Hank

The Elder Scrolls: After the Calamity

15th of Rain’s Hand, 5E150
Windhelm, Skyrim

The underbelly of the Temple of Talos was empty, dark, and damp. It was precisely those things that meant it was a perfect place for Caeliana to remain undisturbed. People didn’t like to be in empty, dark places like that that lay under the shadow of a Divine who had not prevented the Calamity, and seemed to have long forgotten his worshippers. In a lonesome corridor, Caeliana had made a small den - the walls illuminated by a series of torches that lit up the stone with an orange glow.

The flames flickered and moved from the motions and gusts of air she was creating with her sword as she danced around with it. The echoes of the swishes sounded down the corridor - the only other sound being her breath with each jab and thrust. She wasn’t as fast today. Wulfharth had let his guards do just enough of a number on her that she still felt bruised and sore. She had still sat high enough in his favour to let the incident with the bear slide and not result in open wounds - or lashings like Biruk the guard had suggested. The whole thing had gotten her out of the pit for a few days though, and that was a blessing. Maybe Talos was watching over her after all.

Her bust lip was sore and her ribs ached enough to prevent her from moving as freely and aggressively as she wanted to. Armour was out of the question too, much too heavy right now. At least she’d had that damn jersey patched up though. Only the flames of the torches kept her warm now. She would slip back into her cloak when she had sufficiently purged the remaining agitated energy from her body. “Damn this place...” she huffed, expelling air from her lungs and anger too. “Fuck Windhelm… Fuck the guards… Fuck Biruk…” she continued, slashing at the air as best she could - her balance near perfect all things considered.

The door to the Temple opened and a gust of cold wind shot into the undercroft. Backlit by the featureless, pale daylight was Crimson-Eyes-Killer-Viper, the eccentric and irritable Dunmer scavenger and hunter that called Windhelm, begrudgingly, his home. Viper closed the door behind him and descended the stairs. The sounds of Caeliana’s voice and the slashes of her sword carried through the halls and corridors of the subterranean Temple and Viper followed the noise until he came upon the torch-lit corridor where the Imperial gladiator was practicing. Viper leaned against the wall and a spark of flame appeared between his fingertips, lighting the tobacco in his pipe and briefly illuminating his distinctive eyes.

“Got yourself in trouble again,” he growled. His voice was as deep and raspy as the rest of his kin. “What did you do this time?”

There was one thing that the Dunmer always managed to do, and that was to sneak up on Caeliana. Whether it was on purpose, or just the way he was - she was never fully sure. As if on cue, he had appeared in the darkness to startle her, back from whatever weary adventure beyond the walls he’d been on this time. She slowed down from her practice to catch her breath again, she was feeling rather tired of the fast pace by now. She began to step as slowly as she could, still swiping down at invisible foes - only now as if she was moving underwater. “Killed a bear. Put him out of his misery.” There was no sense in lying to Viper, he had a keen sense for sniffing out the truth eventually. “Hello to you to, by the way,” she grumbled back at him while she waited for his usual lecture.

“In the ring?” Viper shook his head and rolled his eyes. “You have to stop breaking his toys. He might break you one day. I've said it so many times: keep your head down, don't do anything stupid,” he continued before a sigh escaped him. “Bet you thought it was worth it, too.”

To explain or not? The thought did cross her mind but by now she knew better than to try explaining her reasoning to him. She simply looked him dead in the eye, with the same look she always had when something was important to her, eyes narrowed and hardened.“It was the right thing to do.” She rolled her shoulders, softening her stance at last. “What did you get up to this time anyway? You were gone a little longer than usual.”

Putting an animal out of its misery at the expense of one's own health hardly seemed like the right thing to do to Viper, but that's how Caeliana was. All these lofty ideals and morals from those damned books. He decided to let the topic go and answered her question instead.

“The usual.” The tobacco in his pipe went out and, annoyed, Viper paused to light it again. “Last site I hit gave me some trouble. On the tundra. Old watchtower. Pack of reavers showed up at the same time. Took down two of them, no problem, but the other two waited inside the tower ‘till nightfall.” He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, blowing out rings of smoke that drifted lazily throughout the air. “Long story short, I was shittin’ myself less than fifty yards from a vampire killing two grown men in seconds. Waited ‘till it left, grabbed what I could and scrammed. Took a different route home. Left my fucking bear trap, too.”

“A vampire?” that grabbed her attention. Her fingers closed tighter around the hilt of her sword as if she thought the offending creature would descend upon them there and then. “Where did it come from?” she asked as she paced towards Viper. “Was it just one of them? Have you told the guards? Did the vampire have a nest?” Her eyes flitted back and forth as she considered the scenario. She barely gave him time to register a question before she had another one locked and loaded and ready to fire at him. “Do you think he saw you? Followed you?” Her body tensed up again. A fucking vampire! She thought to herself as she paced back down the corridor again, finally relaxing the grip on her sword.

“Great gods of nowhere, woman,” Viper mumbled, exasperated. “Do you ever stop asking questions? No, it didn’t see me and it didn’t follow me. I’ve no fucking idea if it has a nest. You think I’m gonna risk my neck to find out? It went back the way it came, up the hills and into the forests ‘round the Throat of the World. This happened two days out from Windhelm, Caeliana. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m only asking to gather information, do you have to get so short about it?” She smirked over at him, but only a little. She ran the sword back into its sheath and took a seat on a rock by the wall, resting her elbows onto her knees. “It just might be dangerous to have vampires coming closer. If you need someone to come out and help you… I can help.” The Imperial looked up from her seat at him, eyes wide. It wasn’t the first time she’d made the suggestion.

Viper couldn’t help but flash a wry smile. “And by helping, you’re talking about tracking down the vampire and killing it, right? You know that’s not what I do. Nobody does, and with good reason. It’s suicide. The only way I’ve survived so long is by minding my own business. I know what you’re thinking. What about all the poor people out there? Why don’t we do anything to help them?” The Dunmer scoffed and pointed in the direction of the Palace of the Kings through the walls of the undercroft. “That’s on Wulfharth, not us. He keeps the gates shut. I’m just an old elf trying to scrape by, and you’re a girl with a sword. No offense, but you’ve never been outside. You don’t know what it’s like. Not really.”

Her arms folded over her chest at his words and her foot began tapping at the ground. Next, the eyebrows furrowed and a scowl appeared on her heart shaped face where a smile had been just moments ago. “You could do with being less sardonic. If you weren’t you might not have to find company with a disgraced gladiator under a Temple, you know?” She huffed again, standing back up from her seat sharply. “When was the last time you saw me fight in the pit? You know I’m more than a girl with a sword.”

Her fingers rapped over the handle impatiently and she began pacing again, blowing a hair from her face as it fell from her bun. “Besides, you used to give me books that told stories of how one sword can change the world! One sword!” she repeated to him, coming closer to his face, wafting some of the smoke away with the back of her hand. “You’re right about one thing though… I have never stepped outside the walls. But I’m never going to stop asking until you take me, and if you don’t - I will go it alone.”

Viper groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was silent for a long time. “How old are you now?” he asked suddenly.

“I’m… 27 in just a few months,” she responded, the drama of her speech wearing off and her own temper calming back down again. She might have gone overboard this time.

The Dunmer nodded to himself. “Old enough to decide things for yourself,” he said. “By human standards, anyway.” He squared his shoulders and put out his pipe. “Can't believe I'm saying this. Fine. But!” Viper pressed a finger against Caeliana's sternum forcefully. “You do everything I say. If we have to fight, we fight, but if we don't have to, we don't. Survival is as much about avoiding danger as it is about defeating it. If you cross someone out there they won't just rough you up a little. They'll eat your liver. Got it?”

She frowned at him, at the jabbing of his finger and she swatted it away before a smile came to her face again as she realised what the Dunmer was saying. “I swear it on Talos himself…” Caeliana stepped backwards to a statue, where she got down to her haunches to reach behind, scrambling around - feeling her way through the dark until her fingers found a leather strap that she dragged out of the hidden space. She had been hiding it for some time. A bag, filled with supplies, hoarded rations, and a bed roll. “I'm glad you've finally gotten on board,” she sighed and her smile faded. “There's nothing here, Viper. I'd rather die out there than in here.”

