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    1. Cazzer1604 5 yrs ago

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20-something Yorkshire lad.

Primarily interested in TES and Fallout RPs, but willing to engage with any sort of writing so long as its juicy.

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<Snipped quote by Cazzer1604>

Yep! We're open and ready. The players should be posting within the next week, so if you want to be involved in the beginning action, go ahead and make your sheet. We have room for Mara and Zenithar, atm.


Great. I'll work on generating my character and writing up the sheet. Should be sorted tonight or tomorrow.

I'll take Mara!
Hey there, is this still open?

Saw a deadline for the 12th Jan but also saw approvals being made after then.

Was looking for more Elder Scrolls RPs cropping up just before the holidays, haven't scouted for one since then until now! I'll be gutted if I missed this one.

If yes, could you outline which deities are still open for championing, and I can get creating ASAP.
"Cold. I don’t know why anyone would want to live in a place this bloody cold.", replied the Imperial, eyes back to his book after a quick glance at Drelas. Somewhat rude.

It was a statement Drelas agreed with, but from the demeanour and body language shown in the response, he decided to not pry further and leave the surly soldier to his book. The Dunmer swigged the last dregs of his ale and immediately glanced around looking for a barmaid to refill his empty tankard. As he did so, his ears picked up a muttering coming from his right flank. From the Imperial. The words were not meant for him, clearly, and as Drelas listened it became clear that it was words from the book that were being uttered by the young man - and not in the way that one reads aloud to themselves when mulling over something.

No, the mutterings were ones of an illiterate. And to think that the Imperials were meant to be more civilised than their Nordic brethren! He gave some fleeting curious glares at the Imperial, to confirm his conclusion. Though never long enough to allow him to truly notice, but perhaps long enough to give the impression of being judged. Which of course he was.

The Dunmer must have looked for a second too long, however, as the Imperial suddenly stood up and announced his retirement to bed. Whoops. Hopefully Drelas would not be later counting on him to save his life tomorrow. The silver lining, though, was that there was now a mostly-full mug of beer-like liquid up for grabs, which Drelas quickly took advantage of.

Almost on cue, the barmaid finally found Drelas' empty mug and offered to refill it. The dark elf nodded, ensuring to allow his impatience to engrave his face as he did so. A mer's tankard would never dry up in a Cornerclub. Imperials that couldn't read, and Nords that couldn't keep their drinks flowing. The world has truly gone mad.

Drelas spent the rest of the evening to himself, for the effort of engaging with other fellow patrons was wearing thin after the tense encounter with the drunk Nord and the brushing off he experienced from the Imperial. He people-watched and listened to conversations of revelry, of curiosity, and of fear. Each had their own means to deal with the coming battles that loomed over the Legion and the soliders within. Everyone know what tomorrow could - and would - bring for many, often regardless of skills or experience or talent for the arts of war.

He heard nothing too significant beyond a few rumours of the Legate (how his Voice could shake mountains, how he killed 12 elves before his eighth winter, and how he has ruthlessly deals with insubordination and cowardice), and how many treasure-laden ships were at the bottom of the Sea of Ghosts (such rumours surely existed in any body of oceanic water, Drelas thought).

With little entertainment available in the tavern besides more mediocre ale, Drelas decided to call it a night and called for his tab to be paid the next time the barmaid came round. He asked if there were any rooms available, but there were none available that she knew of, and this would likely be the case across the city. After a bit of wandering and attempts to negotiate somewhere sheltered to sleep, he decided to give up. It looked like he was sleeping rough tonight.

Defeated, and slightly tipsy, he meandered his way to the refugee camp outside of the city and brushed past soldiers from all stripes and walks of life, but paid them no mind. He found a patch of unoccupied haybed and slumped into it after de-equipping his gear, not taking long to drift off to sleep despite the cold. At least the ale helped with that.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The morning went well, for the most part. It wasn't by any means pleasant - the food provided by the camp was barely adequate, there was the omnipresent Skyrim chill in the air and the march was as joyful as one could expect. But it wasn't going badly in the context of things.

