(OOC: My lovelies. It has begun.)
GM POST (GENERICUS - FUDOM)
And so it was that the whip of Oblivion brought more tragedies than what was initially realized. Destruction had been halted with the sacrifice of who is arguably the greatest Septim since the Stormcrown himself ushered in the Third Era, but where fire and legion failed, inequity and the weakness of mortal hearts would threaten to succeed. Destruction had been halted, yes, but Change and Revolution now poisoned the air of wounded Tamriel, and the hidden Ambitions of many darkened what should have been a determined rebuilding of what was lost. Defeated and spiteful Mehrunes Dagon saw this and was glad; his joyous laughter rang out throughout the Deadlands, as calamity and mortal strife took the center stage of this new Crisis.
Valenwood is broken into two halves; one fights for the loyalty to past allegiances, one fights for the future unriddled with Imperial dominion. The eaves and boughs of that gilded realm is red with the bloodshed of brother against brother. To their east, the sands of Elsweyr are being bloodied by the Elves of Pyandonea; foam against dune, moonlight versus sea-storm, the Khajiit struggle for their very culture against a determined foe while their Imperial 'protectors' stand impotent against the pirate scourges. There is talk of war between the long feuding Dunmer and Argonians; certainly those rumours are not unfounded, for there are already mounting casualties as a result of raiding from both sides. The Land of the Utter Most West, High Rock, is openly rebellious and the Bretons remain steadfast in attempting to shake off the authority of the Imperial Throne; not even pressure from the loyal warrior-nations of Hammerfell and Skyrim could dissuade them from this sudden urge to secede. And in the land where summer sets eternally, there is a fateful rumor going around that a third incarnation of the Aldmeri Dominion is on the rise.
Through all of these events, however, none seem to get more focus than the Expedition to the bowels of Sutch. From the lowliest peasant to the noble over-saturated with decadence, Oedipus Nebraska's rousing of Anvil's two guilds (as well as the support of his Sponsors and the recruitment of hundreds of freelance adventurers) to join his own to a journey under Sutch held supreme attention. They thought it a new adventure that could give a brief respite from the troubles of a world torn by unrest, but... could it really be as it present itself to be? Or could it be another tragedy in the making?
One by one our heroes, in their own way, receive news of the Expedition. And one by one, through reasons of their own, they find themselves heading towards Anvil... Do they seek glory? Riches? Fame? Knowledge? Power? Are they driven by simple curiousity and wanderlust, to experience a thrill of discovering a place where the sun is silent? It might be that they would have a chance to attain these things. Or it might be that they would get something else entirely. One is thing is for sure, however.
Sutch awaits.
With all its mystery. With all its secrets. With all its ancient shadow.
Sutch awaits. And it waits with a smile.
---------------
GENERICUS BLOCCUS
A pleasure to make your acquaintance, he thought while humming, but better to make you fools bleed.
The lithe Nord fished a piece of parchment from some department on his brigandine jacket, and with a very minor fire spell he burned the stanza he came up with. For a moment he stopped and regarded his work. A blatant rip off of a classic Nibenean tune with several lines stolen from the poetry of the central Imperials; he considered adding a limerick or two here, reinforced by a haiku in the style of those ancient Akaviri poets. The mixed compositions would do havoc with the mind of a prim and proper bard, but no ordinary singer was Genericus. He was always jumping from one style to another, trying to find purchase in comfortability, but no one style ever held him in thrall for long. To address such a vexing block, he opted to simply mash them all together and make order out of such a messy arrangement. And here he was. He tried to vocalize his work once but found, to his dismay, that it attracted all kinds of attention from his fellow pedestrians. A summer in the Gold Coast was especially severe this year, and the sun-baked roads and humid wind made for a stifling companion. Those who travelled on the Gold Road were eager to find something that would entertain them. Or alternatively, something to vent on.
Checking the traffic that wormed the Gold Road for any signs of brutes and thugs that would jump on anything to fight, and finding none (save for a suspicious elf with tattoos and a mohawk), Genericus began singing, this one a comedic pirate chantey he made during a stay down in Leyawiin.
"Thar once was a lass so fine,
She was drunk on Surilie wine,
I'd been out to sea for a month or three,
I knew I could make her mine.
But the lass was past consent,
So it was off with her we went,
And we threw her in bed and we rested her head,
And we left cuz that's what Gentlemen do...
A woman has a right to a drink or two,
Without worryin' about what you will do!
We say Yo-HO but we don't say 'ho,'
Cuz 'ho' is disrespectful, yarrr."
The tune was catchy and predictable in its endings, and the comical lines drew a laugh or two from passerbys. As he continued singing, a family of Khajiit caravaners joined him and provided a steady ambience using kitchen tools; pretty soon there was a motley band of rummy and souses roaring their throats dry as they sang the hilarious chantey, along with a pack of children and teenagers that joined the song here and there. So good and lighthearted the atmosphere was that in their joy, Genericus and his flash-band suddenly found themselves at the oaken gates of Anvil, which was open to allow space to the massive traffic the city received ever since the proclamation of the Expedition. Genericus thanked his fellows for making a dull trip a fun one, but realized that he did not catch their names.
"I'm Holden," said one cross-eyed drunk with strawberry hair and beard.
"I'm Mac Roin," said a robust fellow wearing flowers in his bald head.
"I'm gonna puke," said a third, young man and promptly did so just inches away from Genericus' boots.
Genericus grimaced at the last one, but nonetheless curtsied and introduced himself. The robust fellow, Mac Roin, began laughing, while Cross-Eyed Holden tried thumping the back of Pukeboy to comfort him; but being cross-eyed, he instead thumped Pukeboy three times at the back of his skull and Pukeboy retched again. Mac Roin regained himself and looked at Genericus, a friendly smile on his portly face.
"Heheh, the pretty lady's got a man's name, lads! Heh heh heh.."
"I'm not a lady," said Genericus with an anticipatory smile, holding the man's stare steadily. Mac Roin suddenly sobered up and his portly face underwent several expressions before settling on a calm and collected one. He said, "Ah," before grabbing both sides of Genericus' face and planting a large and sloppy kiss on the Nord's mouth. At least, that's what he aimed for; being drunk, he landed it on Genericus' nose, destroying his make up there.
"Bless you still, you painted goblin! That was one hell of a chantey that me and the lads won't forget! At least, until the evening bar-hop commences!"
With a stentorian laugh, Mac Roin picked the now unconscious Pukeboy with one hand and guided drunk Holden (who was having a spirited fist fight with something only he could see) to wherever it was they were going. Genericus stood, there, motionless. Then with unbelievable alacrity he produced a mirror from somewhere and began inspecting his face. He was right. His nose was a shade darker than the rest of his face; wetter, too. With a defeated whimper, he entered Anvil and headed straight to the West Weald Inn to repair his broken visage.
------------
FUDOM YOH
A pleasure to make your acquaintance, he thought with a smile, but better to make you fools bleed.
