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    TheShadedOne

    The Angry One
    While the companions head North to confront the leader of the whitescar brotherhood, and heir to the Stormcloak throne, Azeraile, rumours of new trouble has stirred in the craggy foothills, near Markarth, the city of stone. Strange occurrences, and villagers from the surrounding steadings vanishing without a trace. Everynight, a thick fog appears, and both brave warriors and meek peasants lock their doors and dare not emerge until the light of dawn. A call has gone out for mercenaries, to discover the source of this unnatural fog, and the diminishing amount of villagers. Those summoned may be brave and accomplished, but they have no idea of what they face...yet.

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    Attention: We are looking for one-two more experienced writers with free time on their hands. If interested, apply here: http://skyrimforum.com/sf/threads/18-mist-and-shadows.59912/
     

    TheShadedOne

    The Angry One
    Zah'Nivani made her way across the rocky foothills, scowling at the dust that marred the hem of her scarlet dress and soft argonian skin boots. In fact, a dress was not the best or safest attire for a seemingly young, certainly attractive Khajiit woman. Especially not with the Forsworn around, who were known to have less than gentlemanly thoughts towards any who were not of Breton bloodline, and even those who were. The pure white furred Khajiit wasn't terribly worried, though. For one thing, she could neither hear nor smell any living thing in the vicinity.

    The other, and more relevant reason, was that it was quite likely she could kill anyone or thing she came across. Zah'Nivani was a vampiress, one of the undead, and, she'd been heard to boast, one of the better looking ones out there. She wasn't the type to go about draining peasants and grave robbers of life. No, like a living noble only drank the finest of wines, Nivani drank from only the finest of mortals. Great warriors, Thanes, wealthy merchants and the like. But not now. Now, she was on her way to Markarth, the city of stone. A call for mercenaries and the like had gone out regarding some missing villagers.

    While she was no filthy mercenary, scrambling for coin in order to feed herself, or waste it on whores, she was intrigued. Disappearances usually pointed to a coven of vampires, or a mortal killer, but it seemed as if these villagers simply vanished during the night. Which was, very mysterious, and the Khajiit vampiress had always been drawn in by mysteries. Plus, she might come across one of the exceptionally good looking mercenaries, male or female, she wasn't picky. And she never passed up an opportunity for a night of fun. Well, fun for her, anyways. With that pleasurable thought in mind, she continued up the path towards Markarth.
     

    Aethalia

    Well-Known Member
    Nathariel Redwater stared at the bounty in her hand and frowned. The innkeeper at Rorikstead had told her that the Jarl of Markarth was looking for some mercenaries. That in itself was odd. She knew the man was constantly stating how mercenaries, assassins and the like, had absolutely no honour, and could not be trusted. So, that meant the man was almost certainly desperate. Nathariel smirked to herself, folded the parchment, and stuck it into a belt pouch.

    Then she continued on her way, keeping a keen eye on the surroundings, knowing full well the reputation of the Forsworn tribes for ambushing unwary travellers.'Well. If they try anything with me, they'll be the ones in trouble' the elven mercenary kept a grip on her unusually curved elven blade, and made her way through the rocky canyons, knowing that any bandits that she came across would be bewildered by her lack of traditional elven armour and weapons. Despite the fact Skyrim was now Imperial controlled, love for the Thalmor was less than great.

    Plus, her own Thalmor overseers would be looking for news of her survival, and barren wasteland or not, if they heard of her survival, she'd be dodging Thalmor agents left, right and centre. The elf sucked in her breath as she, for the first time, beheld the city of stone, Markarth. Nathariel had seen many great and amazing things in her life, but nothing quite as strange as an entire city made of rock. Rumour had it, even the beds were made of stone. She doubted it would be terribly comfortable to sleep on, but she was here to work, not cool her heels on rock. "Here goes" she muttered, walking towards the gates, trying to look less intimidating to the two guards that watched her approach.
     

    Aden Komad

    Misfortunate Soul
    "Now that is a great year," Aden smiled as the he rummaged through some of the spoils from Forsworn raids in the dimly lit cave. He was turning a bottle of Imperial Brandy in his hands when he turned as shadows fell across the treasure. At the mouth of the cave stood three figures clad in animal skins, all wielding brutal-looking weapons. Aden put down the bottle and stood up as the larger figure, a muscular man in antlers with two axes, approached him. "I was just looking, kind of. You have treasure a plenty and the dust of the road makes me thirsty."

    The man rolled his eyes, "Gods. You're hopeless cousin. Take it, take it. We're heading further East into the hills and away from Markarth so it's not like we will be able to take all of the hoard with us. We're going to seal the cavern until we return...whenever that will be."

    "Korr? Are you running from a fight? The guards and soldiers have been putting up a fight?" Aden raised an eyebrow. "I've never known the Forsaken to the move away from their city, only ever to move closer. So what's changed?"

    "I don't know honestly." Korr crossed his large, scarred arms. He looked away for a few moments then turned back to his cousin. "I could say I'm not running but it would be a lie. But it's not a fight I running from; it's something else. Strange things have been happening around our city of old. People have been vanishing without a trace. Sometimes it happens, true, but by the dozens? Not only that but a strange fog appears every night and if anyone wanders into it they never come out. An entire tribe of our kin vanished and so did the trackers that attempted to find them. Markarth is calling for mercenaries if you're interested."

