Private A Storm of Blood

Fultheim watched as the vampiric woman delivered a speech to his new ally. He relaxed, realizing the tension came from some shouting outside. Suddenly, he heard the sounds of battle. He snuck towards the door. He heard laughter and rhymes and saw a man walk in with a jester. Fultheims invisibility speel wore oof, so he made it look like he snuck in behind them. He looked out of the door and noticed more dead soldiers. Then he realized that these people were potential allies... "What, sir, may your name be? I'm Fultheim Frostbeard, defender of the subjugated, fighter of the Stormcloaks.", said the Nord to the jester. He enjoyed the company of insane people, and this man definetly looked the part.

Fultheim drew his hammer and eyed the man who had just slit an Imperials throat. "What was that for!? You killed him, for no reason!", said the Nord as he readied Avalanche for an attack. Everyone, patrons and vampires alike, stared at the two.

Fultheim listened to the mans riddles. "What treason would this be? Could you be the Jester, the one with a huge bounty on his head, at least before the Imperials were overthrown?", said the Nord. He kept his hammer at the ready. When he saw the man draw his dagger, Fultheim turned his hammer to deflect it in case he attacked.

Salthar watched the colorfully dressed man from his corner, grabbing his fellow vampire's arm to stop her from leaping up when he cut the man's throat. 'I may have to kill that fool' Salthar thought, staring at the man,and wondering if blasting him with a lightning bolt, or ripping his throat out would be fastest.

"You're mad! Not that I particularly like the monarchial system we have now, I also wouldn't like an insane person who despises both Imperials and Stormcloaks as the High King... Unless... What's your stance on the other races, the Beastfolk, the Mer, the Redguards and the Bretons?", said Fultheim somewhat angrily. Other people were getting riled up, someone beginning to chant, "Fight! Fight! Fight. Fight.. Fight... Aw, come on! No ones joining in?" No one joined him so he stopped. "He seems like he could easily become a puppet. I don't see any real problems with this maniac on the throne, though that could be the mead talking.", thought Fultheim as he stupidly began to relax his grip.

"Nothing bothers the jester! Nothing from different races to mean faces, nothing from rich to poor, nothing from big to small. The Jester is in favor of them all, but things he hates are factions, groups, and all of these armies and political parties and gangs and vampires with fangs and small-groups too small to remember their names! If you're an opposer of the opposite side, you I shall come alongside!" The Jester chanted, keeping an eye on the man's hammer. He was proud of his small speech.

Salthar narrowed his eyes, ready to take on the jester. Perhaps it would be more interesting to tear the apart man with his talons. To his female companion, he said "If I attack the jester, will you back me up?" he whispered, beggining to stand, his eyes locked on his target.

"You are quite entertaining. If you would like to crush Ulfric, then I suggest coming by the ruins of Helgen someday. We could have a use for you... I wouldn't go around saying you hate vampires, though. There may be some in this very bar.", said Fultheim. And with that said, he walked outside, fearful of the gore that may arrise when the vampires go and speak their mind to the lunatic. He heartily laughed and cracked the door to watch.

"Shh, many things I hear indeed, maybe a sword being unsheathed, maybe lips curled showing fangs, most of these things are quite strange, but I hear them, and I think they're true, so I'll place the blame on... you." He said, pointing to a pale elf, standing straight and tall, teeth formed into fangs, nails carved into talons, eyes boiling red and orange. "A child of Dagon, wishes to take-on the best fighter there is? Well let it be so that we don't have to go far to see a good show." He said, turning invisible and appearing behind the elf, appearing to appear from thin air. "Ah yes, the bite marks I see. You're basically dead to some degree." He said, analyzing his neck.

At first the Elf had grabbed her arm, an obvious hint not to attack, but as the Jester spoke of hating Vampires it hit a nerve.

"If I attack the jester, will you back me up?"

Circe turned slowly to the Jester as he continued to blurt out meaningless riddles.

"Of course."

The Elf began to stand, narrow red eyes locked on his target. Circe was about to follow his lead when the Jester finished a riddle and the Elf stopped for a brief moment.

"-but I hear them, and I think they're true, so I'll place the blame on... you."

As the jester finished he span sharply on one heel and pointed directly at the Elf. His eyes were roaring like the fire from Satan's abyss and his fangs came into full view as he snarled slightly. Everyone in the Inn realised exactly what he was, but the rest of the room hadn't realised Circe.

She staggered up from her chair and acted frightened of the Elf. As she moved back into the crowed screaming she gave him a wink. She didn't care if the Jester knew what she was or not, he had no proof. She had no bite marks, and had made her eyes hazel while her fangs receded back into her mouth. If they were going to make it out of here alive it would be best if one of them had the element of surprise. Now the Nords believe I am not a Vampire I can prepare for an assault when needed.

Circe moved herself into the centre of the group of brute Nords forming around the Elf. All of them wielding some kind of war-hammer or sword. Once they made an attack she would be ready to take the down.

