OOC: What are you talking about. He was there the whole time, really! And, not the best post I've ever made, but I think it works.

IC: Alister listened intently to the Dragoon as he spoke of their field exam. He had arrived just as the mer had started the explanation, which was very fortunate for him. He didn't imagine the instructor would start over just for him. Good job Alister. You were almost late for one of the most important events of your stay here. Great thinking.

He smoothed out his shirt as he stood on the grounds, his incredulity increasing as Damian fully explained everything. I wasn't expecting it to be easy, of course. It never is. But this seems a bit ridiculous. I can already tell I'll be all but useless here. Oh well, I'm sure things will still turn out decently, at least. It's not like they'd send us on a mission if they thought we'd all die in the process, right? Of course not. That would be terrible. That would be like... Like... The Mage's Guild!

Alister followed after everyone else when they all got into the carriage. He took a seat where he could in the rather crowded space and sighed, distinctly uncomfortable. His sword was strapped on his back, and for all intents and purposes, he seemed ready for combat. On the other hand, he couldn't even remember ever drawing the sword he personally owned. He had never been in combat. Well that wasn't entirely true. He had been in such situations before, but his first instinct was always to run for his life and hide behind the nearest large object.

He vaguely knew everyone in the carriage with him, and he was fairly certain some of them at least knew of him. If only because of his propensity to fail at tasks given to him by his instructors in the past, sometimes rather magnificently. He wasn't sure whether or not he should be embarrassed at that fact. He wasn't exactly the worst at the Academy, after all, and he always excelled in tasks that called for healing.

Regardless, he sat back in his seat as much as he could in a vain attempt to relax, and smiled slightly, drifting back into his normal mood. He listened without really paying attention to the conversation between two of his fellows.

"And so begins the epic voyage to getkilledbytoweria. Anyone else think that might be a bit of an issue..?"

"Carth, I doubt anyone of us thought it wouldn't. If we can get on the island it will get done, i'm sure of it. I doubt the headmaster would send us on such an arduous journey and not to mention a grueling challenge if he didn't think we were capable my friend. It's a matter of attitude people, enjoy your time of peace before the storm."

Alister decided to pitch in briefly with a comment of his own, his tone relatively happy and only slightly depressed at the possibility of a terrible death. "Precisely. I bet this really won't be as difficult as it sounded. And even if it is, it could always be worse, right?" Alister ended with one of his trademark smiles, though he even he didn't quite believe his own words.

Gates to the city of Daenia
Rene Grallforth

The carriage was piano-black in colour, and shined brightly in the aging afternoon sun. Two fine stallions were strapped to the front, whinnying rather irritably as the coachman tried to bring them under control. It was cause for some worry, but Rene eventually overcame his cautious nature and approached the vehicle.

He looked up at the cloaked coachman. "Think you can handle them? They seem uneased...".
His voice was thick with fright, and if the mission had not been so important, he would of left the carriage and its worried horses there and then. Unfortunately, circumstance declared otherwise. Edgy horses or not, he would ride the carriage this evening. He opened the door to the carriage, not bothering to wait for the driver to answer his question.

The inside was padded with stiff red silk, making it uncomfortable to sit. The reigns were snapped and the mares took off with a jolt, heading east towards the dark and scarcely-travelled road. Evening was approaching at an alarming rate, and there was no denying that the clan Thrafey would soon be emerging from they're nests to hunt. The question was, would the carriage move fast enough to get by them?

The carriage teared across the grey and rain-soaked moor as if the very fires of oblivion were behind it, the driver taking no precaution to slow down for comfort. Rene looked out the carriage window it bounded along towards the forestland...the great iron gates of Daenia becoming smaller and smaller with each passing second. Ahead, the deadpine forest loomed; its black and thin tree tops reaching out like icy talons, waiting to draw the carriage into its belly.

He knew the danger of his situation. If the carriage faltered even for ten minutes; the clan Thrafey would be upon them...running out of the forest and swarming the carriage like lions thirsty for the hunt. He had only hoped that the coachman was experienced to keep those horses under control....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Academy Coach
Phillipe Brennick

"Precisely. I bet this really won't be as difficult as it sounded. And even if it is, it could always be worse, right?"

"Wrong" the Breton piped up from the corner, his blazing blue eyes piercing through Alister. His face was lacking any compassion whatsoever, and his tone was serious and cold.

"If we are not prepared, then we will die today...of that I have no doubt. Infact; take a good look at your cohorts, Alister. Which ones do you think will not survive the battle? I assure you, when this mission is done...many of these seats will be empty on the way home. The question is, will you be fast and able enough to ensure you do not become an empty seat?"

Usually he was not so verbal with his cynicism, but he felt many of the students in the carriage with him were not prepared for such an arduous task. He couldn't help but feel a little ill-prepared himself, as he hadn't really taken on something quite like this before. No, now was not the time for jokes or casual laughs. This was a dead cold matter of life or death.

"When we get to that island, and we hit that shore...you had better be prepared for what lies ahead. Me? I will cleanse the demonic filth with my Lightbringer, taking the lives of the damned without mercy. I may die today, but rest assured...with purity in my soul and weapons in my hands; I will bask in the blood of the impure and drag them down to the depths with me. And in that knowledge, I will die a peaceful death".

A smile almost crept across his face. He could be a nice young man when he wanted to...despite his harsh upbringing, but he felt that now was a time for no such niceties. Not when death loomed so ominously overhead....

OOC: lame post for Phillipe, but I will be better when we get into some action :hehe:

Carriage

Kythias chuckled under his breath, the carriage erupted in response and when Phillipe piped in everyone got quiet. Of course the one of the humor loving swordsmen, either Carth or Kythias would pipe in with a comment. Kythias decided he would be the first with much enthusiasm he leaned forward in the coach adding.

" Phillipe, what makes you so sure that there are not those amongst you who are impure in this very carriage? Are you going to punish them with your,...lightbringer? I think we've been hired to kill men who have little more than greed and personal interest in their hearts. Not pleasing your underworld. This Dragoon business? I'm in it for myself, and the money. You know what money brings? Happiness. So shut up and be happy." Kythias leaned back awaiting no doubt furious, condescending and challenging retorts from Phillipe.

Carth

"I'm split between calling you drama queen or captain fanatic." Rolling his eyes silently at Philippe's quite too dramatic and rather disturbingly fanatical speech, Carth decided to step in before he could snap back - it wasn't productive, and if there was one thing he cared about, it was keeping his skin intact and reaping all the benefits of that. "However I must agree that expecting this to be easy is stupid. Even if it will be easy, it's better to get into something like this expecting it to be ass difficult and finding it isn't so than going at it hoping for a breeze of a mission and instead being killed by some tower."

"Resting sounds nice and all, but I doubt we'll be getting on the isle easy. They may not want us killed, but surely the test would be hard enough to keep the one-legged cripples out of an apparently highly elite force..?" With a shrug Carth let his glance slide over the members of their group. They may be capable, but the headmaster knows that. This isn't a controlled environment like in the academy, and some of these folks will probably need to have that battered into their heads. He himself felt fine with risking his life; not like it never happened before, and some excitement was always nice for a change.

"At very least we should probably think about getting past the tower, that's the biggest threat I can see here. We probably won't be able to count on just plonking down a big invisibility spell on the boat and be on our merry way to the island. And if the bloody thing can stop armies then I sure as hell don't wanna get on its bad side."

Gates of the city of Daenia
As the emissary to Dwynnen entered his carriage, he paused to speak with the carriage driver concerning the calmness of his horses. Unbeknownst to him, there was a completely legitimate reason for these animals to be so uneasy. Horses were intelligent creatures, no matter what claims humans and mer made to the contrary. In fact, only the Bosmer were on equal intellect with a horse, and for only one reason; horses were smarter than some animals to start, but like all animals, they had a sense of the world that was dulled in the Human and mer mind.

People always noticed how animals would flee for shelter before a storm even began to show signs, or how they would prepare for the change of season while civilization was still trapped in the oppressing heat of summer. And the greatest of all senses was that of the unnatural. Humans and mer bore this sense too, but for an animal, it was far more acute.

The horses could smell it. The scent of that half-living flesh. The whiff of spirit that should not be within the body. Of magic immoral and unnatural. And it was nearby, and they looked right at it. Tossing their heads and shifting in place they tried to bring their master's attention to the creature on the street before them, hiding within the shadows of a building corner. But he did not heed their warnings.

And so the dark, blood red eyes of the sewer rat continued to watch as the Emissary entered the carriage, and the horses were forced to drive off. Chewing innocently at a piece of trash, it waited for a few moments before skittering away down the alleys and ditches of the city, always remaining in the shadows.

Not all rats were as huge as adventurers claimed, and in fact the rats they often hunted were not the city variety but the cavern variety, that lived in caves and dungeons and sewer systems. They needed their larger frames and teeth to survive there. But common city rats, they were of a different breed. Half the size and equally annoying, they could move about the shadows of a city without trace, moving through garbage despots and along the sides of streets. They were scavengers, not hunters like their cavern kin, and so fled human interaction rather than preyed upon it.

