The Shadow Under Fort Sutch, RP Playground Thread Options

[Acadian]

Buffy:

It seemed clear this Redguard was plying his charms for Kayla’s benefit. Buffy suppressed a sigh. No matter how many times her Bravilian guild mate Ardaline professed envy as she called Buffy ‘elven petite’, the small elf knew better. Altmer were statuesque and graceful. Not to mention they had delicately curved ears; not ones that rivaled those of a horse like Buffy did.

At least the Redguard – Tarrick, he informed us - was gracious enough to inquire as to Buffy’s name – even if the question was directed to Kayla. Buffy held her tongue and studied the Altmer’s face, looking for any indication that her name had not stuck in the high elf’s memory. After all, Kayla and Buffy had only met and exchanged names a few moments ago. At the slightest hesitation from the Altmer, Buffy would jump in and introduce herself to save her new acquaintance any embarrassment.

[Elisabeth Hollow]

"Tarrick Kathram, at your service," he said. "And might I ask the name of your fair Bosmer friend, while I'm here?"

"Buffy." It came out asBoofy. Kayla covered her mouth in embarrassment, and tried again.

"Buuuuh-fee." She thought that sounded right. Or better, at least. Kayla glanced at Buffy. She was very pretty. Her blonde hair was bright in the clear Anvil sun. Kayla wanted to tweak her little nose, but refrained. Instead, she grinned at Buffy.

"I don't know about either of you, but I'm starved. The carriage ride was brutal. 3 bandit attacks! Can you believe it? I expected at least 6." She laughed at her own joke.

"I'd very much like a meal before I head to the Guild, though. And somewhere safe to set my things down. Where might that be?"

She looked from Buffy to Tarrick and awaited an answer.

[Lycanthropic-Legend]

Macalla Vibecke focused her eyes on her clear metal cup, trying to get a good look at this mysterious man who sat beside her. It was the only way she could do so without being too obvious. And for awhile she studied the man that sat next to her while not directly looking at him.

He was all dressed in black and in the shadowy shapes of his clothes with his with raven hair, his face contrasted deeply so that it almost looked as if it was a white apparition. It couldn’t be Dark Brotherhood robes, she knew their armor and cloaks were much different in fabric and style. No, this was something else entirely. A mage, perhaps? Or of some cult like the now scattered Mythic Dawn?

Macalla looked into the reflection deeply, only to realize that the man was looking directly at her! She did not jump, however, as some Squeamish child would. She blinked, and turned her attention to the man himself. She noticed that his fingers all held some arcane rings of sorts, unlike the which she had ever seen. Curious . . .

She looked at the man, but was disappointed to see that he was focused on pouring his wine. Holding one of two bottles. Why two bottles of wine when he is just one man? Was he planning on drinking one, and then gulp down the other like a mad drunk? Macalla felt her curiosity blossom. She was no heavy drinker, and imbibing oneself is a sin against the Nine, for it leads to disorder. She adopted a casual stance, and tried not to appear as a warrior of the light that she was. With the man’ dark clothes, it was obvious he wasn’t the bit happy with white.

“So, what is the occasion?” She asked the lone dark-robed Imperial.

[Uleni Athram]

GM Post

If anything, Milon was more saddened by Westley's sudden outburst rather than suprised or angry. He knew that his father was lost to him in an early age, and he didn't meant to insult his memory with the dishes laid for him. In fact, it was more of a truce to smooth things over before the investigation. Angry men make poor testimonies. And look what happened now. A damned mess of a traumatized teenager crying his heart out. Milon felt for this boy, but he only allowed that sympathy to linger for a second, then the iron heart of lawman seized him again, and an impartial look crossed his face as he listened to Westley's soft-spoken.... There were several gaping holes to his testament, really. Milon found himself cringing at the poor kid. It was very obvious that he was fumbling around in his mind, searching and searching for reasons, and finding none that could stand up in his eyes. Nonetheless, he scribbled them down, noting and tracing lines to each, and writing his opinions and personal analysis on him.

90 percent, lies. 10 percent genuine. Reasons do not add up. Strange mannerisms. Obviously lying. But lacking evidence. Maybe a suspect to another crime. Needs more investigation and evidence to arrest. Letting go for now.

He laid down his quill and stored the testament inside his drawer, and locked it. He looked at the boy in front of him, a questioning look on his eyes. There was something different there too, he noticed. It was steady, unyielding, and completely genuine. He asked for his name. He doesn't remember. He thought as much. It was years ago since he last laid eyes on Westley, and he was a but a fledgeling back then.

"I'm Milon. I won't be suprised if you come out blank with that name. Its been years," he then took of his helmet and ran a mailled hand through his brown hair. Streaks of grey ran silver-like under the blaze of the torches. "You're free to go now. Thank you for your time; it has been a great help."

But before Westley could exit, Milon stood up and gathered him up in a firm, fatherly handshake. This boy was lying earlier, and he might've been a suspect in another crime, and several things too, but gods be damned. This one lost his father, and from his experienced eye, he doesn't remember any of his memories in Anvil. No child should ever suffer the loss of his parents.

He smiled at the youth.

"Corvus would be proud of how his son has grown. If you were mine, I'd be too. Now go on, get the hell out of here."
--------------------

Ylenno

Ylenno purred. Elandine. Nice name, he thought.

