The Reddit Recordings
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Izaka Sazaka
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Carai an Caldazar! Carai an Ellisande!
- Last Seen: 1 yr ago
- Old Guild Username: Izaka Sazaka
- Joined: 12 yrs ago
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- Izaka Sazaka 12 yrs ago
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Alexander Ross
17
Slouching, the supposedly low-life gave the the twittering little class president little heed, momentarily caught up in his own train of thoughts. He could of course still hear her through the large, ear covering headphones which currently adorned his head; no amount of technology could possibly stand up against this sort of nagging. Lifting his left foot, Alex pressed the heel roughly against the edge of the table, popping his seat back on two legs, hands rising wearily towards his bleak headgear so as to remove it at length. This whole process took longer than expected, the more of her time he could waste the better. "What's to say I'll keep my promise. I don't have any interest in your petty little 'student council' BS. It's a waste of time. The school's rules are set in stone, here the proficient succeed and the slow get left behind." Wearily, his eyes drew themselves from their utterly blank stare, angled upwards towards the sightly figure of Maya.
What she spoke was true. There had indeed been a bet, a bet he'd lost quite thoroughly despite his confidence. The agreement had been three rounds of chess, untimed, with the winner dictating terms to the loser unconditionally. Alexander had always been good at the game despite never practicing a moment in his life but his confidence was completely shattered when the student president had beaten him soundly in all three of their games. That was what had led to this unfortunate little situation, what had led to the two of them meeting so clandestinely in the back of the library, wary of either of their social groups catching wind that they were interacting with one another. The delinquent's chilly eyes locked with those of Maya's, ice cold gaze peering into her like a frosty spear. After a moment or so Alex looked away, consigning himself to his fate. There was no telling in what ways she'd make his life miserable if he backed out, best to go along with it for now, at least until he had enough leverage to remove himself from this jam.
Slipping his foot away from the desk his chair slammed back down onto the ground with a sudden, jarring amount of force. Drawing the inquisitive stares of those at the front of the library who couldn't quite make out what was going on in the back. "Whatever. You've got me for a week, that's it. And afterwards you must agree to a rematch." The sour student rose from his chair, heel of his sneaker bumping hard against one of the protruding legs, jamming it back into its original position slotted against the library desk. "Well then, master, where are we to go?" His sickening sarcasm was all to apparent, especially in his emphasis of certain words.
What she spoke was true. There had indeed been a bet, a bet he'd lost quite thoroughly despite his confidence. The agreement had been three rounds of chess, untimed, with the winner dictating terms to the loser unconditionally. Alexander had always been good at the game despite never practicing a moment in his life but his confidence was completely shattered when the student president had beaten him soundly in all three of their games. That was what had led to this unfortunate little situation, what had led to the two of them meeting so clandestinely in the back of the library, wary of either of their social groups catching wind that they were interacting with one another. The delinquent's chilly eyes locked with those of Maya's, ice cold gaze peering into her like a frosty spear. After a moment or so Alex looked away, consigning himself to his fate. There was no telling in what ways she'd make his life miserable if he backed out, best to go along with it for now, at least until he had enough leverage to remove himself from this jam.
Slipping his foot away from the desk his chair slammed back down onto the ground with a sudden, jarring amount of force. Drawing the inquisitive stares of those at the front of the library who couldn't quite make out what was going on in the back. "Whatever. You've got me for a week, that's it. And afterwards you must agree to a rematch." The sour student rose from his chair, heel of his sneaker bumping hard against one of the protruding legs, jamming it back into its original position slotted against the library desk. "Well then, master, where are we to go?" His sickening sarcasm was all to apparent, especially in his emphasis of certain words.
My post is up though I'm a bit sketchy as to the details of everything since I sort of skimmed the IC to get my post up within a reasonable time frame. That being said, if anything in my post is incorrect, etc. please let me know so I can iron it out in all future posts.
x]
x]
With a huff, the Breton struggled mightily to pull himself upright, body filled with the aches, pains, and nausea of a hard night spent drinking and wallowing in the pits of his own misery. He had been immaculate once; a man in the prime of his life, wrapped in all the trappings his once noble status had afforded him. Those had been the good times, times filled with days spent loitering around the local arena or discussing the next shipment of spices and wine. Those days were no more, long gone to the shell of a man who was no longer fully himself. His family's ambitions had gotten the better of them and, when discovered he'd been forced to flee to this hellish land, this waste that was just as well filled with sand than snow, it made no difference. The food was hard, the ale and wine stale, the nights barely tolerable, and the winters even more so. But even as the fallen noble remained trapped within his reverie a pair of strong hands found the undersides of his armpits, lifting him away from the solace of his bar-stool. "Another useless man-mer 'eh? And with too much drink in him to stand." Urik made no resistance, resigning himself to the bulky weight of the Nord who was soon enough in the process of removing him forcibly from the establishment in which he'd previously resided. "No coin for the drink man-mer, no Nordic hospitality." The words were neither rough nor hate-filled, simply fact, an explanation of his ejection in the most palatable terms.
