Shadows of the City

The Imperial City, once the great metropolitan center of the Empire, is a ruin. Creatures lurk in the shadowed places and impudent adventurers ransack the buildings looking for petty treasure. Death and Danger are all that lies within that hellish place, and the screams still echo from decades past.
-Taken from the Journal of an unknown scholar

After the Oblivion Crisis, there was a time of peace. Roads were rebuilt, cities were repaired, and the people no longer lived in fear. Bandits and Raiders were flushed out of the dens, some were killed, some were imprisoned within the mighty bastion of the Imperial City.

The Guild of Mages was finally able to pursue the task that had been set before them, the eradication of Necromancy. Components were found and premier mages from across Tamriel were gathered together at the Arcane University, where Archmage Lucius Peren, the successor to Hannibal Traven, sought to cast a spell of epic proportions, one that, in theory, could bind the God of Worms to Mundus and their be killed. It was not successful.

It might have been one of the components, or perhaps it had been that one of the mages had mis-said the chant. But the result was disastrous. The mages lost control of the spell and it spiraled out of control, expanding and contracting until it finally exploded, vaporizing those within the Arcane University and flooding the streets of the Imperial City with pure, mutating, magick.
It took three days until the wave of magick contracted back into the Arcane University, but the destruction it caused was complete. Those that were unable to escape during the panic were killed from high exposure to magick, mutated into feral creatures that lurked in the shadows, or fused into the very city itself.

Decades past.

Eventually people from around Tamriel began to pass over the Imperial Bridge and enter the city itself. Many found death at the hands of the creatures of magick anomalies that dotted the city. But some managed to survive, and soon tales of riches began to pour out into the safe lands. It was said that some items that had been caught in the waves of magick had been changed, taking on properties formally unknown.

But always, always there were the lurking shades, the shadows in the city.

*

This RP is based completely in the Imperial City after a cataclysmic event that left it a ruin. In RP terms, the city is much larger than it appeared in Oblivion and has a much more extensive sewer and underground. The RPers are a party of adventurers, like most RPes. Unlike some RPes, this one does not have a set goal but revolves around missions and quests that are given to the party in safe locations. Another thing are infused items, which are further explained in the infused item section of the rules. This RP does have a storyline but that is controlled by me. Subplots ARE welcome

Rules:
1) No character control
2) No mind reading
3) No all knowing characters
4) Be Realistic
5) No werewolves or special chars (Vampires are allowed but they will follow Morrowind vampire set, not Oblivions.)
6) Normal RP rules
7) Romances are welcome, keep it clean for the children
8) Max 2 chars, if the other one of them is from the game, tell me
9) I am lord and master of this
10) Please, do PM me your sheets and wait for me to post it up before you start posting.

INFUSED ITEMS:
Infused Items are items that were exposed to huge amounts of the magick that caused havoc in the Imperial city. As such, they were "infused" with certain properties depending on what form of magick it was exposed to. As such, you will see some weapon that rather than hurting when they hit someone, they will heal. Leather armor could weigh as much as ebony. The combinations are endless. Interestingly, Infused Items lose all power and crumble into nothing if they get too far away from the Imperial City but grow much stronger as it gets closer to the Arcane University. Say a sword has a fire infusion. At the Gates of the City, it will look like a normal sword and cause minor fire damage, but near the Arcane University or in a Pocket of Destruction, the blade could burst into flame causing massive fire damage. Basically, Infused Items are weak away from Pockets and the University, and are strong near them.

MAGICK:
Magick becomes slightly wild within the Imperial City. Spells that were powerful could become very weak and weak spells powerful. Some spells might drain you more than normal or not work at all. I trust RPers to keep this in mind, I trust your judgments on this.

CHARACTER SHEET:
Name:
Gender:
Race:
Age:

Height:
Eye Color:
Hair Style:
Skin Color:

Class:
Class Focus:

Birth Sign:
Major Skills:

General Appearance:
Tattoos/Scars:
Apparel Worn Most Often:
Apparel worn least often:
Weapons:

Spells:

Mental Description:

Brief History:

My apologies for the mess, I haven't done one of these in quite a long time.

Sounds great, I will start maknig a character sheet.

Dramatis Personae
Verlox's Character
Name: Sir Olwen Thynne of the House of Longleat
Gender: Male
Race: Breton
Age: 27

Height: 5 Feet 10 Inches
Eye Color: Light Blue
Hair Style: Honey Blonde hair that hangs naturally down just past his ears.
Skin Color: Pale

Class: Noble
Class Focus: Combat

Birth Sign: The Apprentice
Major Skills: Blade, Block, Heavy Armor, Destruction, Alteration, Mysticism

General Appearance: The figure from a courtly romance. Olwen is the spitting image of the perfect noble. His face is handsome and his body is lean and lightly muscled. Like men of fashion, he has a full beard that is neatly trimmed. However, his body has it's fair share of wounds that were obtained fighting in the local wars in High Rock.
Tattoos/Scars: A number of scars along his ribcage and upper-arms. He also has a nasty one that angles along near his groin.
Apparel Worn Most Often: Heavy Chain Haubergon, Leather Pants lined with wool on the inside, Leather Boots, Brown tunic worn under the Huabergon, Leather Gloves, an expensive green cloak lined with fox fur.
Apparel worn least often: Steel Plate (No Helm)
Weapons: Steel Bastard Sword

Spells: Weak to Medium Fire Spells and Shock Spells, Weak Shield Spells, Soul Trap and Telekenisis

Mental Description: Olwen has modeled himself on the knights of Chivalric Romances. He is courteous to all people and follows a very distict Code of Honour. However, as a Noble, he believes entirely in Superiorty by Blood, and can be quite condescending to "lesser" folk.

Brief History: Born the second son to the wealthy Baron of Longleat in Western High Rock, Olwen was not expected to receive a sizeable inheritance. Because of this he was put on the path towards entering the service of the Divine but the birth of a third son in the eleventh year of Olwen's life saved him from this path and instead he was made a Page in the court of Daggerfall. When he turned fourteen, he began his training as a Squire, and when it was discovered that he also had some talent with magick, he was taught both blade and spell. He excelled and was knighted by the King of Daggerfall when he was twenty. He has fought in numerous conflicts spanning the breadth of High Rock and gained vaulable experience. But like most second sons, he grew bored with his lot in life and took to adventure. Hearing rumour of the current activity in the Imperial City, Olwen left Longleat and ended up in the small village of Wye, right across the bridge from the Imperial City.

RavenVW's Character
Name: Brotch Vunnis
Gender: Male
Race: Imperial
Age: 39

Height:5'10
Eye Color: Blue
Hair Style: Brown, short and messy
Skin Color: Pale

Class: Ex-Soldier
Class Focus: Combat

Birth Sign: Warrior
Major Skills: Blade, Shield, Heavy Armour, Light Armour, Speechcraft

General Appearance: Brotch has a welcoming, almost handsome face, with a straight nose, strong jawline and beautiful eyes, but his appearance is greatly marred by the two scars spreading from his lips to up his cheeks and on the cheekbone. He is pale, and the scars show up strongly, detracting from his face and making him look deceivingly rough.

Tattoos/Scars: Two scars in the shape of a Glasgow grin from his lips to his cheekbones, they were part of an assault which included much more damage, and as a result it has made speaking hard for him, and shouting near impossible.

Apparel Worn Most Often: Although versed well in the arts of both heavy and light armour, Brotch wears a thin and light set of Leather Armour, he still has his heavy steel armour from his soldier past somewhere though.
Apparel worn least often: Steel Imperial Guard Armour.
Weapons: A thick steel sword, old, and dismissed by younger people as more of a blunt weapon than an actual sword, but Brotch has developed an understanding with it, if he wants it to cut something, it will.

Spells: N/a

Mental Description: Although he used to be a balanced, normal soldier, time and unfortunate events have taken their toll on him. Now, he is quiet, partly due to his speaking problems, and also due to what has happened to him in the past. When he develops a bond with someone, he doesn't usually break it.

Brief History: With a pretty linear childhood, and an almost more linear advlthood, Brotch was expected to serve out his time in the Imperial Guard and retire, just like any other soldier. But, fate changed his plans. At the age of thirty-five, he was set upon at night by several young bandits. He and three other guards went missing that night.

They tortured him, gave him his scars up from his lips, and did other, terrible things to him. When he was finally rescued, he couldn't talk at all, and after being let go from the guard finds speaking hard (although he gets better almost daily recently) and painful. Now, with his mother and father passed away of old age, he has little friends, and fewer real goals in life. He simply wanders on.

Olny's Character
Name: Lurk
Gender: Male
Race: Dunmer
Age: 45

Height: 5'7"
Eye Color: Red
Hair Style: Long and Unkempt
Skin Color: Dark Blue

Class: Assassin (Magical Assassin?)
Class Focus: Stealth

Birth Sign: The Tower
Major Skills: Sneak, Archery, Destruction

General Appearance: A gruff, unruly character
Tattoos/Scars: None
Apparel Worn Most Often: Dark brown traveling cloak
Apparel worn least often: Black Leather Armor
Weapons: Iron Short-Sword, Long Bow, 25 Chitin arrows

Spells: Ball O' Flame, Snowball, Lightning

Mental Description: Quite Sane. A practical mercenary, keeps a level head and a sharp tongue. A drinker and somewhat a connoisseur of wines, though one couldn't really call him an alcoholic

Brief History:

After a, by his standards, boring life on a muck farm in Vvardenfell, Lurk set off from the isle of his youth in search of adventure. He found none. In the end, his refined archery, modest sword skills, ability to sneak, and fondness for Magic of a destructive nature landed him several odd jobs. He specialized in killing quietly, and not so quietly (when the need arose).

Hoping to put a life of killing behind him, he spends lots of time rationalizing, in his mind, the murders he did. Convincing himself all his victims- as well as employers- were wicked people. They probably were, but there's still a little voice in his head that cries "Sinner!". He is not one for killing on whims or without discretion, but is more than happy to engage in fisticuffs in a tavern over the most ridiculous things, generally due to intoxication.

