Yersia
Newborn
Buster
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Post by Yersia on Aug 20, 2013 8:33:06 GMT -5
As the spheres in the sky rotated until they met their nocturnal axis, and the thin line of fog in the distance began to encroach upon Cheydinhal like tidal waves, Thrives-In-Outlands' silhouette faded into invisibility.
"Not so much a warm welcome, as more a cold embrace of death"the Argonian muttered as he blinked past the gathering of drunken bandits. He was surely to perish in the ensuing battle should his presence be made, and so he admitted himself the focus to remain completely silent. The sigil of purple energy in his left hand swirled mysteriously as the Chameleon spell warped back over his body.
"Soldiers of yonder village need not protect their citizens now, as the Night takes their blood and their souls into the afterlife by bandit's hand. Hither blade thirsts for blood, but I shan't give it the satisfaction. Blood is blood, nevertheless of who it belongs to."
Thrives-In-Outlands was a Naga Argonian. The culture and customs of his former tribe dictated that action was to be conducted through violence and anti-pacifism, and it was true that the letting of blood was common practice among their students to prove their worthiness as Naga. Thrives-In-Outlands was always a special exception, however. He was said to have been born with a holy symbol in his left hand, and an apple in his right. The image in which Thrives-In-Outlands' believed the humble apple held was one of valour, grace, armistice and understanding. It was a fruit seldom seen in his home province, and one that, when consumed, harboured a sweet sting of the tongue that tasted of purity and autonomy. It was always the subject of his monologues and peaceful teachings - he explained the soul as the apple, and their mortal bodies as the worm. Even then, in his enlightened teachings and logical explanations, the Naga elders protested against his actions and cast him astray from their village, in an attempt to suppress his 'venomous' ways. It was his wit and intelligence that gave him the strength to escape the abyss he was doomed in - a strength that he has carried in his spirit ever since.
The bandits were a mere bump in the road on the great journey. The Argonian had already arrived in Cyrodiil, sure, but it was not his destination for now. His target: the icy plains and mountain ranges of fair Skyrim. He had already passed the borders of both Morrowind and Cyrodiil, and he was sure to pass them once more in the future.
At the wiggle of destiny's elusive finger, Thrives-In-Outlands would obey. He would move forward, and not set astray from his path, until his goals were met. Who was he to meet in Skyrim? Time will tell. Time is due. All is due, as is time a truth.
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Salvahkiin
Archer
My Siren's name is Brick, and she is the prettiest.
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Post by Salvahkiin on Aug 21, 2013 3:20:23 GMT -5
Modyn entered Riften from the north gates, the pesky guard tried to con him out of money, but Modyn's sly mouth got him out of that piffle. As soon as Modyn was talked to by the guard, he could tell Riften was still the same old shithouse it was 300 years ago. The guard had alcohol on his breath, as did most in the Bee and Barb. Most, but the innkeeper, an elderly Keerava, a lovely Argonian girl. And her friend, who didn't introduce himself, but he was cleaning the floor. It looked like the vomit from the passed out patron on the bench. There were many Nords, but not many foreigners, there was Keerava and her friend of course. Modyn. A shady man sitting at a table all by himself. The Hood didn't want to show the man's face. Plus another Argonian.
Modyn drifted over to the table with the shady man, and introduced himself.
"Son, you don't look like one to fit in with this lot. Oh, Modyn Seran, Conjurer Extraordinare." Modyn called a lot of men 'son'. It came with age.
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Miami
Newborn
Do you like hurting other people?
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Post by Miami on Aug 21, 2013 3:30:44 GMT -5
Lucas had spent the last few days in Riften, This place is pathetic, everyone is under the Black-Briar's thumb, even their spineless Jarl. Well, I'm getting paid more in The Rift than I do in Whiterun, and there are more bounties. I can't complain. He walked into Mistveil keep and passed a sword to Unmid Snow-Shod. "Here, his sword as you requested. Before you ask, of course he is dead.
Unmid nodded in approval, before turning to Jarl Law-Giver. "Your payment of seven-hundred-and-fifty Septims." Laila nodded at him after speaking and passed him a bag of gold.
