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As the autumnal season finally arrived, it was time for Ja'vassa's favorite time of year. For centuries, at around this time of year, Ja'vassa had set up a small festival sit around his home in Falkreath, inviting people from all over Skyrim to join him for a time of peace, fellowship, drinking, and feasting. There wasn't often room for peace and relaxation like this, and so, he had to take advantage of the rare moments when they came. As the afternoon finally arrived, his preparation for the coming celebrations were finished.


An array of various drinks and treats sat out on the countertop, meats and vegetables roasted over the firepits and now, all that was left for him was to simply wait for the usual partygoers. "You did well, Ja'vassa... everything looks beautiful today." The old Dragonborn muttered to himself, sipping on his cup of cinnamon apple cider.

[Non-Elder Scrolls OCs are more than welcomed to join!]

Suddenly, a deep, flame red portal opened up near the house. Out stepped a red clothed man, standing up tall and proper.
"Hmph... So this is Tamriel..." He muttered. "Don't see what's all too special about it..." He began looking around, scanning the area.
"Skyrim, they said this place was? Hmph... Looks similar to that... Magicka." He said with a shutter, as if he was disgusted to even say the word.
The man turned and noticed Ja'vassa, his fiery eyes sharp enough to burn a hole right through the khajiit.
"Oh? Is this some sort of festival?" He asked.

Though the sudden appearance of the portal caught the old Khajiit by surprise, he quickly shook it off and the warm smile returned to his face. The stranger's words were a bit strange, but he supposed he couldn't fault an apparent visitor for being a bit skeptical of his homeland. Shrugging off the piercing gaze, he'd lean over the counter. "Aye. I just finished setting things up not too long ago, so it'd seem you're the first to arrive. Please, come and relax. Moments of peace and quiet like this don't come often in this part of Skyrim. I've got plenty of snacks and drinks ready, so do help yourself. If you care to stay for a while longer, I'll have some beef and venison roasts ready soon." Ja'vassa offered, grabbing one of the bottles of spiced wine he kept beneath the counter along with an empty glass. "Got plenty of mead and wine, and a few juices and ciders if you prefer something without alcohol, all handcrafted by yours truly."

The man nodded.
"Very well. I am in no rush to get anywhere, so I might as well enjoy myself a little."
Pyratus took a seat and held out his glass. He sat nobly, like a royal at a feast, contrasting the rugged outside of southern Skyrim. He picked up the glass and held it out expectantly for filling.
"Mead is for barbarians and farmers." He said coldly. "Wine would be nice, however. Is it of good quality?"

"I'd certainly think so, it's been my signature recipe for centuries." Ja'vassa nodded, pouring a glass of the spiced wine. "Made from a mixture of snowberries, jazbay grapes, juniper berries, and then finished with a blend of cinnamon, cloves, and a touch of dragon's tongue. Aged for a few decades, a wonderful treat for a day like this." He explained, a certain pride flickering in his eyes as he listed off the ingredients. "I call it the Dragonborn's Reserve; once the signature product of the old brewery I ran long ago."

After pouring the glass, he'd turn back to the array of meats cooking over the firepits. "I haven't seen you around here before. Mind if I ask where you came from, stranger? Most folks tend to walk here or arrive by carriage; using a portal like you did isn't something I see all that often... or at all, really."

Pyratus nodded.
"You have not seen me as I am not of this plane." He said.
"I have been experimenting with spells that take me to other worlds, trying to find some way to solve... A dilemma I have been in for a while. I am Pyratus of the Holy Landorian Empire, leader of the elite military known as the Red Suns and creator of fire magic."
He spoke proudly of himself and his home, his fiery eyes shining with pride. Shortly after he finished talking, he took a sip a sip of his wine.
"Hmph..." He spoke. "I have had better... But I've also had worse. The empire produces the sweetest grapes I've ever tasted. I can't imagine a place as cold as this being able to produce something even remotely close to the finest wines of Landor, but this is satisfactory for now."

"I see. It isn't often I get any form nobility out this way, not that I blame them. Falkreath, while beautiful, isn't always peaceful." Ja'vassa replied, occasionally glancing back towards his unusual visitor. "Fire magic, eh? It's a beautiful element... many see it as nothing more than a form of destruction, spreading death and despair wherever it goes, but that's far from the case. It's a giver of life as much as it is a taker."

