hehe, it's difficult to write a sheet without giving away more than I wish

Intro post is being written as you read...

Name: Attilus Facian
Age: 29
Race: Imperial
Gender: Male

About the Character: Attilus is an intelligent man, although you wouldn't guess as much from his appearance. Since abandoning the cushy life of a Noble's son to roam Tamriel, Atilus has been to many places and experienced a huge variety of cultures. His journeying hasn't been kind to him however leaving him, as the worn journeyman we meet at the start of this tale.

Most people upon meeting the frail looking traveller would immediately dismiss the gangly, dark haired figure as yet another tinker, a travelling merchant and one of the poorer members of that impoverished trade. A short conversation with him however, will reveal the intellect that hides beneath the dirt. The scrawny Imperial's knowledge of Tamriel is deep and varied. It's obvious that he is fiercely interested in the land, obsessed and yet he often seems to visibly restrain himself from elaborating on certain subjects.

In general Attilus seems slightly out of his depth around other people, grateful for the contact yet for some reason he strives to remain aloof. This is most likely a symptom of spending such a long time travelling alone. Occasionally however, he seems to be able to take control of a situation, almost as though he's prepared for it beforehand.

When it comes to talents, Attilus benefits greatly from his rich upbringing; he is knowledgeable, well spoken and a passable swordsman, his abilities in this respect honed by his time in the wild. He also demonstrates a good knowledge of magical practice but he is never seen casting even the simplest, most mundane of spells.

Equipment: Dressed in a thick, tattered all weather coat, Attilus conceals a short blade at his waist, beneath the folds of the coat yet within easy reach. He also wears a patched tan tunic and trousers.

OOC: Right, you all start in and around the bazaar through which Attilus has just staggered, it'd be advisable to find some reason to follow him in.
I'm sorry for the delays with this, as I've mentioned before, I've had some trouble fitting this in around work but hey, it's finally going


IC
Attilus pushed his way through the crowded, narrow, half hidden door wondering as he did so how exactly this little underground haven had remained in existence for so long. The 'Emperor' had placed strict regulations on trade within the Imperial city and this loud, cramped sweaty cellar beneath the Merchant's Inn in the middle of the market district was home to a bazaar filled with the goods of every merchant and smuggler who managed to make his way into the City. It was reaching the point where some of the street merchants had given up their incessant plaguing of the surface denizens of the Imperial City to risk imprisonment down here, even though most of what they sold remained perfectly legal. Attilus wondered whether the Legion used the place to spy on revolutionaries, the bazaar was certainly a hotspot for Imperial dissent that was, after all, the reason he was here as well.

Attilus was still standing at the entrance to the market, earning the odd complaint as people banged into the huge sack he carried and taking in the colourful chaos of the place, there were nobles jostling side by side with peasants and pickpockets stole from both, it was incredible to see how shared hardship allowed people to stand each other's presences just long enough to buy what they wished and leave. A particularly big fellow, apparently angry at being blocked off by Attilus' belongings gave the shorter Imperial a heavy shove, sending him sprawling and jogging him from his reverie.

What had the page said?

He could almost feel it in his hands still, made fragile and stained by time. The script had been dense, even by scholastic standards and the syntax was archaic, even by Ayleid standards and the ever changing letters, always the same yet he'd had to chase them about the page and each time he'd pinned one down, it felt as if a tiny rush of fire had surged through his mind. What exactly the page had said, he was disturbingly unsure of. Despite so much pain and so much hardship, he was still simply following, never knowing where he was being led.

Then the image surged and he was stumbling blindly along the his preset course through the main area, shedding items from the sack and banging into people, looking for all the world like a drunk as he was pulled by the roots of his eyes towards a secluded room at the back. Attilus collapsed onto a chair, noticing only then that the room was occupied by a couple of Khajjit, both of whom had obviously been blown far away on clouds of sickly sweet sugar. His head was pounding and Attilus collapsed backwards into his chair. The two beast men seemed totally unaware of his presence, it was just as well, it was beginning to become obvious to the worn Imperial exactly what was about to happen.

OOC: Well pigeon, you get how this works. If the worst happens just make Darius a red shirt, okay?

IC:

Darius always got a thrill when he went to the bazaar. He imagined that if he felt like it was wrong to do so he wouldn't, but his father had always said that try as they might there would always be some unjust laws.

