The Antidote

A bit of background before the actual roleplay, and any criticism, constructive, is appreciated. My name is Justin, and this would be my first and very serious attempt to publish and generate a successful Rp. Now, I don't expect it to become an epic but I think it's a nice approach. It's influenced by theme's of hysteria and hypochondria, as well as a need to achieve a perceived perfection within your circle of peers and beyond, to be 'better than the Joneses' if you will. If anyone is a history buff, feel free to correct me however way back when 'alchemy' was still an intricate and accepted profession which sought to turn lead into gold many sought out reputed and infamous alchemists to craft and conjure elixirs and formula's which would enhance beauty, and undo age and prolong life; everything and anything for carnal longevity to a whiter, brighter smile. In any case, imagine if these claims were true? Rather, if 'many' of those claims (Who in their right mind would ask for a potion to enhance their radiance in TES?). Now it also deals with the eccentric ideals of what I perceive would be an embodiment of a Nietzsche-esque, dystopic, carnal empire and they're hate for a lack of dance and culture. Which leads us to the plot of 'The Antidote', whose intro is a bit long and ambiguous, bear with me. (For sake of the argument I have placed Ocato as current stand-in Regent, as the search for a viable figure arises)


Six years following the Oblivion Crisis
-The profession of Alchemy had its world exponentially altered the day Flavian finally unlocked the superior potential of Nirnroot. It wasn't perfect, but it was capable of enhancing the already amazing ability of master alchemist's. Elixirs capable of subtle healing for lifetimes, completely negating the need for any health potions. The same for the mystical essences of Magicka, and in the same realm, an antidote was created which never left the body, only expelling the venom, but the antidote itself stayed within the user. These things, great in themselves, severely encroached upon others who claimed themselves alchemists, who vetoed his shop unanimously, giving no praise to the otherwise genius who was able to manufacture without divine aid, seemingly divine properties. Although, at this point, the clergy of both the Nine and the Daedra have not regarded any opinions, it seems as if it would be wise to have someone step in, several threats have been left at the doorstep of the 'Myriad', the shop of Flavian, the imperial 'alchemist extraordinaire'. A mob has been standing watch constantly to make sure no costumers purchase from the shopkeeper. Already, slight violence has occurred, resulting in an incident which was dispelled by several Guardsmen who disdained the entire situation as 'foolish merchant business'.

-The Black Horse Courier

Seven Years after the Oblivion Crisis
It seemed that since the dispelling of the riots in the Merchant quarter of the Imperial City, that Flavian would finally be able to resume his profession without event, however that sturdy peace had been reaffirmed as hopeful, but not viable as several unknown assailants were slew by the guards after a botched attempt on Sir Flavian's life. We assume, out of paranoia he has left the city, to establish shop in Anvil where he may settle down and resume his shopkeeping duties, quoting his wish to 'maybe involve myself in politics a bit, earn a clean living and hopefully live out my years happily'. We wish the Alchemist the best of luck. In other news...

-The Black Horse Courier

Ten Years after the Oblivion Crisis
We here at the Black Horse Courier are dismayed to announce that the legion that was dispatched to the sovereign state of Anvil, or as they've renamed 'Demios', has returned bearing wounds and the news maintaining the hostility and utter depraved hatred of the converted city. It's walls now dark and looming, hung out with the corpses of those who didn't convert to the new religion praising wine and dance. They have been blamed for the recent sickness in Skingrad, which has been assumed to resonate from nightshade and other ingredients found within the community well. We are also displeased to announce that the strange cold emanating from the West has not seemed to dwell and in its first occurrence to date, it is now snowing over Skingrad, and the city of Bravil has been struck with the foreboding arrival of a brisk chill. It seems the strange cold will continue spreading for now, and we at the Black Horse will always attempt to maintain the best of coverage on its movements. May Talos Guide the Empire.

-The Black Horse Courier

One month following the Siege of the Imperial City, Twenty years after the Oblivion Crisis
Although we realize the panic of the people to cry out for help, we, on behalf of the Regent's aides, request that the citizenry please make way for any legion soldiers of the city and to remain a respect, responsible member of the Empire. The Regent has said that 'we are experiencing an awkward time of tribulation, but we will persevere as efficiently as possible.' Ever since the raid of the ruins of Kvatch, now known as Allestroika by the new Autocracy of Demios, the strange new Empire has been on an increasing rampage throughout the east, taking Skingrad, and burning the reclusive count over a fire in front of the Imperial city in retribution for the slaughter of their war-party several weeks before. And now, they stand at the doorstep of the Imperial city, reeling from their past failure to capture the magnificent jewel of Tamriel. Anyone who wishes to join the Imperial Legion and their fight against the heretical Autocracy of Demios should report to the Prison District, and the new headquarters of the stationed legions. May Talos Guide us.

-The Black Horse Courier

-Within the Throne room of Demios-
"I regret to inform you of our failure to sabotage the bridge towards the flank of the city, m'lord, the guard was waiting for our troops." softly spoke a darkened and gaunt gentlemen, slightly bowing his head before the throne holding the brimming figure of Flavian Atropos, holding a dark cane in his left hand.
"And the remnants of that squad will be the meal for the next troupe. Prepare another waltz of Sappers, and this time, I expect success or it will be your -other- eye Blanchette." replied, in a grim, but excellent verbose tone, and in a whirling grace, the servant left the throne room.

