18+ Tʜᴇ Rᴏᴀᴅ Bᴇʜɪɴᴅ ᶳᵉᵐᶤᵃᵈᵛᵃᶰᶜᵉᵈ

  • Welcome to Skyrim Forums! Register now to participate using the 'Sign Up' button on the right. You may now register with your Facebook or Steam account!
  • Hey there, and welcome to our roleplaying section. Please take some time to read two of these useful resources below, if you're already a roleplaying expert, then there's no need to read the following beginner's guide, but be sure to read the rules.

    Free Form Role Playing Guide for Beginners
    JavaScript is disabled. For a better experience, please enable JavaScript in your browser before proceeding.
    OOC


    There are a few issues that I would like to address before we focus our attention on roleplaying:

    In the past, most threads avoided including the Dragonborn, to avoid conflict between members and avoid the main questline. The main storyline in TESV: Skyrim centers around the Dragonborn. Roleplays on this website, however, focus on multiple, diverse characters. The inclusion of the Dragonborn's presence is important in maintaining the Skyrim theme. To understand the evolution of involving such a character in a roleplay setting, I suggest reading The Nerevarine Returns at Fanfiction.net.

    Sex, nudity and gore are facts of life, even in the province of Skyrim. I ask that sex scenes be faded out. We do not need to go into detail unless said details serve to significantly develop the roleplay. Members do not necessarily need to be 18+ y/o if they deem themselves mature enough to handle adult standards.

    We are all co-creators of a drama, and this thread is one of our playing fields. I am trusting that no (more) rules need to be set in place. Thank you for your time and consideration.

    IC

    Mordas, 9:30am, 17th of Last Seed, 4E 201
    Bannered Mare inn, Whiterun

    " -- Six days on the main road, miss, if you intend on walking. I know that some of you adventuring types run. In the wilderness too, or so I've been told." An amused expression. "So if you'll be traveling the main road for about a week, you'll be needing enough rations to survive. Berries don't grow on the side of the road in Skyrim."

    Lesli Wallace nodded at Hulda. "Could your assistant help me prepare enough for the trip? And I'll be staying here for at least a night, perhaps two." She opened the coinpurse at her belt and retrieved a handful of septims, the metal gleaming in the firelight at her back. "20 septims should cover that."

    Hulda accepted the coins as Lesli closed the coinpurse. "You must have been here in Skyrim for a few days now. I can't place your accent. Are you from Cyrodiil, Breton?"

    She hesitated, thinking of her brother. How diverse the races were in Cyrodiil and, it seems, also in Skyrim. "No, I moved there four years ago." Hulda nodded again. "What brought you to Skyrim, then? As far as I know it, Cyrodiil's much warmer."

    And more civilized, Lesli dared not add. She was only curious, as befits the life of an innkeeper. She tried to give Hulda a small smile. "Perhaps too warm. Where are the rooms?" she asked. Hulda seemed unaffected by the change of topic. She pointed at a set of stairs leading to a second level. "Go up the stairs there. The first room to your left is vacant; that's yours." She looked at Lesli. "Hungry, thirsty, both?"

    Lesli shook her head. "Thanks for the offer, but no. I ate earlier this morning at Falkreath." Hulda wrinkled her nose but did not comment. Lesli did not much care what for. "Thanks for the hospitality. I'll see you and your assistant later today." She turned and headed towards the stairs. What to do in Whiterun? she wondered. Other than sit on my ass and listen to a "bard?" Is this what passes for music in Skyrim? Pitiful.

    A set of chairs and a pillar were in her path. She made to walk around them.
     

    fellowknight

    The Devil In The Details
    Silence was weaved in the forest, much like the dense fog that had settled it's home among the oak trees. Accompanied only by the occasional gust of the bitter-tasting winds that tickled the tree limbs, the forest remained at sleep, it's inhabitants enjoying their mid-day meal of grass and tiny fruits. One among them, a white-tailed deer splattered with dark brown spots and at peace with large green eyes, nibbled heartily at the patch of green nutrition before him, exhausted and starved from the chase earlier.

    Something bright, and quick, to the fort a mile or so behind him had scared him off from his mingling with a Chestnut Horse. A scream or two from somewhere inside the fort had made him perk up, and a body slamming lifeless into the ground a few feet beside him had scared him beyond belief. So, he'd ran as fast as he could, which was quite fast indeed, to the bundles of trees a quarter-mile south of the fort, where he found a much more comfortable atmosphere. He cared less so for his steed companion.

    After the patch of grass had run low to the dirt, the doe moved on to sniff out another patch. There it was, close by the body of water ahead of him, just at it's shore. He quietly padded to the patch of turf and once again began to feast himself, ignoring the surroundings of the forest all around him. Then he heard a crunch, like that of a leaf, not far to his left, behind a row of unaligned trees. It wasn't a loud one at all, but it had been enough to catch his attention, making him stand rigid and alert, facing the place from which the sound had emitted, his ears twitching into fixation.

    Beyond the dim shaded cover the treetops provided, there were a few bushes and shrubs of varying sorts, even an elegant tree shrub riddled with fat leaves! Now that looked delicious indeed! Still as the darkness was, he never noticed the shift in movement deep in the shade. He would've made for the sightful plant had the swift shaft of an arrow not planted itself between his eyes, killing him instantly.

    A nearby bunny had, before this moment, made it's way towards the deer and had begun sniffing it's scent. When the deer suddenly fell faint on the ground with a loud thud, the rabbit instantly turned and ran at lightning speed to the foliage nearby to escape. But not before another arrow staked through it's neck.

    From the darkness into which the deer had stared, a shadow departed from the rest, swaying ever so swiftly towards the two bounties of his hunt. Jen emerged from the dense bushes, clad in his leather venture armor with his bow slung across his back, and promptly knelt at the deer's side. He gripped the arrow shaft and firmly pulled it from the doe's skull, leaking blood through the wound and onto the forest floor.

    It had been a clean kill, precise and without pain, so the beast did not suffer unnecessarily, compliments to Jen's oath. He never wasted a part of any of his kills and often made a fine profit off of their corpses, as it seemed deer hide was high-in-demand in Skyrim. Bounties also were a good way to make coin, but Jen only took the local ones posted in cities for bandit 'lords', if that's truly what they wished to call themselves.

    The meat he would have skinned and cleaned, boiled of impurities before he'd sell it in the market, along with the pelt. The head would the one thing he did bury, along with the tail for luck of course. The organs and intestines would be ground into a choppy mixture for the carnivorous livestock in Whiterun, which the farmers themselves would pay handsomely. His skeleton would be cleaned and dismembered, to be sold in various pieces to varying caravans.

    The grey-tailed rabbit would make a lower profit but would get the same treatment the deer would, as he'd done for all his kills while on the hunt. He respected these animals more than most Nordsmen had, it seemed, and took their existence to be a gift, dispatching them with the patience, skill, and respect only a true hunter could have. The local bandits, however, were another story entirely. Thankfully, the recent attack against Fort Greymoor had kept them occupied. Though Jen would've had no trouble dispatching them, he was more of the defensive type.

    After whispering, in his soft but mild voice, a farewell of, "Quel esta, vanima kurwaer. (Rest well, beautiful creature.)", to both of the bounties, Jen recollected his arrows and placed the rabbit in a brown sack bag, opting to tie the deer's hooves together and carry him over a shoulder.

    The walk back to the city was long and wearily, and getting into the gates was nonetheless more difficult, but at least he wouldn't have to deal with skinning and cleaning the animals for now. The city, as per usual, was bustling and busy with the work of the common Nordsmen. The heavy ping of the blacksmith's shop filled the air along with the chattering and clacking of the occupants as they made their way about about Whiterun, handling their daily duties with a firm brow and quick feet.

    On occasion, due to his armor and the fact that he strode with such confidence for a Mer in Skyrim, Jen would receive glares of resentment and dislike to show he wasn't welcome in the city. Some nords, Jen understood, had a personal reason to despise Mer and felt threatened by having one so close to home.

    The current Thalmor Justicars were evidence of such suspicion and consistently added more and more clichés to the culture of Mer. But Jen still couldn't quite comprehend how widely spread the hate for the docile elves, like himself, as well as the Thalmor, though one was worse than the other. Either way, he'd always dispelled the dirty scowls by simply ignoring them entirely and going about his business.

    If they decided hands needed to be used, then noses would be broken.

    After dropping off the bounties at the meat stall in the Market of the city to be skinned and dressed, and leaving a very generous tip from his coin purse tied and stitched to his belt, Jen opted he'd quite enjoy a fine cold glass of wine and a thick horker chunk before gladfully taking a nap for a few hours.

    He'd been on the road for days now, after taking up and tracking the bounty on a rather vicious and talented Dunmer Bandit Chief by the name of Bedave Farano. He was talented with two identical iron swords and was wanted on charges of murder and defilement of livestock. He was also quite the mage of his own degree, and favored electrical spells, to immobilize and stun his victims, before killing them with his swords.

    Lately, Jen was hot on his heels but lost him in a random ambush between Imperial Soldiers and Stormcloak Rebels. He later found traces of his tracks and continued trailing him.

