Raphael

"Greetings." Raphael nodded to the rather joyous guard, returning the enthusiastic meeting with a barely noticeable smile of politeness rather than joy. Asides from the fact that travelling the Via Bretonica in such times was rather irritating, particlarly for the nephew of the Archbishop of Mara, he was also none-too-glad about his destination...

Daggerfall reeked of old times, or at least the vivid imagination of the Anticlerian made it seem so; old times much shunned by most if not all the people of his homeland. In this respect the Anticlerians were far more similar to people of Wayrest; considering his destination, how good a thing was that was questionable. Still, the position of a messenger of a neutral land guaranteed him safety if the court of Daggerfall had any sense of honour at all; though he was no herald, Manfred's personal herald hadn't travelled for a long time, replaced instead by people like Raphael, who were taught things more practical than obscure codes by which coats of arms were designed.

"I come to your fair city seeking your great king; so I must ask you, in the name of my great captal Manfred, the reigning Flyte of Anticlere, to escort me to your lord." As he spoke, Raphael took a small scroll out of his coat's pocket, bearing a red seal with the coat of arms of the Flyte House - a snake wrapping around a lily. Had it not been enough to persuade the guards of the legitimacy of his status as a messenger of Anticlere, he could've always broken the seal and read the letter - it reassured the reader that the bearer of this letter was indeed the personal messenger of the reigning Flyte of Anticlere.

Most likely there would be little need to ever read it during his stay here, however, as Raphael had visited the court of Daggerfall before the War of the Wolves in the company of other, more experienced men; though the kings had changed, some courtiers would likely recall him.

Bolag, Soryna's Armory

Bolag mostly ignored the conversation around him, not willing to say his opinion for fear of being shot down. He simply listened to the ideas springing up around the carriage, the most in depth one coming from the Tora, and Khajiit that Bolag new fairly well. Many of the group were simply being negative about the whole mission and remarks about being killed constantly sprang up, which made Bolag rather uncomfortable. He really didn't think they would be doing something like in this for an exam. He thought they would be doing a simulation of sorts, in a controlled environment where there was no real chance at serious injury or even death.

The carriage stopped a few moments later as Bolag sat in silence, and Damian returned to where they all were sitting.

"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."

Oh good. the Orc thought nervously. THe only one who had any real experience with this stuff was not actually going to be in it with them, although it made sense to the Orc who was a student after all. As he thought about it, while the group mindlessly followed their instructor out of the carriage and onto the rather shady docks, it wasn't the prospect of battle that scared him. He had fought many fights, mostly spars but a fair number of bandits and goblins had been left dead behind him on his way out of Orsinium. No, what scared him was the thought of screwing up in front of everybody. He was already not well liked but at least he was unknown enough to not be picked on or anything. But if he messed up and it led to chaos or even another student getting hurt, than he would be known as "that Orc" who couldn't cast a simple shield spell.

His thoughts chained off for miles as he followed the others, distant conversation barely squeezing through into his head as he thought of the upcoming test. It was only when the sea breeze no longer blew against him and the warmth of fire sprung up around him did he realize that they had come inside, to, by no means small, but a dank and windowless room. His mouth hung open as he looked at the walls, covered in hanging weapons and armor, all around him and all shining in the torchlight.

He followed queue from the others and began wandering down the small aisles his head turning left and right rather quickly to see all the magnificent weapons and piece's of armor lining the walls. He reached a small section of scimitars, all like his with a more narrow blade than an average scimitar and saw they were all far more intricately designed than his simple steel one, and were crafted from fine metals, one even being what looked like Ebony.

He didn't take any of them however, as he trusted his own personal blade far more than any of the fancy ones. His eye did catch something as he kept walking however in the form of a simple helmet, made from what looked like blackened steel. http://i.ehow.com/images/GlobalPhoto/Articles/5075338/214656_Full.jpg As he looked around, he saw many other students already strapping on armor bits and taking weapons so he shrugged and placed the helmet on his head.

It was snug, and he had to tear out some of the padding inside above where his ears were, though he did this secretly and he threw the pieces of padding underneath a table that was covered in deadly looking morningstars. As he was strapping it on, he was listening to the woman speak and he wondered quickly who she was, though he just pushed the thought away as unimportant.

Goblins were no problem. Kill five and the other fifty would run, was what his experience was but trained men-at-arms would be a little more of a problem as would this Telvanni mage. He missed the NEecromancer part of the description. As he continued to walk around the room, he squeezed past a man, he though was called Alister and made his way to a table of simple chain shirts. He had always wanted a proper set of chainmail, instead of the leather makeshift set he had now and he snatched up the http://www.uberreview.com/wp-content/uploads/600_chain_mail.jpg he took off the flimsy leather and chain one he had previously and placed it on the table.

The shirt was heavy at first, but as he shifted around a little and replaced his tunic, letting the armor settle on his shoulders and felt the weight relieve itself a little. He was now smiling a broad smile, as he made his way to the main group who were in deep conversation about the plan, which seemed to consist of two groups. One posing as a band of mercenaries and another as a group of slaves.

Seems like a good but simple plan. He decided to speak up for the first time, glancing over at Tora who had just volunteered himself to lead the mercenary group. He made sure the Kahjiit was finished before speaking. "If that is the plan, I would prefer to be in the mercenary group." he said, rather quietly to Damian, though he didn't look him in the eye, instead picking a spot over his shoulder as he spoke nervously in front of everyone.

"I would just feel more comfortable with a blade in my hand, as my magick isn't exactly powerful destruction-wise." he said, rather sheepishly as he just shrugged and moved off to the side, picking at his fingernails distractedly, staying out of the way for the more confident members.


OOC: Nevermind. No point for posting for those two yet.

Darkpine Forest
Rene Grallforth

Much to Renes relief, an arrow had seemingly shot out from nowhere and hit a zombie square in the neck. What happened next was morbidly fascinating, as roots sprung forth from its body in a grotesque fashion. A spark of hope for a second ignited within his body, but this hope was quickly diminished as one of the undead's rotting companions swiftly decapitated the spoiled head in one quick slash with its sword. He had just hoped that the roots had done their damage.

The coach lurched to one side with a frightening wooden moan as two of its wheels were severed from it's frame...putting it off-balance. In all the commotion, Rene had not taken into consideration that some zombies might of indeed gotten around behind the carriage...obscured from his view. And now he had paid for it. The coachman lost his balance from atop the carriage, tripping over his own feet and falling over. Before he could get back up...two zombies were upon him. He was helpless.

Rene couldn't look, he just tried to blot the inevitable gruesome sounds from his mind and push the disgusting thought from his head. There was nothing he could do.

He was nearly knocked off his feet as one of the undead fiends had suddenly appeared within striking distance, another two shambling behind him. It suprised him, as they had obviously closed in whilst he had been distracted by the carriage...and now it may of cost him his life.

The two raised their weapons at the same time. Rene drew forth his crossbow, hoping for a point-blank shot. The undead monster raised its axe. Rene fired, the monster brought its weapon down upon him.

The axe dug into the flesh of his oustretched arm, and he screamed in pain as the he pulled the trigger. Blood hissed out from his arm, engulfing his attacker in the crimson fluid. The axe-blow had knocked him off-shot. The bolt missed the target it, screaming through the air. It hit the second of the two undead that were behind the axe-weilder; digging into its arm and sizzling flesh from bone with holy might. It might of hampered it's attack, but it wasn't what the breton had hoped for.

He reared back his leg and kicked the shambling horror backwards , the vile creature pulling it's weapon from Renes forearm as it lost its footing. He gave the wound a quick glance. It was dire and bubbling blood, but there was no time to worry about such things now. He did not have time to reload his crossbow, they were too close. He cast the bow aside. Without the gift of range, it was useless.

He wasn't thinking. This was not cool strategic contemplation, this was pure animal instinct. Every movement, every act, every shot with his crossbow. It was all done without thought, he was fighting for his life subconciously. He didn't have time to think. He had thought about the coach driver and it had cost him the ability to use his firing-arm. The hat full of holy water was at his feet.

He dipped his sword in it one last time before picking it up. With a bestial scream, he flung the blessed contents onto the three undead; hoping it would break them down to a mere stain on the woodland floor. He did not look to see if he had succeeded. He couldn't afford to do so. One action needed to be fluidly followed by another, and faltering could cost you another limb. So he drew his sword with his one good arm and prepared for the next attack.

He had just hoped that the person that had fired that arrow was still there. Surely with their help, he might still stand a chance.

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

Lord Olack Vespris
Castle Daenia

The sun was setting above the drab-coloured city and the surrounding hills, bathing them in foreboding shadow that hung above them menacingly like a thick black blanket. Olack was standing at his window, looking down upon his subjects as they frantically got inside their homes and locked their doors. It was standard procedure. Loitering after dark would either get you mugged, [censored], or bitten.

But his people knew this too, and could handle themselves. His thoughts were moreso on his Emissary. He knew the Darkpine route was perilous, and with the sun setting....well...he tried to keep his mind of that possibility.

He just hoped that the coach had reached Urvaius....

OOC: Pretty meh post, but given the circumstance there isn't much I can do :hehe:

Darkpine forest

"Praise, praise to the moon on high,
Which bathes our backs in its eth-real light."

The coach lurched as the wheels were broken, the coachman sliding off in the resulting off balance shudder. In panic he flailed his arms, but as he hit the ground into the waiting arms of the two undead, it was useless. The club wielder grabbed his arms in a grappling hold, forcing the coachman to look his killer straight in the eye. The once live bandit looked right back emptily, swinging his arm back and singing still that horrible song.

