Lemons

RWBY based RP

Tori

Name: Tori Rauðrgant
Age: 17
Sex: Female
Phenotype: Human
Appearance:

Worth mentioning, she's VERY tall, a full six feet even. She's also covered with corded, rippling muscle from working out extensively.

Nationality: Atlesian
Weapon: Weapon: Sigyn - A set of DBPG, or Dust Barrier Projection Gauntlets. With her usual straightforward self, Tori styled it in the fashion of two massive, enormously heavy full-metal plates of armor that encase her arms all the way down up the elbow, heavier than most could lift with one hand. They possess no ranged capabilities, and no special way to augment her punching force (whether it needs augmenting at all is debatable). However, she can insert vials of dust in the side and project the dust in front of her hands to form a barrier. As would be expected, different types of dust produce different types of barriers; red dust will burn what hits it to cinders, light blue dust will freeze it, etc. While she only needs a single hand to create the barrier, a one-handed shield is relatively small and fragile. With hands linked, however, she can create a much more substantial breathing-room space, able to handle even a short volley of artillery fire. If she wants to further bolster the defensive capabilities of her gauntlets, she can encase the barrier of dust with her aura, leaving her personal self with less defense, but everything behind the barrier pretty damn safe. They don't collapse at all, so whenever she's not using them, she straps them to her back. That's quite a feat in itself, as the fists of these gauntlets are about half the size of her torso.

Semblance: Bulwark - Tori can see auras, and can consciously move her aura around to other people or objects.

Aura Color: Brilliant scarlet-red.
Emblem:

Personality: Tori is, in more ways than one, a guardian, and allergic to bullshit. Generally brusque and gruff to those that she finds even the smallest bit suspicious, she's extraordinarily protective of her friends and team members, and will not hesitate to get up in your face if you try something that endangers those that she cares for. That’s not to say she doesn’t have a fun side; in fact, she thrives on attention and loves being at the center of things, especially parties. If she views you as a threat, though—to herself or her friends—she will not hesitate to drop you. As a byproduct of this straightforward nature, she is brutally honest to everyone, and has no stomach for liars. No matter the motive. In her mind, lying is, without exception, a bad thing to do. As much as she wants to protect people, she has a tendency of not taking care of herself, and often ends up sleeping through the day because she’s so exhausted from pushing herself past when she already should’ve rested.

Background: What’s that? You want to hear about my past?

Sure, I guess. Order another round, I might be a little while.

I was born way up north in the far northern reaches of Mantle. Real little town called Svartheim, barely a blip on the map. Mostly farmers, and some retired hunters like my dad. So me, my dad Bjorn, my mom Frej, and my younger brother Ander—wait, really? I never told you guys I had a brother? Weird—we all lived together in this big house in the middle of town, right? Think about that for a sec. Poor town, wilderness all around, big mansion with one family living in it, mostly malnourished, weak peasants. Svartheim’s the kind of place that draws bandits.

So I was sitting by the windowsill embroidering—hey, don’t laugh, I wasn’t always this unfeminine—when I looked out the window and saw a plume of smoke. I didn’t think it was much, but it slowly spread until there were six or seven pillars rising into the sky. I don’t know what’s going on, so I go to ask my dad, right? And he’s lying there in bed, not paying any attention. I try to talk to him, but if you think I’m stubborn, you’ve never seen my dad. I swear he rolled his eyes when I ran off too.

Outside, I ducked out of sight, just wanting to find out what was going on, when I see it: Ander is on the ground, a man with a huge sword just raising it above his head for the killing blow on my brother. And you all know me. You know that won’t stand. Feeling powerless, I reached out my hand to Ander for what I thought was the last time, then fwoosh! I felt my aura whiff right out of me, and I watched the sword swing down at Ander’s neck…

And it bounced.

It bounced right off him, leaving him even more confused than that highwayman.

Soon after, the bandits left permanently, if you catch my drift. Very permanently. And good riddance. So after I saved Ander’s life, my dad finally got a clue and enrolled me in real education. And, well, now I'm here. Much as I love Atlas and the mountains and snow, if I stay there all my life, I'll never get anything done, y'know?

Damnit, I've been talking too long and now my throat’s dry. Where’s the second round?

Buried Backstory Goodies: (GM Only. Things that happened that aren't public knowledge, willingly shared, or known to your character specifically.)
Likes: Tori likes it when people are honest. That's a big one. Beyond that, she finds polishing Sigyn very therapeutic and, in general, enjoys being clean. She's very fastidious, keeping all of her things scrupulously clean. She really likes nature, especially the mountains and cold air (so Vacuo has been rough on her). As mentioned, she likes being the middle of things and tends to thrive off of attention. While it's not something she really likes, per se, she enjoys exercising, and is quite proud of her fitness.
Dislikes: Though it contrasts heavily with her general cleanliness, she can't stand studying, as she can never focus on schoolwork for very long. Thus, she doesn't much like academics and usually doesn't do very well in them, despite being rather good at retaining information. As a rule, she generally doesn't like chaos and disorder. Her greatest dislike, however, is duplicity. She vehemently hates two-faced people, and finds it difficult to even tolerate being around them.
Favors:
- Tori is...buff. Really buff. And big. As a byproduct of constantly training and working to strengthen her aura, her physical body also strengthens. She's very, very strong for a girl her age, easily enough to wrestle most grown men to the ground without much trouble.
- In her own words, "I dare you to try killing me." Between her own skill at combat, her defensive weapon and she sheer volume of aura that she possesses, she can take a lot more punishment than you might think before taking anything approaching real harm.
- While if you don't know Tori she's stubborn and frustrating, to those she's close with, she's a rather easygoing person, ready to go with the flow. Because of this, she's also very, very good at thinking on her feet and improvising.
Disfavors:
- Though she does have a pretty huge amount of aura, it's usually split up; anywhere from ten to fifteen percent of her aura goes into everyone that she guards with it. Even with a normal sized team, she's still losing out on anywhere from a third, to nearly half. In addition, she doesn't have any fine control over her aura over "put it on that thing" or "hit it really hard."
- Tori has zero ranged capabilities whatsoever. If she wants to contribute to a fight, she has to get up close and personal, which can end poorly a lot of times.
- Tori, despite the hardass attitude, is super sensitive to people she likes or teammates being hurt, and if she thinks it's her fault (even if it's not), she'll tear herself apart with guilt.
Relationships- (With whom? What do they think?)
Fears: (GM Only. What stops them in their tracks? Makes their skin crawl?)
Other: Hex Code: #ff2400

RWBY based RP

@tobiax It totally is Nimmie, or rather the art for her. I searched it up and got super attached. Not very good at doubling up, though; one or the other, I think. Leaning more towards Tori now, though, though I'd need to change her name to a color-based one. I just never really get to use her properly.

RWBY based RP

@BartimaeusA defensive character with metal arm weapon?

Sounds like there'll be a swole bae here after all. Maybe I will bring Tori back, @tobiax

RWBY based RP

Don't mind me, just interested enough to create a character.

Saffron

Name:Saffron Merganset
Age: 16
Sex: Female
Phenotype: Faunus - Long-tailed weasel
Appearance:

Saffron

Add a long, black-tufted tail, as well as a full compliment of fangs and canine teeth. Strangely enough, unlike many faunus, she doesn't have any kind of ear differences; she has normal humanoid ears. It can be very off-putting; an innocent-looking teenager opens her mouth and you think you've seen the devil. Because of this, she can't actually eat plants; she's entirely carnivorous. Worth mentioning, she's got a very slim build, and is rather tall for her age; perhaps 5' 9", and weighing no more than 110 pounds.

Nationality: Vacuan, originally Atlesian.
Weapon: Saffron's weapon, called Checkmate, has two major forms. The first is a pair of chunky knives with tanto points, blades perhaps ten inches long and two inches thick apiece. More short swords than anything, really, but she uses them like knives, flurrying them with intense speed. Whenever she wants to, though, she can transform Checkmate into its other form, a pair of machine pistols (think of an Uzi) with a low range and reasonably small rounds, but a fire rate that dwarfs most other weapons entirely, fitting Saffron's fast-paced fighting style. It may not be able to one-shot a Grimm like a sniper rifle, but at close range, fifteen shots a second will drill a hole through pretty much anything she needs to. Checkmate is largely saffron-orange, which is, unsurprisingly, her favorite color; however, in an interesting quirk to drive home the name, the accents on one are white and the accents on the other are black.

Semblance: Flickerswitch - Saffron is capable of moving unbelievably, eye-blinkingly quickly for just a fraction of a second, covering maybe thirty feet maximum with each "flicker."
Semblance Details: (GM Only. Tell me exactly how your Semblance works.)
Semblance Development: (GM Only. Things you'll want to be able to do in the future. They'll be up for consideration.)
Aura Color: Saffron orange. Surprise surprise.
Emblem:

Guns!

