Carth

Ho yay. Suicide squad, attaack. Hearing the yell for a healer, Carth didn't bother to look around - no point, he wasn't a healer and if he couldn't help, the swordsman saw little use in worrying about the other students. All that mattered now was the tide of battle, which seemed to be somewhat turning to their favour right now. The ships had been pulled together, filling the air with wild battlecries of the pirates on both sides. The boarding action allowed for the academy students to act, and right now they were perhaps the only ones who could win this rather hopeless-looking battle.

Carth being Carth, however, didn't care much. If he died, it didn't matter; if he lived, he'd find a way out of this no matter what. Odds stacked against me seems a tad repetitive by now... Being on the winning side would be nice for a change. But then life loves tossing junk my way, doesn't it? Oh hey, look, it's that man of an uncertain pedigree, let's all lump [censored] at him because we can. My life may be a short one but it sure as hell is predictable. feeling the faint sensation of the Ra Gada adrenaline rush fill him, the spellsword smiled to himself and leaped out from the cover, intending to find the heart of the battle. That was the Ra Gada way, and Carth took a lot from his father's side in terms of character.

Being part Breton, Carth couldn't feel the full overwhelming pleasure of the famous adrenaline rush; his experience was merely the soft whisper of a lover in his ear, not a kiss. The exhilarating feeling of it spreading through his body, however, was only sweeter for it. It was his drive, the lust to feel it all, to break the dam and let the flood overtake him... Yet he couldn't. Not once in his life had the spellsword felt the full force of the adrenaline rush - he knew the taste, but it never once quenched his thirst. That irritated him, but at the same time feeling that lust play with him seemed just as refreshing as what he envisioned the full experience to be.

A rather detatched smile on his face, the spellsword's hand dove for the handle of his sword. Having chosen not to take anything from Soryna's armoury, Carth may've seemed vulnerable, however he had his speed, as well as some protection from the armour on his right arm. Firmly gripping the handle of his blade he felt the familiar tingle below his heart - the joy of battle, though this wasn't a racial trait, it was a characteristic of his. Interest in swords didn't come from some desire to just look at them, but rather from the beautiful way they went about performing their quite practical function in the hands of a skilled one. Sword in hand, he didn't care about the other students, the test, or much else besides a need to find an opponent.

Sure enough, soon an opponent found him. Simple iron scimitar in hand, a Ra Gada with only a thick leather vest and puffed pants in the way of clothing crossed Carth's path. The spellsword's smile trned into a smirk as the sailor took a high swing at him, swiftly avoided with a duck. The attacker, however, wasted no time in striking down, forcing Carth to sidestep and return with a blow of his own. His saif sword came down in an arc towards the pirate's shoulder, however it met iron instead of flesh. The Breto-Raga's response was to simply let his blade slip gently along the scimitar's flat side that the pirate had used to block.

The Raga corsair made the mistake of presuming this was the end of Carth's offence, thus quickly turned his blade and prepared to strike. He was, however, surprised by the spellsword's sword comming up at him, tip-first. Though the tip of the saif wasn't the dangerous part of it, instinctively the man took a step back, and Carth knew the moment had arrived.

Pulling his free hand back and making a fist at the same time, Carth grasped a loose part of the rigging that had been cut off during the confusion of the initial boarding. Flashing a purple light, the object came to life, wrapping around the pirate's legs like a snake; still taken aback by the sudden jab that passed through where his chin was moments ago, the Ra Gada didn't react fast enough, ending in him falling on the deck of the ship and hitting the wooden rail hard on his way down. Though knocked unconscious by the impact and bleeding from the back of his head, Carth wasn't going to take any chances - in another swift move his saif went down, the sharp edge of the blade biting into the man's neck.

Painted crimson, the sword went back up, to defend the spellsword from any new threats. Euphoria surged through his body; blood had been spilled and Carth was feeling more and more alive in the heat of battle.

Edwinn, Menevian Camp

Edwinn steered his horse carefully around the mass of rotting bodies, and his men followed his lead to not tread on the dead. They became more spread out as they moved closer to the middle of the camp as they took longer routes to avoid the countless bodies on the ground. Edwinn stared at how the ground on the top of the hill was scorched and completely dead in an almost perfect circular shape, and in the middle was a gruesome sight.

A single body sat on its knee's, and was leaning on a totem of sorts, except instead of wood, it was made of bone, with ribs extending from the middle "spine" and a skull looking skywards with its jaw hanging open. Edwinn examined the leaning corpse and looked back at the others on the ground, and at a close glance, he could tell that the kneeling body was less decayed than the others around it. The entire sight sent chills through everyone's body as they all made a semi-circle around their leader as he trekked forwards to examine the body.

His heart raced as he expected the bodies of all the men around him to suddenly spring to life and attack the General and his mercenaries, and his mind screamed necromancy and witch craft as he glanced at the ghastly totem again. As he stepped closer, he felt chilled and the hair on the back of his neck stood up as though he was being watched by an unearthly presence, and he immediately placed his hand on the silver axe that rested on the saddle in front of him, gaining comfort in its cool touch just by knowing what evils the weapon had put to rest before.


"Who approaches?" a voice rumbled out from seemingly nowhere.

Many men panicked and raised their javelins in defense and one even fell off his mount and onto a pile of maggots that had nearly eaten the body of a fallen man, and he quickly picked himself up, standing next to his horse with his small hammer raised above his head.

Edwinn froze in place, as from his position, it seemed like the voice had emanated from the kneeling corpse only a dozen feet away from him. He stared at the thing hard, but it seemed to be completely still, no movement from the mouth and the eyes remained closed and quite obviously dead. He could hear Gauvin mumbling incoherently but he ignored the bumbling kid as he bravely brought his horse two steps closer, thinking of announcing his full title to the voice.

I doubt the dead care of who I am... he thought stupidly, knowing full well that he could be the Emperor, or a lowly peasant and it wouldn't make a difference in the situation he was in. Behind him, he could sense that his men were slowly backing away from the corpse, but the General mustered up his courage and spoke.

"General Edwinn Gastin of Northpoint." he declared, glancing around to see if anybody had appeared. "Show yourself!" he commanded bravely, waiting for the voice to respond.

Alister Bourde - Soryna's Ship

"Oh dear."

That was all the young Alister could manage as arrows began to fly. He scrambled away from the Orc and giant Khajiit, attempting to find cover from the deadly hail of projectiles. The noise of battle heightened as some of the vicious implements of war found the mark in men and mer alike. Alister found his godsend in a rather large crate on the deck, and huddled behind it to get away from the early skirmishing. To him, it may as well have been a full blown battle. And as always, he had followed his first instinct in a fight. Run and hide.

It took him a few moments to remember himself and what he had volunteered earlier. He saw the Orc a short distance away, being pelted with arrows, and decided to get to work. If the beast man, or mer, or whatever they were considered these days could accomplish his task, so could Alister.

He gathered some of his magicka together for a spell, weak as it would most likely be. He couldn't afford to use too much magicka on a shield spell when all he was doing was supplementing the Orc. It then struck him that he didn't even know what kind of shield to grace the ship with. The Orc had most likely used his already, but Alister had no idea what kind of protection he had provided. He decided to simply pick an element at random. At worst, he'd just be reinforcing the Orc's spell.

He went through the elements in his head, and allowed the lessons to pop into his mind, remembering how each elemental attack combined with elements in the world, and the effects they had. He finally settled on lightning, which would also have the opportunity to start fire, and gathered his powers for a minor shield. He could feel the energy coursing through his body, and drew it into the palms of his hands. A white glow washed over his skin, illuminating the small Breton behind his crate.

He placed his palms on the deck of the ship, and watched a small wave of the white energy spread across the wood floors. He could feel his energy leaving him as it spread across the massive object, and drew on his reserves to continue to the spell. He had never attempted to cast anything on such a large object before, especially not without proper preparation beforehand. In the end, the spell did take effect. It wouldn't last very long against any sort of major spell, but it would be able to survive any minor probes or attacks. A sustained assault would buckle it quickly though, as would time itself if the battle dragged on for too long. Alister could only hope for a quick resolution.