    Upon entering the tavern, Jen shook himself lightly of moisture outside and began to disarm himself as he neared the bar counter, throwing his hood back with a palm. Over all, the place was vacant enough including the staff members idle, with the high fire still ablaze, which added an uncomfortable warmth about the room. He noticed one of the more recent patrons, a short-haired woman with a knapsack over her back, moving off towards the stairs leading above the rafters of the inn but otherwise saw no other patrons of note.

    As he stepped up to the bar, momentarily leaning his weapons against the counter as a sign of respect, he was greeted with the usual, "Hello there. What can i get you?", from Hulda and greeted her with a faint smile. Her hair was a mess today, but then again, so it was yesterday. At least today she had it in a neat enough bun, but Jen wasn't overly concerned with it. Of most of the Nords in Whiterun, Hulda was one of the few who could careless whether a Mer was among them or not. He commended her for that.

    "Afternoon, Hulda. It's rained an awful lot lately, hasn't it?" And it had been for at least a week now, on top of the cold fronts coming in. Either Skyrim was turning into Atmora, or the return of the dragons had some sort of effect on the land. He soon adopted the idea of staying nights in taverns, out of the cold mud.

    Hulda nodded in agreement to his statement. "Sure has. You'd think we'd get more customers because of it, but i guess they like freezing to death, huh?"

    Jen shrugged at the comment. "Or they're migrating to Solitude, where the sun shines."

    Hulda grabbed a rag and began wiping the countertop of crumbs, sweeping the bits into a bucket behind the counter. She needed to remember to ask Saadia to empty it later. "Not a bad idea too. As a matter of fact, that young lady there," She gestured to the back of the armored woman climbing the steps to her room. Jen glanced her way and studied her for a moment before returning his attention to Hulda. ", was asking for directions to Solidtude herself. Even paid for supplies to make the trip and bought a room. If you're thinking of making the trip, i still have your rucksack and saddlebags in the cabinet. Maybe you two can travel together."

    Jen thought about it for a moment. The journey would be long and cold, but if it meant he'd be dismissed of such weather, he was all for it. However, Farano was moving off in the direction of Falkreath now for some reason, but he had enough time to see what was new with the East Empire Company and to speak with Hjeldorn about his transaction coming in. He'd take the long way through Falkreath Hold to look for Bedave along the way. Perhaps the other patron could help him.

    "Sure, if you don't mind. Oh, and i'll have a bottle of Fi-"

    "Firebrand Wine. I got it." She interrupted, dropping the rag in the bucket and making a saunter to the cabinets against the wall, which she unlocked and retrieved said bags. Jen shook his head, smirking. The woman knew him too well.

    When she returned with his things and wine, she made another offer. "Bad news though, i had to throw away the wrapped apples and bread crunches. They'd spoiled and i didn't want them to stink up the pack. I can give you some more for about fifteen coin, if you'd like."

    Jen waved a dismissive hand. "No, i'm afraid i don't have it right now, but i will soon. Perhaps tomorrow. In the meantime.." He dug into his coinpurse, retrieving ten septims and extending them out to drop in Hulda's hands. "I'll take any room that's empty."

    Hulda took the coin and pointed to the stairs within the kitchen. "First door at your right." Jen nodded, collecting his possessions before going towards his room, around the bonfire and up the stairs.

    Once there, he pushed open the door and spread his things about the hay mattress. After he changed into his green jerkin and loose brown leggings with foot-pad shoes, he then began to count and recall the number and quality of the items, to ensure nothing had been lost or damaged. Later, he needed to check up on his horse, Isilme (Moonlight), and ensure his health was still well enough for travel.

    He reached for his wine and idly sipped as he sifted through his stuff, hearing the distant clack as the Bannered Mare's doors welcomed another patron. He listened for conversation.

    OOC: Also, the part with Fort Greymoor being attacked, can be someone's introduction if you'd like. Below, I've included a picture of Jen's current hunting armor and organization of his weapons.

    weapons__belts_and_quiver_by_dariofish-d6dcxbj.jpg

    Obviously, the blade in the image would be the one from his CC, with the runes on it. Also, imagine the two daggers below sheathed on the back of his waist, below the quiver and sword sheath. No helmet included.

    053cb67b87ea60310583a2300baec766.jpg

    Like this but about a foot longer.

    DISCLAIMER: I do not own, nor do I mean to gain anything in terms of profit from these images. They are not my own and belong to their respective owners. However, Jen is my creation and belongs to me and me only. Thank you for such amazing images.
     

    Gregor Moon Fang

    Champion of Azura
    A little girl is running through the insides of a cave breathing heavily as If she’s been running for quite a while. She turns her head slightly to the right to get a quick glimpse of her pursuer: a rabid black and grey wolf, it’s fangs in plain view, savoring from the thought of them digging into the flesh of its’ poor and terrified victim. This proves to be a mistake as the tree log partially hidden from view in the ground catches the girl on the ankle causing her to trip and land with a loud thud that echoed throughout the cave.

    The girl instinctively grabs her ankle to try and lessen the pain. However, the presence of the wolf causes her to put up her defenses and stare into the eyes hungry eyes of her pursuer. Knowing that it has the little girl trapped, the wolf lets out a loud howl.

    Mere moments later as if on cue, reinforcements in the form of two wolves come from a hidden alcove of the cave and come up on either side of the wolf. All three wolves start moving slowly towards the girl stalking their prey. The girl realizes the danger and tries to get up but the pain in her ankle makes it next to impossible. Seeing no other option she begins to crawl backwards on her hands to try and place as much distance as possible but to no avail. One of the wolves seem to lose its’ patience as it runs towards the girl and pounces.

    Seeing the end, the girl lets out a blood-curtling scream before the wolf lands within inches in front of her, a black and red arrow lodged through the back of the wolf’s head. The girl looks at the dead wolf stone still, daring not to move. The arrow gets the attention of the other two wolves as they turn around to see the assailant. Before the wolves get a good look the second wolf is met with an arrow in the eye. It lets out a painful growl before it falls to the ground dead.

    The boss wolf is able to adjust to the light as the assailant walks further into the cave: a Redguard man donning black and silver armor with a crimson embroiled black hood over his head holding an ebony bow. The wolf takes a defensive pose and starts barking viciously at the man who in turn slowly reaches into his quiver and pulls out an arrow with a red glowing snake tip. He scratches the tip against the edge of the bow, causing the arrowhead to light on fire. Taking the chance of the opening, the wolf charges at the man but this proves to be costly as within mere moments the man already has his bow drawn and releases it in the heart of the wolf, the arrow’s fire spreading amongst the wolf’s fur. Admiring his work, the man walks past the dead wolves and towards the little girl.

    ***************

    The little girl takes her attention from the wolves to Dian’Mie having a feeling with a mixture of fear and admiration as he came over to her. Dian’Mie knelt down so that his eyes were somewhat level with hers and offered his hand to her. “Are you alright Tera?” Tera looked at Dian’Mie with a sense of confusion as she never told the man her name.

    “H-How do you know my name?”
    Dian’Mie thought for a short second before answering her.

    “Your father Mathias told me. I came to find you Tera and here you are. I’m glad to see that you’re safe.”
    Tera eyes started welling up with tears as she threw herself into Dian’Mie and started crying onto his armor.

    “Thank you s-so much mister! I was s-so s-scared!”
    Dian’Mie was having mixed feelings of being called mister. On one hand he liked not being referred to as a kid like he usually was with his clan, but on the other hand it made him feel kind of old. He found it as something to not ponder further on and hugged her back. After a few minutes of her crying, Dian’Mie turned around and offered his back to Tera to which she happily accepted. When Tera was securely in place the two of them walked out of the cave and towards Falkreath.

    While on the road, Dian’Mie was telling Tera of a folktale told to him by his elders when they came upon a band of armored warriors rushing by them on foot. “Just a little further men! Mjilnar’s camp is close by.” When we get there we can feast on food and drink as much as we want!” The other men with the dark elf showed renewed vigor as they picked up their running pace. Something was giving Dian’Mie a bad feeling from those guys but he felt that it wasn’t his problem as he continued his story and journey.

    A couple hours later, Dian’Mie and Tera reached Falkreath and came up to Mathias’ farm where he and his wife showed excitement and relief in their face. “Thank you Dian’Mie for bringing our daughter back to us. I was so worried that I didn’t know what to do.” Dian’Mie waved it off with a flick of his hand.

    “It’s no problem. I was just glad to help. Oh and Tera try not to worry your parents again alright?”
    Tera looked over at Dian’Mie and gave him a big smile to which Dian’Mie gave right back. Mathias took out a bag of septims and put them in Dian’Mie’s hand to which he accepted and added them to his own coin purse. Dian'Mie waved goodbye to the family as he headed towards the east road. Many killed wolves, bears, and imbecilic bandits later, Dian'Mie arrived in the city of Whiterun. Time seemed to escape Dian'Mie as before he realized it went from early afternoon to late enough that the only light seemed to come from the torches of the guards or the fire of the local smithy. Dian'Mie walked through the somewhat empty streets until he came upon the Bannered Mare. With a slight push Dian'Mie entered the tavern and was met with a warm fire and the stares of a Nord woman behind the counter at the bar. "I guess the rumors of Nords being as cold as their homeland are true," he thought to himself.