_______________________________________________

The lands of Tamriel are split into opposing factions, the Autocracy of Demios, led by the strange Flavian Atropos, and the everlasting Empire. The majority of the West is controlled by 'troupe's' of singing, eccentric warriors led by single 'Pariahs', often spear wielding fighters who incorporate dancing into their assaults. Preferring light troops, guerrilla attacks, poisoning and use other strange tactics, they have fooled and outdone the bulky, heavily armored, well-defending Empire.
Your characters will be a member of either faction, whether converted from a raided city, or from joining on your own. Unfortunately, this early in the Rp I won't allow people to be neutral.
Rules:

• No artifacts
  
• Default races only
  
• Common sense please?

The obvious, no god-modding or character controlling, etc.

Character sheet:

Name:
Race:
Age:
Class:
Faction: Empire/Autocracy
Rank: (Empire: Soldier/Lieutenant) (Autocracy: Deviant/Pariah)
Equipment:
General Description:
Mental Description:
Major Skills:
Minor Skills:
(As a note, certain made up skills are allowed: forging, cooking, dancing, and the like)

Please post your sheet and then where your character begins their journey to aid their respective faction. Please Pm me with any questions you may have.

It sort of deviates from your sheet, but it is a premade character I seriously want involved in some form of rp eventually. I hope this proves to be a good rp, it looks hopeful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Name: Emerlist Teufel
Race: Imperial
Age: 26

Class: Deviant
Faction: Autocracy
Rank: Deviant

General Description: Age has not been kind to Emerlist Teufel, a spry man in his late youth. His face is fraught with sharp, sweeping lines: wrinkles, laughter lines, frown lines, worry lines, crows' feet. Thin, papery cheeks are cloven by a pair of shallow dimples, which appear to have been more prominent in easier days. His eyes are deep and sunken, with heavy lids and an aggressive iron stare. Cold, grey lips svck dryly at the air, eager to sate a thirst for moisture which might revive the Imperial's entire body. Carved nose and statuesque chin point into space, producing a sharp profile. Emerlist's square shoulders appear to hold up his entire body with a hidden strength. On the other hand, his legs and torso seem to recede. Wide, thin hands with long, thin fingers idly tap at any surface by habit. The muscles and veins of Emerlist's hands seem to throb and pulsate constantly. A receding hairline holds back shoulder-length waves and curls of spun iron.

Major Skills: Destruction, Alteration, Restoration, Whip
Minor Skills: Conjuration, Mysticism, Unarmoured, Acrobatics

Arms: Emerlist carries a spike-ended whip as his main weapon. A long knife tucked into his belt also comes to play.
Armour: Emerlist wears a pair of shiny scarlet culottes with a mauve pinstripe. These are held up by a loose belt of old vines and some woven flax suspenders. Below these he wears pointy jester's shoes up to his knees with horizontal gold and red stripes - they come to a sharp point beyond his toes. His only torso-cover is a torn, patchwork singlet beneat the thick brown suspenders.
Inventory: Emerlist has a habit of keeping weird little items in his pockets that may come in handy at any time. These sometimes include: string, needles, coins, scraps of fabric, lockpicks, cutlery and ore nuggets.

History: Emerlist Teufel was the son of a poor family in Anvil. Easily impressed by Flavian's sway in harsh economic times, with little money coming in and moving from job-to-job, Emerlist quickly moved to follow the Autocracy against the tasteless, bland Cyrodiilic Empire with its square hierarchy and blank manner.

Looks Very cool! first RP i've played

Name: Slings-His-Knives
Race: Argonian
Age: 23

Class: Scout
Class Description: To be a scout for his homeland tribe, The Rajavarz, riding a horse is usually helpful, as going long distances is a main part. Infiltration skills are important, as infromation gathering is the main part of the class. Loyalty is a must for this class.
Faction: Autocracy
Rank: Soldier

General Description: Slings-His-Knives is a Tall, slender Argonian, with dark scales covered all over his body, His Calves and biceps have dark blue sclaes dotted around them, and his neck and head have dark red scales dotted around them. He likes to wear loose clothing, so his build is not easy to tell from at a glance.
He usually has a vacant look on his face, and has no trouble following orders. he is a quiet kind, and often doesnt express how he feels. His main focus in training is speed, opposed to strength. His name comes from his natural Gift with kinves and daggers. Slings-His-Knives is a naturally smart person, and everyone knows it, but he never likes to brag, and often keeps corrections to himself. He is always up for a ale around the camp fire and a good story or two. He is a loyal friend, and says only his friends could make him disobey orders. He doesnt like to talk about himself much.

Major Skills: Riding, short sword, illusion spells, Stand-Up Comedy
Minor Skills: destruction spells, long sword, Light armour

Weapons: Slings-His-Knives always carries atleast 3 daggers around with him, but usually only one is of high quality. He hides them around his body at various places. he always carries a long sword on his belt, as he finds it helps him relax knowing he has a bigger weapon. The only other weapons he has on his body is some gloves with spiked on the knuckles if he ever gets into a sticky situation.

Clothing: Slings-His-Knives Usually wears little to no armour. he knows its clever or safe, but makes him feel most comfortable and agile. He wears leather boots for the support he needs, and white coarse linens. He wears leather body armour underneath a coarse white shirt he wears. He also has leather braces on, to which the spiked gloves are attached.