And then the arrows started flying.

Drelas was an Auxilia and was therefore a bit removed from the grunts at the vanguard of the Legion's formation, but the chaos that erupted was felt throughout the ranks. Instinctually, and most likely due to the training he went through in the Imperial City, he raised his shield to protect his vitals from the incoming projectiles. This reaction no doubt saved his life as he felt the impact of several arrowheads bounce off the steel embroidery. He froze there for a while, the only thought in his head being 'protection' as barked orders and reactive commands were smothered by haunting screams and squelches of penetrated flesh.

His mind found room for musings of how he found himself here, and then he remembered that he never wanted to be. What fool would volunteer to participate in this brutality?!

The barrage seemed to pause for a moment, allowing time for the Dunmer to peek over his shield at the skirmish that lied before him. The Imperial forces were all over the place, any semblance of organisation and tactics were shattered by the effective ambush. Drelas had only just clocked who they were being ambushed by - Thalmor, of course. Trust his luck to come across the deadliest of foes in his first battle within only hours of arriving in Skyrim.

His fellow Auxilia that were next to him no longer were, and Drelas found himself solitary and therefore easy pickings for archers. No wonder his shield was a magnet for arrows, it was a miracle that he wasn't dead already. He hurriedly moved to a group of Imperial forces that had banded together in solidarity, ensuring to keep his shield above his head and torso towards where (he thought) the enemy archers were. As he joined the group, he found no time to engage to understand the plan or tactics before they were descended on by a squad of Thalmor counterparts, weapons raised. The Imperial cohort readied themselves in turn, and Drelas took a few deep breaths before focusing on his assailants.

He could almost feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins as the gold in the Altmeri eyes became clear to see. Drelas' mind was simultaneously blank of all thought and yet acutely analytical of the approaching threat. The elven swords glimmering in the sunlight, the recently crimson red snow crunching underneath moonstone boots, the evident conviction in the faces of the Thalmor soldiers. All of that came to a head as the two parties engaged.

Drelas raised his shield to counteract the predictable first strike of the Altmer that beelined for him, and responded with an equally predictable thrust towards the abdomen of his aggressor, who had backed off just in time. The Thalmor soldier initiated another strike with his sword, which Drelas again blocked and risposted, this time with a forehanded slash followed by a backhanded one, to keep his opponent at bay. The two exchanged blows a few more times, to no avail for either. Drelas took momentary glances to his comrades for any assistance, but noticed they were equally as busy as he was.

The longer this stalemate went on, the more chance that Drelas would get an arrow in his neck. He had to try something to end this quickly so he could refocus on defending himself from projectiles instead of being tunnel-visioned into fighting one Thalmor soldier. As the Altmer lunged in once more, the Dunmer did something very unorthodox indeed - he threw his shield towards his foe with a backhand, releasing the grip to see it clunkily flung towards the centre-mass of the incoming elf. It was not a throw meant to be deadly, or even harmful. Merely a distraction.

And one that worked a charm. The Thalmor, clearly not expecting such a reckless move, was caught half-catching the business-end of the shield as Drelas tackled him with the tip of his sword into the stomach and then the force of his body, piercing a gap in the Altmer's armour and landing on top of him, the two locking eyes as they hit the mud and snow. Drelas could almost see the life leave the Thalmor's as his removed his sword and stood up once more. Realising he was exposed with only leather armour to protect him, he searched the ground frantically for the shield that had been so vital to his continued existence on Mundus. Seeing it behind him, he rushed towards it to be secure behind it once more.

As he crouched to pick up the shield, Drelas felt a sudden warmth in the side of his right thigh, followed by a surging pain as the dark elf cried out. He flipped his body around so the shield was on top of him, and shuffled backwards away from where the pain had come from as he scrambled to his feet. His eyes darted across the scene of battle and the treelines, but found no sure sign of his attacker. He then looked down to the source of his anguish, and saw a horizontal streak of red on his thigh. But thankfully, no arrow stuck out of it. The archer must have only grazed his leg.

