Leidenschaft

The Alessian Resurgence

Once the door to the tavern was opened, the full brunt of the smells and sounds hit Finnen like that skooma-head in Riften a couple years back. Which is to say, it wasn’t too good. The smell, at least. Twenty people packed into a hot tavern smelling of sweat and road-stink was nothing Finnen liked but he probably smelled of it himself, so that made it fine, he reckoned. He took his place in a corner, overlooking the entirety of the tavern. His eyes took in the information they needed, the wench from earlier pulling the same act she did with him on some other man, a lot of people conversing. It seemed the recruits who’d just signed up were flooding the tavern with their shit, raising tankards and flagons to the Alessians. The waitress walking up to him and asking what he wanted to eat. Today wouldn’t be as bad as he first thought, he guessed.

“What’ll it be, love?” She asked.

“You have pork?” Finnen asked, throwing his hood back and scratching at his scalp.

“We have chicken in a stew. Everyone’s already eaten the pork we had yesterday.” She looked up at him from her parchment, “I wouldn’t be too far off in thinking you want chicken?”

Finnen nodded, “And wine.”

“We have mead.”

“Of course you do.” Chicken was alright. Too lean to be eating if one was traveling, especially on foot. He’d have to ask Quarivien if they were allowed to steal any horses they’d find when the time to leave came. The waitress disappeared from sight to fetch his food and he quietly waited. A small commotion was heard before all the sound in the tavern died down. Someone shouted something about a no-good elf. His brow raised and he looked around for Quarivien or Syndelius in the crowd. Finding neither, he was somewhat relieved before the mer in question was sent tripping to the ground in front of him. The mer looked him in the eyes and Finnen looked back. They shared the moment as a heavy boot came down on his head. He couldn’t have been older than what Men would call sixteen summers.

“You have a problem with how we deal with filth here, son?” The old gray-bearded Nord asked.

The Bosmer on the ground stirred, letting out a groan. Silence, the whole room thick with it. Finnen didn’t know what to make of it, but the elf-boy was young. Too young to wrong anyone. For a second, he saw a different person on the ground under that Nord and it made him want to cut the Nord’s pride from him. It’d be easy, confront him like a man, get in his face, too close for him to do anything. Last second, go for the heart, or move to the right, stab lung, go behind, femoral cut, then stab for spine, watch him writhe. Lots of blood.

“No. But don’t you think spilling blood in a place of celebration on a day of the same mood is bad luck?” He offered, he even went so far as to spit at the elf, “Leave, trash.”

The deed tasted bitter. Chicken was good. Mead was fine. His food and drink came and he took a seat with his back to the wall afterwards as the commotion started back up, the crack-voiced bard kept crooning out a song about the Alessians probably written just the night before and the Nord nodded to Finnen before slinking back to his friends.

Jartod moved backed into town after a sucessful hunt, holding various pelts and meat from the animals he had slain. He looked around Falkreath as he saw the city still bustling with action.

"Hmph, so many people in this hellhole?" Thought Jartod has he went to the General Store

"Welcome back, Redguard!" Exclaimed the Imperail Storeowner

"Three wolf pelts, two foxes, one deer pelt and a moose pelt with some Fox and deer meat." Stated Jartod, looking the Imperaial in her eye.

"Hm... good quality...75 Septims?" Asked the storeowner.

"Make it 80." Stated Jartod

"Sold!" Exclaimed The Imperial, placing the furs to the side.

It seemed petty to use the guise of a hunter to gain informaiton on the whereabouts of money in Falkreath, but Jartod didn't have any choices to begin with.

"What are the main trades in Falkreath?" Asked Jartod as he picked up his coins

"Well, you have wood mills all over the place, the one that really does have a major stake is owned by a nord." Stated the female as she placed the furs to the side, " Wood and Furs is all we have, a few odd mines here and there but other than that, nothing really that big on that front."

Before the store owner could look to the side, Jartod was gone.

Jartod looked left and right at Falkreath, has he slowly moved off towards the tavern to gather more information on the mill. The Mill, if in his hands would help him generate profits but also allow him to set up a disguise for himself, not only that but it could allow him to learn about where the gold in Falkreath is heading to, and who is getting it mostly.

