Lemons

The Elder Scrolls: Night of Pestilence

Sihava Blackthorn

"Five people have asked her to dance so far. That's five fewer people with purses." - Galerus Quintilius

Name: Sihava Blackthorn, the Smoke Dancer
Race: Half Nord, half Dunmer
Sex: Female
Age: 31
Birthsign: The Shadow
Origins: A working-class family in Windhelm
Appearance: Sihava largely takes after her mother in appearance. Tall, willowy and beautiful, she looks like more like a courtier than a priestess-thief. She doesn't have the defined musculature of a warrior, to be sure. But to call her weak would be a grave disservice. She's been wandering the length and breadth of Tamriel for over a decade, from southwestern sands to the wild oceans of Winterhold, and so her body reflects that. Her legs are pure muscle, from thighs to calves, and there is not an ounce of fat on her body; her constant roaming burns it all off far faster than she can build it. While her arms aren't as strong as her legs, they're plenty on their own. Years of illegal climbing have built them up (especially her shoulders) to a surprising degree. That's not to say she could arm-wrestle a Legionnaire, but she's certainly no pushover.

Her skin is a dusky Dunmer gray, though a bit warmer than most. Though it is roughened by decades of travel through sun, sand and snow, she does her damndest to keep it as soft and clean as possible. Though she takes after her Dunmer mother, her face is where her mixed blood is given away. Instead of the sunken cheekbones that so characterize the appearance of a Dunmer, her face is round. Not quite as much as a Nord's, but close. Her eyes, as well: instead of the swollen irises of an elf, hers--while Dunmer red--are more in line with the size you might see of a human's. Those eyes, a sign of her dual heritage, are also a study of the dual sides of her personality. While they glimmer with barely restrained excitement, they are also constantly shifting back and forth, searching, scoping, making sure things are safe, equal measure of innocent and calculating. Often, though, they are obscured; her long, fine hair, a pale gray-white, hangs loose most of the time, and can easily sweep in front of her face until she brushes it away with a finger or breath to behind one of her ears, which--while not as much as a full elf--are definitely a sharper shape than any human's.

The only time she ties up her hair of her own will is when she's wearing her thieves' clothing. Tight-fitting leggings and tunic of deepest blue and dappled with black, along with a matching mask and a headscarf to hide her distinctive white hair. A leather shoulderbelt dyed in the same colors cuts across it, filled with thievery supplies; lockpicks and key wax, a pry bar, a strong thin rope. As long as she's done it right, the only parts of her that show are her eyes and her hands.

When she's not wearing her thieves' clothing, she has fairly expensive tastes. Nothing too extreme; wouldn't want a simple merchant to look like royalty waltzing through the countryside and getting the attention of every bandit and guard within a hundred miles. But she is very fond of luxurious fabrics done in red. Mostly, she wears a simple burgundy tunic over brown leggings; her traveling clothes. But she does reserve some clothing for an occasion. When she wants to make an entrance, or an impression, she dons a stately floor-length dress of wine-red satin, coupled with a golden collar-style necklace studded with a large carnelian. She combs out the knots that usually infest her hair, and perhaps dabs some kohl on her eyes to complete the transformation: from scruffy wandering merchant to a woman that could blend in in the Blue Palace.

History: Demivah Rallaron was a Cyrodiil Dunmer. Born and raised as a carpenter in Cheydinhal, she felt a burgeoning wanderlust growing ever since she was a small child. Though her parents weren’t exactly thrilled (to say the least), the call of the road was stronger than the call of home, and when she grew up, she became a wandering trader, a caravaneer that poached and sold curios from all around Tamriel, ranging from ancient Akaviri daggers, to Welkynd stones from deep beneath the Ayleid ruins of her homeland, to branded Septims from the reign of the Wolf Queen, Potema, and everything in between. Nothing was safe from her questing grasp. But she never stole. Adamantly. She was an honest businesswoman, and proud of it.

Ulfskaar Blackthorn was a Skyrim fisherman, native to the beautiful city of Windhelm and intensely proud of that fact. The architecture! The history! Truly, Windhelm was the best city in Skyrim to live in. He’d never left Skyrim; he’d never even wanted to leave, really. Fishing was a taxing, time-consuming job, and what little leisure time he had was spent at the Candlehearth Hall. Warm fire, cold mead, good friends to chase away the chill. A good life.

