Mortarion

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)

8th of Last Seed, 5 AM

Tsleeixth had found it difficult to get any sleep throughout the night, frequently waking up as the ship was rocked by the waves as it made its way to Jehanna. And so the Argonian found himself on the upper deck of the ship, leaning against the handrail and gazing towards the horizon as he tried to order his errant thoughts. Could he have done something different? Was the main thing that he pondered, his nails digging further and further into the nail of the rail the more he pondered the question. He didn't doubt that going up into the airship had been the correct choice, not in and of itself, but rather what he had done once inside of Tmeip'r’s mobile base of operations bothered him. Maybe if he had forged on ahead instead of waiting for the rest, or if he had personally helped in the battle against the Sload necromancer rather than letting his thrall support Sadri and Alim, things might have turned out differently.

The spellsword let out a sigh, followed shortly afterwards by a mirthless chuckle. Different. That word seemed to be on his thoughts a lot as of late. If things had been different maybe he wouldn't have been nearly killed by an angry mob and left crippled...if things had been different Roze would still be alive. Another sigh left his mouth as he thought about the Breton, his hands balling into fists as frustration surged within him. "If only we had taken care of Tmeip’r sooner..." Tsleeixth muttered bitterly to himself. He had learnt of the Breton's passing a short while after he had returned to the Kyne's Tear; following his escape from the airship, he had been too exhausted and had quickly passed out as soon as he was back in the, relative, safety of the ship and had only learnt of the gruesome news once consciousness had returned to his body.

He had been amongst those who had volunteered for the gruesome task of gathering the Breton's remains so that she could receive a proper burial. He hadn't been as close to Roze as others in the company had, not like Sagax and Do'Karth who had also volunteered for the task, but the Argonian still felt it was the least that he could do for her. She had helped him, back in Bthamz when he had been wounded trying to negotiate with one of the Ashlanders, and they had shared drinks while in Windhelm before the Kamal had invaded....and part of him felt guilty for her death. As his mind liked to remind him constantly, he had been on the airship and had been part of the group that had confronted the Sload so, in his mind, part of the blame for her death lay on him. It had been a gruelling task which had been done in silence by those that had undertaken it with their only communication being the occasional glances that they had directed towards each other.

The way that Sagax had acted after they had been done with their grim labour hadn't gone unnoticed by Tsleeixth, it was clear that the Imperial wanted to be left alone and, as such, Tsleeixth hadn't approached him. Still, he felt guilty for not being able to support his friend in his time of need like Sagax himself had done back when they had been in Solitude. "Maybe once we are in Jehanna he'll be more open, more ready, to talk about what happened." Tsleeixth thought, letting out a soft sigh and shaking his head. There was no point in speculating about what would happen or how anyone would feel in the future. All that any of them could hope for was that there would be no more troubles during the rest of their voyage towards Jehanna.

Moving away from the handrail, Tsleeixth turned his back to the horizon and began making his way back to the interior of the Kyne’s Tear. He knew that sleep would continue to elude him for the rest of the night and that the same questions that had drove him to head to the upper deck for fresh air would continue to haunt him incessantly. “Perhaps I should see if I have something to drink.” The Argonian muttered quietly to himself as he made his way towards his allotted hammock, the thought of passing through the rest of the night in blissful, drunken, stupor sounding more and more appealing with each second.

---

10th of Last Seed, 10 AM

He had debated internally whether or not to go to the funeral service that was to be held in the local temple of Arkay but, in the end, Tsleeixth had decided to go; even if he didn’t believe in the Divines, he still felt the need to pay his respects towards both Roze and the recently deceased Ashav. And so Tsleeixth found himself standing in the back of the temple, head bowed low and silent, tears streaming from his eyes as the high priest performed the final rites for the two departed members of the company. In the end, he was amongst the last of those remaining in the temple before he approached the two caskets.

“Goodbye Roze, I….I wish we could have known each other better….that I could have repaid you for saving me back in Bthamz before Sithis called you back to the void sister.” The Argonian spoke quietly to the casket. “May the Hist embrace you as you rejoin the one.” He finished before moving to the casket that held Ashav’s earthly remains. “What happened to you Ashav? I’m no fool, it was all too easy to notice the change that took ahold of you after Dawnstar….the way you began drinking more and more until it seemed like there wasn’t a minute were you weren’t drunk. And yet I still find it difficult to believe that you’d….do such a thing as the one you did.” Tsleeixth said quietly, shaking his head slightly. “Would you really take your own life? Maybe I’m a naive fool but, no matter how much I think about it, I can’t picture you as the kind of man who would do something like that.” The spellsword continued on, letting out a soft sigh. “In the end it doesn’t matters, what's done is done and you are no longer among us. I only hope that you've managed to find your peace in the afterlife.” He finished, stepping away from Ashav’s casket and towards the door that led outside of the temple. Tsleeixth gave one last look to the coffins before he crossed the door’s threshold back into Jehanna’s streets.

Once he was outside, Tsleeixth began to walk away from the building at a brisk pace. He had no place in his mind to go, only a desire to put as much distance between himself and the Conclave of the Golden Tomb as possible. He wasn’t sure for how long, or exactly in what direction, he had been walking but Tsleeixth was brought out of his stupor when he heard a voice announcing the latest issue of the Tamrielic Gazette as loudly as possible to stand out amidst the chatter and other assorted noises that filled the air of the city. “Maybe reading something will help me, get me to focus on other things.” The Argonian thought, a sense of dread and nervousness quickly growing within him as he became more and more aware of the high number of Nords walking through the streets by each moment now that he had been brought out of his stupor and was aware of his surroundings.

