can't any of them fucking do anything

There was a knock on the door. The nib of the quill ripped through the paper and scratched the desk below.

'Vilayn? It's Ethysil. I really want to talk to you. May I come in?'

'Fuck off.'

'I'm going to take that as a yes. I think you'll want to hear this.'

#the works of master vilayn #death trigger warning #vilayn #casethar #ethysil #hazil

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And here's something else that winds me up about people always blaming us for everything: yes, all right, maybe it we did cause the explosion near the Shrine of Azura, and maybe there wasn't anyone else involved, but did you ever stop to consider that we might have had a perfectly good reason for it? No, you didn't, so now I'm going to explain that very reason and you'll be forced to admit that we were justified, and also that you ought to pay us some sort of reparations for the slander against the good name of the Runaway Scamp.

Over the course of a voyage, there's always a bit of a rivalry that builds up between the two watches. Sometimes there isn't much of a contest. Obviously the Ald'Varay (my watch) is superior when it comes to the art of sailing.

It's areas like mage drills where things get interesting. I'm no mage myself, so far as I'm concerned, both Mr Oran and Mr Ethysil are equally talented in their field, and the same goes for the mages under their separate commands. By the end of a voyage, however, when they've had time to train them to their full potential, they like to settle the question for themselves and the best way of doing that is through a competition.

If Oran had his way, the competition would always be settled by whichever team can blow up the biggest rock, but as Ethysil argues, this doesn't bear much resemblance to their skill in an engagement. Any ship worth its gilt will have wards cast around the hull, something I haven't noticed very often on your average rock, and it requires a bit more thought than simply hurling magic around. R'khan came up with the alternative: both teams have a camp containing an idol, and whoever finds the opposing team's idol first is the winner. They signal that they've found the idol by blowing it up because Oran threatened to mutiny if explosions weren't involved somewhere along the line, but I don't think anybody could object to a few little explosions here and there. They keep life interesting. If the other team defend it properly and prevent it from blowing up, it doesn't count. The idea is it showcases their intelligence and creativity as well as their power, but personally I think they just like having an excuse to run around on land after months at sea.

I will spare you the boring details of the hunt for the opposing team's idol. The competition took place, as I say, near the Shrine of Azura in Winterhold, so mostly it consisted of sailors climbing halfway up icy cliffs then getting knocked down again into a snowdrift, to the mirth of their shipmates. They apparently enjoyed themselves. Personally I think R'khan, myself, and the rest of the non-mage crew enjoyed ourselves a lot more sat next to a campfire on the beach singing a few songs and sharing the rum around, but what do I know about the ways of mages? Instead we'll get straight to the point.

Ethysil was the first to find the idol. Presumably working on the basis of hiding things in plain sight, or perhaps because he knew it would piss Zannammu off, Oran had tucked it between the statue's legs, propped up against somebody else's offering so that it was staring up Azura's robe. Like all of us, Ethysil appreciates these little touches, but he had a mission to complete. His reputation was at stake. Magic sparked briefly in his hand and illuminated all life in the immediate area with a glow visible to his eyes only. Nothing but a fox tearing through the undergrowth. That in itself should have been a warning – even Oran isn't stupid enough to leave his prize totally unguarded – but victory was only an arm's length away. Ethysil reached forwards.

As soon as his fingertip touched the idol, the world fell into fire. He tried to reel backwards and found the ground was gone, his feet milling aimlessly in the air, tumbling and burning. If there was any noise, he couldn't hear it. His ears rang with the aftermath of the explosion and when he finally landed, with a thud that cracked the back of his skull against the ice, his vision shook for a few minutes. Moving was not an option. He lay flat on his back and waited to see whether he would die.

Ice melted and dripped across his forehead. Eventually the cold convinced him that actually he might be alive after all, and a little while later that maybe he really ought to move if he didn't want to be soaked through. He struggled upwards, blinked a few times, and realised that the rock formation towering over him was in fact Oran. In his hand was Ethysil's idol, which ought to have been hidden safely on the beach, buried beneath the tideline. He grinned, and the idol exploded into dust in his hands, shooting a pillar of flame into the sky.

'I win.'

Things still weren't entirely straight in Ethysil's head. He let Oran drag him back to the beach, telling everyone they met along the way about his victory, and accepted a bottle pushed into his hand without questioning the contents. It certainly took the edge off the cold creeping into his bones. When half of it was gone and when he could feel his extremities again, he jabbed his elbow sideways into Oran's stomach.

