18+ Skyrim: Fractured (In Character Thread)

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    Seanu Reaves

    The Shogun of Gaming
    “les plops,” Alexandre Rochefort cursed as he finally saw his destination poking out among the plains. The young man looked every part of the foreign noble, except for the four brutal scars that cut down the left side of his face. His skin was pale, like a ghost, and it was obvious he was not used to having to exert himself in such a way. I need a horse, he thought as his feet screamed in pain. Even after taking a small break in Riverwood, a quaint small town with that cute Imperial woman, he felt dead. He took his hat off to whip his brow, growling in annoyance. “At least it is all downhill from here.”

    It seemed fate needed to kick, Alexandre yet again for as soon as he started down the path he heard howl in the distance. Growling in annoyance, he clenches his fist. Dark energies swirled in his hand as he summoned his familiar, ironically enough it was also a flaming wolf. He made his way down the path, listening for any sign of a threat. Both his familiar and the wolf began to growl and charged each other. It only took a few seconds but he heard the wolf howl in victory, just before the familiar exploded into a ball of flame.

    Alexandre gave it little more than a chuckle, continuing on his way. Making his way past the farms, Alexandre felt his stomach growl. I see why my parents left, he thought. His face a sneer of disdain, accentuated by his scars on the left side of his face. His expression grew even darker as he approached the front entrance, and it wasn’t just from the stench of the tent city surrounding the city walls and working up to the drawbridge.

    “A hill… Just what I need…” Shaking his head he was happy he at least managed to not lose any gear. He couldn’t imagine losing any of the potions and ingredients. At least I got some ingredients I can use, He thought still cursing this country and its insane paranoia.

    “Who are you?” The guard asked, his voice had an edge of distrust.

    “Refugee, barely escaped with my life.”

    “Right… Well don’t start any trouble.” It was obvious the guard didn’t believe him. It was probably the clothes or the hat. But the Breton had bigger issues to deal with on his mind. First a bath, the Breton thought. Then I get down to business. Walking past the blacksmith, it was amazing how many people were in Whiterun. Hoping most of the actual refugees and fakers like him don’t have enough money for the inn.

    “Room and wine... Oh and is there a bath?” he managed to growl out though he did at least attempt a smile for the Innkeeper.

    “Do you actually have the money for it?”

    Reaching into one of his various pouches he produced a coin purse of fifty Septims.

    “Thank the gods… You room is up the stairs and overlooks the common room,” She pulled out a few bottles of wine and smiled. “That should tide you over for the night. And the bath is out back, careful though, don't really have anybody watching out for trouble.”

    “Aye. Thank you M’lady,” the young man took the bottles and turned go out the bath. He taps the sword at his hip, and smiles. "I don't think we will have a problem with any miscreants..."

    “Where are you from? You have a strange accent.”

    Alexandre just laughed, not caring to answer. His laugh was deep and though benign in this case, it seemed to have a malicious tone.
     

    Dradin

    Tribunal Temple Acolyte
    The knife eagerly tore into the flesh of the hagraven. Her muffled screams only worsened as time slowed around the act, allowing Froki to savor the moment even more. Propping her helpless body on the sacrificial altar, he raised the dagger once more and delivered it to the heart of the witch. Moving his eyes to the blackened stone next to her corpse, he snatched the artifact from it's stony perch.

    Excellent...


    .....

    Froki returned to his senses. Pushing away the piss-flavored glass of Alto in front of him, he reached for the stone in his pocket. Retrieving the jewel, he savored the feel of power imbued in it, the Daedric magic tainting his already dark soul. He would leave for Morthal to retrieve the next piece of the puzzle shortly. Despite the dangers of the wilds, Froki knew he must complete this part of his quest. Soon...

    His solitude was interrupted by a traveler pushing past him to get to Hulda. Using his hunter instincts, Froki Winter-Bourne curiously listened, trying to gleam what he could of recent gossip.

    "Room and wine... Oh and is there a bath?"

    I hunger. Perhaps he can sate my taste? Froki reached for his drink once more, scowling as he downed the foul toxin. I'll wait. See what comes my way tonight and let the evening festivities wind down.

    The stone returned to the Cultists pocket. Whipping up a faint glimmer of a flame, Froki lost himself in the dancing fire. Soon the Mythic Dawn will once again return...

    .....


    The dagger cut deeply, a new scar soon to grace his body. "Who is your lord?"

    Froki eagerly croaked out "Dagon is my king."

    The dagger dropped to the floor. "I believe you are ready son. I have a task for you, call it an initiation..."

    Froki's voiced waned. "What do you need sir?"

    "I need you to help eradicate the Septims, and bring chaos to the Empire..."
     

    The Honorable Gidian Diva of Sass

    Sahrot Vahlok Spaan. Bahnahgaar. Minion #88!
    Staff member
    In a forest in Whiterun Hold

    Vinx sat at the edge of a campfire, mouth watering in anticipation as he waited for his Venison Chops to finish. His dark eyes were wide as he watched the flames dance, rubbing his hands together. It had been a long time since he'd had the privilege of a decent, hot, fresh meal. He'd been on the run for who knows how long now, ferociously (for he never does ANYTHING out of desperation) trying to reach the land of his kin, his homeland, Skyrim. The journey from High Rock had been long, and made even longer by the whole hunted like an animal part. He'd gotten through mostly unscathed, and managed to get proper healing for most of the close calls. Still, his tail was toying with him. Or, at least, he feared it was.

    He owed his successful withdraw in large part due to his martial skills (and by extension, his blade), his durable cloak which served as fair protection from the elements, the money he had procured, and his trusty horse. He wasn't sure what its name was, just that it had been the only one he'd been able to escape with. He had been afraid he'd have to eat it a few times, and other times that he'd have to leave it behind. Still, it had gotten through to Skyrim in better shape than its master. Vinx's clothes and armor had numerous dings and rips, and the cloak was torn and cut in several places. Dirt and mud clung to him just about everywhere, and he was sore in several places, especially his legs and his crotch. He didn't pride himself with his riding skills, but had been forced to do some of the hardest riding in his life.

    The going only got tougher when he finally found his way into Skyrim. He had been expecting it, but it still struck him to see the place wracked by this Civil War. Tensions were far too high, and Vinx found himself indecisive for quite possibly one of the only times in his life. He did not know which side he wanted to join, and so found his heart torn in such a time when being neutral was a very dangerous thing. The country side was ripe with conflict, and danger. Both from the armies and from bandits, and other distasteful individuals.

    It seemed, however, that a hot meal of Venison Chops (the deer had been a pain to actually take down, even with a horse's assistance), would make everything worthwhile. His spirits were not so easily daunted, and very easily renewed. He was confidant that, at least for the moment, he had given his tail the slip, and that he wouldn't have to worry about bandits, imperials, or stormcloaks at least for these few precious moments.

    He would eat this Venison, and then he would make his way to Whiterun, and wait for a decision to come to him. At least, that was the plan, sitting in his shoddy little campsite in the woods.

    As the precious Venison neared it's completion, its journey to perfection, and the smell and the sound of the fire popping the wood reached their zeniths, Vinx did not notice his company until as it came up behind him, and then walked around in front of him to take a seat opposite the fire.

    Vinx did not give a reaction as he saw the man cross in front of him and take his seat, gave no reaction as the instinctual link between a hunter and his prey made his hair stand on end. There was no doubt by the look of this man, a cloak meant for the purposes of stealth, superbly crafted medium armour and arms. A sword, daggers, a bow and arrow. The boots were muffled, and the man was a master of moving silently. The man carried himself proudly and smugly, and plopped himself down across the fire as if he belonged there.

    Vinx smiled at the audacity, and gave a boisterous laugh. He liked this assassin's style. The man was probably smiling, though Vinx couldn't tell under the deep cowl and mask. He could just barely make out the metal mask around the eyes, the rest of it obscured by a cloth mask that held itself by his nose, obscuring the bottom half of his face.

    "Smells great. I didn't know you could cook, much less hunt. Seems I've underestimated you yet again."
    the hunter said, half amused.

    "Ha! Yer not the only one. But a man's gotta do and all that." Vinx said, half amused himself. He didn't hate the Hunter, he had grit, and they had been playing a deadly game for a long time now. Vinx should have known better than to assume he'd lost him. This man's skill was absolute, and the only reason Vinx was still alive now was because the man absolutely loved to hunt. He was savoring this, as he hadn't had such an exquisite subject in a too long a time. But, Vinx was nearing the end of his rope. He couldn't keep this up for much longer, and they both knew it.

    "I'd thought you'd forgotten about me, but I see you prepared for two."
    the hunter said, gesturing to the Venison. And it was true, there was plenty enough for more than one person.

    "You calling me fat, boy?!" Vinx demanded with deadpan, not knowing the hunter's actual age, and it being no secret that Vinx enjoyed his food. He wasn't offended by the backhanded compliment, more amused by its wit as he denied that he'd anticipated this meeting.

    The tense atmosphere had never quite faded, Vinx's hairs were standing on end, and he was tense and ready for a fight. The hunter, by contrast, had maintained a jovial atmosphere and an almost casual countenance. And so, they sat across the fire as the Venison cooked, staring each other down, waiting to see who would make the first move. Once the Venison was done cooking, the tension grew even more. Vinx cautiously harvested it from the fire, blowing it to cool it, and tossed the Hunter a share as quickly as he could, trying not to burn himself. It crossed his mind that this could be a chance to attack, but the hunter seemed content to catch it, and so he sat down and enjoyed his first hot meal in a very long time, what would probably be his last meal, though he didn't so much enjoy the company. The hunter removed his mask to eat, and the look of it made Vinx shudder, despite himself. There were few things in the world that could send such an acute chill down his spine. The hunter, noticing, hid the mask from view, and Vinx tried to put it out of his mind. The deep cowl continued to hide most of the hunter's face, preventing Vinx from getting a proper view of his attacker, though he could tell the he was human and white, along with a beard to rival his own. Vinx pulled out some ale, and they shared a few chugs.