Much like it had happened when he had wandered through the streets of Solitude, thoughts of Dawnstar and its mob of furious citizens began bubbling up within Tsleeixth’s mind second by second the longer he stood in the busy streets. “Yes, yes, I definitely need something to distract myself.” He muttered to himself, letting out a nervous chuckle. It wasn’t too difficult to find the source of the voice, which belonged to a Breton boy as it turned out, that was peddling the newspaper and even less difficult to secure a copy for himself.

Taking a second to orient himself, and paying the Breton boy a few septims to ask for directions just in case, Tsleeixth began making his way back towards the Howling Wolf Inn while leisurely reading the articles as he walked. Much like he had hoped, the gazette provided a much needed distraction for his thoughts something which, in turn, allowed him to calm himself down. That is, until he reached the section dedicated to Skyrim and he read a particular bit of news.

Stormcloak hardliners seize Dawnstar. Local guards, leaderless with Skald's death, either defected or retreated to Whiterun. An extremist group known as the Neckbeards (responsible for slaughtering Argonian refugees) have been appointed as the town militia, replacing guards in law enforcement capacities.

The world seemed to freeze in place as he processed the information, and Tsleeixth found himself reading through the article one more time as if he wasn’t sure that what he had read was true. But, no matter, the article remained the same. Part of him wanted to weep openly in the streets, from sorrow, fear, or outrage he wasn’t sure, and another part of him wanted to laugh like a maniac at the mere thought that the bastards who had nearly murdered him and who had slaughtered his fellow Saxhleel were now in control of Dawnstar. So absorbed in his thoughts as he was, Tsleeixth didn’t notice the pair of Nords that were approaching him until they clashed against him.

He stumbled back due to the impact but managed to catch himself before he fell into the ground. Unfortunately the two men that had bumped into him hadn’t been so lucky and fell to the ground on their behinds. The reason for which became apparent in a second as Tsleeixth saw a pair of bottles rolling away from the outstretched hands of the pair of Nords but he didn’t have much time to think, or do, anything before the pair in question was standing up once more, a look of frustration written plainly on both their faces.

“Look at what you made me do you filthy lizard! You made me drop my drink.” One of the nords, a blonde man with a broken nose, slurred drunkenly at him. “What the fuck do you think you are doing standing in the middle of the street anyway.” The blonde continued on, giving Tsleeixth a push for good measure.

Tsleeixth, for his part, remained silent as memories of the events that had transpired in Dawnstar started flooding his mind at the aggressive look that the two Nords had regarded him with. Had something like this occured but a few months prior, Tsleeixth would have stood his ground against the two drunkards but, as things stood, he stood rooted in place with nary a word leaving from his lips a fact that didn’t escape the two Nords despite their drunken state.
“What’s the matter, not gonna say anything?” The second Nord, a brutish man with a mane of red hair, growled at him, pushing him much like his fellow drunkard had done but a few moments ago. “Think you are better than us or something? Is that why you aren’t saying anything lizard?” The redheaded drunkard growled, growing more and more frustrated with Tsleeixth’s silence as the seconds went by.

“You and your fucking kind are always making trouble for us Nords, just like the damned cats and Dunmers.” The blonde drunkard spat as he approached Tsleeixth, giving the Argonian a punch in the face that sent the later to the ground. “C’mon Hrol, let's teach this lizard a lesson.” The blonde Nord said to his redheaded compatriot.

“Heh, read my mind Haening. We gotta teach this lizard well and proper so an accident like this one doesn’t repeats itself, don’t we?” Hrol said to his blonde friend as he cracked his knuckles, prompting Haening to let out a sinister chuckle before nodding in ascent with his friend.

As the pair of Nords had become progressively more aggressive, Tsleeixth’s mind had begun to recall the memories of Dawnstar with more and more intensity. Lost in his memories as he was, Tsleeixth didn’t do anything as he was kicked and hit by Hrol and Haening his mind torn between the assault he was currently enduring and by the memories of the one that had nearly cost him his life but a month ago.

The beating continued on for a few more minutes until both Nords stopped for breath, exhausted by their vicious attack on the defenceless spellsword. “Pathetic.” Haening said, spitting on Tsleeixth’s face. “If they are all as pathetic as this lizard here it’s no wonder they got butchered at Dawnstar. They probably dropped to the ground and started whimpering at the first blow.” The blond Nord mocked cruelly.

At the mention of the massacre of the Argonian refugees something within Tsleeixth seemed to snap and the world suddenly became clear as the memories of the beating at the hand of the mob receded to the depths of his mind. “What did you just said?” The Argonian hissed, standing on wobbly feet and regarding the blond Nord with a look of pure hatred.

“I don’t like the look you are giving my friend here, maybe we should extend this lesson a bit more.” Hrol said, throwing another punch in Tsleeixth’s direction which the Argonian easily sidestepped.

As the redheaded Nord tried to regain his balance after missing his punch, Tsleeixth took ahold of his wrist and began channeling magicka to generate electricity. He made certain to control his output so as to not cause any permanent damage but, to Hrol, such distinction was unnoticeable as he began to cry in pain as the electricity course through his arm.

Haening, at seeing the pain in which his friend was, let out a cry of rage and charged at Tsleeixth in a blind fury, causing the Argonian to let go of Hrol’s wrist. “Fucking lizard, you are one of those damned mages.” The blonde Nord hissed in contempt, eyeing Tsleeixth warily as caution and fury battled within his mind; in the end, fury won against caution and Haening charged towards Tsleeixth once more.

