Hammer and Anvil

Post » Sat Feb 19, 2011 8:27 am

Word from the creator: Well it's been years (literally) since the success of SoS (Siege of Sentinel) and i'm glad to see many old faces and some new ones showing up for the newest installment in the 'IB Timeline.' Like in SoS the plot will focus on a specific goal for the various sides. Although much of the RP is about war, this isn't necessarily a 'war RP.' That is to say that you can find a non military role in the RP and still contribute as many had done in SoS. To those coming back, keep up the good stuff you were doing before. To new people, enjoy the atmosphere and we all look forward to your new ideas and contribution.

Recent History: With the closing of the Oblivion gates for a brief moment Tamriel felt like it would be at peace, at least for a while. That all changed with the rebellion on Summerset Isle prompted by The Beautiful and the recreation of the old Elven Empire, at least in name. War in the Summerset raged on and the battle wearied Legions, although initially successful, were plagued with a lack of resources that not even the most pious discipline could withstand. Slowly but surely the Legions withdrew from the Isles after heavy casualties and a peace treaty was agreed upon in which the Empire would give the province of Valenwood to the Summerset Isle doubling the holdings of the newly recreated Aldmeri Dominion. In the 2nd year of the 4th Era a young charismatic Redguard prince wishing to throw off the bondages of the Empire empowered the city of Sentinel taking advantage of the weakened state of the Empire. The Elder Council in response trying to stop the crumbling of the Empire and fulfilling the task of finding a new ruler, call for a grand campaign from all across the Empire and whoever would be the one to bring down Sentinel would gain an Empire. King Helseth of Morrowind, Queen Elysana of High Rock and Chancellor Ocato summoned their armies and set to Sentinel. But the roaring walls and the cutting of Hauron would deny the Empire their symbolic victory. With the old rivalry between Daggerfall and Wayrest picking up and the recent defeat of the Imperial forces, Sentinel was left to breath and consolidate it's power. Now, in the twilight of the 3rd year a new conflict brews. Although the Empire's borders does not reach to Hammerfell, many in the southern coastal cities preferred their rule and now look to the east at Anvil for guidance who maintained and grown it's economic and mercantile powers. For Hammerfell to unify, the last thread holding it to the Empire must be cut.

What you will be doing: The basic idea is that there will be an invasion force from Sentinel landing on the Golden Coast leading a punitive expedition against Anvil, possibly conquering it out right if needed. There will be two official sides at war. One siding with Sentinel lead by PersonfromAnticlere and the other will be Anvil lead by Verlox. An Elven army lead by Darkdom will assist Sentinel from the south east while a Nordic army lead by Blademaster will assist Anvil from the north east. The armies will be posted below.

Sentinel Invasion Force:

Ra Gada Spearmen 5000

These troops are drawn from the farmlands and the cities alike armored in desert robes and using a combination of padding and hardened leather. They wield long bamboo spears and long shields for protection. Each soldier also carries a back up weapon of sorts as well as a javelin. They are durable soldiers drilled in basic formation although not completely reliable.

Cyro-Raga Heavy spearmen 1000

The descendents of Redguard and Imperial intermarriage since the times of Talos. These troops come from more privileged families who in part came as merchant settlers or ruling nobility. They wear a combination of lamellar armors made of leathers and metal as well as mail. They carry heavy thrusting spears, round shields and a fierce falcata.

Ra Gada Urban troops 2500

Drawn from the urban citizenry these medium armored troops are proficient at holding a shield wall but also advancing to attack with blade and mace. Covered in padded cloth, a metal helmet and varied forms of light mail, they form the back bone of most cities in Hammerfell.

Tabardariyya 2000

These fierce troops act as both elite guards of the nobility and as the decisive shock infantry force of the army. They are armored in heavy lamellar and mail armor carrying amongst other personal weaponry a fierce two handed curved axe used for hacking through defensive lines.

Tribal Hillmen Jav 2000

Recruited from the hills and mountain tribes in Hammerfell, these lightly cloth armored troops are capable of harassing the enemy with javelins but also charging in with their one handed axes in loose formation. Although not as well organized as most troops, years of constant skirmishing with various other tribes has provided experienced soldiers to whomever recruits them.

Desert Spear Archers 2000

Although archery amongst the Redguards isn't as proficient as that of High Rock, Valenwood and Morrowind, these desert skirmishers make use of the short bow and a spear for warding off light cavalry charges.

Desert Slingers 2500

The sling is a more popular weapon in Hammerfell especially in the deserts and rocky terrain where wood is not readily available. The slings, made out of rope and leather, are able to hurl stones, which are easily found in almost any terrain, a great distance.

Stros Slingers 1500

These very capable light troops are armed with three slings of various size and are able to hurl much larger stones with great accuracy than any other slingers. Famous for their abilities these men are often hired by anyone passing through who wishes to have top quality light infantry capable of harming others from afar. Once close in they will use a falcata and light wooden shield with great effect. Their main quality however remains their skill with the sling which has been known to be as accurate as to strike soldiers off of city walls.

Naphtha Throwers 200

Working in groups of 10, these men are armed with Naphtha filled clay jars which they hurl into the enemy bursting on impact and sending fire and shards into the enemy ranks. Their expertise with alchemy has earned these men enough pay to buy themselves mail robes as well as a small steel buckler and matching scimitar.

Desert Janites 2500

Agile desert horses are used by these desert people for quick skirmishing attacks hurling heavy javelins into enemy ranks before retreating to rearm themselves. Although only lightly armored these cavalrymen are also capable of charging into the flanks and rear of infantry or to chase down routing units.

Camel cavalry 2000

Although slower than horse cavalry and only moderately armored, camels have a particular odor which most horses find offensive. Armed with a short bow, a spear and a shield these camel troops can act as both skirmisher and medium cavalry.

Ra Gada Noble Heavy lancers 800

The pride of any Hammerfelian city, these nobles ride atop mighty steeds covered in thick heavy coats of mail and metal lamellar. Armed with a heavy lance, a durable round shield and maces these troops are made for smashing into enemy lines and causing terrifying routs. The horses themselves are heavily armored but only toward the front keeping the horse somewhat lighter and faster than the knightly counter parts.

Ra Gada medium cavalry 1000

Acting as assistance cavalry to the nobility these are lighter armored equivalents of the noble cavalry. Although not as heavily armored or as well trained they still pose a considerable threat on the battle field and cover the cavalry flanks allowing the nobility to cause as much havoc as possible undisturbed.

Of note is the fact that the troops mustered from Sentinel’s core domains – the coastal cities – are issued masks. Rank and file infantry wear crude wooden masks; non-commissioned officers wear ivory ones; officers wear metallic ones; generals have personalized masks of their own. Raga Spearmen, Cyro-Raga heavy spearmen, Tabardariyya, Raga urban troops, Stros slingers, Naphtha throwers, noble lancers and medium cavalry fall into this category.




Lucretia Ducale's Mercenarii

Reformed Legion Pikemen 2,000:

Many of these soldiers are veterans of the Summerset War who's legions have been disbanded or underfunded by the Empire and have sought employment else where. These experienced troops drilled to march and fight are armed with a long pike between 15 and 18 feet in length. Their armor is composed of padded cloth and leather with mail inbetween the fabric along with a bascinet helmet. Unique about these pikemen is the use of a pavise shield worn on the back used by forming looser ranks and setting up the pavise in front of the pikeman in order to hold against skirmisher although left immobile. As a back up weapon many use a short thrust sword or a one handed war hammer with both blunt end and spiked beak. Along with that each soldier carries a small pouch with three or so lead weighted darts.


Halberdiers 1,000:

Hired from amongst the Nibanese, these are more mobile soldiers that often stand right behind the first pikeman in the formation and act as a guard against enemy infantry that would somehow manage to get beyond the pike ends. They are like wise armored as the pikemen minus the pavise. In stead a steel buckler is worn on the left fore arm for protection. Secondary weapons vary from indivdual soldier to soldier.


Balestreri di Leyawiin 1,500:

The infamous Heavy Crossbowmen of Leyawiin were bought out en masse by Lucretia Ducale with particular interest. They compose the main offensive aspect of her mercenary army with such proefficiency that simply the sight of their banner on the battle field has made commanders in the past reconsider their approach if not abandon the battle field all together. Armed with expensive standardized heavy crossbows the heavy bolts are able to penetrate most heavy armors with ease at greater range than most other projectiles. Their armor consists of a mail hauberk, a kettle hat helmet providing protection without impeding sight or hearing and a pavise which is used during reloading. As back up weapons these troops generally have daggers, pick axes, short swords and maces.


Khajiit Skirmishers 900:

Many were bought up as slaves although Lucretia made sure they had been warriors before being captured. They are armed with heavy javelins and covered in various forms of light armor. Once in close they either use their claws or whatever personal weapon they happen to have. They are light and quick, fierce and proud.


Zweihanders 500:

The heaviest troops in Lucretia's army, these troops are armed with a heavy long sword and used as shock infantry. They are armored in heavy partial plating and mail and are a sort of "Forlorn Hope" of the company. They like wise carry a small shield tied to their left fore arm providing slight protection without impeding movement. If there is a gap to be made or exploited these men will carve their way through. Many have been drawn from Skyrim and Colovia although a number of them are from Hammerfell itself.


Argonian Stratioti 1,000:

A peculiar sight indeed, these mounted Argonians that had settled among the Nibanese form the light shock cavalry of the army. Their reptilian scent works as a put off against enemy cavalry. Armed with a spear, the national Argonian weapon and given a combination of leather and mail medium armor they use their light crossbows with great effect to the enemy. Once in melee they draw their maces if needed but often prefer to string the enemy out instead.


Ambuscadeers 100:

These aren't troops that fight in rank and file formation but rather work in small groups to disturb enemy supply lines, battle field assassinations and intelligence gathering. They are armored in light leather and covered in robes to look like travelers. Each one has a medium crossbow built for accuracy but also capable of doing a number on heavier armors. Aside from that each individual brings to the fight whatever they believe works best ranging from axes to knuckle braces to poisoned stilletos and long swords.





Aldmeri Dominion Support Force to Sentinel:


? 200 Elite Altmer Sorcerers- These High Elves are drawn from the best and brightest of Summerset. They are the closest one can come to a Psijic without the gray robes. They are usually armored either in a light chitinous material or not at all, using enchantments and spells to protect themselves from missile fire and the like. They are highly trained in most forms of magic, from destruction to restoration, and their primary advantage is their versatility.
? 800 Common Altmer Sorcerers- Altmer recruited from local guilds or magic schools and trained in basic military tactics. They usually possess minimal enchantments or armor, and are limited to intermediate spells.
? 500 Altmer Sorcerer Cavalry- Mages trained to fight on horseback, these mobile skirmishers are highly trained in blitzkrieg tactics, harassing enemy lines and retreating before they can be attacked. With magical guards against missile fire and swift horses, they are a force to be reckoned with. They are also limited to intermediate spells.
? 500 Elite Altmer Noblemen Warriors- The warrior caste of the Altmer is an elite society, formed by a long tradition of Altmer spell-swords. They are best known for their seamless blend of swordplay and magic, and with their elven armor and weapons they are perhaps the most dangerous Altmer on the battlefield.
? 200 Altmer Mage Artillery- Deadly accurate, these long range missiles are guided by skilled mages. They are also enchanted to reduce weight, making them more mobile than average artillery. However, they are very vulnerable to attack. [Twenty catapults (80 elves), thirty ballistae (60 elves), and sixty scorpios (60 elves)]
? 750 Elite Bosmer Archers- The military backbone of Valenwood, the Bosmer archer is feared throughout Tamriel for his deadly accuracy and high rate of fire. They are lightly armored and equipped with special bone-bows, which possess a much longer range and power than normal wooden ones. They are also adept at hiding in forests.
? 1,200 Bosmer Light Infantry- While a Bosmer’s small stature does not make them the hardiest of infantry-elves, their agility and dexterity makes up for what they lack in strength. These lightly armored elves, equipped with long bone-spears and shields, as well as a short sword, are fast and efficient.
? 200 Bosmer War Beast Heavy Cavalry- The vast forests of Valenwood are home to a myriad of different beasts, each more deadly than the last, many of which have been domesticated and trained for war. With Bosmer riders guiding them, these armored jungle beasts are faster and more agile than horses, and pack just as much of a punch during a charge. They are also excellent at hiding in forests.
? 300 Bosmer War Beast Missile Cavalry- Similar to the heavy cavalry, only more lightly armored and with riders equipped with composite bone-bows, specially trained to fight while riding. Highly trained and brutally efficient.
? 200 Bosmer Scouts- Masters of stealth, these Wood Elves are the advance guard of any Bosmer army. Quick and agile, they leap through the treetops or stalk unseen on the ground below, and report everything from a stray dog to a fully equipped army.
? 1,500 Levied Bosmer Archers- Lightly equipped and moderately trained, these Bosmer form the majority of any Valenwood army. They are naturally excellent marksmen, most of them hunters, and can pepper a cloud of arrows down on the enemy. As always, they are excellent at hiding in forests, and have been known to take positions in the tree tops themselves.
? 2,000 Goblin Light Infantry- As trained as a goblin can be, these enslaved beasts can be accounted on for little more than holding a line. They are motivated more by the threat of Altmer torturers than any patriotism, and cannot compete with trained soldiers. However, their large numbers can swarm an enemy, and their savage brutality knows no bounds.
? 1,250 Goblin Skirmishers- Similarly light armored goblins, these slaves are equipped with short range javelins and a wide range of personal weapons, from clubs to short spears. Used on charging enemies, their missiles can easily cut down enemy lines.



The Sovereign Host of Anvil
Piquers (6000): Considered by most to be the Principality of Anvil’s default military personnel. Pikemen, called piquers in the Anvil dialect, are armed with the weapon they take their name from, and are recruited from amongst the lower citizenry. This is not to say, however, that they are fodder. Once recruited, they are drilled and practiced daily by hard-bitten veterans.

Their pikes usually range from ten to fifteen feet long, and their most common protection are heavy, padded gambesons. For headgear, a cervelliere is the most common.

Espadatxins(4000): Drawn primarily from Anvil’s middle class, Espadatxins are often the younger sons of merchants. They take their name from the Anvilian word for sword, espasa, and are armed with these weapons. They are far more dashing figures than their Piquer counterparts, and superiorly trained in the use of sword-and-shield, as well as the use of heavy javelins. Like Piquers, they wear heavy gambesons, but their higher class allows them to purchase hard-leather cuirasses and greaves for their thighs. On their heads, they are usually armed with Nasal Helmets.

Ballesters(4000): These crossbowmen are professional soldiers recruited from the lower and middle classes of the Principality. Unlike most other components of Anvil’s military, Ballesters never step down from their posts, even during peace time. For weapons, they carry both a short sword and a powerful, heavy crossbow. As armor, they wear sleeveless brigandine doublets, and on their heads are hard-leather Spangenhelms.

