Peik

Cold Front

‘’You know, I specifically asked them not to give me a BLT, but they did it anyway,’’ the burly, sleazy-looking man next to Richard huffed out as he took a sip from a can of Dr. Pepper. ‘’I prefer Cubans, you see, the bread’s soft, and they’ve got this sauce they call mojo, and it makes for a more authentic experience. It’s like Nirvana in your mouth.’’ The man smacked his lips, and continued. ‘’The toast bread always cuts my palate, you know? I hate it when that happens. You can’t enjoy anything when that happens.’’

Richard smiled at the man, while his eyes lamented being seated next to him, and agreed. ‘’Yeah, I know that. You should have switched it when you had the chance,’’ he said, turning his head to look out of the window. He had taken this ticket to enjoy the opportunities created by being a high-up in an electronics company, such as getting away from his wife and children, and yet, here this vagrant was, pissing on his dreams of peace and quiet with his sandwich preferences.

‘’I would have, but I hate to put extra work on the shoulders of the attendants, you see. I think it’s horrid, having to dress up in high heels and putting on makeup just so mister Wilkins over there,’’ he pointed at a fat man in a suit, ‘’feels like he can jerk off. I don’t like this sort of society. Let them have their way. I’m not going to be part of it.’’

Richard smiled. ‘’Yet you’re on Business Class, aren’t you?’’ He said coyly, his eyes glinting with the pleasure achieved from finally getting back at the man and his troupe of annoyances. If only he could get this man to shut up too, then it’d all be perfect. But it seemed the man was feeling argumentative.

‘’Hey, I never asked for a Business Class ticket,’’ the man said hastily, his voice reeking with hints of frustration, and even slight anger. ‘’It’s not my fault that my agent got me a ticket for this seat. I’m no man of comfort, buddy – I’ve had to spend days waddling through shit and malaria-laden waters in Vietnam!’’ He took another sip from his can of Dr. Pepper. ‘’You folk and your prejudices.’’

Richard actually felt a tinge of regret for snapping back at his fellow veteran, and a newfound sense of respect for him. ‘’You served? You never struck me as that type,’’ he replied with a newly found friendly tone. ‘’Richard Samuels, I was a Lance Corporal, got a Purple Medal in Da Nang during the Tet.’’

The burly man looked slightly distressed by this information, and replied a moment later. ‘’I’m Isaac, Isaac Graham. Funny, I was wounded on a convoy from Tam Kỳ to Da Nang during the Tet. That was the end of my time in Vietnam. Small world, huh?’’ He asked, trying to cut down on the conversation amicably. He didn’t want for the man to find out his line of work and end up giving him shit because of it. But Isaac was no pacifist – oh, no, he’d punch a man a new mouth if things were to get there. Not that he was an advocate of violence.

‘’Certainly is. So where’d you-What’s that?’’ Richard asked, rustled by the sudden shaking.

‘’Oh, don’t worry, I’m sure it’s just some turbulen-Holy shit, the wing’s on fire!’’ Isaac shouted, and as the lights began to flicker, suddenly everyone began shouting. ‘’Fucking hell, we’re crashing!’’ Richard screamed as his stomach bounced with the odd movements of the plane. Luggage began flying around the cabin like pellets in a snow globe, or maybe more like squash balls, and Isaac was hit in the face by his half-empty Dr. Pepper can, spilling its contents all over him. Isaac screamed in fright, mistaking the fluid all over his clothes and face as blood in the dim light, adding to the cacophony of horror going on inside the cabin. Immediately after, the plane rumbled like it were growling, and at that point Isaac nearly got his skull cracked open by a stray piece of luggage that bounced off his head into the face of some kid sitting two rows in front of him, to the right side. Isaac closed his eyes, not wishing to see whatever happened, and not being able to see without pain now with the burning feeling on the side of his head, as the plane canted towards the left. Isaac stopped screaming and just kept his mouth open at an uncertain moment, and suddenly, a hand on his shoulder latched on, trying to comfort him.

