[hider=Priest of Arkay, and a Gui that is A-Okay][center][img]https://i.imgur.com/Ctu7Myb.png[/img][img]https://i.imgur.com/7DVBhRL.png[/img][img]https://i.imgur.com/WQZX9oc.png[/img]
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[quote][color=black][h3][b]𝔑𝔞𝔪𝔢[/b][/h3][/color][indent][indent]Guifort [sup][color=D4AF37][i]gee-fauht[/i][/color][/sup] "Gui" [sup][color=D4AF37][i]gee[/i] or [i]guy[/i][/color][/sup] d'Strohm [sup][color=D4AF37][i]deh-strom[/i][/color][/sup][/indent][/indent][color=black][h3][b]𝔄𝔤𝔢[/b][/h3][/color][indent][indent]Thirty-Two[/indent][/indent][color=black][h3][b]𝔊𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯[/b][/h3][/color][indent][indent]Male[/indent][/indent][color=black][h3][b]ℜ𝔞𝔠𝔢[/b][/h3][/color][indent][indent][b]Breton[/b] & Orsimer[/indent][/indent][color=black][h3][b]𝔄𝔭𝔭𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔢[/b][/h3][/color][indent][indent]One would see the hat first. A worn, black leather thing with a wide brim, neat buckle, and a flouncy feather sewn in with new thread—almost as if it couldn’t stand the weather. Below that was Guifort, a man of average height with broad shoulders and a build that told of both days of toil and days of respite. His coarse muscles bunched over thick arms and across a barrel chest, which lead down to a soft paunch of a middle. To put in polite company, “he was a solid measure of a man,” and in impolite company, “I’d hate to try to drag his unconscious arse to bed.” 

His skin was a dusky moss color with a penchant for peachy hues over his aquiline nose and pointed ears. He had full lips and a lazy smile that only widened so far, fast to show the top row of teeth but slow to reveal the bottom. Though one might see them when he laughed too loud—filling the room with a deep baritone. To put it simply, the Breton had diminutive tusks that sometimes muffled his diction. Sturdy cheekbones and jaw fought away the softness that he had collected, belying his physique as being strong instead of comfortable. 

He wore the robes of Arkay, a dull orange and yellow tunic that peaked out underneath a peculiar set of armor. It was made of leather with strips of steel sewn over the more fragile parts of him. Loose canvas pants were easy to make out underneath the long tunic and scrunched at the knees due to heavy leather boots with pieces of steel covering ankles and toe. He wore gloves in a matching style to the boots, but his index and middle fingers were cut out of both hands. The tips of his fingers were rough pads, but he had well-manicured and cleaned nails. Over his shoulders draped leather satchels that rain beaded off of in storms. They held his collection of tomes and scrolls, nonmagical, and stuffed with maps, religious texts, and his journals. Another looser bag was filled with an assortment of herbs and weeds all wrapped in cheesecloth with twine bundling them. His crossbow was strung over his shoulder, and a dagger was tucked into his belt. Draping on those shoulders was an oversized coat with fur around the collar that he sometimes rested his chin against in thought. His most prized possession, though, was the gleaming amulet of Arkay around his neck that rested atop his armor and caught the light whenever it could.

When Guifort would remove the hat he was so fondly proud of, it revealed short-cropped auburn hair that had a slight wave to it. It was cut in a romantic fashion, whether this was by design or purely accidental was hard to tell. He had expressive brows that led to inquisitive eyes with harsh yellow irises from the Orsimer blood that pumped in his Breton veins. While his sclerae were pale, there was occasional darkness to them when he angered—though that was so infrequent one might not think it possible.

Guifort’s nature was always welcoming, arms out and head thrown back. His stance was wide, easy to take down if one had the training to sweep his leg and the strength to budge him—some would call it "healthy," but others would call it "fat."[/indent][/indent][/quote]
[quote][color=black][h3][b]𝔓𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔞𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔶[/b][/h3][/color][indent][indent]What does faith unwavering and personified look like? Probably something akin to Guifort, but with less of an interest in the bottom of a wine bottle. A spirit that couldn’t be dampened, Guifort exudes an affable nature even when the sky has darkened, and hail peppers one’s shoulders. So, one might find it strange he’s taken to a macabre duty such as funerary rites with the ease of a boatswain picking up an oar. It’s because death doesn’t mean the same thing to him as it does others. The words of Arkay have taught him that souls are eternal. Once they leave this place they enter the dreamsleeve, where they’re reset, cleaned, and returned. The person that you say goodbye to today will be someone new in the future. They’ll build relationships that were akin to your own, but in a new place with new people. Guifort doesn’t think what he does is macabre, he thinks it’s a solemn celebration held by words and hearts.

That may sound like nothing more than wishful thinking and bloated ideals, and Guifort is well aware of it. He’s not so caught up in the theology of the world to forget how harsh it is. He’s seen the manipulative, the greedy, and the mad, and he’s learned how to temper his words to leave such situations with his person fully intact. The teachings of Arkay aren’t as sweet as others. While a priest of death, he doesn’t coax anyone into it, but neither does he lure them away from it. He’s not self-sacrificing. If an errant crossbow bolt finds a way into one of his compatriot’s hearts, he doesn’t wish it was him. He bids them farewell and hopes to return the favor to their assailant—not wanting to die himself. If it happens, it truly happens, but he isn’t going to jump into the fire just because it’s cold outside.

One might ask if there’s even a fragment of Guifort beyond his theology, but lo and behold there’s an entire person. He’s the sort to be charitable to a fault, talkative to a point, and fond of espousing his opinions about most things. Yet, he’ll listen and respond with the eagerness of a new student. One might be a little off-put to see him writing down people’s stories in one of his journals, but he assures them that he changes the name—unless they don’t wish the name changed. He’ll then treat them to a bottle of wine and whatever vittles he can muster with the paltry sum he keeps on his person. Not the sort to labor a story out of someone and not return it with his own. Oh, and he does love to weave a tale. An unfortunate consequence of traveling with a narcissistic bard for as long as he did. 

Guifort forms relationships quickly and deep, enjoying being swept up in their current of adventures and travels. He rarely does the sweeping himself, an unfortunate bystander to some of the larger events in his life. If he was to state a flaw in his person it would be his tendency for inaction. Guifort always arrives after the deeds have been done and without a way to reverse them. It’s not bravery he lacks, but it’s the locomotion to put aside all words and wishes and just [b]act[/b]. Guifort would rather talk himself out of a situation than anything else, even if he was asking a rolling boulder to stand down. It’s through either the will of Arkay or sheer luck that he stands before you in this day. 

