And I spelled 'Couldn't' wrong. Grr.

The RP itself takes place in Cheydinhal, play as either a Brotherhood Member, Guard, or civilian. Note: You can be a regular citizen that accidentally or purposely murders someone and gets recruited into the DB. But you DON'T HAVE TO. You can be a regular citizen if ye wish so...

This takes place after Lucian Lechance initiated the sanctuary cleansing. Arquen and the New Listener are busy trying to rebuild it. You (Those who choose to be current members or conscripted civilians) will become it's new denizens. Figure, this RP has somewhat of a 'free-run' type of thing, though over time, a plot will begin to develop.

RULES:

1. No ubering or character control.
2. My word is law, disobey and your character will be killed or mortally wounded.
3. There can only be one Vampire and/or Werewolf. The Werewolf slot is already taken.
4. Just have fun. I don't want arguing or any sort of negativity in my RP.
5. Be realistic, don't make a ninja-like character, or some blood-thirsty lunatic. And don't defy the laws of gravity.
6. PM all Character sheets and problems to me.
7. Let your creative juices flow!
8. Keep OOC posts to a minimum, and please, no short posts unless you must.
---

You may use your own variant of Character Sheets, but they MUST Include the following:

Hobbies (What they like to do.)
Perks/Strengths (What they're good at, it can be anything humanly possible, or unique things about them.)
Cons/Weaknesses (What they're bad at, or things that effect them in negative ways. Like Asthma.)

Gerrard sat in the back of the Cheydinhal Bridge Inn. A Nord and two other Bretons sat across from him, each holding a hand of playing cards. Gerrard had been engaging in a game of tarocchi for an hour or two, though he had lost track of time.

"I win." proclaimed the Nord at last. This customer had been beating Gerrard for several games, and Gerrard began to feel suspicion. Finally, he snapped.

"Cheat again," he growled, "and the only thing you're betting is your life." Gerrard drew a dagger from his belt and pointed it at his opponent's throat.

"Hey, no weapons!" called the bartender. Gerrard scowled momentarily and slid the blade back into its sheath. "Well," Gerrard sneered, "you may win this one. But don't say I didn't warn you." He rose from the table, took his coat out from the rack and slid it on, then walked out the door, spitting the plug of tobacco he was chewing onto the floor. "You clean it up." he called to the Nord as he slammed the door shut.

Striding through the streets on this late afternoon, Gerrard decided it was about time to head back home. He had gambled plenty in one day and called it a night. But, as a escaped criminal and general drifter, Gerrard had no "home" to call his own. He relied on his acquaintances to provide him with a rood over his head. Or in this case, a well.

Careful to make sure no one was looking, Gerrard creeped behind a house and cast a chameleon spell over himself. Now, grown transparent, the Breton silently opened up the well grate, grabbed the rope hanging down, and slid in.

Gerrard found himself at the place he spent most of his time reclining and conversing with his fellows. This was his only home.

The Cheydinhal sanctuary of the notorious Dark Brotherhood.


For newcomers, here's my CS, by the way.

Name: Gerrard Benton
Gender: Male
Race: Breton
Age: 34
Birthsign: The Steed

Height: I'm not good with heights, so...average?
Build: Slim, but not scrawny.
Eye Colour: Brown
Hair Style: Medium-length hair going to the back of his neck and swept forward across his crown. Has a moustache and light stubble around his chin.
Hair Colour: Black with a few grey spots

Class: Hitman
Focus: Combat
Skills: Blade, Security, Illusion, Sneak, Alchemy, Athletics, Acrobatics.

General Appearance: Somewhat tall and thin, tends to lean back in corners. Is a tobacco chewer and is often seen chewing a wad or two.
Tattoos/Scars: None visible.

Clothing: Wears a black coat and hood over darkened leather armour when on missions, ordinary clothes when in disguise.
Accessories: Has a few daggers tucked into his belt and a bandoleer slung over his shoulder. He hangs a poison vial and his tobacco pouch on this bandoleer.

Armour: Leather chest piece under coat with leather gloves and boots.
Weapons: Mostly daggers. He does keep a short sword on his belt for "special occasions".

Magic: Knows some illusion spells, mostly related to mild Chameleon ability.

Mentality: Cool and calculated, a man of few words, as it is. Cracks a few dry jokes from time to time, but other than that is serious. Despite his cold airs, he is a ruthless fighter. He knows the truth about Sithis and does not believe in its godly power, but keeps in the DB to make a living.

Rank: Executioner

History:

-Born in the IC.
-Worked as an alchemist's assistant until he turned 20, when he joined the Legion.
-Served as a soldier for a few years, but had notoriety for being especially ruthless to fugitives.
-Eventually his own army-mates turned on him. Gerrard killed them, but was jailed for his attack.
-Managed to escape from jail, and kept a low profile, moving away to Cheydinhal.
-Word got out to the DB about his ruthlessness, and was recruited. Gerrard joined happily.

Hobbies:
-Chewing tobacco
-Gambling
-Poison making

Talents:

-Can make poisons due to alchemy training.
-Sadistic streak.
-Blends into crowds easily.
-Trained himself to blow smoke out of his mouth while chewing tobacco.

Disadvantages:

-Slightly arrogant
-Addicted to tobacco and gambling
-Easily irritable
-Tends to jump into things head-first

Also, here's something I'd imagine him saying (or more likely thinking):
"I'm a professional hit-man working for a cult of assassins and I'm enjoying every bit of it. I don't agree with their superstitious ways, but I serve them anyhow. More servitude means more contracts. More contracts means more kills. More kills means more pay. More pay means more tobacco, and more tobacco means more happiness for me. Helps me get out my more sadistic feelings too..."

OOC: i'll assume its fine to just jump in. , and there has been a few minor changes to my CS but nothing major or lich like... *cough*

Name: Eileti (Known only by his Family) (EE-lit-eye)
Nickname: 'Jet' (given to him by owners) 'Pale-Heart' (given to him by slaves)
Gender: Male
Race: Khajiit
Age: 46 (might need changing depending on how long ago the ban on slavery was)
Birthsign: The Shadow

Height: 5 ft 11.
Build: Fairly muscular in the athletic sense, but not noticeable beneath his fur.
Eye Colour: Pale Blue
Hair Style: N/A
Fur Colour: Jet Black with a white area around his throat and top of chest

Class: Eliminator
Focus: Stealth
Skills: Blade, Block (with his bracer blades), Marksman (knives), Sneak, Armorer, Acrobatics.