Personality: The first thing to remark on Saffron is that she's smart. Really smart. But it's not a steady kind of intelligent-smart. No, her smarts come in what people have called, in the past, "gunpowder knowledge." She has seemingly-random spurts of insight and inspiration. She's not particularly good in school; not particularly good at studying, she relies on remembering things as they happen, taking no note and trusting her memory to bring up what she needs to know at any given moment. It doesn't always work; hence, not good in school.

What this mean outside of school, though, is that she's an excellent fighter. This is for a number of reasons, but none are strategic. Her weapons' name is ironic by intent: she called it Checkmate because she's an awful strategist. The relevant one is unpredictability. One moment, she'll be chewing people up with Checkmate's pistols from a distance, the next she'll be bolting in as fast as she can to cut them up with the twin knives. Because of her slight, quick build, it's hard to tell what movements she's going to make. She's a particularly good tournament fighter because of this, especially with her Semblance further reinforcing it, but it's just as effective against Grimm and bandits.

Finally, the last relevant piece of personality: how she interacts with people. Saffron is, well...'frenetic' would be a good way to describe her. She has a hard time sitting still, and while she's a bundle of happiness, her self-control could use some work. That whole 'gunpowder knowledge' thing is even more pronounced in her interpersonal interactions than it is in her schooling, except that here it results in gunpowder smiles, where she randomly decides that this thing is going to happen, and good like trying to stop her. She doesn't like being told 'no,' and she has a bad habit of dragging other people along on her crazy whim-driven escapades. If she's doing things like that, there's no reason to really be concerned about her. The same goes for if she's crying, or of she's yelling, or really, anything that's loud. No, the time when you really need to worry about her is when she's being quiet.

Background: Saffron never expected to be a Huntress.

Saffron never really expected to be much of anything.

Born to a family of mustelid faunuses (fauneses? fauni? Hmm) in, of all places, Atlas, she wasn't the most popular kid in school. Her parents would have loved to move away, but they never could; poor laborers for the Schnees, they could barely scrape by enough money to Lien to live on as it was. Still, they tried their best for their baby girl so that she could have the childhood they never could, taking on more and more debt to send her to the best schools and programs.

Unfortunately, faunuses as a whole aren't looked on very favorably in Atlas. That goes double for the upper class, quadruple for spoiled upper-class children and adolescents, and octuple if there's something obvious about them to make fun of. For Saffron, it was, predictably, her teeth. She hated it. She hated every second of it. But her parents were so proud of her for going out and getting educated like they'd never been able to, she grit her teeth and smiled through it despite the jibes, the laughter, even the weasel skulls placed on her desk. Yes. Skulls. Plural. Multiple times.

Eventually, she graduated from her school and the runty little kid that she had been was now beginning to turn heads because of her grace and fluidity of movement. Not the heads that she wanted to turn, though. Not at all. The heads that she turned were combat teachers. They offered her something that she'd always wanted: the ability to go somewhere more...suited for her. Vacuo, the land where if you can survive, you're accepted, whether you're a human or a faunus. And when she told them that she couldn't because her parents had no money, they sent her anyway. She's no fool; she knows that this favor is going to be cashed in sometime, and she's going to need to do things for Atlas that she might not find altogether savory. But she's always been one to think in the moment. For now? She's happy. And that's what matters.

Buried Backstory Goodies: (GM Only. Things that happened that aren't public knowledge, willingly shared, or known to your character specifically.)
Likes: Saffron adores the heat. She loves it, revels in it, wishes it could last forever. That's her favorite part about Vacuo: it's nice and hot all the time, and she couldn't be happier. Other than that, her biggest love is being treated like a normal girl. She went through complete ostractization and discrimination in Atlas. The fact that, even if it's not all the time, she can be treated like a girl instead of an animal? It's her favorite thing ever. Beyond the profound stuff, she really likes chocolate, and it saddens her immensely that she can't eat it; like I said, she inherited the dietary restriction of weasels, so chocolate is toxic to her. Sad day.
Dislikes: Going hand in hand with what's up above: Saffron cannot stand the cold. She hates it with a vehemence rarely seen in her. On winter nights, or even spring and autumn nights, it's common to find her bundled up in a comforter on her bed grumbling to herself. It makes her lethargic and grumpy. Equally terrible to her, but in a different way, is being treated like a...thing, I guess. Being treated like an animal. It doesn't really make her angry; she got so used to it during schooling in Atlas that she's almost numb to the anger now. No, it just makes her really sad. If you want to depress her, that's the fastest way to do it. Finally, it rubs her the wrong way that while Atlas sent her to Vacuo, they didn't extend the same courtesy to her parents. She feels very alone all the time.
Favors: Saffron is a close-quarters-combat specialist. Her weapon is pretty much designed for it, her Semblance lets her close the gap rapidly and, combined with her natural flexibility, fluidity and athleticism, allows her to dodge around most everything that threatens her. Speaking of flexibility, that's another of her talents: she's like a gymnast, almost. She's very good at acrobatics, and she can contort herself extremely well. She sleeps curled up in a ball like a cat or ferret. It's adorable. Finally, and in a strong departure from the others, she's very empathetic. Because of how much she wears her emotions on her sleeve, she's also pretty good at telling when something is bugging others, and she's not half bad at puzzling out what it is, either.
Disfavors: She has almost no ranged capabilities. Her piddly little bullets don't do much past a hundred feet, so she's certainly no sniper, and it's a waste of her talents regardless. And going hand in hand with her flexibility and mobility is the fact that, well, she's fragile. She's slender and fine-boned and doesn't have a huge amount of aura, so a single good hit will do a lot to knock her out of a fight. She's no tank. And finally, similar to her bones, her emotions are fragile. She's built her personality and normalcy out of stone on a foundation of glass; she has a massive inferiority complex and has a real problem with, when she's made fun of for being a faunus, retreating back into a shell.
Relationships- (With whom? What do they think?)
Fears: (GM Only. What stops them in their tracks? Makes their skin crawl?)
Other:
Hex Code: #f4c430

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

Getting Lubricated

Collab with Stormy and the Schaftonater

17th of Midyear, late at night...

The last time Gaius had felt alcohol in his blood, it had been an uncountable time ago. At least, that’s what it felt like, though it was only a few months ago. Or something. Before the Imperial City had been sacked, in any case. He’d been occupied ever since, too much to open up a bottle or tip back a tankard, or keep very good track of time. And so, he found himself grimacing at the burn of liquor as it went down and looked ruefully at the two bottles that he’d purchased and would never be able to finish. Sighing, he slid them in his tunic pockets in lieu of drinking more, opting instead to wander aimlessly about the celebrations, a distraction that served just as well.

Perhaps an hour after his conversation with Meg, he spied another familiar face. Not someone he knew, no. A familiar face. Though he’d seen it most often in the mirror or the barracks instead of on a grizzled Ohmes-Raht, he knew the taut wariness that lurked behind the khajiit’s eyes: the look of a man who had seen a very large amount of combat. Despite his own wariness, he found himself fascinated by the man; had he seen him somewhere? Perhaps after the prison raid? He wasn’t sure. He’d barely even been conscious returning from Kthrakz, let alone awake enough to recognize a face. Weighing his options for a bit and fingering the still-pocketed bottle, he shrugged heavily to himself and approached the man, holding the unopened bottle out.

“Care to share a drink? You look like you could use one.”

“And a few more besides.” Sevari mumbled, only looking at the face to take the offered bottle and bidding him sit next to him, seeing the tell-tale signs of a life of military service in his every move, “Gaius. You look like a legionnaire. I’ve seen a lot of them in my time, worked with a few Legion men and women.”

“Sevari.” He offered his hand out to the man, straightforward, there was a comfort in that. No games, no tip-toeing. Talking to Legionnaires was a respite in the constant charade of service to the Penitus Oculatus, in which you weren’t supposed to exist. Inspectors, it was no wonder why his ilk were called Specters, a shortening and a bogeyman title. Here one day, gone the next, with a new name and a new job. “You were one of the men we sprang from Kthrakz. Milonem. The name is well-respected, isn’t it?”

Gaius nodded along as the newly-named Sevari introduced himself and gave him a firm handshake, sitting down beside him. “You’re not wrong. I’m a Legionnaire through and through. And right again: the Milonem family has been around for a decent long time. My father was Triarius in the Prima Cohort. We used to be much more well known; after Father and Mother died, I drove us into the ground before my much more competent sister--” he swallowed heavily as memories of Helena rippled through his mind, and he had to pause for a moment before he continued. “--Apologies. Before my more competent sister took over the administration.”

