Rusalka — Roleplayer Guild

Whiteout, that's all she could see around her for miles upon miles stretching across the frostbitten lands, a thick veil of snow and sleet obscuring her vision, whipping about her hardened face and blistering her fair skin with the callous chill of another infamous winter, here in a hold much deserving of its name, Winterhold. The ice storm had increased in severity since the woman first tread upon the grounds coated in frost, thick layers of it too. Just behind her lied a military outpost, a few closely clustered barracks of wood and cracked stones having been erected out here in these godsforsaken plains forever cursed with winter's fury, surrounded by thick trunks of freshly powdered pines standing tall but buckling amidst the rancorous winds terrorizing the tundra. There were three sentry towers overlooking the outpost, each positioned at the corners of the triangular layout, torches burning bright through the frost laden storm, the eyes of the enemy ever watchful, but not once did they catch eye nor hair of the Forsworn, the dreaded child of the Reach. Now, aside from the whipping winds roaring through fair Winterhold and chilling the woman's bones, not a sound befell the old fortress of Fellhammer, silence...dead silence. If one were to cross the scene, what words would they utter with hushed tongues and eyes ablaze with fright....as they stared headlong in shock upon the mounds of mutilated corpses littering the fort's grounds and dyeing the pure white frost into a frothy, red slush? Yes, bodies, hundreds of them ripped to shreds, limbs, entrails, and sinew scattered to and fro across the bloodstained walls that still shrieked with the horror that befell it not long, a werewolf attack, and how much Tarja relished the screams and lamentations as she tore into their flesh, squished their skulls in her ebony claws, yanked their intestines through their throats and feasted as a queen upon their ravaged carcases...leaving the rest to freeze out in the callous chill of Skyrim's most brutal of seasons. But no sympathy for those she slaughtered without giving quarter, for they were slayers of her kin, werewolf hunters known as the Silver Hand, mainly just a pack of uncivilized brigands, yet the killing of were-folk alike gained the Forsworn's ire, and that of her Prince Hircine. May their blades never harm a wolfblood ever again and may Hircine see that they are devoured by beasts of the Great Hunt. Twas a long journey from the fort left in ruin to the town, a journey that saw many a scrape and squabble against a few unruly frost trolls and ice wraiths, so easily dispatched by her quick prowess with a bow, but soon Tarja found herself shambling coldly into the forlorn town, gazing from the cowl of bear fur draped over her towards the immense structure that stood ominously and yet valiantly amongst Ysmir's furious winds, the telltale College of Winterhold, a place for mages and spellcasters alike to learn and practice their craft with peace of mind, well...as much peace of mind someone could get smack-dab in the middle of Stormcloak territory. Even now, it felt as if that gas-bag Ulfric was breathing down her neck, making her ill with anger towards the fiend and his alleged Sons of Skyrim, those responsible for the deaths of many near and dear to her...including one she so deeply cherished with all her heart, a heart shattered upon the bloody, sharp rocks of the Reach one horrible eve of Frostfall, a heart now shadowed...by hatred. But enough dabbling in the haunting memories of the past. She needed to get out of this gods damned storm. Ah, and what luck there was a tavern nearby. Pushing the door open, she startled a few, noting some of them to be clad in that wretched shade of blue. Stormcloaks no less. Praise Hircine she didn't have a dagger drawn to their necks already, or an arrow in their....chests. She approached near them, but gave not a glance or a word, why should she give the murdering bastards any sincerity? She discovered an empty table in the midst of the tavern and sat down, unfastening the hawk-skull broach that held together her thick pelt and let it fall revealing her armor, not to mention her face, said to be quite the fairest among the Forsworn. Aye, but not as lovely as the face of the woman who made her a Forsworn.

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Blasphemous Rabbit

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