The Story

What would have happened if Martin Septim was killed in Kvatch? What would have happened if Dagon successfully took over Cyrodiil?

The attack on Kvatch was only the first stage of many. The Deadra hordes slaughtered all, having no mercy, or any sort of regret. Since no survivors were able to escape, the empire has no idea that they are being invaded. Merchants and travelers around Kvatch are either captured or killed. Over the course of two weeks, Dagon launched another attack on Both Skingrad and Anvil. Both cities fall under Deadra control and three-quarters of their inhabitants are butchered. The rest of them are shipped off to Slave camps, and are forced to work in mines.

Still dealing with the loss of their Emperor, and now the loss of Three cities. The Empire is slow to retaliate, Chancellor Ocato takes temporary control over the Empire, and stations a large contingent of Legionnaires to secure Skingrad. The Empire's Army is greeted with fire and much, much death. The Legionnaires are pushed back to the Imperial City by the Hordes of Dagon. Meanwhile, The lands around Anvil, and Kvatch have been terraformed into the ashy and volcanic terrain of Oblivion. The remains of Kvatch have been re-made into a large Deadric Fortress.

Deadric Forces ignore the Imperial city and move around it, taking over Chorrol and Bravil with ease, killing few inhabitants, and sending the rest to camps. By now, the Empire is on the fringe of Collapse, Ocato addresses the High Council to call for foreign aid. But before he can, he is assassinated by Mythic Dawn operatives. The Deadra move from Chorral and Bravil, the two separate Hordes flank and decimate Cheydinhal.

Leyawiin, now being the last city under Imperial Control, begs for aid from Argonia and Elswyr. The two countries accept and heavily fortify Leyawiin and its surrounding territory. In that time, Dagon launches a full assault on the Imperial City. The Siege lasted several days, but in the end, all that remained of the proud city was a smoldering heap of stone, wood, and flesh.

And for several years, a strange quiet peace settled the land. Leyawiin is fortifying its defenses and waits impatiently for the Deadra to attack, as well as the other provinces of Tamriel. High Rock, Hammerfell, and Skyrim, ally together in hopes to re-take Cyrodiil. They become known as the 'Protectorate', Valenwood, Elswyr, Leyawiin, and Argonia ally as well, in hopes to not suffer the same fate as Cyrodiil. Morrowind remains independent, but fortifies its border heavily, and begin construction of War Machines to combat the Deadra.

The Camps

Hundreds of Camps have been constructed in Cyrodiil. Here, hundreds of Slaves and Prisoners are forced to work in mines, under the harsh watch of the Dremora. Life here is grim. Slaves are given barely any clothing, and are fed either the dead, or rotten spoiled food. Water is provided from 1 or more small wells.

The Dremora Slavers like to hurt Slaves for laughs, and even hold Gladiator battles, slave versus slave. Whom ever is the victor, gets rewarded with both equipment and respect. These slaves act like bullies to the low-respected slaves, they steal from them, and in some cases, even kill. Slaves either sleep outside in the warm ashy soil of the Camp, or in small wooden huts, with minimal bedding. Low-Slaves mostly sleep outside, while Upper-Slaves claim the huts.

The Slaves are divided into three groups: Miners, Haulers, and Missels (Miscellaneous)
Miners, work in the mine, working with a partner on a small part of the mine. Sometimes the two will be chained together around the ankles. They work day in and day out, barely having enough time to rest, eat or sleep.
Haulers, transport the Ore, and Minerals from the mine to the Incendiary Processing Plant via Carts. Haulers are the strongest of the Slaves, and are most likely chosen to be Gladiators. The Haulers strength is Kepted in check with powerful Magicka spells, and severe beatings.
Miscellaneous, or 'Missels' act as either Entertainment, Fodder, or Advisers to the Slavers. They are the weakest variant of Slave, since they hardly work at all. Being a Missel, shortens your life span majorly.

Camp Savvo-

Savvo is one of the older camps set up by Dagon. It has less slaves then normal, nearing almost 200. Life here is slightly better then newer built Camps. This is where your character begins. Either as a Slave, or Slaver. It has only one small well, that provides a warm, ashy flavored, but drinkable water, there are only a few Huts that are controlled by Higher-ups.

4E10, 23rd of Sun's Dawn, Sundas,

Slavers, you are eager to get your Slaves back to work, so you can have your way with them once more. It is time to awake the slaves and send them back to the fray. Make sure your whips and flails sting like fire.

Slaves, after a hard day of working, you are awaken from your peaceful slumber, yet again. A horn blasts through the camp, followed by various yells and whips being snapped in the air. Better get up. Welcome back to Dagon's Hell.

Rules-

1. PM First before joining.
2. No Ubering or Character Controlling
4. PM Character sheets TO ME
5. Romance and cursing is fine. But don't go overboard, you might drown.
6. Short Posts are not allowed
7. I am the god of this RP, break my rules, and I shall smite-eth thee
8. First posts are, and will always be mine
9. Vampires and Werewolves are near the edge of 'No' and 'Negotiable' (You'll really need to persuade me, that you can pull it off with out screwing up the RP)
10. If I forgot to mention something, PM me.
11. Have a lot of fun
And 12. PM Me first about joining, dammit! That goes with your Character sheet too!