"Same thing, same thing, but certainly though, you'd look quite fine in a dress rather than a steel coffin like that. Brings out the natural beauty your kind has," he winked. "Since you're signing up in the Expedition, and I'm signing up in the Expedition, I don't suppose we elves should stick together? I mean, I'm not soliciting you or anything, but it certainly helps to know someone. Its kinda lonely being the stereotypical 'angsty, mystery-plagued, anti-social baronic hero' y'know!"

He laughed. Magnus came out of a grey cloud, and all of Anvil glistened under the warm rays. Everything became radiant, and Ylenno took in his surroundings with a smile. The terracotta tiles of rooftops shined with an orange glow, and some of their shine rubbed off on the cobblestones, which stained their whiteness with a mandarin hue. Glass windows became vibrant. In short, Anvil was beautiful under a bright day. Even the lowclass housings glittered like ancient villas. He made a note to visit Anvil again and perhaps buy some paintings off of the famous resident artist here when things are smooth and calm.

He turned to the Almer lass, and then Buffy passed them. She whispered something to him, and he immediately had a grin cutting his face. He didn't know why, but Buffy had a certain aura about her that just made people all warm inside. There was another Altmer following her, and she ... well. The Redguard who appeared from nowhere was right. A High Elf with Nordic accent was another first for the wood-elf. He supposed that the Expedition really attracted all sorts of characters. The Elf asked where might she find an inn to rest her haunces and Ylenno simply couldn't resist.

He jumped in front of them and struck a pose!

With over-exaggerated aesthetics, he took the Elf's hand in one of his and with the other, he pointed dramatically at the sign of the Count's Arms, which, coincedentally, was just several walks away.

"Behold, verily," he boomed with his lowest possible voice and an imitation of a Nordic accent. "There sits the golden hall of one Wilbur; and with coins jangling the song of greed, he shall take thee and service thy tiredness away! Soothing songs doth bards sing there, and food unrivaled in West Cyrodiil allures and tempts! Asks a price high for those, but a price well worth it, for the Arms of the Count is the best possible inn you may find in this city of marble and fish!"

He took a bow.

"Thus sayeth the Guide Book for Anvil, of which I, Ylenno of Bravil and Cheydinhal, shamelessly ripped from to impress thee!"

He wore an expression of expectation as he waited for them to clap. Then he laughed.

"Call me a shameless eavesdropper if you wish, but I eavesdropped shamelessly at your conversation. Adventurers Guild, eh? I'm looking to sign up like you guys and fair Elandine over there too!" He turned to Buffy, and he was simply amazed at the other wood-elf. This beautiful face, a fellow orphan, was the talk of Bravil. No. The pride of Bravil. Caelefensil would've looked up to her, if she were here. He looked to the others.

"We might as well get to know each other before we sign up in the Expedition! More friends make the adventure all the more fun, I say!"

He turned once again to Buffy.

"What say you, sister of Bravil? Will the Lady Dame accept this wastrel, absurdly handsome rogue's offer? T'would break my heart into two if you refuse, but such is the way of romance!"

[King Of Beasts]

"Corvus would be proud of how his son has grown. If you were mine, I'd be too. Now go on, get the hell out of here."

Westley gawked for a moment at this man who called himself Milon. His name was so familiar, yet so strange. But Milon obviously had known his father, Corvus, and something told Westley that this man had once been a friend. If only he could remember.

"Thank you...Milon. I'm sorry if I caused you any stress." Westley smiled halfway before turning around and navigating his way out of the castle.

Phew, that was a close one. I need to watch myself with any transformations and lay low for a while. I really hope that I don't end up causing anymore trouble....

Westley entered the city, and slipped through the small crowd of people. He made his way to the counts arms and approached the Redguard at the counter as he pulled a few septims out if his pocket, and placed them down on the counter.

"Here, I'm payin' for another night at the room." Westley placed five more septims on counter "And I want venison steak, cooked rare."

A wide grin spread across the Redguard man's face. "Coming right up good sir, please, take a seat." the man handed him back the key to his room.

Westley chose the table farthest from anyone else, but he'd be in plain sight to anyone entering the inn. The table he sat at was big, but it was the only one available. He pulled a deck of cards out of his pocket and began shuffling them while he waited for his food.

Every now and then someone would look over their shoulder at him and snigger, obviously making fun of the anti-social weirdo sitting in a dark corner in the back of the inn. Westley's temper flared momentarily, but died down when the wench placed his steak down on the table in front if him.

He quickly devoured it, taking gigantic bites and barely bothering to chew, and most likely summoning more insults from the local nobleman at the tavern. Westley hadn't eaten anything for a few days, so he decided to just shake off the laughter behind his back and continue wolfing down his food.

He signaled the wench over "May I please have some water, ma'am?"

"Yes sir." the wench scurried off, and disappeared for a moment before coming back with a jug of water.

"Thank you." Westkey chugged down the water, and leaned back in his chair, savoring the many scents and sounds of the inn. He had been lucky today. Milon had been kind enough to let him go free, but he had a feeling that Milon was still somewhat suspicious.

I have no intentions of harming anyone. I guess that nobody will ever trust werewolves because of all the feral ones and Hircine fanatics. I don't get why they just don't get along with the humans. Must Hircine be so hostile?

This post has been edited by King Of Beasts: Jan 27 2013, 04:11 PM

[Acadian]

Buffy:

Buffy could see Kayla was still embarrassed about her accent and tried to put the high elf at ease. “I pronounce it Buffy, but one time I encountered some followers of Sanguine in the forests north of Skingrad who insisted on calling me ‘Buffet’. She wrinkled her face and, with a crooked smile, held both arms out to her sides. “I’m afraid they found me to be rather slim pickings.”

