Dear my Dearest Havlu...

I do not expect you to love your father anymore, for after all the bad choice's I have made, this one is easily my worst. What was I thinking? We needed money? A so called "pride" for our people? The depth's to which I have sunk have made me a spiteful and bitter creature. A mere husk of what was once someone vaguely respectable. Signing up with Frathen Drothan's band of cutthroat mercenaries and zealous maniac's will from here on be counted as my life's biggest failure.

The march across the border was bad enough. By the time we reached Sundercliff....twelve of us had collapsed due to exhaustion and left to be picked apart by wolve's. This so called fortress is a nightmare to live in. The air is thick and clog's the throat, our lodgings are damp, ramshackle, and crowded. My eyes refuse to adjust to this light, and it is hard to see with only a few candles lighting every endless hallway . Sometimes I am awoken by figures scuttling in the shadows. I find the fact that they are real questionable...living in this mountain is making me lose my mind.

I now see the error of my way's. What does Frathen expect? that he will be able to topple the empire with a mere 1000 men? If he does manage to find this fabled dagger within the depths down here, it will not matter either way. Mehrune's Razor or not, he will march us right through the front gates of the Imperial City, and we will be crushed like the mere cockroaches we are.

Ive gone in too deep now, and the steward will not let men out of the mountain until the time comes. I tried escaping once and was beaten as a result. I am sorry my final words to you sound so pathetic, but please know that your father loved you in spite of all the difficulties we faced together. Soon I will be at peace with your mother, and I hope you will see my attempt at providing for our small family as a brave if not mislead act, and that you will not look upon me with such dissapointment.

With Love
Boryl Vandaren
Your Father

This is an RP based off the popular official "Mehrunes Razor" DLC for Oblivion. Although an RP based off DLC may seem like a bad movie-game cash in, I hope to provide enough substance and enjoyment for this to be taken seriously. Whether you have played "Mehrunes Razor" or not doesnt matter...although you can find a page http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Oblivion:Unearthing_Mehrunes_Razor for reference if your interested. unlike the mod, we will be on the side of the drothmeri army this time , which should lead to some interesting scenario's.

On a side note...for any who manage to remember , I unexpectedly left the forums until now due to personal matter's, and I offer my heartfelt apologies to those who were in one of my RP's at the time. This one will last longer hopefully...I have alot more time on my hands This RP will start in the earliest stages of Drothans plan...starting with the men establishing themselves within Sundercliff and hopefully carrying through to his assault on the empire, with interesting little missions going on in between.

PLOT

Frathen Drothan is a rogue Telvanni mage , infuriated by the way the Dunmer people have been treated by the empire in the past. He seeks to administer justice swiftly , and has raised a somewhat formidable personal army of mercenaries and patriotic Dunmer to support his cause. The "Drothmeri Army" , as it is called, has travelled across the border into Cyrodiil and now stands camped in the north eastern sector of the Nibenay Valley in an abandoned fort within a mountain called "Sundercliff Watch".

There is a reason behind staying in this paticular place. Drothan, being the scholar that he is, has come to Sundercliff in pursuit of the legendary Daedric artifact "Mehrunes Razor" . A finely honed dagger that is said to have the ability to instantly banish anyone into the torturing planes of oblivion with one strike. Drothan believes weilding the dagger will give him that extra edge in destroying the empire.

However, at this stage, the army has only just settled into the mountain fortress. Basic excavations deeper into the mountain have started, as has the building of barracks , armories , mess halls, and training facilities. A mine has also been set up, with Khadjit and Argonian labourer's bringing in a steady shipment of crude iron ore to be fashioned into armor for the men. The impending assault is by all means at its earliest stage.

You will play a part in Drothans instrument of death. A soldier in his army, you will fight for his cause, be it for wealth, pride for your people, or personal gains. Little do you know...what would seem a simple skirmish into this mountain could take off unexpectedly in the near future...

RULES

~Me word is LAW. That being said, I am open to suggestions that would better enhance the experience for everyone.
~Use the character sheet provided
~No flaming, spamming ect.
~No UBERING. Most of you will be freshly conscripted mercenaries. You may have experience, but you wont be godlike.
~Romance is allowed, as is cursing and all that lark.
~Post sheet's to me for approval.
~Keep OOC's to a minimum please
~No one lined post's, add some substance to your post's...but dont make them drag out to the point of self indulgence. Less can be more, but not TOO little.
~Please use correct grammar and spelling. I have the right to refuse badly spelt character sheet's. This only shows you do not deem it worthy to put the effort into correcting your spelling for this RP, and I dont want that kind of person taking part in it.
~Have fun!

Teh Character Sheet!

Name: ( this is what people call you )
Nickname: ( If you have one )
Age:
Race: ( Any race..although Dunmer's prefered, but I dont think Drothan would be picky as long as they support his cause )
Gender: ( Does your character have a thingy or one of those other thingies? )
Rank: ( Anything up to Sergeant. Please get some privates and corporals in here though...playing the big boy isnt always the best experience )

Appearance: ( the whole shebang. hair, eyes, physique )
Personality:

Class: ( What do you offer to the army? Sapper? Assassin? Cook? Miner? Ranger? Grunt? )
Class Description: ( What the aforementioned class does )

Kit: This covers both weapons and armor. Now bear in mind...most of you are going to look like http://www.uesp.net/w/images/OB-npc-Drothmeri_Steward.jpg clothing-wise. Thats standard Drothmeri uniform, so you will all boast the tunic. You can have anythign else you want really...personal things, armor underneath the tunic, hood's, capes ...but you will have that tunic, ugly as it is.

