The moon shone near bright as the sun , shining through the clawing dead branches of the haunting willow tree's and bathing the ground in an eery grey glow . Mouldy old tombstone's stuck out of the ground , covered in moss , the name's displayed on them having worn away long ago . There was no sound at all other then that of the mans feet crunching on the dead leaves as he made his way through the foreboding place .

He cursed under his breath and pulled his hood over his head . This graveyard was long forgotten , and he especially shouldn't of come at night .

He had a grough and grimey appearance about him . An average two-bit mercenary , one of whom wouldn't give killing or stealing any second thought as long as the price was right . Looking around warily , he drew forth a pewter hip-flask from the confines of his muddied cloak , taking several gluttonous gulps . This was a stupid job . An endless sea of rotting old headstone's , how would he know which one was the right one?

No sooner had the thought struck his mind that had he seen it , as if it had just appeared out of almost nothing . It made his heart sink deep and the hairs on his neck frill up in chilling horror . He took a step back from the glaring jester's face that was so sinisteringly leering at him , its great stone lips pursed back to reveal a glinting set of solid gold teeth , its eyes made of furious ruby jewels glinting menacingly in the moonlight . This was the tombstone he was looking for .

He regained his composure , muttering something about himself getting too old for this line of work under his breath . He knelt down , rubbing the moss off the base of the scary stone structure , and reading the inscription .


When the moon is full and the trees are bare
Walk through the Cemetery if you dare.
Where skeletons rot and corpses fester-
Locate to the tomb with the skull of a Jester.
Feed him a token all shiny and new-
It is then that the Carnival will return for you...

He gulped , rummaging in his pockets and bringing out a shiny gold token . Is this what his employer really wanted?

His questioning thoughts were eventually overcome by his mercenary instinct . This was a silly supersititous myth , and he had a job to do . A job that payed . He took the token and pushed it into a big , wide slot between the stone jester's two front teeth .

And then he was thrown back onto the dead ground as if he had been pushed by a man of great strength . The sound of snare drum's and trumpets filled the air , the ground shone red as twisted and contorted buildings sprung from the earth as if they had come from oblivion itself . A maddening high-pitched laughter resonated within the graveyard . A laughter so sinister and otherwordly it caused the man to put his hand's over his ears and scream like a frightened child .

The jester's head sprung from the tombstone , suddenly alive . It was laughing like a demon , staring down at the man huddled on the ground with its blazing orange eyes and ruby red lip's as it hovered in the air . The mere sight of it was all the man needed to be driven completely insane , and he began to froth at the mouth and twist in terrible contortions . He stood up and ran away in the direction of chorrol , laughing manically .

A voice could be heard from behind him . The voice of the demon jester .

"Welcome to the Carnival of terror!"

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You now awake , spitting some dead leaves out of your mouth and heaving yourself up from the ground . You are bathed in brilliant vibrant colours of red , green , blue , and white as the carnival leer's over you , its gates thrown open like giant , welcoming arms . The surrounding area is pitch black , you have no idea where you are or where you have come from . It almost as if you were teleported here by some occultish force . Your armor and weapons are intact , and there seem's no other way out of this nightmare then straight into heart of it...you take your first steps towards the carnival .

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RULES

* PM me your character sheets .

* No Ubering please...although high-end wepaons and armor are allowed , use them in a realistic fashion . What your wearing wont count for much in regards to what your about to encounter :chaos:

*No one liners post's , and keep your grammar and spelling as neat and tidy as you possibly can .

*One character maximum at any one time . If your character dies ( which is somehwat inevitable ) , you may create another .

*Use the provided character sheet .

*No flaming , spamming , and all that jazz .

*Do not control others characters unless you have their consent to do so .

* PM me your character sheets

* Have fun!

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Character sheet :

Name :
Age :
Gender:
Race:

General appearance :

Psychological profile :


Clothing :
Armor :
Weapons :
Other misc items :

Miscellanious : ( anything you want other's to know about your character )

Biography :

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My Character :

Name : Ostus Prescott
Age : 34
Gender: male
Race: Imperial

General appearance : Burly , but not tough . Muscular , but not strong . Ostus is a big man , sporting a chubby red face and pleasant little blue eyes . he has a giant , grizzled red beard and is bald . His skin is sunburnt and weathered , and he generally looks like a man that works hard for a living . He may look imposing to some , but he's more of a cuddly big gentle giant .

Psychological profile : Optimistic and kind , with strong leadership skills . Ostus is a nice guy , the type that would gladly come over for dinner and indulge in light conversation over a well cooked boar and a flagon of strong mead . He may lose his cool at times , lashing out at people , but this is usually in defense of those he likes . Overall , he is a peaceful , kind man . He only resorts to violence when there is no other alternative .

Clothing : Ostus wears a simple grey woolen undershirt that has a nasty stain on its left side that looks like beer . Ontop of his grey undershirt he sports a rough netch leather vest coloured brown . It looks somewhat worn , but is not necessarily dirty . He wears long , beige cotton pants and thick brown leather boots .

Armor : The only armor ostus wears are plain , leather gloves .
Weapons : Ostus sports a simple , yet big , woodsmans axe . Its made of steel and has a polished wooden handle .
Other misc items : A bottle of mead , and a brush . He also has 25 septims .

Miscellanious : * He is deathly afraid of spiders


Biography : Born to simple lumberjacks , Ostus grew up to be a stout and burly young teenager , always ready for adventure . He lived in colovia in a little wood cabin , cutting wood and selling it in chorrol . Never the brightest man , but a sensitive and hearty one , he now finds himself plunged into a personal hell . One that will make him question his values and beliefs , and turn him into a completely different person.

This story sounds good, now I need to think up a charecter

Name: Wrothgar tha Cautious

Age: 54

Gender: male

Race: Nord

Skills: heavy armor, blunt weapon, armorer, block, mercantile, alchemy, hand to hand

General Appearance: strong, tall, muscular. Used to be the cream of Skyrim's fighting force, but his age has taken away some of the fitness; still an able fighter. His skin is worn by the long life of living outdoors, fighting for survival. His body is full of scars, but his face is without them.

Psychological Profile: unlike most Nords, Wrothgar is somewhat of a legend among his kin since he marches into battle with his wits collected and calm. Capable of great concentration, he is not fooled easily. Like most warrior races of Tamriel, he considers dying with personal dignity and honor more important than living without them. Feeling fear will shame him, therefore he will go to great efforts to cleanse himself of that shame with even more heroic efforts. Respects equal and stronger warriors than himself, despises cowards, protects the weak (if he has a good reason). Strangely for a Nord, he dislikes strong liquor as it makes his mind clouded.

Clothing: he dresses plainly but warmly. No point in dressing in rags. A brown cloak with a hood to protect him from cold and rain.

Armor: uses a full Dwemer armor with shield, reconstructed and polished by his own hands.

Weapons: a great two-handed silver war axe on his back, steel longsword on his hip and a glass dagger strapped to his leg.

Miscellaneous: like most warriors, he distrusts magic and those that wield it.

Biography: born to a fierce warrior tribe in Skyrim. When he was a child, his tribe was attacked by a neighbouring tribe. He was one of the few that survived. He fled from Skyrim, came to Cyrodiil, joined the Fighters Guild. After a life of service to the community he retired and bought a small house in the town of Chorrol. He lives comfortably from the spoils of his adventures, living a modest life. He has had many lovers but has never married and fathered no children (not to his knowledge).