'What in Oblivion did you enchant it with?'

'Modified fire rune.'

I don't know what it is about Oran, but he can do a more infuriating smug look than anybody else I know.

Undoubtedly he treated Ethysil to it now and was well-rewarded by a huff. Ethysil's breath swept across the bottle and turned to fog in the frosty air.

'You, muthsera, are a bastard. Since when do you use runes?'

He expected a smart remark, an insistence that he ought to own up to his own fault and oversight. Instead Oran conjured up some flames in his hand, surprisingly modest ones for him, and shook them onto the sand, where they burned without fuel and formed a small campfire. Such a thoughtful gesture is practically unheard of for Oran, and Ethysil stared at him with the appropriate amount of shock, although not until after shuffling forward to feel the fire's benefit.

'Maybe I learned something from you,' said Oran, and cleared his throat in the way which means people in his vicinity ought to run for the hills if they don't want to be treated to what he thinks of as poetry. 'We've been sailing together for so long now, over the aeons, through tide and tempest, forging a bond in the darkest nights and the wildest--'

'All right, all right.'

'Something was bound to rub off eventually.'

'Are you saying is that it was my influence? I rather think that means it was my victory after all.'

The campfire flared into a bonfire momentarily as Oran scowled.

'Fuck off. I won fair and square.' The flames simmered down and their faces were half darkness once again. 'What I'm saying is that I may be no House Dunmer, but I think I understand what it means. Together through hell and high water. A bond of sheer courage and unshakable faith, as the learned Sera Ravel describes it. A clan of one blood, whom one follows unto death and beyond, if such is one's calling, for they cannot deny a shared destiny which--'

'Oran. Please. Have mercy. I've still got a headache from your blasted rune and this is not helping.'

Obligingly, for once, and I can only assume Ethysil cast some sort of enchantment or tame beast spell on him because Oran has never once been obliging for me, Oran said no more. They watched the magical fire twist against the sand in a companionable silence, the only sound the rest of the crew in their own huddles and the waves hushing along the shore.

Until Luca trudged up and, in her characteristic way, shattered the moment of peace. She dropped a pile of cloth, formerly draped over her arms, at Ethysil's feet.

'Here. R'khan said it's about time you put this back on.'

It was the cloak Ethysil wears when we're in Morrowind, to cover up his Tribunal tattoos from the more zealous brand of Reclamationists. Its warmth wasn't exactly unwelcome, sat outside at night in Skyrim, but as Luca went off scuffing sand behind her, Ethysil dragged it slowly over his arms.

'I suppose I shall be wearing this for the next few months.' He fingered the sleeve distastefully. 'You know, the disrobing ceremony is far more enjoyable than the robing.'

'You'll be taking it off soon enough.'

'Will I?'

The air was cold that night. I remember. That was all it was. That's what the little pause was, the chill, the shiver. Perfectly normal. Why wouldn't it be? Skyrim is always cold. Anyway, everyone always feel a bit strange at the end of a voyage, as if something is coming to an end. Which it isn't. Obviously. It's only a feeling, and feelings always pass, given enough time.

When this feeling passed, which it did, Oran grinned behind a swig from his own bottle.

'Yeah. When you meet a certain beautiful lady you took a fancy to last time we were home. One glimpse of her dark, lustrous locks and her buxom chest and that cloak will be straight off.'

'Closely followed by the rest of my clothes?' Ethysil laughed. 'I'll drink to that, serjo.'

#the works of master vilayn #oran #ethysil #luca

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Head On [Drabble]

The Sandria, an Imperial frigate chartered by House Sadras for the purpose of hunting pirates on their shipping routes, made it almost too easy. She lay in wait off a small atoll north of Skyrim. Barren rock formed most of the area, but the snow covering it provided ample fresh water for any less than lawful sailors needing a quick hideaway and made it – so Khan Sadras assured the captain – a known haunt of those ruffians aboard the Runaway Scamp. She would be on her return voyage now, he said, and should pass Skyrim no less than two weeks before Tales and Tallows, Ancestor's Day to the Dunmer.

That blasted ship's sails came into view on the fourteenth of Last Seed, exactly as planned. The Sandria's captain gave orders to raise the anchor. A few futile attempts found that the cable had been lodged on a rock, the rudder fouled, and before the lookout noticed the Argonian paddling away through the ocean, the Scamp bore down upon them in a hail of magefire and bellowing, screeching pirates. Those who jumped overboard were spared. Those who remained were not.

