The Shadow Under Fort Sutch
---------


Things were slowly going back to normal.

The momentous events of the Crisis were undeniable and unforgettable, but as time marched on ever forward, so too did the memories of fire and Oblivion slowly fade. The Empire, battered and bruised, laid low the Prince of Destruction and His unholy legions with the help from her sons and the Divines. They paid a heavy price, for the glorious line of the Septims ended with the shattering of the Amulet, and Martin's ascension to the splendors of Aetherius. The Ruby Throne lies unseated, the Crown unwore. The Scepter that commanded red legions to conquest commands them no more. The last divinity of Tiber's line stands petrified in the bloodlines' last moment of glory. A grave price indeed, one that would echo and change the Empire's fate forever, but it was a price they willingly paid. To maintain balance and order in the world of mortals. The populace all over the Empire contributed heavily into itz rebuilding. The toils of restoring the glory that was Cyrodiil slowly helped ease the shock and the horror. The Crisis would never be forgotten, yes, but in time it would be fade.

Things were slowly going back to normal.

From Bruma to Leyawiin, from Cheydinhal to wounded Kvatch, news spread of the collaboration between the three Guilds of Anvil. Even wounded Kvatch has heard, and the Empire bristled with curiousity and excitement. Even the other provinces took ear of the Expedition, headed by the famous Oedipus Nebraska, he who is renowned in the land for his deeds of daring. The eyes of this veteran adventurer has seen something in the darkness below Fort Sutch, and is eager to drag it into the light of discovery. All manner of characters and personalities are drawn to this expedition. The thrill of journeying forth in a strange land? The riches and rewards of fame it allures the world with? The discovery of secrets long buried by the ancients, whether it be damning or enlightening? Or the chance to create history with their own hands?

The Shadow under Fort Sutch detests the light from above, and will test those who invade if they are strong enough to even uncover its barest of secrets.....

------------
OOC: Okay, the introduction is finished. Since DE is the first poster, please, do your magic and let's get this show on the road! *roars*

Character Intro: Lord Drakothemir.

The sky was overcast and foreshadowed a storm and the sun, rather uncharacteristically for a port town, hid behind the dense black clouds. Strikes of lightning could be seen in the distant horizon above the sea, and white seagulls croaked their shrieking songs as they flew by in despair.

Drakothemir stood at the balcony of Castle Anvil as a noble guest for the royalty there. He’d been in the presence of the rich and the influential more times than he cared to even possibly remember. It wasn’t surprising. He is his own ancestor, archduke of towns, owner of lands(of those not his own). He is what others should be. He is analytical and without pity, but also pragmatic. Intelligent. Reasonable. Once he was the political heart of Empire, Draken Decumus, once known for his integrity, his principled fight against corruption and festering diseases of rebellion. Now, he is a simple nobleman watching the sun set as night was ready to arrive once more.

Centuries ago, Anvil was a short collection of ramshackle huts famous for standing as a violent haven for pirates, refugees, thieves, thugs, and men and women of ill intent who happened to wash up as weeds in Anvil Bay. The once glorious Empire, distracted by the activities of the Camoran Usurper and his Undead horde, seemed unable to stop the relentless pirates of Anvil as they assaulted merchant ships throughout the Abecean Sea. Those were the times where pirate captains stalked the seas. Where a certain Toradan ap Dugal and his organized crime called the Red Sabre relentlessly drilled their nefarious campaigns.

It was the glorious days where Drakothemir was commander of the navy, and fought alongside Commodore Fasil Umbranox in a famous battle along the coasts. The blood flowed as water in those days, and Drakothemir was one of the men responsible for torching the entire town and forcing the population of the un-lawless out into the wilderness . . . as animals. The days where his ship fell into the Malestrom of Bal and his entire crew sent into Oblivion. The old days. The ancient times. Times long past.

Lord Drakothemir allowed himself a cryptic smile. His courtesy—the hallmark of a legit nobleman—was effortless, yet somehow it seemed always to fascinate the low-class mortals. He folded his arms at his chest and stared into the horizon. The world is changing. Tamriel is changing. The Oblivion Crisis had struck a blow to the very heart of the Empire. In one fell swoop the Septims had lost their lives through assassination and sacrifice. And Drakothemir missed most of it, slumbering under the earth for twenty years as the gates opened throughout the provinces.

Things were not going back to normal, despite what people believed. After Uriel and Martin perished, the septim line is forever gone. Drakothemir never imagined he would live to see the day, then again, it wasn’t beyond impossible. But those insects who believe Cyrodiil will be safe and peaceful for long are ignorant. Such children they are. Drakothemir shook his head. It was almost too ridiculous. Even for a man like him.

This is Lord Drakothemir, Nobleman of the Vladmirius family:

Once a great dark crusader in the early centuries of the Third Era, and an even greater vampire,
Drakothemir is a black shadow walking the province. Secret nemesis of the Knights of the Nine, shadowy villain of the Vigilantes of Stendarr, oriflamme of his clan, and to the known world a simple nobleman with riches and wealth beyond counting. He is the very personification of awe.

Today marked the day where the new guild would be recruiting a mass congregation of creatures from all backgrounds and races and colors and stripes. It wouldn’t surprise him. The Heart of the Empire seem to have invited an unwanted group of tourists ever since the Martin gave his life to send Mehrunes back into his hellish realm of Oblivion. Even more appalling other than the fact that some would sooner taint the Imperial name with their very presence, was that they would tarry moe than they should and seek to grasp some measure of fame only to disgrace Cyrodiil's soil with their rotting corpses.

“All I can say, however, is that after this Expedition is done, the Adventurers Guild would never be the same!"

Drakothemir remembered reading about the interview. The people were buzzing about it like flies drawn to a flame. Of course, nothing in this world will be the same, Drakothemir mused. While the scattered cattle look to the stars for hope, Drakothemir sets his age-old gaze to the bottomless pits and dark caverns of the earth. Not for respite, no, not this time. But for the hidden secrets buried deep within Fort Sutch. Secrets that had been laid there since the times of Alessia, long before Drakothemir was even conceived by the blessed(and damning) powers of Molag Bal.

Tulas Feramo knew of these secrets. Drakothemir heard of him years ago, when the man was but a simple apprentice to the arcane arts. But the One-Gazer not only knew of these secrets, he exposed and wrote about them! And the blind academics, riled by his claims, had saw fit to put the man in chains for heresy and contempt. Drakothemir found it truly amusing. It was a sad turn of events when the man who saw fit to share with the world his discoveries, or perhaps, a fabrication, would be soon await his own death for flapping his tongue. Of course, such things happen. He would be the perfect candidate to die. Just as all the other adventurers who would venture into the depths of darkness to uncover their mind’s desires. Drakothemir's sole and only regret was if the man died without serving his purpose. But the truth is: Better him than me.

Like Tulas, many of these thrill-seeking apes would sooner get themselves trapped in a cave of flesh-eating zombies or their souls stolen by Daedra for entertaining their rather simple-minded tastes for adventure and glory. And their bones would simply decorate the forgotten cob-webbed corridors and trap-laced rooms. But for Drakothemir, it would simply be an endless buffet that would serve him well until he resurfaces back with the secrets he himself believes may also be hidden there. If there is anything of worth truly hidden there. It is possible and likely, but not certain. As most knew, there was only way to find out.

The tyrannical sun and its blinding light had been devoured by the darkness of night, and Drakothemir scanned the stars for opportunity. Not like the hopeless children, no. But as a man with a vision. He would set out for Anvil, not to burn it to the ground as he did centuries ago as an Imperial commander and not as a nobleman. He would do so as a common man. A lion dressed as the sheep . . .to walk among the sheep . . .into what possibly could be a great slaughter.

Intro Post:

The Empire was going to rot, Drakothemir knew of this. Their shining star had been plucked from life itself and sucked into a destroyed gem. Uriel and his kin are in Aetherius now while his people scurry about to vie for political power. Drakothemir couldn’t care less. He had retired to his family castle after reawakening and assumed his hereditary title as a nobleman. The riches acquired throughout the endless decades, coin harvested from treachery and the spilled blood of the unworthy, made him one of the wealthiest being in Cyrodiil. Amid the growing corruption endemic to the Empire, his vast stuffed coffers and robust social nature could have bought the allegiance of any given number of politicians; he could, perhaps, as his sister had done before, have bought control of the empire only as a secret governor.

But a man of such heritage, such cultured nature, could never stoop to be lord and master of a festering garbage heap, leader of a horde of scavengers bickering over scraps like Chancellor Ocato and the rest of the High Council; the Empire, to him, was nothing more than this. Misfortune begat from the fiery pits of hell itself had fallen, and the Empire had collapsed out of favor.

Instead, Drakothemir would have used all the immense power of his fortune— and the vastly superior power of his unique integrity—to begin purging the world from this so called “Empire.” He would have been the is the icon of a stellar movement, its public face. To become the living symbol of honorable justice. This would have been the public story. This is the story that even Drakothemirr, in his sad and weak moments, almost believes. The truth is more complicated. Drakothemir is... different. He doesn't remember quite when he found this out; it may have been when he was a young fledgling, betrayed by those closest to him. It was once said to him: “You don't understand what friendship and loyalty is.” And he didn't. It wasn’t even a concept. It had been all so preposterous that he hadn't known what to say. In fact, he has never been entirely confident when people mean when they speak of loyalty or platonic bonds.

Love and joy, hate and anger-—even when he can feel the energy and passion of these feelings in other people, they translate in his darkly altered perception to other kinds of emotions. The ones that make sense. Perfect sense. Jealousy he knows, and possessiveness and hunger for power, too: he is fierce when any creature, even of kin, encroaches on what rightfully belongs to him. Intolerance, at the recalcitrance of the Tamriel, and at the undisciplined and pathetic excuse for lives of those who dwell in it: this is his mundane state.

Spite is bliss: he takes considerable pride in the suffering of his foes if they so deserve it. And pride? Pride is a virtue in an aristocratic nobleman, and vexation his undeniable right: when any dare to impugn on his sovereignty, his blood-honor, or his deserved position atop the natural hierarchy of society. And moral controversy makes perfect sense to him: when the inveterate disarranged affairs of ordinary mortals refuse to conform to the obviously simple structure of How Society Is Supposed To Be.

He is entirely incapable of giving a single care in the realms of what any given person might feel for him. He cares only what that person or cattle might do for him. Or to him. Very true, in his point of view, he is what he is because other people aren’t just very... interesting. Or even, in a sense, entirely people. Just Cattle. Sheep.

All around him were these sheep. Flocks of them. Belching and crying, scurrying about to devour their pastures of bread and cheese, and to drink their fill ale and beer. This was the Harborside of Anvil. But not only did the foul-mouthed sailors urinate the air with their drunken protests and rather idiotic songs of Cyrus and the Fall Of Dagon, there were tourists searching to sign and sell their lives for the Adventure's Guild.

Drakothemir, discarded from his nobleman's clothing(which were left at the Castle) and wearing nothing but a dark shirt and a black robe to cover it, along with black boots to cover his pale feet, frowned measurably at the sight. And he could see from his peripheral vision that there were those frowning at him from afar. Perhaps enjoying the scenery and filling their minds with a potential robbery of the dark-robed man. The set of peculiar rings on his fingers would be a shiny coin, they must be thinking. Or that fine saber dangling from his side could cleave skulls in two, they might imagine. But Drakothemir simply strided along the edge of the harbor with hands tucked behind his back, and his hood pulled back to dispel the aura of mystery about him.

To the public eye: He is no nobleman. No crusader. No warrior. No politician. No aristocrat. And above all, no pureblooded vampire. He is a simple man curious about joining the Fighter's Guild. And that what he was selling, to his chagrin, though, as he was now a target for the group of pirates who were likely setting sail to Hammerfell. Of course, one last holdup would not be too much for them. Especially with the set of rings Drakothemir had clothing his cold fingers.

His face bespoke uncertainty and fear, and his every stride was unconfident and clumsy. Twice now he nearly bumped into a group of overfed Nords carrying supply creates to their ships, or a tight-knit pack of Redguards carrying fierce-looking cutlasses. He was prey for the unrelenting.

No one would truly seek out the death of a common Imperial man, not when the Empire was rebuilding itself, not when the Adventuter's Guild were recruiting.

Westley:

The wind was howling ferociously, and the land was ensnared in darkness. With no light but that of the moon and stars to guide his path, Westley cautiously walked down the main path to Anvil. He had traveling since the wee hours of morning, when the sun barely crept over the horizon, and with no horse or carriage to take him to his destination, Westley was exhausted from the long journey. Oh, how he longed to smell the salty air of the Anvil docks. He dreamed of socializing with the good-natured people of Anvil, and laughing along with his new friends over a mug of ice-cold beer at the tavern, but alas, this dream would never come true.

Westley was different. He was not like the mortals. They were so fragile and sensitive. Westley was given the blessing of his master Hircine, and despite the tremendous increase in his strength, stamina, and senses, deep inside Westley could only feel hatred for himself. In his eyes, he was a soulless monster, who merely craved the taste of human flesh to sate his unnatural hunger. The ring of Hircine may have prevented his forced transformations on the day that the moons rose in the sky, full and glorious, but it did not silence the inner-wolf, and Westley's sanity was slowly degrading, day by day.

Westly stopped, and took a deep breath. He looked up at the star-filled sky. Memories of sitting in the grassy plains by the Imperial City with his father Corvus, listening as he was told tales of how every great hero became a star, and thet the greatest heroes became constellations. Each constellation told a different story. A different struggle. A different battle.