Finnen occupied himself with eating and drinking. Nothing like a room temperature mead to wash down tough, dry chicken and bland stew. He did have to admit that after days on the road, stew and mead were a very welcome change. He caught sight of his tall companion enter the tavern and spared a glance to the Nords from earlier. He hoped the Nords wouldn't try to start any trouble, but their anger seemed to only extend to that of the mer races. As he looked at the tall Redguard, Finnen nodded for him to sit in the chair next to him. It was a risk being seen associating, but he wouldn't make it obvious. He wondered why he hadn't seen the Redguard about town while he was here, though he'd hardly left the tavern. Once the Redguard sat, Finnen, without looking at Jartod, spoke, "Tell me, what are you doing with your day, Redguard?"

Jartod seemed to sit right beside Finnen, he nodded to the barkeep , before saying to the Breton right beside him. " I hunt for a living Breton, what about you?" said Jartod, before he looked to the keep. " Three bottles of ale, two for me and one for this man right here, also place a good Vension stew on the pit and some nice Vension as well, two pieces" stated Jartod. Jartod then grabbed a piece of paper nearby , with a quill also in reach. He wrote in cursive, the message:

"I Need help with an task, meet me outside of the Tavern when you're ready "

Jartod folded the paper up into a perfectly square piece, before he tossed it on the ground nearby for Finnen to reach.

" I think you dropped something Breton." stated Jartod

Finnen smiled to the Redguard, craning his neck to look up at him before leaning down and snatching the paper up, "I fear it is time I retire. I wish you good luck with your endeavors. Until we meet again, Redguard."

With that, Finnen returned to his room to get some actual rest after reading the hasty but neat note, unlike the excuse for it they settled for on the way to Falkreath. Sleep took him easily and he woke up not an hour later, feeling good enough. He stepped out into the barroom of the inn and did not spot Jartod. He assumed he was outside and made his way in that direction. Once he stepped outside, he took in a lungful of the forest air. The sounds of the smithy emanated not far away and people mingled and meandered to and fro to different areas of the town. He hardly had to look before he spotted the tall Redguard. Finnen watched for any nosy people and, spotting none, he made his way past the Redguard, "Follow at a distance." he said as he kept walking.

Once he slipped around a corner out of the way of the main traffic coming through the town, he addressed his companion, "You need my help?"

Jartod sipped the bottle of ale, nodding to the Breton

"Let's get straight to the point shall we? "

Jartod pulled out a crude map of the area around Falkreath, a place circled probaly a good 2-3 times laid on the map. Underneath, the words "DEADWOOD LUMBER MILL" were there.

"To gain acess to the economy of Falkreath, I somehow have to appear to be a major player. With some research and asking here and there, there's a huge mill, owned by a Nord. Rumor has it, this Nord is a Stormcloak, thus Alessian Empire Sympathiser. I want to somehow gain access to the deed of the mill, my thoughts are either a forgery copy in the real deeds location, steal it or murder.. thoughts?"

Or we could save time and blow it all to Oblivion, Finnen mused, "I vote we blow the pile of stone and wood to the void, Redguard. Gaining access to the economy of Falkreath could all just be a fancy word for smashing it to pieces. We should wait until the Imperials send us word that they're coming and start causing trouble. What bigger trouble could there be than blowing up one of their sources of income? I reckon a few of their officers could take a walk to the other side too." He remarked.

"I have pressing business to attend to. Make sure to find me again if you want to have a chat. I'm open to suggestions." Finnen said.

Back in the inn, he made himself comfortable on his bed, drfting to sleep before awaking in the dead of night to slink into the barracks.

The Alessian Resurgence

Look, Sovi3t, I'm going to only say this once more, but if you don't start communicating with me about this collab, then I'm going to disregard everything in that collab and move on with my own plans.

Edit: Suitable middle-ground reached. It still stands that I am not pleased with your lack of input through PMs.

The Alessian Resurgence

The first Piratepad is giving me a pesky 504. Looks like LITERALLY EVERYTHING I'VE WORKED TOWARDS HAS GONE TO SHIT. That is unless I can somehow connect.

Edit: After further research, it seems only piratepad.ca hates me. The beta ".net" works for me like always. If Sovi3t can connect to the .ca and copy paste everything we wrote into a .net pad then we can finally get this show on the road, because as it stands, the only thing keeping my friend from posting is the fact that his post is heavily dependent on mine and Sovi3t's collab.

The Alessian Resurgence

Chrononaut said
They LITERALLY make katana swords and they're xenophobic and on an island and the most technologically advanced race. All things japan has, was, and is.Also this.

Woah, there, slow down, n'wah.