A search of the hold turned up a number of crates and barrels salvaged from more successful captures, as well as enough supplies for the final two weeks of the journey home. Bob, tasked with inspecting the barrels and reinforcing the enchantments, performed her work on the weather deck while her shipmates tended to their wounds. She probed her thick fingers around the banding on a keg. The enchantment sputtered at her touch until she urged new magic into it, frowning lightly, or as lightly as an Orc could manage when her face was permanently buried under the weight of its own leathery skin. The work was delicate and tedious. Not a chore she was best suited for, but it had to be done.

After a while she became aware of someone else sat nearby. Jo'Raya had the ability to pad up in total silence and yet the impatient swishing of her tail, the silent burr of her nails digging into the deck, always gave her away. A trail of blood, not hers, slicked the fur down from the back of her head and across her neck, and she flicked an ear at it occasionally. They sat in companionable silence for some time before Jo'Raya said,

'You feel it?'

Bob laid down her tools.

'Feel what?'

'The change. This one smells it in the elves.' Jo'Raya stretched out her legs, spreading her toes and letting the claws shine against the bloodstained deck. 'When Khajiit feels change, there is a restlessness which clings to its fur. The urge to run and pounce and to do.'

Years ago, back in the stronghold, Bob remembered the old chieftain, before he was challenged by his son. She had been young then, but that didn't stop her feeling the buzz around the forge or hearing the whispers running along the walls, as if the air were charged with an unseen energy. Eventually the tension grew so tight the son had to make his challenge simply to relieve the strain on the rest of the clan.

The urge to do. Around them, scattered across the deck, the sailors were working as usual, scrubbing down planking and hauling the spoils back to the Runaway Scamp, but every now and then there would be a glance between them, or a silence where there would usually be friendly insults and laughter. Bob picked up her hammer again, only to tap it against the side of a barrel to no effect.

'Mebbe. Why?'

'The elves can't run away from it. Change hunts without rest.'

'Y'ain't thinkin' of desertin'?'

'No. Where would this one go? Besides, Khajiit says, all kittens must leave their clan mother. Some change is merciful.'

In the wintry light which always lay over the Sea of Ghosts, Jo'Raya's fur looked dark, but the edges were tipped with gold. She held herself perfectly still and poised as she gazed out to the ocean. Bob watched her for a while before shrugging and digging herself into her work.

'Orcs got a sayin', too.' She waited until Jo'Raya turned her head to listen. 'Whatever shit life throws at you, meet it head on, 'cause there ain't much thicker'n an Orc skull.'

Jo'Raya's tailed lifted. Bob had never seen a Khajiit until she signed on with the Scamp, but that was enough to teach her that this was the closest Jo'Raya ever came to laughing.

'Orc and Khajiit, not so different.'

'Cap'n says we ain't Orcs 'n Khajiit 'n elves, we's crew.'

'Then we meet the change head on together, yes? We charge in headfirst, one crew.'

For a second, Bob’s fist tightened around the shaft of her hammer. Then she raised it and began beating the iron banding into shape, as the magic flowed through her fingers, and although the ring of metal and metal prevented any reply, the broad, tusk-filled grin was good enough for Jo’Raya. Soon Sham joined them, helping to repair the wood of the barrels, and Luca carried their tools back and forth, and the crew of the Scamp worked on as one around them with change on their heels.

#bob bogbog #jo'raya #the works of master vilayn

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The Winking Skeever is not the Scamp’s favourite inn, and not only because they've been banned by three consecutive owners, or because Solitude's walls make a quick escape difficult. There is quite another problem: the Bards' College.

Much to Vilayn's chagrin, the college does not approve of the crew's singing, and it refuses to consider When I Saw Vehk's Spear on the same artistic level as epic sagas about Ysgramor or Talos. Combined with how vocal he is on the subject of his distaste for bards and how he isn't one, it was only a matter of time before Oran and Sham conspired to enroll him into the College. They went to some great effort, tracking down a lost relic of the College, presenting it to Vilayn and informing him that the bards would pay a handsome reward for it if returned. Now, if he isn’t careful, they try to organise his inauguration as thanks if they ever manage to catch him nearby, promising that they will “improve” his dirty ditties.

#a general history of scamps #oran #shamilia #vilayn

[therunawayscamp]

Modern/Real World AU Vilayn hates Shakespeare.

HATES Shakespeare.

Haaaaaates Shakespeare.

Modern/Real World AU Oran loves Shakespeare.

