Private {18+} Ascension

[Madrar]

It is the hundredth year of the fifth era of Nirn. And it is a time of strife. Over a hundred years ago, near the close of the fourth era, the second great war between the Aldmeri dominion and the Mede Empire ignited. Ten years later, it is over. Emperor Titus Mede the third, is dead. His family is gone. A new power has risen. A new emperor, beloved by the people, and if the new church, the Imperial Faith, is to be beleived, he is more than a mere man. A god in human form.

The new emperor is kind to his people. Or so they think. Every man and woman capable of bearing arms is recruited into the legions. There is no refusal. The church of the Imperial Faith have replaced the old divines. Worship of any of the Nine is punished by death...or worse. Confessors patrol every city, every town, every village, with a keen eye, watching for heresy.

Magic is strictly controlled. Mages must be licensed and provide their location to the office of the high judicator when asked. Legion mages are bound to service with arcane oaths. Those found practicing magic without a license are put to death, regardless of their reason for doing so.

The Aldmeri dominion, once a powerful faction capable of conquering the empire, is no more. In a cruel twist of fate, the Thalmor who once rooted out cells of 'heretics' are now forced to operate in rebel cells themselves. Morrowind, High Rock, and Skyrim are under the emperors' iron fist, as are the former territories of the dominion.

However, there are some who resist. The first rebellion started in Skyrim. However, unlike his predecessors, the new emperor was not caught off guard. At the first hint of independence, several full legions were sent in to the frozen tundra. The nordic rebellion was utterly crushed, and the Road of Repentance, stretching from Windhelm to the Imperial City, was built by the enslaved population, and paved with the bones of the fallen rebels. A lingering reminder to those who dare rise up against their new god.

Despite this spectacular failure, Hammerfell, High Rock and several factions from Morrowind to the Summerset Isles continue to fight back, against the odds. The legions are stretched thin, and the new gods powerful underlings, charged with ruling his lands, the Archons, are desperate for manpower.

To this end, they turn to the dregs of society. Mercenaries, criminals, outcasts. All of these can be used, and later discarded. Their is no shortage of these people throughout the empire. Things may appear clean and happy on the surface, but below is ripe with crime and corruption. And so a call goes out to the scum of the new empire, to serve a new god.

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Cast List

Madrar - Joren Crowe and Thalien Naast

Thesius- Vintor Haskal

Screeching Spasmodically- Adalia Suthran and Lilliana Numaria

The_Lost_Foxtrot- Mathias

Harkatti -Cyrius Valiel and Elwyn Suvarion

Rafen- Caleb Briarstone

Rell- Uzar Sal Malog

Signus- Orien Catus

Morbidbread- Elrasur Moraven

Snoball- Salza Valora

Drahkma- Kyros Duenfeur

TheArgonianDrell- Ionrath Greysong

TheShadedOne- Athara​

 

[Madrar]

Hunters' Gathering
​

Cyrodiils northernmost city, Bruma, had grown in scale and population since the beginning of the last war. Many were refugees, fleeing the bloodshed in High Rock. Many more were the type of people most hoped to avoid. The two men making their way through the slums of Bruma, traversing a street that was as much muck and slush as it was stone, were of the latter category. They wore matching armours, and matching cloaks, concealing their identity from all but the most suicidally curious. The one wielded a black bladed halberd, that rested easily against his right shoulder. A sword rested on the other mans' left hip, its pommel the face of a snarling bat-like beast. "Where is Var'Hess meeting us?" The halberd wielding man, Joren Crowe, asked. He was referring to the old khajiit mercenary the two had met several weeks ago. He too had been drawn to Bruma by the call for mercenaries. "The Maidens' Arms. Not far from here." The swordsman, Thalien Naast, replied.

The pair continued on their way, noting the various gang symbols that had been carved into the stonework or doorposts of shops. Here and there, dark smears of dried blood marked the walls. Something that looked like it had once been a man lay in the cutter, most of his skull missing. The cold had preserved his body surprisingly well, but it had been gnawed by scavengers. Thalien decided it was best not to wonder if the scavengers had been animals. A grunt from the side drew the mans' attention down a side alley. A couple stood there, their bodies pressed together. The woman was against the wall of the alley, her skirts hefted up, and a dagger held at her throat by a reedy, pockmarked man. Perhaps she'd heard the two warriors in the street- her head, framed by brunette locks, was turned towards them, a silent plea for help in her tearing eyes.

Without realizing it, Thalien took a step towards the rapist and his victim, armoured fingers closing on the hilt of Ferrum Noctis, his ancestral blade. Fingers closed around his upper arm. "Thalien. Leave it, there's no time." Joren urged his friend.

"This won't take long." Thalien snarled, freeing his arm and marching down the alley. The man was so focused on his victim that he didn't notice the breton advancing on him until his fingers closed on the mans' shoulder with an iron grip. "Hey-" With a savage pull, he spun the man around, unsheathing his sword at the same time. The imperials knife was no match for the sword in Thaliens grip. He made a horizontal slash, and the imperial shrieked, dropping his knife and crossing his arms over his gut in a vain attempt to stop his intestines from spilling out. The bretons' deep blue eyes softened slightly as he regarded the woman. "Go." She did not need to be told twice. With a gasped word of thanks, she sprang past him, and was soon gone from sight. He cleaned his blade on the imperials tunic, and left the dying man in the alley, Joren falling in beside him without a word.

The tavern, if it could be called that, sat on a street corner, with inebriated patrons standing or slumped around near the door. "Here we are. The Maidens' Arms." He stepped aside as a bleeding and cursing nord stumbled outside, followed by jeering and laughter. "Seems like a lovely place." Thalien remarked. The interior was lit by a roaring hearth near the bar, and guttering candles mounted on the walls. The denizens of the under empire were crowded inside, taking shelter from the cold and drowning their sorrows. A redguard woman sat at the nearest table, cleaning a freshly blooded dagger. Var'Hess, the dark furred khajiit with green eyes, and a large, hoop earring in his left ear, sat against the far wall, his battle axe, more akin to a bardiche than a traditional axe, leaned against his leg. Despite the noise and violence around him, the old mercenary seemed at ease, the twitching of his ears betraying his alertness.