"Praise, praise to the eth-real light,
Whose glow brings us a calming night."

The gruesome and slick thud of an axe head into flesh mingled with a gurgled scream.

"Praise, praise to the calming night,
Through which we walk amongst living."

As the body of a coachman fell, a tendril of soft blue light wrapped around his body like a serpent, seeking. Anything of any sort of jewelery. Something that the magic could connect with. To Simphill's anger, he could find nothing. Not even a wedding ring. The zombies moved on, not waiting for their kill to arise, and instead approached the other side of the carriage.

"A gift it is, this blessed unlife.
For in it we are free from strife."

The cascade of holy water splashed upon the first two corpses, never reaching the third who was just a little too far from the action to be hit. However, the man who had axed Rene's arm got the full brunt of the dosing, drenched in the blessed water of Arkay; The only holy water to afflict the undead. Silently the mouth opened and shut like a fish gulping air, the axe falling from undead clutches and the body buckling to its knees. Smoke rose from the corpse as it sizzled, the holy water corrosive to the magical flesh. Muscles, tendons, bone, the necessaries were eaten away, leaving the body weak and unable to hold itself steady and strong. And it had not been fashioned with enough magic to hold itself up on skeletal components alone. The other zombie in the splash zone sizzled and burned, skin peeling away like singeing paper, but the deathly grip on the sword remained, and the abomination continued forward, walking a little faster.

"Free from our hunger, and our thirst.
Our only need not of this earth."

The swordsman sang nearly directly in the face of Rene now, his sword coming across for a backhand slash. Behind him, the root-infested zombie came to a stop a second time, and from the gaping hole of the neck sprouted more roots. The calf flesh burst apart as roots shot out, burying into the ground and violently planting the corpse in one place. The tree began to grew, roots twisting and joining together to form the trunk around the corpse. Another down, four to go.

Behind Rene, the zombie's came forward, the three others raising their arms as one unit.

"Join us now and discover peace.
You need only to decease."

Daenia
As the sun set, three men stood in the darkness of a street that never basked in light, even by day. All three had daggers in their hands, clutched lightly, and looking towards the castle beyond. If only the sun could set sooner.

They were not the only group thinking such thoughts within the city, nor were the only ones looking to the castle.

Arslan

Arslan remained silent during the discussion. He did not know much about vampires or undead, but such profanities sickened him; raising the dead and twisting souls to one's own will ran contrary to his way of life. Those who ripped souls out of dying men were bad enough; the ones called 'Sload' by the Heartlanders sometimes visited the shores of Hammerfell, disturbing the dead. Vampires, however, were even worse; abominations at best. Arslan was not of the wise men of the Ayuub tribe, he couldn't fully explain why nomads hated them so; however it was enough that they were completely unnatural, a great taint on the world. For a nomad, everything was about the natural order and interfering with it as little as possible, and vampires were not part of the natural order. At least there weren't many of them in the desert due to the harsh sun.

Though he didn't care much for where they went next, the nomad felt relieved that it was decided against going to this 'Daenia', which was apparently a great big den of abominations. His dislike of the pale-skins' land was growing by the day, however having no alternative meant he'd have to live with it, endure as with every hardship of life; complaining like the city-dwellers seemed to preffer wouldn't do much help. Satakal could unmake the world and the nomads would have to endure. It was part of going with the flow - little use in trying to bend the world to one's will. Tall Papa learned the Walkabout to survive with the flow, and so the nomads followed his lead.

Yet can I survive the same way in this weird, twisted land..? Arslan looked up at the bright sky with a sigh. He had spent some time with the Band of Bastards, but he didn't feel the warrior's bond forming with them. He didn't know what they thought of him, but a nomad couldn't so easily forget his ways and grow accustomed to a group of strangers. Likely he would still feel the same when they parted ways, for eventually they would; he longed for his homeland and these people were mercenaries, they would wander to where the greatest profit could be turned. His people wouldn't interest them; nomads did not pay in coin and they usually resolved their own troubles.

How can I remain sure this is a test for me? The gods are powerful, but this land is unlike anything I've ever seen. Do they hold power here? Can I be completely sure they will aid me when I need it? My belief should not falter, but only a wise man can explain their will, not a warrior. I should do what my people have done for ages and adapt... But adapting to this land may mean forsaking much of what I was taught. There are no nomads in these lands, and I can see why... Walled cities and stone roads all around. No place remains untouched, nowhere to live according to the old ways... I cannot say if this land is sad, but I am sad for it.

Soryna's Ship

Corvinus Orientalis



After arming themselves the Dragoon students were taken to http://www.mikewashburn.com/frcamp/dhow.jpg a fast and maneuverable Dhow ship, typical more of western Hammerfell named the Corvinus Orientalis. Although it stood out compared to the typical Breton ships which proved to be more sturdy, it's quick and light frame made it better suited for Soryna's needs. The ships themselves tended to have a negative connotation to them, usually used by outlaws, pirates, and the slave trade although most were simply used for trading goods quickly between Hammerfell and High Rock. Soryna had gained her own reputation dubbed 'Lady Noir' by the Bretons along the Illiac.

Three dozen prisoners of war were locked under the deck of the ship. They wore simple sack clothing or ragged robes as their belongings had been stripped. Above deck a crew of Redguards worked the sail of the ship manipulating the mast in order to gain as much of the wind as possible. They wore light leather or padded armor and were armed with various weapons including javelins, axes, sabers and spears. Most of the didn't speak anything but their native tongue though Soryna learned a few basic commands in Ra'gada that they followed. Aside from that Soryna had with her several Anticlerian crossbow men and Breton longbow archers. The long range coupled with the accuracy of their marksman ship was enough to deter most pirates, and the ship would be fast enough to get away from any who were other wise inclined.

The ship was half way toward the Balferia island cluster. A nice west, north western wind gave the ship a fast, steady pace. The Dragoons examinees were spread out through the ship at their own discretion. Soryna herself was in the captians quarters searching in her closet for some slave garb that would somewhat fit Rea who sat leaned against the edge of a table looking rather impatiently. Andrethi himself stood with his hands clasped behind his back looking out of the window toward the almost setting sun, the gentle rocking of the boat tested his balance which he managed to maintain without moving at all.

"There!" Soryna broke the silence holding up a worn looking brown robe. She turned toward Rea who was now standing up straight and held the item against her seeing how it would fit. Rea looked all together displeased with the notion of posing as a slave although her specialty in magic and lack of training in weaponry made her perfect for the role. "We'll see the island on the horizon in an hour or so. I suggest you get prepared."

"Shouldn't he leave if i'm about to do that?" Rea looked over to Andrethi who turned around and began walking toward the door. Just as he neared it a Nord burst through.

"Captain! We've spotted three ships coming from the south. They are flying Wahab's banners. We could break away from them using the wind if we..."

"No. If they follow us to the Balferia isles we'll just compound our troubles." Soryna replied calmly, the man awaiting for her orders. Her hand gently brushed her loose strands of hair out of her eyes before those crimson orbs shot back up looking to the door way. "Sail straight into them! All hands prepare for battle!"

"Yes ma'am!" The Nord's face lit up at Soryna's reply as he turned around barking battle orders.

"Three to one, Soryna?" Andrethi didn't find the odds favorable. He generally avoided conflict if he could, not for a lack of capability but preferring a more pragmatic approach to situations that would be less time consuming and prove less wasteful.

"Do you want to go home or to finish your exam?" Soryna's question was rhetorical as she stepped out of the captains quarters and to the main deck. Crossbow men were readying their bolts, javelins were put in place, archers strung their bows.

Rea's eyes looked at Andrethi who adopted a deep introspective look on his face. His memories fell back to the encounter with the strange man in Hammerfell. He was afraid not of the battle, but what the potential of this "Void" he had stolen was.

Soryna's Boat


The black grey striped pelt of the mountain sized Khajiit drew some suspicious looks from the Ra Gada crewmen of the deck; Tora couldn't blame them, he had met many Raga tribesmen on his travels? Many still told legends and myths passed down through centuries from their native land of Yokuda. Tora could have been from any number of these legends in their eyes, a fierce feline warrior from foreign lands. In truth, they weren't wrong.

Ignoring them he continued to gaze out to the ocean; one thing he had always loved about the sea is the feeling of vast liberty, he couldn't explain why he felt free while on the waters? considering he was confined to the ships decks he was actually quite the opposite, but it didn't stop him from enjoying it. The ship was beautifully crafted, a fast nimble vessel able to maintain its size and capacity without losing too much speed or mobility -- it was quite a feet of ingenuity in Tora's eyes.

Slowly the staring and muttering stopped as the Ra Gada got used to his presence; he could still tell that they felt uneasy around him, but that wasn't a quality necessarily unique to the Redguards, many people didn't feel comfortable around a beast-man who looked like he could rip arms from sockets with little effort. But in reality Tora was a gentle spirit, though capable of great ferocity and malice when need be.

As he walked up a small flight of steps; headed for the captains quarters, a Nord bolted past him nearly sending the exasperated feline into the salt water bellow. Tora followed cautiously as the Nord crashed into the door as opposed to stopping and opening it.

"Captain! We've spotted three ships coming from the south. They are flying Wahab's banners. We could break away from them using the wind if we..." Tora's head snapped to the port side of the ship and spotted them immediately, his face contorted in anger at the sudden interruption? Who where they and why where they targeting this ship specifically on a busy shipping lane?