Believing her joke was responsible for the smile that blossomed on Kayla's face, Buffy glanced at the Redguard. He had mentioned the Adventurers Guild and perhaps knew something about the pending Sutch expedition. “Oh, speaking of food. . . Tarrick, I know the Count’s Arms is a nice inn but do you know if they put out good meals as well?”

Before the Redguard could answer, Ylenno swept into view, struck up a bardic pose and poetically recommended the group of would be adventurers join him at the Count’s Arms. Buffy remembered the tall (for a Bosmer) elf from Bravil and seeing him recently bump into the armor-plated Altmeri lass who stood nearby - Ylenno referred to her as Elandine. Ylenno’s attention quickly shifted from Kayla to Buffy as he added, “What say you, sister of Bravil? Will the Lady Dame accept this wastrel, absurdly handsome rogue’s offer? T’would break my heart into two if you refuse, but such is the way of romance.”

Despite the elf’s brashness and funny hair, Buffy felt a slight flush rise above the neckline of her blouse. She was still grieving from the loss of her mate. Even though it had been quite some time, how could any man or mer ever compete with the ghost of Savlian Matius? The mighty hero who loved her had died in Buffy’s arms as they helped clear the last of the Daedra from Castle Kvatch. Stop it, Buffy! This Bosmeri bard likely pours his silken words at the feet of every lass that catches his eye. Buffy was nervous. The little elf’s nurturing nature was sometimes mistaken for flirting, and extricating herself in such cases was one area where her skills were rather poor. She was a deadly sniper but, at close range, found men to be quite confusing creatures.

Numbers, she decided. With Kayla and, hopefully, Elandine along they could support and extract each other from any awkward situations. “If the rest of our little group here will join us as well, I’d be delighted to share a cup of tea and hear what we have all learned so far about this pending expedition.”

This post has been edited by Acadian: Jan 28 2013, 04:10 PM

[Elisabeth Hollow]

Kayla was still in tears, laughing, at the odd little wood elf's sudden jump into the conversation. The pose he struck caused her to giggle quietly at first, then when he spoke as if he were a imitating a nobleman, she couldn't help herself. It turned into full-on laughter when he looked expectantly at Buffy.

"Mara's teat," she gasped. "I DO need to sleep!"

She grabbed Tarrick's shoulder for support with one arm, and Buffy's shoulder with the other. She laughed for a few more moments before regaining her composure.

"The people here are insane!" She looked from Tarrick to Buffy to Ylenno. She clapped Ylenno on the shoulder.

"Thanks for the laugh! I haven't laughed so hard in a while! Now, food! If I don't eat soon, you three will start looking like walking drumsticks!"

[Colonel Mustard]

Tarrick

Tarrick was about to recommend the Count's Arms for a place to eat when, from nowhere, another Bosmer appeared. From his brief, exuberant introduction, Tarrick gathered he knew Buffy from somewhere. The introduction from this Ylenno had Kayla in tears, so much so that she ended up leaning on him and Buffy for support.

"Thanks for the laugh! I haven't laughed so hard in a while! Now, food! If I don't eat soon, you three will start looking like walking drumsticks!" the Altmer declared.

"Seconded," Tarrick said. "I haven't had any breakfast myself yet, and a bite to eat and some tea at the Count's Arms sounds like the best idea I've heard all morning."

He glanced over at the other High Elf with Ylenno, dressed as she was in heavy armour, no doubt in preparation for the expedition.

"I don't think I caught your name, by the way," he said to her, one arm still supporting Kayla.

[Darkness Eternal]

Drakothemir, Count's Arms.
The second cup of wine was a trap. A trap for any curious fool eager to bite the bait of a free drink. And he knew women well. Men in taverns always sought to impress them with a free drink in hopes of getting the women to lift their skirts and spread their legs. And it seldom worked. But for Drakothemir, a free drink in exchange for information was always something that was succesful. For the simple pleasures of a man he could get anytime and anywhere . . .at any cost. But information can be bought, and it can be traded, and it can be earned. He needed to know if this woman was a Vigilante of Stendarr, and if she was, what in Oblivion do they want with this expedition . . .and if they are involved and she was their sole agent . . .perhaps she is corruptable.

The woman beside him somehow took interest in him, and created an opporunity for conversation. Drakothemir poured the wine in both of the cups, and then in an instant, pushed one of them toward the lone woman.

"The occasion is change," he said with a deep inhale along with a sip of wine that was passionate. "And knowledge." He added whilst savoring his wet lips, and the washed throat as the wine went down. "I am quite sure you have heard of Fort Sutch and the rumored mysterious lying beneath it. You see, I am to undergo a search, one that would be the most fruitful among my adventures. I am gathering a crew. Wlling young men and women such as myself who are eager to learn more about the history of our province."

Before he could add anymore, he paused to take a sip of wine, but not for the sake of drinking. He did it because he felt . . . he smelled . . .a disturbance. He could not see him, but he could hear and detect him from afar. It was a man, but not just any man, it was a werewolf. The scent of dog, that canine musk . . .undoubtedly a Lycanthropy had entered the Count's Arms. Drakothemir didn't know werewolves came to Anvil much, for most of them never favored the sea as transforming unwillingly onboard a ship would be chaotic and suicidal. Unless of course, the man had a way of controlling his Lycanthropy, now that would've been interesting.

