#davon's watch

[playingforpix]

Stone hallways out of Davon’s Watch.

[dandelyle]

Tales of Tribute in Davon’s Watch

[dandelyle]

the imperial was standing there looking at his map so i just stood next to him and played the lute then the guy in the daedric armor joined me then the imperial looked up from his map and joined us. a little while later this nord shows up to give us an audience. this is why i love ESO

[felis-lynx-felis]

This made me so, so happy

[screensoftamriel]

[screensoftamriel]

[brynjabladewielder-blog]

An Army Marches On Its Stomach

“I’ll give you five gold for the box.”

The shrewd Khajiiti trader furrowed her striped brow before reluctantly handing the crate of salted fish over to the smirking Nord. Brynja knew it was a hard bargain, but a fair one. She strapped the box to the back of the pack guar waiting for her. It nonchalantly ate the leaves off an ornamental kreshweed in a nearby planter as Brynja returned to the fray of the food market. Davon’s Watch was a bustling port town and this day was no exception. Despite the busy throng of merchants, mercenaries and mages Brynja had no trouble navigating the various vendors; the crowd parted before her considerable bulk. Striding from stall to stall she kept her eyes peeled for the freshest ingredients and ones that would serve them well on their next foray into the back country of Stonefalls.

A stack of ash yams caught her eye, balanced precariously in a mound propped up on either side by kwama eggs and assorted squashes. Carefully picking up one from the top of the pile she turned the flesh-toned tuber over in her hands. Its protuberances and nodules reminded her of a Corprus beast - or at least what she imagined one to look like. She’d only heard stories about them while eavesdropping on Dunmeri traders back home in Riften. She wrinkled her nose before gathering up a good sackful. As unsettling as their appearance may be, Ol’ Sully certainly loved eating them and their flavour wasn’t really all that bad. Kind of bland, but Sully knew how to spice them so it felt like a kagouti just kicked you in the mouth.

Several trips back to the guar later Brynja paused to take stock of her purchases. The crate of salted fish, a few bags of apples, a couple boxes of root vegetables, a dozen sweet rolls, several bottles of imported mead, some gorgeous tomatoes, the sack of ash yams, a variety of spices and cooking greens...As she mentally counted out the provisions the poor guar gave a pathetic groan. She scolded the overburdened lizard,

“Oh, its hardly that bad!” Its stubby little legs shook a bit before getting enough momentum to follow behind the large Nord.

(Image: Marketplace by tsonline )

[roguesfolio]

Perhaps when we see the world destroyed we may also catch a glimpse of how it was made. Travels in the star-wounded east brings these thoughts to mind. Godspoke pilgrims crawl on scabby knees along ashen roads to the saint-shrines of the changed mer, dragging their blue bodies until palms and soles are bloody in penance. They go in hair-shirts and kresh, prostrating themselves before the living triune, prone in faith and fear. Their sorrows are mirrored in the venomous land, who’s sulfurous effusions and molten discharges spill from the crust-cracked ground as if the land was sick. As the Dunmer weep so too does the land in magmatic lamentations . They worship that demon-king here, the Ansu-Gurleht, the Twice-Vehk, Circle-Talker, who lady-made my ancestors and whose companions in inscrutability, the Tribunal, do not live here but make their presence felt, one need only see the ecstatic processions of faithful, mortifying their flesh, chanting through the streets. There is malice in this land, slavery, rend-head justice, practices in business that make even this ne’er-do-well balk. Malice and ecstasy rule. I set out regardless of my trepidations into Stonefalls, a land of natural glass that runs the bottoms of my boots ragged. The road to Davon’s Watch is grey, volcanic ash falls as snow, more pervasive than the haboobs and dust-devils of my home, caking everything, finding ways into ears and nostrils, choking and suffocating, blackening spit and mucus. The fungal air is hot and smells damp. Ash-danced Parasol mushrooms of titanic proportions tower over gas-beasts and Scarabs. I aim to leave quickly. Davon’s Watch is patrolled by the Pact guard, They’ll chase you like a Vvardenfell cliff racer whose nest is upturned. Safety is not to cross them or their Nirn-walking gods. Safer still is to be free utterly of this land on the edge of eternity’s cremation.

For C.M.