    "Mysterious disappearances, a strange fog, and a chance to be paid?" Aden smiled widely. "Sounds like fun."

    Koor rolled his eyes and grabbed the bottle from the pile of treasure. He turned it over a few times then handed it to Aden. The larger man smiled himself and jerked his head towards the mouth of the cave. "Now come on. We need to close off this cave and then get moving. If you want to go chasing ghosts, well that's your business and I wish you the best of luck cousin. I just feel sorry for anyone, friend or foe, who is misfortunate enough to cross your path."

    "Very funny. Well thanks for the drink and safe travels," said Aden as he walked out into the sunlight. He bid the Forsworn farewell and turned towards the direction of Markarth. He began the long trek as he sipped the Imperial Brandy. It was no Stros M'kia Rum, but it was a smooth red. It had been a few weeks since he last adventure, so it was past time to cause a bit of trouble. Hopefully this wasn't just another wild dragon chase...scratch that, dragons are real. He smiled as he walked down the dusty road knowing he was safe from Forsworn attacks made this area of Skyrim quite cheery. No point in worrying about the future until it happened.
     

    Madrar

    The Shadow in the Dark.
    Among the rocky hills and valleys of the Reach, wolves and sabrecats weren't unnatural. Which is why no one took any particular notice of the great, black wolf that loped through the narrow passes towards Markarth. None who saw the beast would have known that it was no wolf at all that made its' unerring way towards the city of stone, but a young vampire from the Bloodlet Throne, near Falkreath.

    He'd heard all about the call for mercenaries from Markarth, but that wasn't the true reason he was on his way to the city of stone. Markarth, like most hold capitals, paid a sum of prisoners and gold to the Shadowfang coven, in order to keep the vampires 'under control'. Recently, these 'payments' had stopped, and Marcus had been sent to discover their source,and eliminate it, if possible.

    He'd studied intercepted guard reports, and knew all about the mysterious fog that the people of the Reach had begun to treat with almost superstitious fear. Marcus doubted that the fog itself was responsible for the disappearance of so many, and had no doubt that someone, perhaps a rival vampire coven, or powerful gang of necromancers were behind the mist. Either way, now that Marcus was here, he would not let it continue. He had his orders, and he intended to see them through, to the letter.

    When he was at a bend in the road, near enough that he could make good time to the city, and out of sight of any passerby or guardsmen, he changed. His change was not like those of the lycans, with much howling and cracking of bones, but to the inexperienced eye, it was no less disconcerting. Marcus' wolfen form seemed to blur, creating an unidentifiable mass of darkness, that steadily grew, until, instead of a great, black wolf, stood a tall, pale Imperial man. He wore a pair of black leather breeches, and a long, leather coat, with dark fur at the hem. At his side was an ebony sword in an unadorned sheathe.

    The man ran a hand through his permantly windwsept black hair, practice smiling without showing his elongated canines, and made his way to the gates, moving at a leisurely pace. He noticed an Altmer woman making her way inside, and smiled at her as he caught up. "Madame. I should hope that you didn't travel alone. The roads are full of Forsworn brigands and other characters of an even less...sterling reputation" he said, charmingly.
     

    Pufftuff

    Well-Known Member
    Tallon had been in Markarth for a few weeks. Looking to work his way into the underworld in a city in which he was relatively unknown. Wandering about the city, stealing this and that, Tallon was mostly buying time. He would play cons on the unsuspecting people.

    One night at the inn the Argonian sat in the corner watching people coming and going looking for his next victim. A group of off duty guards came in and began to drink. "Must be my lucky day," Tallon said with a smirk noticing one of the guards had a satchel. "Last time I found a whole weeks worth of pay in one." He thought to himself as he stood up and walked to the bartender. Dropping a bag of coin on the counter the hooded Argonian whispered to the barkeep. "Make sure they don't leave sober."

    Standing in the dark Tallon waited. No more than an hour had passed when a group of drunken guards stumbled out of the bar. Tallon began to stalk the group until the one carrying the bag turned a corner, separating from the group. The guard stopped with his eyes squinting at a dark slender figure in front of him. "The bag, drop it on the ground and you get to go home to the missus." The figure hissed. The guard darted by Tallon and drunkenly trips and hits the ground. Tallon leans over and whispers in the guards ear, "Should have taken my advice." as he slips the bag from the guard he pulls out a forsworn dagger and slides it across the guards neck. Walking away listening to the sound of the guard drowning in his own blood.

    While rummaging through the bag Tallon is pissed. The contents were just correspondence about some mist, what caught his eye was that the Jarl was asking for mercenaries and the like to come help. In his head Tallon thought to him self. "Now those may be some purses worth pinching. Who knows maybe getting in the Jarls good graces will come in handy later." The Argonian assumed that the sell swords would be showing up within a few days. So he set himself up outside the gates along the wall looking like a vagrant and waited.
     

