"I have no idea what happened to him, or whether he still serves the Temple. He was rude but was no danger."


"Easy, easy there, mouth. I dared to call you wizard, and yet to wish to be called mouth. Well, that's fine with me. If this is the case, we need this king not. We don't need Akatosh here. And the men remain."

Nobody is killing anybody! At least not while this one is around. Listen, all this arguing has made Taela weary and now she must use the lavoritories. When khajiit gets back, she hopes things become a little more...civil.

Taela quickly gets up from her seat and heads down the hall to the left.

Do not use words of war so lightly, priest of The Man-god. It is not conducive to honorable conduct.

Then for just a trifling moment between breathes of argument, the air about the chapel shimmers darkly with a nebula of voidish anti-particles from whence issues a pareidolic masque of anguish which groans pathetically "....Heeeeeeeelp...meeeeeeeee!"

The Nordic lass frowned. "Er, d'ye hear something, lords and ladies?" she fretted, twirling a finger into her long golden tresses while casting around for the source of the sound. Under her breath, she added "This had best not be someone's idea of a jest ..."

===


OOC: I am playing a Nordic woman who claims to represent the Bishop of Barmaids. I'm a bit over six feet tall, with long golden tresses reaching down to my ankles, worn free like a golden mantle, and my blue eyes are usually crinkled with mirth above my full, smiling lips. I'm dressed like a bar maid - albeit in old-fashioned Cyrodiilic style - and bear a large tray of drinks and finger foods, balanced casually on one hand.

Loranna

Belharzslav presents a bold face "I am certain it was nothing. Doubtless just a momentary glitch in the wraithwall prismfibrils."

Drenim had been looking at the proceedings with an amused heart, while pretending to nod off now and then.
He is quite pleased at the little uproar he caused by nonchalantly mentioning summoning an Aedra.
It gives him opportunity to evaluate the personality of the other council members, while not giving away much of his own.
Then an apparition begs for salvation and is gone as soon as it came.
Drenim is not one to casually dismiss something like this as a trick of the senses, he has survived for centuries by erring on the side of caution. His eyes scan the faces of the fellow council members, looking for a clue, an angle and his hand manipulates a small crystalline aurbacus.

-'Whatever that was it has left voidicals harmonising with a magnitude of thirtythree point two LeFay and diminishing.'

Drenim whistles sharply and shakes his head.

-'Not our imagination, I would think, my esteemed colleagues.'

Drenim notes his wards and runes of protection remain unbroken and silent and decides that whatever it is, it is not dangerous.
Yet.

Taela returns

What did this one miss?

"Har! A tridekatrioLeFay, you say? That is well within the threshold of acceptable anomalies for...such a...magick-pregnant tropodesme. Thus I should think that some, er...vivid paraphenoma are to be expected. Though, if it happens again, I will have the Curate-eidoneer turn down the gain on the prism spiracle."

We all faintly heard a voice begging for help. Something weird is going on, I think.

"The Whitestrake would bash ye brains clear into the void," the barmaid muttered dourly to Belharzslav. Slipping off her shoes, she flexied her bare feet against the chamber's hard floor. "Begging your pardons, lords and ladies; this hopefully won't take but a mite."

With that, the Nordic lass began to dance, her skirts swishing and her arms reaching out to her audience, before pulling back in sacred sutras of Hey Look At These. Her hair pouring down her back, it as almost as if she were bathing herself in the golden light of the sun, her dance taking her closer and closer to one of the chamber's closed doors.

With a sudden, violent jerk, she danced juuust almost into the door, her hair spilling over the liminal surface like liquid starlight. And then, before anyone could fully wonder if she had just hurt herself, she exclaimed with triumph "There! It's latched on tight!" With another violent jerk, she pulled back, and as hair fell away from the door it was clear now that someone had caught hold of it ...

"Mara! Are ye all right, sir?" The Nordic lass took the white-knuckled hands of the violently-shivering man clutching her hair for dear life. She hardly paid any mind to the opulent rainment of an Archbishop of Akatosh adorning the man. "How long have ye been stuck there?!"

The barmaid promptly began fretting over the Archbishop, muttering kindly words under her breath as she appriased him with a healer's practiced eye. The Archbishop found himself recieving a tankard of mead, "with a little something extra".

===


OOC: I am playing a Nordic woman who claims to represent the Bishop of Barmaids. I'm a bit over six feet tall, with long golden tresses reaching down to my ankles, worn free like a golden mantle, and my blue eyes are usually crinkled with mirth above my full, smiling lips. I'm dressed like a bar maid - albeit in old-fashioned Cyrodiilic style - and bear a large tray of drinks and finger foods, balanced casually on one hand.

Loranna

Nice dance, mad-By the gods, what just happened?

The old man shivers pitifully despite his sumptuous robes. "I hAvE beeeeeen...." he struggles between torrential gulps of ale "...harbor ed coldLY."

The wild-looking woman with red hair claps her hands and stands up, towering at a height somewhere deliriously over six foot.

Stand back everyone! Don't go near that that man, we do not know where he is been, or what he represents. If you can't smell the void on him from here, then I suggest you keep shut and let the advlts handle things. At which she leaps up upon the table and marches over to the shivering old man, jumping down and landing with a spectacular sound on both feet beside him. She lays a hand on his brow and then almost immediately retracts it, backing away with an astonished look upon her face

Oh my. Oh well. Oh, hum, I see. Quite..yes. She looks about a little nervously It appears he is geniune. And...has had quite a journey. The Reach-woman seems to blush. But that wasn't void salt I smelt. Feona Barrowhart puts her hands on her hips and paces away And so the empire's beloved drake-god continues to preserve his faithful...

The Nordic lass watched the red-head's display with an especially heavy-looking, empty tankard hefted in one hand, an uncharacteristically dour expression twisting her face.

"Do ye mind?" she asked bluntly. "The poor man be unsettled enough as it be, and that's putting it mildly enough to make me sound an even bigger fool than usual. If ye be wanting to help, ask first."

===


OOC: I am playing a Nordic woman who claims to represent the Bishop of Barmaids. I'm a bit over six feet tall, with long golden tresses reaching down to my ankles, worn free like a golden mantle, and my blue eyes are usually crinkled with mirth above my full, smiling lips. I'm dressed like a bar maid - albeit in old-fashioned Cyrodiilic style - and bear a large tray of drinks and finger foods, balanced casually on one hand.

Loranna

Coldharbour... All of Stendarr's pity upon you. No man, no matter how evil, ought to be in the realm of Molag Bal.

Post limit.