Captain Jenno

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

A Jenno and Dervish production!

Sometime around a week ago, Stros M'kai...

The docks were abuzz with life, as the crew of The Sea Wisp prepared to depart from Stros M’kai.
Above, the tropical sun blazed, a sun that would paint even the most pallid of adventurers a deep, healthy brown: And had done so for centuries.
There was a familiar tingle of excitement in the air, too: Nobody truly knew what was to come- except, most certainly danger- but this realization seemed to spur on those who padded along the boardwalks.

There was just this sense of grandness about it all. They were plunging into the unknown, but the beating in their chests told them that whatever they found there would help them chisel their names into the walls of history.
They would be saviours not only of Tamriel, but of Nirn herself, and her people.
Truly, what they did today- whatever words they spoke, and whatever songs they sang- would be repeated to future generations in bardic ballads, and tales of great heroes!
It was a real shame, then, that Burkswallow was nowhere to be seen for this.

No: despite his insistence on being one of the earliest to arrive- ”The early bird steals the prey,” – he was absent when his comrades had shown up, and began preparing to depart this island paradise they’d found.
Unwilling as he was, he’d been taken back to his dwelling- A small, unprepossessing inn called ‘The Witches’ Finger’, which smelled distinctly of curdled milk and old people, and possessed a roof that slanted in a funny direction (That is to say, it’d been put on upside down)- to collect an inexplicably heavy collection of luggage, on the behalf of his scaly and somewhat disagreeable companion.

”A real gentleman would delight in carrying a ladies bag!”
”Well if you’ll point me in the direction of one, I’ll gladly carry hers- Ow!”
”Come on, let’s go get my stuff!”

Burkswallow grumbled to himself- uttering words most unlike those of a gentleman thief’s- as he slung one of Sweeps’ many bags over his shoulder.
It was of a bizarre, cloth texture: And having been filled with useless souvenirs, he was almost certain it’d break soon.
”Why are all your bags made of cloth? You had enough money to buy useless tat, but you wouldn’t even shell out for a leather bag? Or even cheaper, a lizard ski-…”

Sweeps turned on the ball of her foot- in total silence- and stared at the thief for a few moments, soundlessly.
”Shutting up now.”
“Hrmph!”
He broke a smile: Half apologetic, half bemused, and she gave him a glare of daggers for his troubles, before the two resumed packing.

After a little while- when they’d both given up, and began tossing the bags out of the window and onto a cart below- he spoke up again.
”By the nine, how much longer is this going to take?”
“Goodness, just leave then, will you? It’s nearly all done, I can handle the rest. Honestly, you whine like a milk drinker.”
”Really? I can go? And you promise you won’t be mad?”
“Oh, I’ll be mad alright, but-…”
She was cut off by the slamming of the door, as Burkswallow sprinted out of the inn.
Breathing a heavy sigh, she resumed tossing her luggage rather indelicately out of the window.

Now, the most notable thing about The Witches’ Finger is that there was no ‘front door’, so to speak.
The building was so decrepit, and constructed on such aged foundations, that- at some point in the past, which Burkswallow is not familiar with- the original entrance to the inn was bricked shut, lest any of the rats inside (which they theorized to be there) escaped, and spread a plague.

Remarkably, The Witches’ Finger housed no rats- Even they’ve got the common sense to reside in a nicer abode- but this decision meant that when its current owner bought it (for whatever reason), the only available entrance was in the back alley behind the establishment.
Not that it mattered too greatly: Beforehand, it’d been a brothel- tailored specifically to the blind and senseless, Burkswallow imagined- So the backdoor had always seen the most use, anyway.
And it was through that very door that Burkswallow emerged, his hand wrapped in a tissue for fear of otherwise catching hepatitis from the rotting wood.

The alley, contrary to what one might have suspected, however, was a rather lovely thing to observe.
The pale grey walls that lined it were of ancient construction; They had that well-crafted, well weathered feel to them, and when the sun struck them at noon they’d become the most beautiful shades of white; And even the ground was quaint and cobbled, as though this street had once been the anticipated home of a wealthy merchant, and The Witches’ Finger was just some hideous mistake they couldn’t afford to erase.

Honestly, he’d seen alleys like this in the better parts of Skyrim, but he’d never appreciated them until visiting Stros M’kai.
Today, however, something felt off about it; Perhaps it was the time of day- as morning would keep the sun away, and leave the alley in darkness- or perhaps, the sound of Sweeps-Much-Dust grunting from above was ruining the ambiance of it all.
Or just maybe it had something to do with the large, leather clad woman that was seizing Burkswallow by the collar, and slamming him against a wall.
Crack
He just couldn’t put his finger on it.

Visions of hideous, leather-bound blurs danced before Burkswallow’s eyes, as his head swam and his shoulders fell limp.
He tried to spit some not-so-witty one liner about being trapped between “A cock and a hard place” at his attacker, but all he managed to slur at them was an indecipherable collection of vowels and sounds.
They chuckled, in a deep- but familiar- voice.
“Hello again, Burkswallow! What brings you to Stros M’kai?”
After a few moments, his eyes finally focused again, as the blurs became a solitary shape.
He most certainly wished they hadn’t.
”I just thought I’d retire here. You know, catch a tan, maybe a grow a moustache,” he replied, struggling to make himself just a fraction more comfortable, ”But I can see you’ve already beaten me to the punch.”

