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18+ The Eternal Cycle

Discussion in 'Active Stories' started by Thesius, Jul 27, 2020.

  1. Thesius

    Thesius The Imperial Paladin

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    It has been fifteen years since the end of the dragon crisis, the death of Alduin, the World Eater, and the disappearance of the person known only as 'dragonborn'. It has been ten years since the brutal civil war came to an end, with the Stormcloaks and Ulfric, victorious. It has been five years since the assassination of Ulfric Stormcloak, the High King of Skyrim. Now, Skyrim once more hangs on the brink of war, with the imperial legion lurking at the borders and bandits running rampant in the wilds. Murmurs of nord supremacy are spreading from formerly rebel aligned holds, such as Dawnstar and Windhelm. Already, blood stains the snow red in those places.

    Yet, there is a cautious, hopeful stability throughout the rest of Skyrim. The people tenaciously cling to their independance, but maintain law and order throughout their respective holds. Though bandits may rule the outskirts and ruins, the hold guard maintain a vigil on the walls and roads. The jarls know that another civil war, so close to the last, may well destroy Skyrim once and for all.

    It is the hold of Falkreath, claimed almost entirely by great forests and crumbling towers, that has drawn the least scrutiny. Already known as the 'graveyard city' Falkreath has grown in the decade and a half since the dragon crisis. Still, it is somewhat less than the rest of Skyrim, and so no one pays much attention to the inhabitants of the hold. Or the disappearances. Or the murders. Sidgeir, jarl of Falkreath, is proud and independant. But even he knows when he's outmatched. A call for adventurers and mercenaries has been issued throughout Tamriel. Time is of the essence. The eldest of the nords talk among their ales and pipes, whispering that such troubles have come before...that this is just part of an endless cycle.
     
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  2. Thesius

    Thesius The Imperial Paladin

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    The rain was constant. Well, maybe not constant, but pretty damn persistent. The orcish paladin shot a disgruntled glare towards the dark grey sky. His displeasure, as always, had absolutely no impact on the weather. Grumbling, he trudged onwards, tugging his worn cloak around himself. "Why couldn't the note have had people go to Solitude, or Riften? Those places are nice all year round. More or less." But fate didn't work that way, apparently. Arkay, apparently, also didn't work that way. Ever since he'd had the summons shoved into his hand, he'd felt a small but insistent urge to visit the 'graveyard' town.

    He passed through the gates, ignoring the half-hearted scrutiny of the guards who had no desire to leave their warm, mead and food stocked guardhouse. Murtagh was aware of an inn in Falkreath, morbidly named as everything else in the town. The Dead Man's Drink, that was it. It had grown since the end of the war. Up, mostly, adding another floor to the inn. Murtagh wasn't picky about where he stayed, so long as he got out of the rain and the cold. He pushed the door open and took a look around.

    There were a few regulars, but no one that stood out to the paladin of Arkay as anyone specially geared up for an adventure. A few of the typical merc types, lurking in the corner or getting a drink. None were foolish enough to bother the already grumpy looking orc. They became even less likely after he set his warhammer within easy reach beside him. Situating himself with a good view of the door and room he was in, he ordered a bowl of rabbit stew.
     
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  3. Rafen

    Rafen Well-Known Member

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    Djor kept his hood up as he strode without hesitation through the woods of Falkreath hold. He knew the surrounding landscape like the back of his hand....which was just the problem. Not everyone remembered the massacre his family had perpetrated against the people of Falkreath, but some did. And those few were not the forgiving type. Djor had spent the better part of his adulthood trying to redeem his clan name, but that was hard to do while dodging assassins and bounty hunters. Falkreath hold was outside Whiteruns' jurisdiction...technically. That wouldn't stop any particularly determined bounty hunters though.

    He brushed a low hanging branch out of his way, and stepped out onto the road. Wanted in Falkreath or not, leaping out at guardsmen on a dark and stormy night was an excellent way to get stabbed. He was still far enough away from the gate that it was unlikely he would be seen, unless there happened to be someone right behind him, or coming down the road at that time. Seeing no one, he pulled his cloak closer to his body. Without the protection of the canopy above, he was exposed to the sheer volume of water falling from the sky. Fortunately, his cloak was doing an adequate job of keeping him dry. For now.