He hung back for a minute, listening to Soryna's orders before pouncing into action. Immediately he ran to the helm and pushed the navigator aside. The Ra Gada's face was incredulous, though he dared not challenge the snarling creature now spinning the knobbed wheel of the ship.

"You, Nord!" Tora shouted over the sudden cataclysm of noises coming from the lower deck as the crew prepared for battle. The Nord's face snapped up to and locked onto Tora's fierce gaze and matched it with a steely cold one only a man who had weathered the cold wastes of the north could give. "Tell the crewmen to lower the sails half way!"

He had never been at the helm of a ship this large, but in theory it worked the same. Tora began to spin the wheel in the oposite direction of the wind? Causing the boat to jack knife around so the rear of the ship was facing the approaching attackers. With less of Soryna's vessel exposed they would be harder to hit, which would give them a temporary advantage until the brigand's caught up with them.

He let go of the wheel and gestured for the Ra Gada to take up the position, trying his best to indicate that he was not to change the course of the ship. As soon as the helmsmen began nodding frantically the Khajiit span and ran back down the stairs, taking three steps at a time.

"Who as the Wahab and what should we expect?" Tora asked, placing a paw like hand on the shoulder of the Nord to stop him walking past.

"Magic." He replied; spitting to the flood, not even trying to hide the disdain in his voice for the arts. "Filth cretins', the lot o'them!"

"We need to buy time, station any long range archers at the rear of the ship, they should be able to stave off attacks for as long as possible, once they are in position put anybody who can hit hard and fast at the port and starboard sides of the ship. I imagine that with three ships the natural plan of action would be to surround us."

The Nord nodded in agreement as if it was his idea all along and immediately began walking about the ship barking orders in all manner of native languages. The Breton bowmen moved efficiently and precisely -- stringing arrows as soon as they where in position. Tora had never witnessed Breton archers in action before, though he had always been told stories of Breton military regimen, it was quite refreshing to see a well organised disciplined unit amongst such a motley crew of low life criminals and sailors.

"Do we have anybody well practiced in the arts of alteration?" Tora shouted across the deck, his eyes falling on the Dragoon examinees. "We need to protect the hull of the ship against enemy fire once they are close!"


He couldn't help but smile as his eyes fell on his Orcish room mate.

Soryna's Boat
Illiac

The ocean stretched for miles, even inside of the bay you could barely see the coast lines. Soryna's boat was large enough to accomodate the crew, her personal bodyguard and the academy students. The decks below could be considered great sleeping quarters (if not retrofitted for slaves), something Kythias would have adored, instead he was stick to the damp upper deck. He sat huddled under the main sail, the constant billowing had attempted to nod him off to sleep on several occasions. His new black leather briastplate was slightly uncomfortable and his overwhelming sense of seasickness kept him from sleep.

"Magic. "Filth cretins', the lot o'them!"

Kythias had had his head in his palms the entire duration of their trip and had seen little of the starting commotion when the enemy ships arrived. His sword was not far away, bundled in a floatable chest with some of the other crew's belongings he quickly made his way and drew open the trunk and placed the baldric over his head. The mercenary crew was arming for battle, some had bows and other ranged weapons while a few drew sabers and short fighting spears.

Tora could be seen ordering the men about the other end of the ship, the academy students were all doing their somehow independent, yet still crucial roles in the on coming fight. The lithe breton could do little more than fight, and if he was going to do anything he would bring the offensive on these infamous Wahab corsairs. A small group of six men with sabres, all Ra Gada, were assembling near Kythias. They kept their polite distance, understanding that some of their current passengers possessed deadly capabilities.

Kythias smiled, his feathery hair scrambled into the wind, he was beginning to take on the appearance of a deranged man but quickly piped into the hushed tones of the nearby soldiers. " When they come, I shall be the first across the walkways. Will you follow me?" The Ra Gada had an adequate understanding of lower bretic, a dialect commonly used in Daggerfall.

They slowly and cautiously nodded their heads. Two veterans chuckled, obviously at such a brave and grand statement coming from such a young man.

" I am going to pounce on their men like a beast out of legend, drop like a tide from a great storm" he paused taking a slow chilling breath "and I will slaughter them." a whisper just as chilling escaped his lips. " You will fight and mop the deck with their blood, and paint the wood crimson. I shall do the same. There are three ships, and we are no doubt outnumbered around three to one, some of you may very well face the judgement of your gods. I shall not. We will take the first ship that comes, when the time is right. There is no shame in fighting smart, we shall stay hidden behind the barrels and rails until we are close enough to board, the arrows will come hard and fast. Do not falter."

He unsheathed his sword, dramatically, even for a man as gaudy as Kythias. The mithril blade shone it flexed through different tints red, topaz, blue, green, purple. Coils of magic enveloped the blade, he crouched down and dropped into a cross legged position, placing the blade on his lap. He did not say a single word more.

The Corvinus Orientalis

Shahab sat alone in quiet contemplation on his perch high up on the bowsprit, listening to the waves slide under the swift ship as it glided through the water. All morning he hadn't said a word to any of his fellow students, preferring them to work out the plan themselves, and let him know what to do when the time came. This morning, he had been excited by the opportunity to prove himself but as the day wore on, the novelty began to wear off and apprehension set in. Shahab had killed men before but he never enjoyed it, and it looked like there was going to be a lot of killing tonight.

Suddenly, a bell was being rung frantically somewhere at the other end of the ship, and commands were being shouted in Yoku by over a dozen voices. Carefully standing up on the narrow wooden promontory, he turned to see the crew rushing about mechanically, distributing weapons and preparing battle-stations. Through the clamour, a single word seemed to push its way through to his ears louder than any other.

Otoma.

Battle.

Just as Shahab was about to step down to the deck, the bowsprit jerked violently to the side and knocked him off balance. Only the heightened reflexes from a lifetime of training prevented him from crashing into the waves below and sliding under the ship into oblivion. Scanning the deck, Shahab determined the culprit to be Tora, standing at the ship's wheel and screaming like a ninny.

Shahab calmly stepped forward and slid down to the deck. A short distance away Kythias had drawn a small crowd of warriors, but Shahab had plans of his own. He went through a short routine of stretches to limber up his magically strengthened joints, and picked up a heavy grappling hook from its bracket in the gunwale of the ship. As the first tendrils of magick began to weave themselves through his flesh, excitement cautiously crept back into his head.

Bolag, The Corvinus Orientalis

Bolag remained standing firmly in the middle of the ship, grasping a length of rope that was wrapped around the mast for balance the entire boat ride. This was his first time on a ship, and he had not begun to develop his "sea legs" quite yet, and he moved only when necessary to the chuckles of some of the crew. His fear lay mainly in the fact that he could not swim if his life depended on it and he figured his best bet was to remain in the dead center of the vessel and not move a muscle.

He watched as a Nordic crewman bolted across the deck, and Bolag marveled at how the man could move so fast on the rocking ship, when Bolag could barely maintain verticality whilst standing firm. THe man opened the captain's door and Bolag suddenly knew why the ship had erupted into even more confusion as he announced three ships heading their way. Bolag did not recognize the word, or more probable, the name "Wahab" but from the general reaction of the crew and of Soryna, the Orc guessed they were brigands of some sort.

He went to join up with Tora, who had begun shouting out orders and a battle plan, but as a rather large wave smacked into the side of the ship, and Bolag nearly took a hard tumble, he remained basically hugging the mainmast, listening to the large Khajiit speak to some experienced looking crewmen.

His heart sunk at the smile he received from his roommate, and he knew he was about to be tested in his Alteration skill for the first time in a real life or death situation. He had to get closer, so he took a deep breath and sprinted the short distance to where Tora stood and he grasped the rail for dear life as he tried to regain some composure.

"I've never cast a shield on something so large before!" he shouted over the noise of the crewmen readying themselves. "Do we need the whole thing covered or just one side?"

In truth, he didn't doubt his ability to protect even the entire ship. It wouldn't be the strongest shield spell in the world, but it would at least slow down any bolts they fired at it. But his heart sank at the thought of enemy magick users. He wasn't quite as skilled with elemental shields and they were even harder to hold up against a determined magickal barrage.

"Is the shield for ballistas or for enemy wizards?" he asked. "I won't be able to hold a spell to ward off wizards for very long if they decide to attack in unison." he shouted, his uncertainty in his skill starting to rise up in him again as he waited for a response.

Phillipe, The Corvinus Orientalis

The door to the deck banged open, the infuriated Breton almost bounding out. He has spent his time milling about the lower decks, studying the vessel. But the call to arms had been made, and now he was ready for the impending battle. The waves were choppy, but his aim was still as steel as anything. He would make this "Wahab" regret interrupting his mission.

Lightbringer sat strapped across his back, over his grand black cloak. Belted across his chest was an array of bolts for his weapon. He had picked special ones to equip should a battle such as this occur...thick-headed bolts and a couple of gas-filled ones to clear the decks of the enemy ships. Indeed, an attack like this was somewhat unlikely. But the Breton liked to be prepared, and his prior preparation had now set him nicely for the inevitable battle that was to come.

He lifted the brim of his hat to allow for better aim before kneeling to the ground and rubbing his palms together. He placed them firm on the wooden deck of the vessel, a fine red mist-like magic seeping from his palms and trickling across the floor.

"Ad maiorem Dei gloriam, Faust!" he chanted, voice bitter with rage and eyes squinted in concentration. His hands shook with power and his elbows quaked under the strength of the spell, but he succeeded. An ethereal howl swept across the ship in haunting melody, and when the Breton lifted his hands from the ground, a large portal could be seen on the floor.