Bethalda Leatherhide grinned maliciously down at him from her unnatural height, her rotted teeth clenched tightly (which was a rather risky idea, if you asked Burkswallow), and her unusually hairy top lip twitching irritably.
“I could certainly beat you with punches, if you’d like that,” she retorted, tightening her grip on his collar.
”I have no doubt you’re man enough for it,” he reposted, wearily, as he began to wiggle against her grip.
Her eyes narrowed, and her knuckles audibly cracked, “You’ve got a real nerve, Burky-Boy.”
”And stunning hair, but what’s your point?”
“Hah! It just makes you look like a woman!”
”Well, at least that makes one of us!”
With a snarl, the burlier thief drew her head back.
“Hey Burkswallow!” she exclaimed, before throwing her quite offensively large skull forwards with great truculence, “Long time, no-”
It was at this point that Burkswallow- having been wriggling nonstop for the last few moments- slipped free of her grip, and ducked out of the path of destruction- leaving Bethalda to collide rather promptly with the wall of The Witches’ Finger, visibly denting the stone in the process.
”Headbutt?”

Bethalda stumbled back, clutching her head and whining like an injured mammoth as she toppled into the grey walls Burkswallow had been admiring earlier, and slid pathetically to the ground.
Burkswallow readjusted his collar- which was now visibly stretched by Bethalda’s prior grip- “Did you really need to grab me by the collar? This is my good shirt, you know.”
“Aagh… screw off, Burkswallow…” she groaned, rubbing the massive bruise that was slowly forming across her cro-magnon forehead.

”Yeah, you’re right- I own nothing but good shirts. Good call.”
He gave her a few moments to recuperate (as he was, of course, a gentleman thief), before kneeling down beside her, and tutting at her mockingly.
”Go on then, horker-brains, what’s all this about? Did you follow me?”
“Ugh… no, why would I do that?”
”My winning charisma?”
“Even I don’t drink that much.”
Burkswallow folded his arms, and pursed his lips, quite clearly offended, ”Then what?”

“I was already in the city, the guild sent me on vacation-”
“Vacation?! I don’t even g-”
“Yes, we screw you constantly, we’ve established this much.”

Both thieves sighed in unison.

“Anyway, as I was saying, I was here anyway and the guild sent me orders to find you. We want to help.”
”Help? Are you going to give me my stuff back?”
“What? Oh, no. Goodness, no.”
Burkswallow frowned.

“I sent them word of what you told me in the legionary camp- You know, about the dwemer army- and any other information I could gather on it.”
”You gathered information?”
“I’m a thief, aren’t I?”
”… senseless brutality?”
“Naturally.”
”You and natural really don’t mi-“
“Should I finish what I was saying, or just break your nose again?”
”Please, by all means.”

Bethalda drew back her fist.
“The other thing.”
“Oh, right.”
She reached into her breastplate- and Burkswallow turned away, for fear that something might leap from her armour and take out a chunk of his jugular- before withdrawing a long piece of parchment, which she handed to Burkswallow.

He took it in his tissue-holding hand.
“They want to help with the war effort. This is a list of pirates-”
”Oh, so now I’m meant to help because they’ve developed a sense of self-preservation?”
“- and privateers, that we want you to recruit for the cause. We all know this is suicide, so we need our best talker on the job.”
”Forget it, I’m done working with you, you’re all a bunch of rock warblers and I’m sick of it!”

Slowly, Bethalda got to her feet, still rubbing her forehead pathetically, “Come on, Burkswallow- We need these guys persuaded, we want them to smuggle and fence in enemy waters, keep your men supplied.”
”If you need to persuade them so much, why not just break into their houses and steal all of their stuff?”
“And just why would we do th- …Oh, oh yeah.”
”Oh, yeah.”
Burkswallow turned his back on her, and waved dismissively, ”Get somebody else, the guild’s burnt its bridges with me.”
“Fine!”, she barked, stamping a foot and- quite visibly- causing the walls to shudder, as if they might collapse.
“But Burkswallow, one thing before I go?”
He hesitated, and then turned around- Only to be promptly punched in the face, and sent sprawling across the cobbled ground.
“One day that pride of yours is going to get you killed.”
Burkswallow- quite thoroughly disabled for now- mumbled some muffled question regarding whether the same thing had happened to her femininity, before blacking out.

When he came to, it was a good hour later: The sun was high in the sky above him, and beckoned him back into the world of the living with warmth and brightness.
Slowly, he opened his eyes…
And just as quickly, he closed them.
”Ouch! By the Gods, that’s bright!”
He shielded his eyes with his hands, and stopped moving for a moment (well, except for his cheek, which swelled horribly from the inside).
He gave himself a few seconds to fully come around, before slowly sitting up, and rubbing his aching face.
Then, it occurred to him:”… damn it! We’re meant to be departing soon!”
Hurriedly, he clambered to his feet: And then promptly toppled over, still dizzy from the blow he’d sustained.

