Hank

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

The Mean, Green Beauty Queen

30th of Second Seed, 4E208
Gilane, Hammerfell

After the Intrepid had arrived at the docks on the southern side of Gilane and its passengers dispersed into the city, another traveler approached the Dwemer-occupied city from the north. Mazrah had departed from Sentinel more than a week ago and taken an ancient route through the desert that had been in use by the Alik’r nomadic tribes for hundreds of years, if not more. While the blistering heat and dry wind made for a tough journey, this particular path took her past a number of oases where she was able to refill her waterskin and rest in the shade of the giant palm trees that stood as lonely watchtowers in the ever-shifting dunes. With her trusty bow and arrow Mazrah was able to hunt two of the hardy, deer-like creatures that roamed the desert in small herds that the locals called oryx. She had been told it was a Yokudan word that meant ‘fool-hardy’ or ‘stubborn’. The animals were named as such for their perseverance in the deadly climate of the Alik’r. That was rich, coming from the very people who made a living in the desert, she thought. Either way, she was grateful for their existence. She skinned, cooked and ate one of them over the course of her journey and the other she carried with her, slung over her strong shoulders, all the way to Gilane, to be sold to a local butcher’s.

It was well into the afternoon by the time she came into sight of the Dwemer that stood guard by the city gates beneath a large purple parasol. They kept a watchful eye on her as she approached, quietly murmuring amongst themselves until Mazrah was within earshot. Gilane was so far south that it could very well have been the first time these Dwemer had seen an Orsimer like her. Mazrah was dressed in nothing more than a cropped, sleeveless top and a loincloth made from simple, sturdy fabric, and a pair of boots fashioned from animal hide and leather straps, leaving the rest of her powerful body bare for all to see. Tribal tattoos done with white ink covered her from head to toe, including her face, and her thick black hair stood upright in a large, messy mohawk. The beaded braids that hung down her neck softly clinked together as she walked and her skin glistened with sweat.

Soon enough the Dwemer found themselves staring up at Mazrah’s face. Her expressive eyes, the color of liquid gold, always betrayed what she was feeling to a fault, and it was obvious now that she was annoyed. One of the purple-robed Dwemer opened his mouth to say something but Mazrah cut him off with a dismissive wave and talked over him. “Yes, hello, greetings, whatever. I only have this dead animal to declare,” Mazrah said and practically threw the oryx corpse on the wooden table that the Dwemer used to inspect the wares that travelers brought into the city with a loud thud. She’d had enough experience with how the Dwemer operated to know the procedure.

The Dwemer looked down at the oryx with a weary smile and cleared his throat. “Yes, I see. Very well.” He glanced back up at Mazrah, his eyes going over the large bow and spear she carried on her back, and motioned for his colleague to hand him one of the metal tokens that they used to grant visitors access to their occupied territories. “This token will grant you access to Gilane, but first I must ask: what brings you to our city?”

“That’s none of your business,” Mazrah spat back, crossed her arms and shifted her weight on one leg in a posture of petty rebellion. She tilted her head and gave the Dwemer the fakest, sickly-sweetest smile she could muster. “Can I go now?”

This elicited a small chuckle from the guard, who seemed unphased by her attitude and unhurried in his manners. “I’m afraid it is our business. I am only permitted to grant you access to the city if you comply, Orsimer.”

Mazrah realized she wasn’t going to get her way with the imperturbable Dwemer and threw her hands up as she rolled her eyes. “Fine! I’m here to sell this meat, alright? And I’m looking for a man named Nuzir. Redguard, short hair, beady little eyes, can’t keep his grabby hands off my friends. Does that sound familiar?”

“No,” the Dwemer said flatly. “I don’t personally keep track of all the Redguards in this city. Please report any infractions of local laws to the appropriate authorities. Take this,” he added and held out the metal token for Mazrah to accept.

“Yes, yes, I’ll take your stupid token, grayskin,” she grumbled and snatched it out of the Dwemer’s hands before fastening it to the fabric of her top over her left breast. “There, happy?”

“Quite. Enjoy your stay, Orsimer.” The Dwemer’s smile widened ever so slightly.

Mazrah bit back a sharp retort, picked the carcass back up and stomped through the gates. She despised the Dwemer’s regal arrogance and how they strutted around everywhere like they owned the place after only showing up recently. She didn’t understand that the Dwemer thought they could simply come in and take over the entirety of Hammerfell, nor did she understand that the Redguards had seemingly… let it happen. She knew that the Dwemer used to live here before but that was, quite literally, ages ago, and hardly seemed like a good excuse to her. Additionally, Mazrah had been out hunting when the Dwemer arrived and did not learn the news until she was confronted with one of their patrols, and it had only been her intuition that warned her to back down that prevented her from being taken in or possibly even killed on the spot. That encounter had left a sour taste in her mouth. She had roamed these lands for years already -- if anything, she had the right to question the Dwemer about what they had been doing out there, not the other way around!

These thoughts and more were still swirling through her head when Mazrah arrived at the butcher shop she always went to whenever she found herself in Gilane. This was her first time in the city since the Dwemer arrived, however, and to her not-so-pleasant surprise she saw that it was the young assistant, Bakran, who stood outside the shop beneath the shade of a pitched tent to sell the meat. There was nothing wrong with the boy, as far as she knew, but she’d expected to see the familiar face of the shop’s proprietor, Caser.

“Where’s the old man?” Mazrah asked as she stepped up to Bakran’s stall. He looked up at her with a hint of fear on his face until he recognized her -- a common response, and one that caused Mazrah to flash a grin despite herself. It was always fun to scare the common folk a little bit.

Bakran looked around to make sure that there weren’t any Dwemer patrolling by that very second before he leaned forward, planting his hands on the few inches of countertop that weren’t covered with various meats. “He’s been taken, Maz,” he said in a low voice. “Refused to comply with the Dwarves’ new rules. Started hollering he was going to join the resistance. That was… two weeks ago. I’ve just been running the shop since.”

That soured Mazrah’s already foul mood. “Zugra crun,” she cursed in Old Orcish and bit her lip as she looked away.

“You keep your head down, you hear me?” Bakran hissed. “It’s not worth the trouble. I’ve kept to their rules and I’m doing fine.”

“Don’t you want revenge? For Caser?” Mazrah snapped as she leaned closer as well, until their faces were only a few inches apart.

Bakran visibly balked. “Not as much as I want to lead a normal life!” He raised his hands and backed away a little bit. “Don’t involve me in whatever it is you’re thinking. Just… let’s do business and then you can be on your way.”

Mazrah took a deep breath and sighed. It seemed like nobody she talked to saw things her way. Bakran was pleased with the oryx buck she’d brought him and Mazrah was compensated with a significant handful of septims that she stored in one of the pouches that lined her waist.

Just as Bakran was about to help the next customer, Mazrah frowned as she realized what he had said earlier. “Wait a minute,” she said. “So there is a resistance?”

“Excuse me miss, one second.” Bakran turned to look at Mazrah with an inscrutable look on his face and Mazrah raised one eyebrow in response. “Look, Maz, that’s just what Caser said. I don’t know and I don’t want to know. Like I said, it’s not worth the trouble.”

Frustrated, Mazrah shrugged and left.

Gilane was beautiful, particularly at this time of day near the end of the afternoon, when the orange sunlight bathed the entire city in a warm blanket that caused every hint of gold to sparkle even brighter and make the simplest glass decanter look like it was fashioned from precious crystals. Mazrah found that she couldn’t appreciate it anymore. Every time she was about to begin to unwind a little bit, another Dwemer patrol walked by to remind her that nothing was as it should be. As a group of already inebriated Redguards wolf-whistled after her and called her derogatory slurs (did they want to insult her or sleep with her? Mazrah couldn’t tell) she wondered why she even bothered being upset on Hammerfell’s behalf. She liked the Redguards, on the whole, but there were far too many rotten apples among the bunch for her to unconditionally appreciate them. Like Nuzir.

Marien, one of the barmaids of the Scintillant Scarab outside of Sentinel and Mazrah’s friend, had tearfully confided in her that Nuzir had molested her one evening while she was closing the bar. Mazrah had taken it upon herself to find Nuzir and teach him a lesson and it was this mission that had brought her to Gilane. It turned out that the drunkard wasn’t too hard to find. Karrod, the bald and deep-voiced bartender of the starfish-shaped Yokudan Crown, was able to point her in the direction of Nuzir’s usual haunt; a far less reputable and upscale establishment that didn’t really seem to have a name. After a spot of dinner Mazrah set out to find it. It was tucked away in an alley close to the Three Crowns Hotel, marked only by the lit candle that stood on a barrel just outside the door. That’s what Karrod had told her to look out for.

Dusk had fallen as Mazrah knocked on the door and found herself looking down into the crimson eyes of a Dunmer, to her surprise, when he opened the door slightly. “What do you want?” the Dark Elf asked. They were a rare sight in Gilane and Mazrah took a second longer than usual to find her words.

“I’m looking for Nuzir. Is he here?” she asked and tried to look past the Dunmer’s head to discern the gloomy interior of the bar.

“What’s it to you?” the Dunmer asked and moved his head to block Mazrah’s line of sight. “You don’t look like you belong here.”

Improvising, Mazrah smiled apologetically and chuckled. “I’ve got a message for him, from a woman named Marien. He’ll know the name. And tell him it’s good news,” she said in a husky tone.

The Dunmer looked at her quizzically, but shrugged and complied. He closed the door in the meantime.

After only a few seconds the door opened again, fully this time, and the Dunmer beckoned her inside. It was everything she had expected from a back alley watering hole: filthy glasses, dim lighting, ramshackle and mismatching furniture and the heavy scent of moonsugar and skooma in the air. Mazrah wrinkled her nose.