Misc. Items: Slings-His-Knives carries a book in an inside pocket of his shirt at all times, as it gives him comfort knowing its there. Has a horse called Walks-On-Air

Bio: As a baby in his clan Rajavarz,he was raised as a fierce warrior in heavy armour and carrying big axes. He did not enjoy this at all, in his spare time wore light clothes and played with daggers, opposed to the other kids, in thier free time wearing heavy armour, and doing as they were told, studying hard. Slings-His-Knives always messed around but managed to keep up with everyone else in there studies, except for his heavy armour skills. as a teenager he eventually opted out of heavy armour training and became a scout, much to everyone's dissapointment. He excelled in this and soon became well known in his tribe as a great scout.
at 19 years of age, Slings-His-Knives went out on a trip with his horse, Walks-On-Air. When he returned to his village, it burned down, and no remaining villagers survived, or stayed behind. He always suspected it was attacked, but never found out. Slings-His-Knives Lived out in the wilderness for a while, before the Autocracy Army came marching by. He spoke to the commander, and he was soon a soldier.

Name: Nero Faustus
Race: Breton
Age: 19
Class: Warlock
Faction: Autocracy
Rank: Pariah

Equipment:
-Demios Pariah Garments (Priest of order robes, basically altered colors, purple for the cloth and a dark obsidian-esque glass for the pauldrons)
-A whip made of dark fiber's and nightshade petals
-A flask attached to his belt, which also holds a deck of strange tarot cards and a few nightshade flowers
-A pointed silver crown, resting on his head and tilted slightly to the right, a ruby sits in the apex of the front

General Description: A learn, slim late-teen, with jet-black hair mixed with the sacred leaves of Nightshade. Beneath lay icy green eyes, gazing coldly at their targets, a small patch of hair lies between his chin and his lip same as his locks above, black as swamp water. Lower is a tattoo across his upper chest reading 'Wytch' in dark bold, yet elaborate script. Standing at only 5'9, and weighing barely 164lbs, he does not seem very intimidating to anyone with a muscular structure.

Mental description: A very patient and egotistical leader, not among the greatest when it comes to charismatic but with certainly more charm than most. His real passion lies in exotic and eccentric tactic's. The son of an alchemist and a pseudo-doctor, Nero became fascinated by the body and its form at an early age, often stealing bits of flesh to stretch and poke with his own crude instruments, eventually even developing a slight taste for the strange delicacy. While living in Anvil, he first came in contact with the enigmatic and utmost charismatic Flavian Atropos, who quickly dazzled and indoctrinated the young and impressionable Nero. Starting as a simple errand boy, Nero had caught the attention of the crafty heirophant during a scheduled delivery when a customer refused to pay for his elixir, expecting the child to merely run off; instead he withdrew a knife from his breeches and slit the mans stomach, cleanly exposing the open wound to a subtle touch of poison, taught to, once again, by the powerful Flavian. After slowly, and painfully succumbing to death, Nero reported to his superior and received a promotion, giving him several soldiers under his command, of whom he leads with a dose of salt, expecting joy in the macabre and unending loyalty in the knowledge that there are rewards in their perverse servitude. Cold, yet optimistic, self-centered yet cowardly in the face of defeat, Nero is the least of a man you'd seek to be an ally.

Major Skills: Necromancy, illusion, mysticism

Minor Skills: Flute-playing, alchemy, destruction, restoration, whip-use, torture

_________________________________________


He had learned his abuse from his creators. His disregard from his superiors, and his passion from obsession. Nero was, in any sense of the word, eccentric. Often killing his troops without claim, only to raise them several nights later and have them dance with the rest of his black-humor comrades. Its not insanity that plagued Nero, it was freedom. He was able to do anything he wanted under the tutelage of his erudite leader, Flavian.

Ignorant fools!
Rattled throughout his head as he drilled his thirty some men, spear, whip and longsword wielding men, into a triangle formation, the favored posture of the Autocracy. Whips, side-by-side on the outer walls next to the spearmen, and the swordsmen all huddled within waiting to emerge and skirmish, until retreating back within the 'cloister'. It was cold, with freezing rain and brisk winds chilling every man and woman to the bone, freezing their water flasks and causing their mobility to slow. Slowly Nero brandished his own Whip, breaking its slack with a splendid display of its magnificent length, a twenty-one foot length of triple braided materials pricked with the smell of nightshade leaves and thorns, the hilt, decorated in a silver and red-rubied handle gladly accentuates the already great potential of the weapons fame. The flaying didn't stop however, with a flick of the wrist, and bit of the use of magicka, he let it snap open a tent of a soldier who had yet to wake and prepare, exposing him and his half-naked body to the elements, but not stopping there; Nero pulled his tool back and ripped it against itself once again, throwing its weight towards the half-asleep deviant, hitting him on the upper back and nape of the neck, eliciting an excited yelp from the dozer. A grin played across his face as he continued to lay there, silently pleading for another strike, and he was rewarded so, another quick slash caressed his taut skin , flaying its pale grandeur before Nero happily coiled it back into his wrist, and sliding it onto his belt.
Damn Masochist's...

"I want you all to realize that the dead will be tomorrows meal; if you even slow this march, I will personally fillet your corpse!" cried the young interrogator, beckoning to a younger boy who led a very intimidating horse, in fact, a destrier to his master's whim, the iron bit in its mouth, chipped from the constant gnawing, seemed to rattle in the frustration of the beast. The hate was mutual however, Nero despised the steed, just as the steed never wished to see him. One was disloyal, the other was abusive. No love, only servitude, and forced at that. It was strange how mortal men could be programmed, and even re-programmed to love pain, but an animal never learned its gentle ease. Odd, isn't it?
Nero mounted the beast and rode with his two scouts towards the beginning gates of Anvil, seeking the new recruits of the Autocracy, and expecting their participation in his coming crusade.
"And who here has enough gangrene to aid me in my trek through the freeze?" he cried out to the amounting populace, there to see the arrival of the young Pariah.
Behind him arrived several other horses, albeit gaunt and not as well-prepared as Nero's mount. Slowly, the joined his cabal within the square.