The second time was the charm, though: He managed to get himself up, and began hurtling through Stros M’kai’s back alleys as he made his way to the docks, folding the parchment Bethalda had given him in the process, and slipping it into his pockets.
It took a good ten minutes to actually get there- not accounting for the sudden collision he’d had with a blind woman, from which he’d made fifty septims- and when he did, everyone looked ready to depart.
He panted heavily, as he made his way over to the first figure he recognized: Zaveed.
Whilst he’d been running, he’d also been thinking: Perhaps recruiting Stros M’kai’s “privateers” really would benefit the war effort.
Their disregard for most things- safety, the law, hygiene- would make them ideal for sailing under threatening conditions, and they’d most certainly know their fair share of hidden routes through which they could deliver equipment to the troops.
Plus, it certainly wouldn’t hurt to have another fleet, and “Captain Burkswallow” had a ring to it he quite liked.
They’d make him a captain, right?
Of course they would, they’d have to.

He smiled exhaustedly at his Khajiit friend, and spoke with strained breaths.
“Zaveed… I think I might need to… stay behind…” he wheezed.
Before speaking again, he took some time to catch his breath, during which he handed the parchment over to him.
“I think I might be able to strengthen our numbers, so to speak. Stros M’kai is a paradise for pirates, thieves and all other sorts: They could be useful to us,”he explained, gesturing to the city beside them, ”But… it means I’m going to have to rendezvous with you later. What… what do you think?”
The privateer looked up from a manifest he had been reviewing with Drinks-Many-Rivers. Burkswallow stood, looking at him like a man with a plan who was somehow also juggling cockiness and guilt like either a brilliantly deceptive circus act or a barely clinging-on imbecile. If there was one thing Zaveed had learned of the thief since meeting him in Anvil, it was such; the Breton was brilliant at disappearing and reappearing on a whim. Somehow on the voyage to Stros M'kai, despite the Sea Wisp's crew being more intimate with every inch of that ship than a woman, every hideaway, nook, cranny, and shadow were well charted territory, they had been unable to locate Burkswallow until he had mysteriously resurfaced when the lookout spotted shore and the galleon was preparing to dock. The khajiit had been too impressed to be irritated. The man certainly knew how to get out of doing his duties.

"And what do you know of my kin, my friend? It is one thing to know to how lift pockets, but it's quite another to play our game." Zaveed replied.

"We have a quarter barrel of ale unaccounted for, still." Drinks-Many-Rivers grumbled, shooting the Breton a dirty look through slit eyes. "We need to find some buyers for our spoils." he said.

Zaveed took the parchment from Burkswallow, looking at the obvious telltale signs of physical violence marring the Breton's otherwise fair face. "Let me guess; that wasn't from a tavern wench you forgot to pay." the khajiit offered, unraveling the parchment, his icy blue eyes deliberately drinking in the aged paper. The list had several names of ships and captains he was well familiar with; men he'd fought, drank with, and once upon a time, stole women from. There were also a few women captains on the list, one on there stood out. "I suppose you're set to kind some of my acquaintances." he said, handing the parchment back.

"As for what I think, I think you better watch for Felicia Harding, she's something of a cutthroat and man eater... an old, ah, consort of mine. None the less, she's one you should seek out, her crew is some of the finest in the West. Word of warning, though; she likely will try to seduce you if she senses an easy mark, and you won't notice that your pockets have been picked clean until you go to buy your cure disease potion. However, get her on your side, and there isn't a cove or landing between Valenwood and High Rock she doesn't know intimately, blockades or hunter ships be damned. Another one on this list you should keep a look out for is Barentus Coren, an Imperial rogue who has more stories than books in the Imperial Library. It's fairly easy to win his time, keep his tongue wet and he'll make time, as he considers a drink a prepayment of sorts. He runs one of the largest pirate fleets in Tamriel, he has 27 ships of various sizes and arms and he isn't shy about fights. If you want to break a blockade or take an unfortunately large and well defended ship or port, he's happy to do it, for a steep price. I suspect recent events have him rather excited. The more the major powers clash, the less they look at us." Zaveed said, watching as some of his crew passed by, carrying a heavy crate. Drinks chased after them. "Easy with that! Zordan doesn't buy broken goods, and I will make you eat the entire damn crate if you drop it..."

"Might I inquire your interest in this?" Zaveed asked. "I'll warn you now, you're walking into a world where people aren't shy about killing to sate their greed. Most aren't as... charming as I am. They aren't likely to share in their spoils, even with your help.""Felicia Harding?", Burkswallow asked, as his breath finally returned to him, and the colour returned to his face- highlighting the bruises that Bethalda had so kindly gifted him- "Oh, Zaveed," he placed his hand on his heart, and feigned a great pain, "Your lack of faith wounds me, it really does!"

Then he placed the back of his hand to his forehead, just to perfectly punctuate his melodrama, before chuckling jovially.

... and wincing, because the act actually caused him a great amount of pain.

"You needn't worry about me, my khajiit comrade," he assured Zaveed, grinning a swollen- and yet still uncannily charming, in its rascally nature- grin, "I've gotten myself an accountant. With my stroke of luck lately, I dread actually carrying my money in case it's somehow infected with the smallpox virus."