He broke the Dunmer's arm with a savage twist of the lock and, using the joined bodyweight of him and the elf's, threw him to the ground belly-first. He stomped on the mer's head and it exploded like a ripe melon with vivid juices. The second one came at him from behind. The scimitar maimed the spot where his head used to be; crouched low, he turned towards his new opponent and speared him in the gut with his shoulder. Winded and stunned, the Morrowind bounty could offer no resistance as Fudom used his body as a battering ram against a tree's trunk. Slinking down to the ground in unconsciousness, this elf's life ended when the massive Redguard gave him titanic blows on his unprotected head.
The clearing was suddenly quiet. No birds, no crickets, no rustling of leaves that spoke of the forest's life. Nothing. Fudom stood still, eyes darting to and fro, hunting for the last one. Six other corpses lay in various states of brutalization, but these dead mer told Fudom no tales in regards to their ally's location. His skin tingled, however, with the premonition of bad things. Fudom's eyes widened under his mail mask but that was all he could do as an invisible object collided with his gut and felled him to the ground.
Magic, he thought through gritted teeth, already coming back to his feet and settling into an open stance. Fetcher's using invisibility magic!
He knew how to deal with this kind of enemy. It was one of the most difficult and painful lessons he ever took from his wife, but none of his broken bones could deny its effectiveness. Drawing a deep breath, he closed his eyes and emptied his mind of all conscious thought. In the center of his mind's temple, he imagined a picture of himself in the glade. Where his position was. Where the corpses of his enemies were. Every little detail he could scrounge up. He focused on that image and let his other senses do the rest of the work.
A rustling a few feet behind him... A little bit to the east. No natural thing can make that sound. It edged ever closer... Closer...
"Rrrraaaghhh!"
Eyes still closed, Fudom whirled around at the last moment and pistoned a grab in thin air. His grip found purchase; he was holding his last enemy's wrist in a vise hold. A little twitch in a direction confirmed that this was the enemy's left arm. Fudom laughed. The invisible Dunmer yowled in pain. In the span of five seconds, Fudom broke the elf's arms in eight different places and knee'd him until Fudom was sure his face was a mashed affair of bone, gristle and tissue.
With a satisfied grunt, Fudom returned to where his pack was and resumed his journey to Anvil through the forests of the West Weald.
NEXT ONE TO POST: COLONEL MUSTARD
"Good grief."
Anvil was heaving, packed with people from, it seemed, all over Nirn. The citizenry was out in force to accomodate these new arrivals, market stall proprietors bellowing their wares to the crowds of aspirant adventurers, mercenaries and ne'er-do-wells that were thronging the city's streets.
Jolus Jorelbar took a moment before the gates to soak in the scene, all the people and the vibrant energy of commerce and aspiring adventure. Anvil was new to him, one of the few cities in Cyrodiil that he had not yet visited, and he had yet to get to know the city. All things considered, and keeping his destination in mind, that might be a good thing; the Anvil Mages' Guild (probably) didn't yet know him or his reputation as an ill-disciplined delinquent.
"Soule Musique, watch my back," Jolus murmured, seemingly to himself. "Probably cutpurses about"
On the back of his collar, two green spots appeared, glowing with faint luminescence. Soule Musique, his ancestor spirit, was only partially summoned, intangible and with only its eyes appearing in this plane of existence. As it appeared, Jolus' vision changed, become a double-image of what was in front and behind him; most people would have found that cripplingly disorientating, but to Jolus it came naturally, a result of using such a talent for years.
Finding the Mages' Guild was relatively easy, positioned as it was on one of the main thoroughfares just out of the city's gate road; all Jolus had to do was follow the burnt smell of failed alchemy experiments and the faint, acrid taste of magicka buildup that permeated the air. The building itself was impressive, built from Anvil's archetypal white stone and sprawling across two wings like an aspirant palace. It was here that the letter from Lielle had directed him, a tip from his old friend at the Guild that had brought him to Anvil for the Sutch expedition.
He pushed open the door to find the Mages' Guild just as busy, and Jolus didn't fancy his chances of finding accommodation in the Guildhall's dormitories. He'd work something out, he was sure.
He moved through the lower floors of the Guild unchallenged, the regular members there too busy with the influx of new arrivals to even notice him. As he went, he scanned for the crimson that would mark his target; Lielle's red hair was distinctive, and matched by the sanguine shades that she favoured in her clothing. He found her in one of the wings of the Guildhall, somehow aloof from the bustle of the rest of the place and grinned.
"Lielle!" he called out, snapping one of his fingers into a point towards her. "There you are. Never thought I'd find you in all this mess."
He pulled down a chair next to her and sat, leaning back to plant his shoes on the table.
"So, big expedition underground, eh?" he said. "Glad you had the sense to call the right man for the job."
GM POST Lielle, Brielle
The two of them had been in Anvil for a few weeks, getting to know the layout, poking their noses in the Guild's business and sleeping there while they awaited the official Expedition to begin. Lielle preferred to spend her time making friends with the local business owners, while Brielle spoke to the local nobles(a phrase that made her laugh, nobles in a town that stunk like fish)
There was a tension between the two of them, keeping them from spending more than an evening's worth of time together, if Brielle came back to their bunk at all. Lielle knew better than to worry, and knew if she left their bed, it would be forfeit for another sleepy mage. So she stayed and trusted her instinct that she would feel it if something were to happen to Brielle.
Brielle had become somewhat of a mystery to her own sister. She knew that Lielle suspected something malevolent inside her, but could never guess the plan she had cooked up in a mere moment on that road. Lielle had tugged on her sister's wrist and looked her straight in the eye after packing their bags and fleeing the city.
"I'm done," she had said plainly, her eyes level with her sister's. There was no waver in Lielle's voice, either. She was certain of what she was saying. Before she answered, Brielle knew what she would have to do. She nodded slowly at Lielle, casting her eyes slightly to the side, just past Lielle's head onto a sharp rock.
"Do this one last thing with me, Lielle," Brielle said sincerely. "If we fail, then we fail. You heard what the Masters said. Whatever is in the fort can restore Mannimarco."
What she didn't know, is Lielle didn't suspect they could succeed. She only accepted the terms because she felt in her heart that they would both walk away empty handed before the expedition even began. Or, that if they were to be sent in, they wouldn't be on the team that actually discovered the relic. She also suspected the relic didn't exist.
The weeks that followed their trek into the city were either quiet or raucous, depending on the night. Sometimes Lielle partied with her fellow mages, having drunken contests of "Name that obscure daedra" and who could lift the heaviest thing using telekinesis(which Lielle held the record at six light mages and two hefty and very accommodating guards) while Brielle slid in and out of various people's beds, not including, to her disappointment, the Countess, but her Steward, who was too easily charmed, in her opinion. Nevertheless, both gathered quite a few secrets, though only one decided to never use them against anyone unless it was necessary.