As the two warriors took a seat across from their acquaintance, the khajiit smiled. "You are here. This one was starting to think you weren't coming." He drawled in his rasping voice.

"Has anyone else shown up?"

"A few. No one of note, however. Var'Hess does not think the people here are desperately keen to answer any kind of summons."

"So we wait to see who in the empire has stooped so low as to call up the scum of the empire. And what it is they want." Thaliens' fellow mercenary agreed with a heft of his mug and a nod.

 

[Signus]

The cold was uncomfortable, reflected Orien Catus, blowing warm air into his hands to return feeling to them, but nothing compared to the bone chill of Skyrim. Truly, he was glad to be back in Cyrodiil, and not just because of the cold. The fifth legion had...suppressed the rebel uprisings in the homeland of the nords, but the enslavement of the survivors, the slaughter at Windhelm...it seemed wrong to Orien. But he'd followed his orders, like a good legionnaire. Being a battle mage, he'd been fortunate enough to be relegated to support roles for most of the war. But surviving the campaign in Skyrim did not mean he was safe. Far from it. Oriens' father knew the legate of the fifth legion, and convinced him to accept Orien despite his arcane powers, and the fact that he had not taken the oath of allegiance. His family's history of loyal service spoke for itself.

He doubted the confessors' would see it that way. He'd been fortunate to avoid them on the campaign, and so far the tattooed warrior-priests had left the legion camp alone. Bruma was visible in the distance, and if he focused, he could see the guardsmen patrolling the sturdy walls. Closer, the legions' sentries stood, keeping a keen watch on the chill countryside. Orien sighed, missing the warmth of Leyawiin, and having had enough of the chill, turned back towards the sea of off-white legion tents, and his own, ready to rejoin his comrades around the campfire. The walk was not long, and he'd already memorized the location of his unit. Two of his comrades, Appius Sorex and Tiberius Bellus were standing near the tent, along with the unit decurion, Caelus Ignatius. None of them looked happy. Orien lifted his arm in greeting, and Caelus' lips pressed together tightly.

"Decurion, is something wrong?"

"You could say that," Caelus said, being careful not to look Orien in the eye, "the legate wants to see you. Someone rode in from the city an hour ago. "

A sinking feeling made itself known in Oriens' chest, "who?"

"I don't know. All I do know is that the legate wants you. Now."

Orien looked around, the sinking feeling evolving into fear, "where is Hadrius? Shouldn't he be back by now?" Hadrius had gone to the city with the legates permission, but that had been before dawn...something was very, very wrong.

"I don't know. The legate, Orien. Now."

The battlemage glanced at Appius and Tiberius. Both were pale, seeming more nervous than he had seen either man in years. "We're to escort you. To the command tent." Appius explained.

"I can find my own way." Orien stated bluntly.

"All the same." Tiberius joined in. "We have orders."

"Let's go then." Orien said, and his comrades flanked him as they marched towards the legates' command tent, at the center of the camp. Legate Fabius' personal guard stood outside, and the decurion there waved Orien forwards, even as Appius and Tiberius watched him anxiously. The legate was inside, sitting behind the folding table, but it was not his commander who drew his attention. It was the trio of dark robed figures standing near that same table. Squirming lines of indecipherable text covered their faces, and malice was in their eyes.

"This is the one you call Catus? The rogue mage?"

Ashen faced, legate Fabius kept his eyes fixed on the map laid out across the table as he nodded. "Take him." The lead confessor hissed.

"What treachery is this!?" Hissed Orien, his hand going to his gladius, summoning his magic with the other. The tent flap opened behind him, heralded by a freezing wind. The battlemage half-turned to face this new threat, and that was his mistake. The confessors moved swiftly, a swift club strike to the side of his head dazing him, another striking his wrist, knocking the gladius from his grasp. The two seized an arm, dragging him towards the tent. "Fabius, you know me! You know I'm loyal! "

The legate finally glanced up from his examination of the table. Regret was etched into the lines of his face, but still he made no move to stop the confessors. "Legate please!" One of the priests struck him then, putting an end to his pleas.

When he woke, he knew he was no longer outside Bruma. It was cold but damp, lit by wall mounted torches, and a brazier, where rods of iron rested in red hot coals. Oriens' head throbbed as he stared up at a stone ceiling, arms and legs immobilized by iron shackles. He was a prisoner, and he could guess of who. The need for guesswork was removed a moment later, a confessor, hood down, stepped into his view. Another stood slightly behind him. "You are awake. I am brother Urien. This, is brother Beronis. We are charged with showing you the consequences of refusing to swear allegiance to the god-emperor."

"Bastards." Spat Orien, "I am loyal."

"Perhaps. But you have not taken the sacred mark. You will be an example to the rest of your kind." Brother Urien lifted one of the iron pokers, it's tip blazing red hot. "Shall we begin?"

Hours passed. Most of the time, Orien felt nothing pain. The confessors were skilled at torture, he found, utilising blades, brands and some sort of arcane torture that seemed to rake his mind with talons of pain. Eventually, though, through the pain, Orien found he was regaining his focus...and his access to his own magic. Carefully, to avoid alerting his two tormentors, he glanced around for something he could use. His gave fell on one of the pokers, resting on the brazier. He reached out to it with his telekinesis securing his arcane grip. "Brother Urien." He rasped, voice weak from lack of water and no lack of screaming.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Urien heard him. "Yes, rogue? You wish to admit your guilt and put an end to your suffering?"

"You...have taught me much. I was blind, and now I see." Footsteps heralded the approach of Beronis.

Uriens' face twisted in a confusion. "What are you trying to say?"

"I'm saying- receive my thanks!" Orien snarled, telekinetically hurling the the poker like a javelin. The red hot shaft entered Uriens' left eye, the first four inches bursting the orb and punching into his brain. The confessor dropped without a sound. Beronis' eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. A surge of magic snapped the shackles holding Orien and he rolled off the table, nearly collapsing as his abused body screamed at him. Still, he managed to sieze the mace from Uriens belt, and brought it down in a massive overhead swing, pulverizing Beronis' skull and sending bits of bone and brain flying.