Laughing in earnest for the first time in weeks, Viper laid eyes on the bag Caeliana conjured from its hiding spot. “You really weren’t kidding when you said you would’ve gone out there by yourself, eh?. Now you’ve left me no choice.” He was grumbling, but there was a glint in his eyes that showed he was still amused. “Can’t let you go out there by yourself. This Talos of yours would never forgive me.”

He looked back at her and frowned at her last words. “Don’t say shit like that,” Viper hissed. “A lot of people before you have had the same thoughts. Trust me when I say they all regretted it when they were crying for their mothers with their guts in their hands. You have to go out there with the mindset that you cannot and will not allow yourself to die.”

Her eyes broke from his gaze as she thought about the severity of his words. “Sounds like those men needed a girl with a sword on their side.” There was no arrogance to her words, and she half smiled back up towards him. “You already said Wulfharth will break me sooner or later, who is to say he won't spill my guts. Danger in here, danger out there. I'd rather risk it. I mean that. I mean, imagine his stupid fucking face when he realises his number Nine crossed the wall.”

“Would you even be allowed back in, once you’ve done that?” Viper asked skeptically. “There’s no real sanctuary to be found beyond these walls. Longest I’ve ever gone without returning to Windhelm is three weeks. You’ll be signing up for a lifetime of fear, stress and danger, if Wulfharth wants to make an example out of you and refuse you.”

“Yes, I have good warrior's blood, he'd find a way to use that.” She fell silent, averting her eyes from Viper once more, turning her face away now while she pretended to look for something in the bag. “And you're wrong, there is something out there. I know it, I feel it.” She knew he would have something cynical to rebuke it with, but she didn't care. He had said yes, that's all she needed.

Rising to the bait, Viper huffed indignantly. “Like what? I’m one-hundred-and-twelve years old, Caeliana. You think you can feel something out there that I haven’t seen yet? You’re not a mystic, you’re a woman with a dream. It’s admirable, but mistaken. You can come with me and see for yourself, but don’t be surprised if you find me telling you ‘I told you so’ before long.”

“Oh simmer down,” she called out at him, “take another puff of your pipe already.” There was no malice in her tone as she attempted to disarm him and have him wind his irritation at her back in, she even made a winding motion with her hand, mischief in her eyes. “You're right, I'm not a mystic. And if we go out there and you are correct then you can be hold it over my head forever that you were right. But, if I'm right… If I'm right and we do find something out there, then don’t be surprised if you find me telling you that ‘I told you so’.” The Imperial rose to her height, the bag looped over her shoulder and a dimpled smile on her face.

“Bah.” Viper waved dismissively. After a second or two, he lit up the pipe again. “Say what you want.” He looked at the bag over her shoulder and shook his head. “I still have business here. Meet me by the gates at dawn tomorrow. Don’t do something stupid again in the meantime, alright?”

The Elder Scrolls: After the Calamity

Reavers.

The drug-addled, psychopathic maniacs that roamed the wilderness of Skyrim in small packs, armed to the teeth and too crazy to be afraid of the monsters that they shared their land with. Crimson-Eyes-Killer-Viper knew them all too well. Rejected by the civilized settlements -- or what passed for civilization anyway -- they made their home in abandoned forts and other ruins of the old world. Just like him, they scavenged for supplies, gear and valuables. Unlike him, they also raided farms, made the roads unsafe and killed innocents for sport. Viper narrowed his eyes at the sight of them and pulled his cloak a little tighter around himself.

He was perched sixteen feet up in the branches of a huge pine tree, scoping out the watchtower in the valley below him. There were signs of recent settlement around the tower but the place looked to be abandoned now. Knowing that appearances could be deceiving, Viper had settled into the tree for the day. If nothing else, he was a patient elf when it came to his work. His experience paid off once again when the reavers showed up. There looked to be four of them. Viper was unsure whether they were the ones that lived in the watchtower and were coming back from their own mission, or whether they were currently still on one. As far as living arrangements went outside of the massive walls of Windhelm, they could do worse than the watchtower. Viper snowly nibbled away at a piece of dried meat while the reavers fanned out across the tundra that surrounded the watchtower. The way they overturned the tents and cooking pots that were scattered about told Viper all he needed to know. They were on the prowl, same as him.

“Good,” Viper muttered to himself. “Unfamiliar with the lay of the land, distracted by their search. Easy.”

Slow as slow, the Dunmer climbed down and out of the tree. Once on the ground, Viper kept low and crawled down the hill towards the tundra, using glacial boulders that had been deposited there since before the time of man as cover to stay out of sight. At the bottom of the hill Viper peeked out over the top of one of the boulders, his face hidden by the hood of his cloak. One of the reavers kept watch outside while the other three had entered the watchtower. Even from here, some hundred yards away, Viper could hear them hollering and whooping to each other.

“High on something. Hist sap, maybe. Won’t feel pain. Shoot to kill.”

With practiced ease, Viper’s fingers unfastened Heartseeker from its strap and gently laid the crossbow across the boulder. The Dunmer never took his eyes off the reaver. Now that he was a little closer he could see that he was a male Nord, and a strong specimen too. His torso was bare and he kept rolling his jaw while his head shot this way and that, looking around but not seeing anything. Viper closed one eye and rested his cheek on the crossbow’s stock. The other eye was aligned with the iron sights on the weapon. Viper slowed down his breathing and improved his aim with a few minor adjustments. He had one shot.

With a loud thwang and a sharp metallic sound, Heartseeker fired. Viper’s aim had been true. The Nord immediately keeled over as soon as he was struck, the bolt sticking out of his face, having pierced through his nasal cavity and into his brain stem. Viper inhaled deeply -- he’d held his breath for the shot -- and burst into action. He dashed out from behind the rock and towards the watchtower, his soft leather boots carrying him across the frozen ground almost silently. Inside, the remaining reavers were still loudly tearing through whatever they had found. They had not heard their companion’s death. As soon as he entered the watchtower’s shadow, Viper’s deft fingers unclasped one of the bear traps from the side of his backpack and he knelt some ten yards in front of the watchtower’s entrance. He prepared the trap and placed a Fire Rune right beneath it. Then he sprinted away at a ninety degree angle and took cover behind a piece of rubble that had been smashed loose from the top of the watchtower in some long-forgotten incident, some forty-five yards away. He had deliberately left the corpse of the reaver and the bolt stuck in his face outside. The angle at which he had fallen made it clear where Viper had shot him from. He was counting on the other reavers to realize that. If they stepped out of the watchtower now -- and hopefully one in the beartrap, hidden in a clump of grass -- and looked for him in that direction, they would leave their flanks exposed to crossbow fire from his new position.

Seconds turned into minutes as the reavers continued to fail to realize that their watchman had been shot dead. Viper didn’t budge. There was nothing to be gained by moving. He had an advantageous position. Waiting was his best option. So there he remained, still as a statue, his breathing slow and even, barely even blinking.

At long last, one of the reavers finally stepped outside after calling out what sounded like a name repeatedly and, predictably, receiving no response. Viper could hear the woman curse when she saw the corpse of her erstwhile companion and she ran over to him.

“Rookie mistake,” Viper whispered.

Her brief scream of pain as she stepped into and triggered the bear trap was cut short by the explosive pillar of fire that engulfed her. Normally the force of the Fire Rune’s detonation threw its victims clear of the blast zone. That’s why Viper used bear traps that he firmly anchored into the earth. Caught in the cast-iron teeth of the trap, the woman’s body had nowhere to go. She was immolated within seconds and continued to burn as the magical flames created by the Rune latched onto anything flammable -- fur, mostly -- and roared with supernatural hunger. She died slowly and in extreme pain.

The two remaining reavers realized that they had been outmaneuvered and refused to step outside. That was annoying. Still, without anywhere else to go, Viper knew that the reavers would eventually hope that their invisible assailant had grown bored and left. Prey always did. He quickly glanced up to judge the position of the sun. Three more hours until nightfall. That was cutting it close, he reckoned, but he knew that he was practically invisible in the dusk, pressed up against the rubble, his cloak covering every visible inch of him. He had more time than they did. If something had heard the Fire Rune’s detonation or the woman’s screams, it would be drawn to the tower, not to him.

He waited.