    His normally dour expression turned into a brief smirk as he pictured himself, a veteran ranger, catching hypothermia and dying in the wilds because he neglected to take care of himself. Taking up a brisk pace, he hurried to the gate, offering a nod to the guards, who barely glanced at him as he swept past. He didn't predict much trouble from the guardsmen themselves. He had stopped many times in Falkreath to offer aid or purchase supplies.

    Therefore, he knew just where to go to find the Dead Man's Drink. Which, coincidentally, was also where he was supposed to meet his new comrades. The door was lit by a small, flickering lantern, mounted on the wall. The sign with the name painted in large letters was swinging in the wind, lashed by rain. The ranger pushed the door open and stepped inside, taking a quick look around. Most people were too busy with their own meals or conversations to take much notice of a single man coming in from the rain.

    Djor stepped inside, water droplets falling from his cloak. He glanced around and immediately noticed two things. One, was the large orc man in heavy armour, a warhammer beside him. Clearly, he was not a regular. The second, was the two men in the right corner of the room. They'd frozen in place, eyes locking onto Djor just as his gaze found them. Their hands went to their belts, but the ranger could not see what they reached for. Not wanting to get the orc involved, he picked a seat that offered him a good view of the two men and the door against the far wall of the tavern.
     
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  4. Signus

    Signus Well-Known Member

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    Soric Dane rode out the bumps and holes in the cobbled road that lead to the hold capital of Falkreath with an expression of strained patience. In truth, he hated carriage rides. They always left his stomach feeling unsettled like the sight of an opponents blood on blade never had. Of course, could only be a good thing. A master swordsman who couldn't stand the sight of his enemies blood would almost certainly not get very far in life. Finally, thankfully, the covered carriage came to a halt. Soric heard voices, the drivers and someone elses, speak briefly, then a firm knock at the door of the carriage. Soric reached out and opened the door.

    A wet, annoyed looking guardsman stood in the rain that had persisted since the carriage had entered Falkreath hold. "Good evening, guardsman. What can I do for you?"

    The guard, a nord wearing an open faced helm, seemed less than amused by Sorics' cordial attitude. "Evening," the man grunted. "What brings you to Falkreath, breton?"

    "Business, as a matter of fact. On behalf of your jarl." He held up the folded piece of parchment, and the guard thrust out his hand, palm up. Soric handed it over and waited as the nord read the summons. Satisfied, the guard handed it back.

    "Right then. On your way, and cause no trouble."

    "Might you direct me to the nearest tavern? I would guess that is where the others will be meeting."

    The guardsman sighed as water drops continued to strike his helmet and roll off of it. Odds were, he just wanted to get back to his warm, dry, guardhouse, rather than stand around giving instructions to strangers. "Take the road in. Turn right. 'Bout halfway down the street, you'll find the Dead Mans Drink."

    "Many thanks" Soric called, as the guard grumbled a reply and turned back towards the guardhouse. Soric relayed the information to his driver, who sent the carriage clattering onwards.

    A blessedly short amount of time later, they were outside the tavern. Soric tossed the man his pay, a not inconsiderable amount of hold, and walked inside. His eyes found the orc first, and little wonder. The orc was tall, well built, and carried an intimidating looking hammer. But he also seemed the only potential contact in the place, aside from a hooded figure at the far wall. Soric stepped over and took a seat opposite the orc. "Good evening. Soric Dane, master swordsman of High Rock." He said, waiting some acknowledgement.
     
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  5. Madrar

    Madrar The Shadow in the Dark.

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    Nurian the masked strode through the gates of Skyrim, his appearance almost definitely different to those who had come before. His dark robes and silvered mask gave him a distinctly sinister appearance, though his intentions were anything but. The guards, unnerved by the tall apparation that appeared before them out of the gloom of night, didn't know that. Both men rushed out, spears in hand, moving to block the gates, and access to the town of Falkreath. Fortunately for them and Nurian, they didn't go so far to attack him. It would be difficult enough for him to gain entrance without killing or crippling the men.

