Fandom The Elder Scrolls: Insurrection

[RedEarthRoamer]

Fifty years ago, the Last Dragonborn rose from obscurity and drove back the immolating tide of resurrected dragons and their dreadful leader Alduin, eater of worlds. After Alduin's fall, the remaining dragons scattered to the winds and, in time, became simply another part of the world—sometimes harmless, sometimes hazardous. The order of the Blades rose once more from obscurity and, based somewhere in Skyrim, began working to keep wayward and violent dragons in check. For their part, the Last Dragonborn participated in the reformation of the ancient Dawnguard and then traveled to the island of Solstheim where they were lost to the knowledge of history shortly after the salvation of Raven Rock from unknown perils. Without the stabilizing influence of this hero's presence, the Stormcloak rebellion finally mustered enough support to wrench Skyrim from the control of the Cyrodiilic Empire. Many expected the Thalmor to react in some way to Ulfric Stormcloak's coronation, especially when news of the burning of the Thalmor Embassy north of Solitude reached the southern lands. And yet from Alinor there was only a grim, expectant silence.


The years came and went. New crises arose, menaced and blustered, and were quelled. The Dark Brotherhood, long forgotten, became mighty again in the wake of Skyrim's civil war and were summoned from the shadows to take the Emperor's life. Titus Mede II was slain on a diplomatic trip to Skyrim, during which he intended to pay honors to his recently murdered cousin and almost at the same Amaund Motierre, a high-ranking member of the Elder Council, disappeared. Shortly thereafter, Ulysses Silvanus, a Councilor and former member of the Legion was given the throne by a near-unanimous vote of the Elder Council. Then Tamriel entered a brief but welcome era of peace. Armed with Dwemer technology reverse engineered by Skyrim's Dawnguard, the Legion entered Morrowind and was at last able to assist the ailing province in a meaningful way. The independent nations of Hammerfell and Blackmarsh as well as the Aldmeri Dominion and its client states, retreated into their own affairs for several decades then.


It is now the year 4E251 and the Thalmor are on the move again. After a period of relative placidity, a new charter was signed (under duress, some say) allowing Aldmeri troops to garrison in fortresses across the Empire. Diplomats were dispatched from Alinor to Hammerfell, Skyrim, Black Marsh, and even Orsinium, but only Ganra Lillentar was ever heard from again—Hammerfell rejected every gift and offer he had brought, but allowed him to leave unharmed with a message from Sentinel that no further bloodshed was desired. The Empire, meanwhile, was plagued by civil unrest as citizens grew weary of the increased Thalmor activity. Encouraged by the presence of their own nation's troops, Thalmor agents began to assert themselves more firmly. More and more people have been disappearing, sometimes arrested in broad daylight for a wide variety of alleged behaviors deemed to be in violation of the aging Whitegold Concordat.


Spurred by Emperor Silvanus' apparent lack of concern for these behaviors, various small rebel groups have cropped up throughout Cyrodiil and Highrock. Though Emperor Silvanus has condemned their anti-Thalmor actions publicly on multiple occasions the Thalmor themselves note that he has never taken any specific action against them and have even accused him of aiding and abetting these guerrilla groups. Meanwhile, several guilds from outside of the Empire's jurisdiction—The Companions, the Thieves' Guild, and even the Dark Brotherhood—have been rumored to hold lucrative anti-Thalmor contracts sponsored by anonymous but wealthy patrons. Once again, Tamriel's air grows thick with tension and many are nervously awaiting what they perceive to be an inevitably coming storm. . .

Calendar and Days of the Week


I don't intend to be too uptight about this, but I thought I'd post the calendar of Tamriel's months, and its days of the week. That way if, while posting, you want to throw in a detail about them for realism you have a reference right here. It is a link for now, but later on I will change it over to a chart or table directly in this post.


http://uesp.net/wiki/Lore:Calendar

Spoiler

Cyrodiil has been very busy attempting to recover economically and emotionally from the Stormcloak rebellion and, to some extent, the Great War now already part of history. There is a great deal of unrest concerning the increase in Thalmor activity, but most citizens are happy enough until and unless someone they know is dragged away by the Thalmor.


Black Marsh has retreated, completely and utterly. Only Argonians cross the border nowadays, and they don't much care to talk much about their homelands. If you are an Argonian, message me and we can talk about what you would and wouldn't know about the situation in Black Marsh.


Morrowind spent a period of time in a strange state of pseudo independence after the Argonian's initial invasion and the numerous other disasters that have befallen the province. The liberation of Skyrim actually benefited the Empire as a whole though, as it freed up troops and resources that the Empire later used to reassert its presence. It is currently returning to stability, and many of the metropolitan citizens feel a great deal of gratitude toward the Empire.


Skyrim has seceded completely and has not had much contact with the empire. Ulfric is busying himself with the consolidation of power and has been happy to stay out of the affairs of others, unless elves are involved.


High Rock is still a province of the Empire, but it is utterly geographically isolated now. The Thalmor have set up nearly a dozen large garrisons of troops there and some suggest that the only reason they do not try to secede from the Empire as well is that they fear having to deal with the massive Aldmeri force on their own.


Hammerfell is, much like Skyrim, busy consolidating power. In the years since it successfully defeated the Thalmor, it has done much to reinforce its borders and armies. Despite the presence of a new and thriving Dark Brotherhood sanctuary, and some heavy thieves' guild activity in the south, it has become one of the more prosperous and stable nations of late.


Valenwood remains under control of the Thalmor.


Elsweyr has consolidated into a single nation again, under the leadership of a new Mane who is so whole-heartedly in support of the Thalmor that many outsiders suspect him of being an Aldmeri puppet. Some of the Khajit, especially the nomads in the north, subscribe to this belief and are agitated by it but many simply live as they always have.


Alinor is a mystery. As the beating heart of the Aldmeri Dominion, few outsiders have reason to go there. It is rumored that they are having problems with the Maormer and Sload but no soldiers have been recalled from the Imperial provinces.


Orsinium has been, as usual, forgotten. The Orcs continue their business and are hostile to the Aldmeri Dominion, but the Thalmor consider them insignificant. Perhaps they will come to regret this?





I am leaving guilds mostly up to the players. Do note, though, that. . .


The Companions have become even more revered in Skyrim since the split as they are seen as true icons of the old Nord way. The Companions' questline in Skyrim never happened so things are more or less as they always were except, of course, with new members. Though they rarely work abroad, they have received an anonymous contract to cause as much trouble for the Thalmor as possible. In gleeful response to this, they have sent some of their members into High Rock.


The Thieves' Guild questline did happen, though the Last Dragonborn did not have anything to do with it. They are thriving in all parts of Tamriel except the Aldmeri dominion, although they too have received an anonymous contract informing them that any verifiable trouble they can cause for the Aldmeri Dominion will be greatly rewarded.


The Dark Brotherhood is alive and thriving and, like the Thieves' Guild and the Companions, has been receiving handsome payments for the deaths of Thalmor agents and the destabilization of Aldmeri interests. They don't much care about the politics of the situation—the way most Brothers and Sisters see it, no matter what happens in the coming ages, someone will always want someone dead.


The Morag Tong is operating more or less in the same manner as the Dark Brotherhood. The organization has been crippled, but they still received a curiously anti-Thalmor contract and do what they can to uphold it.


Magic: All spells and spell types from Morrowind, Oblivion, and Skyrim are available. Mysticism is a thing: if it was a mysticism effect in Oblivion, it is here. If you wish to create a unique spell simply tell me it's effects and what school it belongs to. If we get enough of these I might create a “Spellbook” section in this post to keep track of them.


Weapons and Equipment:


Weapon types from Morrowind through Skyrim are valid.


Character Sheet: SEND ALL CHARACTER SHEETS TO ME. We'll talk about who you are, and maybe bounce around some ideas and then I'll send you over to the character thread and have you post it.


Name/Alias: Who you are/what people call you (For my character, I would type Saljeelus/Makes-His-Way)


Age: TES is pretty vague about how long some races can live. If you're not sure, designations like young, adult, old, middle-aged, and so on are fine.


Race: Any of the playable races from the games. If you wish to use one of the races that is mentioned in the games but not playable, send me a message and ask. I'll probably be okay with it--the most I'll do is ask you to justify how your character got involved in this if you're, say, from Akavir or a Maormer


Appearance: Details. Do you have any distinguishing features? Scars, tattoos, missing limbs? Are your eyes an odd color? How tall are you? How are you built?


Possessions/Gear: Any things you would be carrying around with you as part of your normal life. If you're a soldier or mercenary, you'll probably be pretty well armed at all times. If you're just some blacksmith, or a priest, maybe not. Remember that uncommon or expensive weapons will need to be explained—how exactly did you get hold of a Daedric claymore, for example?


Skills: Describe what you are good at, and what you are not so good at. Be reasonable--no one is a master of everything. If your character is magically inclined, include a list of known spells in spoiler tags.


Affiliations: Any guilds or groups you belong to. Remember that the Mage's Guild no longer exists. If you have questions about the roles some guilds might be playing, message me and we can talk but overall I'm very open to player input.


Background: Be as detailed as you wish, but even if you don't tell us much, make sure you know the details of your character's background and personality: flat characters are boring. Mine, for instance, is a member of the Dark Brotherhood, but even he thinks about more than just "murder, murder, murder, murder.”


Starting Point:


Misc: Anything else that we should know before we start. Maybe they're a lycanthrope. Maybe they own property somewhere. Maybe they get a little sensitive about their weight. It's up to you what, if anything, you put here. If you have no "misc." details, just don't include this section at all.

 

[RedEarthRoamer]

Characters

​

It appears that for some reason I cannot make threads in the Characters sub-forum. Because of that, here is what we'll do: send me your character sheets and I will edit them into this post so that all of them are in one place even if we get new members after the actual posting starts.

Spoiler

Name/Alias: Saljeelus/Makes-His-Way


Age: He has not kept track. Old enough to kill, young enough to serve.


Race: Argonian


Appearance:


H/W: 5'8/198 lbs


Saljeelus presents a rare and, to many, chilling figure. From toe to tip, his scales are a gleaming midnight black barring a patch of faded, pale flesh on his throat and around the edges of his eyes, indicating he may be approaching middle age. His pale blue eyes swallow up the narrow slits of his pupils and create the illusion of an icy blankness to his gaze. Atop his head a blaze of crimson feathers rests between two small horns, curved forward like a ram's, one of which is broken roughly in half and his body is pocked and marred by various scars and wounds—a notable one being an inverted arc of small, pink slashes on the left side of his face which gives the impression that something once tried to eat his head.


Possessions/Gear: A matching pair of malachite short swords, and a serrated dagger sculpted from some sort of bone. Saljeelus also owns a unique set of armor he has patched together by modifying the Dark Brotherhood's shrouded armor with bits of bone mold, chitin, and other baubles taken from once-living things. The end result of this is a suit partway between all three and now not readily recognizable as any one of those styles. The armor is small and light enough that it can be easily hidden beneath his tattered gray traveler's cloak. He also owns a small journal which he carries with him everywhere. This book and his bone dagger are precious to him beyond anything else. He even deems his expensive Glass swords replaceable by comparison and no one is permitted to handle the book, or the dagger, but him. He also carries a small assortment of lockpicks, trail rations, and a few healing and stamina potions any time he leaves the sanctuary.


Skills:


Major Skills -------------------------Minor Skills


Short Blade (Dual)------------------Alchemy


Sneak --------------------------------Armorer


Light Armor ------------------------Marksman


Security -----------------------------Speechcraft


Hand to Hand----------------------Athletics


Affiliations: Saljeelus is a shadowscale, and long-time member of the Dark Brotherhood.


Background: Saljeelus was born under the Shadow and, as per longstanding Argonian tradition, taken and trained as a spy and a killer. He became as adept at taking lives as would anyone whose sole occupation was murder. When the time came he was given to the Dark Brotherhood and there continued his bloody career, first in the esteemed Dawnstar sanctuary. In time he became a trusted Brother and was tasked with assisting the Brotherhood's return to glory—he personally oversaw the reinstatement of the Falkreath sanctuary and later assisted in rebuilding sanctuaries in Cheydinhal, Anvil, and even Sentinel. The Brotherhood boomed in the chaos following Skyrim's secession from the Empire and because of his decorated performance within the guild of murderers, Saljeelus often found himself traveling under the name Makes-His-Way to fulfill contracts abroad and assist in the myriad petty difficulties the burgeoning Brotherhood faced.


As he often elected to travel alone, Saljeelus had much time between contracts and other missions with which to think. He became an avid reader and even dabbled a bit in writing poetry of his own in an attempt to capture the striking beauty of the wilderness he spent his life surrounded in. Not that anyone knows he harbors such interests.


Starting Point: Somewhere on the border of Hammerfell and Cyrodiil





Name/Alias: Urhand


Age: Young Adult


Race: Halfbreed (Orc, High Elf)


Appearance: At first glance, Urhand simply appears as the biggest damn High Elf anyone has ever seen. Upon further inspection, his father's blood is apparent: elongated canines, clawed fingernails, heavy jaw. His skin is the pale yellow of his mother's. His eyes are fully golden, a mutation of his mixed bloodline. Bruises and whelps form sporadically across his body, another side effect of his parentage.


In the center of his back, between his shoulder blades, is a large patch of red scar. Urhand was branded a prisoner by the Aldmeri Dominion. After his escape, he held a burning torch to the mark, disfiguring his back, but hiding his origin from others.


Possessions/Gear:


Head: None


Chest: None


Shoulders: None


Hands: Steel Orguun Gaunlets


Waist: Steel Orguun Plate


Legs: Layered Black Leather Pants


Feet: Black Wolf Hide Boots


Weapon 1: Steel Orguun Greatsword


Weapon 2: Stone Throwing Axe (4)


Magic: Potion of Standard Healing (3), Potion of Magicka Regen (2)


Misc: Old map of Tamriel, Armorer's Hammer (3), Silver ring (cracked), Scrib Jerky (4), Stale bread, Flint


Skills:


MAJOR SKILLS--------------MINOR SKILLS


Unarmored--------------------Alchemy


Heavy Armor------------------Marksman


Two-handed Blade------------Stealth


Athletics-----------------------Mysticism


Armorer-----------------------Restoration


Affiliations: No affiliations.