A disgruntled, ethereal noise rang out through Burkswallow's head, followed by a brief and indignant "Hmph!"

Burkswallow made a dismissive hand gesture towards it, but to any spectators who didn't possess the power of ESP, it more or less looked like the pointless motion of an invalid.

"If she wanted to pick my pockets clean, she'd have to start by not looking in my pockets," he continued, as- around a nearby corner- Sweeps-Much-Dust emerged, pulling behind her a cart full of her luggage.
She huffed, and puffed, as she dragged it along the cobbled streets, and to Burkswallow's side.
"Speak of the devil!"

She puffed out her cheeks in indignation, but said nothing other than, "Alright... it was an oblivion of an effort, but I think I'm ready to leave."
The Breton's thief arched his brow, "What?"
"I've been packing all morning! You were meant to be helping me, in fact!"
"Oh, that!", he nodded, before glancing from her to Zaveed, and back again, "Yeah... yeah, we're not going anywhere."
"I... what?", she asked, nonplussed and with eyes wide.
"Yeah, I figured... why don't we just stick around, and play with pirates instead?"
"Be... because that's a really, really stupid idea?"
"O-Oh, Sweeps... listen to me, c'mere..." he cooed, resting his hands on her shoulders, and looking reassuringly into her eyes, "If I was in the business of avoiding stupid ideas, you'd still be in Cyrodiil, and I'd be happy."
"I..."
"Shh shh, I know..." he nodded sagely, "I know. But it's too late to mourn my potential happiness. What we've got to do instead is make friends with some cut-throat pirate thugs."
There was a moment where the two of them stood in silence.
Then, Sweeps jabbed him sharply in the chest with her elbow, before shuffling off to return her cart of luggage to her temporary residence, muttering to herself about 'stupid thieves' and 'Burking it up.'
Burkswallow wheezed as all of the wind left him- again- before turning back to Zaveed with a crooked smile, "And... th-that's the lady I've entrusted my every penny to. Pirate or serial killer, she throws a mean left hook," he gasped for air, before straightening up again, "As for the process of actually recruiting... you believe me, I've the gift of the gab."

He rubbed his chest, like a child rubbed a scrape, "By the nine, you ought to be warning Harding!", he chuckled again.

He waited for a few moments after that, not only for his breath to return but for the jabbing sensation in his thorax to dissipate, "As for my interest in this? The Sea Wisp is a fine ship, but she won't be running the blockades," he turned to gaze at the vessel for a few moments, "And a few old acquaintances have just- only just, mind you- developed a sense of self preservation. With luck like mine, you don't ignore an opportunity like this when it lands into your lap."
He paused, and then rubbed his bruised cheek, "Or clocks you in the face, for that matter."

Zaveed and Drinks-Many-Rivers watched the exchanged in perplexed amusement. It would seem even decapitation would still not be enough to throw Burkswallow off his stride.
"By Jone, you two argue like a bitter old married couple." Zaveed noted.
"Is she taken?" Drinks asked, perhaps a bit too eagerly. "I wouldn't mind lifting her tail, if you catch my meaning."
Zaveed offered Burkswallow his tankard of rum that he'd been enjoying as he was talking to Drinks about the ship inventory, as well arrangements for his absence in the upcoming weeks. "If you for a moment thought you were taking the Wisp for your own purposes, you are madder than Seggorath, and you aren't even a skooma addict. And you are for damn sure we would not run a blockade in my ship. It's a galleon, not a schooner. It's meant to outlast the quarry ship until we can secure it and plunder. Regardless, you be safe Burkswallow. I'd much rather run into you again before one of us dies, and I expect there to be stories exchanged." he jabbed the Breton in the bruised cheek. "And you owe the crew for the free ride."

"If you boys will excuse me, I have quarry of my own." Drinks said, shoving his tankard into Zaveed's chest as he strutted down the dock to catch up with a certain angry argonian.The thief happily took Zaveed's tankard, and swigged down what remained of it's contents: In part because it would numb the aching of today's bruises (although it was a pointless effort, as tomorrow he'd no doubt have new ones),in part also because he was loath to ever refuse free rum..
Ever.
No situation would ever call for such sacrilege.
... but primarily because, in some way, it felt as though it was sealing the agreement that would result in his short leave.

Then, with great joy, he watched as Drinks scuttled off in pursuit of his notoriously ill-tempered maiden, knowing full well what was to become of him.
"I hope he wears a cup," he began with a grin, lowering the tankard from his lips, "But hey, who knows? I'm being hard on him... maybe he'll get lucky!"
He placed his cup on a crate to his left, and then laughed lightly, "I mean, maybe she'll just aim for the face!"
He then turned then to his khajiit comrade, and extended his hand with an expression that betrayed some hint of respect, despite his efforts to remain nonchalant.
"I'll pay your crew back tenfold, I'm a thief but I've got my morals," he smiled, "After all, when brothers steal from brothers, the whole world is poor, isn't it?"