Orien rushed to the door, learning that, in their arrogance, the confessors' had not bothered locking the door. He burst through, but the room beyond was abandoned, save for a large chest. Dropping the mace, he limped to the chest, and breathed a prayer of thanks upon finding his gear armor and weapons, secured inside. Why they hadn't been disposed of, he didn't waste time wondering. His cut, burnt and bruised body did not thank him as he dragged his uniform and armor on. Fastening his swordbelt, he limped with haste towards the exit, fortunately coming across nothing in the way of resistance.

Outside, he shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun, and struggled to walk properly. Guardsmen and legionnaires alike seemed uninterested. That, Orien knew, would not last. Moving as fast as he could, he made his way towards the outskirts of Bruma. Towards the region known among citizens and soldiers alike as 'the under empire.' For he was no longer a proud son of the fifth legion, but rogue mage, wanted by the warrior priests of the empire.

 

[Drahkma]

Kyros Duenfuer walked through the slums that made up the outskirts of Bruma- of most imperial cities, with little concern for his own safety. It wasn't because of any arrogance that he did so, though some almost certainly thought so. He simply knew that none of the denizens of the under empire, at least in this part of the city, posed no threat to one such as he. His keen eyes, a deep blue, swept over the ruin of a street. A sneer found its' way onto his otherwise noble visage. ' Thieves, thugs, assassins, likely. The scum of the empire. And here I am among them.' The vampire knights' sneer turned into an unpleasant smirk. Seeing it, several of the more cowardly, or perhaps the wisest, scattered down side streets and alleys. None of them wanted to become a corpse, rotting in gutter. He wondered how much faster they would have run had they known his true nature.

Idly, he ran his tongue over the tips of his fangs. He'd come to Bruma looking for blood and challenges. Of the first, he'd found plenty- no one looked for a beggar or prostitute, especially in the under empire. Of the second, it seemed he was to be disappointed. When he'd first arrived in the city, he'd been confronted by a small gang who had attempted to 'fine' him for the privilege of walking down the slush and muck of a street. Razor had tasted the first blood of Bruma, Kyros cutting through the men like a farmer scythed wheat in the field. Since then none had dared to confront him. It was equal parts disappointing and infuriating.

However, he wasn't quite ready to leave the city behind him. If the rumours were to be believed, it was the imperials themselves that wanted mercenaries to fight in some war or another. It made little sense to the vampiric knight- the empire had many legions ready to do just that. Perhaps the imperials were finally stretching themselves too thin to hold their own against the variety of enemies they had made. Whatever the reason, it was unimportant to Kyros, so long as he got to test his skills against capable enemies.

The sound of merrymaking stood out. Especially in a place such as this, where an individual had to be dead for several days before anyone bothered to take notice. A tavern or inn, most likely. Following the sounds was no challenge. Besides the occasional shout or wail of an unfortunate soul, it was quiet in the area. The sign hanging over the door of the building on the street corner read ; 'the Maidens' Arms. A typical name for such a place.

The knight pushed the door open and ducked inside, blocking the doorway for a moment as he surveyed the dimly lit room. His predatory sight allowed him to pierce even the darkest corner, but there was little to interest him there. The usual assortment of degenerates drinking, fighting, gambling. The three that stood out were a pair of black cloaked warriors, sitting with dark furred khajiit. They too seemed to be observing the patrons, perhaps waiting for individuals such as him. For the moment, he refrained from introducing himself, choosing instead to take a seat near the wall, and scowling at the serving wench until she decided it was in her best interests not to approach him. Then, he sat back in his char, rested his hand on Razors' pommel, and watched the door.

 

[The_Lost_Foxtrot]

It was a rather cold day in the mountainous region of nothern Cyrodiil, the Fifth Legion has set up camp just outside of the city of Bruma, coming back from their campaign in Skyrim. Inside the city you could see the difference between poverty and wealth. In the slums and rundown parts of Bruma was all the bad type of people from thieves and murderers to rapists, nothing was really safe.

Down a alley of what's called the underempire was a corpse freshly killed just a few hours ago, the crows already pecking at the cold flesh. But among the birds one stood out just sitting there, feathers darker then the night and looked like it had bathed in the blood of the dead, its eyes glowed a powerful purple, almost supernatural. It cawed before flying around the corner, but instead of flapping of wings it was footsteps. A man came out of the darnkess, face hidden by a mask designed after a fox and the only thing you could see was his eyes, a glowing purple.

Mathias walked out on the streets of the poor District, the air cold and filled With the stench of filth and death.He had just assassinated a target in the wealthier part of Bruma, the pay was good but he wasn't here for the contract. It has been a call for Mercenaries and the like and he was curious. The Grimm have been looking for the inn in the slums, the contact was there apparently, an old Kahjit to be exact. As he walked by a child whom was begging for Food or gold he tossed him six septims, not even batting an eye in that direction. After half and hour he found the inn, The Maidens arms, it was a little rundown but not too bad. He saw a broken window, as a crowd walked by he disappeared, only a crimson tainted feather in his place.

As he flew through the window and landed on one of the rafters he was met With the sound of Music and drunken laughter. he observed the inn, taking in the surroundings and finaly found him, the contact along with two men he did not know. he flew down on the table they were sitting at, just staring at the Kahjit. "Caw caw" he made before hopping behind him, transforming back to a man, standing beside them, slightly in the shadows. "so i've heard that someone in Bruma called out to the mercenaries and scum of the empire" he said in a cold voice, devoid of emotion "and I must say that I became rather interested in this mission of yours" he answered. "Hmm. This one wonder what your name is?" The Kahjit asked and Mathias didn’t say anything, only placing a white rose on the table, tainted slightly with crimson blood. This was The Grimm's calling card, a symbol of death that was well known in the game of politics. The old cat’s eyes widened, knowing the rose’s meaning. "So The Grimm himself heard the summons, very well you may join us. Just stay close by and this one shall call when we are ready". The fox themed assassin nodded, taking a seat on the table looking at the two men sitting over him. And seeing the warrior the was on another table by the wall whom looked like a worthy opponent.