But, lesson learned - don't throw away your shield when there are archers pummelling the battlefield.

Not long after that had sunk in, Drelas learned another lesson: Don't stand around thinking in the middle of a skirmish.

Sheer speed of reaction allowed Drelas to turn and block an incoming mace with his shield, but was unable to stop the kick to the chest that followed and had sent him on his hind. Winded and bruised, Drelas could do little more than look up at his attacker - a much bulkier Thalmor footsoldier than the last, and clearly more skilled in combat. The Dunmer winced as he expected the final blow, but only blood spatter connected with him. A steel sword poked through the throat of the Altmer brute as he crashed to his knees attempting to cover the rushing blood loss in vain.

An Imperial soldier was revealed as responsible for the blow, but before Drelas could offer his gratitude, the Imperial's own neck was a cushion for an incoming arrow. Drelas' saviour collapsed over the Thalmor solider he had just killed mere seconds ago, and Drelas stared in shock at what just transpired. But not for long, as he once again got to his feet and (quickly, this time) scanned the battlefield. It was still chaos, of course. The group that we was previously alongside was either dead or gone, and he noticed that some of the Imperial forces had mustered some form of counterattack, led by nobody other than the Legate. He also couldn't help but notice an extremely tall Dunmer that followed closely behind.

The pain in his leg dulled as Drelas ran towards the assembling Imperial contingent. If he was going to survive this, he'd have the most chance alongside the legendary Ingjald of Stuhn. Drelas hoped the rumours he heard in the Winking Skeever the previous evening bore some truths.

"You lost, elf?"

Drelas was two-thirds of his way through his second ale when the crotch of a man entered his peripheral. Leather strands of the all-too-familiar Imperial Legion armour dangled against the bench=edge as Drelas ignored the question, hoping the troublemaker would move on.

He did not.

"I said, are you lost, knife-ear?"

A faux-frustrated, gleeful intonation underpinned the repeated words. The overtly more insulting addressal further stated the hostile intentions of the questioner. There was no ignoring this particular dolt, it seemed. This was one drunk Nord that would not tire speaking to a uninterested Meric brick wall.

"No", Drelas answered. He was on his best behaviour, but he knew himself to know that such restraint would not last long.

A poorly-masked façade of curiosity continued to envelop the inquisitive thug. Drelas did not need to turn away from his tankard to notice the smug aura the Nord was exuding, nor the showmanship of swagger that was on display for anyone who cared to engage in the racial-led grilling. He took another swig, contemplating the words and actions he could opt to use in this situation and weighing up the consequences of each. He has his reasons. After all, while he was a soldier in the Imperial Legion, he was a Dunmeri soldier in the Imperial Legion, in Skyrim. A court martial would not look on him favourably if he stabbed the bigot in the eye with the nearest butter knife. And he wouldn't make life easy for himself if he was to antagonise half of the local legion by being the 'cunty Dunmer who can't take a joke'. So a 'no' it would remain. For now.

"Well, what's a grey-skin like you doing this end of Skyrim, then?", the Nord asked, the mocking tone increasing with every question.

Drelas let out a sigh, but quietly and through his nose only. It was drowned in the noise of the tavern, thankfully. "Same as you, I'm sure.", he retorted. Hopefully that response would invoke comradeship and not animosity. Though he did not have much faith that it would. The dark elf mused at the diplomacy he had shown; normally bottles would be breaking by now.

"What, to make Skyrim a home for the Nords again? To drive out the foreigners in our land? I doubt that, elf."

Patience was wearing thin, for both parties. Drelas could practically hear the Nord's knuckles clicking next to him, and his own sabbatical in passive non-antagonisation was nearing its end as well. Smart arse-ery was pushing its way to the front of the queue.

"You've got a fair few Imperials to worry about first, I should think. They're the reason I'm here", he said, as he turned to face his aggressor. A middle aged man, clearly not the cream of the crop of fighting men. Clearly not a career solder - his build nor character attested to that. Perhaps a fellow conscript, or an overeager jaded farmer who'd had enough of news of rumours of foreigners daring to encroach on borderlands hundred of miles away. The Nord's eyes narrowed as they met the dark elf's, and brief moment of tension flew by. A pin could be heard dropping, if not for the many loud conversations and ambience of merriment encompassing everything.

