The Shadow Under Fort Sutch, RP Playground Thread Options

[Uleni Athram]

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


Things were slowly going back to normal.

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

Things were slowly going back to normal.

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

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

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

[Darkness Eternal]

Character Intro: Lord Drakothemir.

The sky was overcast and foreshadowed a storm and the sun, rather uncharacteristically for a port town, hid behind the dense black clouds. Strikes of lightning could be seen in the distant horizon above the sea, and white seagulls croaked their shrieking songs as they flew by in despair.

Drakothemir stood at the balcony of Castle Anvil as a noble guest for the royalty there. He’d been in the presence of the rich and the influential more times than he cared to even possibly remember. It wasn’t surprising. He is his own ancestor, archduke of towns, owner of lands(of those not his own). He is what others should be. He is analytical and without pity, but also pragmatic. Intelligent. Reasonable. Once he was the political heart of Empire, Draken Decumus, once known for his integrity, his principled fight against corruption and festering diseases of rebellion. Now, he is a simple nobleman watching the sun set as night was ready to arrive once more.

Centuries ago, Anvil was a short collection of ramshackle huts famous for standing as a violent haven for pirates, refugees, thieves, thugs, and men and women of ill intent who happened to wash up as weeds in Anvil Bay. The once glorious Empire, distracted by the activities of the Camoran Usurper and his Undead horde, seemed unable to stop the relentless pirates of Anvil as they assaulted merchant ships throughout the Abecean Sea. Those were the times where pirate captains stalked the seas. Where a certain Toradan ap Dugal and his organized crime called the Red Sabre relentlessly drilled their nefarious campaigns.

It was the glorious days where Drakothemir was commander of the navy, and fought alongside Commodore Fasil Umbranox in a famous battle along the coasts. The blood flowed as water in those days, and Drakothemir was one of the men responsible for torching the entire town and forcing the population of the un-lawless out into the wilderness . . . as animals. The days where his ship fell into the Malestrom of Bal and his entire crew sent into Oblivion. The old days. The ancient times. Times long past.

Lord Drakothemir allowed himself a cryptic smile. His courtesy—the hallmark of a legit nobleman—was effortless, yet somehow it seemed always to fascinate the low-class mortals. He folded his arms at his chest and stared into the horizon. The world is changing. Tamriel is changing. The Oblivion Crisis had struck a blow to the very heart of the Empire. In one fell swoop the Septims had lost their lives through assassination and sacrifice. And Drakothemir missed most of it, slumbering under the earth for twenty years as the gates opened throughout the provinces.

Things were not going back to normal, despite what people believed. After Uriel and Martin perished, the septim line is forever gone. Drakothemir never imagined he would live to see the day, then again, it wasn’t beyond impossible. But those insects who believe Cyrodiil will be safe and peaceful for long are ignorant. Such children they are. Drakothemir shook his head. It was almost too ridiculous. Even for a man like him.

This is Lord Drakothemir, Nobleman of the Vladmirius family:

Once a great dark crusader in the early centuries of the Third Era, and an even greater vampire,
Drakothemir is a black shadow walking the province. Secret nemesis of the Knights of the Nine, shadowy villain of the Vigilantes of Stendarr, oriflamme of his clan, and to the known world a simple nobleman with riches and wealth beyond counting. He is the very personification of awe.

Today marked the day where the new guild would be recruiting a mass congregation of creatures from all backgrounds and races and colors and stripes. It wouldn’t surprise him. The Heart of the Empire seem to have invited an unwanted group of tourists ever since the Martin gave his life to send Mehrunes back into his hellish realm of Oblivion. Even more appalling other than the fact that some would sooner taint the Imperial name with their very presence, was that they would tarry moe than they should and seek to grasp some measure of fame only to disgrace Cyrodiil's soil with their rotting corpses.

“All I can say, however, is that after this Expedition is done, the Adventurers Guild would never be the same!"

Drakothemir remembered reading about the interview. The people were buzzing about it like flies drawn to a flame. Of course, nothing in this world will be the same, Drakothemir mused. While the scattered cattle look to the stars for hope, Drakothemir sets his age-old gaze to the bottomless pits and dark caverns of the earth. Not for respite, no, not this time. But for the hidden secrets buried deep within Fort Sutch. Secrets that had been laid there since the times of Alessia, long before Drakothemir was even conceived by the blessed(and damning) powers of Molag Bal.

Tulas Feramo knew of these secrets. Drakothemir heard of him years ago, when the man was but a simple apprentice to the arcane arts. But the One-Gazer not only knew of these secrets, he exposed and wrote about them! And the blind academics, riled by his claims, had saw fit to put the man in chains for heresy and contempt. Drakothemir found it truly amusing. It was a sad turn of events when the man who saw fit to share with the world his discoveries, or perhaps, a fabrication, would be soon await his own death for flapping his tongue. Of course, such things happen. He would be the perfect candidate to die. Just as all the other adventurers who would venture into the depths of darkness to uncover their mind’s desires. Drakothemir's sole and only regret was if the man died without serving his purpose. But the truth is: Better him than me.

Like Tulas, many of these thrill-seeking apes would sooner get themselves trapped in a cave of flesh-eating zombies or their souls stolen by Daedra for entertaining their rather simple-minded tastes for adventure and glory. And their bones would simply decorate the forgotten cob-webbed corridors and trap-laced rooms. But for Drakothemir, it would simply be an endless buffet that would serve him well until he resurfaces back with the secrets he himself believes may also be hidden there. If there is anything of worth truly hidden there. It is possible and likely, but not certain. As most knew, there was only way to find out.

The tyrannical sun and its blinding light had been devoured by the darkness of night, and Drakothemir scanned the stars for opportunity. Not like the hopeless children, no. But as a man with a vision. He would set out for Anvil, not to burn it to the ground as he did centuries ago as an Imperial commander and not as a nobleman. He would do so as a common man. A lion dressed as the sheep . . .to walk among the sheep . . .into what possibly could be a great slaughter.

This post has been edited by Darkness Eternal: Jan 23 2013, 12:24 AM

[Darkness Eternal]

Intro Post:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[King Of Beasts]

Westley:

The wind was howling ferociously, and the land was ensnared in darkness. With no light but that of the moon and stars to guide his path, Westley cautiously walked down the main path to Anvil. He had traveling since the wee hours of morning, when the sun barely crept over the horizon, and with no horse or carriage to take him to his destination, Westley was exhausted from the long journey. Oh, how he longed to smell the salty air of the Anvil docks. He dreamed of socializing with the good-natured people of Anvil, and laughing along with his new friends over a mug of ice-cold beer at the tavern, but alas, this dream would never come true.

