Kassarock

What Are You Listening To?

~ BLACK FLAGS OF THE ABECEAN ~

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L E A V E S - N O - W A K E & V E L Y N

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The fire crackled and spat as they ate up the driftwood Velyn had gathered along the shoreline. In the predawn light the flames danced in multicoloured hues, the salt stained fuel turning the simple campfire into a riot of blues, greens and violets. The waves lapped against the white sands of the beach, flotsam from burning wrecks that still smouldered on the southern horizon washing in with the tide.

The old mer was half stripped of his armour, his faded tattoos on his torso bared as he tried to redo the bandaging around his right shoulder, a trickle of fresh blood leaking out the soiled wrappings. He had pulled the splinter that had lodged itself in there as the ship had exploded by hand, almost passing out from the pain as he did so, before washing the wound out with saltwater. His shoulder had already been tender from the lingering injury he had acquired before he took passage on the Arslan’s Fortune, but now it was a dull throbbing ache that troubled him each and every time he moved it, as if the joint was filled with broken glass.

He lined up his supplies in the sand beside the fire, a pair of healing draughts and a bottle of sour comberry brandy. He weighed up the value of using them, and reluctantly swigged from one of the potion vials. It would help for now, but he still needed to find a proper healer somewhere on this island. Drinking the brandy was an easier decision.

If this was Stros M’Kai, which he thought it was, there would be people on this island - nearby too, if the presence of the beacon he had seen was anything to go by. The sun would rise before too long, and people would be out this way to investigate the wrecks and its grim cargo it was depositing up and down the coast here. But for now, he was alone on the deserted beach.

He unstrapped the lute from the side of his pack and cradled it in his lap, tucking his sword to the side, and strummed experimentally. The waves had gotten at the instrument as he had waded his way through the breakers, and salt water was not good for the wood or the strings for that matter. By ear it did not sound like it had warped at all, but he wanted to make sure, so despite the pain he was in, Velyn retuned the instrument and began plucking the simple melody of a Netchman’s folk song, thinking of other shores, only accessible across the ocean called memory.

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Out in the shallows, the surf lifted Leaves in slow, deliberate swells. Only the top of his head broke the surface now and then, his nostrils and eyes briefly clearing the water before the next rise carried him under. Here, the sea had settled into a quieter rhythm, far from the sinking carcass of the ship now lost beyond sight. Through the dim grey of early light he noticed movement along the shore.

At this distance the figure was little more than a shape against the sand, a darker silhouette beside a low fire. Smoke drifted inland with the breeze. The Argonian remained still in the water for several moments, watching.

Too far to make clearly.

Not a fisherman. The posture was wrong for it. The shape bent and straightened, hands moving around something held close to the body. No nets. No lines cast toward the water.

Leaves-No-Wake let the swell carry him lower again, salt washing over his eyes before he surfaced once more. The sound of the surf dulled what little noise the figure might have made. Whatever they were doing, it was careful work. He waited a moment longer, studying the shoreline one final time before turning away.

Rather than approach directly, he angled down the coast and swam with steady strokes, letting the current carry him farther along the beach before moving in. The saltwater gnawed deeper at the skin between his scales, the constant brine a dull irritation after so long in it. The Marsh did not sting like this.

As his feet found sand in the shallows, Leaves rose from the water. The surf broke quietly around his legs as he stepped onto the beach, water streaming from his leather armour and dripping steadily from the bow still slung across his back. He paused only long enough to adjust the grip of the stave against his shoulder, ensuring the string remained protected where it rested against his side.

Starting forward, the fire became clearer as he approached, along with the figure beside it.

Dunmer.

The Marsh had long memories of their kind. The mer sat near the flames with armour partially removed, shoulders angled awkwardly as he worked at fresh bandaging. A dark stain spread slowly through the wrappings where blood had begun to seep again. A deep wound, by the look of it.

Shipwreck survivor?

Leaves-No-Wake slowed his approach but did not attempt concealment. At this distance the Dunmer would hear the quiet shift of sand beneath his feet soon enough, if he hadn’t already. Stopping a few steps from the fire he allowed the old mer to finish adjusting the instrument. Then he spoke, his voice low and even.

“You were on ship.”

Not a question. His gaze panned briefly toward the shoreline beyond the fire, scanning the unfamiliar coast.

“Where are we?”

The old Dunmer’s crimson eyes glanced up at the Argonian’s voice, but he made no move to get to his feet or grab ahold of the sword saying in the sand at his side. He just continued to fiddle with the tuning pegs on the head of the stringed instrument.

“Stros M’kai, if I am not mistaken. Perhaps one the isles of the Chain if we blew far enough off course.” His voice was the ash scarred rasp of a true Dunmer of Morrrowind, a tone acquired through growing up in the ash wastes, inflected with the lilt of a native speaker of Dunmeris.

