Hank

The Elder Scrolls: Night of Pestilence

The Long Dark

_{ft. everyone!}

Solomon held up a hand, commanding everyone to stay seated, and made his way to the door through the arrangement of tables and chairs. His own footfalls were whisper-silent, an uncommon grace having taken hold of him, and he sidled up to the window next to the door. The latch-bolt was in place, doing a good job of keeping out whoever it was that so clearly desired to gain entry, and Solomon peered outside through the glass to see if he could get eyes-on the nocturnal stranger.

To his surprise, however, it was so dark outside that he couldn’t even see the ground on the other side of the window. It had been a warm and clear summer’s day and Solomon only knew such darkness from the most clouded of winter nights. He almost pressed his face up against the glass in an attempt to discern anything to the left of the window, on the other side of the door, but Solomon couldn’t see anything.

Meanwhile, the thudding continued and slow and as steady as before. Whoever it was that had come knocking didn’t appear to be in any great hurry, but they were relentless. It was distinctly strange and… well, not normal, and it made the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. The Imperial looked over his shoulder and locked eyes with Janus for a moment. The spymaster, trained to notice such things, hadn’t failed to notice the way the big man had braced himself when tempers had flared earlier in the evening. That was an involuntary response he had only seen in the most seasoned of fighters before -- and in himself. He hoped he could count on the Colovian, should he need him.

With the window proven fruitless, Solomon moved to the door. He placed himself on the left side of it, where the hinges were, and wrapped his hand tightly around the knob, ready to throw the door open and shield himself with it if need be. “Who goes there?” he called out, voice steady and unafraid.

The thudding ceased, but no answer came.

Solomon waited, counting the time with each passing breath. And then several things happened at once.

Another window, on the other side of the inn, shattered as an arm punched through the glass and seized the windowsill. Shrouded as it was in darkness, Solomon couldn’t make out who or what the the arm belonged to. Before he could say anything or direct anyone, something heavy and powerful slammed in the door with force. The wood buckled and splintered beneath the impact and Solomon instinctively pulled his hand back from the doorknob.

The window he had just looked through also blew open, scattering glass across the floor of the inn, and a dark shape cast a faint shadow inside as it moved to climb into the inn. Solomon cursed and threw out a hastily-conjured spell, an unexpected cantrip from an innkeeper; a bolt of lightning flashed and a dry crack echoed through the inn. The dark shape on the other side of the now-broken window backed away.

At that moment, Henry appeared at the top of the stairs, wide-eyed and terrified. “T-they’re on the r-roof,” he stammered.

“Who?” Solomon demanded, but he did not get his answer. The door was splintered and broken entirely by a man-shaped thing, ghoulish and clad in shadow, that burst into the inn. A gust of cold wind came with it, as freezing as the air over the Sea of Ghosts, and the floorboards beneath the intruder’s feet were instantly coated with frost. Henry screamed and ran back the way he came. It was only when the creature stepped into the light of the sconce that Inzoliah had lit that Solomon saw what it was.

The walking dead, half-decayed and bloated with rot, hair matted with dirt and clothes heavy with moisture. It garbled something incomprehensible and turned towards Solomon, who was momentarily dumbstruck. On the other side of the inn, the second zombie had managed to climb in through the window, and wheezed menacingly.

Chaos ensued as the spell of inaction was broken. With a flash of light, Sihava vanished.

The first zombie swung at Solomon but the Imperial was faster -- faster than an innkeeper had any right to be. He ducked beneath the unwieldy swipe of the undead monster’s paw and shot back up with blinding speed. A soft, metal snick and something glimmering in the gloom were the only indications that Solomon had suddenly and inexplicably armed himself before his palm slammed into the zombie’s jaw, nearly breaking its neck with his unexpected strength.

It gurgled again, even more warbled and strangled this time, and Solomon pulled his hand back to reveal a narrow blade, the size of a dagger, protruding from the vambrace around his wrist. It was coated in black blood; the same blood that gushed forth from the new wound in the zombie’s throat. The zombie took a step back and reached up with its hands to claw at its throat.

“Intruders!” Solomon yelled at the top of his lungs, calling out not only to the people in the common room with him, but also to the other patrons that were probably still fast asleep in their beds upstairs. Another spell coalesced in the palm of his hand. “Arm yourselves!”

Janus had been far ahead of Solomon’s command. His usual lazy image and easy smile had been replaced with tense muscles and a dagger-eyed scowl, carefully watching the windows that Solomon was not, an unspoken readiness set in his shoulders as he gripped his axe’s haft and the long-knife’s handle. At the same moment that Solomon had been locked in his struggle with the first Thing, Janus had set himself with terrifying speed on the second, uncharacteristic of the man who had just before been dead set on anything but leaping into any kind of action.

His axe’s head cleaved through the Thing’s face with a sickening crunch and the ping of metal on bone. He let loose a deep growl as his knife pierced into the Thing’s solar plexus with such force it lifted it off its feet, and he sent it hurtling back out the window from whence it came. He chanced a look out and found the view almost the same as if he’d closed his eyes, “Can’t see nothing in this blackness.” He growled.

Bruno, too, was on his feet the moment the glass was spread across the floorboards, and although he hadn’t a clue of what was happening at first, the familiar sound of singing steel and spilling blood called to him, the summoning cries of Sovngarde’s shieldmaidens in his ears rattled his bones - his bow would be no good in close quarters. But as he scanned the room for a suitable weapon more workable than the dinky little knives on the table, his eyes fell on the woodpile adjacent to the fireplace and his feet followed, carrying his hands to the familiar grip of a modest woodcutting axe. There were only a couple at first, which both Janus and Solomon dispatched quickly, but Janus’ frustrated growls didn’t fall on deaf ears. He ripped one of the torches from its sconce and found his place standing ground beside Janus, the torch pointed toward the enemy, their hideous faces now illuminated before him, and the axe readied in the other.

He looked over toward Solomon, reminded of their earlier conversation, and yelled, “At least the draugr can stay fucking put in their barrows!”

Sinalare jumped to her feet, spurred from inaction at Solomon’s words. She knocked her chair out behind her and dropped the drink in her hand, Joy’s sweet concoction spilling out on the table. In seconds, the sword at her hip was in her hand. She surveyed the situation as quickly as she was able, the fog of the drink lifting -- nothing sobers one up quite like watching a zombie get hacked to bits in the centre of an inn. Rapidly, she took up position opposite Solomon near the door.

Janus backed away from the window and turned to look where Joy was. He didn’t expect her to be the type to be able to fight, Stendarr bless her, and he figured he’d be the one to do it for her.

Just as soon as Janus had dispatched one, another shambling corpse clambered into the inn to replace it. Simultaneously, elsewhere in the building, part of the straw roof collapsed and horrified screams bounced through the upstairs halls and rooms. Henry came running back down the stairs again, clearly caught between a rock and a hard place, and sprinted towards safety amidst the patrons in the common room, having recognized Janus as someone to hide behind. “They’re coming!” he yelled, voice nearly cracking with sheer panic.

Sure enough, two more zombies appeared at the top of the stairs, a disheveled farmhand that looked only recently deceased, clothes still caked in fresh blood, and another corpse that was little more than skeleton and whisps of fabric.

“What the fuck…” Janus hissed, using the back of his arm to push the stable boy behind him and Bruno as they backed away from the corpses.

His axe and the big chopping blade were held at the ready, his eyes going to each one of the dead things as he backed towards the rest of his fellows in the common room. It wouldn’t do for him to be cut off from them, three against one were not odds he liked. Not that the corpses cared for his opinion.

The skeleton came at him quickly, almost too much so, and Janus punched out with the top of his axe with a fury that shattered the skull to pieces. He almost tripped over the stable boy as he stumbled back from the second one, the dead farmhand lunging out with his hands looking to clamp his throat shut. Janus instead buried his axe in the Thing’s shoulder, took up a fistful of his bloodied shirt and his pants. He lifted the corpse and slammed him into the ground hard enough to hear the bones in his neck break. As soon as he ripped the axe away from its body, Bruno’s boot came down and crushed the rotting skull beneath all of his weight before swinging his own axe in a wild and reckless overhead arc toward one more undead creature with enough strength that it knocked its head off of its shoulders and splintered it across the hardwood floor.

At the same moment, Janus had Henry’s arm in a steel grip as he dashed to stand with the rest of his fellow patrons, looking to Solomon and waiting for some leadership.

“Janus,” Joy mumbled, near inaudibly in her panic. Frozen. Pressed with her back to the window as she watched the scene play out - her cheeks hot with inadvertent tears. What else was she to do? As her legs trembled and threatened to bring her down, wind came in from outside and her skirt fluttered in the disjointed current. “Janus,” she repeated again, finding more of her voice through choked, fearful sobs. Her smile had been turned upside down, and she watched the relentless assault amidst almost implacable dark.
She held onto the wall like the last leaf of a changing tree in summer's last sigh, the ground beneath her shaking from the calamitous action, or was that her own heartbeat shaking her so? Sound became blurred. The scrapes and crashes of metal felt like they were outside. She was trapped in a glass globe watching it happen helplessly, and unheard.

In an instant, the glass cracked.

An undead arm wrapped around her neck, bursting in from outside. She didn’t know any better than to stand there. ”Janus!” she screamed out, her lungs belting with raw horror, discordant and rasping — so much unlike her beautiful singing voice, now the last choke of the rooster. Her hands fumbled into her pockets as she heard grating breath and spittle in her ear. Joy tore at whatever item she could find, unable to look, or to aim - only plunging the implement behind her, hoping to strike well. The creature’s grip loosened, and with a pop she pulled her hand forward. There was a rotting, gelatinous eyeball skewered on the end of her spoon and she screamed again, dropping it at once before lunging forward. Her legs gave out at last, and after a painful thud, she found herself face first on the ground.

Solomon’s takedown of the first zombie was almost clinical. He stepped in close, ducking and weaving around the undead creature’s grasping hands, his hidden blade severing tendons and almost quite literally disarming his opponent. A backhanded slice cut through the zombie’s throat entirely and Solomon clamped his other hand against its forehead. His face was set into a grim sneer as hot flame sprang to life in his hand and burned through the zombie’s face, boiling its brains in its skull and seeing it crumple to the floor in a useless heap, now definitively dead for the second time, smoke pouring from its ears.

In the meantime, the situation had already severely deteriorated. Solomon caught Janus looking at him and he ran back through the common room to join the defensive perimeter with the others. “Stay close, cover each other’s backs,” he barked, the old soldier suddenly returning to the fore. He snapped his fingers and directed Henry, shaking and terrified as he was, to look after Joy.

The young man sank down on his knees next to her and anxiously pressed his hand against her cheek. “Miss? Are you alright? P-please get up, miss, this is no time to be down and out!”

Yet another window had been broken, affording the enemy more entry points into the common room. He didn’t know how many there were, but the creatures were slow and unimaginative in their assault. “Defend the room, circular formation!” Solomon commanded and took up position.

Right that second, more screams came from upstairs. He’d forgotten about the other guests for a moment. Somebody was going to have to go up there to save them. “Fuck,” he growled. That should probably be him -- this was his inn, and he was responsible for their safety. “Janus, you have the room,” he delegated quickly. The man was a soldier too, there was no doubt about it after seeing him in action, and Solomon had to trust that he would do what was needed.

With that, he set off towards the stairs, pausing only to look at the wall behind the counter for a moment. With a flick of his mind, the falchion that hung there ceased its functionality as a decorative piece and flew to his outstretched hand, where its grip settled snugly in his fingers. The weight was reassuring. Then he rushed up the steps in long, bounding strides and disappeared from sight, while more zombies shambled and climbed their way into the common room through the broken door and windows.

Sinalare stepped up to block the door as two more zombies poured in through it. The first, a decomposing creature with an abominable smell, bones protruding from the rotted flesh, reached for the bosmer with an outstretched arm. She sidestepped adeptly, her lend arm grabbing a chair just behind her, and flung the piece of furniture at the first zombie. The creature toppled as the chair was thrown so hard it broke against the rotted flesh, leaving the stunned zombie in a pile of dead flesh and splinters.

Quickly, she followed up, swinging the light sword in her right hand at the second zombie. It was less decomposed, so recently deceased that it still had patches of skin, in fact. Her sword sliced through its right arm like butter, and her left foot kicked out its right knee just after. The zombie crumpled, falling to its right, and Sinalare met it with her sword, catching it through the neck. The whole zombie’s corpse fell onto her, black gushing blood covering her casual clothing, as the second zombie made it back to its feet. She pushed the first corpse, dead-twice, onto the creature, freeing her sword from its neck.

Her full range of movement back, she dodged another unarmed blow from the remaining zombie and hacked her sword into its stomach, slicing it open. Pieces of the zombie littered the floor and the rest of its shambling corpse dropped down to meet it. Black, coagulated blood coated Sinalare’s front, smeared down her left cheek and neck.
She squared up with the doorless door frame, facing outside where several more undead scrambled towards the opening. She raised her left hand, palm outstretched, and unleashed as much energy she could muster into the crowd. A blast of pure white lightning shot from her hand. The light was deceptively small; after it shot into the first zombie, the electricity burning it from the inside out, the lightning shot out of it and hopped to the next, starting a chain. Sinalare ducked back inside the inn.

“Formation!” Janus roared over the commotion, “Keep a circle!”

The onslaught was fierce now, not a window in the inn remained in its pane. His eyes scanned the bloodied and bloated corpses limping and shuffling towards them. They’d have to punch a hole through them and get outside. There was no way they could defend the inn like this, or at all. Solomon needed to choose between escape and the patrons upstairs, and Janus was begrudgingly set on not leaving him to fight alone. They needed to maneuver, and quick. He tightened his grip on his weapons, speaking low to Bruno beside him, “You with me, brother?”
“You got something crazy in mind, don’t ya?” Replied the low, nervous rumble of the shepherd's voice. “A’ight then, mad lad, let’s see what you got.”

A flash of Janus’ telltale easy smile, though with an edge of uncertainty, “I’ve my moments.”

A burst of purplish-blue light flashed beside Janus, and Sihava appeared as though from out of nowhere. Mouth dry, she stared fearfully out at the burgeoning ring of undead. She’d spent the last minute trying to figure out something she could do; her knives were small, and the horde was large. Then, cocking her head, she’d wondered: why can’t I try my magic? She’d run under the assumption that the undead wouldn’t respond to her illusion in the same way as people; she’d encountered a few Draugr in Skyrim, and when she’d tried to enchant them, they laughed. But maybe these High Rock zombies worked differently. Might as well try.

She swept her arms out, spraying a series of runes beneath the feet of the zombies and holding her breath in hope as they burst with clouds of red light.

Somehow, she never thought that zombies with glowing red eyes would be a comfort. But as they turned to each other and began savaging instead of the eerie, steady advance on the ring that it had been up to that point, she exhaled heavily, wiping away the sweat on her forehead. I can’t believe that worked.

Then, turning to the men beside her, she gesticulated wildly for them to GO. I’ve done my job. Let’s see if they can do theirs. Then--more out of nervousness than out of distrust--another flash of light, and she was gone again.

Inzoliah was just as surprised as the others when a horde of the undead began battering down the inn. Any fear she may have felt, however, was soon overcome with the realisation that she was able to burn stuff. Not light candles or throw sparks. Properly light things on fire and cook ‘em. She was on her feet as quick as she could be, knocking her chair over in the process. A few shambling undead turned their attention towards her at the sound of the chair clattering. The Mage chuckled darkly as she prepared an overcharged firebolt and sent it soaring towards the first animated corpse. The impact sent it stumbling a few paces back as skin, flesh, and bone were blasted off at the site of impact. The surrounding flesh was blackened and smoking and flaking off, exposing the bone. The zombie took another step forward before being conflagrated by a blast of Flames from Inzoliah’s right hand. The first monster fell, still smoking and sizzling in a manner most pleasant to the Dunmer’s ears. The second and third corpses were caught ablaze by the Flames as well but continued to advance unphased.

Inzoliah considered her options. It probably was in her, and all the other living beings best interest if the inn didn’t catch on fire. As much as it pained her to admit. Fireball was probably out of the question, as was Firestorm and Flame Wall. Flames was ok as long as she watched her aim. She blew out another burst of Flames to slow the undead’s advance and took a step back. In her other hand she prepared a Burning Lance, a spear of white hot fire that she suddenly thrust forward, impaling the chest of not just the first but the second corpse as well. The spear of fire hindered their movement even as it sloughed flesh from bone and turned bone to ash from the inside out. “And the final touch…” The Pyromancer said aloud to no one as she conjured a firebolt in each hand. The first struck out from her left hand nearly turning the closest zombie’s head into charcoal. The Burning Lance had dissipated by now, its magicka expended, and with its body structurally compromised by a gaping hole in its chest and it’s head reduced to a cinder, it collapsed. The second firebolt left her right hand and hit the other zombie in the shoulder, nearly incinerating it. Its arm hung limply from its torso as Inzoliah watched as its now burning body slowly failed, charred pieces falling as its pace slowed and then stopped completely. She made a noise of satisfaction, and turned to see how the others were faring and to regain a little of her lost magicka.

“Miss?” She heard one more time, before she dared lift from the ground - dazed, and with a painful throb in her head, and a raw feeling around her throat. Joy came to place her eyes on Henry, a gentleman clearly much younger than she was, and yet trying so desperately to help her. In his eyes, she saw his own fear was perhaps greater than hers.

“This isn’t a dream is it?” She asked him, shaking her head as she did so. Her hands gently took his own and as she helped herself up, she gave him as reassuring a squeeze as possible. “We’re going to be alright. I promise you this.” Joy pulled him closer, as a mother might her own child, and she positioned herself in front of him, despite the odds. Chaos was flying everywhere, and the clear path back to the circle had been blocked by another wave of the undead horde - thankfully they were occupied by the actual fighters. Still, they had to get to the circle. “A little courage goes a tremendously long way,” she whispered under her breath, back stepping with Henry behind her, clutching too now.

“We’ll climb behind the bar,” she said after a brief moment. That was clear, and there were no windows behind it. If they could just get behind it, they’d avoid the creatures and make it safely to the side of Bruno, Janus, and the others. “Go, go!” she said firmly, giving him a nudge that way.

The young Breton had thought that he was going to be the one helping her, but somehow Joy had still ended up being the one to help him -- help him find his resolve and his courage. He took a deep breath, nodded and burst into action, making a beeline for the safety of the bar. Henry used his lithe frame to his advantage to avoid the ghastly combat and the grasping limbs of the zombies, but he almost fell over when he slipped on something black and slick on the floor, coating the wooden panels. He didn’t even want to think about what it was. It was only Joy’s hand, which he was clutching as though his life depended on it, that kept him upright.

Vaulting over the bar nearly caused him to break his knee as well, only narrowly avoiding smashing it against the polished hardwood surface, and he tumbled over the edge in a graceless heap of limbs. “Ow,” Henry muttered, cheeks flushing at the way he had embarrassed himself in front of the beautiful bard. Then he realized how insane it was to be concerned with that when they were under attack from a legion of dead people. The worst part was that Henry had recognized some of them. The farmhands and the maids and even the local village butcher.

“That could’ve been me,” he whispered as he sat up on his knees and dared to peek his head out over the edge of the bar to see how the battle was going. “That could’ve been us,” he repeated, louder, and looked towards Joy.

Joy watched as Henry climbed, stumbled, and fell across the bar. Not quite as gracefully as she would have wanted. “You’re alright. It’s not us yet.” She spoke out as reassuringly as she could, looking over her shoulder at the sight, gnawing at her lower lip in fear. “Get back up, quickly. We’ll make it, alright?” she said, smiling weakly across at him, her eyes still carrying tears and panic still underpinning her words - as much as she tried to drown that out. The bard lifted herself onto the surface, and was close to finding the other side when she felt a fierce tug against her ankle, the sharp, deep tearing of an undead hand that had grabbed her from the floor, using her leg and weight to pull itself back up to full height too. She let out a yelp of pain — and looked at Henry with suddenly wide and wild eyes. Gripping one edge of the bar, she used as much of her strength as she could to plant a solid back kick to the face of the creature with her free foot. If she had been looking back, she would have seen the jaw of the beast come clean off, and it’s blood spew forward. She had broken free enough to make it to the other side and into the blood slick. Once more holding Henry behind her.

