It turns out I’m in the Breton City of Daggerfall. The prophet seems to think there is a reason why I am here, but I think less so. I guess when people have called you prophet for so long that you’ve forgotten your own name, you start to see providence behind every rain cloud.
There was a Redguard woman waiting for me when first I ventured outside the door. Attractive, but not the sort you might take home to meet your mother; but then, I’m not the sort of man she might take home to meet her father either. She tells me that I have a Captain Kaleen to thank for fishing me from the waters of Iliac Bay, and that I should go meet with their boatswain; although she went out of her way to show indifference as to whether I do, or do not.
I spent a morning looking around the city. The populous is more cosmopolitan then I would have imagined, with plenty of Redguard and Orc savages living alongside the native Bretons. There are a few other races too, lots of mercenaries and adventures seeking gainful employment.
The city seems peaceful though, and remarkable untouched by the ravages that besets the world outside its high walls. But when you look just a little deeper, there seems to be an undercurrent of unease surrounding the citizenry. There is an edge to every greeting, every smile takes a little too much effort and is held just a little too long. This is a city that seems desperate to ignore the unstable world without. Its as if they can all feel the earth moving underfoot, yet nobody wants to be the first to draw attention to it.
S.K
The Tamriel Drifter 