And mayhap, that’s why he wishes to have joined Isobel’s rebellion. Sure, the lives lost are needless and many, but he can help. It takes action to fight oppression, and Guifort is tired of being dragged along adventures not of his own making. Maybe, just maybe, this will lead him into his own story.[/indent][/indent][/quote]
[quote][color=black][h3][b]ℌ𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔶[/b][/h3][/color][hider=An Entirely Factual History According to Guifort][indent][indent][color=D4AF37][center][i]"I was born on a dark and stormy night in the country of High Rock, or at least that's what I'd like to tell you. In truth, I was born on a balmy evening when the wind from the Iliac Bay was stifled halfway up the shoreline like an out of breath noble. According to my savior, Father Peryval d’Strohm, I was found in a shallow grave in a cemetery outside his temple, the Temple of Arkay. He had been awoken not by the mewling of a babe, but by a shriek of what assuredly were the products of necromancy. Armed with nothing more than his wits, prayers, and a dulled shovel—the Father had fully intended to slay the beast. To slay me, honestly. Instead, he used the blunt edge of the shovel to scrape away the light powdering of dirt that had been choking me. Hence, the shriek, or at least I like to justify the noise by saying that. Anyway, he told me that the soil had been excavated by fingers and nails in what could only be described as a frenzy. I had been left for dead, and the Father saved me. Or to put it in his eloquent words: 'It will be a long night because the God Arkay has gifted me a damn bastard.” [/i][/center][/color]
Our story begins on the 19th of Morning Star 3E414 in a small town in the region of Stormhaven. The next morning, Father Peryval tried to find the parents of the babe to no avail, which only confirmed his suspicion of the bastard nature of young Guifort. He considered depositing him at the temple of Dibella. They were surely more apt than himself to take care of a child. Yet, he shuddered at the thought of innocence growing up in such a place. All of Arkay's statues kept his breasts covered. Every evening Father Peryval would tell the child that would be his last night there. The nights ticked to days, and those ticked to weeks and then months. In that time, he found a wet nurse to tend to the things he couldn't provide, and he started bringing the babe with him to pray to Arkay. He stated, quite frankly, it was because the child would wail otherwise. Yet, maybe he found the way that Guifort pawed at the talisman around his neck delightful. Not that he would tell anyone.

As Guifort grew up, he grew odd. There were certain aspects about the young man that confirmed Father Peryval's thoughts. The point of his ears was something that the Bretons did display, but the faint green hue of his skin along with the blunt nature of what should have been angular features told a far different story. This was furthered by the way Guifort's bottom row of teeth grew in. Yet, if that bothered anyone, they didn't say anything. Guifort was constantly helping throughout town. He had a lot of energy to expend, and there were so few things within the temple for him to busy himself. So, he moved sacks of flour, pulled carts, thatched barrels, and even buried stones when the ground became too muddy for the horses to move through. The townsfolk were delighted and thought he was a sweet child no matter how awkward he looked or acted. They’ve said something about “it takes a village…” Every night, he returned back to the temple where he'd tell Father Peryval about his day. The Father would always correct Guifort when the young boy tried to call him "father" in a paternal sense. "Uppercase 'F,' not lowercase." Then he'd finish the evening by telling Guifort to bathe, tend to his prayers, and that this would be the last night in the temple.

And maybe Guifort would have followed that advice, leaving the temple for a normal life in the country with some young man or maiden, but there came a fateful autumn evening where things changed. You see, Guifort befriended a three-legged cat in town that he immediately called Mister Catterly. He’d rescued the beast from the river, half-drowned and mewling its head off. At first, it was a fight of claws and yowling—from both parties. Then it turned into a game of wits where Guifort would be slow to say that the cat won most of them. But one night, almost as if by a whim, Mister Catterly followed Guifort into his bed and slept next to him. They went everywhere together, and the cat more than proved his worth as an excellent mouser. So, people were glad to have them both in their house even if Guifort had a tendency to not know what to do with the dead rodents when presented with them. A lot of mouse corpses were found in bushes years later. Unfortunately, it was fair to say that Tamriel was not the sort of place a child and their pet grow old together. One of them usually had to say goodbye. Guifort found Mister Catterly tangled in wire with his throat slit right outside the temple. It was obviously a cruel prank performed by the other children. Mister Catterly had held on until the young boy clutched him closer, and then his final breath escaped his feline chest. Guifort couldn't feel anger for the loss of life. The only thing that clouded his thoughts was sadness. He'd seen death through the temple, but he'd never felt the ramifications of it. The body of Mister Catterly, slowly losing warmth and fluidity in his muscles, was just a thing now. No more consequential than a stone. Yet, only an hour before had been so much more. That was gone now, and yet Guifort's tears remained. Father Peryval located him as the sun had started to set, and together they buried Mister Catterly in the cemetery Guifort had been found in all those years before.

Father Peryval placed his hand gently on Guifort's head and smiled. "Do not mourn that he died. Be happy that he has completed the circle of his life, and has returned to the dreamsleeve. Because that is Arkay's will." The Father paused at the young boy's confusion and continued on. "There are multitudes of souls in existence, Gui, but there's only so much room for them here. So, we're allowed to come and experience life in its wholeness, and then we return back to allow another soul to experience life—wiped clean and started anew. So, Mister Catterly had that honor, and he's passed on to allow another cat to take his place. And so, the cycle continues."
"You think cats go to the dreamsleeve?" Guifort asked, his mind a series of jumbled questions that only cared about a destination.
"I don't truly know. Where do the Khajit go after they pass? Surely, it can’t be any different." Father Peryval, even though he had years of dealing with death, wanted to move beyond it at that moment.
Guifort laughed despite himself, his emotions more tired than his body had ever been. "That's racist, Father. You should love all things and not judge."
"And where did you learn that? All that mischief about love? Don't tell me you've been visiting the Temple of Dibella, again."
Guifort shrugged through red eyes, cracked lips, and a meek smile.
"And I highly doubt it was for the lessons. You just wanted to take a glance at her exposed bosom? I know you, Gui. And for that, you'll be staring at Arkay's fully clothed one and going over your prayers all tomorrow." And without realizing it, Father Peryval said [i]tomorrow[/i] without inferring that Guifort would be gone in the morning. So, the boy stayed. If Arkay instilled so much faith in the cantankerous nature of Father Peryval, he had much to teach Guifort.