Westley was different. He was not like the mortals. They were so fragile and sensitive. Westley was given the blessing of his master Hircine, and despite the tremendous increase in his strength, stamina, and senses, deep inside Westley could only feel hatred for himself. In his eyes, he was a soulless monster, who merely craved the taste of human flesh to sate his unnatural hunger. The ring of Hircine may have prevented his forced transformations on the day that the moons rose in the sky, full and glorious, but it did not silence the inner-wolf, and Westley's sanity was slowly degrading, day by day.

Westly stopped, and took a deep breath. He looked up at the star-filled sky. Memories of sitting in the grassy plains by the Imperial City with his father Corvus, listening as he was told tales of how every great hero became a star, and thet the greatest heroes became constellations. Each constellation told a different story. A different struggle. A different battle.

Those painful memories died in the dreaded fire with Corvus though. Westley could still remember that horrible day. Smoke rose from every part of the forest he was ensnared in, and the flames ate everything in their path. His father had rushed to his aid, and saved Westley from the fire, but was dragged back into the horror. His father had thrown himself up into a dirt hill, but was thrown back down to his death by thier so called family friend. Westley could still hear his father's screams as he plummeted to his death, and the cold, hard, unforgiving ground killed him upon impact.

Corvus had a dream. He wanted to become an adventurer, make his name noticed out there. He wanted to provide money to feed his son. But that was all stolen away from him, and even though he was dead and gone, Westley carried on the memories of his father. He had read in the Black Horse courier about how the adventurer's guild was recruiting, and how they were planning to go on a journey to the lost city of Sutch. He wanted to fulfill his father's hopes and dreams, and he had found himself here, walking along the road to Anvil.

Westley snapped back into reality, and continued down the dusty trail. The soft beams of the moonlight were cold against his light skin, and the wind wasn't helping. Every step he took kicked up dust, causing him to cough and take desperate gasps for air. He fiddled with the ring of Hircine, but didn't take it off of his finger. It was too risky, but he was so far from Anvil still. Surely a willing transformation wouldn't do to much harm.

Westley slipped the ring off of his finger, and slid it into his pocket. He let the inner-beast break free, and became one with the wolf. He had control over the beast, at least when it wasn't full moon, so not a worry went through his head. Thick, black fur began rapidly growing all over his body, and he cold hear a sickening cracking sound as his bones shifted shape. All of his muscles bulged out, and became larger, and four Large fangs rapidly extended in his mouth, and all of the rest of his teeth became sharp. A pointed muzzle grew from his face, and he ears became pointed. His eyes began to glow a brilliant shade if bright-blue, and claws as sharp as daggers sprouted from his fingers. He could feel the strenght coursing through his veins, and he let out a blood-curdling howl as he stood in the moonlight.

Westley took off at the speed of lighting, and continued heading down the dirt path to Anvil. He hoped he wouldn't cross paths with anyone, he had no intentions of frightening innocent bystanders. He kept his breathing rate steady so he wouldn't slow down from loss of stamina, and carefully observed his surroundings to make sure there were no fiends with malicious intentions towards him. Then again, everyone wanted to kill the werewolf. After all, since when are werewolves the 'good guys'?

He was so busy with his head in the clouds again, that Westley didn't notice he had halted to a stop, and a Redguard woman was pointing a pitch fork at him and screaming for help. He took note of his surroundings, and noticed the large city gates, bearing the emblem of the city of Anvil. The woman began screaming even louder, and that was his cue to hide for cover. Westley bolted through the gates of the city, there were a few drunk men making attempts to navigate through the city, and they noticed Westley and screamed for help. Westley ducked behind a house, turned back into a human, and snuck into the chapel as if nothing happened. Hopefully the guards will dismiss this werewolf sighting as hallucinations from the excessive amounts of alcohol that the men had been drinking last night. One sober witness wasn't enough to justify the story....

This post has been edited by King Of Beasts: Jan 23 2013, 01:20 PM

[Uleni Athram]

OOC: Y'know DE, you should've brought Kraven along for this. It would've been interesting!


GM POST

It was Captain Habach's annoying insistence of the second-in-command taking the last desk-shift that Milon found himself straining his very bones to calm down one woman, and a band of six drunkards all of them hysterically ranting about ... a godsdamned werewolf entering the city proper. The woman, a portly horse-whisperer by the strange name of Swanky Dorea, shrieked with literally convulsing conviction about an ugly, demented thing that looked like a wild, walking mass of Nordic pubic hair, and with eyes that glowed a menacing turd-yellow under the light of the Twins. At this, Milo almost lost his nerve and would've guffawed, but kept an impartial face. Apparently to her, it stank like one too, and with all fours like a pathetic shadow, it bounded towards the direction of the Docks. The stench, she screams, was still ripe and raw like uncircumsize-

Milon's will caved in, and he laughed out loud at the absurdity in her claims, mercifully cutting off what she would've said in the ensuring howling.

Gods, he thought. What a strange woman!

He asked that she be serious, and shot her many questions about its anatomy, mental state, subtle behaviours and all the important things regarding a wild animal. With her apparent bland look, he guessed he used too many 'big' words that obviously passed right over her head. He was forced to tone it down for her, and the answer he got was certainly the same. An ugly face of nightmares, horrid stench, muscled torso, and claws. He turned to the other guard, Cleitus, who went to the aid of Swanky Dorea, and claimed that he, too, did not see thing. But rather, a fast shadow that disappeared like a daydream.

How rather funny that he should talk of daydreaming , thought Milon spitefully. He was supposed to be guarding the main gate, along with Camilliana, but instead we find both of you sucking your faces off of each other inside the gate-tower. Idiots. If they were there doing their duty, and if Dorea's claim were true, then we would've catched the creature there and then as it bolted through the Main Gate. Through the Main Gate itself! What a disgrace on the name of the Watch! We could've spared ourselves this banshee that shrieks now!
He turned to the six drunkards.

All of them were asleep, holding each other like a child's doll, saliva sticking to each others' faces. And from the snores they made, they probably had too many. Too many to wake them up now.

He cursed a streak that made Dorea clap her hands stupidly and beam at him with a toothless grin.

Ever since the announcement of the Expedition, people undersyandably had their tension high up in the sky. Excitement was electrifying the air during daylight, and the populace discharged it into the night by revelling more than usual. More than was necessary, really. There had been more barfights and minor scale gang skirmishes ever since and the Watch had had their hands full.

But this... this case of werewolves appearing in the town? Absurd as cannibalizing himself. No way it could be true. And if, by some rotten chance, that it was, then this'll be the day, no doubt. He ordered Cleitus to assemble a patrol, escort Dorea out, and hurl the six drunkards for later questioning. He didn't know why, but he felt that at the very least, he should check things and make sure everything was okay. Make sure no thieves are lurking about, no gang activities, no nothing. Plus, Cleitus and Camilliana would need the punishing patrol for their incompetemce. When the squad was assembled, they marched out and split into two groups of three. Milon had the two soon-to-be-punsihed patrolling behind. Good enough kids, he relented. But kids nonetheless.