As the sun slowly began to disappear behind the mountain ranges that fenced off the western side of the tundra plain, Viper became acutely aware of the shape of something moving towards the watchtower. It descended down the same hill he had first observed the reavers from. Viper’s eyes flitted between the newcomer’s presence and the watchtower. He tried to make his breathing even more silent and made himself even smaller, barely keeping his head high enough to peer out over the rubble. As he had done so many times, Viper wished he had been born as a Khajiit. It had quickly become too dark for him to make out the exact nature of the humanoid entity. In the wastelands of Skyrim, such a person or creature could be anything, or anyone. Whatever it was, it moved entirely silently and almost seemed to fade into its environment. Viper had to squint his eyes and concentrate to the fullest extent of his considerable mental acuity to keep track of its movements.

It paused at the half-collapsed, charred corpse of the woman, as if it was inspecting her. Then it moved into the watchtower without hesitation.

Their screams only lasted a few seconds. Viper clutched Heartseeker’s grip and trigger more tightly. Silence fell over the tundra and nothing continued to happen for several minutes. Above it all, the stars slowly twinkled into visibility, as eternal and uncaring as ever, while the last remnants of the sun’s light receded. Then, after what felt like an eternity, the shape emerged from the watchtower and left the way it came. Viper watched it leave and even after it disappeared from sight on the top of the hill, he waited for a few more minutes.

“Gods above,” he muttered and exhaled slowly.

A grisly sight greeted him inside the tower. The two reavers had been killed with what looked like a rapid succession of blade or spear thrusts. More importantly, however, was that they had been entirely exsanguinated. Fear and revulsion made Viper recoil involuntarily. Someone had once told him that the vampires of the old world only drank a little bit of blood and left their victims alive. They were a part of the continent-spanning society that had allegedly existed and preferred to hide in plain sight. If that was true, Viper thought to himself, vampirism had developed far more abominable forms and practices since the Calamity. Reluctant to stay more than a second longer than was strictly necessary, Viper was relieved to find that the reavers had put all their findings together in a single pile on top of a broken table. There were some old septims, two swords, fresh loaves of bread, salted meats and a selection of ores, probably mined from somewhere local. It looked to him like the watchtower had been inhabited by ordinary people of some kind until very recently.

“Maybe the vampire got them all. Fuck.”

After selecting the most valuable items among the reavers’ haul and stuffing them into his backpack, Viper snuck out of the watchtower and left the tundra as fast as he could, pausing only to collect his crossbow bolt from the Nord’s face. He would feel safer once he was under the cover of some trees again. That said, he made sure he did not go back the way he came. Sharing his trail with a vampire was absolutely out of the question.

He would not breathe freely again until the gates of Windhelm closed behind him, two days later.

“What’s the matter, Viper?” Fenrir asked as he looked up from his inspection of Viper’s backpack. Everything that went into and out of the city was carefully searched, and Wulfharth Backbreaker made sure that he got his cut. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

The Dunmer scowled at him. “No. It was a fucking vampire, alright? Are you done?”

Fenrir exchanged glances with Adunya, his Bosmeri colleague for the evening’s watch. “Yeah, we’re done here. Go on in.”

With an annoyed grunt, Viper snatched his backpack out of Fenrir’s hands and was just about ready to stomp off when the guard held up his hand.

“One more thing. Go visit Caeliana. Said she missed you and your stories. I’m sure she’ll wanna hear all about this vampire of yours,” Fenrir said, not unkindly.

“Fuck off.”

Fenrir sighed. Adunya covered her smile with her hand. “Just go and talk to her.”

“Hmph.”

The Elder Scrolls: After the Calamity

Name: Crimson-Eyes-Killer-Viper, known more commonly and often addressed as Viper. His real name is a secret known only to him.
Age: 112.
Race: Dunmer.
Gender: Male.
Birthsign: The Tower.

Appearance:

Picture

Viper is of the same lean, wiry build as most Dunmer, his frame covered in whipcord muscle and devoid of any fat. He stands at a respectable 5’10”, though a lifetime of staying low has given him a hunched-over posture that makes him look an inch or two shorter. His hands and feet are rough and calloused and there are many scars all over his skin, a testament to the brutality and hardships of the wilderness. The color of Viper’s skin is typical of the Dunmer, a drab gray that looks more like wet ash than anything else.

Two deep-set, crimson-colored eyes peer out at the world with a permanent scowl of disdain from beneath his brow. The wear and tear of age and stress has cut deep lines in his face, from the corners of his eyes down to his jowls, and the downturned lips of his mouth further add to the impression that Viper is a man who knows little of joy and merry-making. Unlike many other Dunmer, his ears and eyebrows are unadorned by rings or other cosmetic flourishes -- something he considers a waste of time and precious metal. His hair and his beard are gray, ranging from light silver to dark steel. The sides of Viper’s head are shaved, leaving only a thin layer of hair, while the locks on top of his head are messy and perpetually windswept. He wears a mustache and a medium-length beard, though he shaves his sideburns.

The two sets of clothing Viper has are old patchwork Dunmer tunics and pants, obviously torn and repaired many times. They must have been pretty vibrant shades of red and tan at one point but all that remains is a shadow of such hues, and at first glance everything he wears appears to be brown or gray. Aside from two leather vambraces on his forearms, Viper wears no armor. An all-weather cloak, dyed in an alternating pattern of dark gray and ash-white, is slung around his shoulders, large enough for him to wrap entirely around his body.

Skills:

Highly Proficient: Marksman

Moderately Proficient: Alchemy, Engineering and Destruction

Somewhat Proficient: Restoration, Sneak, One-Handed

Spells: Flames, Fireball, Fire Rune, Fast Healing, Steadfast Ward, Sun Fire.

Equipment:

Heartseeker: Viper’s most prized possession and his primary weapon of choice, Heartseeker, is a giant crossbow that looks more like a man-sized version of a ballista. Customized to be wielded with two hands and fire bolts the size of proper arrows, the base design started with an old Dawnguard crossbow that Viper modified himself. A cylindrical barrel fitted just behind the flight groove contains 20 bolts and rotates to slide another bolt in place after Viper pulls the trigger, and an automated pulley system draws the string back for the next shot. The rear end of the crossbow is fitted with a wooden stock that allows Viper to rest the weapon comfortably against his shoulder and aim down the iron sights. It is totally unique and highly effective, being able to accurately strike a target with killing force at distances of up to 150 yards. He has two replacement barrels, giving him a functional combat arsenal of 60 bolts.

Blackblood: While Viper is highly reluctant to get up close and personal, he sometimes doesn’t have a choice. Fitted into the vambrace of his right arm is a vicious-looking serrated weapon, almost sickle-shaped in its curvature, that slides out and into position with a button-operated, spring-loaded system. This serves several purposes; he does not have to carry Blackblood on his person, he effectively cannot be disarmed (as the weapon is bolted tightly to the spring-loaded system in his vambrace) and he can’t lose it in a ruin somewhere. The weapon, about the length of a shortsword, is fashioned from a dark metal that keeps a wickedly sharp edge and it creates jagged wounds in its victims that bleed like a stuck pig. Viper’s best guess is that it could be some type of ebony alloy but he truthfully has no idea what it’s made of.

Bear trap: Two simple bear traps that Viper carries on his person. Combined with a potent Fire Rune, these devices have allowed him to kill people and monsters without ever having to lay eyes on them.

Poisons: Created with his skill at alchemy, Viper coats the edge of Blackblood and the bolts fired by Heartseeker in a variety of powerful poisons. This allows him to retreat after striking an enemy only once and simply waiting for them to either expire or become significantly weakened. If there’s one thing Viper hates, it’s taking risks.

Potions: Used to keep up his health, stamina and magicka, and to boost his accuracy with Heartseeker or his dexterity with Blackblood in a pinch. Viper is physically unimpressive and not very skilled at direct combat, but he can momentarily become a more dangerous fighter than he otherwise would be with the timely application of potions.

Backpack: A large leather backpack that Viper wears over his cloak. It contains all manner of useful knicknacks: an old map of Skyrim, dried food rations, a waterskin, oils and whetstones, a series of tools used to maintain and improve his jury-rigged weapons systems, lockpicks, rope, a bedroll, firewood, a woodcutter’s axe, an iron dagger, a cooking pot, a tea pot, seasonings and a torch.

Alchemy supplies: While Viper needs access to a proper alchemy station to create the best potions, he can create something in a pinch with the right ingredients, a mortar and pestle and an alembic, all of which he also carries on his person.