    "Be heading off, then." Vinx said, trying to conceal his doubts and tensions.

    "Whiterun, I suppose?" the Hunter said, phrasing it more like a statement than a question.

    Vinx answered it as a question anyways. "Aye."

    "Not taking your horse?" The hunter said mockingly, noticing that Vinx was not walking in the direction he'd left his horse.

    "Course not. He's dead." Vinx said with certainty, knowing more than guessing that the assassin had killed his horse silently.

    "Hm. Are you ready, then?" the hunter inquired, getting to his feet. Vinx responded with a nod.

    Vinx then dove to the side, and rolled to his feet, sword drawn and ready as his eyes found the hunter, standing in the same place by the fire, some Venison in hand as he tried to notch an arrow and eat at the same time. Vinx couldn't believe his eyes for a moment, as he stood there temporarily stunned. He shook himself back to reality as the hunter abruptly readied the arrow, stuffing the Venison in his mouth, and Vinx once again lunged to the side, this time getting into the trees as he heard the arrow's dull thunk against the tree he had just been standing in front of. The hunter calmly retrieved his mask and replaced it, then took up the chase with a mad laugh.

    The mad laugh, however, was the last inkling of his hunter's location Vinx had as he frantically weaved through the foliage for his life, arrows coming from seemingly every direction. It was going to be a long run to Whiterun, it seemed.

    After quite a few arrows just barely grazed him, Vinx gave a grunt of frustration, and roared, "STOP TOYING WITH ME!" to which there was no reply save that of his own voice's lingering echos. He took off running again in preparation for the inevitable retort in the form of arrows.

    After a few minutes of hell, and his nerves shot, Vinx spied a shadow that seemed to be rising from the ground, an assailant ready to strike him, and he swung his sword in a wild chop, only for it to slice through foliage, and not an assailant. He let a few frustrated seethes escape, and then a twig snapping behind him made him whirl around, just in time to parry a blade coming right for his neck. There was the sound of metal striking metal as Vinx shoved the blade away, moving in for a lunge at the hunter's abdomen, using the part of the blade closest to his hilt to keep the hunter's blade out of the way.

    The hunter responded by sidestepping the lunge, allowing Vinx to throw himself off balance, bringing his other hand down to the back of his head, and hitting Vinx with the hilt of a second weapon. "Sloppy. You won't make it at this rate." the hunter stated matter of factly, and a little disappointed. He then stepped away from Vinx, as he fell to one knee, ears ringing, and tried to compose himself. He got to his feet, and with another roar, began to mount a ferocious offensive against the hunter. A feinted lunge into a backswing, forehand, backhand, leg sweep, feint for the head, then go for the stomach. None of them came close to their mark, as the hunter simply dodged them all with contemptuous grace, even taking the time to sheathe the dagger he'd used to pommel bash Vinx earlier.

    The Hunter feinted, and Vinx leaped backwards a few feet out of range, outclassed. The hunter pressed him, leading with an overhead cut, to which Vinx attempted to stop with the flat of his blade and force to slide down its side, trying to throw the hunter off balance. The hunter, however, did not put enough force behind it to be thrown off balance, and instead allowed his blade to glance off and immediately follow up with a sidecut on Vinx's left.

    Vinx barely managed to parry, keeping his blade between them as he went for another feint-lunge at the hunter's left, which he then turned into a cut at the hunter's main weapon arm.

    The cut, arcing downwards, was caught in the hunter's hilt, and he forced the sword away as he once again pressed Vinx, who was continuously backing away. It was the hunter's turn now for a full on assault. He opened with a backhanded cut, making Vinx grunt from it's force, and then a swift and delicate overhead blow, throwing Vinx off balance, barely giving him enough time to respond to the next lunge. He'd thought to counterattack then, but the hunter's sword slipped from his parry, and he was once again pressed back with a ferocious backhanded cut, and then another and another, them coming too fast for him to immediately punish their repetition. By the next cut, the hunter had changed tac, and ran his sword up to it's hilt against Vinx's, twisting it out of the way and keeping the hilt locked as he sought to get the blade around at Vinx's neck.

    Vinx desperately tried to keep his feet as the blade grazed just barely under his chin, then was forced to parry an upward cut from below on the return stroke, and finally had his weapon abruptly pushed to the side as the hunter's blade knocked his away. Vinx just dodged a stab, barely keeping from tripping over the foliage along the ground, and the hunter was on him again.

    A slash at his neck, then his feet, then an upward cut for his face, a slash for his ribs, a stab at his knee, a glancing blow off his arm, and another slash for his neck. All of which Vinx was just barely managing to avoid or parry, and somehow keep his feet. This backpedaling, however, couldn't last. At this rate, Vinx would die. He strained his brain as he was pressed, pressed harder, and then pressed even harder again.

    Their blades collided, and Vinx abruptly planted one foot on a down tree, praying that it wouldn't roll, and lunged forwards at the hunter, attempting to stab him and bring him to the ground, and turn it into a wrestling match in which he would have the advantage.

    Naturally, the hunter expected it, sidestepping it as Vinx got a cloak in his face, temporarily blinding him as his feet were swept out from under him. Vinx took in the night sky for a split second before he parried a stab, and rolled to his feet as fast as he could, only to be pressed again with more slashes, stabs, and overhead blows, the hunter coming at him like a whirlwind, and Vinx lost control of his momentum, falling down again. Vinx tried to follow his momentum, dragging himself backwards, raising his sword in preparation to parry, and was shocked as he got to his feet only to find the hunter was seated on a fallen tree, yawning, and casually resting his sword against his thigh.

    With another roar, Vinx charged the hunter, closing the distance in seconds as he brought his sword down in a deadly arc at his tormentor's head. The hunter sighed, maneuvering to the side, blinding Vinx again with his cloak.

    This time, it was the hunter's turn to be surprised as Vinx recovered almost instantly, the charge being a feint, and pressed him for a few moments. He was not able to land a blow, however, and was just forced back again.

    The hunter didn't press his advantage for long, but merely disappeared. He'd gotten around Vinx's guard, slipped around him, and then was simply gone. Vinx was unable to see him, or any sign of him, and couldn't hear him over his own thudding heartbeat and heavy breathing. He hadn't wounded him, and he wasn't even sure if the hunter was winded yet.

    More arrows darted from various directions, narrowly missing Vinx every time. Then the hunter came from the shadows, seeking to engage in melee yet again, and Vinx resolved to hold his ground. The sound of metal made music as they danced the dance of death, the hunter always just ahead of Vinx. They traded blow after blow, slash after slash, as Vinx sought yet again to use his weight to his advantage and turn it into a wrestle. He brought his sword down in an overhead cut, then immediately darted out his left hand, trying to grab the hunter as attempted a bull rush. The hunter merely grabbed his arm and threw him to the side, using his momentum against him. And then the hunter was gone again. Only to reappear from a different side, come in with a flurry of brutally strong blows, and then disappear again.

    From a different angle, the hunter repeated the process, and then he was gone again. And again, and again, and again, coming from the most unexpected directions, driving Vinx mad. He wasn't just wearing down his stamina, but he was wounding his pride. Blow after blow rained down, and Vinx could not stop all of them. He acquired a myriad of cuts and bruises, and spit out some blood from a particularly brutal punch to the face. The assassin was enjoying this, and making it last.

    The hunter had disappeared again, and Vinx stood, his breath coming in drawn out, labored gasps. He was nearing the edges of his limits, sweat and blood stinging his eyes, the taste of his own blood on his tongue, arms and legs crying out for a reprieve, and more bruises and cuts than he could count crying out for attention. A dagger flew out of the forest on his left, and Vinx brought his tired arms up in time to knock it away with his blade, his feet feeling like bricks. Moments later, another dagger flew from the woods, and he could not will himself to stop this one, his body not responding to his brain. He roared with pain as it struck him in the back, driving him to a knee. It struck one of the stronger parts of his armor, and was nonlethal even without, but it still hurt like hell. The weight and force alone practically knocked him forward and off his feet.

    Down on his knee, completely spent, Vinx used his sword for support to stay upwards. The hunter walked out of the surrounding forests, retrieved the dagger that lay on the ground, and took a knee in front of Vinx, who glared at him.

    "I'll let you keep the other one as a souvenir. You're getting bad at this, you know. You weren't even able to land a blow this time." the hunter mocked, and waited for a response. When nothing but Vinx's labored breathing responded, the hunter continued, "Well-"

    He didn't get to finish, as Vinx drove an arrow into whatever he could reach of the hunter. To his regret, it wasn't a lethal blow, at least not immediately. The hunter would likely be able to stop the bleeding, and make a full recovery, but it was the principle that mattered. with a smile, Vinx replied between breaths, "That wa'... tuh last souvenir... ya' left me. Sure ya'... want tuh... leave anotheh?" he tried to twist and drive in the arrow as he talked, but the hunter grabbed his arm in an iron grip, broke off the arrow, and then violently twisted Vinx's arm, forcing him face first into the dirt, a boot on the back of his head.

    Then, just as the hunter was going to finish him off, he hesitated, sword poised to strike. There was a low growl off to Vinx's side, and the snapping of branches and twigs as something big made its way towards them. Whatever it was stopped, and the hunter evidently figured that any sudden moves at this moment in time would be very poor for his health. And so he froze, sword poised in the air, ready to finish off Vinx.

    The beast began to stalk around them in circles, watching them, growling at them, and slowly edging closer. And then, total chaos. The hunter dove to the side, as people burst out and began firing arrows at whatever beast had found its way to them, and shouting at the hunter as he slipped away. The beast roared, people shouted, and then all was black.


