“Elsweyr,” Stratos says, and if there’s a dry inflection to it after their earlier conversation, he can hardly be blamed. He’s already smiling at Jim’s obvious appreciation of his craft. The tribune winds the rope up tight and tucks it into his pack before he sets the new co-ordinates and extends a hand.
The humidity vanishes from around them along with the green. They’re standing atop a low grassy hill, a warm dry breeze whipping at their hair. Around them are rolling golden grasslands, peppered with low scrub and small wizened trees that cast the only shade to be seen. One sits just behind them, and this time Stratos has no fear about scrambling up it. He’s muttering about this not being ideal, but there’s hardly much in the way of obstacles to this terrain, save some distant mountains…
Ah, and the hill towering up a few miles behind them. It’s ringed with pale stone walls, crowned with the pointed spires of a city quite unlike the Imperial or Nord architecture Jim’s seen before. On the slopes below it sit other houses of light wood- but some of the roofs are brightly colored, like paint or cloth. From all directions, it looks like, huge aqueducts run into it, almost overshadowing the terraces on the slopes below, clustered with houses at the top and spreading down into gardens and orchards. The nearest road into the city curves through the savannah below Jim and Stratos’s perch. It’s too distant to make out details, but it’s clearly busy with brightly-colored caravans, their escorts and other travellers making their way in both directions. Not as wide or as packed as the road to the Imperial City, maybe, but clearly a hub of trade and cultural interchange.
There aren’t jungle beasts to worry about, here; but while Stratos works Jim will spot a curious Khajiit notice them from the fields, and begin heading their way. When he warns his brother-in-law, the other man merely gestures, casting an illusion that replaces his appearance with that of a dark tabby Khajiit in his usual clothes- and if Jim looks down, he’ll find his hands clawed and covered in golden fur. Then Stratos hops down and sees about getting them out of there, barely giving Jim time to check out the illusory tail curling from behind himself. If the local gets a glimpse of them before they depart, well- two Khajiit disappearing into thin air is almost as plausible as his having been mazed by the sun.
They splash when they appear next, and Stratos curses as he hurries out of the knee-high water they’ve landed in. They’re back in a forest, but one where trees akin to palms and mangroves sink roots deep beneath the shallow waters around them. The air is humid again, cooler but more fetid than that in Valenwood, and around them chirp amphibians as well as insects. A tattered-looking boat dock stands a little way along the islet they’ve retreated to. An aerial creature flaps by above the trees, screaming harshly on its way.
“This is definitely Black Marsh,” Stratos says to Jim, tipping the water out of his boots with a pull of his face. He’s smelled worse things, but he bets that’s going to linger. “If I had any doubt we were in the right place… This is the Argonian homeland.”
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The humidity vanishes from around them along with the green. They’re standing atop a low grassy hill, a warm dry breeze whipping at their hair. Around them are rolling golden grasslands, peppered with low scrub and small wizened trees that cast the only shade to be seen. One sits just behind them, and this time Stratos has no fear about scrambling up it. He’s muttering about this not being ideal, but there’s hardly much in the way of obstacles to this terrain, save some distant mountains…
Ah, and the hill towering up a few miles behind them. It’s ringed with pale stone walls, crowned with the pointed spires of a city quite unlike the Imperial or Nord architecture Jim’s seen before. On the slopes below it sit other houses of light wood- but some of the roofs are brightly colored, like paint or cloth. From all directions, it looks like, huge aqueducts run into it, almost overshadowing the terraces on the slopes below, clustered with houses at the top and spreading down into gardens and orchards. The nearest road into the city curves through the savannah below Jim and Stratos’s perch. It’s too distant to make out details, but it’s clearly busy with brightly-colored caravans, their escorts and other travellers making their way in both directions. Not as wide or as packed as the road to the Imperial City, maybe, but clearly a hub of trade and cultural interchange.
There aren’t jungle beasts to worry about, here; but while Stratos works Jim will spot a curious Khajiit notice them from the fields, and begin heading their way. When he warns his brother-in-law, the other man merely gestures, casting an illusion that replaces his appearance with that of a dark tabby Khajiit in his usual clothes- and if Jim looks down, he’ll find his hands clawed and covered in golden fur. Then Stratos hops down and sees about getting them out of there, barely giving Jim time to check out the illusory tail curling from behind himself. If the local gets a glimpse of them before they depart, well- two Khajiit disappearing into thin air is almost as plausible as his having been mazed by the sun.
They splash when they appear next, and Stratos curses as he hurries out of the knee-high water they’ve landed in. They’re back in a forest, but one where trees akin to palms and mangroves sink roots deep beneath the shallow waters around them. The air is humid again, cooler but more fetid than that in Valenwood, and around them chirp amphibians as well as insects. A tattered-looking boat dock stands a little way along the islet they’ve retreated to. An aerial creature flaps by above the trees, screaming harshly on its way.
“This is definitely Black Marsh,” Stratos says to Jim, tipping the water out of his boots with a pull of his face. He’s smelled worse things, but he bets that’s going to linger. “If I had any doubt we were in the right place… This is the Argonian homeland.”