Private The Tsaesci's Foray (TTF)

[Gorzash]

As Gorz twists to face the Breton, he detects the slightly build man outfitted in a dismal black ensemble. It cannot be mistaken: he is a Nightingale, a sentinel who patrols Nocturnal's shrines and a patron to those versed in the art of stealth. A bold statement to wear that in public... ponders the Orc. The man presently inspects him with a bedeviling glare, arms crossed over his chest in impatience. His posture, however, suggests that he is just passing by, and Gorz feels the Nightingale's ominous presence dispense along with him. Gorz retraces his focus back to Trenya, whose words have jumbled without meaning through his preoccupied mind. As if to save him from his from this moment, a familiar Nord's voice barks monotonously, "Next!"

Falk beckons with impatience for Trenya to approach the sign-up table, and the half-startled Breton jumps forward to answer.

 

[Allet]

"Yes, unsavory customers are Ahsamiir's specialty." The Khajiit stated with a chuckle. A few thoughts rushed through the beast's head as he finished this particular conversation with a hopeful "Perhaps this one deals with a different crowd than sir Orc, but these scaly things will receive a joint thrashing this one thinks." His paws flexed, eager for another chance to test their mettle against new adversaries. Ahsamiir mistook this for fidgeting though - he pulled out a small vial of some unknown substance and took a swig as he turned around.

"This Nord is noisy," Ahsamiir notes, peering at the man in Nightingale armor "though he dresses in rare rags. A silly ne'er-do-well like Khajiit, this one assumes?" A curious gaze passed over this garbed creature, stopping for a second at the bow. Ahsamiir wagers he's a good shot, but he is no Dark Brotherhood buffoon. "Suffice it to say, you use weapons as well?"

 

[Ajones2323]

With the letter from Lady Elisif in hand, Tove made his way to Dragonsreach. He'd been there time and time again to receive the rewards the countless bounties he had collected over the past years. This time felt different however, he couldn't help thinking of the days of his time in the Imperial Legion, and it left a bad taste in his mouth. He put the thought aside as he was nearing the stairs to the palace. He could already hear a commotion inside from the base of the stairs.

When he made his way inside and was astonished to the amount of people who had already made their way into the keep. Archers, swordsmen, mages, healers and many other types of fighters were all assembled in the halls of Dragonsreach. After studying the faces of the warriors for any sign of a familiar face, his gaze came across a most peculiar group of soldiers. A giant of an Orc, a Khajiit, Breton, and a man wearing what looked like shadowy armor. Tove decided to engage conversation with the group to find out more about what was going on. "Can one of you tell me what's going on here," Tove asked to the group of unlikely companions, "I've only just arrived in Whiterun earlier today?"

 

[Gorzash]

Gorz slowly loses interest in Trenya as the Breton responds with assurance to Falk's rapid-fire questions about "what he has to offer the militia," and so on. The Orc meets the eye of the fourth peculiar stranger he's met today. This one's presence seems to gravitate the respect of others in the room, polar to the nearly unnoticed chameleon of a man that Gorz probed earlier.

The Nord that presently approaches him rather cautiously seems to have no need for acting this way. Looks like he could match me in a brawl... the Orc silently reckons to himself. After apprehending the situation - he had been mindlessly staring at the man as he calculated - Gorz decides that it is his own aura of awkwardness that drives the Nord's careful step. He ventures to correct his oafishness with a greeting hand held out: "Hello, there, native. Ahh... what brings you here?" Gorz only realizes the stupidity of his question after it has been asked.

 

[Ajones2323]

Tove grasps the outstretched hand of the orc with his own, noticing his strength even in the handshake without making it known. " I received a letter instructing me to make my way to Dragonsreach. Only it didn't include a reason why. It seems as if everyone else here seems as clueless as I am, and you seem to know what's going on, so what can you tell me?" Tove asked the massive Orc.

