Looks like we have our scouts; Keegan, Jorwen and Utu. We are moving out in 30 minutes IC time, along with Daelin and 3 NPCs. Your character can still put their hand up for story purposes, though they won't be selected.
The rest will attack in 4 hours IC time. 4 of you will be part of the flanking group. You 4, Edith, and 8 NPCs will wade the creek, sneak through the bushes and infiltrate via mining tunnel. Everyone else (other than the scouts and flankers), will be part of a 30 man frontal assault, led by Dumhuvud. You guys will ford the creek, run up the central path and boot in their main gate.
The flankers will be selected by Edith and Ashav in the IC, but we'll try to arrange it in OOC.
I think we're going to have to do it on the G doc to keep this fluid. Otherwise, it'll look like a disjointed mess.
Well, shit, I made 3 NPCs. Figure the more's the merrier for a group sent to keep watch on the road. It was Sadri, Tennant and Felix there too, so it's seven men sent to watch the road on my count, one of you can make an NPC. Combat was implied, but not shown, because let's not spoil things before the main course, right?
O'course, if enough of you barbarians want blood, I could amend some things in my intro to set up the night-raid. Yay or nay?
FUCK IT, I'M DOIN' IT
The Schaft has reconsidered. Let's keep the focus on the hubbub around camp before the big fight.
Actually, fuck it again, if you guys want to hop on the pad some time, we can do it. Otherwise, we're keeping it the way it is.
The sun was starting to set, casting fire all about the sky between the dark iron of the clouds. As always in the Reach, the wind was keening, whipping the rough grass around the way Jorwen hated. Even so, he’d been crouching in the grass and moving quiet as a cat in it through two wars and countless odd jobs besides. White-Eye hadn’t moved in what seemed like hours, same with Thrice-Pierced. The only movement was his lips, sending a dark stream of tobacco spit onto the dirt. “Those are Reachmen, alright.” White-Eye handed the spyglass over to Jorwen, “Odd sight. What do you make of ‘em, Red-Bear?”
Jorwen grabbed the spyglass and put it to his eye, squinting into it, looking about the camp the Reachmen’d put up in a clearing near the road. He couldn’t see much through the screen of trees, but he could see that they were Reachmen. Covered in mail and more furs than a puffed-up Thane trying to make himself look like he wasn’t from Morthal or some other backwater town. Some of them were covered blue in tattoos and all of them battle-hardened by the looks of them. “Aye, Reachmen. Think they’re fixing for an ambush on a peddler or maybe one of our supplies coming in from Markarth.” He had to fight the fear from his thoughts that his wife or daughter would be among the next unlucky travelers on the road, but why would they? Jorwen told them to stay behind Markarth’s good walls. As he kept looking his eyes snagged on one and he brought his little circle of vision back onto the one he thought he recognized. “Couldn’t be.” He muttered but with every second his eye stayed on the man, the feeling of recognition came on stronger. “No.” He sighed, just couldn’t be.
“What?” Thrice-Pierced asked, holding his hand out for the spyglass. Still, Jorwen had it to his eye and he was trying to remember where he’d seen the man who’d caught his attention. “What?” Thrice-Pierced asked again, voice getting short and growly.
“What is it?” White-Eye asked, the eyebrow above his blinded grey eye going up in curiosity.
“Nothing. Think we can take them without spilling too much blood? Barely got the number on them but we can surprise them.” Red-Bear said, tossing the spyglass over to Thrice-Pierced.
“You’re the one I hear all them stories about ambushes and raids about. Reckon if you think so, I’m inclined to agree.” That didn’t sit too well on him. He didn’t want lads’ lives all hanging on his say-so. Could be his say-so was what’d get them killed and a family missing a son or sons missing a father.
“Fuckin’ Reach bastards, skin ‘em all and burn their fuckin’ homes.” Thrice-Pierced muttered, face screwed up with scorn as if scowling enough at them would make them all drop dead.
“Well, I think if we can persuade them off their little hill... You know, give them something to think about.” White-Eye said. These were men fixed on doing some dark work come morn and some unfortunate soul cursed with making the mistake of being there would get his throat cut by Reachmen. Needless to say, none of the folk they were spying on needed his doubts.
“Aye, we’ll give ‘em something to think about, alright, the fuckers.” Thrice-Pierced spat. He was one for spitting, was Thrice-Pierced.
“No.” Jorwen shook his head.
Thrice-Pierced had a look like Jorwen had pissed on his boots instead of appealing to reason. But that was folk from Windhelm for you, always fixing to fight. Especially Thrice-Pierced. “How many Nords you think they gutted and ate, huh? You fine with that, Red-Bear? Getting soft, eh?”
“Coming from a man named Thrice-Pierced, you’d think you’d have learned your lesson the first time.” Jorwen grumbled. “Besides, you probably had scores enough to settle with some of them.”
“Difference is, at least they’d be dying right. Ending the feud in the circle, not like whatever the Reachfolk gave them.” He spit again and licked some juice from his lip, “Fuckin’ shame is all.”