Fultheim saw Salthar becoming surrounded. "He'd be a useful ally... I'd better help him. The other vampire winked at him... She must be helping him as well. I'll wait here and if it gets too bad I'll help.", thought the Nord as he watched Cicero turn to the vampire. He readied his hammer and got into a stance that would allow him to burst in, surprising the drunken patrons.

Salthars' eyes flicked from Nord to Nord, and like a cornered cat, he sprung, ripping the throat out of the Nord standing in front of him. His second blow sent another of the heavily armoured warriors flying across the tavern, like he weighed no more than a bottle of mead. Dodging, a blow from an axe, he drew his sword and slashed through the offending man's arm, taking the axe, and hand holding it, off at the wrist.

He spun in a circle, blocking the blade of another attacker, and biting into his throat, ignoring his panicked, gargling screams. Using that man as a meaty shield, he blocked the sword of another attacker, and stabbed around his victim, into the chest of the sword-weilder, laying him low. Now only a couple of Nords stood their ground, the rest having either fled, or been killed. Baring his fangs in a bloody smile, he said "Are you sure you want to die today?" One man made to flee to the door, the other roared and charged, swinging a mace. Salthar cut down the charging man with one blow. "Pathetic" he snarled, standing among the corpses.

Seconds after the Elf had pounced onto an unprepared Nord, Circe patted two warriors in the crowd on the shoulder. They both turned around, great-swords in hand, and looked the seemingly innocent girl up and down.

"What is it little girl."

"This will probably hurt a bit."

Both men raised their eyebrows but in a split second Circe grabbed one of the men by the head and jumped high in the air, she flew at lightning speed across the inn and before the man could react his skull was shattered against a wall. She turned around with his lifeless corpse in her hand, took one bite out of his neck and threw him into the crowd. While half of the inn focused on Circe the other half focussed on the Elf.

"Over here!" One of the Nords called.

A circle had formed around Circe and she knew she needed to get out of it to be at her full potential. With one leg she forced herself hight into the air and with the other she hooked a man's chin and flew him into the ceiling. His skull was shattered too and his body fell to the floor. Circe landed gracefully on the ground and then ducked down, now dragging one leg across the floor she tripped every warrior over and stood up before they could get up again.

"Stay down if you want to live!" She ordered, realising that the Elf-Vampire had made a similar order.

They all looked up and two of the men tried to reach for their weapons. In one swift motion Circe broke their necks with her foot and then made her way back into the centre of the men on the floor.

"What should we do now Elf?" She said, her voice the only noise in the now quiet room.

(OOC: sorry but I am leaving to go travelling tomorrow. I might be able to post where I am staying but I'm not sure. I am really annoyed that it has to be so near the start of the RP. I promise I will keep up to date with the thread. )

"We leave" Salthar said shortly, making his way to the door and opening it. He held it, waiting for the woman
"Well, are you coming?" he said impatiently.

(OOC: got a stable wifi connection )

Circe nodded and then made her way through the door, all the while keeping her eye on the Nords. As she stepped into the dark streets of Falkreath she regarded the Elf with a small smile.

"Well that could have gone better"

(OOC: Btw I am going I delete my post about why Circe was at the inn and change it to the fact that she was simply stopping by Falkreath. I made a bit of a mistake and confused Circe with something else. He still hates get kind though )

Yarzgack gro-Balgrub shuffled through the dark streets of Falkreath, his mage's robes fluttering silently in the subtle breeze. The smell of blood had not escaped his notice, but he did not care. He was in the small hold capital to visit the famed graves, the ample corpses would be useful in his studies. He had traveled, on foot, from Markarth, a journey that lasted five whole days. He had reached finally reached his destination and was yearning for a drink. He took off his iron helmet, forged in Nordic fashion, and made a bee line towards the local tavern, "The Dead Man's Drink". His mind wandered to the spell he had been working on and whether it world work on sentient undead as well as living corpses. He had been so enraptured in thought that he had not noticed the bodies, living and dead around the tavern. He was a rather large Orc, well over six feet, damn near seven, almost eight, and was built like a Frost troll. He plowed into a tall robed Altmer that was exiting the doorway. Yarzgack's bulk had blocked off any escape from the tavern and the elf had started to turn away to vacate the door way, but was cut off by the Orc's chest, which had hit the elf's head like a warhammer. There was a clang as his head hit the iron chestplate hidden under the mantled mage's robes and then the elf had stepped away from the large Orsimer, seething with rage. Yarzgack shook his head and looked at the man. He was a vampire that was obvious, but other than that he was as enigmatic as any other altmer he had smashed into. "Sorry.", the orc offered bluntly, he then scratched his bushy grey beard and half shaved head, his topknot and monk's style hair drenched with old and new sweat. The orc shut his eyes, which were all yellow except for his black pupils, which were shaped like a goat's or a frog's. "I wasn't paying attention, my bad.", he said hoping that he didn't have to put his greatsword in the man's neck.

Salthar smirked at the vampiress, but nodded in agreement. "We should probably get out of here before some one calls soldier to deal with us" At that moment, an orc slammed into him. Cursing, the vampire prepared to teach the fool a lesson, but he'd already fled into the tavern.