He breathed a sigh of relief as his magicka began it's slow regeneration. Thanks to his large pools of energy, he was only slightly exhausted from the task. He decided to risk having his head taken off and glanced over the crate, observing a small crowd of Breton's gathered around something Alister could not make out. Then one of them turned around and cried out for a healer. Great.

Alister looked around, hoping beyond hope that there might be someone else willing to answer the call. Alas, the Breton appeared to be the only one able to help. Just great.

He dashed as quickly as he could from his cover to the group of Breton acrhers and looked down on the wounded form of Tora the Khajiit. To his surprise, another was already there and looked like he was about to pull the hook from the Khajiit's leg. Alister was in no rush to stop him from the grisly task, and made sure to be at a relatively safe distance just in case the big cat wanted to lash out at someone for the pain.

He did his best to examine the wounds of the cat from his position, and noted how severe they were. He would have been able to mend the Khajiit's flesh easily enough, but he would have had to dip into his reserves in his amulet, which would leave him too exhausted to help anyone else. In that he was thankful that one of his compatriots had already arrived and apparently knew something about healing. It hopefully meant he wouldn't have to do all the restoration himself.

When the other man was finished with his task, Alister would approach and help. Until then, he was quite fine hiding away from the arrows.

There was a stillness to the air that was unnatural in every single respect. The Nord who had fallen off his horse onto a maggot-ridden corpse noticed it first, but a few others near him noticed it soon after.

The flies were still.

The buzzing that had filled the air to drown out everything, even a scream, had silenced the moment the voice had spoken. One might have thought the insects gone, if not for the the swarm that arose; disturbed by the falling of the Nord off his horse, they buzzed about, only to land back upon the body shortly after and once more fall still. Even the birds had ceased their pvssyr. Something disturbed them so, but not enough to leave; only to silence, to respectfully keep their peace. It was Gastin's voice alone that emanated through the air like a horn bellow.

"General Edwinn Gastin of Northpoint." he declared. "Show yourself!" In the ending of his order, the silence returned. A blanket of cold, dark oppression; comparable only to the silence of death.

"I am shown, General." The voice responded with an echoing ripple. It retained the serious tone, but something about it had changed. It seemed more amiable -if such were possible in this climate- and polite, almost courtly. "You need only to look, and I am found." The message was cryptic yet not. Reveal myself too soon, and they will panic. Then I will have to kill them. More corpses are not necessary; I need something more living.

The silence returned in a heavy, stifling blanket, washing over the camp. The insects and birds remained unmoving, eyes looking towards Edwinn and the corpse upon the hill.

"Northpoint... I sense Nordic blood... Has Northpoint sided with the Nordic Invaders?" The voice wondered aloud to Edwinn.

Corvinus Orientalis

Soryna stood her ground on the deck of her ship as she looked over the right side at the enemy Dhow, the two ships locked together by rope and hooks. The decks of both ships had been turned into a battle field with scores of soldiers slain on both sides. Even so the Dragoons seemed to have the upper hand as they outmatched the enemy pirate raiders man for man. Their years of rigorous training and talent was easily showing as each performed acts of arcane and martial prowess uncommon to the sight of their foes. While the Corvinus Orientalis' starboard was locked with the enemy ship, the port side was eerily unmolested by the second enemy ship who simply floated thirty five or so meters away with their sails closed.

Throughout the fighting Andrethi and Rea would bide their time. Both were capable arcane users and both could sense the presence on the second ship. Usually when one heard the term of 'pirate' they imagined rather dingy looking or questionable sorts and for the most part they were right. However when it came to piracy in certain Altmer circles, the members were anything but. Rather instead they were indistinguishable from the rich nobility they often sought to raid in part because they were successful and in part because they were former nobility of Altmer society. Each had their entourage of servants and bodyguards capable of staving off attackers as they prepared powerful spells to cast upon their foes.

Although Andrethi could hardly remember his past, he had made a living in the Morag Tong and was well known specifically for being capable at slaying arcane users. His mastery of mysticism and dexterity with both spell and arm would often surprise his lofty arrogant victims. The curved long dagger on his back composed of a mixture of Adamantium and Glass was enchanted to dispell and silence whatever it struck, perfect for cutting through spell defenses and if the first strike did not kill, it would maintain the target's inability to cast any spells for the duration of the fight. On the Altmer's ship stood facing the Corvinus three older mages who were flanked by what seemed to be several apprentices.

The older mages remained stone faced with the exception of their lips as they whispered their incantations. Their hands were clasped together, their fingers formed intricate patterns readying for the release of their destructive forces upon the ship. The apprentices themselves lifted up their hands and in one moment released a volley of spherical pyre toward the Corvinus. Damian's blade was quickly raised and then lowered, his arcane manipulation of wind cutting down into the sea water between the two ships and causing it to sunder toward the sky catching most of the fire spells before they could reach the ship. The rest of the spells either struck some of the crewmen fighting on the other side or was thwarted as they landed on the ship protected by alteration.

Rea who had ducked to one knee to avoid the fire placed a ring upon her right index finger powerfully enchanted with a spell of her own. From a small pouch she wore she grasped a palm full of bits of slag collected from the armory, small chunks of discarded impurities composed of metal. With those she raised her hand and the moment her palm opened her fist became engulfed in a burst of fire sending shards of metal toward the opposing ship's mages. Her target was the center mage who was nearly done with his incantation. His students had wisely provided a resistance against magic which proved to be useless against the metallic shards which partially burst through the shield mages shield spell wounding him heavily.

The altmer mage growled, years of patience were tested and in a moment of rage released his spell toward Rea who had never seen such a beautiful yet terrifying use of the arcane. A long winding opened jaw dragon burst out of the mage's palms swirling around swiftly and rushing to engulf Rea and although her stars that shined over on her day of birth had half a chance to render the spell harmless, she couldn't help but freeze with fear at the sight of such a behemoth of a spell.

Andrethi's mastery of mysticism sprang from his finger tips, the magicka threads wrapped around Rea's body and ensured the dragon spell would be smothered by a wall of combined spell absorption. This roused the annoyance of a certain Altmer apprentice, a tall elegant spell weaveress who's hands spun both spell and spear. Using her grasp of alteration she lightened her weight and glided across in a single leap from her ship onto the Corvinus. In one swift movement she plunged the spear tip into Andrethi's chest. His face remained unmoved as the glistening spear tongue protruded from his back, his gaze fixed upon the Altmer who grinned with devious lips. For a moment she was un-nerved as the Dunmer seemed unvexed by his sure death and then slowly his body began leaning back slipping off of the end of her spear and toward the deck.

The moment Andrethi's body struck the deck his black robed form shattered into a burst of glistening dark feathers. The Altmer gasped at the sight of the feathers shooting up toward the sky, her gaze followed up and took a step back as the feathers came together forming the shapes of ravens, their forms circling above and squawking. The second step she took back made her feel as if ice shot through her veins into her heart as she was petrified with fear feeling that her back bumped into a body that had not been there before. It was the very Dunmer she had thought she had slain. For a moment she was able to admire the craft of the illusion spell, from the created feel and sound of the spear piercing clothing, flesh and bone, to the swift maneuvering around behind her. The sound of fluttering ravens, squawks, it all touched upon the appropriate senses in relevant relativity.

She was not able to cry out in fear or pain as Andrethi's blade pierced between her left row of ribs, the enchantment silenced her. His right arm wrapped around her waist and with a turn of his stance she was thrown over board.

Darkpine Forest
Rene Grallforth

Fighting was no longer an option, Rene needed another way to appraoch the situation. The sun was rolling behind the moors now and casting shadows across the land. In a matter of hours, it would be pitch black. And with the dark came horrors more dreadful then mere zombies. He was losing blood through his arm too, and could scarcely rouse the strength to swing his sword. No, fighting was not an option at all. He needed to retreat.

The zombies were powerful, yet slow. The person from the treetop had continued to shoot at the zombies, and it looked like they had got in a lucky hit. For mere moments, the demonic creatures had seemed stunned for a while. This was the wily Bretons window of oppurtunity.