The two met in the winter of 4E172, quite by chance, as Demivah passed North, fleeing from the Great War, and stopped in Windhelm to replenish her supplies for the journey north, to Winterhold and then to Dawnstar. Ulfskaar purchased a strange insect, trapped in Elsweyr amber from her, and the two began to talk. They talked for a long time. Days, which stretched into weeks, which stretched into months. Until both of their coin began to run short, and Demivah left for Winterhold, promising that she would return. He waited for her, and a month later, she kept her promise, coming back with a ring of Solstheim gold, and asked if he would marry her. And though the rumblings of war grew stronger in Cyrodiil, the two of them were wed. Then, two years later--Morning Star, 4E175--they had a single child. A girl, who they named Sihava.

And then came the White-Gold Concordat. And the goodwill that Demivah had built up with her neighbor Nords, the friends she’d made--it began to all peter away. Nationalism steadily rose at the thought of the worship of Talos being banned, and then shifted rapidly into a boiling racism. For as established as she was, Demivah became just another ‘grayskin’ spying for the Dominion. She was spared the Gray Quarter, living as she was in Ulfskaar’s ancestral home. But she was spared very little else. It was in that political climate that Sihava was raised. Windhelm isn’t the friendliest of cities for a growing girl. Growing up in a cultural center of anti-mer racism doesn’t help. Especially if you’re a “half-breed.”

Sihava had a target on the back of her head since she was born. Even as a little girl, she was scorned, insulted, bullied; by children, and even by adults. She didn’t know why at the time, but as she grew, she figured out what caused it. She heard the people calling her mother a grayskin, a Dominion spy, a filthy elf. She heard people calling her father an elf-lover, a supporter of the Dominion, despite the shrine to Talos in his home. And she grew bitter. Bitter at the Great War, for causing so much pain. Bitter at her neighbors, for hating her for such a stupid reason and for leaving her friendless. Bitter at her parents, for falling in love like they had, and for somehow remaining so happy with each other. And bitter at herself, for being so bitter. She lived a quiet life, stewing in her resentment. Against all odds, she managed to find a job when she was twelve. Sorting Wuunferth the Unliving’s workshop and laboratory. Nothing particularly interesting; arranging scrolls on a bookshelf, sorting the soul gems on the display racks, cleaning the alchemy and enchanting workbenches...something calm and quiet. And though Wuunferth didn’t particularly care for her, from his mumblings as he worked, he cared for ‘those clod-headed guards’ even less.

And then, all that bitterness that had build up in her came to a head when she was fourteen years old. She was walking back home from her job when she was jumped in front of her home by a boy--Aljor something-or-other--she’d seen grandstanding about his Nord heritage around the city. He was going to rebel against the Imperials, he’d said, and other things along those lines besides. He shoved her, hard. Her bag was dashed to the ground. The strap snapped. His eyes fell on her purse, the few Septims that she’d made from her work with Wuunferth. And he advanced on her as she scrabbled desperately to dig through her bag. That’s when, from out of her fallen bag, she snatched the spell scroll she’d stolen from Wuunferth in a fit of curiosity. She channeled it as he ran at her. She prayed it would save her. And she let the magic fly. Aljor stood poleaxed for a moment, eyes suddenly running with red light. And then he screamed. He shrieked in terror and ran from her, dropping her purse in his haste to escape from the nondescript girl. And as she returned to her home to escape the guards that his scream would surely have brought running, a knifelike smile formed on her lips.

She never forgot the look of terror on Aljor’s face, and she longed to experience that feeling of power again. From that point on, she devoted her life to procuring as many books on illusion magic as she could. And those texts that she wasn’t allowed to access by Wuunferth--who showed surprising interest in the development of her magic, remarking that perhaps she would make a decent apprentice in a few years’ time--she would steal, squirreling them away under a floor tile in her house. Never more than one or two at a time, but enough for her to grow...well, not good, but adequate enough. And she found that the feeling of power that magic had given her was almost more intensely given by that theft. She’d been schooled since she could remember by Demivah to never steal. But, she reasoned in a fit of anger, these Nords had stolen her childhood from her. So she would respond by stealing from them in kind.

She was eighteen, in 4E193, when she told her parents that she wanted to follow in her mother’s footsteps and become a traveling trader. They were--to her surprise--thrilled. They’d seen the way she had been treated by the people of Windhelm. And Demivah took her in her arms as she left: “Siha, you asked me once why we didn’t leave Windhelm and find somewhere else to live, and I told you it was because Windhelm is our home, and the heart follows home. But...it’s not your home, sweetling. And just as the heart follows home, home follows the heart. So go find yours, sweetling. I love you.”