He started strumming another song, the tune a little faster than before, the notes coming fast and thick. A dancing song, one that had once played in Gnsis, for the Feast of St. Rilms, when the town would gather in the temple forecourt and stamp down the dust with bare feet. Though there were few living who would remember that now.

“I was on the ship.” He spoke as he played. “Didn’t see you though.”

The old mer glanced back up at the Argonian, a sly look in his eyes, taking stock of him. There was a tension about the both of them, one stood stock still above the waves, the other at feigned ease. Both of them, no doubt, ready to kill at a moment’s notice. The tension held as the mer strummed away at his instrument, not looking down once at the notes he was playing, his eyes reserved only for the Argonian.

And then the song was finished, and he looked away.

“You one of them? Pirate? I suppose it doesn’t really matter now, but I would advise you to refrain from attempting to rob and kill me, sera, for both our sakes. Come, take a seat, have a drink.” He gestured to the sand opposite him, and held up the bottle of Comberry Brandy in his good hand.

Leaves-No-Wake listened in silence as the Dunmer spoke.

Stros M’kai.

The name meant little to him, but the rest settled easily into place. The second vessel, the boarding, the pirates. His eyes drifted briefly toward the sea, where the last smoke of the wreck had long since thinned into the horizon. Fortunate that the old mer did not seem inclined to blame him for it.

When the Dunmer’s crimson eyes lifted again and fixed upon him, Leaves felt the familiar tightening beneath his scales. A faint prickle crawled along his arms, the quiet discomfort that always came with being watched too closely. He had spent most of his life avoiding the weight of another’s study. Standing in it now, exposed on open sand, set his muscles subtly on edge.

Though he did not shift away. Nor did he make any sudden movement when the accusation came.

Instead, his hand moved slowly to rest against the bow at his shoulder, fingers settling loosely along the wood. Not quite a threat. Not quite a reassurance either. Simply habit, the quiet instinct of someone accustomed to violence arriving without warning.

"No pirate,” he said evenly. “Pirate captive. Escaped now.”

The lie came easily enough. Whether the Dunmer believed it or not mattered little.

“Need to return to the Marsh.”

As the mer had raised his drink in invitation, Leaves’ head cocked to the side. The taste of the brandy lingered faintly on the wind, sharp and unfamiliar against the salt of the sea. Foreign swill. Nothing in it stirred any interest in him. Only the Hist carried a flavor worth seeking.

He was already preparing the refusal when something changed. Leaves lifted his head slightly, nostrils flaring as he tasted the air.

Salt. Smoke.

And beneath it, sweat, leather, metal.

It hung thick in the air, too much for one creature. His gaze slid inland toward the pale rise of dunes where the mounded sand gave way to thicker grasses. The wind grew again, bringing a smell with greater clarity, carried low and steady across the shore.

Movement.

Leaves’ eyes flicked once to the fire, once to the Dunmer and the instrument resting loosely in his hands.

Beacon.

Careless. He should have accounted for it sooner. Firelight burning against the dim shore. Music drifting across open sand. Enough to draw attention from far beyond the beach.

The Argonian’s focus returned briefly to the dunes as the wind carried the approaching scents, stronger again. Whoever was coming had not yet reached the sand, but they were close enough.

Too close.

The open beach offered little cover. Standing here much longer would leave him exposed to any eyes cresting the mounds. Without another word, he drew a thin thread of magicka inward and let it spread across his skin. The air around him bent and softened as the spell took hold, his outline fading into the shifting light and shadow cast by the fire. Then he moved.

Leaves slipped sideways from the fire and ran low across the sand toward the nearest rise of dunes. His feet barely disturbed the surface as he moved, each step light and controlled. Behind him his tail swept through the softer sand, brushing over the shallow impressions left by his passage.

A moment later he disappeared behind the crest of the dune.

As he did so, a patrol of guards emerged from the scrub beyond the beach, and made their way across the sands, armour glinting in the first light of the dawn. Seven men, redguard warriors all, dressed in chainmail and half-plate, part covered by traditional sashes, their pointed helmets wrapped in linens. Their round shields were painted with a symbol, crossed swords in crimson beneath a single ruby star.

They filed onto the beach in a half crouch, their curved swords drawn as they advanced on the guttering flames of the campfire. They were on alert, agitated, ready for a fight clearly. But as they surrounded the fire, one by one, they sheathed their swords.

For there was no one there to be seen.

The old Dunmer with his pack and his lute and his bottle of wine had disappeared somewhere too, vanishing with the coming of the dawn like some kind of strange spectre from the ghost stories that are told around fires like one he has just vacated.

The guards looked around the immediate vicinity of the fire, a few walked to the water’s edge and back to look down along the length of the beach, but none of them fanned out wide enough to begin searching all the hummocks and hollows of the surrounding dunes. After a while they satisfied themselves that there was no one here, just an abandoned campfire that someone had not extinguished fully before they had departed. The patrol regrouped, and marched off of the beach, back the way they came.