At the end of the third era, the Oblivion Crisis did little to the immediate landscape of Guifort's life. Yet, it would have low, rumbling repercussions like thunder over peaks of mountains. Dark magicks and daedra were on the breath of everyone but only spoken about in dark corners of inns and alleys. That being said, Father Peryval went about the studious task of fortifying the temple. It wasn't much, but he flexed the long-unused muscles of magick to protect the small-town folk. He knew that the daedra were not the undead, but Arkay's purview only fell to the abominations that ignored the cycle of life and death. He figured it would ease the concern of the town, and that ease would keep them from banging on his doors. Guifort studied raptly and took notes—he was always writing much to Father Peryval’s chagrin. He'd been in the shadow of the Father when the older man had created concoctions, both for health and protection against diseases. He'd also studied vigorously in the school of restoration, the gift of magicka in his veins like the many Bretons before him. Guifort, much to Father Peryval's ire, was become quite the skillful successor.

And then came the day that the young Guifort would have never foreseen but had prepared for. While some were happy to sequester themselves away, there were others that took these unnatural happenings as a call to adventure. One such Breton Expedition found its way into the small town. They paused by the Temple of Arkay, hoping that they'd find resources for their quest.

Yarvis Belancourt was the leader of this expedition, a man with a stout mustache and a stouter charisma. He had once been a bard whose career on the road had led him to many secrets and many more septims. It was fair to say, he wished to exploit those secrets. He and Father Peryval immediately butt heads, which enamored Guifort to the bard. What had begun as nothing more than a bargain for goods and services became a way for the young man to leave the nestled fold of the town. The expedition was to head into Skyrim, and if their map was correct, well into the territory of Nordic Ruins. While a follower of Stendarr would have been the more logical choice for this journey, there was nary a temple around that could spare one so few years after the Crisis—if they had one at all. A disciple of Arkay had to do. Father Peryval stated that Guifort should accompany Yarvis and his men. That there weren’t enough people in their small town to warrant [i]two[/i] priests of Arkay.

"You said every evening that it was my last night. I suppose tonight is my last night," Guifort said to Father Peryval, who had grown more diminutive through the flow of time. Yet, his spirit had not even sputtered once.
Father Peryval scoffed. "And good riddance to you, boy. You have left my coffers dwindling for too long." And that was that.
While Father Peryval didn't say anything with words, Guifort awoke the next morning to a tailored set of robes, an old potion whose contents seemed to sparkle in the light, a few rations, and an old dagger with the goddess Dibella roughly hewn into the wooden hilt. There was a handwritten note next to it, "I suppose you have questions. Well, you'll need to live to ask them." He wrote back that he would, and that’d he see the Father in the seasons to come. But, that would be the last thing Guifort ever see of the Father or that small town he called home.

The trip was arduous, and despite the pleasant nature of Yarvis Belancourt he didn't go easy on his men. This was especially true for Guifort. He'd grown up in the temple and had a sinewy physique attached to long limbs and smothered by robes. He wasn't made for travel. That didn't mean he couldn't learn. Days were spent forging ahead, and nights they'd all gather around the fire and chat. The wine partook, stories were told, and laughter was to be had. At least, while they were still in the temperate climate of High Rock. Guifort learned more of the world in those few weeks than he had in his years previously. The nature of men not bound a divine duty was... interesting. Initially, he had been slow to take the wineskin, but after a fortnight he was just in the cups as they. Guifort lazily recorded the stories that were told, adding markings in places where the presenter meandered a bit from the point. The one person he'd never had to do that with was Yarvis. The man was a masterful orator and had a flair for the dramatic. He'd had been a bard of sorts. One with wealth to fund this trip and clout to make it all about himself.

Once they reached Skyrim, though, the evening’s festivities died down. During that time, Guifort used the knowledge of craftsmanship from the town to help keep things in order. He dug carts out of slushy potholes, carried packs that were twice his size, and foraged for what little he could. It wasn't for rations, but instead to create various incenses to keep the more curious wildlife away. Guifort started to fill his robes out, looking more the part of an adventurer. He'd actually taken to packing them away and wearing traveling clothes. The only thing to denote his priesthood was the talisman around his neck.

Yarvis's ruins were further away than the map had denoted. The old bard had to make the trip stretch, and by doing so had earned the ire of a few of his men. Some went without rations, some without water, and all without drink. Days turned long and conversation became short. Guifort was aware of this shift, and he tried to confer with Yarvis on more than one occasion. The man waved the young priest away, stating that he knew the natures of men better than he. When they did reach the ruins proper, half of the company was nearly in tatters. What once had been quite the stable expedition had crumbled to fine snow all around them. They decided to traverse the ruins in the morning to have better light. Guifort was asked to stay behind despite the fact that the reasons for him being there were his healing prowess and power over the undead—the latter only in practice. So, Guifort waited with the horses and supplies. And waited. And waited... until a few days had passed and there'd been no sign of Yarvis or his men.

Anxiety bubbled in his stomach like a twisted knot. But he knew that he had to find out what happened. Securing the horses the best he could, he grabbed the dagger that Father Peryval had given him and donned his Robes of Arkay. The ruins were mostly uncovered, skeletal fingers of a time far past scraped at the gray sky above. What little flora thrived here at the base of the mountains made the path difficult to traverse, and Guifort had to pause many times to cut himself out of a tangle of root. He didn't have to travel far to start seeing the bodies. Cold, unmoving, and with eyes that found solace in the sky before death. Guifort paused over each of them, as was his duty. Yet, he couldn't perform full funeral rites as he had to find Yarvis, or at least someone that had the map out of this place.

Maybe you know how this story ends, or maybe you don't. In the land of Tamriel, it's hard to fathom the price of lives and their impact on the world at large. What you need to know is that Guifort's retelling is never the same. What he will say, in a voice quiet and low, is that the undead do not bleed.

