Hank

Staff changes and updates

Best wishes! Though with Ruby's departure, will the staff be looking for another admin? Or will you and/or Mahz be around more, since Ruby was so active she was basically the face of the staff, so I was wondering.

@Hero

Yes, we're around more. Mahz is around to coordinate Guild improvements with LegendBegins and I'll here daily to focus on the moderation & community side of things.

I'm typin here

Eyyyyyy, Tony Pajamas here.

Been hearing around the block there's some fine cats around, had to have a look for myself. I heard you gots some nice threads full of potential and broads. Lookin' like a spiffy place to set up ah uh...operation if ya know what'm sayin'. I gots what you need. Good grammar, nice sentences, and a tommy gun loaded with emojis. Don't cross me or nothin' or you'll end up six feet under Miami bay wearin' concrete shoes.

@Tony Pajamas

Welcome to the party zone, amigo.

Staff changes and updates

Some staff changes:

Ruby has stepped down as co-admin to focus on her family and her work. I'm grateful for the effort and dedication she's shown over the years and hope to see her around in the future.

Stormflyx has been promoted from Discord chat moderator to site moderator. One of the runner-ups from our last round of applications, she's well known as a prolific roleplayer and positive voice in the community, and I have no doubt that she will prove to be a valuable addition to our site team.

General updates:

We're looking into a rewrite of the rules to make them more concise and more transparent, while emphasizing the core value of the Guild: be Fonz cool. This won't affect the vast majority of you since you're very nice people, but I thought you should know.

The unpaid intern valued contributor who writes our beloved Guild News updates wanted me to tell you that they're working on a very special, very cool, very secret project for one of its upcoming issues. I don't want to give anything away, but...

Actually, no, it really is a secret. Exciting times! Stay tuned.

Last but not least, I found a sock that has been missing for a few months now. It was under my bed the whole time. I blame the cat.

That will be all, thanks for reading and happy roleplaying!

The Elder Scrolls: Eye of the Hurricane

Inanna Aryon

“Everyone always leaves in the end.”

playlist

Name: Inanna Aryon, also known as Snow-Hair-Ash-Skin, Brightmane, and Sujamma -- or just Ina for short.
Race: Dunmer.
Sex: Female.
Age: 52.
Birthsign: The Mage.
Origins: Windhelm, Skyrim.

Appearance: Of average stature for a female Dunmer, Ina measures 5’7” from head to toe and clocks in at a reasonable 130 pounds. While she does not possess the lean musculature of an athlete or the bulky strength of a warrior, Ina is used to long walks out in the countryside to forage for ingredients and she’s in fit condition, giving her a normal figure that neither understates nor overstates her womanhood. Her skin is the characteristic ashen grey of her people and relatively free of blemishes -- in part due to a strict skincare regime -- aside from a large and noticeable alchemical burn on her left shoulder and breast, which has discolored the skin into a lighter shade of pale grey. Across her collarbones, down the nape of her neck and below her eyes, Ina has a series of bumps that are the result of a traditional Dunmer scarification ritual. Other than that she has no scars to speak of, indicative of a life that has not been martial in nature.

The features of Ina’s face are shaped by her race as well. She has a strong brow with powerful, dark eyebrows to match, which slope into a nose that is prominent, but modest by Dunmer standards. Her perceptive scarlet eyes, supported by sharp and high cheekbones, display a typically elvish slant and spacing, and she enhances her heavy-lidded gaze with kohl for a supercilious and smoky effect. Two large, rectangular, golden earrings dangle from her ears as another touch of fashion. Her lips, slightly darker than the skin of her face, are full and soft, but her mouth is modest and Ina does not smile broadly very often, adding to the overall aloof and unphased impression she gives off.

Most striking, however, is Ina’s voluminous and wavy hair, which is a frankly alarming shade of pale silver and the source of many nicknames over the years. She has given up trying to tame the unruly mass of hair for the most part and usually only bothers to sweep the bouncing curls to the side, leaving them free to cascade down her left shoulder. If she needs to keep her hair out of her face for whatever reason, Ina uses two black wooden pins to tie most of it together on top of her head, but there are always several locks that evade capture. Ina takes pride in and good care of her hair and it usually smells of the coconut oil that she uses to nourish its lustre.

Her mannerisms can best be described as unhurried and unbothered. Ina grew up in poverty in the Grey Quarter and even though she’s picked up some more metropolitan habits during her time with the Synod in Cyrodiil, she still vastly prefers to be comfortable over presentable and has no qualms with sitting down on the floor with her legs pulled up or taking off her shoes to walk barefoot over a field of grass. Ina is often seen smoking the hackle-lo leaf of her native Morrowind while she works, the smell of which mixes with the perfume she wears for a rich, smoky fragrance. If hackle-lo isn’t available, she’ll resort to chewing or fidgeting with something instead. Never one to hurry while walking, she’s equally relaxed when sitting down and her speech, spoken with a husky and resonant voice, tends to be just as languid. After a few drinks, Ina becomes significantly more familiar and handsy in a casual, flirtatious way, and her normally stoic gaze gains a salacious quality.

Ina’s preference for comfort extends to her wardrobe as well. Her work as an alchemist and an enchanter requires a certain level of protection, so the only mainstay in her day-to-day outfit is a thick, sturdy coat woven from cotton and wool, dyed in the earthy tones that are characteristic of her culture. Beneath that, she wears simple tunics and trousers and often adds fingerless gloves, pants, a colorful sash around her waist and an equally vibrant scarf around her neck. When lounging around, however -- her favorite time of the day -- Ina is content to potter around barefoot in a single loose, flowy robe, if the weather permits, most often black, that may slip to reveal a little more skin. Not one for melee combat, Ina doesn’t wear or even own any armor, but she does have a spear on her person at all times. It doubles as a pilgrim’s staff for support on long hikes.

History: Inanna Aryon was born in Windhelm, long after the Red Year that had decimated her homeland and forced her grandmother and father, still a swaddled babe, to flee to the west and seek refuge in the land of the Nords. Her grandfather, Master Aryon of House Telvanni, had been a powerful and influential sorcerer, but he was killed by the eruption as he had taken to cataloging the Sixth House relics left behind within the Ghostfence after Dagoth Ur had been defeated. His death and the devastation wrought upon the land left his wife without status or fortune and she reluctantly settled in Windhelm, relegated to a tiny apartment in the newly-designated Grey Quarter, working as a seamstress while she raised her son by herself. On Ina’s mother’s side the same story played out, and so it came to be that her parents grew up together in the coldest, darkest city in all of Tamriel.

She was born many years later, an unexpected child at the twilight of her parents’ reproductive years, a miracle -- their little Ina. Azura had answered their prayers at last and seen fit to bless them with a daughter. Ina’s father toiled in the fields outside the city walls and her mother worked as a barmaid in the New Gnisis Cornerclub, and they were poor. The Nords who had taken the Dunmer refugees in had been kind at first but as the tensions between the Dominion and the Empire increased prior to the Great War, they slowly turned on the Dunmer in their city as well -- elves are elves, after all. Ina mostly remembers her father, the embers of his hackle-lo smoke reflected in the window as snowflakes drifted through the high and narrow streets of the Grey Quarter, the the elf’s own hair turning gray with worry. “Soon, I’ll look just like you!” he would say and run his hand through Ina’s silver locks, and laugh. But she could hear he was forcing it.

Things did not improve after the Great War. Ina had never really felt at home in Windhelm, or in the Empire in general, but she hated the Dominion just as much as anyone else, and yet her Nordic peers would treat her with scorn and contempt. To them, she was just another knife-ear. Ina learned to stick to her own people and developed a livelong aversion to Nords as a result. She would assault the small handful of Dunmer in Windhelm that had been alive before the Red Year with an endless barrage of questions about the homeland that they had lost, and her mother made sure to pass on every morsel of knowledge she had about the histories of their families and the culture of Morrowind. Ina learned how to read, speak and write in Dunmeris, how to worship the Reclamations, heroes and saints of the New Temple faith, and even how to dance and play the kwama flute in the old Vvardenfell tradition. Morrowind still existed, of course, decimated by volcanic fire and Argonian invasions but alive, and Ina dreamed of going there instead of wasting away in the black stone city of the Nords she hated.

