Hank

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

Here's mine.

Homeward Bound

The dune loomed up ahead. Akamon stopped to look at it, and when he made to keep moving he stopped and looked again. It was two-faced, one side cast in shadow and one side blazing in the afternoon sun, ochre against burnished gold. It did not even look like it was made of sand from where he was standing, and he thought it looked rather like a meandering river instead, just one that was windswept instead of water-carved, and it occurred to him again just how much the desert was like the ocean too. And then he thought it was even more like the clouds, for it moved so slowly that he could not see it change its shape and yet it was different time he looked. An ocean impervious to time, moving to its own inestimable pace. “Akatosh is barely here,” Akamon thought out loud, and he looked behind him at the trail that his feet had left in the sand, and saw that the wind was already working to erase the unevenness of his presence from the landscape. Soon it would be like he was never there. “He must be busy elsewhere.”

Following the snake-winding-path of the dune’s crest, Akamon plodded up the sand-mountain and beads of sweat soon trickled down his brow from the exertion. It would be far less tiresome to go around the dune, for it was one of the greatest dunes that Akamon had yet seen, but the dune being so great and the climb being so tiresome was exactly why Akamon had to walk over it. He winced and grimaced and cursed under his breath when the sand gave way beneath his feet and he had to hold out his arms or risk falling off the dune himself, and he winced and grimaced and cursed under his breath when his body hurt and he pressed his hand against his side and willed the stabbing pain to go away. The bandages around his ribs chafed as they became wet and heavy with sweat. Halfway up the dune, Akamon stopped again and caught his breath and filled his mouth with water from his waterskin, running his tongue over his chapped lips and groaning as he gulped and gulped. The sun burned his eyes even when they were closed and caused him to see spots and he waved a hand at it as he might dismiss an annoying child. “Go away,” he added for good measure. “This is hard enough without you.” The sun only seemed to shine brighter. Akamon sighed and continued.

His breath came in ragged bursts when he reached the top of the dune and he bent over with his hands on his knees and mouthed a prayer to all the gods he knew and spat the sand out of his mouth. Slowly the man straightened up and opened his eyes again, blinking against the fire-white expanse that stretched out in front of him, the desert at his feet like the sea at the feet of a captain at the helm -- there was that sea-metaphor again, and Akamon wondered if it was because he was thirsty, and he turned his waterskin upside down but it was empty, save for one drop that fell and evaporated as soon as it touched the sand. But he had made it to the top of the dune. There was pride in that accomplishment, and Akamon let it fill his chest and it made him forget his thirst. It was a clear day and he could see as far as the horizon and the great spoors left by the sand worms there. The tribe never went that way.

Speak of the devil, Akamon thought, because he could hear the voices of his friends call out to him. He looked down the length of the dune and he saw them waiting there, waving and shouting. They sounded happy and Akamon grinned and waved back. He unslung the concave shield from his back and placed it on the edge of the dune and he took a deep breath and stepped on it, leaning forward with bent knees and arms out, and this way he surfed down towards his friends at great speed, carving a path in the sand behind him, and he whooped but could hardly hear himself for the wind in his ears. The slope of the dune levelled out and he lost speed until the shield came to an abrupt halt, caught on a rock, and tipped over and Akamon spilled out of it and onto the ground, which was soft and made way for him and the fall did not hurt. He rolled over onto his back and laughed at the sky.

Amir was the first to come up to him, an easy smile on his weathered face and his hand on the pommel of the sword at his waist, robes orange and white, and Akamon saw him upside down, and the old man and his nephew chuckled together.

Then Rusanah appeared next to Amir and she threw her head back and laughed a peal of laughter that sent butterflies through Akamon’s stomach. “They make fools in Cyrodiil,” she declared in the tone of a woman previously unsure but now convinced of the truth. She was young like Akamon was, but not Ashir’Trah and her robes were blue and black.

“Scarce three weeks since his battle and the boy is sliding down dunes,” Hadima said. She was older than Rusanah and married and had five children and tutted in the way only a mother could. “If you reopened your wounds Rusanah can patch you up, I’m not doing it again.” But Akamon could hear from her tone that she did not mean it, and the two women exchanged glances and laughed among themselves.

Taking the arm that his uncle offered him, Akamon pulled himself back to his feet and picked up the shield and shook the sand out of it. It was everywhere now because of his fall and he shook it loose from his pants and sleeves as well.

“Just like Rosha,” Amir said and shook his head, and Akamon’s heart fluttered and his lips smiled on their own.

Hadima scoffed. “Rosha did not fall.” She pointed a finger at Akamon’s chest. “You have much to learn still.”

Amir shrugged, the same easy smile still on his face, his dark eyes warm and forgiving, which was comforting even when Akamon had done nothing wrong. “He’ll get there.”

They brought him back to the place where the Ashir’Trah had made camp. It was one of the many oases that were scattered throughout the desert. The nomads moved from oasis to oasis when they did not go to the cities to trade, following the small herds of onyx and antelope that also made the Alik’r their home and provided the tribes with food and hides and bones, but they took care not to hunt too many of them because then the herds would die out and the people would die out with them. In the long shadows of the rocks and trees there was much activity: hides were being tanned, baskets were being weaved, wares were being unpacked and food was being cooked. The air was alive with the smell of spices and the sound of laughing children and the bleating of pack-mules.

The elder was waiting for him in their usual spot, and gestured for Akamon to sit down opposite her on the threadbare rug. He sank into the crosslegged position that the tribespeople favored and placed his hands in his lap and inclined his head in the customary gesture of respect.

“You climbed the dune?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered.

The elder smirked and quirked a brow. “You surfed down the dune?”

A moment’s silence followed. “Yes.”

She nodded slowly and rolled her eyes. “Your stitches held?”

“Yes,” came the final answer in triplicate.

“Then you are well enough to travel,” she concluded and smoothed the folds of her nassau dress and the many bangles and bands around her wrists chimed softly. “You still intend to return to Cyrodiil?”

A pained expression came over Akamon’s face and he chewed on his lip and avoided her gaze and his eyes flitted through the camp, but they fell on Rusanah instead and he saw that she was watching him, and and she smiled at him, and his heart threatened to climb into his throat so he looked at his hands in his lap. “Yes,” he said softly and in his lap he saw his mother’s hands take his hands into her own.

“You are conflicted.” It was not a question.

Akamon looked up and inhaled a sharp breath. “I want to go home, but I don’t want to leave,” he blurted out. “I came here to learn about my father and be more like him and this is where he wanted me to be, and you have been so kind to me, and Rusanah…” He trailed off and did not finish his thought.