“On to matters more present, and,” he chuckled lamely, “less upsetting. You said that you’ve worked with the Legion before. What’s your line of work?” He had a sneaking suspicion, given that there weren’t a huge amount of jobs that aligned closely to the Legion, but he didn’t want to offend with haphazard guesses. Best to let Sevari speak on his own.

“Inspector.” Sevari said, leaving it at that. “Those special people who fight the Empire’s enemies when the Legion is too heavy-handed. I’ve been fighting the Empire’s enemies for a long, long time.”

Gaius cracked a wan grin, quickly warming up to the fellow soldier. “So have I, friend. So have I. And I suppose now I’m doing so even more with these damn Dwemer.” He fished the corked bottle out of his pocket, popping it open. “Still, I look forward to seeing the looks on their faces when we reclaim the Imperial City and burn their airships to cinders.” Raising the bottle in the air in toast, he prepared for the burn of the alcohol. “To wars, fought and won!”

Not exactly a gentleman to miss a toast as it was occurring, the sight of Gaius and Sevari imbibing together hit that part of Fjolte that had missed and longed for familiar camaraderie and brotherhood. How could he continue to walk past that of all things? It was a festival was it not? He had been feeling much more himself in the days since his escape, and it was hard for Sevari not to stick out, the Nord had not seen much of him after he had walked through the prison, sour and heavy. He seemed less so now.

“Hah! Nothing like a toast among brothers—” he remarked with his usual beaming smile as he swaggered over with the confidence and enthusiasm that would have made anyone believe he had been part of their meeting all along. He had no ale of his own, but that didn't stop him from raising an invisible glass anyway, “to life, freedom, and friendship!” a mirthful chuckle rolled off his toast and he brought himself next to Sevari, giving him a hearty slap on the shoulder. “Thanks for saving my neck, friend…” for a second, his expression slipped into one far more serious and sincere than he wanted - not that Fjolte was one to disguise feelings. “You two look like you're talking a bit deep for a festival…”

“What else do two old fighters talk about but their aching knees and numerous stories about every scrape they’ve been in?” Sevari raised his cup a tad to the newly arrived Nord, resplendent in his insufferable fucking beauty, “Wouldn’t expect a Ponce like you to understand.” He quipped good-naturedly with an impish grin while lighting a cigar he’d put between his teeth, “Or could it be the first time in forty-some years that I’m wrong?”

“You might be wrong indeed. I've been in plenty of scrapes, don't let the smoulder fool you…” he laughed and took a seat on one of the stacked crates. “Us Nords come out of the womb ready to brawl, I certainly did. I'm still a man of my youth though, not as old as you two farts by the sounds of it.” He nodded in the direction of the Imperial. He could not remember seeing him in the escape. “I'm Fjolte, by the way, friend!”

“Gaius,” the Legionnaire responded in kind, inclining his head at the boisterous Nord. He smiled at his antics; after the soul-sucking trials of the past few weeks, talking to someone who seemed both generally happy and sane was a welcome reprieve. He turned to Sevari, eyes twinkling in a way that they hadn’t in far too long. “Careful, Sevari. This one looks like he could eat a cow and still have room left over to guzzle a keg and start punching.” With that, he turned back to Fjolte again, passing over the bottle after taking one more long pull and wiping his lips. “To life, freedom, and friendship!”

“Aye!” Sevari toasted, raising his glass. “I think Fjolte knows I’m only giving him shit. I pried the bars apart so he could crawl through them and taste the air of freedom again.”

He chuckled, “And that’s why he should think twice before calling me an old fart. Figured the baby-face young Nord would have some manners.” He took a gulp from his cup and chuckled good-naturedly, “Besides, I’m not even fifty yet, you ass.”

“You laugh at the thought of me eating a whole cow, but it’s been done! Of course, I had my brother Honon the Fat to help me but we cleaned it down to the bone just the two of us. Just regular Loredas activities…” he sighed, letting his thoughts wander to home. He hoped his family were alright. Sevari’s words lifted him from dipping his toes too much into the melancholy of it all, and he laughed aloud - his usual bellowing laugh. “You’re not that old, and I’m not that young. Don’t let this handsome mug fool you both, I’ve seen some shit.” He ran a hand through his sand-coloured hair, and let his laughter patter out. “So what’s next for you two then? Where will the wind carry you after tonight?”

Gaius exhaled a heavy breath. “The wind will carry me where it always has, eventually. Back to my people, back to my home, however long it takes me to get there. I don’t care how many miles and Dwemer lie between us, but I will see the Imperial City reclaimed.” Then a snort. “But after tonight? Hopefully a blacksmith.” He tossed his head back, draining the rest of the bottle and grimacing at the burn.

“Can’t have a legionnaire without his armor.” Sevari said, tipping back his own cup and growling at the burn, wiping his mouth off on his forearm, “Finally, someone who likes whiskey.”

He turned to Fjolte, an eyebrow cocked, “You’ve seen battle? When?”

Made sense of course that Gaius was a Legionnaire. Fjolte almost felt bad for his own past allegiances, but he was no longer ashamed and scared of consequence. He saw no use in hiding it. War put people against each other, simple as, and there was no going back from the truth of it now. “Aye, battle for Windhelm - some others during the civil war. That must have been the last one though… Most fucking memorable I’ll tell you that. Raelynn was there too, well, she was there after. Frightened and out of her depth pulling bodies from the wreckage…” he sighed with a soft laugh and ran his hands through his hair, hoping that he hadn’t just caused potential tension with two new friends. “Now we’re back in the thick of war, I suspect there will be more battles to come.”

Sevari cocked a brow at that. He spit off to the side and lit a cigar, letting the moment drag on as the tobacco crackled with his inhale. He let out the smoke as he spoke, quiet-like, and his eyes didn’t leave Fjolte’s, “Which side?”

The Nord just shrugged at the question and the corners of his mouth curled into an awkward smile, “the losing one.” Fjolte rolled his shoulders back - hoping that his confession wouldn't start a fight or damage any chance at bonding with the two of them, but there was a lightness to him that suggested he'd already accepted if they did choose to hold it against him.

Gaius tensed up, knee-jerk reaction to the presence of a Stormcloak at the ready. His lips began to curl into a snarl.

Then he paused, and thought for a moment before staring Fjolte dead in the eyes. “You know,” he began slowly, “I knew a lot of good men and women that died during the civil war. Riki Armandgove, Srani Briza, Sextus Quirinus, and so many more. Many were at Windhelm.” He heaved in a deep breath. “But there are bigger trolls to kill right now. Maybe after all this, then I'll have to fight you. But for now?” He forced out a lopsided grin. “I’ll shut up and drink.”

“I learnt a lot back then, did a lot of terrible things too - we all did. I like to think I've made good on that in the years since, and if not yet - well I'll keep working towards it,” he said hopefully, his eyes pointed up to the stars. “I don't tend to pick many fights these days either so good luck with that in the future,” the Nord began to laugh, “and for what it's worth, I don't intend to fly those colours anymore. I'm a free man now!”

“Now, now.” Sevari mumbled, taking a pull from his cigar, “What were we but two sides of the same coin? I was never in the Legion, but I was there in Skyrim. Always good men on either side. The real enemy is still out there, and I intend to shove these Dwemer assholes aside to get back to those piss-skinned, knife-eared Thalmor cunts.”

Gaius belted out a sudden laugh from deep in his belly, and raised his empty bottle. “The wisdom of an old soldier, eh?” He turned to Fjolte, this time with a huge, genuine, apologetic smile on his face. “Sorry about that, Fjolte. It’s been a long couple of weeks, as I’m sure it’s been for you too. Fuck the elves, hmm?” He tossed the bottle back, cocking his head for a moment in surprise when he realized that it was empty. “...Except Anifaire. She’s alright, from what I remember.”

“I bet there are some Dwemer that are alright. Good and bad eggs everywhere right? Let's just all get through it in one piece,” Fjolte commented as he placed his hands flat behind him and leaned back on the crate. “No need to apologise to me either. Not much I'll take offense to, brother.” He wondered whether or not he'd met Anifaire, he had recalled a quiet and timid Altmer from the escape, “Anifaire huh? That the girl with the voice softer than a unicorn's fart?”

Gaius nodded and stumbled, realizing that he was probably drunk and furthermore, that he didn’t care in the slightest. “If she’s tall, yellow and meek, that’s who you’re thinking of. Only high elf I’ve ever met that didn’t have a stick the size of Dagon up the arse.” He laughed. “There were three altmer in the Jeralls, counting her: freak that looked more like a ghost than an elf, named Sulandi or something stupid like that, and Durantel. Real shithead of an elf, carried himself like a Thalmor.” He swayed, leaning against a wall. “Couldn’t stand that fop bastard.”