Drelas awaited the first punch as he had many times before. Nine times out of ten, they swung with their right. And so his left foot was tensed and ready to propel him away from the blow and out of the bench ready to counterattack.

Instead, the Nord belly-laughed, disarming Drelas with confusion, enough for him to allow a hairy hand to slap his shoulder. "Ain't that the truth.". The Dunmer would have shaken his head in disbelief of the sudden turn of discourse and emotion if he wasn't still in a state of alert. He'd witnessed and performed too many dirty tricks in fights to let his guard down at this point.

The Nord continued. "Means to an end, though. As soon as we drive out these damn Thalmor, these Imperials will leave, and we'll have a Skyrim for the Nords once again. And we can get back to what truly matters... Mead! Making good mead and revelry! None of this wartime piss that we're forced to drink!"

He let out another glottal laugh as he finished off his own punchline. Drelas was liking Nords less and less by the minute. Not only were they brutish animals, but they were unpredictably so. At least a pig was expected to roll in its own muck and gorge. These Nords would seemingly do that, attack you, then buy you a drink and get back to the rolling. Which was not appreciated by Dunmeri culture or Drelas as a result.

Drelas watched as the man he thought he'd have a tussle with stumbled off, presumably to poke at another poor soul who just wanted to wallow in peace. He looked around the tavern and noticed that everyone was mostly at least with someone else. Whether in giddy carousal, boisterous banter, ice-breaking curiosity or absolute silence. And he realised that on his lonesome he was a prime target for the gibing he'd just experienced, and that the next drunken Nord may be so fickle in their pursuit of a reaction for the fun of it. He needed to at least pretend he was with someone else so any other bully would think twice about approaching two men who could have each others backs instead of a sole Dunmer who kept to himself.

He glanced around the Winking Skeever for anyone who may be willing to accommodate his presence. Perhaps even his company - after all, he'd stuck mostly to himself since he left Morrowind, so it might be good to actually converse with someone else for a little while. As long as they weren't dull, of course.

The cold had somehow crept into his bones despite the warmth of the tavern, and his eyes were compelled towards the fireplace to his right. As he glanced over, he noticed a seat by the smouldering fire become vacant as a old civilian struggled to pull himself up - out of drunkenness or decrepitness, it wasn't immediately obvious. Maybe both. Either way, Drelas was already up and out of his seat to fill the void. The glow of the fire was a welcoming sensation, warming to the core far more than the ale ever would have been.

The dark elf removed the gear on his back and belt obstructing his comfort and promptly sat in the chair before anyone else could claim it, noticing his tankard was running empty as he did. Would he have to go to the bar himself to get it refilled in an adequate time, and risk losing his prime position? Would someone be round soon? He was not familiar with Nordic customs of patronage in such places. He settled to wait for now though, and basked in the inviting embrace of the fireplace as he looked to his flanks.

Snoring to his left was a grizzled soldier in full armour that was slightly to small for him. Or rather, he had grown too much for it. No doubt incurred by the consuming of mead and beer and ale, if the empty bottles surrounding him were anything to go by. The man couldn't even wait for his booze to be decanted into a mug it seemed. And so there he was, fat and passed out.

To his right was a less-grizzled and admittedly handsome Imperial, who was very much awake if a little confused as he stared at the book in his hands. A fellow foreigner, surely, as the local Nords showed no desire to read for leisure. As good as any to strike up a conversation with. In fact, he could swear that he recognised the Imperial from somewhere, perhaps earlier at the docks or on the ship? Time would tell.

Drelas cleared his throat as he hoped to not make a cracked voice his first impression. He said, raising his voice to be sure to be heard above all the rabble, "so, what do you make of this place?"