Canzeri's Character
Name:Frederic Wolfgang
Race: Imperial
Gender:male
Age: 32

Class: Legionnaire Investigator
Class Description: The Legionnaire Investigators were formed to investigate events that seemingly can't be solved. There is usually only a few investigators at one time, but with their training, one investigator can do the job by him or herself. They are trained and sent in secret, so that the public could not interfere. They are trained to fight small battles, but are definately not combat experts. They are trained to use magic to make their jobs easier.
Birthsign: The Tower

General Appearance: around 5"11, he is usually sulking and bent over. He is kind of skinny since he is inside all the time. He has bags under his eyes from the nights of constant investigating.
Scars/Tattoos: a scar running down his left arm
Hair color: brown
Hairstyle: loose, down to his neck
Eye color: hazel

Armor/Clothing: dark shirt, black wide pants, rough black leather shoes, and an ebony diamond ring,

Weapons: silver shortsword

Spells:Tower Key, Tower Warden, Alluring Gaze, Eyes of Eventide, Shadow Shape, Grasp of Terror

Mental Description:He is always cautious, he is constantly trying to sort things out and organize. He isn't exactly the most social person, but he does enjoy the company of people sometimes.

Bio: Frederic was born to a high-class family in the Imperial city. Even though his brothers were loud and excited all the time, he was usually quiet and barely active. His parents were worried that he wasn't normal, and would ruin the family name, so they left him at an an orphanage. He was discovered by a Legionnaire named Felix Wolfgang, who noticedd how different he was to the other kids and decided to adopt him. Frederic was a curious boy, and how he was able to satisfy his curiosity with research and investigation. Felix knew about the legion investigators, so he decided to sponser the boy to become one. After being trained and prepared, Frederic finally passed the exams and became an honorary Legionnaire Investigator.

These happy days ended when the horrible incident in the Imperial city occured while he was on a mission. Most of the investigators and Frederick's adoptive father were reported dead, and all the investigators that went to the city to uncover it's secrets died horribly. Now as the last investigator alive, Frederick wants to uncover the secrets of the anomaly for himself. He also wants to find out if his father is truly dead or not.

MAD-MAX's Character
Name: Thornin
Gender: Male
Race: Redguard
Age: 32

Height: 5' 10"
Eye Color: Brown
Hair Style: Short Black Fizzy Hair
Skin Color: Brown w/ hint of red

Class: Bard
Class Focus: Stealth

Birth Sign: Tower
Major Skills: Alchemy, Blade, Block, Illusion, Light Armor, Mercaintile, Speachcraft

General Appearance: Muscular, Small Goatee
Tattoos/Scars: Tattoos on his body of his stories.
Apparel Worn Most Often: Tan leather boot, brown leather pants, White puffy shirt w/ leather vest
Apparel worn least often: Red Vest w/ gold trim, White Long Sleeve shirt, Brown pants, Black shoes
Weapons: Silver Long Sword, Steel Short Sword, Steel Daggar

Spells: Paralyze, Night eye, Silence, Frenzy, Command Humanoid, Command Creature

Mental Description: A man who loves to tell stories of adventurers and other types of stories. He is kind to most people that show him respect, but has a short tempure for people who are idiots or ask the wrong questions. He isn't like other bards, because he knows that most people would rather talk with a blade rather with words, but he is good at talking people down.

Brief History: Thornin has had a troubled history, he was once a minor thief in a small adolencent group, where he was later kicked out of, because he was'nt "stealing enough" to get by. Later in his years, Thornin left Hammerfell, and began his journey through Tamriel visiting all the provinces. He travelled to Skyrim, where he learned of heroic and triumphant adventures and battles that had taken place in the past. Around that time, a group of assassins began to hunt him down after he (unknowing) slept with one of the assassins three wifes. Thornin after months of being chased got tired and fought the assassins to the breaking point, killing the assassin and his friends in one fail swing of his sword. Thornin has decided to come to Cyrodiil and has travelled to Anvil in search of a job or to get more stories.

Aulakauss's Character
Name: Trisha Cerrius; Dessinta [Lapsed]
Nicknames: Trish, Tiim-Kast (male alias)
Gender: Female
Race: Argonian [Morrowind variety]
Age: 19
Birthdate: 5th, Sun's Height
Birthplace: Drellor Plantation, mainland Morrowind

Class: Tinker
Class Description: Trisha is a tiny being of massive curiosity, and as such, reads, researches and experiments a lot. She works mostly with Alchemy and the study and (attempted) assembly of Dwemeri-style technology. She refers to herself as 'A scholar and a tinker.'
Major Skills: Enchant, Alteration, Acting, Alchemy, Mechanical Construction
Minor Skills: Restoration, Illusion, Destruction, Athletics, Mysticism
Birthsign: The Apprentice

Eyes: Bluish green
Hair: Fins, purple on the back tips.
Skin/Scale Color: Tan-green flesh with both purple and leaf green scales
Height: 5' 4"
Build: Scrawny and Thin, save for her legs; often misses meals.

General Description: The best words to describe Trisha's physical appearance are unkempt and cute. She is one of those people that you're never quite sure of their gender until they tell it to you, since they look and sound like they could be either an adolescent boy or a young woman. Her body lacks briasts and a navel entirely and the only reason her waist is curved at all is because of how wispy she is; with nothing to support it in way of muscle or fat, the skin between her ribcage and hips has simply pulled tight and curved inwardly.

Her skin is a tannish green color and is only visible on her fingers and palms, around her eyes and mouth and on the bottoms of her feet. Otherwise, leaf-green scales dominate the surface of her tiny frame, covering her in most places. In others, her scaling fades from green to a reddish-purple. These include her rear, the backs and inside of her thighs, the underside of her tail and a large patch from her groin up her belly to the top of the little upside-down V-shape of the bottom of her ribcage. A little smudge of purple is also visible on the very back tips of the fins that run from just above her eye on either side and end at the rear-sides of her skull.

Primary Clothing: Among the few she associates with enough to be herself around, Trisha wears a patchwork shirt and skirt or long, sack cloth pants with a heavily patched blue coat. Otherwise, she either hides herself under her armor or dons a Huntsman vest and pants. She wraps the bottoms of her feet with strips of leather in place of shoes.
Tattoo/Scars/Piercings: Burns and cuts of various sorts from mechanical and alchemical mishaps, mostly on her hands. Her right fin is pierced twice with golden rings. She'd never dream of having a tattoo anywhere, ever, for any reason.

Armor: This sans the boots. Only donned to hide herself or for protection when traveling

Inventory: Apprentice-level Alchemy gear, save for her Master Calcinator, which was a gift from a friend for her 18th birthday. Has a bunch of little organized sacks of ingredients in the smallest, front pouch of her pack and her alchemy gear, gold and potions in the larger one. A homemade steel pocketwatch sits in her pocket, attached by an iron chain to her belt, powered by a shard of a Varla stone. Also carries some bottles of tea and loaves of bread along with two full changes of clothing.

The two small side pouches of her pack are filled with a pair of notebooks, one each: the left one contains machinery schematics and all sorts of miscellaneous notes written in quick quillstrokes that few but her can read, and the right is an exhaustive documentation of every ingredient she has ever found, what effects it has and where it can be found, again along with random scribbled notes only legible to their author. The core notes themselves in both volumes are hard enough to read by themselves, but the margin notes are almost entirely undecipherable.

Weapons: A razor-sharp glass dagger sheathed in leather at her left hip, stained with all sorts of ingredient juices. She has no idea how to wield it in battle.
Magic:
Conjuration: N/A
Illusion: Apprentice
Destruction: Apprentice
Restoration: Journeyman
Mysticism: Apprentice
Alteration: Expert

History: Trisha was hatched a slave, though she thankfully recalls little of her first four years of life. After she'd hatched, she was taken from her parents and sold to a nearby plantation that wanted beast children to raise and sell. Two weeks after turning two, Trisha, then named Dessinta and redesignated Argonian Female #219, was put up on sale in Suran. The tiny Argonian was forced to labor for the slave trader until she was rescued two days before her fifth birthday.

Her saviors weren't heroes though, not in the common usage of the word. A pair of upper-middle-class Imperials, Savain and Marina Cerrius, were visiting relatives in Morrowind and had found themselves appalled at the slave trade and the cruelty with which the Argonians and Khajiit were treated. Marina was, despite their repeated tries, unable to conceive a child and they'd all but given up hope of having a child when Savian suggested they visit the local slave trader and buy a beast-child their freedom.

Upon reaching the trader, though, they found that most of his 'stock' was full-grown. They'd almost given the idea up when Marina spotted a tiny scaled child holding the bars of a cell they'd thought empty before, its little right fin bearing an iron piercing with a little metal tag on it. They took her home to Cheydinhal and raised her as their own, giving her the Imperial name of Trisha. At the age of ten, she showed interest in the local Mage's Guild and, after a little convincing, was allowed to join despite her age.

Now, at the age of nineteen, she is an unsung heroine of her local Guild chapter, a little wunderkind that even the older mages go to for advice regarding Dwemeri and Alchemical studies. She is fairly poor at actual spellcraft, but her vast knowledge and skill in her fields of expertise are enough for most people to overlook that particular flaw. Over the past week, Trisha has heard rumors of a party being formed to go investigate the Imperial City Ruins, a topic of great excitement to her. She has packed her things and is ready to go explore, despite the many rumors of hauntings and monsters.

Personality: Trisha is an introvert, a reclusive little girl that hides in her room in the Cheydinhal Mage's Guild and only comes out for visits to the kitchen, toilet or ingredient room. As such, she hasn't the slightest idea how to deal with regular people. By nature, she is timid, softspoken and if anyone argues with her she backs down and nods while murmuring in mild fear. If faced with something scary or traumatic or given physical threats she will either scream and run, try to hide or, on more extreme occasions, faint. Sarcasm and innuendo are almost entirely lost on her.

Despite this meekness and innocence, she is very useful when in her element. Despite not even being two decades old, Trisha knows more about Dwemer technology and alchemy than a great majority of the entire Cyrodiilic Mage's Guild and will happily recite tidbits of her knowledge to anyone she overhears having trouble with something in her field (unless you look at her menacingly or tell her to be quiet, in which case she falls silent and slinks off).

Sadly, her expertise is rather confined to these two elements of arcane study; her spell casting abilities are limited at best and she can't cast anything more powerful than a small healing spell on anyone but herself, her casting attempts frequently either backfire or fail entirely and she forgets incantations that she doesn't use constantly.