    Drahkma

    Dashing Imperial Officer.
    Splash! The Briarheart toppled tumbled into the puddle of cold, pure water, the blood running from a dozen minor injuries tainting the previously clear liquid. The man struggled to his hands and knees out of the shallow pool, and towards his crafted stone and wood axe. The Briarheart had lost the weapon, and a couple of fingers, attempting to stop a sword blow. The interior of the cave, eerily silent except for the Briarhearts gasps and splashing, and the ringing of steel clad boots approaching. The owner of those boots chuckled, but it was not a sound of mirth.

    "Six stormcloak rebels on Morndas, a pair of necromancers yesterday, and a whole camp of Forsworn today. All in all, it's been a damn good week" The owner of afore mentioned boots drawled lazily. The Forsworn, sole survivor of the camps inhabitants, succeeded in finally getting out of the water, and reaching for his axe with his unmangled hand. When it was nearly in his hand, one of the mans' boots moved, the short, stubby spikes crunching into the Briarhearts ribs, and the force of the blow lifted him, to land heavily on his unwounded side. Looking into the mans' eyes for the first time, the steel grey orbs that seemed to shine with an unnatural light.

    Well, the man certainly contained unnatural skill with the hand and a half sword now riding comfortably on his left hip. The Briarhearts men hadn't stood a chance against the blinding assault. Even the Briarheart himself, who'd thought he was a fairly competent warrior hadn't been able to get a blow in. Now, the victorious man, an Imperial, probably stood over him, his left hand resting easily on the pommel of a long dagger at his side. "You should have left off ambushing the Jarls convoys months ago. Before I caught your scent. Left the Reach entirely. Now it's too late."

    Smirking, the mans hand left his dagger and went to the haft of his steel war axe, removing it from his belt, and hefting it. "No.. Please!" Those were the last words the man spoke. The axe descened, cutting cleanly through flesh, bone, and sinew. Ardus Carn waited for the dead Briarhearts neck to stop spraying blood, before scooping it up by the hair. "This isn't personal" he assured the dead man. "Just business"

    Several hours later
    The trip to Markarth had been long, but pleasurable. Having wiped out a nest of Forsworn hadn't hurt either. He knew there was a standing bounty on any Forsworn dwelling in the the hills near Markarth. He'd arrived well before sunset, and passedtwo people, a female Altmer and male Imperial, talking at the gates. Once passed the gates, he noticed a lizard, and Argonian, watching the people going about their business. The bounty hunter and part time assassin marked the man as a pickpocket, or some other lowlife.
    Approaching was a small group of guards, and once they saw him, they altered their path to meet with his. Once they'd closed the distance, Ardus held up a sack, that had a dark stain at one point. "The Briarheart who's been plaguing the Jarl.He and his group won't be bothering anyone else. Ever" one of the guards, more experienced , certainly, stepped forwards, and accepted the gruesome package with a grimace. "Well done as usual, Wolf." He tossed the hunter a bulging coinpurse. "Stick around. The jarl might have more work for you" Ardus saw nothing wrong with the request, and made his way to the nearest bar.



     

    Aethalia

    Well-Known Member
    Natharial glanced up at the speaker, startled. She hadn't noticed anyone coming up the road so close behind her, and she certainly hadn't seen the man near the towers or buildings closer to the citys' gates. She took a moment to study him before she replied. The dark armour and chainmail, along with his speech and bearing reminded her more of a professional soldier than a mercenary. And the way he spoke....not coarse or uneducated, certainly. Still, Nathariel would keep her guard up. At best, he was a wandering blade, and at worst, he was competition.

    "I assure you....sir, that I can more than take care of myself" she said, gesturing to the curving elvish blade that rested comfortably on her hip. Then she glanced at the Imperials own weapon, an impressive ebony sword, and that was only what she could see. Some mercs liked to keep a plethora of hidden weaponry on their person. However, she wasn't here to talk about weapons, and where one chose to hide them. She turned back to the gates, saying "if you'll excuse me, I have an engagement within the city" she shoved open the gates and stepped inside, noticing, for the first time, a leather armoured, tall looking human, handing over a large, head shaped bag.

    As she passed, she heard one of the guards call the man 'Wolf', though it didn't mean much to her. He looked like an average, if hard bitten human male, and he was definitely competition. Judging by the bulging sack of coins he received in exchange for the bag, he was really good at what he did. 'Which means trouble.' Moving on, she also noticed an Argonian that seemed to be trying a little too hard to remain unnoticed. She pegged him as someone who was likely trying to get a read on competition. Or, a fairly well armed pick pocket. Either way, it was clear Nathariel wasn't the only one that had been called to Markarth.
     

    Aden Komad

    Misfortunate Soul
    Aden had easily managed to sneak inside of the dwarven city known as Markarth. While there were always a few exceptions to this rule, most guardsmen were not entirely too bright. He strolled the city streets casually. He passed a food stand whose owner seemed to be distracted by a very convenient septim rolling past. Aden grabbed an apple as the man chased after the counterfeit piece and smirked. He watched the people going about their business, studying their mannerisms and body language looking for anything out of place.