As she walked from the city, with nothing but her clothes and a massive backpack filled with trinkets to sell, she let the tears fall down her face, and she apologized to her mother, and to the Divines. And then she embarked on an epic crime spree across Skyrim that took her from the Ratways of Riften through Dragonsreach and the Blue Palace of Solitude, and every town and city in between. The feeling of power grew stronger as she grew quicker and more confident in her crimes, pillaging not only coin and jewelry, but also the laboratories of court wizards all across Skyrim. She read voraciously, and her study of illusion grew feverish as she felt her aptitude growing. Soon, she could bend people to her will, or drive them mad. And with that accomplished, and Cyrodiil stabler than Skyrim now, with the tension reaching a fever pitch, and it seeming safer to leave than to stay--her crimes across the country, from the smallest settlements to the largest cities, had taken her through 4E197--she departed, heading south. The Imperial City looked mighty rich for someone like her, and she was hungry.

She quickly became something of an urban legend in the Imperial City. Nothing like the Gray Fox had been, so long ago; nowhere approaching that level of notoriety. But certainly, she had the guards feeling nervous. They even gave her a nickname: the Smoke Dancer. A wisp of whirling shadow, almost visible out of the corner of your eye, but impossible to catch. With her skill as a thief, and her expertise in illusion magic--she was so skilled now that she could turn invisible--she was like a shadow, dipping in and out of shops and well-to-do homes as she pleased and taking what wasn’t nailed down, hiding her finds in secret pouches throughout her backpack. She did do some trading, to keep up a veneer of legitimacy, and to justify her huge bag, but it was mostly a side business to her real passion. And then a man approached her one day. Galerus Quintilius, he introduced himself. And told her to come to the ruins of the Waterfront district that night, at midnight, and tell the beggar Old Milky--named for her blind right eye--that she was there to see Quint.

Interest piqued despite her caution, she did so, and so came across the Cyrodiil Thieves’ Guild. She ran with them for many years, discovering a sense of comradery and compassion that had been sorely absent from her lonely, angry life. She and Galerus became close friends as she rose in the ranks, and she eventually met a figure that she’d believed to be a myth. Someone she’d only ever heard of in scattered legends and occasional books. Someone that caused her to, for the first time in her life, be truly awestruck: the Gray Fox. Legends say that he stole the Cowl from Nocturnal herself, whispered Galerus to her, once. And so her interest in Nocturnal began to grow.

As she aged, that newfound friendship with the Guild’s members had unforeseen consequences. Namely, she stopped enjoying thievery. With her anger and bitterness ebbing, she no longer needed that same feeling of power that she once craved. She longed instead for something bigger. Mysterious. Incomprehensible. Something to figure out, or attempt to, like she had done for magic. She hacked together, out of a novice’s study of mysticism and a creative mind, a way to impress images into another’s mind, and then she stopped talking. She commited herself to silence, for a reason that she scarcely understood. And then she felt an urge. A calling, towards the north. And so, for the first time since she’d left--years later, in 4E203, after the end of the Stormcloak Uprising--she made a pilgrimage back to Skyrim, drawn by rumors, myths, and a half-forgotten dream to a cave in Falkreath Hold. Guided by an inexorable pull that she didn’t understand, she winged on silent, invisible feet through the Pilgrim’s Path, and emerged into the place that she now knew she’d been longing to find for her entire life.

The Ebonmere.

And as she stood there, beneath the darkness of the Evergloam, she heard a faint voice speak to her. She does not remember what it said. But she emerged from the Twilight Sepulcher with a new purpose in life. No more would she simply steal from those more fortunate than she was. No, her theft was part of a higher calling now: to embody the darkness, silence and mystery that was Nocturnal, and to spread the shadow of the Evergloam, until all the thieves of Nirn could feel Nocturnal’s shadow.

Ever since, she’s been wandering, ghosting through towns and cities and leaving them with a backpack maybe a bit heavier than it was before she got there. She may be out of practice with lockpicking and and...well, most of the thieves’ trades, but Nocturnal smiles upon her, and so she knows no fear. But now, roaming through Daggerfall, the nights have gotten colder. They have grown longer. And this is not the kind of darkness that Sihava knows.

Perhaps it is time that whatever is causing this supernatural shadow learns what a real night looks like...

Personality: Sihava’s personality comes across differently than most because of her silence. She moves through the world quietly in every way--quiet feel, quiet movements, quiet breaths--and with something that seems to most like great solemnity; like she has a terrible weight dogging her heels, pulling down on her shoulders, pressing her to the ground. And she does feel that she carries a great responsibility with her. But it doesn’t weigh her down the way that many people seem to think it does. The solemnity that they see is simply her way of walking. In fact, past the long-standing silence only broken with mysticism or writing, Sihava is a remarkably personable woman, with a wry smile, a dry streak of sardonic humor, and perhaps more than a touch of vanity.