General Appearance: Quite a thick glossy coat of fur but very neat and looks as though its been combed through. Looks quite regal with his stature and expression. His coat is slightly bushy in places and seems to exaggerate his form.
Tattoos/Scars: None visible.

Clothing: Dark Wide Pants with a and a torn black scarf wrapped around his neck, covering his white throat, its very long and its torn ends hang down his back.
Accessories: He has a large iron hoop attached to his belt that he uses as a key ring, on it are roughly 17 slave bracer keys from the various places he has freed slaves in the past.

All weapons are made from a shiny black steel, are smooth and undecorated and are purely black..
Armor: A black steel bracer covering his left forearm, black leather boots.
Weapons: Short katana with a 24 inch blade (60cm) with a matching scabbard strapped diagonally across his back. His bracer on his left arm has two 14 inch blades (36cm) that stick out over his knuckles like a fist claw, they have a simple mechanism at their base that allow them to fold back into a safe position up his arm, but with a flick of the wrist they can spring forth into an attacking position. He also has many small throwing knives (6inch/15cm) in various places such as his pockets, behind his bracer and in his boots.

Magic: Moonshadow.

Mentality: Protective to friends and vengeful to foes, he has a very different nature towards people of different classes. Although he is a Lone Wolf he can be a loyal ally to those he trusts or those he feels he has pledged his life to free. When he lets his guard down he is just a big fat lazy cat.

Hobbies: Repairing, sharpening and polishing his weapons. Sleeping and preening himself.

Perks: Has a variable resistance to many poisons due to his abuse early in life.

Cons: Isn't as skilled a fighter as he might appear. Is very recognizable and stands out.

History:i wrote an in depth history but it was REEALLLY long.... so I made a summary instead lol.

-Born in Elsweyr
-Village attacked by Slave traders, Father killed. Mother, Sister and Eileti enslaved.
-Taken to Morrowind and Eileti was sold to cruel Alchemist, used to safety test potions.
-Sold to Merchant because he developed resistances and was of no further use.
-Merchant was mean and beat him, but Eileti learnt to be strong and endure.
-Merchant sold him in Suran then he was bought by Orc smith.
-Smith taught him all about making and fixing weapons.
-Smith grew attached to Eileti like a son and taught him to fight.
-Smith set him free and suited him up with Equipment. (Weapons and Armor)
-Eileti set out on quest to find his Mother and Sister though his chances were thin.
-He spent a few years in Morrowind hunting down smugglers and slave owners, freeing as many slaves as he could.
-News spread about him, referred to as Pale-Heart the Savior.
-He heard that his mother had died by the hand of an Abusive Noble, Eileti found and killed him
-The dark brotherhood approached him and gave him a task to test his loyalty before eventually initiating him into the ranks.
-The ban on slavery was passed soon after and Eileti's mind was put to rest, knowing his sister may now be safe and living a proper life.
-He has been a dark brother for only a short while but has recently been transferred to the Cheydinhal sanctuary to compensate for the recent cleansing.
-Although he is now an assassin, he still mourns the loss of his sister and hopes that one day he will find her.

----------------------------

As the soft echo of feet landing came drifting through the halls of the sanctuary, Eileti stirred from his slumber upon the hard wooden armchair in the darkened corner of the room. The large black cat sat slumped with his arms folded as if to make the statement 'do not wake on punishment of being very severely moaned at', yet as he woke gently all that moved was the slight opening of one large blue eye; catching the dim light within the hall and shining it back the fellow brother that had just entered like a lone wisp in the shadows. As he recognised the intruder upon his dreams, he gave a huge yawn and a stretch that would make even a daedroth reciprocate, then slowly he pushed himself up off the chair with his hands firmly on the wooden arms and took a few steps into the light before greeting Gerrard.

"Your back early Gerrard, run out of that foul gunk you chew?" he asked in a deep husky voice with mocking overtones.

OOC:

Post edited slightly to acknowledge korroded-korpses post. I'm not sure what name we would call him???




The robed wizard sat at the long and low wooden table, a book in his hand as he rested his bare feet on the table. No candles burned around him, but two small stones sat in place of the candles and emitted a green light. They were enchanted by the man sitting between them, who sat comfortably, smoking his footlong redwood pipe and read through the newest book he had on wand making.

Every now and again a ring of smoke would drift out from his mouth, and through many years of practice, they would remain in a ring even as he blew them many feet across the large room that was the "Common Room" of the Sanctuary.

He placed his book on the table as he sat up to refill his pipe (for the third time that hour!), and glanced up as he heard a slight grating of metal on stone that signalled a Brother or Sister coming home. Sure enough a man appeared in the broken wall at the wells bottom, and Matthew saw it was only Gerrard. He nodded at the man, not sure if he noticed Mattthew or not, and sat back again, lighting his pipe with the smallest of magical flames.

He wasn't all that close to Gerrard, as the man was the "dark and brooding silent type assassin", who probably had some horrible dark past and played that part perfectly. Or he was really just a complete [censored]. Matthew hadn't decided which yet, though he was leaning of a mixture of the both because the man could defiantly be an [censored] sometimes.

Skilled fighter though. he thought absent-mindedly as he went on with his readings. He did listen however, as the large Khajiit, Pale-Heart, rose from his slumber in an armchair to meet the man.

"It's a wee bit light out for sleep, now, isn't it?" Gerrard snidely responded. "Anyway, the bartender didn't approve of my...well, unique way of settling conflicts. I'm beginning to really hate those tarocchi cheaters, now. Keep me wasting money I could be spending on the things that please me." Gerrard patted a dagger in his pocket knowingly. "Good thing I'm in a well-paying job then." he said, ever the more euphemistic. Gerrard then sat down at his desk and fiddled with some poison ingredients. "Yes, yes." he muttered to himself. "Sprig of nightshade here, extract of mandrake there, yes. This will be just what I need to get back at that scoundrel." Gerrard mused on his intentions, hoping that the next time he saw his rival gambler he'd get a chance to make him fold for the last time.

