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    Morbidbread

    Fight for the lost
    The desire for control is ingrained in all mortals. Maintaining order.Ruling land.Commanding troops. All mundane, common desires for those who leave the mortal realm in time. However, on not so rare occasions, the ambition of mortals exceeds their reach. Most times, this results in nothing more than a small disaster, or at most, daedric incursions. On this, particular occasion, mortals have not only exceeded their reach...they have gone beyond the bounds of sanity.

    It has been nearly a century since the dragon crisis, and the brutal civil war. The dragons were banished by the legendary dragonborn and the war ended in a bloody stalemate. In the decades that passed, Skyrim has managed to oust their Thalmor overseers, who, without the support of imperial troops, were powerless to enforce the White-Gold concordant.

    But it seems Skyrim is cursed to never know true peace. Even after the deaths of would be high king Ulfric and his court, unrest it rife in the northern province. Yet, this is the least of the provinces problems. In the year 289, of the fourth era, disaster struck the fall hold of Riften. First hand accounts report a foul sickness sweeping through the city and surrounding lands. Followed by madness and utter ruin. Kinsman turned on kinsman, laughing and sobbing and dying. The jarls quickly moved to isolate the strange contagion, manning the old bandit forts of Treva's Watch, Greenwall, and Faldar's Tooth.

    The Dawnguard, long credited with wiping out the vampire menace many years ago, have fallen silent in their fort. No courier or armed messengers requesting aid have returned. Desperation is mounting, as reports of the contagion spreading to Whiterun and Falkreath holds, in small numbers. Worse yet, is the 'priests' that roam from hold to hold, declaring this disease to be the birthing of the New God. Greater than aedra and daedra combined.

    With little recourse left to them, the jarls of Skyrim have bound together under a new high king, and summoned what willing adventurers, heroes, and assorted cutthroats willing to risk their lives for the good of the province. Those that are able are summoned to the central city of Whiterun. If they can stem this contagion and investigate this 'god' remains to be seen...Yet not all hope is lost. A man, calling himself the 'avatar' has since shown himself in the city, spreading words of hope and comfort to the populace. It is he, who has volunteered to lead this effort.



    Alright, guys. First story helmed by me, myself, and I. Going for a mix of warhammeresque/cthulu type story. This 'avatar' is going to be mostly an npc, but I'll build a little character card for him, alongside my actual character. Feel free to go crazy with your characters, but not too crazy. Follow the rules, that is. Variety is appreciated, in both classes and races. Not going to put a hard cap for writers, but we will start up when we have between 4-6 people. Would be nice if people could post once a week. More are encouraged. NPC conversational text will be white. The 'avatars' conversational text will be pale grey.



    Cast List

    Morbidbread as The Avatar 'Imperial' priest.
    and Zahar Sevaran, Khajiit warrior

    TheShadedOne as Marha Stonefang, Khajiit bounty hunter

    Drahkma as Kallas Phyrion, Imperial knight

    Nascent as Kassom Sercha,khajiit rogue and Iris Sercha ,khajiit smith

    Harkatti as Anya Frostborn,nord spellsword.

    Signus as
    Andros Haorsson, nord bounty hunter

    Screeching Spasmodically as
    Aurenia Caedrai, altmer nightblade

    Rell as
    Remarin Dreyvas, dunmer sorcerer
     
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    Morbidbread

    Fight for the lost
    The sky was a pale blue, with wispy clouds drifting lazily along barely obscuring the sun as it shone down on the city of Whiterun, capital of the hold of the same name. It was warm, almost unseasonably so, considering it was the month of Last Seed. Usually at this time of the year, the season started to turn from the warm months of summer to the cooler times of august. A cool breeze swept through the city, rustling the leaves of the ancient Gildergreen tree.

    Zahar Sevaran, a grey furred and rather intimidating looking khajiit, ignored the strange glances he got from the guards and citizens alike. He cared not for their opinions, and if the letter he'd taken from the quivering courier spoke true, they needed his help. Still, the khajiit could not help but curl his lip in amusement at the worried glances directed his way. He knew the wickedly sharp glaive he carried over his shoulder had as much to do with their concern as his fiercesome build.