Guerrers(3000): The other component of Anvil’s professional soldiery. Compared to Piquers or Espadatxins, Guerrers are far better armed and armored. Many Guerrers are former Imperial Legionaries that had more loyalty to Anvil than Cyrodiil. Other portions are comprised of foreigners that choose to serve Anvil.

Guerrers are most often armed with heavy spears and short swords. Their Imperial-crafted tower shields have been repainted in the colors of Anvil, and their armor is the traditional chain and plate of the Imperial Legions.

Genets(3000): Lightly armed and armored cavalry that is often found in Colovia. Under the Principality of Anvil, Genets were given structure and a sense of professionalism not often found amongst their wilder counterparts.

Genets ride atop swift horses that are smaller than their cousins rode by Cavallers. Armed mostly in light mail augmented by hard-leather cuirasses. Their main mode of attack is with their javelins which they can use to devastating affect. If drawn into close-combat, they are prepared with small round shields and axes.

Cavallers(1000): Comprised exclusively of Anvil’s nobility, the Noblesa, Cavallers are the most well-trained, and best armed and armored of all of Anvil’s warriors. Trained from birth to be warriors and courtiers, few common soldiers can stand against them in single-combat.

Riding atop powerful, expensive warhorses, and armored in a wicked combination of mail and partial-plate armor, these men and women can be terrors on the battlefield. Unlike the army that is funded by Anvil, and thus uniform in their weaponry, Cavallers can choose a weapon that suits them. However, all are armed with a lance, at the Principality’s expense.

Total - 21,000


Nordic Allied Mercenaries to Anvil:
Nordic Citizen Infantry (2200) - The regular man or woman in the migrant group. Generally made of the rich lower class folk or the poor middle class folk. they don very light armor, which may include up to boiled leather or rough hide cuirasses or a layer of padded cloth and maybe an old helmet or something. They fight generally with a short thrusting spear that is by no means good for a phalanx-like formation but can still make a horseman think twice about charging that way. They may have a crude axe or dagger as a side weapon and they also carry a wooden shield that is fairly large and oval shape.

Though not very well equipped or trained, they are able to fight valiantly and to hold their position especially if it means decent loot afterward. Being Nords, they are all decently adept warriors but as a unit, they cannot be expected to do even the most basic of maneuvers and any commander should be grateful if they don't attack prematurely.


Nordic Irregulars (2000) - The men and women of the migrants who border on "extreme poverty". They can't even afford a piece of armor or a decent spear. In battle they wear no armor and only wear regular clothes, sometimes maybe in layers to add some protection. They fight as missile troops and use mainly hunting bows or simple slings as their weapons and may carry clubs as side arms. As soldiers they are undisciplined and their lack of similar uniforms make them seem "irregular" but years of hunting have made them proficient marksmen with whatever ranged weapon they prefer and the promise of loot keeps them on the battlefield when faced with an enemy.

They are useful for raining missiles on an enemy, form screens, and act as scouts or skirmish with the enemy as they are light on their feet.


Nordic Cavalry (1300) - Formed mainly of either middle class or upper class folk who can't afford warhorses but can afford stout, durable "war ponies". Their numbers are not many but their equipment is good and includes a knee length chainmail hauberk and helmet. Their main weapon is a twelve foot long spear with an iron point. They usually have small wooden bucklers strapped to one of their arms and generally carry a sidearm of a sword (in the case of the richer) or more commonly an axe or mace. Their mounts are sometimes protected by a leather covering to reduce impact from arrows, pointy tips, ect. These also carry two javelins in which they can loose on their enemies and act as mounted skirmishers. Both their spear and the javelins are carried with them at all times, which can be tricky to hold onto if they are riding fast.

Like the infantry, they are not the most organized and if loot is on the horizon then they may even charge without orders but they are brave, loyal warriors who can be extremely effective on wide open terrain if they have a place where they can replenish their javelin supplies to unleash on their enemies.


Noble Spearmen (1200)- Generally the upper class noblemen who either don't want to fight on horseback, can't afford a horse (rarely the case) or maybe can't ride a horse. They can however, afford the best types of armor and weapons as well as having a fair amount of combat training under their belts. They are the heavies of the heavies, protected by heavy, knee length chainmail hauberks as well as decorative steel helmets that vary from person to person. Under their armor is generally a layer of thick padded cloth to absorb the impact of a blow. They have medium sized, round wooden shields with their family coat of arms as well as a longer (roughly 10 feet) wood and iron spear that can be formed into a spear wall of sorts. They carry sidearms which generally include a short blade or an axe.

Unlike the other elements of the army, they have some semblance of cohesion and can maintain a tight formation and perform more complicated maneuvers.

Nordic Highland Pikemen (1500) - Armored in a thick hardened leather and a metal helmet, these troops wield pikes of uniform size. They form dense pact formations and point their pikes and whatever may be attacking them and although not formally drilled they've proven effective in schiltrom formations. In order to fortify their static formation they like wise drive stakes into the ground with large wooden mallets which like wise act as their back up weapon should they lose their pike. Although extremely capable of warding off cavalry special care should be taken not receive enemy missile fire.

Nordic Noble Pikemen (500) - Forming a more organized core of pikemen, these better equipped men garnish the respect of their fellow comrades both inspiring loyalty and passion for war against the enemy. They are armored in heavy mail with partial and splinted plate, and carry a small wooden shield on their forearm. Along with that on their backs they each carry a six foot long blade to act as shock troops if needed.

Nordic Foot Warriors (1200) - These are the warriors of the tribes. The ones epics are written about who relish single combat, who are known for their infamous raids, who's sole role is to fight. They are armored in a hauberk and a spiked half mask helmet of Nordic design. Each individual warrior carries a long axe of some sort, a one handed blade, a circular shield and a couple throwing axes used to smash enemy lines or halt cavalry charges. Although they are impetuous in combat each man understands the importance of working together to bring down the enemy.

Nordic Berserkers (200) - a very small group of men from all classes of citizens who have crossed religious fanaticism with ferocious fighting style. Wearing nothing but cloth pants dyed bright colors when in battle they cover their bodies with bright dyes as well as their faces. The dyes themselves are enchanted momentarily by the shamen of the tribes to protect the warrior from harm. They partake in many different alcohols, drugs and religious frenzies before a battle to get into the "proper" state of mind. They fight with large warhammers, that, depending on their financial status may be made out of simple stone heads or finely crafted steel, shaped heads. Once unleashed in battle, little can stop them short of lack of enemies or death and lack of enemies may mean that they turn own their own.


Nordic Noble Cavalry (600) - Very few in numbers as they include only the richest of the richest and form small units which include the bodyguard of the General on the battlefield. They are protected in the same way as the poorer cavalry with full length chain hauberks but also have steel shin guards and a steel chest plate that cover's the front of their torso. They charge with 18 foot long spears held with both hands and have large, round shield strapped to their backs over their right shoulders. They carry short, stout short blades as secondary weapons and fight in near perfect unison, able to form wedges and what not. Their horses are covered in a light coat of chainmail with sturdy cloth beneath. Unlike the other cavalry component, these men have the finest of war horses; tamed for speed and power as well as the sounds of battle.







Rules:

Send a character sheet to me for approval and when you post it don't post JUST the sheet, but also something after it.

Use proper grammar.

No OOC unless it's before or after an actual post.

No character controlling.

More will be added as needed...




Key:

