Hank

The Elder Scrolls: Swords & Septims

Pretty cool, eh? I found it somewhere on a long trawl through Google Images with various detours via "related images" and the like.

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[Create] Demonhost

The Elder Scrolls: Swords & Septims

PMs work for me. I'll start and hit you two up, hopefully later today.

The Elder Scrolls: Swords & Septims

If someone wants to say hi to Sora, I am also down!

@Dervish

It makes sense for Hector to reply to Sora's question (and we haven't written enough collabs lately yet ). @Inkarnate, want to join us?

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

The Cat and the Flames

_{featuring yours truly and @Dervish}

There was a perverse sense to Duhumvud sending Sadri and the newest member of the company, Narzul, up ahead as both scouts and potential vanguard, seeing as they were Dunmer and if they weren’t seen with the rest of the team, there was a chance, slim as it may be, they would escape much in the way of scrutiny. It was strange knowing that Narzul was Niernen’s brother, the two couldn’t have been more different in bearing. Niernen was compassionate, warm… her brother was as rigid and regimented as the military that spawned him, and it was very clear that he didn’t take kindly to the news of his sister’s thoughts of the Khajiit. And so, Do’Karth kept his distance and stuck by Sevine as much as possible, not only to stand by her when the time to fight came, but also to try and cement that she was where his heart lied. It was an awkward situation that Do’Karth had never anticipated coming to pass in a thousand years, but here he was and he had to make do with it, under the command of vile Nord that was infamous for kicking one of Do’Karth’s kin to death.

He rolled his jaw, reflecting on how much he truly loathed this war and everything that came with it. He was a man who sought inner peace and tranquility, and the past several weeks had done a lot to break that shell and put his limits to the utmost test. He would have given anything to take Sevine and run from this damned place and find somewhere that had never heard the clash of steel in ages, where the food was plentiful and the sands were warm. There were too many faces that he’d come to love in the time he’d been with the company, only to have them disappear one by one.

Do’Karth thought Niernen was lost forever, a woman he’d grown to greatly respect and admire, but she came back as if trying to defy what was expected of the fools who signed up for this stupid, stupid war. He tried to picture Jorwen’s face, but all that crossed the Khajiit’s mind was his imposing stature and great fiery beard. For a moment, shame filled Do’Karth’s heart; Jorwen’s memory deserved so much more than a lapse from an overly tired and frustrated Khajiit. He thought then of Solveig, and the promise he kept to Jorwen. How would he ever be able to make things right by him? He was just a foolish cat with a stick who was playing at a game that had impossibly high stakes. Why was he even here? Perhaps it was Mara and S’Rendarr’s way of punishing him for trying to find happiness for himself by choosing Sevine rather than devoting himself to others. It was a glum feeling that left him feeling empty and the most lost he’d felt in such a long time. The amulet about his neck felt like an unbearable weight rather than a source of strength. More than ever, he needed guidance and reassurance that what he was doing was right. No voice filled his consciousness, just the constant patter of footfalls of his companions and him as they marched into the unknown on the forebodingly named Bleakrock Isle.

A sharp crack and cries of alarm snapped Do’Karth out of his melancholy and with a sinking feeling of dread he knew that the bridge up ahead that he’d heard Sadri and Narzul crossing gave out under them. Resisting the urge to sprint forward to try and rescue them, he knew he couldn’t be reckless and give away his position. The group advanced with some urgency and were stopped at the sight of ten figures who were immediately apparent as the Armigers, the very enemies they were sent to confront. Do’Karth took a few moments to close his eyes and slow his breathing, allowing himself a moment of meditation before battle, expelling his pain and doubts with each breath as he found his center, and his purpose. He was a warrior, it was in his very soul. And it was this soul that was being called upon to act to protect the lives of his comrades and the innocents of the mainland.

The command to attack came suddenly, and Do’Karth’s eyes sprung open, wide and attentive as he charged his foe, who had turned to face the oncoming adversaries with his weapon at the ready, a pickaxe. Do’Karth was still simmering with anger and hatred towards this Dunmer and he projected all of it into the vessel of an elf before him. With a ferocious snarl, Do’Karth lashed out with intent to maim with his staff, his normally calm and collected manner of combat forgot in a ferocious flurry of blows that the Armiger managed to largely deal with, even going so far as to catch Do’Karth’s staff in his hands and pull him forward, causing the Khajiit’s grip to slip as he stumbled, trying to regain his balance. The Armiger stared down at Do’Karth with disgusted red eyes, and the Khajiit knew then that it wasn’t his skill that had failed him, it was his turbulent emotions. Much like his foolish drive to try and find shelter in the ice storm the week prior that had almost gotten him consumed by a Charrus, the turmoil that rocked his soul had made him reckless and clumsy. And he would pay for that foolishness when the pickaxe came crashing down into his skull.

