The Black Plague of Black Marsh : The Elder Scrolls Series Discussion

» Sat May 28, 2011 1:55 pm

The Black Plague of Black Marsh.

The Sload, a repugnant race of highly intellectual slug men who feel no emotions like other Sentient of Tamriel; they think fast but move slower. They view all other life as play things and experimental canvasses, they are responsible for the biggest calamity to mar the face of Nirn since Men and Mer first walked the earth, soon enough they will be responsible for a second, the Black Plague of Black Marsh.

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Esctacy shot through the air like a thunderous current as the tribal drum beats reverberated rhythmically through the canopy around them; six fires burned around the great Hist tree, Argonians wearing feather covered skulls and masks danced around them nvde shaking crude instruments and ceremonial weapons, singing in unison with the Hist tree in their ancient and native language -- a mixture of shaking quills hissing noises and almost wrenching sounds from within their throats.

Every one was elated; the music flowed through their bodies like one long perpetual orgism, they chanted and beat their chests, howling into the night at the young ones walked forward almost like a unit, moving each foot forward at the same time. The tribe elder smiled as they walked closer to the Hist; one of the children wondered how he could see them if his eyes where stitched closed with the jerked intestines of the swamp walluga, a great eight legged boar hound that was traditionally hunted by their tribe.

The fires shot up higher and higher as the Hist energy was released into the air; nobody noticed a ball of pestilential black energy shooting forth from the grease covered hand of a corpulent plague infested Sload, hitting the Hist tree with a violent shudder that shook the swamp to its core. Nobody noticed as the veins of sap flowing through the bright green leaves turned from brightest yellows to darkest black.

And the children drank.

They drank from the Hist and did not stop; they gorged themselves on the liquid without pausing for air, their eyes filled with an ink like liquid and their scaled hardened and lost all colour? When the Hist dried out the music stopped.

The sounds of the tribal beats were replaced by terrified screams.

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The walls shook and the ground trembled as towers crumbled and siege weapons fired; the prison was under attack and a battle could be heard outside, at first the prisoners rejoiced at the thought of being freed from their hateful place in the cramped six man cells, but the orders being shouted indicated that this was not a rescue mission staged by their allies and friends? This was something else.

"Free the prisoners and arm them with any spare weapons!" Some shouted through the din of the battle, the order was never carried out -- nobody came to free them from their holdings and soon enough all shouted orders and cries for help and reinforcement where replaced by blood chilling screams of pain and desperation.

Then all was quiet; the quiet suffocated the prisoners with a blanket of fear that the battle could not instil unto them, it seeped through their veins and froze their muscles and slowed their brains. They stood in silence as the dust fell from the ceiling above them.

"What the hell is happening out there?" One Imperial prisoner asked as a warm liquid flowed over his feet; he looked to his left to see a quivering Bosmer wetting his pants. "Should we try to escape?"

"And do what? Walk into a battle and die?" A surly stubborn looking Orc asked, one of his tusks was missing, he was the resident muscle and enforcer for the prisons largest gang, though loyalty didn't seem important right then and there in the cold damp freshly urine soaked cell.

"It's better than sitting here waiting to die, I agree with Max, lets get the hell out of here." A dunmer said, clapping Maximus the imperial on the shoulder, "What's your plan?"

"Simple, lift the gate off its hinges and walk out." It was simple, the prison wasn't exactly up to the standards of the imperial prison -- it was in Black Marsh, the perfect environment for a prison. If you escaped from it you would die on the out side, they didn't have to worry about highly secured vaults or cells. Simple hook joints would suffice.

Each prisoner gathered around the bars of the gate and lifted with all their strength; slowly it started to rise up off its hinges, they all strained under the burden until it finally slipped all the way off then they pushed -- crashing the gate into the opposite wall with an ear splitting crash.

"That was easy enough, why haven't we ever thought of that before?" The dunmer asked as they stepped cautiously from their confines.

"Because there were always a few guards on the other side waiting for an excuse to run us through with pointy swords." Maximus replied as he looked around for a weapon of some kind, he couldn't spot anything he would prefer to wield so instead he set about breaking the table legs off the night watch mans table. "Here, start freeing the other prisoners." he added, throwing a metal ring covered in keys he had found on the table to the pessimistic one tusked Orc.

Once the prisoners where freed they began to make their way out; the hall ways where empty and devoid of life, not even the rats that usually infested the place dared come from their hide holes? Something wasn't right. The Imperial looked around at his companions -- each was a picture of trepidation and fear, many of them where armed with table and chair legs, some with nothing but their bare fists.

Then they saw it.

A landscape of ash coloured trees and a blood drenched floor forming a congealing sludge like soup of body parts and organs; there where no bodies however, no remnants of the battle save for the limbs left behind? no weapons could be seen nor armour. The guards had either ran for their lives or chased down the aggressors. Whatever it was Maximus wasn't keen to find out.

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Rules:

1. Vampires are ok, have a very good reason for why they are here though, they will be greatly weakened by the sunlight though not directly damaged by it thanks to the gas like sub-atmosphere shielding the swamp from the not so vampire friendly rays.

2. No were-critters, just too uber.

3. Weapons are to be improvised on the spot, branches sharpened to a point or chair legs turned to clubs are acceptable, swords and maces and all manner of man made weapons are not.

4. Armour is allowed depending on your character, should you choose to be a legion guard or mercenary of some sort delivering prisoners with bounties to the prison you may wear armour at your own risk, and that risk shall be great. Armour is heavy and restricting and this is a swamp.

5. No ubering, you kill five zombies single handed without a scratch I send ten more, you kill ten more I send a hundred. Be on your toes and fight to survive. In other words, be realistic.

6. Character control is not allowed unless discussed via PM first, in which case please make sure you make it clear that it is has been discussed for the benefit of other played via OOC: tag so you don't get wrongfully accused of unlawful character control

. If your character is injured and needs help walking feel free to let people know via OOC that mild character control is ok so long as its just to help them move.

7. Romance is allowed if you find the time but keep it clean.

8. Absolutely NO OOC only posts, if it's urgent please PM either me or somebody you know if going to post so they can tag their own post in an OOC for your benefit. Or post in the General discussion thread.

9. ~~PM all character sheets to me for approval.~~ Not currently accepting new members.

10. If you are unsure of something PM me (Example being, you want to kill something big and hairy but you don't want it to look uber).

Character Sheet:

Name: (Nicknames and pronunciations as well if possible)
Age: (don't have to be specific, a ball park figure like 20-25 or 40-45 will suffice)
Race: (Try to be lore correct, Khajiit and Argonians are known to have sub races to let us know which, if you're a vampire let us know what clan you originate from.)
Gender: (obvious)

General Appearance (includes height, weight, build, and hair colour eye colour hair style facial hair, everything you can into this bit.)
Clothing/Armour: (Be aware that prisoners don't wear prada.)

General skills and talents: (Describe what your guy does best and why he is trained in that art. Tell us if he also likes to paint or sing, it all counts really. Don't just say "Heavy armour, Restoration, Destruction.", try to break out of the habits of game mechanics if you can.)

Personality and temperament: (Wets himself under pressure? She giggles furiously when she's scared? Goes quiet around strangers? It all goes here.)

Brief History: Doesn't have to be pages long just give us a general idea of your character and what he/she is about. Secondary characters (who are destined to die or just aren't that important) Can be left blank and developed along the way.

Misc: Couldn't fit something any where else? Put it here

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Bestiary,

The Black scale Undead, The first to be turned by the Sload's plague. These Argonians drank straight from the Hist, they are as strong and mobile as they where in life, and the only difference is now they are bloodthirsty and relentless. They identify their prey through the pheromones and hormones that the living still produce, so they will never attack another undead. Their scales and eyes are as black as the velvet night sky.

The Black Dead, The second strain of undead, not as fast or strong as the Black Scales due to the fact that they became undead during or after being eaten -- so some body parts and muscles may be missing. The majority of these undead are legionnaires (for now) but it isn't uncommon to see civilians amongst them. Be warned, they may still be heavily armoured even in death.

Miscellaneous,

We will be using http://s190.photobucket.com/albums/z10/leecarey_2007/cyrodiillargelowrescr7.jpg I will be adding a Key and marking certain things on the map as the story progresses (including our own groups should we separate and objectives should they arise.) The group will currently be starting at Blackrose (Specifically the prison.)

Current Objecteives:
1. Survive.
2. Escape Black Marsh.

Available Weapons

This is a survival RP NOT a hack an slash like the majority of Zombie RPs. Weapons and armour and even food is scarce and rare in these dire times -- horded by survivors who managed to escape before the rest of us. The reason behind this is i want you all to use your imagination and creativity to solve problems rather than your skill with a blade or finnesse with a bow. You see a zombie running towards you at full tilt and theres a river behind you? Crouch down and pivot him as he gets near, zombies cant swim. Find strength in the minds of your characters not just their arms

Improvised weapons: It can be anything you lay your hands on, arrows tied to the end of a mop to make a spear, a pan filled with rocks with a lid tied down to make a mace, a table leg or chair leg snapped to make a stake. Use your imagination because these weapons are all we have... For now.

Dramatis Personae

Solidor
Maximus Enveri: A man with noble routes but not so noble results, he is calm calculating and cold to the depths of his heart. Not to be trusted at all -- he has not known a single man since his legion days that he called friend and meant it. Currently in the Blackrose prison for crimes against the empire.

Rakasha: A Khajiit hailing from Elsweyr, he is relaxed and laidback and enjoys nothing more than lazing about, especially in the heat of the humid rainforests and vast swamps of Argonia, where he can barely gather the energy to move.

Atomic

Robert Thornley; An ex Argonian slave with a distinctive name, both a talented alchemist and herbalist -- his head contains more knowledge on the scientific arts than one would assume. He currently works as the prison healer in dire times of need due to his brief experiences with the use of restoration magic, but he can mostly be found mopping the floors of the prison under his janitorial title.

Jonasvault101

Long-Tail; an Argonian of varying talents, skilled with both a bow and javelin he is a keen marksman who enjoys playing a lute and fishing. Known to have illicit dealings in drug distribution -- He currently lives the quiet life working as the Prison cook to provide for his two children. His name is earned from his unusually long tail.

Shadowstrike

Tyros Camas: Noble Redguard blood runs in his veins. Man of wealth and respect. Sly, yet honest. Worker when needs to be, never when he wants to be. Many a man would like to be him, and many a woman would bear his child, but only for their hopeful greed, not his happiness.

Jerod_Kayne

Radik; a Jittery mentally unstable Argonian known to say strange things at stranger times; unlike the more common variety of Argonian's he is closer to the reptilian strain of root people, found in the northern reaches of Argonia - they are a rare sight in their native lands but can often be seen working as slaves in the northern lands of Morrowind. At first glance he looks more dead than alive, blending in perfectly with the undead around him to the untrained eye.