This rat, however, entered the richer, more well lit district of the city, but with obvious caution. It stuck to the thin shadows on the sides of the streets as much as possible, following the foundations of buildings and keeping to the minimal darkness that a vampire would have found difficult to utilize. And finally it reached an apparent destination, slipping into a hole the size of the rim of a mug at the base of a building.

Once inside the basemant, the rat gave out a tiny squeak as a shadow cast over it. It was caught.

The aging Breton stood over the rat as it squeaked, his hands pressed together and eyes bearing down. His old lips moved in quivers, before the rat shook with more violence then before.

As if undoing a zipper, a schism formed along the flesh of the rat's back, and the two halves parted with the smallest of openings to the dark, putrid flesh beneath. The Rat gave no cry of pain, and no blood erupted; it was unholy. A wisp of incense-like smoke rose from the corpse, growing denser and forming abstract shapes of arms and torso and head. The form seemed to stretch and writhe in awakening pains, before coming to rest floating over the corpse, head eye level with the Breton man before him in plain middle class clothes. As if opening eyes, two crescents of navy blue light appeared and grew into ovals.

"A carriage carrying Grallforth has left, heading eastward." The voice was soft as spring breeze and echoing in quality; a voice to send a chill of fright and calm simultaneously down any spine, but not the Breton's.

"So, they have made good on their plans to contact Dwynnen. I had hoped it would not come to this." Vanhilus sighed, folding his arms. "Very well, we cannot allow them to make it. Inform the Thrayfe they are to assault the castle covertly, using the tools I gave them and the paths you have found." Vanhilus had enchanted several small daggers with disintegrative spells, to erode away hard materials such as the very stone the castle was built of. All they had to do was chip at the holes that the spirit-possessed rats had been using to spy upon the castle until they were large enough to squeeze through -a process that should be but a few minutes- and they could enter the castle without having ever touched its 'purified' walls. They thought their lands purified, but Vanhilus had sought to that through the rat, whose very presence tainted the purity of their grassy gardens.

They should have prepared for more than just vampiric dead. With the garlic groves tainted to reduce the effective production of the harmful herb, and an ensemble of unusual undead and spirits at his grasp, Vanhilus had slipped just under the radar. But Dwynnen knew of more threats than just vampires, and it was too risky to the God of Worms endeavors to let this meeting come to pass.

The grey-mist spirit condensed back within the body of the disgusting mammal, Vanhilus waving his wrinkled fingers over the spine and split closing and mending of its own accord. As the rat scampered from his home the necromancer turned around and walked over to a circle of small black candles. Running his hand over the perimeter circle were the candles were situated, six in all, each candle was lit without aid.

Now basking in their strangely dim glow, Vanhilus sat cross-legged, and began a slow, murmuring chant.

Road to Urvais, cavern not far from the road within the forest.
Simphill sighed, rubbing his temples as the singing continued. His companion and fellow researcher, Jeletta, had taken to singing to her zombies as a pastime when they were finished with their current experiments upon the bodies.

While she had become quite good at weaving her magicks into the notes she song, allowing her better control of the minions and managing to raise new ones -once- he couldn't help but get a headache from it. It made him want to vomit, despite her beautiful voice. Deep down, it made him fear.

The singing stopped, and for a moment Simphill praised Mannimarco for ending it until he looked up to see the reason for Jeletta pausing.

Standing there amongst the corpses she had been causing to sway side-to-side was a man's spirit, clothed in decrepit rags and looking like maybe a pauper, or a messenger boy. Simphill realized how appropriate the last comparison was when the spirit's influence entered their mind and it spoke.

"Olack is sending an Emissary to Dwynnen, to seek aid in ending the plague of vampires in his city. Our Lord of Worms wishes to enlist this vampire clan, Trayfe, into his ranks, gain their good will and their power so as to join all undead into one force."

Vanhilus. Simphill recognized the tone of the spirit's voice, which carried both its sender's voice and the original soul's in one mix. Vanhilus often contacted them, considering their proximity to the countryside nests of the Trayfe vampire clan. They had been particularly placed in this area to work with him on this very cause.

"You must prevent that carriage from reaching Dwynnen. I have no confirmation it heads this way, but it was last seen heading east. Prepare as if it comes to you. May our Lord bless your children." And by children, the spirit did not mean offspring. The fading spirit, dispersing from the crowd of shuffling corpses, meant a different sort of child entirely.

The group galloped as hard as they could along the roads of high rock their horses breathing almost as hard as the riders, the beasts where from the king’s personal stable and where the best Camlorn could offer. The King of Camlorn was suffering most his hands tucked inside his riding robes to keep them warm and to help slow the pain in his joints he was taking frequent drinks from a hip flask he had taken from his court magician. The powerful pain killer was not diluted and his mind felt numb but he did not have to think as he simply followed Saxon. He could sense the man’s annoyance at his slow progress but Illessan was a long trip and he was an elderly man and refused to rush himself along the possibly treacherous roads.

[quote]
Name: http://fc04.deviantart.com/fs50/f/2009/264/9/9/FFX__Kimahri_Ronso_2009_by_Glaudarien.jpg

Race: Khajiit - Unkown clan
Gender: Male
Birthsign: The steed

Affiliation: The Tomyris Garden Academy

Age: 40's

Physical description: Contrary to most common Khajiit Tora is tall and broad, roughly standing 6'9. His fur, even more uncommon, is Grey and black, similar to that of a Pahmar Khajiit.

Although he is a battle mage or sorts, he is highly conditioned, his muscles are all in complimenting equal proportions, no one muscle will other power the other and weaken or slow down any movement he makes.

Unlike most Khajiit, Tora is the owner of fierce Green eyes, rather than tawny orange.

Reason for joining:

Tora is a nomad wanderer, he has never known a home in all the provinces of the empire, nor did he know his birth place or family. He is a man without roots and only seeks to better himself and the world around him. His belief has always been that to be strong in your body you must first be strong in your mind, that is why academia is of great interest to him. With a recommendation letter from a scholar he met while briefly studying at the mages guild he enters now the lands of Highrock seeking out the fables Academy of Ovidius, where he will learn to better his talents and perhaps pass on a few seeds of knowledge.

Arcane focus:
He is learned in the arts of magic but does not use them like conventional casters. He uses them defensively for the most part, using his finely conditioned body to let the energy flow freely within it, often using his magic as a mere extension of himself. He see's it as a spiritual thing of discipline. This allows him to move freely and fight without interruption by relying on movement and momentum to release magicka and energy into spells. This unique style of the arcane arts puzzled many scholars and mages, who are convinced it is an unknown school of unknown origins, when in reality, it draws on the powers of Mysticism Alteration and destruction.

Other tools/Weapons: http://www.northstarzone.com/sitebuildercontent/sitebuilderpictures/1JS-667.jpg, He also carries a burlap sack with a tin tea pot and several pouches of dried fruits petals and herbs. He enjoys painting before battle, so a paintbrush and small sketch book can also be found.



Tora, Academy


The leaves of a large willow tree threw dancing shadows over the wall of the shared dormitory as the wind blew them gently into the sunlight's path outside Tora's window. He'd liked this room from the start; the first room he was placed in was next to a destruction training range and the second was above a sparing gym. Each morning he'd be woken up in the most disruptive fashion possible, now though he was woken up by the gentle dancing sunlight on the wall beside him.

It took several minutes before he gathered enough will power to drag himself from the threadbare mattress onto the cold stone tiles; Tora barely wore any clothing, his fur was enough to keep him warm.. But the pads on the bottom of his feline feet had to suffer the cold morning tiles.

He left the room long before his Orcish room mate woke; He hadn't spoken to him yet, most days Tora woke at dawn and spent most of his time training or wandering the grounds in meditation or deep contemplation and didn't return until well after midnight. It was a habit he'd developed over years of travelling, everything felt unfamiliar no matter where he went, so he didn't like to stay in one place for too long? even if it was just his dormitory.

As he walked through the halls several passing eyes lingered a little too long on him, he was a stranger sight in these halls than the Orc he shared his room with; he wore nothing more than a large baggy pair of cotton trousers, cut off and tied at the knee, held up by a large leather belt with a four inch wide steel plate as a buckle. On his torso he was bare, save for two large leather straps crosing over his shoulders meeting in the middle, this was used to carry his even more unusual weapon, the Naginata. It didn't help either that he was just shy of seven feet tall. Most people outside of Elsweyr where used to seeing light framed nimble looking Khajiit counterparts, Tora was an exception to this trend.


* * *

A few hours had past and Tora was now sat under the shade of the same willow tree that woke him every morning, awaiting the rest of the prospective Dragoons for the days exam. Tora had been ready to take the exam as soon as he arrived, though the headmaster seemed to think it a better idea that he get acquainted to the academy and its formalities. Now that the exam day had come, Tora wasn't all too sure he was in the mood for it. He was beginning to long for rain forests and mountains again, as he did every time he settled some where for longer than a few months.

Eventually a familiar face emerged, a rather annoyed looking woman in tow behind him. It had been years since Tora was in Cyrodil, but he was sure the man he had helped fend of bandits and the man before him now where one in the same, though he couldn't be sure. Soon enough more feet began walking across the lawn, two Breton's and an Orc, Tora's unacquainted room mate, among them.