As another result of her reclusive lifestyle and the constant ribbing and ridicule of her magickally-skilled peers, Trisha also has severe self-confidence issues. As she is more reptilian than most Cyrodiilic Argonians, she does not have the shape of most females and is often mistaken for a male, something she is very aware of and extremely self-conscious about. Envious of practically every other female she meets, embarrassed by her lack of femininity and fearing being made fun of, Trisha prefers to speak and act as though she is a male around strangers, leading to some strange and awkward moments of realization for any new friends she makes.

Other Traits/Oddities:
- Cannot tell a joke to save her life.

Misc Skills [non-combat]:
- Considering her meek nature, Trish is strangely good at lying and has no problems with stealing/borrowing the property of others sans permission. With exception of ingredients, she usually puts back what she takes when she's done with it, though.
- Trisha can mimic almost any sound or voice she hears. One of the mages lovingly calls her 'Mockingbird'.

Shadow666's Character
Name: Aric Wolf-Blood
Nickname: Wolf
Race: Nord
Age: 35
Gender: M
Birthsign: the Steed

Focus: Combat
Main skills: Blade, Acrobatics, athletics, Unarmoured, Hand-to-hand
Class: Hunter

General appearance: Aric has a rugged look about him, his face weathered by the harsh weather of the mountains. His eyes show the years of battle within his mind from the memories of the culling of many of his clan members. he has a fit and muscular body, built from hunting, running, and all sorts of excercise that had occured during his life.

Hair: Silver, long and ruffled giving a wild look about him

Eye Colour: Icy blue

Height: 1.9 m

Tattoos/Scars: Has many battle scars across his chest, legs and arms, as well as a small tattoo on his right upper arm of a wolf, coloured blood red, showing that he is a member of the wolf-blood clan.

Mental Description: was considered the wise one amongst his clan, as he was the one who planned many successful hunts, and speaks almost fluent cyrodilic, yet still does not know much of the civilised world. He is kind hearted, but when he needs to be, can be aggressive and protective of his clan and especially his sister. Being the man he is, he would do what ever it took to protect what was left of his clan. Because of what had happened in his past, he does not trust many strangers, especially anyone other than Nords. After all anyone could be a part of the group who killed much of his clan.

Primary weapon: dagger made from a werewolf's fang
Secondary weapon: oaken bow
Clothing/Armour mostly worn: Bear furs draqed over his shoulders, and brown pants
Clothing/Armour least worn: armour of any sort

Spells: Nighteye, Wolf-blood spirit (increased speed and agility for a short period of time)

Inventory: wolf talisman tied onto a leather strap, and worn as a necklace, small

Bio: Aric is from a fairly unknown nordic clan known as the Wolf-Blood, that have been sighted in the mountain ranges to the north of Cyrodil. Aric was one of the more intelligent clan members, and often planned many of his hunts in advance, choosing the perfect moment to strike and where, so he would be able to bring back larger prey.

But because of this, Humans who have seen him before on odd occasions, wanted to bring the boy back to find out why a nomad out in the mountains was so intelligent. Aric had been interrupted during one of his hunts, by a group of hunters and was captured, only to have the hunters get attacked by the boy's father. Aric had gotten away, but his father had been mortally wounded. The boy was 18 at the time.

Without a leader, the Clan began to fight amongst themselves, and by doing so they began to make mistakes. Many of the clan, enraged by their leaders death, retaliated against the civilised settlement the next night, and as a result, more attention was brought onto them being belived as a threat.

A fatal error in hiding their tracks lead to a hunting party finding the Wolf-Blood clan home, and resulted in many being killed, and some of the women being taken away. Aric's sister, Sylvia Wolf-Blood was amongst the captured, and Aric had fallen from a great height, after being knocked off while trying to prevent the hunters from taking his sister.

Only Aric had survived the assault, and hadn't been captured, since he was thought dead. Enraged by his clan's decimation and his sister's capture, Aric ventured from the Mountains, and into the woodlands near Cheydinhal to begin the search for his sister. Many leads brought him to the imperial city itself. He would find the one responsible and make him pay for the lives this man had ended because of a indecisive move.

FC4's Character
Name: Hel'Resquein
Nickname: Hides-His-Heart
Race: Argonian (Cyrodiilian breed)
Age: 23
Gender: Male
Birth Sign: The Thief

Focus: Magic, Combat.
Skills: Mysticism, Illusion, Alchemy, Blunt, Light Armor, Block, Destruction.
Class: Rogue Shaman
Class Description: From the depths of Black Marsh Hel'Resquein was raised as the Tribe Shaman's son, and so learned the ways of the Shaman. To be wise, caring, helpful, protective. To be knowledgeable, dependable, determined, and faithful. To strengthen his spirit beyond the bounds of common mortals, to bring forth from the world powers lying dormant and unseen. To be a guide and model for his people.

General Appearance: Built like a man, yet fashioned to be a lizard. Such is the appearance of all Argonians. Hides-His-Heart does little to deviate from such a thing. Well built, he is athletic and strong, lean and agile like his people. He often uses his tail like a third arm, which serves to unnerve many. He generally gives an air of coldness towards others, and looks bothered when addressed more than happy to converse. His eyes are forced from their thin, angry-slit visage when he is caught off guard and surprised, or genuinely concerned. His scales are a dark, crimson red, and two trails of green run under his small reptilian ears, under his eyes, and to his nostrils. Two likewise aqua green trails of scales line his shoulder blades, coming over his shoulder to frame his collar bone.
Hair: Where hair should be there are two fins, which extend from the general area of his brow. They are prone to opening and closing like little wings.
Eye Color: Deep Gold, seem to glow in the darkness.
Height: 5' 9"
Tattoos/Scars: He wears the tattoo of his stature within his tribe. http://www.tribalshapes.com/img/tattoos/phoenix-2.jpg, it signifies the ascension of the soul to a higher plane, of either knowledge or existence, and symbolizes that his soul is ascended, and he is gifted among his people. He has many scars of blades and bruises of attacks upon his arms.

Mental Description: There is a reason he is called Hides-His-Heart by those who know him; besides the fact that few know his true name. He is cold, calculating, and generally self-centered. Quick tempered and rarely self-controlling, he could snap for any reason.

However, he is mostly reserved and anti-social, not seeking to make a friend or communicate with others outside of violence. Indeed, it often seems that combat is the best way to find his heart.

Of course, his training as a youth dictates he must give aide, so he is not above helping others. But he will often help another impassively and dutifully, rather than personally.

Weapons: A club with two rows of iron spikes attached.
Clothing/Armor: He wears a battlerobe of sorts, which does not look to be of Marsh-make. Grey, it is plated in a fashion similar to the orcish armors ?small squares of metal set in the cloth like tiles- and the cloth itself is two layers of wool, with leather woven between them. The metal tiles run along his back, chest, and on the thigh trains of the robe. The sleeves come to his elbows, and two leather bracers are tied on his forearms. Leather boots come up to his knees, and the robe's wool pants tuck into the boots.
Clothing/Armor least worn: When not garbed in a battle robe, Hides-His-Heart prefers the loincloths of his native people (which he wears under the robe anyways) or a worn green travel robe.

Inventory: A mortar and pestle. He also carries in various pouches on the leather belt he wears ingredients to potions and poisons. His store is vast, as the pouches are each the size of two fists and wrap around him. Somewhere in there is gold, a map, and a journal.
Misc: Traits that don't fit anywhere else.

Bio: Born to an obscure tribe in the depths of Argonia, Hel'Resquein was the son of the Shaman. As such, he held a lofty position amongst his people, and his training was from early on to temper his soul for his life's work.

But at the age of 20, when his training reached it's apex and he was to lick the Hist tree, be named, and become an advlt, disaster struck. The ceremony complete, the tattooing done, Hel'Resquein lay upon his reed bed stomach down; and experienced his first vision.

He has never spoken of it, even to his father, but what he saw cut Hel'Resquein to his very core. The next day, as a brand new Shaman to his people while his father drew nearer to death, he inexplicably left the tribe. He learned arts that a Shaman would be shamed to know; how to fight, how to kill, how to damage that which he should have been quelling, protecting, and healing. He left the homeland of Argonia and struck out into Tamriel with a temperamental fervor. It seems that with each year he ages, his training as a Shaman diminishes within him.

Atomic's Character
Name: Warrick "Pork Chop" Blorrin's
Gender: Male
Race: Imperial
Age: 45

Height: 5'7
Eye Color: blue
Hair Style: Bald
Skin Color: Redder then usual pink skin.

Class: Guardsman
Class Focus: Combat

Birth Sign: The Steed
Major Skills: Polearms , Medium Armor , Athletics

General Appearance: A large and muscular man, Blorrin's rather small bulb-like head looks somewhat out of proportion in contrast to his well chiselled muscles . He boast's a broad chin and his jaw has a slight underbite . He has a great big pudgy nose, with two smallish eyes distanced close to the bridge . His ears are almost unrecognisable as they are so small , and he has a great big tsar-esque beard , coloured a dirty charcoal that runs down to his navel. The beard is growing grey hair's, a sure sign of age.

Tattoos/Scars: Several knicks and scratches across his face, nothing too serious in terms of scar's though. He has a tattoo of a long halberd running up his left arm with the words "Jessop" written in cursive print at the bottom .

Apparel Worn Most Often: Warrick is never seen not wearing a faded old Skingrad guard unifrom . The leather on it is torn and moulding , and the metal moon that adorns the centre of the chestpiece shows chipping and rusting . How he got it is anyone's guess and rumour's have spread that he might of been a Skingrad guardsmen before he became an adventurer...something he denies . He he wears nothing under this guardsmen's tunic , so his bare and brawny arms are visible . He does however wear greasy brown leather gloves that are extremely thick and ride up to his elbows , so only his forearm's are visible .

He wears tanned brown leather pants and standard leather boots.

Apparel worn least often: He refuses to wear anything else.

Weapons: "Mama Jessop" , a fine steel Halberd that looks like http://www.wise.k12.va.us/cms/studentswebs...ll/halberd1.jpg

Spells: Know's no spells

Mental Description: Hearty and headstrong, Warrick is a kind man to those who he trusts . In his time spent as an adventurer , he has learnt to be weary of those of whom he doesn't know.... but those who befriend him find him to be a trusting and caring individual , one who would gladly stand by his friend's . he does have a bit of a temper however , and this can get him into trouble with other's .

