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    Balomew

    Active Member
    Recruiting mature, active and experienced roleplayers. Welcome to the first chapter of many to come. I champion quality over quantity. If you need to leave this thread then please let us know and we will take care of it for you.
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    I apologize in advance for any irritations my preferred font size may cause you. If it is a significant issue in the future, I will change it.
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    Khamundar
    Whiterun Hold, 11th of Sun's Height 4E 201

    The Suthay-raht woman had never seen the plain gate from the other side. She had seen it from outside with its plain oak panels and rusted iron hinges. She had stood before its unimpressive worksmanship, guards standing on either side like gargoyles with ugly glares and angular faces. As a Khajiit, she could only see the plain gate from this plain view, and she was certain that it must be just as plain on the other side. And although she was as unique a Khajiit can be, no Khajiit could see what the citizens saw without explicit permission.

    But a Khajiit could join the guards on their sentry wall. A middle-aged Khajiit woman sat atop the primitive stone battlements. The sun highlighted russet tones in her fur and set the pattern blazing, glimmering like frost when she moved. There was a slight bite to the remarkably warm air, as if even summertime had not entirely shaken off the winter chill.

    At the gate, she could faintly hear the guards gossiping over the latest news. Any scrap of news she could learn of was like gold to Khamundar. She rose to her feet, pardoned herself when coming face-to-face with a guard, and walked down the battlements towards the guards. It was near impossible for a Khajiit of her color to be stealthy in this weather at this time of day. She overheard a few sentences before the guards noticed her presence. This time, they continued their conversation.

    "I can't believe what Irileth said. How can Helgen be gone just like that? My cousin lived there, made the finest mead that's ever graced my lips.." the guard on her lefthand side reminisced.
    "Yes, you're very fond of bragging about that. What bothers me is the bit about a dragon. They've been dead for a long time." The guard on the right wondered. He notices Khamundar but continues talking to the other guard. "Irileth must have been drunk, but you saw her face. Dead serious she was, all grim-faced and furrow-browed."
    "Did you hear what Jon hear?"
    the lefthand guard asked. He didn't wait for a response. "Word is that they found Ulfric Stormcloak and were trying to execute him before the dragon attacked."
    "That's mammoth piss,"
    the other guard responded. "Ulfric's stayed all nice and cosied-up in that frozen palace of his in Windhelm."

    "So why would the Jarl of Windhelm and leader of the Stormcloak rebellion venture south toward the Imperial border?" Thank the gods this one crossed the border when she did, Khamundar thought. Both guards peered at her. Their faces were somewhat familiar; she must have met them before. "One has to wonder," she added. They watched her but did not respond, likely as confused as she was. "Good day, gentlemen," Khamundar told them, turning around and walking back to her unestablished campsite. She felt the guardsmen's eyes on her back and shuffling as they dutifully returned to their post.
     
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    Nocte Aeterna

    Sir Not-Appearing-in-This-Film
    “I’m telling you, I don’t have it right now!”

    “We had an agreement, Lengeir. You acted on behalf of the guard captain and hired me to take care of that bear den because you were too scared. So I made a few fur coats then went my merry way. Now it’s high time that you fork over your end of the bargain. Pay up.”

    The diminutive-by-Nordic-standards man had his right hand outstretched, his fingers twitching with the familiar sense of anticipation associated with making coin. But said fingers would have to resort to convulsing for a while; the guard who had hired Orvar Swift-Sole was flat-out broke, and the irate mercenary was on the verge of being swindled.

    "Look, give me three days! Three days, I ask you!" Lengeir pleaded, his voice cracking with unease. "My payroll comes in two, and I'll track you down at the Bannered Mare and pay you every septim, I promise!"

    Orvar squinted, as he usually did when he felt like a client was stiffing him. He knew the sensation and warning signs all too well. "Fine. But three days, and three days only. If I find that you're shortchanging me, I have other ways of getting what I want. Understood?"

    "Y-yes sir," the guard called Lengeir squeaked. "I'll just take my leave now... dear, oh dear..."

    As guard went off towards the city gates, Orvar followed his path, albeit slower and much further behind. He sighed as the familiar sight of Whiterun washed over his pupils like the lathering agent extracted from a purple mountain flower; it stung initially, but felt refreshing afterward. He was vividly reminded of a poignant time in his life; his tenure in the Companions, based about a kilometer north within the actual city walls, in an ancient mead hall called Jorrvaskr.