He chuckled again, "And don't you worry about me, friend. Nocturnal couldn't stand the idea of somebody else finishing me! I've got lady luck on my side..." he paused, and then made an uncertain gesture, eyes narrowed, "Well... sort of. Maybe? She doesn't want anyone else to kill me, but..." he trailed off for a few moments, "... it's a bit of a skewed relationship. Regardless!"
Then, he motioned for Zaveed to shake his hand, "But the same applies to you. Don't you go christening any cutlasses, alright? If I'm recruiting us a lawless army, I'd want no other man in charge."
The khajiit regarded Burkswallow's hand for a moment before warmly clasping it within his own. "Oh, I don't think you have to worry about that. I've already been impaled with a scimitar once, and that's not even a thrusting weapon. I am in in no hurry to do so again" he smiled. "And a king among outlaws, hm? I suppose I can become accustomed to that idea. After all, one must always play to their talents."

Zaveed turned to stare back at the ship. "There's much to do in the next few hours. I am uncertain as to when you plan to depart, but if you can spare a few minutes, there's something I wish to show you."
Burkswallow threw a glance skyward, to observe the position of the sun, before returning his attentions to Zaveed with a nod.
"The sun's still high, so consider my interests piqued, friend," he began, shaking the khajiit's hand heartily as he spoke, "I hope the enigma yields a nice surprise," he withdrew his hand with a playful smile, "Because if it's a trap, it seems hardly worth the easy kill!", he gestured for Zaveed to lead the way, "Captain, my captain."

The khajiit beckoned for the Breton thief to follow him aboard the Wisp, crossing the deck in an easy, practiced stride towards the captain's cabin, leading Burkswallow inside to a well-furnished accomodation, recently adorned with assorted goods from the recent conquest of the altmer Interceptor, including the captain's helm hanging from a coat hanger, along with a small pile in the corner of other goods, most of which would fetch a commanding price in the right markets. Zaveed ignored his recent and long past spoils in favour of the weapon plaque hanging on the wall behind his desk, map still stretched across its polished surface. Upon them hung a pair of glass scimitars, which he took from their mountings, feeling their weight with a small flourish. "There's something of a small tale with these blades, one of no small amount of trepidation and adventure, and they are a statement, a promise. After I had received the letter of marque from Emperor Tactus and was awarded this very vessel on which we stand on, I was set back onto the seas again to continue my usual vocation of being a maritime marauder." Zaveed said, admiring the green, semi-translucent blade, its elegant curve accentuated by the copper-gold alloy that made up its hilt and other components of its grip. "The crew I had gathered had all lost something to the Thalmor over the years, I was not excluded from that. After all, if they had not commissioned the corsairs from my youth to keep Elswyer on edge, dependent on Dominion support, I likely would not be who I am today. They took me from my family, sculpted me into one of them. It's the only life I've ever known, one I never thought to question until I began to see what life is like outside of their yolk. Of course, almost as soon as I had a will of my own, I spent a considerable amount of time ensuring that everyone else in Tamriel could have theirs back. A fair trade, no?" he asked rhetorically, setting one of the swords on the desk across the map.

"And so, for the past two years I decided to ply the trade the Thalmor had indirectly taught me against them, something of a personal vendetta I suppose. I cannot tell you how may ships I've plundered and lives I have taken, but these blades belonged to the first. The captain of a vessel, a galleon like my own, had challenged me upon the deck of his ship, slick with the blood of his crew and my own. In each of his hands were these swords, these glass scimitars that the Thalmor only seem to give to people of some importance in their culture. Somewhere along the way, he earned these swords, and as our blades clashed, my axes against his swords, I had begun to understand why. A worthy adversary who matched me blow for blow, only diverting attention from me to repulse my crew that came at him, as I did with his. I could see in his eyes, not hate, but determination.. and respect. He was not like many of the Thalmor, who look down at anyone who is not altmer with disdain and condensation. He was a man who recognized a worthy adversary and a battle well fought. Had he not slipped up and overextended his reach, it's very possible we wouldn't be having this conversation. Even though he died that day, I'd be amiss to say he didn't leave an impression, and I could not bear to let his weapons fall into hands who do not understand the ones that came before them. I took them for myself, not just as trophies, but as a sign of respect for a foe well fought." Zaveed turned the remaining blade over in his hand, offering it to the thief. "And I want you to take this."

Between the two, a moment of silence passed, in which Burkswallow- for what may very well have been the first time in his life- was rendered totally without words.
His face was etched with dubiety, as if he was awaiting ‘the catch’.
As if he expected, in a few moments time, that Nocturnal’s latest machination would reveal itself, and Zaveed would suddenly run him through with one of these crystalline blades.
But it never came, and somehow that made the situation all the more serious for him.

Speechless still, the thief reached out- hesitating momentarily, as if he suspected his hands might mar the scimitar’s surface- before slowly wrapping his fingers around the hilt, and withdrawing it from Zaveed’s hand.
Then, he rested the blade upon his open palm, and stared down at its jade surface in unspoken reverence.
From this, another moment’s silence was born.
And when Burkswallow tried to speak again, there was very apparent effort in his voice, which sought (only semi-successfully) to hide the swelling of his throat.

