Fantasy Tamriel: The Great War

[JR McCormick]

RULES


2 - 3 Paragraphs Minimum.


It is important that we know not only what your character is seeing and doing, but how they're feeling. Be creative.


Sceneries will be set by the DM as locations change. The DM will also be responsible for listed appropriate NPC dialogue in those areas.


If your character is interacting with an NPC of your own creating, then by all means use your own initiative and voice them yourselves.


Random encounters, and enemies will be introduced by the DM. It will then be up to the group to deal with them in whatever manner they see fit. Be it spying, talking, attacking, pickpocketing, threatening, spellbinding, etc.


Keep in mind that your skills and personality will be taken into account in combat and conversation, respectively.


That is to say... attempts must be made, and decided upon by the DM. Thus, keeping everyone on their toes.


Incorrect


**He swings his mighty great sword and removes the hags head from her shoulders.**


Correct


**He swings his mighty great sword in an attempt to remove the hags head from her shoulders.**


The chance to level up your characters will be granted at the end of each chapter by the DM.


Please ENJOY yourselves and be respectful to other players in their attempts to flesh out character background and story.


Help each other, and speak to each other.


Whether your character likes it or not... this is a group effort.

 

[Dungeon Master]

CHAPTER ONE


Falkreath


Dead Man's Drink


8.15pm

It is late evening in the bordering hold of Falkreath, and the sun has long since to set.

Cold moonlight casts across the snowy peaks of the neighbouring Jerall Mountains to the West, and merriment ensues in the Dead Man's Drink.

A weathered female tends the bar, as a group of bards regale the customers with song.​

 

[Brinie]

Drawald Wynfled


Falkreath. The man spat on the ground as he entered the cities gates. Two men trailed behind him, wearing the standard stormcloak armor. He adorned a set of steel armor made in the stormcloak colors that he crafted himself. He had nothing to fear from this weak, pathetic, spineless jarl, who stole his uncle's power. He wanted mead, and if he had to walk through this shithole to reach it, then so be it. The encampment runs out of the stuff fast on days like this. Hell, he drunk half of their supply himself, as was evident by his movement. The big man swayed back and forth, never walking in a linear line. Regardless, he walked fearlessly through Falkreath, with his companions close behind him.


He did not mind carving apart anyone who spoke ill of the stormcloak movement, or Ulfric Stormcloak. Although, he doubted anyone would. He stomped over to Dead Man's drink, ignoring those who laid their eyes on him. No one had enough testosterone to confront him and his drunken friends.


With his right hand, he pulled the door open, the sounds of drunken joy spilled out from the tavern and into his ears. The atmosphere seemed to quiet down when they came barging in. He exchanged glares with the inn's patrons, before their attention shifted to what they were previously doing. Satisfied, he walked over to the bar and leaned against it, the two soldiers claimed a table for themselves.


He gave the barkeep a sly wink, as his eyes traced her up and down. Not much for looks, but she was still a woman, you do not see many that aren't covered in armor head to toe in his field of work. "Mead. I need mead. And a lot of it. The strongest you got." He demanded in a guttural voice, between hiccups. He pulled out a bag of coins and slapped it against the table with a thud. "And when you're done pourin' our glasses, you bring it to that table right there, you hear?" He barked out, nearly falling over to point out the table the two soldiers were sitting at.

 

[JR McCormick]

Fenrir


It was colder these past evenings, and the crisp night air set a chill in his bones. He took a moment to catch his breath, and rubbed a partially gloved hand over the lower portion of his face, allowing the meagre heat from his palm to take effect. The snow that had gathered on his beard began to melt, and he rinsed the liquid with a firm squeeze. Several droplets found their way into his mouth, and the satisfaction of mild. hydration was overwhelmed by the taste of salt. He had been trekking for days, and despite his inherent ability to stand the cold, he felt a sickness in him. The descent was steep, but it was necessary to make. With Falkreath hold only an hours journey, as the crow flies, he was sure he could make it in at least 3.


The rocks provided little traction in the cold, and his fingers were too numb for a sure grip. It was unfortunate, and let to several clumsy slips. Though, it was the last of which that simultaneously helped and hindered his situation. His foot was misplaced, and it lead to a drop which ended with an audible thud.


His lungs tightened, and he slowly let out a wavering breath. The pummel of his sword had angled itself unpleasantly, and bruised his ribs in the landing. He rolled onto his side, like a wounded dog, and pushed on with his leg in an attempt to reach a nearby branch. Upon managing to stand, the pressure in his head cleared... and he heard singing.