Drelas did not face his heckler, but ensured to remember his voice. Its gruffness seemed artificial, as thought its bearer was making an effort to seem more manly than boyish. Its accent was distinctly Nordic, but also with a peculiar twang unfamiliar to the dark elf. That was enough information to narrow it down for any intention of revenge that Drelas would enact at a later point, for the Dunmer were a proud people, whether by nature or culture, and Drelas was prouder than most - or at least more unwilling to allow slights against him. He would not let this transgression slide without consequence, especially not from a filthy Nordling who likely had more spots than hairs on his chin.

He found his head elsewhere as most of the squad seemed to nervously shuffle and stiffen and dulled growls seemed to vibrate through the air, but not really penetrating the Dunmer's ears. Drelas lazily swayed in the tide of reaction from the squad, more out of instinctual bandwagoning than any real effort. His focus returned to the Sergeant upon receiving the answer to his query after the short pause due to whatever entity had interrupted. Eight hundred septims! What opportunity that presented, in spite of any deduction of expenses. "I'll take it".
Drelas ensured his shield and bow were still secured over his back before approaching further. He held his hand out somewhat ungraciously considering Dallio had offered this out of his own pocket, but the Sergeant hadn't yet done anything to warrant much in the way of deserving gratitude considering the conscripted context of Drelas' presence there. Dallio dropped a coinpurse into the outstretched palm, which swiftly enclosed to secure it, and watched as the dark elf turned on his heels to head into Solitude. Drelas saw a tall woman approach the Sergeant in the corner of his eye as he headed off, but could not see much in the way of details beyond a great dark mane that seemed greatly out of place in a martial environment.

Drelas made his way through the bustling crowds that swamped the entrance to the Nordic capital noting - as impossible as it was not to - the strangely upbeat vibe of its inhabitants. Beyond the beggars and the crippled, the people did not seem to be aware they were in the midst of a Great War. The further he went, the more he realised that the opposite was true, they were not ignorant to the conflict surrounding them. They were accepting of it. Elated, even. These Nords became more strange and alien the more time Drelas spent trapped amongst them, and he was becoming increasingly unconvinced of the nobility some attributed to them and more convinced of their primitive and barbaric stereotypes they had earned. The Dunmer raised his eyebrows in bewilderment as he passed street performers and processions, preachers peddling their piety, and bardic tales spoken in incoherent languages.

His eyes darted above the crowds for a certain archetype of signage, and it did not take long until his groans of disappointment turned to ones of approval upon gazing upon his intended destination. The Winking Skeever. A fittingly crass name for a such a crass corner of the world. And yet Drelas withheld his disdain, for this fine establishment was a tropical island after a snowstorm. He barged past a drunken gang of Nords hobbled around the entrance and was met with a soothing embrace that engulfed his face. Cathartic sounds of revelry and carousing filled him with warmth and comfort as he secured a seat on the edge of a bench towards the far side of the tavern and for a moment, Drelas closed his eyes and imagined he was back at the Fervent Guar Cornerclub in Narsis. But alas, he remained thousands of miles west as he opened them.

He beckoned a waitress over and hesitated as he realised he wasn't quite sure what to order. Surely such a refined beverage such as sujamma was an unheard-of commodity in this backwater corner of Tamriel. These concerns were confirmed as he repeated his request to the barmaid twice without any progress. In the end, he had to settle for an ale - although on his first sip, it wasn't the swill he expected. Perhaps these Nords could do something right after all.
The temperate climes of Cyrodiil were not able to welcome Drelas for long. He had not long settled into the barracks that he was brought to before word arrived that he was to be shipped to Skyrim to join the war effort there, grim as its situation was. Supposedly, at least according to rumours whispered by the Legionnaires, Skyrim was a complete mess in that as soon as the banners of war were raised, every faction and their mothers crawled out from the shadows and took for themselves a piece of the Nordic territory each. The most dire of rumours spoke of things worse than Thalmor awaiting the Legion there, if one could imagine such a thing.