That longing was made even more powerful by the nighttime visits of her ancestors, Master Aryon and his forefathers, in her dreams. These visions were accompanied by ancient memories of lost Balmora, Ald’ruhn, Vivec, Tel Vos, and all the other places that had been destroyed in the Red Year. Her ancestors spoke to her in riddles and poems as the snowfall outside her window turned to flakes of ash that fell upon her face. Upon waking, she always felt like a child of two worlds that belonged in neither one and resolved to travel to Morrowind, no matter the danger, as soon as she was able.

But her parents had other plans. Despite their poverty, they saved up every last septim that they could for the duration of Ina’s childhood and on her nineteenth birthday, they insisted on sending her to Cyrodiil to train in the magical arts. The talent of her grandfather ran strong in her blood and Ina had been conjuring small tufts of flame to banish the reviled winter chill and moving toys around through magic ever since she could walk, but there was nobody in Windhelm with the skill -- or the inclination -- to teach her properly. The College of Winterhold was much closer by, of course, but her parents did not trust a Nordic institute to give their child a proper education, so Cyrodiil it was. Ina was to study with the Synod and become a great sorceress. Not one to disappoint the hardworking parents that she adored and was immensely grateful for, Ina agreed and decided to put her plans of visiting Morrowind on hold. Besides, it was true that it would be much safer to go there only once she knew how to cast powerful spells.

But staying in Windhelm had become almost as dangerous as going to Morrowind. Racial violence between the Nords and the Dunmer had intensified over the years and scorn and taunting had turned into beatings -- or worse. One of Ina’s friends was stabbed and left for dead in the gutter over a minor dispute and the Nord responsible was never punished. Jarl Ulfric turned out to be much worse than his father once he ascended to the throne in the Palace of the Kings and he turned a blind eye towards the discrimination and hatred that the Dunmer were forced to endure. As Ina left the gates of Windhelm and set off on her journey to the Imperial City, she spat on the threshold and mouthed a prayer to Azura to curse the Nords into an early grave if they ever did something to hurt her parents while she was away.

Her time in the Imperial City, studying with the Synod, was a revelation. The multicultural society of the metropolis was a shock to her system at first. She wasn’t the only Dunmer student attending the Synod that year and she naturally gravitated towards them at first, but she was surprised to find that all the other races were just as welcoming to her. Her first interracial friendships were forged in the fires of exam stress and binge drinking -- she gained the nickname Sujamma, a strong Dunmer spirit, for her ability to drink anyone under the table, courtesy of her upbringing among Nords -- and for the first time, Ina felt that the world was not such a bleak place after all. The much more agreeable climate also helped and Ina developed a lifelong fondness for loose, flowy robes that allowed her skin to breathe. From some of the other women that she studied with, Ina learned how to apply kohl around her eyes to make their red color pop and how to take better care of both her hair and her skin so that both shone with a healthy gloss.

She was drawn to the art of alchemy and the peace and serenity she experienced in the dutiful, precise measurements of ingredients and their preparation, with only the sound of a simmering alembic and the grinding of her mortal and pestle for company. It became her specialisation, but Ina made sure to stay invested in a broad range of topics and schools of magic, and she achieved varying levels of proficiency in Destruction, Alteration and Restoration as well. Enchanting was another magical art that interested her but one that she found she had less patience for. It was added to her arsenal mostly for its lucrative potential as a business venture, but she never became an expert.

She maintained a string of relationships throughout her years at the Synod’s college, leaving a trail of broken hearts and satisfied lovers in her wake in equal measure. She dipped her toes in both sides of the gender divide during this time and ultimately decided that she had no firm preference either way. Ina was not willing to settle down with anyone and she was a capricious and mercurial partner, as young Dunmer women often are, but all of that changed after she graduated and she met Theros.

Having wrapped up her education and learned the magic necessary to defend herself during a voyage into Morrowind, Ina spent some time working as an alchemist in the Imperial City’s market to save up the coin she needed to fund the expedition. On the corner of the street where she had her stall, another Dunmer took up residence as a busker, performing songs and poems of his own composition. Many of them were funny and delivered with an easygoing charm that caught Ina’s attention, and she often found herself chuckling along to his lyrics and stanzas. His name was Theros and he was a wandering bard from Cheydinhal, she learned when they started having their lunches together.

It wasn’t long before they became lovers. Theros made more money with comedic songs that made light of current events, but his real heart was in the profound lovesongs and poems that he wrote in his spare time, and he performed them for Ina around a campfire on a hill overlooking the Imperial City, with nobody else but the stars above for company. The emotion in his voice and the tender strumming of his lute captured Ina’s heart in a way that nobody else had ever done. She discovered a hidden pain behind those words, no matter how much he tried to hide his demons from her, and resolved to soothe his tortured soul with the love he deserved.

Theros had never been to Morrowind before either, so they pooled their earnings together and bought themselves a place on a heavily guarded trading caravan that was headed for Blacklight. Both had a romanticized image of Morrowind in their heads and the two dreamers were terribly excited to finally see their ancestral homeland for the first time.

Arriving there was a rude awakening. Even though it was close to two centuries since the Red Year, Blacklight was still bursting from the seams with refugees. The city center, a marvel of Dunmer architecture that brought a tear to Ina’s eye, so reminiscent was of it of her dreams of old Vvardenfell, was dwarfed by the slums that extended far beyond the city proper. Ash covered everything, as Red Mountain had continued to smoke and rumble in the long years since the eruption, during which new waves of refugees had arrived as the Argonians had continued to harass Morrowind’s southern border. Great House Redoran dominated Morrowind’s politics and policies and Ina found a significantly more martial and pragmatic society than the the mysterious and wondrous realm that the land had been in her grandfather’s days. She learned that there were still secluded Telvanni wizards in their bizarre mushroom towers scattered throughout Morrowind, and even one on Solstheim, but was assured that none would have time for nor interest in speaking with her.

Instead, she and Theros traveled to the smaller coastal community of Rhun Huk on the shores of the Inner Sea, overlooking the smoldering ruins of Vvardenfell, and they settled there for a while and plied their respective trades. Theros continued to be plagued by sullen moods and dark thoughts -- his ‘demons’, as it were. They were the fuel for the poetry and lyrics that Ina found so beautiful, but his own mind playing tricks on him was draining for the Dunmer bard and he would lash out in irrational anger sometimes, of which Ina bore the brunt. Other times Theros would turn his back to her in bed and remain cold and distant for days on end. With patience and love, Ina always managed to get her lover back to his normal self in the end, and that made his moods bearable. She knew that he was not like this through any fault of his own. Theros explained that he had left home specifically to avoid burdening his parents with his problems, since they were proper ash-blooded Dunmer that did not, and did not want to, understand him. But Ina promised him that she understood him just fine and that she loved him just the way he was.

She got used to the strange conditions of life in Morrowind and developed a sense of belonging, surrounded by nothing but her people and her culture at last. She wrote to her parents and told them that life in Morrowind was still possible and pleaded for them to join her as soon as they could. Life in Windhelm had become even harder for the Dunmer. Tensions had increased with the Nordic resistance against the White-Gold Concordat prompting Thalmor Justiciars to prowl the tundra, snatching people up in the middle of the night and dragging them away to hidden dungeons. The Nords, in their xenophobia, had started accusing the Dunmer of being Dominion collaborators and even banned her father from working the fields outside the walls. Her elderly parents managed to scrounge the funds together, in part from money that Ina sent back home to them, and made the trip. They welcomed Theros as a son-in-law with open arms and the four of them lived together as a family supported by Ina’s alchemy and enchanting business and Theros’ performances on the town square. Ina and Theros talked about starting a family one day, when they would be finished with being young and were ready to relinquish their freedom. Maybe they’d have one more grand journey, an adventure, perhaps to see the fabled Summerset Isles or the cities and castles of High Rock, before then. But they were in no rush. Life was good.