Bio: ( Why you joined Drothans army, and anything else)

Feel free to add anything extra.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My character:

Name: Boros Doctroniki
Nickname: Salty
Age: 36 ( dont know the equivalent in elf years sorry )
Race: Dunmer
Gender: Male
Rank: Corporal

Appearance: Somewhat unspectacular. Boros looks like your average army grunt. He boasts a short cut military hairstyle with a crimson headband and has a earthy stubble. His eyes are a blazing dunmeri orange and he has a narrow nose and tight drawn lips, accompanied by gaunt and jutting cheekbones and a broad chin. His skin is a faded ashen gray tone with flecks of grit and dirt in them. He isnt filthy, but is generally a tad grungy...something that stands in somewhat contrast to his otherwise tidy militaristic appearance.

Personality: Bitter and a drunk...Doctroniki is a grizzled and somewhat cynical individual. He is still positive at times, and his cynicism rarely stoop's to the extreme extent where is depresses and irritates those around him. He is always the first one to crack the snide joke, and is always the first to pull out a beer after a hard days training at the local canteen. His alcoholism means he is always in a semi-tipsy state...but it calms his nerves, and improves his accuracy with a bow.

Class: Ranger, 2nd company sharpshooter's.
Class Description: Sniping is this ones game. Boros prefer's to skulk back at a distance, taking few shot's that are nontheless deadly. His combat in close range is somehwta hampered by a weak physique but what he lacks in strength , he makes up for in stealth and speed. He is still well skilled with a dagger or shortsword when things get up and close...but hiding up behind a boulder is where he really is most effective.

Kit: . Standard issue Drothmeri tunic
. Leather gloves, greaves, and boot's ( well worn and somewhat gnarled )
. A compact small bronze telescope ( the lens is cracked but he likes to have it on him )
. 3 potions of standard healing
. 3 metres of rope ( tied to the belt )
. A flint and tinderbox
. 1 fine steel bow, with 45 iron arrows
. 2 vials of health damaging poison
. 1 silver dagger

Bio: Doctroniki signed up with Drothan for the need of money. Namely, money for booze. he had spent his days living in a dingy Mournhold apartment, and had served time in the imperial legion before . Although his time serving the empire may stand in somewhat contrast to his recent joining of an army solely dedicated to destroying said empire...Boros really isnt picky, aslong as theres money in his pocket or whiskey on his table.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thats it for now...Im dead tired and will post IC's tommorow depending if this sparks an interest or not. Heres hoping.

Dimly lit hallways. Squalid living quarters. Lack of any sunlight whatsoever, and to top it all off, pathetic booze. This was the life that Boros had accustomed to...a tiring and somewhat hopeless existance based around routine . Getting woken up for training, drilling for hours on end followed by pathetic meals and minimal amounts of rest. The fact he had no idea what he time of day was only made it seem even more like an eternity. He knew no one else knew the time either....the lot of them hadnt seen sun since they arrived in the fort.

He awoke with a snort with his head firmly resting face down on a splintered table within the canteen. Stale crumbs of food from the table occupants previous meal firmly planted into his skin and up his nose. He reared his head up, blinking blindly as his eyes adjusted to the badly lit canteen. No one was about, just him and his several empty bottles of beer. Where was everyone? Training probably. The Drill Sergeant was going to give him an earfull for sure.

It was then that his head started to pound . Hangover. The worst kind. He slung himself from his wooden stool , almost stumbling over his feet and falling to the floor. Cursing under his breath, he picked up his bow..of which was clumsily leant against the table amongst the several bottles, knocking somke over in the process.

Better late then never....guess I had better get my rear into gear. He swayed out of the small food hall, grabbing a half drunk bottle of stale mead off the counter on the way out and finishing it with one mighty chug.

Name: Fara
Nickname:
Age: 55 (appears in her early 20s)
Race: bosmer
Gender: female
Birthsign: the thief

Focus: stealth
Class: huntress ? an expert in moving discretly in hard to reach places as well as archery while wearing at least a modicum of armor to protect against unwelcome encouters. This is supplemented with enough skill with short blades to survive a close encounter, as well as the skills to maintain equipment, brew some basic alchemical mixtures and genreally survive outdoors.
Skills: sneak, light armor, marksman, acrobatics
minor skills : survival, armorer, blades, alchemy
Mental Description: Fara is quite a cynic, having seen too much mayhem and atrocities during her time in the Legion to retain much faith in men, mers or beasts. As she feels having much simply means more to loose and attract trouble, she's just coasting along, fighting boredom with simple (and cheap) fun like carousing on someone else's money. She don't care much about Drothan's goals and methods as long as money keeps coming, although she isn't entirely comfortabel with them.

Physical Description: Fara is a young bosmer woman of average size, on the slim rather than voluptuous side. Her face is far from outstanding, most would describe her as nice or cute rather than pretty. Her light built is misleading, as years of hunting and legion service have muscled and toned her frame.
She's wearing a bosmer-made leather and bone armor, with cuirass, greaves, bracers, and a light helmet, the leather has a dull, greenish brown color. Under it she's wearing a short linen tunic and skirt, over it she wears the standard issue tunic.

Height: 5'5"
Weight: 100 lbs
Hair: dark brown
Eye Color: black
Scars/Tattoos: none

Armor/Clothing: scaled leather armor - a Valenwood light armor. The leather is supplemented with strips and scales of bone, improving the protection to a level equivalent to light chain armor. It don't rusts and the leather has been alchemicaly treated against rot..
Weapons: bosmeri bone bow - compact but quiter powerful, and immune to humidity (Valenwood being definitively on the rainy side), steel shortsword. Quiver of thirty arrows, ten of them are silver-tipped.
Inventory: small mortar and pestle, hammoc, utility dagger, first aid kit, basic armorer's kit, a flask of moonshine (she's using her alchemical skills to brew some)

Bio: Fara was born in a somewhat destitute bosmer family in Valenwood, her parents scraping a living as hunters. She learned the way of the hunt and the bow, but didn't improve her condition much - owing to her spendthrift and lazy habits.
She was merely coasting along with that life when a night of drunken revelry suddenly changed her situation : with the fumes of alcohol dissipated, she found she had signed for joining the Legion. With a pair of burly and barely polite legionnaire standing ready to enforce the contract by chaining and dragging her if needed....