He did not need to. The elder laughed silently and looked at him with knowledge and Akamon felt understood. “A woman cannot keep you from going where your heart wants you to be,” she said. “Rosha knew that too. He left your mother, did he not?”

“To come here,” Akamon said, fidgeting with the big ring that the elder had given him two days ago but that had belonged to his father. He was still getting used to having it on his finger and he wondered if his father had worn it all the time.

She shook her head. “You misunderstand what your father really did. This place,” the elder said and gestured at the camp and at the desert beyond, “is not what matters. What matters is that he went home.”

The young man thought about that for a while. Then he spoke again but with uncertainty in his voice -- uncertainty and hope. “So… you think…”

“Rosha always knew you would go back,” the elder smiled. “I’m sure of it. You are Cyrod-born. You cannot stay here forever, in this harsh land without green and blue and snow in the winter. It is my home, our home.”

“But not my home,” Akamon finished. His eyes found Rusanah again but she was talking to someone else now and he watched as she laughed and tucked her hair behind her ears.

“No,” the elder said. Her eyes were warm and forgiving and Akamon was comforted, even though he now knew that he had done nothing wrong. “She gave you that amulet, yes?” and pointed at the bone-figure that hung from a thin chain around his neck.

The youth reached for it and nodded.

“Let Onsi guide your way home, and you will always remember.”

Akamon nodded again. He remained where he was for a few moments longer and enjoyed the elder’s silent company and the sounds and sights of the camp and the tribe. Soon they would bring him to the edge of the desert and he would make his way home from there. This would be his last evening in the camp. He wallowed in that knowledge for a while and let it fill him and spread through his limbs like sap until all of him knew it and felt that it was right.

Then he uncrossed his legs and got to his feet. It was time to say goodbye.

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

Akamon

Name: Akamon.
Age: 32.
Gender: Male.
Race: Redguard.
Appearance: Tall, broad-shouldered and sinewy, Akamon has a typical warrior’s physique. He stands at 6’2” (185cm) and clocks in at 175 pounds (80kg) of pure bone and muscle. Everything about him is long, from the sharp angles of his face to the inverted delta-shape of his torso and even his slender, nimble fingers, used to holding swords and rifling through books in near-equal measure. His skin has the characteristic dark coloration of his race, a healthy shade of chestnut brown, and while he carries some inevitable scarring from his life as a fighter-for-hire, and from a hard-won fight against a Daedroth in the sand-dunes of the inner desert of Hammerfell, Akamon is not nearly as maimed as some of his peers. More remarkable is the geometric pattern of thin lines that covers the wingspan of his shoulders and upper back, ritualistically etched there by the nomadic Alik’r tribesfolk to celebrate his competency in the Way of the Sword as a Sword-Noble of the Ashir’Trah.

He has a handsome face, if a little on the gaunt side; his cheekbones are nearly sharp enough to cut oneself on. A strong jawline tapers into a well-defined chin, above which rests a prominent mouth with full lips. Akamon’s hooded eyes are somewhat small, made up for by a keen hue, usually amber -- but there are streaks of green in his irises, glittering desert scarabs as they catch the sunlight just right, that speak of old blood in his lineage, and the far-flung sunken lands of Yokuda, where the towers and swords were green with orichalc. There is clear intelligence in his gaze, which rarely lingers in one place for too long and is more often found darting about the room, perceptively taking in small details and searching for the unexpected. His eyebrows are modest, but masculine, and his forehead does not yet have any of the worry-lines that come with age. Akamon’s wiry hair, black on top and a little more brown down the side of his head, is kept in a short, military buzzcut. Hassle-free, just the way he likes it.

There is a lightness to his movements and facial expressions that belies the explosive speed and ferocity that Akamon fights with, but accurately reflects his adventuring spirit. And when he speaks his voice is neither deep nor high, a pleasant and smooth cadence that mixes Cyrodiilic inflections with unusual, Yokudan turns of phrase, and jests that are meant to elicit smiles even from the one being made fun of. A habitual fidgeter, his hands are usually toying with something, be it a coin or a dagger or simply a smooth pebble, even if he is in the middle of conversation. He smiles easily, too, flashing rows of pearly-white teeth inspiring others to do the same, and his eyes light up when he detects the opportunity for humour and wit and the sharing of wisdom. In short, it is hard to dislike Akamon based on superficial interactions with him.

He usually wears simple, Imperial clothes whenever he is out of his armor; tunics, doublets, breeches, trousers and boots in various unassuming colors. He mixes and matches these with a selection of clothes he brought back with him from Hammerfell, however -- linen vests, pants and sashes that add a splash of color to his ensemble. Most jewelry would be too ostentatious for him, but he wears two rings; a simple silver band and a larger golden ring with a fire opal set into it. The latter is a family heirloom, and it means a great deal to him, for losing it would be an affront to his father, so is jealously guarded and caressed when nobody is looking, and he dreams of the sun and the sand.

Personality: Poetic, adventurous, thoughtful, upbeat, mysterious -- these are all words that could be used to describe Akamon. The bright spirit of the Redguard and the decisive power of the Ra Gada that came before them ring true in his breast. He is a warrior-wave in his own right, crashing down on his enemies with joyous abandon, rhyming and flyting as he goes, knowing that his fight is the good fight and his cause is the righteous cause, and that hearts will soar and blood will sing when they see him and the violence he has wrought upon all the evils of the world. A positive force, a force that Makes Way, but a student of history and myth as well. Akamon does not live in the moment: he lives in the past and the future, observing how the river of time has flowed to this point, and speculating where it might flow from here, adjusting the current as he sees fit with small corrections, and doing his best to make things better for the people who cannot fight for themselves. But he has no ambitions for great power, for one cannot see where the river goes if one is submerged in it, nor can they drag anyone out of its rapids and pat them on the back with a reassuring smile and tell them everything will be alright.

Raised in Cyrodiil, Akamon’s warrior-heart has been tempered with the civility that Imperial society instills and appreciates. He is mindful of the needs of people and country, well-versed in etiquette and courtesy, and likes to make others laugh as much as he likes to make them think. A jousting session of witty insults and barbed compliments is just as valuable to him as a spirited discussion about life, death, philosophy and religion. Akamon doesn’t care much for money or material possessions, however, and works as much as he has to in order to sustain his modest lifestyle, and fund his interests, and provide for those he loves. It is only for that which is larger than life that his passion is stoked, and then he can become unrelenting to the point of obsession. He can also be frustrating to have a frank conversation with, especially if he has done something that he needs to apologize for, as he will endlessly dance around the point and unleash a barrage of counter-arguments and excuses, only some of which are strictly relevant, and mostly serve to annoy and pester his accuser into leaving him alone and letting the matter rest to be conveniently forgotten.