“Ah, Durantel.” Sevari nodded, a knowing grin on his face, “He was on my list. I was going to spit him on my sword in Gilane back when I was masquerading as Dwemer Secret Police. Hell, I might’ve done it for fun.”

Fjolte nodded along with them, taking from his pocket a short smoking pipe, and letting it sit on his lower lip while he scrambled another pocket for his bag of alchemical ingredients. “Ahh yeah, Durantel. I wanted to kick my foot so far up is ass he’d smell my feet you know?” He said in a humourful tone, he didn’t know who the fuck Durantel was, but he’d clearly wound up Gaius and Sevari. Finally stumbling across the bag, he took a pinch and loaded the pipe with it. “Shit, need a light…” he muttered, looking to his left and right for a means to do so. “Be so kind as to pass your flame to a new friend?” He asked, motioning to the lit end of Sevari’s cigar. “I’ll share if you do, this will blow your knickers off.”

Sevari shrugged, puffing a few times on his cigar before handing it over, “That’s the most harmless thing anyone’s threatened to blow off of me.” He said, watching Fjolte light his pipe, “What is it? Moon sugar?”

He frowned a bit, “Don’t tell me you’re a fucking skooma smoker.”

Gaius laughed, maybe just a touch scornfully. “Thought you’d seen some shit, Sevari. Come on, if he was on the skooma, how would he have survived in prison? Boy would be dead from withdrawal already.”

“Very barely, is how. I knew a man who was hooked on it, I tied him to a post for five days and only gave him water twice a day.” He shrugged, as if torturing addicts was a simple hobby of his, “He got clean. He also gave me what I needed to know.”

“Not skooma,” he laughed as he took Sevari's cigar to light the end of the pipe. As he held the small flame into the bowl at the end, it lit up into a violet flame with magenta sparks. “This is something I created after several failed experiments. Can't tell you fellas what's in it though, don't want anyone stealing my recipe…” Fjolte laughed again and took a long drag from the pipe, letting the smoke fill all the way to his lungs - after holding it for some time, he exhaled it as a series of perfectly round rings before handing the pipe to the Ohmes-Raht with a grin, his pupils dilating just so.

---

After an hour or so, having finished the pipe entirely, the three were sat down around the piles of crates. Each once lounging back in their own way. Fjolte sat in his usual relaxed pose with one leg outstretched and the other brought up to his chest, his arm lounging lazily over his knee. There were beaded tears clinging to his eyelashes as he let rip a laugh from the pit of his stomach, and it wasn’t the first of that night either, his stomach felt sore from the endless clenching of laughter, so much so that his other hand grasped at it, and he panted in pain in between each roll of chuckles.

As stories, theories, ideas, and opinions were passed back and forth, the laughter carried on to an almost obnoxious level. “Do you… Do you… Do you think that it would be better to have hands for feet or feet for hands?”

”I have been told that I must have some giants blood in me somehow, you know, because of the size of my…”

”Bosmer women are so fucking hot. Dunmer women too… And Altmer… Women are hot”
“Yeah, women are hot.”
“This sand is pretty hot too, or is it just my arse?”

“If oranges are oranges, then why are lemons not yellows?”
“Why are grapes not purples?”
“And pineapples blues?”

”What the fuck happens if I get scared half to death… twice?”
“Fuuuuuuuck.”

”What’s the meaning of life?”
“Woah...”

”Do teeth have a taste?”
“Mine taste like…. Teeth.”
“Yeah, mine too.”

”What language would we think in if we were deaf?”
“Can you hear your own head?”

“What was that sound? What’s that smell?”
“Sorry, my bad”
“Sounds like you blew your fucking knickers off.”
“Oh, gods.. Party is over. Abort”
“Yeah, fuck me.. I’m out.”

“What’d I do?!”

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

For Old Times

Lemons, and the incomparable Greenie

---

Nighttime, 17th of Midyear
Alik’r Desert, Hammerfell

There was something a little bit eerie about how quickly Restoration magic and alchemy healed up wounds, reflected Gaius.

Of course, he was grateful for it; if it didn’t work so well, he would be laid up with bloody bandages covering his back. As it was, he was up and walking. Not particularly happily, since it didn’t heal quickly enough to completely axe out the pain, but he didn’t want to remain bedridden from a wound again so soon after recovering from his last. And so, that night found him meandering cautiously about the celebrations, reflecting on what had happened over the past month. He plunked himself down heavily on an upturned, empty barrel with a wince and a sigh, feeling once again for the spot on his back where an ancestral shield had sat for decades. He dropped his head and shook it gently. “No more of that, Gaius,” he murmured to himself, “you’re alive, aren’t you?”

"Oh!" Bottle in one hand and a couple of small spicy meat pies of sorts in the other, Meg had been making her way through the crowd, enjoying each and every spectacle that she came across, though now that she found herself hungry, there was nothing that truly caught her attention in the face of food and drink. With those in hand, the Nord woman was at last ready to fend off the heat and tiredness she felt returning by filling her stomach and allowing herself to get a little buzzed. She had not expected to bump into an old companion she hadn't seen since that fateful day in Imperial City.

Not one to shy away from dust, Meg settled herself on the ground next to the barrel that the older soldier had seated himself on, smiling up on him. "Been a while, eh?" she started, letting out a happy sigh. "T'think we'd finally meet 'gain over here of all places..." She blinked before holding out her pie holding hand. "Wanna bite?"

Gaius gave Meg an appreciative smile and a “thanks,” taking one of the pies and nibbling at the edges, lost somewhat in thought. He let a minute or so pass, then turned to face her, realizing, now that he wasn’t bleeding from a whipping and confronted with an Imperial ambassador, how much...rougher wasn’t the word...how much more resilient Meg seemed than the Nord that he’d first met in the Jerall mountains. He’d had his doubts; perhaps it was overdose of soldiery, but her honest, easygoing exterior had caused him to wonder whether she’d be able to handle herself. That question had been answered quite fully now.

“To be completely honest? I thought you’d all scattered or died in the disastrous Colovian Rangers incident. I didn’t think I’d ever meet you again.” His face wrinkled with lines of sadness that hadn’t been there only two months before. “What a horror show that was. I wish I could slap some sense into whoever organized the sortie against the Dwemer outpost, but I don’t think that’s an option any more.” He heaved out a huge sigh. “But enough of that kind of talk. How have you all been? I saw some new faces.”

"Ahh, I'd never joined 'em," Meg replied after a moment. She leaned back against a wall and she contemplated the bottle in her hand, stretching out her legs though not so much that she would obstruct the path for anyone passing by. "I'd stayed with Judena an' the other in the camp in Skingrad... from there we'd gone t'Anvil." She smiled as she took a gulp from her bottle, settling it down to the side when she was done. "Aye, we have new faces- well, new for you... Raelynn came with us when we left Imperial City. Jaraleet an' Gregor joined us in Skingrad... uhm, then there's Maz an' Maj who we met in Gilane... Sevari, Zaveed an' Sirine are really new..." She blinked some, a little surprised that the latter two were still around. She didn't like being judgemental, but the dark tales she had heard of the one and the conversation she'd had with the other had her unsettled and confused.

"It's been wha', two months? Feels like ages..." She thought of Rhea, Brynja and Rhona, but decided tonight wasn't the time to broach painful subjects. Gaius didn't need to feel more sorrow after a long awaited freedom. "Seems fate's on our side now though. We've foun' Alim, we've foun' you, an' looks like we're finally ahead of the dwemer for once."

Gaius chuckled mirthlessly. “Fate, hmm? I guess, in some way, I came looking for you after Anvil. A…” he paused for a moment, “a friend told me that she’d heard through the merchant grapevine that there was a resistance against the Dwemer in Gilane. I thought if I rustled up enough trained fighters, I could tear Anvil apart. Funny how fate always finds a way to get you back on the track you need to be.”

He shook his head. “It’s a shame Rhea isn’t here to celebrate with us. If there’s anybody on Nirn who didn’t deserve the fate that they were dealt, it’s her.” He went quiet, looking down at the pie in his hands before abruptly changing the subject, standing up with a suppressed yawn and a lame smile on his face. “So, where did you find that drink? I could use some about now.”

Meg's eyes had dropped to the ground at the mention of Rhea's name, remembering how that last rush from Anvil had taken her life. It wasn't so long ago, yet after the events of Gilane, it felt like months... and still the pain remained. She had done all that she could for them, and in the end her life had been viciously stolen from her.

That could not happen to Daro'Vasora. Or anyone else in their group, for that matter.

