Hank

𝙽𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝙵𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝙰𝚠𝚊𝚢 - 𝙰 𝙲𝚢𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚞𝚗𝚔 𝙲𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚕𝚎

Interested.

ELDEN RING

Hello hello.

This is a very barebones interest check. I don't have a fleshed out premise, or fancy character sheets, or even a system that adapts Elden Ring's stats into something workable for play-by-post. I'm not even sure I have the time to GM anything. The only reason I made this thread is to ask a question: is anyone even interested in writing an Elden Ring RP? And if so, what would you want such an RP to look like? If anything, this thread serves to spark a discussion.

"Share them with me, your thoughts, your ambitions, the principles you would follow."

• Do we want to explore the Lands Between before the Shattering happened, during the heydays of the Golden Order?
• Or do we want to explore the Shattering itself? Perhaps an AU where we create our own demigods and fight a continent-spanning war?
• Or do we stick to the world as we know it, and play Tarnished warriors that aim to stand before the Elden Ring and become Elden Lord, navigating the dangers of the Lands Between in a smaller and more personal story?
• How important should the stats be? Do we give vague descriptions of the skills we're good at, or do we want to have hard numbers and lists of spells with names and all?
• How do we approach canon characters? Playable? Controlled by the GM? Absent entirely?

Or perhaps there's no interest at all. That could be the case as well. Either way, I'm all ears.

Oblivion: Wrath of Akatosh

Nice to see that the TES RP tradition on the Guild isn't dead yet. Keep up the good work soldiers!

Call To Action: Marginalized Groups Must Be Recognized In The Rules

<Snipped quote by POOHEAD189>

I think it's pretty obvious I was just giving an example (and I was giving tame examples from personal experience as an admin elsewhere) of the difference between someone saying "aw nigga that's just gay" (and again I find that cringey myself) and saying "man I hate trans/fags/INSERTETHNICSLURHERE" - one facetious twat I knew kept intentionally bringing up the high suicide rate among certain demographics to intentionally provoke trans members.

Deleting the post or using asterisks to censor it doesn't change the fact that it's out there and that there are some egregious cunts out there. Nor should people have to be subjected to it, but you're missing the point I'm trying to make.

Again, use the rules as a guideline and employ common sense to deal with shitmonglers who like to point their shitstained fingers at the rules and gobber "b-but it's not against the rules, I'm only talking generally!!" and context to deal with people joking around/being harmless. I'll happily offer to help moderate for RPG if such assistance was needed.

TL;DR
Rules aren't infallible, don't treat them like laws - toxic people who try to skirt around the spirit of them should get the boot while those dicking around harmlessly with comments like "you gay" should be left alone.

I really don't understand what's so difficult to follow here.

@Zombiedude101

"I want to be able to use slurs without thinking" is not the argument you think it is.

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

Arkay’s Light

12th of Rain’s Hand, 4E15
County Skingrad, West Weald, Cyrodiil
Isobel Aurelia’s encampment

_{ft. the whole crew!}

The inner circle had gathered around the large wooden table that one of the carpenters had fashioned from the goods they had taken from the lumber transports. A map of the West Weald was pinned to it, an iron dagger in each corner, and carved figurines covered it, chess pieces near the end of a hard-fought match; white outnumbered black four-to-one at this point. Only Skingrad itself was still firmly under the Count’s control. Torches were set up around the meeting place and someone had cast a magelight spell that hovered serenely above the proceedings, illuminating the map and the battle-lines that had been drawn there.

Isobel had gathered those that had escaped the Imperial City Arena with her to her side, Ando and Reyna flanking the warrior-woman. Wisely, the two Orsimer were positioned on the other side of the table, as far away from Reyna as possible, who was still armed and armored from her earlier patrol and keeping her eyes on them like a hawk with her hand resting on the pommel of her sword. She was otherwise silent, knowing her role. The rest of them were dispersed in no particular order, though Robespierre Chalamer had joined them, red-clothed, golden-robed, silver-haired, a noble in full regalia, and he was stood next to Reinette, the woman who had served as liaison between him and Isobel during the earliest stages of their communication. It would have been harder to find a starker contrast between him and the man on his other side; Lucius Lex, the leader of the peasant army, all scruff and earth-tones. Akamon and Janus stepped into the circle next to each other to fill the two remaining places.

Akamon’s eyes fell on Isobel immediately and she stepped forward to speak. Her brown hair was gathered in a braid that rested on her left shoulder and she was dressed in a simple white tunic and a cloak around her shoulders against the cold, for spring was just around the corner as the chill of winter yet lingered at night. Bronze bracers on her arms and shinguards on her legs were the only armor she wore. It wasn’t her attire but her face that oozed authority, a fleeting moment of nervosity -- had Akamon seen that correctly? -- making way for certainty in her eyes and determination in the set of her jaw.

“Friends, welcome,” she said. Her voice cut through the silence that was pregnant with anticipation, a longboat through still waters, or the first peal of thunder on a humid day.

It was only then that Akamon noticed, standing behind Isobel but just out of range of the torches, the great shape of Beordan the minotaur, the Lord of the Arena. His horns and nose-ring gleamed faintly in the flickering light, high above the inner circle, but the rest of him was a mere silhouette in the dark, even larger and looming for the absence of a well-defined form. A shiver of primal respect ran down Akamon’s spine.

She continued. “The final day approaches. Tomorrow we will storm Skingrad and finally cast down Hruldan the Coin-Catcher. Months of sacrifice, blood, sweat and tears, has all come to this. Whatever happens tomorrow,” Isobel said, looking each of them in the eye in turn, a gaze of steel and love, “know that I am eternally grateful to each and every one of you. I could never have imagined that our fight for survival would have turned into this.” Her arms were cast as wide as the smile on her face.

“Robespierre,” she indicated and the aristocrat stepped forward with a humble nod, “has graciously accepted the mantle of responsibility of governing Skingrad from tomorrow onwards. His task will be the rebuilding of trust and the fair rule of law. He was a friend to the late and beloved Janus Hassildor and will endeavour to restore his legacy. I have utmost faith in him, and I trust that you do too.”

Isobel did not wait for anyone else to speak. “The plan is simple. Because of our work in intercepting the lumber transports and other supplies that Hruldan was counting on to build his defenses with, the Skingrad city gate has not been fortified. This is still the case, yes?” she asked and looked at Janus and Akamon. The two men nodded.

“Good. Beordan will open the gate for us. Our task will be to protect him from the guards on the wall. To that end, I have asked the smiths to forge grappling hooks for us.” She looked at Bahk and smiled. “Janus, Akamon, Velyn -- you, and a few of the most agile of the citizen militia, will use these to scale the walls. Take out as many of the guards as you can. Sow chaos and confusion.”

Then she looked towards the mages, Elara in particular. “I am counting on you to create a distraction outside the gates that will allow them to do so. Think big, ladies. I want to see fireworks,” Isobel asserted with a grin and a fist.

“The rest of you will be by my side. We are to be the first in through the gate, followed by Lucius and the brave men and women of Skingrad.” Isobel deferred to him for a moment, and Lucius pressed a clenched fist to his chest, battle-ready and earnest in a way that Akamon found moving.

Isobel cleared her throat and spoke up again. “Hruldan is cornered. His lieutenants are dead and his men are few. But he is still dangerous, and his forces well-paid and well-armed. Do not be complacent. There will be blood in the streets tomorrow. Make sure it isn’t ours.”

Then she took a step back and opened her arms, inviting others to speak. “Now is the time for questions, concerns, or words of encouragement, if you have them.” Her gaze lingered on Guifort for a moment and Akamon had to hide his smirk. Had the priest ever blessed soldiers on the eve-afore-battle?

Bahk had felt several pairs of eyes fall on him at the mention of the grappling hooks. Some seemingly lingered for a moment too long as a flicker of anger rumbled in his chest. He had made sure every man and mer who stood with them held a weapon of some sort. They had watched him build a handcrafted forge from nothing but straw, clay and rock. Their spears were sharp and their quivers full, yet there were still those who doubted him.

“The err..” The Orsimer paused to clear the frog from his throat, now acutely aware of the limelight. “The hooks will hold even the heaviest of us,” Bahk's eyes flickered towards Janus. “I have tested them all, personally.”

“Aye, I can vouch for the Orc. '' Quintus rumbled, hands gripped on the edge, red and sore from hours helping Bahk mould steel at the makeshift smithies they’d set up in the camp and preparing everyone’s appetites for the statement they were making at West Weald tomorrow. “All this work ‘etter have been worth it.” Ctephesius was lounging on the Nord’s mountainous shoulders, tail drooping from the back, whilst looking cooly at Reinette, Elara and the rest of the Bretons in the circle. He scratched his thick beard, eyes pensive.