Usernames

Anvil

Sentinel

Nord

Dominion

Lucretia

Neutral

~~~

Cast of Characters

Blademaster07

Fafnid the Wiser:

The old Nordic leader who has a very long beard; he is old and wise, and nonetheless still a warrior.

Herrold the Wise:

Fafnid’s father; he is an elder himself.

Asolf Wolf-Jaw:

He is second of the “four men in charge” in the Nordic migration.

Granis the Bloody:

He is Fafnid’s oldest friend and bodyguard.

Bmont3779

Titus Flaccus:

He is an ex-legion agent currently posing as a mercenary.

Darkom95

Sanyon:

Tall, lanky, and cocky; Sanyon is the head general of the current Dominion troops.

Goranthir:

A Dunmer-Altmer, Goranthir is Sanyon’s steward.

Daenlin:

A Bosmer; he is second in command of the Dominion army.

FC4

The Band of Bastards: The BB is a band of people from all walks of life and all sorts of races. Outcasts to their homeland, misfits in their armies, or simply not desiring the same as other folk. Whatever their reasons, these people have come together to create a highly dysfunctional family of mercenaries.

Hukral Ox-man:

He is a towering Nord in the Band of Bastards.

Jassan Zartuck:

A Bosmer, Jassan is the child of the group.

Ree’Ja:

A Khajiit, Ree’Ja is the only beast-man in the group.

Marshamilia Cyrion:

Marshamilia is the only female of the group, as well as the only Raga.

Christopher Morris: Deceased

Once the only Breton and archer of the group, he died in the Redguard attack on the entrenched Legion, and is currently buried at the border of the bamboo forest south of Sentinel.

Wikrun Telvanni:

Wikrun is the mage of the group, a Dunmeri.

GeraldDuval

Petrus DeTorroja, Vescomte de Atrene:

An officer currently serving in Anvil’s military; he suffers from Neurosyphilis, a brain disease.

Guillaume Molyneaux:

The blood thirsty Duke of Menevia; he is currently allying with Sentinel in this war.

Heldwyn

Conrad Harrowgrim:

He is Solitudian, and is currently the Nordic infantry commander.

Antony Lucret
A young adventurer born to minor nobility in Anvil; Antony wishes to defend his homeland.


Immortal Blood

Lucretia:

A young veteran of the Summerset war; she now leads a mercenary army currently sided with Sentinel.

Da'Rasha:

Da’Rasha is a Khajiit officer in Lucretia’s army.

Serosi/Andrethi:

A half vampire Dunmer and former Morag Tong agent, who after attempted to turn Azura’s Star into a black soulgem, has lost his memory; he has found his way into Lucretia’s army.

Person From Anticlere:

Hequd Vhosek No-Shira:

Head of the Southern Army of Sentinel, currently commanding Sentinel’s force assigned to deal with Anvil.

Shahal:

Shahal is Hequd’s servant.

Solidor:

Almerion Enveri:

A Nordic vampire with a penchant for violence, fine art an philosophy; ex-brotherhood member gone rogue, hunting for the highest bidder; he is searching for Serosi.

Squidmasher

Swims-in-Shadows:

An Argonian deserter from the army of Helseth during the War of the Wolves; he is now a bandit that holds one nasty Dwemer gauntlet.

Storyteller

Alejah Montblanc:

He is a Shagun and Minister of Foreign Affairs for the Kingdom of Hammerfell.

High King Haroun:

Haroun is the King of Sentinel.

Tanvar

Alaudis Archen:

A Breton from a village near Illessan; he is now a lone wanderer, and dreams to become a hero like his brother.

Verlox

Don Miquel Lluis Umbranox:

Son of the Queen and Prince of Anvil; he currently commands the defensive force which is Anvil’s army.

Elinhiir Eloisuus:

Elinhiir is an Altmeri adventurer seeking the next big thing.

Void.

Stargel:

He is a Redguard scout for Sentinel’s army.

Woolymammoth

Ruhk Ahkbar:

He is a young cousin of Haroun, and a commander within Sentinel’s Southern Army.

Amaru Skakur:

A second level Ansei; he is friend, adviser, mentor, and bodyguard to Ruhk assigned by Haroun.

Dikembe Motatombu:

He is an arrogant, skilled swordsman under Ruhk’s command.

Sobotai Sahara:

Ruhk’s second-in-command; he is a very dirty fighter.

Tamek:

Tamek is Ruhk’s servant.

Mehmet Sa’Kalim:

An old general from Totambu; he is an advisor to Hequd.

Arethan Andas:

Former Her-Hand and battlemage bodyguard to Helseth; Arethan is now looking for a new life.

Servyn Velothi:

Arethan Andas’ companion; he travels with Arethan.

===========================================================


Our map:

http://www.majhost.com/gallery/Anticlere/Timeline/anvil_map.jpg
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Post » Fri Feb 18, 2011 9:55 pm

Name: Guillaume Molyneaux
Race: Breton
Age: 33
Birthsign: The Warrior

Physical Description: Pale, with sharp, angular features. He has brown eyes, and brown hair that is cut close in the front and shaved in the back. He is thin but strong.

History: Guillaume is the son of a Castellan in high rock. His family are of minor nobility, owners of an independent Castellany that owes allegiance to the kingdom of Wayrest. His father was notoriously bad with money, and he traded his sons to Wayrest as collateral for a large loan. When he defaulted, his oldest son and heir, Jean Molyneaux was traded to Cyrodiil as punishment. Guillaume escaped and returned to his fathers castle. Deeply angry at the loss of his older brother, Guillaume poisoned his father, sold his mother to a convent and took control of the castle. Due to his upbringing as a prisoner, Guillaume is completely illiterate. His servant, Eustace, a former slave is the only man he trusts to read things for him. after the War of the wolves and the battle for highrock, Guillaume became the Duke of Menevia, and a lord of the Bretons.

Weapons: Ash pole lance with a Blue and red slashed pennant on the end of it. He carries a simple silver sword with a straight brass cross guard, leather grip and brazilnut shaped pommel. Three Javelins strapped to his saddle.
Armor: Segmented Nasal Helm with an over sized nasal that covers Guillaume's nose and mouth. The shell of the helmet is painted blue, and the reinforcing bands, red. There is normally a long yellow silk headband that is wrapped around the lowest band of the helmet, making it appear to be a headband. Chain-mail Hauberk that includes a coif, mouth piece, full arms, a mitten on the right hand and extends down to just above the knee. Underneath is a thin wool filled linen Aketon. On his legs he wears wool filled and padded braes in a white and maroon striped pattern.
Misc. Items: Wooden drum canteen with leather strap, Oil cloth painted blanket, wool blanket, extra linen tunic, linen canvas satchel with extra food, and some potions. Small Wooden lockbox

Companions: Eustace, Guillaume's Breton servant.


"You write this down you fat piece of dog sh*t." Guillaume snarled as he stalked the halls of the palace of Menevia. His great flowing fur cape following him with the obedience he had always demanded of his servants. Eustace, his one eyed slave and right hand man paced nervously with his quill pen and parchment. "Tell that black assed bastard in Sentinel that I'm goddamned bored and I would like nothing more than to kill everything in front of him as long as he will pay me in a shower of gold. He knows my character, and he knows what I can do."

Eustace paused as he tried his best to translate his masters words into a phrase befitting the Duke Menevia and a lord of Bretony. The mans lips pursed and his brow furrowed, any single misstep could be his last. The stout and wicked servant did not stay in his position for as long as he had without being able to translate his lords demands into...a more cordial tone.

"Tell that poxed son of a wh*re that the more guns and cannon he gives me the more goddamned imperial vermin I can murder. I am more than content to be paid in powder and shot, and I would love nothing more than to bathe in a lake of the blood of Anvil's children provided that I am duly compensated for my efforts." Guillaume bit on a nail as he spoke, a sign of his excited anticipation. The finger was lithe and thin, with the nail painted a beautiful azure blue. He spun the pinky in his fingers, and the cold skin responded in kind, It's dead flesh having been relieved of rigor mortise many hours before. Guillaume spat the painted nail on the stone floor of his palace. He had always hated the taste of the paint that the nords used. It was bitter and harsh, unlike the edible and sweet nail polish that was the current fashion amongst young breton students.

"Eustace!"

The plump man jumped in fear as if he were a beaten dog, conditioned to years of abuse.

"My lord?"

"Prepare my Destrier and call the men to arms. You are to send the letter, but damn Haroun and damn his whole goddamned blackguard kingdom of poxed sons of heifer b*tches. I'm marching to Anvil with or without his permission. You know when was the last time I spilled blood in anger?!"

"Earlier today my liege?"

"Talos weapt, that was not in anger...No It's been more than three months now, and I am getting the itch."

"My apologies sire, your itch for blood is more than well deserved, three months is as an eon."

"Gather the men. We ride to violence!"

"Your command is Menevia's pleasure my gracious lord."
User avatar
Shannon Marie Jones
 
Posts: 3391
Joined: Sun Nov 12, 2006 3:19 pm

Post » Fri Feb 18, 2011 10:33 pm

Roseguard, the Forum

The people of the beautiful city of Roseguard were awake quite early. Already rumors of the hostility between Anvil and the Hammerfellian Juggernaught, Sentinel had caused fright, but the massive army headed to Cyrodiil caused even more worry.

The private forum, where most backroom deals and alliances were forged was filled to the brim with politicians representing Crowns, Forebears, desert tribes, and the new Kingdom of Hammerfell (which was not entirely true, as many cities in Hammerfell were still independant).

Within an unassuming building, of stone make and wooden floors sat a chubby, balding Redguard. Roseguard was one of the famous Forebear cities who politely, but sternly refused to join Sentinel. These cities were marked with Imperial influence, it could be seen in the people and in their culture. This Ra Gada wore a brown waistcoat, drenched in sweat. His bulbous nose dripped, and his straggly beard glistened. It seemed that sinking into the chair in this heat was what was killing him, but the sweat came in from the fact that a line stood outside his building with important people from every which corner of the land. Roseguard was not a friendly place for a man working for Sentinel.

An Argonian who barely made a sound as he moved, startled the fat Redguard. The Argonian showed a toothy grin, before exiting the building.

"Hugo! Who is next?" A voice called out from an adjoining room, within was a wooden desk, carved from Valenwood timber as well as artifacts from Dwemer ruins, and of old Hammerfell make. Atop the desk were stacks of papers and a nearly empty bottle of ink and a well used quil.


Inside the office was a handsome man, reaching his middle aged. Wearing a green waistcoat, with dark pants and boots made from the highest paid tailors in Highrock, it was obvious this was a man who dressed to impress those he met with. He stroked his think mustache and looked out the window of his office, overlooking the forum. People argued, merchants bickered. It was warfare that caused this. Not only did people fear for those involved, they mostly grew afraid for their own interests.

"Jarl Abu Mayheff, Minister."

"Very well, please show him in."

Within moments, the fat Ra Gada showed in the exact opposite of what he was into the room. The Jarl was an extremely dark skinned man, every muscle of his cut and defined, painstakingly so. He wore a loin cloth outfitted with peacock feathers, and was going to bring in his spear before a hand reached and grabbed his weapon.

"No weapons allowed, Sir." said Hugo, the fat secretary. The massive Ra Gada warrior stared him down, then continued walking into the room with his spear. Hugo looked to his employer, who simply nodded his head.

The two quickly begin speaking in Dune Yoku, the desert tongue.

"Honored Jarl, what can I do for you this morn-"

The Jarl waved his finger in anger, "You said nothing of an invasion Montblanc....nothing at all. My tribe has put in thousands of gold and resource in order for your Government to broker trade with the Dres....how can we receive the Adamantium if the sea is blocked by enemy ships?"

Montblanc offered a generous smile, "My Lord, you will receive the Adamantium without worry. The Dres can always transport it through Skyrim to Dragonstar, or navigate out of the direct sea. If its brought to Summerset, we can have it brought to your doorstep without tax. Rest assured, the ore will arrive in time."

The Jarl seemed to mellow down, but not wanting to leave without it seeming he was dominant, barked out again, "Assurance....I want more then your word Minister."

"His word is that of the Crown....that's good enough." a cold voice, muffled behind something rose from behind the Jarl. The tribal warrior turned around to find a cloaked Ra Gada wearing a demonic mask, with horse hair and devlish engravings along its make.

The Jarl's eyes widened and he immediately began to sweat.

The Ansei who entered the room held an envelope in his hand, marked with Sentinel's seal. It was from the Palace itself.

"...Yes, I supposed your word is just fine No-Shira. May Tall Papa bless your sword." The jarl exited the room briskly. His eyes focused intently on the building's exit.

"Master Azael, what may I do for you?"

The Ansei raised a hand, bandaged completely, even around his fingers. Within was the sealed letter.

"Lord Frandar himself has seen to it that you be appointed over South Army immediately and assist the General in whatever capacity required."

Montblanc's eyes widened, it was extremely rare for someone within the highest levels of Government to take notice of a simple minister. Lord Frandar was from the Imperial Court of Sentinel, supposedly the Godfather of the Elden Yokeda himself.

As he grabbed the letter and stared at its seal for a moment, he looked up and the Ansei was nowhere to be found.

He sat at his desk and sliced open the seal of the letter, reading it carefully.

A gasp escaped his mouth.

There was an assassination attempt on the King.


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Abeccean Sea, off the Coast of Anvil

"You smell that? Its gold. Lots of it! Hawker is taking that bounty off my head the moment we get home and he sees the load! Ah haha!" the voice was feminine, loud, and completely within the character of the woman from whence it came. Smoking a cigar, dressed in a laced blouse, with falconer leather pants and boots, she directed the stern of her ship away from Anvil and towards Hammerfell. It had taken a lot of effort and trouble to receive her cargo from the Renjirra Krin, but she made out ok.

Dwemer artifacts filled to the brim, traded for what they thought would be Moon sugar. The uncharacteristically beautiful smuggler looked to the man beside her, a brutish Redguard with a handle bar mustache. She slapped on the shoulder, "Drinks on me Ozzy, drinks on me...don't worry, I have a good feeling about this."

Ozvaldo, a man used to the antics of his Captain, Kira, had a knot forming in his stomach. Everytime she said she had a good feeling they usually ended up in a hell of a situation.
User avatar
Ben sutton
 
Posts: 3427
Joined: Sun Jun 10, 2007 4:01 am

Post » Fri Feb 18, 2011 9:20 pm

Star, Somewhere along the Irk

There were five of them that day. Five of them. Star looked upon these recruits with a bitter-sweet perspective. They had discovered their patriotism, but they had also become slaves to it. Not one of the new five Redguards were over six feet, none of them over two hundred pounds. These were the front-line rejects, the ones who wouldn't last ten minutes in combat with a veteran soldier; but they were slaves, and they had to serve their master somehow. Star had appointed Rook to instruct the newbies, and Star looked on with sour sense of pride. The five of them were young, ready to kill. Star liked that in a person: youth. With youth came a sense of invulnerability, that you couldn't be killed and you would become a hero. Was that what the mind really thought? Or is it what the mind thinks to distract himself from the truth?

Rook, who himself was intimidating, strutted up to the new five, and stood in front of the smallest, weakest looking one.

"What's your name?" Said the gruff voice. It hinted a trace of 'I dont' want to be here'. Yet, as Star knew, it was placed there like a trap. To lure the recruits in.

"A--"

"I could give a [censored] what your name is!" He barked suddenly. Star watched with a laugh as the five jumped, as if suddenly lashed on the buttocks.

"You're name is no longer what it is, or what it was. Maybe you can earn a name if you deserve it, but you sure as hell don't do now!" The weak one seemed to nod.

"1..2..3.." Rook went off, numbering the new recruits. That would be who they are, who they were, all they knew. Star watched this baptizing of the new. How many of them would stick through it? He didn't know. There's never, ever since Star's making of this group of scouts, been a group that has graduated with all the recruits. Never. He wondered why. Were people really that prone to laziness, or was it the fear of failure? Sure the work was hard, he made it that way. Star strived to make this group the best scouts that the Ra Gada have ever seen. In the next couple of weeks, they would have to learn how to create arrows from merely nothing, go weeks without food, and sit in one spot for months. It was how a scout worked. They would have to become perfect bow-slingers, mastering archery at a distance.

"The winds are changing, war is upon us once again." Rook said, seeming thoughtful. He was looking off into the distance. A quiet seeped over the new recruits.

"What are you maggots waiting for? Let's run, c'mon! Run until you pass out or sh"t yourself, let's go!"

And Rook was right. The winds were changing, no doubt about that. The question was: in whose direction will they blow?


Stave:
War is never through,
but what can we do?
Life is but a circle,
old replaced by the new.


Response:
War is never through!
What should we do?
In the ashes can we stand?
In the ashes are we true?

User avatar
Schel[Anne]FTL
 
Posts: 3384
Joined: Thu Nov 16, 2006 6:53 pm

Post » Sat Feb 19, 2011 6:14 am

Name: Petrus DeTorroja, Vescomte de Atrene
Race: Imperial Colovian
Age: 28
Gender: Male

Physical Appearance:
Petrus is short and thin with wide blue eyes and dark brown hair.

Apparel:
He normally wears the fine clothing befitting his station, though there is normally no one article he prefers. Most of his fashion choices rely heavily on his state of mind and awareness at the time that he gets dressed.

Weapons: None

Misc:
Suffering from advanced Neurosyphilis, the young vescomte twitches occasionally and is prone to Dementia and drastic mood swings. Petrus' younger brother Alonso is simply waiting patiently for him to die so he can assume the families power and undo all that Petrus had worked on. Before the syphilis spread to his brain the boy was quick witted and intelligent, taking up and soon mastering most subjects brought before him. He could speak near fluent Yoku, and Aldmeri though his skills in both languages have faltered considerably.