Guifort found Yarvis beset on by skeletons with a nasty cut on his brow and his long sword wavering. Alongside him were a good handful of his men in various stages of exhaustion. They had barricaded themselves in a hallway, and had been exiting when they were attacked. One of the skeletons turned to Guifort, the rotted visage of its face boring into the young priest's eyes. He took a step back, the heel of his boot catching on rubble and sending him to the ground. He held out the symbol of Arkay and pulled the magicka from deep within his veins. In his other hand, he gripped the dagger his fingers having slipped over the blade and his blood dripping onto the ground. The pain mixed with the fear, and his heart stuttered in his chest. It was only a moment, but warmth filled what felt like icy veins. Power comforting, yet foreign, ripped through him and out poured the light of Arkay. The skeleton froze, momentarily, before taking a step back and then another and another. Guifort stood, brandishing the talisman in one hand and extending it like a shield. The skeletons let him pass, but Guifort knew he couldn't hold them long. Yarvis and his crew didn't speak a word of thanks as they fled the corridor, keeping pace with Guifort the best they could as they exited those ruins.

Once they were far from danger and back with their horses and carts, Yarvis laughed, his breath showing up against the coldness of the Skyrim sky. He pulled away a rotting canvas to an old Nord artifact made from a substance that Guifort had never seen before and would never see again. The young priest tried to tend to Yarvis's wounds, only for him to swat him away stating "the blood's not mine, priest."

The night after what happened, Guifort found himself wandering away from camp intent on prayer. He bandaged his hand while speaking to Arkay, asking the god to make sense of what had happened. He asked if this journey was cursed, or if he was cursed for taking it. There was silence, but it wasn't the bad sort of silence. It was the sort that led him to think and reaffirm. Guifort hadn't been strong enough to destroy those abominations, but he had been strong enough to repel them. They were unnatural, bucking against Akray’s wishes of death and life renewed. Sure, he’d healed some wounds before, but never had he truly felt a divine presence. That was all the validation he needed at that moment, and it was enough for his sore bones.

The profit from the expedition was quite a bit, and the dividends had heavily increased after the death of half the crew—as did the rations. Yarvis had a buyer in Solitude that he didn't say much about stating that "the way things were after the Crisis, we'd do well not speak of such clandestine meetings." And, "they didn't travel this far from Cyrodiil for us to start asking why." Guifort knew that was Yarvis's way of telling him to shut up and enjoy the money. And he did. He purchased a rather nice Breton hat with an elegant buckle and an odd feather, along with new robes, a few journals, quills, ink, and other items. After all that, Guifort assumed they were to part ways, septims in hand. Yet, Yarvis was slow to return to High Rock while his men swiftly wanted away from the madman that had led them there. Guifort was somewhere in the middle. His soul ached from the death he'd seen, but he'd also never felt so close to Arkay before. So, he conceded to travel with Yarvis... if only for a little while more.

A little while more turned into years.

[color=D4AF37][center][i]"This part might be a bit long if I told you all of it, but there are some things I learned from. For one, Yarvis Belancourt was not even this man's real name. He'd won it in a game of cards years before. He was an astute liar and frightfully loud conman. He was always finding 'adventures' and 'long lost ruins.' If you asked me now, a devout priest of Arkay, how I could have stayed with him for that long. I'd tell you it was because Yarvis had a personality that was addicting like wine... or skooma. Not that I've had the latter, but I've heard stories. I hadn't forgotten about that night in the ruins, but at that time I was slow to believe Yarvis had done anything beyond what had come naturally—survival. Once he started teaching me his tricks of the trade, though... I learned. I learned that he'd only gotten as far as he had by stepping on the heads of others, and unfortunately, my head was next."[/i][/center][/color]
Despite Yarvis's travels to wherever he deemed interesting, whether it be across the length of Skyrim or small dips into Cyrodiil, Guifort still tended to his duty as a priest of Arkay. He'd perform funeral rites for towns that didn't have their own priest. He'd handle small undead nuisances for a small fee, despite Yarvis's opinion otherwise. He’d make sure that their traveling routes crossed temples of the Divines and Arkay—a pilgrimage of sorts. More importantly, he turned into quite the orator. They'd find themselves in inns or taverns (Guifort avoiding the brothels that Yarvis liked to dip into), and he'd tell the tales of the various things they'd seen.  But more interestingly, he would discuss the stories of peoples’ lives. He'd heard quite a few in his time, tending to the funerary rites of many. There was so much wisdom people had accumulated over the years, and he'd written it all down. Yarvis would always ask him if he was writing a book. Guifort laughed "there are far more interesting books in Tamriel than mine." Which was true, but there were far more boring stories as well.

Guifort had traveled to be closer to Arkay, but on a stormy evening right inside the border of Cyrodiil he never felt further from him. It hadn’t been just Guifort and Yarvis. Guifort was always a slow-speaking accomplice to the louder and more verbose Yarvis, but just that... an accomplice. There were others in Yarvis's troupe, and they cycled through as swiftly as chattel with the exception of a Nord man by the name of Engrad. He'd hung around for a few missions and taken to the work of excavation and battle with the glee of a chopped log.

The rain pelted down, and Guifort headed to the woods by the road to relieve himself. He grumbled about needing a better hat for weather like this. A flash of lighting, and a roll of thunder later, he had finished his business. He returned back to the road to find Yarvis dead, and his men gone. It had only been an instant. Blood mixed with rain and mud. Yarvis's cold eyes stared up at the stormy sky, not surprised but not welcoming either. It reminded Guifort of all those years before. The men at the ruins had the same look. Yet, their throats hadn't been so obviously cut with emotional turmoil in mind.

Yarvis's septims were gone along papers and other things of value. All that was left were his clothes, an old crossbow that he had a rather salacious scene emblazoned on, maps, and the marked coin that he always used to win bets. Guifort pocketed the maps, crossbow, and the coin, and buried Yarvis in the deepest grave he could create in the deluge of rain and without the proper tools to do so. "I don't even know your real name to give you a proper send-off. But Yarvis, whoever you may truly be, be well. May Arkay guide you. More so, may whatever soul that replaces you be as interesting if not more so than yourself. Though, I do ask it be far more moral and with a less fluid sense of right and wrong." Guifort chuckled at his words but only for a moment. It was hard to see his tears in all that rain.

He decided that was the end of his journey. It was time to head back to High Rock and it was time to take over Father Peryval's place as leader of the Temple of Arkay in a town he could barely remember the name to. Yet, not long after he left Yarvis's makeshift grave did he come across Engrad and the others from the group. A crumpled paper in his hand and anger in his eyes, he cornered Guifort. "I have reason to believe that that fool Belancourt lied about your participation in the massacre at the Yseal Ruins. I have reason to believe that your hands did not dirty with blood. But I also know that it did not deter you from cavorting with a murderer and liar, Priest. You can't tell me you're so naïve as to not have known. Hm?" He pointed at Guifort in the storm, his accusation punctuated by crisp lightning. "I should kill you. But, your god knows what you did. And if he still accepts you, then who am I to spit at his feet? But you are no longer welcome in Skyrim." He glared. "And you may think yourself clever, how could Engrad and his men patrol the country? Just know, Priest, I have eyes on the ground and in the sky. If you step foot in my country again, you will die.” And that was that.