Character Sheet Format

Name:
Gender:
Race:
Age:

Eye Color:
Hair Color:
Height:
General Appearance:
Unique Appearance: (Scars, Tattoos, etc)

Mental Status/Personality: (Also put whither they're Slave or Slaver)

Weapons: (Slaves have none)

Armor: (Slaves have none)
Clothes: (Slaves have little)

Equipment: (Be realistic)

Good at: (What ever your character is good at, Can he burp the ABC's? Put er here)
Bad at: (Opposite of above)

Short Bio:

Also, send me a small 3-4 sentence paragraph, summing up the character sheet, so that I may post it up. When its your time to post, post your full Character sheet in Quote-Tags.

The point of this RP, is to take a break from the 'Important, world-saving hero' Rp's. Here, you play as someone with power. Or none at all.

Which will you choose?

The Characters so far-

(Faldom) Zalithin- a fear-mongering bloodthirsty Dremora. He is even feared by some other Dremora. He served in the daedric invasion in the hierarchy known as the Valkynaz, now he over sees a slave camp. He literally lives for the suffering of the mortals that they have enslaved, he strives to make their whole lives a hell.

(BebopMagnum) Artemis Belmont- an agile, quick-witted young man who lost his power-hungry father at a young age. He took on the role of a thief to survive... that is, until Dagon came. Though he is not a fighter, Artemis is an expert at dodging and ducking, as well as climbing, jumping, and swimming. And when he can't run... he uses that silver tonge of his.

(falconjk) Keivaani is a dark-scaled Argonian slave who is a skilled Illusionist with a reasonable grasp of Alteration, though he prefers to keep these talents under wraps. He can also defend himself well enough with a short blade or his bare hands. He is for the most part reserved, but much more open to those he knows, and he has a sharp mind.

(Jerod Kayne) Tor-Rii- A young Argonian who has been a slave for four years. He's really energetic and is surprisingly cheery, he tries to befriend other Miners, but no one seems to like him. His knack for climbing and running have gotten him in lots of trouble with the Dremora. Even to the point, where one of his Head-fins was torn in half. Rii is the youngest of the slaves on camp, only being 14 years old.

(Jerod Kayne) Adrian 'Mac' Rijfer- This Ex-Legionnaire has been working on the mines for seven years, he is one of the High-Ranking Slaves, and is well feared among the Lower-Slaves. He is kind and generous, but the others think otherwise. He despises Dremora with a smoldering passion, but regretfully obeys their orders.

(Tom Bombadil) Saalal- cannot get a break. His whole life, he has known nothing but the life of a slave, treated little better than an animal, and the one chance he had at freedom was snatched from him before he could enjoy it. But all the while, Saalal doesn't mind that much. This life is the only one he has known, so he reasons that he might as well work with what he's got. And if there is a problem, he figures it can usually be solved by working harder.

(tayroc) Ol' One-Ey is little more than a beast on two legs. The massive, scarred Nord has been a slave since the Battle of Bruma and in that time he has been so horribly abused that his mind has almost completely devolved. Mentally, he is not altogether human, but something far more cunning, and far more dangerous.

(Vrek VileClaw) Kraeta- A cruel, cunning Kynreever, is a powerhungry, methodical warrior. Notably sociopathic, he is skilled, and would take power wherever he could find in it, whether through demeaning of his peers, or harsh mistreatment of the slaves.

(Vrek VileClaw) Iolenth Dres- A one-eyed, bitter, and cynical Dunmer bureaucrat, who has been enslaved for four years. A Lower-Class slave, he enjoys aiming his fiery temper towards Upper-Class slaves, thought hating the Dremora leagues more.

(BladeMaster07) Gerich Modius- A strong and proud man who knows how to wield a blade, he served in the Legion for only a year before Dagon came to Cyrodiil. Now in the camps he is introverted and sullen, and works hard, not caring to be a "High-Slave" knowing that would only give him a ticket for a smashed skull in his sleep.

(Krimsin) Xa-raku is a Black Marsh martial arts master who has been driven to nigh-insanity in the camps. He makes no further attempts at communication with anyone. Enraged partly by the constant torture of the place and partly by the loss of his students during a raid, Xa-raku has little to lose.

(Mannimarcoo) Elindrin- A mysterious and Arrogant Miner, he is half dremora and thus despised by most other slaves. He leads a small gang of former magic users, and often experiments on other slaves corpses in his free time.

(forrest gump951) Abraxas is cruel and sadistic, like all dremoras. The one thing different about him, though, is that he has a strong sense of honor. If one has beaten him in a fight, he will submit to his fate. In fact, he actively seeks opponents worthy enough to fight him.

(W00tz) Ilmydas Nerethi - An "Upper-Class" Dunmer Slave who works in Camp Savvo's Mines. A great fighter, mining has had many affects on him, including paler skin, lighter hair, and his favorite, increased strength. Ilmydas is also strangely good at all types of crafting, a good haggler, and was once very good in combat related skills, Ten years of disuse picking away at them. Enjoys meditating and simply thinking on things, this Dunmer has made his hut rather comfortable and homely.

(ADETH) Adeth is a pitiful kid who just doesn't look his age due to his body shape and size. His eyes tell of intelligence but when hiseyes are watching someone there is an odd feeling. Something seems to be off with him anyhow. He is a mysterious kid but often seems to prove nothing is wrong. He has clearly gone through much but seems quite positive and confident.

(Illusionary Nothing) Y'Lira A winged twilight, a messenger daedra of Azura, Y'Lira is here to observe, report, and to help the dunmer, Azura's chosen race. While hardly sadistic, Y'Lira is often uncaring of mortal suffering on more than an intellectual level. Though she would never admit it, she is fascinated by mortals and their emotions and behavior.

