18+ Passing the Veil

[Wolfie]

Passing the Veil​

18+ Open Roleplaying Thread​

Author: Wolfie​

It is Morndas, the 17th of Last Seed, 4E 201. Rumor will quickly spread concerning the remaining carnage of Helgen after the dragon attack. Four people have survived the event: Ulfric Stormcloak, General Tullius, and two ex-friends from Riverwood who now fight on opposite sides of the war. Killed in the carnage was a horse-thief and an unknown trespasser from Cyrodiil. These four will make their mark upon the world, in time.

Welcome, fellow Travelers of the Forums, to Passing the Veil, one of a small number of roleplay threads featuring the Dragonborn's adventures. Unlike most threads that one may consider similar, Passing the Veil is not about the power, uniqueness and struggles of the Dragonborn, but rather the powers, uniqueness-es and struggles of all people of Tamriel. This is a thread where power is taunted, bonds are tested and values are raised to one of the highest features of one's being.

This story begins like any other: in a tavern.

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Candlehearth Hall was full of life, this night. A Nordic family was celebrating their daughter's sixteenth birthday, and it seems like most of the Nordic population in Windhelm had decided to arrive and spend their night drinking to the girl's health.

Idoma Petirus was not a stranger here. Windhelm had opened it's arms widely to her presence this afternoon, and she had spent the remainder of her day, since journeying here, at the market and the harborside. She loved the harborside, although the populace of Argonian dock-workers and the underlying and unmistakable stench of garbage and kelp was enough to drive her away after a while.

She had initially arrived here, today, to investigate bounties. However, she had gotten distracted as she walked inside. Windhelm is an old and proud city, despite claims of crime and racism directed at the management of the city by Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak.

Elda Early-Dawn did not question Idoma's presence, although the woman's gaze seemed more keen and suspicious than Idoma felt is normal. She had ordered watered-down jazbay mead, which was a favorite amongst common-folk here who are not fond of the Nordic variety of strong swills.

Now, she sat at a chair alone from any table, next to the fireplace – relaxing, her foot twisted around a single strap of her knapsack, listening to the rumbling of conversation around her. The fire heated her right side, leaving the left feeling cold and barren.

The tavern shook when the front door closed. Voices rose and fell downstairs. Intrigued, Idoma stood, picking up her knapsack and cradling it to her stomach, and setting her beverage to the side of the chair, on the floor. The firelight lit her appearance, giving her a strangely callous appearance. Her hair, black as a deer's eye, was not set up into it's usual style and position; instead, it hung down, just barely tickling her collarbone, unreasonably curly and waved from being released from their normal braided style. Her skin was colored pale, contrasting with her wide, light-lidded eyes that gleamed clear, dark green in the light of the single candle.

Idoma made her way downstairs. There is no use of sneaking in an inn, after all, and no reason she should be shy about making her presence known here. As she stood the first step on the steps connecting the first and second floors, she heard the first bit of dialogue between Elda Early-Dawn and an unknown voice.

“..may not return. And if he does, then it means war.”

Elda paused for a moment before replying. “We are already facing civil war, ser.” She paused for a long moment. Idoma paused, in the middle of the steps. She could see Elda's face, now.

She spoke with a man with pale, buzzed hair and a thin, weak goatee that would make any Nord cry out with shame. He bore light clothing made of blue and tan fabric, but it seemed heavier than it's appearance would claim. Many important couriers often wear chainmail or leather underneath their garments in the case of road-side combat. This may be one such courier.

He did not wait for Elda to slowly churn out a reply. “Yes. And we cannot face possible invasion without a leading defense force.”

“Foolish.” Elda's cheeks was beginning to turn into an ugly beat-red color. She appeared uncomfortable. “Impossible. Even legends would avoid Windhelm.”

Idoma watched, frozen there in interest. Invasion? Somebody returning meaning war, although they may not return. “We”. Legends. What legends?

“Not this one. If what he said is true, ma'am, we may have to evacuate” The courier shifted his position. Frost was still clinging to his clothing. He seemed eager to leave. “I just came to warn you, ma'am.” He watched her with a dull expression, eyes are careful as a cat's. Of course. He'll want payment.