Anvil Waterfront
Petrus tapped his fingers nervously one by one against his thumb. He had to do it. 31 times, 31 times, 31 times, 31 times His eyes darted around the tavern, washing over everything but seeing nothing. It was relatively busy, or at least as busy as a hole in the wall like this would ever be at lunch time. Mostly sailors and longshoreman talked and laughed over their hot, greasy meals. The place stunk like body odor and cooking lard. The young Vescomte de Atrene was in a disguise, though not a very convincing one. He had originally intended to attire himself as a sailor so he might pass unnoticed in the slums and back alleys of the bustling city. Halfway through the preparations he lost interest and threw on his cloak and doublet from the royal ball he had attended the night before. A ragged sailor in a perfectly tailored and richly embroidered tunic. Somewhere in the bowels of his degraded mind The imperial knew he would never blend in, but the syphilis had ravaged his mind enough that a lucid thought such as that would never make it to the surface. He loved to pretend to be a commoner, he loved the danger, the brutishness and the adventure. He loved to drink and wh*re and fight. That was what first got him into the terrible situation he was currently in.

He had thought her to be...interesting was the best word for it. The prosttute from almost half a decade ago appeared before him in a splash of memory. Petrus grabbed the spoon that sat in the steaming bowl of onion soup before him. He needed something to protect himself with should this revenant turn out to be an evil spirit. Yes, she was interesting. Not pretty, but not ugly, just odd looking. She had called herself...something. what the hell was her name? Bemi? Bambit? Bee? well to hell with it, her name doesn't matter because she was an odd looking syphilitic wh*re.

That I ravished.

In an alley.

And now I have a brain disease, but at least the soup is good.


Petrus stood up and dropped several heavy gold coins on the table. It was enough money to buy onion soup for half the district, but why should he care. There was always more money. He walked out of the taproom and ducked his head into the narrow street that made its path like a winding serpent from the wharf to the lighthouse over the harbor. The city was teeming with life, and the streets throbbed like veins delivering the precious lifeblood of commerce to even the most remote of houses. A peasant haggled with a cheese-monger over the price of a wheel, a foreign trader argued over the price of a woman's virtue with her tan skinned pimp, a child picked the pocket of a ragged sailor wearing a extravagant velvet cloak and matching royal doublet.

Wait...Why would a sailor wear such rich garments? Serves the uppity blackguard right for acting out of his station! Petrus laughed and clapped at the back of the small boy as he ran away.

"Well done my young urchin! Very well done indeed!" He cackled as the child slipped down a side street. "That'll teach that damned peasant!" With only a few more steps he was through the gate and the whole blue world opened it's virgin thighs to him. The sun sparkled on the Abecean as if the nine had spilled all the diamonds of the world onto blue velvet. Ships cut their way too and fro in the harbor as everyone seemed to jostle for a place at the wharf.

"My Lord!"

The Vescomte's head snapped to the side to try and find the owner of the voice.

"My Lord Atrene! Thank the nine I've found you! My Lord you have your audience at the castle Umbranox in mere minutes!" A panicked servant pushed his way through the crowd and sieved onto the arm of deTorroja who allowed himself to be lead. He was commonly seized and dragged places by people he didn't recognize.

"Why yes of course...how could I forget such a glorious audience as the castle. Lead on my good man and we shall both be away!"
User avatar
Sarah MacLeod
 
Posts: 3422
Joined: Tue Nov 07, 2006 1:39 am

Post » Fri Feb 18, 2011 7:34 pm

Name: Don Miquel Lluis Umbranox
Race: Colovian
Age: 24
Gender: Male

Physical Appearance: A tall, dashing young man with burnished blonde hair. He has soft blue eyes, and a winning smile. A flaw, however, is that his left-eyelid droops slightly, sometimes giving him a drowsy look.

Apparel: http://img100.imageshack.us/f/kirk6479customimage1705.jpg/

Weapons: A finely crafted silver Bastard Sword.

Misc: Miquel is the first child of Millona and Corvus Umbranox. While his parents are taking refuge in Skingrad, the Don has been put in-charge of the overall defence of Anvil and her territories. Owing to his age, he is very sure of himself and his abilities. At the moment, he has a very romanticized view of the war, but is well aware it will not be an easy win.

He suffers from a mild "cough-sickness", a remnant of a disease he caught as a child. He is not overly impaired by it, but he occasionaly has severe coughing fits.

Don Miquel, The Estate of Lord Drad

The sun reflected brightly off of the Don's armor, almost blinding the people in the stands as they gazed at him. Atop his cavall torneig, or tournament horse, he waited as his attendants made some last minute adjustments to his leg-armor, and finally bringing his lance to him. Like most lances used in tournaments, the long weapon was painted in it's wielders colors; for Miquel, it was striped in Anvil's black and orange. It was rudely painted, the colors nothing more than a device of identity.

Taking the weapon from an attendant, Miquel spurred his horse into the lists where his squires, Alexandre and Louie, were waiting to steady the mount.

"Don Miquel Umbranox has entered the lists!" the locutor yelled out over the blaring of trumpets and the cheer of the gathered crowd. The crowd cheered again as, on the opposite side of the lists, another horseman entered. "Sir Aleix de Wariel has entered the lists!"

"That is a boig man, el meu senyor. To enter the lists against you? Bogeria."

"It is not madness, Louie," Miquel laughed, "merely an unwise choice. Are my greaves fasnted correctly?"

Alexandre bent over to look at his lord's shin-guards, then fastened the straps tighter. "They are now."

"Good, I don't want a repeat of Gottshaw," the Don said before shutting his visor, and moving his horse to the starting position, awaiting the flag to the drop and the joust to begin.

Corvus and Millona Umbranox, Anvil Castle
Sitting together in the castles Solar, Prince and Princess Umbranox watched as their personal effects were loaded into carts and onto to pack horses. Millona was smirking slightly, amused that her husband had almost as many clothes and treasure as she herself did. Ever since returning to Anvil, loaded with a great deal of Imperial Septims, the Prince had been buying at an alarming rate. When she asked him why he was doing that, he responded, "I've been without fine things for so long, I want to treat myself."

"I say! What is taking that man so long?"

"Hmm...what?" Millona said as she was startled out of her thoughts. "Who are we talking about?"

"Petrus, that brain-addled milksop! His audience is within minutes, and he still isn't here. I say, I will be most wroth with him if he makes us wait any longer. I am quite eager to get to Skingrad, and away from this damnable warzone, and he makes us wait!"

"Calm yourself, husband, I'm sure Petrus was caught up in something. He is a little...."

"Dense?" Corvus said for her in a most scathing way, "Why we are trusting that man, I will never know."

"He is able, when his mind isn't wandering. And our son, Gods bless him, will need all the help he can get if the principality erupts into war."

"Hmph," the prince grunted, "I suppose you are right, wife. But he should best be here soon."
User avatar
Lauren Dale
 
Posts: 3491
Joined: Tue Jul 04, 2006 8:57 am

Post » Sat Feb 19, 2011 10:39 am

Abbecean Sea, east of Hew's Bane

The weather seemed perfect; though the sky was cloudy, yet it did not seem as if it would rain and the cool wind of the sea was a welcome change of pace from the scorching heat of Hammerfell. The men seemed to enjoy this, as well as the chance to rest from marching at least for a while. They knew that soon, Cyrodiil would be reached and they'd have to leave the relative safety of the ships for the hostile shores of Cyrodiil. Everyone knew that in the comming weeks, many would die. Whether they would die for a reason or would merely end up giving their lives in vain remained to be seen.

Only less than two years ago had the premise of war been so very different. The General of the Southern Army needed no better reminder that fortune did not grace one side for long; the tables had turned so drastically during the first years of the Fourth Era... Mere years ago the Empire was commanding legions all over Tamriel and to rebel against it would've been madness.

And look at them now. Hequd frowned, leaning on the rail of the ship. The Heartlanders' armies are beaten, their Legions scattered. Their allies have fled, abbandoning them in their hour of need; and yet it surprises the Cyrodils, that all those who called themselves their friends would leave them for their own troubles when things went awry. They trusted too many and now pay the price. The Raga's thoughts were far from happy; even though he had recently been promoted to one of the most prestigious ranks in the army, this brought him little joy when combined with his assignment to invade the land of the Imperials.

Too much have we suffered by their hand, and for too long. The forebears should have never allowed Tiber the Liar to walk into our lands in the first place; perhaps then things would have been much different.

For a moment, Hequd's gaze wandered off towards the very distant shores of Hammerfell. To the east lay Hew's Bane and directly north of the fleet - the lands of Rihad and Taneth, the worst of the traitors. He could not imagine what their first forebears in this land would say if they could see the sad state of their land; they would weep, if the dead could weep. None who fought to drive the Orcs and the first men of Hammerfell from their new home could've imagined that one day it would come to this - that one Raga would hate another so much as to forsake the ancient traditions of their race and throw their lot in with strangers, conquerors from another land.

One cannot dwell on what could be. It will drive me mad. Sighing, the general rubbed his weary eyes. He hadn't enjoyed a good night's sleep for a long time now and the closer they got to Cyrodiil, the worse it got. The Heartlanders, despite their great losses, are not powerless; they will fight fiercely to protect their own land. Every man who believes his cause to be just fights better than he who doesn't believe in anything; and the protection of all you know and love is the noblest cause.

Yet what do these people know of nobility? They engage in their profane arts, lie, thieve and oppress others, kill those who would not bend to their will. They killed thousands of us just because we wished to be free of them. Though they fought well, many of their acts were without honour. Do we not have the right to do the same to them..?

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Tyrone Haywood
 
Posts: 3472
Joined: Sun Apr 29, 2007 7:10 am

Post » Sat Feb 19, 2011 5:08 am

The Gold Coast

Lucretia had enjoyed the week long break in Rihad where she had waited for her mercenary army to to assemble. The vacation was enjoyable and one much needed. Even though she was a veteran of the war in Summerset she was still young in hear 20s and still enjoyed the luxuries which she was permitted as nobility before she was estranged from her family in Leyawiin. Female leaders had an interesting role as leaders. When effective they seemed to rally and garnish much loyalty and support. They were your mother, your sister, your lover, your daughter and Lucretia, as young as she was, commanded authority not just with her charismatic nature, her soft yet firm tone, her elegant graceful and subtle demeanor, but through capable military strategy and personal courage. As her troops walked along the coat she had rode her horse down to the beach itself. Her second in command, a tall lynx eared Khajiit named Da'Rasha, stood on the sand holding the reigns of their horses as she stepped through the warm waters of the sea. In her left hand she held her shoes while her pants were rolled up to her knees. She was a beautiful girl by all standards with a soft olive complexion, graceful limbs, deep dark eyes and even darker hair.

"You haven't given me any opinion on this recent contract." Lucretia caught Da'Rasha a bit off guard after the long silence. Or perhaps the silence had not been that long and he had simply lost the sense of time watching her.

"I think we should be careful." His response was short.

"Careful?" Lucretia turned with a grin, her head slightly tilting to the side.

"The Dominion's involvement in this may be an issue..." Da'Rasha spoke with an eloquence befitting of an aristocrat unexpectedly by most who recently meet him. "...with some of the men and they may take issue with you. We've had enough situations opposite of them that they may take the chance if given the opportunity to harm us." He made way for her to get on her horse as she walked toward him, her boots still in hand she climbed upon the steed. He followed on foot walking his horse beside her.

"It will be to bad for the beauty of Anvil however. I've no idea how merciful the Redguards will be." As she spoke she noticed out of the corner of her eye one of her troops, a Dunmer wearing dark grey loose fitting robes glancing at her for a moment as he continued to march.
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Sian Ennis
 
Posts: 3362
Joined: Wed Nov 08, 2006 11:46 am

Post » Sat Feb 19, 2011 7:39 am

Fafnid, Northern Colovia

The tall Nord general looked down upon the sea of half shelters, full tents, and even some crude stick and mud huts that had been thrown together by the lucky few to find lumber in the area. The scene was actually somewhat depressing to the proud NOrdic man who watched from the small hill where the Elders had set their tents up. All of these people from various southern Skyrim settlements had once lived in at least decent cabins or shacks while others lived in beautiful mansions and now they were reduced to traveling through rough terrain with little food and forced to sleep in the dirt.

"This is not what our people deserve Granis. We deserve a good homeland where we can grow crops, raise our children and live in peace from the many wars of the world."

The Nord next to him rested a hand on his old friends shoulder and nodded in agreement while looking at the depressing scene with a somber look on his young face. "Maybe not entirely in peace." he remarked with a grin, which drew a laugh from Fafnid despite his sadness.

Granis patted him on the shoulder again, before taking a sip from his large mug. The strong smell of fine mead reached Fafnid's nose as his old friend spoke again. "Perhaps we can make Anvil take our proposition in good nature. Word has it that Sentinel is not happy with the cities recent conduct in the Abecean and fears that many of the southern Ra'Gada cities will side with the Empire over whoever now rules Hammerfell. Anvil will need warriors in the near future, I think."

Fafnid nodded in agreement. They had already made their column known to Anvil and the offer was partially on the table already and Fafnid planned on making a trip to the city soon enough once the migrants were settled in a little better. He wanted to secure this very land they were on now to settle not only the people he had with him now, but he had greater ambitions for the other NOrds in the failing southern Skyrim which included a whole new homeland for his people.

"You will see your share of battle before we acquire our new home, my friend." he said with a deep chuckle, before turning away. "Now let s see if Master Harrowgrim has been found and told that I wish to speak with him in my tent. That messenger boy should have found him by now."

"He isn't the hardest man to find when he's that tall." said Granis with another chuckle, followed by a deep swig from his mug.

"Indeed! I believe he makes every man in this column seem like a child when next to him! That is why I want him with me when we go to Anvil. I don't know how the Imperials will act towards us wanting to settle on their land after all..."

Granis looked gave his friend a sidelong look. "You still mean to add it to our future?"

Fafnid looked southwards, to where a rising hill could be made out barely in the distance and ruined buildings seemed to stand in silent monument against the flat land around them. He only nodded vaguely before beckoning to Granis.

"Come, we will go see if Conrad is waiting at my tent or not."
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Multi Multi
 
Posts: 3382
Joined: Mon Sep 18, 2006 4:07 pm

Post » Sat Feb 19, 2011 5:12 am

Castle Anvil

"My Lordy and lady, May I present to you the Vescomte de Atrene, Lord Petrus DeTorroja"

The disheveled imperial fingered the piece of paper that had been handed to him. He pulled it from the pocket of his dirty sailors slops and scratched at a spot on the parchment as he walked into the throne room. His elegant cloak dragged behind him with a soft hissing sound. Stopping short of the two he had come to visit he bowed low before unfolding his instructions. They was written by his close friend and second in command Luis Ferrero. The two had been nearly inseparable from childhood. Where they were once peers, Luis now took an almost protective, father-like role. He made sure that Petrus said what he was supposed to say, and do what he needed to do.

"What a lovely house." DeTorroja said "I really must get one of my own someday." He smiled at the regents pleasantly, The husband and wife were somewhat older than he remembered, but he did remember the two.

"I pray you are doing well My Lady Umbranox. Your beauty is rivaled only by your advanced age. I've come to present you with my respects and...other stuff." He patted his hands over his pockets, and a worried look flashed across his face. After several seconds of worried silence, he realized that the letter he was looking for was in his hands already. Unfolding it and glancing over the script, he the crumpled it and tossed it to the ground. "I have come to present you with my request for information regarding my role in the defense of your lands. So, if you can tell me what I should do...that would be nice."
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NEGRO
 
Posts: 3398
Joined: Sat Sep 01, 2007 12:14 am

Post » Sat Feb 19, 2011 9:44 am

Star, South side of the Irk

"All right, everyone, let's rally up!" Star bellowed. The mules, which were used to transport dire supplies needed on various scouting trips, bared their teeth and brayed loudly. Bear and Knight (you can tell by now that everyone has a sort of codename, right?) were loading the rest of the crates of various supplies onto the livestock. It was still dark out, but the orange flickering of torches carried by the new recruits provided a shimmering light that would hold them until dawn. There were many of them staying behind, as they were not ready for such a test of skill, but most of them were leaving. The winds of war were blowing, and they were all being swept away. Swept away to Brena river at least. They would march up to the mouth of the Irk, turn South, then follow through the road, probably stopping at each town on the way. If they were lucky, they could there in about two to three days. Star thought it would be about four because of all the supplies they were carrying. They were marching off to war, and it was better to be safe than sorry...right?