    He had a knack for picking people out of a crowds, for reading people in general. He had noticed the ones entering the city around the same time as he had. He saw the Argonian at the gates who seemed to be watching for potential allies or competition. He saw the Altmer speaking to the Imperial soldier speaking before entering the city. He also noticed the other Imperial, who had the bearing of an assassin, handing a bloody bag to a guard. It seems his cousin had been right. Strange yet interesting things were happening around Markarth. Aden decided he would continue to watch the comings and goings of the people. One could learn a great deal from even the most casual remark.

    "It's only going to get more interesting from here on out," he said to himself as he leaned against the wall next to the tavern. He figured this was a good spot as any and bit the apple casually, as the words of a city in fear and denial began to drift on the wind to his ears. He would also keep an eye on the gate and the others who entered.
     

    Pufftuff

    Well-Known Member
    Within hours Tallons idea had panned out. Sitting outside the gate he watched as a few people walked into the gate. There were by his count two Imperials. One by which he knew by reputation 'The Wolf'. The other he saw talking to an Elvish girl, she looked a little apprehensive as the man spoke to her though Tallon cared little for what happened to her. The Imperial talking to the Elf stuck out he wasn't an elderly man but his eyes, something in them gave Tallon pause.

    Tallon had enough sitting around and watching he decided to continue to monitor the few he had seen. There was always one place in Markarth that you could count on travelers passing through, The Silver-blood Inn. As we walked through the gate he through his hood up and made sure his trench coat was closed he wanted to remain none threatening. On his way to through the gate he saw a man posted up on the wall near the tavern. He was a Breton that you could tell by his pale skin but he was larger than most, the man was dressed in fine clothes and looking quite debonair. Tallon continued walking following the Altmer girl towards the inn, just before the doors he jetted left as if he remembered an errand that needed to be ran. He wrote a note on a small piece of parchment.

    Tallon began to take the long route around back towards the inn by the mine. Thinking in his head that something about the puff of a Breton was familiar. "Was he part of the group that threw me out of Riften?" Tallon smirked as he realized that the man was much younger at the time but it was the way he dressed. As he rounded the corner and saw the man facing away the thought crossed his mind. "Just slit his throat and be done with it, but this will be more interesting." Walking by the man Tallon slid the piece of paper into the mans coin purse taking nothing but wanting to him to know he could have had he wanted to. The Argonian began to enter the Inn but just before stopped. He turned to the Breton and said "Such fine clothes you wear sir, clearly not made here in this city of stone. Be wary they make you a target for the scum of this town." Tallon then pointed to the mans exposed coin purse and hissed. "Even if you think your safe that's the illusion that gets you in trouble my friend." with a hidden smirk under his hood the lizard walked into the bar. He then took a seat at the bar looking around the bar for those he followed in.

    The piece of paper read.
    'Tag your it. I know your game and you're playing it in the wrong place. Consider this a professional courtisey. Signed, Sincerely your friendly neighborhood pickpocket.'
     

    Andre Marek

    You can run, but you'll only die tired...
    Andre Marek trudged up the cobblestone street beside the shallow stream that ran from Markarths Keep all the way down through the city and out under the thick outer wall into the foothills beyond. In front of him walked his bound and hooded merchandise, a Khajiit who had skipped town without paying for a very expensive piece of armor and had subsequently been collected by Marek as he tried to board a ship in Solitude. That had been almost a week ago. Now that they had finally arrived in Markarth, Marek was ready to be rid of the cat and collect his payment, which was a substantial amount considering the ease with which he had been able to capture his mark.

    As he tightened his already vice-like grip on the scruff of the Khajiits neck, Marek was rewarded with the sound of hissing from within the black hood. He grinned inwardly as he hauled his merchandise up the remaining steps and walked to the large metal doors that protected Understone Keep's interior. As he pushed open the door, two guards fell in behind him but didn't say a word; they knew better. Marek wasn't the talkative type and they knew he wouldn't answer their questions. From the main door it was only a short walk through the underground fortress to the throne room where the Jarl sat speaking with his steward. As he approached the bottom of the steps, Marek pushed the Khajiit in front of him and rested his hand on the pommel of his sword.

    "I'm here for the bounty on this man." He said shortly and without waiting for the Jarl and steward to finish their conversation. Both men stopped mid sentence and turned to look at him and his quarry. The Steward stood up quickly with a wave of his hand, "Ah, yes. Mr. Marek. I'd been wondering when you were going to arrive. I have your payment right here." The man stepped down from his place next to the Jarls seat and skipped down a few steps to his desk, where he pulled open a drawer and extracted a bulging leather coin purse which he tossed to Marek.

    As soon as he caught the bag, Marek turned on his heel and began walking back towards the entrance as the two guards that had followed him in took the Khajiit into custody. Before he had gone even two steps the Jarl spoke up, "Marek, wait just a moment if you would. I have a proposal for you." Marek turned to eye the Jarl curiously but held his tongue. He wanted to hear what the Jarl had to say before he showed any interest.