“Got a ‘nquiry though. S’pose Arkay smiles on us and the rest of the lads tomorrow,'' there was a brief glance from him towards Guifort. “And I know I may be putting the boat ‘fore the sails here but what do we do if we end up capturing that Coin catcher bastard? We don’t know ‘ether he’s going to tuck tail like a barn mouse or stand his ground. Best to plan for these sorts of things ‘fore we do things rashly“ Plinian’s chopped head flashed briefly in his mind.“

Robespierre spoke up to answer that question. “We hope to capture Hruldan alive so that he may face Imperial justice. It will send a more powerful message that way. But if he elects to fight to the death, well…”

“So be it,” Isobel finished.

“ ‘ell, that’s a load off my mind.” Quintus gave a smile of relief before sighing and thumbing his back over to the camp outside. “Folks outside won’t be too pleased ‘bout the alive part, though. Many of them want to see that milk-drinker on the gallows or kill him themselves. Not enough to make them mutiny, though. You can be sure of that.”

Robespierre smiled at that. “He’ll hang, trust me. But in due time, and with due process. We have to be better than him.”

Enshadowed by the night, and lit obscurely by the magelight, Reinette had taken her silent place. Straight backed, and arms folded across her chest. She was dressed in her usual garb of a form fitting dark tunic, a leather belt cinched at the waist, and her hair hung half-up, held with a series of ornate pins. The rest of it was loose in a trademark silver wave that had been kissed with partial gold in the arcane luminescence.

Around her neck was a long chain of silver, a key hanging right in the centre that she held between thumb and forefinger - fidgeting with it in gloved, delicate hands as her cold stare glowered down at the chess pieces. The Breton’s jaw clenched at the mention of Count Hruldan. She’d sooner see him hanging, or slit at the throat, she thought to herself, but it would not do to share such wishes in what was to be an inspiring final meeting. She kept her eyes on the pieces, feeling the presence of the intended successor at her side. “He will come alive.” she spoke confidently, letting the key drop so she could place a hand on her hip. “Hruldan shall stare into the jaws of justice one way or another,” her gaze turned from the board to meet Isobel. “There are ways to make this so.”

Guifort bemusedly looked at the wooden figurines representing the different aspects of the forces. He had placed his hands on the table, and lowered his head to allow his eye line to be at their level. It was all about perspective. Moving from that he quickly scratched notes of the plan into his journal, occasionally making sketches of the grim determination that shaped the curves of the Inner Circle’s faces.

It was then Isobel welcomed them to speak, and he caught the look that was gifted to him. Guifort fanned the page he’d been sketching with fresh ink. He laid the journal down on the table, carefully avoiding the figurines to the best of his ability.

He quirked a dark brow at Quintis’s mention of Arkay. There was a rumble about what to do with Count Hruldan tomorrow. Death. It was always death. Before the mood turned too dour—he cleared his throat.

“We can hardly say what fate holds in store for Count Hruldan, as death rarely abides by our wishes. That being said, and not to lessen the torment that he has put the people of Skingrad through, we should find a brilliant solace of this moment. Around me, I see people from every walk of life across Tamriel. From our proud and powerful Redguard adviser, to our brilliant and fast Dunmer sentinel, to our sturdy and relentless Orismer brethren, to our strong and stalwart Nord cousins, and finally to our amazing-without-fault Bretons.” Guifort chuckled. “I jest. But we are all here to support a noble Imperial cause. Can you say that you’d ever be at such a gathering? Surrounded by these fine folk? Men and women at arms that would fight beside you and possibly die for this cause. While Arkay is the god of life and death, he also believes in the experiences learned from both aspects. We live so we can die, and we die so we can return to this existence anew. So, remember that, no matter your fate. You march tomorrow to make this world a better place for lives that are here, and lives that have yet to be born whether they will be yours or the person next to you. By Arkay’s will and divine grace—you’re blessed by his light.” His fingers curled around his amulet. It wasn’t the best speech, but he’d never blessed the final leg of a rebellion before.

A huff of hot air caught the back of Bahk’s throat as the Orsimer exhaled through his nose. He had managed to stifle a roll of the eyes but was unable to stop the folding of his arms. “This one wasn’t born anywhere near the walls of Orsinium.” He mused, pining for a time far gone where there were less words and more action.

“Well spoken, my friend,” Akamon declared, beaming with pride. It was a fine speech, he thought, especially given that he could see that Guifort had stepped out of his comfort zone to deliver it. The Redguard made a mental note to discuss the contrast between Arkay’s intended reincarnation for mortal souls with Tu’whacca’s intended journey to the Far Shores with Guifort after the meeting was over.

Isobel inclined her head in grace and gratitude. “You humble us with your words, priest of Arkay. We endeavour to be worthy of the light of the Lord of the Wheel of Life.”

“ Aye, a fine speech, indeed. ”Quintus nodded towards Guifort gratefully. His expression then darkened as his gaze wandered at the map, where he could almost imagine the countless bodies of every man and woman who he’d grown to know and serve food to lie still. He shuddered at the thought of the battle to come and then, forced it down with a roguish smile. “ I plan on being alive ‘morrow.” His fingers began scratching Ctephesius’s chin who purred in contentment.” Otherwise, no one would be around to take care of this fleabag.”

Reyna coughed a bit and cleared her throat at the tail end of his speech, nor hiding the look on her face that spoke of awkwardness and discomfort, as if she couldn’t remember what to do at the end of a prayer before dinner. It was not a practice she partook in on the Eve of battle, and her thoughts and dreams on death were a private matter, and hearing them spoken aloud was an alien thing to her—the self’s mortality, that is, rather than the end of her enemy’s. She looked between Guifort and Isobel for a moment and ruminated upon the fate of the Count. Too much energy. Too much energy was spent on deciding what to do with him. Why did it matter how he does?

“With some luck,” she started, her voice a quiet and rare thing to behold of coarse timbre and swung like a blunt object, and it was not likely to be heard again for the rest of the meeting, “he will kill himself and save us the trouble of deciding for him.”

Durzum stepped forward, stealing a glance at the young Breton and clearing his throat. Already his heart raced and he was picking at a nick on the breastplate of this armor. "If I may," he croaked, locking his gaze on Robespierre. Durzum's mind was racing. Bruk was better at this.

"Assuming we're successful, you'll hold a blood-soaked diamond in your hands- a chance to prove that you don't just play at war, but end it."

Durzum's gaze turned to the map.

"Regardless of what happens, I say we end the Count's life ourselves. Or at least make people believe it was us. Detail exactly what happens to him," he looked at Guifort for just a moment.

"Better to cut off the head of a pestering rat and let all watch it writhe than to rely on the morals of snakes."

Durzum's stomach was in his throat. "Or the retaliation will be swift and brutal. But it will end it all the same." He thought to himself, stepping back.

“Oh, it’ll happen.” Janus said while inspecting his nails while the rest of them were patting each other on the back for doing a great job so far at this whole war thing. It was a change of mood Janus had when discussing killing. His smirk was still there. Like always, “I’m of a mind with this mer, quick and decisive. The farmers want blood. This isn’t Imperial justice we’re trusting in.”

He looked at Isobel, and Reyna, and Beordan, “This is Thules’ justice. And I’m sure some of us know what Thules’ justice is.” Janus said, looking around at the rest of them, eyes resting squarely on Robespierre’s. He knew what happened when fat nobles stuck themselves in the peoples’ causes, “Don’t have much faith in that shit. No, Hruldan meets Skingrad justice. Colovian justice.”

Guifort tried not to beam at the affirmations that his words were held in esteemed measure. He usually wasn’t one to gloat about a story well told. Of course, he didn’t have long to consider his message as it dove right back into death and politics. Death and politics. They sat on either side of the scales and weighed just the same.

He narrowed his eyes at the Orismer Durzum’s implications, but Janus was already on a tear before Guifort could get his words out. So, he just grumbled. “Blessings and funerary rites are what I pen. I don’t take to sonnets written about torture.” He grabbed his journal from the table, wetting the nib of his quill and returning to his notes. “There are not enough words that rhyme with teeth, and there’s quite a bit of teeth in torture.” With that, Guifort took a step back and let the angry men and women espouse their angry words of retribution. Couldn’t they not get drunk?

A low stream of pained laughter came from the back of the assembled group. There, sat cross legged atop a wooden barrel, spear cradled in his arms, was Velyn. His head was hung, loose dark hair covered much of his face, swaying slightly as his shoulders shook. He had been sitting quietly so far through their discussion, it was only now that he made to speak in his soft husky tone, seemingly to no one in particular.

“We reach to make bargains with the Black Hands of Mephala, but there is no honourable writ of execution, and no Tong to enact it. Only us.” He looked up and passed his blood red gaze over the group, there was a wild look in his eyes, a tremble to his voice. “But you cannot crush that which is not in your hand.”

Bahk felt his knuckles strain as his fists began to ball and tighten. The riddles of the Dunmer had gone right over his head. Instead his heart swelled as his mind wandered back, like a child headed towards a hot stove, ignoring the warnings of a parent. All this talk had reminded him of the tale of Gortwog and Lord Bowen, a once crowning achievement that now stabbed at his very core. His father would’ve known what to do, with precision Khadba would’ve struck the right chords and had them all chorusing together in the matter of moments.