They began talking amongst themselves when a Dragoon Tora knew to look at but not by his name approached. He stood and walked slowly toward them, catching every word the instructor said with his sensitive ears. Just as Tora grew level with the statue the group of students began clambering into a large stage coach with the instructor.

"At very least we should probably think about getting past the tower, that's the biggest threat I can see here. We probably won't be able to count on just plonking down a big invisibility spell on the boat and be on our merry way to the island. And if the bloody thing can stop armies then I sure as hell don't wanna get on its bad side."

Tora caught the last part of the conversation as he ducked into the carriage and stood between the parallel bench's running along the sides of the stage coach; it wasn't much to go on but he had already figured out what they where talking about. A few worried faces confirmed it as well.

"Invisibility spells wont work; a boat may be hidden to then naked eye -- But the waves its creates as it disturbs the water wont be." Tora said to the Breton looking man to his left, he had never been good with any races save for Argonian and Khajiit, the rest all looked alike to him.. Barring Dunmer of course. "If you will allow me instructor, I think I have an idea.

"If we sell them a story; perhaps that we are mercenaries looking for work or slavers selling live stock, maybe they will let use under their defences and escort us to shore. Once there we can easily dispatch our escort -- the ship they land with wont expect them back for hours, and the islands garrison wont be expecting their arrival at all.


"after that I think it would be prudent to split into two groups for this mission. One will cut off the left arm -- the tower, while the other severs the right? the Necromancer. It should be simultaneous; keep it quiet until absolutely necessary before we go noisy, then when the guard are split to two locations and lost in confusion and chaos, we slip through their defences and capture the head. Your uncle I believe? Having you on board will certainly disarm him some what."

He let the words hang in the stifled silence as he sat down next to his Orc room mate, his face pensive as he visualised the many different possible outcomes of many different possible plans of attack.

"One thing we should always do is prepare for the worse. Assume your enemies are better than you in every possible way, that is the only sure way to victory."




OOC: Oh boy i'm rusty.

===Spot reserved for a Academy post. Don't post for Academy stuff until this is filled. It's essential.===

Bhoriane
Lo'Bhoriane, Count Valjean

Isdius rose from his throne as this meeting session drew to a close. The last of the petitioners left with a scowl on his face, as he had not recieved the results he wanted. Isdius had too much on his mind to care about the state of the horse abuse cases in the counties neighboring his own. They had not yet become a problem in his own county and there were far more pressing matters on the count's mind. Hell, the man he needed to speak to stood right in front of him.

With a wave of his hand, Isdius dismissed the guards around the turn in the hallway. He stood along with a knight by his side. Martel, the leader of the Knights of the Horns, was a more than capable man for the job that Isdius needed done. The count turned towards the knight and cleared his throat. "Eh-hem." The count began.

"As it stands, Martel, I have a problem on my hands." Idius said in a serious tone. "I need something done that will take you far from Bhoriane, but it will be necessary in the days to come. I want you to travel to Wayrest for me. There, if you travel with your knights, they will recieve you as a military garrison of my court. I need you to speak with Her Majesty about the matters that my spies and others have retrieved from Daggerfall. It seems this may become an issue, and I would rather see it resolved peacably. Hand her this letter."

The count handed over an envelope. He let it touch Martel's hands and then nodded. "You have your mission, Martel. See to it that it is completed. You are working for the interest of Bhoriane's people. my knight, a war would tear us apart."

"Yes, my liege, I will see to it that this is delivered." Without saying any more, Martel turned on his heel and headed for the exit of the castle. He was not one to question his lord, nor his city, so this was going to be a simple decision for him. The men would be excited to leave the Hall for once anyways.

Heading into the Darkpine forest
Rene Grallforth

The carriage was now blazing through the rarely travelled path, making good time towards Urvais. The Darkpine forest was a bit of a misnomer, as the thick fingers of dying afternoon sunlight shone rather brightly through the thin and dead tree top...bathing the leaf-ridden ground with circles of brilliant orange. It had a haunting beauty about it, a refreshing change from the cramped damp alleys of Daenia and the grey weather-worn moorlands that made up most of the province.

It got Rene thinking. If only the whole land was like this. If only the stench of black magic didn't taint Daenia with its vile shroud of darkness. For a second, hope seeped into his heart....and he dreamed a warm and welcoming province. Then the reality hit him. If Dwynnen complied with his offer, then perhaps such dreams would not be dreams at all. It made him that much more determined to get there.

A terrific jolt threw him back into his seat as the carriage lurched backwards in speed, slowing down to a pace barely above a canter. The dazed breton took a moment to adjust himself before slightly opening the carriage door and leaning out to look up at the driver. "Are you mad?" he lectured. "We are but lambs for the slaughter if we continue this pace! By the order of Olack, I demand you to quicken your mares!"

The coachman couldnt help but scoff before leaning back over the seat to look Rene in the eye. "No mate, your mad if you think we can keep galloping through land like this. Have you bloody seen the size of some of the treelogs that line the woodland floor? I thought not...all the dead leaves cover 'em real good. If we were to gallop through 'ere, the steeds might trip and then we would be in a right dilemma...you'd have a crash on yer hands then! With all respect sir, I decline your order. We keep this pace 'till we're out of the woods and back in the moorland".

Rene was for a moment speechless at the mans rudeness, but as rude as he was; the man had a point. The Breton agent said not a word more and retreated back within the confines of his cabin. He just hoped the woods were cleared soon.

Darkpine forest
The setting sun was casting brilliant orange rays into the forest, piercing through the canopy of the needle-leafed pine. The road in particular was basked in an orange glow, as if alight with soft candle-fire.

Simphill and Jeletta could see the road through the forest from above, at their perch upon a hilly rise that ran along the side of the path, jutting out boulder and thick tree root over the road. Simphill was focused on the road before him, and not the road from which their likely targets would come. No, his mind was focused on something else entirely; an amulet of a sapphire as brilliant a blue as the depths of the sea.

Before he had turned to necromancy, the dark haired Bosmer had been a jeweler in Ykalon. He had worked particularly with enchanted jewelery, repairing the physical material masterfully without harming the magical properties within. So naturally, when his mother's death brought him to necromancy to bring her back, he began to research the magical properties of jewelery in the art. It had been a decade since his mother's death, and he was still not skilled enough to bring her back. But he was learning quickly.

The sapphire glowed with light, and faint blue tendrils exited the stone, translucent like water. These tendrils, to an observant eye, reached out to the many gemstones placed upon the fingers and necks of six corpses lying in the road. Simphill did not pause his chants and focus as the bodies, one by one, picked themselves up from the ground. For a moment they lurched forward, then back, then swayed; like a toddler discovering the art of maintaining balance. Simphill smiled.

"Here they come." Jeletta spoke calmly from above. Simphill looked up to the lean-built, elegant Bosmeri maiden as she sat within the pine trees above them, cloaked from the road by curtains of needles. A lute was resting in her lap as she balanced far better than the zombies on the thick branch. Their hazel eyes met and both nodded, Simphill disappearing behind the bushes and thick tree trunks, slowly drawing his ivory dagger from his belt.

The crunch of hooves upon leaves and forest debris filled the air, getting steadily louder. Simphill estimated they were just barely cantering, and the squeak of a wheel joint confirmed a carriage. But was it the one they sought to stop? Simphill mentally cursed his ineptitude, knowing that Master Hartrich would have been able to confirm the occupants. But Simphill and Jeletta were not that skilled yet, and they had their own little talents.

The hoof beats stopped, and Simphill cautiously slid to a more observant position in the shadow of the tree. There was the carriage, two horses and a driver with naked windows. There, that man... might be him... looks like a Daenia noble anyways. If it wasn't, it was too late to turn back now. The carriage driver was wide-eyed at the spectacle before him.

The six men that stood in the road, at first, appeared to be bandits. But as the carriage drew closer, the rays of orange light revealed the truth. Some of the bandits wore armor, some shreds of armor. One was missing an arm, another a hand. Some limbs were torn and peeled apart to reveal the bone beneath; some were whole, with flaking, browned skin. And all six had their jaws relaxed, flesh peeled away. Each held a weapon; two clubs, two axes, and two arming swords. All tarnished and rusted, all old. These men were not bandits.

The driver was about to proclaim the problem to his passenger when a curiously familiar noise rose from the forest; the strumming of a lute.

"Hmm hmm, hmm hmm, hmm hmm, hmm hmm,
hmm hmm, hmm hmm, hmm hmm, hmm."

Someone was humming a tune.

Bhoriane
The Horned Hall, Martel Zeldi

Martel stormed into the Horned Hall with a new sense of purpose. He drew his blade, the sharp metallic sound getting the attention of the knights around him. "Hear this, my men!" Martel began, his voice booming over the usual sounds of the hall. "We have a mission now! We are to travel far, until we reach Wayrest. His lordship would like to present a proposal to Her Majesty and he has appointed our order to take care of such a thing. This is a great honor, men! We are to ready ourselves and sit astride saddles within the next half hour. Move!"

The men scrambled about the hall, gathering their things and donning their ceremonial armors. Martel was hurried as well, rushing up to his room to don his ceremonial cape and tunic above his armor. There was no avoiding this, the mission was clear and the boys were ready to begin. That was an easy conclusion to draw for Martel, as he could hear their voices permeating through the walls of the Horned Hall, all of them excited about getting out of the city for a little while. An adventure was an exciting thing for a knight, especially one of their order, as they mostly sat around the hall and did what they could for the city.