(Aulakauss) Ahdanjha Kemplessa- A former member of the Dark Brotherhood who has become more like the stereotype assassin than she ever was before; she is quiet, save for the times she loses her temper, reclusive and generally hates interacting with people for fear they will stab her in the back. Now enslaved for the second time in her life, Ahdanjha has become rather bitter and snippy.

Though a formidable opponent to any mortal or immortal with a weapon in her hands, she is helpless (and angry about it) without any such weapon. Though few know it, she also deeply fears she may never again see the mate she was separated from years ago when she was captured.

Beams of sunhine streamed through into the medium sized hut as Elindrin's eyes opened. The wood creaked as the window blew gently agianst it. Rising from his pile of rags on the floor, Elindrin saw Nasrun, one of his gang of magic users, guarding his door. All of the five members of the gang stayed under one roof, with watches to make sure their throats weren't slit in the dead of night. Because they were hated. So very hated. Blinking, Elindrin stood up slowly, and scanned the his room. A small door contructed of driftwood seperated the main room from elindrin's small nook.

Pushing away the plants that held open his door, he found that the other gang members were already awake. Even though slaves eat the pork slop that the daedra gave them, somethings magic users were able to catch bigger things, like lizard's and daedric insects that snuck into the camp. A small concentration of heat, basicly noticable for fear of daedric discovery, was in the middle of the room. The smell of fried rat hung in the air.

Noises resounded from all around the camp, the slavers were reading the slaves.

Elindrin turned to Roskan, one of the gang members and said "Put that out, the Dremora will be here soon.". The tiny flame in the middle of the room quickly blinked out of existance. Everyone walked out of the hut and stood outside the door, waiting for the Dremora to come herd them to the mines.

Artemis sat quietly in his hastily-built hut, examining a toothpick in his hands. It was basically the only thing the Dremora hadn't taken from him. He stuck it in his mouth and rolled it around using his tongue. Artemis could hear the forlorn shrieks of pain and agony from within the camp, and the vicious snarls from the Dremora or their creatures. Creatures from Oblivion. Artemis had always had a sort of agnostic, maybe ever atheist outlook when concerning gods. But it was quite obvious that Dagon and his legions of demons existed. Oblivion did exist.

That also meant countless gods Artemis had forsaken when his father left him were real as well. Artemis withdrew the toothpick from his mouth and examined it once more. Twirling it in his hands, he thought: As real as this toothpick.
Artemis stowed the toothpick away in his pocket, deciding to use a piece of hay from his hut's wall instead. Best not to wear the thing out now. I could be here for the rest of my life, for all I know.

A loud trumpeting noise rang out through the camp, and as usual, Artemis stood and exited the hut. Don't want to anger these bastards, he thought grimly.

Just as he had every morning for the past seven months, Keivaani awoke to the smell of burning.

He took a deep breath and inhaled the dusty air. The harsh aromas of charred wood and burnt land filled his nostrils, with a tinge of the oddly sweet smell of burning human flesh, and for a second, he caught a whiff of frying rat. Someone's gotten lucky and caught something. As he lay there with his eyes still closed, Keivaani was glad he'd developed the habit of waking up a few minutes before the Dremora came to boot the camp awake. Those precious few moments were the little time the Argonian had to think to himself without the distraction of work, or the fear of a Dremora singling him out for the unprovoked beatings which he'd so often seen at Camp Savvo. As a warm breeze blew over him, he took the time to consider his predicament.

Pros: I'm not dead yet.

Cons: It might well be better to be dead.

His eyes flicked open, surveying the tumbledown collection of tents and huts dotted around the ashen, grey landscape.

I suppose there are worse situations to be in at the camp. I'm not one of the higher-ups living constantly in fear of having their throat slit at night, and I'm not one of the gladiators risking their lives daily. And thank whatever gods there are still out there that I'm not a Missel. Nobody knows I can cast spells and I always have the amulet to turn to.

He shifted slightly and looked across, spotting some slight activity a way across the camp.

Ah, here we go again.

The Argonian cracked his knuckles as a loud trumpeting horn blasted its way through the camp, and mentally prepared himself for another day's hard labour in the mines.

The Nord's eye opened as the thongs of a dremora whip cut into the flesh of his back. It was morning.

He closed his eye again and remained silent as three large Dremora clapped irons on his ankles and dragged him out of his steel box into the darkness of the early morning. A orange glow rose from the lava that now dominated much of the landscape.
It would be a hard day.

Another whip bit him and he rose to his feet. A familiar sensation flooded through his body. It might once have been pain, but now it was all he knew. The dremora bolted on his iron collar and quickly retreated from him.
He was dangerous, and they knew it. They used prods to goad him over to his cart and a Xivilai stepped forward to fasten his chains to it. One connected to both ankles, both wrists, and his neck. These five chains were his life. The Nord clenched an old dead piece of oak in his teeth and waited for the miners to enter the shaft.

The Deadric Horn sounded off around the camp, interrupting the young Argonian's peaceful, relaxing sleep. He opened his eyes slowly, and looked up at the blood-red sky. As frightening as it looked, it somehow comforted Rii. The deep red was very calm, and seemed quiet.
Another blast of the Horn came, louder then before. The reptilian teen bolted upwards, smacking his head on a wooden surface above him in the process. He grumbled loudly and fell back, rubbing his head angrily.