Dumped into the ranks after a few month of training (marching in ranks, using heavy armor, a bit of siegecraft - digging, hauling siege machine parts, that sort of things...), Fara's hunting skills have kept her alive and she even managed to increase in rank a triffle - but her definitively unmartial attitude made sure she didn't ever made it past sergeant.
Near the end of her 20-years contract, she was kicked out and her retirement bonus held for charges of conduct unbecoming (mostly bogus but not entirely undeserved). Seriously pissed with the Empire in general and the Legion in particular, she never made any attempt to hide her feelings. Which barred her most legitimates lines of work and finally brought her into Drothan's rank, one of the few employers likely to approve of her dishonorable discharge - or at least turn a blind eye to it.

OOC: My Character Sheet

Name: Dralliam Bolush
Nickname: Red
Age: 57 (looks like he is in his 20's)
Race: Dunmer
Gender: Male
Rank: Private
Appearance: 5 ft 9, Black short combed hair, muscular, but doesn't like to carry much, has bright red eyes, Dark Blueish purple skin like all dunmer.
Personality: Speaks with honor and pride, but likes to boast alot.
Birthsign: The Apprentice

Major Focus: Combat and Archery
Minor Focus: Magic, Destruction
Class: Grunt
Class Description: His rank and appointed soldiers are the first to the frontlines and the ones that may not come back,
The leaders always call for them for support, cover or a minor assault.
Skills: Destruction, Marksman, Heavy Armor, Blade

Kit: Drothmeri uniform (or also known as the Forester's Tunic, Has a light chainmail cuirass under the uniform)
Iron Greaves, Leather Bands (on the wrists), Iron Boots, His lucky Amulet (Family Heirloom) Steel Longsword, Steel Crossbow, 50 iron bolts, 5 Weak heal potions, 5 weak magicka potions.

Bio: He was an Ex-Morag Tong Assassin and a Fighters Guild Protector, he came to Cyrodiil to find fortune but after 20 years of being hated he went back to Morrowind after the disbanding of the Tribunal Temple, He joined the Army for wealth and pride, His family lives in the Summerset Isles but doesn't make trips to visit due to outstanding fees of him being a dunmer and a wanted Murderer in Anvil, He also joined the army to bring justice for his People, He has taken the Ashlanders with him to join the army.

He and his Men are patrolling the mines.


ICC: Dralliam walking through the dark hallways of Sundercliff, dark, cold, wondering when the assault to the Imperial City, He and his men sit down at a small table and discuss the plans if Drothran decides to go with them.
"What im saying that we should take out the other cities before we take on the Capitiol, and the guilds!" one Ashllander exclaimed, "Yes, but i hear the Imperial City is home to the acient relics and weapons, if we take it out we should use the relics against the other cities!" another interupted, "Yes but only these relics are there, Chrysmere, Spell Breaker, Masque of Clavicus Vile, Skeleton Key!" Dralliam yelled, "What of the relics that were there?" an Ashlander Chief wonders, "Umbra was taken by a prisoner, Mace of Molag Bal is hidden in the Arena somewhere, Staff of Magnus is missing, the Staff of Warms and the Bloodworm Helm are in the Arcane Univeristy....." said Dralliam, "What about this, i found a book in the Library in Vivec, lists eight powerful relics of the Nine?" another ashlander asked, "Thats Suicide, those Relics are too powerful for anyone to wield them, legend says that only a Champion pure of heart and does good deeds across the land to wield them! and they have been lost for years!" Dralliam yelled. "Enough talking you Grunts! you need to check out our mine workers through the mines! now get moving or ill report you to the Master!" a High Ranking Nord said, Dralliam mumbled something unspeakable in the Dunmer language.
Dralliam and his Men walking through the pathways in the Mines that run deeper into the ruin, Dralliam orders his men to watch the Exit and get some water, Darlliam looks at the newly bought slaves of Khajiit from Valenwood, he walks up to one Khajiit slacker and bashes him into the head with a peice of iron, "Get back to work you filthy Cat!" he yells, He walks further down into the mines with his sword drawn, not knowing what lies deeper into the Mine shafts, He sees a Dunmer mine worker he recruited trying to haul some iron for the armor, he drops it and Dralliam runs to his aid,
"Why sir must i work in such a muddy mine? i hate it here!" he whimpered, "Don't worry my brother, think of it this way, without you Miners help we wouldn't have these weapons and armor, you Miners are doing a great service by Helping us, you help us by bringing iron to our blacksmith so he can make weapons and armor for us! without your support you would not make this all possible!" he encouraged the dunmer miner, "Your Right! the Army needs mine workers like me! don't worry, you guys will get your weapons and armor!" he said with great enthusiasm.

Dralliam and his men, Ashlanders he recruited from the Zainab tribe, Great warriors, very loyal, all went to the front gates to assist other ashlander soldiers, Dralliam walking through the halls to the Mess, hoping to find a good meal from the scouts the monitor the main roads and ambush Legion Foresters and Horseman, Dralliam sits down at a Table, a Beautiful dunmer cook comes up and gives him some Deer meat and new ale....

As the barrack's noise finally reached her mind, Fara awoke ? A rather lengthy process, punctuated with a lot of stretching and grumbling as she was anything but a morning person. Though she wasn't sure it was morning. Completely stupid of our boss to pile us in that cave. A crappy, damp, stinking, rotten cave. How are you supposed to train scouts and archers in it ? Moving through forest, compensating for the wind when shooting arrows, volley fire... No damn way to train that in a cave. Blah, if that crap keeps going, we'll turn into mushrooms....

Once out of her bed, she didn't bother donning her amor, only making sure the chest holding her possesions was still safely locked. Though it was unlikely someone had tried to open it, as her armor wouldn't fit more than a few persons in the whole army and her bow was distinctive enough to give away anyone stealing it.