Heres my sheet:

Name: Jumps-the-flames
Race: Argonian
Age:28

Personality: Considered slightly insane by most folks, he grew in the deepest swamps of Black Marsh. He has a series of nasty habits, eating most things he kills is one thing that makes him seem eccentric. However crazy people think he is, no one questions his intelligence. He seems to be of unsound mind, but people know him as a wise leader.

Physical appearence: green scales dominate his body, except for a zig-zag pattern coloured red, yellow, red on his belly he also has blue rings around his golden eyes. He has one long dorsal fin that runs along his head, he also has an exceptionally long tongue, which he often uses as a third arm, much to other peoples disapproval. Has a full white skeloton drwn on him, except for on his head. quite tall (roughly 6ft7) And very skinny, but surprisingly strong.

faction: autocracy

Class: Witch Doctor (ooh eeh ooh ah ah ting tang walla walla bing bang!)

skills: hand-to-hand, destruction, illusion, mysticism, alteration, restoration, alchemy

equipment: ritual dagger( looks like grummite dagger), witch doctor wand (looks like grummite cudgel) skull mask made of adamantium(doesn't cover his lower head), His loin cloth, alternate laced leather pants, clawed adamantium gauntlets

Hides-His-Heart rose from the depths of the Rumare waters, the liquid glimmering off his scales like polished metal in the dawn light. Scars cut into this polished steel glimmer, lines where the water dipped from the remains of cuts and scratches of battles and general travel. As the water ran off and he stepped upon the soft sands of the Prison District island, his crimson scales turned a softer shade of red, colored by the orange of dawn. Walking past a boulder, the Argonian's tail reached out and picked up a worn out green robe, wrapped around the scrunched up cloth like a python coiling prey.

Moving to the front of the Argonian shaman, the tail seemed to hold out the robe for him to take, and Hel'Resquein did just that, snatching the robe from the grasp of the tail. It slithered through the air to rest behind him once again as he slipped the robe over his head. The cloth fell to his shoulders and rested there, covering his body and the intricate tattoo on his back. One no one in the Imperial City had yet to see. The entire time the young Shaman had not stopped walking, reaching the footpath that would take him up to the entrance of the Prison District.

His claws scratched the wooden door as he opened it and entered the district proper, golden eyes narrowing at the guards at the door. He purposely ignored the tingling sensations of their spirits, passing them by and thankful the feeling passed away with them.

Hides-His-Heart partly hated interaction because of his Shaman-trained abilities in empathy. It made proximity more of a pain than usually. Besides his empathetic sensitivities, he generally just hated people. They were ignorant, impulsive, overemotional and careless in their actions. And the sound of the soft-skins' voices grated on his ears painfully. He hated the Altmeri accent in particular, as it was so smooth and eloquent. The second was Bosmeri, such a high pitched tone that it made him cringe.

His hatreds showed in the fact that he passed people in the halls without so much as a glance or word of greeting, heading straight to his own bunking location. No one was able to understand why he was even enlisted as a soldier, as he seemed more inclined to work alone than with others. But Hides-His-Heart knew the reason he enlisted. And he kept it to himself.

Slings-His-Knives looked around Anvil, his first time there. The buildings were more worn and old than he'd expected. He looked across to the other scout, who was more experinced and older then he was. He was on guard, as if expecting to get attacked. He looked across at Nero, then he looked forward. Slings-His-Knives was unsure what to do, as it was his first time in an army, following orders. He lifted his hand to his chest, and felt for his book. He found it, giving a light sigh, as if a sign of relief it was still there.
Slings-His knvies decided to get on his feet for a while, hoping Nero wouldn't mind. He climbed sideways off his horse, and stood to attention, as to not attract any bad attention from his leader. Slings-His-Knives mind kept wandering from what he was meant to be doing, he pondered all sorts of things, but the biggest question in his mind was, 'did he join the right army?' He knew it was to late to be bothered. but when he had joined the Autocracy, he was not aware of the Empires army still standing strong.
He knelt down, and tightened the laces on his boots, and checked his dagger was still in place. He then stood up, and felt for his longsword, making sure it was fastened properly. He did a quick secret check of his remaing two daggers, up his sleve, and inside his book. He felt happy and climbed on Walks-On-Air, and sat still, as he noticed people looking at him. He decided he need no more negative attention. He looked at Nero, expecting to hear something more from him.

The witchdoctor walked through the burning remains of the settlement he'd attacked, he saw his prey. Jumps-the flames stood there waiting for the legionaires to notice him. Soon enough, they did. He walked fowards, flexing his fingers in the gauntlets.
"stop right there!" demanded one of the soldiers, raising his shield and pointing his sword over threateningly.
The argonian kept moving.
"that was an order!" said the other, raising his crossbow and pointing it at the witchdoctors head, his helmetless head bleeding at the eyebrow.
The sword wielding legionaire dropped to his knees, screaming. The countess and her son watched in horror as spikes punctured the armour, seeming to be coming from within. He landed on the ground and started coughing blood. the small child pulled a dagger from the writhing gaurds belt and ran at the argonian.The child flew into a wall and several ribs cracked audibly. The woman ran after her son and picked him up, then started wailing loudly, like an animal in its death-throes.