When he recovered he looked around, seeing only the feet and ankles of both Slaves, and Slavers, hastily moving. Rii, carefully crawled his way out of his hiding spot, poking out of the back end of a hut. These Huts were built slightly off the ground, Rii had no idea why, but he was glad that he was thin enough to hide under the small openings.
He stood up, and brushed black, ashy soil that clung onto him. He felt warmer, now that he was out in the sun. Rii took a few seconds to crack his arms, legs, and back, then rotated his shoulders around to get blood flowing.

Once his exercise was finished, he sighed and walked around to the front of the hut, jumping into the nearest group of slaves so the Dremora would not become suspicious, he looked around at the other slaves, seeing that most were already being beaten and whipped harshly. He stuck with the group until they got to the Line-Up. The Line-Up was standard procedure in the Camp, Slaves line up, Dremora inspect them, take a few away, and give the rest the tools they need, then send them off on their jobs. As easy as it was, Line-Up terrified Rii.
He was always so scared that they might choose him to be taken away. But, he lined up anyway, being careful not to swallow his fear.

Once all the slaves were lined up, a Dremora stepped in front of the Slaves, facing them, he shouted ''Inspection!'' in that cold, blood-curdling Deadric yell. Rii stiffened himself to his full height, standing as straight as can be. At the other end of the line, Another Dremora, accompanied by Two Xivilai stood. The trio of Deadra began moving slowly down the line, Dremora in lead, with the two Xivilai trailing behind a few feet, they inspected every individual slave, as they walked past them. The Dremora, whom which carried a large spiked whip, stopped in front of a Redguard Slave. The minion of Dagon smiled wickedly, then nodded to one of the Xivilai. The Redguard gasped as the giant Deadra took hold of him. ''No! Nooo!'' He shouted, but his cries for mercy were ignored.
The Xivilai, with his prisoner headed down the camp to a building, Rii winced in fear at the mans screams and sobs. The Dremora, and his last Xivilai companion continued down the line. Rii froze, only gazing at what lay ahead of him. He bit his bottom lip nervously, as the Dremora continued more down the line.

OOC: My post condradicted Jerod's post, i didn't see his post. Will add more to this post once Jerod posts on what the Mines are like.


Elindrin walked towards the line with the rest of the group. As usual they stood to full height for inspection. The ring of the trumpets still resounded in Elindrin's ears. Elindrin always hated Line Up. They carried more people off every day. More room for the rest of us, he guessed.

A redguard further up was grabbed by the Dremora. His screams were quickly silienced as he was carried off. The guards examined Elindrin and his companions. Then moved on after giving them their picks. Elindrin sighed. Another long hard day of work. Elindrin wasn't built for this sort of thing.

OOC: Jerod said "Large spiked whip," so I guess that could be me.

IC: Abraxas's ears were quite pleased by the screams the redguard gave off as he was carried away. He kept his face hard and cold, as he always did, and gave his whip a little crack. To his pleasure, the slaves cringed at the horrid sound of his whip slashing the air. As he passed by one young argonian, he saw its little eyes wince.

Abraxas pondered the argonian's expression as he continued down the line. He quickly dismissed it as nothing, and focused on those he was inspecting at the moment. One slave he recognized: it was that half-breed. He'd seen this one several times before. Upon coming to the hald-dremora, he stopped, and decided too humiliate this one a bit. Abraxas spat in the half-breed's face, and gave him a cruel look before promptly moving on.

OOC: It's all I have time for right now.

As the Dremora moved quickly to lash awake those who were hesitant to rouse from their slumber, Keivaani swiftly slipped into a group of low-class slaves and made his way to the centre of the crowd, keeping his head down so as not to draw attention to himself, and closing his ears to the screams of those on the fringes of the group who were being whipped and beaten by slavers. Secretly, he enjoyed the sun's warmth on the back of his neck. He knew before long he would be in the mines and away from the comforting rays. But first, he would have to make it through the line-up.

Keivaani found a place between a Redguard and an old-looking Bosmer, and stood straight as the Dremora at the head of the line of slaves loosed a sharp bark; "Inspection!" Though his face betrayed nothing, he dreaded the line-up. Those who were taken away generally never came back. He couldn't suppress the butterflies in his stomach as he saw a towering Dremora begin making his way down the line, with two Xivilai following. He waited and waited for the Daedra to walk past, then his heart leapt into his mouth in horror as the Dremora stopped right in front of him.

The moment seemed to last an eternity as the heavily-built Daedra, easily seven feet in height, stood before him.

Then, a mixture of relief and further horror flooded him as the creature's gaze fixed instead on the Redguard to his left. He grinned and nodded to one of the Xivilai, who roughly grabbed the Redguard, ignoring the man's screams and cries for mercy. Keivaani stole a glance at the Dremora's face, seeing nothing but an emotionless mask. You're lucky today, Keivaani. That was a close one.

He kept half an eye on the Dremora and the one remaining Xivilai as they moved down the line, and paused only to allow the huge Daedra to spit in the face of one slave who Keivaani recognised as a half-Dremora. As another guard thrust a pick into his hands, he thought of the hard day's work ahead of him and wondered who he would be paired with down in the mines.

Slightly slouching, Adrian stood between the Half Dremora's little 'Gang', and a Dunmer, they all seemed to watch the Xivilai drag the redguard away. Adrian sighed, he could only be glad it wasn't him. He turned his attention back on the Dremora Inspector.
The Demon-like man stopped in front of the Half-Dremora, and to add to humility, spat in the creatures face. Adrian laughed to himself mentally, as the Inspector continued down, and seemed to walk right past him.