A casual lover at best and an unreciprocated heartthrob at worst, Akamon seldom commits to a relationship. He prefers to keep moving, meeting new people and seeing new places, expanding his knowledge and breadth of experience. Even in matters of faith he is undecided, torn between the Nine Divines of his youth and the Yokudan pantheon he encountered between the tall dunes of the Alik’r, and he spends a lot of time thinking about how they might be unified into a single belief-system. There is one person he is unwaveringly devoted to, however: his mother, who still lives in Skingrad. A portion of his earnings are always set aside to help her be comfortable as she enters into her twilight years.

History: Born and raised in a small village just outside of Kvatch, Akamon had a pleasant enough childhood. His mother was a Cyrod-born Redguard, same as him, whose family had been in the Imperial Province for a long time. His father, however, was a traveler from far away: an Alik’r warrior, a mighty swordsman from a remote desert tribe, who was wandering the breadth of the earth on his Walkabout. He met Akamon’s mother and the two fell in love. She convinced him to stay in Cyrodiil and the two started a family, but there wasn’t much call for a warrior of his caliber in such a secure area of the Colovian West, and even though he loved his wife and his son he had an even greater love in his heart for the endless dunes and sunsets of his homeland, and he left when Akamon was just 4 years old. However, he did leave his sword and a series of scrolls behind, including a handwritten note for his son to read when he came of age.

Heartbroken but understanding that there was no containing the spirit of such a man, Akamon’s mother made peace with his absence and raised their son alone, working as a seamstress and running her own clothing stall in the Kvatch markets. From a young age, Akamon helped her out, first with small errands and later with the heavy lifting. His mother always raised him as a devotee of the Nine Divines, but she also read to him from the scrolls that his father had left behind, educating him in some of the myths, legends and stories of the people of the Alik’r. At night he dreamed of Yokuda of yore and imagined his father waiting for him on its far shores. True to her promise, Akamon’s mother kept the note sealed.

In the final year of the Third Era, when Akamon was 17, the Oblivion Crisis happened. The Septim Emperor and his sons assassinated, gates to the hellish realm of Mehrunes Dagon’s Deadlands opened up across Cyrodiil. The city of Kvatch was the first to be struck, just as Akamon and his mother were returning from the markets and on their way home. His mother had recently started allowing Akamon to bring his father’s sword, a two-handed curved blade of exotic make, whenever they left the house, on his insistence: “just in case.” She knew it was merely because Akamon wanted to be like his romanticized memory of his father and not because he knew how to actually use the weapon, but figured that no harm could come of it. And when the two of them were faced with murderous Dremora, she was glad that she did. Akamon unsheathed the sword without a moment’s hesitation and took on the Daedra, tapping into a hidden wellspring of talent and natural ferocity. Miraculously, the boy was able to hold off the three Dremora until the rangers that patrolled the nearby roads arrived and drove the demons back towards the city.

It was clear that something of his father’s might had passed onto Akamon. It was often said that the Redguard were the most naturally talented warriors of Tamriel, and he had certainly proved it that day. His mother had watched in fear and disbelief as he had turned this way and that, ducking and weaving below the ghastly maces and jagged axes of the Dremora, his feet and arms seemingly knowing what to do, striking hard blows with the sword, hands wrapped around the hilt in a confident grip, and a fearless fire in his eyes, and the battle-cries from his throat were loud and righteous. From that day onward, Akamon realized that his destiny was to be a warrior, not a market merchant or artisan craftsman, as much as his mother had hoped. She privately wept at the realization that she was going to lose her son in the same way she had lost her husband. There was no way that so simple a life would be enough for a spirit like that. The winds would take him away too.

But she was not going to deny him his destiny. Some of the refugees from Kvatch resettled in the village and among them was an old Imperial that was once a soldier, and who worked as a trainer for the martial arts. She paid him for Akamon’s tutelage, sometimes with money, sometimes with homecooked meals, and his raw potential was quickly honed into disciplined, well-practiced skill. The old Imperial wasn’t an expert when it came to Redguard weaponry, however, so there was only so much he could teach Akamon. After the Crisis was over and Akamon had turned 18, his mother silently handed him the note that his father had left behind for him.

“Ueetonga, my son,
When you are old enough, come find me in the Alik’r desert. My tribe is called the Ashir’Trah. Take a carriage as far West as it will go, to Elinhir or Taneth, or take a ship to Gilane. Then find a sand mage. Look for Alik’r traders in the markets. They will be able to take you to me. Then I will tell you everything about your heritage. About who you are.

Trangai,
Roshadon”

He shared the contents of the note with his mother, who nodded solemnly. But Akamon would have to work and pay for the journey himself. She could not afford such a thing. And so he did; Akamon joined up with the Fighters Guild in Anvil, which was the closest guildhall left after Kvatch was destroyed, and worked for his pay. Between his natural talent and the old Imperial’s teachings, Akamon was capable enough to take on simple contracts around the Gold Coast. He never complained, never gave up and never asked for a promotion; his superiors were quite pleased with him. Another year passed and Akamon was 19 when he had saved up enough gold to travel all the way to Hammerfell. He paid for a spot on a merchant ship headed from Anvil to Gilane, and once the winds were favourable, they departed. His mother waved to him from the docks, handkerchief in hand.

Gilane dazzled him. Gold-plated rooftops shone brightly in the sun and the warm breeze carried fresh, salty air over the coastal city. The sand beneath his feet was warm, the people wore bright, loose fabrics, and the food was sizzling with flavour and aroma, and the streets full of music and the houses full of art. He was almost content to remain and spend the rest of his money there, for the desert dunes outside the city walls looked most uninviting, but his father’s note burned a hole in his breast pocket and he found the conviction to carry on. After one, unforgettable night beneath the stars, with a beautiful woman from a local brothel by his side, the boy-become-man went to the markets and asked around for traders from the Alik’r. They were not hard to found: hard-looking men and women, wearing turbans and loose robes, that expertly haggled with exasperated customers over the prices of wares that looked like they were from all over the Western Empire. Akamon spent thirty minutes convincing them that the large sword on his back was not for sale before he was able to inquire about the guidance of a sand mage into the desert, and then another thirty minutes mired down in an increasingly tense negotiation over the cost. Once they were agreed, however, the Alik’r were all smiles and jokes and they informed him that they would set off once the sun was no longer at its peak in the sky.

