Private The World of Worms (18+)

The Phantom · May 25, 2013

The World of Worms

Everyone knows the story. Or I suppose now I should say knew the story of the Dragonborn. How he rose to fulfil his destiny and slew the dragon-god Alduin. Just as the Elder Scrolls foretold. Upon his return the mighty warrior began seeking a new purpose. He was approached by a strange man one day. Something seemed wrong about him. A bluish tint seemed to glow on his body and his speech was slurred. Nevertheless the hero listened and the man told him of a legend. That if three powerful artefacts were brought together in a place called "Echo Cave" be would be granted unimaginable power.

The artefacts were known as: the Necromancer's amulet, Bloodworm Helm and the Staff of Worms. Intrigued the Dragonborn obtained the items and travelled to Cyrodiil in search of the cave. Upon its discovery he took note of the various torn, moth eaten banners. Corpses littered the cave despite the fact he could tell they had been dead a long time. For once even the Dragonborn was unnerved yet he did not waver. The hero soon reached the inner sanctum and what was there, was nothing. Yet there was something not right about the nothing, almost like there should be; or at least was.

Un-phased by this the Dragonborn took out the artefacts and carefully laid them out across the cavern floor. From the corner rose the skeleton of a High Elf, it began to float to where the Dragonborn had laid out the artefacts. He stepped back, the Dragonborn killed skeletons with no problem, in fact they where the easiest things he had killed. But this one practically radiated power, for once the Dragonborn was scared! It stopped by the artefacts at which point the Helm flew onto its skull, the Amulet to the neck and as the Staff was grasped by the right hand the whole room lit up as the torches were lit. This revealed one thing. A banner, this one was unmanaged revealing its design. A skull but not just any skull, that of the Order of the Worm.

Horrified, the Dragonborn looked upon the skeleton as it began to grow back flesh in a disgusting reverse-decomposition. What was soon left was an elderly High Elf, his skin looked rotted, his long flowing hair was pure white and his eyes were a piercing orange. The first Lich and the most powerful Necromancer in history had returned.

Hopelessly the Dragonborn shouted "YOL TOR SHUUL" only for the Elf to cast a ward and block it. As it slowly approached the Dragonborn, the great hero saw no other option but to attack. He charged at him and slashed his left arm completely off, only to be met with a cold laugh as the limb grew back. Our legend began slashing repeatedly with all his might but to no avail. Soon all the corpses he had passed on the way came from behind and restrained him. All glowing with the same bluish tint. They restrained him as the Lich walked over and used his magic to force him to his knees. Raising the Staff of Worms high above his head he then plunged it down through the Dragonborn's chest.

The Dragonborn, slayer of Alduin had been killed. Knowing full well that a Dragons would return he trapped it in the nearby discarded colossal black soul gem. Using the power of the Staff he reanimated the Dragonborn, now glowing with the same bluish tint as the others.

Of course if you hadn't figured it out by now the bluish tint meant that they were undead. Also the High Elf Lich was Mannimarco, the first and most powerful lich in history. Thrice killed he is now back. For those of you who are unfamiliar I shall give a quick backstory.

Mannimarco was born approximately 1,400 years ago and at the age of 20 joined the Psijic Order where he became good friends with Vanus Galerion. Soon after though Mannimarco began to dabble in Necromancy so Galerion and the Psijics denounced him a traitor. Leaving them he founded the Order of the Worm, a cult of Necromancer's and his old friend went on to found the Mages Guild. His practices reached their epitome when he stored his soul in a chest known as a Phylactery. Becoming the first lich, replacing his blood with acid and his body becoming undead. Another note is that he could no longer cast the normal schools of magic, instead using Death Magic. This all culminated in a massive battle between Mages and Necromancers in which Mannimarco and Galerion killed each other along with 1000 others.

His soul lingered in his Phylactery and he made a deal with Molag Bal to restore him and began making deals with the Empire to raise their dead for the army. He began biding his time and soon began attacking the Mages Guild but was ultimately stopped and his plans halted. The Arch-Mage sacrificed himself into a colossal black soul gem to protect his star pupil from Mannimarco's magic. There was a battle which again marked the end of the Lich.

This time he made a bargain with Namira and Hermaeus Mora, they would revive him in return for the Dragonborn's soul. As you saw he was rather successful. Namira had furthered his powers giving his thralls an infectious bite and soon he dominated all of Tamriel with his undead. Now leaving only a few survivors left it is up to them to stop him and take back Tamriel.
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The Jester was in the middle of Whiterun when he heard a small noise. Well to be precise it was very loud screaming coming from the inn, but to him it was rather insignificant; he was quite used to screaming. Although something seemed different about this screaming, this wasn't "Stab stab" screaming this was... Something other.

So he decided to investigate the Bannered Mare and saw that one of the tenants was trying to eat the barmaid, Sadia. Finding this rather humorous he burst out laughing at the prospect and yelled "I don't suppose there's a price on the menu for that meal?" The Jester had had his fun, so he walked over to the man and pulled him away. Only to see his eyes where white and he glowed with a bluish tint. Upon realising he was undead the Jester pulled out his favourite ebony dagger and stabbed it through the eye "Problem Solved!"

He took a bow but that was when the barmaid got back up glowing with a bluish tint. Rolling his eyes the Jester stabbed her repeatedly until she finally turned to dust. For some reason he had worked up a thirst during the endeavour and shouted to the inn "Who have I got to kill to get a drink around here?" The innkeeper promptly handed him a bottle of wine which he accepted and drank in silence.

Then he decided to leave the inn and head to Dragonsreach to finish his contract. For the past few years he had been working as a freelance assassin after he was exiled from the Dark Brotherhood for being too extreme. The specific reason was when he beat his target to death with a metal pipe. Cut off his face, sent it to his wife gift wrapped and then burnt the corpse.

Upon exiting the inn he saw that in the brief time he was drinking and stabbing the barmaid most of Whiterun had been zombified. He muttered to himself "Well that escalated quickly..." Before charging the nearest zombie. The zombies appeared to either limp or be extremely sluggish, finding that both entertaining and useful he power-walked out the city believing his target was probably already dead, as was the client. Whenever one got in his way he just cut out it's legs and laughed as it tried to crawl after him.

Heading north towards the large house he had often seen, he found himself mumbling a song "Brynjolf's falmer blood elixir, always does the trick sir..." Little did he know that the house was in fact the now late Dragonborn's house so when he arrived he found it void of all life. The Jester decided that this would be a good place to hole up in due to the large amounts of food and the towers.

That was the Jesters first encounter with the undead, four months ago. By now the undead have practically taken over the whole of Tamriel and he had been living in that house most of the time. He got supplies either by hunting or visiting the remains if Whiterun.

One day he was out hunting when he came across a zombified hunter. The Jester jumped down from his tree onto the zombie, plunging his knife through its head. It appeared to have killed a deer but he stayed away from it. Only one bite was all it took to contaminate organic matter. Suddenly he heard something and what appeared to be a survivor emerged in the distance. The figure was too distant to make out

"Who are you? And will you be trouble? I hope not, it'd be such a shame to have to leave you without a smile... Or I could carve a smile on your face?!"

Writes-Many-Posts · May 26, 2013

Keyin bit the horn of his amulet of Stendarr while aiming with his crossbow at the undead horde that was trying to climb the wooden wall. It had been over a week since all the Dawnguard left had to stay cornered in a deserted Silver Hand fortress. The shot was triggered without much effort as usual, and another crossbow was at his side. Krev, mostly known as the Skinner, the only Silver Hand Keyin knew alive, was trying to get used to bows, as it could be risky to get close to the undead with a blade or axe. Durak put his massive hand on Keyin's shoulder. "Listen, Gunmar wants to talk to you..." Keyin fired one last bolt against a woman who was digging deep in the wooden wall with her nails before turning to the orc. "Fine, keep watch."

Inside the bunker that held only its trapdoor on the snow, where once the hunters of Hircine met their end, and now the living beings of Tamriel awaited theirs, Gunmar was just putting another axed gauntlet on a troll, which replied with a grunt. The nord looked at Keyin, and stood up, leaving the troll to explore the inside of the building. "There you are, lad." "Why did you call me?" Gunmar pointed at the small deposit they used to guard the supplies. "We will starve soon. We only have a few cabbages, two barrels of apples and two chunks of venison. One of us needs to go out there." Keyin glanced at the empty shelves and sweeped off some of their dust. "You want me to hunt and get some vegetables to the fort?" But Gunmar laughed. "Ha! That's not the main problem!" The large bulky nord now was moving to a pile of empty sacks behind the armored troll and dragged out of them one that was full. "These are our last bolts! If you don't get us ingots, wood and other supplies, soon we will be dealing with the undead with our fists." Keyin inspected the leather bag, finding only seven boxes of bolts. "Why me?" "I have seen how you take out undead. It's astonishing... Your dislike for them gives you a lot of skill! Plus, what better man to try riding my newest troll through masses of undead than Keyin?" The nord backed up from Gunmar. "I am not riding a troll... If you want, get your ass on that thing and ride all the way to Solitude, but don't expect me to get on such a creature..." Gunmar let out a smile. "Fine... Go on by your feet to all the settlements. Fight every single zombie by your bear paws and crossbow..." Those words had an impact on him. It was true that even with a troll, he had little chances. To avoid looking just-talk, Keying got on the troll without a word and tried to balance himself on it. The stench of the creature was easily the first change that he noticed. "Jerk..." He whispered to himself, looking angrily at the other nord, who had made him climb to the back of a troll.