"Oh, I got m'ways," Meg replied with a small smile, picking up the bottle and holding it up for the Imperial man to take. "Not stolen, don' worry." She had managed to pick it up for free though, the merchant rather enchanted by a tale told of one of her escapades in Skyrim. "It don' taste half bad either."

“Well, as long as we have some drink, shall we think happier thoughts? We’re alive, aren’t we?” Taking the bottle, Gaius examined it for a moment, wondering what kind of drink it was, before shrugging and holding it to the sky. “To being alive!” With that, he took a long pull from the bottle, chugging down the liquor and enjoying the slight burn that came with it. When he was done, he handed the somewhat lighter vessel back to Meg. “So many terrible things have happened within the pasts few months, perhaps we forget that it hasn’t all been bad. Many good things have happened as well. Fate may be on our side now indeed.” He gave Meg a small, tame smile and a nod. “Thank you for reminding me of that, Megana.”

He leaned back, looking at the stars that wheeled in the glass-clear desert sky above him, marveling at how much brighter they looked than in the Imperial City. “If I had a drink of my own, Akatosh,” he muttered, “I’d pour it out in your name.”

Meg looked at the man, a little grin finding itself on her lips. “Well, y’can always pour it in yer mouth,” she suggested a little cheekily, though she did sober a little. “I’m kiddin’... an’ I agree too, best t’think of happier thoughts now.” Her mind wandered and she thought or her previous encounter earlier in the night with Sevari- it had been an unexpected yet enlightening experience, and she was very happy to have made a new friends… perhaps she could round off the night with yet another one.

“So, uhm, b’fore you came with us t’the mountains, where’d ya live?”

“Imperial City, all my life. Talos Plaza district, to be specific.” His face creased with a faraway worry for a bit, before he shook his head, dragging them back to the moment, doing his best to forget the current state of his home. “Somehow, most people that come to the city do so in times of crisis. I suppose that’s the nature of the seat of power. I wish they saw it in peace more than they do.” He leaned forwards, ceasing his reclining, and winced a bit as the remaining injuries in his back stretched. “It’s a beautiful city, it really is. Standing just inside the gate and looking up at the White-Gold Tower is a feeling that’s hard to duplicate, and at night, the Arcane University blazes with a rainbow of lights. It’s like looking at the aurora in Skyrim, only even brighter.”

He turned to her, nostalgic mistiness fading out of his eyes to be replaced with curiosity. “Speaking of Skyrim, what about you? Where were you born and raised?”

“Riverwood,” Meg replied immediately. “Lived there a few years ‘til Pa decided t’move t’Riften. Stayed there a good while ‘til er, he decided he wanted t’live in Whiterun, so we ended up headin’ that way.” Unlike with Sevari, who had found her admission of crime amusing, she was unsure whether Gaius would be of the same mindset. “My Pa, he’s an Imperial like ya, used t’live in Imperial City too, til he was ‘bout my age or maybe a li’l older. A soldier too… yer a soldier, right?” She didn’t wait for an answer, continuing her tale. “He… didn’ really enjoy tha’ kinda life, y’know?” She scratched the back of her neck, thinking she might actually understand why now. “Which was pro’ly a good thin’, else I’d not be around.”

If Gaius was surprised that Meg’s father was an Imperial soldier, he didn’t show it. In fact, he laughed, and not the half-hearted chuckle of before, but a full-throated, throw-your-head-back belly laugh. “Doesn’t sound too unlike my father. He was a soldier and loved it--shows you where I got it, I suppose--but he didn’t much like the fighting. Hated it, actually, even though he was very good at it. He just wanted to help the Empire, and fighting was the best way he had.” He shrugged. “I’ve always been fond of fighting, but I’m nowhere near as good as he was in his prime.”

“Still,” he went on, “I’m glad to know that Whiterun is still holding together. When last I saw it, it was in shambles. Is old man Balgruuf still Jarl?”

She couldn’t help but laugh out loud at hearing the Jarl called ‘old man’, it was funny and unexpected from the Imperial, though reminded her of how her own father would call the leader of Whiterun in the privacy of their home. “Aye, well, last I was there, he sure was- hadn’ been there for months ‘fore I left for Jerall.” She looked at the older man curiously, crossing her legs before turning so that she was facing him completely. “So were you like deployed there, or somethin’ else, jus’ passin’ through?”

“Stationed,” he replied shortly. “Battle of Whiterun. I was one of the legionnaires that defended the city. After the battle, Balgruuf got away from that housecarl of his and ended up drinking in the Bannered Mare nearly every night to show the people of his city that he was still part of them, even after the civil war. We had some interesting conversations over a flagon.”

“So if you hadn’t been in Whiterun before you left for the expedition, where were you? Just wandering, or were you somewhere more pressing?”

“Maybe y’ran into my Pa then,” Meg replied with a small smile. As the days passed on and they kept moving from one location to the other, she found herself thinking more and more of her father and little brother, wondering how they might be. She didn’t hate or even dislike her stepmother, but felt rather indifferent. It was an odd feeling for one who liked to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, but there was still lingering feelings or discontent.

“I left Whiterun, erm… a li’l after my twentieth,” she added after a moment of thought. “I wanted adventure? I was workin’ at farms in Whiterun, sometimes usin’ m’sword t’protect wares… I wanted t’see more though.” She smiled as she looked up at Gaius, wondering if he’d find her itchy feet and wanderlust relatable. “I used t’go after bandits for bounties, t’was dangerous but I managed… but I started treasure huntin’ once I bumped into a friend from Riften.”

A little after her twentieth… Gaius smiled, more to himself than to Meg. He’d forgotten how young many of the people on the ill-fated Jerall expedition had been, many seeming still in their twenties. He laughed at her description of her antsy, wandering feet. “One of the perks of being in the Legion: there’s a lot of all-expenses-paid travel. I wish I could’ve wandered when I was that young, but,” his face pulled into a jokingly-sour expression, “I ended up having to run the family finances for a few years. Not a fun time, I can tell you!”

He leaned back again, settling into a position more comfortable for his back, before continuing with a bit of a non-sequitur. “What kind of people are your family?” After a beat, he realized that the question might have been a tad out of place and went on: “I don’t mean to pry. My parents died when I was fairly young, and so I enjoy hearing people talk about theirs.” Something that might have been a faint blush faded onto his face, and he turned his body--not just the head this time--towards Meg, listening intently with a ‘go on’ expression.

“Oh it ain’ pryin’,” Meg replied with a shake of her head. “I don’ mind talkin’ ‘bout them at all. There’s my Pa, o’course. Ma died when I was just a li’l thing… Pa didn’ get married ‘gain ‘til I was grown up. So there’s his wife, an’ my li’l brother, Sylven.” She rubbed the back of her neck, thinking of Marne and wondering how things would have been if her own mother had still been alive. Would they have remained in Riverwood? If that was the case, would she had ever met J’raij? Would she ever learn the skills that brought her to this place at this time?

“Pa’d say I’m like Ma,” she continued. “I dunno though- she sounded more like someone who rushed into battle. Me, I like stayin’ back ‘less I havta go forward. Guess I got some of m’Pa in me too.”

Another laugh burst from Gaius, and he felt the knot of tension in his stomach that had been there since the Imperial City unravel slightly. He wiped a laughter-laden tear from his eye, then stood shakily from the barrel, still grinning. “Thanks for talking to an old man like me, Meg. You’ve helped more than you know.” He gave her a Legionnaire’s salute, then made to walk off back into the festival.

Now, let’s see about getting some more of that drink.

Kyrielight

@Euphonium Hey dude, thanks for letting me know instead of stringing me along. Darn decent of you, and I hope you get everything squared away! All the best!

Kyrielight

I just had the best sushi ahhhhhhhh

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

A Chance Encounter

A collab with the fantastic Poohead

---

Prison near Gilane, 13th of Midyear, 4E208

Gaius would not need to wait long, for from within the dark corners of his cell, a clear whistle was heard that flowed along with his tune. “Hey, no need to stop I didn’t mean to interrupt.” a familiar voice said, a smooth, attractive quality to the voice. “I mean, I was never in the Legion. But I feel nostalgic for the tune. Haven’t heard it in awhile.”

As Giaus’s vision attuned itself to the dark, the Legionnare would recognize the princely yet roguish image of Alim, thoroughly shackled by two manacles on each arm, instead of one each. “Long time no see, right?”

For a moment, Gaius simply stared dumbly, totally poleaxed by the sheer coincidence of seeing Alim again in this one particular place. Then, leaning forward towards the other man as far as he could given the length of his chains, “Alim...what in Talos’ name did you do?”