There were giggles in the backround, and Drakothemir turned toward the root of the comical sounds, but his eyes, however, went directly to the man. Not a man . . .a child? At least he appeared as one. Black hair, blue eyes, a youthful look to him. But even looks can be deceptive, Drakothemir knows, for he stands as a twenty year old man but is the age of over four centuries. Indeed, this Lycanthrope could be well over a hundred years. But there were no scars, no bruises . . .which explained to Drakothemir that this gifted Imperial was young. Perhaps inexperienced.

He waited and saw as the young man approached the counter, and made an order of venison steak and proceeded to choose a depressing corner to skulk in while he waited for his food. Drakothemir looked at the woman beside him and smiled, offering a hand. "Drakothemir is my name. I do not believe we have met before. Are you from around here?"

And while he was going to hear her out, he couldn't take his attention away from the other Imperial sitting alone, obviously distressed at the snide comments and the scoffing some of the nobles were whispering about him, which only gave Drakothemir the more reason to realize that this man was too young. And a young werewolf is a reckless one. They always are. And Drakothemir could not afford to stand near any reckless creatures who could potentially reveal his secret.

Drakothemir weighed the options: He could poison his food, but his enhanced sense of smell could easily detect the harmful ingredients. Or Drakothemir could kill the man as he slept in his room, but he knew that werewolves never truly slept due to their intense hearing, and even the smallest of sounds would wake one up . . .or perhaps he could goad the woman beside him into killing him. Or maybe he didn't have to resort to killing him at all. Drakothemir met werewolves before, and even employed a bounty huntress to take out a political target for him. Many of them are loyal creatures, and very secretive. But those werewolves were experts at their craft. Gifted hunters. And because this one confirms the gossip of a werewolf running afoul, it means that he is careless and rather, possibly, quite stupid. Still, he would not get on his bad side.

Drakothemir took half of two seconds to study the man before he turned to a local maiden. "My dear," he said with a charming smile. "Would you be so kind as to give that young lad a bottle of Surille Brother's wine? Do not worry about the price, for I will cover it. Add a bit of vegetables and fruits to his plate, too, please."

"Right away, sir."

He turned to the woman. "Sorry. I just cannot stand seeing a beggar only order a slice of venison when he deserves so much more on his plate . . ."

[King Of Beasts]

Westley


The wench came over and placed a bottle of Surille Brother's wine, and put some vegetables and fruit on his plate. Westley gawked at his surprise food for a moment before looking up at the wench and shoving the wine and plate of vegetables back at the her.

"I'm sorry ma'am, but I believe you've delivered this to the wrong table."

"That man in the dark clothes over there told me to give this to you. He said he'd pay for it."

Westley eyed the imperial man in dark clothes siting at a table across the room. He caught a scent in the air. Something...odd. As he inspected the man more thoroughly, the idea that he wasn't human began to form in Westley's mind. Then it hit him. This man was a vampire. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and the wolf inside if him was riled up, and ready to defend itself. Westley turned back to the wench.

"Would you please tell that man that I don't drink alcohol, and I've had my fair share if food for now, but I appreciate the offer."

When the wench walked away, a low growl formed in Westley's throat, and every noise became louder than ever. He could smell the blood coursing through the veins of the tavern-goers, and he could hear their heartbeats. He fought the urge to transform and tear the vampire apart before he could even get out of his chair. A small stream of saliva made its way out if the side of Westley's mouth, and down his chin, but he wiped it off with his sleeve. This vampire obviously had no good intentions towards Westley, and he took that as a challenge.

Westley's heart started racing and he had a pounding headache, but he was able to resist a transformation. His temper flared at the thought that this vampire had the gall to challenge him, but Westley decided to just ignore the vampire's presence, and focus more on learning new card tricks. Eventually the bloodlust died down, and Westley comfortably sunk back into his chair, and sipped on his water.

This post has been edited by King Of Beasts: Jan 28 2013, 11:02 PM

[Lycanthropic-Legend]

Macalla Vibecke, Count's Arms.

Macalla looked at the wine that was given to her. It was too early for her to drink wine, and for her, there was no occasion. And even though rejecting the offer would be horrible manners, she simply could not drink it. She had come a long way, over fifteen years of murder and assassination. There was redemption for her. And her weakness, one of them, is wine. For if she drank one cup, she might as well drink an entire bottle.

"I must decline. I'm afraid I don't drink wine." She told him as she eyed the cup. But perhaps, to soften her rejectection, she turned her body toward the young man. "I'm sure everyone in these parts of Cyrodiil know by now. I think people are putting their lives in danger, though. Many reckless adolescents looking to get themselves killed."

The words were directed at him. Surely, a man as young as him would have family to think about. A mother or father or perhaps even siblings and cousins. Unless he was some bästard son of a farmer or an orphan. Then he wouldn't have anything to lose. She once considered herself an orphan until the Dark Brotherhood took her in. Then as the years went by she realized they weren't truly family. Her only family now are the brothers and sisters of the Knights of the Nine and her fellow friends from the Vigilantes of Stendarr.

"Drakothemir is my name. I do not believe we have met before. Are you from around here?"

Macalla raised a brow at the name. It was an odd name for an Imperial, surely, but she's seen stranger. "A pleasure, Drakothemir. No, I was born in Skyrim, in a small settlement just a few miles off of Falkreath. I'm Macalla. Macalla Vibecke."

The man summoned a young woman to serve another fellow who ordered venison some wine and vegetables. Out of kindness maybe. She was touched. It was a noble gesture. He then turned to her and said:

"Sorry. I just cannot stand seeing a beggar only order a slice of venison when he deserves so much more on his plate . . ."