He threw down his sword and left it lying at his feet alongside the useless crossbow. With a scream of fear-induced determination, he burst into sprint..his black cloak billowing behind him in the early evening wind.

He broke around the undead's right flank, running past them and rousing all possible strength to tear through the woodland in desperate sprint. His knee's buckled with fatigue and his mouth was dry with fear, but the messenger continued to run past the foul pack of ravenous horrors and into the clear road ahead towards Urvaius. He knew he would not make it before nightfall now, but he had hoped that this mysterious helper would take it in their best interest to follow him.

He had been lucky. He had been so close to death that it had stared him down the eye and breathed upon his neck with its bitter stench, waiting to sink its fangs into his throat and drain the remaining drops of life from his veins. But he had beaten it for now. The thinning of the undead ranks coupled with the distraction of the unknown bowman and the unexplained window of confusion had provided a small chance of escape, and he had been quick to take it.

He ran like a hound on the hunt, not pausing to look behind him, his eyes firmly fixated on the road ahead. He needed to get as far away from those things as possible, but he had prayed that the person who had been generous enough to give him a chance of escape had taken the same initiative and was following behind...

Phillipe
Soryna's Ship

Ships had clashed. Grappling hooks had been thrown. The advantage of range had been lost. It was all or nothing now, the piratical bandits were beginning to climb aboard. Action was needed.

Philllipe had heard someone criticizing his use of Faust, but there was no time to retort. Enemies were climbing onto the Corvus with each passing second, and the Breton needed to get to higher ground to fully utilise his skills as a marksman. He opted to take up position near the raised end of the ship, near the wheel, so he could take better aim at the invaders below on the main deck.

He turned and made for the stairs, wading through the arrow-ridden corpses of his fellow bowmen. Faust trotted quickly behind, salivating a luminescent yellow liquid at the mouth in anticipation for death.

An enemy stood in his path, his back facing Phillipe. There was no time to deal with him, he needed to get out of the way.

The Breton grabbed him by the scruff of his collar and spun the fiend around. before the imperial had had a chance to raise his sabre, Phillipe exterted all his strength into his neck...driving his head forward with the force of a hammer and headbutting the man with unrivalled force. Blood torrented out from the mans nose, soaking Phillipes face in the thick, warm crimson fluid.

The man was dazed. With his hand still firmly grasped on his collar, Phillipe yanked the man towards the railing before launching him over the hand-boards and into the frothy sea below. He needed to keep moving towards his destination, so he continued his swift pace.

Faust was overcome with glee, tearing into the enemy ranks with the agility of a wolf and the power of an ogre. Bowling Wahab's men over and tearing out their throats with mighty chomps. His firey coat flickered like a beacon of death onboard the deck of the ship as the wooden deackboards were soaked through with the blood and organs of enemy and ally alike.

Another man stood before Phillipe, but the Bretons mighty weapon was already loaded. The redguard charged forward but was only met with a silver bolt through the front teeth at point blank range. His skull exploded in a vile ceremony of bubbling blood, brain matter, and bits of jawbone as his teeth and eyes flew through the air and landed with a light tinkle upon the floor along with blood-matted clumps of hair and flesh.

The Breton had reached his spot. His nest for sniping. Here, he would have a better tactical advantage.

Edwinn, Menevian Camp

Edwinn looked around carefully, as he awaited the response. He couldn't shake the feeling that they were going to be attacked by whatever had done this to the men on the ground, and with the thought, he gripped his axe tighter.

The voice responded, cutting through the air crisply, with what was clearly supposed to be a forcibly cryptic response. Edwinn tried not to show fear as he looked about, trying to discern where the damned voice was coming from. His eyes swept past the kneeling body in front of him as he looked behind it to see if someone was hidden, and he thought that some invisibility magick might be in play here as he saw nothing. His eyes flickered past the body again, but this time something clicked in his brain and he eyes rested upon the body only a dozen feet away. He didn't want to believe it. It would just be too much if the voice was indeed coming from the seemingly dead corpse in front of him, but he had little time to contemplate it as the voice spoke again and the General couldn't help but notice a small change in the tone. It was less threatening then before. Almost.... conversational.


"Northpoint... I sense Nordic blood... Has Northpoint sided with the Nordic Invaders?"

Edwinn swore quietly as he realized his slip up by saying "Northpoint". He glanced around to make sure there was nobody who could possibly be hiding without magick and then took a step towards the corpse, his heart pounding in his chest. He looked at the body as thoughts whirled in his head. The first of which was that this could be an agent of Elysana, spying on the land near the Nordic cities and that Northpoint had just been exposed in the war as traitors to the throne.

But something in the back of his mind told him that the voice had no relationship to Elysana. He believed that the voice belonged to a more powerful being, and the thought unnerved him more than a little bit as the Queen was one of the most powerful and influential people in Tamriel.

He decided to dodge the question at first as he looked around at the carnage. "What has happened here?" he asked. "The banners are not those I know of." He wanted to divert the conversation away from Northpoint all together, and he hoped to find out where the men were from, to see if they were enemy or foe.



Bolag, Corvinus Orientalis

Three. he thought savagely as he pulled his blade from the gut of another pirate, this one a large Ra'Gada. The Orc labored backwards, away from the chaos to catch his breath and assess his wounds. His last kill had been a skilled fighter, and Bolag looked down at his side, seeing blood run through his chainmail and his tunic and drip to the deck, and his left arm ached from the shield bash he had received and felt as though it had popped out for a second.

As he looked back towards the battle, he felt something odd come about him, like a fire had been lit in his belly, where there had only been smoldering embers from before. He felt his arms surge and his brain go slightly fuzzy as his hand gripped his scimitar very tightly, causing his knuckles his lighten. The scene in front of him became hazed slightly in red, and he felt a desire to plow straight into the fray and kill every man who wore the emblem of Wahab.

He did just that as his bloodlust took the better of him, making him oblivious to the first sharp smack of a heavy club to the same shoulder he had hurt before. He responded by turning to face the threat, he slipped slightly as he turned rather clumsily, but as he swung down at the man the force was so great he cleaved into the wooden weapon nearly a third of the way through, which was impressive considering how thick it was. He ripped his arm back quickly and felt the club come with him, stuck on his sword as he swung hard downwards again at the unprotected man. The result was odd, as the club struck first, bludgeoning the man's skull, followed by the tip of the blade slicing into his softened head. Steel met flesh, bone and then brain matter as the man fell to the deck, his body thrashing about in his death throes before going still.

He rushed to the ships rails, where the Corvinus Orientalis and the pirate vessel were locked firmly against each other, allowing more pirates to cross over, as their superior numbers were allowing them to board the Corvinus Orientalis, instead of the other way around. His mind was buzzing with anger and he tensed his fair sized muscles as a group of three made their way across the rails onto the ship, two meeting Bolag with a grin as they waved their cruel looking sabers in the air. In a more open space, the pair probably would have been able to take the Orc by surrounding him and attacking at once. But the deck was tight quarters, and as they tried to spread out they were simply locked together, and it was Bolag who grinned manically as he abandoned all finesse that he had learned and ran forwards again.

The two men looked panicked, and the one on the left even made a move to dive out of the way, whilst the one on the right swung his sword halfheartedly at the charging beast. Bolag brought his wounded shoulder up to get his shield in line with the blow, barely feeling the pain in his wounded arm, and crashed into the two men. The one who had dove away was sent spinning to the deck, his weapon many feet from him as a soldier on the Corvinus Orientalis finished him with a downward stab. The one who had foolishly stayed to fight received an armored shoulder to the teeth, and was sent flying backwards, over the rail and slipped in between the two ships to splash into the water below.

Bolag gave a uncharacteristic warcry before turning back to the crowd, his lust for violence not even close to being sated.

Menevian Camp, near Raven Spring
"I have many ears around here, my friend." The voice responded to his question without hesitance, keeping that well-mannered, conversational tone. "I know of the Nordic occupation of Jehanna, and the lands north of Raven Spring. I know of the Aldmeri Dominion's infiltration of Daggerfall and the neighboring cities. I am quite versed in the art of subject changing, as well." There was a soft, politely muffled chuckle following this statement, that surrounded the men like a coughing crowd in every direction.