“Hey, it’s good seeing you too.” Alim said, smiling. He wasn’t being sarcastic either, he honestly took his friend Gaius surprise as a warm welcome. “I um...well you see there’s this girl. Wait you know her, Anifaire? I was going to steal the biggest gem I could find in the city for her, and it happened to be on the finger of the mayor’s wife. I tried to take it in the night, she...wanted to sleep with me. I said I wasn’t that guy anymore. She called the guards…”
He showed his teeth as if it was too painful to remember what happened next. “I ended up here.”

Gaius heaved a heavy sigh and let his head drop, letting himself fall backwards as he ceased to pull at the chains. “I might have believed you if we weren’t in the middle of a Dwemer occupation, but you strike me as having bigger trolls to spear.” He paused for a moment. “Unless you’re serious, in which case I don’t know whether to admire you for not letting it ruin your fun, or smack you upside the head for doing something so ass-backwards stupid during a hostile takeover. Probably both.”

Alim had to smile at that. “Well, we never really did spend much time together in the group. But I think you know me well enough to believe me.” he said, then added. “It’s a shame though, you seem a stout fellow. How’d you end up here, if you don’t mind me asking?”

At that, the little smile that had crept over Gaius’ face at Alim’s response winked out. “Well, hmm, after the incident at Skingrad, I got into an…altercation with a few Thalmor soldiers for saying some less-than-savory things about the Rangers. I...well, you can’t see it from here, but there’s a lovely new arrow scar in my chest.” He laughed drily. “To put it short, a Nord from Chorrol paralyzed the Justiciars and stopped me from bleeding out. Nice girl,” he added quietly at the end.

“Then,” he gave a mighty shrug, “I learned that Anvil had been attacked by the Dominion. If you remember, I’m not the fondest of the elves, so I was quite angry. I took out a loan to get a suit of armor and discovered that there’s an insurrection of some sort against the Dwemer out in Hammerfell that might be able to help me with retaking Anvil. Then I saw a Dwemer on the street, jumped at her, and got arrested from there.” He gently flopped a manacled wrist. “The rest is history, I suppose.”

“You almost didn’t believe me story, and then you had the balls to attack a Dwemer on the street without checking the local allegiance?” Alim laughed incredulously. “I have to say, I like it though.” He paused for a moment. “I’m actually somewhat ashamed of Hammerfell. Routing all of these invasions, and then the Dwemer wade in and they don’t even put up a fight. You’d think Hammerfell would be where the Dwemer would get stopped in their tracks. Even Talos had trouble here.”

Alim closed his eyes, sighing. “I am sorry that you are stuck here with me. Out of the two of us, you likely deserve being here least. My being gone, at least the others would probably be better off.”

Gaius’ face fell into something between disappointment and anger. “They didn’t put up a fight? Against those butchers? Ashamed of them indeed.”

Reaching a hand up and rubbing his forehead, Gaius bit out a scornful laugh. “You said it yourself. I was stupid enough to attack a civilian, I deserve to be here.” After a moment, his hand stopped moving and he jerked his head up, eyes glinting. “‘The others?’ Do you mean Rhea, Daro’Vasora, Latro? Them? They’re still alive?”

Then those glinting eyes widened. “Wait, you said Anifaire? What’s going on between…never mind,” he laughed, smiling wide, “with you, I think I can guess.”

Alim chuckled guiltily. “Well, something was going to happen between Ani and I, but now that I’m here that seems unlikely.” he admitted. “And yeah, most of them. Rhea died.” He wished he could have said it in a more congenial way, but it was all he could do to not make it sound harsh. “She died a few weeks ago on our way to Hammerfell. It’s a shame, she was probably the only person here who lived life in a similar fashion to me. She deserved better.”

“Anyway, now that we’re here. We might as well pass the time by planning an escape, eh?” the rogue suggested. “Not that it is likely, but the one thing prisons never got right was keeping people locked up with nothing to do, because eventually you’ll think up a good plan to get out.”

The happiness that had bubbled up through Gaius was rapidly quashed down as he heard the news and he sobered rapidly, lightly touching four fingers to his forehead. “Yes. Yes she did.” There wasn’t much that he remembered from Rhea; he hadn’t spent enough time in her company to really understand her at all. Still, he remembered her being willing to do what she had to do to take care of those under her jurisdiction, and that was something that Gaius could respect. “Still, it’s good to hear that most are still around.”

At the mention of an escape plan, he squinted at the ground, writing idly in the dust on the cell floor. “It’s not as though we have anything else to do, is it?” His mind began bubbling with ideas, but, somewhat predictably, he came up with little. Breaking out of prisons had never particularly been his forte.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

Out For Blood

---

Colovia, 18th of Second Seed, 4E208

The hefty Imperial let out a weak groan, eyes fluttering as consciousness slowly begin to filter back through the dim swampwater of his mind.

"You're finally awake, hmm?" There was a nudge to his side and he tensed up, fighting nausea as his head swam and pain warped his senses. He tried to speak, but only a jagged cough came out, reinforcing the already painful jolts that rocked him. His eyes finally slid languidly open, and he managed to shift his head to look balefully at his savior-cum-tormentor. She was Nord--not an Altmer, he sighed gratefully, at least someone was still looking out for him--with a youthful complexion, a handful of years younger than he was. Maybe...four, five, if he had to hazard a guess. Pretty, he thought, with bright green eyes, deep-chocolate hair tied back in a simple bun, and a spattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. A wry smile was twisted on her face, and she looked at him with an eyebrow raised. "Even awake, you still look like Oblivion came to Nirn again."

Only then did Gaius gather up the energy and fortitude to look down at himself, and the sheer surprise very nearly jolted him into lucidity. Gone was his suit of armor and his family-cribbed mace; all he had left was his precious shield. He wore only the tunic of burgundy linen that he'd worn his plate over, and even that was...compromised...by the hole that shredded through the center. His face screwed into a mirthless cross between grin and grimace, and he laughed weakly. That would explain the pain. It looked mostly healed, but he couldn't for the life of him remember where it had...

And then he remembered.

---

Two days prior...

Time was running out.

Skingrad had been taken by the Dominion. Not much time was left before it was sealed, and Gaius still had so much ground to cover, so many faces to search, until he was finished here. He dug deep into his reserves and continued his forward march, armor stripped off in favor of light garb. He had little reason to fear combat, and speed was paramount; all he carried with him was the mace he'd taken from the Milonem manor and his ever-faithful shield. Every person he passed was examined, every tent scanned. His teeth gritted together as he stormed past a patrol of Thalmor that swirled about the refugee camp, rapidly putting everything in order and making sure everybody was prepared to move inside of the city at a moment's notice.

He'd saved the quarters of the Colovian Rangers for last. He wasn't sure why, considering; it seemed the first place Helena would flock to, given her disposition. She'd never been one to shy away from combat; though she wasn't a soldier, she belonged to a family of one, and had chosen to carry on the Milonem legacy at least in part by training to surprising skill with her longspear. The Colovian Rangers were a perfect fit. And yet he'd delayed. For days. And, in the end, he knew why, though he didn't wish to admit it to himself: Gaius was afraid. He knew full well how many had died in the Imperial City, and he knew how unlikely it was that Helena had escaped, but until he confirmed it otherwise, at least he could attempt to retain some feeling of comfort in assuming she was alright. But after the last disastrous endeavor of the Rangers? That tiny comfort had shattered into thousands of fragments. He heaved a heavy sigh. This trepidation had never been his way, but it seemed he couldn't help himself until now. And so, ever-so-close to the city closing its gates and forcing him inside, he found himself trudging up a hillside towards the now-deserted tents of the Rangers.

He supposed that Rhea, Daro'Vasora, Judena and the others had left by then, probably the day before. They, after all, had nothing tying them here. A part of him idly wondered where they'd gone as he searched the forlorn canvas tents that hung in the eerie silence. It was probably better off, being without them; the further he divorced himself from the one who'd slotted that damnable lexicon into the device, the better it was for his overall health, both physical and mental. Not only were they likely hunted by those that would realize that this whole situation was their doing, but it shunted the guilt that ate away at him off to the side where it could gnaw at his psyche in private instead of doing so very openly.

A gleaming piece of metal, one of the few left in the camp, caught his eye, and he hastened over to look at it. It took him a moment, but after that crucial period of recognition, a grim determination stole over his face and his fists clenched tight enough to feel them creaking: it was a very recognizable longspear point, the bloodstained haft lying beneath it in three pieces. He picked two of them up, inspecting them for a moment. The determination fled, to be replaced with seething rage.

This was not Dwemer doing.

