Fantasy Tamriel: The Great War

[Mousie]

Iriene Stormore


Iriene finally felt relieved as the Nord accepted what was going on. Being taken seriously was the first step to preparing for whatever was out there. The Altmer gave the Nord a stare just as cold as the frozen door handle as he mentioned the frail defense of the entrance. Indeed, a frozen door handle wouldn't be suffice enough to hold off whatever was out there. The Nord asked a few more concerning questions before he asked the most important one of them all. Who was outside? Who were they up against?


Iriene closed her eyes and concentrated deeply. Her skill with detecting life was limited, but it did come in handy finding out about the enemy before they found them. Moments passed and the bastard elf opened her eyes in a glare. The only things she recognized about the humanoids was their tremendous power. Something they already knew.


"I don't know what we're exactly up against." Iriene finally answered the Nord's question. Her proud voice turned into a defeated moan, something not normally seen in Altmer such as herself. In truth she began to feel tired from focusing so much Magicka on keeping track of the hostile forces outside. Before Iriene dozed off in thinking of an entirely new strategy, the rogue she saw earlier mentioned the door to her.


"It depends. What's your bright idea?" She asked cautiously. The bastard elf felt that the man knew what he was doing, but could she really let him risk their lives for some bold idea? An action that could get them all killed? But at that point Iriene finally convinced herself that it didn't matter whether his bright idea worked or not. Like a violent Skyrim storm she heard tales about, the enemy began to swarm over the hold, one building at a time.


"It truly doesn't matter if your plan works or not..." Iriene tried to search for a polite word to address the rogue, but failed. "Nord. Whatever you think you're about to do, you better do it fast. They're only one building away from searching ours." As the bastard elf finished her final warning, a soft yet rash voice asked her another question again.


"My name isn't' relevant to the situation, Argonian. But for the sake of your trust, you may address me as Iriene. And as I explained to these warriors before, I can't exactly pinpoint on what we're up against. But we'll find out in a few short moments." The bastard elf finished answering the final question of the night. But since she felt she was ahead of everyone from her contributing vital information, she gave the Argonian a proud Altmer looked before she shouted a command.


"Burn out that fire, now! It'll give away out position."

 

[Dungeon Master]

Falkreath


Main Street


10pm

Nebia rose from the guards bedside, idly trailing a finger along his navel as she walked toward his feet. The young man's face turned gaunt, as red veins flared and crawled up his neck as if from nowhere. He gasped, finally, and was gone. Urlnach, the apparent leader, had already set the commands in place for the rest of the sweep.


"Nebia will accompany you two men for the East side of town, you two on me for the West. Shakh, take the rest and cover the gates. No one leaves until we find that bastard and make him squeal."





He left the barracks, his enormous warhammer held in one hand and clicked his tongue signalling them to move out.


Time was slowly running out for the patrons of Dead Man's Drink, and one shaking guard was beginning to talk.


"I... I don't understa--!" he began, continuing to wince at his inner torment. "How could they have found me here? It's been years." he coughed up, bringing a mixture of blood and spittle.


"They want the shard. I... I hid it in the Bastion just North of here." he reached for Brahiel's wrist and pulled him closer. "Don't... don't let her find it. You can't let her find it."


"Nothing else matters."

 

[Brinie]

Drawald Wynfled





Drawald exhaled, clearing his lungs. It was hard to strategize when his thoughts were clouded by mead. At least it had made him quicker on his feet, but he did not feel like his word would have much value in thinking of a plan. He nodded at the other nord's suggestion, seeing that no one else had much of a strategy, and he was more willing to trust one of his kin. "Aye, no one will make it in this room without withstanding a swing of this here axe!" The nord said mightily, removing the steel-battleaxe that was strapped to his back, brandishing it in the light of the fire for all to see. Embellished within the axe laid a name, Bertha Wynfled, it was his most prized weapon, it still remained strong after all these years and after all of the bodies it carved through.


Drawald gave a simple nod at the altmer's answer, expressionless. He faced danger before, but having no idea what exactly he was facing held its own aesthetic. With the previous fight on his mind and mead in his belly, he felt like he was ready for anything that decided to come marching through those doors. Drawald brought the axe back to his back and secured it there, turning to face the other nord. "Well then, let's hear about that plan of yours. Although, from the looks it, doesn't seem like we have much time." Drawald spoke solemnly.


The plan sounded reckless, even by his standards. Opening the doors could very well alert the enemy of their presence. He must have been confident in whatever he was planning to suggest such a thing. Drawald's mind traced over the possibilities... Reckless plans typically yielded the most rewards.


Drawald offered a hand to the other nord, his smile beaming. "Since we are exchanging names, you can call me Drawald. We minus well get a little acquainted considering the fight ahead of us." He beckoned. They very well may die in this little tavern, and it was better to go without having hatred in his mind. Although, a real death to him would be on the battlefield covered in the corpses of imperials. All that being said, he did not plan to let whatever ominous force that was lurking out their go out unscathed.