Jumps-the-flames walked towards the remaining soldier and waved a hand at him. he dropped his weapon and remained motionless. The argonian kicked the weapon away, in case he broke the spell. He shifted his position, standing behind the gaurd, watching him carefully. He wrapped both hands around the mans bald skull and squeezed. The mans head popped like a graqe and he was dead before he hit the floor. He looks at the woman for some time, pondering how to kill her. He finally decides. He slowly walks towards her and as she stands to face him, he grabs her by the midriff and yanks a large section of her stomach cavity out. he looks at the destruction around him, and he smiles.

Nero looked with a simple minded gaze towards the scout, but gave no special attention. They would learn their discipline in time, he thought to himself. Carefully using his hands to direct the contingent of horseman at his side to form a half crescent, they cornered the mob that had gathered to see the Pariah and his news.
"Demioans! Cease your clamor, and cordial greetings and listen up! Our crusades into the heretical heartland requires the aid of more skilled men and women. Those who cower at the thought of service with find themselves serving without conscious consent."
A grin played across his face, emphasizing the last bit, noting his enjoyment of Necromancy, and his necrophiliac tendencies.
"Seek out the Barracks to enlist... I pity those who do not do so."

He made a fist and rounded it into the air, calling his scouts and cavalrymen into formation around him.
And now the politics...
"Ubiquitous thralls of His Grace, I regret to inform you of a rather long trek we have in motion to the blasted Imperial City. A saboteur informant will meet us in Skingrad and from there our objective is to harass and disillusion the enemy. Does anyone reject this proposal, or have any suggestions?"
A subtle sense of patience incited in his head, but he could care less of his soldiers opinions, they would act on his will, not their own.

He looked around at the other horseman, glad he managed to keep in formation. He felt sort of proud in a way, but let no smile play over his face. He was wary of Nero. He seemed in a good mood, which to everyone else was his scary mood. He focused, listening to the orders being called out.
harass and disillusion the enemy...
He couldn't help but wonder, why not just attack? would it not jus be easier to attack, than make them dis-organised and leave them to it?

He suddenly noticed he was going off course in his thoughts. He kept his eyes straight, and cleared his mind. He was no longer a lone scout making battle plans. He was a soldier. And this would take a lot of getting used to.

Jumps-the-flames walked back to camp, collapsing several times. He'd been warned that using up too much magicka in a short space of time was dangerous and he shouldn't do it with enemies around Damn lucky there was only two enemies, otherwise I would probably have died he looked at the painnt on his body, and decided he would repaint it.
He was 100yards from camp when he collapsed, sweating and screaming for help. He knew he didn't deserve help, not after what he did at the village. He felt comforted that he didn't kill the child, knowing the place would be swarming with soldiers in minutes, and he could't tell if a small drain of his magic would push him over the edge. And then he thought about the woman he slew, knowing it was a waste of magicka. Silent tears rolled down his eyes as everything went black...

He awoke in a tent, to a female healer wagging her finger at him " I told you not to use so much magicka." she said in an almost patronising way. "I've made an arrangement for you to get a real weapon.
" But what about my gauntlets" he hissed back.
" You had channeled do much magicka through them that they were almost destroyed, I will try to get them fixed though. But on the subject on you weapon, how about a whip?"
The witchdoctor almost smiled at the thought of a new method of killing.

With no one opposing his Orders, Nero turned with slight difficulty, his destrier towards the gates, his unit here, known as the 'Standartes' would end up staying there, to keep watch over the people. The Autocracy was harsh, but also a myriad of strange things; murder, as the Telvaani once thought 'is profitable, should you never get caught in the act'. Would the Autocracy ever argue with such a clean cut idea? Never.
"To whom it may concern," the young Pariah called out, "Our main goal, as stated before is always to maim, but not to kill."

Smiling, he unleashed his whip once again, but not uncoiling it, merely admiring the piece within his hand.
"Imagine, if you will, yourself upon the battle; your gut spattered with your own blood, a spear through your abdomen, and you scream..."
In his mind, his imgination svckled at the sight
"Now that, my friends, is an intimidating effect if you multiply it by say... thirty or so? It becomes a cacophony of sorts and its demoralizing. Now, on your part, you have to choices... Sing, or be silent. If you scream, or cry, I will kill you myself. Embrace the scorching heat of the wound like the fire of a hearth. Dance into the tune of their screams and your brethren's song, but -never-, -ever- scream."

Nero had hoped this warning would save his men from humiliation, fear and in the end, defeat but it didn't occur to him that, even though he was a decent tactician and in most cases, calm under pressure, that possibly he wasn't prepared for the battlefield, at least, on a massive scale at best.
The thought never came to mind.

"Now, come and let us join the troops that await us in Skingrad." Nero was glad he didn't have to marshal troops from Anvil to the Imperial city... And especially glad it was only the cavalry that would accompany him. And strangely, being on a horse, even one that was more hostile than the enemy, gave him a sense of safety. Leading his horse, and beckoning a single scout, a new soldier he believed, an argonian in fact. He would hopefully make good conversation for the trip.

OOC: May i ask... Are you, the rp host, going to also provide for the Imperial side of the story, or will the players themselves have to take on the role of Questgiver and plotter for Empire?