Watching the sand mage at work was a treat unto itself. Being from the Imperial Province, he was not nearly as superstitious about magic as the native Redguard from Hammerfell -- hell, Akamon knew a few Destruction spells himself -- but he had never seen anything like the ritualistic divination that the wise woman was capable of. In dunes that shifted all the time, and looked as featureless to him as the waves of the ocean, she was able to find a path with great confidence, the magicka trapped in the grains of sand glowing to guide their way. The tribesmen explained to Akamon that the desert was one of the most magical places in Tamriel and had an arcane energy all of its own. The sand had a memory, albeit no sentience, that kept a record of paths well-traveled even after they had already disappeared from the material world. This, they said with pride, is why the Alik’r people lived in the desert. They claimed to be some of the oldest spirits on Nirn and had settled in the Alik’r when they did not yet know the needs of their new, flesh-and-blood bodies, and accidentally favored magicka over food or water. Still, they had made it work, and now the endless dunes were theirs.

True unto their word, the traders brought him to the Ashir’Trah tribe. The journey took more than a week, and more than once Akamon had been sure that he did not have the strength to carry on. The daytime heat was oppressive and the lack of abundant water parched his throat beyond levels he had ever thought possible. But, strangely, the desert grew on him, and he felt his body adapt. At the lat of the oasis and Dwemer wells that the tribesfolk used as stops, they finally found the Ashir’Trah. They looked almost identical to the traders Akamon had traveled with to his untrained eye, but there were slight differences in the dyes used on their clothes and the markings on their skin. They eyed him up suspiciously, wondering what such a sweaty outlander was doing this far out in the desert, until Akamon handed them the note that his father had left for him.

Their eyes widened and excitable chatter broke out amid the Redguard. Before he could blink, Akamon was pulled into a series of warm embraces, wheezing from the powerful slaps the men gave his back and reeling from the flurry of kisses his cheeks received from the women. After the commotion died down, Akamon learned that he was in the company of cousins, uncles and aunts. They were glad to see him but when he asked where his father was, they did not answer him and instead bade him to follow. Deep in the desert was hidden a canyon carved into the stone bedrock that lay beneath the sand dunes, where shade was plentiful and the tribe could live, for now, in comfort, before the sands would reclaim the canyon and bury it once more. Akamon sat down, still looking around for his father, until one of the tribe elders spoke to him.

His father had died years before. The elder spoke of ‘bad spirits’ that roamed the desert ever since the ‘Hundred Nights of Pain’, and Akamon quickly deduced that he was talking about the Oblivion Crisis. One of the Gates had apparently opened in the desert and some of the Daedra that had poured out of it hadn’t returned by the time the Gate closed, probably when Mehrunes Dagon was defeated in the Imperial City, leaving them trapped on Tamriel. One of them had killed his father. A thousand nights of childhood dreams of reunion shattered, Akamon wept in silence for the loss of his father, and some of the tribe placed their hands on his shoulders and wept with him. Eventually his tears dried, and the sobbing subsided, and he looked to the elder with searching eyes. The elder, with a warm smile promised Akamon that the tribe would teach him everything his father had planned to do, so that the young man might know him better after all.

Akamon ultimately remained with the tribe for almost three years. His uncles and cousins taught him all they know about swordsmanship, which turned out to be a lot. They explained that the sword Akamon had brought with him was an ancient weapon, allegedly from Yokuda itself, that had been smithed with the orichalcum that the divine avatar Diagna had brought to vanquish the Lefthanded Elves, and they still remembered all the ways in which such a sword was supposed to be wielded -- ways that the modern Redguard had forgotten: The ‘Shen She Ru Hel’, or the Way of the Sword. They also explained that such techniques were related to the ancient art of sword-singing, but Akamon found what they had to say about the sword-saints who could allegedly call forth a sword made from their very essence to be a little hard to believe, for he had never heard of such things before and even the greatest warriors of the Empire had never wielded such spirit-weapons. Either way, they assured him, there had not been any sword-singers for many, many centuries, and they did not expect him to materialize such a blade. Instead, they would teach him to use his father’s.

There was more they taught him than bladework, however, even if that was what Akamon was most interested in, as young men often are. They also insisted on teaching him of the tribe’s history, of how they were the descendents of the Ra Gada that came from Yokuda to Make Way on Tamriel, so that the refugees from the doomed homeland could have a place to live and rule. There were more scrolls and texts, like the one that Akamon had brought with him, which were accepted with gratitude and returned to the tribe’s library with reverence, and he read those too, or had them read to him by the elders, or by one of the young women who would have seemed very attractive to him if she was not his cousin. He learned of the reasons for his father’s Walkabout, an ancient tradition that the sword-saints had practiced on Yokuda, and he learned of where some of these ancient heroes were buried.

The tribe took him to see the Hall of Heroes, half-buried beneath the sand, inaccessible if not for a passage created and maintained by the sand mages of the Alik’r. There he saw the tombs, and they even claimed that one of them belonged to his namesake, Akamon the Ansei, who had vanquished the Nedic defenders together with the greatest warriors of his age, and Akamon the Redguard youth was humbled. He asked them there his father was buried, but they shook their heads and touched their fingers to their lips, and they told him that they had given his father back to the desert, as was their custom now, so that the magicka in his eyes and limbs and heart would be set free and might guide the tribe once more.

Every so often they met with the other tribes, for festivals and celebrations and funerals, where the Alik’r sang and danced and recited tales and legends, their feet stomping and kicking up dust around the fires, their moving bodies casting long shadows on the canyon-walls and dune-stretches, and they taught their songs and dances to the young man, who was anxious at first but quickly developed a taste for it. He became like a viper, flexible and smooth in his movements, and a better swordsman for it. And Akamon encountered other very attractive women there, who were not his cousin, from the other tribes that lived in the desert, and they taught him other things too.

Near the end of his stay, when Akamon had learned most everything they had to teach him, for he was a fast learner, one of the sentries that kept watch over the dunes came running to warn the tribe at night that the ugakta-tobr’a was coming. Akamon did not know what that was, but he felt with great certainty that it was his destiny to slay it, or all the stories he had heard of heroes and Walkabouts and goblin-kings of old had gotten to his head. Sword in hand, he left the camp to meet the unknown foe beneath the vast sea of stars and told the tribesmen to stay behind. This was his test. Perhaps this was the foe that had felled his father. He felt fear in his heart, but he was not afraid.