“Fixin’ to charge are you?” Thrice-Pierced reared his ugly head White-Eye’s direction, “Maybe we’ll find you a cliff to charge right off of. Until then, I’m taking Red-Bear’s word. Don’t need advice on fighting from a man named Thrice-Pierced.”
“Reckon we’d do more good for Daelin and Ashav to sit pretty right here and keep an eye on them. We only move if they look like they’ve caught the scent of some travelers or some such. Aye?” Jorwen said.
“Aye, Chief.” They both said. He was happy his name still held some weight, at least to the grey-heads and folk who knew what they were about. Not like the fresh-faced new-beards angry about being stuck at the rearguard, not knowing how lucky they were to be far from the front.
“Just a fuckin’ shame is all.” Thrice-Pierced was mumbling as he handed back the spyglass to White-Eye.
“Just go down there, hero.” White-Eye smirked, “We’ll tell your wife you loved this road so much you just had to die for it.”
“Fuck off, White-Eye.” Thrice-Pierced looked away and spat, shaking his head.
“Shit.” White-Eye whispered, all gape-mouthed. “There’s some dumb peddler trying to shave some hours off of a trip.”
“Fucker shouldn’t have been late, then.” Thrice-Pierced spat, hands working into fists, ready to go.
Jorwen whistled something that sounded like any other bird around and out of the grass came a lean, short man. The only thing showing in the shadow of his hood was his dented chin and scarred mouth. “What’s to do, Chief?” He smirked with his missing teeth. Cleftjaw. Quietest man in Skyrim.
“Tell the others to get off their asses. it’ll be weapons, quiet as the wind.” Jorwen said, no excitement to be doing bloody work after all these years.
Cleftjaw nodded, “Right y’are, Chief.” Quick and quiet as a tadpool through water, he disappeared through the tall grass again. “Well? I said weapons.”
At that, White-Eye and Thrice-Pierced brought out their tools, quick and as familiar around them as a tailor with his needle. Their blades were clean as their faces were dirty, Thrice-Pierced held his axe like a lover and his face was as if it was one, all his own. White-Eye was checking the edge of his sword with a thumb, a heavy frown on his face. Steeling his nerves. Jorwen was doing the same, checking his shield over and the seax sheathed at his side. Checked his knives and then his big blade. Satisfied, they looked to each other and started their way towards their camp. “Nice night for it, eh?” Thrice-Pierced said, smiling like a man who’d got just what he wanted on his name-day.
“If you say so, you mad fucker.” White-Eye muttered. Jorwen knew how he felt.
* * *
They’d made it back after a bit of excitement. A few hours away from camp, you’d think it’d be a welcome thing to get a break but fate has a knack for muddying the water all up. Jorwen’s ass hurt and his back ached, didn’t get any type of good feelings after a scrape, especially at this age. All Thrice-Pierced did was nag and whine about the aches in his joints even after getting just what he wanted. Send three old warriors out to do a young man’s job. Probably if they had Cat-Kicker with them it would’ve turned out far differently, but they didn’t, and they were all the better for it. They parted ways with shaken hands and nods, people already pestering him about torn pants or a leaky tent. The camp was all bustle and he was in no mood for any of it after the night he had. All he wanted to do was read his wife’s letters for the hundredth time and get some real sleep. It wasn’t long before a thin-bearded lad scurried up to him and told him they were forming up for some speech in a couple hours.
On his way back to his tent, some Altmer asked him if they’d found anything. Jorwen just shrugged and patted his blade resting on his shoulder, pommel in his palm and point in the air. “Might’ve.” Not better at all for it either. Still had blood on his sleeve. Slowly, the hours passed and he’d read his wife’s letters by candlelight after shooing Maduras off for the hundredth time. Now, he heard people scuffling and running and walking to gather around Ashav and his closest men, and woman. Jorwen fell in with them and listened to what Ashav had to say. Talk of an offensive, he was sure he could hear Thrice-Pierce’s smile widening far enough to rip his cheeks right apart. “Fucking nonsense.” Jorwen’s lip curled in contempt for the plan. Ashav must have been desperate, or hiding stupidity well all this time.
“Right about that.” White-Eye had found a place next to him, shaking his head. Men of his and White-Eye’s experience rarely found themselves rushing to the fight. Always seemed to catch themselves in one. He remembered Aelfgar telling him, what felt like a century ago, that the battle’s never over for folk like them. Told him once you get your palms bloody it’s hard to wash them clean again. He heard them call for volunteers for scouting and a din of hissing whispers went up around. Young lads egging each other on to volunteer, old folk whispering about they wanted nothing to do with scouting. The first to raise his hand was the altmer from before. He looked to White-Eye and the old soldier just shook his head. Maybe he should’ve agreed with White-Eye, but then he got to thinking maybe he’d save a few lives lending his experience to the scouting party, make sure there weren’t any traps, no ambushes.