"Thank you." Lucas accepted the bag and walked out of the manor. He looked around, admiring the women in the marketplace. I'd talk to one of them, but I'd rather not give them nightmares... It was off to the Bee and Barb for the masked man, he entered the bar and bought a bottle of mead. Sitting down to drink it, he thought about what went wrong in his life. Well, more like what didn't go wrong.
I repulse women, inspire fear in men, nobody dares speak to me, even the authorities are scared of me... Lucas really did want to talk to people, it was just that they wouldn't talk to him. "I sure as hell hope that I can find someone before I die...
Lucas left the Bee and Barb before attention was drawn to him, after leaving the premises, he seemed to vanish into thin air.
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Yersia
Newborn
Buster
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Post by Yersia on Aug 21, 2013 3:51:23 GMT -5
The distance between Cheydinhal and the Jerall Mountains went quickly. Though his scaly feet ached greatly, Thrives-In-Outlands scampered forward and stopped only for rest every moon-cycle. Besides the encounter with the drunken bandits a few nights earlier, the Argonian pilgrim encountered no more sentient life. Besides a scuffle with a great mountain bear near the slopes of Dive Rock, his pilgrimage was so far smooth sailing. However, the Argonian had anticipated his arrival in Skyrim to be less than peaceful, what-with the many dangers his presence may provoke. Still, he devoted himself to the path of peace and would kill no being unless under extreme circumstances.
The Jerall Mountains were harsh. Constant blizzards, falling ice shards, and the lack of adequate heat were very few of the problems to which the Argonian encountered. Unbeknownst to the Argonian, he was soon to encounter a most vile three-eyed creature: an Uderfrykte Mountain Troll.
Its presence wasn't known by the Argonian until it relinquished its haunting call. It echoed through the ranges and the snow, surpassing and suppressing all other noises, and some-what surprised the Argonian. His instant response was to sink to the ground in a crouch and cast an Invisibility spell over his body - to no avail. Thrives-In-Outlands spun around, brandishing his blade and holding it up to his face, pointing down. The troll in the distance was grasping a person by the collar. He looked like a hunter.
As the troll slowly dragged the bedraggled and mutilated corpse behind him, Thrives-In-Outlands noticed the gore leaking from its open gut. There were entrails hanging from the troll's serrated teeth. Its cruel grin struck fear in the Argonian's heart, but he held his composure, spinning the dagger around his hand and flinging it to his opposite. He grinned in return, thinking to himself, My blade's thirst is too great to unquench.
Thrives-In-Outlands took a moment to gather his senses. The snow was clearing up. The ground was flat and ideal for combat. The sharp scent of blood was stinging his nostrils like wasps. All that could be heard was the brutish breath of the Uderfrykte. There was something peculiar about the hunter, however. Around his neck hung loosely a trinket. Its magnificent gem sparked brightly in the Argonian's eye. Perhaps this is the source of the Invisibility's nullification, he thought. The fight would be worth it, should he be able to recover such a valuable artefact.
The Argonian hissed and bore his fangs, before raising his dagger back up behind his head. His knees bent further, and he sprung into the air swiftly...
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Post by Zenios on Aug 21, 2013 13:27:23 GMT -5
The first thing Alistair Lencolia noticed upon waking was that his hand itched. Nothing unusual about that; the plethora of burn scars tended to want scratching. They had for years now without pause. The second, the dull headache that often came with drinking your sorrows away.
He rolled out of bed, staggered to the dresser in the corner of the small room. He reached into the basin atop it, cupped hands, splashed his face with water. It wasn't until he'd run a hand over his face that Alistair took a glance in the mirror. The last week had really taken a toll on him: red, sunken eyes. A week's worth of beard. Unkempt hair. Nothing a bit of fuss and a knife wouldn't fix. Grabbing a linen bandage off the dresser, he wrapped up his right hand and forearm in it and moved back to the bed, yanking his hunting knife out of the wall where he'd left it.