Taking a few moments to deftly carve the freshly roasted meats, he chuckled softly at the man's comment about the land. "Be grateful you're this far south, Skyrim can get much, much colder. During my days as Archmage of Winterhold, I'm quite sure I spent more time clearing the old bridge of snow and ice than I did actually teaching any classes. But, for as cold as this land can be, it's got a beauty unlike any other. The towering mountains provide views you can't find elsewhere in Tamriel. Life here can be difficult, but for those with courage in their hearts, it can be a beautiful thing."

A tall, dark figure appears over a hill. Even backlit, it is immediately recognizeable as... wrong. Its limbs are far too thin, almost skeletal, the fingers long and spider-like. The head is distended, perhaps bloated? No, it almost has an octopus in place of its head, complete with tentacles that drape like a beard where the mouth should be.

It glides silent as a shadow, the hem of its robe brushing the ground. There is no sound of footsteps, just the occasional rustling of a dried leaf being disturbed by the robes whispering through the dirt.

It stops before Ja'vassa's table. Perhaps it glances at the other visitor, but it's hard to tell with those milky eyes. One eldritch hand extends, pointing toward an empty goblet.

Trick or treat, it seems to "say" - everyone in its vicinity will have the distinct impression they did hear someone say it, coupled with a certainty that they did not actually hear anything, and that the "voice" was not even real enough to have distinguishable qualities like tone or gender hints.

Given all the things that he's encountered over the centuries of his life. Daedra, vampires, goblins, and all sorts of beasts, the things that he's encountered today shouldn't be all that surprising, but as the stranger appeared, the old Khajiit was silent; staring at it for a few moments. Were they undead, or some strange form of daedra? Ja'vassa had no idea, but at the moment, it didn't seem like it was hostile and seemingly intrigued the array of drinks that he had laid out on the counter. "Oh, uh... welcome to Falkreath, stranger. Thirsty for something in particular? Got some Cyrodiilic brandy, Firebrand Wine, Spiced Wine, Honningbrew Mead, and of course, my Dragonborn's Reserve." He said, setting out the bottles for his unexpected visitor to choose from. "Or if you're hungry, I can start carving some of the roasts I've got cooking over the fire."

The thing swivels on the spot, just a half inch, bringing the indicated roasts on the fire into its field of vision. The tentacles wriggle, wetly, seeming to indicate disgust, before it turns back to Ja'vassa.

You will pour us the Dragonborn's Reserve, comes that not-voice again as it turns back firmly toward the Khajiit. The hand is still extended outward, waiting for tribute to be placed into it.

"Ah, seems you've got good tastes... uh, my friend." Ja'vassa nodded as he'd fill up the goblet with the crimson colored drink. "There we go. My very finest creation." With the drink filled, he'd set the bottle back underneath the counter and return to prepping the food for any other visitors; occasionally glancing back towards his visitor. "Is this your first visit to Falkreath? I hope it hasn't provided you with any trouble so far. There is a small tribe of bandits that lives up north... sometimes it feels like I have to wipe out the clan every other week. A little further southwest is home to a clan of vampires; be wary should you travel towards the border."

Clink. Clink. Clink. The long fingers close one by one around the goblet as it is passed over, talons scraping against the cup in a vice-like grip. It raises the cup to its face, and the tentacles shift a bit to accommodate the shape of the goblet. It's not possible to see the creature's mouth as the goblet disappears behind the tentacles, but there is a distinct clack sound as of metal on bone as the creature tips its head back slightly to imbibe.

We visit everywhere eventually, it "says" with a strange finality. But we will take your warnings into account.

Setsu walked softly through the clearing, taking in the decorations and fluttering leaves. They clasped their sword in one palm, the grip as comfortable as any everyday movement to them; anything that attempted to cross them with ill
intention would be instantaneously regretful.
They decided to drink a flagon of mead; the honey on the bottle reminded them of home. The Scorpion sipped from their flagon with simple enjoyment, and, detecting no taste of poison, downed it and refilled from the bottle.
"Hail," they nodded, and murmured softly, to a fellow passerby.