In her trades as a thief and a merchant, she learned better than anybody how to roll with every punch she takes. Consequently, she’s as far away from stubborn as you can find: she is remarkably flexible, and if someone tells her that she’s doing something unfathomably stupid, she’s able to step back, analyze what she’s doing, and come to the conclusion that they’re probably correct.

Speaking of unfathomable stupidity; while her worship of Nocturnal has changed many things about her, it hasn’t changed her personality at its core. And so she is very, very reckless and easily excited, surprising those who have heard about the Smoke Dancer and her epic crime spree through the Imperial City and find out that’s who she is. While she’s learned how to take things slow and scope something out over a period of days or even weeks before making her move out of pure necessity, her natural proclivity is to jump into a situation headfirst, escaping with her illusion magic, her skill at stealth, and the seat of her own wit. Consequently, she’s excellent at thinking on her feet, able to come up with workable plans in a moment’s notice, even while under heat. The converse, however, is also true. Whenever she tries to plan something out meticulously, it backfires on her. Inevitably, and usually spectacularly. Doing her best work in the moment means she overcompensates and overplans, and when even one thing goes wrong, it all comes tumbling down. She’s no strategist. Keeping it simple is the only way she survives.

As for romance, she’s not interested. She once thought that perhaps she and Galerus might have something, but by the time anything could have developed, she’d given herself over to Nocturnal. Perhaps she could still find someone, but they would need to beat a Daedric Prince for her attention, and that is a steep task indeed for anyone who might wish to woo her. She does love dancing, though.

It is in her nature to be slow to trust. Even now, so far removed from her troubled childhood, its scars still linger, and the years as a thief don’t exactly help. She is an incredibly suspicious person, second, third, and fourth-guessing anybody who she gives her companionship to. And while, after some time, she might begin to trust you more than she did, she’ll likely not really trust you. A full unconditional trust is something that she can only give after years of companionship, if ever, and she’s only ever given it to Galerus.

As might be surmised by Sihava’s particular occupation over the years, she’s not overly concerned with legality. There are, however, some lines to be drawn. She will not murder. Kill, yes. If someone comes at her with a sword and she has no lines of defense to withdraw behind, she is a fair hand with her daggers, and has no compunctions over self defense. But murdering someone is different. She also does not steal from those who have nothing to begin with. While the law might not care if you take the scant Septims from a beggar’s purse, Sihava will. Not only is it a waste of time for very little return, but she does still have a conscience. Stealing every Septim of someone who has nowhere to go is similar to murder, in her mind, and she does not care for it. Not only that, but beggars are patroned by Nocturnal, just as thieves are. If she sees someone stealing from a beggar, she will follow them and slowly take every scrap of coin or jewelry on them and funneling it back to the beggar. So while the law is minimally important to her, ‘the law’ and ‘justice’ are not the same thing.

There is one glaring weakness that Sihava has, despite largely being imperturbable to threats and the like. She’s spent a long time distancing herself from her childhood in Windhelm, but has never been entirely successful. ‘Knife-ears.’ ‘Grayskin.’ ‘Half-breed.’ These words, and words like them, occupy a place of childish terror in her heart. Hearing them leaves her scattered and flustered at best. At worst? She’ll break down crying, futilely trying to forget the past as it claws at her mind.

Equipment:

A pair of elven-metal daggers: One of the very few weapons she’s ever stolen, she was taken by their fine design and snatched them up, almost without thinking. They are sheathed horizontally across the small of her back.
Lockpicks: Though she no longer makes a habit of breaking into every house she comes across during the night, there are some habits that are harder to break. She keeps her lockpicking tools in a pouch strapped to her left thigh, beneath her tunic at all times, and only takes them off to bathe or sleep. Sometimes not even then.
Thieves’ Clothes: A special set of clothes for when she’s engaging in skulduggery. Tight-fitting and very dark blue, with numerous pockets spread across. Includes a headscarf for tying up her hair and covering her face.
Backpack: A big, burly backpack decades old, used by her mother in her caravaneer days. It’s held up admirably, though it’s been patched so many times there are almost more leather patches than original leather. Half a dozen or so hidden pouches are scattered throughout the lining for hiding things she doesn’t want people to see.