    Well, I suppose Farkas might miss me... he mused to himself as he rounded the sentry wall's first corner. Bastard's mind is duller than a butter knife, but I'll be damned if that man can't fight.

    One more hill to clear, and the city gates would be meters away, and by extension, a generous pint. However, something to his lefthand side diverted both Orvar's line of sight and thought process alike; a cat-looking creature, nearly as tall as he. It stood upright and wore clothing; undoubtedly, one of the Khajiit from the southerly nation of Elsweyr. The feline was sitting alone by an extinguished campfire, apparently lost in thought.

    Well, three days is three days, the Nord reasoned. She definitely doesn't look like the usual lick-spittles that come through here.

    "It isn't often that you see a lone Khajiit around these parts," Orvar began, approaching the makeshift campsite in earnest. "I usually see your kind traveling with the caravans. What brings you here? You trying to get into the city or something?"

    Orvar took a step back bracingly, hoping that his tone wasn't entirely hostile. Then an idea came over him, one born of impulse; surely a Khajiit would have a fair bit of coin. He did bore no ill intention, though the Khajiit had every right to be skeptical of a Nord. "I could probably help you with that, if so."
     

    Balomew

    Active Member
    Khamundar
    Whiterun Hold, 11th of Sun's Height 4E 201
    In Elsweyr, Khamundar had often been belittled by other youths for her reclusive nature. She had found that this behavior stood out less elsewhere. Most citizens in Skyrim left her and her kin alone in the fear that they would walk away robbed. It was certainly an usual case, then, when she heard unfamiliar footfalls nearing her campsite.

    She raised her head and got a good look at the approaching stranger. He was a dwarf to people in these parts, with bulk and beard that could boast of Nordic origin. He was an oddity indeed.

    "It isn't often that you get to see a lone Khajiit around these parts," he began. "I usually see your kind travelling with the caravans." She was certain that Ri'saad was eavesdropping on their conversation in that sly way that befits a Khajiit roamer. "What brings you here? You trying to get into the city or something?" He took a small step back. His eyes glimmered as the sun passed its peak. "I could probably help you with that, if so."

    "This one is here for work, strange man." She watched him with a slight interest. She could operate as she already was without issue, but if she could get into the city, she could make connections, and that could mean all the difference. She was not content with being a mercenary for the rest of her life but, until she could find another way of life, she would have no choice in the matter. "This one's name is Khamundar," she said, rising to her feet. "What does this one call itself?"
     

    Nocte Aeterna

    Sir Not-Appearing-in-This-Film
    Well, she isn't wrong about the "strange man" part.

    The female Khajiit spoke with a typical Elsweyr dialect, which Orvar seemed to know quite well; he had met a fair deal of the astute feline folk in his time. Of course, the farthest that he had travelled to for now was Bruma, a primarily Nordic city nestled within the spine of the Jerall Mountains. The vast range, dotted with peaks that seemed to reflect the morning light in such a way that they appeared glassy, created a natural border between Cyrodiil and Skyrim, and travellers looking to gain entry into either country would be subjected to a series of questions and subsequently searched for any contraband items, such as skooma or illegal weaponry.

    "I'm Orvar. Orvar Swift-Sole, as I'm often called," the stout Nord began. "Just a passing warrior, really. Don't much care for these political conflicts. And now this talk of dragons..." He raised his eyebrows ever so slightly as the Khajiit drew herself to full height, meeting her inquisitive gaze with his own. "Ah, whatever. Most rumors are complete horker dung. Anyway, when most folk say they're 'here for work', it usually means they're either a sellsword or a merchant. So, Khamundar, which one are you?"

    Though still unsure of himself, Orvar felt himself giving her a slight nod, his trademark smirk creasing his cheeks once again.
     

    Balomew

    Active Member
    Khamundar
    Whiterun Hold, 11th of Sun's Height 4E 201
    Khamundar's eyes shone like twin pools of ice. "This one prefers the term 'hireling.' Bad blood is spilt for good coin. It is a temporary job. Why does it matter to Orvar Swift-Sole? This one cannot be of much interest. Come, sit with me." She resumed her seat next to the extinguished campfire. "Why does this one take an interest in Khamunar where others have passed her without notice?"
     

    Nocte Aeterna

    Sir Not-Appearing-in-This-Film
    "Hireling. My mistake," the Nord conceded.

    He took a seat at Khamundar's side, the ashen fire fit matching the skin hue of a Dunmer he had brawled with in a tavern several weeks ago. The elf had trouble with holding his liquor, and though he had managed to land a few quality punches, he was ultimately no match for Swift-Sole, and the latter knocked the Morrowind native out as if he were a hastily extinguished candle. The image prompted another smirk to spread across Orvar's face.