Misc:

Viper likes to smoke some pipeweed and drink canis root tea to relax.
While generally pretty fearless, vampires put the fear of the gods in his heart for whatever reason.
He is a surprisingly good swimmer, considering Skyrim’s climate barely lends itself to swimming.
Has basically no friends, just associates that he prefers dealing with over others.

The Elder Scrolls: After the Calamity

Placeholder.

Back at it again, I guess?

Welcome to the Guild.

but I think I'm getting better.

@crouchingbacon

That definitely looks to be true. I had a peek through your gallery and the improvement from your older work to your newer work is very noticeable. Keep it up!

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

A Light That Never Goes Out

14th Midyear, 4E208
Oasis, Alik'r Desert
Evening, sometime after supper…

with @Dervish

Why it it seem that cooking pots never seemed to want to get cleaned after even a single use? Daro’Vasora had filled the large stew pot up with water from the river and had it boiling over the same fires they had prepared the meal on, with leftovers sitting on the bench of the wagon on the same bowls they had dined upon that night. For whatever reason, the sheep and beetle stew with cheese, carrots, and potatoes made for a cursed mixture that seemed to stick to the cast iron like red wine stained a white dress. The Khajiit frowned at the boiling water, mentally cursing herself for volunteering for the thankless cleanup duty following her rescue. Everyone had done so much for her, a small gesture of thanks was hopefully enough to begin to show her gratitude.

“I’m going to fucking throw you down river, let the goblins deal with it…” the Khajiit growled at the pot.

“You tell him,” Mazrah’s voice came from behind her, a smirk on her face. She had approached silently, years of hunting experience making her bare footfalls as quiet as can be. After a moment’s hesitation the Orsimer swept up Daro’Vasora in an enveloping bear hug and grunted with joy as she pressed the Khajiit to her chest. “It’s so good to have you back! How are you, anyway?” she asked as she sheepishly put Sora back on her own feet.

”Hrrgh!” The Khajiit grunted in surprise and having her lungs suddenly compressed under the mighty embrace of the Orsimer huntress, who either intentionally or unwittingly had lifted the much smaller treasure hunter up off her feet for a few moments. When the embrace let off and her feet touched the ground she sucked in a welcome breath of air and managed a smile. “Much better, I needed that.” Daro’Vasora said. She reflected had it been a couple months ago, she would have given the Orcismer an earful.

Incredible how quickly change could take root.

“I cannot begin to describe how surprised and overjoyed I was when I saw you, and the others. It was like a dream, even if I was scared shitless. For someone who barely knows me, you risked a lot.” Daro’Vasora said, returning the hug, not caring that Mazrah was basically naked as she pressed into the bare flesh. “Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I’ll earn this.”

Mazrah laughed, scrunching up her nose and deepening the dimples in her cheeks, and she ruffled a hand through Sora’s hair. “You already earned it, you silly goose. And it wasn’t that big of a deal,” she said, full of bravado. “Those Deep Elves got their asses handed to them. You risked a lot by taking me into your super secret group of secret super resistance fighters. Seems only fair that I help you out when you need it.” She motioned for the two of them to sit down and, once they had made themselves comfortable, Mazrah leaned forwards and her eyes went wide with curiosity. “You have to tell me, Sora. What was it like? Did they torture you? I hope not.”

“Well, what was I risking inviting you along in our merry band? Someone like you is hard to be anything but genuine inside and out. Bare skin holds no secrets.” Daro’Vasora winked before shaking her head. “No, nothing of that sort. They were good to me, treated me with respect and kindness. Like I was an emissary; I spent a lot of time with the Governor, and she gave me space when I needed it.”

The Khajiit reached down and held up the pendant at her throat. “This belonged to her mother, she told me. It’s from the bloody First Era, if you could believe it. She thought it would be of some comfort, that it would buy some trust between us. I think, in a way, she’d hoped we’d become friends when it was all over.” she said quietly, shaking her head. “All I had to do was be a spokeswoman for unity between all of our people, to show that they could do good for the world. And maybe they could; just not like this.”

“Bah,” Mazrah spat. “You are right, not like this. Doing good in the world doesn’t start with taking away with the self-rule of some of the most fiercely independent people of Tamriel. I’m not a fan. But I have to admit that I am surprised they were so kind to you. I expected the Governor to be… different.”

She looked at Sora’s pendant and nodded appreciatively. The significance of the words ‘First Era’ were lost on her. “Looks nice. You should keep it and tell everyone that you stole it from her with your heel on her throat.”

The Imperial City flashed across Daro’Vasora’s mind and she shook her head. “She was different. I admire her; she could be so much better if she’d hear it.” she said, grinning at Mazrah’s suggestion. “Maybe they’d believe that coming from you; I’m hardly that formidable. I think…” her voice trailed off. “It’s a good reminder of what I want to do, at the end of this road. Even if we stop this invasion, the Dwemer are still going to be here. They’re going to have to figure out how this world works, and their place in it.”

A slow whistle escaped Mazrah. “Woah there, chief. One step at a time. You’re already thinking about brokering world peace?” She shook her head but her tentative disapproval turned into amusement, and she laughed again. “You’re a strange one. I’ve never really thought ahead more than a week at a time. As for more, err, pressing concerns…” Mazrah ran a hand through her hair and cleared her throat. “Where exactly are we going? I didn’t really understand the first time.”

Daro’Vasora chuckled mirthfully. “No one’s ever accused me of being unambitious. I just like to have a goal in mind, is all. I’ve read more history tomes than I care to count, so it helps to rationalize this with what’s come before. But no, it wouldn’t be me doing the brokering; I just want to set the world straight and go back to my old life, if it still exists.” she said, finally taking the invitation to sit.

When both women were sat down, the Khajiit stared into the flames, the dancing fire making the reflective qualities of her feline eyes glow. “I’ve heard enough reports of a prison set up in a ruin to the North, it’s where the Dwemer have been sending most of their prisoners, I believe it’s where they were sending Shakti before you and the others rescued her. Aside from being good people for a change and trying to break some people out, I suspect they’re using a lexicon and a portal to send prisoners to their plane, Exodus. The Governor explained this plane to me, how it wasn’t quite completed when the Dwemer were banished there, and how in a couple hundred years in the time there it would be gone forever and everything within it.” Daro’Vasora explained.

“So, a labourforce could be, in theory, used to delay that from happening and to assist in the transfer of Dwemeri people from Exodus to Mundus. If we can get the Lexicon, we shut down the portal and transfer of prisoners to Exodus, and we now have the coordinates of how to get there. Then it’s a matter of finding a portal that doesn’t lead directly to a prison cell…” Daro’Vasora murmured.

“If I’m right about all of this, and it’s a big if, we could alter the coordinates of this portal on their side of the bridge and ultimately fuck things up for them. If they can’t get back, or the portal opens in on itself like a loop, we’ve essentially cut them off, maybe forever. Enough time for everyone to counter attack and force them out of the cities, anyways.” the Khajiit explained, with a shrug.

Mazrah was silent for a long time as she digested this information. When she was finished, she regarded Sora with a mixture of admiration and confusion. “I swear I’m not dumb,” she said at length and laughed. “But all that stuff about another plane and lexicons is so new to me. I’m impressed you seem to understand it all so well. Either way, if you’ve got a plan to try and kick the Dwemer in the teeth, I’m with you all the way. It’s exciting! Feels like I have a real purpose in life now. You just watch,” Mazrah continued, her cheeks rosy with enthusiasm, “I’m gonna be one of those heroes the people sing songs about.”

Daro’Vasora smiled affectionately, placing a hand on Mazrah’s shoulder. “I never would dare to presume you are not intelligent. You simply learned differently than I have; I’m fairly confident I could never track game across the wilderness and dress it after the kill, or know where to find clean water, or how to erect a shelter out of the wilds like you do. I just read a lot, and I’ve always been driven by curiosity, about history and the world we live in. I just rarely had to factor in how the smaller pieces fit together to make it all work. I’ve a lot to learn from someone like you.” the Khajiit promised.

“I appreciate that, more than you know.” she added, bowing her head in respect to the Orsimer woman. “I think no matter what happened, you were always going to be someone who ends up beloved and famous; you leave quite the impression, rather effortlessly, too.”