 

[Morbidbread]

The wealthy district of Bruma was considerably nicer than the under empire at the cities edge. Though Elrasur Moraven, better known as Elrasur the white, or the talonmaster, was not among the classier buildings for the pleasure of it. The assassin had heard of lady Septimia Cimantus. Or rather, he'd heard of the crimes she'd committed. Lady Cimantus was a merchant, an extremely wealthy one if the reports about her were to be believed. She and her sister had made their profit sailing goods from Anvil up to Solitude in Skyrim. Septimia had retired several years ago, and taken to...less than moral pursuits in the northernmost city of the empires' heartland. Accepting refugees from the wars, only to put them to work on her massive manor. Slave work, for all intents and purposes.

Elrasur bit back a muttered curse. He'd crossed paths with the red wardens, the slaving guild that had free reign throughout Morrowind and the other provinces of the empire. How Septimia, an imperial noble already from a wealthy family, had fallen in with them, if she had, was beyond the assassin. But her crimes did not stop there. If the stories were to be believed, her sister had objected to her keeping her workers as slaves, and Septimia had her killed. "Rotten through and through" the dunmer assassin murmured to himself. It was far past time that the woman was held responsible for her actions. The talonmaster strolled down the street, drawing gazes from several imperial citizens. His kind weren't exactly commonplace in the cleaner sections of the city. Lady Cimantus' manor was just ahead, the signs of recent work clearly visible; scaffolding, boards, stone blocks not yet set into place.

The scaffolds would be his entry point. They lead up to the second level of the manor, and eliminated the need for entry through the front doors. Making sure he wasn't observed, the assassin walked along the courtyard wall until he was certain the two guards at the door could not see him. With a practiced motion, he vaulted over the stone barrier, landing lightly, and sprinting for the scaffolding. He climbed it easily, making his way up to the unfinished section of wall. A large brown cloth hung over the open section, keeping the elements out, but no barrier to him. Elrasur slipped inside, drawing his curving blades and keeping his senses alert. He rolled his feet, from heel to toe, taking care not to make any noise. Giving away his position could lead to the workers being harmed, and that was unacceptable.

Ghosting across the marble floors, he made his way to a pair of dark wooden doors that gleamed in the light. Footsteps announced the approach of a pair of men, speaking casually, not worried. Yet. "You think Cimantus will keep this bunch?" One of the voices asked.

"Dunno. Work's almost done on this floor. Might hand them over to Craso for target practice."

"Bah. Means we'll be the ones to clean them up after his guys are done with them."

"Quit your whining. Unless you want to be in the next batch she gets rid of."

The doors opened, and the dunmer assassin moved. The first guard died before he could drawn his own weapon, collapsing to the floor. The second stared at the sudden enemy, hand flying to the hilt of his sword. Elrasur was far too quick for him, one blade slashing across his throat, the other slashing the tendons in his elbow. The second guard quickly joined his friend. The assassin cleaned his blades and moved on as quickly as he dared. Soon he came across a open gallery, free of furniture at the moment, perhaps only lately finished. Either way, his target was not here. Quietly, he continued his mission.

 

[TheShadedOne]

Athara rested up on an empty alcove, legs crossed,tail twitching slightly, arms behind her head. Comfortable as only a khajiit could be, considering her purpose here. Despite what the brave or...foolish said about her, Septimia Cimantus' was no fool. She'd kept an ear out for the slightest hint of trouble, she'd sent people to look for Athara. Of course, the assassin had heard about their efforts long before they'd reached her. She'd stalked the ladys' servants back to her manor well outside the under empire. There she'd discovered the reason for the servants search. Septimia had learnt that an assassin was coming for her, but she'd been unable to figure out who had hired the killer. Still, the best way to stop an assassin was with another assassin. And Athara had been out of work for some time. Lady Cimantus' had offered her a small lords' ransom in gold, if she kept her hide in one piece.

So far, the assassin hadn't shown up, and the khajiit was growing bored of waiting. She'd told the lady to secure herself in the tower of the manor. If the assassin wanted to get to her, they'd need to pass under Athara's resting place. But they had yet to show up. She decided upon another half hour of waiting, before she went looking for whoever had come to take out her employer. A few moments after she'd decided this, sounds reached her sensitive ears. Not the sounds of battle, but rather the clatter of something, no two somethings, heavy, striking the marble floor.

Athara lifted her head, ears straining. Her patience was awarded as the doors to the bare gallery and a dunmer male stepped inside. He glanced around, clearly alert, clothed in leather and steel. And clearly on a mission, as he hurried across the gallery towards the far door. She rolled herself off the edge of the alcove, landing easily, despite falling a little more than two metres. "Hello, there." She said, amber eyes betraying her eagerness for the fight to follow. She drew her weapons, falchion in her left hand, the other, a shortsword, rested easily in her right. "I think we both know why we're here. Shall we get this over with?" She took a step towards the elf, flourishing the blade in her right hand, and bringing the left around to slash at his midsection.

 

[Madrar]

Thalien was still musing on Var'Hess' words when a tall, heavily armoured breton stepped inside. His plate armour was damaged on one side from some battle with a large creature. Or at least, a creature with very large claws. His skin was as pale as Jorens', and he refused all food or drink. It was possible the man simply wasn't willing to risk one of his rivals poisoning him. It wouldn't be the first time some poor fool had wandered in for a drink or meal only to collapse moments later. He didn't miss the open contempt in the other mans' eyes. 'A knight then. Or someone who thinks themselves one.' The knights' gaze didn't linger on the patrons of the Maidens' Arms, instead shifting to watch the door, a hand on the pommel of his longsword.

A slight commotion near one of the taverns' windows drew Thaliens' attention away from the knight, to see a crow, larger than most of its' breed, flap inside, drawing curses from those nearest the broken window it had used as its entry point. The breton gripped the hilt of his sword, feeling something was amiss. For one, the bird had purple eyes, that glowed with a faint magical aura. The second hint was the crimson hue of its feathers. It circled the interior once, before settling on the table Thalien, Joren and Var'Hess sat. It cried out twice before leaping away. An instant later, there was a man standing where the crow had, masked and wearing black and crimson robes. The khajiit warrior greeted him, and the man joined them at the table, where he placed a white rose between the four of them. The mans' name, apparently, was the Grimm. An assassin, if Var'Hess' reaction was to be believed. "So you're a shapeshifter then? Interesting." Thalien remarked.