Brief History: Raised in Bravil , Warrick was a born slugger from the start . He had a tough childhood working at the dock with his father before he simply had enough and walked out on his mother and home . As he aged , he tried many different proffession's from bartending , to woodcutting , and the fighter's guild . At age 32 he settled in as a freelance mercenary and advneturer , and the prospect of looting the Imperial City and using the proceed's to settle in for retirement appeals to him .

Blademaster's Character
Name: Arcturas Vandorallen
Gender: Male
Race: Imperial
Age: 20

Height: 6'1"
Eye Color: Emerald Green
Hair Style: Neck length, chestnut brown hair, kept natural and tidy, with his bangs brushed to the side of his face.
Skin Color: Slightly tanned.

Class: Swordsman
Class Focus: Combat

Birth Sign: The Steed
Major Skills: Blade, Light Armor, Block, Athletics, Acrobatics

General Appearance: He is a fine looking young man whose eyes sparkle with the lust for adventure and excitement. His face is young and boyish, being thin and long but also full. He has dimples on his cheeks, and fine smile. He has almost no facial hair to speak of, and it takes weeks to grow anything remotely noticeable.
Tattoos/Scars: None at all.
Apparel Worn Most Often: A light chainmail cuirass that cover his body and only up to the elbow under a dark brown tunic. Black, leather pants, nice for moving around in combat, but also for casual wear. A deep blue hooded cloak. Fine leather boots. (he almost always wears his armor because it is so light)
Apparel worn least often: A fine, black long sleeved shirt, along with his pants, and his cloak. Leather boots.
Weapons: http://media.giantbomb.com/uploads/0/9831/259623-longsword_large.jpg Steel shortsword.

Spells: Fighters Wish (Fortify Agility and Speed), Illuminate

Mental Description: A easy going youngster who lusts for adventure and fame. He is rather cocky about his skills with a blade, though that right has been somewhat earned, and he does become rather brash and careless when the prospect of adventure hits him. He can be funny and easy to get along with as long as you don't call him "kid".

Brief History: Born into a middle class family left Arcturas with a pretty mundane childhood, as he worked at his fathers store in Cheydinhal for most of his life. But in his spare time, he could be found off with his friends, practicing his swordsmanship, which to many observers looked promising.

He left his job to the displeasure of his father, to start fighting in mock-battle tournaments, and began getting a name for himself as a fighter. He never won any tournaments until he was 18, and when he finally did, he found the fighting circuit boring and uneventful. He wanted to adventure and explore the wide-world.

DarkNova50's Character
Name: Felicity Fortuna
Race: Imperial
Age: 25
Gender: Female
Birthsign: The Warrior

Class: Mercenary
Focus: Combat
Skills: Long Blade, Block, Marksman, Unarmoured, Athletics
Description: Swords for hire, freelance mercenaries are typically sought after by individuals who don't wish to associate themselves with guild organizations...for varying reasons.

General Appearance: Felicity has a thin, athletic build, fairly typical of most Imperial women, though noticeably more muscular as a result of her profession. While many would most likely not consider her breathtaking, she has received a number of compliments on her appearance in the past. She is reasonably well endowed, and has a confident, generally upbeat look about her.
Hair: Shoulder length and light brown, worn in a loose ponytail
Eye Colour: Bright blue
Height: 5'8"
Scars/Tattoos: Minor nicks and cuts from previous battles mark her arms and torso

Mental Description: Argumentative, impulsive and stubborn as an ox, Felicity has an unfortunate habit of rubbing some people the wrong way. She's usually quite blunt when voicing her opinions, regardless of whether she's trying to help or chastise whoever she's giving it to.

Regardless of her sometimes abrasive personality, Felicity does enjoy socializing with others, which is where her brighter side comes out. Something of a feminist, she hates seeing men try to take advantage of other women, and sometimes feels the need to act overly aggressive around them. This is usually reserved for the 'pigs,' however, and for most men she acts the same as she would around anyone else.

Primary Weapon: Adamantium dai-katana, with a considerable blade length, and signs of wear upon the surface
Secondary Weapon: One-handed steel crossbow
Primary Armour/Clothing: A worn, black leather jacket, worn over a simple white cotton shirt, with loosely fitting black pants. Also wears heavy black leather boots.
Secondary Armour/Clothing: Wears a simple white tank top under her shirt.

Inventory: A small number of silver bolts as a backup for her blade, a few hundred Septims, and a small brass ring that belonged to her father.

Bio: Raised within the walls of Chorrol, Felicity enjoyed a rather normal, unremarkable middle-class lifestyle. Her mother worked as a maid at the local Fighter's Guild, and her father was a travelling merchant. Most of her free time was spent 'sparring' with her friends behind the Fighter's Guild, and life seemed to be, for the most part, average.

But that seemingly average lifestyle was lost when Felicity was eighteen. A pair of smugglers showed up at Felicity's home one night, claiming that her father owed them money. When they suggested selling Felicity into slavery to cover the debt, both her parents did what they could to hold them off while Felicity retrieved the city guard. While the watchmen were able to quickly put down the two men, the damage was done; while Felicity's mother survived, barely, her father died the next day from his wounds.

Since then, Felicity has travelled as a freelance mercenary, obsessed with becoming as strong as she can. When she heard of the incident at the Imperial City, she saw it as another opportunity, and made her way there.

a4LeafCloverx's Chatacter
Name: Leila Haemon
Gender: Female
Race: Imperial
Age: 19

Height: 5'9"
Eye Color: Brown
Hair Style: Long, wavy auburn hair that reaches down just past her shoulders
Skin Color: Tanned

Class: Myrmidon
Class Focus: Combat

Birth Sign: The Ritual
Major Skills: Blade, Block, Light Armor, Restoration, Athletics

General Appearance: Leila has a pretty and warm face with a few freckles on her cheeks, slender body but well muscled. She has no visible scars to speak of and no birth marks. Her rather large ears are never visible as they are always hidden behind her hair.

Tattoos/Scars: None
Apparel Worn Most Often: A red suede, buttoned up jerkin over a chainmail cuirass and plain, black pants with knee high leather boots.
Weapons: A plain steel longsword and a silver dagger

Spells: Heal Self, Heal Other, Mara's Gift

Mental Description: Leila is kind to others that show her kindness, but hostile to others who offend her. She thinks of herself as no greater than anyone else. She helps those in need, even doing something as simple as giving a septim to a beggar.

Brief History: Leila had a very normal childhood which she spent enjoying life and just having fun. As she grew older, Leila became more interested in swordplay as she watched her older brother train with her father.

When she told her father that she wished to learn to use a sword, Leila's father taught her the same way he taught her brother. Leila's mother was able to teach her the very little healing magick she knew.

When Leila turned eighteen, she began taking on mercenary work and has enjoyed it ever since.

Vrek VileClaw's Character
Name: Adras Ialo
Gender: Male
Race: Dunmer
Age: 66

Height: 5'7''
Eye Color: Red
Hair Style: Red, Shaved
Skin Color: Ashy Grey

Class: Spellsword
Class Focus: Movement

Birth Sign: The Steed
Major Skills: Acrobatics, Athletics, Short Blade, Unarmoured, Destruction, Alteration

General Appearance: Despite being young, Adras has a worn face, with a large nose and hard-set jaw. His legs are obviously the strongest part of his body. The rest of him is very thin and lithe, though strong. He always has his back straight and chin up.
Tattoos/Scars: Adras sports a Redoran tattoo on the left side of his face, and two rings pierced into his left ear.
Apparel Worn Most Often: Light, warm clothing, currently brown trousers, a grey tunic, and a pair of well-worn deerskin shoes.
Apparel worn least often: None, as it isn't very hard to replace his preferred outfit.
Weapons: A steel shortsword, with a slight curve to it.

Spells: Fire, Electric, and Frost spells, weak to moderate, weak to moderate shielding spells and elemental shielding spells.

Mental Description: Adras likes to move, above all. He prefers running to fighting, a rare thing among Redoran. He has much formal training with his sword, though little actual experience with it because of this. This love of free movement has done little to dull his Redoran attitude. He is hotheaded, rash, and tends to overestimate himself, something common among younger members of the Great House. He has a few racists tendencies, particularly towards Nords, despite how alike he is personally with many of them, but he does not often let this stop him from helping those below him when they need it.

Brief History: Born to a family of the Great House Redoran in the city surrounding Veranis Hall, Adras was the son of Draves Ialo, and was trained to join the House's nobility, as was expected of him. However, as a child, he spent more time playing then he ever did practicing or studying. The only reason he would even study was so that he could get outside to scale walls or climb trees sooner. Eventually he took this play into his studies themselves, such as surprising his swordsmanship teacher by somersaulting through his legs instead of striking or blocking. This playful method grew into his life in the Redoran as time went on, and the local representatives saw this. He often worked for the House in ways that played to his advantages, rather then combat or speech. One of his latest assignments bringing him near the Imperial City to look for a missing Redoran.

Cirith's Character
Name:Cirith Dalecross
Gender:male
Race:Imperial
Age:36

Height: 6,9 feet
Eye Color:blue
Hair Style:short haircut and headband
Skin Color:tanned face, normal skincolor otherwise

Class:Treasure Hunter
Class Focus:combat/ survival

Birth Sign:the warrior
Major Skills: axe, blade, heavy armor, acrobatics, security,

General Appearance: a strong looking man who is suprising ly slender without armor
Tattoos/Scars: some scars, but nothing serious to be seen, he has a big long scar of three claws on his back, a serious injury from his childhood of a daedra attack
Apparel Worn Most Often:brown vest, white shirt, leather armored greaves, thick steel pauldrons and gauntlets, covered with camoflage and painted in darker colors, he also has a light iron shield strapped to his bakcpack for extra protection and he uses it with his shield, three 2.5 inch long spike are placed at the middle, the shield is also painted in darker colors and looks pretty worn
Apparel worn least often: for spare clothing he has cheap clothers matching the rest of his outfit and colors
Weapons: poleaxe with a small axeblade (enchanted to do minor frost damage) and a glass longswordlongsword

Spells:flare, heal minor wounds, Star of the west, Voice of the emperor

Mental Description:he preferes to know what is going on, and wants to work alone because he doesn't realy trust people that easy, but of you manage to earn his trust you'll learn that he is a friendly man who likes jokes and good or funny stories told in the grey Mare

Brief History:
born and raised in Chorrol, his family lived in the imperial city but were just out of town when the disaster happened.
Cirith became a treasurehunter, specialising in enchanted treasures because he could easely recognise the enchantments of certain items.
he came to the City Isle to search for a special artifact not many know of outside the hi9gher ranks of the magesguild, The Glass shardblade: a special swpod made from a unique piece of meteoric glass, it is invisable unless light is relfected opf it, making it a perfect assassin's blade, it was told the Glass Shardbalde was used by a legenday assassin in the second era. it is rumored to be kept in a vault under the Imperial city so Cirith tries to find it along with any other treasures he can find.
YOU CAN START POSTING IF YOUR SHEET IS UP!