Those painful memories died in the dreaded fire with Corvus though. Westley could still remember that horrible day. Smoke rose from every part of the forest he was ensnared in, and the flames ate everything in their path. His father had rushed to his aid, and saved Westley from the fire, but was dragged back into the horror. His father had thrown himself up into a dirt hill, but was thrown back down to his death by thier so called family friend. Westley could still hear his father's screams as he plummeted to his death, and the cold, hard, unforgiving ground killed him upon impact.

Corvus had a dream. He wanted to become an adventurer, make his name noticed out there. He wanted to provide money to feed his son. But that was all stolen away from him, and even though he was dead and gone, Westley carried on the memories of his father. He had read in the Black Horse courier about how the adventurer's guild was recruiting, and how they were planning to go on a journey to the lost city of Sutch. He wanted to fulfill his father's hopes and dreams, and he had found himself here, walking along the road to Anvil.

Westley snapped back into reality, and continued down the dusty trail. The soft beams of the moonlight were cold against his light skin, and the wind wasn't helping. Every step he took kicked up dust, causing him to cough and take desperate gasps for air. He fiddled with the ring of Hircine, but didn't take it off of his finger. It was too risky, but he was so far from Anvil still. Surely a willing transformation wouldn't do to much harm.

Westley slipped the ring off of his finger, and slid it into his pocket. He let the inner-beast break free, and became one with the wolf. He had control over the beast, at least when it wasn't full moon, so not a worry went through his head. Thick, black fur began rapidly growing all over his body, and he cold hear a sickening cracking sound as his bones shifted shape. All of his muscles bulged out, and became larger, and four Large fangs rapidly extended in his mouth, and all of the rest of his teeth became sharp. A pointed muzzle grew from his face, and he ears became pointed. His eyes began to glow a brilliant shade if bright-blue, and claws as sharp as daggers sprouted from his fingers. He could feel the strenght coursing through his veins, and he let out a blood-curdling howl as he stood in the moonlight.

Westley took off at the speed of lighting, and continued heading down the dirt path to Anvil. He hoped he wouldn't cross paths with anyone, he had no intentions of frightening innocent bystanders. He kept his breathing rate steady so he wouldn't slow down from loss of stamina, and carefully observed his surroundings to make sure there were no fiends with malicious intentions towards him. Then again, everyone wanted to kill the werewolf. After all, since when are werewolves the 'good guys'?

He was so busy with his head in the clouds again, that Westley didn't notice he had halted to a stop, and a Redguard woman was pointing a pitch fork at him and screaming for help. He took note of his surroundings, and noticed the large city gates, bearing the emblem of the city of Anvil. The woman began screaming even louder, and that was his cue to hide for cover. Westley bolted through the gates of the city, there were a few drunk men making attempts to navigate through the city, and they noticed Westley and screamed for help. Westley ducked behind a house, turned back into a human, and snuck into the chapel as if nothing happened. Hopefully the guards will dismiss this werewolf sighting as hallucinations from the excessive amounts of alcohol that the men had been drinking last night. One sober witness wasn't enough to justify the story....

OOC: Y'know DE, you should've brought Kraven along for this. It would've been interesting!


GM POST

It was Captain Habach's annoying insistence of the second-in-command taking the last desk-shift that Milon found himself straining his very bones to calm down one woman, and a band of six drunkards all of them hysterically ranting about ... a godsdamned werewolf entering the city proper. The woman, a portly horse-whisperer by the strange name of Swanky Dorea, shrieked with literally convulsing conviction about an ugly, demented thing that looked like a wild, walking mass of Nordic pubic hair, and with eyes that glowed a menacing turd-yellow under the light of the Twins. At this, Milo almost lost his nerve and would've guffawed, but kept an impartial face. Apparently to her, it stank like one too, and with all fours like a pathetic shadow, it bounded towards the direction of the Docks. The stench, she screams, was still ripe and raw like uncircumsize-

Milon's will caved in, and he laughed out loud at the absurdity in her claims, mercifully cutting off what she would've said in the ensuring howling.

Gods, he thought. What a strange woman!

He asked that she be serious, and shot her many questions about its anatomy, mental state, subtle behaviours and all the important things regarding a wild animal. With her apparent bland look, he guessed he used too many 'big' words that obviously passed right over her head. He was forced to tone it down for her, and the answer he got was certainly the same. An ugly face of nightmares, horrid stench, muscled torso, and claws. He turned to the other guard, Cleitus, who went to the aid of Swanky Dorea, and claimed that he, too, did not see thing. But rather, a fast shadow that disappeared like a daydream.

How rather funny that he should talk of daydreaming , thought Milon spitefully. He was supposed to be guarding the main gate, along with Camilliana, but instead we find both of you sucking your faces off of each other inside the gate-tower. Idiots. If they were there doing their duty, and if Dorea's claim were true, then we would've catched the creature there and then as it bolted through the Main Gate. Through the Main Gate itself! What a disgrace on the name of the Watch! We could've spared ourselves this banshee that shrieks now!
He turned to the six drunkards.

All of them were asleep, holding each other like a child's doll, saliva sticking to each others' faces. And from the snores they made, they probably had too many. Too many to wake them up now.

He cursed a streak that made Dorea clap her hands stupidly and beam at him with a toothless grin.

Ever since the announcement of the Expedition, people undersyandably had their tension high up in the sky. Excitement was electrifying the air during daylight, and the populace discharged it into the night by revelling more than usual. More than was necessary, really. There had been more barfights and minor scale gang skirmishes ever since and the Watch had had their hands full.

But this... this case of werewolves appearing in the town? Absurd as cannibalizing himself. No way it could be true. And if, by some rotten chance, that it was, then this'll be the day, no doubt. He ordered Cleitus to assemble a patrol, escort Dorea out, and hurl the six drunkards for later questioning. He didn't know why, but he felt that at the very least, he should check things and make sure everything was okay. Make sure no thieves are lurking about, no gang activities, no nothing. Plus, Cleitus and Camilliana would need the punishing patrol for their incompetemce. When the squad was assembled, they marched out and split into two groups of three. Milon had the two soon-to-be-punsihed patrolling behind. Good enough kids, he relented. But kids nonetheless.

While they patrolled, Milon made sure to lash them with stern words and rigid assessment of the possibilty of them being discharged. While the three patrolled on, they encountered an Imperial entering the chapel. There was something peculiar about him, something Milon couldn't put his finger on. He marched towards the chapel, and ordered the two to wait outside. No need to bring them along, he decided.

The chapel, even under the gaze of midnight, had an undeniable glow that lightening its innards up in a soft of ambient of glass and sconces. He found the Imperial lounging about, and Milon decided that he seemed familiar. He squinted his eyes, and then he realized.

Its one of the Fighters Guild's former boys. Still remember when he got here, don't know if he remembers me. But there was a differennce from the boy all those years ago and the man currently standing right in front of him.

He announced his presence with a "Good evening, son," and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"You're Westley, aren't you? The former Fighters Guild member, yeah? All those years ago? What brings you back to this place, boy?"

Westley tensed up when a man firmly gripped his shoulder from behind. He turned around to see a vaguely familiar face questioning him.

"You're Westley, aren't you? The former Fighters Guild member, yeah? All those years ago? What brings you back to this place, boy?"

Westley tensed up even more, but the fact that this man wore a familiar face and he couldn't remember his name was even more stressful. To top that, the man was wearing Anvil guard armor, and since the panicked woman at the stables most likely ran for the city guard as soon as Westley bolted for the gates, an investigation may have been going on.

What if they find out I'm a werewolf? What will I do? They'll surely kill me. I never hurt anyone though, maybe if they find out I can prove to them I've never harmed anyone but bandits and thieves. This man, he looks familiar. Why is he here. Should I run? No, that's too suspicious. I've got to get myself out of this...

Westley blankly stared at the man for a moment before answering. At the same time, he stuck his hand in the pocket with the ring of Hircine in it, and discretely slipped it onto his index finger.

"Yes, I'm Westley, former member of the fighter's. I'm not sure who you are sir, but I'm simply here to join the adventurers guild. I read in the black-horse courier that they're recruiting, and goin' on an expedition to a place called Sutch, and so I venture there in hopes of findin' fame and fortune in my father's name. Look friend, I only came into the chapel to cure a disease I contracted from a rat. I must hurry and get a room at the inn before all of them at taken."

Westley ignored the man's response, and walked towards the door of the chapel.

"Look, I'm sorry, but I have to go. If you have anymore questions, meet me at the Count's Arms tomorrow morning. I'd be happy to sit down and have a good conversation with you over a cold beer, but if I don't hurry and pay for a room, I'll be sleeping on the streets. I'm sorry I'm not bein' the most social person right now, but I really must go. I'm exhausted from my trip here, and I really want a room at the Count's Arms. I don't like the flowing bowl."

Once again, Westley ignored the guard's attempt to question him further, and left the chapel. He was about to break off to the inn at a sprint, when he noticed two other guards standing in front if the chapel. So it wouldn't seem suspicious, Westley kept calm and walked the rest of the way to the inn.

Suddenly the thought struck him that he was far to anti-social towards this man to not cast any suspicion, and rushing out of the chapel didn't help either. Westley knew that this man would come to question him later. The man looked so.....familiar.

This man recognized me, but why can't I remember his name. Everything here is so familiar, yet so.....foreign.

When Westley reached the inn, instead of entering he sat upon the cold, stone steps and fell into deep thought. He strained to find the name that went with the familiar face, but his attempts at remembering the man's name were futile. He sighed and entered the inn.

The inn was a bit crowded. Probably foolish men and women looking to join he adventurer's guild so they'd get their cut of the loot. Westley approached the middle-aged redguard man standing at the front counter, and pulled out fifteen septims.

"I'd like a room for the night sir." Westley gently placed the septims down on the wooden counter, and the redguard's eyes lit up greedily as he snatched the gold, pocketed it, and handed him a key.

"Head upstairs. It's the second door on your left."

Westley turned and began clumsily making his way up the stairs. Following the redguard's instructions, he entered the second metal door on his left, and groggily set foot into a small, well furnished room. He threw his pack down and passed out in the bed, knowing that the familiar man would seek him in the morning.

OOC: This is just to get Buffy into town and set the stage for her to begin interacting with others of our group.

Buffy:

With Superian settled in to the Anvil stable, Buffy pressed a generous handful of coins into the Redguard’s hand. His dour look brightened as he replied, “We’ll take great care of your mare.”

“Thank you Ernest. I look forward to hearing glowing reports from her.” The Bosmer then turned and stepped off for the city’s main gate.

*

“Good afternoon, Magister. I bring tidings from the University.”

“Greetings, guild sister,” welcomed Carahil warmly as she poured tea for the two elves. “How was your trip?”

Buffy knelt on the chair’s seat instead of sitting - a habit that accommodated her diminutive physical stature. Accepting the tea, she replied, “Three uneventful days. Oh, Guildmagisters Adrienne Berene and Sigrid Firewalker both send regards from Skingrad and Kvatch respectively.”

“Thank you,” replied the Altmer graciously. “And how is Boderi Farano?”

“The Grandmaster of my Order is well and, as I’m sure you’re aware, I am here on her tasking. The Council of Mages is interested in whatever ancient magicks might be buried beneath Sutch.”

Carahil nodded. “That the Council would send a Knight of the Lamp to investigate speaks to the potential of this discovery.”

The smaller elf lowered her eyes. “You humble me, Guildmagister. With your permission, I shall make my quarters temporarily here in the guild hall. In the morning I'll ask around town and attempt to join the expedition hosted by the Adventurers Guild.”

“Of course,” replied Carahil. “My facilities and resources are at your disposal. You will find that this pending expedition has attracted quite a number of mercenaries, treasure hunters and adventure seekers. There have already been several fights and even alarming talk of a werewolf somehow getting into the city before dawn this morning. Watch yourself, for our guild’s charter does not apply to the Adventurers Guild, much less all the free lancers this expedition has attracted.” With that, the elegant Altmer stood. Her black and gold gown rustled softly as she left the wood elf alone in the small library.

“Acadian,” Buffy whispered, “what in Mara’s name have we gotten ourselves into?”

GM POST

Milon let the boy slip off his grasp, offended by his snubbing. From the blatant panick, and the brutally obvious lies he spun, it was clear that he hided something. His gut told him so, and common sense dictated that no matter what you do, you do not display suspicious behaviour infront of a guard, let alone the second-in-command. The boy wanted to run away when he got out, Milon saw the coilling tension himself. But Cleitus and Camilliana's presence stopped Westley in his tracks and he opted to just walk instead.

The two saw the erraticness displayed by Westley and looked to Milon with questions in their eyes when he went outside. He shook his head at them.

"I want you two and Corius at the Count's Arms early in the morning. Make sure to keep him in your sights. I want him for a questioning. For now, let the boy sleep."

They resumed their patrols.

**
Early at the morning, when people were having their breakfast, the three guards stationed at the Counts Arms finally saw their quarry. Ignoring the fact that he almost looked like a criminal being herded off to the dungeons, which in a sense, he technically was. They also ignored what protest he, or anybody had, and stonily led him to the Anvil Dungeons. The trip there didn't take long. The gates of the castle were opened for them, and down they descended into the deeps.

The room held for questioning and filling complaints was bare and practical. Torches lined up at the wall gave an orange illumination. There was a front's desk in the middle, variated by a cluster of all sorts of paperwork. To the side, a bench cushioned with soft leather. By the bench was an oaken door, ancient and spartan. They bid Westley to enter, and when he did, the guards dsipersed. The same practicality of the outside enroached on this room, but there were several trophies that honored the deeds of the dweller. The most glorious among them was a taxidermied head of a timberwolf, its face forever barred in an expression of torment. This timberwolf was an infamous menace at the roads; with the help of an esteemed hunter, Milon hunted it down and took its head.