It was a gateway, and looking through it...no traces of the lower deck could be seen. Instead, it was a black plane...foreboding and menacing. The beast lept out from within.

It pounced onto the deck snarling, the portal dissappearing from behind it. It was a horrid beast, skin black and charred with torture and anger. Its fur was not fur, but golden flames that danced and swept in the sea breeze with morbid grace. Its 4 legs forked out into two smaller feet at each ankle, and its eyes were not material eyes, but pure white little orbs of heat. http://paranormity.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/03/hellhound.jpg, but one could not question its power.

The summoning ritual had taken scarcely more then two minutes, but even that had been too long. The three ships would be nearing without doubt, and Phillipe could only guess they're intentions were strictly piratical. "Come, Faust" he ordered. "Let us take to these vermin with the ferocity of the pure".

The demonic dog snarled with what could easily be seen as glee and bounded up the stairs after it's zealous master as he took position amongst the other bowmen on the side of the ship. The grand silver cross bow was unbelted and clunked down onto the handrail of the ship with a mighty thud, dwarfing the other crossbows beside it. It was a giant among peasants. A goliath of a weapon. He turned to his fellow bowmen.

"Calm your nerve and steel your aim! Even in these odds, the light of the morally pure will guide our hand and lead us to victory! Stand stalwart, brothers...for the gods favour us this day, and with them on our side, victory is a given!"

His words were not necessarily directed at the men by his side, but rather the whole crew on the deck. Now, with his faifthul beast by his side and his weapon in his arms...he aimed down the sight and waited for the vile assailants to come into range.

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

Rene, Darkpine Forest

The coachman lay dead, and the Breton lay essentially helpless. Night was falling, and with that...the knowledge of further danger only made him more worried. Now, with undead shambling even further towards him and with his only good fighting arm having been shredded....the odds were not tipped in his favour.

As blood gently leaked from his torn arm with a trickle and the life began fading from his eyes, he found it hard to speak. Still, with his falling strength, he managed to shout one last time. "Please! To whoever shot that cunning arrow and struck down one of these undead....come forth! Take up my side in battle and assist me in warding off these fiends! You will be rewarded!"

He out special effort into shouting those last couple of words. His cynicism told him that whoever this person was...chances are their motives behind saving his life were not strictly based on good morals alone. Chances are they too were aiming to get something out of it too....

OOC: Sorry for the rather shoddy posts here. I haven't been able to post when I would like to in a while, and just need a while to regain me "RP Vibe"

OOC: Bah. Thought I might as well get this done. I'm awake right now entirely because of loud music, so if the post's a bit sloppy, that's why.

Alister Bourde - Soryna's Ship

Alister peered around the door that Phillipe had nearly broken off its hinges in his haste. The young Breton had spent most of his time below deck, due to his lack of affinity for the sea. Water and him had never mixed well. Especially not large bodies of water, that might have creatures lurking beneath the depths. Alister recalled one story he had been told as a child by his caretaker of a giant squid that lived deep in the sea, and only came up to feast on unsuspecting ships and crewman. In retrospect, the stories were obviously false. Or at least Alister hoped so, for the sake of his sanity.

He held his still sheathed sword in his hand, not yet willing to draw the weapon that would most likely be useless anyway. He walked out onto the deck and into the chaos as men ran this way and that, preparing the ship for battle. His fellows were doing their parts as well, or at least so Alister assumed, since he couldn't pick anyone out specifically.

From one side of the ship, he heard the Orc bellow an answer to a question Alister had missed. "I've never cast a shield on something so large before! Do we need the whole thing covered or just one side? Is the shield for ballistas or for enemy wizards? I won't be able to hold a spell to ward off wizards for very long if they decide to attack in unison."

The Breton made his way as quickly as he dared in that direction, and shouted to be heard over the crowd, which was a rather thing to accomplish for the soft-spoken man. "I may be able to assist against spells. Enchantment is a specialty of mine, and while this is a rather extremely large case, the application is the same!"

He gave one of his trademark grins to no one in particular, as it was rather doubtful that anyone was paying attention to him. Still, he at least felt that he needed to volunteer his abilities for defense. More for self-preservation than any sense of nobility, but that wasn't the point.

Alexia and Claudius Alidun - Anticlere

"So, brother dear, who's our next target?"

Alexia fell back into one of the more comfortable chairs in the room they were currently staying in. They were merely renting it from an elderly couple, but it more than suited their needs. Well, it suits Claudius's needs. Personally, I would prefer more spacious accommodations. Ooh, and with a view. Perhaps we could acquire some noble manor or something. The Empire can't be so poor that they can't accommodate their agents. Hmm, that reminds me...

"Brother, where are you getting the funds to pay for this place?"

The young Imperial looked up from his book, an old Bretic history text, to answer. "To your first question: patience is key. Remember, we follow a timeline. We can't simply kill these people any time we wish. There are regulations to be followed. To the second question, all I have to say is that you don't need to worry about it."

Alexia narrowed her eyes in frustration as she leaned forward. "You always do this Claudius. You never tell me anything, even the most trivial details. Who's it going to kill if I know where you're getting the damn money? And you won't even tell me anything about our missions? Who does the killing here? Is it you, with your pretty little display of worthless magic? No, it's me. ME. You can't keep me out of the loop all the time."

Claudius raised an eyebrow and closed the book with a snap. "Yes I can, actually. I was entrusted with the list for a reason. You're too impetuous, sister dear. I give you one little piece of information, and you'll be out there digging up everything you can find to get a better idea of the person we're set to kill. That's not how I operate. I find him, I kill him, no questions asked. But you always have to make everything a personal vendetta. The last thing we need is you out there stirring up trouble. Remember what mother always said."

And just like that, Alexia's anger was extinguished. The electricity that had been working its way through her fingers dissipated in an instant. She sighed and leaned back in her chair as Claudius went back to his book. "Whatever," she mumbled, eyes downcast for a moment before rising back to watch her brother. Is the next target at least in this city, or do we have to go on another week long trek across the province?" That had been such a pleasant experience.

Claudius answered without looking up from his book. "We'll be here a while yet. Hopefully not long enough to arouse suspicion with the folks downstairs, but if necessary, we'll have to find a new place to stay. And you know what that means."

"Of course. No witnesses to our business."

"Quite."

Carth

Cue shot between the eyes. Cue preaching. Rolling his eyes once more at Philippe's little speech, Carth stopped to assess the situation. Some of his academy 'friends' didn't seem to be doing too well on a ship, however he didn't mind it; actually, being part-Ra Gada he somewhat enjoyed it. Though he couldn't explain it, the feel of a ship beneath him was rather soothing. 'It's in your blood, boy.' He could clearly remember his father's words during their first fishing trip together. 'Your mother may not like it, but we're men and we're Raga. The sea calls to us; you can't deny it. You may try, you may spend your days far from the sea, but whenever you'll step on a floating piece of junk and set sail - and you will, eventually - you'll know you have missed it.'

Looks like you were right, dad. Maybe I should've become a sailor. Then maybe pitchforks could've been avoided. Sighing to himself he stopped for a moment, his gaze slipping towards the horizon. And maybe I should stop being sentimental and GET SOMETHING DONE. Snap to it! Shaking his head, the Breton began finding his way through the crew rushing about on the deck in preparation for the battle, his target being Kythias and the six Ra Gada assembled around him. The men looked grim; Carth couldn't blame them. Fighting with such odds was quite bad, and worse yet they had no route of escape. At sea it was always to the end when your ships locked, and they had the tendency to lock quite a lot. This is great; we haven't even made our way to the island yet and there's already combat with the odds stacked against us. I wonder if they do this thing daily... Then I may consider just ditching the academy and being a pirate.

"You seem to be heading for the heart of the party. Mind if I join you, if only to save you from your bouts of drama? Because, y'know, if you die they may stuff me in with some annoying fat kid." His eyes with a perhaps slightly mischievous gleam, Carth crouched down next to the younger Breton. "And no, he doesn't do drama very well. I keep telling him, but of course he won't listen. No one ever does." The self-fashioned spellsword added in yoku to the sabre-armed men around them, rolling his eyes only half-kiddingly.

Wahab was what some would call, an eccentric. Contrary to his name, he himself was not a Redguard, but rather an Altmer who had been joined the Imperial Legion and was garrisoned in Hammerfell. There he fell in love with the Ragada culture, language and history. He took on their pattern of speech, their clothing, even a regional name. In all ways but one he was a Redguard. With his new found identity he deserted the legion and when the war against Sentinel came to fruition, he brought together the country side raiders that he could and assaulted the small far off out posts of the Empire. Although in the grand scheme of things he managed to do little to harm the Empire, he did grow a following of capable and devoted warriors. With that he attained enough resources to fund a small fleet in part using his own money and in part by using the aid of the Illiac elven pirates composed of a mystic cult of Altmer who continued in the long elven tradition of sea exploration. More recently he had found it more profitable to trick the newly settled Soryna, the Lady Noir herself, out of a deal concerning some Dwemer artifacts. Soryna was more then happy to prove him wrong in that respect.

At first the Dunmeress was infuriated at the Khajiit, stinking fury slave race, commanding her ship. It was only moments later that she judged his course of action appropriate to the issues at hand. As soon as she stepped onto the deck she commanded the crossbows and archers to the rear of the ship. The wind was blowing from the north west and the enemy was at the south east. The arrows from the Corvinus Orientalis would have greater range and accuracy while the enemy arrows would fall short. Eventually they would reach the ship however as they proved to be much lighter in their cargo. The enemy trio of Dhows formed a reverse V formation with Wahab's hip in the rear where he could better command and remain a safe distance.