‘’Good God, calm down!’’ Richard screamed out, himself barely adhering to the command, and the screaming and the weird mechanical failure sounds made his appeal to Isaac barely comprehensible. Isaac wasn’t going to have any of it, and just kept blurting out air. With another rumble, suddenly, the plane started vibrating as if it were thrown onto some lethal massage chair, and one explosion and crashing sound later, Isaac found himself looking at a hull breach where Richard once was, flames and snow making a (from an observer’s perspective, and not a participant’s) nice, if foreboding, change of scenery than the plane cabin full of screaming people. Of course, Isaac being there and experiencing things firsthand, he wanted to jump away from the large hole, but found himself unable to, courtesy of his seatbelt. Moments later, he felt as if he was in zero gravity, his stomach feeling in a vacuum, and then, alongside more crashing, he lost consciousness, his last glimpses of sight being that of faint flames, blur, and screaming people.

When he came to, from visions of explosions, screaming, and shouting, Isaac found his shoulders, face and chest peppered with blood, be it from the seats in front of him, or from the gash on the side of his head. Slanted down, he could feel wind blowing from the rip on the fuselage right next to him. Ironically, his rucksack sat right in front of his feet, somehow having found its place next to its owner in all the chaos earlier. Isaac felt an overwhelming need to smoke, be it a regular cigarette or a joint, but unfortunately for him, now really wasn’t the time. He fumbled with his seatbelt to free himself, but his eyes were darting around the scene. He could see some conscious, and one woman was even trying to wake up a flight attendant. And at that moment, he couldn’t help but think the whole sight would make for an excellent photograph.

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

I wouldn't mind getting some Yoshimitsu armor. Or just something to sell.

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

‘’Mister Beleth, I must congratulate you on your quick thinking. Your innovative way to cover the leak may have saved all our lives,’’ the Breton said with an excited tone, as he accompanied the tired Dunmer leaning on the railing on the ship while watching the coast and the dinghy. The ship was still tilted slightly to one side, courtesy of the damage and the amount of water it had received, but the crew was handling it. The Dunmer seemed nervous nonetheless, and the Breton did not understand why. Almost as if something was bothering the old mer.

‘’I appreciate your remarks, Mister Gawain, but I’m afraid I am tired, could we please talk another time?’’ Sadri replied, with a tired voice. In truth, he was not tired, nor was he nervous, but there was something about this ‘Mister Gawain’ that made him feel off. Like an itching feeling in his brain, or like a dog whistle, Sadri couldn’t stand the guy, even when quiet. Cilo was just young and talkative, and Sadri did not mind Cilo when he was quiet, but there was something about this particular Breton that just made an uncomfortable presence.

‘’Yes, yes, I understand, Mister Beleth. You’ve done much for us, and you deserve a rest… Who are those people?’’ As Marcel’s tone went from kindly to surprised, Sadri turned his head to catch the direction Marcel was voicing his question at, and then realized he was talking about the dinghy. Before he could say that it was just those on the lifeboat, he noticed another boat, a familiar design, and men in alien-looking armor. Sadri had a brainwave and realized this type of armor was not commonly used by men – rather, it was used by mer. Dunmer, to be precise. But what the hell were Dunmer doing here?

‘’Uh, you know, this looks like trouble.’’ Marcel quietly muttered, as he watched the wounded Dunmer from the ship talk to one of the armored warriors.

‘’I’m afraid it does, Mister Gawain. You any good with a blade?’’ Sadri huffed, sighing as he prepared his blade. He couldn’t feel like complaining anymore – they just couldn’t catch a break, and he wasn’t going to waste his breath about it. First, invaders from Akavir, then, an escape from a siege, then a sinking ship, now, bloody raiders. And he had thought of Smokey the Bear was trouble.

‘’I took lessons at college,’’ Marcel replied, not wishing to disclose his familiarity with the more visceral parts of his profession. Well, he did not want to remind himself more so. He preferred eating cake to gutting blood-drinking hags.