#and yet V is the only one who can recite sonnets and at least one monologue from memory #bringing only quality content to this blog #strictly off the record #vilayn #oran

[therunawayscamp]

Nalpa Tsoko [Drabble]

First off, it wasn't our fault that the Warlord Inn caught fire. There was the problem with the stolen fish, and the ghost who didn't know when to keep its mouth shut, and anyway Argonians shouldn't build their walls out of such flammable material. What do they expect, putting torches all over bits of tree? That’s why people should build out of good, solid materials, like bug chitin. And it's no use saying we shouldn't have been in an Argonian tavern in the first place because if you build a tavern near the docks, sailors will visit it. It's our sworn duty to inspect all such establishments and sample their wares. But I think I've got a bit ahead of myself.

This happened in Thorn. Of course it did. Whenever the lizards (I'm allowed to call them lizards because Xisthia said I could)

start complaining about Dunmer, it always starts off in Thorn. Like I say, we were just investigating an unfamiliar tavern, minding our own business (which admittedly is quite loud business when seventy of us are packed into the same building but I think we lend a certain atmosphere to a place), when a group of Argonians approached us. No, not approached, swaggered. Even if you live in a human province you probably know the sort of person I mean, the ones who eye you up from the corner of the bar for five minutes before gathering their mates around them and swaggering forwards, making sure they kick all the chairs and tables on the way past so you know they're coming and spoiling for a fight. Note that particularly, please. They definitely wanted things to end like they did, so really we were only obliging the local custom with what happened.

They drew alongside us and were roundly ignored, at least at first, because if we honoured everybody who gave us dirty looks with our attention we'd never have time to leave port, especially in Black Marsh. There's always somebody trying to pick a fight with any Dunmer who walk through the door. Normally they focus on Braskan first, and he poured his entire tankard down his throat to be ready for them, only for them to stride right past him and surround Xisthia instead.

Xisthia doesn't drink with us often, even in Argonian taverns. I gather she doesn't like the taste of whatever mulch they serve. Nor do I, in fairness, although some thuleil is bearable, but she never drinks anything at all other than water – even her daily tot goes to Braskan most of the time – and you have to admit that's a bit strange. What warm-blooded mer (or cold-blooded lizard) doesn't like a pint or ten on occasion? You can't really blame the thugs for picking on her. They jostled around her table, kicking the legs and elbowing their way in beside her, surrounding her with bright, flashing scales. Unlike Xisthia, their hides were multicoloured, and any scales which looked a bit dull in comparison were smeared with paints and spices, resulting in a rainbow of colour and smells. Some of their spines and plumes reached the ceiling. Xisthia finds normal, unpainted people a bit much at the best of times, and she jerked her head between them and the walls, a habit I've noticed when she's nervous.

They spoke in Jel so even if I understood what they said I wouldn't be able to spell it.

Well, there you go, they called her sapless. Hopefully that clears everything up and you now understand what a deep and cutting insult it was, because I don't. What I do know is that she sank down against the table, almost flattening herself, and Braskan – maybe he was disappointed that they weren't making him the centre of attention – hurled his now empty tankard at the nearest offender's spines.

'I heard tha', ya s'wit! Ya gots a problem with her, ya gots a problem wi' all on us.'

Braskan is particular about not fighting Argonians any more than he has to, often quite frustratingly so, for example when we've captured an enemy ship full of them and you're expecting him to have your back only for him to stand there as one of the bastards bops you on the head with a stick

but I guess he made an exception on this occasion, since they started it and Xisthia looked like she might scuttle off under a table if nobody came to her aid. His reward was the largest Argonian turning on him and spitting at him, leaving a slimy trail of iridescent mucus on his seacoat, a vast improvement upon the usual substances therein.

'What is it, Dres? Don't like people playing with your toys?'

That's another thing Braskan is particular about: being honest about his House. The first thing he does when we sign on a new Argonian is introduce himself with his full title and brace himself for the reaction. He thinks it's a kind of penitence, or something. For once, however, his tiny scrap of common sense happened to be in the right place, and he stood up. The mucus dripped onto the floor and landed with a squelch.

'Who says I's Dres?'

'Your face. Your scent. Your scars. And this. A trick we learned from you.'