"The banners you see are those of the Duke of Menevia, Guillaume Molyneax. These were his men." The voice spoke plainly of the carnage around them, and the careful observer might have possibly noticed that a few corpses that once had closed eyes now stared blankly at the score of Nords. "He worked under the Banner of Queen Elysana of Wayrest, supposedly. Though candidly, during his last battle, I am of the opinion he took the side of neither Breton or Nord, and delighted in the killing that resulted from his cannons. Worry not, General Gastin. These men will not harm you at this time."

The tone of the voice had never changed from that courtly invitation, but the meaning came across quite clearly, and before Edwinn had a chance to allow the statement to sink in again, the voice continued. "I wish to speak of the Nords, General, and now that I have answered your question, do you have more, or may we discuss?" There was a slight irritation to the voice now, understandably, but for the Nords that might have paid attention more to the surroundings than the voice, the opening of several more cadaver eyes would not have gone unnoticed.

Olwyn of Dwynnen
Wightmoor Castle

The Baron of Dwynnen had decided to have a feast that night, and the great hall of Wightmoor Castle was filled to bursting with the numerous vassals who owed the baron fealty, and a large number of commoners who had turned out in force to partake in Dwynnen's famed hospitality. The sweet smelling floor rushes had been put down, and the walls were hanged with numerous tapestries depicting Othrok's battle against the lich, and the baron's personal heraldry, the Great Bear. Torches jutted out from in between the tapestries, and in the center of the hall, and great hearth fire burned brightly.

Sweet music filled the room, and Olwyn's cadre of minstrels struck up a jaunty tune. Numerous men groaned as their wives pulled them out onto the floor for a traditional dance. Lining up across from each other, the genders stepped towards their partner, matching their pace to beat of a mighty drum. When they met, they raised their left hands, putting them together, and twirled in a circle, all the while chanting:

Pride goes out
Pride goes in
Pride is the root
Of every sin

Up on the dais, the Baron of Dwynnen had an excellent view of the hall. His mouth quirked a little as he heard the words of the dancers, thinking that that verse described perfectly the entire basis for the conflicts that had erupted from time to time in High Rock. He knew that they all battled against the pride of their peers. Elysana had too much pride as the case was. But he was her vassal, and as such, owed her homage and fealty. He did not like the woman, nor trusted her, but he would be willing to treat with daedra if it meant keeping his barony safe. The greedy lords of Greater Bretony were always hungry for lands not theirs. Taking a sip of wine, he said a silent prayer that his fellow lord in Bhoriane could be made to see reason, and at least stay neutral in any coming conflict.

Putting down his goblet, he gestured to a page-boy to approach. "There is a Wayrestian knight here. Samuel, I believe his name is. I would have you bring him to me."

"Yes, my lord."

Barony of Dwynnen, Wightmoor Castle
Samuel Ross, the Ebon Knight of Wayrest, moved into the great hall with the air of a man trying to act accustomed to his surroundings. He certainly looked the part; well, sort of.

Samuel wasn't really sure what to wear, feeling his armor may be a bit inappropriate. So instead, he chose to wear fine tan britches and a black suede long-sleeve shirt (both courtesy of the Wayrest Kingdom upon his Knighting) with smoothly tanned leather boots. Over his shirt he wore the sleeveless dark royal blue tunic, that was placed over his armor during his knighting. The elegantly woven embroidery of a black and gold gauntlet upon his chest stood out, his symbol to those around of who he was. He also wore the royal blue armband with the white lily and silver sword upon his right arm, his sword arm. A black rope tied his hair back into a well-done ponytail that began at the base of his skull and hung to just below his shoulders, keeping the dark brown hair in check. It was obvious he had put some effort into it.

What Sam had chosen to leave at his room within the castle was the pouch containing his gold, provisions, and Furninan, and both his swords. It's for the best, really. Furninan is safer in the room, and besides, Cloud Sky can give me hints, at least, towards one's intentions... I think. While Samuel wore the white gold diamond ring on his left hand, he was still getting used to the effect it had on the world. With all the dancing and moving about the room, every person was revealed to him through a thin fog of magical smoke, that varied in shades of deep blue to blood red; usually. Sam was just beginning to understand the code; blue for good intention and red for not so good, with shades of purple being the average person's muddled thoughts and conscience. He was also only just beginning to get used to seeing the colors of the world beyond that of the ring's detection. For the first few days, it had been quite hard to appropriately comment on the colors of one's clothing.

His other piece of jewelery was purely ornamental and sentimental, the small ruby amulet hanging from a gold chain around his neck and resting just above his symbol. The symbol was supposed to be a crest for his knighthood, but Sam refused to see it as such. He had a real family crest; but that was not suitable for a knight to show. His violet eyes scanned the crowd, watching them dance with intense curiosity. He had partaken in a dance only a few times in his past as a mercenary, and never in proper courts. But this last week had been a lesson indeed, and he was still observing such events with child-like wonder.

It was all so grand and lavish, so overwhelming for the once poor and low-class Knight. To upgrade in social status so soon... Well, as he moved wearily about the Grand Hall of the Castle, few could fail to notice just how out of place the Royal Knight felt. To further the point, a silver dagger hung from his belt at his left side, plainly visible. One did not break the old mercenary habit of always remaining armed easily. And perhaps it was a combination of his feeling of awkward misplacement and that dagger that kept the handsome young Knight from dancing with the other vassals of the Barony.

Or maybe he had never learned such a dance.

Parthia's eyes widened with surprise at the sight of the burst of fire thrashing across the sky toward her. She didn't have enough time to blend out of the tree. Before she could react the unexpected burst of fire shattered a section of the tree under her into splinters causing the top section to fall toward the ground. Bark shattered like glass and Parthia hit the ground with a hard thud, her soft body going limp from the impact. Everything went black for a moment until the images of her escape from Wayrest castle crashed into her mind.

She wished she could remember how Lord Woodborne had been killed. There was a feeling that she was reaching for the memory of the act, as if reaching through beaded curtains and grasping at nothing. All she could recall was the hot blood on her hands and her face, the stench of it all and that fear that still loomed over her, the fear of Queen Elysana. Death would be the least of her worries if caught, if anything it would be a release.

Moments later Parthia's eyes opened, it seemed as if she had been knocked out only for a few moments. She quickly rolled on her front and jumped to her feet. Grasping her bow from the ground she used her ability to leap into yet another tree. This time she was watchful of her surroundings once more. Parthia had no love for necromancers but putting herself needlessly in danger wasn't her notion of a good idea either.




OOC: Short crappy but over due post. Been busy.

Darkpine Forest
Simphill forgot the man who fled, even as the figure rushed past him in a frantic attempt to save his own life. It worked quite well, as the anger that swelled in the Bosmeri Necromancer's heart was not directed at Rene, but at the killer of his last remaining family.

Mannimarco was forgotten; the mission a mere whisper in his mind. Perhaps it was that whisper that caused him to reflexively fling another ruby after the fleeing man, which promptly burst into flames and raged through the air in smoking, incinerating pursuit. Whether or not it made contact with the man was irrelevant to Simphill. Instead a grin spread across his face so malicious it would have made a Dremora proud.

The tree fell and caught aflame, flickering fires licking at the splintered trunk. And in the crashing of the forest beast, the assailant was revealed, knocked forth from her hideaway. The tree collapsed upon the road, crushing the carriage and taking out another cadaver. But it was of no consequence. He had seen the body, he knew the enemy now. The sapphire amulet glimmered on his chest as the robed Breton moved out to the center of the roadway. His minions moved as well, three corpses shuffling to him. Two moved towards the trees, lumbering and groaning to the direction of the archer's falling. A sapphire and topaz sat in the palms of his hands, as he watched the two zombies approach. When they reached the area, they found no body.

The amulet flashed as Simphill mentally screamed his order to search the surrounding area, eyes weaving about. He had not seen her recover and enter another tree. But that was one reason to be out on the road. If he kept watchful, she'd have to shoot her arrows into the open, and he could see them coming; and see her.

I will kill you. You will pay for what you've done!