Adrian leaned forward slightly, searching the Slaves down his left, until he spotted a small black-stained scale Argonian. He smiled slightly in content that his friend was still in one piece. He leaned back into line and waited until the Dremora were done with their inspection.

He pushed his long black hair out of his face, then looked at the mine entrance, which looked like a Giant black rock, with a large area cut out, the ground around it was replaced with cart-tracks. Several carts lay motionless on them. There was also a small well, a few meters away from the mine. Two large bins sat near the mine as well, the first one seemed connected into the rock wall, the bin was full of mining gear. Pick-Axes, chains, anything that a miner would need to mine.
The other bin sat close to the Well, it being filled up with canteens.

Adrians sight viewing was cut short by a loud Dremora voice, yelling ''Chains!''

Several Dremora guards from behind proceeded forward and chained each two slaves standing next to each to other, to each other around the ankles. Adrian flinched slightly as the cold hard metal clasped around his skin. He turned his head to the Dunmer standing next to him, it seemed them two were tied together.
He gave the Dunmer a small nod before looking back. Perfect...out of all the people I could be chained to...

A dremora walked in front of Elindrin and spat in his face. Elindrin stared blankly at the Dremora as he walked away. A spit in the face wasn't bad considering that be could have been dragged off for a beating. Elindrin had some to expect random acts of violence agianst him. The dremora hated half breeds, it was a pity that Elindrin didn't know how he was created when it caused him so much trouble. Wiping the spit from his face , he walked up towards the jutting black rock that was the entrance to the mines. He was expecting to be chained to Nasrun, but no. He was changed to some argonian beast(OOC:Keivaani). Scowling at the lad, he continued into the Mine with his pick.

Xa-raku awoke in a small cave. No, it was more like an indentation in the rock. A small cubby hole where he spent the night. The dirt was soft enough, and his particular corner had worn away to contour with his back. He got up, not even bothering to dust himself off anymore. It was just dirt. He wasn't here to look presentable. Not here to impress anyone. Only here to work.

Thunder boomed overhead, and Xa-raku instinctively glanced up in hope of rain. But there was only a dark crimson sky filled with fire above them, and it reminded him that he might never experience rain again. He heard the warble of the daedric line-up horn, and began flocking with the other slaves toward the inspection.

The slavers didn't react well to eye contact, the ragged argonian had learned that early on. He kept his eyes forward, but he kept watching his peripheral vision. He was watching all of them. He tensed when he saw a redguard carried off. Another crack from the sky was heard, but Xa-raku didn't look up this time. He was awake now, he knew where he was. His attention drifted to his chains. They seemed to have loosened a little. Not even close to enough to be able to slip them off, but they were almost comfortable now. His arms no longer felt raw like they used to. They had calloused, and were now accustomed to having shackles around them. His sandals were intact but wearing thin. He was surprised they had made it this far. His robe was completely gone above the waist, leaving him without any protection for his torso, and below the waist his robe met the ground in ribbons and charred cloth.

Xa-raku took another step as another slave was inspected. He wanted to lash out like he had done so many times before, but he didn't have the necessary....fuel. He would need something to push him before he would have the energy to push back. Luckily, there was no shortage of such things, particularly at inspection.

Keivaani slung his pick over his shoulder as the familiar cry of "Chains!" from a Dremora overseer rang out down the line of slaves. Glancing to his right, he saw that the Bosmer had snuck a few spaces down the line and was now being chained up to another of his own race, and that the half-Dremora was now standing directly next to him. The guard who had earlier thrust Keivaani's pick at him now returned with chains and clamped one end around his wrist, while another guard clasped the other end around the half-Dremora's, chaining Keivaani to him. The halfbreed barely seemed to notice the chain being attached as he wiped the spit from his face. He began to walk towards the entrance to the mines, but then turned, noticed who he was chained to, and scowled.

Friendly.

The dark-scaled Argonian followed behind the half-Dremora, snatching a canteen and hastily filling it as full as he could with the warm, ashy water. He then took a closer look at his partner for the day. The half-Dremora was nearly as tall as the Dremora guard who had dragged away the Redguard earlier, but was nothing like him in physique. Instead, he was thin and lean, looking not so well cut out for the hard physical work that the slaves had to endure. His grey robe was tattered with wear and tear.

As they entered the mines, Keivaani quickened his pace slightly to draw level with the half-Dremora, before speaking quietly in his harsh Argonian accent, ensuring no guards could hear.

"Might as well let you know my name, seeing as we'll be working with each other. Keivaani. Yours?"

Gerich's eyes snapped open, at basically the exact same time as they always did, roughly four minutes before the horn went off. He slept outside, on top of a thin blanket which really did no good, though it did keep him from inhaling the ashy dirt. He groaned and rolled onto his back, looking up at the blood-red sky, not even being curious about it anymore as he was so used to it. He coughed, and spat out the phlegm that followed, before sitting up and stretching his sore back.

He fully stood up, as he continued stretching out the sleep from his muscles, when sure enough the blaring horn went off, signaling for the Inspection. He sighed, and walked off, taking his treasured ring from his finger, and placed it in his mouth, just under his tongue for the moment.