 

[JR McCormick]

Fenrir


The other Nord, Drawald, had the right of it. If the Altmer was correct, their time in Falkreath was running drastically thin. Granted; she had no idea what was coming, but that seemed to matter very little on the grand scale of things. Something was happening in this town, and it had a foul taste. He nodded to the large native, taking a moment to admire his axe. It was not his intention to risk anyone else's hide on his own behalf, but he would need their help. He'd hatched the idea in less than a mead-hazed moment, and it seemed that they were already in the firing line... like it or not. It was no secret how unsure he was, considering the expression on his face, but the possible rate of success didn't seem to make a difference.


He reached for a jug of water from a nearby table, and began dousing the embers. "We don't know what's out there, but we know it's getting closer. It's searching. Which means it's here for a reason. Which means if we get in the way, it won't thank us." He replaced the jug and moved toward the Argonian, as smoke from the dying fire fire began to fill the room. "Making a run for it out there with this many people is suicide. But if I can catch a glimpse, we'll know what we're up against." Fenrir's hand rested on the Argonian's shoulder, "I need a second, out there. Someone to match my speed."


The two hadn't spoken during their time in the tavern, but he was certain of one thing. The Argonian cared more for others' safety than he did his own. If Fenrir was captured or killed, the Argonian would be the best bet on returning with news on what took him. The thought almost sounded noble in his head... though the truth was less martyrising. It wasn't a fear of being captured or killed that pecked his mind, it was the fear of running off entirely. If he saved his own hide, he would feel less guilty knowing there was someone to return with information on the enemy.


"If something happens out there, to either one of us, at least there's a chance the other might make it back." He turned to the both Altmer and Nord, continuing to speak in a tone that suited the darkness of tavern, as all light had been extinguished. "The rest of you should board up in the mead cellar, and wait for one of us to get back."


Reaching for the door handle, he gestured to the elf to unfreeze it. He would understand if the Argonian didn't want to follow him... but he hoped he would, all the same.


"Pleasure to meet you Drawald... but if this plan is going to work, I need an archer to cover us from the roof." He pulled his leather hood and awaited the elf's signal to move out.





"You can call me Fenrir... and you can convince the Bosmer to be our bow."

 

[nevermore0714]

Dani stood and walked away from the corpse, approaching her husband. Softly whispering something to him, she tried to keep her voice low enough to not be overheard. Once she finished speaking, he nodded and led her out to the horses, slowly walking to and passing through the doorway. They both calmly saddled their horses and prepared to leave.

 

[Naps]

Brahiel Duskgrass


It was like an arrow in the dark piercing it's target. The the guard's words confirmed Brahiel's suspicions. Taking in all he had to say, Brahiel couldn't help but tense up. Something from the guard's past was now hunting him in the present. That the man would reveal all this to a stranger meant the situation was far more dire than Brahiel had first imagined. Whatever misfortune had befallen Falkreath, the guard was to blame. Hearing the final warning Brahiel relaxed his hand and returned the arrows to their slots. He went to the door and removed the chair that blocked the handle. The hissing sound of water meeting flame darkened the room beyond the door. Brahiel could imagine a few things as he turned to the guard, whispering, "Seems like they're close. Put out those candles and stay in this room, don't lock the door."





Brahiel didn't wait for the guard to react. He went to the side table and secured both his bows before stepping onto the table with a knife in hand. Slowly he began cutting into the thatched roofing. It'd take some time but this would yield a more stealthy escape. Things were becoming far quieter than the norm for a tavern at night. Brahiel had managed to spread the first layer of straw. He turned his head slightly towards the guard and gestured with his free hand to get on with things. At the same time he reached into one of his pouches and produced two potion vials filled with odd mixtures. Drinking one he placed the other on the table and spoke as he resumed his work. "Get this potion and hide. Use it if you hear someone coming. I can't guarantee your safety but this'll make it harder for them to find you."





In a few moments the potion took effect as Brahiel disappeared before the guard's eyes. "Don't be alarmed, I'm still here. If you move around too much it'll wear off quicker, so be still when you use it." As he said that he reappeared. Brahiel was almost through the top layer of thatching as the last of the tavern's lights were snuffed out. Breaking through the layer he bit down on a few slautherfish scales and climbed onto the roof of the tavern. He hoped the brisk wind would muffle the sound of his movements on the roof. Carefully he layered back the thatching to at least cover the hole he had come through. Readying his long bow he crept up the roof along the higher edges for a better view. What he saw brought an uneasiness upon him. Brahiel looked back for a moment. His vial had indeed contained a potion of invisibility. However, the guard's vial held a poison that could bring down a bear.

 

[Anaxial]

The rogue needed someone quick, he got someone quick! His experience as an Agent would certainly be coming in hand now. He listened intently as Fenrir explained the plan. He gave the man a simple nod and turned away as he began fastening the furs coatings down.


"I have to warn you, Bar-Shei is not a skilled fighter. Whatever we do I think it's best if we do it quietly." Bar-Shei explained as he turned back to the Nord, his red Argonian's eyes piercing at Fenrir from behind the furred balaclava.