Background: Urhand is the offspring of an Orc Shaman and a High Elf Spy. His mother, while on a trip to Orsimmer to survey the state of the leadership, was discovered. While fleeing a warlord's soldier's, she stumbled across a seemingly abandoned hut, which she hid in. Needless to say, the young orc shaman was thoroughly surprised when an attractive High Elf in tight black leathers clambered through his bedroom window. He saw that she was inured: she had taken an arrow to her shoulder, he hurried to help her. Moments later, he could hear yells and the barking of hounds approaching his hutt. Looking into the young woman's eyes, he knew what was happening.


And looking into his eyes, she knew without asking, that he would help her.


Moments later, his door is kicked in, and heavily armored and armed men enter, hounds barking and growling.


A particularly large orc points at him, "You . . . shaman. We search for lady elf. Have you seen?"


The young shaman holds his hands up, "An . . . an elf? No, I was alseep when I heard your party approaching . . . Iv'e seen nothing!"


The hounds gather around his fireplace, barking at the cauldron slowly brewing there. The orc hunters look over suspiciously, but the shaman speaks up. "No! Please, keep them away! Thats a VERY expensive potion I'm brewing! Three months of meticulous work!"


The large orc heads over to the cauldron, inspecting it curiously. He smells the fumes rolling out of it, then snorts. He smacks one of the barking dogs, and yells "SHUT UP AND FIND THE ELF YOU MUTT! DON'T WORRY ABOUT FOOD OR I'LL EAT YOU!" And with that, the search party leaves.


After a couple minutes, and a detect life to make sure the warlord's men had left, the shaman says out loud, "Alright, it's safe . . . " and dispels his *cloak other* spell on the lady.


The elf steps out from behind the cauldron, body covered in sweat. "Good, I thought I was gonna pass out from the heat. And those fumes have made me funny . . . ."


The shaman pours the woman a bowl of soup from a smaller cauldron. While she eats, he cleans her wound, and then seals it with a spell.


"That should do, that shoulder will be very sore for a few weeks, but no lasting damage I think. Truth be told, I'm not much of a healer. My products lean toward the opposite of that spectrum."


The high elf rotates her arm, "Well, you obviously know something. I . . . I thank you. I would be dead or worse by now if it wasn't for you . . . ."


The orc stands and carries her empty bowl to a washing pan, "It was nothing, I have no ties to anyone. I just wish to be left alone. Still, I would recommend you be on your way. Eventually, those hunters will come back. And this time they will be thorough."


The elf hears the truth in the shaman's voice. She also sense that he would never abandon his home.


The shaman hears the woman approach from behind, feels her touch his back . . .


(Insert Kenny G music)


A while later, the Warlord's hunters return. They are thorough. They burn the hutt, with it's owner's beheaded body, to the ground.


The elf is stunned a month or so later when she begins to show signs of carrying a child. Her research shows that such a pairing rarely results in a successful conception, only a couple dozen such births have been recorded in all of history. Cursing her luck, and knowing what both her and the infant's fate would be, she begins to take counter-active herbs and tonics. Nothing works, the orc blood is too strong. She gives birth months later, in a lowly and discreet tavern. But despite her precautions, one of the aids sells her secret to the Thalmor for a few gold. She is imprisoned for the rest of her life.


At first the Thalmor were going to behead the infant, but decided against it. For the better part of his childhood, Urhand is raised a slave. He grows strong, both in body and in mind. The Thalmor in particular remain interested: with the proper training, this boy could be a valuable asset. At the age of twelve, Urhand begins to recieve supplemental education: reading, writing, basic math, exposure to simple magic, etc. He does well at first.


In the later part of his teenage years, the side-effects of his mixed blood begin to show. Urhand begins to exhibit fits of uncontrollable rage, particularly when exposed to magic. He begins to forget his lessons. He can't pay attention. His Thalmor masters try corpreal punishment at first: lashings, starvation, flogging. When these methods don't work, the Thalmor decide that their project has failed.


Urhand is tossed into the Orguun slave pits once again, after six years of somewhat comfortable living. Before, he had accepted his situation because he knew no other perspective. Now, he saw the pits for what they were. Hell. He could not remain.


With his limited education, he was able to formulate an escape. He killed one of the Orguun Guardsmen, took his armor and weapons, and fled the prison mines of the Summerset Isles.


His mostly elven appearance made it relatively easy for him to find passage to the mainland. He got off at a small port on the southern coast of Cyrodill.


And that's where I will start.


Starting Point: Cyrodill


Misc: Anytime Urhand casts magic, he risks the chance of the spell causing harm to his body. Anytime any magic is cast, I will roll a 1d5, on a 5, I will take damage, be sickened, blinded, whatever. A side effect of his mixed bloodlines. And anytime Urhand is hit by offensive magic, I roll a 1d5 again, on a five, he loses control and rages. Also a side effect.





Name: Freyja Cromartie


Age: 26


Race: Wood Elf


Appearance:


Height: 5'8


Weight: 125 lbs


With icy blue eyes, the jagged edges of shoulder-length dark blond hair, small nose, nymph-like face, and small figure, Freyja projects a non-intimidating look. Tattoos of vines curl around the left side of her face, starting from jawline and over her cheeks and eye, ending at her hairline. Like many elves, Freyja is skinnier than most, but her muscles are tightly packed together from constant movement that is required from her line of work. She also walks with a slight limp in her left leg, a limp that the elf tries her best to mask, a sign of her willingness to not let her pride be diminished.


Possessions/Gear:


Freyja's attire consists of darkly colored leather boots and pants, a chest piece made of various animal furs reinforced with a two-strap studded harness connecting to a circular metallic plate right below her breasts, and a wolf pelt tied around her waist that she can pull over her head as a hood or a way to keep warm. One last notable piece of clothing is a simple black piece of cloth that dangles from the base of her neck, used to tie around her head to cover her mouth and nose.


A finely crafted, and maintained, wooden bow lays across her back along with a quiver of 30 steel arrows. A jagged-edged dagger formed from the tusk of a mammoth is secured to her belt, the usually smooth tusk now jagged and dull, making for grisly injuries rather than clean cuts.


Freyja tends to leave her pockets empty except for a small bag of coins, not wishing to be weighed down by anything and only fills her pockets when she has something that can be sold.


Skills:


Major---------------------Minor


Marksman - Alchemy


One-Handed - Two-Handed


Light Armor - Heavy Armor


Acrobatics - Hand to Hand


Athletics - Blunt


Affiliations: No affiliations


Background: Born to two wealthy merchants, Freyja lived most of her young life on the caravan led by her parents themselves, their stops including every major city of Skyrim. Though it was only one caravan, it was highly praised for their vast variety of items...of which the means to acquire will not be disclosed to the public. During the giant lulls in between cities, the family would have to hunt and scavenge to keep themselves alive as they're supply of food never lasted long enough. This was where Freyja got acquainted with her skills with a bow and small weapons. The young girl frequently hunted the wildlife, learning to fire with enough accuracy to kill in one shot or pounce onto the animals, digging and slicing her dagger into their flesh as blood stained her clothing.


But suddenly the Nords grew bold, bold from their newfound victory, they were no longer in the grasps of the Empire...and now it became dangerous to be an elf in Skyrim. The caravan that was once able to freely march through the open fields and snowy landscape now had to cease everything, roving patrols of Stormcloaks had free jurisdiction on any elves foolish enough to walk in the open, the limp in her leg a show of the Nord's power. Fearing the extent of the Nordic powers, Freyja and her parents set sail for Cyrodiil where Freyja would find something to occupy her time as the parents busied themselves working common jobs. Jobs that weren't enough for the elf that killed to survive.


Starting Point: Cyrodiil





Name/Alias: Vytalas Corna I'll Vhelan


Age: Adult- around aged 21


Race: Dunmer (Dark Elf)


Appearance: He wears the standard Blades armour except his is robed from the waist down, he still has all the armour in the right places though. He is about 5'10 feet tall and his eyes are a bright red in colour and His hair is a dark black in colour and goes up in a ponytail and he has a scar going over his left eye. He has no warpaint on him.


Possessions/Gear: Any Vytalas carries around a blades sword that is enchanted with an electric enchantment, he also carries around a House Telvanni pendant and always has at least 500gold on him at all times. Vytalas also has a spell book with him so he can read up on magicks. He also carries around a book with dragons names in it, slain or still living.


Skills: He is a battlemage so he wields both magic and sword, capable of using them both simultaneously in an attack. He specialises in the Destruction and Alteration trees and has skill with the One-handed skill.


Affiliations: belongs to the order of the Blades, which is rare considering he is a Dunmer and their kind don't normally associate themselves with the affairs of foreign politics. He is actually quite high ranking in the order.. And there were many dosier of him found in the Thalmor Embassy. But luckily for him, that was burned down. So all intel on him other than intel inside of the order itself has been lost.


Background: Being a member of the Blades he is very prideful and will do anything to protect others, especially against Dragons.. And on occasion, Thalmor. Vytalas grew up in the Telvanni tower Tel Naga in Sadrith Mora located in Morrowind, under the tutalage of a high ranking Telvanni lord. When he reached his teenage years. He left the tower to see the wonders of the world, where he found himself in exploring all of Tamriel, eventually winding up in Skyrim, where he was later recruited as a Blade when he was caught fighting bandits, his skill with the blade and destruction magic impressed. He has been in Skyrim ever since and has undergone many tasks and challenges, trained vigorously and has earned a rank of high respect in the blades order, being one of the greatest mages they have, even at his young age.


Personality: Vytalas is a very honourable and polite person, yet he is also very sly and tactical. Known for his intellect and skill with magic. When he sets out to do something, he will do it no matter what even if it means that he will have to deal with the consequences. Vytalas will always do his best to help others and loved meeting new people. He believes in both the Dunmer Goddess Azura due to culture and the Imperial/Nordic God Talos, which is commin with most members of the order


Starting Point: Sky Haven Temple, Skyrim


Misc: He is from House Telvanni, although he left his tower in Morrowind to go and explore the world, this however all changed and he ended up becoming a member of the Blades in Skyrim


He absolutely hates being called weak and can be very argumentative





Name/Alias: Ardarume/Ales


Age: Adult


Race: Altmer/Dark Elf


Appearance: The first thing one notices about Ales is her honey gold eyes and gold hair which provide a vivid contrast to her grey skin. Her dark red lips are always turned up in a friendly smile, which is often a bit unnerving due to the fact that her lipstick is often smeared from wearing her mask making it look like blood is smudged on her lips.


Possessions/Gear:


Head: A mask very similar to the one worn by the Dark Brotherhood, it covers everything but her eyes.


Neck: A necklace very special to her, enchanted to enhance her magic regeneration.


Torso: A plain black robe, slightly enchanted to enhance her destruction powers.


Feet: Plain boots


Potions: None


Misc: A poorly drawn map of Skyrim


Skills:


MAJOR SKILLS--MINOR SKILLS


Restoration------Marksman


Destruction------Stealth


Alteration--------Alchemy


Light Armor------Smithing


Affiliations: No current affiliations but used to be part of the Dark Brotherhood. She very recently left because she disliked the constrictions of the Brotherhood, much preferring to kill at her own leisure.


Background: Ales had a very lonely childhood in Morrowind. Part of House Telvanni, she was kept isolated from all the chaos around her and even as war raged outside her door, nothing changed. Everyday, she learnt new spells, practiced said spells, went to bed. Eventually, Ales grew frustrated with their isolationist lifestyle and ran away, fleeing to Skyrim and cutting her ties with the house.


When arriving, she attempted to start a life with the Dark Brotherhood, and put her spells to practice. However, she recently left the Brotherhood, deciding she disliked the constrains of the Brotherhood and wanted to travel further, and continue her explorations, killing at her own leisure.


Personality: Ales usually has a very cheery disposition, no matter whether she's feeling cheery or not. She has a bad habit of needing to make dramatic entrances, which became quite the problem when she was trying to complete a contract. Not to say she was bad at her job, she just had a bad habit of...getting arrested every time. Some people say she has a bit of a god complex, her expertise in destruction and healing allow her to indulge in that, deciding whether to kill someone, heal them,


or just leave them to die.


Misc: She cannot handle a weapon for the life of her, Ales relies very heavily on her magic.

Magic:

Lightning cloak




Lightning bolt




Equilibrium




Wall of storms




Lightning storm




Close wounds




Grand healing




Circle of protection




Healing




Dominate Humanoid

 

[PKCV2]

Freyja Cromartie stood at the nose of a merchant ship, a gentle breeze softly caressed the body of the elf as it snaked around her body, twisting to fit the curves and contours of her lithe frame. The calm, but ongoing waves rocked the boat to and fro as the salty smell of the waters filled the noses of every soul occupying the Imperial City Waterfront. The blond hairs of the elf batted at her own face as the breeze carried them in a direction while Freyja quietly watched the horizon, the sounds of footsteps hitting the wooden floorboards of the ship, the grunts of labor as workers unloaded boxes from the ship, and the hustle and bustle of the Waterfront in general filled the air, never a quiet moment it seemed.


"Hey! Miss...uh...Cromartie!" A deep voice had called out, the accent giving away the identity of the man.


Turning from her position on the nose of the ship with a small smile, Freyja had expected none other than Stonewall himself. Nobody really knew his real name, nobody seemed to care, probably in fear of having their spines snapped as the owner of the voice was Stonewall the Redguard. Though a hulking beast of a man, he doubled as the owner of the merchant ship, traveling by ship to other major cities across Cyrodiil, their previous stop being Bravil. More on the man, Stonewall wore only the finest steel armor, a gigantic hammer strapped to his back giving him the appearance of a soldier more than a merchant yet his inevitable contagious smile always made someone think twice about it. In just two long strides, a medium-sized coin purse was thrust into the chest of one Miss Cromartie, much to her surprise as a flash of surprise filled her face and was replaced with a much more calm look. Letting out a soft sigh Freyja snatched the purse and stuffed it into a random pocket somewhere hidden behind the wolf pelt tied around her waist.