It was a Daedroth that moved beneath the sand like a crocodile through water. Arrows poked out from its leathery hide and its claws still dripped with the gore of foes long devoured. It had made the desert its home even more effectively than the Alik’r nomads had. Akamon and the beast fought for three hours, their battle turning the pristine sand into a pit of glass with their respective fire magics, and dealing each other grievous wounds in their dance of death. The great beast attacked and retreated into the sand when Akamon rebuffed it, circling around him as its hunger grew, only the arrow-shafts from its back like shark fins through the wind-tussled dune-tops, then bursting forth once more with roar and flame and fanged maw. Akamon ultimately slew it with a mighty blow from his father’s sword, claiming its severed head and yelling out his hoarse victory into the night. Then he sank to the sand himself and nearly succumbed to his own injuries, for they were many and severe, and his blood stained the sand and his vision faded and he thought only of his poor mother, now alone in the world. But the Ashir’Trah heard his cry and came for him and nursed him back to health.

Once he was strong enough to walk again, the elder spoke to him one last time and with pride in his voice declared that Akamon had mastered the Way and become a Hel Shira -- a sword-noble. They marked his back with geometric patterns, ritualistic scarification to confirm his status, while reciting from the oldest Yoku scrolls and burning holy incense. And the elder had one last gift for him, a gift that had belonged to his father, and that he had instructed the tribe with his dying breath to give to his son only when he had realized his potential: a ring with an opal that had the fire of the red desert sunset caught in it. Realizing that his time with the tribe had come to an end, and missing his mother and his own green-and-blue homeland fiercely, the tribe made preparations to return him to Gilane, but Akamon had a different idea. They brought him to Elinhir instead, and from there the man-become-warrior returned to Cyrodiil on foot.

It was a pilgrimage, in a way. The end of his own Walkabout. Akamon felt that it should be carried out in the traditions of the Hel Ansei, the sword-saints of Yokuda of old; wandering the land, righting wrongs and fighting monsters. And he quickly found that the Cyrodiil he returned to was no longer the Cyrodiil he had left behind. Bandits attacked caravans, and Akamon assisted in repelling them, the Imperial Rangers nowhere to be found. In the Colovian Highlands the people of a mining village were besieged by a goblin tribe coming from deep within the mines and Akamon descended into them, butchering them until he challenged the shaman in single combat and slew him too -- but the Chorrol guards were nowhere to be found. Eventually he made his way back home to his mother in the village, and they hugged and cried and he told her everything that had happened, but his joy was cut short when he found that that the village was held under the sway of a self-styled ‘baron’ who took half of what the peasants made, now that there was no lord in Kvatch to tell him any different.

Frustrated, Akamon spent the last of his septims to help his mother move to Skingrad instead, where stability and order was maintained by Count Janus Hassildor. He asked his mother how it came to be that Cyrodiil was no longer a land of peace and plenty, and she told him that it was because there was no longer a Dragonborn Emperor on the Ruby Throne. Potentate Ocato could only command so much respect, and the vile and vicious were taking advantage. This is what prompted the seeds that the Ashir’Trah’s scrolls had sown to take root, and Akamon became fascinated by history, for he realized he did not understand what was so important about the Dragonborn Emperors in the same way he now understood what was so important about the Ansei of the Ra Gada, who continued to serve as inspirations for the Redguard of the Fourth Era. After making sure that his mother was comfortable in Skingrad, he returned to working for the Fighters Guild. While doing so, and traveling the breadth of the Empire wherever the Fighters Guild still had a presence, he spent most of his spare income and free time on books and scrolls; books on history, books on gods, books on power and royalty, until he understood the power of the mythical heroes of the Empire’s past and the Septim Emperors’ connection to them. And then, curiosity sparked, he bought books and scrolls about Skyrim’s history and heroes, and Morrowind’s, and Alinor’s, and so on, and he asked the natives of the provinces he visited questions, and he went to their holy places and observed their rituals and celebrations. He saw the buried city of Saarthal, and the shores of sundered Vvardenfell, and the ruins of the Crystal Tower, and then the warrior-become-philosopher understood the intricacies of power, and of myth-making, and how when a nation’s heroes fell, the nation fell too, and he wondered what was to become of the Empire.

The years following the Potentate’s assassination inspired little confidence. The Fighters Guild stopped taking contracts from common folk, instead selling out their services to the highest bidder only. A madman sat on the Ruby Throne and the Elder Council was more interested in vying for internal supremacy than taking care of the Empire itself. Disappointed and unable to reconcile his morals with the work he was forced to do, Akamon resigned from the Fighters Guild, and knew he had made the right choice when he had to fend off killers in the night, sent after him retaliation for his ‘betrayal’. No longer shackled to their hierarchy and their priorities, Akamon found freedom in becoming a warrior for whatever cause he felt like championing when he woke up in the morning. There was enough money to be made by earning the common folk’s gratitude, or by bartering the trinkets and baubles he took from the corpses of outlaws he had slain, for Akamon was born to a peasant mother and had never needed much in the way of material possessions to be happy.

And so his life went until, back home, Janus Hassildor was usurped by his erstwhile Marshal, a man named Hraldun, and Akamon’s mother was once again ruthlessly taxed for all she was worth, and he learned from her tear-stained note that the latest delivery of septims that he had sent to her was intercepted by the Count’s men and they had ransacked her home for the rest. Akamon returned from southern Skyrim, where had been campaigning against a band of mountain-bandits, and found that he was denied entry to the city by the guards, rough men with avaricious eyes that had no interest in letting a Redguard warrior interfere with their affairs. Knowing that he could not fight his way into the city by himself, he retreated to one of the villages to concoct a plan to deal with the powerful Count, and that’s where he was when Isobel Aurelia, the great minotaur Beordan and a few other escaped gladiators fell upon the village, taking out one of the Count’s tax officers and his guards in a decisive strike, and Akamon realized he would not have to fight alone after all.

Attributes:
Major: Agility.
Minor: Personality.

Skills:
Expert:
- Two-Handed: The Ashir’Trah tribe of Hammerfell taught Akamon in the Way of the Sword, the ancient Yokudan warrior-techniques, and made him into a formidable swordsman. His skill is specifically with the long, two-handed cutting weapons that the sword-saints favored and that his father left him, but Akamon can make decent use of anything with a sharp edge and a large hilt. The style is aggressive but decisive, seeking to end the fight with a single stroke -- Akamon becomes a whirlwind of movement on the battlefield, cold steel singing as he takes off limbs and heads, leaving a trail of blood and gore in his wake. When forced on the defensive, Akamon is an expert at using the flat of the blade to parry blows and force an opponent away from him so that he might use the full range of the sword once more. Shields splinter and armor buckles beneath the ferocity of his assault and the orichalcum-weight of the blade, and flesh and bone and leather part as wheat before a scythe.