‘’Well then, hopefully you won’t need to put your skills to use,’’ Sadri said. ‘’Maybe they’ll handle this peacefully.’’

Then Sevine began fighting one of the Armigers and hacked the mer’s hand off. Sadri opened his mouth, as if wanting to say something, but just huffed out air. ‘’Or maybe not.’’

Following Sevine, the two Khaji’it in the boat also put themselves in action, with the one with the staff (What was his name? Bo’Dark? Go'Kart?) pulling off fancy tricks, which seemed more at home in a circus troupe rather than a mercenary company, but worked nonetheless. The other Khaji’it acted in a manner much more familiar to Sadri, simply hacking at his attackers with axes, and Sadri found himself rooting for that Khaji’it rather than the other one because of the like-mindedness Sadri felt he shared with the fellow.

As the fight raged on, the ship finally reached shore, and Sadri rushed, hoping to stop the fighting. Before he could rappel down, the other Dunmer on the ship attempted to do so, and ended up falling. In the adrenaline rush, Sadri ignored the fellow upon sliding down, and waded through the water for a few steps, and got on shore to see the Altmer, Keegan, bleeding. Sadri had sympathy for the illusionist, so he moved to mend his wound to the best of his ability with magic, but then he noticed a crazed bear in the midst of the fighting, which made him delay his movements for a moment. After a second wasted in surprise, he realized it was Solveig being herself. ‘’You go, girl,’’ the Dunmer mused to himself as he took a fleeting moment to admire the fighting woman. Why did he always go for the psychotic ones? Maybe it was the way they lived out their emotions, free and primal, something Sadri never was good at.

‘’Hold on, buddy,’’ Sadri muttered to Keegan, as he put his good hand on the wound while the enchanted stump started pulling out the bolt. The Dunmer could feel the Altmer’s skin slowly grow back under his calloused and battered fingers, and gave the mer a chuckle to take the fellow’s mind away from the pain. He huffed and looked away from the wound as his hands worked, then he noticed Solveig being moved by what looked like a gigantic gimp.

‘’Oh no.’’

Sadri ripped out the bolt in a hurry, and then rushed away from Keegan before he could tend to the rest of the magician’s wound, running towards the leather-clad brute. As he moved, he realized just how stupid what he was doing was, but Sadri knew that it was better to go with what you’re doing and suffer the consequences rather than stop and make a fool of yourself halfway through. Well, he didn’t know it was better – in fact, it was likely going to lead to a worse outcome, but nonetheless, the rest of the statement was true, and he wasn’t going to be that doubtful coward, at least, not this time around.

Just as the gargantuan sex slave wannabe threw down Solveig, Sadri made his dynamic entry, jumping at the giant gimp and smashing his forehead against the leather clad hulk’s nose as he came down, with the collision making an almost inaudible ‘crack’. He moved his head to face the recoiling gimp, and was promptly punched in the face by the said fellow before he could continue with his daring rescue. While he hadn’t lost consciousness, Sadri found the punch as a good warning to stop moving, and just lay on the ground, watching an Imperial, seemingly the young one from the company, come by and offer his hand to Solveig.

‘’Motherfucker.’’

Cold Front

Isaac Graham

Isaac Graham

^{Male | 30 | 6'1'' | 200 lbs
American | Journalist}

Profile

---

Appearance: Isaac has a rather full figure, with broad shoulders, a barrel chest and a thick neck, reinforced by a slight layer of fat. Despite his large physique, however, Isaac definitely doesn’t look much like the hardy type, mostly thanks to a facial expression that seems to say he’s not really focused, accentuated by a shit-eating grin. Isaac’s limbs are long, and his hands and feet are large, although quite soft and gracefully shaped despite their size. His unevenly tanned skin is soft to the touch; although his left lower arm and torso are peppered with small scar marks that disrupt the coloration and the texture.