"That is kind of you. Not that many people would care for others, you know." She said, and then paused, looking at the man's strange rings on his finger. It came in red, green and silver. She wondered if they were enchanted, and if this man was a mage of sorts. He didn't strike her as a necromancer. Their cloaks typically brandished a red skull. And if this man was such thing, he wouldn't be giving her suspicion by wearing a dark cloak. Perhaps, then, he's a young priest. A young priest who loves his wine . . .

She found her curiosity once again pester her. "Those rings and that sword and that cloak. What is the story behind that. Are you an aspirant wizard? Amateur warlock?"

It was more of a jest, her tone of voice. She always considered it amusing that young men walked around with rings and robes and cloaks only to be terrible at sword combat or end up burning themselves when casting a destruction spell. If only he knew of what she'd been through, and how her black cloak signified something.

[Darkness Eternal]

Drakothemir, Count's Arms.

The young man appeared uncomfortable. Angry. Irate. Drakothemir could see from afar that the hairs on his neck raised just as a normal canine would when provoked. The vampire could practically taste the destructive emotions in the other Imperial. It was as if it was palpable. All that fury, all that might contained within a single vessel. And it was quite beautiful. But a waste.

Drakothemir snatched a glance at the tavern wench who approached him by the side, leaned down, and whispered: "He told me to tell you that he doesn't drink alcohol, and that he's had his fill of food. But he still appreciates the offer."

The vampire settled back in his chair and smiled genuinly to both of the women. Drakothemir did not understand the reason the young lupine boy was upset, and honestly, he did not care. He just had succesfully tested how he would react. He had a basic map of how his mind worked. There was rage in there, held back and boiling almost to the point of explosion. If he had indeed gave into his apparent fury, then it would probably have triggered his inner beast and such results would have been delightfully catastrophic. The tavern goers would have lost their lives, and the werewolf himself might have been overwhelmed with the rush of Imperial guards attempting to kill the rampaging beast. Drakothemir pondered on what he himself would have done.

Would he have fought? Give into his own lust and revealed his truest form? Hardly. To expose himself as a vampire, a pureblooded vampire no less, was suicidal. The world condemned his very existence. To be unveiled would be to invite certain death. Both social and physical. And he held a vast knowledge of how simple-minded the people of Tamriel can be. It was their neverending curse. To judge and allow their pitch-forks and torches to dictate their reason.

But this man, this werewolf, had shown surprising control, even though he nearly lost it for no apparent reason other than seeing a plate of vegetables. Then Drakothemir realized he perceived him as a threat. Perhaps a territorial animal? It wouldn't be the first time. For centuries Drakothemir and his people had fought to keep Cyrodiil under their control. To keep it safe from rival, barbaric clans. It would be amusing to see a new kind of animal seek to claim territory for themselves. But someone so young wouldn't be worried about territory or wealth or influence. And so, he wasn't as much as a threat as he initially classified him to be.

He made a curious sound. "Hmm," and thanked the wench and turned his attention to the woman who introduced herself as Macalla Vibecke. "A pleasure, Macalla."

He nodded and smiled as she noted him on his hospitality, and then fell silent once she asked him about his cloak and his sword and his set of rings. This was to be expected. Vigilantes of Stendarr were a curious lot and anything relating to the Daedra they would lose their minds. He sipped his wine and laughed. "Neither. I am actually a monk from Weynon Priory. A former monk, I should say. I fled from my duties for the Nine to pursue a fool's errand in some ancient place."

He paused, and considered his words carefully. "This quest at Fort Such is paramount. When I first heard I had a choice between uncovering spending my life as a monk and to be 'free' from any bonds or relationships, be it material, romantic or otherwise or set out on an adventure . . .I choose what any young man would. The desire to experience history and not sit by and watch it pass. To be free to choose. I realize I have broken my vows and my duties to the Nine . . .but I wish to help others by uncovering the secrets. The people of Cyrodiil deserve to know what is under that fort."

Drakothemir reached for his saber, and unsheathed it halfway. "About my weapon . . .This blade was given to me by father when I was a child only days before he died of a heart-attack." He adopted a solemn expression, and looked at his rings. "My mother owned these rings. They were given to her by her father, and his mother before him. It is a family heirloom, passed down from generation to generation. I was fortunate to keep them when I was sent off to the priory to become a monk. It is all that I remember of my family."

This post has been edited by Darkness Eternal: Jan 29 2013, 01:12 AM

[PhoenixGamer]

Suddenly the wood elf calling himself Ylenno started moving towards a little group of three people, for what she could see and hear there was another altmer that was referred to as Kayla, a wood elf calling herself Buffy and a redguard by the name of Tarrick. Ylenno jumped into their conversation and introduced herself in a manner that made Kayla laugh herself to tears. Just before they were retiring to the Count's Arms for a bit to eat and a cup of tea, the redguard asked Elaninde, who was just a few meters away at this point, what her name was.

"Elaninde", she answered him.

"And before you ask; the reason I'm wearing heavy armour is because I grew up constantly on the run and found heavy armour quite protective".

She then turned to all of them and said: "I'm sure that since we are all here for the Sutch expedition we have a lot to talk about, but I think we really should get Kayla some food before she tries to eat us instead".

This post has been edited by PhoenixGamer: Jan 30 2013, 09:07 AM

[Elisabeth Hollow]

Kayla threw her hands up in the air.

"Wonderful! Let's head that way before Buffy becomes my toothpick.!"

She let the others lead the way as they headed to The Count's Arms.