With his mind now clear, Tsleeixth easily incapacitated Haening, in much the same way that he had done with Hrol, in the span of a few moments. “Listen to me clearly.” The spellsword hissed, grabbing the blond Nord by his shirt. “I want you and your friend to be more careful with your drinking habits in the future.” He continued on, voice cold and full of fury. “And I don’t want you to say such vile things like the ones you said about the murder of my brothers and sisters again. Am I clear?” The spellsword finished, his eyes burrowing into Haening’s.

When the blond Nord nodded in agreement Tsleeixth let go of him and, after giving the pair of Nords in the ground one last withering look, turned his back to them and began walking away in the direction of The Howling Wolf Inn. The day had given him ample things to think about and he’d need some privacy to think them over.

---

10th of Last Seed, 5 PM

The sound of a bottle being placed down reverberated throughout Tsleeixth’s room, promptly followed by the sound of a sigh. After his altercation with Haening and Hrol it hadn’t taken too long for the Argonian spellsword to return to the inn and Tsleeixth had headed for his room almost immediately, his only detour being the purchase of a bottle of alcohol from the bartender.

After that, he had sequestered himself inside of his room and had begun drinking. He let his thoughts wander more and more freely with each sip of the bottle’s contents and yet they kept returning to Dawnstar, the confrontation with Tmeip’r, and his recent altercation in the streets of Jehanna. And as he thought more and more about those events, a sense of bitterness started gnawing at him with each second that passed.

Yes, he was bitter. That much had become clear to him. He was bitter at himself, at his powerlessness, at his weakness. The events that had recently transpired stood as a testament of said powerlessness, of the weakness that plagued him. He clutched the bottle again and took a long swig, letting his mind focus on the burning sensation of the alcohol as it passed through his throat for a brief moment.

If only he had been stronger, he’d have been able to prevent Skald’s death and the massacre that ensued. If he had been more powerful they’d have been able to take care of Tmeip’r without incurring so many losses. If he hadn’t been so weak he wouldn’t have become paralyzed and let Haening and Hrol beat him for so long before fighting back. These thoughts, and more like them, dominated Tsleeixth’s mind.

“Never again.” He vowed quietly, taking yet another sip from the bottle. Never again would he find himself in that position. He wouldn’t let his weakness, his powerlessness, drive him to those situations once more. Never again would he allow himself to be in the place that he had been in the aftermath of Dawnstar or of the battle against Tmeip’r. This was the conclusion to which Tsleeixth had come. And for that, he needed more power than what he had now.

In the depths of his rucksack, as if reacting to the thoughts of its new owner, the coral necklace that had once belonged to Tmeip’r briefly pulsated with a baleful red light before falling dormant once again.

Warhammer 40k: Beyond Civilisations Grasp... - A Rogue Trader RP (Full, for now)

"A pleasure to meet you as well, Mr. Lazarus." Kharon said, bowing his head slightly in the direction of the slender man that the Rogue Trader had identified as the chief medical officer of the vessel. "As for an answer to your question my lord." The magos said, pausing for a brief second before continuing on. "What brings me to you is what I'm sure brings most people towards a Rogue Trader such as yourself. That is to say, I'm in search of new horizons and the opportunities that they bring." Kharon continued on, moving closer towards Drake at a slow pace so as to not arouse any undue suspicions regarding his intentions. The fact that the rest of the Rogue Trader's retinue had kept their hands close to their weapons hadn't escaped his attention, and he couldn't truly blame them given their present situation but, still, the fact that they were expecting trouble at any second wouldn't help him in his goal of striking a bargain with Drake.

"Perhaps it would be wise to move this discussion to another place my lord?" Kharon offered to Drake. "Your retinue is welcome to come with us as well if you so wish." He added, hoping that would win him some trust with the noble. "I do not know about you, but I would prefer any further discussions to take place somewhere where we might not be disturbed by inopportune meddlers." He said, turning his back to the Rogue Trader briefly to glance at the gathered crowd of lowlifes his mechanical eyes glinting with green light. While he had come with no weapon in hand, aside from his mechadendrites, he hoped that his rank as a Magos and the long time that he had spent in Nab's Holdout would be enough to intimidate some of those gathered in the crowd enough to prevent them from doing something foolish.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

1st of Midyear, Afternoon
The Three Crowns Hotel - Gilane, Hammerfell

---

In the aftermath of the failed mission to capture and deliver Nblec Mazrac to the Hammerfell resistance alive the day prior, Jaraleet had been in an uncharacteristically foul mood which had seen the Argonian assassin ignoring the rest of the group and sequestering himself in the gym that the Three Crowns counted amongst its amenities. The failure of the mission in and of itself would have been cause enough to frustrate the Haj-Eix but what had truly set him off had been the fact that, according to Gregor, Nblec had perished as a result of his interrogation techniques, the Dwemer’s body being unable to endure the strain through which Jaraleet’s methods had put it through the Imperial man had claimed.

Jaraleet knew for a fact that was untrue. He had been trained ever since he had been a hatchling in the forms of torture, he knew how to inflict the most pain while causing the least amount of actual damage to someone’s body. He knew just how much a body could take, had experienced how much pain, how much damage, someone could take on his own flesh. His training as a Haj-Eix had ensured that he wouldn’t commit such a basic mistake as killing an interrogee by pushing them beyond the limits of what they could endure. What puzzled Jaraleet was why would Gregor claim such a thing? Mere ignorance on the Imperial’s part? Or was there more to what the Imperial warrior had said? Could Gregor have been lying? And, if so, why?