OOC: Sweet, where do we begin?

IC post will follow

Sir Olwen Thynne, second son of the House of Longleat, sat huddled by the fire in the Wawnet Inn. It was dark and raining outside, and the bottle of wine he had ordered did very little to warm his frozen bones. He thought back to the pleasant groves at his father's castles at Longleat and couldn't help but grimace as he raised his head and looked out the window at the blasted figure that had been the center of the civilized world. The Imperial City.

He had arrived only yesterday and, having foolishly ignored locals, moved straight through the gates and into the city itself. He hadn't lasted long, maybe an hour or so. The Talos Plaza district was relatively safe, with other fools like him roaming about, looking under benches and inside crates. So he had moved north, going into the Elven Gardens. It had been a stupid move on his part. As soon as he had moved through the gate, he felt his mind assaulted by some force. His vision had blurred and he fell to the ground, holding his noggin in pain. He looked up and focused for a brief instand, enough to catch the sight of what was attacking him.

It stood somewhat larger than a man, no facial features except small slits where his eyes and nose ought to have been. It wore no shirt and had on dirty pants. It's hands, what might once have been normal, were warped and molded into just three, large fingers. It's feet looked like those of a clanfear only much larger. The creature made no move towards him, only stood there staring at him with those black slits. Eventually Olwen managed to rally and flee the Elven Gardens. The creature hadn't followed.

And now he sat in the Wawnet Inn, nursing a splitting headache and chilled bones with trashy wine. The room was dark and unwelcoming, but it was the only place that took in visitors, unless he wanted to sleep out on the street. Wye, where the Wawnet Inn was located, had grown much from the 3rd Era, possibly due to the fact that it was the only safe area that close to the Imperial City ruins. In the Innkeeper, a burly nord woman in her old age, scurried around, serving the men and woman their orders.

Opposite from Olwen, against the west wall was set up a desk, where a shrewd looking man sat going through papers. Occasionaly some people would come over and talk to him, and the man, Olwen guessed that he was an agent of some sort, appeared to give these people tasks to do.

Mayhap I ought to have done that, Olwen thought as he took another sip of the disgusting wine. But he likely wouldnt' speak to a lone man....

OOC: Holy crap, I haven't done THAT in awhile.

ooc: Mmmm.. you smell that? That new RP smell? *inhales* Ahhh.. Kinda reminds me of butterscotch.

ic: The door to the inn opened and an Argonian squelched in, the leathers on its feet sopping wet, its leather armor and pack dripping all over the floor. It was of the variety common in Morrowind; digitigrade with no discernible external gender identifiers, cold-blooded and holding that eerie, mysterious and serious look. Except this one.. this one was more miserable and nervous looking than mysterious and serious. Two blue-green eyes flicked around in the reptile's skull, locking onto each tavern patron in turn, yet notably avoiding eye-contact. Its gaze lingered on one man going through some papers, as if sizing him up for some profile in its head, before moving on.

Once done, the green-scaled lizardman strode soggily up to the bar and rested its hands on the edge. When she got back from her rounds, the barkeep looked down at the scaled fingers that tapped on the wood, noting the pristine condition of the claws and the scars and burns that littered the flesh before the Argonian cleared its throat and tilted its head to the side, its two golden earrings hitting one another with a small clink. Though she knew it might be a grave mistake, she couldn't help but point at the claws and ask. "Manicure?"

The reptile's mouth curved into a smile, revealing perfectly arranged and glisteningly white razor teeth. The eyes seemed to reflect the action and it laughed raspily, removing a gauntleted hand from the bar and patting a dagger at its side. "You could say that."

From the tone of the voice, posture and conciseness of speech, she guessed a male, but with this type of Argonian, it was a little hard to tell, especially with the armor on. The earrings, facial structure and well-maintained claws and teeth implied a female, though, so she wasn't entirely sure. It cracked its neck and sat down. "Can I get you something.. uhm.."

"Tiim-Kast." It finished her sentence and she nodded. So it was a male, just one with a cute face and obsessive grooming habits. Her guess was it got picked on a lot as a kid. "May I have some tomato soup and a cup of tea?"

She nodded and left, returning a few moments later with the requested items. After a small exchange of gold and a polite thanks, the Argonian took the food and drink a table by the window and stared out at the rain thoughtfully as it ate and drank, occasionally glancing over at the man with the papers for a moment or so before returning gaze to the window.

ooc: I'll get more into RPing with Trisha as the central focus later, but for now, I'm just calibrating the finer details and introducing 'er. I haven't had a new character in so long..

OCC: This is a long post I know.


Thornin sat at a table surrounded by children. They had all come to hear of one of his stories of great hero's and adventurer's of Tamriel. Outside, the wind houled as the windows shuttered and the children looked around some what scared. Thornin smiled and had a chuckle at the children as they moved closer to him.

"I have a great story, just for this type of weather." Thornin said with a smile on his face. The Redguard opened his shirt to show the children a tattoo of a Orc with a mighty battle axe bringing it down on a Knights steel shield.

The Story Began

The story begins back during the middle century. A great heroic adventurer by the name of Mertion Web set out to find a new adventure. He had lived in the forrests of the Elves for many years. His cottage was in complete solitude, only the Bosmer knew where he lived. The cottage was small and warm, fit for a man who did not want to be found easily. Mertion gathered his belongings, his great Steel long enchanted sword, that he had named Ri, after his strong warrior mother. Ri rested at his side as he suited up into his Elvin Enchanted armor and placed his bow and quiver on his back.

The day was bright and sunny, not a cloud in the sky could be seen. Mertion took a deep breath, and began his new adventure. Where his new adventure would lead him, he did not know nor did he want to know. He just followed the wind in which ever way it blew. The first town was a small settlement on the Elswyer-Valenwood border name Tisk. It was a small settlement made up of Bosmer and some Kahjiit. Mertion was greeted as usual with a celebration of different foods and exotic clothing. The town mayor or chief, greeted Mertion personally, giving him a new ale that the mayor had just created.

Mertion and the settlement celebrated and danced through-out the night, drinking, eating, more dancing, and even some minor tussles between bosmer and kahjiit. The next day the Mertion was given a spectacular fairwell, as the women bosmer danced and pranced through the tree's. Mertion was given some of the mayors new ale for his trip, but Mertion declined (The ale was not as good as it would seem), the mayor and his children waved fairwell, as Mertion disapeared into the thick tree's and brush. Mertion could only guess of what kind of adventure he would have, he thought of his past adventures where he slew an evil Naga queen that was terrorizing a small argonian settlement in Black Marsh, while his other adventure led him to slay an Evil Necromancer and his army of undead. That was a battle to remember, and a battle that Mertion had almost lost his life.

Anyway, Mertion travelled for days through the thick Valenwood forests, as he made his next stop here! in Anvil. It was a calm crisp day, as the fishermen and other sailors, tended to their vessels and boats, while on the sea-side market, women and children (Such as yourselfs) talked and played. Sounds of seagulls and other sea creatures echoed through the streets and alleys of Anvil, as Mertion made his way to a nearby tavern, (I believe it was this very tavern). Mertion sat at a table minding his own buisness, when a man in street beggar's rags walked in and rushed over to him.

The man seemed crazy and his smell was deplorible. The man sat across from Mertion scratching his head and rubbing his running nose.

"Kind sir" the street beggar said in a solem voice, "He is coming you can not stop him" the street beggar said as his eye' s grew in fear. Mertion looked at the man confused and taken back. Mertion had thought the man was just trying to get some gold pieces.

The beggar continued looking at the crowd of tavern patrons and Mertion in a raised tone of voice, "By my word you will all fear the wrath ot Jartun-Gurz-Thenis. His might is more powerful than any gods, When he steps he makes even the ground below shake in fear. Jartun is a powerful Spell-sword and Warrior. As I speak Jartun makes his way here by ship. He has been sent here by the great deadric prince Lord Dagon!" the man queited down, as Mertion and the patrons looked at him in disbelief. The man was obviously crazy and was probably rambaling on, but this Jartun intreaged Mertion, as he sat the man down across from him.

"Where is this Jartun-Gurz-Thenis. Where does he travel from?" Mertion asked curiously. The beggar leaned over the table, looking at Mertion directly in the eyes. The man's eyes were very blood shot, and Mertion thought that the man may have just had to much ale or mead.

"My boy, this is no ordinary Orc we speak of. It is an Orc that has travelled into oblivion many times before, and everytime has come back with some kind of new power. These powers I do not know what they are, all I know is that they are more powerful than any Mage or Spellcaster could cast. Be warned that he travels to anvil by ship with torn beaten sails." Mertion looked on thinking of what the man had said. Suddenly the man vanished into a bright white light that made Mertion cover his eyes. The man was gone and all Mertion had to go on, was that Jartun was traveling to Anvail by ship with torn sails. Mertion walked to the counter and bought a room for three nights. He wanted to meet this Jartun?

A childs mother walks over giving Thornin a quick smile, before grabbing her child, "Its time to go home now Syris, you can listen to the rest of the story tomorrow", the child moaned looking at his mother, "Please mother, he was just getting to the part where Mertion the great adventurer was buying..." the child was cut off by his mother, as the two walked out of the tavern.

Thornin looked at all the other children surrounding him with big eye's waiting for the continuation, "Well children, it seems that the story is over for today, but tomorrow we shall continue" the children moaned with sunken faces as they all looked at Thornin, "Tomorrow we will continue, besides I'am to tired to finish and you may want to get home before the store gets worse. The children grunted and sighed as they all broke-up around Thornin and left the tavern for their homes.

Thornin walked over to the tavern owner and sat at the counter, "That was some tale you had those kids following, you even had me there for a moment!" Thornin and the man laughed for a moment, when thornin layed some gold pieces on the counter.