Where turbulent emotions were nearly the cause of Do'Karth's downfall, they simultaneously drove another member of the Company to new heights of disgustingly successful violence. Niernen, furious and terrified for her brother's safety after watching him plummet into a ravine with Sadri, almost found herself ignoring everything and making a mad dash for the ledge to see if her brother was still alive. Much like Do'Karth, however, she didn't, and instead followed Duhumvud's command to attack -- or rather, she was going to kill them all and Duhumvud happened to agree with her course of action. She stayed behind the melee specialists and drew upon her respectable magicka reserves, chest heaving and face contorted with rage, and her hands were quickly simmering with wicked flames. Tears filled her eyes and she resisted the urge to scream as her emotions almost completely overwhelmed her. Was she even fit for combat anymore? What if she couldn't do this? What if Narzul was dead?

She blinked away the tears and realized that Do'Karth might be next if she didn't intervene, the sight of him at the mercy of one of the Armigers shocking her back to her senses. Using both hands Niernen fired a salvo of screaming fireballs that slammed into the Dunmer from the side with such force that he immediately lost his grip on Do'Karth and stumbled backwards. Liquid flames spat out in all directions, some sizzling drops passing Do'Karth by with a mere inch to spare, and fire enveloped the Armiger entirely. Dunmer are resistent to fire magic, of course, but the volcanic wrath of a sorceress scorned was too much for even the Armiger to handle and he screamed his last as he fell to his knees. Niernen approached him, gathering a final spell in both hands, and blasted her fellow Dunmer foe apart into several burning pieces with a close-range discharge of scorching heat akin to an explosive cannonball, the sound of which carried across the field like a peal of thunder. Was it overkill? Definitely. Satisfying? Definitely. After a few seconds Niernen finally took her eyes off the scattered remains of the Armiger and turned to look at the Khajiit.

"Do'Karth, are you alright?" she asked, her voice quivering, torn between fury and concern.

The display of power was incredible, and even though it wasn't the first time Do'Karth had encountered near-incineration at the hands of Niernen, it was no less petrifying. The oxygen around him was consumed in the inferno and the Khajiit was gasping for air and his skin and fur felt agonizingly hot as he tried to crawl away from the fire, not sure if he was burning or not. Everything about him hurt, and it became apparent that there wasn't an Armiger left when the spell finally was extinguished.

He barely heard Niernen's voice, his senses were so rattled. Looking around in frantic, jerky motions, Do'Karth's eyes locked on Niernen, trying to reconcile that she had saved him from his fate with the very visceral feeling of nearly brushing with an agonizing demise once more had she been even a little less precise. Turmoil was certainly what consumed Do'Karth, but even that seemed to be too mild a sentiment. "This one... this one is fine." he managed, fumbling for his staff, if it even survived. His hand managed to grip it, the treated wood having resisted the heat as well. "Do'Karth owes you thanks. He was careless." he said after a moment, realizing it was probably what Niernen needed to hear. It was a foolish temperament that got him into this mess, and once more it came to a friend to pull him out of it.

The she-elf felt her stomach twist when she saw the fear and shock in Do'Karth's eyes as it dawned on her that she had almost burned him alive too. Again. The absurdity of the situation made her laugh involuntarily. "I'm sorry, I don't think it's funny," she managed to stammer and patted the Khajiit on his warmer-than-usual shoulder. "That's the nerves laughing. Come on, I'll help you up--"

Her sentence was cut short by abruptly by a yelp of pain. After a split second, Niernen realized it was her own, and subsequently became aware that she was falling over. Sharp pain began to pulsate in her leg -- her bum leg, the same one that had been broken so recently. She hit the ground with a rather anticlimactic flomp and rolled over on her back to see what had attacked her, her breath coming in sharp bursts and her hair unhelpfully clouding her face. It was an Armiger with a wicked-looking chitin spear and tribal Ashlander tattoos spiderwebbing across his face. Of course it was; the fight wasn't over. Shouldn't have stopped to chat. She raised her hands in defense but the pain was so fierce and blinding she couldn't concentrate enough to draw on her magicka.

"Help!" she screamed.

The Elder Scrolls: Swords & Septims

And we're live! Go and mingle. Like Peik said, collabs are a good idea to get some naturally-flowing conversation done, but a word of advice; keep the collabs no bigger than 3 people.