Isaac has an oval face, with blue eyes and brown hair, that doesn’t bear anything worthy of note aside from faint pockmarks scattered throughout, and a small scar on his left cheek, courtesy of an amateurish removal of the skin tag that was once there. His aquiline nose crooks slightly to the right, thanks to a car crash. Isaac’s hair is swept back, mostly to cover the slight thinning of the hair on his scalp, and partially as an imitation of Clint Eastwood’s character in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. Above his lips stands a mustache of regular size, often accompanied by a five o’clock shadow thanks to his habit of procrastinating.

Background: Isaac is quick to point out that his life story hasn’t been all that worthy to tell. Whether that is true or not is up for debate, but it is an unmistakable fact that at the very least Isaac’s childhood was uneventful. His father, Samuel Graham, who would, in the future, be a veteran of the Second World War, was a high school teacher, and his mother, Margaret Graham, was likewise an elementary school teacher. The two, having met at a mutual friend’s birthday, quickly started dating, and married soon after, probably not wanting to take their chances for waiting for the ‘one’ in Montana of all places. Isaac was born not long after, in 1939.

One of Isaac’s earliest memories, around the age of 5, is that of his mother reading a letter from his father, who was in France by that time. Of course, Isaac can’t remember anything about the letter. He does, however, remember hearing about the nuclear bomb on radio, and his father hugging his mother by the entrance of the house. Overall, it can be said that, unlike many families, Isaac and his parents had gone through the Second World War without much damage. His father, a non-commissioned officer, had earned the Bronze Star in the war, and somehow, had come back unscathed, thankfully both mentally and physically.

After the war, his parents continued their regular jobs, and Isaac naturally grew up, with both his parents ending up being his class teachers sometime throughout his education. The sly Isaac used this situation to his advantage by playing his cards to get elevated grades – something his parents tried to avoid, to no avail. It was around this age that Isaac came to the conclusion that you could get things done without effort, if you knew where to position yourself. Some laws of physics from the physics lessons, twisted in his mind because of confirmation bias, also helped cement this outlook on life. Throughout primary and high school, Isaac showed himself to be sociable, and despite his acne-ridden face, quite a womanizer, at least, for his age.

Growing up proved tougher prospects for Isaac, however, as his parents got more and more irritated by his ne’er-do-well demeanor. Wanting to diffuse the tension and wanting to get away, Isaac somehow enrolled into the Richmond Professional Institute, where he found himself amongst likeminded students. Isaac actually found a passion in his life as he studied painting, a passion that started as an excuse to convince fellow students of the fairer gender to ‘strip down’ in his ‘art studio’ for ‘aesthetic’ purposes. Over time, Isaac’s means to create an intimate environment with the ladies became ends in themselves, and Isaac slowly took up photography, where a blossoming aesthetic concern merged with his basic instincts. For Isaac, the art became not only an excuse to be close with ladies, but also an idea.

Isaac, however, no matter how passionate, was lazy, and ended up having to drop out of Richmond – and, not wishing to go back to Montana, began wandering the states as some sort of drifter, one of the many that would appear in the counterculture movement. Isaac became a stringer, putting his enthusiasm about photography and people skills to good use. Often spending the least amount of effort to get the highest amount of money he could, the lad sometimes resorted to making up events to sell to papers. Eventually, he moved to San Francisco, where he hoped to immerse himself in the newly blossoming movements growing there. In San Francisco, he indulged in many things, ending up becoming part of the hippie and drug culture, where a newly found political responsibility, and encouragement from his friends, made him decide to go to Viet Nam as a war correspondent, to document the horrors and atrocities in the country.

Visiting during 1967 and 1968, Isaac quickly found himself out of his element in the hostile environment of Viet Nam, where he was consistently drained of his idealism. Isaac did not like the country – he did not like the people, he did not like the smell, he did not like the military folk, he did not like how it was harder to get drugs. The life-threatening dangers were just icing on top of it all. But, despite it all, he didn’t do a half bad job – one could almost say that the stressful environment served Isaac to get a hold of himself. But his avoidance of work reached an all time high, making up stories for his editor to delay things, and just stalling.