Then, on a cold winter morning in Frostfall, Theros took his own life.

Ina’s world collapsed. She had always known that Theros was plagued by anxiety and depression, invisible specters that had no name in the society in which she lived, but his mood had seemed to be improving in the last few weeks leading up to his death. She read the note he left behind through tears and choking sobs and learned the heartbreaking truth: Theros had never believed his own worth -- he had never believed her when she told him. His demons had convinced him that he was nothing but a burden to Ina and her parents and that her love for him was nothing but pity. He had only seemed in better spirits because he had already resolved to kill himself and therefore relieve his beloved Ina of the terrible weight of his presence. She threw the note away and cried until she was sick, weeping into the fabric of her pillow, begging and pleading with Azura to bring her lover back, and pulling her own hair out because she had not seen it coming. She’d failed him, and he had abandoned her.

But there was no coming back from the dead. The demons had won, and Ina had lost. Her wretched tears subsided into a sullen silence. Her parents helped her track down Theros’ ancestral tomb and his ashes were interred with the rest of his family, but Ina could not stand to even be around the ceremony for more than a few minutes. She was heartbroken, angry and upset with herself for being angry, but mostly she was wracked by guilt. Ina blamed herself for not being able to save him. She blamed herself for not having seen it coming. And she blamed herself for the fact that a part of her dared to feel like Theros had selfishly betrayed her and left her to deal with the aftermath.

Ina and her parents returned to Rhun Huk, but life there had lost all of its appeal. It was as if Ina could only now see the ash-covered and hostile land for what it truly was: Morrowind was nothing more than a tomb for her people. She only remained there because she had a duty to take care of her aging parents, who were too old and weary to travel back to Windhelm. Suffering in silence, Ina did just that, turning into a shadow of her former self, a shell of a woman that was merely going through the motions. Until both of her parents, first her mother and then her father, slipped off into peaceful eternal slumber, one quickly after the other. Old age had claimed them.

Ina packed her belongings, grabbed her spear and burned her house to the ground, cursing the land that had brought her nothing but woe.

She wandered across Tamriel. wary of other people’s affairs and mostly keeping to herself. Bereft of her loved ones, Ina turned to the one and only constant in the world: the gods and her own faith. Through the arcane rituals of the Dunmer ancestor worship, she was able to commune briefly with Theros’ spirit -- just enough to sense that he was at peace now, wherever he was. Ina herself learned to accept through the teachings of Azura that everything that happened was part of the woven tapestry of fate, and ultimately served a purpose.

Over time, the pain of Theros’ passing lessened and she rediscovered a sense of tranquility and inner peace on the road as a wandering alchemist. Her work allowed her to take her mind off things and her travels gave her something new to discover each day. That way, the past couldn’t catch up to her, and if she always kept moving, she could never grow that close to anyone again, saving herself from experiencing pain and loss like that in the future. She had her happy memories with him, which became easier and easier to remember without feeling like she was drowning with every passing year, and drunken nights of revelry and easy sex with strangers kept her from being overwhelmed by her solitude. It would have to be enough.

Until a chance meeting with the wild and untamed Bosmer jaqspur Venwen during one of Ina’s yearly visits to Cheydinhal to quietly celebrate Theros’ birthday. An unlikely pair of opposites, the two two of them nevertheless become friends and headed out to visit Valenwood, Venwen’s homeland, said to be a magical land full of rare and exotic alchemical ingredients. The Dominion, whom Ina despised as much as the Nords or the even the Empire that had sacked her childhood home of Windhelm by that time, had kept her away from Valenwood until then. But under the guidance of a jaqspur… well, what could go wrong?

Personality: There are several sides to Ina. She has known poverty and discrimination, self-discovery and success, peace and domestic bliss, and love and loss. She has lived in xenophobic backwaters, bustling metropolises, rural countrysides and everything in between as a traveler on the road. All of these experiences combine to create the woman Ina is today.

Above all, she is reserved, aloof and collected. Ina doesn’t care much what other people think of her, as Dunmer often do, and also cares little for bothering others with her opinions of them. She is not unkind, and friendly enough in passing, but there is always an emotional distance between herself and the people she interacts with. Because she is so cool-blooded, Ina is slow to anger and she’d much rather shrug off any insults or threats than reach for her spear and her spells. In the same vein, she does not participate deeply in the joy or success of others, making jealousy a foreign emotion to her. She learned long ago that it’s best to focus on her own worth instead of comparing herself to anyone else.

That said, she is capable of powerful love and deep affection, but that door was closed after her lover’s death. That kind of emotional commitment comes with a risk of such tremendous pain and hurt that Ina can’t bear to experience that again. She had her happy years with Theros and those memories will have to be enough. Instead of emotional closeness, she seeks physical intimacy with attractive strangers, just like her Synod days, and keeps her lovers at an arm’s length afterwards. She needs to drink to loosen up sufficiently for that, however, and as such maintains a level of consumption -- from a glass of wine with lunch to a few shots of brandy after dinner -- that one can reasonably describe as functional alcoholism. The only other narcotic she indulges in is the smoking of hackle-lo leaf, which helps her focus during her work.

Ina possesses a dry, sarcastic wit that she applies liberally and without regard for custom or etiquette. She’s a pauper at heart, even though her time in the Imperial City has taught her how to take care of her appearance like a lady, and has no respect for wealth, birth or status. She judges people based on their character exclusively; that Theros, her lover, went through dry spells of inspiration and motivation where he earned little money didn’t bother her at all and she gladly made up the difference. She has a soft spot for sensitive souls, quite possibly because she has one lurking in the depths of her own heart. Not that she’d ever admit it to anyone, or even to herself. Even if people have fallen on hard times and done questionable things to survive, Ina will accept them as long as their hearts are in the right place.

The mundane tasks of alchemy that many consider tedious, preparing the ingredients and getting the brew just right, bring Ina peace and serenity and she spends most of her waking hours attending to her alembics and calcinators in silence. Predictably, she does not tolerate disturbances very well and is liable to become irritable when interrupted during her work. Outside of those hours, she can usually find time to make conversation with people and she enjoys drinking with strangers and listening to their stories, even if they are just tall tales. She becomes much more familiar and personable during such occasions and frequently ends up taking someone to bed afterwards, only to send them away again in the morning.

She is a pious and devout follower of the Reclamations, the heroes and the saints of the New Temple faith, but of Azura and Almalexia in particular. Ina maintains an active relationship with the gods and always makes sure she has the required incense and attributes with her for her nightly prayers, and lets the teachings of Almalexia stay her hand in revenge, preferring to err on the side of mercy when she is slighted. Even her carnal escapades are dedicated to Mephala with a quiet prayer; most of what Ina does is internally seen through the lens of her faith. It helped her a lot in processing the grief she has experienced in her life and she values it highly.

Biggest Regret: That she didn’t see Theros’ suicide coming, that she wasn’t able to prevent it, and that she wasn’t able to make him happy.

Inanna’s Goal: Ina can’t see a future beyond tomorrow. She doesn’t believe that she can ever truly recover from the loss of Theros, so Ina has abandoned her one-time dream of having a home and a family of her own. Now she merely wanders the continent in search of work and coin, which she spends as fast as she earns it in order to be comfortable.