With the fires put out and only embers remained, he could already feel the cold seeping through the walls and slowly making it's way through his clothes. Bar-Shei made his way to the door as the married couple just blindly burst through the doors and exposed the entire tavern to the outside. They were lucky that the danger wasn't right outside the door. Had it been anyone else, he probably would've given them a piece of his mind but their pasts deeds quieted his tongue. While the door was open however, Bar-Shei gave the outside a quick once over before turning back to Fenrir and waving a hand to signal him to come to the door.


"You lead, this one will follow." He said, patting the man on the back.

 

[Mousie]

Iriene Stormore


The door handle unfroze almost miraculously as the Nord and Breton couple made their swift exit into the cold Skyrim night. The darkness that filled the tavern invited a dark kind of hope. Like a dagger concealed on a rogue's waist, their position in ambushing the enemy wasn't actually compromised. The unforgiving bastard Elf Iriene noted the Stormcloak's eagerness to battle against the foreign enemy which lie only a few buildings away. But when the hulk of a man revealed his legendary axe, the Altmer instinctively ignited a small flame in her hands and backed a few paces away from him quickly.


Iriene took a few quick breaths to calm herself down at the sight of his weapon, but she still struggled trying to stay level-headed. After a few moments of steady breathing, the bastard elf felt the gentle warmness in the palm of her hand extinguish into nothing, along with her fearful emotions. Rationally enough, she recognized that the Nord was one of everyone's only chances for surviving whatever was out there. Fully regaining her better sense of judgement, the Altmer caught the name of the fearsome Nord that stood close to her. Hearing his name settled her nerves.


Iriene took note of the rogue Nord's plan on scouting the enemy ahead. It was true that they still didn't know who they were fighting against. And seeing as the damned couple made their escape already, she couldn't help but feel almost forsaken if it wasn't due to the fact that everyone around her was in the same situation. The rogue continued to offer useful instructions; Hide in the wine cellar and be silent. But the pride the Altmer felt couldn't be swayed with rationality anymore. She needed to burn, freeze, or electrocute something. The impulse couldn't be evaded any longer in her mind. The burning flame in her hand reignited uncontrollably and blasted the thick wooden walls destructively. She'd lost control of her mind.

 

[Dungeon Master]

Falkreath


Main Streets


10.15pm

The West side of town had been thoroughly swept by Urlnach and his men with no regard for civility. They handled the locals with disregard, and threatened the lives of children for parental cooperation. Of course, with no information worth divulging... a sorry few were put to the sword. Urlnach's second, Nebia, was scouting the East, when a great rumbled filled the air, almost unsettling the surrounding fog.


"Nebia!" screamed Urlnach. "Make for the gates and warn the men! Set up a perimeter!" He turned for the source, and yelled to his companions, "The tavern! On me! Leave no one alive!"


The great brute made haste for the sound, his warhammer trailing behind in a readied position to swing upwards. He spied an archer on the thatched roof and bellowed to his men, "Archer! Take cover and send a volley!"





The men ducked behind carts on either side of the street, and sent a volley of shafts at Brahiel. One heading straight for his left thigh, and the other toward his right shoulder.

 

[Brinie]

Drawald Wynfled





Drawald nearly fell flat on his ass when the altmer bitch went hysterical and blasted a hole through the thin wooden walls. Drawald turned his head to face Fenrir, his eyes went wide with shock. He started laughing uncontrollably, clearly whatever got in to that women's head spread to him. "Well you wanted to see what we're up against, thank that lovely pointy eared bitch for giving you the view." He said heartily, extending a hand to point towards the shadows, as figures moved to and fro. Soon the very same figures began to surround the perimeter of the dimly lit tavern. The lack of lighting would do them no good now, in fact it only served to inhibit them.


Drawald dashed over to a table and kicked it with his right foot, it skid across the floor and flew on its side and somewhat blocked the hole that woman created with her accursed magic. The rest of the tavern was in a flurry, kicking and screaming, obviously stressed about their impending doom. One of his fellow stormcloak shoulder's took a defensive position against the table Drawald had moved. He knelled below it to avoid enemy fire, whilst getting a few glimpses of what was happening outside. The soldier took a few glimpses before firing arrows at moving figures in the shadows.


"Everyone who isn't willing to battle, hide in the wine cellar and stay the ell' out of our way!" Drawald called out, whilst he maintained a firm grip of his battleaxe. He stood in the middle of the room, away from any windows and eagerly awaited for someone, anyone to approach him through these walls. He was ready for anything to come his way. Bertha had quite a hunger to her, a hunger that could only be satiated with the blood of Drawald's enemies. He could not afford to die here when he had a family that was relying on him to restore skyrim to what it used to be. He refused to die until the day that the imperial forces were completely toppled.