Looks pretty promising as an RP. I'll join Also is it possible to switch sides later on or not?

Name: Claudius

Race: Imperial

Age: 42

Class: Imperial Officer

Faction: Empire

Rank: Lieutenant

Equipment: Officer Uniform: Silver Longsword with the crest of his family on the hilt of the sword - A great phoenix spreading its wings
White Imperial Royal armor with a white cape. No helmet
3 health potions and 3 fatigue potions
A small map of Cyrodiil
Eye patch across his right eye, partly covering the scar

General Description: Strong and Masculine . Claudius shows the obvious appearence of a fighter. He has strong cheekbones and blue piercing yet weary eyes. He has average ears that don't particularly stick out and a medium sized flat nose. He has a strong flat chin concealed by a full face beard, not too long but not a stubble either. His skin is beginning to show signs of aging and he has a long scar across his right eye. He has unkempt hair that has grown quite thick over the years and long sideburns that join up to his beard.

Mental Description: He used to be a very patient man with a noble soul, common in his family. He was never quick to anger and was very compassionate to any enemy soldiers he captured in combat. However after witnessing the atrocities of this current war and how he is not as young as he used to be, his past personality is wavering. He is now a cold man who is not so patient and his once noble soul is wavering. Age has definatly taking an effect on this man who used to be so full of life.

Major Skills: Longsword, Medium armor, heavy armor, Block, Athletics, Leadership

Minor Skills: Horse riding, hand to hand combat, restoration, blacksmithing

Bio: At a young age Claudius was raised in the slums of the Imperial city, the son of an honest blacksmith. His mother died in labour and it was up to his father to raise him. Claudius was taught the skills of a blacksmith but his real passion lied in being a soldier. He had often watched in awe as Imperial soldiers held military parades in the Talos plaza to thousands of citizens. While other children in the slums would be of pickpocketing wealthy merchants, he would be practicing his skills with a sword from the smithy. Finally when he was sixteen he left home and joined the Legion, promsing to send back whatever spare money he could afford to his old father. he spent many years as a soldier and although at first he was niave, he soon transformed into a gruff yet virtous legionaire. His father eventually died from illness when he was 23 and the old family home and smithy was sold to a merchant, Claudius' home was the legion. He fought in many campaigns and put down hundreds of insurections against the empire. He was there in the warp in the west, in Vvardenfell during the Nerevine prophecy and fought against the Daedra during the Oblivion crisis. When he learnt of an upriising in Anvil he was at first shocked of such an event happening in Cyrodiil, the heart of the empire itself but soon put his mind at ease in assurance that it would be crushed within days. But when the army came back in defeat he knew this was no mere uprising and something bigger was going to take place For once in his life...he felt fear.

Claudius rode his steed along the old and worn path to Anvil. He had been here before...in his youth a long, long time ago. That however was in the past and it was now the present. The city was in the hands of an army of mad and demented anarchists who knew nothing of true leadership. What there true goals were no one really knew, not even its own leaders probably really knew the goals of their " Wise " and "Benevolant " leader Sir Flavian. Claudius had heard of this man when he was just a common alchemist. He rose to fame when he discovered the secret properties of Nirnroot and created an elixer with life giving properties. At the time Claudius thought nothing of it but as age took its till on him he always wondered if immortality was actually possible. Could he actually live for ever? When his father died it first hit him that he never wanted to actually die. This world is my home and I will do anything to stay on it, no matter what the price. He shook these mad thoughts out of his head and rode on to the city.

The mission was to infiltrate the city and learn as much as he possibly could about the Autocracys plans. Where were they headed next? Where were their armies located? Who were their main leaders? He didn't actually have to join them if he could but rather infiltrate their command centre and get documents detailing these things. If this was found impossible then recruitment would be necessary until he had what he could possibly aquire at the most. When he had the information he was to head back to the Imperial City and give his order to General Constantine in the palace. He was chosen for this mission simply because he was one of the best the Legion had to offer. He could do things that other men would find impossible. He was incredibly athletic and fit, even if age was beginning to effect him. He could handle himself without a weapon and learnt many different arts of hand to hand combat. He was even more efficient with a weapon and could slay many men in battle. His leadership skills were beyind compare and his men looked up and respected him as a leader, he was the one for the job.

He had often wondered where his career with the Legion was heading now he was getting old. He had often thought that they would just stick him on guard watch in the city in charge of one of the districts until he retired. However when they asked him to do this mission he immediatly accepted it and begun preperation. Although he would have to leave his squad for now, it was a price he was willing to pay ti show his worth once more.

The City gates were now in sight and Claudius quickly remembered what he was here for. He was dressed in burgundy clothing and was to pretend that he was a writer who was looking for inspiration to create a story and thought that Anvil was the best possible place to do so. As rubbish as it was it was the best his commander could give him and Claudius could think of no better cover story. If it failed then he would just have to kill the gate guards and run to the nearest tavern until things settled down. As he got closer he took a deep breath and prepared for what could possibly mean life or death...

Slings-His-Knives was a bit scared from Nero' speech about screaming on the battlefield. He had never truly been bothere by pain, but that his leader was willing to kill him over such a trivial thing was a bit worrying. He put it down to being a bit niave, as he did look young for a leader.