"Your payment for securing our...safe travels through those dangerous waters...you know with pirates and all." The Redguard's voice dripped with acid at the mention of pirates, obviously discontented with the current state of Cyrodiil...and Tamriel as a whole.


"Right well the dainty woman was the right choice to keep your sorry hides from joining the other skeletons at the bottom of the waters." Freyja's voice came out clearly, full of vigor. With the vocal jab, she moved from the narrow nose of the ship onto the main deck, oblivious to the eyes of Stonewall tracking her left leg with almost pity in his eyes, quickly and expertly masked upon the swivel of the elf as she turned to look at him.


"Yeah well I ain't trusting those half-wits that claim they can fire a bow, not after seeing you use that." Stonewall said almost seriously, nodding his head at the fine bow across Freyja's back.


Waving her hand dismissively towards Stonewall, Freyja had already crossed the planks connecting the boat to the pier and was soon surrounded by the common people going about their business. At least she was until the crowd seemingly disappeared. Thinking an illusion spell at first for some odd reason, the elf soon realized that the crowd had all stood far back from the pier...everyone...their backs to the wall of the city. The gleaming armors of a Thalmor patrol filled her vision, causing her to be thrown to the side, mistaken for a dim-witted commoner, as the patrol moved purposefully towards the merchant ship, Stonewall, along with his crew ordered to move off to the side.


"You lot wait there! An inspection needs to take place!" The posh and commanding voice filled the now silent air.


"Whatsa meaning of this now? We come and gone several times and not once had we been inspected!" Stonewall's flustered voice yelled back.


The leader of the patrol only sneered back. "Well we have it on good authority that you bring in items-"


"This is a merchant ship! Course we bring in items you posh li-"


"ITEMS THAT VIOLATE A CERTAIN AGREEMENT." The leader roared in response, cutting off Stonewall.


"AND WHO'S AUTHORITY IS THAT?" Stonewall retaliated. A proper screaming match had just started.


With just a simple signal of the hand, a crewmate beside Stonewall stepped forward, an Argonian by the name...Freyja didn't even know his name. His raspy, yet suave voice raked the ears of Freyja, not really used to the tones of the lizards.


"On my authority Redguard! I was offered twice the septims you did to expose your stupid system! And here it is Thalmor! Here's your evidence." With that the lizard stomped towards a box not yet unloaded. It looked no different from the others, just a simple wooden crate. With surprising strength the lizard tore open the top of the box, tossing the wooden remains into the waters and sitting neatly on top of the pile of assorted goods...was an amulet. The jewelry was a green-gold color, what looked like a rounded cross with a curved bar through the middle hung from the chain. An amulet dedicated to Talos. The banned god in the eyes of the Thalmor.


With a shit-eating smirk, the Thalmor leader took the amulet from the lizard, holding it up for all to see. "This...is all we need. Take him away."


Stonewall was livid, veins and muscles bulged as the man resisted the advances of the Thalmor soldiers who tried hauling the man away. Spittle flew from his lips as rage overtook his senses. Though in all the rage, Stonewall did not once touch the mighty weapon on his back for he knew the penalty if he attempted to strike down a member of the Thalmor. Eventually a spell was cast on the ballistic man, causing his body to freeze as if he had just been tied up by an invisible rope. Green energy lazily emanated from the Redguard's body, his only movement was the blinks of his eyes, a paralysis spell. Now restrained, the High Elves managed to easily bring Stonewall away, leaving the spell caster behind who, with a flick of his fingers, sent out a small flame from his fingertips and onto the deck of the ship. Sudden flames surged forward into the sky, consuming the ship in mere minutes as the spell caster commanded everyone in the vicinity to continue their meaningless lives.


Throughout the entire ordeal Freyja watched with unbelieving eyes. Never had she seen this caliber of so-called justice administered by the Thalmor. Burning a man's life for a little piece of jewelry seemed...wrong...on a different scale than she had previously thought the High Elves were on. Her tiny heart began to pump, she had to do something! Something to keep an event like this from ever happening again. This twisted version of justice had to be stopped. Limp-walking away from the scene with an air of newfound purpose...the little elf began to create a plot to rid Tamriel of an infestation by her "superior" kin.

 

[RedEarthRoamer]

The mighty Alik’r desert sprawled endlessly in all directions, an undulating sea of dunes that Makes-His-Way had never quite grown accustomed to. Like all of his Brothers and Sisters he possessed the basic survival skills necessary to navigate this place but he was as far from his natural element as was an Imperial in the heart of Black Marsh. For this reason, Hammerfell and northern Elsweyr were the only places in all Tamriel where the swarthy Argonian would willingly accept company. For now, he had fallen in with a band of slightly suspect merchants--a mixed bag of Khajiit and Redguards--under the very-nearly-accurate guise of a travelling mercenary. Though some members of the caravan mistrusted him, particularly the Redguards, the Khajiit had accepted him with the sense of solidarity only shared between outsiders in foreign lands. He had run across them after fleeing from his latest contract in Sentinel, and none too soon: his initial plan had been to hop between cities along the rim of the Alik’r and make a rather roundabout way back to Cyrodiil, but some sort of civil unrest had set the guards on edge and brought public transportation to a standstill and though he had hidden his target’s corpse well he always attempted to distance himself from cities as soon as possible after fulfilling a contract.


He mused on this contract for a while as he walked with the caravaneers. It had been a good kill. The target, an Imperial ambassador, had not the faintest inkling that anything was wrong until the very moment that Sithis had swallowed him up. The contract had obviously been political in nature, and political killings always felt impure somehow, but it was still refreshing to let the blood of something other than an Altmer for once: the standing contract for Thalmor heads was lucrative and provided an easy pass-time in many lands, but it did grow monotonous.


But no. Saljeelus Makes-His-Way shook his head slightly. It is not good to dwell on a kill. Beneath his cloak his left hand released its habitual grip on the hilt of a sword and rested instead on the small leather book kept in an inside pocket. The time for blood was over. The time for mindfulness--for this was the name he gave his more literary hobbies--was now. To pay attention to the world was to know it and all its parts. To know the world and its parts was to increase one’s odds of survival. To do this was to serve Sithis for another day. And if he happened to record his observations in a bit of light verse, what was the harm in that? He withdrew the notebook from his cloak along with a big of sharpened charcoal. Opening to a blank page, he wrote Rain’s Hand 15 4e251--Alik’r desert with caravan at the top and began to scratch out lines of uncertain rhythm and varying meter.


“Hey! What’re you doing?” A little voice piped up beside him. The Argonian glanced downward at the source of the voice: a little Redguard girl and a tiny Khajiit, mane braided with little particolored bows.


“I am writing about the desert.” He said calmly. His disposition toward children varied by the day. In many ways he found them superior to adults, but in just as many ways they were inferior. Besides that, it was as likely as not he would be paid to kill them when they were grown.


“That’s weird.” The Redguard girl said , tugging at his cloak. “What’s your name?”


“I am called Makes-His-Way.”


The girl giggled. “You lizardfolk have funny names. I’m Sasha!”


The little Khajiit shuffled awkwardly next to her. “This one has never seen one of the Saxhleel before.” Saljeelus perked up at the use of that name--normally only Argonians knew any words from their native tongue.


“I’m surprised you know that word, little one. Where did you hear it?”


“Father is a trader. He knows many like you and speaks some of your Jel words. He tries to teach, but this one is not good at it. Your words feel too much like hissing. Khajiit only do that when they are angry.” She faltered, kicked at the sand, looked at her feet. “Khajiit is called Shadarzha.” She added hastily.


Makes-His-Way placed his book back in the folds of his cloak and tousled the Khajiit girl’s hair. Then he looked, blankly it seemed to her, at the little Redguard and said “You should be more like this one. Show courtesy to strangers. You could learn much.”


As he turned his gaze back toward the front of the troupe of merchants he noticed too late that everyone in front of him had stopped. Before he could stop himself he marched directly into the man in front of him, a burly Redguard with one eye. There was shouting up ahead, and Saljeelus thought he heard a sharp cry of “Halt!” The big man looked back at him and the two warriors nodded to each other and broke ranks, walking quickly to the head of the caravan to see what was going on. The children tried to follow, but he hissed sternly and they remained behind.


Saljeelus knew what was happening in an instant: as soon as he stepped out of line he spotted the familiar glint of elven armor and saw a towering man in Thalmor robes. The caravan had stumbled across a party of Thalmor agents, crossing the Hammerfell border illegally. “Be careful, friend.” He whispered to the towering Redguard. “Thalmor. This will end in blood.”


“It doesn’t have to.” The big man growled.


Fool. Thought Saljeelus, crossing his arms beneath his cloak, the right arm grasping his left blade and vice versa. When he was within a few yards of the Thalmor--three light soldiers and a wizard--he called out to them. “I did not know the Redguards had entered into relations with the Thalmor.”


The wizard looked from the face of the man he had been menacing to the advancing Argonian. He sneered and Saljeelus saw a little shimmer of flame flicker fleetingly into existence in one of his palms. He made a fist and quenched the sparks as he spoke. “There is much your kind wouldn’t know, lizard. Who are you to question us?”


Only a dozen feet separated Saljeelus and the big Redguard from the Thalmor now. “I am called Makes-His-Way. What have you stopped this caravan?”


“Come no further, Argonian.” The Wizard commanded imperiously, but Saljeelus was undaunted. He had a standing contract against the Thalmor. There was only one acceptable course of action. In a few more steps he was close enough to strike, and twin flashes of green-gold light strike out from beneath his cloak. The Wizard fell back, a spray of crimson jetting from his throat, and his attacker slid gracefully forward, ducking the startled strikes of the Aldmeri soldiers on either side of him and lunging at the third, a haughty-faced female. She drew her weapon, but Saljeelus countered with one of his blades and slid the other easily between the plates of her light cuirass. She sputtered and fell.


As Saljeelus turned his attention back to the other two, he saw that they had engaged the large Redguard, who had brandished the heavy steel battle ax he wore on his back. The Altmer circled him cautiously, rightly nervous of their armor’s ability to turn away that weapon’s crushing blows. The warrior gave a horizontal strike--but no, it was only a feint! As the soldiers stepped to dodge his initial attack he deftly turned the weapon and redirected its energy into a rising vertical slice. The soldier on the left tried to correct his dodge, but the head of the ax caught him by the chin and probably split his jaw. The Thalmor staggered and a second later the ax head fell and his world went dark forever. The other guard was too distracted to notice Saljeelus closing in on her. . .


“You could have gotten us killed.” The big Redguard rumbled, looming over Makes-His-Way as, mere moments later, he busied himself stripping gear from the fallen Thalmor.


“But I didn’t.” The Argonian answered distractedly, slipping an identifying signet ring from one corpse’s hand. “Besides, they were here illegally. They knew it. We knew it. They’d have tried to kill us to keep us quiet, and your own people would have done the same to them later on no matter what happened here.”


The big man grunted. It was his favorite response. Others from the caravan gathered around and began tittering worriedly about what to do next. Even if they were here illegally, more Thalmor could come this way and find them. What consequences would come about then they cared not to guess.


Saljeelus instructed them to remove all the clothing and equipment from all the bodies and hide them in one of the wagons. They would sell whatever armor was not damaged or obviously Aldmeri in Cyrodiil, and dump the rest in the first deep body of water they found. As for the corpses, the desert was full of creatures that would reduce them to anonymous skeletons before long. “And anyway” Saljeelus crooned, displaying in one hand the Thalmor signet rings he had taken “Without these, they’re just some hapless elves that ran into a couple of bandits.” He glanced at one of the rings, the one which felt like a tainted blight in his hand, and picked it up between two of his fingers. Offering it to the Redguard who had helped him, he said “Here. I cannot keep the ring. This was your kill.”


He took it, and examined it with silent puzzlement and then hurled it as far into the desert as his powerful arms could make it go. He stood for a moment, watching it, and then said “My name is Alerin.” He said. “And I do not think that you really are Makes-His-Way, the simple mercenary. But in cases like this I don’t like asking too many questions. I do have one, though. What were these elves doing here?”


“They were marching in open daylight, not even trying to conceal themselves.” The lead caravaneer, a Khajit and probably Shadarzha’s father, offered.


“Strange.” Saljeelus mused. “Thalmor haven’t been seen in Hammerfell in a long time. If they were here officially, they would have been using a road and not this confounded shortcut of yours. This gives me a strange feeling. I will travel with you a while longer than I planned, perhaps to Chorrol.” He paused and looked around. “If you will permit.”


The dozen or so caravaneers pretended to confer for a moment, but the truth was that only Alerin had any reservations about this wayward warrior. They agreed to let him travel with them until Chorrol, and even asked if he might accompany them further north from there, into Bruma, Skingrad, and eventually Morrowind. He declined this, though, saying only that he had business to attend in the south. They moved on from the site of the violence then, and did not stop until they reached the first stretch of grassy plains which indicated they were approaching Cyrodiil. Saljeelus walked in silence mostly, but his every step was shadowed by Shadarzha, Sasha, and big, glowering Alerin.

 

[RonetheSlayer]

Urhand breathes deep the salty ocean air, the ship's deck beneath hims rising and falling with the waves. Every other second, a Psshhhtt . . . . Pssshhhtt . . . . as the ship crashes through the choppy water. It was a cumbersome vessel, an Aldmeri Oer Calpa, a type of barge designed for long voyages across the sea. Commonly used by merchants, it was slower than Urhand had desired, but he had little choice at the time. Still, standing at the front railing of the ship, he wished he had found something faster.


"Hey! Come here and give us a hand with this!" A voice yells from behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he sees two sailors struggling with a stack of crates, trying to keep them from falling over. Stoic, Urhand strides over to the sailors and easily shifts the crates back into position, holding them while the sailors tie them more securely.