Lord_Dren
Soft-step Ojenjii: A Skilled bounty hunter hailing from the Elsweyr village of Moonmont, he is as bitter and short tempered as he is talented in the arts of Bounty hunting, a perilous profession few successfully survive in. Though his job requires that he be tough he harbours a soft spot for bother the young and elderly.

Fang123
Gro-Mal Magrak; A mountain sized Orc with a mountain sized temped (at times), he has a reputation as a capable and ferocious warrior back in his native home of high rock, but that reputation doesn't follow him to the prison where he is held -- instead he has a legendary reputation of being the only man in the prison who is a better fighter when drunk than sober, which has been proven true on a number of occasions, one such occasion leading to his incarceration in the Black Rose Prison.

Half-Tooth
Mee-Zaw; Alternatively known as Wet-Tail, a vampire Argonian of noble (or as noble as it can get in Argonia) descent, at a time she would have been responsible for a large number of people due to her lineage. She was born to leaders but abandoned her duties when she was graced with the dark gift. A practitioner of Mysticism and Alchemy with a notable fondness for swimming.

Ambrose51
Julius "Jules" Aurelius: A slacker and a layabout by nature, quick to anger and always lying. His exploits of bunking from work have led him to be posted away from the more glamerous garrisons into the Black marsh BlackRose prison, a position he loaths and continually thinks about deserting. Strangely enough, he has more in common with the prisoners than his fellow guardsmen.

Grizzly
Bill Hollins: Crusty old sailor with the heart of a warrior. Handy with his fists or a fishing pole, with an adventurous spirit the likes of which is rarely rivaled. He is also very fond of smoking his pipe and talking nonsense with good friends at all times.

» Sat May 28, 2011 11:01 am

Character sheets

Solidor

Name: Maximus Enveri
Nickname: Maxy
Age: Early 30's
Gender: Male
Race: Imperial
Birth sign; The steed

General Appearance: Maximus stands at around 5'10 in height, his toned body shows signs of military training and life but his dark brown eyes betray the coldness of a killer. His hair is shoulder length and braided -- one way to survive in prison was personal hygiene, insects and parasites never survived long in braided hair, or so a Redguard inmate taught him. He has a defined broad jaw line and slightly crooked nose as the result of a few brawls in his earlier years. His eyebrows are neat and well shaped which earns accusations that he plucks them.

Clothing/Armour: Due to the sweltering humid heat of the swamp he wears very little -- his prison attire is made up of knee length torn cotton pants, once black but faded to grey, tied with a thin tope belt at the waist. On top of this he wears a rough sand coloured prison shirt with the collar and sleeves ripped off, he usually leaves it unbuttoned. On his feet are a pair of leather soled and cloth shoes, durable enough to last but cheap enough to mass produce for prisoners.

General Skills and Talents: An ex legionnaire turned gladiator turned underworld hit man. His skills vary from tracking abilities and wilderness survival skill to armed combat with any weapon (such is a gladiators role). One talent he learnt while working with the underworlds criminals and enforcers is the skills of torturing. He is able to break the mind of any man with nothing more than a table, a burlap sack and a barrel of water. Apart from the skills he uses to survive and make his way in the world he also enjoys poetry, thanks to his mother. But he'd sooner kill than let that secret loose.

Personality and temperament: He has always been able to remain calm even under the most dire circumstances, thanks to his legionnaire training he has the ability to think objectively and logically in the face of danger or death. He laughs easily when around friends and has a habit of making sarcastic comments or witless banter when times are at their darkest -- it was a military thing, they had always done it to keep morale up. The biggest mistake anybody could ever make with Maximus is thinking that they could trust him, he had sold his own brother down the river for a promotion in the legion and he would sooner sacrifice some one else if it mean he was alive for five more minutes.

Brief History: Born to a family with a rich Military and political background Maximus followed in his fathers footsteps into the Imperial Legion; he rose through the ranks at an astonishing rate but eventually he abandoned the legion after seeing too many comrades die -- his only obstacle was his superior officer, who he was forced to kill to secure his release, a dark secret that was kept for many years.

After retiring from military life he sought his luck in the Arena, he fought for the entertainment of others for many years under the title of The Myrmidon, which was also a rank in the Imperial Arena. He eventually made it to the rank of Gladiator. His fame grew as did his purse and ego; attracting the eye of an underworld boss, a Khajiit named S'kravika, he was bribed to take a fall in the upcoming rank match. His opponent however didn't understand the concept of acting and tried to kill Maximus when he was down, Maximus managed to defend himself and put his oponent down, which of course attracted the fury of S'kravika who had also apparently paid off the second combatant to kill Maximus, a win win situation in both of their eyes.

On the run from underworld enforcers and City Guard alike he eventually found refuge in Bravil, where he made contacts and found work as a hitman and enforcer for the local gang boss -- an Argonian named Ten-Toes. Over they ears he rose in the ranks and eventually fond himself in black marsh, extorting a politician from the empire. He was caught and imprisoned in The Rose, a legendary prison in the city of Blackrose -- It would be the last place he saw while awaiting execution.

Misc: Has been known to sleep with the prison wardens daughter

Name: Rakasha
Age: Mid thirties
Race: Khajiit (Suthay-Raht)
Gender: Male
Birthsign: The Lover

General Appearance: Like many Suthay-Raht he is about as tall as the average Imperial at 5'9, he has been growing his mane since birth, it is long sleek and plaited, reaching his lower back. His fur is a sand colour with dark brown stripes along his back arms and legs, his torso is a creamy white complexion. His eyes are a fierce feline green.

Clothing/Armour: He wears nothing more than a pair of washed huntsman style pants (to accommodate for his tail) which are tied at the ankle with small lengths of rope and belted at the waist with an improvised leather belt, minus the clasp. Instead he uses an old buckle from his prison issue shoes to keep his belt closed. Apart from his pants he wears a pair of fingerless leather gloves. He prefers to be bare footed.

General skills and talents: Like all or most Khajiit acrobatics comes second nature to him, he is lithe limbers and flexible -- as a youth he enjoyed climbing the trees of Tenmar forest. A brilliant tactician in Guerrilla war fare (after many border disputes with the loathed Bosmer neighbours). He is against the use of conventional weapons and prefers hand to hand combat over armed combat.

Personality and temperament: Laid back to the extreme, decisions are hard to make to him as he is to indecisive, though when pushed he can quickly make one albeit usually the wrong choice to make. He usually lets his instincts take over when in a life threatening situation or when fighting. He is very trusting and will follow those he is loyal to any where.

Brief History: Born to a tribe close to the borders of Valenwood he had grown up as a keen warrior and fierce fighter, his father the tribes elder taught him everything he knew about guerrilla warfare and he employed it with eagerness that earned him many titles in his native language -- none of which he could possibly translate.

After some time he found himself in the city Senchal, where he got himself tangled up in the dealings of Skooma and Moon sugar -- eventually he was employed to smuggle a cargo hold full of drugs through Argonia to mainland Morrowind. He was unfortunately caught and imprisoned in The Rose, as far as he knows there is still a large bounty on his head for losing the cargo.

Misc: Has a horrifying phobia of slugs and snails

Atomic

Name: Robert Thornley
Age: 36
Race: Argonian ( Cyrodillian )
Gender: Male

General Appearance: Robert is an average-built argonian, not paticularly muscle-bound, but not exactly weak either. Standing at 5'10, he has a beaten and tortured appearance about him. His scales are deep crimson in colour, with patches of greyish-black on his chest, palms, and under his eyes. He has many scars and wounds, most notably an angry-looking scar down the the left side of his face ( That goes from just above the left eyebrow, through the eye, and ends above the jaw ) and several whip-scars on his back.

His eyes are the standard argonian blazing orange, but his left eye is lazy owing to the scar running through it and thus droops a little. He has one large dorsal-fin running down the side of his head. His teeth are sharper then the average argonians, giving him a shark-like appearance. He is missing the pinky finger on his right hand.

Clothing/Armour: Robert wears a very grubby orange cotton shirt, with obvious sweat patches under the armpit and embedded with dust and dirt. He always has his sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Over this shirt he has a vest resembling a waistcoat, but without buttons. It is made of green leather, and is lined with sheeps wool on the inside for those cold nights. A large leather belt runs diagonally across his chest with a grand pewter buckle just above his right briast. He wears a red silk tie.

Below the waist he wears standard leather-armoured pants, torn in several places and then crudely patched. He has thick fur boots, tan in colour and again lined with wool inside. He wears great thick leather welders gloves that ride up to the middle of the forearm.

General skills and talents: Robert has learnt a fair amount of scientific knowledge both in his studies and in his time spent working in the mine. He is a keen herbalist and alchemist, making him adept and taking common flora and turning it into all manner of potions. His medical knowedge is also rather experienced, and although he knows little restorative magic; he can bandage, splint, and heal just as good as any other magic-user. He is rather tactile, and is a well-read and literate argonian.

Personality and temperament: Robert is extremely mentally fragile owing to years of abuse at the hands of his masters. When put under extreme mental stress, he can snap and do things otherwise out of the ordinary. He is a jittery creature, but hardly cowardly or weak-minded. He can handle himself under most situations, but when he does "lose it", it's often very serious.

Despite this, is a generally friendly and well-meaning argonian. He has a mother-like quality about him, and enjoys nurturing and caring after others.

Brief History: Robert cant remember his original birth-name. Infact, most of his memories were clouded in pain when he was taken to morrowind at a very young age and sold as a slave to a paticularly nasty Imperial mine-owner in the ashlands. He was named "Robert" by the Imperial family on the spot and sent down to work in the family mine.

By day he would push himself to physical exhaustion below the ground, learning alot about chemicals and alchemy in the process...and by night he would return to his meagre quarters and spend his time reading books and scrolls lent to him by one of the families more sympathetic daughters. The mine failed with time, the family went bankrupt ,and he was released. Eventually returning to Black Marsh, he came across the prison whilst drifting. Despite racial differences, he has become quite good friends with some of the less-prejudiced guards there and works as a janitor...being allowed to sleep in one of the old cells. However, his medical skill means he is sometimes utilised as a part-time medic or basic doctor when the need arises.

Misc: Civilian status.

Jonasvault101

Name: Long-Tail (Civilian
Age: 27
Race: Argonian
Gender: Male

General Appearance: 5'9" in height, 140 lbs, athletic build somewhat bulky in the chest and arms as well as thighs, orange scales on his chest and the inside of his thighs with Dark green scales covering the outer parts of his body, the 3 frills on his head stand 7 inches in length and lay back a bit, spikes also protrude in between the frills, his eye color is green and look just like lizard eyes. On his back is a pattern that was hammered into his scales on the day of his name-giving, its a strange Argonian pattern known only to his family. His tale is 4 feet long, giving him the name Long Tail.

Clothing/Armour: Baggy thick cloth pants with cloth wraps around his calves, Leather vambraces, a very thick Leather Vest.