    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    He was in and out of consciousness for awhile. He remembered a lot of pain, lots of dry heaving, and lots of foul tasting medicine. He wasn't sure how long he'd been out, probably a few days. When he finally woke up, he woke up to a companion slapping him on the back, telling him how lucky he was, buying him a drink, and telling the story. They'd been out hunting a monster of a Saber Cat that had been growing overly bold. The dead horse had happened to draw it in Vinx's direction, where it had been startled by him and the assassin in the woods. And then from there, they had put it down, and attempted to stop the assassin, but he had escaped, leaving a poisoned dagger in Vinx's back. They initially hadn't been sure whether Vinx was bad news or not, but judging by the way the hunter had ran off, they figured Vinx had probably been the victim. Still, he felt harsh eyes on him as he made his way out of one of the tents, nose wrinkling at the foulness that spread out before him. Refugee tents. Everywhere.

    "I take it you want to head into the city?"
    the companion inquired, the city being Whiterun.

    "Aye." Vinx replied, heading off, thankful that they hadn't stolen anything, as far as he could tell. He had varely enough septims to get by, and hoped he'd be able to find a job to earn some more. He didn't want to linger among these tents any longer than he had to.

    "Let me go with you. I might know you have some coins in your purse, but you look like hell. Doubt the guards would let you in, times like this. Best remember well, though, we're watching you. First sign of trouble, and you're gone." the companion warned, leading the way. He was right, too. Vinx did look like hell, he smelled like hell, and he felt like hell, and he would march into the first inn he could find, eat ravenously, drink ravenously, and then hibernate like a bear.

    The guards at first stepped in front of Vinx with hands on their weapons, but the companion explained the situation, and they begrudgingly allowed him inside. He added a bath and a change of clothes to his list.

    And so he found himself in an inn, not really paying attention, and attacking the food and drink that he could afford. He had precious little left, and would have asked for more food on his tab, but he didn't think the innkeepers would take too kindly to it, with the poverty and all, and his obvious disgruntled looks. They would tolerate him only as long as he could pay, and so he saved his remaining septims for the bath and the change of clothes. He wouldn't be able to afford a soft bed and a roof, but he had grown used to roughing it. These thoughts and more flew through his mind, and he became so focused on his food that he stopped caring for his surroundings. He was thankful to be alive, after all. He may as well celebrate. He probably wouldn't get another reprieve like this one for awhile.
     

    Lady Redpool the Unlifer

    Pyro, Spirits Connoisseur, and Soulless Anarchist
    Looking out across the planes, Cryrik sees the large fortified city on the hill, dominated by the large fortress at the peak. Surrounding the walls are hundreds of tents housing refugees and smoke from the fires lazily swirls up into the sky.

    Smiling, he mutters, "Ahhh, Whiterun, a shame I ended up here rather than Riften, but it'll do."

    Walking towards the city, he began whistling a sea shanty that no one here would recognize.

    No one in the camps gave him a second look as he made his way towards the gate, assuming he was one of them. His clothes were trashed and he was obviously unbathed. Reaching the gates the guard stopped him.

    "What are you doing trying to enter the city, refugee?"
    The guard asked with obvious contempt.

    Cyrik didn't bat an eye before responding, "Ahh, I am no mere refugee, I've just been travelling for a long time. I wish to offer my services to your Jarl, help defend the city," cracking a smile and summoning fire to the fingertips of his left hand for emphasis.

    The guard seemed a little afraid and a little confused, but called for his fellows to open the gate.

    Cyrik steeped into the city, breathing in the slightly cleaner air and wandering from place of business to place of business, eyeing everything and everyone until he walked into Belethor's and spotted it. A curved steel blade, forged using ancient secrets of the desert. It was the blade of his people, a scimitar...........

    That night Belethor's shop burned. The nearby buildings were left untouched somehow, and no one was injured in the blaze, but the shop burned to the ground and no amount of water or magic could stop it...........

    At the drunken huntsman the next morning, Cyrik was dressed in a set of apprentice robes of destruction, with a sword at his hip and a few new spell tomes to read, as he enjoyed breakfast with a dark elf mercenary. The two of them were laughing about something sinister while counting out a decent sum of gold between them.
     

    EpicVakarian

    Calibration-Master General
    The sunset dyed the sky blood red, making Sabine slightly uncomfortable. She kept her right hand ready to whip out her saber at any sign of trouble, though she doubted anyone would attack her this close to the city walls.

    Still, you could never be too careful. She approached the gates of Whiterun at a brisk walk, and stopped when the guards crossed their pikes.
    "Halt. Why do you need to get into the city?"
    Gods, they're even more paranoid than the rest of these blundering idiots.
    "I need a place to stay. If you think I'm going to attack the city, then feel free to try and take my weapons."

    She could see the guards' eyes narrow through their helmets' eye-holes.
    "You cause trouble, you won't be leaving this city, not even in a box."
    "Of course," Sabine said patronisingly, bowing obnoxiously before strolling on past them and entering the city.

    She wasn't particularly impressed by the city. It was known as the trade center of Skyrim, and yet it had a market consisting of three different stands; a meat vendor, a fruits and vegetables stand, and a 'trinkets' stand, the last of which consisted of random junk that the little old lady behind the stall was trying to get rid of. Rolling her eyes, Sabine turned and entered the General Goods store, reaching round to grab her bags.

    "Why hello, my dear..." said the greasy-looking vendor. His eyes were roaming uncomfortably far down her body, even though Sabine wasn't exactly a voluptuous, curvy woman. She spat on the floor in disgust, dropping her bags on the counter and emptying all the useless tat she'd collected on her journey from Falkreath.
    "What can you give me for this?" she asked simply, and quite rudely. The vendor examined each item closely, writing down some numbers on a piece of paper. When he was done, he looked up and smiled.
    "Well, my dear, I think I can offer you the grand price of fifty-five septims."

    Sabine, knowing the collection was worth at least twice that, flushed with anger. She reached over the bar and gripped his collar with both hands, pulling him towards her in a show of strength.
    "Listen, you slimy bastard. I know for a fact that other stores could offer me over a hundred septims for this. And I know you wouldn't want to lose business, would you...?" She tilted her head down, giving him a slightly menacing look. His eyes wide, he immediately folded.
    "Okay, okay! One hundred and five septims, that's my final offer." Sabine considered, tilting her head to one side just a bit. Then she reluctantly let him go, putting a hand on her hip and resting the other one on her saber's hilt.
    "Do it."
    "Bloody psychopath..." the vendor mumbled to himself as he scrounged up a hundred and five septims and handed them over.
    "Thank you, friend." She smiled at him, turning and leaving.

    It was getting dark outside, so Sabine crossed over the square to the Bannered Mare Inn, ears suddenly assaulted by the sounds of revelry. There was a bard pounding on a drum, providing a rhythm for the drunken men singing (well, shouting) a lively shanty. Sabine grimaced, not a fan of the noise; she preferred peace and quiet. She headed over to the barmaid and ordered a mead, taking it over to a dark corner and sipping at it slowly.

    Aside from the bard, waitress and drunken singers, there were a strange collection of people around. The first one she noticed was a stocky, tall Nord man with long black hair and a beard. He was tearing into a meal as though it was the first one he'd seen in days; though, with his matted hair and blood-soaked clothes, she could believe that it probably was.


    The next was a mysterious man dressed in mage robes, with almost no skin showing; even his face was shrouded under his hood. She couldn't figure out what this man was up to, but he looked suspicious.

    And a man had just walked in, slightly grayish skin, dressed in very fancy clothes, including a wide feathered hat and a leather eyepatch. A short black ponytail emerged from the back of his head, and he had a finely trimmed beard. He looked like a Nord, but didn't quite have the same height or bulk as a pure-bred Nord did. He bought a few bottles of wine and took them out the back door, for reasons Sabine neither understood nor cared about.

    Sabine leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs and continuing to sip at her mead, waiting for the noise to die down so she could try and get some sleep.
     

    Felidae

    The White Wanderer
    It was the smell that woke her.
    It was a smell she recognized instantly: the reek of rotting flesh, charred bones, blood and other bodily fluids that was so pungent it was almost suffocating. She felt cold, dangerously cold, and as intense panic quickly began to take hold she broke out into an icy sweat and started shivering violently, her heart hammering somewhere in her throat. Even though her eyes remained closed she could feel that her body was being tightly crushed on all sides, her clothes were drenched, and some kind of liquid was dripping onto her face, steady but ceaseless.
    However, she didn't want to open her eyes. She knew that she had been buried alive. Even as she lay there, trying desperately not to lapse into hysteria, she could feel her every breath become more and more laboured due to the diminishing oxygen, although that was possibly just the psychological effects of impending delirium. Either way it was bad news.
    Which way up was she lying? She tried to spit, but her mouth felt as dry as the Alik'r desert.

    The Khajiit lay there for a few more minutes until the drip came again again and she deduced that she therefore must be lying horizontally and facing upwards, but she doubted that her attackers had been courteous enough to bury her inside an actual coffin. Whether or not she was supposed to be alive she didn't know, neither did it matter. Either way, this was intended to be her final resting place. And it looked like it would be.
    The Khajiit shifted slightly to avoid the unknown fluid that had started trickling down the back of her neck, and that was when the pain came. A sharp burning sensation that tore through her shoulder and down her arm, all the way to the tips of her fingers. She growled in agony and her eyes snapped open, finally perceiving the cause of the dripping. A face, bloated and decaying, lay within two inches of her own. It looked like it had once been a fairly attractive young woman, judging by the long eyelashes and full lips that may have once attracted the lustful gaze of many young men, but that was where the identification ended. Despite the discolouration caused by her racial Night Eye she noticed that the skin was already greying, and a gaping laceration above the left ear determined the cause of death; probably from a greatsword or battleaxe blow, as it had been forceful enough to have almost cleaved the skull in two. The left eye was missing, and it was from the maggot-infested, seemingly bottomless void within that the drips were coming. Vomit rose in her throat, and as she stared into the remaining eye that bulged out like a tumour, still fixed fearfully upon whoever (or whatever) had removed the other one, she realised that if she didn't free herself soon she would end up the same way.