Martel placed his grungy short sword on the bed in his room and stepped over to the weapons display case. He pulled a small key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock, turning it twice. The glass top to the case popped open and Martel reached inside, drawing out "Wave", his prized blade. Wave currently had no enchantments on it, but it was a masterwork at least. The sapphires embedded in the hand guard were worth a sizable amount alone. However, the blade's truly impressive feature was the shine of it. Though it was made from steel, its creator had somehow polished it in such a way that it shone constantly, whether marred or straight-edged.

Martel strapped the blade to his hip, almost feeling more powerful just because of its presence. He checked to make sure the paper Isdius had placed in his hands was still tucked into his belt. Then, Martel trotted down the stairs back into the main lobby. Though he had given the men thirty minutes to prepare, they were all ready after the ten Martel had spent in his room. Even the two squires stood at attention as their leader descended the staircase.

With a nod, Martel silently told them to mount their horses. They did in a quick fashion, locking the front door and heading out the back at a jog. In moments the sixteen men and two boys sat atop their steeds, having lead them out of the stable onto the road. Martel turned to them and motioned forward, taking off at a gallop. This was going to be a speedy delivery, no matter what bandits or beasts stood in their way.

Darkpine Forest
Rene Gallforth

The carriage had stopped without warning.

Rene had had enough. Blithering cur his mind hissed. First he insists on moving at childs pace, and now he stops completely!. The flustered emissary crudely booted open the door of the coach and lept outside, intending to give the man a piece of his mind. But before he even managed to turn to his driver, the figures caught his eye.

The sheer grotesque horror of them stood in contrast to the brilliant orange light and hauntingly beautiful trees, making the sight all the more disturbing. They moved ever so losely, as if a stiff breeze would pull them apart by the seams. The stench of them hit Rene like a kick to the face...it stank of death and decay. He was speechless. True, he had seen zombies before; sometimes in the sewers under the city or even in the attic of some necromatic crackpot, but he had never seen this many all in one group. Frankly, it terrified him and chilled his blood to ice.

He said not a word...but simply turned to look to his coachman. He too was simply frozen in fear. The horses were not moving. The carriage wasn't going anywhere.

Instinct kicked in, adrenaline juicing through his body. He slapped back his coat, its elegant silken folds billowing in the air. Before it had settled, he had unclasped the strap on his sheathe and pulled out his silver sword in one swift jolt...holy water flicking off the blade in the sudden movement and falling to the woodland ground. He sure didn't regret ensuring the bottom of his sheathe was filled with the stuff now.

And yet, his arm was quaking with fear...struggling to hold the blade straight. He could only step backwards softly and quietly...paralyzed with terror. His adams apple hung in his throat with the weight of a small lead ball, preventing him from managing any speech. Beads of sweat flickered down his palid and shivering face. After stuttering several times...he managed to speak.

"S..stop. You don't scare me. Me being a native of Daenia, I know some horrific magic has brought you to life...and I can only presume the fiends capable of such magics are nearby. If you have any shreds of humanity left...any reasoning. Then on behalf of Lord Olack, I order you to lay down your arms".

He knew it was a pointless endevour, but he needed to utulise any and every trick up his sleeve to even stand a chance of survival. Is this how it ends? he thought. Torn apart by zombies out in the middle of nowhere? No Rene. Not today.

The will to live gave him courage, and his next speech was somewhat more stalwart in tone. "Do you hear me? Necromancers, Witches, whatever you are? Reveal yourself! My business does not concern you this day, and there is no reason for you to block my path!"

Darkpine Forest
Oh, your business concerns us more than you know, knight. Simphill thought, finding the man's words to confirm his suspicions that this man came from Daenia. And at this hour of the day, when soon even werewolves might set upon them, only an urgent messenger would dare travel. He's the one.

The flash of the silver sword meant nothing to Simphill or his minions. Silver was just as effective on the corporeal dead as it was on the living; its grand power was driven home in offense to the ethereal. But the holy water... If it was indeed blessed by Arkay's priests, as Simphill theorized, it would burn the flesh of his minions like an acid, and eat into bone as well. Depending on, of course, just how much of this the man had on his person.

Jeletta seemed undaunted however, and continued her sweet, innocent humming. "Hmm hmm, hmm hmm, hmm hmm, hmm hmm."

The zombies took a step closer to the carriage in a lurching motion, as if taking their first steps. And then another step, empty eyes and sockets looking upon the carriage and the mortals. "Hmm hmm, hmm hmm, hmm hmm, hmm." Straightening, each of the zombies regained a more balanced composure, finally grasping basic motor function. Standing side-by-side along the path, they blocked the way forward, and looked directly ahead, opening their mouths as...

Singing began.

"Praise, praise to the moon on high,
Which bathes our backs in its eth-real light.
Praise, praise to the eth-real light,
Whose glow brings us a calming night.
Praise, praise to the calming night,
Through which we walk amongst liv-ing."

Their mouths moved together as one as if they sung the words themselves, but the song itself sounded too sweet, too melodious to exit those half-formed throats. Simphill smiled as he watched the minions step forward with more balance than before, Jeletta's magic weaving through them and bending them to her will. Despite the headache it caused him, the song was truly beautiful; Jeletta had after all been a bard before she too turned to necromancy. Simphill was not the only one who wanted to bring their mother back.

"Hmm hmm, hmm hmm, hmm hmm, hmm hmm,
hmm hmm, hmm hmm, hmm hmm, hmm."

Dragoon Exam

The arrival at the docks prompted Damian to return from the outside driver seat of the carriage to the inside where the students seemed to be giving out their ideas on how to approach the exam. Tora, although not a Dragoon yet, seemed to be of some good strategical insight. Damian turning to the Khajiit addressed one small problem. "I won't be there with you. My uncle is not to know of my presence or the cover will be blown. I'm simply here to observe help only at a most basic level."

Just then their transport stopped. Outside the scent of sea salt seemed to infiltrate everything. The dock lands and the town that sprung up with it had a fairly negative image. Although Anticlere had it's own docks, sometimes the island just to the south proved to be safer for 'untaxed goods.' Somewhere in an alley someone had screwed the wrong person. Two trembling Redguards dressed for the desert were stared down by a furious Soryna and her hired Orc muscle who was holding a carpenter's hammer. The two trembling redguards each held onto one of their bleeding crippled hands, a result of the displeased Soryna and the skillful hammer-work of her Orc. "You tell Wahab that if he doesn't give me the rest of the artifact i'm going to land a company of Colovians next month and bury him in the sand." Soryna was very calm, however she was as terrifying as she was beautiful. Keeping her eyes at them, with a quick motion of the head she singled them to more or less 'piss off now.'

As she turned the corner a soft smile glimmered over her lips as she saw Damian and the exam students following behind him. "How are you?" Soryna offered her hand and awaited his reply.

"Hoping not to be late for our contract." Damian bowed his head slightly and taking her hand squeezing it briefly before letting go.

"No time for some drinks?" Asking hopefully she already knew the answer.

"Not this time. But we'd like to take a look at your armory. You tend to have much more...unique items than our armory." Damian looked back at the students for a moment hoping they would consider taking full advantage of the resources.

"I'll take that as a compliment." She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue slightly looking away with her eyes as if considering something and then turned around. "This way."


===A few minutes later===

They had made their way toward the docks where Soryna owned her own storage. A wooden structure with no windows and only one visible entrance and exit. As they walked in Soryna's orc lit the torches along the walls revealing the shine of various weapons. Sabers, maces, axes, crossbows, shields, and an assortment collection of armors were all on display. Some of the armor pieces where even partial plated although there were no complete sets of plate as they were usually customized for the rich to their specific body type.

Rea was the first to walk amongst the various weapons. Although not much of a weapon user herself she did like the idea of enchanted items as was one of her specialty. She eyed Soryna carefully as the Dunmeress leaned against the long table stretched out through the center of the large room. She didn't like something about her.

"Well you must be doing well for yourself." Damian remarked, his hands gliding over the wide side of a falcata.

"That last contract I helped you helped me find some interesting Dwemer artifacts. And there is so much to be found in Hammerfell as opposed to Morrowind where the Empire has ravaged most of the ruins. Most places are bone dry now." And aside from the last bit of luck Soryna had had to cut back on her Hammerfell adventuring as well due to the growing power of the nomads.

Andrethi having been quiet the whole trip finally spoke addressing Damian. "What sort of obstacles can we expect?" Damian was experienced and would know at least to give some suggestions. The instructors were there to answer questions, not to try to trick the students.

"Well before my uncle decided to side with Elysana, the Dominion provided a trained goblin force for every land owning member of the nobility. They were however not large in number so I would assume that men-at-arms have also been hired as garrison. Aside from that, expect the worse from the Telvanni necromancer. The island itself because of it's small size and jagged cliffs, provides only one port and acts as the only way the Balferia loyalist Direnni army could land on it once we destroy the tower." Damian seemed pleased at the question and hoped each student registered the answer.

"Telvanni?" Soryna couldn't help but ask. "Since when?"