Misc. Possessions:

Map of Tamriel: A map of the continent, with all major roads and cities marked in original ink. The thing is so marked up by her own ink, though, charting her journeys across Tamriel, that it’s barely recognizable anymore.
Amulet of Nocturnal: A metal disk perhaps an inch and a half wide strung on a leather thong underneath her tunic (or her thieves’ clothes, when the occasion calls) and emblazoned with the crest of Nocturnal. She hasn’t taken it off in three years.
Money: While in her purse she carries a modest sum, perhaps seventy Septims, she has an emergency fund of nearly three hundred kept under a false bottom in her backpack.
Merchant’s Goods: She still keeps up the persona of a merchant, and so she needs merchant’s goods to sell that, if you’ll pardon the pun. Includes such things as alchemical ingredients (nothing too rare), semiprecious gemstones and a few really precious ones, some jewelry, clothing both fine and rough, et cetera. All of it was and is acquired legitimately, in the case that someone in a town that she steals from searches her things.
Bedroll: A comfy bedroll of fur and leather strapped to the bottom of the pack's outside. She eschews a tent, preferring to sleep under the stars whenever she can.
Kohl: She keeps a bit of kohl with her at all times, for when she needs to make an entrance.

Family and Associations:
Demivah Rallaron: Mother
Ulfskaar Blackthorn: Father
Galerus Quintilius (Quint): Still a very close friend

Favored Attributes:

Major: Agility
Minor: Personality

Favoured Skills:
Highly Proficient:

Sneak: You don’t become a thief as skillful as Sihava was (and in a sense still is) without being excellent at remaining unseen and unheard. She knows exactly where the least visible spot is on the edge of a campfire or torch or lantern, and if you didn’t know how much time she spent learning those skills, you’d think her supernatural, with how little noise she can make while moving. And attached to this is her skill as a pickpocket. Unlike lockpicking, she's never really stopped dipping her fingers into people's belongings. And so, she's able to take their belongings before they even know she's in the room.
Illusion: Since her childhood in Windhelm, she’s been obsessed with illusion magic. What started as a way to gain power over people for a powerless and vengeful girl became another tool in her bag of tricks for getting in and getting out completely unnoticed. She’s excellent at manipulating people with this, which is helpful, since she’s not very good at verbally calming people down. For obvious reasons.

Moderately Proficient:

Acrobatics: Flexible and spry, Sihava developed those traits into a real skill to help her slip in and out of sticky situations. While she’s not going to be unharmed by a twenty foot fall anytime soon, she can contort her way through spaces that look way too small, and climb up a building without great effort.

Somewhat Proficient:

Lockpicking: Once, Sihava could pick a lock faster than she could turn a key. She was a true master at it. But times change and time passes. She’s not been picking locks nearly as much, as she doesn’t steal nearly as much. Her old skill has passed, but if she was pressed, she could still pick a simple lock with relative ease, and though it would take a few minutes instead of a few seconds now, more complicated locks are still within her reach.
One-Handed: As a wanderer and roamer across Tamriel, Sihava has been accosted by her fair share of brigands and bandits. While she usually dissuades them with illusion magic, there are times when it’s simply more effective to fight back, and she does so with her elven daggers. She’s not particularly good at it, but she’s competent enough that she’s still alive after over a decade of wandering.
Mysticism: As mentioned, though she does not speak, Sihava can use a ramshackle, cobbled-together slew of Mysticism principles to telepathically convey images, emotions, and some scattered words. It’s an imperfect method of communication at best, but combined with her expressive face, she can...generally get a message across. She only learned any Mysticism for the sake of communication, so she doesn’t actually know any spells from the school.

Spell List:
Invisibility, Pacify, Rout, Frenzy Rune, Muffle, Alluring Gaze, Eyes Of Midnight

Iquenos: In Nomine Domini

Etoile

---

Clara's words were welcome. But her shadowed face was not.

Etoile had seen suspicion before. She'd had plenty of it directed at her, both in her line of work, and afterwards. Pythia's parting jab--that the only strategists she knew were Inquisitors--they had hurt. They were true, no doubt about it; the military was the Church, and so the only real military strategists were those that the church had trained. But they still hurt.

Etoile was silent as the group moved into Pythia's formation, eyes burning into each of them in turn. If she was going to be the rear-guard, she needed someone she could count on if--when--things got rough. Pythia. She's paranoid, prideful, and has no understanding of strategy beyond "zap it with lightning from a sword." She's also crammed her way into the front, so she probably won't even notice if we get picked off one by one. Garbage. A rock would be more use in a fight than her. Lazulin. I don't know enough about him to gauge much of his combat potential, but he sets off warning bells in my head. He may be skilled, but I trust him about as far as I can throw him. Zestasia. He's less proud than Pythia, but also less intelligent. His magic is more versatile than hers, but I get the feeling that he's less competent at using it. Still, at least he'll listen if I call for him. Better than Pythia, at least.