These questions, coupled with the failure of the mission and the fact that he was held as the one responsible for said failure, had driven Jaraleet to his present mood, which the Argonian hoped to excise his mind of via exercise.

“So, this is where you’ve been hiding. I suppose mucking up an assignment and getting the words ‘kidnap’ and ‘murder’ mixed up is something of an embarrassment.” A voice came from the doorway. Daro’Vasora entered the gym, her hand running across a rack of weights as she entered, not looking at the Argonian. “I suppose it was a bit much to ask that we trust someone that barely socializes after mysteriously tagging along with the group after the Rangers went to shit, but I like to give people the benefit of the doubt.” She said, finally turning her gaze to Jaraleet. “Was I wrong?”

“You are.” Came the simple reply from the Argonian as he paused in his exercises and approached the Khajiit woman. “Nblec Mazrac didn't die due to what I did.” Jaraleet said, looking at Daro’Vasora straight in the eyes. “I don't expect you to understand, but I can assure you that I took the utmost precaution in making sure that Nblec wouldn't expire in the course of the interrogation.” The assassin said in a cold, detached, tone, utterly unperturbed by what he had put the recently deceased Dwemer administrator through.

“Torture, was it? I don’t recall the Poncy Man asking for anyone to torture and interrogate the man you were asked to bring in.” Daro’Vasora replied conversationally, although her eyes narrowed in dangerous slits. “In fact, I’m reasonably sure that no one in this insurgency knows what particular skills and talents any of us have. It seems like an excessive liberty that you lot indulged yourselves in, in fact, if I were to be a betting woman, I would think that the whole idea was to bring in a sympathetic figure of the Dwemer administration to potentially turn to our cause. Hard to do that when you’re ripping out fingernails or whatever it is you do, but this brings into question; how does one as unassuming as yourself with such a wholesome personal story come to acquire the talents of interrogation, I wonder? Others say you were a hunter and a soldier, neither of which require the delicate balance of knowing how to extract information through controlled brutality. The fact you readily admit to violating the Administrator in such a way casts quite a bit of shadow over you, Jaraleet. Or is it something else, I wonder?”

Jaraleet chuckled darkly once Daro’Vasora was done with her tirade, shaking his head slightly before he regarded the Khajiit woman with a look that carried a slight hint of pity. “You are a fool Daro’Vasora.” He said simply, crossing his arms over his chest. “Nblec was never going to live, not really. Did you honestly believe that the Poncy Man would try and turn him into an agent of the Hammerfell resistance? At best Mazrac would have been drugged into a stupor to make him blabber what information he had and then disposed. At worst, and to be frank the most likely case, is that he would have been tortured for the information he had, if not by the agents of the Poncy Man then surely by agents belonging to other cells.” The assassin said nonchalantly, as if he was explaining the most obvious thing in the world.

“As to where I came to acquire such talents...well, sometimes soldiers are called to perform immoral acts for the greater good. But, then again, you've never been a soldier. I doubt you'd understand.”

“I understand more than you give me credit for,” the Khajiit mused, her arms crossed. “And what of it? It wasn’t our call to make. For a soldier, you’re pretty daft at understanding the fact we need allies. This hotel that we are staying at for free and the resources and contacts we stand to gain? Jeopardized because of the likes of you because you have a short-sighted bloodlust. If Mazrac blabbed and told you something vital, you’re asking these people to take the word of someone they don’t know who murdered a person they instructed you bring in to them, demonstrating an incredible inability to follow simple instructions.

“So what, maybe they kill him and interrogate them at their leisure? That’s the point; it was their decision to make. Ever consider this was a test to see if they could trust us with something actually vital and important that could actually make a dent in the Dwemer occupation? Or would you rather blindly go on raids again and watch as 90% of our outfit is slaughtered? Tell me, Jaraleet, oh wise one, what was the plan here?” She stepped closer to him, staring him up in the eyes.

“Or do you think they’re benign and not above discarding of us as they see fit if we endanger their operations? They have an entire network of people doing all sorts of dirty work, we’re going in blind. Want to find out what happens when you fall asleep and they decide that you aren’t worth the bread they feed you?”

“I didn’t murder Nblec.” The Argonian repeated coldly, staring back at Vasora with a harsh look. “And I didn’t torture him for such a petty reason as sating my bloodlust or any other inane reasons like that. I did what I did because it seemed necessary at the moment and if the Dwemer hadn’t raided the safe house in which we were holding Nblec I’d have handed him over to the Poncy Man so that he could verify the information I obtained first hand.” He continued, letting out a dark chuckle when Daro’Vasora asked him if he thought that the Poncy Man and the rest of the Hammerfell resistance were bening.

“Oh, I don’t, not at all. I know full well that you, me, and the rest of our group are disposable pawns to them. I’d be surprised if that wasn’t the case truth be told.” He said with a shrug. “But why does this bothers you so much? It’s not like you care about the Dwemer, do you? Or are you perhaps worried that I’m a risk to you and the other members of the group? If that’s the case, well, I must admit that I’m surprised to see that you care so much after your….candid words to Rhea in Anvil I thought you didn’t care about anyone in this little group of misfits.” Jaraleet said, regarding the Khajiit woman with an inquisitive gaze. “So, again I pose you the question, why do you care so much?”