While they patrolled, Milon made sure to lash them with stern words and rigid assessment of the possibilty of them being discharged. While the three patrolled on, they encountered an Imperial entering the chapel. There was something peculiar about him, something Milon couldn't put his finger on. He marched towards the chapel, and ordered the two to wait outside. No need to bring them along, he decided.

The chapel, even under the gaze of midnight, had an undeniable glow that lightening its innards up in a soft of ambient of glass and sconces. He found the Imperial lounging about, and Milon decided that he seemed familiar. He squinted his eyes, and then he realized.

Its one of the Fighters Guild's former boys. Still remember when he got here, don't know if he remembers me. But there was a differennce from the boy all those years ago and the man currently standing right in front of him.

He announced his presence with a "Good evening, son," and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"You're Westley, aren't you? The former Fighters Guild member, yeah? All those years ago? What brings you back to this place, boy?"

This post has been edited by Uleni Athram: Jan 23 2013, 03:53 PM

[King Of Beasts]

Westley tensed up when a man firmly gripped his shoulder from behind. He turned around to see a vaguely familiar face questioning him.

"You're Westley, aren't you? The former Fighters Guild member, yeah? All those years ago? What brings you back to this place, boy?"

Westley tensed up even more, but the fact that this man wore a familiar face and he couldn't remember his name was even more stressful. To top that, the man was wearing Anvil guard armor, and since the panicked woman at the stables most likely ran for the city guard as soon as Westley bolted for the gates, an investigation may have been going on.

What if they find out I'm a werewolf? What will I do? They'll surely kill me. I never hurt anyone though, maybe if they find out I can prove to them I've never harmed anyone but bandits and thieves. This man, he looks familiar. Why is he here. Should I run? No, that's too suspicious. I've got to get myself out of this...

Westley blankly stared at the man for a moment before answering. At the same time, he stuck his hand in the pocket with the ring of Hircine in it, and discretely slipped it onto his index finger.

"Yes, I'm Westley, former member of the fighter's. I'm not sure who you are sir, but I'm simply here to join the adventurers guild. I read in the black-horse courier that they're recruiting, and goin' on an expedition to a place called Sutch, and so I venture there in hopes of findin' fame and fortune in my father's name. Look friend, I only came into the chapel to cure a disease I contracted from a rat. I must hurry and get a room at the inn before all of them at taken."

Westley ignored the man's response, and walked towards the door of the chapel.

"Look, I'm sorry, but I have to go. If you have anymore questions, meet me at the Count's Arms tomorrow morning. I'd be happy to sit down and have a good conversation with you over a cold beer, but if I don't hurry and pay for a room, I'll be sleeping on the streets. I'm sorry I'm not bein' the most social person right now, but I really must go. I'm exhausted from my trip here, and I really want a room at the Count's Arms. I don't like the flowing bowl."

Once again, Westley ignored the guard's attempt to question him further, and left the chapel. He was about to break off to the inn at a sprint, when he noticed two other guards standing in front if the chapel. So it wouldn't seem suspicious, Westley kept calm and walked the rest of the way to the inn.

Suddenly the thought struck him that he was far to anti-social towards this man to not cast any suspicion, and rushing out of the chapel didn't help either. Westley knew that this man would come to question him later. The man looked so.....familiar.

This man recognized me, but why can't I remember his name. Everything here is so familiar, yet so.....foreign.

When Westley reached the inn, instead of entering he sat upon the cold, stone steps and fell into deep thought. He strained to find the name that went with the familiar face, but his attempts at remembering the man's name were futile. He sighed and entered the inn.

The inn was a bit crowded. Probably foolish men and women looking to join he adventurer's guild so they'd get their cut of the loot. Westley approached the middle-aged redguard man standing at the front counter, and pulled out fifteen septims.

"I'd like a room for the night sir." Westley gently placed the septims down on the wooden counter, and the redguard's eyes lit up greedily as he snatched the gold, pocketed it, and handed him a key.

"Head upstairs. It's the second door on your left."

Westley turned and began clumsily making his way up the stairs. Following the redguard's instructions, he entered the second metal door on his left, and groggily set foot into a small, well furnished room. He threw his pack down and passed out in the bed, knowing that the familiar man would seek him in the morning.

This post has been edited by King Of Beasts: Jan 24 2013, 12:17 AM

[Acadian]

OOC: This is just to get Buffy into town and set the stage for her to begin interacting with others of our group.

Buffy:

With Superian settled in to the Anvil stable, Buffy pressed a generous handful of coins into the Redguard’s hand. His dour look brightened as he replied, “We’ll take great care of your mare.”

“Thank you Ernest. I look forward to hearing glowing reports from her.” The Bosmer then turned and stepped off for the city’s main gate.

*

“Good afternoon, Magister. I bring tidings from the University.”

“Greetings, guild sister,” welcomed Carahil warmly as she poured tea for the two elves. “How was your trip?”

Buffy knelt on the chair’s seat instead of sitting - a habit that accommodated her diminutive physical stature. Accepting the tea, she replied, “Three uneventful days. Oh, Guildmagisters Adrienne Berene and Sigrid Firewalker both send regards from Skingrad and Kvatch respectively.”

“Thank you,” replied the Altmer graciously. “And how is Boderi Farano?”

“The Grandmaster of my Order is well and, as I’m sure you’re aware, I am here on her tasking. The Council of Mages is interested in whatever ancient magicks might be buried beneath Sutch.”

Carahil nodded. “That the Council would send a Knight of the Lamp to investigate speaks to the potential of this discovery.”

The smaller elf lowered her eyes. “You humble me, Guildmagister. With your permission, I shall make my quarters temporarily here in the guild hall. In the morning I'll ask around town and attempt to join the expedition hosted by the Adventurers Guild.”

“Of course,” replied Carahil. “My facilities and resources are at your disposal. You will find that this pending expedition has attracted quite a number of mercenaries, treasure hunters and adventure seekers. There have already been several fights and even alarming talk of a werewolf somehow getting into the city before dawn this morning. Watch yourself, for our guild’s charter does not apply to the Adventurers Guild, much less all the free lancers this expedition has attracted.” With that, the elegant Altmer stood. Her black and gold gown rustled softly as she left the wood elf alone in the small library.

“Acadian,” Buffy whispered, “what in Mara’s name have we gotten ourselves into?”