Elda seemed to come to this conclusion as well. She reached into the coinpurse on her belt. Idoma began to move back upstairs before the tavern-keep notices her. Although it was an interesting conversation that she had witnessed, it did not give her any work to do. In fact, all it gave her was questions with no answers … and those were the kind that she preferred to not answer at all. They were like fantasy stories – fantastic to think about, but disassembling them serves no purpose except to breed frustration.

She settled back down into her chair and returned to listening to the voices around her. The wood walls of the inn, and the flooring, shuddered again as the door to the tavern slammed closed once more.

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Regarding Joining and Participating in this Thread:​

Joining requires:
- Fair use and understanding of the English language, including that of grammar and vocabulary variety. I hope to see semi-advanced -to- advanced posts here.
- Usable of swear-words and adult-oriented vocabulary is permitted here, as this is an 18+ thread. However, please do not focus on adult-oriented scenes and do not overdose on swear-words.
- A descriptive character bio must be available; please do not post it in this thread, but rather have a link to the post ready in your signature.

Other things to be aware of:
- If you are going to be absent for any amount of time, please let us know via an OOC post in this thread. It doesn't take much time to do so, and it would help keep this thread alive.
- Plot ideas, concerns, and questions [etc.] should be first PM'ed to all members in the thread via a conversation message, including myself, so that 1) we may first discuss this and it doesn't spam the thread with OOC posts, and that 2) everyone is updated, and questions/concerns/ideas will not be repeated by other members.
- Constructive criticism of each-others posts is always welcome! Just make sure to be respectful and mature in your OOC posts.

​

Thank you ~​

~ Wolfie​

 

[AS88]

Iver listened as he traipsed back up the stairs, drinks in hand. The courier, wearing his Hold's colours over some aged-looking mail, recited the news that he'd already heard in the streets over the past few days. Something was happening, but nobody seemed sure what. Reports and rumours were conflicting.

Concentrating on maintaining his balance while handling his fourth and Torbjorn's sixth ale of the night, Iver at first paid no heed to the lithe figure inching her way down the steps, but he noticed her. As they took their steps closer, Iver's blurred mind cleared slightly, his eyes fixed upon this person of interest. He recognised her from somewhere, her dark, curly hair and vivid green eyes, and that armour. He gave a brief nod and smile as they passed by each other, and Iver retook his seat at the table with Torbjorn and Stenvar, who had just returned from escorting an alchemist or some such traveller to Riften. Their table was close to the stairs; the upper floor was full of people for Lyssa's birthday and to celebrate her invitation to the Bard's College in Solitude. Iver sat at the peak of the stairs, able to peer down and watch patrons and they came and left. No more than a minute later, he saw the woman again, coming back up the stairs.

She seemed to be deep in thought, or at least trying to appear so. Had Iver had no interest in her, he probably wouldn't have noticed her swift and quiet trot towards the final few steps behind him. He wasn't sure if it was the ale speaking to him, or something else, but he had to find out more about this woman. Everything about her seemed measured, intended. There was just something about her that made Iver feel more... awake.

The woman reclaimed her seat by the fire facing away from Iver's table, alone and seemingly content that way. The Nord stood, and took a few steps across the old oak floor before softly sliding a hand across the top of the back of her chair as he bent down ever so slightly and spoke as he walked.

"He's not the first to bring that news, m'lady. Something's afoot, for certain. I'm heading to the kitchen for a sweetroll, would you care for one?"

 

[Wolfie]

Idoma's mind sputtered thoughts, spattering questions at the walls of her brain. It made her uncomfortable; the fog that it shoved at her, muffling her eyes and covering her eyes like a frosted lense, was intensely distracting. She sought to clear her mind from it, so she initially returned to her ale. It was, to her tongue, an ugly and thick, strong drink, much unlike Cyrodiilic meads. Nevertheless, it was the only drink that she had on hand, and the nearest option to clearing her mind.

If the Nord hadn't been speaking as he neared her, unwary as she currently was, then the might have instinctively driven a dagger into his throat. As it was, she did not at first realize that he was speaking to her. She listened all the same, focusing on a single comment amidst this rambling of speech going on around her – both throughout the tavern and inside her head.