    Even when coming to help the people, they still acted like frightened prey. Zahar considered commenting on this, but there was no one to comment to. Most gave him a wide berth, as they went along their day. Tilting his head back, the khajiit took in the scents of the city; sweat, freshly baked loaves, the hint of autumn on the breeze. There were other, less present scents, but he was not interested in their origin.

    Instead, he continued onwards, towards the ancient tree that marked the center of Whiterun. With few people in his way, it did not take him long to reach it. Sitting at the base of the tree was a curious sight. A human man, cross legged, eyes closed and head tilted towards the sky. A vulnerable position if ever there was one, Zahar reflected.

    Yet...something drew him to the man. Whether it was his quiet confidence, or the awestruck gazes a few of the citizens kept shooting his way, the hunter wasn't sure. The mans' eyes opened when the hulking khajiit was over a meter away, and he spoke. "Welcome. I've been expecting you." The mans' voice was firmer than he seemed capable of.

    Zahar paused, no longer certain that the man had been half as vulnerable as he seemed. The beige robes didn't seem to hide any weapons, but the aura of confidence and comfort the man exuded caught him off guard. "You...were expecting khajiit?"

    "I was. There are several more joining us" he gestured to the side, "why don't you join me? Your journey must have been tiring." It was phrased as a suggestion, but Zahar found himself complying, kneeling down beside him and setting his weapon within easy reach.

    "I am Zahar" he introduced himself and the human nodded.

    "They call me the Avatar. Quiet, now please. Our companions approach."
     

    Nascent

    Member
    Whiterun was a strange place for him. For one thing, Kassom only usually saw the cities of the Holds at night, and even then only when sneaking about. Being here in the daylight felt... wrong. Exposed. Vulnerable. The fact that he'd opted to don a heavy black cloak to keep his identity concealed did him few favors -- he still drew more than a few wary looks, especially from the guards, and it wasn't that hard to figure out he was Khajit regardless. Iris, just a few paces behind him with her face barely concealed beneath a hooded shawl, was impossible to miss -- the jangling of her huge pack saw to that, and her wandering gaze saw to it that enough people caught a look at her face.

    He loved his sister... but she was far, far too trusting. Even this far removed from their own time the prejudices of Nords hadn't changed. They needed to be careful, even if they had been invited in.

    It wasn't just odd seeing the city in the day. Whiterun itself was strange, a fact he attributed to the giant tree in the middle of the city. The Gildergreen smelled of peppermint, crushed garlic, upturned earth, and something he couldn't put his finger on -- a scent quite unlike any magic he'd ever been exposed to, assuming it was magic. He could catch a whiff of it even from outside the walls and was willing to bet he could navigate the city blindfolded using only the scent and the direction of the wind... not that it was a good idea. Too many steps in Whiterun. Damn vertical city.

    "C'mon, almost there." Kassom urged his sister on, rounding on the Bannered Mare to face the very steps he'd just been thinking about. Whose bright idea was it to build a city sloped upwards? He only had to steady his sister once as they went, but it proved his point for all intents and purposes.

    Reaching the top, both Sercha siblings were surprised to see another Khajit waiting there -- a rather intimidating figure, at that -- alongside a human. A monk, maybe? He had the look. Immediately a smell of arcana came over the red-furred rogue, an ethereal odor he couldn't easily identify. For a long moment he just stood, starring at the robed man and trying to figure out what he was sensing...

    "Oh, is this where the group is gathering?" The young Khajit woman asked, smiling. Her eyes were particularly on Zahar -- or rather, his weapons and armor. A glaive and half-plate weren't things she'd had much exposure to, and the urge to ask for a closer look was very strong. Much, much too forward, though. Instead she settled her pack on the ground and stepped forward, hand extended to Zahar. "Greetings to you! I'm Iris."
     