“That's Nuzir,” the Dunmer whispered and pointed at a portly, ill-looking Redguard playing cards with a few others. Nuzir had large bags under his eyes and his wiry hair was disheveled. It was obvious he was already drunk and probably had been all day. The stacks of coins in front of him, however, did not lie. Mazrah figured he was rich enough afford being fat and lazy. But not rich enough to be a rapist, she thought. She approached Nuzir with as much sweetness and femininity in her gait as she could muster and sank down on her haunches next to him. He looked into her golden eyes with his own dark, bloodshot gaze and huffed in surprise.

“You're the one that's got the message from that bar lady, then?” he slurred and turned to face Mazrah properly, blinking slowly as he did. “Don't look like I expected. But that's okay… you've got somethin’ special to ya too.”

Mazrah was revolted and it took every inch of self control not to let it show. If Nuzir was sober he would have noticed the momentary expression of disgust that flitted across Mazrah's face before she managed to replace it with a winning smile. But he wasn't and he didn't. “I'm not here for myself, even though I'm flattered. Marien wants me to tell you… look, I really can't say with these other gentlemen present. Can we step outside for a bit?”

Bemused but intrigued, Nuzir got to his feet and stumbled, unsteadily but surely, out the door. Mazrah followed close behind. Once outside she leaned in close to Nuzir and put her hands on his shoulders.

“Listen, Nuzir. The truth is that Marien can't stop thinking about you since that night in the Scarab. She wants to know if it was just a one-time thing or if there can be more between the two of you,” Mazrah said in a honey-sweet voice.

“Really?” Nuzir asked, surprised.

Mazrah's face was suddenly set to thunder. “No, of course not.” And with that she kneed Nuzir in the balls. He doubled over, gasping in pain, and Mazrah followed that up by ramming her shoulder into him and against the wall. He screamed.

Some people in the next street over turned their heads at the commotion.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

New Beginnings

When Gregor had thought the situation in Cyrodiil could not possibly become any more dire, the Aldmeri Dominion decided to prove him wrong. The sudden and violent assault on Anvil sent Gregor and Raelynn scrambling to get dressed, rudely interrupting their equally violent activities after their chance encounter at Dibella’s chapel earlier that morning. Gregor made his way to the docks with his electric claymore in hand, Raelynn following right behind him -- a good thing, too, since he had to cut down two of the Aldmeri infiltrators that were wreaking havoc in the streets. The truth was that Gregor hadn’t really taken to Daro’Vasora’s proposal but lack of a better plan had driven him not to decline. That decision was now fully vindicated, and he was profoundly grateful for his place on the Intrepid. The blond Breton captain, Roux, had the looks of a snake charmer about him, but Gregor found him to be perfectly affable when he personally thanked him for their rescue. As they set sail and escaped from Anvil’s harbor and out onto the open sea Gregor sank down on the damp wooden deck, his back against a barrel, and stared at the sky for what felt like hours.

They were going to Hammerfell. He was leaving his home, his family and the Dwemer and their souls even further behind. The Gods were cruel, Gregor thought bitterly. The Redguards were a notoriously narrow-minded people when it came to the arcane arts: Hammerfell was possibly the absolute last place he’d think to go when it came to his quest to become an undead lich. On the other hand, they were fantastically capable warriors, having been the only (former) province of the Empire to bring the Aldmeri Dominion to its knees during the Great War, so if the Dwemer decided to expand their conquest westwards Gregor expected the people of Hammerfell to put up a hell of a fight. That was still a potential opportunity for him to get what he wanted: the soul of a powerful Dwemer. The perfect offering for the Ideal Masters of the Soul Cairn.

The six days they spent sailing on the Intrepid passed by agonizingly slowly. Much like during their journey to Anvil, Gregor spent most of this time processing what had happened and planning ahead. He was, if nothing else, a methodical, deliberate and cunning man. Still, he had his weaknesses, and one of them was walking aboard the same ship the whole time. Whenever they thought nobody was looking, Gregor and Raelynn gave each other furtive looks to confirm that their, ah, business in Anvil had not yet been concluded. The ship provided no privacy to continue their session, however, so nothing came of it. In fact, they didn’t even talk to one another, at most acknowledging each other during a larger conversation or in passing. But that wasn’t unique to Raelynn; Gregor kept to himself mostly anyway. His only friends on board were the aforementioned Breton seductress, the young Nord lad Calen and the Argonian soldier Jaraleet. Brynja’s death-stare when Gregor gave the obviously distraught Rhona a look of concern was a warning that Gregor heeded without having to be told twice, so he avoided both of them. He had talked to Daro’Vasora before, of course, but she appeared to be taking on the responsibilities of a leader and looked too busy for further conversation. It was during this time that Gregor learned that most of the group had been together for many weeks now, that they had met during a Dwemer ruin excavation gone wrong and that Rhea Valerius, the woman Daro’Vasora had so venomously insulted outside the gates of Anvil, had been their employer initially. Even after Elenglynn, Skingrad and Anvil, Gregor still felt like an outside to these people, and he wondered if he would ever feel truly at home with them. Did he even want to?

All of these thoughts were abruptly and irrevocably cast aside when they arrived in Gilane. Gregor watched the conversation between the three Dwemer customs officers, Roux and Daro’Vasora from the high vantage point of the quarterdeck. His nails dug into the wooden railing with such force that it hurt. A tempest of conflicted emotions roared through his heart at the sight. Every single one of Gregor’s expectations had been defied by the very idea that Hammerfell was occupied by the Dwemer already. How had the Redguards, of all people, let this happen? Had there been such a ferocious slaughter, like the Imperial City, that they had surrendered? Or had the Dwemer gone about it differently? Gregor cast his gaze across Gilane’s skyline and saw no signs, not one, of a siege. In fact, the city looked positively vibrant, shimmering as it did in the golden sunlight. His pride as an Imperial balked at the fact that he was going to have to submit to the authority of these gray-skinned, knife-eared, fancy-robed bastards. During the ship’s inspection one of the Dwemer came right up to him, a practiced eye going over Gregor’s weapons, and he had to stop himself from lunging at the elf and ripping his head off. The rational part of him slowly took over and calmed him down when they were allowed to disembark. They followed Roux through Gilane’s bazaar and Gregor saw Dwemer mingling with and apparently living peacefully alongside the locals. A thought occurred to him.

The Deep Elves were everywhere. Their souls were practically waiting to be harvested.

Gregor’s prejudice and the cold, calculating reaper that lived inside his mind prevented him from seeing the Dwemer as people and his inscrutable gaze seized them up as targets. From the mother whose child stumbled into Daro’Vasora to the armed guards that patrolled through the city, Gregor evaluated the potential worth of their soul. His gaze fell on the child as it spoke… he blinked and looked away, disgusted with himself. Children were children. Out of the question. Shaken from his predatory reverie, Gregor decided to focus on where Roux was leading them instead. That turned out to be the Three Crowns Hotel and Gregor mouthed a silent ‘aha’ when Roux offered a passphrase and they were brought face to face with an older Redguard. He had vaguely caught wind of what Roux had said to Daro’Vasora and he had been wondering when they were going to discover what the Breton captain had in store for them. This, he thought as he looked around the luxuriously decorated room, was a pleasant surprise.

He listened attentively to what the Poncy Man had to say and Gregor found his words more than agreeable. An armed resistance against the Dwemer occupation? He could hardly think of a more advantageous position from which to place himself in a situation where would be able to reap the soul of a Dwemer. He immediately thought of Governor Rourken, the new ruler of occupied Gilane, whose name Roux had mentioned, and smiled to himself. He was signing up alright. After Brynja had assigned them each to one of the rooms, Gregor turned to Calen and gave him a genuine smile. Alim he did not know, but Gregor was pleased to share a room with the bard. He would have one friend by his side, at least. He followed the guards to the room and immediately gravitated to the bed that was closest to the doors that led to the balcony outside -- the heat was oppressive and Gregor longed for a breeze at night to soothe him while he slept. He immediately began to strip out of his armor and his cloak and let out a contented sigh after he was down to his black clothes. He stored his belongings in the chest by the foot of his bed. Still, this outfit wasn’t suitable for Hammerfell’s climate, and Gregor was still sweating. Since they had the evening to themselves, the first order of business would be to acquire more sensible clothes. He looked at Alim and took note of the half-blood’s breezy, linen ensemble. “That looks comfortable,” he said to Alim and laughed. “It seems like I need to go shopping. Excuse me, gentlemen.”

While he left his armor at the hotel, Gregor kept his weapons strapped to his person when he stepped outside and made his way back to the bazaar, drinking in the sights more carefully this time. He noticed that a lot of the local Redguards and the Dwemer looked at him more intensely and longer than he was used to, or, admittedly, comfortable with. They must have heard what happened to the Imperial City. Were they worried that the heavily-armed Imperial was going to do something stupid? Gregor kept his hands clasped behind his back and adopted a slow, sauntering pace, doing his best to keep the expression on his face light and pleasant. It worked -- the Dwemer patrols averted their gaze after a second or two and he noticed less of the Redguards staring at him as he walked by. He found a vendor stall that sold the style of clothes he had seen on Alim and, after some haggling and retreating to the long house behind the stall to try on his new clothes away from prying eyes that might judge his tattoos harshly, Gregor emerged refreshed and redressed. His black, high-collared tunic had been replaced by a baggy, white, low-cut, buttoned-up linen shirt with loose sleeves, and his equally black pants were swapped out for tan breeches that were held up by suspenders. Gregor admired himself in the mirror that the Redguard merchant attentively provided and laughed. He looked like a pirate, or a swashbuckler from the sappy novels his sister used to read when they were younger. He thanked the vendor for his business and found himself stood in the bazaar, looking around. What now? The Poncy Man had made it obvious that there would be no further talk of the resistance’s mission until the next day. He thought about seeking out Raelynn but he wasn’t sure where she was, which made the most logical place to start looking the room she shared with some of the other ladies… his status as a gentleman caller would be immediately obvious to the others if he knocked on that door, and he didn’t want to cross that boundary. Their affair had remained a secret so far and that suited him just fine.