[Acadian]

Buffy:

Screenshot

Buffy opened her eyes wide in mock fear, then chuckled. She was used to being called ‘Twig’, 'Sapling' and worse, but ‘Toothpick’ was a new one. Although the sweet roll and apple juice she had enjoyed earlier that morning still rested comfortably in her stomach, she did look forward to some hot tea. As the men led the way, small buckskin boots padded quickly over cobblestones to keep up with the long legged group.

This post has been edited by Acadian: Jan 30 2013, 01:03 AM

[Lycanthropic-Legend]

Macalla was right. A young man putting his past behind him. She knew all too well that the temptations of life overpowered the calls of duty and devotion. The Nine Divines are worshiped throughout the empire and the people follow them religiously. Some of them, anyway. There were many that chose to simply forget the Divines and engage in less-than-noble acts such as drinking away their lives, robbing and stealing, murdering or worse . . .worshiping Daedra Lords. At least this young man was looking for adventure instead of any of these things. I can only hope . . .

He began to speak about his life as a monk and how he was sent to the Weynon Priory and why. Poor lad must have been following the footsteps of others his entire life and only once made a decision. Though he avoided his duties as a priest or a monk, nevertheless Macalla understood his position. He was unhappy where he was, as she once was.

The Dark Brotherhood only invited death, and inflicts death. It is no coinscedence that they too would face just retribution for what they have done, and by one of their own, no less. She only found it odd that her sins were not repaid in blood, but in grace. She had the Divines to thank for that. And while dark thoughts always creep into her mind, whispering for her to go back or for her to go into Daedric worship she still would never abandon the Nine.

Like him, Macalla was on an expedition of her own. After the fall of Umaril, and the rise of the Vigilantes of Stendarr, she was to undetake the crucial quest of exploring the ruins for any Daedric artifacts or anything relating to Daedra. And when given the chance, she is to purge them or take them for cleansing at the chapel. Even after Dagon's plot failed, and the remnants of the Mythic Dawn are being hunted down by vengeful and protective groups, the threat of Daedra is still present. She she would be the beacon, that instrument of light, to ward off the darkness.

This young lad, whomever he may be, may just be what she needs to help her on the task. She hoped he wouldn't be the only one, but he was lost. His mind perhaps ripe for the Daedra or any evildoers to take hold of. If she could somehow get him to return, not specifically to the monkish ways but at least revering and respecting the Nine, then she could please the Aedra and help another soul. She would hate to see this man follow in her footsteps.

Daedra worship or the Dark Brotherhood is no place for this boy.

She took on a sincere look of pity as she heard him reveal about his father's death. She never remember much of her father, but at least he had the chance to keep his sword as a lasting memory. And the rings, too.

"I am sorry about your parents," she lamented. "But at least you are alive and well, though you are far too young to be even thinking about going in some perilous adventures. Trust me, I know this. I've been in Daedric and Dwemer ruins in Vvardenfell, Ayleid ruins here . . .and let me tell you: they are dangerous, and not everyone that goes there ever has a chance of coming back."

She paused to begin eating her food that was already going cold. "The monks are skilled in hand-to-hand combat and for self-defense. But sometimes you must take the offensive, and you might need much more than your fists to save you. How old are you? Twenty? Twenty-three? You should have joined the Knights of the Nine or the Vigilantes. We would be more than glad to take you in and train your ourselves."

[Illydoor]

A Murky Swamp, Black Marsh, 3E 422

‘Be still, Ananse.’

‘I am still, mother.’ Ananse replied. She chuckled.

‘No, hatchling, you’re not. Your legs are wriggling like a spider!’

There was a pause. ‘Like Ananse’s?’ Despite himself, his legs stopped moving. His mother laughed again.

‘Yes. And you know what Ananse was? He was a mischievous little spider. Will you let me help you now?’

‘But it hurts.’ Ananse scowled, wriggling on the bamboo mat.

‘Well that’s what little mischievous spiders get, for playing where they shouldn’t.’

Ananse knew she was right. The Thorn-Wallows were a dangerous place for a hatchling. And out of all the dangers hidden in the vast nest of mangroves and swampland, he was bested by a bramble. His tail, an amenity he often forgot he possessed, had gotten wrapped up in the vicious twines, and screaming like a Yapperfish he ran all the way home with half the tree attached to his rear end.

He stayed still, moody at his own stupidity. How silly he must have looked to the village.

‘He was never caught.’ His mother began untangling the thorns, plucking them out of his scales.

‘Hmm? Oh, yes dear. Yes he was, many times. But Ananse knew that no matter how thick the web was spun, there is always a way out…’

…………..

Seventeen years later

Ananse blinked his yellow eyes into the darkness. His breath was still close, short and ragged, as if he were choking. His ribs ached like hot brands beneath his skin, but he fought the urge to hiss in pain. For some reason something told him it was better to remain still at this present moment in time. And he was right.

A cloth mask covered his face, smelling of mouldy flax. He definitely didn’t remember putting that on. A rough cloth had been stuffed into his mouth as well, explaining his shortness of breath. He didn’t remember doing that either.

What was more disconcerting however, was that Ananse was adamant his legs were perfectly still. Yet he was definitely moving. Strong hands were around his wrists, and he felt his tail slither on the ground beneath him, his heels bouncing on the floor. Realization snapped like rope holding a tethered weight in his mind, and in that instant he heard voices above him.

‘Pick his damn legs up will ya? His filthy claws are clacking on the deck!’ A gruff man whispered angrily.

‘We’re nearly there. There’s no guards about anyways.’ Came the faceless reply.