One of his odd jobs was working at the Merchant's Inn itself, but in the inn proper. The thrill of knowing that there was something going on right under the noses of the Empire, of knowing what the most powerful men in the world didn't seem to know, he found somehow satisfying.

He walked easily through the jostling crowd. The only real difference between the bazaar and the inn proper at a busy hour was that it was more stuffy, the smells and sounds had less places to escape. The loudness and closeness compared to the quiet doldrums of Darius' "normal" life was a strange kind of refreshing. His eyes went over the goods. As far as he knew, most had been obtained legally. He stepped aside, leaving a would-be pickpocket stumbling. There were advantages to working topside in the inn, along with his previous jobs. Aside from which, he was driven by a kind of desperation. These were his last twenty Septims. There was a good chance his job was sliding out from under him. If he lost these, he may find himself needing to sell, or worse use, his grandad's shortsword that he had stored in a room topside.

He saw a man stumble around as though drunk, but something in the way he walked was not quite right. He shrugged it off for the moment, declining an offer of moon sugar from an Ohmes peddler, instead looking through the smaller food items. He wondered what the land he and his father had built up was being used for, if anything. It had been some time, and if it hadn't been taken by marauders (it was a sturdy, stone house after all) all the pigs were certainly dead anyway. with a sigh, he put down a hard, moldy loaf of bread and tried to find a fresher one.

Ashag was making his way into the crowded mess that sprawled under the Merchant's Inn ? or more accurately under the whole city block. The Empireless ? the 'title' bestowed by the street to the poor excuse for an emperor currently wearing the Septim's tarnished crown ? had riddled trade with so many rules, taxes and hassles that the underground bazaar had thrived. To the point of now including the adjacent basemants, along with a dried-out sewer section and parts of what might have been catacombs or crypts. [OOC : from the description, I don't think it could all fit under a single building]. Whether the watch had been bribed or kept the place alive to plant informers into the City's underbelly, he couldn't tell. And didn't care. He needed supplies for his healing and didn't feel like paying through the nose to fill the Mage's Guild alchemist's coffers. Especially with the pressure from the watch to report every weapon wound.

He moved easily through the crowd, for most were eager to give way. Looking like a big, ill-tempered, brute has some good sides... While looking around for a the supplies he needed his eyes were drawn to an unusual motion. What looked like an especially ragged peddler, stumbling through the crowd under a thorough bout of drunkenness and the weight of a large pack. But something felt out of place. Despite his almost blind progression, the man was heading in a precise direction rather than the erratic path Ashag would expect.

That's odd. And I don't like oddities when I can't explain them. Ashag scratched his head in puzzlement, his mind dredging memories and pondering possible causes. And picking a few likely possibilities he didn't like. A compulsion of some sort. Dragging him to someplace like a puppet. Or maybe some sort of possession with about the same results. Damn, I'd better keep an eye on that. Of course it can be a regular drunkard who's got one destination in mind and will go there no matter what...

Ashag followed the man at a distance, using his height to keep the man in sight, and his size to follow. Which brought him to a tavern of sort, where his quarry entered a secluded backroom. The sort of place where you couldn't enter without getting noticed. He decided to wait before entering. That way, I can play the 'sorry I didn't know there was someone in' charade. The sort of things one could expect from a none too bright orc.

Darius decided that, for the moment, he wasn't going to find anything particularly edible for sale to go back to his room with. His stomach made a painful shake, screaming at him. Resigning to the price and figuring it was better than the cost of food topside, he walked with a deliberate stride towards what functioned as a tavern. As he approached, he saw an enormous Orc stride into it. He followed innocently and sat down, noticing but not particularly bothering about the stumbling drunk from earlier, next to two Khajiit who were clearly high as a dragon's flight.

"Could I get a cheap mead and something edible?" he called out to the barkeep. He got a small cut of something that was probably fish and something that was probably mead.

"Four septims."

He reluctantly paid up and bit the quivering, almost jelly-like "fish." Ordinarily he would have never eaten it, but his stomach won out over his tongue and he choked it down. He coughed twice and winced. It was absolutely vile. He needed money soon, or he would be in real trouble.

ooc- I promise that my other posts won't be this long. I tend to get carried away in intro posts. Most of you can just skip to the part where he follows Attilus. Also Jeroic, since both our characters work at the inn, they should probably at least know one another in passing, agreed?

ic-

The name of the game was "Don't Tip the Tray," and Nebin was a champion at it.