This post has been edited by Acadian: Jan 29 2013, 12:43 PM

[Uleni Athram]

GM POST

Milon let the boy slip off his grasp, offended by his snubbing. From the blatant panick, and the brutally obvious lies he spun, it was clear that he hided something. His gut told him so, and common sense dictated that no matter what you do, you do not display suspicious behaviour infront of a guard, let alone the second-in-command. The boy wanted to run away when he got out, Milon saw the coilling tension himself. But Cleitus and Camilliana's presence stopped Westley in his tracks and he opted to just walk instead.

The two saw the erraticness displayed by Westley and looked to Milon with questions in their eyes when he went outside. He shook his head at them.

"I want you two and Corius at the Count's Arms early in the morning. Make sure to keep him in your sights. I want him for a questioning. For now, let the boy sleep."

They resumed their patrols.

**
Early at the morning, when people were having their breakfast, the three guards stationed at the Counts Arms finally saw their quarry. Ignoring the fact that he almost looked like a criminal being herded off to the dungeons, which in a sense, he technically was. They also ignored what protest he, or anybody had, and stonily led him to the Anvil Dungeons. The trip there didn't take long. The gates of the castle were opened for them, and down they descended into the deeps.

The room held for questioning and filling complaints was bare and practical. Torches lined up at the wall gave an orange illumination. There was a front's desk in the middle, variated by a cluster of all sorts of paperwork. To the side, a bench cushioned with soft leather. By the bench was an oaken door, ancient and spartan. They bid Westley to enter, and when he did, the guards dsipersed. The same practicality of the outside enroached on this room, but there were several trophies that honored the deeds of the dweller. The most glorious among them was a taxidermied head of a timberwolf, its face forever barred in an expression of torment. This timberwolf was an infamous menace at the roads; with the help of an esteemed hunter, Milon hunted it down and took its head.

Milon sat at a furbished oaken table, and he was a reading a copy of the Black Horse courier. He looked up and smiled at Westley, and set his copy down.

"I apologize if us Guards prove to be an inconvience for today, son," he said. "But there's been a horde of questions I wanted to ask you yesterday night, but first things first!"

He motioned towards a chair. In front of that chair was all sorts of silver plates containing hot food that seduced anyone with its exotic scents. There was a bottle of Tamika 422, ice cold, and an engraved silver cup.

"Please eat first before we begin. Once again, I apologize for this severe inconvenience, but there's been an alarming reports of werewolves entering the city. Your person was the closest to its last known location, and I've wanted to ask you about it, but please, eat first."




-----------------------------------

OOC: Hey Phoenix, since you're going to introduce your character, we might as well interact!


Ylenno

The wood elf was smoking a roll of Hackle-Lo outside the Flowing Bowl Inn, inhaling and exhaling the blessed numbness that comes with the eastern indulgence. The wisps of his smoke hung around him, and slowly danced their way to nothingness. With each puff, it left a burining trail down his throat and chest, and he remembered his first roll with Caele- his sister. They managed to knock one off of a shop in Bravil, and their young lungs didn't take the invasion of smoke well. He remebered that he was almost paralyzed, and the panick on Caelefensil's face was absolutely unforgettable. They took a beating when the caretakers found out, but it was well worth it. Ylenno laughed at the memory.

Everything was gut-wrenchingly homely in the Anvil Docks. Those who lead lifestyles of high or mediocre regard might think him crazy to even consider this place 'homely' but they didn't see past the surface of poverty. They look here and say 'what a bunch of uncouth savages miring in their own filth,' or 'what a stain on the glories of our city'. He was familiar with the arrogance of the high-borns but for him, they couldn't smell their own waste on their knees when it comes down to it. Pompous fools that think themselves above the 'rubbish' that 'pollutes' this world. Painting themselves above morals and decency just because they have more coin on their pouches. There may be exceptions, and there might be a genuinely uncorrupted 'high-born' out there, but Ylenno hasn't met those exceptions yet.

Until then, all is normal as it can be for a former thug.

He squashed the Hackle-Lo beneath his feet and lit up a new one, welcoming the paralyzing fire. The Twins and the maiden stars from above had taken Magnus' throne hours ago, and by his estimation, it would be midnight soon. Most people are probably asleep right now. The Inn he was staying in, the Flowing Bowl, held no interesting things at the moment. There weren't any decent brawlers inside, and what women that stayed there were either poor folk or beauties well past their prime. The Fo'c's'le on the other hand was quite the opposite. There'd been a handful of cute-looking women he saw inside, and chances are there'd be more further in. Such a shame that only 'seamen' are only allowed there.

He once tried to set himself up as a retired seaman and they saw right through him. Not only are you supoosed to be a CURRENT seaman, but you had to have connections too. What a bother that the only decent brothel here was uptight in their rules and regulations.

But he guessed it was for the better. He'd need the energy for the sign up in the Adventurers Guild tomorrow. He coudln't possibly ignore the brouhaha Tamriel made when they announced the Expedition. Thee rewards promised instantly hooked him in, and the promise of an adventure unlike any other came second. Besides, he'd heard from his sources that the Orum Gang's on the prowl for him. He'd needed some way to at least catch their scent off of him. There'd probably feelers sent in at the Adventurers Guild, but he's determined to cross that bridge when it comes to it.

The last embers of the second Hackle-Lo died with a seething fog that danced itself into nothingness. The Twins and their contigent of stars watched from above as he entered the Flowing Bowl, unaware of a scream that heralded an arrival.
--------------------------------------------------------------

The morning came with a whisper, and Ylenno spent his roaming about Anvil. The Adventurers Guildhall was opened, but he had no intentions to enter just yet. He'd decided to just wander and see what Anvil has in store for a tourist's eye. On his way to nowhere, he spotted an Imperial being escorted by three guards to somewhere.


Poor b@stard , he thought. Whatever you did, you did it amateaurishly for the guards to hound you.


He resumed his wandering, taking note of the seaside beauty that was Anivil, until the afternoon came and a fresh wave of signees entered the Guildhall. He supposed it was time for him to join, and he made his way towards the alabaster portal, when a shock of blonde hair and blue eyes passed him by and he was immediately reminded of Caelefensil. He snapped to the walking form of the woman, a wood elf like himself, and took in the sight of her longbow and a seemingly familiar gait. He was sure he saw that particular elf before, and his gut pointed to Bravil, but he couldn't place his finger on it. He once again looked towards the wood elf as she entered the Mages Guild, and the realization smacked him hard he almost gasped.

That was Buffy! Old Daenlin's apprentice! What was she doing here, he thought. But then he laughed. She's probably here for the same reason as I am. He didn't had any encounters with the other elf, but he knew enough to know that face and that blonde hair. She was the talk of Bravil after all and some of the orphans back there looked up to her as an example. If she did became a Dame in some court, then she he had to hand it to her.

He trailed off in his thoughts, lost within the nostalgia of Bravil, when he bumped into a person. The collision was sudden and strong, and he almost fell down. He catched his balance however, and looked up at the person he collided into.

