The Shadow Under Fort Sutch (2015), RP Playground Thread Options

[Uleni Athram]

(OOC: My lovelies. It has begun.)


GM POST (GENERICUS - FUDOM)


And so it was that the whip of Oblivion brought more tragedies than what was initially realized. Destruction had been halted with the sacrifice of who is arguably the greatest Septim since the Stormcrown himself ushered in the Third Era, but where fire and legion failed, inequity and the weakness of mortal hearts would threaten to succeed. Destruction had been halted, yes, but Change and Revolution now poisoned the air of wounded Tamriel, and the hidden Ambitions of many darkened what should have been a determined rebuilding of what was lost. Defeated and spiteful Mehrunes Dagon saw this and was glad; his joyous laughter rang out throughout the Deadlands, as calamity and mortal strife took the center stage of this new Crisis.

Valenwood is broken into two halves; one fights for the loyalty to past allegiances, one fights for the future unriddled with Imperial dominion. The eaves and boughs of that gilded realm is red with the bloodshed of brother against brother. To their east, the sands of Elsweyr are being bloodied by the Elves of Pyandonea; foam against dune, moonlight versus sea-storm, the Khajiit struggle for their very culture against a determined foe while their Imperial 'protectors' stand impotent against the pirate scourges. There is talk of war between the long feuding Dunmer and Argonians; certainly those rumours are not unfounded, for there are already mounting casualties as a result of raiding from both sides. The Land of the Utter Most West, High Rock, is openly rebellious and the Bretons remain steadfast in attempting to shake off the authority of the Imperial Throne; not even pressure from the loyal warrior-nations of Hammerfell and Skyrim could dissuade them from this sudden urge to secede. And in the land where summer sets eternally, there is a fateful rumor going around that a third incarnation of the Aldmeri Dominion is on the rise.

Through all of these events, however, none seem to get more focus than the Expedition to the bowels of Sutch. From the lowliest peasant to the noble over-saturated with decadence, Oedipus Nebraska's rousing of Anvil's two guilds (as well as the support of his Sponsors and the recruitment of hundreds of freelance adventurers) to join his own to a journey under Sutch held supreme attention. They thought it a new adventure that could give a brief respite from the troubles of a world torn by unrest, but... could it really be as it present itself to be? Or could it be another tragedy in the making?

One by one our heroes, in their own way, receive news of the Expedition. And one by one, through reasons of their own, they find themselves heading towards Anvil... Do they seek glory? Riches? Fame? Knowledge? Power? Are they driven by simple curiousity and wanderlust, to experience a thrill of discovering a place where the sun is silent? It might be that they would have a chance to attain these things. Or it might be that they would get something else entirely. One is thing is for sure, however.

Sutch awaits.
With all its mystery. With all its secrets. With all its ancient shadow.
Sutch awaits. And it waits with a smile.
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GENERICUS BLOCCUS

A pleasure to make your acquaintance, he thought while humming, but better to make you fools bleed.

The lithe Nord fished a piece of parchment from some department on his brigandine jacket, and with a very minor fire spell he burned the stanza he came up with. For a moment he stopped and regarded his work. A blatant rip off of a classic Nibenean tune with several lines stolen from the poetry of the central Imperials; he considered adding a limerick or two here, reinforced by a haiku in the style of those ancient Akaviri poets. The mixed compositions would do havoc with the mind of a prim and proper bard, but no ordinary singer was Genericus. He was always jumping from one style to another, trying to find purchase in comfortability, but no one style ever held him in thrall for long. To address such a vexing block, he opted to simply mash them all together and make order out of such a messy arrangement. And here he was. He tried to vocalize his work once but found, to his dismay, that it attracted all kinds of attention from his fellow pedestrians. A summer in the Gold Coast was especially severe this year, and the sun-baked roads and humid wind made for a stifling companion. Those who travelled on the Gold Road were eager to find something that would entertain them. Or alternatively, something to vent on.

Checking the traffic that wormed the Gold Road for any signs of brutes and thugs that would jump on anything to fight, and finding none (save for a suspicious elf with tattoos and a mohawk), Genericus began singing, this one a comedic pirate chantey he made during a stay down in Leyawiin.

"Thar once was a lass so fine,
She was drunk on Surilie wine,
I'd been out to sea for a month or three,
I knew I could make her mine.
But the lass was past consent,
So it was off with her we went,
And we threw her in bed and we rested her head,
And we left cuz that's what Gentlemen do...

A woman has a right to a drink or two,
Without worryin' about what you will do!
We say Yo-HO but we don't say 'ho,'
Cuz 'ho' is disrespectful, yarrr."

The tune was catchy and predictable in its endings, and the comical lines drew a laugh or two from passerbys. As he continued singing, a family of Khajiit caravaners joined him and provided a steady ambience using kitchen tools; pretty soon there was a motley band of rummy and souses roaring their throats dry as they sang the hilarious chantey, along with a pack of children and teenagers that joined the song here and there. So good and lighthearted the atmosphere was that in their joy, Genericus and his flash-band suddenly found themselves at the oaken gates of Anvil, which was open to allow space to the massive traffic the city received ever since the proclamation of the Expedition. Genericus thanked his fellows for making a dull trip a fun one, but realized that he did not catch their names.