The morning of the Expedition, the Big Day Where Everything was Announced, Lielle and Brielle enjoyed a rather loud, but private meal in the lower section of the Anvil Mages Guild. Loud, because of the new arrivals that had been pouring in for the past few days. Private, because no one was paying attention to them in their little corner. At least until Jolus plopped himself next to Lielle, earning a blank stare from Brielle. Lielle looked delighted.
"You made it!" She gave him a warm squeeze on the arm. Jolus had been one of the more capable wizards she had mat at the University, one she had grown fond of. She knew if anyone was able to handle the Sutch Expedition, it would be him. And with the Arch Mage Traven gone, things would be quiet on the front of research assistants for a bit. The new Arch Mage focused on rebuilding the relationship with the people, as well as rooting out any necromancers, which was their cue to leave. Neither of them would be particularly missed.
Brielle had been on board with Lielle contacting Jolus, stating it would solidify the guise of curious University students wanting a bit of adventure. She didn't promise to be pleasant though, which is why it came as a surprise when she put her cup of tea down and smiled easily at Jolus.
"It's nice to see you again. Lielle was adamant about contacting a friend. She says you'll be of great help."
Khan grunted as he lugged the bag of freshly (and expensively) repaired armor up the crowded, now slightly scuffed stairs of the West Weald Inn. Damned acid traps, he silently griped, might as well have taken my coin purse for all of the financial ruin it's brought me. At least the sword had survived. He'd had a hard enough time finding a blacksmith who wasn't too busy churning out weapons for various armies to fix the armor, but Aedra help him if he needed a new sword forged in time for the Expedition.
He was halfway through the uncommonly packed and smoky hallway to his room when he heard a sound he couldn't quite place in his memory.
Sniffling? Since when do I associate with people who sn-oh, right.
He turned his head towards the source and peered into the brightly lit, impeccably clean room.
"Genitalius? Was that it? Shite, no, Genericus, sorry."
The gold road between Skingrad and Kvatch had been a problem even before the Oblivion Crisis. The Legion had never had much luck keeping brigands in check in the area, who had become so bold they'd set up camps within sight of the road. But Sinyon's mind was not on where he was, but on where he'd been when he'd heard about the Expedition. The lobby of the Arch-Mages Tower was such a good place to discreetly gather information; The mages of The Council came and went, always chatting after their meetings, about the very things they'd withdrawn to discuss. That was how Sinyon had heard about the expedition, and it had sounded too interesting to pass up.
But his thoughts were brought sharply back to the present by the arrow thudding into the ground before him. “Hand over everything you've got Altmer, or the next arrow takes your life.” A man stood a little distance in front of him, bow in hand, and a quick glance around revealed four more brigands, spread out in a wide circle. Sinyon chuckled and drew Cutter from his belt.
“I have business elsewhere, so I will extend to you this one chance. Allow me to pass, or I will kill you all.”
“Five to one against Altmer, and you think that fancy robe of yours'll stop arrows?”
Sinyon smiled, declining to reply, and raised Cutter to his brow, as if to salute the man in front of him. There was a flash of brilliant green light, blinding the brigands for a moment, and when they recovered Sinyon had disappeared. In his place stood a Dremora, mace in hand, who roared and blasted the man on the road clear off his feet with a blot of lightning. Hurried shots from bleary eyes thudded into the ground around the Dremora as it charged at the next nearest assailant. On the opposite side of the ambush, Sinyon pirouetted back into visibility, as Cutter lived up to its name, taking a brigand's head from her shoulders. As Sinyon faded from sight again, and the Dremora slew another would be ambusher, the other two fled.
The brigand who'd spoken tried to push himself back to his feet, only to find himself pushed back down again. “I know I said I'd kill you all, but I really don't have the time to chase down your companions.” The brigand didn't see the source of the voice until Cutter was biting into his neck, and by then, it was of course too late.
Wiping Cutter on the dead brigand's clothes, Sinyon hooked the axe back into his belt and sighed wearily. He did so hate distractions, and Anvil awaited.
GENERICUS
-----
In the end he decided that a bath would be more satisfying. Damn that man and his sudden urge to kiss, his body needed attention as much as his wet nose. He had, after all, been traveling from the Imperial City and the journey hence had not provided sufficient modes to bathe oneself with, bar bodies of water with debatable percentages of cleanliness. Even his tried-and-true tactic of using a very minor form of the Restoration school to clean himself had not been up to his standards. No. What he needed was a bath, and a bath he did get, though a very cold one it may be. Wilbur the Innkeeper said, plainly beleaguered, that with the massive influx of customers (most of them adventurers looking to sign up for that damned Expedition) the Inn's reservoir of hot water from a Dwemer steaming engine simply collapsed. It couldn't supply the needs of such a large number and for the next few weeks all of them simply had to make do with very, very cold water. Drowned in a tidal wave of sniffling and sneezing complaints, Wilbur and his staff were willing to reimburse their patrons by charging a little bit of discount on rent-prices. "Thag you very buch," a curiously well-dressed Bosmer named Bobil said, "but how will this hep us and our 'old?"
It's summer for crying out loud, Genericus thought. Common sense dictates cold water for hot seasons. Besides, its good for the body and its circulations.
How he regret those words now.
He expected a little shiver, but what he got was a bucket full of gelid water that wouldn't feel too out of place in a frozen lake. He had soldiered through in the name of sanitary responsibilities but afterwards his nose couldn't stop dripping. Sniffling, he regarded his room. Beautiful enough for one such as he. There was a mediocre vanity near the door and a plump little chair. He plumped himself on the chair and sat deep in thought. With an annoying cold such as this, make-up was simply out of the question.
"Well old girl, it seems we're going in dry until we get a cure."
He began working his wet hair into a presentable state when he heard the most amusing thing.
"Genitalius? Was that it? Shite, no, Genericus, sorry."
He turned towards the speaker and found himself looking at a fine specimen of a Khajiit. From his large build and from the easy way he easily hefted a bag full of armor, it was clear that this was a warrior. His voice and face was familiar.. Now where did he meet thi-
Ah.
Bruma. I think. This is...
"Khan! How delightful!"
Standing up, water still dripping from his wiry body, the Nord approached and laid a friendly hand on the Khajiit's shoulder in salutations; he would've clasped his forearm but the other man was carrying something. Then Genericus offered his cheek for a greeting kiss. There was something weird happening right now, though. The air was playing havoc with his tingly skin, and there was a... Wait a minute.
Genericus took a look a down and realized he was naked as a babe. Ah, well.
Unabashedly he smiled at the Khajiit and led him further in the room.
"Come in, come in. You can lay down your burdens on my bed," Genericus gestured at the king-size bed where Khan could temporarily relieve himself of his heavy luggage. "What brings you down to Anvil, anyway? Sellsword work? Probably here for the Expedition, aren't you?"
He gave the cat a luscious wink before turning away to get them both refreshments.