Milon sat at a furbished oaken table, and he was a reading a copy of the Black Horse courier. He looked up and smiled at Westley, and set his copy down.

"I apologize if us Guards prove to be an inconvience for today, son," he said. "But there's been a horde of questions I wanted to ask you yesterday night, but first things first!"

He motioned towards a chair. In front of that chair was all sorts of silver plates containing hot food that seduced anyone with its exotic scents. There was a bottle of Tamika 422, ice cold, and an engraved silver cup.

"Please eat first before we begin. Once again, I apologize for this severe inconvenience, but there's been an alarming reports of werewolves entering the city. Your person was the closest to its last known location, and I've wanted to ask you about it, but please, eat first."




-----------------------------------

OOC: Hey Phoenix, since you're going to introduce your character, we might as well interact!


Ylenno

The wood elf was smoking a roll of Hackle-Lo outside the Flowing Bowl Inn, inhaling and exhaling the blessed numbness that comes with the eastern indulgence. The wisps of his smoke hung around him, and slowly danced their way to nothingness. With each puff, it left a burining trail down his throat and chest, and he remembered his first roll with Caele- his sister. They managed to knock one off of a shop in Bravil, and their young lungs didn't take the invasion of smoke well. He remebered that he was almost paralyzed, and the panick on Caelefensil's face was absolutely unforgettable. They took a beating when the caretakers found out, but it was well worth it. Ylenno laughed at the memory.

Everything was gut-wrenchingly homely in the Anvil Docks. Those who lead lifestyles of high or mediocre regard might think him crazy to even consider this place 'homely' but they didn't see past the surface of poverty. They look here and say 'what a bunch of uncouth savages miring in their own filth,' or 'what a stain on the glories of our city'. He was familiar with the arrogance of the high-borns but for him, they couldn't smell their own waste on their knees when it comes down to it. Pompous fools that think themselves above the 'rubbish' that 'pollutes' this world. Painting themselves above morals and decency just because they have more coin on their pouches. There may be exceptions, and there might be a genuinely uncorrupted 'high-born' out there, but Ylenno hasn't met those exceptions yet.

Until then, all is normal as it can be for a former thug.

He squashed the Hackle-Lo beneath his feet and lit up a new one, welcoming the paralyzing fire. The Twins and the maiden stars from above had taken Magnus' throne hours ago, and by his estimation, it would be midnight soon. Most people are probably asleep right now. The Inn he was staying in, the Flowing Bowl, held no interesting things at the moment. There weren't any decent brawlers inside, and what women that stayed there were either poor folk or beauties well past their prime. The Fo'c's'le on the other hand was quite the opposite. There'd been a handful of cute-looking women he saw inside, and chances are there'd be more further in. Such a shame that only 'seamen' are only allowed there.

He once tried to set himself up as a retired seaman and they saw right through him. Not only are you supoosed to be a CURRENT seaman, but you had to have connections too. What a bother that the only decent brothel here was uptight in their rules and regulations.

But he guessed it was for the better. He'd need the energy for the sign up in the Adventurers Guild tomorrow. He coudln't possibly ignore the brouhaha Tamriel made when they announced the Expedition. Thee rewards promised instantly hooked him in, and the promise of an adventure unlike any other came second. Besides, he'd heard from his sources that the Orum Gang's on the prowl for him. He'd needed some way to at least catch their scent off of him. There'd probably feelers sent in at the Adventurers Guild, but he's determined to cross that bridge when it comes to it.

The last embers of the second Hackle-Lo died with a seething fog that danced itself into nothingness. The Twins and their contigent of stars watched from above as he entered the Flowing Bowl, unaware of a scream that heralded an arrival.
--------------------------------------------------------------

The morning came with a whisper, and Ylenno spent his roaming about Anvil. The Adventurers Guildhall was opened, but he had no intentions to enter just yet. He'd decided to just wander and see what Anvil has in store for a tourist's eye. On his way to nowhere, he spotted an Imperial being escorted by three guards to somewhere.


Poor b@stard , he thought. Whatever you did, you did it amateaurishly for the guards to hound you.


He resumed his wandering, taking note of the seaside beauty that was Anivil, until the afternoon came and a fresh wave of signees entered the Guildhall. He supposed it was time for him to join, and he made his way towards the alabaster portal, when a shock of blonde hair and blue eyes passed him by and he was immediately reminded of Caelefensil. He snapped to the walking form of the woman, a wood elf like himself, and took in the sight of her longbow and a seemingly familiar gait. He was sure he saw that particular elf before, and his gut pointed to Bravil, but he couldn't place his finger on it. He once again looked towards the wood elf as she entered the Mages Guild, and the realization smacked him hard he almost gasped.

That was Buffy! Old Daenlin's apprentice! What was she doing here, he thought. But then he laughed. She's probably here for the same reason as I am. He didn't had any encounters with the other elf, but he knew enough to know that face and that blonde hair. She was the talk of Bravil after all and some of the orphans back there looked up to her as an example. If she did became a Dame in some court, then she he had to hand it to her.

He trailed off in his thoughts, lost within the nostalgia of Bravil, when he bumped into a person. The collision was sudden and strong, and he almost fell down. He catched his balance however, and looked up at the person he collided into.

He had to slightly crane his neck as the person was an Altmeri lass. Immediately he put on his roguish grin and made an attempt to help her out.

"Hey there, you alright? Didn't see you there, for a moment." He appraised her in a way that wouldn't be considered rude and clicked his tongue. "I'll be damned. A High Elf in heavy armor! That's a first! I'm Ylenno, a pleasure to bump bodies with you," he laughed. "What's yours, if I may ask?"

In the distant horizon, Elaninde could see the big gates of anvil. This sight awoke so many memories, this was the place she had lived most of her life in. Ever since her parents were slaughtered. She had never thought she would come back here, but she knew that this was her real chance. Sure most people in Anvil knew who she was, but the same could not be said for most other citizens of Cyrodiil. She remembered the day she chose to wander around the countryside, helping those in need. But this city was the one she chose not to visit.

Ever since she read in the Black-Horse Courier that the adventurers guild were hosting an expedition to the city of Sutch she had been thinking about what it would be like to go through the gates of Anvil again. Just when she was close enough to see the outline of the Anvil guards she saw a shadow sprinting trough the gates like they were but thin air. She didn't think more of this and continued to walk towards the gates. after entering she could hear a woman screaming about a werewolf running into the city, could this werewolf be the same shadow Elaninde saw. She stood there a little while and thought about it but ended up with thinking it was best not to worry about it this late. She made her way through the city and entered the Count's Arms just as a male imperial went up the stairs. Just as he got to the top of the stairs Elaninde saw something shining on his index finger, she knew she had seen it before, and then she remembered, the ring of Hircine. HE was the werewolf.

As he moved through the back alley, Tarrick was beginning to worry that he had possibly bitten of more than he could chew with this job. It wasn't that he had picked too tough a mark, not by any means; picking drunkards' pockets in the crowded, chaotic confines of the Count's Arms and then slipping out the back was easy work, especially with all the out-of-towners coming in for this Adventurer's guild expedition. No, the problem that he had was that he had made the mistake of sticking all of his winnings into a single purse which, unless he held a hand down on it, jangled with every other step he took. Knowing the watch would be suspicious of a man out late with jangling pockets, or of a man out late with one hand constantly pressed to his hip, he was trying to get through the streets silent and unnoticed.

He reached the edge of the alley, having skirted a puddle, and peered into the street beyond. There appeared to be nobody about, and he was about to move when he saw a lean grey shape streak along the other road, towards the chapel, running on all fours. He frowned at the sight, wondering if it was a wolf, maybe, but paid it no more attention, deciding to head for his home on the docks. He could head up to the castle and sell the jewellery he had pilfered on to Orrin at the Flowing Bowl, but for the moment he decided it would be easier and safer just to head for home.

Tarrick slipped past the dock gate by taking the old drain tunnel that the watch had been systematically ignoring for years, emerging into a small grassy clearing behind some of the docks' buildings. He took a left, scurrying along the backs of the buildings. Reaching the one he wanted to find, he stepped around the front and unlocked the front door of the one-storey structure.

His mother was asleep in her chair, snoring underneath a blanket, and Tarrrick padded across the room towards his own bedroom. He was halfway across it when he heard his mother say; "And what hour do you call this, then?"

He bit back a curse; he could slip by patrolling guards without any problems, but somehow his mother had an almost supernatural ability to detect when he was in the house.

"Hello mum," he said, swivelling on the spot and adopting a disarming smile. That was a bad idea.

"Don't you 'hello mum' me," his mother said, gaze focussing in on the pouch at his belt. "You've been up to no good, haven't you?"

Tarrick hung his head.

"Yes," he admitted; he could lie to anyone in the world, but not his mother.

"Merciful gods, what's wrong with you, boy!" his mother cried, waving her hands in a gesture of despair. "Why can't you be doing a proper honest job like a good young man of your age?"

"I'm good at this job," Tarrick protested. "Come on, I get us plenty of money, don't I?"

"Coin's no good when it comes from thieving," his mother said. "You're going to be getting yourself honest work from now on, boy, or your poor mother's going to be dying of shame."

She waved a scrap of parchment she had pulled from her shawl.

"You see this?" she said. "Adventurer's guild say there's a big job they want lots of folks doing, you should go join them. You're too damn lazy to do a normal job so I suppose the only way you stand a chance of making an honest living is going to be delving into ruins and getting treasure."

"But...what if something happens to me when I'm doing adventuring?" Tarrick protested. "Who'll look after you then?"

"I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself, and you know it, boy," his mother said. "And no son of mine's making a living as a thief when he can put those talents of his to honest ends, oh no! You're going to that guildhall tomorrow, and you're going to sign up as part of that expedition, you hear me? Otherwise your mother's not putting up with you any more and you're going out on the street."

Tarrick was quiet for a moment, before he nodded. Anything in an old dungeon, he decided, could not be worse than trying to disagree with his mother when she had something she wanted him to do.

"Yes mum," he nodded. "I'll sign up at the guildhall tomorrow."



OOC: Apologies, but I've no more time to write any more so I'm cutting it short there. I'll try and catch up on anything that happens tomorrow but I really must go.

Westley:

Westley spent the night tossing and turning because of the endless nightmares of his father's death. Coming back to Anvil triggered all of the painful memories that he had been running from for so long to return, and when the guards took him to the castle to interrogate him in the morning, it added on to the heaping amounts of stress already on his shoulders.

The familiar man pointed to a table with silver plates, platters, and cups of mouth-watering foods and drink.

"Please eat first before we begin. Once again, I apologize for this severe inconvenience, but there's been an alarming reports of werewolves entering the city. Your person was the closest to its last known location, and I've wanted to ask you about it, but please, eat first."

The Familiar man's expression was more stern than his tone. Upon inspecting the food, Westley noticed that most of it was his father's favorites. Shock ensnared him as he eyeballed the food, and he became somewhat distressed.

Is this man trying to remind me of my father's death? Is this his way if breaking my will so I'll admit of my lycanthropy? This is just sick. I won't stand this...I can't take it! The nightmares were bad enough, now he's toying with me like a car and mouse?! I won't stand for this!

A rage built up in Westley like he's never felt before. For a brief moment he lost control, and flipped over the table while screaming in agony at the painful memories that had haunted him. He turned to the familiar man.

"DO YOU NOT THINK THAT THE NIGHTMARES OF MY FATHER'S DEAth HAUNT ME ENOUGH? DO YOU NOT SEE THAT I'VE ALREADY BLED MYSELF? YOU TAUNT ME WITH MY FATHER'S FAVORITE MEALS, AND STAND THERE DEMANDING I EAT THEM?! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME!"

Westley sat down the chair and buried his face in his hands when the tears began to exit his eyes and roll down his cheeks. Westley looked back up t the mess he made, and silently got up and cleaned everything before sitting back down in the chair, and wiped the tears from his face. The familiar man stared speechless, a surprised look in his face.

"I'm sorry. Please excuse my outburst. So you want to know about this werewolf? I knew you'd question me. I was the only person wandering the streets when the werewolf was spotted. I'd be suspicious to. But please, hear me out. If you're suspecting me, please reconsider your suspicions. I saw a shadow pass by when I was entering the chapel. The only reason I was out that late is because I had just gotten to Anvil. I was already tired, and I but nervous when I got here because I had been chased down by a few animals on my way

Westley took a deep breath before continuing.

"The shadow that passed by the chapel really unnerved me, and at the same time I had heard some screaming in the distance. I went to the chapel to cure a disease I contracted from a rat. I really wanted a room at the count's arm's because I heard about a few brawls breaking out at the flowing bowl, and rumors if an all-female gang robbing men over there. I was tired and stressed from the trip, and when you came questioning me about why i was here, I snapped. I'm sorry if I offended you last night. It was kind if you to let me sleep this morning before taking me for interrogation."

Westley fiddled with the straps of his shirt before continuing.

"I came here to join the adventurers guild, because I seek fame and fortune. Please, I don't mean anyone harm, and I'm sorry if I alarmed you."

He slyly changed the subject before continuing.

"I have a question for you sir. You look so familiar, but I can't remember your name. Who are you"

Westley eyed the familiar man closely, expecting him to be able to recall all of his lost memories of his life in Anvil.

Drakothemir:

Drakothemir entered the Count’s Inn, draped in black robes and boots that rivaled the darkest of pits. In direct contrast, his skin was a regular pinkish hue and his face was that of a young man who perhaps had never seen battle before. His eyes, however, spoke quite differently. They were vivid. Alive. Hungry, even. But he wasn't thirsty, he had just fed hours ago.