Equipment:

Steel spear: A simple weapon with an ironwood shaft and a leaf-bladed tip. It’s a foot or two longer than she is tall and Ina uses it as a walking aid for her travels as much as a weapon for self defense. She picked the spear because it is the simplest weapon to learn to use at least somewhat effectively, and its range keeps some distance between her and whatever it is that she’s trying to kill. Ina doesn’t like to use it much, but in Tamriel you sometimes don’t have a choice.

Alchemy set: This travel-sized set of alchemy tools includes a mortal and pestle, an alembic, a calcinator and a retort, designed so that they neatly fit together in her backpack without taking up too much space or weight. She can’t brew potions as powerful or as plentiful as she can with a proper dedicated alchemy station, but at least this means she can ply her craft anywhere she goes.

Enchanting tools: This includes several soul gems and the ritualistic attributes needed to establish a provisional arcane enchanter. As with her alchemy, a proper arcanery would be best, but this will do when out on the road.

Alchemy ingredients: A selection of ingredients stored in various pouches, satchels and bandoliers on her person -- too many to list. Suffice to say that she has the ingredients on her to make most types of potions and poisons, and the vials and bottles to store them in.

Misc. Possessions:

Map of Tamriel: Comprehensive and up-to-date. The margins are scribbled full of notes made during her travels.

Backpack: A sturdy netch-leather traveling rucksack she bought in Morrowind. It’s large enough to contain all of her belongings and she’s enchanted it with a feather effect to make it easier to carry.

Travel supplies: This includes a bedroll, dried foodstuffs, a water skein, some rope, a book and a tea set. Just the essentials, obviously.

Makeup: Kohl, coconut oil and various face and skincare creams, plus the ingredients to make more. One of the perks of being an alchemist.

Clothes: Several tunics and pants to wear beneath her coat, two black satin robes as loungewear or nightgowns, various scarves, gloves, pieces of jewelry and underwear, from practical to lingerie.

Money: Ina currently possesses 120 septims and an emerald that she keeps on her person to barter with in emergencies.

Bard’s notes: A selection from Theros’ sizable collection of unfinished songs and poems, left to Ina after his suicide. She reads them from time to time.

Telvanni pendant: An amulet that once belonged to her ancestor, Master Aryon. Their ancestral tomb was destroyed in the Red Year, but possessing the amulet allows Ina to have at least some connection to her ancestor’s spirit.

Kwama flute: A hand-carved kwama leg, one of the most popular music instruments on Vvardenfell once upon a time. Ina can play it well enough.

Family and Associations:

Family: Her immediate family is deceased, but she still has a few cousins and nephews in Windhelm.

Theros: Her lover and the mer she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. He took his own life.

Synod: There are still some professors from Ina’s day that continue to teach at the Synod, and several of her classmates have become researches and explorers with the organization.

Rhun Huk: Ina was a beloved figure in the coastal community as an alchemist, enchanter and a healer, and there are still many people living there who would consider themselves to be her friend.

Favored Attributes:

Major: Intelligence.
Minor: Willpower.

Favoured Skills:

Expert: Alchemy.
Adept: Destruction, Enchanting, Restoration.
Novice: Alteration, Athletics, Spear.

Spell List: Flames, Fireball, Fire Rune, Healing, Heal Others, Magelight, Stoneflesh, Telekinesis.

“This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you.”

Proposal: Spam 2

Daily reminder that Hank killed and ate a person.

@Doivid

IRC Shenanigans

That's like making me a mod. Some men just want to watch the world burn.

Not that Hank wouldn't do the job capably, but moreso that I think the rabid masses would go into manic depression.

@Mammoth

I think we're good.

The Elder Scrolls: Night of Pestilence

House Cleaning

_{ft. @Leidenschaft and @Spoopy Scary}

Solomon waited by the staircase at the back of the great hall that led down to the storerooms, leaning against one of the massive stone pillars that held up the ceiling. Looking up at the state of the structure, he could only hope that the subterranean rooms beneath their feet hadn’t collapsed in on themselves. They needed those supplies, and Solomon needed a certain something that he knew was sequestered in the back of the armory.

The others had dispersed and gone about their own business, and he looked up when Janus approached. Solomon gave the man a nod of respect. He was glad that the big warrior had come with them this far, and he hoped that the Colovian would stay. “Sorry about your sword,” Solomon said by way of greeting. “It looked like a fine piece. With any luck, there’ll be something suitable for you in the armory.” He nodded over to the stairs that circled into the rock. Impenetrable blackness awaited them.

Janus peered down the shadowed stairway, squinting hard as if it would help him see through the black. He chose to ignore the bit about the sword, the loss of it felt as if he’d left behind a hand. Though, Solomon was right, perhaps there would be something suitable for Janus down in the armory. Besides, that was where he was headed anyway. “Why this place?” Janus asked, turning to Solomon, “Ken Muhyr?”

“Because it’s isolated, defendable and abandoned,” Solomon answered. “And few people know about it, which is convenient because it’s our business to know more than our enemies. Every province has one or more fallback locations like this. It was stocked with supplies after the Great War, though I’ll be the first to admit it hasn’t been properly maintained since then. I came here once, to familiarize myself with the place, when I first moved to High Rock, so I knew where to find it and what to expect.” He placed a hand against the stone and patted it once as he looked around. “Needs some love, but she’ll do.”

“So important they abandoned it.” Janus pursed his lips, shaking his head. The budget cuts and reshuffling must have hit some harder than others. Savian dropped in an embassy while Solomon was shoved into an inn was evidence enough.

But who was Janus the wanderer to talk, “Let’s get on with it. You’ll need whatever’s down here.”

Solomon sighed. “Long past are the days of the Blades, who were able to maintain a constant presence at Cloud Ruler Temple for centuries. The Empire isn’t what it used to be. We all have to make do with less than our predecessors.”

Putting those thoughts aside, Solomon drew his falchion from its scabbard and tested the edge with his thumb for a moment before nodding and descending down the stairs, taking point. “Yes, let’s.” It seemed only fair after the Colovian’s duel with the Rider. He lifted a torch from its sconce on the wall on his way down in his other hand and lit it with a spell, banishing the immediate dark around them.

A door waited for them at the bottom of the stairs but it was already ajar, the lock burned or melted away by some foul essence. “Thought so,” Solomon said quietly. “Something made its way in here.”

Bruno’s unmistakable voice echoed from up the stairs behind them, though it was more sour than usual. “Good thing I decided to come down here too then,” he said, letting his weight fall onto each step of his descent. His hatchet was in hand and he was wearing the same angry look on his face ever since they left the cabin, though Solomon’s body cast a gloomy shadow over him amidst the torchlight that seemed to underline the fact that his anger was not like his usual boisterous self. He looked like he came down here with the express intent to kill something. “Thought I heard rats a-scurryin’, but turns out it was just you two.”

“You hunt, yeah?” Janus quirked a brow at the sturdy figure of Bruno in the flickering torchlight, at least there was one man he liked here, “Gotta wonder how you do it if your step sounds like rockfall.”

“I can turn it off.” He replied bluntly. “When I want to.”

“Best start wanting, friend.” Janus smirked, turning back towards the door left suspiciously ajar, and took his axe and knife in hand. Perfect tools for tight spaces, at least. His saber wouldn’t be missed here.

“Ladies, please,” Solomon said. “Focus.”

He kicked open the door and stepped inside, brandishing the torch and falchion in equal measure -- light was as much a weapon down here as steel was. It revealed the first of the storerooms mostly as Solomon remembered it -- the ceiling was low and barrels and crates of preserved foodstuffs were scattered about. Some of them had been opened, either by mandible or by claw, and their contents spilled out, consumed or left to rot.

More important and more urgent, however, were the thick cobwebs that covered the ceiling and the walls, and the creatures that stirred among them. “Frostbite spiders,” Solomon surmised, and he was proven right by the first of them that leapt at him with a fierce hiss, an eight-legged monstrosity the size of a large dog. He caught it on the tip of his falchion and the arachnid impaled itself on his blade, sliding down the steel weapon, jaws chattering as it tried to reach for Solomon’s arm to inject its venom.