“You know… I never stole for the money,” he finally began, voice not much higher than a rasp, “In fact… you can never tell the boys at the guild- because they’ll cut my throat and leave me to bleed out on the docks- but… I was a noble. I was set to inherit a pretty big trading business,” he laughed weakly, wryly.
He drummed his fingers against the hilt lightly, rhythmically, as if to verify to himself that he was actually holding it.
“What I craved was the excitement,” he went on, after a few moment’s consideration, “I wanted an adventure. A thrill.”, he flipped the blade over, to admire it’s other side, “So… I ran away. I gave up my money, my comforts… my name,” he raised the sword into the light, as if- once again- to verify that it was, in fact, real, “And do you know what that meant? That meant when I stole something…”
A roguish grin crawled across his features, as reminiscence took the place of awe, “I aimed big.”

He lowered the sword again, and- seemingly emboldened by its validity- span it in his palm, before seizing the hilt once more, “And in all those years. With every museum I pilfered from, and palace I happened to stumble into?”
He flipped it, so the pommel faced towards Zaveed, and the blade towards himself.
“This is the most valuable thing I’ve ever held… and I didn’t even have to steal it.”
Then, in one fluid movement, he sheathed it on his waist- in the spot where, had fate been kinder, his bejewelled cutlass would have lain- before looking back at Zaveed, a new sort of tenacity brewing up below the cloudy surface of his pale irises.
Truly, he wasn’t sure why it meant so much to him- he’d stolen more coin in his time- but something told him the sentiment behind it made it the most costly sword he knew of.

“I’ll take good care of it,” he told Zaveed, assuredly, “But when we meet again? And we will meet again,” he patted the blade’s new sheath, “She’ll be reunited with her twin.”
Then he bowed his head, momentarily, before flashing a familiar, magnetic smile, “I can’t guarantee she won’t have run a few recusant, reluctant pirates through by then, however,” he jested.

Zaveed regarded Burkswallow steadily, noting the emotional turmoil within the Breton. It was curious; had the man ever been shown a kind gesture in his life, or did he have to fight for every scrap of respect and recognition in his life? He listened to what the man had to say, finding in the thief something of a kindred soul, a man who was less interested in money than the prospect of taking it. The difference between the two, as far as Zaveed was concerned, was Burkswallow never had to take a life to get what he wanted. Zaveed had no idea how many lives he had claimed in his own pursuit. Odd, then, how the more ruthless and irredeemable of the two men was the one who was hailed as a hero by the world at large while the other was an easily forgotten footnote in the annuls in history. The khajiit hoped the man would make his mark on the world, and for the better. There were enough bastards in the world, that was for sure.

"Wealth came easily to me, if you're counting gold and gemstones and other priceless trinkets that people seem to think matter most in this world. I never brought me any measure of peace or personal freedom. I'm anchored to this life, where I've seen many faces come and go and the same wealth I've killed for trade countless hands... that same wealth never held the value to me as it does to most men. It was the pursuit of it, the violent and visceral lead up to claiming it that drove me. I'm a warrior without scruple, principle, or compassion. It's what fate decided I should be, and as much as I try to change that, it's as much a part of me as the salt is of the sea. While I cannot escape from what I am, I can at least try to do some good in this world, which is why I can see what your doing with admiration and respect. You will make a difference. You will change the world, I promise you that."

He reached out, to clasp the thief's shoulder. "I will hold you to your promise, then. When I see that blade again, it will be sharing a drink with you to victory and maybe even peace, a strange concept that a man like me knows nothing of... but I want to." he looked away for a moment, melancholy crossing his features. "Perhaps to find that day, it will cost much more blood until the gods are satisfied. Weld that blade true, Burkswallow. It is a fine blade that belongs in the hands of a man who isn't afraid to do what needs to be done. It yearns for the chance to taste steel and flesh once more. I do not doubt that you will not deny it that."

There was something about those words that stirred something new in the Breton.
“You will make a difference. You will change the world.”
Up until now, he wasn’t sure whether or not he’d truly realized the momentousness of his situation.
He hadn’t been thrown into the ring with a ragtag team of bandits, or a group of tenacious but lacking underdogs.
These men were the Heroes of Tamriel: And it was only upon recalling this that Burkswallow suddenly realized just how insignificant he was, in the grand scheme of things.
For just a moment, his expression faltered as it was swept with the throes of an existential crisis.
But this passed just as quickly as it’d arrived, his pale eyes mellowing as Zaveed’s hand made contact with his shoulder.

A humble smile replaced what’d, seconds ago, been a fearful expression, and he spoke with some sort of self-cognizance when he replied, “A thief that changes the world, huh? By the nine, I hope my reputation doesn’t precede me… being famous would make my job awfully hard,” he chortled, “Imagine that: Getting asked for an autograph by a man I just pickpocketed.”

As Zaveed continued onwards, Burkswallow threw a fleeting glance to his new glass scimitar, before making eye contact again.
”It is a fine blade that belongs in the hands of a man who isn't afraid to do what needs to be done. It yearns for the chance to taste steel and flesh once more. I do not doubt that you will not deny it that."
He nodded resolutely, and placed his hand on Zaveed’s shoulder in a similar manner, as if sealing an unspoken pact.