"I'm Holden," said one cross-eyed drunk with strawberry hair and beard.

"I'm Mac Roin," said a robust fellow wearing flowers in his bald head.

"I'm gonna puke," said a third, young man and promptly did so just inches away from Genericus' boots.

Genericus grimaced at the last one, but nonetheless curtsied and introduced himself. The robust fellow, Mac Roin, began laughing, while Cross-Eyed Holden tried thumping the back of Pukeboy to comfort him; but being cross-eyed, he instead thumped Pukeboy three times at the back of his skull and Pukeboy retched again. Mac Roin regained himself and looked at Genericus, a friendly smile on his portly face.

"Heheh, the pretty lady's got a man's name, lads! Heh heh heh.."

"I'm not a lady," said Genericus with an anticipatory smile, holding the man's stare steadily. Mac Roin suddenly sobered up and his portly face underwent several expressions before settling on a calm and collected one. He said, "Ah," before grabbing both sides of Genericus' face and planting a large and sloppy kiss on the Nord's mouth. At least, that's what he aimed for; being drunk, he landed it on Genericus' nose, destroying his make up there.

"Bless you still, you painted goblin! That was one hell of a chantey that me and the lads won't forget! At least, until the evening bar-hop commences!"

With a stentorian laugh, Mac Roin picked the now unconscious Pukeboy with one hand and guided drunk Holden (who was having a spirited fist fight with something only he could see) to wherever it was they were going. Genericus stood, there, motionless. Then with unbelievable alacrity he produced a mirror from somewhere and began inspecting his face. He was right. His nose was a shade darker than the rest of his face; wetter, too. With a defeated whimper, he entered Anvil and headed straight to the West Weald Inn to repair his broken visage.
------------

FUDOM YOH

A pleasure to make your acquaintance, he thought with a smile, but better to make you fools bleed.

He broke the Dunmer's arm with a savage twist of the lock and, using the joined bodyweight of him and the elf's, threw him to the ground belly-first. He stomped on the mer's head and it exploded like a ripe melon with vivid juices. The second one came at him from behind. The scimitar maimed the spot where his head used to be; crouched low, he turned towards his new opponent and speared him in the gut with his shoulder. Winded and stunned, the Morrowind bounty could offer no resistance as Fudom used his body as a battering ram against a tree's trunk. Slinking down to the ground in unconsciousness, this elf's life ended when the massive Redguard gave him titanic blows on his unprotected head.

The clearing was suddenly quiet. No birds, no crickets, no rustling of leaves that spoke of the forest's life. Nothing. Fudom stood still, eyes darting to and fro, hunting for the last one. Six other corpses lay in various states of brutalization, but these dead mer told Fudom no tales in regards to their ally's location. His skin tingled, however, with the premonition of bad things. Fudom's eyes widened under his mail mask but that was all he could do as an invisible object collided with his gut and felled him to the ground.

Magic, he thought through gritted teeth, already coming back to his feet and settling into an open stance. Fetcher's using invisibility magic!

He knew how to deal with this kind of enemy. It was one of the most difficult and painful lessons he ever took from his wife, but none of his broken bones could deny its effectiveness. Drawing a deep breath, he closed his eyes and emptied his mind of all conscious thought. In the center of his mind's temple, he imagined a picture of himself in the glade. Where his position was. Where the corpses of his enemies were. Every little detail he could scrounge up. He focused on that image and let his other senses do the rest of the work.

A rustling a few feet behind him... A little bit to the east. No natural thing can make that sound. It edged ever closer... Closer...

"Rrrraaaghhh!"

Eyes still closed, Fudom whirled around at the last moment and pistoned a grab in thin air. His grip found purchase; he was holding his last enemy's wrist in a vise hold. A little twitch in a direction confirmed that this was the enemy's left arm. Fudom laughed. The invisible Dunmer yowled in pain. In the span of five seconds, Fudom broke the elf's arms in eight different places and knee'd him until Fudom was sure his face was a mashed affair of bone, gristle and tissue.

With a satisfied grunt, Fudom returned to where his pack was and resumed his journey to Anvil through the forests of the West Weald.

NEXT ONE TO POST: COLONEL MUSTARD

[Uleni Athram]

GM POST

Ebel ran through the dusty Colovian plains, tears on his eyes and vengeance in his heart. Gormac was wheezing just right by him, his pathetic breathing punctuated by his unmanly little sobs every once in a while as they fled from that terrible slaughter. Ebel himself felt the scream struggling to push past his tightened throat, to mourn the passing of their little sister, but he knew that to let his composure down would only make things worse. Tacita wouldn't come back with her severed head, and if tears stained his face, it would show weakness to the other marauders back at their camp. Loved though she may be by her elder brother, Ebel, for all his dark grief didn't want to follow her yet just because he showed softness. They passed by crags and outcroppings of ancient brown rocks and there came into their view a gathering of wooden huts and tents cleverly hidden in a dip between two hills; only those who know the way can find this secret settlement of scum and villainy. Ebel stopped for a breather; Gormac opted to fall face first. It had been many leagues and the unpaved paths were unkind to their feet. Ebel threw down his bow to the ground and looked harshly at his little brother. He was still audibly crying, tears mingling with the dirt of the Imperial Reserve.

