The Quest to Njaal's lost brewery. RP thread., The RP thread. Options

[Tellie]

Authors note: This first post will be an intro written by me for our 'NPC' Njaal, and will effectively be the start of our RP, read it well as all the information we need is right here (for the most part).

City of Anvil, Year 425 Third Era, The Flowing Bowl.

Njaal Mead-Brewer was a man on a mission, WAS being the keyword here as he was at this very moment quite unconsolable and perhaps more than intoxicated than your average drunkard in a Tavern. He had travelled all across Cyrodiil in search of a few lucky men or women to help him (and coincidentally earn a good bit of gold doing so) but none were willing "Payment up front" they all said.

You see Njaal was a (perhaps not famous yet) mead brewer. His mead so good that it would rival even the Black Briar's own mead, had the blasted Black Briars not hired mercenaries to raid his brewery and stolen the dwemer plates upon which he had carved the recipie in coded language.

He knew the sellswords were still in Cyrodiil as due to growing discontent in the province the borders were all tightly controlled and descriptions of the mercenaries had already been given to the guards. He only hoped that perhaps here in Anvil he might find someone to track down the plates, he had already given the innkeeper a handsome tip to 'refer' anyone who might be on the lookout for quick (and dangerous) credits, so now he just had to wait.

This post has been edited by Tellie: Mar 16 2016, 10:05 PM

[Darkness Eternal]

Kraven Desselius, The Flowing Bowl

“Please don’t misunderstand me,” Buffy was saying. “I’m in no hurry to recover the modest handful of septims I spent to enjoy watching you and Tiber enjoy a good meal."

The hunter knew where this was going. If indeed someone had spirited his coin purse away, he hoped deep in his heart he would be able to pummel him or her to the dirt. That's of course assuming it didn't fall in on his way to Anvil. Either way he must have left an impression that he was completely and utterly dependant on another, and this was simply not the case.

"But if you intend to enjoy a roof over your head and are not a member of one of the guilds, it sounds like you need to either find or refill your coinpur-“

Kraven was more than ready for a retort, but his answer was cut short the moment the wood elf's words were. They both turned their undivided attention to a voice interrupted them with, “May I join you?”

The words came from another Mer. This one was a dark elf. Kraven's scanned him from his head to his toe and back again. The man's long hair was going grey, and his chin sported a rough stubble that had to be introduced to a blade(though Kraven himself couldn't say much on that matter). There was also a vicious scar on the left side of his face that ran over an eye that was the color of his hair.

Gods, is he blind? Never seen a dark elf's eye any other color than red.

The scar, the armor, and all other assortments told Kraven that this one was no stranger to combat. The elf offered a quick, passing glance at him and seemed more interested in Buffy. Kraven did not like the way he looked at him. He wasn't the first dark elf that looked displeased with his presence and he certainly wouldn't be the last. There could've been a number of reasons; elven pride, racism, a sense of superiority over a humble non-threatening farm lad.

The wolf hybrid's ears pulled back, and his lips peeled to reveal a row of sharp fangs. Tiber growled at the presence of the man, but Kraven's calloused hand ran across the animal's back, calming him at once.

“I do not speak for my new friend here. Or his dog.” Buffy said to the dark elf, who sat anyway with a loud groan that bespoke of long winters. Just how old is this fossil?

"That Nord is named Njall apparently, and he is offering one thousand drakes...septims I think they call them here in Cyrodiil and part ownership in his future mead business to track down eight inscripted dwemer plates. I have here a sample of the mead he will be producing. This is what he will be producing, as soon as we get the plates back from the Mercenaries who stole them that is, have a sip and try for yourself".

First, Kraven deduced the man wasn't native to Cyrodiil. He lacked the common certainty of local currency. Must be from Morrowind. Terrible land, Kraven heard them say, full of slavemasters and bigoted, provincial folk. Kraven was seldom wrong in his impressions of others, but there had been cases here and there where he was. But this man didn't sit well with him. Must be because he's a Dunmer. Worst, a Dunmer from Morrowind.

I'll never set foot on those lands. Ever.

Secondly, he was a sellsword or an adventurer. Kraven heard magic spew from the man's lips like honey; drakes, septims. This man was on buisiness and somehow Buffy was involved. He contained a smile as fortune may have graced him. There could be an opportunity here. One thousand septims . . .

One thousand . . .

"One thousand . . ." Kraven said aloud, and realized he had done so. "Quite a lot of gold. Gold like that isn't given. Not for something as simple as getting back dwemer plates. Seems dangerous."

Too dangerous, Kraven imagined. I'm no fighter, I'm no warrior either. But I can help. Somehow. I'll just have to stay clear from the fight. Can't afford to die. What would my mother do without me?