Honestly, the thief had never been one for the heat of battle: He’d have much rather fought a battle with his silver tongue than his glassy blade, because a blade might take a head, but a well-placed word could topple an empire…
But the times, they were changing. It seemed as if, to win this war, Burkswallow would have to change too.
Perhaps that’s what Zaveed had meant, when he’d said Burkswallow would make a difference.
“Doing what needs to be done may not make you happy,” he recited aloud, “But it will make you great.”
He nodded a second time, his humble smile still remaining, but his expression nonetheless certain, “Your sword will get her fill, I promise you that much, friend.”

"Have no worries, friend. If a corsair like myself can go on to become one of the most influential people of the 4th Age, I am certain a thief such as yourself has as much of a chance. Tales of daring heists always stimulate the imagination." Zaveed chuckled with a nod. "You best be on your way. The sea waits for no man. Ahzirr Traajijazeri, go with conviction in your heart and steel in hand. I will see you again one day, I promise." With that, Zaveed went to leave the cabin, opening the door to the bright, brilliant afternoon sky of the Hammerfell island, taking in the sun. It had been a good day, one of the few in the uncertain days to come.

~Majora's Mask: Oathkeeper's Dawn~

“The Black Marsh Circus,” Anemos read aloud, as he tugged the poster free of its nail, and took a closer look.
Reading audibly was a habit he’d developed when very young- His father was wont to do the same- and one which had followed him into his 30s, much to the annoyance of the troupe’s psychic, Sparrow, who made no hesitation in telling Anemos that the practice made him ‘look, and sound, like a mouth breather.’
He’d never taken much notice of Sparrow, though: The man was a fraud, after all.
A failed psychologist, who made his living from reading faces.
Anemos was willing to bet that, had he read some of his text books aloud, he might’ve gotten somewhere with his life.

He narrowed his eyes as he examined the poster’s contents, slightly faded but still distinguishable: A rather pretty young woman was the most prominent element, against a background of dark rolling waves.
He recognised her, to some extent: This wasn’t the first time he’d heard of The Black Marsh Circus, nor the first time he’d seen ”Lorelei the Siren”'s likeness on paper.
Other performers, too, made an appearance on the flier, but they seemed somehow less important.
He frowned, thoughtfully, at the sight of it all: It seemed just slightly too dark for his more ebullient performing tastes.

Still, however, he folded the image up, and slid it into his shoulder bag.
Although Grout had quite strictly forbidden it- “Never, under any circumstances. It’s final. No.”- he still intended on paying the performance a visit, albeit a brief one: He’d never had any qualms with other troupes, despite what Grout might’ve said to try and sway him.
Besides, it was difficult to consider Lorelei his ”rival” (as Grout had so kindly worded it in one of his innumerable rants) without having ever seen her in action.
Maybe he'd even learn a thing or two about showmanship: Although he doubted it, as his act was intended to bedazzle, and hers to bewitch.

With The Black Marsh Circus’s advertisement now in his possession, Anemos turned his attention to his surroundings.
Colloquially, they called it “tent city”, but he'd heard it described as "the Clock Town slums."
At first glance, it looked innocent enough: A series of small, tented communities, filled with all sorts of discount merchants and carnival-types, keen to flog their wares and make their livings…
But there was no denying that there was a sinister undercurrent that seemed to flow freely between the marquees, a hint on the breeze that was impossible to the touch, but distinct in scent.

It was only now that Anemos became fully aware of the weight of the mask that he wore beneath his cloak: A sleek, black thing… a false face, which bore no feelings, and thus no qualms.
Most days, the mask in which he performed was of a radiant and autumnal design, lustrous and engraved with an exuberant smile.
But now, the one that hung upon his belt was an antithesis to that: Cold, and devoid of all feeling.
Orca existed to forcefully undo the wicked: And there was much wickedness in the air of tent city.

And that’s why Anemos had come here.
Of course, he hadn’t journeyed across Termina- and dealt with the mayoral office for many an hour- in order to combat petty thieves, to debilitate ambitious pickpockets and make black and blue the skin of wretches…
There was a far viler killer on the loose, perhaps even stalking these tents right at this moment.
A foul creature, that claimed lives, and took faces.
But he wouldn’t strike, yet.
The cover of darkness had once been his target’s emancipator: Unfortunately for them, however, it was also his alter ego’s closest playfellow… and natural habitat.

Suddenly, however, Anemos shook these crepuscular thoughts from his head, and motioned to return to Clock Town’s walls.
Orca represented a nocturnal instinct, but as day was still upon them, he had little place clouding Anemos’ mind.
He was quick to make his way into, and through, Western Clock Town, and made the same progress through the Northern district: He was eastward bound, in the hopes of finding some means of distracting himself from the evening to come.
He entertained the idea of starting practice even earlier, but soon dismissed it.
After all, East Clock Town was filled with all manners of performers to admire.
“Maybe I’ll find a musician,” he mused to himself, the smile returning to his face as he stepped through the eastern gate, “Or a dancer.”