“He's not the first to bring that news, m'lady.” She came to the realization that he must be speaking to her, as there was no other woman near her. Idoma's shoulders stiffened slightly as he neared and placed his hand on the back of the chair. “Something's afoot, for certain.” Was he reading her mind? Who was this man, and why was he speaking to her? She ought to ask him herself. “I'm going to the kitchen for a sweetroll, would you care for one?” His breath smelled of Nordic ale.

She turned her head and torse to look upwards at the man. Like many Nords, his physique hinted at a great amount of underlying strength, lying beneath a set of simple clothes. Clusters of thin strands of brown hair fell away from his face, streaked with greys which gleamed in the light. Brown eyes sat leveled underneath bushy eyebrows, and he bore a thick beard that spread past the collar of his shirt.

The appearance of a stranger was an intrigue to Idoma. Although many strangers, in both Cyrodiil and Skyrim, speak to each other in inns and taverns, it did not often happen to her here in Skyrim. No doubt she had seen him somewhere in the city beforehands. She doubted that anyone but an attentive guard could recognize her armor during the daytime, which she often wore at night when returning a bounty. She didn't do such quests around these parts, however, seeing as Ulfric's guards would already be on high-alert. It was a danger that she was not yet willing to take.

It didn't matter whether or not she could trust this man. He seemed as if he'd already had enough bottles of ale – she'd tip if she had more than two of the beverage. She was a woman who enjoyed fine wine and exquisite mead, although she could hold neither terribly well.

She had drank about a third of her first bottle of ale, at this point in time. A sweetroll seemed a fair addition to it. “That I would, ser. And thank you.” she added, attempting to return the respect that he had shown her.

 

[AS88]

“That I would, ser. And thank you.”

The acceptance felt tense, almost rehearsed. Iver's fascination with this woman only grew as he headed down the stairs and rounded the corner to the serving kitchens. She seemed on edge, and the look that had flashed across her eyes as his hand touched her chair would have frozen a lesser man to the spot.

A couple of minutes and a handful of Septims later, Iver's boots made the climb back up to Candlehearth Hall's first floor. The Nord's eyes studied the woman, partly visible behind the building's chimney stack, as he made his way back to his new acquaintance. Her right leg and shoulder were locked in place, and something about her body language portrayed someone just waiting for an excuse to fade back into the night. What was keeping her here? Iver had watched many a rogue up and leave almost as soon as their presence was acknowledged, while others seemed to draw attention willingly. This woman seemed to not fit either mould, so what could she be looking for? Iver instinctively checked his pouch, fastened to his belt, and felt the rewarding resistance an enclosed full coin purse provides.

The time to speak more was upon them, just as another patron vacated a seat by the fire. Iver drew it closer to the woman and took a seat.

"One sweetroll, ma'am. Would you mind if I took the weight off here?"

 

[Wolfie]

The longer she sat there, the more Idoma wished that she were outside in the chilling silence of Windhelm. Something deep inside of her heart was beginning to cry for the thrill of walking amidst the night, yet again. She had no bounties, and had not yet found any rumors of crime from her visit to this inn, however, leaving her stranded in a strange city with no clear path to walk.

The Nord returned; his voice initially announced his arrival. She turned her head as he spoke, looking at his face. She was unsure what to think of him, and had decided to cautiously await more information about him, given time. “Would you mind if I took the weight off here?” he asked her. Idoma gave a light shrug. What was she to say? “Yes, it's fine,” she replied, taking the sweetroll. The firelight to her side vomited light upon a scar between two fingers on her right hand – a would already caked with a pale plum-red scab that stretched across her hand until it seemed to be a glistening strand of hair laying upon her wrist.

She did not care about revealing her scars; many Nords, despite their superstitions, did not bother asking about such wounds unless they were particularly remarkable, seeing as many Nords are warriors. In a tavern, however, something like that small, visible scar could cause slight intrigue. Nonetheless, it did not seem to bother Idoma, who simply nudged the elbow-length leather gloves that sat on her lap. She looked at the man, not studying but rather … watching. Watching and waiting. "Do you live here?" she asked, attempting conversation. "In the city?"