    "Alright, hold it right there, stranger." The older of the two said, holding up a hand to enforce his command. "State your business in Falkreath, and your reason for being out this late."

    "Apologies. I am Nurian, the masked, as you can see from my appearance. I've come at the call of the jarls, to offer my services. As for the late hour; it is quite a walk from Solitude to Falkreath. I've not the means to pay for a carriage, nor a horse."

    The guards glanced at each other, doubt written all over their faces. "If you're here on the jarls' summons, let's see it." The older man barked, holding a hand out. Nurian handed over the official letter, and the guardsman read the letter, then sighed and handed it back.

    "Okay. Head on through, but we'll be keeping an eye on you. If you're anything like the others, you'll want the Dead Mans' Drink. Just down the road there."

    Nurian nodded his thanks and followed the guards instructions. The inn was right where the man had said it would be. Pushing the door open, he saw that he was not the first non-human to arrive. An orc with a warhammer next to him, sitting with a human man across from him. The altmer looked around and noted a third man sitting against the far wall, obviously trying to avoid attention. He was failing, Nurian noted, as two men were approaching, hands reaching for something at their belts.

    Nurian made a beeline for the man sitting against the wall, making a show of throwing his arms out "my friend!" He shouted, "it's been too long since we've spoken!" The altmer helped himself to a seat across from the man, and leaned in conspiratorially. "You seem to have drawn some unwanted attention." He said in a much lower voice.
     
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  6. Rell

    Rell Champion of Malacath!

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    Hafnar Thelgn stomped through the muck and puddles with the stoic demeanor of someone who'd had to do it dozens of times before. Falkreath hold being Falkreath hold, the rain didn't show any signs of letting up. His axe rested over one shoulder, bouncing slightly with his stride. The paired smaller axes, slipped through loops on his belt, did the same. The tattered cloak he wore slung over one shoulder did little to keep the rain off of him, much to his annoyance. He may have been a soldier once, but at least back then he'd had reliable equipment. Though, actually getting his hands on that equipment had been something of a chore.

    He came upon the guardhouse soon after, soaked, grumpy, and ready for a good drink. Or two. Or maybe three. He knew he was there to meet one of the jarls' functionaries, and perhaps a couple of his new companions. He very much doubted he was the only blade for hire to hear of the jarls' call for aid. The guards spotted him and moved forwards to intercept, spears at the ready. Hafnar lowered his axe, to appear at least a little bit less threatening.

    With a start, he realized he knew of the men approaching him, spear at the ready. "Thorig, if you poke me with that twig, I swear I'll toss you over the gods damned wall!"

    The guard on the right halted, cocking his head as if he hadn't quite heard right. "Hafnar?"

    With a roll of the eyes, Hafnar said "no, I'm a ghost, sent to haunt you for past misdeeds. Of course it's me, you horker brain!"

    Thorig lowered the spear immediately, motioning for his fellow guard to do the same. "Hafnar, what are you doing in Falkreath?"

    "Freezing to death, what's it look like, "Hafnar said, plucking at his soaking cloak. With a nod, the two guards ushered him into the guard house.

    "Sorry. Been a bit of a strange night." Thorig apologized as Hafnar took of his cloak and hung it beside two others on a hook.

    "Strange how?"

    "Well, first we had some angry looking orc. Then a fella who had this hunted look about him. Then some fancy bloke in a carriage, and not half an hour ago, the strangest yet; a man that wore all dark robes, with this black mask. Seemed mighty sinister to me."

    "And you let him anyways" Hafnar said, accepting a bottle of ale from the other guard and taking a seat by the fire. "Some guard you are" he chuckled, then sat back. "So, what's got ol' Sidgeir in a fuss that he's calling in all these strange folk?" Thorig looked disturbed, and told him.
     
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  7. Thesius

    Thesius The Imperial Paladin

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    Murtagh looked up as someone invited themselves to sit at the table he'd claimed. The orc set his half eaten bowl of stew aside and eyed the man warily. He definitely had the air of an adventurer about him, and looked equipped for the part. There was a good chance that he was one of those that had been summoned to Falkreath, just like him. He introduced himself as Soric Dane, a master swordsman, allegedly. Murtagh thought the title was more than a little presumptuous, but now wasn't the time to start a fight. "I'm Murtagh." He stated, not bothering to get up, "paladin of Arkay." He noticed a tall, robed figure approach one of the men who had entered after him, and make a big deal of greeting the man. A suspiciously big deal.
     