Isaac got his break from Viet Nam, and his big break, when he ended up in an ambush during the Tet Offensive, where he was wounded in a car crash caused by the sudden chaos of a landmine going off in front of a convoy. Isaac used this opportunity to take some nifty pictures of the horrors of war, despite his (admittedly not at all debilitating) wounds, and exaggerated his role in the ambush to get a nice paycheck from his editor. In truth, all he had done was to take photos of the wounded soldiers, damaged equipment, gore, and the muzzle flashes coming from the woods, but getting wounded by shattered glass allowed him to twist the story, claiming he was wounded by shrapnel.

Going back to America, Isaac spent about a year living off the money he got off from spinning his story to various news outlets and selling all the photos he got there, as well as reverting to his previous lifestyle of freeloading off fellow-traveler hippies. Slowly running out of money, he decided to convince his editor to get a travel permit, claiming he would be writing a series about Southeast Asia and the perspectives of the war in the area. In truth, he just wanted to see Japan. But would he?

Personality and Outlook: Isaac has a friendly, outgoing exterior. He presents himself as someone who encourages different perspectives and outlooks on life, and claims to have a strong sociopolitical insight. His relaxed, humorous attitude easily allows people to be at home alongside him. In truth, Isaac is pretentious, selfish, and is completely unaware of this. Having made himself at home in the growing tolerance and free spirit ideologies, Isaac often abuses his privileges as ‘vagabond’ and ‘revolutionary’ to throw courtesy out of the window. Believing that people should share everything, he often helps himself with supplies of others, and, being a thinker, he often simply shouts for others to do the work. Under stress, however, Isaac’s demeanor changes – much more quick thinking and much more active, he can even be helpful, but definitely drops the pretense of being friendly, and instead turns into an annoying, constantly complaining cunt. He constantly hits on women to see how liberated they are mentally, and if they are, often attempts to consummate a physical bond with his fellow traveler. Refusing his advances easily helps you get branded as a creature of the past, a misogynist, and a blind idiot. On the other hand, he defends women’s rights, claiming that they should be free to express themselves mentally and (not that he would say it out loud, but especially) physically.

Capabilities

---

Skills:

Man of the Commons – Isaac can easily become friends with people. He’s extremely sociable, even annoying to an extent, and is quick to help people get a better understanding of things. He has a penchant for choosing the ‘right’ side in an argument, often the populous one, for the majority’s opinion is never wrong, and can easily convince people.

Artist – Isaac’s got good visual memory, and can easily make competent sketches, or describe things, where they’re different, where they’re weak, where they’re strong. Skilled with prose as well, he can polish his bullshitting in a way that it becomes an intricate, believable, and competent story. He’d be one hell of a writer, if he had the mettle to actually pick it up.

Vagabond – Having spent a few years drifting from state to state, Isaac has a vague idea of how to stay in one piece in the wild – he can tell mushrooms apart, can easily identify hallucinogenic ones, and can prepare a simple campfire. Having had to deal with shady people in the past as part of his life as drifter, he can also swing a mean left hook, but doesn’t have much except his natural body strength to back it up.

Weaknesses:

Genius – Isaac’s probably got the right opinion, and if he’s wrong, it’s probably because everyone, including himself, is looking at things from the wrong perspective, and he’s willing to change perspective to put himself in the right position. Needless to say, most people don’t have the free mind necessary to appreciate this constant change of position.

Free Spirit – Isaac does not believe in responsibilities, nor does he believe in antique concepts such as property, or set-up work. A true Marxist, he does things he wants to do when he wants to, for he does not want to be alienated from labor, and will not be goaded by those still too deeply ingrained in the conservative Western mindset to be consistent about his actions. An impressionist, he also has a habit of expressing things as they appear to him, and not as what they are.

Child of the Spirits – Isaac enjoys communing with other planes of existence through use of enlightening substances, which coincidentally seem to be outlawed in society, and hard to come by in the wild. This lack of contact with his soul ancestors has put him on a constant edge, where he sees things as they are, very cruel, and lacking in chi.