-----
FUDOM
He had seen the Altmer in action through a veil of trees and found himself impressed. At first he thought the elf was teleporting himself, in an impressive conjunction with the summoning arts, but further analysis brought forth the fact that the elf was in fact, just turning himself invisible. Turning himself invisible and repositioning as his conjured servant took center attention. He could be a lethal enemy, as those criminals found out. Fudom considered it. Traveling alone had its merits but it also had its disadvantages. Camping required a totally safe place for one to sleep without waking up dead and in the case an encounter should occur, facing threats alone was still something Fudom shied away from.
But on the other hand, traveling in pairs had its catches too, particularly with the kind of situation Fudom had on his hands. Who's to say that this Elf couldn't be an agent of the Empire; truly, with the advent of the Crisis, more and more of the Dragon's operatives scoured the land for threats. Or loose-ends. Who's to say this Elf couldn't be a raging maniac who would kill his companions and rob their corpses?
At the last part Fudom wasn't particularly troubled. But still...
Damn it, he thought with a finality. I'm tired of the silence anyway.
"Hail, traveler on the road," he called out to the Elf, coming out of his spot, "I come in peace and in friendship. Might I trouble you to share this path as a pair? Two is better than one, and a band of outlaws might think twice on waylaying us if we join our powers together."
"You made it!"
Lielle's exclamation of pleasure was accompanied by a squeeze on Jolus' bicep, and he grinned.
"Course I did," he replied. "You couldn't keep me away from something like this with wild guars."
He would admit, it was nice to see Lielle again, putting aside the fact that they were on the eve of a large-scale adventure where every able mage would be needed. Of all the mages in the Guild, she was one of the few he actually got on with; the rest, he found, were insufferable bores.
"It's nice to see you again," Brielle added. "Lielle was adamant about contacting a friend. She says you'll be of great help."
"Yeah," Jolus said. The smile he gave her was a bit less comfortable, less genuine. "She's got that right."
Unlike Lielle, he didn't like Brielle. He didn't dislike her, but something about Brielle put him on edge. There was a peculiar coldness about her; he'd never been able to pin down what it was, but she gave off an air that suggested that everyone she met was tolerated only for their usefulness and not an inch beyond that. Maybe Jolus and her just didn't have as much common ground, that was all.
"Still, I'm honestly a little surprised," Jolus said. "The indomitable Breton twins asking for help like this; you honestly that worried about what we might run into down there?"
Khan obliged Genericus' cheek presentation, and gave rolled his eyes at the Nord's naked state. What is this, the third time this has happened? He gingerly set his armor down on the floor next to the bed, and took a seat in a nearby chair and stretched his road-weary limbs.
"It'd probably break the bedframe, with all the people who've been here recently. Since you ask, yes, I, like many others, am hoping to make a small fortune in the Expedition, as I imagine you are. Got anything Colovian in there?"
Lielle straightened up at Jolus' inquiry, a half smile on her face. She looked him straight in the eye as she spoke, placing both palms at the edge of the table, her hands rigid with excitement as she leaned forward slightly.
"Brielle had a theory," she said, her tone lower. "That ghost? Soule Musique?"
"For gods' sake, Lielle," Brielle sighed. "It's not a secret, you said so yourself."
"Some of these mages look...questionable," Lielle countered. "Besides, he's my friend, and we need to be honest about the potential dangers."
"He can read, I assume. He knows about the dangers under the fort."
This caused Lielle to roll her eyes before looking back at Jolus. "Brielle had this theory," she said in a tone that could be heard over the raucous volume of the other excited mages, "The three of us can conjure very well, and Brielle has a certain...skill." This time she did lower her voice and leaned in. Brielle leaned back in her chair, a patient look on her face as Lielle continued.
"If you summon Soule Musique, and I summon a skeleton, or even a zombie, Brielle could fuse them together, allowing him to have a body for a short time, probably an hour." She looked around, and Brielle gave her a minute nod to continue, letting her know they weren't being eavesdropped on.
"That would allow your ghost to not only have a body, but he could even go father than he does. He wouldn't be sentient, and I know what this sounds like," she continued.
"It sounds like necromancy," Brielle stated plainly. "And technically it isn't. No soul gems are used, and we aren't creating anything like a lich or raising the dead. You'll be in complete control of Soule Musique, still, and having a summon that will you can essentially see through will help with scouting ahead." Brielle crossed her legs. "Plus it will have the added advantage of feeling no pain. It will be in a dead body, which has no active nerves."
"We aren't sure about how far he can go, though," Lielle jumped in. "We can test it later, possibly before the expedition officially starts, or when we set camp. Testing it on the field is a bad idea."
Sinyon turned as the voice rang out, one hand flashing to Cutter's haft as he moved the other to shield it with his body, ready to cast. A Redguard stepped from the treeline, a mountain of a man clad in heavy plates of burnished metal. Even over so short a distance, Sinyon could see the ease with which he moved in the armour, and the air of competence in his gait.
“You'll forgive me, I hope, for making sure that you have no friends nearby? I try to keep to a limit of one ambush per day, at the most.” As Sinyon spoke motes of pink light spiralled up his arm, sinking into his eyes, setting them glowing for a moment. But his spell revealed no one nearby save the Redguard, so he continued.
“Even after my impromptu performance, one cannot be too careful in this part of Cyrodiil.” Sinyon made a slight show of casting an eye over the Redguard, as if only now focusing on him. “But you have the bearing of a seasoned warrior, Redguard, unlike the rabble that prey on travellers hereabouts, and I doubt they're much more of a threat to you than to me. But dark times bring greater perils and deeper shadows, and never does a road seem longer than when you walk it alone. But you can hardly expect me to agree when you have not even introduced yourself. What is your name Redguard, and where are you headed?”
GENERICUS
-----
The Nord came back, thankfully covering himself with a small purple towel, and set down a plate of two glasses and a fine bottle of Colovia's Saint Elmo 3E397 on his plush bed. With the delicate grace of a courtesan he poured one for himself and one for Khan. He handed the Khajiit's glass first before partaking on the alcohol's strong and smoky delight. He found his shaky reaching for another helping, before realizing getting drunk this time at the day would probably more trouble than it would be worth.
He sat down on the bed, crossed his legs and yawned.
"You imagine rightly, Khan my dear. Tamriel's moaning at it like it's one of the most exciting things to happen since Akatosh came down from heaven and smote Dagon; I wouldn't be myself if I didn't partake in the enjoyment and gold this Expedition would bring."
He began examining his nails as he blew several strands of stray hair from his eyes.
"That's not the only reason I joined. My church is setting up several missions and relief centers along Valenwood's border to care for any casualties in that civil war of the Bosmer. With the Legions spread thin, we're going to need sellswords and mercenaries for security."
He laid down on his bed, a weary sigh from his lips and a tired expression on his face.
"This Expedition is gurgling with hired blades, but I'm worried that I won't recruit enough after this is done. After all, there's fortune to be made in this venture. Mercs that made fortune would probably want to spend it rather than take on a rote contract on protecting healing centers."