    Lifting up a bloody hand she placed it against the corpse's jaw and pushed, trying to ignore the shooting pain in her shoulder and the intense feeling of nausea that accompanied it. The skin was cold and clammy to the touch, and every time the body was disturbed the stench emanating from it intensified, causing her to gag and pull her scarf over her muzzle in a vain attempt to block it out. After a considerable amount of effort she finally managed to heave the corpse off her only to discover another one lodged above it, its limbs twisted and bent at horrific angles, and she groaned in despair. She was trapped in the depths of a mass grave.
    There were men, women and even children in the pile, each one gruesomely mangled and mutilated beyond recognition whilst some of the females were naked from the waist down. Some were missing arms and legs, others had been brutally eviscerated or burnt. None were wearing armour.
    As she clawed her way upwards through the wall of decay, terrible thoughts raced through her mind. What if she reached the top of the pile only to find that they had been buried underground? What if they were going to be burned? Were there any Undead lurking amidst the deceased? Necromancers would have a field day, so hopefully any that were in the area were just part of the pile. Summoning all of her strength, the Khajiit suddenly lunged forwards in an adrenaline-fuelled, panic stricken frenzy and began to tear her way through the mounds of flesh and bone, her entire right side searing with agony, retching every time her hands made contact with a carcass. Despite her doubled efforts to escape, every time she paused to shift a barrier the sheer weight of bodies above would cause her to slide back down an inch or two, her blood-drenched armour only adding to the struggle.
    After what felt like an eternity she finally glimpsed a pinprick of light through the mounds of carnage and she painfully struck out for it, her shoulder throbbing in conjunction with her quickening heartbeat, and when she finally emerged blinking into the sunlight she almost laughed with elation. The sky had never looked so azure.

    Covered from head to tail in gore she lurched drunkenly from the grave, but only managed to stagger about three feet away before dropping to her knees and throwing up incessantly into the dirt, eventually dissolving into futile retching when there was nothing left to bring up. She remained kneeling there for about twenty minutes as she caught her breath and repeatedly spat onto the ground, her throat burning and her eyes watering, and as she licked her cracked lips she suddenly realised how thirsty she was. She felt completely drained, both mentally and physically, but even though she wanted nothing more than to simply fall sleep on the spot, she knew that she couldn't linger in case her attackers were still present and she was certainly in no shape for fighting. She reached down to her belt and was relieved to find that her daggers were present, as was her bandoleer of throwing stars, but her crossbow was gone from its lanyard along with her saddlebag, leaving her in a pretty dire situation.
    Although, she thought to herself grimly, at least she wasn't worm food. Indeed, it seemed that the thick, leather bandoleer she wore underneath her poncho had absorbed most of the force, and was probably the only reason that the wound wasn't fatal.
    Wincing, the Khajiit climbed to her feet and glanced around, trying to figure out where she was. Judging by the surrounding pine woods she guessed she was somewhere West of Morthal, and the last thing she could remember before waking up within that tomb of decay was setting off from the Four Shield's Tavern in Dragon Bridge. Which, by the power of deduction, suggested that she was probably on her way to Whiterun when she was ambushed, as she saw no reason to visit a shabby little town such as Morthal or especially a Legion-occupied hell-hole like Solitude.

    Her musings were interrupted when the wound in her shoulder twinged painfully, causing her to grimace as she experienced what felt like a white hot poker being driven into her flesh. Before she could do anything else she needed to get the injury seen to before it became infected. Luckily for her, if she was indeed correct on her whereabouts then there should be a river nearby to clean up and hopefully lead her back to a road. Clutching her shoulder tightly Geinhaal turned and began to trudge East, finding her direction by the position of the sun and listening keenly for the sound of running water. In the off-chance that she was attacked by wild animals or, even worse, the bastards that had left her for dead, she drew one of her daggers and moved as silently as possible, keeping her gaze everywhere at once. The sun cast shadows between the trees, and on more than one occasion she dropped to her stomach after mistaking them for the silhouettes of people.
    It was dusk before she finally stumbled upon the river. After making sure that the area was devoid of mudcrabs she gingerly peeled her armour off down to the waist, slumped down on the shoreline and submersed her head under the frothy surface. It was freezing cold, but refreshing, and before long the water was red from the amount of blood she had rinsed off her fur so she headed further upstream in order to drink. Satisfied that she had removed most of the gore and having quenched her thirst, Geinhaal turned her attention to the wound on her shoulder with a now clear head. It didn't seem particularly deep, looking mostly like the result of a clumsy sword thrust, but thankfully it didn't appear to be infected and for the time being could be remedied by compressing the cut to avoid further blood loss with the addition of Blue Mountain Flowers, which had healing properties. It was a tried and true method that she had utilized many times before, and was a common practice to those with a basic knowledge of first aid.
    Using her scarf as a bandage (which she had taken great care to sterilize beforehand), the Khajiit sought out as many of the plants as she could find and crushed them into a paste to release their restorative juices, using it to coat the improvised gauze. The wound stung as she carefully applied the dressing, making sure to fasten it as tightly as possible to stem the blood flow, and she was just slipping her armour back on when her sensitive hearing picked up the faint sound of rustling leaves behind her.

    Geinhaal froze, ears pricked, and at the same time the rustling abruptly ceased.
    For about thirty seconds there was complete silence save for the singing of birds, the flow of the river and her own pulse pounding in her ears. Even though she herself could not see anyone nearby her instincts, ever her most valuable and trustworthy companion, told her that she was being watched. She heard a small click, and in the blink of an Geinhaal suddenly darted to one side, hearing a muffled thud as a steel bolt embedded itself in the soft bank where she had been sitting. Turning the dive into a graceful sideways somersault, she drew her dagger and leapt to her feet in one graceful movement only to see a flash of metal as another missile came speeding towards her, missing her head by a fraction. Unless there were two of them, there was only one weapon that she knew was capable of firing two bolts in such a short amount of time. And she wanted it back.
    She had barely taken a single step when a grizzled Redguard suddenly burst from the undergrowth with a roar of fury, swinging a familiar-looking crossbow at her head. The Khajiit lifted her dagger to defend herself and both weapons collided, cursing as her Orcish blade became intertwined with the bow's iron limbs and nearly wrenching it from her grip. As they both struggled to detach themselves a terrible pain tore through her shoulder, causing her to withdraw in agony whilst the bandit, seeing an opening, slammed his right fist into her face, knocking her backwards onto the ground.
    For a brief moment she lay there stunned. A strong, metallic taste invaded her mouth as blood streamed from her nose, and through the white flashes that had suddenly erupted in her field of vision she could see the Redguard struggling to extricate her dagger from the crossbow. He finally tossed the offending item to the ground and lifted the weapon to his shoulder, his face breaking out into a wide grin of triumph, but there was a dull click as the bolt jammed in the flight groove.
    A look of surprise flashed across his face, but it was quickly replaced by one of pain when Geinhaal abruptly charged into him and seized the crossbow with both hands, landing a vicious headbutt on his jaw that forced him to loosen his grip. Without hesitation, she upended the weapon and promptly thrust the protruding bolt into the soft flesh under his chin.
    For a moment they both stood there as if in some kind of embrace, each staring each the other down noiselessly, even the sound of their breathing diminishing almost to nothing. The silence was broken when a low gurgle escaped his parted lips, followed by a thin trickle of blood that coursed down his jaw and painted the strings of the weapon a deep crimson. With a low groan the Redguard's hands slipped from the handle and he staggered backwards, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to gasp out a final, desperate plea for mercy, but before he could utter a single word Geinhaal hefted the crossbow and swung it as hard as she could into the side of his head with a nasty crack.
    The bandit's eyes rolled back in his head and he hit the ground hard. He didn't even twitch.

    Panting with exertion, the Khajiit wiped her bloody nose on her sleeve and knelt down beside the Redguard, turning him onto his back. She didn't recognise him from anywhere but, seeing as how he had taken her weapon, she was certain that he was one of the bastards responsible for massacre, in fact he was probably the one who had stabbed her in the first place and had been wearing a helmet to obscure his face. A slight chill snaked down her spine as the Khajiit realised that she had only been a strip of leather and an unoiled crossbow away from being included amongst the dead, but she'd survived worse situations. Mostly through blind luck rather than skill.
    Sniffing with contempt Geinhaal began to search his wretched body for any useful items, making sure to retrieve her quiver of bolts, a handful of gold and some jewellery, the owners of which she had probably been acquainted with back at the grave. As she was rooting through his belongings she noticed a small slip of paper poking out from between the pages of a notebook with large, childlike writing on it. Intrigued, she plucked the note from the dead man's satchel and unfolded it, scanning the hastily scrawled message within.

    Cirrus, (she read)

    I understand how you must be feeling in light of the situation, and just the process of writing this letter is killing me inside. You know that the last thing I want to do is put you and the rest of my men in danger, but you also know that I don't have a choice. That damned Legion scumbag has got me by the balls here. It was either us or those Stormcloak traitors from Solitude, and he threatened to kill us all if I refused. He even knows where our hideout is (he could be bluffing, but was it really worth the risk?).
    Times are tough, brother, and we need to think about ourselves now. The defectors will be leaving Solitude tomorrow just before dawn and will be heading for Windhelm under the cover of night, so wait for them in the pine woods West of Morthal. It's a secluded spot so hopefully there will be no interferences or witnesses.
    I don't care how it's done as long as it's clean. Don't leave any survivors.

    After this whole mess is over we will leave this wretched land and move south to Cyrodiil, start a new life as farmers or some crap, but in the meantime we just need to stay strong.
    I love you brother, and we will get through this. I promise.


    T.

    (P.S. Make sure you burn this letter after you have read it. I know how forgetful you can be sometimes)


    Sighing softly, Geinhaal scrunched up the letter and slipped it into a pouch on her belt. So the person responsible for this massacre was a Legion soldier in collusion with bandits? For some odd reason, this information didn't surprise her in the slightest. The Legion had a long and colourful history of corruption that wasn't exactly confidential, and right at that moment she would have liked nothing more than to find the man who had nearly killed her. But before she could set her sights on revenge, her first destination was Whiterun.