"Thank you.." he mumbled, to whatever God was listening. His leg dragged a little through the snow, as he made his way to the opening by a large graveyard. This place smelt of death. The kind of smell that doesn't leave with the wind. Pushing on, he was greeted by the warm light of a somewhat familiar tavern as the door swung open. One of patrons had decided to make his water outside, and was met by a firm clout by one of the hold guards.


Fenrir straightened himself up, and used the opportunity to make his way inside. It was best that his face wasn't noticed, even disguised now by the thick beard.


It was time for a drink.


A long drink.

 

[nevermore0714]

Leo and Dani rode upon their horses, slowly and lazily. "A new region, a new home." Leo announced as he plucked at the strings of his harp.


"Ah, and new customers," Dani added, taking a potion out of her cloak and shaking it, watching the bubbles float to the surface. "To Falkreath, then? I'm sure they have a shortage of talented bards, dear."


"Sounds fitting. Not to forget our real reasons for this." Leo took a rolled up paper out of his horse's saddle. "The bartender in Falkreath's mead hall. Make it look like insanity."


Dani opened her hand and a purple-red light shined above her palm. "A minor frenzy spell could be enough. So long as I get physical contact, it should look like an accident."


"After this, should we go to the college of Winterhold. You haven't been there in years, love. I'm sure we could 'borrow' a book or two." Leo kept lazily plucking the strings of his harp as they entered Falkreath. Leo slid off of his horse and helped his wife down, and then led her by the hand into the mead hall, with his other hand holding his harp.

 

[Naps]

Brahiel Duskgrass





It was times like these that made Brahiel miss Valenwood the most. The cold of Skyrim's nights pierced through his armor with ease. His hunt had gone well, but tracking the elk had brought him farther and farther away from Falkreath. By the time he finished skinning it, he could barely feel any sensation in his hands.


Brahiel draped the pelt over his back and shoved his forearms into the elk's inside. The warmth returned some feeling. He quickly began harvesting what he could before taking the best cuts of venison. Cloaked in elk fur he began journeying back to town. On occasion wolf howls could be heard not far behind. He paid them no mind as he trekked through the snow to the frost covered road.


Time passed slowly as the cold ate away at his body. Whenever it became too much to bare he would crunch on a slaughterfish scale. It was only a temporary aid and did little more than tempt a small fraction of the cold away. Seven scales later he was stopped by a guard near the edge of town. It was too cold out for normal citizens, and being covered in a bloody pelt with his face hidden didn't help the situation.


Brahiel simply offered the guard a small pouch of coins. The guard waited a moment before continuing his patrol. Brahiel collapsed moments later. The guard rushed back over. Helping up the stranger the guard never noticed the pouch return to it's owner. He thanked the guard and walked on towards the inn. As he entered a majority of the patrons stared at him. His only reply was, "I have the venison." The singing resumed followed by a few cheers. Brahiel folded the pelt as he walked over to the counter. He tossed a bag smelling of raw meat to the side along with the pelt. He turned to the bartender saying, "There's the meat you wanted, and I'll toss in the pelt for your stock of slaughterfish scales, deal?"

 

[Anaxial]

An Argonian in Skyrim was a strange sight, the harsh winters and frozen waters drove most of their scaled hides south, to Cyrodil or the ruined Morrowind. Stranger still was to see an Argonian doing well outside of Riften. Though that was part of the disguise, hiding in plain sight and all that.


The Argonian was less than thrilled with the cold. Wrapped tightly in what looked like three layers of animal furs, Bar-Shei had the illusion of a monstrous being! One that was shuffling stiffly through the snow covered streets of Falkreath, it's tail cradled in its mitten covered hands. He even wore a fur cap, his horns poking through the top ever so slightly. Nothing but a small slit for his eyes was exposed.


Normally this alien behavior would alarm the weary guardsmen that inhabited Skyrim, but most knew the Argonian well and his understandably odd way of dressing. Though for the stalwart or bigoted guard, Bar-Shei would expose his face and frustratingly fight the cold to explain his going ons. These experiences were thankfully few and far between and Bar-Shei had come to know the crooked guard better than the righteous one.


However he accomplished it, Bar-Shei's goal was to investigate the rumors of these Stormcloak rebels and report their actions to the Imperials as is norm. Falkreath was far from the Ulfric's home in Winterhold but the Stormcloaks were notorious for having an... unwelcoming attitude towards people of the Mer persuasion.


With the warm orange glow of the Dead Man's Drink just a few yards away, a small gasp of exhilaration escaped his scaled lips and quickened his zombie-esque shuffle. Just behind a young Bosmer hunter, Bar-Shei felt nothing short of envy for the resilience of the other races who inhabited this tundra. Damnable scales!