“You’re right, I don’t care about you, I care about the people I’ve been with since this whole sordid mess began, you’re just a tumour that grew out of nowhere and immediately started causing issues. I won’t hesitate to cut you loose if I have to.” She replied darkly. “I decided that the best thing for everyone is if we had a chance to get out of Anvil and Cyrodiil and everyone could go their own separate ways, but here’s a chance to actually do the right thing, a foreign concept to you, I’m sure.” she said, stepping away from Jaraleet and talking a walk about the room, taking in the details and needing space from the Argonian. “My uncle died in Imperial City, and in my grief, I did some stupid things, I’ll admit. Here’s my chance to try and make the Dwemer suffer a bit for what they did to him and maybe ruin their machinations along the way. We were never going to beat them honestly, but Jaraleet… whatever it was that prompted you or whoever to torture and murder that man did is not the way to do it. There’s going to be reprisals, you know that, don’t you?” she asked, looking at him from across the room.

“Why are you here, with us, doing this?” She asked, a bitter tone in her voice. “Why are you latching onto us like some overgrown parasite that doesn’t know where else to inflict his miasma? There’s a dark cruelty to you, and you clearly aren’t the sort to think things through. Great, you planned on obtaining information by torturing someone who was popular with the locals. How do you think them and the Dwemer are going to react when they find out what you had a hand in doing?” she asked. “It’s going to be harder to do anything because heroic acts like freeing prisoners is going to be hard to suppress with the people, but finding out that the so-called freedom fighters are terrorists who are worse than the occupiers? What were you thinking?”

“That I was doing a necessary evil.” The Argonian stated simply. “Make no mistakes Daro’Vasora, I don’t do the things I do out of a desire to inflict pain or to be needlessly cruel, but rather because they are necessary steps. I’m fully aware of the nature of my acts, and I’m willing to pay the price for them when then the time comes.” Jaraleet continued, letting out a sigh. “For every one of these so called ‘heroic’ acts there’s someone like me behind them, doing the dirty deeds that need to be done to ensure victory for whatever group they support. So it has been throughout the length of history, it is a simple fact of war nothing else and nothing more.”

“The truth of the situation is that, sooner or later, everything in war becomes a calculus of result versus costs. What is one willing to sacrifice to ensure victory? I’d say that, historically speaking, the side who is willing to sacrifice the most is almost always the assured winner of a given conflict.” He said calmly and by memory. “As for why I am here with your group right now? It’s because our goals intersect. I seek the defeat of the Dwemer, same as you do.” Jaraleet said, letting out a tired sigh.

“What is the point of this bitter tirade of yours anyways? If you believe me to be such a detriment to the group such a...parasite as you put it, why not cut me off? I’m sure you could that do easily, as you yourself noted I haven’t been with your group all that long and I doubt you’d get anything more than some token complaints if you decided to do that.” He pondered, tapping his ching as he thought. “Or is it merely that what I did was just a reminder of our current situation, of it’s costs, and I’m just simply a convenient scapegoat for your frustrations?”

“Unbelievable.” She breathed, turning her tone to a mocking approximation of the Argonian, “‘I did what was necessary by not following orders because it’s way easier to interrogate and torture people on the go than follow simple instructions’. None of that was necessary, you elected to do it yourself. And up until now, I didn’t think you were a risk to everyone’s well being, but congratulations; you’ve just made life worse for us all and potentially put us on a dark list for those whose roof we sleep under. The winners of wars aren’t the ones who are willing to sacrifice the most; the Rangers were willing to sacrifice nearly every man and woman in its ranks to free prisoners, and look where that got us. Pick up a history book sometime, Jaraleet; wars are won through superior logistics, alliances, and having the manpower and talent to use it, not squandering resources on stupid-ass risks with no potential pay off.”

She crossed the room suddenly, jabbing a pointed finger into his chest. “None of that was your call to make. You want our interests to keep coinciding? Then start acting like you belong rather than acting on your own twisted personal whims. I have my own goals, and right now, one of them is making sure that we never end up in a situation like we did in Imperial City or the Rangers again; acts like you did are going to add up. The Dwemer have a loose grip here, but you know full well what happens when that tightens, or did you think that some low-level government stooge was going to contain some big war winning secret that you felt it was worth risking all of that instead of just bringing him him like requested? You want to defeat the Dwemer? Then maybe not be a fucking lone wolf and start following orders.

“If you can’t do that, fight the war on your own terms, but don’t drag everyone else down with your stupid ass. I’m not going to stand here and watch as you and people like Gregor start to erode what little guarantees the group have of protection because you are incapable of seeing a picture bigger than what’s immediately in front of you.” She said, turning to leave. She stopped at the door frame, looking back. “You know there’s very little chance this little chat of ours wasn’t overheard by one of them, right? The walls have ears, the ceiling has eyes. You may want to consider what you’re willing to sacrifice to accomplish something great, or wither away into the dirt because you spent yourself on something so incredibly petty that it’s less noteworthy than a man who dies in a cavalry charge.”

“I already decided that a long time ago Daro’Vasora. So, go and do what you think is best for this group. Be it keeping quiet or handing me over in a platter to the Poncy Man to ensure that you and your friends will be safe, I won’t hold it against you.” The Argonian said with a light shrug, unperturbed by the Khajiit’s words. “Just remember what I said, you might not share the same beliefs that I do but, who knows, it might prove useful to you one day.”

She let out a terse smile. “Turn you over? I may barely know you or consider you one of us, but you’re way more so than a man who won’t tell us his own name. All I ask is that you think of the others first next time; we’re in dangerous territory and we can’t afford missteps when potentially everyone is an enemy. We need to know which is which, understand?”