He wove his way through the crowd, being bumped and jostled as much as everyone else (if not more so, since few people noticed the tiny mer until they were running over him) but the tray remained miraculously upright, the goblets of various liquids in them spilling only rarely. At times, this took some tricky handling: holding it above the crowd... swinging it out of the way at an angle... but if a lifetime of bussing tables and dodging drunks had taught him anything, it was how not to spill the drinks.

He paused at one of the tables--this one stacked with various hides and leathers--and gave the Nord sitting behind it a grin. "Thirsty?"

"Every day you ask that question, elf, and every day I say 'yes.' You'd think you'd see a pattern by now."

"So what'll it be? Brandy? Flinn? I think I had a Tamika's in here, but one of the porters probably snatched it already when I wasn't paying attention."

"Mead'll do nicely."

"That'll be five."

The Nord flipped him a coin, which Nebin deftly caught with his free hand. He slipped the coin into his pouch and then put the selected goblet on the Nord's table. As he turned and headed off, he said, "Remember, if you return the goblet, you'll get two back." The Nord waved him off, already drinking deeply.

When it came to the bazaar, Mother had one rule: don't go down there. At all. "Stay on the inn floor," Mother always scolded. "We can't have you mixing with those people." Nebin, of course, broke that rule on a daily basis.

As far as he was concerned, the bazaar venders were the perfect customers: they sat all day in a hot, stuffy basemant, and couldn't leave their various wares for fear of thieves. Every day, Nebin made a round with a tray of beverages, most of which disappeared quickly in the stuffy place. Mother might have been thanking him for his initiative, if he wasn't sneaking out of his normal duties to do it.

He moved to the next table: a reagent vender. The Altmer had a stringy, shadey look about him, but he always greeted Nebin with a weary smile, so the half-Bosmer didn't mind.

"Water again, Mr. Agrendel?"

"Please."

"That's three gold."

The Altmer slid three coins across the table, then reached over and plucked a goblet of water himself. "You are quite the lifesaver, young mer."

Nebin flashed him his characteristic grin. "Hey, I'm not going to ignore a whole complex full of thirsty people, just because of a little law!"

"Indeed. But I think you deserve a little something for weathering the crowd. Here's something for your efforts."

The Altmer slid another coin across the table. Nebin would have jumped for joy if he hadn't been carrying a tray.

"Gee, thanks, Mr. Agrendel!"

"Don't spend it in one place," the Altmer chuckled, before turning to address someone who was standing by his table.

Nebin pocketed the tip and whistled as he moved toward the next shop. However, in his distraction, he failed to notice the man stumbling through the crowd. The Imperial bumped roughly into him, and Nebin very nearly fumbled the tray. Not quite, but close... and quite a bit of liquid slopped out and onto him.

Nebin turned to look indignantly after whoever had crashed into him, but when he saw the way the man moved, his protest changed into concern. The man almost acted hurt...

Nebin bit his lip and followed cautiously after, still carrying his tray with the ease of one who waited tables for a living. He nearly lost the guy in the crowd, but easily found him again by the sounds of protest that followed in his wake.

When the man disappeared into a room, Nebin hesitated outside. Out of the corner of one eye, he could see a really big (and really scarred) Orc watching the Imperial too, a surprisingly calculating expression on his face, for someone who looked like that.

Nebin shook his head to himself and poked his head into the secluded back-room. "Hey mister, you okay?" he asked with concern, especially after noting the way the Imperial was kind of just melting in his chair. Drunk? No... there was something a lot scarier in his demeanor. (In the back of his mind, he noted the Khajiits lingering on the other side of the room... shoot, he might have to bounce those two out at some point.) "You need help with anything? Some water? A healer?"

OOC @ manu, good point I hadn't thought about it

IC
"Hey mister, you okay? You need help with anything? Some water? A healer?"

Attilus looked up muzzily, to see an unkempt woodelf staring down at him with an expression of some concern ingrained upon his otherwise youthful features. The Imperial's head pounded, whatever was on that page... Normal magic just didn't hurt like this! What did the child want? Drink? Attilus considered the matter for a few moments beofre deciding that a glass of water wouldn't go amiss. He raised his head and tried to reply. All that came out however was a slightly strangled gurgle. He tried again but his toungue seemed to twist in his mouth of it's own will. Another couple of seconds passed as he frowned in concentration, trying to focus, he needed control. He needed the knowledge, not the will that came with it okay.... focus. He closed his eyes and breathed heavily, still vaguely aware of the other three people who were sharing the room with him. 3... 2... 1... The headache began to subside, and he could feel a new clarity sluicing into his mind. Had he won? It was difficult to tell, Attilus was unsure what it felt like to lose free will. Then again, he doubted he'd still be able to think of things like this.