He looked at Khan.
"Pay's not bad; the shift's from eight a.m to ten p.m and you get fifty septim's an hour. You'll get a roof over your head and three meals a day. Interested?"
-----------
FUDOM
He spread out his hands, keeping them visible and a little bit away from his weapons. He continued walking until he was at a respectable distance from the elf. He smiled under his chain mail mask.
"I am Carnistir the Aprilstar of Old Nabdun'Eeth," Fudom said, his voice ringing with calm confidence, "and I am headed to Anvil. There is talk of a great gathering of warriors there, on a task to bring light to some foul darkness."
Fudom didn't dare trust this mer to give him his full and real name. The risks were simply too great. So he opted to grant him the name of an identity he used back in Morrowind, when he was still a loyal scion of the Blades.
"I have given you mine, serrah, and by right of fairness I ask that you tell me yours. Who are you, and where are you destined for?"
Jolus thought for a while, considering what the two bretons were saying.
"That...that might be possible," Jolus said. "Soule Musique wouldn't be able to do it's planar pulling with that in, not without bringing the skeleton through, but it should work as a scout. I'd be willing to try it certainly. Honestly, I'm surprised I never thought of anything like this, it's a smart idea."
Brielle had a self satisfied look on her face, but was interrupted by Lielle when she opened her mouth.
"Great! Once we get used to it, we could even try it with daedra! Oh, question. Have you eaten yet? There wasn't much to eat here. In still hungry."
Khan leaned back onto the piles of throw pillows and thoughtfully sipped the dark amber liqour.
"Not bad stuff, for the vintage. 397 was a famine year, if I'm not mistaken. As for the job, if I make it out alive, it doesn't sound like a bad gig. Speaking of which, what the hell d'you thinks down there? Nothing good or easy to kill, I expect."
Something about this Carnistir bothered Sinyon. He moved like a warrior born, spoke well and with confidence, and yet wasn't traveling by road? Sinyon had seen plenty of liars, plenty of people with something to hide, and he included himself in those lists, and something about this Redguard rubbed him the wrong way.
But, unusually for Sinyon, at present he had nothing to hide. Later, yes, but for now...
"Well met, Carnistir. My name is Sinyon, and I too am bound for Anvil. It is not just warriors gathering in Anvil for the Expedition, the Mages Guild has taken an interest as well. No doubt there'll be thieves and treasure hunters too, and at least one bard looking for a good tale to tell. There always seems to be one around.
At any rate, those others will likely be back later to loot these three. I think one of them actually had a half decent bow. No sense waiting around, we might miss all the action in Anvil."
GM POST
Ebel ran through the dusty Colovian plains, tears on his eyes and vengeance in his heart. Gormac was wheezing just right by him, his pathetic breathing punctuated by his unmanly little sobs every once in a while as they fled from that terrible slaughter. Ebel himself felt the scream struggling to push past his tightened throat, to mourn the passing of their little sister, but he knew that to let his composure down would only make things worse. Tacita wouldn't come back with her severed head, and if tears stained his face, it would show weakness to the other marauders back at their camp. Loved though she may be by her elder brother, Ebel, for all his dark grief didn't want to follow her yet just because he showed softness. They passed by crags and outcroppings of ancient brown rocks and there came into their view a gathering of wooden huts and tents cleverly hidden in a dip between two hills; only those who know the way can find this secret settlement of scum and villainy. Ebel stopped for a breather; Gormac opted to fall face first. It had been many leagues and the unpaved paths were unkind to their feet. Ebel threw down his bow to the ground and looked harshly at his little brother. He was still audibly crying, tears mingling with the dirt of the Imperial Reserve.
"Stop it," Ebel said. "We're home now, and we can't show weakness to the others."
"Bastard took her head clean off," Gormac wailed. "Tacita's dead. Tacita's dead, bastard took her head.. Her head... Tacitaaaaaaa!"
He's in shock, Ebel numbly realized. Without further ado he grabbed a rock and bashed Gormac's head in until he was unconscious. Better to have him down than let him get in my way...
The settlement, as per the custom of the criminal outlaw, was disorganized and in shambles. No manner of order or decency was found in this place, and all sorts of perversion and violence were common reoccurences that the inhabitants (that numbered near seventy) simply had no shame, guilt or morals anymore. Ebel breezed through, ignoring the stares he was given, and went straight to the chief's tent. The stench inside was foul, and he found the gigantic Orc feasting on the remains of someone he didn't knew. "You're back early," Balabog Palefang said, gristle and blood staining his mouth and tusks. The Orc narrowed his glowing nlue eyes as he inspected Ebel. "There is death in your eyes and on your hands, boy. I have sent five and only one returns. What happened?"
Blood on my hands? Without emotion Ebel looked at his hands (they were shaking!? why are they shaking?!) and saw that brain matter and skull fragments prospered on them like little red jewels. He looked Balabog straight in the eye and found his voice, which was strangely bland.
"All dead. Boss. No loot, too. An elf killed them. Gold road."
The immediate reaction was swift and destructive. Tacita had been a favorite of the chief and she was rumoured to be expecting a pair of his twins, an apparent miracle since Balabog had been desiring sons for a while. Part of the reason why he had liked her was her fiery streak and thirst for violence; now, it seemed, those two traits that had raised her in his eyes became the very reason for her own downfall. Balabog grabbed his horn and blew out three furious notes. When the Orc exited his tent, thirteen of his very best killers were already waiting for him. One had his gear in his hands. An orcish scimitar and a staff looted from a Legion battlemage. Balabog grabbed it with fury and looked at them with hungry malignance, his eyes now burning with shamanistic fire.
"Get the wolf pack. We're going to brutalize an elf, and I will have his corpse be made sport by my hounds."
Balabog turned around and looked back at his tent. At the ground lay Ebel, beaten to death, his only fault being the bearer of extremely bad news. Balabog snorted indifferently.
When all was said and done, when the war party had been fully assembled, fourteen of the most strongest bandits of the Imperial Reserve marched out for murder and vengeance. Ahead of them, five wolves the size of boars sniffed the ground with eager bloodthirst, impatient for their next meal.
----------------
GENERICUS
The Nord smiled in triumph and raised his glass towards the Khajiit. One down, a dozen more to go. Genericus sat back up and considered Khan's words. The Expedition certainly wasn't that forthcoming in regards to the threat they were going to have to face, what with all the advertisements and recruitment posters sugared up with the promise of gold, fame and excitement. Bereft of information, Genericus could only shrug.
"They didn't say anything about that on the posters. But with the numbers of participants they're willing to take in, I'm pretty sure a goblin tribe or three won't be our only pro-'
He sneezed. Loudly. Genericus rubbed his nose and smiled sheepishly. He stood up and quickly dressed himself in a purple robe. He spoke to Khan as he began searching for his footwear.