Summoning Ancestors doesn't happen often outside of Morrowind. Ethysil says it's because the spell is connected to the flames and the ash and the heart of Red Mountain, and although every Dunmer has that fire in their bones, it gets harder to cast the further you travel from the foyadas, Morrowind's lifeblood. Fire carries their memories, he says, and each flicker of the candle flame is a ghost. When the ringleader of the Argonians, alight with summoning magic, snatched Braskan's arm and shoved his hand into the tavern's firepit, a very definite ghost of the normal spectral-body variety erupted onto the hearth. The whole tavern could hear it shouting, even over Braskan's wails of pain.

'Dres Braskan! Son of my House! Blood of the Dres! Filthied and befouled!'

Braskan's Ancestors always go on like this. It's why he's reluctant to join Ethysil for a summoning ceremony. Had the ringleader let the ghost go on a bit more, it would have reached the part about disgracing the name of Dres and bringing shame upon the House, a theme which you'd think might have convinced these Argonians that he wasn't a threat, but instead he yanked Braskan's arm out of the fire and threw him to the floor. As the ghost dissolved into smoke, the Argonians circled around Braskan.

'Well, Dres, we saw this deethtith stealing the fish off the lines this morning,' snarled the ringleader. 'We intend to-- what?'

Here's the thing: Dunmer don’t burn easily, everybody knows that, but if you grab a Dunmer's hand and stick it in a firepit without his permission or giving him time to prepare, it still bloody hurts. That tends to make people get a bit defensive, out of instinct. When a Dunmer gets defensive, they catch fire. It's generally a good response to scare off the threat. Ancestral fire tore across Braskan's arm and spread to his shoulders, his back, his head, until the ringleader realised they were crowded around a small inferno.

They had also forgotten Xisthia. Sensing the worst possible moment, which is always when Xisthia chooses to do anything, she tried to make a break for the door, keeping low to the ground, and crashed head first into the ringleader, pushing him towards the blazing figure on the floor. He stumbled and lost his balance, and the rest...

Well, let's just say that letting trees and swamp vegetation grow through your buildings and using thatch for the roof is not a wise idea if you are concerned about safety. Since the brawl was in full swing now it took us a while to realise that everything around us was in fact on fire, and when we did some of the Scamps were still reluctant to abandon a good fight. It didn't matter that the Argonians had turned tail and run, because by that point a few misplaced punches meant we were fighting each other just as happily, and we could have kept going all night if the authorities hadn't turned up. I suppose I can see what it looked like to them: a gang of Dunmer causing trouble with no outside provocation, but we know the truth, and now you do, too, so you know that it was utterly unfair to lock us up in the cells overnight, and maybe next time somebody tells you what a menace we are, you’ll put in a good word for the Dunmer of the Runaway Scamp.

#the works of master vilayn #xisthia #braskan #nalpa tsoko = bad ancestors (lit. vile elder) #deethtith = sap egg (one who has not ingested the sap of the Hist) #because I always get a bit paranoid about lore: #traditional Argonian buildings are actually built out of stone #but newer ones (such as I imagine quick/cheap coastal buildings) use wood and thatch #or so it appears in ESO/Arena #or maybe v is just using artistic license + racism #what I'm saying is don't @ me

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#scraps from the ship's log

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Eddis’s various vocal tics seem to disappear when he joins the crew in a shanty. In fact he has a reasonably pleasant tenor voice, at least by the Scamps’ (admittedly low) standards, and seems to enjoy himself when he’s permitted to lead a verse of their shanties. It doesn’t change his questionable judgment of what is appropriate and tasteful, but it is a minor point in his favour.

#a general history of scamps #eddis

[therunawayscamp]

Ethysil leaned against the taffrail, into the wind, watching the sea swell and fall beneath the bowsprit. Tempting as it was to fling himself into the ocean and rejoin Lord Seht, he had resisted so far and would have felt proud of the achievement, if the pain in his head didn't keep getting in the way. The battle had been going on all morning. Drinking with Braskan on the last night of shore leave was generally regarded as a bad idea, but it always happened to someone. The bastard had a way with words which, after the first few glasses, always sounded so pitiable, so pathetic, that it was impossible to leave him on his own for fear of what he might do to himself, and it always seemed to be his shipmates who paid the price the morning after. He himself was helping trim the sail, apparently unaffected.

The boards bent underfoot as somebody navigated through the lines to this secluded corner of the ship. Ethysil offered up one final prayer and tried to straighten up as best he could, aware that if he turned and found the captain or Vilayn bearing down upon him he would be beaten to attention with a cosh. Thankfully, it was Azareth plodding forward, and if that weren't enough to justify Ethysil's relief, he held out a tankard as he drew level.