After some steering and a few minutes practicing, the Mythic Hunter managed to order the troll to climb the ladder and get outside, followed by a smily Gunmar. Ingjar and Celann got ready to open the door whenever Keyin told them to. Krev stopped shooting to look at the ridiculous knight. "Keyin? What in Oblivion are you doing?" He refused to even reply. "Cover me while you can see me... I don't want to ride an undead troll, nor being an undead rider." Durak gave him a small satchel of bolts. "Malacath bless you, brother." The doors opened, he kicked the troll with his ankles, and the beast wildly sprinted between the undead, slashing occasionally some who got in the way. Keyin tried to aim at first, but the beast was moving too fast to even have a steady bullseye. So he began throwing punches with his bear made ratoons as the members of the Dawnguard made bolts rain upon the raging, screaming zombies. One of the shots flew right next to his face. "Krev! Aim at the fl*ffing undead! It's a troll! It's not hard to see!" The breton Silver Hand replied something, but it was too late. Keyin couldn't hear due to the distance the troll had run. One last mangled scrawny zombie was in the way, but before Keyin could execute it as he really wanted, the troll landed its paws on it and ripped it in half. "HA! I'm starting to like you!" The beast kept running through the snow as Keyin tried to get used to the jumps to aim with the crossbow, and thought about the city to go to first.

After some wandering and a few conflicts with undead wolves, Keyin decided to move to Whiterun. It was essential for resources. The stals had food, Warmaidden's should have ingots and weapons, and, most importantly, decent mead in the Mare. When he was half way to the city, a voice echoed in the forest. "Who are you? And will you be trouble? I hope not, it'd be such a shame to have to leave you without a smile... Or I could carve a smile on your face?!" Keyin could already tell that it was going to be one of those days... Pulling the reins of the troll, he commanded the beast. "Stop, troll!" No success. The beast was determined to keep moving. After a ridiculous fight for power between Keyin and the creature, which had been circling the man during the battle, Keyin admitted defeat. "It's useless... Keep rounding in this track, damn beast..." He turned to the weird jester who had spoken. "I am Keyin! If I am trouble, that depends on who you are, and WHAT sort of trouble YOU bring." Yes, he could already tell it was going to be one of those days. Trying to look serious on the beast he failed to control, he looked the imperial in his eyes, at least while the troll wasn't running behind him in the circle. "Now, who are you, and what trouble are you in?" None he'd bet. A man like that could have already revealed he had no friends thanks to his first words to Keyin.

Sid · May 27, 2013

"Day One-Hundred-And-Fifteen under the arch.
Nothing has changed up top. They're all still flesh eating bastards. Thinking about going back to the manor in Solitude. Found another survivor the other day. Said that there were supposed to be no zombies in Whiterun. Then he made a run for it, poor son-of-a-bitch, never stood a chance." Sapling tended to mutter to himself whilst writing his memoirs, he believed it kept him sane. He moved slowly towards the gates of Solitude, sticking to the shadows. However he did not think he could take one in a real fight. Soon the massive gates were staring down, the leather strap which held his claymore, Frost, in its scabbard was slung over his shoulder, cutting into the skin underneath his jacket.

He slowly pushed the huge gates, the hinges squealing defiantly. He snuck through the opening and into an alleyway, only to find an injured dog. Before he could creep away, the dog caught sight of him, and started barking. He hurried over to the, and upon seeing its mangled legs, he grimaced. He looked around, and saw a large rock, around the size of his own head, and picked it up. The dog, upon seeing this, and guessing Saplings intention, started whimpering, yet howling at once. Sapling raised the rock above his head, then brought it down on the dogs head, spraying his hands with blood. He did this again. And again. And again, and again and again. He started again towards his house, and upon seeing it, hurried.

He was confused, as he hadn't seen any zombies what so ever. Once he was inside he knelt down, knocking at the wooden floor, listening. Then he heard it, a hollow knock echoing in the floor. He got his hands on either side of the floor board, and lifted it up, to reveal a tough leather bag. He opened the bag up, to reveal a range of objects from a golden ring, to a diary bound in leather, to a fancy necklace with a ruby embedded in the middle. He picked this up, and slung the satchel over his left shoulder.

Upon exiting the house, he saw a crowd of zombies, inside the alley, feasting on the remains of the dog. He sprinted to the gates, almost tripping as he placed his foot in a pothole. He returned back to his camp, and prepared for a journey towards Whiterun.

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That was four days ago. Sapling was walking the wilderness, satchel over his right shoulder, travel bag on both. He was carrying Frost by its scabbard. The tough leather strap was wrapped around the scabbard. Looking around he saw the bones of a mammoth, clean of any flesh, with bite marks in the bone. "Poor sod," he muttered. He was walking when he heard a voice echo from the forest ahead "Who are you? And will you be trouble? I hope not, it'd be such a shame to have to leave you without a smile... Or I could carve a smile on your face?!" Sapling sighed at this.
"Its just going to be one of these days. I know of two survivors, one turned five minutes after meeting me, the other sounds insane." He rolled his eyes and set off in the direction of the voice.

The Phantom · May 30, 2013

The Jester was rather amused as the figure drew closer and found out that he was riding a troll. Albeit not very well. The rider appeared to have lost control over his troll. Seeing this the Jester burst out laughing only to laugh harder when the rider tried to give the impression he was in control

"I am The Jester! Don't bother asking for my real name, I'm not even sure I remember it..... I won't be trouble as long as you won't. Look I'll prove I won't. I'll help you regain control of your troll." Upon the last word he threw a dagger into the trolls middle eye, and then followed through with two more daggers to the other eyes. This caused the troll to flail uncontrollably in a rather humorous way, although he anticipated it wasn't as funny for the rider.

He turned his back to them, using the time to think through a plan. The Jester had deduced long ago that the apparent apocalypse was the cause of either a Necromancer, Daedric Lord or possibly a combination of the two. The Jester began to speak but this time his voice was dark "I propose we ally to try and stop the source of whatever has caused this apocalypse. You look like you might be a good ally but first..." Curiously the insanity returned to his voice once more "What is your name? And if you double cross and or refuse to join me then I will have to kill you! And leave you smiling..."
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A mer observed this conversation silently from the shadows. The mer, after hearing everything revealed himself to the two. However only enough so that his face was still hidden.
"I for one will ally with you. As much as this new world in a strange way preserves life, it is... Tainted. I also have a plan to find the source of the attacks, I will further elaborate if you both join me." On finishing speaking, the man stepped out of the shadows completely.

The mer was trained to peak physical condition and was obviously extremely strong. His armour was dark but had curious patterns which were filled with a strange green liquid. The mer's facial features were quite obviously High Elf, he had grey sideburns and his hair went backwards in a slightly receding style.
"Oh and one other thing. My name is Rälaghül, I don't expect you to have heard of me except perhaps in legends. However the legends are quite real."

Writes-Many-Posts · May 30, 2013

Keyin had fallen to the ground due to the death the Jester had caused. "Thanks a lot... That was my ride home..." On the top of the corpse's back, his enormous satchel lied empty, awaiting for the resources the Dawnguard had requested. Keyin grumpily picked it up and threw it to his behind, sticking it between his crossbow and his back. Before he could show the Jester his dislike about every single aspect of his, an Elf decided to show up. Rälaghül as he called himself... "Legends?" His scatered memory was being searched across every corner as he spoke, trying to find a Rälaghül. "Sorry... Never heard of ya..." Then he turned back to the Jester. Stendarr only knew what he could do if nobody laid eyes on him, and perhaps even He wouldn't know everything. "Weirdo..." He thought as the Jester's tone changed drastically. "With no delays... I am Keyin... Good manning crossbows, better fist fighter..." Keyin brandished his bear paws that were attached to his hands, detailing the silver carved claws which were designed especially foor undead and lycans. Ah the memories of shedding blood in the midnight... "I also hate undead, since today, I hate trolls." He looked at the large corpse. "As anyone normal would have figured out..." Then he was turned to the Jester, directing his words about normality to him. "I am not a troll rider and I am sided with the Dawnguard to have access to those... things." There was little he could tell more to fill the other two in. "If you know about the source of the undead, count me in to help you..." He had never been a man of riddles, and they would probably only count on him for fighting, but there was little need in revealing that so soon.

Humbungala · May 30, 2013

Morrigan packed up her belongings, only bringing the necessities. She rolled up her bed, packed a few herbs for any serious injuries, made sure her silver daggers were sharpened and her leather armour was in full condition. Morrigan climbed out of her hideout and stretched. The sun left an uncomfortable burn on her skin, and she pulled her hood up to shield her face from the sun's rays. She covered up the trap door, and walked in the direction of Riften. There better not be a horde. My luck has been lacking every time I've visited.

It was a while before Morrigan reached Riften's gates, but upon arrival, she wasn't disappointed. There were several survivors packing up a horse carriage and seemingly getting ready to depart. She kept herself hidden in the forest and observed. Two survivors wore full iron armour, save for the helm, and wielded 2 large iron claymores. Another was leather clad, a quiver strapped on his back and bow in his hand. His bow was drawn, searching for any incoming undead who could threaten their lives. The last three survivors were a woman, and old man, and a green boy, no older then fourteen. They all wore ragged torn clothing, but seemed to be healthy and well fed. They've been lucky. Nowhere can you find a large amount of supplies like this carriage. Seems like their luck is about to change.