---

Upstairs, Solomon encountered two more zombies on the landing as they were dragging one of his guests out of her room by her hair. The woman was screaming and struggling with all her might as the rotting hands of the undead tore and grasped at her, the source of one of the cries for help that Solomon had heard, and he wasted no time in saving her. With powerful, aggressive attacks, decisive in their power and precision, Solomon laid into the zombies with his falchion and his magic, alternating sword thrusts and slashes with brief bursts of fire and shocks of lightning. He cut off the hand of one of the revenants and kicked it so hard against the doorframe of the woman’s room that its spine broke on impact, then pivoted in place and hit the other zombie right between the eyes with a bolt of lightning, the crump deafeningly loud in the confined space. Her assailants dispatched, the woman scrambled back inside her room, weeping and stammering incomprehensibly. Solomon looked past her and saw what he assumed to be the mauled corpse of her husband, killed by the undead.

“Get downstairs now! There are others there to protect you!” he yelled at her and shook his head when she threw herself on her husband. “There’s nothing we can do for him. Go! Go!” She took a deep, shuddering breath and looked him in the eyes, confused and hurt and terrified, but he had no warmth to spare for her. Solomon only pointed once more towards the stairs before he ducked back out of the room and onto the landing. The screams in the other rooms had ceased and all Solomon could hear was the gurgling and moaning of the undead. Where were they coming from?

He forged ahead, ferociously cutting through the zombies as they appeared one by one, having left behind blood-drenched scenes of murder in every room. Solomon’s cold fury grew with every passing moment and every guest that had been brutally slain under his roof. Nothing like this had happened to him in thirty years. The only comparable experience was the Great War, and he briefly thought about the men that had died under his command then. It was happening all over again and anguish rose up like bitter bile from his gut before he found his iron resolve and squashed it.

At last, in the final room, Solomon found the hole in the roof. The straw had collapsed, presumably beneath the weight of the zombies that had climbed up -- first on top of the stables, and then on top of the inn. But why? He wasn’t an expert on the undead, but he had never heard of the walking grave-men that inhabited the cold dark crypts and barrows of Tamriel to do something like this. He was getting exhausted by now and there seemed to be no end to the reanimated corpse-horde, and in his fatigue Solomon’s shoulder was bitten and his arm clawed open by two more zombies he struggled to put down. But that was the last of them, at least for now. Panting and bleeding, he stumbled up to the hole in the roof and looked outside.

“Great gods of nowhere,” he whispered, eyes wide and fixed on the sky.

The stars had gone out. The heavens stretched out before him, nothing more than an inky swell of impenetrable blackness, so thick and pervasive that it seemed to have descended to smother to smother the land as well as the sky, and the moons were nowhere to be seen either.

All except a few. Directly above him, four points of ruddy, ugly light appeared as if from nowhere, blazing fiercely, their impossible brightness an offense to the senses as they immediately seared themselves into Solomon’s retinas. The land below was cast in a faint, baleful glow, a sickly shade of orange luminescence that flattened surfaces and made it hard to estimate distances. He recognized the lights for what they were almost straight away and there was no need to keep staring -- in fact, it hurt his eyes to do so -- and yet, he found that he could not look away. The more he stared, the more he became aware of a dim, horrible wailing in his ears. It was only when the very unexpected sound of a galloping horse penetrated through the din that he was able to tear his eyes away from the screamlight. He looked around, bewildered and frustrated at the ringing in his ears, and was about to back away from the hole in the roof at last when something caught his eye on the ground below.

A rider sat astride a great black steed, holding a torch aloft as he circled in the inn, cape fluttering in the unnaturally still air behind him. Solomon blinked, willing the afterimages of the horror at the top of the sky to fade from his vision. He saw a gleaming sword in the rider’s other hand, pointed at the inn, and his mouth fell open when he realized that the mounted warrior lacked a head on his shoulders -- a phantom out of legend, come alive before his very eyes.

“What in Oblivion is going on?” he whispered, a fruitless question with only a starless sky for an audience. The headless horseman disappeared from sight around the other side of the inn and Solomon saw more corpses stumbling across the fields, now dimly illuminated by the unnatural glow, headed directly for the inn. The situation was hopeless. They could not stand their ground; they would be overwhelmed, slowly but surely.

“Where the hell did you come from?” Solomon hissed as a zombie startled him by shrieking at him from behind and he raised his sword once more.

High above, the Serpent coiled and writhed in the sky.

Pacify, kill, return to invisibility, move on. Pacify, kill, return to invisibility, move on. Sihava estimated that she’d scissored the heads off maybe half a dozen zombies as they stood dumbly, unable to move, unable to fight. It was the strangest thing, though; she’d been using illusion magic all across Tamriel for years now. But these zombies...there was a pressure to them. They weren’t fully receptive to her spellcraft. There was something pushing back. Something with intent. It unsettled her deeply, that there was something controlling this, some necromantic will that animated these. While she of course had known it on an academic level, the fact that someone could actually do this was enough to send her into sweats.

So preoccupied was she with her ponderings that she neglected how short of breath she was getting, and the little ache building in her temples. She was halfway up the steps to the second floor--plenty of zombies above, and plenty streaming in below--when she ran into another zombie and repeated her mantric procedure once more: pacify, kill, leave the decapitated corpse behind. But the invisibility refused to come. Only then did she notice the pulsing pain, and realize that her magicka reserves had run dry, and zombies were beginning to pour up the stairs after her. She swallowed heavily, then turned and ran silently into the blackness of the upstairs. I just need to buy time until I can catch my breath…

When the fire-witch went to work on the horde and chiseled away a burning path for Janus and Bruno, Janus knew it was their moment. “Keep the pressure! Burn a path!” Janus roared, turning to Bruno, “I’m dragging Solomon back down if I need to. Stay with them.”

Janus charged ahead, splitting a head down the middle and using his tree-trunk leg to kick out and send it hurdling back to the horde around, tripping them up. He continued his hasty advance up the stairs, seeing their path blocked by more than a few. He growled as he sliced through one’s stomach and its gut-rope unfurled at its feet. Janus was thankful for his gloves as he wrapped a hand around a length of it and heaved like a sailor, sending the Thing toppling head over heel back down the stairs. “Solomon!” Janus bellowed, “Where are you!?”

---

The upstairs was...surprisingly calm. At least compared to the madness below. Sihava passed by obliterated corpses, seared by bolts of jagged lightning or slashed into pieces. One still moaned as she passed, lolling against a wall as its broken spine failed it in its attempts to move. Revulsion rose in her throat, and she closed her eyes for a moment before she moved on.

The trail of dismembered undead continued until she found the source: Solomon, still brutalizing zombies as they trickled in through the gaping hole of the roof. For a moment, she pondered: what kind of innkeep had this kind of skill at combat? There must be something very interesting in his past that he’d tried to bury in his inn. She gave a mirthless little smile, perversely amused at how her mind kept working the same angle, even when in utter crisis. But those thoughts fled her mind as she saw the sky, and her mouth dropped open. Her hand flew up to the amulet slung around her neck beneath her tunic. A wave of sheer horror poured out of her, her mysticism taking the emotion and running with it without her even knowing. Nocturnal...where...where have the stars gone?

It was a short while before Janus reached Solomon and found Sihava with him, one working at cutting through the endless horde and the other with eyes fixed upon the sky. A pang of horror weighed his shoulders down and he forced it back with a heavy swallow and a low growl, “Solomon-“

His jaw went slack as his eyes were pulled up to see the inky blackness of the sky, as if all the stars had been snuffed in their heavens leaving only void. Suspended in the pitch were four ghostlights gleaming like sickening jewels and high above him, a shape writhed like a ribbon in water. His ears were filled with a growing sound, and it only grew until he recognized it as horrifying wails and screams in a language he did not understand, or perhaps none at all. Altogether, he felt so pitiful in the face of it all, “Gods…” came the reedy, quivering whisper from his lips.

He was unable to tear his eyes away until a hand wrapped itself around his shoulder and shook him from his stupor. “Solomon!” He yelled, as he took the offending arm and lopped it off at the elbow, snatching it’s owner by the collar and heaving him to roll away on the ground. “Solomon, we need to leave! It’s not a battle we can win and this damned inn’s no fortress, man!”

Solomon’s head whipped around to look at Janus, wrath burned into his face, eyes gleaming like cold steel. But his anger wasn’t directed at the big Colovian. He softened somewhat and nodded. “You’re right. We have to make for Daggerfall.” More zombies began the unwieldy climb up the side of the inn, reminding them that they were running out of time. “Come on, let’s go!”

---

Inzoliah had become a whirl, firebolts flying from each hand. Every zombie that so much as looked her direction had its body blasted down to the bone by arcane fire. The smell of rotting flesh was beginning to be overpowered by the smell of charred meat, at least in this part of the inn. Someone yelled to burn a path. She had no idea in which direction the command wanted this path to be in, but it didn’t stop her from trying to burn one in every direction. She laughed in delight as an overcharged firebolt, cast from both hands, caused a zombie to explode in meaty, charred, chunks.

Solomon, Janus and Sihava flew down the stairs to discover the carnage that Inzoliah had wrought. The spymaster almost blanched at the sight of the charred corpses and the bolts of fire that were responsible. It was too familiar a sight, bringing back old memories of the streets of the Imperial City lined with the scorched dead, and Solomon had to swallow for a moment and steel himself. She was on their side, after all -- the side of the living. Solomon leapt on top of the bar, kicking away a jawless zombie that tried to drag him back down, and roared at the top of his lungs.

“We’re being overrun! Grab your things and let’s go! Regroup outside, and then we make for Daggerfall!” came his command. He made to jump back down and help the others cut a swathe through the undead so they could make for the door when something gave him pause. Over the brutal impacts of Bruno’s powerful strikes and the angry, screaming bolts of Inzoliah’s magic, Solomon could somehow hear another sound coming from outside. The tell-tale whoosh of an elongated object sailing through the air, end-over-end, following by a dull thud as it landed on the roof.

The straw caught fire immediately. The flames spread within seconds, consuming the tinder-dry material with voracious hunger, racing down the slope of the roof and leaping to the wooden walls and beams that supported the structure. “Fire! Get out now!” Solomon yelled and leapt down to the floor behind the bar to snatch the knapsack he kept there for emergencies just like this one, only to be surprised to find Joy and Henry hiding there.

“You’re still alive,” Solomon said to Henry, incredulous.

“Yes, s-sir,” the boy stammered.

“Well, get up then, we’re leaving,” the spymaster said and hoisted Henry to his feet. He extended his hand to Joy and offered her a grateful nod, deducing accurately that he had her to thank for his apprentice’s survival.

As Joy took Solomon’s hand, she took a look at the creature sprawled out like a ragdoll. She really looked at him. The details in his clothing. Farmers overalls, torn and well worn. Boots for trekking his fields. Something changed when she noticed that. She wasn’t so scared of him, as she was for him. Angry for him. Heartbroken for him. His open, burst throat moved and glistened like obsidian in the broken gloom. “I spilled all the jam again Madam,” she said, as she glanced over her own clothing, coated and sticky with red. A voice from long ago that protected her for now from the worst of it. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, only half aware of it.

About as quickly as that had hit her, she snapped herself out of it, perhaps it had been the quickened sound of Henry breathing, but she took his hand in her own and squeezed him. “We’re alright, see?”

Henry nodded, though it was more of a tremble, and conjured a wan smile through his own tears. “Thank you,” he whispered, fighting to get the words out through his constricted throat.

The wave came thick. As far as Janus could see, the dead were there, plentiful as a forest. He swallowed, replacing his knife and axe to place a hand on his old friend still in its scabbard. The familiar feel of the leather-banded hilt in his gloved hand. He removed the gloves to reveal hands that looked almost black with the tattoos stark against the pale skin and the fingers wrapped themselves on the hilt with a long-dormant familiarity. With the dull rasp of metal leaving its sheath the gleaming blade was held aloft, and deep within him that feeling returned. A piece of Havel, like a splinter he could never dig out, and his heart beat a steady rhythm for the blood spilled. Without word, he went to work, moving like a tempest that took limbs and left deep gashes through the endless dead. A whirlwind of curved steel like a scythe through wheat.

It was impossible for Joy not to watch each and every one of the fighters in the bar. Inzoliah commanding her flame, Bruno’s savagery, Sinalare’s calculated motions with her magic, and with anything she could grab. Sihava moving in and out, surrounded by illusions like a spectre. In the centre, though, Janus. The soft and gentle man that Joy had spoken with earlier, now moving with an eerily elegant ease in the perpetual storm, dancing with ribbons of red. She held tighter to Solomon’s hand.

Through a spray of blood, Bruno locked eyes with Solomon, then to Joy and Henry. He was reassured that his old neighbor was still alive, but there was still a matter of protecting the people who couldn’t fight. Though his skin was smeared and his beard caked with blood, he approached the two, allowing the others to fill the gap he left in the front line. The man, straight out of a bloodbath, gave them a juxtaposed soft, weary, and worried look. Then he firmly pushed the axe into Henry’s hand, and said in a coarse voice, “Be no longer Henry the Boy this night. Come dawn, rise with the sun as Henry the Man.”

Bruno withdrew his bow and, nocking an arrow, he positioned himself behind Joy and said in a low rumble, “I’ll watch your back.”

He pulled a few more arrows from his quiver to stick between his teeth, and fired a few crucial shots toward the stragglers, providing cover for the front line fighters and periodically finding his gaze pulled toward the dunmer’s fire.

Inzoliah stepped over another charcoal-black corpse as she exploded bolts of fire into each zombie that stepped through the windows and door. Ironically, she had been too engrossed in her flamecasting to hear the first call of ‘fire!’ It was only when she saw the others beside her, hastening their way towards the exits that she chanced a look around. Flames, wild, untamed natural fire licked at her, coming for the other half of her body and the rest of her soul. She nearly tripped, scrambling forward to avoid the blaze on the side of the inn. She hadn’t set that fire, had she? It was impossible for her to mentally go back through each burst of flame and blazing bolt she had unleashed. Maybe a burning zombie had fallen and set the inn on fire. She supposed it didn’t matter now, it wasn’t the first building she had burned, and probably wouldn’t be the last. Her casting became less precise, more desperate as she fought not merely to burn and destroy but now to escape, to survive. Gouts of flame from both hands forced a trio of corpses back through the window in which they had struggled to climb through. Inzoliah advanced on the broken portal, its sill blackened and scorched and covered with fused flesh and other disgusting cooked fluids.

The Dunmer chanced another look at the beast of fire licking at her heels. She could practically feel its tongues wrapping around her legs. Her scars tingled faintly but she dare not feel them, both her hands were busy, all caution for the inn gone, she now flung explosive balls of fire from the window, making sure she had a clear path once she was out of the burning pyre of an inn. Once at the window, she half-climbed, half dove out of the exit, landing roughly on her knees. The ragged hem of her robe caught on something and tore, adding to the worn look of the thing even more. She clambered to her feet, breathing hard. Not entirely from the exertion either.

Sinalare held her doorway position as if she was a phalanx all by herself, unarmoured. As the corpses wobbled into the inn, she sliced cleanly through their rotting flesh. Severed limbs and scattered pieces of what was, once, organs littered the inn floor. She stood just to the side of the doorway, waiting with her sword at the ready as all the other occupants of the inn made their way out of the inferno.

As another handful of zombies wobbled out from around the corner of the inn, their misshapen bodies illuminated in the eerie orange glow, Sinalare hurried to meet them. Turning away from the door and the others’ retreats, she stabbed her sword in the ground, freeing up her right hand. As she moved towards them, a burning ball of flame grew between her hands, growing larger with each step she took until she flung it straight into the middle of the group. The force of not only the flames but the energy sent the huddled zombies flying. The bosmer looked down as a zombie landed with a thud in front of her. It lay on its back, eyes staring straight up at Sinalare -- or they would’ve been, if the fire engulfing the creature had been less hot. The eyes sizzled and bubbled, running out of their sockets. The sounds of others leaving the inn drew her attention back, so she returned to her abandoned sword.

Sihava conjured another mirror image of herself, an oily smile smeared across her face as she danced between them. She wasn’t, had never been, particularly good at fighting with her daggers. But that was against people. This was just so easy, there was almost a sick pleasure to it. The corpses--too simple-minded to keep track of the real her in between the shifting magics--flailed at the illusions, and even when their hands passed through, they simply kept on trying, and failing, to kill them.

She’d had perhaps the easiest time in escaping from the inn. No ridiculous heroics, no theatrical dives from burning windows. Grabbing her backpack before it could burn, another cast of invisibility and a few butchered zombies, and she’d been on her way. But now that she was outside, no more invisibility. It simply drained her too much, and without her magic, well, she was a dead woman walking out here.

With a wet squelching sound, her daggers sank as one into the neck of another shambling corpse, and with a quick levering pull, she ripped them in opposite directions along its neck. The bulbous, rotting meat parted quickly, if perhaps messily, and the razor-keen edges sheared through the porous, half-decayed spinal column with barely a hesitation. The foul, congealed black gunk that might have once been blood sprayed out of the headless stump into her face. She spat in disgust as some leaked into her mouth, kicking the limp, headless corpse away. The burning inn behind her cast stark, slithering shadows across the field before her. She was almost grateful for it; the wavering light made it all the easier to ignore the flat, baleful luminance that burned from the Serpent’s sky.

From inside, Bruno’s bellowing could be clearly heard.

“Alright, you sorry sods! Unless you wanna get gummed to death by grandma, we’re getting out of here! Let’s move!”

Joy wasn’t going to argue with him. Bag, lute, and lyre in hand she moved. Leaving behind the flaming and crumbling inn. Only the four blazing sparks of the Serpent remained to wish and dream upon now, and she had none left to send up there. Her birthsign burned down on her - casting a glow out in long flakes, lighting up the sprawling horizon like smelting pots in the sinister mark of its slow passing.

Strangeness bleeding out over the land without even a wind to sway a tree. And then there was Joy. Just Joy. Thrown in with this sudden and strange group of capable kinsmen. And then there was Joy. Just Joy. Her throat hurt, and her bare foot bled out too. The hot sting amidst the dust, smoke, and ash. She escaped it as she did from Windhelm, without a focus for tomorrow.

Janus had long since cut a swathe through the dead, not that his path stayed open for the others for long. Already, the corpses were filling in the gap his sword had wrought through them though the herd was culled. There was only one goal in his mind, and that was to get to the burning stables. He had gotten farther and farther from the others, tirelessly slashing and weaving his way through the mindless horde until he could no longer see or hear the others, so single-minded in his assault. He chanced a look back and could not see them in the dim, orange glow of the night. All before his eyes was a sea of movement and naught else. Naught else, but a pyre made of the inn that filled the air with the smell of burning timber, its black smoke lost among the ebony sky.

He swallowed, his mind pulled back to other fires at the sight of it. Other fires in a place long forgotten, to a man he’d long forgotten. Were it a better day to die, he would’ve left his sword loose in his limp fist, but tonight was not that night. He shook himself from the flames and turned again for the stables, old muscles burning, breath thin in his throat. His fingers traced a wound he hadn’t remembered getting along his shoulder, scratches and bruises burned and ached. One last dance, Janus thought, so the others could go. He watched the dead slowly closing in on him on every side, the lot of them switching sights from the others to this lone soul lost among fire and soaked through with blood. If the last good deed he could do was free these souls from undeath, then he’d work meticulously til morn if he had to.