    "Hello there. Welcome to the Bannered Mare. There's a freshly kindled fire here to enjoy. Be sure to get the cold out." The kindness from this woman took Dian'Mie by surprise as he took a seat at the bar. "What can I get you?"

    "I'll take an alto wine please and thank you." The bartender gave a small nod before reaching down behind the counter and taking out a bottle of Alto Wine with a clean mug.

    "So what's a young man like you doing out this late? You're armed pretty well for a simple adventurer." Dian'Mie took the mug and poured himself a mug before taking a sip from it.

    "That's because I'm not a simple adventurer. I'm traveling around Skyrim to hone my skills. By the way I'm looking for a place called Dawnstar. Do you know the way I'm supposed to go to get there from here?

    "Just take a left from the fork in the road next to the stables then go north. It'll be about a day or so on foot so be sure to get plenty of rest beforehand."

    "Alright thank you miss..."

    "Hulda. My name is Hulda." Hulda took the bottle and was about to start pouring another mug before Dian'Mie held up his hand, stopping her.

    "I'll take the whole bottle thank you. Oh and I'd also like your best room."
    Dian'Mie reached into his coin purse and put 30 septims out on the counter. Hulda looked at the gold for a moment to check if it was real or not before confirming it and collecting the coins in her hand. Hulda slowly put the bottle down and stepped out away from the counter. "Saadia! Wake up dear!" Out of nowhere a woman came from the back catching her breath.

    "Yes Mum?"
    asked the woman. Dian'Mie took a good look at Saadia and noticed how beautiful she was. He looked her up and down mesmerized before Hulda's thoughts knocked him out of his thoughts.

    "Escort this young man to his room for me will you?"
    asked Hulda, looking over him and Saadia. With a quick nod towards Hulda, Saadia motioned for Dian'Mie to follow. Dian'Mie picked up the bottle of wine and followed Saadia to his room. Going up the steps, Saadia made a right and opened the door.

    "Be sure to let me know if you need anything else," said Saadia turned around to leave as she closed the door behind her. Dian'Mie began to unload his armor piece by piece and set them on the table across the room until he was in his cloth shirt and trousers. He took a look around the room before kneeling on one knee westward towards his homeland and gave a prayer towards his family, his friends and to Lady Leki. Satisfied with the prayer, he climbed into the bed and layed down for a few minutes before finally drifting off to sleep.
     
    The door opened, and for a moment Lesli heard the faint, unmistakable sound of pouring rain. It had been drizzling earlier, and she felt fortunate that she had stepped into the Mare sooner rather than later. The door closed, and she heard Hulda greeting the newcomer. There was no reason for her to be interested in other patrons. Most of them would likely be local Nords, she supposed. It was rude to eavesdrop on an innkeeper's conversation in any case.

    She made her way up the stairs and opened the door into her room. In Cyrodiil, inn rooms were small but comfortable. The opposite seemed to be true for Skyrim. The room was large and constructed entirely of planks. A wardrobe stood off to the side, and a rug in the corner supported a chair and a small table. A few books lay on the table. Lesli wandered there and set her knapsack and bedroll on the chair.

    Immortal Blood. Lesli discarded the book, uninterested. Immortal Blood was a common book in Cyrodiil. She turned her attention to the other book. The title was illegible from age and wear, but an image of a harpy on the cover was faintly visible.

    The beds in Skyrim were another example of the diversity of Nordic and Cyrodiilic hospitality. This one consisted of a mass of hay and two small furs that she did not recognize. There was no mattress; only planks to serve as some sort of structure. Where there were couches in Cyrodiil, there were ancient wooden chairs in Skyrim.

    There was no use in complaining, though. She had her bedroll and a safe place to sleep, as miserable a thought it was to her. Perhaps life was more civilized in Solitude - less Imperial, less Nordic, and more.. well, Lesli wasn't quite sure what she was looking for, but whatever it was wasn't here. The inhabitants made up for this unwelcoming province what with its cold climates and uncivilized furniture. They were to-the-point and didn't bother with nonsense that didn't concern them. Lesli found this strangely endearing; it made her transition into Skyrim easier.

    Innkeepers were another story. Lesli heard the door open again downstairs, and head Hulda's voice as she greeted another customer. Perhaps I should mingle, she considered. She fidgeted with her knapsack for several minutes before finally taking the stairs back downstairs. She could smell meat and seasoning drifting from the kitchen.

    "Hulda?" The innkeeper looked at Lesli as her name was called. "What on Nirn is cooking?" Lesli also wondered how late it was. It felt late in the evening, certainly. But she wasn't setting off until the day after tomorrow, not without rations. And she needed a tent, as well, from one of the nearby stores.

    (Not much happening here. I'm interested in seeing where this will lead.)
     
    Last edited:
    (I'm having the urges to write, and can see that I can improve upon my part here. So, here goes in hopes of keeping this roleplay on it's toes.)

    The door opened, rather jarringly; someone had pushed it roughly from the other side. A man walked inside, his light garb and thin white cap indicating that he was a courier. Lesli stared at the man. He lowered his hood, looked around the tavern with a look that quickly waned into disinterest. He walked up to Hulda, lowering his hood. The door behind him finally closed. Lesli realized that it had stopped raining outside, as there had been no sound of downpour before the door slammed shut again. His clothes and hood were damp, however, as was a linen bandage wrapped around his lower leg, tinged with pink in several areas.

    Hulda did not seem surprised by the presence of this courier. Lesli wondered if he visited often. Couriers often brought gossip; perhaps he came here to spread rumors. His appearance had surprised both women. They watched him as he stepped up to the bar and leaned forward towards Hulda. Lesli couldn't recognize the expression on the innkeepers face, but Saadia did. The young Redguard assistant reached the counter and spoke a few whispered words to the courier. After a moment, she retreated back to the kitchen, looking drawn and ill. Hulda watched her go.

    Lesli could not restrain her curiosity anymore. She had been watching the scene play out, standing in place for several minutes. Her heart whistled in her chest like a broken flute. Saadia had a strong stomach and repressed her emotions. Lesli had been here long enough to recognize it. In that sense, Saadia reminded her of her mother. She blocked out the thought, the memory, before it could fester and poison her mind. Letting instinct - or perhaps raw, stupid curiosity - guide her, Lesli walked up to the counter and sat on a stool next to the courier. He glanced at her; she glanced back, then watched him for a moment. He ordered a watered-down ale. Hulda watched them both for a moment, then joined Saadia in the kitchen.

    It wasn't the silence she received from the courier that bothered Lesli, it was that he kept glancing at her from the side. Finally, she looked straight at him. He readily met eye contact. "What's going on?" Lesli prodded him, then. The courier sgihed, shrugged. "You wouldn't believe it is I told you."

    "I'm willing to try," she replied to him. He was silent for a moment. "Where are you coming from?" she asked. "Riverwood," he replied. "Riverwood?" Lesli repeated. "I thought couriers only bear news from cities?"

    Another shrug. The courier sipped his ale, began to say something, then hesitated. "Spit it out, Nord. Please. Just spit it out." He looked baffled by her response; a Breton woman speaking to a native stranger in such a pushing manner, it wasn't what any Nord man would expect from someone several inches shorter than himself. He didn't seem offended, though, and her response seemed to draw out a reply from him. She heard Hulda returning.

    "A dragon was spotted in the mountains near Riverwood a few hours ago." Lesli stared at him, eyes wide and then narrow. "Don't fool about. You could have just said you were stuffed on skooma," she responded, getting to her feet. This was why she tried to not put stock in gossip - because it came from lunatics like this man. "Wait," the courier said, catching her sleeve. "I'm not joking. Wouldn't a Breton like yourself recognize lies when hearing one?"

    She stared at him, something akin to loathing driving behind her glare. "A skooma addict, a drunk, one with an addled mind - he does not lie, courier. So sleep it off." She made to move away, but he wouldn't let go of her sleeve. She turned back to him. "Look." She looked at him in the face. His face was pale, the skin of his knuckles taunt and white as he gripped his tankard. "I saw what it did when I passed by Helgen." He still wouldn't let go of her sleeve. Why wouldn't he let her leave? "The buildings were crushed into pieces, pieces of wood looked like embers for a large fire. It was destroyed. Helgen is destroyed. Imagine it, Breton. A dragon's campfire."

    She could imagine it, and it was not pleasant. Nor was it realistic. Dragons did not exist; the Blades had destroyed them before she had been born. Yet his words, the fear in his face, struck her deeply. She stared at the courier, unsure of how to respond. Then: "Don't build your towns out of wood, then." She pulled her sleeve free from the courier's grasp, which had gone lank at her words. Lesli turned and walked off. She could feel two stares directed at the back of her head, Hulda and the courier both. She didn't look back at them. Surely Hulda didn't put stock in dog dung like this? For a moment, she worried that the innkeeper and her assistant might not help her so much with packing rations.