"Since yesterday. It's part of the contract." Damian lifted up the falcata getting a feel for the weight.

"So then what is your plan for getting on the island?"

"The ideas being discussed since we obviously can not just do a frontal attack, is using a bit of subterfuge posing as slaves to be sold or mercenaries to be hired. From there the two groups will work independently for their specific goal and converge at the end." Damian looked over to Tora and the others making sure he had the right idea.

"The only problem with that is that you seem a bit too few in number for either or. Nobody is going to sail across the Illiac for a handful of mercs or slaves." This was true, Soryna had a point. "But if you throw in a bit more coin my way, I can load up my prisoners of war that the mercenary companies often sell to me, and also hire a small band of Colovians that have just come into port to make it look a bit more believable." A cat eyed grin shot from student to student, Damian even seemed a bit curious on how this would play out. "On top of that I suggest that those of you who make use of weaponry to act the part of the mercenary and equip yourself, those of you who can hold off on it, the part of the slaves. If i'm going to be paid to act the part i'm going to need another Dunmer to work with."

"Hey!" Rea protested but before she continued Soryna spoke over her. "You'll be a slave. And the rest of you?" She turned to the others.

"Once we're divided into our respective groups, we should pick leadership for either one." Andrethi added onto the already intriguing plan.

"But you should absolve yourself out of that roll since i'll need you with me for the ruse." Soryna stepped toward one of the walls lifting off of it a bonemold crafted spear.

Damian stepped toward the group. "Well divide and let's go already."

OOC: Sorry if this is rolling out awkwardly, I promise it'll get more smooth once we're doing something rather than preparing to do something. The two groups don't really have to be even. Don't worry about making good posts right now, mine are pretty difficult to write and crappy over all simply due to the nature of the content. Let's just get ourselves ready to get on that boat and once we get to the island it'll get interesting.

Soryna's Armoury

Tora listened dutifully, his feline features readable only by one of his kinsmen as the Dunmeress discussed an ever evolving plan with the Dragoon, Damien. She was ofrourse correct in every statement; their numbers where few and far between to be considered for employ as a mercenary group -- they where also too few to be sold as slaves for labour, she was right. It would be a waste of a trip.

"With the bulk of our numbers growing I think it would be possible to travel the island unnoticed." Tora said, the fur on his brow bristled as he frowned and visualised a coming battle. "They will not notice two small groups passing through their defences in the chaos of battle -- especially the goblins or walking dead; If the mercenaries accompanying us where to engage the men-at-arms and goblin beasts and keep the dock secured the lord of the islands eyes will be drawn away from the two primary targets of the mission."

He began pacing between the weapon and armour filled racks and tables, stopping to examine the exquisite designs of a dragon intertwined with a two headed serpent engraved onto the plate of a chest piece. Without looking to Soryna for permission he picked it up and began strapping it on. It was only the chest which was protected by plate, from the rib cage to his waist it was layered leathers and chain mail.

"As for splitting up, anybody capable of truly destructive levels of magic should head to the tower. If we cut off the nail it will soon grow anew to maim its enemies -- If you remove the finger however." He paused for a second as he spotted the counterpart for his briastplate, though the designs engraved onto this plate where simply two dragon like wings spread across the moulded shoulder blades. "Well, you cant grow a nail without a finger. Destroy the tower completely and they cannot re-arm it. Hence the need for destructive energies. Focusing the combined power of multiple mages onto the weakest point of a structure will turn mortar to rubble."

The weapons; like the armour, where all exquisitely crafted and tastefully decorated. Each sword he brought to bare was perfectly balanced and well maintained, every axe head completely even and without nicks. Even the spears where something to behold; you could tell instantly that the wood for each weapon was hand picked and treated for maximum strength while still maintaining a manageable weight and balance, there was no doubt that this wasn't the armoury for the local militia or guard. But even so; for every weapon he picked up they still felt like a strangers hand in his own -- he decided to keep his own weapon.

Eventually he found an beautifully crafted helm; it seemed to stand out like a beacon against those surrounding it. It was similar in shape to that of a Legionnaires helm, though instead of a brush top or spike there was a brightly polished statuette of a wingless wyrm, its body following the shape of the helm perfectly? The two pannels on either side to protect the jaw line where made of the same material and depicted a two serpents interwoven into a pattern unmistakably of Nordic origin and on the tip of the nose guard was the head of a phoenix, regrettably though? Tora had to bend the nose guard so it would fit comfortably on his head.

"I volunteer to lead the more combat orientated of the group against the Necromancer, I have seen many battles of many sizes in my years -- I have the experience needed to lead others into battle." He spoke clearly and directly to Damien, though he avoided eye contact with Soryna in case she noticed that he'd bent the nose guard of his helm -- he certainly didn't want to end up like the desert nomads they had seen outside.



OOC: http://www.costumesofnashua.com/CNWebSite105/Active905/Pages/Armour/PicsArmor/ArmourJ18117.jpg would look somewhat like this, though with a chain mail skirt and the described engravings.

http://www.tolkienlibrary.com/press/images/Children_of_Hurin_Dragon_Helm.jpg

Menevian camp outside of Raven Spring.
The buzzing of flies was as loud as the din of battle, a constant clamor of tiny wings that never ceased. When one fly landed, another set off, always the flying and buzzing. They moved in mass numbers, forming little cloud swarms all over the camp the size of a buckler. And there was one cloud at least for every couple of corpses upon the ground.

Two weeks the flies had reign of the campsite of the Menevian army, and already they had made work of the bodies. Maggots withered about beneath the flesh in such mass numbers the skin appeared to ripple with their movements, undulating as they carved their little tunnels beneath skin and deeper. The only disturbances to the rule of the fly were avian. Vultures, ravens, and crows circled overhead and added their own songs to the din of the camp, diving down and dispersing the clouds of flies in order to feast upon softer tissues. Nearly a thousand bodies were strewn about for their convenience, to pick apart at their leisure.

In the midst of it all a corpse-like body knelt upon burnt ground. One arm was propping the body up by holding the palm flat to the ground, but the other hand held onto a staff-like totem as gruesome as the scene. About five feet tall, the staff was fashioned from bone in a truly grotesque manner. The bottom of the staff was a skeletal hand, curled into a tight fist, and from the wrist it attached a femur, which attached to another femur to total half the staff's height. The upper portion attached to the top of the femur seamlessly, becoming lumbar vertebrae and a rib cage. The sternum had been broken, and the ribs bent backward as they went further down the ribcage, giving a tunneling effect as they came together just below the collar bones. The neck vertebrae were attached to the wrist of another hand, and in the bony grasp was a skull, the jaw held open by the thumb and little finger of the hand. This staff seemed to serve as another balance for the corpse-like, pale body, and the bones of the staff seemed freshly removed. Blood still stained their hardened surfaces and specks of flesh clung to the ribs and fingers.

The figure itself looked to be dead as well, the skin on the face sunken and pale. The body wore a hauberk and leathers, and from appearance alone, untouched by the scavengers of the campsite; likely a relatively new body. While tents remained standing all around the campsite, this body was within the remains of the only ruined tent, the burnt framework blackened and dusty. Nowhere else in the camp were structures harmed; the tents still stood, stools still in place, supply carts still stocked and in usable condition. But everyone was dead.

A raven landed near the kneeling body, tilting its head curiously at the corpse. Hopping closer, it eventually determined a meal to be had, and fluttered up to the shoulder of the corpse, twisting its head to get a good peck at the flesh.

Before the bird even got a morsel, it exploded in a plume of black feather and blood, which floated to the ground dramatically.

Manfred

The large Council Hall of Anticlere was filled with noise; the sign of a healthy council to come. The great nobles of Anticlere did not gather together save for the councils, so much was to be discussed before and after it, matters both personal and those of the state. All the seats along the large redwood table were filled; there were more than usual. For the first time ever, Anticlere was not alone in the council - a representative of Mens was sitting two seats to Manfred's left, keeping a bit of a distance with the rest of the nobles. Eventually the nobility of Mens and Anticlere would warm up to each other, but for now both sides of the Anticlere-Mens Commonwealth were guilty of mistrust.

The only thing stopping the council from beginning was the man standing on Manfred's left; he was one from the League of Shadows, whose numbers had been growing for the past month or so. Manfred had much use for a secret force of his own, something to counter the Dark Brotherhood or any rogue assassins or troublemakers in his city and to inform him of all that happened in and outside of his realm. For example, the murder of Lord Woodborne, a rather mysterious happening as there were still no suspects. It seemed unlikely to have been the Brotherhood's work, and his agents informed Manfred that Elysana's 'elites' had been disbanded because of this... Trouble in the paradise, as it seemed. Though Wayrest was, for the last several weeks, far from a paradise, Elysana's cardhouse of a kingdom crumbling swiftly.

Finally the rather inconspicious man retreated back into the shadows, silently leaving the hall. Manfred stood up; it took a while to be noticed due to his short height, however after he rose his hand, the nobility slowly fell quiet. In the corner the Flyte's scribe sat, ready to record everything said.

"Estemeed Councillors of Anticlere, my loyal aids and pillars of the Anticlerian government, as the reigning Flyte of Anticlere I have the honour to proclaim this Council session in progress."