    "You tend to notice when things look out of place," Orvar began, hoping that his previous words weren't too hasty. "I've never seen a Khajiit travel alone before, but I figured you were a hireling of some sort. I'm one of those too, though I prefer the term mercenary. Or sellsword. Or sellaxe or sellbow, since I don't use swor- you get the idea. I pick up jobs, I ask for coin, and I go my merry way. That guard you may have seen running up the steps to the city just now? Bastards owes me three hundred septims because I did a job that he was ordered to do originally through the city guard. He's a coward, so he hired me to take care of it. Took hardly any effort on my part, but he hasn't got my money ready yet. So, as you probably might have guessed, this milk-drinker might be trying to shortchange me. And I generally consider myself a pretty fair guy, but if there's one thing I consider dishonorable among clients, it's when they're being a damn conniver."

    Orvar sighed, the midday sun beating upon his leather-bound back. "I don't know why I told you all that. You could probably tell I don't really have normal conversations," he noted dryly. "When I'm not talking about coin or mead, I'm fighting. Typical Nord, I know."
     

    Balomew

    Active Member
    Kamundar
    Whiterun Hold, 11th of Sun's Height 4E 201
    "This one disagrees." Khamundar met Orvar's eyes as she spoke to him, a courtesy that she had been taught in youth. "This one is not certain what a typical Nord is, but she is certain that this one is not that stereotype. Your thief would be spurned, were this Elsweyr." Her lips stretched into a smile. "300 septims for an easy job supposedly handed down by the guard? This one has been swindled. This one did not come here for coin, did he?"
     

    Nocte Aeterna

    Sir Not-Appearing-in-This-Film
    Orvar sighed. An astute woman, she was. "Not entirely for coin, though I want those septims once I leave. I... have connections here. Whiterun is a place of memories for me." His smirk turned into a full-fledged grin. "And good drink. We Nords love our ale."

    His voice trailed off, realizing that he probably shouldn't dwell on the negatives. "Personally, I don't think it's fair that my kinsmen don't allow outsiders such as Khajiit into the city. We were all outsiders at some point in time."
     

    Balomew

    Active Member
    Khamundar
    Whiterun Hold, 11th of Sun's Height 4E 201
    "Nonsense," Khamundar replied. "A native is welcomed in his homeland wherever there he roams. Nords are suspicious of foreigners. My kin are believed to be thieves, smugglers and skooma addicts. The truth is less glamorous. Khamundar does not mind this, although it makes for boring casual conversation." She rose to her feet and picked up a thick roll of linen that had been set beside the campfire. Ri'saad had kept her campsite untouched. "This one needs to prepare for the evening."
     

    Nocte Aeterna

    Sir Not-Appearing-in-This-Film
    Orvar stood up, taking this gesture as an invitation for dismissal. "Guess I best be off, then. Before the Bannered Mare gets filled up."

    The Nord closed his eyes, the familiar image of himself nursing a cold Honningbrew Mead beside the den's cozy fire pit occupying his imagination. He took a few steps forward, raising an arm in the process.
     

    Nocte Aeterna

    Sir Not-Appearing-in-This-Film
    OOC: (Up to you. The evening might be interesting. Perhaps a brawl could break out that ends up outside? I feel like it'd have to be a pretty large assault to qualify though - the city would be pretty large assuming the video game version is to scale.)
     

    Balomew

    Active Member
    OOC
    You're right, it would have to be quite a significant brawl in order to end up outside. If a man caused enough trouble or became too drunk, then perhaps he would end up in the stables outside of the city. Do you have any ideas? If not, then we'll skip to the morning and assume that it was a .. "normal" night in Whiterun. Let me know what you think. It's always good to double-check - who knows what we might miss out on.
     

    Nocte Aeterna

    Sir Not-Appearing-in-This-Film
    OOC: (Might as well skip to the morning. I prefer to minimize OOC posts whenever possible. There's also the question of Fellow joining us - I believe he accepted the invitation?)
     

    fellowknight

    The Devil In The Details
    (OOC: Indeed I did :D I'm working on a post now, but it's in the evening so we might have to stick around. It's interesting, trust me )
     

    fellowknight

    The Devil In The Details
    Whiterun bustled under a torrid, gleaming midday sun that left backs sweaty, brows furrowed, and tongues parched, all in a day's work. The Bannered Mare soon became a brimming host to dozens of patrons seeking to either escape the heat or their problems with a cool ale and a warm bed. Windows had been lifted and doors propped open in an attempt to circulate the rather stuffy breeze and bring in cooler air. One of the many days Whiterun wished it had snow, rain, or at least a few trees.