He walked up and stood near the far end of the line, looking straight ahead, noting the Dremora in the corner of his eye. He didn't even flinch or turn his head as a man started screaming, apparently being dragged off, as he had witnessed it so many times. The Dremora slowly drew nearer to him, it's large Xivilai guard staring at the slaves menacingly, its glare piercing Gerich. The Imperial just stared ahead of him, past the face of the Dremora in front of him, and into the distance, the ring pushed to the back of his mouth, almost swallowing it.

They moved on again, and Gerich forcefully gagged himself silently as the ring shot back to the front of his mouth as the Inspection was finished and the Dremora began chaining Miner's together, forcing them into pairs, as Gerich stoically accepted his new life. He didn't look down as the cold metal was strapped around his ankle, and the Dremora sensed it so he tightened it just a little to much and looked up eagerly at the Imperial.

Gerich did nothing, though it truly did hurt, and the frustrated Dremora lashed out with a metal backhand to Gerich's cheek, whipping his head sideways as he tasted blood and a tooth freely moving in his mouth. His gaze never met the Dremora's and the cruel thing walked off, cursing in it's own language. When none were in sight, he spit out a fair quantity of blood, along with a tooth, and slipped the ring back onto his finger, which was heavily calloused from mining with the ring on.

The line began moving, and he found himself chained to a Dunmer with long gray hair and rather pale skin for a Dunmer and who carried a heavy smell of smoke about him. He merely nodded to the mer, and began walking towards the mine's entrance, not waiting to see if the Dunmer would follow immediately.

"Inspection!"

This was one of the daily moments which brought Saalal the most anxiety. He was a good slave; he knew he had nothing to hide, but that frequently didn't make a difference to the masters. They made the Dunmer look like saints. Saalal stood quietly between an old Orc and the youngest slave in the camp. The Orc he knew. Turez gro-Baat was the reason he hadn't been killed when the Daedra first attacked. He had hidden Saalal and the other two escapees in his house, and had been able to negotiate a sort of surrender to a passing Dremora. It might have been thought of as cowardice, but it had spared all of them from being burned alive in the house, when the more savage Daedra would have reached it.

The young Argonian to Saalal's right, though, he was less familiar with. He had seen him before, but the two had never spoken. Saalal didn't even know his name. An energetic one, he had decided, but he was worried about how so young a person would fare under such harsh masters as the Daedra.

"Chains!"

Saalal took a deep breath. It was time for the day's work to begin. He glanced down at his ankle briefly; it was raw and scarred. The wound never had time to fully recover, so a perpetual bruise was always there. The Dremora came nearer, and Saalal waited patiently to see who today's partner would be.

OOC: Jerod, the young Argonian is Rii, obviously. I can be chained to him or the Orc, you decide.

Kraeta watched the line silently, his bow out, and arrow eased lightly on the drawstring. He traced his vision along the line, sometimes following Abraxas' movements, other times looking at the many slaves. He did allow his gaze to settle for a split second, watching as Abraxas stopped to spit in the face of the half-breed. Why did they suffer that one to live? They could tie him to a post, let the elements burn him to his core. Let him starve, be picked apart by scamps and rats... But such things would have to wait, for when he had true power in this camp.

He was disappointed as the lines of slaves left without any stragglers. He could have used a nice practice shot. Still, he followed the line of slaves, his bow still at ready, ready to fire at the most minor indiscretion.

---

Iolenth was awake as soon as the horn rang out, and was immediately on his feet, fighting vertigo as he stepped into the line. He didn't have much trouble fighting the fatigue as he once did. He slept lightly, as he had ever since he was captured. He was simply too used to the constant grip of fatigue.The bright red sky still stung his eye, though.

He stepped quickly into the line, tightening the crude eyepatch with a tug on both sides of the knot holding it in place, then stood, back straight, eye forward. His face was neutral for most of the inspection, until the Dremora and Xivilai passed him by, stopping to carry away a Redguard, not far from him. As soon as the demons passed, his face fell into it's usual scowl, maintaining it even as he walked towards the mine. He stooped by the two crates of equipment, grabbing a canteen and pick axe. He stopped dead still, though, when he heard the repetitive clinking of chains, not daring to draw the ire of the demon putting the chain on him. He turned when the monster moved further away, looking the human he was chained to, as he gave a small nod. Iolenth did not bother to return it.

It was just another day, another day left to survive. And being friendly where the demons were constantly watching, was not a way to survive.

Xa-raku was about to continue his rounds as a hauler when he felt a gauntleted hand grasp his shoulder. He turned around just in time to see a daedric mace collide with his head and knock him out cold.

Unconsciousness wasn't much like sleep. For one, it wasn't particularly restful, and for another it wasn't an easeful drift out of wakefulness, it was a hard snap out of awareness and suddenly he didn't know what was going on. He couldn't even think, he was barely aware that he had been knocked out at all.

His stream of unconsciousness was broken just as suddenly after an indeterminate amount of time when Xa-raku felt himself connect with the hard stone floor of a daedric cell. He opened his eyes, slowly stood up, and massaged his bruised occipital. He looked around and realized immediately that he was in the gladiator pit again. For some reason that was likely in no small part due to the blow to the side of his head, it took him a few extra moments to realize that he had been chosen as one of the gladiators. It was his own fault, really. The slaves were almost never given weapons, but Xa-raku fought perfectly well without them, and the dremora enjoyed watching the almost artful style of combat that the argonian employed whenever he entered the ring. He was actually rather glad. Moving carts of ore was a waste of his talents. By allowing him to fight, they were allowing him to keep training for his eventual escape. It's part of the reason he never killed his opponents, so that they might return later to practice more.