    She pushed the thought aside and found herself looking at the fireplace. The embers. What bullplops. She sat down at a table at the corner of the room, wished she had brought a book downstairs. There was one laying on the table in front of her, though. Immortal Blood, again. She took it into her hands, flipped to the first page, and began reading.
    "The moon and stars were hidden from sight.."
     

    Nocte Aeterna

    Sir Not-Appearing-in-This-Film
    “No vacancies? Are you quite sure?”

    Whiterun’s innkeeper, Hulda, shot the exhausted Dunmer a sorrowful look.
    “Look, I’m sorry. But we’re fully booked this evening. Survivors from Helgen and some folk from Riverwood are trying to seek refuge in a more fortified city. Since Whiterun is the closest major city to both of those places, they came here. You’re welcome to pull up a seat by the fire and order a drink or two, though. And… well, assuming nobody else comes in, you could always sleep in one of the chairs free of charge.”

    “Very well. Thank you,” the dark elf responded, grateful for the innkeeper’s gesture of hospitality. Dusk was giving way into night by this time, after all.

    It was earlier in the day, while still en route on the road from Windhelm, that Neleras heard the seemingly impossible news from a courier. Supposedly, a dragon had razed Helgen, leaving few survivors and displacing those that did remain. His first reaction was that which was shared by many; laughter and scorn. Even he, a scholar who had done a fair bit of research on dragons himself for mythical purposes only, was skeptical of their existence, for they were ancient creatures thought to have been long since extinct. His second reaction, after mulling it over in the succeeding hours, was slightly more accepting. But there was something slightly more ironic that he still hadn’t quite comprehended the specifics of yet; his next expedition would be leading him into Bleak Falls Barrow in pursuit of something called a “Dragonstone”. This had to be a mere coincidence.

    Still encased in full elven armor (which, despite its battered condition, looked oddly pleasing right now; its normally gold hue appeared as a soft ember accented by the dwindling hearth-fire behind him), Neleras took a seat at the bar counter, withdrew twelve septims from his satchel, then ordered an ale, since the only other beverage option was mead, and mead was disgusting.

    Filthy Nordic brews and their complete lack of regard for the taste buds, Neleras thought amusedly while Hulda fetched him his drink. When it arrived, he nursed it gradually, savoring the fermented barley that seemed to flow over his tongue. After a few minutes, he reached into his pack again, this time pulling out a slightly tattered leather-bound journal, a quill, and some corked ink. Unstoppering the black vial, he opened the journal to its most recent dog-eared page, the contents of which were carefully articulated notes on the Dragonstone; it contained hand-drawn diagrams, neatly-written labels, and short descriptions of the stone's features. Underneath all of the content, he wrote:

    17th of Last Seed, 4E 201

    I have arrived in Whiterun, which means that I am not far from Bleak Falls Barrow. Six arduous months of research have led me to this point, and I don't intend to stop now, even if my efforts do prove fruitless. But given my extensive cataloging of the matter, I have every reason to believe that the Dragonstone exists. My journey may be difficult, perhaps even dangerous, but it's probably nothing that I haven't faced before.

    Which brings me to another point. A wave of dismay seems to have settled itself over Skyrim. There have been reports of a dragon attack in the town of Helgen, which is not far from here. I find the very notion preposterous. Dragons are ancient creatures and have not been sighted anywhere in Tamriel (or on Nirn, for that matter) during this Era. Though if the impossible is truly reality, then I am probably ill-equipped to face this menace.

    Myths aside, I have to wonder if this expedition is a coincidence. Dragonstone, dragons... I was never one for superstitious nonsense (which is ironic, considering my work), but this toes the line at being simply odd. Regardless, I will probably exercise additional caution when leaving on the morrow.


    Satisfied with what he had written, Neleras shut the journal, then proceeded to finish his brew.
     
    (Hope you guys don't mind, I'm going to use the Fort Greymoor thing as an entrance of sorts.)

    Up at Fort Greymoor, after clearing out the bandits on the outside, a young woman went inside the Forts' front door to clear out the rest of the bandits, mace drawn in one hand and a lightning spell crackling in the other. The sun had still been up then, and this woman had hoped to be done with this bounty before sunset, so she could collect on it and move on to the next area. She really didn't like sticking around in one area for too long, not for any reason in particular - more habit than anything. She liked to be constantly moving.
    As she exited Fort Greymoor's back door, which was situated in a small pond of sorts, the woman was not happy. Things had not gone as she planned and clearing out the fort had taken much to long, in her opinion. Add to that, the sun had set hours ago and it was raining. She was soon soaked through.
    The woman, who any passerby could see was Bosmer due to her short stature and honey brown eyes (as well as her pointed ears), pulled her hood up to shut out the rain as best as possible, quickly covering up her face, before stepping out of the sort-of pond and making her way back toward Whiterun. She may as well stay the night there until she could collect on the bounty - not to mention until this damnable rain cleared up.
    She made good time and it wasn't long before she was at the gates of Whiterun. The guards had no problem with her - they knew her as a wanderer and bounty hunter, probably due to her visiting this city more than most.
    After getting through the gates she made her way, with quicker steps now that she was behind city walls, to the Bannered Mare; and then finally she found herself pushing open the inns' door, entering with a sigh and going up to the innkeeper, Hulda.

    "I need a room for the night and a bottle of Alto Wine, please," Serah said.

    "I'm sorry but we're all booked for the night. Feel free to sit by the fire and dry yourself off, though," said Hulda as she handed the wine bottle to the Bosmer female, not asking to be paid for it. It seemed Hulda really did feel bad about this.

    "Oh? This is due to that disaster down in Helgen, isn't it?" Serah said, taking the wine bottle with a grateful nod. Traveling as much as she did, and having passed Helgen on her way here, she already knew what had gone down - or atleast what people were saying had gone down.
    Not that the city didn't speak for itself - it was in tatters and the embers even now are still burning. It wasn't natural, but that didn't mean it was a dragon. Serah thought perhaps some mage had tricked them all into seeing a dragon where there wasn't one; it was a bit more likely. New types of magic popped up all the time here.

    Hulda, with a somber expression, said that yes, it was the case and that she was very sorry. Serah said it was okay, she understood, and sat down on a bench in front of the fire, taking down her hood and putting her weapons away in a sack, which she placed on the floor next to the fire, still within reach. Not that she really needed them as a mage but they were a good thing to have when one runs low on magicka.
    Taking a glance around she saw no immediate threats and so, began warming her hands by the fire, alternately taking small sips of her wine. If she was going to have to travel again soon she had to stay clear headed.



    Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk
     
    (My character, Lesli, despises mead. In all respects, it is a Nordic drink. Nor is she fond of Cyrodiilic brandy. In fact, the only alcohol she favors is watered-down wine of a rich fruit origin. As realistic to my roleplay purposes and Lesli's character as this is, it is also ironic. Mead is the only drink I do like, and even then I am quite choosy. Wine? Nah. Beer? Not a chance. I am Nordic in nature. Perhaps I ought to make a new character, one that fits my likeness. One that fits my interests. I would like to add another irrelevent comment: Nocte, your post is beautiful. I've had a stressful month, and your writing is one of the few things that has truly calmed me, returned me to myself. Thank you.)


    Lesli was not immersed in Immortal Blood. The arrival of two patrons and conversation referring to the “dragon attack” at Helgen tore her from the distraction of a book. The last time she mentioned books in Falreath, a Nord asked her about the reason behind writing a book at all. The Nordic woman did not understand why stories could not be passed down generations by word of mouth. Even Hulda was a Nord at heart. This was her home; she was as crazy as anyone else here. More the reason to hurry to Solitude.


    She worried that, with the new arrivals and this Helgen disaster, she would not be able to gather enough rations by the next night. She might be here for a few days, perhaps more. This new hurdle was a definite irritation. She could work her way around this. But with these new patrons, these new faces – something about it reminded her of home.


    It was because of this “dragon attack” that she might be stuck here for days, perhaps weeks, with homeless Nords. Nords with their ignorance, their brutal innocence, and their mead. “None suspect the rebel natives,” she thought. She realized something was wrong. Something had struck the silence in the air, the unspoken tensity. She had spoken aloud, directly from her thoughts. Lesli's cheeks colored. She set the book down and looked down at the table in front of her. Damn these Nords and their dragons.


    Solitude had best be worth it. Even a Cyrodiilic settlement would be better than this – wooden buildings that can easily be crushed, and nobody had thought that it could be a rebel force? She had begun to hear of the civil unrest in Skyrim. Did politics not function here like they did in High Rock? Brutes, warriros, no bright minds and no political drama here? She wondered at it, and realized that she was homesick. It was late. She should go to bed, prepare for whatever the morning might bring. Lesli rose to her feet, ignoring the quiet protests of her stomach.
     

    fellowknight

    The Devil In The Details
    The sounds of leather sifting faintly filled the room as Jen checked his knapsack and counted the items he'd left since last summer. A rather stale odor of packed air and dust stained the insides of the pack and flowed outward in a weak stream. His least favorite smell, but it gave him an idea of how long the pack had been left undisturbed.