He traversed through the inn all the way toward the counter where the Innkeeper stood, though as he walked by he could see a brown-haired woman seated on the far south corner of the establishment. She had green eyes, white skin, and was average in the sense of beauty. But what captured his attention was not her physical appearance, but rather, the attire of the order which she represented: the Vigilantes of Stendarr. He smiled courteously at her while deep inside he wished he would melt the woman’s flesh from her very bones.

The Vigilantes of Stendarr: their fire is going to die. Drakothemir is sure of this. For years now since the Crisis they had turned into the self-appointed paladins of the weak and the pitiful, and hunters of the various 'abomination' that plague the world. But one day that will come to an end. And the foolish idiots, blinded by their own hypocrisy, are unable to see the truth of this. It was necessary and just that this is so, just as it is necessary and just that the instrument of their downfall be the vampire. While the Vigilantes of Stendarr rise to spread their light, eventually darkness will overcome it.

Drakothemir and his people are above sad concepts as black and white, good and evil. The only true virtue of note is this: The Knights of the Nine and the Vigilantes of Stendarr saw their abilities as an end in itself; Drakothemir knew that it was a means to an end. And that end is power. In their humble lies and noble-concealed deceptions, the Knights of the Nine craved power as much as everyone else. Drakothemir understands this. They claim to serve the people, but he remembered in the past centuries how they had removed themselves from contact with the very mortals they swore to serve and how easily corruptible they were. Now they stalked the corners of their profane chapels, mouthing their false ideologies while putting to practice the exact opposite of the mercy they preach.

For four centuries since his birth, Drakothemir knew no other life. He was born in darkness, and in darkness, he would die. Because the dark is precious. The first gift of darkness is concealment: his true face remains shrouded beneath his skin, the blood-thirsty cravings of his heart veiled even deeper. But the greatest concealment dwells not in preserving covert truths, but in concealing the truth of others and the truth from them. The dark preserves Drakothemir from what he dares not know.

Oh, Drakothemir thought, how the dark is precious. The second gift is fine illusion: the caress of gentle visions in night’s embrace, the wonder that imagination yields to what would crumble in the day’s unforgiving light. But the grandest of such illusion is that that dark is temporary: that every dark night surrenders a bright day. Drakothemir knows it is an illusion because it is the day that dies. It is the day that is temporary. Day is the illusion.

Darkness is my ally, said Drakothemir as he smiled at the proprietor of the inn to order his meal.

The third is light itself: as days are explained by the nights that separate them, as magical stars are compared by the vast infinite void through which they thrive in, it is the dark that embraces the light, and brandishes away from itself. With each victory of the day‘s light, it is the darkness that emerges victorious. The darkness that is eternal. The dark is precious, and it is patient. It is the dark that breeds cruelty into righteousness, transforms revenge into justice, that grains hatred into compassion, that poisons faith with the seeds of doubt.

The dark can wait, because the slightest collapse of tears will cause those seeds to mature. The rain is near, and the seeds will grow, for the darkness is the soil which they dwell. The darkness’ patience is unending. The dark is precious and it can wait, and it always is victorious. It’s always victorious because it is everywhere. And even the brightest light can cast the deepest shadow.

So, Drakothemir mused, how can the Vigilantes drag one into the light . . .when light itself surrenders to darkness?

Macalla Vibecke:

The Dark Brotherhood was destroyed. Most of them. Every day she only heard rumors of more death. The Black Hand leadership had been destroyed by a traitor and all those brothers and sisters . . .slaughtered.

There were more sanctuaries in Cyrodiil, scattered all over the province. And while there were many assassins of the guild alive, she was one of the dead. Dead to the Brotherhood. She hoped that none of them would seek to find her, for her blood and soul by right, belonged to Sithis. The Night Mother's children would surely want to pursue her after he deeds.

For years she had skulked in the shadows. That hidden blade. That moving darkness. The dagger which slips quietly into the bones to extinguish the last vestiges of life. Their bodies crumble, and their souls are sent to the void . .. A lifetime of suffering. She watched them cry and shudder, and pray that they might wake up from that awful dream which was nightmare made into reality all the while she was in her own nightmares of regret. Compassion. Love . . .for the lives she had taken.

But no more. Life for a former assassin was going to be difficult, and only a liar would claim that no more blood would be shed. The truth is that if one’s entire talent was killing, then it would forever be their curse. But at times, killing wasn’t entirely a bad thing. Not when it is for the greater good our out of necessity. No more will the innocent perish by my hands. I will always walk in the light of Stendarr, and drag the darkness into it whenever I can, thought the woman. She couldn’t imagine a life without killing. The art has forged her life onto that. But she knows she can make something as dark as taking a life onto something noble.

Macalla Vibecke, in her lithe frame drowning in the shapelessness her white robes of the Vigilantes of Stendarr, glared through narrow, green eyes. Her short brown hair, hung loose from her head in a creative fashion. Nestled at her side was a silver longsword, which she carried with her everywhere she went. It was a fine blade, ideal for slaying witches, vampires and werewolves. And this expedition into Fort Sutch would give her the opportunity to further walk into the light, and away from the darkness. She would be a beacon for her people and those who are too weak to defend themselves.

“Some food, please.” She spoke in a soothing, simplistic manner of speaking that could easily lead anyone to believe she never was allied with the Dark Brotherhood. Let alone one of their notorious killers.

She rested her elbows on the counter as she waited for her food at the Count’s Arms. It had been a year since her salvation and membership into the Knights of the Nine and the Vigilantes of Stendarr. There was peace in her heart ever since she finished her pilgrimage to the Wayshrines. And ever since the Oblivion Crisis ended, the threat of Daedra was being rooted out wherever they hide. But today, the strong warrior of the light that was Lady Vibecke would forgo a hunt for abominations for a nice plate full of food. Her mouth was watering at the smell and sight of her order being prepared, her silverware was already in her hands.

The plate came. It was a nice steaming order of diced apples, melted cheese with a loaf of bread, a pile of fresh vegetable and chicken breast to add to the flavor. Macalla’s eyes gleamed with light as she was given her food. And just as she was about to bite into it, the door to the entrance opened and all of the loud chatter of the tavern died down into an awkward silence.

A hooded figure entered the inn wearing a black robe, not even bothering to glance at those around him. There was an aura of polished cultivation and yet something else that came along with it. An air of leadership came from this man. His expressive orange-colored eyes were set straight ahead to a flight of stairs as he marched to the rooms.

I wonder who this man is . . .is he here for the Adventurer’s Guild?

Elaninde did not get to sleep that night, the thought of the werewolf that could be just one door away kept her up. Who was he? Why was he here? She thought about this for a good three hours before sleep overtook her. The following morning she went to the adventurers guildhall and sold some things she had gathered on the way to anvil. Suddenly while she was counting her money she felt someone bumping into her, she turned around and saw a wood elf struggling to maintain his balance.

"Hey there, you alright? Didn't see you there, for a moment." he said after getting his mind straight again

"I'll be damned. A High Elf in heavy armor! That's a first! I'm Ylenno, a pleasure to bump bodies with you," the wood elf laughed.

"What's yours, if I may ask?".

While she was confused as to how the bosmer had been able to avoid to see her she answered in her most polite voice:

"Hi my name is Elaninde, I'm here to join the adventurers guild. What are you doing here", still a bit dizzy, the wood elf answered:

"Same thing, but if I may ask, how come you're wearing heavy armour and not one of those fancy dresses that most altmer wear". Amused by the question, she answered with a humorous tone:

"I grew up constantly running away and in need of protection. Because of that I learned to value the protective capabilities of heavy armour". The wood elf opened his mouth to ask something else but decided he wasn't going to get any better answers.

The air was already bustling when Kayla entered the gates to Anvil. Before she could even shake off Skyrim's snow, she had to board yet another carriage to the Imperial City from Bruma, and from there to Skingrad. While passing Kvatch, her legs ached for exercise.

A letter by courier had arrived for her one crisp morning at her home in Whiterun. Curious, she broke the seal and read the contents. Convincing her husband to allow her to travel all the way to Anvil with no easy feat, but in the end she prevailed. Treasure beyond her wildest dreams! If she got her cut, she could set up herself, her husband, and their future children for life. In theory.

She was advised to stick to the main roads and since she had a deadline, she obliged. Her eyes lingered longingly at the Ayleid ruins and forts that dotted the main roads of Cyrodiil. Once she arrived in Anvil, she was more than ready to get her hands dirty.

Before the guards let her in, one looked her over and warned, "Be careful. We had a sighting of a werewolf. Wouldn't want a pretty Altmer like yourself to be its next victim."

Kayla just rolled her eyes and entered the gates. She kept her leather armor on, and her sword, Dawnbreaker, in the black metal scabbard. A soft leather flap hid the shining jewel from prying eyes. She kept her bow and quiver of arrows in the large pack she had brought, slung over her shoulder. Her smaller pack held changes of clothes, her potions, and an empty canteen.

Anvil was beautiful. The cobbled stone streets, the buildings made of pale stone... Kayla was particularly in awe of the weather. It was warm! Kayla stood in the middle of the street for a few moments before snide remarks began to get her attention. Their odd, crisp accents only confused her more, and she walked until she saw a small wood elf exiting a large building with a blue sign shaped like a large eye.

"Excuse me, but where can I get food and rest?" In comparison, her accent sounded much odder than those around her. Ekscoos meh, boot where kin ay git food an drest?

She cringed at the harshness of her own accent, and asked the wood elf again, "Might you know where the Adventurer's Guild is, as well?" Mite yoo no where th' Adventurer's geeld ees, as well?

She turned crimson as she waited for the small elf to speak.

Drakothemir:

Lord Drakothemir saw the Vigilante woman looking at him, and after he rented the room for himself, he walked forth toward where she was seated, and sat himself down beside her. He tapped a finger on the counter, and made two orders of fine Tamika wine, and waited for his order.

OOC: Phoenix, do you mind cutting the Oedipus entering and starting to talk bit? Half the group isn't even in the guildhall yet.

Tarrick Kathram

"So where did you get these?" Orrin asked as he looked at Tarrick's haul of jewellery that he had brought to Castle Anvil's forge to fence.

"Count's Arms," Tarrick said, leaning on one of the workbenches. "Just picked them up from the folks who're here for this Adventurer's Guild expedition."

"Should've guessed," Orrin said, the Thieve's Guild fence holding up an emerald-decorated ring to the light to inspect it. "I've had a lot of them in here asking to buy weapons and get gear repaired; been a good few days for business."

He looked at Tarrick, who was currently wearing his leather armour and had all his equipment stowed in a pack with him.

"You know, if I didn't know you better, I'd say that you were going along on that errand too," he said, raising an eyebrow.

"I am," Tarrick confessed. "My mother wants to make an honest man out of me, and it's either do what she says or get kicked out onto the street."

"You need to learn to say no to that old harpy," Orrin said with a shake of his head.

"You take that back!" Tarrick snapped. "My mother is a fine woman and I'll not hear a word against her, understand?"

Orrin snorted.

"Mummy's boy," he murmured. "Anyway, I'll give you three hundred septims for the lot of them."

"Sounds reasonable," Tarrick said. The jewels and gems would be sold on at a vast profit for the guild to others, with Tarrick merely serving as the supplier of the goods, but that was still enough to supply his mother with food and board for several weeks while he was away.

Orrin nodded as he handed over a purse of Septims.

"Try not to get yourself killed out there," he said. "You're good at bringing money in."

"I feel so very loved," Tarrick replied, stepping out of the forge. "See you soon, Orrin."

He stepped out of the forge, into the main part of the castle. His route out took him past one of the rooms used by the guards for questioning of prisoners and he paused as he heard someone shouting about being taunted by their father's favourite meal. He hurried on a moment later, before he could arouse the suspicion of the guard standing at the doorway, frowning as he did so and wishing he had the time to stick around to try and hear the rest of the conversation, even if it was simply to work out how that sentence made sense.

He made his way across the bridge that connected Castle Anvil to the rest of the city, and into the main streets, making for the guildhall of the Adventurer's guild; he decided he should sign up first and then drop off his earnings at home afterwards. As he was passing by the gate of the city, he half-noticed a pair of elves in conversation, a high elf and a wood elf was what he guessed from the marked differences in their heights. He overhead the high elf saying something and froze.

"You know, I appreciate that this sounds like an odd question," he said, butting into the conversation slightly. "But I really need to ask. How did an Altmer like you end up speaking with a Nord accent?"

Buffy:

Buffy found Astia Inventius on the docks, trying to capture the sun’s last rays before it slipped into the Abecean. Under the comforting eye of the North Gate guard, the elven mage carefully described the painting that Master Wizard Raminus Polus wanted to hang in the University’s lobby. The contract between Mages Guild and artist was then finalized with a bag of gold and handshake.

Looking forward to a hot bath and clean sheets, Buffy approached her guild under long shadows.

He was hard to miss as he stood under the large tree in the city square. Long white hair stood erect on one side of his head while tattoos adorned the shaved other half. He wore a padded leather jerkin and was quite tall for a Bosmer. The broken nose and roguish look seemed familiar. Buffy slowed her pace and tried to recall where she had seen him. Yes, he was a brother of Bravil and fellow orphan! She remembered now that he and his sister were separated at a young age, as sometimes happens to orphan siblings. Years later he returned, but tragically his sister had died. He associated with some of Buffy’s darker friends, like Nordinor and Ungarion and had a funny name. . . Ylenno!

As Buffy turned to go back and talk with her fellow Bravilian, his attentions were captured by an Altmeri lass in plate armor – most likely a member of the Fighters Guild or here for the Adventurers Guild expedition. Ylenno deftly maneuvered himself into the path of the high elf, then exploited the resulting collision and introduced himself to her. Buffy smiled and whispered, “Good luck, brother Bosmer.” She then slipped into her guild.