Ananse remained completely inanimate as he was dragged across the boardway, quietly assessing the situation. It was not good.

He could feel the wooden planks of the gangway bobbling beneath his feet, and even through the decaying smell of the mask he could still pick out the scents of brine, of salt-crusted rope and drenched timber. The waters whispered softly below. He was still in the docks at least.

A faint twinge of yeast and honey waved over his attuned nostrils. Ale. He was near the Fo’c’s’le – no, passing it, and turning.

The Harborside Warehouse. A well-known den of iniquity and criminal activity amongst these parts, and for the select few, a known sanctuary of the Thieves Guild. He waited as his two captors stopped at the door, knocking thrice in the encoded pattern. Heavy bolts were withdrawn.

‘Evenin’ Wilhelm. We’ve got the bugger.’ One of the cronies said. Wilhelm, or Wilhelm the Worm out of his earshot, stood manager over the Warehouse to ‘keep out the rats’, he attested. Nobody knew that truthfully, he kept the rats in.

‘Good. Bring him in.’ The Nord growled.

Of course, it would all come back to him now. A knock on the door in the night, and then when a slumbering Ananse had not answered, a kick to break it down. Shouting voices, threats and curses. Before Ananse could blink the sleep from his eyes, the two men had hooded him, and kicks had bludgeoned him in the flanks and legs and face, before a blow to the back of the head had put him back to sleep just as quickly as he had come out of it. The guild didn’t mess around.

Rough hands lifted Ananse onto a chair, and then suddenly, the hood was whipped off and his sight came rushing back.

‘Well hello, Coin-Eye.’ A sultry voice came from across him. Ananse struggled to lift his gaze to meet the source. He saw finely woven, quilted shoes, the beginnings of a garish russet felt garb. He didn’t have to look up to recognise the man as Orrin, Shadowfoot of the Thieves Guild in Anvil.

‘Ah, of course, where are my manners. Thank you, Dranas, Krognak. That’ll be all.’ Hands were lifted off Ananse’s shoulders, the ache in his ribs subsiding a little. Orrin leant forward to remove the cloth from his mouth. He reeked of perfume and nobility, yet out of all the descriptions one could attribute to Orrin the Fence, ‘noble’ was certainly the least appropriate.

‘What am I going to do with you, my lizard friend? Hmm?’ Orrin sat back, steepling his fingers. The rings that adorned them shimmered in lamplight, along with his oily white hair.

As his eyesight steadily returned, scaly lids peeled back fully, Ananse began to feel some of his usual self return. Unfortunately, that self was a bit of an idiot.

‘Will the coalskin human give Ananse some wine? His throat is terribly parched.’

That earned him a clip round the quills.

‘Wine? You think we can afford such luxuries after your little stunt earlier?’

‘Ananse does not understand. What have I done to displease the oilskin man?’ Another strike.

‘You won. You f*cking won.’ Orrin cursed, raising his arms as if to say it was obvious. The candlelight sputtered inside the gloomy warehouse. ‘Two years of being the worst gambler in the entirety of Anvil, not winning even a beggar’s share of a Septim and you go in and triple-fold the bounty in one fell swoop!’

Though he didn’t show it, Ananse still did not understand. It was true; he had finally won his first major share in a gambler’s den just east of the Flowing Bowl, much to the chagrin of his opponents (it was well known the naïve Argonian was not the best gamester, and a little ‘green’ when it came to the underhanded world of fixing and swindling, which to say was ripe in the Anvil Docks). Though he failed to see how that tied in to Orrin’s misfortune.

‘You stupid scaled twist of flesh. All you had to do was lose, like you always had! It was planned you see. Did you know your opponent was Audens Avidius, of the Imperial Watch up South? He is one of our largest and most generous benefactors, and unlike that honoured user Lex, he understands the machinations of the guild and its part in this world. He hides us from the predations of the Guard, and we allow him some loot in return.’ Ananse shook his head, he had looked like any other human he’d met. Bald and smooth and with those silly little strips of hair they called eyebrows.

‘We’d tipped him off about our big haul and how you’d be splashing it about like a feckless back-heeler in the alley docks. Since he can’t be caught taking his share directly from us, what better way to pay him for his allegiance than having him win it in a wagering match against the most inadequate gambler in Cyrodiil. And you went and won, taking all of his money along with it.’ Orrin ran his hands through his shiny white hair, or what was left of it. ‘Now he thinks we’ve swindled him, and threatens to reveal our presence to the Guard.’

‘Not Ananse’s fault. You did not tell Ananse. I thinks, it is your faults.’ Orrin looked up from his hands with a baleful glare. Perhaps, Ananse thought, he should not have said that. The hoary Redguard stood up, pacing around the chair where Ananse was slumped.

‘I couldn’t tell you because I knew you’d blab your big lizard mouth off about Audens if I did.’ His hand slipped to the pommel of an arm-sized bludgeon strapped to the green waist of his ridiculous outfit. ‘But you’re right. It’s not your fault.’ He took it out, and laid its heavy, menacing head against Ananse’s shoulder. Ananse suddenly felt his scales crawl, and his blood ran hot with fear.

‘But somebody has to pay.’ The weight was lifted, and Ananse heard the blow before he felt it, a deafening crunch against his cheekbone.

‘You’ve always been a… thorn’ The blow fell again, this time against his left shoulder. ’…in the Guild’s side, Coin-Eye.’

The next one hit him in his scaly chest, just above his tattoo. There was a creaking of wood, and both chair and lizard fell to the floor. Above the commotion, a sibilant hiss of laughter could be heard. Orrin stopped half-swing.