    The food, as Hulda had informed him, was gone leaving little trace but the stench of spoiled apples and stale bread. His supplies were all accounted for, including the elvish bedroll and his personal leather note journal, which hadn't quite started aging yet but no doubt would need renewing soon along with additional pages.

    Though he trusted Hulda's bearing of loyalty to he kin and her friends, he hadn't a choice but to be cautious in placing his own trust, and valuables, in her possession. She was no doubt a good friend and hadn't proven otherwise thus far, but as far as possessing intelligence of a higher level, Jen had no faith in her.

    Granted, she was a friendly and open spirit, but Skyrim was full of Nords both ignorant and resilient in their selfishly brutal traditions. And while Jen was far smarter than most of them, he had no question concerning their undying loyalty to their land and each other. The local civil war was a splendid example of both. Then something else came to his attention.

    However quiet the room may have seemed at the time, the wooden walls were thin and much conversation could be heard through them audibly, if one listened close enough. Conversation about Helgen, a city destroyed by dragons. Jen stopped sifting through the pack and listened closely as the exchange went on. The female voice made a comment, disproving the news wittingly but was silenced as the other patron wielded a rather deadly-serious tone.

    "I saw what it did when I passed by Helgen. The buildings were crushed into pieces, pieces of wood looked like embers for a large fire. It was destroyed. Helgen is destroyed. Imagine it, Breton. A dragon's campfire."

    A few moments of silence passed and Jen found himself pondering the theory. Dragons were extinct. They had to be. Not one had ben sighted for the past two eras and not a single record had been raised proving otherwise. The Blades had driven them into extinction along with the line of Dovakiins and just plain lucky adventurers. Jen couldn't recall even the Dominion's Intelligence Division hearing rumor or word of them all throughout the Great War, though they were trained to keep such news to themselves and their superiors.

    But Dragons? No, it simply wasn't possible. Ruin, such as described by in the exchange, could have been raught by anything from a lucky group of bandits, to a coordinated attack by rebels. But Dragons were myths, the ones parents use to scare their children into coming home early and eating their vegetables. And they were just that. Myths.

    Then something pieced together in Jen's memory, after the Breton woman made he snide remark about wooden buildings and ended the exchange. Earlier, when he was hunting in the forest near Fort Greymoor, Jen had seen plumes of smoke arising from the southeast and drifting in to the wind. He heard a long, faint rumble of a roar, slicing through the sky and piercing the clouds. The sky. He remembered looking up and seeing something massive and dark disappearing into the sky, hidden perfectly by the clouds.

    It had...wings. The flying creature had wings. But it just...wasn't possible.

    Was it?

    Were these Nordic legends of Akatosh's Children true, or had the local Nords simply indulged themselves into far too much of their repulsively sickening mead? The longer he remained in Skyrim, it seemed, he was exposed to more and more crazy tales of blood and adventure, normally over exaggerated or underestimated.

    They've got spirit, i'll give them that. Their wine is decent enough. But tales of Dragons now? Ridiculous.

    After successfully restocking and organizing his supplies from both bags, Jen decided he'd take a trip to the stables before dark to check up on his steed before eating dinner and retiring for the night. Perhaps in a day or so he could make the journey towards Falkreath Hold in search of Farano.

    He noted the several times the inn's door had closed and opened, and assumed the inn now had more than one patron to serve, so there was still the potential chance they'd be equipped to help him. Or, they were simply Nords looking for a place to lay down and would thus be of no use to him. Either wich way, he'd need to investigate to be sure. Bedave was not to be underestimated, after all.

    A short stride later brought Jen through the kitchen and to the threshhold of the main resting room, where it seemed several different patrons had made their welcome. With a glance about the room, Jen realized that Skyrim was a lot more diverse than he could've thought, being that three different races sat in the same room.

    What was more so intriuging was the reason as to why they were. Not too odd of a sight, a few mixed races in a room together, in Skyrim this was to be expected, even if lightly so. This did not at all concern him. But what Jen was interested in was how well equipped these people were and how they handled themselves.

    Interesting to discover, no doubt.

    The breton woman from earlier, whom had spoken with the courier seated at the bar still, sat at a table now in the corner of the room, reading a book titled "Immortal Blood". His voltaic eyes glossed over the breton's armor and any visible weapons, sizing her up.

    She wore a black-padded armor Jen assumed was made from either a durable leather or a light set of black iron, though he considered the fact of how most Bretons preferred magic and thus to stay light on their feet. At her hip, a Cyrodiilic steel sword hung housed in it's adorned sheath, alongside an Iron hunting knife also resting in a smaller sheath of similar design. The routine semi-filled coinpurse also hung from her belt, bound only by a thin string.

    Her muscle mass and general fat stores were balanced sharply, showing she took care of her body and was a capable fighter. Her face was mostly clean and her hair was smoothed back over her ears; she liked to stay clean, it seemed. A scar cut a path from under her right cheekbone to the edge of her chin, signifying her entry with battle and that she didn't just prefer magic.

    From the exchange he 'over-heard', she wasn't too fond of Skyrim and had little care for the local population. But these were simply estimations. He'd need to move in to configure more.

    The other two patrons of interest consisted of one Dunmer at the bar counter, sipping on some beverage with a corked bottle of ink, a quill, and a leather journal by his side. He was adorned with a full set of elven gilded armor fitted with an elven sword that, when viewed correctly, contained a faint lavender glimmer. An enchantment of some sort. The elven dagger he possesed contained a similar glow, tinted crimson.

    His black flushed hair was also pushed over his ears and weaved lazily into his armor, complementing his crimson shaded eyes. His leaden hued skin, which shone a dull silver in the fire's light, completed his appearance. Though his armor covered most of his body, Jen kew him to be at least average fit being that he used both a sword and a dagger, if not magic as well. If he did, he was a talented spellblade. If he didn't depend on magic, he was a talented bladesman. Both were fairly deadly and both could make the Mer either a great ally or a horrid opponent.

    The bosmer female seated at a bench by the fire warming her hands and sipping her drink in shifts idly. At a far glance, she looked like a waery traveler, stopping in for a drink and the heat of the fire. But Jen made a habit of looking closer. Her long black hair flowed smoothly down her back, her honey brown eyes glowing wildly in the light of the fire with her tanned skin. A bosmer from the moment he saw her pointed ears.

    The bow and arrows proved this fact to be more clear, though she also had an Ebony Mace at her belt, tinged light blue. No doubt she was an excellent marksman, similar to Jen, but she might also have been talented in the blade as well, or even magic.

    The splats of blood strewn across her armor and charred bits stuck to her feet showed she was in recent combat. And she hadn't lost. Perhaps she was from Fort Greymoor, near where he was hunting earlier. He did hear blades clashing...

    Though none of them had noticed him yet, Jen hadn't planned one making a move until he noticed the Breton woman getting up after audibly commenting on something.

    “None suspect the rebel natives,” she said. Jen tilted his head slightly with inquisition, but otherwise didn't make a move to see if anyone else had heard her comment. They had. The room was broken of silence. And Jen knew why she said what she said.

    When she began to stand and get ready to leave, assumingly to her room, Jen began to stride gracefully into the room, his words the only sign on his arrival, though they were directed more at everyone than just the Breton. He also needed to grab the attention of the room, but subtly. As he'd always done.

    "I'm sure some do. But to destroy a village, burn it to the ground in their own homeland, it doesn't seem to be their intentions. Brutal as the rebels may be, they still possess beating hearts. Perhaps more brawn than brain, but they have hearts nonetheless. Not to say their intentions are entirely pure, however..."

    (OOC: For your reference and to assist in picturing Jen as he is now, I've provided pictures of his current attire below. Again, I do not own theses images, but their current purpose and utilization are of my ownership. Just stressing it in case one of the image owners comes hunting me down :p

    mw-11907644-1.jpg

    mw-11907644-2.jpg

    mw-11907644-3.jpg

    Jen's Elven Jerkin, from varying angles for depth. While he has the option of wearing a silver silk linen under shirt with long sleeves, Jen has chosen not to wear it. His lower attire would be something like the image below but a little tighter with a more elven touch. No gloves or weapons are included.

    elfpants.jpg
     
    Last edited:

    Nocte Aeterna

    Sir Not-Appearing-in-This-Film
    Neleras' train of thought was interrupted by a sudden change of atmosphere in the pub's main area; a conversation seemed to be brewing. Even though the room was modestly sized at best, he only just now had become aware of its other inhabitants. Swiveling to the left on his bar stool, he briefly scanned the area. There was a female - Breton, by the looks of her - reading idly in the corner of the room at a table. The volume's cover was one that Neleras was familiar with.

    Immortal Blood, eh? There's a book that I haven't consulted in years, Neleras thought. If his sharp ears hadn't deceived him, he could have sworn that he had heard her mumble something about nobody suspecting the rebel natives. Whatever that meant.

    He pondered responding, but evidently he had to wait his turn, for another patron had already spoken up. This reply could be heard clearly, which prompted Neleras to turn his attention to the speaker. This voice was distinctively male, and upon visual examination, elven. The interested Dunmer couldn't quite pinpoint the mer's origin, however. He appeared to have physical features that bore both Altmeri and Bosmeri indications. A mixed race, perhaps? Those weren't entirely uncommon.