Everyone was ready to go when Rook approached Star. He had a look of regret on his face, eyes twinkling. Star felt sorry for him, he was a good scout.

"You sure I can't come, Star?" Rook said, his gruff voice much quieter than usual. Star nodded, trying to keep a stoic face. Rook scratched the back of his head then, raised his arms halfway up as to say "Alright, fine." and held out his hand. Star seemed to sneak a smile, and shook it.

"Sorry Rook, the recruits have to be trained." Star frowned and nodded once more. He turned to walk away and walked to the head of the convoy. He held his right hand up in the air, the other hand holding onto the pack on his back, and made a circle in the air with his first two fingers. Let's go! Then a series of piercing whistles through the air; the scouts had seen and were on the move.

Stave:
Walk along the sea,
the war makes us free!
When the wind of war blows,
where will ya be?


Response:
War makes us free!
Stand along the sea!
Hiding amongst the flames and smoke
that's where we'll be!

User avatar
rae.x
 
Posts: 3326
Joined: Wed Jun 14, 2006 2:13 pm

Post » Sat Feb 19, 2011 8:15 am

Ruhk Ahkbar; Abecean Sea, East of Hew's Bane

The wind blew softly through Ruhk's hair, as the open air came upon his face. It was surprisingly comfortably cool, as the young Raga held onto the ship's rails, staring out into the flowing sea beneath him. He watched as the sun moved behind a cloud, providing shade to those on the boat. The coast of Hammerfell lay off in the distance, and Ruhk realized that for the first time he would leave his homeland, which he held sacred. A small sandy bird flew its way through to the ship, snatching a piece of bread from a soldier before it grew more power into its wings and flew off into the now shadowy distance.

And you will go back now, won't you? But we go to war...

He looked over to see Amaru standing among his presence. The Ansei's eyes were focused deep over the sea, guiding their way through the lands of the forbears. Ruhk watched them, as they hadn't even released their squint from the now faded sunlight.

"Perhaps your cousin may unite all of Hammerfell in the coming years..." Ruhk took a moment to think over what his mentor had just told him. Hammerfell was far from united as it was, but perhaps it had gotten quite closer to the feat after Sentinel had successfully rebelled against the Empire. Then again, in Ruhk's mind, those who were traitors would always be traitors. The wind still blew towards him, and at once he realized why his friend was squinting his eyes in such a manner. It wasn't the fiery sun, but the wind.

"Perhaps."

With that, Amaru nodded. He knew the man well enough to know when he wanted to be alone, and on a crowded ship with soldiers it was tough to get fair privacy. As soon as he resumed his former stance, a Raga only a few inches shorter than he appeared. The man, or boy, was decently stocky. He wore his hair in a short, round crop cut and wore tan and green linens for his attire. His eyes moved left and he reached back to scratch his head, as he could tell it was best to let Ruhk have his quiet time.

"Eh, master."

Ruhk turned, taking his hands from the rails and giving the servant a light smile.

"Yes, Tamek? What's needed?"

The servant reduced his arms back his side as the sun came back out from the cloud, squinting his eyes slightly at the light.

"Erm. Sobotai would like to speak with you, if you don't mind."

Ruhk looked back at the traitor's lands, as they now were called in his thoughts. He looked down to check the water shimmering off the side of the boat, giving a reply to his servant.

"I won't keep him waiting long. If you could go down to the storage deck and pick some food out for us all, including yourself. Hurry now, you know how impatient the man can get..."

Tamek took a relieved look out to the sea before making his way to the sheltered area. Ruhk continued to lean against the rail of the ship and looked off into the distance once more.

Traitors...

Mehmet

Dust withered from the cargo room, as Mehmet made his way up onto the deck of the ship to see his companion. He took his way over to Hequd, taking a look at the man's grim face. It was really always grim, except the last few days it had begun to get worse and worse. The old Raga sagged his hand onto his companion's shoulder, speaking slowly in his wise voice.

"Tell me, Hequd, what is on your mind?"
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Jessie
 
Posts: 3343
Joined: Sat Oct 14, 2006 2:54 am

Post » Fri Feb 18, 2011 8:03 pm

Castle Anvil

"My Lordy and lady, May I present to you the Vescomte de Atrene, Lord Petrus DeTorroja"

The disheveled imperial fingered the piece of paper that had been handed to him. He pulled it from the pocket of his dirty sailors slops and scratched at a spot on the parchment as he walked into the throne room. His elegant cloak dragged behind him with a soft hissing sound. Stopping short of the two he had come to visit he bowed low before unfolding his instructions. They was written by his close friend and second in command Luis Ferrero. The two had been nearly inseparable from childhood. Where they were once peers, Luis now took an almost protective, father-like role. He made sure that Petrus said what he was supposed to say, and do what he needed to do.

"What a lovely house." DeTorroja said "I really must get one of my own someday." He smiled at the regents pleasantly, The husband and wife were somewhat older than he remembered, but he did remember the two.

"I pray you are doing well My Lady Umbranox. Your beauty is rivaled only by your advanced age. I've come to present you with my respects and...other stuff." He patted his hands over his pockets, and a worried look flashed across his face. After several seconds of worried silence, he realized that the letter he was looking for was in his hands already. Unfolding it and glancing over the script, he the crumpled it and tossed it to the ground. "I have come to present you with my request for information regarding my role in the defense of your lands. So, if you can tell me what I should do...that would be nice."

Corvus and Millona Umbranox, Castle Anvil

Corvus quirked an eyebrow as Petrus read from the small sheet of paper he had unfolded, and as the vescomte read, the prince's temper began to simmer. He had never had much patience for addled people, several years ago he had expelled a cripple from the city because the man couldn't make way for his betters. He knew that many of his detractors reviled him for this, but he was not a man to be concerned with the opinions of lesser people. His wife, on the other hand, seemed to actually be taking Petrus seriously.

When the vescomte had finished speaking, and concluded with a rather innocent remark, Corvus sighed heavily and sat up in his chair. "Vescomte DeTorroja, first you are almost late for your audience, causing me and my wife to delay our trip to Skingrad, and then you have the audacity to appear before us, smelling of the wharves, and reading from a sheet of paper? I cannot quite decide whether your brain is fully addled from disease or if you were just born with part of it missing!"

"Ah," Millona put a steadying had on her husband's arm, "Come now, Corvus, Skingrad will still be there when we leave. As for you, my lord DeTorroja," unlike her husband, Millona's voice held no hint of irritation, "We thank you greatly for offering to aid in the defence of our land, and it is greatly appreciated. We are leaving our son, Miquel, in charge of the overall defence of the principality. However, after taking council with our advisors, we have chosen you to be in command of Fort Sutch, and the defences of the Brena River border region."

The princess waved her hands and a servant stepped forward carrying a small box, when he opened it, Millona continued. "This box contains the necessary papers that authorize you to habitate and garrison Sutch, as well as authorizing you to requisition what soldiers, arms and armor, and supplies you need for it's garrison, as well as the defence of our border. If you feel that this in inadequate, contact our son once he has returned from his tournament, and he will take your requests under review."
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David Chambers
 
Posts: 3333
Joined: Fri May 18, 2007 4:30 am

Post » Sat Feb 19, 2011 10:08 am

Nord Encampment
Conrad's Tent

The tent was dimly lit, even when the sun was at its highest point. The only source of light, a single candle lamp and the shafts of light cutting through the cracks in the tent flap lit Conrad's temporary abode. The young maiden who had accompanied the Commander the night before lay unclad, raw, and vulnerable. She was fair haired with even fairer eyes, her name was Kendralane. She slept, peacefully in the dusky tent, unmoving to the point of petrification.

Conrad stood over her in his tent, his head almost reaching the lamp, adoration in his eyes. A small boy stood next to the armored giant, no doubt sent by the elders. The armor had taken sometime to adorn himself in, though lacking some of the necessary components for battle. His people were a violent people, and brawls between the companies were commonplace enough for him to require some form of protection.

His sword Osbrand strapped to his baldric, the ivory hilt jutting over his shoulder. The boy tugged on Conrad's cloak, the boys voice young and melodic " Master Harrowgrim, the elders request your presence immediately. I believe its important." snapping to attention, Conrad ran his hands over his mail hauberk in apprehension.

" Very well." Conrad nodded and the boy proceeded out the tent. Two guards stood at attention, both nearly as tall as Conrad both adorned in menacing armor and helms of a minotaurs head. Conrad waved a hand and they followed in rank. The camp was large, and not overly disorganized but had become a cesspool of drinking, fighting, thieving and harletry. As was common amongst his people.

Armored soldiers walked in small squads patrolling the camp, an exodus from southern Skyrim. Now a mixture of military and civilian personnel. These patrols saluted hands over hearts " For the Fatherland!" the military determination of the nordic fighting force was menacing even to the Legions and soon to be Dominion.

Fafnids tent lay at the peak of a hill, amongst all the other elders tent and even though his was less adorned. It stood out like a monolith.

" Remain outside." the simple order was followed, without question by his two Stygian bodyguards.

The inside of the tent was lit much brighter than his own. A desk with papers, no doubt logistics, occupied a large portion of the room. A clerk, perhaps one of the Elder's attendants was in the room, he stood to attention. Conrad hadn't failed to recognize the gleaming short sword at the mans side. All Nords shed blood, the few who don't survive.

" The Wiser has made preparations, he is to arrive momentarily." The formal, and rather educated tone would normally have insulted Conrad but it was customary amongst the elders and their attendants.

Conrad remained standing, it would be more tactful of him to take advantage of his domineering stature. There the Commander waited, his azure eyes catching the firelight. Deadly quiet.
User avatar
Miranda Taylor
 
Posts: 3406
Joined: Sat Feb 24, 2007 3:39 pm

Post » Fri Feb 18, 2011 7:47 pm

Corvus and Millona Umbranox, Castle Anvil
"Vescomte DeTorroja, first you are almost late for your audience, causing me and my wife to delay our trip to Skingrad, and then you have the audacity to appear before us, smelling of the wharves, and reading from a sheet of paper? I cannot quite decide whether your brain is fully addled from disease or if you were just born with part of it missing!"

"Ah," Millona put a steadying had on her husband's arm, "Come now, Corvus, Skingrad will still be there when we leave. As for you, my lord DeTorroja," unlike her husband, Millona's voice held no hint of irritation, "We thank you greatly for offering to aid in the defense of our land, and it is greatly appreciated. We are leaving our son, Miquel, in charge of the overall defense of the principality. However, after taking council with our advisors, we have chosen you to be in command of Fort Sutch, and the defenses of the Brena River border region."

The princess waved her hands and a servant stepped forward carrying a small box, when he opened it, Millona continued. "This box contains the necessary papers that authorize you to habitate and garrison Sutch, as well as authorizing you to requisition what soldiers, arms and armor, and supplies you need for it's garrison, as well as the defense of our border. If you feel that this in inadequate, contact our son once he has returned from his tournament, and he will take your requests under review."


"You make a good point, My Lord! It is an excellent concept, but developing a windmill that can turn with the wind requires massive ball bearings and far too much lubricant to even contemplate. I will happily accept your papers and take my studies to Fort Sutch. My Lord, my Lady I must take my leave to collect arms and soldiers. You can sleep soundly with the knowledge that Lord de Atrene will not rest until Anvil is secure and a superior windmill is developed." Petrus smiled and bowed low, making sure to slip out of his cloak and leave it in a sad pile in the middle of the hall before turning and walking from the castle. He was lost in thought crossing the bridge and only came back to his surroundings after reentering the city itself. A broad smile filled his small, mousy face. He just couldnt help himself, it was too much fun.

Petrus had a game that he played with himself. The dementia and memory loss were a chore, but they were not debilitating. He could work around that, and still function. But he just couldnt help playing it up, he was the only actor in a play he was performing. The audience looked on, entranced by the spectacle. To them, he was no longer the actor playing a character, he was the living and breathing farce he portrayed. Occasionally things would grow hazy, and the two would become one again, but he could normally wrest control of the stage away from the players. Those are the truly terrifying moments.

Petrus's smile faded into melancholy. He knew that there was no turning back, he could not restart the show. One day the actor will cease to be, and only the character will remain. One day the curtain will close, and the lights will go out, then thats it... Icy fear grasped his throat. He feared the inevitable culmination of his disease more than the darkest of caves or the most dangerous beasts. Physical pain can be experienced. To lose ones mind is non-being. Will I even know who I am?

"Petus! There you are! did you get my note? How did the meeting go? What are we to do?" Luis Ferrero melted out of the crowd and embraced his friend before holding him at arms length. Petrus smiled and tossed him the small box he had received from the lady Umbranox.

"We command a fort, and the defenses of a river to the north. I have the forces of Anvil at my choosing. Our Commander..." Petrus' brow furrowed as he tried to remember the man's name. Luis looked down, embarrassed. He knew The Vescomte as well as he knew himself. He never played the fool to his close friend, and so every actual sign of his looming fate was sad and embarrassing.

"His name is Don Miquel Umbranox, brother. He Is young, younger than us. I wish I could tell you more, but I don't know much about his family. We'll be sure to pay a visit, if we are lucky enough to pass on the road. Last I heard he was competing at a tournament." Luis spoke in soft, gentle tones before putting his arm around his friend.

"Now come, we've an army to gather."
User avatar
jeremey wisor
 
Posts: 3458
Joined: Mon Oct 22, 2007 5:30 pm

Post » Sat Feb 19, 2011 6:41 am

Nord Encampment
Conrad's Tent

The tent was dimly lit, even when the sun was at its highest point. The only source of light, a single candle lamp and the shafts of light cutting through the cracks in the tent flap lit Conrad's temporary abode. The young maiden who had accompanied the Commander the night before lay unclad, raw, and vulnerable. She was fair haired with even fairer eyes, her name was Kendralane. She slept, peacefully in the dusky tent, unmoving to the point of petrification.

Conrad stood over her in his tent, his head almost reaching the lamp, adoration in his eyes. A small boy stood next to the armored giant, no doubt sent by the elders. The armor had taken sometime to adorn himself in, though lacking some of the necessary components for battle. His people were a violent people, and brawls between the companies were commonplace enough for him to require some form of protection.

His sword Osbrand strapped to his baldric, the ivory hilt jutting over his shoulder. The boy tugged on Conrad's cloak, the boys voice young and melodic " Master Harrowgrim, the elders request your presence immediately. I believe its important." snapping to attention, Conrad ran his hands over his mail hauberk in apprehension.

" Very well." Conrad nodded and the boy proceeded out the tent. Two guards stood at attention, both nearly as tall as Conrad both adorned in menacing armor and helms of a minotaurs head. Conrad waved a hand and they followed in rank. The camp was large, and not overly disorganized but had become a cesspool of drinking, fighting, thieving and harletry. As was common amongst his people.

Armored soldiers walked in small squads patrolling the camp, an exodus from southern Skyrim. Now a mixture of military and civilian personnel. These patrols saluted hands over hearts " For the Fatherland!" the military determination of the nordic fighting force was menacing even to the Legions and soon to be Dominion.

Fafnids tent lay at the peak of a hill, amongst all the other elders tent and even though his was less adorned. It stood out like a monolith.

" Remain outside." the simple order was followed, without question by his two Stygian bodyguards.

The inside of the tent was lit much brighter than his own. A desk with papers, no doubt logistics, occupied a large portion of the room. A clerk, perhaps one of the Elder's attendants was in the room, he stood to attention. Conrad hadn't failed to recognize the gleaming short sword at the mans side. All Nords shed blood, the few who don't survive.

" The Wiser has made preparations, he is to arrive momentarily." The formal, and rather educated tone would normally have insulted Conrad but it was customary amongst the elders and their attendants.

Conrad remained standing, it would be more tactful of him to take advantage of his domineering stature. There the Commander waited, his azure eyes catching the firelight. Deadly quiet.



Fafnid, Fafnid's Tent