Imperial City

"High Priest." Maynard bowed his head with a solemn face expression when an aged man entered the small room where Manfred's confessor had been waiting for around half an hour at that point. An audience with the High Priest of Mara was no small matter and delegations from one or another land of High Rock got no special treatment. The audience came sooner than expected though, as the High Priest was quite interested in this himself - something Manfred hadn't predicted.

"Let us walk, Maynard, servant of Mara." The High Priest responded to the greeting. It was pretty odd he'd decide to take a walk while talking instead of staying in the room - being well past his prime, somewhere in his mid-sixties, the High Priest was beginning to give in to the burden of time. His back was slightly bent and an old-fashioned wooden cane was at his side wherever he went. Even if Maynard found this choice curious, though, he didn't let it show and instead followed out of the small room. Being a priest of Mara, he was quite difficult to annoy, however even with his patience the confessor was growing rather impatient of sitting in the room accomplishing nothing. He would've far preferred to deal with all this quickly and then return to Anticlere - like his brother, the Grand Admiral of Anticlere, Maynard was not 'the young man he once was' as he'd think now and then.

The two priests walked past the massive yet still somehow lean pillars of the Temple of the One in silence for a while. Maynard was thinking where to begin, while the High Priest of Mara seemed focused on the statue of Akatosh that dominated the temple. His expression wasn't a joyful one, however, as the things he thought of weren't ones related to faith, or at least not in the way one would've guessed. It had been a long time since any major power took up the banner of Mara; the Empire's devotion was mostly only to the churches of Talos and Akatosh, while the Mother-Goddess was denied the honour. The same could've been said of some other churches, not only that of Mara; however, the High Priest believed the situation would soon change. Anticlere followed Mara to the point of near-monotheism; if it were to grow into an influential power there could be an opportunity for the followers of Mara in that.

That was why the High Priest had agreed to see the Anticlerian delegation. Manfred was wrong in presuming the Cyrodiilic church authorities wouldn't be interested in the dealings of High Rock; fortunately for him, the High Priest of Mara meant Anticlere no ill will, for the time being at least. If an opportunity presented itself there was no telling; the Church was a rather unreliable ally, however a quite neccessary one, for faith was a powerful weapon, something some rulers seemed to have forgotten.

"It has been a great while since the humble servants of the Mother-Goddess blessed the crown of someone besides the Emperor of Cyrodiil and Tamriel, may his spirit rest in peace." The silence was finally broken by the High Priest, who was still looking up at the statue of Akatosh. Maynard shuffled silently with a bit of discomfort; that didn't sound like a good start to him, so the confessor was quick to respond:

"Manfred Flyte and his subjects have always been devout followers of Mara, your holiness, as I am certain the Mother-Goddess has informed you, blessed be Her name. Your holiness is Her chosen and of course it has not slipped your god-guided gaze that the humble servants of Mara are prospering in my homeland. It has been a very long time since the first Archbishop of Mara was blessed in Anticlere, yet our faith is as strong as then, if not more so, for the Mother-Goddess has blessed us by revealing her good nature bit by bit and so strengthening our commitment to Her, like a life-giving stream quenches the thirst of a traveler many times."

"That is true." The High Priest nodded. In truth he'd already made up his mind long ago when he entered the Temple of the One; the other High Priests were already informed of his decission, too. He wasn't in any hurry to reveal his cards to the Anticlerian, however. "But such a crown would be a great blessing; unwavering belief in the Mother-Goddess, while truly commendable, is not quite enough."

"Of course, Manfred Flyte recognizes that." Maynard nodded, also looking up at the statue. For a moment it seemed the Dragon of Time was looking straight at him; the confessor muttered a short prayer to all the Divines under his breath. "He has sworn to the Archbishop of Mara in Anticlere that he will do all in his power to spread the faith of Mara and defend it against heretics and infidels, as shall his heirs; and should he or his heirs fail in that, he said himself that lightning should strike him or his tomb crumble."

Silence.

"Come." Suddenly moving again, as if waking up from a deep sleep, the High Priest began walking towards one of the many doors in the Temple of the One, ones that were accesible only to the temple priests. Maynard followed, maintaining a short distance between himself and the High Priest out of respect. It took them only a couple moments to reach it, at which point the High Priest produced a small silver key from somewhere in his robe and unlocked the door.

Maynard was faced with a rather small oval room. In the middle was a quite humble oval table, with nine seats around it. Not much of the splendour seen in the rest of the temple could be spotted here; the chairs themselves were no match even for the seats of minor councillors Maynard had seen in Anticlere's council hall. All the greater seemed the object that lay on the table, placed on a blue silk cushion trimmed with gold heavily - http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/55/King_of_Finland%27s_crown.jpg.

If there were any doubts left to Maynard who was to possess it, the symbols on it quickly cleared it up. On the top of the crown was a snake wrapping around a frail lily, a masterful example of craftsmanship as the part was probably incredibly difficult to make given its size and the details. At the front of the crown were two coats of arms, one depicting that same snake wrapping around a lily - the coat of arms of Anticlere and the Flyte family - and the other being the http://www.imperial-library.info/nine_divines/ob_mara_symbol.jpg.

"The Mother-Goddess rewards those few devout followers of Her teachings in these dark times, and this shall be Anticlere's reward for the faith it has shown."

Maynard simply bowed his head in silent thanks, a small smile crossing his face. He had succeeded.

Darkpine Forest
Rene Grallforth

Something had hit him in the back, and it had hurt. Infact, it was excrutiating. The blazing missle had hit him square-on, the force of the blow sending him flying forward a few feet through the air before crudely landing face first into the dead leaves and twigs of the wood floor. The searing heat had singed through his coat and sank its white-hot teeth into his back. The stench of burnt flesh clogged his throat, and he opened his mouth to scream...but failed as dirt and leaves filled his mouth.

He rolled onto his back, the weak light of the dying sun piercing through the woodland treetop and hitting him in the face. It only reminded him; night was a matter of hours away...two at most. Keep moving his mind was telling him. Keep moving or you will be dead within those two hours.

He scrambled back onto his stomach and lifted himself on all fours. Manging to wince to a stand, he unbuckled the clip of his grand cloak and took it off. Dragging behind him, it would only hinder his progress. However, a thought struck his mind at that precise moment, and he wrapped the cloak over his neck and around his wounded arm, making a makeshift sling. No sooner had he applied the makeshift bandage had the blood from the axe-wound already soaked it through.... he was bleeding alot more then initially thought.

The mighty crash of a tree had rung through his ears from behind, be he had neither the time nor the physical ability to go back and help. If his assistant was smart, he or she would of run away by now. The woodland exit was still a good distance away, but he figured if he moved fast enough...he would only have to endure an hour or so of proper night before hitting Urvaius. Pain shot through his back and he let out an exasperated shriek of sudden hurt before correcting his posture and continuing to limp towards his goal, although at slower pace.

Lord Olack Vespris
Castle Daenia

The chicken was cold, just as the Lord liked it. The red wine was also exquisite, but he hadn't thought much for the salad.

He sat there alone at his dining table, stomach full, the light of the torches behind him casting grand and foreboding shadows across the floor. Next to his silver plate was one of his books. Olack had always liked to read at the table, but this evening was an exception. His thoughts were not on his texts. They were on his emissary. Surely Rene had reached Dwynnen by now?

The servants were now lighting the torches as night seeped into the lonely old castle. His priests were also making their way through the halls, tending to each and every room on the estate...blessing them and purifying them against evil for the night. The witch-hunter guard would be now assembling in the castle courtyard, armoring up for the nightwatch.

Garlic would no doubt be hanging from the doorway of every home in the city by now. Windows would be being closed and locked, children tucked firmly into bed with a silver dagger under the pillow. Drastic measures perhaps, but unfortunately necessary.

Taking another sip from his chalice, Vespris closed the book on the table and slung it under his arm as he made his way out of the dining hall and back towards his study. He tried hard to block the thoughts of what might happen to Rene if he was still in the wood by this time from his mind, bt he couldn't manage to push such horrific imaginings from his head. It scared him, for the death of Rene would spell doom for all of Daenia. Without the light of Dwynnen to aid them, the city would continue to be a festering hive for all evil in the province.