    Nonetheless, Neleras felt an urge to contribute to the discussion. Once the Bos-Alt hybrid had finished, the silver-skinned elf took the floor, his Solstheim dialect brimming with intrigue. "Perhaps the feeling of nationalism in one's homeland may outweigh the destruction of one's property in that homeland, if their intentions are true to them. But I highly doubt that these supposed, er, dragons, have anything to do with this blasted war. You might call it situational irony."

    He shifted uncomfortably on the stool after completing his statement, realizing that he sounded as if he knew more than the other patrons about the matter.

    "But I'm no more informed than you are," Neleras added as an afterword, now standing. "We're just speculating here, are we not?"

     
    (During my excess leisure time, I have begun to rewrite the posts in this thread. It may prove as a first draft of a co-op fanfiction. I currently have no intention to share the wip piece to the public, and if I ever do, I will ask for direct permission from each participant of this thread. I have photophobia, so the rewriting process is slow and steady. When this thread will end, I may consider releasing the work to the public. This is a cooperative piece, nothing less. It is not a present case. As of now, I am perfectly content roleplaying and not worrying about much else – except for how much work I'm currently skipping by procrastinating. I suppose I should get to that sometime this week, eh? Back to the roleplay for me. I just wanted to let you guys know what was going through my mind, as it will likely involve you in the future.)

    (T
    he internet HATES this website - the lag is
    horrible unless I press "more options." Then there's 0 lag.)

    Lesli had not expected a response. She hadn't spent any time studying new patrons. Their business was their own, not hers, and she expected no adventure in an inn in Whiterun. So when a voice responded to her uttered thought to her lefthand side, at the fireplace, her heart jolted and she raised her head, pausing in step.

    She could not see the speaker, as he was situated in odd lighting. From his voice, she understood he was likely a Bosmer; she had heard the woodelves speak in the past, in Cyrodiil. Electric blue eyes stood out to her, eyes she had seen on no elf before. What stood out more to her was his garb. She fancied the tailcoated green jerkin; its simple design provided its beauty. Dress was important in her homeland, and she carried that sensibility with her during her travels.

    She listened to his words. As he spoke, she moved several steps closer to the fireplace. A Dumner sat there. She could see the Bosmer man closer from this angle, and watched him silently as he spoke. Her irritation at the courier and Nord simplicity in general had dissipated after her last words.

    She had no time to respond. When the Bosmer paused and she sensed he was done speaking his part, another patron rose to his feet: a Dumner in gilded elven armor that gleamed an ethereal dragonlily orange-green in the firelight. She listened to his words, now pondering her own words. His words were unspeakably eloquent, perhaps stiff or formal; she found herself hanging onto them.

    Speculating, indeed,” she commented, watching him. A traveler? Well-armored, armed. Far better than herself, in her leathers (being uncomfortable in cloth or metal-based armors) and uncomfortable with a sword in hand.. “At what I'm suspecting is mid-to-morn.” There was a shuffle at the bar as the courier rose to his feet, uttering a hushed apology to Hulda. Lesli did what she could to ignore this. “I do not pretend to understand the native Nords. I've heard less children from the folk in Cyrodiil.” No way in Oblivion I'm going back there, again. It was High Rock that she yearned for, not an Imperial settlement in a Nordic land.

    Might this discussion continue tomorrow?” she suggested. She gestured towards the Dumner man. “I'll be here tomorrow evening. If you two will be here?” Lesli arched an eyebrow at the Bosmer. She had not grown particularly attached to the conversation – but the Dunmer's speaking spoke eloquently of his person, and the Bosmer with the startling eyes quite faintly seemed (unless fatigue was wearing her senses) at.. something. These features of sorts had drawn her in - these two patrons at an inn in a Nordic settlement, all strangers far from home.
     
    She glanced up from the fire as she heard a man next to the fire speak up - something about the dragon attack, from the sound of it. She watched the exchange take place between the three inn patrons before speaking up herself. She was curious about these newcomers.
    "I traveled past Helgen a few days ago, after the tragedy had already taken place," she said, shifting her body around on the bench to face them and pitching her voice just loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough to be perceived as rude or yelling.
    "I've traveled these parts for a while now, and I must say, whatever caused that wreckage was not natural. No brigands or rebels could have done it. I do not believe it was a dragon however - I believe it may have been a rogue mage testing out some new form of magic."
    She paused, corking her wine bottle and placing it in her travel bag, letting her words sink in.
    "If you all are interested, I would be willing to take the three of you to Helgen, no strings attached, to see and decide for yourselves."
    At this she looked at the three of them, in turn.
    "On the morrow, that is. You can always find me at the Drunken Hunstman, at the entrance of town. However if I have misjudged your interest, please don't hesitate to let me know."
    She then leaned back against the pillar behind her, still seated on the bench, arms folded. She had completely forgotten that the innkeeper at the Drunken Huntsman usually had a spare bedroll at least for her to sleep on, for those times she had to stay in Whiterun for whatever reason. Being one of the few Bosmer business owners, not to mention one of the best archery supply shops, she had become fast friends with him and didn't think he would mind to much. She must be more tired than she realized to have forgotten. It wasn't like her.


    Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk
     

    Gregor Moon Fang

    Champion of Azura
    A blanket of deep black, dark and lacking of any activity save for what seems like flames weaving through the sky enveloped the Province of Hammerfell. The cries of what seemed like thousands people fed the darkness with borderline gluttony. There wasn't a single area that was not affected by calamity. Vampires infiltrating the lands, feeding upon the people, their blood lust unable to stop them from draining their victims dry. Dian'Mie looked upon this horror in his clan's city unable to comprehend what was going on or to be more specific, how it was happening. One by one he watched the men being ruthlessly slaughtered, and the women being defiled by servants of Molag Bal. "Why is this happening?!" Dian'Mie shouted. "Why have you forsaken us Lady Leki?!" Seeing no other option, Dian'Mie unsheathed his axes and took the battle to the vampires. He took the fight to the vampires, being able to go and fell 50 on his own before his stamina betrayed him. From behind, Dian'Mie is blasted with a fireball, causing him to fall hard on his stomach. Not even the legendary power of Adrenaline Rush could help him escape his fate. Taking the remainder of his strength, he took one last look at scene of his fallen clan before the vampire who hit him stopped right in front of him. For a brief moment, Dian'Mie was given the vision of a feminine hand holding a crescent moon.

    "The end is near for you!" The vampire raised his sword above his head and impaled it into Dian'Mie.

    With a short but deep-toned scream Dian’Mie woke up from his sleep. A burning sky, vampires, and seeing his clan dead on the ground. He had never had a dream like that before so why was he having it now? Unfamiliar with his surroundings, he slowly got out of the bed and observed everything in the room. His armor layed neatly and separate on the square wooden table accompanied with two small chairs that seem to have weathered quite a bit from the constant use over the years. A single candlelight slowly dancing in the air on top of the dresser next to the room. The small windows on top of the roof painted a midnight blue. Right. I’m in the Bannered Mare in Whiterun right now. Still that was one crazy dream. The sudden opening of the door caused Dian’Mie to grab for his bow and draw an arrow at the door. The door opened fully to show Saadia the barmaid in the doorway to which she froze up at the sight of the arrow trained at her. When Dian’Mie saw who it was he retracted his bow and set it on his back. Sorry about that. Saadia put her right hand over her chest and let out a sigh of relief.

    “It’s alright. I’ve seen my share of things like this.” The words stung Dian’Mie a little bit but he dismissed the thought just as fast as it came.

    “So why are you in here Saadia?” Saadia’s expression worsened to a sort of sorrow as she sat down on the chair.

    “Well the room you rented…it’s supposed to be mine and I kinda forgot about…” Dian’Mie looked at her with a sort of guilt. He didn’t know that he basically took away her room.

    “You seem like you’re about to crash any minute. Go ahead and take your room back.” Saadia looked at him with shock. By her reaction Dian’Mie guessed that she isn’t used to being treated in a kind way. Not that it mattered that much to him. She started growing a smile on her face but quickly got rid of it and gave a small nod before walking over to the bed. Saadia lay on her side and mouthed what seemed like “Thank You” before falling asleep. Dian’Mie knew that as of right now due to that dream he wasn’t eager to return to the dream world. Sleep was out of the question at the moment. Looking around the room Dian’Mie saw a few books laying around the cabinets and picked one up. Thief of Virtue. Oh so she’s one of THOSE women. Dian’Mie thought to himself. He picked up another book. The Locked Room. Night Falls On Sentinel. They are all Redguard books. After some pondering he decided to pick up Night Falls On Sentinel and his wine. Dian'Mie walked out of the room, down the steps and back into the main room of the tavern. What noticed were the new patrons: two Bosmers, a Dunmer and a Breton. He wondered where they came from but as far as he was concerned it had nothing to do with him. Scanning the room Dian'Mie found an empty table and went to sit at it before resting his wine and opening up the book.
     
    Last edited:
    (I have taken Noche up on the suggestion of downloading AdBlocker to lessen lag caused by loading ads. It's worked wonders for me, and it will for you, too. If you're having issues like I was, please install AdBlocker. As of now, it is blocking 59 ads. Thank you, Noche, for saving my patience for another, more pressing time.)