“Stop it, you’ll make me blush,” Mazrah whispered coyly and pressed a hand to her bosom in mock embarrassment, the way she’d seen the Breton ladies do in High Rock. “You know, if you ever want to go hunting with me, just say the word. It’s very… well, I won’t say relaxing, but it helps you focus, you know?” She scratched her chin and screwed up her eyebrows while she was thinking. “You become very in tune with yourself and with nature.”

“Maybe I’ll take you up on it one day.” Daro’Vasora said earnestly, looking to the Orsimer with appreciation. “I can’t promise I’ll be any good at it, but I’m willing to try and learn. I’d like to think I’m quiet enough.” she smiled. “I wonder if Latro used to be a hunter? I never thought to ask him.”

“Oh, speaking of,” Mazrah said and suddenly sat up straighter. “I talked to Latro. I think I can help him tame his wolf. It’s like the rage of the Ornim sings in his blood too. We learn to control it, and I don’t see why it wouldn’t be the same for him.” She looked expectantly at Sora, half a smile on her face. “Good news, right?”

That prompted a concerned furrow of Daro’Vasora’s brow. “I… I don’t know, Mazrah. That state he was in, his Pale-Feather personality… it terrifies me and it isn’t him. I don’t want to lose him to it, and I might have ideas of how to reconcile these parts of his soul, but I don’t want to make it worse, or nurture the side I fear to the point Latro withers and dies.” she sighed, sliding a bone from her meal between her teeth to bite into. “What you describe is something that’s taught from youth in your culture, yes? But he’s a grown man, with a full life behind him. The same techniques you wish to apply may just make him worse.”

Taken aback, Mazrah’s face dropped. “Well… yes, usually taught from youth, but not always. Some tribes don’t believe in taming the rage, that doing so makes it weaker. Sometimes an Orsimer like that regrets their belief and wants to learn control after all. It’s not… I don’t know what you think it is that we do. He’d be thinking of you the whole time,” she explained hopefully. “That’s the whole point. Anchor him to a memory or a feeling that’s so powerful that it helps him focus, even when he is… what did you call him? Pale-Feather? I just don’t think that side of him can be suppressed. The things my mother taught me, which is what I would pass on to Latro, are to make sure that Pale-Feather only exists inside Latro, not besides him. A stranger in his skin, I called it.”

She rested her chin on her fist and looked at Sora quizzically. “What are your ideas?”

Daro’Vasora nodded, almost imperceptibly. “I trust you, Mazrah. If he feels he can learn from you, and you can teach him, I want you to try. Please promise me you won’t let him lose himself along the way.” she said, looking to the Orsimer sadly. “I’ve gone on something of a spiritual awakening, myself. I’m a being of two cultures, and for most of my life I rejected the body I inhabit, thought of the Khajiiti traditions as backwards and uncultured, like it was holding me back from being respected or trusted, or taken seriously. I’ve faced a lot of discrimination for being what I am, I wanted my whole life for people to see me for who I am.” the Khajiit explained.

“I’ve always embraced my Imperial identity, the culture and my family traditions of serving the Count of Leyawiin. I made a life in Imperial social circles, proving my worth by being smarter and more talented than most, hunting treasure and being able to explain to people the value and history behind it all. I gave culture back to the world, and my name began to mean something other than a girl who was caught stealing from her own father.” Daro’Vasora explained with a sad smile.

“But… I’ve always maintained my honourific, the Daro’. It means nimble fingered, clever of tongue. I didn’t understand that until recently, I didn’t know why I always maintained it as a part of my name, it is a part of me. I take the Moonpath to speak with my ancestors infrequently, they were the ones who suggested I didn’t turn my backs on everyone and leave in Anvil. They implored me to try and do right by them, and to follow my heart. That the two parts of my soul were actually one, and I was too blind to see it.” She reached to her waist belt and unclasped a leather pouch that she held in her hand and untightened the drawstring. The shimmering white moonsugar sparkled from within, not unlike the Khajiit’s eyes. “I want to offer to take Latro on a Moonpath of his own, to perhaps speak to his own soul and find the wholeness I have so recently discovered myself.”

Mazrah listened with great interest to Sora’s story and she leaned back after the Khajiit was done talking, drinking in the details. “The spirituality of your people is fascinating,” she said and her voice was tinged with awe. “The Moonpath… is it like a vision? If I could talk with my ancestors, my grandmother and all the women that came before her, that would be nothing short of amazing. Imagine their wisdom! Their stories!” The Orsimer huntress laughed in wonder at the thought. She glanced down at the moonsugar before looking back up to meet Sora’s shimmering gaze. “I saw a lot of things when I tried your moonsugar but not my ancestors, you know. I feel robbed,” she joked.

Daro’Vasora smiled enthusiastically. “It’s more than that; the moons, Jone and Jode, they are aspects of one of our gods, and Moonsugar is crystalised moonlight. It is almost like consuming a part of Lorkajj. I have met ancestors of mine, going back to the very beginning of my lineage, to those who have served Queen Ayrenn in the Second Era, to an ancestor of mine who fell defending Leyawiin from the Empire’s expansion. These are all people I would have never have known about because we do not not write stories of our history, for it is written in our souls, our blood, in the light of the Moons.” she held the sugar up.

“This is far much more than a narcotic that causes euphoria in other races; it can be turned into an elixir that allows my soul to travel across the moonlight to the Sands Behind the Stars, to speak with my ancestors, to petition them for their wisdom. So far, they have never put me down the wrong path, but it all depended if I was too proud or stubborn to listen.” she said with a smile and a slight chuckle.

“I’m afraid for someone who is not of a Khajiit, it doesn’t quite work like that, especially just taken raw like you have. You can understand why distilling Moonsugar into Skooma is incredibly addictive and dangerous, even for Khajiit. Your ancestors do not reside where mine do, and you do not have a relationship to the Moons like we do. But, with guidance and a careful dose, it can be used to help non-Khajiit confront parts of themselves that trouble them, and to find a more spiritual grounding, as it were.”

“Awh,” Mazrah said, visibly disappointed and a little jealous. “That does sound exactly like what Latro needs. We both have different ways of trying to connect and make peace with a part of ourselves that sings its own song,” she said sagely and her jealousy evaporated like virgin snow in the sun.

“I found myself a nice girl, by the way,” Mazrah said with a wink, abruptly changing topic. “You haven’t met her yet but I’m sure you saw her in the palace. Her name is Maj, can you believe that? We met in a bar in Gilane and I may have been drinking and I thought she introduced herself with Maz. Confusing as all hell. She was a sailor and the Dwemer sank her ship off the coast, so she’s got every reason to hate them. Hope you don’t mind I brought her along.”

“Oh?” Daro’Vasora asked with a tilt of her head at the sudden shift in conversation. She couldn’t help but smile at Maz’s enthusiasm. “Maz and Maj, two peas in a pod, as they say.” the Khajiit smiled. “I would say overall, Gilane was good to you. New friends, a new lady friend. I wondered who that was, I think I like her already. But please, look how I brought you along. It would be rather hypocritical of me to question your judgement in character for inviting someone to join us; we need all the help we can get.”

Pleased, Mazrah smiled and ran a hand over her scalp as she cast her glance across the cave. “Yeah, that was a productive visit for me.” She bit her lip and cocked her head as a small frown creased her brow. “But it seems unfair to say that Gilane was good to me when it was so rough to most of the others, including you.”

Daro'Vasora shook her head, holding up an arresting hand. “Please, don't trouble yourself by feeling guilty that the troubles myself and others endured should erode what the city gave you.” the Khajiit smiled, reaching up to place a hand on Maz's shoulder. “There's not enough good things these days, I consider each and every time one of my companions and friends smile about something a victory. We need to celebrate life, no let the troubles hold us down so we cannot appreciate the good that we find. Why would I ever feel slighted that you are happy, Mazrah? It reminds me of what we're all fighting for, life. Never apologize for living.”

That was caused for the Orsimer to grin and look Sora in the eye with nothing but admiration. “Look at you, just rescued from captivity in which you thought you were going to die, and already so wise again. If you had been an Ornim of Orsinium, you would have had nothing on your mind but vengeance. You continue to impress,” she said and placed her own hand over the paw that Sora had placed on her shoulder. “That settles that; I shall never apologize for living.”