"Thanks fella." The sailors, a filthy imperial and an obnoxious wood elf, sit back against the railing. The imperial pulls out a pipe, and holds it out for the elf, who lights it with a small flame from his finger. The acrid smoke swirls from the pipe, the wind blowing it directly into Urhand's face. Accustomed to the toxic smoke of the slave furnaces of the pits, Urhand's expression doesn't change. The dirty imperial stares at the half-breed, curiosity evident. The elf smirks and stares out across the sea.


Urhand starts to turn away when the imperial speaks up. "The captain told us not to ask you too many questions, but I gotta know-"


Urhand's glare silences the sailor, whose question trails off into a mumble. The elf laughs and mutters "Fool . . ." as Urhand walks away, back toward the front of the ship. Regaining his position, he stares off over the sea, thinking back to his life before. Everything was different now. Everything would be new to him. Even when the Thalmor had showed interest in him, he had still been a slave. He went where he was told. Did what he was commanded to do. Thought what he was permitted to think. He had been nothing more than a curiously clever dog to them.


"Never again . . . " Urhand mutters under his breath.


Far ahead on the horizon, a thin line of green and brown peaked across the horizon. Land. He was almost there.


Pssshhhtt . . . . . Pssshhhtt . . . . . Pssshhhtt . . . . .


Under the tattered gray robes, Urhand's upper back aches. The seared flesh between his shoulder blades had started to itch yesterday, a good sign, if Urhand remembers his lessons correctly. A sign of healing.


He had made the descision instantly after escaping the vicinity of the Orguul Pits. He came across a trappers camp, and stole a brand out of the fire. Then, after getting a few hundred feet from the camp, he reached around with both arms, holding the burning brand level with his shoulder baldes. He took a deep breath, and pressed the flame against his back where he knew the mark of his slavery was. He held it there until the smell of his burning flesh sickened him, then dropped the brand. He felt the rage come over, fueled by his agony. He ran then, ran out of fear. Ran out of pain. Ran out of a desperate need to get far away from the life he knew.


Pssshhhtt . . . . . Pssshhhtt . . . . . Pssshhhtt . . . . .


A voice yells from above, "Captain! Dominion ships sternwise!"


Urhand's stomache plummets. The Thalmor had tracked him to the harbor. They had figured out where he had gone. Never one to linger too long on a descision, Urhand begins to gather his armor and all of his equipment into a leather sack. He ties one end of a rope around the top of the bag, sealing it. He ties the other end of the rope around across his chest.


The captain gives the order to slow down: the Dominion ship had hailed them to stop. Urhand didnt wait. He backed up, got a running start, and dived over the railing of the ship. The cold waters of the ocean erupted around his ears. He fought back a wave of violent shivers. Surfacing, he fills his lungs with misty air and begins to stroke, fighting the choppy waters. The sea fought him every inch of the way, as if to symbolize a final test, one final barrier between him and his new life.


And he fought back with everything he had.

 

[RedEarthRoamer]

The late-morning sun played gently on the faces of the countless leaves adorning Chorrol’s ancient oak. The mound of exposed ground beneath it shimmered in the shifting shadows set in motion by a gentle breeze and the grass was cool and fragrant as Saljeelus reclined there in the shade, eyes half closed, listening to the sounds of the town. Shopkeeps called out pitches for their wares, children’s feet raced along cobblestones, and people drifted by in groups of varying sizes, talking and occasionally laughing. Somewhere down town the rhythmic beating of a smith’s hammer kept time in metallic notes. He took slow, deep breaths, and rocked one of his feet back and forth to keep himself awake.


The caravan had arrived in Chorrol early in the morning, dumping the designated bits of Thalmor armor in a ravine near the border and not stopping until they were within the walls. He had tried to part from his companions then, but M’jadda, the master of the caravan, had insisted he stay and allow them to buy him passage from the stables. It was, he had said, the least they could do for that favor--for this was what they now called the murder of four Aldmeri scouts. He promised they would do this after selling off some goods, and implied that they would provide him with other gifts if only he would wait for them. So wait he did.


At some point he must have dozed off, for he didn’t hear the lithe, blond Breton woman approach. He started slightly, a hand making instinctively for his dagger as she intoned an over-friendly greeting in shrill singsong notes. “Hey there, sleepy-head!” Saljeelus grumbled something and opened an eye to inspect his visitor. All of five feet, slight of form, eyes, lips, and cheeks all heavily made-up: Colette Marin sat cross-legged in the grass, not three feet from him.


“What do you want, Colette?” Saljeelus growled. He did not like this woman. She was one of a set of three sisters--the youngest in fact. All of them had been orphaned, or had run away or been abandoned, he could never remember. They had been contacted by the reinstated Black Hand when rumors spread of three lovely young ladies ambushing and murdering nobles in the Illiac Bay region. They were all proficient killers, and Saljeelus himself had advocated for the eldest, Cyrielle, to take charge of the new Cheydinhal sanctuary a few years back. Delphine, the middle sister, was competent but quiet and had no interest in leading, so Saljeelus could at least sympathize with her. Colette, though, never seemed to do anything but in an attempt at getting attention. She played up what many suspected to be a latent psychopathy, but also affected the manner of what little girls thought princesses were like--brutally murdering a target, going far beyond what was necessary to extinguish life, and then holding a hand in front of her mouth and exclaiming “oh goodness, how uncouth of me!” She even wore her hair in pigtails. At the age of seventeen! Pigtails!


She cocked her head and giggled. Saljeelus felt his throat catch. Ugh. “That’s not how you greet a lady, you silly old scaleface. Don’t you even want to know what I’m going here?”


“If I were to go out on a limb, I would guess doing your job, Colette.”


She giggled again. “Kind of! The Black Hand reassigned me. Cyrielle told me I’m. . .” she leaned in and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper “working out of Chorrol now! We’ve had contracts against the Fighter’s Guild lately so they want more of us at the Sanctuary here to keep on eye on things!”


Saljeelus closed his eyes again and thought for a moment. “You shouldn’t discuss private affairs in public, Colette. It isn’t lady like.”


Her overlarge, earth-brown eyes widened and she raised a hand to her mouth again. “Oh goodness you’re right.” She giggled again. “But you still haven’t told me what you’re here for. Are we working together?”


“No” he said, hastily. “I am waiting. I helped out some caravaneers, and they promised to rent me a horse from the stables once they sold their wares. I’m going back to Anvil as soon as they do.”


“Oh look at you! So clever! No wonder Cyrielle and Delphine look up to you.” He noted that she didn’t include her own name. “I have a message for you, by the way. From the local boss.” She reached into the breast pocket of the bright pastel blouse she was wearing, and produced a note, sealed by wax stamped with the emblem of a hand: high level communique indeed!


Saljeelus snatched the note from her with a curt hiss. “You should have told me about this immediately, child. Do not forget that I stand several ranks above you.”


Colette winced at his rebuke. “Sorry” she said, the tone of her voice changing to a little girl’s wounded pout. “I just wanted to talk.” She stood up and turned to leave, slumping slightly and sniffling. “I’ll go now, then. See if there’s anything else for me to do.” Saljeelus said nothing, so she wandered off and vanished into the crowd.


Not ten minutes later, Alerin approached with Sasha and Shadarzha in tow. Saljeelus had slipped the letter into his cloak the second Colette had left, so there was nothing to suggest he hadn’t simply been dozing under the Greak Oak all morning.


“Khajiit greets you!” Shadarzha said brightly, plopping down next to him, exactly where Colette had been only minutes ago. Sasha, however, stood slightly behind and beside Alerin’s sturdy leg, apparently having contracted some of his mistrust for this Makes-His-Way character.


Alerin fished around in his pocket and produced a fat sack of gold. He tossed it lighty and it landed with a satisfying thud and the chatter of coins striking coins. “Your payment. M’jadda says that should be enough to get your hands on the best horse they have. You can keep whatever’s left. I’m also supposed to ask if you’re sure you don’t want to come with us.”


Sasha shuffled, and Shadarzha looked on him with expectant eyes as he sat up and grabbed the coinpurse. “No, I am sorry. I must leave as soon as I can.”


Alerin was visibly relieved, Sasha was impassive, but Shadarzha became distressed. “Khajiit wanted you to stay! Where do you have to go so quickly?”


“To Anvil, little one.” Saljeelus wondered if he should have said that, but determined that there was no harm in letting them know. The local leader maintained an old house called Benirius Manor over the site of the new sanctuary so he would simply appear to be a guest or housemate if anyone saw him.


“The caravan goes there when the leaves change color.” The little Khajiit said somberly. “Perhaps this one will see you then?”


Saljeelus chuckled. He had developed a soft spot for this little creature already. “Perhaps, child. But I must go now.” He stood and brushed some dead leaves from the back of his cloak. “Farewell, all of you.” And then, almost before anyone had noticed him moving, he too had vanished into the crowd.


Soon after, a taciturn Argonian paid a surprised Imperial stablemaster nearly two times the asking price for a fleet young mare. The stranger mounted the beast as soon as it was saddled and charged off to the southeast, ignoring the roads completely and bolting into the wilderness. “Crazy lizard.” The man muttered. “Going to get that creature killed, carrying on like that. Wonder where he's off to?” But the heap of gold coins weighing down his pockets drove all other thoughts from his mind before long.

 

[PKCV2]

Roughly fifteen minutes away from the Imperial City and into the stretch of forest lay a small camp that hadn't been there before. It was sparsely populated and decorated, two small tents and an empty fire pit was all that was set up at the moment. Even fifty paces away Freyja could hear the raucous laughter emanating from the camp, the laughing alone caused the woman to picture big, dirty, three-teethed scum that called themselves men, no doubt congratulating themselves on their most recent "catch". Freyja was crouched behind one of the many trees dotting the landscape, her wooden bow gripped tightly in hand, if the bow wasn't so well maintained the wood may have started to dig into the small palm suffocating the weapon. The bandits had taken down thing of value, the previous owner claimed to offer a handsome reward for it's return. The coin would help with travel necessities. If the elf wanted to make a change and knock the Thalmor to it's knees, a city such as the Imperial City would not be the place to start. It's value and centralized location would ensure that the High Elves would have the greatest number of troops there to keep it in check, smaller cities though...may not have the iron grip around them like the Imperial City...Freyja could only hope that was the case.


Preoccupied with their current gloating and raving rendered the bandits oblivious to the elf quickly darting from tree to tree, constantly moving to a new position until she was only a stone's throw away. Pulling an arrow from her quiver, Freyja nocked the arrow and drew the string back, pulling it taut, and taking aim. The two bandits say on the dirt ground, laughing away as their lives almost came to a close. Muttering her distaste under her breath, a hand at the feather-end of the arrow opened fully, letting loose the first arrow. Moments later the air completely changed. The laughter that once filled the air became replaced with gurgling and yelling as a mystery arrow embedded itself into one man's throat. Frantic hands pawed at the bloody arrow before falling lifeless, the bandit keeling over without another word, his friend jumping to his feet brandishing a wicked looking axe made of simple iron and a round shield. About twenty paces away, Freyja saw no need for concealment as she sprung to her feet, another arrow already nocked for flight, her eyes staring down the bandit with icy fury, a smirk settling on her lips as the bandit locked eyes, narrowing upon realization.


"If you wish to live then you'll hand over everything you've stolen." The elf's voice came out demandingly and sharply, her town clashing with the rather diminutive stature of the speaker.


Without a word the bandit let out a war cry and almost immediately two more bandits burst through the tents once thought to be empty, a man and woman, both Imperials. The male bandit towered over everyone around him, at least two heads taller, a graying beard hung thickly from his square jaw. The female wore iron armor from the helmet to her boots, the chest piece exposing her midriff. The man wore an entire set of leather armor, a gleaming warhammer secured in both of his hands while a sword was being twirled expertly in the hands of the female, an sign that this would definitely not be an easy battle. The arrival of the reinforcements deflated the confidence Freyja once had but she had come this far. Running off in fear would not suit her! Cowardice was not an option.


Quickly loosing another arrow, it uselessly clattered to the ground as it was deflected from the shield-wielding bandit who charged forward, his companions closely following. Eyes going wide, the elf's mind began to race. A straight up fight would end in disaster without question, the only advantage Freyja had was her agility and ranged capability, only she'd need to create space from the trio for that to truly become an advantage. Dancing on her toes, Freyja anxiously waited for the trio to come, the lead, shield-wielding bandit swinging his axe in a diagonal slash from his right to left, that was her opening. Freyja dove to the bandit's left and flopping onto the ground. avoiding the axe but then was out in a dangerous predicament as the hammer-wielding bandit slammed his weapon in an overhead smash but only hit ground, digging into the dirt as Freyja rolled away and scrambled to her feet, only a burning sensation flared in her left leg as she got up. The female waved her sword tauntingly at the elf, blood adorning it's tip. Without looking down Freyja already knew she had been slashed on her gimped leg. What shocked her was how quickly the female bandit was to actually cut her seeing as how she had to move around the hammer wielding bandit to catch the rolling elf. A look of bloodlust was present in the female's eyes as she surged forward, a wild scream escaping her lips as she became a whirlwind of blade, twirling and jumping as she brought her sword down onto the elf who could only scramble this way and that in frantic attempts to avoid any more cuts, her gimped leg only sleeping her by a bit as adrenaline flowed through her system. After what seemed like the hundredth swipe, Freyja found a lull in the action as the bandit swung into a tree. Using the pause she gripped her bow firmly in both hands, swinging it horizontally with all her might as she quickly sidestepped, the bow cracking into the side of the bandit's head with such force that the bandit's neck looked like an owl turning 180 degrees, dropping to the ground as dead weight.


"Two more..." An exhausted Freyja whispered to herself.


Seeing the failure of their companion the remaining bandits charged together, only this time the shield did not come in handy for one bandit as an arrow thunked into his calf, collapsing the man with a strangled scream and loud obscenities. Not slowed down in the slightest the hammer-wielding bandit shoulder blocked the exhausted elf, knocking her on her rear, dazed and in pain.