Solomon snatched his greatcoat from its hook next to the shattered door and ran outside as he threw it around his shoulders, determined not to look back at the burning inn. A blur of black speed leapt out of the structure through one of the broken windows and rejoined the innkeeper’s side -- it was The Loyal Hound’s namesake, Sirius, panting hard and ears pulled back, but a determined growl in his throat and a string of bloody drool hanging from his slavering jaws. It would seem that he had done his part in fending off the undead as well. Solomon wanted to stop and kneel down next to his dog to comfort him, but there was no time. He had lost sight of Janus already and the zombies’ numbers were constantly replenished by a steady stream of them emerging from the fields of amber grain.

He opened his mouth to call for the party to gather to him, but his words died in his throat. Illuminated by the inferno, revealing the intricate forgework on his cuirass and gauntlets and the deep gashes in the corpse-body of his black steed, the grim rider came galloping back into view. The torch that he held previously was gone and it was then that Solomon realized that it was this headless horseman that had thrown the first spark on the straw roof and burned down his home. An axe had replaced the undead warrior’s torch to match the longsword in his other hand and he brandished both weapons with a flourish, the nightmarish horse upon which he sat rearing up on its hind legs and kicking at the sky with its hooves, its ghastly neigh like the scream of a demon from Oblivion.

“This way! Run for your lives!” Solomon yelled over the noise of their desperate combat and pointed in the direction of Daggerfall with his own sword. His blood ran cold at the sight of the horse slamming back down on the dirt and the horseman beginning his inexorable charge, picking up speed and barreling down on them with murderous intent. The gleaming edges of his blades shone in the stark contrast of the firelight and the gloom. Solomon knew from experience that a ragtag band of misfits on foot were no match for a mounted warrior and so he did the only sensible thing; he turned and ran. Solomon used his momentum to cut down the zombies that got in his way with sword and sorcery alike and he evaded the ones that he could. Sirius sped out ahead of him, agile as can be, weaving beneath outstretched claws and passing between the legs of others, too fast for the revenants to catch.

Once Solomon and his dog had broken free from the crowd of undead that thronged around his inn, he looked over his shoulder for a moment and slowed down, making sure that the others were right behind him. A brutal sight greeted him. The horseman ran his steed straight through the other undead, the giant horse knocking down the mindless zombies and crushing them underfoot, and Solomon looked ahead of their foe to see who was in his path.

It was Joy, sweet Joy, barefoot and bruised and bleeding, still holding hands with Henry as they fled from the carnage and the fire. “No!” Solomon roared, dropping his sword and raising both hands to fire off a barrage of angry, desperate spells -- but the death knight was too fast a target and his fireballs and ice spikes went wide, cutting down other zombies or striking the burning side of the inn instead. His heart sank in his stomach. They were seconds from death.

The woman turned on her heel to face the demon, unaware of what was going on. Her arm stretched out instinctively, pushing Henry as far from her as she could - locked in a brace to stop him coming back. The gravel underfoot burned, her entire form shook and trembled as the glowing dim embers of the Serpent that bathed her absorbed into the Rider’s shadow. Only dark.

Bursting forth from the charred timbers of the stable’s doors were a flurry of horses whinnying and charging off in every direction, fear in their eyes to escape the fire and be greeted by the dead. At their tails was Vodevic the old warhorse, off at a dead run straight for the Headless Rider, plowing through undead with nary a struggle and no signs of stopping. Upon the saddle, standing in the stirrups was Janus, blood in his eyes for the Rider.

He wasted no breath in a warcry, his teeth gritted in an animal snarl, eyes aflame with white fury, as his blade held aloft became a blur and an almighty clang rang through the night’s cacophony before the Headless Rider’s blade could taste Joy’s blood.

“Run!” Janus’ roar to the others as Vodevic let loose his own cry rearing back on his hind legs in the firelight, before wasting no time turning back for another charge at the rider.

“It really should be me throwing myself in front of you instead of the other way around, miss,” Henry said in between shuddering breaths, cold sweat on his brow. Not even he knew where that nugget of humor came from in such terrifying times. “Let’s go!”

The horsman changed course and abandoned his prey, readily accepting the challenge that Janus and Vodevic posed. The two mounted warriors charged at each other once more and their weapons clashed in a flurry of sparks. Solomon couldn’t help but be rooted to the spot for a second or two, the burning inn and the bright steel reflected in his wide eyes -- but there was no time to marvel at the spectacle of two riders engaged in mortal combat. “To me! This way!” he yelled, urging the others onwards, his boots thudding on the dirt road in the easy, loping, rhythmic march of an Imperial legionnaire. A nearby signpost read ‘Daggerfall’, the lettering just visible in the otherworldly glow of the Serpent, and pointed ahead.

Behind them, the roar of the flames consuming the inn entirely and the hungry clang of steel on steel were the only sounds they could hear, and the gaping maw of the dark night loomed ahead, silent as the grave.

The Elder Scrolls: Night of Pestilence

The Calm Before the Storm

_{ft. everyone!}

The common room had emptied as night had well and truly descended over Glenumbra, leaving only a few travelers and locals to stare into the flames or warm their bellies with a drink. Solomon watched them from his vantage point behind the bar while he cleaned the last of the evening’s dirty mugs. The cook closed up the kitchen and retreated to her room, and Henry cast a final glance in Solomon’s direction, eyes questioning whether or not the Imperial had everything under control, and Solomon sent him to bed with a nod.

He regarded each of his patrons in turn. There was Joy, of course, the redheaded bard who had sang and played her instruments for two hours. Solomon had been forced to admit to himself that she had both talent and skill and he had not minded her music. She had been a lively visitor to his inn, to be sure, and he had heard her voice even when she wasn’t singing, making conversation with some of the other patrons. As far as he could tell, she was genuine about who she was and what she wanted, though it still perplexed him that anyone could be so optimistic and expressive during such -- literally -- dark times.

Bruno was even more familiar to him than the bard and Solomon was pleased to see that the Nord had stuck around for a drink. Sirius often came up to the man and sniffed his hand, as if to question Bozo’s absence each time, and Solomon had resorted to soothing the dog’s sadness with a few bites of the salted meats that Bruno had brought.

Then a few people remained that Solomon did not know and had not spoken to. The two Dunmer women were still there, one sitting remarkably far away from the last remaining hearthfire, and the other suspiciously silent -- to the point that Solomon wasn’t sure he had heard her speak at all. Both women had a strange beauty to them, in spite of their ashen skin and red eyes, as elvish women often did, and Solomon had caught himself looking at them a few times, in the same way one might admire a remarkable statue or an interesting painting… or an exotic animal that might lunge at any moment. Elves were elves, after all, even though the dark elves had not given him any particular reason to distrust them other than their general reputation.

The same could not be said for the Bosmer woman with the hard face and the sword on her hip. She reminded Solomon a little too strongly of the tenacious and elusive scouts and archers of her kind that he had faced during the war, and he watched her more closely than he had done either of the Dunmer women. But she appeared to like her drink and she had provided a sizable portion of his income for the night, so he could hardly complain. As long as she continued to behave.

And last but not least was the giant of a man that he had seen Joy talk with earlier. His complexion, light hair and great size made it difficult for Solomon to estimate his origins. At first glance he looked like a Nord, but the way he moved and talked suggested something else. Either way, there was a kindness in his gaze and a relaxed, unthreatening quality to his demeanor, and Solomon had seen no reason to worry about the big man throughout the evening.

With the final mug cleaned and put back in its place, Solomon made his rounds throughout the common room, dousing the candles and wall-mounted torches that illuminated the now-unoccupied areas of the space, casting the empty chairs and tables into darkness. Once he was done with that, all there was left to do was wait for these patrons to clear out, wrap up his business with Joy and then for him to go to bed as well. However, something made him pause. Sirius licked his hand by his side and whined quietly.

“Alright then, one drink,” he mumbled and scratched the dog behind his ears. Solomon poured himself an ale from one of the barrels and joined his patrons, sitting down on an empty chair next to Joy. He nodded at her by way of greeting, his knowing eyes indicating that he had not forgotten her, or their deal. “Bruno,” he said, raised his glass to the Nord, and then he looked at the rest of them in turn.

“Strange times we live in, eh?” he proposed. “I hope your travels have found you all well?”

The voice had roused Janus from his reverie in the hearthfire. He looked around for its owner and found it to be the man with the sour face that Joy had spoken of earlier. Seeing it closer and not across the room almost had the effect of pressing his face up to a cookfire, tolerable from a distance, but searing up close. He’d known a man with a face like that once. Terrible at conversation. He hoped he couldn’t say the same of this man, “Well enough,” he said, getting up from his seat and turning it just so in an effort to keep his relaxed posture while opening himself to the conversation, “Glad I found a roof over my head before nightfall. Spooky stories about, and all that. ‘Sides the ground makes for a bad bed.”

The redhead sat quietly for the first time all evening. There was a rasp in her throat, and her fingers were sore from the strings of her instruments. A tell tale sticking of her hair to her temples from a short break to dance and work up a sweat too and the heat had her tug at the upper buttons of her doublet, letting the air touch her skin. Joy stifled a yawn into her fist as she counted up the coins that had come her way over the course of the evening, the blush on her cheeks dying down as she caught back her breath at last. Thirty-eight septims. That was almost what she had walked in with, and she’d worked for every last one of them. The Nord gave a polite nod to Solomon as he took a seat beside her, her eyes dewy with the night. She hadn’t forgotten her own promise to him either. Thirty-eight septims was still shy of something, after all.

Floorboards creaking, the other Nord stood up and the table suddenly justled as he propped his boot against its edge, and Bruno raised his drinking horn up high in the air. He was probably a few drinks in and showed no signs of slowing down, but still no less sober than anyone else in the tavern it seemed. His voice carried across the tavern with what must have been minimal effort as he declared, “Shall we put it to a toast, then? To roofs over our heads and good beds! May the wind always blow at your backs, that our days be long as our meals are warm, and may ye have half an hour in Sovngarde before the daedra knows you’re dead!”

“I’ll drink to that,” Solomon said and put his money where his mouth was. After swallowing, he added: “Though Sovngarde can wait a while longer, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Agreed,” Sinalare called. The bosmer was sitting just barely separated from the group, close enough to talk but keeping her personal space well protected. She raised her glass, hand unsteady as it was one of many that evening, and as the ale sloshed around and spilled out of her tankard she leaned her head forward, catching what foam she could.

Sihava smiled hugely as she leaned back in her chair, putting her feet up on the table. Pushing indiscriminately at the magicka nearby--her version of a shout, detectable by anyone near her--she let fly a vision of the inn’s common room, followed by a warm feeling of belonging and comfort. If nothing else, Inzoliah would understand, and could then explain it. She raised her cup of wine to the huge Nord’s toast and met his eyes before taking a huge gulp of it. She’d had enough by now that there was a warmth building in her stomach and face, and she knew she was going to be drunk by the end of the night. Still, she thought, looking around at the people she found herself in the presence of, there’s worse company for a night of carousing, surely. She was especially taken by the redhead bard that had been playing for most of the night; a fair bit of the emptiness in her purse had come from giving to her, and she was sad to hear the music go.

Sinalare stiffened at the unfamiliar feeling. The strangeness sobered her up, as much as was possible after so much ale, and she placed her tankard back on the table. She leaned back in her seat and waited, focused now on observing the dunmer.

Inzoliah hadn’t been drinking up until this point in the evening, only furiously scribbling on her newly acquired piece of vellum. At last she had finished, neatly rolling up the newly minted scroll of fireball and stuffing it in her knapsack. She decided to reward herself by finally giving in to the nagging desire of a cold drink. The Mage headed over to what she had assumed was the proprietor, judging by his actions throughout the night. He was seated near a red-headed bard when Inzoliah made it over. She placed five septims on the surface next to him. “A cold drink please, ‘twould seem the heat of this place is getting to me.” She added, tugging gently on the collar of her robe.

Both Solomon and Bruno had recoiled slightly when Sihava communicated telepathically with them, flinching -- the sensation was unfamiliar and the spymaster especially was wary of any sorcery that he did not understand. He regained his composure and processed what she had actually meant to convey, namely that she was enjoying herself and felt comfortable. He looked at her, still unsure of what to make of it, before merely conjuring a polite smile.

The other Dunmer woman demanded his attention next. “Of course,” he replied with professional courtesy, disappearing momentarily into the dark kitchen. It was odd that she was warm at such an hour, what with the unseasonably cool nights they were getting, but it was not his place to judge or question his customer’s orders.

He returned with a glass of lemonade, chilled with ice; the last of the batch he had squeezed that morning. It was summer, after all, and the farmhands liked to come in around noon for a refreshing beverage. He handed the glass to Inzoliah and looked between her and Sihava. He’d seen the two mages conduct business earlier, and Solomon’s curiosity won out over his hesitation. “How does she…?” he whispered, leaving the question hanging in the air and nodding subtly in Sihava’s direction.

“Thank you,” Inzoliah said, in between sips of lemonade, “when you get to be my age, temperature does odd things to you.” She noticed his curious glances at Sihava and chuckled at his question. “Mysticism most likely. ‘Tis fallen out of favour as of the last era but it’s not impossible to learn. That’s just my best assumption. I only just met her on the road today.” She explained.

"Ah," Solomon replied inconclusively. That still didn't answer the unspoken question of why, but he surmised that the older Dunmer wouldn't know that either, if they were indeed strangers. He sat back down and made a mental note to write down the exact sensation of the magical communication in his log book upstairs.

Still counting her coins, Joy lifted her head when the wash of a spell breezed across the room, and she was immediately impressed. Not being so accustomed to magic, that wasn’t exactly a difficult feat for a mage to accomplish -- but this was very different, almost ancient in the way it felt. Completely comprehensible in a way that words simply weren’t. She lifted her hands up and smiled, giggling at the feeling. She recognised that it came from the Dunmer sat across the way, the very one who had left her a number of coins.

In response, Joy gave a beaming smile in her direction. Something that the woman had learned a little of in her life, was to communicate without words - and with motions. Whether it was to signal something across a noisy patrons lounge, or for the times when words were just not resonant enough. Joy placed a hand slowly on her chest, closing a fist as if to gesture she was holding on to the feeling shared. Upon opening her eyes again, she locked them with Dunmer and bowed her head as respectfully as she could.

Sihava met Joy’s eyes with her own a-twinkle, and she mirrored Joy’s actions, clutching her hand fervently to her chest. Then, lacking the willpower to resist, she lifted her other hand in a cheeky little wave. She was liking this...Nord? The red hair would suggest so, but the slightly olive cast of her skin suggested an Imperial instead. She really didn’t know which she was. But regardless, she was liking her more and more. Maybe we can talk, she gave a little laugh at the word choice, later.

Confusion played on Janus’ brow when he felt the wave roll over him. It wasn’t something he was accustomed to, like a wind, but through his very being. It didn’t play with his clothing like a breeze, more like hands across the whole of him. His eyes crossed the room and noticed the ones that drifted towards the quiet Dunmer. He understood then, and it did not bother him. There were worse ways magic had been used on and around him. He chose to raise his mug, “Well, we all know that we’re sharing company.” He smiled his soft smile around the room and addressed the lot of them, “But, I like to know who I’m sharing an evening with, name’s Janus. And yours?”

Sinalare shifted her attention away from the Dunmer, relaxing her nerves and dismissing any concerns for the time being. Her demeanor shifted in a return to her previous calm, as she reassured herself that it was simply a normal evening; nothing was about to break down the door, and nor was there reason for anyone in the room to be hostile. She turned to Janus and a smile spread across her face as she lifted her drink once more. “Call me Sinalare.”

"Solomon," the innkeeper answered truthfully. He had not failed to notice how Sinalare had been on edge after the mute Dunmer's display of magic as well. In addition to her rough appearance and the arms she carried, Solomon was beginning to think that she shared his instincts, finely honed over a blade's edge. Was she an old soldier after all? It was impossible to tell with elves, but it was entirely plausible that she was old enough to have fought in the Great War, undoubtedly on the other side. The memories of the conflict were burned too deep into his nervous system for him to remain entirely relaxed and he continued to watch her like a hawk.

Still, the spymaster in him had to know. "What brings you to the Empire, Sinalare?" he asked and fixed his gaze on her resolutely.

Sinalare tilted her head to face the inkeep, smiling slightly. “Oh, you know, work. Mercenary work, mostly.” She shrugged, tipping back her drink and finishing it off. “I fight, and I drink… The Empire’s as good a place as any.”

Her thoughts drifted briefly to Valenwood, to home. A twinge of guilt hit her as she thought about the ale she was drinking. A bit more of it would assuage that, she thought, glancing down at the empty bottom of the tankard.

As conversation began to flow, the Nord swung one leg over the other and answered too; “and I’m Joy,” before beginning to unlace one of her boots, making a mental note of the names so far.

Ohh dear, names. Names, names...how am I going to introduce myself? Sihava fretted a moment before standing, fishing around the edges of the hearthfire and grabbing a cold chunk of charcoal. Tossing it up and down for a moment, she began to write on the wall just above the fireplace in elaborate, stylized script: Sihava Blackthorn. Then she stood back, admired her handiwork, and took an exaggerated bow. As she did so, she swept her quickly across the crowd.

Janus and Bruno don’t seem the type to carry valuables on them. Solomon and Sinalare are too suspicious for me to try either of them. Joy doesn’t seem like she has a great deal, and Nocturnal would frown upon me taking what I’ve freely given. Inzoliah, then. Perhaps she’s finished with that scroll.

“Who gave you permission to write on the walls of my inn?” Solomon asked, visibly irritated, and he pointed to the charcoal letters. “Take that down.”

Inzoliah raised an eyebrow at the commotion and gave a sidelong glance at the other patrons. Messing with other people’s property was a great way of getting everyone fed up with you. On the other hand though, it was just charcoal. It’s not like it would stain. “My my,” she whispered, “the boldness of youth.”

At the site of the letters upon the wall, Joy cocked her head to the side — admiring the woman’s penmanship and for a moment wondering if it was Minasi herself who had shown Sihava how to write too, this prompted yet another giggle, despite knowing that Solomon was not appreciative of it.

“I… How about a drink everyone?” The Bard asked, sliding the septims across the surface to pile in front of Solomon. Maybe that would give him cause to simmer down. As everyone else continued their chatter and as looks were fired around the room, she hastily made her way behind the bar with mischief on her mind.

Bruno grunted a silent, “Hmph,” as Solomon addressed the dunmer’s defacing of his inn. It was one of agreement and respect, though Bruno likely would’ve stopped it before it ever happened should the dark elf ever try such a thing to his own home. “Take your hand back or I will,” he’d say, or at least something along those lines. He did well to be polite with his earlier toast in the company of strangers, but now quiet in their company with the time to hear their voices, names, and be witness to their actions, he found himself watching the three elves. Solomon was especially more wary around them it seemed, and surely the man either had his reasons or was old enough to be set in his ways.

Bruno personally didn’t have much reason to hate them; the war and Thalmor never affected him, though it would be Sinalare’s altmer brethren enforcing the ban of Talos worship in his motherland. He wondered if she would notice the amulet hanging from his neck that he had no intention of hiding, for he felt no shame in his worship of Talos. The mute one was strange, wielded magicks not too unlike the Reachman witches and therefore he felt careful treading was warranted enough. The other… Inzoliah, was it? Well, she was at least fetching if nothing else. For a dark elf, that is. At the sound of the other nord in the room, a true maiden, he smiled and raised his empty drinking horn.

“Who am I to refuse a free drink from a sweet lass?” He said. “Oh, and why the hell not: try cracking open that little cask I brought in. Wouldn’t anyone mind a taste of the Ol’ Bruno Reserve?”

At Solomon’s rebuke, Sihava hastily rubbed the charcoal from the wall. It was left nearly unnoticeable, if perhaps just a shade darker. She turned and dipped her head deferentially, letting a rush of apology sweep over him, before retrieving her writing tools and vellum and taking a seat near Joy’s, waiting for her to return. A drink and some company sounded pretty good about now. She was already a little bit drunk, or she probably wouldn’t have done something so forthright. Inzoliah’s scroll wasn’t going anywhere; no harm in a little fun.