    For those with imminent business and pressing journeys ahead, shelter nor mead was an option, so the Marketplace provided an excellent and convenient stop for common-folk, mercenaries, and travelers alike to restock and get going back on their way. Merchants bellowed their pitches, fingers twitching and brows sweating, hoping to attract business or at least a little attention. To and fro bodies came and left, a gyrating chaos, thick of coin and bitter shoves, all in the heat and all in a hurry.

    Such a chaos, one man, an Imperial fellow, tripped backwards by the heel of his own boot and landed plum on his rear, with a hard thud! and the usual oof! On impact, the man's rather plump coin purse bursted and sprayed the cobblestone with little golden chips. The Imperial man cursed to himself, out loud, not only at losing his coin (that was now being kicked about and swept up be every passerby) but also for ruining his fine velvet attire. It was a ruby-red tunic with gold trimmings, his trousers being a polar opposite of tortoise-green and sea-weed blue stockings with midnighter shoes.

    Baroth peered over his shoulder at the commotion and brushed away a lock of his messy dirty blonde hair, watching as the crazed Imperial fumbled and crawled under the stampede of feet, scraping together what gold pieces he could grab. Baroth never could figure out why it seemed every Imperial had at least Ninety plus gold on their person at all times, and end up confused and frustrated when they actually get mugged or robbed.

    Most would blame it on the Khajit outside and within the cities, likely suspects in such a crime, as society drove them to such a point. Now it was their habit, their dirty little secret, and they were damn good at it. But the truth was, anyone, given enough practice, could become a skilled thief. Gifted, even. Nord thieves were typically uncommon but existent; the infamous Thieves Guild being example A. And one had to have some good luck bargaining with them.

    Either way, Baroth inwardly admitted, they could store their gold in less typical places, or just leave it at home altogether. Boy, do I miss the Imperial City.

    With a reluctant sigh and a gesture of "goodbye" to the merchant, Baroth snaked his way through the crowd, wool brown cloak flapping tenderly behind him. Before he could reach the lad, however, his eye caught movement in his left peripheral: a figure's hand snatched a jewelry box off a merchant's stall and untied a coin purse from a curious Breton's wait, then vanished into the thick of the crowd.

    In the few moments it took for him to turn and leave, Baroth had caught a glance of him; short braided hair, patchy beard, strong jawline, boisterous chin. A Nord? Maybe a Breton? Baroth scanned the crowd, trying to match memory to faces, but got nothing. If he'd stolen something like that, he'd be making for the gate... There! A few meters ahead of him, trotting towards the gate.

    He groaned and yanked his cloak loose, tossing it down to the Imperial man, who caught it, bewildered.

    "Hold this!" Baroth offered spontaneously, making to move before adding. "I'll be back in a second." And pushed through the crowds of varied faces and expressions.

    It wasn't too long of a jaunt, and he was sure the thief hadn't heard or noticed him, but he wanted to see how far the man got or it this was for someone else. The man glanced back and Baroths eyes wondered elsewhere, to avoid detection. He spotted a guard and gave a warm wave, to which the guard nodded in return. He set his eyes forward again and spotted two other men ahead of him, on either side of the path, lying in wait. A group operation. Definitely a coincidence.

    Amatuers.. An child would be more subtle..

    And surely as if on cue, when the thief passed them and neared the gate, they pushed off and followed after him, one behind the other. Baroth was able to catch them just as they reached the main gate, calling them out.

    "You know the saying, one man's trash is another man's treasure? Well, you taking another man's treasure makes all of you trash. Trash that belongs in Whiterun's dungeon."

    They whirled around simultaneously, confusion and guilt getting the better of them. The guards on either side of the gate also took attention to the mater and rested their hands on the hilts of their swords. The thief even raised a brow, glancing between his brothers, criticizing them silently. Goddamn idiots, told them to look before they went all happy feet on me..

    "Now, are we gonna to walk down there together or am I dragging you all on your asses over these hot-ass stones? Either way, you're sleeping on the floor tonight."

    A pause. The Nord licked his lips and inclined his head, as if Baroth could hear his exact thoughts. Sonofabitch..