The Elder Scrolls: Swords & Septims

Chapter One

Falkreath hold, 21st of Sun’s Height, 4E202

They had found the barrow’s entrance hidden at the bottom of a ditch in the forest floor behind thick undergrowth, exactly where Sjara had told Hector where it'd be. She had been the one to discover the undisturbed tomb during her rangings and had shared the discovery with Hector over a mug of ale in the inn's common room a few nights ago. It hadn't taken long to gather a party of willing and able-bodied men and women to go dungeon-diving after that. Upon their arrival Hector had decided they would set up camp in the shade of the ditch for a little while to catch their breath and have something to eat. A full stomach was a necessity before exploring ancient ruins and Hector's insistence on leaving Falkreath at dawn probably left more than one person hungry and without a chance to eat their breakfast.

It was around noon and Hector was gazing at the stone door set into the damp earth. There was no obvious locking mechanism he could see, but no way to open the door that was immediately apparent to him either. Grooves, both geometric and circular in shape, were cut into the stone. He stroked his chin with his gauntleted right hand for a few seconds while staring, his eyes following the grooves, but merely assuming the pose of a thinker wasn’t enough. He -- or someone else -- would figure it out later. No rush. He looked over his shoulder and observed the group for a little while; they were gathered around a campfire fueled with wooden logs that Skall had expertly chopped down into size, eating game that Sjara had hunted down for them, and the Imperial was pleased to hear them talking amongst themselves. Interaction was good for morale. His eyes lingered on Cyrus Vensor IV, wondering what to make of the man and his Stormcloak officer's fur cloak. Hector would recognize that look anywhere for the rest of his life.

He suddenly became aware of the Dunmer's presence, Balen Oril, hovering over his shoulder. Hector looked up at the elf's face and resisted the urge to laugh at his large, bulbous eyes. That would take some getting used to.

"This is the place," Hector said in a low voice, "but I'm not familiar with a door such as this. Are you?"

The colossally tall Dunmer did not mind Hector’s reflexive and immediately hidden smirk. It was not unusual for people to be unnerved by his prominent gaze; Balen too knew that its intensity could create an almost molesting effect, and he was no exception to its discomfort. Even he himself could get startled by his gaze on occasion, after unexpected encounters with mirrors.

Taking a bite from the smoked sardine held by the fingertips of his left hand as an answer to the Imperial’s question, the Dunmer began chewing on the bite, while eyeing the door with an inspective, determined gaze that made him look like he was heavily focused on deducing its secrets. Occasionally, he exclaimed a detached ‘hmm’, as if on the edge of telling Hector the answer. Yet instead he kept looking further, taking his time. Afterwards, he took another bite from the sardine and began chewing it, again, all too slowly. After an eternity spent reducing the bite to an easily gulpable mush, he swallowed it and turned to the Imperial with a smug expression; an expression that one could surely claim betrayed his triumph over the door.

"There’s no lock," the Dunmer said, nodding slowly as if to strengthen his claim.

Hector's eyebrows slowly rose while he waited for the Dunmer to speak and make his observations clear. His gaze flitted from Balen's face to the sardine he was devouring, to the door itself, and back again. When Balen shared his brilliant deduction at last and nodded sagely, the Imperial remained quiet for a few seconds and stared at Balen expressionlessly.

"Quite right," he replied in a languid tone. "But I was hoping for something a little less obvious, Balen. I'll ask the Khajiit about it if you think the workings of this door are beyond you," he added. The corners of Hector's mouth curled into a faint half-smile and betrayed the jest in his words.

"Oh, I thought about it myself, but then again, there is no lock. Thus, she is not necessary at this point," Balen replied to Hector, his voice slightly more passionate as to not annoy the Imperial further with his monotone musing, and entertain the man’s obvious wish to stir him up – Balen was certain that Hector had added that last remark about the cat-woman to poke at his pride and get him to actual work. He put his right hand under his chin to think for a moment, and then twirled the tips of his whisker-like mustache afterwards.

"I see two, or rather, three possibilities. One is that those grooves on the door can be activated by pressure. The second is that it is opened by magic, or perhaps a word, but then again, I expect that there would be a riddle if that were the case. The third is that there’s a lever and we haven’t found it yet."

Balen raised his left hand up to his face, looking meditatively at the remainder of the sardine, lost in deep thought. He then turned his head to Hector, raising his eyebrows for a moment. "The first theory is the easiest to put to test, isn’t it?" he asked, then, having given his advice, threw the rest of the sardine in his mouth.

"Ah, pressure plates," Hector said and nodded in understanding. Quite advanced for such an ancient society, he thought, but being confined to history had never stopped the dwarves or the wild elves before. He reached out and began feeling and pushing against the grooves and the smooth stone inbetween, methodically working his way down the door. About halfway through something gave and, accompanied by the grating noise of rock-on-rock, the door split down the middle and opened, an unseen mechanism pulling the two halves aside.