    Signus

    Well-Known Member
    Andros Haorsson entered the city of Whiterun with his axe slung over his shoulder and the cloth mask covering the lower half of his face. He may have looked the part of the nord, sounded like them, but he was not. While he didn't expect his former kinsmen to recognize him for what he really was, there was no sense in taking stupid risks. So he glared at anyone who got to close and kept his mask up.

    He had been told that the jarls had sent word for any sellsword, adventurer, or 'hero' to meet in Whiterun. As meeting places went, it wasn't a bad one. The city was centrally located and easy to get to. More importantly, it hadn't yet been infected by the insanity that seemed to be spreading from the Rift. He wasn't too sure what was going on in the city of thieves.

    He'd heard rumours, of course. Some that coincided and some that contradicted each other. Some said that a sickness had burned through the city, causing everyone to go completely insane and murder each other. Some said that a cult of some kind was responsible, but Andros wasn't sure he believed that. Cults typically didn't have the power to wipe out a whole city. The craziest rumour he'd heard was that some new god was stirring, causing catastrophe as it did.

    True or not, all of those rumours were good enough reasons to stay well away from Riften and the surrounding hold. Up until now, that was. Andros was more adept at hunting people, not following leads, but for the amount of gold they were offering, it couldn't hurt to take a look around. Besides, not too many contracts were making the rounds these days.

    He reached the center of the city, where a large, clearly ancient tree grew, its' leaves rustling in the breeze. Already, three figures were clustered around a fourth. Three khajiit and a human, unless his eyes deceived him. Andros made his way over, but stayed upwind of them. The Thirst had been dormant ever since he'd fed on a small bandit camp. Having it flare up in the middle of a city would be...problematic. For now he kept his mouth shut and merely observed from several metres away.
     

    TheShadedOne

    The Angry One
    Marha Stonefang made her way through the gates without any trouble from the guard. They knew her around Whiterun. Or at least, they knew her reputation. She had her hood up despite the warmth of the day. Known or not, she didn't like people staring at her. The few citizens going about their business glanced at her weapons, armour and wisely decided to move on. Marha wasn't one to give in to fits of rage and murder people for no reason, but people tended to be nervous around individuals of her profession. For good reason; bounty hunters, sellswords, assassins, all tended to run in the same circles. Hell, she'd worked with a few of the latter and more of the former.

    The cool breeze washed across her face, bringing scents of food and unwashed people all mixed together. She wrinkled her nose at another, more general scent; fear. The commoners were afraid and if what she'd heard was true, for good reason. Plagues, murder, and madmen. Some of those madmen who'd made their way north and west. Even if half of that was untrue, anything that made the jarls desperate enough to band together and summon a band of mercenaries, adventurers and murderers together was something to be afraid of.

    She wondered for a moment what that said about her. A mere mention of reward and she'd come running, like some loyal hound. She chuckled dryly, imagining meeting her end for some paltry reward. "Comes with the job," she murmured to herself making her way uphill, towards the giant tree that dominated the center of town. It wasn't a difficult walk for someone used to traveling long distances, though she wished she was headed to the Bannered Mare instead.

    Reaching the center of town and ignoring the chatter of the market place around them, she saw three khajiit, all in close proximity. A fourth figure sat on the ground, seemingly at ease. A fifth, she guessed human, though it was hard to tell with the mask and helmet, watched from a distance. Instead of approaching the larger group, she went to him. "You know," she drawled, "unless you're trying to be obvious, I would pick a different spot to watch from."
     

    Rell

    Champion of Malacath!
    Remorin Dreyvas strolled through the streets of Whiterun, drawing the occassional odd look, but he was focused on something much greater than a few disgruntled locals. There was, of course, the chance that one of his former acquaintances from the college might recognize him, but he doubted it. The fools rarely left their precious college, and he very much doubted the guards from that miserable little town had managed to get out word to the rest of Skyrim. Besides, there were enough things going on in the province to make a simple manhunt inconsequential.

