Dead Union

Part 1

The ship carrying it's fifteen passengers glided, and had been doing so for quite some time, slowly and gently across a vast fog covered expanse of water somewhere on the oceans of Nirn. The only break in the eerie silence came from occasional creaks and groans from the vessels weather-beaten stern and bowel - accompanied at times by the flapping of its tattered beige sails and solid gray flag.

The sky above devoid of any twinkling stars or possible luminescence from a dimpled bright moon, the only illumination onboard came from a single lantern glowing ominously off a post starboard side. It teeter-tottered only gently, in unison with the calm course the ship had been set on by forces unknown to it's unconscious passengers.

The first of the passengers to awaken was a middle-aged Dunmer from the Imperial City. He'd spent most of his life in the merchant trade in hopes of finding some way to achieve great fortune - equalling the ambitions of most men in those days. He woke with a groan, rolled over, and felt about himself blindly, momentarily overcome by the darkness around him. Wherever he was wreaked of old wood, must, and salt. He quickly deduced he must be on a ship.

This realization was accompanied by memories of what felt like the events of the night before, though his certainty on the time elapsed was unfounded. He'd been tossing back tankards of flin in some filthy inn along Pale Pass in search of rumors from belligerently drunken locals on possible trade ventures. He'd only had a few mugs and was certain the scant amount he'd consumed couldn't have possibly caused him to blackout. He hadn't the faintest recollection of ever consenting to boarding a ship destined for Boethia-knows-where.

He smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth repeatedly, sensing remnants of a foreign and unusual ingredient far from the typical flavors associated with flin.

Hmm... drugged. He thought in dismay.

But why?

Before he could entertain the thought any further, a shuffling from somewhere near him caused the Dark Elf to instinctively reach for the elven short-sword, one of the few treasured possessions he let out of his sight, that typically hung from his right hip. To his surprise it'd been left exactly as he had it before entering the bar and ordering the first round of drink. Was someone toying with him?

"Who's there?" he called out in a half whisper. He began to draw the blade from it's sheathe in anticipation.

"Hello?" a voice called back, sounding female and equally as frightened.

(OOC)

I'm a bit rusty and these installments will be posted at no regular interval, but I do hope everyone enjoys the read. Please, don't refrain from constructive criticism. There's always room for improvement!

-Dren

This has caught my interest. Good work.

Part 1 (cont.)

Orna blinked rapidly and lay still as the explosion of color, even in total darkness, began to fade from her hindered sight. She knew almost instantly from the familiar bobbing and constant moaning of the wood around her that she must be at sea. She couldn't yet tell if she were on water she'd explored or somewhere unknown - still recovering from her daze.

The 39 year old Breton had spent her entire life at sea. First as a fisherman's wife, then a seafarer, and, after the brutal murder of her husband, a vengeful pirate of atypical moral alignment. Although the life of most pirates consists of raiding, pillaging, [censored], and murder, Orna had maintained herself and crew by a series of successful heists of brilliant orchestration with little call for such barbarism. Men are violent. She was well aware of this fact. To vent some of this poison and keep her crew in check, Orna occasionally sanctioned raids on small fishing villages and only a few Imperial vessels lost at sea.

Black Draugr was her vessel. It'd been Orna's only other love after the loss of her husband. Now here she was, in a foreign vessel, unsure of her location - her crew's safety a mystery - and suffering from a gradually subsiding migraine. As she started to rise and gain her bearings, a voice called out into the darkness causing her to freeze in place, half-kneeling.

"Who's there?" the raspy voice had asked. Orna noted that it had the pitch and roughness of an older Dunmer.

She had intended to respond but before she could do so another voice answered.

"Hello?"

A young woman.

Orna stood fully at the sound of a blade being drawn, presumably the Dark Elves'.

She swallowed hard and decided to announce herself. "This is Captain Orna Rozelle of the Black Draugr. Who are you and where's my crew?"

There was a brief silence. The Dunmer responded first.

"Omarel Yorek, here. I've no idea where your crew is, or for that matter, where I am. I can assure you I'm but a merchant. The last thing I remember is having a drink at the bar and then --"

"Waking up here..." the younger female interrupted.

They all remained silent, each person struggling to recall how they might've ended up on the ship.

A fourth voice spoke, breaking the silence and causing each to jerk their head around blindly in search of it's owner.

"Well then," the mystery voice started, "we might as well not sit here blindly."

With that, a faint glow quickly lit the entirety of the hold. As each of their eyes adjusted, they soon saw an Altmer woman with her arm raised, palm up, a bright ball of magicka glowing in her palm. "Driana. Driana Lhamas." she said, smiling at the strangers.