“Fuck.” His wife had always said he had a knack for being his own worst enemy. Maybe she was right. Slowly, his hand crawled up towards the sky and he swallowed, the words coming up like burning bile, “I’ll be your second man.” And some turned to look at him, maybe wondering what use a giant could be at scouting, others taking solace the Red-Bear would be scouting for them.
Somewhere in the crowd Thrice-Pierced laughed. Ashav nodded, “Good man.”
“Now why’d you go and do a thing like that?” White-Eye murmured, looking at him as if he’d volunteered to have his head hammered down by a smith.
“You know what.” Jorwen’s hand returned to his side and he had a face that looked like he’d stepped waist deep in a pool of shit. “I’ve no fucking idea.”
Here's my own sheet. Unless the Schaft wants to put a stop to it, it is also approved.
Name: Keegan Vasque (born as Thaleruim)
Race: Altmer
Age: 72
Gender: Male
Birthsign: Ritual
Place of Origin: Born in Firsthold. Worked and lived in Daggerfall and Wayrest.
Appearance: Bred according to through Altmeri standards, Thaleruim was almost indistinguishable from his grandfather's portrait. His parents made sure he styled himself just like the proud high elf they were. He was told to shave his face clean, which highlighted the angular elven features. He was told to walk with a straight back, which exhibited the lithe and two-meter tall physique of the highborn. He was outfitted with elegant clothing, sleek and posh jewelry and every other significant personal belongings that were decorated with his family crest. In short, the young Thaleruim looked like a spoiled brat.
But since leaving the Summerset Isles, keeping a good appearance became increasingly impractical. As Keegan Vasque, the Altmer man no longer has access to a thick wallet. In the early years of his travels, Keegan was even forced to sell off his fancy jewelries just to pay for the next meal. Lack of proper grooming facilities also eroded that proud Altmer face. His hair grew wild and unsettled, the formerly spotless golden skin became frequently laden with dirt. The adult Keegan looked not so much a highborn anymore.
As an illusionist though, Keegan must appear tolerable to his audience. So before every show, he would put on the finest tunic, spit-shine his boots to perfection and tie up his hair in a neat ponytail. The illusionist Keegan carried himself with vigor, prancing about on the stage to keep the patrons entertained. They were all part of the trick, Keegan said, one's appearance is often the grandest illusion.
Personality: Keegan is an enigma, one that holds layers of personalities shaped by seven decades of life. On the outside, Keegan would strive to be agreeable, at least to the agreeable people. He offered small talk to amiable folks and even willing to share some stories. But there were the hostile kind, and Keegan saw no shortage of them. He would very much judge a book by its cover; a person is guilty unless proven innocent. In particular, Keegan was not fond of the Nords, most of them proved themselves as ignorant brutes. Still, there were odd eggs once in a while, and he could see himself warming up to them if they warmed up to him.
He hates fighting another human, elf or beastfolk. There are the lingering doubts of compassion that held him back from killing, though he never really killed another sentient being before. But the real gripe was how unpredictable they were. You see, wild animals and monsters are single minded, they fight to the death and it was kill or be killed. With man and mer though, they would trick you and confuse you; not knowing whether it be foe or friend, threat or safety.
Having grown up in a eugenic society, the notion of social class never left Keegan's mind. Though it isn't much of a choice, but an automatic distinction that always existed in his mind. He would often categorize a person based on their knowledge, their manners and the ways they handled themselves. One thing Keegan learned to ignore was wealth. Based on these assumptions, Keegan would lean toward the "better people".
Having been through much in his life, there were nothing more important than personal security. Keegan would rarely right a lopsided fight, preferring to retreat or subvert the engagement. Still, losing some trusted friends did make Keegan value loyalty. If his allies saw a worthwhile battle, he might also see it as worthwhile.
Firsthold, Auridon, 4E 133 - 171
They were architects, foundation-layers of the great elven civilization. It was a profession that commanded much respect on the Summerset Isles. For anyone outside of the nobility, or the current Thalmor regime, architects' prestige are only paralleled by mages and artists. Skoerrho and Aervyn were such people, just as their fore-elders and their fore-elders' fore-elders. When a child was born, and a child of excellent measurements, Skoerrho and Aervyn was more than thrilled to continue two long lines of esteemed architects.
The newborn Thaleruim though, was anything but enthusiastic. He hated lessons in blueprint-drawing, frequently sneaked away from structural engineering and loathed nothing more than looking at brick and wood. However, Thaleruim learned rising above, or sneaking beneath, his station was a fate not to tempt. The society of Firsthold was a strict one, after all, there are no better place for the mighty Altmeri nation to enforce its superior values than its homeland. There were a myriad of punishments dished out for his rebellious nature, most of which are not appropriate for discussions in public. Nevertheless, Thaleruim grew up begrudgingly, not for one second interested in the path set by his parents. So at his thirtieth birthday, the young lad was taken to an “adjustment clinic”, ran by an illusionist mage specialized in “psychological correction”. Thaleruim thought it was the end of him, free will bound to be taken. However, the mage saw a peculiarity in him. The young mer was curious about magic, especially the school of illusion. He also had with him a quick wit, with talk not so much educated by held people's attention. It was these curious traits that changed the mage's intent, she would not alter his mind, and instead, began secretly teaching Thaleruim the art of magic.