The whip and wisp of bolts and arrows being flung toward the ship often met with the gruesome wail of pain of the rival counter part marksmen. Although spells tended to be of shorter range than arrow or bolt, those with enough reservoirs to extend the spell range could cast their spells at a great distance. It was for this reason that Andrethi stood just behind the crossbows and archers. In case any spells would be flung, his mastery of Mysticism could divert or absorb the spells head on.


OOC: Sorry I finally posted and it's this crap. I was suppose to post more tonight but someone from the past ended up talking to me. Now it's almost 6 AM and I have to be up in a couple of hours.

FOR THE ARCH DUKE!

Parthia realized fairly quickly that the zombies would be. She'd have to aim at the source. Out of the corner of her eye she caught the form of an elven maiden. Quickly she reached her empty hand into the tree, her arm sinking into the arbor flesh easily and smoothly pulling out another one of the arrows. She strung it on the bow and slowly pulled back the arrow, the wind slithered between the trees and branches like a rushing river. Each twisting turn of the breeze would have to be judged before the release, her arms were starting to ache from the prolonged draw and any moment longer would hamper the accuracy. She was an expert marksman, the bow had been by her since she could remember. Her elegant form extended out of the tree from the waist up, her back arched and her form twisted to the side. The moment after her eye closed allowing the other to focus more she released. The wisp of the string flung the arrow into a fluctuating dance toward its target. The string itself sprung forth a whisper of a squall against her cheek and before she could confirm a hit or a miss her body had already vanished back into the tree.

OOC: Short but not much to post about.

OOC: For the record, the Council where Manfred got his proposition for a crown is to be considered one week in the past. Yes, my delegation used a very fast ship.

IC: Imperial City

"Marvelous, isn't it?" One of the quite lavishly-dressed nobles muttered, looking up at the intimidating arch of the Imperial City's main gates. Though weary from the very long journey they had to make in such a short amount of time, the Anticlerians comprising the delegation couldn't help but be awed by the capital of the Empire. Though the state itself was well past its prime and waning fast, the city still stood, as beautiful as ever. It made sense to Maynard - the White Gold Tower had stood through the Ayleids' fall and the rise of Man with all the wars, turmoil and change it brought; it'd stand through the second wave of change tall and proud, as Manfred's confessor figured. Most likely it'd stand long after all of them were dead and the Dominion was no more, perhaps to serve as the seat of power of another Cyrodiilic empire.

The rather sizeable Anticlerian delegation wasn't here for a tour of the city, however, as impressive as it might've been. Maynard was chosen to head the group of nobles and priests of Mara who were to travel to the capital of the Empire; his mission wasn't a diplomatic one, however. Trade would be negotiated with the local authorities of Anvil or Leyawiin when the time came for Anticlere to spread wings so wide as to reach the Cyrodiilic markets; they were here for a mission of perhaps much greater importance, at least in terms of symbolical meaning.

The title 'King' probably wasn't viewed as one of extreme prestige by many lords of High Rock, possibly because half of the 'kings' of the Bretons were self-proclaimed; they thought it was enough to simply have a shiny crown to call themselves kings and everything was fine. Two kingdoms, however - Daggerfall and Wayrest - were held in much higher regard, partially because of the power and partially because of the fact their crowns weren't simple jewelry. Their symbolic meaning was much deeper than that; they were, at least supposedly, blessed by the High Priests all the way in Cyrodiil a very long time ago when they ascended to the status of a kingdom. That was the current version, one that'd probably be considered official for as long as most if not all the churches in High Rock were at least technically under the High Priests of Cyrodiil.

Manfred did not wish to become yet another of the petty kings of High Rock; a shiny piece of gold on his head would only do so much for his prestige. A shiny piece of gold that was blessed by the High Priest of Mara and put on his head by the archbishop of Anticlere with all the pomp, however, would be worth so much more; the ruler of Anticlere could then be considered equal with those of Daggerfall and of Wayrest. And that was why Maynard d'Artagnan was sent all the way to the Imperial City - to convince the High Priests that Anticlere deserved to be a kingdom with a crown blessed by one of the Nine (something that shouldn't have proved to be too hard; Manfred was fairly certain the High Priests cared little for the dealings of High Rock as long as they remained the authorities there) and then deliver the crown to Anticlere after it would be blessed by the High Priest of Mara.

If this went well, Manfred wouldn't only be the first king of Anticlere; he'd be the Mara-blessed king, one whose crown was equal to those of Wayrest and Daggerfall. Anticlere would no longer be just another lorddom of High Rock; the world would have to face the truth - that it had the makings of a Tamrielic power.

Kythias belted out a laugh, ruining his pre-battle attitude. He was generally a humorous citizen of the empire, "kindred to a court jester" they would say. He could take a joke, but his arcane and martial interests had provoked another, and utterly serious nature in him. " Carth, our blades will fall on our enemies like the morning sun. You know this." He added a more leisurely note, leaning back on a barrel. " Well,...you know. I'm not here to brag, but they'll get what they deserve."

The ships had begun exchanging arrows, something that Kythias didn't completely enjoy. His first, and only arrow wound he had ever acquired wasn't enjoyable. He ducked beneath railing and deckside crates. The small group of men were preparing for battle, the redguards were speaking in yoku amongst themselves and Kythias let out a yelping profanity at every strike against the ship that made a noise louder than a dull thud. His volume rose with theirs accordingly.

Already the ships had begun to close in, the first two almost near enough for grappling hooks. Instead petty skirmishing commenced between the marksmen. Kythias brandished his sword and waited. The first to die would be known soon.

Corvinus Orientalis
Phillipe

The behemoth crossbow let loose a mighty silver bolt that cleaved through the thick sea air and gruesomely met its target. The bolt embedded into the right jaw of the redguard with brute force that snapped his neck backwards and sent his body rocketing back from the enemy ship railing with satisfying speed. Beneath his hat, the Breton smiled. Another target down.

Now it was the enemies turn. All together they knocked their arrows and all together they fired. The blanket of arrowfire hung over Phillipe's head like a foreboding black curtain, causing him to pull his cape over him and duck down in defense. Suddenly the sounds of war echoed all around him as the arrows made contact with the wooden deck and crewmembers. Wet "thunking" sounds and screams of agony and fear. The stench of death permeated the air as the Breton stood back up to observe the carnage around him. Several had died in the fatal volley. A paticularly vicious broadhead had barely missed him and struck his cape instead, nailing it to the deck floor. With a sharp tug, the cape ripped along the bottom and he was free.

Faust let forth howling a cry of war that swept across the deck of the ship, pulling the marksman out of his rage-induced killing spree. He turned to his creature with a look of genuine anger. "Silence!" he spat. "Wait until they are in range! Then you may leap upon them and feast upon the throats of the impure". He loaded another bolt and took aim once more at the rival marksmen. Consider this the price to pay for your sins

The trigger was pulled. The bolt shot forth with a hiss and struck another pirate in chest, puncturing his lung and causing him to keel over and suffocate. Again, Phillipe showed a sly grin. "You see now, that I am an adjudicator to the divine purpose...have faith in me and the gods men, and your shots will make their targets just as mine!"

Darkpine forest
The arrow whistled through the air like a whisper, unheard over the melodious yet horrific ballad.

"It will be quick, you will feel no pain
And an eternity of life shall you gain.
Hmm hmm, hmm hmm, hmm hmm, hmm-"

The song was cut short by silence, and then the clamor of a mass falling from the trees. And then by a shout of rage.

"JELETTA!" Simphill cried out, rushing through the underbrush as the cadavers she had sung to stopped, pausing for a brief moment. The magic that had controlled them so heavily had fluctuated, but they were still bound to their creator, Simphill. The flood of their master's emotions filled them, and rotten flesh contorted in the deathly expression of anger. When Simphill reached her, she lay with bones broken and lute crushed beneath her spine. A wooden arrow jutted from her briastbone, blood bubbling out in gushes with each labored breath she forced.

Tears filled his eyes as he scrambled to his sister's side, grasping her hand. The body was too damaged for him to restore, this he knew. The broken bones, the cracked vertebrae... it was beyond his level of skill in restorative magic or necromancy. And if he tried and succeeded, she'd just be another husk, like the bandits on the road, who now snarled and groaned with venomous intent towards Rene.

"Jeletta..." Simphill whispered to her, and she stared back at him distantly. "Jeletta."

A small smile crossed her face, a brief flicker. "Don't. Fail." She muttered, and Simphill nodded as the last member of his family, the last person alive he still held dear, died. And he could not stop it. He could not yet bring back his mother, and the same went for Jeletta. His other hand gripped the sapphire amulet so hard it imprinted, anger welling in his heart.

"Why are you putting us out here in this desolate forest? We're useless here! Put us in the city! No one will suspect a jeweler or bard!" Simphill had pleaded with Hartrich, hoping that being more useful to the necromancer cause might help him learn more, come closer to that goal.

"You aren't ready for the front lines, child. You still have not accepted death." That had been Vanhilus' answer, and Simphill came to a full understanding of his meaning now.

Rising from the forest floor, he looked up to the tree where Jeletta had sat, and at the arrow in her chest. The archer must be- His eyes followed the imaginary flightpath of the arrow, and without a second glance he reached into a pouch at his side, pulled out a small ruby, and snarled hate filled, powerful words. As he spat the incantation he threw the gemstone towards the expected target, and in mid-flight it burst into a sphere of fire.