Making no attempt at hiding her sour mood, she headed fo the mess for the breakfast, her mind reviewing the place to find some way to skip the usual training sessions. And that damn training, how much good will it do train for hacking and slashing without getting out to train marching and manoeuvering ? Drothan won't get an army, only a big mob crawling at a snail's pace. The longer I'm stuck in, the more I think he completely lost his marbles...

Still stretching as she entered the mess, she quickly picked her brekfast ? the same sort of unappealing fare she whistood during her legion time. Hardtack and a thin slice of cheese with some locally brewed ale. Grimacing as she constated it hadn't mproved. Always the same watered-down piss. I really should find who's brewing that abomination and kill him. After a quick look around, she discretly pulled a small flask from her belt, adding a solid dose of moonshine to the despicable beverage. I'm lucky to be a bit of an alchemist, otherwise I'd have frogs settling in my stomach, but I really need to cobble a real alambic together if I want to have some spare to trade.

OOC: im gone till thursday, Atomic this upcoming friday can you character control me character?
if so thanks!

OOC : Sure thing. I will take control of him when we get some dialogue between other characters going on as I cant really do much with him atm.
IC :

BOROS

The grizzled Dunmer was halfway to the training courts, head slouched and hands buried into his pockets, looking generally somewhat unhappy with things. His eyes squinted around the bleak darkness, hoping to pick out the correct pathway to his destination. Sure, he had been in the mountain for well over a month...but still he had not become aquainted with its layout. It was surreal that after all this time he still couldnt tell where he was going , but the mountain could do such things to you. The cramped mugginess rotted ones brain into mush, making them dumb as a doorknob, it was no wonder half the recruits had become slack-jawed easily gung-ho morons. The fact that the fort itself pulsed with otherwordly force due to the presence of the Razor didnt help either.

It was at this point that Boros realised that all this time he had his hands in his pockets...he did not realise the absence of his prized old handheld scope. Where could it of possibly gone? He always carried it around in his left pocket. It was his little treasure.

Spitting in disgust at himself, he turned back and started jogging at a quick pace back to the mess hall. Hoping that he would walk in and find his precious trinket innocently lying on his usual table. His cynical nature however, told him that he would of course arrive only to see it not there, most likely stolen.

He arrived at the hall, now having been worked up into a state of somewhat distress. he rushed over to the table he had been previously hunched over...only to see the scope was indeed not there. "DAMN!" he exclaimed in frustration , bringing both fists down on the table, causing some of the empty bottles to fall onto the wooden floor in shock.

"I lose the only thing of value to me in this damn hellhole AND Im late for training...Sergeant Fadrens going to have fun dining upon my entrails tonight"

Shepherd leaned casually against his corner in the mess hall. He periodically raised his left hand to his lips and took a bite of scrib jerky... well some kind of jerky anyway. He hadn't seen a scrib since he'd left Vvardenfel several weeks ago and he was pretty sure he'd eaten all of his supply long before that. It didn't matter, jerky all tasted the same if you let it sit long enough and judging by the sweet tinge of rot in this batch, it was of a considerable vintage. Maybe it was rat.

In his other hand he held the object he was currently focused on; it was a small bronze cylinder with a piece of cracked glass in one end. He'd found it sitting on a bench not far away, it was clearly a piece of junk. If it weren't for the fact that he was currently in a bar/mess in an underground hideout with a bunch of greedy mercenaries, he'd have assumed it was a children's toy.

Shepherd slipped the trinket into his pocket and took a moment to observe his surroundings, keeping his hat positioned low over his eyes. Quite a few people had entered the mess while he wasn't paying attention, including a bosmer. Despite himself, Shepherd had always found bosmer women to be alluring, something of a forbidden fruit with their pale, milky skin and mysterious black eyes; pools of liquid darkness which one could fall into if he wasn't careful. bah, still outlander scum.

He also took note of the stocky dunmer who had stridden in with a gaggle of, apparently Zainab, Ashlander tribesmen. This mer seemed to radiate pomposity, Shepherd glared at him and spat forcefully at the ground. N'wah, all of them, especially the false-clanfriend.

Finally Shepherd's gaze fell on the scruffy dunmer about a table away who appeared to be searching for something frantically. He raised an eyebrow and absentmindedly closed his fingers around the trinket in his pocket as the disheveled mer swore.

This lot was going to topple the evil Cyrodilic Empire?
What had he signed up for?

He'd signed up to die, of course.

As the mess started filling in, Fara didn't pay much attention to it ? focused on using some of what passed for beer in the mess to soak the hardtack and turn it into something that wasn't improved in taste but at least would no longer be tooth-breaking hard. Army food, the cheapest stuff they can get their hands on. Anyhting fresh is snatched up for officer country way before it gets any chance to come our way.

The edge of her hunger now broken she leaned back as far as she could without risking a fall ? stools and benches for us lowly grunts ? looking a bit around as she heard someone cursing and the sound of glass falling to the ground. Seeing it was some other low-ranker, a particularly scruffy dunmer. Not that I'm exactly pristine either, but it looks like he's fond of rolling himself into the dirt. Yuck, as if the sort of crap they're passing us as clothes wasn't scratchy enough. Well, maybe it remind him of the ash back home.

Her gaze drifted over the assembled soldiers, most of them dunmers. Bleh, reminds me more and more of my period in Morrowind, a narrow-minded bunch of xenophobes. And the ashlander cretins are even worse. Decent enough scouts in the dirt and rocks of the mountains I admit, but from what little I've seen when they left me getting out most are out of their league in the woods. Hardly a surprise, they've been kicked out of any forested place and into the damn ashlands. And some of these morons blame it on the Empire. Idiots, it's their settled brethern who kicked them out way before Tiber knocked Morrowind's door down..

With a resigned shrug she turned her attention back to her meal, deliberately closing her mind to the dubious taste and focusing on the fact it was food. Ignoring the odd lascivious - when not downright obscene - comments her sensitive hearing picked from around the mess. Something her years in the Legion had taught them to ignore.