Watching from the crest of the dune, lying only feet away from the Argonian, the Dumer sipped at the bottle in his hand once more, and chuckled to himself.

“Prisoner eh? Must have been unlucky to get caught with moves like that, you’re sneakier than I am.”

Leaves remained still until the patrol had fully disappeared beyond the scrub. His eyes followed the last glint of steel through the grass, ensuring they did not circle back. Only when the taste of sweat and metal had faded did he allow the tension in his muscles to ease.

The Argonian turned his head slightly, studying the Dunmer lying only a few feet away with bottle still in hand. For a moment he simply watched the mer as he spoke. The old man had reached the dune without sound, avoiding stirring so much as a whisper of sand. Age had not slowed him as much as it first appeared. That, more than the words, held Leaves’ attention.

When the Dunmer finished speaking, the Argonian’s eyes lingered on him another moment before shifting on his stomach back toward the beach below. The patrol had come quickly, which meant more were across the island.

Leaves exhaled slowly through his nostrils and shook his head once.

“Many questions,” he said quietly as his gaze slid away from the Dunmer. “Wrong questions.”

He gestured faintly toward the open shoreline, where the sea stretched pale and empty in the growing light.

“Need focus. Find port.”

The Argonian shifted his weight in the sand and rose into a low crouch, eyes already moving across the dunes and the grasses beyond as he searched for the safest path inland.

“Ship,” he continued simply. “Marsh.”

Then he looked back at the Dunmer.

“Town. City. You seen any?”

The old mer rolled onto his back and kicked his feet up into the air, standing in one fluid move. He pulled open his pack to stow his brandy and began shrugging into a mossy coloured robe that would cover his bare torso. The bandages of his wounded shoulder, the scars and faded tattoos that told of whoever it was he used to be, disappeared from view once more. Though this time the sword stayed out, sheathed in its lacquered bonemold scabbard, hanging from the belt he clinched around his narrow waist.

“There’s a beacon to the Northeast,” he said, pointing with his free hand inland as he did so. “Saw it on my way into shore. Could be a port, or at least a village. I’ll come with you, sera, was planning on heading that way myself.”

The sun had risen by this point, the lapping waves of the wreckage strewn coast shimmered and sparkled in the morning light. A flock of gulls wheeled overhead, roused by the dawn, they let forth a chorus of shrieking calls. One landed, and began to pick at a pale bloated thing, emerging out of the retreating surf, a thing that had once bore the soul of a man.

“Might I at least get a name for my travelling companion? Or is that a wrong question too?”

Leaves watched as the Dunmer rose, his movements smooth despite the injury. There was no hesitation, no stiffness beyond what the wound demanded. Another demonstration. Whatever the old mer had once been, he had not yet lost it.

A beacon. Northeast.

The Argonian almost smiled. That gave direction, and direction was enough. He gave a small, single nod and turned inland, aligning the Dunmer’s gesture with the rising sun and the shape of the land.

When Velyn asked for his name, Leaves stilled, not outwardly, but in the quieter, internal way that came with translation. Names among his kind were not sounds shaped for other tongues, but meaning carried in thought and memory, drawn from a language that did not sit cleanly in the mouths of outsiders. What others used for him had always been approximations, close enough to suffice, never exact.

For a moment, his focus slipped. His hands tightened slightly at his sides, claws pressing faintly into his palms as he turned the meaning over, fitting it into something that could be spoken here.

“No. Acceptable. I Leaves…” A slight pause formed between the parts, its shape imperfect. “No-Wake.”

A faint tension lingered along his spine, a prickle beneath the scales at the back of his neck. Too much attention. Too direct. It settled there, not enough to move him, but enough to be felt. The name hung between them, thinner in this tongue, stripped of the depth it carried in its true form. Though, Leaves did not elaborate.

Instead, he returned his attention to the Dunmer, his tone steady once more.

“You saw beacon. You lead.”

“Very well,” the Dunmer assented, shifting his pack up onto his good shoulder. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Leaves-No-Wake, Serjo Redoran Velyn Virith, at your service.”

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_{Characters featured in this post: Leaves-No-Wake & Velyn Virith
Written in collaboration between @Auz & @Kassarock}

What Are You Listening To?

A Journey Of Recovery

Night passed uneventfully. After everything that had happened that day, Liraeth had almost expected something more to occur, that the trials and tribulations they had faced would continue. But it was not the case.

They ate the small meal that Liraeth had prepared, the mushrooms not quite charred beyond recognition were still somehow palatable, he was relieved to discover. After that he had applied the burn ointment to Tenth's hand before the other man had laid down on his back and fallen asleep. Liraeth almost wished he could lie down beside him and do the same, but it was wise to stand a watch in this forest still. There might have been other denizens of the ruined castle that fled into these woods less agreeable in nature than his current companion.