    "You've no doubt have heard tell of the disappearances that have plagued my city." The Jarl grimaced as he spoke, " I want an end to them, as do all of the cities inhabitants." He paused for a moment and shrugged before continuing, "My guardsmen are not accustomed to dealing with such... mysterious things. However, just a few days ago now, I put out a request to all available mercenaries to come to Markarth. They will attempt to find out who or what is responsible and put a stop to it. Of course, payment will be quite generous." He inclined his head seriously, "This is a serious matter Marek and you've done enough work for me that I've come to respect your particular skills. If you could lend your assistance, I would be in your debt."

    At that, Mareks interest peaked. He enjoyed having people owe him favors. Especially when they were people of a rich and powerful type. He had indeed heard of the mysterious fog that rolled in during the night and seemingly swallowed people whole. Other than the usual rumors, Marek hadn't actually heard anything useful about the occurrence, although he did admit that it was an intriguing matter. After a quick mental coin toss, Marek nodded once and said, "Alright then. You have my attention. Come find me when these mercenaries arrive." Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and strode down the steps. Instead of leaving the keep, Marek simply sat down at a small table in one of the small alcoves off of the main tunnel. Grabbing a serving boy by the arm as he ran past, Marek said, "Bring me some food boy. And a bottle of mead." As the boy ran off towards the kitchen, Marek leaned back in his chair, keeping an eye on the entrance for any of the Jarls mercenaries.
     

    Madrar

    The Shadow in the Dark.
    Marcus was not insulted by the elfs caution. However, he was certain that she was one of the mercenaries on their way to the city. He didn't think she'd discovered what he was, and certainly not who he worked for. He made his way through the gates, casting an appraising glance at a fellow Imperial, who headed to the Silverblood Inn. The man was obviously some sort of hunter, and though Marcus had no fear of any mortal, he decided that the man should be treated with a degree of caution.

    Marcus would have been interested in his reputation and learning who, if anyone, he owed his loyalties to. But he had business elsewhere, and it was best not to delay. Understone keep was still as grand as ever, but their was a palpable aura of fear in the air. He knew he wasn't the one that had caused it. It had been caused by the disappearances. The guards at the doors stared at him as he approached, but didn't make any move to stop him.

    Once inside, he noticed yet another mercenary, this one sitting at one of the side benches, as if waiting for something, or someone. Ignoring the human, for now, Marcus entered the jarls throne room. He glanced at the two retainers, a bodyguard and the mans' steward. "Out. I need a word with the...esteemed Jarl." He said shortly. The steward stared at him, and the bodyguard grabbed the hilt of her sword. Making use of his vampiric speed, Marcus drew his sword, and let the tip rest at the hollow of the womans throat.

    "Out. Please" he said, smiling at her. The bodyguard glanced at her Jarl, who, though he looked uncertain, nodded. The vampire smiled at the Jarl as the doors closed, and grabbed one of the few non-stone chairs in the room. "You are late on your payments" he deadpanned. The Jarl paled, obviously having realized who he was dealing with. "Please. It's not my fault! This damn mist, it-it" Marcus stopped the mans' protests with a chuckle. "We know. Did you think I'd leave your bodyguard and steward alive if his lordship wanted you removed?" confusion replaced fear, and the jarl stuttered "then-then what do you want?"
    "You are putting together a group of mercenaries. I want to be part of this expedition, and you'll be granted time to get a payment together once we've solved your problems for you"
    Moments later, Marcus left the throne room, officially recognized a mercenary working for Markarth.
     

    Aden Komad

    Misfortunate Soul
    'Tag you're it. I know your game and you're playing it in the wrong place. Consider this a professional courtesy. Signed, Sincerely your friendly neighborhood pickpocket.'

    Aden shook his head with a smirk. He wondered if the Argonian had really thought that he had gotten away with that bit of sleight of hand. He was very arrogant little lizard wasn't he? He smiled widely. They would either get along famously or kill each other. The former Brotherhood member pulled out the lizard's purse, which he was sure to be missing, and tossed it up in the air; catching it and pocketing it. He made his towards the inn's entrance when a voice called out and caught his attention.

    "I've got you now Komad!" Said the slightly shrill voice.

    "Oh, Oblivion. Why?" The Breton ran a hand through his blond hair, brushing a few strands from his face. He turned around to face an Imperial noble who had obviously traveled a great distance to track the thief down. He had a sharp face with a small mustache. He was pointing a silver rapier in Aden's direction and his silken robes were a bit disheveled. "What do you want Raem?"

    "Satisfaction! You robbed me of my treasure! Both of them!" Cried the noble shrilly.

    "Hardly...well alright. I stole the statuette but you stole that first when you cheated the bets at the arena." Aden said with a dismissive wave. He looked around and there seemed to be a few onlookers watching the exchange, including a few guards. But they seemed more interested in betting on the inevitable rather than stopping it. He rolled his eyes at Markarth's finest. "As for Lyria, well, she was hardly yours. You were courting her but you were so stuffy and boring. Besides I heard your weapon was a needle to my longsword and your soldier had trouble standing at attention. So I simply had to step in, common courtesy."