[color=D4AF37][center][i]"I figure that Engrad had someone he'd known or loved on that first expedition. I figure that the living members of Yarvis's troupe had told the story. I figure that Yarvis had penned a letter or two blaming the entire thing on me. And either he'd forgotten to destroy them as we traveled together or he'd fully intended to blame me for the entire thing. What I did know, was that there was no direct route back to High Rock without traveling through Skyrim. And I didn't have the septims for a boat. So, I suppose Cyrodiil was my home now. I've had two father figures in my life. Both of them from opposite spectrums of the world, and both left with me weapons with lascivious imagery on them. How terribly lucky can one man be?"[/i][/center][/color]
So, Guifort found himself in Cyrodiil. With barely a septim to his name, he began his "pilgrimage" yet again. Things were direr here, the state of the country worse off for the events that had happened many years prior. So, it was of no surprise that his services as a priest of Arkay were welcome. Either by performing rites, healing, or tending to manageable abominations did he carve out a living for himself. No longer did he see the sights of ruins, dungeons, or the dark dens of interesting cities. Those went with Yarvis. But he did see a lot more of the temples of Arkay. It was almost as if someone had splashed cold water on his face to awaken him from years of the same drunken stupor. Though, ironically, he found himself more in the throes of a drink than before. This time, though, it was through chatter and camaraderie. He'd write more stories down in his books, he'd learn new things, and he'd see more sights. There was a culmination of a life he had in-between Father Peryval and Yarvis Belancourt. As much as Guifort hated to admit, he rather liked it. And that comfort showed itself on his form as he went from a sturdy adventurer to a well-seeded one. But Guifort's story was far from over.

[color=D4AF37][center][i]"With a renewed purpose, but a dark realization that home was to always be very far away from me, I tried to carve one out here. The sad thing was when I had come to an ultimatum, I'd come to it in Skingrad."[/i][/center][/color]
He'd been set upon by the Count's men for helping some poor peasants that found themselves restrained in stocks on a crossroad. A small band of the Count's guards was hanging around, and they seemed more preoccupied with rifling through the poor peasant's things than watching Guifort. A woman's wrist had been so bruised that the whelps were enormous, and she was losing circulation. He had realized she'd lose her hand if nothing was done, and then her life following it. The moment that the magicka of Arkay flowed through him and into the wounds on woman's wrists, did he see stars in a bleary, black haze. Over him was a town guard, the butt of his sword having connected with Guifort’s head.
"Don't think because you're a priest, that we're goin' to give you a pass. Now shoo." There was a smugness to the guard’s tone that acted as if he was doing Guifort a favor.
Guifort shook his head. "Let me tend to this woman's wounds. It’s obvious her punishment isn’t death, but she’ll be dead soon if nothing is done.”
The guard laughed. "I don care, she broke the law. So, she's here. And ain't you a priest a death or sometin'? Let her just die."
"It doesn't work that way. If it did, the world would have eaten itself up from lack of giving a shit. Now move I'm tending to this woman. By Arkay's divine will, if you try to stop me..." Honestly, Guifort had hoped that had been enough. But another crack to the head proved otherwise.

When Guifort awoke, he did so in the stocks. The woman he'd tried to save laid limp in her restraints face red hot from fever. He had to do something—anything. This wasn't about to be the ruins again, he wasn’t about to let the time for action pass him by again. Guifort couldn't quite fight his way out of this situation, at least not in conventional ways.  So, he began to speak.