So he kept the watch, his back propped up against the nearest tree to the fire. Whenever the flames got too low he tossed another log onto the it, eking out a little pool of warm light against the cold night that pressed in around them. The moon was high overhead and bright, save for when the odd wandering cloud crossed its path. The stream beside them kept up its babble through the night, its rhythm punctuated by the odd call of the owl or fox in the woods beyond.

Sometimes Liraeth would find his eyes lingering over the sleeping form of Tenth, his rest seemed fitful, he tossed and turned near continuously that night. Liraeth had hoped that sleep might be a welcome reprieve for the Knight who's waking world held such horrors that had been inflicted on him. He had hoped that unconsciousness would be healing balm to his damaged mind, just as the salve had been for his burned hand. It did not seem to be the case.

He wondered if Tenth could dream of things he could not remember, of his life before he had been cursed and his will taken from him, or of what had truly happened back there at the castle. Although would that be a dream or a nightmare? Liraeth knew that sometimes memories or versions of memories, iterations, recursions, could surface unbidden in the unconscious mind. It was perhaps especially true for traumatic ones, Liraeth had experience enough with that himself.

But the Knight did not call or cry out in his sleep. Merely continue his fitful slumber, gradually drawing closer to the fire as the night wore on. So perhaps he was getting some reprieve from the horrors after all, and for that Liraeth was glad, and so let the Knight sleep for as long as he could. It was the least he could do considering his own hand in causing Tenth suffering his evening.

Besides the watch, there was one other piece of business that Liraeth still had to attend to, he had neglected to contact his superiors for too long. The council would be desiring of a report now that he had arrived at his destination.

He rose for his seat amongst the tree roots, stretching his tired and aching limbs as he did so, and made his way to the bank of the river. Amongst the sand and shingle of the bank, small still eddying pools of water formed away from the main flow of the stream. Above him the moonlight was bright silver, shining down onto the still water it was almost reflective, like a mirror.

This would serve his purpose well enough.

Liraeth let his power flow through him. He mumurred the words of a spell as his fingers traced softly over the surface of water, faintly glowing streaks left in their wake as he traced runes of seeing, runes of speaking, runes that would seek, and runes that would find.

Suddenly the reflection in the water was not of his own face staring back at him, and night sky above, but somewhere else, very far away, a room that he knew well. The light of the moon touched this riverbank, and that same light touched many other far aways places too. Where that light was reflected back at itself, a conduit of light itself could be formed.

His fingers traced words in the common tongue now, not runes of power. But their rippling wake still left a faint glowing mark on the surface of the water, and on a mirror, in a study, in a city far far away.

'Master, I arrived too late, another dead end, only destruction and ruins, although there was a survivor. I return to the Conclave to receive your guidance.'

When he was finished he let the spell drop away. The luminous writing on the surface of the water faded, and the reflection it held was once more just the moonlit sky above. Liraeth felt fatigue sweep over him, he had cast a number of spells this day and required rest himself. Slowly, he dragged himself back over to his perch by the fireside and Tenth's sleeping form.

He probably should have woken the Knight then to take his watch and gotten some sleep himself, but Liraeth fought the call of sleep for hour or so longer, until his eyelids were drooping and he was half awake himself. Only then did he allow himself to gently wake Tenth for the second watch and fall into merciful arms of oblivion himself, content in the dreamless slumber of exhaustion.

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It was a little past dawn when he blearily awoke to the sound of birdsong. At first he rolled over in an attempt to shut out the sound, closed his eyes against the bright sunlight that streamed down through the tree branches above. But then he knocked against a tree root and suddenly remembered exactly where he was, and what he was doing, and who he was with.

Suddenly, Liraeth sat bolt upright, his head turning from side to side to look around quickly, sending the dangling pendants of earrings swinging as he pushed his hair back from his face.

He had been worried then, that something had happened, that Tenth might have disappeared while he was sleeping, wandered off into the forest or worse. But the Knight was still there in their little camp sitting with his legs crossed, his hands clasped over his knees, his face turned away from where Liraeth slept to where the cacophony of the dawn chorus rose from the forest beyond.

At once his posture relaxed, he allowed himself to lie back against the trunk of the tree once more. But sleep would not return to him now, so instead he stood and stretched, stirred the smouldering embers of the fire. From his pack he pulled a pair of apples. Biting into one of them he walked over to where Tenth was sat watching the forest and offered him the other.

"Good morning Tenth, how are you feeling?"

A Journey Of Recovery

Liraeth let the weight of the Knight settle onto him as Tenth laid his head upon his shoulder and wrapped his arms around him. The other man was heavy, like a leaden weight, he almost felt sure that if Tenth was to fully lean on him he would not be able to support them, that his strength would fail him and they would both collapse there into the dirt by the fireside. But that did not come to pass, not now, at least.