Upon entry few paid attention to the argonian as he stripped seemingly endless layers of clothes and huddled by the fire, at his most base layer, the argonian wore a stiff red gilded shirt, black trousers and some foot wraps for his long sharp toes. Quite fancy apparel for Falkreath, fancier still for an Argonian. The reptile practically shoved his tail into the fire and held his hands dangerously close to the welcoming aura of the tavern's flame. He looked about the patrons and saw some familiar faces, some strangers, a few soldiers- they caught his eye if only for a second. Their colors... they were Stormcloaks.


"If this cold persists I'll have to chop of my tail, I'll be almost as ugly as Bjorn here!" He exclaimed, smiling brightly and wrapping a scaled arm around the begrudgend Bjorn who fought a losing battle with a smile.

 

[Mousie]

Iriene Stormore


The cold climate of Skyrim was an unwelcoming reminder of the people Iriene previously fought with in a war. But she was already growing used to the whispering winds that could quickly turn at any single moment to a howling storm. That's how the Great War felt to her in essence. Thanks to her being a bastard High Elf, her Altmer features were mostly unrecognizable to the blood thirsty Nord's who inhabited the region. War could make any man or mer thirst for vengeance in one way or another.


Iriene's arrival to Falkreath certainly wasn't her first. Just before the Great War ended, she arrived to Skyrim through the bordering settlement. It had a serene nature that surrounded it, but it also had an unfriendly and gloomy community. Almost completely lost in thought about the settlement, the self-imposed exile continued along the old path towards the inn. Although her gold coins were dwindling, she needed a place to rest for the night.


It had been far too long since Iriene interacted with man or mer. As she made the few steps up towards the Inn, she heard a mix of voices and furniture moving. Something that proved she was far away from her perfectionist Altmer home. With a breath of confidence, Iriene entered the Inn in a composed manner. Eyes quickly trailed from their conversations and drinking to hers. Iriene's blue eyes were very reminiscent of man. Dismissively, everyone quickly returned their gazes back to their original activities. A small sigh escaped Iriene's breath as she remained unrecognized to the patrons. If they knew who she was, she'd be in more danger with them than with the Thalmor agents on her trail.


The bastard Altmer maneuvered her way across the room, overflowing with patrons and spotted an empty seat at the bar counter. Taking a seat in an almost-relaxed position, she awaited the bartender to offer her services.

 

[nevermore0714]

As the Ganders entered the mead hall, they saw an elf (Brahiel) making some trade with the bartender. Leo put on a happy grin and walked over to the two. "Ah, a bartender, just the kind I was looking for! A pleasure to meet you, and your friend here!"


As Leo was distracting them, Dani followed behind him and stood next to the bartender. "It seems this village is full of attractive young people, though, dear." She ran her hand along the bartender's arm, accidentally scraping the bare skin with the nail of her middle finger. "Oh, I'm sorry. I must have sharpened these too much. You forgive me, don't you?" Dani made a pouty face. "I'm soooo sorry."


Leo took a mug of beer off the table and dropped a few coins to replace the drink. "My love, how about we enjoy some music from that bard in the corner?"


Nodding, Dani took her husband by the arm and the two walked to the other side of the building, while they waited for the poison to kick in. The bartender should be on the floor within minutes. Dani and Leo sat down next to the Altmer bastard.


"Hello, pleasure to meet you," Dani said softly.

 

[Dungeon Master]

Falkreath


Dead Man's Drink


8.30pm

The Dead Man's Drink was often bustling, with travellers and locals sharing mead and song. The most raucous of all, were the cold nights. When fog rolled through the valley and made a terrifying notion of setting up camp.


This was such a night.


The tavern had acquired custom from races that span the length of Tamriel. From the local loud and brash natives of Skyrim to the lizard men from the Black Marsh.


The bartender, an Imperial lady by the name of Shay, was busy serving mead to a large Norse man when she was interrupted by the Bosmer hunter delivering venison. While paying the Elf his due, she was surprised by a light nip on her arm, evidently gifted from the dark haired lady slinking off with her husband.


She was busy, and thought nothing of it the small cut. The merriment continued and she went on her way to collect cups and refill tankards. Stopping by a bearded Nord dressed in dark leathers, to ask if he'd like a drink.


The fire crackled happily, and a bard stood up to begin regaling the room with a lusty song about a well known maiden from Riften.

 

[Brinie]

Drawald Wynfled





Drawald gave a hearty laugh at the first sign of mead. He grumbled an incomprehensible thank-you to the barkeep. He walk over to the table that the other two soldiers were seated at in a stupor. The large man fell in to his seat with a bellow, the two soldiers watched the barkeep walk over to deliver their mead with wide eyes, practically salivating. The three cheered, clunking their glasses together, some of the sweet liquid spilled on to the table.


