The Shadow Under Fort Sutch, RP Playground Thread Options

[Uleni Athram]

The Shadow Under Fort Sutch
---------


Things were slowly going back to normal.

The momentous events of the Crisis were undeniable and unforgettable, but as time marched on ever forward, so too did the memories of fire and Oblivion slowly fade. The Empire, battered and bruised, laid low the Prince of Destruction and His unholy legions with the help from her sons and the Divines. They paid a heavy price, for the glorious line of the Septims ended with the shattering of the Amulet, and Martin's ascension to the splendors of Aetherius. The Ruby Throne lies unseated, the Crown unwore. The Scepter that commanded red legions to conquest commands them no more. The last divinity of Tiber's line stands petrified in the bloodlines' last moment of glory. A grave price indeed, one that would echo and change the Empire's fate forever, but it was a price they willingly paid. To maintain balance and order in the world of mortals. The populace all over the Empire contributed heavily into itz rebuilding. The toils of restoring the glory that was Cyrodiil slowly helped ease the shock and the horror. The Crisis would never be forgotten, yes, but in time it would be fade.

Things were slowly going back to normal.

From Bruma to Leyawiin, from Cheydinhal to wounded Kvatch, news spread of the collaboration between the three Guilds of Anvil. Even wounded Kvatch has heard, and the Empire bristled with curiousity and excitement. Even the other provinces took ear of the Expedition, headed by the famous Oedipus Nebraska, he who is renowned in the land for his deeds of daring. The eyes of this veteran adventurer has seen something in the darkness below Fort Sutch, and is eager to drag it into the light of discovery. All manner of characters and personalities are drawn to this expedition. The thrill of journeying forth in a strange land? The riches and rewards of fame it allures the world with? The discovery of secrets long buried by the ancients, whether it be damning or enlightening? Or the chance to create history with their own hands?

The Shadow under Fort Sutch detests the light from above, and will test those who invade if they are strong enough to even uncover its barest of secrets.....

------------
OOC: Okay, the introduction is finished. Since DE is the first poster, please, do your magic and let's get this show on the road! *roars*

[Darkness Eternal]

Intro Post:

The Empire was going to rot, Drakothemir knew of this. Their shining star had been plucked from life itself and sucked into a destroyed gem. Uriel and his kin are in Aetherius now while his people scurry about to vie for political power. Drakothemir couldn’t care less. He had retired to his family castle after reawakening and assumed his hereditary title as a nobleman. The riches acquired throughout the endless decades, coin harvested from treachery and the spilled blood of the unworthy, made him one of the wealthiest being in Cyrodiil. Amid the growing corruption endemic to the Empire, his vast stuffed coffers and robust social nature could have bought the allegiance of any given number of politicians; he could, perhaps, as his sister had done before, have bought control of the empire only as a secret governor.

But a man of such heritage, such cultured nature, could never stoop to be lord and master of a festering garbage heap, leader of a horde of scavengers bickering over scraps like Chancellor Ocato and the rest of the High Council; the Empire, to him, was nothing more than this. Misfortune begat from the fiery pits of hell itself had fallen, and the Empire had collapsed out of favor.

Instead, Drakothemir would have used all the immense power of his fortune— and the vastly superior power of his unique integrity—to begin purging the world from this so called “Empire.” He would have been the is the icon of a stellar movement, its public face. To become the living symbol of honorable justice. This would have been the public story. This is the story that even Drakothemirr, in his sad and weak moments, almost believes. The truth is more complicated. Drakothemir is... different. He doesn't remember quite when he found this out; it may have been when he was a young fledgling, betrayed by those closest to him. It was once said to him: “You don't understand what friendship and loyalty is.” And he didn't. It wasn’t even a concept. It had been all so preposterous that he hadn't known what to say. In fact, he has never been entirely confident when people mean when they speak of loyalty or platonic bonds.

Love and joy, hate and anger-—even when he can feel the energy and passion of these feelings in other people, they translate in his darkly altered perception to other kinds of emotions. The ones that make sense. Perfect sense. Jealousy he knows, and possessiveness and hunger for power, too: he is fierce when any creature, even of kin, encroaches on what rightfully belongs to him. Intolerance, at the recalcitrance of the Tamriel, and at the undisciplined and pathetic excuse for lives of those who dwell in it: this is his mundane state.

Spite is bliss: he takes considerable pride in the suffering of his foes if they so deserve it. And pride? Pride is a virtue in an aristocratic nobleman, and vexation his undeniable right: when any dare to impugn on his sovereignty, his blood-honor, or his deserved position atop the natural hierarchy of society. And moral controversy makes perfect sense to him: when the inveterate disarranged affairs of ordinary mortals refuse to conform to the obviously simple structure of How Society Is Supposed To Be.

He is entirely incapable of giving a single care in the realms of what any given person might feel for him. He cares only what that person or cattle might do for him. Or to him. Very true, in his point of view, he is what he is because other people aren’t just very... interesting. Or even, in a sense, entirely people. Just Cattle. Sheep.

All around him were these sheep. Flocks of them. Belching and crying, scurrying about to devour their pastures of bread and cheese, and to drink their fill ale and beer. This was the Harborside of Anvil. But not only did the foul-mouthed sailors urinate the air with their drunken protests and rather idiotic songs of Cyrus and the Fall Of Dagon, there were tourists searching to sign and sell their lives for the Adventure's Guild.

Drakothemir, discarded from his nobleman's clothing(which were left at the Castle) and wearing nothing but a dark shirt and a black robe to cover it, along with black boots to cover his pale feet, frowned measurably at the sight. And he could see from his peripheral vision that there were those frowning at him from afar. Perhaps enjoying the scenery and filling their minds with a potential robbery of the dark-robed man. The set of peculiar rings on his fingers would be a shiny coin, they must be thinking. Or that fine saber dangling from his side could cleave skulls in two, they might imagine. But Drakothemir simply strided along the edge of the harbor with hands tucked behind his back, and his hood pulled back to dispel the aura of mystery about him.

To the public eye: He is no nobleman. No crusader. No warrior. No politician. No aristocrat. And above all, no pureblooded vampire. He is a simple man curious about joining the Fighter's Guild. And that what he was selling, to his chagrin, though, as he was now a target for the group of pirates who were likely setting sail to Hammerfell. Of course, one last holdup would not be too much for them. Especially with the set of rings Drakothemir had clothing his cold fingers.

His face bespoke uncertainty and fear, and his every stride was unconfident and clumsy. Twice now he nearly bumped into a group of overfed Nords carrying supply creates to their ships, or a tight-knit pack of Redguards carrying fierce-looking cutlasses. He was prey for the unrelenting.

No one would truly seek out the death of a common Imperial man, not when the Empire was rebuilding itself, not when the Adventuter's Guild were recruiting.

This post has been edited by Darkness Eternal: Jan 23 2013, 03:48 AM