Just about the only entry that did not need introduction was also the last one to enter; Captain Burd... or ex-captain as Don Leon had heard. The Hero of Bruma. Though he also heard that like himself, Burd had opposed any sort of recognition. But the Countess of Bruma was a demanding, pig-headed woman, and there rose a statue to Burd nonetheless. Don Leon was glad no such statue existed in Skingrad's walls. It would have made the testimonies of his little witnesses more convincing and hard for Janus Hassildor to deflect.

Don Leon hated messing up. Because usually he messed up big time.

A servant, a Dark Elf of what might have been middle age for his race, came in carrying a wine and muttering apologetically about a servant boy. Don Leon watched him pour the glass for Baron, intrigued. Dark Elves were generally not used in Courts as servants, especially at his age. Maybe the younger elves would, and then again this was Cheydinhal. With the biggest population of Dark Elves. But he also seemed too commonly dressed for an appropriate County servant. His eyes flickered briefly to the boy at the door holding the wine tray. That pocket might have a bigger bulge than it should... but that could be from Sid Lucas too, considering he likely paid the boy to retrieve the wine. Perhaps things were truly that different here in Cheydinhal, that servants of the Court were so underdressed. He motioned for the boy to come to him.

When he came, the Privateer plucked a glass from his tray and held it out. "If you would be so kind." He addressed to the wine-pouring Dunmer. In the meantime while he waited, he took new stock of this man Crow had spoken to, the mercenary with a stumpy arm. He indeed seemed battle grizzled, but how good in battle now with only one hand? Hard to tell, but if he had a good reputation -good enough for Crow to call him to the meeting herself- then he would likely make a good addition to the team. Him, along with the arrival of Burd, gave the group a bit more balance between ranged and melee specialists.

Then there was the matter of the orc. His speech was not something Don Leon was unused to; after all, there was a perfectly civilized and well mannered orc in Hassildor's Court, as well. But he had never really expected to see another Orc of such caliber, and dare he say maybe even greater. It was certainly intriguing. Don Leon hoped that he too could live up to his race's reputation, though, and add another good warrior to their mix.

When Burd saw Za... Crow smile, he couldn't help it and allowed a small smile too.

The Champion of Cyrodiil has been brought out of hiding, he mused to himself. Yvara has no idea what she's gotten me into. Whatever this summons is about, it isn't going to be a vacation.

He nodded as she finished speaking and returned to her spot in the corner. Turning toward the table seated with the other guests, he inspected each briefly. Burd wasn't terribly impressed with all the fluff he was seeing at this meeting; fancy hats, pretty robes and too shiny armor.

Hopefully, whatever they've summoned us for, it isn't going to involve combat. Chuckling to himself out-loud, he moved to sit beside one of the only other suitably armored guests, a young Imperial boy adorned similarly to himself in simple chain mail. I wonder which "Hero" this pup is supposed to be.

OOC: Figured a small follow up post would be acceptable for now, if the council is about to show up. I was also up all night making my introductory post so this morning I'm a little fried. Burd wouldn't let me sleep until he was out of my head and up on the thread, lol.

EDIT: Felt a strong need to make a change to Burds sitting placement since I was finally able to read over everyone's posts with better scrutiny. Sorry for any confusion this may cause.

Byron had been silent up until this point just because no one had even given his little speech the slightest amount of attention. If he was a younger man he would have pouted, but now his sneer just grew on his face as he sat back down, folding his arms and watching the rest of the people enter. He looked up at the Dunmer pouring his drink and and muttered "About time.." Loud enough for it to be qualified a mutter, but hopefully not loud enough for the Dunmer to hear. He hated confrontation. well, confrontation with those who could easily best him in a common punch-up. He took a drink of the wine and felt a happy mist fill his mind, before it was tainted by his negative outlook and was just turned into another shovel-load of self-doubt. He sighed and looked around.

"By the nine, the Elder Council are rather late for people who are made out to be able to fly on golden wings of their own genius" It was rather apparant he had a particularly strong dislike of the Elder Council, this mainly stemmed from his nobleman's belief that anybody who wasn't born into political power didn't deserve it all. A view he had learned not to voice very loudly in taverns, due to the fact most of the other citizens of the land were NOT born into power and land. But gods bless him he honestly didn't see it this way, he thought that poor people were just lazy incompetents who didn't have the where-with-all to become noble, or marry into it.

He took a look at the Dunmer serving the table and the tiny part of him that wasn't an incompetent intolerant snob was screaming that something was not right with him, but all Byron could honestly think was Oh, it's so good the Dunmer have finally found a job SUITED to them.

OOC: i'm at a slight disadvantage me thinks, seeing as our time zones greatly differ in places I will mainly not be on at the same times as you lot. Hope that's not a problem.

OOC: I have a busy schedule as well, please don't interrupt any questions directed to me later ^^ (not that anyone did, but...)

IC: Fathis could tell many of the people here were too good to be tricked completely, but all he needed was to make it so no one could call him out on his act just yet. He finished pouring a drink for the breton man, noting that he was not pleasant to say the least. He heard him mutter something about his "lateness" but shook it off in a professional manner.

The goateed imperial with the rapier obtained a glass from the servant boy, who was doing well enough to satisfy Fathis' expectations, and asked the Gray Fox over. Fathis smiled like he was expected to and poured the man's drink, anolyzing the man as he did so. His streaked dark gray hair under a flamboyant hat, he also sported a flannel shirt under a metal cuirass, with a strap over his chest that held a flask. A belt with several cartridges of some sort also held a steel rapier, rare in these parts. He looked altogether like a storybook hero, aged a little, but he could still rescue a damsel in distress.

Fathis finished pouring his wine, and then proceeded about the room, offering refreshments to all the guests, anolyzing each in turn. An orc arrived soon after, and an old nordic man who had a brief talk with Zaire. Or Crow, as she was now called; she apparently didn't want the fame that came with the title of champion of Cyrodiil. Fathis realized he was the only one present who hadn't aided in the repelling of the daedra, he had been in a bunker with several fellow thieves, waiting the attack out. It was a blow to his self esteem, but he wasn't suited for open combat or the harsh realm behind the gates.

Tobrecan felt himself scoot over in his chair, opposite the one the Nord had come and sat beside him. Until then, he had mostly been under the radar, keeping to himself, reading the letter over and over again as if trying to ensure himself that he was meant to be here. The others ranted on like a multitude of married couples, and Tobrecan managed to avoid any conversation. However, when the man had sat down beside him, he felt out of place even more so. This man seemed a battle-hardened warrior, while he himself was a young man who managed to get work easily, since it was in relative demand in Chorrol. His training with a sword was elementary when he mentally assumed the man's skill. He also seemed at ease moving in his armor, while Tobrecan felt uncomfortable in the armor he wore, light as it was. He longed to be back in the countryside, being able to sit in a tree and peer up at the sky, but he stayed focused on the situation at hand, telling himself he could go climb a tree when he got back.

Sid gladly took a glass of wine from the large tray as it was offered to him, his eyes dancing between the various members of the small congregation that had been growing ever larger. He gave a silent thanks for the arrival of Captain Burd, and a few others who had the look of warriors about them; though Sid fancied himself something of an able swordsman, he imagined they would have been in dire straits without the aid of more heavily equipped fellows such as them. That was, should the need for combat present itself.

As Sid took a small sip of the wine offered to him -- an acceptable vintage of Tamika's, if he was not mistaken -- his eyes darted once again to the only woman present in the room. Crow, he thought to himself, the clues provided by Don Leon betraying the woman's identity. She seemed not the type of woman to enjoy the art of pretense, he thought to himself: perhaps he would address her later, and make amends for his brashness earlier. Besides being a woman of some physical beauty, she seemed the type to make a useful ally, should the time arise. No need to alienate her, if it could be helped.

For now, however, he simply sat in his chair, silently taking in his surroundings. The room seemed in slight disarray, in the moments waiting for the Elder Council to arrive, and he was perfectly content with the idea of examining his cohorts. He had learned that in some cases, it was better to remain silent, read those around you, and keep your own intentions a mystery. That little trick had earned him a Septim or two in the past, to be sure. He cracked another smile as he sipped his wine.

Babur politely refused the wine offered him with a raised hand. He disliked Cyrodiilic wines, and any other wine to him was merely tolerable. Cyrodiilic brandy, though, he had a taste for. But he didn't see this particular occasion as a good time to drink.

"By the nine, the Elder Council are rather late for people who are made out to be able to fly on golden wings of their own genius," he heard the nobleman say loudly.
Babur looked him over briefly before replying, "Generally, a group of a dozen or so councilmen is likely to have to travel a bit more slowly than a single man on his parents' prize stallion," commenting on the man's obvious noble heritage. "Or, perhaps, they simply wish to ensure that they are the last to arrive, so that individuals such as ourselves do not have to suffer the inconvenience of arriving late." He shrugged lightly.

He turned his attention to the Dunmer wine servant. "Sir," he began, "you are employed here, yes? Is there any word downstairs of the Council's arrival?"

Burd took a glass when the tray came around to him, held it to his nose, sniffed and then winced. "Wine," he sneered, an expression of distaste appearing in his weathered features. He wondered how they really made this watery red swill anyway. What'd they do? Punch a Khajiit in the kidneys and have him piss in a bottle? He knew that if he said as much out loud a couple of these Nancy noblemen would likely faint. Instead, he nudged the boy next to him amicably, "What this little moot (for he'd guessed by now what the gathering was likely about) really needs is some good, old-fashioned, Nordic mead." He smiled, winking, "Eh, boy? Put some hair on yer chest!" He slapped the boy on the back with a big hand and chuckled again. He knew the kid had been eyeing him up, and wondered if he really had any salt in him.

Burd realized he hadn't had a proper drink in days, Yvara would be proud. He'd have to remedy that this evening before turning in for the night.

He eyed Crow again across the room. He'd have to see about catching up with her as well. She'd veritably disappeared shortly after the Oblivion Crisis, having not replied to he and Yvara's wedding invitation, though it appeared she'd had it rough in the interim. She'd better have some stories to tell. He smirked at the thought.

At the words of the pompous mage and the soft spoken, well-mannered orc(odd, that one), Burd wondered himself what was keeping the Elder Council. It's getting late even for that bunch of blow-hards.

High Chancellor Ocato was the head of the Elder Council. He was known as the man responsible for everyday governing in the fifteen years prior to the Oblivion Crisis. He was acclaimed as a great man for it, a genius, but he knew the truth; the reason the Empire was in such a terrible state was down to the fact that he was not an Emperor. And he was desperate for someone who was.

As he strode down the hallway to the Business Hall, flanked by key members of the cabinet, he reflected that this plan clearly betrayed his desperation. But what other hope did the Empire have?

He paused outside the door, uncertain as to the welcome he would recieve. Sure, he was currently the most powerful man in Cyrodiil. But if Zaire- or Crow, as she was now to be called- was any indicator, Champions and Heroes did not necessarily feel honour-and-duty bound to be respectful and deferent. In fact, on several occassions she had outright told him she thought he was being an idiot.

It was a very disconcerting experience, and one he was loathe to repeat.

To think that this woman has built her career on subtlety and social interaction! he thought, semi-amused, semi-exasperated at the idea. For although she chose to be blunt with him, he got the feeling that a woman with that kind of willpower could prove deadly should she keep her thoughts to herself.

"Chancellor?" a feminine voice enquired. It was Lyssa, an ex-imperial battlemage, now councillor.

He nodded and waved a hand. "I know," he said, and strode into the room.

The group here ranged quite considerably, all sat around the table or heading to seats, all so very intimidating to Ocato. Not that they all were physically intimidating- it was their reputations that he found so daunting. His eyes ranged further, to the corner of the room. He set his teeth as he realised Crow had forgone the proferred table and seats, and instead perched atop a desk. She sat perfectly still, watching him with a lazy expression in her eyes.

Ocato sighed. If he didn't love that woman for what she'd done for Cyrodiil, he'd almost certainly hate her.

There was one face he did not recognise, but he knew Crow had made a few additions of her own. He looked horrible though; just standing there, puffing away on that horrid pipe. He paid no mind to the servant; nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Ocato and the three Councillors he had brought with him each moved to seats around the massive table. Lyssa flicked her fingers, and conjured name cards before each of the heroes. Only Crow, Cole, and Fathis and the servant boy did not recieve them.

"Uh, thank you," Ocato said to Fathis, and gestured to him that he stand in the corner like a good servant.

"I think," Ocato began quietly in a voice that captured it's listeners' attention. "That it's time I explain why we are all here."

"You see... the Empire is on the brink of Collapse, Cyrodiil now weaker than it has ever been. War is iminent- Morrowind is already rebelling, and Hammerfell has been marshalling forces, pulling together in a manner we did not believe possible. Summerset..." he paused, knowing it to be his home. "...Has been taking liberties, knowing my allegiance to be tied. I fear offending them may end poorly for the Empire there. Our Emissaries in Valenwood have been mysteriously disappearing. Our hold on the Black Marsh has ever been tenuous- it would not take much for them to drive us out. And the Elswyrians are easily fired-up."

"If the Empire collapses, it will be disasterous for peoples all over the world. Imagine a world where racism prevails, where each man must live only in the homeland of his ancestors, where the divide between rich and poor becomes even more pronounced, and where inevitably war breaks out between each of the great nations that make up this glorious empire. So many people will die if we appear weak- for weakness encourages war."

He shook his head. "As best as we may, we must prevent this eventuality. We need an Emperor, a man to win the hearts of our people, in Cyrodiil and afar. And so, we have arranged this meeting. We wish for you to fetch him for us. Martin Septim's brother is not of the Septim blood, but does share the blood of the man who opposed Mehrunes Dagon in the flesh. The man who even in death, won the hearts of our people, and- with assisstance from each of you gathered here," he inclined his head politely "Ended the Oblivion Crisis. His name is Corvus Vesemar, and last we heard of him he was serving honourably in the Imperial Legion in Vvardenfell."

A councillor with a large beard spoke in a deep voice. "...That... is all we know," he said, his neighbour, a skinny bosmer, nodded sadly in agreement.

Ocato looked to Lyssa, who nodded curtly in what looked like permission.

Ocato took a deep breath. "We need you to go on a secret mission to Morrowind to find out what has become of him. All skills are necessary: Morrowind is in the middle of a civil war, and should news get out that Corvus Vesemar is to be the new Emperor, he will be killed before you ever get to him. Sadly, word will get out of your plans- already, news has spread to the other governments of this mission... assassins will be in due course."

The bosmer spoke now, clasping his hands together. "You will, of course, be rewarded handsomely for this... should you succeed." He did not add that he doubted he'd be paying all of them. People did not like to hear that their deaths were figured into mission fees.

Ocato added, "Except, of course, for honourable Crow, who has asked to forgoe payment."

Crow narrowed her eyes at Ocato, and the Chancellor realised she hadn't wanted that to be known.

Lyssa spoke now, laying her hands flat on the table, sitting rigidly straight in her chair. "Make your decisions," she said to the room. "You leave tomorrow morning."

EDIT: Sorry Darkom!

OOC: dude, completely ninja-ed me :ninja: . Sorry if its out of order...


IC: Fathis was not prepared for the question, but he managed to keep his pause small, to seem like the confusion of one who is not known for their wits.

"Ah, sir, I have not heard of the Council arriving. I just found out they were coming here today, you see. Have you heard any news, Falian?" He looked at the boy, making up a name for him. He hoped sincerely that the child would still go along.

"Um," he was confused, understandably, but managed to give a small answer "Yes, I heard the cook say that the council would be here for dinner, but that's it."

"And it is roughly time for that to begin, as well. So, I think I shall stay to continue with the wine, but Falian, please go downstairs and help the cook." Fathis cut the boy off from saying anything else, and walked over to the doorframe. The boy looked skeptical, no doubt he wanted the hundred septims he had been promised, but exited the room nonetheless. Fathis walked out for a moment, shutting the door behind him, and turned to the servant.

"Nice work, boy. Here, the gold I promised, now go find out as much as you can about this meeting, and there will be another two hundred in it for you!" Fathis handed the boy another pouch, and finished his request emphatically.

"You got it!" This must be one of the happiest days of this boy's life, he had a smile large enough to enliven a necromancer's cult.

Fathis turned once more and opened the studded wooden door, returning to his cheery servant face. "Terribly sorry, I had forgotten to tell hte boy something. Is everyone comfortable?" Fathis looked around, very few people looked happy to be there. One imperial in chainmail sitting at the table continued reading his invitation, oblivious to the people around him.


Several minutes later, the servant boy returned. Fathis eyed him, and he indicated the door ever so slightly. Fathis walked to the door, but the boy was interrupted by an imposing nordic man that commented to him on the alchohol. The boy left quickly after a few affirmatives to the nord, then walked to Fathis. He opened the door and stepped outside, and the boy followed.

"The council has arrived, they'll be here in moments." He whispered excitedly "Ocato was walking through the gates when I last saw him!"

Fathis couldn't believe the boy was lucky enough to get back before the council "Alright, head back inside and act as everything is normal. I will inform our guests. Here is your payment, as promised." Fathis didn't want to upset the boy, even if his information was hardly useful.

The Fox and the servant re-entered the room and raised his hands, signalling silence. Then he announced to the party "Everyone, the council will be here in moments! Please excuse us while we prepare glasses for them. Thank you."

OOC: A little out of order, but I believe this should do.

Byron looked at the Orc and said, in a monotone humourless voice, "Leave Nessy out of this" He took a long sip of his wine, and continued, "What do you want to know about my horse for anyway Orc? Feeling hungry?" This was a low blow, but to Byron it was wit at its finest. He was going to tell this story for years to come probably, and all to people who never openly admitted to being his peer, let alone friend.

Then Ocato entered and outlayed the mission. He was literally blown away, the whole entirety of the mission being said plainly, and now the small unassuming fellow Breton he hadn't even payed much attention to was revealed as the Champion of Cyrodiil! Mind Boggling! He ran both hands through his hair and looked at the place-card, baffled by the magic done by a simple click of somebody's fingers. He didn't know whether to be honoured or frightened for his life, but already knew what he was going to do: If he got in good with the future Emperor, he could FORCE the Mage's Guild to promote him. He was going along for this adventure. And to think, a golden-skinned lanky non-noble cretin had sent him on this mission. Ocato would be the first to go when he became the Second in Command of the EMPIRE!

He stopped himself. Was he being too ambitious? No! It's not like he was asking to be THE Emperor, but then again, after he got into second-in-command the new Emperor might meet with an unfortunate magical incident. It was all so perfect, nothing could go wrong! He raised his hand enthusiastically, "HELLO Sir!" He beamed, trying desperately to be good with people all of a sudden, "This mission is as lofty as your stature, sir, and I would be honoured to go along for the ride! I'm surprised you didn't contact me sooner to be honest, but I'll make sure these lot get this man back before supper!" It was going so well, maybe Ocato wouldn't even notice that height comment!

OOC: Wasn't revealed to be the Champion, although I would imagine at this point everyone strongly suspects, so no worries.

And out of order is fine; I do it all the time. It happens in RPing, especially at the start of a new RP.

OOC: Let's just say Byron is intelligent. xD And yeah, I could've made that post a lot better if I wasn't racing against the time it'd take one of you guys to post.

Don Leon tipped his hat in a polite nod to the Council as they entered, not caring if they actually noticed him or who he was. The only nobility that mattered to him was the Count of Skingrad and his lesser nobility. Only their opinion of him truly mattered.

Don Leon listened carefully to the Elder Councilmen and woman, his leather-gloved hands together on his lap and elbows seated on the armrest of his chair. A few times in the briefing he raised one hand to take the glass of wine and sip it casually. Each word they spoke was carefully taken in.

A land locked in Civil war... I've heard King Helseth is a a fickle beast, after the throne himself. We'll have the royalty of the realm against us. Blending in will be our best option in the beginning.

But the fact that rumors have already been spread is worrisome. There must be spies of some sort in the council... And we'll have assassins to deal with. His eyes scanned the room. Not all of us are likely to be living through this, I wager. Daedra are simple-minded and blunt; Mortals are the greater threat. But not likely I haven't handled that before, eh? Just hope the others can hold up.

One thing did irk him... the lack of information. And this made him frown, for the first time since arriving. "High Chancellor, if I may... How is it that this man is an active member of the Imperial Legion, and yet there is no record of his exact deployment on the Island of Vardinfell? Surely the Legion keeps track of their soldiers' deployments, such as their Fort of duty."

OOC: Yeah, if the champions of every city except K'vatch and the Imperial City (aka Champion) are there, I don't see why the Champion wouldn't. And as of yet, the characters didn't know why she was invited, although most knew each others.

And feel free to just post a quick message then edit...

Ah, sorry FC4

Babur made a subtle smile at the noble's quip. He was actually quite nervous around horses, but he didn't have to know that at the moment.

Then entered the council. Their presentation was quick and blunt, he thought. The name cards were nice, though. As he thought this he held the card in his hands, which read his name in fine cursive. He listened carefully to the mission, but his expression changed notably at the mention of Vvardenfell. More so than at the mention of there being another of Septim relation- the royal line had an effective habit of spreading their family roots. The presentation of the mission was simple enough, but it made him feel uneasy about an unaddressed matter: Orsinium. He rarely thought about his homeland, as he had all but abandoned it, having very few relations remaining there and no strong desire to return, but he could not help but feel concerned for his own people. He was painfully aware of how the rest of the world tended to view the Orismer people, and he did not like to think of what would become of Gortwog's legacy if the other factions of Hammerfell were pulling together. Against a united army of Ra'Gada, not even Orsinium could stand.

But he dispelled the thought for the time being. If the Redguards were mobilizing, it was only a good reason to join this mission. Regardless of what he thought of their way of life, the Cyrodiils did know how to keep most of the nations from killing each other...to a certain degree. They were a bit better off with them than without them, at least. And it had been the Empire that had granted recognition to Orsinium- that was the only true tie of allegiance he felt to the Empire, and he would make good on it.

But his thoughts were derailed by the privateer's valid question, to which he found he could not resist interjecting an answer. "Records are likely hard to keep in a place like Vvardenfell, but we can find out where this man is easily enough without it-" an expression of mild disdain came over his face before he proceeded, "-I have a half-sister who is a blacksmith at Fort Pelagiad in Vvardenfell. She might be able to find some listings of the garrisons...if we can pry that much from her."

Babur wouldn't have brought the matter up if he did not think it could help them a good deal...there was a reason why Shadbak gra-Burbug did not have a home in Orsinium.

Crow tilted her head to one side at the Privateer's question, and smiled sadly at the orc's- Babur, his name was- comment. "I think," the breton said, injecting her own input into the situation. "That in times of Civil War, communications become a little clouded. I mean, Forts under siege, the locals revolting... and, of course, the odd Legionnaire might see fit to run for safety..."

Lyssa's eyes were like hot coals; Ocato stiffened. "Martin Septim's brother is not a deserter," he said quietly. "It is merely a matter of lack of information- contrary to popular belief, communication between provinces has never been that simple- especially at a time like this when, as you say... Crow... the legion face perils on a daily basis. As I said before; we are being routed out of Morrowind, and-,"

"And there's always the chance that he's dead," Crow cut in.

Ocato paled.

The bosmer picked up the conversation. "If he is dead, you will still be paid for the information."

The bearded imperial spoke up now, his eyes hard as he looked at the Privateer. "And if you would please hold your tongue, mercenary. It is not your place to question the government." But his eyes slid to Crow as he said this. She bared her teeth at him in what could barely be considered a smile. This Counciler- Fraius, she recalled- was a nobleman and proud of the fact. He was an effective Counciler, but not the most pleasant.


Crow spoke now. "What would you have us do until morning, those of us who agree to go? I'm sure some have travelled far to get here."

"You'll be given rooms here at Castle Cheydinhal... or... er... rather, a room. Bedrolls will be brought to the main hall. Equipment and provisions will be arranged for you in the morning, as well as plans discussed. We will also remain here."

In there own chambers as large as a barn, no doubt... Crow thought unhappily. But this wasn't something she would put up a fuss about. She'd slept rough before, rougher than under a castle roof, for sure.

OOC: Guys, I forgot when I posted this up that I'm not around all weekend. However, I hope to leave you with something to do while I'm gone.

"THE FLOOR!?" Byron blurted out, his eyes widening as he visibly recoiled, disgust etched across his face. "Are you MAD Ocato? This place is AWFUL! A rat hole. A rat hole that I bravely saved no thanks to any of your legion, but a rat hole none the less! This is insane!" He gulped for air as he imagined the dust and insects that would surely get inside his best robes and groaned in near agony. "Couldn't we stay at an Inn in town instead?" He asked desperately, looking at the floor and starting to wonder how many bumps and small sharp spikes were on there, and imagined the pain brought by this type of floor on a nobleman's back.

All of a sudden this had gone from his chance to prove himself to the Mage's Guild to some sort of rough and tumble camping trip. He gulped when he thought of sharing a ROOM with these people. Even though they had probably taken to him, he still wasn't too fond of ANY of them! What had had he done to deserve this? He had led a blameless life up until now, apart from a few boy-hood indiscretions, stealing an apple, leaping fences, having his father buy a Dunmer's shop and raising the rent dramatically so that he went bankrupt. But why THIS? This was worse than hell, this was Deadlands, Oblivion. Would he have to sleep like a peasant everynight? The questions swum in his head, but he was still opening and closing his mouth as he tried to verbalise his thoughts on the horrible matter.

Don Leon nodded at Crow's and the Orc's statements, acknowledging both and seeming to smile a little at the Orc's. A possible lead; perfect. His smile went to serious as Crow commented the possible death of the Emperor to be, though. That would complicate things. Sure, they'd get paid for the information.

But Don Leon wasn't concerned about the pay; this job held other priorities. He was on a mission to protect his Heartland and Colovian home now. And if the man was dead... that would leave the Empire Emperor-less.

"And if you would please hold your tongue, mercenary. It is not your place to question the government." The Bearded Councilor's words were spoken with politeness but his eyes had contempt within them. He noticed those eyes shift towards Crow as he spoke, as well. Don Leon was not deterred or insulted by the comment, however. Instead he merely sipped his wine, not even nodding to acknowledge the man's statement, like he had to statements past.

It is in fact my place. You just fail to make note that it is. Hard to do a job without asking a few questions. Don Leon thought, but kept that to himself. Partly because they had begun to discuss sleeping arrangements, and partly because he just didn't feel the need to give the Councilman what-for. He'd learn with time. Don Leon did nod to Ocato when the sleeping arrangements were proclaimed, though, and set down his glass.

"Well then, I guess my place of residence tonight shall be a bedroll on the floor of the castle. I give you my sword and skill in the finding of this man... Corvus Vesemar." Don Leon smirked. "A good old fashioned quest might be just what I need to spice up life again."

No sooner had the thought entered his mind than the Council swept into the room with barely an announcement from one of the servants. As Chancellor Ocato outlined the purpose of the meeting of the Heroes of Cyrodiil and the details of the proffered mission, he saw his quiet, relatively uneventful retirement slipping away before his very eyes.

No way I'll be able to just walk away from this one, he thought morosely. The Countess would never let me hear the end of it if the mission were to succeed without my involvement, and the wife would never let me hear the end of it if the mission were to fail because of my lack of involvement.

He sat and frowned to himself for a while as the other Heroes spoke up, making pledges, asking questions, answering them, each in turn. Crow in particular had a lot to say to the Council members. Her none-too-subtle verbal jabs extended beyond offensive, especially to members of the ruling body of Tamriel. He knew, as did she obviously, that her status protected her from their wrath. She was going to have a hard time keeping her true identity from the other Heroes if she continued this spoken sparring match, though.

Burd kicked himself physically and internally for not putting his foot down back home. He spoke up over the sudden and annoying caterwauling of the arrogant mage, "I'm in." He rested his chin in his hand, as he avoided making eye contact with any of them.

OOC: Eep! I got some catching up to do... :blink:

IC:

Nodding in acknowledgment to Crow's comment, Cole remained quiet as she addressed the well-spoken Orc. He was neither flattered nor perturbed by her knowledge of his reputation, despite his own lack of knowledge about her. A reputation was a powerful tool for a mercenary. And it never hurt the business aspect of it either. It was only when a familiar face entered the room that he moved at all.

It was Burd. The man was well known as a fearsome warrior, and Cole had in fact met him once during his early days in the Legion. He doubted the man would recognize him, as it had been a brief and impersonal meeting. His entrance caused a sudden jolt of conflicting emotions in Cole.

On the one hand, it was refreshing to see someone he respected. As far as Cole knew, the rest of these "guests" were high-born nobles who had never hefted a blade in real combat in their lives. Some he doubted could even dress themselves. However, it also stirred up memories he had long tried to suppress, bitter memories that caused him to bite down roughly on his pipe, bile rising in the back of his throat. The betrayals in his former life came rushing back to him, and it was all he could do to sit quietly and brood, gripping his mangled arm tightly with his good hand as the rest of the group made conversation.

He had accepted the offering of wine, if for no other reason than to distract himself from his own thoughts, and he barely tasted it as he gulped it down around the pipe sticking out of the corner of his mouth. It was then that the Council had entered.

Cole was taken aback by how frank Ocato had been. He laid all his cards on the table, and seemed to be holding nothing back. Cole sneered in disgust from beneath his hood as the pompous Breton excitedly offered his services, like a child attempting to appease his parents. It only served to reinforce Cole's apprehension with the members of the group.

As the other's gave their opinions, asked questions, and pledged their allegiance to the cause, two questions percolated in Cole's mind. Finally removing the pipe from his mouth, he tapped out the last vestiges of the tobacco onto the table in front of him, then pointed it at Ocato.

"How much?"

He figured he would ask the easy question first.

Fin nodded solemnly, taking in what all of this meant, what could happen if they failed their mission, and then took a bow. Up until now, he had remained silent; obviously, the Byron character was a bigot and a pompous derriere, and he had no desire to initiate a spat between him; the room had been tense enough as it was. Byron would have to sort his own problems out as they traveled together. However, the talk of the mission perked his interest. He held a grave tone, his eyes boring into the floor.

"Fin of Leyawiin pledges his blade to discovering the fate of the Dragon-Relative, and to the protection of civility and...government...across the land." He said the word government with particular distaste, thinking back to his journey to Cyrodiil, and the reason of his distrust towards his parents.

------
The Past, Black Marsh, lower Cyrodiil Border.

The bonfire's light cast dancing shadows over everyone in attendance. A steady, deep drum beat permeated the air, and dancers whirled in primal, rough steps around the roaring flames. Strange hissing noises passed between lightly dressed argonians, speaking freely and laughing in the revelry of the eve. They were gathered under the hist, reuniting with family and recounting tales of awe and hilarity from the past year. The clearing also served for a nursery of sorts; eggs were kept there until hatching, and it was a family tradition. The most skilled family warrior would guard the eggs year round, until his scales dulled and his fierce soul dimmed. And at the edge of the clearing, Islyths-Eij, in time to be known as Fin, Hero of Leyawiin, sat alone. He wore short, baggy breeches, and held a jagged obsidian dagger in his hand, the stone hilt wrapped in a thick twine. Though they were all family, competition between the bloodlines was fierce. The other children jeered at him; he was an only child, as all of his clutch mates had died before hatching. This made him an oddity; and it weakened his family. The others had many spawn, and they all seemed to gang up on him. He held them no wrong, however; his constant conflict just improved his skills. He had to be more alert, stronger, and quicker to stay ahead.

And so it was that he was the first to notice the men in thick, blackened iron armor, styled like old roman battle armor, advance through the bushes. He stared, wide eyed, for just a moment, before the man charged at him. He screamed and alerted the rest of the clearing, but it was too late; Imperials stormed in from all sides and started hacking at the Argonians. Flaming arrows lit the sky as they buried themselves in his family and his soon-to-be relatives. Guards stomped eggs, and lit fire to the forest around the clearing. They were trapped and dying slowly; the Imperials had viewed them as savages and apparently were going to erect a fort in the location. Fin sidestepped the man and brought the dagger up straight into the weak point in his armor; a small gap under the elbow between plating, covered only by leather. The dagger sunk in and Fin dragged it through, cutting through vein and muscle. The man in the armor grabbed his arm, bellowing in pain, as he quickly bled out. He heaved his crossbow and its strap, taking a few bolts. Just then, the Clutch Guardian came up behind him. Fin was about to speak, but the Guardian just shushed him and dragged him through the bushes. There, they ran, and ran, hearing yelling and dogs behind them; they were headed to Cyrodiil, and the guards were close on his heels. Three arrows burst from the Guardian's chest, and he fell to his knees. He whispered a final word, to end his days; "Run." His eyes closed and he fell forward. Fin didn't think; he grabbed the Guardian's sword, a sword he didn't earn, a sword he'd save Cyrodiil with, and ran. He evaded the Legion in the swamps. By daybreak, he made it to Leyawiin, battered and ragged, where he was taken in by a 'progressive' dunmer pair; on the outside, he was promoted as a prize child, but in private, he was little more than a slave. And so he lived for 14 years, until he met Sliver-In-Moons-Eye.

-----

ooc: Twas' at school, so reading through twenty something post's and summing up what happened isn't easy...

Strafer sat, patiently listening to every word that Ocato was saying, absorbing all the information he was telling. It wasn't another Oblivion situation, but the second worst thing. Dunmer. All Argonians hated Dunmer with smoldering passions, and the feelings were quite mutual. Slaves were being imported into Morrowind from Argonia each day, and not to mention several dozen Argonian tribes combating House Dres kinsman.
So we need to go to Morrowind to find this Corvus Vesemar... this could be fun...

He shot a quick glance at all the other denizens in the room, there were almost a dozen of them, including him and his Argonian kindred and that Orc. that surprisingly knew how to speak well. The rest, were a mixture of Bretons and Imperials, Strafer recognized Captain Burd, probably the only Nord in the room when he spoke, symbolizing that he would do this 'quest'. In return, Strafer nodded his head slowly in the Elven chancellors direction, although, something in Ocato's voice suggested that he was holding something back; not giving all of the information on this expedition. The Stranger from afar examined the Atlmer for a few seconds before looking back down at the table.

''How much?''

A question from one of the invitees was asked, Strafer looked over to see a rather tall and rugged man. Typical Imperial... The lizard thought distastefully, it seemed to him that all Imperials hungered for wealth, fortune, and fame. Strafer on the other hand, had no money to speak of, sure the Count had offered him a handful of chests filled with gold, and a statue, the citizens even wanted to write a song about his bravery and courage. Strafer turned it all down, but the citizens still went through with the song, and now, every time he passed (rarely) through Bravil, little children would prance around him singing that cursed song, and following him to wherever he went, asking annoying questions, and trying to touch the Argonian's bow whenever they could.

He sighed quietly, and reached down to a small satchel tied to his belt, he gripped the end of the bag, feeling it's contents through the thin cloth. He had half the mind of taking the object out, but banished the urge. Revealing that he had a Daedric Sigil Stone, in front of people he had only met, might've been a bad idea. His grip loosened on the bag, and his arm retracted back to the table.

"The FLOOR?!" the mage screeched. Crow started to tremble. "Are you MAD Ocato?" He continued. Crow hiccoughed. "This place is AWFUL! A rat hole." Crow started to shake. "A rat hole that I bravely saved no thanks to any of your legion, but a rat hole none the less! This is insane!"