Freyja's vision had quickly become filled with the image of a large, leather-clad chest and shoulder, her entire body flying backwards upon impact and stars exploded as her hit the ground, her tailbone flaring in pain as she struggled to keep her eyes open. She tried to move but her limbs felt dead as exhaustion settled in. The crazy bitch wouldn't let her catch her breath in the midst of her tornado of steel. Now the sight of a hammer raised in the sky took center of her vision, it's bulky head staring down right back at her face, ready to cave it in. Before the hammer could be brought down, a sudden flash of steel burst into view and collided with the bandit, both disappearing from view. Grunts of struggle could be heard but Freyja couldn't move her head to see, she could only look at the sky as the world swirled before her. And before she could black out, something cold was pressed to her lips, it's small round opening let a red liquid pour from it and down the throat of Freyja. Almost instantly she felt rejuvenated and feeling slowly but steadily came back to her limbs. Being helped to her feet, Freyja noticed the now empty flask, a healing potion. Tilting her head upward she saw the helmeted face of Barius, a Redguard sergeant of the Imperial Army stationed at their city, him known for his short stint in the Arena some time ago when he had killed a duo of High Elves in one fight. From what Freyja had heard the two were Thalmor deserters and the Thalmor themselves captured them and forced them into the arena. Even if that was true the city knew him for killing Thalmor and getting away with it without penalty.


"Good good...you're standing already. I saw you leave for the forest and everyone hear knows what waits for civilian folk, it's too dangerous for the lot of ya. I just had to follow you and make sure you were alright."


Shooting daggers at the man, Freyja repressed the urge to snap at the man. If he had followed then he could have helped out earlier. "Well hope you were entertained with what you saw, I'm not an ordinary citizen...an ordinary citizen doesn't kill three bandits and lives against a fourth...even if one was saved. Now if you don't mind...help me collect their stolen goods...and handle the one with the arrow in his leg."


With that the elf brushed past the man, no longer concealing her limp. Once this chore was done then she'd have enough coin to venture away from the Imperial City. She just had to return the property and tend to her wounds, but she'd leave as soon as possible.

 

[RonetheSlayer]

Several times, Urhand glanced back toward the sea cog. The last time, he saw a column of smoke rising from it. They had likely been slaughtered. Innocent, hardworking men and women, more victims of the monsters he fled from.


He was close now to the shore . . . He could clearly make out the bland green trees and sandy beaches littered with debris from a recent storm. His body ached; his arms, shoulders, legs and back burned from the prolonged exertion of his struggle. Every stroke was agony. Not even strokes now . . . he flailed desperately against the waters. Was he just imagining it . . . or were the waves pushing against him now?


Urhand looks back. He could see the dark, sleek Aldmeri vessel approaching. The waters were definately pulling harder now. Subconciously, his half-elven instincts knew what was happening. He had seen such displays of power from his Ex-Masters before. Consciously though, he refused to accept it.


Exhausted as he was, he screamed out in fury, arms stroking madly. He kicked with everything he had. He stopped thinking. About the pain. About the fear. About everything except plunging one numb, aching arm into the waves after another. He started to hear the chanting, a unison of voices approaching through the chaos of the ocean. He couldn't breathe anymore now . . . his strokes just werent strong enough to keep his body up. So he focused on kicking . . . his vision becoming irrelevent as he plunged desperately through the water.


He feels feet scrape sand, then one of them sinks into the silty muck. Another quivering step lifts his face above the surface; another brings his chest up, his arms reaching out toward the trees-


Multiple crackles of energy burn through the air from behind him, striking the sand and shallow water around him, sending agonizing jolts through his already beaten, shivering body. His body goes even more numb, and he cries out as he falls foward, face smushing into the soggy sand. He hears a roar of laughters a ways behind him. He couldn't go back! He pushes up with his hands, the sand giving away beneath him. He tries desperately to rise and run. So . . . close though . . .





A bolt of crackling, sizzling energy explodes in the dry sand two feet in front of his head. A spray of hot sand blasts his face. A second bolt strikes his hand, burning a smoking hole through the palm. He hears something else now . . . the laughter has stopped. . . he hears . . . chink-chink-chiNK-CHINK!


chink-chink-chiNK-CHINK!





Fear overwhelms Urha. A strange burning come from his wrecked hand, a fierce heat, like his blood has started boiling. It rises through his arm, past his elbow, spreading across his back and chest. He feels the heat rush up his neck, and then.


Everything turns reddish; the waters sloughing past his face look like blood being sucked back into a great wound. The trees, their branches whipping out toward the sea, look like a wall of wicked orange flame.


chink-chink-chiNK-CHINK!





The half-breed, on the verge of defeat, lifts his head, pushing up with one arm. I AM FREE!!! AAAUUURRRGGGH!! The enraged man charges recklessly and maddengly toward the trees. Bolts of red-heud lightning cascade around him, sundering tree trunks into splinters. Towers of red flame fall around him. Arrows zip past him. Urhand keeps running. All the time thinking, I am free . . .

 

[RedEarthRoamer]

Ever onward rode the horse under the relentless guidance of its new master. Saljeelus raced through the wilderness, his steed proving amply agile as it navigated through the hills and forests outside of Chorrol. The Argonian’s cloak blew wildly in the breeze and he must have looked like some great flying demon, wings spread, rampaging through the wild. He did not stop until, some hours later, the trees broke and the terrain leveled out. The great city of Kvatch, on its mighty plateau, rose over the horizon though it was still too far distant for it to be more than a hazy silhouette. With a jerk of the reigns his horse came to a stop at the foot of a long, gently-sloping hill and listened. Silence. Utter and impenetrable. Even the wind had fallen still, and the birds and the beasts. It was as if Sithis had demanded they all sing out a silent symphony that his loyal servant would feel able to open the missive of the Black Hand. And that is exactly what the Argonian did. Withdrawing it from his cloak, he broke the black wax seal with its little hand-print emblem, and read the words, scrawled in a heavy hand:


Saljeelus,


Long have you served your Mother and Father, and always with honor and distinction. You are a brilliant, bloody beacon that your brothers and sisters might strive and struggle toward. With each breath, you draw in light and life, and expel back into the world darkness and death. Your esteemed service has not gone unnoticed, in our world or the Void. That is why you have been chosen for this most special task.


In the past, the Dark Brotherhood has toppled empires. The death of Cyrodiil’s Titus Mede II brought us back from Oblivion itself. And now we have been given another contract which may propel us into legend. You will not be the only Brother to work this operation, but you will be its spearhead. You were given this letter when you arrived in Chorrol, as we knew you would. Continue on your way until you reach Anvil. I will meet with you personally in the sanctuary when you arrive. This first of your tasks will be given to you then, and you will complete it without fail as you always have.


Hail Sithis!


And that was all. Saljeelus sat atop his horse in wonder for a moment, and then same to his senses. Holding the letter, unfolded, in one hand he conjured a small flame--a talent the Brotherhood required of those it would send paper messages to-- and stared as it leapt flickeringly onto the letter and consumed it. He could hear the will of Sithis surge inside of him like never before. Someone must have called for a truly monumental contract for the Speaker of Cyrodiil to have contacted him directly. And he was to take part in it? Lead the operation, even? What honor! His eyes gleamed and his heart raced as he spurred the horse back into action.


The poor beast ran harder then than it ever had before. Clods of dirt and flakes of stone flying at each hoofbeat, it thundered onward until its heart was ready to burst. Kvatch and its plateau slid by at a distance, never more than a piece of the scenery to the black rider. The sun kept its blazing vigil, arcing slowly across the sky. It sank below the horizon and then rose again to find that neither Saljeelus nor his horse had stopped even for a moment. The exhausted beast foamed at the mouth, and little trickles of crimson rolled back from its flaring nostrils but Saljeelus seemed untouched by time, as awake and eager as ever.


By mid-afternoon of his second day, the air began to smell of the sea and the rolling, golden hills of Cyrodiil’s western coast spread out before him, waist high stalks of golden field grass waving in the breeze of a coming storm which darkened the sky and threatened bedlam in rumbling notes. Then, as the first drops of an ice-cold rain began to fall with heavy splats on the ground, the walled city of anvil appeared, a gleaming jewel on the coast hidden until the last moment by the lip of a high plateau of hills from which Saljeelus was rapidly approaching. The harbor, he could see, was bustling as normal with ships sliding in and out of docks and the tiny specks of workers bustling like ants. On the horizon, well out to sea, a thin curl of smoke snaked its way into the air which Saljeelus wondered at for only a moment.


His horse hesitated for a moment as the ground curved downward sharply, but a hiss and a kick sent it on its way. The beast slid and stumbled but never lost its footing completely, and soon they were on the relatively flat floor of the coastal valley. The wind was picking up and the rain had begun in earnest, reducing visibility and forcing the rider to raise one arm, shielding his eyes from the slashing of the raindrops. Even in his hurry, the poetic portion of his soul noted the sweetness in the air, the scent of wet grass and the salty breath of the tide. When he had time next he would need to sit outside of the city and compose a poem in honor of--


“By Sithis!” Saljeelus ducked to the side as a bolt of livid blue lightning raced horizontally past his head. He could smell the scent of burning air in its wake and yet no thunder called out afterwards: this was no natural lightning. But the rain, now, was coming down so hard that he couldn’t quite be sure where the blast had come from. The city was still a mile or so away, so it was possible that it was a bandit ambush. But while he considered whether to stop and search them out for a vengeful blood-letting, or simply to push on, his horse gave a blood-curdling scream and lurched to a stop. Caught by surprise he was thrown from the saddle, careening forward over the animal’s head and tumbling through the air until he landed with a heavy crash, face first in the mud. The fall winded him badly and a sharp pain just above his stomach told him he may have broken some ribs, but he rose to his feet anyway and turned, issuing a long series of hissing Argonian curses.


The horse was dead. That much was clear by its blackened flesh and the stench of seared meat which spread pervasively even in the downpour. Beneath its charred remains was the prostrate form of an armored Altmer and nearby stood several more, staring now in wonder at their crushed comrade. Their weapons were at the ready, and one robed figure’s hands were sheathed in crackling energy. The wizard, leader as usual, shouted something, but the hiss of the rain and the rushing blood in his ears kept Saljeelus from hearing. A pair of soldiers split off from the small group around the heap of immolated carnage and ran off in what appeared to be a random direction. The rest began to approach the Argonian who had just interfered with their operation.


“Thalmor” he hissed, casting his cloak aside and drawing his blades. “Your timing is. . .impeccable.”

 

[LeSoraAmari]

Vytalas Corna, previous member of house Telvanni in Morrowind, now proud member of the Blades Order, lurked around the halls of Sky Haven Temple, the headquaters of the Blades since the time of the Dragonborn 50 years ago. Since then the order had expanded, having many strongholds around Skyrim and even regaining lost territory in other countries such as Cyrodill, capital of the Empire and hot spot of Thalmor activity. The Dumner stood beside Alduins Wall and studied each part contently. As Vytalas stood there quietly, admiring the beauty of the carvings on Alduins Wall, ge was approached by another Blades Agent, A red headed elven woman clad in the armour, sword and shield in hand. "Vytalas, The Grand Master would like to see you, she is in the courtyard". The Dark Elf turned to face the Agent, his hands behind his back as he nodded. "Thank you for notifying me, Aria. I shall go and see what it is the Grand Master wants" Aria looked at the Dunmer with a smile, before taking her leave. "After that... meet me for a drink... We have a lot of catching up to do" she then walked away, going elsewhere. As she did, Vytalas began the journey to the Courtyard.


Arias return was filling up Vytalas' mind, she was meant to have been on a mission and wasn't due to return for a month, yet here she was. The two were recruits together, training with each other and are famous amongst the Blades, the two always go on assignments together and with Aria being a full-fledged warrior, and Vytalas being a battlemage, there wasn't anything they couldn't do, they were dangerous on the field. "I'm indeed very curious as to shy she is back so early.. I will have the ask the Grand Master"


Eventually, he got to the courtyard where he saw many Blades Agents sparring, training and honing their skills and some even socialising. There were a few training with archery as well, firing arrows at the targets consecutively. Vytalas wrapped his hand around his katana sword as he walked to the Grand Master, taking a bow as he got to her. As he rose he looked at the woman dead in the eye. She was clad in full Blades robes which Grand Masters would normally wear.. Unlike the previous one, Delphine, who died 10 years ago due to illness. She would always wear her armour wherever she went, even to sleep.


"I'm glad to see you came so quickly.. There is a matter I would like to discuss" spoke the grandmaster, her tone was sincere yet tranquility had made it's home on her tongue. The human put her hands behind her back as she looked at Vytalas, her blonde hair was put up in a bun, braided plaits wrapped around it. "Grand Master Galatea, I am listening." Replied Vytalas as the woman turned, overlooking the view below, "There has been an increas in Thalmor activity across Skyrim, there is now at least a group of a couple dozen in each Hold, they have even set up a base of operations in Solitude under the new Emperor.. We can't let this continue.. In time, they will find this place and lay waste to it like they did with Cloud Ruler Temple.." Vytalas' demeanour changed to befit the severity of the situation. "My Lady, What would you require I do?" Galatea turns to look at her agent. "I want you to travel to Solitude and sneak into the Thalmor base of operations there and See if you can find any intel that may beneift our cause.. I give you permission to kill any Thalmor who get in your way.." Vytalas nodded and then turned, leaving the courtyard as Galatea said "Talos guide you on your journey.." And then resumed her duties.


Vytalas sighed as he packed any equipment he might need and then set out to Solitude. "looks like our little reunion will have to wait.. Aria."

 

[RonetheSlayer]

When Urhand wakes up, the first thing he notices was how stiff his body is. He grimaces as he raises his upper body up, muscles groaning from the effort. Wrapping his arms around his knees, he hangs his head down. Staring at the dark dirt beneath him, he waits for his memories to flood back.


He had ran for what seemed like hours, until eventually he had mistepped and tumbled down this hillside, rolling to a stop at the bottom. He passed out from exhaustion moments later. There was no telling how long he had slept here, but judging by the sun, it had been several hours.