“I understand. And I apologize for putting the group at risk, I will endeavor to be more careful from now on.” The Argonian conceded, nodding slightly in Daro’Vasora’s direction before he turned his back to her and resumed his exercises.

Warhammer 40k: Beyond Civilisations Grasp... - A Rogue Trader RP (Full, for now)

Kharon's current situation in Nab's Holdout wasn't ideal, to say the least. His venture into the Kronus Expanse in search for xeno-tech to bring back to Stygies VIII and further the xenarite cause had been a resounding failure, stripping the Magos of what few resources he had managed to scrap together, due to a combination of losses to attacks from both xeno, and human, pirates and to the depredation of corrupt bureaucrats and other such individuals that characterised a vast majority of Imperial governance throughout the Imperium, and leaving him stranded in Escalon Seven, where Kharon had seen himself forced to repair the settlements machinery to sustain himself while he looked for an opportunity with which to salvage his disastrous endeavour.

And such an opportunity had seemingly manifested itself, as if by providence of the Omnissiah itself. Despite his present situation, Kharon was still a magos of the Adeptus Mechanicus and, as such, information still reached his ears both through rumours and unprotected data-transmissions. Which is how he had managed to hear about the arrival of the Golden Aquila to Escalon Seven's atmosphere, a vessel that, based on its schematics, belonged to a Rogue Trader if Kharon's estimations were correct. Still, Rogue Trader or not, the arrival of the Aquila presented the Magos with an opportunity with which to leave Nab's Holdout and, if necessary, eventually return to Stygies VIII, which was precisely why the magos now stood in front of the landing site amidst a very small crowd of people who had seen, or known, about the landing shuttle and had headed towards the area where they knew the small vessel would touch down. The reaction from, who he guessed was, the owner of the Aquila wasn't unexpected, given the reputation that Nab's Holdout had, but, even so, the fact that the man was clearly reaching for a weapon was something that wouldn't stand.

"Peace my lord, none here wishes you harm." Kharon said while making his way to the front of the gathered group, knowing full well that, given the chance, more than quite a few of the gathered individuals would be more than happy to hurt the occupants of the landing vessel for any riches that they might have. "Let me be the first to welcome you to Nab's Holdout." The magos said, raising his mechanical hands to make the sign of the aquila in, what he hoped was, a placating gesture.

Into The Dark: Tales of Maroleth

Sorry for my prolonged absence, but I finally made my post which, hopefully, is good. Again, terribly sorry for having disappeared for so long and for the wait that entailed.

Into The Dark: Tales of Maroleth

The knight was surprised by the sudden appearance of his one-time sparring partner and roommate, with the feeling only growing stronger when the giant of a man asked him if everything was alright. "Yes....it's just nerves. Pathetic, isn't it?" Nicademus said, letting out a self-deprecating chuckle. "I've faced them more than once and yet sometimes I feel like I'm still a novice wet behind the ears." The knight continued on, letting out a soft sigh before he shook his head. "Maybe I'm just worried for the villagers here....I've seen enough of the handiwork of Dorcha raiders to not wish such a fate upon my worse enemy." He said, pausing for a second. "Truth is, I don't know why I feel like this. Maybe, deep down, I'm just still a scared kid who's home was just destroyed." He said quietly, more to himself than to Ann-Hasst, before he stood up once more. "I'm sorry to burden you with my musings, it wasn't my intention to go on such a long tirade." The Andred man said, standing up and offering An-Hasst an apologetic smile. "Come, I think I heard the priest in your group....Settione I think is his name?....Well, I think he is calling out for us." He said, motioning for An-Hasst to follow him as Nicademus made his way towards the circle that Settione had inscribed on the ground.

The knight stood in silence as Settione made his invocation to his god, absorbed in his own thoughts before Alice's voice broke through his musings about the upcoming expedition with her question. "Of course." He replied simply, turning to look at the woman. "It's not my intention to put you and your companions through undue risk, furthermore in the eventuality that we saw signs that the Dorcha were amassing for a raid, well, it'd be prudent for us to put an end to their plans before they came into fruition." The knight continued. "I will go and retrieve them at once." Nicademus finished, turning his back towards Alice as he began making his way to the small armoury maintained by the guards.

The knight returned shortly afterwards with the corresponding weapons of each member of the group that would be setting off to check if there were any signs of any potential raid in the nearby future, handing the weapons back to their owners before he turned his attention to do one final check to ensure that he had everything he would need on the upcoming trek on the off chance that they ran into trouble. Satisfied that he had gathered what he needed, and with the other members of the group also ready, the knight set off away from the village and towards their objective. It was strange at first, travelling with other companions, used as he was to wandering alone throughout the Southlands, but it didn't take too long for Nicademus to grow accustomed to the presence of the other members of the group and the knight even found himself softly humming along to Alice's song as they made their way further and further away from the small village. After a while, Nicademus approached Calanon and tapped him on the shoulder lightly. "You know those we travel with better than me, how do you propose we go about searching the area?" The knight asked the elven ranger, falling silent as he waited for an answer from the Wood Elf.

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)

Ashna to ashes; time to decide what happens to Ashna's dead body. Since she has no return address, we can't simply send her back home. That leaves us with these options.

We can leave her burned body as it is, and:

• Bury it at sea
• Bury it on land, at Jehanna
• Sell it to Synod/College of Whispers (for science)

We can also completely cremate her remains, and:

• Bury them in the sea
• Deposit them at a Jehanna ossuary
• Sell them to an alchemist for money

@Gcold

Tslee will be voting for completely cremating Ashna's remains and then giving her a burial at sea.