General skills and talents: An amazing archer and and javelin thrower from spending years in the waters of Black Marsh, with guerrilla warfare rife in the Jungles. Long Tail is also quite skilled with some blades such as scimitars and other curved blades. He loves to fish and hunt as well as play a mean lute, he can also fix a nice stew once in a while.

Personality and temperament: Ultimately he is calm under pressure, or seems that way anyways. His heart pounds, adrenaline pumps and he gets things done. He can take command or follow orders in the blink of an eye. He doesn't get along with Imperials very well.

Brief History: Long-Tail was just an Argonian born in a small bayou village in the Southern reaches of Black Marsh near Blackrose. Fishing and marshmarrow farming were the main sources of trade for the town. He got into the Drug smuggling business when he was 16 and has seen his fair share of action on both ships and in the swamps. He married a nice Argonian girl and has two hatchlings.

He has a nice life in Argonia...

Misc: Carries a satchel of jerky and a flask of water.

Shadowstrike

Name: Tyros Camas.
Age: 32.
Race: Redguard.
Gender: male.

General Appearance: Torlin is quite normal, at 6'2 he is a good 187 pounds. He, like most Redguards, is tanned and fair skinned. His build is also of normality, while more muscles than some, he is still couldn't lift an axe above his head. His hair is past ear length, and some tied back with a piece of cloth. Brown eyes, brown hair and a light beard. Just a few gray hairs that aren't that noticeable.

Clothing/Armour: His attire is that of better quality, as he is not a prisoner. Just simple loose leggings, a pair of Hog Skin shoes, and a loose tied collar shirt, untied. The materials used could be confused with silk, but only in sight. Refuses to wear leather, even for protection. Leather in Black Marsh is a mistake. His pants are of thin cotton, though can still be discomforting. His native Hammerfell could be hot, but not this hot.

General skills and talents: Agile for a Redguard, but nowhere near as good as a Khajiit. He can scale some buildings, but prefers not to. A charismatic and sly man in tongue, worked his way into trouble more times than out of it. In Hammerfell, when he was young, he used to fence, so he has foggy remembrance of 'proper' attack and defense.

Personality and temperament: Tyros is cool and relaxed, though not lazy. If it comes to work, he is usually slow to it, but talk a bit and he'll come around. Dedicated to what he wants to be, an angry when people don't respect that. Slow to rage, but when at said rage, loses most common sense, he'll sooner crack your skull then realize it.

Brief History: Tyros was born in Hammerfell, and lived there most his life. Born into a wealthy family, though not a noble, he was better off than most. parents funded a few minor organizations, some of which wouldn't be spoken of around him. He paid for fencing lessons when a small farming community close by was raided. His skill was good, but he still often lost rather than won.

Tyros moved to Argonia at age 30, only two years back. He brought a small fortune of savings with him. He settled in the town of Blackrose, and donated to the prison near by. He was never to keen on Argonians and Khajiits, though he was never rude or disrespectful to them. He just never met one who was honorable. Blame his upbringing. As he donated, he often visited the prison warden to see his money was of good use, and, mostly, it was. Mostly...

Misc: Small leather bands, and two bottles of Cryodiil's Tamika's West Weald Wine.

.

Jerod_Kayne

Name: Radik
Age: 18
Race: Argonian
Gender: Male
Birthsign: The Serpent

General Appearance: In a way, he himself looks like a zombie - if one was not observant, they could possibly mistake the Argonian for one of the undead. He has suffered from extreme weight loss via mental conditions and has enough scars, bruises, and stains that he could play dead, very effectively. His arms are not in the best condition either, he is missing a pinky, and part of his index finger on his left hand. Radik's leg's are actually quite a different story, the lower sections of his body is pretty intact and healthy. The Argonian has strong legs for running, and a very long flexible tail. However, unlike his Cyrodiil dwelling kin, Radik is of more reptilian anatomy - Long curved claws in place of finger and toe nails, and very familiar lizard-like feet.

His scales were once a piercing green, with traces of blue and orange. but those are buried under the stains of dirt, blood and sweat. One of his head-fins, has been nearly completely torn off, which may or may not be the cause of major migraines Radik experiences from time to time.
Clothing/Armour: The remains of a raggedy old leather trousers.

Weapons: If you don't include his claws and teeth, then none.

General skills and talents: Radik has found that he is incredibly limber and flexible - able to break into things, or hide where most things can't. As a bonus for his limberness, The lizard is talented in the arts of Hand-to-hand combat, and maneuverability. He can run and climb faster then many, and can go unseen if he so wishes.

Personality and temperament: A very bizarre fellow, Radik likes passing time by having in-depth conversations with inanimate objects, such as rocks. He's very silent around strangers, or people he does not trust, but can grow to be incredibly annoying around people he is comfortable with. A few mental problems renders Radik a bit stranger then some, he tends to say odd and completely random things. He also has the tendency of getting hurt ... a lot.

At times where he is dealing with a lot of emotion, Radik will react with two fronts. He'll either bottle up his feelings, and let them all out of something else. Or, run and try to hide from his burden, unaware that it follows him wherever he goes.

Brief History: Radik was never so strange from the get-go, in fact, he was probably the most normal child you ever could have met. He was obedient, loyal, and had quite a lot of friends.
Until one horrifying night, Radik's parents were brutally murdered. But not just murdered, they were butchered before the young Argonian's very eyes.

That night had put a serious emotionally and mental burden on his mind, and he has not been fine since then. Futilely seeking ways to deal with the pain, Radik was placed on the wrong side of the law and society. He had become an outcast, constantly being throw into prison and escaping with a wagon-full of scars and bruises.

Misc:
-Beds give him nightmares
-All of his friends are either imaginary, or inanimate
-Has a staggering fear of Khajiit and fire

Lord_Dren

Name: Soft-Step Ojenjii
Age: 30
Race: Khajiit/ Suthay-Raht(sp?)
Gender: Male

General Appearance Ojenjii stands at 5'9", has a typically slender Khajiit build, weighs 180 lbs., and thick beige fur with black strieks down his back.
Clothing/Armour: Boiled netch leather cuirass and greaves with a pair of dark brown commoner clothes underneath

General skills and talents: Ojenjii is considerably skilled in tracking as well as hunting. His profession demands this much at the least. He is also an expert of illusion and lockpicking. The illusion is used to mask his escape or blind targets. He longrange weapons including bows, halberds, or spears.

Personality and temperament: Ojenjii is a dedicated bounty hunter, as so has adopted an almost bitter personality. Despite being so short-tempered, he does have a soft spot for both children and elderly folk. In some cases he's even went as far as refusing contracts involving the capture of elderly peoples. Ojenjii has only befriended those who've proven their trust.

Brief History: Ojenjii hails from a small village called Moonmont, located in the southeast of Valenwood. One of few Khajiit tribes in Valenwood, he stuck close to family throughout most of his life. Having discovered his talents useful in the arts of stealth and deception, he left Moonmont, as well as Valenwood, in order to pursue his luck as a bounty hunter. His latest contract led him to the prisons of Blackrose, Black Marsh. He's currently escorting a Breton accused of murder to the prison there to be held for trial.

Extra Characters:
Bok-gro-Durgap (Orc villager in Blackrose)
Astian Thelus (Breton prisoner)
Ming Shiva(Altmer villager in Blackrose)

Misc:

Fang123

Name: Gro-Mal Magrak
Nickname: Gromal
Age: 31
Race: Orc
Gender: Male

General Appearance: Massive, like most orcs, his muscles stick out, like his six-pack does. His skin is a dark green, yet has a tint of white.
His nostrils are quite big, matching his snout. His tusks stick out quite long, both yellow.
His eyes are black, again, like most orcs. His black hair is quite long and ragged, from fights and such.
Clothing/Armour: At the moment, Gromal is topless, as he refuses to wear a shirt while imprisoned. His pants are baggy, and ripped. He wears cloth sandals.

General skills and talents: Gromal is mostly a close-combat guy. he is useless at archery, he hasn't even bothered trying magic. He can use a wide variety of weaponry, from spears to war hammers, though he prefers the latter. He is a mighty fine drinker, and usually fights better drunk. He uses heavy armor mainly, usually forging them himself. He is handy repairing things, and can make a fine brew!

Personality and temperament: Gromal's personality can change from time to time. Some days he has a really short temper, and will go berserk for no apparent reason. Others he can be calm, think about his actions. he was always the "black sheep" as a child. To creatures and enemies, he acts first, then doesn't think at all. While drunk, he would most likely fight anyone.

Brief History: Gromal was born in a camp, somewhere in High Rock. Both of his parents were adventurers, mercenaries for hire. So he was a naturally born traveler, and for the most of his early years he grew up Orisnium, as did most of the Magrak family.
As a child, he broke most of his toys. This showed great strength, so before he knew it, he was smashing stones with a repairing hammer, at the age of one!
At the age of 8, he could wield long daggers, and wandered the suburbs, stabbing rats and large insects.
By 14, he could already use spears and the sword/shield combo. He made is first real kill that age too - a large wolf made the mistake of wandering too close to his little campsite.
At 15, he joined in with his mother and father's travels, visiting most of the provinces. He never reached Morrowind and Summerset, he felt uncomfortable going to both.
By 18, he had finally chosen his career as a traveling mercenary and blacksmith, visiting most provinces. He was always the drinker, draining every pub dry of it's alcoholic stock. He found that he fought better drunk, for no apparent reason. Some mages say it's in his genes, that the alcohol does something to his bloodstream.
Drink more, kill more Gromal calls it, ignoring the setails. He was never the clever one, coming close to death at least a dozen times.
During the Oblivion Crisis, he stayed in the Orc controlled High Rock, slaying many Daedra and even closed two gates. His father died battling a group of Daedroths - Gromal has had a hatred of them ever since.

Misc: Prisoner, he ended up in the Black Marsh prison in a mere bar brawl, which turned out to killing two guards.

Half-Tooth

Primary Character

Name: Mee-Zaw or Wet-Tail
Age: 103
Race: Argonian vampire (because I love vampires just that much

)
Birth sign: The Antronach
Gender: Female

General Appearance: Mee-Zaw has lots of small spikes covering the back of her head and has cream scales with a bluish tint. She would be considered beautiful by argonian standards. Like all argonian vampires her eyes are plain white. She is closer to the reptilian strain of Hist Argonians, found in the northern reaches of Argonia - they are a rare sight in their native lands but can often be seen in the land of Morrowind where they where once kept as slaves but now roam free, Her legs are distinctively more reptilian, with elongated feet that make her legs look like they have a 3rd joint bellow the knee and above the ankle.
Clothing/Armour: Anything plain and simple that will dry quickly. However right now she wears a greyish blue tattered robe.

General skills and talents: Mee-Zaw is one of the fastest swimmers in the Black Marsh, she knows how to fight with her nothing but her body, teeth, claws and tail, she is also gifted with Mysticism magic. Her mother taught her as much about Alchemy and cooking as she possibly could. She can speak in argonian and Cyrodilic and knows how to read and write unlike a lot of other argonians. She enjoys reading and writing whenever she can.