Morrigan waited for a few moments, developing a plan of attack in her head. She pulled down her hood, unsheathed her daggers and hid them beneath her wrists. She ran out of the bushes, stumbling, "Help me please!" Her cry was filled with as much fake grief as she could muster, before she collapsed to the ground, facing away from the group. She laid there and pretended to be unconscious. She heard whispering among the armed mean, and heard a claymore unsheathe from one of the iron men's back. His footsteps drew near before they stopped by her head. She waited a few seconds as he bent over to check her out for danger. When her opportune moment presented itself, she leaped from the ground and exposed her dagger. Her dagger slid cleanly into the man's throat. She spun her other dagger and held it by the tip of the blade. She pushed the just-killed man to the ground, and threw her readied dagger at the bowman, piercing straight into his chest. The woman screamed and began to run with the old man, the green boy scrambling to find a weapon of his own. The other iron man closed in. He swung his claymore with force, but the slowness of it allowed Morrigan to duck below the attack and knock the man onto his back. She stabbed her dagger into his chest twice before she looked up and noticed the green boy holding the bow with an arrow drawn. His hands were trembling, his face filled with fear. Morrigan smiled, "Go ahead boy, shoot. Impress me." His eyes opened wide as he let go of the drawn arrow. It flew past Morrigan, and she ran towards the boy. He turned to run, but Morrigan already caught up and pinned him to the ground. She turned him onto his back and held him down. He struggled to get free and cried for help to the others that left. "Stop struggling, you're already dead." She plunged her teeth into his neck, drinking the fresh young life from him. His struggling stopped and a few moments later she finished her meal. Morrigan sat back, pleased with her thirst being quenched. Nothing's better then a youngling's blood. She rested for a few moments before she took whatever supplies she could carry from the carriage and released the horse from it's harness. She packed the supplies onto the horse's back and climbed on top. She kicked her heels into the horse and began her ride to Whiterun.

Sid · Jun 2, 2013

Sapling walked into the conversation of the three wanderers. He looked around, and caught sight of the dead troll, a feeling of nausea overcoming him "Is that a..." He didn't get to finish his sentence, as he doubled over, and retched, sick coming out and spraying the floor. "Sorry, its just..." And again was sick on the floor, "I'm not feeling quite right. Its been, uhh, oh gods, whats happening. Its been a while since I had a proper meal. Could I, well if its not to much over a problem, join your, uhh, fellowship? Guild? Companionship?" He asked meekly.

Felidae · Jun 2, 2013

Midday sunlight peeked through the thick canopy of leaves that concealed most of the countryside around Riften city, casting dappled shadows onto the ground below and creating an almost underwater-like effect amongst the brush. It had been the first warm day in what seemed like weeks, wasting no time in drying up the numerous lakes and streams caused by the torrential rain that had, over the course of the last few months, near drowned the rugged province. But for some, this wasn't a particularly good thing.
In a clearing not far from the city's main gate a lone individual traipsed wearily through the foliage, stopping now and again to adjust the large, bulging burlap sack flung over one shoulder. Her slight body was covered in snow-white fur, which was adorned with the intricate black patterns of a leopard while a cat-like tail swayed behind her, instantly distinguishing her as a Khajiit. Braided red hair flowed down the nape of her neck and behind her ears, which were in turn pierced with five small golden hoops; three on the right ear and two on the left. A small but vivid scar streaked diagonally across the bridge of her nose.
A distant howl echoed through the trees and the Khajiit quickened her pace, trying to avoid slipping on the spongy grass, the bag bumping irritatingly against her back with each step.
She was dressed in a one-piece suit of tight-fitting dark leather armor that covered most of her body save her head, hands and feet, although, due to the stuffy heat now trapped beneath the roof of branches, both of the suit's arms were rolled up to the elbows and the neckline was unstrapped down to the waist, revealing a white sleeveless undershirt that clung to her torso with sweat. A worn leather wrist-cuff covered her lower left arm, but despite the intense heat she stubbornly refused to remove it.

Panting with exertion, the Khajiit paused to lean against a tree-trunk and reached into her pocket, removing a tattered red scarf which she now used to wipe her sodden forehead, her orange eyes closed with exhaustion. After so many weeks spent living in the freezing conditions of the southern mountains the humidity of the forest was almost unbearable for the Khajiit girl, and due to the huge amount of rainwater that was now being evaporated by the long-awaited sun clouds of hot steam were beginning to rise from the soggy ground, making it seem like a vast, unescapable sauna that stole the breath from your lungs and wouldn't give it back. Her head spun nauseatingly as she inhaled the thick, heady forest fumes, each step bringing with it an unpleasant head-rush that made her want to collapse then and there. But she couldn't. Not if she wanted to get back alive.
Stuffing the scarf back into her pocket, the Khajiit sighed, took one step forward and gasped sharply as she sank up to her knee in viscous swamp water that had,, only a moment before, seemed like ordinary solid ground. Damn rain. Cursing under her breath, the girl wrenched her foot free from the mud, making sure not to leave her boot still stuck there. That was the fifth time in an hour that she'd lost her footing in the unstable marsh-like conditions of the forest, and the heavy sack she was lugging around didn't help in the slightest.
The howl sounded again and she set off quickly through the brush, seeming to sink further and further into the bog with each forced step. She didn't fancy fighting in this state, even if it was just a wolf or two.
After what seemed like hours the trees gradually thinned out as she entered the foothills of the Jerall Mountains, and as she ascended the air quickly became colder, clearer. Pausing against a rock, the Khajiit let the heavy sack fall from her shoulders and lifted her face to the skies, breathing in deep, greedy lungfuls of the crisp mountain air. Instantly her head cleared, the nausea she had felt back in the forest vanished and a strong sense of invigoration took place within her, making it infinitely more easy to put one foot in front of the other. Pushing aside a single strand of red hair that hung limply over her forehead, she hefted the sack onto her shoulder and set off once again, following the faint path that wound its way up the mountainside, giving way to some spectacular views of the Rift. She was used to traveling light, so the sooner she was back at camp and free of the heavy sack, the better.

As the Khajiit proceeded further up the trail she became gradually aware of padded footfalls behind her and heavy, frenzied panting, and she grimaced irritably.
Wolves. More likely than not the same ones she had heard howling in the woods not long before. They had probably been following her for ages (not that she was surprised; she hadn't been particularly careful about covering her tracks). Slowing her pace, the Khajiit listened carefully and deduced by the breaks in between each footfall that there were four of the bastards, and the nearest one was around nine to ten feet away and closing fast. That gave her about three seconds to act, or she was dead.
Plenty of time.
Stopping abruptly, the Khajiit dropped the sack from her shoulders, her left hand darting to the leather bandoleer across her chest and deftly unclipping four steel Air-Sabre shurikens. When the closest wolf was approximately five feet away she spun round with lightning reflexes, releasing the projectiles from her hand and sending them speeding into the jugular area of each canine. Three of the stars found their targets and the affected wolves fell heavily to the ground, writhing in their individual death throes before lying still, their life fluids pooling together in the dirt and trickling down the hillside.
The fourth star embedded itself in the final wolf's nose with a sickening crunch. The beast yelped in agony and attempted in vain to bat the offending piece of metal out of its face, before launching itself furiously at the Khajiit's neck. The wolf itself was whip-thin, its bones poking out at odd angles like the spikes on a Forsworn blade, and the taught skin around its gaping, drooling maw was pulled further back than seemed normal revealing a ghastly set of rotted yellow teeth that nestled in a mass of swollen black gum, rank and bloody. But perhaps the most unsettling aspect of the creature's emaciated appearance was the ghostly blue tinge that encased the animal in a supernatural glow, much the same as the other three before theirs had been simultaneously distinguished. It was infected, that much was certain.
Already prepared for the attack, the Khajiit whipped a Tanto dagger from her left thigh and met the wolf head on, dodging neatly to one side and driving the keen blade as far as she could into the animal's throat. The beast's empty white eyes widened and a low gurgle escaped its mouth as the blade struck bone, a small amount of red blood trickling down her left arm and staining the gauntlet crimson, before it slumped into a quivering heap at her feet, dead. Or at least, more dead than it had been.
Grunting, the girl wrenched the dagger free with triumphant finality, wiped the blade clean on the wolf's carcass and went about collecting up the four throwing stars, clipping them back into their respective places on her bandoleer. She then turned and examined the four corpses lying in the snow, which were already beginning to disintegrate into a fine black dust.
The pelt of each animal was extremely mangy, and in some places peeling off of the flesh itself in large chunks leaving dark red patches that, from a distance, seemed to be faintly moving under the straggly wet fur. It was only upon closer inspection, however, that each patch of decomposing skin was revealed to be alive with masses and masses of squirming white maggots, thriving on the rotting carrion that the corpses provided.
Grimacing, the Khajiit drew back sharply, covering her nose with the red scarf. The reek emanating from each wolf was almost unbearable, and brought back the same kind of nausea she had felt back in the humidity of the forest, only much, much worse. Giving the carcass a swift kick, she turned and continued on up the path, leaving the four Undead wolves to crumble into dust and eventually be swept away by the gathering wind, which was quickly rolling in from the south in the form of a large thunderstorm.