Simphill knew very little about destruction, most of his magic focused in healing his dead. But what little he learned he planned to use now. The sapphire glowed menacingly in his fist, conjoined jewelery on his minions brightly flashing in tandem. The four undead around Rene snarled and recovered from the brief pause; any that Rene had not incapacitated in his moment of reprieve renewed their seeking of his flesh.

Bolag, Corvinus Orientalis

Bolag heard another man shout something about helping against enemy spells, but Bolag didn't have time to turn as a lucky arrow clipped his shield, and forced him to dive away. He kept his head down for a few seconds and then re-emerged above the railing, spouting some choice curse words at the archers who were not far off now. In the excitement, he completely forgot about Tora and the Breton who came to help (he knew the man form the Academy, but couldn't place a name) and instead he went into his usual defensive spellcasting. He muttered a quick phrase and touched the center of his chest and smiled as the "solid" feeling surrounded him again, and he muttered a few more arcane words and he faded out from complete sight.

His Chameleon spell was very weak, but he smiled as he managed to actually pull it off, and though it would hardly make a difference if somebody was within thirty feet, he hoped it would be enough to allow him to move about without becoming a target for arrows. He sprang up from his kneeling position, and watched as the man Phillpe fired bolts across the divide at the enemy archers, and Bolag's heart almost stopped when he saw what was next to the man. It was like something out of a Daedric fairy tale, and Bolag instinctively began casting a spell to tamper with the things mind but stopped abruptly when Phillpe spoke to it like he commanded it.

Conjuration is not a good school to get into... he though as he moved as far as possible from the hellish hound to the center of the ship, right against the main mast. He focused on the linen sail that propelled the ship forwards and made maneuvering possible, and knew that the sail would be the important thing to protect. Enemy wizards, especially those trained in sea war fare would be sure to try and disable the mast of their ship with fire spells, and Bolag knew that keeping mobile might be the key in this one sided affair.

He chanted yet another quick arcane phrase, and brought both his hand up above his head, barely touching the sail whilst releasing the spell. The white cloth glowed orange for a second before returning to its white, and he smiled to himself as he moved to the left side of the ship, to begin protecting the hull. The sail was nearly completely impervious to fire based magickal attacks, but he planned on only putting a weak spell on the hull, because once they were close enough, than he thought it wouldn't need protecting as much.

Arrows whizzed past him, and one even tested his shield spell, hitting him in the thigh but bouncing off and only stinging for a few seconds. This however made him a target as the cried from the enemy deck told him that they knew somebody was prone along the railing, so he pushed off the ground and moved further down, grimacing as another arrow smacked into his ribs, stinging slightly more than the first one had as he knew his shield slowly wore down. He stopped only a few feet from the tip on the ships front, and laid flat on the deck while reaching over to touch the wooden sides and muttering his shield spell for a second time, feeling the energy flow from his hands to the wood. He smiled when he knew the job was done, but as he stood he felt weary and sluggish, but pushed it from his mind as he turned his body to touch the other side of the ship to protect it as well.

He released the spell, but frowned as he didn't see the tell tale whitish glow that the spell had succeeded. He shook his head, and felt a slight headache hit him, and he strained his face for a minute to ease away the throbbing pain. He could clenched his teeth and tried the spell again and couldn't help but smile as the spell finally did it's job. THe smile faded a second later when his head erupted in pain, and he swore several times loudly. He started moving back to the middle when something clunked into his chest, followed by a second than a third, each one stinging more and more as his shield was chipped away.

He looked down at his hand and realized why he was a target suddenly as he could clearly see himself, and he was forced to duck as a bolt clanged off his small buckler at his waist, drawing out more choice swears form the Orc. He screwed up his eyes, and tried to "feel" if the shield spells were still working on the ship. It was a technique he had been instructed to learn if he was going to be using such defensive types of magicka so that he could know when a spell had disappeared. He swore one more time as he "felt" the right sides shield was no longer there, though the sail and left side were still strong.

His head pounded more fiercely and he figured that he had pushed his magick reserves beyond their limit, though he realized that only his mind was fatigued and not his body as he drew his scimitar. He saw two of his classmates crouching behind some crates with their weapons drawn as well, surrounded by a small group of Redguards.

Must be the boarding team. he thought as he hustled over to them, crouching next to the one he believed was called Kythias and giving both him and Carth a nod and a grimace as his head throbbed.

"Mind if I tag along to the party as well?" he asked with a grin.

Tora, Corvinus Orientalis



The music of a slow naval battle throbbed in Tora's ears like an unpleasant ache as arrows dipped and imbedded into the hull of Soryna's ship with a dull thud. The feline watched with a grave and solemn expression as the crew and prospective dragoons alike worked together to prepare for battle while at the same time maintaining the integrity of the vessel, it was quite refreshing to be amongst a well ordered group of men and women? The Breton archers I particular impressed him greatly.

As an arrow pierced the thin armour of one archer? Dropping him to the floor quicker than falling water from the sky - a comrade simply stepped over his body and took up his position. This was a battle, these where professional men; there would be time to mourne for their lost friends later, but if they stopped every minute to shed a tear in the heat of a battle they would be mourning the loss of the entire crew by the end of the day. If they survived.

Slowly but surely the wahab ships grew close, they where almost in range to be boarded; or rather, to board the Corvinus. Tora felt helpless to stop that from happening, on a normal battle field he could manipulate the tides of war to his favour and control both his allies and enemies to his own advantages. But on the waters with nothing more than a flak filled piece of wood to stand on - there was not much he could do. He needed a fleet to successfully control the tides of battle without being directly involved in the fighting.

He ducked as an arrow flew inches from his face; flying right past him towards Bolag, bouncing off the Orcs shield with a feint almost inaudible ping. He watched as his green skinned friend dived away and regained his composure then set about spreading shield spells across the ships hull. They wherent the most powerful shields in the world, Tora could sense their strength through the air around him - He had a talent for that, but they where good enough to stop any small scale spells the enemy mages would set upon them? They wouldn't risk any explosive spells lest the back draft of the force damage their own ship. Or so he hoped.

Tora sniffed the air, something wasn't right on the ship. It was hard to believe he hadn't sensed the creatures presence before? He span around to find a fiendish hell hound growling at him, slowly he raised his weapon at the creature - assuming something so hellish could only be the work of marauding magicians of the wahab, but found his assumption corrected as its master, Phillipe, turned and shouted at it for its behaviour. Much like the owner of a normal hound would do while walking it in the street.

"Smart idea, summon a burning hound onto a ship coated in flammable oils and tar! That wont put any of the crew in danger at all!" Tora shouted to Phillipe, who had just let loose another arrow from an oversized crossbow. Tora - Fuming that some one could be so reckless, span on his heel and marched away toward the rest of the academy. "Hypocrite, our over zealous friend claims to be a man of holy self righteousness but relies on a creature of corruption to do his bidding!" He added to the RaGa - Breton student and his companion Kythias, whom has both chastised Phillipe for his pious nature back in the stage coach.

Just as he stopped to do a weapons check with the Raga crewmen a shadow loomed over them as the mast of a Wahab ship blocked the path of light from magnus - They where now close enough to board it seemed.

"At arms!" Tora shouted, his lungs emptying with both words as he summoned all his strength to be heard over the din of the battle. "AT ARMS! Prepare to be boarded and push those mongrels back!"

Arrows thudded into the deck around him, one grazing his thigh as it passed. The wound wasn't deep but he couldn't help but hiss with pain as the metal bit through his flesh and thudded into the wooden floor below him. A red mist descended before his bright green eyes.

"Kill the bastards!" The usually serene feline screamed. Rushing forward to the port side of the ship ready to engage with the enemy, shouldering a Breton archer out of the way - who fell onto the ground with a disgruntled snort, though he wouldn't voice his anger to Tora. Who would?

Small fire bolts peppered the side of the ship - They where testing if it was safe to use magic without the possibility of compromising the cargo. Bolags shields held and Tora realised what a mistake it was, now the mages on the adversary ships didn't have to hold back, they could really do a number on the Raga warriors of the Corvinus.

"Grappling hooks!" The highland voice of the Nord shouted over the crowd gathering behind Tora, soon followed by the swooshing sound of no more than ten ropes with triple pronged hooks on the end as the Redguard's followed his order and threw them to the other ship. Two didn't managed to land but the rest did. Tora watched eagerly as the ropes pulled taught and the grappling hooks dug into the other ships starboard side.

The Ra Gada around him immediately scrambled, two at a time clambered over the side railing and began to shuffle along the ropes upside down. Tora eyed the crew of the other ship, the archers where busy trying to take out their counterparts on the Corvinus - Who met them with volleys of their own. But the mages, they weren't trying to attack the boarding party like the Khajiit expected. They where all preparing the same spell; each pair of hands held out front glowing red, flickers of fire crackling along their open palms. It was hard to see what they where aiming at until he followed their line of sight, right to the mast of the Corvinus. They where aiming to disable the ship.

Tora reacted instantly; Placing a hand on a man at either side of him he pushed upward, then pushed off the side railing of the ship with as much force as he could. One of the men buckled and fell as Tora flew upwards into the trajectory of the mages fire balls. Spinning as he went he released a tendrill of magical energy which immediately began to flow around him creating a pathway of sorts.

The four fireballs screamed through the air with burning ferocity; but did not meet their target, Tora reached out with a hand and guided them - changing their course as he pulled them into the flowing pathway of energy he created. The span around each other for a moment before joining as one. Tora could smell his own burnt hair.