Five more emerged from the gloom. Janus was the second target, the spider leaping much the same and Janus caught its fangs on the end of his axe’s head, bearing its weight as he thrust his long knife up into its body. He wrenched it out and spilled its guts as he threw it from him.

“Looks like sneaking won’t be a problem,” Bruno said as he glared down the familiar faces of frostbite spiders. “Lucky me.”

After spending his childhood in northern High Rock, it became easy to tell what the warning signs of frostbite attacks, and seeing the crouching spider before it leaped was almost nostalgic. He seemed to sidestep away before it even leaped forward, and swung his axe wide, striking it in its underbelly and allowing its momentum to carry it overhead and strike it against the ground behind him. He jerked his weapon out to bash the handle at the mouth of another incoming spider before kicking it away, and his eye found one of the spiders behind the other rearing back to start spitting venom at them. Bruno preemptively ducked down and batted it away with the flat of his axe, splashing it against the stonework.

“Solomon, your torch!” He yelled. “The bastards don’t like fire and they aren’t immune to their own venom. Bunch of right pricks!”

“Catch!” Solomon yelled in return after pulling his blade free from the now-dead spider and tossed the torch over to Bruno. He had something better than that. With his left hand free, his fingers contorted into a claw and he held it out in front of him. A roaring jet of fire sputtered to life and Solomon forced the spiders back with the washing flames. The cobwebs caught fire and incinerated, burning up as the spark raced up the walls and the ceiling, leaving the stonework and old wood support beams untouched. He was careful where he aimed, as there were still unspoiled crates and barrels left in the storeroom, but he advanced steadily to force the spiders into a corner.

Desperate to escape the blazing heat, the three spiders scattered in all directions. “Now!” Solomon yelled and cut off the flow of magicka to the spell abruptly, and instead aimed a precise spike of ice that pinned one of the escaping spiders to the ceiling where it had skittered up to.

Janus had tired of the fight the second it had begun. When the spiders turned and ran, he pursued his, growling like a bear as he took a swipe at it and catching only a leg. The thing screeched and flailed about before Janus took it by its remaining legs with his offhand and hauled it back towards him. With a throaty growl, he brought his axe down once, twice, and three times until it curled into itself and died.

“I didn’t know you were a fucking wizard.” Bruno commented, watching the flames lick away at the cobwebs and casting long shadows across the room. Its orange glow and fierce heat seemed like it was enough to scare the rest of them off. The brief chuckle escaped his lips, “Neither did these shits. We should smoke them out of their burrows before they start laying any more eggs.”

With that, he placed the torch Solomon gave them into one of the holes in the wall that a spider crawled into. The rising heat and smoke, he hoped, would draw it back out for him to exterminate with his axe lying in wait. As far the other spiders went, they were already too far out of his range. He didn’t think that he’d have to bring his bow into such close quarters.

Solomon looked at Bruno with surprise. “You didn’t notice?” he asked. “I was using spells pretty liberally during the fighting at the inn. The Penitus Oculatus taught me. Field agents are all nightblades or spellswords of some kind.”

“Suppose I was a little distracted to tell who was casting what.”

Solomon paused for a moment to catch his breath and to assess the situation. They were in the first of the storerooms; more lay beyond a door at the far end of the low-ceilinged space, its lock similarly dissolved with the acidic venom the frostbite spiders produced. “Kill that one when it comes back out,” he said and nodded to the hole Bruno was smoking out, “and then see if you can harvest any of their venom, if you want. We should pile them up and burn them afterwards.”

In the meantime, the spymaster turned to Janus. There hadn’t been time to speak plainly before to discuss things Solomon didn’t want the others to hear. He glanced sidelong at Bruno -- the man was already invested in the fight against the cult for personal reasons, so he doubted there was anything Janus could say to discourage him. A Nord, once his mind is made up…

“Why did you say this war is already lost, Janus?” Solomon asked. He didn’t sound accusatory, but there was still a hint of an edge in his voice.

Janus replaced his axe at his hip and sheathed his knife, turning to Solomon. He glanced at Bruno and back, “Because it is.” He spoke bluntly, “Look at us. You and me are the only ones with the skills to deal with things like this, and you and me aren’t enough.”

He nodded at Bruno, “We have a forester, up there’s two girls I’m sure haven’t ever brawled, let alone fought a guerilla war.” Janus hooked his thumbs in his sash, “What do we really have to work with? Henry?”

“I told you I’m not fighting other men’s wars. ‘Specially not with these long odds.” He shook his head left and right, slow as slow. In this place, among men like him, the smiling Janus was nowhere near, “And that fancy goddamn badge ain’t nothing to me no more.”

“I’ve fended off beasts and Forsworn raiders from my home, but bears and pissant tribals are a far cry from a provincial takeover.” Bruno admitted with a nod. “I’m no soldier, but even I know a handful of bastards an army doesn’t make. I’m also willing to wager we’re not the only ones who made it. If we want a larger crew, we need to start by considering those who know how to live outside city walls. I’m talking bandits.”

Scurrying echoes within the walls as smoke filled its nook and crannies. A spider crawled out, drunk and dazed by smoke, and not expecting an axe to come down on its head like a guillotine. One more left.

Bruno continued, “Most leaders probably won’t submit without a fight. So take out their boss, and promise the rest fame and fortune for liberating a whole damn city. Maybe even a title. I don’t really know how it works, but you get the idea. Maybe then when we finally take a city, we could actually use real soldiers. Maybe they didn’t kill ‘em all.”

Solomon slowly shook his head. “We aren’t fighting an army. They’re a cult of zealots, not the Aldmeri Dominion, or even the Stormcloaks. Cut off the snake’s head and the body dies. The Lord of Moths and the High Priests -- assassinate them, install a lawful ruler on the throne, and this all ends.” He knelt down next to one of the unopened barrels and popped the lid with his falchion, revealing salted meats chilled with frost salts. “Don’t need an army for that. Just intelligence and a sharp blade. This isn’t the first insurrection I’ve put down.”

Satisfied that the meat was still good, Solomon straightened back up and returned his focus back to Janus. He wanted to say more and explain more about his plans and ideas, until the exact words that the Colovian had used struck him. “You said that the badge meant nothing to you no more. What does that mean? What do you know of the Penitus Oculatus?”

Janus frowned, “More than I wanted.” He said, turning away and taking a few steps before he stopped for the other two, “Are we finished here yet? Or you want to keep measuring cocks over how many insurrections we’ve put down between us?”

“Doesn’t matter who they are.” Bruno retorted, changing the subject back to the actual problem. He couldn’t care less about the Peni-penis Ocu-whatever-you-call-it. “If they’re as fanatic as Forsworn, then I can tell you killing one of ‘em ain’t gonna stop all of ‘em. If they aren’t lying and somehow actually took every kingdom in High Rock, then they have the numbers. Maybe a hierarchy. You can take the chance in doing everything yourself, or you can pull an army out your ass. Either way you still need to defend those cities.”

“He’s right,” Janus added to Bruno’s words, “How many of Ulfric’s old Chiefs you think are still wanting to fight the good fight? I watched him die. But his ideas ain’t dead yet. And there’s a whole lot still ain’t happy with the Empire.”

“I’d have to defend the cities if I intended to rule these lands, but I don’t,” Solomon said. “That isn’t my duty. Order must be restored and authority returned to rightful rulers. Daggerfall’s king is dead, but there’ll be someone to take his place. There always is. I saw the people. They didn’t welcome the cultists. They were afraid. Sow chaos, take out the High Priest, inspire the populace. They’ll defend their own city. And after Daggerfall comes Camlorn, and Shornhelm, and so on. That’s how we do this. One step at a time, until it’s done.”