As the weather quickly darkened, as did the girl's mood. She'd been caught in a tempest about four months before whilst sheltering on the mountain and she had only just made it through the night alive. Life in the Jeralls was hard enough without blizzards constantly trying to force you over the hidden precipices that lie in wait behind every rock, around every corner, trying to catch you unawares. In the time that it takes to realize that there is no longer ground beneath your foot, it is already too late, and before you know what's happening you're tumbling down a sheer cliff edge to become more than closely acquainted with the cluster of jagged rocks waiting at the bottom. To say nothing of the numerous wolves, bears and trolls, each glowing with the same eerie blue light that marked them out as members of the Undead. She had even heard rumors that on the other side of the border in Cyrodiil, the mountains were infested with similarly infected ogres, land dreughs and even mountain lions, whilst in the more urban areas hordes of blue-tinged, partially decomposed men, mer and beast attempted to gain access to the few strongholds still holding out against the evil.
The girl sniffed and wrapped her poncho more tightly around her, shivering slightly. She was perched on a rocky outcrop just outside her camp, crossbow in hand and grimly surveying the path beneath her, awaiting the approach of the storm.
If life had been difficult before, it had been a walk in the park compared to the struggles of the past four months. She had been out on a bounty hunt when it all began:

Things had been going smoothly, or at least as smooth as they got when it came to finding and capturing dangerous criminals. Bounty hunting wasn't an easy job, but at the end of the day it was what she was best at and it put food on the table.
She had slaughtered the gang of bandits that had taken up residence in a cave just north-west of Riften without too much trouble, and had even managed to disarm and truss up their leader before loading him, kicking and cursing, onto the back of her horse. There was a bonus if the target was taken back alive, and an extra hundred or so gold pieces wasn't to be sniffed at.
After all, she'd been tracking this particular bastard for days, and she wanted to make the most of her troubles. And so, in high spirits, she'd set off for Riften.
It was only when she arrived back at the city that things started going crazy.
For starters, the pair of guards who always watched over the main gate were short of one man, and the single remaining guard, upon noticing the approaching Khajiit, had lumbered down the road to intercept her. At first she'd thought he was coming to take the prisoner off her hands, so he could then be transported to the city's jail and remain there until his inevitable execution. Capital punishment in Skyrim was harsh but just, and she was looking forward to seeing this guy's head on the block. So she sat patiently, waiting for the guard to arrive and apprehend the bandit leader so she could then pay a visit to Riften's steward, who would see about the promised reward money.
Little did she know that said execution was going to occur a little earlier than she'd expected.
For it was only until the guard was about six or seven paces away that she first noticed the unusual blue tinge surrounding his entire body and the dark patches of blood on his clothing, but before she could even draw a weapon her mount had reared up in terror, bucking both her and the prisoner onto the hard cobbled ground before bolting off into the wilderness, whinnying with fright. Using her feline agility she'd managed to land neatly on all fours, unlike the hapless bandit, who fell to earth with a muffled thud. Straightening up she stared at the approaching guard, wondering what could have been so intimidating as to have caused the horse to panic and flee like it did. Skyrim horses were usually tough and not afraid to put up a bit of a fight.
The prisoner, who also seemed to sense that something was wrong, desperately attempted to squirm away down the road. But the guard was too quick for him.
Throwing his axe to the floor, the guard stumbled forwards and promptly fell upon the unfortunate ex-bandit; sinking his teeth into his throat, jagged nails tearing into his flesh. The victim's screams of agony were drowned out by a single clap of thunder, signaling the arrival of the first storm. Rainwater and blood mixed together in the dirt, coursing down the cobbled road and pooling at the girl's feet.
Rooted to the spot, the Khajiit had watched in silence as the prisoner was violently torn apart in front of her, and it was only when the guard turned his attention on her that she suddenly regained the use of her muscles. The blue-tinged creature staggered to its feet and began to steadily advance, blood plastering its mouth, its white eyes empty and lifeless, and as it extended its arms to seize her bits of flesh could be seen trapped beneath its red nails.
Instinctively, the Khajiit's hand went to the bandoleer across her chest, unclipping a shuriken and flinging it hard at the guard's face. The shuriken found its mark and the creature instantly crumpled to the floor, the deadly steel shard protruding from its left eyeball.
After that, things had gone from bad to worse.
She had entered the city proper (trying to avoid glancing at the body of the other guard, which lay twisted at the side of the gate in a bed of his own entrails) only to find that within, chaos reigned.
Buildings were ablaze, mutilated bodies littered the ground and everywhere she looked there were people glowing with the same unearthly blue light, each one either staggering around aimlessly or feasting on the corpses of the fallen. Houses were boarded up, the city canal was red with blood and flocks of crows circled overhead, landing now and again to scavenge any flesh that the infected had missed. A large crowd of the creatures were clustered around the big reinforced doors to Mistveil Keep, hammering on the wood. Whether or not its occupants were still alive was unknown to the Khajiit, and she sure as hell wasn't about to find out.
Horrified, she had fled the city only to be confronted by the second gate guard, who had somehow rejoined the land of the living despite being partially consumed by his mate. His guts were still trailing from his abdomen like some obscene belt and his eyes were a pure , milky white, revealing no intelligence or life within. All there was was hunger. Hunger and fury.
Swiftly decapitating him with her Orcish daggers, the Khajiit immediately headed for the mountains in the southern-most reaches of the Rift and remained there in hiding, setting up makeshift traps to ensure that no Undead ever managed to gain access to the camp. The few select times she descended from her hiding place was to collect provisions from the forest below, staying well away from Riften in the process, but every day food was becoming scarcer and life was quickly getting more and more difficult. And with another tempest on the way...

The Khajiit sighed softly and tugged on one of her ear hoops. She had to face the truth, no matter how ugly it looked; if she stayed up in the mountains any longer there was no chance in Oblivion that she would survive the second storm. She had to see if there was anywhere left in Skyrim still holding out against the Undead hordes, or she would suffer the same fate as the unfortunate bandit four months previously. Markarth seemed a safe bet, due to its strong high walls, as did Solitude, but both cities were a long walk away and she was both horse-less and low on provisions. She heavily doubted that there would be any carts operating either.
That left just one other option.
And so, after wrapping up the remaining scraps of food and storing them in the black leather saddlebag she always carried with her, the disgruntled Khajiit kicked snow over the dying embers of the campfire and immediately set off down the mountain path, heading for Whiterun and, hopefully, an escape from the nightmare that had been released upon Tamriel.
Just as she reached the main road, her sensitive ears suddenly picked up the sound of thundering hooves approaching from the east, from the direction of Riften, and she ducked quickly into the bushes, readying her repeating crossbow. It was a fine weapon, capable of firing up to six bolts in quick succession, and it was light. Usually it was kept slung over her back on a leather lanyard, but as the sound of hooves got louder she raised it, frowning as what looked like a small, red-haired Breton girl emerged from the shadows of the trees, sitting atop a steed that was still clad in what looked like the straps from a carriage harness. She didn't look particularly dangerous, so the Khajiit stayed her hand and waited for the horse and rider to pass before stepping out into the light, watching as they turned a corner and disappeared into the gloom. The Khajiit knew how to follow tracks, which was, after all, one of the most important skills when it came to bounty hunting, and the Breton seemed to know where she was going.
And so, with a face set with determination, the bounty hunter set off after the Breton along the road to Whiterun, reassured in the knowledge that she wasn't the only survivor left.

Writes-Many-Posts · Jun 3, 2013

Another day had passed. There was silence in the cave as much as a funeral's. Hiding under the Dragon Bridge had been the only chance of survival for the Guardians, only feeding off vegetables in Leepdroon's case. The argonian was tired of that. It was almost like eating frozen air. The bitter taste of a cabbage flooded his mouth at the immediate first bite. "That's it!" He lost his temper. Throwing away the pale green nourishment to a goat that had merrily survived the undead menace, Lucky, that immediatly bit off all the leaves with its creaking teeth, the argonian moved to Goldenleaf, hoping there'd be something better than eating veggies until passing away. The spriggan faced the argonian with a flirting smile, possible the only happy thing in the damnable cave. "What is it?" Leepdroon sighed sadly, seeing no other choice but telling his spouse about the need of taking action. "We need to do something... Unless you want to spend the rest of your days in this cave as a Forsworn, the best thing is finding a solution to the nightmare!" The spriggan's eyes enlightened themselves just like torchbugs while she landed her hand on his shoulder. "We cannot do much! Going out there means damnation. Spriggans have died in the hands of undead more than hunters, forsworn or hagravens! Not to talk about you becoming an undead..." He took another glance around the cave, looking at all the sorts of animals that had made it a shelter for them. "I have a chance... Where are the Netch?" She shook her head in disapproval for the argonian's idea. "Leepdroon, you cannot expect your puny uncontrollable disease to take down every single undead! What, you think..." Leepdroon deafened himself while she nagged him along the way to the compartment of the cave where the big Netch Bettys where kept. "... in fact, it's worse than necromancy, at least that way your soul leaves your body, here, you are aware of the suffering you feel until you die for the second time!" He grabbed one of the tentacles as he sat down to milk the Betty of jelly. Putting a bucket under the leathery tip of the arm of the Betty, while caressing it to calm the beast down, Leepdroon faced his fiancee. "First of all, dying in battle means a lot to nords, I may go to Sovngarde!" He mocked his own cowardice with so little trouble it was disturbing. It was not that any nord would hear his blasphemist words anyway. "Then... I cannot eat vegetables anymore! I am a lycan, I feed off flesh! Human flesh mostly! And you private me from eating any of these tasty goats and deer that cud in this cave!" She actually admired his determination, and before speaking, she gave up. "Fine... Come say goodbye to me when you are finished packing... I suggest you try something else to milk the Netch." As the spriggan left, and the volition to smile increased with that victory, Leepdroon grabbed the tentacle, steadily this time. Aiming at the bucket, he squeezed it, making a few drops of the purple substance fall to it's wooden base. The Betty was surprised by the sudden ammount of pain Leepdroon had caused and immediatly zapped him with an electric shock. "Ooooow!" The gauntlets only aided the electricity to flow to Leepdroon's skin, as they were made of metal and easily conducted the shock to his scales. Instead of stopping, like any probably normal person would, he avenged himself with a tighter and stronger clutch to the tentacle, which only worked in a few more drops of the flagrance to ooze and another shock to his hands. "GoLdEN HoW Do YoU Do ThIs MilKinG BusiNESs?!" He yelled as the electricity flowed through his veins. "Aren't you the one who is going to save us? I bet you will find a way to do it." She said in a romantic, yet cynical tone.