"The Council is in progress! Maintain silence, noble Councillors!" The scribe echoed Manfred from his corner, leaning forward and committing himself fully to scribbling away at his scroll furiously in an attempt to keep up with what was being said.

"Esteemed Councillors, I am glad to see all of you here, including the representative of our newest brothers from Mens. May our friendship last long and run strong."

"As strong as the Flyte bloodline, my noble lord." The Mens representative stood up and bowed, receiving some rather amused looks from the other councillors; the nobility usually adressed Manfred either as the Flyte or, more frequently, their great captal, a title predating the Flyte bloodline's ascension to power in Anticlere. The man, however, already seemed rather irritated by the Anticlerians' attitude towards him so it did little to further upset him. Manfred continued, choosing to ignore his councillors' prejudices.

"There are many matters to be discussed today, for Anticlere is stepping into a time of great prosperity. As you no doubt know, Esteemed Councillors, the kingdoms of Daggerfall and Wayrest have once again engaged in hostilities. Our land remains neutral in this conflict; as we speak, Raphael Perevier is likely at the end of his trip via the Via Bretonica to Daggerfall's court, to inform the king of our choice and state our request that Anticlerian trading ships pass unmolested by Daggerfall's shores, amongst other things. If Mara the Mother Goddess wills so, he will be succesful in this and we shall reap the fruits of neutrality via trade with both sides."

"As our influence grows outside the borders of Anticlere, I cannot stress enough how important it is that Anticlere fully recovers from within. The scars of the Riot of Reich Gradkeep are deep, however I believe they may yet be cured and Anticlere will only be stronger for it. However, all power cannot be wielded at the capital, for it is a foolish and difficult way to rule a land, even one that is not as vast as the Empire of the Cyrodiils; though we may boast a more stable land than some of our neighbours, our glorious realm will soon fall to disarray should it be left upon this Council and it only to decide every matter in the realm. Therefore, Anticlere is to be divided into separate districts supervised by their elected officers, for ours is a land of freedom and not tyranny."

"My great captal," One of the councillors stood up as Manfred sat down. It was Gerard de Tourelle, a fairly aged noble hailing from eastern Anticlere, one of the more influential councillors, having held the right to collect taxes in the 'near east' of Anticlere as it was sometimes reffered to for three terms granted by the Flyte. "I believe many will agree when I say that the first and foremost of these administrative districts to be formed - asides from the capital and our brothers in Mens, of course - is the land from which Anticlere took its name before your father righteously came to power. The Gradkeep Plains, my homeland, should cover the whole of eastern Anticlere from the Via Bretonica."

"Noble Flyte, I beg to differ." Heinrich du Lombard, a distant relative of Wilfred's, spoke up. "To assign all of eastern Anticlere into a single district would defeat the point... The majority of the cities are further east, however Kirkhope is further away. It should either fall into another district or form a separate one altogether."

"Both of you speak the truth, Esteemed Councillors." Manfred stood up again. A few nobles who had started muttering silently about these propositions fell quiet immediately. "However, I must add to noble Gerard's proposition this - the Silver Spine of Anticlere is not to be treated the same as the rest of Anticlere's settlements. Therefore the east shall be divided into three districts - the Gradkeep Plains with Crosswych Woods, Grayborne, Chestermarket and Eastcastle, the Kirkean Peninsula with Kirkholm and the Silver Spine with Ipscart Rock and Broadwell."

A mutter of approval rolled over the Council. Another noble stood up to speak - Roland d'Altavilla, one of the many westerners in the Council. Being one of the youngest members, he was viewed with some suspicion by some, however the man did have quite a talent for politics and a passion for engaging in the frequent 'duels' so frequent in Anticlere given its social order. Having made his way from a minor noble from Cromwark to a councillor in a surprisingly short amount of time, many probably saw him as a threat and many more - as someone to prosper under, given that the d'Altavilla House was still rather minor asides from Roland's career.

"My great captal! If turning the Gradkeep Plains into an administrative district is a given, then so is turning the Western Lakes into one. My kinsmen have always been a core part of Anticlere; this is where freedom was tasted first, and so the people there should taste it once more, to know that what they enjoyed first was not a mere fake promise."

"Aye, aye! I believe my kinsman is correct, my great captal!" Felton du Blois stood up to take Roland's place rather passionately - another younger noble. It seemed to be a bit of a habbit for the Western Lakes to be the birthplace of young men who frequently seized the initiative. "Do not forget, my fellow councillors, that it was the people of the Lakes that stood by Lord Graddock firmly when most others fled, that many of the guards slain protecting his lordship were from my land! And not only we are loyal servants of Anticlere. The towns of Via Bretonica have stood by the capital's side for many ages; their resolve has not wavered since the Time of Troubles. Therefore I propose that both the Western Lakes and the Central Chain be granted the status of administrative districts!"

Manfred nodded silently. That Felton was preaching the Central Chain's right to become an administrative district wasn't all that unexpected - he did, after all, hold the right to collect taxes in Newwell and would be one of the candidates to supervise this district should it be formed.

"You raise valid points, Esteemed Councillors. Both the Western Lakes - with Cromwark, Holeigh, Gallovale and Ipstale - and the Central Chain of Newwell, Oxfort, Stoklech and Lamtown shall be made into administrative districts. And with the forming of these districts, Anticlerian law shall come into effect, for the Statute of Anticlere, Esteemed Councillors, is at long last complete." Gesturing towards the doors Manfred sat down again, allowing the councillors to turn and look at those who came into the Council Hall.

A monk, the confessor of the Flyte of Anticlere himself, walked in carrying the golden sign of Mara; behind him, two scribes carried a quite large book, probably not so heavy as to warrant two people carrying it, which was more for the effect than anything else. The bulk of the weight probably came from the heavily silver-trimmed cover, even though the book was indeed a suitably long one - it had to be to contain the current rights and customs of Anticlere. Rather ceremoniously, the two scribes set it down on the table; Manfred's confessor took his place at his lord's right, muttering prayers and blessings to both the ruler and the nobles present. This was quite the moment in Anticlere's history - for the first time there was a local recorded law, one that would now replace Imperial laws that came to High Rock with Tiber Septim.

"Copies of this great book have been ordered already; soon, the law of Anticlere shall spread throughout our glorious realm, strengthening us as it does. Rejoice, Esteemed Councillors, for Anticlere has went far on the road of civilization; rejoice for we write just laws while others squable over land and right to rule their hills."

Another mutter rolled over the Council, this one far longer; Manfred allowed his councillors discuss this. He rather enjoyed this moment himself; finally the fruits of his labour were beginning to show. If he were to die tommorrow, Anticlere would be a little less lost with this statute, and it was the first step - or leap, as the Flyte himself preferred to call it - on the road to ensuring that Anticlere was so much more than just the ruling lineage. Though he liked wielding the kind of power he did, Manfred knew that eventually if this were to continue something would befall his land... Hopefully that something could be prevented with these steps he was taking.

The muttering dragged on for a while; Manfred was beginning to get a bit curious as to what were the councillors whispering about, since many glanced both at him and the new statute rather frequently. Finally they fell quiet as Wilfred coughed and rose up to speak.

"My great captal, noble Flyte of Anticlere, the people of Anticlere owe much to your just and fair rule. By your strong hand we survived the Oblivion Crisis, by your wise judgement we went to the War of the Wolves and forged a friendship with the Ra Gada of Sentinel; now, by your great foresight Anticlere has its own written laws. My great captal, your achievements make your title too humble for someone of your greatness. Therefore, it is the belief of this Council and all of my fellow Esteemed Councillors that our great captal, Manfred Flyte, is to be crowned the King of Anticlere, for though you have not expanded our lands far and wide like Elysana, your great achievements will be there for our children to admire and use, unlike those of the Queen of Wayrest... The Council of Nobles asks - no, insists - that Manfred Flyte be crowned with a crown blessed by the heads of the Church, for all the good his bloodline has brought to this fair land has more than earned him this right."

Manfred rose his eyebrows in pleasant surprise. He had been having dreams of kingship for quite some time now; however in a place like Anticlere one could not simply declare himself king, for not only would the people feel this a threat to their way of life and an unpleasant shade of the past, but most likely Wayrest and Daggerfall would take issue to this as well. Now, however, that his own council insisted he be crowned, there was nothing in his path. Of course, Wayrest and Daggerfall may still've felt insulted by another king appearing in the west, yet with the beginning war they could probably be convinced to accept this turn of events without attempting to direct forces to beat down this 'rising star' of sorts. And the Cyrodiilic Church authorities could likely be convinced to bless another crown for High Rock easily enough - simple promise to protect the Church of Mara from the possible threat of the Dominion would likely do it, for the Church in the Heartland was usually not too interested in the happenings of a far-away province.

Darkpine Forest
Rene Grallforth

The zombies disgusting song gave Rene goosebumps. There was no denying it, these undead beings thrived on evil energy. Witches for instance often used their necromantic abilities to raise dead for manual labour or to fulfill purely practical purposes...memories of the time a local coven leader had sent a zombie through the city gates just to carry a message to the Lord racing through the agents head. But no, these shambling undead were created with evil in their hearts. The only purpose for them was to maim and destroy.