    He had heard of the strange madness and murder that seemed to be surely but slowly spreading outwards from the Rift. More interestingly, he had heard of the madmen fashioning themselves 'prophets' spreading throughout Skyrim. Apparently, they were the servant of some new god, more powerful than any of the current deities. Remorin had no interest in serving such a creature, of course. He had only grudgingly apprenticed himself to the teachers at the college. Dedicating himself to a god served by raving madmen did not appeal to him in the slightest.

    Truthfully, he wasn't particularly interested in helping anyone fight said god, either. One did not get power by throwing themselves into an impossible cause. On the other hand, joining the assembling group of 'heroes' in the city was an acceptable ruse for gathering more power. Or at least, the best way to steal some of this new gods' power for for himself. If that meant he left those other 'heroes' to die horribly, so be it. Remorin rubbed his hands together, chuckled and continued his way up to the massive tree that stood at the center of the city.

    Already, a small group had assembled and to the sorcerers' surprise, most were khajiit. Things were less strict than they had been decades ago, but to see so many of the furred humanoids was somewhat of a surprise. The only humans he saw were a masked man, standing off to the side, and a priest or mage of some sort, sitting on the stone ground, cross legged. "Well, isn't this a quaint gathering. A little more fur than I would expect, but no matter. I assume you are all here to answer the call of the jarls?"
     

    Signus

    Well-Known Member
    Andros glanced at the khajiit with a hint of amusement in his eyes. The khajiit did have a point; he was standing out in the open where anyone who was paying even a little attention would see him. Then, he wasn't too worried about being seen. After all, he had come to Whiterun to join the group being assembled to investigate claims of a 'new god'. While he no longer held any faith in the divines, he certainly wasn't keen on some cult raising some sort of creature to rule over men and mer. To the khajiit, he said, "I'm just...trying to size up this group. A few khajiit and an old man hardly seem like an ideal bunch to go after some cult. I'm guessing you've heard the stories coming out of the Rift." As he spoke, he watched a dunmer who seemed to have a rather dim view of the goings on make his way to join the khajiit and the man. "Correction, group of khajiit, an old man, and a dark elf now."
     

    Drahkma

    Dashing Imperial Officer.
    Kallas Phyrion, knight of the empire and occasional adventurer, strode through the streets of Whiterun with a purpose. He had been in the afield when the call for adventurers and heroes had been sent out. Knowing how proud the people of Skyrim were, he was surprised and more than a little concerned by the summons. Since when did the jarls of the the land band together so easily? True, he had heard disturbing whispers about sickness and madness from the south east of the province, but nothing to spur such actions. Once he'd arrived, the rumours had only gotten worse. Slaughter and fires in Riften and madmen spreading throughout the holds, prophesying the rise of some 'new god'.

    Nonsense, of course. Yet...the people in the city watched him with barely disguised suspicion, keeping a good distance from him, while guardsmens' hands stayed near their weapons. The letter the courier had handed off to him indicated he was to meet the others of their group at the city center. The streets inclined as he made his way up towards his destination. A large tree, still full of leaves late into the season, dominated the nearby buildings. A market had been set up around it, though the knights' attention was drawn to the group nearest the tree.

    A surprisingly large group of khajiit, a masked man with an intimidating looking axe, a dunmer who seemed to be a mage, and perhaps stranger yet, a robed, older man, sitting cross legged on the ground, taking advantage of the shade offered by the crown of leaves above them. Several of the group looked to be evaluating the others, indicating that they were not, for the most part, close acquaintances. A pair of khajiit, one with an over large pack on her shoulders, seemed to be keeping close to another who was dressed in rags, with a hint of something else underneath. Armour, perhaps.

    Kallas sauntered over to them, his armour making surprising little sound as he advanced. When he was beside the pair of khajiit and near to the old man, he bowed slightly. "Good day. Kallas Phyrion, of Cyrodiil, at your service." He put his hands on his hips, tucking his thumbs into his belt. "A pleasant day to begin our task, isn't it?"
     