OOC: Going to go ahead and do this for Solidor's sake. Absolute crap post, but in order to move things along... Also, I have no idea if my healing method is plausible, but it sounded good when I was writing it, so...

IC:

Alister Bourde - Soryna's Ship

Alister noticed his compatriots hesitatncy to pull the offending object out of the Khajiit's leg, which was understandable. It was a tricky wound, and taking it out the wrong way could possibly cripple his leg beyond repair. The Breton decided to take matters into his own hands and ran across to the wounded cat, kneeling down beside the already present man.

"Here, allow me. I'm a healer."

He brought both his hands to hover over the wound and murmured a long, complex spell in a low voice. This would be hard to repair. He gathered together his magicka and a bright blue light began to emanate from his hands. It continued to get brighter until it stopped its progression, and began to flow into the wound like one would expect of water. It spread all across the deep injury, covering it entirely, and slowly began rebuilding his flesh from the inside out. The muscle in that area had been eviscerated down to the bone. Suddenly, he lowered one of his hands from his spell and used it to grasp the hook that was still embedded in the Khajiit's leg. It could have destroyed the feline's leg had he removed it from the beginning, but now, it would be a bit easier, as he would be healing the damage as it was being done. Exceedingly dangerous, but possible.

"Sorry friend, but if you can hear me, this is going to hurt," Alister mumbled. He pulled upwards suddenly, removed the hook in a shower of blood and flesh. It would have caused unbearable pain and possibly sent the Khajiit into shock were he aware enough to realize what had happened.

He threw the hook aside and brought his other hand back to hover over the wound, concentrating his energy on healing the wound. He was fully engaged in the task now, no longer aware of what was going on around him as the blue energy slowly restored the flesh and muscles destroyed by the hook. They began to reform in a macabre fashion, slowly at first, then fully forming into a recognizable shape.

His healing wasn't a straightforward as most. It was a lot more painful for the recipient to begin with, but it was also a lot more efficient, restoring wounds faster and to a better quality than a regular healer could ever hope to do. It was also more focused on small details, insuring that everything went back into the correct place so that there wouldn't be any dangerous after effects of the healing. He could even avoid scars most of the time. That didn't seem so plausible for so large a wound, and Alister could already feel himself tiring from the effort as his power was drained from him and sent into the Khajiit.

After nearly two minutes of focused healing, the wound was sealed and back to it's original state for the most part. There was no fur where the skin had been removed however, and there would forever be a scar signifying the near loss of his leg there. But it was at least still intact. Alister didn't even bother attending to the smaller wounds, but instead looked up towards the sky and let out a heavy breath. It hadn't been as exhausting as he had expected, but it was still a lot. He couldn't afford to do too much more.

Once the cat regained consciousness, he would no doubt still be in pain from his remaining wound, but he would be able to stand and act on his leg. And that was a job well done for Alister.

Edwinn, Menevian Camp

Edwinn scratched his the tip of his chin, a nervous tick off his for years, at the voices comment on "subject changing", and even though the voice seemed to laugh at its own joke, this only put the General on edge even more. Whoever he was dealing with clearly knew that they had the upper hand in this meeting, as his eyes drifted around to the many corpses on the ground.

As the disembodied voice went on, Edwinn recognized the name Menevia, knowing a little about the small vassal state, nestled in between Orsinium and Wayrest. The name, Guillaume Molyneax didn't strike a bell however but the fact that he had taken part in the battle that Edwinn had heard about from Froulrand piqued his interest a little, as did the fact that the man had been in command of cannons, of which Edwinn had heard devastating stories about.

Worry not, General Gastin. These men will not harm you at this time."

This statement rocked the General back more than anything else during the entire conversation, as a drip of sweat rolled down his pale face; his eyes darting around at the motionless bodies on the ground and back at his men who looked even more nervous than he did. The voice continued, and Edwinn focused clearly on the kneeling corpse, demanding to see the General of the Nords, with a slight change in tone that the wary General did not miss.

He swallowed hard and nodded firmly. "I can indeed arrange a meeting with the men who lead the Nordic Confederation, if you let us walk away unharmed." he said. He paused and looked around pointedly, trying to regain some even footing in the one-sided conversation. "Shall I be expecting a living representative, or shall I merely drop this corpse in front of them?" he said, sarcasm creeping into his voice. A few chuckles from his men behind him forced a grin onto his pale face as he awaited the response.

OOC: Feel free to write how you get yourself away from danger/back on the boat/ready to go in between my actions.

I just felt like this needed to be done to get to our objective already.

Corvinus Orientalis

Soryna stood on the deck of her ship, arms folded with a stern look upon her face. Blood soaked half of her ship, mostly the blood of her enemies which ran down the side of the hull into the water attracting all manner of sea beasts. The Dragoons had certainly turned the tide from an equal fight to an outright slaughter. The fight had been all but won. Wahab himself was too much of a coward to near his ship and the arcane capable Dragoons would be more than capable to fend off his allied Altmer. Soryna unfolded her arms revealing that she was holding two small pots in each hand and as they were filled with fire salt naphtha mixture they ignited upon the brief spark of fire from her finger tips. Although she was not much of a destruction mage herself, she had at least a minor inclination toward the school as any respectable Dunmer would.

"Cut the ropes!" Her voice demanded obedience as she barked her order out to the Redguard crew. They each grabbed an axe and slammed it hard against the ropes, both the enemies and their own. At the same time Soryna hurled the two pots on the enemy deck and they both burst into fire. The wounded or dying enemy crew cried out helplessly as the flames began to lick at their blood trenched limbs. The two ships began separating slowly but the sails were not yet released out of fear of the fire spreading.

A deathly silence surrounded the Corvinus as the two remaining enemy ships sailed away, their faces grim and angry at their failed assault...or perhaps they were biding their time. If the Dragoons ever did return they could expect a similar episode upon their return.

Castle Daenia
Natharon never did like castles much. For him they represented old, ancient tombs of the undead, decorated to look more appealing by their living inhabitants. The priest had been lost once in this castle, when he was young; it was the most frightening experience of his life. So naturally as the holy emissary of Arkay moved through the halls of Daenia's Castle, blessing each room he passed, a chill crept through his spine that he worked hard to ignore.

It came to him every night he made the rounds; that chill, like something was very, very wrong. But he learned to suppress it, knowing it stemmed from meaningless childhood fears.

Natharon opened the door of the next room he came upon, an outer room of the first floor. It was dark and closed, the light of the hallway torches all that spilled into the room. Being a ground floor room on the edge of the castle interior meant it lacked any windows, preventing entry for the unholy. The dark room only made his inner demons stronger, but he swallowed, reaching into his goblet of sanctified water to sprinkle the room. But as he stepped through the doorway he froze.

Was that... a breeze? He turned, looking to the corner of the room that separated him from the darkness with a single thick slab of stone upon stone. Moonlight glittered softly from a hole in that very corner, a substantial hole; large enough for a hound to squeeze through, if tightly. Natharon shuddered, stepped back into the hallway, and took one of the torches, holding it before him as he reentered the room.

His middle-aged eyes scanned the room in panic, fearing the worst. He almost sighed when all he saw was the shuddering form of an elven child, but caution restrained him. "Child... Are you okay?" The huddled form was clothed in rags, suggesting homelessness, and the hair was mangled. When the child looked up, it was a slender elven boy's face that looked to him, eyes burning red as the torchlight cast shadows on his pale gray skin.

"They're out there..." The child whispered, wrapping his arms around his knees and looking at the hole wearily. Natharon frowned, and then gasped. The hair on the child's neck had parted just so... revealing the two pinpricks of damnation.

"You're a-" He never finished as the child lunged forward with unholy speed, the strength of the vampire unbridled in the small body of a young elf, making him faster than any advlt bloodsvcker. Together they met the floor with a thud softened by the rug upon which they landed; a rug promptly tainted with blood as the child bit and fed freely from the Priest of Arkay's throbbing jugular. When he had his fill, the boy rose, licking his lips with a single long, slim tongue that flicked at his incisors. Closing the door with malicious calmness, the unholy fire in his eyes burned brighter, the Dunmer picking a metallic object from his tattered clothes.