The mess had filled considerably since Boros had left earlier...and he scanned his eyes over the room suspiciously, looking for anyone shifty. It was on my bedside table last night...so if it's gone, it would of gone missing here...and crappy borken telescope's dont just sprout up little legs and walk away, someones taken it, he mused to himself, a scowl on his face and a suspicious glint in his eye.

He clasped his hand's behind his back, trying to look inconspcious whilst he navigated his way around the canteen, sometimes stopping to lean over a diner's shoulder quickly for any sign of his scope. He was late for his training true, but his prized antique took all priority. It served as his moral tether, the one thing keeping him from going off the edge. He felt like it contained his last shred's of sanity...memories of the outside world. Memories of Balmora and Vivec. Memories of the dirty little corner shop where the telescope first caught his gaze , strangely enticing him to its purchase. Besides, he could shoot better then anyone in his troop, so its not like he needed training anyway...probably.

A bosmer woman grabbed his attention. He was suprised that a woman would find the sand to join such a ragtag unit of misfit's , alcoholic's, and skooma-abuser's...and the fact she was a Wood Elf only furthered his intrigue. He strolled up to her somewhat confidently, hint's of sixism seeping in as he looked at her with a pig-like false smile. A look that said "Hey babe, whats a sweet thing like you doing in a place like this? Lets hit the booze and go back to my place"

"Hey, Lady" he blurted oafishly. "Im looking for a small bronze scope about this high"

He made a small shape with his hands. "Im sure I left it here this morning, you seen it around or anything?"

He rudely looked towards the entrance as he spoke, as he knew that a quartermaster would surely come into the room soon...looking for those of whom were not present during training roll-call.

As the returning dunmer asked his question, Fara noticed his dubious smile. No wonder he's drooling over me, he's scruffy enough that a goat would have second thoughts. And most women will be more sensible than tagging along that sorry bunch... . She greeted him with her best 'piss me off and I'll have your liver for breakfast. And don't forget I'm a bosmer' glare. Once again a leftover of her legion time.

"A scope ? I've seen jerks and losers by the dozen, but nothing like a scope. Maybe you'll have more luck asking to those seated next to he table where you've eaten.". Pointing at said table in a somewhat dismissive gesture. I'd rather have that drunkard not linger around. If he ever catch what I've added to that beer, he's going to stick like glue.

B'vek, Shepherd thought when he heard the scraggly dunmer mention the scope out loud to the bosmer. Judging only by his mannerisms he could tell the little trinket was valuable to the mer even if it seemed worthless at a glance. Shepherd made it a point never to examine pieces of junk abandoned in a bar again. Many things Shabinbael Urshilaku was; outcast, malcontent, some would even say murderer. But a thief he was not. It would be difficult to explain the misunderstanding to the fool who was clearly still working off last night's revelry. Why should I explain myself to the lack-wit anyway? He would have to ditch the little piece of junk when he got the chance, later when he wasn't in danger of being caught with it. Besides, bar fights were not a morning activity and Shepherd didn't have the advantage of also being drunk at the moment. He pushed himself off the wall with his right foot and started to make his way to the door, casually but with increasing purpose as he got closer.

The false clan-friend and his cohorts were blocking his escape. Shepherd pushed his way through them without a second thought, bumping their leader hard in the back as he passed. "Out of the way, fetchers," he hissed and continued toward the exit.

OOC: If this last bit isn't acceptible, let me know and I'll edit it out. It looks like we're all going to get along famously though. This is fun!

OOC: Meh character sheet:

Name: Roland Othan (Formerly Lladri)

Nickname: Newbie

Age: 48 (Appears 18-20-ish )

Race: Dunmer

Gender: Male

Rank: Private

Appearance: Dark brown, greasy hair that reaches down to the nape of his neck, the bangs are brushed to either side of his face and reach the start of his jaw. His skin is a light shade of blue and is still greasy. His face is thin and gaunt and his eyes still have an innocent look to them, despite the dark rings from the sleep deprivation he's undergone in the past few days. He is rather scrawny, but not too scrawny to use a weapon efficiently or help with the construction occasionally. He has no facial hair to speak of other than his thin eye-brows, to his dismay. He stands at a fairly pathetic 5'8", but he remains adamant that he's "Still Growing".

Personality: He is still quite a wet behind the ears soldier, he joined up to fight because his Mum told him to, said it would make a man out of him. He enjoys books and Lute music, but daren't admit this in front of the others for fear of looking like a sissy and being mocked. He has an innocent quality to him, thinking that one blow with the flat of his sword will send the enemy running, not knowing that he will fight and probably die due to his ineptness in a larger combat situation. He is however very agile and light on his feet, being able to jump a little higher and run a little faster than some of the other guards, and has been known to be able to compete with a Khajiit on occasion. He isn't at all used to battle, and tends to panic and sometimes even flee in overwhelming odds.

Class: Scout (Former Thief)
Class Description: This class is primarily used for looking at the battle from afar and patrolling the fort, sending messages back to the superiors. All scouts are given basic Bow and long-range training, and enough Melee competence to be able to survive an attack from a similarly armed assailant.

Kit: Standard Drothmeri Tunic
- Loose and light brown trousers with leather pads sealed onto the knees and thighs.
- Thin, light iron chain-mail shirt.
- Light thin leather gloves the extra padding on the palms, good for climbing.
- Light-weight Iron Dagger in a small sheathe on his boot.
- Throwing knife holding belt with 10 steel throwing knives.
- Well crafted Oak-Longbow strapped onto his back.
- 50 Steel Arrows in brown leather quiver.
- Iron short-sword.
- Brown leather hood.
- A once elegant dirty black jacket, stolen from a Hlaalu nobleman. Very much to big from him, hangs off of him like a blanket would a mouse,

Bio: Roland joined the Drothmeri Army mainly because of monetary issues at home, his mother was living in poverty since his Father passed away and needed some extra currency in the house. His mother prompted him into becoming a mercenary, hearing it was a well paying profession. Roland's real talents lay in stealth however, which is why he accepted a few jobs from Hlaalu, his patron house. When he got a job from a Telvanni however he swiftly changed his name to Othan, from his given Hlaalu name of Lladri. Nobody in the Drothmeri know this yet, but he likes to think they wouldn't care either way. His Imperial first name is due to his Father being a mad patriot to the Imperial Empire, even going as far to joining the Legion. This is another unfortunate little fact about Roland which would be best being hidden in his current situation. To combat the loneliness, Roland has befriended a rat, which has also named Roland.