Personality and temperament: Mee-Zaw always puts others before herself and is generally shy; she will often wear the hood up on her robe to hide her face and what she really is. She has never met another like herself and is unsure of what she really is or what she is capable of. She believes herself to be eternally cursed and tries to make up for her mistakes by helping everyone she meets as much as possible.
Inside herself she in turmoil, she can sometimes be very primitive and almost like an animal. As this is how people treat argonians and vampires she sees her self worth as less than nothing. Any kindness towards her she is grateful for but sometimes she doesn't know how to respond and makes the situation worse.
And when life gets just too much she goes for a swim.

Brief History: Mee-Zaw is the daughter of one of the argonian Elders. There was a lot of pressure for her to choose a suitable mate and be ready to look after the tribe when her father passed on but the pressure was too much for her to bear so she ran away.

In her time away she came into vampire territory and in her shame of running away and letting her family down she let herself become a vampire. She has spent the last 80 years tracking down slave traders and taking them as her victims. She did this out of guilt for letting her tribe down and she has worked tireslessly trying to make amends.

Misc: As Mee-Zaw's birth sign is that of the Antronach she cannot regenerate her own magicka.

Ambrose51

Name: Julius "Jules" Aurelius
Age: 26
Race: Imperial
Gender: Male

General Appearance: Julius is an average Imperial, standing at 5'11" and weighing roughly 210lbs. He has raven black hair that is cropped short per Legion standard, though it's at least neatly combed as he refuses to wear a helmet. He has green eyes and a bit of scruff for a goatee, but no real facial hair.

He's well built and muscular, as one would expect of a soldier, though he lacks the scars most have, showing only a small gash on his right arm below the elbow that left only a faint scar. He has very gaunt cheeks and his face often looks sickly although he's in perfect health.

Clothing/Armour: He wears an old, worn, linen shirt that has seen better days, although it's at least some protection from the environment, as well as matching linens for his pants. He isn't a very wealthy man, and the small coin earned in the Marshes only goes so far. In addition to his clothing, he has the typical Legion armor, minus the gauntlets and helmet, although he only wears them when forced.

General skills and talents: Julius is, generally speaking, good at swinging things. Whether that's a hammer, a sword, or a bottle, he loves to toss things around and he can put a lot of force behind them when necessary. He's good at talking his way out of work as well, and lying may as well be second nature. He has a knack for playing the harmonica as well, which unfortunately is a skill that has gone mostly unappreciated thus far.

He knows a bit of magic, and can throw some shock spells around in a pinch, but he'd be more likely to kill himself with a healing spell than actually heal anything.

Personality and temperament: Julius is very easy to anger, especially when one of his plans to slack off gets found out. His temperament is what landed him in the marshes in the first place, which has left him rather bitter towards the Legion as a whole. He has no problem fraternizing with the prisoners, and often finds more in common with them than the other guards.

He is, generally speaking, friendly, loud, and outgoing. Something definitely unappreciated considering the circumstances.

Brief History: Julius was born in Bravil and joined the Legion to escape the poverty there. Obviously, considering he's now in Black Marsh, that didn't work out well. Julius has continually considered abandoning his post, but since he's in the middle of nowhere geography wise, he came to the conclusion that that wouldn't work out well.

Additional characters: Sorian (Redguard prisoner.)

Grizzly

Name:Bill Hollins
Age: 62
Race: Redgaurd/Bosmer
Gender: Male

Physical Appearance: Bill is a short but spry old man. He is 5'4 on his tiptoes and not a pound over 155. His short, unkempt white hair sticks out at odd angles and is constantly partner to a dark green green bandanna tied round his head like a headband. Thanks to his elvish father, his normal Redgaurd appearance is marred by pointy ears and an inability to grow any facial hair what so ever. He is by no means heavily muscled, and often adopts the appearance of a frail and rather crazy old man. Despite this he is lean, tough, and much stronger than he seems.

Clothing/Armor: Apart from his bandanna, Bill wears a pair of long, green cloth shorts and a dirty white undershirt. Across his thin waist he ties a brown string as a belt and wears no shoes, preferring to go about barefoot.

General skills and talents: First and foremost Bill is a sailor. Navigation is his forte but he is also an adept swimmer and angler. An all around waterman, quickness and balance come naturally to him. Using this to his advantage, he is a very skilled hand to hand fighter, only too eager to throw his weight and body around. Other then hand to hand he is a generally unskilled combatant, though enjoys using spears to poke and anger his foes when he can.

Personality and temperament: Bill is quite eccentric and often teeters on the edge of insanity. He has very little reason for his actions and most of time can't recall what he's done or why he did it. He is not at all patient and is easy to set off at the slightest of words and quite frankly fearless. Despite this he likes almost everyone he meets and tends to overwhelm them with the enthusiasm of his friendship. When he is depressed however, his mood may not change for months.

Brief history: Bill was an orphan as a child and grew up on the docks of Anvil. He often worked as a deck hand to score a few coins now and then, and was raised by the rough and tumble merchant traders who operated out of the harbor. At the age of sixteen he won a small fishing vessel in a game of cards. He left that night and never returned to Anvil. Wishing to see the wonders of the world he set out north, hugging the coast. When he got hungry he would fish and when he needed to, he would go ashore and explore the strange lands into which he had ventured. In this fashion, over many, many years, he sailed almost the full perimeter of Tamriel. His sailing was put to an end however, when he fired his single cannon on a Imperial Navy galleon who refused to buy fish from him. This being off the coast of Blackmarsh, he was accordingly jailed there indefinitely in an imperial prison.

Misc-Bill has a fondness for smoking from a curved, wooden, long stemmed pipe which he keeps on himself at all times.

Krimsin

Name: Xa-raku
Age: 30-35
Race: Argonian - Yaksha Tribe
Gender: Male

General Appearance: 200 lbs, 6'3. Muscular, but slim and unimposing except for height. Scales are Black and Dark Green, eyes are standard Argonian orange, two fins protrude from the top of his head and extend backward. Possessed of a fair number of scars, mainly across his chest and hands/wrists. Most of them appear to be simple pale patches or discolourations in his scales.
Clothing/Armour: Sack cloth pants, sandals, iron wrist shackles.

General skills and talents:
-Martial Arts: Xa-raku was highly-trained in Unarmed Combat by a Yaksha Warrior named Lin-Koh, who at the time had developed the fighting style to help slaves escape from their captors and defend themselves against the creatures of the wilderness. He also has reasonable training with staffs and spears, but generally doesn't use them unless greatly outnumbered or faced with a particularly resilient foe.
-Free-Running: Being highly flexible and agile, Xa-raku has also been taught how to navigate almost any terrain effectively in order to elude one's pursuers. This also includes water; he has learned how to jump off of its surface.
-Dancing: Again, in part due to his flexibility and coordination, Xa-raku is a good dancer.
-Philosophy: As a monk, he is possessed of some insight and wisdom, although not nearly as much as his old master.
-Toughened Body: The training methods that Xa-raku underwent were highly rigorous, most of which involved applying physical stress to the body repeatedly in order to strengthen it once it healed. This gives him a high resistance to blunt instruments and other crushing attacks of any kind.
-Wilderness Survival: He has lived in the Black Marsh for most of his life, and has grown more than accustomed to the harsh environment, even managing to thrive in it.
-Speech: His understanding of the Cyrodiilic language is above average for his race....in theory. His pronounciation still rings thick with an Argonian accent, but his grammar and literate ability is quite good. Incidentally, he tends to use this when he can to resolve disputes before they escalate. He has been trained to look for alternatives to violence whenever possible.
-Meditation: Xa-raku can calm himself, rest, recuperate using meditation techniques. Afterwards, he will also be much more alert, focused, and quick-thinking.

Personality and temperament: Xa-raku's personality is steeped in contradictions. He has been trained to fight from an early age, but also to avoid conflict. He is the leader of the Greenglade martial arts school, but often takes too long to make decisions and sometimes thinks of the task as a burden, preferring to take a more direct approach to helping people. Xa-raku holds a rather close attachment to the Hist, and would be horrified by any misuse of it. This corruption of the Hist tree is perhaps worse in his eyes than anything the Dunmer or the Empire have ever done in recent memory, and it will probably take a substantial amount of his discipline and concentration not to openly seek bloody revenge on the ones who instigated this. Contrary-wise, it will take a considerable amount of effort to even attempt to fight back against those who were once his brethren, rather than simply flee. His knowledge of Tamrielic history is lacking, with the only real knowledge of recent events centering around the Oblivion Crisis.

Brief History: Born and raised in Black Marsh, Xa-raku's parents saw the dangers of the dunmer slave trade and thought it best to leave him somewhere safe. They put him in the care of Lin-koh, a veteran of the Arnesian War who had begun training argonians in unarmed combat. This style of Black Marsh Martial Arts was designed to help the slaves defend themselves, to flee their captors when given the opportunity, to fight even when they had no weapons, and to turn their disadvantages into their strengths. It emphasized agility and flexibility, as well as asymmetrical warfare and constant awareness of one's surroundings. Acrobatic maneuvers were commonplace, and it was crucial to be able to navigate terrain that would be difficult or impossible for a heavily armored or mounted opponent to cross. Other techniques involved breaking restraints, slipping out of shackles, and generally being difficult to capture.

In short, it was perfect for any Argonians seeking refuge from the slave trade. Even after slavery was abolished in Morrowind, there were always the few bold criminals seeking to profit from prisoners. Xa-raku was taught well in the art, until the old Lin-koh passed away in his sleep, leaving all he had to his student. Once this happened, he and Luah, a previous lover of his, grew distant. After the Oblivion Crisis, she left the school out of frustration with his unwillingness to act. He came to Blackrose looking for her. Partly trying to see if she was doing alright on her own, and partly just wanting to see her again, he soon found out that Luah had left the town some months earlier. Xa-raku was not so lucky, as it turns out Luah had crossed some members of the Dark Brotherhood, and so he became implicated in their plot in which he had no actual involvement, resulting in his incarceration.

Misc: The Yaksha tribe of Argonians, based around Black Marsh's mid-eastern rivers, are known for two things: Being polite and friendly to strangers, and being vicious and deadly to enemies. Their highest concentration is in Greenglade, and their proximity to Helstrom gives them a better-than-average relationship with the Empire, however visitations by either party are still rare. Many Yaksha have a love of gold trinkets and jewelry, and the amount of gold adorning one's body is often indicative of status, although this is not absolute (Xa-raku himself wears no jewelry). This makes them peculiarly eager to trade with Imperials (Or alternatively, to steal from travelling merchants).

While Xa-raku does not particularly like the Dark Brotherhood, he still trains them on occasion. Many a Shadowscale has paid him to teach them his art, and he, choosing not to judge them, obliges.

» Sat May 28, 2011 3:55 am

Black Rose Prsion

The silence that fell on the landscape was thicker than mist on a snow-capped mountain; every one was speechless, a battle had been fought and mere minutes later the area was empty? devoid of life. Maximus opened his mouth to talk but no words came -- his brain wasn't operating, he was just frozen.