Ten minutes later he emerged from the bedroom presentable if not in perfect shape: shaven surprisingly without nicking himself for once, hair pulled back and tied with another length of linen. Alistair had donned brown leather boots and pants, leaving a brown-trimmed green tunic with fairly long sleeves to cover his upper body and a hood and cloak of forest green to shield him from elements and identification. What shoddy leather armor he carried now found itself in his saddlebags, his sword strapped to his horse as well; but his dagger rested today in his left boot. It always paid to be prepared, after all, especially when you were traveling Skyrim: not the safest of lands.
It was an hour's ride to Riften from this inn, a ride he settled in for and which passed uneventfully; the only interaction of note, in fact, was getting past the guards at the gate. Swindlers, the both of them; but Alistair found it relatively easy to dodge their "entry tax". He was in no mood for trifles--hadn't really been for years--and it seemed clear that the two guardsmen recognized as much, and so entering Riften was quite easy. It had been at least a year since he'd been here last, so finding the Bee and Barb--the Beer and Bar, he immediately dubbed it--was much more difficult; but even that was relatively simple.
So, casting the hood of his cloak back, Alistair opened the door and entered the inn's common room. He had an employer to look for.
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Salvahkiin
Archer
My Siren's name is Brick, and she is the prettiest.
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Post by Salvahkiin on Aug 22, 2013 0:44:23 GMT -5
Modyn sat alone, not drinking, but observing. Observing the goers of the Bee and Barb. Most were drunkards, downing their troubles. Others were there on business, like himself. He got up to leave the Bee and Barb, when he bumped into a man with a scarred arm.
"Sorry for bumping into you.....say, those burns are intense. But I must be on my way. May I suggest the temple?" He nodded to the man.
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Miami
Newborn
Do you like hurting other people?
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Post by Miami on Aug 22, 2013 1:40:47 GMT -5
Lucas ignored everyone around him as he left the town, Solitude was where he wanted to be now. He approached the man who owned the wagon, he taxied people all across Skyrim. "When is your next trip?" He asked, hoping it was soon. The man looked into the sky for a moment, seeing where the sun was in correlation to his compass.
"I'll be about an hour, I need to take as many people as I can to make some money." The man smiled, "I'm sure you can find something to do in Riften."
Angrily, Lucas walked off, back into Riften. A Khajiit approached him and offered moon sugar and Skooma for a hefty fee. Sensing an oppertunity, Lucas quickly drew his dagger, aiming it at the man's heart. "I think you should hand it over, lest you lose your life." The Khajiit man passed Lucas all of his moon sugar and Skooma, controlled by the fear of possible death. These kinds of people are too easy, but it is a quick profit, and nobody gets harmed.
By the time an hour had passed, Lucas sold off nearly all of the drugs. Easy money. He walked back to the wagon owner, and passed him the 50 septims before taking a seat in the back. The traveler spoke up for a moment, "Keep in mind, there are a few minutes until I leave."
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Yersia
Newborn
Buster
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Post by Yersia on Aug 22, 2013 4:25:36 GMT -5
Thrives-In-Outlands lunged forward, driving his dagger into the troll's shoulder - his blade only buckled and bent upon the creature's hard flesh. The troll bellowed again, and unleashed its hammer-like fists in a devastating flurry. Thrives-In-Outlands stumbled as blow-after-crushing-blow rained down upon his head. He was floored when a sudden swift kick jarred his knees and blew the wind out of his gut. He rolled over, wincing in pain, and hissed at the troll. Levering his right hand to his side and grasping his dart shooter, Thrives-In-Outlands was sent into a daze again as the creature's heavy foot slammed onto his chest like a boulder. His ribs were possibly broken. He lost his breath. He felt the weight of a thousand stones encumbering him. It was only his special talents that saved Thrives-In-Outlands' life. Chains began to slither around the beast's ankles like venomous vipers. They were trailing up its legs, past its hairy thighs, until they were coiling around its entire body. With one quick tug, the creature's arms, legs, spine and its internal organs cracked and snapped like twigs. It let out an enormous screech, before toppling over and being consumed by the boa-constrictor of ethereal metal. As the chains retracted into Thrives-Into-Outlands' body, he frowned. "I fair you well, noble beast - you will carry on in the afterlife, in peace." he muttered, a single tear rolling down his scaly cheek. Recovering his composure, Thrives-In-Outlands stood up and dusted himself off. He allowed his right hand to cradle his wounded chest as he knelt down and plucked the interesting trinket from the gored Hunter's body. Thrives-In-Outlands stared out at the wondrous Cyrodiil he was about to leave. "To Skyrim." he said.  |
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Post by Zenios on Aug 25, 2013 13:53:29 GMT -5
"No, no, it was my fault. You have my apologies," the Breton replied almost instinctively, taking a step back.