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Roland sat against the wall of the cave, his young pink eyes scanning the current form of the letter he was planning to send home to his mum. It was painstakingly written in his finest hand-writing over hours of his free time, and was PERFECT. He scanned the wording and continued to correct the mistakes he had made on the last paragraph, rushing because the mean old Sergeant forced him onto duty and tried to grab the letter. Roland had recoiled and quickly said he was getting to it, leaving with the letter. He shifted uncomfortably, the rough rock wall jutted out in all of the wrong places, but it was still the best place he had sat down at yet. The smell of years of no up-keep whatsoever was still fresh in the air, which he honestly didn't notice at this point.

He huffed and got up, heading into the bar. He needed a stiff drink of water, that they for some called BEER. But no, he had HAD beer, what they were giving them was dusty, thick, water. Roland honestly didn't care though, seeing as it was still enough to get him blinded after half a glass. He wasn't exactly a magnificent drinker, the last time he tried it properly was an evening of his mum holding his long matted hair back as he vomited into a bucket in the corner that served as their lavatory. Not a pleasant experience. He opened the door and full on collided with a rather more imposing looking pissed off Dunmer. He could tell instantly from his build that he was a fellow scout, but a rather more experienced one, despite Roland's natural talent for it. He stumbled backwards after the crash, falling straight onto the floor with a sickening crack. When the red mist of pain acquired from banging his head on the rough floor subsided he quickly and stutteringly squeaked "I'm very sorry Sir, didn't see you there!", whilst vividly imagining the horrible beating that could happen to him in the very near future.

OOC : Poly, you didnt PM me your character mate. Still...it seems your characters fine and you can type well, so I will allow it. The more the merrier right

BOROS :

The glare of the Bosmer woman stabbed right through Boros like a cold knife , almost causing him to recoil in shock. She was clearly having none of it. "Fine" He said. "See you around, Ill buy you a drink sometime".

He had no real intent of doing so, but had simply left such a remark to insult her. She clearly had no idea about such a scope, so he wasn't going to was his time. He walked away from her and sat down on his old table, drumming his fingers against the weak wood gently in contemplation. What on earth was he going to do?

DRALLIAM

No sooner had Dralliam sat down to enjoy his meal then had another Elf crudenly rushed past him, knocking him inthe back and causing him to spill his spiced ale all over his meal. For a second, was infuriated, clenching his fists in blind anger, getting up from his seat with a forceful push and wiping the spilt substance off his body. His anger calmed down as he realised that he may well get into a fight this morning, a prospect that considerably overjoyed him.

He turned to the man, extending his arm and moving to grab his shoulder. "Hey! Hey Pal!" he exclaimed in a playful yet imposing tone . He always looked forward to confrontations, it gave him an excuse to get into some hearty violence. "Looks like we got someone who doesn't know their manner's, eh boys?" he smirked, his eyes glowing with self-confidence . He punched the palm of his other hand menacingly. "You going to apologise like a good Dunmer or do me and my boy's here have to teach you some manners?"

"You little S'wit!" Shepherd growled at the boy cowering on the floor in front of him. He raised his right hand to cuff the runt, but paused as a cheerfully dangerous voice spoke up behind him.

"Hey! Hey Pal!"
Shepherd glanced at the hand which appeared on his shoulder; it was the hefty dunmer standing at the head of his gang of Zainab.
"Looks like we got someone who doesn't know their manners, eh boys?"
Shepherd rolled his eyes. B'vek and double B'vek!
The mer punched the palm of his other hand menacingly. "You going to apologise like a good Dunmer or do me and my boys here have to teach you some manners?"
Shepherd turned fully around to face the larger mer now, rising to the challenge before he was entirely aware he was doing so.

"Why yes, sera. I would like to apologize," He said, mock-sincerity laced with venom. "I'd like to apologize on behalf of the guar herder who introduced your mother to your father." With that Shepherd lashed out as quickly as he could, aiming a closed fist at the center of the other mer's face. Why wait? The fight's pretty much already started, Shepherd thought.

Dralliam

His eyes were wide open in sheer blind range, his mouth open , bearing teeth like a rabid animal. Veins pulsated in his neck as beads of sweat trickled down the side of his face. Dralliam had death on his mind . Even if he was locked up in the hole with no bread or water, he would see to it that this bastard Dunmer's remains lay scattered across the canteen floor.

He had no words, instead opting to let forth a guttural roar as he eyed the elf up menacingly. His friends even backed off in terror, confirming that they were indeed a pathetic, spineless bunch at heart.

Dralliam raised his fist in the air, ready to bring down fury never seen before whereapon he was grabbed suddenly on the shoulder. Reflexe's got the better of him and he quickly spun around a landed a mighty punch straight into the figure's face without any thought whatsoever, exerting every inch of strength in his tensed-up arm, the blow connecting with the force of a jackhammer. "Back off pup!" he snapped without even looking to see the damage he had caused , or to look at the figure at all. He was caught purely in the action, adrenalin rushing through his vein's, he could apologize later.

He turned back to the insulting figure. "Your SCRIB JELLY!" he spat as he thundered towards him , fists at the ready.

BOROS

Red pain shot through Boro's head as he flung backwards , loosing his footing and falling backwards, luckily landing rear-first into the seat of a chair and thus preventing any further damage. The pain was blinding, it felt like his skull had been cracked and his brain pushed right into the back of his head.