"Ay, let's hope this taste better than the crap back at camp." Drawald spoke, raising his mug in to the air. "Half of the shits water, I can't imagine it won't." The soldier chirped, lifting the mug of mead to his lips to take a sip.


Drawald poured the fluid down his gullet, holding it there for several seconds, before slamming it back against the table. The bearded man, then brought his hand to his face to remove the residue that clung to the hairs on his face. Satisfied, he grabbed another mug of mead and downed it again within seconds as his men cheered him on. Drawald, again slammed the mug against the table, although this time it abruptly shattered in to pieces, nearly cutting his hand open. "Sorry bout' that miss, I don't know my own strength!" He cackled innocently to the barkeep, from the looks of it she was a tad bit preoccupied.


His attention as well as his companions turned to the lizard that was basking in the fire. The trio exchanged glances, Drawald wore a smug smile on his face, eyeing the lizard up and down. He found the argonian's wardrobe particularly interesting. The trio drew closer, to exchange words in secret. After a few seconds of hushed whispers he stood from his seat, and walked towards the fire, as his companions eyed his back curiously. Drawald tucked both of his hands behind his back and stood over the argonian. "Damn imperials, letting vermin like you in their gates... I could smell you across the room. Who'd you nab those clothes from, lizard?" He spoke in a condescending tone.

 

[JR McCormick]

Fenrir


Within a moment of sitting, his cup had been filled. Frothily tipped room temperature mead which seemed almost warm on his icy lips. The liquid swam into his body, and there was an almost instantaneous shift in his inner temperature. It was more pleasing than he could possibly muster the words to describe. It had been a truly cold night.


A moment passed, and he began to take in his surroundings. His back was resting on a pine wall, and he was perched at the end of a bench shared with a pair of Stormcloak soldiers. The new group of Talos radicals lead by Jarl Ulfric. The man who had driven the Forsworn out of Markarth. He eyed them lazily, and thought of all the fighting that had already occurred over the past few years. How flippantly his own people dove head first into the possibilities of more blood shed. That notion might have wavered a different man, but not him. In his own humble opinion, the violent bickering of men served only as a means to prove what they had in their breeches. A competition that in his experience, never ended happily. He smirked a little, and pictured the renowned Jarl of Windhelm scribbling measurements of his manhood. He shouldn't laugh, in truth, but it proved difficult not to.


Raising the cup to his now curved lips, he rested his injured leg on the opposite bench which sat tucked beneath his shared table, that was, until the seat was occupied by a large Nord. He quickly removed his foot before it was crushed, and gave an unnoticed nod to the man. His hair had grown scruffy, and his natural grease served as the only means to push it out of his face. Doubtless he appeared nothing short of how he felt. Rough, and worn thin. Had he been on the receiving side of that gesture, he may have ignored it too.


Fenrir was getting on in his mortal years, and though his mind remained keen it was evident that his skills were fading. It had been some time since they were honed or even tested.


In his youth, armed only with a pair of blades, Fenrir had once possessed the ability the cut down 5 men in as many seconds. That felt like another lifetime now, or maybe something he'd once seen or read in a book. The young man in those memories was armed with more than just blades. He had purpose on his side and true belief in his corner. The thought made him stiffen, and he took a large gulp of mead to wash it away. He was what he was. He was thirsty. Taking another long drink from his cup, he closed his eyes to enjoy it. Upon opening them however, he noticed the large man had left his seat.


Straightening in his chair, Fenrir watched as the Nord began to antagonise the Argonian by the fire.


"...shit."

 

[nevermore0714]

Rising to her feet, Dani approached Drawald, her hand holding a small flame. "Do we have a problem here?" the young woman asked. "Cause I don't take kindly to Stormcloaks; especially not ones as stupid and racist as you seem to be."


Leo, meanwhile, was just watching his wife speak to Drawald, and was cleaning his arrows with a rag. Once she finished talking, he lowered his hand to his sword, gripping the hilt. "Love, no need to antagonize the fool. The Argonian could fight his own battle. I daresay, even a rabbit could defeat this disgusting rebel."


Shrugging, Dani turned and walked over to the Argonian, a flame still burning in her hand. "I do hope we won't have any problems tonight, Stormcloak. Perhaps once your traitor leader is dead, you'll learn to be a bit less of an idiot."

 

[Naps]

Brahiel Duskgrass





Receiving his pay, Brahiel took some note of the ongoing events around him. The couple that had come in seemed like common travelers, but when the woman scratched the bartenders Brahiel became wary. The couple walked off and sat near another newcomer. He felt calm seeing another mer. Still he simply stood idle at the counter until the large nord walked back to his table and sat alongside his companions. Glancing over them he took note that three of the four were Stormcloaks. Judging by his armor the large nord was the leader of the party. As for the other one he seemed to be out of sorts, drunk already. The other patrons were mostly from around these parts, except for the argonian. He hadn't noticed him at first, probably due to all his coverings when he entered.