It's said in Morrowind that the old Dunmer smithing masters are the only ones on Tamriel who can forge Akaviri style weaponry and it is a dying art. The proximity to Akavir and the past contact with them has allowed them to see katanas and whatnot up-close. If anyone strikes me as inspired by Japan, it'd be, well, the most obvious, the Tsaesci, or the Yokudans.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

Who's all working on collabs and posts? This is a hub area that we can all kind of sit back and converse between our characters.

The Alessian Resurgence

I'm hoping Sovi3t's back soon. Chrono's intro, the next step of our plan and a post that could move things on are all queued up behind mine and Sovi3t's collab.

The Alessian Resurgence

GreivousKhan said
Hmm, indeed, I'm thinking of working with one of the elf characters to get into the Jarl's good graces. Any takers?Also, why do so many ppl seem to love bretons so much? Their the highest chosen characters even on ESO, despite being the seemingly most boring of the races. :K

Boring?

BORING?

BOOOORIIIIIIIIING?!?!?!?!?

Also, please keep in mind that Shoddycast misrepresents facts or sometimes gets them completely wrong.

The Elder Scrolls: Rising Storm

10th of Sun’s Height
Shornhelm, Greater High Rock
Everard III

Everard had found sleep easily enough. In such tense moments, sleep usually was the last thing to come to come to him. He was to be king by force, to take back what was his by blood and steel. For now though, he was to sleep, and in a bed, no less. For the first time, he felt silk sheets wrap him in comfort’s cloak, the cushion of the bed forming around him and that was the last memory he had before he awoke seemingly seconds later. Where one would open their eyes to the daylight streaming in from windows, the morning chill making the curtains dance hauntingly, his sight begat only darkness in its gaze. The search for any light was hopeless, as it seemed the darkness surrounded him, almost was him. The darkness enveloped him more thoroughly than his skin, which he felt none, nor legs or arms to move or a head to turn.

Slowly though, these things came back to him. His eyes first, then body and hands and fingers which he held in front of his face as if not trusting his hands to be real. He looked down to see himself stark naked. No wind blew though, it was still all around and he felt unnerved. This was not like any dream or nightmare he had ever experienced. He felt as if this was a real place and he felt as any other day. Under his naked feet though, the floor seemed to be liquid, blood upon a few moments of inspection. A sea of blood. The blood gave way to a slick, black walkway. Ebony, he thought.

After which, his thoughts almost seemed to be hijacked, a voice inside his own head spoke in a woman’s voice, deep as it was and it sent chills down his spine, “Walk.”

And he did. His first few steps were slow, but he felt pushed and so his steps came more frequent. He looked around himself and noticed the same darkness as when he arrived in this place. From thin air, appearing like smoke before taking a form, came the face of his father. The voice spoke again, “This is the man who fathered you. A warrior on a throne of whalebone, the great beast speared by his kinsman long ago.”

The face exploded into smoke before reforming into the face of Ambrose Mackin, “This is the man who slew him, Amber-Skin, King of Pirates. Warlord of common blood,” the voice said, “Amber-Skin was born in mud and filth and he rose to be a leader of men, to be Captain and then King. The will to power is the coal that burns in men’s hearts. Those who have no will do not earn my favor, and those that have more will than their kin earn my favor two-fold.”

“Why do you bring me here, Dream-Witch?” Everard spoke angrily, to which his head jerked aside and the pain of a slap simmered on his cheek.

“The weak have no right to demand the strong. Tell me, who had more will- your father with all of his army and a true claim to the Ivory Throne or the Reachman?” The voice spoke again.

“My father. He left his enemies in his wake-”

“All his enemies but one,” The voice interrupted and Everard’s voice found itself absent, “Listen, mortal, though the shit of weakness festers in your ears; I ask, who is Crowned and who is dead?”

Once again, his voice was returned to him, “My father is dead, Ambrose rules now.”

“And why is it that you want the throne, Breton bastard?” Her words heated him and his hands hungered for a blade and a throat with which to cut.

His hands convulsed and he felt the tiny bones in his hands shifting painfully, a shrill cry came from him as he fell to his knees, “An appropriate position for the weak,” She said, “Answer.”

“Justice.” He said, looking up and rubbing his hands as the pain faded, his eyes scanning for the witch who had trapped him here.

His throat and tongue began to burn and he tasted blood, “Because I am a bastard!” And the pain stopped as sudden as it came.

“Your answers grow truthful. They are close to the truth, but close can be the difference between cutting a throat and finding only air. Answer again.”

“Because others said I could not have it.” He gasped, struggling to rise, fists clenched.