For lack of anything better to do, a drink seemed in order. The sun had dropped low in the sky by the time Gregor had finished obtaining his new clothes and the local population dispersed from their workplaces into the taverns and tea-houses that were scattered throughout Gilane. Gregor followed the crowds with the same leisurely gait as before until he came upon a large, white tent, shaped like a starfish, with a circular bar at its center. Tables and chairs were arranged in the shade and seats were quickly filling up. Gregor had traveled enough to know that if you wanted to find a fine establishment you should look for a place where the locals gathered, and he saw many weathered, dark-skinned faces here. Satisfied, Gregor sat down on a stool at the bar and immediately found himself looking up at the stern (but not unkind) face of an older, bald Redguard with a salt-and-pepper beard.

“What’ll it be?” the barman asked. His voice was deep and gravely, like the croaking of tanned leather.

“I just arrived in Gilane today,” Gregor replied as he leaned forward on his elbows, peering at the rows of bottles that were on display. “First time in Hammerfell. What do you recommend?”

The Redguard grunted and reached for a bottle containing a mahogany-colored liquid without answering. He poured Gregor a shot glass and put it down on the counter with a note of finality. “Try it,” he said, and the Imperial thought he could see a hint of amusement in his eyes.

Not without some measure of trepidation, Gregor brought the glass up to his lips and took a measured sip. His eyes went wide and he had to suppress a coughing fit as he swallowed, covering his mouth behind his fist, and the barman chuckled.

“Stros M’kai rum,” he said, as if that explained everything. “You like it?”

Gregor thought about it, staring down at the dark swill, and realized that he did. “Strong stuff, but it’s good.” He steeled himself and threw back the rest of the rum. This time he managed to keep his composure. The barman nodded in approval.

“What brings you here, Imperial?” the Redguard asked as he poured Gregor another shot.

“War,” Gregor answered without thinking. He sighed and looked the barman up and down for a second -- the older man looked like he would have been alive back when Hammerfell was still part of the Empire. Perhaps he still had some measure of fondness for the old days. “My name is Gregor, by the way. Pleased to meet you. I assume you heard about the Imperial City?”

“Karrod. Likewise. I did.” He looked at Gregor with an inscrutable expression, as if he was waiting to see how the Imperial was going to react. It was a familiar look by now.

“The Dwemer drove us south, towards Skingrad,” Gregor continued. “We had to leave there when the Dominion showed up. They infiltrated the city and installed a puppet Dark Elf as count. We traveled to Anvil next, but the Dominion followed us and attacked the city. That was… six days ago. Me and my associates were able to flee aboard a merchant vessel.”

Karrod grimaced. “So the rumors are true.” He rapped his fingers on the bar and stroked his beard with his free hand. “Sounds like the Empire is in deep shit, Gregor. I’m… sorry to hear that.”

So he was right. Gregor smiled a sad smile and shrugged. “It is what it is. I’m here now. Say, Karrod--”

Before he could finish his question, a Dwemer woman sat down at the bar two stools over. Gregor closed his mouth and stared at her. Unlike the mother from before, this woman’s hair was braided in the same style he had seen on the customs officers that had boarded the Intrepid. She wore a long, unassuming dress that was the same color as the ubiquitous Hammerfell sand, and a purple sash wrapped itself around her waist. She was… beautiful, in a way, Gregor realized. He flinched and rubbed his eyes. When he opened them again he saw that she was looking at him now with a sheepish smile. Gregor could practically hear Karrod roll his eyes and the barman walked over to service the Dwemer woman. “He’s new. Kamdida, Gregor. Gregor, Kamdida.”

Now properly introduced, Kamdida nodded at him in a polite greeting, and Gregor responded in kind. It was satisfying to see that she had the common decency to be awkward around him, as if she was aware that she was part of an invading force that had destroyed the capital city of his country. Gregor opened his mouth to say something but closed it again. The truth was that he had a thousand questions for the Dwemer (Where did you come from? Why are you here? How did your species survive a total and sudden disappearance?) but Roux’s words of warning echoed in the back of his mind. Lay low, pretend to like them, and you’ll be fine. He downed his second glass of rum instead. Meanwhile, Kamdida ordered tea.

“You don’t look like a Redguard, Gregor,” Kamdida said. She was still smiling.

Gregor, who had averted his gaze, looked up at her again. This was surreal -- was he really about to have a conversation with a Dwemer? He cleared his throat and regrouped himself. “I’m an Imperial. From Cyrodiil, you see.”

Kamdida nodded slowly. “Ah,” she said softly. She held his gaze but there was something in her eyes that made Gregor think she would rather look away. What was it? Shame? Guilt? Pity? He couldn’t tell.

“What do you think of the sacking of the Imperial City?” Gregor blurted out.

Karrod, who had been cleaning the bar, froze.

“It was your city. What do you think?” Kamdida replied and took a sip of her tea.

It was your people, Gregor thought and almost said so out loud when a sudden realization struck him. It had been staring him in the face ever since he arrived in Gilane but he hadn’t put two and two together until now. The prevalence of purple, the different methods of subjugation, even the shape of the weapons and armor of the customs officers… it reminded Gregor of the difference between the Altmer of Alinor and the High Elves that had grown up within the Empire’s borders. Same race, different people.

These weren’t the same Dwemer that had invaded Cyrodiil.

“An… unnecessary tragedy,” Gregor said, thinking quickly. “This is much better.” He gestured around him at the entirety of Gilane and, presumably, Hammerfell. “Peaceful coexistence should be possible, right? As long as everyone works together.”

Kamdida nodded again, more enthusiastically this time, and smiled warmly. “I agree, and it pleases me to hear you say so. You will do just fine here in Volenfell. Welcome.”

Karrod breathed out slowly and continued to clean.

That was it -- Gregor’s tolerance for absurdity had just been reached. He flashed a grin, reached for his septims, paid for his rum and got to his feet. “Thank you for the hospitality, Karrod. Kamdida, it was… nice to meet you. Good evening,” he said and bowed slightly towards both of them before turning on the spot and walking back the way he came, to the Three Crowns hotel. He needed to be somewhere the Dwemer weren’t.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

Mazrah gra-Durash

Mazrah “Maz” gra-Durash

Race: Orsimer.
Sex: Female.
Age: 32.
Family Origins: Orsinium.
Birth Sign: The Steed.

Appearance: Tall, strong and fierce, Mazrah is a perfect example of the wild spirit of the Orsimer people. She stands 6’2” at her full height, towering over all of the races of Tamriel except the Nords, and clocks in at 190 pounds of dense muscle. Her gray-green skin, black hair and proud tusks immediately identify her as an Orc at first glance, and the intricate tattoos and ritual scars confirm that she is not only biologically Orsimer but culturally as well, and those who can tell the difference would quickly recognize that she hails from Orsinium specifically. Either way, there is no way that anyone will mistake her for the city-dwelling Orsimer of the Empire -- she doesn’t allow it.

While most of the features of her face are typically Orcish, Mazrah’s expressive, piercing eyes, shimmering like liquid gold, set her apart from the rest of her race and almost never fail to grab the attention of anyone that looks at her. Quite a feat, since her eyes are competing with a complex, geometric tribal tattoo of white ink that covers her entire face, a number of ritual scars on her forehead, beneath her eyes and on her chin (and a real scar over her right eye), a septum piercing, snake bite piercings in her lower lips, rings and studs by her eyebrows and a whole series of rings and helix piercings in her long, knife-shaped elvish ears. The effect is both busy and fearsome, reminiscent of mythic cannibals of ages past, and the further exacerbated by her hair; she wears it in a messy mohawk (making her look even taller) with a series of small braids hanging down her neck. The sides of her head are partially shaved, leaving carefully arranged patches of hair that are also braided, and the bare skin in-between reveals that her facial tattoo extends across her entire cranium. That said, there is nothing scary or unkind about her pleasant, raucous laughter that brings out a crease by her nose that can only be described as endearing, or the way her whole face lights up when confronted with something that interests her, or the twinkle she gets in her eyes when she’s feeling mischievous. Unbeknownst to her, a drop of Breton blood in her lineage is responsible for giving her a slightly more human appearance than most of her kin.

Mazrah’s body is both voluptuous and muscular in the way only an Orcish woman can be; her rich feminine curves have been enhanced by vigorous physical activity and a healthy diet, and her limbs, abdomen and back are dominated by powerful, corded muscle. There’s not of shred of fat where it shouldn’t be. Much like her face, the rest of her skin is also covered in white, geometric tattoos and scar tissue in similar designs and patterns. Several scars that weren’t inflicted by the Wise Women of Orsinium are also present, marring her otherwise flawless, toned skin -- fighting unarmored does have its disadvantages -- but not excessively so.

She moves like a predator might; every movement is deliberate and controlled, preserving energy and allowing her to walk silently and with grace over any type of terrain and past obstacles without disturbing them. But when danger calls, Mazrah moves with explosive speed and agility, vaulting over opponents, dodging attacks and striking like a coiled snake with what looks like minimal effort. Mazrah keeps tabs on her surroundings at all times and an observant eye will be able to tell that she doesn’t completely unwind when inside city walls the same way most people do. Her lifestyle as a wanderer, hunter and warrior doesn’t allow much room for getting too comfortable.