It was pitch black inside. The daylight did not seem to penetrate very far into the corridor that lay beyond, and the air that wafted out was musty, thick with dust and dry as a desert. Hector covered his mouth with his hand, coughed, and averted his head before taking a big gulp of crisp forest air. "Well," he said, and slowly turned back to look into the darkness. "That worked. Thank you, Balen."

"We all do what we have to do," Balen replied, seemingly not come any closer to the door, most likely in hopes of waiting out for the crisp forest air of Falkreath to cut through the sickly air of the tomb with its sharp, pine-flavored gust. And indeed, he kept standing still for a few moments after, looking at the ground with his jaw resting on his hand, and then raised his head back at Hector. "You don’t want to go in so quickly," he said knowingly. "Let’s wait for the air inside to be refreshed. Hundreds of years of death in there, at the very least. It gets you dizzy without you knowing it," he said, turning his head slightly the campfire behind him, gauging his colleagues from the corner of his eye. "You’d be surprised how easily it clouds your judgment and your footing."

Hector looked a little skeptical at Balen's explanation at first, still unacquainted with the nature of tombs and dungeons, but decided to take the Dunmer's word for it and shrugged. "Very well," he said amicably and turned his back to the darkness that awaited them for now. His eyes went over the gathered party and he thought about each of them in turn.

Skall was, should he remain in control of his faculties, very useful to have around. The Nord's great size and choice of weapon reminded Hector of Galmar Stone-Fist, a positive comparison for sure, and Hector hoped that the Thirsty would prove himself just as fearsome in combat. The moniker was a slight source of concern, however.

Raelynn was a healer and healers were worth their weight in gold, but Hector had already noticed her upturned nose at the filth of the forest floor and the simple, rustic food. Her robe seemed far too beautiful and fragile to be worn by a field-mage and he wondered if she wasn't better suited for a life of comfort and security in the high spires of some fortified institution of magical learning. Only time would tell.

Daro'Vasora was a Khajiit and Hector still associated their race with trouble and thievery, but they were as skilled as they were mischievous and Hector hoped the Khajiit would behave enough to make her inclusion into the party worth it. Other than that he found her hard to read, unused to their facial features and expressions, and honestly did not really know what to expect.

Lord Cyrus Vensor IV... a peculiar man, and Hector once again fixated on the bear that his fellow Imperial wore over his armor. The war was over and Hector had never held any hatred for the Stormcloaks and their rebellion. He understood their emotions but did not agree with their methods. Weakening the Empire would only weaken them all. Skyrim would not be able to defend itself from the Dominion should the Empire fall. All Imperials knew this, or so had Hector thought. Either way, it was good to have another soldier with heavy armor and a thick shield, if only so the rest of the party had someone to hide behind.

Sjara, the "Elf-Daughter", the one who had found this tomb in the first place. She seemed reasonable, if a little restless, and Hector had smiled at her eagerness to get this mission underway. The skill of the Bosmer with the bow was legendary and Hector was sure he would appreciate her markswomanship in the dangers to come.

And last but not least, Balen Oril. Hector glanced up at him from the corners of his eyes. He was the most puzzling person in this party, for sure, and seemed the most out of place, but Hector knew that appearances could be deceiving. Especially when it came to the grim and reserved dark elves. Hector had a gut feeling he would find himself relying on the Dunmer's advice and knowledge quite frequently.

Hector cleared his throat and stood up straight, grabbing the party's attention through sheer projection of authority. "Good news; this is indeed the place," he said, and gestured at the open gate behind him. "Balen thought it best to wait a little while for fresh air to cycle through and I'm inclined to believe he is right. It is very dusty in there now. So, enjoy your food for now. Rest while you can. Become acquainted with one another. We leave in thirty minutes."

Warhammer 40k: The Eternal Fight for Freedom - Penal Legion RP (Looking for cannon fodder!)

<Snipped quote by Amaranth>

Whelp, I thought it was time for some

Action!

Action!

Action!

So...yea.

@Jbcool

If you're gonna make it like a

TRUE SURVIVOR

The Elder Scrolls: Swords & Septims

<Snipped quote by Hank>
Should've put money down on it!

I hope y'all liked me incorporating the fact that Sjara is a native to the Falkreath area and just so happens to be a hunter. I tried to subtly integrate into that little summary of the RP you initially gave us about the RP's premise the best I could. I think I naaaaaaaaaaailed it.

@Inkarnate

Oh. You know, I hadn't even realised that, but it makes perfect sense. I'll incorporate that into our post.