That prompted a humbled smile and a half-hearted shrug. “I've just surrounded myself with the right people and listened to the lessons they've taught me, intentionally or no.” Daro'Vasora replied, squeezing the shoulder tighter. “And never do, Maz. You're a flame that can never be extinguished, it inspires people. I'm grateful you found me when you did.”

Sum up your week in roleplaying in just 3 words

YEET

YEET

YEET

What do you want out of the PW?

<Snipped quote by Inkarnate>

For a persistent world roleplay I would like to see that any story I create has some impact or is perhaps referenced by another group of players, possibly for their own use. For example, and using Rogue One as an example, if I was to have a story where my character was to obtain the blueprints to the Deathstar, that information is now readily available for another group of players. They don't need to know the entire roleplay persay, but a short summary for what was achieved would help. If the GMs think that what was achieved was too much, then they could alter it by saying the data was corrupted or something, but that's where their expertise in balancing the game comes in.

To sum up, perhaps a thread listing an index of the outcomes/summary of each RP would be a good option.

@NuttsnBolts

This is a very good idea. I know it's a very good idea because it occurred to me as well after reading @Ruby's post. I was pleased to see someone else had beaten me to the punch.

The only other successful Persistent World that I have ever been a part of was coincidentally also the first RP I ever participated in. It was called Live the Legend and it was a Jurassic Park PW. We all played dinosaurs. Realistically, too. No talking. Just growling. Someone made a wiki for that, which still exists: jpl-live-the-legend.wikia.com/wiki/JP… The PW and the site it was hosted in (Jurassic Park Legacy) are gone, sadly.

A community-created wiki that chronicles pivotal characters and plotlines should be feasible as long as we have people on top of that task from the very beginning. Everybody likes to be important so I think you'll find plenty of players who like creating wiki pages for their characters and their storylines.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

An unsent letter to Razlinc Rourken.

Governor,

First of all, I would like to congratulate you on the spectacular defense you put up in my attempt on your life. Never before have I seen a sorcereress of such skill and power and I don't think I ever will again. I will readily admit that I severely underestimated you. Thinking back on it, I should have known: the Dwemer hail from a time in which kings and warlords were the most powerful warriors that walked Tamriel. Dumac, Nerevar, Ysgramor... the list goes on and on. In today's political climate, after many centuries of Pax Imperialis provided by the Empire, rulers have become bureaucrats and delegated the role of general and champion to their subjects. You mentioned that you had trained in various styles of weaponry during your exile when we visited the palace and had our audience with you. I took this to mean something ceremonial, a hobby of yours, and certainly did not expect your destructive power to rival that of the Dragonborn. You were wise to prepare yourself this way. Tamriel will never accept your presence -- you will have to fight to carve out a space for your people. Forever.

That said, it is a shame that your people are not as well-prepared as their matriarch was for their arrival in my realm. All it took to come face-to-face with you was taking advantage of a coordinated attack by the resistance on the palace and following in their shadow. None of the guards I encountered were capable of stopping me. You saw what happened to them. Now you know what is necessary to keep your people safe: you are. And you cannot do this from the confines of your palace. You cannot be everywhere at once. Hell, you could not even keep your lover safe. That's what he was, wasn't he? The clean-shaven officer? I saw it in your eyes when you destroyed him.

You defeated me in single combat. Yet, when I consider the balance of the scales, it seems that I have come out on top. The Khajiit you sent after my lover did not succeed in his task. I made a promise to Raelynn that I would have my revenge for the crimes committed against her. First I sought out Zaveed, your instrument, and broke him. But that was not enough. You gave the orders and you were still unscathed. Zaveed means nothing to you. In order to complete my promise, I had to go after you. The ideal outcome was that I would have taken your soul and sent it beyond, to the maw-beyond-the-stars, the ever-hungry pit of the Soul Cairn. Instead, I stumbled upon the bloody and battered form of your lover, nearer to death than to life. I saw that he was important and that his spirit was strong. The hatred in his eyes was potent. I can still feel it when I hold his soul in the palm of my hand. He will serve me well in my quest.

What quest, you might ask? All you saw was a ghoul and a charlatan. This is because you know nothing about me. My family suffers from a degenerative disease that destroys our brains when we reach middle age, taking our memories before killing us slowly and painfully. For us humans, this is as soon as between our fiftieth and sixtieth year of life. A pitifully short time. You, as an elf, must understand. To avoid such a fate for myself, my brother and my sister, I seek the immortality of undeath and for that I need souls.

The realm your people built for themselves in Oblivion is crumbling. You told me as much. That is why you have come to Tamriel with fire and fury. You fear for your own extinction. Through despicable methods, you seek to avoid the inevitable. Tell me then, Governor, how we are different? I cannot see it. You trade the lives of your people for power and security for the survivors. I, too, trade the lives of your people for my own survival. That I raise the corpses of your slain subjects to achieve my goals is of little consequence. The Dwemer create machines fueled by the souls of my people and utilize them for the war effort. Once again, I see no difference between us.

My lover still lives. Yours is dead and you will never see him again. No afterlife can ever reuinte the two of you. You can scour the realms forever but no matter where you look -- no heavens, no hells -- will you find him.

Fear not. I have the power to bring you together. Supplicate yourself at my feet and I will gladly send your soul to spend an eternity together in the Cairn. Remember that I am out there, getting stronger with every soul I gather. I will become immortal soon enough. No matter how long you live, how long you wait, I will always be there. You will spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder. Every shadow could be me.

Is it not easier to just give up now?

Yours faithfully,
Gregor Sibassius

Mass Effect: Sinless

Kyo Zhang

Name: Kyo Zhang.
Species: Human.
Gender: Male.
Age: 32.

Homeworld: Shanxi.

Appearance:

Picture

A very typical human of Asian descent, Kyo stands at 5’8” and has an athletic build that seems to be made specifically for speed and dexterity. His skin is light and almost Caucasian in complexion but its slight hue makes his race unmistakable when combined with the rest of his features. His body appears to be in good shape for a mercenary; he has only a few scars, none major, and Kyo’s smooth skin, trimmed nails and immaculately groomed body hair indicate his vanity and the pride he takes in his appearance.

Kyo’s face has an almost permanently austere look to it, even when he is amused or delighted, owing to the raptorian arch of his brow, the lines beneath his eyes and the way his lips naturally purse together. His eyes are narrow, sharp and as black as his hair, giving them an inscrutable and keen quality at all times. Speaking of his hair, Kyo wears it in a simple style, longer on top of his head and trimmed shorter on the sides, that he sweeps back out of his face. It has a healthy sheen and lustre to it and appears to be just as well cared for as the rest of his body. There are no visible scars or blemishes on his face, leaving the overall impression of Kyo that of a meticulous and capable professional that does not take unnecessary risks or put himself in harm’s way all that often.

His movement and speech would support that notion. Kyo is inherently graceful and agile, carrying himself with the deliberation and restraint of a gymnast -- or a killer. He speaks in short, clipped tones and with as few words as possible to get his point across, but that does not mean he is averse to talking. His flexibility and core strength allow him to sit in strange, seemingly uncomfortable positions that are perfectly manageable for him and Kyo likes to seat himself on top of something, be it a table, a closet or a support beam, to gain the high ground in conversation.

His casual clothes are simple and comfortable, mostly harem pants and plain t-shirts, making them equally suitable for relaxation and exercise. Kyo’s battledress, however, is a stylish ensemble of black leather trimmed with yellow that he wears over the ceramic plating of his combat hardsuit. The inside of the popped collar of his jacket and the embroidered sash he wears diagonally across his chest are decorated in gold thread over a soft yellow background. His helmet is matte black and features a single narrow and horizontal yellow visor that is reminiscent of the helmets worn by the participants of Earth’s Urban Combat Championship League. Unlike the bulky suits of armor worn by Soldiers, Kyo’s gear is lightweight and flexible enough for him to wear it practically every time he leaves his quarters or has to be seen in public. This is by design; the look is part of his trademark.

Biography: Born on Shanxi five years before the First Contact War with the turians, Kyo was the only child of a very typical pair of colonists; his father Yaoru and his mother Sakura. Yaoru worked in construction and Sakura as a nurse in one of the colony’s health clinics. They were already in their late thirties when they finally managed to conceive a child and Kyo was hailed as a blessing and a miracle. He was doted upon by his entire family and never wanted for anything. The colony was prosperous and it looked like humanity’s dreams amongst the stars were going to be realized without much trouble.