 

[JR McCormick]

Fenrir


It isn't like they say it is, when the adrenaline hits your heart. Time doesn't slow down... it speeds up. It was though he had been hit with an anvil. The blast had removed one part of the wall, and sent Fenrir to the opposite side of the room. His shoulder slammed painfully against a small window, and sent a shard of glass through his armour. Had the impact unsteadied him further, he may have lost consciousness. Scrambling to his feet, he heard Drawald addressing him, though he could not hear the words. His ears rang painfully, and his eyes stung to open. Had she aimed that at him? At anyone?


"Argonian!" Fenrir yelled, all too loudly but for the ringing in his ears. "Argonian?!" He couldn't see his stealthy companion anywhere, and if the latter part of his plan was still to take effect, he would need him. Scouring the room, he was entirely unable to find him. Had he been blown entirely outside? He had been by the door, for all accounts. It was possible.


Fenrir steadied himself, and raised the pommel of his dagger to the broken window, continuing to knock pieces from the frame. When he was half certain of its safety, he clambered upon a nearby table and rolled ungracefully onto the bitter cold ground outside. It would be unwise for him to make anymore sound, even if it was to attract his comrade. Spinning the dagger in his hand, he rose to a crouched position, and made way to the rear of the tavern. If he were ill met... it was his hopes that his speed and position would be enough to succeed in combat.


Clasping one hand to the outer angle that formed the guards room corner, he edged carefully to the other side, taking note of one man crouched behind a vegetable cart. The man appeared preoccupied by someone on the roof... possibly the Bosmer? If Fenrir was careful, it was possible he could signal the elf without being noticed. He made a small whistling sound with his mouth, in the hopes that it had gone unheard over their commanders screams.


Turning around, he attempted to make out shapes in the distance. If the Argonian was left alone out there, it was possible he would meet is end... and the fault would be Fenrir's.

 

[Naps]

Brahiel Duskgrass





Before he could even turn back an explosion shook the tavern. Brahiel plunged an arrow into the roof to anchor himself. Regaining his footing brought him back to the upper edge of roof. The wind blew at his face and carried with it a dangerous command. He had been spotted. Brahiel let go of the arrow and laid on his stomach as he slid down the backside of the roof. Digging another arrow into the roof he stopped himself from falling off completely. Two arrows flew over the roof and disappeared into the darkness. Brahiel had enough experience to know that those arrows would have hit had he hesitated. The roof was an ideal position, but they had already spotted him once. He cursed himself silently for wasting his only invisibility potion.


Lowering himself from the roof, his legs sunk into the snow behind the tavern. For a moment he thought he heard whistling but dismissed it as the wind. Not wasting anytime, Brahiel made his way northwest to the graveyards. Stopping just shy of the treeline he looked across the many graves in the cemetery. Crossing quickly through the graves he turned east and began following the path back to center of town. He broke off behind the buildings on the northern end of town sticking to shadows as he moved quickly. If no one had noticed him, then his chances of flanking the enemy would prove successful. Still Brahiel dreaded the thought of running into someone before then. He readied an arrow and began moving at a horker's pace.

 

[Anaxial]

Waking up face first in the snow, a confused Argonian lifted his head from the cold spears of ice and peered around him. He was outside the Tavern, he didn't remember how, he just remembered he WAS inside not a second ago. Rolling onto his side he groggily took a moment to survey the scene. It appeared the dangers had attacked the Tavern, their was a hole blown in the side of the building and the Bosmer on the roof was already taking fire. It was an uncomfortable sight and brought back uncomfortable memories, a face flashed before Bar-Shei's eyes- the face of a scared Altmer soldier trying to surrender. If only for a moment, Bar-Shei was back in the Great War.


Snapping out of it rather quickly, he had to move fast or he'd be killed. Bar-Shei played dead for a while, he was wrapped in enough layers of furs it was nigh impossible to see his breathing and thanks to his balaclava it was difficult to see his breath on the air. He let the assailants run about the outside of the tavern and when he had an opening, Bar-Shei rolled back onto his chest and kicked off the ground, running fast and low as he sprinted to the closest building in front of him, away from the Tavern. He would flank them, perhaps bluff his way into getting them to surrender. A plan had formed in his scaly head.

 

[Mousie]

Iriene Stormore


The impact of Iriene's explosion sent almost everyone flying in different directions across the room. The hostile elf's mind was tainted with visions of the Great War. Iriene could no longer differentiate reality between her vivid hallucinations. Everyone around her appeared as one of the enemies she once slayed in the Great War. No matter how many times she tried to convince herself her hallucinations weren't real, Iriene found that the only solution to her current insanity was to kill anyone near her.


Though the bastard elf was launched across the room, she quickly regained her balanced stature and began to channel a spell within her hands. With her keen vision she quickly noticed a trio of drunken locals huddled next to each other, each of them choking on the smoke produced from the explosion. They reminded the sadistic Altmer of her take-no-prisoners policy she adopted from being a Thalmor soldier. The bastard elf knew she couldn't pay no mercy to the enemy. Grasping a fully channeled spell within the both of her hands, she launched an inferno at the three unsuspecting victims.