    Thank you for the.. suggestion, but I'll have to pass. I intend to be on the road to Solitude as soon as it can take me,” Lesli responded to the Bosmer woman. She looked at the two male patrons. She did not need an early start tomorrow, but she did want to be relatively awake during the following day.


    A muffled shout from somewhere upstairs shook her. It had a deep tone. Had she felt more threatened by the sudden sound, she would have reached for the dagger at her lower back. As it was, however, the shout was short-sounded. She relaxed her sword-arm and shook her head, attempting an amused expression. Must have been one of the sleeping patrons, she supposed.


    Shortly, a Redguard man entered the room through the kitchen door. Perhaps it was as she had wondered: was Skyrim welcome to multiple races? High Rock had always been cold and stiff, welcoming new arrivals with caution. It was for natives to figure out whether the arrival would not afflict any customs or traditions. There were a few Nords in Wayrest, but they had been there long enough to be considered part of the land itself.. like Haldir, the Nordic man she had supposedly murdered.


    What brings you lot here?” Lesli found herself asking them.
     

    fellowknight

    The Devil In The Details
    Like a sponge, Jen absorbed every word and motion of the exchange and examined the other patrons as they spoke.

    In response to his initial statement, the Dunmer patron in his rather finely crafted elven armor, spoke words of deep perception and understanding, laced with intrigue. He provided an alternative reason to Helgen's destruction and the rebels motive behind doing such a thing. And he was right in his standing.

    If the Nord rebels were such prideful patriots with visons of a free Skyrim, they'd stop at nothing to see it as such. Free. No matter the cost. Though, Jen knew them to be soldiers, not murderers. And if the news of Helgen was true, many innocent citizens lost their lives. Along with Imperial Soldiers, if Helgen's orientation hadn't been altered.

    Once the Dunmer had concluded his point with a blind afterword, the breton woman followed up on his statement, agreeing with the wide-spread fact that they were only speculating here. And nothing more. She expressed her mutuality with the local Nord populace and how much more civilized Cyrodiil was, though she never out right said it, Jen got her point. The Nords had always proved to be a rather rebellious race, even since before the Stormcloak uprising, they kept busy fighting for their freedom and, in later ages, their conquest.

    And while they had proved to be ignorant, racist, simple-minded, and brutally inconsiderate, they have also shown signs of reslience, honor, loyalty, strength, and even unity in arms. Furthermore, the Nords had managed to do one thing no other province or race thus far has been able to claim they've done: Escaping the bonds of slavery by their dragon masters, and even coming up with an antidote to the sky-beasts.

    But so far, the injury of this Civil War, since they felt the entitlement to call it that, has far outweighed the attempt to heal and 'liberate' the land of Skyrim. Yes, they won victories and yes, they had a right to fight for their own freedom, but the damage it has caused, thousands of soldiers dead, Imperial or Nord, because of their refusal to continue to live in a peaceful lie. He had to applaud their continued resistence, however distasteful.

    Which brought to mind an old friend Jen hadn't had time to keep up with. Where was he now, still in Skyrim?

    The rebellion was also caused by the White-Gold Concordat, which he had the Thalmor to 'thank' for. A memory he dare not awake.

    When the breton suggessted they continue their discussion tomorrow and provided a time of which she'd be in the tavern, Jen was in the process of assembling his own response to the offer. But not before the other bosmer, by the fire, offered her input on the discussion, later proposing to take the group herself to Helgen so they could examine the damage themselves.

    Jen appreciated the sentiment, but in the end, it would be useless. It was, considering the bosmer's take on the situation, down to two likely variables concerning Helgen's destruction. Either it had been hit quite hard and swift by the rebels, whom also evacuated the citizens in the process so as to spare their lives, or this gossip of dragons was true.

    Which ever way the door swung, Jen hadn't gotten involved with the war and had no plans to do so at all, so traveling to Helgen would prove not only a wasteful but pointless journey. But he did appreciate the hospitality, especially from one of his own, though he felt no particular attachment to her, he did privately admit to feeling comfortable around her.

    Luckily, he'd also made a habit out of never letting his guard down.

    The breton was the first to decline the offer, stating that she was bound for Solitude as soon as plausible. Jen couldn't blame her, either. She looked the type to not be too fond of Nordic ways and traditions in the first place, given said traditions it was understandable, so Jen could see why she'd want to make for the most civilized city in Skyrim.

    She would face opposition however, being that Solitude was an Imperial settlement. And the rebels didn't take lightly to Imperial dealers. Nor did most of the Nordsmen.

    Before anyone could reply further a loud scream came from upstairs, muffled significantly by the layers of wood and wool. It was deep and alarmed. There had been no sound of a retracting blade, so no assassins were about. Jen always checked the rafters twice when he entered the inn. Perhaps the owner of the yelp had been woken from his sleep, or had seen a spider. The ones here in Skyrim especially, were large and terrifying. Horrid creatures indeed.

    A few moments later a redguard man appeared, appearing weary and recently woken, taking a seat at an empty table and setting down his mug of drink, broaching open a book titled 'Thief Of Virtue'. A fine, twisted tale, If Jen's memory hadn't yet betrayed him. For the time being, he ignored the redguard, due to the Breton's questioning of their arrival, but would note him for later and commit his face to memory.

    As he'd done the others.

    Jen turned back to the Breton and nodded as he spoke once again, his left hands moving to brush his hair back softly as he spoke.

    "While Skyrim undoubtedly has many problems, both violent and 'civil', I cannot deny it has a rather bountiful supply of game to hunt. Profitable too, i have to say, even in this time. Extraordinary what can survive in such strife, really. Though, I have to warn you Breton, if you are truly to make for Solitude, I'd advise caution."

    "Along with the rancid wildlife and primitive bandits, the rebels may also prove a dangerous threat, as I'm sure they're thirsty for any advantage they can take over the Imperials. And lately, I've heard rumor of their incursions quite close to the port-city. I understand they have reserve, however, even in the face of a foe they despise entirely."


    He gestured to the Dunmer. "You look a longways from home, Dunmer. I doubt you came to Skyrim for the mead, or the bards for that matter."
     
    Last edited:
    Thank you for the warning, but I am certain that even rebels would recognize my Breton – nor Imperial – nature. No matter how desperate they might be, I doubt they would attack a foreigner on sight. She paused, considering the dangers. She had been concerned about the combat experience of the bandits in Skyrim. Major combat styles varied from province to province, and she had not experienced the Nordic style. If she didn't know how they fight, how can she effectively defend herself? She waited until the Bosmer man had asked his question. “Pardon, but might any of you be able to tell me more about the bandits here?” She was more concerned about bandits than Stormcloaks. Wars in High Rock were perhaps the most brutal, and were always being fought, but rarely were citizens attacked by either side. Nor were they looked after, though, especially during skirmishes. Certainly the Nordic rebels would act similarly, or so she imagined. If not, she figured she would be in deep plops, but perhaps she would still be able to weasel out of it. Barbarians are too complex.


    (-_- Wow Lesli, really? As much as I can relate to her line of thought, she's still being a bit too carefree about the rebels. I'm as unconcerned as she is, but the fact is that you never know what'll happen in Skyrim.)
     

    Nocte Aeterna

    Sir Not-Appearing-in-This-Film
    Neleras, despite his work, was seldom one to speak up. He let the patrons have their conversation, idly nodding as he watched it unfold before him. Numerous explanations could be drawn from this behavior. For example, the ale might have been dulling his senses. Or, he was preoccupied with anticipation for his impending expedition to Bleak Falls the next day. Or, he simply just didn't care. But as far as his mind was concerned, there was no way of knowing.

    He was relieved of his inattention when the Bosmer/Altmer combo addressed him directly about his reasons behind coming to Skyrim.

    "You could say the same for virtually all of us here," the Dunmer said. "Though I've undoubtedly piqued your curiosity. I'm a scholar and an explorer, and I've come to Skyrim to study the vast array of Nordic tombs and Dwemer settlements. Nothing special. What about you?"

    He was awaiting a response when the female Breton then mentioned something about bandits. Neleras had received an earful from a passerby (likely a farmer, judging from his garb) that bandits had taken refuge in White River Watch, which was a tunnel that led to a spectacular view of the river that flowed near Whiterun (and by extension, the city's primary water source). Otherwise, he knew nothing. The Breton had also mentioned something about Solitude, thankfully in the opposite direction of the watch. Had the Dunmer's destination been in the general direction of Solitude, he may have offered her guidance on how to get there, but she seemed capable of handling herself. After all, he had his own trip to worry about.

    "Ask a Nord," Neleras replied tersely. The very notion of reasoning with these mead-swilling ruffians made his skin crawl, but if the Breton truly wished to make it to a far-flung city like Solitude, she needed reliable and accurate information, assuming that the Nords were capable of giving it. "As much as it pains me to say such a thing, they probably know this land more than we ever will. I've only been here for about thirty-six moon cycles myself. So, you might want to ask the innkeeper before you leave tomorr-."

