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.
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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]

There was one person among the gathering of humanity that took a special interest at the show of power Jolus displayed. The sprite he summoned was beyond anything they have ever seen, and the magical properties it showed told them that this was magic of a different sort from the School of Conjuration. It could pass through flesh and bone, but could be solid and interact with objects at will (the fact that the green sprite held open the door almost shocked them into silence; no mere spirit could be powerful enough to be tangible like that). The appearance was strange too, and the inherent scent of Oblivion one could always smell when encountering the Conjured was... mixed on this one. Its scent was of ozone and sulfur, but it had an aftertaste of ash as well. Sinister calculations and serpentine thoughts flashed behind their eyes, and there was a slight quirking of their lips when they regarded the Dunmer's companions. It was interesting, to say the least, that such a pair's inherent darkness wasn't sensed by the Guildmages at all. Either Carahil's get were lowly incompetents or the two redheads were powerful in disabling suspicions of them. No matter. They have finally found a worthy wizard of Their Lady's attention and the power this elf wielded could prove useful in their quest. Worm-warlocks or not, the redheads would have to do as well. The person looked at Jolus once more.. And giggled. Your fate is sealed, the person thought, as they quickly vanished among the sea of apprehensive people. My society would have fun using you.

Lielle and Brielle for their part, didn't see or sense the sinister stranger as the two sauntered off to the sights of sea-sang Anvil. Lielle bit her lip in embarassment as she walked, even ssparing an emphatic glance at the bawling Nord while Brielle walked imperiously, posture-straight, her face neuitrally blank. Stares followed their backs. When the noonday sun greeted them with a slight harshness of its rays, Brielle took the lead to the Docks while Lielle conversed with Jolus.

"My.. hypotheses regarding Soule Musique has urged me to look to... other spirits as well. Namely, conjured animals. If, in theory, our ideas regarding the fusion of Soule Musique and a synthetic body would work seamlessly, then it stands to reason that it could also work on beasts as well. Its just an idle thought of course but... Can you imagine the ascendant abilities of a horse if it has the mind and will of your spirit? You would not need horse-training nor a saddle to ride him. What about wolves? Bears? Birds, for instance, could give you a more clear view of your surroundings! The possibilites are positively endless!"

When the trio finally circumnavigated through the sea of armored adventurers and hassled citizenry and arrived at the Flowing Bowl, the twins, to their dismay, found that the building was packed to the brim. The air inside was cool thanks to the seasize breeze and the fact that the door and windows was kept open. Nonetheless the scent inside was more than a little offputting. But this place was cheap, so what can one do? The two Bretons scanned their surroundings and found that all the tables were occupied by a party of six or more. There was no middle-ground here. With so many people to serve and not enough places to accomodate them, the Flowing Bowl enacted a policy that tables ... must be shared. Strangers or no. This put quite a damper on the trio's plan on conversing about their new little project. No matter. They would just have to continue their talks elsewhere after they have had their meal. Lielle spotted a pair of men conversing at a table that was too large for them. Since no one else joined them yet, the twins reasoned that they were simply two people on a table that just happened to be for six. The more muscular of the duo, a Khajiit, pulled a chair for his companion before bumping his way towards the counter. The twins looked at each other. Brielle nodded. They approached.

"Excuse me but could we trouble you on sharing this table? All the others have been taken." Brielle smiled a beautific smile at the Nord, eyes flashing.
------

GENERICUS
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The Nord considered his companion's sudden curiosity. Truth be told, he wasn't the best person to ask about the intricacies of architecture and ecomony related to it, but he guessed the cat was just trying to fill empty space with friendly banter.

'It probably has to do with all the sea-spray and coastal storms a port-city like Anvil would have," Genericus reasoned, his voice a little bit bored. "Wood would rot quickly under those circumstances; better to have rock-hard stone to resist that kind of thing." There was an innuendo in there somewhere, the sultry part of Genericus' mind thought. He sat on the chair Khan chivalrously pulled for him and considered the Flowing Bowl's menu (along with searching for the missing innuendo) when their table was approached by a pair of twins and a dunmer. He gave them the critical once-over. Both of the women were beautiful in the way of those with Western blood and Genericus would go on a limb to say that these two were Bretons. Their features were angular and sharp, just like the dark elf by them. The robes they wore were of contrasting colors and generally complimented them well. They both had a glass dagger at their hips. The elf on the other hand was dressed like a scoundrel. The confident swagger, the air of superiority... Yes. A scoundrel indeed. He had a nice hat though, and it went well with his tunic and his golden necklace. The fashion-aware side of Genericus approved.