 

[The_Lost_Foxtrot]

"So you're a shapeshifter then? Interesting." The Breton had said as Mathias sat down, the assassin looked at him and his Companion. Both wore almost identical armours, exept for the one whom was talking to him wore more steel then the other, a rogue and Warrior duo then. "you could say that" Mathias answere before giving a quiet grunt of pain, he called for a tavern girl to come over "I-i there a-any t-thing you w-would l-like?" she asked With a stutter, probably scared by the mask ."The strongest wine you have" he ordered, the girl nodded and rushed of to get it.

As she did that The Grimm looked over to the giant of a man, he was outfitted with steel armor that looked like it has taken a beeting from a beast, along with a sword wich he held his hand over while keeping an eye on the door.

as he was done observing the girl had returned with the wine, "t-that will b-be, t-twenty s-septims s-sir" she told him. Mathias only nodded and gave her the gold and poured his medicine in. He took off his masks and drank it, not really caring about the shocked look on the khajit's face, probably surprised by The Grimm's young age. A sigh leaving his lips as the potion kicked in. He looked back at the two men sitting opposite of him, "so, what are men such as yourselves doing here if I may ask?" he questioned with a raised eyebrow, keeping the giant armoured man by the wall in his sight

 

[Thesius]

The former paladin trudged through the slush created by the passage of many feet. His sturdy boots were ensured his feet were unaffected by the freezing liquid, but the cold still slipped through to the flesh beneath. A murmur of annoyance slipped past his lips, but not past the skull-like helm. "Blasted cold." He paused to look around, taking in the misery and despair all around him and feeling...nothing. Not disgust, not sympathy. He simply dismissed the starving, the diseased, the dying as irrelevant and moved on. Their pleas for food, hope and gold fell on deaf ears. As a former paladin of Arkay, he knew that he should have at least felt something for the people of the under empire.

'Arkay abandoned me. Our order. I will be his slave no longer.' It was the last oath Vintor Haskal had made, and he refused to break it. "Sir...please." One of the people, if the skeletal creature could be called that, grasped Vintors' gauntleted hand. With a snarl, the former paladin tore away. "Do not presume to touch me, wretch. Do so again, and I'll put you out of your misery." When the man shrunk away from his intimidating helm and cold voice, Vintor snorted and marched away, continuing with his task. He'd heard that mercenaries of all types were assembling in one of the many taverns of the city. His interest had been piqued when he'd heard that it was an imperial edict that had summoned them. 'The legions are numerous enough to deal with any uprising, as they proved with Skyrim. They seldom need the sellswords and the like.'

"Cold words." A voice with a strong nordic accent called from behind him. "Matching the weather of this day." Vintor turned hand going the long hafted mace at his side, the dark steel gleaming in the light. A nordic woman, her torso covered in steel armour, along with her boots. Dark trousers covered her legs, but her arms below the shoulder were bare. A round, traditional nordic shield was on her left arm, and her right rested on her belt, near a steel bladed axe. "They'll die even without my help. I am no healer, nor am I terribly fond of losing what little gold I have. Who might you be, to approach so boldly?"

The woman bowed her blonde head, the locks woven into braids. "Adonja. A shield maiden of Skyrim."

"Here to answer the call, I assume."

The woman shrugged. "Got nothing else. Thought I'd lend my axe to this...quest. The pay's supposed to be pretty good, if word is true."

Vintor shrugged, and continued on his way. The woman fell into step beside him, seeming unimpressed by his helm. It was not long before the two of them reached the tavern; the Maidens' Arms. A broken window hinted that it was not the best maintained, but the sounds of merriment from within told him it was still doing good business. He stepped inside, and the woman, Adonja, took her leave with a grunt. He barely noticed her departure, instead staring at a group of men at the far wall. Two, a khajiit and a masked man, he did not recognize. The other two, however... he approached, a grim smile forming under his deaths' head helm.

When he'd reached their table, he tilted his head down make eye contact with the two in similar armour. "Well this is a surprise. I hardly expected to see you again, Seer." He removed his helm, tucking it under his arm. "I see you've still got your grim bodyguard." He nodded towards the black eyed nord.

 

[Morbidbread]

Elrasur had made more than halfway across the open gallery, when he heard the soft thump of something light striking the ground. He turned, blades at the ready to see a khajiiti woman, roughly the same height as him standing a little more than two metres away. "Hello, there." She said, her voice lacking the Elsweyr accent he'd heard on so many others. There was a dangerous gleam in her amber eyes- one that Elrasur recognized immediately. "I think we both know why we're here. Shall we get this over with?"

He frowned. It seemed she'd been lying in wait for him, specifically. The blades in her hands, one longer, curved a falchion, in the right, a shorter straight weapon in her left gleamed dangerously. "I mean you no harm." He told the woman honestly, but she was hearing none of it, springing forwards and slashing with the shortsword. The talonmaster parried quickly and easily, rolling one hand over the blade and jerking her arm out to the side. His other sword slashed upwards at her thigh, hoping for a quick solution to the fight. However, the khajiit was as fast as she looked. She spun on one heel, her falchion parrying with the speed of a viper. Elrasur backed away, blades at the ready but what he hadn't anticipated was the speed of the woman.

All four weapons connected with a flurry of steel before the two assassins broke apart once more. They were, as far as he could tell, evenly matched. He was far from breathing hard, but the longer he tarried fighting this woman, the greater chance lady Cimantus would escape. Elrasur leapt again, one blade slashing high, the other low, snapping a kick at her mid section as he did. The woman blocked both of his blades easily enough, but the heel of his boot struck home, knocking her back. With an abbreviated bow, he spun on his heel and headed for the far doors.

 

[Screeching Spasmodically]

Bruma was the most inhospitable city Lilliana Numaria had ever been in. Considering she'd never left Cyrodiil, that wasn't saying much. She pulled her scribes robes close around her, in a vain attempt to keep the cold away. It didn't help much. Brumas' freezing cold was a far cry from the temperate climates of the imperial city and its surrounding villages. When she'd fled the grand archives there, she hadn't had time to take much besides a couple of quills, some ink, and her journal. What little gold she'd had was gone long before she reached the northern city. She'd taken to scavenging- stealing, really from farms along the way. Lilliana hadn't enjoyed it, and she would have paid if she could. But those were hardly the worst of her worries.