Brahiel was enjoying a sweet roll. When the large nord approached the argonian. He was rather amused with the nord's bluntness but was even more surprised by the woman from the couple being a mage and actually threatening the Stormcloak. Finishing his sweet roll he ordered another as he sat there enjoying what might happen next. At the moment he was just another patron, and even if things got out of hand there were four unlucky others. Brahiel watched on as he ate and fiddled with a short bow and his armguard. Every few moments his hand would dip near his boot.


Bosmers being master archers was a given, but most took them lightly in close combat. Brahiel rarely used a blade aside from dressing a kill. Instead he made use of a small bow, now securely fitted across the guard on his forearm. He dipped his hand once more to his boot, pulled out an arrow, and in one movement he readied it. The dimly lit interior and bard's song were more than enough to mask his movements. Against forged steel it'd do no good, but at this range an arrow could easily slip through a space between armor. Still he decided to aim at another target, the most foreboding.

 

[Anaxial]

Enjoying a laugh with the fellows around the fire was something that Bar-Shei had come to admire in the Nords. They formed a sense of kinship and belonging in whatever it was that they did, be it fighting, drinking, swearing, or feasting! In Black Marsh, no such kinship exsisted, most Argonians in the An-Xileel were as cold as an Argonians scales mace them look, some could argue they were just as bigoted as the worst of the Stormcloaks. It was an unacceptable way of life to Bar-Shei, his soul that he inherited from the Hist showed that when the Saxhleel were sociable with the other races, they prospered. Ignorance and xenophobia would lead to ruin.


Residing in Skyrim held dangers beyond a rabid wolf or a hungering bear however. Some of the people here would hate Bar-Shei for nothing else but the fact he was infact an Argonian, and most people were far more dangerous than any bear or wolf.


When the large wall of a Nord approached him, a pit was formed in his stomach. He could feel it coming and by the time the Nord had arrived, the smile had faded from his lips. Cold words spilled from the angry Nord's drunken mouth, the man could hardly stand straight but it was a very real possibility that the Nord fought better when drunk off his ass. Not to mention his soldiery fellows didn't seem nearly as inebriated. Bar-Shei took the poisonous words for what they were; words. He'd show this Nord no grief, and would do as any respectable person would do. He'd affirm himself, show that he wouldn't back down to the Nord, but in a way that was respectful and did not antagonize the man. For all Bar-Shei knew, this man could have lost a wife to an Argonian bandit and was merely venting frustration when his judgement was clouded by mead.


Before he retort, a young woman intervened, yet again the Men and Mer outside of Black Marsh surprised him. Though he felt a warm feeling that a stranger was defending him, she was clearly instigating a fight and Bar-Shei needed to interject before things turned violent. He reached for the woman's shoulder and gave her a thankful pat.


"Now there's no need for talk like that. " He said, to the woman, offering her another pat. "I appreciate your help but insulting the man won't do anythinG good." He turned his attention to the the Nord."I'm not looking for a fight, Nord. "He made his shoulders broad, though it was a bold effort, Bar-Shei was far from intimidating in size. "I can tell by your armor that you're a capable warrior and smith, it lacks a well known smith's signature. I can also tell by the colors you're a Stormcloak. " he said, maintaining weary eye contact with the Nord. "Surly a soldier has better things to do than bother Bar-Shei on his clothes." The Argonian held his head high, his stance was relaxed, ready to evade the Nord should be strike out. "If you must know, I am a Merchant here in the Falkreath Hold. I look the part, yes?" Bar-Shei forced a smile at the Nord and held his arms out, inviting the Nord to inspect the clothes.

 

[Mousie]

Iriene Stormore


The seemingly harmless Falkreath environment quickly transformed into a hostile one, as a large male Nord approached a foreign looking Argonian who rested by a fire. Sitting across from the unfolding scene, Iriene noticed that the stare the Nord gave the amphibious creature was nothing short of dangerous. The Altmer remembered vividly fighting against Nord's who possessed a similar stare in the Great War. An unforgettable sight accompanied by a powerful war cry, that could make even the strongest and proudest of the Thalmor tremble in fear. But the large Nordic man who approached the peculiar Argonian seemed like he was only doing it for acceptance. A barbaric act in order to impress his comrades who accompanied him at the Inn. Something similar that Iriene tried to do back in back in Firsthold.