Inventory

---

• A duffel bag, with two spare sets of clothing tucked inside and four spare sets of underwear
• One Kodak Instamatic 404 Camera
• Two Kodacolor 126 Film Cartridge Rolls
• Toothbrush
• Journal
• Ballpoint Pen
• Pencil
• Passport
• Seventy five pellets of mescaline
• Five sheets of high powered blotter acid
• Wallet, containing 200 dollars, ID, and some phone numbers

Opinions

---

Athena – Isaac always puts women who have decided to free themselves from the bondage of unhappy marriage in high esteem, and Athena is no exception. He appreciates her mental durability and willpower, and thinks she’s got quite the derriere as well.

Jack – He may be a Muslim, but Isaac doesn’t care about that. Isaac knows better than to judge Muslims, and bears some kind of sympathy against the man for being a representative of the mystical, free Orient that Isaac yearns for and wants to explore.

Julian – He’s a soldier, and Isaac doesn’t really like soldiers, but he’s also black, so Isaac can sympathize with the fact that he was likely a victim of circumstance. He still feels kind of hostile, though.

Charlotte – A strong, independent woman, just the way they should be. Although she was born into riches, she has thrown that away and made her own legacy, and Isaac thinks that only adds to the woman’s attractiveness.

Lulu – Nice rack. Oh wait, who? Oh, her. Isaac respects her for working and going against the domesticated lifestyle endorsed to women, but doesn’t like how her job forces her to emphasize her looks. Boy, her looks.

Edward – Edward reminds Isaac of his youth, as a questioning, introspective, smart young boy. While he doesn’t look like he amounts to much right now, Isaac feels he’ll be able to reach greatness in the future, provided he survives the experience.

Cold Front

Sorry I was absent, lost internet-computer access. Will get to opinions today.

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

Hell hath no fury.

@Leidenschaft

Like a woman smacked?

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

@MiddleEarthRoze, here's what La'Dansharr knows.

Hider

She accompanies initiate Aventus Aretino for exercise.
The listener and another assassin, a large man called Chews-on-Barks, just returned for a "historic contract".
The latter two regrouped with Dansharr and Aretino, joins them in surveying the armiger camp.

@gcold

Cold Front

Character Sheet

Isaac Graham

^{Male | 30 | 6'1'' | 200 lbs
American | Journalist}

Profile

---

Appearance: Isaac has a rather full figure, with broad shoulders, a barrel chest and a thick neck, reinforced by a slight layer of fat. Despite his large physique, however, Isaac definitely doesn’t look much like the hardy type, mostly thanks to a facial expression that seems to say he’s not really focused, accentuated by a shit-eating grin. Isaac’s limbs are long, and his hands and feet are large, although quite soft and gracefully shaped despite their size. His unevenly tanned skin is soft to the touch; although his left lower arm and torso are peppered with small scar marks that disrupt the coloration and the texture.

Isaac has an oval face, with blue eyes and brown hair, that doesn’t bear anything worthy of note aside from faint pockmarks scattered throughout, and a small scar on his left cheek, courtesy of an amateurish removal of the skin tag that was once there. His aquiline nose crooks slightly to the right, thanks to a car crash. Isaac’s hair is swept back, mostly to cover the slight thinning of the hair on his scalp, and partially as an imitation of Clint Eastwood’s character in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. Above his lips stands a mustache of regular size, often accompanied by a five o’clock shadow thanks to his habit of procrastinating.

Background: Isaac is quick to point out that his life story hasn’t been all that worthy to tell. Whether that is true or not is up for debate, but it is an unmistakable fact that at the very least Isaac’s childhood was uneventful. His father, Samuel Graham, who would, in the future, be a veteran of the Second World War, was a high school teacher, and his mother, Margaret Graham, was likewise an elementary school teacher. The two, having met at a mutual friend’s birthday, quickly started dating, and married soon after, probably not wanting to take their chances for waiting for the ‘one’ in Montana of all places. Isaac was born not long after, in 1939.