Nevertheless Slings-His-Knives gave a quick glance in each direction, making sure it was him that Nero had chosen. He nodded in accordence, and stated "Thank you for the opportunity sir." He felt quite pleased with himself, being chosen. He nudged Walks-On-Air, Who started to trot slowly forward, at a walking pace. He pondered has Nero brought me along as general protection, to test my loyalty, or because I would make a good talking partner.? He guessed that no matter the situation, he'd like to get to know his leader better. He tapped Walks-On-Air again, to make him speed up, so he could trot alongside Nero. as he got closer, he slowly switched to a side saddle position, and jumped off his horse, which immediatly stopped walking. he led it forward. Soon they were walking at a steady pace. Slings-His-Knives looked at Nero. "Do you not feel it would be better to have more than one deviant accompany you?" He paused, before remembering to add 'Sir' to the end. he mentally slapped himself for not watching his wording carefully.

OOC: As was introduced in the beginning of the Roleplay, the defining elements and plots will be explained through news articles biased towards the Empire. If Anvil suddenly burned to the ground and Skingrad became a giant Hist tree... That's where you would find out. And if your character has any ability to read these news papers then they will be quite informed of the current events. However, the Imperial Side is open to whatever strategy they may take, and in such case you may have your character open up as being 'given' orders by a commander or the regent, Ocato himself. Now, as for defection, if you choose to do so, then it can be done, you can also be recruited and spy, or steal from the Autocracy/Empire, however character death is probably going to occur, whether from natural, or 'less-than-natural' ailments.

IC:

Nero gazed down to his accompanying Deviant, a wry smile tipped with a sarcastic 'heh' played out across his face.
"Do you think someone will nick me with an arrow? Or a lone assassin, sent by the uptight, usurper's themselves would come from the brambles and slit my throat? Or perhaps, a stray wind will carry me off this accursed steed and let me fall to an uncertain death, and state of humiliation?"
He looked towards the road and noticed a man in burgundy approaching.
"...if I were to to think about all the ways I could die today, tonight; in this minute... My time will come, when it comes. And then, in time, so will my enemy's."
Another grin, this time, more genuine than before,
"You can surround yourself with high walls, elite troops and capable allies, but then you forfeit life. And then what are you guarding?"

He abruptly quit his tone before halting the approaching man, whispering over to the Argonian Deviant,
"I want you to greet him, and assist him with whatever he seeks. Your the commander now... I'm a mute bodyguard."
Show me something interesting Deviant... he joked with himself.

Name: Raxleon Flaenia

Race: Imperial

Age: 21

Class: Scout

Faction: Autocracy

Rank: Deviant

Equipment: Full Chainmail armor, excluding a helmet

General Description: Raxleon has blue/black, mid length hair, and dark blue eyes. Overall, a pretty dark character. He looks older than he actually is, which allows him to get more jobs for someone his age. Among the Deviants, he is one of the most serious looking, probably more so than anyone.

Mental Description: Raxleon is aloof, cool, collected, much more mature than most his age. Due to his not so great childhood, he has a somewhat dark personality, and a dark sense of humor to go along with it.

Major Skills: Alchemy, Armorer, Athletics, Acrobatics, Blade, Block, and Light Armor

Minor Skills: Marksman, Restoration, horse-riding, and hand to hand

Raxleon has always taken risks. He gambled away money alot, but won alot more. That very trait was what made him a good merc. When he heard of the Autocracy, he deceided to go join them. If they succeded in whatever they were planning, Raxleon might get rich. If not, he could break off and claim he wasn't a part of it. It was a great way for Raxleon to get some more gambling money.

(OOC: Kind of a crap profile, but my brain is fried right now)

Slings-His-Knvies took a quick glance at his commander what words of wisdom, from someone who appears so young. This is one smart person. He took focus and rode his horse infront to the man in burgandy, before halting his horse infront of him. He jumped down with authority and stood with a firm posture. something he learned from his tribal leader when dealling with strangers. "Stop, I am Sir..." He paused quickly, thinking of a a fake name "Lies-In-Shadows, from the Autocracy. What is your buisness here?" Slings-His-Knives hoped his pause wasnt too obvious. He began eyeing up the man in burgandy He was definatly in shape for an older man, something which doesnt come too naturally. He didnt make it subtle as he eyed him up and down, stopping at the scar across his right eye. He thought to himself I'd say he was a retired arena fighter, from the scars and the obvious fitness, but his posture isn't that of a sloppy arena fighter.

He slid the knife from his arm slowly down to his palm, ready to use.

Without looking towards his deviant 'commander', Nero succumbed to his minds obscene wandering, letting him ponder alcohol, torture, six and for some odd reason, the color 'abstract white'. He let his gaze drift back and forth from nothing to the man in burgundy, all the while contemplating.
If one makes no attempt to breathe, his body betrays him. His body -wants- to breathe, therefore, am I not actually my body, and my body is truly not me. For if I were my body, wouldn't I call it 'Me', and not the body that which I inhabit. Oddly, this mortal coil lets us down, punishes us and taunts our efforts, and yet it is our greatest ally. So odd. So many things, are so odd.
He cracked his knuckles, and his neck then reached down and unstrapped the flask from his belt, and popped the cork, letting a swig enter his throat.

And what more is tragedy, Nero? Born of the Faustus', and their eccentric folk. Your plaid mind, and murky resolve. I claim myself devout, and yet I know I am a hypocrite. Heh, am I any more a sham? And yet Flavian taught me, abused me, racked me, and in the end placed me here, where I can -do- something. If only it weren't for that damn... gah! Why'd he burn the formulae? Fool.

He popped the cork back onto the obsidian flask and replanted the bottle onto his belt, noting his headache and attempting to focus on something more cordial.