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  8. Rafen

    Rafen Well-Known Member

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    Djor looked up in surprise as a masked...person approached and loudly greeted him. The accent sounded vaguely aldmeri, but he wasn't sure. He hadn't met many high elves, and this one didn't much look like those few he had seen. The masked elf took a seat and leaned in. Djor opened his mouth to protest. He didn't need the elfs' help, and he certainly hadn't asked for it. "You seem to have drawn some unwanted attention." At that reminder, he glanced up, past the elfs' shoulder. The two thugs, almost certainly hired to remove his head, glared at the elfs' back, then went for the door. Apparently, they had no stomach for a fair fight. The men left and Djor found himself gritting his teeth. "It seems I am in your debt, stranger."
     
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  9. Aethalia

    Aethalia Well-Known Member

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    She entered Falkreath like a wraith- leather clad body slipping with ease through the cold, rainy night, without even a fog of breath to betray her approach. The guards did not challenge her. As far as they were concerned, there was nothing to challenge. Neither the rain nor cold bothered her as much as they would have anyone else. Then, most others weren't pale, cold skinned creatures of the night to begin with. The vampiress made her way along the rain-slicked streets, headed towards the local tavern, the Dead Man's Drink. An appropriate name, she thought, remembering back to what she'd heard of the recent troubles in the hold.

    People found murdered, people disappearing...Aliah wondered if one or more of her own kind was responsible for the trouble. Officially, the blame was being placed on a band of bandits. She wasn't so sure. There were certainly a lot of bandits, after the war, and she was sure kidnapping and murder fit neatly into their mode of operations, but something seemed...different about this. Bandits struck at trade caravans and lightly guarded merchants. They didn't slaughter people for the joy of it. But without any hard evidence of whatever else it might be, bandits were the official story. Bandits, after all, were a known element.

    Personally, Aliah wasn't particularly interested in who or what was behind the disappearances. She just wanted to find her younger sister and get her home. Even if she couldn't go back herself, she could at least ensure Senya made it. She came across the door to the tavern, her coat flapping in the wind and rain as she pushed the door open. Immediately, she brought a hand up to cover her nose and mouth. The scent of blood called to her.

    It had several days since she'd fed, and that on a starving thief who'd drawn his blade on her as she walked down the road. The taste of his blood and the nourishment it had provided, were a fading memory. She quickly scanned the room, picking out an orc, a pair of humans, and a cloaked and masked figure, speaking with a nord at the far table. Aliah quickly claimed a table, waving away the barmaid as she approached. It was time to wait and see who arrived to answer the jarls' summons.
     
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  10. TheArgonianDrell

    TheArgonianDrell Well-Known Member

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    Tallus sighed and glanced up at the darkened sky. The rain had been falling for hours now, and though the water didn't bother the argonian as much as it did the smooth skinned humans and elves, it was cold. Cold enough to creep beneath his scales and make him shiver in his boots. The simple cloak he'd bought off some traveling merchants was doing little to keep him dry. He was glad he'd unstrung his crossbow and stored the string in one of his larger belt pouches. He hated to think of the headache it would be having to replace water ruined bowstring. The sturdily built body of his crossbow had been water proofed, of course. The weapon had been with him for years now, and it would have been beyond negligent for him to mistreat it.

    With a sigh, he tugged his hood back into place, adjusted the strap of his crossbow, and trudged on. The wall of Falkreath hold came into view not long after. Braziers sputtered in the rain, but he could see the warm light of a fire emanating from the window of a guard house. He walked up to it, made his introductions, noting that one of the three nords inside looked considerably wetter than his comrades. The guardsmen had a look about them that indicated Tallus was not the first, nor the strangest adventurer to come through the gates on this particular night. One of the men instructed him to find the Dead Mans' drink in town, doubtless where the other sellswords and adventurers had congregated.