Another couple of seconds as he still sat, smiling dazedly.

It dawned upon him that he understood a little more of what was going on, not much but then it was much better than before... He could even remember a few of the characters from the page! He could see it now, floating alone in his mind, still shining bright but no longer so bright that it hurt. It was then that he felt ready to turn his attention to the boy, he wouldn't ask for water this time, wine seemed more appropriate for such a successful moment.
"You know, I think I'll..."
The mer was familiar, Attilus looked on for a second before saying in a tone bordering on wonder,
"You... I was looking for you, where're the others?"

OOC: Not entirely sure what's going on, but I'll at least introduce myself.

IC: Louis shuffled through the crowded bazaar, looking to all the world like another impoverished citizen of the Empireless Imperial City. He meandered through the crowd, pausing at the occasional street stand, pretending to peruse the items as he furtively "acquired" several with lesser telekinesis spells. The middle aged Breton wore a irritated sneer, his thick brows curled downward, slanting over his bloodshot eyes.

Just as he was selling one of his acquired items to one of the many merchants in the underground market, Louis nearly fell forwards as he was bumped roughly from behind. He caught himself on the thin wooden table of the merchant, turning swiftly to see who it was that pushed him, finding the bumbling Imperial continuing dazedly on his way as if nothing had happened. 'Little bastard,' he thought, quickly following the young man through the crowd, growing more annoyed by the second.

Louis followed the man all the way to the back of the bazaar, watching him disappear into a small door. Before the Breton could enter and give the Imperial a piece of his mind, a small Bosmer balancing a tray cut him off. Louis went in right afterwards, finding the man slumped in a chair, speaking to the Bosmer.

"You... I was looking for you, where're the others?" The man was frail, with a mop of dark hair covering half lidded eyes. He seemed both confused and amazed at the same time, as if working out some great secret.

Before the Bosmer could answer, Louis rudely pushed him aside, even his meager weight enough to move the young elf. He stared down at the man, anger evident in his features.

"I don't know where you get off knocking people over without even pausing the apologize, Imperial. I don't care what you're high on, but you picked the wrong man to mess with."


OOC: Meh, weak post, but oh well.

OOC: I too am rather confused and am not in the mood for writing, however I feel obliged, so oh well... Sorry if it makes no sense.

IC:

Bella sat in a chair, next to a single lantern at the back of the room. The bazaar was poorly lit, yet in this spot, the dancing flame of the lantern was strong enough to illuminate the pages. Her eyes followed the lines, which had it not been for the light would've been a strain at the least. Flicking her hair from her eyes as she often did, Bella turned the crispy page; her dark brown eyes began once more to scan the words.

' Entering the keep was child's play for a thief of his calibre. However, a cunning lock with no less than 13 pins protected the private quarters of the Baron. Ravius broke only 9 lock picks to open it. Using only a fork, a bit of string, and a wineskin, he disabled the seven traps guarding the Baron's coin collection. Truly Ravius was a master among thieves.'

She'd picked up the book from a merchant in the bazaar 'Thief of Virtue', it was old and worn; and of course inexpensive. Bella didn't mind though, it kept her entertained; Bella had a passion for books and reading, though with little money, it was a passion not often exercised.

Finishing the page she was on, she took a break from the book, her mind coming to be conscious with the room once more as she sipped from her glass of water.

She didn't know why she'd chosen to read down here, after all, it wasn't peaceful or serene, in fact rather loud and busy; emphasised as this thought crossed her mind by a large bundle in a part of the room, Bella watched as what appeared to be an Imperial, a Breton and a Bosmer argued.

Gulping down the rest of her water Bella watched the argument unfold, before taking a last sip from her drink and placing it down atop her book on the convenient table beside her.

Eager to settle things before they got out of hand Bella approached the trio, weaving her way through the crowds of rowdy civilians underneath the inn.
"Is everything okay?" She asked in a purposely softened tone, for the dark haired Breton looked already aggravated.