The Orsimer’s shoulders dropped, mimicking the deflating of a balloon. Were it not for the respect of the enigmatic commander, he would’ve left the tent right there and then.

“You all speak as if the Count kneels before you.” He muttered, loud enough for only a few to hear but also hoping to avoid being thrust into the spotlight. “Like we have already won. Kill him now, kill him later, we still have to reach him.”

“Figure we’re too deep into this to be anything but optimistic.” Janus spoke quietly, having gone back to making like his nails were mighty interesting.

Reyna’s skin crawled at the tusky slurring of words that came from the heavy baritone chamber of the orc’s chest. Perhaps she had been with them for too long that even this reprehensible creature could speak her mind for her so easily, with words she had not yet tamed. She took a breath to tame what she could however; her nerves, even as prone to flight as they were, like sand through her fingers, she managed to hold fast onto them this time and she looked to Isobel, hating to agree with that which just spoke but forced to absorb all of that which was said by the collective.

“Your plan?” She asked, her voice low. Her hand tightened the grip of her sword, made audible by the squealing of leather. All Isobel need do is to point Reyna to him and she would sniff him out if need be and end him where he cowered; like a weapon to be aimed. “How do we find him?”

Isobel looked to Janus and Akamon, the two men she’d tasked the past few nights with going out and checking on Llevurlan in his hideout each morning and night. Janus looked from Isobel to Akamon, then back, sensing it was his turn to speak, “Suspect he’d be in the keep. Deepest part of the castle, holed up with his wife and sons.” Janus spoke, then shrugged, continuing, “‘Less he makes a run for it. Last time Llevurlan let me use his eyeglass, Hruldan had put more men on the battlements and lengthened their shifts. Llevurlan and I went sneaking about a couple nights ago.”

Janus shook his head, “No secret passages, no escape tunnels we could find. Should be easy enough.” He smirked, “‘Less he’s on the walls with his men. In that case, twenty septims says I get to him first.”

Janus’ smile widened a hair, “Thirty says I get to him first if he’s not.”

“I’ll hold you to that, old man,” Akamon chuckled.

Then, for the first time since the meeting had begun, the subsonic rumble of the great minotaur’s voice rippled through the air, loud enough to be felt in one’s chest. “The Coin-Catcher will not run,” Beordan said.

He took one step closer to the circle, cloven-hooved feet heavy on the forest floor, and the shining brass head of his warhammer fell into the palm of his open hand with a meaty slap. Now, illuminated by the light, the muscular physique of the minotaur dwarfed even the thickset Orsimer among them, and the horned head of the man-bull shook from from left to right. “He is too proud. He believes the stone belongs to him. This I know.”

Isobel nodded. “It looks like he will make his last stand in the castle. He is cruel and vindictive, but he is not a coward. And when we capture him, rest assured, he will hang. In due time.”

Robespierre cleared his throat, managing to find his voice again, though still eyeing Beordan warily. “And after due process. That is instrumental when it comes to legitimizing this… ah… transfer of power.”

"The boundless passion and unflinching zeal of the present company is as always a source of great warmth and inspiration," Elara said. The mage's voice was soft, measured even, as it rose in a rolling lilt. Thoughtful eyes moved over the gathered circle and settled on the old noble. “I would only remind my most esteemed friends of one important fact. Hruldan has already been tried.”

Pacing with an excited energy, she gestured broadly, “The trial of the tyrant is the insurrection. Hruldan has already been found guilty. The verdict of the tyrant is the collapse of his power. His sentence is whatever is required to safeguard the liberty of the people of Skingrad. The people have taken arms against their oppressor, so how can they now be made to adopt a punishment that would pose a new danger to them?

“However, as our honorable friends have said, there remains much to be done, and I look forward with great joy to resolving this matter when the Hruldan is safely in our hands.

"You will have your distraction, of course," she added with a smile and respectful nod to Isobel. The cruel glint of a freshly bloodied dagger danced in her eyes. "The gates of Skingard will shudder. The guards on the walls will despair. I will summon a storm. I will invite the denizens of Levinace to aid us."

Isobel regarded the mage thoughtfully, clearly doing her best to listen to and make sense of Elara’s spirited contributions. In the end, she settled for responding only to the last few sentences of what the Breton had said. “Thank you, Elara. Your aid will be invaluable.”

She turned back to the rest of the group. “If there are no further questions,” Isobel said, “we can wrap this up and everyone can get the rest they need. Or a drink or two, but don’t overdo it.” Her eyes, twinkling with amusement, rested on Janus for a second. “I need everyone to be sharp tomorrow morning. So, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

“Whatever - uh - she said, I agree with it.” Quintus scratched the back of his head, a little yawn escaping his throat. The evening was beginning to wear on him and as much as he dreaded waking up tomorrow, his body ached for bed and a bowl of stew. “It’s been a long night and I’m dyin’ fer a cup of mead.”

“Fair enough,” their leader smiled. “Then go, and be well and be merry. Dismissed.”

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

The Imperial Way

12th of Rain’s Hand, 4E15
County Skingrad, West Weald, Cyrodiil
Isobel Aurelia’s encampment

_{ft. my wonderful co-GM @Leidenschaft}

It was a moonless night. Akamon the Redguard waited between the tall trunks of the pine trees that stood sentinel at the edge of the forest. He was almost invisible in the darkness, but a small flame danced in the upturned palm of his hand -- a signal. Ahead of him lay the meandering fields and vineyards that seperated the forest and the city of Skingrad itself, which rose above the land like a rocky outcropping in the desert, for the Count had seen to it that most of the lights in the city were dimmed and Akamon could only just make out the silhouettes of the walls and spires and rooftops. Something small and fast dashing through the underbrush disturbed Akamon’s vigil and his head pivoted to the right, eagle-eyed gaze searching through the shadows for the source of the noise, but the flame in his hand made it hard for him to see. He snapped his hand shut and blinked a few times to let his eyes acclimatize to the pitch-black darkness. It took him a few seconds but he spotted the creature at last, its fluffy white tail betraying its nature; it was but a rabbit.

“Run along now,” the warrior whispered. He looked back at the city and with a snap of his fingers, the flame rekindled in his hand -- and Akamon inhaled sharply.

The light fell upon the features of a man standing just at the edge of its reach and the Redguard’s other hand instinctively went for the hilt on the sword that hung across his back, but his brain caught up with what his eyes were seeing in time and he stopped himself, for the man was merely Janus, the Colovian that he had been waiting for.

He laughed and expelled the tension from his limbs. “Took you long enough,” Akamon said softly. “What news?”

Janus still had the carefree smile even as Akamon had went for his sword. He probably would have too if a man was suddenly a mere ten feet away as if he’d just stepped out of the air there. With no hard feelings, Janus approached closer and set himself down against a tree. He pulled an apple from his pack and crunched into it, speaking around the mouthful, “Nothing’s changed from the previous nights. ‘Cept more guards on the walls each shift. Changeover every six or so hours.” Janus swallowed, taking another bite, “Saw someone fall off the wall. Dunmer didn’t think it was as funny.”

“What news from the forest, Akamon?” Janus teased, and still no one really knew if it was good-natured or not. Most guessed it was just whichever you decided it was, “What word do the rabbits bring?”

“Oh, you know, spring’s coming. Lots of thumping, if you know what I mean,” Akamon retorted and leaned against another tree’s bark, arms folded across his chest and one foot hooked behind the other. He had gotten used to the man’s ribbing and teasing by now and it did not bother him. That was just how he interacted with people, or kept them at a distance, and that suited Akamon just fine. He wasn’t one to pry if there was no need for it.

But he turned serious and gestured towards the city. “More guards, longer shifts. Hruldan must be getting nervous.” Akamon chewed on his lip for a second and there was a thoughtful look on his face. “Any signs of fortifications around the gate?” The implication of the question was unspoken but he knew Janus would get it. Beordan was their only siege weapon, after all.

“Oh, aye,” Janus chuckled, taking another bite of apple, “I’d be shaking if two hundred angry farmers and a fucking Minotaur were gearing up to beat me to death and hurl me from the walls.”

“You really should’ve seen it though, bastard climbed up on the battlements having a laugh, tripped and yelped his way down,” Janus chuckled, shaking his head and slapping his knee. He quieted down and sighed, nodding, “Raiding the lumber caravans let us put up our own defenses at the camp. Deprived him from fortifying the gate as far as I could see.”

He shrugged, “Just saying, give me a few more nights and three light footed of our boys back there.” Janus winced and scratched his back on the rough bark of the tree, “But then how could we call ourselves glorious and righteous if we did that, blah blah. Isobel, sometimes.”

Akamon grinned at that. “Yes, I’ve heard that story before. You and Sir Twentygoodmen, sneaking in and cutting all their throats at night.” He shrugged. “She wants a statement. A message. To the Emperor, to the people, to everyone who gives a damn -- honest rule, purchased with honest steel. I can’t fault her for that.”