A crossbow bolt cleaved through the afternoon air and struck a paticularly disgusting zombie right in the forehead. The kick of power completely snapped its rotting head backwards, tearing the flesh on the neck and exposing trachea and oesophagus; blackened blood lightly bubbling from the massive wound.

Rene turned and saw now that the coachman had regained his nerve and was now standing stalwart on his seat with an antique looking crossbow, a bolt having already been loaded back into its polished form and now aiming at the body of another zombie. The Breton gave a weak smile. His chances had been improved, but not by much. The coachman gave a sly wink and shot another undead in the chest before kneeling down to frantically reload his weapon.

To Rene's horror, the otherwise fatal wound suffered by the first creature did not hamper it's advance. It still slowly paced forward, oblivious to it's wound. The next vile entity that had been shot in the chest also seemed to completely ignore the fact that a crossbow bolt was now sticking through its stomach. These creatures would take some killing.

Rene contemplated fleeing. Trying to break around the blockade of undead and making a runner towards Urvaius. But if the coachman had proved that he was strong enough to atleast make a stand, then he could not merely leave the man to die. Besides, it would most definately reach night in a matter of hours...and he would be fresh meat to the woodland werewolves. No, this was it. He would either survive this encounter or die; and he sure as hell wasn't going to go down easy.

The coachman turned to him. "Theres another crossbow under your seat in the coach, go an' get it. I'll try to hold 'em off". With a nod Rene quickly leapt up to the coach door and thrust it open. Energy pulsing through his veins, he opened up his seat to find a finely crafted crossbow with eight silver bolts laying in the compartment. Hope glinted in his otherwise tired-looking eyes. The odds were increasing once more. And yet time was still of the essence, so he crudely and quickly grabbed all of the bolts and the crossbow itself before running back outside.

His mind fixated on his actions, and he did not pause to look at the undead as he made his way over to the coachmans side. He took off his travel hat and placed it upside-down on the leaf-ridden ground; lodged between two twigs for stability. He then got all eight of his bolts and placed the head of each of them facing down within the hat. The cunning Breton then undid his sheathe, inverting it over the hat. A good amount of Holy water emptied out into the headspace, filling it a good quarter and soaking the heads of the bolts in the purifiying liquid. Rene grinned, throwing his sheathe aside and loading a soaked bolt into the crossbow. He now had a ranged means to relinquish the undead. 7 bolts left.

He then stood over his little holy-bolts, crossbow aimed in one hand; silver sword clutched at his side with the other. He was ready to make his final stand.

OOC: Should be decent enough. Thanks to PFA for letting me use Anticlere as my staging grounds here.

Alister Bourde - Soryna's Armory

Alister looked around the room at all the various weapons of death and destruction. Personally, the entire place disgusted him. He was very much a believer in nonviolence, or at least a believer in nonviolence as it related to him. He was tempted by several pieces or armor, but he had never been particularly proficient with such things, and didn't want to be slowed down in any case. Having a sword that he would never use on his back was more than enough extra weight.

The weapons were all very shiny and more than capable of killing, he was sure, but he didn't know how to use any of them, so it didn't matter. Well, that's not entirely true. I can use the blade decently enough while sparring, but... Beyond that? I think not. I never did have much of an interest in knightly pursuits. Perhaps I really would have been better off serving the Mage's Guild? At least then, I wouldn't be expected to go into a warzone. I think.

So, instead of browsing the impressive assortment of weapons, he merely observed the others, particularly the instructor and the woman who was assisting them. Not to say anything about our instructor's taste in people, but that woman makes me feel uncomfortable. Well, more uncomfortable than this entire situation already has.

He listened carefully to their conversation about the mission, and then to Tora the Khajiit as he spoke briefly about leading a group. "Well, I suppose I should go with whichever group is going to be hit the hardest. I'm not suited well to direct combat, and even less so to destruction magic," Alister said, thinking back briefly to the last time someone had tried teaching him an advanced destruction spell. The explosion was very pretty though...

"However, healing is something I'm more than good at," he said, smiling briefly, "and summoning I can also do."

He clasped his hands in front of him and waited to see if anyone else would speak. While the majority of the mission concerned him, he was at least confident in the knowledge that he couldn't possibly be beaten by a goblin. Even he wasn't that lacking in martial skill.

Claudius and Alexia Alidun - Anticlere

Alexia twirled one of her daggers between her fingers as she looked down at the body of the nameless man she had just slain. It had been a simple thing. A single dagger planted in the middle of his back, with her magic taking care of all the heavy work. He hadn't even screamed, which was rather odd all things considered, but it worked fine for her and better for Claudius who was sitting in a small chair in the corner, making small adjustments to their target list hidden inside his journal.

"Tell me, brother dear, how was this one a threat? He seemed no different than any other man. Well, perhaps the fact that he's single is a bit odd, but I've heard such things aren't all that uncommon."

The man had been unmarried, and appeared to be rather old, perhaps in his fifties or sixties. He also has no taste. All this fake gold is so gaudy. Or at least she thought it was fake. There seemed to be far too much of it in the house for it to be anything but, considering the man wasn't anything special. Perhaps he owns a jewelry store.

"It hardly matters what he seems like, all that matters is that he's dead, and can't do anything more. You'd be surprised how much people can change, given the proper catalyst. Or perhaps you wouldn't seeing how you're a living example," Claudius droned, looking up from his writing briefly to watch her.

"Please. As if you're one to talk. At least I can say I became more interesting as a result. But I still want to know. What was this pathetic excuse for a guy supposed to accomplish?"

"Why the sudden curiosity? You haven't cared about any of our past targets? Why this one if there's nothing special about him?"

Alexia rolled her eyes at the question, delivered in Claudius's monotone as always voice. "That's precisely the reason you dolt. There's nothing special about him. Everyone we've killed up to now has been a noble, or a mercenary, or someone with a skill you could imagine being important later down the line. What was this guy going to do? Make some pointy jewelry that stabs someone in the eye? I mean, aren't you the least bit curious?"

"No, not really," Claudius said, putting the journal down to speak to his sister. Alexia sighed. She could feel a speech coming on.

"I'm not curious because I don't care who our targets are or what they're going to do. All that matters is that they're in the way, and the Priests want them removed for the sake of the Empire. That's all we need to know. Curiosity is not a good trait to have in this business, as you well know."

"Business? Please. It's not as if we get paid or anything. Wouldn't that be nice though? Maybe we could get those stupid old men to cough up some money for these jobs one of these days."

Claudius just rolled his eyes and went back to writing briefly, before folding the journal up and putting it back under his cloak. "Alright, we've spent more than enough time here. We should get going before a curious neighbor comes calling."

He stood from the chair and walked across the floor to the door outside, but looked back briefly at the body. "Should he still be twitching?"

Alexia glanced down at him in mild surprise. "Oh. I must have overcharged this one a bit," she said, as she bent down and pulled the dagger from the dead man's back. He stopped his random jerking a few moments later. "Sorry."

Claudius sighed and opened the door, descending the stairs to the streets. He didn't bother closing it behind him, and neither did Alexia as she bounded up beside him. "Precision is key, sister dear. You should try to work on your output next time. No need to use more energy than is necessary."

"Hey, overdoing it can be fun sometimes. Like that job in Anvil! Wasn't that just-"

"Annoying? Yes. Now shush, you know we don't speak in public."

"But you were the one who started-"

"Shush."

Alexia glared at him through narrowed eyes, but remained quiet regardless. As irritating as he was, he was right. They got enough stares anyway. And as much as she would like to think they were directed at her, she was certain most were looking at Claudius. After all, a look of total apathy isn't one you see very often.

Daggerfall

Three men-at-arms exited a postern door and marched lockstep across the flagstones, then halted before their visitor. As they strode, the mail beneath their green surcoats clinked softly and their well-made boots clacked sharply on the stones. Each wore a longsword and dagger at his belt, but with no shield. The one who distinguished himself as captain by a plumed helm with a tail of horsehair put one hand to his sword and looked up at the mounted Anticlerian. The serjeants were cheerful. A hearty lunch of bread and beer left them in a good mood, and greeting a well-dressed guest was the most excitement they'd seen in a good while.

"Hail, friend!" he declared in a loud voice, with a shadow of a smile. "What is your business in Castle Daggerfall? Long have we welcomed Anticlere with open arms. Ere the day draw to a close, we may be of some assistance." The captain's clear blue eyes looked up at the stranger with interest.

Darkpine forest
The undead stopped only briefly, and this was to lurch forward, sending its head tumbling into the proper position over the neck it had once been attached to before the bolt struck. Now it looked down the shaft of a silver bolt towards the coachman, empty eyes showing no pain. Undaunted by the assault, the zombies carried forward, jaws still moving in a macabre ballad.

"Our hearts stopped beating long ago,
When our lives were taken by blade and bow."

Simphill clutched the sapphire amulet in his hand, whispering into the fist words warped with power. A wispy tendril of soft blue light left his amulet and slithered through the air like an eel in water, translucent enough to escape all but the most scrutinizing eye. This tendril of magic snaked into a ruby ring on the corpse's weapon hand, and there was a spark of light. The wound sealed partially, reattaching the neck. Simphill had learned one thing quickly in his pursuit of necromancy; if you were going to keep the flesh on your minions, the closer the body's condition was to that of life, the better.