Her outfit is simple and primitive, not dissimilar from the furs and leathers of the Forsworn of the Reach: a cropped top that leaves her abdomen and arms bare and loincloth that leaves her legs bare, both made of simple, strong fabric dyed to fade into the backdrop of the mountain forests, a leather belt lined with pouches, a marksman’s glove and sturdy boots made from animal hide, and a strap slung across her torso that supports her quiver and features a metal clasp to hold her spear. She likes flaunting what she’s got and proudly displays her tattoos at all times, even when there’s a nip in the air. Mazrah would rather be cold than modestly dressed.

History: Orsinium was rebuilt in the Fourth Era between Skyrim and Hammerfell, nestled snugly in the mountain range that separated the two provinces. It is there that Mazrah was born, daughter of Urgak gro-Shurkol, the Hand of Mauloch, and Durash gra-Shadbak, one of his wives. Where the king focuses on ruling and governing, the task of defending the city against outside threats was mostly delegated to a fearless champion given the aforementioned title, and Urgak had no time to look after a daughter -- that task was left entirely to Durash. Urgak had other plans. While the position of the Hand wasn't hereditary, Urgak was determined for one of his sons to succeed him... and for that to happen, they had to be skilled enough to kill him. Much like Orc chieftains, the successor of the Hand of Mauloch was chosen via a trial by combat. The most likely candidate appeared to be one of Mazrah’s older brothers, Maulakanth, a specimen that was already the size of a bull when he was still a whelp, and Mazrah was quietly raised by her mother in Maulakanth’s ever-increasing shadow.

That suited her just fine. Urgak’s parenting style was harsh, demanding and unforgiving, and the trials he put Maulakanth and Mazrah’s other brothers through were grueling. Durash, on the other hand, was one of Orsinium’s finest hunters and knew the value of patience. She took it upon herself to not only teach her daughter how to hunt, but also how to fight, as she was an unsung master with the most versatile weapon of all: the spear. Durash never raised her voice against Mazrah while she did so, not even when the girl faltered, did something stupid or simply complained, nor did she ever beat her, tie her to a pole overnight or deprive her water. Mazrah observed from the shadows as Maulakanth did suffer all of the aforementioned abuse, and was both impressed and saddened by the fact that her brother never protested, cried or even whimpered. Durash didn’t say it, but Mazrah could tell by the look on her mother’s face that she also disapproved of the treatment. One night, when Mazrah was around ten years old, she and her mother returned from a successful hunt and Durash quietly confided in her daughter that she hadn’t always lived among the ‘true’ Orsimer of the strongholds and Orsinium. She had seen how people treated their children elsewhere in Tamriel and learned much from it. Mazrah was surprised -- she had always been told that the only honorable way for an Orc to live was according to the Old Ways of Malacath, and that there was nothing to learn from the other, ‘soft’ races. She asked her mother why she had returned to Orsinium and become one of Urgak’s wives, and Durash shrugged. She had felt it had, after all, been her place.

“I’m not so sure anymore,” Durash said with a sigh.

But what’s done was done and as a mother to some of the Hand of Mauloch’s children, Durash could not leave anymore. The best she could do was raise Mazrah well and clean Maulakanth’s wounds when he stumbled into their longhouse after yet another beating at his father’s hands. Maulakanth would always dismissively wave away Mazrah’s concerned looks, confidently saying that it was nothing and that he would face worse when he became the Hand, so he would do well to be prepared now, and a million other excuses that Mazrah never believed. The two got along well; Maulakanth channelled some of his father’s cruelty at his brothers, but he always treated Mazrah with a certain tenderness that she was amazed he was still capable of.

Maulakanth grew up to be enormous, standing well over seven feet tall, and his skill at arms was so prodigious that Mazrah was sure he would defeat their father during their inevitable duel. Emboldened by Mazrah’s opinion, Maulakanth challenged Urgak when he was only twenty-two years old. Urgak fought in full plate armor, carrying a tower shield and a morning star – Maulakanth had shown up bare-chested, brandishing two brand new orichalcum swords that one of his father’s clanwives had forged just for this occasion. The duel was intense and lasted for longer than ten minutes (which is generally considered a protracted affair in Orc culture). The blows of Urgak's morning star were either deflected and turned aside by Maulakanth's swords or evaded entirely, but Urgak caught all of Maulakanth's slices and thrusts on his shield. Both warriors became more reckless as the duel went on and the climax came when Urgak managed to land a satisfying hit on Maulakanth's flank, the spikes of his morning star driving into Maulakanth's flesh. Doing his best to ignore the pain, Maulakanth stepped in behind Urgak's shield before his father had a chance to pull the morning star free from his side and Maulakanth drove his swords through Urgak's cuirass with two powerful thrusts, impaling his heart and his lungs. The Hand of Mauloch died almost instantly.

Mazrah cheered. She would not mourn her father’s death.

While Maulakanth had endured his trials and emerged victorious, Mazrah underwent her own rite of passage over time. As the young woman mastered her mother’s skills and proved her worth in the occasional skirmish with Nord or Redguard bandits that roamed too close for comfort, be it with the spear, the bow or the shadow, she was rewarded periodically by her mother instructing the Wise Women of Orsinium to replicate another piece of the complex and beautiful full-body tattoo that covered Durash’s skin from head to toe. She told Mazrah that her own mother had sported the same markings, and her mother before her, and so on and so forth for as long as memory served, and each part, each design, each line and each shape, represented their lineage’s mastery with the traditional weapons of the hunt. And for every new species of game that she bagged, she was given a ritual scar: “Blood begets blood,” Durash had said as she wielded the sacrificial knife. Mazrah had made sure not to flinch. This was not abuse. This was an honor.

As the years went by and Mazrah developed into a balanced, confident adult who demanded respect with her skills, her patience and her willful personality, it became apparent that Maulakanth was in over his head as the Hand of Mauloch. He demanded a reform of the soldiers' combat tactics, demoted four war-chiefs for speaking against him and challenged two others to a duel to the death. As the abuses of power piled up, the king was eventually forced to reign Maulakanth in and the proud Hand of Mauloch only relented grudgingly. This started a feud between Maulakanth and the king that would last for years. Mazrah tried to whisper cautious and wise council into her brother’s ear, but his decisive victory over Urgak had ballooned his ego beyond reason and logic, and the solid bond between them started to show some cracks after all as his tenderness was replaced by dismissiveness and irritation. Durash watched with leaden-eyed dismay how her proud and powerful son turned into the same kind of monster his father had been.

As a daughter of the former Hand of Mauloch it was expected of Mazrah to marry one of the other prominent Orsimer of Orsinium, but she realized that she wasn’t attracted to any of them -- or any of the other male Orcs. No man of any race, in fact, had ever caught her eye. Instead, Mazrah found herself looking sideways at some of the other female hunters that she ranged out into the wilds with, her gaze lingering on their bare thighs or the nape of their neck before she caught herself and looked away. She felt ashamed: there was no place for women to love other women in Orc society, and certainly not in the ultimate patriarchy that Orsinium was. It wasn’t something that ever happened. Mazrah didn’t even know if any other women ever felt this way -- maybe she was alone in her dysfunctional feelings. But she couldn’t help herself, and her heart quickened when she noticed that one of the hunters returned her covert glances with the same look in her eyes. Her name was Akkra and one night while they were high up the mountainside and huddled together for warmth, she became Mazrah’s first lover.

Afterwards it felt like a weight had lifted off her shoulders and she discovered she had a spring in her step as they returned to Orsinium the next day, trying and failing to wipe the grins off their faces. Mazrah and Akkra did not speak about what happened, but the furtive and sultry glances they continued to give each other made it obvious that the appreciation Mazrah felt was mutual. However, the fact that they could not openly desire each other sparked the flame of simmering resentment in the pit of Mazrah’s stomach and she began to ask her mother not-so-subtle questions about the outside world. Durash smiled the sad, proud smile only mothers can smile -- she had always known that Mazrah would eventually want to leave. She had raised her that way, after all.

Meanwhile, Maulakanth had finally found the limits of the king’s patience with him after it had been discovered that Maulakanth had tried to instigate a border conflict between Orsinium and High Rock. The king had him stripped of his title and exiled for insubordination. Maulakanth was furious upon hearing the news and strode into the king's longhouse, shoving past the guards, to rage at the king in person, who merely confirmed the news and told him to get out. Beyond himself with fury, Maulakanth drew his blades and was immediately beset on all sides by the king's bodyguard. Maulakanth fought savagely and roared at his king, calling him a traitor and a coward, demanding an honest one-on-one duel. The king wouldn't have any of it, however, and Maulakanth was forced out of the longhouse and eventually out of the city. Five Orcs fell beneath his blades that day but that merely served to reinforce the king's point and Maulakanth found no support from his erstwhile allies in the armed forces.

Mazrah, however, saw an opportunity here. Maulakanth’s fall from grace and power reflected badly on their entire family and she suddenly found herself having become a much less desirable wife. While the social obligation to get married existed it would have been a very bad look for Mazrah to leave and she hadn’t managed to gather up the courage to do so (for fear of doing something irreversible), but now that there was essentially nothing left that tied her to Orsinium it would not be frowned upon as much for her to go on a walkabout. Feigning some excuse to her friends and family that she was leaving out of solidarity with Maulakanth, Mazrah gathered her meager belongings and departed. As a parting gift, Durash gave Mazrah her prized spear, a family heirloom that has been passed down through the generations, saying that her daughter needed it more now than she did. Overwhelmed with gratitude, she hugged her mother tight one last time, and then she was off. She didn’t follow her brother; in fact, she never saw him again. Mazrah wanted to meet new people.