The Imperial sighed. “Though I don’t know why I bother explaining this to you, Janus. It’s not your fight if you don’t want it to be. I’m sure you’ll make the world a much better place somewhere where the going isn’t so tough.”

That was a petty shot and Solomon knew it, but he was frustrated with the big man. Knowledge of the Penitus Oculatus, involvement in the suppression of the Stormcloak Rebellion -- he was clearly cut out for this job, and it felt to Solomon like he was witnessing dereliction of duty happening in front of him. “Whatever,” he grumbled and turned towards the door. “Armory is this way. Come on.”

“Making the world a better place ain’t my duty. And trust me.” Janus snorted, “Was never yours either. I thought the Oculatus needed men with more between their ears than a sense of duty and loyalty to orders.”

“Working outside the boundaries of honor and the strictness of the Legion to do everything an honorable man wouldn’t.” Janus pursed his lips, almost riling himself up about things he no longer seemed to care about, or outright resented, “Penitus Oculatus, the Emperor’s Tertia Optio. Or did that get reshuffled too?”

“Nevermind that defending a city has nothing to do with ruling it.” Bruno added with his own brand of bitterness. “I don’t know how you do things in this dumb faction, but it sounds like lone wolf shit to me. And I get it, me too. But if they’re able to go in and take a whole fucking city and its guard, it’s gonna take a whole lot more than uppity peasants to defend it. Whole lot of fuckin’ good your so-called duty is gonna do if they decide to come back and take Daggerfall again. You’re fighting an entire fucking war whether you like it or not, and the whole lone wolf thing has come and gone.”

“And Janus,” Bruno added, turning to him this time, “I know this ain’t your home, and all the gods know I don’t give a shit what happens miles away from me either. But where the fuck do you plan on going that there ain’t gonna be no undead or crazy idiot waiting for you? Because if you can think of one, I’m two seconds from kicking you in the dick for holding out on us. None of us wants to be holed up in a dusty fort either! We’d all rather be getting fat and having sex on the Gold Coast, but we can’t, because there are a thousand monsters between here and there waiting to kill us.”

Finally, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. His hand was shaking and a headache was wracking his brain between the smoke and trying to settle what he thought was a stupid dispute between two old soldiers. “You two, just… be a good neighbor and help me take back my home. Free Daggerfall. After that, the both of you can go back to bitching about your lives as much as you want.”

Solomon was glad for Bruno’s intervention, because his grip on his falchion had already tightened and the arcs of lightning that he favored were close to dancing around his fingers. Janus insulting his honor had been one step too far, but killing the man over the slight wouldn’t have helped anyone. Solomon took a deep breath and forced himself to nod at Bruno. “Of course,” he said. “Your home comes first. A promise is a promise.” After a final glance at Janus, Solomon turned his back on him and marched over to the door. “We have an armory to liberate. Let’s get to it.”

He slowly pushed the door open with the tip of his boot and peeked inside. It was even darker in there than it had been in the storeroom, and Solomon resorted to magic this time, conjuring a magelight and sending it into the armory. It illuminated racks of weapons lined up against the walls, anything from halberds to axes and swords to daggers, and numerous grindstones and tables for maintenance and repair. The back wall had been destroyed, however, and the magelight’s rays were not powerful enough to resolve the abyss beyond. A subterranean cave, Solomon figured, and the sound of running water coming up to them from the deep confirmed his suspicions. “Might be how the spiders came in here,” he mumbled to himself.

As if on cue, a giant frostbite spider, clearly the largest of the brood, climbed out of the depths and shot a glob of venom at him. “Fuck!” Solomon yelled and dove for cover behind one of the armor tables.

Janus had swept his eyes over the menagerie of weapons just before the spider had arrived. He jumped to the first one he saw, grasping up the spear and sending it sailing straight into the body of the monstrous spider with a roar. He grasped up the second, a crossbow. It felt familiar in his hands, he’d lost the last one in Skyrim, and he missed the feeling of one in his grip. He took cover with Solomon, loading the first bolt onto the crossbow and sighting up, breath even. At the top of his first breath, he squeezed the trigger and felt the jolt, the bolt flying towards the spider and striking it. He ducked back down, loading another as he spoke to Solomon, “Anymore fire?”

Firelight illuminated the hall, but it didn’t come from Solomon. Bruno had picked up his torch and charged ahead after Janus’ volley of spears and bolts, as the low growl rumbling in his throat quickly escalated in a thundering roar. He batted its legs away to hack his axe into the giant spider’s side. Though its chittering caterwauls were shrill, he dug in his heels and used his axe to pull the spider in closer, either gone mad or unafraid of its dripping fangs, so that he could thrust the hot torch into its face. It reeled back and grazed against Bruno’s arm with one of its fangs, but the shepherd kept his hold secure on his axe and was pulled along with it. He yanked out the crossbow bolt from its exoskeleton and with desperate and enraged shouting, throwing every vile insult and slur at it that he could think of, repeatedly stabbing at its eyes as he was dragged into its den.

“You eight legged piece of shit! You gods-damned oversized, prickly cunt!” He roared as the spider pushed him off with its forelegs. He jumped back up to his feet and charged it again, prying open its exoskeleton with the spear lodged in its abdomen. He was immediately sprayed with its insides and covered in ichor -- but it didn’t seem to faze him.

“I’ll kill you! I’ll kill every last one of you fucks!” His insults were sprinkled intermittently between his attacks, stabbing at its face repeatedly with the spear in several downwards thrusts. “Then maybe, just fucking maybe, I for once can have a home that won’t fucking burn down! Maybe, just maybe, I could have a family!”

There was no escaping death for the giant wounded spider at this point, even if it did manage to escape. As it weakly struggled to back away, Bruno thrusted the spear through its leg and into the ground so that it would be pinned in place. Suddenly it didn’t seem like he was talking about the spider anymore.

“But no!” He continued roaring, kicking the monster in its head while it was down. “Because gods willing, there’s always got to be fetchers like you who just keep fucking TAKING!” He kicked it again, crushing one of its mandibles beneath his boot. “You take my land! You take my parents! I’m tired of all the stupid fucking monsters, I’m tired of the stupid fucking soldiers, the fucking people! Just give me back my life!” He ripped out his axe and stood before the spider like an executioner. Then with several savage and over-headed swings, he carved its body into pulp with each and every word he spoke. “GIVE! ME! BACK! MY! WIFE!”

Solomon jumped to his feet when Bruno was dragged out of the armory and ran after the man, but the sounds of the Nord's hard-fought victory and all the rage that spilled out at the same time reached him before he reached them. The Imperial stopped just short of the broken wall and listened instead, and his expression turned from fear for Bruno's life into something worse -- fear for the man's sanity. He sympathised with the loss, even if he'd never had a wife of his own, but the savagery that occurred just beyond the dark precipice spoke of a man that was threatening to fall apart.

He looked over his shoulder at Janus, all enmity between them forgotten. "I had no idea he had a wife," Solomon said softly. He hesitated. Fury led to darkness, and despite his own losses, the spymaster had never allowed himself to go down that road. It was his biggest rule. But then he'd never invited disaster by trying to settle down and raise a family. Suddenly the box of clothes in Bruno's hut made sense and Solomon turned away. This was too intimate. He wasn't supposed to be seeing this. Joy would know what to say, but not him.

Instead, Solomom busied himself with the weapons and searched for a sword to replace Janus' saber. After a moment of Janus’ empathy for the big man’s screams, he went to help Solomon with the endeavor, his head bowed. As they perused the stock of sharp metal and grindstones, Janus spoke, “Why an inn?” He asked. Solomon had to know what he asking, his voice less biting now, “Some of us were put in embassies. Why an inn?”