He looked into the middle distance and his vision became an unfocused blur as he rifled through his memories. “You know, there’s a version of events that says that Tiber Septim had his master, Cuhlecain, assassinated, back when he was still Talos of Atmora, so that he could claim the thrones of Skyrim and Cyrodiil for himself. The Arcturian Heresy, they call it. Might be true, might not, but either way, it’s not the official story. Officially, Tiber Septim won all his wars fair and square, the Imperial way.”

Looking back at Janus, Akamon continued. “There’s good reason for that. Be easiest to just create a version of events tomorrow that we don’t have to lie about, no? We have the militia, we have Beordan, we have the mages, we have that Rimmenese freak with the katana,” he laughed. “Everything we need for an honest victory tomorrow. And then all of Cyrodiil will know that rightful rule was restored to Skingrad the proper way. The Imperial way.”

“The bloodiest way.” Janus had the rare frown as he too was looking back at the long scar his life had wrought from Hammerfell to here. He held up a fist and shook it, giving his best impression of the farmers he saw enamored by the promise of retribution, of justice. The same look he saw in his little brother’s eyes before Janus found him dead next to Ma and Pa at the homestead, “Freedom. Blood and freedom.”

He shrugged, not being able to recall any time his mother or his wife, or his child ever wished for blood or to settle old scores, or settling things the Imperial way. Still died like the rest. the smirking smile returning, “She knows how I feel about it. You were there when I spoke at the meeting about three fires ago.” He clucked his tongue and nodded, like a man who’d resigned himself to following what his Officer told him, like the old days, “If it’s to be an assault, it’s an assault. I’ll be there, try not to let my lack of zeal spoil the whole mood of it though.”

He smiled at Akamon, “Even the little one though? Not Henry, the other one. Bit off the farmhand’s finger that one morn.” He snapped his fingers trying to remember, “Reyna. She going in too?”

Akamon nodded. “Reyna, yes. I think she is.” A silence fell between them for a moment. Then he shrugged again. “Are you going to be the one to tell her otherwise? She wants to fight. I imagine it’s the only way she knows how to repay her debt to Isobel.”

There had been something in Janus’ voice when he talked. It wasn’t the first time Akamon had heard it there. He had seen something in his gaze too at other times, but now it was so dark that the two men could not even look each other in the eye. The Redguard suspected that the Colovian was more familiar with war than he let on but he decided to let the subject rest.

Janus nodded once more, one more thing to just lay back and accept. The conversation was growing too serious for Janus’ liking and so he cleared his throat. The conversation lulled when no one was having it, and Janus looked back to Akamon, “We should get back to the others. Walk and talk at the same time.”

“Sure.” Akamon stepped away from the pine tree and brushed the slivers of bark from his shoulder. He waited for Janus to get to his feet and then the pair of them returned to the camp. It was hidden deeper within the forest and the rebels were pretty good at laying low during the night, but when you already knew where it was, the encampment wasn’t very hard to find. Light from the fires danced dimly against the trees up ahead and the occasional sound echoed their way, snatches of conversation or the canvas noise of a tent flap being thrown open.

Glancing sideways at Janus, the swordsman spoke up again. “What are you going to do when the Count is overthrown?” He paused for a moment and feeling brave he ventured to ask an even more personal question. “I heard his men burned down your home. Will you rebuild?”

Janus walked on still, not answering for a few moments, his eyes just going about the fires. Men and women sat with weapons leaning against their shoulders or across their knees, talking or staring or eating. A quiet chorus of laughter went up at one of the fires and he wished he was having that conversation instead. He still had his smirk on him all the while as he finally shrugged at Akamon’s question, “It’ll be the second time I lost a home.” Janus glanced at Akamon as they walked, “I haven’t thought of what I’ll do since I grabbed up my weapons and joined Isobel. Too much to do.”

He quirked a brow at Akamon, “What of you?”

Akamon smiled. “I came back to Skingrad because Hruldan was stealing my mother’s money, but I don’t live here. And something tells me Isobel’s story isn’t finished after this. So, I think I’ll see where her destiny takes her. Otherwise it’s back to wandering and righting wrongs by myself again and to be honest, I’ve quite gotten used to having someone watching my back.” He looked at Janus and a mischievous laugh escaped him, flashing white teeth in the dark, and he wagged a finger at the Colovian. “I can never tell with you, whether you enjoy our company or merely tolerate us. Which is it? Eh?”

Janus laughed a little louder this time, not having to worry about the guards on the walls hearing it echo now they were a little more ways away from Skingrad, “That’d ruin the mystery if I really told you.” Janus smiled over at Akamon, “If you must know, I’ve got friends here and I’ve got people I let live their lives without my acquaintance. Me and them seem to be still living just okay, I reckon.”

He shrugged, “The peasants are learning, the barricades are sturdy, and no one’s knifed each other over a heel of bread yet.” Janus nodded as if all was right in the world. Perhaps it was, in his, “The rebellion fights on. It’s my job, and I think I’ve been doing it well enough.”

“I think so too, my friend,” Akamon said and clapped his hand jovially on the other man’s shoulder. “Come, the command tent is just ahead. I think the meeting has already begun.”

Picking up the pace, the two strode through the camp and up towards the largest tent of them all, where Isobel and Beordan lived, and where all matters of importance were decided. A circle had already gathered.

The inner circle.

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

There were a lot of quality submissions but unfortunately we couldn't accept every one. In some cases we couldn't choose, so we have stretched the number of accepted characters to 9. This is as far as we can go while still feeling comfortable that we have a manageable number of characters and players for the first phase of the RP.

In many cases, there wasn't really anything wrong with the characters we couldn't accept -- we just didn't have enough slots for everyone, and it came down to small differences in terms of writing quality, character concepts and that certain je ne sais quoi, the undefinable wow-factor that makes a character stand out. This is why there will be a backup roster. Certain characters we weren't able to accept now will be eligible to be placed on the backup roster immediately. Others may require changes. Once the RP reaches a certain point and has achieved a certain amount of momentum, we will expand the roster and allow characters on the backup roster to enter the RP proper.

For now I am only posting a list of accepted characters. Feedback on why the rest of the characters didn't make the cut will be available later to those who are interested in hearing it, along with information on any improvements we would like to see, if necessary.

So, without further ado:

ACCEPTED CHARACTERS
Ando Isei - @Peik
Reyna Stromfleur - @Spoopy Scary
Velyn Virith - @Kassarock
Elara Metrick - @Rapid Reader
Reinette Deserine - @Stormflyx
Durzum gro-Moghul - @an abomunist
Guifort d'Strohm - @psych0pomp
Bahk gro-Khadba - @Auz
Quintus Gefjenssen - @Bork Lazer

Congratulations! Feel free to post your sheets in the Characters tab (in a hider, same as before).

To the rest of you, like I said before, detailed feedback will be provided upon request. Let me know on Discord or here on the Guild. If your character wasn't accepted but you are interested in signing them up for the backup roster, let us know and we will tell you if any changes need to be made. I can't tell you now how long it'll take before we will be expanding the roster, so if you don't feel like waiting and want to focus on other RPs, I absolutely understand.

And last but not least, thanks to everyone who applied! We loved reading all of your sheets and in-character writing challenge submissions.

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

CHARACTER SUBMISSIONS ARE NOW CLOSED.

@Leidenschaft and I will deliberate and post a list of accepted characters here as soon as possible (hopefully before the end of the weekend).

Thank you all for the outpouring of interest and enthusiasm over the past two weeks. It warms my heart and makes me very excited for the future of this RP!

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

Here's mine.

Homeward Bound

The dune loomed up ahead. Akamon stopped to look at it, and when he made to keep moving he stopped and looked again. It was two-faced, one side cast in shadow and one side blazing in the afternoon sun, ochre against burnished gold. It did not even look like it was made of sand from where he was standing, and he thought it looked rather like a meandering river instead, just one that was windswept instead of water-carved, and it occurred to him again just how much the desert was like the ocean too. And then he thought it was even more like the clouds, for it moved so slowly that he could not see it change its shape and yet it was different time he looked. An ocean impervious to time, moving to its own inestimable pace. “Akatosh is barely here,” Akamon thought out loud, and he looked behind him at the trail that his feet had left in the sand, and saw that the wind was already working to erase the unevenness of his presence from the landscape. Soon it would be like he was never there. “He must be busy elsewhere.”

Following the snake-winding-path of the dune’s crest, Akamon plodded up the sand-mountain and beads of sweat soon trickled down his brow from the exertion. It would be far less tiresome to go around the dune, for it was one of the greatest dunes that Akamon had yet seen, but the dune being so great and the climb being so tiresome was exactly why Akamon had to walk over it. He winced and grimaced and cursed under his breath when the sand gave way beneath his feet and he had to hold out his arms or risk falling off the dune himself, and he winced and grimaced and cursed under his breath when his body hurt and he pressed his hand against his side and willed the stabbing pain to go away. The bandages around his ribs chafed as they became wet and heavy with sweat. Halfway up the dune, Akamon stopped again and caught his breath and filled his mouth with water from his waterskin, running his tongue over his chapped lips and groaning as he gulped and gulped. The sun burned his eyes even when they were closed and caused him to see spots and he waved a hand at it as he might dismiss an annoying child. “Go away,” he added for good measure. “This is hard enough without you.” The sun only seemed to shine brighter. Akamon sighed and continued.