Before this, Drelas had arrived at the Imperial City a few weeks after being carted off from Morrowind. The journey, while uncomfortable, was surprisingly trouble-free and unremarkable. A small Dunmeri trading outfit had a route between Narsis and Nibeney, with a stop off at the capital for mass restocking and offloading before heading back north-east. Its owner was a snobbish and snooty mer, who spoke few words to Drelas - the ones that did come to pass were merely grunted announcements of resting or of setting up camp. More engaging were the mercenaries and the labourers who travelled with the caravan. Of those, Drelas spent his time with and got to know Bevdyni, a female dark elf from Balmora, the most.
She spoke of the fickle and fragile state of her city, which was once a Hlaalu stronghold of trade and commerce on the isle of Vvardenfell, but was now a frontier town at best. The Red Year had not been kind to her family nor any who resided there, but the reconstruction efforts had fortunately gone fairly well thanks to the pride and resilience of the Vvardenfell culture and the skills of the workforce - a labour that had clearly not enticed itself to Bevdyni. As the White-Gold Tower grew closer, Drelas had grown fond of Bevdyni, and caught himself oddly forlorn as she bid him farewell and disappeared into the city, right before an attachment of Legionnaires arrived to 'escort' him to one of the garrisons to sign what seemed like a book's worth of papers and essentially contract himself into a near-certain death by sword, arrow or fireball.

Perhaps this is what his father truly wanted for his most disappointing son. Not to make connections, not to bring glory to the family name, but to be rolled into a shallow grave on some wretched battlefield.

As was not surprising for a soldier's life, the food was gruel and the ale watered down, and Drelas found the company to be drab and predictable. The enlisted were the expected mix - patriotic zealots mingling with terrified conscripts, overseen by dreary and stone-gazed officers ensuring that neither were acting out of turn. The Dunmer made no effort to engage with any of them, instead opting to stick to himself and consume his poultry rations with resigned disinterest. He had considered escape, but with the watchful eyes of his 'superiors' combined with what Drelas presumed to be heightened intolerance for insubordination as a result of the increased levels of conscription across the Empire, he reckoned an attempt wasn't worth the effort or risk. There would be opportunity enough for desertion, he mused.
So drab company it was. Between the mealtimes, training and drills were the norm. Drelas was initially taught, forced as he was, to learn the fundamentals of sword-and-shield combat and archery in between. After the first couple of days, however, he was brought aside for special training as a scout. The reasoning here was his slender frame and 'elf-eyes' making him well-suited for such a responsibility, and so the physical conditioning was supplemented by theory on staying hidden behind enemy lines and how to survive on your own in the wilderness if needs be. It was a useful curriculum, at least - far more beneficial to know than being shown the right way to slash and thrust before being inevitably cut down unceremoniously like the insignificant grunt you are.

Drelas had become accustomed to the routine until the rumours of deployment were confirmed the next morning. The next few hours were a blur as what seemed like the entire garrison was led through the city to the Waterfront, names were called from clipboards and soldiers were shifted to different vessels. Drelas' mind was with thoughts of home and nostalgia when he heard his name called out, he didn't quite catch which detachment he was to be part of, but he was gestured to embark on a chunky and blandly-brown vessel which he sheepishly shuffled over to after the captain had to bark his name once again with no attempt to hide his annoyance.

The naval journey was no more pleasant than the overland one Drelas had not long since experienced. The hull was almost overloaded with stock, and the cabins even more overloaded with sailors and soldiers. Days turned into weeks, the only semblance of time was sunlight and moonlight glimmering through the shutters, for the deck was found to be most unwelcoming for anyone wishing to gawp at the outside world as Drelas quickly found out.
He came to learn that his immediate superior was one Antony Dallio, and Drelas found him a somewhat uninspiring man who nonetheless seemed to go out of his way to not be unpleasant which was at least worthy of appreciation if not respect. His newfound compatriots did nothing to disprove Drelas' earlier presumption of the qualities of the typical Imperial Legionnaire, at least not the ones he managed to get a good look at. On one particularly dark evening, he could have sworn he saw the silhouette of another Dunmer down a corridor, but dismissed the thought as he realised the figure was far taller than anything but an Altmer should have a right to be, and far bulkier than any mer could surely ever be.