"And, thank you, but healing is not at all what I seek," he replied simply, grabbing his wrist reflexively. The burns had long since left him with naught but scars, physical and emotional. Employment was much more what he was looking for, but he would settle for companionship or simply something to do other than just sit in a tavern. That was why he was here, but wandering Skyrim with a Dunmer might prove much more interesting than wandering Skyrim with a trade caravan or something similar.
Sizing the other up and down indicated, though, that this particular Dunmer looked like a mage... and Alistair didn't particularly appreciate mages, not anymore.
His brow furrowed a bit as he stepped aside to let the dark elf pass, starting to weigh the merits--and lack thereof--of imposing himself on this Dunmer for a short time in search of companionship.
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Salvahkiin
Archer
My Siren's name is Brick, and she is the prettiest.
Posts: 1,055
Likes: 4
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Post by Salvahkiin on Aug 25, 2013 15:56:51 GMT -5
Modyn talked to himself......quite often, infact.
Yes yes yes, Mistveil Keep
His quite peaceful train of thought was interrupted by a thief, one that had stolen his pouch, and one that was reaching for his dagger, to reach for his throat, to slit it.
The Thief surely wasn't expecting the fireball that flew past his head and into the horizon.
And he wasn't expecting the dagger that was driven into his windpipe.
"Rest, child of Nirn"[/b]
Modyn picked up his pouch and asked the burned man for a hand.
"Son, a hand please?" Modyn was watching all the eyes on him.
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Miami
Newborn
Do you like hurting other people?
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Post by Miami on Aug 27, 2013 0:48:13 GMT -5
Lucas closed his eyes, trying to sleep. His effort was to no avail, as a few hours later, the driver declared that they were now in Falkreath City. Ah, yes. Falkreath, the land of woods, death and beauty. Lucas smiled as he got off the wooden cart, walking through the town. His destination was the graveyard, not to mourn, but to harvest. Nightshade, when mixed with Nirnroot made quite a devastating poison. Sicarius crouched and picked off the flowers from the dark bushes. This is the best I can make, but I've heard tales of Argonians who are able to secrete their own poison...
Nearly half an hour later he walked to the Inn, where he rented a room. Lucas unstrapped his leather armor and laid it on the table in his room. I've felt worse, recently. My body is showing no signs, though. He examined his pale, athletic body. Maybe I need to rest more, perhaps my insomnia will pass soon. The half-naked man laid his body on the comfortable bed, he thought to himself, Will I travel to Makarth and spend time there, or is it back to Solitude. Eventually, after the fighting in his head he fell asleep.