    ~~~

    The city had certainly changed a lot since she had last visited. For one thing it had been greatly expanded by all the refugees whose tents now littered the tundra like ants around their nest, turning the once proud city into what could now be considered an eyesore. But then again, she knew that the people there were simply trying to eke out a living and survive whilst avoiding as much bloodshed as possible; a way of life that seemed strange and, in a way, almost impossible to her. As she gazed upon the masses of refugees her mind's eye returned to the grave near Morthal, and with an unfamiliar pang of guilt she remembered all the civilians lying there who never made it to safety, but she shook the thought from her conscience and began to pick her way through the milling throngs towards the main gate. A lot of things had happened in her life that made her question why she was still alive, and the most recent incident was no exception.
    As she approached the gate the two guards posted there made a move towards her, but she flicked a silver ring into the dirt at their feet and carried on, shaking her head with disgust. Even the local law enforcement were a joke nowadays.
    Once within the city it almost seemed as though nothing had changed. She could still recognize a few familiar faces as people went about their daily lives, as well as some newcomers. All the shops were still there except, for some reason, Belethor's General Goods, which appeared to have been reduced to a smouldering pile of rubble during her absence, but she it didn't come as much of a shock to her. She just hoped that Belethor was a smouldering pile as well.
    Ignoring the shouts and yells of the outdoor vendors, Geinhaal slipped through the front doors of the Bannered Mare Tavern and padded quietly to the bar where, with the few coins she had on her, she ordered roast chicken and some wine before retiring to a chair in the far corner of the room, glancing about at the other inhabitants. There were a other few individuals sitting around that she didn't recognize, some looking like they'd seen better days, but she didn't feel sorry for them; right now she had her own problems to deal with. Whilst she waited for her order to arrive she reached down and retrieved the note from her belt, a deep frown etched upon her brow as she reread it a few more times. She had no intention whatsoever of handing it in to the guards, or mention the events of the previous day to anyone for that matter. This was her issue, and she would take care of it in her own way.
     
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    Seanu Reaves

    The Shogun of Gaming
    Alexandre sat soaking in his bath, playing with the sprigs of lavender he added to give the bath a more pleasing scent. He could feel the glorious release of tension that the hot water gave his tired muscles. He couldn’t feel his feet but it was better than them still hurting, he was pleasantly surprised when he took his boots off to find no blisters. He yawned and smiled when he started hearing calls of “Fire!” even inside the bath. Sounds like somebody I need, Alexandre laughed a little to himself wondering how to reach the arsonist before the guards. Absentmindedly Alexandre picked up one of the lavender flowers and sniffed it, before taking a bite of it. His mind was deep in thought, thought he was able to get himself standing. He realized he would need to be open to recruitment, forming a small group would probably lead to the most successes. He remembered the vague orders he was given by Lord Flyte, incite chaos and for lack of a better term change the game. So as he started drying himself, went about forming his plan. He breathed easier as he put his eye patch on, he needed this presentation to be perfect.

    He knew his crowd was for lack of a better tone, simple violent men. So, Alexandre thought with a curse. What do simple men want…? He knew what he would want, but not everyone is so in tune with the finer pleasures in life. He knew the stage, which would be perfect. The abandoned watchtower he saw on the way to the city. Content? That is what left him stuck, he knew gold was a good standby, but what else? This question kept coming up. Alexandre sighed and dressed himself, working on what a proper reward would be. He smirked as he placed his hat, making sure the brim rests perfectly on his brow. Alexandre slipped back into the common room, trying to be as subtle as he could, making his way back to Hulda. He smiles as she turns to him.

    “Need anything else, Outlander?” She smiles back at him.

    “I need you to drop rumors about work.”

    “What exactly? Times are tough it better be fancy.”

    “Tell them something along the lines of been rumor of a mysterious employer looking for good men at that tower out west tomorrow morning…”

    “So tell them about the weasel-faced one-eyed milk drinker who talks funny is hiring… Got it.” Alexandre had to smile and laugh with Hulda. Though he was fighting the urge to make her eat her hands, he just nodded and turned away. Preparing to face the rough characters he would have to face tomorrow. Unfortunately he overslept, and he was in a mad dash to make it to the fortress. Hoping and praying that there would still be men waiting to accept his offer. He did laugh at the burnt down shop, and hoped that the arsonist would be there.
     

    EpicVakarian

    Calibration-Master General
    Sabine woke a few hours after sunrise the next day, surprised to find that none of her belongings had been stolen. She stretched and yawned, sitting up and rubbing her face; it was aching from where it'd been laid on the table all night. She contemplated what to do; she could either stay here and do some work, or move on somewhere else. Both had their merits, but...

    She eventually decided to stay in Whiterun for a time. She stood up, brushing herself down and straightening her clothes, before walking over to the barmaid.
    "Water, please." The barmaid nodded, and Sabine handed over her leather bottle for her to fill up. "While you're at it, you wouldn't happen to know of any work going round, would you?"
    "Yes, actually; the Jarl's looking for warriors to raid a giant camp." Sabine rolled her eyes subtly, but the barmaid noticed. "Or if that's too trivial for you..." She leaned in closer. "There's word going round that some mysterious man is looking for 'good men', and was going to meet them at the watchtower out west this morning. I reckon you'd still have time to get there, if you fancied it."

    She handed the bottle back to Sabine, who took a sip and felt wonderfully refreshed as the ice-cold liquid dripped down her throat, waking her up and quenching her thirst at the same time.
    "My thanks." She nodded to the barmaid, setting down three septims as a tip before heading out to the watchtower.

    Sabine crested one particularly steep hill outside the walls of Whiterun, hoping to get a good view of the watchtower. She could just about make out a small crowd of people gathering beside one of the pieces of wreckage that the dragon had left when it had attacked.

    Looks like they're still there, then, she thought to herself. She was looking forward to finding out what mysterious job this mysterious man could have for her, though she maintained her hope that not all of this crowd were coming along with her. She hated moving slowly, and having a large group weighing her down would necessitate just that.

    She reached the watchtower before long, and the crowd hadn't dispersed or left yet. Deciding she couldn't be bothered to ask around for which man she was looking for, she simply leapt up onto a piece of stone debris to look down and examine the crowd. Most of the men present appeared to be brutish thugs, and one man looked more like a frost troll than he did a Nord. However, there was one person that caught her eye; it was the one-eyed man with the hat from the Bannered Mare last night. Intrigued, Sabine dropped down, landing on all fours like a cat before swiftly standing up straight and approaching the man.

    "Excuse me." The man turned to face her, a smirk on his face. So far, Sabine had never seen the man without a smile on his face. She held out her hand, almost certain this was who she was looking for. "I heard you were looking for 'good men'. Well, I like to think I can fulfill at least the first half of that request. Sabine Sarvani." She didn't smile, just nodded at him and shook his hand when he extended it. "Now, what exactly is it that you need 'good men' for?"
     

    Lady Redpool the Unlifer

    Pyro, Spirits Connoisseur, and Soulless Anarchist
    After counting the gold and having a decent breakfast, Cyrik leaned back in his chair and asked his partner in crime, "Well, that was fun, and profitable. What would you say to a longer term of mutual endeavors? You're certainly better company than most of my previous accomplices and our styles do compliment one another."

    Seeming to think about it for a moment, Jenassa responded shaking her head, "While last night was fun, and you certainly know your art, we would have to actually have a long term job or at least an objective, not to mention my fee......" She trailed off as a redguard in a barmaid's garb walked through the door hurriedly. Jenassa stood and the redguard nearly ran over to her, the two of them embracing passionately for a moment.

    Cyrik had seen this before in the many ports he'd stopped in, yet he never ceased to feel a bit awkward at displays of affection. Drinking more wine to hide his slight embarrassment, he set the bottle down and perked up when the woman began speaking.

    "Listen Jenassa, I only have a few minutes before I have to be back, but a wealthy man stayed at the inn last night, and asked Hulda to spread the word that he's hiring a few good men. Thugs and thieves mostly, but he's going to be at the watchtower today."

    Jenassa laughed and looked to Cyrik. "Well Cyrik, we've got a goal. I'm thinking we hang around the watch tower and let this man hire his good men, and then we rob them for all the wealth and weapons we can pick from their corpses."

    Cyrik smiled and nodded, letting her know he was on board, and then promptly went to pay their tab as the two embraced again. Joining Jenassa as they walked out and towards the gate he inquired, "So I burn the good men and you slit the nobleman's throat?"

    The two shared a laugh as they made their way to the watchtower, Jenassa disappearing and Cyrik joining the crowd.
     
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    Felidae

    The White Wanderer
    If there was one thing Geinhaal had learned during her travels, it was to not trust those who were only motivated by the allure of riches. They tended to make for disloyal, treacherous comrades who would betray their own allies at the drop of a hat if it could snag them a few more coins, and they would usually end up being done-in by their own greed. However, if there was one other thing she had learned it was how to identify these individuals and thus avoid the possibility of being double-crossed later on; an ability that had aided her many times in the past. After all, it took one to know one.
    Which was why, after a vague tip-off from the landlady of the Bannered Mare, she now found herself trudging west along the same road she had used to arrive the previous day, her sights set on the ruined watchtower jutting up from the tundra. Once a lookout post for Whiterun guards it now served mainly as a reminder of the dragon attack that had occurred in the not-so-distant past, although the Khajiit hadn't been present to witness it for herself due to her being incarcerated in Dawnstar at the time (for reasons she didn't care to remember).