"Should we? should we look for survivor?" He asked, looking around at the chunks of bodies and organs littering the ground amongst discarded arrows and broken supply crates. "Or should we look for supplies?"

He doubted anybody could have survived whatever it was that swept over the prison facility; it looked like a take no prisoner's macabre massacre, whoever did this was professional or blood thirsty? or both. Slowly he began to make his way forward through the mood and blood -- a mix of both seeped into his cloth shoes as he squelched his way towards the supply crates.

Unfortunately, they didn't have the one thing he was looking for, food. In times of desperation and survival food and clean water was more important than the sharpest of blades and thickest of armour, he wouldn't get very far if he had no energy to lift his sword. What he did find was prisoner clothing -- they must have been expecting a fresh batch of inmates to order in such large supply. Without hesitation he began to tear some of the clothes up, trying them together to make an improvised length of rope -- then he retrieved two arrows imbedded into the floor near by and tied them as tightly and securely as possible to the end of his table leg. At least he wasn't completely unarmed like some of the prisoners.

"Maybe we should all pitch in and try and find some answers or supplies? Who knows the way to the armoury?" He called back to the group of prisoners fresh from captivity, who where all stood where he left them.

* * *

Meanwhile

Rakasha walked at a leisurely pace through the corridors of the prison; he hadn't been outside so he wasn't very worried about what had happened. All he knew was that he was free and there where no guards to stop him strolling out of the prison without a care in the world.

However, he had a few stops to make first. He was headed to the Guards armoury -- he knew that Black Marsh was a dangerous place and if the bandits and pirates didn't get you the wild life would, so he decided to arm himself.

He found the door to the armoury ajar; it was usually locked and had a guard or two stationed outside of it, whatever had happened here must have been serious. Without pausing or even caring, very much he pushed the door open and walked through to find it mercilessly empty. Every shelf and weapons rack had nothing more than dust upon them, every guard most have been mobilised to deal with whatever had attacked them, the thought didn't comfort Rakasha very much.

"Maybe the kitchens? might have some food left over." He said aloud to no one in particular, it was a habit of saying what he was thinking that made him a useless sneak thief or assassin -- not that he wanted to be any one of those professions any way.

Again, he began to stalk the halls but this time his calm demeanour had been replaced by a certain jittery paranoid gait, his tail stuck out behind him completely straight and unmoving. He wasn't sure why that happened when he was scared, it was just one of those things people develop as children and never grow out of, His father used to nickname him stiff tail as a cub -- he didn't realise he did it until he was a teenager.

When he reached the kitchen it was a mess, all of the knives and many cooking utensils had been taken -- either looted by whoever attacked or used by the guards as improvised weaponry. Whatever happened it didn't quite sit well with Rakasha, he was starting to get nervous any it showed.

He managed to force his nerves aside however when he found one thing that may come in handy -- a two pronged fork used to skewer meat, about six inches longs. It wasn't as sharp as a knife but it had two points and was quite solid, it would do. He hooked it to his belt as he set about pulling the head of a broom so he could tie it in place? Then his world stopped as a stack of plates to the back of the kitchen fell to the floor with an ungodly crash.

OOC:

Edited Ambrose's character to the Sheet list and Dramatis persona, also added an "Available Weapons" section which will be updated to include available weapons (as the name suggests) over time.

As for the plates, anybody who wants to be in the kitchen (most likely the cook) could have done that, if not. Guess I'm fighting a zombie.

Please avoid encountering any undead until every one gets a post in and interacts with/ gets ready/ introduces themselves to the rest of the characters -- or the characters in their vicinity.

EDIT: Lord Drens character sheet and summary have been added to the sheet list and dramatis persona respectively.

» Sat May 28, 2011 5:06 pm

Radik groaned angrily as he sat down, pressing his face against the black iron bars of his cell. At least four to five feet away, a small iron ring with a key melded in it. The key to his cell, obviously. The lizard had been trying to sneakily steal the keys off of the guard stationed in this hallway without him noticing. Radik was close to obtaining his goal, until the guard was called away for the emergency; some sort of attack on the prison itself.
The skinny reptile eyed the keys, throwing a very concentrated devilish glare at the metal object, as if trying to use his mind to bring the keys to him. Radik wrapped his long fingers around the rusty-black bars of his cage. The bars were placed with little space between so that the tip of his snout was poking out of the cell. With a lick of his lips, Radik decided that it was time to act, it was only a matter of time before the attackers turned their attention to the interior of the prison.

Using one of his long gaunt arms, the Argonian reached out as far as his limb would let him, reaching out to grab freedom. It was so close yet so far. The silence of the hallway was what really irked him; he was used to noise, the guards communing, some of the prisoners throwing insults both at each other and the armed patrolling soldiers. The only sound he could hear was the sound of his excited breath. He sighed in defeat, before turning around and sitting with his back against the bars.
Radik threw a small glance towards the small bench in the cell, on the stained and rotten bench sat a small gray rock. Or in case, Radik's only 'cell mate'.

''At least I'm trying to free myself...'' The lizard hissed at the stone, ''Your the one who wanted to wait for a rescue!''

This was one of the main reasons why the cell's Radik was placed in were devoid of life, save for an occasional rat or mouse. Radik's strangeness made him normally disliked amongst the other prisoners. Sometimes to the point where they tried to kill him. So the guards put him under 'protective custody', either to protect him from the prisoners or to protect them from Radik's metal stability and overall weirdness.

''No one's going to rescue us, all of the guards are either dead or running for their lives...'', he said despairingly, his tail swayed side-to-side across the rough stone ground, and that's when the odd lizard noticed something. His tail was outside of the cell, and more importantly the tip was resting on top of the key-ring.

''Huh.'' Radik mused, smugly grinning to himself as he maneuvered his tail to curl around the ring like a constricting snake with it's prey. It seemed freedom was well within his grasp, he was just to desperate to escape.
With the keys in hand, Radik unlocked the cell door - opening it with a loud metallic screech. He peered out, looking both ways down the hall before turning back to the cell and grabbing his rock friend and setting off.

ooc: Radik's cell is located in a different area then Soliders and them. Hope thats alright...

» Sat May 28, 2011 4:42 pm

Mee-Zaw closed her eyes and let herself sink slowly under the water. She could feel it between her scales, it's silky flowing form flowing over her. It was one of the only places she felt truely calm. She felt a sudden ripple in the water and recognised it as a fish swimming close to her unaware of her because of her lack of body heat. She playfully snapped at the fish and watched it dart away into the murky depths of the swamp. The argonian paused for a second, she could hear strange sounds, it didn't help that they were distorted by the water.
Mee-Zaw rose her head slowly from the water and left just her eyes and ears poking over the surface like a crocodile would.
Screaming? She thought to herself. and fighting? Slave traders taking more people of the root away from their homeland? They are unwanted here! a low snarl escaped her as she emerged from the swamp water and walked towards the sounds of fighting.

As she walked she pulled her hood up to shroud her face in darkness, it sounded like there were a lot of people around and she could not afford to be seen. She had made the mistake of being seen as a vampire before and it had not done her any favours. As she drew closer to the source of all the commotion she made herself invisible, she could feel the spell tingling on her scales as it made her disappear, she felt much safer when invisible, it meant she didn't have to worry about being singled out, she was singled out for 2 reasons, one; she was a person of the root which therefore made her slave material, and two; she was a vampire and most people either ran in terror from her or tried to kill her, so being invisible was refreshing.

A prison? Mee-zaw thought when she reached the place where the terrible sounds had been coming from. But now it was eerily silent. Looks like a prison break out the guards were dead as were quite a large number of prisoners and most of the doors wide open. No thats not right. A prison break out doesn't leave everyone dead.
She tilted her head in a thoughtful position as she looked at the scene before her, she had never seen anything like this before in her life. What ever happaned here does not come under the title of ordinary. She walked towards the main front door which was swinging on just one of it's hinges and entered the prison.

Mee-Zaw recited a poem to herself as she walked, it was a hist poem about an argonian and a khajiit who fought ferociously until they realised they were of comepltely equal strengths and became close companions. She loved speaking in her mother tongue, the tongue of root and tree, they seemed to fit her mouth so much better than the clumsy language of the Imperials which made her mouth hurt after she spoke it for too long.
The argonina looked in each room she passed but saw nothing except deserrted rooms and the occasional dead body. However she could smell someone alive. She was not at a desperate state of thirst and heat loss just yet but it never hurt keep herself topped up. Maybe the person she could smell was the one responsible for this, and responsible for bringing this to her homeland.
She sniffed the air and got a large waft of something vaguely exotic and spicey, there was no mistaking that scent. It was a khajiit. Why would a khajiit do this to a prison in Argonia? As far as Mee-Zaw knew, they had no quarrle with the cat people of Elsweyr, they were brothers and sisters in slavery.

Mee-Zaw entered the room and quickly noticed it was a kitchen, she looked around and saw the khajiit in question. He looked more like an escaped prisoner than anything else. He is an escaped prisoner thats why.Why would a khajiit want to break into a prison anyway? Maybe to set his skooma dealing friends free? She wasn't sure who this cat was but she was curious to find out why he was one of the only survivors here.
Mee-Zaw made to move towards him but on of her horns nudged a stack of plats on the shelves and sent them crashing to the floor. She hissed in suprise and forgot her invisibility spell instantly causing her crouching body to come into veiw.

» Sat May 28, 2011 10:33 am

Robert Thornley

I see...you say my daughter had been sneaking books into his cabin? Uh huh...yes. Alright....

Mr. Perry, hold him over the desk. I will tolerate no insubordination amongst those who work for me. Drenim, the whip, please....

He screamed as he awoke, hands gripping the tufts of hay that made his makeshift bed in fear, and mouth agape with terror. A relieved sigh soon followed. He was not there anymore. The sun-lit office, the polished oak table, the exquisite chandelier...

...The blood-soaked floor. The whip. The henchmen....All gone, for now.

He pulled himself to his feet, rubbing his face with his gloved hand before scanning the room. Nothing, just him and his meagre possessions. The cup filled with water beside his bed had been knocked over in the nightmare, and had spilled onto some of his parchments.

That's just no good... he mumbled in dissapointment. Good literature should never be wasted, and he would often read the same book over and over again...relishing in the words, moods, and imagery. Still, there was no time to mourn the loss of his letters. The corridor seemed especially dark today, barely visible even. The torches had been extinguished save for one that he could clearly see down the hall, swinging from the roof on a chain. It was eerie. Something had happened.

He fumbled around whilst his eyes adjusted to the dark before unlocking the clasp to his room and stepping out into the blackness of the corridor. It was near impossible to see, and he could only vaguelly make out the shadow of his hand. The floor had a paticularly sticky quality to it, and he could feel himself walking over small objects as he made his way down the hall towards the kitchen.