    Leaving them with his thanks, Tallus continued on, until he found the building that was labeled as the Dead Mans' Drink by the sign currently being battered by the wind. The argonian made his way inside, and garnered more than a few strange looks; apparently, argonians were not so common in Falkreath. Or perhaps it was the lateness of the hour that did it. Whatever the case, he shrugged, removing his soaking cloak and stepping over to a table where a human and an orc were already speaking. "Good evening. Do you mind if I join you?"
     
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  11. Madrar

    Madrar The Shadow in the Dark.

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    The human seemed almost displeased that Nurian had stepped in on his behalf. The mage suspected it was something to do with the legendary stubbornness and pride of the nords. A silly, dangerous thing, pride. Not offended, the altmer waved a gloved hand "in my debt? Hardly. Those men seemed like a rather unpleasant type, though I can't imagine what issue they would take with you." As he spoke, he quietly examined the man, though he seemed like every other nord Nurian had met in his life. Perhaps a little more wary, which was excusable, considering what had just transpired. "I am Nurian. Here at the request of the jarl of Falkreath. Might I assume the same of you?" It did not escape his notice that the tavern was filling up around them with all kinds of interesting characters, from another altmer, a woman who avoided the other patrons, to an argonian with rain still glistening on his scales.
     
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  12. Simus

    Simus An Excellent Site Member

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    Simus opened his eyes as he listened to the rain hit his window. He'd been awake several minutes already but the bed was too comfortable for him to move just yet. Even if he wanted to he was stiff and sore. The ride had just taken so much out of him and going to sleep right after an ale and a hot lunch probably did more harm than good. Bane at least had held up much better than he did and was likely asleep in a warm pile of hay by now. Simus hadn't gone to sleep so much as lost consciousness. Now that he had come to he realized his head hurt and he was hungry again. The good news is he was in a position to fix both. He dragged himself out of bed and after a few popping joints he was able to stand up. He wasn't a shriveled old man just yet but he'd definitely lost weight. The gut he'd been developing in retirement had receded with his appetite in recent years. His once toned muscles had shrunk, his runs and exercises were harder every day and his once strong face had become gaunt. Carlotta still promised him he was so handsome and that he would always be hers. That she was proud of him. That he'd accomplished so much in life and now he needed to learn how to rest. But Simus didn't want to rest. That meant rusting. Rotting. Being forgotten while Carlotta, or worse Alice, would have to take more and more care of him. No, he wouldn't do that to them. He wasn't about to go soft and he wasn't gonna just wait around to die. That's why he was here. To show Skyirm, and especially himself, that the retired General Simus Psyrakon still had his spirit. And the strength to back it up.

    He put on his pants and began a regimen of push ups. He eased his weight down onto the floor, almost touching it with his nose before arresting it and heaving back up into the air again. Always making sure to maintain proper form and control his breathing. The first ten reps were the hardest but the arthritis in his hands and elbows had eased after that and his muscles had warmed up. He exhaled with relief as the stiffness of sleep had been banished and he was now able to ease into his next set. He brought his count up to twenty. Than thirty, forty and finally to fifty. He collapsed after fifty one but gave a satisfied sigh. He'd gotten through it and the warm heat of the regimen was his reward. He was actually able to smile as he got up to get his shirt on. By the time his boots were on he was ready to face the world again. His long black coat was the last to be pulled on before exiting his room and heading downstairs to the bar. Yes he had a mission to complete but he was in no hurry to see Jarl Sidgeir. The entitled idiot was just as much a brat as he was fifteen years ago and now he didn't have his uncle Dengeir to hold his hand or his old steward to clean up his messes. Falkreath had really gone down the crapper since he'd started to actually manage things. Everything but Dead Man's Drink that is. Business was a lot easier when the Jarl paid all your bills and only occasionally depleted your ale supply with his mouth breather friends.