Solomon accepted the apology with an inclination of his head and looked at the faintly smudged spot above the fireplace with scrutiny before he put it out of his mind.

Inzoliah set her now-empty lemonade glass down on the bar after hearing the announcement from the pretty little human child. “Twould not hurt to try some of the man’s homemade drink.” She offered, her curiosity now piqued somewhat.

“Indeed,” Sinalare agreed, twirling her empty mug around by the handle.

Tinkering around behind the bar, the sound of bottles and glasses alike could be heard rattling as Joy looked around, a list in her head providing the ingredients that she knew very well. One by one, she placed six glasses up on the bar - she did not want to deny the loud gent his own ale, or to drink from his own horn either but she was still trying to find herself some employment. She could make some humour of it at least…

“Oh darling, no,” she began. “I thought, what with all these dark days and all I’d make everyone a glass of sunshine, if that would be quite alright by you. On any other day-“ with a bottle in one hand, and a dustier one in the other, she began shaking both in a lively fashion. “Oh I’d love to taste some of the brew from your horn,” her expression was blank and doe eyed - as if she was unaware entirely of the innuendo she had spoken.

Bruno immediately choked on his drink, spitting and sputtering some out of his mouth and sending the rest up his nose as he coughed and throwing his arms up to pat his face dry on his sleeve.

Even Solomon chuckled at that, and he turned around in his chair to see what the hell Joy was doing with his supplies. He sipped on his ale while he watched her mix a cocktail together and he raised an eyebrow -- clearly a habitual expression for him. "Conjuring sunlight on a night like this would be quite the magic trick, miss Joy," he said, voice dripping with scepticism. "Especially with the state my liquor cabinet is in. Oh, that reminds me," he added, suddenly serious and businesslike. "Don't forget to mark whatever you've used in the ledger on the counter."

“Oh but of course,” Joy replied brightly, turning herself in a circle and nonchalantly tossing a bottle into the air by its neck before catching it with a practiced ease.

Janus was content with watching the goings-on in silence while sipping at his ale, finding some quiet amusement from the interactions. A bout of vandalism in good nature had ruffled the innkeep’s feathers, and then the big Nord almost drowned himself on a mouthful of drink. When Joy began some sort of culinary adventure behind the counter, he rose from his seat and took a place closer to her at the bar, “I never did get a chance to make good on what I said,'' he reached into his coin purse and withdrew a few, sliding them across the counter to her, “Take it as payment for, uh, whatever you’re making. Buy you a drink at the next tavern, should we meet.”

Placing her bottles down either side of Janus, Joy took the coins and passed them back to him, winking back at the man; “it’s on me, or if you like -- keep the coin as payment for a lesson, should we meet.”

Janus smiled at the sentiment and replaced his coins, patting the purse. Only ninety-seven more for a lesson, he thought, but decided to let that lie. He liked Joy. He turned to the Nord, still wringing drink from his beard, and spoke, “Bruno, is it? You brew?”

It took a moment for him to recover and properly respond to Janus, as the man was still cleaning himself up, coughing, and snorting down the cheap ale that got caught up in and started burning his nose. After he finished murmuring something under his breath about how a lass would be the death of him, he spared a look toward Janus and, brushing off the few remaining droplets from his beard, answered, “Aye, I am. And aye, I do. Won’t claim to be somethin’ special, but there’s somethin’ to be said for beer made with your own two hands instead of whatever it is they do to beer in the city. Big vats of watered down piss, I reckon. Can’t spare no love for batches weighin’ more than seven stones, and no love means no liquor. You catch my drift?”

“Oh, aye,” Janus raised his mug, and took a gulp from it, “Something to be said about a thing a man makes with his own hands and care.”

Sinalare knew she’d drink the piss so long as it did its job, though she followed the conversation with interest. For such a heavy drinker, she knew rather little about alcohol itself.

The innkeeper slowly nodded along with Bruno. He wasn’t a brewer himself, but running an inn had intimated him a little more closely with the logistics that surrounded the production of the products he needed -- alcohol included. It was definitely true that there was often a special touch of flavor, something different and unique, to every homebrew drink as opposed to the common stuff he purchased in bulk to fuel his tap.

The same could be said for every drink mixed together by an expert and Solomon returned his gaze to Joy. There was so much flashy movement going on that it was impossible for him to tell whether or not she was a master mixer that was putting on a show or a ridiculously incompetent amateur that was trying to hide her inexperience. He exhaled sharply from his nose and shook his head, muttering under his breath. “Showoff.”

As the patrons chatted amongst themselves, Joy continued her showy efforts with the bottles. A shake here, a pinch from her pocket there, another twirl - anything to distract the eyes from what her hands were doing with the empty bottle she’d procured to mix everything in. The magic was always in the showmanship.

Inzoliah was having trouble following all the brewing chatter, it bored her. She enjoyed some alcohol here and there and she even had some skill in alchemy, but as far as she was concerned, alcohol was alcohol. Love or no love. As long as you had the right ingredients it would come out exactly the same. Of course this was something she dared not voice out loud. Nords could be very touchy about their drink and she had no intention of starting a barroom brawl today.

“Well,” Janus looked at the different faces between them, appreciating the differences, but wondering if there were similarities, “We all look well-traveled. Anyone care to share a story or two? Tell us of home?”

Solomon finished his ale and flipped the mug over in his hands, catching it on the way back down. “Cyrodiil is my home,” he answered, eyes fixed on a point somewhere above Janus’ shoulder. “The Imperial City, to be precise. I grew up in the gardens and on the white marble streets. It was… good,” Solomon finished awkwardly, unsure how to describe his childhood. It seemed so very, very long ago now.

“That was before the war, of course.” He glanced sidelong at Sinalare and sighed. “City wasn’t the same after, and I couldn’t stay. Traveled all over the Empire and even a bit outside of it. But then I got old, and I had to settle down somewhere. High Rock it is. Suits me well enough.”

He conveniently skipped over a whole boatload of stories and hidden truths to arrive at that conclusion, but it was a story he had sold a dozen times over since he had arrived and taken over the inn, and lying about his past came habitually to him. Solomon nodded to himself and looked over his shoulder at the red haired bard once more. “Where’s that drink, miss Joy?”

Sihava nearly choked when Janus said the word ‘home,’ and the smile faded on her face. She went still, and for a moment, she almost forgot to breathe. Swishing the dregs of her spiced wine around the bottom of the cup, she stared at the swirling liquid and remembered things that she’d rather not have.

She pushed out an image to the people in the inn, then: the Palace of Kings in Windhelm, in the deep winter. But no homey warmth came along with the image. Instead, it was a kind of coldness that had nothing to do with the snow that blew in from across the eastern sea. It stayed only for a moment before she let the magic fade, and returned quietly to her drink, downing the dregs and wearing a heavy sorrow previously unseen.

The shift in atmosphere had not gone unnoticed by Joy, and while she checked the glasses out in their row, a familiar image materialised in front of her. Windhelm. She saw too the sorrow in the Dunmer’s eyes — she had also felt it. A bitter breeze she knew all too well, it was confronting and without so much as a tell on her face that it had bothered her, she stood upright. Ignoring the chill that trickled over her shoulders. A laugh was required. She placed down her now full and opaque bottle, contents hidden and a hand found its way to her hip. “You know, Solomon,” she began, sighing and staring off into the middle distance dreamily. “I do wish I could be in your shoes,” Joy said, letting the inspiration of those marble streets carry in her voice.

The Imperial narrowed his eyes at her. Solomon had lost nearly his entire family to the war and the White-Gold City had become a place haunted by pain and suffering, and crisscrossing the continent hadn’t been the best of times. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing enviable about anything he had just related, and it struck him as a strange comment after Sihava’s chilling and strangely mournful projection of Windhelm. “Why?” he asked, and Sirius barked once as if to say ‘yeah, why?’.

Not missing a beat, she spoke out — sounding ever so slightly exasperated all of a sudden. “Well Sir,” her lips pulled to the side and she sighed. “Mine are all the way over there, and my feet are cold.” She waved her hand with a finger to point, and sure enough, her boots were beside the table she had been sitting at. The Nord has also pulled her face into one of deadly serious distress, yet couldn’t resist breaking the deadpan punchline with a quick glance in Sihava’s direction, hoping it might have conjured a smile, or even a twinkle of appreciation in her eyes.

A faint ghost of a smile played over Sihava’s face at the joke. Good comedic timing was always admirable, and if she was in a better mood, it might have sent her into gales of silent laughter. As it was, she wasn’t quite feeling up to merriment, and so she elected to continue staring at her now-empty cup after giving Joy a brief nod.

The slight smile stayed, though.

It had been as much of a deflection, as an attempt to stave off the chill. Joy hoped her contribution would be enough to keep potential questions of her own heritage at bay, since it seemed to be the topic of the hour. She had no home, nor had she ever had one to speak of. That talk didn’t make for interesting conversation at all, and yet she found a sense of solidarity in Sihava’s nod - the silent communication that she understood.

Once the image had faded from Janus’ mind- and the very real goosebumps disappeared from his arms at the conjured cold- he rose his brows and made like the bottom of his empty mug was the most interesting thing in the wide world and he hadn’t just witnessed half the room almost physically recoil from his question, coughing sheepishly into his fist.

It was to be said, a younger Janus might’ve also recoiled, “So, about this inn, then. Nice place, isn’t it… good drink, too.”

“Was a real shithole when I got it,” Solomon said flatly. “Took me a year of hard work and renovations to turn it around.” That much was true. “I won it in a game of cards.” A bald-faced lie. “I think the previous owner was just glad to be rid of it.”

He looked around the common room, eyes flitting from one wall-mounted stag head to another, and he exhaled slowly. This place was as much a prison to him as it was a comfortable home. The Penitus Oculatus had restrained him, a moth pinned to a board in a glass box, when they tied him to this place. Still, it could be worse, and he had grown somewhat fond of the lifestyle. At least it wasn’t paperwork.

“I named it after him,” Solomon added and patted his dog on the head, who quirked his head to look up at home, tongue lolling out of his mouth. “This is Sirius, by the way. Try not to spoil him too much or he’ll get fat.”

Sinalare looked down at the dog and smiled. She offered him her hand briefly; she’d always enjoyed the company of animals, even though she’d eaten and hunted more than her fair share of them. She always found dogs pleasant.

“An inn for a game of cards?” Janus quirked a brow, “I won a card game once. Only got this sword though. Come to think of it, I don’t know which one of us is better off for winning.”

“You’re telling me.” Bruno remarked, still casting a sidelong glare at Sihava. It was one thing if a person couldn’t speak, but there was something about forcing a person to witness an image or a feeling without their consent that felt violating, even if the intent was fairly innocuous, and it was for that reason he didn’t have the greatest feeling about the dark elf, and he was going to make sure she knew that. He began by addressing the conversation where it was first, “An entire house, shithole or not, ain’t nothin’ to scoff at. I should know, I built my own. My father his, up in the Reach near Evermore.”

Then his head joined in his eyes in where they were aimed. Towards the dark elf, the tone of his voice fell serious and critical. “Watched my childhood home burn to ashes, I did. Forsworn took the heart of my ‘stead and of my folks, but you don’t see me forcing you lot to watch that, do you?”

Returning to his drink, Bruno continued, albeit remarkably nonchalant despite the heavy tale he had dropped on the others. “It is what it is. I’m a grown man and I’ve moved on, and after so many years I’ve come to realize that it’s just the way this world works. Everyone’s got a sob story, but ain’t one of them no more special than the next.”

And just like that, Sihava’s frail, reborn smile winked out. She stood violently, shoving back the bench as she slammed her hands on the table, eyes wide. White-knuckled, she took her quill and ink--a message too detailed to be explained in images--and slashed off a piece of vellum, writing fervently on it before tearing it off the counter and slamming it down explosively in front of Bruno. The writing was a far cry from her usually carefully-ordered, flowing penmanship; it was jagged, all harsh lines and sharp edges, very rushed and nearly punching through the vellum in several places.

I showed you a picture of a city. A single picture. There is a difference between that and wholesale slaughter and a burning farm. I don’t think I should need to SAY this, but I do not speak, Bruno, which means it is very, very difficult for me to communicate without writing out a message like this. It takes a long time, and I cannot respond with the flow of the conversation. It is cumbersome and frustrating. If you don’t wish for me to communicate with you in my usual fashion, feel free to tell me. I have no wish to intrude, and I can exclude you in the future. But don’t insult me like that. You are TAKING YOUR WORDS FOR GRANTED.

With that, she stormed back to her seat and curled in, frustrated despite herself. She was reacting too strongly, and she knew that. But the memories of Windhelm had her distressed, and the alcohol had lowered her guard. Come now, Siha, she found herself thinking, this is not how a priestess of Nocturnal should act. But she hadn’t been able to help herself.

It didn’t take a smart man to read the room and figure out there was brewing tension. For anyone that was taking too long on it, the Dunmer herself seemed to explode with activity, aggressively slamming the parchment down next to the bigger Nord a head taller than herself. As if in reflex, Janus was watching every movement of the Nord, not that it showed on Janus. All he did was set his mug on the bar top, place a foot readied on the floor, and sighed.

So much for an uneventful stay.

If she had expected a reassuring reaction, Sihava was about to find herself in a much more precarious situation. Bruno glowered unflinchingly into the Dunmer’s own searing gaze, and parchment on which she wrote fell onto the table before him with the weight of its own vitriol. Without taking his eyes off of Sihava, the Nord calmly took the note and crushed it into a crunchy ball of paper before carelessly tossing it into the fire, having not read a single word of it.

“I don’t give a shit what your excuses are.” He sneered. “Before you cast any of your Gods’ forsaken sorcery on me, you get my permission. Or else I’m selling your witch fingers to an alchemist.”

With a final huff, he leaned back into his chair and his drinking horn to his mouth. His eyes were hovering just above the rim as they darted back and forth between everyone in the room, his nose still in his cup, before addressing them too, “And that goes for the lot of you, too. Not that I dislike any of you… but I don’t know you either. Just don’t trespass on me.”

Inzoliah watched lazily as the room’s mood shifted from warm to cold and back again. Of course it was cold all the time where she was seated. A small price to pay for safety from the eternal enemy. The image of a cold and rather dreary looking city entered her mind, no doubt the witchery of Sihava, and as quickly as it entered her mind it incinerated as if by a spell of her own design. She had no use for dreary northern towns or childhoods that were not her own. Evidently someone did as there was the rustle of vellum and the slamming of feet and other objects. None of this registered with Inzoliah on any deep level, her own attention was firmly entranced by a game of her own recent invention; it was simple, she attempted to relight a candle across the room by flicking sparks from her finger. So far she was unsuccessful in her endeavour.

The tension in the atmosphere seeped into Sinalare’s bones and she withdrew, the alcohol-fueled friendliness she had previously was temporarily paused as she watched the situation transpire. She waited to see how the other customers would react. As she considered it, though, Bruno had a point; the idea of someone digging around in her head was off putting. Still… She glanced at the fire, and wondered what Sihava had written.

Once again, the room had slipped to an almost cloying tension and Joy cast glances between Bruno and Sihava both. It so far wasn’t anything she hadn’t seen before - aside from the strange magic at play, she was accustomed to patrons getting rowdy and uptight with each other. Oh if only Janus had asked for stories about that, she had more than a few to tell. But it wasn’t her place to get involved with either party, and her blue eyes finally landed on Solomon, a slight uptick of her brow followed. The drinks were overdue, and in the silence, Joy’s voice came through from behind the bar. “Six glasses of sunlight, coming up!”

After she had announced it, she flicked the stopper out of her mixing bottle, and tipped it over the first glass. Into the first glass, liquid the colour of dandelions fell, and not wasting any time she tipped the bottle back, before pouring into glass two. As she did so, she made sure to set her stance just so that she was alluring and feminine, leaning forward when she needed to, making eye contact when it was just right. It was all a performance, and she had perfected the art of it. When she came to each glass, the colours of the concoction kept changing. She continued with her pouring until there was a line of drinks displaying the colour yellow and ending in a deep red. A sunset sat on the strip mahogany bar in the dimming candlelight. The woman was proud of her work, as always, and she looked down at them with her trademark bright and beaming smile. There was a sourness about it all though, the image of Windhelm still sat in her own mind, and Bruno and Solomon’s stories had been heard, and felt. She had to remind herself that it wasn’t her place to get involved.

“Come and get ‘em,” she said, pushing the thoughts back so she could present her tone invitingly, she took to leaning back from the bar, resting against the cabinet behind her, hoping the last of the evenings patrons would be receptive to it, and that for now, the situation could be diffused.

Bruno might’ve been a crass loner who wasn’t so good at being a good shoulder to cry on, but he wasn’t a completely oblivious idiot. When Joy came around setting down drinks in front of everyone and working her curve, it was clear as day that she was trying to bring down the tension and, whether out of charity and playing the same game as she was or simply being so honest with his thoughts that it was easy for him to move on from conversation to the next, he accepted the drink with a smile and kicked his feet up. He didn’t know exactly what she was thinking, but he thought he had a pretty good idea. He decided it might be time to share some more entertaining stories to support his earlier point (about everyone’s lives is pretty much about getting rawed by a frost troll and learning to move on after).

“It wasn’t all bad, anyways.” Bruno said, moving on from before. “Got stories ‘bout my first, spectacularly awful hunt, or settin’ up my father’s fence and little Bruno havin’ himself a civil disagreement with a gopher hole. Or tryin’ to herd the meanest and stubbornest cock of a rooster you ever saw, and climbing up the Wrothgarian mountains to look for a milling boulder. I’ve traveled the road between here and there and suffered all the mishaps in between, like… how about the time some fifteen or something’ year old snot fancied himself a highwayman and tried to mug me on the road? We all got plenty of stories as soon as you realize life’s just one long, dumb joke.”

After so much talking, Bruno moved to wet his tongue on the drink Joy had given everyone, only for his mouth to almost immediately recoil and lips pucker after his first mouthful. He quickly forced it down, and with his eyes still squinting and mouth smacking, said, “That’s… a lot goin’ on at once. Real sweet.”

“I have been told on occasion that my juice is very sweet, Sir,” Joy shot back, as if the answer had been pre-prepared. The redhead smiled innocently once again.

Sihava roused herself at Joy’s peace offering of a drink, forcing her breathing to calm down. Another drink mightn’t be a good idea, since she was already having trouble controlling her outbursts; she’d never exactly been the most resilient to alcohol, and it didn’t help that she didn’t often drink. But she always did have a weakness for something sweet, so when Bruno nearly had to pull back for how sweet it was, her interest was piqued enough for her to rise and uncurl, making her way up to the counter and grabbing the most reddened of the glasses. She gave Joy a wan smile--a thanks, and an apology--before returning to her seat and examining Bruno through careful, hooded eyes.

The drink was sweet. But it was good. She sipped it gratefully, warmth returning to her face as her hands stayed safely under the table. The illusion magic that danced across her fingertips, desperate to unleash itself upon Bruno’s cocksure psyche, was better to keep hidden, she thought. She’d already ruffled feathers. Starting a barroom brawl by playing with a fellow patron’s mind was a surefire way to get herself booted out of the inn.

Sinalare accepted the drink gratefully with a smile. She sniffed it, curious at Bruno’s comment about its sweetness. Having taken a sip, her face contorted at the string flavour in surprise, but after a second the aftertaste became delightful. Happily, she took a large second drink. Really, who knew a drink could taste like this?

“Moving forward,” Janus’ voice came, and he smiled at Joy as he accepted his drink, “I think any attempts at communication should be, uh, done in writing... If it can’t be in words, friend.”