Her...well she wasn't sure what it was, a curse, she supposed. She'd attempted to read up on it during the little spare time she had at the archives. Far as the scribe could tell, she was plagued by a rare form of psychic vampirism. Unlike most strains of vampirism, it didn't need to be contracted from the undead, and those who had it were usually not undead themselves. From what she could tell, none of the few scholars that studied it knew of its origins, only that there was no known cure. Lilliana didn't think she'd be the first to find one. I don't even know how it works! She complained to herself as she walked the snow covered streets. Happiness did nothing for her- she'd tried lingering near places where people had seemed the happiest and felt nothing.

Only fear, sadness, and pain seemed to fill the void that was situated in her chest. The satisfying that void came with a tingling pleasure, that always left her feeling dirty and...wrong afterwards. She hated it, and hated the fact that there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. But of course, that was not the worse of her trouble. She'd seen the postings at almost every street corner. Bounties for a young scribe that had slandered the emperors' holy name. It didn't take much guesswork to figure out who that could be. There was also a sketch of her face, not a very flattering one, mind you, but it matched Lilliana enough to make her glad for the hood she wore. Even if it didn't provide much comfort against the cold.

She was beginning to draw stares. People she passed let their gaze linger on her longer than normal- and she knew it wasn't because of her looks. While Lilliana didn't consider herself ugly, but she was far from a stunning beauty. Which meant that their stares were because of the postings. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a pair of men in the red and gold of imperial uniforms approaching. With a whispered curse she turned, being careful not to run, and headed in the opposite direction. Only to see another pair of guardsmen -enforcers, she thought they were called, walking in from that direction. She was starting to panic now. She had an idea of what they'd do to her if they caught her.

There was one way no enforcers were coming from an alley that stood out from the rest of the city just because of its disrepair and the way everyone was going out of their way to avoid it. The under empire. She shuddered, remembering the horrid stories her father had told her of such a place. But a glance showed that the guards were only a few metres away now, and they'd definitely seen her. She ran for it. Curses and the sound of heavy boots striking the street stones rang out after her. But there was no chance of being caught now, the alley gaped open in front of her, like a mouth filled with broken teeth. She didn't stop for the first few feet, despite the fact that the guards had stopped and were now shouting curses after her. But they didn't dare follow. For the first time since she'd left the imperial city, Lilianna smiled.

What she didn't see, were the two men coming at her from the side. The first, a strong bull of man, caught her arm and swung her against the grimy wall of the alley. The air blasted out of her lungs in a short shriek. "Well,well,well. Look what we have here, Barrus. A lost little bird. Runnin' from those mean imperial dogs, are we?"

"Probably a big payoff on her head." Snickered the second man. "Doesn't mean we can't have a bit o' fun with her first, though." He reached for her robes with grimy hands. Breathless, terrified, the girl had no real means of defending herself, besides kicking and scratching, which she did savagely. The man cried out in equal parts pain and rage, "hold 'er still, Cantus!" The big man, Cantus reached for her arms, a lecherous grin pasted over his face. Then a flash of blue-white light stole Lilliana's vision. When it returned, the big thug was slumped against the far wall, a blackened, smoking crater in his chest. The other, Barrus, ran down the alley, screeching the whole way. A second bolt of lightning struck him, sending him to the filthy street.

In their place, stood a redguard woman, in multicolored robes, seashells braided into her hair. The redguard looked down at her with motherly concern. "Are you alright, dear?"

Lilliana meant to answer to assure her that the woman had arrived in the nick of time. All that emerged, however, were grateful, breathless sobs. At once, the redguard fell to her knees beside her, wrapping her in a warm, motherly embrace. "Shhh, it's alright, dear. You're safe now. Come with me, and I'll get you fed warmed."

Even if she had wanted to object, there was no real strength left to her. Barely a half hour later, she was sat in a dark tavern, the Maidens' Arms, if she'd read the sign correctly, eating a greasy looking stew that she never would have touched if she wasn't so hungry. "Thank you." She mumbled between bites. She noticed a handful of dangerous looking individuals, but the redguard mage with her didn't seem too worried. "Don't mention it, my dear. I am Adalia. What's your name?"

"Lilliana. I'm from the imperial city. I...I can't go back."

"I understand, dear. You can come with me, until we've found a safe place for you. How does that sound?"

"I think I'd like that. Thank you, Adalia."

 

[The Seraph]

For three days Sylandres has marched from Whiterun. He was just near the peak of the mountain, only half a mile from Burma. He knew someone was following him, he could see the bushes rustling, and he could feel something crawling close by. He had reached the top of the summit, and at the base of the mountain was Burma, the thriving cradle of the under empire. Sylandres stood in place for several moments, awaiting whatever beast was stalking him. He could feel something bounding towards him. Suddenly, he lept out of the way, and an abomination of bone and claw and maw rushed towards where he had been and ran right of the edge of the summit. Sylandres knocked it off with his staff, sending it down the steep mountainside. He noticed two more of the "Gifted" sprinting towards him. He waited until they were practically on top of him, to leap out of the way. They fell to their doom, just like their brother before them. He looked down to his arm to see one of them had slashed him. It would have been suspicious to heal his arm this close to a major city. He just marched on down the mountain side.

it has taken the better part of the evening to reach Burma. Now Sylandres began to search for a place called the Naden Sarm, or Maidens Harm or something like that. The ale in the Bannered Mare might have made the Imperial loud, but he wasn't clear. Many moments, and unconscious vagabonds, later he found the Maiden's Arm. Sylandres collasped his staff, and walked in to a cramped tavern. He took his place in a dark corner, taking notice of some of the more unusual residents, such as a knight with skin as pale as snow, and a table consisting of a Kahjiiti, two men in matching armour, and a Fox masked person. The Imperial said to contact the Kahjit known as Var'hess for work, thought Sylandres as he pulled out a piece of chalk and his slate, might as well get a drink while I'm here.