Until the turians arrived, of course. Shanxi was besieged and the Zhang family found themselves having to seek refuge in the bomb shelters amidst the turian fleet leveling entire city blocks just to kill single squads of Marines. Kyo’s uncle, Shinto, took up arms against the turian invaders and participated in the guerilla war against the turians on the ground. He was not an Alliance Marine and operated as a rogue element. He was the older brother of Yaoru and carried a legacy with him that could be traced back to the family’s distant origins in Asia on Earth. The discovery of the Prothean technology on Mars and the Mass Relay inside Chaurus suddenly propelled humanity into the stars but it also prompted a wave of retrospection among colonists, learning about and identifying with their Earthly heritage before departing for worlds unknown. Simply put Shinto had become a trained warrior in the ancient Oriental style, his skills with the blade enhanced with modern technology that rendered him invisible and gave his swords tremendous killing power. He stalked the battlefields of Shanxi as a lone wolf, anathema to the disciplined and organized way that the turians waged warfare, striking from the shadows at officers and snipers before slipping away and living to fight another day. He continued this practice even when General Williams surrendered and despite the turians’ best efforts, Shinto was never caught. His distinctive appearance, characterized by an ochre sash around his torso, was passed on to turian command by the few witnesses that Shinto left behind and he became known as the Yellow Death among the occupying force -- a much hated and reviled foe.

In the final days of the turian occupation an orbital strike destroyed the shelter where Kyo’s grandparents sought refuge and they were among the dead. Enraged, Shinto visited Yaoru, Sakura and Kyo and told them that he intended to fight the turians until his death and that he would likely never see them again. Yaoru, unwilling to lose another family member to the aliens, managed to talk him out of it -- but only barely. Shinto stayed with them, buried his gear to hide all incriminating evidence of his activity as the Yellow Death, and quietly fumed.

Life went back to normal as well as it possibly could once the Council intervened and brokered peace between the humans and the turians. Shinto was never able to let go of his anger, something that Yaoru saw, and as Kyo grew older his father told him not to listen too closely to his uncle. Yaoru thought that Shinto’s ideas and emotions were dangerous and he did not want his son to get mixed up in that. Kyo, however, grew up to see Shinto as a war hero and he was swiftly imprinted with an undying fascination for his uncle’s exploits. Yaoru tried to hide them from Kyo, but he learned the truth from others -- among them his mother, Sakura, who secretly admired Shinto for his actions and his ferocity and resented the turians deeply for the death of Kyo’s grandparents.

Inevitably, as Kyo grew older, he found himself seeking out his uncle despite his father’s warnings and asked to be told about Shinto’s experience in the First Contact War… and, while his heart raced with the audacity of his request, to be taught the same skills. Shinto rebuked him, hot anger flashing in his eyes, saying that the boy had no business asking such questions and should focus on his academic education instead to become a doctor like Yaoru wanted. Kyo insisted, emboldened by the refusal, saying that Shinto had no right to withhold the skills inspired by their heritage -- his heritage, too. Shinto remained silent for a minute before he began to laugh. Kyo was right.

And so it was to be. Yaoru was kept in the dark with Sakura’s aid while Kyo and Shinto retrieved his hidden blades from their underground stash and found a place to practice in a disused storage hangar. Kyo’s studies were to be equal parts martial and technological in nature, as the modern shinobi of the 22nd century had to incorporate bleeding edge developments into their arsenal to be successful. But Shinto introduced an unexpected third element into the curriculum: philosophy. His wrath against the turians had almost made him forget the most important parts of his teachings, Shinto told Kyo, and he had been close to losing his way. It was essential that Kyo was never to make the same mistake, or the combat skills that Shinto was to teach him would surely only lead him to death and ruin. Kyo struggled with this part. He failed to see the importance of long and boring hours of meditation and he did not grasp the meaning behind Shinto’s insistence on the strength of balance and tranquility. Was violence and combat not the domain of the incensed and the furious, Kyo thought? Discipline was important, yes, but as a tool to focus such emotions, not to negate them. No, Shinto said, time and time again. A killer was at his most dangerous when he felt nothing at all.

Yaoru was disappointed that his son did not pursue the opportunity to become a doctor and instead wasted his time studying hydroponics and horticulture. It was an easy enough education for Kyo to be able to dedicate several hours every week to training with Shinto. Many years passed this way. His busy schedule left Kyo little time for friends or romance and he was always considered a bit of an outsider by his peers, and aloof too, as if he knew something that they didn’t and it made him better. Shinto tried to get rid of this slight arrogant streak but he failed and was eventually forced to accept that that was how Kyo was. The boy was simply determined to be devoid of humility.

Kyo became a man, graduated from his class (with mediocre grades, but Sakura was swayed to forge a diploma with distinction) and when he was 20 years old, Shinto abruptly said that he was ready. Kyo naturally and easily gave himself over to meditation, voluntarily spending an hour each day before bed perched on the roof of his family’s hab, looking out over Shanxi and thinking about nothing at all. His skills with the monomolecular blades were such that he could consistently beat his uncle in a duel. And last but not least, he became capable enough with the omni-tool that his tinkering had resulted in an even stronger Tech Shield than the ability Shinto possessed. But a student does not become a real shinobi until his skills are put to the test.

At the end of a serious ritual that involved a lot of incense and meditation, Shinto handed over all of his gear to Kyo and informed him of a “job opening” with a local real estate development corporation that sought to increase its influence over Shanxi. Evidently, Kyo’s uncle was well-connected. Shinto guided Kyo remotely as he entered the world of corporate espionage, breaking into dark offices after hours to hack server farms and virtual private networks to scour them for dirt on the corporation’s competitors. The turf war of Shanxi, hitherto unknown to Kyo, was a fierce competition waged out of the public eye as multiple entities had sought to capitalize on the rebuilding efforts that were necessary after the First Contact War and still continued into the year of 2172. Shinto seemed unduly interested in this corporate kerfuffle, Kyo thought, but he could not deny the sizable paychecks he received for each successful operation. His swords remained sheathed as Shinto reminded him that lethal force was inelegant when it was unnecessary and Kyo avoided the security guards and the local police forces instead. They were innocent bystanders.

Matters escalated quickly and suddenly when Shinto gave Kyo a small device with instructions to place it within the walls of his client corporation’s head office. Kyo had gained the trust of the director with his exemplary results and was free to come and go as he pleased -- which he did often enough for briefing and debriefing. Shinto explained that he had discovered a pattern in the information Kyo retrieved but refused to explain the details until he had received confirmation from the corporation’s own data bank. Kyo, trusting his uncle, complied. Shinto called him a day later, clearly furious, and relayed a series of discoveries to Kyo -- the corporation’s director had been acting as a proxy for turian interests that sought to undermine the human rebuilding effort on Shanxi, seemingly out of spite. Shinto demanded that Kyo wet his blades for the first time and ordered the director’s death. Simmering resentment against the turians for what they had done to Shanxi drove Kyo to obey without question and he struck against the unsuspecting director the very next night in his own office. Kyo stabbed him through the heart from behind before quickly wiping the security camera footage and vanishing in thin air, only to disappear without a trace.

The murder made headlines and the corporation’s various competitors were accused, as news of the data breaches they had suffered leaked to the press and a motive for a retaliatory strike seemed evident. Kyo followed the news closely, dismayed to see that the assassination of the director had essentially achieved the alleged goal of the turians and created discord within Shanxi’s communities. The cogs in his head began to turn and Kyo set his sights on Shinto himself, convinced that there was something his uncle wasn’t telling him. The student turned his master’s own skills against him by tracking down his uncle’s hideout when Kyo knew that Shinto was meeting friends at the bar. He broke into his personal computer and discovered a very ugly truth: there had never been any turian interests. The assassination of the director had simply been another contract and Shinto had reaped the rewards in Kyo’s name without ever putting himself in danger. Clearly, Shinto lied about having almost lost his way and Kyo struggled to keep his fury from overcoming him. Every emotion that raged in his heart told him to kill his uncle in the name of revenge, and paradoxically everything that Shinto had taught him told Kyo to keep his cool and deal with this matter calmly and professionally. Kyo settled for downloading all the evidence to his omni-tool for the time being and after two days filled with meditation and reflection, Kyo knew what he wanted to do.