    "Brigand! Now you die!" He yelled shrilly as he rushed forward. As he did, Aden simply smiled. He made as if to walk forward...but then his foot seemed to slip on nothing and Aden fell to the ground as the crowd laughed. But they stopped when they noticed the other noble slip and fall as well a few seconds after Aden did; a strange coincidence. Aden was up first, smiling. Raem rose, his face blood red, and huffed before trying to cut the Breton with a sloppy swing. Aden dodged casually and then drew his ebony rapier...but it seemed to slip from grasp in his haste.

    "Ha! Now I-" Raem attempted a swing but his rapier slipped from his grasp and went flying. "What the?"

    "Oh, such terrible luck." Aden smiled slyly and suddenly spun a blood red dagger in his hand that had seemed to appear from nowhere. He flipped it a few time and then threw the blade faster than the eye could track. Raem was now pinned against a wall with a minor flesh wound. He seemed confused for a moment and then noticed the dagger in his shoulder.

    The noble could scream. Honestly; Aden was sure glass was breaking. It didn't even hurt that much, surely, and would heal in a few days. Aden rolled his eyes and waited for him to finish before speaking, "Now quiet down you. You're not a toddler, you're embarrassing yourself. And more importantly me. She slept with me so get over it already. Now we can continue and I will continue to embarrass you, or you can grow some balls and move on. Go home."

    The guards changed coin and went to collect the whimpering noble who had been nodding at the mention of home. He looked rather defeated. The guards knew he started the fight and obviously had no interest in tangling with the strange Breton. He snapped his fingers and the red dagger was in his hand, before it vanished again. He retrieved his rapier and nodded. He was glad that annoyance was solved. That man had followed him all the way to Skyrim, badgering him for several weeks. He was trying to have an adventure. So having that very loud noble agreeing to leave was quite helpful. He made his way into the tavern, finding the Argonian easily, and sat next to him. "I got your love letter and, while I'm flattered, you're a bit too...manly for my tastes dear pickpocket. You'll just have to continue your obsession with me by coping feels while pretending it's my valuables you want."
     

    Pufftuff

    Well-Known Member
    Tallon was sitting at the bar watching the Altmer and Imperial from a distance. He went to reach for his coin purse to pay for another drink, for a brief second he panicked. 'Where in oblivion is my......' His thought trailed off and his panic turned to an amused smirk. Just outside the doors a horrible shriek was heard the Argonian didn't flinch, just assumed another woman had become the victim of her own ignorance.

    The doors to the Tavern opened a small draft of musky air rolled through. The Breton from earlier strode ride up and sat next to Tallon. "I got your love letter and, while I'm flattered, you're a bit too...manly for my tastes dear pickpocket. You'll just have to continue your obsession with me by coping feels while pretending it's my valuables you want." The man spoke with arrogance, Tallon couldn't help but be a little impressed by this man. 'Maybe in another life we could have ran Riften.' He thought, as he leaned over and tapping his own purse the man smugly had still in his hand. "Pay the man." he poked his head towards the barkeep, "Order something on me as well. What pray tell brings a finely dressed thief to a plops hole like this?" The Argonian dropped his hood and made sure the man could see the distinct scar on his neck. "Have we met before?" Tallon asked with a slightly aggressive tone.
     

    willowwisp

    Well-Known Member
    Alicia had been in Markarth for a couple of days, going from house to house, curing everything from cold to broken bones. She was well liked, even by the normally dour and suspicious Markarth guardsmen. Her healing abilities were in high demand, both by the commoners, and the Jarls court. Despite the mysterious, sinister mist that had been spotted outside the cities walls. While most of the commoners muttered among themselves, and were full of fear, Alicia thought it was a grand chance for a little adventure. She'd heard about the call for mercenaries, after all.

    'They can have as many weapons and as much armour as they like, but if they fall and break leg, they'll need a healer. That's where I come in' she thought. So, to that end, she headed to the Silverblood Inn, knowing that most mercenaries almost always had a strong affinity for alcohol. She sat at the bar and waited, declining any offers of ale herself.

    She was well aware of the openly lude looks she was receiving from several of the inns customers, most of them looking to be miners. Alicia did her best to ignore them, focussing instead on the doors to the street. Her patience was rewarded, when not one, but several mercs, one of them a hard looking Imperial, another, a tattooed elf, and a third, scarred Argonian entered the establishment. Seeing her chance, Alicia rose, and began walking around the room to approach them.

    She was so focused on the mercenaries, she didn't notice the extended leg of one of the drunk miners. "Oh!" She stumbled, but managed to regain her composure fairly quickly. "I'm sorry, I didn't see..." she trailed off at seeing the look on the mans face. "No problem, dearie. But how about you sit here with us?" He gestured to his companions. "I, um, I don't think-what are you doing!" The man had grabbed her around the waste, and was trying to pull her onto his lap. "Aww, come on, deary, let's have a little fun" snarled the man. Alicias plan seemed to have failed miserably..unless "I can pay!" She shouted to the room in general, hoping the mercs would get the message.
     

    Drahkma

    Dashing Imperial Officer.
    "Brandy. In a clean glass" Ardus ordered curtly, taking a seat on one of the stools, taking in the clientèle as he did so. He wasn't terribly surprised to notice most of those that had been outside, were now inside. The Argonian he'd noticed watching people was now inside, and had started a conversation with another man. At the moment, Ardus wasn't sure if they would get along or start a brawl, and so he kept a wary eye on them.