He had to slightly crane his neck as the person was an Altmeri lass. Immediately he put on his roguish grin and made an attempt to help her out.

"Hey there, you alright? Didn't see you there, for a moment." He appraised her in a way that wouldn't be considered rude and clicked his tongue. "I'll be damned. A High Elf in heavy armor! That's a first! I'm Ylenno, a pleasure to bump bodies with you," he laughed. "What's yours, if I may ask?"

[PhoenixGamer]

In the distant horizon, Elaninde could see the big gates of anvil. This sight awoke so many memories, this was the place she had lived most of her life in. Ever since her parents were slaughtered. She had never thought she would come back here, but she knew that this was her real chance. Sure most people in Anvil knew who she was, but the same could not be said for most other citizens of Cyrodiil. She remembered the day she chose to wander around the countryside, helping those in need. But this city was the one she chose not to visit.

Ever since she read in the Black-Horse Courier that the adventurers guild were hosting an expedition to the city of Sutch she had been thinking about what it would be like to go through the gates of Anvil again. Just when she was close enough to see the outline of the Anvil guards she saw a shadow sprinting trough the gates like they were but thin air. She didn't think more of this and continued to walk towards the gates. after entering she could hear a woman screaming about a werewolf running into the city, could this werewolf be the same shadow Elaninde saw. She stood there a little while and thought about it but ended up with thinking it was best not to worry about it this late. She made her way through the city and entered the Count's Arms just as a male imperial went up the stairs. Just as he got to the top of the stairs Elaninde saw something shining on his index finger, she knew she had seen it before, and then she remembered, the ring of Hircine. HE was the werewolf.

[Colonel Mustard]

As he moved through the back alley, Tarrick was beginning to worry that he had possibly bitten of more than he could chew with this job. It wasn't that he had picked too tough a mark, not by any means; picking drunkards' pockets in the crowded, chaotic confines of the Count's Arms and then slipping out the back was easy work, especially with all the out-of-towners coming in for this Adventurer's guild expedition. No, the problem that he had was that he had made the mistake of sticking all of his winnings into a single purse which, unless he held a hand down on it, jangled with every other step he took. Knowing the watch would be suspicious of a man out late with jangling pockets, or of a man out late with one hand constantly pressed to his hip, he was trying to get through the streets silent and unnoticed.

He reached the edge of the alley, having skirted a puddle, and peered into the street beyond. There appeared to be nobody about, and he was about to move when he saw a lean grey shape streak along the other road, towards the chapel, running on all fours. He frowned at the sight, wondering if it was a wolf, maybe, but paid it no more attention, deciding to head for his home on the docks. He could head up to the castle and sell the jewellery he had pilfered on to Orrin at the Flowing Bowl, but for the moment he decided it would be easier and safer just to head for home.

Tarrick slipped past the dock gate by taking the old drain tunnel that the watch had been systematically ignoring for years, emerging into a small grassy clearing behind some of the docks' buildings. He took a left, scurrying along the backs of the buildings. Reaching the one he wanted to find, he stepped around the front and unlocked the front door of the one-storey structure.

His mother was asleep in her chair, snoring underneath a blanket, and Tarrrick padded across the room towards his own bedroom. He was halfway across it when he heard his mother say; "And what hour do you call this, then?"

He bit back a curse; he could slip by patrolling guards without any problems, but somehow his mother had an almost supernatural ability to detect when he was in the house.

"Hello mum," he said, swivelling on the spot and adopting a disarming smile. That was a bad idea.

"Don't you 'hello mum' me," his mother said, gaze focussing in on the pouch at his belt. "You've been up to no good, haven't you?"

Tarrick hung his head.

"Yes," he admitted; he could lie to anyone in the world, but not his mother.

"Merciful gods, what's wrong with you, boy!" his mother cried, waving her hands in a gesture of despair. "Why can't you be doing a proper honest job like a good young man of your age?"

"I'm good at this job," Tarrick protested. "Come on, I get us plenty of money, don't I?"

"Coin's no good when it comes from thieving," his mother said. "You're going to be getting yourself honest work from now on, boy, or your poor mother's going to be dying of shame."

She waved a scrap of parchment she had pulled from her shawl.

"You see this?" she said. "Adventurer's guild say there's a big job they want lots of folks doing, you should go join them. You're too damn lazy to do a normal job so I suppose the only way you stand a chance of making an honest living is going to be delving into ruins and getting treasure."

"But...what if something happens to me when I'm doing adventuring?" Tarrick protested. "Who'll look after you then?"

"I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself, and you know it, boy," his mother said. "And no son of mine's making a living as a thief when he can put those talents of his to honest ends, oh no! You're going to that guildhall tomorrow, and you're going to sign up as part of that expedition, you hear me? Otherwise your mother's not putting up with you any more and you're going out on the street."

Tarrick was quiet for a moment, before he nodded. Anything in an old dungeon, he decided, could not be worse than trying to disagree with his mother when she had something she wanted him to do.

"Yes mum," he nodded. "I'll sign up at the guildhall tomorrow."



OOC: Apologies, but I've no more time to write any more so I'm cutting it short there. I'll try and catch up on anything that happens tomorrow but I really must go.

[King Of Beasts]

Westley:

Westley spent the night tossing and turning because of the endless nightmares of his father's death. Coming back to Anvil triggered all of the painful memories that he had been running from for so long to return, and when the guards took him to the castle to interrogate him in the morning, it added on to the heaping amounts of stress already on his shoulders.

The familiar man pointed to a table with silver plates, platters, and cups of mouth-watering foods and drink.

"Please eat first before we begin. Once again, I apologize for this severe inconvenience, but there's been an alarming reports of werewolves entering the city. Your person was the closest to its last known location, and I've wanted to ask you about it, but please, eat first."

The Familiar man's expression was more stern than his tone. Upon inspecting the food, Westley noticed that most of it was his father's favorites. Shock ensnared him as he eyeballed the food, and he became somewhat distressed.

Is this man trying to remind me of my father's death? Is this his way if breaking my will so I'll admit of my lycanthropy? This is just sick. I won't stand this...I can't take it! The nightmares were bad enough, now he's toying with me like a car and mouse?! I won't stand for this!

A rage built up in Westley like he's never felt before. For a brief moment he lost control, and flipped over the table while screaming in agony at the painful memories that had haunted him. He turned to the familiar man.

"DO YOU NOT THINK THAT THE NIGHTMARES OF MY FATHER'S DEAth HAUNT ME ENOUGH? DO YOU NOT SEE THAT I'VE ALREADY BLED MYSELF? YOU TAUNT ME WITH MY FATHER'S FAVORITE MEALS, AND STAND THERE DEMANDING I EAT THEM?! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME!"