What had happened? Blackrose was by all means a foreboding place, but it was never this uneasy. There were no echoes of speaking, no clamour of the guards, no chatting amongst the prisoners. It was quiet. It was dark. And it was cold.

The thought made him squirm, and he quicked pace. It may of been dark, but he knew the prison layout by the back of his hand. Another left at this junction, then a right.... His instincts had not failed him, and he pushed forward on the door.

There was a mighty crash as plates fell to the ground. For a moment the combination of noise and sudden light within the room had startled the Argonian, but eventually he had adjusted and figured out the reason behind such a crash. An argonian in the room, a strange looking one at that, had accidentally knocked over some plates. There was a Khajiit in the room too....could they both of been responsible?

"You!" he exclaimed to both of the mysterious figures, "Do you have any idea what is going on?"

EDIT: Bugger! Half Tooth beat me to the post! XD Anyhoo, I have fixed it up now.

» Sat May 28, 2011 2:47 pm

Long-Tail was simply working in the kitchen, making the nights' supper for the guards who had been lazing about. He didn't mind cooking, he liked it in fact, but if he got his hands on a bow and 10 arrows the guards could be thrown in swamp in the blink of an eye. However, living as a cook in the prison was better than being a prisoner himself.

"Ah, the damned eggs!" shouted Lon-Tail as he noticed a pan was searing with scrambled eggs on it. He quickly took it off the stove. Suddenly a scream was heard outside that made Long-Tail jump and become alert. Fighting and yelling were the only sounds heard from outside the dense walls of the kitchen. What in the name of Talos is going on?, Long-Tail thought to himself.

Suddenly, dead silence was the only thing that remained from within and without Blackrose. Long-Tail got one of his feelings, feelings he got of some foreboding presence. He silently strode through the halls, clutching his heavy cast-iron frying as a weapon, just in case. He smelled a foul stench coming through the barred windows above him, the stench of death.

Long-Tail sneered to himself, "What in the Nine Hells happened." As he was walking down the halls he saw a shadow swiftly fly up the stairs, it looked like an Argonian's shadow at a glimpse, Long-Tail was not one to follow.

Then he heard the crash of a prison cell door. He also heard voices. Quickly, Long-Tail rushed back into his kitchen, only to find a Khajiit and 2 Argonians speaking.

"Rakasha, Robert? What in the HELLS is going on!" shouted Long-Tail in a panicked tone, his frying pan raised in defense, "There are dead guards outside and something is lurking upstairs, and how did you all get out of your cells?"

» Sat May 28, 2011 3:52 am

The further away Radik walked from his cell, the more the feeling of being watched stalked him like a tiger following it's prey. Several times, he had quickly turned around, positive that some thing was there a moment before.
He looked down at the small stone gripped tightly in his hand. In an odd sense, seeing the rock made the Argonian feel more relieved.

''Your right...'' Radik nodded slowly, ''The silence is just getting to my head....''

He slowly turned back towards the ever proceeding hallway, picking up his pace slightly. The hall seemed to have gone on forever, like a large maze - turning down corridors, and going up and down stairs only to come back to where you began. Although Radik felt he was going no where. He was about to finally conclude that he was lost, until he came across a grim scene.

The surrounding walls and floor in the hall were stained with blood - like a large mural decorated with dark crimson paint, and organs. The sweet, sickly smell of death then hit him. His stomach churned, groaning as if it were begging Radik to move, to get out of there.
The lizard approached the bloodied floor slowly, spotting wooden remnants scattered amongst the mess. Whoever was here seemed to have been fighting their assailant with a chair, or a table. Some of the parts were rather sizable, one in particular seemed to have been broken so one end was long, and pointy.

Radik paused for a moment. I'll need a weapon if I ever encounter of these ... ummmm... things..... He crouched down, using his hand to examine the wood. He poked the tip experimentally, before deciding that it would suffice as a makeshift weapon.
He suddenly heard something - something or someone walking up the hall, the same way he took. Without skipping a beat, Radik's legs kicked into motion and propelled him across the hall, although he didn't realize that he had stepped into the fresh blood and was now leaving dark red footprint as he ran.

Noticing a staircase, Radik leaped up them with alarming speed. If it was one of the attackers, he would want to make sure it wasn't following him. The door at the top was already ajar, which stopped the Argonian in his tracks. The door was open enough for one to peer in, and by the looks of it, Radik thought this may have been the Guard's dorm, or barracks. A vertical row of cots lay against the far wall, and on the other walls were dressers and tables. It seemed that there was nothing alive in there, and hopefully not dead.
The lizard opened the door slowly, keeping his wooden dagger at the ready in case something would pop out and attack him.

ooc: Edited per Solidor's request.

» Sat May 28, 2011 10:38 am

Soft-Step Ojenjii

Ojenjii burped aloud and leaned the weight of his body against the cold stone walls of the prison. The section he was in held little to no prisoners. He smiled to himself at the thought of spending the money he'd surely earn for bringing in the outlaw Astian -- a mouthy Breton with hardly any remorse.

He moaned in despair at the sounds heard above them. "By the God's!" He grumbled. "We're all going to die."

Ojenjii turned his sharp gaze to Astian and spat at the Breton standing within the cell. "Shut your mouth soft-skin! I've had to walk all the way from Tel' Aruhn listening to your babble. Don't make me kill you now."

The Breton instantly shut his mouth and sat against the edge of his bed. He let out a sigh and mumbled something to himself along the lines of, "Tell me to shut it... May I never... "

Whatever was happening, it was slowing the 'payment' process Ojenjii grew terribly impatient waiting for. I'm probably getting stiffed again. Bastards...

» Sat May 28, 2011 9:34 am

A fellow argonian had entered the room, frying-pan held high. Robert had recognised him as the prisons resident cook, Long-Tail. He had seen him around a couple times cooking as he cleaned the dining rooms, but had never really talked to him in person. Still, it seemed like this situation was bringing everyone closer together anyway.

"Put that down, theres no need for it" he said, a sharp sense of anxiety in his voice. "We need to think".

"Now out of all of us, I only know Long-Tail here...and that isn't saying much at all. So if you other two are here to rob the place or if your new employee's, do what you will...all I know is I awoke today to a seemingly dead prison. Im thinking perhaps they pulled an evacuation overnight, or the prisoners broke out. Either way, Im going to arm myself".

The argonian began to pace around the room looking for some means of suitable defence, continuing to talk as he did so. "Im getting out of here, and your all free to come along. The chances of survival are better that way I would say" he said as he pulled a stool over to one of the grated windows. He cooly stood up on the stool, and gripped one of the iron grates with both of his thick-gloved hands.

The iron bars were too heavily embedded and he would not be able to arm himself with one despite his best efforts, but he could see through the window outside now. The swamp had a haunting beauty about it...bubbling bogs and menacing black trees drooping slightly against an almost green sky. It was rather eerie in the sense it looked almost alien, but then again...that was the morbid charm of Argonia. It was like nowhere else in Tamriel.

He bounded down of the stool and opted to simply snap a leg off a nearby table. He looked at his makeshift weapon almost dismally, his lazy eye sagging even further in digust. "It's not much...." he admitted. "But it may have to do in a pinch". He strapped it under the large leather belt running diagonally across his chest before rejoining the group.

"So, whats the plan? And does anyone have the faintest idea what is actually going on whilst we're at it?"

» Sat May 28, 2011 4:47 pm

"I can't believe this. We're..."

"Shh!" Ojenjii interrupted, his finger held up to his lips as he stared at the ground, listening intently. "There's someone else down here. In the other room."

The Breton's jaw dropped as he pushed his ear to the wall and squinted his eyes, listening for any hint of other people. 'You're right. I here them talking." Astian said with a click of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "You should chek it out."

Ojenjii nodded and tugged on the belt holding up his pants. "Of course. Stay here. And kep your damn mouth shut!" he warned with a frown.

Astian rolled his eyes and flopped onto the worn-out bed tucked into the corner of his cell. Stay here? Where the hell us am I suppose to go? He thought bitterly.

Ojenjii scowled at the sudden realization that he'd left his weapon outside leaning against the stone walls of the prison. "Ah! I'll be lucky if one of the peasants haven't snatched it."

» Sat May 28, 2011 6:48 am

Long-Tail lowered his frying pan, looking about the romm for some other kind of weapon he could use. He tucked the frying pan in his belt and walked over to a cabinet, inside were an assortment of knives. But he found none to his liking, instead he found a mortar and pestle in another cupboard, the mortar was about a foot and a half long, he tucked that into a small bag usually used to carry Butchers Cleavers, and hung it on his belt.

"Robert take this," said Long-Tail, grabbing a very sharp paring knife out of the cabinet and throwing it into a cupboard right next to Robert, "Put edges on the table leg and make it a club, it will be more comfortable and effective that way."

Long-Tail looked around the kitchen, there wasn't much else he could do. "I'm going to go outside for a closer look... against my better judgment perhaps."

Long-Tail strolled through the hall out of the kitchen and down into the courtyard, blood was soaking the grass and bones and armor of soldiers lay in disarray all across the courtyard.

An idea struck Long-Tail just then, he began going around collect the longest bones he could find among the dead soldiers, he peeled off some of the remaining skin from them, cleaned them on the grass and wrapped them up in a large kitchen rag that Long-Tail always had tucked in the side of his pants.

He also removed a hood from a late imperial guard's head and put it on. Rushing back into the kitchen he began his work, filing the bones down into points and thinning them. He was making spikes of some sort. The process took only about 15 minutes due to Long-Tails' experience in the swamps. He also had a long leather-lined cloth bread-bag he could use as a quiver for the spikes.

He stitched a rope through each end of the bag, shoved 15 spikes into it, and slung it over his back. Long-Tail was back into the hunting and smuggling mode, he knew something was terribly wrong... and he would be ready, now all he needed was a bow.

But just to be safe, Long-Tail would wait until morning. "So, how long until we set out into the swamps?" asked Long-Tail to the others in the room.

» Sat May 28, 2011 12:23 pm

OOC: I think a bow classes as a weapon even if it is home made. So does a butchers cleaver last i checked.

I'll edit my post in shortly -- Busy busy day today.

» Sat May 28, 2011 8:04 am

"Robert, take this" Long Tail had offered, throwing a knife right into a cupboard, the blade making contact with a loud thud. The argonian almost lept back at the sudden nature of the act, but regained his mettle and firmly tug the blade out of the wooden cupboard. "Thank you" he said warmly. "I'll put it to good use".

He pulled over the stool he had previously stood on, but this time sat down. Crossing his leg over his other, he rested the old wooden table leg on his calf and slowly began to whittle it away into several points. Small shreds of wood fell to the floor as he slowly toiled away at making his weapon more effective, a thought of great concentration on his face as he continued his modifications.

The other argonian caught his eye however, momentarily distracting him. She was an odd creature, of that there was no doubt. Indeed, he hadn't seen an argonian like her since back working at the mine, so he really was rather awestruck. It was the eyes that he noticed. White, like glistening pearls. It was unsettling to stare at, so he dipped his head and refocused on his work.