As he knelt before the hole he had created and entered with, the glint of dagger in the moonlight was a signal to his elders just outside the castle grounds; the priest patrol had been slain. The child proceeded to press the dagger against the stone edges of the hole. The points of contact sizzled and smoked as the enchanted gift from Hartrich worked its magick, the disintegration steadily eating at the stone.

Four other locations over the castle grounds were not foreign to this event, as five vampire children led the charge into the castle by tainting the way for their elders. In unison with this covert strike, six vampires stood before the castle gates, their fiery red eyes a challenge to the Night Watch. They stood just outside the wardings of the blessed Gates, watching the Witch-Hunters from what they could see of the Courtyard. Unknown to all but the most observant was a group of three vampires on each side of the Gateway, having already tainted the wall stones ten yards from the Gate in each direction, and ready to climb and leap at a moment's notice, hidden in the shadows of the night.

This was no simple attack, like other nights. Most months, the witch-Hunters would dispatch or kill half their attackers over the course of that month, losing some in the process. But the vampires were not testing their opponents any longer. Now, it was war.


The voice joined in the chuckles, enjoying the sarcasm as much as the Nords. "Sadly, yes, a living representative will be used." There was an equally lighthearted tone to the voice.

"After all my years, I have come to learn that the living make better heralds than the dead, despite their tendency for disobedience." The voice continued. "And so, I introduce you to Hallek and Relmas, and their apprentices." As the voice announced, two tent flaps flung open from either side of the small contingency of Nords, two figures walking out of each tent.

All four men wore dark gray cloaks, from under which could be seen simple leather armors of foot soldiers. One aged, dark grayed man nodded to Edwinn respectfully, his steel eyes anolyzing his escort. A slick black-haired youth with vibrant brown eyes and a handsome face looked at the Nords from over his Master's shoulders. The men on the other side did the same. The cloaks seemed to be traveling cloaks.

"Hallek is one of my greatest disciples in this age, and Relmas, his cousin, is not far behind. They both have apprentices who are still young and just learning the arts. Fine representatives of all of my people, I feel. You will treat them as guests, I trust, and not force them defend themselves. They will serve as my representatives, but that is not all I wish to send to the Nordic Confederation, General Gastin." The voice changed, becoming more blunt and serious. Now is the time. He knows, the fear is there. The representatives set.

All of the sudden, the motionless object of Edwinn's intense gaze become motionless no longer. The withered neck of the man creaked as the head looked up, locking eyes with the General. Flesh was peeled away from the eyes, the eyelids rotted away, revealing the circular shape of the eyes as they rested within their sockets. Cracked, chapped lips barely covered bloodstained teeth, and hair fell in clumps over the wrinkled head. Those eyes held a different twinkle to them than in life, now seeming more malicious than invigorated. "You will deliver a message, General." The ethereal voice no longer resounded around them, but emanated straight from the lips of the grotesque warrior upon the hill. Scratchy and dry, the magical voice likely seemed more appealing.

"Inform the Nordic Confederation that there is a new monarch in High Rock; the God of Worms has been crowned once again." As he spoke, the corpse shifted and rose from his knees, standing in a ruckus of clinking chainmail hauberk and creaking bones and stretching flesh. His pale fingers remained curled around the femur of his grotesque staff. "If they wish to renew war, they may, but each battlefield will be deadlier than the last, I assure you." Even without all the proper facial muscles to do so, the cadaver managed a hard stare at the General. "My bone of contention is not with the Confederation. Rather, I seek the Aldmeri Dominion as my new conquest. The Kingdom of Wayrest has already been sent a herald of my rising, and now I send word to the Confederation through you and your men's testimony!" As he pronounced this, the corpses around the campsite moaned, but did not arise. Eyes opened and mouths gasped, as life bellowed into the once dead men around them.

"I have risen, you have seen this as truth; I seek not war with the Nords, but with the Dominion. But both are not out of my reach, if they so wish it." The undead king motioned around him, before waving his rotting hand at Edwinn in a royal sign of dismissal. "Go now, and share what you have seen and been told with your Confederation, lest I inform Wayrest of your treachery, little Northpoint." Relmas, Hallek, Serel and Jamen were already saddled in their horses; which, as any of the Nords around them could easily note, were rotting and unliving.

OOC: Monolithic post, I have thrown your trappers into the mix Tayroc :hehe:

Castle Daenia Courtyard

Captain Hadley Falkirth had been a noble servant to the Vespris bloodline for many years, and for every night of those years in Olack's service, he had always seen to it that the watch was properly armed for a night on the town. Tonight was no exception, and as he made his way down the great gothic steps to the wind-beaten courtyard, nothing struck him as paticularly out of the ordinary.

The watch had already assembled and were speaking in hushed murmur. The night was quiet as usual as the men checked weapons, clipped on cloaks, and put on their leather armor. Falkirth quietly walked amongst them, a self satisfied grin on his face, pausing only to tighten a mans armor for him or make sure he had his garlic. He had trained these men, and he strode with a certain pride in his step as he looked at what they had become. Fine warriors. Beacons of hope. Candles in a room encompassed by darkness.

But a simple sentence froze him in his steps, chilling his blood to ice. One of his watchmen had approached from behind, tapping him on the shoulder.

"Sir, do you see those things beyond the courtyard gate?"

They stood there, six of them. The moon sat perched high behind, casting them in foreboding shadow. Only the monsters eyes could be made out, a bestial red. Falkirth could see it right away. There was a thirst in those eyes. A demonic hunger. And it scared him. Scared him like nothing else he had ever experienced in his time served in the watch. Vampires had never come this close to the castle.

He leant his head back, still keeping his gaze upon the beasts, addressing the man who had alerted him.

"Frederick, I need you to run within the castle right now, do you hear me? Sound the alert, wake the Lord if he is sleeping...and tell him Falkirth suspects a seige. After that, climb to the tallest spire and ring the alarm bell. Clear? Go".

The man turned, and ran towards the front door. Falkirth whipped around back to his men, his arm ripping into his scabbard and tearing his silver sword from its holster. His eyes were white with fear, his mouth dry and his hands clammy. The night had gone from a simple routine inspection and an inevitable battle of life and death.

"Men! Unsheathe your weapons! Vampires beyond the front gate!"

Rene Grallforth
Darkpine Forest

Rene heaved himself onto a fallen tree, panting like a tired dog. His lungs felt as if hot coals were sizzling at the bottom, his heart felt like a stone golem had it gripped tightly in its fist. He was exasperated and fatigued unlike anything he had ever felt before. But he was not worried, or even pained. On the contrary, he was glowingly happy.

The undead were far behind. He had escaped.

The wood was quiet again, save for the cawing of a distant crow perched high upon an old pine tree. The air was cold, but there was no wind. Above, the moon hung freshly risen, the sun now having left for another ten hours.

His wounded arm was now a slow and throbbing pain, but the Breton dared not to undo his sling and insect the damage. The amount of blood on his clothes was indicator enough that the wound was a grevious one and that he had little time to reach Urvaius. His back also ached, the fireball having singed his flesh. The pain was slow, and intense...but he was still greatful he had left with his life intact.

Four figures were coming up the road ahead, shrouded in darkness. Rene however, was not worried. They did not stumble like zombies, nor did their eyes flash red like vampires. At worst, these were bandits...but no bandits dared walk this road anyway. They must of been travellers.

"Halt!" he cried from his log. "Come forth slowly and speak your business within this wood!"

The four men walked up to him, the moonlight hitting them, basking them in full detail. They were bearded men, gruff and weather-beaten. They wore a queer unifrom, and almost resembled walking bushes. Leaves and grass were expertly woven into their clothing, providing highly effective camoflage. One of them was svcking on a pipe, and another had two dead hares strung from his belt. The gruffest and biggest one walked forward, a deer slung dead over his shoulder.

"Good evening dear sir. I am Shamus Hannigan, and these fine cohorts of mine are William Falkready, Gerald Scolf, and Yamir Icefoot. Please, do not be alarmed...for we are but simple woodsmen. Hunters and trappers from Urvaius. Thought we would get some meat before the werewolves came out".