Westley sat down the chair and buried his face in his hands when the tears began to exit his eyes and roll down his cheeks. Westley looked back up t the mess he made, and silently got up and cleaned everything before sitting back down in the chair, and wiped the tears from his face. The familiar man stared speechless, a surprised look in his face.

"I'm sorry. Please excuse my outburst. So you want to know about this werewolf? I knew you'd question me. I was the only person wandering the streets when the werewolf was spotted. I'd be suspicious to. But please, hear me out. If you're suspecting me, please reconsider your suspicions. I saw a shadow pass by when I was entering the chapel. The only reason I was out that late is because I had just gotten to Anvil. I was already tired, and I but nervous when I got here because I had been chased down by a few animals on my way

Westley took a deep breath before continuing.

"The shadow that passed by the chapel really unnerved me, and at the same time I had heard some screaming in the distance. I went to the chapel to cure a disease I contracted from a rat. I really wanted a room at the count's arm's because I heard about a few brawls breaking out at the flowing bowl, and rumors if an all-female gang robbing men over there. I was tired and stressed from the trip, and when you came questioning me about why i was here, I snapped. I'm sorry if I offended you last night. It was kind if you to let me sleep this morning before taking me for interrogation."

Westley fiddled with the straps of his shirt before continuing.

"I came here to join the adventurers guild, because I seek fame and fortune. Please, I don't mean anyone harm, and I'm sorry if I alarmed you."

He slyly changed the subject before continuing.

"I have a question for you sir. You look so familiar, but I can't remember your name. Who are you"

Westley eyed the familiar man closely, expecting him to be able to recall all of his lost memories of his life in Anvil.

This post has been edited by King Of Beasts: Jan 25 2013, 05:21 AM

[Darkness Eternal]

Drakothemir:

Drakothemir entered the Count’s Inn, draped in black robes and boots that rivaled the darkest of pits. In direct contrast, his skin was a regular pinkish hue and his face was that of a young man who perhaps had never seen battle before. His eyes, however, spoke quite differently. They were vivid. Alive. Hungry, even. But he wasn't thirsty, he had just fed hours ago.

He traversed through the inn all the way toward the counter where the Innkeeper stood, though as he walked by he could see a brown-haired woman seated on the far south corner of the establishment. She had green eyes, white skin, and was average in the sense of beauty. But what captured his attention was not her physical appearance, but rather, the attire of the order which she represented: the Vigilantes of Stendarr. He smiled courteously at her while deep inside he wished he would melt the woman’s flesh from her very bones.

The Vigilantes of Stendarr: their fire is going to die. Drakothemir is sure of this. For years now since the Crisis they had turned into the self-appointed paladins of the weak and the pitiful, and hunters of the various 'abomination' that plague the world. But one day that will come to an end. And the foolish idiots, blinded by their own hypocrisy, are unable to see the truth of this. It was necessary and just that this is so, just as it is necessary and just that the instrument of their downfall be the vampire. While the Vigilantes of Stendarr rise to spread their light, eventually darkness will overcome it.

Drakothemir and his people are above sad concepts as black and white, good and evil. The only true virtue of note is this: The Knights of the Nine and the Vigilantes of Stendarr saw their abilities as an end in itself; Drakothemir knew that it was a means to an end. And that end is power. In their humble lies and noble-concealed deceptions, the Knights of the Nine craved power as much as everyone else. Drakothemir understands this. They claim to serve the people, but he remembered in the past centuries how they had removed themselves from contact with the very mortals they swore to serve and how easily corruptible they were. Now they stalked the corners of their profane chapels, mouthing their false ideologies while putting to practice the exact opposite of the mercy they preach.

For four centuries since his birth, Drakothemir knew no other life. He was born in darkness, and in darkness, he would die. Because the dark is precious. The first gift of darkness is concealment: his true face remains shrouded beneath his skin, the blood-thirsty cravings of his heart veiled even deeper. But the greatest concealment dwells not in preserving covert truths, but in concealing the truth of others and the truth from them. The dark preserves Drakothemir from what he dares not know.

Oh, Drakothemir thought, how the dark is precious. The second gift is fine illusion: the caress of gentle visions in night’s embrace, the wonder that imagination yields to what would crumble in the day’s unforgiving light. But the grandest of such illusion is that that dark is temporary: that every dark night surrenders a bright day. Drakothemir knows it is an illusion because it is the day that dies. It is the day that is temporary. Day is the illusion.

Darkness is my ally, said Drakothemir as he smiled at the proprietor of the inn to order his meal.

The third is light itself: as days are explained by the nights that separate them, as magical stars are compared by the vast infinite void through which they thrive in, it is the dark that embraces the light, and brandishes away from itself. With each victory of the day‘s light, it is the darkness that emerges victorious. The darkness that is eternal. The dark is precious, and it is patient. It is the dark that breeds cruelty into righteousness, transforms revenge into justice, that grains hatred into compassion, that poisons faith with the seeds of doubt.

The dark can wait, because the slightest collapse of tears will cause those seeds to mature. The rain is near, and the seeds will grow, for the darkness is the soil which they dwell. The darkness’ patience is unending. The dark is precious and it can wait, and it always is victorious. It’s always victorious because it is everywhere. And even the brightest light can cast the deepest shadow.

So, Drakothemir mused, how can the Vigilantes drag one into the light . . .when light itself surrenders to darkness?

This post has been edited by Darkness Eternal: Jan 27 2013, 01:22 AM

[Lycanthropic-Legend]

Macalla Vibecke:

The Dark Brotherhood was destroyed. Most of them. Every day she only heard rumors of more death. The Black Hand leadership had been destroyed by a traitor and all those brothers and sisters . . .slaughtered.

There were more sanctuaries in Cyrodiil, scattered all over the province. And while there were many assassins of the guild alive, she was one of the dead. Dead to the Brotherhood. She hoped that none of them would seek to find her, for her blood and soul by right, belonged to Sithis. The Night Mother's children would surely want to pursue her after he deeds.

For years she had skulked in the shadows. That hidden blade. That moving darkness. The dagger which slips quietly into the bones to extinguish the last vestiges of life. Their bodies crumble, and their souls are sent to the void . .. A lifetime of suffering. She watched them cry and shudder, and pray that they might wake up from that awful dream which was nightmare made into reality all the while she was in her own nightmares of regret. Compassion. Love . . .for the lives she had taken.

But no more. Life for a former assassin was going to be difficult, and only a liar would claim that no more blood would be shed. The truth is that if one’s entire talent was killing, then it would forever be their curse. But at times, killing wasn’t entirely a bad thing. Not when it is for the greater good our out of necessity. No more will the innocent perish by my hands. I will always walk in the light of Stendarr, and drag the darkness into it whenever I can, thought the woman. She couldn’t imagine a life without killing. The art has forged her life onto that. But she knows she can make something as dark as taking a life onto something noble.