Her travels since then have taken her through High Rock, where she discovered that her mother’s stories about the Bretons’ obsession with decorum and etiquette was not an exaggeration and found herself unwelcome except in the most cosmopolitan (and subsequently accepting) of places, and then south towards Hammerfell. The land of the Redguard was more to Mazrah’s liking; aside from the favorable climate and the beautiful scenery, she admired the warrior pride of the native people and found that more Redguards than Bretons were willing to look past her skin to appreciate her skill at arms and hunting. She felt more at home than she ever had before, even if she still found herself on the receiving end of racism and discrimination often enough. It took a lot of willpower, but she decided that she didn’t care and wouldn’t let it get to her, and that was that. She sustained herself with her hunting prowess and the odd mercenary job here and there, slowly learning how to integrate herself a little better into ‘civilization’, but her unwillingness to shed her old habits (and clothes) meant that she was destined to remain at the periphery of society. Other outcasts and hunters became her friends, especially those that frequented the markets and watering holes that Mazrah attended whenever she entered the cities of Hammerfell.

The arrival of the Dwemer in Hammerfell on the 19th of Rain’s Hand, 4E208 was a rough and utterly unexpected disruption of Mazrah’s otherwise sunny and comfortable existence. Their swift occupation of the Redguard cities was followed by Dwemer patrols out on the roads and it wasn’t long before Mazrah found herself having to justify to the alien invaders who she was and what she was doing as she was returning from a successful hunt along the edge of the Alik’r desert. She complied with their demands, ignoring her pride yelling at her to stand up to them as her instincts told her that these were creatures she did not want to mess with right then, and retreated back to the Scintillant Scarab outside of Sentinel to figure out what the hell was going on. One of the barmaids, a young Redguard woman called Marien, was a friend of Mazrah’s and she filled her in on the details, but Mazrah could tell that Marien was distraught over something else. The girl tearfully admitted that she had been molested by a patron called Nuzir that had been hanging around the Scarab for a while. Mazrah remembered the name and the accompanying face, and after convincing Marien to tell her where Nuzir lived -- Gilane, a city on the south coast -- she set off to find the rotten bastard and give him a piece of her mind. Dwemer or no Dwemer, ordinary life continued.

Family and Associates:
Durash, her mother and mentor, who still lives in Orsinium as far as Mazrah knows. The two parted on good terms and Mazrah knows she will one day see her again.

Maulakanth, her older brother and the former Hand of Mauloch of Orsinium. While she was once fond of him he has become a rotten bastard and she doesn’t mind that she hasn’t seen him since he was exiled.

Akkra, a hunter from Orsinium and Mazrah’s first lover. If it weren’t for the intolerant society of Orsinium, they might have started a proper relationship. Mazrah still thinks of her often.

Marien, a Redguard bar-maid who works at an inn outside of Sentinel that Mazrah frequents. They flirt, and while Mazrah can tell that Marien is still a little uncomfortable with the idea of an Orc, she’s confident she’ll get Marien to come around.

Personality: Strong-willed, fiercely independent, tactless and lively are all accurate phrases to describe Mazrah with. She is confident in her skills, her self-worth and her bone-headed charm, doesn’t let other people tell her what to do or how to do something and expresses herself exactly how she sees fit -- which is by blurting out whatever she thinks and dressing however she damn well pleases. Mazrah used to be more reserved and calculated about her words and actions, but since leaving Orsinium and forging a place for herself at the edge of Redguard society Mazrah has felt truly comfortable with herself, and it shows. She’s curious about new people and new places and won’t hesitate to ask prying questions or to interrupt conversations if she doesn’t understand what people are talking about. All of this serves to make her seem rude or even disrespectful, but Mazrah means well. The considerate, inspiring and empowering way her mother raised her has instilled Mazrah with a heart of gold, even if it can be obscured by her assertive and powerful personality.

She reacts poorly to being reprimanded or judged if she feels that it is unfair -- and sometimes even when it is fair -- and has a very powerful dislike for people that try to overstep their authority. Mazrah believes that everyone should get a chance to prove themselves and has only begrudgingly accepted that she can’t dismantle the prejudice against the Orsimer people by herself in a few years. For all the faults of Orsinium’s society, she still takes pride in being an Orc and thinks that the other races could learn a lot from their emphasis on self-reliance, strength and merit. She doesn’t make the slightest effort to hide her background or her nature and staunchly refuses to abandon her principles and her way of life to fit in with other civilizations. She’ll take the friends that she can get and everyone else can kiss her big, gray-green ass.

Her sexuality formed a pivotal moment in her perception of the patriarchal society of Orsinium, and subsequently the rest of Tamriel. Mazrah’s love for her fellow woman also expresses itself in a desire to see women everywhere take matters into their own hands, and she’s particularly attracted to women who make the most out of their situations and refuse to bend to the whims of other people. She tolerates men, of course, and plenty of her friends are men, but she feels like they have enough power and privilege in this world. Being a warrior she admires other women with significant martial prowess, but she also has a soft spot for dainty ladies and proper housewives alike: they’re simply cute. Still, she would like to see them achieve more.

Mazrah is slow to anger but the berserker blood of the Orsimer still courses through her veins; once incensed, Mazrah’s incandescent rage is a thing to behold (and fear). She is protective of her friends and capable of very powerful vengeful emotions when they are hurt or betrayed. However, she’ll also be the first to tell one of her comrades that they’re being an idiot, because allowing your friends to set themselves up for failure isn’t being a good friend at all. Some people appreciate this more than others.

Durash taught Mazrah the ancient, tribal songs and dances of the Orsimer people and Mazrah likes to perform them for interested audiences whenever possible -- it’s another piece of her heritage that she’s proud of and wishes to share.

Equipment:

Orichalcum spear: Passed down from mother to daughter for many generations, this master-crafted spear that’s as long as Mazrah is tall is perfectly balanced and a fantastic fit for her fighting style: not surprising, since it’s the style she learned from her mother. The shaft is made of treated wood, leaving only the blade and a spike at the bottom of the shaft as being actual orichalcum. That means it’s light enough for fast, mobile strikes, including spins, twirls and leaps, but strong enough to punch through almost anything and even withstand the stress of polevaulting over enemies.

Hunting bow: Her secondary weapon and primary hunting tool. It’s easier to shoot an elk from a distance than it is to ambush with a spear, after all. It’s a simple bow made from wood that’s been enforced with iron, but it’s big and has a huge draw weight; Mazrah’s prodigious strength makes it a deadly weapon in her hands.

Quiver and arrows: A simple leather quiver filled with 20 orichalcum-tipped arrows. She’s careful to retrieve them after every kill; they don’t come cheap.

Misc. Possessions:

Leather utility belt and pouches: All the storage space that Mazrah needs. She has precious little belongings and is perfectly comfortable living out in the wilderness and off the land, so a few pouches go a long way towards keeping everything she needs on her person.

Gold: Never one for hoarding wealth, Mazrah lives from day to day and only keeps enough gold on her for a few emergency meals and a warm bed if so desired. She currently has 45 septims.

Alchemy supplies: She has a few ingredients with her that are suitable for either poisons or healing potions. Mazrah has separated them into two different pouches so she won’t mix them up.

Favoured Skills:

Highly Proficient: Spear: To Mazrah, the spear has become an extension of her powerful body, giving her almost unparalleled reach and versatility. Thrusts, slashes, jabs, swipes, whacks and armor-piercing, leaping strikes are all part of her repertoire, using the spear as a combination between a very long sword and a quarterstaff, which is further enhanced by her integration of acrobatics into her fighting style. She can wield it effectively against practically any type of enemy, even mounted units and giant bears, and one would do well to seek to disarm her first when faced with her in combat.

Highly Proficient: Acrobatics: Good luck doing that when Mazrah is dancing circles around you, however. She’s faster, more agile and more mobile than almost anyone, and her signature move is a powerful polevault over enemies’ heads that never fails to leave them stunned and ready to be slaughtered. Years of ranging across the wilderness have also made her a skilled mountaineer and climber in general -- trees, houses, boulders, you name it, Mazrah can climb it.

Moderately Proficient: Archery: Mazrah is an accomplished hunter and that’s where her skills with the bow and arrow shine. She’s not particularly experienced in using it in combat, however, where she prefers to stick to her spear -- unless that would be extremely unwise. Sometimes nothing beats a ranged surprise attack.

Moderately Proficient: Sneak: Years of sneaking through the underbrush to stalk deer, sabercats and other wildlife have turned Mazrah into a capable stalker. She can move remarkably quietly for a woman her size. Still, she’s not a trained assassin or an experienced thief, so there are people much better at this than she is.

Somewhat Proficient: Provisioning: She has, quite literally, sustained herself with her hunting prowess ever since she left Orsinium. She's no chef by any stretch of the word but she knows how to skin, cut and prepare the meat of her prey in a tasty, nutritious and rustic way.

Spell List: None.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

Categories:
1. Comedy: Fireside Chat Mk 2, Calen's quips by @Spoopy Scary. That character cracks me up in general.
2. Action: Elenglynn, particularly Jaraleet and Daro'Vasora vs the Dwemer mechanized suits, by @Mortarion and @Dervish.
3. Dialogue: Riverside Conversation between Mortalmo and Judena, by @BurningCold and @DearTrickster; Mortalmo brilliantly alternates between terrifying and sympathetic and Judena's naivity exemplifies her character perfectly.
4. Character Development: Moonpath, Daro'Vasora, by @Dervish. No question.
5. Character Relationship: Sin & Sanctity, Gregor Sibassius and Raelynn Hawkford, by myself and @Stormflyx. Yes, I'm nominating myself. Don't even @ me bro.