As they drew closer to his own tent, he could make out the shape of the tall, exquisetly armored men standing next to the tents open flap. He knew these to be Conrad's personal bodyguard; men he had taken from the willing nobles and outfitted in his own personal manner. Fafid supposed height was a deciding factor when choosing because these men towered over even Fafnid as he walked closer and closer ot the tent. He noted with some dissatisfaction that the men were fully armored, unlike Granis and himself. He wanted to make himself believe that his people were not entirely war-driven but seeing the heavily armored men outside his own tent only made him disbelieve those thoughts.

He could only assume that Conrad, in his normal fashion, was fully armed and armored as well inside the large canvas. Fafnid wore only light clothes and a wolf-fur cloak around his neck, and no weapons fell from his belt or hung off his back. He stroked his long beard as he stoped in front of the tent, giving both of the men a long stare, before tucking his beard into the thick, leather belt around his waist. Without a second glance at the large men, he entered his temporary home, with Granis tailing behind at a respectful distance and giving the much taller guards a long stare before entering the tent.

Inside, Fafnid saw, as expected, Conrad already awaiting his arrival. The Nordic general hated meeting with this man. He was so like what the rest of Tamriel thought of the Nords. Barbaric. Crude and perpetually drunk and womanzing. Fafnid wanted to make those stereotypes disappear from the minds of the other races on Tamriel.

He greeted the man with a bow and a smile however, speaking in his low, aged voice. "Thank you for coming Conrad. I trust you are well." he said, though he didn't wait for an answer. "Brandy?" he asked; again rhetorically as he popped the cork out of a glass bottle, and poured the golden brown liquid in three glasses. He placed one on the table next to Conrad, handed one to Granis who had takenm a seat in the corner next to the attendant and Fafnid took one himself and sat on the most ornamental chair in the room.

"You may leave." he said, adressing the attendant. The man bowed once to each person in the room and swept out without a word, leaving the three of them in silence. Fafnid regarded his Commander with some annoyance; though it remained masked behind his long beard. The tall man never seemed to sit down when they spoke, almost like physical intimidation actually had some affect on Fafnid in his old age.

"You will accompany me to meet with the Lord or Lady of Anvil, when I make my way down there." he stated simply, making it clear by his tone that Conrad had no choice in the matter. "And you will not bring any of your guard either. Intimidation against these people is not my goal, however good you or your men may be at such tactics."

He took another sip of brandy, while scratching idly at the chairs carved wooden arm. "We will probably begin the ride this afternoon, so you best go get prepared soon."

he knew he had to be strict and to the point with this man. However much Fafnid trusted him on the battlefield and regarded him as a skilled warrior; the man was crude and did not like doing things someone else's way. Fafnid had to give him no choice in the matter when he spoke to him.

"Any question's before you go make your preparations?"
User avatar
Lily
 
Posts: 3357
Joined: Mon Aug 28, 2006 10:32 am

Post » Sat Feb 19, 2011 4:46 am

Forgot my sheet:

Spoiler
Name: Sanyon
Race: Altmer
Age: 176
Gender: Male
Sign: The Atronarch

Appearance: Sanyon is by no means a handsome elf, yet curiously he has never been in wanting for female companions. He has a thin, angular face, with thin slanting brows that always give him an angry appearance. His ears are unusually large; tapering to a point half way past his head, though of these he is immensely vain, claiming they are a measure of how Altmer he is. His perfect rows of sparkling white teeth are nearly always bared in a cocky smile, as if he had a secret no one else knew.
Hair: His long honey blonde hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, stretching down to his lower back.
Eyes: A dark bronze, streaked with flecks of gold.
Height: 6’ 8’’
Weight: 150 lbs.

Clothing: Sanyon possesses an infallible sense of style, and makes certain that his entire wardrobe is always at the height of Altmer nobility fashion, even on the battlefield. This usually involves bright colors, long flowing robes, intricate hairstyles, and other flamboyant memorabilia.

His current outfit consists of a scarlet red silk undershirt, with an over shirt of fiery orange, billowing magenta trousers, all under a bright yellow robe, complete with a red silk flame embroidery on the collar, cuffs, and lower fringe. His ever-present jewelry consists of no less than eight ruby and yellow diamond rings, and a thin gold chain on his open collar.

Faction: The Aldmeri Dominion
Position: Commanding General of the Dominion Army
Description: First in command of the field armies of the Dominion, the commanding general makes all tactical and logistic decisions for his force. Usually a trusted noble-elf, frequently put in power by connections rather than skill.

Personality: The epitome of stuck up Altmer, Sanyon has never doubted that he is the best commander to ever walk Tamriel. He berates his elves and commands his troops with an absolute authority. He is always right, and when he isn’t it’s obviously not his fault.

However, it cannot be denied that he is an excellent sorcerer and scholar, and does not owe his ego entirely to self delusion, there is some skill involved in his successes as well. He is absolutely ruthless on the battlefield, bearing a fierce hatred towards all things man. He would not have agreed to work with Redguards unless it meant he could kill Imperials.

Fears: Death, disgrace, poverty, disease, and mud.
Goals: Reclaiming the former glory of the Dominion and proving his race as the prime example of mortal excellence.
Hobbies: Creating new outfits from his extensive wardrobe, performing scientific experiments, listening to his musicians, drinking fine wine, and the occasional painting.

History: Born to a wealthy noble family, Sanyon was raised from birth to be an influential character in Altmer society. From an early age he showed a love for history and science, and was particularly skilled at magic. However, he also bore an unnatural hatred for men, particularly the Empire, which he believes has been crushing the spirit of the Altmer people, and bringing forth the rebellious youth of the new generation. His father was a very conservative, fundamentalist Altmer, and worked hard to instill his values in Sanyon.
Since he came of age, Sanyon has been enjoying the wealth and frivolity his status brings him, attending many parties and balls, and generally behaving as a member of the Altmer nobility. The recent wars have given him an excuse to act on his hatred for the Empire, and as soon as he heard of them he enlisted in the Dominion army. He was rapidly advanced to general, due in part to his vast intellect and talent with numbers, but mostly a series of substantial donations to the military. When the offer came to march on Anvil, to finally assault the tyrannical Empire, he nearly fainted of excitement.


Name: Goranthir
Race: Half Dunmer- Half Altmer
Age: 21
Gender: Male
Sign: The Mage

Faction: Aldmeri Dominion
Position: Steward of the Commanding General
Description: As apprentice to the commanding general of the Dominion’s army, the steward is in charge of the more mundane tasks that plague the general. Fetching meals, delivering messages, and helping Sanyon with his wardrobe, to name a few.


Name: Daenlin
Race: Bosmer
Age: 136
Gender: Male
Sign: The Shadow

Faction: Aldmeri Dominion
Position: Brigadier General of the Dominion Army
Description: Second in command of the field army of the Dominion, he makes the official decisions when the commanding general is too drunk or moody to take charge.



Falinesti, Capital of the Thalmor

The walking tree-cities of the Bosmer never ceased to amaze visitors. Even young Altmer, who were more than used to crystal towers and buildings made of gossamer chitin, were awed by the great oaks, stretching to touch the sky. The city stretched upwards rather than outwards, shops and houses all stacked on top of one another, hollow spaces that seemed to blend with the tree. No axes were used to carve out the city, it simply grew out of the tree; to harm the great oak was suicide for anyone that entered the forest, Dominion or no.

Falinesti, greatest of the tree-cities, and capital of the former province of Valenwood, was the most majestic of them all, and mind numbingly large. You could climb the circling steps for days and still not reach the first branches; it was said the elves at the top could watch a rain come and go before those at the bottom felt the first drop. Miles wide, you could have fit the entire city of Alinor inside and still have room for Cloudrest.

It was here the army of General Sanyon was garrisoned, 9,500 elves and goblins, all outfitted with armor and weapons and eager for blood. They barely filled one fourth of one level on the massive tree city, the normal guard's barracks outfitted to accompany over four thousand Bosmer. The Altmer, all trained sorcerers and noblemen, resided in more accommodating rooms further up, though only the highest of nobility had their own private rooms. The other three thousand troops were kept with the war beasts near the base of the tree, goblin slaves, with barely enough brains to hold a spear.

Sanyon himself had found a luxurious suite near the first branches, his wardrobe filling three separate closets, and his tastes keeping a small army of Altmer chefs busy around the clock. There was no fruit to be found in the city, nor bread or wine, only great slabs of meat and cheeses, in accordance with the Bosmer's Green Pact, so Sanyon needed to have all such delicacies brought to him all the way from Summerset.

"Goranthir, more wine," the general called lazily from his chair, rings clinking together as he waved to the elf.

"Yes sir, white or red?" Sanyon's steward was a gangly elf, barely out of adolescence, with bright eyes and a sure, springly step. At least, he was before he met the lavish general. Now he seemed tired beyond his years, dark circles under his honey-gold eyes, his silvery blonde hair shaved off because Sanyon had not like the way it looked.

"Red, of course, with a decent vintage this time." Sanyon was staring intently at a painting hanging from the wall, tracing its gentle curves and bright colors with his eyes, a tilted smile playing at his lips. No discernable shapes could be recognized within the painting, a mess of brush strokes melting together in a rainbow of chaotic creativity. Suddenly, the smile dropped from Sanyon's face, his eyes flashing with anger, though still intently concentrated on the painting.

Goranthir returned with a large chalice of blood red wine, hurrying towards the general just as the playful smile returned to his pale lips. "Isn't it magnificent, Goran? A true stroke of genius, don't you say?"

The elf paused, glancing between the painting and the extravagently dressed Altmer, before nodding. "Quite the work of art, sir. Shall I have it sent to your estate later?"

Sanyon's eyes flashed darkly once more, a shadow passing over his thin features. The elf stood, taking the chalice of wine and draining it with a single draught. His gaze remained fixed on the painting, angled brows knotted tightly together. Without warning, Sanyon ripped the canvas from the wall, tearing it apart with his slender hands, his perfect teeth bared in rage. Just as quickly as he had begun, the elf stopped, looking around him at the torn pieces of canvas with a blank stare.

"No thank you, Goran. It was rubbish anyway." Sanyon returned to his seat, his golden-bronze eyes now fixed entirely on his apprentice.

"Yes sir," the elf made no sign that he had even seen the general's outburst, his hands clasped in front of him patiently, waiting. After a long moment of staring, Goranthir let out a sigh, reaching into a trouser pocket for a small envelope, bright purple seal already broken. "A letter from his lordship, sir. It seems you are to make arrangements to march, to move in on Anvil as soon as we recieve word from the Ra Gada."

Sanyon took the letter, examined the broken seal closely, then carelessly tossed the envelope over his shoulder. "Must we work with those savages, Goran? The Dominion cannot muster enough elves to take the city itself?"

The steward opened his mouth to reply, but Sanyon quickly continued, "So be it, what must be done shall be done. Send word to Daenlin, tell him to inform the troops. Start making the requisite arrangements; food, tents, my wine, all must be made ready. We shed the blood of men soon, Goran, I can already smell it."

The elf bowed, Sanyon dismissed him with a careless wave. He looked down at the pieces of canvas scattered around the floor, frowning slightly. "It had been such a good painting too."
User avatar
Brentleah Jeffs
 
Posts: 3341
Joined: Tue Feb 13, 2007 12:21 am

Post » Sat Feb 19, 2011 10:23 am

Gottshaw Inn

Titus set at the bar drowning his life in Cyrodiil Brandy and trying to avoid the other patrons. He was wearing his full cotton suit interweaved with common plants and foliage from around the Anvil and Kvatch area. Normally when he entered an establishment wearing this gear no one would speak a word to him; well no one but the bartender of course.

This night was different because a small boy about six or seven years old had taken interest in Titus. The boy would stare at him until one of his parents would tell him to stop. About twenty minutes of this went on before the boy escaped his parents sight and walked up to Titus.

Pulling on Titus' arm the boy asked, "Excuse me sir?"

Titus exhaled deeply before answering, "Yes?"

"Sir, why are you wearing a bush?" The young boy's question carried nothing but the innocence and humor of youth.

Titus could not help but smile as he was caught off guard by the boy's comment, normally he would tell the boy to leave him alone, but at this point he was a bit drunk and did not care, "I wear this bush because it keeps me hidden from people and animals."

"Well it's not doing a good job because I can see you. Mister, I think you need to get a new bush," before Titus could respond the child ran back to wear his parents were sitting.

Titus sighed as the boy ran off and then looked over at the bartender, "If we where all the naive we would not have to deal with wars. I am going to take this to my room," Titus paid the bartender before he got up to head to his room.

"It is nice to see that there is still some purity left in this world," Titus thought as he climbed the steps to the room he had rented, "Tomorrow I need to get away from these people.
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Claire Vaux
 
Posts: 3485
Joined: Sun Aug 06, 2006 6:56 am

Post » Sat Feb 19, 2011 2:10 am

OOC: My character can be found http://www.gamesas.com/index.php?/topic/1104273-ib-timeline-discussion/page__st__20. Also, considering how this post takes place at night, and about at the same time as Bmont's, I assume it takes place either the night before or the night of all of your posts, which appear to be during the day. Sorry about the time inconsistency, but this scene makes the most sense at night. I figure it shouldn't be that much of an issue, considering how Swims and Titus aren't really interacting with the rest of you guys' characters at the moment.

IC:

Gottshaw Inn

Swims-in-Shadows rarely thought about his past, but of late he had no choice but to notice how much his life contrasted with his previous expectations of what it might be like. As a young hatchling, he had always hoped to become a warrior in service of his tribe. Later on, in his teenage years, that dream had faded with the arrival of feelings of disdain and disgust with Black Marsh. Instead, he had revised his goal in life from becoming an honorable and noble tribe warrior to simply an industrious and successful Imperial citizen, but that dream too had been crushed by the racism of the people of Leyawiin. Finally, in his late teens, he had decided that he wanted to be a soldier in Helseth's army, fighting for the king that had freed his people from slavery in Morrowind. But, while that particular dream actually came true, it didn't last. Within a year of joining the army and fighting at Sentinel, he had become a deserter and a drifter, wandering all over High Rock in search of employment.

Now, here he was, back in Cyrodiil for the first time in five years, but not for any purpose the idealistic youth he'd once been would recognize. Swims was not here to earn an honest living as a craftsman or help reinforce the Empire against its enemies or anything of similarly noble intent. Even two years ago, at the beginning of the Sentinel campaign, he would not have been able to predict that instead of living as a war hero in Morrowind, he would be a wandering bandit. Even now, as he was about to enact a plan he had worked on for two weeks, he wasn't quite sure what had brought him to this point. Who in his hometown back in the swamps of Argonia would have thought that Swims-in-Shadows, the kind young hatchling, the ambitious teen, the aspiring hero, would have ended up here, outside of the Gottshaw Inn on a clear night, ready to end the lives of a handful of innocents for some gold?

Such were Swims-in-Shadows' thoughts as he furtively approached the northern wall of the brick-and-wood roadside inn in the dark of night. For the past two weeks, he had used his magical gauntlet to slightly weaken the external structural supports of the north wall each night. The once stable inn was now quite close to collapse if the right force was applied. Thanks to his magical glass gauntlet, Swims had that "right force." He placed his right hand over the cracking stone wall, feeling its smooth gray surface under his armored hand. He paused for a moment, savoring the last few seconds of tranquility that he would have before the wall collapsed and his attack began. As he slowly brought the ring on his left hand up towards the back of his dark green glass right gauntlet, a rush of exhilaration surged through him. Here was something that had been carefully and meticulously built over the course of months, and had probably been in the innkeeper's family for generations, and he was about to destroy it all in less than a minute. Inside of the inn were a number of innocent people who had never harmed anyone in their lives, who simply loved their families and were loved in return, trying to make an honest living off their own work, and he was about to kill them all in cold blood, for no reason except the gold in their pockets. A wave of satisfaction rushed over him as he realized once again that he could make a difference in the world, that he wasn't completely powerless in the grand scheme of things. The families of the dead would grieve for months over the sudden, senseless deaths of their loved ones by a random bandit and the innkeeper's relatives would probably go hungry as a result of his cruelty; and he wouldn't have it any other way. The closest thing to a smile that an Argonian could produce appeared on Swims' reptilian face. This is true power, he thought.