"So, how long until we set out into the swamps?" Long Tail had asked. Robert looked up again, taking his carving knife and jamming it into the table leg. "I wouldn't be so hasty" he replied, his tone somewhat cold. "As much as this place is dismal, there still may be things to be salvaged. If we want to even consider leaving, we'll need food, and herbs. In fact, anything we can get our hands on would be appreciated".

He swung around on the stool to face the Khajiit and the strange argonian. "That is of course, unless you two have some ideas of your own?"

» Sat May 28, 2011 9:57 am

OOC: Glad you used the knife to carve the stick Atomic

I thought I was going to have to settle every bodies lust for weapons by opening the pantry to find Ak-47's and flame throwers.

Added Grizzly's character to the Sheet list.

IC:

Rakasha

Rakasha stood gawping for a few seconds -- his heart had conveniently forgotten to start beating again after the sudden scare and his brain took a few seconds to process what he saw. She was a rare sight in this modern age, most of her strain for Hist had been taken as slaves by the Dunmer if Morrowind, many didn't return to their native Argonia after being liberated from their masters. Some weren't even freed at all, those unlucky enough to be bought by owners who decided the human thing to do was put them down like the animals they saw them as rather than set them out into the world to fend for themselves.

Her scales where even more unusual than her physique, a brilliant shade of cream with a blue-ish hue to them, almost matching her bright white pearlescent eyes perfectly -- there was something strange about the way she looked at them. He felt like she saw more than the surface; that she sensed things the rest of them did not.

Little did he know that what she sensed was the scent of his blood.

Just when he had calmed down and his brain slowly started formulating a question he was forced into another adrenaline induced freeze frame as an Argonian ran in and shouted at them and asked if they had any ideas what w s going on.

I]Yep, that's right, the best way to get answers is to point and shout. How very Imperial of you?[/I] he thought to himself as he paced back slowly and perched himself on a narrow table in the centre of the kitchen. Though he needn't have bothered, mere seconds later a third Argonian, Long-Tail the prison cook, charged through the door waving a cast iron frying pan wildly above his head shouting his and the second Argonians name. That was all it took, the startled jump Rakasha suffered made him topple backwards over the table onto the hard stone floor.

He lay there with his eyes closed breathing heavy deep breaths to compose himself; his tail was characteristically straight underneath his back, a trait he had developed in his childhood when under stress.

"If you would all like to stop shouting and waving large heavy objects at me for a moment, I would quite to leave this place with my mental health quite intact, you know, if its not too much to ask." He grumbled sardonically as he clambered back to his feet using his make shift spear as support due to his freshly bruised back. "And I would usually agree with scale face number two but I've checked the pantry and the cupboards already -- this place has been picked clean, even the armoury is empty. Nothing but rats and red paint in these halls."

"What I want to know is? who you are and why are you here?" He asked suspiciously of the white eyes Argonian, even a Khajiit could see that she was quite beautiful to look at, but it didn't seem natural and it wasn't beautiful to him in the normal sense? it was almost eerie. "I've never seen you before and I've been here for so long that I cant even remember the face of my own father."

» Sat May 28, 2011 9:12 am

IC- Bill stood as silently as he could in the store cupboard. Before the prison was attacked, he was being forced to take an inventory on the waning amount of prison clothes littered about the place. A guard had locked him in the dismal room and refused to let him out until his inventory duties had been fulfilled. Needless to say, once the screaming started Bill stopped sorting and started listening. He had been standing at the door for more then half an hour now with his ear pressed against the crack. At first he was unable to move, listening to the massacre of the guards. Then, not more then ten minutes later, he heard something else moving, but all was still now.

Looking about he found a length of rope. Stooping, he picked it up and inspected it. Apparently it had been used to tie the crates of clothes together and was quite thick and strong. Working quietly, Bill began tying the end of the rope with all the various and complex knots that he had ever learned to make. Soon the end of the length resembled an incredibly jumbled ball of yarn and was very heavy. Holding his make shift mace at the ready, Bill ran at the door. Leaping high in the air, he connected with the door with both feet. The old copper hinges bent and burst, sending the door as well as Bill crashing into the hall.

Dusting himself off, Bill spotted a glint of gold amid the gore on the floor. After casting around for a bit he found a disembodied arm with the hand still attached. Taking the utmost care to not touch or even graze the flesh on which it lie, Bill removed a shiny golden ring. Placing the small jewel on his own hand he grasped the other and shook hands. Then, quite unconcernedly, he dropped the arm and made his way outside. Jumping from object to object towards the door so as not to foul his feet in the vile liquid death.

» Sat May 28, 2011 5:17 am

Mee-Zaw froze in her crouched position, as the clattering of plates reviberated around the kitchen. Not only that but there were other argonians here, she had not picked up their scents so easily because of their cold blood, all other races gave off their own heat and it made them easier to track by scent but argonians were more difficult. One of the argonians had the appearance of a prisoner,while another argonian, Robert, someone called him, seemed to be the cook for the prison as he smelt of food. There was definately something strange going on, no one was sure of anything and accusations were being thrown around.

"Shhh!" Mee-zaw hissed urgently.. "Shhh! there are warm bloods nearby.. warm bloods with no fur. They're coming closer!" She curled her hands nervously, she didn't know what was going on and she didn't like it. And she couldn't get her evening dose of blood if everyone was watching, her tail twitched from side to side as she grew more and more agitated. She would likley have to wait before she could feed again.

» Sat May 28, 2011 6:02 am

Ojenjii placed the tips of his fingers against the cold steel door leading to a room beside them. This is where he'd heard the voices. He gently pushed it open and stepped forward cautiously. It was empty. He was in some sort of storage room. It was full of empty bread baskets and broken pots that once held flour and dried corn. He spotted a broom leaning against the steel bars of the window and snatched it quickly. Braking off the end to a point, Ojenjii had found himself a rather useful spear. This will have to do... he concluded, praising Mother Ahnassi for the cunning he'd been blessed with.

He continued forward, the rough voices of Argonians growing ever clearer. "Ok. Maybe they're just in there chatting it up."

Ojenjii stopped shortly at the sound of someone hissing. His ears perked up and he could tell it was the whispering of an Argonian. He suddenly had the feeling he'd been detected. He could smell flesh, but much rougher and water-bound then humans. Perhaps the entire room ahead of him was full of lizard folk. Ojenjii poked at a loosely hinged door and watched it swing open. Just from the strong scent of food he could tell it was the kitchen. He managed to catch an Argonian male sharpening what appeared to be the leg of a table or chair.

What the...

» Sat May 28, 2011 7:43 am

Gromal just gawped at all of the limbs outside. In all of his years of fighting, he had never witnessed butchery on this level. Whatever attacked the guards likes bodies - there were none outside. Just arms and legs, blood everywhere, not even weapons were in sight. Snapping out of his trance, Gramal stepped into the armory, to find it empty. Nothing except shelves and a wooden weapons rack at the end. The Orc sighed, he had longed for a mighty spear or warhammer, but he would have to make use of scraps. Still examining the shelves, he walked over to the weapon rack. It had four wooden poles in the middle of a wooden frame.

Grunting, the Orc snapped off a pole, and then another. He finished off the other two, and held them in a bundle. The poles were solid, and would noteasily break, nor splinter. This pleased Gramal, and walked back into the hall. He dumped three poles on the floor of the hallway. He left them there in case anyone else wanted them, he would wield the biggest, and toughest. They were about a meter long, and could be wielded in one hand.

He then eyes the kitchen door, that was left ajar. He cautiously stepped over to it, pole in hand, and peered inside. He didn't see much, but an Argonian sharpening his weapon. "Excuse me, Argonian. may I use that knife? Everything is best sharp,"

OOC: I'm a bit lost =/

» Sat May 28, 2011 6:12 pm

Tyros Camas

The sound of small twigs snapping and small puddle splashes could be heard in the radius around the walking Tyros. He was making his trek to the prison from his house in the town of Blackrose. With him was nothing more than a bag of gold he was to donate to the warden. He was close by, he could see it in the distance. He needed to get home quickly, so he decided he would slip behind the prison, so bypass security. The prison was largely funded by taxes, or his bi-monthly donations.

He never really cared what the money went to, he was just trying to keep thieves from stealing vast amounts of money from his house. He caught them some times, and ordered the guards to haul them off, to the prison he funded. He'd usually donate around 800 to 1,200. His wealth was seemingly endless. But, it wasn't endless. At times he found himself spending to much, leaving certain things like new clothes and enough wine out of the picture.

As he walked he wondered about his decision to move to Blackrose, leaving native Hammerfell. Though, he wanted to travel, see new cultures and customs, (Even if said customs were a bit savage to him and other non-natives). He schooling taught of the Argonians, but only in certain moments in history, never just to learn of them. He came across a small puddle of blood, which he shook off as maybe a prisoner tried escaping and was killed by an arrow or some such. Then he came across more puddles, possibly the prisoner was shot and kept moving? More puddles, and even a few trails persisted. He quickened his pace to the south end of the prison. He came across the east wall, and continued his march to the back.

Using the back, he did not see the bloody mess in the plaza area. The door was unlocked, to his amazement. He opened it slowly, creaking from years of use. He stepped inward, moving without a sound. He was in the basemant area. Six barrels of what was most likely mead was stored. My money does go to good things, he thought to himself. He walked up a small flight of stairs into one of the holding blocks filled with cells. The air smelled of rusted iron and foul odors of mold and dead rats, possibly. He made his way up another flight of stairs to the wardens office. To his shock, they're weren't any guards standing position at the door. In fact, he didn't notice any guards, any where.

The door to his office was broken off, he stepped in grimly. There were blood splatters on the wall. Whatever happened, it either killed him of he killed it. Tyros picked the first. He glanced around the room, blood was on most things. A small shelf of books where behind the desk, splattered. The chair was broke, and one thing caught his eye. A chair leg was broken, with a large nail sticking out of it. He picked it up, the leg itself was quite heavy, about five pounds. He kept the leg and made his way down stairs. He smelled eggs. He followed the scent of the eggs. Possibly the smell came from live people. He entered to see some beast folk and an Orc, all with sharpened sticks.

"Um, which of you know what is happening, prison break?" He said, very nervous.

» Sat May 28, 2011 7:29 am

OOC: I'm a bit confused as well. Hope this post is fine.

Julius had been having a bad day. First he had been put on triple shifts for skipping out on work for the past two weeks straight, then the commander had the nerve to assign him a guard to insure he wouldn't get out of it. Honestly! The nerve of some people. A guard guarding a guard who's busy guarding. There's a tongue-twister for you.

He had almost convinced said guard to settle down for a nice glass of brandy, too. But then they had to get attacked just so that his day would be further ruined. Yep, the Gods were definitely out to get him. They weren't satisfied putting him in the middle of a stinking swamp surrounded by bloodthirsty criminals and lizards, but they had to make even that already hellish post even worse. They made it boring. Maybe if there had been a riot every now and then he wouldn't have minded, but there was absolutely nothing to do but drink and watch the flies buzzing. He didn't even get the opportunity to hit things. Which was a shame. He liked hitting things. Preferably with sharp objects.