Macalla Vibecke, in her lithe frame drowning in the shapelessness her white robes of the Vigilantes of Stendarr, glared through narrow, green eyes. Her short brown hair, hung loose from her head in a creative fashion. Nestled at her side was a silver longsword, which she carried with her everywhere she went. It was a fine blade, ideal for slaying witches, vampires and werewolves. And this expedition into Fort Sutch would give her the opportunity to further walk into the light, and away from the darkness. She would be a beacon for her people and those who are too weak to defend themselves.

“Some food, please.” She spoke in a soothing, simplistic manner of speaking that could easily lead anyone to believe she never was allied with the Dark Brotherhood. Let alone one of their notorious killers.

She rested her elbows on the counter as she waited for her food at the Count’s Arms. It had been a year since her salvation and membership into the Knights of the Nine and the Vigilantes of Stendarr. There was peace in her heart ever since she finished her pilgrimage to the Wayshrines. And ever since the Oblivion Crisis ended, the threat of Daedra was being rooted out wherever they hide. But today, the strong warrior of the light that was Lady Vibecke would forgo a hunt for abominations for a nice plate full of food. Her mouth was watering at the smell and sight of her order being prepared, her silverware was already in her hands.

The plate came. It was a nice steaming order of diced apples, melted cheese with a loaf of bread, a pile of fresh vegetable and chicken breast to add to the flavor. Macalla’s eyes gleamed with light as she was given her food. And just as she was about to bite into it, the door to the entrance opened and all of the loud chatter of the tavern died down into an awkward silence.

A hooded figure entered the inn wearing a black robe, not even bothering to glance at those around him. There was an aura of polished cultivation and yet something else that came along with it. An air of leadership came from this man. His expressive orange-colored eyes were set straight ahead to a flight of stairs as he marched to the rooms.

I wonder who this man is . . .is he here for the Adventurer’s Guild?

This post has been edited by Lycanthropic-Legend: Jan 26 2013, 09:48 PM

[PhoenixGamer]

Elaninde did not get to sleep that night, the thought of the werewolf that could be just one door away kept her up. Who was he? Why was he here? She thought about this for a good three hours before sleep overtook her. The following morning she went to the adventurers guildhall and sold some things she had gathered on the way to anvil. Suddenly while she was counting her money she felt someone bumping into her, she turned around and saw a wood elf struggling to maintain his balance.

"Hey there, you alright? Didn't see you there, for a moment." he said after getting his mind straight again

"I'll be damned. A High Elf in heavy armor! That's a first! I'm Ylenno, a pleasure to bump bodies with you," the wood elf laughed.

"What's yours, if I may ask?".

While she was confused as to how the bosmer had been able to avoid to see her she answered in her most polite voice:

"Hi my name is Elaninde, I'm here to join the adventurers guild. What are you doing here", still a bit dizzy, the wood elf answered:

"Same thing, but if I may ask, how come you're wearing heavy armour and not one of those fancy dresses that most altmer wear". Amused by the question, she answered with a humorous tone:

"I grew up constantly running away and in need of protection. Because of that I learned to value the protective capabilities of heavy armour". The wood elf opened his mouth to ask something else but decided he wasn't going to get any better answers.

This post has been edited by PhoenixGamer: Jan 26 2013, 04:55 PM

[Elisabeth Hollow]

The air was already bustling when Kayla entered the gates to Anvil. Before she could even shake off Skyrim's snow, she had to board yet another carriage to the Imperial City from Bruma, and from there to Skingrad. While passing Kvatch, her legs ached for exercise.

A letter by courier had arrived for her one crisp morning at her home in Whiterun. Curious, she broke the seal and read the contents. Convincing her husband to allow her to travel all the way to Anvil with no easy feat, but in the end she prevailed. Treasure beyond her wildest dreams! If she got her cut, she could set up herself, her husband, and their future children for life. In theory.

She was advised to stick to the main roads and since she had a deadline, she obliged. Her eyes lingered longingly at the Ayleid ruins and forts that dotted the main roads of Cyrodiil. Once she arrived in Anvil, she was more than ready to get her hands dirty.

Before the guards let her in, one looked her over and warned, "Be careful. We had a sighting of a werewolf. Wouldn't want a pretty Altmer like yourself to be its next victim."

Kayla just rolled her eyes and entered the gates. She kept her leather armor on, and her sword, Dawnbreaker, in the black metal scabbard. A soft leather flap hid the shining jewel from prying eyes. She kept her bow and quiver of arrows in the large pack she had brought, slung over her shoulder. Her smaller pack held changes of clothes, her potions, and an empty canteen.

Anvil was beautiful. The cobbled stone streets, the buildings made of pale stone... Kayla was particularly in awe of the weather. It was warm! Kayla stood in the middle of the street for a few moments before snide remarks began to get her attention. Their odd, crisp accents only confused her more, and she walked until she saw a small wood elf exiting a large building with a blue sign shaped like a large eye.

"Excuse me, but where can I get food and rest?" In comparison, her accent sounded much odder than those around her. Ekscoos meh, boot where kin ay git food an drest?

She cringed at the harshness of her own accent, and asked the wood elf again, "Might you know where the Adventurer's Guild is, as well?" Mite yoo no where th' Adventurer's geeld ees, as well?

She turned crimson as she waited for the small elf to speak.

This post has been edited by Elisabeth Hollow: Jan 26 2013, 12:42 AM

[Darkness Eternal]

Drakothemir:

Lord Drakothemir saw the Vigilante woman looking at him, and after he rented the room for himself, he walked forth toward where she was seated, and sat himself down beside her. He tapped a finger on the counter, and made two orders of fine Tamika wine, and waited for his order.

This post has been edited by Darkness Eternal: Jan 27 2013, 01:39 AM

[Colonel Mustard]

OOC: Phoenix, do you mind cutting the Oedipus entering and starting to talk bit? Half the group isn't even in the guildhall yet.

Tarrick Kathram

"So where did you get these?" Orrin asked as he looked at Tarrick's haul of jewellery that he had brought to Castle Anvil's forge to fence.

"Count's Arms," Tarrick said, leaning on one of the workbenches. "Just picked them up from the folks who're here for this Adventurer's Guild expedition."

"Should've guessed," Orrin said, the Thieve's Guild fence holding up an emerald-decorated ring to the light to inspect it. "I've had a lot of them in here asking to buy weapons and get gear repaired; been a good few days for business."

He looked at Tarrick, who was currently wearing his leather armour and had all his equipment stowed in a pack with him.

"You know, if I didn't know you better, I'd say that you were going along on that errand too," he said, raising an eyebrow.