Pagonia. A competent swordsman, and he seems smart enough. He's not too proud, either. But he's emotional, and Zestasia could be used against him. And he's in front. He's probably going to have his own things to worry about. And Clara. She seems to understand the concept of a command order, at least, which is more than the rest of them can say. Her particular brand of magic seems useful, though I've only seen it once. She'll be near me in the marching order. And she keeps a cool head under pressure. If I had to pick one of them to actually warn, it would be her. She'd by my choice to fight with--

But she stopped her train of thought there. As it seemed, she wouldn't be picking people to fight with. They would be picking whether or not to fight with her. And she didn't much like that.

She heaved a sigh and threw one last tired glare at Pythia--too drained by frustration and worry to put much energy into her malice--then ratcheted her awareness all the way up. She hadn't envisioned herself as the rear-guard here. But here she was. And Sol be damned if she'd let something by her. Just because she didn't like her job didn't mean she didn't need to do it. If there was anything she wanted to be less than ordered around, it was dead weight.

Especially after Pythia's words. These people didn't seem the type to wait for an explanation. And they still hurt.

Current Mood in One Gif

don't mind me just screaming into the abyss

Iquenos: In Nomine Domini

Etoile

---

It almost hurt to grind teeth together as hard as Etoile ground hers when Pythia responded with...well, pretty much exactly what she'd expected. But expectation doesn't preclude disappointement, she groused to herself. The sting in the tail of Pythia's remark didn't exactly improve her mood.

"He'll probably rush in without thinking," she mocked, pitching her voice up in an exaggerated imitation of Pythia's, "someone has to watch his back." She scoffed, returning to her normal voice: "Of course, you're right. It's not enough to have three magi, all of whom have magic which is more useful for utility applications than direct combat, watching someone's back when they run in. It'll all be better if instead of that, we have a primarily offensive magi with a comparatively frail body run in next to him, be immediately crippled, and subsequently lose a great deal of direct combat magic. That's far more strategically sound than having other people drawing attention in a major conflict and said frail but powerful magi delivering an unexpected surgical strike and everyone being fine."

She placed a hand on her chest, heaving out a heavy breath. She needed to stay calm. If Pythia got under her skin, she'd be compromised, both in strategizing and in fighting. Best to just let her barbs skate off. She wasn't that much taller than Pythia. Five or six inches, if she had to guess. But she moved closer and straightened her back up, doing her best to emphasize the height difference as she threw her arms and shoulders into an exaggerated shrug.

"But if, in your opinion, what a veteran strategist thinks is wrong and you know better, Sparky--kid: then who am I to argue with you?"

She stalked away, taking up a position behind Clara, who...well. Perhaps it's best if I stay back here after all, with how she's looking. Wouldn't do for her to collapse and only Pythia to be there to help her if something unforeseen happens and we're separated.

"I'll just be back here if you actually want some advice. Zestasia, you've been promoted to a name. There's another person here who merits the moniker 'kid' far more than you do."

She lowered her voice to just above a whisper, moving closer behind Clara and murmuring into her ear: "Hey. What's going on?"

Iquenos: In Nomine Domini

Etoile

---

Etoile couldn't track magic through the air.

She didn't know why, but for some reason, she'd never been able to feel ether around her. It was like she was missing a sense, and she hated it.

But she didn't need to be able to track magic through the air to feel it stagnating around her. It felt like she was walking through existential honey. It was a feeling that she hadn't had in a very long time. Not since she was still in service of the church. And it was still just as alien to her as before.

"For once," she murmured, looking up at the innocuous trees above her, "I agree with the kid. We're in enemy territory, pretty much right in the nexus of this mysterious maleficarum's power. If they don't already know that we're coming, they're probably a strong enough magi to feel us now that we're this close. This is ambush tactics one-oh-one. If we're not very, very careful, I doubt we'll even see the enemy before we're overwhelmed. I would be pleasantly surprised and amazed if all they have are birds and krovar."

It reminded her of a quote from a book she'd read once: The triumphant seizes their victory before the war has begun, while the fallen goes to war and seeks to win. If ever she was going to war and seeking to win, it was now. Ill-prepared, injured, miscommunicative, in enemy territory, and with a list of misfits that, while perhaps competent in single combat, would be absolutely useless on a coherent battlefield with a command structure and likely had no idea how to fight a maleficarum...the list went on, and every item on it made her less and less confident that they would somehow manage to pull a win out of this disaster. Enough of that, she chided herself grimly. This will be hard enough as-is. Get your head together, these idiots stand zero chance without you. If there's no organization in the way we approach this, we're all going to die.

"Alright. Pagonia. You're probably the most suited for frontline combat and taking hits. When we go in there, you take point. Clara, the kid and I will be behind you, supporting you, watching the sides, and providing utility. Sparky? You can beat the tar out of anything you touch, but you don't look like you can take a hit and keep on doing so. You play rearguard. Anything comes up behind us, you zap it out of existence. Any objections?"