One of Isaac’s earliest memories, around the age of 5, is that of his mother reading a letter from his father, who was in France by that time. Of course, Isaac can’t remember anything about the letter. He does, however, remember hearing about the nuclear bomb on radio, and his father hugging his mother by the entrance of the house. Overall, it can be said that, unlike many families, Isaac and his parents had gone through the Second World War without much damage. His father, a non-commissioned officer, had earned the Bronze Star in the war, and somehow, had come back unscathed, thankfully both mentally and physically.

After the war, his parents continued their regular jobs, and Isaac naturally grew up, with both his parents ending up being his class teachers sometime throughout his education. The sly Isaac used this situation to his advantage by playing his cards to get elevated grades – something his parents tried to avoid, to no avail. It was around this age that Isaac came to the conclusion that you could get things done without effort, if you knew where to position yourself. Some laws of physics from the physics lessons, twisted in his mind because of confirmation bias, also helped cement this outlook on life. Throughout primary and high school, Isaac showed himself to be sociable, and despite his acne-ridden face, quite a womanizer, at least, for his age.

Growing up proved tougher prospects for Isaac, however, as his parents got more and more irritated by his ne’er-do-well demeanor. Wanting to diffuse the tension and wanting to get away, Isaac somehow enrolled into the Richmond Professional Institute, where he found himself amongst likeminded students. Isaac actually found a passion in his life as he studied painting, a passion that started as an excuse to convince fellow students of the fairer gender to ‘strip down’ in his ‘art studio’ for ‘aesthetic’ purposes. Over time, Isaac’s means to create an intimate environment with the ladies became ends in themselves, and Isaac slowly took up photography, where a blossoming aesthetic concern merged with his basic instincts. For Isaac, the art became not only an excuse to be close with ladies, but also an idea.

Isaac, however, no matter how passionate, was lazy, and ended up having to drop out of Richmond – and, not wishing to go back to Montana, began wandering the states as some sort of drifter, one of the many that would appear in the counterculture movement. Isaac became a stringer, putting his enthusiasm about photography and people skills to good use. Often spending the least amount of effort to get the highest amount of money he could, the lad sometimes resorted to making up events to sell to papers. Eventually, he moved to San Francisco, where he hoped to immerse himself in the newly blossoming movements growing there. In San Francisco, he indulged in many things, ending up becoming part of the hippie and drug culture, where a newly found political responsibility, and encouragement from his friends, made him decide to go to Viet Nam as a war correspondent, to document the horrors and atrocities in the country.

Visiting during 1967 and 1968, Isaac quickly found himself out of his element in the hostile environment of Viet Nam, where he was consistently drained of his idealism. Isaac did not like the country – he did not like the people, he did not like the smell, he did not like the military folk, he did not like how it was harder to get drugs. The life-threatening dangers were just icing on top of it all. But, despite it all, he didn’t do a half bad job – one could almost say that the stressful environment served Isaac to get a hold of himself. But his avoidance of work reached an all time high, making up stories for his editor to delay things, and just stalling.

Isaac got his break from Viet Nam, and his big break, when he ended up in an ambush during the Tet Offensive, where he was wounded in a car crash caused by the sudden chaos of a landmine going off in front of a convoy. Isaac used this opportunity to take some nifty pictures of the horrors of war, despite his (admittedly not at all debilitating) wounds, and exaggerated his role in the ambush to get a nice paycheck from his editor. In truth, all he had done was to take photos of the wounded soldiers, damaged equipment, gore, and the muzzle flashes coming from the woods, but getting wounded by shattered glass allowed him to twist the story, claiming he was wounded by shrapnel.

Going back to America, Isaac spent about a year living off the money he got off from spinning his story to various news outlets and selling all the photos he got there, as well as reverting to his previous lifestyle of freeloading off fellow-traveler hippies. Slowly running out of money, he decided to convince his editor to get a travel permit, claiming he would be writing a series about Southeast Asia and the perspectives of the war in the area. In truth, he just wanted to see Japan. But would he?