That said, he wasn't suicidal, so when all the screams had started he had pulled on his armor and done the thing that made the most sense at the time. He hid in a closet. Closets were good places to stay out of the sight of authority, as he knew full well. There was something about closets that just made people walk right on by without looking. They were so convenient because they were usually spacious enough for him to nap in, while still being secluded enough for no one to find him. Except the janitor. That was never pleasant. But it wasn't as if anyone really cleaned the place anyway. Julius was convinced the people assigned to cleaning were just spreading the dirt around rather than helping to make it sparkle.

But on the whole, closets were good places to get away from it all, and when "it all" was a massacre, they were even better. The screaming had stopped now to be replaced by an eerie silence. Julius didn't know whether the guards had succeeding it beating... Whatever, but he figured either way he was in the clear. If they had, his armor was already beaten up and scruffy due to him not taking care of it, so he could claim he had been in combat. Who would notice? If they had failed... Well, he had been planning to desert for a while anyway. Better for someone else to push him into it rather than him taking the initiative. That way he could claim innocence if guards ever caught him.

He slowly opened the door and peered down the corridor of the prison. It was dark and silent. Typical.

He stepped fully out of the room and walked to the left, determined to leave. Of course, going through the swamp with no supplies probably wasn't the best idea. To the kitchen then!

Julius turned on his heels and began walking in the other direction. He only hoped he didn't run into anyone on the way. Considering he had no weapons, an encounter would find him relying entirely on his fists. Not that he wasn't confident in his fists, but gauntlets would make things far more convenient. Gauntlets he lacked. Thus, he naturally wasn't in the mood for pounding on armor, or, Gods forbid, someone's sword.

» Sat May 28, 2011 6:00 am

OOC: I understand people are getting confused. @Half-tooth, about your last post, its actually Long-Tail who's the cook not Robert

@every one else: So far in the Kitchen theres Rakasha - Robert - Long-tail - Gro-Mal - Mee-zaw and Now Julius. Bill is heading outside Radik is hidden some where and Ojenjii is still waiting for his bounty. The only character who seems to be outside any where near the zombies seems to be Maximus.. What's so special about the kitchen guys?

IC:

Maximus

He didn't notice at first but something shifted in the air; whether it was the wind the heat or just his mind he didn't know, but he felt it. Without knowing why he stood up and began his slow trek into the jungle; insects landed on him only to be quickly swatted away by an impatient hand, he strained to pick up any details in the din of buzzing insects croaking amphibians and singing birds but nothing discernable could be heard over it all. It was chaos, it was madness. It was death.

Something was drawing him further and further into the foliage and vegetation; through bog like puddles strained crimson with blood, over fallen logs covered in chunks of torn flesh. Then he saw it.

A legionnaire was stood at profile staring off into the distance, his armour was covered in dents and scratches, his shield and sword where missing and blood dripped like treacle form his nose. His flesh was pasty almost wax like and white, veins where visible through the almost translucent patches on his cheeks.

"Excuse me? Are you ok?" Maximus asked putting a hand on the Legionnaires shoulder. He nearly screamed but he couldn't when the Legionnaire turned to face him -- the left part of his chest plate was completely bent and even torn away, what could do that to thick plates of metal Maximus didn't know but he certainly wasn't thinking about it as he backed away from the man staring at a mass of still moving but exposed organs, his intestines hung out down the side of his leg, catching on twigs and branches as they scraqed along the floor.

His left eye socked looked as it if had been caved in then torn out; there was nothing but a large black and red lined hole exposing the light purple fleshy brain within his skull. The mans other eye was intact and stared at him without seeing him -- it shifted slowly over his body but the pupil didn't dilate and he didn't take in any details on offer, nothing registered to him but the smell. The smell of food.

It lunged forwards and fell over a fallen log, taking Maximus with him as its lunge evolved into a tackle. Maximus struggled against the weight and strength of the crazed Imperial with all his might but couldn't budge. Then he shouted wildly for help as the Legionnaires mouth opened wide and stooped to take a bite out of Maximus' right leg -- luckily it didn't make contact as he was able to release his left leg and kick him in the face, which didn't phase the mad man one bit and he immediately tried to take a bite again.

Max could only do one thing but it meant sacrificing any more mobility -- he placed his foot over the legionnaires good eye and pushed back, the neck cracked a little as the head was pushed up and away from Maximus' body, but it didn't register pain or damage it merely carried on opening and closing its mouth while trying to shift itself further up Maximus's body.

Panic gripped him now, Max was never one to panic but he'd also never had a half chewed up legionnaire trying to spread the trend to him before, he began to swing the table leg like a club, hitting every inch of the man he could reach in blind desperation, each time it simply bounced off the plate armour with an unpleasant clang and an uncomfortable vibrating sensation through the piece of wood.

He was losing strength now; lactic acid gathered in his muscle due to the continued stress his body was under, adrenaline released into his system at an astonishing rate, far more adrenaline than what his body would usually secrete. His heart began beating at an astonishing rate, he could almost hear it echoing through the jungle. Breathing was sharp and came in sporadic bursts every few seconds.

No not now? Not now! He thought desperately as the realisation that he was having a panic attack due to the copious amounts of adrenaline in his system. The sudden fear gripping him at that realisation didn't make matters any better either.

Then he spotted it, a weakeness he could exploit. Everything around him slowed and grew silent as he stared upon the obvious flawless break in the Legionnaires defences. Without any more hesitation he turned his table leg and trusted it downwards, once? twice? three times. Each with a sickeningly satisfying squelch, each brought a little more sound back to his senses.

He laughed in relief as he jammed the table leg into the exposed brain one last time and the creature rolled off him.

OOC: Ok lets get everybody outside at some point so we can start moving. This is the only zombie in the area more will arrive shortly

» Sat May 28, 2011 6:58 am

Long-Tail was sitting on the kitchen counter, chewing on a piece of jerky, it was alligator jerky. Tough yet rather tasty in its seasoning. Long-Tail was just about to speak when he heard a scream outside, yelling for help. He looked at the others in the kitchen and immediately sprung into action. He reached under the counter and grabbed a satchel of basic supplies needed for a journey, just in case.

He brought out his mortar which he held as if it were a club, and then pulled one of the bone spikes he had made, holding it in his left hand. Long-Tail was running through the long stone hallways, dimly lit with only a long red carpet on the floor. His heart was racing as he unlocked the heavy wooden door leading to the outside.

The familiar scene of carnage once again permeating his every sense. Something was wrong though, he heard not a single noise, but then he heard a thrash of water. It came from somewhere outside the walls. Running through the archways leading into the dark and humid swamp of tall grass, and twisted mossy trees.

Flies swarmed the dank dark air, but Long-Tail paid no mind to them, they couldn't bite his scales after all. After trudging through the water, tall grass, and muck, Long-Tail came upon a violent scene. There was a person he somewhat recognized sitting on the ground with a mutilated legionnaire near him, what had happened, Long-Tail would find out.

"Were you the one screaming? What the hell is going?" Long-Tail asked, becoming a bit afraid now, he felt as though he was being watched and the jungle would soon come for him, or something else.

» Sat May 28, 2011 2:18 pm

"Excuse me, Argonian. may I use that knife? Everything is best sharp,"

An Orc had now entered the room, a muscle-bound burly one at that...and as startled as he was, Robert yanked the old knife out of his weapon and warmly threw it to the brute. "Of course, your words have a truth to them" he smiled.

The kitchen was now somewhat chaotic. Long-Tail had promptly ran in and then ran outside, an orc had entered, along with another. It was just him and the hauntingly beautiful argonian, and has alluring as she was; she was also unsettling. Robert figured it was time he had best be moving. Tugging down on his gloves and flexing his fingers, he adjusted his belt and leather waistcoat before standing up...his makeshift club firmly gripped in one hand.

"Look, everything has gone to hell here obviously...and I dont think lingering around in this death-stained prison is going to be doing me any favours. Im going to get moving, and your all welcome to come along if you want to. All I know is, something bad has happened, and if we stay here...who knows what might come for us?

If your not coming, then I wish you the best of luck. My advice would be to stay moving. I know thats what I will be doing..."

He cleared his throat and made for the kitchen exit...

» Sat May 28, 2011 8:33 am

ooc: Radik is in the Guard barracks/dorm, up some stairs and through an open door.

ic:

The first thing that Radik took most interest was the dressers; A fresh batch of clothes, instead of the tight, raggedy and smelly leather trousers he wore would have been more relaxing. The first dresser closet to the door was rather long and wide, with two rows of drawers, some jutting out a few inches, while some completely missing. He placed his rock and wooden stake on the dressers surface.
Radik opened the first drawer, and saw several folded shirts each ranging from different colors. He placed his dirty hand on one of them, feeling it's graceful silk put a small smile on his face. He had never felt something so smooth, so soft - it was like something from a different world. In some inexplicable way, it made him feel at peace.

The lizard shook himself out of his calm state, Not the time for that, unfortunately... it's a shame too, those clothes probably wouldn't fit me.... The seconds drawer was a more familiar sight; casual clothes by the looks of it. He pulled out what looked to a stitched green shirt and set it on the dressers surface. He cocked his head sideways, twiddling his fingers on his chin as if he had a goatee. He then reached down and pulled out two pairs of trousers, one a baggy sack cloth pair of pants, and the other a sturdy pair of leather greaves.

Hmmmm... , He thought, clicking his teeth in a thoughtful matter, Sack cloth is roomy, but really itchy and Leather is usually ... tight and sometimes comfortable.... The Argonian frowned. I hate making decisions...

''What do you think?'' He asked aloud, looking down towards the rock, hoping for some relief in this debacle. Radik nodded slowly as if the rock were physically speaking to him, offering it's opinion on the matter. Which it was, at least in the poor reptiles mind.

''Your right, leather would be better...'' He said, flinging the green sack cloth pants behind him with just a flick of the wrist.

With the decision made, Radik set the pants on the dresser, then began untying the small clothe that served as a make-shift belt. Once undone, the old leather jeans were honored with the same fate the sack clothe pants underwent. Within seconds, he was already slipping on the new pair of leather greaves. Radik wasn't one for being nvde too long, it made him feel uncomfortable and very exposed.
He sighed happily at the comfort of the greaves, though they were still tight - but not as tight as the previous - the pants felt rather smooth on his scales, like some sort of rich skin lotion.

The stitched green shirt felt different as the cold-blooded reptilian slowly put it on, it was loose in some spots and tight in others, very hand-me-down-like piece of clothing. But he was glad that he was now shirtless, now all he needed were gloves and shoes. And he had only explored one of the few dressers in the dorm.

ooc: Hunt for clothes and whatnot. Me tired, me now sleep...