Jeletta smiled as she looked through the pine needle curtain to the scene below, never pausing her song.

"The darkness closed around our souls,
And our spirits were laid to rest."

The unholy beings shuffled faster, moving at a quickened walk pace, and the horses grew more agitated. They began to thrash and tried to flail their heads to deter the beings, but the movement had no affect. The undead seemed bent on taking out the horses first. Together the horses rose on their hind legs, an action that sent the coach on a tilt. Their heavy hooves kicked the air, successfully finishing the attempts of a crossbow bolt to take off the head of the apparent leader, who was clad in tattered leathers beneath rusted, dented iron plates.

"Beneath the ground we slept so sound,
the cares of life, not to be found."

The headless body stumbled backwards, the head rolling on the ground still singing the eerie song. As it stumbled away, another zombie moved in, silently thrusting the arming sword up and into the chest of the rearing horse. The other steed came down to all fours as the weight of the dying horse beside it dragged the coach to the ground. One of the axe-wielders raised his hatchet above his head, mouth moving in time with the song, and brought it down on the horse's shoulders.

The blade of the axe cut into muscle and leather, cutting loose the reigns that held the horse in place and spraying blood from the gouge. The moment the horse was loose, it galloped, ignoring the pain in its shoulder.

"But power gave life, to our aging limbs,
And let our bodies arise once more."

Darkpine Forest
Rene Grallforth

The horses had panicked too much and now reaped the consequences. One lay essentially dead, still strapped to the coach. The other one was but a quickly fading speck in the distance. Dread drained any hopes of survival from Renes veins. The stray horse would likely catch the attention of a werewolf, and after feasting upon it's corpse...the creature would most likely prowl the woods in search for a similiar catch. The last thing he needed was that. May these undead fiends take you, you moron. Why did you not insist on taking the long road? his mind cussed. It was becoming increasingly hard to remain optimistic.

The coachman looked pathetic at the reigns of a dead carriage, and lept down from his perch to accompany the Daenic emissary at his side. He too emptied the five remaining arrows he had into the makeshift bucket of holy water before reloading his weapon. "Well, looks like this is it" he grimaced, aiming and firing; only to miss his target by a mile and have the hefty bolt fire with a mocking "thunk" into a nearby pinetree. "Never thought I would get it out here".

Rene was paying no attention to his words however, as he was trying to hone his mind and steady his nerve in order to get a good shot in. He pulled the trigger. The bolt shot out with deadly speed but only succeeded in taking off a zombies ear. The water however, singed its flesh like acid, corroding into his head. And yet, it did not scream in pain. They were by all means simply material objects. It was a matter of breaking them down.

Six bolts to go. He reloaded and fired. It missed again. [censored]....5. The shambling line of reanimated corpses only continued to advance, forcing the two men to begin to walk backwards; Rene taking special caution not to spill any water out from his hat as he picked it up.

The coachman had fired off all his bolts in frantic fenzy and now had none left. Realising that he had expelled his supply...he resorted to shouting for help at the top of his lungs several times until his throat was hoarse and rasp. Rene considered screaming too, but figured one man was enough. Yelling again would not magically increase they're chance of survival. It had either worked, or hadn't.

"Get on top of the carriage again" he ordered. "They will have a harder time getting to you. I'll stay down here to get a better, more-levelled shot". The driver complied without word, and scrambled up top. Rene aimed again and fired. This time however, his shot was more lucky. It struck one of the undead in its leg, and broke the bone. The zombie felt no pain and continued its advance, but the holy water-tipped bolt was doing great damage. It melted away the flesh and bone slowly, and soon the zombie lost its balance, falling forward onto the ground minus a leg. Rene smiled rather smugly, but his smile soon faded when he saw the legless fiend crawling towards him...its brainless determination for the kill driving it forward.

4 left...this isn't happening. he sighed, no longer scared as he felt his fate had been already decided. I just hope someone heard our plea for help...

Darkpine Forest

Parthia's ears twitched at the sounds in the distance. The western winds carried the noise, and stench of something unholy. Her quiet but agile feet carried her through the grassy forest, each passing tree revealing more and more of the scene until she saw something that could only make her cringe. The undead arts, necromancy. Only those who completely disregard any sanctity of the soul would dare use the arcane in such a perverse manner. They seemed to be attacking travelers. Parthia wasn't exactly the charitable type but she did despise necromancers, and it wouldn't hurt if she happened to get some money and a meal out of this. Being on the run from the authorities drained one's stomach and wallet.

She removed her unstrung bow and placed the string in place. On her she had two types of arrows, the first type with metal heads and the second type was completely made out of wood. Along with that she removed the four throwing knives she had strapped on as well as the short elven bow. She slipped each foot out of her slippers and pushed them back against the tree with her toes. Pulling back her green robe she let it slip off of her on top of her slippers and her metal weaponry. Anything made of wood she could take with her.

Parthia leaned her bare back against the thick tree and took a deep breath closing her eyes. Calming herself she used the technique her father had taught her in Valenwood when she was young. Slowly she began feeling as if she was sinking into the tree itself as if it were water. First her torso and then her limbs holding the wooden bow and arrows. Her legs were pulled in as her body began sliding up the trunk of the tree and lastly her face. She could feel the forest in her skin, taste and smell the pine, the tree spoke with her.

In this relaxed state she almost forgot why she had used her ability in the first place. Quickly her figure shot up through the trunk as if through an underground river. A delicate elven outprint of her face was pressed against the outside of the bark. Her vibrant green eyes opened and she observed from above the actions below waiting for the right moment to act. She pushed her face forward until her head slipped out of the tree, and then her shoulders and arms extended out with the bow and a wooden arrow strung. The arrow was pulled back and flung aimed at the back of one of the zombies aiming for the fleshy parts. Against armor the wooden arrows would do nothing, but these were not just regular arrows. Upon piercing the skin, the wood would begin to grow roots slowly driving through the veins of the body, yearning for the nutritions of the flesh on its way down to the soil.

Parthia could remember after one battle a whole forest of such grown trees, mangled Khajiit raiders intertwined painfully between arms of bark and leaf.

OOC: Don't mind me, oh not at all. >_> Sory for the blehness but i keep making posts near 4 AM...not good. =/

Darkpine Forest
The zombie stopped crawling forward, as if some unheard call ordered it to halt as the companions advanced. A flash of blue light around the zombie's neck came, then went, before the leg not a foot or so away from the body moved towards it, and reattached. The zombie rose from the ground, club clutched tight.

"We see the world in a different way,
As our eyes are clouded by decay."

The twang of an arrow cut into the ballad, and the recently restored corpse lurched forward, the back of its neck burying an arrow. Simphill watched from afar, following the path of the arrow up and into the trees on the other side of the road. This was not someone they had planned for. The headless zombie swung its sword, slicing the dead horse off the carriage and sending the yolks crashing to the ground. Then it began to climb. Another zombie swung back its mace, and with unholy strength smashed one of the back wheels of the carriage, as a fellow axeman chopped into the front wheel of the same side, which was across the carriage from Rene, safe from his bolts.

"We breathe the air as if in life,
But it rattles through rotten forms."

They both began to climb the sides of the carriage, eager for the killing of the coach driver. The remaining three corpses were moving in on Rene. They ignored the bolts that hit, they ignored the ones that missed, and just kept coming. A swordsman, a mace and an axe clutched in dead hands would spell Rene's end soon, as they came merely a yard away from him.

"Now we cannot ever be slain.
We feel no sorrow and no pain."

The zombie with a wooden arrow in the back of its neck stopped, lurching as if in pain. The muscles frozen, Simphill felt his entire minion seize within his mind. Something was wrong. From Rene's point of view, he could watch as from within the empty eye sockets of the unholy being, wooden roots began to grew, reaching out and snaking over old flesh and muscle. Just like when used upon the living, these strange arrows grew roots, seeking nourishment in their victims. And the growth seemed to go only faster, for a rotting body was greater fertilizer for plants than any living form. So rich in nutrients that would decay into the earth with time, it only facilitated the spread of the roots.

Simphill cursed, unable to see what was wrong with his minion. But Jeletta could from her perch, and focused her magicks within the swordsman closest to the victimized undead. The other undead could handle the occurrences on their own, but this situation required special attention.

"No fear there is, that grips out heart."

As she song she focused her magic, the melodious voice ringing out through the forest and hiding her art within it. The swordsman turned with surprising speed and lashed out, the blade slicing through the fleshy neck of the zombie and decapitating it. It had been a carefully aimed slice, and embedded arrow was also removed, still trapped within the larger section of neck attached to the rolling head.

"For we can live forev-er."

From the neck one could see the roots that had grown into the body, and Jeletta hoped this would cure the issue. She never paused in her singing, and all three moved forward once more, though the headless one was more jerky and stiff. They were within striking distance now, one of them ahead of the other two and raising his axe to strike down on the emissary. And to make matters worse, the entire scene was aglow with the light of a setting sun.

"Hmm hmm, hmm hmm, hmm hmm, hmm hmm,
hmm hmm, hmm hmm, hmm hmm, hmm."