*

The forest elf reveled in the intoxicating thunder of hooves, speed and power as the mare beneath her flew past the scrub bushes, golden grass and occasional tree along the cobbled road. As the large pink glows stabled at the Horse Whisperer blossomed into view, the speeding horse sensed her rider’s reluctant wish and slowed, gradually to a walk.

Buffy knew her mare was built for speed and they both relished the opportunity for a morning ride followed by a leisurely cool down. Once Superian’s tack had been stowed and Buffy had groomed her, the pair shared an apple and watched the sun appear on the eastern horizon.

*

After sweet rolls and apple berry juice with her guild mates, the buckskin mage stepped from her guild for the second time that morning.

The sound of the city gate closing drew Buffy’s eyes to a new arrival in Anvil. The leather-clad Altmer looked heavily burdened by her large pack. A long sword rode on one of her hips.

Buffy approached to offer help.

The other elf took notice and her long legs quickly closed the distance.

Up close, this elf, like most of her race was every bit of two heads taller than Buffy. A toss of her head cleared the auburn mane from her face to reveal eyes as soft, deep and brown as those of a fawn. As the Altmer began to ask for directions to food, a bed and the Adventurers Guild with a thick Nordic accent, the wood elf looked up and studied the attractive face carefully to verify the golden skin and delicately curved ears of a high elf.

“Forgive me for staring,” Buffy stammered. “I. . . you don’t sound like an Altmer.”

“I get that a lot,” she replied with a pleasant but practiced manner. “I was orphaned and raised by Nords in Skyrim.”

“I’m an orphan also, raised by the city of Bravil.” The smaller elf extended a hand. “My name’s Buffy.”

The Altmer who talked like a Nord slipped her golden hand past Buffy’s and grasped the wood elf’s forearm in a warrior clasp. “Kayla,” she replied, then adjusted her large pack heavily from one shoulder to the other.

“I’m sorry,” Buffy quickly said, “I was just heading for the best inn here in Anvil.” She then added with a chirp, “Let’s go.”

Before Kayla could reply, a Redguard bedecked in the leathers and trappings of a rogue or adventurer that Buffy had not noticed approaching said, "You know, I appreciate that this sounds like an odd question, but I really need to ask. How did an Altmer like you end up speaking with a Nord accent?"

“I’m sorry,” Buffy quickly said, “I was just heading for the best inn here in Anvil.” She then added with a chirp, “Let’s go.”

Before Kayla could reply, a Redguard bedecked in the leathers and trappings of a rogue or adventurer that Buffy had not noticed approaching said, "You know, I appreciate that this sounds like an odd question, but I really need to ask. How did an Altmer like you end up speaking with a Nord accent?"

Kayla smiled warmly. "I was raised in Skyrim. You don't spend 33 years in a place and not pick up a few things, eh?" She ribbed. She studied the Redguard and the elf.

"You know, you two look even stranger than I. At least to myself. Tell me," She grew an impish grin and asked the Redguard, "What do you call yourself?"

Tarrick

The High Elf shot him a grin as she gave her answer, and Tarrick decided then and there that he quite liked her.

"Raised in Skyrim, eh? Well, that makes sense," Tarrick nodded. "Though I'll admit I probably look a little strange as I'm heading off with the Adventurer's Guild. As for my name..."

He bowed low, grinning to show that he wasn't serious.

"Tarrick Kathram, at your service," he said. "And might I ask the name of your fair Bosmer friend, while I'm here?"

Buffy:

It seemed clear this Redguard was plying his charms for Kayla’s benefit. Buffy suppressed a sigh. No matter how many times her Bravilian guild mate Ardaline professed envy as she called Buffy ‘elven petite’, the small elf knew better. Altmer were statuesque and graceful. Not to mention they had delicately curved ears; not ones that rivaled those of a horse like Buffy did.

At least the Redguard – Tarrick, he informed us - was gracious enough to inquire as to Buffy’s name – even if the question was directed to Kayla. Buffy held her tongue and studied the Altmer’s face, looking for any indication that her name had not stuck in the high elf’s memory. After all, Kayla and Buffy had only met and exchanged names a few moments ago. At the slightest hesitation from the Altmer, Buffy would jump in and introduce herself to save her new acquaintance any embarrassment.

"Tarrick Kathram, at your service," he said. "And might I ask the name of your fair Bosmer friend, while I'm here?"

"Buffy." It came out asBoofy. Kayla covered her mouth in embarrassment, and tried again.

"Buuuuh-fee." She thought that sounded right. Or better, at least. Kayla glanced at Buffy. She was very pretty. Her blonde hair was bright in the clear Anvil sun. Kayla wanted to tweak her little nose, but refrained. Instead, she grinned at Buffy.

"I don't know about either of you, but I'm starved. The carriage ride was brutal. 3 bandit attacks! Can you believe it? I expected at least 6." She laughed at her own joke.

"I'd very much like a meal before I head to the Guild, though. And somewhere safe to set my things down. Where might that be?"

She looked from Buffy to Tarrick and awaited an answer.

Macalla Vibecke focused her eyes on her clear metal cup, trying to get a good look at this mysterious man who sat beside her. It was the only way she could do so without being too obvious. And for awhile she studied the man that sat next to her while not directly looking at him.

He was all dressed in black and in the shadowy shapes of his clothes with his with raven hair, his face contrasted deeply so that it almost looked as if it was a white apparition. It couldn’t be Dark Brotherhood robes, she knew their armor and cloaks were much different in fabric and style. No, this was something else entirely. A mage, perhaps? Or of some cult like the now scattered Mythic Dawn?

Macalla looked into the reflection deeply, only to realize that the man was looking directly at her! She did not jump, however, as some Squeamish child would. She blinked, and turned her attention to the man himself. She noticed that his fingers all held some arcane rings of sorts, unlike the which she had ever seen. Curious . . .

She looked at the man, but was disappointed to see that he was focused on pouring his wine. Holding one of two bottles. Why two bottles of wine when he is just one man? Was he planning on drinking one, and then gulp down the other like a mad drunk? Macalla felt her curiosity blossom. She was no heavy drinker, and imbibing oneself is a sin against the Nine, for it leads to disorder. She adopted a casual stance, and tried not to appear as a warrior of the light that she was. With the man’ dark clothes, it was obvious he wasn’t the bit happy with white.

“So, what is the occasion?” She asked the lone dark-robed Imperial.

GM Post

If anything, Milon was more saddened by Westley's sudden outburst rather than suprised or angry. He knew that his father was lost to him in an early age, and he didn't meant to insult his memory with the dishes laid for him. In fact, it was more of a truce to smooth things over before the investigation. Angry men make poor testimonies. And look what happened now. A damned mess of a traumatized teenager crying his heart out. Milon felt for this boy, but he only allowed that sympathy to linger for a second, then the iron heart of lawman seized him again, and an impartial look crossed his face as he listened to Westley's soft-spoken.... There were several gaping holes to his testament, really. Milon found himself cringing at the poor kid. It was very obvious that he was fumbling around in his mind, searching and searching for reasons, and finding none that could stand up in his eyes. Nonetheless, he scribbled them down, noting and tracing lines to each, and writing his opinions and personal analysis on him.

90 percent, lies. 10 percent genuine. Reasons do not add up. Strange mannerisms. Obviously lying. But lacking evidence. Maybe a suspect to another crime. Needs more investigation and evidence to arrest. Letting go for now.

He laid down his quill and stored the testament inside his drawer, and locked it. He looked at the boy in front of him, a questioning look on his eyes. There was something different there too, he noticed. It was steady, unyielding, and completely genuine. He asked for his name. He doesn't remember. He thought as much. It was years ago since he last laid eyes on Westley, and he was a but a fledgeling back then.

"I'm Milon. I won't be suprised if you come out blank with that name. Its been years," he then took of his helmet and ran a mailled hand through his brown hair. Streaks of grey ran silver-like under the blaze of the torches. "You're free to go now. Thank you for your time; it has been a great help."

But before Westley could exit, Milon stood up and gathered him up in a firm, fatherly handshake. This boy was lying earlier, and he might've been a suspect in another crime, and several things too, but gods be damned. This one lost his father, and from his experienced eye, he doesn't remember any of his memories in Anvil. No child should ever suffer the loss of his parents.

He smiled at the youth.

"Corvus would be proud of how his son has grown. If you were mine, I'd be too. Now go on, get the hell out of here."
--------------------

Ylenno

Ylenno purred. Elandine. Nice name, he thought.

"Same thing, same thing, but certainly though, you'd look quite fine in a dress rather than a steel coffin like that. Brings out the natural beauty your kind has," he winked. "Since you're signing up in the Expedition, and I'm signing up in the Expedition, I don't suppose we elves should stick together? I mean, I'm not soliciting you or anything, but it certainly helps to know someone. Its kinda lonely being the stereotypical 'angsty, mystery-plagued, anti-social baronic hero' y'know!"

He laughed. Magnus came out of a grey cloud, and all of Anvil glistened under the warm rays. Everything became radiant, and Ylenno took in his surroundings with a smile. The terracotta tiles of rooftops shined with an orange glow, and some of their shine rubbed off on the cobblestones, which stained their whiteness with a mandarin hue. Glass windows became vibrant. In short, Anvil was beautiful under a bright day. Even the lowclass housings glittered like ancient villas. He made a note to visit Anvil again and perhaps buy some paintings off of the famous resident artist here when things are smooth and calm.

He turned to the Almer lass, and then Buffy passed them. She whispered something to him, and he immediately had a grin cutting his face. He didn't know why, but Buffy had a certain aura about her that just made people all warm inside. There was another Altmer following her, and she ... well. The Redguard who appeared from nowhere was right. A High Elf with Nordic accent was another first for the wood-elf. He supposed that the Expedition really attracted all sorts of characters. The Elf asked where might she find an inn to rest her haunces and Ylenno simply couldn't resist.

He jumped in front of them and struck a pose!

With over-exaggerated aesthetics, he took the Elf's hand in one of his and with the other, he pointed dramatically at the sign of the Count's Arms, which, coincedentally, was just several walks away.

"Behold, verily," he boomed with his lowest possible voice and an imitation of a Nordic accent. "There sits the golden hall of one Wilbur; and with coins jangling the song of greed, he shall take thee and service thy tiredness away! Soothing songs doth bards sing there, and food unrivaled in West Cyrodiil allures and tempts! Asks a price high for those, but a price well worth it, for the Arms of the Count is the best possible inn you may find in this city of marble and fish!"

He took a bow.

"Thus sayeth the Guide Book for Anvil, of which I, Ylenno of Bravil and Cheydinhal, shamelessly ripped from to impress thee!"

He wore an expression of expectation as he waited for them to clap. Then he laughed.

"Call me a shameless eavesdropper if you wish, but I eavesdropped shamelessly at your conversation. Adventurers Guild, eh? I'm looking to sign up like you guys and fair Elandine over there too!" He turned to Buffy, and he was simply amazed at the other wood-elf. This beautiful face, a fellow orphan, was the talk of Bravil. No. The pride of Bravil. Caelefensil would've looked up to her, if she were here. He looked to the others.

"We might as well get to know each other before we sign up in the Expedition! More friends make the adventure all the more fun, I say!"

He turned once again to Buffy.

"What say you, sister of Bravil? Will the Lady Dame accept this wastrel, absurdly handsome rogue's offer? T'would break my heart into two if you refuse, but such is the way of romance!"

"Corvus would be proud of how his son has grown. If you were mine, I'd be too. Now go on, get the hell out of here."

Westley gawked for a moment at this man who called himself Milon. His name was so familiar, yet so strange. But Milon obviously had known his father, Corvus, and something told Westley that this man had once been a friend. If only he could remember.

"Thank you...Milon. I'm sorry if I caused you any stress." Westley smiled halfway before turning around and navigating his way out of the castle.

Phew, that was a close one. I need to watch myself with any transformations and lay low for a while. I really hope that I don't end up causing anymore trouble....

Westley entered the city, and slipped through the small crowd of people. He made his way to the counts arms and approached the Redguard at the counter as he pulled a few septims out if his pocket, and placed them down on the counter.

"Here, I'm payin' for another night at the room." Westley placed five more septims on counter "And I want venison steak, cooked rare."

A wide grin spread across the Redguard man's face. "Coming right up good sir, please, take a seat." the man handed him back the key to his room.

Westley chose the table farthest from anyone else, but he'd be in plain sight to anyone entering the inn. The table he sat at was big, but it was the only one available. He pulled a deck of cards out of his pocket and began shuffling them while he waited for his food.

Every now and then someone would look over their shoulder at him and snigger, obviously making fun of the anti-social weirdo sitting in a dark corner in the back of the inn. Westley's temper flared momentarily, but died down when the wench placed his steak down on the table in front if him.

He quickly devoured it, taking gigantic bites and barely bothering to chew, and most likely summoning more insults from the local nobleman at the tavern. Westley hadn't eaten anything for a few days, so he decided to just shake off the laughter behind his back and continue wolfing down his food.

He signaled the wench over "May I please have some water, ma'am?"

"Yes sir." the wench scurried off, and disappeared for a moment before coming back with a jug of water.

"Thank you." Westkey chugged down the water, and leaned back in his chair, savoring the many scents and sounds of the inn. He had been lucky today. Milon had been kind enough to let him go free, but he had a feeling that Milon was still somewhat suspicious.

I have no intentions of harming anyone. I guess that nobody will ever trust werewolves because of all the feral ones and Hircine fanatics. I don't get why they just don't get along with the humans. Must Hircine be so hostile?