    He left his coat open as he got downstairs and was quite surprised to see the assembled crowd. There were a lot more people in here now than there were a lunch and this was completely normal but there were some figures that really stood out. A large Orc in heavy armor was talking to a couple of men. One was wearing a cloak and looked like a man who didn't like being seen and the other a well dressed swordsman, either Breton or Reachman, Simus couldn't tell. A large Argonian had just taken off a soaking wet cloak and asked if he could join them. These men were probably here for the same thing he was but it was the leather clad elven vampire sitting at a table by herself that caught his eye. This was someone Simus had never expected to see again. Someone who by all rights should be home in Alinor enjoying her own people and building a life for herself. Someone whom had lost almost as much as Simus had in life and had paid a far higher price for it. He walked over to her, still amazed that she was here, and put his hands on the opposite chair. Ready to sit down if she accepted him but easily able to leave if she declined.

    "Mind if I join you?" He asked with the smile he had just so recently found again and the spirit she would definitely remember.
     
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  13. Aethalia

    Aethalia Well-Known Member

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    Aliah had been inspecting the new faces, noting that most of them seemed like the typical adventurer types, or mercenary cutthroats, at any rate. The orc in heavy plate worried her. There was something about him that told her on a primal level that he was dangerous, if not watched. She didn't dare to get closer, for fear of identification as much as losing control of her thirst. Of course, she had learned to better control the thirst in the years that had passed since she and a group of others had set out to topple Ulfric. But a tavern full of people was still awfully tempting to a vampire and she found herself biting her lower lip to keep focused.

    She was wondering who would be the one to make the first move towards actually going out and meeting with Sidgeir, when a door to one of the rooms opened. The man who stepped out was clearly older than all but a few of the patrons, and better armed and armoured, too. She dismissed him at first as some old warrior, trying desperately to remember his glory days by strutting around town and bragging about all the battles he'd fought in.

    It was not until he'd crossed the tavern and placed his hands on the chair opposite hers that she gave him a closer look. The voice was familiar, as was the face. Aliah's jaw dropped. "Simus?" His question registered a moment later, and she gestured to the chair his hands rested upon "of course, please take a seat." She wasn't sure what the old general was doing in Falkreath. Last she'd heard, he had retired with family in Whiterun. "Please tell me you haven't come because of Sidgeirs' demands for aid?"
     
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  14. Simus

    Simus An Excellent Site Member

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    “I wish I could say no.” Simus said as he sat down. “But the truth is I needed to get out of the house for a few weeks. Retirement hasn’t agreed with me.” Aliah hadn’t changed a bit. She still held the same aristocratic bearing, mild scowl and arrow-shot focus she’d had five years ago when Ulfric had been “retired.” That was a day Simus would never be able to forget. He still saw his old friend’s blood on his swords and armor every time he put them on. Of course that didn’t mean when he did wasn’t right or necessary, and he wasn’t sorry for any of it. But killing a king left scars on the soul that stayed with it. Deeper ones if that king was a friend.

    “I need a break from being a husband and grandfather. I figured this was the easiest way to do it given my past. Considering those toughs over there it looks like I was right. You gotten to know ‘em at all?”
     
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  15. Signus

    Signus Well-Known Member

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    Soric glanced over as an older man, clad in impressive armour but clearly past his prime, left one of the rooms and made a beeline for a leather clad elven woman. The two immediately began talking, clearly familiar with one another. Whether they were friends or enemies, it was difficult to tell. The tavern was loud and he'd never been any good at lip reading. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted an argonian in a soaked cloak making his way towards their table, a crossbow slung over his shoulder. He glanced at the orc and seeing that he was still going for the quiet and intimidating approach, nodded at an empty chair. "I can't think of a reason why not. Are you here to deal with this bandit bounty as well?"
     
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  16. Thesius

    Thesius The Imperial Paladin

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    Murtagh glanced up at the breton, then to the argonian. He knew the look of sellswords when he saw them though neither were making any attempt to hide it. He wordlessly gestured to the nearby chairs, though the breton had already helped himself to one and extended the invitation to the argonian. Murtagh cocked an eyebrow but didn't object. He would have to get to know these people eventually, even if he wasn't the most talkative of folks. Movement across the tavern caught his attention, an older man in armour he had never seen before made his way to a table with a red hair elf woman. The man seemed normal enough, even if he was a bit old to be out wandering. There was something about the elf though...something that set his teeth on edge. Deciding to keep an eye on her, he turned back to the other two. "Seems like an odd thing, for the jarl to call for outside help for some bandits" he remarked.
     