Xa-raku clenched his fists a few times, cracking his knuckles in preparation.

Adrian followed his new comrade reluctantly. The two stopped by the Bins and grabbed both a pick-axe and canteen each, then proceeded to the mines like the rest of the Slaves.
He tried his best not to stumble over over the Cart-Tracks, as he walked into the wide opening. Upon entering the mines, Adrian was greeted with a flight of stairs going downward, made from stone. The mines, opened up like a small canyon underground. On the walls, all sort of Deadric machinery cranked and turned puffing out small amounts of dust and debris on the Slaves.

Man, I hope I get picked as a Gladiator today... He hoped to himself, as him and his partner trekked through the mine. Adrian didn't really care where they worked, just as long as they actually worked. He sighed mentally, then looked downwards at the chain around him and his partner's ankles. He was falling a bit behind, and the chain tightened up slightly.
Adrian quickened his pace, closing the distance between him and the Dunmer until he was only about a foot away from the Dark Elf.

Ilmydas was nearly gaurunteed to wake before any other, for he had trained himself to wake earlier and earlier, before settling on his current time. Sleep was often very restful for the Dunmer, due to his most comfortable bed. Every day began exactly the same, and that was how he liked it. He would wake from his peaceful slumber, gather a few bits of wood and any useless plant matter nearby, and light a fire in the center of the hut. Then he would check to make sure everything was still in its place, and check for any cockroaches that had made their way into the hut. Cockroaches they could survive in any environment, even one as harsh as this. " I suppose in a way, I am myself, a cockroach. " Ilmydas said this out loud as he searched and thought to himself, " We both have the highest chance of survivability and are the most enduring of our peers. Only difference is.. " A pause, to pick up a cockroach, looking down at it as if it was another person, " ... One of me, can easily devour many of you, while one Dremora, could not hope to defeat me in a fair fight. " Ilmydas cleared his throat, his voice had become rather raspy over the years, probably because of the smoke inhalation, but he wasn't likely to stop now.

Tossing the cockroach into his mouth, he bit down hard before it could crawl down his throat, its shell making a loud crunching noise. Without notice, the time had passed rather quickly, as the morning horn blared through the camp. Running callused hands through his hair, Ilmydas looked to the statues of various Daedra princes he had carved - Azura, Boethiah, Clavicus Vile, Hermaeus Mora, Hircine, Malacath, Mephala, Jyggalag, Molag Bal, Namira, Nocturnal, Peryite, Sanguine, Sheogorath, Vaernima, and the prince whose domain he was now residing in, Mehrunes Dagon.

The terraformed land had once fascinated him, but although he had gotten used to it, it was still a pleasure for Ilmydas Nerethi. Joining the line-up, the Dunmer stepped in beside an Imperial slave, smiling oddly. It was unlikely anyone here was happier, he had the best accomadations, ate well, and actually Enjoyed his environment. A Redgaurd was dragged off screaming, the only thought coming to mind being He is letting them win. Ilmydas would never let them win, he would not succumb to fear, he would stand proud, fight when chosen to fight, work when it was time to work, and eventually he would leave this place. Man, Mer, and Beast alike cringed and turned their eyes from the Slavers, instead he looked directly at the Dremora, but not with arrogance, no, some might mistake it as arrogance, it was a look of respect. He greatly respected these Dremora, they were possibly the greatest fighter that would ever walk on the face of Nirn, and they respected him for his fighting ability. Although it annoyed the Dremora that torturing him was useless, due to his determination to never give them the satisfaction of his screams, they allowed him some privileges as long as he remained obedient and continued his work ethic. He would never disobey the Dremora, nor disrespect them, and he did far more work than many other slaves, and was cut quite a bit of slack because of this. A match would be a nice to start to the day. Nerethi was wondering who he would be chained up with, hopefully someone likeable enough.

A very tall Dremora, at least a foot taller then him, stopped and chained Ilmydas to an Imperial. The line shifted and began to move into the mine, the Two-Hundred slaves shuffling along to a day of work.

Gerich continued the walk to the mine, not feeling the chain tightening which meant the Dunmer was following him. Gerich knew the Dunmer, or at least his reputation, and he supposed that not making the mer mad would be a fine idea.

Walking towards the mine, he did notice as an Argonian was cracked upside the head with a mace, and dragged off, though only the new slaves made a fuss about it. Gerich knew the Argonian was probably going to be pitted against another slave today in "The Ring", for the Dremora's entertainment.

Gerich himself had been in almost a dozen fights, all when he was a fresh slave, and he had always won. He had earned quite a reputation, one that he certainly did not want as he was awarded things like pillows, fresh food and clean water. He had refused every last bit of it, knowing it would one day lead to a crushed windpipe in his sleep, and had lived in discomfort. He did not want to grow soft like some of the other slaves who slept in "comfy" (and he used that term very loosely) beds, knowing they would be eaten alive soon enough by the harsh climates.

He had not been in a fight for nearly five years now, possibly because the Dremora wanted fresh meat, or because they had forgotten about him. He had certainly lost the small amount of respect he had earned from them with his fighting prowess. Not that he wanted the respect of the vile things, and he suspected some of the Dremora remembered him from the earlier days.