He had been so worried, so afraid, that he had done something terrible again. That by giving that order, pushing Tenth to demonstrate or confront the curse laid upon him, he had caused some irreparable harm to this quiet and gentle Knight he felt such a sense of responsibility and care for, though he had known him but a day. That he used a spell that had banished someone's personhood fully and finally, condemning them to be nothing more than a hollow husk, an empty shell of the person they had once been. It had terrified him.

But Tenth was not gone, he had slowly returned from wherever it was the spell sent him when it took control of his body. He had seen the fog lift from his eyes, seen the light return to them, heard him speak once more like a living, thinking being, and then this, this most of all proved that the Knight was still a person, what need did an automaton have for the comfort of human touch?

Slowly, he closed the embrace around Tenth, wrapping one arm around the Knight's back, placing the other gently upon the back of his head in quiet comfort. They held there for a while, the silence only broken by the babble of the brook and crackle of the fire. They breathed together, and a sense of peace and calm flooded through Liraeth.

Eventually, the Knight pulled away from him, Liraeth released his hold and let him do so. The weight lifted off of him like someone pulling back the heavy covers and quilts of winter bed. Heavy, but warm, pleasant even. It had been nice to hold someone again, it had been a while since he had the opportunity to do so, he had been a stranger to most of the places he had passed through on this journey.

Who even knew how long it had been since Tenth had shared a moment of comfort such as this? That was why he cut off the stammered apology that the Knight was forming as he fully pulled back.

"No! It's fine! Really, the least I could do after everything..." He looked down at Tenth's burned hand, it wasn't terrible, but it could have been so much worse had he not found a way to countermand the order he had given. A thought suddenly came to him and he began to rummage through his satchel looking for something. After a few moments he retrieved a small stoppered jar.

"Here! Calendula and lavender salve! It's good for burns. I can apply it if you want? There's no true magic about it, only a little herbcraft but it should be effec-" He could smell something burning still. A quick glance at the fire showed him one of the skewered mushrooms had caught aflame. He swore under his breath and quickly set about trying to rescue what remained of the cooked part of their evening meal.

Once he had done, they each had a heel of bread with some of the hard white cheese he had bought in the last proper village he had passed through, along with a pile of only lightly charred mushrooms. It was not a feast, but after the trials and tribulations of the day that had preceded it, it was welcomed sustenance. He needed it, Liraeth felt tired, but the exhaustion was plain to see on Tenth's face, he was barely keeping his eyes open.

"You should eat something, then rest if you want, I can take the first watch."

A Journey Of Recovery

The change came over the Knight immediately.

Tenth, so lost and unsure yet desperate to prove something himself, who had just been sat beside him at the fireside, was gone. It was exactly the same as what had happened back at the castle when Liraeth had first noticed the Geas. His posture changed, stiffened to become rigid, the blank glassy stare settled into his eyes as the light faded from them.

Liraeth had hoped that he had been wrong, or that perhaps Tenth possessed hidden reserves of willpower and fortitude that would let him resist the dark magic that shackled him into servitude. But as Tenth's hand stretched out before him closer to the flames, he knew that the Knight had succumb to the spell once more.

"Tenth... that's enough," he sighed as he looked on dejectedly. But Liraeth's words did not seem to have any affect on the Knight, who's hand only drew closer and closer to the fire.

"Tenth, you can stop now," he tried again this time more forcefully more urgently, glancing up quickly to look at Tenth's eyes once more to make sure he was still under the influence of the spell, and this wasn't some kind of tasteless prank or joke. The Knight was just vacantly staring at the flames as he continued to reach out towards them.

It should be working. Liraeth was giving him a command, why wasn't he responding?! Panic began to course his veins. He lent forward to try and grab at Tenth's arm to stop him from putting his hand in the fire but the Knight was much stronger than he was and easily broke free of Liraeth's grasp, brushing him off as if he was a leaf.

He was holding it directly in the flames now.

"Tenth! Stop!" Liraeth was yelling now, reaching inside of himself to call up some power in order to deal with this, either by effecting the spell directly or, or perhaps he could just put the fire out. Tenth made no sign of removing his hand from the fire. Oh gods, he could smell it, he could smell Tenth's hand burning!

"TENTH! I ORDER YOU TO TAKE YOUR HAND OUT OF THE FIRE!"

Slowly, oh so slowly, the Knight withdrew his hand from the flames. The stench of burnt hair and singed skin lingered still as Tenth went to cradle the hand. Liraeth could only watch in silent horror as he rose expressionless to cool his burns off in the river.

This was his fault.