[color=D4AF37][center][i]"I'd tell you the whole speech, but honestly I was a bit out of it from the knock to the head and the fever that was setting in from dehydration. It was momentous, though. It sent the crowd into action. Or at least, I thought it had at the time. In truth, there was no crowd, but it had been a planned attack by Isobel and her troops."[/i][/center][/color]
When the dust had settled, he'd been free. The members of the rebellion had moved as quickly away as they had arrived—guerrilla tactics and all that. Guifort said what little he could muster over the dead. It was a day where the road were painted with blood. Blood that didn't seem to end no matter where he went. The funerary rites began to blur together. The dreamsleeve was getting its fill of souls, and a deficit was felt in Guifort's heart. He considered finding a temple and settling, hiding his face from the goings-on. But he remembered the rebels and their call to arms. He'd read about their growing movement in the Black Courier. The aimless wandering he'd called a "purpose" for so many years had to stop. He may not have been able to lead troops, but he could heal, and more so—he could provide comfort and knowledge. The circle of life needed not turn so much. So, he sought Isobel out. A priest of Arkay with an affable nature and a penchant for stories and wine could be of use. People tend to speak a little looser around those that promise redemption for secrets.[/indent][/indent][/hider][/quote]
[quote][color=black][h3][b]𝔄𝔱𝔱𝔯𝔦𝔟𝔲𝔱𝔢𝔰[/b][/h3][/color][indent][indent]
[b][color=D4AF37]Major[/color][color=black] -[/color][/b] Luck
[i][indent]"Some say I've gotten away with all I have in life through luck alone. I'm more apt to believe it's the divine will of Arkay. Though, sometimes I wonder if he's fond of me 'divinely' winning drinking contests."[/indent][/i]
[b][color=D4AF37]Minor[/color][color=black] -[/color][/b] Personality
[i][indent]"One can't speak the words of their god without knowing how to actually speak. It also helps that I know how to relate to all manner of people. Sometimes only the noble and proud think their words matter."[/indent][/i][/indent][/indent][color=black][h3][b]𝔖𝔨𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔰[/b][/h3][/color][indent][indent][b][color=D4AF37]Expert[/color] -[/b]
[list][*][color=black][b]Restoration:[/b][/color] The power to heal the living and ward away the undead, this is Guifort's calling. He learned them from a young age in the Temple of Arkay, and he still uses them to this day. Doesn't help that they're also his bread and butter.[/list]
[b][color=D4AF37]Adept[/color] -[/b]
[list][*][color=black][b]Speechcraft:[/b][/color] While no poet, elocutionist, or statesman, he knows his way around the language in a way to be comforting and an authority of his vocation. This gift isn't used for ruthless command or persuasion. It's just a warm blanket on a cold night.[*][color=black][b]Alchemy:[/b][/color]Probably one of Father Peryval's largest contributions to his small town was his knowledge of alchemy and potions. Guifort is far from a master and only had the time to learn a small handful of healing, curing, and fortifying potions... and one poison. After Mister Catterly's death, Father Peryval had to take care of the mice somehow.[*][color=black][b]Mysticism:[/b][/color] The art of Soul Gems is one that Guifort considers blasphemous on all accounts. Yet the arts of mysticism fall in line with those of tending to the undead. The ability to absorb maladies and detect the living and undead are helpful tools, and something that he built up while traveling.[/list]
[b][color=D4AF37]Apprentice[/color] -[/b]
[list][*][color=black][b]Archery:[/b][/color] While not the most talented, Guifort can use a crossbow with some efficacy. Don't ask him to shoot an apple off of someone's head, but he can hit some part of a creature with it. Just, don't ask what part.[*][color=black][b]Medium Armor:[/b][/color] To no one's surprise, Guifort isn't the quickest. He isn't one to parry or dodge, and might even ask you what "parry" means, and if he [I]really[/i] had to try it. So, he has to have protection somewhere. Heavy enough to keep the slip of the blade from killing him, but light enough that he doesn't die of exhaustion--he's quite fond of the happy medium.[*][color=black][b]Security:[/b][/color] One doesn't travel with an infamous bard without picking up a few tricks. While Guifort is far from performing rampant burglary, those sticky locks can be dealt with.[/list] [/indent][/indent][color=black][h3][b]𝔖𝔭𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔰[/b][/h3][/color][indent][indent][list][*][color=D4AF37][b]Circle of Protection[/b][/color] [color=black](Restoration)[/color] [i]Expert[/i][*][color=D4AF37][b]Repel Undead[/b][/color] [color=black](Restoration)[/color] [i]Expert[/i][*][color=D4AF37][b]Grand Healing[/b][/color] [color=black](Restoration)[/color] [i]Expert[/i][*][color=D4AF37][b]Heal Other[/b][/color] [color=black](Restoration)[/color] [i]Adept[/i][*][color=D4AF37][b]Cure Disease[/b][/color] [color=black](Restoration)[/color] [i]Adept[/i][*][color=D4AF37][b]Greater Ward[/b][/color] [color=black](Restoration)[/color] [i]Adept[/i][*][color=D4AF37][b]Sunfire[/b][/color] [color=black](Restoration)[/color] [i]Apprentice[/i][*][color=D4AF37][b]Greater Life Detection[/b][/color] [color=black](Mysticism)[/color] [i]Adept[/i][*][color=D4AF37][b]Greater Dispel Other[/b][/color] [color=black](Mysticism)[/color] [i]Adept[/i][*][color=D4AF37][b]Psychic Motion[/b][/color] [color=black](Mysticism)[/color] [i]Adept[/i][/list]
[/indent][/indent][/quote]
[quote][color=black][h3][b]𝔈𝔮𝔲𝔦𝔭𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱[/b][/h3][/color][indent][indent][list][*]A [b][color=D4AF37]Heavy Crossbow[/color][/b] once owned by Yarvis Belancourt, and now named Mister Catterly by Guifort. [*][b][color=D4AF37]Leather Armor Fortified by Steel[/color][/b] is a polite way of saying that it was either an experiment by an armorer or an abomination that Guifort specifically asked for. [*][b][color=D4AF37]Steel Knife[/color][/b] that once belonged to Father Peryval with a rather interesting etching of Dibella on the hilt. [*][b][color=D4AF37]Lockpicks of Various Metals[/color][/b] were once Yarvis's as well, but he gifted them to Guifort finding it amusing that the priest might be intrigued by trespassing. [*][b][color=D4AF37]Mortar and Pestal[/color][/b] said to be of Imperial make that he got from a "fair" trade with a Khajit. They were not. Still works the same, though. [*][b][color=D4AF37]An Assortment of Dried Herbs and Minerals[/color][/b] to be able to create potions. Of course, they were taken from the side of the road. He didn't loot a noble woman's garden at all. [*][b][color=D4AF37]Amulet of Arkay[/color][/b] would be the first and only piece of equipment that Guifort thinks he might need. It's golden with a shining red stone in the middle.[/list][/indent][/indent][color=black][h3][b]𝔅𝔢𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰[/b][/h3][/color][indent][indent][list][*]Robes of Arkay [*]Fur-Topped Long Coat [*]The Breton Hat of "Renown" [*]Maps of Various Locations Throughout Skyrim, High Rock, and Cyrodiil. The distances may be off, and the landmarks may be false. Some of them seemed sullied by wine and others by jam. [*]Religious Texts of Arkay [*]Leatherbound Journals of his "Stories" [*]A Marked Coin that is weighted to always land right-side-up [*]Rations and Bedroll [*]Incense[/list][/indent][/indent][/quote]
[quote][color=black][h3][b]𝔅𝔦𝔯𝔱𝔥 𝔖𝔦𝔤𝔫[/b][/h3][/color][indent][indent]Ritual[/indent][/indent][color=black][h3][b]𝔐𝔦𝔰𝔠𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔞𝔫𝔢𝔬𝔲𝔰[/b][/h3][/color][indent][indent] Guifort is skilled at a number of menial tasks, but the one he takes the most delight in is sewing. He enjoys stitching up the errant tear or lost button. He sometimes hums when doing so. He also knows how to draw, and those drawings fill his journal. They're rough around the edges, but one can easily see what he was going for.[/indent][/indent][/quote][center][img]https://i.imgur.com/T0Uw9TD.png[/img][/center][/hider]
[b]ENFP-T [/b]- [url=https://www.16personalities.com/enfp-personality][i]The Campaigner[/i][/url]

[hider=Marcus the Much Missed][center][img]https://i.imgur.com/J4fJ3SS.png[/img][/center]
[indent][indent]I met Grisha at the river outside the town of Rimshackle. Yes, Rimshackle. I had to hold in my mirth when thinking about the name’s similarity to “ramshackle.” It had been a dire occasion, after all. There had been no time for idle contemplation after the funeral. I’d muddied my fingers adding dirt to the grave and packing it down. When everything was said and done, a few of the villagers pointed to the stream near the small mining town. They said I could wash up there. The filth that accumulated on my digits and in my nails wasn’t as physical as it seemed. There was some emotional residue there—something only washed away with a good scrubbing. So, I enjoyed the sheer coldness of the river, the current pushing away the mud from my hands and numbing my gnawing thoughts. It was a gray, cloudy day, but I was able to see the smooth stones through the water.