Adept:
- Destruction: Not above fighting a little dirty, Akamon uses elemental magic to disorient his opponents, or strike from distances beyond the range of his sword, or to capitalize on magical weaknesses in ways that metal can not. He is no great mage but he is a decent spellsword, and such versatility makes him less one-dimensional, and therefore less predictable.
- Medium Armor: Balance in all things, and so it must be in armor too. Heavy plate is too restrictive, but mere leather or moonstone is insufficient. Akamon has always favored the middle ground and has worn chainmail and scale his entire career.
- Athletics: A wanderer and adventurer by trade, Akamon has many a mile under his belt and can walk for more than a day in full gear without stopping to sleep. Trekking the breadth and width of the Alik’r desert in search of water and shade with the Ashir’Trah tribe, in particular, made him a hardy and resilient hiker, and he is fast as the wind when he breaks into a sprint.

Apprentice:
- Speechcraft: No great orator but a good conversationalist and amateur debater, Akamon does not hesitate or stutter while speaking, for words and ideas come to him easily and confidently, unless they are not the truth. Akamon dislikes lying and does not excel at it.
- Sneak: Sometimes silence is necessary. Akamon is no fool and doesn’t throw himself headlong into every conflict he encounters. He knows how to assess a situation from a distance and seem forgettable in a crowded place. And if an opportune moment presents itself, he can strike from the shadows on an unaware opponent.
- One-Handed: An sometimes there’s just no room, or time, to reach for or swing a sword. Akamon carries two daggers on his person for such situations. Far from an expert in wielding short blades, they are his last resort in a combat situation and he generally only uses them for silent takedowns.

Spells:
- Flames
- Fireball
- Flame Cloak
- Frost
- Ice spike
- Sparks
- Chain Lightning

Equipment:
- Yokudan sword: A long, elegant, two-handed sword that Akamon inherited from his father. The single-edged blade is curved, not unlike a scimitar but more like a saber or falchion, wider than a longsword but not as massive as a greatsword. It is balanced to grow a little wider near the top before tapering into a sharp point as it curves backwards, creating a sharp slashing edge. It is a versatile weapon, suitable for slashing, capable of thrusting and, in Akamon's hands and with the surprising weight of its unique alloy behind it, even chopping off limbs and heads in a blur of momentum and steel. The metal is bright and glossy, gleaming brilliantly when it catches the sun, but has patterned discolourations along the spine of the blade that have a faint green hue to them, indicating an exotic and unusual composition of the material. The hilt is wrapped in leather to facilitate a strong two-handed grip. Its crossguard is curved, the forward-facing quillon curving down to deflect enemy blades away from the wielder’s hand and the rear-facing quillon curving upward so that one might trap an enemy’s weapon there and disarm them. The Ashir’Trah tribe, to whom the weapon belonged for centuries, allege that it is one of the orichalc weapons that defeated the Lefthanded Elves before the sinking of Yokuda and was taken to Tamriel by the Ra Gada when they invaded Hammerfell. Akamon has been unable to verify the truth of that claim, but it is a magnificent weapon either way, perfectly balanced, requiring little maintenance and being highly resistant to notches and scratches.
- Armor: A mix and match of various cultural armor styles that Akamon has picked up over the years, combining chainmail, steel scales, leather and plate to afford a good balance between mobility and protection. He wears it with a red sash and white cape, typical Redguard attire, and a steel helm with a red horsehair plume in the style of the Legion to identify him as a man of the Heartland of the Empire.
- Daggers: two simple steel daggers, nothing to write home about, that get the job done.
- Potions: Akamon always carries a selection of potions on his person, and he makes sure he replenishes their stock every time he's in town. The essentials are to restore magicka and heal his wounds, carrying three and two vials, respectively, and then he buys whatever beneficial potions the seller happens to have that seem interesting to him. Right now he has a potion to fortify strength and a potion that increases his resistance to magic.

Belongings:
- Jewelry: Two rings; a silver band and a larger, golden ring with a fire opal in the setting that once belonged to his father.
- Amulet: Given to him by a woman from another Alik’r nomad tribe. It is fashioned from bone and represents Onsi, the warrior god of the Ra Gada.
- Money: A pouch with some fifty-odd septims. He has been with Isobel’s band of merry men for a while now and they share essential supplies in a communal fashion, so his personal expenditure -- and his need for money -- has been light.
- Leather rucksack: A gift from his mother when he set off for Hammerfell. It has been with him through thick and thin, and while it looks quite battered and weather-worn, it is still perfectly servicable.
- Rations: Three days worth of nuts and dried meats, perfect for emergency survival situations, and a leather waterskin.
- Bedroll: A man’s got to sleep. This one he brought with him from the Alik’r desert, woven by the seamstresses of the Ashir’Trah tribe in bright colours.

Birthsign: The Steed.

Miscellaneous: Akamon enjoys games and can almost always be convinced to play a round of dice or cards.

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

@Hank I guess I didn't interpret that to mean that they had cut off contact from the outside world, otherwise they wouldn't hear about another dragonborn to serve.

In any case I can reconfigure my character a bit. At his core what I'm planning is a Khajiit monk sort of character, but I'm still working on his motivations.

@Dead Cruiser

That is true. What you can do is have your character be an informant for the Blades in that regard, but in a sleeper agent sort of way. Until there is a new Dragonborn revealed, there is nothing to communicate and the connection is purely a passive one.

Perhaps your character thinks that Isobel might be a Dragonborn, and joins the rebellion to observe her from up close and see if she fits the bill? I don't exactly know how the Blades test for the presence of dragon souls without dragons to take souls from, but we can work something out.

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

<Snipped quote by Hank>

Surely they still have ears and eyes in the field, at least in their home turf of Cryodiil.

@Dead Cruiser

Perhaps, but the lore doesn't support it.

With the death of Uriel Septim VII and his son, Martin, the 3rd era came to a close with the Blades fortifying themselves deep within Cyrodiil's Cloud Ruler Temple, as they waited for a Dragonborn to return when they would be called upon again.

When that didn't happen, they turned their sights on the Dominion, but it will be a while before that forms in the current point in the canon.

Either way, the Blades don't have much of a role to play right now.

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

Working out my character. Would it be okay to play as a character thats a contact of the Blades? Not a member, but one of their local associates/disposable catpaws (pun impending).

@Dead Cruiser

The Blades are mostly inactive at this point. You can be an associate, sure, but I'm not sure what it will add to your character when his contacts are holed up in Cloud Ruler Temple as they wait for the storm to blow over.