    His brandy arrived, in a clean glass, and Ardus slapped the payment down on the counter. The bartender and innkeep snatched the coins, and headed over to a group of drunken miners. Movement at the other end of the bar caught his attention, and a young, robed female, began making her way towards him. Or at least, in his general direction. She was intercepted by one of the more drunken fools, who grabbed her, and despite her protests, pulled her towards him, his intent written all over his face.

    The woman cried something about being able to pay, and Ardus weighed the pros and cons of that. On one hand, he could always use more coin. On the other, he'd just been paid a hefty sum. Also, if he intervened, it was possible the drunks friends would jump in and try to help their buddy. Unless, of course, Ardus put the offender down with sufficient force.

    The bounty hunter sighed, grabbed his glass of brandy, and sauntered over to the scene of the commotion. The man who held the girl looked up, both anger and confusion on his face. "Piss off, merc. If you want her, wait your-" Ardus didn't wait for the man to finish his sentence. He tossed the contents of his glass into the mans face, and the drunk screamed as alcohol landed in his eyes. He took the time to set the glass down, before turning and hammering a fist into the drunks face. This time, the man was completely silent as he crashed to the floor in an undignified heap. He waited for the girl to compose herself, and held his hand out expectantly.

     

    TheShadedOne

    The Angry One
    Somewhere in the Reach
    The Reach was a large place. After the civil war, villages had sprung up among the mountainous lands. Now, many of these small villages are empty, walls unguarded, doors to houses open. Those villages that remain populated have barred their gates, and set a constant,vigilant watch. Search parties from the capital of the Reach, Markarth, have been to these villages, both bereft of villagers and filled with them. Though, they did not look nearly far enough to find their missing people. Contrary to popular belief, it was not the mist that caused the disappearances. Or at least, not the mist on its own. To the south of the capital in the mountains that separated Skyrim from Highrock, where no villages were, was the beginnings of a fortress. Of course, it didn't look like one. At least not yet.​
    Milling about outside the mountains were creatures. Nothing the world had yet seen, with pale grey-green skin, large, yellow eyes, with mouths packed full of teeth clearly designed for rending and tearing flesh.They stood no taller than a man, and many walked hunched over, as if the sunlight hurt them. They wore little clothing, with scraps of leather, or random pieces of scavenged iron and steel armour strapped to themselves to provide some protection. Their long arms ended in five fingered hands with inch long claws, that looked wickedly sharp. Some had weapons, curving swords, axes, some spears. Though most of the weapons looked either scavenged, or crudely made. For example, swords were curving or straight chunks of metal, with leather wrapped around one end to serve as a hilt. Spears were long branches, with jagged metal tied securely to them. Axes, hammers and maces, much the same.​
    They spoke, if that's what it could be called, among themselves with snarls, barks, and shrieks, with the badly mangled word.​
    All of this was observed by a figure that stood upon an outcropping. The figure was male in appearance, though his face was hidden by a black steel great helm. The only openings were a pair of rectangular slits, where the eyes should be. Instead, what peered out, were a pair of glowing, red orbs, that seemed to radiate a cold fury. Black chainmail covered the figures neck, revealing no flesh. Below that, he wore plated black steel armour, with more chainmail covering the open areas such as the underarms, elbows, knees, and other areas needed for proper manoeuvring. Over all of this, was a long, dark cloak, with a hood, that was currently up, covering the top of the greathelm.​
    The figure lifted an arm, examining a gauntleted fore arm and hand. The armour was impressive, certainly. But that was nothing compared to what was beneath it. The figure had once been a man, before he'd accepted the Masters gift. Underneath the armour, his skin was pale white, almost transparent. He wasn't dead, however, but neither was he alive. Rather, something in between, and more powerful than both. His armour was freezing to the touch, and if his bare skin even brushed against something living, it withered and died. The sword at his side, was the most mundane of his weapons. In his past life, he'd been a protector, a guardian, but he'd always wanted more. Now, he was the Dark Seneschal. One of the Masters' many lieutenants. Created to serve his will. The lesser creatures, milling about below him served him. They were on the ones that carried out the raids in the night, capturing villagers to serve the growing army that would, one day, take the fight to Markarth, and then the rest of the Reach.​
    The current group of creatures, had just returned from yet another successful raid, and the human villagers wept or cowered as they were shoved along. Many of these people would be put to work on the fortress. Others would serve as fodder for the beasts that had captured them. As the Seneschal surveyed the area, he picked out a few men that were not chained, or working, or cowering. These men had betrayed their own people, throwing open gates, or leading members of their village to 'safety'. Many of them served a spies or saboteurs, bringing the Seneschal news of events from the lands of the Reach. Which why he knew about the call for mercenaries, and was pleased by it. The less defences Markarth had, the happier he was.​
     

    willowwisp

    Well-Known Member
    As the man holding her went down, hard, Alicia turned to face her rescuer. An Imperial man that looked like he was just as likely to stab someone as smile at them. 'Oh boy. I sure do know how to pick 'em'. She thought as the man held out his hand expectantly. "Oh. Right. Well, when I said I could pay, I, um, I didn't really mean right now" before the mercenary could do anything, she took a quick step backwards. "Before you do something rash, I think I should let you know: I'm a healer. I can fix anything from scrapes and bruises to broken bones." Then she got to the real point. "I've also heard about the mist. And the call for mercenaries. You're a mercenary, so you'll be trying to find the cause of the mist." She paused for a breath. "I guess what I'm trying to say is: take me with you. I can help! Healing, mostly, and I will pay you, once I have some money" she stopped talking, and eyed the man hopefully. She also hoped he wouldn't just decide to cut off her head for wasting his time.
     