Urhand looks up at the sky. Dark, bloated clouds were making their way overhead. A cool breeze was blowing, smelling of rain and the forests. It would storm soon.


The halfblood stretches on the ground, amazed by how utterly sore his entire body is. He stands, stretching his back. His left hand hurt the worst; the lightning spell had wrecked it. It wasn't bleeding, and didn't appear to be infected. Concentrating for a few moments, Urhand's right hand glows with a bright white light, which he places over his wounded hand. A warm, tickling sensation fills the wound. When he pulls his hand away, the wound is mostly sealed, though some burnt, charred flesh remains. He tries to cast the healing spell again, but can't muster the willpower to do so. It would have to wait.


Urhand trudges back up the hill he had fallen down. From the top, he had a good view of the surrounding area. He searches to the north, but doesnt see any sign of civilization. Gods, how far did I run?


He looks south then, and to his chagrin, sees a walled city in the distance. Ha! That must be Anvil! I ran past it. Chuckling at himself, yet releived all the same, Urhand takes a deep breath and begins walking towards his goal.


Just as the rain begins to fall, Urhand hears the sounds of rapid hoofsteps. He dives to the side, rolling into some bushes. He searches for the rider. Who would be rushing through the wilds like that?


A few hundred feet to his right, the source of the sound emerges. A dark figure atop a horse crests the hill, pausing to take in the scene, before continuing recklessly down the hillside. The rain picks up its pace.


A bright flash illuminates the hillside: a bolt of lightning sears pasts the rider. For the second time that day, Urhand's stomachs drops. On the other side of the rider, emerging from a thick patch of trees, the dark robed figure of a thalmor steps out. Urhand represses the urge to shout out a warning to the rider. I should run. Just run. Its not your problem . . .


Another bolt takes the beast in the side, sending the rider flying violently to the ground. The dying beast lands on top of one Thalmor, the sound of the elf's body cracking under the impact reaches Urhand's ears. The rider regains his feet quickly, two wicked blades whipping out, fearlessly (enraged more like) facing the Thalmor, who have emerged in numbers, fanning out to the sides.


The sight of the Rider taking his stand inspires Urhand, and his decision is made.


The half blood drops his pack, pulling his great sword out. The Orguul Great sword feels good in his hands . In truth, the now-free man had wanted this: these monsters deserved what was about to come their way.


The half-orc stands to his full height, lifts his massive blade into the air with one hand, and runs down the hill, the sound of the pouring rain somewhat masking his approach.


By the time the Thalmor notice him coming, he is already seeing red.

 

[RedEarthRoamer]

Fear. A very primal reaction, among the most visceral and ingrained of all emotions. Everyone knew it, everyone could describe it and it’s crippling effects on mind and body. No one could claim to have never felt the wild, thoughtless, beastial panic that wells up like a tide of toxic brine when one is faced with their death, or the belief that death is imminent. But though all have felt it, only a select few could claim to know it. Men and women like Saljeelus, for example, lived it and breathed it. The Dark Brotherhood worked in fear and blood the same way that an artist might work in acrylic, or clay. Saljeelus, in particular, considered himself a connoisseur of fear and a burgeoning expert in its study. Each and every race expressed fear differently and he had learned long ago to appreciate the subtle differences between the terror of Khajiit, of Altmer, Bosmer, Dunmer, Imperials, Nords, Bretons, of Orcs, of Redguards and Imga. . .


The elves before him were not elite. They were not dangerous. Not to him. But they were terrified. The images of their fear etched themselves into his mind with each strobing burst of lightning as they realized what doom they faced. As he had in Hammerfell, he slew one of them with the very drawing of his blades and struck at another without hesitation. As the others regained their composure they began to advance on him in groups, apparently assuming that this was some form of advantage. It availed them nothing: Saljeelus Makes-His-Way was no hatchling given to panic. He parried their clumsy blows easily with one blade, lashing out with the other, always turning and moving, always surprising. He would strike at one foe while staring down another. He would duck a blow and allow it to injure the aggressor’s allies. His only disadvantage was that the speed he maintained in the center of this circle of blades kept him from leveraging the power needed to finish targets quickly. His foes bled from half a dozen cuts each, and some began to succumb to their injuries. The Argonian made a special point of slaughtering those who tried to heal their allies.


The circle began to break up, their morale shaken. The wizard, who had remained outside and relatively helpless--unable to cast magic without the risk of roasting one of his soldiers--took advantage of the widening gaps in their formation. A bolt of magical lightning sizzled past, scorching a bit of Saljeelus’ cloak. The Argonian hissed a challenge and charged directly at the wizard, ignoring all other threats. He saw the Justiciar raise his arms and gather his strength and then, at the critical moment, Saljeelus reached out with one arm, sinuously strong, and wrenched a lightly-armored soldier from his place to the left, dragging him diagonally into the wizard’s line of sight. It all happened so quickly that the magician was unable to stop himself from releasing his spell and twin blasts of electrical energy crackled over the hapless Thalmor. He fell, smoldering, to the ground and for a moment all was silent. He could almost hear them thinking, wondering what manner of warrior this was. And that was when the monster came.


With a deafening roar, a tremendous hulk of a man--man? elf? orc? Saljeelus was not sure--thundered onto the battlefield, his every footfall leaving a small crater in the mud. The screaming mountain of muscle and wrath collided with the wizard, striking like a tidal wave and sweeping the elf out of sight. Saljeelus and the other Thalmor heard a deep bass bellowing which didn’t quite drown out the horrified screams of the Justiciar as his life came to a brutal end at the hands of a warrior who wielded a claymore like a weapon half its weight. A second later the mad brute was upon the main body of the Thalmor, lashing out with a bone-rending sweep of his mighty blade which took its target off his feet and nearly cut him cleanly in half.


“It’s him! It’s the prisoner!” A woman’s voice called out.


“Doesn’t seem like much of a prisoner to me. . .” Saljeelus muttered dryly as the surviving Thalmor fanned out and split ranks, some staying on the Argonian and some moving towards this new menace. “And his timing really is impeccable.” The assassin’s blades flashed out, parrying blows with precise movements designed to set his enemies off balance. Blades slid across blades, the gleaming green of his malachite swords shining eerily in the dim light of the storm, now held up to stop an attack, now sliding exactly between plates of elven armor. One oaf charged recklessly, mace raised up, but Saljeelus slashed at both her thighs at once. She dropped to her knees and, wielding his precious little twins like scissors, he beheaded her neatly. Over his shoulder, he could hear further carnage being wrought as one by one--sometimes two by two-- the Aldmeri fell to the barbarian’s blade.


“Come now!” Saljeelus called loudly. “Is there no worthy prey left in all of Alinor?”


In response to this taunt one warrior, in heavier armor than the rest and wielding the curious combination of a mace and a war ax, stepped forward and clashed his weapons together. The others stood back, formed a loose half-circle, and began to cheer. The heavy warrior rushed in and swung his ax in a sweeping, downward stroke which Saljeelus parried easily with both blades. Not so much the blow of the mace, which followed immediately on the ax’s heels and sent the Argonian reeling. His foe followed up immediately with a wild sweep of his mace that knocked Saljeelus off of his feet. As he fell he released his grip on his swords and rolled to the side to dodge a heavy boot aimed at his head. Then he sprung to his feet and charged, unarmed, at his gloating foe. He dodged a surprised swing of that hooked ax, and then seized the warrior’s arm with both hands. He yanked it then across the elf’s chest and, still holding it firmly, struck deftly with one knee just behind the warrior’s elbow. The Aldmeri heavy gave a prolonged, grunting cry as his arm snapped, dangling uselessly in its armor. Enraged, the warrior tried to fell his foe with the mace again, but Saljeelus avoided the clumsy strike, whirling behind the warrior, drawing his bone dagger, and sinking it repeatedly into an exposed section of his back in a series of fluid motions. The juggernaut grunted again at each blow, panted, and then fell.


Saljeelus clucked his tongue as he sheathed his blooded knife and walked calmly over to his short swords . “So nearly a proper fight.” He armed himself again with those wicked twin fangs and turned to face the few remaining Thalmor. The hulking man from earlier had done his work well and Saljeelus wondered who he was, what he was doing here, and if he would have to deal with him next. For the moment though, a small number of Aldmeri troops still lingered uncertainly. The Argonian blinked calmly. “Well? I would say its your turn.” He crooned as the remaining Thalmor exchanged glances and marshaled themselves.

 

[Dark Elfling]

Ales groaned when yet another wolf attacked her. Not even bothering to slow down, she simply waved her hand and sent a chain lighting spell to it, the electricity jumping from it to it's fellow companion quickly, immediately frying them. She was so sick of traveling, it had been days since she'd started her journey from Riften.


"Perhaps this wouldn't have taken as long if you actually knew where you were going." She muttered to herself, her voice muffled by the piece of cloth wrapped around her head that acted as her mask. In all honesty, Ales was planning on just going to Solitude but so far all the cities she'd visited in Skyrim have been almost identical in her eyes; same politics, same prejudice, same EVERYTHING. It was just boring. Hopefully the Blue Palace would provide some fun?


Ales had briefly considered going back to the Dark Brotherhood, but she knew they wouldn't accept her back, especially not so soon after she left.


Sighing, she pulled herself out of her thoughts when she arrived at the gates of Solitude. "Hello, boys." She greeted the guards, tossing a bag of gold at each of them. She wasn't in the mood to negotiate entry into Solitude, and she already knew they'd give her trouble about entering the city, Ales was hardly the image of propriety.


The guards briefly glared at her for her cheeky greeting but the gold kept their mouths shut and the gates open.


"Blue Palace, here I come." Ales said with a smile. She was ready to cause havoc and this was the ideal place to do so.


((Not quite sure where to start off...))

 

[RonetheSlayer]

After his initial attack, four thalmor split away from the others, forming a semi-circle between Urhand and their comrades. He stood there, panting heavily, he maddened eyes twitching between each elf, waiting.


He knows which one is gonna attack first, leaping towards the thalmor to his right just as the elf dashes forward to stab him with her spear. Holding his great sword in his right hand, he spins left, the blade reaching over the spear before she can extend it. The top part of her unarmored head rips off, spraying the other three in blood and brains.


Urhand finishes the spinning leap, seamlessly turning it into a strut, blade held in his left hand, dripping blood. He sees one of the thalmor stiffle a gag, the smell of it's deceased comrade's vitals filling his nostrils. Urhand dashes toward, left arm swinging the blade from low left to high right. The sickened elf flinches, panickely bringing his longsword to defend low. In one smooth motion, Urhand pulls back on his blade and rotates his body and head down and to the left. Using the weight of his blade to fuel the rotation, he groans with exertion as he brings the greatblade into a vertical arc. The elf steps back just too late, the last few inches of the greatsword's tip slicing through his leather armor and cutting into his chest bone. He reels back, clutching his chest and making sick gurgling sounds.


The other two thalmor rush him, anger etched across their faces. Urhand roars in challenge, and rushes toward to meet them, swinging his great blade above his head with one hand. The elves split at the last moment, diving to his sides as his sword cleaves the air they had been standing in. He dives forward, though not before both elves get a cut in on each of his sides. He doesn't feel the pain, only the sensation of being sliced. He spins as he rolls back onto his feet, to see the thalmor again rushing him. He moves quickly towards the left, causing the elf on the right to move towards his ally. Just before Urhand thinks they are gonna split up, he changes direction, moving foward and right while spinning left, both hands grasping his greatsword. The elf on the right ducks under the swing, but the closest elf, the one on the left, had grown confident, thinking they had the momentum. The great sword slices straight through his armor, sinking into his torso down to the spine, before sending him spinning backwards, a torrent of blood spiraling off him.


The elf on the right immediately ran foward after ducking, and urhand feels his longsword imbed in his right side. Still, no pain. Urhand reaches out with his right arm and grabs the elf by the throat, powerful fingers squeezing. The elf grabs Urhand's forearm with one hand, while trying to pull out his imbedded sword with the other. Urhand squeezes the elf's throat harder, raising him off the ground and bringing his face closer, staring the poor bastard in the eyes. In the elf's last few moments, Urhand sees the progression from disgust to panic to horror. One final squeeze and the elf's throat collapses, and Urhand flings the corpse to the side.


Urhand looks over as the argonian stabs the armored oaf savagely in the back, who immediately falls backwards and down. Urhand uses the pause to catch his breathe. His upper body glistens from sweat, and several red lines crisscross his chest and back. Five thalmor remain, standing uncertainly around the argonian, who now openly mocks them. He was an incredable swordsman, dead bodies surrounded him. Urhand is about to dash forward and take the hesitant elves by surprise, when a massive bolt of lightning catches him in the chest. He stumbles backwards and crashes into the ground.


[dice]6614[/dice]


(+1 because I was already raged) No insanity today.

 

[RedEarthRoamer]

A flash of lightning, a roar of pain. At the same moment, as if fueled by the nearby discharge of sizzling magical energy, Saljeelus sprang again. In the space of two heart beats he crossed the ten feet to his next victim and plunged both short swords into his chest, crossing them somewhere inside. The four survivors, one a spellsword Saljeelus had mistaken for a common soldier, converged on him then. Blades clashed and armor clattered but Saljeelus came out the victor--one foe, disarmed, turned in a panic but fell limp as a blade severed his spine. Another drew his last breath when the Argonian thrust his sword up through his chin and the third threw down his weapons in surrender. Saljeelus executed him on the spot anyway, not even hesitating to consider his actions. “Sithis calls you home, child.” He whispered.


Just then a searing pain exploded across his back and he fell, muscles seizing and mind reeling. “Xhuth!” he hissed in Jel. “Waxhuthil! Kajthux-e Nightblade!” He had forgotten the spellsword--what shame! He spent a moment rebuking himself as he tried to rise to his feet. It must have been a high-level spell: all Shadowscales were bombarded with destruction magic as part of their training and he had long since learned to bring his muscles back under his own control after a basic electrical attack. Yet here he was, gasping and struggling to remain on hands and knees.