He'd seen their work; while deadly, yes, it was...not crude, exactly, but very much forceful. Not graceful, that was to say, and certainly not the razor-sharp keenness to slice clean edges through an inch of solid, fire-hardened oak. No, he'd only seen this kind of damage to military hardware in a single context before: Elven weaponry. And just like that, red curtains fell in front of his eyes, and spittle sprayed through his clenched teeth as he struggled to control his burgeoning fury. Dwemer. Dwemer. Focus on the Dwemer. Do. Not. Fight. The. Thalmor. And he almost succeeded, too. He could feel the wrath beginning to ebb, and a heavy breath nearly banished it entirely.

And then he heard voices. Altmer voices. Indistinct enough that he couldn't hear what he was saying, but by the tone, it was some sort of banter. And laughter followed. He stilled, then rose to his feet, tucking his hands behind his back both as a show of deference and to conceal the shortsword-like longspear point, and left the tent, trembling with a combination of confusion, frustration, and barely-concealed fury.

"Excuse me," he called to the Justiciars, voice tense, "I don't suppose you know what happened to the rest of the Rangers after the rather ill-fated raid?"

The two turned towards him, faces mostly seeming bored, and one shrugged. "Is it any of our business what insects choose to do in their burrows?" His face twisted into a mocking smile. "Perhaps they got themselves killed like the rest of their idiot resistance. One can hope, yes?"

And just like that, the red curtains descended again. Thicker this time. All of the pent-up anger, fear, and hatred inside Gaius found its outlet and burned through him as he exploded into motion. With only his tunic and shield, he snapped into high speed and careened at the two elves.

He managed to close the distance. Enough. The element of surprise on his side, he rammed the spearpoint into the chest of the shorter of the two Altmer--the one who'd spoken--and then slammed it home with his shield, feeling a savage glee as it pierced through to the other side. Another shield bash to the remains of the spear haft, twisting it to the side, and the elf's spine split in two. Eyes twitching, too shocked to scream, he slumped to the ground like a puppet with his strings cut, babbling incoherently in a language Gaius didn't know.

He pivoted rapidly, catching the second elf's voulge on his shield, before lashing out with the hand that was clenched around the spear, punching the Altmer in the chin and knocking him to the dirt. He stalked up to him, heartbeat pounding aggressively in his ears. "There was once a man who was tired of anger," he ground out, flipping the spearpoint into a backhanded grip. "He had wished for vengeance, and it had consumed him, and he had promised to never let it consume him again." He stopped, standing above the only semi-conscious Thalmor, glaring down with narrowed eyes. "I am not that man anymore." He brought his hand high, preparing to slam home the blade.

Fwip

A blossom of pain began to spread from his torso and, looking down, he could see an Elf-worked arrowhead sticking straight out of his chest. He staggered, half out of surprise, and the makeshift sword dropped from his suddenly nerveless hand. He tottered for a moment, then fell.

And then there was darkness.

---

Colovia, 18th of Second Seed, 4E208

Gaius stopped his pained cringing and his face went slack as he looked to the ceiling.

The Thalmor.

They're going to be out for blood now, aren't they.

At a sound above him, he snapped out of his reverie, turning--with effort--back to his savior, who held out a potion vial to him. "Health potion. Sorry I'm no mage. You owe me for the Septims to pay that priest," she said, only half-joking, it seemed. He reached out and clumsily grabbed the potion, chugging down the foul-tasting liquid and sighing as it numbed the pain slightly. He tried to speak, and only a sandy choke came out. She held out a hand. "Hang on, hang on! You're still hurt. Here, drink some of this:" she held out another vessel, this time a nice, plain mug filled with a thin soup.

He drank some of it down, barely managing to avoid vomiting it up, and felt it soothe his torn-up throat. He fixed her with his pained brown eyes. "What...day is it?" he managed to hiss out before he was wracked with a fit of intensely painful coughing. "Nine above," he swore through the cough.

The Nord blew a strand of her hair out of the way. "18th of Second Seed. You've been out for days."

A current of shock ran through Gaius' body before he eventually managed to ask the important question through his pain: "What happened?"

---

Two days prior

The sneering, furious Thalmor held his voulge over the unconscious Gaius, preparing for the coup de grace.

And then held it.

And held it more.

The green aura around him refused to waver, his eyes bulging as what he recognized as a paralysis spell held his final blow. Then the Imperial who had slaughtered his partner was waltzed out from under him by a Nord who winked cheekily and blew a kiss at the immobile elf before tying his limbs, gagging him, and sauntering back to the loaded cart that had, only moments ago, rolled up to the former encampment of the Rangers and refreshing the spell for good measure before whipping the horse hitched to the cart and trundling away. In the distance, he could see that the archer that had saved his life was under similar circumstances.

By the time the paralysis had worn off and the Altmer had freed themselves of their bonds, the cart was long gone.

---

Colovia, 18th of Second Seed, 4E208

"Thank you," rasped Gaius quietly.

"Don't mention it," she said lightly, fishing an amulet of Talos from underneath her shirt as the cart rolled down the road and dangling it in the Imperial's face for a moment before replacing it where it had been before, "I saw you kill a Thalmor, and anybody who does that is good enough to save for me as long as they're not a skooma addict or something, and you look far too together for that." She turned back to the front. "We'll be in Chorrol within the day, and the priests and mages there can patch you up better than me."

"Wait," Gaius croaked out, prompting her to turn, "what's your name?"

She smiled. "Hlastag Autumn-Cloak. And yours?"

He made to speak, then hesitated, name on his tongue. "...Janus. Janus Galtius."

She gave an even more dazzling smile, and he felt even worse than before. The lie tasted bad on his tongue.

---

Chorrol, 27th of Second Seed, 4E208

Gaius--or, as he was now known to those he'd met in Chorrol, Janus--had been up and walking since three days ago, and he was feeling even better today than before. He was feeling...well, as well as could be expected. Hlastag had turned out to be very interesting, as well as--he admitted to himself--quite pretty; a promising young merchant, she'd decided to cash in on his thirty-odd Septim debt to her not through simple money, but through services. Of the options he'd been given, he chose to be a bodyguard, and even through the slow, careful walk his injury forced him to adopt, his imposing frame and demeanor had dissuaded a number of unsavory characters thus far. He'd spent the last of the money that he'd brought with him out of the Imperial City on a pauldron-adorned chestplate, and he felt less naked. Not as good as he felt in full armor, of course, especially not his decorated, General-presented set, but better all the same.

At the moment, he was returning to Hlastag's modest shop. She'd taken over the Chorrol general store from its last owner, and her outgoing, pleasant nature disarmed many and let her coax them into spending more than they might've otherwise, and perhaps more than they should've. He'd rarely seen her without a face-splitting grin, and whenever he had, it'd been after a particularly stubborn or frustrating customer.

As he walked, breathing as deeply as he could without stressing the scar on his chest, he looked around, admiring the city around him. In particular, the truly, tremendously massive oak tree that loomed above him. He stopped a moment, then headed towards the base of the oak, sitting down heavily on the low wall of dense gray stone that wrapped about the tree's base. He sighed, looking up into the sky through the person-thick limbs. For the first time in over a week, he found himself smiling, and sat there for almost an hour, just looking at the placid sky and letting the quiet hubbub of the city square was over him. It's not as though being angry will bring her back, he thought, his smile turning bitter. She wouldn't want that, now would she, Gaius? He'd missed the Imperial City, but Chorrol wasn't bad. Perhaps staying here wouldn't be all that bad. If nothing else, the temple to Stendarr brought him some measure of comfort. Being so near the Legion's patron felt almost destined. All told, Chorrol was a nice city.

His thoughts turned to the one who had rescued him, and he let out a small, contented sigh. They'd become quite close; while it had started with them bonding over hating the Thalmor and telling the stories of precisely why they did, it had rapidly escalated past that. He felt like he'd known her for far longer than the past nine days. He laughed quietly; they'd had nothing but time to talk as he recovered from his injury in the back room of her shop, and he'd learned much of the irrepressible young Nord. She was from Solitude; they'd swapped stories of the old city, laughing about its idiosyncrasies and dissecting its politics. She'd started off as a Stormcloak sympathizer and lived in Whiterun for a spell, she said plainly, but after the war had ended, she'd seen no more reason to hold on to a rage that would never find outlet and returned to her home city. She'd told him rambling jokes about the Jarl of Whiterun, Balgruuf, and how he would arbitrarily show up in the Bannered Mare and get utterly hammered. In return, he'd told her of Legate Rikke's off-the-record parties and how a strict, no-nonsense Legate could be far more obscene than he could be once she got some drink in her.

His face turned pensive and he began reminiscing about his time in Skyrim before, with a grunt, he banished the wandering thoughts from his head and lifted himself to his feet, finally returning to the Northern Goods And Trade. The building was ancient--pre-Oblivion Crisis, he thought--but after some tender care, Hlastag had restored it to what it might've been in the past.