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  17. Aethalia

    Aethalia Well-Known Member

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    She shook her head, looking past Simus to the assembled sellswords. It was a diverse group, to be sure, several humans, an orc and an argonian, with a tall, masked indivual at the other end of the tavern as well. "I have not." She admitted, "though I think we'll all be working together sooner rather than later." She left out the sense of unease she got whenever she stared at the orc for too long. He wasn't another vampire, that much she knew. Still, there was something about him...a constant vigilance, despite his apparently relaxed demeanor. Her eyes flicked back to the former stormcloak. There was something else that was bothering her as well. Something about the circumstance of the jarl calling on a group of mixed adventurers, rather than relying on soldiers or hold guards. "You've lived here longer than I, Simus. Tell me, how often does a jarl call in a group of mercenaries to deal with something as routine as a bandit group, rather than hold guards?"
     
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  18. Rafen

    Rafen Well-Known Member

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    The masked individual, who'd introduced himself as Nurian, insisted that Djor wasn't in his debt, though he didn't elaborate on why he'd decided to help him. Instead, he explained that he had arrived at the request of Sidgeir, the jarl of Falkreath hold. Djor didn't know much about the jarl, except that he had a reputation for being petulant and self indulgent. Normally, he wouldn't have come at all, especially since he owed no allegiance to Sidgeir any jarl for that matter. But a bandit threat too great for the hold guard to handle had troubling implications for travelers and merchants along the roads, even villages like Riverwood. He nodded at Nurians' question, then looked out at the rest of the tavern, which was beginning to fill with an odd assortment of characters. "Seems we're not the only ones here to deal with these bandits."
     
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  19. TheShadedOne

    TheShadedOne The Angry One

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    The assassin moved through the woods her armour and fur slicked with rain and blood. Five years had passed since she'd joined a rebellion to put down a mad king and his even madder mage advisor. She had joined for a chance to kill the man that had massacred her family nearly two decades ago. She'd driven her falchion into his heart, before he toppled from the walls. Yet, somehow, no one had been able to find the mages body. Shadari had tried to live a normal life. Or at least, as normal as someone who spent most of her life running and killing could be. She had settled in Riften, for a time.

    Most of her time there had been spent trying to forget most of her past life, mostly unsuccessfully. Then she'd heard of the troubles in Falkreath, and made her way over there. Then she'd promptly stumbled into a bandit ambush; a small one, nothing like what they were apparently having so much trouble with, only two or three of the miserable cuttthroats. A crossbow bolt to the shoulder had taught her the stupidity of underestimating an enemy. She'd removed the bolt and stopped the bleeding the best she was able, but it hadn't been a pleasant experience.

    She staggered through the gates, somehow not drawing the attention of the guards. Making her way through town, she came across the tavern easily enough. By the sounds of conversation from inside, it was busy inside. With a grimace, she threw her hood back and shoved the door open, leaning against the doorframe, as much to collect herself as to get a read on those inside. Several adventurer types were already seated inside, as well as two very familiar figures. "You have got to be joking" she muttered, staring at Simus Psyrakon and Aliah Stormwind.
     
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  20. TheArgonianDrell

    TheArgonianDrell Well-Known Member

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    The imperial man asked Tallus if he had come to Falkreath to deal with the bandits as well. He nodded, "seems I'm not the only one to have that idea." He nodded towards a tall, masked individual speaking to a nord man nearby, then towards the older man and the red haired altmer. "Though I have to admit, this is an odd group to see in Skyrim during these times." Certainly, a contract offered by the jarl was sure to draw mercenaries and adventurers, but a group like this was bound to draw at least a little attention. Hopefully with the jarls' sanction, they wouldn't have to worry about being harassed by soldiers on the road. He was about to voice that concern when the door swung open with a howl of wind and patter of rain. A khajiit woman stepped inside, dripping water and what looked like blood. Her eyes flicked to the older warrior and the elf, widened slightly in disbelief, before she scanned the rest of the room. Tallus stood and walked over to her, "are you alright, ma'am? Do you need a healer?"
     
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