His breath came in ragged bursts when he reached the top of the dune and he bent over with his hands on his knees and mouthed a prayer to all the gods he knew and spat the sand out of his mouth. Slowly the man straightened up and opened his eyes again, blinking against the fire-white expanse that stretched out in front of him, the desert at his feet like the sea at the feet of a captain at the helm -- there was that sea-metaphor again, and Akamon wondered if it was because he was thirsty, and he turned his waterskin upside down but it was empty, save for one drop that fell and evaporated as soon as it touched the sand. But he had made it to the top of the dune. There was pride in that accomplishment, and Akamon let it fill his chest and it made him forget his thirst. It was a clear day and he could see as far as the horizon and the great spoors left by the sand worms there. The tribe never went that way.

Speak of the devil, Akamon thought, because he could hear the voices of his friends call out to him. He looked down the length of the dune and he saw them waiting there, waving and shouting. They sounded happy and Akamon grinned and waved back. He unslung the concave shield from his back and placed it on the edge of the dune and he took a deep breath and stepped on it, leaning forward with bent knees and arms out, and this way he surfed down towards his friends at great speed, carving a path in the sand behind him, and he whooped but could hardly hear himself for the wind in his ears. The slope of the dune levelled out and he lost speed until the shield came to an abrupt halt, caught on a rock, and tipped over and Akamon spilled out of it and onto the ground, which was soft and made way for him and the fall did not hurt. He rolled over onto his back and laughed at the sky.

Amir was the first to come up to him, an easy smile on his weathered face and his hand on the pommel of the sword at his waist, robes orange and white, and Akamon saw him upside down, and the old man and his nephew chuckled together.

Then Rusanah appeared next to Amir and she threw her head back and laughed a peal of laughter that sent butterflies through Akamon’s stomach. “They make fools in Cyrodiil,” she declared in the tone of a woman previously unsure but now convinced of the truth. She was young like Akamon was, but not Ashir’Trah and her robes were blue and black.

“Scarce three weeks since his battle and the boy is sliding down dunes,” Hadima said. She was older than Rusanah and married and had five children and tutted in the way only a mother could. “If you reopened your wounds Rusanah can patch you up, I’m not doing it again.” But Akamon could hear from her tone that she did not mean it, and the two women exchanged glances and laughed among themselves.

Taking the arm that his uncle offered him, Akamon pulled himself back to his feet and picked up the shield and shook the sand out of it. It was everywhere now because of his fall and he shook it loose from his pants and sleeves as well.

“Just like Rosha,” Amir said and shook his head, and Akamon’s heart fluttered and his lips smiled on their own.

Hadima scoffed. “Rosha did not fall.” She pointed a finger at Akamon’s chest. “You have much to learn still.”

Amir shrugged, the same easy smile still on his face, his dark eyes warm and forgiving, which was comforting even when Akamon had done nothing wrong. “He’ll get there.”

They brought him back to the place where the Ashir’Trah had made camp. It was one of the many oases that were scattered throughout the desert. The nomads moved from oasis to oasis when they did not go to the cities to trade, following the small herds of onyx and antelope that also made the Alik’r their home and provided the tribes with food and hides and bones, but they took care not to hunt too many of them because then the herds would die out and the people would die out with them. In the long shadows of the rocks and trees there was much activity: hides were being tanned, baskets were being weaved, wares were being unpacked and food was being cooked. The air was alive with the smell of spices and the sound of laughing children and the bleating of pack-mules.

The elder was waiting for him in their usual spot, and gestured for Akamon to sit down opposite her on the threadbare rug. He sank into the crosslegged position that the tribespeople favored and placed his hands in his lap and inclined his head in the customary gesture of respect.

“You climbed the dune?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered.

The elder smirked and quirked a brow. “You surfed down the dune?”

A moment’s silence followed. “Yes.”

She nodded slowly and rolled her eyes. “Your stitches held?”

“Yes,” came the final answer in triplicate.

“Then you are well enough to travel,” she concluded and smoothed the folds of her nassau dress and the many bangles and bands around her wrists chimed softly. “You still intend to return to Cyrodiil?”

A pained expression came over Akamon’s face and he chewed on his lip and avoided her gaze and his eyes flitted through the camp, but they fell on Rusanah instead and he saw that she was watching him, and and she smiled at him, and his heart threatened to climb into his throat so he looked at his hands in his lap. “Yes,” he said softly and in his lap he saw his mother’s hands take his hands into her own.

“You are conflicted.” It was not a question.

Akamon looked up and inhaled a sharp breath. “I want to go home, but I don’t want to leave,” he blurted out. “I came here to learn about my father and be more like him and this is where he wanted me to be, and you have been so kind to me, and Rusanah…” He trailed off and did not finish his thought.

He did not need to. The elder laughed silently and looked at him with knowledge and Akamon felt understood. “A woman cannot keep you from going where your heart wants you to be,” she said. “Rosha knew that too. He left your mother, did he not?”

“To come here,” Akamon said, fidgeting with the big ring that the elder had given him two days ago but that had belonged to his father. He was still getting used to having it on his finger and he wondered if his father had worn it all the time.

She shook her head. “You misunderstand what your father really did. This place,” the elder said and gestured at the camp and at the desert beyond, “is not what matters. What matters is that he went home.”

The young man thought about that for a while. Then he spoke again but with uncertainty in his voice -- uncertainty and hope. “So… you think…”

“Rosha always knew you would go back,” the elder smiled. “I’m sure of it. You are Cyrod-born. You cannot stay here forever, in this harsh land without green and blue and snow in the winter. It is my home, our home.”

“But not my home,” Akamon finished. His eyes found Rusanah again but she was talking to someone else now and he watched as she laughed and tucked her hair behind her ears.

“No,” the elder said. Her eyes were warm and forgiving and Akamon was comforted, even though he now knew that he had done nothing wrong. “She gave you that amulet, yes?” and pointed at the bone-figure that hung from a thin chain around his neck.

The youth reached for it and nodded.

“Let Onsi guide your way home, and you will always remember.”

Akamon nodded again. He remained where he was for a few moments longer and enjoyed the elder’s silent company and the sounds and sights of the camp and the tribe. Soon they would bring him to the edge of the desert and he would make his way home from there. This would be his last evening in the camp. He wallowed in that knowledge for a while and let it fill him and spread through his limbs like sap until all of him knew it and felt that it was right.

Then he uncrossed his legs and got to his feet. It was time to say goodbye.

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

Akamon

Name: Akamon.
Age: 32.
Gender: Male.
Race: Redguard.
Appearance: Tall, broad-shouldered and sinewy, Akamon has a typical warrior’s physique. He stands at 6’2” (185cm) and clocks in at 175 pounds (80kg) of pure bone and muscle. Everything about him is long, from the sharp angles of his face to the inverted delta-shape of his torso and even his slender, nimble fingers, used to holding swords and rifling through books in near-equal measure. His skin has the characteristic dark coloration of his race, a healthy shade of chestnut brown, and while he carries some inevitable scarring from his life as a fighter-for-hire, and from a hard-won fight against a Daedroth in the sand-dunes of the inner desert of Hammerfell, Akamon is not nearly as maimed as some of his peers. More remarkable is the geometric pattern of thin lines that covers the wingspan of his shoulders and upper back, ritualistically etched there by the nomadic Alik’r tribesfolk to celebrate his competency in the Way of the Sword as a Sword-Noble of the Ashir’Trah.

He has a handsome face, if a little on the gaunt side; his cheekbones are nearly sharp enough to cut oneself on. A strong jawline tapers into a well-defined chin, above which rests a prominent mouth with full lips. Akamon’s hooded eyes are somewhat small, made up for by a keen hue, usually amber -- but there are streaks of green in his irises, glittering desert scarabs as they catch the sunlight just right, that speak of old blood in his lineage, and the far-flung sunken lands of Yokuda, where the towers and swords were green with orichalc. There is clear intelligence in his gaze, which rarely lingers in one place for too long and is more often found darting about the room, perceptively taking in small details and searching for the unexpected. His eyebrows are modest, but masculine, and his forehead does not yet have any of the worry-lines that come with age. Akamon’s wiry hair, black on top and a little more brown down the side of his head, is kept in a short, military buzzcut. Hassle-free, just the way he likes it.

There is a lightness to his movements and facial expressions that belies the explosive speed and ferocity that Akamon fights with, but accurately reflects his adventuring spirit. And when he speaks his voice is neither deep nor high, a pleasant and smooth cadence that mixes Cyrodiilic inflections with unusual, Yokudan turns of phrase, and jests that are meant to elicit smiles even from the one being made fun of. A habitual fidgeter, his hands are usually toying with something, be it a coin or a dagger or simply a smooth pebble, even if he is in the middle of conversation. He smiles easily, too, flashing rows of pearly-white teeth inspiring others to do the same, and his eyes light up when he detects the opportunity for humour and wit and the sharing of wisdom. In short, it is hard to dislike Akamon based on superficial interactions with him.