Swims-in-Shadows pressed the ring on his left hand to the back of his magical glass gauntlet, and a powerful wave of vibrations swept through it into the damaged stone wall.
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Alexis Estrada
 
Posts: 3507
Joined: Tue Aug 29, 2006 6:22 pm

Post » Sat Feb 19, 2011 12:25 am

Fafnid, Fafnid's Tent

As they drew closer to his own tent, he could make out the shape of the tall, exquisetly armored men standing next to the tents open flap. He knew these to be Conrad's personal bodyguard; men he had taken from the willing nobles and outfitted in his own personal manner. Fafid supposed height was a deciding factor when choosing because these men towered over even Fafnid as he walked closer and closer ot the tent. He noted with some dissatisfaction that the men were fully armored, unlike Granis and himself. He wanted to make himself believe that his people were not entirely war-driven but seeing the heavily armored men outside his own tent only made him disbelieve those thoughts.

He could only assume that Conrad, in his normal fashion, was fully armed and armored as well inside the large canvas. Fafnid wore only light clothes and a wolf-fur cloak around his neck, and no weapons fell from his belt or hung off his back. He stroked his long beard as he stoped in front of the tent, giving both of the men a long stare, before tucking his beard into the thick, leather belt around his waist. Without a second glance at the large men, he entered his temporary home, with Granis tailing behind at a respectful distance and giving the much taller guards a long stare before entering the tent.

Inside, Fafnid saw, as expected, Conrad already awaiting his arrival. The Nordic general hated meeting with this man. He was so like what the rest of Tamriel thought of the Nords. Barbaric. Crude and perpetually drunk and womanzing. Fafnid wanted to make those stereotypes disappear from the minds of the other races on Tamriel.

He greeted the man with a bow and a smile however, speaking in his low, aged voice. "Thank you for coming Conrad. I trust you are well." he said, though he didn't wait for an answer. "Brandy?" he asked; again rhetorically as he popped the cork out of a glass bottle, and poured the golden brown liquid in three glasses. He placed one on the table next to Conrad, handed one to Granis who had takenm a seat in the corner next to the attendant and Fafnid took one himself and sat on the most ornamental chair in the room.

"You may leave." he said, adressing the attendant. The man bowed once to each person in the room and swept out without a word, leaving the three of them in silence. Fafnid regarded his Commander with some annoyance; though it remained masked behind his long beard. The tall man never seemed to sit down when they spoke, almost like physical intimidation actually had some affect on Fafnid in his old age.

"You will accompany me to meet with the Lord or Lady of Anvil, when I make my way down there." he stated simply, making it clear by his tone that Conrad had no choice in the matter. "And you will not bring any of your guard either. Intimidation against these people is not my goal, however good you or your men may be at such tactics."

He took another sip of brandy, while scratching idly at the chairs carved wooden arm. "We will probably begin the ride this afternoon, so you best go get prepared soon."

he knew he had to be strict and to the point with this man. However much Fafnid trusted him on the battlefield and regarded him as a skilled warrior; the man was crude and did not like doing things someone else's way. Fafnid had to give him no choice in the matter when he spoke to him.

"Any question's before you go make your preparations?"


Nordic Encampment
Fafnid's Tent

Conrad smiled. The Elder was paying too much attention to the commander's tact for his own good, Conrad praised his attentiveness. At times, the large sword fastened to his back was forgotten about, the feather enchantment masking the true weight of the sword. Reminded of his own martial training he snapped back to the matter at hand, the old man had mistaken him for being barbaric. No matter how true that really was, Conrad had one deceiving attribute. He could adapt.

Conrad bowed his head, a soldier capable of following orders. " Very well Elder Fafnid, I shall ready my horse at once. I will shave and dress accordingly to the Imperial Court. Though I will be carrying my sword." There was short pause.

" For you protection of course."

Having made his tactful display at not only adapting to orders but to relinquish his armor was an overwhelming demonstration at how loyal Conrad was to the Council. He didn't always agree or involve himself with political intrigue but Fafnid was an accomplished commander and leader of the peoples. Respect was commonplace amongst the migration for this elder among elders. The allegiance of the nobles was nearly fanatic, and Conrad knew that his men would fight to the honorable death to stake claim a land their children could tend. Fafnid was their leader for a reason.

Conrad placed his left hand over his, striking his arm out in a salute. " For the Fatherland!"

Not even waiting to be dismissed he turned and strode out of the tent, his long dark brown cloak swaying behind him...
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lexy
 
Posts: 3439
Joined: Tue Jul 11, 2006 6:37 pm

Post » Sat Feb 19, 2011 12:28 am

Mehmet

Dust withered from the cargo room, as Mehmet made his way up onto the deck of the ship to see his companion. He took his way over to Hequd, taking a look at the man's grim face. It was really always grim, except the last few days it had begun to get worse and worse. The old Raga sagged his hand onto his companion's shoulder, speaking slowly in his wise voice.

"Tell me, Hequd, what is on your mind?"

Abecean Sea, east of Hew's Bane

Hequd cast a short glance at Mehmet when he felt the old general's hand on his shoulder. He was not in a mood to converse now and though he had nothing against the old man personally, he found him just as irritating as anyone else for intruding upon his privacy. Though a Crown through and through, the General of the Southern Army had one thing in common with the nomads of southern Alik'r - he valued bounds and he tried never to step over them himself with the hopes others would return the favour and leave him to his thoughts when he did not seek conversation. Apparently, this was not to be; perhaps with time the old man would learn, but for now it seemed he would be a nuissance.

"Too much is on my mind to tell you all, and none of it is important. Shadows of the past and not matters of a war council disturb me." Though he did not frown, Hequd's voice suggested he was none too willing to talk and his face did not become any less grim for this interruption. There was a time when advice from an old general would be welcome; that would be in a war council. He had resisted attempts by others to tell him what to thing for his whole life; even his father had no luck. He had no intention to let Mehmet try his hand at this.

His glance slipping away from the shores far north of them to the other Ra Gada ships, the general suppressed a sigh. "The captain tells me we shall reach the Cyrodils' shores soon. Do not lower your guard and see that your men do not either. All Raga now of the treachery these Heartlanders are capable of and we have no more than a sunrise or two of peace left for us." With this, Hequd turned and quite abruptly left with no more than a mutter 'rest well, elder'. Though he knew it was pointless, the Raga had to try and sleep; he had to have a clear head for when they landed on Anvil's territory.

This infernal landing. This infernal war... Gritting his teeth he made his way below deck, into his quarters. Though he held a high position in the New Kingdom of Hammerfell, Hequd had opted out of the large quarters offered to him. He had no need for luxury now; Sentinel was the place for fine wines and other such nonsense, things of which he never approved anyway. A smaller space made it easier for him to think, or at least he told himself that. Not to mention that the last thing he needed now was a reminder of his estate near Sentinel and all that he left behind when he discovered his place in the army. With the time when life and death of thousands would rest on his shoulders drawing close, he needed as little on his mind as possible.

Closing his cabin's door behind him, Hequd leaned against the wall, closing his weary eyes. For a moment it seemed like the floor was slipping out from beneath his feet; his eyes shot open, a slight hint of panic visible in them. A quick glance around the small room revealed that nothing was happening - the ship was still swaying, nothing had moved. My mind deceives me... I need rest. But before my body comes my duty.

"Shahal!"

The walls of the cabins were relatively thin, so Hequd could hear quite well as his servant got up and hurried out of his quarters and into the general's. He was most pleased that two separate quarters right next to each other had been given to them, this made seeking the young Raga out much easier, not to mention allowed the Crown general to keep tabs on him so Shahal didn't wander out of his quarters with the intention to do something unfitting for a Crown - say, gamble with the sailors. Though he wasn't against a general mingling with his soldiers (even if he didn't do that himself), Hequd wasn't going to let the young noble fall into the commoners' vices.

"No Shira, you called?" The young man bowed slightly as he closed the door behind him.

"Inform the captain that I wish more caution to be exercised as we near the Heartland. We should reach the shore quite soon and I do not wish to be caught off guard when we have almost reached our goal. And notify him I shall be in my quarters until we reach the landing point. When we do, you are to inform me."

"Yes, No Shira." With another small bow, Shahal left the room, leaving Hequd alone once more.

User avatar
Benito Martinez
 
Posts: 3470
Joined: Thu Aug 30, 2007 6:33 am

Post » Sat Feb 19, 2011 5:57 am

OOC: My character can be found http://www.gamesas.com/index.php?/topic/1104273-ib-timeline-discussion/page__st__20. Also, considering how this post takes place at night, and about at the same time as Bmont's, I assume it takes place either the night before or the night of all of your posts, which appear to be during the day. Sorry about the time inconsistency, but this scene makes the most sense at night. I figure it shouldn't be that much of an issue, considering how Swims and Titus aren't really interacting with the rest of you guys' characters at the moment.

IC:

Gottshaw Inn

Swims-in-Shadows rarely thought about his past, but of late he had no choice but to notice how much his life contrasted with his previous expectations of what it might be like. As a young hatchling, he had always hoped to become a warrior in service of his tribe. Later on, in his teenage years, that dream had faded with the arrival of feelings of disdain and disgust with Black Marsh. Instead, he had revised his goal in life from becoming an honorable and noble tribe warrior to simply an industrious and successful Imperial citizen, but that dream too had been crushed by the racism of the people of Leyawiin. Finally, in his late teens, he had decided that he wanted to be a soldier in Helseth's army, fighting for the king that had freed his people from slavery in Morrowind. But, while that particular dream actually came true, it didn't last. Within a year of joining the army and fighting at Sentinel, he had become a deserter and a drifter, wandering all over High Rock in search of employment.

Now, here he was, back in Cyrodiil for the first time in five years, but not for any purpose the idealistic youth he'd once been would recognize. Swims was not here to earn an honest living as a craftsman or help reinforce the Empire against its enemies or anything of similarly noble intent. Even two years ago, at the beginning of the Sentinel campaign, he would not have been able to predict that instead of living as a war hero in Morrowind, he would be a wandering bandit. Even now, as he was about to enact a plan he had worked on for two weeks, he wasn't quite sure what had brought him to this point. Who in his hometown back in the swamps of Argonia would have thought that Swims-in-Shadows, the kind young hatchling, the ambitious teen, the aspiring hero, would have ended up here, outside of the Gottshaw Inn on a clear night, ready to end the lives of a handful of innocents for some gold?

Such were Swims-in-Shadows' thoughts as he furtively approached the northern wall of the brick-and-wood roadside inn in the dark of night. For the past two weeks, he had used his magical gauntlet to slightly weaken the external structural supports of the north wall each night. The once stable inn was now quite close to collapse if the right force was applied. Thanks to his magical glass gauntlet, Swims had that "right force." He placed his right hand over the cracking stone wall, feeling its smooth gray surface under his armored hand. He paused for a moment, savoring the last few seconds of tranquility that he would have before the wall collapsed and his attack began. As he slowly brought the ring on his left hand up towards the back of his dark green glass right gauntlet, a rush of exhilaration surged through him. Here was something that had been carefully and meticulously built over the course of months, and had probably been in the innkeeper's family for generations, and he was about to destroy it all in less than a minute. Inside of the inn were a number of innocent people who had never harmed anyone in their lives, who simply loved their families and were loved in return, trying to make an honest living off their own work, and he was about to kill them all in cold blood, for no reason except the gold in their pockets. A wave of satisfaction rushed over him as he realized once again that he could make a difference in the world, that he wasn't completely powerless in the grand scheme of things. The families of the dead would grieve for months over the sudden, senseless deaths of their loved ones by a random bandit and the innkeeper's relatives would probably go hungry as a result of his cruelty; and he wouldn't have it any other way. The closest thing to a smile that an Argonian could produce appeared on Swims' reptilian face. This is true power, he thought.

Swims-in-Shadows pressed the ring on his left hand to the back of his magical glass gauntlet, and a powerful wave of vibrations swept through it into the damaged stone wall.


Inside Gottshaw Inn

Titus was climbing up the steps to his room when he heard a low tone high pitched noise and could feel some vibrations along the wall he was using as support. "By Talos, what is that?" Titus thought as he started to turn because the vibrations he felt where emanating behind him.

He turned around to see a few of the patrons backing away from the north wall when suddenly part of the Inn collapsed. Most of the north side collapsed, this included the entire bar and some of the seating area. The bartender and three patrons were crushed under the rubble, dead, and another was injured.

As the chaos hit, the two patrons that where next to the door ran out of it, while others moved in to try and help the fallen, and a few even run up the stairs past Titus.

"What in the hell is going on here," Titus thought as he tried to see through the dust that was kicked up from the collapse. From his elevated position on the stairs Titus thought he made out a silhouette outside the Inn by the north wall. "Bandits?" Titus thought as he readied a bolt on his crossbow and raised it. He then tried to find the mystery silhouette again.
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Carlos Rojas
 
Posts: 3391
Joined: Thu Aug 16, 2007 11:19 am

Post » Fri Feb 18, 2011 7:31 pm

Former Character from High Rock:

Name: Arethan Andas

Gender: Male

Birthsign: The Mage

Race: Dunmer

Age: 252

Apparent Age: 36

Physical Appearance:

Arethan is a decent sized Dunmer, standing at about six foot and being decently stocky. His skin is somewhat average for a Dunmeri, but is perhaps slightly darker than usual. His face consists of coarse lips and a rugged nose that fit along with his grim, fiery eyes. His head is slightly taller than average, and his rugged brows fit above his eyes well. His skin is very rugged, even bearing the usual small scratch or scar. He keeps his black hair in a ponytail, which makes its way down to the shoulders. He bears a rugged scar where his neck and his shoulder blade meet.

Apparel/Armor:

After going through many different apparel changes for many different reasons, Arethan wears a steel briastplate, along with plates for each part of the arms, the joints, and the legs along with two steel shoulder plates. However, he wears no helmet or gauntlets. His regular clothing consists of a readily new tan shirt, along with green linen pants. The steel is more stained, being very grey and even almost black in some places. To go along with his armor, he wears leather boots which are plated with thin strips of steel in different places. Arethan does wear an additional black leather belt.

Weapons:

Arethan, even though he has changed his armor on several occasions, has always kept the same ebony longsword given to him years ago. It is a bit worn, and shows many contact marks. However, it nonetheless holds fast, simply because he only has to use it on rare occasions. Other than his sword, he keeps a small steel dagger tucked into his belt. Arethan’s real weapon is his magic.

Magic info:

Arethan is a literal expert in the school of destruction, while he has some great knowledge for conjuration and mysticism, and is average at the art of alteration. He holds a basic grasp of the restoration school, but really knows nothing of Illusion, for it takes much practice to learn. Even with his conjuration knowledge, it is more used for the actual understanding of the school, for he rarely uses it, and it is quite dangerous considering you are releasing a Daedra temporarily. He’s grown quite accustomed to using magic with and without his armor.

Misc:

Arethan doesn’t keep many miscellaneous items besides a small sack of fruit, as well as some drakes. He keeps a copy of “Pocket Guide to the Empire 3rd Edition” on his hands at all times, as well as a notebook of small parchments he writes things down with and an additional quill and tiny portable ink container. He also carries a leather sack, which carries his lone gauntlet that was given to him by Almalexia.

Psychological Profile:

He’s got quite a temper, which is often triggered by other people doing arrogant or stupid things. He is mostly a grim person these days, and prefers not to have conversations with many people. When he does have a conversation with someone who isn’t his friend, he makes smart-ass comments.

History:

Arethan grew up to a Televanni father and a Redoran mother, which was an odd cross-house combination. More importantly, both of his parents were wealthy and a big motivation for their marriage was to improve the house relations. Arethan was raised in the arts of magic, while at the same time enjoyed sword play. His parents made sure their son was properly schooled, and throughout his childhood Arethan was often busy doing nothing but training, which over time began to diminish his life’s purpose in his own eyes, since he had little time to be a normal boy. Through a hundred or so years of constant training, Arethan did happen to grow skilled at the arts he practiced. He soon began to do odd jobs and even associated with the Imperial Mages Guild, Fighters Guild, and the great houses at different points, but never successfully became a full time driven member of any of those.

Through different connections as well as different observations by those who counted in society, Arethan found his way to become an Ordinator in the Temple, which was rare for a non-Indoril. He didn’t mind living in a big city and having power. Over the course of several more decades he rose to the position of a Her-Hand, whom he had read about as a boy. Stationed to guard Almalexia, Arethan has impressed with the immediate pay as well as his ridiculous enchanted armor and weapon. Of course, he realized that his job was far worse than his child hood because he had no time to call his own.

He made the quick assumption Amalexia was a crooked insane god, which she indeed turned out to be. He was just about to leave his position, as it was common, until Almalexia had the Neveraine hunt down his companion who had left. Soon after, Arethan learned the Neveraine was going to attempt to kill Almalexia. Arethan left without notice and left all of his armor and his weapon behind, with the exception of a lone gauntlet, which he sealed up in a leather sack. He left Almalexia’s city, and made his way for Mournhold. Only days later, Almalexia was killed by the Nerevaraine. Arethan quickly came to Helseth, as he was closest. He showed Helseth his gauntlet, and Helseth, having heard of him, believed him. The temple then seeing their god was dead grew angry and used Arethan, who was the greatest mage and the least skilled at combat of all the Her-Hands, as a scapegoat saying that if he would have been there, he may have been able to help Almalexia.

Before long, Morag Tong agents were sent out to kill him, but they didn’t find him at that time. He entered Helseth’s court, where the King endowed upon him a new set of rich ebony armor, as well as a new ebony longsword. He stayed among the guards and lived a happy, disguised life for some time, until the Oblivion Gates descended upon Tamriel. He aided in the defense of Mournhold, and before long was one of those to lead the main charge to shut the large gate outside of the city, as Dagon wanted revenge on Mournhold; he had invaded it many years ago, and destroyed most of it. Arethan quickly made a name for himself, unfortunately. The assassins in the city quickly found out who he was. He then tried to find a way to go into hiding, and stayed among Helseth’s court.

A year later, he learned of Helseth’s mission to Hammerfell in hope to be Emperor. He quickly went as a bodyguard to the Emperor, but didn’t enter much actual contact in the War of the Wolves. He later returned, to find another plot to kill him had been set up during his absence. This is where Arethan went into serious hiding for a time. Another year later, Helseth sent one of his head generals to High Rock to aid Rurik’s Nordic force against Elysana, his hated sister. Arethan was allowed to go with the soldiers, and quickly found his way to High Rock. He happened to go with his best friend Alval, who he had met years earlier in Helseth’s court. Soon enough, the Battle of Dunkarn approached, where Arethan would get his first battle contact since the Oblivion Crises. During the battle, he, Alval, and 18 other of the 100 Dunmeri mages put under Arethan’s command who were sent entered a forest with Nordic troops to fight Orc allies of Wayrest. During that part of the battle, Arethan’s best friend Alval was hit by Guillaume Molyneaux’s cannon shrapnel, which was part of a series of cannon shots into the forest from the other side. After losing the battle, Arethan was enraged to the point that his hands lit up with magical fire. After Rurik signed the peace treaty, hope was lost at destroying Elysana, and the remaining Dunmeri soldiers were about to return to High Rock. Arethan told his general, who was his good friend that he would not go back do to the danger. His general agreed and allowed him to stay with Ongar in Markarth Side until he decided to move to another location. Another one of his companions, who was the next best friend he had besides Alval, chose to stay with him.

Soon, Arethan got rid of his rugged ebony plate armor in an effort to make himself less different. He sold it, and acquired the steel plate armor he has now. As much as he was ironic friends with his new Nordic ally, he and his companion said their goodbyes for the time being, and made their way across Tamriel. They are currently are somewhere around Anvil, and are seeking possible work and a new life.

Companions:

Servyn Velothi:

A younger Dunmer than Arethan, standing at about 5’9 and being fairly lean; his light skin goes well with his light red eyes. Unlike Arethan, he keeps his hair cut short in a fairly round crop. His nose is pointed and his eyes are quite sharp and grim, and is ears stick up, being very pointy. He appears to be in his early twenties if he were a man, and is probably around 115 years old. His coarse, pale lips seem to fit well under his nose. Seryn keeps himself adorned with dark brown leather padding, and wears his light line green linen shirt under it, along with his tan linen pants. He keeps a steel shortsword at his side, and fights with a more lean agile style than brute force. Other than this, he keeps his old steel dagger with three vials of poison. He is a master at the art of mysticism, and as well knows a decent bit of illusion, destruction, and alteration. He doesn’t know much of conjuration, as he has never wanted to mess around with it. He however does have an apprentice’s grasp of restoration.



Arethan Andas, Servyn Velothi; Near the Gottshaw Inn

"Damn it!"

The earth shook, and for a moment the entire road had shifted into two positions at once. Both horses flew back, lifting their mighty legs from the ground and towards the moon high above them. Arethan held on, as his horse screeched and turned its way toward the earth. He managed to swing the horse downward to his left, and find his way on the side that would not come crashing to the earth. The horse fell and moaned, as one of its hooves took a shot at Arethan's shoulder. He took the hit, which didn't have much effect, and thereafter quickly rolled his way to the side away from scared beast. Servyn was thrown off immediately, and managed to form somewhat of a shield behind his head. He hit the ground, and even though it would still leave a good bruise, his spell prevented the fall from doing any major damage. His horse road off into the distance, to the south, in the opposite direction of the apparent vibration. Servyn, with his less heavy and agile body, made his way around the horse to help his friend up. He grabbed his hand, and helped Arethan lift himself off the ground.

"Well what in the hell?" The steel covered Dunmer's face went to a frustrated confusion. Servyn looked over at the moaning horse, who was kicking all about with three of its legs.

"Its leg's broken." Servyn gave Arethan a confused stare. They looked down to find its front leg had collided with the pavement upon the fall, hyper-extending in a backward motion and ripping the joint from its natural socket. Arethan pulled his companion back, walking backward toward the edge of the road.

"Stay away from the damn thing."

He drew his longsword, forcing it into the horse's spine. The creature was now out of its terrible pain and misery. The duo turned back to the now half pile of rubble the vibration had come from. Apparently now, the elevated side of the inn hadn't fallen in, but there was no telling how long it would be before it would possibly crumble to the earth.

"What the hell?"

Arethan made his way over to the old sign, which apparently read in a scribbled fashion "Gottshaw Inn". He saw a man come up from the elevated side of the inn and point his crossbow at the northern direction. Arethan quickly began to run up to the rubble, with the other younger Dunmeri following behind.

No telling what in the damn hell we've got into now.
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Tania Bunic
 
Posts: 3392
Joined: Sun Jun 18, 2006 9:26 am

Post » Sat Feb 19, 2011 6:08 am

Nordic Encampment
Fafnid's Tent

Conrad smiled. The Elder was paying too much attention to the commander's tact for his own good, Conrad praised his attentiveness. At times, the large sword fastened to his back was forgotten about, the feather enchantment masking the true weight of the sword. Reminded of his own martial training he snapped back to the matter at hand, the old man had mistaken him for being barbaric. No matter how true that really was, Conrad had one deceiving attribute. He could adapt.

Conrad bowed his head, a soldier capable of following orders. " Very well Elder Fafnid, I shall ready my horse at once. I will shave and dress accordingly to the Imperial Court. Though I will be carrying my sword." There was short pause.

" For you protection of course."

Having made his tactful display at not only adapting to orders but to relinquish his armor was an overwhelming demonstration at how loyal Conrad was to the Council. He didn't always agree or involve himself with political intrigue but Fafnid was an accomplished commander and leader of the peoples. Respect was commonplace amongst the migration for this elder among elders. The allegiance of the nobles was nearly fanatic, and Conrad knew that his men would fight to the honorable death to stake claim a land their children could tend. Fafnid was their leader for a reason.

Conrad placed his left hand over his, striking his arm out in a salute. " For the Fatherland!"

Not even waiting to be dismissed he turned and strode out of the tent, his long dark brown cloak swaying behind him...



Fafnid, Fafnid's Tent

"For the new land." he muttered quietly, not expecting the man to hear him as he walked out of the tent without another word. Fafnid stared blankly into the side of the tent before sitting up again, and shouting out to the man, "And shaving is quite unnecessary!"

He doubted Conrad had heard him but he chuckled anyways as he stroked his own extraordinarily long beard which was still tucked into his leather belt. If there was one thing he prided in his old age, it was his grand beard and he would never ask another Nord to shave his own. He shook his head and chuckled to no one in particular though he was aware that Granis was still in the room, wearing a sour look on his young face.

"How can you not like a man who is so like yourself?" asked Fafnid.

Granis didn't reply, but he did shoot his friend a dirty look which only made the Nordic general chuckle again. Fafnid took another sip of the brown liquor and turned as he heard the flap of the tent open and a pair of feet walk in.

"Hello father." said Fafnid cheerfully, moving to embrace the elderly man warmly. They exchanged a hug before separating and sitting in their respective seats. Fafnid was always off guard when talking with his father and he didn't enjoy that.

"You have been talking with Conrad, I see." stated the old man in a crackling, but strong voice.

"You dislike him as well?"

"You know my feelings towards the man. He is a brute and he drags our entire race into the mud." He paused, looking between Granis and Fafnid before leaning in and talking in a lower voice. "Many of the other elders feel the same way about him, you know."

Fafnid said nothing, but only shook his head in disappointment. "He is a strong man, a good leader and the people seem to love him greatly. Many are reminded of the great heroes of old when they look upon him. Like a beacon of hope to the crushed spirits of our people and I for one trust him deeply."

They remained in silence for almost a full minute, before Herrold spoke again. "I am just giving you a warning on who you place your trust in. He is not a favorite in the elders eyes at the moment."

With those words, he rose to his feet and began walking towards the entrance, stopping at the door. "You should get to Anvil soon." he said simply, before leaving into the daylight.

Fafnid's eyes followed his fathers slim figure out of the door, before nodding to himself. "Fetch a lad from the area and get our horses brought up here. You go gather a score of Nobles to accompany us to the Castle and meet me and Conrad back here in good order." he said and Granis pulled himself from the soft seat and took off through the doorway. Fafnid waited a few seconds and then got to his own feet with a groan and began pulling his clothes over his head and rummaging for even finer ones.

It was time for diplomacy, after all.
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Kim Bradley
 
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Post » Fri Feb 18, 2011 11:48 pm

OOC: Hey, I'm new, my profile is in this spoiler here.

Spoiler
Name: Alaudis Archen (All-odd-iss R-ken)
Race: Breton
six: Male
Birthsign: The Lady
Age: 20
Appearance: Alaudis is a young, boyish-faced Breton with a body of average height and a somewhat slender shape. He has flushed, well-tanned skin and thick brown hair kept back, flowing to the bottom of his neck. His fingernails are long, as characteristic of a Breton.
Skills: Alaudis has natural skills with magicka from being of Breton birth, skill with a bow, and wears light armor. He has advanced his capabilities through use and training, though he lacks the experience and finesse that come with time.
Armor: A suit of chainmail armor with leather coverings on the shoulder, elbow, torso, and greave areas, with his family's http://www.mytribe101.com/crest/cache/PxhN8uIyybcLlSTbaW4f5w.jpg sewn into the middle of the chest by his mother. Durable leather/fur boots and gloves purchased from the border of High Rock and Skyrim. Most importantly, a http://s228.photobucket.com/albums/ee11/Conan_Lon/Oblivion/VvardenfellGlass/?action=view¤t=Heavy_Male_Armor.jpg that his father brought back from Vvardenfell and was recovered from his body after he fell fighting for High Rock.
Weapons: A sturdy wooden longbow, a sharp silver dagger, and a fine http://www.jamesthejust.com/images/Long%20Sword%20II0011.JPG. It is inscribed upon the hilt "May sharp steel strike true." He has never used this blade, as it is a momento, retrieved from his dead brother's hand.
Personality: Alaudis is quiet at times, and gives his trust and friendship away easily. He is somewhat meek and shy, but if the situation calls for his inner strength, he can become very chivalrous, brave, and intimidating. In women he seeks love, romance, and happiness rather than pleasure.
History: Alaudis was born in High Rock, the second child of an average couple. His mother was a simple housewoman, while his father was a soldier in the service of High Rock. His older brother was Belarus (Bell-R-Us) Archen, a famed hero known for his good deeds. Belarus was but sixteen when his hometown, a small village near Llessan, was sacked by bandits, he rallied together a militia of boys near his age and attaked the bandit hideout, wiping them out, and returning all of the townspeople's stolen items and keepsakes. He went on to do many heroic deeds, such as personally lead defenses of major trade routes from highwaymen, slay a pack of wolves that were harming citizens, and become a respected fighters guild champion. He was killed while leading a band of men against a group of rebel mages who threatened attack mage's guildhalls in High Rock. Alaudis was always envious of his brother, he always wanted to be the heroic knight, clad in heavy armor hacking away at evildoers with a sword and winning the day. He has far more skill in magic than Belarus ever did, but he can't carry the weight of heavy armor, and isn't the best of swordsman. To make up for these shortcomings, he's become comfortable in light armor and the use of a bow, and has even more skill in magic than the average Breton. Soon after the death of his brother, his father was sent off to continue his service to High Rock, where he was slain. Alaudis misses his father and brother greatly, and he carries items that were returned to their family after each of their deaths. He has strived his entire life to become a hero, to live up to the name of his brother and the honor of his father.

Alaudis Archen - Gottshaw Inn
The night was cool, the sky black, spotted with tiny stars and the moons, their overlords, sparkling in the blackness. Alaudis continued walking at his relaxed pace as he marvled at the beauty in the dark night. All his other cares and thoughts went away, his hand slipped away from the silver dagger on his belt, highwaymen were the last thing on his mind right now. It was cold enough to see one's breath, but Alaudis' light, flexible armor kept him warm. His mind began to wander to the thought of his new life.

He had parted with his mother in his hometown of Llessan to seek his fortune, though not without a thousand goodbyes and the stitching of his family crest into his armor, and a small sack of some gold coins from his dearest mother. He knew his mother loved him and was proud of him, despite his brother being a hero. All that Alaudis wanted was to be just like Belarus, his name known by all, and tales of his deeds told throughout the ages. It was his dream, and he'd give anything to make it happen, but he had no idea where to start. He was a wanderer, an adventurer someday, maybe, but he always told himself he could be a hero, despite his own doubts.

He let out a heavy sigh and a thin wisp of vapor flashed in front of his mouth, and vanished. His trance was gone, and he looked ahead. The road stretched far into the dark, and he knew his journey to heroism would be a long one, but he had no doubts of it's worth in the end. In the distance, the lights of torches flickered. He wondered what it could be. An inn? A bandit encampment? As his thoughts began to run wild, he grasped the wooden longbow and pulled it from his back, the string sliding over his chest and off of his shoulder. Next came an iron arrow from his beaten leather quiver.

He stepped cautiously, and cracked a small smile. His lust for fun and adventure burned heavily inside his chest, and then... then it happened. The light was extinguished immediately and a loud noise erupted from ahead. The fire inside was blown out just as quick as the torch ahead, and now Alaudis was afraid. He cursed himself as he began to shake, knowing he'd never be a hero by being scared so easily.

He crept forward quickly, and carefully, and a small building came into sight, most of it at least. One side of the building was open-faced, the wall in shambles, and Alaudis watched from the road as two Dunmer men ran towards a figure in the dark. What was happening? He couldn't help but wonder. He drew back the arrow in his bow, and slowly walked toward the dusty wreckage.
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Kevin Jay
 
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