He just sighed, as he grabbed a pick axe from the barrel on his way in, and a small leather pouch of the dirty water from the well, which was supposed to last him a day. He glanced back at the Dunmer as he grabbed his pick and wondered how the mer wasn't dead yet, either by the Dremora or other slaves, as he had his own shack and everything. Gerich found this rather perplexing, as too why the Dremora would allow any slave anything that would offer comfort.

Better to break everyone's spirit, and make them mindless drones until their badly fed bodies finally collapsed, leaving another corpse to be taken away, only so another slave can take his clothes and continue on. Death was such a common occurrence in the brutal place that it didn't bother Gerich a bit, though he would always offer a quick prayer for the lost soul before continuing on in his stoic manner.

"I suppose we should get to it then." he muttered silently to the Dunmer, as he slowed for the mer to catch up.

Ilmydas reached into the cart and grabbed a pickaxe, slinging it over his shoulder and grabbing a pouch of water. He cast a questioning look at a nearby Dremora, who made a subtle look back, and then turned away. Ilmydas made an exxagerated movement to "steal" another waterskin, and quickly stuffed it into his pocket. Someone might need the water, perhaps my new partner. and he would be glad to give it to him. In Ten whole years in one camp, he still hadn't made any friends. Picking up the pace, he came up alongside the Imperial just in time to see an Argonian get knocked unconcious and dragged away. Assuming he was headed for a fight, it made him itch to fight even more. Pausing to think of how great it would be to be stacked up against a few new slaves would be, the Imperial walked ahead a bit.

"I suppose we should get to it then."

Nerethi took the lead, heading deep into the mine. He enjoyed being as deep as he could get, it meant being further away from everyone else, and, safer. Amidst the rest of the miners, rocks could chip and fly through the air, someone could lose their grip on their pickaxe... It was much better to be deeper. The Dunmers only hope was that this Imperial was a nice enough guy. Apparently he had been a good fighter a while back, but hadn't had any action lately. He simply ran his hands through his hair, bracelets clinking together, and coughed to clear his lungs of the dusty air.

The Nord was still waiting for the last of the miners to disappear down the shaft when he heard the Dremora call.

"You there! get ol' One-Eye and bring him to the pits. This match'll be fun!"

A hand grasped his collar from behind, choking him, while he was unchained from his cart. As he was goaded along the path toward the fighting pit (a path he knew all too well), he scanned the area for anything that he could use as a weapon.

Miner's pick? No, they are bound items. If somebody so much as swings one at the rocks clumsily, it'll disappear.

Chains? Maybe... good for strangling a dremora, but they could use them to pull your feet out from under you.

Dremora whip? No. Jealously guarded. probably bound too.

a rock? if only. These bastards had cleared the damn ground since the camp had been set up all those years ago.
Correction, we had cleared the gound.

He felt another sting on his back and fixed his eye upon the iron gate in front if him.

The Pit.

Just like coming home...




OOC: Krimsin, there is no way the Dremora would stop anybody from working in order to have a fight. The fights are for later in the evening after the work is done and we are exhausted.
I am only going along with this and joining the fight because i am a greedy bastard and i wanted to snatch up this opportunity.

I've also noticed that this RP, just like many others, is developing a trend of super-tall characters. Dremora are big, but no bigger than a good-sized Nord. Anything over seven feet for any character is just ridiculous. You know who you are...

If you have problems with peoples characters, PM them or take it up with the RP Leader.


IC: Elindrin glared at the Argonian for a second and then said "Elindrin." sharply. Elindrin continued down into the mines and noticed someone being hit with a mace and carried off. Elindrin continued down into the tunnel, coming to a vein in the mine. Bringing his pick down, it hit the surface of the rock. Looking to make sure thier were no daedra around, Elindrin turned to the Argonian.

"Give me your pick, and stand out the door. Alert me if you see daedra coming."

"Elindrin," the tall half-Dremora shot back, glaring at Keivaani again before turning back and making his way further into the belly of the mines.

Very friendly.

It was all Keivaani could do to try to get some social contact. People here seemed to lose their minds very quickly, and he wasn't planning on becoming one of Sheogorath's chosen any time soon. The crack of metal on bone filled the air suddenly, and he glanced round to catch sight of a marsh-brother crumpling to the ground from a blow of one of the guards' Daedric maces. His eyes followed his fellow Argonian as his unconscious form was dragged away by a Dremora. Evidently, a gladiator. Unusual for the Dremora to take one to the Pit so early in the day, but Keivaani supposed that it split up the routine and unsettled the slaves; they want us to know that they can cart us off any time they like, not just at the line-up. He followed Elindrin into the mines. Eventually, the two of them came to a vein in the dark tunnel, in a quieter section of the mine out of the way of the main tunnel, and Elindrin cracked his pick against the surface of the rock once before looking up and scanning the area.

"Give me your pick, and stand out the door," he said. "Alert me if you see Daedra coming."

Keivaani was a little surprised. Whatever Elindrin was planning to do now, it sure as hell was against the camp rules, and they would probably be killed on the spot if they were found out. At this stage, drawing attention to himself was not something he wanted to do. But this guy probably won't be pleased if I refuse. Besides, whatever he's doing, he's chosen a quieter part of the mine to do it in, and it could bring us a little way closer to getting out of here. Keivaani considered his options for a moment, before carefully handing his pick over.

"What are you up to, then?"

Judging by the half-Dremora's previous demeanour, Keivaani didn't expect a response, or at least one that explained very much. But it was worth a shot.