The sound of light boots squelching toward him through the mud accompanied a sneering laugh. “Well you are a vicious little creature, aren’t you? I’ve never seen someone move faster than one of Kaladalf’s spells, or stand up to Adralil and not be turned into some form of pâté. Oh and Andraginia, our swift little rogue--you know, when you slipped your blades into her ribcage it was the first time she’d ever been wounded in battle?” The Thalmor, a woman with a voice like ice, stopped somewhere behind him. “But here’s the thing. The first was my mentor. The second? My lover. The third. . .was my sister.”


Saljeelus laughed hoarsely, but stayed where he was--now was the time to watch and wait for opportunity. “Who are you to take the moral high ground? How many teachers and lovers and sisters have your kind slain, simply because they weren’t High Elves?”


“Dog!” Another blast of electricity, much weaker but still painful, wracked his body. “And what motivation did you have for this slaughter?”


“You killed my horse.”


“Your horse? All this for a horse?”


“Well, and, you see. . .” He took a deep breath, pausing for a dramatic chuckle “I get paid to kill Thalmor.”


“How dare you, you filthy piece of bog water trash?!” The elf screeched, and Saljeelus smelled ozone in the air again. “I’ll put you back in the mud where you belong! I’ll--” And then there was a wet noise, like a heavy rock hitting a melon. Her words trailed off into a series of sounds somewhere between gasps, coughs, and vomiting Then her body fell next to her would-be victim, helm hewn in half and head split down to the jawbone.


“They can never just do anything” said a gravelly voice, in between heavy panting. “They have to go on and on about it first. Damn Thalmor. Even after you turned half their friends into sausage filling right in front of them, they’re still so arrogant.”


Saljeelus waited in silence for a moment, and when he did not die he hazarded to rise to his feet and face his savior. He was not surprised to see that it was the enormous elf-thing from earlier. He nodded towards the mountain of sinew and said “Well met,” affecting the cold, neutral tone he took on with strangers.


The big man knelt next to the freshly-created Thalmor corpse and use the dark robes under her armor to wipe the bloody mess off of his dull green blade, eyes gleaming with exhilaration. A rare grin spread across his normally stoic face, which looked to Makes-His-Way like one of anticipation, and release. He looked up at the dark clad Argonian, his expression growing slightly more serious. "Do all lizard-folk fight like you? I'll stay away from Blackmarsh if they do."


Saljeelus grunted and turned around to set about slipping signet rings from the fingers of the Thalmor he had slain. "I could not tell their blood from the rain when you fought.” He said after an awkward silence. “You end lives with much enthusiasm." He paused, turned halfway around, and absently counted the rings in the palm of his hand. "Who and or what are you?" He squinted through the slackening rain but still could not comfortably decide: Elf, or Orc? Or something else?


The brute tilted his head back, eyes closed, feeling the rain cascade on and around him. Not caring if the Argonian would even understand, he sighed, "I . . . am free. Just free. For the first time in my life, my destiny is of my own making."


Saljeelus ignored this remark and went back to collecting signet rings. Eventually It occurred to the other man then what the dark swordsman was collecting. He knew well the rings adorning the Thalmors' viscous fingers. Why collect them? Mind still fuzzy from the waning rage, he decided he did not care for the time being. This suited Saljeelus just fine. “What is your name?” he said calmly after another moment or two.”


The big man seemed uncomfortable with this question, and attempted a healing spell instead of replying. The spell failed, though, and he grumbled. "Gods, I was saving this but . . . " He dug in his leather sack for a moment and produced fist-sized bottle of red liquid and downed the potion in a single massive gulp. As his wounds begin to slowly heal, he spoke again.


"I was being sentimental. I'm a half blood, we will leave it at that I think. Forgive me if I keep my name to myself for now."


Saljeelus shrugged and stood up, pocketing his shining golden trinkets. "Fair is fair, friend. But that Thalmor witch called you a prisoner. You don't have to tell me what that was about, but it does suggest you might not have anywhere to go." He paced deliberately around the wanderer and wonderer. Should he extend an invitation? The invitation? He had been given the authority to do so when he helped restore the Cheydinhal sanctuary. "There are many opportunities in Anvil for those skilled in the art of dealing death.” He said at last. “Might you be heading there?"


The half-breed narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips for a moment, thinking. Saljeelus stood there, swords sheathed, hands harmlessly in the pockets of his cloak, guessing at the other man’s thoughts. The lizard-kin had not shown any signs of being a threat to him personally, but certainly possessed the potential to do so. He hasn't looted the bodies entirely, just took their signets. Odd. He could almost see the conclusion being made in his mind: there was more to this dark swordsman than met the eye.


He nodded to the Argonian, "It’s where I was going to rest, yes, before moving on further north. What kind of opportunities do you mean?"


Saljeelus tilted his head but, being Argonian, none of his subtle facial expressions were particularly easy for smooth-skins to read. "You are comfortable with violence." He reaffirmed. "And you seem to have no goal, no home. Further, you have a healthy hate for the Thalmor it seems. The people I work with, we are often paid to kill Thalmor." Saljeelus withdrew the rings and held them out in an open palm. "That's what these are for. Proof of the deed." He approached the strange man, this half-breed as he called himself, and nodded toward the vague silhouette of Anvil through the curtain of slackening rain. "I'll tell you what. Come with me into the city. I'll buy you a meal and a drink and a few nights at a good inn. From there, you do what you want. But if you thirst for more Thalmor blood and seek a little more. . .permanence, find me at a place called Benirus Manor, in the city."


Urhand stared incredulously. Saljeelus could see the realization on his face again: Paid to kill Thalmor? This I want in on! Who is this swordsman? Or what is he? An assassin? A mercenary? No . . . something more . . . But he shook his head. He could not accept what his heart told him about this strange wanderer. "Very well.” he said “Lets go to Anvil together." Can I get paid for the Thalmor I killed?" he asked.


“Of course, my friend.” Saljeelus said in more friendly tones. “But you are not eligible for this contract yet, as you do not work for my colleagues and I. I’ll tell you what, though. Give me the rings from the Thalmor you killed. I’ll drop you off at an inn I know, go turn them in, and be back with your share of the money.”


The half-breed shrugged now, accepting the deal at face value. Either Saljeelus would keep his word or he wouldn’t--the big wanderer didn’t have much to lose. So he collected his rings and Saljeelus dumped them into his pocket and then the two of them dumped the bodies in a small pond a hundred yards or so off the road. By the time they were done the rain had stopped and the late afternoon sun was shining in bright streaks through the milky remnants of storm clouds. Exhausted, the pair decided to leave the burnt horse and the Altmer beneath it as a puzzle to any passing roadsman. Someone would ask questions about that, and maybe if it was a guard on patrol they would even discover the other bodies. But Anvil was a big place and, Saljeelus reassured a stranger for the second time that week, without their rings they’re just a bunch of luckless Elves.


They arrived at the city gates just as the sun was setting the western horizon ablaze and Saljeelus led his new companion to the Count’s Arms. It was one of the more poche inns in the bustling port city, and expensive as well. But he had plenty of money left over from the Khajiit, even after he had blatantly over-paid for that poor horse, and the other man looked like he could use a proper bed.


“Barkeep!” Saljeelus called, motioning for Urhand to sit at a nearby table. “Some food and drink for my friend. And three nights in your cleanest bed.” He reached into the Khajiiti coinpurse and dropped a fistful of septims on the bar counter before joining the half-breed. “Here.” He said, sliding into a seat next to him and giving him the coinpurse and the rest of its contents. “That’s a few hundred coins, and if all else fails the bag is a hand-made Khajiiti purse. You could probably sell it for a little extra in a pinch.”


“Hey, where’d you get this?” The other man said admiringly, holding it up to inspect the designs on the cloth.


Saljeelus just shrugged. “I travel a lot. I meet all sorts of people. Have a rest here, though. I have to go and meet with my associates. It might take me a few hours--I guess they have another job to offer me” he tossed his head nonchalantly toward the door, trying to minimize the importance he had attached to his upcoming meeting. “But you should have about six hundred septims coming to you for helping me out earlier. I’ll be back with it as soon as I can.”

 

[PKCV2]

The sun was still high in the air, shining it's rays upon everything on the land. The sky was clear save for the occasional mass of clouds, a light wind swept through the landscape of tall grassy plains with only few trees dotting the land, as usual the wildlife freely roamed. Rabbits scampered, wolves hunted, but most importantly...the deer, elk, and moose idly milled around the wide expanse of green, ready to be picked clean for food. One elk in particular stood out from the rest, it's hide thicker than the others, it's mass bigger than the others, it's visible muscles showing it's health, but despite the seemingly perfect nature of the wild animal, it was not keen enough to sense the arrow primed for death.


Almost 50 feet away stood Freyja atop a low hill, her horse quietly grazing behind her, saddle and travel bags secured onto it's back. While Freyja had used her coin reward to purchase extra arrows, potions, and pouches of water, food was not among the list of purchased items as her hunting skills could surely keep her alive. The elk continued to mill, the elf continued to aim, the world seemed to stand still as if waiting on Freyja herself. A single arrow was loosed and time resumed. A moment passed...then the elk collapsed with a strangled cry, a wooden shaft sticking from the side of it's head. Breathing a sigh of relief that her aim remained true, Freyja slowly hoisted herself onto Maximoff, her dark brown horse, and rode to the downed elk.


Unmounting her horse, Freyja pulled her jagged dagger and began to skin and pick the now dead animal, stuffing the bloody hide and meat into separate bags for later use.


Almost an hour later the strikes of hooves against dirt filled the air as a lone rider wearing what looked to be a wolf pelt over her head, the empty head fitting comfortably with the small head of the rider. Freyja absentmindedly steered Maximoff down the dirt road, her mind wandering from thoughts of who paved the dirt roads she traveled on now to thoughts of mighty dragons raining hellfire upon the giant cities of Skyrim. The sky changed from the gentle blue to a myriad of afternoon colors. Purple, yellow, pink, and more filled the sky as the visible rays of the sun filtered throughout the openings of the masses of clouds. The rhythm of jerking up and down from the galloping horse was quickly putting the mind of Freyja to sleep, her eyelids threatening the envelop the world in darkness but she pressed on, half-determined to at least reach a village or town of some sort, someplace to sleep safely for the night. Eventually the elf found herself at the gates of a small village and she willed her horse to a slow trot, head swiveling tiredly to search for the promise of an inn. For now all she could see were crops, herds of animals, and farmers getting in their last minutes of tending to their crops before night.

 

[Dark Elfling]

"Well, maybe this wouldn't have happened if you weren't F*CKING MY WIFE."


"I WOULDN'T TOUCH YOUR WIFE WITH A TEN FOOT POLE!"


Ales giggled happily when she heard the bellowing coming from the throne room. She was causing much more chaos than she intended here and it was wonderful. She hummed happily as she hopped over the various corpses littering the floor and slipped out the castle, only to encounter a hoard of guards waiting for her. Sighing, she didn't bother to wait for their little spiel, she simply raised her hands in the signature pose of defeat. "Take me away, boys."


***


Ales was jerked out of her sleep when she heard her cell door open. Tensing up, she eyed the guard who was holding the door open suspiciously.


"What is this." She said, her voice sharp. Her sentence wasn't due to be up in quite a few months.


"Someone paid your bail, you're free, scum." He growled, clearly displeased that she was getting out.


Ales wasn't sure who it could have been since she didn't know anyone in this city but hey, never look a gift horse in the mouth. She darted out of the cell, hastily grabbing her possessions and slipping out of the prison...only to run straight into an unknown woman who she assumed was the one to post her bail. Sizing her up, she gave a grandiose bow. "Madame, thank you for your kind deed, I am ever so grateful. Ales is at your service." She said, smiling warmly at the stranger as she prepared to attack her at any given moment. Her hands tingled as the electricity pooled under her skin, ready to be unleashed at any second. Skyrim wasn't known for it's kindness, depending on what this stranger wanted in return for setting her free, she may have to go back to jail.


@RedEarthRoamer

 

[RedEarthRoamer]

“Hello, my Dark little Sister.” The woman smiled, a slight twitch of her lips just beneath the shadows cast by her hood. “I remember you. But I think it's best I keep my identity secret just now.” She shifted, a layer of tattered brown cloak rustling in the wind and revealing a hint of a black, hand-shaped emblem emblazoned on her garments beneath. “You did quite a number at the Blue Palace. And not for any real reason, either. Just wanton slaughter with you.”


The sorceress gave a wry little grin and crossed her arms, not even bothering to hide the gathering sparks in her fists. “An admirer, are you?”


“Something of the sort.” The cloaked woman extended an arm, and a thin, pale hand protruded from the cavernous sleeve, offering a sealed note. “You always were such a nasty little witch. If you want, I could put that malice to good use. Give you a family, and a purpose. . .and no particularly religious strings attached. All you need do is take this note, and follow its instructions” She stood there then, stock still, waiting imperiously for the other woman to take the note. She would do it, this shadowy emissary knew. It was inevitable.


@Dark Elfling

 

[Dark Elfling]

Ales cocked her head, intrigued at at what this stranger was offering. She assumed by 'religious aspects' she was referring to the brotherhood. Hmm, it WOULD be fun if there was an organization started to rival the Dark Brotherhood, imagine that!


Pleased with where this was going, Ales took the note, her sparks making the ends if the paper fry a bit but not enough to set it on fire.


Skimming through the letter, Ales's eyebrows rose with each word she read. "Oh. Oh! I see..." She murmured, a pleased smirk appearing on her lips as she finally allowed the sparks in her hands to die out.


@RedEarthRoamer

 

[RedEarthRoamer]

"Excellent." The woman crooned. "Follow those instructions to the letter. Let no one escape your wrath, and bring me the item asked for in that note. I am sure we will be in touch again soon, but for now I have rather a full garden of bloody little flowers to tend to. . ." She took a few steps backwards, toward the low wall running along the edge of the raised section of city the Castle Dour stood on. Below citizens wandered, going harmlessly about their business. "Oh, and one more thing! Please, take this." She extended her other hand and revealed a small jeweled amulet for a moment before tossing it at Ales. "It will allow us to communicate telepathically. Just in case."