    His response was cut short by a loud scream issuing from upstairs. Likely someone having a nightmare, but Neleras wasn't entirely sure. Regardless, poor sap.

    "What in Oblivion was that?"
     

    Gregor Moon Fang

    Champion of Azura
    As Dian'Mie was reading his book, he gave his ear to the conversation of the other patrons. Apparently they were talking about rumors heard from the locals about a dragon that attacked a place called Helgen. He assumed that it was some type of town. Being in Skyrim for only a couple of weeks made it difficult to know exactly where everything was supposed to be. Not that it bothered him too much. The fun part of adventure was discovering things on your own.

    The conversation made Dian'Mie go deep in thought. Do these "dragons" actually exist? The elders of his clan never told him of such creatures. A memory of Qiana came to his mind as she once told him that "the truly ignorant dismiss anything not personally experienced as being impossible." Though he's not sure if it was truth or just a story he admitted that it intrigued him quite a bit.

    Dian'Mie came out of his deep train of thought and overheard the topic change to bandits in Skyrim. When he was caught up, the Breton woman all of a sudden asked for tips on how to deal with bandits. Dian'Mie started laughing to himself, with the part of the book being amusing and to her question killing two birds with one stone. Skyrim bandits were such amateurs with their swordmanship that even the weakest of his clan could give them a run for their money.


    "Is that sword of yours simply for decoration?"
    Everyone turned their attention towards Dian'Mie, his attention still set towards his book. The conversation abruptly stopped as he felt the stares burning into his back. Dian'Mie wondered why everyone stopped talking for a moment before he suddenly realized that the thought he had was accidentally said out loud.

    He had no idea why but since he was younger his mouth would often get him in trouble, even though most of the time he didn't mean anything hostile by his words. He just had trouble wording his thoughts correctly. Knowing that it happened again, Dian'Mie turned around in his chair and looked at the Breton woman in the eye. He didn't see a reason to make an enemy off of something small. Hopefully she wasn't the type to hold a grudge. There was only one way to find out.


    "I apologize for my words. I didn't mean it that way. It's just that the bandits here have such amateur swordsmanship that anyone talented with a blade could fell them quite easily. It's not just Nords either. I also fought an Orc, a Khajiit and a couple of Imperials. I even encountered a Dunmer near Falkreath with his own band of thugs." Dian'Mie noticed the woman just staring at him, unable to identify her emotion. The apology didn't seem to be working. He knew that he had to try something else.

    "If I heard correctly you're looking to go to Solitude right? If you don't mind would you like some assistance? The roads aren't safe these days especially with this talk of "dragons" going about." Dian'Mie held out his hand. I am Dian'Mie, warrior of the fabled Sun Fang Clan of Hammerfell.
     
    Thirty “moon cycles?” Who is this man? Before she could respond – likely to reword her previous statement to make it obvious that she was concerned about her ability to defend against Nordic combatants, not just bandits as they were in Cyrodiil – she was interrupted. “Is that sword of yours simply for decoration?” She swiveled her head towards the speaker, the Redguard man. He had a book on his lap, and his attention was wholly devoted to it. The others around her fell silent. He finally turned and looked Lesli straight in the eye. Caught by the direct contact, she stared right back at him. She wasn't too bothered by his words. She was still novice and relatively uncomfortable with the Cyrodiilic sword in a Nordic land. She couldn't think of how to respond, so she simply stood there watching him and listened as he explained himself.


    I apologize for my words,” the Redguard told her. “I didn't mean it that way. It's just that the bandits here have such amateur swordmanship-” Oh, really? Still, she needed to have some sense of the generic Nordic combat style. She had never fought against a Nord in her life, much as her kin at home might think otherwise. “-that anyone talented with a blade could fell them quite easily. It's not just Nords, either.” Great. “I also fougth an Orc, a Khajiit and a couple of Imperials.” Now I can get slaughtered by multiple races. She felt slightly relieved at the mention of Imperials, though. She knew how they fought, and so she had the upper hand when it comes to Imperial bandits. The same went for Orcs: she had learned of the Orcish combat styles in High Rock. Although they still frightened her, she had found that evasive maneuvers were not usually enough – one had to hit lightly and run hard. She could handle that. She had never fought a Khajiit - “I even encountered a Dumner near Falkreath with his own band of thugs.” - or a Dumner, who surely had far more combat experience than she would. She figured, now, that it would take personal experience to understand these styles. She would have to work it out on her own for the most part. The idea of entering combat nearly unprepared with a sword, however, made her uneasy.


    The Redguard was still watching her. Lesli turned her head to look at him, hundreds of thoughts passing through her mind. She forced them down to a low murmur. “If I heard correctly, you're looking to go to Solitude right?” Her eyes hardened, but she nodded. She must pay more attention from now on. “If you don't mind would you like some assistance? The roads aren't safe these days, especially with this talk of 'dragons' going about.” Assistance would be welcome, especially since this man seemed to know what he was doing. Plus, he was a Redguard – talented with weapons like no other race naturally could be without as many years of practice. Not a bad man to travel with, it seemed. “I am Dian-Mie, warrior of the fabled Sun Fang Clan of Hammerfell.” He held his hand out to her.


    Lesli looked at him for a few seconds. Something in her eyes seemed to warm. She held out her own hand and shook. “I'm Lesli Wallace, from High Rock. I've recently traveled here across the border, from Cyrodiil. I'd appreciate your company and assistance.” She paused, mulling something over in her head for several seconds as she withdrew her hand from his. “I nearly traveled to Hammerfell not too long ago, but the border guard said something about bandits and rebellion.” Perhaps it was a good thing she had come to Skyrim and not Hammerfell, then. She would have to decide upon her thoughts regarding that later when they were at Solitude. "You're kind to offer assistance. I hope I'm not taking you away from anything of importance." She did not know what this man did for a profession. Perhaps he was a pilgrim of sorts. She didn't want to distract him from his own goals in Skyrim, whatever they might be, even if he might be aiding her to fulfill her own goal.
     

    Gregor Moon Fang

    Champion of Azura
    "You're kind to offer assistance. I hope I'm not taking you away from anything of importance." Dian'Mie gave her a look of confidence and shook his head.

    "Not at all. If anything you're helping me out by learning more about Skyrim. Until a couple weeks ago I have never even been outside of Hammerfell." This seemed to surprise her as she looked at Dian'Mie with a look of shock. Was it really that surprising that not all Redguards traveled the continent on a regular basis? Before he could put more thought into it a loud grumbling sound freed itself from the contents of Dian'Mie's stomach. I guess I forgot to eat today. Dian'Mie thought to himself.

    He closed the book he finished reading and set it on the table before standing up and heading to the kitchen. Upon entering the kitchen, he looked around for any ingredients available to him. He found some venison, some leeks and carrots. Seeing the ingredients gave him the idea of cooking some Crown Stew, a specialty in the City of Gilane. In the middle of preparing the food, Dian'Mie noticed a..distinct odor coming from somewhere in the room. He closed his eyes and cleared his head like he was taught by his mother to focus on his goal: the source of the odor. After sniffing for a few moments he found it. The venison wasn't fresh and on the verge of rotting.
    I can't believe I almost ate this!

    "Miss Hulda! Where do they sell meat in this city?
    Hulda was silent for a moment before clearing her throat to speak.

    "I'm afraid that the meat vendor is closed right now. You'll have to make do with what's in there." Dian'Mie looked back at the venison in front of him and put a look of disgust on his face. He knew that if he used this meat he would get sick for sure and seeing as how it's been years since he last fell ill he was not willing to take that chance. Dian'Mie put the meat back where he found it and went up the stairs to his (technically Saadia's) room. Remembering that she was still asleep he slowly opened the door as to not wake her. When the door was fully open, he tiptoed over to the square table and collected his armor and swords and crept back out of the room before closing the door. Lucky for him Saadia was fast asleep. After how he reacted when someone when into his room he did not want to find out how she would react.

    After carefully putting on his armor and cloak and fasting his weapons in place Dian'Mie walked down the steps and back out to the tavern where Hulda watched him with curiosity.

    "Might I know where you're going this late in the night?" Hulda asked directly. Dian'Mie thought of his words carefully for a moment before answering.

    "Your meat is spoiled and the meat vendor is closed. If I'm gonna eat tonight, I'll have to get it fresh."

    "Now? But you can hardly see anything out there right now." Dian'Mie took out a magicka potion from his pack and drunk it down in one gulp before holding out his hand. After a few moments of struggle he was able to get a white light enveloped around his hand. When he cast the spell a few blinks of the eyes made the room look much brighter. So this is the Night Eye spell. I'll have to thank Qiana when I get back home. Hulda watched what Dian'Mie did and looked at him with a mix of amazement and scorn. He forgot that Nords aren't exactly accepting of magic regardless of its type. Seeing as how it wasn't something that was important to him and ignored her stares as he walked over to the door and pulled it open, causing a rush of cold air to caress his face.

    "I think I'll be alright Miss Hulda. I won't be long." With that Dian'Mie stepped into the streets as the doors cloaked his presence from the other patrons.
     

    Recent chat visitors

    Latest posts

Top