@MacabreFox

I haven't been in this RP for very long and I didn't go back to read all the older posts so my sample size is a little smaller. That said, there was still plenty of good writing to choose from so I regret nothing. I'm at work so I can't spend too much time on this now but I'll add the links later.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

Sin & Sanctity

Before Dawn, 24th of Last Seed, 4E208
Chapel of Dibella, Anvil
_{ft. @Stormflyx}

Gregor stared up at the chapel towering over him in the twilight with an inscrutable look on his face. During his time in Anvil the chapel’s unavoidable spire, its height far exceeding any of the other buildings inside the city walls, had been a constant source of irritation. It was a stark reminder of Gregor’s strained relationship with the Divines and of the precarious state of his soul. Undeserved, Gregor thought grimly. Once he had achieved his goals and attained immortality for himself and his family, the deaths of the innocents he had slain by mistake and the Vigilants that had threatened to destroy everything would not be in vain. He would have an eternity to set things right.

But while the gods condemned him and his actions, Gregor’s family was innocent of his crimes. He worried for their safety now that the Dwemer had invaded Cyrodiil but returning home to try to save them wasn’t an option. He was afraid that if he saw them now, he would not have the strength to leave them again while his task was not yet complete. And besides, the path back to Bravil was not one Gregor believed he would survive. So, after a mostly sleepless night, Gregor had decided to follow Calen’s advice after all and found himself on his way to pray for their safety. He wasn’t sure if the Divines would hear him but he had to try, even if it was only for his own peace of mind. He took a deep breath, pushed open the massive door slightly and slipped inside.

It was even cooler inside the chapel than the crisp morning air outside, but instead of enjoying it Gregor just felt uncomfortable. The air had that stuffy quality one only ever found inside old cathedrals and libraries. His eyes adjusted to the gloom and he looked around warily for a few seconds before he caught himself doing so. What was he afraid of? It wasn’t like Arkay himself was going to lunge at him from behind a pillar and drag him down to the underworld, and the chapel was empty this early in the morning. Even so he could feel judging eyes stare at him from the shadows between the pillars and the pews. Ridiculous. The Imperial muttered a quiet admonishment under his breath and walked over to the shrines, the clink-clank of his steel boots echoing in the sacred silence.

Raelynn walked quietly, her hands placed in front of her in a relaxed fashion, resting against her abdomen and brushing against the silk like fabric of her dress. She couldn't sleep well and had found herself awake at such an early time in the morning. The sun barely even rising yet. It was unusual for her to be unable to find sleep. She thought to finally visit the Chapel of Dibella and place an offering there - in her mind hoping it would help to bring her some clarity as to how to move forward and which path to choose. To stay with the current company and assist them. To stay with Alim, or to return to High Rock. She imagined that the Chapel would be all but empty at this frightfully early hour. She wanted to slip in, leave her offering and just take a contemplative walk around the grounds.

She rarely took moments to just breathe and appreciate everything around her. To take a moment to stop and be present without having to think of how to act, what to say or what to do. The moment that Raelynn had shared with Alim just days prior confused her still, and lay lingering in her mind and resting on her conscience. She partly wished she hadn’t bothered tending to him. The way that he had reacted to her. He barely knew her. How could he call her a friend with such sincerity?

She had already exchanged some coin for a bunch of magenta peonies earlier in the week, knowing that she would come to the Chapel finally. They smelled exquisite and fresh, and it brought a smile to her face to inhale their scent. She felt very unlike herself in moments like this, in private moments. Maybe she would take one or two of the flowers and dry them out later as a keepsake. As she grew nearer to the chapel, she saw that it was indeed quiet, she could hear only faint sounds of ocean waves lapping against a still and quiet shore and the birdsong over head. As she breezed by, she noticed someone kneeling in front of the shrine inside. A figure she instantly recognised. It was Gregor.

All of a sudden she felt her heart race in her chest, unsure of what to do and how to act. Maybe she could wait a moment or two and allow him to do whatever it was he was doing. Would that not make it more awkward? Would that not in some way be more disruptive? No. She wasn’t going to wait, and instead she crept quietly through the door that he had left ajar, the flowers stacked in their bouquet in her arms she took quiet footsteps towards the shrine herself. Words already forming in her mind for when he inevitably noticed her presence.

“Dibella, I come not for myself today but for my family,” Gregor whispered as he knelt by the altar, his face cast down and his eyes closed. “I implore you to provide them with a happy life full of love in these times of conflict. Gaia, Marcus and Julia are their names. Should the Dwemer attack Bravil… please. I know you won’t help me, but please help them. That’s all.” He remained where he was for a minute longer, motionless until his hand reached out to touch the stone edifice. It was cold and unyielding. No answer or warmth of a blessing came. His hand balled into a fist and he was about to say something decidedly heretical when he heard footsteps behind him and looked over his shoulder to see the last person he expected inside the chapel: Raelynn.

Gregor got to his feet and turned his back to the altar. “Raelynn… what brings you here?” he asked. His tone was not entirely welcoming.

She was taken slightly aback at his obvious tone as she came upon the altar herself, choosing not to stop and greet him with her eyes because of it. “Well, I’m doing the same thing that you are perhaps. In this public space…” If she had not been so tangled up in her own thoughts, she may have had a more biting response for him. The best she could do was ignore him in the way of sidelining him entirely. “I could ask you the same question, I remember you telling me that your relationship with the Gods is less than favourable.” She hadn’t really meant to say it, but it felt right -- to give him a sharp reminder of what he had told her.

With her back to him, she began placing her flowers down across the altar methodically, one-by-one posing them and brushing their soft petals with her fingers to arrange them as neatly as possible. She bit her lip as a slightly frustrated sigh slipped out and she stopped moving momentarily. “I’m sorry,” she realised that her comment was harsh and that she needed to smooth it over with something else to turn his attention from it, “I… gather that you thought you could go without seeing me again after our night together then?”

“That is usually what happens, yes,” Gregor admitted, but the hard edge in his voice had disappeared. He moved closer to Raelynn and leaned forward a little, lowering his voice so that they couldn’t be overheard in case anyone decided to enter the chapel at that moment for their own early-morning prayers. “You’re right. I don’t enjoy being here. I came here to pray for my family’s safety. The Divines have no love for me anymore but my family has done nothing wrong, so I hope that Stendarr will keep an eye out for them all the same. I didn’t mean to be so rude. I’m the one that should apologize.” He almost reached up to touch Raelynn’s shoulder but thought better of it. The sight of her now, seemingly so innocent, wearing a dress and laying down flowers, was such a far cry from the depraved temptress of before that Gregor’s trepidation melted away.

That's more like it… she thought to herself, feeling him draw closer to her with his apology. Instantly she found herself warming to him again, she could sense his intensity behind her. As she finished with the flowers she turned around to face him, lured immediately to his eyes. She gave him an enticing smile, “I must confess, if I had been the first to wake, I might have done the same to you... “ She eyed him up and down, knowing what was under his clothes quite well. “It was a shame we didn't wake together. I don't think I was done having fun with you,” admitting that to him almost brought a blush to her cheeks. She stopped smiling and returned to a serious composure once more, not allowing herself to slip straight to tempting him like that. She allowed her eyes to fall to the floor, “I think it's very honourable of you to do such a thing for your family Gregor.” Her voice was quiet, a gentle whisper in the cold marble hall.

He laughed, but there was no mirth to it. “Everything I do is for my family. This is nothing by comparison.” Gregor looked at her, even when she averted her gaze, and he wondered what she wanted from him now. It had seemed like she was trying to woo him back to bed for a moment but now he wasn’t sure. He had left her because he thought that, while their night together had been extraordinarily enjoyable, it was a distraction that he didn’t need, and it had brought out a side of him that Gregor tried to suppress and hide as much as possible. But was it really right to dismiss Raelynn as entirely unvirtuous based on one encounter? Maybe that had simply been what they both needed to unwind after the danger and tension of the last few weeks. Perhaps someone like Raelynn, who did not judge him immediately when the veil was slightly lifted, wasn’t so bad. The long years on the road had been so lonely...

Nobody was as good at manipulating Gregor as Gregor himself.

“Look at me,” he said softly and stepped in even closer. His eyes glanced around quickly, ensuring that the place was still empty. “I’m sorry I left. It’s… complicated.”

“You don’t need to explain,” she began, pulling her hair to one side - revealing her neck to Gregor in a casual manner as she lifted her eyes back to him now. He was not going to be so easy to crack this time, she would have to take a step back in order to step forwards with him. She slowly sunk down to sit on the steps of the altar below him. “I’m here for my family too, in a way. I had hoped being here would bring me some clarity and help me make a decision on something.” As she spoke, she twisted lengths of her hair around her fingers and looked up to him from her position. “I was unsure of whether or not to return to High Rock, or stay with the company. This war…” she took a breath in through her teeth, releasing her hair and wrapping her arms around herself, “it scares me.”

She sat pensively for a moment, before smiling, “you must think me foolish and cowardly,” once more she looked up to him, beckoning him with her eyes to sit down beside her, inviting him to be near her.

This was a side of her that Gregor had not seen before. He did as her eyes requested and sat down, taking care not to sit on his cloak (as always), and thought about her words for a bit. His gaze went around the chapel again and he smiled faintly. It was a fitting environment for such confessions. Was she a coward? He had thought Daro’Vasora was a coward when she expressed her lack of enthusiasm to stay engaged with the war. But the Khajiit was a different type of person with a different set of skills. Raelynn was a healer, not a warrior. Gregor wouldn’t expect Julia to march to war either.

“No,” he replied, his voice warm and comforting. He draped his arm across her back, his hand resting on her hips, and playfully pulled her a little closer. “It is far from foolish to fear war. If you wish to go back to High Rock, I don’t blame you. I just don’t think this is something any of us can run from. If the Dwemer overran the Imperial City like that, imagine what they’ll do with the rest of Tamriel. Sooner or later we will have to stand our ground. And if you care about this company, maybe you should do it with us.” He looked her in the eyes and almost added with me but caught himself in time.