"Damn cold. I'm going to buy a cure potion from the Mages Guild to get rid of this damn thing, but if you have one right now, I'll treat you to a lunch now or later for it. I'll have you know that they serve the most tasty crab rangoon at the Flowing Bowl; very cheap, too. I don't recommend the water, though. It's sugared sea-water. In fact, I don't recommend anything else aside from those crab rangoon."
He grunted in dismay when he couldn't find his shoes.
*************
FUDOM
The Redguard thumped himself in the chest in a warrior's salute to the elf. His Blades training in the Subtle Arts told him, quite clearly, that the elf still harbored a touch of distrust even after he introduced himself and his destination. Fudom couldn't fault him for it. The Gold Road between Skingrad and Kvatch had been too much for the Legion, even before the Oblivion Crisis, and the bandits plaguing it had been bold enough to sometimes camp within sight of the road. With such a vein of commerce held up by brazen denizens of the criminal world, those with sense opted to avoid it all together and travel through different paths that were safe and reassuring. For all this Sinyon knew, Fudom could be a road agent in disguise so, again, he understood where this distrust came from. In fact, they were the only ones in the Gold Road at this very moment.
"The Mages Guild as well? This ... Expedition, as you call it, is proving to be more bigger than I realized. Pray tell, brother Sinyon, who else is coming along for this sojourn? I must admit that I only heard of this through word of mouth and I am not that wholly versed in information. Let us converse as we walk."
"Daedra?" Jolus said. "That sounds...dangerous. And difficult. And interesting and definitely something I'd want to try. As for food-" he tapped his backpack at his feet. "I've only just arrived in town. I could definitely do with something to eat. You two have been at Anvil for a while, know anywhere good?"
"I haven't got one on me, but I'll buy you one from the guild."
He sat up in the chair and stretched his weary limbs.
"Crab Rangoon, eh? Y'know, I hear that it's a Blacklight interpretation of Akaviri cooking, but, hey, you've better taste then I."
He paused, looking at the bag of armor, wondering whether it'd be safe to leave in the crowded inn of adventurers.
"Shall we go now? Might as well, eh?"
"By all means. Perhaps, if we make good time, we might reach Kvatch before nightfall."
Sinyon had to admit, he was surprised by Carnistir's apparent lack of knowledge regarding the Expedition, and that fed his suspicion. Certainly any tavern in Cyrodiil was full of rumours about it, and surely they had spread beyond the borders?
"As for the Expedition; officially only the Fighters and Mages Guilds have been contacted for assistance. But the man behind the Expedition, Oedipus Nebraska, who discovered the tunnels beneath Fort Sutch, placed an advertisement in the Black Horse Courier. So freelancers and mercenaries are going to be wanting to get involved as well.
And of course, rumours of such things spread like wildfire, and with each mile they travel they grow more elaborate. The streets of Anvil will likely be flooded with people wanting to join the Expedition for their own reasons, both fair and foul, as well as thieves, harlots, and who knows what else looking to make money off of them.
As for what's in those tunnels, no one's really sure. There are creatures down there, though exactly what they are is none too clear. Smarter than Goblins, but then that's not saying much."
LIELLE AND BRIELLE
Brielle felt a minor surge of irritation at her sister's sudden outburst and simply rolled her eyes at her gushing twin. But in this she was right; the Mages Guild had to ration some of their victuals in preparation for the supplies they would use once they went under Sutch. Carahil, the Guild Magister of Anvil, had to use her considerable Calm spells to placate some of the more rotund wizards with their unsatisfied appetites.
"Well if you don't mind a little insanity in your palate, there's the Mad Athram Mealhouse down by the Chapel. They serve the most delectable stew in Anvil. Assuming, of course, the chef won't enchant the soup with explosive magicks."
Lielle crinkled her nose at her twin's suggestion.
"A little too early for such a delight, don't you think? I say Jolus here will right at home at Uleni's Ashlander Cuisine; you know, the one we went to after we won that ridiculous Telekinesis contest?" Lielle turned to Jolus with an eager smile. "I hear Uleni's serving his special dish in honor of the Expedition: Cliff Racer Meat smoked in Black Marsh Banana leaves."
It was Brielle's turn to scoff.
"That's an expensive place, Lielle. Let's not waste anything on extravagancy. I think we should go to the Flowing Bowl by the docks. It's cheap, it's filling and the atmosphere is friendly for those who would want secrecy in their talks."
She stood up with an air of finality and looked both at them askance.
"Shall we go?"
----------------
GENERICUS
Genericus finally found his shoes under the bed and smirked in triumph. He began slipping on them with speed as he turned to look at Khan. The same smirk was still on his face.
"Such a darling cat! You'd buy one for meeee? Remind me to toss you a ball of yarn later on, yes?"
With that he stood up and regarded Khan's misgiving look towards his gear. Genericus scoffed and held up a key under the Khajiit's nose to reassure him that his equipment would be safe. "Your gear would be safer than a virgin's belt, cat."
He hooked his hands around the masculine feline's and smiled up at him. "Lead the way, my prince."
FUDOM
So the rumours were right. Both the Mages Guild AND the Fighters Guild were on board with this business. It was hard to differentiate exaggerated small-talk from the facts, and Sinyon confirmed some weight to some similar stories Fudom had gathered from his travels all around Cyrodiil. If such a business would draw two powerful organizations so easily then surely even the Empire had taken notice? Would there be Blades among the rabble of the Expedition? Fudom was glad for the anonymity his armor provided; if nothing else, the chasers would have a hard time identifying him with the wild and painted barbarian he had played during his time in Morrowind.
"There are shadows under the earth which should not be disturbed," Fudom remarked. "Only a sunless death awaits those who would dare stir that which sleeps. But if the Mage and the Fighter would go hand in hand with the Adventurer, then I suppose this would have a chance of lighting that darkness."
For some reason, Fudom felt hostile eyes surrounding them. The road was curiously bare, and the wind was silent. No sounds of nature indicated that the earth was alive. He made an effort to casually survey his surroundings but his veteran sight came out empty-handed. There was nothing hostile that was visible.
It may be that the shock of being ambushed by the Dunmer in Cyrodiil had frazzled his nerves. Still, Fudom kept his hands close to his weapons and maintained a wary feel on his surroundings. Perhaps his companion could feel the hostility too?
"Flowing Bowl sounds good to me," Jolus said. "To be honest I'm famished quality food will be wasted on me right now. I say we save the Athram's and Uleni's places for our victorious return when we've got plenty of gold to spend."
Sinyon couldn't keep himself from laughing. "This talk of lighting the darkness sits ill with me Carnistir. Those that seek to bear light into dark places make fine targets of themselves in the process. Speakin as someone who has delivered his fair share of sunless deaths, I can tell you it is not something that most survive."
He then noticed Carnistir's wary posture. "This area is thick with bandits Carnistir. Stay tense like that and you'll just wind yourself up too much to fight. Should we be attacked I doubt they could pose a genuine threat to us. You saw how their last effort ended."