Eventually, Leepdroon did NOT find out how in Oblivion one could milk a Netch. But, after some terrible burns and a constant smell of lizard stew on his skin, the bucket was full. "For the Hist... This was a tough one... But now I can transform!" Goldenleaf popped out of nowhere to mock his poor looks and to make fun of such a pathetic try to understand how to not harm a netch and remain unharmed. "How is my big zombie fighting hero doing?" He brandished the bucket in front of her face. "See that?! That is netch jelly! 100% from an alive specimen!" Before Goldenleaf could have lost the thrill of having to see her husband managing to do something new by himself, Leepdroon sprinted to his satchel, which had nothing of value for months, to get a few empty vials. As soon as he got back, he poured the purple ingredient on them and guarded all in one of his pockets, none being ever in the same. "Well done, handsome..." He folded his arms proudly with the thought of being handsome to a spriggan AND managing to milk a netch. "I will leave tomorrow... I need to stay to recover from my burns..." His wife, who knew a lot about his skills, asked in a dull cruel way. "Why don't you use a restoration spell?" He fulminated her with his eyes after stopping in the middle of his way to his bedroom. "Shut up... You want me to stay a little longer too!" She walked seductively to his front again. "Finally, you say something that is not wrong..." They dragged each other to the big bed Leepdroon had built with hanging moss and firewood and the spriggan wrapped her arms around Leepdroon's neck, as well as her legs around his waist. If she were to miss him, then he would have to do a great job that evening. And, as far as he knew, he did.

The next morning, with his burns healed, Leepdroon opened his cold eyes and found Goldenleaf, awoke, staring at him. The fact of spriggans never sleeping still creeped him out. They rested inside trees. As if they were their souls. Weird... "Sleep well?" Not much sleeping was made in fact, but it was enough for him to have momentum for the adventure. "Sleep? Are you joking?" Her hands rubbed his chest slowly and she laid her head on his shoulder. "I know. It was nice... I don't remember you having the strength you had last night!" Either those were the wrong words or she was trying to offend him. "I think my skin got in contact with some Jelly, and so I earned some bestial strength. Is that a mocking to my skill in bed?!" She giggled and stopped massaging his chest. "No... The other nights were good too. Tonight was only... better. Way better." He made a suspicious look to his fiancee, but gave up on finding out anything he wouldn't want to, so he got up and readied himself to leave the cave. Before leaving, Goldenleaf gave him a kiss, and that was enough for him to feel ready to depart.

After some painful climbing, and a fall that almost meant Leepdroon's death, he had finally arrived to the city, which was now a ghost town. "How I love the province and it's people..." He thought. On one hand, he had to figure out the source of the undead, on the other, there was an inn that surely had meat or real food. The inn had won his attention and he primarily moved to it's broken doors. Hoping to find anything tasty, the let down was even bigger than the cave where he was at firstly. There was little inside the inn, the undead ate everything! Moving to the counter, Leepdroon began searching everything he could to find food or any useful item, and the summary was something similar to this:

A wheel of cheese that was inside a wardrobe that was locked.
The key to the wardrobe
Three lockpicks, all broken before he found the key to the wardrobe
Lots of bottles of Spiced Wine, thanks to the undead's skill of never being able to open anything
Two purses full of gold
A sack of flour
Two pieces of garlic
An iron dagger, probably for Five-Finger Fillet or other games Leepdroon always got hurt at.

A squeak interrupted his useless listing. The door was being pushed open by something behind him. He faced backwards with horror, finding the kid who lived in that city, whose name he had forgotten, undead. He had dealt with two of the zombies in his life time, and after a lot of lessons of how contagious they were, he couldn't fear anything more than them. "Undead, undead!" Not wanting to spill blood in his sword, afraid of becoming a zombie, Leepdroon began throwing tankards at the boy's head. The denting sound of the steel hitting his skull echoed through the silent city, warning all the rest of the residents of his temporary staying in the inn. Soon he was out of tankards, and the boy was getting closer with his agonizing zombie walk. Leepdroon, in panic, proceeded to throwing the bottles of wine against his body, and picking up a torch, to burn the alcohol and the child. The kid squirmed on the floor, wrapped in flames as Leepdroon yelled, bashing a chair against him. "Die..." BLAM! "...damn..." BLAM! "...you!" The last hit broke the chairs legs and killed Leepdroon's first undead. "Phew... That could have gone worse..." As if a god or daedric prince was making fun of him, the undead broke the inn's windows, and force Leepdroon to push the door backwards in order to stop them from entering. A pale arm stretched and tried to grab his flesh, but Leepdroon used the dagger he had found to stab it and make it's owner take it back outside. The wood of the door cracked, which meant it was about to snap. As a thunder idea, Leepdroon ripped it off the hinges and hit the three zombies that were pushing the door to open it. Putting his feet on the plank of the center of the door to make the zombies stay down, the argonian retreated to the bridge to leave the city for good, but a few Penitus Occulatus, also zombified, stood in his way. Maro was among them. Leepdroon felt sad for them, since he always liked their cause to kill the assassins. One of the soldiers began to walk in front of them towards Leepdroon, who threw the two pieces of garlic at his head. It couldn't have been more useless. A rotten ladder, leading to a house's roof was the only thing he could spot, and was enough. Footstep after footstep, he managed to climb to the top of the house. After picking the stairs up, he began hitting the undead with them, being that almost useless, stagering them for a while. Still not wanting to get his sword dirty, he switched to the Leaf Blast spell and began casting poisonous leaves at a woman who was the zombie who screamed the loudest. She kneeled as the cuts in her skin made by the spell increased and she lost control over her breath. After a few seconds she was dead and Leepdroon was eating his cheese while aiming at the undead who were now running away from the spriggan caster to save their un-lives. That was a nice spell. He was used to it, it didn't wear him out, and it had given Leepdroon time to finish his wheel and gain his posture back.
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An elf showed up. Yound one, looking and walking wearily. "Well, you COULD, if there was something really... You don't look so good kid..." Keyin grabbed the satchel he had taken from the corpse of the troll a while ago. "The Vigilants had a bunch of these in case of Sanguinaire Vampiris, but I bet Stendarr would want me to help you too." He gave the potion to the elf after kneeling to his height. It was surely to obtain also his help in case the Jester freaked out, it would be wise to have him healthy. "What is your name?"

Zander Feredon · Jun 3, 2013

Zander Was packing his bag, preparing to travel into town to harvest more supplies. It was always dangerous, especially considering he was unable to see most threats. The risk however was always worth the reward. The last time he went into town he had found 4 bottles of Fire-Brand Wine and allot of useful cloth for clothing. As he finished stuffing his daggers into the sheathes on his side, he approached the mouth of the cave. ''This is always the fun part isn it boy.'' He said to his Dog, Califax , Who just whimpered in response. After taking a deep breath, Zander jumped. The cool sea air whipped around his face as he descended toward the ocean. It was 15...10...5..He hit the water like a cannonball.

Taking his normal route he ended up coming out right by the walkway to the entrance of the city. Pulling himself onto the walkway, he took a second to admire the scenery. The smell of death lingered everywhere.It had become as natural as a rock or tree and the thought made Zander cringe inside. Hoisting himself up, he threw his pack over his shoulder and approached the gates. Zander stopped. The gates were open, and he made sure to close them after every trip. He trapped most of the zombies from this area inside the walls of the city. It was his hope that eventually he could trap enough to free up some land to breed cattle. Then a really bad thought hit him...Someone was inside the City with over 200 undead creatures who hadn't eaten in who knows how long.

A shrill cry cut through the air. It didn't sound human but more like the sound of a cat being strangled with Netch leather. Zander chuckled to himself a little, Putting his bag down. He focused all f his attention on the city. ''Show me the way...'' He whispered. Suddenly Everything came into fruition. He could see again, but not a sight like a normal mortal, he could see the very soul of a person..or lack there of. ''There you are..'' He said. He saw a living creature fending off a small group of undead , but that was the least of his problems. The zombies cry had attracted the attention of more than just Zander. Without a second thought, he dismissed his vision and broke off into a run, approaching the area where the living creature was supposed to be. He only hoped it was still living when he got there.