When he finally finished his nano-second examination of them, Genericus smiled back at one of the twins. He was pretty sure this one tried to come on to him, using her charm to secure a seat. It was a technique he knew well since he used it himself.


What the hell, Genericus decided. The more the merrier, anyway.

"Me and my partner would be honored," he declared in his most femine voice. He gestured to the empty seats. "Please, have a seat. I was just about to order a plate of Mudcrab rangoon; you are welcome to eat with us. I'm Genericus, by the way."

He looked at them.

"And you are...?"

"Brielle," the one in blue said, seating herself with grace.

"And Lielle," the other finished with a smile, this one more warm and genuine than her counterpart's. "Thank you for having us, by the way. Some of the people here don't look too friendly to share tables with civility.' Genericus laughed and nodded, then looked expectantly at the Dunmer.
---------------

FUDOM
---------

Fudom didn't reply at all at Sinyon's lengthy reply. The sense of approaching danger positively made his hands itch, and when the first volley of missile thudded all around them, he almost sighed in relief at the prospect of finally shedding blood. He immediately took to one knee to make himself a smaller target, drew his scimitar and shield, and took in their surroundings, trying to find their ambushers. He narrowed his eyes. They were surrounded on both sides of the empty road. There were four on their right side, a motley band of lean thugs that wore facemasks to conceal their identities. On their left were three beefy men that wore iron as well as leather, and they had ferocious iron masks that were human expressions of pain or anger. All of them had a mish-mash of crossbows, bows and javelins, as well as personal weapons ranging from shortswords to great mauls, and upon their shoulder blades were grey armbands that had the symbol of a black eye and gaping maw.

The fact that the assault had been done in such a sudden fashion -without the two of them noticing no less!- led Fudom to believe in two things, both of them not good. One; they were skilled enough on naturally camouflaging themselves to fool a pair of experienced warriors such as Fudom and Sinyon. Two; they used Illusion magic to blend in on their surroundings. He was more inclined to believe the former, but could not rule out the possibilty of the latter. Road agents these days were getting crafty in their arts.

That was all he could think of in his nano-second examination when the second volley hit them, this time much more accurate. The majoity seemed to focus more on neutralizing the Altmer, as along with arrows Fudom felt the malignant missiles of Silence loosed at the elf. but that was no consolation given the fact that he himself now had several bolts stuck on his mail and shield. It did not penetrate lethally, but it hindered him all the same. Fudom growled.

The distance he had to close just to get to either side was not inconsiderable, and to charge one side would leave his back open for the other to shoot at.

But to stay in one position would be foolish as well. While the bandits were at the midst of reloading and re-arming themselves, Fudom charged at the beefy group of outlaws, his massive steps allowing him to get in tackling distance before suddenly rolling to their left. When he got back up, shield raised, the whispers of arrows passing his head by told him that some of the brutes missed. Some. A crossbow bolt smashed against his helmet and while the steel of his equipment held, the blunt force almost blinded him in pain. He fought through the white haze and when his vision cleared he saw that all three of them were now upon him, sword and axe and mace in hammy hands. With the eagerness of a tiger Fudom engaged them, but took care to drag the duel away from the road, forcing his opponents to leave their backs pointed at the ambush site. At least with this arrangement of positions, Fudom would be protected from further volleys from the other group.

The opponents he faced were cut from a different cloth than the usual ruffians Fudom faced. They were no fools in close-quarter melee, and knew enough of team tactics to keep Fudom on the defensive. The one with the mace was particularly skilled. He was savvy with his strikes, going low to allow others to strike at the opening he caused, then sweeping back up in cadence with the wide swings of the axeman. The axeman himself had a few tricks up his sleeve; namely, magic. He had coated his left fist in a combination of ice and lightning, and he pistoned a crackling punch everytime his weapon crashed against Fudom's steel. The wretch with sword, in contrast to his fellows, was more calculating and baleful in his attacks. Like a serpent he lashed out at Fudom with alacrity, then mixed it up with feints and lunges. All in all, they made a troublesome trio for the massive Redguard, but his experience and training evened things out, and the four found themselves matched. The bandits with their numbers and gimmicks, Fudom with his quality training and bestial prowess.