Buffy:

Buffy could see Kayla was still embarrassed about her accent and tried to put the high elf at ease. “I pronounce it Buffy, but one time I encountered some followers of Sanguine in the forests north of Skingrad who insisted on calling me ‘Buffet’. She wrinkled her face and, with a crooked smile, held both arms out to her sides. “I’m afraid they found me to be rather slim pickings.”

Believing her joke was responsible for the smile that blossomed on Kayla's face, Buffy glanced at the Redguard. He had mentioned the Adventurers Guild and perhaps knew something about the pending Sutch expedition. “Oh, speaking of food. . . Tarrick, I know the Count’s Arms is a nice inn but do you know if they put out good meals as well?”

Before the Redguard could answer, Ylenno swept into view, struck up a bardic pose and poetically recommended the group of would be adventurers join him at the Count’s Arms. Buffy remembered the tall (for a Bosmer) elf from Bravil and seeing him recently bump into the armor-plated Altmeri lass who stood nearby - Ylenno referred to her as Elandine. Ylenno’s attention quickly shifted from Kayla to Buffy as he added, “What say you, sister of Bravil? Will the Lady Dame accept this wastrel, absurdly handsome rogue’s offer? T’would break my heart into two if you refuse, but such is the way of romance.”

Despite the elf’s brashness and funny hair, Buffy felt a slight flush rise above the neckline of her blouse. She was still grieving from the loss of her mate. Even though it had been quite some time, how could any man or mer ever compete with the ghost of Savlian Matius? The mighty hero who loved her had died in Buffy’s arms as they helped clear the last of the Daedra from Castle Kvatch. Stop it, Buffy! This Bosmeri bard likely pours his silken words at the feet of every lass that catches his eye. Buffy was nervous. The little elf’s nurturing nature was sometimes mistaken for flirting, and extricating herself in such cases was one area where her skills were rather poor. She was a deadly sniper but, at close range, found men to be quite confusing creatures.

Numbers, she decided. With Kayla and, hopefully, Elandine along they could support and extract each other from any awkward situations. “If the rest of our little group here will join us as well, I’d be delighted to share a cup of tea and hear what we have all learned so far about this pending expedition.”

Kayla was still in tears, laughing, at the odd little wood elf's sudden jump into the conversation. The pose he struck caused her to giggle quietly at first, then when he spoke as if he were a imitating a nobleman, she couldn't help herself. It turned into full-on laughter when he looked expectantly at Buffy.

"Mara's teat," she gasped. "I DO need to sleep!"

She grabbed Tarrick's shoulder for support with one arm, and Buffy's shoulder with the other. She laughed for a few more moments before regaining her composure.

"The people here are insane!" She looked from Tarrick to Buffy to Ylenno. She clapped Ylenno on the shoulder.

"Thanks for the laugh! I haven't laughed so hard in a while! Now, food! If I don't eat soon, you three will start looking like walking drumsticks!"

Tarrick

Tarrick was about to recommend the Count's Arms for a place to eat when, from nowhere, another Bosmer appeared. From his brief, exuberant introduction, Tarrick gathered he knew Buffy from somewhere. The introduction from this Ylenno had Kayla in tears, so much so that she ended up leaning on him and Buffy for support.

"Thanks for the laugh! I haven't laughed so hard in a while! Now, food! If I don't eat soon, you three will start looking like walking drumsticks!" the Altmer declared.

"Seconded," Tarrick said. "I haven't had any breakfast myself yet, and a bite to eat and some tea at the Count's Arms sounds like the best idea I've heard all morning."

He glanced over at the other High Elf with Ylenno, dressed as she was in heavy armour, no doubt in preparation for the expedition.

"I don't think I caught your name, by the way," he said to her, one arm still supporting Kayla.

Drakothemir, Count's Arms.
The second cup of wine was a trap. A trap for any curious fool eager to bite the bait of a free drink. And he knew women well. Men in taverns always sought to impress them with a free drink in hopes of getting the women to lift their skirts and spread their legs. And it seldom worked. But for Drakothemir, a free drink in exchange for information was always something that was succesful. For the simple pleasures of a man he could get anytime and anywhere . . .at any cost. But information can be bought, and it can be traded, and it can be earned. He needed to know if this woman was a Vigilante of Stendarr, and if she was, what in Oblivion do they want with this expedition . . .and if they are involved and she was their sole agent . . .perhaps she is corruptable.

The woman beside him somehow took interest in him, and created an opporunity for conversation. Drakothemir poured the wine in both of the cups, and then in an instant, pushed one of them toward the lone woman.

"The occasion is change," he said with a deep inhale along with a sip of wine that was passionate. "And knowledge." He added whilst savoring his wet lips, and the washed throat as the wine went down. "I am quite sure you have heard of Fort Sutch and the rumored mysterious lying beneath it. You see, I am to undergo a search, one that would be the most fruitful among my adventures. I am gathering a crew. Wlling young men and women such as myself who are eager to learn more about the history of our province."

Before he could add anymore, he paused to take a sip of wine, but not for the sake of drinking. He did it because he felt . . . he smelled . . .a disturbance. He could not see him, but he could hear and detect him from afar. It was a man, but not just any man, it was a werewolf. The scent of dog, that canine musk . . .undoubtedly a Lycanthropy had entered the Count's Arms. Drakothemir didn't know werewolves came to Anvil much, for most of them never favored the sea as transforming unwillingly onboard a ship would be chaotic and suicidal. Unless of course, the man had a way of controlling his Lycanthropy, now that would've been interesting.

There were giggles in the backround, and Drakothemir turned toward the root of the comical sounds, but his eyes, however, went directly to the man. Not a man . . .a child? At least he appeared as one. Black hair, blue eyes, a youthful look to him. But even looks can be deceptive, Drakothemir knows, for he stands as a twenty year old man but is the age of over four centuries. Indeed, this Lycanthrope could be well over a hundred years. But there were no scars, no bruises . . .which explained to Drakothemir that this gifted Imperial was young. Perhaps inexperienced.

He waited and saw as the young man approached the counter, and made an order of venison steak and proceeded to choose a depressing corner to skulk in while he waited for his food. Drakothemir looked at the woman beside him and smiled, offering a hand. "Drakothemir is my name. I do not believe we have met before. Are you from around here?"

And while he was going to hear her out, he couldn't take his attention away from the other Imperial sitting alone, obviously distressed at the snide comments and the scoffing some of the nobles were whispering about him, which only gave Drakothemir the more reason to realize that this man was too young. And a young werewolf is a reckless one. They always are. And Drakothemir could not afford to stand near any reckless creatures who could potentially reveal his secret.

Drakothemir weighed the options: He could poison his food, but his enhanced sense of smell could easily detect the harmful ingredients. Or Drakothemir could kill the man as he slept in his room, but he knew that werewolves never truly slept due to their intense hearing, and even the smallest of sounds would wake one up . . .or perhaps he could goad the woman beside him into killing him. Or maybe he didn't have to resort to killing him at all. Drakothemir met werewolves before, and even employed a bounty huntress to take out a political target for him. Many of them are loyal creatures, and very secretive. But those werewolves were experts at their craft. Gifted hunters. And because this one confirms the gossip of a werewolf running afoul, it means that he is careless and rather, possibly, quite stupid. Still, he would not get on his bad side.

Drakothemir took half of two seconds to study the man before he turned to a local maiden. "My dear," he said with a charming smile. "Would you be so kind as to give that young lad a bottle of Surille Brother's wine? Do not worry about the price, for I will cover it. Add a bit of vegetables and fruits to his plate, too, please."

"Right away, sir."

He turned to the woman. "Sorry. I just cannot stand seeing a beggar only order a slice of venison when he deserves so much more on his plate . . ."

Westley


The wench came over and placed a bottle of Surille Brother's wine, and put some vegetables and fruit on his plate. Westley gawked at his surprise food for a moment before looking up at the wench and shoving the wine and plate of vegetables back at the her.

"I'm sorry ma'am, but I believe you've delivered this to the wrong table."

"That man in the dark clothes over there told me to give this to you. He said he'd pay for it."

Westley eyed the imperial man in dark clothes siting at a table across the room. He caught a scent in the air. Something...odd. As he inspected the man more thoroughly, the idea that he wasn't human began to form in Westley's mind. Then it hit him. This man was a vampire. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and the wolf inside if him was riled up, and ready to defend itself. Westley turned back to the wench.

"Would you please tell that man that I don't drink alcohol, and I've had my fair share if food for now, but I appreciate the offer."

When the wench walked away, a low growl formed in Westley's throat, and every noise became louder than ever. He could smell the blood coursing through the veins of the tavern-goers, and he could hear their heartbeats. He fought the urge to transform and tear the vampire apart before he could even get out of his chair. A small stream of saliva made its way out if the side of Westley's mouth, and down his chin, but he wiped it off with his sleeve. This vampire obviously had no good intentions towards Westley, and he took that as a challenge.

Westley's heart started racing and he had a pounding headache, but he was able to resist a transformation. His temper flared at the thought that this vampire had the gall to challenge him, but Westley decided to just ignore the vampire's presence, and focus more on learning new card tricks. Eventually the bloodlust died down, and Westley comfortably sunk back into his chair, and sipped on his water.

Macalla Vibecke, Count's Arms.

Macalla looked at the wine that was given to her. It was too early for her to drink wine, and for her, there was no occasion. And even though rejecting the offer would be horrible manners, she simply could not drink it. She had come a long way, over fifteen years of murder and assassination. There was redemption for her. And her weakness, one of them, is wine. For if she drank one cup, she might as well drink an entire bottle.

"I must decline. I'm afraid I don't drink wine." She told him as she eyed the cup. But perhaps, to soften her rejectection, she turned her body toward the young man. "I'm sure everyone in these parts of Cyrodiil know by now. I think people are putting their lives in danger, though. Many reckless adolescents looking to get themselves killed."

The words were directed at him. Surely, a man as young as him would have family to think about. A mother or father or perhaps even siblings and cousins. Unless he was some bästard son of a farmer or an orphan. Then he wouldn't have anything to lose. She once considered herself an orphan until the Dark Brotherhood took her in. Then as the years went by she realized they weren't truly family. Her only family now are the brothers and sisters of the Knights of the Nine and her fellow friends from the Vigilantes of Stendarr.

"Drakothemir is my name. I do not believe we have met before. Are you from around here?"

Macalla raised a brow at the name. It was an odd name for an Imperial, surely, but she's seen stranger. "A pleasure, Drakothemir. No, I was born in Skyrim, in a small settlement just a few miles off of Falkreath. I'm Macalla. Macalla Vibecke."

The man summoned a young woman to serve another fellow who ordered venison some wine and vegetables. Out of kindness maybe. She was touched. It was a noble gesture. He then turned to her and said:

"Sorry. I just cannot stand seeing a beggar only order a slice of venison when he deserves so much more on his plate . . ."

"That is kind of you. Not that many people would care for others, you know." She said, and then paused, looking at the man's strange rings on his finger. It came in red, green and silver. She wondered if they were enchanted, and if this man was a mage of sorts. He didn't strike her as a necromancer. Their cloaks typically brandished a red skull. And if this man was such thing, he wouldn't be giving her suspicion by wearing a dark cloak. Perhaps, then, he's a young priest. A young priest who loves his wine . . .

She found her curiosity once again pester her. "Those rings and that sword and that cloak. What is the story behind that. Are you an aspirant wizard? Amateur warlock?"

It was more of a jest, her tone of voice. She always considered it amusing that young men walked around with rings and robes and cloaks only to be terrible at sword combat or end up burning themselves when casting a destruction spell. If only he knew of what she'd been through, and how her black cloak signified something.

Drakothemir, Count's Arms.

The young man appeared uncomfortable. Angry. Irate. Drakothemir could see from afar that the hairs on his neck raised just as a normal canine would when provoked. The vampire could practically taste the destructive emotions in the other Imperial. It was as if it was palpable. All that fury, all that might contained within a single vessel. And it was quite beautiful. But a waste.

Drakothemir snatched a glance at the tavern wench who approached him by the side, leaned down, and whispered: "He told me to tell you that he doesn't drink alcohol, and that he's had his fill of food. But he still appreciates the offer."

The vampire settled back in his chair and smiled genuinly to both of the women. Drakothemir did not understand the reason the young lupine boy was upset, and honestly, he did not care. He just had succesfully tested how he would react. He had a basic map of how his mind worked. There was rage in there, held back and boiling almost to the point of explosion. If he had indeed gave into his apparent fury, then it would probably have triggered his inner beast and such results would have been delightfully catastrophic. The tavern goers would have lost their lives, and the werewolf himself might have been overwhelmed with the rush of Imperial guards attempting to kill the rampaging beast. Drakothemir pondered on what he himself would have done.

Would he have fought? Give into his own lust and revealed his truest form? Hardly. To expose himself as a vampire, a pureblooded vampire no less, was suicidal. The world condemned his very existence. To be unveiled would be to invite certain death. Both social and physical. And he held a vast knowledge of how simple-minded the people of Tamriel can be. It was their neverending curse. To judge and allow their pitch-forks and torches to dictate their reason.

But this man, this werewolf, had shown surprising control, even though he nearly lost it for no apparent reason other than seeing a plate of vegetables. Then Drakothemir realized he perceived him as a threat. Perhaps a territorial animal? It wouldn't be the first time. For centuries Drakothemir and his people had fought to keep Cyrodiil under their control. To keep it safe from rival, barbaric clans. It would be amusing to see a new kind of animal seek to claim territory for themselves. But someone so young wouldn't be worried about territory or wealth or influence. And so, he wasn't as much as a threat as he initially classified him to be.