Sid · Jun 6, 2013

"S... S... Sapling," he said, trembling, then, "Sapling Half-Man, and thank you..." He took the potion generously, and took a sip, immediately feeling better. "Sorry, its just the past few days have been a bit to much. I'm a city boy, you see, born and raised in Solitude, Mother an Altmer, Father, well I never knew Father, but he was a Nord. This plops isn't normal for me. Usually it would be, wake up, eat, go to help at the stalls, eat some more, go home, sleep." Unsteadily he got to his feet, and offered a hand to the Nord, "Is that yours?" he said, nodding at the troll, then he asked inquisitively "Who are you all anyway? For all I can see is a Paladin, an Old Altmer Sage, an Insane Imperial, and a dead troll."

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Janus was walking down the empty street, scowling at the surrounding area. Solitude had become a bleak and barren shell. As he approached the gate, he looked to his right, and saw the skeleton of a dog, stripped clean of flesh, with bite marks in the bones. Once he had owned all the land possible to be seen from the top of the Blue Palace. No one, knew. Not even Elisef, or Torygg before her. Land meant all, now it means nothing.

He had been in the Jail at the time of the takeover, part of his plan. Then, when he saw no guard coming back after a few days, he broke out, found his stuff, and took to wandering the streets of Solitude. Occasionally he thought he saw someone scampering around the streets, but, didn't trust his own senses. He left Solitude with a flick of a coin. It glistened as it pirouetted upwards, then fell. He caught it in mid air, placed it on the outside of his hand, and sneaked a glance.

Clean side up.

Solitude wasn't going to light up today. He left with a monotonous look on his face, changed by his half way across his face, forced into a scowl. He knew he wouldn't be the only one, he just knew some of his rivals would have survived.

Writes-Many-Posts · Jun 6, 2013

The city boy, as Sapling claimed he was, looked a lot better after the potion. "You couldn't be righter... That WAS my troll. We are no different than what you claimed..." He looked especially at Rälaghül. That one was the person he least knew about. Still, Keyin didn't know much about the Jester or Sapling either. It would be useless to even speak with the imperial, no matter how lucid he could be some times, having to put up with the other 70% of madness would be a punishment no Daedra would ever be able to match. "I am Keyin, one of the last of the Dawnguard, Silver-Hand and fist fighters as well. I lost my parents when I was young to draugr. These..." He brandished his bear paws. "Purged my very first undead souls out of Skyrim. Without the silver claws of course..." That was what he could think about at that moment. His introduction and his search for supplies for his stronghold. If the boy wanted to know about the others (which was highly doubted by Keyin), he had to ask, unless they had the initiative.

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"Just give up you damnable creatures! Hissss!" Leepdroon was now running low on energy to choke the undead with magic. When he was almost to hit the limit of his magicka, he noticed a figure. Too quick to be a zombie, and had a dog! He swept off a drop of sweat that had almost hit him in the eyes. A dunmer... In his argonian life, he never had much problems with the kind. At that moment, he was actually happy to see anyone. His eyes looked... Weird... Blindness? The argonian picked up the remains of the rotten wooden ladder and put it in the spot he could reach that had the least ammount of zombies possible. "Over here! I will help you carrying your dog up to the roof if you need!" As the living approached, Leepdroon resigned and began sweeping the area that surrounded the ladded with his sword that made bee noises. That had to be the best feature in his weapon. Not only dealed damage, but also annoying the enemy and making him nervous with the sound of stinging insects. Unfortunately, the undead didn't use the brain, even if they had one, which was not likely, and couldn't lose control, since they never had it. After some swings, and no dangerous leap in a desperate battle that would kill him, Leepdroon's sword got cornered inside one of the shopkeepers' skull, as if refusing to get out. Readying his free hand as a power glove, Leepdroon bashed the dwarven steel against the man's nose and slid the sword out just before his re-corpse fell on the zombified town's prostitute... erm... bard who dressed in awkward tavern clothes... Same thing to him... After that punch, he felt the rush of adrenalyn on his blood, punching an undead and retrieving his sword. Took guts to do that... If only somebody saw him... The dunmer... Nah, he was blind... And the dog coudn't speak. "What a waste of a glorious deed..." Leepdroon gasped in a sad tone. Glory and Leepdroon seldom met each other, and when they did, nobody would be there to see it and report it so his name would flow in inns and their rumours of legends. Such a shame...

Snoball · Jun 9, 2013

The day almost over, and with little to none non-perishables grabbed from nearby abandoned homes, Eori made the usual trip back to the Nest. To think his dainty, old shack could eventually become a bunker to help hold out a decent amount of Rorikstead's remaining population. At first he was quick to protest, but with only about 5 people still remaining after the plague had strangled the land, Eori only felt it was right to provide them with some type of hope, even if he hated a majority of them. Regardless, he took the same journey everyday to locate edible food not only to keep everyone fed, but to enjoy the "fresh" air every now and then, seeing as his man-cave was now home to a group of others as well. At the trapdoor to his hideout, he had to perform a certain knock to be allowed in without suspicion. He stepped down and laid the large bag out on the table in the center. "Come one, come all! Your fine feast has been served!" He said this in vain sarcasm of course. The group rummaged through the burlap sack to only find a couple of dried fruits and a few nutshells here and there. They ate all they could in a hurry, still not content with their unsated appetites. Lemkil stared at Eori with a look of anger on his face. "I'm not sure if you've noticed, we're all still hungry." Eori took a seat himself, propping up his feet on the table. "Really? Wow, this whole time I swear I thought we were working on our figures. Thanks for the update, Lemky." At this point, Lemkil had had it up to here with Eori's remarks. He clenched his fist, banging it on the table. "...That's it. I've had it! You walk in here every single day, with literally nothing in that bag of yours. You seem to be low on food, yet you're always loaded with smartass comments, aren't you? Perhaps that's where all our food is going? How are we to know you're not stuffing your face while you're out there while you bring us back the crumbs?" "Here's why: I wouldn't come back here if that were the case. I'd take my greedy self and ride the high horse out of this hell-hole with the apparent "food" I'm "stealing". Be grateful someone has the decency to feed you ANYTHING, baldy." "Are you calling yourself the breadwinner of this here lot? I can do your job twice as easy. What kind of man lies about siphoning food to whom he's providing?" Eori stood up, now annoyed by the nagging. "Okay, first, I'd be more angry at you if knew what the hell 'siphon' meant. Second, you're one to talk about not being a man. The plague took your own daughters, and you were the last to give a damn. Hell, I'm almost positive they haven't invented a number low enough to describe the kind of man you are." Before Lemkil could proceed to get violent, the group prevented the arguing from getting worse by holding back both men. They took a minute or two to huddle and discuss their next course of action before coming to a decision. Rorik chose to address Eori himself. "I... I'm sorry Eori. We respect what you've done for us, the hold out and everything, but we can't take any risks. See, we've known Lemkil for quite a while, while you, well... I'm not saying you've nabbed all the food yourself, but with no way of knowing, we don't have much of a choice. I'm sorry Eori. We've decided it would be best for everyone if you chose to leave." Eori took a step back, feeling shocked and a bit betrayed the group's decision. "Well this is rich. I don't take food from you, yet you take my Nest. Fine. If somehow you believe Capt. Anger Management over here will do a better job than me, than so be it. Have a nice apocalypse while your all at it." Eori grabbed his equipment from the racks and headed back up the ladder to the outside. He stepped out from the door and proceeded to walk down the stone-cobble road, looking back at the Nest for what was likely the final time with a look of indifference.

With the sun beating down on his back, Eori made the trip east to the nearest hold, Whiterun. He had become used to the weight of his crossbow and sword on him, especially now having to carry them with him wherever he went. Eori had run into a couple of undead along the road, but nothing he wasn't already accustomed to. He preferred using exploding fire bolts to both take out enemies from a distance, and to burn it following the shot. He chose not to look at the kills afterward. The burns only amplified the grotesque, macabre sight of the already decaying flesh on the bones of the undead, and no matter how many he killed, he could never get over the gruesome sight. The climax of this trip was reaching Sleeping Tree camp halfway through. Eori scurried across the vast, open plains to witness something he had yet to see. "Ho-ly mother of Lemkil. Of all things." Zombified giants guarded the remnants of their once living mammoths. It was both a phenomenal, but sad sight to behold. With massive bones piercing through their maggot-infested, lifeless skin, these undead creatures continued to protect their dead livestock as if it were still alive. Eori didn't know what to make of this, but didn't want to know what it was like to combat and undead giant. He walked around the camp, avoiding a confrontation all-together. After close encounters here and there, the gates of Whiterun were a welcoming sight. It had been a good year or two since he was last here, and the changes since then were blatantly obvious. He saw a group of men further into town, but what caught his eye was the dead troll laying next to one of the men's feet. Eori was still very hungry, and it was worth a shot to ask. He approached the group, regarding the beast. "So, it may not be in my place to ask on such a bright, lovely day... but is anyone going to eat that?"

Writes-Many-Posts · Jun 10, 2013

A breton showed up. How in Oblivion was that possible? Keyin hadn't seen these many survivors unless in the fortress. After his request to eat the troll, Keyin paused the judging of the rest of them. "I... Honestly hadn't thought about that..." Moraly, he could not stop the man who had the life-saving idea from eating to save his life. "Tell you what, I let you take the first chunk of meat as you fancy, within reason, as a reward for letting us know of that idea." The nord looked at his poor satchel with few more things than carrots and two Alto wines. "Thank Stendarr we have a man who actually contributed on our side!" Even after giving away a piece of troll meat to save a man, and a potion to save a boy, the ambience was still too heavy for him to feel comfortable. "Before you eat, we must find a safe spot, I bet... Ideas?" Deep down, what his words meant, was that they needed time to bound before doing any social act such as a meal together. Most importantly, he needed to find out who he was willing to feed.