    As she approached the crumbling landmark she began to make out a small cluster of people milling about in the pale morning sunlight. Most looked like mercenaries but amidst the crowd of unfamiliar faces there were a few she recognized from the Bannered Mare, including an attractive young Nordic woman with white hair who was perched atop the rubble, and in the centre of it all stood the dandy with the eyepatch. The latter fit Hulda's description to a tee. He certainly looked like he had an appreciation for the finer, more luxurious aspects of life but didn't hesitate to flaunt it, a proper spiv, and she couldn't help but glance down at her own torn, mud-splattered, blood-drenched attire with a resigned expression on her face. She didn't look like much, but then she had never really cared for her own appearance.
    Aside from the boots. She did like her boots.

    When she was about ten feet away from the group Geinhaal paused, watching as the woman dropped gracefully down from the debris and introduced herself to the fop as "Sabine Sarvani". She couldn't help but notice how Dunmeri the name sounded, but aside from Sarvani's stunted height everything else about her physical appearance suggested Nordic hereditary. Half-caste, maybe?
    Her interest piqued, Geinhaal moved closer to the gathering and stood leaning against a stone pillar with her arms folded, tail curling around her left leg as she observed the proceedings from the shadows. Normally she would never associate herself with this kind of rabble, especially Dark Elves, but she desperately needed some cash as well as information. Her last few coins had been used to purchase a healing potion from Arcadia's Cauldron to treat the angry wound on her shoulder, and although she was now in considerably less pain her finance had suffered in return. She had been too broke to afford breakfast that morning, so her mood was even lower than usual.
     
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    Dradin

    Tribunal Temple Acolyte
    The peaceful night sprayed it's orange blood over the sky as the sun delivered it's final blow. Although Froki preferred the protection of darkness, he couldn't help but smile. Dawn was breaking...


    The huntress lay helplessly on the ground. Froki couldn't remember the woman's name, nor did he particularly care. Was it Leah? No, that can't be it... The vampire shrugged. Her poor fate was already decided. She squirmed away from the Cultist, fear wide in her pure blue eyes.

    Froki stared at her one last time. Her neck was covered in blood, the nectar's source being the two deep gashes in her neck. Already, the effects of Sanguinare Vampiris had started to take hold, her pale skin slightly reddening in the faint morning sun. Froki scowled. Sloppy...

    His hand reached for his dagger, and the gesture sent the young women into a more frantic uproar. Froki smirked "Too weak to speak?" The elven dagger whipped from its' sheath like a sabrecat in pursuit. Racing for the heart, he fell to his knees and let the dagger do its' work. Blood splattered everywhere, showering the vampire in his victory. The dagger whipped up again and fell back into it's spoils.

    After a few more vicious attacks, Froki ceased his work. Pulling his cloak closer to his body to avoid the sun's rays, he kicked the manged corpse face down in the dirt. He wiped the fresh blood off of his face, and turned to the western watchtower. He had a meeting to attend to.

    -----
    The crowd of inexperienced sellswords, infidels and thieves crowded the mangled noble leader. His scars were more than noticeable and betrayed his weaknesses. Probably someone with too much gold for their own good... Froki wondered what drew him to the quest. Dagon managed to convince him that somehow, his destiny lay on this trip. Froki reached for his stone, the closest connection he had to his father, his lord.

    A few adventurers stood out to him. A haggard Khajiiti huntress and a young Breton myrmidon worked their way to the noble. The Breton woman managed to reach the scarred man before anyone with a shred of experience could get to him. Froki rushed into the mass of idiots, shoving his way through the cattle and reached the steps of the makeshift stage. He grabbed the witty young woman and pulled her away from her conversation. A look of disgust shot across her face as she was sent down the steps.

    Froki snatched the dagger out of his belt and knelt in front of the noble. He placed the dagger flat across his chest and stared into the Breton man's eyes. "Froki, at your service. I am a mage of great skill and you have my dagger, man of High Rock..."

    The pommel stone glowed faintly in his pocket. Dagon's voice whispered faintly in his ear. "The Dawn is breaking."
     

    The Honorable Gidian Diva of Sass

    Sahrot Vahlok Spaan. Bahnahgaar. Minion #88!
    Staff member
    The bath had been divine. The clothes on the other hand, had been a little difficult to come by with the general goods store burned to the ground. He'd had to spend more money than he'd like, the business swiftly being monopolized, but at least they were clean. That just left one thing. Finding work. He discarded his old rags, which were by this point in tatters, stocked up with what rations he could afford, and asked the innkeeper to point him in a direction, which turned out to be west. A watchtower that had been ravaged by a dragon.

    He set out at a steady pace, not wanting to miss out on the opportunity. There would naturally be your typical bounties, and jobs of the more mundane sort. But Vinx was no farmer, and the innkeeper had made this job out to be something special. He realized that he would be one of the later ones to arrive, to his regret. It was never good to arrive late, and if he'd had his way, he would have made sure to arrive early.

    As the watchtower came into view, he whistled to himself. It was a mess, and to say it looked like a dragon had ruined it was no exaggeration. As he got nearer, he sighed, spotting a rather sizable crowd of would be mercenaries. He drew himself up, tapping into his confidence and borderline arrogance, and arrived with the posture and gait that bespoke importance and competence. He directly moved towards who seemed to be the employer, the crowd in the way. Some of them parted for him, some he had to move out of the way, other tried to get in his way, to which he rested a hand on the his sword grip and smiled menacingly. Most of them did not want the trouble, at least not yet. He observed those around him, marking the ones he should keep an eye on, as he approached the Breton employer, who stood out a bit himself as an arrogant noble. Vinx recognized the type, and outwardly showed a smile as he approached.

    There was a Nord(?) woman coming down the stairs, and a man who seemed to be groveling, as well as a dangerous looking khajiit lurking among the crowd. Outwardly, Vinx was dismissive. Inwardly, he marked the Khajiit as dangerous. She looked lean, muscular, and athletic, well tuned to a life of hardship and danger, and her expression showed that she was definitely no novice. She looked battered and tested, and he respected that even as he took in her haggard apparel and looks. The man on the other hand, was dangerous for a different reason. He seemed to be quite... eager. Which in and of itself wasn't malicious. However, he couldn't shake a the feeling that that knife could easily end up in his back, an instinct he'd honed under the pressure of potential assassins. The nord... dark elf... whatever she was was very small, lean, lithe, similar to the khajiit woman. Her weapon complimented this build, as it was lightweight, and likely wicked fast. He understood that quickness of mind and body were paramount in a fight, and this woman seemed to have both. Though he questioned the choice in a sabre, the woman had evidently been tested and survived, missing a finger on her left hand. He didn't take much note of the rest, though a man who seemed to be a cross between a redguard and a nord stood out because of that fact. He looked like a sailor, probably the rough and tough variety. That type was quite commonplace here, though something told him not to dismiss this one just yet.

    Vinx showed amusement at the man's antics, and extended his hand to offer a strong, firm handshake once the Breton was through with him. "Name's Vinx. Sorry I'm late." Sensing that this was man that respected cleanliness, as evident by the fact that he had evidently bathed (and used scented soap or something, to boot), he added, "Got held up with business on my way to Whiterun. Needed a bath afterwards, if you catch my meaning." Vinx maintained a hearty smile, and having complete confidence in himself, declared, "I look forward to working working with you."
     
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    Seanu Reaves

    The Shogun of Gaming
    Alexandre looked at Sabine, slowly panning to Froki, and now some guy named Vinx. He didn’t shake the man’s hand but wondered about the weird name. It was a marvelous turnout, he got more than enough men. Time to start this party, he thought with his smile dropping for just a second. As he looked for an easy podium to speak, he noticed a Khajiit skulking in the shadows. With a thunderous clap, Alexandre tried to get everyone’s attention. He used his opera house voice, allowing it to crash over the smaller conversations like an avalanche. Alexandre did hope he wouldn’t have to deal with any of those this adventure.

    “Now then! We have more than enough men! My name is Sir Rochefort, and I am the employer!” Sweeping his arms out to his sides, Alexandre did a slight bow. “Work for me and you will face excitement, danger, and risk overflowing your pockets! This should be a very fun time for all involved.”

    Removing his hat to run his fingers through his hair. “Now then! Try outs! As these jobs get harder, I will need to actually ensure you are quote unquote good men! We have many men, but the question of who is the best among you! Now that must be answered! That must be made apparent! So the try outs!”

    With a flourish, Alexandre placed the hat upon his head. Taking the time to make sure it fell perfectly onto his brow. Making a small noise of distaste towards the frost troll looking nord, Alexandre chuckled to himself a little. He turned to the few that approached him directly.

    “Miss Sabine, Mister Froki, Vinx, and…” With a dancer’s turn upon the ball of his foot, Alexandre pointed to the skulking khajiit. “You! Shall accompany me. You men! Form up into groups… Of about five, there should be enough.”

    It always surprised Alexandre how long it took men to organize into small groups. Now to figure out the test, Alexandre smiled. He definitely felt like being petty and going into Imperial lands for a spell. He checked the small filled in map given to him for this journey. One name jumped out to him.

    “Now then, we are going to…” Fake cough. “Liberate… Fort Sungrad! Forsworn and Imperial troops shall be guarding it, and there is always the chance of patrols or scouts! For practice!” Andre points towards the large fort farther to the west. “Any questions? Because you get a bonus if you aren’t annoying!”

    One rough looking orc came forward obviously not enjoying the spectacle.

    “Yes? You there my good man.”

    “I am Wargul… And I what keeps me from crushing your skull and…” The man’s question was stopped short as Alexandre strode up to him and put his hand up. In the bright morning light the silent calm spell was nearly invisible. The man seemed to calm down, he even loosened the grip on he axe at his hip.

    “Simply put… I am keeping you from betraying me… You play the game… You win… You don’t…” Alexandre took a potion out of his bandoleer and handed it to the orc smiling. In this calm state the Orc drank from the bottle happily. But then his mood turned sour, and he started choking. The orc fell to his knees and tried to grab at his throat as well as Alexandre’s pants leg. Ignoring the sputtering orc, Alexandre spoke up again as he walked towards the road. “I want you to understand! You don’t need to like me or my methods… But this is a business proposition, I want to see some professional curtesy. Let’s get rich!”
     