It took a second for Solomon to change gears and put all thoughts of Bruno and his past aside. “To gather intelligence,” he said and lifted a slim, slightly curved blade out of the weapon racks, and continued to speak while he held it up to inspect it. “Not very exciting, and definitely not the kind of position that my training and experience would point towards, but… well, you were there,” he explained and sighed. The sword looked to be an Akaviri-inspired katana, similar to the old weapons that the Blades once used. “Makes it all the more embarrassing that I didn’t see this coming. Whoever this Lord of Moths is, he kept a tight lid on everything. What about this?” Solomon offered the sword for Janus to try.

Janus took the blade by the hilt and tested its balance with a finger on the flat of its blade. He spoke as popped it up and caught it again to give it a test swing, “It’s no saber. Leaves my weapon hand unguarded.” He observed, “Can’t half-sword with it. Beautiful blade though.”

He looked to Solomon, “The Blades couldn’t warn the Emperor before the Dominion attacked. They had enough time to marshal an army and land on Cyrodiil’s shores.” Janus shook his head, “Things happen.”

He plucked another sword from the racks and nodded. A side-sword, fine craftsmanship for Breton upperclassmen. Decent protection for his hand, it’d do. “I should repay you for the blade.” Janus went to work belting it to himself, “Before I leave. What’s your price?”

Solomon evaluated the worth of the sword in septims for a moment before he realized the futility of trying to do so. What use did he have for money at this point? Instead, another thought occurred to him and he looked from the blade back to Janus.

“Teach Henry and Joy how to swing one of those,” he said. “Just for a week or two. You can’t defend them when you’re gone, but you can help them defend themselves. You said it yourself -- they’re dead weight. If they try to help me now, well…”

The Imperial sucked in air through his teeth. “Don’t give them more than a week myself. A month, tops. Which I’ll take from them.” He met the Colovian’s gaze. There was nothing but cold steel in Solomon’s eyes. “You know I will. Isn’t that what we do? Churn people up and spit them out?”

Turning Janus’ words back on him and tugging on his heartstrings was playing dirty, but Solomon didn’t care. This is what it took to win in this craft. “Give them a fighting chance and we’ll call your debt paid.”

“They stay here.” Janus said, equaling Solomon’s steely eyes in intensity. A little bit of Havel peeking through, “You and I both know what we are. It’s been a neat little stage play.”

“I’ll do it. If only to make sure Henry doesn’t trip over himself and put his big fucking axe through his forehead.” Janus frowned, glancing to see if Bruno had come crawling back yet and seeing he hadn’t, “You send Joy on one of those fool’s errands to take back a city, I’ll dress you like a buck. She’s a cook. She cooks.”

“She ain’t like us.” Janus nodded, spitting in the palm of one of his tattooed hands and offering it out to Solomon.

It wasn’t a difficult decision. Joy learning how to fight was secondary to the primary goal of keeping Janus around a little longer. Delayed plans eventually turn into cancelled plans, Solomon knew. The longer it took for the man to leave, well…

He nodded, spat in his own palm and shook on it with the Colovian. “She cooks,” he echoed. “That’s fair.”

“None of us came crawling out the womb with weapons in hand.” Bruno’s voice rumbled from behind. Upon turning around, they found him staggering back through the hole in the crumbling wall with his weapon in hand. He was covered in sticky ichor and blood, and sweat was pouring down his face. It was hard to make out in the lighting, but his eyes were red even if it didn’t look like any tears had fallen from them. Those floodgates held strong even if the dam had cracked. They shifted between the two men with a still-bitter scowl on his face. “No one’s a fighter ‘til the hour comes. Cook,” he scoffed, “she’s also a Nord. You’d do well to treat her like one.”

Bruno turned, pointing his axe at the hole from where he emerged. He said, “Thing’s dead. Say the word and I’ll board that hole up ‘til we’re ready to see where it leads,” and as he turned back to march past the other two men, he added, “we will not speak of this.”

Janus shook his head. He’d seen plenty Nords die, man or woman. He’d make damn sure he wouldn’t see this one die, least not on some errand, that much he could do. He turned from Solomon to follow Bruno out, the crossbow slung on his shoulder, his hand resting on the pommel of his new sword. A badge of his new debt. “I’ll start the lessons tonight.” He called over his shoulder.

“Thank you,” Solomon replied. “I appreciate it.”

He waited until the two men had left the armory, his eyes fixed on Bruno’s back. The spymaster would have to keep an eye on Bruno from now on and make sure that his mental state didn’t deteriorate further to the point that he became a danger to himself and others. Freeing Daggerfall and giving the man his home back would be the best he could do for him. He sighed before he turned back around. “Alright, now, where are you?” he mumbled to himself and set about the task of rummaging through the mess the spiders had made of the place, searching for something he had squirreled away down here years ago.

It took him more than ten minutes before he finally unearthed the chest he had hidden from beneath one of the overturned armor tables. Solomon grunted and wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Finally,” he growled and hoisted the chest upright. He produced the key from his pocket that he had dug up from the bottom of his backpack earlier, when he had settled into his suite at the top of the castle. He tried it on the lock; it still fit snugly. The mechanism resisted him for a moment as he tried to turn it, however, and Solomon fought the rust until he hissed in frustration and zapped the lock with a small bolt of electricity, shocking the oxidized metal clean off.

The chest opened smoothly this time and he threw back the lid, regarding the items that greeted him within with a heavy-lidded gaze. Solomon clenched his jaw. He had hoped he would never need any of it anymore, but the world had different plans. The Imperial fingered the hilt of his old gladius, the pommel carved from ivory and emblazoned with the Dragon of the Empire. Its touch brought back battlefields long past and the lives he had taken there flashed before his eyes.

He reached in for something else and rose to his feet, holding it out in front of him to inspect: the armor and battledress of an Imperial commander, modified over the years to suit the needs of an agent of the Penitus Oculatus. The steel breastplate, decorated with swooping eagles and molded to fit the shape of a muscular chest that he no longer possessed, the elegant vambraces and the pauldrons, carved in the shape of a raptor’s snarling head, were still in fine condition. The artificer metalwork had held up admirably over the years. The white fabric of the hooded battledress, however, complete with the red cingulum straps and the shoulder cape that indicated his rank, trimmed with fur and sporting the coat of a wolf across the shoulders, was worse for wear. It would require serious stitching -- and refitting -- for Solomon to wear it again. Still, he wanted to have it, even if it was just a ceremonial piece. They were at war again, and what was a soldier without his uniform?

“For the Emperor,” Solomon whispered.

The Elder Scrolls: Night of Pestilence

The Great Game Begins

Afternoon, 17th of Sun’s Height, 4E206
Ken Muhyr
Ilessan Hills, Glenumbra, High Rock

Solomon hurried up the stairs, familiarizing himself with the layout of the keep once more. He passed the half-empty library, the alchemical workstation, the arcanery and a bunch of rooms and suites on his way to the top, but none of them held anything for him. He knew what space he wanted -- nay, needed -- for himself. Big enough to serve as a strategium and high above the everyday going-ons of the castle below, where he could plot and scheme undisturbed. The spiral staircase ended at last as Solomon reached the top floor, slightly out of breath and with an ache in his knees. He’d gotten soft. At least the climb would help him get back into shape.

A large, circular chamber awaited him, already furnished with chairs, tables, rugs, closets and a mahogany bed. Solomon dropped his backpack on one of the cabinets and lit a few of the candles with a snap of his fingers. He meandered through the room, his fingers brushing against the furniture and the tapestries on the walls that bore faded images of battles fought long past. A large table dominated the center of the room and Solomon looked at it for a few seconds. Returning to his backpack, he produced his map of High Rock and unfurled the papyrus across the wooden tabletop, pinning the corners down with paperweights. Solomon took a step back and looked around, ducking low and rummaging through the cabinets.