'Got y'this.'

Silently, but with an eagerness that betrayed his gratitude, Ethysil took the tankard. There was an oily film on top of the liquid inside and its colour, as much as could be discerned inside the pewter, was a rusty shade of brown. Ethysil didn't give his mind time to reject the idea of drinking it before pouring it into his mouth.

While the concoction tried to eat its way through Ethysil's throat lining, Azareth found a crate and sat down, producing a pipe and biting into the stem. He packed it with hackle-lo and tamped it down, without much interest in the spluttering going on beside him. By the time Ethysil found his voice it was smouldering gently.

'As usual, Mr Azareth, you are a lifesaver.'

Azareth puffed out a lungful of smoke.

'Could of asked for it yerself.'

'R'khan would have noticed.'

'Think he noticed anyway when y'tried explaining Lord Seht's Sequence to him using a fork 'n some salt.'

'Ah.'

Another coughing fit prevented further embarrassment. When it was over, Ethysil joined Azareth on a box and smoothed a hand across his head, which was already feeling less sore than it had done five minutes ago. The sight of the feather on Azareth's hat swaying in time with the horizon didn't turn his stomach, either. He frowned at it anyway, then beneath the brim, where Azareth was watching his pipe smoke absently.

'While we're alone, do you mind if I ask you something?'

'Nah.'

'Did I see you calling in your debts back in Solitude?'

After a moment, Azareth slumped a non-committal shoulder.

'Aye. Needed gold for supplies.'

'You were doing it in Northpoint, too.'

'Needed a lot a' gold.'

'And yet you haven't asked any of the crew to pay up.' Ethysil waved away the pipe smoke, which clung to his hand for a moment and then faded away. 'Is something going to happen?'

'What makes y'say that?'

'You're a gambler. Nobody can call them like you. When I see you cashing in your old debts, I start to think that perhaps I ought to be doing the same.'

Azareth shifted on his crate until he faced the rest of the deck and crew, who were finished with the sail and preparing for a mage drill. Nobody had any reason to visit their corner by the prow. He waited until Oran had stamped below decks to marshal the newer recruits before turning back.

'It's a hunch, is all.'

'Your hunches are more reliable than a direct visitation from the Three accompanied by written scripture.'

The ashes in the pipe bowl glowed bright.

'Things're changing. Seen it in R'khan's face. Dunno what, dunno why, but I thought, mebbe now's the time to settle any outstanding scores. Don't hurt to be prepared.' He tapped the pipe against his knee a few times. 'Don't s'pose the Three've mentioned anything?'

'No, but I can ask. It's almost time for the Ritual, and thanks to you I might manage to get through it alive.'

No time like the present, either. Vilayn, overseeing the drill, had finally noticed the slackers to the fore of the ship, and if he hadn't stopped to criticise the formation of the mages along the side Ethysil knew he would have been the next up for a tongue lashing. As it was, he did his best to appear full of purpose as he strode towards the hatch, and only paused when Azareth coughed.

'Ethys?'

'Yes?'

'Y'owe me a septim for the cure.'

Azareth was smiling, but Ethysil knew better than to assume this meant it was a joke. He flicked his fingers into a gesture which definitely wasn't recognised by any subsect of the Tribunal Temple.

'Tight bastard.'

'Y'welcome.'

#the works of master vilayn #ethysil #azareth

[therunawayscamp]

Imperial Ladies

People who say that I have a silver tongue have obviously never spoken to the affectionate ladies and gentlemen on the Imperial City Waterfront. No matter how hard I try, and believe me I have, I've never been able to charm the gold out of people's pockets in one sentence, or convince the crew to abandon their drinks once they've settled in for a session. If that isn't enough to convince you, consider this: even I cannot make Braskan sound attractive, but when one of these women approaches him and sees he has a full coin purse (an admittedly rare occurrence but that's not the point), you would think if you listened to them that he was Lord Vehk reincarnated. They go on about his beautiful eyes, his rugged jaw and his battle scars until even he starts to believe it, and then, for the low price of everything he owns plus a bit extra to cover the room, they're his for the night, or at least for an hour.