And look at you, the figurehead of a tactic, your own in fact. Shouldn't you be proud?
-But I am proud?
Oh, come now, you must be joking. You just gave up your reigns to a complete novitiate and you claim your 'proud' to be a leader. Pft, your meat.
-it could also be cowardice, you know, or wisdom at play.
You? Wise? Intelligent, yes, but not wise. And a coward? Debatable but your foolhardy Nero. Wisdom comes from age, you should know that...
-ages? No. Not to me. Never to me. Wisdom, is better to be sought in those who've encountered all -but- the foolish choices... not in those who've -made- all the foolish choices
Still holding onto fleeting ideals Nero, and once again back at the bottom of the barrel.

He smiled, not from genuine amusemant but at himself. Here he was, at a crossroads, in a moments time he could have to kill another mortal being... Or perhaps play kind to him. And here he was, Nero Faustus, the hypocritical poet and strategist, who came from a defunct family, still alive, but barely. A mother with the notion of 'madness', a father who made it his life's work to make circles from squares, and a sister who could've probably been better off from not consuming so much nightshade.
Nightshade.
That's where it had begun. Him and his Sister Beatrice, sitting alone in the attic, ingesting Nightshade and cheap wine until they couldn't even speak. It wasn't pleasurable, but what else was there to do? Two curious children without excitement. Thinking back to his childhood, all he ever did was read and indulge. Drinking himself into stupors, consuming that beautiful flower and the two of them ended up being lain together. Was it right? Debatable. But the only honest judge of lifetimes is yourself, on your deathbed, and your conscious.

Nero gritted his teeth for a moment before resuming his stony gaze, noting the entire drama within his mind lasted only moments.

Claudius was approaching a large group of what looked like soldiers and he could easily tell that he was drawing a few eyes, especially those of a strange Breton man clad in surreal clothing. This man was obviously one of authority and held the power, although he had not even slain an Autocrat soldier yet he knew that this man must be of some importance. The only information that Claudius was given about these people was never trust them Claudius, never trust them. These people are mad and they will just as soon slay you where you stand than in your bed without a second thought. Watch your back, your a strong man and capable fighter, that is why we chose you for this mission...

While Claudius was watching this strange man and Argonian on horseback was the one who stopped him.
"Stop, I am Sir......Lies-In-Shadows, from the Autocracy. What is your buisness here?" the Argonian said to him as he got off of his horse. Wait, why is it this man who stops me and acts as if he holds the power here. He looks like a common soldier yet he is a sir?
" I am Lucian Marcellinus..." Claudius thought for a second as the Argonian examined him. He noticed that the creature took great notice in his scar across his eye. Would they really believe that he was a writer looking for inspiration in the city? No he would have to think of something else, but what could he possibly be? An arena fighter perhaps, but what if they say that they have never heard of him. What then?
" I am a mercenary looking for work here in the city. I have just come back from Valenwood sir after fighting in a clan war. I have no armor as it was sold for better I was hoping to aquire here. Sir".

Claudius was hoping that his lie would work here yet his mind kept wandering back to the strange Breton who was swigging from a flask. The man kept staring at him as if he was looking into his very soul and every fibre of his body shuddered. He was obviously a powerful man yet how could he handle in a melee fight with mere sword and shield. All Claudius had was his trusty longsword holstered by his side and if anything was to possibly go wrong here then he could easily reach for it to defend himself. Hopefully it would not come to that...

OOC: Come on Empire, Emperor Jim seems to be the only one writing!

IC: "Lucian Marcellinus...." Slings-His-Knives repeated to himself.
He watched his right eye, still wondering about his scar. His eye was twitching, back and forth from him to Nero.
"I am a mercenary looking for work here in the city. I have just come back from Valenwood sir after fighting in a clan war. I have no armor as it was sold for better I was hoping to aquire here. Sir".

"So... A mercenary. I thought you were prehaps an arena fighter. Anyway, if you have come here to aid the Autocracy, then, you should find yourself some armour." He stopped. Lucian's hand was by his sword. Slings-His-Knvies moved his had across his blade, as if it comforted him, knowing it was there. "No matter what you do, check in with the guards at the front gate, they may have a task for you. Now hurry up, and get the oblivion out of my way!"

He turned round, and climbed his horse quickly, knowing his back was exposed the stranger. He trotted backwards towards Nero. "Come along deviant." He said, without trying to sound insulting. The last thing he wanted to do was piss off Nero, and his nightshade covered whip.

Claudius, or Lucien as he was now known, listened to what the Argonian had to say to him and nodded. Although he never intended to originally join the Autocracy he had no choice.
" Yes sir" was all he could say. A gruff mercenary perhaps would want to know more but Claudius was a legionaire, an officer of the Legion who was accustemed to taking orders from his commanders without question.

It felt weird to him being a double agent of sorts as he was in the Legion and now the Autocracy as a sword for sale. Never the less he had to find out everything about the Autocracys plans and he already had a small part of it. This Sir Lies-In-Shadows was one of their leaders, or so it seems but Claudius wasn't completely convinced as he looked nothing like a leader. This other man, the Breton, looked like an important character and Claudius wanted to find out more. However at the moment he needed to act like an Autocrat soldier and follow his orders and get some armor and a "task". He would surely learn of their plans later as this army all around him looked like it was ready for march somewhere. But where to he thought to himself. Claudius began to turn around and walk away but he felt eyes in his back...