Before Irene could even consider the consequences of helping the Argonian, a woman rose up and quickly came to the defense of the lizard, holding an ignited flame in the palm of her hand. Even by Iriene's high destructive skills and standards compared to the woman's, the Altmer realized the situation could rapidly unfold into a disaster by just a mere spark.


With a quick decisive and calm tone, the Argonian defused the situation in a passive-aggressive manner. His body language challenged the Nord's, but it looked pitiful in comparison to the soldiers stature. Against her better judgement, Iriene clenched her relaxed palm into a fist, but remained seated passively at the counter. No matter what the situation could unfold into, Iriene realized that if she were to intervene, she'd blow her cover. Not only did she have to be cautious about Skyrim's peoples she once fought against, but also the Thalmor agents that were actively tracking her down.

 

[Dungeon Master]

Falkreath


Dead Man's Drink


8.45pm

It was no secret that Jarl Ulfric and his rebellious Stormcloak soldiers held no love for outsiders. Their hearts were turning cold toward the Empire and the chill spread naturally to others. The Mer and Argonian particularly.


Outside the tavern, 2 hold guards were changing shifts. "This fog is freezing my damned nethers, you'd better hope your wrapped up tight down there." said the man leaving his post, as he began to make way to the warm tavern. The arriving guard mumbled something in return and held his arms across his chest in an attempt to retain heat, walking off toward the large gated area some few metres away.


Outside the tavern door, the tired guard pressed his hand on the adjacent wall in an attempt to steady himself. He was exhausted, but was in need of a drink. Entering the tavern he chose a seat in the farthest corner and enjoyed his mead peacefully, ignoring the current events taking place. He was off duty after all.


When his cup was empty, he made way to a nearby bedroom which had been reserved for the rotating guard shifts. His sleep came instantly, and moments later he became disturbed.


He was writhing, screaming with absolute terror and suddenly he was still again. Blood shot eyes wide and staring at nothing. His hands were shaking, and blood ran gently from his nostrils.

 

[Brinie]

Drawald Wynfled


Drawald raised an eyebrow at the nord female that approached him. The man grimaced, before spitting at her. "Never seen a nord so eager to suck from the tit of General Tullius." He said, his eyes moving to the spell that the women held in her hand. The corner of his lip perked up, forming a smug little smirk.


" A nord spell-slinger, you minus well just piss on the graves of our ancestors." He enunciated, with pure disgust evident in his voice. He turned his glance to face that man that he assumed fancied her. A bowman and a mage, the perfect couple of cowards. He knew their type well, they just sat on their asses from a distance and let men like him do all the dirty work, whilst they watch on in safety. It was hard to take seriously when they stood mere feet from him, within reach of his axe Bertha.


Drawald knew very well that nord woman can be hysterical, but to lay with a breton, the very thought repulsed him. It was one freak show after another, in this damn imperial town. He lifted his hand and pointed an accusing finger at the breton. "You better control yourself and your whore before I bash both yer heads in." He threatened, his voice raising several decibels. He took careful attention towards his little audience that had gathered. They were like a school of piranhas, eager to get a bite. But he would not allow that.


His attention shifted back to the argonian, his drunken body became increasingly more steady as he became more angry. He paused for a second as the argonian straightened his posture as if he was sizing Drawald up for a fight. He laughed at the pathetic display, the lizard looked no bigger than he was a minute ago. "Listen here you slimy little bastard, I do what I please in my free time. If that involves setting you straight, then so be it." He proclaimed, matching the argonian's glare with his own.


Drawald remained unwavered when the sound of a piercing scream met his ears. His mind was on the situation at hand. He had not even noticed that the two men that accompanied him now stood at his side, in-case his opponents decided to fight dirty and jump him.

 

[JR McCormick]

Fenrir


The situation by the fire had taken an odd turn, all things considered. Eyes were drawn in that direction, as the soldiers at his table rose to the side of their large comrade. Once the Mage had decided to interrupt with a show of force, it seemed as though the atmosphere could be cut with a dull blade. Fenrir remained stiff in his chair, with one finger drawing delicately over the hilt of a small dagger sheathed against the beaten dark leather of his armour. He toyed with it lazily, not truly believing that he would actually use it.


What was he going to do, throw the damn thing through the dizzying haze of mead and hoped it hit something? Choose sides based on where it landed? His fingers dropped slowly to his leg, and remained there, leaving the possibility of violence sheathed. This wasn't his fight, and in truth he had no interest in involving himself in the affairs of others. Particularly those of racial dispute. He should have felt loyalty towards his fellow drunken Nord, loud and unsavoury as he was. But what if the brawl was taken outside, and they were denied re entry to the tavern? Now that really wasn't a risk worth taking over a lizard he'd never even shared a drink with, pleasant as the Argonian seemed at a glance.