Their terrified screams of agony were muffled out by the overwhelming firestorm that seemed to fill the tavern with more chaos than outside. After a few moments of channeling most of her magicka into the apprentice-leveled spell, Iriene slowly lowered her hands and collapsed onto her knee in exhaustion. The burning smoke rinsed her eyes of her vivid visions of the Great War and revealed the unforgivable treachery she had committed.


She looked in disbelief as she saw the fresh burnt corpses melted against one another. It was a signature style she used in the war in order to demoralize her enemies. But it couldn't have been her. Before the former Altmer soldier began her self-imposed exile, she made a vow never to harm an innocent. Iriene searched the room hesitantly with her eyes, as she tried to find a source to blame other than herself. Her unusual blue eyes caught onto a bulky Stormcloak's back turned towards her, the front facing an open large hole. But everyone else seemed to have disappeared. Before Iriene could search the area further, she quickly noted the tavern burning itself apart.


The flames bursted everywhere out of control, but the bastard elf knew she had a few more moments before the situation was completely hopeless. Channeling the rest of her limited magicka into a final spell, she blasted the flames gracefully with a spray of frost. The fire slightly died down, but her pitiful final spell-cast proved to be mostly insufficient in culling the flames entirely.

 

[Dungeon Master]

Falkreath


Dead Man's Drink


10.30pm

Crouched archers continued to loose arrows at the burning roof of Dead Man's Drink. Violent flames licked at the thatch hungrily, while the abundance of smoke made finding their target all the more difficult. The smoke had in fact obscured the building almost entirely.


"You! Make for the rear!" yelled Urlnach. Directing one of his men to the South wall. "You! Take the North, and cover me!" The brute was visibly enraged, cursing the state of things. He moved ungracefully to the door, and raised a boot to its centre. It buckled, initially, and made less of an effort for his shoulder to ram through. Several feet away from him stood 3 Stormcloak soldiers, one larger than the others. His hammer, as though a part of his arm, met the first soldier with ease. The audible cracking of ribs through mail like a spoon to solid sugar. Spinning, his elbow met the cheek of the next soldier, loosening a rear tooth, and sending his head to the inner wall.


Facing the larger Nord, and taking note of the queer Altmer... his stance wavered.


"That's a pretty slut you've got there. I didn't figure your sort for the Elf fucking kind." he spat. "Maybe I'll let her taste a real Nord when I'm through with you."


He regarded his form but for a moment... and with that, he raised his weapon overhead.


Outside however... two men circled the building, unaware they were being watched from both graveyard, and building.

 

[Brinie]

Drawald Wynfled





Drawald's attention to the battle was temporarily halted by the Altmer women's frenzy. He stared with wide eyes as she completely incinerated a group of innocent civilians. He turned his back against the wall to face her, extremely puzzled by her actions. He cursed himself under his breath, he was foolish to not look at the Altmer without any suspicions. She was likely an enemy, he could not find any other way to explain her actions. He walked over to her as she kneeled, preparing his axe to put her down before she could harm another innocent soul.


He was halted by the sound of an intruder bashing through the door of the tavern, his men were cut down before him, before he could do a single thing to aid them. His eyes narrowed when he saw the enemy, was a nord. He became more curious as to the ongoing events, who was the enemy, exactly?


It didn't matter anymore, he would make this stranger pay for what he had done. He let out a primal war cry, a concoction of things clouded his mind, mead, confusion, and the death of his friends. Drawald ignored the man's snarky little comment, there was no time to talk in the heat of battle. He would allow his steel to express his thoughts instead.


A war hammer was a lot more threatening to someone clad fully in armor than a battleaxe, but it was also a lot slower and heavier. Drawald just needed to catch the man off balance, and then let Bertha carve in to his skull. His eyes went wide as the man lifted his war hammer overhead, Drawald planted his feet firmly on the ground to prepare for the oncoming strike.


Drawald turned his weapon sideways and prepared for the strike of the war hammer. He utilized the staff of his own battleaxe to attempt to block the staff of the man's war hammer, before the head of the weapon could reach him. Drawald bashed forwards, with his own weapon, hoping that the force of his bash would be enough to counteract the strength of the strike of the stranger's war hammer and stagger him backwards.

 

[JR McCormick]

Fenrir


His breathing was staggered now, as the weight of his own body became almost unbearable. Thigh muscles began to tighten and waver... while his calves screamed in silent agony. He was shaking, but not from the cold. His shoulder, he realised, had in fact been punctured by the tavern window. Hot liquid adorned the tips of his fingers, as he lightly touched the wounded area. A piece had shattered beneath his skin, and he quietly cursed the clumsiness of his exit. He turned his back to the tavern wall, and rested the rear of his skull on the cold wood. His hood had dropped, and he took just a moment to close his eyes. "Strange," he thought, how the off set of ones own equilibrium can still be felt in complete darkness. His head was spinning, and it wasn't from the mead. It was clear he was losing blood, and he found himself most taken aback by its temperature. The blood had been warm... which meant it was fresh... which meant he wasn't quite dead yet. If he didn't find a way to remove the glass, though, there was a chance it could become infected.