Warhammer 40k: Beyond Civilisations Grasp... - A Rogue Trader RP (Full, for now)

@Jbcool Sorry for my lack of activity man, I haven't posted yet because I wanna finish my CS first but I haven't been too good the last couple of days. I'm still interested and will try to get a post up before monday even if I haven't finished my CS jsut yet. Again, sorry for my lack of activity.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

One Day Earlier…

Afternoon, 22nd of Last Seed, 4E2408
The Flowing Bowl, Anvil

“Good,” Hector Sibassius said. Gregor, merely a child, smiled at the compliment. “But mind your footwork.”

Marcus smirked.

They were training in the yard. It was summer and the air smelled of flowers. Gregor looked down to find a wooden sword in his hands. He ran a finger across the edge and thought he could feel the rough, blunt material -- it always used to leave splinters in his fingers. Marcus stood opposite him, much younger and shorter but always more determined, more dedicated. Gregor did not always win their sparring bouts. He had no real talent for swordfighting, nor the motivation to excel.

He looked up and saw his mother looking down on them from the master bedroom’s window. She waved at him.

“What did you do?” a breathless voice asked.

Hector had disappeared and Hannibal stood in his place. A large claymore protruded from his chest and blood as black as the night pooled beneath his feet. Gregor opened his mouth to speak, to protest; he had done nothing wrong! His footwork needed improvement, but that wasn’t so bad, was it? But no sound came and his jaw worked uselessly.

“I’m scared,” Marcus whispered, half his face missing and the other half rotting with decay.

Gregor looked up at the bedroom window again. Inside he saw Briar swaying from a noose.

He gasped for breath and jolted upright -- suddenly and without warning he found himself inside an unfamiliar bedroom, the bed sheets soaked with cold sweat. He was old now. His vision swam and his fingers trembled as he slowly came back to his senses. It had been another nightmare. He was in Anvil, he remembered now. He shivered and coughed as he climbed out of bed, peeking through the curtains with squinting eyes. It was late. He had slept through most of the day. Anvil appeared to still be in one piece, so the Dwemer hadn’t caught up to them yet. Relieved, Gregor freshened up and got dressed. Despite being inside the walls of the city, he could not shake his old habits and found himself dressed in full battle attire when he was finished. He laughed at himself and shook his head.

He descended the stairs and entered the Flowing Bowl’s common room to find it mostly deserted. It was an odd time of day, between lunch and dinnertime, and most of the establishment’s regulars would be at work or otherwise preoccupied. That meant that Gregor’s eyes immediately fell on the most interesting thing left inside the place: Jaraleet, the Argonian, eating by himself. Gregor hadn’t seen him since they arrived at Anvil and he had been too obsessed with his own thoughts during their travels to have talked to him, but the Imperial figured he owed him a heartfelt gesture of gratitude -- it had been Jaraleet who had fought back-to-back with him during their escape from the accursed Dwemer. When the situation had been especially dire and Gregor had almost resorted to necromancy to save himself, the Argonian had appeared, seemingly from thin air, and the two had been able to slice their way out the old-fashioned way.

Gregor approached and placed a hand on Jaraleet’s shoulder. “It’s good to see you,” he said and smiled -- it was a sincere, emphatic smile that lit up his whole face, for while the experience had left a sour taste in Gregor’s mouth, that had most definitely not been Jaraleet’s fault. Even Gregor’s eyes exuded warmth. “I never got to thank you for what you did back there. So… thanks, Jaraleet. You saved my life.”

“Ah, Gregor, it is good to see you as well.” Jaraleet said when the Imperial man talked to him, turning his head to look at the man and smiled back at him. “It is I who should thank you, my friend,” the Haj-Eix said, motioning for Gregor to take a seat in front of him. “If it hadn’t been for you, I doubt I’d have made it out of that ambush alive either.” The Argonian replied honestly once Gregor had taken a seat.

After he was done talking, it suddenly dawned on the Argonian that he had been eating when Gregor talked to him something which caused him to let out a soft chuckle. “Pardon my bad manners, would you like something to eat? It seems rude that I be the only one eating.” He asked the Imperial man. “Or at least let me buy you a drink, if you don’t wish to eat anything.” The assassin added after a few seconds of thought.

“I’m not hungry just yet, but I’ll take a drink, thank you,” Gregor said and sat down opposite the Argonian. “Something non-alcoholic though, I just woke up.” As if to emphasize the point, Gregor yawned behind his fist and rubbed his eyes. He stared into the middle distance for a few seconds before is gaze shifted back into focus and he looked inquisitively at Jaraleet. “Where did you learn how to fight like that?”

The Argonian nodded, motioning for the barmaid to come before Gregor’s words shifted the Argonian’s gaze towards the Imperial yet again. “Ah, that's a complicated answer.” He began to speak, chuckling softly. “I'd have to say that my first instructions, as it were, came from my father, he was a hunter for a living in my childhood and, well, the plan was for me to follow in his footsteps. So he taught me mostly about tracking prey, a skill that would come most useful in the future.” The Argonian lied easily enough, taking a second to allow Gregor to order what he wanted when the barmaid came to the table they were sitting on.

“Do you have… apple juice?” Gregor asked, looking up at the maid. She nodded with a smile. “Only the finest, sir.” He nodded and returned her smile, and off she went.

“But, as to my training proper,” he began once again once Gregor had made his order. “Well, that comes from my time in Argonia’s armies. I admittedly started as a mere town guard, but I was drafted into the army proper due to skirmishes with the Dunmer of Morrowind. That's where I cut my teeth, so to speak.”