Edwinn, Menevian Camp

The General watched calmly as men appeared from tents on either side of the group, and he quickly raised his right hand to tell his men to lower their spears, which they had risen above their heads to throw. Edwinn could feel his men's tension as four cloaked men walked out towards them, one of them nodding to the mounted General.

The art's? he thought to himself, his mind racing as he tried to add things up, but the voice continued on.

Edwinn noticed the subtle change in tone again, and sat up a little straighter at the voice's words, finger tapping his axe nervously as the scene unfolded before him. The lifeless corpse that Edwinn had been directing his words at suddenly came alive, it's dead eyes opening, and its body snapping and cracking as the rotting flesh moved for the first time in probably weeks, it's teeth rotting and bloodstained, and when it spoke, Edwinn wished the magical voice would return, as the crackling, dread-like voice sent shivers down the Breton's spine.

Edwinn couldn't believe his ears when he heard what was next, his mind finally being able to add up all the piece's as the voice told them that the God of Worms was behind this, Edwinn's eyes flickering to the four men who he guessed were Necromancer's, and his heart began to race faster as he listened on. Only the promise of large sums of money kept the Nordic raider's from fleeing at the proclamation as rest of the hundred men he had with him began to filter around the first twenty, eye's wide at the scene they had come upon, as they whispered conversations behind the General's back at the situation.

Edwinn snarled at the last threat of informing Wayrest of their betrayal, but he kept his anger in check as he nodded respectfully. Knowing who he was dealing with now had a humbling effect on the General and he knew that as long as he held his temper, he would walk away from this encounter quite alive and unharmed.

He turned to the four men, flinching slightly at the sight of the ghastly mounts they had gotten from apparently nowhere but nodding all the same to make sure they were ready.

"I will deliver your message and your representative's to the Nord's as soon as possible, and there will be no need to tell Wayrest anything." he said pointedly, re-attaching his axe to his belt and preparing to ride away from the ruined camp. "Your men will come to no harm with us."

He gathered his men with a wave of his hand, as they had all gathered around the center of the camp by now, many still confused about what had happened. Edwinn turned around, looking into the corpse's eyes and nodding, before galloping off without a word, his mind swirling with what had just happened, and what was about to happen in the near future.



Bolag, Corvinus Orientalis

The Orc felt no fatigue, despite the fact that he had swung his sword a hundred times and more and blood spilled steadily from three deep wounds. However, enemies were getting fewer and fewer and as he smashed the hilt of his sword into the skull of another man, he grinned savagely, before tossing the limp man overboard. He raced off trying to find more enemies to feel his wrath but was stopped as he watched the Dunmer ship captain throw two fiery objects at the ship nearest to their own, and stepping backwards at the intense flames that exploded to life causing screams of pain and panic from the pirates onboard.

He noticed that the ropes had been cut as well and the enemy ship was drifting away slowly, out of control as the two remaining ships began to sail off at full speed away from the Corvinus Orientalis, and Bolag immediately felt his rage ebb as the battle died down. His legs shook from fatigue and his arms ached from overuse as he chose to simply collapse next to the railing, his sword sliding a from his hand as he breathed deeply, trying to catch his breath and focus his mind away from the intense pain that came from everywhere on his body. Along with his two previous wounds, he now had an identical cut on the opposite side of his ribs, his thigh was bleeding and worst of all, a long cut went from his left ear, coming an inch below his eye and cutting into his nose slightly.

He didn't care what was going on around him as he let himself slip into the sweet embrace of unconsciousness.

Menevian Campsite, Mannimarco
The half-rotted corpse watched with ever-opened eyes as Edwinn Gastin left at a gallop, his men following along with four of his disciples. The cracked, sickly grin was hard to make out from afar but unmistakable from up close. The King of Worms turned, his eyes gazing over the ruined campsite around him.

So many bodies... so many ripe corpses. But already he had Simithara and Raza heading to Wayrest, to bring word to Elysana of her new ally against the Dominion. So he had a presence there, if meager. And throughout the province, nay, the Empire, really. Nearly every major city in Tamriel was home to at least one Necromancer of some caliber of skill; but Mannimarco had purposely placed a greater concentration in High Rock, through Simithara's commanding presence over the Order of the Black Worm. None of the powers were aware, but beneath their very hearts sat a power newly rising.

They are lucky I am so focused. Mannimarco thought with a chuckle. If not for his singular desire in this moment to find his people a haven, and make the Dominion regret the mistakes of their Ancestors, so many cities would have fallen at the God's Hand. For now, only two. Menevia and Daenia. Menevia was an obvious choice, being home of the body he now inhabited. But Daenia was not so obvious, and had been chosen for a different reason.

If he were to succeed, he would need more than his own army. The dead were only so versatile, and that was their greatest weakness. Daenia was a nesting ground of one of the currently largest and most prolific vampire clans in the Illiac Bay; the Thrafey. That was where he would begin his negotiations and communion with a kindred that long separated itself from the undead. If he could bring the vampires of the Illiac Bay on his side, convince them to fight for his cause, he would be unstoppable.

And besides, he needed a bastion nearer the Dominion's influence than Menevia. And Daenia was comfortably close to Daggerfall. The lich moved through the bodies, heading southwest towards Menevia, before stopping, and kneeling over a corpse. Two fingers caressed the carcass' chest, as he whispered ancient, unholy, vile words. When he rose, a bolt of light as wide as his two fingers shot from him into the corpse, which began to spasm briefly. The magic radiated like a shockwave, eliciting spasms from the whole camp of corpses. As he walked away, however, they fell still, no trace of his spellcraft remaining.

Castle Daenia
Outside the Gate
"Captain Hadley Falkirth." One of the six vampires, a blond man with vicious red eyes like blood rubies, muttered, as he noticed the Captain of the Watch and caught his eye. His sunken, thin face was hard to distinguish between races; he could have been a Breton or Imperial, but that point was moot now. The only matter was that as the man stood there in the light breeze, his black cloak bellowing around him, he glared at the opponent he had sought after for over one month now.

"Morimus, don't let your vendetta's cloud your mind. We have a purpose tonight much greater than our petty hungers and inner struggles." One of his fellow vampires, a tall and pale man who must have been an Altmer in life, chided. The way the elven immortal held himself, it would have appeared he was in charge. "Hartrich outlined the plan; follow it carefully."

"Plans have a tendency to go array." Morimus responded grimly.

"And when that happens, we adapt. Like always." The Altmer responded, before waving at one of his vampiric fellows. The brother was a large Nordic man, wielding a hammer the size of his torso. Swinging it over his head, the vampire roared and slammed the hammer into the Blessed Gate. The metal clanged violently and shook, but didn't budge. The vampire swung again, not daring to use his own brute strength and size against the holy, sanctified Gate.

Within the castle
The child had finished widening the hole in the structure by the time his two elder vampires had arrived, and grinned with pleasure.

"Very good, Nialthus." The female Thrafey whispered lovingly, brushing off blood from the Dunmer's chin with her thumb. "Now, lead us as you have been instructed." The child nodded eagerly, and opened the door, looking up and down the hallway. When no one was present, he waved to his Elders to join him, and moved down the hall towards the North, the layout of the castle memorized over the course of several weeks. Like the four other children, it was his duty to lead his elders through the castle and disintegrate the wards that blocked their passage with the knife. If they came to injury that was not fatal, it would matter little as the Elders were to fight if necessary, not the children.

So, as the boy lead them to one of the guard's quarters, where they rested for the night while the others were on watch, it was the elder female who flashed forward before the Guardsman could react, crushing his throat in her fist soundlessly. As the two Elders laid the body down softly, the boy took the knife to the clove of garlic hanging on the door, holding his nose to prevent the smell of the garlic and stop from sneezing.

Three other groups of Elders and Child were moving through the castle in unison, seeking out the three other major guard's quarters within the castle. But the fifth, led by a Breton child who was once the son of a castle servant, led his Elders towards the heart of the castle, slowly and stealthily making headway towards the Lord's Quarters.