    EpicVakarian

    Calibration-Master General
    Before the man had a chance to reply, Sabine was grabbed from behind and thrown away. Scoffing in outrage and disgust, she stood up, walking quickly toward the bald, pasty man in blue mage robes who had so arrogantly taken her place. He was kneeling down in front of the man, holding his dagger to his chest as a sign of his willingness to join the man.
    "Froki, at your service. I am a mage of great skill, and you have my dagger, man of High Rock..."

    Sabine wanted to strike him, square in the chin, but another man got in her way. Tall, with long black hair, fairly stocky and with a very straight back, almost regal in his posture.
    "Name's Vinx. Sorry I'm late. Got held up with business on my way to Whiterun. Needed a bath afterwards, if you catch my meaning." Sabine realised this was the tall man she'd noticed in the Bannered Mare last night. Strange coincidence seemed to have brought them together again, like it had brought her and the recruiter together again. "I look forward to working with you," Vinx said, smiling widely at the fancy recruiter.

    She decided to refrain from her wishes of violence; she wanted to put on a good impression. She could always punch Froki later, if the opportunity arose.
    The recruiter began to speak. He stepped up onto a raised piece of rock, bringing his hands together in a loud clap that got everyone's attention.

    "Now then! We have more than enough men! My name is Sir Rochefort, and I am the employer!" He bowed, quite sarcastically, Sabine thought. "Work for me and you will face excitement, danger, and risk overflowing your pockets! This should be a very fun time for all involved."

    "Now then! Try outs! As these jobs get harder, I will need to ensure you are quote unquote good men! We have many men, but the question of who is the best among you! Now that must be answered! That must be made apparent! So the try outs!"

    Rochefort flourished his hat, which he had taken off to comb his hair with his fingers, back onto his head. He glanced around the crowd of large men, giving a look of disgust and a noise of distaste at the sight of the one who looked like a troll. He turned to the smaller, more unique group that had approached him directly.
    "Miss Sabine, Mister Froki, Vinx and..." He pointed at the shadows, where Sabine could just make out the shape of a small khajiit. "You! Shall accompany me." Sabine sighed angrily. She was happy to be coming along on an adventure, but this Froki was coming too? She was not best pleased. But on the bright side, it meant Sabine had more of a chance to beat him bloody at some point.
    "You men! Form up into groups... of about five, there should be enough."
    The men dawdled around, taking a long time to sort themselves into groups. It made Sabine even more doubtful of their mental capacity.

    "Now then, we are going to..." He coughed awkwardly. "Liberate... Fort Sungard! Forsworn and Imperial troops shall be guarding it, and there is always the chance of patrols or scouts! For practice!"
    Sabine turned her head to Rochefort, confused. It sounded to her very much as though he'd just come up with that task on the spot. As though he didn't particularly want any of these men to survive. She appreciated that; she didn't particularly want any of these men to join their company. She had a feeling she'd be getting angry enough in the company of Froki, and such an annoyingly happy man as Vinx. She respected the khajiit for staying away as long as possible, for thinking before walking in and dedicating herself to the task.
    But the other reason why she looked at Rochefort was that she suddenly felt a pang of distrust toward him. Partly because he was apparently so willing to sacrifice lives for no reason, but mainly because she now couldn't tell whether his allegiance was given to the Stormcloaks. And if that was so, she might just have to kill him. She bore no love for the Empire, but no ill will either. The Stormcloaks, however, had tortured her mind, killed her mother and turned her father against her. She had no desire to work with a Stormcloak sympathiser, except to betray him and kill him later.

    For now though, she let it be. She couldn't be sure whether he was indeed a Stormcloak sympathiser at all, and had no wish to lose out on some coin for the sake of a suspicion.

    "Any questions? Because you get a bonus if you're not annoying!"
    A bulky orc stepped forward, a displeased look on his face, as far as Sabine could tell.
    "Yes? You there, my good man."
    "I am Wargul," the orc said, "And what keeps me from crushing your skull and-" Rochefort walked up to him, holding his hand out. Sabine thought she saw a tiny burst of light, and the orc calmed down.
    A mage too, huh? Sabine thought, curious.
    "Simply put, I am keeping you from betraying me... You play the game, you win. You don't..." Rochefort took a potion from his belt, giving it to the orc, who drank happily. But he quickly choked, falling to the ground and clutching at his throat. Rochefort spoke up again, leaving the dying orc as a message for those who wished to betray him. Sabine paid close attention, as if she was forced to do so, she'd need every advantage she could get.
    "I want you to understand! You don't need to like me or my methods... But this is a business proposition, I want to see some professional courtesy. Let's get rich!"

    The simplicity and casual nature with which he left the orc slowly dying unnerved Sabine. Even she showed mercy to her enemies and killed them quickly, except in rare cases; those rare cases never being when someone challenged her opinion. Turning round to see the other three people he'd singled out, she saw none of them had made a move. Froki seemed to enjoy the sight of the orc's painful, slow demise, however, making Sabine dislike him even more. She spat on the ground, pushing the urge to break his jaw down and away from her mind, as she walked toward Rochefort, nodding at him curtly before sitting on a nearby piece of rubble, waiting for Vinx, Froki and the khajiit to follow.
     

    Lady Redpool the Unlifer

    Pyro, Spirits Connoisseur, and Soulless Anarchist
    Cyrik watched as the nobleman killed the Orc, and noted that he needed to invest in some magical protection. After the resounding call to make some money in large amounts the others started shuffling towards the nearby fort. Cyrik instead strolled up to the nobleman twirling fire around the fingers of his left hand, adding a little blue to the flames.

    "I have a question,"
    he said just loud enough for those in the immediate vicinity to hear, "Why shouldn't I just burn down the fort and everyone in it like I did that store in Whiterun? I'm sure you saw my handiwork on your way here."

    Smiling to add emphasis, he let the flames die out and looked at the others. Deciding that he could probably take them if they caused him a problem, though they probably wouldn't. He put his hand on the hilt of his scimitar as a signal and waited for Jenassa to make her move.
     

    Felidae

    The White Wanderer
    As the group waited for a few more latecomers to show up, Geinhaal, meanwhile, had been slowly making her way towards the dandy whilst trying to avoid getting into any unnecessary confrontations, as most of the brutes there seemed to be getting more and more restless as the minutes ticked by. The Khajiit had never been the most patient of people (a life of solitude could have that effect), and she knew that every new arrival only lessened her chances of being selected. She didn't feel too optimistic about having to work alongside a group of nattering idiots either, so to pass the time she started to analyse the gathering and try to guess who could be chosen for the upcoming task. Aside from Savarni there were a few others who stood out to her, including a large Orc who looked as sturdy as the crude warhammer he had rested over his shoulder, and a rugged Redguard spellsword clad in College robes. The latter's preferred fighting style was made clear by his scholarly, albeit scruffy, attire and he was also armed with a curved sword strapped to his belt, which suggested a possible seafaring background. He certainly looked like he'd been around and had the scars to prove it, including a particularly nasty one on his lower jaw that signified either remarkable resilience or blind luck. Either way, he'd managed to survive whatever had caused it.

    Before she could make any other assumptions, a bald man clad in blue robes suddenly burst from the crowd and barged straight into the half-caste woman, knocking her off balance as he forced his way towards the potential employer. A look of utter indignation flashed across her face and for a second she looked ready to lay into him, but she managed to compose herself and instead allowed him to continue on, although she was clearly fuming. Geinhaal had to hand it to her as she doubted that she herself would have been so forgiving.
    Once at the top of the steps, he promptly dropped to one knee in a grovelling position and proffered his hand in greeting, his knife against his chest as some form of salute, and she almost smirked with amusement when the dandy left him hanging. She couldn't stand people like this, and judging by the look on Savarni's face she wasn't the only one. He was clearly a blatant, shameless sycophant who didn't care about how others perceived him as long as he got his own way, no matter how treacherous he had to be in the process, but despite his apparent compliance there was something about this man that slightly creeped her out. Even just the sound of his voice caused her fur to bristle uncomfortably and she turned away in disdain, her Khajiiti senses tingling. She had fought both alongside and against people like him before, and she knew this particular individual was not to be trifled with.

    As she trudged back down the steps and into the shadows at the base of the tower, she noticed the crowd begin to part as yet another individual emerged from the throngs of hopefuls. It was another Nord, tall and strapping, clad in civilian's clothing and armed with a simple steel blade. Although he wasn't adorned with lavish clothing like the regal was (in fact he appeared rather indigent), something about the way he held himself and his overall presence demanded authority. He, like the Redguard, looked like he'd been to Oblivion and back, but still managed to keep an air of dominance about him. She could easily imagine him dressed in the armour of a captain or some other high-ranking official, yet he stood before them in the guise of a peasant. It seemed that hard times had fallen upon him also.
    A loud clap suddenly rang out from the tower and the chattering abruptly ceased, all eyes turning towards the man that had brought them together who, with an elegant bow, soon introduced himself as "Sir Rochefort". Again, she had to stifle a smirk. Notwithstanding the slightly pretentious title (which may or may not have been self-proclaimed), his name definitely suited him.

    For the next minute or so the crowd stood in almost complete silence whilst he outlined his plans for them, before hurriedly organizing the muddled rabble into several groups of five. As he allotted her to a team alongside Savarni, Vinx and who she now knew to be Frokie, she couldn't help but feel slightly irritated when Rochefort referred to her simply as "You", complete with a somewhat impertinent finger-point. She may be a Khajiit, and a destitute Khajiit at that, but she still had a name. Sort of.
    The proceedings were briefly halted when the Orc, in a typical display of his own race's bestial nature, got the bright idea to confront Rochefort with a threat, and the dandy responded quite reasonably by disposing of him in an impressively nonchalant manner before carrying on with his business, reminding everyone of why it was best not to double-cross him. As the Orc writhed in agony on the ground Geinhaal looked on unsympathetically, her face emotionless. To her, it simply served the brute right for wasting valuable time.