There was a desperate hope in Etoile that everyone would for once agree with something, but she wasn't very confident in its coming true. More likely, Pythia would be overly-prideful again, refuse to stay in the rear, take point, and then immediately be dropped by a threat nobody saw coming. And with her gone, so would be a great portion of their combat strength. She raised her eyes to the heavens, delivering a quiet prayer: please, Sol. Don't let these idiots die. I still need them.

The Witcher: Under the Shadow

Pretty much that.

Aidann isn't going anywhere quick, don't you worry.

The Witcher: Under the Shadow

I think there were only two Witchers tops, and they've been yoinked.

The Witcher: Under the Shadow

I'm sorry about the dead radio silence; my parents are really worried about the virus, so I've been running around most of the day stocking up on food and whatnot.

The Elder Scrolls: Legacy

Where Are All Muh Onions

Featuring the incomparable Greenie

---

Farmer Jack sat in a chair outside of his home like he always did, this time of the afternoon. A pipe in one hand, and an ale sat on the table beside him. He stared out with a furrowed brow before him, at his fields. His precious farm had been trampled and strewn through. A whole batch of onions missing from their place.

Lines of onion shaped holes was all that was left. Holes and trampled grass. The elderly imperial grumbled under his breath, a vicious curse that he was glad his wife was not around to hear, she’d likely scold him for his sour tongue yet again. She had no patience now, did Carla - for she’d had to pick up the pace in washing the other citizens clothing in order to make coin. More furious still was she to learn that her husband was offering a precious thirty Septims to deal with the supposed thief.

Truthfully, Carla was glad for the missing onions - even if it meant more work for her, at least Jack wasn’t carrying that awful stench through their home anymore. At least Jack himself didn’t smell to high heavens of them too. “Feckin’ onions,” she cursed herself from inside the home, scrubbing through the less than pleasant underwear of a drunkard….

Hopefully, someone would be along to end the whole affair soon enough, for better or for worse.

"G'day!" The silence surrounding the brooding farmer was broken by Meg's chirp voice as she trotted over to where the man was sitting, an amiable smile lighting her face as usual. There had been plenty of other missions to chose from, some that sounded rather grand in fact, but helping out a farmer with his woes hit close home for Meg. She too, along with her father, had shared farming troubles for the years they lived in Whiterun, and if she could do something to help aleviate this man's pain, she was more than happy to!

"M'name's Meg," she continued as she finally made it before him, one arm akimbo while her other hand reached out, offering to shake his hand in greeting. "Heard ye've been havin' trouble with yer crops? I'm here t'help out with that!"

Behind Meg--nowhere near as amicable as a person as she--was Aud, the other, taller Nord of the group. After Meg had introduced herself, Aud moved up and gave a nod to the farmer. “Likewise. I’m Aud.” She’d never been quite as verbose as Meg, and so she decided to get right down to brass tacks, cutting to the heart of the matter:

“Do you have any ideas who might be taking the onions? Are they taken during the day or night? Is it only onions, or do other crops go missing too?”

"Aeg? Mud?" Jack replied, scratching his head before sighing, trying to think of how best to answer the curious women. "No feckin' idea, no other feckin' crops," he explained with a squint. "If I had to guess I'd say it'd be a witch! Takin'em for potions!" Jack huffed. "She's got tiny feet whoever it is, tiny tiny shoes…" he sighed.

"If yer really here to check it out, there's footprints in the field but they don't lead anywhere at all," the farmer shrugged. "So yer up to the task then?"

Aud glanced at Meg. “I’m good at tracking. If there’s any kind of trail to find, I’ll find it.”

Then she redirected her eyes at Jack and nodded once.“Show me.” This wasn’t…precisely what she’d expected when she’d joined an adventuring guild, but hey, anything for companionship, right? And it wasn’t like it was hard or anything. She was pretty sure that between her skill in tracking and the enhanced sense of smell that came with her curse that if there was a trail, any at all, it wouldn't escape her notice.

Meg didn’t have a nose like Aud did, nor was she the best at tracking, but she was eager to help, so she nodded along. “I’m up for the task!” she replied, looking from the farmer to her roommate. Frankly she found the Skald fascinating, having heard about them but never having met one in person. It would be nice to make another friend, at least, she hoped that would happen.

“Aye, let’s get goin’ then, eh?” She didn’t wait more than a second before starting off on her own for the fields, though she kept her pace slow so the others wouldn’t be too far behind.