Call it years of war and fighting, but he hadn’t expected such an otherwise lovely evening to be marred by an exchange like that. His heart had upped its tempo in the threat of excitement and he still hadn’t settled, muscles tensed like springs he had to work at undoing. Tonight was not a night he wanted to lift a finger for something senseless. And barred from ever returning to such a fine establishment. “I’d like us all to remain friends, s’all. No reason to make that hard.” He gave his smile to Sihava first, and Bruno second, raising his cup to them both, “Everyone keeps their fingers. Easier to hold a cup that way.”

There were still some drinks leftover on the counter, and one woman in particular had barely stirred in the last few moments of excitement - it hadn’t gone unnoticed by Joy. Perhaps it was time to take her seat again, but as the others murmured around, close to the fire, the Nord couldn’t help but feel a pull towards the elderly Dunmer back in her darkened seat. Taking one of the drinks in hand, she made her way to bring the drink herself. The woman was focussing on something, a candle that had snuffed out, and Joy’s eyes moved between the candle and Inzoliah.

It was apparent she was a shyer type, or just the type who didn’t want to be at the centre of the crowds, and so Joy approached her as such - soft and slow, carefully setting the drink down in front of her. “For you, Ma’am,” she said quietly. “Are you quite alright here? Would you like me to fetch you something? A blanket even?”

Inzoliah exhaled quietly and raised her hand, flicking out with her middle finger and sending a small mote of fire arcing towards the candle, it hit the wick with surprising accuracy and ignited properly only moments later. Only once that had happened did the Dunmer become aware of a human girl, the very same one she had seen earlier playing an instrument, attempting to talk with her. She smiled at the human. “Tis quite alright, child. You needn’t bring me anything more, though I do appreciate the drink. I’m just not fond of sitting too close to the fire. You understand, I'm sure. ” She left her explanation at that, as if that was all anyone needed to hear. As if all people shared her perception of fire. She sipped the drink set down in front of her. “Fruity. And sweet.” Inzoliah offered, rather flatly, though her words were meant sincerely.

Instead of finding offense in her use of ‘child’, Joy seemed to find it endearing. It suggested to her that Inzoliah was older, and wiser, and in that respect she didn’t mind it at all. She wouldn’t correct her or dispute it. “Ah!” she exclaimed, her eyes widening as she watched the wick of the candle take flame. “Brilliant,” she added, turning to look back at the Dunmer - truthfully, Joy had always had some envy towards those who were talented with the arcane arts, it wasn’t something she’d had opportunity to learn about beyond reading the tales of it in books and hearing an anecdote from a traveller. “Do you think you could light that one?” she pointed a finger to a candle held in a sconce on the wall, asking with a twinkle of excitement in her eyes.

Taking another sip of the drink, Inzoliah raised her free hand and pointed her finger at the indicated sconce, after a moment a beam of fire leapt from the finger and struck with wick with well-practiced aim. She set the drink down and smiled again at the human girl. “Any other requests?” The Mage asked. To some mages, small tricks like those became tiresome once they had moved on to more esoteric spells. Not so for Inzoliah, any act of arcane arson also lit her up on the inside, no matter how small. Any request to do so was just an easy excuse in case things got out of hand. Not that it had helped her case in the past.

“I don’t know about that,” Joy admitted, casually glancing back over her shoulder to see if they were being watched. Solomon seemed the type who wasn’t much of a fan of a certain kind of hijinks in his Inn. Still, getting the woman to open up was a worthwhile pursuit, and so Joy found another sconce on the wall a little closer to them. “I wonder, Ma’am, if you don’t mind my prying, how do you get to learning a trick like that?” She asked with an encouraging smile — taking a seat opposite Inzoliah.

“Hah, well, my mother was a mage so maybe it just runs in my blood.” Inzoliah said, teasingly. She let her obviously unsatisfactory answer hang in the air before she spoke again. “Of course she must have learned somewhere and while I can’t speak to how she learned it- that must have been, oh around 300 years ago at this point- I learned it from her and then the Synod. Before it was called the Synod it was the Mages Guild.” Stopping her explanation for a moment she casually backhanded a blob of flame at the sconce and continued once the other torch had lit up. “Though I could always teach you the basics, for a fair price of course, after all I have to eat. ‘Tis fortunate though, if you wish to control flames now I can sell you this scroll I made tonight. No practice or prior talent needed, just read the inscription and hurl a fireball at whatever you wish.” The Dunmer slid the rolled up piece of vellum out of her pack and set it on the table.

Joy regarded the scroll for a moment, biting gently on her lower lip. “That’s a nice offer, but I don’t know when I’d get a chance to do that,” she rounded off her words with a girlish titter of a laugh. “Maybe on an overly enthusiastic drunk, who can’t keep his hands off. Send him into Oblivion with a kiss,” she laughed. “Between you and Mr Janus though, I’d be a spellsword in just about no time.”

“Funny you should say that. I’m banned from a duchy in eastern High Rock for something along those lines. Ah well, there’s time enough to learn later.” Inzoliah said, slightly disappointed and rolling the scroll back up.

They could barely hear Bruno muttering something along the lines of “lucky bastard” into his horn as he forced himself to take another swig of the sugary swill that Joy prepared for him.

Solomon tried Joy’s concoction while keeping a neutral, inscrutable expression and he swirled the drink around in his mouth for a while before swallowing. A few seconds passed until he nodded, looked at her and, finally, smiled. “I might keep you on as a barmaid after all,” he said, voice softening for the first time since she’d stepped inside The Loyal Hound.

Before he could say anything else, something knocked on the door, slowly and rhythmically and with a heavy hand. The innkeeper’s head whirled around, as if on a swivel, and he fixed his raptorian gaze on the door. A quiet hush fell over the common room.

Thud… thud…. thud....

The Elder Scrolls: Night of Pestilence

PROLOGUE

"Arkay, Guardian of the Dead, Lord of the Wheel of Life,
should the lives of our men be taken, guide them to Aetherius,
and protect them from being profaned, should the Aldmeri attempt
to raise them with foul magic."
_{- prayer to Arkay, anonymous}

Afternoon, 15th of Sun’s Height, 4E206
Common room of the Loyal Hound,
Kingdom of Daggerfall, Daenia, High Rock

_{with the ever-lovely @Stormflyx}

From his vantage point behind the bar of the inn, Solomon could see through the window outside that the shadows were already lengthening and the sky was slowly cycling from a brilliant ultramarine into a bruised violet. He looked at the candle clock in its little alcove in the thick stone wall and counted the markings left below the flickering wick. Scarcely four hours had passed since noon. “Even earlier than yesterday,” he muttered to himself. The innkeeper frowned deeper than usual and he exhaled slowly through his nose. It wasn’t right and it didn’t sit right with him either. Looking at the faces of the patrons of the Loyal Hound, either warming their hands by the fire or sat scattered throughout the common room at the various tables for a drink and a hearty meal, Solomon knew that it didn’t sit right with anyone. They were a varied bunch, travelers and locals alike. For example, he had spotted not one, but two Dunmer women already, and his professional curiosity idly wondered at what their purposes in the arse end of High Rock might be.

The place was rustically furnished. Disembodied stag and elk heads lorded over the two hearthfires, their glazed-over eyes staring into oblivion, and comfortable woolen rugs softened the roughness of the splintery floor panels. Wooden beams criss-crossed the open space below the slanted straw rooftop, old and sturdy, and a cast-iron chandelier cast a warm glow throughout the room. The rooms were off to the right, above the stables; a staircase, worn smooth by thousands of feet over untold years, led up to them. The kitchen was behind him and the sound of clattering pots and pans came from there as Lucy, the old cook, was cooking up her signature stew.

Outside, the fields and forests of the region of Daenia stretched out as far the eye could see. This close to Daggerfall, the dense woodland that had originally dominated the land had been thinned out to make way for agriculture, and the Loyal Hound was situated in the middle of two fields of amber grain, split in twain by a meandering dirt road. The village of Hamthorn was nearby and the road was populated by nervous farmers and laborers returning home. None dared to stay out in the fields once the unnatural dusk began to descend, though some risked popping into the wayside inn for a meal or a drink.

Solomon rapped his knuckles on the bar subtly when he caught the eye of Henry emerging from the stables. The boy looked suitably chastised and quickly set about to clearing out an empty table. Nothing went by the spymaster unnoticed. He knew that Henry had lingered longer than his allotted break time to talk to a local farmer’s daughter. As if on cue, she emerged from the stables, feigning ignorance but with a tell-tale blush on her cheeks. She avoided meeting Solomon’s gaze and the ghost of a smile tugged imperceptibly at the corner of the Imperial’s mouth behind his mustache. When Henry chanced a glance to gauge his master’s response, however, Solomon shot him an icy glare and the boy turned back to his work faster than a hare fleeing a hound.

An indignant bark echoed through the room and Solomon looked over to see two men he knew as farmhands holding a piece of bacon over Sirius’ head, keeping it just out of reach of the shaggy dog. Growing tired of their teasing, Sirius suddenly leapt up and snatched the morsel out of the Breton’s hand, toppling him backwards out of his chair in the process. Uproarious laughter erupted around him from his friends. Sirius wagged his tail innocently and returned to Solomon’s side, his tongue lolling out of his smiling jaws.

“Good boy,” he mumbled and scritched the dog’s head obligingly. Sirius was the only employee in the place that Solomon couldn’t deny anything.

It had felt like a long day, a long day that was already being cut short by the waning sun. High Rock, and in particular, Daggerfall, was not Skyrim. The Nord who walked the gravelled paths felt out of place, even with her summer olive complexion, she did not feel any more at home in this kind of countryside. The lute and lyre that hung over her shoulder only drew eyes to her, alerting her to those who were around as a stranger. But Joy had no choice, she’d wandered to most of all the establishments with little luck of employment -- people were wary, and understandably so.

The woman reached into the pocket of her apron, reminding herself of the few coins she had left. A loud bark pulled her from that thought as she approached the doors of The Loyal Hound. This was to be her last stop for the night, if the proprietor did not accept her as an employee, she would be spending the last of that coin to at least room for the night.

Before she entered, the red-head took a deep breath, puffing out her chest as she adopted a more powerful pose, letting confidence flow through her -- the rejections of the day did not bother her, not as much as her empty stomach was, anyway.

Her old, tattered boots shuffled across the floor as her gaze tracked the room slowly, looking for who appeared most likely to be the owner. She had an eye for it. If she felt out of place outside, she did not inside. This was her world, it always had been. There he was, the rather sour and tired looking gentleman behind the bar. She approached him with a spring in her step as if she already worked here, and had for years.

Joy came calmly to the bar, propping her elbow there, flashing a smile at the gentleman behind it. “Why so glum?” she asked as a twinkle fell into her eyes and her other arm came down upon the surface. “It might never happen, you know.”

Solomon looked over to see a red-haired woman smiling up at him. Sirius, curious who had interrupted his scritching time, came around the bar and sniffed the hem of her apron. The innkeeper himself raised a single eyebrow, a well-practiced expression as evidenced by the wrinkles in his forehead. He had never seen her before, so she was not likely to be a local, and the olive tan of her skin informed him that she was equally unlikely to be a Breton. An Imperial, perhaps, like himself, though the brightness of her eyes and the fire of her hair told a different story. “Can I help you, miss?” he asked, his servile question and aloof tone of voice betraying nothing.

The dog at her side was a distraction, quite frankly she had not seen an animal of that size before, and she stiffened slightly as Sirius sniffed. Quickly she sensed that he had no inclination of aggression towards her. “Good boy,” she muttered slowly down at him, wondering if there was a crumb of food in her pockets that he had noticed. She gingerly placed her hand out for him to investigate, before turning back to the owner. “Actually,” she replied with a smile, “I was hoping that I could help you.”

Joy was certain that he would have seen his fair share of wanderers come by with the same tactics, and from his response to her so far -- she was half expecting a roll of his eyes. “I’m the best barmaid that’s ever walked into your inn,” she said confidently, closing her eyes briefly to flash a beaming smile at him. “So it’s your lucky day.”

“You don’t say,” Solomon retorted dryly. He had to admit that the girl had spunk and that was an important trait for a good barmaid to have, but he looked past her into the common room -- a Breton with curly hair and and a fair complexion was collecting empty mugs from the tables, smiling at the patrons and laughing at their jokes. “I have a barmaid as it is,” he said and his eyes shifted back to the woman in front of him. “What makes you think you could do a better job than she does, hm?”

“Oh you do, do you?” Joy asked playfully, widening her eyes in expression of surprise, leaning back from the bar to peer left and right in search of her. Without so much as another look around the room, she brought herself closer to the owner again, mischief in her eyes. “I didn’t realise… Only because those three gentleman by the window, their glasses are empty.” Joy paused, gazing fearlessly into his eyes. “There’s also an older lady waving her hand behind me, she’s been waving for a little bit now…” She sighed slowly, turning her eyes to the ground - acting out bashfulness. “I’m not going to lie Sir, it’s also… Very… Quiet in here.”

Once more, Joy sighed, letting her shoulders drop as she took to her seat on the stool in front of Solomon. “But I’m sure your barmaid will get to it soon…”

The innkeeper hummed once, but said nothing. Instead, he poured the woman a drink -- a fresh apple cider -- and found a few glasses to clean. While wiping them down with a washcloth, his eyes darted from what he was doing to the movements of Jenny the barmaid around the common room and the people that had been pointed out to him. Sure enough, the drinks of the three men by the window were empty, and there was an older woman that was visibly eager to order something. However, while he watched and waited, Jenny noticed these same things too, and after delivering the round of mugs for Solomon to clean, she promptly attended to the patrons in question.

“There,” he said curtly and glanced at the redhead at his bar. It was impossible to tell whether he was amused or annoyed. “She did get to it.” Solomon thought over everything she’d said and his eyes landed on the instruments she carried with her. He gestured towards them with a dirty mug. “I suppose those aren’t for show then, miss…?”

“Joy. Just Joy.” The Nord said happily, before she shushed herself. If he had been expecting her to give up, he was going to be disappointed. This time, she gave him but a slight smirk, taking the cider into her hand, letting him have his little win. Joy just watched him cleaning the glasses as she took her first sips. It was a well flavoured drink, that was to be sure, and she held out the glass and admired it in silence, watching the sediment from the cider sink to the bottom.

“They’re for a show,” she answered eventually, reaching over her shoulder to take hold of the lute, placing the lyre on the bar carefully. It was a delicate looking thing, far more pristine than the lute - which appeared to have seen better days entirely. “Are you asking me to play you a song, Sir?”

He thought about that for a moment. Solomon wasn’t a big fan of music -- or anything he considered frivolous, truth be told -- but he had to admit that that wasn’t the case for most people, and given the unease and the tension in the air, perhaps… Before he had anything to say about that, however, Solomon narrowed his eyes at her. “Joy? That’s it?” The suspicion that she was traveling under a false name came to him immediately and, leaning in, his piercing gaze inspected her closely, as if he was trying to look right through her. “Hm,” he grumbled and returned to his original distance between them. “What is that, a stage name?”

She blinked quickly as he came closer to her, and his question caused her to falter in her answer, her smile briefly faded - more from being forced to think about it. “It’s just…” she muttered out, clutching at the lute in such a way that she inadvertently plucked a string. “That’s just my name…” she finished, a brow arched. She cleared her throat when he moved back and frowned, playing off the moment with a cartoonish pout. “You don’t believe me do you?”

Her reactions were too sincere to be faked, Solomon knew, and he sniffed once before he turned back to the mugs that still needed cleaning. “Two hours of music, miss Joy,” he said, the washcloth deftly swirling through a particularly large mug that looked fit for an Atmoran. “You’ll have a meal and a bed for the night, and you keep half of any tips you collect.” The spymaster looked up at last, regarding Joy sternly with ice-gray eyes. “Are these terms acceptable to you?”

He would have barely finished speaking, and Joy had unbuttoned her cloak, revealing a much more flamboyant doublet underneath. It was quilted, and an attractive shade of teal. Without so much as a word from her own mouth, she had hoisted herself up onto the bar, her thumb pressing the strings of her instrument to mute them from anymore accidental plucks.

As Joy fashioned herself into as alluring (and still comfortable) of a position as she could, she glanced over her shoulder to catch Solomon’s eye once again, the smile of victory played across her lips. “You won’t regret it… Mr…?”

The aquiline arch of his brow deepened at Joy’s forward and unfettered attitude and he considered rebuking her for climbing on top of his bar without his permission, but one glance at the common room was enough to see the sea of faces that had turned to look at this unexpected spectacle. He sighed. “Antabolis. But call me Solomon.”

Lowering her head into a respectful bow for her temporary employer, she couldn’t help but find the last word for herself; “I shall consider the night a success, only when I can see your smile, Mr Solomon.”

He rolled his eyes at that, threw the washcloth over his shoulder and made himself scarce. Sirius rose from the floor and followed him, bushy tail wagging lazily.

The Elder Scrolls: Night of Pestilence

THE PARTY

Solomon Antabolis | Imperial | 54 | ♂️ | The Tower | One-Handed | Willpower & Agility

Penitus Oculatus agent & innkeeper

Joy | Nord/Imperial | 31 | ♀ | The Serpent (unknown) | Speechcraft | Willpower & Personality

Barmaid, bard & aspiring novelist

Janus Kresimir Ex Pallido, Big Jan | Colovian Imperial | 42 | ♂️ | The Steed | One-Handed | Willpower & Intelligence

Vagabond & retired warrior

Inzoliah | Dunmer | ~100 | ♀ | The Ritual | Destruction | Intelligence & Luck

Pyromancer, pyromaniac & pyrophobe

Bruno Thunder-Blood | Nord | 41 | ♂️ | The Lord | Survivalist | Endurance & Strength

Shepherd, hunter & craftsman

Sihava Blackthorn | Dunmer/Nord | 31 | ♀ | The Shadow | Sneak & Illusion | Agility & Personality

Priestess of Noctural & thief

Sinalare | Bosmer | 50 | ♀ | The Steed | Destruction & One-Handed | Agility & Intelligence

Mercenary & former Dominion soldier

The Elder Scrolls: Night of Pestilence

Solomon Antabolis

“Every regime is built on a foundation of blood.”

Name: Solomon Antabolis, the Slaughterfish.
Race: Imperial.
Sex: Male.
Age: 54.
Birthsign: The Tower.
Origins: The Imperial City, Cyrodiil.

Appearance: Tall and wiry, Solomon has the build and body of a someone used to tough conditions and hard work. There isn’t a gram of excess fat beneath his skin and the sinewy musculature of his limbs make him deceptively strong and nimble for a man of his age. He has a warrior’s scars and calluses, seemingly at odds with his profession as innkeeper, that speak of a hard-fought existence. If fate had tilted ever so slightly at various points in his past, Solomon would undoubtedly have joined his father and his brothers in the afterlife long ago.

The Imperial possesses a long and narrow face, weathered and tanned by the sun and dominated by strong, hawkish features. His brows are sharp and angular, making it seem as if he is frowning or sneering at all times, and one could cut themselves on his high and prominent cheekbones. Gaunt cheeks end in a downturned mouth with modest lips, partly covered by the full and somewhat ruddy mustache -- the tips just long enough to twirl when lost in thought -- and goatee that he chooses to wear. The Imperial’s age is evident not only in the deep lines in his face but also in his receding hairline, creating a widow’s peak in his dark hair that is emphasized even further by his swept-back, practical style. His only touch of fashion is a single silver stud earring in his left earlobe.

His mannerisms are reserved and deliberate, speaking in the clipped tones of a soldier and moving with the understated elegance of a man conserving energy for when he fears he might need all of it. Solomon’s expression is almost invariably inscrutably neutral, with piercing, heavy-lidded eyes, pale as the autumn sky, that see even the most minute hints of dishonesty with alarming perceptiveness. Slow to smile and seemingly bereft of joy, there is precious little warmth to be found in him, spoken or otherwise, but he strikes a capable and dependable image -- a man with many qualities and hidden talents.

