Abah’s Landing is the perpetual muckstain on Khefrem’s kicking boot, where, with the lockstep of a mighty Raga, it plunges south into the Abecean. It is a scuff that no polish can ever wipe clean. Not to say that many have not tried. The land was first settled by blood of my distant blood, a crown of Yokuda, known for the spectacle of his shortcomings, Prince Hew. It is no small wonder that this land in Hammerfell’s most southerly terminus should be called, colloquially, his bane. The land is hot, barren, riddled with winged adders and fire-breathing frogs, and far too close to elven lands for my tastes. If Sentinel is the emerald of the Alik’r, then Abah’s Landing is the ruby of Khefrem, bloodred and winedark. Ruled by petulant and greedy merchant lords, broken on the rack of the Iron Wheel and its ever corruptible inspectors, invigorred with trade that knows no exclusivity and hates no race of man or mer or beast, and most of all harried, at every turn, by my kind. Thieves rule Abah’s Landing. Make no mistake, for that is what the merchant lords are. But thieves will also set her free. Indeed, there are no thieves in all Tamriel who compare, in wit or elusiveness or grandiose design, to the thieves of Abah’s Landing. And though they lie now crushed in the rut of the crushing rim of an Iron Wheel, make no mistake that they will rise again. As I walk the sandy streets of my peoples greatest port, flanked by streams of Altmer and Maomer pirates and profiteers in their dubious trades, I feel I fit right in. One more scuff on the kicking boot of the Redguard, one pebble to crack the wheel’s rim.