In an instant he was re-aligned and facing the enemy ship; he released the fireballs which flew back to their origin like a moon forced out of orbit. Hitting the Wahab's mast with a splintering crash. The mages screamed in terror and parted ways as the wooden post fell toward them, crushing one of them with a sickening crunch.

Tora drew on the magical energy still flowing around him; willing it to push him forward to the ship where he could fight the enemy. But in a split second his concentration was broken and he fell - his shoulder searing with pain as an arrow pierced his flesh.

His vision blurred as he dropped and collided with one of the Ra Gada shuffling along the rope to the other ship, who fell into the water bellow with a high pitched scream as the grappling hook came loose and fell down the side of the ship. Tora's hands flailed as he tried to grip the rope. The pain in his shoulder temporarily dissipated but was replaced with a burning pain as he slid down the thick chorded rope holding on with nothing but his bare hands. He didn't have the strength to hold on due to the arrow sticking out of his shoulder. He was going to hit the water. He hated salt water.

With a prime evil scream he jerked to a sickening stop. He spun upside down and his head hit the side of the ship with a crash he couldn't hear. Everything was silent now; the battle around him was just a congregation of blurred shapes and colours. He couldn't concentrate on anything, apart from the hook skewered through his thigh.

It had gone in through the right side of his right leg and came out just below the groin, there was a lot of muscle damaged; he could feel the metal scrapping against the bone.

He tried to gather what little composure he had left so he might try and get himself, but he stopped struggling as the battle came back into focus with an intensity that bombarded his senses. The noise almost deafened him and the now sharp images dripped a fluttering sense of panic into his lungs. An upside down archer on the upside down ship across from him was drawing an arrow back - Aiming right at the injured Khajiit hanging by his leg from the side of the Corvinus.

Though he didn't have to worry for long - The arrow flew from the bow like it was meant to, but dived into the water instead of the Khajiits chest cavity. An arrow pierced the throat of the man who shot it who fell forwards in slow motion to join the Ra Gada Tora had sent flying into the water.

"Hey! Down here!" Tora shouted, trying to grab the attention of the Breton archer who had fired the arrow. "Help!"

The Breton paused as he loaded another arrow and looked down; His face betrayed a look of disgust as his eyes lingered on the barb protruding from Tora's leg. But it only took a second for him to assess the situation - He immediately dropped his bow to the floor and flung himself side ways past his brothers - Grabbing onto one of the grappling hook ropes that didn't make it to the other ships.

"I'm going to swing it across, I need you to grab it and lift yourself up to take your weight off the wound before it gets any worse!" He shouted, his accent was heavily laced with a regional dialect Tora had yet to come across.

But it was too late to try and take weight of the wound; the Breton swung the rope towards him and as he reached out his hand to try and grab it he slid down by a foot and screamed in agony. Before looking he gingerly touched his leg with his free hand - The other was grasped around the rope the Breton had swung to him - It didn't feel good.

He looked up, the hook was now four inched above his knee, the entire muscle on the front of his thigh had nearly been torn off in a similar fashion to a fish being filleted. The wound was deep, very deep. He needed a healer and fast.

He wrapped the rope around his arm and tensed. The Breton had called in some other archers to help him with Tora's weight and slowly he began to move upwards toward the deck, his right hand grasping the hook - he didn't want it creating any downward force with its own weight that might finish off his days of walking.

Eventually he found himself being dragged onto the deck by six pairs of hands. He looked around to see several concerned faces peering down at him, though he couldn't concentrate. Coloured dots and hazy shapes where floating in front of his vision, he was about to loose consciousness.

"Get? A healer?" he managed to spit out at one of the Bretons beside him as he looked down at his leg. The armour he had taken from Sorynas armoury was stained crimson with his own blood. He looked like he'd been fighting a battle for weeks let alone minutes.

Is it safe to bleed that much? He found himself thinking, before his head dropped to the deck. He lay staring at the sky, wondering if this was his day to die. I hope not.

The Corvinus Orientalis

Shahab tried his best to remain calm as the first few arrows began to rain down on the deck of the ship. Tendrils of magic were now entwined around all of his muscles and joints, and his entire body felt both tense and relaxed at the same time. An arrow stuck in the deck of the ship just a few feet behind Shahab with a low "Thunk!" sound, then another one just to his left. Shouts in several languages filled his ears, drowning out the cries of the gulls that had begun to circle overhead.

He kept his feet planted, and drew in a deep breath. The enemy ships were almost here. Concentrating even harder, Shahab pushed magicka into the deepest pockets of his body. His skin went taught as it strained against the immense power contained within. An arrow whistled through the air and bounced off of Shahab's pectoral muscle, creating a small puncture from which a tiny rivulet of blood flowed. A second arrow grazed Shahab's traqezius without breaking the skin. A third glanced off of his left thigh. The closest of the enemy ships began to sidle up alongside the Corvinus, so Shahab lifted his grappling hook, and swung it through the air in a wide circle with a flick of his wrist.

He released a split-second before a deep Nordic voice gave the command to throw hooks, and the grapple screamed through the air like a falcon. It struck an enemy archer in the side of the neck, who crumpled to the ground instantly with three shattered vertebrae. With a mighty jerk, he hauled on the rope until the hook was deep in the gunwale of the enemy ship, and the two vessels began to move inward as they were hauled together. A few of the less intelligent of the Corvinus' crewmen had already made the moronic mistake of trying to board the enemy ship by shimmying across the ropes, and they were quickly cut down before they could climb onto the enemy deck.

With the strength of a demon, Shahab hauled on the rope. The muscles on his back flexed mightily with every heave, and spittle dripped from his mouth. In seconds, the ships were locked together and screams of rage and hate went up as the two crews leapt over the gunwales and met each other on both decks. Magicka flooded Shahab's brain. Reason and logic left him as the adrenalin of battle took over.

Howling with the blind urge to kill, Shahab sprang over the gunwale and met a RaGada pirate's face with his knee. the impact caved in the man's head, turning his features into a bloody crater. A Ra gada warrior with a deep scar on his bare chest screamed out a cry of rage and and charged Shahab with his war-axe raised. The young monk waited until the blade was on its downswing toward his face before sidestepping the blow with a graceful spin and planting his fist in the back of his assailant's head. The magic of the rings combined with the immense power behind the blow was enough to atomize the man's cranium instantly. Chunks of brain and skull sprayed out in a cone shape over the deck, and the now headless sailor was carried forward a single step by the momentum of his charge before he collapsed. A few yards to Shahab's left, he spotted his next opponent. The short, deeply-tanned Imperial drew a shortsword and stood his ground, eyeballing Shahab with a steely glare.

The Monk advanced on the pirate with grim purpose. Blood poured from a burst vessel in his nose, mixing with the frothy spittle that dripped from his lips. As he stepped within range, the pirate struck out with his sword, aiming for Shahab's face. He dodged to the side and tried to bring his fist around in a wide swing but it met only air as the Imperial ducked. The shortsword sang as it sliced laterally through the air toward Shahab's head, but stopped short when the monk's foot came around in an arc and collided with the pirate's neck. No sound came from the sailor as he crumpled lifeless to the deck.


OOC: i know it ends abruptly, but I really can't be bothered to write any more right now.

The Corvinus Orientalis

Soon after Bolag had joined Kythias, Carth and the group of Raga did a series of climatic events occur. Tora, had just been seriously maimed and required a healer and Shahab had just pulled the Corvinus hull to hull with an enemy ship. Kythias could only let out a quick nod to Carth and Bolag, some of the first initiates to see action.

Already pirates and mercenaries collided as the battle erupted to even larger proportions. Kythias lifted his sword as did the Raga mercenaries, their gleaming Saif's no doubt used in the Siege of Sentinel. As the first Pirate spanned the gap to the boarding party Kythias reacted. He stepped up gracefully, grasping his sword overhead as he attacked from a traditional overhand position. The scarred imperial armored in all sorts of leather straps, rings and cloth went wide eyed as the sword came rushing down to his left. He lifted his shield, the finely crafted round shield sported an iron rim with a matching iron umbo.

Kythias reacted quickly, as tendrils of magick shot through his arms as the sword came down the burden spell transitioned into his weapon. Instead of a traditional kick to the shield which the imperial had suspected, Kythias' left arm shot forward, the red magick frothing in a red glow from his black glove. Rivets in the shield's lining came undone, the wood cracked and splintered in some parts just as the burden filled Siphon came crashing down on the shield.

The sword sliced cleanly through the shield and into the man's shoulder. The burden spell carried with the momentum, cleaving the man from his neck through his rib cage, a wave of blood sprayed from the dismemberment. The breton had overcalculated his spell use and the sword continued to carry after the imperial's demise. The Siphon sunk deep into the deck of Corvinus.

Kythias dove to his left, being weaponless he did not wish to face the next opponent. He tucked and rolled coming up in a defensive crouch just out of the reaches of battle. When a thick bretic accent called from not far away.

" HEALER!"

A small group surrounded what looked like the crumpled form of Tora, the initiate's self designated Khajiiti leader. Kythias belted out a few curses, letting them flow freely in the din of battle. He dashed over, the leg of the Khajiit was torn through the thigh and out of the groin. Kythias slid on his knees, removing his enchanted gloves, not wishing to inflict more harm than good.

The bretons surrounding the Khajiit nodded at him and took up battle stations leaving just him, Tora and the towering Nord, who took up a defensive postion.