---

Jack had lead them out into his field, and as he had described, all that was around them was a series of empty holes in the ground that once house onions, and a trail of tiny footprints.

Suspiciously round, hoof-shaped footprints. Anyone with any skill, or knowledge of wildlife at all would know them to be the work of an animal. Jack, however, still stared down at them, bewildered by the small size and the dainty shape.

“Some feckin’ shoes!” He huffed as he pointed at them, leading the two women to the fence where the trail only continued onwards and down toward the forest. “She retreats that’a’way— into darkness at night wheres no one will follow her… That’s why I’ve hired you, to chase this thief down!”

Blinking at the footprints, Meg wondered whether the farmer perhaps had weak eyes, because those certainly didn’t look like the footprints of any person, not even a Khajiit’s or Argonian’s. Still, she didn’t want to offend the farmer and sabotage not just hers but Aud’s chance at completing a mission and making gold. “Well these should be easy ‘nough t’follow, righ’ Aud?” She looked away from the hoofprints to her guildmate instead, eyes widening, hoping the Skald woman wouldn’t mention that the farmer wasn’t completely right.

Aud opened her mouth to give a withering rebuke to the farmer who thought the clearly-animal prints belonged to a thief. After all, what kind of animal had both the motive and the will to intentionally steal onions night after night?

And then the words stuck in her throat as she realized exactly what kind of animal might be sapient enough to be called a thief. One that...well, one that was like her. It could be an animal, or it could be a lycanthrope. And if it were a lycanthrope, then she wanted to find them. She wanted to find them and kill them. Damn all of Hircine’s hounds, she thought grimly, before giving a nod to Meg and turning to Jack. “Give me a day, and I’ll have the thief.”

Then she turned away and began following the prints into the trees. As she did, she opened her mouth slightly, breathing deeply and scenting the air.

As she followed the scent--unfamiliar to her--and the trail, she found it surprisingly difficult to actually keep track of it. It wound around, and she nearly lost it once or twice; but after a few hours of doubling and tripling back, she saw something that wasn’t altogether natural in the woods: a cart.

“Meg,” she hissed, dropping low to the ground, “look. Cart, run into a rock. Care.”

From over yonder, behind the cart, a simpler being was enjoying a late lunch. A late lunch comprised of Farmer Jack’s precious onions. Each bite was strangely dainty, but the bitter vegetable made a loud crunch in the jaws of the beast as it huffed out in satisfaction.

Without warning, the creature stopped, lifting its head up above the cart — as if it had sensed it was being watched. From Megana and Aud’s vantage point, they would see the face of a brown, bearded goat appear. It’s amber eyes searching frantically perhaps for a predator. Sensing nothing, the Onion Thief bleated out before returning to her happy pile of onions. The delicious, pungent, and wonderful onions.

"Tha' ain' no person," Meg whispered to Aud under her breath, not wishing to scare away the hooved creature. "Looks t'me like a goat!" She raised a hand to her head, mussing her brown hair in thought of how to break the news to the farmer. "What d'ya think we should do? Ain' like we can stop a beastie from goin' after the onions."

Narrowing her eyes, Aud pulled a spear from her back quiver. “Well. Whoever’s letting their goat wander out here isn’t a good farmer. Maybe they should be taught a lesson about animals. And a corpse won’t be stealing onions anymore.” She pulled back her arm and aligned her sight picture, preparing to let the weapon fly.

“Wait!” Meg lifted her hand, holding it in the spear’s way, eyes wide as she stared at Aud. “Y’can’ just kill the goat, ain’ its fault if it’s owner was careless in keepin’ it penned up or tied. Maybe we could take the goat over to Farmer Jack himself? Could be they’d take better care of this girl an’ not havta worry ‘bout their onions goin’ missin’.”

“Fine,” muttered Aud, “that’s probably a better idea.” She replaced the spear, then backed off a few feet. “I don’t know how well I can handle animals. Prob’ly better for you to take him back, yeah?” She turned back in the direction of Bruma. “Jack’s this way,” she said, then walked a little ways before turning back to wait.

Meg let out a quiet sigh of relief. She loved animals, and though she was no stranger to hunting them, it just didn't feel right to kill the goat when it wasn't its fault it went into the farmer's crops because of carelessness. It wasn't as if they needed to hunt, seeing all their food would be provided for. Fortunately, the Nord woman had a rather interesting looking apple that she used to tempt the goat back to Farmer Jack's place alongside Aud. Though the farmer seemed disgruntled that the thief was a simple goat, the prospect of keeping it seemed to soothe his embarrassment of not recognizing what the thief really was.

All's well that ends well?

The Witcher: Under the Shadow

Aidann @everyone when he finds signs of monster activity: