PM all characters to Illusionary Nothing (me) for approval.

We are FULL. There is currently no room for more players.

"Find A New Emperor"

"But can we cast him back into Oblivion?"

Martin looked at her, the one who was only known as Zaire, and she felt her stomach burn with nausea at the defeat etched across his face.

"I don't see how," he said, and the nausea rose. "Mortal weapons may hurt him, but now that he is physically here in Tamriel? they can't destroy him. There is no hope, Zaire?"

"All is lost, then..." Tears of futility bloomed; she lowered her eyes from his. But upon his chest, the amulet gleamed brighter, as if the dragonfires themselves burned within.

She looked up, hope filling her eyes. "The Amulet of Kings," she asked hoarsely. "What about that?"

Martin's brow knitted together and he bit his lip in that familiar expression of concentration. "No, it wasn't intended as a weapon, but? wait. The divine power of Akatosh, we could-," his eyes suddenly burned into Zaire's. "Our last hope," he said slowly as the Imperial City burned around them. "You must get me to the Temple of the One, to the Dragonfires?"

A defiant gleam lit Zaire's eyes, and the snarky words left her lips before she could hold them back. "I thought you said there was no hope?"

"I know what I said!" Martin snapped, and Zaire recoiled. Had he ever shown a temper before? He gazed at her, and she was suddenly fixed in place. "You'll just have to trust me," he said softly. "I know what I was born to do." And then something changed, in his posture or bearing; he seemed taller, older. "Take me to the Temple of the One," he said, and suddenly he was Emperor Martin Septim, not Martin, priest and friend.

There was a sense of something ending now. But also something beginning. So you're to be our Emperor? she thought, studying him for a moment. This new future lingered in the air before her; waiting to be realised. She bowed her head. "Yes, your Imperial Majesty." It was a sombre moment, and Martin looked taken aback by the sobriety and sincerity of her words. They gazed at each other.

Then she unceremoniously grabbed his wrist and dragged him after her while their guards engaged in battle with the daedra. A dremora loomed, she yanked his wrist, pulling him downwards and along, beneath the sword of the daedra even as a Legionnaire ran up to smite it with a massive claymore.

"Hey!" he protested as she shoved him into the enclave between two buildings as a horde of Clannfear trotted past. She hunkered down into the shadows and pulled an arrow from the quiver at her hip, knocking it to her bow, but they ran straight past.

She slung her bow back over her back and dragged Martin out of enclave, running flat out for the Temple of the One. She kicked a scamp in the head as it leapt joyously towards them, and spun Martin around to her back, and then kept going, dancing them out of the way of a Xivilai and into the Temple of the One. They hit a step, and both went sprawling across the floor.

Zaire rolled onto her stomach and pushed up off the floor, springing to her feet. There were no daedra in here; something must have kept them out.

With much effort, the slender Breton shoved the temple doors closed.

"Better to be safe than sorry!" she explained to Martin- Emperor Martin. A triumphant grin stretched across her face.

"Don't look so miserable?" she added, her own smile faltering. "We made it!"

Martin was silent. Zaire took a hesitant step closer. "Martin?" she asked worriedly.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I can't stay to rebuild Tamriel. That's for others? that's for you." Were those tears in his eyes? "You've been good to me, Zaire. A good friend."

There was a horrible thunder. Martin shoved her out of the way and she tumbled over an altar as Dagon tore off the dome of the Temple, his disgusting red face peering in, a tongue of fire licking around his lips.

From behind the altar, she could only stare as first the amulet and then Martin glowed with a pure golden light, growing brighter and brighter, larger and larger? and? and?

She gasped as the light shaped into a great golden dragon, beautiful and terrible and real. It flapped its wings threateningly as Mehrunes Dagon crashed in. The dragon trumpeted a challenge as Mehrunes reached his disgusting arms out for it. They grappled, stomping all around, and then Akatosh's great, toothy maw closed around Dagon's neck and the Daedra was consumed by his own hellfire, svcked back into Oblivion.

The dragon crowed triumphantly, a beautiful, wild and powerful sound, but to Zaire it was two fold, for she heard also the relieved shout of Martin.

She couldn't help but grin along with the dragon? it was done! But then the dragon paled and stoned, and only a statue remained. Zaire's heart dropped into her stomach.

An eerie voice filled the room, a voice that was part Martin, part Dragon.

"The Amulet is shattered. Dagon is defeated. With the Dragons Blood and the Amulet of Kings we have sealed the gates of Oblivion. Forever. The last of the Septims passes now into history. I go gladly, for I know my sacrifice is not in vain. I take my place with my father and my father's father. The third age has ended and a new age Dawns. When the next Elder Scroll is written you shall be its scribe. The shape of the future, the fate of the Empire, these things now belong to you."

Was it Akatosh who spoke now, or her own friend, Martin?

The doors opened with a crash; Ocato raced in. "He did it! He did it! The Emperor that boy will make! Dagon is gone! Gone!" His voice rose an octave in his joyful hysteria. "Where is he? Where's Martin."

Zaire didn't even look at the chancellor. "Gone." She croaked. Her lip trembled.

"Gone?" he repeated, a total fool. "What do you-?"

Zaire gestured wordlessly at the great statue, and understanding dawned. "Incredible? absolutely unbelievable? He died a true Emperor, with the Gods on his side?"

Zaire said nothing. She could not even bring herself to nod. "And you? you are a Champion? Champion of all Cyrodiil. We'll raise a statue in your likeness? you- you may wear the Imperial Dragon Armor. The celebrations that will be hosted in your name-!"

"No!" Zaire cut him off, her look was harsh. "This was not about me! I won't be your saviour, and I won't be your hero. I don't want to be remembered. I've done precious little for your Empire. Raise a nameless, faceless statue to me, already crumbling, but raise a grand one to Martin, the true hero. Donate the armour to the Imperial Archives. I don't like to stand out."

"-But-,"

"-You can have a Champion," Zaire said firmly. There was a dead look in her eyes. "But it won't look like me."

Ocato nodded hesitantly. "-As you wish?" he said slowly. "But? Zaire?"

"What?"

Ocato looked very nervous. "What do we do now? The Council? me? we're only stewards. Not Emperors. Troubled times- yes, very troubled times are ahead. What do we do now?"

Zaire rose to her feet, and brushed the rubble off her clothes. "Find a new Emperor."

And then she strode out of the Temple, leaving Ocato looking shocked.

Our Mission

It is 4E1 and the council are panicking about what to do. They have decided to stick with what they know, and Martin's half-brother, the closest living relative of the Emperor, will take Martin's place, despite the fact that he has no Septim blood. We know nothing about him, except his name, Corvus Vesemar, and that he was a soldier in the Imperial Legion in Vvardenfell.

It will be a long journey through Morrowind to find him, as the world is even bigger than it was in game, and we must be careful because civil war has broken out in Morrowind, and the dunmer are eager to free themselves of the imperial yoke, not to mention the many political powers invested in preventing Cyrodiil seating a new Emperor.

We begin in Castle Cheydinhal

Various people, distinguished by deed or skill in their various fields, are called to a meeting in Cheydinhal.

You can be whoever you want, but I am especially looking for the unlikely heroes, whether in temperament or skill, characters who are not just useful but will make the RP dynamic and interaction fun.

There are a few particular spaces I am looking to fill; in this RP, The Champion of Cyrodiil is only the Hero of Kvatch and the Imperial City, although she assisted in Bruma as well. Different people championed each of the other cities. There is also a new Gray Fox, and representatives of the other Provinces of the Empire can also have been "invited". You are allowed to play a character from the game if you so choose.


(Not all of these spaces need to be filled, I'll create NPCs for anything blank)

Martin's Brother: Corvus Vesamar (NPC)

Champion of Cyrodiil: Zaire (Illusionary Nothing)

Hero of Bruma: Captain Burd (Ghostpaw)

Hero of Chorrol: Tobrecan (PolishGamer)

Hero of Cheydinhal: Byran Dreugh-Winder (Polymorph-1)

Hero of Anvil: Sid Lucas (DarkNova50)

Hero of Skingrad: Don Leon Sisemo (FC4)

Hero of Bravil: Stranger from Afar (Jerod Kayne)

Hero of Leyawiin: Islyth-Eij (Chaos303030)

The Gray Fox: Fathis Ules (Darkom95)


Character Sheets:
I don't mind what template you use, but I require detailed sheets, and I am particularly interested in what factions your character is in, and their ranks.

A few Uber characters will be allowed, but I am mostly looking for characters that had to work hard to become heroes, and that aren't quite "legends" yet.

Also, keep your bio as brief and secret as you please; we'll discover the information in the RP if that's how you like it.


Rules:
-PM all character sheets to me for approval before posting.
-No unnecessary ubering, no player killing or character controlling, and no randomly spawning armies or baddies unless run past the host first.
-Vampires and werewolves are allowed, but I don't want to see lots of them. (There'll be plenty of time for that later )
-You can be somewhat on the dark side, but no outright villains unless you arrange it with me first.
-My word goes, and respect your fellow players.
-We're all learning together, whether this is your first RP or your 50th. Don't be afraid to listen to advice from others, or give it yourself.
-Only I can post the new thread.
-PM character sheets to me for approval before posting.

And have fun or I want to know why.

Name: Don Leon Sisemo
Nickname: Donny, Lenny, Sis
Gender: Male
Age: 43
Race: Imperial
Birthsign: The Serpent

Class: Privateer/Sabotage Specialist
Class Description: Privateer's are like government mercenaries. Agents to the local government, they perform the functions of mercenaries, but for a higher price and generally do a much more quality job. They come as Jacks of all Trades, or specialists, or specialized generalists.
Skills: Stealth, Security, Marksmanship, Fencing, Light Armor, Trapping, Improvisation.
Associations: Fighter's Guild (Associate-generally uses their services and doesn't bother with them)
-Skingrad Guard (Special Agent)
-Blades (they once tried to recruit him)
-Imperial Legion (Rank:Forester Status:Discharged for criminal behavior)

Appearance: Don Leon Sisemo looks like an average middle aged Imperial; his face is smooth and rounded out, with a short nose and round cheeks. A goatee of black hair covers his chin while a mustache decorates his upper lip. (He looks slightly Spanish). His figure is not very imposing, but gives the impression of mediocrity.
Height: 5' 9"
Eyes: Steel blue
Skin: Tanned
Hair: His hair is slick and smooth dark grey, with some streaks of lighter grey hair and dark black hair.
Tattoos/Scars: Several small scars on his arms from sword practices in the past.

Weapons: Tempered Steel Rapier, Silver plated steel dagger, and a crossbow. The crossbow is designed with twin steel plates along the side of the stock that pop up to create a shield. It is a thin shield, however, so is mainly used just for blocking ranged attacks. The crossbow has a sling to carry it over his shoulder.
Armor: A leather cuirass, boiled black, along with black leather boots and gloves.
Clothes: Don Leon sports an extensive wardrobe, depending on the local region in which he is working. However, when not on the job, he typically wears a plain white flannel long sleeve shirt under his cuirass, and brown cotton pants tucked into his boots. His head is capped by a small musketeer's cap without a feather, and he wears a thick and worn grey travel cloak, which is sometimes over his shoulders like a cape.
Inventory: He has several sets of lock picks and probes, in his boots, hat, gloves, belt, cloak, and some places you'd rather not know. His cloak is thick for a reason, and not for the weather. It is full of pockets with poisons, small darts, potions, thin ropes and strings, and lockpicks. Each pocket is heavily padded so he can casually throw about the cloak without worrying about his goods. His belt has several clips of bolts, rather than an unwieldy quiver. He also carries a flask slung across his chest.

Misc:
?Rarely, if ever, misses a shot with his crossbow, as he likes to make every bolt count.
-An excellent duelist, he was trained in the art of duel fencing from a young age by the aristocracy.
-Never took an interest in spellcraft, and only likes alchemy for the poisons.
-Excels not in shadowy-stealth, but in blending stealth. His wardrobe will often match that of the locals in the region and his cloak is ambiguous intentionally, to give the impression of a worn traveler of the region. This is not to say he cannot blend with shadows; because he can be as silent as any thief.

Spells: none

Mental: Don Leon is one of the most patient men you will ever meet. He is respectful, courteous, mild-mannered, and sympathetic, but his most notable feature is his patience. And this patience carries into his work. He lays his traps and waits patiently. He aims with careful precision before he fires. He patiently awaits his contacts and has perfect places to meet them. He thinks through his actions and creates plans, backup plans, and backup plans for the backup plans in some cases. All this planning ensures both preparedness and calmness throughout a scenario, though when the plans go array he is rarely seen panicking.

He does, however, have a bit of an excited and energetic streak in him. It is found whenever he makes a shot, whenever he draws his sword and goes in for the strike. He is both a man of planning and a man of action; he excels in planning-during-action, which makes him even harder to overcome in battles.

Along with all this he totes a trace of an ego, situational humor, and mild sarcasm. He's generally your typical guy.

Bio: Don Leon Sisemo was born to a lower class aristocratic family in Skingrad, learning to ride a horse and hunt in the plains of the heartlands. It was in the sport of hunting he found his calling in life, finding a thrill in the trap and the chase. However, he learned quickly that assassination was not his only skill. Frequently breaking into his father's wine cellar for nights on the town with teenage pals and evading guards brought a thrill of the illegal acts as well.

It was when he hit twenty that he began to work as a Privateer for the government, realizing they had potential for his talents once his criminal bill had gone up to the thousands in petty crimes he'd managed to never get caught for. Rather than pay his fines, he was given the option to work for the government, using his exceptional skills for 'good'. It didn't take but five years for him to realize 'good' was immensely subjective. As he worked, his experience grew, and he matured out of his criminal thrill-seeking teenage years to become a grizzled, wizened man with an occasional streak of young in him.

Name: Islyths-Eij

Nickname: Fin

Race: Argonian

Age: 35

Gender: Male

Birth sign: The Warrior

Focus: Combat

Main skills: Long Blade, Block, Heavy Armor, Marksman, Speechcraft

Secondary Skills: Alchemy,Survival(Cooking, making Camps, ETC.)

Class: Warrior. Born into a family associated with the Fighter's guild and the Legion, with his mother being in the Guild and his father in the Legion, he has been trained to fight since birth. In order to prepare him to survive, his parents had taught him meager Alchemical and Survival skills that they had picked up in their travels.

Position: Hero of Leyawin

General appearance: Rather strong looking, with the standard Vvardenfell colouring of an argonian. Normal feet, akin to the Cyrodillian argonians.

Hair: Slick, tan-and-green fins with earrings.

Eye Colour: An emerald green.

Height: 6'3

Tattoos/Scars: Jagged scar crossing down his right eye from an encounter with a summoned scamp a few years back.

Mental Description: Islyths is a proud person, and likes to think that his mind can handle most situations. That remains to be seen. He is determined to finish whatever he starts.

Primary weapon: Flame-Bearer: Family ebony sword, smooth without many golden engravings, gladius-like build passed down the generations. Engraved with three Daedric runes on each side of the blade. Enchanted with a moderate fire damage enchantment.

Secondary weapon: Crossbow, steel. 20 bolts, silver.

Clothing/Armour mostly worn: Full set of engraved Iron armor sans helmet, Furred travelling cape. Wolf-Pelt scarf. Iron Tail Armor; Spiked

Inventory:
150 Septims
Maps of Vvardenfell, Cyrodill, and Black Marsh.


Bio: Islyths was born into a fighting family. They trained him from birth so that he could take up his parent's legacy in the Fighters Guild or the Legion when he grew older. He never found his place in such a structured organization though, and instead joined a small band of vigilantes aiming to help Leyawin. He felt a strong bond to the town, and the marshes around, and he packed up his supplies and ran away from home in his late teens. From there, he grew up in life, his only school the one of hard knocks. He and the other guys in this little group were all argonian, and hid themselves within a flooded caves buried under the muck of one of the swamps. When he (And most of his friends) hit 20, they became involved in fighting with khajiit group for the title of the city's defenders. Only after his best friend was put into temple care for three weeks did he realize that being in the gang wouldn't help his town; they were just street ruffians justifying their actions as helping the towns people. He left the gang, who were soon all taken in by the guard, and started to help the town in smaller ways; he planted the crops, joined the guard as a mercenary for a brief time and defended against bandits, and gave alms to the poor. And when the Oblivion Crisis occurred, he took arms. He fought with a fury that only an argonian with pure, tribal roots could dig up, fiercely pushing back attack after attack. Many thought him a brave man; he was just doing his duty to his town.

OOC: Anyone looking to join; we are extremely well-stocked with espionage/thieves. Other professions are particularly looked for.

And I'll post up an IC tomorrow, 'cause I need to sleep now!

'Night all.

Oh crawp... I wanted a thief =/

I'll think of something else

Need an alchemist?

OOC: I was hoping my character would be approved tonight, but I guess I'll just have to wait. No biggie. (:

OOC: I edited in some affiliations for Don Leon Sisemo.

EDITED: Took out the IC post; not sure if you want me to wait for you or not Illusionary, so I will hold off for now and save the post.

I believe I was approved to post my cs, my character is the Gray Fox ^^. Might be the reason he said no more thieves...sorry ADETH.

Name: Fathis Ules
Race: Dunmer
Gender: Male
Age: 52
Sign: The Thief

Factions:
Thieve's Guild ? Grey Fox
Drothmeri Army (Ex.)
Daedra Worshipper

Class: Thief
Skills: Fathis' forte lies in the shadows, he has become known as the King of the Enigmatic. The Grey Fox's abilities lie in his alacrity and nimbleness; he has led talented careers as an acrobat and an agent. If he must use a weapon, he prefers the bow, but only against animals, he is set against the killing of men and mer. He would much prefer to get by people with words and subtlety, in the cover of darkness. He has a natural affinity for locks and picks, and has claimed more than once to be the fastest lockpick in all Tamriell.

Physical Description: A middle aged dark elf, Fathis has mottled green-blue skin with iron colored hair, streaked with lighter shades of grey, up in the high style of upper echelon elves. He is aged, with thin muscles of surprising dexterity, but is fairly skinny. He is of average height, no one would mistake him for a warrior; he actually appears to be a merchant or politician.

Mental Description: Morally righteous, he is firm in his beliefs; he finds his most valuable feature to be his piousness. He believes that thievery is perfectly acceptable without murder, and has created even stricter rules within the guild; murder in self defense is punished by permanent expulsion, pre-mediated murder by handing them over to the Imperial Guard. He rarely changes his values, and will debate them publicly.

He is also a calculating elf, he sees no problem in using people as a means to achieve his ends, and encourages this among thieves. He is slow to anger, and quick to forgive, he has an almost philosophical view on ethics and people.

Weapons: Usually possesses no weapons, as he rarely goes on jobs, but if he must, he will carry his favorite Dwarven bow. His arrows are of a lesser quality, usually steel. His bow took much to obtain, and only came with a set of twenty five matching arrows, and he has so far only used six of them. He will also carry a stiletto dagger, mostly to aid in lock picking, but can be used for combat.

Clothing/Armor: When relaxing, he wears a black coat, trimmed with fur, over claret and gold garments. When the need is high, he wears the traditional armor of the Grey Fox, an enchanted leather cuirass, two magical rings, enchanted boots, and plain leather bracers and greaves. He also has in his possession the Gray Cowl of Nocturnal, one Arrow of Extrication, and the Boots of Springheel Jack, but rarely uses them.

Miscellaneous:
-He is deathly afraid of animals, and will shoot them if he has to
-He has a bad reputation in the Imperial City of getting into heated debates with the citizens over subjects touchy as religion, politics, and ethics, all of which he is very opinionated on

Short History: **Same spoilers as Illusionary**
He was born in Morrowind to a single mother, his father worked for the East Empire Company and left to Tamriell without telling Fathis' mother. He and his mother were by no means rich, and he grew up selling various items at the local bazaar, where he learned his ability to communicate fluently and his fierce ideals. He followed the traditional Daedra worship, paying little heed to the Tribunal which was so dominant at the time, and knew nothing of the Nine until he was in his late teens.

He joined the Drothmeri army as a spy into Tamriell, moving into the Imperial City. They one day ordered him to assassinate a local official who was trying to make anti-Morrowind laws, but he could not go through with the job and was dishonorably discharged. He heard of the Thieve's Guild philosophy while in the capital, and found it to be to his liking. Ever since he has been a loyal member of the guild, growing in skill and power until he took the position of Grey Fox after stealing an Elder Scroll.

In his new rank, he has made several reformations to the guild, eliminating the blood price system and making any killing completely out of the question. This led to several groups branching off, following a diluted version of the previous system. These have mostly failed or sunken into near Dark Brotherhood groups.

He sends money home to his mother frequently, and tells her that he became a successful merchant, like his father.


OOC: Yay, I get to be the oldest character in an RP once more!

OOC: Lols in a tin can. Heee heee....He. As in, the gender. The first two were laughs. The third was the gender term.

You shoulda kept the bowtie, IN.

Anyway, yeah...that woulda been ALOT of thieves.

Hmmmm... I might try to take the Anvil slot, still deciding whether to join or not...

ooc: So.. tempted.. to use.. Karst.. *fights it*

I'm in, but not sure who I wanna use yet. I don't think I'll be a Champion, though, unless there's a great demand for it.

Someone's already champion, fooh

Yeah, I'll be joining too, I already have a nice character brewing

OOC: Holy crap, that guy who was stalking our RW RP is posting! OMIGAWD. I think you'll be quite a welcome addition.

I don't think that being a hero means being a champion; Fin only helped Cyrodiil, and therefore became a hero, because he was trying to protect his birthplace.

Anyways, you don't even have to be something like that, so yay!

OOC: Enough OOC guys; the rp will get moving tomorrow, just wait patiently. We don't need all this clutter in the front page.

:)

OOC: But it's a butterfly dragon. A BUTTERFLY!! And my pretty pink bow didn't work either.

I am female, folks, or I was the last time I checked.

Anyway! On with the RP! And apologies to anyone who has to wait to join; I've recieved a lot of PMs.

NOTE: You recieved a letter from the Elder Council only saying that they wished to discuss a mission of great importance with you at Castle Cheydinhal, unless I told you otherwise.
IC:

Crow shaded her dark eyes as she looked up at Castle Cheydinhal; not against the sunlight, but the rain. It was only a few months into the year yet, and things had yet to warm up.

It's not like I don't prefer it that way... she thought, straightening her dark blue coat and futilely shaking water from her now scraggly short hair. She trudged up the pathway to the Castle, wondering exactly what she would meet inside.

The Elder Council, it seemed, had come to a decision as to what to do with their Empire. As far as she knew, it involved some hare-brained adventure, or why else would they send for all the Heroes and 'distinguished' folk of Cyrodiil? Beyond that, she knew nothing.

But she also knew that the Council were a bit slow, and often close-minded. Not that I have a problem with the Heroes... I'm sure they are all excellent, upstanding Legionnaires and by-the-book battlemages... she thought, her lip curling in distaste at the very idea. But sometimes you need something a little more than that.

So she'd made a few additions of her own. Her eyes warmed in a smile at the very idea of her 'additions'. She was looking forwards to meeting them, herself.

The guards regarded her warily as she came up the path; they had no reason to, but their natural guard instincts were no doubt on high-alert. And so they should be... Crow thought good-naturedly. She strode up to one of the guards on the door.

"Ma'am," the guard said courteously, but she could see the wariness in his eyes. Crow smiled innocently, seeming even younger than she was. Her round face and large eyes and small stature assissted greatly in this deception.

"Excuse me, sir, I was wondering where the Elder Council are holding their meeting? I've been invited." She held out her letter as proof.

THe guard relaxed instantly to this polite and authentic approach. "In the business hall, second floor."

"Right or left up the stairs?"

"Left, and straight to the end, Ma'am." he replied.

She beamed at him. "Thank you!" Her enthusiasm elicited a smile from him, a smile that would soon turn to a grimace of horror.

He couldn't have known that her letter detailed the directions. This was just a bit of good-natured fun.

Crow walked over to the outer wall. With a grin that he could not see from behind her, she carefully began picking her way up the wall, a foot slipping here or there, but she clung there as if she had hooks for hands. She leaned around the left side of the building, turned and grabbed the first floor windowsill, pulling herself up onto it. Behind her, she knew the ground was spinning away. She musn't look back, or she'd lose nerve. She needed to get past this ridiculous, debilitating fear.

And I'll have fun while I do it, damn it! She pulled her knife from her boot and slid it under the window, sliding it along the bottom of the window, and found no catches. She replaced the dagger, pushed the window open, gripped the top of the window frame, and swung herself through feet first.

She slid sinuously in, landing with barely a sound. Then she turned, closed the window, and went and sat on a small desk in the corner rather than at one of the chairs around the massive table, which clearly were meant for her to sit in.

The room was empty for the time being, but Crow was a little early herself. And the Council, pompous fools that they were, were sure to be late.

So she sat and waited for the first of the invitees to arrive.

OOC:



IC post will follow once I actually get a little bit of sleep... :banghead:

IC: Several days previous
"So... You're sending me, sire?" Don Leon Sisemo inquired politely, looking under the brim of his Musketeer cap to the Count's regal form upon the throne of Skingrad. He was concealed by the thick, worn gray travel cloak hanging on his shoulders, hiding the hands that were stuffed in his pockets.

"Precisely." Janus Hassildor responded, his hands together before his old, grey-haired face. He looked completely serious; but then again he always did. "They requested the best Skingrad had to offer, so I give them you. They probably would have sent for you directly, but you can be such a nuisance to find."

"But -if I may inquire, my Count- why me? This sounds like a simple search and retrieve mission, more like grunt legion work. It's the Elder Council, which is poorly in need of an Emperor, looking for a group of Heroes. Either we're searching for a new Emperor or they want to select from the Heroes." Don Leon stated back, still standing tall and looking under the brim of his hat at the Count vampire. His steel blue eyes wondered just why he was chosen.

"Because you are the Hero of Skingrad, Sisemo." Hassildor calmly answered, raising his dark gray eyebrows. "You closed that Oblivion Gate, you stopped the hordes from claiming our great city. You are a Hero of the Oblivion crisis. And I doubt they are choosing Emperors from a pool of Heroes. They will likely be looking for a distant relative of the Septim line."

Don Leon was silent, looking at the ground and contemplating. When he looked up again, his hat brim was pointed up and his full middle-aged face was in view. "This is because of the ruckus of the last job, isn't it, sire? They still think I did it?" He was smirking.

"Hard to argue against them, Sisemo, when the children are so outspoken. And to silence them would place me in serious public debilitation." Janus sighed, separating his hands and laying them on the side of the throne. "So I need you to leave the area for a while, so things can calm down and a scapegoat can be procured. You are too valuable... Even when you make a mistake."
------------------------------
Present
Don Leon looked at the castle of Cheydinhal, and chuckled to himself. "Pathetic. Skingrad's shadow can blanket this thing. And the entrance... so uninspired." He tsk-tsked as he mumbled this, moving about the crowd of Dunmer, Imperial, and even Orcs in the streets. No one seemed to pay the gray travel-cloaked figure much attention as he passed them. Blending into the crowds in Cyrodiil was easy for Don Leon, considering he was Imperial himself. It wasn't unheard of for a Heartlander to travel to the Eastern Regions, so no real tactic was even required.

Which meant he could keep his musketeer hat; Don Leon had a slight fondness of the headgear. It wasn't overly flamboyant, but had it's own unique flair. It drew attention though, at times. But in crowds -even sparse ones like today's- in Cyrodiil, it mattered little. His boots thudded gently upon the wood of the pond bridge as he crossed, passing an Orc in furs along the way who didn't even grunt to his presence. Don Leon smiled. Unimportance... best tool in the arsenal.

The cloak would have drawn attention if it had been fully closed; that would have hinted he was hiding something. Instead, it was partly open, revealing the basket hilt of the rapier, and the strap of his crossbow. Anyone who wanted a scrap would be forewarned, and the guards were aware of his weapons, which further reduced overall suspicion. Don Leon calmly strode through the streets towards the castle as if he was taking a morning stroll around the city ponds, looking at the flora landscaping and admiring it. In one of the pockets of his thick gray cloak was a letter, which one hand now reached for to remove and unroll casually.

Even though he was now in the Castle courtyard, his casual demeanor put the Guardsmen off guard, so even though they stood at attention, they weren't tense about his presence. They just simply knew he was there. Alright... Directions are on here then. So... left stairwell, that room. I bet this Castle is easier to navigate on the inside too, it seems so small. Don Leon could not withhold the naturally born prejudice and pride of being a Heartlander of the County of Skingrad.

Rolling up the parchment in his left hand, the cloak over that arm shifted and settled over his shoulder, making more of a cape than cloak and fully revealing the rapier sheathed there, tied to a utility belt of pockets. It failed to reveal the several pockets within the cloak, however. It was just another way of relaxing the guardsmen, revealing his weapons to them.

"Good day, officers." Don Leon smiled and tipped his hat to the men, who nodded back. He entered the castle without a hitch; the Entrance Hall was a public part of the castle, after all. Only the suspicious folks got held up at the front door. Looking at the interior, Don Leon smirked. Just as I figured... so uninspired in decor. Having memorized the directions, he headed up the stairs towards the room.

The room, when he entered, was found to hardly be lavish either, sporting only a few windows and draqery, and a massive table at the center with chairs around it. There were desks and bookcases in the corners and along the walls, and he took note of the woman sitting in one corner, though gave her only a glance for now. Striding over to the table, he set down the parchment before a chair, and undid the clasp of his cloak. Despite the numerous items it contained he casually slung it over the chair as if it were meaningless. The thick padding would protect the items within. Holding his gloved hands on the back of his chair, he looked over to the corner from beneath the brim of his hat, and smiled politely.

"It doesn't do to sit at the table before a lady." As he spoke he moved to a chair near his and pulled it out, motioning to it with one hand.

Name: Babur gro-Shadbat
Race: Orc
Gender: Male
Age: 28 (middle aged, for an Orc)
Birthsign: The Steed

Profession: Pilgrim.
General Appearance: Babur is slightly shorter than a Nord, and slightly taller than an Imperial. His face is long and broad, with a jaw bearing the short tusks of an Orc, and a brow that looks low and heavy. His farsighted gold eyes are deeply set in his face, just above the nose. His head is very large, the lower part of his face (the jaw and mouth) more so, almost giving his head the shape of a squash. His body is very average by Orcish standards, excepting that he has a well-traveled appearance.

Hair: Dark brown, and it only exists as a single flipknot on the top of his head. The rest of his head is bald.
Eyes: Gold
Height: 6'2"
Tattoos/Scars: He has a large scar where a barbed arrow caught him just below the right clavicle. The wound healed clean, but left a very obvious scar.

Personality: Babur is a scholar at heart. He is a friend of anyone offering insight and knowledge, be this individual a beggar or a Daedric Prince. As a result of this impartiality of relations, he is often critical of Cyrodiilic soceity, and can be quite dry in conversation, and is rarely very emotional, or at least rarely expressive of emotions. His true loyalties are...hard to judge, at times. The few individuals that could call him a friend often find themselves unexpectedly abandoned (literally) by him, but quite often just as unexpectedly aided by him. And his life on the road (and off) has sharpened his wits, causing him to often rely on creativity, rarely using sheer force.

Weapon(s): An Orcish scimitar, obviously repaired and reforged several times over.
Clothing/Armour: His travel-worn attire is changed often, due to the fact that he can scarcely carry more than two sets of clothing at any given time. He presently wears a faded maroon shirt and brown pants under strikingly ornate chainmail armor.

Recent Bio: Three years ago, Babur left his beloved Orsinium for Cyrodiil to find less kindness toward the Orismer among the Imperials than among the Ra'Gada. Until recently, he was an almost anonymous traveler roaming about Cyrodiil. After gaining local noteriety with the closing of the Oblivion gate outside Fort Sutch, many rumors began to circulate regarding his previous acts. Most notable were multiple rumors about his dealing with the other Princes of Oblivion: settling a debt with Clavicus Vile, freeing Ogres for Malacath, recovering a treasure for Nocturnal- and some darker rumors about his involvement in the disappearance of several priests of Arkay that had set out to 'illuminate' the followers of Namira. Some even whispered that the orc had laid his eyes on the sacred Oghma Infinium.

The truth in these rumors is debatable, though, and Babur almost never confirms or denies anything. But one act was undoubtable: the remarkable closing of an Oblivion gate outside Fort Sutch. The legionnaires posted at the eastern fort had contended well with the forces of Oblivion, bringing the siege to a stalemate. After the fort had been under siege for two weeks, a scout reported an unbelievable sight: an orc had been sighted heading toward the Oblivion gate...along with at least sixty goblins of varying tribes.

By some unknown means, Babur had not only had a peaceful meeting with the goblin tribes, but managed to bring them together for at least once against a common enemy. No one went into the gate with Babur and his goblin army, but the morning after they had entered, the gate shattered, and two dozen goblins and one orc stood where it had loomed over Sutch. To this day the soldiers who witnessed this remain bewildered regarding how or even why the pilgrim accomplished this. His his only comment had been, "Convincing them to band together was fairly simple; it was the difficulty of traveling across half a province with them that I hadn't anticipated." He has not had any known dealings with the goblin tribes after this event.

Misc:
-Farsighted
-Very well-read
-He is only decent at fighting; he often tries alternate methods to direct combat
-Remarkably, he shows little or no presumptive hostility to the Daedric Princes or their worshipers, including Mehrunes Dagon himself. This tends to enforce some of the rumors about his dealing with them.

Name: Byron Dreugh-Winder

Nickname: Baron

Race: Breton

Gender: Male

Age: 34

Birthsign: The Apprentice

Factions:
Mage's Guild - Conjuror

Class: Warlock

Class Description: These mages turned away from the arts of healing and illusion to focus all of their energies onto offensive spells. While they are undoubtedly useful in battle, they are not very good for tactics reaching beyond kill things in way.

Skills: Byron, owing to his "Pure Breton" heritage, has natural talent for all things magical. His years of being raised on an estate also gave him a basic grasp of archery and horse-riding, but his main talent always lay in destruction. Burning, electrocuting, or even just causing pain, no matter what his family did to dissuade him from this path, it was always his destiny.

However, he is also inept in combat when his spells have taken a number on him, becoming completely useless until he has enough energy to cast another of his spells. For this purpose he learned a basic Shortsword fighting style, while he wouldn't be good against more than one enemy at a time, he could still hold his own with assistance after the battle.

Physical Description: His face, contrary to most of his lineage, is pale and thin, his eyes calculating, and his complexion excellent. While he isn't a handsome man in any sense of the word, he is often complimented on his features. They are well spaced and well shaped, but for some reason he radiates Ugly, probably from his personality. He may look slightly above average, but he OOZES maggot. He is slightly taller than average, standing at 6'1/2", his frail and emaciated body earned him the nickname Worm-Boy in his private school. His hair is very dark brown and reaches down to the beginning of his jaw. His eyes have rings around them from lack of sleep.

Mental Description: Often thinking of himself above the rest of the team, Byron isn't above bargaining with the enemy in exchange for his team. However, he is also very proud, and if he thinks an action will disgrace his family name he will do the opposite instantly. He is sarcastic and snide and petty, but deep down he just yearns to be liked, however, a social problem probably caused by negligent parents. He is very clean and organized, and hates wandering through the outdoors.

Weapons: He has a sleek expensive looking silver dagger, with a smooth handle which more just fades into the blade rather than be separated. It has a minor curse of Pain enhancement placed upon it.

Clothing/Armour: Byron is usually seen in long Red robes with a layer of cloth on the shoulders and chest, it has a black trim and small minor magical runes around the edge. while these are impressive, they are mostly useless. He has simple black gloves with a silver trim, and a pair of sensible yet runed boots. The clothes of a show-off more than a practical person.

Misc:
- He likes to consider himself an Alpha Male, even though he is a rather snide and petty man.
- He often makes sarcastic comments depending on the situation.
- He often severely over-estimates his power.

Short History: He was born to a rich Breton family in a manor far from the Imperial Presence, somewhere in the mountains. It's because of this he has no respect for the law, seeing as the only law where he grew up were his parents. He was neglected and often considered a failure of a son by his mother and father, who fawned over his Brother who went down the path of restoration.

He saved Cheydinhal from the looming threat of the Oblivion gates mainly because he was promised the fame of the order of knights run by the Lord's idiot son, he soon found this to be a farce and attempted to quit, but then realized that his closing the Oblivion Gates also gave him fame, and continued on with them. This is to make up for the fact people refuse to promote him any further in the Mages Guild, describing him as Too Ambitious and said he would lust after the power of Necromancy eventually.

OOC: I'll write a post later, have a friend over. (:

She sensed him before he entered the room, her birthright identifying his presence before he made himself known.

With his goatee, moustache, feathered cap and rapier (of all the ridiculous swords a man could wield!) Crow was unlikely to have been impressed by Don Leon Sisemo. His features were altogether too memorable, and also rather pompous, the shape of his mouth all too clearly used to forming an annoying smirk. If Crow believed in hate at first sight, a man like this would certainly have been high on the list of possibilities.

While she did not hate this man, she did take a slight disliking of him as he moved into the room. Don't be so judgemental! she scolded herself. Appearances mean nothing. This man is clearly experienced; he might not prove to be the fathead you think he- stop that. I'm sure he's fine.

As he slung off his cloak, her sensitive ears picked up a tiny chink, as if two things had bumped together. Easily just the clasp. And yet the cloak, though thick, did not appear to be heavy enough to have fallen to the chair in such a manner as he had draqed it. She frowned at it, thinking.

A change in his features out of the corner of her eye caught her attention; he was smiling. She managed to assemble her features into a polite smile herself in response, and though she was still preoccupied with his cloak, her smile would be entirely convincing. Something about his smile irked her, however.

No reason for it... she told herself. You don't know him...

"It doesn't do to sit at the table before a lady," he said, pulling out a chair and gesturing with one hand. Ugh. she thought. Everything about what he had just said and how he had said it irriated her. And did she imagine that there was a slight flourish to his movements?

She allowed her smile to fade. "Age before beauty," she replied, unmoved. She hoped he got the message; no unnecessary pleasantries for her.

She tossed her head back slightly, letting her dull copper hair fall away from her face. "I'm Crow," she added. "The Council will be late, so make yourself comfortable. I already have." She kicked her legs to emphasise the point- though it could be slightly amusing that her feet did not touch the ground.

Sid chuckled mildly to himself as he continued along the path towards Castle Cheydinhal. "Ah, my dear Kynareth," he remarked to seemingly nobody, before glancing skyward, towards the overcast clouds which continued to deliver their aqueous bounty to the world below. "You are a fickle woman, aren't you?" He silently supposed that he could hardly be cross with the aforementioned Aedra; she had, after all, blessed him with many well weathered journeys across the sea. Of course, appearing before the Elder Council in such thoroughly waterlogged clothes irked him somewhat, but less so than if he were to be late for the encounter. He continued towards the grand castle's entrance with a decidedly cavalier demeanour.

"My good men!" Sid shouted with undue enthusiasm as he approached the guards on duty, a large smile on the Breton's handsome features. "I trust the day finds you well. I have come to your fair city for work, rather than pleasure, I'm afraid." Sid quickly retrieved the note delivered to him by courier, from the Elder Council as the two guards glanced curiously at one another. "I come at the behest of the Elder Council."

The guard to the right gave an affirmative nod. "Right then," he replied in a simple fashion, gesturing that Sid might continue forward. "Go on ahead, sir. Two of the others are already inside."

"Indeed?" Sid asked with a chipper tone, glancing towards the castle with an upraised eyebrow. "Well then, I believe I shall go and acquaint myself with my newfound comrades. Good day to both of you, gentlemen." With a slight bow, Sid continued forward into the castle.

The interior of the great structure was comfortably posh and grandiose; much as Sid imagined his own castle would be, once he had acquired the funds to make such a lavish purchase. He paid little heed to the trail of water that followed behind him as he walked, trusting that a member of the castle's hired help would be along shortly; he had much more consequential matters on his mind, after all. As he neared the stairs he was sure led up to the room in which he was to meet the others, a young man in the estate's employ caught his eye.

"You there, boy!" Sid exclaimed, reaching inside his jacket for a small bag of coin. "See to it a bottle of wine is brought to the upper chamber for my colleagues and myself. A bottle of Tamika's should do nicely, I think." He handed the boy the small purse, and patted him lightly on the shoulder. "And do be quick about it, my young fellow."