Using the information he had recovered from Shinto’s computer, he outed him as the mastermind behind the director’s assassination while keeping himself anonymous by sending carefully curated versions of the files to the colony’s security forces via dead drop courier delivery. He almost threw away the armor and its distinctive yellow sash that Shinto had given him, but Kyo had to admit that, once his anger had subsided, he admired Shinto’s audacity and he decided to keep it as a reminder to respect the threat that others could pose. In a way, he felt that he had earned the right to take up the mantle of the Yellow Death after outwitting his uncle and seeing him sentenced to life in prison. But he was definitely determined never to be controlled like that again. Kyo kissed his family farewell, claiming that he was leaving to pursue a career in horticulture on the colonies of the Attican Traverse, and set off for the stars of the Terminus Systems instead. He knew he had the skills and the guts to carve out a niche for himself as a freelancing thief, assassin and stealth warrior. And so he did.

Amidst a long career of odd jobs and missions completed comfortably on the fringe of galactic society and out of the public eye, the first most notable event was Kyo’s involvement in the Skyllian Blitz and its aftermath. He was still not an Alliance soldier and certainly had no intentions of signing up, but human colonists paid well for ragtag teams of mercenaries to act as their defense force against rogue pirates and slavers while the Alliance Navy was focused on fighting the bulk of the batarian forces elsewhere. This was Kyo’s first taste of real combat instead of corporate espionage. The initial shock of the brutality and sensory overload (war was loud) wore off as Kyo learned to put his specific set of skills to use on the battlefield. He was, more so than any other member of his team, uniquely suited to hunting down and taking out important threats like snipers and combat engineers that operated at the fringes of the combat zone or just behind the heat of the firefight itself. He had no qualms with killing batarians, vorcha and other alien species and found a grim satisfaction in knowing that he was now truly following in Shinto’s footsteps as the Yellow Death. It was during this time that Kyo modified his twinned pair of monomolecular swords to carry a potent electrical current to replicate the effects of Disruptor ammunition, allowing him to slice through personal shields while the singularly sharp edge of the blades themselves sank deep within the weak points of his enemy’s armor. It wasn’t always sunshine and rainbows, however; Kyo was wounded during his fourth proper firefight when he unexpectedly found himself bested in melee combat by a batarian with an overcharged omni-blade and Kyo had to be rescued by his allies. Where Shinto had consistently failed, Kyo now finally learned a lesson in humility and his cockiness was taken down a notch.

After the Blitz was well and truly over and the Alliance Navy had finished its retribution against the batarians, Kyo continued to operate in relative obscurity, avoiding allegiance with any of the major criminal syndicates while working for them and many other clients. If he had a reputation, it was one of true neutrality, discretion and effectiveness. He mostly took jobs that allowed him to work alone, from the shadows, but he found himself as part of a fireteam every so often -- there was no escaping that part of the job. Truthfully, he didn’t mind. Life was good and Kyo picked up the habit of sending a portion of his earned credits back home to his parents on Shanxi, who had adopted an orphan after Kyo left the nest and could definitely use the extra money. Like so many other freelance mercs, his base of operations became Omega but Kyo ranged widely throughout the galaxy, even dipping into Citadel space for clandestine operations on occasion. However, it seemed his luck was not meant to last forever...

Psychological Profile: While Kyo is stubborn and hot-blooded by nature, he has learned to overcome these traits through the power of meditation and philosophy, tempering the flare of his personality with an innering ability to keep his cool in stressful situations and his mind clear when it would otherwise be plagued by anger or doubt. Despite the betrayal Kyo suffered at his hands later in life, his uncle Shinto was a defining part of his formative years and the lessons he taught Kyo have become an integral part of who he is today. He seeks comfort and wisdom within the ancient teachings of eastern philosophers from Earth and lives his life according their tenets, just like his uncle taught him. However, Shinto also affected him negatively. Kyo is slow to trust and values his freedom and personal agency so highly that he has never stuck with a single employer, benefactor or romantic interest since leaving Shanxi, nor does he have many friends. He finds solace and satisfaction in his work and continues to hone his skills -- there is not much else he knows how to do.

In interpersonal relations, Kyo is both polite and reserved. He is quick to judge others for displays of excess and lack of restraint but he appreciates people who know what they’re about and can keep their head in the game when it matters. He has a soft spot for asari after a few flings, whereas his deep-seated racism against turians, and more recently batarians, has a habit of slipping through his mask of etiquette and good manners. If and when Kyo does warm up to someone, he is a dependable ally but it remains very difficult to get him to open up about himself. He loves having long, deep and meaningful conversations with the people that he likes about their beliefs, motivations and inner struggles, and he is very good at listening or giving sage advice, but he carefully avoids conversations about his own past with practically everybody -- it takes a lot of trust for him to delve into that. Kyo believes that telling people about his homeworld, his family or the way Shinto manipulated him gives them power over him and that thought is too frightening to entertain.

He shows affection or interest with small, attentive gestures and non-verbal communication since he is not much of a smooth talker. In fact, when he has to speak quickly due to circumstances or is involved in a group conversation, Kyo is quietly flustered and uncomfortable. This forces him to be curt and direct and he becomes oblivous to the subtleties of what other people are saying or the immediate impact of his words. When he has time to think about what to say and he feels relaxed, Kyo often speaks in metaphors and riddles that are open to interpretation and are designed to help his conversational partner with their own problems. He is perceptive and empathic, but not at a moment's notice.

He believes strongly in the virtues of inner balance and tranquility and will, whenever necessary, retreat within himself to straighten out that which is crooked before re-emerging, steadfast and whole. Kyo is not strongly affected by trauma or feelings of pain and regret for this reason, moving on quickly from losses, though he does sometimes cringe at himself (hours after the fact) when he realizes that he said the wrong thing. It could be argued that he does not properly process the things that happen to him and instead buries them so deep that they effectively disappear, which could be tied to his extreme reluctance to talk about his past. An asari psychologist that Kyo briefly dated suggested that he might be on the autistic spectrum and that he is compensating for his emotionally stunted development with wisdom from the philosophers of ages past. The truth could be somewhere in the middle, but who knows?

Class: Infiltrator.

Abilities:

• Tactical Cloak
• Tech Armor
• Incinerate
• Electric Slash

Equipment:

• Two monomolecular blades, matte black and slightly curved, fitted with power-cells that generate a strong electrical current along the edge and the tip of the blades that replicates the effect of Disruptor ammunition.
• M-6 Carnifex fitted with a pistol scope.
• Modified suit of Light Mercenary Armor with a custom helmet worn beneath a leather ensemble, with the emphasis on mobility and shields.

Strengths:

• Focus and stability are the name of the game for Kyo and it is borderline impossible to get him to flinch. When he has set his sights on something (or someone), he does not waver until the task is done.
• His skills in the martial and blade-dancing arts make him a dextrous and agile fighter, even in a suit of light armor, and Kyo is a vicious nightmare in melee combat.
• Years of corporate espionage, theft and assassinations have made him a skilled hacker of security systems, locks, computers and everything in-between.

Weaknesses:

• Kyo’s personality does not lend itself well for diplomacy or charm and he should not be relied on to squeeze information out of someone gently or to haggle for a better price -- unless he has hours of time at his disposal.
• While perceptive and intelligent, the above weakness comes back to bite him in the ass in another way sometimes, as Kyo can be blindsided by people that are socially conniving and elegant with words. Kyo has to concentrate and think hard about what he's being told to avoid oblivously missing the point or saying the wrong thing. This is why he prefers to say as little as possible when he isn't in a comfortable situation.
• He does not get along with turians, batarians or vorcha. Bad blood. It is beyond his own skill at detachment from earthly woes to let that go and it can affect his decision-making in the field.
• Kyo considers ranged combat to be unsightly, inelegant and ultimately unreliable, and is significantly less useful in a fight if he cannot get in range to use his swords. He’s a decent shot with his Carnifex but that’s about it. The man lives and dies by the sword. Literally.

Misc:

• Unlike most other mercenaries, Kyo lives a frugal lifestyle and instead invests his extra credits (after regular expenses and sending money back home) in a diversified stock portfolio. He can be regularly found musing over the extranet stock market during any downtime.