Left to the cold of Windhelm's dirty streets the Breton collected himself, tattered robes of blue and grey and white blending nicely against the bleak backdrop of the city's drab stone construction. It was in these moments, when his barely pointed ears grew blue, then white with frostbite that Urik remembered his purpose, remembered why he'd chosen Skyrim and not Hammerfell as the place of his exile. In an instant the depression was gone, filled with the familiar burning heat of rage which warmed his heart and erased the sense of chill which had previously overcome him. He was wasting time here, he knew already the purpose of his mission and how he was to achieve it, knew how and where to channel this anger, how to manifest it's effects. The people of the town had already noticed it, already invited him to their cause, to the side of the rebellion. Stormcloaks. . . Urik cared nothing for their cause, nothing for the security or future of Skyrim, that frosty hellhole at the end of the world. No, what he cared about was himself, his ambitions and his revenge. If Skyrim's liberation would see the blood of a ten thousand imperials spent upon the snow then the Breton was all the more glad for it, all the more willing to pledge his life too it.
It took a couple of minutes travel but the group was finally coming into sight, a collection of misfits like himself, each more curious than the last. The Nord his recognized, Brynjar, the man who'd picked him up from the street not a fort-night or so ago and invited him to the cause. That evening, which already felt so long ago, he'd spoken convincingly enough. The man was firm in his ideals, persuasive, but his fortitude was what had won the Breton caster over. Urik closed the distance between them and himself, entering the circle of the group just as they were beginning to gather their things for departure. "You'll forgive the lateness I hope my friends, the name is Urik." His words were simple and smooth, somewhat at odds with his appearance. Indeed, even the content of the sentence was anomalous; he called them friends even though they'd never met. It was tradecraft at work, politics, the work of the tongue and mind to craft others emotions into a usable vessel. He needed them to like him or at least tolerate his presence long enough to gain the favor of those who could further his agenda.
Left to the cold of Windhelm's dirty streets the Breton collected himself, tattered robes of blue and grey and white blending nicely against the bleak backdrop of the city's drab stone construction. It was in these moments, when his barely pointed ears grew blue, then white with frostbite that Urik remembered his purpose, remembered why he'd chosen Skyrim and not Hammerfell as the place of his exile. In an instant the depression was gone, filled with the familiar burning heat of rage which warmed his heart and erased the sense of chill which had previously overcome him. He was wasting time here, he knew already the purpose of his mission and how he was to achieve it, knew how and where to channel this anger, how to manifest it's effects. The people of the town had already noticed it, already invited him to their cause, to the side of the rebellion. Stormcloaks. . . Urik cared nothing for their cause, nothing for the security or future of Skyrim, that frosty hellhole at the end of the world. No, what he cared about was himself, his ambitions and his revenge. If Skyrim's liberation would see the blood of a ten thousand imperials spent upon the snow then the Breton was all the more glad for it, all the more willing to pledge his life too it.
It took a couple of minutes travel but the group was finally coming into sight, a collection of misfits like himself, each more curious than the last. The Nord his recognized, Brynjar, the man who'd picked him up from the street not a fort-night or so ago and invited him to the cause. That evening, which already felt so long ago, he'd spoken convincingly enough. The man was firm in his ideals, persuasive, but his fortitude was what had won the Breton caster over. Urik closed the distance between them and himself, entering the circle of the group just as they were beginning to gather their things for departure. "You'll forgive the lateness I hope my friends, the name is Urik." His words were simple and smooth, somewhat at odds with his appearance. Indeed, even the content of the sentence was anomalous; he called them friends even though they'd never met. It was tradecraft at work, politics, the work of the tongue and mind to craft others emotions into a usable vessel. He needed them to like him or at least tolerate his presence long enough to gain the favor of those who could further his agenda.
I'm currently in the process of reading through the IC, so I should have a post up tomorrow if all goes as planned.
Name: Galen 'Urik' Gallatin
Gender: Male
Race: Breton
Age: 28
Allegiance: Stormcloaks
Skills: Alteration, Destruction, Conjuration, Illusion
Equipment: Tattered Noble's Robes (Magicka Regen), Silver Shortsword, Blood-Rite Ring (Fortify Speechcraft)
Background: As the second son of a formerly prominent noble family hailing from High Rock, Galen has recently fallen on hard times. His family was caught up in a series of political machinations in relation to plotting against the empire and as a result their land and titles were stripped away. Galen's family was executed, but he himself managed to escape to the neighboring province of Skyrim. Armed with his experience in the realms of magic and politics, Galen is determined to wreak as much havoc for the empire as possible, while also netting as much fortune as he can in the process and while he is not exactly interested in the Stormcloak's goals per se, he is more than interested in their means, willing to lend his aid only so long as they oppose the imperial agenda.
Personality: Driven by revenge, Galen's inner fires are fueled by his obsession over his family's death. His only wish is to see the empire burn to the ground and he's willing to go to any means to achieve his goal. This stated, his means are usually more subtle than would be expected. He prefers the route of the politician, bending and manipulating others to fight for a cause they really have no interest in, resorting to force only when absolutely necessary.
Wondering if it's too late to put up a character sheet for this?
HellOfALife said
8 damn years is too damn long for a soul like mine,
Ditto. Welcome to development hell.
I'll post again tomorrow afternoon sometime.
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