Eight years later, the old mage died in her sleep. Some say her years finally caught up to her, while others said it was poison from a bitter rival. Whatever the case was, Skoerrho and Aervyn were not impressed. Eight years of progress, Thaleruim was far from the fine elven specimen they hoped to sculpt. He became more focused in his studies, though it was merely a facade taught by the mage for his own sake. Beneath the surface, it was obvious this mer's heart was set on illusions, not architecture. His parents were desperate, Aervyn was infertile at this point, and the thought of their only heir dodging his destiny meant extreme measures must be taken. It was said the Thalmor operated a facility in Alinor City, a ward dedicated to the most ill of the mind. This was the future decided for Thaleruim. Fortunately, he intercepted the letter before it reached his parents. How could they do this? Was there any love for an offspring? Or was it entirely vengeance for his rebellious streak? Thaleruim didn't wait to find out, he ran for the fist ship in port.
Hammerfell 4E 171
The ship sailed for several days, probably less than a week but more than four days. In the duration, Thaleruim hid in the ship's underbelly, making a nest of wooden crates and meals of rats. The conditions were miserable, he could not sleep with sounds of heavy footfall above, creaking wood below and nauseaus embrace of the sea all around. Near the end of his journey, the young stowaway was discovered. Truthfully, he was somewhat glad to finally see daylight. The crates he hid behind were now being lifted away by armored soldiers. Thaleruim boarded a troopship, one headed for war.
War was much nearer than Taleruim thought. The day of his discovery happened off the coast of Hammerfell, targets for the Auridon Marines. This ship was one of dozens, a part of a massive invasion fleet. It was obvious he was not part of detachment, but there was little the captain could do. They were merely hours away from storming a beach firmly entrenched by Redguard soldiers. Thaleruim was told to stay out their way, so he held on tight to wooden railings while foreign sands stained with red.
The battle went on for hours, and it was clear from the beginning that the grim faces of elven soldiers meant it was going to be a costly fight. The Redguards erected obstacles along the beach, with nasty traps sprung underneath the sands and archers poised behind the treeline. The Marines, on the other hand, had access to shipborne siege weapons, projectiles and spells pummelled the defenders. Their enemies were all native Redguards, not a single Legionnaire in sight. These were men and women fighting for their homes, for their lives, and a fight to the last man. So it was, after a day of painstaking slaughter, hundreds of corpses from both sides littered the waterfront.
From that day on, Thaleruim would bore a permanent hatred for violence. There were political reasoning behind this, as they always had. But on the battlefield, it all quickly became moot. The sands of Hammerfell, one that had seen death since the first era, cared not for righteous causes, but only martial mights and strokes of dumb luck. It was decided then, Thaleruim would rather risk his parents' ire back home than continued being exposed to bloodshed. However, the captain could not spare a ship for just one passenger. He marched with the troops to a minor village not far from Hegathe. Little resistance, the captain said, a village of children and elderly, they assumed. Reality was not so kind; they have stumbled upon a stronghold of five hundred Forebear warriors, every one of whom were armed to the teeth. They slugged it out in another chaotic bloodshed. Fighting was done from building to building, doors to doors. This time, the defenders were not easily rooted. Smell of death would permeate through the village for years, and it was said the sand spirits nearby were corrupted by this wanton display of destruction. In the end, the Altmers were defeated. Many Marines would be executed by vengeful Redguards, but for Thaleruim, who thought to be a runner, fate of prison awaits.
Hammerfell 4E 172 - 175
After being captured, Thaleruim was immediately imprisoned in Hegathe. He was brought there on a moonless night, with nothing in sight but endless sand. When he and the other captives came near the city's edge, they were blindfolded, chained together and led down to some kind of dungeon. Thaleruim had a separate cell to himself, but just across the wall, he could hear pained groans of two Marine recruits. About five days into his predicament, one marine was dragged away, screaming and never to return. Some uncountable days later, Thaleruim could not longer hear the other marine. It all became clear that the desperate elf cut himself and bled to death, the long gash on his forearm was obvious despite how hard the wardens tried to cover it up. Thaleruim concluded that his fellow prisoners must have been tortured, by for what it seems, he himself was never subjected to mistreatment. Sure, the food was absolutely unappetizing, and the cramped stone walls didn't leave much room for comfort. But only a pair of Redguards, clad in chain-mail and masks would occasionally question him. They, a man and woman, judging by their voice, asked him about military intelligence. Thaleruim answered truthfully every time; he simply didn't have anything to tell. The interrogators stopped coming after a time, probably just leaving the Altmer boy to rot.