He made a curious sound. "Hmm," and thanked the wench and turned his attention to the woman who introduced herself as Macalla Vibecke. "A pleasure, Macalla."

He nodded and smiled as she noted him on his hospitality, and then fell silent once she asked him about his cloak and his sword and his set of rings. This was to be expected. Vigilantes of Stendarr were a curious lot and anything relating to the Daedra they would lose their minds. He sipped his wine and laughed. "Neither. I am actually a monk from Weynon Priory. A former monk, I should say. I fled from my duties for the Nine to pursue a fool's errand in some ancient place."

He paused, and considered his words carefully. "This quest at Fort Such is paramount. When I first heard I had a choice between uncovering spending my life as a monk and to be 'free' from any bonds or relationships, be it material, romantic or otherwise or set out on an adventure . . .I choose what any young man would. The desire to experience history and not sit by and watch it pass. To be free to choose. I realize I have broken my vows and my duties to the Nine . . .but I wish to help others by uncovering the secrets. The people of Cyrodiil deserve to know what is under that fort."

Drakothemir reached for his saber, and unsheathed it halfway. "About my weapon . . .This blade was given to me by father when I was a child only days before he died of a heart-attack." He adopted a solemn expression, and looked at his rings. "My mother owned these rings. They were given to her by her father, and his mother before him. It is a family heirloom, passed down from generation to generation. I was fortunate to keep them when I was sent off to the priory to become a monk. It is all that I remember of my family."

Suddenly the wood elf calling himself Ylenno started moving towards a little group of three people, for what she could see and hear there was another altmer that was referred to as Kayla, a wood elf calling herself Buffy and a redguard by the name of Tarrick. Ylenno jumped into their conversation and introduced herself in a manner that made Kayla laugh herself to tears. Just before they were retiring to the Count's Arms for a bit to eat and a cup of tea, the redguard asked Elaninde, who was just a few meters away at this point, what her name was.

"Elaninde", she answered him.

"And before you ask; the reason I'm wearing heavy armour is because I grew up constantly on the run and found heavy armour quite protective".

She then turned to all of them and said: "I'm sure that since we are all here for the Sutch expedition we have a lot to talk about, but I think we really should get Kayla some food before she tries to eat us instead".

Kayla threw her hands up in the air.

"Wonderful! Let's head that way before Buffy becomes my toothpick.!"

She let the others lead the way as they headed to The Count's Arms.

Buffy:

Screenshot

Buffy opened her eyes wide in mock fear, then chuckled. She was used to being called ‘Twig’, 'Sapling' and worse, but ‘Toothpick’ was a new one. Although the sweet roll and apple juice she had enjoyed earlier that morning still rested comfortably in her stomach, she did look forward to some hot tea. As the men led the way, small buckskin boots padded quickly over cobblestones to keep up with the long legged group.

Macalla was right. A young man putting his past behind him. She knew all too well that the temptations of life overpowered the calls of duty and devotion. The Nine Divines are worshiped throughout the empire and the people follow them religiously. Some of them, anyway. There were many that chose to simply forget the Divines and engage in less-than-noble acts such as drinking away their lives, robbing and stealing, murdering or worse . . .worshiping Daedra Lords. At least this young man was looking for adventure instead of any of these things. I can only hope . . .

He began to speak about his life as a monk and how he was sent to the Weynon Priory and why. Poor lad must have been following the footsteps of others his entire life and only once made a decision. Though he avoided his duties as a priest or a monk, nevertheless Macalla understood his position. He was unhappy where he was, as she once was.

The Dark Brotherhood only invited death, and inflicts death. It is no coinscedence that they too would face just retribution for what they have done, and by one of their own, no less. She only found it odd that her sins were not repaid in blood, but in grace. She had the Divines to thank for that. And while dark thoughts always creep into her mind, whispering for her to go back or for her to go into Daedric worship she still would never abandon the Nine.

Like him, Macalla was on an expedition of her own. After the fall of Umaril, and the rise of the Vigilantes of Stendarr, she was to undetake the crucial quest of exploring the ruins for any Daedric artifacts or anything relating to Daedra. And when given the chance, she is to purge them or take them for cleansing at the chapel. Even after Dagon's plot failed, and the remnants of the Mythic Dawn are being hunted down by vengeful and protective groups, the threat of Daedra is still present. She she would be the beacon, that instrument of light, to ward off the darkness.

This young lad, whomever he may be, may just be what she needs to help her on the task. She hoped he wouldn't be the only one, but he was lost. His mind perhaps ripe for the Daedra or any evildoers to take hold of. If she could somehow get him to return, not specifically to the monkish ways but at least revering and respecting the Nine, then she could please the Aedra and help another soul. She would hate to see this man follow in her footsteps.

Daedra worship or the Dark Brotherhood is no place for this boy.

She took on a sincere look of pity as she heard him reveal about his father's death. She never remember much of her father, but at least he had the chance to keep his sword as a lasting memory. And the rings, too.

"I am sorry about your parents," she lamented. "But at least you are alive and well, though you are far too young to be even thinking about going in some perilous adventures. Trust me, I know this. I've been in Daedric and Dwemer ruins in Vvardenfell, Ayleid ruins here . . .and let me tell you: they are dangerous, and not everyone that goes there ever has a chance of coming back."

She paused to begin eating her food that was already going cold. "The monks are skilled in hand-to-hand combat and for self-defense. But sometimes you must take the offensive, and you might need much more than your fists to save you. How old are you? Twenty? Twenty-three? You should have joined the Knights of the Nine or the Vigilantes. We would be more than glad to take you in and train your ourselves."

A Murky Swamp, Black Marsh, 3E 422

‘Be still, Ananse.’

‘I am still, mother.’ Ananse replied. She chuckled.

‘No, hatchling, you’re not. Your legs are wriggling like a spider!’

There was a pause. ‘Like Ananse’s?’ Despite himself, his legs stopped moving. His mother laughed again.

‘Yes. And you know what Ananse was? He was a mischievous little spider. Will you let me help you now?’

‘But it hurts.’ Ananse scowled, wriggling on the bamboo mat.

‘Well that’s what little mischievous spiders get, for playing where they shouldn’t.’

Ananse knew she was right. The Thorn-Wallows were a dangerous place for a hatchling. And out of all the dangers hidden in the vast nest of mangroves and swampland, he was bested by a bramble. His tail, an amenity he often forgot he possessed, had gotten wrapped up in the vicious twines, and screaming like a Yapperfish he ran all the way home with half the tree attached to his rear end.

He stayed still, moody at his own stupidity. How silly he must have looked to the village.

‘He was never caught.’ His mother began untangling the thorns, plucking them out of his scales.

‘Hmm? Oh, yes dear. Yes he was, many times. But Ananse knew that no matter how thick the web was spun, there is always a way out…’

…………..

Seventeen years later

Ananse blinked his yellow eyes into the darkness. His breath was still close, short and ragged, as if he were choking. His ribs ached like hot brands beneath his skin, but he fought the urge to hiss in pain. For some reason something told him it was better to remain still at this present moment in time. And he was right.

A cloth mask covered his face, smelling of mouldy flax. He definitely didn’t remember putting that on. A rough cloth had been stuffed into his mouth as well, explaining his shortness of breath. He didn’t remember doing that either.

What was more disconcerting however, was that Ananse was adamant his legs were perfectly still. Yet he was definitely moving. Strong hands were around his wrists, and he felt his tail slither on the ground beneath him, his heels bouncing on the floor. Realization snapped like rope holding a tethered weight in his mind, and in that instant he heard voices above him.

‘Pick his damn legs up will ya? His filthy claws are clacking on the deck!’ A gruff man whispered angrily.

‘We’re nearly there. There’s no guards about anyways.’ Came the faceless reply.

Ananse remained completely inanimate as he was dragged across the boardway, quietly assessing the situation. It was not good.

He could feel the wooden planks of the gangway bobbling beneath his feet, and even through the decaying smell of the mask he could still pick out the scents of brine, of salt-crusted rope and drenched timber. The waters whispered softly below. He was still in the docks at least.

A faint twinge of yeast and honey waved over his attuned nostrils. Ale. He was near the Fo’c’s’le – no, passing it, and turning.

The Harborside Warehouse. A well-known den of iniquity and criminal activity amongst these parts, and for the select few, a known sanctuary of the Thieves Guild. He waited as his two captors stopped at the door, knocking thrice in the encoded pattern. Heavy bolts were withdrawn.

‘Evenin’ Wilhelm. We’ve got the bugger.’ One of the cronies said. Wilhelm, or Wilhelm the Worm out of his earshot, stood manager over the Warehouse to ‘keep out the rats’, he attested. Nobody knew that truthfully, he kept the rats in.

‘Good. Bring him in.’ The Nord growled.

Of course, it would all come back to him now. A knock on the door in the night, and then when a slumbering Ananse had not answered, a kick to break it down. Shouting voices, threats and curses. Before Ananse could blink the sleep from his eyes, the two men had hooded him, and kicks had bludgeoned him in the flanks and legs and face, before a blow to the back of the head had put him back to sleep just as quickly as he had come out of it. The guild didn’t mess around.

Rough hands lifted Ananse onto a chair, and then suddenly, the hood was whipped off and his sight came rushing back.

‘Well hello, Coin-Eye.’ A sultry voice came from across him. Ananse struggled to lift his gaze to meet the source. He saw finely woven, quilted shoes, the beginnings of a garish russet felt garb. He didn’t have to look up to recognise the man as Orrin, Shadowfoot of the Thieves Guild in Anvil.

‘Ah, of course, where are my manners. Thank you, Dranas, Krognak. That’ll be all.’ Hands were lifted off Ananse’s shoulders, the ache in his ribs subsiding a little. Orrin leant forward to remove the cloth from his mouth. He reeked of perfume and nobility, yet out of all the descriptions one could attribute to Orrin the Fence, ‘noble’ was certainly the least appropriate.

‘What am I going to do with you, my lizard friend? Hmm?’ Orrin sat back, steepling his fingers. The rings that adorned them shimmered in lamplight, along with his oily white hair.

As his eyesight steadily returned, scaly lids peeled back fully, Ananse began to feel some of his usual self return. Unfortunately, that self was a bit of an idiot.

‘Will the coalskin human give Ananse some wine? His throat is terribly parched.’

That earned him a clip round the quills.

‘Wine? You think we can afford such luxuries after your little stunt earlier?’

‘Ananse does not understand. What have I done to displease the oilskin man?’ Another strike.

‘You won. You f*cking won.’ Orrin cursed, raising his arms as if to say it was obvious. The candlelight sputtered inside the gloomy warehouse. ‘Two years of being the worst gambler in the entirety of Anvil, not winning even a beggar’s share of a Septim and you go in and triple-fold the bounty in one fell swoop!’

Though he didn’t show it, Ananse still did not understand. It was true; he had finally won his first major share in a gambler’s den just east of the Flowing Bowl, much to the chagrin of his opponents (it was well known the naïve Argonian was not the best gamester, and a little ‘green’ when it came to the underhanded world of fixing and swindling, which to say was ripe in the Anvil Docks). Though he failed to see how that tied in to Orrin’s misfortune.

‘You stupid scaled twist of flesh. All you had to do was lose, like you always had! It was planned you see. Did you know your opponent was Audens Avidius, of the Imperial Watch up South? He is one of our largest and most generous benefactors, and unlike that honoured user Lex, he understands the machinations of the guild and its part in this world. He hides us from the predations of the Guard, and we allow him some loot in return.’ Ananse shook his head, he had looked like any other human he’d met. Bald and smooth and with those silly little strips of hair they called eyebrows.

‘We’d tipped him off about our big haul and how you’d be splashing it about like a feckless back-heeler in the alley docks. Since he can’t be caught taking his share directly from us, what better way to pay him for his allegiance than having him win it in a wagering match against the most inadequate gambler in Cyrodiil. And you went and won, taking all of his money along with it.’ Orrin ran his hands through his shiny white hair, or what was left of it. ‘Now he thinks we’ve swindled him, and threatens to reveal our presence to the Guard.’

‘Not Ananse’s fault. You did not tell Ananse. I thinks, it is your faults.’ Orrin looked up from his hands with a baleful glare. Perhaps, Ananse thought, he should not have said that. The hoary Redguard stood up, pacing around the chair where Ananse was slumped.

‘I couldn’t tell you because I knew you’d blab your big lizard mouth off about Audens if I did.’ His hand slipped to the pommel of an arm-sized bludgeon strapped to the green waist of his ridiculous outfit. ‘But you’re right. It’s not your fault.’ He took it out, and laid its heavy, menacing head against Ananse’s shoulder. Ananse suddenly felt his scales crawl, and his blood ran hot with fear.

‘But somebody has to pay.’ The weight was lifted, and Ananse heard the blow before he felt it, a deafening crunch against his cheekbone.

‘You’ve always been a… thorn’ The blow fell again, this time against his left shoulder. ’…in the Guild’s side, Coin-Eye.’

The next one hit him in his scaly chest, just above his tattoo. There was a creaking of wood, and both chair and lizard fell to the floor. Above the commotion, a sibilant hiss of laughter could be heard. Orrin stopped half-swing.

‘What? What is it?’

‘Nothing. Just Ananse wonders if oilskin man took beatings from his grandmothers. And if she taught him anythings, because surely she would be most disappointed.’ Orrin’s already scowling face deepened.

‘Krognak, fetch the axe. I’ve had enough of this swamp-filth.’

The orc nodded dumbly, and went bumbling off to find his weapon. Meanwhile the other hired muscle, Dranas lifted Ananse to his knees to assume the execution position.

Now he’d really done it. Ananse was about to re-join the Hist in a few moments if he didn’t think quickly. He could hear Krognak coming back already. His hands were still bound behind his back, but his legs were free. Maybe he could kick himself… strong dunmer hands clamped down on his shoulders, forcing his head down and baring his neck.