Name: Galvon
Nickname: none
Gender: Male
Race: Dunmer
Age: 18
Birthsign: Steed

Height: 5'5
Physical Description: Galvon is bald, which is odd for his young age. He has a scar running down from his left eyebrow down to halfway his left cheek. He doesn't know where the scar came from. On his back he has a strange tattoo and he has no idea what it means.
Physical Description as a werewolf: He has black fur, yellow eyes, and the same scar, which he scratched himself

Clothing/Armor: Basic, everyday clothing
Weapons: A fine steel long sword
Misc Items: Repair hammer

Hobbies: Galvon likes to take long walks around the town, talking to everyone. He works at the March Rider and noticed that a steel dagger has been stolen, but doesn't care. He just works as an apprentice blacksmith. When ever he gets the chance, he goes down to the fighters guild to learn how to fight with a sword

Perks: He can fix any type of weapon or armor. He is also very perceptive and notices the small things in life.

Cons: There are points where he just can't remember what happens

Mental Status: He is slightly insane, but only because he feels like he loses time. Other then that, he's very friendly

Short bio: Galvon was born in Anvil and he only moved to Cheydinhal because his parents felt unsafe with the chapel being attacked. At the age of 16 he found out he liked to repair armor and weapons for the town guard, so he became an apprentice at the March Rider and has worked there for 3 years. He has lost at least three months of time and doesn't understand why. He noticed that a strange mark has appeared on his back after he was bitten by a wolf on one of his trips to the Imperial City. He killed the wolf, but now strange things have been happening...

Misc Info:

-Tries to be friends with everybody
-Doesn't use any magicka at all, unless he needs to use a fire spell to help with his blacksmithing
-Wants to learn why he has lost time
-Wants to travel once he can afford the trips, but needs money

IC: Galvon woke in his home, memories of last night were a blur. He looked around, his clothes were shredded...again. His walls had strange claw marks. What in Oblivion is happening in this town? was his only thought. He looked outside and saw the sun high in the sky. He swore silently to himself and grabbed a new set of clothes. He grabbed his steel sword, although he was sure he wasn't going to need it, and ran off to the March Rider. His boss glared at him for arriving late. He bowed to his trainer.
"I'm sorry I'm late. I slept in." His boss just shook her head.
"How late were you out last night?" I don't know...that's the problem...
"Pretty late...I'm sorry."
"Doesn't matter, just get to work." He just nodded and ran to his station.He put on his apron, and got to work on repairing the guard's armor.

ic: As a dark fog came rushing into the streets and alleyways of Cheydinhal, storm clouds began to form. A small drizzle turned into a heavy downpour. Many of the Cheydinhal denizens, fled the apocalyptic rain to seek refuge in their homes. Soon, with in seconds, the streets were empty, all that remained, were the weary guards that patrolled the town day in and day out.
One Guard, bearing a torch moved briskly past one of the various dark alley ways. As he casually walked, a large gust of wind forced him to raise his chain mail gloved hand to protect his face from the rain that had been thrown into it by the vindictive wind. He glanced for only a second down the dark alley way, and spotted something, that seemed, to him, 'out of place'. Sure, the alley was already black as a bandits heart, but something down there stuck out. It was near a large wooden crate; a small darker circle, seemingly darker then the surrounding area. The Imperial Guardsmen focused his torch towards the mysterious black shape. He was about to dismiss it as a figment of his imagination, until a crack of lightning sounded off, and the alley was lit up.
---

Kim worked hard at trying to pry the lock from the wooden crate with his claws. Normally it would have taken all but a few seconds, but it was dark from the black storm clouds, and raining and of course that cursed fog that just invaded the town, unannounced. It had been a while since he had eaten; finding a means to survive everyday was quite challenging, and at the young lizards age, it made more of a challenge. He was an outcast, a beggar. A freak. The word hit Kim like a hammer, it was the name he had been called all his life. People hated him for what he was, and some even wanted to kill him. And not one, not one person tried to place themselves in the poor Argonian's shoes. He sighed silently as he forced a stifling sob out of his system. Not now... He thought. That's when he noticed a small circle of light, slowly heading towards him.
Sodie looked up slowly, to see a Town Guard walk suspiciously into the alley, ironically towards the small black-scaled Argonian sitting on the ground. Kim froze, maybe the guard would just walk away or something. But Kim knew, that the guard had seen him. Not really, really, seen him, but spotted something in the alley that just happened to be Kim.

Things started to look up as the guard paused for a moment and shrugged. But when that loud thunderous boom scared Kim half to death, and the alley way lighting up like a bonfire that incinerated the fog in the alley scared the other half. And sadly the guard was looking right at the scaly street urchin the entire time. The Imperial man gasped out of shock, and Kim wasted no time. He sprang to his feet and leaped to the side wall of a house, climbing up the wooden surface like a spider.
Within seconds, he had reached the roof of the 2-story house before the guard could even register what he had seen.
Once on the roof, Kim lay down on his back on the hard wooden surface, looking up at the dark sky and letting the cold rain shower him. That was close...

ooc: Sorry if you get the impression that it's night. It really isn't, just a thick dark fog kinda invaded Cheydinhal, as well as some dark rain clouds and stuff. In-game when it's foggy and cloudy and in the afternoon, it looks quite dark

Name: Trisha Alomar
Nickname: Trish
Race: Redguard
Age: 30

Class: Listener
Class Skills: Sneak, Dagger, Athletics, Acrobatics, Light Armour, Speechcraft, Security

General Appearence: Trisha is a pretty woman with ebony coloured skin and black hair pulled back into a ponytail. She stands at five feet ten inches, she is slender and agile with an athletic build. She usually has a faint smile on her face yet her eyes are hard and cold from years of killing.

Clothing/Armour: When at the Sanctuary, Trisha wears her customary black Dark Brotherhood robes with her hood up except when talking to others. When she is not in the Sanctuary she wears a white long sleeved tunic under a black vest with black linen pants and pigskin shoes.

Magic: Invisibility, Paralize, Open Lock, Shield, Night Eye

Weapons: Trisha has three daggers, two sheathed on either hip and one hidden up her sleeve that she uses only to kill targets.

Mentality: Trisha is cool under pressure and never shows emotion to anyone. She can get angry though when men try to flirt with her and she usually ends up breaking their bones or killing them. She is quick witted and will take any challenge given to her.

Short Bio: Trisha had a normal childhood but when she was twenty years old a man tried to force himself upon her and she ended up killing him with his own dagger. She was recruited into the Dark Brotherhood shortly after and was trained by senior members of the Brotherhood in the art of killing.

She became a member of the Black Hand when she was twenty five and enjoyed recruiting others into the Brotherhood and being their mentor,

One day she recieved news that the Listener of the Brotherhood had been killed by a Legion officer. The other members of the Black Hand agreed that Trisha was to be the new Listener. She has served faithfully ever since.