Raelynn indulged in being closer to him, and thought about placing her head on his shoulder. Not yet. Instead she just listened to him. His argument was much like Alim’s, but she found herself more swayed by Gregor, especially as he ran his hand over one of her souvenir bruises. She smirked a little, before placing her hand on his comfortingly. “You make a solid case for it, and I can't argue that you're right about it. I know that I would be… needed by the company…” she looked back into his eyes, almost drowning in them. He was as hypnotizing to her as she was trying to be to him.

She found herself preparing to strike, like a coiled snake ready to pounce on its prey. She ran her hand across his again, moving it to his thigh and squeezed it gently, not wanting it to come across as overly sexual, but more a touch of acknowledgement and appreciation. “Thank you Gregor…”

The sensation of Raelynn’s hand on his thigh was enough to make his heartbeat quicken.. “You’re welcome,” he murmured. Her presence so close to him and her gaze locked into his were as enchanting as always, and her vulnerability and openness had surprised and disarmed him. She wasn’t just the succubus he had thought her to be. There was a real, endearing woman sitting next to him now. And now that he had relaxed… even if her touch was not improper, there was something about her that he just couldn’t resist.

She felt the energy around them was palpable, it was as it had been just a night ago. She sidled closer to him, pressing her body to his, she was now drawing out circles on his leg, looking him in the eye again, she bit her lip flirtatiously, fluttering her lashes ever so and lowering her gaze. “How do you suppose I stay and help the company when I…” she paused for a second, tempted to turn her face away. But she wanted him to watch her mouth when she said her last words. She was ready to strike, and so she leant in closer, the location spurring her on. It was an unholy statement to make, but she had worn him down enough to soften him up - to reach the point of no return once more. “How can I be of any help to anyone when I haven’t been able to stop thinking about your--” she spoke in a hushed and honeyed tone, a sultry purr, under Dibella’s altar, leaving the end of her words to Gregor’s ears only. It was like making an offer to a darker God.

Gregor bit his lip and closed his eyes when Raelynn whispered the last few words in his ear. It was such a heady feeling to have her say these things to him here, of all places, and an intense surge of lust felt like it was going to burst out of his chest as something electric singed through his limbs. He could feel the sinful heat of her rosy cheeks as his face brushed against hers until his lips found her mouth. He kissed her and pulled her close, his hands pressing roughly on her body through the fabric of her dress, resisting the desire to rip off her clothes and desecrate her there and then inside the empty chapel.

“Not here,” she moaned while pulling out of his kiss as she enjoyed the sensation of his hands grabbing at her body desperately, “I have a room at the Inn. I bet that we can sneak in unseen at this hour...” Her head was filled with all manner of images of lust and longing, the various things they could do, although as insatiable as she felt, this place was wrong. She took him by the hands and got herself to her feet to begin leading him away from the Sanctuary of the Chapel and to her bed.

The short walk back to the Inn would feel excruciatingly long, she was thinking of ways to make it longer - to draw out the tension and prolong their craving for each other. As she lead him away from the altar, she turned back to look at him over her shoulder -- her eyes wide and innocent, but the smile that began to creep over her lips was anything but. She would have him begging for her by the time they made it to their private space.

Gregor slowly rose to his feet and followed Raelynn at a languid pace. He knew what she was getting at -- well, two could play that game. They left the chapel looking the very picture of proper decorum: a gallant knight with a fair lady on his arm, taking a leisurely stroll through the streets. It was just as quiet outside as inside as the eastern sky began to colour orange with the impending dawn, leaving Gregor free to cast glances of undiluted desire at Raelynn. “I wonder if you look perfectly innocent again underneath that dress, or if it's still evident that I had my way with you,” he said to her softly, as two lovers might whisper and giggle in public.

“I may have left something to remember you by,” she said with a smug smile as she continued to walk with him. It was just in the same manner as they had walked together towards the Tavern for their first encounter, only this time they of course had their secret. “If I recall, I may have left some marks of my own on you… I can see that my favourites are gone.” She licked her lower lip as she brought up her hand to stroke his neck ever so, using the opportunity to tuck back his rogue strands of hair behind his ear. She liked people thinking that she was just straightening his appearance like that. She wondered what they would think if they could hear her thoughts. She wondered what Gregor would think if he could hear them too.

“Sorry about that,” Gregor replied with a wry smile. A delightful chill ran down his spine when her fingers touched the skin where she'd bitten down on and clawed him. The wounds might be gone but his body hadn't forgotten. “I don't normally come back for more. You're the first woman in ten years to achieve that.” He said it casually but the implication was much stronger than his tone suggested. Was it a good idea to admit that to her? Gregor didn't care anymore. There was something special about her and she deserved to know. He, too, raised his hand and gently touched her cheek with his fingers. It would look sweet to anyone who saw it, but Raelynn could see in Gregor's eyes that it belied a far more ferocious hunger.

She didn't know whether to feel honoured by such a statement. It had been by pure chance that their paths had crossed again, there was always that Gregor just never saw his past lovers - like he had tried to do with her, for what reason? She gave him a smile regardless, and placed her head against his arm, clinging tightly. “Well I don't ever really happen to act in such a manner in the first place…” she knew there was a good chance he wouldn't believe her. But it was true, she could count on one hand the lovers she had taken - including Gregor - it had never been all that interesting, truth be told. But the chemistry was undeniable between the two of them, it had outweighed anything else and now she was hooked on it. They approached the Flowing Bowl and Raelynn gave him a flirtatious look, stepping ahead just ever so. Not wanting to wait much longer.

That elicited a chuckle from him. “In a hurry, are we?” Gregor asked laconically, but he hastened his pace to follow her inside all the same. If there was anyone else from their party inside the Flowing Bowl Gregor didn't notice them, nor did he care. His eyes were fixed on Raelynn’s back, on the nape of her neck, on the movement of her hips. He followed her upstairs without another word and as soon as they stepped inside her room, Gregor closing the door behind them more quietly this time (as he was determined to cause no further structural damage to the inns of Anvil), he picked up Raelynn and threw her on the bed, a fervent look of desire on his face. He undid himself of his cloak and gear, letting it drop to the ground around him, until he was bare-chested, his tattoos on full display in the blossoming daylight that filtered in through the curtains.

She landed softly on the spread, and immediately positioned herself on her side, propping up her head with her hand, her long hair falling around her. In the dark of the room, the amber waves of dawn sunlight that did spill through made her usually ash toned hair shine like strands of gold. As she watched Gregor strip down in front of her, she placed her free forefinger into her mouth and bit down seductively. The Breton watched the muscles of his chest, paying attention to his tattoos - drawing herself free from the atmosphere -- unable to stop herself from making a comment about it. “Is that a statement, or purely an accident…?”

She had learned very early on that he was quite reserved when it came to matters of his past. She didn't know whether she wanted him to stay in this mood - the mood where he seemed genuinely happy and smitten, or flick the switch to his primal other self. The one she had met only nights ago. At the moment, she herself was smitten with both.

Gregor looked down at his chest, following Raelynn’s gaze, and quietly mouthed ‘oh’ when he realized what she was referring to. That. Arkay, his head crossed out by two diagonal scars across Gregor’s sternum, was artfully etched into his skin with black ink. It must have been a pretty bad look, combined with the Daedric symbol for Oblivion on his upper arm, if Raelynn was a devout and pious woman. Fortunately, she wasn’t. “Yes, it’s a statement,” he said in a low voice and slowly crawled on the bed with her on all fours. His face was austere and there was iron in his eyes. Despite that, he gently ran a finger across Raelynn’s bare arm as he contemplated his next words. How could he explain that he was a man who had betrayed allies and murdered innocents in a blind rage, all in the name of a cure for himself and his family? He knew what people were like. Nobody would understand that he was justified. The things that happened were… regrettable. But good men make mistakes and his intentions had always been noble. The Divines couldn’t see that, rigid and devoid of compassion as they were.

“I have done terrible things for a noble cause,” Gregor said at last, his voice now barely more than a whisper. “Some lives were lost for the sake of others. The gods condemn me for it, they withhold their blessings and are dismissive of my prayers. They don’t understand that my intentions are good, and I know that Arkay will not be kind on my soul if my time should come.” His nostrils flared as he exhaled sharply and his fingers dug into Raelynn’s arm. “Fuck him. I won’t submit to his judgement.”

Terrible things? she wondered as he began to get closer to her. The same look in his eye that she recognised from their first night together. She was slowly learning more about him, and to many, this would be a red flag to get away, to run. That, and the grip that he had on her arm. It was an enjoyable feeling that unnerved and prompted a soft whimper of pleasure from her. It turned her on. The thought of escaping crossed her mind, some part of her was telling her to ask him to leave -- but that was a small and insignificant voice. Nothing but a timid whisper, drowned out by the incredible lust and attraction to him she felt. It was crossing a line to be with him, but that made it so much more satisfying. He had such a darkness around him, he was the perfect storm and all she could think about was taming him for herself. She let him wait in silence and drew out the tension while he obviously waited for her to respond to his confession. Whether or not she would accept him as he was, or judge him.

It came to her -- once again she found herself in the position to pounce, smiling provocatively, she leant up to whisper into his ear, “I wouldn't expect someone like you to submit to anyone, Gregor. Fuck Arkay indeed.” She sat up and lifted her dress over her shoulders, tossing it to the floor on top of his clothes.This was it, she knew that she was now more involved with him than she thought she would have been, but knowing his secrets and seducing them out of him was a high she was now addicted to.