Felidae · Jun 17, 2013

After what felt like an eternity of wandering along the many roads that snaked through Skyrim, the Khajiit paused and looked around, concern etched upon her brow. The tracks of the young Breton rider she had been following for the past day and a half had long since vanished, swallowed up by the lashing rain that heralded the arrival of the storm, and so she had been forced to carve her own path through the wilderness. Being an experienced bounty hunter this had been more than a little humiliating for her, as a track hadn't gone cold that quickly in years. She couldn't help but feel slightly demoralised as well.
Reaching into the black saddlebag slung over her shoulder, she retrieved a small, wrapped hunk of stale bread and nibbled on it as she walked, taking care not to crack her teeth on the hard crust. Now that she was out of the once lush forests that covered the Rift, food was becoming even harder to come by due to the barrenness of the foothills that rose up to the slopes of the Throat of the World, and what with most of the wildlife now turning to dust upon death, meat was almost impossible to get hold of.
Grimacing with disgust, the girl tossed the last chunk of bread into the fast-moving river on her right. It was almost inedible, and didn't satisfy her gnawing hunger anyway.

After hunting and slaughtering a few mudcrabs on the bank of the river, she crossed a small bridge and slowly approached the gates of Whiterun. Mudcrabs were usually okay to eat, as the Undead found it harder to tell them apart from a rock or stone and most of the time couldn't break through the shell with their teeth. The same went for fish and birds, as they were generally more difficult for the infected to get their hands on.
As she passed Pelagia farm, an elderly woman dressed in rags emerged from the battered-down doorway and lurched towards her, growling. Blood gurgled from between her cracked lips and her left thigh was torn open, widening whenever she put weight on it and each time revealing a hint of white bone.
Without breaking pace, the Khajiit drew her crossbow with her left hand and fired once, the bolt passing straight through the woman's fragile skull and embedding itself in the wall of the building. She staggered forwards a few more paces before crumpling to the ground, the blue tinge that covered her lifeless form quickly vanishing.
Frowning, the Khajiit returned the crossbow to its holder and turned her back on the crumbling corpse. A lot of people couldn't bring themselves to kill the infected, considering it murder. She had even heard tell that in some places Undead were kept locked up by deluded friends or relatives, being treated as though they were still part of the living; being fed, talked to and looked after. It was a depressing thought.

As the shadow of the city walls enveloped her like a welcoming embrace, the bounty hunter's sensitive ears quickly picked up the distant sound of voices, and she ducked behind a barricade. Peeking through a gap in the wood she observed five men standing around the body of a recently deceased troll, chatting amongst themselves. Her ears pricked as she attempted to catch snatches of conversation.
"... Is anyone going to eat that?"
"... Before you eat, we must find a safe spot..."
The Khajiit shuddered. They were actually planning to eat the creature? These truly were desperate days.
Fingering the handle of the Orcish dagger beneath the cover of her poncho, she stepped out into the open and regarded the group from under the furred brim of her hood. There was a Nord wielding a pair of formidable-looking spiked gauntlets, an Imperial jester, a High-Elf, another Imperial and finally what looked to her like a mix between a human and an Elf. The last one, she noted, was looking slightly queasy. Probably at the thought of the creature in front of him becoming the latest trend in Skyrim cuisine.
Rather than speaking out the Khajiit stood silently, waiting for one of them to notice her, not once taking her eyes off the gathering. She didn't expect them to attack her, but all the same she wasn't about to let her guard down so soon. She wouldn't have let her guard down even if she'd known them for years.

Writes-Many-Posts · Jun 19, 2013

A khajiit stood out of the wilderness, clearly more alive than many from the now burnt down cities and settlements. She said nothing, to Keyin's favor, and remained there, looking clever and well aware of any atrocities that they could do, alert for anything that would pose a threat. As for her protection, she appeared to wield a good looking crossbow. Keyin had never seen her around the Dawnguard, nor that kind of weapon, so he assumed she had it from somewhere else. Since he had no faith on the others' social skills, he decided to pull her to the talking as well. "Not into talking huh? My favorite type of partner: A silent one. That's why I don't like having dogs..." He was still marvelled by the masterpiece the cat called weapon. "That's a fine crossbow... Talos, what I wouldn't do for one of those. Name's Keyin."

Felidae · Jun 20, 2013

The Wanderer immediately fixed her gaze on the Nord who had just spoken, staring hard into his face, searching for any signs of treachery. She took several furtive steps forwards before halting about six paces away, her eyes darting down to take in the crude fur gauntlets he wore on both hands. They were mean-looking weapons and could probably do a lot of damage, more so than her own claws, plus he didn't have to waste any time unsheathing them.
She glanced back up at his face, eyes narrowing slightly as she evaluated the strengths and weaknesses of the group in front of her. If they decided to attack she was fairly sure she could outrun the lot of them, but, as she noted with slight irritation, Keyin also carried a crossbow. Depending on how skilled he was at using it she could be dead before she reached the tundra.
Her own crossbow, whilst probably not as powerful as his, was definitely quicker and could fire up to six bolts in rapid succession. Not that it couldn't pack a punch; she had the scar on her left thigh to prove that it could. The main problem was that once she turned her back to flee she'd be open to any bolts, or spells, sent towards her, so that rendered her weapon of choice pretty much useless.
There was no way she'd be able to take the whole group on with her daggers, so that left her shurikens. Almost instinctively her left hand, still concealed under her poncho, left the dagger's hilt and began to hover near the bandolier across her chest. If someone so much as flinched towards their weapon, they were as good as dead.

And so, reassured by the comforting touch of the cold steel, she took a few more steps forwards, nodding at Keyin in acknowledgement but refraining from giving her name away just yet.
She didn't want to come across as cocky or rash, but at the same time she didn't want to make herself look insecure and therefore weaker than the people in front of her. First impressions, after all, are hard to erase.
"And the rest of you?" She said quietly to the other members of the gathering in the sort of tone that implied more of a command than a question. Her voice was low but soft, with a slight Cyrodillian accent to it.
She didn't know whether these people knew each other prior or had only just met, but she decided to go with the latter; the group was too mixed-race and hodgepodge to have been together long as the individual races tended to stick together, especially the mer. For example she couldn't imagine an Imperial jester and one of those snooty High-Elves ever forming an alliance, but then these were chaotic times, and when the world has turned into some kind of Undead-infested distopia it doesn't pay to be picky about who you partner up with and who you don't.

Snoball · Jun 24, 2013

Eori was both shocked yet delighted to see the Dawnguard-clad Nord's hospitality, especially in these trying times. Eori also took note of the man's gear, and the amulet he wore, finding a bit of solace in the fact the he had not been the only slayer of the undead present. He was grateful for being allowed the first ration, but felt it was a bad idea to let him grab the first bite. Eori was well aware of the fact that he has trouble controlling himself when he's hungry, but knows he'd have to maintain himself as a show of gratitude to the odd group of survivors.

It was then the poncho-adorned, snow white Khajiit cautiously made her way to the group. Her appearance and mannerisms struck Eori as more of the reserved type, a very self-contained nature about the feline. The Nord, Keyin, would be the first to introduce himself to the newcomer, followed by a brief string of silence to follow. Deciding not to wait for another introduction, Eori presented himself.

"Well, I'm hungry. I'm also Eori, but mostly hungry." Studying the two made him realize he had yet to make impressions of the odd jester, the mysterious-looking Altmer, or the young half-breed. With a grumble of his stomach, Eori's line of thought was abruptly interrupted. He began panning around for an ideal area for the group to settle after the formalities had concluded. With this being his first visit within the city walls ever, Eori wasn't quite keen on where to decide the site of their meal. He turned back to the others. "I also happen to be uncertain. Anyone been here before? Seems I know this place like the back of my head."

Writes-Many-Posts · Jun 25, 2013

At least Eori and Sapling were making things, since the rest of the group appeared to either remain silent, be too insane to actually want to have a conversation with them or think of themselves as legends, whether it was true or not, it wasn't advisable to start a self-introduction. An attempt to enlighten the environment would never be looked down, unless it came to a matter of respect from the other survivors. The attempt was easily noticed in the familiarity, too notoriously artificial, in Keyin's words. "Well, if Eori the Hungry, or anyone else wants to eat, a roof in Whiterun would seem the best lead. Any objections from..." He cunningly proceeded to introduce the others to the khajiit, without seeming to be introducing. His words matched his finger while he pointed and gave out their respective names. "Sapling? Ralaghul? Jester?" Then he gazed into the khajiit, in a hope she would finally tell her name. Knowing theirs without them knowing hers would be a serious unfair advantage. Something that could make the others and even him feel demoralized. Something that had to be vanished in order to achieve equality among the fellow survivors.

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With the undead horde increasing in number, Leepdroon had actually lost track of the dunmer survivor AND his dog! Paying closer attention to the zombies, he found out the damn things either moved around using their legs or crawling on all fours, surprisingly quickly, as if they were trolls. The unceasing threatening creak in the planks below his feet served as an agreable warning to get out of there soon. But where to? It meant possibly going back to the cave where Goldenleaf awaited him. But just the thought of having to listen to her saying "I told you so!" and being treated as a failed hero made him lose will to step back home until the undead were all... unundead. Plus, Golden would possibly force him to milk Netch every day before having any sex, which meant electric shocks (noting that these are not in a good way), before having sex, which could also be translated into not having sex at all, due to Leepdroon's dislike for pain. Well... to quench his lust maybe he would have to milk them once a year. The fate with the netch was unavoidable, but his return home could be postponed, and that he intended to do. His brain immediatly sketched a nice plan (hipothetically).