“It’s always our fathers, isn’t it,” Gregor said and chuckled. “I learned from him too. He was a Legionnaire before he became a merchant. But the Dunmer of Morrowind, eh? They’re quite a foe, as I understand it. What brings you all the way out here?”

“The answer to that is less complicated.” Jaraleet began, taking a sip of his own drink before he continued. “I was fighting against the Dunmer for quite some time and...well, the pressure of the situation kept mounting up,” He began explaining, shaking his head slightly. “Eventually I couldn't take it anymore. I reached my breaking point when, in my last battle, most of the unit I was part of was decimated.” The Argonian continued, letting out a sigh.

“Our commander had walked us straight into an ambush, the arrogant fool. Only he and I survived and I….well, I broke.” He admitted, looking down for a brief second. “I murdered him in my rage and then fled to Helstrom once I came to my senses.” Jaraleet said, pausing for a second to let Gregor absorb what he had just said. “After that, I realized that I would be tried as a traitor, and justly so, and so I fled to here where I plied my trade as a mercenary.” He finished, letting out a sigh. “I'm not proud of what I did, but it's the reason as to why I'm here.”

The Imperial was surprised that Jaraleet had been so honest and forward about his past. Gregor took a big swig of juice (the maid had returned with his beverage while Jaraleet had been talking) and shrugged. “I won’t judge you for your past,” he said. “Bad things happen to good people. You already proved to me that you’re one of the good ones. How…” He paused, unsure of how to phrase his next question. He decided not to beat around the bush and be direct. Jaraleet seemed like the kind of person that could handle that. “Are you happy here?”

“Do you mean if I'm happy living here, in Cyrodiil?” Jaraleet asked, taking a few seconds to think before he spoke again. “I won't lie, there are times where I miss Argonia...or where I miss my family.” He started, shaking his head slightly. “But, I'm happy enough living here. Aside from the current situation with the Dwemer, I've led a good enough life here in Cyrodiil.” The Haj-Eix said, smiling slightly. “Why do you ask, Gregor?”

“Curiosity,” Gregor said before he smiled sheepishly. “And because I want to know if my homeland has been treating you well,” he admitted. “I spent a long time away from home but I always loved it here. The people, the food, the culture, the architecture, even the forests and the fields… it’s idyllic, isn’t it? They call Cyrodiil the Starry Heart of Nirn and I’m inclined to agree with them. There’s a reason that history has always centered directly around White-Gold Tower, and the… Imperial City…” He trailed off and sighed, melancholy suddenly writ upon his face, and Gregor pushed his glass of juice aside with his fingers.

“They destroyed it, didn’t they?” Gregor asked softly. There was genuine sadness in his eyes.

“They did.” Jaraleet replied solemnly, unable to meet Gregor’s gaze. “It was a sudden attack, the Dwemer didn’t make any demands nor any proclamations of any sort. They just….dropped their troops into the city and started butchering everyone.” He said quietly, the memories of the invasion, and subsequent conquest, of the Imperial City still all too fresh in the Argonian’s memory.

“It...it was a travesty. Such carnage, and for what?” The assassin continued, surprised that he felt real sorrow for the fall of the Imperial City now. “I can’t say that I was always treated right, not many look upon us Argonians as anything more than mere beasts who learned to walk upright and talk, but I have fond memories of Cyrodiil as well, and I had acquaintances that I lost during the sacking.” He said mournfully, shaking his head slightly. “All that is left for us now is to make the bastards pay, I guess.”

That was more like it. Daro’Vasora had been frustratingly pragmatic about her role in the war to come and the conversation that had ensued to try and convince her to keep fighting the Dwemer had seen Gregor reveal more about himself than he would have liked. Jaraleet, on the other hand, was evidently intrinsically motivated and needed no further convincing. Gregor wasn’t surprised -- the Argonian had been a soldier before, after all. It was good to see that he cared. In a brief moment of self-awareness, Gregor felt like a horrible hypocrite. The feeling passed almost immediately. His preoccupation with his own goals was justified.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Gregor said and smiled. “Not everyone from our party is so determined to see the Dwemer being taken down a notch, much to my disappointment. I want to keep fighting them but we need to be smarter about it and for that we’re going to need all the capable folks we can get. Can I count on you, Jaraleet?” The Imperial leaned forward to emphasize his words and looked Jaraleet in the eyes, mahogany against amber, neither knowing the truth about the other.

Jaraleet nodded alongside to Gregor’s words. The sudden change in the Imperial man’s mood hadn’t gone unnoticed by the Haj-Eix and instincts honed throughout years working in the shadows, both of Argonia and Cyrodiil, told him that Gregor was a dangerous man, more so than what his considerable skills in fighting showed. The gaze with which the man regarded him with was the main clue for the assassin, it was a gaze that he had seen in his comrades and it made the Argonian wary of Gregor to a certain extent. “Of course you might, I am ready to fight to the bitter end if needed be.” He replied after a second, smiling towards his Imperial comrade.

“Excellent,” Gregor said with a grin and downed the rest of his apple juice. “You’re a good man.” His stomach growled and Gregor winced -- now that he was awake, his hunger had caught up to him. “Time for me to find some dinner. I know you offered, and I mean no offense, but I’m looking for something different today.” He got to his feet, shook Jaraleet’s hand and gave him a comradely nod. “See you around, Jaraleet.”

And with that, he was off.

Warhammer 40k: Beyond Civilisations Grasp... - A Rogue Trader RP (Full, for now)

@Ollumhammersong I'll send him a PM in that case. Thanks for the headsup.