But Thaleruim could not be left alone. Soon after that last visit, he heard fire and steel clashing outside the prison walls. Apparently, Dominion raiders attempted a prisoner rescue, only to be routed by defending wardens. That incident did, however, convinced the Redguards that Hegathe was no longer secure. So by the next morning, Thaleruim was chained together with two Altmers and a Bosmer, put inside a dark wagon and shipped off to a Bankorai penitentiary. The two Altmers were probably the few remaining marines, and they accepted whatever fate awaited them by keeping quiet. The Bosmer, on the contrary, was a fresh capture and yelled non-stop. He talked about signing up in order to flee his demanding family, but only to be met with a disastrous ambush in southern Hammerfell. He even dug out a glass locket from Auriel-knows-where, and offered to the wardens in exchange for freedom. The Redguard captain was not impressed by this suddenly bribery, he grumbled when the Wood Elf told how he stole this locket from his mother and regretting the act. The captain eventually heard enough, he snatched the locket away, shattered it against the ground and slammed the Bosmer back in.
The Bosmer cried, he sunk to his knees, oblivious to the captain shouting at him.
The captain shouted, again and again, commanding the elf to shut up.
The elf didn't.
And so, the captain took a nearby shovel. He aimed the broad side of its head against the Bosmer's head, intending to knock him out. After all, this individual could be a valued prisoner, one that might give up information regarding Dominion troop movements. But the reality was that the captain was simply frustrated. His swing was wider than anticipated, and the skull of a mortal creature suddenly seemed all too week in the face of iron. The Bosmer's head cracked, in just one impact, he was dead.
"No more interruptions, you all hear me?" The captain tried to sound firm, but his voice undeniably wavered. His hands trembled with the gripped shovel, which still dripped blood. He herded the prisoners back into the wagon, and hesitated just a moment before closing the door. In front of three High Elves, he asked the divines for forgiveness and proceeded to dig a makeshift grave for the deceased. Thaleruim was shocked, his mind raced to comprehend what had just transpired; what went through the minds of the Bosmer and the Redguard? Perhaps Thaleruim was also reminded of himself, how similar he was to the Wood Elf; just what went through his own head?
Fortunately, the prison in Bankorai didn't give him much time to ponder it. His new wardens were "extraction specialists", and they certainly lived up to the name. They brought every torture, terror and pain imaginable and unimaginable to Thaleruim. They took him to the brink, threatened to push him over, and did it over and over for weeks. Thaleruim tried anything he could to free himself; he would start with the truth, that he was no part of the war and was an unfortunate victim in it. Unsurprisingly, it was not bought. Then, he made fake intelligence and fed it to the interrogators. Well, they still didn't trust him. It was either that his made-up troop movements simply did not sound plausible, or these jailers continued torturing him just for sadistic pleasure. They drowned his head in urine one day, stuck a spike in his foot the other and finished off by setting his hair ablaze. Humiliation and brutality continued endlessly, until the arrival of one Breton man.
Four years had passed when Jat the Traceless came to Bankorai prison from Skaven. The Great War was finished in Cyrodiil by the signing of the White-Gold Concordat. To the west, war went on for Hammerfell. The Redguards were no longer part of the Empire; a nation now stood along against the onslaught. To the eyes of the Redguards, the Imperial Legions were just as to blame for their plight as the elven invaders. So it only made sense that in 4E 175, the Bretons and Imperials became equally suspect as elves and Khajiits. Henceforth, Jat fell victim of a witch hunt. Once an expert illusionist and street performer, Jat found suddenly found himself surrounded by his former patrons and was incarcerated by some he used to call friends. The Redguards threw him inside a damp and cold cell, there were two bedrolls, and one Altmer slouched against the wall.
From Jat, Thaleruim's hope would be renewed. Four years had taken their toll on Thaleruim, who should be at an age where he transitioned from childhood to maturity. An time where he was vulnerable and a time where his enemies unwillingly tore him down. Finally, Jat came through like a beacon to ship lost at sea. During their time as fellow prisoners, Jat would tell tales of his adventures; stories of his amazing performances across Tamriel. He also learned of Thaleruim's aptitude in illusion and vowed to train him as his apprentice when they escape. At first, Thaleruim laughed as such talk; for all intents and purposes, they were never getting out. No, Jat responded, they'll have to try. So they did, by secretly communicating with other prisoners, they were able to engineer a riot. Once the riot paralyzed the wardens, Jat and Thaleruim, along with an Altmer marine and a common thief, dashed out of Bankorai and crossed the borders to High Rock.
Wayrest, High Rock 4E 176 – 4E 188
Four people, a motley band of wanted criminals made one of the most daring escapes in history. They had to thank other prisoners in Bankorai, because as soon as their riot was put down, every single one was executed. For Thaleruim, Jat, Chartsine (the Altmer marine) and the nameless thief, their freedom was sweet indeed. Once arriving in Evermore, the group went their own ways. The thief was first disappear, he vanished without a sign during the first night. Chartsine would find herself on a ship back to Alinor, intent on reuniting with her husband. Jat and Thaleruim hitched with a caravan to Wayrest, the city where Jat was born and a place where they could earn honest living.