He had seen trouble brewing, and had acted on selfish impulse...trying to stop the confrontation before it escalated as he was sure he wouldn't find his scope in all the ensuing chaos. A bad move, obviously.

His ears rang with the power of a hundred gongs , his eyes blinded by the shock and pain . He grabbed his head and tried to speak, only managing to moan in the process.

As the mer left, Fara held a sigh of relief, despite the insulting tone of his comment. God riddance. If he hadn't been a dirt-smeared drunkard I might have been nicer, he doesn't look bad. But my idea of fun isn't to get oneself blind drunk as fast as possible. Or worse to the point of getting sick. Getting puked over... yeesh.

As he left, she kept her eyes on him out of curiosity, wondering if he would find his scope. Don't think so, these things cost quite a bundle, especially the lenses. Though I don't know if this sorry bunch knows it. I didn't know before breaking one and getting thoroughly chewed for it in my Legion time. Wich let her see the beginning of a fight fight.

Oh crap. And these idiots want to kick the Empire out ? The second we'll seem to win, the morons will jump at each other's throats to settle their petty scores. Unsure of what to do she stood up, thinking it would be a good idea to be somewhere else when the power-that-be would take notice, before changing her mind as she saw the man wo had spoken with her get knocked back into a chair. Good idea, bad execution. The situation was past diplomacy.

Relying on her rather extensive experience of tavern brawls, Fara moved to the corner of the room where broken furnitures had been discarded, picking up a table leg before quickly moving the the counter. Disarming any questions by flashing a warm smile she picked a dishcloth to wrap around the table leg. I don't think the officers would be happy with broken skulls. Keeping her bludgeon somewhat hidden behind her, Fara moved closer to the brawl.

With everyone's attention focused on the fighting, she managed to sneak behind the action. Getting ready to deliver a from-behind knockout to whoever would unsheath a weapon or otherwise step out of line. I'd better watch that ashlander pack. Right now they won't interfere with their boss's fight, but the second he wins or lose, they'll fall on on his opponent to get their strip of hide or avenge him. And it will get ugly.

[OOC : from the turn of the events, it seems there will be opportunities to get acquainted when everyone will be tossed in the slammer....]

OOC: lol, hopefully it'll be over before it gets to that.

IC:
Shepherd was shocked when he connected and there was no reaction. No staggering backward, no cry of pain from being hit in the nose, not even a flinch. The bastard didn't even try to dodge! The big mer just started frothing angrily at the mouth and then issued a primal, animalistic roar. Everyone around him took a step or two back, including Shepherd. He watched the fist go up in slow motion ready to dodge the moment it came down, but then it didn't come down.

Shepherd saw that the owner of the scope in his pocket had come up behind the big dunmer, seemingly to ask him about it too. He didn't have a chance as the brute spun around immediately and put him on his ass in one hit. Shepherd looked at his own fist, blinking, confused, turning it over to look at the other side.

He was still doing this when his vision burst into stars and his body became weightless. Draliam had hit him like a battering ram. As he suddenly crashed into the floor, his mouth filled with the tangy, metallic taste of his own blood. Shepherd rolled onto his elbows, shook his pounding head and hocked red spittle on the floor of the canteen. Through the haze of violence, drifting nauseously on the edge of consciousness, one thought permeated his throbbing brain; I should really think these things through beforehand.

OOC: Editted to avoid confusion apologies, Manu

Roland had been most lucky to have escaped that encounter with his still greasy face still in tact. He had managed to duck and run passed Shepherd and onto of the hard wooden benches. He put his face in one hand and hyper-ventilated briefly, trying to become calm again. He managed it eventually, but the violence had started by then, all he saw was his would-be attacker flying through the air from a punch so powerful it looked like it could split a diamond, this gave him a tinge of fear as he realized that brawls started very quickly when alcohol was involved, and that he would be caught up in the fray.

He slowly and carefully slid under the table, trying to remain unseen, which he was VERY good at. He managed to get into a position under the table that left very little of him exposed, so with some luck the apparently drunken brawlers would not notice. He the noticed a bottle next to the bench, someone's half finished beer. He decided no one would notice if it went missing, and started to sip it as he watched the events unfold one by one.

OOC: Sorry for the short post, I'll write longer ones when things start kicking off.

As the brute jumped into action, Fara observed with a hint of incredulity. From the way he's flying into a rage, he must have some orcish blood... As he brought his opponnent down, Fara winced at the sounds and sight. Ouch that's going to hurt.. But he don't seems to calm down... Her fears materialized as the bunch of ahslanders started yelling, encouraging their leader to kill his opponent, recovering in his victory the courage his rage outburst had chased away.

Yuck, that's really going to be ugly if noone interferes. But I'm not a seven-feet nord bruiser, I'll have to play it smart. Fara quickly evaluated the fight, planning her move. Trip the one in the back of group and give him a strong push, he'll sprawl amongst his friends and slow them down. Jump into the opening, and knock the brute on the head as hard as I can. A kick to the knee from behind to make sure he'll go down even if I don't knock him out cold, Then jump over him and run across the whole mess. And hope the officers show up before his pack catch me and will believe I did it to prevent a murder. Getting ready to spring int oaction if the fight didn't stop and turned into a massacre.

OOC : Long post I know but suitable to end the action...dont want a full on fight this early on

No sooner had Boros been flung backwards into his seat had the brute floored yet another soldier. His fellow guards, of whom had recoiled in fear of any real fighting earlier, now stepped forward again being the cowards they were, trying to urge their leader into another fight, hungry to see some more action.

"Kick him whilst he's down!"
"Break his nose Dral!"
"Smash his head on the counter!"
"Come on red! Put him through the window!"

"Oh ho ho....I like that last one" Dralliam sneered , still looking down at the badly beaten figure. "You'll be picking glass out of your face soon, Im going to send you to a deep dark place, and Im going to enjoy it..."