"I am," Tarrick confessed. "My mother wants to make an honest man out of me, and it's either do what she says or get kicked out onto the street."

"You need to learn to say no to that old harpy," Orrin said with a shake of his head.

"You take that back!" Tarrick snapped. "My mother is a fine woman and I'll not hear a word against her, understand?"

Orrin snorted.

"Mummy's boy," he murmured. "Anyway, I'll give you three hundred septims for the lot of them."

"Sounds reasonable," Tarrick said. The jewels and gems would be sold on at a vast profit for the guild to others, with Tarrick merely serving as the supplier of the goods, but that was still enough to supply his mother with food and board for several weeks while he was away.

Orrin nodded as he handed over a purse of Septims.

"Try not to get yourself killed out there," he said. "You're good at bringing money in."

"I feel so very loved," Tarrick replied, stepping out of the forge. "See you soon, Orrin."

He stepped out of the forge, into the main part of the castle. His route out took him past one of the rooms used by the guards for questioning of prisoners and he paused as he heard someone shouting about being taunted by their father's favourite meal. He hurried on a moment later, before he could arouse the suspicion of the guard standing at the doorway, frowning as he did so and wishing he had the time to stick around to try and hear the rest of the conversation, even if it was simply to work out how that sentence made sense.

He made his way across the bridge that connected Castle Anvil to the rest of the city, and into the main streets, making for the guildhall of the Adventurer's guild; he decided he should sign up first and then drop off his earnings at home afterwards. As he was passing by the gate of the city, he half-noticed a pair of elves in conversation, a high elf and a wood elf was what he guessed from the marked differences in their heights. He overhead the high elf saying something and froze.

"You know, I appreciate that this sounds like an odd question," he said, butting into the conversation slightly. "But I really need to ask. How did an Altmer like you end up speaking with a Nord accent?"

[Acadian]

Buffy:

Buffy found Astia Inventius on the docks, trying to capture the sun’s last rays before it slipped into the Abecean. Under the comforting eye of the North Gate guard, the elven mage carefully described the painting that Master Wizard Raminus Polus wanted to hang in the University’s lobby. The contract between Mages Guild and artist was then finalized with a bag of gold and handshake.

Looking forward to a hot bath and clean sheets, Buffy approached her guild under long shadows.

He was hard to miss as he stood under the large tree in the city square. Long white hair stood erect on one side of his head while tattoos adorned the shaved other half. He wore a padded leather jerkin and was quite tall for a Bosmer. The broken nose and roguish look seemed familiar. Buffy slowed her pace and tried to recall where she had seen him. Yes, he was a brother of Bravil and fellow orphan! She remembered now that he and his sister were separated at a young age, as sometimes happens to orphan siblings. Years later he returned, but tragically his sister had died. He associated with some of Buffy’s darker friends, like Nordinor and Ungarion and had a funny name. . . Ylenno!

As Buffy turned to go back and talk with her fellow Bravilian, his attentions were captured by an Altmeri lass in plate armor – most likely a member of the Fighters Guild or here for the Adventurers Guild expedition. Ylenno deftly maneuvered himself into the path of the high elf, then exploited the resulting collision and introduced himself to her. Buffy smiled and whispered, “Good luck, brother Bosmer.” She then slipped into her guild.

*

The forest elf reveled in the intoxicating thunder of hooves, speed and power as the mare beneath her flew past the scrub bushes, golden grass and occasional tree along the cobbled road. As the large pink glows stabled at the Horse Whisperer blossomed into view, the speeding horse sensed her rider’s reluctant wish and slowed, gradually to a walk.

Buffy knew her mare was built for speed and they both relished the opportunity for a morning ride followed by a leisurely cool down. Once Superian’s tack had been stowed and Buffy had groomed her, the pair shared an apple and watched the sun appear on the eastern horizon.

*

After sweet rolls and apple berry juice with her guild mates, the buckskin mage stepped from her guild for the second time that morning.

The sound of the city gate closing drew Buffy’s eyes to a new arrival in Anvil. The leather-clad Altmer looked heavily burdened by her large pack. A long sword rode on one of her hips.

Buffy approached to offer help.

The other elf took notice and her long legs quickly closed the distance.

Up close, this elf, like most of her race was every bit of two heads taller than Buffy. A toss of her head cleared the auburn mane from her face to reveal eyes as soft, deep and brown as those of a fawn. As the Altmer began to ask for directions to food, a bed and the Adventurers Guild with a thick Nordic accent, the wood elf looked up and studied the attractive face carefully to verify the golden skin and delicately curved ears of a high elf.

“Forgive me for staring,” Buffy stammered. “I. . . you don’t sound like an Altmer.”

“I get that a lot,” she replied with a pleasant but practiced manner. “I was orphaned and raised by Nords in Skyrim.”

“I’m an orphan also, raised by the city of Bravil.” The smaller elf extended a hand. “My name’s Buffy.”

The Altmer who talked like a Nord slipped her golden hand past Buffy’s and grasped the wood elf’s forearm in a warrior clasp. “Kayla,” she replied, then adjusted her large pack heavily from one shoulder to the other.

“I’m sorry,” Buffy quickly said, “I was just heading for the best inn here in Anvil.” She then added with a chirp, “Let’s go.”

Before Kayla could reply, a Redguard bedecked in the leathers and trappings of a rogue or adventurer that Buffy had not noticed approaching said, "You know, I appreciate that this sounds like an odd question, but I really need to ask. How did an Altmer like you end up speaking with a Nord accent?"


This post has been edited by Acadian: Jan 26 2013, 07:10 PM

[Elisabeth Hollow]

“I’m sorry,” Buffy quickly said, “I was just heading for the best inn here in Anvil.” She then added with a chirp, “Let’s go.”

Before Kayla could reply, a Redguard bedecked in the leathers and trappings of a rogue or adventurer that Buffy had not noticed approaching said, "You know, I appreciate that this sounds like an odd question, but I really need to ask. How did an Altmer like you end up speaking with a Nord accent?"

Kayla smiled warmly. "I was raised in Skyrim. You don't spend 33 years in a place and not pick up a few things, eh?" She ribbed. She studied the Redguard and the elf.

"You know, you two look even stranger than I. At least to myself. Tell me," She grew an impish grin and asked the Redguard, "What do you call yourself?"

This post has been edited by Elisabeth Hollow: Jan 26 2013, 07:30 PM

[Colonel Mustard]

Tarrick

The High Elf shot him a grin as she gave her answer, and Tarrick decided then and there that he quite liked her.

"Raised in Skyrim, eh? Well, that makes sense," Tarrick nodded. "Though I'll admit I probably look a little strange as I'm heading off with the Adventurer's Guild. As for my name..."

He bowed low, grinning to show that he wasn't serious.

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