Out of the corner of one yellow eye, Ananse watched as Krognak lumbered slowly closer, axe in hand, a malevolent grin cracking his face. The brutal edge of the blade, still bloody from its last execution, glinted dully in the lamplight like a rusty smile.

‘Not so funny now, Argonian, are we? You are hereby expelled from the guild and all its affiliations. Any last requests?’ The poisonous voice of Orrin slipped into his ear, and his head was shoved towards the floorboards. Below them, he could hear the sound of the lapping waves swelling beneath the docks, and wondered if he would ever hear them again.

No matter how thick the web, Ananse…

The cleaver was raised, high, as if it were floating away, and Ananse’s life boiled down to those fractions of a second before its ascent was checked and the fateful descent would begin.

…There is always a way out.

‘WAIT!’ He cried. The axe stopped, hanging there like death incarnate. ‘My quills.’

‘What about your damn quills, lizard.’ Orrin spat.

‘They are sacred to our race. Pleases, oilskin man, let Ananse keep his quills pristines. Ananse does not want to enter the Hist with his quills halved, it would mean dishonour. You would grant me this one wish, yes?’ Krognak looked up with simple eyes. Orrin looked puzzled, but eventually conceded.

‘Alright, lizard. Consider this your last courtesy in this world.’ He nodded to Dranas. The Dunmer walked to the other side of Ananse, keeping his head down. He could feel the spiny quills being drawn back.

‘No! You must hold them with two hands. Ananse’s quills are his pride!’ Dranas growled, but obliged.

‘There. Now Kragnak. Cut his head off and let us be done with it.’

The axe rose again, and Orrin watched in glee as his revenge rose with it. Ananse would have to time this perfectly.

‘Now!’ Orrin screamed, and Kragnak grunted as he brought the weapon down in an executioner’s blow. At the same time Ananse pulled his head back with a sudden jerk. Dranas’ hands, holding onto the quills, came with it, into the path of the death blow.

The axe bit deep into his blue-skinned wrists, and he shrieked like a banshee. One hand was severed completely, the other hanging limply off a loose piece of gristle as he raised his stumps to his face with horror.

The Orc roared, and swung the axe round for another blow. Ananse could hear Orrin bellowing in rage in the background, but he stayed where he was, waiting for the axe-stroke. He was in the perfect position. The huge blade swung down once more, about to cleave him in two, and at the last moment Ananse side-stepped to the left and the blade glanced past his head. It hit the wooden floorboards precisely where Ananse had aimed for; widening the large crack he had already seen during his time kneeling in wait. The floorboards creaked once, then with a sound like cracking thunder gave away and the lizard was plunged into icy water.

Ananse did not look behind him as he swam away below the shifting docks. Even underwater, his hearing could pick out the wails of the agonised dunmer, and the fury of Orrin as he raged and seethed at his escape.

Underneath his scales, Ananse’s blood prickled him. How had he just done that? Not in his wildest dreams could he have thought of such a thing happening. A thousand thoughts and questions ran through his mind, spurring his legs and arms against the currents like fuel. But one stood out against the rest:

Ananse could not stay within the walls of Anvil anymore. He would have to go far away, very far indeed; somewhere the Guild could not follow him, where the web was not as thick.

Tarrick

Tarrick lead the way for the small, impromptu group as they made their way to the inn. He was first through the door, holding for the others with a mock bow as they went through, and they found a table as a serving girl hurried over at their arrival.

"Is there anything I can get you?" she asked as they sat.

"I think we're all hoping for tea," Tarrick said. He glanced back at the rest of the group. "Everyone wants tea, yes?"

He glanced over at the serving girl again.

"A few pots of tea," he said. He raised his voice slightly so the others would be able to hear him, and gestured to Kayla. "And a horse for Kayla here to eat, too."

Buffy:

Tarrick held the door as the small group filed into the Count’s Arm and found a table.

Buffy knelt on the chair offered to her, then sat back upon both heels to compensate for her height – especially with two Altmer in the group. As the others were seated, she was pleased to see Ylenno slide into the chair next to her. She hoped for a chance to ask her fellow Bosmer of any news from Bravil, as well as how he was faring after the loss of his sister.

Ever the gentleman it seemed, Tarrick ordered several pots of tea. And a horse for Kayla to eat! Buffy smiled, sure that it was only a joke. Well, pretty sure.

Kayla gave Tarrick a serious look.

"A horse? At this rate, give me an entire moose!"

She slapped the table and laughed at her own joke.

Westley

Westley observed as two Altmer, two Bosmer, and a Resguard walked into the inn. The challenge the vampire had thrown at him, and his encounter with the guards left him in a sour mood. He scowled as the elves sat down at a table not too far from his own, and aggressively shuffles the guards. He may have calmed down, but that didn't mean that he was in a good mood.

More people in the inn meant more people to make fun of him, and since the Altmer thought they were better than everyone else, he knew it was a matter of time before they were looking over thier shoulders and mocking him. His temper flared up again, and he picked up a fork and chucked it at the Altmer woman sitting at the table. He sniggered with satisfaction, and looked away when she turned around to see her attacker.

Westley wasn't why he just did that to the Altmer woman. Out of anger he supposed.

Kayla jumped up when she saw the Imperial man snickering at her. The fork had bounced off her auburn head and clanged to the floor. She turned crimson as she swore at him in Nordic and berated him in Cyrodillic. Her accent got thicker the angrier she got.

"Dumskalle!" she spat. "Who taught you manners? What would your mother think of you throwing forks at strangers?"

She pointed her finger inches away from the Imperial's nose. She opened her mouth to say something, but stopped when an odor hit her nose. She narrowed her eyes.

"You smell like a wet dog."

She put her finger back near the Imperial's nose. "You need to calm down. I'll let it go this one time, but if you bother me again, I won't hesitate to knock you on your back."

Kayla turned around to sit back down.

Westley

"Dumskalle! Who taught you manners? What would your mother think of you throwing forks at strangers?"

Westley began seething with rage. He was getting sick of the insults. He picked up a spoon and threw it at the Altmer as she turned to sit back down. He recogmized an insult of Nordic origin when he heard one. He put his foot down and insulted the elf back.

"Milk-Drinker! Go back to skyrim! My mom couldn't teach me manners because I ran away after my father died. I can throw whatever I want at you!"

Westley sat back down in his seat, and waited for the elf's response while he wickedly chuckled to himself. In truth he despised his scornful attitude towards the elf, but he found her reactions quite amusing.

Ylenno smiled at the Altmer in front of him and clasped her shoulder affectionately. He decided that he liked this elf. Unlike most of her kind, she was down to earth and didn't raise her nose at everyone. There was laidback freedom about her, and Ylenno was drawn to it like a kindred spirit.

"I live to make people laugh, my fair lady! But it is as Lady Dame has spoken; thou must eat before thy hunger consumes us all!" He laid a friendly hand over her shoulder and thanked the unknown Redguard as they entered the Count's Arms.

Inside, it was just as the outside. All manner of adventurers could be found hustling and talking about the Expedition. As expected. There were some blue-bloods here and there, and the occasional smudge of commoner and peasatry. The bulk were adventurers.

They took a seat at a table, just right ahead of a lonely Imperial playing cards. He turned to everyone as they took theirs, and raised an imaginary toast to the air.

"Here's to good fortune, milords and ladies," he declared. The he rubbed his hands together and licked his lips. "Now, let's eat!"

The Redguard joked with Kayla, and Ylenno laughed with her. And before he could add his own, a fork came flying and hit Kayla in the head. It came from the Imperial, who, when Ylenno squinted at him closely, was the same Imperial who got escorted by the guards earlier in the morning.

The elf didn't made a move and simply gave a very mocking smile to the Imperial as Kayla scolded him herself. Boy was craving for attention, no doubt about it. Best to just ignore him at this poi-

Another cutlery came flying, a spoon, and it hit Ylenno straight in the face, with enough force to draw a tiny smidgen of blood when a sharp point collided first.


There was an uncharacteristic silence and eerie calmness that took hold Ylenno, and his earlier smile was replaced with a stony neutral expression. His eyes never strayed far from the Imperial, who ranted something about his father dying.

Ylenno stood up, and wiped a droplet of blood from his face. He took the blood to his eyes and looked at it. He was lucky it nicked him below the eye; any further upwards and he would've been blinded.

He strode calmly to the Imperial, every movement economic and quick.

And he sat down at a chair beside him, making sure he could see the wound he inflicted to him.

"Give me one good reason not to smash your cute face in," he said coolly. "One good reason, boy, and it better not be a freudian excuse about your broken childhood or parents."

Westley

"Give me one good reason not to smash your cute face in, one good reason, boy, and it better not be a freudian excuse about your broken childhood or parents."

Westley didn't move from his seat. He simply glared at the Bosmer before answering.

"You dont want trouble with the guards do you? They certainly won't hesitate to charge you for assault if you punch me in the face over a spoon, and besides, that spoon wasn't meant for you, nor did I intend to injure you." Westley sniggered, "And besides, you should have more self-control than your currently having. I may be throwing spoons and forks, but I haven't thrown a knife, nor do I intend to, so assaulting me will only result in the imprisonment of both of us, and you'll end up with a broken jaw."

Westley stood up from his seat. He was about the about the same height as this Bosmer, maybe a bit taller. He was getting very upset, and didnt want to start any fights, so he took a moment to take a deep breath before sitting back down, and explaining his reasons for throwing utensils to the Bosmer.

"Pardon my mood. I shouldnt make other people miserable because I'm in a bad mood. I'll stop throwing stuff, and tell your Altmer friend over there I'm sorry. And I apologize for hurting you. I'm not sure how you managed to get cut with a spoon though. Please, just leave me be. I need to be alone I guess."

Westley continued glare at the Bosmer, but tried his best to control his temper. Hopefully this elf would leave him alone before a fight broke out. Or worse...

When Westley stood, Ylenno stood with him. Their faces were just several inches away, and blood still dripped from the wound Ylenno had. He held the boy's glare, unyielding and unblinking. The Imperial's 'reasons' went unheeded and passed through ear to ear, but when he spoke of 'self-control' Ylenno couldn't help but smilling with him. It seems this Imperial didn't see the hypocrisy in that one.

"Broken jaw, eh? Cute-boy thinks he knows how to throw a punch!"

He mimiced a pugilist, making whishing noises with his mouth.

And then he slapped the Imperial twice in the face, lightly, but very mocking in its intent. Ylenno had a strange yet sinister smile on his face, and he looped a hand around the Imperial's shoulder.

"Apology accepted. We're all friends here. Maybe you can teach how to throw a hook outside if you'd like?"

The elf lightly slapped Westley in the face. That's when he lost it. He grabbed the elf by the arm, and threw him to the ground. Westley didn't throw him hard enough to injure him though.His voice was a deadly growl when he spoke.

"I don't want anymore trouble with the guards, but you're pushing it elf!"

He pinned the elf to the ground, preventing him from getting up.

"We shouldn't be fighting. The last thing either of us need is trouble with the guards. You hit me first. And it was in purpose. I have every right to throw you to the ground and pin you like I currently am, and you have every right to be mad at me. I shouldn't have been throwing stuff, but slapping me? I don't care if you didn't hit me hard, a challenge is a challenge!"

Despite his cold, harsh tone, Westley got up and helped the Bosmer off of the ground before sitting back down and taking another deep breath. He couldn't lose control of himself. Not now.

"Both of you just stop it before you get us thrown out!" Kayla fussed.

She stood up and looked from Ylenno to the Imperial.

"YOU." She barked at the Imperial. "I did nothing to you, and you throw things at me? Guess what? My parents both died, along with my adoptive parents AND my siblings, and I still manage to be civilized! Just because I dungeon-crawl doesn't mean that I act like an animal!"

She looked at the Imperial. There was a vein in his neck throbbing. She softened.

"Why are you so angry? Why throw things?"

Westley

"Why are you so angry? Why throw things?"

Westley turned to the Altmer and wickedly laughed.

"He challenged me. But I think we should put this fight behind us. I shouldn't have been throwing [censored] in the first place. I'm sorry I threw stuff at you. I shouldn't of acted so immature."

GM POST


The throw was primal, with a little bit of technicality in it; it was the unnatural speed that took Ylenno off guard and down he met the floor in a resounding crash, and the breath was knocked off of him. Before he could get up, the Imperial pinned him, and this time, the hatred was cold and calculated. Ylenno couldn't move. The Imperial had him locked up completely.

The Imperial said his piece, and Ylenno said his too; barking laughter. No sooner than he had been thrown, the Imperial took hold of him and stood him up.

"Bad mistake," Ylenno said. He would've kicked the Imperial in the chest and mount him, but Kayla got in there first and the elf crossed his arms. As the Imperial and Kayla got this heart-to-heart moment, he took a look around the establishment and suppressed a barking laughter. All movement stopped. The other patrons were completely still.

He even saw a frozen Orc holding a sandwich before his open mouth. Sauce dripped from the sandwhich. The Innkeeper even had a mace drawn out.

"No need to gape, folks," Ylenno said when the heart-to-heart moment stopped. "Just your usual moment you see in cliche stories! Hells, I'd even buy a whole new round for all of you!"

He sat down in the Imperial's table and carressed his burning side. Boy knew how to throw.

"You won't get away from me that easily! Whats your name, Imperial? I'd like to know the brawler who threw me to the ground!" There was no malice in his voice and he regarded the Imperial with his usual cheeriness restored.

"Mine's Ylenno, and maybe a drink or two can introduce us properly to each other rather than my slap or your throw!"