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

Oops, made a mistake while writing the Character Sheet: it's supposed to be one Expert skill by default, not two. I've corrected my mistake. If you were already working on a sheet, please change it there as well.

My bad!

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

I am going to have to back out. I won't be able to keep up. Sorry.

@Silentfeather

No worries. We're still in the planning phase, no harm done.

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

OOC is up!

roleplayerguild.com/topics/185675-the…

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

PLAYER CHARACTERS

Akamon | Redguard | 32 | ♂️ | The Steed | Two-Handed | Agility & Personality

Sword-Noble, mercenary and folk hero

Janus Kresimir Ex Pallido | Colovian Imperial | 42 | ♂️ | The Lady | One-Handed | Speed & Luck

Spy and retired soldier

Reyna Stromfleur | Nord/Breton | 18 | ♀ | The Warrior | Athletics | Speed & Strength

Gladiator

Quintus Gefjenssen | Nord | 28 | ♂️ | The Lord | Generalist | Strength & Intelligence

Farmer, resistance fighter

Durzum gro-Moghul] | Orsimer | 35 | ♂️ | The Lord | Heavy Armor | Endurance & Personality

Voshu Ornim warrior and evangelist

---

NPCs

The Leaders:

Isobel Aurelia

Name: Isobel Aurelia.
Age: 32.
Gender: Female.
Race: Imperial.

An olive-skinned, dark-haired and brown-eyed woman of average height and stature, Isobel might as well be the poster child for the general appearance of the Imperial race. Captured and enslaved by Thules the Gibbering, forced to fight in his Arena, Isobel proved a capable warrior and survived multiple fights in the deathmatches they threw her in. She befriended the great minotaur Beordan, the Lord of the Arena, while held captive in the Bloodworks beneath the colosseum, and the two of them led a breakout of gladiators in a wild and desperate escape from the Imperial City. They ended up in the woods near Skingrad and took up arms against Count Hruldan and his cruel enforcers.

Isobel is an incorrigible optimist and dreams, literally and figuratively, of a better future for the common people of Cyrodiil. She is lowborn, though her exact origins are unclear. She does not like to speak of her past before her enslavement at the hands of the Emperor’s troops. Actions speak louder than words and her spirited resistance against the self-serving tyranny of the Count of Skingrad has gathered numerous allies to her side already. She is compassionate, assertive and generous, both with her time and her means. While her optimism could be construed as naivety, there is a disarming perceptiveness to her, and she is surprisingly intuitive in matters of leadership and logistics.

Isobel is a faithful devotee of the Nine Divines and regularly spends time praying and meditating on their lessons. She wears an amulet of Kynareth. Her weapon of choice is an Imperial gladius and she prefers to fight in light armor.

Beordan

Name: Beordan, Lord of the Arena.
Age: 20.
Gender: Male.
Race: Minotaur.

An intimidating colossus, almost 9 feet tall from hoof to horn and rippling with muscle, Beordan was the undisputed Lord of the Arena before his escape, as indicated by the champion’s belt that he still wears around his waist. Like Isobel, Beordan was captured and forced to fight as a gladiator for Emperor’s sadistic amusement, but nobody knows precisely from where. Unlike most of his kind in the Fourth Era, Beordan possesses sapience, an undeniable intellect, and the capacity for speech -- though he is a creature of few words by choice. He is fiercely protective of Isobel, for he owes her his freedom, and rarely leaves her side. Beordan fights as her champion now, and, through her, as a champion of the people.

Where Isobel is an optimist and a dreamer, Beordan has a wary disposition and shows a natural distrust of most men, elves and beastfolk. He has a nose for detecting lies and half-truths, warning her with derisive snorts whenever he can tell she is being played for a fool. However, when his trust is earned, Beordan is a steadfast friend and ally. He might not say much, but he often cuts to the heart of the issue whenever he does speak up and can be unexpectedly helpful in matters of internal conflict.

It is unknown what faith Beordan possesses, if any. He fights with a Dwemer warhammer that was given to him in the Arena, opting not to wear any armor beyond his belt -- the hide of the minotaur is thick and nigh impervious to arrows and blades. Remaining unarmored, he moves much faster than anything of his size should be able to, catching opponents off-guard and delivering crushing blows with his hammer that can fell even the largest Orsimer in a single swing, or goring them upon his mighty horns.

---

The Crew:

Llevurlan Indrisil

Name: Llevurlan Indrisil.
Age: 87.
Gender: Male.
Race: Dunmer.

A Morrowind native that fled the province after the Red Year, Llevurlan kept moving when he got to Skyrim and didn’t settle down until he reached Skingrad, where he happened to have some distant relatives. His elderly aunt was accidentally killed in a skirmish between his family and the Count’s men after they refused to concede to their outrageous ‘tax’ demands, and he took up arms in response.

Cynical, caustic and clever are the three words that best describe Llevurlan. Without his grim determination to deliver retribution, characteristic of his race, he would be a hopelessly pessimistic presence among the rebels; something that annoys Isobel to no end. Every time she says something to keep morale up, Llevurlan is there to remind everyone that the world is rotten, people are evil and nothing they do will matter.

While capable with short swords and throwing stars, Llevurlan’s greatest skills are stealth and observation. He is a loyal servant of the Three Good Daedra.

Dura gra-Bagrat

Name: Dura gra-Bagrat.
Age: 35.
Gender: Female.
Race: Orsimer.

A female huntress that has made a living in the woods around Skingrad for most of her adult life, she came into conflict with Count Hruldan when she was accused of poaching ‘his’ deer -- the deer were not his and it wasn’t up to him to decide who was allowed to hunt in the woods, given that it was land that belonged to the Crown, but who was going to tell him otherwise in this day and age? Not one to take things lying down, Dura started her own guerilla campaign against the Count and his cronies from the depths of the forest until she met Isobel and her allies and joined forces.

Outspoken, short-tempered and proud, Dura takes nothing lying down and will stand up to anyone who even looks at her the wrong way. She doesn’t care much for people, hence her isolated existence, but she will tolerate them if it means that she gets an opportunity to kick the Count in his balls and tell him to fuck off to his face.

Dura fights with a bow and arrow and wears no armor, prefering to strike from the shadows and remain out of range of her enemies.

Henry

Name: Henry.
Age: 17.
Gender: Male.
Race: Breton.