‘What? What is it?’

‘Nothing. Just Ananse wonders if oilskin man took beatings from his grandmothers. And if she taught him anythings, because surely she would be most disappointed.’ Orrin’s already scowling face deepened.

‘Krognak, fetch the axe. I’ve had enough of this swamp-filth.’

The orc nodded dumbly, and went bumbling off to find his weapon. Meanwhile the other hired muscle, Dranas lifted Ananse to his knees to assume the execution position.

Now he’d really done it. Ananse was about to re-join the Hist in a few moments if he didn’t think quickly. He could hear Krognak coming back already. His hands were still bound behind his back, but his legs were free. Maybe he could kick himself… strong dunmer hands clamped down on his shoulders, forcing his head down and baring his neck.

Out of the corner of one yellow eye, Ananse watched as Krognak lumbered slowly closer, axe in hand, a malevolent grin cracking his face. The brutal edge of the blade, still bloody from its last execution, glinted dully in the lamplight like a rusty smile.

‘Not so funny now, Argonian, are we? You are hereby expelled from the guild and all its affiliations. Any last requests?’ The poisonous voice of Orrin slipped into his ear, and his head was shoved towards the floorboards. Below them, he could hear the sound of the lapping waves swelling beneath the docks, and wondered if he would ever hear them again.

No matter how thick the web, Ananse…

The cleaver was raised, high, as if it were floating away, and Ananse’s life boiled down to those fractions of a second before its ascent was checked and the fateful descent would begin.

…There is always a way out.

‘WAIT!’ He cried. The axe stopped, hanging there like death incarnate. ‘My quills.’

‘What about your damn quills, lizard.’ Orrin spat.

‘They are sacred to our race. Pleases, oilskin man, let Ananse keep his quills pristines. Ananse does not want to enter the Hist with his quills halved, it would mean dishonour. You would grant me this one wish, yes?’ Krognak looked up with simple eyes. Orrin looked puzzled, but eventually conceded.

‘Alright, lizard. Consider this your last courtesy in this world.’ He nodded to Dranas. The Dunmer walked to the other side of Ananse, keeping his head down. He could feel the spiny quills being drawn back.

‘No! You must hold them with two hands. Ananse’s quills are his pride!’ Dranas growled, but obliged.

‘There. Now Kragnak. Cut his head off and let us be done with it.’

The axe rose again, and Orrin watched in glee as his revenge rose with it. Ananse would have to time this perfectly.

‘Now!’ Orrin screamed, and Kragnak grunted as he brought the weapon down in an executioner’s blow. At the same time Ananse pulled his head back with a sudden jerk. Dranas’ hands, holding onto the quills, came with it, into the path of the death blow.

The axe bit deep into his blue-skinned wrists, and he shrieked like a banshee. One hand was severed completely, the other hanging limply off a loose piece of gristle as he raised his stumps to his face with horror.

The Orc roared, and swung the axe round for another blow. Ananse could hear Orrin bellowing in rage in the background, but he stayed where he was, waiting for the axe-stroke. He was in the perfect position. The huge blade swung down once more, about to cleave him in two, and at the last moment Ananse side-stepped to the left and the blade glanced past his head. It hit the wooden floorboards precisely where Ananse had aimed for; widening the large crack he had already seen during his time kneeling in wait. The floorboards creaked once, then with a sound like cracking thunder gave away and the lizard was plunged into icy water.

Ananse did not look behind him as he swam away below the shifting docks. Even underwater, his hearing could pick out the wails of the agonised dunmer, and the fury of Orrin as he raged and seethed at his escape.

Underneath his scales, Ananse’s blood prickled him. How had he just done that? Not in his wildest dreams could he have thought of such a thing happening. A thousand thoughts and questions ran through his mind, spurring his legs and arms against the currents like fuel. But one stood out against the rest:

Ananse could not stay within the walls of Anvil anymore. He would have to go far away, very far indeed; somewhere the Guild could not follow him, where the web was not as thick.

This post has been edited by Illydoor: Feb 1 2013, 08:43 PM

[Colonel Mustard]

Tarrick

Tarrick lead the way for the small, impromptu group as they made their way to the inn. He was first through the door, holding for the others with a mock bow as they went through, and they found a table as a serving girl hurried over at their arrival.

"Is there anything I can get you?" she asked as they sat.

"I think we're all hoping for tea," Tarrick said. He glanced back at the rest of the group. "Everyone wants tea, yes?"

He glanced over at the serving girl again.

"A few pots of tea," he said. He raised his voice slightly so the others would be able to hear him, and gestured to Kayla. "And a horse for Kayla here to eat, too."

[Acadian]

Buffy:

Tarrick held the door as the small group filed into the Count’s Arm and found a table.

Buffy knelt on the chair offered to her, then sat back upon both heels to compensate for her height – especially with two Altmer in the group. As the others were seated, she was pleased to see Ylenno slide into the chair next to her. She hoped for a chance to ask her fellow Bosmer of any news from Bravil, as well as how he was faring after the loss of his sister.

Ever the gentleman it seemed, Tarrick ordered several pots of tea. And a horse for Kayla to eat! Buffy smiled, sure that it was only a joke. Well, pretty sure.

This post has been edited by Acadian: Feb 2 2013, 04:23 PM

[Elisabeth Hollow]

Kayla gave Tarrick a serious look.

"A horse? At this rate, give me an entire moose!"

She slapped the table and laughed at her own joke.