He usually wears simple, Imperial clothes whenever he is out of his armor; tunics, doublets, breeches, trousers and boots in various unassuming colors. He mixes and matches these with a selection of clothes he brought back with him from Hammerfell, however -- linen vests, pants and sashes that add a splash of color to his ensemble. Most jewelry would be too ostentatious for him, but he wears two rings; a simple silver band and a larger golden ring with a fire opal set into it. The latter is a family heirloom, and it means a great deal to him, for losing it would be an affront to his father, so is jealously guarded and caressed when nobody is looking, and he dreams of the sun and the sand.

Personality: Poetic, adventurous, thoughtful, upbeat, mysterious -- these are all words that could be used to describe Akamon. The bright spirit of the Redguard and the decisive power of the Ra Gada that came before them ring true in his breast. He is a warrior-wave in his own right, crashing down on his enemies with joyous abandon, rhyming and flyting as he goes, knowing that his fight is the good fight and his cause is the righteous cause, and that hearts will soar and blood will sing when they see him and the violence he has wrought upon all the evils of the world. A positive force, a force that Makes Way, but a student of history and myth as well. Akamon does not live in the moment: he lives in the past and the future, observing how the river of time has flowed to this point, and speculating where it might flow from here, adjusting the current as he sees fit with small corrections, and doing his best to make things better for the people who cannot fight for themselves. But he has no ambitions for great power, for one cannot see where the river goes if one is submerged in it, nor can they drag anyone out of its rapids and pat them on the back with a reassuring smile and tell them everything will be alright.

Raised in Cyrodiil, Akamon’s warrior-heart has been tempered with the civility that Imperial society instills and appreciates. He is mindful of the needs of people and country, well-versed in etiquette and courtesy, and likes to make others laugh as much as he likes to make them think. A jousting session of witty insults and barbed compliments is just as valuable to him as a spirited discussion about life, death, philosophy and religion. Akamon doesn’t care much for money or material possessions, however, and works as much as he has to in order to sustain his modest lifestyle, and fund his interests, and provide for those he loves. It is only for that which is larger than life that his passion is stoked, and then he can become unrelenting to the point of obsession. He can also be frustrating to have a frank conversation with, especially if he has done something that he needs to apologize for, as he will endlessly dance around the point and unleash a barrage of counter-arguments and excuses, only some of which are strictly relevant, and mostly serve to annoy and pester his accuser into leaving him alone and letting the matter rest to be conveniently forgotten.

A casual lover at best and an unreciprocated heartthrob at worst, Akamon seldom commits to a relationship. He prefers to keep moving, meeting new people and seeing new places, expanding his knowledge and breadth of experience. Even in matters of faith he is undecided, torn between the Nine Divines of his youth and the Yokudan pantheon he encountered between the tall dunes of the Alik’r, and he spends a lot of time thinking about how they might be unified into a single belief-system. There is one person he is unwaveringly devoted to, however: his mother, who still lives in Skingrad. A portion of his earnings are always set aside to help her be comfortable as she enters into her twilight years.

History: Born and raised in a small village just outside of Kvatch, Akamon had a pleasant enough childhood. His mother was a Cyrod-born Redguard, same as him, whose family had been in the Imperial Province for a long time. His father, however, was a traveler from far away: an Alik’r warrior, a mighty swordsman from a remote desert tribe, who was wandering the breadth of the earth on his Walkabout. He met Akamon’s mother and the two fell in love. She convinced him to stay in Cyrodiil and the two started a family, but there wasn’t much call for a warrior of his caliber in such a secure area of the Colovian West, and even though he loved his wife and his son he had an even greater love in his heart for the endless dunes and sunsets of his homeland, and he left when Akamon was just 4 years old. However, he did leave his sword and a series of scrolls behind, including a handwritten note for his son to read when he came of age.

Heartbroken but understanding that there was no containing the spirit of such a man, Akamon’s mother made peace with his absence and raised their son alone, working as a seamstress and running her own clothing stall in the Kvatch markets. From a young age, Akamon helped her out, first with small errands and later with the heavy lifting. His mother always raised him as a devotee of the Nine Divines, but she also read to him from the scrolls that his father had left behind, educating him in some of the myths, legends and stories of the people of the Alik’r. At night he dreamed of Yokuda of yore and imagined his father waiting for him on its far shores. True to her promise, Akamon’s mother kept the note sealed.

In the final year of the Third Era, when Akamon was 17, the Oblivion Crisis happened. The Septim Emperor and his sons assassinated, gates to the hellish realm of Mehrunes Dagon’s Deadlands opened up across Cyrodiil. The city of Kvatch was the first to be struck, just as Akamon and his mother were returning from the markets and on their way home. His mother had recently started allowing Akamon to bring his father’s sword, a two-handed curved blade of exotic make, whenever they left the house, on his insistence: “just in case.” She knew it was merely because Akamon wanted to be like his romanticized memory of his father and not because he knew how to actually use the weapon, but figured that no harm could come of it. And when the two of them were faced with murderous Dremora, she was glad that she did. Akamon unsheathed the sword without a moment’s hesitation and took on the Daedra, tapping into a hidden wellspring of talent and natural ferocity. Miraculously, the boy was able to hold off the three Dremora until the rangers that patrolled the nearby roads arrived and drove the demons back towards the city.

It was clear that something of his father’s might had passed onto Akamon. It was often said that the Redguard were the most naturally talented warriors of Tamriel, and he had certainly proved it that day. His mother had watched in fear and disbelief as he had turned this way and that, ducking and weaving below the ghastly maces and jagged axes of the Dremora, his feet and arms seemingly knowing what to do, striking hard blows with the sword, hands wrapped around the hilt in a confident grip, and a fearless fire in his eyes, and the battle-cries from his throat were loud and righteous. From that day onward, Akamon realized that his destiny was to be a warrior, not a market merchant or artisan craftsman, as much as his mother had hoped. She privately wept at the realization that she was going to lose her son in the same way she had lost her husband. There was no way that so simple a life would be enough for a spirit like that. The winds would take him away too.

But she was not going to deny him his destiny. Some of the refugees from Kvatch resettled in the village and among them was an old Imperial that was once a soldier, and who worked as a trainer for the martial arts. She paid him for Akamon’s tutelage, sometimes with money, sometimes with homecooked meals, and his raw potential was quickly honed into disciplined, well-practiced skill. The old Imperial wasn’t an expert when it came to Redguard weaponry, however, so there was only so much he could teach Akamon. After the Crisis was over and Akamon had turned 18, his mother silently handed him the note that his father had left behind for him.

“Ueetonga, my son,
When you are old enough, come find me in the Alik’r desert. My tribe is called the Ashir’Trah. Take a carriage as far West as it will go, to Elinhir or Taneth, or take a ship to Gilane. Then find a sand mage. Look for Alik’r traders in the markets. They will be able to take you to me. Then I will tell you everything about your heritage. About who you are.

Trangai,
Roshadon”

He shared the contents of the note with his mother, who nodded solemnly. But Akamon would have to work and pay for the journey himself. She could not afford such a thing. And so he did; Akamon joined up with the Fighters Guild in Anvil, which was the closest guildhall left after Kvatch was destroyed, and worked for his pay. Between his natural talent and the old Imperial’s teachings, Akamon was capable enough to take on simple contracts around the Gold Coast. He never complained, never gave up and never asked for a promotion; his superiors were quite pleased with him. Another year passed and Akamon was 19 when he had saved up enough gold to travel all the way to Hammerfell. He paid for a spot on a merchant ship headed from Anvil to Gilane, and once the winds were favourable, they departed. His mother waved to him from the docks, handkerchief in hand.

Gilane dazzled him. Gold-plated rooftops shone brightly in the sun and the warm breeze carried fresh, salty air over the coastal city. The sand beneath his feet was warm, the people wore bright, loose fabrics, and the food was sizzling with flavour and aroma, and the streets full of music and the houses full of art. He was almost content to remain and spend the rest of his money there, for the desert dunes outside the city walls looked most uninviting, but his father’s note burned a hole in his breast pocket and he found the conviction to carry on. After one, unforgettable night beneath the stars, with a beautiful woman from a local brothel by his side, the boy-become-man went to the markets and asked around for traders from the Alik’r. They were not hard to found: hard-looking men and women, wearing turbans and loose robes, that expertly haggled with exasperated customers over the prices of wares that looked like they were from all over the Western Empire. Akamon spent thirty minutes convincing them that the large sword on his back was not for sale before he was able to inquire about the guidance of a sand mage into the desert, and then another thirty minutes mired down in an increasingly tense negotiation over the cost. Once they were agreed, however, the Alik’r were all smiles and jokes and they informed him that they would set off once the sun was no longer at its peak in the sky.