    Harkatti

    Sorceress Supreme!
    Anya Frostborn, first daughter of clan Frostborn and wandering blade, entered the city of Whiterun at an unhurried stroll. She resisted the urge to let her guard down, instead she took in her surroundings with the seasoned eye of an experienced fighter. The guards paid little attention to the nord in their midst, dismissing her as one of many.

    The atmosphere was tense, but she didn't see any reason for such an attitude. Of course, she had heard the stories that were circulating around the holds. They were what had brought her to the city, after all. In all her years of adventuring, she had never heard of all the jarls of Skyrim banding together to dispose of something.

    Or investigate as the words on the tattered notice she had read had specified. She had not yet seen any of the 'priests' that had been shouting of the birth of a new god. Though if she was hired for this particular task, she was sure she'd be meeting them sooner than later.

    She assumed that she, and any others who arrived would be sent to the jarls' palace, Dragonsreach, at the top of the city. So she was quite surprised to see a rather large group assembled around the glorious Gildergreen tree, all of whom looked like adventuring or mercenary types.

    There were an abundance of khajiit, a dunmer in the robes of a mage, a masked man with a large axe, and finally, knight, covered in plate armour and seemingly the latest arrival. "I take it this is where we are meeting, then? A strange choice, considering we were summoned by the jarl."
     

    Morbidbread

    Fight for the lost
    Zahar stared up at the curiously coloured khajiit woman who had extended her hand and introduced herself as Iris. Trusting or naive, he wasn't sure, but he found her behaviour oddly endearing. Standing to his full height, he accepted her hand, "greetings to you as well. I am Zahar." He normally wasn't one to volunteer his name so easily, but if they were to be working together, it made sense to get names out of the way as quickly as possible. He scooped up his glaive and rested it easily against his shoulder, before looking around at all the others who had arrived. An elf in mage robes, another khajiit, and what looked like several humans. A diverse group, to be sure, with a strange abundance of khajiit, himself included.

    One of the humans, a nord, if Zahar guessed right, was overheard asking why they were all meeting underneath the big tree, instead of at the jarls' residence, at the highest point of the city. The big khajiiti mercernary shrugged, having no real answer. It was certainly a good question, and he'd only joined the old man out of sheer curiousity. "Ask him" he said, jerking his thumb towards the man, who had also gotten to his feet and was taking the group in with a strangely intense expression on his face.

    "Actually, there's no need to meet with the jarl." The man explained, "I arrived several weeks ago, and spoke with them about the, ah, crisis, going on in Riften and the surrounding holds. They charged myself and any who would join me with finding out what, exactly, is going on there." The man finished speaking, then turned somber "I can not command any of you to follow. But if you set out with me on this journey, there is a real danger that you will not be coming back...at least, not the same as you were when you left." There was a moments' pause as he waited for objections, or for any who wished to walk away to do so. When none did, he nodded. "So be it", glancing at the sky, he nodded again. "Well, let's be off then. The Rift is a long ways from here, and I don't like the idea of wasting daylight."
     

    Nascent

    Member
    No climbing of more steps? That suited Kassom just fine. And as for "not coming back"... in a way, he was hoping as much. Though the idea of facing down a strange plague and accompanying cult wasn't precisely his idea of a good time, but if a way back to the past was to be found this might be the kind of endeavor it'd be found on. After all, his previous efforts delving into Dwemer ruins hadn't turned up a solution yet... maybe this so-called Avatar, or the deranged cultists the group would have to face, would at least be able to provide some clue.

    "How are we travelling? This is a sizable group, after all." He directed the question towards the man who claimed to speak for the Jarls. "And more importantly, what's our plan for not catching this plague, exactly? As I understand it Riften had it's share of temple-priests and healers, yet it still fell. What do we know, and what precautions are we taking?"
     