 

[Gorzash]

Thankful of the Nord's acceptance - or was he himself the only one thinking so much about his awkwardness? - Gorz begins, "Ahh, you'll never believe it..." His countenance contorts into a grim form as he continues, "...but Solitude was attacked. And captured! I've been told that there was an invasion by a certain people... the Sah-se-kai, was it? Oh, the 'Tsaesci,' yes; that's it."

The Orc is about to continue, when Falk's harsh beckoning call reaches his ears. His massive sack of goodies pulls his left side toward the floor as he struggles to lug it toward the sign-up table. As Falk initiates his bland interrogation, Gorz catches, from the corner of his eye, two of his new acquaintances - the cat who called himself "Ahsamiir", and the Nord he had recently addressed - picking the conversation he had just discontinued.

 

[Ajones2323]

With the absence of the Orc, Tove turned his slightly awe-struck gaze toward the now silent Khajiit. "If this is all true then that means we're all here to fight these Tsaesci things back to wherever they came from?" It was more of a statement than a question. "How did they go unnoticed in the safest city in Skyrim?" This was a question.

 

[Rathalos_lord_of_the_sky]

Trenya looks around at the scenery.
(Wood lots and lots of wood... Not good for a castle. This resembles a boat in an odd way flipped upside down and brought ashore. But we're far from any large body of water so the possibility of dry docking is out... I wonder why it is like this? Did somone drag a boat all this way just to build a city around it?.. Meh it's prolly just a design thing. I've seen one other building in town that looks like this.)

"Is binn béal ina thost"

 

[OldLace]

Mum-mra had not expected to tumble into a battlefield, but that was exactly what happened. She had made camp in the silt of the Sea of Ghosts, sleeping in the water under a sunken canoe. She had to fight two slaughterfish for bunking rights, and did not plan on giving up her hard-earned campsite; so she spent the most part of a week under the sea, foraging for salmon and kelp lunches and finding amethysts in the ocean floor. So relaxing was her time away from civilization that she was teen entirely by surprise when, upon surfacing, she was taken prisoner by hissing snake-demons. So confused was she that she did not even have time to fight before she trussed up and put to sleep with only words (dragon's speech? Mum-mra thought, right before slumber overtook her.)

She woke up some time later, lying on a stone floor in the dark. Adjusting her glowing eyes to the gloom, she could just make out that she was now in some sort of stone room with one exit, no windows; she was still tied up, and she was not alone. A lump of person lay to her left, left untied but still out like a candlelight. Mum-mra cleared her throat, a nasty hacking sound, and hissed at the person.
"It will wake up, yes? It is still alive?" She said, wriggling her legs over to try to smack the thing awake. "Mum-mra hopes to not be alone in such a confusing situation." She was quite sure that she had surfaced in Solitude, and last time she checked there were no such monsters in the high city of Skyrim. One spends one week underwater, she thought, and everything goes to Oblivion.

 

[Ri'tai The Wordsmith]

Ri'tai opened his eyes, and proceeded to curse every Divine, Daedra, and any other god that would care to listen. "Ohh, why? A trail of bad luck seems to wait for me in every corner." He felt for his elven sword, and, as expected, it was gone. As was his skooma stick. But, he was not defenseless. He stood up, and hunched over. He retched and retched, until he threw up. However, along with the bile, there stood a weapon. Sure, it was only a steel dagger, but it was a start. He had other weapons concealed in ever more clever ways, but he didn't want to reveal secrets just Yet. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed another creature. A scaly one.
Almost instinctively, he bashed the thing to the floor, and kneeled over it, his dagger pointing to the things chest. "Tell me what you want from me, and I won't kill you painfully." He growled. He doubted he could even kill these Tsaesci creatures, but he might as well try. They seemed to show reluctance in killing him before.