He should never have agreed to do this. Never should have given that order. Liraeth already had a good understanding on how delicate Tenth had seemed after everything he had gone through back at the hellscape of the destroyed castle in had found him in, had he truly needed confirmation of how bad this curse was? He should have just helped Tenth lift he curse without demonstrating it, or found something safe that would not have harmed the Knight if he had carried out the order. It was foolish, he was stupid, stupid fool!

There was reckless streak in him, it got people hurt. He should know that by now.

As Liraeth finished his recriminations, tears welling at the corners of his eyes for the hurt that he had caused and the shame he felt for causing it, the Knight returned to the fireside. He sat down heavily, at first Liraeth thought perhaps he was angry with him for not being to stop what had happened sooner, angry for giving an order to him like that in the first place even. Cautiously, he said the Knight's name.

"Tenth?" The figure did not respond, only silently raise his head.

When their eyes met Liraeth beheld with renewed horror that the spell was yet to release Tenth. The Knight was looking at him without seeing, staring right through him into the dark beyond. That same dull dead expression. Suddenly there was a flash of recognition in his dark brown eyes, they lit up for a moment with something more than blank obedience. Tenth let out a low whining noise, and then the light faded from his eyes again as the curse took hold once more.

Liraeth scrambled across the dirt and grass to be by the Knight's side. He knelt down in front of him and took the side of his face in his hand, holding it close to stare directly into his eyes, searching for any further sign that the Knight was still in there somewhere.

"Tenth, I am so sorry. I should never have done that. You're going to be okay, I promise. Please... just, come back here... please. I won't do anything to hurt you again, ever, I promise. Please... just come back."

Kass's Kharacters

V E L Y N V I R I T H

"The Dunmer believe the path to Heaven is made by Violence, but the older I get the more I question, do I walk the path or am I just stone in it?"

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___________________________________ P R O F I L E Height Average, around 5'10" Weight Light, wiry, under 140lb Sex/Gender Male Race Dunmer Age Old, at least 400 Birthsign The Thief (+10 Agility, Speed, Luck) Class Custom: Armiger ___________________________________ C A P A B I L I T I E S Attributes Strength - 40 Intelligence - 40 Willpower - 38 (Race -10, Item +8) Agility - 50 (Sign +10) Speed - 60 (Race + 10, Sign +10) Endurance - 30 (Race -10) Personality - 40 Luck - 60 (Sign +10) Skills Major: Blade 35 (Race +10) Light Armor 30 (Race +5) Acrobatics 25 Alteration 25 Illusion 25 Sneak 25 Speechcraft 25 Minor: Destruction 15 (Race +10) Athletics 10 (Race +5) Blunt 10 (Race +5) Marksman 10 (Race +5) Mysticism 10 (+5 Race) Alchemy 5 Armorer 5 Block 5 Conjuration 5 Hand-to-Hand 5 Heavy Armor 5 Mercantile 5 Restoration 5 Security 5 Spells Jump, Alteration, Apprentice. Sea Stride, Alteration, Apprentice. Chameleon, Illusion, Novice. Minor Invisibility, Illusion, Novice. Burning Touch, Destruction, Novice. Clairvoyance, Mysticism, Novice. Summon Ancestor Guardian, Racial. ___________________________________ I N V E N T O R Y Weapons & Tools The Blade Fiery Light Three elven throwing knives. Outfit/Armor Full set of Light Chitin Armour. Colourful Dunmeri Robes. Consumables Two standard health potions. A weak paralysis poison. Valuables Amulet of Fortify Willpower (+8) 500 septims. Miscellaneous Dunmeri Lute. Sealed scroll case. Woven prayer mat. Incense Burner. Jar of Greef, Dunmer Comberry Brandy. Two Ceramic Drinking Cups. Paper Lantern. Poems and Teachings of Vivec. Pair of golden earrings (50g each). ___________________________________