“Aha,” he said and held up a box of chess pieces. The white king went in the center of the Ilessan Hills, representing the fortress of Ken Muhyr and its new inhabitants. He deliberated over the next piece and eventually settled on the black rook, placing it over Daggerfall -- the High Priest of Stendarr. Not the leader, but an important avatar of strength for the cult. He fingered the black king and sighed, placing it off the map. The Lord of Moths, High Priest of Akatosh, waiting in the wings, his location unknown. In a similar fashion, the rest of the black pieces were distributed across the other cities of High Rock, painting a gloomy picture; a single white king surrounded by nothing but enemies.

“Big things have small beginnings,” Solomon whispered.

Pulling up a chair, Solomon sat down and allowed himself a moment of rest. Eventually his gaze looked beyond the map in front of him and he replayed the events of the past days over and over in his mind. The people he had lost in the inn. His guests. His barmaid. Lucy, the old cook. Henry had been close to her. Solomon knew that she had snuck him treats every so often, like the grandmother he’d never had. He’d allowed it. Was there something he could have done differently? Could he have saved them all? The Imperial rubbed his temples and noticed that he was chewing his jaw and tapping his foot.

You can’t let the stress eat you alive, an old commander’s voice echoed in his mind. Don’t live in the past. Don’t live in your regrets. Focus on the here and now, and on the future. You cannot change the past. You can always change the future. Solomon dropped his hands to the chair’s armrests and exhaled slowly, forcing himself to sit still. Tension was still wound tightly into his limbs and the knot in his stomach threatened to squeeze the life from him if he paid attention to it. He hadn’t felt like this since he was a young man, when the Great War had been its most hopeless. But he had other commanders back then, orders to follow, superiors to trust. All he had now was people looking to him for leadership, or people doubting him and telling him this new war was already lost. No matter how large the room was, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the walls were slowly closing in on him. Abruptly, Solomon got to his feet again.

He stepped through the double doors on the other side of the room, emerging onto a spacious balcony. The wind immediately tussled his hair, as high up as he was, and he leaned on the railing on both hands, looking out over the valley and the Ilessan mountains that surrounded it. Pine forest stretched ahead as far as the eye could see, punctuated here and there by rivers and other bodies of water, and wisps of cloud drifted by lazily overhead. He took a deep breath of fresh mountain air and closed his eyes, savoring the sensation of the sun on his face, and he allowed its light and warmth to expel the darkness from his mind and his heart a little. There was still hope, no matter what Janus said. They had this place, for one, and they had their lives and their freedom. Wars had been won with less. Sometimes all it took was one person to tip the scales. It was his duty to be that person or to die trying. What else did he have to live for?

After a minute or two had passed, he straightened back up and rapped his knuckles on the stone railing. “Back to work.”

The Elder Scrolls: Night of Pestilence

A Home of Stone and Air

Afternoon, 17th of Sun’s Height, 4E206
Ken Muhyr
Ilessan Hills, Glenumbra, High Rock

Their journey had been tense, but ultimately uneventful.

The sunrise had come as it always did, which was an immense relief to them all. Fortunately the world had not been cast in eternal darkness. In the light of Magnus, it was like the horrors of the Serpent’s night had never happened. Birds chirped once more and a warm summer breeze whispered down the fields and forests. The group packed their belongings and set off in silence and formation.

For two days they travelled along the empty roads that led away from Daggerfall, as fast as their feet could carry them. Strange as it was, there was no sign of the undead that had chased them out of The Loyal Hound, and Solomon deliberately led them around the smoldering ruins of the inn, wisely giving them a wide berth. He had no desire to cross paths with the headless horseman once more. He wondered where the undead had gone to -- perhaps they had crawled away somewhere else to die once more, or the sinister force that animated them had directed them out of the sunlight. Either way, their journey was unimpeded, in part because they continued to avoid any inhabited areas, even going off-road where necessary to stay away from the villages and hamlets that Solomon and Bruno knew to exist. They could not be sure that encounters with other people would not turn out to be dangerous, and Janus had managed to heal himself -- to Solomon’s pleasant surprise -- so they did not need to risk it.

The night they had spent on the road, however, had been less pleasant. An early darkness fell once more and they sought cover in a cave a little ways away from the road, having already arrived at the foothills of the Ilessan range that sheltered Ken Muhyr -- the group had made good time. Solomon kept first watch and grimaced when he could sense the burning lights of the Serpent overhead in the black-soaked skies once more.

He could not see anything but he could hear things moving through the trees in the distance. Throughout his watch, Solomon kept a firm grip on his falchion until Janus relieved him, and once in his bed he laid awake, tense and… afraid. What little sleep he managed to get was filled with waking dreams of dead men grasping him from below and pulling him into the pitch-black deep, the iridescent eyes of slaughterfish circling him as he sank.

But the morning came once more and banished the horrors of the dark. The forested hills turned silent again, save for the sound of birds and small critters that dashed through the underbrush in the shade of the pine trees -- the road they had followed had petered out and given way to forest and sloping grassland. Solomon, however, could not shake the feeling that they were being watched as they traversed the uninhabited valleys, mountains rising up on either side of them, the snow-capped peaks gleaming in the sunlight. If it weren’t for the situation, the scenery could only be described as idyllic, but he couldn’t enjoy it and as much as he tried, he could not catch anyone or anything in the act of spying on them. He picked up the pace instead.

They finished the second leg of their journey just after noon, further away from any areas of civilization than Solomon had been in years. The walls of Ken Muhyr rose up to meet them as they turned around the bend of the babbling brook they had followed on Solomon’s directions. “At last,” Solomon mumbled to himself, and hope filled him at the sight. “You’re still here.”

The keep was built into the side of a mountain and overlooked one of the valleys that lay nestled between the the Ilessan range’s tallest peaks. A single drawbridge crossed the semi-circular moat that surrounded it, and tiers of fortifications and courtyards crept up the mountainside, culminating in a series of towers and turrets that lorded over the lands below. It had clearly been abandoned for a while; there were many holes in its walls and several of its structures had collapsed entirely, strewing debris across the courtyards and cascading down the mountainside. But the parts that still stood were sturdy enough and plentiful enough to shelter them from most of the elements… or worse.

“It’s a little worse than I remember,” Solomon said over his shoulder, “but it’ll do. Come on.”

They filtered into the keep through the gate and the first thing Solomon did was raising the drawbridge with the mechanism inside. Once he was finished, the spymaster exhaled deeply. For the first time since the zombies had broken the windows of the inn, he felt some measure of safety. It would take siege engines -- or wings -- to reach them now. They went up, through the courtyards, passing training dummies, stables, forges and even a complete and functional ballista, until they climbed the steps of the great hall.

Dust and cobwebs coated the inside, from the black-and-white tile floor to the vaulted ceiling above, and a strong wind coursed through the near-empty space. Only a few crates of unidentified supplies and a long table greeted them, a far cry from the feast-worthy hall that the room must have been once upon a time, and parts of the ceiling were supported with rickety-looking wooden support beams and structures.

“Alright,” Solomon said and turned around. “The doors to your left and to your right lead up to various rooms and suits. Claim a bed and make yourselves at home. For those with combat skills and the inclination to use them, the keep has bowels too,” he explained and pointed to a staircase in the far corner that descended into the rock of the mountain. “That’s where the store rooms and the armory are. Knowing old castles like this, something has probably moved in and made its home in the dark there by now, so I want to clear that out as soon as possible, lest we’re ambushed in our beds by hungry spiders or goblins,” Solomon said.

He didn’t mean to, but his gaze found Joy and Henry as he continued. “As for the rest of you, this place could clearly use some housekeeping and I’m sure we’re all hungry. Down the end of the hall is a hearth and a kitchen -- see if there is still anything we can use, and feel free to make a fire there. We’re as safe here as we’re ever going to be.”

Then he looked up at the ceiling and the rooms he knew to be above them. “There’s a library here, though I don’t know how many books are left, an alchemical workshop and an arcanery. Feel free to use and peruse them at your leisure.”

Solomon clapped his hands together. “Let’s get to it, people!”