The room directly behind him had been recently occupied by one of Falkreath's guards, and he'd been sure to look away as the man entered his quarters. Fenrir wasn't a wanted criminal, as such. But he'd had run ins with a great majority of lawful citizens that remained unhappy with him.


The tension was was cut instantly, and not by a dull blade, but a sharp scream. It was a man's scream, and it came from the guards room. Hairs on the rear of his neck stood to attention, as the sheathed blade found freedom. He rose quickly from his seat, steadying himself with one hand on the wooden table, and edged back slightly from the door, half expecting an assailant to emerge.

 

[nevermore0714]

Immediately rising to his feet, Leo had an arrow ready and aimed for Drawald in one fluid motion. "Bite your tongue, fool. You're insulting a professor of the college of Winterhold, a woman who could burn you to a crisp before you could piss."


Dani pulled a rag out of her pocket and wiped the spit away with her left hand, slowly and calmly, her right hand extinguishing the flame and unsheathing a steel dagger. "I see that you're no stranger to combat. Neither am I. Now, before you do something you really regret, why don't you leave the Argonian alone, apologize to my Breton and me, and run back to Ulfric Turn-cloak's frozen tit in Windhelm to get your craven's beer."


Leo kept an arrow aimed directly at the Nord, not even blinking. "If you'd rather settle this against my sword instead, you're welcome to challenge me, brute."

 

[Naps]

Brahiel Duskgrass





A fight seemed imminent at this point. Brahiel steadied both of his arms prepared to shoot first and escape later. He sensed some honor from Bar-Shei as the Argonian tried to settle the situation with words. A merchant's silver tongue could indeed sway the mind. The normal patrons seemed to ignore the situation and even a guard who had come in was simply drinking his mead. So far it was only the large nord and Argonian near the fire. The guard stood and for a moment Brahiel thought things would be over, but all the guard did was go to a room and shut the door. Still that slight hesitation at seeing the guard come near was enough for him to relax his arms. The arrow was still nocked but the bow was lax now.


Brahiel sighed, but moments later he flipped over the counter readying his arrow again. Screams had come from the guard's room, horrid horrid screams. The man in dark leather drew a blade, his focus on the door as well. The two Stormcloaks were at the side of the larger nord ready to aid him. The mage had retreated some but moments later she was spit at. She pulled a dagger at the nord's taunt and her companion readied an arrow. Brahiel was very wary of the female mage who's companion boasted not only as an associate of the College of Winterhold but a professor. The situation at the fire was more or less predictable. If the mage played to her strengths she was more than enough to handle the three Stormcloaks. Her and her bowmen friend were focused on them. The Argonian and the other mer were variables. In a worst case scenarios a stray spell or arrow may find Brahiel in it's path. Still his attention was focused by the fear of the unknown happenings beyond the door.


Brahiel clicked his tongue at the man in dark leather hoping to get his attention. The tavern was quiet after the screams the only voices were those of the large nord and couple. Fire flickered on as shadows danced across the walls. Brahiel gestured to the man in dark leather to open the door from the side. Hopefully he would get the meaning. Brahiel had his short bow drawn as far as possible, but his arms would begin to ache soon from the odd stance. He hadn't practiced enough with this form. Brahiel wanted his long bow, which was lain up under the other side of the counter. He steadied his breathing and kept his arms tense.

 

[Anaxial]

The violence was something that Bar-Shei never got used to, he'd been on the frontline running shields and new blades to the Legionaries as they fought Thalmor mages, dodging spells and fallen corpses, arrows and swords, there was no honor on a battlefield -only the living and the dead. Still, after seeing the horrors of the Great War, he still felt a tremble in his tail when weapons were being drawn. Strangers willing to risk their lives for him, it was as heart warming as the Stormcloaks hatred was discouraging, still he would not allow these people to be harmed or possibly killed for Bar-Shei could only assume would be a beating from the Stormcloaks. It was nothing he hadn't endured before and it seemed that this Nord was hellbent on such a nefarious mission. In the past, Bar-Shei had to take a beating or two from similar situations. Three or four large Nords against one Argonian, fighting back could cost him his life- this was not tot say that Bar-Shei wouldn't defend himself. In the end, if words failed him and he thought he had a good enough chance he'd fight back. He may be against killing a man, but had nothing against beating one who deserved a beating!


Unfortunately, this was an unwinnable confrontation. Three Nords -large ones at that, stood before him. Further still they were Stormcloaks! If these good Samairtans seriously hurt or killed one of these men, they could instigate an attack on Falkreath and cost more lives. To Bar-Shei, even one life wasn't worth his.So immediately as weapons were drawn, the Argonian further tried to defuse the situation.