"A room. I will be needing one for three night" Thornin looked at the man with a blank face, as the man handed him the key to the room, "Thank you my good man!" Thornin said as he made his way to the stair. The room was nice and warm, it was cozy and had a small fireplace. Thornin crashed onto the bed exhailing and closed his eyes thinking, I will get you Jartun. Even if it take me another thousand years, thornin fell asleep...

Awh now that you've said that Aula i'm thirsty (searches for remnants of new year's booze) anywho guess its time for a post.

Beside the fireplace of the inn sat a weather worn Nordic man, Chest bare with many scars visible, and his large hand gripping the talisman of his clan. Unlike many of the patrons, the Nomad did not sit at a table, nor drink any alcohol. He merely looked into the flames, lost in thought. The furs of bears slain in the skyrim mountains hung on a rail near the fireplace, to be dried after the long trek though the pouring rain had dampened them. Many other patrons looked at the Nord strangely but Aric did not care. To them he was viewed as an animal, but only because he knew of no other way to act.

Yet to him, they were not important. They did not know of life in the wilderness, the way nature had wanted them to live. The simply washed their sorrows away with Flin and wine, afraid to leap into the unknown.

"What do we have here?" A squeaky voice said from behind the large Nord. Aric turned his head slightly and spied a Wood Elf holding his fathers dagger. "Strange dagger you have here, looks like it might fetch a high price. Since it was just lying here it looks like it belongs to me now" Aric's eyes narrowed slightly after hearing those words and turned his head back into the fire.

"Do you know what the blade is made from? That is a werewolf's fang. It takes a man who is both strong and agile to take such a beast down without being infected by the disease, and much skill to remove a fang while the beast is still breathing and dangerous. If you wish to take the blade, you may find that the owner was the one who retrieved the fang" The Nord said calmly with his face looking at the flames.

He could feel the legs shaking slightly from the Bosmer as the crouched and placed the blade back down next to Aric. "My mistake, i will.. take my leave" the elven man said and moved away from Aric, who let go of the talisman and retrieved his dagger, placing it back into its sheath. As he did so he spied a man in the corner ruffling through papers. Perhaps i should ask that man a few questions.. he may have a clue as to where i may find one of the men who hunted my clan.. The man thought to himself as he lifted the glass of water next to him and drank the last of its contents.

Frederic Wolfgang sat alone at a bench in the Talos plaza. He sat alone, but there were many people scauaging about trying to find anything of value in the once great city. From the scavager's perspective he was staring intently on the ground, as if looking for something he might of lost. When they asked him about it, probabely so they could steal it, they either recieved a quick silent glance or were completely ignored. Some of them thought the city drove him mad, and avoided being near him. In fact he was actually trying to unravel the mystery of the "New" Imperial city.

Fred, as some call him, finds it easier to think when he focuses on a single object. He would concentrate on any object around him, even if it had nothing to do with the problem. In this case he was concentrating on the small pebble that lay before him; it's oblong shape, it's light grey color, it's rough looking texture, and it's many other features. Once he had his mind warmed up, he could now think about the current situation. Even so, he would sometimes loose his concentraion when someone would come and try to speak to him. That was one thing that annoyed him greatly; when someone broke his concentration. One time he punched a man in the face during a particularly difficult investigation. This one didn't seem like it would be any easier, and Fred had to control his temper when the scavengers interrupted his line of thought.

"Think harder you fool!" he thought as he continued to stare at the pebble, "The city has come under the influence of some strange anomaly, but why?"

When he first arrived, he spoke to a young breton couple that was fleeing the city. The woman seemed to be in a state of madness, and so he decided to speak to her husband. The man said that she ventured into the Elven gardens sane, and returned to him under Sheogorath's influence. When he tried to speak to the woman, the only phrase she could speak was "monster". When he tried to aske the woman about the monster she went into a screaming frenzy, yelling for him to get away. After that he spoke to others, hearing other stories of people venturing beyond the plaza, some returning rich, insane, or not at all. Quite a few of the survivors he spoke to were also insane, and they all spoke of a monster. After that he decided to stay in the plaza until he could come up with a plan of some sort.

"That's it!" he exclaimed as he jumped up from the bench, the nearby people staring curiously at him. He began to move towards the main gate and left the city, intent on going through with his new plan. "Since there is danger beyond the plaza, I will gather some warriors to go with me and hunt one of these 'monsters'." he said out loud to himself, "Then I can bring it to someone to have it examined, and maybe it can give me some insight into the problem."

He was heading to the Wawnet Inn, hoping that he could find some brave warriors to help him on his mission. "As the last of the Investigators I will finish this last mission." he muttered sadly as he thought of his father and the investigators that died in the city.

Weye had grown much since it's humble beginnings, only two meager buildings on either side of a road at the foot of the Talos Bridge. Now, it was nearing a dozen different edifices nestled at the foot of the unkempt, crumbling bridge leading into the Imperial city. The once proud, rising arches of marble were now in pieces, some laying on the bridge itself and some on the bottom of the Rumare. The city itself was a perversion of it's 3rd era glory, the White Gold Tower -a tower standing longer than any city in Cyrodiil and higher than many peaks in the mountains- a warped, dulled specter of stone.

Many decades had passed since the explosion of magicka that changed all of this, but only the merfolk remembered what the city once was. Men folk were either unborn at the time of the glory days, or had come too far in age to truly recall its splendor with accuracy.

But Hel'Resquein saw it all. He saw the past of the city, the present, and several vague futures, all at once. Passing across his violet-glowing in waves and ripples, he saw the pristine white marble walls, the crumbling tarnished ruins, the steady rebuilding, the degrading architecture. He saw the ripples of the arcane, the waves of the mystical, the novas of Magicka that littered the city, as he stared at it from the central road of Weye.

And though he did not know it, it was that magicka he now viewed from afar that was allowing him to distort time, to see the past and present in unison. Even from here, the magicka anomaly affected the shaman.

Hides-His-Heart stood there in the rain, oblivious to its chill, or ignoring it. The water ran down his orcish-plated robe, the gray wool absorbing the water until it was soaked through. Now the water dripped from the elbow-length sleeves, just like it dripped from the tips of his ear-fins and his thick snout. The rain was unable to push past the wool robe and into the leather pouches along his waist, however, protecting the mysterious contents within.

One object was not protected. In his crimson red claws, the Argonian held a soggy piece of parchment. It was a map, the ink beginning to run down the paper and through his fingers to a puddle at his leather boots, running through the cobblestones in the rain. The Argonian was staring at the Imperial city, locked to it in a trance. His eyes dimmed, losing their violet glow, and yet they still held an eerie light to them, the gold eyes piercing the gloom of the rainy night. Framed in that hard, cold, crimson face and underlined by an emerald stripe, the Argonian himself looked like a demon in the night. His hand cinched around the map, crushing the soggy parchment into a mass of mushy, ink-run uselessness.

I need this no longer. He declared within his mind, tossing aside the map. It landed on the ground with a squelch. He raised his chin higher, inhaled deeply, narrowed those golden orbs to slits, and squared his shoulders. A brief look of pain flashed in those eyes, and then it was gone. In that same time span, Hel'Resquein had elevated an inch. Only to sink back to the ground when the pain was gone. I have arrived at my destination. The Argonian Shaman raised his head higher, opening his toothy maw to the rain with a guttural hiss. His tongue swished in the air between his jaws, licking the rain from the sky. But it was also tasting something. In a perverse, tribal way, it was tasting magicka. The beastman was praying.

And then in an instant Hides-His-Heart snapped his head back towards the city, jaws closing and eyes opening. His left hand fingered the handle of his wooden club at his hip, before he stepped towards the Waynet inn. After his travel, the Shaman required nourishment in order to enter that city and survive. The candlelight of the entrance glistened on the wet scales of his crimson body, and he dripped on the floor he stood on by the gallon. Looking for a moment across the room, he didn't even anolyze each patron with his eyes; merely swept over them. He squashed wetly over to a single table and sat down with a splat, placing his elbows on the table and resting the bottom of his snout on his knuckles.

Porteus Percius shuffled once again through his the contracts that had been given to him for acting Grand Councilor Ilvain of Alinor. They outlined certain agreements made between the Imperial Authority IE Porteus, and independent adventurers that wanted access to the Imperial City under an Imperial contract. The contracts were necessary if certain individuals wished to keep items they unearthed from the ruins. No contract, then the offenders possessions were stripped from his or her persons and they were sent to Chorrol were offenders were thrown into the gaol.

Porteus eyed the people in the room, his eyes resting first on a burly nord and then over to a rather androgyous argonian. Turning in his seat, he eyed the foolish young breton that had gone into the ruins only to come running back out; he had been nursing wine since that time.

Standing up from his desk and taking a paper, Porteus moved over next to the fire place and, taking a nail and hammer, fastened the parchment to the wall. It read:

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN

With the recent unrest in the Imperial City, and the influx of adventurers that seek to take advantage of it, acting Grand Councilor Ilvain of Alinor has sent forth contracts availble to adventurers. These contracts will allow you to conduct any business with the local agent and be free to explore the Imperial City. Those without a contract will be arrested and sent into a gaol. Contracts can be obtained from the local agent.

Under the writing was the name "Porteus Percius", to signify that he was the local agent that contracts could be obtained from.

Feeling pleased with himself, Porteus walked gingerly back to his desk on the west wall and plopped down, and eager smile on his face.

Trisha slurped down her soup in silence, sipping at her tea now and then and reveling at the warmth that surged through her. Being coldblooded in a rainstorm svcked, frankly, and the young inventress had no intentions of catching pneumonia, or any other disease for that matter. She'd heard that liquor warmed you up pretty well too, but she also knew that, chemically, alcohol was a poison. And Trisha didn't want to drink poison, even if she was technically immune to most of it.

I don't know what I'd be like drunk and I don't care to. She thought, looking around at her fellow tavern patrons once more, though in a more casual manner now. Sipping her tea again, she looked over at a Redguard as he began to tell some children a story. She smiled and leaned over her now empty bowl, pretending to find something infinitely fascinating in its depths whilst glancing to the side and listening to the story. She loved stories. When one of the children's mothers came to take her child to bed, the man stopped and she, along with all the kids, sighed in disappointment. And so, Trisha went back to the rain in the window, thinking about home, her adoptive mum and dad, and her pet cat Percy who she'd left with them while she was gone. Although she had never had many friends, the Argonian had a loving family and, to her, that was all she really needed. Or so she thought.