The voyage become more stop-and-start as the weeks dragged on, with many of the crew having to do shifts to remove the ship from the trappings of ice and frost that threatened to leave them stranded in the frigid and chillingly hostile sea, to the point that Drelas grew to dread every time the ship rocked for fear that command would be issued. Eventually though, the famed Sea of Ghosts gave way to the landmark of Solitude, and Drelas could not help but gasp has he lay eyes on it for the first time. He was under the impression that Nordic architecture was crude and rugged, lacking the finesse of most other cultures. But the city atop the natural arch was truly a wonderful sight to behold, and once again Drelas was surprised by his reaction to an event that marked another step toward a surely doomed end. He shook himself clear of his awe and reminded himself of his situation as they sailed underneath the stone structure.

As the ship docked and the crew began disembarking, a familiar chaos of the organised sort erupted along the port in the shadow of the Great Arch. Orders were barked by grumpy officers, soldiers shuffled along the piers to where they were told to be, and arms and armour were unloaded and exchanged hands. Drelas himself came to possess a somewhat droll steel sword and clunky steel-lined shield, a basic hunting bow, and a set of late 4th-era Imperial-style lightweight leather armour that felt like it would struggle to stop a butter knife - Drelas hoped his inexperience in handling armour would prove him wrong. Finally, the young Dunmer was instructed to approach one last station wherein he received a worn telescope surely intended to be specialised equipment for his scouting duties should they arise, judging from the relative rarity of their issuing. Drelas donned his armour over his roughspun tunic, equipped his gear on the respective belts and buckles and slung everything else over his shoulders. After that, he was yet again implored to stand in a certain place in the formation that was built at the base the Western side of the mighty Karth.

The climb to the city itself was not easy, the difficulty of the journey exasperated by the pace that the Imperial higher-ups demanded the Grey Legion to maintain. Morrowind seemed like a flat plain by comparison to this hike alone (Red Mountain not withstanding), but then Skyrim was known to be the land of great and majestic mountains, unfortunately marred by the brutish and lowbrow nature of its inhabitants. It felt like hours had passed by the time they reached the imposing gates that had insofar protected Skyrim's capital from being overrun by whatever forces threatened to smother this side of the province, forces that Drelas would no doubt become acquainted with in the coming days.
He caught many glances at what seemed to be the commanding officer of the Grey Legion in its entirety - the decorated and ornated armour attested to that. A brute of a Nord, even by their large standards, his already broad presence was underpinned by his booming voice as he roared his threat of consequence to any notion of desertion that may stir within the ranks. Perhaps Drelas would have to withhold any attempts at escape for the time being.

The organised contingent soon devolved into a disjointed rabble as soldiers went their separate ways. Before Drelas could slip away amongst them, Sergeant Dallio approached and it became clear that those around him were not random troops, but were his squad. Suddenly, he made an effort to take stock of who surrounded him, but his attention was snapped back to the Sergeant upon hearing mention of pay. The loan-nature of it didn't matter to Drelas, what mattered what the financial freedom it represented. With money, he could find company was wasn't drab, he could at least enjoy himself before being carted off to his shallow grave - better yet, he could even use it to arrange a way out of this fate or explore the options available to him to be used at a more optimum time, when watchful eyes were relaxed and suspicions were beginning to falter.

Drelas was the first to approach to the Sergeant, perhaps a little too eagerly, to simply ask: "How much?".





Gained Equipment: As an auxiliary with little of his own, Drelas has been provided some of the grandfathered equipment that the Legion used in Skyrim during its civil war for the Nordic irregulars. A full set of Imperial light armour is provided, along with a hunting bow, a steel sword and shield, and a telescope.
@Andreyich Whoops, forgot to add the hider. Added now and I'll move him over to the Character page.
Hey there, is this still open? I'd love to sign up but I'll need a little time to think about a character, maybe tonight maybe tomorrow.

(Think we were both on a Fallout RP that faded out like 2 years ago, hello again!)

Edit: Thinking a Dunmer, for anyone still creating their characters!
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