Take Anna, for example. She was a striking lass, strong as a Nord and fierce as a Khajiit, with half her teeth missing after a run-in with the Thieves' Guild but none the worse for it. The gold she filled in the gaps with her gave her smile a lovely sparkle. I don't know what made her single out Braskan on the night in question, but single him out she did, with a lot of simpering about how she was new to the Imperial City and how she needed a handsome mer like him to keep her safe in such a big place. This, of course, was a lie, because we’d met Anna on our last visit and got pretty well-acquainted. It’s the oldest trick in the book, but a hefty amount of liquor helped Braskan swallow it. They disappeared into the tavern's back rooms, and the back of his seacoat and her short red dress weaving up the stairs were the last we saw of them for the night. Braskan claims he can't remember the precise details of what passed in that room so I suppose, in the interests of accuracy and honesty which I obviously support at all times, I have to leave that up to the imagination. For the sake of my sanity I prefer to imagine they had a nice cup of tea and then went to sleep, because Braskan engaging in wild profligate sex doesn’t bear thinking about, but your opinion may differ.

What he does remember is the next morning. After waking up, he didn't move for a while, partly because of the sweet soreness filling him from head to toe and partly because when he tried, he discovered his hands were tied to the bed. Calling for Anna got no answer. Braskan was alone in the room and firmly affixed to the bedpost. There are worse situations to be in, in my opinion, but maybe not when you weren't expecting it and don't recall asking for it. He considered going back to sleep, but his attempts were thwarted by a breeze through the open window flowing across his bare skin.

Eventually, after perhaps an hour or so, he deduced that this meant he was naked, and made another valiant attempt to free himself from his bonds. The sound of the tavern staff waking up below made the need to get up and find his clothes all the more pressing. Anna must have studied her knots, because the rope cut deep into his skin, but eventually he managed to loosen them enough to wrench his wrists free and flopped out of the bed onto the floor, where he lay panting until a shout from below reminded him of his predicament. It was time to find his clothes and escape.

Other than a lot of dirt, and a pair of lacy undergarments which certainly weren't Braskan's, there was nothing on the floorboards. Nothing on the bed, either, not even when he shook out the sheets and the empty bottles wrapped up in them. The closet in the corner was home only to more rope and a thick layer of dust. Not a sign of Braskan's clothes, not even his seacoat, which most people who've seen it believe to be permanently stuck to him by a sort of boozy, tarry glue.

The only other piece of furniture in the room was a chair. It didn't take long to search. On top of it was Anna's little red dress, thrown aside hastily during the night. Underneath it, there was nothing. The only stitch of clothing in the room was that dress, and someone was knocking on the door. Braskan looked at the dress, which would barely cover his thighs, looked at the window, and made a decision.

--

'Is that it?'

'What?'

'She stole his clothes and he had to walk back to the ship in a dress?' Fria wrinkled her nose and bent her head over the puppet she was fitting together, having replaced its limbs while Vilayn told his tale. 'It's awfully dull, if you don't mind my saying so. Why, I must have heard the same story fifty times already in every inn on the coast.'

'No you haven't. That wasn't the end. If you let me finish, you'd see that the dress wasn't important at all, and anyway this actually happened, unlike all those other stories, and that's why my ending is different. Everybody else stole it from me.'

'Really? Do go on, then. Pardon me for interrupting.'

--

Now, to us Dunmer, a man wearing a dress isn't unusual. If it's comfortable, why not? Mages do it all the time. Imperials, on the other hand, they haven't got their heads around this simple concept, and so Braskan drew more than a few looks as he made his way back to the ship. Knowing Braskan, he didn't mind. He probably swaggered. When you're in that sort of predicament you might as well play it up. Wolf whistles and invitations that don't bear repeating in polite society followed him along the Waterfront, mostly from dockworkers who knew him well (Braskan is the sort of sailor who makes himself known everywhere he goes), and he returned them in good spirit.

'All right there, Brass, me lad?'

'Aye, I's right good, thanks.'

'Like the dress, Brass!'

'Righ’? Does ya good ta feel the air ev'ry now an' then, I says.'

The Runaway Scamp was anchored further out from the City, because as I have mentioned before the crowds of adoring fans can cause some trouble with the guards if we dock within their jurisdiction. For this same reason we were in something of a hurry to leave, and so everything was ready to go, waiting only for Braskan's arrival. Purely coincidentally, this meant we could line up along the taffrail when Drasonval sighted him, watch Turithys row him up alongside, and deliver our own verdict on his new attire.

'Nice legs you got under there!'

'That red brings out your eyes something beautiful.'

'I'd of spent me money on summat a bit more practical, but you do what makes you happy.'

He endured all this with the same good nature, giving as good as he got, while we hauled them aboard. R'khan appeared on deck to greet him personally – not something that happens often, I assure you, but the reason for this unusual compliment will soon become apparent. There was what I believe could be fairly referred to as a twinkle in the captain's eye.