 

[OldLace]

Mum-mra drew back and hissed at the blade held at her, more from the dreadful stench than fear. Though her armor had been taken from her, most likely because of the blindingly obvious enchantments, the demons had foolishly left her her civilian gear- though not as glaring, the simple bikini and skirt were enchanted to provide more protection. She glared instead at the cat that had retched the thing. "It thinks I will attack? In such a state?" she asked incredulously, glancing down at her bound form. "It acts too quickly, not giving its brain a moment to work. Put your blade down, Khajitt, you have more important things to threaten at." Going back to trying to wriggle her way from her binds, she grumbled, "Demons, even. And not even the dremora kind, which would be simple enough…"

 

[Gorzash]

"Name?" Falk asks tiredly.
"Ahh, Gorzash gro-Karthul," replies the Orc, making a noticeable endeavor to straighten his posture.
"Age?" fires Falk without fluctuation of tone.
"Forty-seve-"
"And, what can you offer the militia?"
"Well, I, ahh, am pretty good with warhammers, and, ahh, bounty hunting has been my occu-"
"Head to your right, up the stairs, and through the gates. The guards are organizing the ranks."
Gorz wavers slightly off-balance as he begins to schlepp himself away from his newly made comrades.

​

The Great Porch is a bath of light and architectonic beauty. He cannot help but contrast the
fresh, outdoor air he inhales pleasingly with the grim countenances of the draftees. There's
thousands... thinks he, as the dreadful image of these men crumpling to corpses in battle flashes
past in Gorz's mind.

​

He struggles to focus in on the here-and-now. Quite disoriented by the shifting ocean of militiamen, he is beholden to the second Whiterun guard whom has guided him today: presently, the man in a yellowed cuirass offers, "You, Orc, you look lost. Looking for your company?"

​

"Ahh, yeah. If you could just show me where to go, I'd be thankful."
"Sure, won't be a problem." The man replies hurriedly, an agitated air about his voice. The guard peers with preoccupation through the myriad of soldiers. "Right this way."

 

[Allet]

As the Orc left the room, Ahsamiir slowly approached Falk. His whiskers twitched at the infernal smell of hundreds of ill-bathed mercenaries that had passed through this one checkpoint numerous times throughout the day. The feline struggled to hold the instinctual urge to barre his teeth and hiss at the smell of lizards that had undoubtedly come before him; whether by minutes or hours, it did not matter.​

​

"Name?"​

"Ma'Dran"​

"Age?"​

"Twenty eight."​

"And what can you offer the militia?"​

"Does it matter?"​

​

​

The processing agent furrowed his brows and glared at the Khajiit, obviously unsure if this was smart-mouthing or a blatant truth. Before he had a chance to speak, the Khajiit slinked by effortlessly, dropping a small satchel of coins into the man's pocket.​

​

Ahsamiir follows the scent of Gorzash and comes into the Great Porch. A grand sight this would have been, had the poor cat not met one of his grueling near-death experiences here. Regardless of the past though, this place was crowded enough to offer some momentary safety and a nice chance to scope out his non-fellow mercenaries. He was the only Khajiit on the Porch at the moment it seemed, which was rather depressing. Ahsamiir comes along side the Orc and mutters "This one might as well follow you."​

 

[Gorzash]

The Orc is slow to notice an innately stealthy Ahsamiir at his side; his only hint is the cat's
silky voice. "This one might as well follow you," the Khajiit murmurs. Gorz acknowledges his
companion with a faint trace of upwards-curling lips across his battle-scarred countenance. One may have seen this intended gesture of content as more blood-curdling than anything else. Contrasting with his own satisfaction is the gleam of perturbation in the cat's eyes. With a
choked posture and raised fur to boot, Gorz cannot help but presume that something is amiss.
Maybe he doesn't like crowds, the Orc silently concludes.

His track of time has been obstructed with his mental ramblings, and presently the guard
speaks. "Alright, soldier. You're in Squad One of the Lieutenant Hrongar's Fourth Company. You'll be-" he delusively tries to hide his irritation of the cat that has been following him. Shifting his weight to the other leg, the guard's eyes probe Ahsamiir, eager to spot a reason - an unconcealed bottle of skooma, perhaps - for declining his service. A string of long, awkward seconds pass before he ultimately gives up.

"Why are you here, cat?" he spits.