THE TWINS
They would've reached the Flowing Bowl in record time were it not for the traffic that clogged up the Guildhall. The chaos that gripped the marble halls were orderly in a way; there were a handful of Arcane University Battlemages conversing with a group of spellswords about the finer points of their combat magic; in the corner near the doorway was a regal Dunmer having an animated discussion with three people holding potions; a legion of apprentices were coming in and out bearing burdens of their menial tasks.
Then there were the mercenaries and the freelancers. It was safe to say that their numbers were positively infinite and Carahil, along with two other high-ranking magicians, were having trouble keeping them in line for their assorted businesses. A majority of them were here for potions, but some had more elaborate requests like enchantment, spell-learning and scroll shopping. With these throngs of humanity blocking their way, the twins and the Dunmer faced a challenge.
Trying to keep hands off of places she wouldn't want, Brielle turned and looked at her sister and Jolus.
"Let's try the backdoor," she yelled over the din of the crowd, but wasn't sure if they heard her.
----
GENERICUS
--
Khan was relatively silent as they made their way to the Mages Guild so it was Genericus who provided most of the silly banter. People looked strangely at the sight of them, a lanky Nord clinging to a muscled Khajiit, but Genericus paid them no mind as he would to the cobblestones beneath his feet. When they finally managed to make their way around the massive crowds of people and arrived at the Mages Guild, Genericus found his hopes for a cure to be dashed against the rocks. There was no way he would get one with a line like that. He looked at the silent Khan.
"Let's have that lunch first then. Pretty sure the line would ease up after a few hours."
FUDOM
----
"Being cautious always helps," Fudom replied. "To have bandits attack one such as you in the middle of the road - in broad daylight, no less - implies that such outlaws have grown particularly strong in this area. And criminals, as we all know, flock to each other like cockroaches. I really don't think that those five would be the last we shall see of these lowlives."
Somewhere, far in the distance, there was the howling of wolves that whispering along the shrieking wind. It was noon now, and the dusk as yet far off, but Fudom can't help the strange feeling that night was about to fall on the two of them...
Jolus surveyed the melee that had formed in Mages' Guild as crowds of mercenaries and spellswords jostled around, craning his neck while the twins tried to find a way through.
"Let's try the backdoor," Brielle suggested, shouting to be heard over the noise of the crowd.
"No need," Jolus said. "For I-" He adjusted his cap, sweeping it forwards so that its brim, somewhat askew, now rested above his eyes. "-have a plan. Soule Musique!"
The spirit materialised in a burst of energy, its legs disappeared as its midriff hovered a foot above Jolus' shoulders. This being the Mages' Guild, Jolus' little stunt got him less attention than it normally would, but he took it in his stride.
He pointed, his finger sweeping out towards the front door.
"Clear us a path!" he ordered.
Soule Musique did just that. Jolus' method was both subtle and intrusive, deftly handled and utterly tactless at the same time. The spirit he commanded turned intangible, stepped ahead of them and began to walk through people.
In moments, a path began to form before the three mages as people recoiled from the most intensive invasion of their personal space they had ever experienced. There were curses and cries of dismay as Soule Musique passed through bodies or seemed to inexplicably step through people, and Jolus saw one hefty nord, armoured in plate and furs and wielding a battleaxe the size of a child, break down in tears as the spirits hand and wrist passed right through the centre of his face. That was enough to get the rest of the crowd anticipating the spirit's intention and splitting an obliging course right to the door of the Guild, which Soule Musique pushed open and held for them.
"Here we are," Jolus said. "Into Anvil itself. Ladies first."
Khan was grateful for the cool (albeit damp and slightly vomit-scented) atmosphere within the damp flagstones of the Flowing Bowl.
"Can I ask you something, Genericus? Why in Oblivion is everything in this city built out of stone? I mean, can you imagine the cost to transport all of this? And don't even get me started on the whole tiled roofs thing."
He searched the room for a bartender or...what was the Breton word? Maker Bee? Sure, why not.
"Hey, you, there, two!"
An obviously exhasperated Bosmer turned from wiping tables.
"We've only got tables of four or more."
"Ah, doesn't matter so long as you've got them."
Khan pulled out a well-worn wooden chair for his dining companion.
"You know what's good, right? Order for me, I'll grab some drinks.
He walked off toward the bar, shoving his way through the noonday throng.
"One such as me? What did they know of me, Carnistir, when they attacked? A well dressed individual, alone on the road? Surely a tempting target for them, with so many of late traveling to Anvil in larger groups for the Expedition. Perhaps too good to pass up? Desperation seems more likely the cause of their boldness. Five of them were not enough to trouble me, even though they had the advantage. If that is a measure of their strength, then I doubt we have anything to worry about.
Even if they should be bold enough to attack, how many would they need to threaten us?"
There was one person among the gathering of humanity that took a special interest at the show of power Jolus displayed. The sprite he summoned was beyond anything they have ever seen, and the magical properties it showed told them that this was magic of a different sort from the School of Conjuration. It could pass through flesh and bone, but could be solid and interact with objects at will (the fact that the green sprite held open the door almost shocked them into silence; no mere spirit could be powerful enough to be tangible like that). The appearance was strange too, and the inherent scent of Oblivion one could always smell when encountering the Conjured was... mixed on this one. Its scent was of ozone and sulfur, but it had an aftertaste of ash as well. Sinister calculations and serpentine thoughts flashed behind their eyes, and there was a slight quirking of their lips when they regarded the Dunmer's companions. It was interesting, to say the least, that such a pair's inherent darkness wasn't sensed by the Guildmages at all. Either Carahil's get were lowly incompetents or the two redheads were powerful in disabling suspicions of them. No matter. They have finally found a worthy wizard of Their Lady's attention and the power this elf wielded could prove useful in their quest. Worm-warlocks or not, the redheads would have to do as well. The person looked at Jolus once more.. And giggled. Your fate is sealed, the person thought, as they quickly vanished among the sea of apprehensive people. My society would have fun using you.
Lielle and Brielle for their part, didn't see or sense the sinister stranger as the two sauntered off to the sights of sea-sang Anvil. Lielle bit her lip in embarassment as she walked, even ssparing an emphatic glance at the bawling Nord while Brielle walked imperiously, posture-straight, her face neuitrally blank. Stares followed their backs. When the noonday sun greeted them with a slight harshness of its rays, Brielle took the lead to the Docks while Lielle conversed with Jolus.
"My.. hypotheses regarding Soule Musique has urged me to look to... other spirits as well. Namely, conjured animals. If, in theory, our ideas regarding the fusion of Soule Musique and a synthetic body would work seamlessly, then it stands to reason that it could also work on beasts as well. Its just an idle thought of course but... Can you imagine the ascendant abilities of a horse if it has the mind and will of your spirit? You would not need horse-training nor a saddle to ride him. What about wolves? Bears? Birds, for instance, could give you a more clear view of your surroundings! The possibilites are positively endless!"