Solomon is usually dressed in practical and understated clothes of simple make and muted colors. A common outfit is a white linen shirt beneath a black jacket, a pair of leather vambraces, brown pantaloons stuffed into sturdy black boots and a belt around his waist. He owns a fur-lined greatcoat for the colder winter months (or, recently, the unseasonably cold nights) which is probably the most expensive piece of clothing in his armoire. Solomon prefers any armor he might wear to be lightweight enough to afford him full freedom of movement, in line with the Imperial leather armor he wore during his time with the Legion.

A permanent presence by his side is his dog Sirius, a large, shaggy, wolf-like shepherd with fur as black as the night and eyes like gold, after who Solomon’s roadside inn is named. He is five years old, still in excellent health, loyal to a fault and ferocious in defense of his master. However, Sirius prefers to laze by the fire and snack on other people’s generosity as often as he can get away with it.

History: The Antabolis family had a rich military tradition in the Fourth Era, with almost every man in the family serving with the Legion at one point or another in their lives. Solomon was practically raised with his father’s war-stories and he grew up full of adoration for him. He was not alone in that regard, and Solomon did not fail to notice the respect his father commanded in Imperial society. Being the youngest of three sons, Solomon deeply desired to prove himself and coveted such respect for his own. As brothers are wont to do, Solomon was frequently picked on by Lucius and Bram but always struck back twice as hard, even from a young age. His father, Gabriel, saw the ‘fire that burns in his heart’ and encouraged it, nurturing it in his own way: he did not intervene and let the three brothers quarrel, much to his wife’s exasperation. Not that Gabriel was home often anyway. The middling years of the second century of the Fourth Era were turbulent times and the Legion was often deployed throughout the Empire to keep the peace. Solomon yearned for his father’s approval and he struggled with Gabriel’s long absences, but whenever his father was home he would take the time to sit down with Solomon and explain to him the necessity of his work. These were lessons that the young Imperial never forgot.

He took to his education, both martial and academic, with more apparent talent and enthusiasm than either of his brothers, working tirelessly and often forgoing the normal diversions of childhood to study or practice more. When Lucius and Bram were out playing on the streets, Solomon was swinging his wooden sword in their house’s practice yard, or pouring over books and scrolls with unrelenting dedication. More than any of his peers, Solomon paid close attention to the news of the day and to his father’s words, especially when Gabriel thought none of children were listening, and Solomon discerned that which many did not, or did not want to: war was brewing. The boy wanted to be ready.

He was still a young man, only recently trained and accepted into the ranks of the Imperial Legion as a legionnaire under the illustrious command of Captain Carius, when the Great War between the Empire and the Dominion broke out. The horrifying reality of the battlefield came as a shock to the system of many of Solomon’s kinsmen, but the young Antabolis had been bracing himself for years. He fought tirelessly in the white-knuckle battles, frequently lost and only survived by the skin of his teeth, that were waged in the first years of the war along Cyrodiil’s southern borders. The sieges of Leyawiin, Bravil, and many more skirmishes in the forests and fields in between forced him to become a hardened combat veteran in no time.

His Legion suffered great casualties and Solomon climbed the ranks at breakneck pace, forced to replace far more experienced superiors as they fell on the battlefield, or as they were slain in their beds during the nighttime Thalmor raids. Morale was low and the advance of the Dominion seemed inexorable as Lord Naarifin marched his armies slowly towards the Imperial City over the next two years. The Imperials were forced to retreat repeatedly and Solomon grit his teeth whenever they had to give up more ground and abandon yet another city to the elves. He was determined to offer up more resistance than Captain Carius could manage. And so, within the Third Legion, Solomon gathered a group of likeminded soldiers to his side in secret to return the Thalmor’s favor. They snuck out of the Imperial encampment at night to wage a war of terror on the pursuing Dominion forces under the cover of darkness. They marked themselves to one another by subtly inscribing their leather vambraces with the likeness of the slaughterfish -- ripping and tearing from the depths only to disappear when the sun rose. It was not without risks and many of them died in the line of duty, but there were always more soldiers that were willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for emperor and country.

After two years of bloodshed and destruction, Carius had rejoined the Third Legion with the Emperor’s own forces in the Imperial City. This saw Solomon reunited with his family -- by some miracle, all the Antabolis brothers had survived the war thus far, and even their father, Gabriel, was still alive, although gravely wounded. He was cared for by his own wife in his own home and often visited by his son whenever they were rotated off duty as he recovered slowly. Bloody fighting continued outside of the City’s walls as Lord Naarifin attempted to encircle the capital entirely and cut it off from reinforcements. It was a slow and hard-fought process as the Imperials made the elves pay dearly for every inch of ground they surrendered around the Niben and many spectacular naval battles were fought in the waters around the Imperial City over the course of the next two years.

For it wasn’t until 4E174 that the elves began their final, massive assault on the Imperial City. Against all of his advisors’ words, the Emperor decided to abandon the city and fight their way free, breaking north towards reinforcements from Skyrim. This was a bitter pill for Solomon to swallow -- he was loathe to leave his home for the Dominion to desecrate, and he knew the innocent population would be subjected to great horrors at the hands of the Altmer. Even worse, what was a national tragedy turned into a personal one. Gabriel fought and died with the Eight Legion’s heroic last stand, defending the rearguard of the retreating Legions against the vengeful elves as they fled the city, leaving the Antabolis brothers suddenly deprived of their beloved father. They each broke ranks in the chaos and personally escorted their heartbroken mother from the city, wading knee-deep through rows of corpses in the streets and the fields outside the walls, facing off against all manner of Daedric summons from the Dominion’s sorcerers. It was hell on Tamriel and for the first time, Solomon found the strength of his spirit wavering. How had they not just definitively lost the war? An Empire without the Imperial City was no Empire at all. Mankind seemed doomed.

But there was barely any time to reflect on that. The Emperor relentlessly marched his soldiers north until they were out of range of the Dominion and they found refuge in Bruma, where the Antabolis brothers left their mother in the loving care of distant relatives they had up there. But even now, their respite was brief. The Empire still had need of them as the Emperor began to draft up his plan to retake the Imperial City the following year. The borders of Bruma needed to be defended against the occasional prodding attack or Dominion scouting party. It was in these seemingly trivial engagements that Lucius lost his life to a stray elven arrow. Solomon was angered by the apparent pointlessness of it all, but he let his anger fuel his resolve. Battered, bloody and close to broken -- for Solomon had sustained many injuries and close brushes with death of his own over the past five years -- he still persevered and reconvened the lodge of the Slaughterfish to his side. They were just thirteen men and women now, but they swore a blood oath to find and kill as many elves as they could, independent of the Legions’ orders. They struck forth from Bruma and returned south, using their knowledge of the land against the foreign invaders. The Slaughterfish warriors spent six grueling winter and spring months hiding in the forests of Cyrodiil, striking against the forces of the Dominion wherever they found then, though shying away of assaults on well-fortified positions. They picked off patrols and scouts, nailing corpses of Thalmor officials clad in black and gold to the trees, taunting and striking fear into their enemies. After the winter was over there were only four of them left, but their guerilla tactics had seen them inflict their own casualties on the elves many times over. It was grim work and Solomon saw some of his kinsmen lose themselves to the bloodthirst, becoming shadows of their former selves, dehumanized by their own actions. But not him. He took no pleasure in the murder and slaughter, but it was necessary. The Emperor had not abandoned the Imperial City yet. The Dominion had to be as weakened as much as possible for the inevitable counterattack.

It came in 4E175. Solomon and his surviving Slaughterfish warriors linked up with the marching Legions once they learned that the Emperor was moving south was once more. Their desertion, aided by their substantial collection of elven ears, was forgiven, for the Imperials needed every able-bodied soldier to win the ultimate battle of the Great War. Solomon was placed under the command of his own brother, Bram, as Captain Carius hoped that his older brother would be capable of reigning him in and keeping him disciplined. Solomon found it hard to defer to Bram, who he considered a lesser warrior for waiting in Bruma while Solomon had been out there to bring the fight to the Dominion, and the two brothers had many vehement arguments -- just like the old days. But they set aside their differences once and for all on the eve of what would become the most famous battle in the Empire’s history: the Battle of the Red Ring.

For five days, the relentless soldiers of the Empire drove the Dominion back in a three-pronged attack. Solomon, cold-hearted and pitiless, fought in the vanguard of the Emperor’s own forces as they assaulted the city from the north. Thousands of his fellow soldiers fell around him as the elves put up ferocious resistance, but Solomon would not be denied. His sword and armor were gore-drenched by the time they breached the walls and he dug up energy from reserves he did not even know he had. The sight of the Emperor himself, Goldbrand held aloft, leading the assault, fortified his resolve and the Imperials swept the elves like a tsunami while the Nords and the warriors from Hammerfell attacked the city from other angles.

The very last battles fought in the war, street to street in the dark and blood-soaked husk of the sacked Imperial City, were the hairiest fighting Solomon had ever seen. The elves were tenacious, he had to give them that, and he did not sleep for more than fifty hours straight during the final days of the assault, driving the elves back, inch by inch, towards White-Gold tower. The Imperials sang songs of Pelinal Whitestrake, the hero who had slain the Ayleids in ages past, and they spilled elven blood on the cobblestones in imitation of the ancient histories. Not even Bram’s death, torn apart by angry Atronachs, could diminish Solomon’s resolve. They were on the cusp of victory. There was no room for sorrow. Their war-horns and battlecries echoed through the halls and corridors of White-Gold tower. And at last, on the eve of the fifth day, the Emperor’s personal forces apprehended Lord Naarifin. The battle was over. The war was won.

For five years, Solomon had fought. Five years worth of blood took a long time to wash out of his proverbial clothes, and so for five more years, Solomon rested. He retired from the Legion and returned to his ancestral home, ruined but still standing, now the last Antabolis left in the Imperial City. His mother, unwilling to return to the site of the death of so many of her family, remained with her relatives in Bruma, and slowly diminished before dying peacefully in her sleep.

Nightmares plagued Solomon and there was a tight-wound tension in his limbs, knots of stress and alertness, that took years to ease and come loose. He accidentally almost killed not one, but two men in two different incidents in which they were foolish enough to wake him from his restless sleep. Normal life slowly resumed in Cyrodiil, but Solomon found himself unable to hold down a job and he burned through his family’s remaining wealth in order to keep his himself clothed, fed and housed. He spent night after night stalking the empty halls of his home and frequently drowned his memories in booze, getting into trouble with his neighbours and with the local guard -- they had a soft spot for him because of his status as a war hero, but there was only so much that they could ignore. It wasn’t until 4E180 that someone appeared on the doorsteps of his house and rescued Solomon from himself.

The stranger turned out to be an Intendant of a newfound order, the Penitus Oculatus, a man by name of Karthus Marin. He had learned of Solomon’s activities as the leader of the Slaughterfish warrior lodge during the winter of 4E174. Solomon shrugged, half-drunk and apathetic, expecting a full court-martial by this so-called Penitus Oculatus business for his desertion and the reckless endangerment of the men and women under his command, but instead Karthus came with an unexpected offer: he extended an invitation for Solomon to join the order. Karthus explained that they needed men like him, men who would stop at nothing to fight the Empire’s enemies, who could operate autonomously outside of the direct chain of command and who did not shirk from assassination and torture to achieve their objectives. The Blades were no more and in the modern political landscape of Tamriel, the Emperor required a more… ruthless secret police force, properly integrated within the Imperial government, and loyal to a fault. With no other prospects and no other way of putting his experience or his skills to use, Solomon agreed.

It turned out to be exactly the push he needed to find his park once more. He managed to kick the booze habit as his training began in the order’s exclusive library in the White-Gold tower. Solomon’s fellow initiates were men and women of action that were each as interesting and as capable as he himself was, and he was inspired by them to put himself back together and pursue excellence once more. The dedicated student he had once been, almost washed away permanently in the baptism of blood that had been the Great War, was reborn in the dim candlelight and the hushed whispers of the library under the tutelage of the knowledgeable Professors of the Penitus Oculatus. When his old comrades asked him during their weekly game of cards what had happened to him to turn his life around like that, Solomon could only shrug and say that time healed all wounds. He had to keep his status as an Initiate secret to everyone, but he found that it wasn’t hard to do. The rejuvenated and sober Solomon had made a conscious effort to remember his father’s lessons about the importance of order and the rule of law, and he placed his loyalty to the Empire -- and to due diligence, discretion and operational security -- above all else. He would no longer go rogue and act as he saw fit. His defiant temperament had been tempered by age and experience, and a more reserved, calculating Solomon was born.

Even so, upon his graduation from the academy and his promotion to field agent, his asset designation was to be ‘Slaughterfish’. Solomon could only laugh to himself, and he decided to let it serve as a reminder of the man he could be when the chips were down. His work saw him travel across the width and breadth of Tamriel in the decades that followed and the development of his skills continued. Simple, but deceptively useful magic spells became a part of his arsenal, he learned how to hide in plain sight, observing his targets from right under their noses and he mastered the art of silent assassination, of which a hidden dagger stuffed up his sleeve in a spring-loaded mechanism became an instrumental part. With these skills, Solomon quietly put down an insurrection in Morrowind in 4E183 by capturing the leader of the secession movement and turning him in to face proper Imperial justice; in 4E188, he operated in the shadows of the Bravil Riots to assassinate the two Skooma kingpins that were responsible for the chaos in the city; he spent a few years behind enemy lines in Elsweyr and Valenwood during the 190s, tracking the movements of Kilvayne One-Eye, infamous extrajudicial vigilante; and in 4E200, he investigated a secretive religious movement in the underbelly of Breton society that whispered of dark days to come.

It was an illustrious career that should have led to a high position among the order’s ranks, but fate decreed otherwise. Titus Mede II could not be saved from a Dark Brotherhood assassin’s blade in the final days of the Stormcloak Rebellion. The Penitus Oculatus was sternly reprimanded for being unable to save the Emperor’s life by the Elder Council and many existing agents were sidelined or demoted. Solomon, through no fault of his own by virtue of not even being in Skyrim at the time, was told to remain in High Rock and relegated to simple intelligence gathering, stripped of his field agent autonomy and his license to kill. His only responsibility became to monitor the loyalty of the mercurial and deceitful Bretons, and he was given the deed of ownership to a run-down inn to the northeast of Daggerfall. The whole thing was dressed up as an important task, for (allegedly) the last thing the Empire needed was another rebellion in another province, after Hammerfell’s secession and the Civil War in Skyrim, but Solomon knew that there was little chance of an organized insurrection by the Bretons, who preferred to quabble amongst themselves. His assignment was a political one, to get him out of the way of appointments that the new Emperor deemed… more reliable. “The Slaughterfish has been defanged,” his young (and dubiously qualified) replacements joked. Solomon swallowed his pride and let his loyalty to the Empire rule his actions, settling quietly into his new role as innkeeper without making a fuss.

After so many years of blood and intrigue, Solomon had to admit that it was somewhat pleasant to have a peaceful existence devoid of violence. He was still as fit and capable as ever, but he was getting on in age, and there had never been a field agent that had died in their own bed. Solomon took to the profession of innkeep as seriously as he took to any other endeavour in his life and turned the newly-rechristened Loyal Hound, named after the dog he decided to purchase for companionship, into a well-run and profitable operation. As for his work with the Penitus Oculatus, Solomon still took his posting seriously and he diligently reported back to his superiors in the Imperial City every week, making sure to catalogue and document every whisper and rumor he heard in his inn.

Recently, these rumors have taken a particularly dark turn....

Personality: Solomon is a complicated man with a harrowing and blood-soaked past. He has long since lost count of how many people he has killed on the field of battle or in the line of duty and their faces continue to haunt him frequently in his dreams, for it has never given him any pleasure to take a life, but he does not regret any of it. He has always done whatever had to be done to save and preserve the Empire, and he will always continue to do so. It is his loyalty, and not any particular penchant for violence or bloodthirst, that is Solomon’s most defining quality, even though his actions, observed in a vacuum, will seem like those of a man obsessed with death and slaughter.

And all this death and slaughter has undeniably had a jading effect on him. Solomon cares about the people of the Empire he works to protect, but only in an abstract way. He has seen too many people die, including his whole family, and slain too many people with his own hands, to readily connect with other people on a personal level. The vast majority of them can never understand what Solomon went through, and after everything he has done, Solomon cannot really understand them. Boundaries and sensibilities that are normal to people from civilized society have been eroded in him, and even his manners have been diminished by the life of a soldier and a spymaster to the point that it requires conscious effort on his part not to speak brusquely, far too used to giving orders and having them obeyed. All that said, he means well, and his morals and sense of justice are as ironclad as ever. One can rely on Solomon for leadership and unwavering determination in the face of danger and he makes for a fairn, if stern, employer in his tenure as innkeeper.

He has never had much time for romance in his life -- the phrase ‘married to his work’ applies here -- and his only experiences with physical intimacy have been with women of the night. Solomon is secretive, reserved and slow to trust, preferring to keep people either at arm’s length or in a subordinate position to him so that he does not have to deal with prying questions he cannot afford to answer in all honesty. Lying comes as second nature to him after so many years with the Penitus Oculatus but he does not like to engage in it without good reason, and it is easier to simply stop people from asking questions in the first place. However, his loyalty does extend ferociously to cover the people he admits into his inner circle and he has never readily abandoned anyone under his command during his entire life.

Ice runs through his veins and Solomon is supremely good at staying calm and focused while under great duress. He is resourceful, quick at thinking on his feet and impervious to threats. Having survived everything the world has thrown at him thus far says little about his fear of death; Solomon is perfectly willing to take immense risks and put his life on the line if the situation calls for it. One of his weaknesses, however, is that he can tunnel-vision onto a particular goal in the heat of the moment and he has to make a conscious effort to take a step back and look at the bigger picture. Experience has taught him that even the best-laid plans are usually ruined as soon as the situation begins to develop, so he prefers to improvise and work with whatever is available, and this focus on the here-and-now means he sometimes doesn’t think as far as ahead as he should.

Like practically all Imperials, Solomon believes in the Nine Divines -- the Thalmor can pry his private Talos worship from his cold, dead hands. It has been a long time since the Great War, but Solomon definitely hasn’t gotten over his prejudice towards Altmer, Bosmer and Khajiit since then and he is often unreasonably paranoid about their true natures or intentions.

Equipment:

Steel falchion: Solomon’s primary weapon; simple, unadorned and practical. It is old but well-maintained and it fits his grip like a glove. The crossguard is curved into an S-shape that lets him trap his opponent’s weapon to disarm them.

Hidden blade: A spring-loaded steel blade, no larger than a dagger and only as wide as Solomon’s thumb, is built into the vambrace worn on his right arm. With a flick of his wrist the blade extends with enough power to punch through an unsuspecting target’s jugular, and with another flick it is withdrawn and concealed once more. Very useful for assassinations.

Lockpicking set: Getting in and out of places he isn’t supposed to be in is one of Solomon’s most important skills as a spy for the Penitus Oculatus. He keeps his lockpicks stuffed in a special pouch on his belt, should he ever need them.

Misc. Possessions:

Map of High Rock: Comprehensive and up-to-date. The margins are scribbled full of notes.

Money: 200 septims on his person at all times, used to pay his employees’ wages at the end of every day.

Imperial rosetta: Carefully concealed on his person, for this marks him as an agent of the Penitus Oculatus. Used as a badge of office, can be used to extend his full authority with Imperial officials.

Family and Associations:

Family: Deceased.

Imperial Legion: There are still plenty of Solomon’s old war-buddies kicking around the Empire, and he has friends almost anywhere.

Penitus Oculatus: His relationship with the secret order has cooled off over recent years and many of the people and superiors he was closest to have been replaced after Titus Mede II’s assassination. Still, he is an official agent and he can count on their support.

The Loyal Hound: As innkeeper, Solomon maintains a professional relationship with his employees; they include a barmaid, a cleaner and a stable boy.