While he was waiting, Ashag noticed he didn't seem to be the only one to have an interest in the peddler. First was a young bosmer carrying a tray with several glasses. Probably doing a few extras from serving in a tavern, who figured a drunkard could be good business. And maybe some easily stolen coins to boot.

Who was soon followed by a beggarly looking breton followed, visibly angered for some reason. It almost looks like there's some kind of reunion. But I have a bad feeling about that last one. It looks like he's begging for trouble as much as coins...

As he came closer to the altercation, he could overhear the discussion. Apparently the man was whining about having being bumped without excuse. Yeah right, as if he did apologize to that waiter. Sounds like he feels he's someone. Maybe I shall get there before it gets sourer.

His decision got preempted when one of the patrons, a young bosmer, stepped in to defuse the situation. Or at least to attempted to, as he was skeptical of the outcome. If that idiot's looking for a fight, he won't stop for a cutie like her. Well, let's see how things shapes themselves.

Having made his mind, Ashag stepped in, with surprisingly little noise for someone of his size. He made sure to stay at the irate breton's back, out of his sight. Keeping his expression calm and even mildly amused, but his attention focused on what might happen. Making it clear to anyone with some streetsmarts that he didn't take a side but would break any foul play.

Nebin yelped as he was, for the second time in the last couple minutes, shoved roughly aside. His feet moved with expert speed to correct his balance, the tray remaining miraculously upright. Throwing a bewildered glance at the Breton who had shoved him, he decided to put the tray down for now, setting it on a side table. Then, he turned to regard the growing group around the Imperial.

The one who had shoved him was a Breton, who had the ragged appearance and ill-fitting clothes that spoke of poor financial status. In the old days, Nebin had always been warned not to serve such people, as they inevitably skipped out on the bill, often with a pocketful of silverware. These days, however, most people seemed to be on the edges of poverty like that, so no establishment could afford to be picky about their customers. Still, the Bosmer had bounced quite a few such shadey types, and knew to keep an eye out for roving hands.

But then, the Imperial wasn't much better, was he? He seemed to have the muzziness of someone on... well, something. When Nebin had asked after the man's health, he'd seemed confused and in pain, and had gurgled something before eventually saying, "You... I was looking for you, where're the others?" This confused the Bosmer... he'd never seen this man in his life, and he had no idea who these 'others' might be.

That was the point when the Breton shoved him aside and demanded, "I don't know where you get off knocking people over without even pausing the apologize, Imperial. I don't care what you're high on, but you picked the wrong man to mess with."

Nebin opened his mouth to comment on that, but then thought better of it, and snapped his mouth shut. He shrugged to himself, his protest forgotten.

A pretty Bosmer girl about Nebin's age appeared and asked, "Is everything okay?" and Nebin could see that scarred Orc lurking out of the corner of his eye.

"I think something's wrong with him," Nebin piped up to the Breton, trying to sound placating, then he looked around toward the gathering crowd. "Is anyone here a healer?"

Name: Jonah Charon
Age: 28
Race: Redguard

Talents: Long blades, Blocking, unarmored

Appearance: Charon is well built and darkskinned redguard, who walks around with a corn row styled hair. He has moderate sized lips which are usually pursed into a smile. Along with being 6.2 feet and wearing a green doublet.

Equipment: Pirate sword, iron shield

Persona: Charon has a large ego and finds pleasure in talking about himself. Believing himself to be the greatest pirate of all time he likes to tell fake and highly exagerated storys like for example he talks about how he, all by himself, sank an entire imperial navy ship filled with nearly a hundred men all by himself. He has quite a loud mouth and also shows no fear when going against his enemy head on.

Bio \ Example post:

Jonah Charon, born as a redguard in hammerfell, he lived out his youth as a pirate of the Abecean Sea. Throughout his many years as a pirate he went from port to port smuggling in all types of illegal drugs like skooma or moon sugar. Working up quite a criminal record from the imperial navy, he grew quite the ego, putting himself above all others and believing himself to be the greatest pirate to hit the seas (even if this is unlikely.) Sadly when he was about 27 he was finally captured by Hieronymus Lex while stationed in anvil. The newly elected captain of the guard of anvil was very against crime and so forth arrested him with pleasure. He spent nearly a year inside their dungeons until finally the day came when he made his escape.

Miscellaneous: Is unemployed, sleeps at bloated float.