He moved towards the injured Dunmer, arms out, ready to grab him by the scruff of his collar and launch him through the nearest window, but was interupted by a large thwacking sound coming from the doorway. He turned around to see that the sound had come from a large and somewhat vicious-looking axe being cleaved into the wooden doorframe by a figure that looked even more imposing then he.

"Stand down Private, You'll do no such thing" The Sergeant spat, tightening his leather gloves before yanking the axe back out of the doorframe and brandishing it at Dralliam. "You touch that man again, and Im going to drag you out into the courts for all to see and put this in your skull."

Dralliam had suddenly lost all confidence, and had the expression of a cornered kitten . He looked around for his cohort's , only to find that they themselves had backed off into the far wall, each one of them with a pathetic look of defeat upon his face. He turned back to the Sergeant, his head slunk.

"I understand sir"
"Get out"

He walked out the door, the Sergeant moving out of the doorway to let him pass...his friends following in toe. The burly Sergeant turned back to face the motionless crowd, a bitter expression of disgust on his weathered and grubby face. He clicked his finger's at both Boros and Fara before pointing down to the broken shape on the floor.

"You two...scraqe that tub of Guar crap off the floor and haul his sorry behind to the infirmary. The rest of you...clean this mess up. I want this sorry excuse for a canteen spotless by the time I next come here or I assure you Ill see you flogged by Drothan himself."

And with that last snide comment he turned on his heels and moved out the door, stopping just before he exited the doorframe and looking back over his shoulder at the patrons within the hall.

"By the way...You'll all be pleased to know that Drotham's beginning his excavations in search of Varsa Baliim tommorow, it's only a matter of time before we achieve glory for our people now."

He left.

OOC: Howdy folks! :wave:



IC:

"Aw, see now that's what happens when ya move around like that. Now quit yer squirmin', it's naught but a couple of dislocated fingers."

Armas Idris, sweat dripping from his bald head, took hold of the last two fingers on the soldier's right hand, and twisted them violently inwards. The soldier let out a gasp of pain and gritted his teeth, a low moan issuing forth from between them. Wiping his hands on his gore-stained apron, Armas nodded to a somewhat portly Dunmer, who quickly began wrapping the two injured fingers together with a yellowy-white bandage, using a small, rough piece of wood as a splint.

"You'll be fine. Just try not to get your hand stuck in between any more wheel axles, a'right? Now be off with ya."

Plopping down in a hard wooden chair, Armas let out a deep sigh and rubbed his eyes wearily. Tensions had been running high lately, and more and more soldiers and miners had been coming in with various ailments, from broken bones sustained in scuffles, to lacerations and even more serious wounds from mishaps during the excavation. He didn't know whether it was the oppressive setting of the ancient caves, or something darker and more sinister. Whatever it was, it provided no end to the work for Armas.

It didn't help that most of his assistants and fellow healers were inexperienced, and in some cases downright incompetent. His patience, usually one of his finer virtues, was wearing thin by the day, as more than a few casualties and resulted from the ineptitude of the medics he worked with.

But there was no choice now but to press on. He was already knee deep, and to give up now would mean nothing but trouble for him. Armas let out another sigh and put his head between his hands, trying to quell the headache he felt building behind his eyes.

As the sergeant made his show, Fara breathed out in relief. Somewhat diminished as he simply dismissed the main offender without further sanctions He probably thinks a bloodied nose is enough. Or that's just the way they think about discipline, I'm no longer in the Legion, they don't play with the same rules here.

Her thoughts were interrupted by something close to panic when the imposing sergeant pointed her, but fortunately he only asked her to help dragging the downed man to the infirmary. Either he didn't spot my club or he don't cares. At least I won't get stuck cleaning up the room.

Dropping her makeshift weapon Fara moved to Shepherd "Okay, you're in no shape to stand on your own and I'd bet you're seeing too much stars or the like to find you way, but we're here for that. With one of us on each side, you'll be able to get to the infirmary." She reached down and helped him on his feet, with more strength than would be expected of her relatively small frame before placing his right arrm over her shoulders to keep him standing. The gods know how I hated that dig and carry training from the legion, but I must admit it builds up strength. And not only in the arms like the bow.

Once sure her charge was properly balanced on his feet, she readied to move "We're going to walk a bit and maybe we'll have to give a report, so I'd rather know your names. Me, I'm private Fara."

Shepherd vaguely realized that somehow he wasn't a fine red paste yet. Someone was tugging on his arm too, and speaking, though he didn't really know what about. "...ow your names. Me, I'm Private Fara." Shepherd glanced at his feet and realized he was standing, walking too. He lolled his head over to look at the speaker; it was the bosmer he'd noticed earlier.

"Shhhabinnnblaggghhh," he slurred and then promptly wretched on his own boots, a mixture of blood and breakfast, "I need a drink." Shepherd was sure his head should have exploded by now, the throbbing only continued to intensify until it seemed to cover his whole body. "Damn outlanders never fight fair. When did the b'vekking empire start breeding us with orcs?" he mumbled.

As they stumbled along Shepherd glanced over at his other carrier, "You're not half nord are you? Seem a little scruffy, even for one of those great house bastards." Shepherd lurched as another wave of vertigo hit him, his eyes widened in panic, "Think I'm gonna lose it again."

Roland crawled out from under the table, scratching the back of his neck as he looked around. "That was quite a show" He said meekly, rubbing his hands together, small and nervous in this den of hardened soldiers. He looked around, "Looks like you lot have a lot of cleaning to do" He squueked in a voice which BEGGED not to be thrown into the bad-side of Drathams' moods so quickly in his military career. He headed for the door, carefully stepping around everyone that was in his path. It had been quite a short but eventful fight, and now at least he had seen what his fellow soldiers could do, which was why he resigned to calling everyone he met Sir from now. Or Ma'am, if the situation called for it. He could already feel the world going hazy, and he'd only had one drink. He was a hell of a light weight, but that was a good thing in his family, seeing as light weights cost less to buy drinks for.

He gave everyone a sheepish look when he was within reach of the exit and went to go outside, the fear draining from him.