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Yersia
Newborn
Buster
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Post by Yersia on Aug 27, 2013 4:32:33 GMT -5
The lush, icy plains could be seen below from the zenith of the Jerall Mountains. The harsh trek across the fabled range had finally come to an end; Thrives-In-Outlands smiled and hummed to himself as he celebrated his accomplishments. His leg hung loosely over the edge as he watched below, as the seamless waves of mammoths and giants crossed the plains in unison. The cold wind of Skyrim, even colder than the wind of the mountaintops, had already began to give the Argonian goosebumps; the sheer sight of the Nordic land did, too. It was a land of wonders, as foretold in books and in tongue - Thrives-In-Outlands believed the tales for sure now. His first stop within Skyrim was the gloomy town of Riften. Situated in dark and magicka-encrusted marshes, it was a place of somewhat familiarity to the Argonian - his homeland's geographical properties were extremely similar. The Argonian approached the gates with a smile stretching from cheek-to-cheek. The guard manning his post held his hand up with conviction and halted the Argonian. "You there!" the Guard bellowed. "Are you one of the dock workers? If so, head 'round the side; there's a ship ready to come into port! Off with you!"The Argonian questioned his own legitimacy: would he really lie to a guard in order to fulfill his own goals? He had decided against the non-benevolent act after[/b] he snuck into Riften by the Guard's folly. ~~  |
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Post by Zenios on Aug 27, 2013 13:07:28 GMT -5
The Breton turned at the sound of footsteps - fast, loud, running - to note a man fast approaching the Dunmer. The man snatched his purse, looked like he was going to make off with it successfully... and then the Dunmer threw a fireball. Alistair breathed something of a sigh of relief as the projectile flew past the thief harmlessly - and then breathed a sigh of exasperation as the mage drove a dagger into the thief's throat. Neither magic nor killing, he'd found, were especially good ways to make friends among Nords. Not even in a hive of scum and villainy such as Riften.
And, true to his experience, the surrounding people immediately soured and shied away from the elf and his victim. As if only to compound the issue, the Dunmer turned to face him. "Son, a hand please?"
Alistair choked back some choice words as he stepped forward, careful to hide his features as best he could beneath the hood of his cloak. He really didn't need anyone attaching this to him; the last thing he wanted was the Dark Brotherhood thinking he was back in the business by any stretch. "I know not the customs of your homeland," he said quietly and with but a hint of frustration to the Dunmer as he moved forward and knelt by the corpse, "but using magic such as you did is rather frowned upon by the Nords that call this place home. Not to mention you've killed a man, now. The guardsmen don't take kindly to that kind of thing, especially not when you've gone and killed an unarmed man like that. Thief or no."
He searched the body for the handful of septims he could find, pocketed them smoothly as he picked up the corpse. "Lead on. We need to leave here before the guards show up and start asking questions." Alistair could feel angry eyes burrowing into his back, associating him with this killer. Wonderful, the Breton thought. He had a feeling he was going to hate having decided to throw in with this Dunmer before too long. "Oh--and don't call me son."
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Salvahkiin
Archer
My Siren's name is Brick, and she is the prettiest.
Posts: 1,055
Likes: 4
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Post by Salvahkiin on Aug 27, 2013 15:50:18 GMT -5
Modyn thanked the man for the help, and they took his body to the Hall of the Dead, Modyn listening to what he had to say.
"I know. Skyrim has been my home for centuries. And I do intend to go to Mistveil Keep, explain things to the Jarl, and also secure trade routes. I run a village, see?"
As they gave the body over to the Temple, the man asked him not to call him son.
"What should I call you, then?"
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Miami
Newborn
Do you like hurting other people?
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Post by Miami on Aug 28, 2013 5:15:48 GMT -5
Lucas spent the next two hours asleep; he woke up feeling refreshed. He walked towards the window, luckily the window-frame was covering him from the waist down. Such a beautiful evening... The sun was setting over the West, and he was rising. "The moon and I have become good friends." He put on a pair of spare clothes and wore his cloak and cowl over the top. His armor was not needed, as he was only going downstairs for a meal.
"Steak and potatoes, please." Lucas' voice was very disheartened. Passing over the coins, he made his way back to the table. Dead Man's Drink were good with their food, very generous helpings and good quality. Within minutes, a man passed him his meal, along with a knife and fork. "Thanks." Lucas began eating the meal, the steak was cooked rare, perfect. Tonight, I'll travel.
Sicarius finished his meal and headed back upstairs where he donned his armor once more, his clothes were folded, he could sell them as he didn't need them anymore. He left the Dead Man's Drink with all of his possessions. Goodbye, Falkreath. He began walking towards Markarth, the Orcs seemed to like him at Dushnikh Yal, especially one of the girls. She was sweet, but a long-distance relationship would never work between them.
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