From 176 to 180, Jat delivered on his promise. He took Thaleruim under his wing as they performed magic tricks for bewildered citizens. Thaleruim grew leaps and bounds with illusion, Jat was a patient teacher and his apprentice's eagerness furthered their progress. In just four years, Thaleruim could be called an adept. Though he lacked formal certification, his proficiency with a variety of spells could not be doubted. Magic was not all of Jat's trade, he also passed on mundane tricks, the sleight of hand and knowledge of machinery. They have taken Wayrest by storm, tales of two bewildering magicians and their bottomless bag of stuns would be commonplace on the streets. Through their success in Wayreset, Thaleruim would even reinvent himself with a new name. Keegan Vasque was someone Jat frequently murmured about in prison. As far as Thaleruim could understand, Keegan was either Jat's own mentor, his grandfather's hound or the shoemaker from his youth. Either way, Jat said the name was fitting. So the Altmer man would no longer be Thaleruim the runaway, but as Keegan Vasque, the incredible magician.
180 also saw Chartsine reunited with the former Thaleruim, now Keegan. While she was away, fighting for the Dominion and fate uncertain after capture, her husband took the liberty of remarrying a thirty-some year old girl. Chartsine was furious, she could not believe her spouse cheated so easily. Moreover, it was because her ex-husband was the last link to Alinor. Her parents were deceased and her brother was killed in Cyrodiil. With nothing left, she took the return ship back to High Rock, intent on finding her friends from the prison break. For a man named the Traceless, Jat was remarkably easy to find. He and someone called Keegan Vasque were widely known across Stormhaven.
After a surprising reunion, Chartsine started working as the duo's bodyguard. High Rock is a place of intrigue, backstabbing both figurative and literal. So the addition of a former soldier greatly enhanced their security. No longer would Jat and Keegan be harassed back stage, nor would their prized costumes be stolen while in transit. Chartsine also started training the performers in the combative arts. Jat, as a human, was fairly well-aged at this point, anything entirely new did not come easy for him. Keegan, on the other hand, made some progress with Chartsine's guidance. He acquired a novice's skills in polearms; which was later complemented by the purchase of a bladed staff.
Despite all of their success, nothing could prepare Keegan and his friends for 188. The Corsairs, pirates led by the vicious Ambrose Mackin and the cunning Blaise Dupont, sacked the Wayrest and murdered its monarchy. In that fateful night, Keegan, Jat and Chartsine were finishing a performance in Wayrest Theater. What would normally be a quiet evening was replaced with screams and fire. Busting through the theater doors was pirate captain Dupont himself, with a dozen Corsair fighters in tow. Without a single regard for her own safety, Chartsine charged with her blade drawn. She was outnumbered twelve to one, and was only able to injure one pirate before being disarmed. Jat, who saw an imminent danger in front and carnage beyond the theater doors, attempted a paralysis spell at Dupont. The magical projectile veered, it took down Dupont's lieutenant, not the captain himself. Keegan was not brave like his friends, he casted an invisibility spell, which allowed to vanish in plain sight. He held his breath to the point of suffocation and flattened himself against the wall, he could inch his way past he pirates if they stay distracted. Indeed, Dupont's goons all bore their steel gazes on Jat, who stood defiant in front of twelve swords. He glanced to exactly where the invisible Keegan hid, frowned, and spat straight into Dupont's eyes.
Time seemed to stop as Dupont calmly wiped spit off his face. The pirates held their ground behind their leader, waiting for his next command or move. Jat bore his gaze on the concealed Keegan, silently begging him to leave. Keegan couldn't, he froze like a deer caught in the carriage lights, clutching white-knuckled onto the invisibility spell. He had no courage to reveal himself, but also could not bring himself to leave Jat. So the Altmer starred wide-eyed all the while Dupont aligned his saber with Jat's neck. The first first slash nested halfway into Jat's neck, and Dupont withdrew his saber with bits of blood and skin. Jat quickly dropped to his knees, unable to hold his own weight. Before Jat could fully tumble over, Dupont caught him and immediately beckoned two pirates to hold Jat in place. For the second time, saber evened with neck, and this time, metal would cut through clean.
The final expression on Jat's detached head was that of pain, probably from the first decapitation attempt. There were no calm acceptance commonly described in stories; severed windpipe does produce tranquility during the last seconds of life. Keegan cursed himself, seeing Jat's head roll across the floor made bile tumble in his stomach. For all the fear he felt, twice the anger crushed over. When the pirates turn their attention to Chartsine and started to rip off her armor, Keegan broke his spell and charged at the nearest pirate. He would not let his friend be violated by these villains.
Keegan's staff blade sunk into a pirate's thigh, eliciting a pained groan in response. He swung the staff over, knocking another pirate off balance. The momentary confusion gave Chartsine time to tackle a Corsair and seizing his knife. Their element of surprise was lost, and the pair still had to contend with eight foes. So Chartsine grabbed Keegan and ran, dodging a thrown dagger when they neared the doors. But another projectile came in the form of an ice spike. Keegan threw up his left hand in an futile effort to solidify a ward. Defensive magic was foreign to him, the hastily cast ward could not prevent the spike from impaling Keegan's hand. Thankfully, Keegan's defense did reduce the velocity and broke off half of projectile. If not for his quick thinking, that very spike would have been lethal. The pair of Altmers sprinted, sneaked and climbed their way out of Wayrest. When Keegan came a decent way from the wall, Chartsine was no longer with him.