His ears perked, as the sound of footsteps seemed to appear from the dizzying black. Someone was approaching. His eyes groggily shot open, and it was already too late. The enemy was mid swing with an iron sword headed for his neck. Dropping instantly to the floor, Feneir kicked the legs from under the attacker, and attempted to drive his dagger downwards into the man's chest when he was winded by the short fall.


Frost and dirt was all that met the blade, and his opponent was left unscathed, save for the loss of his own weapon. It had scattered somewhere in the grass, and seemed to matter so little now. He was upon him, fingers tightening around Fenrir's throat in a wild attempt to cut off his air supply.


With one good arm, it was almost impossible to roll the enemy, or defend himself.


He was slowly choking to death.

 

[Naps]

Brahiel Duskgrass


The sound of battle ensued moments after Brahiel entered the shadows. The sound of flames returned and lingered on as the tavern burned. He couldn't help but be pleased that he was no longer on the roof. Reaching the northern side of town he stuck close to the buildings keeping in as many shadows as he could. Still his pace had slowed greatly as he checked every corner and constantly looked to his rear. This was more than a hunt against a dangerous predator. It was a fight between men. At any moment he could be killed. Brahiel began to feel guilt for leaving the guard with poison, but his emotions were quickly replaced when he heard the bashing of wood coming from the tavern. The attackers had already made it that far in the time it took for him to move near their flank, yet there could've been more waiting for him as soon as he emerged from his hidden position.


Creeping slowly with light footsteps he looked onto the main road from the side of a building. The fire from the tavern illuminated enough of the road that he could make out at least one figure entering the tavern. Brahiel scanned the street for the bowmen from earlier but saw none. Perhaps they had moved closer to the tavern. Still he was afraid to give away his position, yet he needed to act now. His arm had almost locked from drawing his bow for so long. Brahiel relaxed his arms. The fatigue set in almost instantly. His breathing was quick and his senses seemed to be on overdrive. The cold was eating away at him as he wolfed down a handful of scales. His eyes narrowed as he looked in the direction of a sudden thud. Before he could even think he readied his arrow and let it fly at a figure to the left side of the tavern.


Brahiel moved back behind the corner of the building. His breathing still hadn't relaxed and both his arms were shaking uncontrollably. His thoughts were racing. He began to imagine himself on a hunt, after pinning his prey once it was of the norm to move in closer for the kill. Almost on instinct he moved back to the tavern, crossing the same path he took the first time. He just had to land one more arrow while they were distracted. He moved quicker his footsteps light but still audible. From behind a large gravestone he looked to the tavern's side for the figure he had aimed at. His bow was ready but shook greatly with every breath. Anything could cause him to flinch and loose the arrow.

 

[Anaxial]

Having made it to the building, Bar-Shei dived down into the dark snow and lay face first on the cold ground. His head raised just a tad to allow him to scan the scene before him. Thanks to all his layers the cold took a long while to pierce his clothes and he remained still for as long as he could. Witness to another large Nord smashing in the door to the Tavern, the Argonian had a thought on two humungous, angry Nord's dueling it out with battle axes and warhammers.


A veritable war of the Giants.


Along side the Tavern proper, was the Bosmer hunter, he was taking his time to move like he was on a hunt and though he may have been in the dark at some point, the flames from the Tavern illuminated even Bar-Shei now and it was likely that no one in the immediate area was concealed any longer. This made the enemy archers all the more dangerous. Having thoughts of simply fleeing were flooding his mind, this was never his fight, this was never his mission. Not to mention the cruelty and passivity of the patrons inside that Tavern. If they weren't abusing him, they were allowing it to happen.


Bar-Shei climbed to a crouched position, covered in snow, he had a sort of camouflage against the cold winter night. He turned his feet and made his path to flee the scene, leaving the patrons to their own fate.

"Acts of goodness are not always wise and acts of evil are not always foolish, but regardless, we shall always strive to be good."

A very wise, very merciful man had taught him that, it had saved Bar-Shei from becoming another blood thirsty Anixeel agent killing with he same discrimination that the Stormcloaks showed. He was better than that, he would try to do good, no matter how foolish.


Giving the Tavern a wide berth, the Argonian made his way from building to building, moving to the opposite side of the inferno that was once a tavern, that the Bosmer was on. He kept an eye out for archers and an ear out for ambushes. An Argonian being ambushed? Such a thing was as shameful as a Nord being beat by a Woodelf with a warhammer twice his size. When he eventually made it to the building directly adjacent to the Tavern, he heard the sounds of a struggle, not from within the Tavern, but outside it. He had missed the scuffle, but he now saw two strangers wrestling on the ground, one was clearly strangling the other. It took a second to register in his mind, but Bar-Shei knew the one being strangled, it was the Rogue.


The Argonian loosened his outer layers and took a sprinters stance before he, well... sprinted! Charging the man and bracing himself, Bar-Shei jumped at the last second and delivered a flying drop kick right into the ribs of the Rogue's assailant.