____________________________________________________________________________ A P P E A R A N C E Velyn Virith is an elderly male Dunmer, well into his fifth century, and approaching the natural end of his people's span of years. Despite his venerable age he is not frail or decrepit, he stands tall and straight still, thin with age and hard living, but possessing wiry strength and cultivated grace to his movements. The way Velyn moves is like a dancer, with light quick steps, but he carries himself with all the confidence and surety of a warrior. When his face is hidden beneath his chitinous helm, he could easily pass for a mer less than half his age. Velyn's face, however, shows the truth of his age. His sharp angular features are lined and wrinkled, crows feet radiate out from the corners of his narrow blood red eyes. His hair has long since turned from black to grey to now pure snow white that tumbles down the side of his face when not bound up in a topknot. His beard is likewise devoid of colour, pulled into a single knot, just peeping out from under the edges of it, one can see the much faded markings of a scarab tattoo, the ancient symbol of the Great House Redoran. In his youth, Velyn would have been considered handsome, and he still retains a element of refined dignity in his appearance to this day. There is a touch of vanity about him still, something that can be seen in the golden jewellery than hangs from his pointed ears and the gilded amulet around his neck. When not wearing the worn and but well cared for chitin armour that is hidden away in his travelling trunk, Velyn prefers to dress in the many hued and patterned fabrics of his homeland. He dresses like a scholar, wearing long robes, with high collars and wide sleeves conceal much of his body. If he were to remove these, one might note a few interesting markings present upon Velyn. First would be the sheer number of scars the Dunmer possesses, many are old and faded from battles centuries past, but a few are still livid and fresh enough to have been acquired recently. Secondly, his right shoulder is heavily bandaged from some recent injury, though he does his best to hide it, the wound hinders the use of that arm and gives the old mer pain. Blood sometimes stains the bandaging at days end if he exerts himself too much. Finally, the entire left side of his body, from the base of the neck to the wrist and ankle, is covering a tattoo of swirling wave patterns, much faded, probably centuries old, but undeniably there, imprinted into Velyn's skin in dark blue ink. ____________________________________________________________________________ M O T I V A T I O N & O U T L O O K Velyn is a mer who has been through many trials and tribulations in his long life, trials that have had him question his faith and own decisions. As Lord Vivec once cautioned the Hortator Saint Nerevar, beware the wrong walking path. Velyn's path has been one of struggle, soaked in blood, beset with Violence. But it is only through Violence that one might reach Heaven. And so Velyn Virith, despite all his struggling, despite all his pain, is at peace. He presents himself as being something of a philosopher and scholar. Something he is easily qualified to do, having spent centuries ruminating on the more obscure areas of Dunmer religion and philosophy along with questions such as the nature of divinity and the world itself. But his frequent philosophical ruminations do not mean he is dour or dull, far from it in fact. Velyn is an eloquent conversationalist, a skilled orator, poet and musician. He enjoys the company of others, as well as being something of a performer and entertainer, and like all entertainers he enjoys a stiff drink shared with good company. At times like these his wry sense of humour becomes increasingly apparent, as well as a somewhat rakish and flirtatious side to old mer. He is always kind and courteous, warm to those he meets in his travels. But he is always travelling, there is no home that Velyn returns to, there are no family or love ones waiting for him. Despite the smile he shows to world, there is an incalcuable sadness within Velyn, earned through the loss of everything and everyone he ever cared about. It is a loss that he never really recovered from, although he has somehow rebuilt himself into a functional mer, there is a hole in him, one that can only be filled by the desperate and foolish hope that he still to this day chases. Ultimately, it is that mad hope, tempered by great loss and great suffering that lies at the core of Velyn Virith. There is a sharpness and hardness to him, wrapped under the layers of scholar, poet, musician. Like the blade he hides wrapped in his prayer mat, he keeps that part of him well sheathed. But it is always there. Velyn is killer, an ideological murderer, trained in both theory and terror, for according to the Codes of Mephala, there is no difference. He does all this, walking the path of struggle and suffering, chasing a faint and distant hope, a letter written in uncertainty, in the hope that his pain, that all pain in fact, might have been worthwhile in the creation of something better. For the ending of the words is ALMSIVI. And the worlding of the words is AMARANTH. ____________________________________________________________________________ B A C K G R O U N D Velyn took passage on the Arslan's fortune in Anvil as a paying passenger. He claims that he has been travelling throughout Cyrodil in order to acquire some rare texts and to study at some of the great libraries of the Province. The bundle of books and scrolls he carries with his luggage seems evidence enough for that claim. Despite his general loquaciousness, Velyn Virith does not talk about the specifics of his past that much. But there are some things that can be gleaned about old mer's past, various signs and tells of his life that cannot be disguised or obscured. He speaks Dunmeris as his native tongue, his Imperial Common is good, but he still has a distinctive Morrowind accent. As well as that, there is the slight rasp to his voice that many Dunmer of Vvardenfell have, acquired through the scarring of the throat and lungs from a life lived amongst the ashlands that spread outward from Red Mountain. The faded tattoo of the scarab under his beard, and the way that he carries himself, upright and dignified, says that he is, or at least was a member of a noble house. The scarab is a symbol of the Great House of Redoran, the great martial house of northwest Morrowind. Putting all of this together, it would be safe to assume that Velyn Virith, or to give him his full name, Serjo Redoran Velyn Virith, was born in the middle of the Third Era on the Isle of VVardenfell to a noble clan of the Great House of Redoran. How exactly a noble scion of a Great House ended up wandering the other edge of the known world as a travelling scholar, poet come minstrel, is difficult to guess. But Morrowind has been a province that has experienced great hardship and trouble over the years between Velyn's birth and the present day. The Oblivion Crisis, the Fall of Baar Dau, the Eruption of Red Mountain, the Argonian Invasion. There are many reasons that might make someone choose to leave their homeland. But another reason could be gleaned, if one knew about those other tattoos, hidden beneath his robes, those swirling waves of blue ink. It has been many years since Velyn received them, and for many their meaning may be lost to time. But there are still plenty of Dunmer who would remember what those tattoos mark Velyn as. A Buoyant Armiger. A soldier of the Tribunal Temple, exclusively dedicated to and answering to Lord Vivec, one of the False Triunes. The Armigers patterned themselves on Vivec's heroic spirit of exploration and adventure, and sought to emulate his mastery of the varied arts of personal combat, chivalric courtesy, and subtle verse. Poet, Warrior, Priest. Three things Velyn still acts like to this day. The Armigers largely disappeared from the histories of Tamriel after the events of Red Year and the Argonian Invasion, but some must have survived those terrible and bloody years. But still, when the New Temple emerged triumphant from the rubble of Morrowind, they proclaimed Vivec was a false god. Any who still worshipped at His alter would find themselves branded apostates and exiled. It would be enough to break someone. Exile, for continuing to believe what you had dedicated your life to, after fighting for decades to help and protect your fellow countrymer in a terrible bloody war? Unless you had some mad and foolish hope, that your Lord was not really gone, that your belief was not mistaken, that your suffering still might mean something. ____________________________________________________________________________ R E L A T I O N S H I P S & O P I N I O N S TBC ____________________________________________________________________________ M I S C E L L A N E O U S Velyn's sword, The Blade of Fiery Light, is an ancestral Dunmer blade, single edged and slightly curved, the quicksilver and moonstone folded into the blade creating a series of bands or waves of dark light through the metal. Designed to be held in one or two hands, its hilt of gilded bonemold is inscribed with Daedric Runes, spelling out some Dunmeris enchantment, that dully glows upon the antique weapon. The golden amulet about Velyn's neck that fortifies his Willpower is likewise an Ancestral Dunmer artifact, the sealed amulet contains a fragment of ash from the Ancestal tomb of Velyn's clan back in Morrowind. It is a symbol of his faith and the enduring nature of Dunmer beliefs in the face of hardship.