Daggerfall, High Rock 4E 189 - 4E 204
First stop off Wayrest was Camlorn, a city that Jat liked and where his ancestors hailed from. At a cemetery there, Keegan pondered what Jat meant to his life. Simply put, he owes his life to Jat; if not for his outrageous breakout, or his mentorship in magic, there would no Keegan today. Between rows of tombstones, a plaque was laid with Jat's name, by Auriel, Keegan never had the chance to ask if that was the real name at all. For the remainder of 188, Keegan traveled around High Rock looking for Chartsine. By the end of the year, he was as clueless as he started with. So a prayer sent to Auriel and Keegan moved to Daggerfall.
The first weeks at Daggerfall was rough. With Stormhaven now a Corsair Republic, Breton monarchies stumbled to comprehend this new balance of power. The people were uneasy, not many were in the mood for entertainment. The flickering fire in the Rosy Lion reminded how much he had fallen, in just a month, Keegan had drank away all of his savings. On his last night before forced eviction, Keegan started juggling bottles in the tavern, an act Jat used to be fond of. Three bottles, four bottles, soon Keegan was rotating seven bottles through the air. Dozens were gathered around to watch this fascinating elf, one of them would be Keegan's second chance at life.
Horus Fontaine was young and brave, equipped with a fresh bag of coins inherited from his parents, he planned big business ventures. His gamble was the old theater, one that had fell out of use since the Great War. Sure enough, the city sold him the property for a bargain. Horus has a fancy stage, but he still needs shows to sell. There it was, a drunken elf juggling seven bottles in a tavern. The future star of Daggerfall. Under the patronage of Horus, Keegan found himself back on the stage, single handily dazing crowds with spectacular displays of illusion. Coins began flowing and fair-weathered friends flocked to his side. This time around, Keegan chose to diversify his stakes. He became an associate in Synod's Glenumbra chapter, where he partook in part-time study of conjuration and destruction in order to properly defend himself.
However, Keegan's next crisis didn't come from his own errors, but rather, other's error. In short, another magician's flaming familiar had gone awry, and a fire quickly consumed the entire theater. The building was burned down and many badly hurt. The magician responsible was the first to burn, and his corpse was nothing more than a pile of ash. Keegan, by sheer strokes of luck, survived perfectly intact. The survivor in this scenario became the scapegoat. Keegan was billed as the perpetrator behind the fire, he was also billed with a massive fine that was far beyond payable. That night, two massive thugs cornered him, but they immediately fell to an elven woman's blade. Chartsine had escape Wayrest and took up mercenary work. She never gave any explanations on why she was at Daggerfall, only that Keegan should go to Skyrim.
Skyrim, 4E 205
Skyrim was a frigid place, one that seemed inhospitable both naturally and socially. Crossing over the mountains in wintertime further compounded the problem. Most of Keegan's belongings have been repossessed by Horus, so he was left with little more than his clothes and a small batch of coins. The Morning Star of 205 was the coldest Keegan ever saw. According to the locals though, it was just snow as usual. With little cash on person, Keegan would have to work immediately, lest he be frozen to death in the wild. His first job in Skyrim was exploring a dwarven ruin with a group of explorers. The group were young and eager, most of them made short work of the lesser machinations but only to become pulp under the hammer of a centurion. Keegan was always behind everyone else, so it only made sense that he came out unscathed, unscathed besides an sphere breaking his staff. The other survivors were warriors, they claimed the mage did no work and deserved no rewards. Of course, the meatheads hauled off bags of dwarven ingots, anything that resembled gold and even ancient utensils. Keegan was left with one object; a stick.
The dwarven stick was apparently a control rod, but it failed to shut down any automatons. What it did do, however, was discharging sparks of lightning. It also had four metal prongs protecting its core, a charged soul gem. In a way, this rod would fill the role of Keegan's old staff.
By the time ice thawed and spring replaced winter, Keegan was also desperately low on funds. He chose to spend his last Septims to Markarth after hearing its mining business. Before he could enter the city, he was stopped by a man called Ashav. Mercenary work, Ashav told him, there are profits in war, just waiting for the right person. There would be danger, sure, but this company in particular only guarded the rear. Keep your head down and money will come to you in no time, Ashav promised. He offered a contract and a bag gold; it was irresistible.
Keegan Vasque, the runway, the prisoner, the magician; now the mercenary.
Weaknesses: Keegan is heavily indebted, owing several thousand septims to very powerful parties; some of whom have sent debt enforcers after him. His left hand is also weakened, while it could still be used for common tasks, it lacks precision and strength. Problem with the left hand also makes Keegan incapable of dual casting difficult spells. Physically, Keegan is not very well-conditioned, making him less hearty than the typical warrior.