 

[Mousie]

Iriene Stormore


The uncontrollable flames summoned by the bastard elf continued their destructive spread across the wooden interior. In just a few minutes of burning, large pieces of the upper tavern began to collapse unto itself. If Iriene and her allies didn't escape the building soon, anyone left inside would either be crushed or burnt alive. Standing tall and proud, Iriene had her back facing the door the three Stormcloak's were standing by, continuing to pour all of her magicka into her vain attempt at killing the flames entirely.


Iriene couldn't put the blame on anyone but herself for the carnage that she'd caused. Even the enemies outside couldn't be blamed for the violent actions she committed. But why did she lose control all over again? The question kept asking itself over and over again in her head. What could have triggered her madness? What was the cause of her outbreak? An answer to her question came in the form of a brutish voice as she heard a sickening crunch of steel behind her. Quickly turning around to face her allies, Iriene noticed Drawald facing an enemy who was just as large as him.


The degrading terms the hulking man referred to Iriene in his barbaric speech only fueled the hatred she felt for him. But before she would lose control of her mind again, however, her crystal blue eyes caught onto Drawald facing the barbarian. He looked more calm and composed than he ever seemed that night. Like a true Nord warrior, he lived to fight. But if he was going to live another day, Iriene needed to do something fast. But what could she do? She wasn't a warrior with a two-handed axe or a nimble rogue with a dagger. She was a mage with almost no magicka left.


Drawald faded from her vision as Iriene graciously closed her eyes. She needed to find a solution quick. Unlike most man and mer, she didn't believe a divine power would come save her. Instead Iriene always believed in her own moral code, built from her experiences in the Great War. It was the sole reason for her self-exile from the Thalmor. But now her new-found purpose was damned, like the three souls she sent to Oblivion. No matter where she went it seemed, her past had a way of catching up to her. All of her thoughts seemed to slow down to a timeless pause as she had found a solution.


Though she wasn't entirely an Altmer thanks to her bastard heritage, Iriene still retained the ability to use her Highborn power. A green glow appeared in the air around the bastard elf as her rapidly regained magicka. Opening her eyes slowly, her magical vision of the enemies was vastly increased, even in the thickness of the smoke. Taking the initiative, Iriene calmly began to channel a spell in Drawald's direction. Though the bold man might despise her for an eternity for what she was about to do, Iriene deemed using his fallen allies acceptable. Casting two separate blue orbs at the corpses, their undead bodies were at her control.


"I command you to assist your Nord brother!" Iriene shouted powerfully as she aimed a finger towards the enemy.

 

[Dungeon Master]

Falkreath


Dead Man's Drink


10.45

Cold air played host to the sound of a Bosmer's arrow, the sight of an ariel Argonian... and the struggle of a dying Rogue.


Bar-Shei's feet struck true as he dove through the air, sending the enemy down to his gut and freeing Fenrir from his grasp. Had not the kick landed, Brahiel's shot would have found its mark. Staying perfectly on course, the arrow whizzed past the grounded trio and planted firmly in the rear wooden panel of Dead Man's Drink.


The inferno roared angrily, casting dark shadows on cold ground which danced morbidly to the music of battle. The second archer rounded the corner, and quickly loosed an arrow toward the elf. The grounded attacker scrambled toward his sword and with a desperate grasp, swung it wildly as he rolled onto his back.


Within the flames, however... the groans of dead men filled the air. A pair of armoured thralls stood lazily, and at Iriene's command began their advance on Urlnach. Distracted by his duel with Drawald, the warrior was taken by surprise as a pair of hands clasped his left shoulder and pulled him toward the ground.


His defence had been lowered.

 

[Brinie]

Drawald Wynfled


The tavern was set ablaze, the entire structure was collapsing, slowly being devoured by flame. He did not have much longer now, either he would be killed by his enemy, or the tavern's fires would claim him if he did not win the battle within the next few momments. It was like he had entered a gate of oblivion, as chaos started ensuing all around him. Drawald tried to calm his breaths, but the smoke that filled the tavern made the air nearly impalpable. Drawald lifted his weapon, holding it firm. He had enjoyed fighting a defensive battle, but time was no longer on his side. This truly was a trial by fire.


Drawald took his footing, as he prepared to swing at the opposing nord with his mighty axe, this would likely be his only chance the end the fight, so he had to make sure he hit his mark. His focus was cut off however, as two orbs grazed past them, striking the bodies of his fallen comrades. His brows furrowed with anger, the sick act caused an alarming amount of distress to him.


He needn't look around and see where the putrid magic had emerged from, he already was well aware. He looked onwards as the former men were invigorated with life, magic coursed through their veins rather than blood. No fallen warrior should ever have their body disgraced in such a matter.


Despite the heavy feelings he carried towards the act of necromancy, he had to stay focused on the battle. The opposing warrior had yet to notice the two corpses that stood behind him. Drawald waited, watching them creep closer and closer, until one held the other nord down by his shoulder!


Drawald tilted his axe horizontally and swung at the man's neck the instant that the corpse grabbed him, letting out a mighty roar cry that cut through the air like butter. He put everything he had in to this attack, it had to work! He had hoped that his fallen friends were watching him from Sovengarde and wishing Drawald their blessings.