Favored Attributes:

Major: Willpower.
Minor: Agility.

Favoured Skills:

Highly Proficient: One-Handed.
Moderately Proficient: Destruction, Sneak, Alteration.
Somewhat Proficient: Lockpicking, Acrobatics, Speech.

Spell List: Flames, Fireball, Sparks, Lightning Bolt, Ice Spike, Telekinesis, Detect Life, Magelight.

The Elder Scrolls: Night of Pestilence

“Now comes the night of ruin. The Serpent shall summon the dark. The barriers between the planes will be weakened. Now comes the long march of the dead and the return of the black jaws of Oblivion. Dawn’s Beauty will be cleansed. The impure will fall. The sinner will suffer. This time, there will be no Hero to save them, for the Scrolls are silent. Believe me, my children… when it is done, when the lands run red with blood, balance will be restored.”
_{- Aurelius, Lord of Moths}

This is (for now) a private, invite-only RP.

The year is 4E206. The Civil War in Skyrim is over and the Empire has brought peace back to the continent... albeit an uneasy one. In the height of summer, the days inexplicably grow short and the nights are cold and dark. The light of Masser and Secunda fades and the Serpent grows ascendent. Rumors abound of horrors in the shadows; of the dead rising from their graves and of the hellish beasts of Oblivion stalking the darkness. People huddle together in their homes and mothers clutch their babes close when night falls, and the roads grow emptier by the day. Ragged prophets proclaim the impending end of the world on street corners. Fear slowly, insidiously, spreads through the continent.

Others try to maintain normalcy and order; lords and ladies urge their underlings to keep working and that everything will be alright. Soldiers and city guards patrol the cities and the countryside, incoming goods and ships are inspected, and troublemakers are thrown in the dungeons, all attempts to prove that everything is under control and that there is nothing to worry about. But good news spreads slowly, and bad news sprouts wings.

In the midst of this, an unusually early night falls once more over the Loyal Hound, a wayside tavern northeast of Daggerfall. Locals and travelers alike warm their hands by the fire and their bellies with drinks as the proprietor, a taciturn Imperial by name of Solomon Antabolis, puts a wary lock on the door. None of them have actually seen any of the rumored walking dead or alleged Daedric monsters that move between the trees, but, well… better to be safe than to be sorry.

This is where our story begins.

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RULES, MECHANICS AND GUIDELINES

Rules

1. No Godmodding or power gaming of any kind. We're telling a story, not having a competition to see who is the biggest badass. Not to say you can't do awesome things when it comes around time for combat, but know your limitations. This includes self-insert characters, backstories that are designed to give the character access to abilities, skills, and equipment that would be considered an unfair or overpowered advantage, autokilling NPCs during fights with virtually no effort put into it, taking on a room full of people single handedly, meta gaming, trying to have everyone treat your character like they’re something unique and special, your character knowing things they shouldn’t, et cetera. The goal here is believable characters.

2. The writing standard is typical Advanced. Read what you wrote over before you post, and ensure you have acceptable spelling and grammar. That said, I'm not a perfectionist, and mistakes are made by everyone. Just make an honest effort and we'll get along just fine. Posting expectations are at least 2 detailed paragraphs per post, probably more, within a two week period. If you think short paragraphs and single lines are the best thing in the world, than I direct you to the free section. Failure to post within the 14 day period without a notification of absence will result in your ejection from the game, no refunds.

3. No speed posting. This means give other people a chance to post before you do. There won't be a strict posting order, but if I notice the same two people posting back and forward in a short time span without giving others involved in that group or conversation or whatever a chance to reply, I will not be happy. That said, if you have two characters conversing with each other, feel free to reply steadily back and forward if things are going slow. Just keep in mind posting expectations and if serious actions are taken during those posting, others will have to be taken into consideration.

4. If you are going to be absent for any length of time, please let me know. I’m not going to kill of your character or kick you to the curb because stuff came up. Real life comes first, but that said, do try to be fairly active. Your character will be controlled by a GM until you return. If you vanish without word for more than 14 days, you will be removed from the game and your characters written off or killed. Consider this your only warning.

5. If you disagree with contents of someone's posts, don't turn the OOC into some horrible flame fest. We're all hopefully mature enough to settle disagreements through logical discourse. If things start to go into flame war territory, I will warn the players. Failure to STFU will lead to your banishment from this RP with nothing more than an angri faec to accompany you and your character being killed off brutally. Probably after through ogre rape.

6. If you want to do something, and you aren't sure, ask in the OOC so it can be discussed. Or, if you want it to be a surprise, PM the GMs. If it's a good idea, we'll work it into the plot. I like to encourage creativity and think that all good RPs involve ideas from all their players. Sometimes this leads to amazing subplots and character development.

7. If you have questions or ideas for events, PM the GMs. Your input will help keep you not only invested, but it’ll give the GMs more fuel to work with for upcoming encounters and plot lines in the RP.

8. If you feel the need to start a romance between characters, that's cool. This isn't exactly a rated role play, and it’s bound to happen. I personally like to graphically describe violence and swear quite a bit, but if you feel the need to indulge in smut, please take that stuff to PM. 4 pages of graphic sex isn't going to save the world; it'll just cause everyone else to feel really awkward and need a cold shower afterwards. It is known.

9. Gary and Mary Sues will have a Morag Tong contract put on them that they will never, ever escape from. Probably because their legs will be eaten by ice wraiths and their body horribly maimed by hordes of angry hornets before the assassin gets to you. He's a local, and his name is Joe. He will ruin your day, Mr. or Miss. I Have No Flaws and Everyone Loves Me. The GMs may choose to do background checks to find out if you’re reliable and generally write at an acceptable quality, so beware that even if your character sheet is outstanding, if you’re argumentative, write at an unacceptable level, go AWOL frequently, power game, and so on, there’s a good chance you WILL NOT be accepted.

Equipment Guidelines

-Iron, steel, and leather: Very common and easy to come by and easy to afford. If your character possesses anything under these categories, you don’t need to justify having it.

-Elvish and Orcish: these are somewhat easy to come by, and both have their unique advantages. They both happen to be fairly expensive and aren’t nearly as common as the previous category. Elvish weapons tend to hold an edge better than steel and are very sharp, as well as being much lighter and more flexible than most metals. Orcish material is very hard, very durable, and very heavy. It’s more difficult to work with and shape, but once it will never fail and requires virtually no upkeep while not being quite as sharp or flexible as elvish works. Please explain how your character came to obtain these items somewhere in their backstory due to their uncommon nature.

-Dwemmer, or dwarven: This is relatively common in Skyrim, Morrowind, or Hammerfell if your character has been in the ruins. Most of their machines and defenses are still working, so chances are, your character is brave and tenacious if they got their hands on this stuff. Stores would sell limited stocks at pretty marked up prices considering how hard it is to obtain it.

-Ancient Nord: Really old weapons that somehow hold up over the years, they're crude and quite common in ancient nord temples, tombs, and ruins. The only problem is you usually have to deal with the drauger. And obviously, they're not nice zombie people. Stores wouldn't sell this stuff (it would be like going to a gun store and asking for a Brown Bess when there's the newest Remington rifle on sale).

-Solstheim Nordic Steel: Weapons made by the Skaal of Solstheim, it’s excellently crafted steel weaponry and armour of the highest caliber, but is quite rare to find outside of Solstheim, given its association with the Skaal.

-Stalhrim: A special, magic ice-crafted set of equipment that can only be forged by the greatest masters using techniques only known by the Skaal. Changes are, your character will have neither access to stalhrim, the equipment to mine it, or the knowledge to do anything with it. It is exceedingly rare stuff.

-Aleyid/Akavari: Similar to the ancient Nord weapons and gear, a long gone elvish civilization left behind a lot of Cyrodiilic ruins and the invaders from across the sea to the East in Akavar. However, no armour examples are known to exist and what little katanas they had left behind are extremely rare to come across. Please don’t write up a whole backstory of how your character obtained these because ‘lol, Japan is the best’. However, what examples remain are expertly crafted swords that have held up well over the years.

-Falmer and Forsworn: Both sets of weapons are crude but effective, and Falmer gear usually has poison chambers due to being constructed from Charrus chitin and other parts. Forsworn stuff is built out of raw materials from nature, much like how a native American would. You'd only ever obtain either by killing a Falmer or Forsworn, and even then, would you really want it?

-Glass and Ebony: Both of these are high-end, expensive, and extremely well made weapons and armour that you'd be lucky to ever find. Ebony gear originates in Morrowind, so it would be found among the rich and powerful there, and likewise, Glass gear comes from the Aldmari Dominion and is usually only found on their elite soldiers. While some examples find their way into Skyrim and Cyrodiil, it's very uncommon and you are a very attractive target for having them. Would you walk around with a rapper's amount of gold chains around your neck at night in a dark alley? Kind of the same thing. However, their quality is absolutely top-notch and while both weapons require a fair deal more upkeep than other materials (both incorporate types of glass in the construction in addition to metal), they are very desirable and dangerous. If your character possesses anything in this category, I would like a background justified and believable explanation for having it. I will not approve every CS that has glass and ebony in it because people think of it in video game statistic terms and therefore it will give them a competitive edge.

-Dragon: Dragons are all but extinct, and whatever remains are enslaved or in hiding. As such dragon scales and bone are extremely hard to come by. You can only find this in Skyrim, but as such, much of it has been confiscated by the Empire for archiving, equipping their own elite soldiers, or as museum pieces. It is extremely hard to work with dragon scales and bones, so even if someone obtained them, they'd have to be among the best to do anything with it. You very likely will never possess dragon materials.

-Daedric: The Oblivion crisis ended over 200 years ago, and as such, the presence of the daedra in Tamriel is so rare they may as well be myths to most people, and the few that do manage to cross dimensions certainly aren't going to hand it over. Even harder to obtain than dragon materials, a master smith would be hard pressed to find a daedra heart, and likely wouldn't know the process to create daedric metals and shape it into armour and weapons. You very much won't have possession of these, at all.

Any enchantments: Possible, but you'll need to find the soul gems to charge them. Also, they're expensive as hell if you're trying to buy them, and only talented mages know how to soul trap. Best become friends with an enchanter if you're poor. If your character is an enchanter, it looks like you may be popular. Keep your enchantments limited to the level of skill your character has in the skill section.

-Daedric artifacts: No. Just no.

Game Mechanics

1. You can only carry so much on your person at a time. Think of real life, are you going to be carrying a bow, a claymore, 3 daggers, a staff, 400 arrows, steel plate armour, just as many potions and scrolls, and every book out of the public library? Keep it reasonable, keep it realistic. Collecting loot should never be your goal. You should also specify how your character is carrying around most of their inventory.

2. No matter how strong, talented, and experienced your character is, you're still only mortal. If you're running into 15 bandits, your odds don't look good. A troll is going to be the fight of your life. Herd of mammoths? Run like hell. You sustain injuries; you may die if you encounter a situation that is suicidal.

3. Potions take time to work in most cases, so you're not going to get gutted by an axe and then look brand new by chugging Tamriel Energy Drink. It'll help your body mesh the wounds and heal you, and it takes time for it to eliminate poisons and disease. In short, be careful. On that note, chugging potion after potion isn't going to happen unless you happen to be a whale with the body mass to do so.

4. Scrolls take time to read, so if you're reading one in combat to cast something, make sure you have someone watching your ass and there isn't a group of Minotaurs looking to rip your arm off ten feet away.

7. Damage is realistic(ish), if you're hit by an ice spike or an arrow; you're going to need some serious medical attention if it hits something vital. But since this is Elder Scrolls, and potions work in ways that a platypus would say, "that's fucked up." People also aren’t going to die of an infection from a blade wound after three days of sickness or something. Point is, your character is mortal and will be taking wounds in combat.

8. Keep in mind that whatever weapons and armour you do have does not reflect how well your character is going to do in a fight or survive, so don’t doctor a CS around trying to make sure that they’re the best equipped person in the game so you have a combat advantage. There’s going to be badass bandits out there running around in fur armour and iron weapons who’ve killed more people than your character has ever met who will not care if your character is decked out in full ebony armour, a shield, and a long sword. He’s light and fast, you’re low and heavy, and experience trumps expensive weapons and armour almost every time. Try to give your character equipment that makes sense for who they are and what they’ve been through.

9. Weapons do not necessarily have to be what you find in the games, but follow it as a template. As such, things like spears, throwing knives, throwing axes, glaives, halberds, javelins, and flails are fair game, even if most of that didn’t appear in any of the Elder Scrolls games. However, that isn’t free reign to try to put something that is high-fantasy or just ridiculous into the game. Do try to keep things lore appropriate where possible, as well.

10. To keep things simple, we will not be permitting werewolf or vampire characters. It’s an extra layer of scrutiny to go through when reviewing character submissions, and there’s always a concern that players just want the conditions for the powers/ badass factor rather than for narrative purposes, as well as it complicates group dynamics because realistically, a character with said conditions would show symptoms sooner or later and likely be attacked before long because of it.

11. If you are trying to omit something in your character sheet saying that it will ‘be revealed later in the RP’ or just generally want to keep it a surprise, GMs need to be notified of the idea for approval and may be able to help incorporate ideas into the game.

12. Don’t have your characters have close personal relationships with canon characters. Its one thing to say you served under Ulfric Stormcloak, but we don’t want to hear about how you were lovers or poker buddies or something. We aren’t fans of shrinking the world and since people tend to have their own personal ideas of what these characters are like, we’re keeping any canon NPCs firmly under GM lock and key.

*All of the above has been borrowed from the VotD OOC as written by Dervish so it should be familiar to basically everyone reading this. I only include it for the sake of easy referencing, but I trust all of you, so you can skip all of this.

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COMPENDIUM

This will be filled in as the RP progresses to use as a detailed reference on the various unique factions, individuals and entities that appear in the story.

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CHARACTER SHEET

Click me!

[B]Name:[/B]
[B]Race:[/B]
[B]Sex:[/B]
[B]Age:[/B]
[B]Birthsign:[/B]
[B]Origins:[/B]
[B]Appearance:[/B]
[B]History:[/B]
[B]Personality:[/B]
[B]Equipment:[/B]
[B]Misc. Possessions:[/B]
[B]Family and Associations:[/B]
[B]Favored Attributes:[/B]
[B]Favoured Skills:[/B]
[Indent][B]Spell List:[/B][/Indent] (Note: Mages only, up to 7 spells)

Your character's Birthsign isn't very influential, but feel free to use some of the effects from the games to spice up your characters a little.

Pick two favored Attributes, one Major and one Minor, from the following list.

Strength
Intelligence
Willpower
Agility
Speed
Endurance
Personality
Luck

As for skills, you all know this system. Using the main skills of the game (two handed, smithing, destruction, illusion, lock picking, pick pocketing, shield, et cetera) things are rated by proficiency. You may have 1 highly proficient skill, 3 moderately proficient skills, and 3 somewhat proficient skills. You may, however, move up a class at the expense of another skill of the level below it (e.g. you pick 1 highly proficient at the cost of 2 moderately proficient). Likewise, you can gain more skills if you downgrade a skill (1 moderately proficient becomes two somewhat proficient, for example). Explain why your character is good at each skill in a brief sentence. This can include skills related to crafting or other professions.

[SPECIAL NOTE FOR MAGES]: For a quick understanding, Highly Proficient skills are equivalent of expert level spells, Moderately Proficient is Adept Level Spells, and Somewhat Proficient is Apprentice level. Keep that in mind when playing your character and picking your proficiencies. Please stick to spells you see in the games, but I’m not against combining some of them if it makes sense, but keep in mind your character would have to be exceptionally talented to do so. Run spell ideas by the GM if you aren’t sure for approval, but if you see it in the games, you should be okay.

Ask an Admin, v2.

Is there any specific personal goal(s) that you're working towards yourself as a Roleplayer or otherwise (aside from dealing with the public heat)?

@Hyde

Creating more villainous -- or, at the least, morally ambiguous -- characters that are primarily motivated by fear. Fear of failure, fear of defeat, fear of shame, fear of weakness, fear of death, fear of injury, disease or decay, of the world's end, of damnation... the list goes on. Malevolent characters driven and corrupted by fear are more relatable, I think, than any other kind. It's an avenue I want to further explore that I believe will make me a better writer.

Ask an Admin, v2.

Hey, @Ruby, I know you get a lot of public heat and stuff, and that could scare off a lot of people from wanting to be mods themselves. It kinda lead me to wonder: what's your favorite thing about being a mod? (I know the rules say to address only you, but I'd be interested to hear responses from any mod that wants to share, honestly.)

@Sanguine Rose

I've been on this site for 12 years. Being part of the staff was the biggest way I could contribute that I could think of. At some point you want to give something back, you know? In this case it's time and patience -- though I'm not nearly as active now as I once was, and mostly serve in a consulting position at the moment.

I still RP as much as I can. I'd probably be a more involved staff member if I wasn't writing so much, but I like to stay in touch with the reason this whole place even exists.

WH40k: New Frontiers and Promised Lands - A Rogue Trader Adventure

Kane

Name: Known under the alias ‘Kane’; real name abandoned.

Age: More than 600 years old.

Gender: Male.

Race: Astartes.

Appearance: Like all Astartes, the warrior known as Kane towers over the rest of the human species (Ogryns aside), measuring over seven feet from toe to tip at his full height. His skin is pale and riddled with scars, plasma burns and imperfections, owing to a life of war and a few slightly malfunctioning secondary organs, contrasting with the darkness in what remains of his raven, close-cropped hair and emphasizing the color in his bright blue eye -- singular, for his left eye is missing, the socket filled with a red-gazed and skeletal bionic replacement. In fact, the left side of his body is a wreck in general, riddled with bullet holes and burns. Even worse, Kane is missing two limbs: both his left arm and left leg were destroyed by bolter rounds, since amputated and replaced by crude prosthetics far inferior in quality to what one might expect from a Space Marine. He walks with a limp, owing to the poor alignment of his leg prosthesis with his hip, and the replacement for his missing arm is little more than a massive Astartes chainsword fixed onto a single-jointed steel stump; a weapon as unwieldy as it is deadly.

Even his Mark VII Aquila-pattern power armor, the signature piece of equipment of the Space Marines, is in dubious and visibly dilapidated condition. The ceramic and adamantine plates have been scoured black and grey by intense heat, are riddled with dents from bolter rounds and las-shots, and all heraldry has been removed. To accommodate Kane’s chainsword-arm, the left gauntlet of the armor has been removed, and the shin plates of the left leg have been amateurishly replaced with inferior steel. It rattles and clanks when it moves, the rebreather apparatus hisses and sighs with every breath, and the whole suit has a tendency to jam at inopportune moments. That said, its grim and deathly appearance gives it a foreboding quality that does quite well at intimidating lesser mortals.

Given that he only has one functional hand to operate a firearm with, Kane’s bolter has been relegated to a keepsake and a memento of better days. Instead, he has a las-pistol strapped to his thigh for emergencies and, more importantly, a custom-made, belt-fed auto-shotgun bolted to his armor. The weapon itself is mounted on the gauntlet of the remaining right arm of his power armor; all Kane has to do is ball his fist and point the open-choked and triple-barreled business end of the shotgun towards his enemies. The belt that feeds it loops around his side to his back, where a pack of shells is welded to the lower back of his armor, just beneath the exhaust pack. It is designed for point-blank engagements and each shot is capable of reducing an unarmored opponent into chunks of meat, but quickly loses killing power at range. The belt-fed mechanism allows Kane to keep firing until he runs out of ammo, though a dependable ally could refill the pack with shells while using the lumbering Space Marine as cover. The auto-shotgun’s lack of dexterity and precision requirements make it perfect for the one-handed warrior and Kane has learned to appreciate the terrifying effect its booming rapport and ricocheting pellets tends to have on enemy morale. Between the shotgun, his chainsword and his power armor, Kane remains a dangerous enemy in close-quarters… even though it is remarkably easy to run away from the ponderous, hobbling giant.