 

[Ajones2323]

After Falk had interrupted the Khajiit's response, Tove stood in line awaiting his turn to be questioned. After what seemed like hours he finally made his way to the recruitment table. "Next", yelled the steward in an exhausted tone.
Tove stood in front of Falk who repeated the same questions,
"Name?"
"Tove the Gentle."
"Age?"
"45."
"And what can you offer the militia?"
"A blade"
"Good Enough. Up the stiars and through the gates."

Tove followed the directions and found himself on a giant porch filled with even more soldiers than in the previous chamber. After lollygagging for a bit, a guard approached and pointed in the direction of the Orc he'd met earlier, "You're with the Gorz."

 

[Ri'tai The Wordsmith]

Ri'tai looked closely. "Ah, Ri'tai apologizes. Wrong lizard. Have you met them? Terrible manners. Didn't even say 'please' while trying to kill me!" while it would be seemingly obvious that he was telling a joke, Ri'tai kept a straight face, until he noticed something in the corner of the dungeon he was in. He slinked over, and almost gasped. Then laughed. Then he gave a small sob, and turning to the argonian with a titter, revealed a head, without a body. "He should of-he should of" It sounded like he was about to cry. "He should of quit while he was a-head!" He burst out laughing, so much so he dropped the head, that landed with a thud. This made him laugh harder, until he stopped. "Waste not want not!" He said, starting to peel of the flesh of the previous inhabitant of the cell. "Do you want some?" he asked, pointing the meat towards his still-bound ally.

 

[Gorzash]

(As Tove the Gentle)
The swarm of soldiers that inhabits the Porch is amazing to behold: so many men and mer willing to surrender their lives for their province. It is awe-inspiring, and the physical sight of it is almost mesmerizing.

The bellowing voices of guards echo off the titanic walls; it is difficult for Tove to hear anything properly. One such man addresses him with knowledge of his confusion.
"Kinsman, you looking for a company?"
"Yes, actually, I-"
"Alright... follow me, I'll getcha set up."

The guard's hastiness is surprising; however, Tove envisions himself as one of them now, and can see this behavior as rational. After being guided through hundreds of ranks, he takes his place behind an Altmer, who casts a snobby glare upon him. In an endeavor to ignore the elf, Tove naturally inspects the surrounding men, conjuring stories of their assumed backgrounds. Ever since his days as a Bruma guard, has been a sort of habit of his, which he frequently resorts to in times of overwhelming bustle and liveliness. That Redguard... he looks furtive... especially with his hand always reaching into his pocket. A dealer or a thief, more likely than not. Ahh well, we're here for the same cause. Probably...

Another of Whiterun's sentries is marching down the ranks of mercenaries, yelling, "Platoon Seven, from the Redguard back!" as he hands the man a bright red flag with the number 7 emblazoned on it. Tove becomes cognizant that he will be grouped in the same platoon as the suspicious man and the snobby mer. With hopes of having better luck behind him, he glances in this direction. A surprised smile crosses his face as he recognizes the Orc and Khajiit that he had seen earlier, about twenty men behind him.
"Platoon eight, from the Imperial back!"
Tove lets loose a relieving sigh as he sees that his platoon consists of not only the smirking Altmer and the thoroughly worried looking Redguard, but the Orc - Gorz, he said his name was? - and the sly Khajiit, as well as roughly one-and-a-half dozen mercenaries between them.

 

[OldLace]

"I think it has been here too long," Mum-mra grumbled lightly, though not mean spirited. "I have eaten enough for two days, Khajiit, I will let you have that meat for yourself." She said, rolling around ineffectively. Looking up from her clumsy motions, she squinted at the Khajiit's body, noticing the armor he wore. "Why are you here, landstrider? Actually, why am I here? Nothing makes sense. This is Solitude, yes? The High City of the Skyrim? What are these terrible-mannered lizards doing here?"