 

[JR McCormick]

Fenrir


Rising, his lungs cried out desperately for air... and in a state of disbelief they began to drink in the smoke and chill. It was the most delicious concoction of tastes and smells he had ever experienced. The flavour of life. "By the Nine, I'm ali--," he began murmuring, shortly before the arrow planted itself two inches from his face.


With the moment at an early close and his attacker stabbing idly at nothing, Fenrir scrambled through the misplaced swings and found himself atop the assailant. Straddling him, his head rose up... and fell. The sound was heinous. A dull, wet thud. Again, and again until there was little resistance from the twitching body. He rolled to one side, unable to see straight, and fell to his back. Hair, thick with blood, sweat and grease clung wildly over his face. His right arm found its way through the haze, and pressed painfully on his left shoulder.


The glass. He had forgotten about the glass. Absolute agony shot through his body at the recognition of his own frailty. The shard had almost certainly met bone, and it felt as though a family of sharp insects had dug their way into his joint. It almost seemed to crunch when he moved it even slightly.


The blood loss was beginning to take its toll, and the oxygen deprivation had not helped matters. His eyes struggled against his better judgement, and gave way to darkness. The sounds seemed surreal then, as though he wasn't truly there. In a warm tavern, in a bed, kissing a woman. That's where he was. Not lying outside a blazing inferno, with cold soil for a mattress and caked blood on his lips.


His limbs fell, and he was still.

 

[Naps]

Brahiel Duskgrass


On the hunt, he moved as a predator stalking it's prey. No pain filled grunts and the striking noise of an arrow piercing wood told him that his shot had not found its mark. Brahiel, peering out from behind a gravestone, stared upon the fight between three unknown figures. He was ready to loose an arrow, when he heard the musical strumming of a bowstring. Turning in time to see the archer, Brahiel let his arrow fly without taking the time to aim properly. He ducked behind the gravestone, but his movements were too slow. The arrow whipped by his face grazing the side of his helm. He touched the side of his exposed face and felt the warm blood leaking out, and to his dismay he felt nothing of his pointy elf ear. "Ah, it's gone..."


Brahiel became lethargic. He shook his head as he laid his back against the gravestone. His eyes followed a spotted trail of blood to a torn piece of his ear lying in the snow. The blood continued to flow from the wound. Taking his hunting knife he lazily cut a piece from the pelt he wore. Pressing it to the side of his head, he nearly passed out from the sensation. The ice cold pelt felt like death's embrace. Brahiel tilted his head to hold the makeshift dressing in place against his shoulder. With his hands free he cut long strips from the pelt to secure the dressing. Moments passed by blindingly quick. He was no longer fit to fight at this point. The bleeding had slowed, but the blood loss was beginning to take a worse effect as he could no longer keep his eyes open. Brahiel laid his bows on the ground and took an arrow in each hand before shoving his fists into the snow. He would resist to the end.

 

[Anaxial]

With a solid hit, his momentum carried him onward with the enemy, crashing into the snow and spewing up a thick mist of the frosty flakes. The Argonian's lungs tightened in his chest as the air was sufficiently taken from him upon impact. Writhing in the snow for a few seconds he rolled onto his stomach and began to climb to his feet. What he saw was something wrong, a panicked man pummeling another fearful warrior repeatedly. The ghost of Bar-Shei's only victim seemed to rise from their scuffle and beg for forgiveness- only to have a sword hacked down into his skull, breaking apart his young face.


He wouldn't let it happen again, Fenrir would get a few good hits in before Bar-Shei jumped to his feet and pulled the Rogue off his assailant. There was a lot of blood on the snow and it was impossible to tell who's was who's. After pulling the Nord from his opponent -kicking and screaming in necessary- Bar-Shei dropped him against the wall of the building adjacent to the Tavern.


"Killing him won't do anything, you stay." Bar-Shei said through his furred balaclava, pointing an authoritative finger at the man before he turned to their likely dazed or unconscious attacker and promptly pulled the Balaclava from his face a steam rising from the heat of his breath as he rolled the attacker on his stomach and bound his hands together behind his back with the rag.


"No kill, not if this one can help it." Bar-Shei said to Fenrir, as he dragged the attacker away from the flames. In his haste, he hadn't noticed that the Rogue had apparently been the source of the blood and was put at an impasse.


He could go in an try to stop the Stormcloak from killing whoever he was fighting, or vise versa. OR he could try to save the two men here, key word try. Two fully grown male Nords were no easy haul but his time in his mock caravans had given the Argonian a strong back. He would have to try.


Grabbed the allied rogue by the back collar, Bar-Shei got a good handful of cloth and tightened his grip with his right hand. With his left, he hauled the prisoner he had captured (unless he was conscious, in which case he'd hold him by his restraints.) Keeping his back straight, the Argonian let out an exerted groan as he took his first steps in dragging the two Nords to safety.

"Acts of goodness are not always wise and acts of evil are not always foolish. Regardless we shall always strive to be good."