IC: The moon was high in the sky and the denizens of Bravil slumbered peacefully. Trisha Alomar moved quietly through the streets as the guards did their usual rounds. She carried no torch as the moon was full and no clouds poluted the skies. She walked by a guard who looked at her suspiciously but in the end shrugged it off and continued his patrol.

Trisha came to the statue of the Lucky Old Lady in the centre of the the small city of Bravil. She looked deep into the Lucky Old Lady's eyes, then heard a soft and soothing voice in her head. Listener, it said, A Bosmer woman in southern Valenwood has guided another to the Void. Find her, and bring her to the Sanctuary so that she may take her position among my children and serve Sithis as others have before her.

"As you wish, my lady." she whispered to the statue. Trisha stepped closer, and getting on the tip of her toes, she kissed the Lucky Old Lady on the cheek. As she made her way to the city gates a young and haggard looking man blocked her path.

"Hand over all your money and things won't have to get ugly." he said in a hushed voice and showing her the dagger in his hand. Trisha smiled at him as if he were someone she had known all her life.

"I could give you my hard earned money, or I could just do this." Trisha grabbed the man's wrist and twisted it savagely. There was a sickening crunch and then a scream as she forced him to his knees, her own dagger in hand. The man screamed still so Trisha opened his throat, ear to ear before casting a spell and vanishing before the guards could find her.

Galvon finished his shift at the March Rider and left, happy to finally be free. He walked outside and ran into a guard. He waved, but the guard didn't seem to notice. The expression he had on his face was confusion, as if the guard saw something that wasn't there. Galvon shrugged his shoulders and left the guard to do whatever they did. He ran over to the Fighter's Guild hall and went downstairs. There were two new recruits down there, one was an Orc and the other was an Imperial, and they were sparring with wooden swords. Galvon put his sword on the weapon rack and grabbed a wooden sword. He walked into the circular arena. The two recruits looked at him.
"Can I spar with you two?" He asked. They nodded and the Imperial stepped out. The Orc prepared, but Galvon held his hand out.
"I meant both of you verse me?"
"Really? You think you can beat both of us?" The Orc asked. Galvon shrugged.
"Probably not, but I intend to try." The Imperial stepped in and Galvon held the sword at the ready. The Imperial charged at him. He swung the wooden sword and Galvon parried the blow. The Orc jumped in and Galvon sidestepped his sword. Galvon probably should not have challenged the two at the same time. He was having a hard time. He saw his chance when the Imperial jabbed. He spun, grabbed the Imperial's wrist, kneed him in the chest and took his sword. Now what? He didn't know how to dual wield. The Orc charged and Galvon parried with one blade and jabbed the Orc in the ribs with the other. The Orc doubled over and Galvon started panting. He was never that good with swords, at least until three months ago. He didn't know what has changed. He dropped both swords and ran and grabbed his sword. He was faster then he was a second ago. What in Oblivion is happening to me? Then a splitting headache attacked his head. He threw the sword up and put his hands to his head, screaming. The Orc and Imperial ran over to help and Galvon's spine began to snap. The two new recruits were worried. Then Galvon's hands turned into paws and claws sprang from them. Fur sprouted from his skin and he was now on all fours. The two fighters slowly backed up, their faces pale by the sight of a creature they only believed to be in Solsthiem. They couldn't run and get help because Galvon, now complete as a werewolf, was blocking the door. And they knew their screams wouldn't carry through the stone floor. They knew they were going to die...Galvon sprung....


Galvon woke in the woods, his cloths shredded, his head throbbing. He pulled a steel arrow from his rib. He gasped as the arrow came out. He looked around. What the hell... He stood up, and looked around. He found his sword..which he found odd. He picked up his sword and walked back to the city.


He entered his home and put on a new set of clothes. He was going to get to the bottom of this mystery. When he stepped out into the street, he saw that a mob formed. The town guard held torches. He ran over to see what was going on. He saw a friend of his, Beeleez-Ra, and walked up to him.
"What's going on?" He asked. Beeleez-Ra looked at him like he was on skooma.
"Where has this one been? Two Fighter's Guild members were killed, and the basemant was clawed. Up from the wall, the Imperials said they saw a huge black wolf run into the forrest. They tried to shoot it down with their steel arrows, but to no effect. They say it may have been a werewolf..." Galvon's mouth fell open in shock. Is it really possible...that would explain the loss of time..oh no....

First thing, sorry i've been out. Second, we really did that name >< no offense, but its just kinda cheesy, especially if the night mom doesn't play a huge role^^. So, this is my char sheet, and here we go^^

Name: Iryanil (Ur-yaugh-nil) the III
Nickname: Too proud of his heritage for a nickname, demands to be called Iryanil (Iryanil the III prefferably)
Gender: Male
Race: Altmer (High Elf)
Age: 31 and a half (Also stresses the half; wants to be older, to be more respected, it seems)
Birthsign: The Tower

Height: 6' 5''
Build: Muscular, not bulky though, but not quite slim. Buffer than most Altmer, but not enough to make him stand out.
Eye Color: A murky gold, almost bronze; but he calls it gold
Hair Style: Parted down the middle, medium length going down from his bangs behind his ears, though most of the time some falls in front of them. The rest, being the back and sides, is swept back and held with oil and a potion of his own making. It appears shiny, but is not oily or greasy to the touch. No facial hair.
Hair Color: Satin Blonde with a few darker lines, but they can only be seen in the light, when he forgot to color them that morning.

Class: Illusionist (is what he calls it, but it resembles an assassin)
Focus: Magic
Skills: Alchemy, Illusion, Speechcraft, Security, Acrobatics, Light Armor, Hand to Hand (However, he is fairly well trained in alteration, shortblade mostly daggers, sneak, and a little mysticism. He is not particularly adept at these, but he would have you believe differently)
Abilities: Personality and Agility

General Appearance: A typical snobby Altmer, pale gold skin and often wears a knowing look on his face, although it can also appear smug. He has delicate fingers and hands, as if he played a musical instrument, but they also seem to have scars on the knuckles from frequent fighting and hand to hand training. His stomack is flat, not a six pack, but seems to be getting there; his chest is the same, flat but muscular. He has slender, tapered shoulders and wiry-strong arms. He will often pose whenever he stops walking.
Scars and tattoos: Only scars are the ones on his knuckles and a single cut running along his calf, which he hides with clothing or bandage whenever he can. A single tattoo of a gemstone on the palm of his left hand, the type cannot be determined for the color has long faded, leaving a black outline with his gold skin coloring the inside.