And that's when things became strange.

The irrepressible Nord was hunched over on the counter, and he could tell by the shaking of her shoulders that she was silently crying. His heart jumped. "Hlastag, what's wrong?" he asked, trying to keep the worry from edging into her voice. By way of answer, she held out a scroll to him and he picked it up, reading through it.

Anvil had fallen to the Dominion. Hlastag's family lived there.

And just like that, the fury came singing back. With great, great effort, he breathed deeply, restraining himself from smashing his fist straight through the countertop in front of him. "I'll be back in a moment, Hlastag," he said, voice quiet and controlled. Focused.

She looked up, red-rimmed eyes bleeding tears. "Are you leaving?"

He stared off into the distance, lips tight and bloodless. "Not yet." With that, he turned on his heel and marched out of the store, making a beeline straight for the blacksmith.

By the time he reached it, the proprietor, an older Argonian named Jad-Neena, had nearly closed it. He smashed the door open, stomping in and slamming his heavy hand down on counter. Jad reeled back at the colossal bang, looking at the fixated rage on the face of his friend with some trepidation. "Divines, Janus! What are you--"

"I need armor, Jad-Neena," Gaius growled. "Best you have."

Jad's face fell. "This is about Anvil, isn't it?" He shook his ponderous head slowly. "Come on, Janus. I know you were in the Legion a while back, but with the sacking of the Imperial City, there's nothing the Empire can do. The last thing we need is another Great War on top of the dwarves. Just...let it lie."

"I'm not seeing this stand. I'll die first." The two terse sentences were enough to give Jad pause. True, he hadn't known Janus for very long, but the Imperial had always been a quiet, personable sort, never the type he would peg for this kind of impulsive aggression. He closed his eyes, quietly weighing his options.

"Alright, Janus. What do you need?"

"I've got a chestplate, shield and pauldrons. I need everything else. Steel, if you have it. A sword too."

Jad thought for a moment, eyes flickering up in his head as he calculated, then looked back at the Imperial. "...I assume you were going to pay for that?"

The reply was terse and short: "Once I get the money."

Another shake of Jad's head. "I could do some things on credit, Janus, but for something like this, I really need a good chunk of septims up front. If you don't have that, then there's not a lot I can do for you."

Gaius gnashed his teeth, hating the delay. "The tassets, cuisses, greaves and sabatons, then?"

Jad sighed, seeing that Janus wasn't going to be put off easily. "I suppose I can do that much, as long as you pay for it later and give me, say...twenty Septims. If you'll just let me...?" He pulled out a length of measuring-twine marked at regular intervals and Gaius acquiesced, impatiently letting himself be measured. Once Jad was finished scrawling the measurements down on a piece of parchment, he spooled the twine back up and took one more look at Gaius. "I should have these done in two days. You can come by and pick them up then, hmm?"

As Gaius tossed a few septims down, snapped around and stomped out, Jad closed his eyes and sighed again. "Poor fool's going to get himself killed."

---

Chorrol, 29th of Second Seed, 4E208

It felt good to have heavy armor on again. It wasn't as good, didn't fit as well as what he was used to, and he didn't have anything on his arms or head, but it was still good to have. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Yesterday, he'd gone to the temple of Stendarr for a final healing and a final prayer. As he'd done so, he'd felt Stendarr's blessing flooding through him, fortifying his muscles and steeling him for the fighting to come.

The old building's stairs creaked underneath his heavy sabatons as he made his way downstairs to find Hlastag waiting for him, looking far better than she had yesterday or the day before. "Jad told me about the credit, Janus. Don't think I'll forget about it. He's too good to hunt you down, but I'd do it. And you know I could, too." She sat down, rubbing her temples. "I don't think it's a good idea for you to go to Anvil. It's just you against a whole occupying force. You need someone to help you." Raising her head, she gave him her trademark lopsided, wry grin. "I heard from an old...associate...in Hammerfell that there's an insurgency fighting against the Dwemer there. If you help them--and from what you've told me, there's no lost love between you and those dwarves--they might help you, right?"

Gaius raised his eyebrows, though he knew she couldn't see past the helmet. "An insurgency? People fighting against the Dwemer?" His voice was sharp and bitter. "Well, it can't end up worse than how the last group turned out." As much as he hated to admit it, she was right. With all of his anger, all of his righteousness, he was still just a single man against a city of magically-skilled Altmer. If he could get fighters, though, trained fighters that knew how to fight an uphill battle, there might be more waiting for him in Anvil than what a Nord might call a glorious death. Eventually, he nodded at her. "Thank you again, Hlastag. And don't worry. Once I get my windfall, I'll pay my debt to Jad. He's too good not to." He meant it, too. The 150-odd septims were no small sum, but, he recalled, he and his family had been in far worse financial straits before.

He stepped forward and gave her a gentle, metallic embrace. "I'll miss you," he murmured before he marched, back straight, haversack bulging, shield on his back, off to the west. To Hammerfell.

---

Abecean Coast, Hammerfell, 5th of Midyear, 4E208

"Gods, it's so hot."

Gaius had spent time--plenty of time--in hostile climate before. He'd spent an extended amount of time in Skyrim, after all. But, at heart, he was a Cyrodiil man, and so the warm, tropical currents of the Abecean Sea and the blasting heat of the Alik'r to the north wrapped him in a frustrating heat-sandwich. It was beautiful, of course: the sapphire waves to his south lapped gently against the stones, such a far cry from the wild slashing waves of the Sea Of Ghosts to the north, his only other real exposure to the wild ocean. Anvil didn't count; too cosmopolitan. Even the north was beautiful; it wasn't quite the true Alik'r yet, but a vast expanse of innumerable hoodoos and rocky crags among which flew enormous birds that Gaius occasionally saw from far off.

But for all that beauty, all that wild independence, it didn't make it any more comfortable. Especially with padded plate steel covering him, being way too huge for his small haversack. He didn't think he was in any danger of heat stroke or anything, but it was damn uncomfortable and put him in a bad mood. He'd already chewed through his entire waterskin twice today and then some thanks to a conveniently-placed spring, and it wasn't yet midday.

Unwrapping his newly-begotten map of Hammerfell, he thought he was perhaps somewhere just south of Taneth, and was rewarded in this by the appearance of buildings wavering in the heat-haze off to the north. Sighing in relief, he trudged across the barren ground towards it. Six days of traveling rations had him hankering for some real food to eat again, and a bed at an inn--he hoped the few Septims he had found in a discarded purse on the side of the road back in Cyrodiil--sounded pretty good about now.

When he finally arrived, he was exhausted, and his chest felt like it was about to reopen despite constant infusion of Restoration magic. He needed somewhere to rest, or he would fall over, he knew. He stumbled over to the first moving creature that he saw, and gave it a lame smile.

"So sorry," he spoke through his teeth, "but could you point me on the way towards the local inn?"

"Of course," said the short, gray-skinned elf, pointing with two fingers up the broad street, "it's just that way, the Six Shields. You can't miss it."

Nodding his thanks, Gaius turned.

And then stopped.

And turned again. His eyes narrowed. Something about that woman had seemed...off.

He looked at her again. Concentrated past his thirst, the heat, the sweat dripping down his face. Short. Elf. Wearing Dwemer-metal bangles. Not Redguard. There was an insurgency against the Dwemer in Hammerfell, meaning that they'd taken it. The pieces began to slowly click together in his mind, and as they did, his anger swelled and once more, the curtains descended.

A growl built in his throat and he ripped the shield off of his back before charging at the suddenly terrified woman, wielding it like a mace.

BANG

He swore, stumbled, and ground to a halt at the sound of Dwemeri hardware that he'd come to fear, and growled like a cornered animal as a patrol of five Dwemer pointed their weapons at him. Guns in front, the desert and Abecean behind. No way to win. He didn't trust this armor enough to get past those horrifying death machines, and he could see from where he stood the pale blue glow of primed soul gems in the receivers of the finely-crafted rifles. The lead Dwemer stepped forwards, gun still trained on Gaius' unhelmeted head, before he began to speak, voice bitingly caustic.

"Alright. I don't know who you are, or where you came from, but in Volunfell, we don't assault random citizens in the streets. Put up that shield--no doubt stolen, by the workmanship--and don't try to do anything clever. You're coming with us." He smiled sardonically. "After all, you're not much in a position to argue."

---

Prison near Gilane, 13th of Midyear, 4E208

And so the mighty have fallen. They looked up to you, Gaius.

He slumped back in his cell--devoid of all belongings, down to the fine tunic replaced with rags--and, quietly singing an old Legion marching song, settled down to wait.