It was too much; Crow, Champion of Cyrodiil, began to laugh and laugh hard, hugging herself though she didn't try to keep it in. It felt good to laugh. She hadn't laughed in a long time. Not like this.

"You," she said between laughs. "Are the funniest person I have ever had the misfortune of meeting," She shook her head, her short coppery locks fanning out and landing in even more dishevelled positions. She shook her head as the laughter died, as if disbelieving. She didn't think to explain her contradictive comment- it was just the way she thought.

Ocato looked taken aback by the mage's wild eyes and outraged tones. He looked even more taken aback by the hilarity Crow seemed to take from it. "Well..." he said awkwardly. "No. It is imperative that a group dynamic is formed, that we know where you are, and that you prove your skill and loyalty to the cause."

He shifted in his seat, and seemed to finally gather his imperious ways, looking down his nose at the breton. "How useful could you possibly be if you are unwilling to sleep on the floor of a castle for one night in the name of your Empire?"

Crow started shaking again, but her expression was as stone and the shaking was quickly stilled. Her eyes, however, were full of mirth... and mocking.

Don Leon fluently pledged his loyalty. Crow resisted the urge to scoff, but Ocato nodded approvingly. Burd simply muttered, "I'm in." The Argonian Fin also pledged his sword.

Colsanti, however, was not moved by loyalty alone. Ocato stiffened, offended.

"Twenty-Five Thousand septims, plus expenses, upon completion," Fraius answered, looking disgusted by Cole and his question. His eyes lingered on his missing hand, nose wrinkling in distaste. "More, if you do well. Of course, we didn't think we'd be paying for you-" he looked angrily at Crow.

Crow stopped hugging her leg and all traces of humour left her. She stared back at the Councillor coldly. "But you did think you'd be paying for me," she replied icily. Her dark eyes seemed somehow alight with some contained fire, black and horrible. "And I believe you did tell me you wanted the best for this-,"

"-The best, yes, not some rabble you dragged out of the gutter!" Fraius snapped.

Crow stared at him expressionlessly for a moment. Then she smiled perfectly, politely, and the fire faded from her eyes. She rose to her feet and bowed deeper than courtesy demanded. "Of course, you are in the right, as always, Councillor," she said gently. Ocato was sitting very still. He remembered this change in Crow. It was not directed at him now, but it was still very unnerving.

"-But- and Councillor, please forgive my presumptiousness, I am, afterall, only the Champion of Cyrodiil. I could never hope to be so highly regarded as the Esteemed Councillor Fraius- but, might I remind you, dear Councillor, that some people are dragged from the gutter to do great things, and, equally, some people are dragged into the gutter... to never do a great thing again." The air was chilly, and her threat, to Fraius and the other Councillors, was perfectly clear. She was reminding them of her position in the heart of the people, of the dangers of alienating her or anyone she chose to sponser.

Fraius gritted his teeth- he could not change manner or mood so violently as Crow, which only attested to his much more stable state of mind. Then he forced up a smile, and turned to Cole. "Of course, we would be honoured to have you on this mission. As the Champion says... some people are dragged from the gutter to do great things. I hope," he said, biting off each word curtly. "You are one of them."

Crow sat down again, and did not meet the eyes of anyone in the room. They were a clever lot here, and she could only assume that many of them already suspected, but it was out there now.

She told herself she wasn't interested in their reactions, but really... she feared them. What they would think of someone like her being Champion.

She didn't want to think about it.

EDIT OOC: Oooh, learning about Fin's history, eh?

Tobrecan winced at the slap on the back he had received from Burd, smiling uneasily. At least the man seemed nicer than most of the others in the room. a fleeting thought crossed his mind 'I have hair on my chest...' before he pushed it away. When Ocato appeared, he seemed much grander to the hero of chorrol, who rarely saw nobels outside of the castle. 'I guess I am in the castle...' he thought with some realization. The name card appeared in front of him, displaying his name in fancy, almost sparkling writing--Tobrecan Floeus, Hero of Chorrol--and he couldn't help but smile, feeling like the hero that was his childhood dream to be. Both he and his brother had that wish. At the thought of his brother, he felt his face darken. Nontheless, he listened to the story. He didn't know much about what had happened, outside the Oblivion gates opening. Tobrecan hadn't even heard the name Martin, ironic given the fact that the information was held by the monks at Weynon Priory down the raod from Chorrol. When pledges were asked of them, Tobrecan dreaded standing, making himself a target to the others, his betters in years and most other things. But the lad wanted to become a hero for himself, and for his brother, so he deceided to show a little bravery, for the younger sibling he had let down. He made an attempt to mirror the hero of Leyawin's pledge as he stood, seeming proud and self-confident to all but himself.

"Um, I...Tobrecan Floeus" he said, pausing to gather his thoughts "Hero of Chorrol, pledge my blade to uh...forget it" he finished, letting out his held breath "I may not know all the regal manners I should be exercising, but I closed the Chorrol gate, and I'm willing to go find Martin's brother along with the others. I don't care how much it pays"

He sat back in his seat, unfound confidence keeping his gaze on Ocato, feeling proud of himself for saying what he felt so matter-of-factly.

EDIT: Seperated the speaking part