Clothing: Wears finery whenever possible: gold, black, blue, red, or purple. He refuses to wear green or yellow, and you will never see him in it. Silk or satin shirts for resting indoors, but settles for a pure cotton weave when he must; he wears fur in the wintertime. On missions, he wears a well oiled chainmail vest and gauntlets, silenced; perhaps by magic. Over his chainmail vest, he will wear a flat black shirt; covering his gauntlets with a long strip of black cloth wrapped around all but the fingers. Also for missions, he wears black pants that end at his ankles and similarly black shoes, with padding for the heel and balls of the foot.
Accessories: Often wears a belt, matching his outfit, black for mission attire, adorned with potion and poison bottles, a few low quality daggers, and a pouch. The bottles and daggers are wrapped and attached with black cloth similar to his gauntlets. He carries in said pouch two soulgems, both greater quality, lockpicks, and several powders and other ingrediants which he will either use raw or combine in a potion. Within his shirt he often carries a spare dagger, smaller than the ones on his belt, and constantly poisoned with a special ingrediant which he has become immune to. He will also carry lengths of rope, small pieces of chain, long enough to wrap around a person and still have a little left, and other tools to large or too cumbersome to go into his pouch or on his belt, are sometimes wrapped around his chest or within the folds of his shirt.

Armor: If a mission requires open combat without option, he will apt to have a few pieces of leather pads on his legs and arms under his clothes, and a small, black leather pauldron on his right shoulder.
Weapons: Favors magic and his hands, but if the situation requires speed or he is without magic, he will use one of many daggers on his person. If he runs out, or cannot get to one, he can summon one with general ease. Rope, chains, wire, and other versatile items for traps, confinement, etc. can also be used as weapons, if the situation requires.

Magic: Knows many illusion spells including invisibilty, chameleon, rage, charm, calm, night eye, paralyze, silence, and many spells not available in game, but can be found in lore and are most definately not uber or anything of the like. He has some destruction ability, but prefers non-elemental spells like damage health; he also has some conjuration skill, mostly in summoning daggers. He can use most useful alteration effects like burden, shields, open, and water breating. His mysticism skill is limited to mild to moderate soul traps and a teensy bit of telekenisis, just to show off. His restoration is really just healing minor scraqes on his own person.

Mentality: When he's not being aloof or removed to seem cooler, he can actually be a very boring person to talk to. His favorite topics are generally academic, ranging from history to theology, psychology to algebra, he is more than willing to show off his years of intense research. If you can get him to talk about a matter serious and relevant, he can be one of two ways: frightened out of his mind, or set in stone and willing to do whatever it takes. He questions most theories and religions in a very scientific way, but will never admit he's wrong about anything; he doesn't really believe in Sithis, being a very established lore master, knowing His purpose. Lives off of a small amount of inheritance in the form of family heirlooms he stole from his older siblings, contract money, and money he gets for training and teaching other brotherhood members.

History:

• Grew up in a lower middle class family, was fourth child in a family of six children.
  
• Grew up in Morrowind, father was an owner of a monopoly of apotcheries and mother was a minor politician
  
• Father killed by a morag tong assassin hired by a rival apotchery business. Mother soon killed herself, leaving orphans including Iryanil
  
• He was fourteen at the time, and was spending most of his time getting the guards to help him take some of his siblings inheritance for his own
  
• Eventually couldn't get a much wanted item and killed his younger brother in a fit of passion. He regrets it now, but he is not still grieving becasue as a consequence he was invited to Brotherhood.
  
• Ever since has spent life mastering skills and being an assassin and teacher.

Talents: Persuasionist, is one of the ones who bribed politicians and guards to turn a blind eye to DB. Also used illusions to deter more troublesome citizens from sanctuary without trouble. Good potion and poison maker. Sells spells and teaches illusion, amongst other things.

Oddities: Capable of ingesting many types of poisonous plants without harm due to a stomach abnormality; most can still effect him by method other than orally, except a few he trained himself against. He often uses this as a bluff. He is a very good mathemetician, and has been kicked out of many pubs for counting cards. Views men as inferior (like most Altmer), is afraid of beast races (like many people), and views Dunmer as "savage elves"

Hobbies: Tying knots, physically or magically, and practicing spells. Reading about and contemplating abstract subjects, and teaching/lecturing people about magic. Or telling them his family history.

Pros and Cons: Not incredibly athletic, but fairly acrobatic, so don't get confused on that one. He has some trouble with missions, he is always in a constant state of fearing he'll be discovered, though he almost never is. Sometimes, he forgets to check his notes and carries out an assignment wrong. He doesn't spend a great deal of time studying important things, he tends to focus more on the abstract, like philosophy, psychology, astronomical physics, etc. but he retains information very well.

IC: It is mid-dawn, in the forested region east of cheydinhall. The clouds are grey, and look like they could rain at any moment, but Iryanil hopes silently to himself that they don't. Rained most of yesterday afternoon. That was very annoying.

He looked down from his hilly perch on the walls and rooftops of Cheydinhall. Standing up from his crouch, he almost slipped when one of the rocks beneath him fell down the slope. "Blast." He muttered, casting a small spell to stop the stone from making noise and alerting potential threats below. Re-entering his crouch, he slinked his way down, taking care to step only on the sturdiest of rocks. He smiled and took the stone that had almost fallen from its position 4 feet in the air, levitated. Morrowind's spells are great. He thought.

Iryanil looked up at the battlements on the wall leading into cheydinhall. Dressed in full mission attire, he would cause suspicion going in the front gate, he decided this way was better. The tall altmer cinched the knot on his belt, and took one of many potion bottles from its spot along the black cloth. He tapped the cork with his index finger and the magically sealed cap popped off silently. He looked at the yellow-green liquid inside with a small grimace before he took two large gulps, turning invisible and causing him to float off the ground slightly at the same time.

He tilted his head up towards the sky, causing his meticulously styled, quite invisible, satin blonde hair to rustle slightly, and he began to gain altitude. He was soon at the top of the stone wall, and he gave a quick glance side to side. Seeing no guards, he let himself down onto the narrow walkway between the two ledges. He looked down to make sure no beggars had decided to make camp here after he had left before he slowly levitated downwards. Halfway down the wall, he felt the effects of his potion begin to dissappear. He quickly cast another invisibilty spell, but had no time to re-cast levitation, falling the remaining six feet to the ground, landing unsteadily on his feet.