Personality: Kane has been shaped by the betrayal he has suffered at the hands of his Chapter and his Master. All of his brothers were killed during the fall of his Chapter, either by the traitors, his own hand, or by those that stood with him against the forces of Chaos. The brotherhood of the Astartes was all he knew and when it was brutally torn away from him forever, Kane fell into a deep darkness that he has only recently started trying to emerge from. He is slow to trust and quick to judge, fearing treason and heresy wherever he goes, while simultaneously unsure if he is still worthy of walking in the light of the Emperor and the Imperium himself. This inner conflict and the deep wounds of his trauma have made him cynical and jaded. Even his faith in the Emperor is wavering. But deep down, buried beneath all that, remain two hearts of gold and a man that wants to find a new place where he belongs: a new brotherhood to watch his back.

He never speaks of his past or his former Chapter and has relinquished all traditions and rituals that once defined the parameters of his life. Kane remains dedicated to fighting the enemies of the Imperium and of mankind in general, but he does not rightly know how to do that on his own and seeks allies to work with, as few and far between as they might be. Chaos has become his greatest foe, however, and he becomes quite irrational and inexorable when it comes to its extermination, willing to put himself at great risk to hunt down the servants of the Warp. However, with the rest of the Imperium believing the entirety of his Chapter to be heretics, he is forced to live a life of secrecy and shadows that has even attracted the malign attention of an Inquisitor. Kane despises this and desperately wishes he could cleanse himself of his Chapter’s sins. More immediately, perhaps, Kane seeks to upgrade his crude prosthetics and return to proper fighting shape -- if that is still possible.

In person, Kane is reserved and melancholic, full of dark humor and grim determination, though he rarely lashes out in anger against those he considers allies. He makes an effort to try to be as amicable as he can manage, especially with regards to the (to him) strange and whimsical norms of regular, human, Imperial society. Astartes maintain a different code and a radically different definition of politeness, etiquette and respect, and Kane has been forced to try and adjust to his new life -- though he still considers it a mere shadow of what once was.

History: Born to a feral world used as a recruitment ground for a Space Marine Chapter whose name has been condemned to the dark annals of oblivion, Kane was a different man with a different name for most of his life. He only has dim memories of his time on the harsh, cold world that was his home until adolescence, having long since forgotten the faces of his parents or even the name of his tribe. Kane was brought into the fold of the Astartes, sky-warriors, living half-gods, surviving the brutal trials and the dangerous genetic augmentations that define the Space Marines. Kane learned about the God-Emperor and the Imperium at large, about his role as defender of humanity, and both his mind and body were fortified through faith. Kane’s love for the God-Emperor that, in his opinion, raised him from a gruesome life on the tundra to a glorious existence as a warrior-deity, was immeasurable. The rest of his Chapter was as devout as he was and Kane never once doubted that their crusade would be never-ending.

The less said about the Chapter itself the better, but let it be known that Kane rose through the ranks over the centuries and became a close confidant of the Chapter Master himself. They waged wars on countless world and across countless systems, striking hard against all manner of humanity’s foes: Kane dueled Orks, slaughtered Tyranids, resisted Necrons, hunted Eldar and crushed T’au. Little did he know, however, that the greatest enemy he would ever face would not be the enemy without… but the enemy within.

In their quest to quell an uprising on a remote Forge World, Kane’s Chapter became trapped in the insidious vices of a daemon of Tzeentch. The tendrils of Chaos probed and prodded against the fortifications of faith that Kane had once thought invulnerable, and they found weaknesses. His Chapter Master, his friend and closest brother, fell to the Ruinous Powers, and many fell with him. The Chapter turned on itself like a ravenous beast and tore itself apart in the span of a single day, the factories and conveyor belts of the Forge World running red with Astartes blood. Kane himself killed no less than four of his former brethren, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the other aghast loyalists that did not fall to Chaos, until he was face to face with his Chapter Master, already made unrecognizable by the powers of Tzeentch. Kane fought and lost, his power armor damaged almost beyond repair and his left eye, arm and leg horribly wounded beyond saving. His remaining brothers dragged him to a shuttle and they attempted to leave the system post-haste on a single ship, pursued by the frigates of the traitor Chapter.

One ship managed to catch up with them and they were boarded. Kane, one-legged and one-armed but furious beyond measure, supported by a terrified Neophyte, stood with his brothers and repelled the invaders in a white-knuckle cage match, Astartes versus Astartes in the winding corridors of the vessel, until all had fallen, the evenly-matched loyalists and traitos having killed each other to the man… all except one. Kane, bloody and broken, survived, adrift in space, having dragged himself into a life-support pod. Frozen in stasis, decades went by.

Until the Astartes that would become known as Kane was discovered by a remote mining operation. The confused and awestruck miners discovered the still-living Space Marine amidst the dozens of corpses of his fellows and brought him to the med bay aboard their spaceborne mining station. Unable to properly heal his strange and alien Astartes physique, Kane’s life was instead saved with rigorous amputation and crude augmentation, the same kind that the voidborn miners were given after industrial accidents. Once Kane regained his senses, he fell into a deep depression and remained on the station for more than a year, withdrawn and sullen, barely eating and barely sleeping. Slowly he emerged once more from his shell, however, and eventually requested transport back to civilized space. He abandoned his old name and Chapter, scoured his armor clean of heraldry through cleansing fire from a mining melta, and assumed a new identity: Kane.

Back in Imperial space, Kane was forced to move in the shadows of society as he tried to discover what had happened to the rest of his Chapter on the accursed Forge World. He settled in the dark underbelly of the hive world of Aphrodian Primaris, a hub of industry, trade and crime. After a few repulsive and shameful jobs for underground crime-lords, more than willing to use an Astartes (even a heavily-damaged one) as an enforcer, fixing his chainsword to his arm and an auto-shotgun to his armor, Kane’s efforts were rewarded with access to the cogitator systems of a hive world’s planetary governor. He learned that his Chapter had been destroyed entirely by a strike force of three other Chapters, their records expunged and their name banished forever. The story of the loyalists that had fought for their life and their honor had been lost and Kane knew that he could never return to his old life, or restore the good name of his lost Chapter. It dawned on him that it was time to find other ways to serve the Imperium.

Using the weapons and tools the crime-lords had given him, Kane hunted as many of them down as he could find and left the hive world’s underworld in disarray before departing forever, retreating to the edges of Imperial space, for an Inquisitor had noticed his activities and started an investigation…

Skills:

• Astartes Battle-Brother: While severely battered and a mere shadow of the warrior he was in his physical prime, Kane remains a Space Marine with hundreds of years of experience on the battlefield. He is trained in both melee and ranged combat and is knowledgeable on the use of a myriad different weapons. His current state, with only one functional hand and one elbow-mounted chainsword, has forced Kane to adapt a different and far less technical combat style. Still, should he manage to upgrade his prosthetics to something more advanced, his latent skills and training will be there to propel him back to excellence.
• Close-Combat Juggernaut: Between the auto-shotgun, the power armor and the chainsword, Kane is a force to be reckoned with in close quarters. His power armor can absorb hits that would be mortal injuries to lesser men and his weapons are powerful enough to rend or blast open most enemies the galaxy can throw at him. Alas, the universe does have to throw them at him, as Kane is slow and unwieldy and cannot pursue swift enemies with any kind of efficiency, nor can he strike at them from range -- precision is rather difficult to manage with only one hand.
• Fortified Mind: Kane has already faced Chaos and emerged untainted once before; he can do it again. The Space Marine is almost impervious to fear, doubt or heresy and can weather the horrors of war without flinching.
• Mechanical Ghoul: Everything about Kane’s appearance -- his gruesome weapons, his scorched and blackened armor, and even the whirring and gasping noise of his rebreather -- makes him look and sound like an iron-clad monster come back from the dead. He is terrifying, inexorable and ghastly to behold. Most lesser mortals would think twice before engaging him in combat.

Equipment:

• Mark VII Aquila-pattern power armor, heavily damaged and in poor condition.
• Astartes chainsword, fixed to the stump of his prosthetic left arm; draws power from his suit.
• Belt-fed, triple-barreled auto-shotgun, mounted on the gauntlet of the right arm of his power armor.
• Shotgun shell pack, soldered to the back of his power armor; capacity is 30 shells.
• Standard issue las-pistol, holstered on his right hip.
• Two las-clips.
• Two krak grenades.

Miscellaneous: Kane still owns his Astartes-pattern bolter, but is incapable of wielding it effectively with one hand. It is therefore stowed away in his trunk with the rest of his private possessions.

WH40k: New Frontiers and Promised Lands - A Rogue Trader Adventure

Kane

Name: Known under the alias ‘Kane’; real name abandoned.

Age: More than 600 years old.

Gender: Male.

Race: Astartes.

Appearance: Like all Astartes, the warrior known as Kane towers over the rest of the human species (Ogryns aside), measuring over seven feet from toe to tip at his full height. His skin is pale and riddled with scars, plasma burns and imperfections, owing to a life of war and a few slightly malfunctioning secondary organs, contrasting with the darkness in what remains of his raven, close-cropped hair and emphasizing the color in his bright blue eye -- singular, for his left eye is missing, the socket filled with a red-gazed and skeletal bionic replacement. In fact, the left side of his body is a wreck in general, riddled with bullet holes and burns. Even worse, Kane is missing two limbs: both his left arm and left leg were destroyed by bolter rounds, since amputated and replaced by crude prosthetics far inferior in quality to what one might expect from a Space Marine. He walks with a limp, owing to the poor alignment of his leg prosthesis with his hip, and the replacement for his missing arm is little more than a massive Astartes chainsword fixed onto a single-jointed steel stump; a weapon as unwieldy as it is deadly.

Even his Mark VII Aquila-pattern power armor, the signature piece of equipment of the Space Marines, is in dubious and visibly dilapidated condition. The ceramic and adamantine plates have been scoured black and grey by intense heat, are riddled with dents from bolter rounds and las-shots, and all heraldry has been removed. To accommodate Kane’s chainsword-arm, the left gauntlet of the armor has been removed, and the shin plates of the left leg have been amateurishly replaced with inferior steel. It rattles and clanks when it moves, the rebreather apparatus hisses and sighs with every breath, and the whole suit has a tendency to jam at inopportune moments. That said, its grim and deathly appearance gives it a foreboding quality that does quite well at intimidating lesser mortals.

Given that he only has one functional hand to operate a firearm with, Kane’s bolter has been relegated to a keepsake and a memento of better days. Instead, he has a las-pistol strapped to his thigh for emergencies and, more importantly, a custom-made, belt-fed auto-shotgun bolted to his armor. The weapon itself is mounted on the gauntlet of the remaining right arm of his power armor; all Kane has to do is ball his fist and point the open-choked and triple-barreled business end of the shotgun towards his enemies. The belt that feeds it loops around his side to his back, where a pack of shells is welded to the lower back of his armor, just beneath the exhaust pack. It is designed for point-blank engagements and each shot is capable of reducing an unarmored opponent into chunks of meat, but quickly loses killing power at range. The belt-fed mechanism allows Kane to keep firing until he runs out of ammo, though a dependable ally could refill the pack with shells while using the lumbering Space Marine as cover. The auto-shotgun’s lack of dexterity and precision requirements make it perfect for the one-handed warrior and Kane has learned to appreciate the terrifying effect its booming rapport and ricocheting pellets tends to have on enemy morale. Between the shotgun, his chainsword and his power armor, Kane remains a dangerous enemy in close-quarters… even though it is remarkably easy to run away from the ponderous, hobbling giant.

Personality: Kane has been shaped by the betrayal he has suffered at the hands of his Chapter and his Master. All of his brothers were killed during the fall of his Chapter, either by the traitors, his own hand, or by those that stood with him against the forces of Chaos. The brotherhood of the Astartes was all he knew and when it was brutally torn away from him forever, Kane fell into a deep darkness that he has only recently started trying to emerge from. He is slow to trust and quick to judge, fearing treason and heresy wherever he goes, while simultaneously unsure if he is still worthy of walking in the light of the Emperor and the Imperium himself. This inner conflict and the deep wounds of his trauma have made him cynical and jaded. Even his faith in the Emperor is wavering. But deep down, buried beneath all that, remain two hearts of gold and a man that wants to find a new place where he belongs: a new brotherhood to watch his back.

He never speaks of his past or his former Chapter and has relinquished all traditions and rituals that once defined the parameters of his life. Kane remains dedicated to fighting the enemies of the Imperium and of mankind in general, but he does not rightly know how to do that on his own and seeks allies to work with, as few and far between as they might be. Chaos has become his greatest foe, however, and he becomes quite irrational and inexorable when it comes to its extermination, willing to put himself at great risk to hunt down the servants of the Warp. However, with the rest of the Imperium believing the entirety of his Chapter to be heretics, he is forced to live a life of secrecy and shadows that has even attracted the malign attention of an Inquisitor. Kane despises this and desperately wishes he could cleanse himself of his Chapter’s sins. More immediately, perhaps, Kane seeks to upgrade his crude prosthetics and return to proper fighting shape -- if that is still possible.

In person, Kane is reserved and melancholic, full of dark humor and grim determination, though he rarely lashes out in anger against those he considers allies. He makes an effort to try to be as amicable as he can manage, especially with regards to the (to him) strange and whimsical norms of regular, human, Imperial society. Astartes maintain a different code and a radically different definition of politeness, etiquette and respect, and Kane has been forced to try and adjust to his new life -- though he still considers it a mere shadow of what once was.

History: Born to a feral world used as a recruitment ground for a Space Marine Chapter whose name has been condemned to the dark annals of oblivion, Kane was a different man with a different name for most of his life. He only has dim memories of his time on the harsh, cold world that was his home until adolescence, having long since forgotten the faces of his parents or even the name of his tribe. Kane was brought into the fold of the Astartes, sky-warriors, living half-gods, surviving the brutal trials and the dangerous genetic augmentations that define the Space Marines. Kane learned about the God-Emperor and the Imperium at large, about his role as defender of humanity, and both his mind and body were fortified through faith. Kane’s love for the God-Emperor that, in his opinion, raised him from a gruesome life on the tundra to a glorious existence as a warrior-deity, was immeasurable. The rest of his Chapter was as devout as he was and Kane never once doubted that their crusade would be never-ending.

The less said about the Chapter itself the better, but let it be known that Kane rose through the ranks over the centuries and became a close confidant of the Chapter Master himself. They waged wars on countless world and across countless systems, striking hard against all manner of humanity’s foes: Kane dueled Orks, slaughtered Tyranids, resisted Necrons, hunted Eldar and crushed T’au. Little did he know, however, that the greatest enemy he would ever face would not be the enemy without… but the enemy within.

In their quest to quell an uprising on a remote Forge World, Kane’s Chapter became trapped in the insidious vices of a daemon of Tzeentch. The tendrils of Chaos probed and prodded against the fortifications of faith that Kane had once thought invulnerable, and they found weaknesses. His Chapter Master, his friend and closest brother, fell to the Ruinous Powers, and many fell with him. The Chapter turned on itself like a ravenous beast and tore itself apart in the span of a single day, the factories and conveyor belts of the Forge World running red with Astartes blood. Kane himself killed no less than four of his former brethren, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the other aghast loyalists that did not fall to Chaos, until he was face to face with his Chapter Master, already made unrecognizable by the powers of Tzeentch. Kane fought and lost, his power armor damaged almost beyond repair and his left eye, arm and leg horribly wounded beyond saving. His remaining brothers dragged him to a shuttle and they attempted to leave the system post-haste on a single ship, pursued by the frigates of the traitor Chapter.

One ship managed to catch up with them and they were boarded. Kane, one-legged and one-armed but furious beyond measure, supported by a terrified Neophyte, stood with his brothers and repelled the invaders in a white-knuckle cage match, Astartes versus Astartes in the winding corridors of the vessel, until all had fallen, the evenly-matched loyalists and traitos having killed each other to the man… all except one. Kane, bloody and broken, survived, adrift in space, having dragged himself into a life-support pod. Frozen in stasis, decades went by.

Until the Astartes that would become known as Kane was discovered by a remote mining operation. The confused and awestruck miners discovered the still-living Space Marine amidst the dozens of corpses of his fellows and brought him to the med bay aboard their spaceborne mining station. Unable to properly heal his strange and alien Astartes physique, Kane’s life was instead saved with rigorous amputation and crude augmentation, the same kind that the voidborn miners were given after industrial accidents. Once Kane regained his senses, he fell into a deep depression and remained on the station for more than a year, withdrawn and sullen, barely eating and barely sleeping. Slowly he emerged once more from his shell, however, and eventually requested transport back to civilized space. He abandoned his old name and Chapter, scoured his armor clean of heraldry through cleansing fire from a mining melta, and assumed a new identity: Kane.

Back in Imperial space, Kane was forced to move in the shadows of society as he tried to discover what had happened to the rest of his Chapter on the accursed Forge World. He settled in the dark underbelly of the hive world of Aphrodian Primaris, a hub of industry, trade and crime. After a few repulsive and shameful jobs for underground crime-lords, more than willing to use an Astartes (even a heavily-damaged one) as an enforcer, fixing his chainsword to his arm and an auto-shotgun to his armor, Kane’s efforts were rewarded with access to the cogitator systems of a hive world’s planetary governor. He learned that his Chapter had been destroyed entirely by a strike force of three other Chapters, their records expunged and their name banished forever. The story of the loyalists that had fought for their life and their honor had been lost and Kane knew that he could never return to his old life, or restore the good name of his lost Chapter. It dawned on him that it was time to find other ways to serve the Imperium.

Using the weapons and tools the crime-lords had given him, Kane hunted as many of them down as he could find and left the hive world’s underworld in disarray before departing forever, retreating to the edges of Imperial space, for an Inquisitor had noticed his activities and started an investigation…

Skills:

• Astartes Battle-Brother: While severely battered and a mere shadow of the warrior he was in his physical prime, Kane remains a Space Marine with hundreds of years of experience on the battlefield. He is trained in both melee and ranged combat and is knowledgeable on the use of a myriad different weapons. His current state, with only one functional hand and one elbow-mounted chainsword, has forced Kane to adapt a different and far less technical combat style. Still, should he manage to upgrade his prosthetics to something more advanced, his latent skills and training will be there to propel him back to excellence.
• Close-Combat Juggernaut: Between the auto-shotgun, the power armor and the chainsword, Kane is a force to be reckoned with in close quarters. His power armor can absorb hits that would be mortal injuries to lesser men and his weapons are powerful enough to rend or blast open most enemies the galaxy can throw at him. Alas, the universe does have to throw them at him, as Kane is slow and unwieldy and cannot pursue swift enemies with any kind of efficiency, nor can he strike at them from range -- precision is rather difficult to manage with only one hand.
• Fortified Mind: Kane has already faced Chaos and emerged untainted once before; he can do it again. The Space Marine is almost impervious to fear, doubt or heresy and can weather the horrors of war without flinching.
• Mechanical Ghoul: Everything about Kane’s appearance -- his gruesome weapons, his scorched and blackened armor, and even the whirring and gasping noise of his rebreather -- makes him look and sound like an iron-clad monster come back from the dead. He is terrifying, inexorable and ghastly to behold. Most lesser mortals would think twice before engaging him in combat.

Equipment:

• Mark VII Aquila-pattern power armor, heavily damaged and in poor condition.
• Astartes chainsword, fixed to the stump of his prosthetic left arm; draws power from his suit.
• Belt-fed, triple-barreled auto-shotgun, mounted on the gauntlet of the right arm of his power armor.
• Shotgun shell pack, soldered to the back of his power armor; capacity is 30 shells.
• Standard issue las-pistol, holstered on his right hip.
• Two las-clips.
• Two krak grenades.

Miscellaneous: Kane still owns his Astartes-pattern bolter, but is incapable of wielding it effectively with one hand. It is therefore stowed away in his trunk with the rest of his private possessions.