" Tora, that's your name right? Of well,....it doesn't matter" the anxiety pierced through Kythias's voice. He had never really been a healer of other's wounds, but he possessed the skill. " You see, you're going to be all right. I um,....I know what we need to do. It's going to hurt. Hurt A LOT. I'll only be able to remove the hook, and halt the bleeding. You'll require further healing when things calm down." He paused for a moment allowing the Khajiit to take it in. " I'm going to pull out the hook, and from the looks of it, it will probably grind against your bone. Are you ready?"

Bolag, Corvinus Orientalis

Bolag was no stranger to the sounds of battle, especially from his younger days back in the mountains when goblin raids were commonplace, almost every other day things to them. He had been in on numerous amounts of those and had seen many of his fellow tribesmen fall in battle, as well as friends and even family. But for some reason, this was far more chaotic to the Orc, and the sound of arrows thudding into a man's chest seemed nearly constant, as did the cries of pain and the yells for healers and the like.

He wtched with slight disbelief as Tora leapt up into the air, for no apparent reason Bolag could see, until a host of fiery projectiles were heading for the mast and sail. The Khajiit met them, and for a second, Bolag thought he was going to have to find a new roommate, but somehow he managed to bend the fireballs path away form the sail and back towards a pirates ship, to hit the mast and send it crashing down on the ships deck, which was followed by shouts of panic and screams of pain. Bolag couldn't watch where his large friend landed, as another arrow smashed into his foot, drawing a grunt as his shield was growing weaker and weaker with every hit and he hadn't even seen melee yet.

He looked back to the side of the ship and saw the well known form of Tora cme onto the deck, why he had been below Bolag had no idea, but he felt his stomach churn as he saw what had happened. A large hook had pierced his thigh straight through, and was poking out the other side, causing blood to gush out onto the deck around him. Bolag had to admire the fact that the Khajiit was still conscious and able to string some words together as he said something that the Orc couldn't hear. He was about to go over to his only true friend at the Academy, when he felt the ship lurch and a second later the grinding crash of wood on wood echoed out.

Bolag spun and looked as the Corvinus Orientalis had somehow become locked up against one of the pirates ships and already men were shouting insults and drawing swords to charge. Kythias gave the men a nod, and left his cover to head into the battle, followed by the small group of Ra Gada soldiers, and Bolag decided it was time. He nodded to Carth and charged out from his cover towards the swarm of men coming across to the Corvinus Orientalis' deck, his sword high and his small shield attached to his left arm.

He met a small and wiry Breton man first, who was dressed in fairly ragged clothes and a small padded cuirass which was torn in some places. Bolag brought his sword down vertically, hoping to use his immense weight to slam the small man into the deck of the ship, while avoiding the short deadly curved cutlass he held. His sword only hit empty air and he recovered in time to throw his shield out to the left to block the blade coming in. the man was clearly quick, as would be expected from his size and Bolag adjusted properly to the fighting style, having seen it used by goblins for many years before.

The man came in quick, feinting high and swinging low for Bolag's kneecaps. The Orc knew the move was coming and simply hopped backwards, setting his feet in line to jump at the man. Before he could jump however, the tide of the men knocked him off balance and he was forced to bring his blade in position to block a flurry of short, quick thrusts, blocking two with his shield and knocking the last one down and away with his sword. The little man was pushed forward against his will buy his comrades, and Bolag knew the man was helpless if he didn't have room to maneuver, so Bolag simply let the man get pushed towards him, before lowering his shoulder and charging.

The move required no finesse, as the Breton's sword was jammed behind him, and Bolag smiled grimly as his shoulder connected with the small mans face, and he heard his jaw crunch under the force of the hit. He brought his boot down heavily onto the Breton's nose, just to make sure he would stay don, before moving on.


OOC: If it's okay with peoplez, I think I'm going to discover the fate of Duval's men, just to get that going little.


Edwinn Gastin, Menevian Camp

"What is that horrid smell?" came the question from one of the Nordic mercenaries. Edwinn turned in his saddle and motioned for the man to quiet down, before turning back, his face full of concern. Living in a small tent and going nowhere had made everyone restless in the past couple of days, and so Edwinn had decided to bring a small group of the Nordic mercenaries (who were the rowdiest of all his troops) south for a small "tactical scouting expedition" to relieve them of their boredom. Several other groups had been sent in other directions under the leadership of his Knights to "scout" before returning to their camp.

This trip was starting to drag on, before something blew their way as the wind changed direction. Something rotten and horrible.

They rode their horses for another ten minutes, before Edwinn stopped and dismounted. Gauvin did the same, though the hundred or so Raiders stayed on their mounts, waiting anxiously as Edwinn crept forwards, up the small hill, the stench growing stronger with each step it seemed, and he was almost afraid to finally reach the top of the crest for what he might discover. He looked back to Gauvin and nodded as the man pulled out a small wand and the General took the silver axe off his belt, and readied it as though he expected the source to be right in their face as they went over the top.

He took the last twenty steps quickly as curiosity took over, and when he broke the top, he nearly tumbled from the sight, as well as the smell. Spread out across a rather flat plain, were hundreds of bodies, all dead from what he could see and everywhere he could see birds and flies and rats all over the corpses, feasting on death. It seemed strange to the General at how much life came from death, but the thought disappeared as the wind picked up and the stench hit him full force and he nearly vomited from it.

They must have been here for weeks. he thought as he moved tentatively down the hill towards what he now saw was a camp, as the forms of dozens of tents and wagons now crept into his brain, which had been focused on the hundreds of bodies lying about.

"Sir, don't go down there. At least not without your horse." the small voice of Gauvin whispered, making Edwinn halt and turn about. His hood was pulled up high, but thankfully the sun was behind thick clouds today (one of the reasons he had chosen this day to leave the camp) though the brightness still caused small headaches to pop up. By Hubert's words a day ago, Edwinn should have "died" at least five or so days ago, but Edwinn wasn't complaining in the least. He preferred life.

His thoughts cane back to the situation at hand and he nodded. Gauvin sighed in relief and whistled shrilly as they waited for the others t come to them with their mounts. When they arrived, Edwinn and Gauvin mounted up, and Edwinn stopped in front of the Raider mercenaries.

"I want a score of you with me. We are going to investigate what has happened down there." he instructed, as he saw many faces of disgust on the Nords, though a few seemed excited that battle might be close. "The rest, go in groups of a half score, and ride a perimeter around this area, and make sure we aren't going into a trap or something."

He nodded, and began riding down the hill with twenty of the mounted men behind him. They all had their javelins at the ready, and their small heavy axes and hammers were within close reach should they need them as they came to the outer edges of the ruined camp. Many men tore pieces of cloth from their sleeves of pants and wrapped them around their face to ward the smell. A group of veterans even took the cheese in their bag that they had as rations and rubbed it on their faces and the cloth before wrapping the linen around their faces to further ward off the smell.

As they neared the bodies, many flies buzzed around their heads, and birds protested at the figures who interrupted their meal. Rats scurried away as the horses neared, and when one of the Raiders poked at a corpse with their spear, the head broke clean off and thousands of maggots spilled out onto the muddy ground. Edwinn remained calm throughout the entire ordeal, though he was truly disgusted and afraid of what might have done this to the group of men. They were all armed and armored, so they were clearly fighters of some sort, but they were in the middle of their camp, as though whoever had done this, had done it fast and from the inside.

Edwinn turned back and saw a small group of Nords off their horses and standing over bodies admiring their armor and weapons.

"No!" the General hissed, startling the men. "Leave the dead untouched!"

The men all looked at him curiously, since when could bodies ever harm them. Edwinn glared at his men as he spoke. "Leave the dead unspoiled. It is for the best." he said, before continuing on, his men remounting and following him, all looking more wary and alert than before as if they expected the dead to rise against them all of a sudden.

That though was the most prominent on the Generals mind as they marched through the sea of dead and un-looted bodies of soldiers.

Menevian camp
As the Nords remounted, leaving behind the corpses of a group of Menevian soldiers, the flies began to move into position once more. Amidst their buzzing and swarming motions, the flickering rotation of a rotten, degrading eye went unnoticed; the dead, never wavering gaze watching the hind quarters of the Nordic horses as they left. With a creak of bone and dried flesh that was drowned out by buzzing insects, hands tightened around swords and spears.

The expectations of the men were not far from the truth, and the General had been lucky to catch his men in time. If any of the bodies were to be looted; well, the restless spirits of the murdered soldiers would have none of that. And a corpse was more tenacious and stubborn in battle than any Nordic Berserker.

The men were heading deeper into the camp, where the corpses were more concentrated, and the ground began to rise to a single hill. It grew harder for the horses to place their hooves between corroded husks, and ravens clamored about constantly in agitation. Tents also became more concentrated, but after weeks of neglect and at odds with the beating sun and weather, the cloths had bleached and torn, and many of the tents were collapsed. The food in the carts -as the Nords would find- had gone rotten not long ago, and the wooden structure was unstable.

At the top of the hill, within a radius of burnt ground, was one body leaning on its knees and a staff-like totem of bone. It was a gruesome totem, with ribs spreading away from the base of the ribcage as the skull was held in a permanent gaping-mouthed gaze to the sky. The body it supported was pale and greyed, the flesh having begun to rot. However, the body seemed better preserved than the others around, if only barely.

As the Nordic scouting party drew nearer to this center of the camp, the eyes of the kneeling corpse opened with crisp cracks of dried flesh. The eyes, however, stared at the ground, invisible to the men.

"Who approaches?" The air crackled with magic as the rumbling voice carried through. The crackling magicka seemed to be the conduit for the speech, leaving the origin unknown. But the voice was deep, foreboding, and serious.