I could swear that one should have lasted the whole way down. he thought to himself with a slight frown on his usually eloquent face. He shrugged, causing a slight shimmer in the air where his shoulders usually appear. He dusted off his black leggings, then proceeded quietly through the streets of Cheydinhall, towards the infamous abandoned shack on the edge of town.

On his way to the hidden sanctuary, Iryanil noticed a sign up outside the local weaponry store, the March Rider. It read "For Sale:Legendary Sword, Captain Kordan's Saber. Magically gain skill, energy, and agility from your foes, now just under 3800 septims!" Iryanil thought about the sword, It would be nice, I could even sell it to a brother for a tidy profit. He removed his invisibility spell and cast a quick illusion spell on himself to change his appearance to that of an imperial monk, opened the door and walked inside.

Upon entering, Iryanil found himself inside a homely little store, decorated in the Cheydinhal fashion. One part of the main floor appeared to be a forge, with a smelting oven that appeared to have remained unused for quite some time. The other part of the room was decorated with multiple suits of armor and weaponry on tables and shelves. The shopkeeper, who Iryanil knew as Tertia Viducia, spoke to him as he walked in "Can I help you with anything?"

"No thank you, ma'am, I was just looking around." Iryanil said, with his most innocent tone. He walked around the small room for a few minutes, seeing the saber positioned on a shelf to the left of the counter, on little supports. "Actually, you wouldn't happen to have a pen and inkwell I could use, would you?" He asked.

"Not down here, but I've got one upstairs. Hold on." The imperial woman said, walking over to the stairs.

"Bless you." Iryanil said innocently. His disguise wore off just as Tertia was opening the door to the upstairs. The illusionist, black outfit fully visible, calmly walked over to the shelf that held "Captain Kordan's Saber" and removed it from it's supports. He placed the blade back into it's sheath, and then stored it in a special pocket along the inside-back of his shirt. The handle barely poked out above his collar. He left the store, re-cast his invisibilty, and walked down the street to the abandoned house. He heard a soft shout behind him as he removed the iron grate of the well and made hsi way down, replacing the grate above him.

He decided to keep himself invisible until he had made his way to the sleeping quarters of the sanctuary, and only returned to the visible spectrum when he quietly fell asleep, still in full mission clothing.

Name: Markus Taliman
Gender: Male
Race: Imperial
Age: 32

Height: 6' 2"
Physical Description: In my mind, he always looked a bit like a cross between http://media.photobucket.com/image/lieutenant%20dan/bahloo83/gump05.jpg and http://i209.photobucket.com/albums/bb43/tish4dw/adam%20baldwin/firefly_adam_baldwin_05_handson-pro.jpg, leaning more toward Gary. Pretty muscular, as should be typical for an assassin. Dark Brown eyes, nice bit of stubble around his face.

Clothing/armor: Full kit of dark leather armor (minus the helm) packed away for when he needs it, otherwise he just wears a plain shirt and pants.
Weapons: As an assassin, he obviously has quite a few weapons. He carries around a silver dagger strapped to his ankle, and keeps other weapons packed away along with his armor. His other weapons include a silver bow (painted black in order to blend into the darkness) along with about 30 ebony arrows (ebony for the same reason the bow is black). He also has a Silver longsword and an elven shortsword.
Other Equipment: Markus wears a watch on his left hand.

Skills (Pros): Markus is proficent in the many schools of stealth and combat, the latter quite incredibly so. Put in a small space filled with armed men, Markus could probably incapacitate everyone in a matter of seconds. When necessary, he can effectively wield any weapon, but is especially proficient in both swordsman- and marksmanship.

Cons: Markus has his own vague sense of justice, often questioning his clients' claims. As a result, he is frowed upon by a few more devout members of the brotherhood. Nevertheless, he is known and respected by most brothers through his exceptional prowess as an assassin.

Hobbies: Despite his dark occupation, Markus has quite a talent for the guitar.

Personality: Markus does not always conform to the Brotherhood's beliefs, but he gets the job done quickly and effectively. He has never prayed to Sithis, the Night Mother, or any other deity. He can be humorous at times, but most often he is a very serious person. He has a sense of justice that he believes the Brotherhood would never understand; and as a result he keeps to himself most of the time. Also, when he gets an opportunity, he likes to time how long it takes for him to "clear a room."

Short Bio: Born in Skingrad, Markus's father was a skilled thief; his mother died after childbirth. As the two tried to scraqe enough money to eat, Markus was taught by his father how to steal, pickpocket, and most of all, to hide. Once, when his father witnessed Markus's fine talent with a bow, he went out and got one for his son; he never told Markus how he got it. Markus snuck behind the fighters guild to practice, and became quite skilled.

One day, the Skingrad guards arrived at Markus's front door, and took his father prisoner. Markus grabbed the bow and fired upon the guards, killing all three of them. His father, however, was killed in the process. Markus was 11.

The Dark Brotherhood caught wind of the boy, and took him in. He was trained further in stealth and swordsmanship, and became an assassin. Markus has since risen through the ranks, and has become quite respected and well-known among the Brotherhood.


IC: Markus walked forward through the mist. He moved deliberately, taking note of all that was around him. His quick pace disturbed no one; to any passerby, he was simply a man who seemed like he was in a rush. Maybe he was late for an appointment, or on his way to work. But Markus was in no rush; that was simply the speed at which he normally moved. It was the way he did everything: quickly and efficiently. And he was never late for anything, though his brisk pace implied otherwise; There was not much room for lateness in his profession.

He continued on through the misty streets of Cheydinhal, until he could see the abandoned house on the side of town. The dwelling looked as if it had not been touched in years, but Markus knew otherwise. He took a glance at the well near the side of the house, and shook his head. Damn kids are using that thing too much these days. What's wrong with using the damn door? So Markus made his way up to the door and turned the handle.

The rusty knob turned with a sharp, grinding noise. The door creaked as he pushed it in, revealing the darkness within. Markus walked on into the rundown house. Strange noises came from the floorboards as he walked over them, but Markus barely noticed; he'd been in this house too many times to care. As descended into the basemant, he could see a dark red glow coming from the end of the hallway. Markus continued on towards it, not slowing his pace in the slightest.

As Markus approached the door, a sinister voice echoed from within it. "What is the color of night?"

Markus, unphased, promptly anwered in a sigh: "Sanguine, my brother."