Watching the sand mage at work was a treat unto itself. Being from the Imperial Province, he was not nearly as superstitious about magic as the native Redguard from Hammerfell -- hell, Akamon knew a few Destruction spells himself -- but he had never seen anything like the ritualistic divination that the wise woman was capable of. In dunes that shifted all the time, and looked as featureless to him as the waves of the ocean, she was able to find a path with great confidence, the magicka trapped in the grains of sand glowing to guide their way. The tribesmen explained to Akamon that the desert was one of the most magical places in Tamriel and had an arcane energy all of its own. The sand had a memory, albeit no sentience, that kept a record of paths well-traveled even after they had already disappeared from the material world. This, they said with pride, is why the Alik’r people lived in the desert. They claimed to be some of the oldest spirits on Nirn and had settled in the Alik’r when they did not yet know the needs of their new, flesh-and-blood bodies, and accidentally favored magicka over food or water. Still, they had made it work, and now the endless dunes were theirs.

True unto their word, the traders brought him to the Ashir’Trah tribe. The journey took more than a week, and more than once Akamon had been sure that he did not have the strength to carry on. The daytime heat was oppressive and the lack of abundant water parched his throat beyond levels he had ever thought possible. But, strangely, the desert grew on him, and he felt his body adapt. At the lat of the oasis and Dwemer wells that the tribesfolk used as stops, they finally found the Ashir’Trah. They looked almost identical to the traders Akamon had traveled with to his untrained eye, but there were slight differences in the dyes used on their clothes and the markings on their skin. They eyed him up suspiciously, wondering what such a sweaty outlander was doing this far out in the desert, until Akamon handed them the note that his father had left for him.

Their eyes widened and excitable chatter broke out amid the Redguard. Before he could blink, Akamon was pulled into a series of warm embraces, wheezing from the powerful slaps the men gave his back and reeling from the flurry of kisses his cheeks received from the women. After the commotion died down, Akamon learned that he was in the company of cousins, uncles and aunts. They were glad to see him but when he asked where his father was, they did not answer him and instead bade him to follow. Deep in the desert was hidden a canyon carved into the stone bedrock that lay beneath the sand dunes, where shade was plentiful and the tribe could live, for now, in comfort, before the sands would reclaim the canyon and bury it once more. Akamon sat down, still looking around for his father, until one of the tribe elders spoke to him.

His father had died years before. The elder spoke of ‘bad spirits’ that roamed the desert ever since the ‘Hundred Nights of Pain’, and Akamon quickly deduced that he was talking about the Oblivion Crisis. One of the Gates had apparently opened in the desert and some of the Daedra that had poured out of it hadn’t returned by the time the Gate closed, probably when Mehrunes Dagon was defeated in the Imperial City, leaving them trapped on Tamriel. One of them had killed his father. A thousand nights of childhood dreams of reunion shattered, Akamon wept in silence for the loss of his father, and some of the tribe placed their hands on his shoulders and wept with him. Eventually his tears dried, and the sobbing subsided, and he looked to the elder with searching eyes. The elder, with a warm smile promised Akamon that the tribe would teach him everything his father had planned to do, so that the young man might know him better after all.

Akamon ultimately remained with the tribe for almost three years. His uncles and cousins taught him all they know about swordsmanship, which turned out to be a lot. They explained that the sword Akamon had brought with him was an ancient weapon, allegedly from Yokuda itself, that had been smithed with the orichalcum that the divine avatar Diagna had brought to vanquish the Lefthanded Elves, and they still remembered all the ways in which such a sword was supposed to be wielded -- ways that the modern Redguard had forgotten: The ‘Shen She Ru Hel’, or the Way of the Sword. They also explained that such techniques were related to the ancient art of sword-singing, but Akamon found what they had to say about the sword-saints who could allegedly call forth a sword made from their very essence to be a little hard to believe, for he had never heard of such things before and even the greatest warriors of the Empire had never wielded such spirit-weapons. Either way, they assured him, there had not been any sword-singers for many, many centuries, and they did not expect him to materialize such a blade. Instead, they would teach him to use his father’s.

There was more they taught him than bladework, however, even if that was what Akamon was most interested in, as young men often are. They also insisted on teaching him of the tribe’s history, of how they were the descendents of the Ra Gada that came from Yokuda to Make Way on Tamriel, so that the refugees from the doomed homeland could have a place to live and rule. There were more scrolls and texts, like the one that Akamon had brought with him, which were accepted with gratitude and returned to the tribe’s library with reverence, and he read those too, or had them read to him by the elders, or by one of the young women who would have seemed very attractive to him if she was not his cousin. He learned of the reasons for his father’s Walkabout, an ancient tradition that the sword-saints had practiced on Yokuda, and he learned of where some of these ancient heroes were buried.

The tribe took him to see the Hall of Heroes, half-buried beneath the sand, inaccessible if not for a passage created and maintained by the sand mages of the Alik’r. There he saw the tombs, and they even claimed that one of them belonged to his namesake, Akamon the Ansei, who had vanquished the Nedic defenders together with the greatest warriors of his age, and Akamon the Redguard youth was humbled. He asked them there his father was buried, but they shook their heads and touched their fingers to their lips, and they told him that they had given his father back to the desert, as was their custom now, so that the magicka in his eyes and limbs and heart would be set free and might guide the tribe once more.

Every so often they met with the other tribes, for festivals and celebrations and funerals, where the Alik’r sang and danced and recited tales and legends, their feet stomping and kicking up dust around the fires, their moving bodies casting long shadows on the canyon-walls and dune-stretches, and they taught their songs and dances to the young man, who was anxious at first but quickly developed a taste for it. He became like a viper, flexible and smooth in his movements, and a better swordsman for it. And Akamon encountered other very attractive women there, who were not his cousin, from the other tribes that lived in the desert, and they taught him other things too.

Near the end of his stay, when Akamon had learned most everything they had to teach him, for he was a fast learner, one of the sentries that kept watch over the dunes came running to warn the tribe at night that the ugakta-tobr’a was coming. Akamon did not know what that was, but he felt with great certainty that it was his destiny to slay it, or all the stories he had heard of heroes and Walkabouts and goblin-kings of old had gotten to his head. Sword in hand, he left the camp to meet the unknown foe beneath the vast sea of stars and told the tribesmen to stay behind. This was his test. Perhaps this was the foe that had felled his father. He felt fear in his heart, but he was not afraid.

It was a Daedroth that moved beneath the sand like a crocodile through water. Arrows poked out from its leathery hide and its claws still dripped with the gore of foes long devoured. It had made the desert its home even more effectively than the Alik’r nomads had. Akamon and the beast fought for three hours, their battle turning the pristine sand into a pit of glass with their respective fire magics, and dealing each other grievous wounds in their dance of death. The great beast attacked and retreated into the sand when Akamon rebuffed it, circling around him as its hunger grew, only the arrow-shafts from its back like shark fins through the wind-tussled dune-tops, then bursting forth once more with roar and flame and fanged maw. Akamon ultimately slew it with a mighty blow from his father’s sword, claiming its severed head and yelling out his hoarse victory into the night. Then he sank to the sand himself and nearly succumbed to his own injuries, for they were many and severe, and his blood stained the sand and his vision faded and he thought only of his poor mother, now alone in the world. But the Ashir’Trah heard his cry and came for him and nursed him back to health.

Once he was strong enough to walk again, the elder spoke to him one last time and with pride in his voice declared that Akamon had mastered the Way and become a Hel Shira -- a sword-noble. They marked his back with geometric patterns, ritualistic scarification to confirm his status, while reciting from the oldest Yoku scrolls and burning holy incense. And the elder had one last gift for him, a gift that had belonged to his father, and that he had instructed the tribe with his dying breath to give to his son only when he had realized his potential: a ring with an opal that had the fire of the red desert sunset caught in it. Realizing that his time with the tribe had come to an end, and missing his mother and his own green-and-blue homeland fiercely, the tribe made preparations to return him to Gilane, but Akamon had a different idea. They brought him to Elinhir instead, and from there the man-become-warrior returned to Cyrodiil on foot.

It was a pilgrimage, in a way. The end of his own Walkabout. Akamon felt that it should be carried out in the traditions of the Hel Ansei, the sword-saints of Yokuda of old; wandering the land, righting wrongs and fighting monsters. And he quickly found that the Cyrodiil he returned to was no longer the Cyrodiil he had left behind. Bandits attacked caravans, and Akamon assisted in repelling them, the Imperial Rangers nowhere to be found. In the Colovian Highlands the people of a mining village were besieged by a goblin tribe coming from deep within the mines and Akamon descended into them, butchering them until he challenged the shaman in single combat and slew him too -- but the Chorrol guards were nowhere to be found. Eventually he made his way back home to his mother in the village, and they hugged and cried and he told her everything that had happened, but his joy was cut short when he found that that the village was held under the sway of a self-styled ‘baron’ who took half of what the peasants made, now that there was no lord in Kvatch to tell him any different.