Personality and Outlook: Isaac has a friendly, outgoing exterior. He presents himself as someone who encourages different perspectives and outlooks on life, and claims to have a strong sociopolitical insight. His relaxed, humorous attitude easily allows people to be at home alongside him. In truth, Isaac is pretentious, selfish, and is completely unaware of this. Having made himself at home in the growing tolerance and free spirit ideologies, Isaac often abuses his privileges as ‘vagabond’ and ‘revolutionary’ to throw courtesy out of the window. Believing that people should share everything, he often helps himself with supplies of others, and, being a thinker, he often simply shouts for others to do the work. Under stress, however, Isaac’s demeanor changes – much more quick thinking and much more active, he can even be helpful, but definitely drops the pretense of being friendly, and instead turns into an annoying, constantly complaining cunt. He constantly hits on women to see how liberated they are mentally, and if they are, often attempts to consummate a physical bond with his fellow traveler. Refusing his advances easily helps you get branded as a creature of the past, a misogynist, and a blind idiot. On the other hand, he defends women’s rights, claiming that they should be free to express themselves mentally and (not that he would say it out loud, but especially) physically.

Capabilities

---

Skills:

Man of the Commons – Isaac can easily become friends with people. He’s extremely sociable, even annoying to an extent, and is quick to help people get a better understanding of things. He has a penchant for choosing the ‘right’ side in an argument, often the populous one, for the majority’s opinion is never wrong, and can easily convince people.

Artist – Isaac’s got good visual memory, and can easily make competent sketches, or describe things, where they’re different, where they’re weak, where they’re strong. Skilled with prose as well, he can polish his bullshitting in a way that it becomes an intricate, believable, and competent story. He’d be one hell of a writer, if he had the mettle to actually pick it up.

Vagabond – Having spent a few years drifting from state to state, Isaac has a vague idea of how to stay in one piece in the wild – he can tell mushrooms apart, can easily identify hallucinogenic ones, and can prepare a simple campfire. Having had to deal with shady people in the past as part of his life as drifter, he can also swing a mean left hook, but doesn’t have much except his natural body strength to back it up.

Weaknesses:

Genius – Isaac’s probably got the right opinion, and if he’s wrong, it’s probably because everyone, including himself, is looking at things from the wrong perspective, and he’s willing to change perspective to put himself in the right position. Needless to say, most people don’t have the free mind necessary to appreciate this constant change of position.

Free Spirit – Isaac does not believe in responsibilities, nor does he believe in antique concepts such as property, or set-up work. A true Marxist, he does things he wants to do when he wants to, for he does not want to be alienated from labor, and will not be goaded by those still too deeply ingrained in the conservative Western mindset to be consistent about his actions. An impressionist, he also has a habit of expressing things as they appear to him, and not as what they are.

Child of the Spirits – Isaac enjoys communing with other planes of existence through use of enlightening substances, which coincidentally seem to be outlawed in society, and hard to come by in the wild. This lack of contact with his soul ancestors has put him on a constant edge, where he sees things as they are, very cruel, and lacking in chi.

Inventory

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• A duffel bag, with two spare sets of clothing tucked inside and four spare sets of underwear
• One Kodak Instamatic 404 Camera
• Two Kodacolor 126 Film Cartridge Rolls
• Toothbrush
• Journal
• Ballpoint Pen
• Pencil
• Passport
• Seventy five pellets of mescaline
• Five sheets of high powered blotter acid
• Wallet, containing 200 dollars, ID, and some phone numbers

Opinions

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_{To be completed following selection.}

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

Those that aren't in the dinghy, that were left behind... Are we not jumping ship now? Cuz I really wanted to throw Sevine's ass overboard.

@MacabreFox

Sadri's superior sailing skills (oh wow the alliteration) can't let you do that.

Nah, that wouldn't have nearly as much consequences.

@gcold

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

<Snipped quote by Frizan>

Bitch, Solveig took a Kamal fist to the head and emerged okay. That mast better pray.

@Leidenschaft

Solveig's jaw will have suffered more than the rest of the party at this rate.