A hawk flitted past, and in the space of the moment that its shadow dimmed the sun, the woman was gone. But Ales heard a whisper in the back of her mind as she contemplated her next move: "Impress me, and be rewarded. . ."

 

[PKCV2]

Freyja urged her tired horse forward in failure to pick an inn out from her immediate surroundings but a man, looking almost as exhausted as the elf herself called her attention. Thankful for the opportunity for her horse to not expend energy trotting, the elf flashed a small smile to the man and took the folded letter from the loose hand, letting his comment about her name slide without comment. Tracing the folded lines absently with her thumb, Freyja tried to remember the last one she had gotten a letter. Her family never really stayed in contact with her...she was not seeing anyone in her spare time...she doubted the men at the Imperial City cared enough about her to write. Raising a slender index finger towards the sky and opening her lips the elf intended to tell the courier that she had no friends that would write to her...much less argue about her name to a courier but the man was already retreating, back towards the elf, and without a single objection, still on horseback, Freyja carefully unsealed the letter to meet beautifully written words complete with loops and curves that immediately reminded Freyja of her higher kin. With a slight frown tugging at her lips, she skimmed through the letter.


"I don't know you, you don't know me...wants to destroy Thalmor...agents...employ...offers...war...Anvil...more agents working there...scrolls...great, old things that can hold great power...uh huh..." Freyja muttered to no one in particular, horse flicking his ears at the sound of his rider's voice.


Storing the letter inside a pouch hanging from her belt, Freyja directed the horse in the direction of Anvil, urging the horse forward despite protest. They could rest later but for now the tantalizing idea of joining a cause actually working to rid the Thalmor from their seat of power clouded judgement. Adjusting her furry hood, the horse broke off to a full sprint, it's hooves thundering along the beaten path, the tired rider leading the charge.


Some time later that could not be measured due to the state of mind of one Freyja, she and found herself inside Anvil after crossing the bridge connecting the city to land on the other side of the body of water, her horse had been taken to the stables for rest. Wolf hood still on, Freyja finally finished her quest to find an inn by shoving the doors open to a building named the Count's Arms or something daft like that. Chucking to herself she made her way towards the barkeep, asserting herself as someone not to be messed with, her bandaged leg causing her limp to become more noticeable than ever.


"Haha...Count's Arms...why not something like The Hairy Beast...no...oh sir! I'd like a room, however expensive I don't care." Whipping out a bag of coin the elf threw it into the counter and shuffled towards a staircase...those beds were so close...

 

[RonetheSlayer]

After the shadowy argonian walks off, Urhand moves to a secluded, less crowded corner of the inn. He snuffs out the candle on his table and the empty table next to him. From the confines of his darkened corner, he takes off his boots, using an empty chair to prop his feet. They were blistered from neglect, the long swim immediately followed by the prolonged running had wore his feet bloody. The warm air of the tavern felt good on them.


A young serving boy approaches him, rosy cheeks and ready smile betraying his utter innocence. He stands across the table from Urhand.


"You gonna want any food, fella? Got some mutton that been smoking all day."


Urhand says, "I'll take a big cut of the mutton then, and some potatoes and bread. And some greens I think too. Yes . . . yes and some cheese! Juice or water as well." The boy nods and walks off, disappearing I to the backroom.


The common room of the inn was a decently busy, with the largest cluster of patrons occupying the two long tables across the way from where Urhand sits. A scattering of smaller, quieter groups fill most of the empty spaces in between.


Off to Urhand's left, a few tables away, a trio of dour looking men sit, backs hunched as they lean in whispering. One of them raises his voice, " . . . so then I says to the Captain, I says, "Whose gonna protect your little secret from the elves after I decide it ain't worth the money you is giving me anymore, eh?" And you know what he says, guess what he says? He says, "You've blackmailed me a long time now. I ain't doing it no mo." Weeellll we just gonna have to see about that, eh? What's he gonna do, eh? Send the brotherhood after me? The fool ain't got the gold, or the nards he he . . ."


The man's voice trails away as he begins whispering again. A few minutes later, the servingboy brings his food and drink. Urhand spends the next couple of hours eating, and ends up ordering two more helpings. Stuffed and miserable, he pays for his food and drinks and a room for a couple of days. He sways up the stairs, collapses into his bed, and falls asleep.

 

[RedEarthRoamer]

There were always a few Brothers and Sisters loitering around Benirius Manor, usually between missions or hiding out after a blunder had gotten the city guard’s attention. The Dark Brotherhood had grown such that Saljeelus couldn’t know all of their faces, but he did trust Surrius enough to know that nobody would simply be lounging on the property if they didn’t belong there. Knowing this, the Argonian nodded to the pair of men in casual attire, one sprawled across a bench and the other sitting at the edge of the porch. They had been conversing, but stopped as he approached.


“Hello, Brother.” One, a High Elf, said. “Surrius says you need to see him straight away--a special friend has come by and wants to catch up.”


Saljeelus nodded silently and headed for the door. So there it was. If the letter hadn’t been proof enough here was a verbal message, secondhand through an initiate, but from Surrius himself. His pulse raced as he opened the door. Immediately inside a middle-aged Imperial man, hair cropped short and greying at the temples, was sitting at a stone table in the foyer, alternately reading a book and crunching on an apple. At the sound of the door he glanced up and flashed a smile, his crow’s feet deepening with the sincerity of his joy. Surrius Turranus.


Though Benirius Manor had been purchased on Brotherhood funds, and the deed was usually kept in the local Speaker’s name, Surrius was a close to an actual resident as it got. He oversaw the local sanctuary, and was the ranking member who received communique directly from the Speaker. He had been a nearly legendary killer in his early career and was well liked among Brothers and Sisters. Even Saljeelus, who preferred not to be more than lukewarm towards anyone, was rather fond of the man.


“Saljeelus, old friend. Sit down, sit down. I’m glad you’re here. I presume you got my message?” He scooted a chair out from the table with one leg, not bothering to stand. Saljeelus accepted the offer and, as he sat, dropped his fistful of Thalmor rings on the table. Surrius’ eyebrows raised and his smile shifted from one of rakish wisdom to one a proud father might wear. “That’s rather a lot. Been busy?”


“I didn’t go out of my way, Surrius. They just kept cropping up.”


Surrius chuckled. “They have a way of doing that. Well this, plus the pay for your actual jobcomes out to. . .mmm, quite a lot I’d say. You’re going to drain the coffers here!”


Saljeelus stretched and shed his cloak, letting it fall across the back of his chair. “I give as good as I take. I might have a prospective member for us. A barbarian I met in the valley outside of town. He’s some sort of half-breed and he fights like a rabid bear. A lot of these rings are his. I intended to give him the gold to try and whet his appetite. He has a thing against the Thalmor.”


“Well, well. Our most beloved Shadowscale is quite the all-star! Killer extraordinaire, and part-time recruiter to boot.” Surrius laughed sincerely and bit into his apple again, putting his book down and pushing it aside. “We’ll see about your new member in a little while. But first, you have a rather pressing meeting to attend.”


Saljeelus leaned forward, not bothering to hide the eagerness in his eyes. “He’s here now? Where?”


Surrius tossed his head over his shoulders, indicating the next room, where the door to the basement was. “He hasn’t been waiting long, don’t worry. He showed up about half an hour ago, and said you’d be here soon.”


At that, Saljeelus stood up abruptly, hands visibly shaking. “Then I’d better get going” he stammered. “If he’s asked for me by name I mean, I. . .”


Surrius laughed again. “Settle down there, my little protege. You go up there like that, he’s liable to think you have a crush on him.” He leaned in close and cupped his hands over his mouth, whispering exaggeratedly “Not that I’d judge, but just between you and me, I don’t think he doesscales.”


Saljeelus snorted half-heartedly. “if you’ll excuse me” he muttered.


“Sure, sure” Surrius waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll have your coin ready for you when you’re done.”


The way to the Sanctuary was in the basement. Saljeelus had once been told that an old necromancer had a hidden chamber down there, and that portion of the house had become the anteroom for the Brotherhood’s operations. The entrance to the necromancer’s chambers had long ago been disenchanted and replaced with a Black Door, and additional tunnels and chambers had been carved out. There had even been some lingering spirits trapped in that room which had been handily converted into guardians, which watched with leering eyes from dark corners as Saljeelus strode through the dank gloom and spoke the phrase to open the Door.


Inside the actual Sanctuary, a number of assassins were going about their business. They immediately recognized the black-scaled Argonian and helpfully pointed him to the torture chamber, where the Speaker was waiting in all his sanguine splendor.


“Hello, Saljeelus.” He said, cordial but quiet. He had been busy interrogating a captive Thalmor and did not bother to turn around when he perceived the Argonian’s entrance.


“Speaker.”


The robed figure did something that elicited a groan from the Altmer chained to the wall, then rose and, quick as lightning, cut the prisoner’s throat with a concealed dagger. “A valuable asset, I’m sure. But no one must know what I tell you here, today. Even the most insignificant loose end is too much risk to bear.” The Speaker, for this particular agent never went by his true name, turned and smiled grimly. “It is time, my Brother.”


Saljeelus straightened his posture, and tried consciously not to fidget. Some part of him was ashamed to be so nervous, but. . .


“I won’t mince words.” The Speaker was continuing. “I am here to name you my Silencer, and give you the first of a series of significant contracts.”


Silencer? Saljeelus nearly choked. “I. . .am honored. What would you ask of me, of your Silencer, my Speaker?”


The Speaker approached, gaunt face ever hidden in shadow, and laid a hand on Saljeelus’ shoulder. “Return to the Inn. Pay the barbarian, and seek out the Bosmer. Part of the parameters of this contract is that you invite them along. You will be going to a small island to the south. This island, though unnamed by modern scholars, is home to a ruin of great significance, once known to the Ayeleids as Ulas Alatar. It is now home to a rabble of pirates. You will slaughter them for the glory of Sithis and retrieve an ancient scroll from the depths of the ruins.”


“Speaker, I will obey your command but. . .what Bosmer? And what shall I do with this scroll?”


The Speaker, mysterious as ever, made silently for the door. “You will know the elf by her shattered gait. And as for the scroll. . .all in good time.”


And then a flicker of dark magic washed over the Argonian's eyes, and the Listener was gone, leaving his new Silencer to process everything that had just happened in solitude. Mere minutes later, he was walking the streets of Anvil, heavy coin purses dangling at his hips, the cool evening air doing nothing to clear his head. Eventually he returned to the inn where he had left the Urhand fellow. There he rented a room and left instructions for the innkeeper to have Urhand and any Bosmer he saw wait for him in the morning before finally retiring.

 

[Dark Elfling]

Ales was practically purring in happiness at her new assignment. Now this was what she loved; not the childish Dark Brotherhood tasks, just 'kill a limber jack' or 'kill this maid', no she liked a challenge. And a bunch of thalmor led by a sorceress, oh this was like a dream come true!...Now if only she could find the dream.


The note said she was looking for a cave near the abandoned embassy but she'd been here for an hour with no cave to be found. Sighing, Ales checked the note once again, looking for something she must have missed. And of course, she was so caught up in her excitement, she completely overlooked the 'hidden in a corpse of pine trees'. Idiot. "Alright, pines, pines, corpses of pines? Ah! Here we are." She muttered to herself, exasperated that she'd wasted an hour on something that wad right in front of her. No wonder the Nords missed it when they emptied this embassy, it's very well hidden. Ales absently wondered if there was a ward on it to protect it from eyes that don't know what they're looking for as she entered the cave.


***


Oh, Sovengarde take her, this was ridiculous! Ales groaned as yet another Thalmor attacked her. A few hours had past and she still had not encountered Andrana Amalus. Exasperated with how long this was taking, Ales's control snapped and she unleashed a large wave of electricity, all of the thalmor in her line of sight frying instantly.


As the bodies drooped to the floor, Ales's joined them as she collapsed in exhaustion. That spell had drained a vast amount of her magic to the point where her body now physically ached.


"Well, that was a bit unnecessary."


Ales closed her eyes, hoping the voice behind her was not who she thought it was, because the timing could not have been worse. Slowly turning around, she sighed.


"Andrana Amalus. I've been looking for you."


@RedEarthRoamer

 

[RedEarthRoamer]

"It's Amulus, dear. With a 'u'." Andrana's ruby lips curved up into a smile, so very near sincere, and her left eye sparkled pleasantly as she stepped with precision and grace over the corpse of a fallen soldier. She tilted her head to one side, inspecting this curious-looking Elf who had invaded her home, and as she did her shimmering bangs fell away from her sculpted, doll-like face and revealed an eyepatch on the right side. "Dear, dear" she said in a voice like gentle music. "All this violence. Could you not have just asked for an audience? I can be quite obliging you know, but it will be difficult to move more soldiers into this outpost without someone noticing."


Ales rose achingly to her feet and sized this supposed sorceress up. She was pretty--too pretty, looking more like the idealized work of a lonely painter than an actual woman. She was looking around now, her golden hair flowing over her sumptuous silk robes like a river as she counted the dead and clicked her tongue.


"Such power. . ." she whispered, raising a delicate hand and pointing a sharp, violet-tipped finger at Ales, shaking it accusingly. "You're no pure Dunmer, are you? I can tell. You have Altmer blood in you. A half-breed. I'd heard stories about the power of hybrids like you. My father would be interested in meeting you." She waited for a response, for even the smallest hint of curiosity, but Ales only raised her hand and readied a spell. Andrana shrugged her slender shoulders. "Ah, so it's going to be like that?" There was a flicker, a pulse of potent magic which radiated out from Andrana herself and all at once the air was filled with the sounds of clattering and groaning as the recently slain Thalmor rose to their feet once again.


"Come on, boys." Andrana called coyly to the magically-animated corpses. "Who wants another try?"