Her words were like moon sugar to him. The validation, however ill-informed, satisfied an aching and bruised part of Gregor’s soul that had been tormented by his conscience for years. His grim expression was replaced by a terribly insidious smile, fueled in equal parts by redoubled lust and relief. A part of him knew that he shouldn’t have said what he did and that her reaction wasn’t right, but his mind was so clouded by desire that he put those thoughts aside and moved on top of her. It was then that he noticed two bruises on her hips in the shape of his hands and he laughed, grabbing her there where she would still be awfully sore and pulling her body against his. “So that’s what you kept,” he purred as his fingers pressed hard into her flesh, his eyes staring into hers, their faces a mere inch away from one another. He wanted to see her pain, and her delight.

As his hands once again found their way to her hips, the sensation she felt was like nothing else. A mixture of pleasure and pain that excited her and gave her a rush. She felt it throughout her small frame as Gregor towered over her. But yet, she relaxed into him and into the moment, placing her lips against his, saying nothing. The quiet voice of concern muted entirely as his dominating presence gazed intensely into her eyes. She knew he would once again have his way with her body.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

Early morning, 23rd of Last Seed, 4E08
The Bright Glass, Anvil

The first thing Gregor became aware of when he woke up was Raelynn’s soft breathing. He opened his eyes slowly and found himself only inches away from her face. The night before came back to him when he saw that her cheeks were still red and her throat was still bruised. “Shit,” Gregor whispered to himself and rolled over onto his back which promptly caused him to wince; he had momentarily forgotten the long, raw scratches that Raelynn’s nails had left down his spine. He buried his face in his hands. Half a bottle of wine? What had he been thinking? Gregor never drank that much, and while he was resilient in many other areas, he was a bit of a lightweight when it came to alcohol. And he hadn’t eaten anything yesterday. That only made matters worse. He remembered what he’d whispered in Raelynn’s ear and sighed. It was vague, fortunately, to say that the gods hated him, and he and Raelynn had been far too busy with each other’s bodies after that to talk. His secrets were safe, but the risk he had taken was unacceptable. Still… he looked over at Raelynn and watched her face for a bit. She really was beautiful, and it had been immensely enjoyable. Gregor had been a tender lover before he left home but he had changed a lot since then, so it had felt beyond satisfying to let his dark side come out to play like this. And Raelynn hadn’t recoiled when he told her he wasn’t exactly a saint. Hell, that had been an aphrodisiac, if anything.

As quietly as he could, Gregor slipped out of bed. He was stark naked -- his clothes were scattered around the room, as were Raelynn’s -- so he took a moment to check himself for any other injuries and saw that his chest was scratched up too. He felt his own throat with his fingers and frowned. Were those… bite marks? Either way, nothing a little Restoration magic wouldn’t fix. He paused. Curiosity got the better of him as Gregor tiptoed over to Raelynn’s side of the bed and gingerly lifted up the covers to admire his own handiwork. “Oof,” he mumbled. You animal, he thought to himself, only half-admonishingly. His gaze lingered on Raelynn’s body far too long for modesty and he resisted the temptation to wake her up and continue where they left off. He had to stay focused; this kind of dynamic wasn’t healthy. Gregor put the covers back and set about to getting dressed. He had to retrieve his breeches from beneath a pile of wooden slats that he recognized as having been one of the two chairs in the room.

After he was dressed he looked at Raelynn one more time. Asleep beneath the covers like this she strongly reminded him of Briar and a familiar pang of guilt shot through his heart. This wasn’t the first time he had been unfaithful since he had left. It seemed that the scene of his departure, him looking down at her sleeping form, was doomed to repeat itself with another woman every so often, though he had to admit that all the injuries and destroyed furniture were new. Gregor grabbed his swords and silently made his way downstairs, boots in hand, and retrieved his belongings from the same server he had handed them to the night before -- the boy looked spectacularly awkward, and Gregor gave him a few extra coins for the trouble. He paid for the room at the Imperial proprietor and asked him in a low tone if he would kindly avoid waking up the woman in the room for now, and he agreed. Having slipped into his armor and refastened his armaments, Gregor straightened up, squared his shoulders and left.

I Wanna Hear Your Opinions On The Different Wrting Levels/Forums.

I considered joining a great looking advanced RP at one point a couple years ago, but decided against it when I noticed how infrequently players post as a whole in the subforum. It's worthy to note that, despite how much effort went into the lore and world building, the RP died shortly after.

@tex

I've been part of a roleplay called The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention for a few years(!) now. It often moves at a positively GLACIAL pace and the GM was even forced to prematurely enter Chapter 2 with a little timeskip to grab everybody's attention again and resume posting. But it works. We can go weeks between posts or take months to resolve a single encounter, but we're all competent writers who have long-term plans and visions for our characters and we have an extremely dedicated GM who similarly has a really expansive vision and fleshed out plot in store for us.

It is, by Guild standards, practically unique in that regard. I can only think of Ellri's Star Wars RP and the long-standing Create-a-Hero RP that are in the same category of size and age.

It's possible. You just need to work at it and get lucky with a dedicated and capable group of players. There are ways to make yourself lucky, though. It sounds stupid but pick the right fandom! TES and WH40K roleplayers are pretty hardcore about sticking with things, I've noticed.

I Wanna Hear Your Opinions On The Different Wrting Levels/Forums.

Both sides can move dynamically between these two I feel like, though, so it's kind of the same, yeah.

@Odin

Really? I don't feel that at all. I stopped participating in Casual about five years ago and every time I've tried to go back, the roleplays have too many people participating that roleplay at a level I'm not comfortable with. It's not about their English skills or even their writing skills but the characters they make and the things those characters do. It's often so immature that I just can't be bothered.

On the other hand I also only participate in two Advanced RPs with some very strict application procedures (to the point that I was myself rejected the first time I applied to one of them). My experience might be skewed towards the absolute "best" (or most elitist, depends on how you look at it) the Guild has to offer.

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears. . .

Welcome to the Guild, @Scendscale. We've got a healthy mixture of fandom RPs and original settings and there's a big community of 1x1 RPers, so you're bound to find what you're looking for.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

As the idyllic countryside lifted their spirits and they resumed talking amongst themselves, there was one among them who remained silent until they reached Anvil.

Gregor had escaped death narrowly, fighting his way out of the Dwemer counter-ambush back to back with the Argonian, Jaraleet -- the pair had encountered each other in the frantic melee by coincidence and, being both experienced in small unit tactics, stuck together instinctively. It had been extremely hairy and Gregor owed his survival to the fact that his will to live had been firing on all cylinders, allowing him to resist the mortal terror that overwhelmed so many of the other Rangers amongst the carnage. He had seen Tiber die. The young lad had screamed for help while he tried to push his guts back into his abdomen. Gregor had locked eyes with the dying boy for a split second but he could not go back for him without risking being cut down himself… so the Pale Reaper had left Tiber for dead. By the time Gregor and Jaraleet had put enough distance between them and the Dwemer not to have to fear for their lives anymore, Gregor found that he was positively covered in Dwemeri blood. It was… shocking. He’d seen and done horrible things but this simply stunned him into silence.

After a day of walking and thinking since their reunion with the other survivors, Gregor realized it wasn’t because it had been particularly gruesome or brutal. It had been, of course, but the Imperial necromancer was desensitized to violence and death by now. No, it was something else: the fact that he had lost. Unambiguous, total defeat. That was new. Gregor didn’t care for it at all. He still hadn’t been able to take a Dwemer’s soul and the more he thought about it, the more he realized he didn’t want the soul of a simple footsoldier anyway. He had expected the Dwemer to rely on their automatons entirely, to think combat beneath all of them, but that wasn’t true. There were ordinary Dwemer too. If his offering to the Ideal Masters was going to impress them at all, Gregor wanted the soul of a real Dwemer -- the tinkerers and metaphysical architects that had lingered in Tamrielic legend for so long.

But that seemed to be a pipe dream now. Gregor’s time walking was spent between worrying about his family now, as it seemed there was nothing to spare them from the wrath of the Deep Elves if their army moved further south, and agonizing over how the hell he was going to achieve his goal. Gregor had never backed down from any part of his quest ever since he had embarked on it ten years ago, but he had to admit that the full might of the Dwemer was an enemy he could not fight. It made sense to retreat to safety but at the same time they were walking away from what Gregor needed most: a dying Dwemer lord with a soul to steal. Still, the sight of Anvil in the afternoon sun was a welcome reprieve and Gregor swiftly made his way into the city after pausing to observe the falling out between Daro’Vasora and Rhea. He didn’t know the latter but the Khajiit’s words were venomous enough to make him immediately wary of the Imperial woman. Once inside, Gregor cleared his mind and set out to deal with the most immediate issue: the state of his clothes. He, too, visited the bathhouse and the annex where he could wash his clothes -- he spent two hours scrubbing all the elven blood out of his cloak and cleaning his armor until it shone again. It was good to have something to occupy his hands with and the physical labor calmed him down a little, helping him regain his focus. After he had washed himself and redressed he found he had made his choice. He would continue to pursue the soul of a Dwemer, but not by returning to the front and simply trying the same thing again, like Brutus wanted to. Gregor sought him out and politely resigned from the Rangers, pretending to be too shell-shocked to continue fighting, and Brutus dismissed him after a disapproving glare and a heavy sigh.

No, Gregor needed help. He had to be smart about his. Prepare, research, recuperate, regroup. Who could he turn to, however? He wandered through the city, his eyes barely taking in the sights, his mind twisting and turning this way and that. Sometimes people grasped him by the arm, asking what news he brought, but Gregor shook himself loose from their grasp and carried on without a word. He wasn’t going to spend his time on these people. There were more important things to do.