When the trio finally circumnavigated through the sea of armored adventurers and hassled citizenry and arrived at the Flowing Bowl, the twins, to their dismay, found that the building was packed to the brim. The air inside was cool thanks to the seasize breeze and the fact that the door and windows was kept open. Nonetheless the scent inside was more than a little offputting. But this place was cheap, so what can one do? The two Bretons scanned their surroundings and found that all the tables were occupied by a party of six or more. There was no middle-ground here. With so many people to serve and not enough places to accomodate them, the Flowing Bowl enacted a policy that tables ... must be shared. Strangers or no. This put quite a damper on the trio's plan on conversing about their new little project. No matter. They would just have to continue their talks elsewhere after they have had their meal. Lielle spotted a pair of men conversing at a table that was too large for them. Since no one else joined them yet, the twins reasoned that they were simply two people on a table that just happened to be for six. The more muscular of the duo, a Khajiit, pulled a chair for his companion before bumping his way towards the counter. The twins looked at each other. Brielle nodded. They approached.
"Excuse me but could we trouble you on sharing this table? All the others have been taken." Brielle smiled a beautific smile at the Nord, eyes flashing.
------
GENERICUS
-----
The Nord considered his companion's sudden curiosity. Truth be told, he wasn't the best person to ask about the intricacies of architecture and ecomony related to it, but he guessed the cat was just trying to fill empty space with friendly banter.
'It probably has to do with all the sea-spray and coastal storms a port-city like Anvil would have," Genericus reasoned, his voice a little bit bored. "Wood would rot quickly under those circumstances; better to have rock-hard stone to resist that kind of thing." There was an innuendo in there somewhere, the sultry part of Genericus' mind thought. He sat on the chair Khan chivalrously pulled for him and considered the Flowing Bowl's menu (along with searching for the missing innuendo) when their table was approached by a pair of twins and a dunmer. He gave them the critical once-over. Both of the women were beautiful in the way of those with Western blood and Genericus would go on a limb to say that these two were Bretons. Their features were angular and sharp, just like the dark elf by them. The robes they wore were of contrasting colors and generally complimented them well. They both had a glass dagger at their hips. The elf on the other hand was dressed like a scoundrel. The confident swagger, the air of superiority... Yes. A scoundrel indeed. He had a nice hat though, and it went well with his tunic and his golden necklace. The fashion-aware side of Genericus approved.
When he finally finished his nano-second examination of them, Genericus smiled back at one of the twins. He was pretty sure this one tried to come on to him, using her charm to secure a seat. It was a technique he knew well since he used it himself.
What the hell, Genericus decided. The more the merrier, anyway.
"Me and my partner would be honored," he declared in his most femine voice. He gestured to the empty seats. "Please, have a seat. I was just about to order a plate of Mudcrab rangoon; you are welcome to eat with us. I'm Genericus, by the way."
He looked at them.
"And you are...?"
"Brielle," the one in blue said, seating herself with grace.
"And Lielle," the other finished with a smile, this one more warm and genuine than her counterpart's. "Thank you for having us, by the way. Some of the people here don't look too friendly to share tables with civility.' Genericus laughed and nodded, then looked expectantly at the Dunmer.
---------------
FUDOM
---------
Fudom didn't reply at all at Sinyon's lengthy reply. The sense of approaching danger positively made his hands itch, and when the first volley of missile thudded all around them, he almost sighed in relief at the prospect of finally shedding blood. He immediately took to one knee to make himself a smaller target, drew his scimitar and shield, and took in their surroundings, trying to find their ambushers. He narrowed his eyes. They were surrounded on both sides of the empty road. There were four on their right side, a motley band of lean thugs that wore facemasks to conceal their identities. On their left were three beefy men that wore iron as well as leather, and they had ferocious iron masks that were human expressions of pain or anger. All of them had a mish-mash of crossbows, bows and javelins, as well as personal weapons ranging from shortswords to great mauls, and upon their shoulder blades were grey armbands that had the symbol of a black eye and gaping maw.
The fact that the assault had been done in such a sudden fashion -without the two of them noticing no less!- led Fudom to believe in two things, both of them not good. One; they were skilled enough on naturally camouflaging themselves to fool a pair of experienced warriors such as Fudom and Sinyon. Two; they used Illusion magic to blend in on their surroundings. He was more inclined to believe the former, but could not rule out the possibilty of the latter. Road agents these days were getting crafty in their arts.
That was all he could think of in his nano-second examination when the second volley hit them, this time much more accurate. The majoity seemed to focus more on neutralizing the Altmer, as along with arrows Fudom felt the malignant missiles of Silence loosed at the elf. but that was no consolation given the fact that he himself now had several bolts stuck on his mail and shield. It did not penetrate lethally, but it hindered him all the same. Fudom growled.
The distance he had to close just to get to either side was not inconsiderable, and to charge one side would leave his back open for the other to shoot at.
But to stay in one position would be foolish as well. While the bandits were at the midst of reloading and re-arming themselves, Fudom charged at the beefy group of outlaws, his massive steps allowing him to get in tackling distance before suddenly rolling to their left. When he got back up, shield raised, the whispers of arrows passing his head by told him that some of the brutes missed. Some. A crossbow bolt smashed against his helmet and while the steel of his equipment held, the blunt force almost blinded him in pain. He fought through the white haze and when his vision cleared he saw that all three of them were now upon him, sword and axe and mace in hammy hands. With the eagerness of a tiger Fudom engaged them, but took care to drag the duel away from the road, forcing his opponents to leave their backs pointed at the ambush site. At least with this arrangement of positions, Fudom would be protected from further volleys from the other group.
The opponents he faced were cut from a different cloth than the usual ruffians Fudom faced. They were no fools in close-quarter melee, and knew enough of team tactics to keep Fudom on the defensive. The one with the mace was particularly skilled. He was savvy with his strikes, going low to allow others to strike at the opening he caused, then sweeping back up in cadence with the wide swings of the axeman. The axeman himself had a few tricks up his sleeve; namely, magic. He had coated his left fist in a combination of ice and lightning, and he pistoned a crackling punch everytime his weapon crashed against Fudom's steel. The wretch with sword, in contrast to his fellows, was more calculating and baleful in his attacks. Like a serpent he lashed out at Fudom with alacrity, then mixed it up with feints and lunges. All in all, they made a troublesome trio for the massive Redguard, but his experience and training evened things out, and the four found themselves matched. The bandits with their numbers and gimmicks, Fudom with his quality training and bestial prowess.
Khan returned, bottle of rum in hand. He stopped in surprise, nearly spilling the liquor, when he saw the other people seated at what he had formerly understood was to be a two-person table. He cautiously sat down next to Genericus.
"So, who're these fine folks? I do hope they're paying for themselves, eh?"
A grin split his feline face.
"I'm Khan, nice to meet you. I'll have you know my friend here doesn't choose dining companions lightly, so you must be an okay sort. Rum, anyone?"
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