Relations to Other Characters:
Skoerrho, father
Aervyn, mother
Jat the Traceless, mentor
Chartsine, friend
Horus Fontaine, theater owner and now his debt owner
Amal, favorite prostitute
Within the band of mercenaries, Keegan found himself most repeatable to Jonimir and Sadri. Skilled mages are rather rare in this improvised fighting forces. Keegan's race means he receives merciless discrimination from the likes of Dumvuhud, so he takes certain measures to avoid the Nords. Keegan perfers to spend time with other elves such as Sadri and Relmyna.
Spells: Illusion: Calm, Fear, Rally, Frenzy, Muffle, Invisibility, Clairvoyance, Charm, Paralyze (targets motor control rather muscle) Alteration: Waterwalking, Waterbreathing, Manipulate weight, Manipulate locks, Transmute, Magic armor, Telekinesis Conjuration: Conjure familiar, Bound dagger, Soul trap Destruction: Sparks Hybrid: Detect life (physical via alteration and mental via illusion), Magelight (alteration for environmental illumination, illusion for personal night vision)
Combat Style:
Subversion over attack; this is Keegan's preferred approach to conflicts. His skill sets are poorly suited for head-on engagements. Instead, Keegan employs a vast array of Illusion and Alteration spells to ensure his opponents stay confused. This is merely a delaying tactic in most cases, as he would need to either withdraw or seek assistance from allies. As a last ditch, Keegan could use his staff in melee, spew out short sparks and even conjure up a bound dagger. All methods of attack mentioned above are greatly ineffective against a trained combatant; sparks and bound dagger could only be sustained for mere seconds, and Keegan is also by no means talented with polearms.
When working together in groups, Keegan offers miscellaneous benefits to his partners. He could magically rally those on his side, filling them with vigor and a little recklessness. He could also assist by detecting important field objects, such as traps, hidden paths and concealed enemies. By finding secrets with illusion and alteration, Keegan could also defuse some of them by manipulating their weight or magically open locks.
For defense, Keegan's leather-reinforced robe offers virtually no protection against weapons. His agility and stamina are also limited. He could cast a simple magic armor (oakflesh) for minor durability increase. All in all, Keegan relies on cover and armored companions.
Other Capabilities: Can juggle multiple objects; decent swimmer. Has a larger reserve of magicka from his Altmeri blood and decades-long practice.
Cash: 0
Keys and Lockpicks: 5 lockpicks, Daggerfall Theater backstage key
Clothing and Armor: 3 different masks, 2 cloth and 1 wooden. 2 sets of robes; 1 of sleek spidersilk, another hooded and leather-reinforced. Darkened leather boots, cloth gloves. Couple of spare pants and shirts.
Weapon and Ammunition: Dwemer electric staff
Potion and Arcane Supplies: 3 common soul gems, 2 bottles of medium magicka potion, 1 bottle of cure disease potion, 1 bottle of cure poison potion
Jewelry and Novelty Items: Miniature copper locket with minor magicka boost enhancement
Books and Documents: Contract, fake identifications (including: enlistment papers for the Vvardenfell Outlander Militia as Rhyume, College of Whispers enchanter certificate as Daile, Senchal shipping manifest as captain Laurence), 1 personal healing scroll, 1 medium ward scroll
Food, Drinks, Provisions: half a slice of rotten cheese, 1 spoiled apple, quarter loaf of molded bread
Bags, Pouches, Packs: 1 medium cloth satchel with binds for staff, one leather belt with bandoleers for easy access to small objects, 1 waterskin
Other: Fake mullet wig, linen for emergency sanitation
@Karos Your writing is decent but your character development is fairly weak. There's nothing unique about your Khajiit that hasn't existed in a hundread other RPs. However, we cannot force you to innovate so you'll have to think up something on your own. Another important issue is that you spent way too much effort on his martial prowess, not character development. I could not see beyond a vengeful killer that refuses to even show his personality. I get that you're excited for external, physical conflicts. However, overcoming one's inner struggle is just as important, if not more. Your character does have some inner struggle, that of helping his family and kin. Still, these are shallow and lack any substance beyond a typical fantasy warrior.
There are other problems I have with your sheet, such as being impossibly powerful for an adept and weaknesses that are exactly what I told you not to have. These problems are not immediate, because you would need a complete re-haul before I consider the finer details.
So, in essence, redo your character. Put less emphasis on combat and more on his personality, struggles and outlooks.
That expanded a lot on what I wanted to say. Trust me, I started out my roleplaying adventures with a character that could be summed up as "brooding Khajiit Batman" so... you know. Your writing is good, best put it to work writing for a character with a more interesting and believable personality and personal struggles.
Btw, I saw you said Hello to me in TitanPad, I'm not ignoring you, I just can't write in TP from my phone, only if I get on a computer/laptop! So I won't be active in there much, unless I get the rare chance as I mainly write from my phone.
I'm sorry about that. Hopefully that changes. I had to write from my phone for a couple days and I was ready to drown myself.
@gcold I saw you said that you were going to try for an IC post this weekend, I was curious about the character roster. Are we going to start whether or not we have 12 players?