He would jump on one of the undead which had more muscles and skip from head to head until he reached the gates of the outpost of commander Maro. Then he would rip the two flags at the entrance, toss one at the few remaining ones to misguide them as he fled, and would use the other as a cloak to trick any of the future encounters that tried to tackle him. Lovely! Now Leepdroon was to put his plan in use.

As soon as he flexed his legs to perform his first move and first step of the plan, the planks below him snapped and made him fall inside the building whose roof was safeguarding him for a while. Fortunately, the door was locked and the undead's strongest option was to scratch it until it cracked open. Someone who would crack open soon would be the argonian if he hadn't found a convenient window without any glass to escape. His steps on the street were immediatly distinguished from the screams of the undead and all the zeds on the damn street turned on him. "There is a dunmer somewhere! Try searching for him instead of picking on the argonian!" The bridge had never looked so beautiful. Leepdroon had an awkward habit of loving any object which held the edge between his life and death. The woman who washed the tavern had a broken limb and crawled her way back inside Dragon Bridge, probably after a failed hunting for living souls. At her side, a loyal canine companion, undead, with its skull half shown, roaring in a strange compilation of squeaks and screams thanks to the absence of a tongue in its mouth. The woman threw herself on Leepdroon and tackled him to the ground. Who told him to ignore the flags after failing the first steps of his plan? "No! I do not want a hug!" With his left hand pushing the blooded zombie back from her neck, Leepdroon stretched his right arm, aiming at the dog, and focused as hard as he could to enthrall it. With a shift in the wind, the dog's remaining fur began radiating a green light, the spell appeared to work! The beast threw itself against the woman and tore her flesh appart. Even more. "Come on boy! She was already dead, now she is... well very dead!" The beast rolled its eyes to the living man. In a different way. Somehow, from his heart/taproot, Leepdroon's instinct actually got something right. The dog jumped on him as well and forced Leepdroon to drive his Spriggan Blade across it's skull.

While he fled in a comical parade (for anyone that watched as long as it wasn't him) of undead chasing a desperate living man, two conclusions popped right at him. The first one was that he could only enthrall undead animals until they committed their first kill. Afterwards, they would be as good as undead. The second one was far more important. It meant the destination of his free running and the intention of it as well. Whiterun had the Gildergreen and from all Leepdroon knew, no big deal had happened there so far. The worst possible would be the city being overrun by undead, which he had already survived earlier. Praying for Kynareth could help. Fact he was an argonian, after a few years away from the Hist, another religious tree would suit him. What best moment to remember about religion than when a terible calamity wrecks everything in its way and causes millions to die?

He walked, and walked, and gasped, and walked, never getting his mind off the tree. But when he was already close if not inside the hold, a stench, strong enough to take down any man if one suscepted him to breathing that, managed to pull him away from his purpose. He was close to the Sleeping Tree Camp! Such a nice camp... Mammoths to enthrall, spriggans to court, purple stoning water that nobody knew its origins... Yeah, that was the dream... His doubts about his duty to go there were all busted out when he spoke in the middle of the heart piercing silence that ruled the plains. "You will talk to a tree... Interacting with this one will make you more experienced!" But a frightful sight stopped his perilous path to the purple pool of drugs. The undead giants roamed around the spiggot, hoarding the mammoths around, also undead, many with broken tusks, prompting a threatening fantastic (in a bad way) foe which guarded the sap. Still, being undead did not mean being hostile, and giants were peaceful in general. Sneaking his foolish way to the surprisingly healthy and very lively tree, Leepdroon actually appeared to remember a few tricks from the Thieves' Guild. At his arrival, after rubbing his hands together with satisfaction, he activated the wooden valve and let the sap flow to some bottles scattered in the pool litterally under the tree. Two bottles were easily taken, and no more was allowed or Leepdroon would be harming the tree and violating the oath to the Guardians. Before he could breathe or turn around, the huge hand of a giant lifted him from the ground and held him at the height of an undead giant's eyes. "Stupid giant! I saved this camp dozens of times from hunters and even angered farmers or bounty collectors! I only needed some cheese from your mammoths and sap! You don't even have a stomach anymore, is it really that important?!" It appeared that the humanoid didn't want to do anything but prevent Leepdroon from attacking or stealing, and he still recognized some authority from the Spriggan Blade. "Don't make me enthrall a mammoth!" With a few gasps, desperately hidden so that he didn't look weak to the nomadic giants, Leepdroon freed himself from the large hand and raised his arms, as if surrendering to a guard. "I will leave... Don't worry..." And he kept his promise. After slow steps under the giant's attent eyes or eye, being one of them blind-looking, Leepdroon left the place running, happy with two bottles of sap, angry with such a foolish choice that almost had him killed.

Nothing particularly new happened until he reached the city afterwards. More undead, more running, Leepdroon actually killed one and felt too proud, risking himself to be eaten alive once again. He caught a few flowers and tried to brew an ale. Worked in some sort of poison and would have killed him if his blood wasn't mixed with sap. At the sight of the busted open gates, it felt like a stamina boost to Leepdroon. He ran all the way from the stables to Gildergreen without stopping any single time. But for such a disappointment, it wasn't worth it at all. The branches were burnt down, andmany deep cuts were made in its wood. A few piercing marks as well, too big to be nails. Teeth? The tree was undead! "Who is the sickly creep that bites trees?!" After a few moments thinking about his steamy nights with Goldenleaf, he fixed his sentence. "Asides for me, who has complete right and duty of doing so!" Proventus Avenicci walked from the fountain and gnawed at his sight. After finishing off most of the living the undead had to be starving if one further inspected it. A zombie was no threat at all. In fact, in fact, it made him laugh, being another mistake. Leepdroon crouched and reached for an axe used to harm Gildergreen, surely as an angry protest at Kynareth for allowing that menace, and flung it against Proventus. But as most of his plans, that one failed as well and the wooden hilt of the axe hit the imperial, instead of the steel blade which would have cracked his chin open and dropped his jaw to the ground. Still, no big problem. Still between small chuckles, Leepdroon choked and poisoned the undead to death with his spell and watched as he slowly knelt down, put his blooded paws around his neck, and finally passed away. At his hands. Leepdroon failed to tell if the undead needed to breathe or if the poison killed them itself, but what was certain was that they died and the strategy fit him. The undead Gildergreen only told Leepdroon to leave Whiterun, and so he did. "Well... I've always dreamt about a city just for myself, but I wish I could skip the threat of dying without going to any sort of afterlife."

There was honestly no point than to give up. After drinking an entire bottle of Sleeping Sap, Leepdroon began wandering the surroundings of the city, hopeless, thinking about how Goldenleaf would love to nag him with the "You could get yourself killed" and the usual "I had seen this coming shortly after you left" when he got home. But a voice... a strong one, appearing to be from those Skyrim for the Nords type, echoing from a forest nearby. The drug was already kicking in, but Leepdroon still realized that other survivors were the only explanation to the lack of undead in Whiterun. After that last clear thought, Leepdroon sucumbed to the stone and future hangover and began crawling his way to the voices.

Felidae · Jun 26, 2013

The Khajiit watched silently as Keyin began to point out each member of the gathering one by one, cleverly introducing them to her without seeming predominant in his actions.
"Sapling? Ralaghul? Jester?"
He then turned to look at her expectantly, and she returned his gaze. Since they had been introduced it was only fair for her to return the favour, even though she still didn't feel entirely comfortable with the present company. Under any normal circumstances she wouldn't have given personal information away so soon, in fact she probably would have walked away by now. But this wasn't a normal circumstance and she felt that she was going to be stuck with these people for some time anyway, so she might as well get acquainted now and have it out of the way. Taking a few steps forwards, she slowly removed her gauntleted left arm from under her poncho and away from the comforting touch of her shurikens, clenching her fingers into a tight fist and pressing it against her chest as a sign of greeting. Her head was lowered slightly but her eyes were still fixed, seemingly unblinking, on the group in front of her.
"Geinhaal," she replied. It might have seemed like an unusual name for a Khajiit but, as the group probably would have guessed, it was more of a moniker than an actual title. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been referred to by the latter.

The Khajiit then turned to Eori, her hand disappearing once again to its hiding place beneath her poncho.
"As you probably already know, this is Whiterun, Capital of Whiterun Hold. If you're looking for something to eat besides... that..." she prodded the troll's carcass with her foot disdainfully, "then the best places would either be the Bannered Mare tavern, which has most likely been picked clean by scavengers already, or the Dragonsreach kitchens."
She fell silent and glanced at the city gates. It was a heavily populated area within those walls, and therefore the streets could be swarming with Undead. There was also a chance that Dragonsreach might have been made into a safe-zone and thus provide food and shelter if they could fight their way up the hill, but if that too was overrun then they'd have no choice but to fight their way back out and she doubted whether they could survive that kind of move, although on the other hand they'd never know how infested the city actually was until they entered it.
Or they could just eat the troll, but that wasn't something in Geinhaal's best interests. Keyin and Eori both seemed up to it however, and she presumed that if that's what they wanted to do then it was probably best to just let them. She wasn't exactly knowledgable when it came to understanding men due to her tendency to avoid them whenever she had the chance, but from what she'd seen they got particularly irritable when their stomachs were empty.

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