“And you would live such that the words of others push you this way and that like a boat at sea.” It was not a question, “Men are apt to be swallowed by the waves sooner or later. A weakling you are, should you stay in this mindset. I leave you tonight to meditate and I will visit again. Make your answers true, or I will be less than pleased.”

Everard awoke in the guest chambers of Duke Egan’s walled fortress-city. He came to with a gasp, his hands finding the dagger beneath his pillow as his eyes looked to every corner for the witch who had invaded his dreams. He did not like being made the weakling, and such an incursion on his very dreams was an affront of the highest kind. He sighed, pushing old anger back down. His feet found the floor and he stood to dress himself for the day to come. He remembered the witch’s words, “You would live such that the words of others push you this way and that like a boat at sea. Men are apt to be swallowed by the waves sooner or later.”

He looked at his hands, remembering the pain and the shifting and grating of bone under his skin. He closed and opened a fist to test his hands and found nothing wrong. Letting his hands return to his side, he looked out of his bedroom window and out of the walls beyond his own. The words returned to his lips again in a whisper, “Who is crowned and who is dead?”

A seed of a question that bore another as he thought for a moment, and he felt a feeling of epiphany hold him, “Why is one crowned and one dead?”

He sat thinking for a few moments before he shook his head. His mind would not be polluted by the ramblings of a Dream-Witch, not while he held it. He continued to dress himself and stood, not knowing what to do with himself. A strange pull took him to the window and he looked out into the night sky. Stars, the void, but the moon. The moon bled.

12th of Sun’s Height, Night
Roads around Grand Duchy of Northpoint, Greater High Rock
Watch Sergeant Baelion

Baelion had given the order for his troop to dig in for the night. None of the men had nighteye spells or potions handy and torches and lanterns were apt to get them spotted. They were in the business of killing brigands, not shooing them away. Even so, the dark night was pushed back by a few torches milling about the camp. Their awareness was low but being so close to Camlorn on the edges of the Normar wastes meant that there were a scarce number of criminals that could pose a threat. Meeting a patrol from Camlorn was a threat in itself though. Baelion knew that if there were any patrols nearby they’d most likely have heard of the cease fire between the Northern States in light of some important something the Grand-Duke and a few others disappeared for and even if they didn’t they’d be settling down just like him and his men.

Two campfires had been made in the camp and the men huddled themselves around the pair of flames. One could always tell the veteran from the newblood by two things, how much they talked about killing, how shiny their armor was and never spending time around a campfire at night if bandits or other nasties were a threat. One such man stood at the edge of the camp, back to a large boulder. Even if he hadn’t moved a muscle, Baelion knew he had heard him coming.

“Listening for wings, Engle?” The giant-bats, the Echkin, were particularly active at night, crawling from their holes in the mountains to wreak havoc on whatever they could find. They were far enough away from the mountains to not have to worry about it.

“Can’t sleep, Bael.” He said, keeping his watch as he talked.

Baelion knew Engle was as tough a soldier as one could hope to have in their troop but he’d never known Engle to skip sleep. He’d never run the chance of being caught tired the next day if his axe was needed. The Sergeant rested his back against the boulder, shoulder-to-shoulder with the gray-templed soldier, “Something got you up?”

“Dreams. Bad ones. No good is to come of the future.” Something must have had to spook him if he was speaking like this. Baelion had never known Engle to be superstitious.

“Just dreams-”

“Vaermina. I think it’s from Vaermina,” He interrupted, “I wouldn’t put much stock into dreams if I didn’t feel I needed to.”

Baelion cocked his head at Engle. He was surprised to see one of his men acting like this, especially Engle. Baelion didn’t know what to say but the night stole any chance of saying it from him. Somewhere out in the distance, a scream sounded, followed by what sounded like a cacophony of…something. The voices were not of men. All around the camp, the rasp of blades clearing sheaths and murmured whispers was heard. Fires were smothered and the tension ran thick as old blood. Silence took the camp and it stayed that way. The night was still. No bugs, and the bleeding moon they noticed did not help the situation. Baelion and his men had noticed it one night and sworn it off from conversation. The looming unnaturalness in the sky did not help.

“I want nightwatches. We sleep in shifts tonight and check it out in the morning. I have no interest on meeting whatever that was in the dark but if we must then sleep lightly.” Baelion commanded.

He looked at Engle. He understood his fear now.

The Alessian Resurgence

Sovi3t said
Would a Chatzy channel for this rp be beneficial?

You can go ahead and make one. It wouldn't hurt. It would be good for planning for all of our characters.

The Elder Scrolls: Regicide - Chapter I: The Puppet Master

*Double post*