Children’s graves always reminded me of rabbit burrows. They were small, fragile, and they held something inside them that you never saw, but you knew was precious. A nasty cough had taken the boy in these cold months. The frost was just melting on the hills, but it had lingered long enough. We’d come across the town when they had been excavating a large rock from the grave, heaving it up over the lip with ropes. I’d offered to help. Their eyes narrowed into slits so thin and sharp I thought their gaze might slice my neck. But they saw my amulet and those eyes opened.

I’ve written funeral stories again and again, but this one was not about the young boy—he wasn’t old enough to have a tale yet. No, this story is about Grisha, the wife of Marcus. Right, back on topic. So, my fingers were going numb in the river when a shadow stirred me from my thoughts. I jumped, hands sluggish and unable to reach for anything other than the rocky ground below. I whipped my head up to see a woman, black hair twisted over her shoulder and a laundry basket on her hip. She looked me over, gray eyes the same hue as the sky above.

“So, you’re the priest?” she asked.
I may have blushed at the forwardness of the question. Don’t judge me. I’m a little out of practice in idle after-funeral banter. “How could you tell?”
“I don’t know you.” She looked away and moved towards the river, setting her basket next to the water. Sliding her tanned arms into the laundry, she pulled a dress out, inspected it, and dipped it into the river. Her hands crushed the fabric and she rubbed her knuckles over the bunched folds. It was then that she caught me watching. “Right. You going to help me, or are you going to move on? I don’t take kindly to strangers just gawking.”

“Right,” I said, pulling myself up. My fingers had finally warmed enough that they were limber again. I think she expected me to leave, and her brows raised as I approached and reached towards the laundry.
She slapped my hand away, hers was cold and wet. “You oaf, I don’t want you touching my personables.”
“Well, aren’t you as welcoming a mudcrab.” I hadn’t meant to be so blunt, but my emotions were soggy and my throat was sore.

Surprisingly, she chuckled. Her eyes flicked upwards and then back down to her duty. “Maybe, this time, I’ll humor a priest.” She wrung the dress out, flapped it in the air a few times, and hung it over the edge of the basket. “They tell you much about the boy?”
“Not at a lot. His name was Conor, and he was apparently a saint.”
She grunted. “He threw rocks at my chickens.”
“Good news for your chickens, then.” I hadn’t meant it like that. I know I probably had a dumbfounded look on my face. It was hard to take a comment like that back. It was out there in the world now. Chickens had been saved by the unfortunate passing of a child. Sometimes I wondered if I was deserving of Arkay’s light.
Another piece of laundry went into the river. “Aren’t you sweet?” She scrubbed it. “If you would be so kind, could you answer me a question?”
“May I inquire your name first?” I asked.
“Well, my question wasn’t going to be your name, Priest. But fine, it’s Grisha Shallfell.” She didn’t allow me any time to properly introduce myself. “Can they come back, Priest?”
“Can [i]what[/i] come back? The chickens?”
She rolled her eyes, scrubbing harder into the shirt. “People. Can people come back”
“Yes,” I responded, wondering the nature of such a question.
There was a moment of elation on her brow before it furrowed. Her fingers stilled over the white shirt, its long arms churning in the current. “I’m not talking about reincarnation, Priest. I’m talking about flesh and blood.”
“Are they dead?”
“By Talos’s beard, of course they're dead, Priest. I wouldn’t be asking for a deserter to come back. If he’d left me purposefully, I’d hope he’d been eaten by bears.” The shirt almost escaped her grasp, but she clenched down at it in the last second.
“Who’s [i]he[/i]?”

Grisha yanked the shirt from the river, the water splashing upwards and hitting me in the face. My eyes stung, and the world around me became a honeyed glaze. I rubbed them with the back of my palms. When my vision returned, I was greeted to her pulling her basket up—very little washed.
“You don’t have to leave,” I said, feeling terribly guilty. I was unsure why. She was treading down a blasphemous path, and I should have doubled down on those thoughts. But there was something about her. An intuitiveness right under the surface that had sussed me out in a moment.
She paused. “His name was Marcus, and he was my husband” Her shoulders slumped like a mast deflated. “And I’m finished talking, Priest.” And she truly was. Grisha moved away from the river and up the path with the agility and speed of someone who had taken it a million times before. I just stood there on the river banks, the looming mountains looking over my shoulder and softly [i]tsking[/i] as I tried to remove my foot from my mouth.

Back in Rimshackle, the meet hall was ablaze with hearth fire, ale, and loud voices. I shouldn’t have been surprised that my traveling partner and Tamriel-renowned lush, Yarvis Belancourt, was there. He was many pints deep considering the apple red of his face that contrasted with the creamy brown of his horned mustache. Those eyes squinted at me behind bloated cheeks and bushy brows. There was a moment where it looked as if he wouldn’t remember me before he yelled my name. The other members of the hall turned to look, glancing me over before returning to their chatter. 

Yarvis hurried over to me, mug in hand. He practically tried to insert it into my chest with the force that he shoved it at me. I grabbed it with both hands and looked him over. “Maybe you should head back to camp,” I said, feeling the judgment in my brow rising. Yarvis caught it and let out a rather wet guffaw. I took a sip of the ale and cringed. It was harshly bitter and tasted as if I’d decided to lick a horse’s foot. Still, it was probably all they had here, and I needed to wash away Grisha.

“I’ll head back to the camp when I’m dead,” Yarvis proclaimed, thrusting the mug up to no one’s cheer. He looked perplexed before lowering it and sloshing back to his seat.

“What is with people wishing for the unholy to walk this evening?” I asked no one in particular, returning to my drink. I sat down on a long bench that was covered in seated townsfolk. Honestly, I couldn’t imagine they were celebrating Conor’s death, but I didn’t know at all what we were here for. And when I opened my mouth to ask a question, a hand slapped itself hard on my back.

