Maintenance for the week of December 12:
• PC/Mac: No maintenance – December 12
fey-vetha'a - 'Nomadic trader, picker of pockets'
It was the shrill call of the seabirds that woke her.
Edited by menedhyn on March 26, 2017 3:30PM
As was her habit, she opened one eye very slowly, just enough to make out her surroundings, but not so much as to suggest she was awake. She listened intently, but was quickly satisfied she was alone. Sitting up a little, the view of the harbour greeted her once more. The same myriad of small fishing vessels, many of them ornately decorated with fine carvings and sweeping curves, clung to the jetties and quays, gently bobbing under a slight swell. A distant thunderstorm the evening before had made their crews nervous as they busied themselves checking rigging and poring over nets looking for breaks in the fine mesh, whilst casting an eye to the sky for signs of the storm’s path. They must have been lucky then, for this time they were proudly unloading their catch. More boats were navigating the breakwater and making their way into harbour. There was a distant cacophony of sound as the business of trading and bartering began in ernest. Some traders had even set up small stalls on the jetties and had wisely chosen to cook some of their catch in a hope to tempt as many folk as possible with the tantalising smell of their fresh fare. It had clearly worked as the stalls were already very busy.
It was about then that fey-vetha’a caught the delicious scent of cooked and seasoned fish on the slight breeze. She could not resist. She sat up from her makeshift bed underneath a large tree high up on the dunes, collected the few possessions she still had and checked the contents of her small coin purse discretely hidden beneath her clothing. To her delight, there was probably enough for a few meals yet, and so she made haste to the docks, the delicious smells teasing and titillating as she drew closer.
It was a wonderful sight! There were more stalls than she had first thought, and good business was being made by all. She made for one stall closest to her specialising in smoked fish - the best way to eat it, she muttered to herself - and made a respectable offer to the Khajiit trader for several pieces. The offer was respectfully accepted, as she knew it would be. Looking about her then, she spied what might be a quiet spot near an upturned boat out of the way of the bustle of the harbour. Without a sound, she slipped away from the crowd.
Sitting cross-legged, she first spoke a few quiet words to herself, paused for a moment, and then began to eat, slowly and deliberately, savouring the wholesome flavours of her simple meal. “Khajiit is happy to be alive," she whispered to herself.
'Pure rains make sweet rivers'