Frustrated, Akamon spent the last of his septims to help his mother move to Skingrad instead, where stability and order was maintained by Count Janus Hassildor. He asked his mother how it came to be that Cyrodiil was no longer a land of peace and plenty, and she told him that it was because there was no longer a Dragonborn Emperor on the Ruby Throne. Potentate Ocato could only command so much respect, and the vile and vicious were taking advantage. This is what prompted the seeds that the Ashir’Trah’s scrolls had sown to take root, and Akamon became fascinated by history, for he realized he did not understand what was so important about the Dragonborn Emperors in the same way he now understood what was so important about the Ansei of the Ra Gada, who continued to serve as inspirations for the Redguard of the Fourth Era. After making sure that his mother was comfortable in Skingrad, he returned to working for the Fighters Guild. While doing so, and traveling the breadth of the Empire wherever the Fighters Guild still had a presence, he spent most of his spare income and free time on books and scrolls; books on history, books on gods, books on power and royalty, until he understood the power of the mythical heroes of the Empire’s past and the Septim Emperors’ connection to them. And then, curiosity sparked, he bought books and scrolls about Skyrim’s history and heroes, and Morrowind’s, and Alinor’s, and so on, and he asked the natives of the provinces he visited questions, and he went to their holy places and observed their rituals and celebrations. He saw the buried city of Saarthal, and the shores of sundered Vvardenfell, and the ruins of the Crystal Tower, and then the warrior-become-philosopher understood the intricacies of power, and of myth-making, and how when a nation’s heroes fell, the nation fell too, and he wondered what was to become of the Empire.

The years following the Potentate’s assassination inspired little confidence. The Fighters Guild stopped taking contracts from common folk, instead selling out their services to the highest bidder only. A madman sat on the Ruby Throne and the Elder Council was more interested in vying for internal supremacy than taking care of the Empire itself. Disappointed and unable to reconcile his morals with the work he was forced to do, Akamon resigned from the Fighters Guild, and knew he had made the right choice when he had to fend off killers in the night, sent after him retaliation for his ‘betrayal’. No longer shackled to their hierarchy and their priorities, Akamon found freedom in becoming a warrior for whatever cause he felt like championing when he woke up in the morning. There was enough money to be made by earning the common folk’s gratitude, or by bartering the trinkets and baubles he took from the corpses of outlaws he had slain, for Akamon was born to a peasant mother and had never needed much in the way of material possessions to be happy.

And so his life went until, back home, Janus Hassildor was usurped by his erstwhile Marshal, a man named Hraldun, and Akamon’s mother was once again ruthlessly taxed for all she was worth, and he learned from her tear-stained note that the latest delivery of septims that he had sent to her was intercepted by the Count’s men and they had ransacked her home for the rest. Akamon returned from southern Skyrim, where had been campaigning against a band of mountain-bandits, and found that he was denied entry to the city by the guards, rough men with avaricious eyes that had no interest in letting a Redguard warrior interfere with their affairs. Knowing that he could not fight his way into the city by himself, he retreated to one of the villages to concoct a plan to deal with the powerful Count, and that’s where he was when Isobel Aurelia, the great minotaur Beordan and a few other escaped gladiators fell upon the village, taking out one of the Count’s tax officers and his guards in a decisive strike, and Akamon realized he would not have to fight alone after all.

Attributes:
Major: Agility.
Minor: Personality.

Skills:
Expert:
- Two-Handed: The Ashir’Trah tribe of Hammerfell taught Akamon in the Way of the Sword, the ancient Yokudan warrior-techniques, and made him into a formidable swordsman. His skill is specifically with the long, two-handed cutting weapons that the sword-saints favored and that his father left him, but Akamon can make decent use of anything with a sharp edge and a large hilt. The style is aggressive but decisive, seeking to end the fight with a single stroke -- Akamon becomes a whirlwind of movement on the battlefield, cold steel singing as he takes off limbs and heads, leaving a trail of blood and gore in his wake. When forced on the defensive, Akamon is an expert at using the flat of the blade to parry blows and force an opponent away from him so that he might use the full range of the sword once more. Shields splinter and armor buckles beneath the ferocity of his assault and the orichalcum-weight of the blade, and flesh and bone and leather part as wheat before a scythe.

Adept:
- Destruction: Not above fighting a little dirty, Akamon uses elemental magic to disorient his opponents, or strike from distances beyond the range of his sword, or to capitalize on magical weaknesses in ways that metal can not. He is no great mage but he is a decent spellsword, and such versatility makes him less one-dimensional, and therefore less predictable.
- Medium Armor: Balance in all things, and so it must be in armor too. Heavy plate is too restrictive, but mere leather or moonstone is insufficient. Akamon has always favored the middle ground and has worn chainmail and scale his entire career.
- Athletics: A wanderer and adventurer by trade, Akamon has many a mile under his belt and can walk for more than a day in full gear without stopping to sleep. Trekking the breadth and width of the Alik’r desert in search of water and shade with the Ashir’Trah tribe, in particular, made him a hardy and resilient hiker, and he is fast as the wind when he breaks into a sprint.

Apprentice:
- Speechcraft: No great orator but a good conversationalist and amateur debater, Akamon does not hesitate or stutter while speaking, for words and ideas come to him easily and confidently, unless they are not the truth. Akamon dislikes lying and does not excel at it.
- Sneak: Sometimes silence is necessary. Akamon is no fool and doesn’t throw himself headlong into every conflict he encounters. He knows how to assess a situation from a distance and seem forgettable in a crowded place. And if an opportune moment presents itself, he can strike from the shadows on an unaware opponent.
- One-Handed: An sometimes there’s just no room, or time, to reach for or swing a sword. Akamon carries two daggers on his person for such situations. Far from an expert in wielding short blades, they are his last resort in a combat situation and he generally only uses them for silent takedowns.

Spells:
- Flames
- Fireball
- Flame Cloak
- Frost
- Ice spike
- Sparks
- Chain Lightning

Equipment:
- Yokudan sword: A long, elegant, two-handed sword that Akamon inherited from his father. The single-edged blade is curved, not unlike a scimitar but more like a saber or falchion, wider than a longsword but not as massive as a greatsword. It is balanced to grow a little wider near the top before tapering into a sharp point as it curves backwards, creating a sharp slashing edge. It is a versatile weapon, suitable for slashing, capable of thrusting and, in Akamon's hands and with the surprising weight of its unique alloy behind it, even chopping off limbs and heads in a blur of momentum and steel. The metal is bright and glossy, gleaming brilliantly when it catches the sun, but has patterned discolourations along the spine of the blade that have a faint green hue to them, indicating an exotic and unusual composition of the material. The hilt is wrapped in leather to facilitate a strong two-handed grip. Its crossguard is curved, the forward-facing quillon curving down to deflect enemy blades away from the wielder’s hand and the rear-facing quillon curving upward so that one might trap an enemy’s weapon there and disarm them. The Ashir’Trah tribe, to whom the weapon belonged for centuries, allege that it is one of the orichalc weapons that defeated the Lefthanded Elves before the sinking of Yokuda and was taken to Tamriel by the Ra Gada when they invaded Hammerfell. Akamon has been unable to verify the truth of that claim, but it is a magnificent weapon either way, perfectly balanced, requiring little maintenance and being highly resistant to notches and scratches.
- Armor: A mix and match of various cultural armor styles that Akamon has picked up over the years, combining chainmail, steel scales, leather and plate to afford a good balance between mobility and protection. He wears it with a red sash and white cape, typical Redguard attire, and a steel helm with a red horsehair plume in the style of the Legion to identify him as a man of the Heartland of the Empire.
- Daggers: two simple steel daggers, nothing to write home about, that get the job done.
- Potions: Akamon always carries a selection of potions on his person, and he makes sure he replenishes their stock every time he's in town. The essentials are to restore magicka and heal his wounds, carrying three and two vials, respectively, and then he buys whatever beneficial potions the seller happens to have that seem interesting to him. Right now he has a potion to fortify strength and a potion that increases his resistance to magic.

Belongings:
- Jewelry: Two rings; a silver band and a larger, golden ring with a fire opal in the setting that once belonged to his father.
- Amulet: Given to him by a woman from another Alik’r nomad tribe. It is fashioned from bone and represents Onsi, the warrior god of the Ra Gada.
- Money: A pouch with some fifty-odd septims. He has been with Isobel’s band of merry men for a while now and they share essential supplies in a communal fashion, so his personal expenditure -- and his need for money -- has been light.
- Leather rucksack: A gift from his mother when he set off for Hammerfell. It has been with him through thick and thin, and while it looks quite battered and weather-worn, it is still perfectly servicable.
- Rations: Three days worth of nuts and dried meats, perfect for emergency survival situations, and a leather waterskin.
- Bedroll: A man’s got to sleep. This one he brought with him from the Alik’r desert, woven by the seamstresses of the Ashir’Trah tribe in bright colours.

Birthsign: The Steed.

Miscellaneous: Akamon enjoys games and can almost always be convinced to play a round of dice or cards.