What Are You Listening To?

A Journey Of Recovery

Liraeth kept talking.

He just couldn't stop himself as he watched the expression of lost helplessness and desperation settle over Tenth's face. The Knight's eyes searched his own looking for something that Liraeth could not give him. And so he just kept talking, words falling out of his mouth as he continued to try and explain, apologise, comfort, reassure. Surely there must be some combination of sounds that he could produce that would make that expression go away.

"I'm sorry Tenth, I really am, I know this must be a lot to take in, and you're doing really well, and I'm sorry that I didn't say anything sooner but just I wanted to be sure that I was right, and I wanted to make sure that you were well enough to understand before I sai-"

The Knight cut him off with a protestation that he had wanted to follow the orders that had been forced upon him. But he sounded so unsure of himself that it came across as more of question than a statement of fact. He was trembling again, and there was nothing more that liraeth wanted to do than hold him and tell him everything would be alright. Liraeth could see what was happening, the foundations of the world that Tenth knew were collapsing beneath him, leaving him to question everything that he knew about his life.

Liraeth had been there before.

He thought back to that night in the infirmary when they had told him that he was gone.

The way the walls had closed in around him, the bed felt like it was sinking into the floor, his world turning into a black pit from which there was no escape. He had tried to scale the walls of that utter disbelief and despair with countless rationalisations, justifications, and excuses. That what they told him was not, could not be true, that they were mistaken, that they lying to him, that despite all their wisdom and power they had been tricked, deceived, hoodwinked, bamboozled, outwitted, and hornswoggled.

"Maybe so...." He could feel his hand moving to the familiar spot on his upper right arm, coming to rest over the faded scar there. Retracing the mark that had been left him that night. Burned into him, with flame hotter than any natural fire.

He returned to the present, forced himself back into this moment, where he was needed. A different night, a different fire, a different companion. One who was now pleading with Liraeth to order him to hurt himself. It was not a good idea, Liraeth knew he was right about the Geas, knew that this would only lead the already suffering knight to further harm yet still.

"Are you sure? I don't think... I don't know if that is a good idea, Tenth."

And still. He hadn't stopped trying to rationalised what happened until they showed Liraeth all that was left of him after that night. It was only then, that he had been able to accept what had happened, let the world he had built around him come crashing down and finally try to build something new. He had needed to see the proof with his own two eyes, only then had he been able to move past it. And even then... never completely.

Perhaps it was the same with this poor, wounded, Knight.

When he finally spoke again the words were small, quiet, soft. He kept his eyes focused on the Knight, the firelight making them shimmer in the darkness. Their blue and green depths were filled with an incalculable sorrow.

"Tenth... I order you to put your hand over the fire."