“Heard you met ole widow Grisha by the river,” a man stated.
“I did.” I didn’t really understand the implications of that question, and I was afraid to ask. So, I took a long draught of my ale.
“Shame she keeps to herself after Marcus died.” The man [i]tsked[/i], straightening himself up and looking at his compatriots. They all cheered at that statement before looking at me as if I knew something they didn’t. I mean, I did—but I highly doubt they wanted to hear about the mortal Arkay and his bid for more time to the Goddess Mara.
“How did Marcus die?” I asked, attempting to reroute the various slippery slope of thought that was present here.
“Like he lived!” The man exclaimed, and ale mugs went up as the cheering drowned the hall—that’s how you did it Yarvis. “This is quite a tale. Marcus Shallfell is… well was… a legend! Oh, I truly do miss him. We all do, don’t we?!” Another round of applause, and honestly, I was not drunk enough to forget my annoyance.

Yet, that was enough mental lubrication for the townsfolk of Rimshackle to tell me the great story of Marcus Shallfell. He was a Nord. Which was odd, given his name, but apparently he ripped it from the soul of an Imperial that he fought over a priceless sword. I wanted to say that’s not how souls worked without the application of magick, but I took a drink instead. He had shown up in town one day dragging a massive mountain bear, and according to the several men that described it—houses should have shuddered in fear from its immensity. Marcus had claimed that he’d wrestled and killed it single-handedly, and the donations of the pelt, meat, and bone would go directly to the village. In return, they’d have to welcome him as a member. Which they all did quite giddily. 

Marcus performed a few other tasks around the town like hauling logs up the river, laying a roof down with one mighty swing, and halving a tree with many provocative bicep curls. The last part was described in too much detail for me not to miss. Anyway, that was all fine until the next season rolled around and there was Grisha. A proud tracker and huntress, she’d been following that bear since it was a mere cub. She’d labeled it her quarry, and she’d set out many traps to capture it. She accused Marcus of defeating the bear after it had been caught in [i]her[/i] trap. Despite the dramatic retelling of this story, that actually made a lot of sense. Don’t worry, it was about to get nonsensical again. Grisha and Marcus fought over the title of huntsman—an established office that hadn’t been mentioned once previously. They decided to wrestle. Grisha came out on top, and according to all the brooding masculinity in the hall, Marcus had let her win. Anyway, the two became sworn enemies from then on out.

Seasons changed and they had their contests to prove themselves worthy for a title that only existed to push the story forward. Yet, when winter came closer, Grisha built a house for her to stay warm in. Unfortunately, she was called away because of plot convenience. Marcus, proud and dumb, moved into her home while she was away. When she returned there was apparently quite the fight between the two. A fight that ended between the furs—if you know what I mean. Yes, they told me to write that, as if I was far too idiotic to understand what that meant. I need more ale.

Love came quick and fast, and before Spring even set on Rimshackle, the two were to be wed. Except during the proceedings with a priest of Mara—who now just exists for plot reasons—a frost troll attacked. In the middle of spring. In the middle of a wedding. Are you tracking this? Because I’m not. Grisha and Marcus pulled out a sword each and slayed the beast together, bathing in the blood as they wed. Gross, but I guess romantic? Anyway, the two moved into Grisha’s house, which was the largest building in town, and lived happily ever after. The expediency of the end of this tale came with the depletion of ale. I looked around to find Yarvis long gone, probably already back at camp with his trousers half-down his arse and snoring loudly. I finished off my mug and looked around.

“So, how did he die?” I asked.
There was a founded look between the lot of them before one just shrugged. “I think the frost troll’s wife came back for revenge?”
Another villager laughed. “No, that’s Grisha you’re thinking of.” The laughter petered out into drunken jokes about things I knew nothing about. I took that as my cue to leave. Still mildly intoxicated, it would be enough to get to camp and asleep before Yarvis’s snoring awoke the frost troll’s wife, and we were beset upon by death incarnate.

Once outside, the cold air decided to do me no favors and attempted to sober up my flushed cheeks. I grumbled against the dry wind as I pulled my coat closer.

“He drowned, you know,” a voice came out from the darkness. I had forgotten that these small towns went pitch at night in the winter. No one really hung lanterns, and most had been extinguished from inside the houses. Grisha had her own lantern, though. She stood covered in a thick cloak with her hood pulled back. “I wasn’t the one being creepy this time, Priest. I was delivering some laundry to Tabitha down the way, and I noticed you coming out of the meet hall.” She paused. “When I passed, I couldn’t help but to hear my name. I figured you asked about Marcus.”

I nodded, a little too drunk and heavy-headed to think of anything smart to say.

Grisha raised the lantern upwards, highlighting the sharp nature of her face. I could see it, though, that strong woman that they spoke about. It was that sense I got at the river. She would be a menacing foe if provoked. Yet, her eyes were sad. I honestly can’t write anything more poetic than that. Maybe lonely? They reflected fingers that were once intertwined with another’s that were now destined to curl into an abysmal fist alone. Something like that.

“He got too drunk on a night like tonight, and as he was heading home he decided to stop by the river to clean himself up. He knew I didn’t like him smelling of piss and ale. He slipped at the edge of the river, tripped, cracked his head open on a rock, and drowned in water that would barely come up to your knees.” The lantern lowered, hiding her eyes. 

I glanced down at my hands, remembering focusing on the rocks beyond my fingers earlier. 

“That’s why I asked, Priest. I just wanted to talk to him. Ask him why he would die in such an idiotic manner. Why he would leave me alone.”
“But he—”
“I know, reincarnated somewhere on this damned earth. Probably a fucking goat, bleating and headbutting anything in sight.” Anger sparked her tone, but only for a moment. The fire settled but still rumbled in her chest. “Come back to my place, Priest. I’m sure they told you how it’s the largest house in town. It isn’t, but it isn’t meager either.”
“I have a camp out by the river.”
“So, you’re telling me that the hard ground surrounded by grown, drunken men is more inviting than a bed by a fire with a roof over your head? Am I to be that insulted, Priest?”

“When you put it like that,” I said, straightening my back and letting my courage slide its ramrod up my backbone. “I suppose I can’t turn down your generosity.”
“You can, but you’d be even more of an idiot than Marcus.” 
“My name is—” I started to say, but she whipped the lantern up and looked me in the eye. It made me pause. There it was, that terrifying ferocity again.
“It’s better if I don’t know your name, Priest. So, if I accidentally say Marcus’s name in the night, it isn’t a betrayal of his memory.” Grisha pushed on forward, passing me with an aura of intensity that was hard to mistake. I followed behind, glancing only once over my shoulder. A sign hung outside the hall that I had missed on my way in. “Marcus’s Meet Hall,” it read. And atop it was perched a very large skull from what I assumed was a very large bear.[/indent][/indent][/hider]