~Majora's Mask: Oathkeeper's Dawn~

Baklava said
*Fyer and Grout Mutah glare at each other in all their slouched-over glariness*

And then it suddenly had to become canon!

~Majora's Mask: Oathkeeper's Dawn~

There was something of an inexplicable camaraderie floating around amongst the dwellers of East Clock Town: A feeling of esprit-de-corps, as circus-men and hired carpenters alike worked synergistically to construct stages and rostrums of all shapes and sizes, to accommodate performers from far and wide who’d ventured there for the Carnival of Time.
And whilst some of those bright-eyed entertainers had seemingly been overshadowed by the pure immensity of the gesture- such as the musicians, who’d been drowned out by the chatter of crowds and left lost amongst their writhing forms- most seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely.
It was a time for merriment, after all! There was a static in the air that seemed to predict the coming of something earth-shattering, and excited spectators throughout the Eastern quarter seemed to be picking up on it.

And somewhere amongst all this joyous chaos, on a small plot of the land that had been sealed off- at least for the moment- by a troop of his fellow performers, strode Anemos Seuhans.
All around him, mighty wooden beams were being erected, rising from the floor and piercing the skies as the troupe’s “strongmen” battled their weights with long rope, which they attached to iron spikes.
Right now, all they formed was an oaken skeleton: But once it’d been garbed properly, and furnished, this little plot of dirt would be transformed into The Spectacle Rock Circus, Anemos’ pride and joy.
It was to be adorned with a silken tent, coloured all autumn shades of red and gold…
But that was a long way off, yet. Beams still needed to hoisted, and stands constructed: A circus took time to construct, it took money.
And nobody knew that better than its conductor, owner and manager, Grout Mutah.

Anemos had been motioning to leave the building site when first his boss approached him, his heavy silver mono-brow worn low over his eyes, indicating a disgruntled and worrisome expression…
One that Anemos honestly couldn’t make out, due to his better’s short disposition, which certainly wasn’t made better by his habit of slouching forwards.
His callused hand had seized the young man’s just before he’d crossed the threshold, and stopped him dead in his tracks.
There was a few moments silence, after that.

“Going somewhere, Anemos?” he asked, his heavy brow complimented by the shaking of his equally faded moustache. There was concern in his tone.
Anemos nodded, and turned to look down at him, “Yeah, I thought I’d go for a stroll, maybe explore a little! Why?”
“You’ve been… disappearing an awful lot, lately,” he observed, relinquishing his grip on the performer’s wrist, “Missing practices.”
There was a moment’s pause between the two, before the acrobat replied, “But I always come through when it counts, right?”
“Luck’s a precious thing,” the older man warned, “Don’t squander it, son.”

With a playful grin, he patted Grout on the shoulder, “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna run off and join another troupe, alright? I thought I’d just go and say hello to the neighbours!”
With an alleviated sigh, the older man’s shoulders dropped into a more relaxed position, and although it wasn’t visible, Anemos became certain his face had softened, too.
“Right,” he nodded, thick brows rising slightly, “So, you’re going to scope out the competition?”
“Competition?,” Anemos arched a brow, “What competition? We’re just here to give these people a good time! The show of a life time!”
“No, you’re here to give them a good time,” Grout explained, pressing a stubby finger to Anemos’ chest, “I’m here to make them pay for it.”
“Boy, Grout,” Anemos began, taking a few steps back, “You make me sound like an escort!”
“You’re not that pretty,” the older man observed, in a playful tone.
“But I am pretty, right?”, Anemos replied, convivially.

There was another short pause.
“… just go and explore, Anemos.”
With a chuckle, the young human began pacing- backwards- towards the threshold of the circus’ territory, “I’ll be back before practice!”
“You better be!”
Anemos gave him a sportive salute, before turning on his heel, and bounding off into the crowds, disappearing amongst the waves of heads and bodies.

~Majora's Mask: Oathkeeper's Dawn~

By the way, should I be adding what Anemos wears during a performance to his list of clothing and armour?

~Majora's Mask: Oathkeeper's Dawn~

Falkon said
Hiya. Saw this the other day, mulled it over, and decided to try this thing out. I'll have a CS up in a day or two.

I dunno man, we've been hurt before.

Post Majora's Mask Alternate Timeline Zelda RP (High Casual)

Wait, are you talking about this guy?

Heavy Metal

Post Majora's Mask Alternate Timeline Zelda RP (High Casual)

PURRfect93 said
err, well when i was looking for a decent image for what i wanted i kinda came across one from twilight princess ^//^"but the plates of metal are kind of fused to his body via the large bolts that are part of the metal in the image. however i can change this if necessary to reduce confusion :O

What we're trying to say is that bolting your armour to your body would, for lack of a better phrase, hurt like a bitch.
It'd also make you really un-dexterous and permanently weigh you down.
In a nutshell it'd just be really inconvenient: We understand what you're describing, we just can't put our fingers on why anybody would do that to themselves.

Post Majora's Mask Alternate Timeline Zelda RP (High Casual)

Bad Wolf said
For shame!!!

I've been a bad, bad Captain.

~Majora's Mask: Oathkeeper's Dawn~

Patience is a virtue, it won't hurt us to keep bumping for a couple days more.