As time went on, boredom overtook her, a Nord threatening a Bosmer thief failing to capture her interest for more than a moment, and she began to nod off. About the time the tip of her snout touched the bottom of her bowl, the door opened again and she let out a little squeak at the sound, jerking upright and looking around. Her eyes momentarily locked with the newcomer's, another Argonian, and she suddenly realized she had soup on the end of her snout. Color flushed red in her cheeks and she wiped her nose quickly on the wet leather of her arm. I hope he didn't see that..

As her luck would have it, though, the soggy reptile chose a seat directly facing hers and laid his head down on his hands. Oh, gods.. he's looking at me. He thinks I'm an idiot now. Why, Trisha? Why can't you do something in public that doesn't make you look like a fool? Idiot, idiot, idiot.. Her mind never considered the fact that it could be a coincidence, or that he might be just staring into space. No, he was looking at her. Right in the eyes, no less. He had to be. Trisha's eight large toes squirmed within their leather casings and she pretended to stare at the fire as if she hadn't seen him 'looking' at her. Claws tapped on wood and she began tapping her teeth together. There's a reason I never leave the Guild, and this is it. Everyone stares at me like I'm some kind of freak. But I want in the City! One can only imagine the kinds of things that are just waiting to be discovered, researched, played with..

For a minute or so, she became lost again in thought, staring blankly into the fire with a dumb smile on her face at the thought of what she might find to take home and tweak with. When the man with the papers got up and strode across the room, Trisha didn't notice. At least, not until he started pounding a nail into the wall. When done, he sat back down and, where he had stood, a note sat impaled on the wall. Leaning forward, she squinted, trying to read it, but to no avail. Shoulda brought my magnifiers.. She thought with a grimace, recalling that she'd left that particular invention on her nightstand. Shivering, she got up and made her way over to the fireplace to read it, glancing around to see if anyone was watching her. After reading it, she smiled, then wove her way around the tables to where Porteus sat. Leaning on the table lightly, she met his eyes with false confidence and put on her usual Tiim-Kast voice.

"Excuse me. I'd.. I'd like one of those contracts." She said quietly, with a convincingly masculine voice, then glanced over at the parchment. "Oh, and.. you misspelled 'available.'"

Hides-His-Heart turned his scaled head like a mechanization when he heard the bang of a nail on the wood of the hearth, and stared through narrowed eyes at the shrewd man performing the deed. For a flash of an instant the Shaman's eyes went from golden to fuchsia, and then he turned away from the scene, the man finished hanging the poster. The man's soul was tarnished, but not sick. It was the soul of a nobleman or politician. One with a good intention or mildly villainous, but who's work brought a certain taint to their soul.

It was moment's like these in which Hides-His-Heart found the highly spiritual mystical magicks of shamanism to be beneficial. For terms of combat, it was worthless. In healing, in social interaction, in everyday life; shamanism was like a blossom of fortune and aid. It was because of this that the Shaman's duty was not to fight and destroy, but to heal and help. And Hel'Resquein found it most annoying that Shamanism was less helpful in battle. Shamans were blind, thinking their arts could handle all obstacles. There were times where action had to be taken.

The Imperial City was an example of those times, and the primary reason he had trained in the violent arts and learned the offensive natures of his mystical magick. And what he would use tomorrow, at dawn, to cleanse the Imperial City and right the balance, fulfilling his shamanic duty to aid the world. But he would need armament.

He flicked the wool thigh flap of his robe aside, reaching into one of the large pouches and pulling out a mortar and pestle. It was obviously old, stains of green and black and red in the heart of the crude alchemical tool. He began to fish odd ingredients from within the pouches, flowers and stems and fungus. But oddest of all was the yellow rock he set upon the table as well, beside his organic materials. He licked his claws and began to pick through things, tossing bits of petals and stems and leaves in seemingly random but deceivingly methodical manners.

Porteus, at first was utterly pleased that one of these wonderful adventurers he so came to love finally asked him for a contract.

"Of course," he stopped, not really sure what to call this creature. Was Ms. approriate, or was this creature a Mr.? Porteus was silent for a short bit before he finally just continued with a neutral. "Of course, citizen. I have been ordered by the acting Grand Councilor to make sure you properly understand the nature of the contract." Porteus took a deep breath and launched into the specific of the contract, raising his voice enough that everyone in the common room could hear him. "These contracts authorize you to legally enter the ruins of the Imperial City and give you the right to scavenge items that are found within. Also, these act as adventurering contracts, and I have quite a few tasks that need accomplished within that hellish place, or so my superior tell me anyway."

Taking one of the heavy sheets of parchment from the pile, he began to jot down some meaningless, bueracratic script. "Now, citizen, I must advise you that that place is not exactly....suited to a lone person." Porteus motioned over to the now partially drunk noble in the corner, Olwen. "He went in alone and look at him. It is not required that you be apart of a group, but I highly advise it."

"Then perhaps soft-skin will not mind, if Hides-His-Heart accompanies a Kin of the Root?" Came a raspy, reptilian voice from the other side of the room, almost as loud as the agent had made his own voice. The Argonian owning the spoken words looked directly at the agent, not at the fellow Argonian he sought to accompany. The stare was cold, unwavering, and animalistic when his stripes of emerald framed those serious golden eyes. He was holding the mortar laxly in one hand over the pestle bowl, the other hand cradling the strange yellow rock, an index claw ready to scraqe it.

"Hides-His-Heart is well equipped with various potions and poisons for adventurer needs, and knows combat both magick and physical. Does he fit the nobleman's requirements?" The question was given with a lower toned, rattling hiss; Argonian loathing.

Porteus scratched his chin, "well, I'm not really noble. I'm a clerk actually, this job has kinda been a promotion. Um..." he looked at Hides-His-Heart nervously, "I don't see why you couldn't. A child could get a contract if it had a mind to. I was never really given any criteria for recruitment. If the other will have you, then I don't see why you can not join....him. Two people were certainly get along better than one, but it isn't exactly ideal." His voice dropped to a whisper, "I've heard about some of the things that are in there, never seen any mind you, but I've heard. Some things are supposedly stronger than oxen and can scamble your mind if it pleases to. Dangerous things in there, yes there is."

Porteus turned his attention to the paper and filled in some more useless information before continuing, "that idiot over there," he motioned to Olwen again, "saw something and look what he's like now."

Hides-His-Heart did indeed look over to the Breton man drinking, and for a moment his eyes flickered a different color. The man drinking in a daze changed quickly, warping into a large, fleshy thing with slitted eyes and nostrils and a bare chest. The details were foggy, but the emotions were clear. Fear, despair, hopelessness and helplessness. The flow of emotions from that memory nearly overcame the Argonian and gasped. But that single startled cry cut his concentration and severed his power. The image and emotions faded into nothingness. Hides-His-Heart looked back at the agent.

"Trauma." He said hesitantly, shuddered, and then regained composure. "Fear and trauma. One must overcome fear to eliminate trauma. This one will join his Root Kin."

The large Imperial sat at the wooden and worn table , leaning back and patting his stomach . The hearty meal , of which consisted of a finely spiced venison , salad , and potato wedges , had gone done delightfully...perfectly complementing the otherwise grim and dull weather outside .

He was now nursing his fourth flagon of beer , but smiled as he drunk the brew in knowledge that he wouldn't be passing out anytime soon . Ever since he was a wee lad , he had been able to hold his liquor like a horse , a valuable asset when it came to drinking games with other tavern frequenters like himself . He crudely tossed the remnant's of the frothy beverage back , bellowing forth a mighty belch before wiping his mouth and quickly picking some small bit's of food out of his beard .

This is what he loved . A warm tavern on a cold and rainy night , the hustle and bustle of people socialising and a filling meal in his belly . It was a carefree lifestyle he lived , but one that didn'tbother him in the slightest . The inn had become a regular watering hole for the aging man , serving as a fine headquarter's whilst he made his excursions into the city looking for loot .

So far only slim pickings were to be found, and he hadn't dared to venture into the inner parts of the city without a band of well-trained men . Just as the thought of joining a team crossed his mind , the agent spoke out of the possibility of joining a group , as if he was waiting on the thought to cross Warrick's head before announcing it .

He stood up and pushed back his wooden chair , grabbing his trusty halberd from it's position leaning against the wall and slinging it over his shoulder in one muscular movement .

"Aye!" he said in a loud , grough tone .

"I'll tag along , some adventuring will do me good!"

He gruffly strode through the small sea of talking tavern-folk before arriving at the agent and not one...but two queer-looking argonians that he was talking to . "That is...if you would have me come along" he said in a gentler tone , as if he were addressing the argonians with more respect this time rather than his previous manly outburst .

OOC: I'm a little busy but think that now is the time to get my guy with the group, control him as needed.

IC:

The Wawnet inn, Lurk sat sipping his wine and pondering, if there's money to be had here, why is the rain keeping me inside? But, as it always was, the thought of rain brought to mind the man he had dropped off his own balcony. The screaming still woke him at night, sometimes. It was odd, haunting, strange. But he sat and sipped his wine without visual disgust. He knew something of wine, and he thought it was far to earthy to be considered so much as passable, but he endured as it was the only source of alcohol to be had without arsing himself into ordering something else.

The strange magical presence in the desolate capitol kept making him think of that. Killing. It was a dirty affair, but muck had been dirty too, and he had to farm it. Well, in all honesty, the fact that it was dirty was a factor in his leaving his home stead. He refused to go near the stuff. Outright refused. So he had traded it in for hopes of adventure, which turned to broken, dismal and diluted dreams of fame and fortune that he had no way of making reality.

Sound of talking came from some men over at another table. Something about 'Adventure'. Funny, he had sought it in the wild, in the exotic, in the mysterious and unknown. This man sought it... well, he sought it in an unearthly hell-scape. Kind of Ironic, Mused Lurk. My misadventures land me where this man's seeking for adventure takes him.

He drained his bottle and left it there, getting to his feat, he headed over to the man who seemed to be giving out "contracts". The word brought back sinister memories, too. As did the smell of cooked chicken. An odd story, that one. Perhaps one of the ones Lurk tried hardest to forget. He walked over to the Breton at the table giving contracts, everyone seemed to be asking him for a contract, so he thought he'd stand and wait a bit. Hailing the man as others did would simply not do.