The lad gave Sid a quick nod before moving off about his assigned task. Sid, meanwhile, ascended the staircase before him, and found himself entering a room that, as the guard had foretold, contained two individuals. The first, a man in a rather unremarkable attire, though Sid knew this meant little; many of his past 'business partners' had attired themselves in the like, to avoid attention. The second individual, a fetching young Breton woman, was clad in far more fashionable clothing, save perhaps her gauntlets and boots. Sid smiled; it was always so refreshing to meet another individual with an eye for tasteful clothing.

"I trust I haven't come too late?" Sid inquired the duo, stepping into the room with a polite gait to his step. "I would have arrived sooner, but as I'm sure the both of you are well aware, the weather outside is hardly ideal for travel."

Sid stopped dead in his approach. "But where are my manners? I am Sid Lucas, hailing from the county Anvil," he introduced with a courteous bow, meant more for the lady than the gentleman present. After this introduction, he continued forward, past the man in leather towards the charming young woman.

"And might I be so bold as to inquire the young lady's name?" Sid asked with a regal tone of formality, one he often employed when speaking with the fairer gender.

Byron strode into the hall and instantly felt the present people look at him in awe. He knew they didn't, but in a mind like Byron's fact and fiction were often swapped covertly. He grinned, looking around The great Castle of Cheydinhal, if there's a fairer castle in the whole of the realm then I will quit the Mages' Guild and become a table dancer!. He beamed at the guards as he walked into the room, which was returned with a quizzical look he didn't bother to notice. He didn't need to notice things now, he was a star! To hell with them.

He tried to resist a smirk when he saw what the Skingradian was wearing, but failed and came off as an arrogant moron. Or forth-wright noble, as he liked to address himself. He decided that he didn't need an introduction and sat down at the table, withdrawing a chair in a sweeping manner. His scarlet and black robes flowed appropriately as he took a seat, giving a cursory glance to the other people at the table, and then looking passed them.

He examined his hands, his boots, the table, the cutlery, the food, the guards and the intricate pattern of the ceiling before deciding to rest his gaze on the two there. He gave them a smile as thin as a razor blade and cold as hail, and sighed. He yawned, trying to over-exaggerate his boredom as much as humanly possible. His eyes were dull and sagged, his features hanging, his fingers drumming on the table, but honestly it all just made him seem like a narcoleptic schizophrenic.

Tobrecan uneasily peered at Castle Cheydinhal from the bridge outside. Ever since he had arrived on the Weynon Priory horse, he had thought about making his entrance. The letter he had received had instructed him to go to the castle, and the only thing that came to mind was the Oblivion Gate, making it the only reason for anyone to be interested in him. In truth, the letter had been adressed the to Floeus brothers, but they had sent Tobrecan, since he was the oldest brother, and he had been the one who actually take the Sigil Stone. He felt out of place as it was, and he doubted his ability to stand alonside the others inside. They would be expecting a great hero, capable of saving an entire town from certain death. They would get a man barely out of his teenage years who couldn't even save his own brother. With a sigh, he placed the letter back in his bag, having been peering at it for a while, and started up the winding path to the castle.

The hero of Chorrol walked uneasily into the room, sticking close to the wall and self conciously reading the letter over again. He felt out of place here. As he had thought, the others all seemed to have some great ability about them. Tobrecan, on the other hand, seemed like an ass among steeds. He skirted the side of the room, avoiding the gazes he might receive, slipping into an empty chair. He attempted to take himself away from the situation, however he only found his thoughts drifting to his brother, so instead, he read and re-read the letter, as if not beleiving he had actually closed the gate.

OOC: The cap isn't feathered, he took the feather out.

IC: Don Leon nodded his head to the woman as she replied "Age before beauty" and kept his smile, though this one seemed less formal and more truly entertained.

"Touch?." The hand that had motioned to the chair promptly pushed the chair back in without ceremony.

"I'm Crow," she added. "The Council will be late, so make yourself comfortable. I already have." Crow kicked her legs for emphasis, and Don Leon noticed they failed to reach the floor. So she was a short one. Short and with spunk. Good, might be needed in a group. And is that a glance at my cloak? He wondered, having noticed before another glance she'd made when he draqed it. He didn't have time to question her, however, before another man strode in.

"I trust I haven't come too late?" Sid inquired the duo, stepping into the room with a polite gait to his step. Don Leon turned to look upon the man, and instantly one eyebrow rose curiously at his presence. He wore the most flamboyant clothing Don Leon had ever seen upon a man who had no Countly ranking in society to wear such apparel regularly. And he was dripping wet, leaving a slight puddle where he stood. Don Leon just remained standing behind his chair, looking ready to sit but holding out for now. "I would have arrived sooner, but as I'm sure the both of you are well aware, the weather outside is hardly ideal for travel."

Sid stopped dead in his approach. "But where are my manners? I am Sid Lucas, hailing from the county Anvil," he introduced with a courteous bow, meant more for Crow than Don Leon, considering he bowed in her direction. After rising from it, he moved straight past Don Leon and towards Crow. Sisemo could feel the moisture in the air as he passed, but didn't cringe. Rather, he turned his head to follow the man's travels, eyebrow still raised.

"And might I be so bold as to inquire the young lady's name?" His tone was even more regally formal than Don Leon's. Great... a man who fawns over women. And they say I'm bad at times. His irritation was in fact minute, and failed to flow onto his face because of its lack of power. He merely pulled his chair out enough to sit down, and unslung his crossbow from his shoulder, hanging it off the back of the chair along with the cloak. With the cloak off, the belt of bolts and dagger hanging along with the rapier were completely visible. He sat down with hardly a sound, still watching the man.

He thought about advising the man against the use of formality with Crow, but instead looked away towards the center of the table, putting his hands together in front of his mouth. He'd rather watch the events unfold. Sid Lucas would likely make more a fool of himself than Don Leon had. He briefly nodded at each person that walked into the room thereafter, taking minor note of them. One Breton in particular made him feel uneasy... the guy just had an antisocial air about him. He might not do well in the group. The other entry looked like a more common soldier. He would be useful, and likely cause little trouble.