The door opened and Markus walked inside.

Gerrard looked up from his poison-making. "Hello, Markus. What've you been doing?" The Breton slung his tobacco pouch off from his shoulder and dropped it on the table. "Care for some?" This apparent gesture of greeting was, as everyone in the sanctuary knew, just a cruel joke that Gerrard played on the other assassins. Anyone foolish enough to actually take a plug would just be slapped before they could chew it and have it taken back.

Gerrard never let anyone do so much as touch his tobacco.

Markus smiled at Gerrard. He could remember the first time he offered him tobacco; He had been taken down halfway before it had reached his mouth. "Not this time, Gerrard," he chuckled. "Not if I want to keep my head. Making poisons, I see?" He rummaged through his back pocket, and pulled out a small wad of nightshade. "I found some on my way over, and thought you might like some. But remember," he drew closer to Gerrard. "If I find any of that stuff in my food, you're a dead man." Markus chuckled and gave Gerrard a friendly pat on the back.

"Hey, do you know where I could find Arquen?" he asked Gerrard. "I'm in the mood for a contract."

"Well, then, nightshade?" Gerrard replied. "I've got plenty already, but..." Gerrard added "The more the merrier!" with a laugh and took the offer. "As for Arquen, last I checked she was in my bed." Gerrard laughed at the odd look Markus had given him, and clarified, "No, not really, as much as I'd wish it - don't tell her though. Actually, I believe she's in the training room. Why don't I go with you?"

Gerrard sat up from his seat and led his companion around to the door leading to the room where the initiates trained for their missions. Arquen was seated at a small table. "Markus and I are up for a mission, m'lady." called Gerrard, trying not to put enough emphasis on "m'lady" to give his superior the wrong idea.

Name: Renal

Race: Ra Gada (red guard)

Age: 25

Gender: male

Birth-sign: The steed

Equipment: Wears Black leather armor, with a gray headband. He bears a short-sword that features a bronze Hilt, and an Obsidian blade. It is very deadly, as most obsidian, it is able to pierce chain-mail.

Appearance: Has a moderate muscle composition. Stands about 5'11, with brown eyes, and black hair. He wears a gray headband around his short cut military style haircut.

Strengths: Very sneaky, and is a good locksmith. He is also very fast, and good with a short blade.

Weaknesses: Is very smart, but cannot cast magic at all. He can not cook, and he is not good at disguising himself

Rank: Silencer



Renal had come to the sanctuary, from his house in the Imperial City. He had recently been assigned to travel all the way to Sentinel, to discuss the Dark Brotherhood branch in Hammerfell. Renal climbed down the well to the sanctuary once in Cheydinhall. It was a bright day, but the well seemed cold and dark. You could feel the void in the midst. Renal made his way into the sanctuary. Seeing that Arquen was speaking to some of the lower members, he decided to wait to give his report. He saw many members going about, and decided to sit down. An Imperial and Breton were talking about, and he recognized them.

"Markus and Gerrard, ha, so your in the mood for a contract. According to my report, we have one little problem. Farwil has just ascended to the throne, and wants to rid Cheydinhall of our Brotherhood. Information has been given to Ocato, special information. Ocato may attempt to hunt us all down. We have a traitor among us. Someone has leaked information to Farwil, and we must rid this world of him, and ultimately, everyone that knows, which may be high ranking Imperial officials. We will see what Arquen orders."

ooc: What do you mean by "some of the lower members", lower to you or lower to Arquen? Because I envisioned Gerrard as an Executioner, which if memory serves right is just one rank under Silencer. I'll also let forrest pick his contract.
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"The Count, you say?" Gerrard looked over at Renal. "I'd never refuse a hit on such a well-off man. Markus, you go on your ways, I think I have another target I'm feeling like going after."

Gerrard dropped his coat and slung the poison he was making onto his bandoleer, which he then concealed under his shirt. "If anyone needs me, I'll be over doing some work." He turned, walked out of the room, and headed for the door out to the abandoned house entrance.

OOC: Yeah, Markus is actually kinda high up. I wouldn't specify a rank, but let's say he's well-known and respected by most DB members.

IC: Markus thought over the contract for the Count, and made a decision. "Nah, Gerrard, you can have this one. I'd rather go for something a little low-profile; Just a little exercise for the day. Any dowry contracts? Or maybe someone owes someone else money?"

"Let's see what we've got," Arquen said as she shuffled through a stack of papers. "Here's one. One of the Bravil skooma lords is having trouble getting payments from one of the local shopkeeps. Now, normally I'd give this one to one of our lower members, but if you insist, Markus..."

"That would be great, m'lady," Markus said gratefully. "Just as long as it isn't too much trouble."

"Oh, no, I'll just assign the murderers to a dowry contract in Chorrol." She handed Markus the contract, which he folded and place into his back pocket. "Now, this guy's a regular client of ours, so don't mess anyting up; I know you're the last person I'd ever say that to, Markus, but just as a precaution. I know you'll handle it well."

"Thank you, m'lady," Markus nodded as he turned to Gerrard. "Well, good luck with the Count. Have fun." Markus made his way out the door and to his quarters.

On the roof of the house, Sodie watched the Guard; still frozen in his place for several seconds, finally shrug his shoulders and return to his patrol. Kim remained on the rooftops for a few seconds, before climbing back down by the crate he was working on. Instead of resuming his work, he left the alley way. Probably nothing in there..., The black Argonian walked, with one of his hands halfway in a pocket, and the other at his side, striding with a cautious style. He poked his head out, spying the entire area. Once no one was in sight, Kim set off, quickly, and quietly, he ran to a small wooden hovel. He stopped at the side of the abode and looked around, checking to see if anyone was in his immediate vicinity. Once his scan was complete, he looked through one of the houses windows.
The room he was staring in was probably some sort of living room and bedroom. A bed sat in one of the corners, weighed down by a large green blanket and two pale yellow pillows. A large red carpet covered a third of the wooden floor, and a small table sat on top of it. Several mugs, a tray, and a plate sat on it's surface. In the back wall of the room, was a dormant fireplace.

Seeing no one in the room, Kim determined it safe, and headed to the front of the home. He paused at the front door. The lizard turned around, looking to see if anyone was around. No Guards were in the are, at the moment, but saw something rather odd; a large mod of civilians, not far from him. Although, most of their backs were either turned, or they weren't looking at Kim at the time.
He looked back at the door, opened it slowly, and walked in. He took a few steps, then stopped in the center of the room.