This is a bother, he thought. Waiting in line with amateurs. Lurk, though he tried to forget about what he did for a living in the past, tried to rationalize it. They had been bad people. They had wronged, killed, extorted. But was what he did to deal with them better? Though he tried to forget it, he still had a some what inflated thought of his own skill at getting things done that involved most any manner of violence.

Hel'Resquein looked at the slowly gathering crowd, and only with a sweep of his eyes could he already tell there were troubles within their souls. He didn't need his Shamanism to tell him that. The soft-skins were far too expressive with their bodies, and he could tell just from their face alone they had troubles on their minds.

Softskins will likely need Hel'Resquein's potions, as they quickly rush to brave battle and find ways to get themselves mangled. The Argonian thought, turning silently away from the growing commotion and instead turning to his mortar and pestle. He took his hand holding the yellow rock and held it over the pestle, scraping a claw against it. It broke easily under his touch, brittle and crumbly, the dust falling into the mixture of poisonous plants below. He pocketed the rock the moment he was through with it, and began to grind the contents with wild abandon performed with smooth ease. His movements were fluid and almost instinctual, partly because he'd been learning the art since early early childhood.

One does not forget hatchling learning. And so he silently began brewing his concoction of poisonous death, coldly out of touch with the group dynamics, having said and done his part for the group now.

OOC: Aka, off to bed for me.

Tiim-Kast's eyes, or rather Trisha's eyes, widened to look almost human in their roundness. "You mean.. I can take.. whatever I want.. and.. I can keep it?!" She beamed, barely managing to remember her fake heavy Argonian accent. A moment later, the Argonian she was sure thought her a dunce came up and, she had to knock her head to make sure there was no rain in her ears, asked if he could join her. He.. he wants to join me? She thought happily, though it was short lived. As she recalled that he most likely thought her a male -and surely he'd never have offered if he knew who she really was- Trisha sighed inwardly. Nobody appreciated her it seemed.

"I.. Of course I wouldn't mind." Trisha said after a slight pause. She watched as the other Argonian seemed to read the man the guy with the contracts had indicated, then heard his statement. 'This one will join his Root Kin.' That means.. right! Natively, Argonians are called People of the Root. So.. he means me! Yay! Trisha wanted to hug him, but restrained herself. A moment later, someone stood up loudly behind her and shouted in reply to something she'd not paid attention to.

"Aye!" Came the sudden shout from behind her.

"Agh!" Was her immediate response, and she flinched away from the bearded man, turning her head and closing her eyes. Looking up, she felt like crying in embarrassment. Again, I am an idiot. "Well.. sure. I guess you guys can scare off whatever might attack us while I-" Cower in fear. "-support you with magick." Maybe if I pee myself I'll taste bad and not get eaten. Could work.

Trisha sighed at herself. She always thought of cynical little bits of sarcasm as she spoke, but she could never put that skill to use on other people. She never had the metaphorical balls to actually say anything. It was depressing, to say the least. She also hadn't expected there to actually be monsters. She thought they were just fairytales made up by mothers to make their kids eat their veggies and tell the truth. And she'd thought that if there were any baddies, she could manage her fear by force of will. Apparently, she was still the same old jumpy Trisha, despite all her efforts to learn how to stay calm in the face of fear.

I don't deserve to go in there. I thought I was better. I thought I was stronger. She reprimanded herself. As the other Argonian left to go mix potions, she had a pique of interest at this, but then saw the ingredients and figured it was some kind of Black Marsh voodoo medicine. Another sigh on the inside and she looked back to the man with the forms. "Sorry. I'm.. just jumpy. I haven't slept properly in a few days." She lied smoothly, "A little rest and I'll be fine. I'll.. collect the.. contract.. thing.. later. I'm gonna go nap."

Walking back to her table, Trisha managed to flag down the waitress with what little assertiveness she had in her and request some black coffee; heavy drinking for her. Sitting there, she sipped it for a while, shuddering at the pure bitterness of it every time, listening to the rain and trying to tell herself it was just a snag and it'd all work out fine. In the end, though, she just laid her short snout down on her wet, leathered hands and stared dismally at the fire, her right index claw picking at the wood absently. The flickering fire, the rhythmic patter of rain and the dull roar of the tavern slowly lulled her to the brink of sleep. Her eyelids drooped and she allowed herself to drift into a sort of catnap.

Warrick gave a warming smile , obviously pleased that one of the Argonians had accepted him into the party . He had trouble deciding whether it was a female or not , but in the end , followed his common sense and considered that no boy that looked so young would ever wan't to go into the city unless he was mad or suicidal...so the figure must of been a rather slender woman .

"Grand!" he said in approval . "I shall stick close and fell any foul monster stupid enough to walk into my bla..."

Before he could finish his heroic smack-talk , the argonian had left and walked over to a table and promptly collapsed to rest . This caused some embarrasment for Warrick , as he had been addressing her directly and she obviously expressed no further interest in him other than for having him tag along for adventuring . He slouched his head and awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck with his thick gloved hand . "Err....Or not...." he mumbled grimly .

He now found himself in a less then-comfortable position . The female Argonian had seemed kind and bubbly enough , but this other lizard-man , of whom was tending to his mortar and pestle , gave off a different vibe entirely . Cold , unwelcoming . He had an air of superiority around him that Warrick didn't know if he should be intimidated or insulted by ... and piercing gold eyes that seemed to shimmer . He obviously had a rich past , and gave off the impression that he was a wisened individual , of whom had seen much of the world .

The warrior rubbed his eyes and blunk in the opposite direction, realising that that had been staring at the Argonian before turning back to him and then realising how stupid he had just made himself look . He started to panic...although he knew he shouldn't of , and smiled at the argonian .

"Well friend...I should, um ... return to my table then . I look forward to rending some beast flesh with you!" he half-joked before again realising how ridiculous he had made himself look again . Rending some Beast flesh with him? What if he takes that as some sixual hit-on? he cringed in his mind as he made his way back to the table in full knowledge that he probably made a piss-poor first impression to both of them .

He sat back down in the chair ... the worn and creaky wood straining under his mass . "Maggie ... give me some more of that gutter beer would you woman?" he said with newfound confidence at the waitress seeing as beer was the subject of conversation .

OOC : bad post I know but.... Je Suis tres tired!

He did it quickly and he did it efficiently. Porteus wrote down the necessary legal terms that would bind the holders of the permit to the contract, and in effect, bind them to the Imperial Authority. Or, as Porteus laughed inwardly to himself, his authority. As the local Imperial Agent in charge of the excavation and reclaiming of the Imperial City, it was up to him to give permit holders, those under contract, duties that would benefit the Imperial Authority.

He finished the contract as the night grew darker and the wind blew louder. He refrained from putting any names on it yet, since quite a few people seemed interested becoming permit holders. He swiveled in his seat to face Olwen. "What about you, fool, interested in another go into that wonderful place?"

Olwen eyed Porteus menacingly but refrained from insult. T'was not his way. Instead he said simply, "Lets wait until tomorrow morning until you start signing any names onto that cursed contract of your's, my good sir. Lets let these newcomers catch a glimps of that hell during daytime."

OOC Edit: Or maybe I'm still awake. Still accepting new people, too.

Arcturas moved quickly through the small town of Weye, his hood pulled over his head to protect him from the rain that was falling. His weapons clattered slightly at his side form his slight jog, as he moved towards the visible Wawnet Inn. He stopped to readjust his traveling pack under a tall, thick tree, making sure his sleeping roll was still tied to the bottom, before he ran off again, making for the warm glow of the tavern.

He reached the door, and pushed it open lightly, as he felt the warmth of a burning fire wash over him, along with the smells of various foods, and the sights and sounds of the people inside the building. He stepped into the inn, and closed the door behind him, lowering his hood as he looked around the room slowly. He shook his head like a dog might, and beads of rain-water flew from his long hair, falling onto two nearby patrons who looked up at him with some distaste.

"Sorry." he muttered with an embarrassed grin, as he moved away from the men who were grumbling about "young people" and such. He fixed his belt, and made a purposeful line over towards the bar, where he managed to snag a seat. He looked around for the bartender, and nodded as the man signaled to wait a second.

He turned his body slightly, as he regarded the many people of the Inn, his eye's searching for people who wanted a bit of adventure and excitement like he did. He had come here as soon as he could when he heard that people were being let into the mysterious Imperial City, and he was looking for a group of people who wanted the same thing he did, and he believed he had already made a start on it, in the shape of a large, loud, and obviously rather drunk Imperial....

"What'll it be kid?" a gruff, but friendly voice asked from behind Arcturas.

Arcturas grimaced at that description, hating the word "kid", as he turned slowly to the man. He forced a smile on his face, not wanting to get kicked out of the place, and asked politely, "A glass of brandy please." He reached into a small bag on his belt, and retrieved the payment as the man poured his drink. He dropped the coins on the wooden counter, and smiled as the man went off to serve another customer, leaving Arcturas to sip his drink alone.

He turned back to the Imperial, and regarded the man carefully. He wasn't entirely sure if the man was an adventurer but as he looked over the man's clothing and armor, he guessed him to be just that. However, Arcturas didn't get up to see if he was or not, as he decided to wait and see what other people presented themselves. He sipped his drink again, as he waited for an opportunity to arise.

Gazing up at the note that was pinned up on the fireplace, the answer that Aric was looking for stared him in the face. To be able to enter the imperial city without consequences from the authority was just the thing the was searching for, as his goal was within the ruined city in the first place. After a moment of contemplating the options he now had, he stood up to his full height, and took his bear pelts, draping them over his shoulders. He did not trust the man offering the contracts, but like all of the civilised people he had met in his travels, he knew that many always had an agenda that was hidden from the eyes of the public. The Nord came to the simple conclusion that if it was a trap, then the man would surely pay with his life when the Wolf-Blood clansman returned.

"If this contract shall allow me passage into the ruins without any problems from your people, than i shall accept it" Aric spoke, using the best Cyrodillic he could, though his gruff voice made it obvious he was not a local that spoke it fluently. This shall be a worthy challenge alone.. but a lone wolf must sometime co-operate with others to live through even the most harsh of places.. he thought, but knew that his burden was his alone to lift from his shoulders, and would stay with the others who signed up for only as long as he needed to.

His ice blue eyes gazed at some of the others who did what he had, the looks he gave were that of a hunter sizing up competition and prey. Many did not seem up to the task, yet many had their uses in their own ways, he decided by hearing what some said they might be able to do.