    Rell

    Champion of Malacath!
    Remorin turned towards the ragged looking khajiit "yes, well spoken my khajiit fellow." He tried to keep the distaste he felt from being so close to someone in such a poor state of dress. "How will we be making our way to Riften? Not walking, I hope. It'd take weeks to make the trip, and I've no intention of marching there like some common foot soldier." He glanced over his shoulder towards the others "no offense intended." That wasn't necessarily true. He might need these others to absorb a few blows, but making friends was something he had little interest in. The sorcerer took a few moments to take a look at the newest of his companions, and was disappointed to see that he seemed to be the only spell caster among them. Perhaps that wasn't so bad, Remorin mused, the less mages, the less he would have to share power with, if things went his way.
     

    Morbidbread

    Fight for the lost
    The old man nodded at the ragged looking khajiit. "Good questions. During my stay in Skyrim, I have discovered several things about this 'plague' that laid Riften low so quickly. While it can be contracted by those already infected, its origin seems to be magical in nature, not biological." He explained, then he gestured to a nord woman with a crate of flasks at her feet. "I requested that Sigun there, brew some potions to counteract both magic and disease. The flasks should last us for the duration of our trip, so long as this sickness has not spread further than feared."

    "That is all very impressive," Zahar drawled, "but you have not said how we are getting to the Rift in the first place."

    "I was just getting to that," the old man said patiently, "as I was about to say, the jarls have granted me a discretionary fund. With it, I have purchased a wagon and several horses. They should prove adequate for our needs, I think." With that, he walked to the woman he had named as Sigun, picked up a flask, and tossed it to Zahar. "Claim your own flasks and join me at the gates, if you please. Haste is important, and I feel that these 'prophets' will not wait for us to come and stop them."
     

    Signus

    Well-Known Member
    Andros listened to the old humans' speech and final instructions. It seemed the man had dealt with the so called prophets before, as well as the sickness that had ravaged the Rift. The nord vampire eyed the case of potion flasks. Would they work for him? Were the undead even susceptible to the plague? Whatever the case, the alchemist woman was watching, and he was sure the others would have questions if he was the only one not to take a flask. So he grabbed one and shoved it into a belt satchel, then began making his way down towards the main gate of Whiterun. The few guards he came across nodded to him, accepting him as a fellow nord. Their acceptance brought a melancholy smile to his face. If only they saw what was beneath the mask he thought. Instead of nods and words, there would be fire and steel. He'd seen it before.
     

    Harkatti

    Sorceress Supreme!
    Normally, Anya wasn't particularly interested in potions. Deep down, she knew her distrust of alchemy stemmed from some deep cultural superstition. On the other hand, she was even less interested in catching the disease that had run rampant through Riften. With that in mind, she snatched up one of the flasks and set it in her belt. The masked man, axe in hand, was ahead of her, having already taken his flask and headed towards the gate. She caught up to him, noting that his skin, what little of it she could see, was unusually pale, as though he spent little time in the sunlight. It struck her as odd, but Anya was not particularly dark skinned herself. "Hail, kinsman" she said as she reached his side. "Strange times, that we find ourselves working alongside khajiit and elves."
     

    Drahkma

    Dashing Imperial Officer.
    Kallas watched the discussion, not saying much himself. In fact, he was much more interested in gathering information than volunteering it himself. One of the four khajiit present was doing an adequate job of extracting information from the old man that had been sitting with the big khajiit not too long ago. The old man a priest or mage of some sort, Kallas thought, seemed to have foreseen their coming, or at least the arrival of a group of adventurers. A woman, a nord alchemist by the looks of her, brought out a prepared crate, containing, according to the imperial, vials that would hold off the wretched disease that plagued the Rift.

    Having heard enough, and knowing that time was of the essence, he stepped forwards, taking one of the vials and securing it in a satchel. He joined the others in their trip back down the hill, somewhat pleased that he would not have to make his way to dragonsreach. He glanced over at the pair of nords as the woman mentioned how odd it was that they should be working beside elves and khajiit. "Perhaps it is a time for change. This plague in the Rift seems to target all, without discriminating."
     

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