OOC: I wasn't referring to you, and, me and Jerod talked, and we have decided that the traitor part will be our plot for now.

IC:

Renal followed quickly after Gerrard, as hastily as he could. This was important, and a meeting needed to be held.
"Gerrard, wait. We must have a meeting over this. This is no one man job, we need orders from Arquen. We need to find out who the traitor is. There may be others besides the count, if we kill the count, it will be difficult, and the traitor will know that we know, and the other government officials will be alarmed, please, do not do this. We must report to Arquen, she will know what to do."

Renal would talk to Marcus later, and give his report to Arquen. He could surely not let Gerrard attempt to do this job by himself, it would surely lead to the downfall of the Brotherhood. If Arquen didn't hold a meeting soon, and Gerrard took this into his own hands, they would legion members on there doorstep.

Renal knew that the new count was arrogant, and didn't care for threats and such unlike his father. He would acknowledge the abandon house, and the Brotherhood would be in severe trouble.

"Don't worry, I'll be sure to make this look like an accident. I'll move into the castle in disguise and empty this vial into his food. No one will ever know, and everyone will just assume the Count had a terrible illness." Gerrard exited the sanctuary, announcing his exit with a puff of tobacco smoke, and walked up the road, being sure to greet the people he walked by. Gerrard knew he was quite able to make himself blend into a crowd. Then, he burst through the castle gates.

"Help, help!" he cried, coughing and hiding the tobacco in his mouth so that the smell would be evident in his breath. Gerrard stumbled up to the Count's steward and wheezed. "Sir, I've developed a horrible disease and I'm certain I will die soon! Please take me to your healers!" Gerrard, faking a plague bearer, was sure to "accidentally" cough on the Count to make sure it looked like the Count would be infected.

"Here, I shall take you downstairs to the castle healer." said the steward. He took the stumbling Gerrard down into the castle cellars. But before they could reach the healer's room, Gerrard feigned certain death.

"Oh, my lord!" he coughed. "This is it, the disease is getting to its worst stages! I am certain I will die in here, please go before I infect you! Just give me a quiet place to breathe my last!" Gerrard then imitated an enormous cough which made the steward get up and leave his side.

Gerrard was alone now. Seeing that the coast was clear, he crept into the Count's personal wine cellar and took out a bottle of fine wine. Popping the cork off as silently as possible, Gerrard emptied half of his poison into the wine. The poison was strong enough to kill someone already and Gerrard was saving the rest for the Nord that had cheated him. After the poison had gone in, Gerrard walked back up to the courtyard and stumbled out the door coughing.

"I'm taking myself off your hands, I don't want to have to die in your nice castle, my lord! Think nothing of me, drink wine and be happy! Death will take care of me!" he said, and went out the door, walking back to the well.
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OOC: Will this traitor be the same or different as the original quest's? Because I don't want to kill poor Mathieu.

"Sanguine, my brother." The door swung open wide and Trisha entered the Sanctuary. Her brothers were standing and talking about something and Arquen seemed to be handing out assignments. Trisha stood in the background as not to interupt Arquen. The one thing Trisha hated most was when people interupted her, so she never did the same.

While she waited she cleaned some of dirt off her daggers and tested the edge. They were still sharp as ever.

Gerrard climbed down the well and greeted Trisha. "Hail, Listener!" he said with a bow. "I have just returned from a hit on the new Count, and if everything happens just as planned, we'll have him off our hands. Any news from Bravil?"

After listening to what Trisha had to say, Gerrard turned to his other Brothers. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've done my shift today and I'm taking some rest. If you need me, I'm over there." He pointed to the beds and fell over onto one, resting from his busy day. The bed was a bit lumpy and the blankets could be a little more heavier, but it was better than no bed at all, Gerrard mused, for that would be what he had if he wasn't associated with the band of assassins.

IC: Iryanil the III woke up to the sound of someone falling on to the bed next to his. He opened his eyes and saw it was none other than Gerrard. Iryanil never liked Gerrard much, he abhorred tabacco, and the man was constantly chewing on some.

Iryanil swung his legs over the side of the bed silently, and stood up, careful not to wake the snoring breton. The high elf opened his trunk and removed his favorite black finery, with a gold died fur on the edges. He removed his black mission gear, careful to replace all his pouches and equipment in their respective areas of his trunk, and put his finery on over his skintight black undershirt and pants. He slipped on his matching black and gold shoes and walked out the sleeping quarter's door. He walked into the main hall to find several of his fellow brothers outside. Trisha, the listener, Renal, back from his mission in Hammerfell, Marcus, and Arquen talking. Further examination of the room revealed Jet, a large black khajiit, napping in an armchair, and Matthew Sintive, reading silently, oblivious to all the talk going on in the other side of the room.

Trisha addressed him immediately, she seemed surprised to see him. He smiled as he realized he had tricked his fellows when he came in.

OCC: Did a Count just get killed in one post?

IC:

Matthew closed the large book, deciding the follow the crowd into the practice room where Arquen was, but he only wanted to practice a little. He hadn't taken a contract in nearly four months, and he was getting slightly restless, as he began hungering for a mark. But he hadn't used serious magick in such a long time, he knew he would need to work the rust out of his system, unless he wanted to mess up the hit and get caught. Or killed.

He walked over to the practice dummy, and stopped a dozen or so steps from it. He fell into his mind, letting the Weave flow through his body, and he released the built up energy on the dummy in the shape of a fireball.

"Ow!" he yelped, retracting his hand as he keenly felt his fingers singe. He tried to fit them all into his mouth to cool them, but thought better of it and instead muttered some words to cast a small frost spell on them.

"Oh that can't be good." he muttered looking at his fingers which were no longer red or burning, but had a thin layer of ice covering his fingers. "Hmmm..." he muttered, walking over to the nearest chair attempting to thaw his fingers before any lasting damage could be done.

He wasn't that worried, as he had done many "interesting" things to himself, including turning his head invisible, paralyzing his legs and according to some distraught Brothers and Sisters had once put himself into such a frenzy that he had tried to attack them all with kitchen utensils before getting tied to a table so the spell could wear off.

He was sure he would find a way out of this one, but it would probably be at risk of his fingers getting burned again.

OOC: I'll let the other participants decide if the Count really died or not. I left it ambiguous whether my plan worked so that the plot could develop in any way you think would be nice.

Gerrard's still sleeping, so I just posted to explain.