    Unexpectedly, the two former brothers produced iron daggers from their robes and shanked the two guards in their ribs multiple times as the thief pressed back against the gate, heaving it open.

    Once Baroth saw the glint of metal in their robes, he shot forward like an arrow, surprising even with his weight.

    "NOOOO!!" He screamed, extending his arms outward in hooks to catch the brothers before they even raised their blades.

    In a heap, four men flew out of Whiterun's main gate and rolled down the path a ways before they stopped. The guards nearly soiled themselves at the occurrence and watched as the men wrestled before one of them stood, bloody dagger in hand. They saw red, and as such, drew their blades concurrently, both singing the same tune.

    Baroth stood not a moment later, head smashing into the Nordsman's chin, stunning him long enough to get ahold of his collar and swing him into his siblings. The guards instantly recognized him and moved to assist. He held up a hand to them, demanding they turn back.

    "I got this! Hanson and Jorvir are badly injured, so help them to Dragonsreach! Go!"

    They nodded, if lingering only for a moment, before sheathing their blades and turning back to do so. Baroth faced the men as they scram get up, and he let them, fists clenched as they charged him.

    "Come on, then!"

    In the span of a few seconds, the maniacs became good friends with the ground, one clenching his throat and gasping for breath, the other curled up in a ball, paralyzed with throbbing pain. In an attempt at what Baroth guessed was an escape, the braided thief threw the jewelry box right in Baroth's face and made a break for it down hill. He made it to the wall, near two other people, before he yelped and fell forward, dagger impaling his lower thigh, right below a butt-cheek.

    A few moments later, a group of guards emerged from Whiterun, swords drawn, before they realized they didn't need them. Baroth gestured to the two men at his feet, and the third across the way.

    "Put these psychos where they belong, please." He added, not forgetting his manners. They were late, but at least they were here, and that's all Baroth could ask for.

    He took a step back and let them do them round up the lot, hoping they'd go away for a very long time. It still got him how they could just turn on the guards like that.. He turned and faced the high-risen sun, closing his eyes as the cool breeze and warm sunlight washed over him. A distinct feeling he always enjoyed basking in.

    "Where's that day you promised, Baroth, with no bullpl*ps?.." He mumbled, more to himself than anything.
     

    fellowknight

    The Devil In The Details
    (OOC: Alrighty then! Rather long post, I know, but I got an idea and went with it. His CC, in my signature below, is in the process of being revised but it's still read-worthy, so read on! Glad to be here and RPing with both ye devils again :p Lemme know if anything needs to changed and i'll get right on it)
     

    Balomew

    Active Member
    Khamundar
    Whiterun Hold, 11th of Sun's Height 4E 201
    Khamundar was crouched next to a solitary unlit campfire, a tent propped up at her back. Although it had been only a few dozen minutes since she said goodbye to the stunted Nord, she found herself replaying the conversation in her mind. Upon hearing commotion up the hill, however, her head rose, and then her body also. She set the tinder box next to the campfire and walked the several paces to the caravan tents.

    "Did this one hear the commotion up the hill?" Ri'saad asked her as she neared. Despite his age, his ears were as youthful as an adolescents. He had a talent for finding gossip and news of his own accord, not just from customers but from outside the city. Khamundar shared in his interest of secrets but not in his trade. The two complimented each other.
    "This one did. This one will check on the guard," she responded.
    Ri'saad raised an eyebrow. "Be careful, Khamundar. Remember that men are not fond of our kind."


    Khamundar offered Ri'saad an encouraging nod of her head and headed up the stone path to the Whiterun gate, over the little bridge under which a small stream gathered into a pool out of sight. She headed around the curve to the base of the drawbridge.
     

    Nocte Aeterna

    Sir Not-Appearing-in-This-Film
    (OOC: Let me know if the following is acceptable - I did a few minor alterations in an attempt to push the scenario a little further forward and in order to give Orvar a fair entrance. I'm more than willing to make changes if need be!)

    Commotion. It arose after a quarter-hour passed since the conversation had taken place, while Orvar was navigating the familiar cobblestone path that led back to Whiterun's great oaken gates. About half a furlong away, however, the nature of the aforementioned commotion became apparent, and the diminutive Nord froze instinctively.

    A brawl? Orvar thought, his mind suddenly churning, the sensation not much unlike a set of newly greased gears on an elaborate Dwemer contraption. And they didn't think to invite me...