She rolled herself to a seated position against the cold stone wall. "Perhaps you can tell me more of these events while you eat that man-head. Although," she said, as if she just realized her companion's mobility (and knowing Mum-mra, this was probably true), "If you would prefer a delicious grilled skull, I could assist. If you were to cut these binds, you will find that this Lizard is talented in the Destructive magics?" She gestured at the binds on her wrists, some design with jade inset. "The demons placed these no-good things on my claws, sapping my magics. I cannot get them off unless these ropes," here she moved her biceps, showing the ropes that criss-crossed her arms behind her, "are slashed off, perhaps by Khajiiti claw?" She made what she assumed was a placating face, turning her head like a hatchling might. Since her first impression was an awful one, she figured she might as well try doubly as hard for the second one.

 

[Ri'tai The Wordsmith]

Ri'tai glanced at the argonian, sighed, and walked over to her. "You know, these lizards are smart. Smart and strong. If Ri'tai was you, and he had your abilities, he would swim deep down, until the lizards couldn't hurt you." He looked sad for a second. "But he doesn't, so there is no point in it. Water isn't very clean anyway. It could be Ri'tai's death one day. You know, he is just walking along, and then BOOM! Watery khajiit. Anyway. Let me look at you're rope, argonian." He retracted one of his claws, and was about to slice through when he stopped, almost completely still, and the symbol on his tail, that had gone unnoticed before, started glowing, and he said in a voice that was his but not his, "NO! YOU SHALL FOLLOW OUR ORDERS! PAY FOR YOUR DISOBEDIENCE! KHAAZ DWIIROK!" He then dropped to his feet, let out a gasp, removed his armour and looked at his back. For there, happening before his eyes, a huge chunk off his skin was being torn off. He almost sobbed. Where before he had fur and skin, there was the bloody letter C. "C for cat..." He said, whimpering.

 

[Melee]

[On the way to Rorikstead]

"So, why are we headed to Rorikstead again? They don't have much out there, whether it's ingredients or shops."

Arcadia was not one who took well to information being withheld from her, especially when it involved the trek to Rorikstead. All she had been told was that something important required their presence in Whiterun, and she hadn't even been told that directly. The informant, her Altmer shop-assistant Melee, was walking next to Arcadia, smiling and taking in the sights around her. There was a pleasant bounce to her step which caused the arrows in the quiver on her back to quietly clatter against each other with each step she took. The unseasonably warm breeze blew through her short, dark purple hair as she looked down at Arcadia. "You know as much as I do right now. I just know that a courier sent me a letter saying that we were to come to Rorikstead, and that the matter was urgent." She shrugged, readjusting the glass bow on her back. "I'm not sure why you didn't get the message instead, but I guess we'll know soon enough, won't we?"

Arcadia sighed, adjusting the satchel that hung from her shoulder into a more comfortable position. "Well, from the list of plants we were asked to bring, it sounds like someone is having medical issues. These are all plants that would be used in healing potions." She lifts the flap of the bag up, examining the ingredients she had carefully packed. There were small clusters of everything from juniper berries to blue mountain flowers to other plants which Melee either didn't know or couldn't remember the names of.

Frowning slightly, Melee tried to understand what type of situation they were going into. "Well if someone was sick, I can understand them calling for you. But why would they be so secretive about it? It doesn't make much sense to me." She kept her hands down at her sides, tapping some impromptu rhythm on the pair of short Elven swords hanging from either side of the belt tied loosely around her hips. She enjoyed the metallic pattering sound it made, and it satisfied her insatiable need to always be moving, no matter what she was doing. She was always fidgeting; tapping her foot, drumming her fingers, whatever she could do just so that she was never completely still, something that bothered her immensely. The only time you could ever catch Melee being completely still was when she was using her bow. She would be as still as a stone.

"I have no idea. It's really quite puzzling, but I guess we'll just have to ask once we get there." Arcadia was used to Melee's constant motion by now, and it didn't bother her. She radiated a certain aura of calmness that seemed unbreakable, and as the small village of Rorikstead came into view, even the lack of knowledge about their situation was unable to break her demeanor.