    TheShadedOne

    The Angry One
    Zah'Nivani entered Markarth and inhaled the scents of the living. Markarth was not a small city, and the dozens of bodies packed together didn't exactly smell good, but the scent of blood rushing through their veins was enough to drive her into a frenzy. Of course, the Khajiit vampiress had learned decades ago that falling into a feeding frenzy would only get her killed. She'd learned to restrain herself, and rely more on her looks, and her vampiric abilities to lure prey to where she wanted them. Fortunately for the denizens of Markarth, she'd fed on an unfortunate Forsworn patrol.

    She made her way deeper into the city, clutching the summons in her deceptively delicate hand. She was well aware of the stares she received, from civilian and guardsmen alike. Considering that her only article of clothing was a red dress, that was cut almost excessively low, it was no surprise. Her Argonian skin knee high boots made little to no noise as she strolled through the city of stone. 'What a dismal place' she thought disparagingly. 'I doubt I'll be able to have any fun here' the natives all looked like they'd bolt if she so much as smiled at them. True, people were disappearing, but that didn't mean the survivors had to mope around like a pack of zombies.

    She reached the keep, and breezed past the guards. Neither of them made any move to stop her, but both stared. Once inside, she received less stares. Most people were too busy going about their business to pay attention to a pure white furred Khajiit. It appeared the Jarl wasn't taking visitors, which was fine by her. Her keen eyes spotted a man that could only be a mercenary of some sort. Strangely, he was the only mercenary in the place. Nivani seriously doubted she and he were the only ones.

    Approaching, she had the sense he was one of the more dangerous types. That was fine. She liked dangerous. The Khajiit vampiress approached, and smiled down at the man."My, aren't you a fine specimen. Here for the job the Jarl has, I take it?" she gestured to the scroll in her other hand, and sat down beside him.
     

    Blitzz

    A Friendly Brit
    The air in Berron's cell was thick with shadow and moisture. A single flame sat atop a metal brazier, flickering endlessly, fighting the darkness that threatened to engulf it. Berron himself was laying on his side on a slab of slate, what was meant to be his bed. It was, quite possibly, the most uncomfortable bed he had ever laid on. He hadn't slept properly in days, and had eaten even less. He had been unconscious when they escorted them here, so he didn't know where the cell was, but he guessed it had to be close to the river that ran through Markarth, because their was a steady drip of water threatening to extinguish his fire. When he had first arrived, there was someone else's dung already in the corner. It only got worse as he added his own, until he figured out that if he went in the corner where water dripped it would help neutralize the smell. He was watching the fire intently, enjoying the extravagance of the colors as they intertwined and danced with one another. He was entranced.

    "Aaaaaah! I'll kill you all! Aaaah! LET ME OUT!" A Dunmer man was screaming somewhere on the other side of Berron's heavy slate door. He always did.
    "Why the fl*ff would they let you out, if you just threatened to kill them all?" At least the Nord had some sense, rather than hurling hollow threats and demands around. Their little conversation continued, getting louder and louder, until Berron finally intervened.

    "Would the pair of you kindly shut the fl*ff up! Ignorant little b*stards, no one gives a pl*ps about you anymore! You're down here, not up there! Grow the fl*ff up and start acting like a fl*ffing adult!" Berron's anger had flared now and it was not likely he would calm anytime soon.

    "You want me to shut up, come over here and make me!"

    "I'll stick my hand in your mouth and rip your fl*ffing jaw out!" He was silenced as the door began to move to one side. Two torched blinded him; he was not used to being in the light after four days of darkness. Two guards in purple armor quickly became visible, one holding a sword and the other a wooden club. They didn't speak, but the one with the club swung at his ribs. It caught Berron of guard, and he found himself on his knees coughing up blood into his left hand. The guard went to hit him again, this time in the jaw, but Berron rolled out of the way. As he rolled, he landed on the ribs he was now certain had been broken, and it forced a cry out of him.

    "The Jarl wants to see you. If you'll stop being a whiny little b*tch." Berron did not reply; he was busy clutching his ribs and trying to cough up as much as he could to clear his throat. They hauled him to his feet, still clutching his ribs and cupping his mouth, and bound his hands. His tunic now had a patch of dark red spreading quickly at the base of his neck as blood began to drip from his mouth. The last thing he remembered before passing out from the pain was hearing the door shut behind him, alongside mocking laughs from a Dunmer man, and watching his feet drag along the slate floor beneath him.
     

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