"Stop it," Ebel said. "We're home now, and we can't show weakness to the others."

"Bastard took her head clean off," Gormac wailed. "Tacita's dead. Tacita's dead, bastard took her head.. Her head... Tacitaaaaaaa!"

He's in shock, Ebel numbly realized. Without further ado he grabbed a rock and bashed Gormac's head in until he was unconscious. Better to have him down than let him get in my way...

The settlement, as per the custom of the criminal outlaw, was disorganized and in shambles. No manner of order or decency was found in this place, and all sorts of perversion and violence were common reoccurences that the inhabitants (that numbered near seventy) simply had no shame, guilt or morals anymore. Ebel breezed through, ignoring the stares he was given, and went straight to the chief's tent. The stench inside was foul, and he found the gigantic Orc feasting on the remains of someone he didn't knew. "You're back early," Balabog Palefang said, gristle and blood staining his mouth and tusks. The Orc narrowed his glowing nlue eyes as he inspected Ebel. "There is death in your eyes and on your hands, boy. I have sent five and only one returns. What happened?"

Blood on my hands? Without emotion Ebel looked at his hands (they were shaking!? why are they shaking?!) and saw that brain matter and skull fragments prospered on them like little red jewels. He looked Balabog straight in the eye and found his voice, which was strangely bland.

"All dead. Boss. No loot, too. An elf killed them. Gold road."

The immediate reaction was swift and destructive. Tacita had been a favorite of the chief and she was rumoured to be expecting a pair of his twins, an apparent miracle since Balabog had been desiring sons for a while. Part of the reason why he had liked her was her fiery streak and thirst for violence; now, it seemed, those two traits that had raised her in his eyes became the very reason for her own downfall. Balabog grabbed his horn and blew out three furious notes. When the Orc exited his tent, thirteen of his very best killers were already waiting for him. One had his gear in his hands. An orcish scimitar and a staff looted from a Legion battlemage. Balabog grabbed it with fury and looked at them with hungry malignance, his eyes now burning with shamanistic fire.

"Get the wolf pack. We're going to brutalize an elf, and I will have his corpse be made sport by my hounds."

Balabog turned around and looked back at his tent. At the ground lay Ebel, beaten to death, his only fault being the bearer of extremely bad news. Balabog snorted indifferently.

When all was said and done, when the war party had been fully assembled, fourteen of the most strongest bandits of the Imperial Reserve marched out for murder and vengeance. Ahead of them, five wolves the size of boars sniffed the ground with eager bloodthirst, impatient for their next meal.
----------------

GENERICUS

The Nord smiled in triumph and raised his glass towards the Khajiit. One down, a dozen more to go. Genericus sat back up and considered Khan's words. The Expedition certainly wasn't that forthcoming in regards to the threat they were going to have to face, what with all the advertisements and recruitment posters sugared up with the promise of gold, fame and excitement. Bereft of information, Genericus could only shrug.

"They didn't say anything about that on the posters. But with the numbers of participants they're willing to take in, I'm pretty sure a goblin tribe or three won't be our only pro-'

He sneezed. Loudly. Genericus rubbed his nose and smiled sheepishly. He stood up and quickly dressed himself in a purple robe. He spoke to Khan as he began searching for his footwear.

"Damn cold. I'm going to buy a cure potion from the Mages Guild to get rid of this damn thing, but if you have one right now, I'll treat you to a lunch now or later for it. I'll have you know that they serve the most tasty crab rangoon at the Flowing Bowl; very cheap, too. I don't recommend the water, though. It's sugared sea-water. In fact, I don't recommend anything else aside from those crab rangoon."

He grunted in dismay when he couldn't find his shoes.
*************
FUDOM

The Redguard thumped himself in the chest in a warrior's salute to the elf. His Blades training in the Subtle Arts told him, quite clearly, that the elf still harbored a touch of distrust even after he introduced himself and his destination. Fudom couldn't fault him for it. The Gold Road between Skingrad and Kvatch had been too much for the Legion, even before the Oblivion Crisis, and the bandits plaguing it had been bold enough to sometimes camp within sight of the road. With such a vein of commerce held up by brazen denizens of the criminal world, those with sense opted to avoid it all together and travel through different paths that were safe and reassuring. For all this Sinyon knew, Fudom could be a road agent in disguise so, again, he understood where this distrust came from. In fact, they were the only ones in the Gold Road at this very moment.

"The Mages Guild as well? This ... Expedition, as you call it, is proving to be more bigger than I realized. Pray tell, brother Sinyon, who else is coming along for this sojourn? I must admit that I only heard of this through word of mouth and I am not that wholly versed in information. Let us converse as we walk."