The stable boy of an inn that was burned down in a drunken rage by the Count’s men, Henry had nowhere left to go. Already an orphan before the age of 12, his job at the inn was the closest thing he had to something resembling relatives and the owners of the inn perished in the fire. Heartbroken, angry and lost, he wandered the countryside around Skingrad, performing odd jobs for poor wages and going hungry whenever there wasn’t any work to be found. Isobel took pity on the boy and allowed him to tag along with her and her fellow rebels. Grateful, Henry now serves the crew by taking care of mundane tasks like cleaning, cooking and looking after the horses. Because of his unquestionable loyalty, he sometimes acts as a messenger for confidential missives.

He is nervous, shy and kind-hearted. Henry is determined to prove his worth as a man and take revenge on the Count, but he has a lot of growing up to do before he can go toe-to-toe with anyone. He looks up to the rest of the rebels and treats them with an almost off-putting amount of reverence. But he is a faithful companion, and his innocence and pure nature has made him something of a mascot for the merry band.

Henry worships the Nine Divines. Isobel gave him a dagger to protect himself with in case of emergencies, but he barely knows how to use it.

---

The Enemy:

Count Hruldan of Skingrad

Name: Hruldan, sometimes called Hruldan the Coin-Catcher.
Age: 48.
Gender: Male.
Race: Nord.

The usurper of the beloved Count Janus Hassildor, Huldran is a self-serving cretin of the highest order. His high taxes, employment of cruel guards and mercenaries and lavish, hedonistic expenses have made him wildly unpopular with the common people of Skingrad and its surrounding townships. The aristocracy doesn’t mind him, however, as he knows how to grease palms and sweeten deals with the people that ‘actually matter’, and that has helped him to remain in power thus far.

He is cruel, mean-spirited and greedy. He has a family; a wife that is rarely seen out in public, and two sons that are just as bad as he is. When a dose of extra vicious punishment is in order, Hruldan sends them to take care of business. The only times Hruldan can be seen laughing is when there is an opportunity to do so at another’s expense, and he responds with pitiless prejudice to any perceived slights against his character. That Isobel and her allies have managed to take down all of his lieutenants has put the fear of the gods in his heart, but it is unlikely that he will repent at so late an hour.

He only worships money and power. A formidable warrior in his own right, Hruldan fights with a barbed mace and wears a suit of heavy armor.

---

Others of Note:

Robespierre Chalamer

Name: Robespierre Chalamere.
Age: 62.
Gender: Male.
Race: Breton.

One of Skingrad’s aristocrats, and a rival to the lowborn Hruldan. He believes he can do a much better job, and is a much more deserving candidate, as Count, and has therefore allied with Isobel and her rebels. They are planning to install him as the new Count once Hruldan is defeated. His knowledge of the other nobles in the area and where their loyalties lie is invaluable information in the politicking that will inevitably follow.

To his credit, Robespierre is a much nicer man than Hruldan. While not a saint, he has enough education, humanity and sense to respect the common people and be aware of their plights and needs. He is not wildly popular with the other nobles and notables of the county, but his family has been there for a long time and the Chalamere name has a decent reputation. In short, he was the best candidate that the rebels could find.

Robespierre worships the Nine Divines. He does not fight, carrying no arms and wearing no armor.

Lucius Lex

Name: Lucius Lex.
Age: 41.
Gender: Male.
Race: Imperial.

The leader of the Skingrad citizen’s militia that has taken up arms against Count Hruldan, inspired by the example set by Isobel and her allies. They are ordinary, local folk, who want to back to tilling their lands and working their smithies in peace as soon as their current, cruel ruler has been replaced. All told they number about 200, their numbers having swelled ever since the Count has been reduced to cowering behind his walls.

Lucius is a salt-of-the-earth peasant through and through, a tanner just like his father was before him, from one of the villages that dot Skingrad county. He doesn’t have much affection for big city folk, in particular big city folk that come around too much and demand too much in taxes. His workshop was raided when he refused to cooperate and that left him without a livelihood. Anger and hope inspired him to rally his fellow citizens, and he has been their leader ever since. He looks up to Isobel and her inner circle, many of whom are experienced adventurers and fighters, and her minotaur companion has caused him to invoke a comparison to Saint Alessia and the demigod Morihaus more than once -- heretical talk that would undoubtedly get him into trouble with the local clergy, if they caught wind of it.

He worships the Nine Divines. Lucius happens to have a sword, but most of the other militia members fight with tools like pitchforks and scythes.

The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

12th of Rain's Hand

Imperial City -

ARENA ESCAPE
MANHUNT ISSUED FOR ISOBEL AURELIA AND BEORAN

ELDER COUNCIL SENDS BOUNTY HUNTERS AND MERCENARIES TO HUNT DOWN TREASONERS ACROSS CYRODIIL

FOURTH ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT THIS YEAR THWARTED BY SECRET POLICE

Bravil -

ONGOING DRUG WAR, PUBLIC EXECUTION OF COUNT BY RENRIJRA KRIIN SPLINTER

FOUGHT TO A STALEMATE, CAPTAIN OF THE GUARD IS HOLED UP IN CASTLE BRAVIL, LAST BASTION OF LAW AND ORDER

DRUGS AND CRIMINALS ARE FUNNELLING THROUGH OPENING IN IMPERIAL BORDER,
NEW SKOOMA AND MOON SUGAR HIGHWAY OPENS DUE TO WEAKENED LEGION AND LEYAWIIN BORDER GUARD, BRAVIL HEAVILY AFFECTED

THIRTY INNOCENTS DEAD ALREADY IN GANG TURF WAR

Leyawiin -

NEWS FROM LEYAWIIN STILL IN THE DARK, LEGION MAINTAINS PRESENCE

Kvatch -

AFTER FIFTEEN LONG YEARS, THE CITY OF KVATCH STANDS AGAIN, WELCOMES NEW CITIZENS

KVATCH COUNTY STILL SAFEST PLACE IN CYRODIIL, LOCAL FAMILY ENSURES PEACE THROUGH STRENGTH

Skingrad -

CIVIL UNREST SINCE JANUS HASSILDOR USURPED, MARSHAL HRULDAN CONFIRMED TO HAVE TAKEN POWER, VALIANT EFFORT TO RESTORE ORDER ENSUES

FAMOUS INN RAZED OVER HARBORING TREASONERS, TAX FRAUD

SIX TAX OFFICERS OF THE SKINGRAD COURT FOUND DEAD, ARENA ESCAPEES IMPLICATED

INSIDE THE IMPERIAL RANGERS’ HUNT FOR ORCISH POACHER

LEGION DETACHMENT PUT UNDER COMMAND OF SECRET POLICE AFTER RIOTS IN SKINGRAD, MARCH FROM IMPERIAL CITY TO RESTORE ORDER