"Please, please! No blades, no arrows, please!" He said, gently grabbing the Nord woman's wrist and ushering her to lower her blade. With his other hand he held up, palm facing her partner who was also ready to fight and die for one lone Argonian. "Please, I appreciate it I really do." He said, continuing to try and calm his two guardians down while not making any moves to instigate the Nord. "But you needn't risk yourselves for me. I beg of you, do not turn your good deed into an insult by harming yourself for Bar-Shei." The Argonian put his body between the Nord woman and the Stormcloak. He once again squared off his shoulders and stood tall, he wouldn't beg the Nord, but he'd take whatever the Stormcloak had in store. "Whatever it is you want from me... Please, leave these people out of it. Bar-Shei will-" his sentence was inaudible over the shriek as his mouth instantly shut and his head jerked towards the guard's room. The shriek alone was already disconcerting but the calmness of the Stormcloak soldiers filled his stomach with dread- he feared a Stormcloak attack was underway.

 

[Mousie]

Iriene Stormore


The bastard elf kept her head forwards still, trying to avoid any attention to herself. Iriene tried to comprehend the reasoning for the Nord and Breton couple defending a complete stranger. Perhaps they were paid by the hold to keep the peace? Not likely, considering the Mage proclaimed herself to be a professor at the College of Winterhold. Before Iriene could explore her thoughts further, the group of opposing forces began to spew insults at each other. Compared to the arguments that she witnessed back in her home, the way the Nord's and the Breton spoke to each other seemed completely barbaric and improper. A Skyrim tradition, no doubt.


Wanting the escape the situation before it spiraled into a chaotic fight, Iriene rose from her sunken position and turned towards the exit. Before she could make her next move, a blood curdling scream filled the atmosphere with terror. Irene stood frozen shocked, recognizing the tone and volume. It reminded her of each and every one of her victims last words or sounds before their inevitable end. Whether their death was by scalding flames, puncturing sprays frost or she daresay, armor shattering lightning, Iriene's methods of killing warriors in battle were various and effective. An unappealing testament to her many years of training and battle experience.


The Altmer bastard continued to stand tall at a height that almost surpassed the Nord's. She looked cautiously around the room, noticing a rogue-like man ready to pounce at the situation, while a fellow Mer struggled to keep his bow drawn. With a deadening sigh, Iriene looked towards the door as many others around her did. Whatever caused the man to scream like he was dying had to have belonged to an unspeakable danger.

 

[Dungeon Master]

Falkreath


Main Street


9pm

Unaware of the goings on inside, one guard stood sentry at the gates of Falkreath. Not long had he been stood there, and he swore beneath his breath at the cold. Before long he was approached by a hooded gentleman, followed by 6 or so others, he couldn't tell in the fog.


The leader, who spoke with a gruff voice, addressed a sly female quietly slipping in beside him. They ignored the guard entirely. "What happened? Why is he still standing?" He eyed the guard queerly. Having only heard the opening statement, the guard warily attempted a half way pleasant response.


"What happened is I was put on fucking sentry duty 2 hours early. Damned cold got the better of my comrade and he slunk off to bed! Lazy milk drinker, heh heh..."


The woman placed a calm hand on what appeared to be her hooded superior. "It would appear our mark has shifted. Not to worry."





She placed a finger on the guards chest, and he froze solid. Dropping to the ground and shattering into pieces.


"Fan out." spoke the gruff man, "We have work to do."

 

[Brinie]

]

Drawald Wynfled





Drawald raised an eyebrow at the mention of the college of winterhold. He recalled hearing about how the damned mages ended up destroying half of winterhold. Yet here this strange nord women was bragging about it? It was almost laughable, to think she would feel pride from being a part of one of the most incompetent groups to ever call skyrim home.


It was not surprise to him really, it is what happen when you put a bunch of robed fairies in a room and let them play. The second ulfric becomes high king, he planned to request shutting their entire little magic operation down before they destroyed more of skyrim. Rumor has it that the cowards are even working with the thalmor now. More slaves for the high elves to use, that is exactly what skyrim needed during these troubling times of war.


The argonian was not as spineless as Drawald would have imagined. The nord let out a soft chuckle, locking eyes with the argonian. "Aye, if that's how you'll 'ave it then, fine by me. " He said. If the argonian was a nord, Drawald might have showed some respect. But, he could never trust him as he was now, a slimy, convening little argonian.


Drawald curled his hand in to the fist, maneuvering around the Nord woman, so that she stood between him and the Breton who aimed an arrow at him. He ducked, and concentrated all his strength in to this strike, with his bunched up fist, he swung out a punch at the argonian's stomach who shielded the Nord women. Whatever that scream was, it could wait for now, he figured.