    Four men of various sizes were rolling around on and off the stone-lined walk, flinging dirt and debris into the air. From a far glance, it looked like an elaborate mating display, feralization and all, except that the men were fully clothed, not a single one of them actually bore the inclination, and the whole swords being drawn and blood being shed fiasco. It could at least be said with confidence that both had a tendency to be rather messy.

    Of course, that didn't stop the visual from temporarily amusing Orvar. The notion of actually joining the brawl briefly flickered into his mind, but like any poorly-stoked hearth fire, the thought was snuffed out as quickly as it was ignited. Besides, it was best to remain within the natural shadow, which the midday sun was doing a remarkable job of casting via the tall stone walls that constituted Whiterun's battlements.

    A few moments passed, and the fracas began to die down; one miscreant fell, followed by one guard. The latter was closest to Orvar, and he appeared to be clutching his side, his fingers caked in wet crimson. Definitely a stab wound. But the second offender, already limping from a stab wound to the thigh, actually appeared to be escaping, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. He was surprisingly quick despite his injuries, which meant that his dominant side had not been struck. The wanted man was probably making a beeline for the bottom of the hill, back near Khamundar's makeshift campsite.

    Feeling a sudden sense of urgency as the escapee hauled ass, Orvar knew that his passiveness was being vexed beyond its limits. Crouching, the Nord transitioned his body weight to the balls of his feet, then gradually transferred the focal point of balance to his heels. Several seconds later, as the man passed by, Orvar sprang into action - quite literally. He shot out from his hiding spot with a sliding kick, catching the man in the left shin with his outstretched foot. The thief screamed as he lost balance and toppled a short way down the path, out of control, before finally smashing his head into a nearby wall. Concussed, but more importantly, no longer a threat.

    With a sneer of satisfaction, Orvar rose to his feet to alert the remaining guards of the successful apprehension. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a vial of bright red liquid; a healing potion of his own recipe. Returning to the injured guard, he offered it, the fallen kinsman losing blood rapidly.

    "Here. Take this," he directed, assisting the guard to a sitting position and unstoppering the vial. "And sorry about the little mess."
     

    fellowknight

    The Devil In The Details
    "Oi! We 'ot a runner! After 'im!"

    Baroth's eyes snapped open and his head jerked to the side, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion as the bleeding thief got up and gunned it down the pathway, guards in pursuit! And gods was he going fast, even with a dagger staked in his thigh! Oh wait.. It looked like he'd yanked it free, leaving a disastrous mess of crimson and wobbly legs in his escape. A ways behind the getaway, one of the guardsmen, Jorlin, had been stabbed quite severely in his side and cramped up on the stone, blood oozing profusely.

    Baroth huffed out and shifted in that direction, muttering bitterly to himself. "Should've nailed him in the back.."

    Baroth froze in his tracks a moment later.

    Before he even reached the fallen guard, however, a man slid out of a hiding spot, apparently in wait of the escapee, and slide-kicked the fool off balance. He tumbled a ways down the path before smashing into a wall, head first, and crumpled loincloth. A slide-kick.. How interesting..

    One hell of a bruise, probably a skull-fracture, fifteen stiches, and disorientation from blood loss is what the poor lad would wake up to. Safe to say, he wouldn't be going anywhere for a good while.

    ...​

    "S'fine.. Happens more than...you might guess.. Been like this since the news from Helgen..broke out.." Jorlin replied, raising the vial shakily to his lips, chugging every morsel of the precious substance.

    ...​

    The man to thank, now in full view, a Nord in leather-bound armor, kneeled at the side of the wounded guardsman, assisting him into a sitting position, and offered a healing potion. He took it heartily and sighed aloud with relief as the bleeding slowed and the stab wounds began to close on their own. Baroth stepped aside as the pursuing guards stalked up on the unconscious heap of a man, and carried him off to the dungeons, each arm held by a guard, his feet dragging behind him.

    Baroth turned and knelt at Jorlin's side, a hand on his shoulder. He was shaking a little and had paled slightly, both due to shock and blood loss, though the potion would take care of that in time depending on its potency.

    "Hey Jo, it's Baroth. Do you think you can walk?" The guard shook his helmeted head, hand still clutching his side wound.

    "Gonna need a mi..minute.."

    Baroth nodded and patted his shoulder.

    "That's fine, take your time. Worst thing you can do at this point is try to be billy badass, right?" He looked at the escapee's apprehender and extended a hand, nodding a "thanks" to him.

    "Baroth Hermingfel." He pointed, with the other hand, at the site the thief was knocked off balance. "That's one hell of a kick, thanks for using it."
     

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