    Once he was satisfied that everyone was sorted into groups Rochefort glanced quickly over a map and, seemingly on the spot, decided that liberation of Fort Sungard would be the objective. Certainly an interesting choice of location. The Khajiit couldn't recall ever visiting the fortress in the past and it could be teeming with riches, as well as a sufficient supply of victuals to sate her gnawing hunger. But, first things first, it looked like she was going to have to mingle with her new team and try to get to to know them or at least get an idea of who she could trust and who she couldn't, which already seemed to her like a forgone conclusion. Vinx seemed okay, a little sure of himself perhaps, but the other two she didn't trust for a second. Especially the guy in the robes.
    Gritting her teeth, Geinhaal adjusted the heavy crossbow slung over her back, slipped her hands within the folds of the poncho and reluctantly made her way towards the others, a deep-set frown etched upon her patterned brow.
     
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    The Honorable Gidian Diva of Sass

    Sahrot Vahlok Spaan. Bahnahgaar. Minion #88!
    Staff member
    Vinx's face became stone as "Sir Rochefort" dealt with an offending Orc. Quite a few things were made clear by the display. First and most obvious, the man knew his way around an alchemist's table, and then that he was an illusionist, at the least. Vinx didn't like magic. He wasn't properly equipped to deal with an arcane threat at the moment, and so would have to be rather creative if it came to a conflict. A man competent in illusion was also one especially dangerous in a business proposition, and if he was powerful enough, it was always possible this proposition could go south for those involved. Next, it revealed some of the man's character, and Vinx had to admit he found his style quite amusing.

    "So, it's going to be that kind of party,"
    Vinx said with some note of amusement, then cracked his knuckles and dropped his pack, beginning to don what was left of his armor over his clothes. It was of the light-medium variety, chain mail and various light plates. It was enough to save his life, and looked to be a delicate balance of mobility and protection, a piece that was once of fine craft and relatively impressive value (not so much for its fanciness or beauty, but for its usefulness), but had since fallen from grace. It was, like it's wielder, beaten and battered and rough around the edges, being obvious that it had seen some use, and that it had been worth every septim that may have been spent on it in the past.

    Being a used to moving swiftly and all on the run, he finished donning his armor with impressive speed. He would normally have waited until they were closer to the destination, but it was likely the others had already marked him as their enemy, and he would be ready for them. Especially the sailor, whom by now Vinx could say with some confidence was a pirate. He looked to be a rather crazed individual, and the scars either being the cause under extreme duress of his violence, or a result of it. He was another mage, and once again Vinx cursed inwardly for not being adequately prepared to handle magic. The man look very confident in his ability to take everyone on, and the look in his eyes made Vinx want to pull out a gauntlet and put the man's mettle to the test. The small nord woman looked downright vicious, though she composed herself. Vinx could respect control.

    Vinx also wasn't of the most "moral" of men. He had his own rules, his own code, and thus far, nothing had breached it. The pirate, hand on the hilt of his scimitar, looked like he was about to bring a lot of fun to this party indeed. Vinx offered a hand to the Khajiit, though not entirely having a reason for it. Perhaps because she looked like she had been through a rather tough time, and seemed to be just as beat up as he was, if not more. A kindred spirit, so to speak. Also, she wielded a crossbow, and looked like she knew how to use it. She would be a valuable ally against magic, and he didn't feel like dodging anymore bolts for awhile. "Ello! Don't suppose you'd mind watching my back, I'm a rather large target, if you know what I mean." Vinx felt like being direct with the proposition, and passed off the last part as a joke about his weight, putting a mournful hand on his belly.
     

    Seanu Reaves

    The Shogun of Gaming
    Alexandre sighed like he was scolding a child. And in some way he may have been. He was happy to see that the man heeded his summons, but he was expecting. Truthfully he didn’t know what he was expecting, maybe more subtlety? Either way the man was here, talking about burning down the entire fort for him. It would defeat the purpose of ridding the world of a few more idiots, and there seemed to be one main logical flaw in his plan, which Alexandre would have to voice.

    “Ah, hello there!” Alexandre had a flippant tone, for the greeting then shifted to a very annoyed manner of speaking. “Because unlike that store, a fort is made up of stone you see… It isn’t really something you can burn down like a store made of cheap, dry tinder now can you?”

    With a slight groan though he swept his hat of his brow and bowed his head slightly. “Either way, you are here. Would you care to join? Details hold the daedra, but I am sure we won’t have any trouble with those types.”

    This newcomer dropped his hand to his sword, in a resting position but such an action still naturally holds a threat. Instead of a screaming threat, this was like a whisper. Alexandre found his right hand going to his own curved blade at his hip, it may have been thinner than the newcomer’s scimitar but size never equaled skill. He waved his left hand and the group began funneling down the road.

    That is when a lot of things happened, as the groups went on ahead Alexandre tipped his hat to Sabine. Then he felt it. That strange itching in his missing eye socket. He sniffed the air a little, and wondered what gave him such a feeling. Takes a schemer to know a schemer, or more cynically to catch a schemer. He took a deep breath. He noticed that the newcomer hadn’t moved on with the march. Alexander stayed close to Vinx and Sabine, wondering if they figured out the ruse within the job offer.

    “Do you have a name my good pyromancer? Be rude to leave you without a proper name.” He called back, deciding to play it off as nonchalant. He didn’t know what the plan was, which was a very awkward place to be. Alexandre still prided himself as a relatively quick thinker, and just smirked as Fort Greymoor in all it’s worn out splendor stood out among the plains. The sun was high in the air, the temperature was fine. And he was going to see how far he could push before the war gates broke. So he walked away, holding high hopes for the people he had taken an interest in.
     

    Lady Redpool the Unlifer

    Pyro, Spirits Connoisseur, and Soulless Anarchist
    “Do you have a name my good pyromancer? Be rude to leave you without a proper name.”

    Cyrik, his pride a little bothered answered, "My name is Cyrik if you really must know, and as for burning stone," Cyrik waved his hand at the nearby watchtower and everything not made of stone caught, burning to cinders in moments. Then the stones near the top began to collapse inwards.

    "You don't have to burn the stone to burn everyone and everything inside, and if you add enough heat, the stone's mortar will melt, and the fort will fall."

    For emphasis he let a few more feet at the top collapse into the tower and wondered where in Oblivion Jenassa was.

    "If you want my credentials then simply look at the Imperial Fleet's list of pirate bounties. Convenient that Imperials love their damned lists. If, however, you simply want me to destroy that sorry excuse for a fort to amuse you, I like my pay up front."

    His mind was racing now. Jenassa had had more than enough time to make her move. She was a professional and should have struck the moment he gave her the signal. Thinking as if it was his job to assassinate the man he walked his mind through how he would have done it. Then, it dawned on him that the best place to be, to hide and lie in wait, he had just burnt out and dropped several tons of stone into. She could survive the fire, but the crushing weight of the top of the tower......

    Not allowing his face to betray the horror dawning on him he removed his hand from his sword and offered his handshake, adding, "I'll fight, and burn, and kill for you, so long as the gold is good, but I have a reputation, and I won't go into a crumbling fort full of half-trolls and bandit-rejects to prove myself......without proper payment."

    Smiling his best business deal grin, he silently started forming a plan B that didn't rely on a dark elf and consisted of working for this man as long as was profitable.
     

    Felidae

    The White Wanderer
    As Geinhaal sidled towards the rest of the team her gaze flitted from one person to another, scrutinizing each warrior for any minute details that could give away information about their characters whilst avoiding eye contact. Aside from her skills in coercion verbal communication had never been one of her strong points, and even though her new comrades seemed amiable enough (with one or two exceptions) she didn't want to end up conversing with any of them. The effects of a harsh, isolated childhood had taught her the significance of detachment from others, as it was due to this type of lifestyle that she had developed a more profound sense of independence and individualism, unfortunately at the cost of a deep-rooted paranoia. Plus there was also the fact that the majority of Tamriel's population, admittedly herself included, were total scumbags.

    Instead, the Khajiit opted to stand awkwardly a few yards away with her arms folded and a rather unattractive scowl clouding her dappled face. It was a face that said "if you even consider talking to me, I'll slice you open and hang your corpse from Dragonsreach by its entrails", and had helped to remind even the most fearless individuals of why it was a bad idea to invade her personal space. So it went without saying that when Vinx suddenly materialized at her side with a cheerful "Ello," and his hand outstretched in greeting, she couldn't help but feel a little taken aback. He had also donned his armour in preparation for the upcoming assault, which didn't look anywhere near as lavish as she'd expected but still managed to suit him.

    Having got her attention, the Nord placed a doleful hand on his stomach in mock regret.
    "Don't suppose you'd mind watching my back, I'm a rather large target, if you know what I mean," he said to her good-naturedly, and Geinhaal sighed through her nose in irritation. Whilst she was certainly capable of appearing threatening, fearsome even, half of the time it was nothing more than a bluff and in this instance someone had the audacity to call it.
    Shame he had misjudged her, though.
    Her eyes narrowed in displeasure, Geinhaal reached out from under the poncho to grudgingly take Vinx's hand and was surprised at the strength of his grip, which indicated a life of hard physical labour.
    It unnerved her slightly, but not enough to deter the Khajiit from being her same old grouchy self. Nothing could deter her from being grouchy.

    With her tone just as expressionless as her face, the Khajiit looked Vinx in the eye and replied brusquely, "You're not my problem," before releasing Vinx's hand. From her personal experience, selfishness was an essential trait for survival in Skyrim whilst feelings of comradery often led to betrayal, hence her slightly apathetic response. Luckily for Vinx, there was still plenty of arrow-fodder in the group to choose from.
    Giving him a curt nod, Geinhaal turned and slunk off after the rest of her team, keeping a sharp eye on Sabine and Froki as she went. She may not trust Vinx, or any of them for that matter, but she would rather have him to back her up than a Dunmer or zealot.

     

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