'Welcome aboard, Sera Braskan. We almost weighed anchor without you.'

'Ah, ya couldn'a done it wi'out my help.'

'On the contrary, we got ourselves a new recruit who fills your shoes remarkably well.'

He stepped back to reveal the person stood behind him. Braskan stared, slack-jawed, turning very slowly purple, as he saw Anna on the deck before him. His seacoat hung around her shoulders and her feet were, indeed, hidden deep inside his rigging boots, but I think what offended him most was her sharp, jaunty salute, and the rest of the crew's laughter as she gave him a sparkling golden smile.

#very mildly nsfw #the works of master vilayn #braskan #vilepuppetry #captain r'khan #anna palenius

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"It's wax smeared across a bear."

[Once upon a time I was going to type this up into a serious headcanon for Hazil’s medicines, but after ignoring it for years, I finally decided that I prefer it in its original form as a stream-of-consciousness .rtf.

TL;DR: Hazil’s main, generic medicine is made from dreugh wax, scuttle, ash yams and scrib jerky, taken alongside other concoctions of varying weirdness prescribed by his latest healers and the snake oil Vilayn brings back from voyages.]

---

"I'm going to look up what ingredients Hazil's medicines would be made from!" Ctrl + F "restore fatigue"

>Bread ...all righty then. Technical ingredients, these. >Crab Meat Crab sandwiches it is. >Hackle-Lo Leaf Followed by a quick smoke. >Large/Small Kwama Egg "All food", basically. >Saltrice To taste. >Scrib jerky >Scuttle

Right, that didn't work. Let's try "fortify strength" instead. >Ash Yam (secondary) There is going to be at least one healer Hazil visited who just told him to eat a proper meal. >Daedra Skin That's more like it! >Dreugh Wax Yay! >Vampire Dust (secondary) Hurrah!

http://morrowind.inventivegamer.com/tools/potion-maker/ Dreugh Wax, Saltrice, Daedra Skin and Hackle-Lo fortify strength and restore fatigue, but have a chance of paralysing the patient if made incorrectly. Dreugh Wax and Saltrice alone

Bread, saltrice and hackle-lo  restore fatigue only, but would be edible. Dreugh Wax and Bear Pelts fortify strength.

"What the shit is that?!?!" "It's wax smeared across a bear. Eat up! :D"

Dreugh Wax, Scuttle, Ash Yams and Scrib Jerky makes fortify strength/restore fatigue/fortify fatigue. So musty, fishy wax. Mmm.

When people ask Hazil why he's so bitter about taking his medication, he points out that its primary ingredient is wax, it tastes of fish and it doesn't work.

"Oh, wax isn't that bad!" “Do you know what dreugh wax is? Have you read 2920? In the words of Lord Sotha Sil, dreugh vomit.”

V went through a similar conversation early in their relationship. He was more tactful ("sounds disgusting, but if you take and it makes you better then you won't need to take it any more"), but completely ignorant about how dreugh wax is created. He felt even more sympathetic after Hazil explained that he has to eat the vomit of a sea monster.

#a general history of scamps #vilayn #hazil

[therunawayscamp]

The crew have attempted various ruses to smuggle Jo’Raya into cities which refuse entry to Khajiit. Their favourite success was courtesy of Braskan. When intercepted by a guard, he looked him dead in the eye and informed him that Jo’Raya was a Nord, and as the guard wasn’t immediately convinced, pointed out she’s fuckin’ hairy enough ta be one a’ yas, ain’t she? Whether the guard was convinced or only relented upon realising that the large group of heavily armed pirates in front of him was not going to back down is irrelevant; it achieved the desired result and Jo’Raya was permitted to remain with them unharassed.

More usually, however, Jo’Raya and the Khajiit will remain with the ship while docked in Skyrim, or find a sneakier way into the city of their own accord if there’s something they really need. Most of the time it isn’t worth the hassle.

#a general history of scamps #jo'raya #braskan

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Come and wade way out into the water with me We’re drowning on dry land

#a shanty and a song

[therunawayscamp]

Vilayn once tried wearing a bandana to keep his hair down, when it was growing longer and even more unruly than usual at the apex of a voyage. He thought he looked rather roguish and piratical in it, up until Braskan informed him that he resembled the old Nord fishwives on the docks.

After that, the bandana never made another appearance.

#a general history of scamps #vilayn #braskan