 

[Harkatti]

Cyrius Valiel took in the sights, sounds and smells of Bruma and sighed, shoulders slumping in disappointment. It had taken him about a week to travel from his comfortable house in Leyawiin anticipating some sort of grand gathering of adventurers. What he found, was the general misery and oppression that clung to most of Tamriel these days it was so..."Bleak." He selected the word outloud, and continued on the side of the main road, towards the southern gate. "Very bleak." Being immortal, he remembered the days when Bruma had stood as a proud bastion of northern Cyrodiil. Now it, the outskirts at least, were home to all manner of scum. The types he'd cut apart so easily on the road when he'd been a young and foolish paragon of virtue. Of course, he still cut them to pieces with barely a thought, but for his own amusement, rather than the benefit of others.

As he drew closer to the south gate, he noticed the groups of imperial guardsmen -enforcers, they'd been renamed, standing around near it, harassing farmers and merchants bringing their goods to market. A few were like Cyrius, mercenaries and cutthroats having heard of the call for blades. Most were refugees, hoping to escape the wars. "Pardon me," he said, slipping between a pair of miserable looking merchants who were having their goods thoroughly 'inspected' by a group of over eager enforcers. Most of their goods had been dumped into the slushy road, where scavengers were already beginning to snatch what they could.

A pair of enforcers blocked with way. "State your business, citizen."

"I've heard there's a call for mercenaries in your fair city. I'm answering that call. And looking for a bit of entertainment on the side, if you get my meaning." He said with a sly wink at the older of the two guards.

The younger of the two scowled but his companion chuckled and nodded. "You're wanting the Maidens' Arms then. Watch yourself if you go down there, though. It's in the under empire." The veteran guard spat, as if the name left a bad taste in his mouth. Cyrius fought to keep a smile from his own noble features. Though the two men before him couldn't tell, the under empire was a perfect place for a vampire.

"Thank you, my good man." He stepped past them, through the gates. Carts of merchants allowed through made their way along the street under heavy guard to ward off bandits and scavengers that, Cyrius guessed, were just as numerous inside the city as outside of it. As soon as he stepped through, he felt half a dozen eyes on him, evaluating him, measuring the risk of trying to take him on. A smile crept over his handsome features. Ah, the under empire. Some change, it seems can be for the best.' He took a dozen more steps hearing movement in the shadows.

"I know you're there. Why don't you come into the light, and we can speak like civilized creatures?"

They stepped forward in pairs, gang piercings and markings covering most exposed areas of flesh. "It's a brave man to walk into our territory so lightly armed." The leader, a hulking nord with a skull tattoo covering most of his face, old battle scars the rest, said.

"I find my wits usually do the trick." Cyrius replied, his smile widening.

"Yeah? You think your wits are gonna protect you from the six of us?" The man asked, slipping his axe from his belt and taking a step closer.

"Three of you." The vampire corrected. At their confused glances, he explained, "once the leader-I'm assuming that's you is dead, only a couple who aspire to take your place will stay to fight. The rest will flee, like the mangy dogs you are."

The leader roared, bringing his axe over his head for a powerful one handed chop. Except Cyrius was no longer their when he arrived, instead stepping to the side, his sword clearing its' scabbard in time to hamstring the man. A thrust had the blade punching into the back of the mans neck, emerging from his throat. Cyrius spun, removing his blade and bringing it up in a looping motion, slashing the artery in a redguard mans' inner thigh. He went down with a scream, and the remaining four exchanged uneasy glances. The third man died with a sword slipping past his ribs into his heart. The remaining three stumbled over each other in their haste to escape the supernaturally skilled swordsman, Cyrius' taunting laughter pursuing them.

A short while later, he arrived at the tavern that had been recommended to him by the gate guard. Already a group was assembled that stood out from the usual scum. A pair of women, both in robes, though one far more colorful than the other, two men in almost matching armors, speaking to a khajiit and a masked man a fifth stood at their table, possibly having just joined them. A bosmer writing on a slate by himself, and a giant of a breton in plate armor that looked like some savage creature had attacked him. He was also, Cyrius realized to his surprise, a fellow vampire.

He approached the table the large breton sat at, helping himself to a seat across from the man. "Greetings. It is rare to see a brother of the night these days. Am I correct in assuming that you are here to join this mercenary expedition?"

 

[Madrar]

The masked man agreed with Thaliens' observation before grunting softly and snagging a passing bartender, requesting the strongest wine they had. The breton raised a brow but didn't comment. It seemed foolish to dull ones' senses in a place such as this. A short time later, the serving girl, clearly intimidated by the masked man, returned with the wine, filling a goblet for him before receiving payment.

The shapeshifter removed his mask, revealing a surprisingly young looking face beneath, to drink his wine, but not before adding something to it. Once he'd finished, he asked about Thalien and Jorens' purpose in the Maidens' Arms. "I thought it was obvious. The posting called for mercenaries. Which is...the nicest way to describe men of our caliber, yourself included. I might not be the most loyal subject of the empire, but I won't turn down work."

He glanced at a pair of robed women who had entered just ahead of a bosmer who sat on his own. "I think you'd find a more interesting answer asking them what they are doing here." As he spoke, he noticed another newcomer advancing on their table. The man wore plate armour and a helmet with a face fashioned after a skull.

"Well this is a surprise. I hardly expected to see you again, Seer." Thalien frowned. The voice was familiar, but surely it couldn't be...the man removed his helm, revealing the greying, scarred visage of Vintor Haskal. The imperial nodded at Joren, "I see you've still got your grim bodyguard."

The black clad assassin smiled. It was not a pleasant thing to behold, best described as hooks pulling the corner of a corpses mouth up. "Priest. Long time."

"What are you doing here, Haskal? The last I saw you was after that disaster near Anvil."

 

[Rafen]

The childs' weeping was dangerous. Caleb knew that, and he also knew that her mother was doing the best she could to comfort her. However, broken legs were not especially pleasant, and the girl could not be more than eight years old. The healer had already reset the bone, and had a splint ready to be placed. The problem was where the girl and her mother lived. 'Lived' being a generous term in this circumstance.

His concern was that movement might be necessary and soon. A splint would not be sufficient if that was the case, and the bone would not set properly if the girl was constantly moving around. Which left only one option. He set the splint aside, and placed his hands over the broken wound. "What are you doing?" The girls' mother asked, but she leaned back with a gasp as Calebs' hands began to glow.

Healing warmth washed over the girl, mending bone, remapping nerves, and knitting flesh and muscle together. Before their eyes, the leg was healed leaving nothing but a faint scar. The girl, astonished at the sudden lack of pain, stopped crying, peering around with watery eyes. "You- you're a mage!"

"A healer, yes. As I told you earlier, I help people." He gathered up his gear, callused hands working quickly. He had heard people were looking for mercenaries in the under empire. A fine place to find some. The woman thrust a pitifully small coin purse at him "take it. Take it and go. The enforcers don't come down here, but if the gangs hear there's a mage about..."

"I don't want your gold." He assured her, pushing it back towards the woman. "I do need information- the mercenaries that have come through here, where are they meeting?"

"The Maidens' Arms. Not far from here. you'll see it on the street corner if you head west for about twenty minutes."

Caleb thanked the woman, and pulled his robes around him, hiding the sword at his side, before making his way off in the direction she'd indicated. It was time to join these mercenaries, even if he wasn't going to be drawing a blade alongside them.

 

[TheShadedOne]

Athara grunted, stumbling back as the dunmers' boot connected with her gut. 'Stupid. I should have expected that' thinking her opponent would play fair had been a mistake, especially since she had no plans to do the same. To her surprise, the other assassin didn't press his advantage, instead turning and heading for the doors. It seemed he'd been honest when he'd said he meant her no harm. But Athara still had a job to do.

Sheathing her shorter blade, she drew a throwing knife from her belt, bringing it up and preparing to send it spinning towards the back of the elfs' head. Before she could release the blade, the doors ahead of them swung open, and a troop of guards swarmed out, weapons drawn. "Lady Cimantus wants this mess cleaned up. Kill them both."

The khajiit assassin didn't let surprise slow her reaction, instead switching her aim from her fellow assassin to the lead guardsman. Her blade took him in the throat, and he hit the ground with a crash of armour. She sprang up from her kneeling position, drawing her shortsword and downing another guard in a flurry of stabbing and slashing. "Four left." She said with a feral grin. "About even odds."

 

[Rell]

The orc staggered through the streets and alleys of the under empire, seeming almost unaware of where he was or where he was headed. Usually, someone so obviously unaware would make a tempting target to the people who called the under empire home. For whatever reason, they did not. Perhaps it was the armor he wore- stained with old blood and dents, the marks of war. Perhaps it was the orcs fiercesome appearance, the dark skin, heavily scarred, the broken nose, and one ear missing its tip. His deep amber eyes flicked this way and that, watching for threats. His hands shook like leaves in a strong breeze, which might lead some to believe that he's reliant on skooma or some other drug, and has gone for a long while without a fix. Those people would be wrong. The shaking was the only outward appearance of the massive internal battle Uzar Sal Malog fought every day. A battle he knew he was slowly losing.

The demands of his god could not be drowned out, ignored, or refused. Eventually, he would snap and slaughter everything he could get his hands on. It was only a matter of time. He hoped to find a release on this mission the empire needed mercenaries for. Or at least an end to his suffering. He staggered down the street, mumbling the name of the tavern he was supposed to meet the imperial contact. The Maidens' Arms. It was somewhere in the under empire section of Bruma. That was all the stammering nord he'd run into outside the city could tell him. Uzar had left the man unharmed on the side of the road, if a little shaken. Or...had he? The massive orc looked down at his hands. For now, they were clean of blood, but he remembered squeezing a humans' throat with bone crushing force....or...was that some fantasy cooked up by his daedric lord?

Either way, it was too late to go back and check now. His eyes narrowed as he read the sign hanging over the building on the corner. Drunken laughter and shouts emerged from within; this had to be the place. With a satisfied grunt, Uzar stepped inside, his eyes slowly adjusting to the smoky, dim interior. Already many warriors were inside, drinking and talking, though one, a breton in steel armor stared at the door. An imperial brushed past him, and joined the armored man. Two women sat at a table, one desperately eating a stew as if it was the first meal she'd had in days, the other keeping watch over her. At a table by himself, was an earless elf, bosmer maybe, writing on a slate. He too lacked any armor or weapons besides a metal staff. Uzar felt a sneer overcome his features. They're weak. Hoping to rise to greatness by following the success of warriors.

Instead of speaking to any of them, he took a seat at the bar. The man behind it, a scarred imperial, had to look up to meet Uzars' gaze. "What'll be, big fella?" "Water." It was not what he wanted, but it was dangerous to dull his senses. Not because he feared assassins or poison, but because if he lost control, there was a chance he'd kill everyone inside. The bartender frowned at him, but placed a large flagon of water in front of him. In return, Uzar dropped a small pouch of coins, which were quickly swept out of sight.

 

[The Seraph]

Sylandres had finished writing and called over a barmaid and showed her what was written on the slate. Names Sylandres. I would like water, a piece of roast mutton, and beer stew. Absolutely no vegetables. I'm deaf, if you were wondering why I would bring this into a tavern. Sylandres stood back for a few moments as the women struggled to read. He noticed there were more people in the bar then before. Two women huddled in a corner, obviously discussing something. A skull masked man had joined to already crowed table, and the pale knight had found an equally pale friend. Vampires perhaps thought Sylandres. There was also an orc, worn and battle tested, shaking as if he had the skooma withdrawl. The tavern wench finished reading and handed him back the slate. Well, it couldn't hurt to have a friend in a place like this, thought Sylandres, as he erased the slate covering his already white sleeves in a new layer of dust. He then waved the orc over, getting out a piece of chalk.

 

[Rell]

Uzar drank the water in two great gulps slamming the flagon down and waving for another. The unimpressed bartender came over, and they repeated the previous transaction. He was about to finish his second drink when he noticed movement in the corner of his eye. The earless elf, looking in his direction and wiping his slate with the sleeve of his robes. If the orc understood properly, he was being waved over to join the bosmer. His hands kept shaking, even as he pushed his bulk away from the bar, flagon clenched in one hand. Ignoring the others in the tavern he approached the elfs' table. Pulling up a free chair, he sat across from the earless one and set his flagon on the table between them. "Hnn..." words were difficult. It had been a while since he'd properly spoken to someone. "What do you want, elf?" He asked, his bass voice fitting with his massive body.